Morbid Curiosity

After a very detailed discussion this morning about a news article rabbit hole I fell into about a toddler being raped and murdered, my husband asked me, out of curiosity, “Why do you like watching those programs?”

I explained it wasn’t a program, but a news article that I read and that I was very disturbed by it, not that I liked it. But I immediately apologized by saying, “I know, it’s bad. I shouldn’t read this stuff. It’s probably bad for me.”

And he reassured me. He wasn’t judging me, simply curious as to why I would fill my head with the tragedies of man.

And I had to ask myself the same question. Why?

The simple answer is, like police officers, prosecutors, media producers and consumers, I am fascinated by the horrific details of true crime. I watch 38-3 on over-the-air TV. The Escape channel. Constant 24-hour true crime programming. The most bizarre, twisted, real-life legal cases and the contorted faces and lives of the victims and criminals who are found therein. I should stop watching this stuff. But like many Americans, I totally binge-watched the Netflix doc Making a Murderer.

I wish I could quit you, True Crime.

The long answer would be…a reminder. I like to remind myself of how far a person can go. What a human being is capable of. Because that is a reminder of how good most everyone is on a daily basis. We don’t rape each other, kill each other or hurt each other even. Most of the time. And when someone does act heinously, I like to ask the seemingly unanswerable question of why. Why did this person go so far? And the answer is frequently simple actually. That monster was made.

Making a Murderer was a most apt title. Murderers are made. By their parents, by society, by rejection, abuse and fear. By ignorance. By hate.

Reading about terrible circumstance is like pricking your finger to see if you’ll bleed. Do I still feel bad when I hear horrible news? The answer is-always.

Guess what. Even if someone rapes and murders. Even a toddler. Even a one-year-old baby. Jesus asks us to forgive that person. We’re supposed to love that person. This is truly the seemingly unanswerable question. How?

Someone commented on the news article.

“If that baby was mine, there would be no question of jail time. I would kill the man who did it.”

Me too.

That’s how I feel. Stealing that man’s life. If someone touched my daughter, laid a finger on her, I would be a mad dog.

But God asks us to forgive. To love.

That’s a great question. How?

I will always be fascinated by psychology, true crime and the extent of evil in humankind. And I will always be fascinated by the extreme opposite. People are also capable of the most extraordinary good. And I am endlessly interested in the motivations of humans and the details of what they do.  Observation brings understanding. Understanding brings the ability to change. And the ability to change brings hope.

Chubs, the Crazy Carrot Chickenfoot

most days i feel like this carrot. weird, not looking like I should, twisted up, avoided, even thrown away because i don’t look right. and only appreciated by a special few who get the beauty of being odd. i love this carrot. this carrot is my lucky charm.

God bless you, little Carrot.


I am 5’10”.  I have broad shoulders and big bones.  I have pale, gray eyes—a dark blue ring around the edge of my iris, gold-green rips bursting from the pupil.  I have the same down-turned eyes and mouth as my mother, Grandma’s droopy, Buddha-like earlobes and doughy German cheeks.  My dad left me his posture, his jaw and his poker face.

I am overweight.  I have Shingles scars on my cheek, eye and temple and almost no upper lip.  There’s a space in my bottom lash line where the lashes won’t grow. My forehead is beginning to fold.  My cheeks are brown and freckled.

My hair is brown.  Probably.  Inside my head.  Probably graying.  I color my hair, so I wouldn’t really know.  It’s usually blonde on the outside, sometimes red, sometimes pink.  Short.  Like a man’s would be.  I keep it short because I have a deranged, panicky hormonal reaction to wisps of hair brushing the sides of my face. And because I have no thyroid (cancer). My hair misses that organ terribly. Refusing to grow from sadness and grief.

I am odd.  Breathtaking.  Unique.

I would say my eyes are my kindest feature.

They look deep inside.  They search out truth, soft and certain truth.  They search for the broken parts of others.  They listen and wait.  They are patient, sad and silent.  They run at the drop of a hat and love so quickly.  They never lie.  They do not fail.  They can always see what’s real.