My 50th Thanksgiving

Good morning dear ones,

It's my 50th Thanksgiving this morning, and I'm enjoying the morning's quietness before the cooking and visiting start.

The wind is roaring outside, which is common on the point by the lake. The robins have been extremely vocal the past few days. Either they don't know they are supposed to be migrating or they are calling themselves together in preparation for said migration. We've had such a mild autumn that it might have confused our traveling friends, shrinking daylight hours notwithstanding. 
The apple, crabapple and tupelo trees are heavily laden with fruit, more so than I have seen in years. If this wind doesn't blow them all away, we'll have a lot of happy waxwings in the spring. The apples this year have been very tasty. If you get a chance to have some Vermont apples, enjoy them. There's been a lot of pink in the Macintoshes, something Tom very much enjoys. His grandmother used to make pink applesauce.
I missed the Leonid showers last week, but my friend the moon has been lovely, peeking through my bedroom window in the wee hours.

I came across a sweet little video from Ted talks. I'm enclosing the link so Mom and Dad may listen to it. I am grateful for so much from my family, music being one particular gift that we were able to share. Mom and Dad, thank you for investing all that cash, time, transportation and everyone's ear drums so that I could play the violin. It's one of the treasures you gave to me that I have been able to give to others. 
http://ed.ted.com/lessons/how-playing-an-instrument-benefits-your-brain-anita-collins

I think of David and Paul with their horns, Jon's singing, Naomi's guitar and folk songs. There were Priscilla and Elizabeth with piano and guitar. 
No one could play Franz Liszt like Priscilla! No one would dare. Move over, Victor Borge!
The sound of singing was always around us, from lullabies to Muzak, to Mom's rich whistling, to the 8+ hour drives to VT and NJ. 
I remember David's 8 track and the little class ring marks that were on the left side of his steering wheel from his tapping along when he drove. In fact, every time I'm at a stop light and am playing my air drums, I remember the delightful click of his ring rapping out treble beats to the Beach Boys and an occasional Jethro Tull.
Always a fan of predators, Naomi's "Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night" ever filled me with joy. When Naomi opened her guitar case, I always knew I was in for a treat.
Jon brought back crazy camp songs that would make a mom blush. We managed to get away with singing "Salvation Army." I even made up my own verses. Each time we saw him on stage was way-y-y cool to me.
No one could sing/talk Gloria Gaynor like Paul. I still haven't seen "Rocky Horror," but if I did, I'd already know the words to most of the songs.
Elizabeth, my favorite piano duet has always been Also Sprach Zarathustra. You made my limited keyboard talent sound AWESOME.
Mary and David gave me my first radio! I remember the first song I heard on it was Billy Joel's "Just the Way You Are." Stephanie loved Lovin' Spoonful and then I grew to love them, too!

There will never be another voice like Mom's. 
Never. 
And Dad? What can I say. You put up with my Pink Floyd and all the rest when I discovered FM radio. I remember also that you had the coolest taste in music, from Spike Jones to the Beatles to Harry Chapin and all the hymns and history that went with EVERYTHING.

I send you all great fondness, love and gratitude. 
Happy Thanksgiving!
me

Squirrel Behavior and one more "Tail" of a Squirrel Crossing the Road

Why did the chicken cross the road? To show squirrels it can be done.
     Squirrels. We love to hate them. We hand raise them. We feed them. We try to NOT feed them. We brake for them. Sometimes we brake ON them.
     This week, I witnessed something I've never before seen. 
     I was driving down a road running parallel to our local bicycle path, an asphalt trail separated from the road by about four feet of green belt.
     Suddenly, a squirrel bounded across the road in front of me. It was far enough ahead that it was never in danger. In a flash, it got to the greenbelt. With its distinctive, uncomfortable-looking squirrel walk, it crossed the grass. Then it suddenly bounded across the asphalt of the bike path. At that point, I drove past it.
     I immediately reported my awe to my family. They were appropriately mildly interested. Actually, my husband and I were still discussing the philosophical implications the next day.
     That squirrel manifested a life-saving trepidation of road surfaces. This particular squirrel will never become road pizza. Should it find a mate of similar temperament, its offspring will probably be as road-savvy. This grey creature wasn't particularly fast, but it demonstrated learning capacity.
     That learning capacity stunned me. I wanted to cheer for this smart little creature. Then I ventured into existential questions of the rights of the fittest to survive vs. the need for aberrations to be eliminated. Don't we all want our squirrels to be dumb? Don't we want them to be indecisive in the center of the road so we can't blame ourselves for splattering them? If squirrels like this clever one should be allowed to procreate, what is to stop them from unionizing, from forming thug groups and carjacking us?

     When I was a child, we used to see plenty of red squirrels. By the time I went to college, they had vanished. I haven't seen a live red squirrel since.
     I have decided. That shining example of intelligence is best left to live. Not that its life was ever really in question. I hope it finds a mate and has lots of baby squirrels. Will that intelligence "skip a generation"? 
     I hope it doesn't.

The Day I Stopped Chewing on Pens

What is it about children and gnawing?
   I have seen many a chewed pencil through the years. I suspect that any elementary school teacher has seen even more than I.
   Just as "Ralphie" in A Christmas Story was a connoisseur of soap, I was a connoisseur of writing implements.
   There's something delightful about sinking one's teeth into the wood of a Ticonderoga. First, there is the piercing through the paint, kind of like a candy coating. Then there is that spongy resistance that relents with gentle pressure. When the eraser has worn down, one can chew through the metal of the eraser holder, providing half as much eraser again.
   Bic pens provided variety. If a good wooden pencil were the crunchy-on-the-outside-chewy-on-the-inside treat, then the Bic was the hard candy. Oh, how the crack down the brittle plastic satisfied. My jaws had power and my teeth had the strength to sustain it! (Had my mother known, she would have offered her motherly admonition: "Don't use your teeth!" This warning covered everything from pistachios to "clam shell" plastic wrap.)
   Then came the Biro. It was a stick pen that didn't write really well, but the texture was like chewing old gum. They had an unequalled springy-ness to them.
   Then it happened.
   It was my freshman year of college. My cousin and I were in Physics 101 together. We both sat in the front. I sat next to him, hoping to absorb some of his engineering smarts. Shucks, he got A's in Chem 101 when everyone else was getting a 70 point curve added on to their scores! He was a good lab partner, too: veeerrrry patient with me.
   Sitting there in the front, desperately trying to understand something the professor was saying, I was chewing my Biro. Suddenly it shot out of my mouth, as if all the potential energy of every Biro created pushed it forth.
   The pen went in a beautiful trajectory and landed in front of my teacher. He picked it up and handed it to me, saying, "Don't throw things."
   I somehow made it through the rest of the class, trying to not laugh or cry for the next 30-40 minutes.
   I never chewed another pen.
   Anyone around here have some gum?
 

Woodpeckers - the Backyard Naturalist strikes again.

It's well before 7 am on the second day of May. The thrum of a woodpecker rises above the eager calls of other birds.
     There are four Vermont woodpeckers which immediately come to my mind. There is the flicker, which isn't the characteristic black and white. It's most noticeable by the dark bar of color below its throat. Then there are the hairy and downy woodpeckers. I finally put a stickie note on my computer to remind me that the hairy woodpecker is larger than the downy woodpecker.
     And then there is the pileated.
     The pileated is a huge and dramatic beast of a bird. Once when I was walking, a pileated came up behind me and flew over my head. I've never before heard such a rush of feathers and wind. Just as it came into my line of sight, it chattered. It then perched high up in a tree and rotated around the trunk so it was then hidden from my view. I could have stayed there for hours just watching for it, but my lunch break was over. I had to go back to work.
     I'm blessed: I get to see a handsome pileated woodpecker six to eight times a year. At least one, if not a family, lives around here. When I don't see him, I see his evidence. Pileated woodpeckers don't tend to make polite little holes in trees. They are demolition specialists. If you see a larger woodpecker hole, look around. You may find splinters and pieces of wood as big as your fingers. That's the work of a pileated woodpecker.

     While on my walk yesterday, I noticed many fresh woodpecker holes in the trees. Empirically speaking, I'd say that this year there are many more fresh woodpecker holes compared to previous years.
     I noticed something else. The hairy and downy woodpeckers drilled into trees far lower than I have ever seen. I have never seen them at ground level. (Note: please correct  me in the comments if you have seen this more commonly. Thank you!)
     My first thought was that the long winter may have killed more bugs and provided a larger supply of nourishment for the woodpeckers. Perhaps the winter killed more areas in the trees, allowing the woodpeckers greater access.
     And then I realized that these could be the actions of desperation. What timid little bird would invest time hammering at ground level?
     I truly don't know.
     This year, I put out suet for my little friends. My attempt was unsuccessful: the squirrels made very short work of it. Therefore, my desire for warmer weather is at least partly altruistic. The woodpeckers need more food sources! 
     I think of Matthew 10:27 and Luke 12:27. As fond as I am of birds, Someone loves them and cares for them far more than I ever could. And as much as that Someone loves and cares for birds, He cares for each of us even more.
Shalom,
mrfb
     
     
     

   
   

Mad River Distillers - a review

       At long last it was a perfect spring day. The hubby and I decided to do something Vermontish. A great researcher, he found a Vermont distillery in the Waitsfield area. As a child, I spent many happy times in Waitsfield. Our relatives owned the General Wait home. Back then, the history was lost on me, so to take a drive in that direction seemed a wonderful way to spend the afternoon.

       Getting to the distillery is fairly easy. It is, however, my 5 month old car’s first time on a dirt road – in mud season. Fortunately, we emerge on the other side unscathed.

       When we arrive at the Mad River Distillers, a yeasty, bready scent welcomes us. The distillery has a cleanness and newness about it. The building is small, perhaps “bigger on the inside.”

       Our guide Will welcomes us and gives us “the tour.” The tour itself would normally take mere minutes, but he cheerfully answers my hubby’s questions. Will clearly enjoys both his work and discussing it.

       Several giant vats hold mash in various stages. The first one seems to boil with its yeasty production of gases. The second vat percolates more gently and the third shows no motion on the surface.

       The still is a coppery, bulbous, tubular wonder. It seems part pressure cooker and part time machine. As hubby and Will talk filtration systems, I hear, “Blah, blah, blah.” This isn’t because I don’t understand; I get distracted trying to figure out how I know this fellow.

       Ding ding ding! I figure it out. He resembles “Tom” from The Blacklist. Okay, now I can listen better to them talk about barrels and charcoal and maple water. I just hope I don’t slip and call him “Tom.”

       When our “tour” is finished, Will offers to let us sample their spirits. He produces tiny plastic shot glasses reminiscent of communion cups. Into these he pours perhaps a quarter ounce of the first sample, their Malvados apple brandy.

       How can a liquid can crash like fire into your oral mucosa and yet flood your olfactory nerves with joy at the same time? I don’t know, but I think I’m in love. I manage to make the brandy last for three sips. It tastes like an apple, it tastes like cinnamon, it lingers like spice with a fire that isn’t cinnamon at all. If I were to count the humming tingling in my mouth after the last sip, I’d say there were four distinct layers. It’s not a “girly” drink, not unless you are the girl in Cake’s “Short Skirt, Long Jacket” song, which I sometimes pretend I am. The next time I have a bad cold, I’d seriously think about reaching for Malvados.

       Next, we sampled their corn whiskey. I’ve never before had corn whiskey. If yellow had a flavor, it would taste exactly like that. I didn’t sort the flavors this time. It wanted me to taste it all at once. I tasted banjos and corn, something wild, innocent and even a touch of don’t-let-mom-catch-you. Instantly I was at the end of summer before school resumed, barefoot and chewing on a piece of timothy grass. It was nearly overwhelming to me, both with its strange flavor and emotional impact. It’s not a beverage I could drink often, but one I definitely would try again.

       To me, the First Run Rum doesn’t taste much like rum. It’s labeled as 48% alcohol, so that must be why. It’s quite potent, more like Bacardi’s 151. The distillers offer recipes on their webpage. I wouldn’t mix the First Run into a drink. Although it doesn’t strike me as very rummy, it is very sippable, providing a cheerful midthoracic warming.

       The Maple Rum again provided a hearty burn within the mouth and warming in the chest. But what? Unmistakable maple bloomed in my mouth. That flavor is why pear thrips and Asian longhorns are such horrid concepts to us in Vermont. This delicate taste called maple simply must be preserved for the ages. Will recommends that this one may taste better chilled.

       We move on to Vanilla Rum. This is the most “girly” of their rums and will lend itself best to mixed drinks. Its flavor of alcohol is a little lighter. It might go well in a vanilla milkshake. It’s drinkable by itself and also might be more flavorful if served chilled.

       By this time, we are joking that we may need to sit for a while before heading home. We chat and exchange ideas about sugaring, dairy, mud season and Vermont wineries. Will shares the challenges and complexities inherent in the liquor sales business. The Mad River Distillers are clearly artisans who understand practicality.

       At this point, my taste buds are almost overloaded. I know I won’t be able to sift through the flavors as carefully as with the first taste tests. We just have their versions of rye and bourbon left. Will had saved them for last due to their strong taste. They definitely tasted like rye and bourbon. I lost my taste for Manhattans a couple years ago, but these both would hold their own with sweet Vermouth and bitters.

       We visited a bit more and thanked Will for his time. He invited us to come back again. I know he meant it.

       Since we were out this far and the weather promised to hold, we took a wonderfully winding and steep (or treacherous, if you prefer) road back. We’d never been to or through Buels Gore. Now we have!

       So, for your next day trip, I recommend checking out the Mad River Distillers. I want to go back for some more of the Malvados. Or did you already guess that?

The Sighing Micro Potty, or how anything can turn into a Bible Study

        It’s Saturday morning. The downstairs bathroom is clean and the rest of my family has been instructed to use upstairs toilet or go to the neighbors’. Meanwhile, Skipper the white-bellied caique is whistling and asking to come out.

         Although she doesn’t understand, I remind her she can’t come out until she’s completed her morning sklurch. I’m not kidding. A parrot’s first poop of the day is enormous! For such a small creature, I want to say she poops 10% of her body weight in the morning. No, I haven’t weighed it.

         I find myself thinking about a toilet we once had. I call it “The Sighing Micro Potty.”

         We had moved into an apartment with a broken toilet. The handyman must have been on a tight budget. For some reason, the new toilet had a rather small seat. The opening was about the size of one of those potty inserts we had as kids. The insert fit on top of the regular toilet seat so a toddler’s little bottom didn’t fall in.

         This toilet had a peculiar habit. With every flush, it SIGHED. It sighed like its heart was breaking. Sometimes it wheezed enough for me to wonder whether there were a plumber’s equivalent of ipratropium.          Being made of flimsy plastic, the Micro Potty seat eventually broke. We replaced it with a sturdy lid designed to accommodate the bottom of an adult. After many months, the air must have been – ahem – flushed from the pipes. Our asthmatic toilet recovered. I never heard it sigh again.

         My experience with wacky plumbing goes back to childhood. I remember being too terrified to reach into the swirling water and watching a comb go down the drain. Then there was the Noxema cap. Even on America’s Funniest Videos, there was the video with the father taking apart the toilet to reveal Winnie the Pooh was the source of that family’s plumbing woes.

         Perhaps life would be easier if we all did like in the Old Testament. Deuteronomy 23:12-13 says:

“Thou shalt have a place also without the camp, whither thou shalt go forth abroad: And thou shalt have a paddle upon thy weapon; and it shall be, when thou wilt ease thyself abroad, thou shalt dig therewith, and shalt turn back and cover that which cometh from thee:”

          Did you know there are many Biblical accounts relating to bowel function? To those of us who GUBA (grew up born-again), Ehud and Elijah come to mind.

         In the time after Moses and before the Kings of Israel, Ehud judged Israel. Here is his story in Judges 3:15-30.

Judges 3:15 But when the children of Israel cried unto the LORD, the LORD raised them up a deliverer, Ehud the son of Gera, a Benjamite, a man lefthanded: and by him the children of Israel sent a present unto Eglon the king of Moab. 16 But Ehud made him a dagger which had two edges, of a cubit length; and he did gird it under his raiment upon his right thigh. 17 And he brought the present unto Eglon king of Moab: and Eglon was a very fat man.

 18 And when he had made an end to offer the present, he sent away the people that bare the present. 19 But he himself turned again from the quarries that were by Gilgal, and said, I have a secret errand unto thee, O king: who said, Keep silence. And all that stood by him went out from him.

 20 And Ehud came unto him; and he was sitting in a summer parlour, which he had for himself alone. And Ehud said, I have a message from God unto thee. And he arose out of his seat. 21 And Ehud put forth his left hand, and took the dagger from his right thigh, and thrust it into his belly: 22 And the haft also went in after the blade; and the fat closed upon the blade, so that he could not draw the dagger out of his belly; and the dirt came out.

 23 Then Ehud went forth through the porch, and shut the doors of the parlour upon him, and locked them.

 24 When he was gone out, his servants came; and when they saw that, behold, the doors of the parlour were locked, they said, Surely he covereth his feet in his summer chamber. 25 And they tarried till they were ashamed: and, behold, he opened not the doors of the parlour; therefore they took a key, and opened them: and, behold, their lord was fallen down dead on the earth.

 26 And Ehud escaped while they tarried, and passed beyond the quarries, and escaped unto Seirath.

 27 And it came to pass, when he was come, that he blew a trumpet in the mountain of Ephraim, and the children of Israel went down with him from the mount, and he before them. 28 And he said unto them, Follow after me: for the LORD hath delivered your enemies the Moabites into your hand. And they went down after him, and took the fords of Jordan toward Moab, and suffered not a man to pass over.

 29 And they slew of Moab at that time about ten thousand men, all lusty, and all men of valour; and there escaped not a man. 30 So Moab was subdued that day under the hand of Israel. And the land had rest fourscore years.

         In vs. 24, the Hebrew term for “covereth his feet” is a euphemism for defecating. Some versions of I Kings 18:27 have Elijah telling the prophets of Baal to cry louder to Baal because Baal may just be thinking, busy or using the toilet.

         If you want to look up the many Biblical accounts of disemboweling, diarrhea and prolapsed intestines, you can grab your concordance and look up “bowel” or “bowels.” Some study Bibles will have links to all the poop on poop.

         Lest you find no redemption in my musings, I will close with something Jesus himself said. You’ll find it in Matthew and Mark. In Mark 15, the scribes and Pharisees noted Jesus’ disciples didn’t always eat according to the rules.

Mark 15:1 Then came to Jesus scribes and Pharisees, which were of Jerusalem, saying, 2 Why do thy disciples transgress the tradition of the elders? for they wash not their hands when they eat bread. ... 10 And he called the multitude, and said unto them, Hear, and understand: 11 Not that which goeth into the mouth defileth a man; but that which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth a man.

 12 Then came his disciples, and said unto him, Knowest thou that the Pharisees were offended, after they heard this saying?

 13 But he answered and said, Every plant, which my heavenly Father hath not planted, shall be rooted up. 14 Let them alone: they be blind leaders of the blind. And if the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch.

 15 Then answered Peter and said unto him, Declare unto us this parable.

 16 And Jesus said, Are ye also yet without understanding? 17 Do not ye yet understand, that whatsoever entereth in at the mouth goeth into the belly, and is cast out into the draught?

 18 But those things which proceed out of the mouth come forth from the heart; and they defile the man.

 19 For out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies: 20 These are the things which defile a man: but to eat with unwashen hands defileth not a man.

         Jesus isn’t endorsing poor hygiene. He is clarifying what God meant from the beginning. Physical poop goes away, but do we have poop in our hearts? If we have a “potty mouth,” is it because there is something inside us that needs cleansing?

         It is Saturday morning and my toilet is clean.

         Is my heart clean, too? Do I need some heavenly bleach and scrubber? Yes, I do. And not just on Saturdays. Fortunately, Malachi 3 reminds us:

Malachi 3:2 But who may abide the day of his coming? and who shall stand when he appeareth? for he is like a refiner’s fire, and like fullers’ soap: 3 And he shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver: and he shall purify the sons of Levi, and purge them as gold and silver, that they may offer unto the LORD an offering in righteousness.

Blessings,

mrfb

The Woman's Penny

I was cleaning, scrubbing and organizing. Then I saw it: something black, slightly under the dish drainer drip catcher.
   My eyes flew open. Downstairs, my husband and his buddy must have heard my sudden vocalization.

   I even misquoted scripture!

Luke 15: 1-10 says, 
 1. Then drew near unto him all the publicans and sinners for to hear him. 
 2. And the Pharisees and scribes murmured, saying, This man receiveth sinners, and eateth with them.

 3 And he spake this parable unto them, saying,

 4 What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?

 5 And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing.

 6 And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbours, saying unto them, Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost.

 7 I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.

 8 Either what woman having ten pieces of silver, if she lose one piece, doth not light a candle, and sweep the house, and seek diligently till she find it?

 9 And when she hath found it, she calleth her friends and her neighbours together, saying, Rejoice with me; for I have found the piece which I had lost.

 10 Likewise, I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.

   I know, you thought I was going to write about some sort of giant spider or cockroach. My apologies. What was the source of my sudden vocalization?
   I found my favorite vegetable peeler. 
   Almost a year ago, I coughed up seven or eight bucks to get a "real" peeler. It was wonderfully sharp and worked like, well, a new peeler. My old peeler had gotten to the point that it only worked if I used it backwards or with my left hand.
   A couple months into my new and exciting relationship with this black handled, ergonomic peeler, it vanished. I searched everywhere, but it was GONE. 
    During the fancy utensil's absence, other life circumstances left me with my very dominant right arm in a cast. By the time of the Super Bowl, I was out of the cast, but my fancy peeler was still gone. Like the woman in Luke 15, I still had my nine other pennies. After 4-5 months of being left handed, I still could use my old peeler. It took me a little longer, but the Super Bowl preparations were fairly successful.

   When I found my peeler, I ran downstairs to where my husband and his buddy were playing pool. I blurted, "I feel like the widow who found her penny!" 
   Stumbling over my words, I hemmed and hawed that I didn't feel like he was dead, but that I was as excited as that woman. His buddy may have had no clue, but my hubby understood the scriptural basis, if not the reason, for my joy.
   Upstairs, my son politely noted my excitement. (He's pretty used to me.)
  Still throbbing with elation, I HAD to CALL SOMEONE. I dialed my Super Bowl girlfriend, another Bible believer, and blathered of my delight. Finally, my need to rejoice ebbed somewhat. It remained as a pleasant hum for several days.

   Only today, did the last part of Luke 15:1-10 hit home.
 10 Likewise, I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.

   If I could get so outrageously and disproportionately giddy about finding my seven dollar peeler, how much more joy would come from the thousands and thousands of angels rejoicing before God over one sinner that repents?
   That's a whole lotta joy.
   Three+ decades ago, a weeping, snot-dripping and humbled teenager asked for salvation. She finally realized she couldn't earn her way into heaven (and oh, how she had tried). But if God still liked her enough to give her a new start, she really wanted to serve him. She didn't know it, but that day, the heavens were rocking with joy. They rocked with every person who ever turned to Christ as Savior. They will continue to do so with every person who ever does.
   II Corinthians 5:11a says, "Knowing therefore the terror of the Lord, we persuade men...." Out of understanding of God's holiness, Christians are rightly motivated to persuade others of the need for salvation. We love you and want you to have an amazing relationship with Father God and to be with us in eternity.
   Many Christians are also motivated not just by fear but by joy. Imagine adding to the joy in heaven by leading another precious soul into God's kingdom! In the realm of spiritual physics, joy MUST be expressed. For every salvation, there must be a mind-blowing expression of joy. Maybe that's why the angels are rejoicing, because our human frames just aren't built to handle the unfathomable joy. 
   If I could barely contain my thrill of finding "the piece which I had lost," imagine the thrill of helping someone find the PEACE which s/he had lost. 

   There's a much beloved verse in Nehemiah 8. The people have heard the law and are broken and weeping at their sin. Nehemiah speaks these wonderful words:

Ne 8:10 Then he said unto them, Go your way, eat the fat, and drink the sweet, and send portions unto them for whom nothing is prepared: for this day is holy unto our Lord: neither be ye sorry; for the joy of the LORD is your strength.

May we all find the piece and the peace for which we are searching.

   


   

#WhoCares vs #Compassion: an allegory by mrfb

     The other day, I overheard a lengthy conversation. Many of you have heard a similar conversation: you see a slender individual who is hating on him/herself because of weight.

     As I wasn't part of the conversation, I said nothing. My inner reactions, however, were multiple and passionate. I am not a slender person. There was a time in high school when I was slender but never knew it because I was still "the fat kid" in my mind.

     A few days later, I am still processing. Why was my reaction so violent inside me? The violence springs from two sides. The kingdoms of #WhoCares and #Compassion had assembled to fight for my heart.

     WhoCares steps in first. It screams, "Who cares, you skinny wench?"

     Compassion says, "Caution, Miriam, you don't know this ground as well as you think."

     The conversation continues for several minutes. One woman has obviously never been overweight, one has always been fine, one has worked very hard and successfully lost weight and one, a little older, has learned something about loving herself.

     WhoCares growls, "I have work to do! Shut up!"

     Compassion knows I have work to do, but is silent. Why?

     From the flank, the older woman speaks wise words to the first woman. Compassion touches my heart. "This is for you, too. Listen."

     I don't want to listen. This is just like the people who counted fat calories back in the late '80's. WhoCares whispers, "You're sick to death of this."

     Something inside me snaps into alertness. WhoCares just made a strategic mistake. I'm Pentecostal enough to refuse to say that I'm sick to death of anything. Although I still don't want to listen to their conversation, Compassion advances. Compassion's plan is to teach me and ready me for a future battle.

     In the debriefing, Compassion unrolls a map. Before us, I see WhoCares is backed by a dark nation called Hatred. Hatred uses two covert commanders, Envy and Jealousy, to permeate the Media and Political Arena. They have two types of soldiers. The Haves are beautiful, wealthy, successful, talented. The HaveNots are angry and range from impoverished to wealthy. They have their own talents and beauty, but this is not the source of their power. They are blind. Blindness keeps them angry enough to prevent them from seeing their own value. Their anger is both seductive and terrifying.

     Compassion points to the map. Compassion has many allies. Unfortunately, the allies seem disorganized in the current war. A delegation from the nations of Truth and Wisdom has just arrived. Their code name is Project Discernment.

     I feel a thrill in my soul. I'd heard talk of a secret weapon. The leader of Discernment puts his arm around me. He slips a key into my pocket.

     "This key unlocks the prison of Fear of Rejection. When you are skilled in its use, you will one day be able to release prisoners of Hatred."

     I feel its weight against me. "When do I use it?" 

     The leader smiles. "You will know. God speed, dear one."

     He kisses my forehead. Then the delegation departs.

     I withdraw the key. It is labelled "Unconditional Love."