Where's my head??

I drove down Old Hickory Blvd for 10 minutes with my blinker on. What's wrong with me?

I've been stumbling over my words all day. Everytime the phone rings I get nervous that I'll get something backwards. Which has been the case for 75% of my day.

I'm forgetting everything. Someone will tell me something and if I don't write it down...it's gone within 5 minutes.

Anyone else having a day like this??

The News...

Why don't the newscasters cry when they read about people who die?
At least they could be decent enough to put just a tear in their eyes
Mama said, "It's just make believe"
You cant believe everything you see
So baby close your eyes to the lullabies
On the news tonight

From "The News" by Jack Johnson

My mind has been everywhere but here today. I keep going online to cnn or google news every chance I get. I've watched as the events at Virginia Tech unfolded, leaving over 30 people dead and many more injured. I can't believe it. I've read stories of students and teachers jumping out of classroom windows, trying to get away from the gunman. Other students are being told to stay where they are, don't go outside or look out your windows. Not knowing the situation, they learn what little information they can from the internet. Just as I have. Can you imagine being in the center of mayhem and the only info you can get comes from a news website? My heart hurts just to think about it.

What caused this person to kill so many? Why did 2 hours pass before anyone knew about the first shots fired? Could this devastating scene have been avoided? I really don't understand...

As the day moves on, I continue to scroll through the pages of headlines. Bush is still selling the war, other politicians are trying to stop it, the Prince broke up with his girlfriend, Madonna is visiting some orphanages, and Sanjaya...well, he's still here. Oh and there's an astronaut running the Boston marathon in space, with a space tourist sleeping in the next cabin.

All of this is on the same page...but is it? What makes news newsworthy? What causes the writers, bloggers, news anchors, and photographers to write what they write, say what they say, and do what they do? What makes all of this interesting to the public audience? What determines what we hear and read?

How is it that there's more on the online news about what's going on with American Idol than about the millions of children who are starving? The thousands of people who are dying from treatable diseases? The devastation in Virginia is horrible. It's absolutely horrible. So many students have been interviewed saying they live in a small, quiet town. It's not something you would expect in a town like this.

I have to pose the question...why are we not shocked on a daily basis that people are dying unjustly in our world? There are men, women, and children who are in desperate need of help and hundreds of thousands of people stand by idly and watch them fall. Why can't we wake up to the fact that WE CAN DO SOMETHING?

There are ministries all over the world that need our money to continue the work. For the cost of a cup of coffee, we can help provide clean water to people who drink from sewage. For the cost of dinner out, I can help a child go to school and get medical care.

What if someone had reached out to, loved, and encouraged the man who shot all of those people today? What difference could that have made? Would it have made a difference? I know we can't really answer those questions. But...can we at least try to keep something like this from happening again?

A question that I continue to ask myself daily...DO I BELIEVE THAT LOVE IS STRONGER THAN HATE? And do I show others that I believe it?

An Article from Relevant Magazine....I had to share

A World of Contradictions
Elora Ramirez

The summer after my senior year of high school, I had the privilege of going to Haiti on a mission trip. Even though that was over five years ago, I can still feel the captivating pull of the lush and beautiful jungle. To this day, I still am processing what happened to me in that small country most people only know through news reports. I have tried numerous times to sit down and let my mind wander back to the people who stole my heart. Each time is met with frustration or words that mean so little compared to my experiences. How can I write about a country I know very little about? How can I condense a lifetime of lessons into one cohesive blurb? What is left with these questions is just an overarching desire to try.

First things first, this is not an attempt to prove to you that I am an expert on Haitian culture and the politics of a country in turmoil. This is an attempt to share, however briefly, the knowledge I gained while experiencing a culture so rich yet so different from my own.

What I know about Haiti is the rain that produces rivers down the dirt roads and feeds into the huts of the locals. What I know about Haiti is the enigmatic pull of beautiful wasteland of Jolli Gilbert. The bustling of school children, running down the sidewalk with matching pastel polo shirts and hand-me-down bottoms, captures my attention. Their laughter ricochets off the dilapidated tin-roof homes, and I smile. One of the children stops mid-stride and looks at the dirt. He begins exclaiming something in a language I can’t understand, but the other children turn in haste and run back towards him. Looking closely, you can see what has demanded their attention. A small butterfly sits quietly on a lone rock—the brilliant colors of its wings a stark contrast to the dirt surrounding it.

I will find that this is what Haiti is full of—contradictions.

I stare out the window of the rusty truck wondering about these children.
How long does it take them to walk the five miles home from school? What do they worry about? Do they have a family? When was the last time they were hugged?

Many of my questions are answered the next day as the children speak to me in their stilted mix of English and Creole about what they do for fun.

One of the girls who is particularly fond of my light skin and blonde hair just sits in my laps and stares. Feeling the intensity of her rich eyes, I look down, smile and she beams with an uncertain familiarity.

Grabbing my face with both of her hands, she whispers, “beyotiful” and wraps me in the tightest hug I’ve received in awhile; our portrait a black and white image of purity and innocence.

I soon find that these children are the most genuine people I have ever met. In their stained T-shirts that have holes from too much wear, the kids find covering—not style. In friendships they possess a solidarity and community that far outweighs Americans’ tendency of keeping each other at arms’ length. When these precious children sing, they sing with the joy of being alive.

They are just that—alive.

Haiti, in all its tragedy and deconstruction, is where I was transformed. When asked to pinpoint a significant turning point in my life, I always reference Haiti. It is here that I believe I lost my innocence. However, it is in this country with rich heritage and beautiful strength that I found myself.

What I remember about Haiti is not the men walking down the street with machine guns, but the women walking with their children—bright smiles echoing off the darkness around them. What I remember about Haiti is not the marketplace full of beggars, but the marketplace full of bright possibilities in the shape of tropical fruit, paintings and jewelry crafted with the hope of a new beginning.

Haiti is more than just the 30-second update the press feeds us. It is a land that has permeated my senses. I still smell the morning dew glistening on the banana leaves. I still feel the coarseness of rocks digging into my skin as I knelt down to talk to the children. I still taste the saltiness of goatskin, a delicacy that was given for our company. I still hear the sweet sounds of worship coming from the lips of believers that truly define faith in action. But most of all, I still see the eyes of those I came in contact with. Tired. Broken. Waiting. Hoping.

A world of contradictions bottled up into a tiny gaze.