In the book of Genesis, first chapter, the writer describes the action of God in creation where, “The earth had no form and was void: darkness was over the deep, and the Spirit of God hovered over the waters.”

In this void setting the “Word” not only existed but also participated in the act of creation. By the simple utterance by “The Word” of a word (or words) “Let there be light!” creation began to unfold.

It is not a difficult leap to consider that the womb of the woman impregnated, is a microcosm of the story of creation. The Spirit of God “hovers over the waters” where once existed a deep void. This dark hidden place, the womb, is where God and the woman meet to become co-creators in the beginning of a new life.

This sacred meeting has placed women for all time and eternity an exalted place regardless her historical (and present) unjust subordination and mistreatment. Illustrating this concept best are the words of Dr.  Alice Von Hildebrand. “As when Moses met God on the Mountain his countenance was so bright that the Israelites could not look upon him and so he wore a veil or covering”. [i]

So, for millennia the woman who has had (or even has the potential of having) an intimate encounter with God such as Moses, have worn veils as an expression of that blessed meeting.

Darkness and light often meet in another place called the “Internet.” Purely a human invention, You Tube documents the good, bad and ugly of every single thing. It corrects and creates false impressions, and allows those words captured by camera to be greatly disseminated. This is called going “viral”.

“The Word” is her Favorite Word

One of the popular and recent viral videos circulating is that of the Pro –Choice Catholic Speaker of the House of the United States of America, Nancy Pelosi, speaking of “The Word”, saying that “The Word” is her “favorite” word.[ii] Of course, there has been a much needed retort to her video in which, a commentator asks, “Nancy, When did ‘The Word’ begin to exist? Was it at the moment of conception?”[iii]

Indiana Planned Parenthood Caught On Tape Giving Fabricated Medical Information

Another video gone viral is one called “Planned Parenthood Caught Giving Woman Fabricated Medical Information”. It begins with the caption, Planned Parenthood 9-11-2009. The inquisitive patient asks question about the heartbeat of the baby, and other poignant questions. The caring nurse tells her that “it’s not a baby”…and that they (the clinic where the caring nurse works) will remove “the contents of the uterus”. The most vivid truth stated in the aforementioned sentence is coupled with a multitude of alarming misstatements.[iv]

Post Abortive Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

A study published by BMC Psychiatry Journal[v] involved 155 women in South Africa who have had abortions. This study analyzed symptoms before abortion and at one month [vi] and three months after abortion. Nearly one-fifth of the women had symptoms of PTSD. The authors of the study noted that “high rates of PTSD characterize women who have undergone voluntary pregnancy termination.” And Again, at three months after the abortions, the number of women with PTSD had increased by 61 percent compared to before the abortion.”

Informed Consent Blocked by the Media

By today’s standards, it is hard to determine who are and who are not advocating on behalf of women, particularly when it comes to the issue of abortion. I know that the Pro- abortion advocates would win the debate if the debate were judged based on loudest voice with the most media advocates.

Yet, information such as that about PTSD above – just one of many abortion complications — cannot make it past the media censors.

The media characterizes pro-lifers as simpletons or crazed lunatics itching to blow up a clinic or kill abortion doctors. Violence perpetuated by the clinic escorts goes largely unreported, or is justified by the same main stream media.

The Quandary

So, with all of the conflicting details, how can women find proper and honest counsel when making the decision to terminate a pregnancy? By far, Planned Parenthood has the name known “brand” advantage simply by having the Federal Government as its major source of funding. They refuse to admit that there are any consequences at all for a woman who aborts her child, and, in fact, are only advantages: they cite advantages that are financial and “self-bettering” (i.e desire to finish school, extinction of an imperfect child, etc).

It is strangely different from that of the natural instinct of a mother: to protect her child at all cost.  If a child were to lose a leg in a car accident, would a mother abandon her? If a child is found to have a brain tumor which would render him unable to function, would the natural reaction of a mother be to have him euthanized? Abortion goes against the natural instincts of a woman, indeed.

The Answer Demands Innovation

The odds against the Pro-Life movement getting their message out are slim to none, but it is this: We will help you and support you while you finish school, pay your medical bills, care for your other children while you travail through this difficult time.” While these purely privately-funded benefits are available to all women seeking abortion, it is nearly impossible to get the information to them. Women are guarded from those offering help, guarded by “escorts” hired by the clinic — often carrying pointed umbrellas to block the view of any pro-life information. Those wishing to advise women (advice often coming from many women who regret their own abortions) are unable by law to be within 150 feet of the entrance to the clinic.

Enter the “Hope Mobile”

The “Hope Mobile” is a motor home which is manned (sorry for the sexist reference) by an ultrasound technician and a driver.  The interior has been transformed into a mini-clinic where a woman can receive alternatives to having an abortion. Women are allowed to look through a window to the womb, prior to making the decision to abort. In other words, a woman is fully informed of alternative choices and allowed to see the development stage of her child.

In an interview with Kelly Copeland[vii], one of the most driven (no pun intended) proponents of this project, I was told, that “Once a woman is allowed to see her child on an ultrasound, she realizes that she already IS a mom. Only two women in ten decide to continue on to terminate their pregnancy.”

Kelly Copeland is a working technician, chief architect and detail man. Kelly left his business to bring success to the Tucson Pro-Life movement full time. He was instrumental in opening the “Fatima Women’s Center” in Tucson, Arizona.[viii] Presently, he is the other half of what Eric and Kelly call, “A Partnership for Life”.

Their goal is to have at least one of these “Clinics” in every city in the United States.

With No Government Funding, Where Does the Money Come From?

Eric Genuis, [ix]is the other half of this brilliant and dedicated partnership. Eric is a career composer, and acclaimed worldwide performer. He is the Philosopher of the pair often quoting Plato, “Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, a charm to sadness, and life to everything. It is the essence of order and leads to all that is good, true, and beautiful.”

Eric, is a virtuoso pianist, has found some of the most talented and dedicated Musicians to complete the fundraising side of this project. All are high ranking virtuoso’s themselves — violinists, cellists, and vocalists.[x] Eric’s original compositions never fail to inspire the audience to give generously to fund the Hope Mobile project. Further, volunteers are stirred to see that the once abstract project becomes a complete reality.

Free concerts are the avenues by which Parishes and Churches begin their own “Hope Mobile” project under the careful watch of the builder in chief, Kelly Copeland.

Pregnancy Counseling Center, Mission Hills, California[xi]

“Help, Hope, and Truth” is the tag line for the Pregnancy Counseling Center in Mission Hills, California. My sister in law Cristen became an advocate for the Center after miscarrying one of her twins. She was told by her doctor that Vinnie (the second twin and my Godson) would suffer from multiple health problems if carried to term. The doctors suggested that she abort. Cristen would not have it.

In order to support her, I attended one of these “Free Concerts”. My words will never adequately describe what I and the rest of the audience experienced that day. I interviewed Kelly and Eric at length afterward for this publication. We are hoping to transcribe that interview and make it available to the reading audience in the future.

For now, if you are interested in booking a “free concert”, or finding out more about starting a Hope Mobile project, please contact this author at calfocari@sbcglobal.net, or click any of “footnote” links. And while you are at it: make this article go viral.

[ii] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z_HoM6213kc

[iii] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eSko2ixEB8U

[iv] http://www.cnsnews.com/news/article/70445

[v] http://www.biomedcentral.com/bmcpsychiatry/

[vi] http://www.lifesitenews.com/ldn/2008/feb/08021316.html

[vii] http://www.ncregister.com/site/article/ultrasound_on_wheels1/

[viii] http://fatimawomenscenter.com/

[ix] http://www.ericgenuis.com/

[x] http://www.ericgenuis.com/home.htm

[xi] http://www.pregnanthelp4u.org/

I love little boys, and as if I need to prove it, I have had six of them. Unlike little girls who spend a good deal of their toddlerhood and beyond screaming and squealing… little boys’ yell and holler to show off their vivid imaginations.

I myself had to observe four of these little boys for years just to prove to myself that in their reality, a mere stick is a gun (or a sword), a fork is a gun, a knife is a knife (or a sword) and a piece of toast with a few bites taken out of it, is a gun. Fortunately, a banana is a phone (but in a pinch it can also be a gun). To put it plainly: with a boy, there is no way around an occasional gunfight.

Realizing that this “scheme” is one of the constructs of life, I reluctantly purchased “Nerf” guns. These soothed the desires of my small but tough little soldiers, and were given to them wrapped together with some military face paint (from Santa). These treasures provided cover for months while my little boys protected our family interests from the man they called, “Mr. Meany.” Mr. Meany would predictably run outside — out of his immaculate home — at the sight of a couple of these mini-soldiers wearing camouflage and rolling down the sidewalk toward his house.  Sprawled on their stomachs and a skateboard, too often they had caught a wheel on the edge of his perfectly-manicured lawn, causing Mr. Meany to scream at them mercilessly. Worse, he had become “the enemy.”  This meant that I could no longer be identified as a hip mom (Mr. Meany had a ponytail) and the PC police would soon be knocking at my door to force me to turn in my hippie peacenik license – I had botched the “no guns” test.

Since that day, this home has seen and heard countless bad guys meet their fate and many defenseless monsters have been terminated.  And now on cue, the youngest boy at age two, grabs the frosting spatula and claims it as his weapon, his “sting”! At least experience tells me to stay calm and that he too (as with the other five), by destiny, will slay dragons and shoot bad guys until age 15 or so.

I herewith rebuke a fatal cultural error that has taken place in my lifetime: it has become unacceptable to play cowboys and Indians. If a child is caught at it, this type of playing showcases the lack of political correctness a parent has. Even if I did not know that my child had made a bow and arrow out of a hanger and a rubber band, I risked being labeled. Shhh, don’t tell: I bought my boy a six shooter powered by caps, and in doing so knew that I had to forget about being asked to play Bunco for the rest of my life. With the onset of high tech sophisticated weaponry, it seems no one even uses a bow and arrow any longer to declare war. There are no new western films being made for TV. Unless you are a tribesman waging war from deep in the Amazon Jungle, arrows come only from some un-relatable-to time and place. Bows and arrows are not able to manifest themselves into a child’s make-believe world any longer.  If only this setting existed nearby: a horse, a prairie and a train to rob. I wonder: if my son had been allowed to play Cowboys and Indians, might I have been relieved of my new and unwanted marriage to the United States Marines?

Perhaps my grandmother is to blame.

While I was growing up in the 60′s and 70′s I just wondered why she was so grossly un-cool.  Anna Mae was always talking wildly about the five most precious things in her very busy life- (over and over again that is.) They were: First, Her Catholic Faith. (She was a convert.)  Second, The Little Sisters of the Poor, Third, Her Grandchildren and Great Grandchildren, Fourth, The Denver Broncos, and finally, the United States Military, of which she believed she was a part. For years, Grandma ran the USO in Denver, Colorado so I assume that Red, White and Blue blood flows through my veins, too.

My grandmother also had gone through a forced marriage to the military. She was proudly conscripted with her husband on separate shores; while he fought to drive the Nazi’s from France, she raised her 5 children to be outstanding adults. My grandfather was much less excited about the whole thing and when asked about the war would only say, “What the hell do you want to know about that for?”

So here I am at O–one hundred, knowing my 19-year-old leaves for combat training at Camp Pendleton at O-four hundred. He has been home for 4 weeks. He was “rewarded” for becoming the “most improved”. (The drill sergeant told me he was a “bucket of slop” when he got there… not to be insulted!) So, for his reward it was his “privilege” to work for a month in the local recruiting office.

He told me yesterday that the recruiting experience has taught him that going into Afghanistan is probably safer than wearing your Military Uniform out and about in our small Northern California town. Understandably, a mother may desire to call the guy who recruits her son into the Marines, “A_____le” (Alpha – Hotel) and even desire to throw her five-dollar coffee drink at him.  But what ruination of civility allowed her thoughts to take flesh? Does she love her son more than I love mine? Does she know how much it costs to have your “dress blues” dry-cleaned? Does she, like the old Bunco mothers, consider it MY failure that my son quit college to join the Marines? No, No! I would tell her; it is because he loves his country open-eyed to its flaws, but also wholly and deeply. Does she consider that I like her, taught my son that, “No greater love hath a man, than one who will lay down his life for his brother?”

Among the other Marine Culture and life-broadening tidbits that I have learned since I have been a “newlywed” Marine Mom:  Haircuts and shaving are BIG. My boy came home with a “High and Tight” (no sidewalls) and left with a “Fade” (no sidewalls). There in the barber’s chair I listen to him speak quietly to the barber about the Marines, and consider what he really learned at boot camp. First, an even more intense Love of his fellow man: He is now able to Love another person’s child as much as he loves his own brother! Second, he will be trained and would be willing to actually voluntarily die to save another Marine, perhaps even by jumping on a live grenade. I shudder…

Then the barber says, “My father and brothers were all military, I know what you are going to do, and I thank you.”

That being said, the lady sitting in the salon chair next to him sends a wink my way; she’s listening as he tells the barber, that he wants to go to Afghanistan with the rest of his platoon. Then sneakily, the barber says (trying to speak below earshot), “I know, they are like brothers to you now even if you don’t get along.” My son seeing that I am listening, raises his voice to say for my benefit that, “My MOS is just an ordinary desk job.”

My two year old has officially taken over the Superman Cape that was made by a friend of mine for my Marine when he was three. My friend did not know that my son and his brothers would actually believe that they “become” Superman when they don the cape. The cape has been weathered, yet still looked quite fine on my young Marine when he relieved the baby of it. Later that night, still wearing the cape, he told me that a teenage kid had yelled at him from across the street, purposefully mocking him in his uniform, “Hey, don’t you know the war is over?”

I asked, did you yell back, “Hey, don’t you know I am Superman?”

“Naw,” he said, “but I wanted to yell, ‘Hey did you know that I volunteered so that there wouldn’t be a need for a draft?’”

We agreed that most certainly he will be made a fool of again by some wise-cracking college student for believing in “Truth, Justice and the American Way.”

We laughed for a few seconds.

Then suddenly I became struck with fear at this realization — my son is not really Superman! He is not faster than a speeding bullet (which could definitely come in handy in his new line of work).  He really can’t leap over tall buildings in a single bound, and while he became a much better runner at boot camp, he definitely cannot chase a speeding locomotive.

On Family Day in San Diego, four speeding-by weeks ago, the drill sergeant passed on what I thought was shocking but sage advice: new Marines are now warned, “not to drink, not to get too wild, and to keep your personal alert level to a level 5.” Sadly, there is a new enemy at home. These are gangs and others who disrespect the military and kill them as a trophy because they are identified with an unpopular war and an unpopular president.

Skirmishes in Pakistan and India may eventually collapse the fragile governance there. It may then be turbo-charged by nuclear capability — a threat to the progress that allows little girls like my own Olivia, to go to school. Little Olivia of Afghanistan was, for some reason, not lucky enough to be born in the U.S, free from the acid-throwing, beheading Taliban.  I expect that as with the Vietnam War, the lines of the good guys and the bad guys will be blurred further by those who do not understand the mind of a young Marine. The young Marine understands there really IS a war going on, and that he may be one of the troops who will be placed in harm’s way to protect the advancements already made with American Blood in a foreign country.  All politics aside, he goes forth to relieve a tired brother Marine.

As for now, my son, who is a lover of the Great Books, of Bach, of Hayden of Stravinsky, of Aquinas, of Fulton Sheen, of Christ, of God, of Blues Guitar — this son of America will leave this morning for combat training with man tears in his eyes. He leaves to serve, I emphasize serve his country, just not in the cool, acceptable, Ameri-Corps way.

There were firsts on this visit: he asked me to “hang out” with him while he ran his last minute errands, the cleaners, packing his sea bags, and finally stopping by the recruiting office to pick up his orders.

There under the porch, in the cold, was a vagrant  — a homeless guy shouting cusswords to the sky. I said to my son, “Don’t go out there!” My boy laughed and said, “Lock your door.” As my son walked by him, I heard the bum pause from his four-letter-word rant, and say through his parched, lips, “Way to go devil dog.” To which my son replied, “Thank you, Sir.”

The bum too was a Marine, a once-strapping young man like my son, who in the ‘60′s left as a hero and came back a “baby killer.” After taking part in the horror of war and hating it more than anyone could understand, he came home to hearing insults like those that my son heard all week, and the cruelty and disbelief had taken their toll on him. Was his Mom dead and gone by now? Did she die of grief?

I began thinking how for the last four decades, at his high school reunions, the bum’s friends probably gather and consider the absence of “poor old him” who just went “nuts.” The broken old hobo — once a well-traveled uniformed man and veteran of the battles of some war — could find his only comfort under the porch of the Marine Recruiting Office, with my son, his brother, while I, reluctantly drafted into marriage with the Marine Corps, wept uncontrollably over him as though for another son.

In the morning, at 04:00, and for the next four years, I will turn my beloved son over to my country, like hundreds of other reluctant mothers have. I know that it is possible he will ship out and I will never see him again.  I know that there are many mothers enduring this nightmare and I love them, like a sister. Strangely, I find that I do not shirk or fear this. I thrust my son into the arms of Divine Providence, comforted in knowing that there are some who still believe that this beautiful and free country together with its flawed people, must continue to exist — and exist to spread liberty, in truth, in justice and in the American way.

[Editor's note: This article was conceived in 2007. Carolyn’s Marine is getting ready for another deployment to Afghanistan this year.]

Hannity sees the election results as an omen for the 2010 elections when the GOP will win back the House and the Senate.

I am thinking of how, in these results, our youth actually have suffered the greatest loss. Depending on how you look at it, their absence at the polls cost the Democrats two governorships. For me the election has brought forward memories of “pyramids.” How strange!

When I was in my youthful twenties, the “Pyramid” phenomena had just hit the neighborhood in which I lived. I met several people who had already made several hundred thousand dollars and who were eagerly promoting the $500 pyramid.

I was told that all I needed to do to make my $100,000 was to put in five hundred dollars, and then find two other people to buy in behind me. Then, I would be invited to my first “pyramid” party.
There were over 200 crazed people there — so many, that not all of them could “buy in”. I proudly looked at my name written at the bottom of the pyramid of names, in thick black felt pen, Carolyn: $500.

The promoter of the pyramid told me that the next party should be at my house. A few days later the pyramid had indeed come to my home, as well as 300 guests. When the very convincing promoter made his inspiring pitch, I expected to have the same occurrence happen again: that is, not enough room for everyone to buy in. However, after the crowd-pumping sales pitch, instead of a feeding frenzy, there was silence — no one even stood up — and there I sat at the bottom of the pyramid, my five hundred dollars… lost… lost forever…wondering, ”what happened?”

What happened was that people started to get worried. The police had started raiding pyramid parties. Someone started doing the math. The pyramid scheme was over — and my so was my youthful naïveté.

Since that time, every new fad, every new money scheme, every popular book, every popular TV show, when introduced to me has been met with a cautious skepticism. Even a new apostolate, a new popular priest, new apparition sites… well …lets just say, I rarely get on board until they have been given the gold medal by someone I trust.

After the Democratic Convention in 2004, all I heard about was a young senator who happened to be black. I listened to his speech, and I could see why he would motivate an audience. I, however, could not get on board. He was not pro-life, and women’s “reproductive rights” to him were a top priority. I recognized that the passionate words he used actually meant abortion, contraception, and probably euthanasia. I turned him off. Permanently.

A few years later, a few of the Catholic kids I knew wanted to take me down the Obama road again, and I flat out told them, “I am not interested under any circumstances.”

Trying to persuade me they said: “Obama wants LESS abortion.”

I said, “Careful, watch what he does, not what he says.”

They would continue again: “He supports Catholic ideals.”

“No thanks,” I replied.

Again and again, I was bombarded with arguments about “just war,”… about how there had been a “higher rate of abortion under Bush’s term”… about how I was behaving like a “racist”… blah, blah, blah.

I recognized when reading the election results that I have “been here” before. I thought about the “Pyramid” for the first time in years. I remembered that in the early ‘80’s I had dragged two friends to buy in behind me in the pyramid scheme. This time, like my smarter-than-I-was guests all those years ago, I hadn’t bought in. Now Obama has officially been lumped in with all of the other, “say one thing and do another” politicians.

Trying to revive his popularity, he struggles. Why?

The authorities are starting to question him, people are doing the math. He is duplicitous in his enthusiasm. The pyramid scheme is over, and but for a few hangers on, a generation’s naïveté is officially gone.