A BlogSnax© post
Can you say something is “truly incredible”? Or that something is “more perfect”? No, just like you can’t say “more unique”, “most unique”, or “very unique”, but I’ve heard/read all of those, sometimes in legitimate, published books and in public speeches.
In a completely different vein, I sometimes wonder if the Six Million Dollar Man had a copay. Or a deductible. At least I hope he was insured.
…anyway, I was just thinking…
(Part II of my reimagining of this story from the Gospel of St. Luke, chapter 2. Part I can be found here.)
The couple came in with a baby, obviously preparing to offer a sacrifice for the child in accordance with the Law’s requirements. I stared at them as they passed. (I did so with many who entered the Temple, sometimes to their extreme discomfort.) The girl looked over and our eyes locked. There was something behind those eyes that I’d never seen before. It drew me to her with a call so faint I almost missed it. With more strength than I thought I possessed, I raised my weary bones to my feet and rushed to get closer to them. In my haste, I crashed into one of the money changers who made a mockery of the temple. If I’d knocked him to the ground, I wouldn’t have spent a moment regretting it. He didn’t belong there.
The woman, who was not much more than a child herself, didn’t move. She waited as if expecting my approach. To his credit, her companion stepped between us. His caution was understandable. A strange, wild-eyed old man who looked as if he was about to accost his wife justified his concern. In response, I paused. But the woman stepped around the man and stood before me with her little one. That’s when I got a good look at the baby.
It was the child.
I’d always expected the Anointed One to stride into view in royal attire, borne by a mighty stallion or a chariot, unmistakable, ready to assert His privilege and power. I pictured myself bowing before Him, worshiping Him in His glory. But it was a baby. A helpless infant. Surely I’d mistaken my hope for truth.
Nothing set this newborn apart from the many others I’d encountered over my long vigil. Little wisps of hair, ruddy wrinkled skin, eyes unfocused, cooing and fussing in his mother’s arms. No, it wasn’t just my hope. It was the Spirit once more, divulging a deep truth about the little one. It was him. Never had I been so sure of anything.
But what could I do? More than I could express, I wanted to touch him, make his parents understand who it was they held. Maybe I should have been satisfied merely to let my eyes rest on his tiny form and go home to die, content. Doubtless prompted by the same Spirit that drew me to her, the woman held the child out to me. I became aware of the fact that I was trembling. Nonetheless, I took him from her, in awe of what was happening.
Before I knew it, I was speaking. Or rather the Spirit was speaking through me. Having the Spirit speak to me, while precious, wasn’t new, but this? The words came tumbling out unbidden. I spoke to Jehovah. I spoke to the couple. The statements felt profound, prophetic, but I had no idea what they meant. If the couple looked confused and amazed, I was even more so. There would be time to mull over the meaning of the message later. For the moment, I held it in my heart. I could see his mother doing the same.
Then came the words I wish I could have swallowed rather than spoken. Better the bitterness in my mouth than wounding that poor woman. Even as I saw the message cut her, I felt the sword in my own heart. A heart attack? Was God so soon demanding my part of the prophecy? Was this already the end I’d long expected? No, it was our pain, the mother’s and mine, shared. But hers was yet to come.
It was finished. Carefully, tenderly, I handed the baby back to his mother. I tasted the tears on my lips before I realized I was crying. Was it joy? Perhaps. Was it the fact that I knew now that my days on earth would soon draw to a close? No. It was peace. I almost didn’t recognize it because it was a peace like nothing I’d ever known. It defied explanation and expectation. It was a sense of completion, of hope fulfilled, of a promise kept.
Out of respect, I dipped my head to the couple before they disappeared into the crowd, still looking unsure of what they’d seen and heard. I’d seen Him. I’d touched Him. And He had touched me.
To think I almost didn’t get out of bed.
(Believe what you want about the Bible—my personal belief is that it is the essentially true story of God’s dealing with humanity—but it is a treasure trove of great literature and stories. It’s often sparse on detail (and admittedly often excessive with esoteric minutia) but that’s part of the fun. One of my favorite writing exercises is to fill in those gaping holes by combining my limited cultural knowledge with my overactive imagination to create possible (if not likely) scenarios and profiles.
I’ve done this a few times before in this and my earlier blog. See here and here and here, for example. This time, I’m telling the story of a little known character from the Christmas story, a gentleman named Simeon. You can—and IMHO should—read the original story here.)
I almost didn’t get out of bed that morning. It hurt too much to move, never mind stand up and walk. Every joint in my body screamed for more rest. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering what I had to get up for. At my age, there was no one left to see and nothing I had to do, even if I still had the strength to do it.
People think to live a long life is a blessing. They’re mistaken. It’s a curse. The body weakens until it’s all but useless. Everyone you’ve ever known leaves you, rendering you more and more isolated until finally… you’re completely alone. The last friend I had died last year. I lost my beloved Joanna as she gave birth to Samuel, who, like his older siblings moved far away long ago. Samuel went north to Galilee, to Cana if memory serves, although it doesn’t serve me well these days. Asa, always captivated by the sea without ever having seen it, went to Joppa. He was determined to make his fortune sailing and trading around the Empire. I wonder if he ever achieved that goal. The rest of my surviving offspring migrated to God knows where. They used to visit when they came to Jerusalem for Passover or other other holy days. Over the years, they came less and less, rarely observing those festivals. It pains me to not see them but it hurts more that they’ve drifted away from Jehovah. He’s the only reason I’m still here—still in Jerusalem, yes, but also the reason I continue to live and breath.
In the end, with concerted effort and much groaning, I rose. It wasn’t my will but the Spirit that moved me. Years ago, back when I was a foolish youth with little promise, few prospects, and no hair on my chin, the Ancient of Days revealed to me (of all people!) that, before my time had run out, I would see His Messiah, the Christ, the consolation of all Israel. From that day on, I looked for any sign of His arrival. At first, it was mere curiosity. As I grew older, it became an obsession. Now that my body tells me daily that it has nearly run its course, I wonder if my youthful fantasy was just that. Was it the wishful thinking of a daydreaming boy or a true message from the Lord of Hosts? My faith began to waver but my will never did.
That morning I was inspired like never before to go to the temple. That’s where Jehovah meets us and that’s where I was certain I’d find the fulfillment of the prophecy He’d given me. I sat as always, enduring the whispers, snickers, and slights made at the expense of the poor old fool who thinks God speaks to him as if he were Moses. Does one have to be Moses to have a word from the Lord? I thought not. I hoped not. In spite of my hopes and expectations, the morning passed no differently than any other.
Until they walked by.
…to be continued
[Props to my brother who made this. Thanx, JT!]
The US is suddenly very bad at a lot of good things: caring for the unfortunate, uplifting the oppressed, promoting a healthy environment, and protecting future generations, for instance. We’re making up for that by being really good at bad things: terrorizing minorities, killing innocent civilians, and invading friendly countries come immediately to mind but there are loads of others.
One more example of the latter occurred to me of late, reinforced by the commercials that have bombarded my senses as I watched football playoff games. It appears as if we are world leaders at manufacturing gamblers.
It used to be that, if you wanted to gamble, you went to Las Vegas (a.k.a. Lost Wages) and blew the nest egg. Other alternatives were the dog and horse tracks, for those drawn to such diversions. For the truly desperate, there has always been the option of tracking down some lowlife bookie and throwing away money at him. (Not to be sexist, but were there female bookies?)
Over time, short-sighted local governments got into the game with lotteries, i.e. voluntary taxes on people who are bad at math. All the aforementioned activities catered to a limited population or at least were small potatoes, it seems to me.
Things have changed.
You can literally gamble anywhere, anytime, if you have a phone and a connection to the Internet. It’s safe to assume that’s pretty much everyone in the US. If the proliferation of sports gambling commercials is any indication, all sports above youth level exist for the sole purpose of gambling, while sports “news” is all about odds, overs and unders, and other such profligate falderal.
For football, you have the ability to not only bet on game outcomes but countless other possibilities. Who will win MVP? Who will kick the first field goal? What color Gatorade will be dumped on the winning coach? (Seriously, that’s a thing!) I can only assume the same goes for baseball. Will the next pitch be a strike? How many innings will the starting pitcher go? What will be the “launch angle” of the next home run? With baseball, the number of trivial stats and possibilities is virtually endless. Any baseball fan knows that. A veritable gambler’s gold mine, paying off almost solely to “the house”, whoever that might be.
Punch in, folks! They aren’t paying for all these big names and expensive advertising minutes on money they’re giving away. They’re getting it from suckers who think they’re going to win in spite of the fact that the odds are stacked heavily against them. The saying is trustworthy and deserving of full acceptance: “Someone has to win. It just won’t be you.”
My point is that there were only so many outlets for gambling back in the day. Today, there are more than anyone could count. Plus, it’s encouraged by the new bookies: everyone from your governor to your favorite entertainers, be they artists or athletes. To keep that voracious beast fed requires churning out new gamblers. They have to come from somewhere and they don’t grow on trees. We’re manufacturing them. It’s likely they were gamblers all along but didn’t partake, not unlike an alcoholic who doesn’t drink. ‘Cept these folks have fallen, or perhaps been thrown, off the wagon. To quote another wise man, “If you think you may have a gambling problem, stop thinking.”
That’s bad.
And America is good at it.
Are we great yet?
Having a camera in my phone is great for capturing strange, unexpected sights. Here are two examples taken just a few days apart recently in the same town, within two miles of each other.
Second example. This is the door to a local store that, as you can probably tell from some of the signs, serves a lot of low income customers, some of whom are bound to be immigrants in this immigrant-rich community. Or they could be mistaken for illegal immigrants and arrested by small-minded MAGA bigots.
Now for the blow-up…
Could someone be sending a covert warning because of the dangerous, toxic government that now rules this nation? I hope so but it’s probably just a coincidence.
A sad, ironic coincidence.
* Reference to the movie “Blow-Up”, directed by Michelangelo Antonioni, about a photo that’s blown up to reveal clues to a crime.
We all have our days of reckoning when it comes to Christmas. Remember that fateful moment when you came to the realization that Santa Claus was fabricated by parents (as a scapegoat for their gift-giving failures) and toy manufacturers (as a profit-making ploy)? This year I had a similarly painful epiphany, this one regarding what Linus says “Christmas is all about.”
I learned that there’s a very good chance that Jesus was not shut out of an inn by a hostile innkeeper and forced to give birth in some Godforsaken cave. (Another spurious artifact, the “stable” motif, long ago bought the farm, pun intended.) No, it’s most likely that the young parents, Mary and Joseph, were hosted by family back there in Bethlehem and delivered the Christ Child within the confines of their home, which might still have been a cave. Given that setting, they were likely assisted by family and/or a midwife, a far cry from the lonely birth witnessed only by animals.
The manger remains—it’s there in scripture. The Magi are still part of the picture, although they probably arrived on the scene closer to Jesus’s first birthday than on the night of His birth as depicted in the classic creche. So also those those scruffy n’er-do-well shepherds. (Note well: Pariahs (shepherds) and pagans (the Magi) were the first to know of the Incarnation, long before the religious elite or royal powers-that-be. That’s like God revealing himself to illegal immigrants and irreligious idolators before presidents and preachers. Think about it.)
All these minor details are just that and shouldn’t be allowed to distract us from the “the true meaning of Christmas.” This is not, contrary to what lame Hallmark Christmas movies tell us it is, a renewed romance with your old high school flame in your home town. It’s not spruces or snow or Santa, gifts or Grinches or gewgaws. No, it’s the ultimate drop-in, Immanuel, God with us. That part will not be shaken.
Merry Christmas.
It’s a tried and true cliché: Writing is a solitary affair. A writer and his or her computer, typewriter, pencil, tablet, pen, marker, crayon, or other writing implement of choice are isolated for hours, days, weeks, or months on end staring out a window, at a wall, or at the blank page. Locked away in an office, attic, basement, or studio with no people, no interactions, and no interruptions (hopefully). The writer alone with his/her thoughts. (And, when working on a computer, with the endless distractions of the Internet.)
I’m an extroverted, community-oriented, people-energized kind of guy. How did I end up in this world?
Well, there’s another cliché, just as true, that while writing is solitary, a book is a communal undertaking. I can scribble all day for my own entertainment and edification but unless I have others to assist in getting it from the page to an accessible form, it’s merely an exercise of the imagination. That has its own value, to be sure, but it’s generally not the writer’s ultimate aim. Furthermore, if no one reads what I scrawl, it’s vanity of vanities, as the Preacher tells us. The written word needs to be read to be complete.
Take my case, for example. Each of my 12 (so far) books lists me as sole author. (My picture book also has an illustrator.) That’s misleading because I hardly worked alone. There were editors, designers, consultants, inspire-ers, and (maybe most important of all) encouragers, to name a few. And, as I said above, the folks who read those books are as important as any contributor. To paraphrase the age-old question, “If a book is published and no one is there to read it, does it matter?”
Change is in the wind. For the first time, my writing is part of a group project. The local writers’ group I’m part of has published a collection of writings. I had the privilege of contributing three pieces: two short stories and an essay. “Somewhere Stories” can be found on Amazon by clicking on the image below.
As the flyer above indicates, a book launch will be held next week, on Thursday 12/18/25 at the “somewhere” where we meet, the Chelmsford (MA) Center for the Arts. Feel free to drop by, have some cookies, and check it out.
(In case you were worried that I’ve given up writing long form books on my own (admit it, you were worried, weren’t you), fret not! I have a new book in the works, a family-friendly comic tome based on another of my unproduced (as yet 🙂 ) screenplays. God willing, it will be out in plenty of time for better weather reading.)
Apropos to the day, and in keeping with a tradition I’ve maintained for the past few years, I herewith present my annual cryptic list of a small sampling of items I’m thankful for on this Thanksgiving week and always.
God and family are implied, as always.
On the subject of gratitude, here are two of my favorite quotes on the topic from one of the most quotable people of all time, G. K. Chesterton:
Now a couple of thoughts from a lesser voice, me:
I hope and pray you have the most Grateful Thanksgiving ever. And that you have Someone to thank.
I’ve written before about how the world changes but language seems to lag behind. Thus we still use phrases like “through the wringer” long after wringers have ceased to be. For a full discourse on the topic, see this previous post.
A couple of idioms just keep on living, like a pair of linguistic zombies, more than a century after their original usage has, for most intents and purposes, passed into history.*
Those expressions relate to blacksmiths, for Pete’s sake! (Whoever Pete is.) But their usage has continued unabated—possibly even increased—long after the profession has faded from most memories, if it was ever there in the first place. How are these beasts hanging on? Maybe I’ll dig out my slide rule in case it makes a comeback.
* Yes, the craft still exists, mostly as an artistic form, but, c’mon, blacksmithing? Really?
Scribbling in the Sand 