What is it About a Fire in the Fireplace?
For about an hour today I was curled up on the couch in front of a crackling fire, reading Joyce Carol Oates's new novel, with Michael's head in my lap, and the kids quietly playing a game that involved packing lunchboxes with toys, saying "goodbye" and wandering around the house. It was bliss. BLISS, I tell you. It was like some kind of ad from Parenting magazine. "Casual Sundays at Home: 15 ways to pass a lazy afternoon."
After a while, of course, there were tantrums, and poopy diapers, etc., but that hour filled up my tank for a very long ride.
I couldn't help but think of this soldier. He was a father of four, just like Michael. He was a 6 foot 5 inch giant of a man, who approached his wretched job in Iraq with grace, doing his best to afford all people, be they Iraqi, American, Kurd, whatever, with dignity. He was killed in the bombing of the mess tent in Mosul.
He was also a Mormon, this guy. I find the whole Mormon thing very puzzling. Almost without exception, the Mormons I've met have been remarkably decent people. Kind and generous, willing to put themselves on the line. The Mormons I've met have actually believed in helping the downtrodden, as opposed to so many other religious people, whose notion of Christian charity begins and ends with charitably and generously imposing their views on everyone else. And yet.
And yet. And yet. There's the homophobia, for one. There's the racism, for another. But still, those Mormons. They can be such nice people. (And don't even think of blaming them for the poligamy thing. That went out, years ago, and it's only the fanatical nuts who engage in it today.)
Another wonderful tidbit. It seems my darling husband must be related to the owner of the club that was the scene of the horrific fire in Argentina.
The club's owner, Omar Chaban, was being held by authorities pending an investigation into Thursday's inferno.