Andrew Breitbart lit up a room. Out at Western CPAC in Southern California a couple years ago, his star was rising, and he gave an interview. I asked him what he was doing; as in, how do you see your role?
He told us that he saw himself as a “merry mischief maker”. He wanted to turn the media upside down. He wanted to destroy them.
Andrew succeeded. He created the most surreal media moment ever: He ended up speaking at Anthony Weiner’s late and ill-fated press conference. He was at once the press and the news. It was a seminal moment. It was the moment I felt that Andrew had achieved his ends.
Everything had changed. The New Media was rising.
The grief-making part of it? He’d just really started. So much work to do. So much vitality.
In the spring of last year, Andrew called me and asked if I’d help him promote his book Righteous Indignation. He overnighted a review copy. In a day, I read it cover to cover.
If you haven’t read Andrew’s book, you really must. Not only is he a great story teller and beautiful writer, and he is, he also gives great hope through his own story. His biography shows a man, who like most Americans, didn’t pay attention and how he “woke up”.
And boy, did he wake up. He was the righteous, pointed finger in the chest of the empty and sanctimonious left. He had their number and they knew it.
As I sit here crying, I fear looking at Twitter for seeing all the nastiness and venom that will spill forth about Andrew from the left. He was hated because he was effective. They hated his persona. They hated his gumption. They hated him. [Updated: Do they ever.]
Knowing Andrew–knowing his sweet nature, knowing his kindness, knowing his generosity–I would just marvel at the contrast between what the left caricatured him as being with who he really was.
You know that carousing guy? That guy who skates on the edge or goes over it? The guy who cheats on his wife while out of town or likes to give the impression of being a player?
That wasn’t Andrew. Ever.
Andrew was devoted. He was a true family man. He chortled about people implying that he was gay as his domestic life with his wife and four kids was so tranquil and happy. He liked that someone viewed him as edgy.
At one small gathering, I found Andrew walking aimlessly around the hotel lobby with his iPad. I asked him what he was doing. Well, he couldn’t find anyone and was waiting for people to show up–for three hours. When it was suggested that he could have called one of us, he responded, “I’m not very good without my wife or Larry.”
Scattered, brimming with ideas, mulish, and hell-bent, Andrew could be a handful. His best friend Larry Solov is as sweet, calm, and circumspect as Andrew is bombastic, frenetic and bold. Larry helped Andrew succeed in so many ways. When it came to the business of Andrew Breitbart, Andrew and Larry were two parts of a whole.
Andrew was so full of life, it is almost impossible to fathom the emptiness that will be felt by those close to him. I feel it and I didn’t interact with Andrew every day.
I worried for Andrew. Before CPAC this year, there had been threats made on his life. Andrew was symbolic for the left and his death would be a triumph. And yet Andrew didn’t seem concerned at all. He just plowed on and engaged.
He gave his phone number to anyone. He would talk to anyone. He was not a respecter of persons.
I wish he was still here. There’s too much work to do. Who will do it? Who will do it like Andrew?
Someone will have to do the work, but no one will do it like Andrew.
Andrew Breitbart. Happy Warrior. Devoted husband and father. Generous friend and co-worker. Merry mischief maker.
I miss him already.
Matt LaBash: By way of greeting, I used to ask Breitbart what kind of evil he was up to. “Most kinds,” he’d say, gamely.
Andrew’s speech at CPAC:
Andrew’s last tweet:
— AndrewBreitbart (@AndrewBreitbart) March 1, 2012
I’ve never known someone, perhaps with the exception of Drudge himself, who had more of a savant’s sense of media, old and new — but especially new. In the early days of the Drudge Report there was a lot of talk about how Drudge made the news, and that was often true. But he could only do that by understanding the news and how it worked at a visceral instinctive level. Matt saw this same gift in Andrew, which is why he hired him. The two of them changed the course of the massive river of news for literally billions of people. That’s no exaggeration, even venerable enterprises and institutions that despised the Drudge Report and pretended it didn’t exist had to change course because of it.I’ve never known someone, perhaps with the exception of Drudge himself, who had more of a savant’s sense of media, old and new — but especially new. In the early days of the Drudge Report there was a lot of talk about how Drudge made the news, and that was often true. But he could only do that by understanding the news and how it worked at a visceral instinctive level. Matt saw this same gift in Andrew, which is why he hired him. The two of them changed the course of the massive river of news for literally billions of people. That’s no exaggeration, even venerable enterprises and institutions that despised the Drudge Report and pretended it didn’t exist had to change course because of it.
Matt Drudge says this:
“DEAR READER: In the first decade of the DRUDGEREPORT Andrew Breitbart was a constant source of energy, passion and commitment. We shared a love of headlines, a love of the news, an excitement about what’s happening. I don’t think there was a single day during that time when we did not flash each other or laugh with each other, or challenge each other. I still see him in my mind’s eye in Venice Beach, the sunny day I met him. He was in his mid 20’s. It was all there. He had a wonderful, loving family and we all feel great sadness for them today… MDRUDGE”
Roger Simon: “When a whirlwind dies, there is a sudden quiet.”
William Jacobson: “Andrew is irreplaceable, but we would serve his memory well to aspire to more freedom of thought and more freedom of action.”
Uncut podcast at Liberty Pundits with Clyde Middleton and Andrew Breitbart.
Ace who drubs David Frum aka The Rat.
Felicia Craven: Andrew Breitbart was our William Wallace.
Andrew Malcolm: So?
Christopher Hitchens died yesterday, here in Houston at MD Anderson.
A faithful atheist, Christopher Hitchens wrestled with God. I appreciated watching it in action. It was like witnessing Jacob go round after round with the Maker begging to be blessed. Hitchens wanted to be blessed with belief, I believe.
Perhaps I’m wrong, but it seemed to me he felt cursed by not being allowed entre into an intellectual world he couldn’t understand. His unbelief limited his understanding of the world both literary and literal and unlike so many, he seemed aware of his lack. He seemed to resent it. So, he fought.
An honest believer of any stripe fights. The mindless, whether atheist or God-fearer, makes a mockery of belief itself. Some might be surprised that a man who seemed to so despise God would be respected by believers. Here’s been my experience: the fighters acknowledge Something whether conscious or not.
Reminds me of the verse Revelation 3:15:
“I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot: I would thou wert cold or hot.”
In a politically correct world of facile sophistry, Christopher Hitchens was either hot or cold. He certainly wasn’t lukewarm.
He didn’t brook the flabby self-congratulation of the likes of Bill Maher the king of cheap and easy pseudo-intellectualism.
One of my favorite Hitchens moments was between Christopher Hitchens and Andrew Sullivan in a debate moderated by the incomparable Tim Russert. At one point, Hitchens decried Andrew’s whining like a little girl. It was offensive, un-p.c. and completely deserved.
One of the most painful Hitchens exchanges was Hitch and his brother debating over the existence of God. What pained me was Christopher’s brother Peter’s pain.
Peter wrote about his journey to Christianity (well worth the read):
Being Christian is one thing. Fighting for a cause is another, and much easier to acknowledge – for in recent times it has grown clear that the Christian religion is threatened with a dangerous defeat by secular forces which have never been so confident.
Why is there such a fury against religion now? Because religion is the one reliable force that stands in the way of the power of the strong over the weak. The one reliable force that forms the foundation of the concept of the rule of law.
The one reliable force that restrains the hand of the man of power. In an age of powerworship, the Christian religion has become the principal obstacle to the desire of earthly utopians for absolute power.
While I was making my gradual, hesitant way back to the altar-rail, my brother Christopher’s passion against God grew more virulent and confident.
As he has become more certain about the non-existence of God, I have become more convinced we cannot know such a thing in the way we know anything else, and so must choose whether to believe or not. I think it better by far to believe.
And then he writes of his brother:
My brother and I agree on this: that independence of mind is immensely precious, and that we should try to tell the truth in clear English even if we are disliked for doing so. Oddly enough this leads us, in many things, to be far closer than most people think we are on some questions; closer, sometimes, than we would particularly wish to be.
The same paradox sometimes also makes us arrive at different conclusions from very similar arguments, which is easier than it might appear. This will not make us close friends at this stage. We are two utterly different men approaching the ends of two intensely separate lives.
Let us not be sentimental here, nor rashly over-optimistic. But I was astonished, on that spring evening by the Grand River, to find that the longest quarrel of my life seemed unexpectedly to be over, so many years and so many thousands of miles after it had started, in our quiet homes and our first beginnings in an England now impossibly remote from us.
It may actually be true, as I have long hoped that it would be, in the words of T. S. Eliot, that ‘the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time’.
And if that peace could come…
Well, we all get old and we all soften, or most with any shred of wisdom do. And so, the question was asked by Mark Judge,”Is Christopher Hitchens about to convert?“
My initial answer to the question was a version of “isn’t it pretty to think so”? My second thought was who can know the mind of men? And that reminded me of I Corinthians 2:11 (again in the King James version because I’m partial):
“For what man knoweth the things of a man, save the spirit of man which is in him? even so the things of God knoweth no man, but the Spirit of God.”
Or said in a modern way, “After all, who knows everything about a person except that person’s own spirit? In the same way, no one has known everything about God except God’s Spirit.”
We can only know believers by their fruit and forgive me, but Christopher Hitchens was withering. Ultimately, his belief is between him and God. It is for all of us.
Either way, I’m thankful for Christopher Hitchens. His keen mind and incisive questions forced a believer to be better in his answers.
And that is why I’ll miss Christopher Hitchens most–his unintended consequences. It is with great irony that he caused many who were learning, to come to the truth–even if he couldn’t.
UPDATED: Please read his brother Peter’s eulogy. It’s excellent. A smidgeon:
He would always rather fight than give way, not for its own sake but because it came naturally to him. Like me, he was small for his age during his entire childhood and I have another memory of him, white-faced, slight and thin as we all were in those more austere times, furious, standing up to some bully or other in the playground of a school we attended at the same time.
This explains plenty. I offer it because the word ‘courage’ is often misused today. People sometimes tell me that I have been ‘courageous’ to say something moderately controversial in a public place. Not a bit of it. This is not courage. Courage is deliberately taking a known risk, sometimes physical, sometimes to your livelihood, because you think it is too important not to.
Another moving tribute by his friend, Peter Robinson.
Modern technology brings diagnoses earlier–even in the womb. In the U.S., that means that 90% of children with Down’s Syndrom are aborted thanks to amniocentesis. In this UK example, a child diagnosed via ultrasound with Spina Bifida was aborted [WARNING: this is very disturbing]. His mother’s experience is what follows:
Yet if making that choice was hard, the physical ordeal was only just beginning. At 18 weeks pregnant, I was too far gone for a surgical termination and would have to go through a labour and delivery, under the care of midwives at our local hospital.
The first step was to take the drug Mifepristone to block progesterone, a hormone vital to pregnancy. I swallowed the pill in a side room on the labour ward — the same room where I’d given birth to our younger daughter two years previously.
Over the two days that followed, I fought the urge to put my hands on my stomach when I felt the baby move. Knowing that he was slowly dying inside me was the very definition of hell.
After two days, I returned to the same room to take a second drug to induce labour.
What followed were the worst 16 hours of my life. They passed in a morphine-induced haze, but there was no dulling what was happening.
My baby was being forced into the world long before he could survive in it, and it felt unnatural — completely at odds with my instincts as a mother. My body seemed to be doing all it could to hold onto him, and the labour went on and on.
At one point, in the grips of what felt like a panic attack, I became hysterical. Gasping for breath and screaming, I demanded that Andrew tell me why we were doing this and why it was the right thing for our son.
What follows is her husband’s, her doctor’s, her family’s rationalization for aborting a baby that would have a difficult life.
Reading this sickens me. My own son was born severely premature and ended up with the diagnosis of autism. He was on medications, oxygen, etc. when he came home from the hospital four months later after surgeries and fears including blindness, palsy, mental retardation. We didn’t know what we’d end up with. For that matter, we still don’t know our son’s ultimate path.
You might think that makes me condemn this family for their decision to abort their baby. No. I’m too crushed to cast stones.
Their decision to abort is utterly, completely, and frightfully hopeless. There is no room for God. There is no room for hope. There is no room for the expansion of human frailty. And by frailty, I’m not talking about the disabled child, I’m talking about the parents–their selfishness, weakness, limitations of spirit. By aborting him, they’ll never fully know what they’re capable of as people.
I think about my own walk–parenting my son. The limitations, I can assure you, are mine, not his. My humor, my patience, my vision, my work-ethic are non-stop challenged and unfortunately, I fall short embarrassingly often.
Just when I think I’m going to lose it, there’s a break-through. I’ve had to expand beyond my pathetic, small, inwardness. My judgmental nature? Well, it’s still there, but the wings have been clipped. Cavalier condemnation, so easy for someone who has had the bramble-free path, that’s gone by the wayside, mostly. Thankfully.
My son loves professional wrestling. This family who aborted their son–what loves did they extinguish? What unique personality and hopes and dreams were killed when he died? And really, who are they to decide that this child’s future, as different as their own might be, is unworthy?
Parents who are able-bodied and minded project their own expectations for life on a disabled child. And while all parents do that with all their children, kids turn out to be their own people. They end up having their own hopes, dreams and ideas. The same is true for a disabled child.
How is it fair to take away that will from a child?
When we get pregnant, as ironic as it is, we relinquish control over our own lives and submit to the hopes and desires of this other life force. We spend the rest of our days negotiating this paradox. We expand our own world by making room for another person’s world. And we often do that by pruning parts of our world that we thought we needed to survive. We die a little so another can live and in the process, we live more.
As this family sees their able-bodied children grow up, they’ll see the fallacy of their thinking. I hope. It might be painful to see. Still, in front of them, if they have the eyes to see, they’ll witness a unique being straining to be his or her own person. They’ll realize how little control they have. They’ll realize that their own decision at the start most certainly began something that is now not theirs.
And for all their careful planning and protection, tragedy will strike. Evil befalls us all.
In some ways, I think abortion, just like the technology that prompted this family to abort their child, foists the illusion of control over life. As if by aborting the baby, the parent now has perfect control over her life. Life will be good, easier, better, more pleasant…guaranteed.
What if one of their children becomes paralyzed in a car accident (heaven forbid), for example? Is this child better off dead? And what do they tell this survivor about the worth and meaning of his life? How about people who sacrifice a limb for their brothers on the battlefield? Another meaningless life? How about the elderly parent with full faculties but incapacitated due to ALS or some other degenerative disease?
What life is worth living and who gets to decide this for someone else? Do these parents feel comfortable with their children making the decision to “abort” them when they reach an age where they’re no longer deemed useful…to the children? Maybe their children will project their ideas about living with deafness or blindness or incontinence or immobility or pain or paralysis and decide, prematurely, to end mom or dad’s life. Is their reasoning any different?
This callous disregard for the imperfect life rests on the premise that there’s a perfect life. Anyone who has done much living knows that’s not true. There are many shades of gray on the scale of life and value.
That’s why life, all life, must be honored and protected. That’s why we’re so careful about meting out justice. Life is valuable. To snuff it out is to end a potentiality and no one can know where a life will go or what an individual’s purpose on this earth is.
The family that aborted their eighteen-week gestated baby were surrounded by friends, family, doctors who all advised them to abort. This wasn’t just an individual or family decision, it was a societal one.
What have we become that this decision was encouraged?
That’s a question for another post. Today, it’s enough to grieve for the life of a boy with Spina Bifada who was killed inside the womb “for his own good.” It is a tragedy of epic and personal proportions. Who knows who the world is missing because he’s not here.
George. His name is George.
A letter a blogger friend forwarded:
Dear Family and Friends,
Thank you for your thoughts and prayers for us and the Fort Hood community, a community that has been deeply wounded both physically and spiritually. The past day and a half have been very challenging. I write to share my somewhat-insider perspective on the events. Please know these have been humbling hours for me and I write not to glamorize myself or this tragedy. I hope my personal experience is helpful as you all are processing the events.
At about 1:40 pm local time on Thursday, I was informed that a mass casualty situation was evolving at Fort Hood. At that time I was working in a trailer adjacent to the hospital. The only information I had was that one or more gunmen had opened fire at a SRP site, a type of processing facility where many soldiers pass through daily. Knowing the high density of soldiers at the SRP site, I braced myself mentally for the possibility of a large number of casualties. Upon exiting the trailer, I immediately heard sirens and saw several ambulances driving up to the ER bays, dropping off casualties, and turning right around to pick up more. I ran up to the hospital.
The hospital has pre-designated areas for personnel to report to in the case of a mass casualty/disaster situation. Ours (family medicine docs) is the family medicine clinic, located on the first floor of the hospital, about 100 feet from the ER. All casualties were going initially to the ER, where they were quickly triaged and dispersed from there to the operating room, our clinic, or elsewhere. There were already casualties being treated when I got to the clinic. We broke up quickly into teams, with one or more docs and nurses with each patient. All the patients had bullet wounds-not a common site in a family medicine clinic. Fortunately or not, several of the staff had extensive trauma experience from prior deployments. Initially there was no morphine available, so the halls were filed with shouts of pain as the patients were examined.
My first patient was a young second lieutenant. Her uniform trousers were cut almost completely off, a standard practice during trauma evaluation, designed to avoid missing any injuries. A bullet hole can be pretty small, and one injury can easily distract from others. The less immediately obvious wound can become deadly if not appreciated on the initial assessment. I had never treated a patient with a gunshot wound before Thursday. Thankfully the Army has sent us all the Ft. Sam Houston to an ATLS (Advanced Trauma Life Support) course, a course designed for exactly this setting, where a non-trauma-surgeon is evaluating and stabilizing a trauma victim.
When we asked the 2LT what happened and she was able to tell a sensible story in complete sentences, I knew that for the moment her airway, breathing, and circulation were intact. She had a tourniquet and some bright red blood on her left thigh, and said the shooter had looked her in the eye, then shot her in the leg. “He could have shot me in the head, but he didn’t.” I left the tourniquet in place, since it seemed to be working fine. I swept my arm under her body, looking for any blood when I pulled it out. Her vital signs were good. Her heart and lungs sounded good. She had IV access with fluids running. She had no other pain other than her leg where she was wounded, and she had good pulses and sensation in that foot, all encouraging signs. We gave her some morphine, removed the dressing and saw an entry wound, but no exit wound was visible. We got ready to take her to get x-rays.
Then, here comes the cavalry-the orthopedic surgeons arrived! They quickly examined the 2LT, agreed she was stable, and moved on. X-rays showed a bullet near her hip with no fractures. Much later in the night, after reviewing the patient’s x-rays with ortho again, she was released to go home with instructions to come back to our clinic in the morning for a re-check. A couple ER physicians came through to offer their help; not satisfied at saving lives in their own area, they offered their expertise to us as well. We were glad to have it.
We moved from patient to patient, making sure everyone was accounted for and getting the appropriate treatment and that their loved ones were contacted, to know that they were safe. Soldiers barely out of high school were dying in the ER. A new, young mother died on the operating room table. A family medicine intern with a baby of her own was there. There was no time to pause or grieve.
Based on the numbers you have heard, the vast majority of victims were treated at our hospital, but the flow of patients eventually abated. I was hearing little bits and pieces of what had happened; there were conflicting reports on the number of soldiers killed, the number of shooters, and the number of locations. A patient told me the shooter was in uniform, a Major, a field-grade officer, and he had called everyone to attention before opening fire.
Later we heard the unthinkable, that this was indeed an Army officer, but worse, a physician, entrusted to heal but causing great harm instead. This man had on occasion worked at the hospital, covering on weekends. Sometimes the family medicine inpatient service admits patients that have intentionally overdosed or are drunk and saying they want to harm themselves. Once these types of patients are cleared medically, they need psychiatric evaluation to determine if they are safe to go home; one of the family medicine staff physicians, Dr. K., had consulted this psychiatrist (the shooter) on such a patient only 2 weeks ago.
When she heard who the shooter was, Dr. K. was besieged with guilt, saying that she knew he wasn’t quite right, that he seemed depressed, that she should have done something. She broke down in sobs in the middle of the clinic. A couple of us sat down in a clinic room with her and listened. My mentor, a female Major and West Point grad, hugged her and let her cry. It was probably the first hug she’d had since her husband deployed to Iraq in September. They got 10 days notice.
I have never been so proud of our clinic. There wasn’t a nurse in that clinic that wouldn’t run to the other side of the hospital to get something if a patient needed it. The cleaning lady was unreal-I thought some of that blood would never come off, and by the time she was done (quickly!) I would’ve eaten dinner of those tables.
Things were letting up for us in our area, so we went to other floors of the hospital, helping do things like write admission orders for patients so there medications could be brought up from the pharmacy. The general surgeons were doing yeoman’s work. They were cutting open chests and bellies and battling their mightiest to repair the damage done by the bullets. They mostly succeeded, doing the work of specialists in cardiothoracic and vascular surgery, simply because they were it, they were our best hope.
My fellow residents and I did what we could to help; most of us left around 9 pm simply because there wasn’t anything else to do. I was so proud of those guys and their families; they would have stayed the whole night if there was a way they could help out. A good friend of mine stayed to carry the Internal Medicine on-call pager; I went home to xxx, then went back around 2 am to take the pager back from him. No matter, no one was going to the ER, so there were no admissions. I think they thought, “You know, I’m not shot, I think I’ll be okay.” I did what I could to help out in the ICU.
Another patient died in the time I was at home, a clean-cut 21-year-old. He had extensive chest and abdominal wounds, the worst to his aorta. When he arrived to the ICU from the OR, he had what surgeon’s call the “unhappy triad” of hypothermia (his rectal temperature was 88 degrees), acidosis, and coagulopathy. It is rare to survive after reaching that point. He got 50 units of blood. Hospital workers were donating their blood. He was getting 4 IV medications to raise his blood pressure. He went back to the OR. He had cardiopulmonary arrest, was successfully resuscitated once, but not the second time. They gave him everything they had, even when it was probably futile, because what else can you do but everything? This is a kid who will never know what it’s like to fall in love and marry, to have children, to grow old. There is no tomorrow for him.
There was another young 20-year-old private with a bullet in his chest, only it inexplicably stopped at his sternum, and one in his back, only it never made it past the muscle. When I saw him up on the wards, all he was worried about was when he could go downstairs and smoke. A little walking miracle with a pack-a-day habit, no clue how lucky he was and, for the moment, some extra metal in him.
Friday, there were a lot of generals at our little hospital. They visited every single injured soldier. George W. Bush, the former president, visited the hospital in the evening. Say what you will about his politics, but that man was here, and that counts for a lot in my book.
Keep everyone at Fort Hood in your prayers, especially the families of the fallen. There are not words to describe how sad and tragic this is. As a Christian, it is difficult to understand and hard to accept. Abstract ideas about the effects of sin on creation, the depravity of mankind as a whole, and the presence of evil forces in the world give way quickly to the concrete reality that mothers will bury their sons and daughters in the days ahead, and everyone knows that is not the way it’s supposd to be. If I can offer you hope in the midst of this darkness, it is that I have seen all around me in these troubling hours people realizing their potential to do great good and to come together in unity to sacrifice for others. We as Christians must always remember that our God, not willing to allow us to suffer alone, took the form of a man and suffers along with us. When His friend Lazarus died, John 11:35 tells us that, like us, Jesus wept, and I know He still weeps along with us tonight..
God bless you all and we love you,
xxx and xxx
I can’t say much nice, so I won’t say much of anything–except to acknowledge that the man lived, died, served his constituents, and was rewarded and acknowledged for that service.
Life is short. And we are all but a blink. Wealth, privilege, connections, power cannot give a person eternal life. They cannot give a person love. They cannot confer happiness. Life must be made in the moment.
Why does it take getting pounded by life to tenderize our hearts to the suffering of others? Some don’t get tender, of course. Some, like Javert, feel wronged and pursue “justice” until the end of their days. They keep track of every slight and spend their days plotting revenge. Mercy is weak, kindness naive.
Some who suffer retreat from life and become a non-entity. And some who see these people retreat condemn them. The Anchoress addresses this notion:
John never demanded notice. Likely he never believed he was worth anyone’s noticing. When you are rejected by your parents at a young age, never quite included in “the family,” that can happen.
It has never been my habit to decide the spiritual fate of someone else; in fact I loathe nothing more than folks who presumptuously declare they know the state of someone else’s soul, because of this scripture verse or that. These people, to me, seem unloving, empty and oddly disconnected from the scripture they quote…as though their intellect has cut off from their heart. Other people mean well, but…I know tomorrow my email will contain a few missives from people who will quote scripture at me and enumerate to me all the reasons my brother is not now in the peace of Christ.
I say to hell with that. He was loved into being; he was baptized and sealed. The people who were supposed to teach him the way in which to go spun him madly, incessantly – then allowed him to get dizzy and lost. He lived a sad, tortured life the best way he knew how – quite imperfectly, but then his tools were also very insufficient and his trust was non-existent. I cannot claim to know anything, but I do not believe that a loving God would look upon this much-sinned against man and reject him once again, as he was rejected all his life.
Pain. There is so much pain. And while many people have empty souls, who knows what their lives would be like if love touched them? Only God knows the answer to that.
Here (h/t Ace):
Just to clarify.
So, I guess in this guy’s mind, we should have no Helen Kellers or Franklin D. Roosevelts; no Lord Byrons, Lord Nelsons, or Beethovens. Is that the argument? That unless you’re 100% “healthy” — and by whose standards is “healthy” defined anyway? — you don’t have a right to live? And what gives this guy the right to decide?
I grew up with my Down’s Syndrome cousin. She was as integral to the family as any chromosomally “perfect” person. The funeral home could not fit all the people when she died. She was loved and she loved. She lived on the farm and she contributed.
What amazes me is that these same people will go to any length to save a dog or get naked for PETA and will turn around and show callous disregard for human life–either flawed or inconvenient.
A note on late-term abortions: My sons were born at 24 weeks gestation. One died after contracting MRSA at the hospital. One received the best medical care and is now in 5th grade. These are children. People. The notion of having a botched late term abortion and then allowing that child to die, or actively kill the child is beyond barbaric.
Radical leftists like Obama embrace eugenics and a life inconvenienced by unplanned children. It is horrifying. What birth defect do you have that makes you unworthy? What circumstance created your inconvenient existence?
It seems impossible that 18 years have passed since the controversial decision by the Ayala family who chose to get pregnant with a baby to save their daughter, Annisa, who suffered with leukemia. She needed a bone marrow transplant to save her life, but there were no matches. Her parents had another child who ended up being the perfect match. Both girls are alive and well today. Watch the whole story here.
An ethicist made the argument that it was wrong to have a child, and before the baby could consent herself, take her bone marrow to save her sister. I watched the family, imagined watching my daughter die and can see making the same decision. The thought did occur to me, though, what if the child wasn’t a match? How would that reality affect the family? After the older daughter died, would the new child be a solace or source of pain? That’s a lot to put on a child. I’m sure the parents thought this through. What say you?
This case also reminded me of end of life decisions, too. No one likes to talk about it, but I know for a fact that parents, children and doctors make tough choices every single day in hospitals across America. The Terri Schiavo case was especially divisive because of the nature of her husband’s relationship and the questionable circumstances surrounding her coma. At any rate, her case wasn’t typical. Most people at the end are suffering and the question is whether to intervene and end it, or less overtly, just remove the life support; or, should nature be allowed to take it’s course, meaning that the person dies when the body quits. Again, I’m curious about your reaction to this dilemma.
Cross-posted at Right Wing News
I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: Life is short. He struggled against colon cancer and lost the fight.
Tony’s humor and humanity stood out in whatever role he played. I delighted in his sparring with the press when he was Press Secretary. I delighted in his sparring with politicians in his role at FOX. He just seemed like a smart, dedicated, nice guy.
Michelle Malkin says:
He was a true mensch, multi-talented–and one of the kindest people I had the honor to meet in the news business.
Even a long, meaningful life is short. Yesterday, surgeon Michael Ellis DeBakey also died. He is the father of modern cardiovascular surgery:
He remained vigorous and was a player in medicine well into his 90s, performing surgeries, traveling and publishing articles in scientific journals. His large hands were steady, his hearing sharp. His personal health regimen included taking the stairs at work and a single cup of coffee in the morning.
DeBakey’s death was mourned Friday night by the leaders of Methodist and Baylor. Methodist President Ron Girotto said, “He has improved the human condition and touched the lives of generations to come. We will greatly miss him.” And Baylor President Dr. Peter Traber added that “he set a standard for preeminence in all areas of his life that those who knew him and worked with him are compelled to emulate. And he served as a very visible reminder of the importance of leadership and giving back to ones community.”
It occurs to me that both of these men shared a trait: recognition that time is short and impatience with those intent on wasting it:
”He’s not hard to work with if things are done right,” said Noon, DeBakey’s colleague of more than three decades, in a 1995 interview. ”He was hard on people who slacked off or made mistakes. But he was so busy. He had to depend on people, and he could be tough. But he was always tough for a reason.”
Tough, impatient, perfectionistic, driven, curious, kind, smart. Good traits to be remembered for.
R.I.P. Tony and Dr. DeBakey.