On the joys of having a son and the sorrow of knowing young soldiers who fall in battle lose that chance.

America is in the midst of a painful betrayal. Donald Trump's threats toward everyone, and every aspect of American democracy, are launched one after another. Americans are on a societal rollercoaster. The betrayals are as indiscriminate and unrelenting as they were in the story you'll hear here.

According to the US Department of Health and Human Services, over 700 scientific grants (or portions of grants) have been terminated during Donald Trump's second term, and his current nominee for Surgeon General doesn't hold a current medical license. This unprecedented attack on science is frightening.

I witnessed ground-breaking research back in the hills of West Virginia years ago. Research coal owners tried to stop so they wouldn't have to compensate miners who were suffocating from black lung.

For the first 17 years of my life, my only knowledge of the world beyond West Virginia came from missionaries on furlough. They brought us trinkets from places like the Congo or Korea and showed us home movies of natives wearing colorful costumes in a darkened church basement. They never talked about Muslim countries, so I'd never even heard of Iran.

When I arrived in multi-cultural San Francisco, I was newly 21. It was 1978 and large marches and protests against the Shah of Iran were already happening there. I just didn't notice it much at first.

This is the story of what I learned there and how what happened in 1979 mirrors today's events.

Our government has unleashed danger at home and across the world. Our elected leaders said they might take action, but what they did was throw up their hands and go home for a holiday.

Chaos. Everything is chaos. American Citizens are dead from the guns of ICE.

What's a senator or congressman to do? For heaven's sake, what do we expect them to do?

We've been here before, haven't we?

I grew up deep in the heart of southern West Virginia coal country where men risked their lives, every day, to line the pockets of the Coal Kings. When the Black Lung Wild Cat Strikes came, I fled to Baltimore, only to find it again. Here's the story of those times when we experienced chaos.

I invite you to listen and then share this story and invite people in your community into a conversation. Because change has to start somewhere.

I never understood why Daddy couldn't see his sister for who she really was.

When I heard that "The President" and our news-commentator-turned-secretary-of-war had invaded Venezuela and kidnapped their leader, memories flew out of my mind like F-22 Raptors on a tarmac because…

I know what it feels like to be invaded.

The story starts at my aunt's house, near Pittsburgh. I went there for a week one summer to hang out with my cousins. She lived in a brick home in the suburbs and the bathroom door had a white bag with tubing that swung from a hook.

The year I turned eight, we spent Christmas with Grandma Long. She was my mother's mother. She was very old, close to a hundred in fact. As a bride of the Great Depression, she'd birthed seven children at home and lost three of them to diseases I was vaccinated for. Mother said their deaths had changed her heart.

I believed her, because the Grandma I knew was mean to everyone. Everyone except Boots, her big gray tomcat with white paws.

She wasn't the kind of grandma who held you on her lap, only Boots got to sit on her lap. She was the kind of grandma who held you to standards of adult behavior when you were only eight.

The only room of her house that was heated was the sitting room. It had a big gas fireplace flanked by two walnut rockers her brother had made her as a wedding gift. A daybed piled high with quilts sat against the back wall. When she wasn't napping, that's where the guests sat. Adult guests, that is. Kids were to be seen and not heard. While Boots sat on her lap, we sat at her feet on a hand-hooked rug.

She was always baking something so the oven kept the kitchen warm. The bathroom was above the kitchen, and all the other rooms were cold as ice, especially the bedrooms.

She heated the beds upstairs with hot water bottles. She'd stick one under the covers at the bottom of the bed, which was really rather effective, once you stopped shaking and the shivers wore off.

I hated sleeping at Grandma's house, because I had to share a bed with Betsy, my baby sister. We fought so much Daddy called us The Cinderella Sisters. She had nails like razor blades and kicked like a mule. I snored, so neither of us slept much when we had to sleep together.

We were always forced upstairs to go to bed before it was even dark. It always happened the same way. Grandma Long would let out a big sigh and say, "I've had my fill of you kids. Let's get you off to bed."

Long after we were tucked away upstairs, the grown-ups were still swapping stories downstairs. Their laughter wafted up the steps and laid down in the hall next to the aromas of butter cookies and strong coffee.

It was a wild night outside that Christmas Eve. Sleet slashed at the single-pane windows, mountain smoke drifted up from the river, and angry West Virginia winds were chasing gray clouds around the sky like a sheriff after moonshiners.

Betsy and I couldn't sleep for all the laughter, so we pulled the homemade curtains back to watch for Santa Claus and prayed he knew we were there.

Just as our eyes could stay awake no longer, a star, not Santa Claus, appeared in the sky. Betsy, who was destined be a pastor like our Daddy, clapped her tiny hands and said, "Look Sister! It's God's star and it's so bright, the dark can't cover it!"

My sister died just before Christmas last year.

As I remember her words now, I realize that even at five years of age, she was a deep soul who had it figured out right:

When God's light reigns in our hearts, the darkness cannot overcome it.

Night Vision

I have awful night vision.

And with the end of Daylight Savings Time, the darkness feels really dark, and it always arrives before I'm ready for it.

But, my elderly Jack Russell, Mr. Pip,

HAS TO HAVE a late-night constitutional if I want an accident-free dawn. So, every night I bundle up against the cold and try to figure out which way he's headed. It's like snipe hunting at summer camp.

Fortunately, I have a fancy flashlight.

Last night when we were out, I heard a cat crying.

and immediately, my mind built a story about a tiny calico cat, stuck way up in a tree, scared to death in the pitch-black night.

I opened the back gate and wobbled partway down the river bank,

balanced myself on a granite outcropping, shone my light this way and that and called, "Here kitty, kitty, kitty!" My calls were met with silence.

But the movement disoriented me.

The riverbank no longer felt like my domain. I struggled to make sense of trees and granite outcroppings, while grapevines as thick as my wrist swayed in the wind like rainforest anacondas looking for a snack.

My heart was pounding, I began to sweat.

Footsteps crunched in the leaves behind me!

What was that?

I focused my light on the ground behind me, only to see Mr. Pip carefully tiptoeing toward me.

My flashlight hit a poplar tree, and two enormous eyes blinked at me.

Aha! There was the cat!

Only the eyes didn't belong to a cat.

I was staring into the face of a juvenile screech owl. His grey ear tufts blended perfectly with the grey of the tree bark.

We blinked at each other,

and he flew on silent wings in a huff.

I slowly climbed back up the bank,

through the English ivy and wild rose briars that clung to my pants. I made it into the yard, and closed the gate.

There's a lot of winter left.

The nights are dark and sometimes the days feel even darker so I'm grateful for my flashlight.

It's always a good thing to have some night vision.