Think about it... 75.1 would allow the Nationalists to boast that they succeeded in lowering the homicide rate to what it was prior to the Lobo years. Clever, but it really is more likely that the Observatory's number is the more accurate one.
It was January, 2001; one month after my husband's death. I awakened one morning to an envelope sent by a dauntingly large law firm; something that no one needs to receive immediately after you have buried your beloved.
To the empty and overworked, it means you do not belong to your company. You belong to God. To the depressed, it means you do not belong to this sadness. You belong to God.
It has been a week since the ball dropped and the world rang in 2014. It probably seems a lot longer for those of us who made our new years' resoluti...
Winston: Lucan was a Roman poet who lived 2,000 years ago. He was tutored by his uncle, Seneca, the famous Stoic philosopher. As for the quote... ...
Really, the Tikker is not much different than putting an inspirational saying on your bathroom mirror.
Dealing with divorce as a young adult was extremely painful. However, I always felt truly blessed and very fortunate to have two amazing parents who loved us unconditionally. I couldn't imagine not having a relationship with either parent. Nor could I imagine them not wanting to be an important part in our lives.
It is a sad reality that after losing a spouse, many widowed are the victims of accusation, criticism and actual blame. Whether it comes from the outside (relatives, friends, acquaintances, etc.) or is instead self-imposed, there is a lot of unnecessary pain being inflicted on the widowed; the very people who are in desperate need of support, rather than spite.
"The promise of Christmas with its theme of natality," Elshtain maintained, entails the perennial "possibility that something new and unexpected might burst through the crust of 'the same'
With my legs spread out in front of me, exhausted and in total fear, I pray repeatedly "Lord, don't let my son die." EMT officials administer RCAN, but the heart monitor set up a few feet away is flat-lined. He died in my arms.
You can't have the good parts without the not-so-good-parts, especially when it comes to motherhood.
If only we could pay as much attention to the living as we do to the dying. If only we could stop long enough from whatever occupies our time and truly care for each other, aware of just how precious each breath is, each word, each touch, each glance.
This year, I knew I was old. And among the lamented were, for the first time, close friends who'd shared my journey. The first and most difficult for me, still, to release, was Roger Ebert, my old Sun Times colleague and biggest "fan"who believed in my talent more than anyone, always.
Perhaps this year we can look at religion and identify some stories that never die, that are not simply events that happened over the course of 12 months but are, in a sense, eternally returning and deeply rooted in human cultures and consciousness.
She didn't email or have a computer, but she had something better than that for communicating: a generous heart.
The amazing part is that I walked through many of them, whether frightened, confused or exhilarated, only to find myself waiting, shaken but strong, on the other side.