One Loaded Little Word

(Original draft 09 April, 2007)

Yesterday was Easter Sunday, and millions of Christians, quasi-believers and the guilt ridden filed into churches world-wide to celebrate a Risen Savior, or to at least purge themselves of another years’ worth of sin.

Sin is a funny word: three letters, not phonetically challenging in the least and filled with so much. In our age of relativity, and accepted lack of absolutes, sin is a dirty word, and I don’t mean what it does to ones soul. It’s dirty like swearing used to be. I can say almost any word/phrase I choose (in public or private) and it won’t get the same reaction as saying “That’s a sin”. I can condemn anyone by stating: go to hell. Depending on the volume I use few would give me a second look if I said that anywhere. But, why is it I am condemned by stating the obvious: you sinned? I know it’s a rhetorical question. But for the sake of people who believe relativity is a valid way of spiritual living and that there are no absolutes, I’ll argue their case.

When I condemn, by saying ‘go to hell’, I’m telling them “You are wrong; I am right. You are weak; I am strong.” But because I am here, next to you, on this corporal plain called life on earth, it doesn’t matter to you, because you can easily return the *favor* later, and condemn me to hell, and we are still equal; well all things being relative that is. You and I aren’t mass murders, after all, just maybe recovering shoplifters, or at worst fudge a little on our tax returns. We aren’t Hitler, Idi Amin, Saddam Hussein or Genghis Khan. We’re both pretty good, most of the time, right?

So I say to you later: you sinned. I am, in effect, saying “You are wrong; you are weak; you are worthy to be condemned.” But now, I am not the Judge, just the messenger, stating a flaw — your flaw. Nowhere in that do I say I am stronger or right, but that’s what gets read into my message because we hate to be wrong and weak. Now I have brought into the mix a notion that life is not *relative* and that there are absolutes, and of course that is a very disagreeable notion because now there is no *favor* to return (but you will try, by pointing out all of my flaws, in such a delicate and gracious way, won’t you? hhmm) You must answer to a Judge, who is also Jury. Saying SIN means that God is involved, and it’s easier to just not think about Him, as He is old, ancient, out-dated and irrelevant.

Is there really much difference between the two? The end result of both phrases will get you to the same place, won’t it? I can tell someone to go to hell, or tell them they are going to go to hell. The wages of sin is death, you are going to go to hell. What if I had the power in my words to actually send you to this place that is name-dropped so flippantly? Suppose I said, “Go – to – Hell” and in the next instant you were actually there?

“Wait!,” you object loudly, “Hell isn’t even real, is it? I mean, it’s just a phrase, right? There can’t really be lakes filled with burning sulfur fires, and Satan and demons, and stuff, right? ‘Cuz that would, be like, so… unfair.”

Yup, unfair, indeed, because I am the one sending you there- because we are both nearly equally good people. But God never said He was FAIR, only JUST. Justice isn’t about fairness, it is this: “merited reward or punishment; that which is due to one’s conduct or motives”. (Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, 1913**) Justice is doing what is right, even if the the end result is unpopular, or makes you unpopular. God’s justice has made Him very unpopular, throughout all of history.

The wages of sin is death. That’s not my law, I didn’t write it. I’m just the messenger, remember?

~~~ ~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~

**Why so old a definition? the same reason if you looked up gay, it’s doesn’t mean just happy, delightful anymore. Contemporary dictionaries have equated fairness to justice today, but they are not the same thing. Definitions are swayed by popular culture, and a word becomes redefined to suit popular demands, which can be a disservice to it’s true intent.

In the Middle of the Night

I should be in bed, but for some reason I just don’t feel like going.  I know sleep is what I need, the brain fog is getting pretty thick.  I’ve just finished working on a draft for another novella/essay for the blog and had a random idea to check my blog stats.  This is how my mind works in the middle of the night.  I’m still a novice blogger, and really have only one faithful reader– I think she even has me on an RSS feed! (Whatever that is–honest, I don’t know, and I don’t know how it works.)

Anyway, I keep trying to write without using proper capitalization, and think “Just skip over the misspellings, and let spell check fix it later”, but I can’t.  Just now I used a *j* and changed it to *J* and I backspace all the time to fix spelling errors.  I don’t really see myself as a Type A personality, except for the perfectionism while typing.  But I stay up late because the house is quiet, and the creativity flows without having to worry about the distractions of family and their needs.

So if you’re just a random tag surfer or you came here on purpose, come and sit a spell.  Let me know I’m not the only one who forsakes sleep to clear her mind of creative fodder.  Most of all– leave comments!  Let me know how you found me.  I must say, the random tag surfer who leaves comments are the most exciting kind to get.  I can’t put why into words just yet, and when I can you can bet the word count will hit 700+.

And before this wanders completely into blog oblivion, I’m going to say good night.

G-night!

How to spend a gorgeous Palm Sunday…

..in the med station.

Yes, that would be correct. I spent my Palm Sunday afternoon waiting… and waiting… and waiting.

I went to bed Saturday night with an incredibly itchy eye. I thought maybe there was a scratch on the cornea, or a dog hair or eyelash caught up under the lid. Turns out it was pink eye. If you’ve never had pink eye in your recent memory, feel blessed and grateful. It was the most miserable thing. I couldn’t go to church, or work. ( I am a cashier for a grocery store, and I can’t touch people’s food with contagious conjuctiva.) I am living in fear of being fired right now. I’ve had to call in a lot already in 2008, and they (management) are starting to crack down on repeat call-in offenders and sack ‘em.

So how does one spend ones time in the local Urgent Care Center –a.k.a. the med station? Well, first off it may be worth a call to your own doctor. This should be common sense given the environment of HMO’s and PPO’s and all their rules. But if your insurance has lax rules, or you have no coverage, try this then.—->

Next, call the med station you want to go to. Depending on where you live in town, there’s a good chance there’s more than one nearby. Why bother and do this? Couple of reasons, and I learned this the hard way last Sunday. A) You may just want to go to the ER, especially if you suspect broken bones B) You’re sitting on the fence about whether what is bugging you is worth the trip in, the co-pay, your time, etc. C) Find out how many patients are waiting, and how many doctors or PA’s are on staff that day. I’ll cover more on this later.

Okay, you’ve decided to go to the med station. You are in some level of discomfort, for some reason or other. A) Bring something to occupy your mind, hands and mouth. Sure they have some magazines, but they’ve been touched by a whole months’ worth of flu-bug sickies. I’m not really germ-phobic, but there’s got to be a limit, yes? Bring your word search, knitting, crochet, crosswords or something else you can stop doing right in the middle of doing. (Did ya get that? make sense?) Moving on… Your mouth: bring a bottle of water and a snack, unless of course you’re puking your guts out, then that’s not such a good idea. A bucket would be good for you then. Anyhoo…Chances are you won’t find complimentary Beaner’s coffee and muffins.

One should avoid bringing this to the med station unless ABSOLUTELY necessary and I’m not joking. You’re whole family and their cousins! There isn’t room enough in the waiting or exam room. People are sick and they don’t want to watch someone else’s kids go completely wild. Even happy children will drive a person bonkers after enough time. Think about it.. you are one of the flu-bug sickies, and there’s this 7 year old next to you pretending to be the next Michael Jordan, or, worse, Einstein. There is nothing for them to do here, except get on people’s nerves. The TV, if there is one, is probably on CNN or a private medical show closed circuit loop. If the yungun’s must come, pack a suitcase– not kidding here either– filled with books, snacks, drinks, toys, a blanket or pillow, hair brush and pony holders. Why the hair stuff? They can play beauty shop and do each other’s hair.

Now back to why you should call ahead about the patients-in-waiting and the MD’s on for the day. I called ahead, to see if the phone nurse thought I might actually have pink eye, and we concluded I should be seen. Phone Nurse asked which Center I wanted to go to, since I’m halfway between two. She said there were 9 patients waiting at “A” and 9 at “B”. I said “So, I should bring something to keep me busy while I wait?” What I didn’t ask was: how many doctors are in the Center today. It turns out “A” had only one; “B” had three. Guess where I ended up? Yup, that’s right, at “A”.

I decided to wait a bit at home, hedging on the thought that if I stayed home I’d not have to wait as long in some uncomfortable chair, with a bunch of flu-bug sickies trying to whisper loudly over the chattering, clanging, crying, whining, bored children sitting three chairs away. I was way off on that one. The med center was still packed when I got there. After I had finally been seen, and discharged and at the counter to pay my co-pay, I asked the nice young man sitting in his quiet cubicle just how long I’d actually been there. He checked. It was exactly 3 1/2 hours.

Driving away to a pharmacy that kept late Sunday hours I thought to myself, “I wonder if I should have just called my eye doctor to call in a script for pink eye instead”. I called Monday morning to find out; sure enough they could’ve done that. O, I did get 12 rows on the blanket I’ve been crocheting done.

Blogging?.. ice cream would be jealous

I got a random comment from someone about the last post about blog-tag; they didn’t want to be “it” and, well… read the comment if you must, but read the post before that.

That’s basically the reason I’m writing this. Blogging can become an all-consuming past-time, like video games, except the reality is actual and not virtual. That’s not to say some bloggers’ reality’s aren’t delusional, misinformed, biased, confused, one-sided–well, they’re all one-sided. Back on point: we write to get something off our chest, make announcements, pronouncements and even denouncements; but we all do it hoping that someone else will stop by and leave a comment. We humans are pack animals, and crave interaction within our social structure. Even the anti-social still need and crave that contact, even if it’s to rebuff and reject the contact, to growl out “Back off and leave me alone.” We want some random strangers to stop by and read our chatterings about mindless babble or significant social events. We want someone to acknowledge “Yes, indeed, you have an opinion, and I heard what you have to say” and leave a comment of praise, encouragement, like-mindedness and agreement or disagreement.

When I started this, I figured it would be an outlet for the quasi-author in me to release creativity onto the world, and if I didn’t get any responses– well, so what? Well, guess what? I love–no LOVE– getting a response from someone, ANYone. Why? it means that person stopped and read what I had to say. It doesn’t matter if they were wilf-ing, or purposely looking for a blog to read. That person saw mine in a tag listing, and decided to stop by. Well, how cool is that? I’d say I’m so cool, ice cream would be jealous. (My son would say: Mom your so not cool, ice cream would melt.)

So, to the 2 or 3 who stop by here regularly, Thanks!

But, hey! Psssst! Can you send them a link to my blog, I’d like more than 3 regular readers, cause that kinda makes my “ice cream coolness” seem pretty lame.

Blog-tag…but at least my computer wasn’t being a poopy-head

That is about the most unimaginative title ever! but it’s tag, so what can a body do? I was tagged to play a blog game. The rules were this:

1) Open a book– any book, so long as it has at least 123 pages– to page 123.

2) Go to the 5th sentence.

3) Write down the next three sentences here and tag five other bloggers to do the same.

*** *** *** ***

Well, I grabbed the first book within reach with more than 123 pages (a copy of the NIV Bible) and this particular printing landed me somewhere in Joshua. God was instructing Joshua on how to mount some sort of ambush. It would work for this, but somehow lacks a level of amusement for a game of blog tag. So I’m grabbing a book I’ve been trying to get through– started it a couple of times: The Scarlet Letter. It surely has a higher level of humor than the Bible, don’t you think?

As the opening sentence is not complete, I’ll start counting after that… Now the rules are a bit vague (vaaayyyge, ok Lorraine?) does sentence 5 count, or start at the sixth? Blog tag is not as easy as one would think. Or, am I over-thinking it? Moving on, I shall count through number five, because I want to… so there! …(Holy cats! these sentences are paragraphs long, I think I may be to page 124 before I find the end of five.)

“It was immediately responded to by a light, airy, childish laugh, in which, with a thrill of the heart–but he knew not whether of exquisite pain, or pleasure as acute– he recognized the tones of little Pearl.

“Pearl! Little Pearl!” cried he, after a moment’s pause; then suppressing his voice–”Hester! Hester Prynne! Are you there?”

“Yes! it is Hester Prynne!” she replied, in a tone of surprise; and the minister heard her footsteps approaching from the side-walk, along which she had been passing.”

*** *** *** ***

Now, as I have no one to tag. The game ends here; unless you dear reader pick up the baton and run. Better still, pick up the book and READ!

Ain’t I a Woman?

In honor of women, and Women’s History Month; it’s well worth re(print)posting.

 

 

Ain’t I A Woman?by Sojourner Truth

Women’s Convention, Akron, Ohio
Delivered 1851

Well, children, where there is so much racket there must be something out of kilter. I think that ‘twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon. But what’s all this here talking about?

That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain’t I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain’t I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man—when I could get it—and bear the lash as well! And ain’t I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother’s grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain’t I a woman?

Then they talk about this thing in the head; what’s this they call it? [member of audience whispers, “intellect”] That’s it, honey. What’s that got to do with women’s rights or negroes’ rights? If my cup won’t hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart, wouldn’t you be mean not to let me have my little half measure full?

Then that little man in black there, he says women can’t have as much rights as men, ’cause Christ wasn’t a woman! Where did your Christ come from? Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him.

If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back, and get it right side up again! And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them.

Obliged to you for hearing me, and now old Sojourner ain’t got nothing more to say.