April 13, 2022

The happy memories of childhood are a wonderful place to visit, aren’t they? Though imperfect, the memories we’ve stored from years passed nonetheless give us touchstones, real moments we can look back on when the spirit moves us.

The older I become, the more I’m convinced that we humans need a sense of stability for our psyches as much as we need air to breathe and food to feed our bodies. By visiting our memories, we metaphorically tie a rope between then and now, giving us something to hold onto, something to guide us. Not unlike the ropes tied between house and barn in high elevation rural areas in the winter to keep the rancher from getting lost in a blizzard.

This is Holy Week, so called because we are approaching the day which is considered the most sacred in Christianity: Good Friday.

My memories of Easter as a child—specifically before the death of my father—are filled with odd bits and pieces, freeze-framed photographs taken by a small child whose world at that point was perfect. I can recall a new Easter outfit, including a pretty if scratchy dress, white socks (also scratchy) and shiny new Maryjane shoes. I remember a cute little white hat and a pink coat, which I doubt I wore any place other than to church each Sunday, and only until spring had heated into summer.

I remember getting a white bunny rabbit one year for Easter. A real, live rabbit! I remember seeing of picture of me taken with the critter. It filled my arms, and my grin, with one tooth missing, was wide and beaming. It was a black and white photo of course, and where that picture—or the rabbit for that matter—ended up, I can only guess.

I also recall my daddy surprising us in the car after Church on Easter Sunday, with a paper bag containing 5 colored hard boiled Easter eggs he’d brought, along with the requisite saltshaker. And there, parked across from the church along the curb, we each peeled our one egg and hungrily devoured them. Funny, I don’t recall if there had been anything to drink to wash the egg down. This was, of course, before the days of the drive-through coffee shop. As well, in those days, most stores were closed on Sunday.

It seems likely to me that there might have been a thermos of water or milk, but I can’t recall if there actually was, or not.

Happy memories all of those—the memories of a child living in a sanitized world.

I don’t feel any kind of desperate need to return to those long-ago days. It’s enough for me to know they existed, and that thinking on them can give me a moment’s respite and put a smile on my face. For the most part, I don’t feel a need to escape from the reality we’re all living in today. There are moments when we all wonder, with not a little bit of consternation, what next? And we all struggle to keep our balance. My mother’s favorite assessment of life comes to mind: she used to say that life is just one damned thing after another.

These last couple of years it has been all of that. I would submit that the difference between fifty or sixty years ago and now is that mostly, those “damn things” back then weren’t as big as a global pandemic or burgeoning European war—mostly.

There’s a comfort in knowing we have those memories as a quiet place to visit, don’t you think? And a definite solace in knowing we’re not alone when it comes to feeling off-balance and overwhelmed. To understand that so many people are in the same space, emotionally, allows us to take a step back and say, “okay, the problem is real, it’s not just me. We’re all in the same boat.”

Yes, we really are all in the same boat—but we’re not all necessary rowing in the same direction.

And while that little fact might discourage you, remember the laws of science. As long as more folks are rowing in the right direction than not, then we are moving in the right direction—just not as quickly as we’d all like. That’s something, at least.

To those who celebrate, David and I wish you a Happy Easter, and/or a Happy Passover.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 April 6, 2022

We have catch phrases for practically everything these days, don’t we? In the beginning was the catch phrase, “hashtag” which I am certain y’all know is represented by the symbol, “#”, aka number sign, aka pound sign. And then – it just took off. Your first challenge is to find where there should be a space between the words, because hashtags, by their natures, contain no spaces. So, with the spaces put it for our mutual understanding, here are just a couple of the ones I noticed. Hashtag “nothing burger”; hashtag “kabuki theater”; hashtag “there there” which, contrary to what one might think on first sight/hearing is not a reference to comforting anyone for anything. It’s a confirmation that what the speaker suspects the subject has done is true—or, conversely, what others think is true, simply isn’t. The difference is represented by the qualifying introductory words: there is a(there, there), or there is no(there, there).

In fact, the trend is to hashtag just about any damn thing you can think of! And it doesn’t have to be something short, either. Go ahead and ask Ms. Google about the longest hashtags. The one that came up when I did just that left me shaking my head at its length and blushing.

But the one catch phrase that I’ve taken the longest time to think about is this one: hashtag cancel culture.

My first question when I began hearing that phrase, “cancel culture” all over cable news was what the heck is that about? So I began my particular kind of research—a combination of looking to see what folks are saying and, of course, asking Ms. Google about cancel culture—like, is it a culture in the sense that the Roman Empire or Ancient Greece were cultures? Was it a protest directed at that 1980s rock band whose lead singer was Boy George? I seriously didn’t know. But I looked and I learned, and I am now ready to discuss this topic with a modicum of authority.

To answer my own question—and to strip it down to its most fundamental meaning—cancel culture is a form of ostracism. Did you know that the word, ostracism goes all the way back to ancient Athens—to the days of Athenian democracy? It was their form of social shunning. A citizen could be ostracised which meant they were expelled from the city-state for ten years.

We still use that word, ostracism, when we describe times when people are tossed from their particular little nook of society. Amazing, isn’t it? That what in essence was a form of bullying initiated in a culture that was thriving before the birth of Jesus would still be in such popular use today. I guess we haven’t progressed as much as some of us would like to believe we have.

Or putting it another way: this is just one more piece of evidence that, at the base of everything, human nature does not change.

My question then is this: if our natures do not change, does that mean that the onus for breaking some of these toxic behavior patterns we’ve succumbed to lies with society (aka legislation)—or does it remain with each of us, individually?

There is a half of me that wants to stomp my foot, curse and swear, and then shout from the rooftops that “we ought to make a law against all forms of discrimination!”

And there is a half of me that fervently believes that we are each of us, at the end of the day, responsible for our own selves, in every respect. You see, when at last I, to quote Shakespeare, shuffle off this mortal coil, I know that I, alone, will stand to answer for how I’ve lived my life.

It was at this moment in all my ruminations and ponderings, that I heard the voice of my mother from some long-ago moments of conflict between us. One of the things she would say to me often—beyond that old chestnut, “why should I keep a dog and bark myself”—was “you can think what you like but don’t you dare say it.”

I suppose there is no perfect answer as to how to extricate ourselves from this impossible conundrum—organized bullying via cancel culture—in which we find ourselves living.

I referred to ostracism as an act of bullying and I believe that it is. “Cancel culture” is also a act of bullying. And lest anyone you know insists that the practice of cancel culture is righteous, let me point out that one cannot believe in the freedom of speech and the freedom of expression and then turn around and persecute those who speak and express themselves in ways that one doesn’t like.

Therefore, I will state my belief that a person may feel in their hearts however they wish to feel and may believe in their hearts whatever they wish to believe. But, and this is a big but thank you Mom, there should be legislation when it comes to our actions.

What you think about me isn’t my business. You are free to think whatever you want. You should not be free to do anything that would interfere with my ability to indulge in life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. You may not like me, but you have no right to exert your influence over me based on your fickle feelings.

I find it once more worth mentioning (almost as an addendum to my last week’s essay), that those I see who most like to use cancel culture as a tool/weapon are once more those who like to proclaim themselves as believing in a certain sacred book.

And to them all I can say is this: aren’t you grateful and relieved that God doesn’t believe in cancel culture?

Just something to think about in this Lenten season.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 March 30, 2022

I swear that the last week here in my little corner of Ontario has greatly resembled a live re-enactment of a movie flashback scene. And the substance of that scene has been the weather from every season for the past year, except summer.

We had cold, damp, and rainy—that’s autumn. Then we had a little warm, sunny, with tiny green shoots popping up—spring. And then one day in the last few, we had a freaking blizzard. There were times when I would look out my widow and see nothing but a sheet of slanted, racing white…pollen.

Clearly Mother Nature has no desire whatsoever to let go of winter just yet, and the calendar be damned. Folks, I have declared for several years now—actually, since I began writing these essays—that winter here in the frozen north runs from October to March, inclusive. And today is the date on which we can say that there is only one day left in winter.

All right, you probably won’t say it but I will. I have a feeling though that my saying it won’t make a darn bit of difference to good old M.N.

This has been an odd week for humanity, hasn’t it? As if there isn’t enough going on in our own lives, and then in the wider world, that we have nothing better to do than to point our fingers at people who make mistakes even if what they’ve done might not necessarily be a mistake at all.

I have a love for the truth that seems to be growing exponentially as time goes by. Although I know it isn’t the passage of time that’s causing it. It’s the accumulative number of lies being told by those in positions of influence and power.

Just to be clear, and because a lot of those telling bald-faced lies proclaim to be followers of the Bible—lying is a sin. It is a no-no. It is listed in the top ten no-no list written in that book they all claim to follow! For those who need a refresher allow me to direct you to Exodus 20:16 “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.” Bearing false witness = lying.

And the more I hear people who know better telling lies, the more I cherish the truth when I hear it. Now, I get it, sort of. Words spoken have power, and words spoken by those in authority have a special power.

But it’s kind of disingenuous to take the position that those in power whom you’ve supported are exempt from this bit of truth. What you’re really saying in that case is “our guy can say whatever he wants but your guy better watch his mouth.”

I don’t understand the divisiveness, and I don’t understand the hate. Again, that book that most of the dividers and the haters claim to love tells them in that same chapter of Exodus that they should love their neighbors as they love themselves.

Talk about cognitive dissonance! I can’t imagine the stress that can be put on a human being, believing one thing while proclaiming to believe in another. Now, I’m not saying which of the two forces pulling at them—good or evil—is the one they truly believe. Because, quite frankly, it’s impossible for me, a mere human, to tell.

And truthfully, questions of this nature really are a matter between an individual and their God. It’s not for me to judge another person. I mean, I could make a very convincing argument for the development one can experience of a little something called discernment. If you’re wondering, that has to do with a parable about a good tree bearing only good fruit and yes, that’s in the same book I quoted above.

But I will leave that discussion for another time.

Meanwhile, as I said, it has been an odd week for humanity. These are the times that try men’s souls, to quote Thomas Payne. It becomes a real challenge to keep positive thoughts in one’s heart and mind, and that’s for certain.

A real challenge, yes—but not one impossible to overcome for those so motivated.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 March 23, 2022

As some of you may know from looking at my Face Book page, I absolutely love watching The Voice. Now, I never did watch American Idol when it first came on twenty years ago, and I can’t even say why. I do watch it now, for the most part, but that only began after I became a big fan of The Voice.

Well, let me be honest here, in the interest of complete transparency. I only started watching American Idol in its current form, because when they brought it back, the show had Luke Bryan as one of its three judges. I love Luke Bryan—for his smile, for his talent, and for his devotion to family. A perfect trifecta, as far as I’m concerned. But I digress.

What hooked me on The Voice was the form of the auditions. They’re “blind” auditions—so called because the coaches (not judges) sit in these big ass chairs, and the chairs turn. When the artist comes on stage to audition, the coaches have their backs to them. They don’t see what the performers look like—they only hear their voices. And it’s based solely on the voice they hear that the coaches may choose to “turn around”, and that turn means the artist has been accepted to be on the show. If only one coach turns, the artist is on his/her team. But if more than one coach turns their chair, then the power, as it were, to decide what happens next is in the hands of the artists. At this point the coaches have to convince the artist to pick them. Four chair turns happen, and the banter and competition between the coaches is sometimes as entertaining as the music.

This year, the Voice is only going to be on once instead of twice. That means that we all have to wait until September to see the next season of it. In the meantime, American Idol is on right now, with the auditions finishing up next week. And on this past Monday, David and I sat down to watch the premier episode of American Song Contest.

We didn’t know what to expect of this new show, hosted by Kelly Clarkson and Snoop Dog. During the opening minutes, the hosts promised that the music we would hear—performed by artists who had already achieved varying degrees of success—would be “Grammy” quality. Although there were several different genres of music presented, the show did not disappoint. All of the artists were very talented. We plan to tune in each week until the end, which will be in May.

I’ve always loved music and that’s a part of why I enjoy these shows. “Music has charms to soothe the savage breast” is a well-known quote that harkens back to a 1697 play by William Congreve. I’d say there must be something to that if we’re still quoting it in 2022.  And I think I can say on behalf of us all that our “breasts”—our hearts—have all been a bit too savage, of late.  Though perhaps it’s more accurate to say they’ve been savaged. Regardless, I think we can all use a bit more music in our lives. Music can take us from our ragged reality to a place where, for a few minutes at least, we can catch our breath. We can let go of our aches and pains, be they physical or emotional, and can float on the soothing notes of whatever genre of music we love best.

But another aspect of these shows that draws me to them is that these people are artists. I’m an artist, too. Creating stories is an artistic endeavor. My stories deal with emotions, and relationships—part of the entire human experience. Songs deal with the same thing. The best songs tell a story in a couple of hundred words that coveys a message that people can relate to.

My stories are quite a bit longer than a song, of course, but they are written to the same end—to convey a message that people—the readers—can relate to. There are times when I struggle to put words down on the page. Times when my self-confidence falters. The aspects of my personality that suit being a teller of tales about people, their emotions and their relationships are the very same aspects that prevent me from ever growing a thick skin—or ever (I hope) becoming egocentric.

When you watch The Voice and American Idol, you get glimpses of the whole person who’s striving to take their artistic journey to the next level. They speak of struggles with self-confidence and struggles to find acceptance—to find an audience. And for those of us who are also artists, we get to be touched by one who’s journey echoes within us.

For the time that I’m tuned in to these shows, and engaged, I find myself, to a small extent, looking into a mirror.

And that reflection can be very reassuring.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 March 16, 2022

Have you ever heard that expression, “life is a beach”? It can be used for positive, inspirational messages, but also for somewhat negative ones. “Life’s a beach” can imply the last word as a substitute for another word that also begins with the letter b. If you google the expression, you’ll find a plethora of memes illustrating both of the concepts of inspiration and frustration.

I’ve been letting my mind wander a fair bit over the last few days—an exercise, by the way, that is never without risk, especially lately. And one of the things I was thinking of was that there is an ebb and flow to life, to human society, and if one were to take the time to sit and consider that ebb and flow, one might very well end up sitting on a beach—whether one that’s metaphorical or literal, doesn’t really matter.

An ocean, or if you prefer, a lake, can be a calm and soothing presence. I’m never so rejuvenated after a vacation as I am if I’ve spent that time on or near the water. Whether lake or sea, the moon and the wind combine in varying degrees to encourage the lapping of waves, and the rhythm can be very soothing. It can engender a sense of rest and relaxation, and a natural peace that recharges one’s emotional, mental and physical “batteries.”

This is one of the more pleasant aspects of life, these moments of “Zen”.

I have a “noise machine” which I bought after our last cruise. During that cruise, which was on a ship that had us in a cabin with a private balcony, we slept with the glass balcony door slightly ajar. The sound of the ship cutting through the water, the soft slap of waves on the steel hull, and the fresh sea air became the rhythm of peace and lulled us both into a deep restful sleep each night.

When the machine arrived, we set it on “surf” and ah, that was just like being on vacation again. Since then, we alternate between surf and thunderstorm. It doesn’t play very loudly, but a few years ago when we had a friend stay over night, sleeping on a portable bed in our living room—well, she awoke and was convinced she would be driving her motorcycle through a storm that morning as she headed home.

It had never occurred to me to warn her that we had a noise machine that she would be able to hear, because by then it was simply a part of our bedtime routine.

So yes, I celebrate times spent by the water, on the water, and the peace and pure air that can oftentimes accompany that venue, whether experienced inland or at sea.

However, there are also times when the oceans, or the lakes, for that matter, can be quite turbulent. When the waves, rather than being measured, and soft, and appealing to both the heart and the soul, come hard and fast, whipped by the ferocity of the wind into a storm from hell, one frothy, angry wave crashing into the one before it with the next piling on right after, faster and harder until you are so overwhelmed, so filled with tension, with fear, with utter exhaustion that you just want it to stop. You pray for calm.

The two extremes, when you think about it, truly represent life.

Over the last three years, the world has been dealing with political-slash-moral storms of upheaval in our societies, as well as in our seats of governments. We’ve been dealing with a deadly pandemic that some soulless folks have coopted as a tool that they’ve fashioned into a weapon for personal gain. And now, on top of those two spirit-stripping circumstances, those two humungous storm-tossed waves, a war now rages in Europe—one brought on by a single, not-quite-sane malignant narcissist. A war that could very well escalate into the next world war—or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

There can be no justification for the slaughter of innocent civilians. This is not so much a war as it is a mass murder spree committed by the worst psychopath ever born.

Those of us who are not directly, physically involved in these raging traumas are still affected deeply by them. If we have beating hearts, if we have compassion, and if we have a conscience—in short, if we are human, then we are being bombarded by these monster waves of contemporary life, one on top of the other followed by the next.

And more and more, many of us are reaching the ends of our ropes—we just want it all to stop.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 March 9, 2022

Ah, March! The last month of winter has finally arrived. And with this new month, it seems that our government here in Ontario is beginning to let go of every single pandemic restriction that has been in place for the last couple of years. We no longer are required show proof of our vaccination status when we go into restaurants, theaters, stores, or any other basic businesses. There are no longer any seating limits, either.

And by the end of this month, apparently, they’ll be lifting the mask mandate for most indoor activities and venues.

Of course, I am skeptical. In the interests of complete transparency, I will tell you that this past weekend, I did go to Walmart and afterward, David and I went to our favorite seafood restaurant for lunch. That excursion was a reaction to the latest concern that has been brought to my attention.

I’ve been told by those who live with me that I need to get out more. They presented quite the united front. Both husband and daughter absolutely agree on this. Me, not so much. But I decided I would cooperate to a certain extent. I have resumed the responsibility for grocery shopping, and I will go out occasionally beyond that, where there is a reason to do so.

But when they drop the mask mandate at the end of this month? Well, there’s a red line, at least for now. I plan to keep using my masks, thank you very much. In fact, when we didn’t know for certain that this pandemic would last as long as it has so far, (and here please understand that Covid is not yet over), David and I had discussed keeping a supply of masks on hand to wear for when we got colds, in the future. I think it’s a good idea to do that just as a matter of courtesy.

Therefore, I will be wearing a mask for the foreseeable future when I go out and about amongst the general public.

I’m pleased that my daughter is in agreement with my stance on the masks, so that’s a good thing. I am also gratified that the Long-Term Care homes in this province are not letting go their protocols at this time, either.

As to the wishes of my family, that I turn away from my hermit ways, I would love someone to tell me this: what difference does it make to anyone if I choose not to be a social butterfly? Why would I go out for no particular reason at all? Y’all have been reading my essays for some time now. Does that sound like something I would have done, ever? Of course not.

Right now, at this moment as I write these words, a lot of the ice that had been solid around our house has begun to melt. I walk with a cane, and winter is a very tricky time for me outside and has been for years. That’s why I have a claw on the end of my cane that I can engage when I go out. It gets affixed to my stick in late fall, once the snow and ice show up, and comes off in the spring once I’m sure it won’t be needed any longer.

Also, since every step I take is painful, it is a lot of work for me to simply go out.

My two housemates say they would be happy if I just went for a drive a few times a week. I won’t use the cost of gas as a consideration against this plan, although that brings up an interesting possible codicil to this declaration that they both came up with last week.

A small digression here: The cost of gasoline is at its highest here, ever. I was out yesterday and saw the price per litre of regular gas is 1.801. There are 3.75 Canadian litres in a U. S. gallon. That means the price we are paying per gallon is: 1.801 x 3.75 = 6.75.

Now, back to that “possible codicil” that I mentioned. It was last week that they both told me I really need to get out more. Last week, I went out on Saturday and Sunday, and I even went out yesterday, too. Three times out over four days! I seized hold of this “codicil” they inadvertently handed me last night at the supper table, and pardon the pun, I took it for a ride.

Over supper last night, our daughter was complaining about how much it costs to fill her new car’s gas tank, and that over the course of her work week it needs to be filled twice. Her former car, the one I’m now driving, is more than twice as economical to drive—it had only required a single tank of gas for the week. This is something she realized shortly after she bought her new car, but the current state of the cost of gas has put the situation in a whole new light for her. I gave it a moment after she voiced her complaint, and then I made my conversational gambit:

Me: You should perhaps take the Ford Escape during the day.

Daughter: I was thinking that myself, and I think I will.

Me: You’ll have to show me how to drive your new car, of course. (She has a fob but no key, a push button to start the car, and a dial for the gears. And then there’s the camera/display stuff.)

Husband: No! We’ll just stay home, and if you need the car for an appointment, then she’ll take the Edge that day and leave you the Escape.

Me: Okay.

And now, friends, I am just waiting to see how long it takes for them to admit that they’ve completely abandoned their “Mom must get out more” campaign.

That could happen. What’s less likely to occur is an admission on their part that their original premise—that I’d slipped a cog and was clinging to home with a crazy old-woman’s paranoia—was just a tad off base. I’m a homebody, always have been. I am happiest right here. Cue the music to the chorus, “Be it ever so humble/There’s no place like home”.

But I do thank them ever so much for their revolving concerns, and for helping me to keep my mind sharp, countering them.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 March 2, 2022

As you know, we live in a small but growing town in Southern Ontario. At the north end of the block on which we live, is a property that holds the local Catholic church. The building is situated with its front doors facing the next street over, but the plot of land attached stretches to our street. The church has stood there since 1857 when it replaced a wooden frame building opened twenty years previously. By the time we first moved in, directly on the other side on the cross street that intersects ours stood a Catholic elementary school that bore the same name as the church.

That school was replaced about ten years ago by a brand new one, built a few miles to the west, and given the same name as the one it replaced. The building that used to be the school across from the church was sold by the diocese and is now a home for severely impaired people.

The church enjoyed a nice expanse of lawn, that extended east from our street to the building’s back wall—an expanse that stretched more than half a block in length. This lawn was dotted with high, stalwart, beautiful pine trees. And in the course of the last several months, beginning sometime mid-summer, those beautiful trees were hewn down, and the ground they stood upon is now being excavated. The powers that be connected to the church have decided to add a parish hall to their plot of land, and construction on the new building will begin soon.

So far, what I can tell you is that I knew immediately what it was I was feeling earlier this week. They’re still in the process of digging for the foundation and basement, you see, and there have been excavators and one of those large “earth rollers” that vibrates and yeah, that sick, deep in the bone vibration as that roller tries to shore up whatever it is that it’s shoring up is a sensation I only felt once before. I had really, really hoped that would have been the only time I would experience that.

That previous case, you may recall occurred when the town finally undertook to have long-needed repairs done to the road that runs east-west and is less than thirty feet from my living room window.

The only good thing about the sensation this time is the vibrations don’t seem to be making me feel sick like they did the last time. That’s likely due to the offending machine being a solid half a block away from me instead of just outside my window.

I usually begin to compose my Wednesday’s Words on the day before I post them. Occasionally I procrastinate until the morning of, but not often. There are times when I’m sorely tempted—or at least briefly consider—writing a number of them in advance, in order to have them at the ready. But I never know if doing that will jinx me, or not. But once in a while, I do begin one several days ahead of schedule and I think that is more often than not a mistake.

For example, I might start writing my essay about something maybe a little bit silly that’s happening in my life, and then, wham, a damn war breaks out in Europe, and I would have to begin all over again.  But, I suppose the most economical thing to do would be to just start a new paragraph.

I have a dear friend, one I met in 6^th grade, who is Ukrainian-Canadian. She has a lot of family over in Ukraine and has been beside herself with worry since it became known that Russia was amassing troops on her family’s ancestral homeland.

Leading up to this unprovoked, totally evil attack, when the troops were gathering on Ukraine’s borders, pundits were divided on whether or not an attack would actually happen. Some thought the buildup was just an elaborate bluff. That, my friends, was yet another case of witless souls not only possessing a failure of imagination, but the unfortunate tendency to believe a documented liar’s lies.

When, oh when, will we recognize the liars on the world’s stage and treat them with the derision they deserve? But I digress.

Of those who believed an attack was inevitable, most believed that the “vaunted” Russian military would easily defeat the Ukrainian Army, likely in a day. I didn’t think that, because these are people who’ve been suffering from aggression from their eastern neighbor forever, but more violently for the last eight years after Russia’s initial invasion of Crimea. And in the time since then, their sense of nationhood and their belief in their right to be a nation has only increased. Their army has become seasoned. And their will to exist as an independent country has solidified.

As the bombs continue to rain down on a people who have done nothing to deserve such horrific treatment, I am praying for the protection of the most vulnerable, and the continued empowerment of those people, military and civilian, who have taken up arms and are defending their homeland—alone.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury