Spontaneous thoughts on current events

Today I saw a newspaper headline that made the pastor of First Baptist Dallas look really dorky. I've never met the guy; but unfortunately, when a famous pastor looks dorky, it kind of makes Christianity in general look dorky.

What he said was that the way to solve the issue of gun violence in schools is to teach students the Ten Commandments. In context, I believe he said that that would be one root solution, not the only solution, to the problem. Yes, of course he's right. If you teach somebody to not kill people, and if they obey your teachings, they won't kill people. But taken out of context, it sounds pretty insensitive and holier-than-thou. I mean, people have died. Our country is hurting.

I've had some rather insensitive reactions myself, but mainly just in annoyance toward all the protests. It seems like every time a millennial gets offended, somebody organizes a march. What about me? Where's my march? Why didn't anyone organize a frickin' protest for me anytime anyone dumped on ME? And how would a protest or a march help to stop gun violence? What kind of lesson would it teach these kids?

A huge lesson, honestly.

   

Today while I was listening to music, the old song "We Are the World" reminded me of how important it is to give money to people who need it. I was in the third grade when this song was popular. I went to a cool school who would show us very interesting and helpful filmstrips and TV specials. One day, they showed us the making of "We Are the Word," and I've never forgotten it. I knew somebody who was involved with the cause, and I remember giving $10 to help starving people in Africa. I even got a nifty poster that I treasure in my home to this day.

I used to work for a company that produced direct mail for nonprofit organizations. Today I got to thinking that the "We Are the World" song was more effective at influencing me to give money than any piece of direct mail ever was. I had this silly thought that maybe my previous employer should have just put their direct mail to music -- that would get people to give. Heh, heh.

Then I got to thinking that since my elementary school exposed me to giving to the needy, I got the message.

I'm not a millennial; I'm a gen-Xer. The people of my generation didn't really have to deal with as much violence in schools as kids today. We had to deal with AIDS and drugs. (I understand that those still exist today; it's just that we as a country were kind of first learning about them when I was a kid.) I remember the educational campaigns with videos and T-shirts and mottos that taught us how important it was to not catch AIDS and to not do drugs. To this day, my ears perk up when someone talks about AIDS or HIV. And to this day, abusing drugs isn't an option for me. (Frankly, this is something that is good to know as a woman in her 40s with broken dreams who sometimes wishes there were something immediately handy to numb her pain.)

Where did I learn this? In school. From the constant exposure.

Here's my point, and I hope it isn't an insensitive one. I don't have kids, so I don't have to worry about exposing anyone in my family to potential violence inside a school building -- which really should be the safest place in the world for a child. And I don't have to roll my eyes because my kids are growing up in a society that teaches them to hit the streets in protest every time they disagree with something. But I think these kids are going to grow up learning a very important lesson: Violence is wrong, and they deserve to be safe.

I'm not saying the protests will solve everything. (And I'm not saying I won't roll my eyes again the next time I see yet another march against something on my Newsfeed.) I'm saying the schoolchildren of this twisted generation will be impacted very positively in a way that they won't forget. For as long as they live, they will remember that violence is wrong, guns don't solve problems, security is important, and their lives are worth being protected. Perhaps they will be better equipped to love themselves, and to love their neighbor as themselves, than I was as a kid.

(As a side note, I don't own a gun, I don't know how to shoot a gun, I'm not opposed to your right to own a gun, and I'm not opposed to learning how to shoot one myself. For now, my method of self-defense is longish nails and a crazy-Mexican disposition. You should know by now that you shouldn't mess with me.)

I think it's a shame that the people of my generation ended up raising a generation of children who have to wonder if someone is going to show up at their school and go postal. It's a shame that our society has deteriorated so quickly in recent years that we have to evaluate the type of security that we have in schools. (And yes, it's a total shame that we officially don't allow prayer in public schools and that parents may not teach basic laws like the Ten Commandments to their kids already at home.)

I guess the people of this generation will end up taking after their hippie baby-boomer grandparents. I guess instead of protesting a war in Vietnam, they're protesting a domestic war against themselves... and they didn't even do anything to deserve it. That's a huge shame.

But, as the songwriters of "We Are the World" would say, "We're saving our own lives. It's true we'll make a better day, just you and me."

If Joseph were Tirzah

The rhythmic clack-clack of the rock hammers filled the communal prison cell and echoed off the dingy walls like a torrential hailstorm. As he concentrated on his rock-breaking, Joseph wondered yet again how long he would be able to survive there.

Suddenly, his concentration was broken by an insistent tapping on his shoulder. "Hey, Joey, this rock is too big. How am I supposed to break it?"

Even though he had already explained the process to his prisonmate a couple of times, he took a deep breath, endeavored to speak patiently, and explained again. "See this middle part here?" he asked while pointing to the irregularly shaped groove in the middle of the stone. "Aim your hammer at it, and then give it a quick whack."

The inmate coached himself under his breath: "Middle part... aim... whack." And the rock broke under his hammer.

"Good job, Ben-Balaam."

"You're so smart, Joey!"

I used to think so, too, Joseph thought as he quickly returned to his work. He had hardly gotten a chance to refocus because another prisoner waved his hand in front of his face.

"Hebrew," began the prisoner, who could never remember Joseph's name, "how many of these rocks are we supposed to break per day?"

Again he was being asked a question that he had already answered repeatedly. Thankfully, this one could be answered with just a little bit of numbness. "150."

"What?!" exclaimed the prisoner. "How in the world am I supposed to break that many? I'm a prisoner here. I'm being forced to work in conditions that are completely foreign to me!"

You're telling me, you big baby, Joseph thought. "I feel ya," he replied aloud.

"How many rocks do YOU break per day, Hebrew?"

Joseph was about to answer 160 -- and he used to be able to break 180 before he was given additional duties -- when the keeper of the prison entered the room. "Joseph, sorry for interrupting, but I'm going to need a headcount earlier than usual today!" he shouted to be heard above the clack-clacking.

Joseph nodded to his superior and then rose to leave. "Excuse me, Nezzar," he said with a friendly tap on the prisoner's shoulder.

Joseph always preferred to begin his headcount downstairs in the dungeon, where the new prisoners were brought in, because they were unruly and would often distract his concentration. Today was no exception.

"Oww!" screamed a haggard-looking man with a trill of his tongue. He was standing up and chained to the wall. "Hey, there, pretty boy. I've been naughty. Are you here to teach me a lesson?"

Joseph snickered under his breath and thought to himself, No, thank you, I'm learning plenty of lessons without your help.

"Leave him alone!" shouted a nearby prisoner who was seated against the wall. He was attached there with a very short set of chains. "He didn't do anything to you."

Joseph noticed that the short-chained prisoner's water cup had been knocked over, so he refilled it with a nearby water jug and offered it to the prisoner. "Here you go."

"Thank you, sir! Your wife must really be missing you while you're in here."

Joseph pushed down a rising wave of pain and began to count.

In the very early hours of the morning -- long after Joseph and the other inmates had completed their evening chores -- Joseph suddenly woke up to the sound of someone snoring. He exhaled and rolled his eyes. Growing up with 11 brothers was nothing compared to living among these animals. Then he felt a twinge in his soul and wondered if his snobbiness was what sentenced him to prison in the first place.

Slowly and quietly, he rolled over on his side and gazed at the barred window. The moonlight shone brightly into the communal cell. Joseph closed his eyes and prayed. God, please forgive me for whatever it is that I did to deserve to be in here. He opened his eyes and noticed that his vision was blurry with tears. With all due respect, thank You for protecting me and keeping me alive, but... He sighed and felt tears stream down his face. I don't belong here.

Through the years, he had mastered the art of silent weeping. He felt his tears trickle into his straw bed and wondered if the moisture had mingled with the dirt on his face on the way down. The other prisoners looked up to him, and he knew that he needed to stay strong for them. But he wondered if perhaps they, too, knew how to weep silently, because he sometimes saw clean streaks on dirty faces in the morning.

He wiped his tears with the back of his hand and prayed, God, this whole prison thing -- am I doing it right? Am I missing anything? Is there anything that I haven't done that I need to be doing?

As suddenly as the background snoring began, it stopped. All Joseph could hear were crickets chirping.

That's the sound of Me not complaining, God replied.

Joseph chuckled very quietly. That's what had kept him going these past several years: his God. And his dreams.

His dreams... his brothers... his father... the stories they shared... the home they had built together... the rich foods and fine clothes... his old way of life... before he became dead to his family and vice versa...

It all came swirling back to him and erupted as a fresh wave of tears that flooded into his eyes. How he missed his father! He knew he would never see him again. But his brothers... years later, he could still never figure out how and why they had treated him the way they did.

Then he found himself in that same old spot in his mind that he couldn't easily escape from once he had fallen in. How dare they, he thought to himself as he squinched his eyes shut and gripped a fistful of straw. They had no right to do what they did. He knew that it was no use holding on to the past, and he knew that he was being useful where he was, but still... This was a prison. Would he ever see freedom?

Joseph opened his eyes and mopped his tears from his face. What IF I were to be free someday? he thought. I'd like to give them a piece of my mind. Give them a taste of their own medicine. Oh, hello there, caravan of Hebrews traveling through Egypt. Would you like to buy a coat of many colors? Here, step inside my office. Oh, I forgot to tell you that my office is INSIDE A FREAKIN' PIT! Here. Let me show you what prison life is like. Would you like to drink some water out of my silver goblet?

Joseph cackled silently within himself and then had a terrible taste in his mouth. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes. That isn't Your way, is it? he prayed.

No, God replied. Stick with Me. You'll be fine.

The next morning while Joseph aimed to fulfill his quota, his rock hammer clack-clacked quickly and methodically as he bent over his work. His thoughts went back to the previous day to his conversation with the short-chained prisoner, who had assumed that he had a wife. No, I'm not married, Joseph thought, but I have a great pickup line. Hey, baby, I unjustly did time in prison for attempted rape. Wanna go eat some falafel? He chuckled quietly to himself. The little humorous things like that had helped him survive emotionally through the years.

His thoughts returned to his father and the times he had spent with him. He always knew he was his father's favorite. His mother died when he was very young, but his father would tell him stories of how he met his mother -- and how he worked for his grandfather for seven years before he could marry his mother.

Seven years was a long time. But waiting for your dream to come true was always worth the wait -- this was a lesson that he learned from his father.

Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by an insistent tapping on his shoulder. "Hey, Joey, this rock is too big. How am I supposed to break it?"

Joseph suppressed a frustrated sigh and re-explained the process as patiently as he could.

Ben-Balaam coached himself quietly under his breath: "Middle part... aim... whack."

"Good job."

Suddenly, Nezzar waved his hand in front of Joseph's face.

"Hebrew, how many of these rocks are we supposed to break per day?"

Joseph felt both of his fists clench. He unclenched them while he took a deep breath. "150."

"What?! That's too many!"

Ben-Balaam screamed and dropped his hammer, suddenly snapping Joseph out of his déjà vu.

Instantly, Joseph ran and found the bandages. The keeper of the prison had assigned him the task of mending the inmates' wounds, and he had gotten pretty swift at it.

"Thanks, Joey," Ben-Balaam said as he slowly bent his bandaged thumb. "I guess it was this stupid rock. Maybe it isn't a rock at all. I think it's a potato." He held out the rock for Joseph to see.

"Um, that's not a potato. It's a rock covered with moss and dirt."

"Oh. You're so smart!"

Joseph looked over at Nezzar, who was working cautiously and shaking his head.

"Joey, have you ever hurt yourself so badly that you blacked out?" asked Ben-Balaam. "It's kind of like a bad dream."

"Dream?" asked Nezzar with a scoff. "I'll tell you about a bad dream. Last night, I dreamed that there was this vine -- it had three branches that budded and sprouted grapes. In the dream, I had Pharaoh's cup in my hand. I squeezed the grapes into Pharaoh's cup, and then I gave the cup to Pharaoh." Nezzar shuddered. "It startled me, because I haven't seen Pharaoh since he threw me in here. I told my cellmates about my dream, but they couldn't figure out what it means. Isn't that weird?"

"I had a weird dream last night, too!" exclaimed Ben-Balaam. "Only, in my dream, I had three white baskets on my head. The basket on top had lots of goodies in it, and the birds ate them all."

"But what does it mean?" Nezzar asked.

"I don't know," Ben-Balaam replied. "I asked a couple of guys about it, and they told me to shut up." His eyes sparkled as he looked into Joseph's face. "What do you think, Joey? I bet you're so smart that you could figure out both our dreams."

Nezzar gently punched Joseph on the shoulder. "For once, he has a good idea. Do you know how to interpret dreams, Hebrew?"

Joseph pensively rested his chin on his fist. "I don't, but God does." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he opened his eyes and knew how to proceed. "Nezzar, you were Pharaoh's chief butler, weren't you?"

Nezzar nodded.

"The three branches in your dream symbolize three days. So, in three days, Pharaoh will release you from prison and restore you back to your old job."

Joseph felt a familiar tapping on his shoulder. "What about my dream?" asked Ben-Balaam.

"I, uh, wish I had better news, my friend. You were Pharaoh's chief baker, right?"

Ben-Balaam slowly nodded his childlike head.

"In your dream, the three baskets symbolize three days. So, in three days, Pharaoh will chop your head off and hang you -- "

"Huh?!" Ben-Balaam exclaimed.

"And the birds will eat you."

Nezzar laughed.

"Shut up, butler!" Ben-Balaam exclaimed. "Joey, maybe you're not so smart after all."

Three days later -- three days of the same grind of repetitive question-asking, head-counting, and nighttime-weeping -- Pharaoh threw himself a grand birthday party. The revelry was so loud that the prisoners could hear it over the rhythmic clack-clack of their rock hammers. A few of the men abandoned their posts and began to peer outside through a nearby barred window.

"Hey, men, we really need to get back to work," Joseph announced as soon as he noticed the distraction.

Suddenly, the prison doors opened and the keeper of the prison stood in the sunlight like an Egyptian godlike warrior. "Pharaoh has called for the release of his servants! Everyone listen carefully for your names." He spent the next few moments reading names that were written on a long papyrus sheet.

Is this it? Joseph thought. Did my old boss Potiphar finally realize his mistake and pull some strings?

The keeper of the prison finished calling out names and rolled up the papyrus sheet. The freed prisoners scrambled to collect their things and exuberantly allowed the guards to unlock their chains. The ones whose names weren't called, including Joseph, observed the scene with a strange mixture of gladness and shock.

"Bye, Joey!" Ben-Balaam exclaimed with a warm hug.

"Congratulations, my friend!"

"Hebrew!" the butler exclaimed with a wave of his hand. As he turned to walk out of the prison door, Joseph clasped a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"Joseph," he told the butler. "My name is Joseph."

Nezzar turned around and repeated with a warm smile, "Joseph. Thank you for everything."

The two former prisonmates who had been placed in Joseph's care were whisked away as quickly as they had come. With a deep, quiet sigh, Joseph knew that he may never see them again, and he felt the similar frustration rise within himself.

Such was the rhythm of the prison: Easy in, easy out. Come and go. Everybody always left. Nobody put down roots. Nobody stayed.

Except Joseph.

As the guards slammed and locked the prison door shut -- giving the inmates the last full glimpse of sunlight that they would see until a stranger would decide that they would get to see it again -- Joseph whispered, "Don't forget me."

Casserole2

If you missed the first Casserole post, you can check it out here.

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I mostly did my taxes today. I haven't finished crunching all the numbers yet, but so far it looks like I'm going to get a refund this year. Last year, I ended up owing around $800. I think that means either I'm in a much lower tax bracket this year, or my previous employer kind of screwed me over last year.

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I think MeepMeep's hormones have been settling, because she hasn't gone into heat for about a month (around Valentine's Day, go figure). She recently developed a voracious appetite for food, so I've been trying to not feed her too much. Lately, she's been politely requesting food when it isn't feeding time. It took me a while to figure out what she meant when she would crawl up onto my leg or crouch outside the bathroom door (when I'm not in there) or just randomly meow. Oh; it's because your bowl is empty. She hasn't developed a flabby gut like Macho did, so I'm hopefully not overfeeding her.

But far be it from me to deny her request when it's time to eat.

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"Not that I speak in regard to need, for I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content: I know how to be abased, and I know how to abound. Everywhere and in all things I have learned both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need." (Philippians 4:11-12)

This morning when I woke up, I noticed that my hip, wrist, and foot were hurting, and then I noticed that the weather was colder. Then I wasn't surprised. As I get older, I notice that my body helps me predict the weather. If my hair is behaving in the morning, that means the weather will be awesome. If my hair is being unusually stubborn, that means the weather will become bad later in the day. And, apparently, if I have old-person pains in my joints, that means I should probably dress warmly.

I still don't understand why people marvel at how the weather is acting. This is Texas. In the summertime, it's going to be hot. In January, it's going to be cold. If it isn't officially spring yet, there's a chance that the temperature could dip below freezing. If it isn't officially fall yet, the temperature will be parked on the 90s and the 100s. And if it's fall or winter, and if the weather suddenly gets hot, that means it's about to suddenly get cold again.

Spiritual seasons are the same way. If I'm in a season of prosperity (I believe the New King James Version says that this type of season is when you "abound"), everything about that season will have characteristics of prosperity. My bank account will be fat and happy. The atmosphere of my soul will be peaceful and happy. It will be easier for me to give -- moneywise and soulwise -- because I will have more than enough to go around.

If I'm in a season where I'm being squeezed tightly (when you're "abased" in the NKJV), everything in that season will squeeze me. My bank account will be skinny and sad. The atmosphere of my soul will be fighting to not become depressed, and I'm probably going to be working through a lot of anger. I'll probably be grieving the loss of something or somebody, I'll probably be hurting, and I'll probably be pretty needy -- moneywise and soulwise. But some very good things can come out of this type of season.

I didn't write any songs last year (because God told me to not write any), but He reminded me recently about the desperate times last year when I would pace around my living room and pour out my heart to Him. He basically showed me that I gave all my poetry to Him that way. Sweet. If He's happy, I'm happy.

One thing He showed me last year was that I've learned how to be content when I'm "abased," but I've never really learned how to be content when I'm "abounding." So, He said sarcastically, "I'm just going to have to take you through another season of abounding." Oh, darn.

So, I'm keeping my eyes peeled open for that season change.

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In my constant struggle to have the perfect quiet time -- or perhaps to not obsess over how perfect it supposedly has to be -- God recently spoke something rather profound: "I don't care what you do during your quiet time. I just want a relationship with you." Lately, I've been having a 10-minute iPhone quiet time where He'll lead me to read a Psalm, but He really seems more interested in me chatting with Him than anything else. (And I mean chatting like a teenager at a slumber party.) I also sing a little bit, but when I do, MeepMeep will shoot out of nowhere and try to bite my arm.

Someday, I might just grab all my Bibles off the shelf and arrange them on the floor into the shape of a heart. Sigh.

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When I was in high school, my birth father started a church. (It split off from another church.) He hated Daylight Saving Time. So, in his congregation, he began the tradition of everyone setting their clocks forward/backward together at the very END of the church service on Sunday morning. (That was before everyone had a smartphone, when everyone was still wearing a wristwatch.)

I thought about that tradition this weekend. If you weren't aware of Dad's corporate time-change tradition, and if you had set your clock forward the night before so that you could be on time for the 11:00 service, you'd end up arriving an hour early. In hindsight, I think this was Dad's way of manipulating people into going to Sunday School. Not cool.

The older I get, the more my personality reminds me of his, so I'm watching myself.

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This afternoon/evening, I had my Dumb and Dumber DVD playing in the background. Listening to the 1994 soundtrack to that movie always transports me to my freshman year of college. I think about being in the cafeteria with those same songs or similar ones playing on the loudspeaker. I feel understood, and I feel safe.

Also today, I remembered when I was in the psych hospital in 2000. Somebody from church came to visit me in the ER, and they asked me if I remembered when was the last time I was happy. I replied when I was 6 years old.

Today, I realized that my answer in the ER wasn't accurate. I was happy in 1994 when I was a freshman in college. For me, maybe 1994 was just as magical of a year as 1982 was. I guess it was because I was adjusting to a new school, and I was putting down roots. In 1994, I was also introduced to the Holy Spirit, who made everything better and yet threw a wrench into the inner workings of my life so that I could never, ever go back to the way things were.

As Lloyd Christmas would say, "I like it a lottt."