The Art of Healing: For Corry

Your mother is someone on whom you can trust. No matter how old you get, you’ll always be your mother’s daughter. This was true for Corry. Her mother was the one she could always count on, even when her impulsive streak took over, leading her down a path that could spell trouble. Her mother was the one she depended on for so much as she faced life’s ups-and-downs. Then her mother died, and Corry lost herself.

Her grief wouldn’t end there. She would lose her father, a brother and two sisters. She would face hard times as a business owner and as a surrogate mother to her nephew. Corry humbly says that, in comparison to some others, her life hasn’t been all that hard, but she has grieved, and she has become intimately acquainted with pain.

Corry’s relationship with her nephew, Maikel began to change when he told her about a performance he had seen on Oprah. He introduced her to the Canadian Tenors, who appeared on the show in January with another Canadian, Celine Dion. As Corry describes it, she was completely in love with them at first sight! She and her nephew now had a common interest, something to enjoy together.

Just three months after they watched the Tenors’ performance on Oprah, the two, who live in the Netherlands, were off to see the Tenors perform live. Corry says she was struck by how their personalities resonate through their voices, blending together to create a magical ambiance. As of this writing, she and her nephew have seen the Tenors in concert five times and will see them an additional four more times before the year is out with tickets to shows in Philadelphia, Washington, DC, New York, and Toronto. Did I mention they live in Holland?

Corry delights in the moments she gets to talk to Clifton, Fraser, Remigio and Victor after each performance. She believes their music has brought joy back to her life, and for that reason, this successful entrepreneur is willing to do whatever she can to support the Tenors in their rise to success.

To start, Corry has organized a Canadian Tenors Fan Day, which will take place in Almere, Holland on Saturday, October 23, 2010. The event, which will be held at Het Plein, will last from 12:00 pm until 7:00 pm, and is a fundraiser to help support the Bulembu Foundation, the charity for which the Tenors are ambassadors through Voices for Bulembu. Corry has been touched by the stories she has heard of the plight the citizens of Bulembu have faced as often told by the Tenors. As she says, “We know we can’t turn back time in Bulembu, but if everybody gives just one dollar, they will overcome their crisis.”

It is her hope that as Bulembu gets back to where it belongs, as a self-sustaining community, similar projects for other towns can begin. Corry’s mission is two-fold: Help the Canadian Tenors and support the vision of restoring the town of Bulembu.

She wants to open up the world to the music of the Canadian Tenors so the world can know the joy she has experienced. More exposure and success for them means more exposure and resources for Bulembu. As more resources are made available to Bulembu, they will be able to experience greater joy in their lives as well, also, in part because of the Canadian Tenors.

"Corry Puts with Fraser Walters and Victor Micallef of the Canadian Tenors"

The Global Orphan Crisis Part II

Allow me to overwhelm you with a few more staggering statistics.

If orphans were a country, it would be the 8th largest country in the world in population – ahead of Russia.

Every 5.2 seconds a child dies.

On 9/11 – 2,972 people died. Today, 16,600 children will die but you won’t hear about it on the news.

On 12/26/04 – 298,000 people died in the Asian Tsunami. Over 300,000 children will die in the next 21 days.

From 1939 – 1945 – Hitler executed 6 million Jews. Over 6 million children will die this year alone.

Every 2.2 seconds an orphan ages out of the system worldwide.

Every day 38,493 orphans age out and are sent away.

In Russia, of those who age out:

• 10-15% commit suicide by age 18
• 60% of girls become prostitutes
• 70% of boys become hardened criminals

In the United States – more than 520,000 kids are in the foster care system and 120,000 are immediately adoptable.

In New York’s Foster Care system – 60% of kids who age out end up homeless.

There are 27 million victims of human trafficking worldwide. Of that number, 13 million are children.

(Statistics according to UNICEF)

Where does it end?

Well, first it has to start somewhere. Click here to learn about National Orphan Sunday, which is on November 7, 2010. See what you can do to help. If you can’t find a church in your area that is participating in Orphan Sunday, consider supporting Voices for Bulembu, a supporting arm of the Canadian Tenors and The Bulembu Foundation. Funds donated will aid the 2000 orphans in this tiny town in Swaziland, hit hard by devastating unemployment and the highest rates of AIDS in the world.

Contact me directly if you have questions. Children are the future, and we can’t keep our eyes closed anymore.

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?

Who am I?

The question of “who am I” is commonly asked among the younger generation. Tweens and teens alike wonder what their purpose is in life and how they’re supposed to go about accomplishing that purpose. Even youngsters in college seek clarification in their identity, wondering what to study and how their education and social experiences will make a positive impact on the world. I have often heard people say that the older you get the more you know yourself. I can testify to the validity of this claim but I have also learned, as I have gotten older, if you’re willing, you never stop growing.

Remaining stagnant in anything is not an option for me. I hunger for God’s wisdom and crave being all He destined for me to be. More often than not, the growth that comes with that wisdom is painful. I liken it to open heart surgery – without anesthesia. I have, in recent months, gone through a number of such procedures, and have discovered a few things about myself that I didn’t know before. While I know I’m becoming exactly who God wants me to be, I am finding myself grieving over who I know I will never be. And I feel an ever-increasing isolation because, like I did in high school, I feel like I don’t fit in.

One of those areas of understanding and acceptance is related to my 9/11 experience. I so desperately wanted to get the heck out of Washington, DC after the attacks on America. I was surrounded by a fraternity of journalists who had gone through what I went through. But, our club meetings were always silent. No one spoke of what they saw or felt or experienced that day and in the days afterward. With that silence came a feeling of alone-ness that has yet to leave me. I needed to know I wasn’t the only one feeling what I was feeling. Those answers never came from my brethren.

Moving to Indianapolis was, in my mind, the safest place I could get without having to remove myself from the planet yet still close enough to be able to get home to my family in SC in a matter of hours all while still working as a journalist, albeit in print instead of TV news. What I have discovered here is even more isolation. To my knowledge, I am the only person in Indianapolis, Indiana who heard the plane crash into the Pentagon in person, the only one who watched video of the jumpers from the World Trade Center buildings before they collapsed, the only one who felt the heat rising from the Pentagon for days after the fire was extinguished. I am the only one in Indianapolis who covered the events of 9/11 in NY and knows the stench of 3,000 dead bodies. I am the only one.

That’s not to suggest others in Indiana were not affected adversely by the attacks. Perhaps they lost a loved one or a friend. Perhaps they were a first responder who went to NY or DC to assist in recover efforts. In those experiences, there is a common bond. But from 8:48 am, 9/11/01 to this very minute, I know of no one else that can relate. I have had so many conversations with people about what I saw, desperately needing someone to say, “I understand.” I continue to wait for those words of comfort.

Everyone has experienced pain; that is the common bond in the human race. But somewhere in this town is a woman who can relate to a mother who lost a child because she has lost one too. Somewhere in this town is a man who knows what it feels like to have survived cancer because he had it too. Somewhere in this town is a son who knows what his friend is struggling with watching his parents battle dementia because he is watching it in his family too.

Somewhere in Indianapolis, Indiana is a woman who is isolated because no one else in this town understands because they have never walked in my shoes. Who am I if I am alone?

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.

Scattered Memories

I was pretty surprised when I was asked by WAVG to work as the correspondent for the WMD training video for the Pentagon. The group producing the project was out of Florida. The strange thing is that I can’t seem to remember the name of the company or the people with whom I worked. My mind is filled with scattered memories about various events surrounding 9/11.

I guess that’s one of the many things that bothers me about that time in my life. I remember the group responsible for the project had their own crew – photographer, audio, producer, etc. I remember thinking they were very nice but can’t recall much else about them.

We shot stand-ups in a variety of places around DC. One particular project had us going to a military base in Delaware. It wasn’t even a fully functioning base anymore; it mainly housed military personnel who were first responders. I was nervous about that day because I had to drive there on my own, and I’m not crazy about that huge bridge I had to cross!

Once I arrived, I felt a sense of foreboding. It seemed as if we were in the middle of nowhere, although we weren’t. As a military brat, I was used to the hustle and bustle of the Army bases where my dad was stationed. This was quite different.

The military personnel showed us around their equipment and vehicles that would be used in a first response scenario. I was quite impressed but also kept thinking, “There’s no way these guys will ever put this stuff to use; at least not from a WMD or terrorism perspective.” I suspect the foreboding was a bit of nervousness at just the suggestion of such an event occurring on our soil. We’re the United States of America – not Israel!

I liken it to watching video of a tornado. I’ve never seen one in real life and don’t particularly want to. I’m fascinated by weather events, especially tornadoes, but they scare the heck out of me. Every time I watch video of a tornado, I feel like the tornado will pop off the screen and come straight for me. I felt much the same way on this particular shoot.

I wonder where those men are today. Did they respond? Where did they go? New York? Washington, DC? Shanksville? What were their duties and how did they perform them?

I can’t remember the details of our discussion, and I wonder why. Why are there certain memories that are so vibrant in my mind’s eye while others are scattered? Why are the tragic memories more vivid while the memories that hold seemingly insignificant details seem distant?

I need to remember those details but can’t. Perhaps if I remember, it’ll help answer other questions or give me some pertinent information I might need for the next time. Apparently God has His reasons for blocking that stuff out of my mind. I suppose I should just stop fighting it and let the memories be.