A Time and a Place for Everything...

Lately, many things being done by Washington Republicans are deeply disturbing. But events on Capitol Hill last week were nothing short of horrid and ghastly.

A new circle of Hell is being built just for those who would exploit the least among us in the hopes of exciting their base.

Sincere and honest people know there is a time and a place for everything. I say it's time to let Terri Schiavo go on to her Maker.

But honestly, who cares what I say? It isn't my decision to make. It's not my business. And it isn't Tom Delay's business. And it isn't Bill Frist's business. This issue is not up for popular debate or judgement. The human being that was Terri Schiavo died 15 years ago. Her brain scans show NO activity outside of the brainstem. She cannot hear, see, think, or feel anything. She does not feel thirst. She does not feel hunger. She is a shell. I do not know or understand why her parents need so badly to keep her whithered shell here on earth. It is certainly not my place to question the depth of these people's pain and despair. My own prayer is that they find grace and strength enough to do the right thing and let her go.

John Donne wrote a Sonnet ages ago that is more truthful than most thoughts I have ever heard on the subject of dying. In four hundred years, no one has said it better. Easter weekend is an appropriate time to recall what he wrote.

This is a standard 14 line, iambic pentameter sonnet, but I can't remember how the lines break up - I'm not even going to try - I'll just write it like I hear it in my head...

Holy Sonnets, #10
Death, be not proud.
Though some have call'ed thee mighty and dreadful, thou are not so.
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, much pleasure - then, from thee much more must flow.
And soonest our best men with thee do go, rest of their bones and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men, and dost with poison and war and sickness dwell.
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, and better than thy stroke.
Why swellst thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally and death shall be no more.
Death - thou shalt die.