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
Back in the day, when I was writing another blog (q.v. Limping in the Light) I had a few series of posts, such as things I’m thankful for, lies we believe, spiritual disciplines of the modern world, among others. One abbreviated series I ran was of meaningful quotes. There were only three such posts in that blog. (If you’re interested, you can find them here, here, and here.) That’s a shame because I collect and save such quotes at an alarming rate. The file in which I record them contains a few hundred.
Such a waste! To relieve my conscience, I think I’ll share a couple here.
I just finished reading Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings”. Not only was it a wonderful book, it was a treasure trove of wisdom. Here are a couple of nuggets.
Here’s a statement of the human condition which sadly has been so for all recorded time.
People whose history and future were threatened each day by extinction considered that it was only by divine intervention that they were able to live at all. I find it interesting that the meanest life, the poorest existence, is attributed to God’s will, but as human beings become more affluent, as their living standard and style begin to ascend the material scale, God descends the scale of responsibility at a commensurate speed.
Although her book was published in 1969, Ms. Angelou prophetically characterizes certain current national figures with this analysis:
In order to be profoundly dishonest, a person must have one of two qualities: either he is unscrupulously ambitious, or he is unswervingly egocentric. He must believe that for his ends to be served all things and people can justifiably be shifted about, or that he is the center not only of his own world but of the worlds which others inhabit.
I’ve never seen a more precise description of a certain despicable scoundrel who is even now tearing down everything we cherish.
Have you ever noticed how many popular expressions take the form, “It’s not the … it’s the …”? I’ve collected a few that came to mind. I’m always open to more.
That’s all I’m aware of but it’s not the quantity, it’s the quality. At least that’s what people say.
(A gift post. A little while ago, I found this article filed away as a “draft” in my now deceased blog, “Limping in the Light” *. I must have written it in Days of Yore but never published it. Either I changed my mind or just plain forgot about it. Now it resurfaces to give me a new post with minimal investment. Being the noodge I am, however, it has taken me longer than expected. You can decide whether it was worth it.)
I don’t like nagging and I don’t like being nagged. I don’t know anyone who does. Even the nagger (one who nags, q.v., as opposed to the naggee) doesn’t get anything out of it. (There are those who derive some perverse pleasure from it, but they embody their own punishment.) And it doesn’t work. At best, the nagger gets what was nagged for—with a side of resentment and bitterness—but never what was truly wanted or needed.
Yet I find myself inundated with nagging. Day in, day out, day through, day over, day around. It never ends. No, it’s not from the stereotypical busybody sitcom housewife. There aren’t any of those in my life. The naggers I’m talking about are complete strangers to me. To those badgering bozos, I am less than a number. I am a disembodied statistic in their potential market share. Here’s the problem:
Cable TV** – Don’t have it, don’t want it, won’t get it. I grew up in a time when movie theaters ran ads heralding the prophetic image of a cash-eating box sitting on top of my TV. It came to pass just as they predicted! Paying to watch TV is like paying a fee for the privilege of shopping. (That happens, too, I hear.) Besides, I’m a TV-holic. No one asks alcoholics why they don’t have beer taps in their houses.
Verizon and Comcast don’t get the message. Nag, nag, nag. A week doesn’t pass without getting at least a couple (usually more) ads to sign up for one of their TV plans. I’ve even told them verbally that they are wasting their time and postage. Your cable rates would drop about 5% if they stopped sending me mailings.
Email spam – Fake Rolex watches, generic Viagra, jobs, lower interest rates, college degrees, tech gadgets, not to mention the unmentionables. There is no limit to the crap I am nagged to buy via email. True, those messages all end up in my spam bin only to be deleted, but I know they’re there. Is anyone really responding to these nags?
Phone spam – Lower your interest rates, sell your time-share, clean your chimney, IRS scams, vote for me, give, give, give, nag, nag, nag. Call me without me inviting you to do so and I will refuse whatever you are offering. Actually, I’ll never know because I don’t answer any calls from numbers I don’t recognize. The world would be a lot better off if everyone followed the same practice. (hint, hint)
Credit cards – I average a credit card offer in the mail every day, with batches of up to five arriving in a single day, some for cards I already have. Stop nagging me! If I want a new credit card, I’ll get it, but blind mailings accomplish nothing except cost you, and by inference your customers, large piles of money.
The nagging goes on and on. TV commercials. Billboards. Traffic signs. PC/Windows warnings. I predict that this post alone will elicit at least a few spam messages, “likes”, or “follows”. All of which will be ignored. Nag, nag, nag.
I am pummeled with messages (nags) with all the subtlety of flying mallets. (Thank you, Dave Edmunds, for the metaphor) This is nothing short of brainwashing. That’s the tactic. And you (and I) are the target.
Eventually, unless you are on your guard, you will actually believe that your life will be improved by a Swiffer or Proposition X.X or enhancement pills or this software or that exercise program or some innovative training class. None of them will improve you or your quality of life.
The only thing that would improve my life is if everyone would stop nagging me.
* Perhaps I should resurrect that old blog. The title is once more sadly appropriate, after a long and welcome lapse. Then again, why tempt fate?
** This is the downside of posting an old article. Some concepts from the era in which this was written (not that long ago) are already obsolete. Such is the case with “cable TV”, if you remember what that was. Substitute “streaming service” (e.g. Disney+, Peacock, Max, Netflix, Apple TV, Prime, blah, blah, blah, nag, nag, nag—each one a monthly subscription conspiring to drive you into bankruptcy while frying your brain) or “cell phone plan” and we’re back to the same old song and dance and nag and nag.
As one of her first moves as Mexico’s new president, Claudia Sheinbaum has declared that she plans to build a wall along the border with the USA and she expects them to pay for it.
“We proud Mexican citizens are tired of all these people coming from the US ruining our country. They send rapists, mentally ill, liars, felons, misogynists, sexual predators, and bigots. Admittedly, the only person fitting all those descriptions is the newly elected president of that morally bankrupt country. But with that buffoon in charge, can more like him be far behind? Stay out of our country! They’ve never even had a woman running the joint. How backwards is that? Hello, losers! It’s the 21st century!”
They’re eating the Taco Bells!
That’s not all that concerns her. She continued, “As if all that weren’t enough, they’re going to come down here and try to open up Taco Bells. Taco Bell!! In Mexico! Are they kidding? Why not open a Red Lobster in Maine? Or Papa John’s in Naples? We’re Mexican! We know how Mexican food is supposed to taste and that ain’t it!”
She concluded by declaring, “Keep your crappy food and your corrupt leaders and their reprehensible ways out of Mexico. Stay behind that wall and pay up when the bill comes!”
From time to time, it becomes necessary to do a Roto-Rooter® job on my brain. Ideas, thoughts, whims, and other random ephemera (to borrow a phrase from the subtitle of my 9th book) clog up my scarred brain and need to be snaked out before they leak all over the place and/or my brain backs up. Either one would not be pretty.
Let me now foist some of these notions on your innocent and unsuspecting mind:
Not long ago I watched (for about the 14th time) the original “Terminator” movie. You know, the one where Ahnold is a bad guy and he says “I’ll be bahk!” As often happens after multiple viewings of the same movie, something new and absurd caught my eye. Sarah Connor and her protector, Kyle, escape from the police station that the Terminator had just gone bahk to and, well, terminated. For the first time, I noticed the vehicle they escaped in. It’s an AMC Gremlin! I love it! Could there be a more incongruous mode of transportation in such a movie? I’ve since learned that there are at least three Gremlins in different scenes in the movie. Can you spot them? (Now we know what happened to the rest of the car, toots.**)
You might see me as just another blogger whose writings captivate you with flights of literary genius, thus bringing you back time and again to reach new heights of reading ecstasy, but I’m a lot more than that. In all humility, I must tell you I’m a worker of miracles. In fact, I perform such miracles almost every day when I make a huge deal out of nothing at all. Ask my wife, she’ll tell you.***
My favorite activity (or at least one of my top three favorites) is something I do every chance I get. Whenever I see babies, the younger the better, I try to catch their eyes. Babies have an incredible ability to lock onto your eyes and never let go until it’s impossible to maintain visual contact because of distance or angle. They stare at me (or you!) as if I’m the most fascinating thing on earth. It’s great for the ego but I always wonder what’s going on in their impressionable, developing minds. I hope it’s not, “Wow, there’s a strange looking dude.” But I don’t care what it is. I just love looking into those beautiful, innocent, inquisitive eyes.
One last question: How is it that saying “something is up” means the same as “something is going down”? Just asking.
* See what I did? I shortened “thoughts” to “thots”, thus saving valuable time and electrons. Of course I’ve blown both by adding this asinine comment but, hey, you can’t have everything.
** Obscure reference to old Gremlin commercial from the 70’s. Yeah, I’m that old. And more. Sadly, I can’t find the commercial anywhere except in the dark recesses of my dark (and getting darker every day) mind.
*** She’ll also tell you that I’m adept at the equally miraculous feat of turning molehills into mountains.
Press Release
For Immediate Release
Cambridge, MA, December 19, 2023 — Biozyme Corporation®, a global provider of innovative pharmaceutical solutions, announced today that it has run out of letter combinations for all future drugs, including those under development. “With the release of our new cutting edge SBS (shy bladder syndrome) medication, Ininossssdzz©®, we have exhausted all reasonable length permutations of the 26 letter English alphabet,” said Bryce Fiasco, Chief Appellation Officer for Biozyme©®℗. “We need to start exploring entirely new character sets.” The CAO adds, “Biozyme©®℗Ø is not facing this dilemma alone. The entire industry has depleted all combinations of characters 12 letters or less.”
Biozyme©®℗Ø֍ was not forthcoming with any details regarding their plans going forward. Rumor has it they will be utilizing numbers, non-English alphabets, heiroglyphics, emojis, animal noises, as well as tones picked up by radio telescopes aimed into deep space.
“At Biozyme©®℗Ø֍♂, our core competency has always been innovation and we’re very excited to move ahead into previously uncharted sobriquet territory. No longer will we be restricted by the arbitrary limitations of an archaic collection of characters.” It is expected that the first drug employing the new naming paradigm will be Biozyme’s©®℗Ø֍♂☺groundbreaking treatment for the relief of side effects of their drug used to lessen negative reactions to its medication to treat hangnails caused by the use of their mRNA dandruff therapy.
“We’re sure that the consumers of our products will be quite comfortable with the new drug names,” said Chief Rationalization Officer Hymie Slamm. “After all, none of our current offerings are pronounceable by humans.”
Many people were relieved when the House of Representatives finally selected a Speaker of the House. I, for one, was not. Writing about this could sound as if I’m boasting, but it’s my duty as an American citizen to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth… as I see it… which could mean anything in this culture. And the truth is…
I was fourth in line after “Mike Johnson” (yeah, like that’s his real name) to be nominated as Speaker.
Yes, it’s true. The Republicans were working down a list according to qualifications. After McCarthy, Scalise, Jordan, Emmer, Bergman, Hern, and a swarm of other no-names who either couldn’t get the votes or dropped out (because they couldn’t get the votes), “Mr. Johnson” was elected before the next names on the list were revealed.
Now it can be told.
After “Johnson”, Attila the Hun’s name was to be put on on the table. Sadly, even though he had secured the votes to be elected, someone had the audacity to point out that Mr. Hun had been dead for 1570 years. He lost six votes after that fact was revealed, which was enough to put his election into question. This came as a major disappointment to Republican presidential favorite Donald the Hun.
Another Trump preference was the next candidate on the roster. Milburn Pennybags, a.k.a. “Rich Uncle” Pennybags, mascot of the popular Parker Brothers board game, Monopoly. He has a few key character traits in common with the presumptive Republican nominee: First, he’s two-dimensional, possibly one dimension more than Mr. Trump. Second, he appears to be rich but his money isn’t real. Finally, he never shows up on the “Pay Income Tax” space.
The final name on the list before me was Bozo the Clown. He was never a serious consideration because Mr. Trump rejected him on two counts: (1) He’s afraid of clowns and (2) Bozo is considered too much of an intellectual (“a egghead”, as Mr. Trump puts it) who wouldn’t appeal to mainstream Republican House members.
That would have brought me to the front of the line. The fact that no one knows who I am certainly worked in my favor. It’s not clear whether I would have been able to muster the votes to be elected but I’d give it my all, which is all a guy can do.
If, Heaven forbid, I failed to be elected, a small selection of the many names that would have come after me were Captain America, Gumby, Taylor Swift, the World’s Largest Ball of Twine, Popeye the Sailor Man–never underestimate the draw of a man in uniform–and Goofy… or was that Dopey… or “Mike Johnson”? Six of one…
Scribbling in the Sand 