On the way to the gym at lunch yesterday, I was lost in thoughts of work and responsibilities—grown up stuff. From the radio Mick Jagger sang wistfully about a girl he was missing while he waited for her call. Traffic was sparse, at least compared to the usual array of vehicles I normally encounter as I wind my way through the stop signs and obligatory traffic lights we call Canal Street. It was a bright day, with temperatures much warmer than those in recent memory. I pulled into a January-packed parking lot and cut the engine, grabbed my bag and headed for the entrance to the cruel gym, ready to sweat away some unwanted calories through my daily ritual of ‘fitness training’.
Sometimes I get displaced mentally, and do things for no apparent reason other than I am who I am, complete with all of my terminal nuances. As I weaved between parked cars, probably subliminal but maybe not, I spoke aloud a line from the heretofore unfinished Rolling Stones’ song which was still hanging around in my consciousness due to the sudden silencing of the radio. I blurted out to the quiet parking lot, in my best Mick simulacrum, “Whatsamatter wit you boy?”
Harmless, of course, and nothing to it. In most cases.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a teenage-girl sitting in a car I happened to be walking by at that very moment, with her window down. Egad! She looked up at me with no little curiosity, yet a lot of apprehension (fear?) written on her face. I could say nothing; it was too late and I walked on, refusing to meet her eyes—after all, I had evolved into a crazy middle-aged man muttering to himself in ghetto-slang. Not just in my mind, because I am certain the feeling was mutual from her vantage point. I regretted my sudden outburst and found myself wishing for an ever-elusive rewind button. The next time I will be more observant toward my surroundings before I haphazardly burst forth in the unknown lyrics of songs from days bygone.
Because you can never be sure who is watching or listening.
The Psalmist reminds us: “For there is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, O LORD, thou knowest it altogether.” It’s proven easy for me to goof up and say things in front of others that I wish later I had never said. And once it leaves your mouth, there is no retrieval system for idle words spoken in haste or in anger. More importantly, it is impossible to hide those words from G_d.
The incident in the parking lot yesterday, though humorous, is a great example of my idle words and the affect they can have on others. Who knows what that girl actually thought of me, and sadly, first impressions are usually the lasting impressions in life. Fortunately, other than looking a tad bit silly (or senile), I said nothing to hurt that nameless person as she sat innocently inside her car.
But how many other examples I could give of times when the things I said at an inopportune moment affected friendships and relationships in my past! The list could go on and on. What about the times I promised more than I could deliver, and ended up letting somebody down as the result of making assurances for things I had no control over in the first place? There are also countless instances I can recall where my fine-edged critique would have been better left unsaid or unnoted.
It’s hard to control the tongue, and impossible to do so without strenuous amounts of consideration and forethought. I can’t live in fear of saying the wrong things at the wrong times and to the wrong people for the rest of my life, although to become a mere spectator in life is the only sure way to escape the suffering in life. But who wants to do that?
Lord, please guard my wandering thoughts and control my uncontrollable tongue, for I cannot do so by my own accord. And I’ll stick to whistling those old Stones tunes and do my best not to vocalize them, at least not publicly, in the future. Amen.
At Watch Along The Rhine
Mainz, Germany - December 29, 406 A.D.
A bitter, cold wind swept down from the mountain passes, chilling the soldiers camped alongside the Rhine. In the past its frigid depths had protected them, providing shelter from the assembled hordes of barbarians gathering on the other shore. This winter was different; the coldest temperatures by anyone’s memory had frozen-solid the protective boundary of the wide river, thereby creating a causeway for the enemy to advance. Their sheer numbers—Vandals, Sueby, and Alans—proved more than a match for the depleted legions of Rome’s finest that had assembled to protect their nation. What began as a retreat swiftly escalated into panic, as the Roman army, watered down in strength by an influx of conscripts, faded through the heavy, snow-clad forests.
The area of Gaul (modern France) was ravaged by the advancing horde as their mid-winter victory had forced open the doorway of destruction. Within four years, the City of Rome itself had fallen, and the era of Pax Romana was well on its way to an unmistakable end. The attackers were called barbarians, because they cared little for Roman culture, for its civilization, or its laws. They only saw the wealth of an empire ripe for the taking, and three hundred years of attempted assimilation had proven pointless, as had teaching them the Latin language. In the end, they were merely bent on pillaging and they met their goal with not-so-curious aplomb.
The Romans, on the other hand, had whistled in the dark during the final years leading up to their demise. Their citizens paid others to serve in the military in their places, those that could do so, and conscripts were used when the money ran out. A foreigner was promised much-coveted citizenship if he would only serve in the Empire’s armies for an allotted amount of time. Back home, meanwhile, the original citizens had grown fat and lazy through the influx of ‘free bread and circuses’ from their well-meaning, vote-buying politicians. As a result, freedom and liberty had been exchanged over the years for the tyranny of despots, and when at last the Eternal City fell, it seemed as though very few sincerely mourned its passing at all.
In a quote that has been attributed to many, it was actually George Santayana who coined the phrase: “Those who do not read history are doomed to repeat it.”
Those same warnings from Roman history have been escalating in America for the past fifty years. We are swiftly copying that forlorn civilization by becoming a pagan, self-centered, and de-Christianized nation of faultless individuals, eager to blame all of our troubles on someone or something else. If we follow their lead, the next cuts will be to our military budget, in order to save enough money to pay for our massive entitlement programs.
Like ancient Rome, our borders are by now thinly guarded, and the open gates are of our own doing. We are taught to respect every culture but our own in the name of multiculturalism, and treat every religion with the highest, unbiased regard except for a faith involving the One True G_d. Those who speak out against these interloping talking points are shouted down, held in contempt, and called vile names with gushing media approval.
It’s really sad because in my heart I do not see a reversal of these policies on the horizon.
It’s past time for Christians to wake up and smell the coffee. It’s time to stop voting for politicians that support not only this mindset, but abortion and other sordid issues that are bent on destroying our families. We need to base our precious votes on our own core beliefs in these areas regardless of “all the good things our representative does for this district”, whichever district that may be. This is no longer simply a political matter of contention—of this party versus that party—but a question of morals and values. Yes, I know, morals or values cannot be legislated, but, by the same token they can certainly be legislated against.
Paul warns in Romans: “Who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are worthy of death, not only do the same, but have pleasure in them that do them.” If my Representative is supportive of things I know are against the precepts G_d calls for in His Word, then I can no longer vote or support him, period. Because it’s his vote that counts once Congress is in session—my vote will have been discarded along the campaign trail at that point.
Yet, as a Christian I should be mindful to pray for my elected leaders, even if I voted against them. And I should pray for the leaders of other states or districts in which I have no input. After all, Christians should be known for their prayers, not merely their political rants.
The anchor’s weighed, farewell, farewell! We’ve seen them going south. I dream ahead sometimes, and I dream with my eyes open. I’ve seen the horsemen riding in the night, and I see them by the thousands riding over a hundred battlefields, their horse’s hooves treading on dead men. I see a whole nation, struggling and struggling, swaying and swaying. I see things that people neither Democrat nor Republican have even dreamed of yet. But what am I going on about? We should be back safe and warm in our beds, sleeping soundly. – Joseph Alexander, “The Guns Of Bull Run”
A bitter, cold wind swept down from the mountain passes, chilling the soldiers camped alongside the Rhine. In the past its frigid depths had protected them, providing shelter from the assembled hordes of barbarians gathering on the other shore. This winter was different; the coldest temperatures by anyone’s memory had frozen-solid the protective boundary of the wide river, thereby creating a causeway for the enemy to advance. Their sheer numbers—Vandals, Sueby, and Alans—proved more than a match for the depleted legions of Rome’s finest that had assembled to protect their nation. What began as a retreat swiftly escalated into panic, as the Roman army, watered down in strength by an influx of conscripts, faded through the heavy, snow-clad forests.
The area of Gaul (modern France) was ravaged by the advancing horde as their mid-winter victory had forced open the doorway of destruction. Within four years, the City of Rome itself had fallen, and the era of Pax Romana was well on its way to an unmistakable end. The attackers were called barbarians, because they cared little for Roman culture, for its civilization, or its laws. They only saw the wealth of an empire ripe for the taking, and three hundred years of attempted assimilation had proven pointless, as had teaching them the Latin language. In the end, they were merely bent on pillaging and they met their goal with not-so-curious aplomb.
The Romans, on the other hand, had whistled in the dark during the final years leading up to their demise. Their citizens paid others to serve in the military in their places, those that could do so, and conscripts were used when the money ran out. A foreigner was promised much-coveted citizenship if he would only serve in the Empire’s armies for an allotted amount of time. Back home, meanwhile, the original citizens had grown fat and lazy through the influx of ‘free bread and circuses’ from their well-meaning, vote-buying politicians. As a result, freedom and liberty had been exchanged over the years for the tyranny of despots, and when at last the Eternal City fell, it seemed as though very few sincerely mourned its passing at all.
In a quote that has been attributed to many, it was actually George Santayana who coined the phrase: “Those who do not read history are doomed to repeat it.”
Those same warnings from Roman history have been escalating in America for the past fifty years. We are swiftly copying that forlorn civilization by becoming a pagan, self-centered, and de-Christianized nation of faultless individuals, eager to blame all of our troubles on someone or something else. If we follow their lead, the next cuts will be to our military budget, in order to save enough money to pay for our massive entitlement programs.
Like ancient Rome, our borders are by now thinly guarded, and the open gates are of our own doing. We are taught to respect every culture but our own in the name of multiculturalism, and treat every religion with the highest, unbiased regard except for a faith involving the One True G_d. Those who speak out against these interloping talking points are shouted down, held in contempt, and called vile names with gushing media approval.
It’s really sad because in my heart I do not see a reversal of these policies on the horizon.
It’s past time for Christians to wake up and smell the coffee. It’s time to stop voting for politicians that support not only this mindset, but abortion and other sordid issues that are bent on destroying our families. We need to base our precious votes on our own core beliefs in these areas regardless of “all the good things our representative does for this district”, whichever district that may be. This is no longer simply a political matter of contention—of this party versus that party—but a question of morals and values. Yes, I know, morals or values cannot be legislated, but, by the same token they can certainly be legislated against.
Paul warns in Romans: “Who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are worthy of death, not only do the same, but have pleasure in them that do them.” If my Representative is supportive of things I know are against the precepts G_d calls for in His Word, then I can no longer vote or support him, period. Because it’s his vote that counts once Congress is in session—my vote will have been discarded along the campaign trail at that point.
Yet, as a Christian I should be mindful to pray for my elected leaders, even if I voted against them. And I should pray for the leaders of other states or districts in which I have no input. After all, Christians should be known for their prayers, not merely their political rants.
The anchor’s weighed, farewell, farewell! We’ve seen them going south. I dream ahead sometimes, and I dream with my eyes open. I’ve seen the horsemen riding in the night, and I see them by the thousands riding over a hundred battlefields, their horse’s hooves treading on dead men. I see a whole nation, struggling and struggling, swaying and swaying. I see things that people neither Democrat nor Republican have even dreamed of yet. But what am I going on about? We should be back safe and warm in our beds, sleeping soundly. – Joseph Alexander, “The Guns Of Bull Run”
A Little Hole
Another week begins at work and I am glad to be here, considering the alternative. It’s good to have a job these days and I’m always mindful to be thankful when I meditate upon it. However, sometimes I lose my concentration in the area of thankfulness, especially when I find myself fighting tooth and nail to get rid of this head cold I’ve become infected with. It’s been a tough one; fighting my immune system for going on three weeks by this point, which means I’ve had it since the holidays.
I’m not sure how or why it happened this way—I’m a vitamin C addict and have been pushing the envelope of daily dosage recommendations since my bout with the flu last summer. I stabilized at around 2000mg a day but it appears to have been all for naught. I also took a flu shot in the interim, thinking that it could quite possibly hedge my bets. I eat right (sort of, maybe) and I exercise a lot more than the general population of folks my age, so what gives?
I’m not a malcontent, at least not often anyway. In fact, I’m more apt to seek a solution than to worry over symptoms and afflictions. Yet I refuse to see my doctor, because I know he’ll order me to (cringe) take more vitamin C, or at the worst, he’ll merely give me a B-12 shot. There is no cure for the common cold. As I hacked up a lung this morning (not literally) I found myself cruising memory banks of days gone by, trying to recall one of the antidotes my grandmother used to cure us with when we were young. Granny had a home remedy for everything from warts to salmonella, and most of the time—oddly enough—they worked. Miraculously so.
Unfortunately, the only one that comes to mind is an antidote she used on my sister and me for an illness I can no longer recollect. In fact, I ‘Googled’ it and cannot find mention of it within that hallowed search engine, and that speaks a lot these days. I’m almost scared to write about it in this blog, because then it will be added to the annals of Google, and someone searching later on will find this—but leave as confused as they will be when they first arrive here.
The cure went something like this: Danna and I were instructed to dig a hole with a teaspoon in the rich, black Pearl River County soil. Then, we were advised to place a four-leaf clover inside the crater—you could still find them back then—and spit into the hole, completing the task by covering it back up. As we were in the process of performing these steps, we were told to recite the following talisman:
G_d made man and man made money;
G_d made the bee and the bee made honey;
G_d made Satan and Satan made sin;
G_d made a little hole to put the devil in.
Sadly, I do not recall anything else about the sequence, nor can I recall what we were trying to solve or what we were endeavoring to cure. I also cannot remember if it even worked. But if my cough and sinuses fail to level out and return to normal, I will consider risking it on general principle.
Probably not—it’s proving hard to find a four-leaf clover these days, climate change being what it is, ya know, and such.
I guess I’ll proverbially grin and bear it for the time being, as that is what I’ve learned to do with colds through personal experience. At least it’s not a kidney stone. In that regard I’ll gladly choose a cold any day.
There is coming a time and a day when sickness and disease will no longer be an issue for us frail members of the human species. John foresaw a time (soon to arrive) where G_d Himself will provide a readily available cure for all of our sicknesses and infirmities: “In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.” A veritable Tree of Life, to handle whatever ails you, whether it revolves around kidney stones or something as mundane as the common cold I currently find myself suffering with. And it will be as simple as gathering leaves from a tree He'll provide with no shots, doctor’s appointments, pills or elixirs, and most of all; no secretive talismans to memorize.
I look forward to that day—I really do. In the meantime, uh, more orange juice, please.
I’m not sure how or why it happened this way—I’m a vitamin C addict and have been pushing the envelope of daily dosage recommendations since my bout with the flu last summer. I stabilized at around 2000mg a day but it appears to have been all for naught. I also took a flu shot in the interim, thinking that it could quite possibly hedge my bets. I eat right (sort of, maybe) and I exercise a lot more than the general population of folks my age, so what gives?
I’m not a malcontent, at least not often anyway. In fact, I’m more apt to seek a solution than to worry over symptoms and afflictions. Yet I refuse to see my doctor, because I know he’ll order me to (cringe) take more vitamin C, or at the worst, he’ll merely give me a B-12 shot. There is no cure for the common cold. As I hacked up a lung this morning (not literally) I found myself cruising memory banks of days gone by, trying to recall one of the antidotes my grandmother used to cure us with when we were young. Granny had a home remedy for everything from warts to salmonella, and most of the time—oddly enough—they worked. Miraculously so.
Unfortunately, the only one that comes to mind is an antidote she used on my sister and me for an illness I can no longer recollect. In fact, I ‘Googled’ it and cannot find mention of it within that hallowed search engine, and that speaks a lot these days. I’m almost scared to write about it in this blog, because then it will be added to the annals of Google, and someone searching later on will find this—but leave as confused as they will be when they first arrive here.
The cure went something like this: Danna and I were instructed to dig a hole with a teaspoon in the rich, black Pearl River County soil. Then, we were advised to place a four-leaf clover inside the crater—you could still find them back then—and spit into the hole, completing the task by covering it back up. As we were in the process of performing these steps, we were told to recite the following talisman:
G_d made man and man made money;
G_d made the bee and the bee made honey;
G_d made Satan and Satan made sin;
G_d made a little hole to put the devil in.
Sadly, I do not recall anything else about the sequence, nor can I recall what we were trying to solve or what we were endeavoring to cure. I also cannot remember if it even worked. But if my cough and sinuses fail to level out and return to normal, I will consider risking it on general principle.
Probably not—it’s proving hard to find a four-leaf clover these days, climate change being what it is, ya know, and such.
I guess I’ll proverbially grin and bear it for the time being, as that is what I’ve learned to do with colds through personal experience. At least it’s not a kidney stone. In that regard I’ll gladly choose a cold any day.
There is coming a time and a day when sickness and disease will no longer be an issue for us frail members of the human species. John foresaw a time (soon to arrive) where G_d Himself will provide a readily available cure for all of our sicknesses and infirmities: “In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.” A veritable Tree of Life, to handle whatever ails you, whether it revolves around kidney stones or something as mundane as the common cold I currently find myself suffering with. And it will be as simple as gathering leaves from a tree He'll provide with no shots, doctor’s appointments, pills or elixirs, and most of all; no secretive talismans to memorize.
I look forward to that day—I really do. In the meantime, uh, more orange juice, please.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)