The Greatest Generation

Today is Grandma’s birthday. Her 110^th. She’s busy celebrating it with Jesus instead of hanging out here with us, but she’s still on my mind.

She’s been on my mind a lot lately. I know some of her life story. How she was born at home in Charleston, South Carolina, one hot, muggy July in 1910. An only child, she was moved from one end of the country to the other for the next seven years until she lost her mother to TB. Three years later her father adopted her out to an elderly, childless couple (Anne with an “E” style), months before her father died of the same disease as her mom.

She lived in Arizona most of her seventy years, except for the war years between 1941 and 1945 when Grandpa was sent to Australia to fight with the Army. During those four years, she and their two young children were passed around among his relatives who reminded her daily that her husband would probably die over there and she should get used to the idea of being a widow.

She got used to tuning them out instead.

When Grandpa came back, mostly in one piece, they started over again in the Phoenix desert, living in the house Grandma built during the year it took for her husband to recover in a hospital in Texas from war injuries. Twenty years later, when Grandpa came down with melanoma and Hodgkin’s Disease, they sold the family’s homestead, moved north to Payson, and Grandma stayed busy with the Garden Club and the First Southern Baptist Church while Grandpa got well again. She suffered with rheumatoid arthritis and horrific migraines for decades, but still welcomed us to stay with her and Grandpa every chance we got.

She was the feistiest ninety pounds of woman I’ve ever known and I loved her like crazy. She loved Jesus like crazy. I watched her read her Bible every single day and when she died, I asked for one of her Bibles so I could hold the book that held her together through all the rocky roads she walked. I miss her humor and wisdom and acceptance, though that Irish temper of hers was something to be avoided.

The more I know about her life story, though, and walk through mine, the more I understand how she felt.

And I wonder, as I think of Marie Elizabeth Quigley Weatherford Jennings today on the 110^th anniversary of her birth, what would she have to say about the world that’s spinning out of control all around me right now? What would she think of lockdowns and panic and mandates? Of mayor/governor sanctioned riots? How would she feel about the destruction of historical statues, the burning of flags, the burning of the Star of David, and graffitied federal buildings?

It’s a rhetorical question, I agree, but it’s still on my mind.

You could probably guess what she’d say about defunding the police, making our Constitution obsolete, requiring untested vaccinations for our military, and forcing children to stay home from school while teachers unite with Marxist ideals and refuse to teach. Not to mention what she’d think about voter fraud and censorship in the media. How would a woman who watched newsreels about the war her husband was fighting in feel about government overreach and manipulated covid numbers intent on enslaving a nation of more than 300 million people?

She’d have a lot to say, I’m sure of it. I’m also sure there’d be a lot of liberals with their noses out of joint afterwards. But what would she think about the hopelessness I feel sometimes when I see the Republic I love with all my heart attacked by Communism within our own borders? And would my spunky, outspoken, opinionated wisp of a grandmother kowtow to the demands of rebellious youth, greedy politicians, and fearful religious leaders the way the media does? Would she stop going to church just because she was in her sixties and a pastor told her to stay home?

I really doubt it. She’d have probably headed the committee to fire him.

This pillar of a woman lived through the loss of two parents to tuberculosis while she was a child, the rejection of her own relatives that led her father to adopt her out to strangers, and was alive during the Flu Pandemic of 1918, as well as World War I. In 1929, six months after she married at the age of eighteen, the stock market crashed. In the thirties, she and Grandpa became parents to two children. One night while they were away from home, an arsonist with a grudge set fire to their house in an attempt to murder them. The man was never found or charged. Grandma and Grandpa lost everything except their lives and their babies.

Then they started over.

Because they had no other choice. If I’ve learned anything from examining what I know about Grandma’s life, it is that you do what you have to do to survive. And you get up and start over. Never give up.

During the Great Depression, she and Grandpa lived out of their own car for years, camped on the side of the road, and borrowed abandoned homes while moving from job to job with two young children in tow. They got back on their feet, never once depending on government bailouts while they were homeless, and Grandpa began his own business as an electrician. The day Pearl Harbor was attacked, Grandpa showed up for duty as an officer in the Army Reserves, and it was four years before he saw his wife and children again.

They lived through horrible times, including a pandemic that no one today had ever even heard about until fear mongers began making comparisons to it this year. The Great Depression was a national crisis, but it didn’t leave her in one. Grandma endured two “wars to end all wars” and watched her husband disappear for four years to fight in one of them. That home she built in the Arizona desert while Grandpa recovered from his injuries in another state? It had no air conditioning. Not even an evaporative cooler. Ever. While they lived on that small ranch, enduring 115 degree summers, they managed forty acres of citrus groves, took care of me and my baby sister for most of a full year when our mother became seriously ill, contributed to their church and community, and raised their own family.

Grandma saw a lot of chaos. I still remember the frown she wore while she watched news reports during the rebellious sixties as college students rioted against the Viet Nam war, demanded the right to free sex and drugs, and burned their bras and the American flag. She was there when television broadcast the assassinations of two Kennedy brothers, the assassination of Martin Luther King, and the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan. She was part of The Greatest Generation but, if you ask me, all those seventy years she was walking in the shoes I’m wearing now were nothing to look back on with fondness.

She suffered. But she didn’t suffer in silence. The only thing that ever silenced my grandmother was her own death and, even then, as long as people like me know at least part of her story and pass it on, her voice will never be muzzled.

What would Grandma say about all the confusion and chaos and rebellion and lawlessness that threatens to destroy the country her father and her husband fought for in their own times? Well, remember Grandma was a strong Christian lady. A patriot. A survivor. But honest to God, I think she’d point a crooked finger in my tear-streaked face and speak the truth.

“Stand up straight,” she’d tell me. “And stop crying. You’re a child of God, and a citizen of the greatest country in the world. Act like it. And fight for it.”

Thanks, Grandma. Keep talking. I’m listening.

Happy Birthday.

One Hundred Thirty-Two and Counting

I walked into the grocery store, forty feet from the nearest shopper, mask in hand. Dangerous, I know. Selfish, some would say. Or worse. Who knew that the hill I would choose to die on is made of 80% cotton and 20% polyester? With little baby sheep imprinted on it. Baaah.

There was no friendly greeting, but a loud voice yelled across the room from a checkout counter, “You need a mask!” I had one. I showed it to her. Then a booming voice, presumably from heaven, sounded from that giant PA system in the sky. “Put on thy mask!” Suddenly, all the other worshippers focused their attention on me instead of on the carts spaced six feet away from them where they waited obediently for permission to buy their groceries.

I complied. I put on the fabric that would assuage all the fears of coronavirus I had inconsiderately carried with me through the front door. Instantly all those little boogers ran for cover. They knew I meant business. As long as my face was unrecognizable, the virus was confused and wouldn’t follow me down the produce aisle. Catastrophe averted. Thank God I bowed at the feet of pseudo-science and obeyed the illegal mandates of a corporation flexing its muscles at the expense of my feelings and convictions.

We wouldn’t want anyone to think this is a free country anymore, now would we?

It’s difficult to narrow down all the reasons I am opposed to masks, but the main reason is because some people think I have no right to choose whether or not to wear one. Others tell me I do have a choice—if I don’t like the policies of a business which requires them, then I don’t have to shop there. That’s plausible on the surface until you tell me where, in a state that is closing the net on individual freedom faster than Fauci can change his mind, I am supposed to buy food for my family.

The easy answer there is to use pick-up service at my local Kroger’s or Walmart or Tarzjay. Did you know they raise the prices if their shoppers have to shop for you? That they make substitutions without your approval? That they charge you a service fee to be of service to you? And still expect a tip after they tell you to stay in your car while they load it all in the back of your vehicle and smash your tomatoes? So, if I have convictions about whether or not wearing a mask is appropriate for me that go against the current narrative, I will be discriminated against in every possible way, including in my wallet.

I promised myself I’d keep this short, but I’ve discovered it’s a bottomless pit of explanation. Still, I’ll try.

I am not being selfish. I am not being unloving. Or un-Christian. I am fighting for the last vestiges of freedom that many among us don’t even realize they are in danger of losing. Dr. Fauci himself, on one of his many about-faces, said masks offer limited protection but that they are a symbol. Of respect. I agree that they are a symbol, but not of respect. They are the symbol of a war most of us don’t even know we’re involved in. I’m beginning to think they are also a distraction. As long as we keep fighting with each other about whether or not love means putting on a mask, we won’t pay attention to the man hiding behind the curtain.

What comes after compliance to a mask? Compliance to an untested vaccine, forced on us by governmental power trips? Compliance to a Covid-pass installed on our phones so we can be tracked and monitored for the rest of our lives? Compliance to a chip proving we are safe from the virus-of-the-month and are allowed to enter a restaurant? Compliance to freedom from religion that is already threatening to close our churches for good? Take a close look at California’s Christians right now and ask them if they have permission to hold home Bible studies, if that one sounds like a stretch.

But it’s only a little piece of fabric. An inconvenience. A small price to pay. That depends on what you’re using it to pay for.

Put it on and you completely disappear, figuratively and literally. It hides our smiles, which is kind of a waste of all that money we’ve been spending to whiten our teeth. It makes us look grumpy and angry to children—their words, not mine. Wrap your face in it and you look like either a hostage or a terrorist, a zombie or a robot.

Even an N95 mask, with permeation twice as large as the virus itself, is a poor excuse for protection. Did you know the same thing is true of condoms in the presence of the HIV virus? Picture that worn out “mosquito through a chain link fence” metaphor. Breathing through a mask recirculates carbon dioxide and toxins and bacteria the body is trying to exhale, setting the wearer up for serious illnesses. Take a look at Legionnaire’s Disease if you wonder what a dirty, damp mask could lead to—it makes covid look like a bad case of hay fever.

How about the way masks muffle your voice and make your words indiscernible until people finally pull them down—contaminating their security blanket—so they can be understood. People adjust and mess with their masks constantly, fouling the protective barrier we’re told is our only defense against a virus with a 99.2 per cent survival rate. They shove them in pockets, push them down under chins, stuff them into purses, drop them on the floor, hang them from rear view mirrors—this fashion forward clothing article that is supposed to save my life from your deadly germs and offer you peace of mind in return is a fraud.

But let’s just say I’m wrong and trapping my spit in my mask is the difference between life and death for others. There is still death in the mandates to wear them, and it comes at the cost of your right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. A governor, the executive branch of our government, has no authority to make laws of any kind. Nor do the courts. Only the legislative branch can make laws. Mandates and orders and guidelines and suggestions are imposters behaving like laws, enforced as they are by public pressure and police officers, but that still doesn’t make them the law. There is a law that defends people who are discriminated against when it comes to mask pressure, and it carries a stiff fine of $75,000 for the first offense. But even the ADA can’t protect everyone who wants to breathe free and make their own choices for their own bodies and their own health.

If all that were happening is that you can choose to wear a mask and I can choose not to wear one, none of this arguing or shaming or judging would be going on. Masks would quickly become a non-issue. But they are an issue because as states across the country fall like dominoes to governor-dictated orders to wear them, I am the loser here. Suddenly someone else’s choice to wear one based on the opinion that they are critical is the only voice that matters. Mine is silenced behind the mask I am forced to wear against my will.

That’s not all we lose, though. We lose friendships as a divisive issue like this requires either gut-wrenching honesty from people like me, or silent acquiescence from a compliant population. Neither seems ideal when the line in the sand means if I’m not in agreement with you, I’m against you. We are being turned against each other in an arena of personal choice. Masks are a test case to see how easily we can be frightened and manipulated into compliance with inconsistent mandates. For example, is the magic age for compulsory masks two years old or eight? Depends on whether you are in Tempe, Arizona or Gilbert.

If masks work and protect as effectively as some insist, why aren’t the standards standard?

We are being conditioned to feel ashamed of knowing what our rights are and recognizing when they are being violated. From the never-ending commercials and public service messages we are bombarded with daily to the ads sprinkled across blogs and pinterest and even the weather channel apps on our phones, we are in the cross-hairs of an agenda. While Facebook and google, Twitter and YouTube dub themselves the Fact Police, access to their version of truth must be pre-approved or it will be censored.

This is a takeover. It is tyranny on display. We have been lied to from the first fifteen days of flattening the curve to now, one hundred thirty-two since Arizona’s dictator decreed a state of unending emergency. With nothing in his order that says anything about an expiration date, this season’s Twilight Zone will never be canceled until the final outcome is achieved.

And what is that outcome? You are not allowed to ask.

Mask up, Arizona.








The photo above is the creation of Sanickels. Her original photo can be viewed at the following link:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/9137715@N05/6886296803/in/dateposted/

Swamp Life

The first ten years of our marriage, my husband Rob and I lived in his home state of Florida on the Gulf Coast. I’m a desert gal and had met a few insects in my life, but nothing prepared me for the regular invasions of Florida’s state bird, the mosquito. My favorite cologne quickly became Eau d’Off, and we went through dozens of cans of it just so we could hang onto our own blood.

We’ve been in Arizona for 34 years now and we’ve seen a few of those little suckers here, too, but usually just in the summer. That’s when occasional rain can transform an empty pot or overturned garbage can lid into a stagnant pool of water and suddenly you’re a target for blood-sucking opportunists.

Stagnant water is a problem because mosquitos can transmit some serious diseases. It doesn’t take long for even a small amount of standing water to become stagnant. If it’s not moving, the oxygen levels drop too low for human consumption or for the survival of plants. Organic matter will rot in the wet stuff and before long it reeks with the smell of death.

Technically, an overlooked pool of stagnant water isn’t a swamp, but there are some similarities. Mosquitos breed well there. They’re unfit for cultivation. Decay is prevalent. And the odor is foul as rotten eggs. Much like this election year and the political stink surrounding our country right now.

Since the first rumors of novel virus began blowing across our desert, I’ve prayed for the truth to come out. That those behind all the lies and manipulation would be unveiled and held accountable. Expose the evil, Lord, I asked. Let people see what’s really going on. Set us free from corrupt leadership.

Hoo boy. You gotta be careful what you pray for.

When our kids were growing up, I often prayed that, among other things, they’d be caught when they were guilty. I didn’t want them to get away with dishonesty. Own it, we taught them. Make it right and move on. The goal was for them to grow up to be self-controlled adults with a good conscience. That meant when they tested the waters to see if they could get away with evil, they’d find out they couldn’t. Not forever.

But there was a catch.

There was something I didn’t understand about that prayer until God began to answer it. Here it is. When your kids get caught and are punished, you suffer right along with them. Sometimes I felt like it really did hurt us more than it hurt them. But you have to let your kids experience the consequences of their actions, even though you’ll be dragged through the mud right along with them, because a child’s heart matters.

So, for the last six months I’ve been praying for the truth to come out and for evil people to be exposed and held accountable in our country. The chaos around us was never about a virus. It’s always been about control. Turns out, a lot of other people have been praying the same way I have, which is a powerful combination. But, as the swamp drains, there’s a nauseating stench filling our nostrils while the depravity hiding in all that murky water is exposed.

That’s one of the consequences I didn’t expect.

I don’t usually live in the world of politics. We stopped taking the newspaper years ago. I know mass media is really yellow journalism and always has a liberal bias. Honestly, I’d rather spend my internet time writing funny stories and mindlessly exploring Pinterest. But I don’t have the luxury of doing those things right now. Every voice matters in the fight against tyranny and the push toward Marxism and Communism that has suddenly reared its ugly head in America.

We’re on a collision course with those evil ideologies which have placed our 244-year-old Republic in the crosshairs of a revolution that’s been brewing for years. Though it’s been in the making for generations, I never saw it until this year because it was hidden behind university classroom doors and in the bedrooms of perverted celebrities, politicians, and millionaires.

And because I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to smell the stench of a draining swamp. I didn’t want to see the filth hidden in the rotting depths. I didn’t want to believe there could be an apocalypse in my lifetime.

When your prayer is answered and truth comes out, what is also revealed are the horrible actions committed by horrible people. It’s like popping a pimple. How’s that for a word picture? Gross, but accurate. When you ask God to expose the names behind the lies, you’ll be disillusioned when it turns out people you once idolized have been hiding behind masks for years.

I didn’t know until this month what the Patriot Act has done to our privacy and freedoms, because I once thought the world of George W. Bush. I didn’t realize in 2002, during the panicked aftermath of 9/11, that our state lawmakers gave so much power to the governor in our executive branch that, not only does he believe he can rule with an iron fist, I no longer believe we live in a democracy. It’s to the point in Arizona now that if you’re wanting to escape the monarchy in California, don’t come here. You won’t see a difference between the two states.

I’d never heard the word Draconian before. Or Dystopian. Not until I began to experience them both under the misplaced idea that my constitutional and God-given freedoms only matter when there isn’t a virus floating around that’s been declared Public Enemy Number One.

I was ignorant of the machinery behind Planned Parenthood’s schemes. Although, when it comes to that one, I’m not alone. Even those who riot and protest right now for racial equality seem unaware that Margaret Sanger, the founder of PP in 1916, was a eugenist who believed “minorities are inferior in the human race” and created Planned Parenthood as part of a plan “to exterminate the Negro population.”[i]

Not until last night did I realize that the legalization of abortion has led to the harvesting of baby body parts sold “fresh, never frozen” to researchers in obscure, idyllic towns like Hamilton, Montana, where they are used to try to make “humanized mice.”[ii]   Now I know. Enlightenment isn't at all what it's cracked up to be.

Are you nauseous now at the stench rising from draining swamps? I am. There isn’t enough Pepto in the world to make it go away, either. Or essential oils, for that matter.

It’s an ugly, ugly thing to watch the vile existence of hidden depravity emerge right before our eyes and right beneath our feet in this country, knowing its publicity is an answer to the prayer for truth. I prayed that “it” would be stopped. I didn’t know exactly what “it” was when I began praying for the facts to come out so the corrupt would be exposed and held accountable. Now that I know more, I wish I could wake up from this nightmare.

I’m weary of arguing with people over viruses with a 99.8 per cent rate of survival except to add this. Seven years ago I had extensive surgery to remove cancer from my body and when the pathology report came back I was told they were 99 per cent sure they’d gotten it all. Those are slightly less optimistic odds than what we see with a politically charged virus that has governors, mayors, city councils and county officials demanding us all to comply to mandates that aren’t even legal. But the one per cent uncertainty my doctors gave me set me free to live and enjoy my life. The two-tenths of the one per cent uncertainty of coronavirus has so inflated the heads of elected officials, they now declare themselves king of the world. And most people bow in obedience.

It’s no stretch to see that it’s all connected unless you don’t want to see it, and even then I can’t blame you. Keeping your head in the sand might be better than smelling the decay and corruption in the swamp all around us. Until it begins to suffocate you, too.

I, like you, want it to end. I want to believe in the goodness of men. I want to feel secure in the protection of America’s constitution. I want to sleep peacefully at night once more, unafraid of domestic terrorists with their eyes focused on my community. I want to feel hopeful that the future will be bright for my children and their children.

If I want those things, I’ll have to see this prayer out to the end. The swamp isn’t empty until it’s devoid of all secrecy and coverups. Which means I’ll have to suffer along with the rest of America while justice is served, evil is overcome, and the fresh wind of freedom blows through our land once more.

And I need to stock up on a lot more cans of OFF. You may want to do the same. See you in the deep end.

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[i] https://www.newsbusters.org/blogs/nb/kyle-drennen/2020/07/06/planned-parenthood-founded-racism-and-eugenics

[ii] https://montanadailygazette.com/2020/06/24/breaking-government-paid-to-smuggle-fresh-never-frozen-dead-baby-parts-into-montana/?fbclid=IwAR2oHkHJxK9KGZSajhwHvk0EfYwcGh2VKnmF7M-lil3dSOSTfjjKQA77mzQ

By The People, For The People

It’s the Fourth of July today. Independence Day. The 244^th birthday of America’s declaration of independence from tyranny, oppression, and government control.

Or, as Queen Elizabeth put it so eloquently in a popular meme ~ Happy Treason Day, Peasants.

That clever congratulation isn’t as funny this year as it used to be. Rings a little too close to the truth when the government elected by the people for the people forgets we are not ruled by a monarchy and pulls out all the stops trying to force a police state on us.

So, in honor of our country’s birthday this year, at least here in Arizona, our fireworks spectaculars have been canceled. Because of dry conditions. They say it would be dangerous this July to gather and watch professionals shoot off fireworks. Because the desert is dry. In July. Just like every summer is until our monsoon rains crank up and humidity rises and brush fire videos are filed away in the backroom of journalism offices again.

Did you catch that? It would be dangerous this July to gather . . . That’s the real reason local businesses tucked tail and put away the celebrations. They are afraid of losing their liquor licenses and being intimidated by law enforcement officers who also wonder when we stopped being a free country. Our elected governor also forced water parks to close last Monday. We wouldn’t want anyone to enjoy the Vitamin D boosting, immunity protecting sunshine Arizona offers while swimmers baptize themselves in chlorinated water. In public. Not with other people in the area.

But it’s for our own good. Laughably, that’s the same line my parents once used to keep me under control when I was a child. Appropriate. It feels like nursery school politics right now while the executive branch of our state government, like many others, tells us what to do in the mistaken assumption we must be managed by a parental government.

Is that the America you were once proud of? I didn't think so.

Like you, many of my relatives fought and bled and died over the years to protect and preserve the ideal that created the United States of America in the first place. Here’s a short list:

• Major Lester Jennings, United States Army, served in Australia and New Guinea during World War II. He was wounded by a grenade and spent the rest of his life living with the consequences of damaged discs. Major Jennings was separated from his wife and children for three straight years fighting for our freedom. He was my beloved grandfather and wept as he told me about the too frequent times he watched his own men die overseas.
• Corporal John Quigley, an Irish immigrant turned citizen, served five years in the newly established United States Marine Corps between 1892 and 1897. He contracted a tropical, mosquito-borne disease while on tour of duty protecting American ships in the Mediterranean Sea from pirates. He suffered the consequences of that disease for the rest of his life. Nevertheless, after discharge from the Marines, he joined the U.S. Army for two separate tours, was injured in the Philippines during the Philippine Insurrection, and was also separated from his family for three straight years during his service to our country. Though he spent three more years trying, he was never compensated for any of his injuries by the Pension Board of the United States Government and, in all, he gave what he called “the best eleven years of his life” to the American government. He’s buried in an unmarked grave in Phoenix, Arizona. Corporal Quigley was my great-grandfather.
• Sergeant Robert McLeod served in the United States Air Force for four years, intent on doing his part to end the Vietnam War he’d grown up observing every night, compliments of the media. By the time he finished boot camp, President Gerald Ford had accomplished what seemed impossible to our generation and officially brought the war to a close. Sgt. McLeod, a radar operator, went on to be the eyes and ears for pilots while he was assigned to a remote Alaskan airbase. He and his fiancé were separated for a year and a half straight during his final assignment in Germany. Robert McLeod has been my husband for almost 44 years.
• I can trace my relatives back to the Revolutionary War where many of them fought for freedom. Some of my ancestors served in the Civil War to protect your freedoms and the union of this great nation. My husband’s father served in the United States Navy during the Korean War. He lost a great-uncle on the beaches of Normandy during that invasion in World War II. Multiple men in his family also fought in the War of the States. And died in the conflict.
• And I know the stories of the women who loved them. Bravely, they held down their own forts, were shuffled among relatives, and were told daily they’d never see their men again. Left behind to fight for hope that they would be reunited with their loved ones once more, many of those told to expect the worst—experienced it. 

We’re fighting another war now, you and I. It encompasses all the danger and unknowns as all the others our combined ancestors faced while defending freedom. But this one feels more sinister. I think the patriots watching from the past would agree. This one has once more pitted Americans against each other on the battlefield of fear while they wave protest signs as weapons. That’s under good conditions. In other cases, supposed Americans use intimidation, violence, threats, vandalism, and disguise to bring down a nation their ancestors fought for, too.

Spurred on by political leaders who have no backbone and others who will use any means to accomplish their selfish ends, we are in the crosshairs of a political machine that has the potential to destroy not only our amazing country but the very lives you and I cherish.

And while people argue, I among them, about the validity of masks, the manipulated numbers of a virus less dangerous than the vaccine many demand and are willing to force on an unwilling population, and the social distancing experiment created by a junior high student, the real enemy who laughs behind our backs and pulls our puppet strings is keeping our hands tied and our mouths gagged so we will not speak up. Or stand up. Or risk our lives to remain free.

The official fireworks may be canceled. It’s a joke, when you stop to think about their supposed reasonings. If the real reason for putting this new hammer down is to protect our environment, why aren’t fireworks tents prohibited from selling them to the public—the same citizens who are not supposed to gather tonight and shoot them off above a dry desert?

We are asleep at the wheel, my friends. Like rusty machinery unused to doing anything to protect ourselves, we have been relying on the largely corrupt leadership of professional politicians with their hands in each others pockets and in our private affairs. If we don’t wake up and speak up soon, in what ever small way we each can if that’s all we can come up with, this will no longer be the land of the free. Or the home of any brave.

I’m praying that the celebration of America goes on as scheduled. In public. Where people gather.

Because united we stand.

Divided – we will fall.