Questing Parson

Strong Women, God Bless 'Em

I love women. Okay, there it is, right out in the open. I love women. Who can say when this love affair started? I honestly don't know.

Maybe it was Francis. Francis was that drop dead gorgeous babysitter my parents hired for my brother. Somehow they didn't think I was capable of taking care of my brother when I was twelve. He was five then. So, they hired Francis to babysit my brother. And I would watch Francis babysit my brother. And after she put my brother to bed I would watch Francis watching television. Did I mention Francis was drop dead gorgeous?

We moved from the town where Francis babysat my brother. When we moved I'd grown beyond my childish ways. Maybe the reason I love women has something to do with Kay. Kay lived up the street from me in the new town to which we moved. Kay was something else. Kay taught me the joys of swapping spit.

I'm going to detour from this history of my progression through the various stages of learning to appreciate women now. This blog carries a PG-13 rating. I'll just give you a quick snapshot. That snapshot acknowledges the obvious fact that the men and women of my generation are much better lovers than the generations that followed us. We were more practiced, more attentive, never in a hurry. We certainly should be. We spent ten years in foreplay.

It was the Women In the World Summit 2012, just recently ended, that prompted my journey back in time remembering, as Willie, said, “all the girls I've loved before.” Things have really changed since those days when Kay and I were coming of age. Women have truly come a long way.

I was fortunate to grow up in the family I did. In an age when women were perceived as mere appendages of their husbands, the women in my family actually ran the show. I don't think I realized that until I was in my thirties. I'm sure my late realization was a direct result of those women's unique ability to let the men in the family think they were in charge.

Mama, my grandmother, had a fourth grade education. When my grandfather died she carried on for thirty plus years, teaching us lessons we never learned in the universities we attended. My great aunt, Mama's sister, when her husband died kept the auto garage he owned, the largest in Atlanta, running with even more success than he enjoyed. Looking back on it I can't help but wonder how many city blocks of downtown Atlanta my aunt owned.

And then there was my mother. Mother's birthday was last week. I have to admit I didn't realize what day it was until I read the acknowledgment on my brother's Facebook page. (But, then again, Mother always did love him best.) [:-), brother]

My mother was a child of the 1920s, and I have no doubt that she and my Aunt Virginia danced until the dawn at the dance clubs of Atlanta. She was a beauty. She was confident. And she had this view of life, far ahead of her day, that gender should be no impediment to whatever one wanted to accomplish. Mother should have had daughters to offset the troubles my brother and I caused. Mother was to be respected. No, let me rephrase that: Mother demanded respect. My mother had no hesitation of engaging in a wrestling match, a real wrestling match, with any adolescent male ignorant enough to think she wouldn't whip his ass in front of his onlooking peers.

The Women in the World Summit, as I said, got me thinking about those genteel Southern ladies who shaped me. The women who are their children have excelled, one was in the first class of ordained women in the Church of England, and one a successful businesswoman. As for my brother and me, we were feminist long before someone trotted out the word.

It was a joy to see that parade of twenty-first century women speaking and being interviewed at the summit. It gives hope for the world. I can attest from personal experience that we're all better when we're nurtured and inspired by strong, liberated women.

I got a hint that the strong woman will continue in the next generation of our family the other day. I asked my granddaughter if her boyfriend was going to be at a family function. “That won't happen,” she told me. I asked her why. “Look,” she said, “I'm a fourteen year-old woman; harmones are raging in my body; I have enough dealing with my moods. I don't have the energy to deal with some male's moodiness.”

So here's the end of this rambling remembrance of strong women and my affirmation that we'll be better still as humans when women are finally treated as equals in every aspect of life.

Thanks Mother; thanks Mama; thanks Aunt Virginia. And watch out world, my granddaughters are headed your way!

 

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

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Ten Years In Afghanistan Today

Ordination No Option

The parson sat on the sofa in the corner nook of the coffee shoppe. He took a moment to arrange the pillows behind his aged back to accommodate his five foot six frame on the furniture designed for five foot seventeen. Having adjusted to the maximum he took a sip of the rich java, and enjoyed the full body and rich flavor which belied its decaf makeup.

Two seminary students sat across from him, one working on his Master of Divinity the other working on her Ph.D. in a yet to be narrowed down field of American religious history. Both were drinking a mixture whose name the parson might once have recognized when he was learning ancient Greek.

The trio shared news of various acquaintances. The students asked the parson if certain rumors about certain better-know pastors were true, and asked for the parson’s evaluation of the new bishop. The parson, in turn, asked them what they’d heard about the better-known pastor. Their revelations he added to his otherwise empty store house of gossip. As for the new bishop the parson pleaded ignorance, as the bishop’s as yet never extended invitation to dinner at his residence deprived the parson of adequate knowledge to make a determination.

James, the M.Div. student, fired up his notebook to share with the parson an article the new bishop had written. The parson promised to read it later in order to become better informed.

“So, are you’re finishing seminary this year?” he asked James.

“I am, Parson. Finally.”

“Have you started the process with the Board of Ministry?”

James closed his notebook, glanced over at Monique, the doctoral candidate, then back at the parson. He cleared his throat and said in a quiet voice. “Actually, Parson, I haven’t,” he said. “I don’t think I’m going to take the path toward ordination.”

“You’re not!” the parson stammered, forcing himself forward on the sofa. The statement had caught him completely by surprises. He’d known James for a decade and his whole life journey had been leading toward ordination. “Why not?”

James smiled at the parson a moment, then he asked, “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” The parson looked over at Monique whom he’d know just as long as he’d know James. She was smiling, obviously at the parson’s consternation.

“Parson,” said James, “I’m gay.”

The room seemed to shrink. The parson was completely surprised. He’d never considered this. He’d never had occasion to consider this. The parson sank back into the sofa. A thousand emotions surged through his body. He stared at young man he’d thought so long to be a rising star of the church. He did not know what to say. Sorrow wracked his being. The consequences raised their head and impaled his spirit.

It seemed a short eternity before the silence was broken.

“Parson, are you okay?” asked Monique.

“I guess so,” said the parson. “This is why you’re not going before the board?” he said to James.

“It is,” said James. “I’m not going to lie.”

“Are you going to another denomination?” asked the parson.

“No, Parson, I’m not going to do that. I’m sticking around and I intend to make a nuisance of myself.”

The parson smiled. James was a delegate to the Annual Conference. He might start attending more frequently.

“What about you, Monique,” the parson asked.

“I’m not going to be ordained either, Parson.”

“I know you’re not gay, Monique.”

“Right, Parson. But the more I’ve thought about it the more I’m uncomfortable with the thought of being ordained. I think it would be more than two-faced. I can’t reconcile the enormous amounts of money the church spends on itself while the world is hungry. I’m fed up with the hypocrisy. I could go on and on, Parson.”

The parson said nothing for a couple of minutes. James excused himself to get another cup of the concoction he and Monique were drinking. Monique leaned forward, “Aren’t you going to show off any grandkids pictures?”

The parson smiled at her winsome way. He pulled out his iPhone. Monique moved to sit beside him on the sofa as the parson began to flip through the pictures. James returned and sat on the arm of the sofa to view the show.

A while later James moved back to his seat. Monique remained on the sofa. James said, “Are you okay with what I told you, Parson?”

“No, James, I’m not. And I’m not okay with what Monique tells me. I’m disturbed that folks like you can’t find a home in the church. I’m just ....”

The conversation continued for another hour. At that point it moved to the restaurant two blocks down the street, and from there it continued at an Irish pub another block down.

It was almost midnight when the parson left for home, exhilarated from having been with two young people who’d skipped through is parish almost two decades ago and sad, so sad.

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Paying For The Story

The parson was shopping at the outlet mall, picking up some appropriate summer clothes for a young boy who was headed for summer camp on a church scholarship. Wilbur Robinson had run into him at one of the stores and now they were headed to the parson’s car to store the bags. Their plan was to head to the mall’s coffee shop and share some stories.

While the purchases were being placed in the trunk, a man approached. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, and, while his clothes were obviously not new, he was dressed neatly in clean and creased pants and shirt.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m embarrassed to ask this, but I need some help.”

“What kind of help?” asked the parson.

“I need some gas to get to Birmingham. My mother has been taken to intensive care. My sister called and said I needed to be there soon.”

The parson studied the man’s features as he talked, trying to reconcile his appearance with the story.

“I know this sounds strange, but I had my credit card out last night, before my sister called, making an online purchase. I think I forgot to put it back in my wallet. And then this morning I gave my daughter the debit card to get some cash. So here I am halfway to my Mom’s and I’m stuck. No cash, no credit card, no debit card.”

The parson asked him where his car was. He pointed to a Honda Civic parked in front of the Carter’s Outlet Store.

“Tell you what,” said the parson, “follow my to the Shell station up at the corner and I’ll fill your tank for you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the man. “I’ll pay you back, I promise. Give me your card or write down your address and I’ll send it to you as soon as I get where I’m going.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” said the parson. “Follow us.”

The parson invited Wilbur to ride with him. They pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the Shell station. Once there the man pulled in behind the parson, and was directed to an empty pump. The parson put his card into the pump and pulled it back.

“Fill it up,” said the parson.

The man inserted the nozzle and the gas began to flow. As it did, the man continued.

“I know this is crazy and you probably think you’re being ripped off. You’re not. I will pay you back. As soon as I get to my Mom’s place I’ll send you some money.”

“Tell you what,” said the parson. “Instead of paying me back find a little church next Sunday that looks as if it could use some help, attend the service and put what you owe me in the plate.”

The man stared a moment. The he simply said, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” said the parson. He motioned toward the car and Wilbur and he got in.

On the way to the mall’s coffee shop, Wilbur said, “I bet you get ripped off like that every week by people just like him.”

“You know,” said the parson, “someone just like him does approach me at least once a week.

“Why don’t you just tell them ‘no’?” asked Wilbur.

“Well, Wilbur, while I run into the same kind of people over and over, the stories are always a little bit different. And it’s the difference that makes the story worth the price of admission.”

A Stupid Argument

Sunday morning with a half hour to go before the members began to arrive, the parson was sitting in the sanctuary reading over his sermon. Sarah Meecham, a fourteen-year-old whose family had joined the church a few months back came busting through a side door.

“Oh, hello, Parson,” she said as she half-skipped, half-jogged up the center aisle toward the vestibule. In a minute she retraced her path with the same happy gait. “Mom, wanted me to get some bulletins. It’s her turn to get the things to the homebound people.”

“Tell your Mom how much I appreciate it,” said the parson.

Sarah came over to the parson, stood in front of him and said, “Can I talk with you a minute?”

“Sure,” said the parson. “Have a seat.” He put the sermon aside and turned sideways on the pew to face her. “What’s up.”

“I have to write a paper for a class. I’m going to write it on the Health Care thing in Congress.”

“Are you going to be for it or against it?” the parson asked.

“That’s the thing, Parson. I’ve been thinking about this a lot and I think it’s a really stupid thing that they are even arguing about this law.”

“You don’t think we should provide health care for everyone?”

“Oh, yes! I do! That’s my point. My friend Molly says Mr. Peterson, my teacher, is not going to like my ideas, but I’m going to write the paper anyway. Look, you know that thing in the Bible where some man says to God ‘I thank you I’m not like that other person”? What I think is that when somebody has health insurance and another person does not then there’s no way the person with health insurance is not saying ‘I’m glad I’m not like that person without health insurance’ unless the person with health insurance is trying to get the other person some insurance.” Sarah folded her arms over her chest wrinkled her forehead and asked, “Am I making sense?”

“You’re making a lot of sense to me,” said the parson. “That’s a unique way to look at it.”

“Well, thank you, Parson. “See, I’ve thought about this a lot, and I’ve decided there is no way this country can be a nation under God until no one sees themselves better than anybody else. ‘Cause ‘under God’ means everybody is equal. Right?”

“Right,” said the parson. 

“So you agree with me that it’s stupid everybody is arguing about this?”

“I agree with you,” the parson said.

“Cool. Thanks for your advice, Parson.”

“You’re welcome,” said the parson as he watched her disappear out the door she’d entered. When she was gone the parson looked toward the altar and whispered. “You might want to whisper a calling in her ear.”

A Hug, Soup, And A Shower

The parson was sitting on a picnic table bench that was, itself, sitting in front of the chain link fence bordering the children’s playground behind the church fellowship hall. A car trailing blue smoke pulled into the parking lot. The same car appeared at about the same time each Monday when the church opened it’s free soup supper.

A second car, this one a new Honda Accord, pulled in behind. 

Two kids, a boy of ten and a girl nine, bounded from the first car. The boy raced across the parking lot toward the fellowship hall at a full sprint. The girl jogged along behind.

The man who’d exited the trailing car walked at a leisurely pace behind the youthful rush.

The mother of the two sprinters now exited her car whose exhaust system let forth with a loud burp as she did. She followed even more leisurely behind the man. 

“Hi, Parson,” greeted the boy as he pulled the door open and dashed inside before the parson could reply.

The girl decreased her pace steadily as she approached. She did not reach for the door. She jumped into the parson’s lap and hugged his neck. “Hi, Parson, guess what.”

“What?” asked the parson pulling his head back to stare at her hair that had not been combed or brushed in at least a week. Her dress was one size too big, a hand-me-down or Goodwill special he assumed.

“We have a new calf. She’s not even as big as Charlie Brown. She got stuck and I had to help her out, but I think she’s going to be okay. I named her Peppermint.”

“Well, good for you,” said the parson as the man walked pulled the door to the Fellowship Hall open and nodded to the parson as he did. “When was she born?”

“Yesterday.”

“I guess you’re going to be busy a while,” the parson observed. The girl’s mother now entered the Fellowship Hall but she did not speak or acknowledge the presence of the parson or even her daughter.

She sat on the bench talking with the parson about calves and chickens a big bull and one really mean teacher at school. The parson listened quietly. It was her private time with the one she considered her pastor even if she could not articulate that. The parson learned of the week’s activities, of her dad’s residing in a different city; of an aunt who was going to have a baby and an “A” on a math test.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

She smiled, “You know I am.”

The parson took her hand and together they walked in. Charlie Brown, the parson’s faithful canine companion rose from beside the bench where he’d been sleeping and followed. 

“Go wash your hands,” said the parson.

“Okay.”  She skipped off down the hallway toward the restroom. The parson headed toward the Men’s Room to wash his hands.

Task completed they met at the serving table. It was beef vegetable night. They both got a bowl. The parson, from experience, got two extra bowls. A plate was stacked with four pieces of cornbread. They headed to the table where her brother sat. Her mother was off at another table carrying on an animated conversation with Florence, the parson’s favorite professional beggar.

The parson looked at her brother. “Did you say a blessing.”

“Naw!”

The parson said nothing. He just looked.

“Okay, okay.” Heads were nodded and the boy said, “Thanks God for this soup; it sure is good. Amen.”

“Thank you for that,” the parson said. And then the girl and the parson in a seemingly choreographed movement crumbled a slice of cornbread into their bowls. Now it was chow down time.

When the devouring time was over, the parson pushed the two extra bowls across the table. 

“We’re not supposed to go back for seconds,” she said.

“You didn’t,” said the parson. “These bowls were already here.”

Both of them smiled and began to slurp down their largess.

Later that night, the parson sat on the sofa watching television. His phone rang. It was the man who’d exited the Honda Accord.

“How could you do that?”

“Do what?”

“How can you sit there with that girl and hug her the way you do all the while knowing she probably hasn’t had a bath in two weeks. Did you smell her?”

“I did. And she hasn’t had a bath in two weeks. The weather is too cold. It’s supposed to get into the seventies later this week; she’ll probably bathe two or three times a week then. They don’t have running water right now.”

“Look, Parson, don’t you realize that child probably has lice?”

“It’s not probably. She does.”

“And you still hugged her?”

“I did. That’s the advantage of my hair loss. And, unlike her, I take a shower every day. That gives the me the luxury of being able to hug her before I check for lice.”

Right Soup; Wrong Address

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Hello. Is this the Parson?”

“Yes,” said the parson, not recognizing the voice. “Who is this?”

“You don’t know me, Parson,” the voice said, “but I wanted to call you to thank you for the wonderful ministry you folks have on Monday night.”

“Are you talking about our Soup Supper?”

“I am, Parson. What a wonderful thing that is. I can’t tell you how thrilled my husband and I were to have you bring us supper last Monday. Oh, my that soup was good. And whoever made that cornbread must have taken lessons from my grandmother.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Who did you say this is?”

“I’m Evelyn Simmons.” 

“Have we met, Evelyn?”

“No, sir, we have not. But I’ve heard about your church. That’s why I was so startled to find some young people at our door with our supper last Monday night.”

“Some of our youth brought you supper?”

“Yes sir.”

“And you’ve never had any contact with our church before?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you mind me asking where you live?”

“Not at all. Not at all. We’re at 4541 Tower of Ongoing Maturity.”

“I see,” said the Parson. “I’m really glad you enjoyed the meal. Your husband was there, also?”

“Yes, he was. And you know, Parson, those young people who brought the soup and the other stuff were not in a hurry. They just sat down in the kitchen with us and talked with us about so many things. We don’t get people their age coming by to talk very often. It was wonderful, and I just wanted to thank you for it.”

“Thank you so much for calling, Evelyn. I can’t tell you what a blessing it is for you to take the time to thank us.”

The parson and Evelyn talked a few more minutes. Then they ended the conversation. On Sunday morning, the parson questioned the two youth who’d delivered to Ongoing Maturity.

“Do you guys remember taking a meal to two people, a husband and wife, at Ongoing Maturity, who you’d never seen before?

“Yes sir,” said the older of the two. “Actually we knocked on the door and when they invited us in it was obvious they needed a meal. So we gave them the two we had. We did go back to the church to pick up another two meals to deliver the the right place.”

“Well, make sure you take another meal to them this coming Monday, if you will.”

“We will,” they promised.

The parson walked to a quiet corner of the church to read over his sermon, realizing he had no words to portray the presence of Christ in the congregation that came close to the witness of two confused adolescents last Monday.

Perspectives

The parson and Ms. Parson picked up Ms. Parson’s two Canadian cousins at the airport about 7:00 p.m. They’d not eaten supper so the parson suggested they might like to sample the Varsity, that world-famous eatery where presidents and homeless feast. 

It was a great evening at the Varsity. The staff was up to par. “Hey, speak up! Speak up! What’ll ya have? Come on, people are waiting? Whata ya want?”  From there they headed to the Krispy Kream donut place and purchased a dozen donuts that had just come through the glazing process. 

 “Can we drive around Atlanta a bit?” asked the Canadians.

“We can,” said the parson who began the guided tour.

At one corner a cousin commented, “Goodness this city is clean.”  The parson smiled at her comment. The parson had not noticed. His eye was fixed on the woman who’d just abandoned her shopping cart and darted behind a dumpster when she saw the police car.

The parson turned on Peachtree Street and provided a tour through the heart of the city.  Passing through the canyon of skyscrapers the parson turned left. 

“What’s that over there?” asked a cousin.

“That’s Turner Stadium where the Atlanta Braves play,” said the parson. “It’s where the Olympic Stadium was.” Apparently the cousin did not notice the transaction taking place between the fellow in the car and the young lady leaning in the window. 

As they approached the State Capitol a cousin asked about the dome. Ms. Parson was explaining how the dome was coated in gold brought from Dahlonega, Georgia, where gold was first discovered. The parson was counting the homeless huddled in sleeping bags against the cold in doors of churches across the street from the capitol.

As they left the city, the parson reflected on what the cousins had seen and what he had seen, wondering at different perspectives.

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Chattanooga Christmas

His bag seemed packed to the hilt, sitting on the curb beside him where the semi-trucks exited the Quik Trip. The piece of cardboard he held in his hands read “Chatt.”  The parson had seen him as he drove in. And now here he was as the parson and his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, exited the facility.

The parson stopped beside him. “Hop in.”

The man rose, took a grip on his bag, and as he was pulling it upward spied Charlie Brown in the back seat. He froze and continued to stare.

“He’s not going to hurt you,” said the parson. “He’s just big; he’s gentle as can be.”

The man studied Charlie Brown intently. He placed his bag on the ground and stepped close to the car. Tentatively, he stuck his hand through the open window and slowly extended it toward Charlie Brown. The faithful canine companion stretched his nose toward the hand, sniffing the digits carefully. After a moment the man seemed satisfied. He turned and retrieved his bag from the curb.

“Where do you want me to put this?” he asked.

“Want to toss it in the trunk?” the parson asked.

“I guess so,” said the man whereupon he walked behind the car.

The parson pulled the lever, disengaging the trunks lock and it popped open. The bag was tossed in; the man closed the lid, walked back to the front passenger door and hopped in.

“Next stop, Chattanooga?” said the parson.

“You’re going all the way to Chattanooga?” the man asked.

“I am,” said the parson.

“But your tag says you’re from the county just up the road.”

“I am, but today I’m heading to Chattanooga.”

The man seemed to study the parson as the car merged with the northbound traffic. 

“What’s your name?” asked the parson.

“I’m Sid,” said the man.

The parson then introduced himself. And the conversation began. Sid was from Florida. He had a job waiting in Chattanooga. He was trying to hitchhike to save money so he’d be able to find a cheap place to live until he could get paid. Sid had two children, both girls. He produced pictures and bragged on each as he held them up for the parson’s inspection. Both he and his wife had been laid off their jobs. She and the children were staying with her mother until Sid could get settled. 

A few miles outside Chattanooga, the parson asked Sid for the address of the place he was headed. Sid pulled his wallet out and extracted a card. He gave the parson the address. The parson pulled the car into a rest area. There, he punched the address into his GPS device and proceeded up the road. Sid was silent.

Following the GPS devices the parson pulled up in front of Sid’s next place of employment in about ten minutes.

“Here we are,” said the parson.

Sid continued to stare. Then he quietly got out of the car and stepped to the trunk. The parson popped the lid. Bag rescued, Sid  stepped to the still open passenger door. He leaned in.

“You weren’t coming to Chattanooga, were you?”

“Well, not until I saw you,” said the parson.

“Why’d you do that?” asked Sid.

“It’s a Christmas present,” said the parson.

“It’s not Christmas yet,” said Sid.

“It is today,” said the parson, for both of us. Hope the job works out Sid.”

Sid’s image was framed by the rearview mirror as the parson drove away. His bag rested on the curb. Sid was still staring at the retreating car.

The War Becomes Personal

I sat myself on the sofa. The day had been busy, appointments kept, promises fulfilled, and commitments to help the less fortunate were gathered in. I fired up the Mac in preference to the TV.

The PBS program Frontline was on his list of shows to view. The program this day was Obama’s War, a documentary of the current fighting in Afghanistan. It was probably less than five minutes into the show when the images of shock appeared.

“War,” said General Sherman, “is hell.” It’s worse than that. But war for the vast majority of us is so impersonal. “Eight Americans were killed in combat operations in Afghanistan today ....” reports the news anchor. Funny how little emotion the number “eight” engenders. Maybe that’s why so many wars are fought. As long as I’m sitting here and the war’s over there and it’s “eight” that are killed. Well, I’m here and the soldiers are there; and I don’t know anyone named “eight.”

There, on my Mac, the Marines of the 2nd Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment, 2nd Marine Division, II Marine Expeditionary Force out of Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, on July 2nd, were firing their automatic weapons into a line of trees off into the distance, the point from which they were receiving fire. Then suddenly, there on the ground, lay Lance Corporal Charles “Seth” Sharp, a twenty year old whose home was ten miles from the sofa on which I sat, with a hole in his neck from the projectile that tore him apart.

I watched his buddies carry him away from the front back toward the rear, his blood staining his BDU. I heard the commentator say, “Lance Corporal Sharp did not make it.”

Strange, I have no empathy with “eight.” But I am emotionally ripped asunder when I know one of those “eight” is “Seth Sharp. Now the war is personal.

I remember his funeral. They turned out in thousands to line the local highways when Seth came home under the canopy of the flag to whose allegiance he served. For hours they came to express sympathy to his family who shook every single hand.

I’m feeling a bit frustrated and angry now. Major John Morris, a Chaplain during the fighting in Iraq, said on Speaking of Faith. “You can’t kill and idea with a bullet.” It seems to me what we’re up against in these wars is a conflict of ideas, and the only way to defeat an idea is a better idea.

Excuse the rant, but I’m a little disturbed now. The war has once again been made personal. Perhaps we would have less wars if they were personal to those who vote to fund them. Maybe a qualification for voting for war should be to have once stood in the line of fire and felt the warm blood of your buddy splatter on you to the point your fear became so great you pissed your pants.