Six Weird Things Meme - I've been tagged by St. Pat. So here goes:
According to the rules I must:
1. Reveal six weird things about yourself on your blog, and
2. Tag six people to do the same.
1. I used to be a long-haul truck driver with my first husband.
2. I once rode across Phoenix at rush hour on a small motor scooter in an orange see-through harem outfit. (closely followed by friends to protect me)
3. My roommate, who picked me up at work, drove the same kind of car that the killer of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was supposed to have driven. We were stopped seven times on the way home from downtown Memphis that day. We parked the car in the back yard.
4. I worked with Spanish-speaking people for 10 years and had/still have some sort of block against being able to learn Spanish. I can understand it fairly well, but my tongue gets tangled around the words. Fortunately, they loved me and laughed at me and taunted me with phrases that I’d have to go home and look up in a dictionary. I miss them.
5. I love catalogs – all kinds of catalogs about all kinds of products – clothing, tools, technology stuff, lawn and garden, silly t shirts, cruises, free trade items, jewelry, etc. When we go away, our cat sitter complains about how much mail we get.
6. I collect button pins and lapel pins. The ones that have stories with them are best – an old nursing school pin from a nurse who shopped at our thrift shop – my Daddy’s WW2 pins – places I’ve been – places I haven’t been – Pride marches - cursillo. I have long strips of them hanging around my computer.
And, I tag Pisco, Mad Hare, Juanuchi’s Way, Nina and Cecelia.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Thursday, April 12, 2007
No more deviant genes
Today I saw a billboard that said, “What! Embryos are human, too.” “Hearts begins beating at 18 days.” But, a beating heart does not a human make. Hearts can beat long after all other functions are gone...and apparently before other functions begin. This blog is not about determining when an embryo becomes a human but about what would happen if all the embryos that would become mentally or physically disabled babies never came to term.
Medical tests can determine abnormalities in gene structure so early that no babies need be born with mental or physical problems.
Aside from the ethics of this – and I’m totally not prepared to debate that issue – what would our world be like if the people with Downs Syndrome or developmental disabilities simply did not exist.? What would happen to our ability to care for others?
This is a frightening thought to me. I’ve know a few people with disabilities, and I admit, I tend to shy away from them. My god-granddaughter is developmentally disabled. She called me the other day to tell me she would be going into the next grade – going into middle school. Though she cannot read more than a half dozen words and cannot count past ten, she will be promoted. But, the best part is that at the end of the message, she began to sing about how much she loved me and missed me and wished I would visit soon – in a voice so pure and holy.
Sissy is 12 now. She’s sat on my lap in church since she was tiny, and I have wonderful pictures of her Halloween costumes. She followed along with all the hymns as we sang, and I think she was learning the Lord’s Prayer before we moved. Now, her father (much older than her mother) has emphysema and heart problems which keep her at home, away from church. I grieve that loss. I wonder if she could read music; her voice is so wonderful.
And, another young man in our church has Down’s Syndrome, but he conducts the choir beautifully from his seat at the back of the church. And, he gets so excited when he receives communion. He gives great hugs and always remembers your face.
I’ve seen video clips of autistic geniuses. And, people with congenital disabilities that have done amazing things. And, I’ve heard the people who care for them speak – about how much strength and love is needed, but also about how much joy and pleasure their loved ones have brought into the world.
The world might be a much quieter place without people with such disabilities, but my life would be much poorer.
So it is with other marginalized people. The homeless who prefer to stay homeless, the GLBT community who bring so much color and liveliness into my life, the deaf whom most churches ignore,....ah, so many that are not mainstreamed. But, they have blessed my life with patience and love and warmth. Thank you, God.
Medical tests can determine abnormalities in gene structure so early that no babies need be born with mental or physical problems.
Aside from the ethics of this – and I’m totally not prepared to debate that issue – what would our world be like if the people with Downs Syndrome or developmental disabilities simply did not exist.? What would happen to our ability to care for others?
This is a frightening thought to me. I’ve know a few people with disabilities, and I admit, I tend to shy away from them. My god-granddaughter is developmentally disabled. She called me the other day to tell me she would be going into the next grade – going into middle school. Though she cannot read more than a half dozen words and cannot count past ten, she will be promoted. But, the best part is that at the end of the message, she began to sing about how much she loved me and missed me and wished I would visit soon – in a voice so pure and holy.
Sissy is 12 now. She’s sat on my lap in church since she was tiny, and I have wonderful pictures of her Halloween costumes. She followed along with all the hymns as we sang, and I think she was learning the Lord’s Prayer before we moved. Now, her father (much older than her mother) has emphysema and heart problems which keep her at home, away from church. I grieve that loss. I wonder if she could read music; her voice is so wonderful.
And, another young man in our church has Down’s Syndrome, but he conducts the choir beautifully from his seat at the back of the church. And, he gets so excited when he receives communion. He gives great hugs and always remembers your face.
I’ve seen video clips of autistic geniuses. And, people with congenital disabilities that have done amazing things. And, I’ve heard the people who care for them speak – about how much strength and love is needed, but also about how much joy and pleasure their loved ones have brought into the world.
The world might be a much quieter place without people with such disabilities, but my life would be much poorer.
So it is with other marginalized people. The homeless who prefer to stay homeless, the GLBT community who bring so much color and liveliness into my life, the deaf whom most churches ignore,....ah, so many that are not mainstreamed. But, they have blessed my life with patience and love and warmth. Thank you, God.
Back 50 years ago this June
Preparing to travel back in time requires a lot of thought. We are going to Bermuda at the end of May. I lived in Bermuda in 1957-59 while my Dad was stationed there with the Navy. I had my first date there, my first real boyfriend, my first formal dance, my first crush on a Marine, and my first real joy and freedom. I also discovered that worship could be fun as opposed to the solemn Presbyterian Church that we once attended while living on the farm.
Now, fifty years later, I will visit the places where I grew up and found freedom and laughter. The bicycle path has been turned into a tramway, I’ve heard. I spent many wonderful hours there – alone riding along the roadway between the coral walls and the bay – safe. The island is 19 miles long, and I’ve ridden my bike from one end to the other – not in a race kind of way, but meandering and looking at the people and the houses and the flowers.
I recently found a stash of slides from that period, and I thought, “Oh, goody, I can get these made into prints and be able to compare what it was like then to what it is like now.” Wrong. My parents seemed to take pictures only of me; so all I get to compare is a 13 year old girl with long brown hair to a heavyset white-haired woman. Mom was never one to waste film; so every picture of me has some facet of the island – the Easter lilies, the Poinciana tree, the old mulberry tree for which our cottage was named, the pink walls of the telephone company across the street, Mr. and Mrs. Cook in their black car, Scaur Hill Fort with me climbing around on top of the walls. Not for nothing did my daddy call me “Monkey.” Bermuda shorts and knee socks, school uniforms, a teenager’s room with a stop sign in the background.
Of course, most of the slides were Ektachrome which fades to an ucky orange. But, I bought the most wonderful, and cheap, little Canon scanner that corrects the color - mostly anyway. In the picture above, the building in the background is the telephone company across the street, which is pink, not white. But, hey, at least I'm don't look jaundiced any longer! Yea! Technology.
But, I do have a few pictures of scenery – the dock where the fishing boats pulled in, the beach near our house, a few friends from the local school (and I even remember their names), a beach party. My heart knows what the pictures don’t show, how the roads wind, and how rough the coral walls are when you run into them. How the shutters keep the houses cool in spite of no cooling system, the wind that blows all the time, the quick rain showers, the Gombey dancers.
You can never go home again, right? But, maybe in my mind, I can take a step back in time for a few moments to remember what growing up was like there. Growing up in Mississippi was horrible, but Bermuda was wonderful...a blessed two years to learn that the rest of the world is not a drunken father, a codependent mother, and a dirt-poor farm in a beautiful but dying state.
So, I’m making a deal with God about getting me well and about not starting the hurricane season too early. Well, I’m asking; I don’t know what I’d use as my end of the bargain. I doubt there’ll be any smoking pots or split carcasses to assure our pact. But, the way they barbecue down here, one never knows.
Hope your hearts are sunshiny even if your weather is not.
Monday, April 09, 2007
A shock
A strange thing happened to me today. Stranger than usual. A note to a friend who is managing editor of a newspaper was published, with my permission, as a Letter to the Editor. I don’t think I’ve ever been published that way before. So, I went to the newspaper website to look at my masterpiece (LOL), and I decided while I was there that I would check out the various stories under the topics listed. I read about the library and the road crews and the usual local stories. I read other Letters to the Editor, and then I decided to check out the Obituaries just to see if I knew anyone who had died – this being a town where I lived off and on for many years.
As I scrolled down through the obits, I noticed names that sounded familiar. My Mom ran the office of the local TV Cable Company for many years, and I had worked there during vacations and such. Then I stopped, stunned.
My first husband had died six days ago. We’ve been divorced about 30 years, and it’s been 13 years since I even talked with him. But, I was shocked. He was three years younger than me. And, his hateful old mother was still alive. And, the wife listed was not the one he had then. How very strange. And, coincidental. I haven’t looked at that newspaper in many years, and I never read obituaries (does that mean I am getting old?).
So, I thought I’d give someone a call to express my sympathy. Easier said than done. No funeral home listed. The church phone did not answer. So I turned to the internet to look up other possibilities: the name of one pallbearer was listed but in a town 30 miles away. His mother was not listed in any neighboring town or in Mississippi at all. One daughter was married, and the obit gave her married name and town; so I “white paged” the last name and came up with a likely phone number.
Got her mother-in-law – been married only a few months to this woman’s son. Even though they live a stone’s throw apart, son and mother are not talking – supposedly because of my ex-husband’s daughter. Wow! The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Turns out that this daughter and her sister were mostly raised by my ex’s harridan mother. No wonder the kid has problems. Even the harridan's pets ran away.
After listening to this mother-in-law of my ex’s daughter talk for 39 minutes long distance, I said I had to go. And, I surely am glad that I went away 30 years ago instead of hanging around for the bad movies.
Meanwhile, I’m keeping them all in my prayers, but I don’t think I’ll be making any more phone calls down that way. May God’s steadfast love and mercy be with my ex and his family.
As I scrolled down through the obits, I noticed names that sounded familiar. My Mom ran the office of the local TV Cable Company for many years, and I had worked there during vacations and such. Then I stopped, stunned.
My first husband had died six days ago. We’ve been divorced about 30 years, and it’s been 13 years since I even talked with him. But, I was shocked. He was three years younger than me. And, his hateful old mother was still alive. And, the wife listed was not the one he had then. How very strange. And, coincidental. I haven’t looked at that newspaper in many years, and I never read obituaries (does that mean I am getting old?).
So, I thought I’d give someone a call to express my sympathy. Easier said than done. No funeral home listed. The church phone did not answer. So I turned to the internet to look up other possibilities: the name of one pallbearer was listed but in a town 30 miles away. His mother was not listed in any neighboring town or in Mississippi at all. One daughter was married, and the obit gave her married name and town; so I “white paged” the last name and came up with a likely phone number.
Got her mother-in-law – been married only a few months to this woman’s son. Even though they live a stone’s throw apart, son and mother are not talking – supposedly because of my ex-husband’s daughter. Wow! The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Turns out that this daughter and her sister were mostly raised by my ex’s harridan mother. No wonder the kid has problems. Even the harridan's pets ran away.
After listening to this mother-in-law of my ex’s daughter talk for 39 minutes long distance, I said I had to go. And, I surely am glad that I went away 30 years ago instead of hanging around for the bad movies.
Meanwhile, I’m keeping them all in my prayers, but I don’t think I’ll be making any more phone calls down that way. May God’s steadfast love and mercy be with my ex and his family.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Never too late
We are having an Easter Egg Hunt this Sunday – for adults only. Not that any of the goings on will be risqué, but we believe it’s never too late to have a happy childhood. So, we’ve invited five people to join us for the egg hunt and lunch. I’ll hide 120+ eggs around the living room, sunroom, hallways and such for these children to find.
And, it’s so much fun. In past years, I have made Easter baskets for everyone who is here, but I’m not able to do that this year although everyone will have a basket with a small stuffed animal in it. After all, they must have something in which to collect the eggs they find. Nor have I made any good shopping trips for fun stuff or useful stuff to put in the plastic eggs. So I’m collecting witty, wise, and inspirational sayings to put inside the eggs. A few will have candy, and some eggs will have tiny Easter ornaments to put on a white wire tree that I discovered last week at a yard sale. And, I might find some surprises for a few of the eggs.
We’ll laugh a lot, and we’ll share a meal preceded by a grace that reminds us of the significance (Christianwise) of this Easter Day.
I have the best part; I get to hide the eggs and laugh when they can’t see them and I can. Tee Hee.
We’ll go to Easter vigil on Saturday evening so that I’ll have time to hide the eggs. I won’t be doing much cooking – a simple meal.
Jesus wanted the children near him; so I figure if we can become as children for an hour or so, maybe we have a chance of being near Jesus on this special day.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
My accomplishment of the day
The fountain of 2006 has been reborn in 2007 with added parts and old parts cleaned and seamlessly meshed
Who are you going be tomorrow?
One of my previous livesBarbara Brown Taylor’s book Leaving Church has been praised by many people of all kinds and thrown across the room by many women pastors and others who consider it to be whiny and self-centered. It makes one remember to be careful what you pray for.
However, on page 221, she talks about Reynolds Price and quotes from an interview in the Oxford Review, “When you undergo huge traumas in middle life, everybody is in league with us to deny that the old life is ended. Everybody is trying to patch us up and get us back to who we were, when in fact what we need to be told is, You’re dead. Who are you going to be tomorrow?”
You’re dead. Who are you going to be tomorrow?
Often my partner will tell stories she has heard about things that I did in other lives. No, I’ve only been born once; my body has not ceased its living. But, I have been dead and had to decide who I was going to be tomorrow. So, I’ve had many lives because I’ve made such bad decisions that I have died time after time and had to recreate myself as a new being – using the old parts that were still working and finding new ways for them to be in the world. Gradually I’d develop some new parts to fit the new being, and then I’d make some dumb ass move and, bang, I’d be dead again. I’d need to move along, get out of Dodge, find a new job, invent a new career, and figure out who I was going to be tomorrow.
Some parts of the original me are still around – laughter in the face of disaster, tears of frustration, determination, the need to control, the belief that God is with me, the love of good food, the need for solitude, and the love of the edge. It’s that love of the edge that’s gotten me into trouble; my mother called it “Courting danger”. I love the thrills of doing the unexpected, the risky. I count as exhilarating the times when a bit of physical danger was attached to my actions.
Once as I led Sunday School, I called on a member of the group to share about the topic. He passed. After church, he invited me to an empty office and tore my abilities and devotion to shreds while I sat there with my mouth open. Then, he told me to never force him to share again. Sometime during the tirade, I began to get angry, and by the time he was finished, I felt the steam coming out my ears. I thanked him politely, went down the hall to the rector’s office, which I shared at the time, walked in and let out a stream of cussing that quickly cleared the room and got the door closed.
Fortunately, my ministry there did not end then, and the gentleman did share in Sunday School, but you’d better believe I never called on him again. Also fortunately, the people who were in the office teased me and laughed about my “colorful” language and my ability to express exactly what I was thinking at the time.
When I did leave the ministry in that church it was because someone else vented their anger in a room with a closed door where I felt captive. The sudden jump from coworker in God’s garden to a vituperative screaming man threw me back into the fears of listening to my drunken father as a child. And, I never recovered from what felt like abuse even though it was the same sort of screaming anger (in what he thought was a safe place) that I had expressed when I cleared the rector’s office several years before. I made a valid try at not dying. But, I was dead, and the question was, once again, “Who am I going to be tomorrow?”
I haven’t answered that question yet. My mother’s death, my own ill health, a move across the state – all small deaths that make good excuses for my not picking up the pieces and putting together the me of tomorrow. I’m not sure which pieces are salvageable. The only time I court danger now is when I do too much and have to rest a long time. I do know that God is with me, but for a long time I was not sure of that. Good food and a love of solitude are still functioning pieces of me. Although the love of good food is no longer a truly usable piece since I’m told my weight contributes to my ill health. I still laugh but more often I cry or rage. The lack of control really bothers me, and I find myself stuck against a wall that has no door or window – never mind what’s around me or behind me. I can’t seem to get the pieces to work together as they once did; I’m not sure how to make something different; and I can’t figure out where to get replacement parts. So I continue to the 70s thing – I’m searching for me. If you see any pieces of me floating around, please send them home.
Of course, I could be wrong...: MadPriest Thought For The Day
Of course, I could be wrong...: MadPriest Thought For The Day
Check out this reflection and the comments. Makes a good Holy Week meditation. I particularly liked the first part where MP says, "For a god to come back to life is no big deal. Any god can do that. For God to die - now, that is the real deal. Try killing yourself if you're immortal. Try feeling pain if you cannot be hurt." But, I totally disagree with MP on "But what is the achievement if our God is the God of love, or, put even more simply, if God is God?" Loving is often harder than dying.
Check out this reflection and the comments. Makes a good Holy Week meditation. I particularly liked the first part where MP says, "For a god to come back to life is no big deal. Any god can do that. For God to die - now, that is the real deal. Try killing yourself if you're immortal. Try feeling pain if you cannot be hurt." But, I totally disagree with MP on "But what is the achievement if our God is the God of love, or, put even more simply, if God is God?" Loving is often harder than dying.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Help Please!
This past week I read a wonderful entry about the death of a blogger's mother and taking the ashes to the crematory. I can't find it again. If anyone knows this blog, please let me know. Thanks.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Happy Birthday, Mom
Today was my mother’s birthday, she would have been 89. She loved God, believed that God was with her all the time, but she also believed that God wanted her to be perfect. So, she spent much of her life miserable inside. She laughed, she played cards with family and later with friends, she cooked and fed half the world, she loved her family. But, in her eyes, whatever she did was never enough.
She was twice divorced, married three times, separated though never divorced from my father 20 years before he died. So she wasn’t a good wife. At least that’s what she thought. I grew up knowing her first husband because he was the father of my friends, although I did not know until just before her death that they had been married earlier. He was a strange critter, and I understand why she couldn’t be a wife to him. When my half brother David died, I spoke with his father, her second husband, and his voice was filled with nothing but love and caring for my mother. I have no doubt that she was a good wife to him. Unfortunately, he “chased the skirts.” But, my father, her Ditty (his name was Delayon), was her only true love. They dated when she was too young to leave the house alone with him. And, she flung him aside when he didn’t give her the promised watch for her high school graduation but a bracelet instead. Several years and two ex-husbands later, Lucy and Ditty did marry and eventually produced me right at the end of World War II. But, because they couldn’t live together, she thought she was a poor wife to him.
Her second goal in life was to be a good mother. My brother married his pregnant girlfriend at age 21 and died in an accident at age 22. I lived a dissolute life with two ex-husbands and a female partner. I had held too many jobs to be considered successful, and she worried that I would end my life as a bag lady. So, she thought she had failed at being a mother.
Her third goal in life was to be a good employee. She worked many years of her life as a faithful clerk in a 5 and 10 cent store making just enough to keep us alive. Then, she worked many more years in the office of a TV cable company. She began as bookkeeper and receptionist when the company only had two employees and the owner. The company grew until she was managing 10 office staff in a tiny open space with diverse work styles and no cubicles. She quelled arguments, dealt with irate customers, and occasionally just “lost it” with frustration. At those times she was convinced she was a poor employee.
So, she failed at the three things she considered to have meaning in her life.
But, I know differently. My dad was an alcoholic; no woman could have been a good wife for him, but he loved her all his life. She was his Lucy, his Sugar no matter what the state of his alcoholic brain.
My brother and I were blessed to have a warm kitchen filled with love and laughter. He and I struggled to find our way in the world without any role models that we could see. Mom taught me to love music about God, music about love, and to sing when I was happy and when I was sad. Mom taught me how to cook and I can make some of the best biscuits and cornbread you’ll ever eat. Mom taught me that God was always with me. Mom showed me that hard work wouldn’t kill you. And, when I burned the cabbage for the jillionth time, she still loved me even though we ate canned beans for supper. She laughed; she took us riding to see the places that had been important in her life. She introduced us to towns that were smaller than ours and people who loved her even though they hadn’t seen her in 20 or 30 years. Mom always wore good looking clothes. She stood on her stove and painted her ceiling in a dress and high heels, albeit with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
When she died, all the office staff of the cable company drove 70 miles to her funeral. They spoke to me of how she had taught them to get along with one another, of how she had taught them how to work with the public – and how she had taught them that it was okay to “lose it” sometimes. And, how they loved her.
In between all that, she welcomed all David’s friends and all my friends into her home. Boys whose parents were isolating or absent. Boys and girls a long way from home in college or the Air Force. She loved each one of them, listened to them, gave them a place to meet, fed them, rolled up her rugs and let them dance in her living room.
She could never understand why people were nice to her. She accepted my girlfriends even as she disapproved of my lifestyle. She did that with my husbands, too. She cried when she was hurt; she sang at all times; she laughed at the crazy turns of life, and she was willing to say at the end, “I’m afraid.”
She was not perfect as a wife, as a mother, or as an employee. She was a loving, caring, nagging, sarcastic, witty, woman who taught me to give people in need the shirt off my back and sometimes the shirt off her back, too.
I was relieved when she died – relieved for the bond between us to be broken for it was too tight, relieved for the release of her pain and fear, relieved that she didn’t outlive her money (with a little help from my partner). She loved me and I love her. I miss her at times, but I’m always grateful that she helped make me a person that I can love and I can say, “I’m the best Margaret that I can be.” Happy Birthday, Mom.
She was twice divorced, married three times, separated though never divorced from my father 20 years before he died. So she wasn’t a good wife. At least that’s what she thought. I grew up knowing her first husband because he was the father of my friends, although I did not know until just before her death that they had been married earlier. He was a strange critter, and I understand why she couldn’t be a wife to him. When my half brother David died, I spoke with his father, her second husband, and his voice was filled with nothing but love and caring for my mother. I have no doubt that she was a good wife to him. Unfortunately, he “chased the skirts.” But, my father, her Ditty (his name was Delayon), was her only true love. They dated when she was too young to leave the house alone with him. And, she flung him aside when he didn’t give her the promised watch for her high school graduation but a bracelet instead. Several years and two ex-husbands later, Lucy and Ditty did marry and eventually produced me right at the end of World War II. But, because they couldn’t live together, she thought she was a poor wife to him.
Her second goal in life was to be a good mother. My brother married his pregnant girlfriend at age 21 and died in an accident at age 22. I lived a dissolute life with two ex-husbands and a female partner. I had held too many jobs to be considered successful, and she worried that I would end my life as a bag lady. So, she thought she had failed at being a mother.
Her third goal in life was to be a good employee. She worked many years of her life as a faithful clerk in a 5 and 10 cent store making just enough to keep us alive. Then, she worked many more years in the office of a TV cable company. She began as bookkeeper and receptionist when the company only had two employees and the owner. The company grew until she was managing 10 office staff in a tiny open space with diverse work styles and no cubicles. She quelled arguments, dealt with irate customers, and occasionally just “lost it” with frustration. At those times she was convinced she was a poor employee.
So, she failed at the three things she considered to have meaning in her life.
But, I know differently. My dad was an alcoholic; no woman could have been a good wife for him, but he loved her all his life. She was his Lucy, his Sugar no matter what the state of his alcoholic brain.
My brother and I were blessed to have a warm kitchen filled with love and laughter. He and I struggled to find our way in the world without any role models that we could see. Mom taught me to love music about God, music about love, and to sing when I was happy and when I was sad. Mom taught me how to cook and I can make some of the best biscuits and cornbread you’ll ever eat. Mom taught me that God was always with me. Mom showed me that hard work wouldn’t kill you. And, when I burned the cabbage for the jillionth time, she still loved me even though we ate canned beans for supper. She laughed; she took us riding to see the places that had been important in her life. She introduced us to towns that were smaller than ours and people who loved her even though they hadn’t seen her in 20 or 30 years. Mom always wore good looking clothes. She stood on her stove and painted her ceiling in a dress and high heels, albeit with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
When she died, all the office staff of the cable company drove 70 miles to her funeral. They spoke to me of how she had taught them to get along with one another, of how she had taught them how to work with the public – and how she had taught them that it was okay to “lose it” sometimes. And, how they loved her.
In between all that, she welcomed all David’s friends and all my friends into her home. Boys whose parents were isolating or absent. Boys and girls a long way from home in college or the Air Force. She loved each one of them, listened to them, gave them a place to meet, fed them, rolled up her rugs and let them dance in her living room.
She could never understand why people were nice to her. She accepted my girlfriends even as she disapproved of my lifestyle. She did that with my husbands, too. She cried when she was hurt; she sang at all times; she laughed at the crazy turns of life, and she was willing to say at the end, “I’m afraid.”
She was not perfect as a wife, as a mother, or as an employee. She was a loving, caring, nagging, sarcastic, witty, woman who taught me to give people in need the shirt off my back and sometimes the shirt off her back, too.
I was relieved when she died – relieved for the bond between us to be broken for it was too tight, relieved for the release of her pain and fear, relieved that she didn’t outlive her money (with a little help from my partner). She loved me and I love her. I miss her at times, but I’m always grateful that she helped make me a person that I can love and I can say, “I’m the best Margaret that I can be.” Happy Birthday, Mom.
Friday, March 30, 2007
The old lug wheel
I learned to drive on this Case lug-wheel tractor, which we sold when I was about 8 or 9. Staying between the lines when you’re coloring is nothing compared to driving a straight row when you’re plowing. Consequently, I didn’t get to plow, but I got to pull the disk and the harrow where being “straight” is not so important.
I loved mechanical things. One day I took apart an old clock on a table in our backyard; but when I put it back together, it still didn’t run. However, at the slightest movement, it would begin dinging and wouldn’t quit until it ran down. I stood in awe of this machine that would keep doing the same thing over and over without ever moving its hands. For my Mom(whose birthday is tomorrow, God rest her soul), this miracle of mechanical endeavor was a severe detriment to her cooking, and she would come out on the back porch and tell me exactly what would happen to me if I didn’t stop that infernal noise. Punishment with a peach limb on my legs was only one of the things she dreamed up that summer as I fixed more and more broken mechanical items that landed on that wonderful junk table in the back yard.
The table also held innumerable bottles and bowls, discarded use in the house but enjoyed by the birds after a rain. A brown wren (are they all brown?) lived in one my creations and thoroughly enjoyed the white bowl that was chipped on the side. But, the cologne and perfume bottles were my favorites. I could sneak the cake coloring from the shelf over the stove and create all kinds of potions for healing. The nearest I ever got to an explosion was adding baking soda to vinegar. But, my hands and arms proclaimed me a "multi-colored lady" long before I knew any meaning for rainbow stripes.
Then we sold the flatbed truck that I was learning to drive backwards and forwards in our driveway. The table went away because its top was the sideboards to the flatbed. All those magnificent mechanical “toys” and bottles were taken to the dump. And, my start as an engineer or chemist was foiled before I was 8.
You’ve probably figured out by now that I wasn’t 8 or 9 years old when this picture was made. When Dad went back in the Navy, we sold our tractor to a farmer down the road. That farmer’s son now owns the dealership, and our old Case is sitting in front of his business. Needless to say I cried over that old tractor when I found out that it had been ours – some 50 years after I’d seen it the last time. I just hope that God will say to me as I said to that lug wheel – “Well done, you good and faithful servant.”
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Does God have a plan for me?
The Eye of God or the Helix Nebula, a composite picture from the Hubbel space telescope and Kitt Peak Observatory
Cecilia commented on my last post that “I can tell I'm in a spiritual mess when I don't want to pray-- don't want to conform my will to God's.” And, I couldn’t agree more with the first part of that statement. I probably agree with the last part because we tend to think somewhat alike, but the will of God has been misconstrued so many times in so many ways that I need to write what I think about the will of God.
Living in the South, when someone says “the will of God’, they usually mean “God’s plan”, and, frequently, they believe that God has a plan for every moment of their lives. It is God’s will that they took a wrong turn and ended up in a bad section of town with a flat tire. They, obviously, needed to learn something from that – perhaps to pay attention to where you’re going or to take better care of God’s blessings.
I don’t believe that God has a plan for my life beyond being Margaret, the best Margaret that can be. I believe that God can guide me in my journey and can help me turn evil into good, but I don’t think that God plans each step of the way. God could, but it seems a useless waste of free will not to mention intelligence if God is going to map out the journey, guide me along the path, and all I have to do is follow meekly along. Not that I’m very good about following paths; my partner and I joke that one of the things we do best is to go in circles. And, I’m not meek nor do I want to inherit the earth.
God’s will/plan for my life is four-fold. 1) to love God, 2) to love my neighbors, 3) to enjoy life, and 4) to leave this world a better place for my having been here. That’s a big chunk of will for me. I do think that God leaves it up to me as to how I get those things done. And, I do make mistakes; I do go in circles and I do say NO when I should say yes.
If I’m in relationship with God through prayer, meditation, cursing the world and repenting of my evil thoughts, then I am able to do those things fairly well. I keep improving as I go along, but I’m never going to be perfect at any of it, and God’s not going to count the times I fail. God’s interested in the fact that I’m making the journey and that I have a concept of the divine desire for life. I believe in an abundance of life, gifts from God and God’s right hands here on earth for me to use along the way. I’ll take all the help I can get, thank you. Once again, I’m reminded of Blanche in “Streetcar Named Desire’, who said, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
The Hebrew Scriptures are full of stories about ancient concepts of God and stories that tell us how to live and how not to live our lives. The New Testament is more specific with statements from Jesus/God about how to make this business of life go better. That’s a good place to find God’s will. But, it’s not specific to my situation in the here and now. I have to interpret and to pick and choose those passages that seem to apply best at the time. And, if, that’s a big IF, I’m in a good relationship with God, then I seem to choose the passages well. But, woe betides me if I go into the Bible looking for specific answers and guidance. I get so confused and I put the Bible down to look for another guide…usually my own desires. Then, I go in circles or, worse yet, backwards.
If the passages that keep coming forward in my prayer are against my desires (for I nearly always have an opinion), then I’m like the fellow hanging on the cliff crying to God for help. God says, “Let go.” The cry and the answer are repeated several times (I don’t get the idea very quickly either), when finally, the man says, “Is there anybody else up there?” I don’t easily believe that the best Margaret will be found in a direction contrary to my hopes and desires. Sometimes I listen; sometimes I don’t. I’m still learning.
God’s will and God’s plan for me can look to the future and project it through the end. But, every choice that I make changes that plan; bad choices and bad relationships can abort the whole process for a time. Sometimes, when I’m in sync with God, I do well with parts of the four-fold plan above. Never perfect, never completely imperfect, but a journey in relationship with a divine being who is beyond my comprehension yet loves me enough to keep on trucking along with me.
Monday, March 26, 2007
prayer
Someone once told me that prayer doesn’t change God’s mind but it does change your own mind. Another person said, “When you sing, you pray twice.” I’ve always questioned what was the essence of prayer. Somewhere along the line I learned about the seven different kinds of prayer – praise, petition, gratitude, penitence, adoration, - someone help me out here, I can’t remember them all any longer. Once I had to pray in a different mode each week as a spiritual exercise. I found it difficult to differentiate between praise and adoration. But, I’m not sure it matters. What seems to matter is that we do pray.
We bring energy from our hearts and minds and translate it into words – silent or spoken – words that carry our emotions, our thoughts, our yearnings. We hear them. We taste them. These words carry a reality that we may have only partially acknowledged to ourselves – then, there they are – right out there where I can see, hear, touch them – and surely God can do the same.
Do our words change God’s mind? I don’t know. Perhaps. I do believe that God can change the divine will, and I do believe that actions here on earth change situations so that God’s perfect desires can’t become reality. We speak that reality when we make petitioning prayers especially. The reality that falls short of what we want to be true, and possibly short of what God wants to be true.
Does God change? Probably not. God’s desire is the same; how it becomes reality changes with every action on earth. Just as the idea of a butterfly in Africa changing the weather pattern in North America, each decision we make changes how God’s desire is achieved. And, prayer is action. No prayer is wasted, even when our petitionary prayers seem to be answered with a big fat “NO.” The energy that we have put into that prayer moves through the universe like the fluttering of a butterfly wing, subtly changing the way the divine desire for goodness happens.
We may perceive a change in ourselves, or we may see our prayers answered in ways that we didn’t intend. If we pray for a person’s pain to cease and that person dies, what was the effect our prayer on the outcome? Nothing. The true cause. Probably neither. The effect of our prayer was an outpouring of love that took energy in the form of prayer and moved around the world. For love is an energy that never dies.
So, what does happen when we pray? Certainly we are changed in the moment that our thoughts become words or non-words or music or sighs. The laws of science say that no energy is ever lost (now don’t get me into the nitty-gritty of energy conservation theory); so the energy that we put forth goes forth, changes form carrying the goodness or evilness that we put into it – the positive or the negative. And, that energy is perhaps picked up by the neighbor who suddenly experiences a lifting of spirits or the nearby deer stops instead of crossing the road.
No, I don’t know what happens when we pray, but I’m certain that something happens. All my thoughts about prayer are speculation. I hope that goodness happens from my prayers, but I know that I have evil thoughts that take on energy as well, energy that changes me negatively. That negative energy goes somewhere, back inside me, out to sustain more evil in the world. I don’t know. That’s the real crux of it. I don’t know. But, I do know that I must pray; for in praying, I know myself, my world and my perception of God much better. I trust, totally without reason, that my intentional good prayers will be much greater than my occasional nasty thoughts.
We bring energy from our hearts and minds and translate it into words – silent or spoken – words that carry our emotions, our thoughts, our yearnings. We hear them. We taste them. These words carry a reality that we may have only partially acknowledged to ourselves – then, there they are – right out there where I can see, hear, touch them – and surely God can do the same.
Do our words change God’s mind? I don’t know. Perhaps. I do believe that God can change the divine will, and I do believe that actions here on earth change situations so that God’s perfect desires can’t become reality. We speak that reality when we make petitioning prayers especially. The reality that falls short of what we want to be true, and possibly short of what God wants to be true.
Does God change? Probably not. God’s desire is the same; how it becomes reality changes with every action on earth. Just as the idea of a butterfly in Africa changing the weather pattern in North America, each decision we make changes how God’s desire is achieved. And, prayer is action. No prayer is wasted, even when our petitionary prayers seem to be answered with a big fat “NO.” The energy that we have put into that prayer moves through the universe like the fluttering of a butterfly wing, subtly changing the way the divine desire for goodness happens.
We may perceive a change in ourselves, or we may see our prayers answered in ways that we didn’t intend. If we pray for a person’s pain to cease and that person dies, what was the effect our prayer on the outcome? Nothing. The true cause. Probably neither. The effect of our prayer was an outpouring of love that took energy in the form of prayer and moved around the world. For love is an energy that never dies.
So, what does happen when we pray? Certainly we are changed in the moment that our thoughts become words or non-words or music or sighs. The laws of science say that no energy is ever lost (now don’t get me into the nitty-gritty of energy conservation theory); so the energy that we put forth goes forth, changes form carrying the goodness or evilness that we put into it – the positive or the negative. And, that energy is perhaps picked up by the neighbor who suddenly experiences a lifting of spirits or the nearby deer stops instead of crossing the road.
No, I don’t know what happens when we pray, but I’m certain that something happens. All my thoughts about prayer are speculation. I hope that goodness happens from my prayers, but I know that I have evil thoughts that take on energy as well, energy that changes me negatively. That negative energy goes somewhere, back inside me, out to sustain more evil in the world. I don’t know. That’s the real crux of it. I don’t know. But, I do know that I must pray; for in praying, I know myself, my world and my perception of God much better. I trust, totally without reason, that my intentional good prayers will be much greater than my occasional nasty thoughts.
New site discovery
As a farm girl who is thoroughly grounded in growing things and making things out of wood, I enjoyed a blog by a retired teacher out west, Sawdust Musing . Go visit him and smell his roses.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Theologese
Today I stumbled across a mention of Kathryn Tanner, theologian at the University of Chicago Divinity School, and author of a number of interesting sounding books. She is/was doing a lecture series that was being summarized and reviewed by the blogger at the Fire and the Rose.
I remember sitting beside David Tracy, who also taught theology at Chicago, at a dinner at Sewanee (University of the South) one night. Professor Bob Hughes of the Divinity School was sitting on my other side, and they were talking across me, the public relations person reporting about this gathering and Tracy’s lecture. I swear to you that they were speaking a foreign language that is found only among professors of theology. At some point early in the evening, I asked Bob to change seats with me so they could converse easier. My neck was getting whiplash looking from one to the other as they bandied words that I couldn’t even pronounce much less understand. And, I kept some of them in mind after leaving. Upon checking theological dictionaries, I concluded that they were making up words that were combinations of Greek, Hebrew and ancient Aramaic. Later, I checked Tracy’s books, and the words were there, too.
Now Tanner didn’t seem to be making up words, but the summarizer was putting in terms that just didn’t mean anything to me – and they probably should since I’ve been to seminary. But, “apophatic” was not in my vocabulary, thank you. I finally discovered that it means proving something by stating what it is not.
Martin Buber did that in I And Thou. God is other. And, Buber can be understood by most non-scholars. I don’t know if Tanner was speaking in theologese, but her summarizer was. Her book titles sound interesting. Unfortunately, I know I’m not close enough to any library that would have them; otherwise, I would check out the books to see if she writes in terms that I can comprehend fairly easily or if they would be repeats of the night with Hughes and Tracy.
I do believe in the KISS principle, Keep It Simple, Stupid, even as I recognize that some topics do require specialized language. It’s enough for me that humanity is created in the image of God. God is beyond our understanding, but we see God in the faces of our neighbors, near and far. Telling me that humanity is an image of the Image of God, who is the second part of the Trinity really doesn’t tell me much of anything except that we see through the glass darkly. And, that was just Lecture 1. I may try the other summaries of the lectures, but I doubt that they will improve my theology or my faith. Maybe I’ll just play the meeting game and see how many words I don’t understand or sentences that mean nothing to me.
I might even try the inter-library loan program to see if her books make sense to me. Now, I know why systematic theology was so difficult for me.
Friday, March 23, 2007
What has and has not been decided
Recently Bishop Chris Epting on his blog pointed out that the House of Bishops had made clear that the primatial vicar plan was out of sync with the polity of the Episcopal Church. He also made it clear that responses on the other issues brought up in the Primates Communiqué had not be “ruled” upon because the Executive Council and the HOB both have studies underway as to process, theology and proper response.
This is typical of Chris, who was my ex-husband’s best friend in his youth. He wants everyone to understand and be very clear about the process and what has and has not been decided. In the time I have known and known of Chris, he has stood slightly to the right of middle, but his tact and diplomacy are undoubtedly of good use in his function as Ecumenical officer for the church.
The headlines in blogdom and the printed media seem to indicate that the House of Bishops has rejected the Communiqué in its entirety. This is not true. While they have affirmed the place of the GLBT persons in the Episcopal Church, they are proceeding according to church polity (decisions made by General Convention that include bishops, priests and laity). I am pleased that they are doing this. To deviate from our polity in the face of pressure from the Primates would mean that my inclusion in the church was in danger. If the House of Bishops alone could decide that no GLBT person (or anyone who might call into doubt the beliefs of another national church) could be consecrated bishop, it’s just a step before they decide, as Nigeria may be doing, that gays don’t belong in the church at all.
Of course, I am glad to see various bishops state their own beliefs about the Communiqu̩ and its demands, but they are not the entire church Рnot the right nor the left. We are all the church. Right now, each one of us matters in making this decision. I am not leaving the church or feeling afraid because they are following the canon law as set forth by our General Convention. I am saddened that some bishops and people cannot see that GLBT folk are very much like themselves. We eat, sleep, vote, work, pay taxes and worship in the same manner. We are glad, sad, angry, or content just like they are. We have children and are single. We care for the elderly and the sick. We tithe and we work within the church and without.
However, in the midst of our following proper procedures, the rest of the Anglican Communion and certain parts of our Episcopal Church have no compunction about going ahead with plans to secede from the Episcopal Church or to push us out of the Communion. I’m not sure the Anglican Communion as a whole will allow the US church to be pushed out. Many other churches are only a step behind us in our interpretation of the gospel. We may see a different communion spring forth in response to the various interpretations of Holy Scripture, but I believe they will be called by another name. Maybe not. This is just my opinion.
Right now, I am secure in the knowledge that our House of Bishops and the Executive Council are following the steps that we, the entirety of the Episcopal Church, have set out as proper procedures. Lord, give me patience, but hurry!
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Our soldiers
As I was wheeled through the Atlanta airport again, the only available seating at our gate was amongst a group of young servicemen returning from Iraq on two-week leave. They grinned at the white haired, red-hatted old lady in jeans, and began to talk with me.
While it’s true that I live in a military area with various bases all around us, and while I often see service people in their uniforms, I was moved to see so many really young men in desert fatigues. Those light tan desert boots, looking almost like athletic shoes, suddenly made me realize that these were the kids I saw in the statistics. These kids had left homes and families and jobs to go there and supposedly make a better life for Iraqis and Americans. And, they were kids. Admittedly, kids who had grown up long before they should have done so, but kids. Little more than seniors in high school.
One guy was going to visit friends; one was going home to parents; and one older guy was going home to his wife, two daughters, a son and a niece recently adopted. Three teenage daughters and a pre-teen son. I heard him say to his wife on the phone, “I’ll take care of that when I’m home.” How difficult it must be to rear a family when one person is absent! How much time and effort the mother must make! And, he was tired, not just from the long traveling, but bone weary. He talked about how the weather was warming up but it was still cold at night, 80s in the daytime. He talked about having some air conditioned rooms and how some soldiers still had only tents.
And, they all wanted to talk about ordinary things – not Iraq, not the government, not even their families much. They wanted to know Was my hot dog good? Where was I going? Why was I so excited about the pandas? Where did I come from? Was I retired? The ordinary conversation of old ladies and young polite men…if such ordinariness exists. They tried to smile, but the smiles were tired and weak.
I told them I prayed for our troops but that I didn’t have faces for them until now. And, now I do. I see that tall fellow in the sunglasses that sat a couple of seats from me. I imagine him in full dress fatigues with his pack. And, I almost cry. They need a good grandmother there – one who will bake for them and listen to them and sit quietly with them. They need us all to pray for them, and, as one said, “Pray for America, too.”
Almighty God, we commend to your gracious care and keeping all the men and women of our armed forces at home and abroad. Defend them day by day with your heavenly grace; strengthen them in their trials and temptations; give them courage to face the perils which beset them; and grant them a sense of your abiding presence wherever they may be; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
O God, the Father of all, whose Son commanded us to love our enemies: Lead them and us from prejudice to truth; deliver them and us from hatred, cruelty, and revenge; and in
your good time enable us all to stand reconciled before you. Amen.
While it’s true that I live in a military area with various bases all around us, and while I often see service people in their uniforms, I was moved to see so many really young men in desert fatigues. Those light tan desert boots, looking almost like athletic shoes, suddenly made me realize that these were the kids I saw in the statistics. These kids had left homes and families and jobs to go there and supposedly make a better life for Iraqis and Americans. And, they were kids. Admittedly, kids who had grown up long before they should have done so, but kids. Little more than seniors in high school.
One guy was going to visit friends; one was going home to parents; and one older guy was going home to his wife, two daughters, a son and a niece recently adopted. Three teenage daughters and a pre-teen son. I heard him say to his wife on the phone, “I’ll take care of that when I’m home.” How difficult it must be to rear a family when one person is absent! How much time and effort the mother must make! And, he was tired, not just from the long traveling, but bone weary. He talked about how the weather was warming up but it was still cold at night, 80s in the daytime. He talked about having some air conditioned rooms and how some soldiers still had only tents.
And, they all wanted to talk about ordinary things – not Iraq, not the government, not even their families much. They wanted to know Was my hot dog good? Where was I going? Why was I so excited about the pandas? Where did I come from? Was I retired? The ordinary conversation of old ladies and young polite men…if such ordinariness exists. They tried to smile, but the smiles were tired and weak.
I told them I prayed for our troops but that I didn’t have faces for them until now. And, now I do. I see that tall fellow in the sunglasses that sat a couple of seats from me. I imagine him in full dress fatigues with his pack. And, I almost cry. They need a good grandmother there – one who will bake for them and listen to them and sit quietly with them. They need us all to pray for them, and, as one said, “Pray for America, too.”
Almighty God, we commend to your gracious care and keeping all the men and women of our armed forces at home and abroad. Defend them day by day with your heavenly grace; strengthen them in their trials and temptations; give them courage to face the perils which beset them; and grant them a sense of your abiding presence wherever they may be; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
O God, the Father of all, whose Son commanded us to love our enemies: Lead them and us from prejudice to truth; deliver them and us from hatred, cruelty, and revenge; and in
your good time enable us all to stand reconciled before you. Amen.
Carnival of Lent - making a space
Hi folks, back from Atlanta’s panda land. Still sick and without a firm diagnosis – premature to be definitive says the doc – still not looking as if it is life-threatening.
Your prayers for my strength and energy during this time of recovery would be appreciated.
Now. We have had this Carnival of Lent – meditations on particular topics. And, I am hosting next week’s session with the topic of “Making a Space”. Please send your link and a short blurb about your piece to marsmoore at suddenlink dot net. And, let others know about our discussion/meditations – invite them to participate.
Your prayers for my strength and energy during this time of recovery would be appreciated.
Now. We have had this Carnival of Lent – meditations on particular topics. And, I am hosting next week’s session with the topic of “Making a Space”. Please send your link and a short blurb about your piece to marsmoore at suddenlink dot net. And, let others know about our discussion/meditations – invite them to participate.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Seeing the baby panda
Mama Lun Lun eating bamboo
Papa Panda Yang Yang
Red panda looks like raccoon
Baby Panda Mei Lan asleep
Speak truth
While others are examining the lack of consents for the bishop-elect of South Carolina and others are debating the proper use of secular material at funerals, I am sitting in an Atlanta hotel room, waiting to feel well enough to even go home. This is not self-pity because the hotel room is quiet, comfortable and doesn’t have two beloved cats crawling all over me. I get fed and watered and pampered.
Dennis, Grandmere Mimi and Rev Sam debate why Jesus died on the cross, and all I can think is “It’s the Incarnation that matters, not the resurrection.” But, that puts me clearly in a heretical viewpoint when I deny substitutionary atonement. I just want to get that poor tortured man down off that cross. Like some who commented on Wounded Bird, I believe that Jesus, the Christ, died for us but not necessarily as a sacrifice to God so our sins would be forgiven. I've put away my many crosses because I think "that's not what this is all about; it's about Jesus life and ministry."
God’s been forgiving sins for a long time, and, at various places in the Bible, God says that sacrifices of animals and such are not good – a contrite heart is. So here comes Jesus to lead us into this contrite heart business by bringing us closer to God and by letting God know what it is like to be human. Jesus is saying and doing things contrary to the majority opinion at the time – secular and religious. So, like a lame-duck informant, Jesus has to go. Crucifying him as a common criminal would likely stop his following, they thought.
Unfortunately, they did not recognize that Jesus was the Christ, God incarnate. And, so, God lives within our hearts and minds and souls much closer than if the Christ had not come. Jesus’ death on the cross is a stark reminder of the lengths to which God will go to maintain a relationship with us. It is truth spoken to power with terrifying results of crucifixion.
Christians in many places are speaking this same truth to power with similar terrifying results. I am not now though I did for a number of years. I’m tired, and I’ve been sick for a long time, and all I want right now is to feel better enough to tell some friends who have asked about Creation Theology. I have a little energy left to keep telling the Good News to those who wish to hear. The rest of you will have to deal with the lack of signatures on consents, the handling of funerals, and the heavier theological issues. Not that I don’t have opinions about things nor that I don’t enjoy the debates, but I don’t have the energy to preach to the choir. Y’all are doing a good job of keeping us on our toes and our voices in good order.
Dennis, Grandmere Mimi and Rev Sam debate why Jesus died on the cross, and all I can think is “It’s the Incarnation that matters, not the resurrection.” But, that puts me clearly in a heretical viewpoint when I deny substitutionary atonement. I just want to get that poor tortured man down off that cross. Like some who commented on Wounded Bird, I believe that Jesus, the Christ, died for us but not necessarily as a sacrifice to God so our sins would be forgiven. I've put away my many crosses because I think "that's not what this is all about; it's about Jesus life and ministry."
God’s been forgiving sins for a long time, and, at various places in the Bible, God says that sacrifices of animals and such are not good – a contrite heart is. So here comes Jesus to lead us into this contrite heart business by bringing us closer to God and by letting God know what it is like to be human. Jesus is saying and doing things contrary to the majority opinion at the time – secular and religious. So, like a lame-duck informant, Jesus has to go. Crucifying him as a common criminal would likely stop his following, they thought.
Unfortunately, they did not recognize that Jesus was the Christ, God incarnate. And, so, God lives within our hearts and minds and souls much closer than if the Christ had not come. Jesus’ death on the cross is a stark reminder of the lengths to which God will go to maintain a relationship with us. It is truth spoken to power with terrifying results of crucifixion.
Christians in many places are speaking this same truth to power with similar terrifying results. I am not now though I did for a number of years. I’m tired, and I’ve been sick for a long time, and all I want right now is to feel better enough to tell some friends who have asked about Creation Theology. I have a little energy left to keep telling the Good News to those who wish to hear. The rest of you will have to deal with the lack of signatures on consents, the handling of funerals, and the heavier theological issues. Not that I don’t have opinions about things nor that I don’t enjoy the debates, but I don’t have the energy to preach to the choir. Y’all are doing a good job of keeping us on our toes and our voices in good order.
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