The disfigured butterfly

It was nearly 5:00 p.m., and I was finally able to drag my body out from underneath the covers where I’d spent the entire day and night before. It wasn’t that I wanted to get out of bed. My head had been throbbing with the pain of a migraine of epic proportions. The thought of food made me want to hurl as if I was the whale holding Jonah in my belly. Light stung my eyes and made them water. I couldn’t even stand the sound of my own breathing anymore. It was just too loud for this migraine. But I needed to get up. I needed to spend a few minutes with my husband after his long day at work. He wouldn’t have cared if I had stayed in bed, under the circumstances. He’s just that kind of guy! In fact, he ate dinner at the kitchen table in near darkness – blinds closed, no lights on and a dark, damp day made the sun seem as if it had set hours earlier.

There are many things that bring a sense of calm to this weary and anxious mind: music, writing, reading. But all of those things would have brought more pain. While conversation was light, I didn’t want to just sit there for the rest of the evening so I decided I would color. Yes, I said color. I love coloring! Maybe it takes me back to the simpler days of my childhood when my imagination came to life in the wild pigments I displayed on paper and keeping the colors contained within the lines was my biggest worry of the day. But, this 40-something woman still likes to color from time to time!

I squinted my eyes every time I selected a different pencil for the masterpiece I was working on; a butterfly. Each time I began to spread a new color across the page, I realized that the color I had chosen wasn’t exactly the one I had in mind. It wasn’t as green as I’d thought. It wasn’t as crisp or soft as I’d hoped. Before long, my masterpiece looked like a confused collection of strange hues. And then I realized: each new project I take on as a writer never ends up looking the same as I imagined.

The last year has had me chasing two dream projects that seem to be crumbling before my eyes. I have given my heart and soul to both of these projects and kept pushing and pushing, believing that I was following the right path – choosing the right colors. My intentions were pure: To honorably tell stories that I believe need to be told. I have traveled the world over, giving of my talents while asking for nothing in return (including money) and all of it because I believed in both projects. And I believed that my efforts would lead to something bigger and better. I have met some of the most amazing people along the way; many of whom have become my dearest friends and Sisters.

Yet, I feel I have been betrayed, ignored, pushed aside, misled, and had numerous carrots dangled in front of me only to watch them be snatched out of my grasp as soon as I reach for them. I’ve been stuck in the middle and asked to answer for things other people have done all while not having the necessary information to satiate curious appetites.

Why do I keep picking the wrong colors? My writing life looks as confusing and disfigured as the butterfly with all the wrong shades. I have come to doubt myself as a writer; as someone with something of value to contribute based on years of experience. How do I keep writing? Will the ones I’ve been trying so hard to reach notice if I stop spreading my wings? I just don’t want to deface anymore butterflies with every new dream. I don’t want to be the blemished butterfly anymore.

Don’t Test Me, Bro

This is a test. Read this email and do what it says in the next five seconds and you’ll have something unbelievably spectacular happen at 11:11 pm tonight. If you don’t do it, your head will turn into the north end of a south-bound bull.

We’ve all gotten those emails. Perhaps, needing a little luck on our side, we’ve even managed to forward a few of them. Most of those emails come with a nice thought included telling us how much we are appreciated, loved, cherished, and an awesome friend to boot. Many of them offer a prayer and remind us Who died on the Cross for us. The emails require a test: If we forward the message to others, and back to the sender, of course, then we prove our love and undying friendship. Or, in the case of the God-themed messages, we prove our public devotion to Christ.

Oh, sure, the emails are cute enough with their blinking cartoons, eloquent poetry and cute animals, but I absolutely detest being the recipient of such messages. Why? Because I don’t need to be tested, and I don’t need to test anyone else either.

If we’re new in our friendship and you’re that insecure about our future as pals, then you’re just going to have to get over it. I will prove my loyalty to you in life, not in forwarding an email within a certain amount of time to a certain amount of people. Stick with me, kid, and I’ll show you my devotion.

If we’ve been friends (or family) for longer than a year and you’re still sending me these things, maybe we should talk about what I’m doing that makes you feel so insecure after all this time. In other words, don’t test me. The proof is in the puddin’, as we say in the south.

The Bible tells us that we are to carry each others burdens. Galatians 6:3-5 also says, “If anyone thinks he is something when he is nothing, he deceives himself. Each one should test his own actions. Then he can take pride in himself, without comparing himself to somebody else…”

It is in moments of pride that we deceive ourselves into thinking we are something to be fond of for our own sufficiency. In reality, we are nothing without one another. As your friend, I am committed to carrying your burdens and in doing so, I must test myself. My living testimony of faithfulness to friendship and God come through my every day actions, not in the number of emails I forward. Let me live it out because luck is on no one’s side.

But I don’t want celery in my potato salad…

Memorial Day weekend meant food, family and fun at my mother-in-law’s house. There would be 10 of us, so Mom asked us girls to help with the menu. My contribution would be potato salad. I would use the recipe handed down to me from my mother who learned it from my father, her husband.

Both of my parents are amazing cooks. My dad spent 21 years in the Army as a “Mess” Sergeant and then another 20 years as Food Service Director for the Department of Corrections in SC. Mom hails from Austria. Need I say more about that? The yummy desserts she whips up are always a hit for even the pickiest of palates. When it comes to cooking, and well, most everything else, my parents are creatures of habit and rarely stray from the norm.

I have always loved my mother’s potato salad, save for the celery she always adds. Being the adventurous person in the family, bucking the trend always fills me with delight. If she used regular mustard in her potato salad, I used Dijon. If she used Miracle Whip, I went for the real Mayo. She didn’t care for onions but I would add extra.

As I cooked potatoes and boiled eggs that Saturday in preparation for our family get together, I began chopping my vegetables. Before I knew it, I reached for the celery, diced and tossed them into the bowl. I stopped in my tracks and thought out loud, “Why am I doing this? I hate celery in my potato salad.”

Yes, I answered myself. (Thankfully my husband wasn’t in the room to hear this one-sided conversation.)

I added the celery because that’s what my mom has always done. And when Dad taught Mom to make his version of American potato salad as opposed to the German potato salad she usually made, he showed her the way he had always done it. My guess is that either the Army always made their potato salad with celery or he had learned how to make it from his mother, Grandma Yetman.

But I didn’t want celery in my potato salad. So, why was I doing it? Would I be breaking family tradition? Would my parents be devastated to learn of my straying away from the celery?

And then I started wondering why we do the things we do in life. Why do we buy a house in a certain neighborhood? Why do we buy a certain kind of car or the latest Vera Bradley bag?  More often than not, we do it because that’s what everyone else is doing or because that’s the way it has always been done.

What would happen if you started to buck the trend and did what you wanted to do because it was the right thing to do for you?

Has there ever been a time when you decided to forgo the celery in your potato salad? Share your thoughts with me. I’d love to hear your story.

Laugh Again

I always appreciated the sentiment behind working for a Christian organization, and the same was true when I worked for CBN News in Washington, DC as a producer. That warm, fuzzy feeling was quickly put in its place once I realized they (the people who work there) are forgiven, not perfect. Yet, every once in a while, true agape love was shown in meaningful and often simple ways.

In the days and weeks after 9/11, I walked around much like the rest of the residents in DC and NY – like a zombie. One of our photogs noticed the deep depression washing over me. After another long day on Capitol Hill, we made our way back to the office. I wrapped up my duties and headed for the door when Jeremy caught up with me and said, “I’m really concerned about you. Take this and read it. Maybe you’ll discover how to laugh again.”

I looked down and found in my hand a small book – no bigger than an iPod – called “Laugh Again” by Chuck Swindoll. It’s about how the Apostle Paul found reason to laugh, or at the very least, smile, through every circumstance, even the trials of life. I mumbled my thanks and left.

The book remained cupped in my hand as I entered the Metro, which was typically packed. I noticed a few empty seats even though there were plenty of people standing. I found myself oddly drawn to sit next to a young man who had the kindest looking face. Once the train started moving, the man said, “How do you laugh?”

“Great,” I thought. “I had to sit next to the only quack on the train.”

Without looking at him, I said, “What?”

“How do you laugh? You’re holding that book called ‘Laugh Again’, and I just wondered how you laugh.”

“I don’t have much of a reason to laugh anymore,” I said, still not making eye contact.

“Not many of us do,” he replied. “But, while those men meant to harm us, God meant it all for good.”

I nodded half-heartedly. He paused for a minute or two, then said, “Do you know that God thinks you’re beautiful, and He’s going to do amazing things through you.”

This time I looked at the young man. His face still presented gentleness, his eyes filled with loving compassion. Inexplicably, every person on the train seemed to disappear, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard, save for our conversation. It was just me and that young man.

“What?” I asked again.

“God thinks you’re beautiful. He is going to do amazing things through you.”

I collapsed into the arms of this stranger, sobbing uncontrollably. His words – and the truth of them – pierced my heart with profound conviction. He held me as I cried and kept reminding me how much God loved me.

As I eventually pulled myself together and out of his embrace, our surroundings returned to normal. I looked around to see if anyone was starring. No one seemed to notice my meltdown, and I was thankful.

“This is my stop,” said the young man, whose eyes were as brown as his hair. “Don’t forget what I have told you. And you will laugh again.”

With that, he stepped off the Metro, disappearing into the crowd. I never saw him again. But I have never forgotten his words. They were the beginning of intense sadness and pain and healing, and yes, eventual laughter.

How do you laugh in the midst of trials and tribulations? Are you able to laugh at all?

God Does Not Lie

A portion of Titus 1:2 reads, “…God, who does not lie, promised.”

I have never once thought that God ever lied or is capable of lying. There have been times, however, when I doubted His sincere promise to me. It is in those moments when my faith is tested, and I become impatient or bitter because my time-table has been dismissed. In a small daily devotional book given to me by my friend and fellow writer, Diane Markins, I learned a valuable lesson about God’s promise and faith. Here’s what I read:

Faith is not conjuring up, through an act of your will, a sense of certainty that something is going to happen. No, it is recognizing God’s promise as an actual fact, believing it is true, rejoicing in the knowledge of that truth, and then simply resting because God said it.

Faith turns a promise into a prophesy. A promise is contingent upon our cooperation, but when we exercise genuine faith in it, it becomes a prophesy. Then we can move ahead with certainty that it will come to pass, because “God… does not lie.” (“From Days of Heaven upon Earth”)

I often hear people praying for more faith, but when I listen carefully to them and get to the essence of their prayer, I realize it is not more faith they are wanting at all. What they are wanting is their faith to be changed to sight.

Faith does not say, “I see this good for me; therefore God must have sent it.” Instead, faith declares, “God sent it; therefore it must be good for me.”

Faith, when walking through the dark with God, only asks Him to hold his hand more tightly. (By: Phillip Brooks)

I have often prayed for more faith but now understand that more faith isn’t what I really wanted. I wanted desperately for my faith to be changed to sight. For the things I wanted, things I believed were sent of God (or going to be sent of God), my faith said that once it arrived, God’s promise was kept. But what if those things never came to fruition? Does that mean God lied? Too often, my faith has been too weak to declare, “God sent it; therefore it must be good for me.”

This is true of my struggle and fear with writing and moving beyond what I experienced on 9/11. My immature faith found a way to conjure up “God’s plan” for my life so I wouldn’t be exposed to the pain of walking through the darkness that hovered around me. Instead of holding on to His hand more tightly, I ran away.

But God, in His infinite wisdom and grace and mercy, patiently waited. He didn’t give me what I wanted because he was protecting me from the evil that would have come (Isaiah 57:1). Rather than change my faith to sight, He sent the darkness to me and watched for my cooperation.

Clarity is my companion now but the heartache is not yet over. There will be more to come as He reveals His will further. And I am again in a holding patter; a season of waiting. But my faith is steadfast because God does not lie. He has already promised I will see my dream come true as I walk in His plan that was set since the foundation of the world.

God does not lie.

Sleepless in Indy

How much sleep do you require to be fully functional? Me? Oh, about 10-12 hours. No, seriously. Sleeping has always been one of my favorite hobbies. Beyond that, I just need a lot of sleep. Always have.

One of the downsides to anxiety and PTSD is that sometimes you sleep a lot and sometimes you don’t sleep at all.I have actually gone for days with no sleep. And I have fretted for years over my strange sleeping habits. I can recall being absolutely frantic if I didn’t get enough sleep, fearing that my lack of rest would result in one of the worst motor vehicle accidents ever known to man. All of it caused by me.

As a youngster, I required copious amounts of sleep but when you’re young, you’re also invincible. (Aren’t you?) Oh, I still enjoyed sleeping but I found ways to cope. After 9/11, sleep became my bitter enemy. Sleeping pills eventually became my BFF before they turned me into something straight out of the movie “Pet Cemetery.” Once I was able to ween myself off the pills, I tried sleeping without an aid with much success at failure.

Being married makes sleepless nights an even greater burden. I mean, a wife is supposed to be at her husband’s side in their bed at night, right? But I eventually discovered the guest bedroom, hoping that I would be seen as the respectful wife for wanting to ensure her husband got enough sleep to go to work and bring home the bacon, which I would then cook. Instead I often felt like the unrepentant wife who was only looking out for her own comfort. At first, Kurt would notice my absence.

“Come back to bed, honey. It’s ok,” he would say.

So, I returned to our bed only to curse the incredibly bright light on his digital alarm clock – a light I am certain the International Space Station can see clearly without the aid of a telescope – his snoring, and the cat, who followed me from bed to bed and made sure I felt like a sardine crammed into the proverbial can no matter how much room there was for both of us. My restless body syndrome had me bouncing around like the best of jumping beans, giving me more ammunition for guilt over keeping Kurt from a restful night.  But now, he doesn’t even know when I leave. Each night he goes to bed next to his wife and won’t know whether she’ll be there when he wakes up the next morning until his eyes are forced open by the screaming of his alarm clock (which can also probably be heard on the Space Station).

When I was single and starting out as a writer, I loved writing until the wee hours of the morning. But that usually meant I had to sleep half the day. Not exactly the ideal scenario for married life. But I have learned to let go of the angst. Our good friend, Larry, showed me the way. When he confessed his own sleeplessness, I learned that he didn’t fight it. He’d get up and read or pray or both then return to bed for another hour or two before waking rested. Sheesh. Why didn’t I think of that?

Before I discovered the guest bedroom, I would flip and flop to find the perfect position and then clinch my eyes shut as tight as possible, willing myself to sleep. I would pray, count sheep and go through the alphabet thinking of boy and girl names for every letter. I tried melatonin, exercise, deep breathing, reading, watching TV, wine. You name it. I would go to bed earlier and earlier every night only to fall asleep quickly but wake up again at some ungodly hour. After hearing Larry’s story, I was inspired to try it for myself.

At first I would watch Red Eye with Greg Gutfield on Fox News Channel or play on the computer. But Facebook can be a lonely place at 3 am unless you have friends in foreign countries or you know other locals with insomnia. Eventually I decided to try writing, which, by the way, is what I do for a living.

It was just like the old days when I felt free to be creative – just me, the pen, the purring of my kitty and the silence of a world at rest. But if I was up in the middle of the night writing, I’d require some amount of sleep during the middle of the day. Was that such a bad thing? I am a writer, as I have already established. Where do I need to be at 8 am? No where. Writers don’t work 8-5. My part-time PR gig affords me the leisure of coming in usually no earlier than 10 am, and I’m usually home by 1:30 or 2 in the afternoon – which, by the way, is a terrific time for a nap!

I check emails, return phone calls, do a bit of cleaning or grocery shopping before hubby comes home and I’m cooking bacon again. He and I spend our evenings together before he retires for the evening. Even if I’m not sleeping at his side for 8-10 hours every night, I am still at his side. He’s no worse for the wear, and I am at peace knowing that no one is missing out on anything by me working in the middle of the night for a few hours. Besides, what I’m working on at that hour could help pay the mortgage! And that’s never a bad thing.

So, if you’re sleepless in your town, check me out of Facebook. If I don’t answer, I’m probably just allowing creativity to rule the night.

Keys to Life

Indianapolis is all a-buzz with NCAA Final Four fever this weekend, especially since the hometown Butler Bulldogs are playing; the only team from the Hoosier state to make it to the Final Four. This weekend, everyone in Indiana is a Bulldog!

One of the many exciting events of the weekend is the Legends of the Hardwood Breakfast, a partnership between Athletes in Action and Fellowship of Christian Athletes, which presents the annual John Wooden “Keys to Life” Award. It stands as one of the premier events during the NCAA Final Four weekend and recognizes the importance of leadership, character and integrity and honors heroes in the world of sports.

Nearly 1000 people attended today’s Breakfast with Ernie Johnson, Host of TNT’s “Inside the NBA,” acting as Master of Ceremonies. Clark Kellogg, CBS Lead Analyst for college basketball and Indiana Pacers Analyst, was also on hand. Both men shared from their own faith experiences and uplifting stories about previous “Keys to Life” winners and other basketball greats who have left an indelible mark off the hardwood as well as on it.

The 2010 John Wooden Keys to Life Award Winner is Don Meyer, who has 38 years head coaching experience and the most career victories of any college coach. The Award is presented to Coach Meyer for living out Coach Wooden’s seven “Keys to Life,” and exemplifying outstanding character and leadership on the court, in the work place, in the home, and in the community.

Coach Wooden’s Keys to Life:
1. Be true to yourself.
2. Help others.
3. Make each day your masterpiece.
4. Drink deeply from good books, especially the Bible.
5. Make friendship a fine art.
6. Build a shelter against a rainy day.
7. Pray for guidance and give thanks for your blessings every day.

As we prepare for Easter Sunday, we recognize and celebrate the greatest “Legend” of all time – Jesus Christ. We acknowledge Him as the ultimate example of character and leadership in all areas of our lives. And we accept the sacrifice He made on the Cross on our behalf. It is that unfailing love and victory over death that gives us the strength and courage to pursue the “Keys to Life” as John Wooden suggests.

Do you know the Key to life?

Commencement Concerns

In a day and time when the younger generation (I can’t believe I’m no longer in that category!) is quick to do nothing, I am quite thrilled with the position taken by some young men and women of The University of Notre Dame.

The Catholic university has invited President Barack Obama – and he has accepted – to give the commencement address to the graduating class this May. He is also expected to receive an honorary degree. Nearly 65,000 people have signed a petition protesting the decision to have Obama as their speaker considering his views on abortion and stem cells are contradictory to Roman Catholic teachings. Over the weekend, hundreds of students continued their protest by gathering on campus to voice their concern. A student coalition called ND Response is calling the University’s decision to host Obama “a dark day for Notre Dame”.

It warms my heart to see young people take a stand for the sanctity of life. I had long started to think that no one under the age of 30 valued the unborn. It is time for the media and the left (oh, wait, they’re normally one and the same), to recognize that political and patriotic correctness has worn out its welcome. It’s time for Notre Dame to rescind their invitation and find someone else.

Who cares that it’s the President of the United States? The bottom line is that he has made his position known loud and clear. His actions prior to and since becoming president have demonstrated his lack of compassion for the unborn. And while it might be impossible to find someone to speak that holds all of the same values, there are some things that just cannot be overlooked. Abortion is one of those important issues where you cannot separate the person and their position.

Hooray to the students who are voicing their disdain. I say, “Keep at it!” And I hope their efforts are successful. Moreover, I hope other young people will start to realize that it’s ok to go against what the media wants everyone to believe is the norm.

The Devil’s Calling Card

The small group Kurt and I belong to at our church will be studying time management – from a personal and professional perspective – next week. In doing some research to prepare, I came across this wonderful devotional article. It really struck a chord with me, so I wanted to share it here.

As someone who has recently been “forced” to rest – and I continue to face days of forced rest – I have come to appreciate that our Lord doesn’t confuse physical weariness with spiritual weakness. I think we humans in our flesh do quite often though. Take a look at your activities and ask yourself: What does God want me to think about or do with my money or spend time at? Perhaps its simply rest. Here’s the article based on 1 Kings 19:1-12.

I had just boarded a plane on my way to fulfill yet another commitment. I was exhausted and my inner reserves were depleted, yet I was reminded of another who long ago had found himself in a similar predicament.

Elijah was thoroughly drained in body and soul. The devil, who delights in attacking us when we’re down, took full advantage of this situation to leave his calling card of discouragement at Elijah’s door. Elijah was so disheartened that he said, “I have had enough” and even “prayed that he might die.” (v. 4)

Flying at 33,000 feet above the earth, I felt much like this man of God – so discouraged that I dreaded going on. I recalled how the Lord had provided a prescription for discouragement. He recognized Elijah’s fatigue. He didn’t scold or condemn Elijah. He didn’t make him feel guilty or unworthy. Instead, because the Lord doesn’t confuse physical weariness with spiritual weakness, he let Elijah sleep.

Then the Lord send an angel to prepare a “little meal”, and after Elijah had been physically restored and refreshed, he was ready to receive some much-needed insight. The Lord showed him a great wind, an earthquake, a fire – but he was not in any of these. After all the noise and commotion had died down, and the smoke and confusion had cleared, Elijah heard a “gentle whisper” (v. 12). It was God.

Sitting on that plane, the Lord showed me that he was not to be found in a whirlwind of anxious activity or in an earthquake of agitation, or in the fire of over commitment and busyness that so quickly consumes – but in “gentle stillness”. I felt his love and peace envelope me, and his strength continued to uphold me all the way home.

But some changes needed to be made in my life. Spiritually, this meant resting in his love; feasting on the bread of life; drinking deeply of the living water and drawing from the well that never runs dry.

Practically, I cut back on my outside activities, saying no even at the risk of being misunderstood. And you know, not only did I meet the Lord in the place of “gentle stillness”, but I discovered that it was where he had wanted me to be all along.

(Gigi Graham Tchividjian)

Getting Out of Gitmo

Most folks who know me know that I am passionate about politics. I am a hard core Republican and always enjoy a good debate with those on the left. Although she can be a bit over the top, I sometimes wish I had the tenacity and boldness of Ann Coulter.

A fellow writer and friend, Terrell Clemmons, recently asked people to chime in on their thoughts about President B. Hussein Obama’s executive order to close Guantanamo Bay. I thought long and hard about answering, thinking that my emotions would dictate the tone of my reply. But I realize that I can’t be quite about something that means so much to me and to so many others.

If I had the chance to chat with our dear president, I would ask him this: “Mr. President, do you know what it sounds like when an airplane crashes into a building? Do you know what 3,000 dead bodies smell like? Do you know what it’s like to sift through rubble – literally and figuratively – to find answers that may not ever be known; to analyze why you acted – or didn’t act – a certain way in the face of terror?” I know for certain that Obama’s reply would be no. No, because he wasn’t there.

To those questions I reply: I do.

I can recall the sound of American Airlines Flight 77 when it collided with The Pentagon as if it was yesterday. As a journalist covering the events of 9/11 from both Washington, DC and New York, I can still recount the stench of death and of jet fuel. The heat and flames and smoke rising from our bastion of protection still lingers in my mind’s eye. These are things that will never, ever go away.

Whether you agree or disagree with former President Bush’s decision to go to war in Iraq is irrelevant. I happen to agree with it and believe WMD were being developed under Saddam Hussein’s regime. We couldn’t find them but that doesn’t mean we don’t need to be there doing whatever we can to protect our country. This isn’t a debate about the Iraq war. The bottom line is that we are at war. September 11, 2001 proved to the entire universe that there are maniacal men and women who will stop at nothing to destroy us.

If we weren’t convinced on that day alone that we are waging a battle unlike any we’ve ever known, I don’t know what else will. But other terrorism acts followed. Thankfully our homeland has been safe since that dreadful day. Sadly, other nations haven’t been as lucky. Turn on the TV at almost any given moment and you’ll hear news reports of extremists declaring jihad – war – with America.

Does Barack Obama think these guys are kidding? Seriously. There is no end to their hatred of us. There is nothing we can do to convince them that we’re not as bad as they think we are. For starters, ours is a mostly Christian nation. That in and of itself is enough to wage a holy war with us. Second, we are allies of Israel, and we all know how many Muslim nations feel about this Jewish state. Basically, we’re toast where these wackos are concerned. (Note: I’m not at all suggesting that all Muslims are wackos or extremists.)

There are governing bodies and rules that determine treatment of enemy combatants. I get that. I also get that the folks locked up at Gitmo have been there for a long time without the pursuit of justice. I disagree with the delay. However, these enemy combatants, many of whom have documented proof against them of their involvment in Al-Qaeda and other such groups, do not have rights that supercede those of American citizens. The justice system we have in place, for all of its faults and failures, is still a good one. But we cannot win a war in a court of law. There is due process, and it needs to take place. However, as Andrew C. McCarthy recently wrote, “We owe only the process that is due in the particular circumstances. War and peace are not the same circumstance. The process due Americans accused of crimes in civilian courts is not the same as the process due foreign combatants and terrorists captured during military operations.”

The framework for trying war criminals is not the framework that is the civil judiciary.The Supreme Court reaffirmed in the 2004 Hamdi case to permit the detention of combatants if they are reasonably believed by our war-fighters to be aiding the enemy. We don’t need probable cause or proof beyond a reasonable doubt to detain them. And we already know that many (as reported by the Associated Press) who have been released from Gitmo have returned to their wicked ways.

Justice needs to be served and it needs to be served on behalf of the thousands of people affected by 9/11 and other terrorist acts throughout the world. Letting these enemy combatants get out of Gitmo is justice delayed and a personal invitation by our very own president to attack us at will.