One of the near certain side-effects of prostate surgery is erectile dysfunction. In my case, because the cancer had invaded one of the neurovascular bundles alongside my prostate, I lost that bit of critical “wiring” responsible for both the nerve messaging and the blood flow that make erections happen. The other NV bundle was at least partially spared, but also inevitably “injured” by the surgery. Even when it recovers, there’s no guarantee it will be functional by itself.
In a best-case scenario it will be months—or longer—before I have another erection. Maybe never again without the help of pills, devices, or injections. Still, the removal of the prostate does not lessen libido, nor does it compromise one’s capacity to feel pleasure, although it distinctly reshapes it in a host of ways. That’s for another post.
This post honors the silver thread that we can attest remains unchanged …
Invocation
What is it, when we make love, except this—that we beckon, invite, and orchestrate a Presence far more than the sum of our parts?
As though drawing a pentagram between us—upon us, we mark out the five points, the five consummate promises, of our touch.
First, trust, that we choose to be entirely vulnerable, surrendering ourselves to each other.
Second, grace, that in this moment we center our longing on the other’s joy.
Third, attention, that we revel with rapt devotion to each response, from subtle shiver to seismic shake, so that our touch guides—and is guided by— the other’s longing.
Fourth, wonder, that we open ourselves fully to the song that sings itself through us, as we listen with our limbs in happy awe.
And fifth, pleasure, that we commit our senses to this compass, not because it is our final goal, but because it knows the way.
As each of these five points lights up, outlining and enacting this pentagram of promises, our anticipation builds.
No matter how often we’ve been here before, each time this moment welcomes us, familiar-yet-fresh, glistening and glad.
We move in tandem, in turn, in tenderness, until— held within these points of reverence our pleasure— your pleasure, my pleasure— our trembling together indeed, becomes an invocation to Something More than Pleasure.
To a Presence more than either of us, more than both of us; between and beyond us— a Presence in which it is our Good Fortune, and our Deep Honor simply to be. Together.
For sure, we do so, no less in many of the mundane moments of this life we share— no less!
But in this moment, by intention—and attention, we know with exquisite ecstasy the truth of Presence that wraps us wholly together until we are breathless with joy.
Post-Surgery Incontinence: My Story – Drip by Drip David R. Weiss – March 20, 2025
Incontinence: it’s the gift that just keeps giving. But hopefully not forever! Still, it is one of the inevitable aftereffects of a radical prostatectomy (the complete removal of the prostate). When the alternative is giving cancer free reign in your body, it seems like a small price to pay. Then again, when you’ve just wet yourself for the tenth time in a day—before noon, you do start to ask, Really?!
Before I plunge into my tale of incontinence, a few disclaimers first. As I’ve mentioned in prior posts, I am not a urologist. I don’t even play one on my blog. I’m just a guy going through prostate cancer treatment—committed to understanding it as best I can. I try to be medically accurate, but I’m foremost writing out of my lived experience. And, as a writer, my “healing” includes processing my journey by writing about it, hence the “TMI” is part of my healing. But maybe you learn a thing or two as you listen in. Cool.
Lastly, while incontinence is considered a given after prostate surgery, it resolves on widely different timetables given a variety of factors—including (perhaps most of all) just plain luck. The fact that my incontinence seems to be resolving rather quickly is not to my credit. I’ll take dry underwear over wet any day, but there is no secret I can share. And if your journey was or is different than mine, you have my full respect for walking your own damp path with as much grace as you’re able.
Two key muscles—sphincters, as they call them: circular muscles that act like rubber bands—are crucial in continence: keeping your urine in the bladder until an opportune time. One is the internal sphincter (called the bladder neck sphincter on the diagram). Internal because it sits inside the bladder, right at the bottom where the bladder meets the prostate. The other is the external sphincter (hint: outside the bladder), which sits below the prostate. It’s embedded in the pelvic floor muscles and is the “last gate” that holds your pee back.
The internal sphincter works autonomically; it’s controlled by your body (without asking you). It’s involuntary. The external sphincter, however, is the one you have (some) control of. It normally operates in sync with the internal sphincter, usually at your subtle invitation. The swift moment of “Ahhhhh …” as you let your pee begin, that’s you telling your external sphincter, “It’s go-time.” But if you’re on the train, and your stop is 15 minutes away yet? Or if you need to desperately wait for the person before you to clear out of the bathroom? Or if you just need to stop your pee midstream because it’s spraying past the bowl? Your external sphincter is your best friend in those scenarios. It can throw an emergency brake that stops your pee right before it enters your penis, even if it’s already breeched your bladder. Except—
Each sphincter muscle sits immediately adjacent to the prostate. Or in my case, where the prostate WAS. That’s where incontinence enters the picture. Grateful as I am for the radical prostatectomy that removed my cancerous prostate, there’s inevitable collateral trauma in the neighborhood.
The neck of the bladder puckers as it meets the sphincter muscle, the way the stem of a balloon puckers at the knot. And that puckered neck, plus the internal sphincter, push right up against the prostate. Because the goal is to remove 100% of the prostate (not 98%, not 99%) that means peeling, scraping, trimming, cutting the prostate ever so carefully away from the bottom of the bladder. Bruising is inevitable. And understatement. There’s a knife involved and soon after that there’s a needle pulling a tiny barbed-wire thread through the bladder neck tissue to secure the loose end of the urethra stretched from the far side of the prostate. OUCH.
Yes, I was sound asleep for this, it isn’t hard to realize that all this is traumatic for the bladder neck and the sphincter muscle. Even the best-skilled surgeon (like mine!) cannot avoid leaving this sphincter in a royal funk (thoroughly unpuckered)—which is only heightened by the immediate insertion of a catheter, which for nine days, irritates the bladder neck and keeps the sphincter from sphinctering, all the while telling the tissue, “There, there, now, it’s all better.” Um, bullshit.
As for the external sphincter, it didn’t get the worst of it, but it did have the traumatized cut-loose end of my urethra tugged on (this is not an image I enjoy conjuring up!)—hard. That loose end, passing through the external sphincter, needed to be stretched across the gap left by my just-removed prostate and get stitched to the bladder neck. (Again, with barbed wire thread.) And then this sphincter, too, which happens to circle the narrowest bit of urethra, was also propped wide open by a catheter for nine days. Both sphincters end up with bruised egos and more—and are forbidden from sphinctering for nine days. No wonder that by the time the catheter comes out, a moment of agonized joy for me, they’re pissed. And it’s a disposition they’re only too eager to pass along … right in my pants.
Yes, this is part and parcel of the healing process. It is a step forward—toward a life less immediately threatened by cancer. (Not threat-free but doing our due diligence toward that end.) So, I’m not complaining. Still, it’s hard to feel like saying “Thank you for that drop of healing,” each time I pee myself. Perhaps a better man than I could do that. I call it good if I can get by with an eye roll, a sigh, and yet another trip to the bathroom.
So, yeah, both of these sphincters get taken for a ride and then some. And that’s in a textbook prostatectomy (which I’m told mine was). Even in that best case, these muscles don’t just bounce back and the bladder neck doesn’t just pucker up again overnight. They need time to heal. The nerve endings that carry the signals need to “wake up.” And they try. But the need to pee won’t wait. Hence, incontinence. For days, weeks, months while everything sorts itself out.
For most men (one study suggests about 70%), post-surgery incontinence lasts for six weeks to three months. A lucky 10% of men—to no credit of their own—find that it resolves sooner, in a matter of weeks. Another 10% wrestle with incontinence for three to nine months. And in the last 10% it will take up to a year to resolve. (In a very small fraction, maybe 1%, incontinence can become semi-permanent and/or require further surgery.)
I knew this only at a very general level before surgery. Mostly, just that I should “plan on being incontinent for several months.” So, I did. In the week or two before my surgery I bought a waterproof pad for my side of the bed—not wanting to soil our mattress. I picked up a package of something like “Depends”: a pull-up protective and absorbent disposable underwear; basically, an adult male diaper. And a package of men’s “Guards”—front pads to put in my underwear to catch “leaks.” I even invested in some rather pricey men’s washable underwear with sewn in absorbent pads sewn in front, so I could be “green” even while dealing with uncontrolled yellow. I wasn’t dreading the incontinence, but I didn’t really know what to expect either.
As soon as the catheter is out, both sphincters set about resuming their duties. With very mixed success. The internal sphincter has never consulted me about anything—autonomic, remember. So, as best as I can figure, it’s sphinctering in a sort of half-assed, tissue-bruised, pucker-tuckered way. Like a faucet that has a very slow drip even when turned off. It will get better as the nerves fully wake up. As the neck of the bladder gets it pucker back. And as the bruising fades (and the stitches dissolve).
Until it does, everything rests on that “last gate”—the external sphincter that closes the urethra right before it enters the penis. Literally: that tiny trickle of pee runs down my urethra until it reaches the external sphincter, the one I can clench shut. Which I’m doing these days, almost all day long. I mostly don’t have to actively think about it. Wherever I am, if not in a bathroom, my mind knows that a slight clench is my safest bet. Until it isn’t enough. Oops.
Most post-surgery incontinence—and all of mine, every last drop—has been “stress incontinence.” Or, as I like to say, multi-tasking messes. These days I can’t cough and hold my pee at the same time. Or sneeze. Or stand up. Or sit down. Or carry a plate to the sink. Or lift much of anything. Or hold the door open with my foot. Pretty much every bit of extra exertion—especially unexpected—distracts that external sphincter for just a split second. I re-clench almost immediately, but it’s too late. A dozen or so drops … drip out. And I’m wet. Damn. A dozen times a day or more. It gets worse in the evening because sphincters get tuckered and lose their pucker.
Thankfully (and to my surprise), I’ve slept dry every night. I’ve had to get up two or three times a night to empty my bladder because (thankfully) my sphincters roused me before wetting me as the need to clench disrupted my sleep. Turns out that because our sleep is usually not bothered by unexpected exertion, post-surgery stress incontinence resolves most quickly during the night. As for daytime, the first few days without a catheter I wet myself (though just barely) pretty much hourly. I never all out lost control, but drops are drops. And once you know you’ve leaked, it’s not much consolation to tell yourself, “Yeah, but the pad’s got this.” A dozen drops, a dozen times, is gross. And before long the pad smells or the underwear are undeniably damp. My only “secret”: I’ve been folding up strips of paper towel in front of my washable padded underwear. As soon as I can sense I leaked, I head to the bathroom and trade out the paper towel, which (I tell myself) lessens the dampness on the pad—and the smell. And I am getting better.
I hope (and appear) to be part of the fortunate few for whom incontinence will last less than six weeks. I’m two weeks post-surgery—barely one week catheter-free—and I’m only leaking a bit off and on during the day. Bothersome? Yes. Debilitating? Hardly. I spent five hours yesterday afternoon at the Eden Prairie public library. Other than making regular visits to the restroom to trade out paper towels, no one knew I was on a slow drip of urine leakage.
Healing happens at its own pace, and it seems that holding out some compassion and patience for my body as it heals may be helpful. And learning Kegel exercises can’t hurt—although, this is hardly a quick fix. All the evidence suggests that developing a regular routine of Kegels to strengthen your pelvic floor muscles will make a difference after four to six weeks. Fingers crossed I’ll be fully continent before then. But if not, I’ve started on Kegels: three sets of ten reps each day. Takes less than five minutes for each set. These exercises work to strengthen the pelvic floor muscles that surround and anchor the external sphincter. They don’t directly stop your pee, but they indirectly give your external sphincter all the extra support it needs to reclaim its job—and they may indirectly help tone the muscles of the sphincter itself.
Again, these are probably most important for the 70-plus percent of men who deal with post-surgery incontinence for months. By the time my Kegel routine has made my pelvic floor buff, I’ll hopefully be staying dry all the time anyway. But all that Kegeling won’t be in vain, because it will also help me recover and maintain an erection (all wistful thinking at this point in my healing) and may even provide a pleasure boost during sex. But that’s another post for another day.
Some parting thoughts on incontinence. Our bodies are wondrous. So much of what we need to happen to stay alive happens without our even thinking about it. From heartbeat to digestion, from breathing to collecting our waste, our bodies continuously grace us with life. And in those times when those processes get disrupted, we become keenly aware of how easily we take them for granted. How fragile our lives are—day in and day out. And how hard our bodies work—silent, unseen, and without seeking attention—just so that we can be.
It is humbling. It makes me appreciative of what I rarely notice happening—in me. It also invites me to embrace the awkwardness of being incontinent as one more facet of my humanity. There is no shame in it. Inconvenient? Yes. Annoying, at times? Sure. But no shame. Whether my (or your) incontinence lasts for four weeks, four months, or forever, to be cradled, however imperfectly, by our bodies is grace.
Of course, there is a much thicker conversation to be had here. Because bodies are fraught in multiple ways. Disease and injury, social conditions, environmental toxins, irresponsible behavior, and more, all impinge on our bodies’ capacities to do what bodies are designed to do. And good fortune, dumb luck, small choices, and practiced discipline, can support and enhance our bodies as well. Much could be said. But for today it enough to be clear that shame has no part in this equation. And that grace does.
Lastly, cancer is a hard-fought tutorial in the truth that we are embodied. I am not “exactly” my body. It is too little to say I “have” my body, as though it were external to me. And (in my view) it is too much to say I “am” my body, as though the limits of my body define me. It is more complicated than that. Again, a much thicker conversation to be had than in a closing couple of paragraphs. But worth opening, nonetheless.
The me that dreams, loves, hopes, hurts and so much more is inextricably—graciously—entangled with my body. My sense of self is shaped by my bodily capacities—and incapacities. The meaning I fashion for how I move through life is part of that embodied conversation. Cancer and incontinence now have a claim in my story. I can wish they did not. Or I can let them enrich the tale. Perhaps it is okay to affirm the first: I wish they had not come my way. But it is essential to affirm the second: now that they are here, let me weave them into the tapestry of who I am.
Even if they do not become central to my story (they will for some persons!—and one or both may yet lay claim to another chapter in the future of my story), it matters that I allow them to leaven the sense of self I carry. Because there is no way (at least not in this life) to be, without being embodied. And the me that I am, has to be embodiedin my body, not someone else’s. And not a body that I hold in contempt.
My story—and your story—is always told by many voices. Cancer and incontinence each have a voice in mine now. But they are not me. So, as I sheepishly note the latest leak that comes alongside my healing, somewhere behind the eye roll and the sigh, there is this bedrock conviction: I am glad to be here, damp and all. And I am determined to be a force for good and a source of kindness in the world, even while I drip.
That’s my story. And, yes, it will change over time. But I intend to do all that I can to keep the gladness and the goodness and kindness front and center.
*******
David Weiss is a theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, “writing into the whirlwind” of contemporary challenges, joys, and sorrows around climate crisis, sexuality, justice, peace, and family. Reach him at drw59mn@gmail.com. Read more at www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.” Support him in Writing into the Whirlwind at www.patreon.com/fullfrontalfaith.
Cancer Prognosis: Uncertain Grace David R. Weiss – March 14, 2025
I’m sitting out on the porch in 74-degree sunshine. Wearing pants!
I savor the sunshine with a certain melancholy delight. This is climate chaos bearing down on us. And while I can enjoy the warmth in mid-March—it is undeniably nice to recuperate in the sunshine—I know the long arc of this tale, and it does not end well for us.
But wearing pants—this is pure joy: because it means that, after nine days, I am catheter-free. For sheer tactile delight, nothing quite matches the mere stillness in my urethra. For the first time since surgery, my penis is not cowering, pulled back as though it could will itself to disappear from all the fuss going on around it. I have some amends to make with my manhood. But for today, the truce in my trousers in enough.
But Prognosis is the P-word that drew you in. Here it is in a single sentence: I am currently cancer-free although my prostate cancer will almost certainly make an encore appearance at some point and in some place down the road. Hence, uncertain grace. Let me explain.
Surgery went very well, says my urologist-surgeon. They were able to remove everything they went in to get, and without any complications. My incisions are healing well. My bowels have resumed their tides. And my urethra is putting down fresh roots at the lower neck of my bladder. (That’s surmised, of course, but backed by evidence in the form of the pale-yellow urine that it’s successfully delivering from bladder to toilet.)
I am cleared to bathe and to drive. My only real limitations are lifting (not more than ten pounds for another month—owing to the way my abdominal muscles were manhandled by Mr. Robot) and no bike riding for two more months (while the empty space my prostate once occupied above my perineum gets settled back down).
Now, for the nitty gritty. The pathology report on my whole prostate revealed cancer at a Gleason Grade 9 (where 10 is the worst). This matched exactly what my biopsy had shown. It had spread through 25-30% of my prostate (all on the left side) and was rated as a Stage T3 (on a scale of 1-4). Stage T3 signifies advanced cancer that has spread into surrounding tissue but has not yet metastasized to other organs or places in the body. That surrounding tissue was the seminal vesicle and neurovascular bundle on the prostate’s left side. Again, the MRI and PET scan had suggested this, so also, no surprise.
The only “surprise” was a very small “positive margin”: a place where the cancer had reached the surface (the capsule) of the prostate such that when the prostate was cut out, some cancer cells may have been left behind. (21% of all prostate cancers have positive margins.) This is typically bad news. (It is never good news.) However, two things put it in perspective in my case. First, the length of positive margin was very small (< 3mm or .1 inch). Second, because the cancer had already spread to the seminal vesicle and neurovascular bundle, it had already “left” the prostate in those places. So, my prognosis and plan of treatment will be the same as it would have been even with a clean/negative margin.
The good news is that the two lymph nodes removed were cancer-free. Lymph nodes are sort of like the ventilation system in a building: interconnected throughout the body. Once cancer accesses the lymph nodes in one part of the body, it can potentially move through “the ventilation system” and end up in another part of the body. That the lymph nodes nearest my prostate were cancer free is good news indeed.
What it all means. Today, with the cancerous prostate, seminal vesicle, neurovascular bundle all removed, I am currently “cancer free.” Emphasis on currently. But the combination of aggressive cancer (Gleason 9) and its actual spread into nearby tissue (Stage 3) and the very small but detectable positive margin, still puts me at “high risk” of recurrence. At some point. (Like 70% in the first two years and greater than 90% by year ten. My 15-year survival odds sit at 58%.) In other words, “cancer free” really just means that as of today, any cancer cells that may (likely) still be in my body are simply too few and too scattered to be registered by any imaging or even by a PSA score. There is no detectable cancer in my body today. Whew?
Of the few scattered cancer cells that may (likely) still be there, some will be attacked and killed by my immune system. Some will die of their own accord having not found a new host. And some handful may (likely) eventually set up shop somewhere as a “metastatic deposit” and start multiplying again. Ugh. There is no way to stop this. But there is a way to monitor it and intervene quickly if/when it happens.
In three months, I’ll have a new PSA test done. It should theoretically be ZERO (undetectable by the test), because my prostate is gone, and the PSA test measures a protein only produced by prostate cells. A normal PSA score is anywhere between 1.5 and 4.0 ng/ml (nanograms per milliliter). If mine registers even a negligible score of 0.1-0.2 ng/ml (that’s unimaginably low, but still detectable) that will tell us that someprostate cells have organized themselves in my body—and those would be cancer cells “born” in my prostate.
This is called a “biochemical recurrence” because it can be inferred from the blood test even though the cancer is far too small to be picked up by an MRI or PET scan. By the time it grows big enough to be “visually” caught by scan, the PSA is usually up to .5 ng/ml. But time matters, and we won’t wait for a determination of “clinical recurrence” on a PET scan. The moment a biochemical recurrence is shown (the earliest would be in three months, but it could be three years, or thirteen!), we begin treatment.
I would undergo a course of external beam radiation therapy targeted at the prostate bed (the space where the prostate used to be). Honestly, this is a bridge I’d rather not cross. But the cancer isn’t asking me. So, we’ll just have to wait and see. Following that course of radiation therapy, hopefully my PSA would again be undetectable. That would indicate we had killed off the cancer. Still, because the cancer at 0.2 ng/ml can’t yet be seen on a PET scan, we’d really just be guessing it was in the prostate bed. If it were located somewhere else, we’d have missed it; my PSA would continue to rise, and we might have to wait until it was picked up by a PET scan.
BUT—the “good” news is that research has shown that 80% of prostate cancer recurrences begin in the prostate bed (15% in the lymph nodes; 5% in bones). Even though we can’t see it there, we know there’s an 80% chance it’s in the bed. And the cure rate by radiation is best (as high as 80%!) if it’s used as early as possible. Pretty cool—well, for cancer. It’s sort of macabre yet fascinating that science has made huge strides in understanding the nature of cancer, allowing us to produce more promising treatments.
(Actually, what’s truly macabre is the Trump administration’s commitment to un-funding all manner of scientific and medical research. Honestly, the only “efficiency” gained by that, is that a whole BUNCH of us will die a whole lot sooner. I very much doubt anyone meant to vote for that. But that’s an essay about a whole other cancer …)
So, uncertain grace. Today I am well. In another essay I’ll explain how incontinence and erectile dysfunction are inevitable “party favors” that come with a radical prostatectomy. But today, in the sunshine—in my pants, no less!—it’s enough to discuss my cancer prognosis. I am surely “better” than I was last fall with the cancer growing undetected in me. And I am surely “better” than I was just two weeks before surgery. But “cured” is a word I may never wear again. And that’s okay. I may be “cancer free” the rest of my life. Or I may (more likely) find my life once again interrupted by unwanted company.
On June 16 when my first post-surgery PSA score is done my odds could improve. Or not. I’ll get a fresh PSA (and fresh odds) every 3 months for the first year, and every six months for the second year. Every year I remain cancer-free my odds get better. But the bottom line is I will live in this uncertainty. Probably forever. Which is why I choose to live in it with grace. Accepting each day as gift, each relationship as gift, each opportunity to weave words as gift. Each chance to do good in a troubled world as gift. Truth is, I never had a lock on certainty. None of us do. Now that I’m clear about the uncertainty, I can revel in uncertain grace.
*******
David Weiss is a theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, “writing into the whirlwind” of contemporary challenges, joys, and sorrows around climate crisis, sexuality, justice, peace, and family. Reach him at drw59mn@gmail.com. Read more at www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.” Support him in Writing into the Whirlwind atwww.patreon.com/fullfrontalfaith.
Letters Before Surgery: My Healing Began … with Goodbye David R. Weiss – March 13, 2025
I spent last Tuesday (the day before my cancer surgery) getting ready. Running a few last errands, packing my overnight bag, and reviewing my surgery prep list and the “what to expect” handouts. And—entertaining the possibility that something could go badly wrong.
This was not doom and gloom on my part. It was simple and merciful realism. Things could go badly wrong. From the discovery of more extensive cancer than indicated by scans to a bad reaction to the anesthesia, from tragic surgical mishap to massive bodily crisis (heart attack or stroke), things go wrong. For no good (or bad) reason. They just do. And as I considered these assorted very small but very real possibilities, I was less fretting about me than those who would be dealing with my absence.
And so, on Tuesday afternoon, alongside my busyness, I paused to write letters. Eleven of them. Ten went out by mail; the last one I placed with my morning clothes, so that when I got dressed at 5am on Wednesday after my shower, I could nestle it on Margaret’s pillow. For her to find at the end of her very long day at the hospital.
Each letter began, “By the time you are reading this, hopefully …” And then acknowledged, “But just in case …” And then briefly named some truth about my unique appreciation for them. And concluded with words like these, “So, if anything goes awry during my surgery, I want my last message to you to say … And I love you.”
Eleven. To Margaret. My dad. My two sisters. My six children. And Tachianna. I could’ve written many more; there is no shortage of people for whom I care dearly! But it was a busy day. And these were the eleven persons I was determined to ensure that they heard my love at the last—no matter what.
I drove them over to the Post Office before supper. Bathed in calm. So much of the next 24 hours would lie outside my control. But these envelopes carried my “just-in-case” Goodbye—and that was enough for me to feel ready.
Of course, as we all know now, I am recovering on the far side of surgery. I came home as planned on Thursday. Our supper table was filled, every night for the next five days, with meals brought in by friends. (No small feat given that we’re both vegetarian and Margaret is additionally gluten-free, dairy-free, egg-free!) And sufficient leftovers for lunches. We received countless messages of care from near and far. We felt ourselves—both of us—very well-wrapped in love. My healing cradled by an entire community.
But that healing began on Tuesday afternoon, when I chose to decide that even if the worst came true, the last word would belong to love.
It’s true, countless occasions in all our lives, present the possibility of our unexpected demise. And I don’t see myself writing “just-in-case” letters again anytime soon. But I’m glad I honored the impulse last week. Speaking of gladness, I’ll be oh so glad when my catheter comes out tomorrow, and I expect my urologist will offer me a few words about my prognosis. That’s for another day.
*******
David Weiss is a theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, “writing into the whirlwind” of contemporary challenges, joys, and sorrows around climate crisis, sexuality, justice, peace, and family. Reach him at drw59mn@gmail.com. Read more at www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.” Support him in Writing into the Whirlwind atwww.patreon.com/fullfrontalfaith.
Broken Scales: Seeking Justice for Philip Vance David R. Weiss – March 13, 2025
Two decades ago, Philip Vance’s life was set on the scales of justice. And found wanting. Convicted of murder, he was sentenced to life in prison. A jury found him guilty on all three counts: second-degree intentional, first-degree intentional, and first-degree premeditated. In just eight hours.
In fact, his direct appeal was denied (2006) as were four subsequent petitions for post-conviction relief (filed in 2007, 2008, and 2019 twice). As far as the justice system was concerned, there seemed little doubt that Philip Vance was guilty. But Philip himself knew otherwise.
When Minnesota’s Conviction Review Unit (CRU) was established in 2021, he was among the first to apply for relief. Although the CRU accepted his case for review, they have been unconscionably slow in their process. He had his final interview in March 2024 and—for the past year—has been waiting for a final report with no word on when it might come. That past year marked the twenty-second year of his wrongful imprisonment.
Which is why he recently (February 26) filed a new—fifth—petition in Dakota County District Court. At the heart of this petition, drafted by new legal counsel, is the claim that his case demonstrates an instance of “structural error”: that it was marred by actions so grave they fundamentally prevented the proceedings from delivering justice. The petition raises other concerns as well (ineffective counsel at both trial and appellate levels), but the allegation of structural error is most damning. It asserts that Philip never had a chance for a fair trial even before the proceedings were gaveled in. For him, the scales of justice were broken.
In December 2002, a South St. Paul store clerk was shot and killed during an apparent robbery. Witnesses reported seeing two masked assailants but could provide no other details—not even skin color—although one witness said the killer spoke in what sounded like Spanish (Philip does not speak Spanish). Soon after the murder, Philip was identified as a primary suspect by the Minnesota Gang Strike Force (reorganized in 2005 as the Metro Gang Strike Force, MGSF). Arrested on an unrelated charge in March 2003, he was then held on this charge until his trial and sentencing.
From his first encounter with the police until today, some 8000-plus days, Philip has unwaveringly asserted his innocence. Including on the days he rejected plea deals because taking them would have required an admission of guilt he was unwilling—unable—to make.
Meanwhile, at trial, the prosecution offered no eyewitness identification or surveillance footage; no gun or DNA; no fingerprints, footprints, or tire tracks—no physical evidence at all connecting Philip to the crime. Nothing. So how did they make a case that resulted in such a resounding verdict (on all three counts) and in such short order?
Largely because they had a steady parade of witnesses who testified that they heard Philip make remarks linking him to the crime, including several who alleged he had directly acknowledged or confessed his role to them. These witnesses, framed by the prosecution’s narrative and supporting testimony from police officers, made a compelling case even in the absence of any physical evidence.
But what if all the witnesses were lying? (Jail house informants, as several of the witnesses against Philip were, are notoriously unreliable. Not because of poor character, but because they’re incentivized to bargain their words against the desperation of their own circumstances.) And what if, by some mix of harassment, threat, bargain, and bribery, even the other witnesses were set up by the police to finger a man about whose guilt they had no knowledge?
And what if a group of rogue police officers suppressed, mishandled, or even destroyed potentially beneficial evidence (including witness recordings and a possible alibi), and kept these actions unknown to the defense? If all that were true, you would have a case of structural error—an instance where the scales of justice were entirely prevented from functioning. Period. And that’s what this petition argues. With receipts.
It comes with sworn affidavits from twelve persons who have now, under oath, recanted their original testimony and/or supplied new evidence, while also disclosing the extent to which they were pressured by police during the investigation. It references the 2009 Review Report on the MGSF that found such widespread corruption (including mishandling and destruction of evidence and coercing witnesses) that it disbanded the whole unit. And it comes with evidence that both police and the prosecution knowingly withheld evidence or refused to correct testimony it knew was false.
Finally, the petition makes the case that far from being a string of malicious yet disconnected errors, these errors were concerted and coordinated in a pattern of actions that broke the very scales of justice that these proceedings depend on.
The claims are shocking—but substantiated with affidavits and other exhibits. They need to be heard. In the interests of justice, they ought to be heard swiftly. The petition seeks a new evidentiary hearing, to vacate the verdicts and conviction and, ultimately, to set Philip Vance free.
However, less than 24 hours after this petition was filed, Kathy Keena’s Office of Dakota County Attorney asked the Court to require no response from her office until 45 days after the CRU submits its final report. (Despite there being no timeline for when that final report is due!)
Her request appears disingenuous from multiple angles.
First, the 45 days she asks for more than doubles the 20 days allotted her office by the Court in its original January 2023 order. That’s a whole other story. Philip had delayed filing this new petition two years ago, to see whether the CRU process would work. The Court granted his request for a delay—necessary to keep his legal options alive—and in that order the Court gave Keena’s office 20 days after whenever Philip chose to file his petition to make its response. Thus, her request for 45 days, tries to alter the terms of that earlier order—and to further obstruct and delay Philip’s claim for justice.
Second, in her letter to the Court, Keena asserts the CRU has informed both parties that “a final report is expected soon,” but neither Philip nor his attorney have heard anything from the CRU in eleven months now, which is the very reason he brought this petition. Whether or not Keena is aware of the CRU’s total silence toward Philip and his attorney, her letter factually misrepresents the situation in seeking a further delay.
Third, and most importantly, one condition of the CRU is that applicants must forgo any legal claims while their case is under review. But by now Philip is convinced the CRU is more interested in silencing his claim of innocence than in honestly investigating it. It is, after all, staffed by prosecutors who seem more determined to protect the verdicts achieved by their peers than to genuinely explore the claims of innocence by their clients. By filing this new petition—in sincere pursuit of justice and freedom—Philip chose to exit the CRU process. The CRU was never his attorney, but as of the filing of this new petition, the CRU no longer has any authority in his case. He and his attorney have set a new course.
Ironically (an understatement at best!), twenty-two years ago, it was Kathy Keena herself, in one of her first cases as a prosecutor, who used all that false testimony to put Philip Vance behind bars. So, she might well prefer to have Philip’s allegations held in safekeeping by the CRU. But that’s no longer her call.
With this petition Philip is setting his life on those scales again. After twenty-two years, it’s time for them to deliver justice.
HOW TO HELP: Philip needs to raise $50,000 to cover the costs of legal representation for this petition. To date, we’ve raised over $43,000. To help us get to the finish line, you can donate here: https://www.gofundme.com/f/Please-support-philip-vance
*******
David Weiss is a member of the Free Philip Vance Campaign. With graduate degrees in theology and Christian ethics, he has taught religion Augsburg University, St. Catherine University, and Hamline University. He currently writes and speaks independently on contemporary issues. His blog is “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.”
I’m now on the far side of cancer surgery. And, temporarily at least, cancer-free. But I’m far from recovered, and I’m still reflecting on everything I’ve been through. This is the next chapter of my story. In this essay I’ll write about the surgery itself. Caveat: I am not a surgeon, plus I was asleep during the surgery! I’m doing my best to be accurate here, but don’t rely on my notes for your own diagnosis or treatment. Find a doctor!
PRE SURGERY
Back on January 16, the same day my urologist reviewed my biopsy results with me, we penciled in March 5 as a tentative date for surgery. This was the soonest we could safely schedule it, allowing 7-8 weeks for my rectum to heal after the biopsy (on January 10) that confirmed cancer—and confirmed it as aggressive. In fact, aggressive enough to require a January 27 PET-PSAM scan to assess whether the cancer had spread beyond my prostate—a finding that would’ve made surgery pointless … and sent me and Margaret down a very different path of treatment.
Thankfully, that scan showed that all the cancer appeared to be still “in-house”—in my prostate. So, we inked in March 5 for a radical (complete) prostatectomy. All I could do in between was hope the cancer cells would still all be right there when the urologist (also my surgeon) went in to get them.
This is how that all went down.
Besides stopping all vitamins and supplements a week beforehand, the only real “prep” I had for surgery was to pack an overnight bag for my one-night stay in the hospital—and to shower. Twice in the twelve hours before surgery. No, I’m not that dirty! It seems all of us (you, too!) play host to whole communities of bacteria on our bodies. Some downright beneficial, a few free loaders just passing through, and some with less than honorable intentions. Thing is, any one of them—even the beneficial ones—have the capacity to start a riot of ruin if they wind up on the inside. So, with the plan being for my gut to get pierced five times on Wednesday morning, my job, beginning Tuesday night, was to make myself squeaky clean.
I showered twice, Tuesday night and again early Wednesday morning, both times washing myself first with my usual soap (high-quality artisan soap, made by a friend, I might add!) and then slathering myself up with an antiseptic soap. And I slept in fresh pajamas on fresh sheets. Next to a fresh woman. For about four hours.
SURGERY DAY
Surgery was scheduled for 8am; we needed to be at the hospital (about a 20-minute drive for us) at 6am. Which is why (of course!) it started snowing—heavy—the night before. After maybe four hours of sleep, we got up at 4:15am. I shoveled a path through six inches of heavy snow from our front door out to the car, cleaned the car off, and then took my second shower—and put on fresh clean clothes. By 5:30am we were in the car, and I was squeaky clean. A little nervous, a little tired, and mainly just ready for my prostate to be history.
Assuming we got there. It was still snowing, and even the interstate was sketchy that early. We passed several cars slid off the road on our way. Margaret drove with extra care as I silently willed her to drive faster lest we be late. We got parked and checked in by 6:15am and after a short wait I was taken back for my first round of prep. We were reassured that Margaret could join me once I was gowned, and then she could wait with me until I headed off to the operating room.
I had my vitals checked and then changed into my gown and a pair of those always ill-fitting non-slip socks. I was given three hospital bracelets: one for my name, one listing my medical allergies, and one designating me as a “fall risk.” This last was not due to any Mardi Gras celebrating the night before but because of the anesthesia I was about to be hit with it. Once the IV line was placed, Margaret came back by 7:20am to chill with me.
It was a bit like social hour in our little cube room. My prep nurse chatted with us. The anesthesiologist stopped by to explain his part (basically to review my file and then supervise the nurse-anesthesiologist who would actually put me to sleep). And my urologist-surgeon came in to say hello. Everyone we interacted with at the hospital made a point of treating me like a person, which was calming and reassuring. As 8am approached there were still no nerves. Just a readiness to do this thing so I’d be on the far side of it.
As 8am sharp, the nurse-anesthesiologist came by with an OR nurse to take me away. Margaret and I said our sweet farewells, I surrendered my eyeglasses, and I wandered wide-eyed but barely seeing down the hallway and into the operating room. The last two things I remember are the nurse asking me to moon her and the nurse-anesthesiologist telling me to relax. I complied with both requests. (To be fair, the nurse actually just asked me to back up to the table and untie my gown before sitting down, but we both knew that was code for “Moon me,” which is exactly how it played out.) If the nurse-anesthesiologist asked me to count backwards from anything, I expect I did that, too. But from the moment he told me to relax, I was gone—until 2pm. By which time all the exciting stuff was over.
THE SURGERY ITSELF
The exciting stuff was a RALP: Robotic-Assisted Laparoscopic Prostatectomy using a DaVinci surgical robot. I missed all of it—except the searing pain in my gut afterwards. So, this next section is gleaned from the surgeon’s notes posted in MyChart and a couple other reputable sources. This all happened to me, but I experienced none of it.
Once I was asleep, the nurse-anesthesiologist intubated me (put a breathing tube down my throat). I was given a dose of antibiotics (to guard against any germs in the room making their way into my insides). And I was positioned on my back as needed for the robot to engage. Then someone called, “Timeout.” Seriously, not because anyone was misbehaving, but because that’s what they do in an OR before making the first cut. They made sure everyone agreed I was me, and they were there to remove my prostate, and everyone’s role was thus and thus. Basically, they go through a very specific checklist, which might seem a little over-dramatic, but had I woken up with my gall bladder missing … well, that’s what the timeout is for.
At 8:39am I was cut open. The first small slit was above my belly button; it went through the skin and allowed a Veress needle to be inserted into my abdominal cavity. That’s sort of a 5-inch version of the type of needle used to inflate a basketball, but this one is shielded inside a protective tube until it’s inside me. Then it was used to inflate me like a basketball (with CO2) turning my abdominal cavity into a mini-inflatable dome, literally raised up so that the light, camera, and robotic tools would have room to maneuver.
After I was inflated, the needle was removed, and a “trocar” was pushed through in its place. A trocar is a rigid hollow tube about 8 inches long and somewhere between the diameter of a pencil and a dime—fitted with a point like an awl. It can take quite a hard push to get it through the underlying abdominal wall. I’ve watched videos; imagine pushing an awl (or a lawn dart!) through a chicken breast. Oof. Anyway, once it was in place, the inner point was removed, leaving just a hollow tube—a port—through which the robot light and camera were inserted.
Then four more slits, also small were made; two on the left side, two on the right side of the first one. Each of those got the “trocar push” until those points, too, pierced my abdominal wall in four other places. Yeah. No wonder each of those five puncture holes is still tender. Each trocar then had its inner point withdrawn, leaving four more ports. Each port was a hollow tube large enough to slide a pencil through, with a flat “cuff” at the top (used to connect to the robot). Next, as my surgeon put it, “The robot was then docked.” Basically, that means the DaVinci robot was rolled over to my body and lined up above the ports. Each of the robot’s four arms—a camera and three surgical tools)—was attached to one of the ports so its tool could enter me through the port. (The “assistant port” is for manual use during surgery; I think to irrigate with saline and drain away blood as needed.) The ports held the robotic arms secure, and the surgeon, seated at a console that would be right at a home in a video game arcade, guided the robot. The robot provides the camera feed and allows for ultra-fine motor movement inside me, but the magic rests with the surgeon, whose hands at the console move the tools. His (or her) skill provides the magic.
Cue up a moment of ominous, expectant music followed quickly by something more like Fantasia. Because from here on, for the next two-plus hours my gut was a frenzy of activity, and those ports protruding from my belly were twisted this way and that as the robot tools did their work.
I got a summary of it in MyChart, most of which is in big words than even I would need to look up. So, this is only offer a very basic sketch. My bladder was peeled away from the abdominal wall. Working in tandem, a knife and an electrocautery tool (which uses electric current to cut-and-cauterize), cut and cleared away tissue around my prostate, seminal vesicles, and the associated nerve bundles. The prostate itself was excised from the bladder neck “with care not to damage the ureteral orifices” (thank you!) while also trying to spare part of the right-side neuro-vascular bundle (again, thank you!). And then “the urethra was transected sharply (ouch!) to completely free the prostate.” Both lymph nodes were cut away using electrocautery and these, along with the prostate, were placed in “an endocatch bag” to be removed at the very end of the surgery.
Finally, the most delicate bit of magic involved repairing my urethra. Delicate because the moment that knife cut my prostate free (taking with it the length of urethra running directly through it), the now loose end of my urethra went scurrying back toward my penis where the rest of it was trembling in fear. (You would, too, if you’d just been “transected sharply” by a robotic knife!) And look, there’s a lot of anatomical nooks and crannies in there. So, yeah, my urethra took cover.
Thankfully, my surgeon, using a technique I shall christen “woo-u,” managed to draw my urethra, wounded in more than mere pride, back out into the open. Then, using a pair of gentle(?) robotic forceps, he deftly brought it up to the bladder neck—that is, he stretched it across the 1–2-inch gap of now missing urethra—and sutured it securely into place at the bottom of the bladder using a “V-lock suture.” (Think a tiny thread-thin bit of barbed wire; no knots needed since the tiny barbs keep the thread from sliding backwards. Still, yikes.)
After this, a catheter was inserted from the great beyond (unfortunately not using one of those five just-created “ports” but using my own built-in port: my penis). Catheters go in by traveling the very wrong way up your urethra. Alas, this tender tube is designed for one way traffic: out. It’s sometimes medically necessary to go in the other direction, but I’ve had this done several times while wide awake on account of kidney stones. It is not my favorite pastime! I am so glad I was asleep for this. Throughout surgery, the nurse anesthesiologist was my best friend.
With the catheter set in place, a small balloon about the size of a plump green grape and positioned at the inner end of the catheter tube (thus, just inside my bladder) was filled with about a Tablespoon of water. That little balloon holds the catheter in place so it can drain my bladder for the nine days it will take for my severed urethra to make fast friends with the neck of my bladder, held secure by those barbed sutures. Saline solution was injected into my bladder to determine if it the repair was urine-worthy. The surgeon’s summary reports it all too dryly: “The vesicourethral anastomosis was noted to be watertight.” I’m pretty sure the entire OR team let out a cheer like they’d just landed a rocket on the moon. I know I would’ve.
Finishing up, they placed about a twelve-inch drain tube across the “work area” (that is, my gut, right to left), exiting the port farthest to my left side to drain off any bleeding after surgery. All the robot arms were withdrawn, one of them bringing with it the endocatch bag containing my prostate (a bit larger than a walnut), lymph nodes, and other manly bits out through the center port, which was cut wider here at the end so everything could fit through. The ports were removed, leaving just four puncture holes(!) and one 2-inch slit above my belly button. That was stitched up a bit with a dissolving suture, and then “skin glue” was used to seal everything up. Who knew?
It all sounds like a great show for anyone with a ticket. Odds are it saved my life. Still, I’m glad I slept straight through.
The last note in the surgeon’s summary read: “At the completion of the procedure, all surgical counts were correct.” In other words, all specimens, tools, supplies, and persons accounted for. Nothing was missing! Whew.
POST-SURGERY
At 10:59 surgery was concluded. Sometime after that I was awakened, extubated, and wheeled into recovery. But don’t ask me when, because I remember nothing until around 2pm when I found myself in room 2218, greeted warmly by Margaret, my cousin Katie, and her husband Byron. (They’d taken the day off to be with Margaret while I was in surgery.) Everyone was happy to see me. But I was so tired, I could’ve cared less who was there. Okay, of course I was happy to see them all. But I have never been so entirely exhausted in my life. Four hours of sleep the night before. And even though I was “sound asleep” during surgery, you just heard what my body went through while I was out—that’s NOT a restful sleep!
Physically and emotionally, I was spent. And sore. And tender. Every tiny movement in my bed sent shivers of pain racing from my abdomen to the far walls of my room and ricocheting back to me. I’m pretty sure I made some small talk—I’d like to say I was my usual gracious and eloquent self—but I’m not sure that’s accurate. Despite my best efforts to be hospitable to my guests I was groggy all afternoon. I rallied for a short stretch of time, from 6-7pm, if it’s fair to say that less-slurred speech and more energetic wincing counts as a rally. But then I gave up and told them I’d had about as much fun as one person could have in one day and I just needed to rest.
And I did. Though not very well. But that’s next time.
*******
David Weiss is a theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, “writing into the whirlwind” of contemporary challenges, joys, and sorrows around climate crisis, sexuality, justice, peace, and family. Reach him at drw59mn@gmail.com. Read more at www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.” Support him in Writing into the Whirlwind atwww.patreon.com/fullfrontalfaith.
Stamping Around with Mom David R. Weiss – March 3, 2025
Mom was nothing if not frugal. This was not her most striking trait. I suppose that would be caring or listening. Long before it became a named thing, Mom was “holding space” for each of us in her own unique way. That was her foremost superpower.
But right there in the background was frugality. Making clothes, patching clothes, taking waists in, letting waists out. Fixing meals from scratch, with simple basic ingredients. Hanging the laundry out to dry whenever possible. Washing out and reusing plastic bags until they started to fall apart. And trimming stamps from unused return envelopes.
I’m not sure I realized the extent of this frugality until recently when we were cleaning out a desk drawer in the kitchen and found a little wooden box filled with trimmed stamps and a few decades old altogether unused stamps. Mostly small denomination: 1¢, 2¢, 3¢, 5¢, 10¢, but some as high as 42¢. But all of them firmly glued to the backing of trimmed envelopes.
On Friday I reaped the harvest of that particular frugality.
As you might guess, I have a zillion things on my mind these days, among them the impending radical prostatectomy set for Wednesday morning. “Radical” is such a jarring word. My politics are radical. My theology is radical. But my prostate? Well, the point is it’s coming out—completely. The whole damn thing. That’s what that radical about it.
But my prostate is not what’s had me in a frenzy these past few days.
I have a friend, Philip, who’s in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. (You can read more about his story here: “Philip Vance: Freedom is Calling,” an essay I wrote back in July 2023.) Philip has been fighting for justice ever since he was tried and convicted for murder—and sentenced to life in prison. That all began in 2003, and he’s been trying to clear his name—and regain his life—ever since.
But I’m not writing about Philip today, I’m writing about Mom—and her long-ago trimmed stamps.
See, I was trying to write about Philip. On Thursday he and his attorney filed a new and promising “petition for post-conviction relief.” In his case, it’s a petition for a new evidentiary hearing in the hopes it will finally bring him justice. Which would be freedom.
And, as part of the group of volunteers on the outside who are supporting Philip in this struggle, I’d offered to write an op-ed explaining the petition. In plain English. And compelling prose. In a well-respected Twin Cities online news source. To a waiting public.
I’d spent Thursday night well into Friday morning reading the petition and the accompanying memorandum, as well as the affidavits, other supporting exhibits, and several legal articles explaining some of the key concepts bandied about in the brief. My head was swimming.
So much to digest. How could I even begin to organize my own thoughts with so many of them racing about this way and that? And a very real deadline, demanded both by the timeliness of the issue, but also by my fast-approaching surgery? I needed to get this done by Saturday. But—the question that taunted me: how could I possibly do justice to the complexity of the petition in just 1000 words? And, in counterpoint: for Philip’s sake, how could I not?
This is where the stamps enter.
I walked by the desktop in our living room where the stamps sat in a couple waxed post office envelopes. I’m sure my breathing was shallow and my pulse quick because I could feel the anxiety rising in me. I needed to slow myself down. So I could think. So I could write.
And then the stamps called my name. Inviting me to just soak a few in a bowl of water to loosen the long-dried glue and soften the paper so the stamps could be peeled away. Distraction? Maybe. Procrastination? Who cares!
I put some warm water in a shallow bowl and pulled out a dozen 1¢ stamps, pressing them gently beneath the water. Ten minutes later, as I started carefully peeling them from their paper backing, fingertips and tweezers moving in slow steady motion, I began to feel my heartbeat slow down and my breathing deepen. I could sense stillness beginning to hold space for me.
I placed each damp stamp on a piece of paper towel to dry, then moved it to a plate for more drying. And I started the process again. And again. But in between rounds of “stamping” I paused and listened for my thoughts. And they were there! No longer frenetically circling, but now almost coasting. Still a lot of them, but moving with invitation, so that I could begin to see connections and images and themes. So I could begin to find those 1000 words that would do justice to Philip.
I did this for more than two hours. Not because there were that many stamps, but because I found myself pausing between rounds to capture thoughts and phrases so I could come back to them later.
Eventually I had several dozen stamps … shall we say, liberated. That is my hope for Philip, after all. Liberation, after all those years. I meticulously flattened the dried stamps and clipped them together in small bundles, then slipped them back into their waxed envelope ready for use. True, they won’t amount to much postage. It takes a good handful of 1¢, 2¢, 3¢, or 5¢ stamps to cover the gap from a 73¢ one-ounce stamp to the $1.01 for an additional ounce. Before I know it, all those “liberated” stamps will be gone.
But in the meantime, every time I use a glue stick to affix them to an envelope, I’ll be connecting with Mom all over again. Her whimsical frugality, but also her caring, listening presence. The stillness she held out to others.
And that op-ed piece? Thanks to the slow quiet time I spent soaking stamps, when I finally sat down on Saturday to write, the words flowed fiercely and freely. The confusing complexity met the passionate clarity of my words and an essay worth of Philip’s cause rolled off the same fingertips that had so tenderly parted stamp from paper the day before.
During the afternoon I spent “stamping around with Mom,” somehow, from across the grave, she held space for me and all my muddled thoughts until, in her stillness, they settled themselves into words, sentences, paragraphs with purpose. More than this, though, Mom also held space for Philip. For his story. His long years of anguish and hope. His refusal to settle for less than the truth about himself. His determination that there could be—will be—for him, a future in which the freedom that he still harbors in his heart blooms across the whole of his life.
What are the odds on that? I can just imagine Mom smiling and saying softly, “You can put on a stamp on it.” And I will.
Two notes. I’ve been part of the Free Philip Vance Campaign for about two years now. (1) Once my piece, “Broken Scales: Seeking Justice for Philip Vance,” runs (hopefully!) in MinnPost later this week, I’ll post it to my blog as well. (2) Seeking justice can be costly. Philip needs to raise $50,000 to cover the costs of legal representation for this petition. To date, we have raised over $43,000. To help us get to the finish line, you can donate here: www.gofundme.com/f/Please-support-philip-vance.Thank you!
*******
David Weiss is a theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, “writing into the whirlwind” of contemporary challenges, joys, and sorrows around climate crisis, sexuality, justice, peace, and family. Reach him at drw59mn@gmail.com. Read more at www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.” Support him in Writing into the Whirlwind atwww.patreon.com/fullfrontalfaith.
