I have not cried much since I got pregnant. I assumed it came with the territory, like throwing up and craving pickles (neither of which I’ve done).

But I wept watching a YouTube video of New York City paramedics marveling over baby Mila, the “Occupy Baby” born in the back seat of a Brooklyn taxi cab just a few minutes from her parents’ apartment. As the video goes on, you see Beka (the mom) holding the baby, talking on the phone, being wheeled into the hospital and relating her so-NYC story with calm dramatic flair. Meanwhile, the baby—with a head full of dark hair—latches right on and starts nursing and Jason (the dad) keeps the camera steady and focused.

It is all sort of incredible, a miracle, a wonder and perfectly natural.

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Check out the War Resisters League's pie charts.

Just days after Whitney Houston’s untimely death, the president’s proposed budget was released on February 13. In the midst of the longest period of economic upheaval this country has ever experienced, President Barack Obama’s $3.8 trillion 2013 budget offered something for everyone to hate.

Confession Time: Bringing Whitney Houston into this is a long shot attempt to make the subject of this blog (the military budget) more palatable and exciting to the masses (you be the judge). And I wanted to watch the tribute videos. There is actually no connection between the two events. But now that I’ve got you…

Obama’s budget tries to rally the still-flagging economy and care for some of its casualties. It would end Saturday delivery by the U.S. Postal Service (I would miss it), raise taxes for the 1 percenters (no complaints here) and proposes cutting the military budget by $32 billion. That sounds like a lot of money to people like you and me—and maybe even to the late great Mrs. Houston. It’s even enough to put a medium-sized city back on its feet. But $32 billion in cuts to the military budget only represents a 1.6 percent decrease in funding from 2012 to 2013. As Charles Knight with the Project on Defense Alternatives points out, the cuts do “not begin to erase the significant growth in national security spending that began in 1998.”

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“Joy and growth come from following our deepest impulses, however foolish they may seem to some, or dangerous, and even though the apparent outcome may be defeat.” – A.J. Muste, dubbed “Number One U.S. Pacifist” by Time Magazine in 1939

It seems apocryphal. An old man well-dressed and undoubtedly erect and respectable, a raging war in a distant land, a relentless rainstorm that made the peace vigil a solitary witness, and an inquiring journalist ready with question, pen and pad: “Mr. Muste, do you really think you can change the world standing here alone in the rain?” (or something to that effect). And the quick and unforgettable reply: “I am not here to change the world; I am here so the world won’t change me.”

Ahhh. Wow. It is an exchange upon which I often meditate.

The world: our consumer culture, the 24-hour “news” cycle, racism, sexism, xenophobia, the cult of war… all these forces and more conspire to change us, to strip us of our humanity and our innate compunction to reach out to neighbor and make the world better. All these forces would like to see us cynical, fearful and compliant. Abraham Johannes Muste does not have to say all that. He just simply uttered a few words and we know all the rest.

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Last weekend, Pax Christi Metro NYC honored Father Daniel Berrigan, SJ as part of its Peacemaking Through the Arts Winter Benefit. Outside, the weather was icy, but, inside, friends gathered from as far away as Montreal, Canada, to celebrate Dan. I was invited to give a “testimonial” about a man I had known since birth. It was a tough assignment, but I thought I would share it with the Waging Nonviolence community. I did not really talk about all his many accomplishments; those are well documented in many places, including his autobiography, To Dwell in Peace. Here is what I said.

It is hard to sum up a life in a few sentences, especially when the man living that life so boldly and so fully is sitting in the front row and is smiling wryly and with tolerance. This assignment makes me think about retirement—it brings up a lot of iconic images, doesn’t it? You know; the gold watch for years of dedicated service, the gilded plaque etched with platitudes, the break room or Elk Lodge or church hall party. And then the life afterwards: golf, fishing, carnival cruises, and a fun and stimulating hobby like carving duck decoys or learning French.

Some people never retire. Dan Berrigan has never retired. And we are here to say thank you and thank God for that.

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A picture of smiling people from the Fiddleheads Food Co-op website.

I am the loose tea buyer at my local food coop. Oh, stop—it’s not as glamorous as it sounds.

All I do is maintain an inventory of about 30 kinds of teas—black, green, herbal and medicinal. I am learning as I go, since coffee (black, hot and copious) is my beverage of choice. The teas come in pound bags and I transfer them into attractive jars, refilling the stock as needed and keeping the area tidy. The whole job takes 10 to 15 hours a month, and I earn a 15 percent discount on my groceries. When I took over teas, I also absorbed most of the “medicinal herbs” that were sprinkled throughout the nearby loose spices area. So now my bailiwick includes everything that you mix with hot water before consuming (except the already-lamented coffee). Every time I walk into the store, I take a few minutes to tidy up my area and make sure the teas are still in alphabetical order.

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We had a big birthday bash for my step-daughter a few weeks ago. It was great: a big gaggle of kids, music, pancakes, a rainbow cake and lots of balloons. I appointed myself balloon maven and—armed with a how-to guide from the Klutz series and a hand pump—handed out wonderful balloon hats to the youngsters.

They were a hit. But I had not studied my guide very carefully, and once they started clamoring for dog and cat and dragon balloon animals, I was deeply out of my element.

“A wand, what about a magic wand?” I improvised with the first little boy who asked for a dog balloon. I whipped it up quick and handed it to him with a Harry Potteresque flourish. “There, now you can do magic.”

“Cool,” he replied, “a sword!” and he dashed off to engage his little brother.

Soon all the kids were crowded around my knees demanding (politely) swords in all the colors of the rainbows. “I will make you a magic wand,” I insisted to each, manipulating the top of the long balloons into fanciful wand like shapes. “Okay, but I am going to turn it into a sword,” they said again and again, undoing my handiwork at the top of the wands and swashbuckling their ways across the church hall. It went on like this all morning. The only child I could get to request a magic wand was my very own Rosena, and even she used it like a sword the minute it was in her little hands.

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The defendants file in—some looking neat and upstanding, some in their best approximation of the same. They all look tired. Sleeping on the floor of a church can do that to a person.

The white haired, slightly amused and always alert judge, the white noise machine when the lawyers confer with the judge, the stern and fit marshals, the wall to wall carpet and wood paneling. Yes—we are in a DC court. Take off your hats, gentlemen and ma’am, no knitting allowed in the court.

The matter before the court is unusual. The defendants are representing themselves, with legal advisors on hand. They stakes are high—if convicted, they could face up to a year in jail.

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I am trying to get excited about Christmas—which is right around the corner (as though anyone needs a reminder), but I can get a bit “bah humbug.” Christmas music drives me nuts, I think most decorations are tacky, and all the manic shopping and false cheer turns my stomach.

I blame my parents, who never once took me to the mall to visit Santa Claus when I was young. I also never wrote the old man a “wish list.” So here I am, at 37, sitting down to write my very first letter to Santa Claus.

Dear Mr. Claus,

I hope this letter finds you and the missus well. I know you are known by many names—Kris Kringle, old Saint Nicholas, but I will call you by your American commercial name for the purpose of this letter.

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It is going to be a long, cold winter. That is what meteorologists are warning throughout the country. AccuWeather.com’s Long Range Forecasting Team says the United States should be preparing for “another brutal one” this season, with the Midwest bearing the brunt of the assault.

For most in the northern parts of the country, preparing for winter means making sure your oil tank is full, checking your storm windows or sticking sheets of plastic over your windows and plugging any new drafts. But, this year, it might be time to take the fight to stay warm to Washington, D.C.

Why? Because inside that cold, cold Beltway, they are spending money on war instead of keeping Americans warm! Sounds simplistic? Well, listen to this.

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My dad died nine years ago this week. Talking about waging nonviolence and little insurrections.

In life, as in dying, my dad was a peaceful warrior.

In the fall of 2002, after months of feeling lousy and only very slowly healing from hip surgery, Phil Berrigan, priest, peace activist, father of the plowshares movement and three kids, went to the doctor. The verdict came back harsh: advanced (stage 4) and aggressive liver cancer that had metastasized to his kidneys. The doctors said they could treat it with chemotherapy, but the chances of a full recovery were slight. Dad was up for trying chemo and wanted to let the doctors—oncologists at the top of their game at Johns Hopkins—a chance, but after one round of chemo, he said “no more.”

Friends from far and wide offered alternative cures, advice, great stories of teas and herbs that (against all odds) allowed them to live cancer-free. But, our dad sat us down and told us that he was seeking healing, not a cure; putting his faith in God and in us—praying for healing and for the faith to be strong in the months to come and asking us to start preparing for a life without him. He was not afraid, he told us. He loved us and he was sad, but he would be ready.

And then, with clear eyes and a lot of compassion, he got down to the hard work of dying with dignity.

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