Guest Column: Addiction and Spree Killing

 I regret that I didn't post this earlier; at the time I got it, I was in a schedule crunch, and then I forgot. But I DID remember this morning, WITHOUT being reminded, so: here is a guest column!

First off, hello Padre, thank you for taking the time to read your favorite daughter's discombobulated thoughts!

Second, HELLO, INTERNET WORLD!!!!!! Hello to friends and family, known and unknown, I sincerely pray that this finds you healthy and full of joy! 

If you haven't already read Papa's posts (HERE and HERE) on the events in Georgia, you should start there, or at your news outlet of choice, otherwise this may not make much sense. It may not make sense anyway, but I digress. 

I grew up in a little town called Woodstock in the state of Georgia. And when I was growing up, it really WAS a little town. It was SAFE, it was SHELTERED, and bad people didn't live there or ever go there. At least, in my kid brain, that's what I thought. And most of it might have even been true. But then, as is known to happen, the Big City just south of us got bigger and bigger, and Woodstock turned into "north Atlanta." Now, that doesn't really matter, EXCEPT that for my kid brain, BAD THINGS DON'T HAPPEN IN WOODSTOCK, AND NO WOODSTOCK RESIDENT WOULD EVER DO ANYTHING BAD!!!!! My adult brain knows how false that is, because I was a heroin addict in Woodstock, and I did plenty of bad things. Again, I digress.

I heard a snippet of a "news" program the other day, I do apologize, I didn't pay enough attention to know names or stations, but I did see the header "Parlor Shootings in Atlanta" and I was aware that they were interviewing an Asian reporter (the only reason that stuck was I feel like they said something about "thank you for being the voice of your people" and it made me roll my eyes a little bit, again, I didn't really know what happened). 

It's a bad day when a 32 year old woman can see something about a shooting on tv and just think "ah crap, another one. Here come the lobbyists for gun control." I had NO context about it. NO IDEA except for "shooting in Atlanta". And then I read Papa's blog post, and looked into it a bit. And my first thought was "Oh no..... He's from Woodstock." It immediately shattered my "small town feel" of my home town. IS THAT IMPORTANT???? Yes and no, but mostly no. People are dead, lives have been changed forever, in the long run it doesn't matter where the suspect received mail at. Yes, only because it shows me that the whole world is hurting. It's not just the big cities. It's not just minorities. The whole entire world is on fire, but instead of trying to do something about it, we want to micromanage issues that are political hot buttons and "sexy" right now. Namely, gun control. Here's the problem..... There have been changes. There have been issues that have been addressed. This VERY young man (he's only 21, that's a BABY) still somehow got his hands on a firearm, walked into several buildings, and took innocent lives.

This is not a gun issue.

Another hot button that we will choose to talk about? Racism. Most of his victims were of Asian descent, and he is a white man, so OBVIOUSLY he was a racist. Now, I DON'T KNOW ABOUT THAT, so I'm not going to say anything about that, but I will say this: this is not a race issue.

And then we're going to go a little bit old school and rehash some hot buttons of years past: Pornography. Ted Bundy blamed it for his crimes, as did countless other serial killers that I don't feel like naming. I'm going to go ahead and pop this bubble right now: Pornography does not make people murder other people. It just doesn't have that power! It can ruin relationships if it's allowed to, sure, but then we're getting into another issue altogether, which is what the suspect has blamed his abhorrent acts on as of now: Addiction. As an alcoholic and an addict, this is something that I understand, at least to a point. The suspect has said that he blames massage parlors and the people who work at them for fueling his sex addiction. 

During my sickness, I blamed poor Kroger for selling alcohol because I was an alcoholic and I was GOING to buy booze when I went grocery shopping.

I blamed the people I hung out with for having drugs in their pockets that they would share. 

BECAUSE I WAS POWERLESS OVER MY ADDICTIONS AND THE REST OF THE WORLD SHOULD HAVE KNOWN IT. 

Oh but we are a selfish lot. 

I'm going to bring this up, and I'll put it right back in the box, because it's something I am currently working through so I don't have as much knowledge, wisdom, or understanding as I will, God willing, in the future days, weeks, and months. 

The article that I read (from The Patch) stated that the suspect was very active in his church. Keeping in mind that this is a sick individual who needed help BUT I BELIEVE chose not to seek it, bear with me here..... I was brought up in the church and I am unashamed to say that I am a Born Again Christian and I do attend a church that preaches the Word of God. I ALSO have some very deep wounds from "the church" when it comes to sexuality. I believe that we live in a CULTURE where, if you are religious IN ANY CAPACITY, sex is a subject that is off limits. I say in any capacity because THIS IS NOT A CHRISTIAN THING. This is something that is seen in almost EVERY religion around the world, sex is not talked about in a healthy way, and HUMAN SEXUALITY has been DEMONIZED, and as a result, people are going off the deep end because "if I have sexual feelings, then I obviously don't really believe in *enter deity here* and I'm going to *enter bad underworld here* so I might as well be bad because I OBVIOUSLY am hopeless". AND THAT IS A LIE!!!!!!!!!! I'm not going to get into a talk about sex here, but I will say this: SEX IS NOT UNCLEAN. IT DOESN'T DAMN YOU TO HELL. THE CREATOR CREATED YOU AS A SEXUAL BEING, SO STOP THINKING YOU'RE UNLOVEABLE BECAUSE YOU HAVE FEELINGS!!!!!!

Now, that being said. This young man stated he has a sex addiction, and that brings me to my possibly final point: I am curious to know if he sought addiction counseling. I highly doubt he did, and here's why:

1) Counseling is expensive

2) We still hold on to this archaic belief that if we go to a head doctor, there's something wrong with us, people will look down at us, they'll think we're crazy, and they won't want to be around us anymore.

3) Counseling is expensive.

4) Most "regular" people don't even know where to start when it comes to looking for a therapist who is an expert in what we're dealing with, so after a quick webmd check to diagnose ourselves and then getting distracted by other things online, we get frustrated with not being able to find any help and we stop. 

5) I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but COUNSELING IS EXPENSIVE. 

So we self medicate, which makes us more sick, which makes us that much more unlikely to reach out for help.

All of that to say, yeah, I know what PART of the solution is. Quality, affordable, accessible mental health options. I don't know how it'll happen, because that's not what they're paying me for, but I will say this: I'm a recovering addict and alcoholic. I sought out help. When one thing didn't work, I tried something different. I go to my psychiatrist on a regular basis. I'm on a wait list for a talk therapist. And yes, it's expensive. I wish it wasn't. But I will die if I don't get help.

I leave you with this:

Feeling bad, don't mean doing bad.

Be angry, and sin not.

Do the next right thing.

Bess B.

The April Fool of 2021, plus it's Good Friday, and RED Friday

A great good morning to all my friends and neighbors in Internet Land! And to family members who have dropped by, this story will not come as a surprise.

WARNING: WHILE NOT INTENDED TO BE POLITICAL, THIS POST DOES TOUCH ON SOME POLITICAL ISSUES. IF YOU FIND THESE OFFENSIVE, FEEL FREE TO REPLY TO ME BY EMAIL AT PAPAPATPATTERSON AT GMAIL DOT COM. I WILL NOT PUBLISH ANY POLITICALLY MOTIVATED ATTACK STATEMENTS ON THIS BLOG.

The blog title is “The April Fool of 2021;” but if I were writing this as a 19th century adventure, I would most assuredly add 

“Or, 

How Dr. Joseph Cousin, Senior, 

and I 

Combined Efforts 

To Produce 

Goodness From Goofiness.”

Despite appearances, you ARE getting a massively edited version of the events taking place on April 1, 2021. This is a John 21:25b-type event! (If I wrote it in detail, even the world itself couldn’t contain it…)

So, dispensing with the HIGHLY significant and relevant 1995 events, as well as those from 2001,  2011, and 2020s, even MOST of 2021 events (!), I present to you the story of how The Reverend Doctor Joseph Cousin, pastor of Allen Temple AME Church of Woodstock, and the Forward Focused Thursday broadcast, combined with my own gifts (!!) to play the best April Fool Joke on me EVER!!!

If you wish to know the background, you will find it in the breathtaking true-life story of “The Church Lady and the Motorcycle White Boy, Volume II,” which is still being written. And lived.

For reasons, every Thursday at noon since November, I have made it a priority to listen to Allen Temple AME’s Facebook live stream, “Forward Focused Thursday.” The patriarch, Bishop Philip Cousin, is joined by two of his two sons, Dr. Michael Cousin, Sr, and Dr. Joseph Cousin, Sr, and by grandson Reverend Steven Cousin Jr, with grandson Reverend Timothy Cousin making frequent appearances as well. (All these men are AME pastors, and the godly heritage itself is enough to commend it to listeners.)

I never finish the live stream as the same person I was when it started. Sometimes challenged, sometimes comforted, usually both; it’s an exposure to probably two centuries of combined experience of godly men. (Must I state explicitly that they all, particularly the 89 year old Bishop, bring a perspective that I can only PARTLY comprehend, and that’s my reason for tuning in?)

Yesterday, I go to the live cast as usual. Almost immediately, the team reminds me that this is Holy Week, when we remember the arrest, torture, and crucifixion of Jesus; yet, knowing the RESURRECTION is coming. Deep thoughts, not only of first century events, but what we can do TODAY. And I’m thinking those thoughts, when…

...a little past the six minute mark, Pastor Joseph says this is pre-recorded, because he has been asked to attend a “rally/press conference/event” to protest some legislation placing restrictions on the voting processes.

Since I am under a self-imposed ban on news, I wasn’t aware of this issue, so I paused the stream, and googled “Atlanta Voting Protest.” And THIS  is the result I found. The article states that a protest to Bill 531, to restrict some voting rights, was being held at the Capitol, starting at 5:31 AM, and going to 5:31 PM. 

THE APRIL FOOL JOKE HAS INITIATED!

O Best Beloved, if you have clicked on that link, and seen the article, did YOU catch the TWO alerts that I missed? Yes? No? I’ll tell you later, in case you missed them, as I did.

"That's a good cause," I thought. "I need to go to that, and take Kenneth." He's my 16 year old son, and was home yesterday. 

"Come on, Kenneth, put on your shoes and socks. I'm going to take you to your first protest demonstration!"

(SQUAWK SQUAWK!! “Protest? Protest WHAT?” SQUAWK! SQUAWK!!!)

But, he’s a good and cooperative young man, and in a moment or two, he does appear, wearing shoes and socks. 

I want to get there, participate, and get back home before the traffic gets bad. It’s about 12:30, I figure it will take us an hour to get to the Capitol, find a place to park, and walk to the event. So, minutes count; which is why I don't even finish listening to the rest of Forward Focused Thursday. They are around 10 minutes in, at this point, and talking about football, about which I know little and care less, so I just hit the PAUSE button, and down the road Kenneth and I go. 

I will spare you from hearing the chants I told Kenneth he would have to learn before we got there. 

“It’s a protest, Kenneth! Of COURSE you have to chant.”
“I don’t want to chant,” he replies. “It bothers people.”
“That’s the POINT!” I said.

At the Capitol, we do find a protest, and some of the protesters are wearing "VOTE" facemasks, but they are there for something else. 
I eventually discover NO ONE is there for protest against 531, and that the 531 protest was: 

last month. 

This rally was in support of the family and cause of Justice for Jamarion (Robinson), who would have been 31 years old today. I wept, hearing his story; could have been my Kenneth. Could easily have been me, at that age.

When we get back home, I discover that the Channel 11 news item I had seen was dated MARCH 1, not APRIL 1. And that the protest took place on a MONDAY, not a Thursday. (Didn't notice that.)
Then, I listen to the rest of the Forward Focused Thursday cast, and at around 33:00 hear Pastor Joseph say that he is headed to the World of Coke for the protest event.

SO:

Wrong cause.

Wrong place.

Wrong month.

Other than that, everything went GREAT! 

I had a great time with Kenneth, and was deeply moved by Jamarion's story. 
I got to take Kenneth to his first protest event:

One of the organizers and Kenneth, 

because I needed a pic to send to Vanessa,

who had no idea what I was doing

And I learned another lesson in the sweetness of willingly accepting a drink from the Cup of Humiliation! It burns horribly if you resist, but it goes down like cool balm for the soul if you accept the correction. 
Habakkuk21b: “I will keep watch to see what He will say to me, and how I may reply when I am reproved.” 

If my reply is “Yes, Lord,” then I can laugh at my foolishness, and not be ashamed.

So, laugh with me!    

Peace be on your household.

Todd, Hannah, Beach Access #01: A Divine Appointment

 A great good morning to all my friends and neighbors in Internet Land! And to family members who have dropped by, help yourself to some pinto beans. I’m having mine over Ritz crackers, but there is brown rice as well.

This is the story of Todd, Hannah, and Beach Access #01. It takes place in Jacksonville, Florida,  a lovely city, with just a few drivers intent on vehicular mayhem; none of them feature in this story.

My gift-from-God, happily-ever-after trophy wife Vanessa, the elegant, foxy, praying black grandmother of Woodstock, GA, and I were in Jacksonville this past weekend to say good-bye to our dear Jan Patterson-McIvor, my step-mom, who had crossed over earlier this month.

It was a very positive, albeit sometimes weepy, weekend.

Sunday morning, Vanessa and I checked out of the hotel, emerging into wind-driven rain and 50 degree temps. Still, we wanted to visit the beach.

I had promised Alicia Ann that if we DID go to the beach, I’d bring her some back.  Besides that, an  ocean beach can be impressive in rotten weather. 

Waze directed us to Beach Access #01, just a few miles from the hotel.  Not being made out of sugar, we stepped bravely into the drizzling wind, made our way across the wooden bridge, and followed the short path to the water, where I scooped up a small bottle of sand and ocean for Alicia. Both of us took pictures with our phones, and I took a couple of short videos.

A 7-second video of Vanessa at Beach Access # 01

Caution: WIND NOISE!

The wind was behind us, as we strolled down the beach to the nearest lifeguard post, but when we turned around to head back, WHAM!!! Driven sand, cold rain, fierce cold breeze, BRRRR.

Walking back. See the wind-whipped jacket?

Vanessa had her hoodie up, but the sand-filled wind was still chewing on her. I don’t mind the cold so much, so I took off my jacket, and tried to wrap her up in it. I think that was when it happened: 

Her phone fell out of her pocket.

Of course, we didn’t realize it until we were back at the car. We chatted for a bit:

No, you stay here, I’ll go find it. 
The ringer is off, you say? 
No problem, your phone is pink.

On my way back out to the beach, I greeted the Beach Stranger, a tall & handsome younger-ish man (a tiny bit of gray in his well-groomed beard) who was wearing some sort of ocean-guy suit, covering torso and shorts. (I’m sure it has a name.) We exchanged howdy, and that was it, until I fell down on the stairs to the bridge. Then, I had to assure him that I was okay, just old and clumsy, and thanked him for his concern and encouragement.

I headed toward the lifeguard chair, to look for Vanessa’s phone, while Beach Stranger went straight to the ocean (barefoot, which is wise) and took some pictures. 
I could find nothing, but I could pray:

“Lord, help me find Vanessa’s phone. Please don’t let this sour her memory of the weekend. Please, Father, let me find her phone.”

(By the way, you CAN pray with cold rain and sand being driven into your beard.)

I headed back toward Beach Access #01, looking for the path we had taken. The wind had obscured our footprints. 

As I drew closer to the Beach Stranger, I asked him if he was leaving right away, or if he would be here for a while. I told him of the lost phone, and said if he didn’t mind looking around, I’d give him $5 just for that, and real money if he found it. 
He laughed at that, and told me he wasn’t concerned about money, that he was doing well. He said he was out here to go for a swim, but he seemed happy to help. 

I showed him where we had walked, to the lifeguard chair, and how I had tried to repeat our path, but found nothing. He pointed out that the tide was coming in. I realize now that if I was basing my search on distance from the ocean, I could be off by several feet.

He continued down the beach toward the lifeguard chair, while I stomped through the possibly phone-obscuring foam accumulated at the edge of the waves, to no avail. 
I turned back, just in time to see him bend over and pick something up, and wave at me.

You know what it was.

At age 27,  I would have run toward him. At 67, I just trudged. When I got to him, he was still wiping the sand off Vanessa’s phone, and it was still working.

We headed back to Beach Access #01. I said

“I know money isn’t important to you, but would it make you mad if I prayed to the Most High God, to give thanks for you, and for finding that which was lost?”

He looked at me strangely. Oh, so very strangely. It was one of those moments that stretches out, and then he said:

“That’s what I was going to ask you to do. I’ve just lost the love of my life. I believe she is my soul mate, but she is younger than I am, and she wants to learn more about life before settling down.”

He said a few more things, but they were private, between the two of us. And I said a few more things to him, mostly a bit of my own story, and broken hearts healed; also private, between the two of us.

He told me his name was Todd, and her name was Hannah.

We had arrived back at Beach Access #01, and we walked over to the Suburban, where my Sweet One waited. 

The mighty prayers my wife can pray! She prayed for blessings, and healing of the heart, and comfort, and reconciliation, and God’s purposes made evident, and the desires of the heart fulfilled, and thanksgiving for this stranger who had helped us without thought for himself. And she prayed that Hannah would find what she was looking for. 

We do not know all of the things that Todd the Beach Stranger brought to his meeting with the Redneck Biker and the Church Lady. We know almost nothing about Hannah. 

But we do know our Father, and we know about Divine Appointments.

Peace be on your household.

Mass Murder: An Oblique Approach

The solemn nature of this post, along with yesterday's, prompts me to abandon my typical whimsical opening. Be sure, though, that I do care for those who read this, and ALL my posts. 

Yesterday, I called for a return to federal and state support of mental health services. I referenced a WORKABLE solution to the specific problem of school shootings, which I had personally been involved in establishing in my home county, about 30 years ago. 

My gift-from-God, happily-ever-after trophy wife Vanessa, the elegant, foxy, praying black grandmother of Woodstock, GA, had some mild concern that my linking the shooting with mental health would serve to further stigmatize that problem. This was troubling to her. As is the case with many, if not most, of you, there are people we know, and love, who are struggling with some mental health issues. I hope NEVER to add to the burden these must bear already.

As I said, Vanessa had some mild concern. This she expressed in both digital and analogue form. The digital manifestations were comments that she added to yesterday's post, as well  as on my BootFace posting. These were written in brief, in passion, and on her scant lunch break.

However, when she got home, she expressed those same concerns in analogue fashion; although, her approach COULD be termed as analogue digital, as she used her DIGITS (fingers, get it?) to get my attention. After grasping my mat off chest hair and drawing me close, and driving her knee into an area I'll not be using for much of anything for a while, she whispered gently, directly into my ear, at about 120 decibels: 

"It's not mental health, dear. It's sin."

I disagree not at all with my wife, for her scintillating exposition gently brushed away any objections I might have. In addition, even before she explained her position to me in a way I could understand, I, too, believe the root problem is one of sin. In fact, I'm inclined to say the sin runs far deeper than what my Sweet One was suggesting.

Vanessa, despite my jokes about her affirmative approach, is above all a nurturing mother (and grandmother and great-grandmother). When she heard of the shootings, her heart  turned first to the families of the eight dead, and the wounded, and almost simultaneously to the family of the shooter. (My policy is NEVER to mention the name of shooters, thus I can't identify them here.) Vanessa is appalled and horrified that the innocents are paying a terrible price for something they bear no responsibility for. 

And thus, not ONLY does she wish to protect the people suffering from mental illness from being compared to a murderer, she also can NOT tolerate the idea of the bringer of so much suffering and grief being excused by a casual classification as "he is mentally ill." Who could NOT appreciate her perspective?

I agree with her. One of the FEW things we know about the shooter, is that he stated that he was driven to eliminate sources of sexual temptation, stating that he was a sex addict. Clearly, treating other humans as an object, only useful as a means of gratifying lust, is sin. If you are willing to admit that such a thing as 'sin' exists, then treating other humans as things has to qualify. 

In fact, I regard a core element of most, if not EVERY vile action to be regarding humans as things. Genocide: get rid of those things; they aren't us, therefore they aren't worth anything. Looting pension plans: the people who invested their life savings aren't real; they are barely significant as entries in a ledger somewhere. Slavery; Rape; Pedophilia; all have at the core the concept that these are not humans to be considered, but objects to exploit. Even trivial, misdemeanor crimes likely have some element of objectifying humans. Would you speed in traffic, if you were thinking about the people in the other cars as people, not barriers to your progress?

Four dead; one wounded.

I do NOT know what transpired inside the three businesses that were attacked on Tuesday. I know the names of the businesses; I know that seven of the eight people killed were women, and six of those were Korean; and, I know that the shooter regraded them as temptations. I have ZERO evidence that they did anything unethical, immoral, or illegal. And Atlanta Mayor Keisha Bottoms quickly, and correctly stated that there was NEVER going to be any blaming of the victims. She is right, she is right. SHE IS RIGHT.

But, let us return to the concept of sin, and to the idea of victims.

Even without the assumption that the employees of these businesses were performing lewd acts, I maintain that they were already victims, before the shooter entered the building.

About five years ago, my family lost a close friend, a smart, charming, beautiful young single mom who had grown up eating meals and hanging out at Vanessa's house, classmates of our (now adult) daughters. Struggling to make it on her own, while earning a degree in psychology, she took a job as an "exotic dancer." In other words, a stripper. 

She was a victim. Men paid outrageous sums of money to see her take her clothes off, and that is all they valued her for. She was a victim, in part because there was NO WAY that she could make the money she needed to support herself and her little girl, and pay for school, without being a stripper. 

Look, I GET it. Consenting adults. Freedom of speech. And so on. ALL of those are good ideas, and I will not speak against them. 

It's just that I happen to know, via private sources, that the women in the clubs are paid as independent contractors, and thus are denied ALL fringe benefits, INCLUDING employer payments into Social Security, any health insurance; AND!!!! they are not truly in the status of independent contractors.

So, let us NOT blame the victims, but let us DO consider the sins against them. 

Mayor Bottoms: you had four women killed in your city. Were these women essentially forced into working in these environments because there was NO OTHER WAY they could support themselves and their families? I think that's systematic, institutional sin. Were they ALSO being paid as independent contractors, without really qualifying? Also institutional sin. 

Also: two of those killed in Cherokee County, and all four killed in Atlanta, were Korean women. I don't know; perhaps those six consisted of ALL the Korean women working in massage parlors. Maybe the shooter went after them specifically, although the cops are saying that doesn't seem to be the case. But if we were to investigate, and find that Korean women are vastly over-represented in employees of massage parlors, then I think that is evidence of a systematic sin. 

I'm sick about this. I'm sick thinking about the way things were before the shooting, and I'm sick thinking about the fact that unless the institutional sin is addressed, victims will still suffer.

SO: I'm going to start by writing my congressman, to address the mental health issues I discussed yesterday, and I'm going to contact the IRS to see if they will investigate the employment status of the women in the shadowy industry. And, I'm gonna pray, too.

Peace be on your household. 

  

A Short Testimony of the Conviction of Things Hoped For

Greetings, etc; if I don't hurry through this, we will be late for church, and it will be my fault.

When I was a goof teenager, maybe 17 years old, I discovered a little bit about the Bible. And I briefly attended a Campus Crusade for Christ study, just long enough to memorize I Corinthians 13, about the still more excellent way, which is love.

From Campus Crusade for Christ, 1970

(No, I didn't understand it. But, at least I was exposed to it.)

Decades later,  I discovered the riches in what we have recorded as the second letter Paul wrote to the church at Corinth. I had life experience by then that allowed me to see truth in the words.

"...we were burdened excessively, beyond our strength, so that we despaired even of life;
9 indeed, we had the sentence of death within ourselves so that we would not trust in ourselves, but in God who raises the dead;
10 who delivered us from so great a peril of death, and will deliver us, He on whom we have set our hope. And He will yet deliver us..." (II Cor 1:8b-10, NASB)

In September of 2007, when I realized I could no longer do my job, I clung to verse 7:

we had the sentence of death within ourselves, so that we would not trust in ourselves, but in God who raises the dead. 

I even spoke that verse to my boss, as we were arranging for my termination. Don't know if it meant anything to him at that point, but it sure meant something to me. It was what got me through those awful days at the very end.

This morning, I was faced with IRREFUTABLE evidence of His redemptive, resurrection power in my life, disclosed via, of all things, a gift made by my gift-from-God, happily-ever-after trophy wife Vanessa, the elegant, foxy, praying black grandmother of Woodstock, GA, to a friend in need.

This is NOT Vanessa, but it is the image she has chosen to represent herself.

In September 2007, I could only walk blindly, in hope; today, I walk in hope realized.

Peace be on your household.

I Woke Up Troubled This Morning

Greetings, to all my friends and neighbors out there in Internet land! And, for those family members who meet the three criteria (above the daisies, able to use a computer, and both aware and interested in my blog), I hope you don't have to go to the dentist today, unless it's for a social visit.

I woke up troubled this morning. For some reason, I was listening (just in my memory banks) to the first lines of Joan Baez singing "The Ballad of Joe Hill" at Woodstock, 50 years ago last August. I have no explanation as to why that should be so, but, to help clarify, I both listened to the song again, and did a bit of research on Joe Hill.

I already knew he was an early 20th century labor organizer, who was executed under dubious circumstances. What I didn't know was that most of his work was as a songwriter, putting revolutionary words about organizing (at the time, unions were a revolutionary concept) to the tunes of popular songs. One of his works, "The Preacher and the Slave," was set to the tune of the hymn "In The Sweet By and By." His song bewails the practice of those in authority offering poor workers starvation wages, while encouraging them to keep working hard, because they have a reward in heaven.

(Parenthetically: I have not verified this from other sources, but the single site I referenced claims that the term "pie in the sky" originated with this song. I will leave the proof of this as an exercise for the reader.)

(Also parenthetically: Without doubt, the practice of denying a worker appropriate wages is wicked in itself; to cloak greed with the promise of a heavenly reward multiplies the evil. Going beyond the employee-employer relationship,  James tells us that religious words are worthless, if we offer them to a brother or sister in place of providing for their physical needs.)

And I thought: I have food, shelter, and clothing, as well as other comforts that the rest of humanity throughout time, as well as most of the world today, could only dream about. I also have the hope of glory, which is Christ in me. So,

Why then, do I find myself praying so fervently for the things I need to make it through the day?

 I'm not sure, but I think it's because I'm troubled about our country.

There may be a lot of leaders out there, working hard to bring peace, but the noise that reaches me here in my home is that of factions fighting for power at the expense of all else. Long ago, I decided I was NOT going to try to follow political parties, or attend to ANYTHING that seemed to be divisive. Even so, the noise reaches me. I have heard that there are some saying that NOW, TODAY, is the time for active opposition, whether to a government policy, or to a civilian faction espousing some other point of view.

Admittedly, I may hear more about this than some of you, since my one remaining hobby is owning and operating (and reloading for) obsolete (also known as CHEAP!) firearms. However, apart from what seems to me to be a ludicrous battle raging over gun control, I'm also aware that there are some fairly significant issues of freedom of speech and freedom of religion that appear to be on a collision course, and I don't see that as having a good outcome.

It's not all one way, of course, and it hardly ever is. A couple of weeks ago, the editor-in-chief of Christianity Today, a magazine I have long had great respect for, and one of the tiny number of magazines I subscribe to, posted an editorial titled "Trump Should Be Removed from Office."

(insert firestorm of reaction here)

Figuratively speaking, that is. This blog post does not have the bandwidth to actually carry a  firestorm of reaction. Pretty sure you need 4K, 5G, 3D VR, and lots of other alphanumerics to convey a  firestorm of reaction.

(Also also parenthetically: This isn't the first time that Christianity Today has spoken out against a problem with the behavior of a sitting president. The editorial quotes criticisms made in 1998 regarding the seeming inability to tell the truth on the part of then-President Clinton. At the time, he was assailed by Ken Starr's Whitewater investigation, Paula Jones' sexual harassment claims, and final proof of his dalliance with a 22-year-old infatuated intern, Monica Lewinsky (who probably paid the highest price of all concerned.)) 

For me, the great issue with the Galli editorial is that he went beyond identifying problem behaviors, both in the White House, and from the seemingly unquestioning evangelical supporters of the administration, to pronouncing sentence on the president: he should be removed from office. THAT, in my opinion, is NOT within the purview of the editor-in-chief. YES, identify the issues, and tell it like it is! Absolutely! But, DON'T pronounce the sentence. As Galli correctly states, that decision rests in the hands of the Senate, with the impeachment process, and with the electorate, if he remains in office.
Perhaps I am mistaken. I am not in the Trump camp, and thus as unaware as possible about all of the fragrance surrounding, etc, etc. When I was 19, I was a Democrat; by the time I was 33, I voted Republican. I considered affiliating with the Libertarians, but they are just a little bit crazier than I wish to be considered.

Regardless of all, I woke up troubled.

Part of today's study was Psalm 12, and it helped, a bit.

1 Help, Lord, for the godly man ceases to be,
For the faithful disappear from among the sons of men.
2 They speak falsehood to one another;
With flattering lips and with a double heart they speak.
3 May the Lord cut off all flattering lips,
The tongue that speaks great things;
4 Who have said, “With our tongue we will prevail;
Our lips are our own; who is lord over us?”
5 “Because of the devastation of the afflicted, because of the groaning of the needy,
Now I will arise,” says the Lord; “I will set him in the safety for which he longs.”
6 The words of the Lord are pure words;
As silver tried in a furnace on the earth, refined seven times.
7 You, O Lord, will keep them;
You will preserve him from this generation forever.
8 The wicked strut about on every side
When vileness is exalted among the sons of men.

May all of good will be found in the safety for which we long. 

Peace be on your household.

Dealing With Stuff I Don't Like

Long, long ago, I used to think that Stuff I Didn't Like happened to me because I was trapped in some incomprehensible cycle of small happiness, followed by disaster. As a result, I was fatalistic; Stuff I Didn't Like kept happening.
It looked a lot like this (except not nearly as pretty):

The Cycle of Life

Later, I believed that Stuff I Didn't Like happened to me because God was mad at me. As a result, I tried to stop doing things that made God mad, and hope He ignored me; some of the Stuff I Didn't Like stopped, but an awful lot kept happening.
It looked a lot like this:

Angry Jehovah, Sistine Chapel

Much later, I realized that most of the Stuff I Didn't Like happened to me because it was a logical consequence of my behavior. As a result, I changed my behavior; almost all of the Stuff I Didn't Like stopped happening.
It looked a lot like this (except I'm smiling, not crying):

A sign that no longer bothers me

For the last several years, I realize that just about all of the Stuff I Don't Like comes as a result of loving people, and they make their own mistakes, which causes them pain, and random things also happen to cause them pain, and I don't like it when people I love are in pain. As a result, I realized that the only alternative was to stop loving people; therefore

Stuff I Don't Like is going to be with me forever.

It looks a lot like this:

Acceptance, Forgiveness, Restoration;

Things we all need, 

To give and receive.

 Peace be on your household.

Hymn to Physical Pain: Rudyard Kipling, 1932

Greetings to all my internet friends and neighbors,  and welcome to my attempt to get SOMETHING, ANYTHING, in print.  And for any of my family checking in, this is a story you have not heard, although the subject will be familiar to you.

I've just finished Laura Montgomery's excellent book "Simple Service: Martha's Sons, Book One." I'd like to review it for you, but alas, I have found that attempting to review ANY of the several books I've read immediately results in a bad outcome for me. It seems that an even greater burden comes upon me at the moment I open the word processor, trivializing the writing of reviews, and I can't proceed. It's just writer's block, I know, and it will pass. It has always done so in the past.

But: here's the progression I followed: the series Montgomery has started is called "Martha's Sons." This Martha is a person of literature, living on a planet that was not what they were looking for, and thus designated as NWWWLF. She has multiple sons and daughters, and two of them in particular are the main characters of this compelling book, addressing themes of family loyalty and conflict, the difficulty of living on a planet which requires extensive terraforming, the tendency of oligarchies to resort to ever-more repressive measures to keep in power, all giving us a lovely, lovely back-story to her "Waking Late" series.

The story is quite engaging, but it was the sub-title that kept center-stage in my mind as I finished the read this morning. In fact, I had quite convinced myself that the name of the book was "The Sons of Martha," enough so that I had a moment of difficulty locating the right file to open, as I shifted from one Kindle platform to another. And that lead me to Kipling.

Not that Montgomery references Kipling in the book; the only identifiable reference is to one James Shirley, who wrote "Death the Leveller," presumably some time before his own death in 1666; I feel certain that a post-mortem poet would find it difficult to get published at that time, leveled or not.

I had actually conflated two of Kipling's poems in my memory. For some reason, I had remembered the SUBJECT of "The Sons of Martha," but had assigned to it the title "The Hymn of Breaking Strain." So, it was to that second poem I went first, quickly to disabuse myself of the mis-attribution. However, once there, I discovered the poem which constitutes the title of this blog post, "Hymn to Physical Pain."

I was interested. I am familiar intimately with physical pain, and slightly knowledgeable about the sad fact that Kipling suffered terribly from abdominal pain for the last 20 years of his life. In fact, four years after this poem was published, Kipling died after surgery to repair an intestinal hemorrhage. So, why does he write a hymn to it?

My first, quick reading lead me astray. I thought he was praising the remission of physical pain, which I can absolutely understand.

Subsequent, more careful review set me straight. Here's what Kipling is saying:
Physical pain is good, because it takes our mind off mental/emotional pain, which is far worse.

Hmmmm. I'm going to have to think about that one. As it happens, my current age matches that of Kipling when he wrote this poem; he was only 70 when he died. (ONLY 70? When did 70 become too young to die in my mind?)

My last bout with the intense, captivating pain that is referenced here was a few months ago, and I can absolutely testify to the fact that it drives every other thought from your mind. Surgery brought an end to my pain (want to see a picture of the incision?) but that wasn't available for Kipling. Frankly, I can't imagine enduring the intense degree of torment he must have felt for any length of time; I was only hospitalized for a week or so before they finally opened my belly, and until then I was watching the clock like a monomaniac, and ringing the bell for the nurse to come put the stuff in my IV IMMEDIATELY.

But Kipling says the other pain, that of his soul, was worse. I know he lost a daughter to pneumonia in 1899, and his son was killed in 1915 in WWI, after Kipling had used his influence to get him a commission in the Irish Guards. For the rest, I can recommend to you The History Guy's YouTube presentation.

I guess this will, ultimately, be my takeaway: I am EVER so glad that all I have is physical pain. I'm not denying or trying to minimize it; people who are close to me can verify that there are times when it is all I can do to drag myself out of bed. (Fortunately, those times are rare!) But, it IS just pain, after all. It's not suffering, it's not misery. Those are additives, which I can choose or not.

And today, I choose not.

Peace be on your household.

"How Do We Sing the LORD'S Song in a Foreign Land?"

I have reviewed a LOT of books in the Four Horsemen Universe, after starting just two years ago this week.  I didn't start with the FIRST book in the series, which was, I believe, Cartwright's Cavaliers, but that turned out not to make a difference; they are (almost) all self-contained. 
Furthermore, since they appear to be churning them out at a rate usually associated with a select-fire switch, I will likely be reviewing more in the near future. I post my reviews, and any related blog posts, in the Facebook group which is a meeting place for fans of the series,  "4HU- The Merc Guild."
Today, a sailor of some experience, by the name of Shawn, discussed how you orient yourself on a boat/ship. Then, he opened the discussion to consider how to find your way around & orient yourself, on a vehicle in space. It was really QUITE interesting! 

And that got me thinking: 
How do you orient yourself spiritually in space?

Initially, I just considered: if you are member of a religion that requires certain prayers be offered when faced in a particular direction, how do you do that when you aren't on Earth?

I know essentially NOTHING about ANY world religious practices (including my own), but I do know how to google things. Here are some examples of geographical orientation during prayer: 

Sandhya Vandana, a Hindu form of prayer, might be easy, because it stipulates facing toward the sun, but what if you are in a binary system? And can you use ANY sun, or must you keep your home sun paramount?

Early Christian writer St John of Damascus, in the 8th century AD,  emphasized facing to the EAST during prayer. At least PART of that tradition was because that was the direction of the Mount of Olives. So, still to the east, or to the Mount of Olives? Because depending on where you are, you could be facing in ANY direction. 

St. John of Damascus

Attributed to Iconographer Ne'meh Naser Homsi

The Talmud and the Mishnah states that those of us in the Diaspora should face east, but then the closer you get to the Kodesh Hakodashim (the Holy of Holies), the more precise your aim has to be.

Offering incense at the Ark of the Covenant

Found in the Kodesh Hakodashim

In Islam, prayer is directed toward the Kaaba in Mecca. In one of his series (Raj Whitehall), David Drake & Stephen Michael Stirling solved the problem by having the Muslims escaping Earth bring a fragment of the Kaaba with them. Failing that most practical solution, how do the faithful in other solar systems know how to direct their prayers?

Every Muslim who is able to is required to 

make a ritual pilgrimage to the Kaaba

(at least once in their life) 

It's a non-trivial problem. However, in most space operas and science fiction civilizations, in the earliest stages, simple survival concerns seem to have overwhelmed details of space worship. If directionality does prove to be an issue, how in the heck to you know where anything  is, once you pass through hyperspace?

This is decidedly not a new problem, nor is it one limited to science fiction. . In the 6th century BCE, someone, perhaps the Prophet Jeremiah or one of his contemporaries, wrote in Tehilim/Psalm 137: 4: "How shall we sing Shir Hashem (the Lord's song) in an admat nekhar (foreign land)?"

By the rivers of Babylon,

There we sat down and wept,

When we remembered Zion.

Upon the willows in the midst of it

We hung our harps.

(Psalm 137:1-2, NASB)

It's really TOUGH to treat matters of faith seriously in science fiction, but it HAS been done. 
Mad Mike Williamson  has one approach in the Freehold series.
Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle have another in The Mote series.
DISCLAIMER: While entirely lovely, C. S. Lewis' Space Trilogy was really a theological work, with a thin coat of science fiction sprayed over it, so I don't count that one.
Brad Torgersen most BRILLIANTLY amalgamates the two in "The Chaplain's War." 
And Sarah A. Hoyt has what her fans call "NUNS IN SP-A-A-CE!" (and some additional works as well.)

There is some seriously strange stuff out there.

There are others, certainly, who have dealt with faith in space opera, even if it's the Force.

 Not the midichlorian Force, because that really didn't happen. 

I don't care if you THOUGHT you saw it on screen; it really didn't happen.

As I've been rolling the problem of singing the Lord's song in alien circumstances around in my mind, over the past couple of hours, here's what I have come up with:

I've had to answer the question every day.

That's because every day is brand new territory. Yes, I have experienced a lot of Fridays, but never THIS Friday. This Friday brings new situations I have never faced before. Those situations are almost always tiny, insignificant variations, but I have absolutely zero guarantee that this will continue to be the case. In fact, if I have any guarantee at all, it's that sooner or later, I'm going to be on unfamiliar ground. Maybe literally; maybe I'm going to have to go to a location I have never seen before. Most likely, though, it's going to be a life experience that changes things for me.

Will I be able to discover the Next Right Thing to do? 

Without trivializing the question, I still have to give a simple answer: well, yes. I will. 

Because the Next Right Thing is ALWAYS going to be: sing the Lord's song. 

Forget the details. Forget the circumstances. Forget the distance, the disorientation. None of that goes to the heart of the CHOICE. What DOES go to the heart of the choice is: practice. If I have been singing the Lord's song in health, in sunshine, when there is food in the kitchen and money in the bank, then I have been practicing for the other times. And if I have been faithful, and singing the Lord's song, and not a song in praise of myself, or prosperity, then I will simply continue to sing. 

Like the Whos down in Who-ville.

How do I sing the Lord's song in a foreign land? I just : sing.

Peace be on your household.

"In the Year King Uzziah Died..."

Greetings, internet friends and neighbors, and a big hidey-ho to those family members left upright and on the right side of the daisies. And to everybody else: you start by banging the rocks together, then go from there.

Isaiah 6:1 begins "In the year King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord..." The verses continue with the details of his vision, and if you are at all familiar with contemporary Christian music, you'll recognize the verses as the inspiration for multiple songs and choruses.

"The Prophet Isaiah," Marc Chagall

I'm not gonna talk about that.

Instead, I'm gonna talk, a bit, about how you go about seeing the Lord when you have had your guts kicked out.

To do that, I've got to talk a bit about King Uzziah.

He started out GREAT! And he was only 16 when he ascended to the throne. His name means "The LORD is my strength," and that's the way he ruled.

At first.

And for a long time: his rule totaled 52 years.
And he really did great things for Israel. I'm not gonna detail them here, but if you want to go to the primary source, check out the books of I Kings (Chapter 15) and II Chronicles (Chapter 26). It is said that his rule was second only to Jehoshaphat, since the time of Solomon, David's son and the third king.

Somehow, though, despite his military and scientific advances, and his fame and prosperity, it just wasn't enough for him. He decided he was going to do the ONE thing that was forbidden to him: he was going to burn incense on the altar of God.

Nope. BIG nope. The right incense had to be offered in the right way by the right people, or A Very Bad Thing happened, and that was the truth even from the beginning. Aaron, Moses' brother, was the first priest, and his sons with him, and when they offered the wrong incense, THEY wound up being burned.

You think a king would know better!

But, he didn't; and when he tried, even over the objection of the priests, he got struck with leprosy.

And then he lived, in isolation, for 11 more years.

And the people? Devastated, no doubt. Here was this INCREDIBLE, gifted king, one who was so famous that they knew about him way over in Egypt; a guy you could BRAG about! ...and then he is disobedient, and is cursed as a leper. Maybe, the people would have been better off if he had just died on the spot; on the other hand, he probably had a good bit of teaching he needed to pass along to the next king.

So, after having a king rotting away in a room by himself for eleven years, he dies, and his grave is even separated from those of the other kings.

And THAT'S when Isaiah saw the LORD.

How do you manage to see the LORD when you are at your lowest point? WHY are you seeing the LORD when you are that low? And what else can we learn from this passage?

1. How? Well, the how is a little bit simple. You do it the way you always have done it. This WASN'T the first contact Isaiah had with the LORD, for certain! You want to see the Lord when you are in despair? Start looking for Him immediately! Start looking for Him when you are a child; teach your children how to find God. Let it become a regular part of your life. Then, when you are on the floor, and you can't lift a finger, you breathe out, "Lord, help."And my own experience is that He answers.

2. WHY? Why would God choose to reveal Himself at this moment, in this way? Don't know. But, I expect that one reason is because that's when we need the sign. Signs are good things to have, when we are lost.

3. What else can we learn? How about this one: Don't trust in kings. They will ABSOLUTELY let you down. Not just talking about kings, either; talking about ANY leaders. Sooner or later, if you place all of your confidence in a human, you are going to have that confidence betrayed. I feel so sorry for all those who have determined to invest their resources in support of a political figure. Even if they win, they are going to lose. The principle never fails, because the person always does; and, even if that failure is not readily apparent, their time in power will pass, and someone else will be in control.

At this moment, there are people that I care for who are in pain. Just a month ago, my older sister lost her husband. Just a year ago, my younger sister lost hers. And just last week, a woman I respect and admire had her husband pass away unexpectedly. Others are struggling with different issues, but there are a LOT of people out there who are experiencing some of the same things that the prophet did, in the year that King Uzziah died.

My prayer for all of them, and for the rest of us as well: I hope that you see the Lord.

Peace be on your household.

A Short Meditation: The Day Before Easter

Today is Saturday, April 20, 2019. You and I know that tomorrow is Easter Sunday. The disciples didn't know that. I wonder: was Saturday worse than Friday? If I were to recall certain horrific events in my life, I think maybe the day after was worse than the day itself. On the day of the trauma, there was shock and horror. But on the day after? It's the first day to live with the new reality of loss, and I have never known how to do that. Of course, I've never had a loss as shocking and horrible as being a disciple who had watched Jesus crucified. Not even close. Still, I think, maybe, the disciples being just as human as I am, that Saturday was worse than Friday. Not only were they reliving the events in their mind, over and over, but they had to be terrified that they might be the next one arrested. Tomorrow, I'll have a different perspective. But for right now, I think I'm just going to stay in Saturday, and try to fully comprehend.

Dali's "Christ of St. John On The Cross"

"I will stand on my guardpost, and station myself on the rampart, and I will keep watch to see what He will say to me, and how I may reply when I am reproved."

Habakkuk 21, NASB

Peace be on your household.

It's Happening Below the Surface, With Asterisks: Good Friday

Greetings and blessings, internet friends and neighbors, plus those precious relatives who are taking the time away from intense life-dealing in order to find some diversion.

Today is the day western Christianity observes Good Friday. (It's a week later in the Orthodox traditions.) Historically, it's been a time of reflection and meditation.

I think my meditation started with sunflowers.

A sunflower.

My gift-from-God, happily-ever-after trophy wife Vanessa, the elegant, foxy, praying black grandmother of Woodstock, GA, decided to do some yard planting in a small way this year. In addition to the tomato plants in big pots on the back porch, she put some other items out. One of those was sunflowers.

Coming home from church last Sunday, she remarked that her sunflowers didn't seem to be growing. I nodded my head, having fearlessly restrained myself from ANY involvement whatsoever* in her gardening frenzy, and did not wish to have that fact drawn to her attention.

*That's not PRECISELY true. Shortly after she had put the tomato plants out, Winter returned for a brief, but intense, visit, and we had a few nights of sub-freezing temperatures. On those nights, I moved the potted plants in to the kitchen at night, and put them back outside when it warmed up the next day. Here ended my contribution.

Yesterday Uncle Mylon and Good Dog Diesel came for a visit. He is my oldest friend with whom I am in frequent face-to-face contact;* we go back to 1977, in Riverdale, Clayton County, GA.

*I DO have an older friend, Billy. He and I go back to Cub Scout days in 1965 or so, then made later contact in 1969-ish, when we were significantly involved in each others' lives for the last years of high school and first year of college. However, he and his intensely lovely, precious, devout, funny wife Vicki live a long way from here. I did take the the whole Chattahoochee Patterson fam, plus a small Blackstone Patterson fam, to visit his farm ("Best For Last") a couple of years ago, but since then, Facebook is how we stay in touch.

Uncle Mylon, who is the most gifted artist/advertising person in the world, also has a landscaping business. Therein lies a tale which NEEDS to be told; and, in fact, I HAVE told it, face to face, on numerous occasions, but I'll not reference it further at this point except to say that if a person combining the best features of David Ogilvy and Pablo Picasso offers to trim your hedges, just shut up, and watch your hedges become a thing of beauty. Oh, heck; here's ONE of Uncle Mylon's bits of art; it's one of his images of me.

Yes, I AM a Scot by blood.

I do not own bagpipes

Anyway, as I was saying, Uncle Mylon and Good Dog Diesel  came by the house yesterday, and Uncle Mylon worked his magic on growing things. We were chilling a bit on the front porch afterward, and Uncle Mylon said "Your sunflowers are looking good! Before long, you are going to need to stake them." And that was Thursday, just four days after there was no visible evidence of them showing up.

And I am thus encouraged. 

I have children, you see. And grandchildren. ALMOST every bit of evidence that I have,  for those I am privileged to interact with on a regular basis, is that they are fully aware that all of the screaming, shouting, outrage, fear, and hostility is about things that are of transitory importance (if that). But sometimes, I allow myself to grow, a bit, discouraged when one tells me of a choice that I KNOW is going to produce unpleasantness.

It's the same discouragement I feel on those RARE occasions when I permit myself to glance at a newspaper headline, or have a report of some stupidity come my way. Stupidity, for example, along the lines of the person who scrawled threats on the wall of the boys bathroom, in the high school located next to my house. 

I'm not worried about the outcome of that particular 'threat.' I'm discouraged by the stupidity of the student who did it. Don't they know that the high school has security cameras, and while they DON'T  look into the bathrooms, they SURELY DO see who goes in and out the doors? Within the next day or so, some parents are going to be sitting down with the cops and the school administration and their kid, and having negative amounts of fun. 

Perhaps today. On Good Friday. And, perhaps, for that family, memories this day are going to be forever linked with a stupid act. But, I hope, with results eventually similar to that on the first Good Friday.

The most important things happen beneath the surface. That's where the sunflower grows. That's where the investment of time and heart flower in our kids. And a couple of millennia ago, that's where the greatest miracle of all time took place.

Peace be on your household.

Angels: A F.R.O.G for Vanessa, a T.O.A.D. for Pat

Greetings, and abundant blessings to my dear internet friends, my neighbors, my beloved and beleaguered family, and to whoever in my Home Group reads this.

This is a post about angels.

In 1978, my wild and capricious lifestyle best thinking lead me to enroll in seminary, and to take a class in New Testament Greek. I had prepped the summer before by learning the Greek alphabet, and I suppose that did help a bit.

The very first Greek work that caught my attention was "ἄγγελος," and I think the best I can do to represent that in our lettering system is "aggelos." The Greek letters are alpha, gamma, gamma, epsilon, lambda, omicron, sigma.

"Hmm," I thought. "That's almost the same as 'angel,'  but there is no 'ν' (the Greek letter 'nu') to represent the 'n' sound."

And shortly afterward, I learned my first REAL Greek lesson: when there are two gammas written together,"γγ", the sound is changed to 'ng'.
And shortly after THAT, I learned my SECOND Greek lesson, and one of the more important lessons I learned in that entire year: the word "ἄγγελος" in all its' forms, singular, plural, etc,  "ἄγγελόν", "ἀγγέλων",  "ἀγγέλους", means "messenger." 

That's right: an angel is a messenger. 

And I will extrapolate only SLIGHTLY, and say that a message from God is carried by: an angel.

I have written about frog visits before, which came at a time of crisis. If you click on that link, you will see the first visitation, along with the circumstances. The second visitation came just about a year ago; another cute little green frog appeared in the living room.

Now, I THOUGHT that our current crisis was a septic tank that is non-functional due to the high water table from the rains we have had over the last two weeks. Later events changed my perspective on that, but it is true that all this past week, I have to be stationed downstairs with the Ridgid Blower Vac. I yell "GO," and they wash or flush or shower, and they get to use 16 gallons of water until I yell "STOP STOP STOP!"  (BTW: if you click on the Ridgid link, it will open a window on Amazon, where you can buy the kind of blower vac I am using. But even if you DON'T buy anything, click on the link anyway. It makes me happy when people click on the links in my blog.)

But, on Monday, as I was vacuuming out the drainage pipes, I found this little fellow swimming in the sewage I had just vacuumed up:

I washed him off and stuck him in a terrarium made out of a cardboard box.

Now, TWICE in recent years, we have had tiny green frogs appear in our immediate environment; that's a bit unusual, as we don't live near ANY water; no pond, stream, nothing. And the first frog appeared in our CAR in the Kroger parking lot, and the second frog appeared in our living room. Tiny, green, cute.

But on BOTH occasions, we were facing a tough decision about family, and whether or not we were going to offer housing.  And, it was bugging us both, but I think it was bugging my gift-from-God, happily-ever-after trophy wife Vanessa, the elegant, foxy, praying black grandmother of Woodstock, GA, more.

It was on that first occasion that I realized the significance:  FROG is the acronym for Fully Rely On God. And it took a bit, but my wife DID understand that there is more to receiving a message from God than just hanging out at night in a field, keeping watch over sheep. Sometimes the message comes more subtly than that, perhaps so subtly, that it takes a while to accept the TRUTH:  there is a message for you.

And if there is a message, there is a messenger, and therefore, as I explained to Vanessa, the frog is an angel. And we both were able to accept the message to Fully Rely On God. And it was a great comfort to us in the days following.

By the way: with the appearance of the second frog, right before we had to take grandchildren into our home for over two months, at first Vanessa was having a hard time with the NATURE of the messenger. IT WAS A FROG! IN HER LIVING ROOM! And at first, that's all she could comprehend. But I helped her get past that point, so that she could   Fully Rely On God; I reminded her that God had other messengers. And if she couldn't hear the message of   Fully Rely On God, perhaps the NEXT message was Don't Rely Again, Girl, On Nothing: DRAGON! (I was JOKING, I was JOKING!)

Fast forward to two weeks ago, when the rains hit hard. The basement flooded, and we discovered it at 6:15 on Monday morning, as I was walking Vanessa to her car to go to work. It made her very, very upset; but I eased her past it, and told her repeatedly that I was going to take care of it, that there were things she could do, and things that I could do, and this was one of the things that she could NOT do, and one of the things that I COULD. And she was able to move on, after I let her know that afternoon that I had vacuumed the basement dry.

Fortunately, we didn't know at the time that the rains would keep coming until the ground was so saturated that our septic system couldn't handle it. And it's been about two weeks now that every usage of water has to be matched with usage of the wet-vac.

And then, I found the messenger. But it wasn't a FROG; it's a TOAD. And Vanessa really doesn't have a problem with  Fully Relying On God. And then I got It. Or, part of It. And then another It. And yesterday, I got the rest of It.
The message wasn't for Vanessa; it was for me. Before the Messenger from God appeared, I was VERY angry with whoever had flushed Wet-Wipes down the toilet, because you can't do that to a septic tank. But once the Messenger showed up, I was at peace.

And the message was: we got a message! God cared enough about what our condition was that He sent us a message! We got the package, but we didn't know what was in it; but it was tremendously comforting to know that He was watching, and He sent us a message.
Yesterday, as I was vacuuming up water so the kids could take showers before school, I was thinking about the significance of getting a TOAD. What does TOAD mean?

It was deeply personal; I won't go farther than to say I have a history of struggling with feeling incompetent. And then I saw God's message in the TOAD: Take On, And Do.

It's a tremendously affirming message to me, that God has found me worthy to Take On, And Do.He trusts me to take care of His family. He is confident in my ability to handle this, to do what I can, and when I see that I can't accomplish something, to reach out for help.  Take On, And Do;He is saying to me, once again: "You are not worthless." 

That's huge.

Ya know what's NOT huge? The septic tank situation. Oh, they are still there; the trip I made to Home Depot to get some parts I thought I needed was MUCH, MUCH less than a success. As soon as I get THIS posted, I'm going to spend several hours shuttling between hooking up the blower-vac and the dishwasher. and the toilets, and maybe the washing machine, and I'd LIKE to have the time to drill into my yard and find out if the Infiltrator system I have really IS full of water, or if the problem lies elsewhere. I'm betting on 'elsewhere' at the moment. I have a call in to my oldest buddy from back in the 60's who is a retired Genius Plumber, and I'm hoping he can speak a word of clarification.

But it's NOT huge, it's not even a problem. If you have the resources to deal with circumstances, they are merely arrangements, or opportunities. I have had the opportunity to serve my family. And I have had the opportunity to serve Angel, the tiny TOAD who has been hanging out with me in my man cave for the past three nights, when the temperatures dropped below freezing. It's DEFINITELY worth doing:

Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it. (Heb 13:2, NASB)

But the outside temp is now 47 degrees, and so I shall close this post, and release Angel into the wild, and then Take On, And Do.

Peace be on your household.