Fourth Amendment Rights

The fourth amendment to our constitution states: "The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized." 
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Increasingly, our government is violating this right in the name of safety.
Anyone who has read my blogs or facebook posts, understands my position on airline searches, especially the new scanners which create a virtual strip search. We've heard about Arizona's law that questions suspected illegals when stopped for a traffic violation.
How many have heard of the search and seizures here in northern New York?

The border patrol has the right to stop any public transportation within 100 air miles of any international border, including coastlines. According to Udi Ofer, a lawyer for the ACLU, 2/3 of all citizens live withing this area.
In effect, the agents can board any bus or train or boat and if they suspect someone of not being a citizen, they can demand to see their papers. However, in this country, it, so far, has not been mandated that we must carry proof of citizenship at all times.

In the feature case, a Chinese student who attended Potsdam State was arrested under suspicion of something. He ended up in varying jails for four months. Meanwhile, all his papers were with the sponsoring teacher. Unfortunately, he returned to China and his parents will not let him return to the United States. It is sad when China feels we are too controlling.

In a similar vein, my friend and her husband stopped about a half-mile from the U.S. border. He needed to fish out his enhanced ID which was in his wallet and on which he sat. When he arrived at the port of entry, the agent asked him why he stopped a half mile away. He then sternly warned him to not stop until he got to the station. How did they know he stopped? What difference does it make?

A good female friend with red-headed and fair-skinned was stopped, frisked, manhandled and handcuffed at the border. She had the misfortune of bearing the same name as a black man on the wanted list. The same thing happens repeatedly to Sylvie Nelson of Saranac Lake. She's stopped repeatedly, handcuffed, frisked in front of her kids because her name is similar to a black man's from Georgia. She's cleared each time, then stopped the next.

Sadly, Big Brother is watching and we may need to head to China to find some liberty. 

Lucky Baby by Meredith Efken

If you love the cliche and love to predict the outcome of conflict, if easy answers is your comfort in a good book, then skip Meredith Efken's Lucky Baby.

Her book presents a poignant look at four dynamic characters as their lives change when Meg Lindsay decides to adopt a child from China. As the principal violist for the Noveau Chicago Symphony and a Christian married to an atheist physicist, Meg and husband Lewis, decide to adopt a little girl with a cleft palate. With a child in their home, Meg knows she'd create the idyllic life.


However, the arrival of the child, Eva Zhen An, forces Meg, Lewis and Eva's devoted friend in China, Wen Ming, to confront the mother issues that have wounded their lives.



No answers come easily. No choices are made because of the obvious. Warm. Funny. Poignant. Laced with the highly poetic magic realism, Efken's book is guaranteed to touch your life and stay with you for a long time.



I recommend this book without reservations.

Lessons from Scrapbooking

            I’ll state the obvious. I love to scrap. The pictures I use create loving memories—even of the hard times, like when I ran a race in a hurricaine or the water innudated my basement. I take a picture and then laugh as I recall the events that prompted me.

            It’s a messy hobby. My daughter and I will attend scrapbooking weekends. We need two hotel dollies to haul our supplies in. We’re given space at six foot tables and we wall ourselves in. We shuffle through paper, embellishments, die cutting machines. It’s ugly.

            But the end result is divine.

            Almost more than scrapbooking, I like card making. I take scraps of my scraps and create beautiful cards. Then when I’ve finished, I take scraps of those scraps and make more cards. And then…

            You get the picture.

            This is so like God working in our lives. We make a mess, tear apart the fabric of our lives and He gathers up the pieces and rearranges them. The results are beautiful. There’s nothing He can’t restore and perfect.

            And if you think He cannot redeem you or make something beautiful of your life, think of: Matthew, Mary Magdalene, Legion, David and his murder of Uriah, Rahab, Jacob and many other.  If He mended them, He will make you as glorious.

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end (Eccl 3:11).

Losing My Jewels

            My case is hopeless. I have no reward waiting for me in heaven. None.

            I’ve spent it all here on earth. I tried not to. I’ve tried to save them for heaven, but no matter how hard I try, I always get back more than I give. Only a few samples of my attempted generosity will prove my impoverished state. (Please note, I am not bragging about my generosity. I do want something in heaven).

            I’ll start with “Gloria,” a friend prone to blood clots. Once again she was hospitalized, so I decided to brighten her day with a visit. Besides, one of my husband’s congregants was also in the hospital, so I could double my rewards with very little effort.

I’m a woman with a mission, thus, as usual, I rushed my husband up the walkway to the hosptal entrance. As we approached the front doors, I nearly fell over a poor woman in a wheel chair.

            “Excuse me,” I said. I do have manners even if I’m spiritually bankrupt.

            “Carol?”

            I actually looked at the woman. “Gloria! I was on my way to see you.”

            “It was a beautiful day, so I came outside.”

            I looked around, noted the truth of her statement. My husband didn’t know Gloria, as we recently married, so I sent him off and stayed to enjoy the sunshine with my friend.

            “I’m sorry about another clot. You have to be discouraged,” I said.

            “It’s not bad. I have chance to relax, catch up on my Bible study and have extra time with the Lord.”

            “But isn’t this a painful way to do it?” (My ‘Eyore’ side always predominates.)

            “No. God is in control. That’s enough for me.”

            I bent over, hugged her and we chatted about Jesus and families and church until her husband took her back to her room.

            Gloria revived my faith. Her words and actions reassured me of her love for me as well as God’s love. I left to find my husband and knew I got more from my visitation than Gloria.

            Another case is “Flora” whom I met on a missionary trip to Romania. She’s a gypsy, a group who faces a great deal of discrimination. She can’t find a job because she’s “dark.” Lack of finances keeps her on the verge of eviction from sub-standard housing. On those occasions I get a plea for help.

            Which of course I send. (Still hoping for that jewel).

            I’ll send about $100 which translates into lots more in Romania. She stays in her home, gets medical help and a little extra. Then all I hear from her is good news: her growth in God or gratitude for my love. The occasional money doesn’t make a big dent in my budget because God more than adequately pays my bills. I know my small service to Flora is just that: small.

            In truth, I never do what I do to be applauded. I take Matthew 6:1 seriously. “Be careful not to do your acts of righteousness before men, to be seen by them. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father in heaven.” But somehow, others see. Others give back much more than I give. And the gratitude I receive, toots my good deeds like a trumpet from the rooftops.

            My only hope is to keep trying. Someday someone won’t notice. Someday I won’t get more than I give. But I doubt it.

Happy Birthday, Vera DeFord Rau

Picking the defining trait of my mother daunts me. Could it be her generosity? She is, without doubt the most generous person I know. The quintessential example would be the time she took the whole family—22? of us—to Punta Cana for a Club Med vacation. It took place in 1992, and to this day, we relive the memories.

Yet, her love extends beyond her financial generosity. If any of us needed help, she’d give it, regardless of her personal situation. When cancer struck me, she drove the four hundred miles up her, took care of me for weeks, bought me clothes and yard furniture and brought me roses every day. She does the same for each of her six children.

Her devotion to her family and friends is unparalleled. As I write these words my mind says the phrase sounds cliché. But it’s not when it comes to my mother. She is easy going, gives in to other people’s desires, wishes to please above all things. But don’t mess with her family. We WILL celebrate Christmas together. When I make my summer trek to Long Island, we WILL have a get together. She’s happiest surrounded by her children (despite their ages—and I’m aged).

Adventure intrigues her. She’s scuba dived with my family, traveled to Russia and Egypt and Turkey. She’s seen Europe—both alone and with family.

And her art work is beautiful. Whether in oil, pastels or watercolor, my mother knows art. We spent hours in the Metropolitan Museum of Art studying the masters. Our homes are decorated with her “cast offs” which intrigue friends who see them.

She’s been married three times and widowed twice. Sometimes her husbands created difficulties hard to bear. However, she never speaks ill of any. She understands human nature, sees the good through the bad and loves unconditionally.

Today, July 27, she turns 80. I can’t imagine life without her, so she better last at least another twenty years. Happy birthday, Mom.

Gridlock--Part 2

So I ran 9.3 miles along a beautiful course with bands playing, crowds cheering, boom boxes booming and water everywhere. The Boilermaker had the best supply of water stops.

I came to the end. Thought I saw Neil, smiled and waved to a gray haired, gray bearded man who never saw me before.

Then I funneled through the finish line. One hour, thirty-eight minutes and fifty-five seconds. Not great, but still considered locally competitive for my age and gender.

They funneled me into the biggest gridlock of my life—bigger than the NYC marathon, bigger than Patterson’s government. (And Patterson was part of the problem here, as well.)

I walked along streets crowded with finishers and discovered plenty of water, but the Sobe vitamin water was gone, the good soda—gone, the Greek yogurt—gone. Boxes of quartered oranges still lay—many of them with the eaten oranges tossed in with the uneaten. Oh—to be at the end of the pack is not a pretty thing.

My hip buzzed.

Neil called. He may not have been the lovely gent I waved to, but he was somewhere near him. He saw me cross the finish line, and a picture he snapped would show me looking his way, grinning at some handsome man.

He had a dilemma (aside from not being able to hear me over the din). The cops and race marshals wouldn’t let him pass the barriers. He couldn’t get to me.

I yelled into my phone. He yelled into his. Somehow I understood only that he couldn’t get to me. I’d just get my lunch and find him.

Finding lunch proved hard as throngs swarmed the Price Chopper truck for our lunches. I grabbed one, found a tree, sat under it and munched a banana.

My hip beeped.

The phone never rang.

My husband still couldn’t find me.

“I’ll find you,” I yelled.

“What?”

“I’LL FIND YOU!!!!!”

“WHAT?”

I hung up the phone.

As I backtracked I discovered the rest of the food. With my arms pinned to my sides and shoulder to shoulder with about a billion other runners (and non-runners grubbing the food), I gathered a few more munitions, found a quiet road and rejoiced. No crowds. I turned a corner. Fewer people on this residential street. Porta Potties lay ahead and the Celtic Minstrel. Two landmarks. I’d call Neil. We’d meet there.

Of course he didn’t hear me.

“STAY WHERE YOU ARE. I’LL FIND YOU!!!!!!”

I lied.

As I approached orange fence blocking the entrance to the finish line, a cop stopped me.

“You can’t go through. Governor Patterson’s leaving.”

A couple behind me became incredulous. “I’ve got to find my daughter.”

“Sorry. The governor’s coming.”

“You mean I can’t get my daughter?”

“That’s right.”

I didn’t try to argue. I turned around and headed back to the mob. Before I reached it, Neil called.

“I’m behind the Price Chopper truck.”

“I know where that is. Stay there.” I flipped my cell shut. I’d find my husband. The right husband.

I got to the truck, but had one dilemma. I didn’t know where “behind” was. It all looked the same. Was it at the back, where the long side bordered the trees near the empty street I now backtracked on? Was it in front where all the other food courts lay, was it facing the family reunion or the street that funneled the runners in.

Only one solution since Neil couldn’t hear me. I walked around and around and around. Then, I caught sight of a good-looking, gray haired, gray bearded man with a cell phone stuck to his ear. Mine began buzzing once more. I trotted over, tapped Neil on the shoulder, startled him. He grabbed my hand and we attempted our escape.

The rest of our trip. Just ordinary.

It was a great run—but a lousy party. I’m glad I ran the Boilermaker, sorry I never met any of my training buddies there. Never even had the chance to get tempted with the free beer—if trying to get a sample of Greek yogurt had been a contortionist’s nightmare, can you picture the beer tent?

Thanks Governor Patterson. You even gridlock family reunions.

Gridlock

It doesn’t pay to be kind. Believe me. I tried it and it gave me an ulcer.

I trained for the Boilermaker—an elite race of 13,000 crazies who run the streets of Utica for 9.3 miles (that’s 15K in runners’ speak). Neil, as obligated for a dutiful spouse, drove me the four hours to Utica and would drive the subsequent return. (I wasn’t going to stay in Utica, believe me).

Morning came. The wake-up call beckoned me at 5:30 a.m. I arose, washed, drank coffee and had my devotion time and let Neil sleep. He’d have to stand around in the heat and try to find me in the running throngs and snap attractive pictures of me as I past—all sweaty and exhausted. At 6:45 I woke him. He showered. Chatted with the hotel personnel about a Corvette museum. I should have realized trouble brewed because the parking lot of our sold-out motel was empty.

The start line lay only five miles away, and I had fifteen minutes to get there. No sweat. I hit the Garmin GPS and settled back. We’d drive the backstreets because the course would be closing to vehicles for the race.

Little did I know, they closed ALL the roads. The implacable cops wouldn’t let us pass a major artery and drive down the road that cut across to the start line. We had to backtrack. Found Highway 5. Headed north.

On our way to the start at last, I couldn’t settle. Ms Garmin told me I’d arrive at 7:47. I was supposed to be there by 7:45. And by nature, if I’m not fifteen minutes early—I’m late.

We hit traffic backups because cars c navigate couldn’t get on to the closed streets. I contemplated hopping out and jogging—but still we were five miles away. I had barely trained for the nine mile course—fourteen would kill me.

At last we crawled to our exit. Ms Garmin tried to navigate us back onto roads closed to vehicles. We shut her off.

At last, with five minutes to race time, we arrived near the starting area. Of course, no cars could get closer. Before Neil stopped our Sebring, I hopped out, asked directions and jogged down the short street.

At last, I turned the corner and there stood 13,000 people—headed by scrawny, young African elite runners waiting for the starting gun.

I jogged on.

I made it!.

“You can’t go there.” A guard stopped me.

“But how do I get to my race start?”

She pointed down a side road. “Go that way, turn right.”

She minced no words.

Two minutes to go. And another detour.

I ran. As did other latecomers. I turned the corner. Ahead of me lay a field. Beyond the field a fence and a line-up of runners with numbered black bibs attached to their shirts. My corral.

Over hummocks, through weeds, I wended my way. I nudged into line. Wiggled my way that warm morning between hot bodies. Stood shoulder to shoulder (almost haunch to paunch as Tom Wolfe would say.)

Final instructions reverberated. Wave to Governor Patterson as you cross the start line.

Governor Patterson.

Not only did he gridlock our government—but the start of the Boilermaker as well.

I thought all was well. But time would tell.

To be continued.