Would you endure 40,000 lashes for your cause?

In the spirit of Gahndi, Lubna-Ahmed al-Hussein is willing to submit to 40,000 lashes for wearing pants in public. Ms. Hussein works for the UN which has recently been criticized by Eve Ensler for failing in their promise to prevent violence against women in the Congo. The UN is not supporting Ms. Hussein’s courageous decision to go on trail rather than opt for diplomatic immunity.

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Cherished: Daddy’s Little Girl

When we truly cherish someone or something we take special care. We nurture. We’re gentle. Love flows freely and generously.

My hope for each of us today is that we cherish ourselves. We make our-selves a priority. We eat healthy. We get some good exercise. We get a good night’s rest. Essentially, we care for ourselves like we are precious children of God. We all are, you know. Yes, you are precious.

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July 22: Feast of Mary Magdalene

We know from the Gospels that Jesus perceived Mary Magdalene to be an equal partner. Some scholars suggest she might have funded his missionary work. She was with Jesus until the very end, and she witnessed the resurrection on Easter morning.

Our lives and relationships would be so very different if Church tradition was founded on such equality between women and men.

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Steps and Exes by Laura Kalpakian

Laura Kalpakian wrote my all-time favorite line in Steps and Exes:

“Bullshit,” said Eve,

but not too loud.

The book is set at Useless Point on Isadora Island, a fictional artistic enclave in the San Juan Islands of the Pacific Northwest. The heroine, Celia Henry, became a young widow before she realized her late husband was not Henry West ~ she had married Henry Westervelt, the scion of a lumber baron family. Her life is unconventional and filled with a tribe of step children and ex-spouses and lovers. She runs a bed and breakfast on property that belonged to Henry’s great aunt Sophia. (See Educating Waverly by Laura Kalpakian.)

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Bridges, Chapter Two

He was worried. She seemed to be having the hallucinations of a dying person. He was right about the dying. “Who the hell is Anne Elizabeth Bellingham?” he demanded hoping she would drift back into reality. “Bridges,” was her whispered reply, “bridges. You must write the story.”

He wanted to know more, but she was no longer grasping his hand. He knew she was gone. He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t move. She was gone, and he didn’t know who it was lying in that bed. Was it the woman he had loved or a stranger?

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