Romancing the Bone

“And the Lord God said, “It is not good that man should be alone; I will make him a helper comparable to him.”

 And the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall on Adam, and he slept; and He took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh in its place.  Then the rib which the Lord God had taken from man He made into a woman, and He brought her to the man.

And Adam said:

“This is now bone of my bones
And flesh of my flesh;
She shall be called Woman,
Because she was taken out of Man.”

Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.” Genesis 2:18, 21-24 NKJV

I really wanted to do a clever, witty take on the title of the Michael Douglas/Kathleen Turner film, “Romancing the Stone”, but I couldn’t find a legitimate word for wife that rhymes with ‘stone’.  So, in the end I went with ‘bone’, hoping that with the addition of the Bible passage in which God himself proclaims that He took one of Adam’s ribs (i.e., a bone) and from that bone, created a woman/wife/spouse/helper/partner suitable for him.

I want you to note that all of those words (woman/wife/spouse/helper/partner suitable for him) are implied in the original text, very specific, and rich with theological, cultural, practical, and anthropological meaning.  From the very beginning of humankind on this planet it has always been God’s intention that the partnership we call marriage consist of a man and a woman, and that neither is superior to the other.  They are partners of equal standing in the relationship.  The phrase “ comparable to him” (‛êzer neged in the original Hebrew) literally means ‘equal counterpart.  That this equal counterpart is of the female gender is undeniably precise in any language.

That, however, is not the particular rabbit I want to chase this morning. 

I’m a child of the 50’s.  That means the television in my formative years showed families in which ‘father knew best,’ children obeyed and respected their parents, and husbands romanced their wives.  They bought them flowers and chocolates.  They opened doors for them and helped them put their coats on.  They held chairs, said please and thank you, and while Rob and Laura Petry slept in separate beds, they did show their affection for each other.

We used pen and paper to send ‘text messages’ even if our handwriting was undecipherable.  Typing a ‘love letter’ was impersonal.

The men of ‘my day’ (my father, grandfathers, uncles, etcetera) for the best part married their special someone, stayed married to her, and treated her respectfully.  Yes, I know there were exceptions.  As someone once said, “I’m crazy but I’m not stupid.”  My role models told their wives face to face that they love her.  They didn’t post an impersonal ‘hey love u babe – ur the gr8test’ status update on facebook, that looks more like they’re trying to convince themselves than the object of their badly spelled, grammatically incorrect affection.

On the other hand, given that these 21^st century Casanovas only have individuals the likes of Bart and Homer Simpson, Roseann Barr, Charlie Sheen, Rosie O’Donnell, Kim Karsashian and the glitter encrusted vampires of Twilight fame to emulate, perhaps such impersonal dribble is 21^st century romance.

Perhaps to these children of the 80’s and 90’s, telling your 694 ‘friends’ that you love your wife is enough.  I don’t know.

What I DO know is that I tell MY WIFE how I feel.  I make it a point to communicate my affection to and for her, face to face as many times in a day – every day –  that circumstances allow.  If the circumstances don’t fall in line naturally, I try to create them so I can both show her by my actions and tell her with my words that I love her more than any human being alive on this planet or any other.

The writer of Proverbs said in chapter thirty one that the man who finds a virtuous wife has found someone whose worth is more valuable than  that of precious stones.  It says of this woman, that :

Her children rise up and call her blessed;
Her husband also, and he praises her:
“Many daughters have done well,
But you excel them all.”
Charm is deceitful and beauty is passing,
But a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised.

Proverbs 31: 28-30 NKJV

In the New Testament, the Apostle Paul instructs husbands that they should cherish and nurture their wife and, should the circumstance arise, be willing to lay down his life for her.

Guys, here’s my point.  Your wife is special.  She is a precious gem.  A friend once said “if you’ve been married five years or more and you’re not happy with your wife, you’re doing something wrong.  You’re not following the Biblical precepts.”  Every human being is responsible for their own individual choices, but I think this idea has merit.  Good marriages don’t just happen – you have to work at them.  Both of you.

A wise man once asked me what I thought about this whole marriage thing.  I answered “It’s a 50-50 proposition.”  He told me in return, “If you really believe that, I don’t give it 6 months.  If you’re serious about making it last, you both have to give 100% percent to your wife/husband 100% of the time and expect nothing in return.  If you do that – you’ll be getting so much you won’t notice how much you’re giving.”

I met my wife 9 years ago this month.  We’ll be married eight years come October.  I’m getting so much I’m really not aware of what I’m giving, other than that for nine years now I’ve made every effort to romance my wife – to tell her as often as possible how much I love, respect, and appreciate her.

I know how precious my special jewel is, and I know how fortunate I am to have found her.  This week, she will celebrate a birthday.  She’ll be twenty years older than she actually looks.  Yeah, I know – it’s tough to bear that cross.

I don’t know what she sees in me or why she’s sticking it out, but I’m sure glad she is, and furthermore, I’m not going to post a status update to tell her.  It’s far more effective to whisper it in her ear while slipping her a chocolate chip cookie.

A Hero's Welcome

Maria Johnson welcomes son,
 Army  Sgt, Ryan Clarke
 home from Afghanistan.

There was a giddy nervousness about her, not unlike a school girl fidgeting about before her first date, and a blind date at that. At least that was the impression this wound up mother of three gave in the final moments before piling into two cars with her two younger sons, her husband, mother-in-law and a smattering of family friends, and headed down the Suncoast Parkway to Tampa international Airport (TIA) where, after nearly two years of silence and a tour in the heat teaming deserts of Afghanistan, her oldest child, Army Sergeant Ryan Clarke was finally coming home.

Maria Letner Johnson, West Pasco Chamber of Commerce Membership Director by day, Pampered Chef consultant by night, and full time concerned Mom to an overseas serviceman, oozed anticipation and restlessness fiddling for toll booth change, bubbled with excitement that ‘her boy’ was coming home.

But it wouldn’t go smoothly for the Land ‘O Lakes, Florida resident and her supporting entourage.

They were met at the roof level parking lot at TIA by Members of the Tampa branch of PATRIOT GUARD RIDERS, a motor cycle club made up of veterans of the Viet Nam War and other military conflicts, waiting, flags in hand, to join in the salute.

They were met at the gate by representatives of Sand Soldiers of America, a non-profit organization serving veterans, active troops and military families, on hand to welcome Sgt. Clarke home, and make a presentation to him.  Pasco County District 5 Commissioner, Jack Mariano waited with the nervous Mom and her slowly growing group, offering his support, not, he said, as a politician, but as a neighbor and friend.  Commissioner Mariano remained by Maria’s side throughout the flight delays, canceling other meetings to do so.

The flight from Louisiana VIA Houston was due to arrive at 10:20 AM.  At 11:00 the boards were updated to say the flight was delayed.  Again at 11:15, 11:30 and 11:45.

 Finally, at 11:50 a frantically pacing Military Mom reached into her pocket for her ringing cell phone.  “Hi Mom,” the voice in her ear said. “We just touched down and should be at the gate in about ten minutes.”

You could see the look of relief in her now teary eyes as she shouted to the crowd now grown to nearly a hundred, including total strangers who were passing by, heard why they were here, and joined into the celebration slowing growing at gate eighteen in TIA’s ‘A’  concourse.  “He’s here!  He’s here!  He’s here!”

One of the groups of strangers consisted of elementary school aged members of a local Reading Is Fundamental (RIF) group visiting the airport on a field trip.   These excited kids quickly and enthusiastically joined the party, each taking a small US flag and waving it every time a shuttle from the gate to the concourse terminal arrived.

It was nearly noon when finally, after several false alarms, one more shuttle arrived.  The doors on the left side shuttle landing opened and the tired passengers disembarked.

One of the last in the group was a short haired, neatly shaved all-american kid in a grey T-shirt and khaki shorts.  As he walked down the concourse entryway, you could see the spark of recognition turn into a slowly growing big toothy grin as the sounds of over a hundred people chanted “Sergeant Clarke!...Sergeant Clarke!...Sergeant Clarke!”

Then it happened. The burst of applause as even more strangers joined in welcoming an American hero home from Afghanistan.  The Patriot Guard Riders snapped to attention, popped a crisp salute, and held their full sized American flags out as an impromptu color guard honoring this young returning hero.

And a tearful mother wrapped the son she had not seen in over two years in her arms while the crowd of joyful onlookers clapped, cheered, and cried with her.

For his part, this humble young man warmly and appreciatively thanked everyone who had come to greet him – after giving his younger brothers a half-hearted scolding for not warning him about all this.

Sergeant Ryan Clarke is a young man about whom America and Pasco County can be proud.  Humble in his appreciation of what was going on and at the same time uncomfortable that people were making such a fuss over him!

And Mom, well she’s walking on clouds.

“My family is now complete.” She said through teary eyes as she hugged all three sons for what was a small eternity.

Sergeant Ryan Clarke, US Army, welcome home!  We salute you, and wholeheartedly thank you for your service to your – and our – nation!  God Bless and protect you, Sergeant Clarke, and God Bless the United States of America!

First Day of Hurricane Season

A Girl Called Katrina

Welcome to the official first day of the Atlantic Hurricane Season.  That’s what the official word is.  Atlantic Tropical Cyclone Season (what we grew up calling ‘the hurricane season’ before tropical cyclones/hurricanes became politically correct and started alternating male/female/transgender names for the storms) officially starts on 1^st June and ends 30^th November.  Of course, Mother Nature, being the woman she is refuses to be constrained by the rules imposed by mere mortals.  Tropical Storms (baby Tropical Cyclones) Alberto and Beryl came and went before the season set aside for them began at midnight oh-one today.

Mother Nature is not one with whom to be trifled.  And of course, we all know that it’s not nice to fool Mother Nature.  At least that’s what the old margarine commercials used to say.  Then again, is one guilty of a sort of pagan anthropomorphic assignation by attributing the circumstances of the natural world to ‘mother’ anything?

I’m not in the mood for theological squabbling today, so let us just set that thought aside for another time, shall we?

I was born in New Jersey, a place which saw more tropical cyclone activity last year than the area of west central gulf coast Florida I now call home.  Locals say we (Florida we, not New Jersey we) are long overdue for a hurricane.  And yes, I prefer ‘hurricane’ to the more politically correct ‘tropical cyclone’.  I always have.  But then, I think they should still only be named after girls.  Some girls more than others.  Some girls should get two or three storms a year named for them.  Blizzards, too.  If you’ve ever been on the receiving end of ‘the cold shoulder,’ you know exactly what I mean. In fact, if it weren’t for silly things like libel, slander, and defamation of character I would gladly tell you at great length just exactly which  feminine designations, in my experience, should be awarded open ended status.  You could, for example, follow after the Chinese model and designate 2013, for instance, as the year of Irene, hence naming that year’s storms Irene-1, Irene-2, and so on. You might also take into consideration a proposal which replaces the existing Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Wind Scale with hair color designations.  In this new system a category five on the Saffir-Simpson scale would be instead identified as Irene-1-RED, the fiery nature of the redhead seeming appropriate for the designation.

But, I digress.

As I stated at the onset, I was born in North-Central New Jersey.  I’m not certain of the specific exit number.  Fellow Jerseyites will get that.  The rest of you, well, not so much.

In August of 1964, my parents folded six of the seven children ultimately born into our blended family, into the back of a beat up old station wagon hauling a U-haul trailer and all our worldly possessions and headed for Florida, passing several hundred “South of the Boader” billboards in the process. Number seven would be an idea conceived and produced in the Sunshine State, making his grand entrance into the world on tax day nineteen hundred seventy, having known neither blizzard nor Atlantic Tropical Cyclone, named in alternating gender designations or otherwise.  Ditto Blizzards, whose first name is almost always compound and numeric in nature. “The Great Blizzard of Nineteen Seventy-Seven”, for example.

I began my participation in the Dade County Public School System at Melrose Elementary School, under the tutelage of one Clyde Culpepper, a white-haired bespeckled gentleman who walked with a wooden cane and whose tweed sports coat had very oxfordian leather patches on the elbows.  Melrose is memorable because it at the eastern terminus of the east-west approach to Miami International Airport, and the South Florida/Miami branch of the Coast Guard was adjacent to that runway.  Because of this, on certain days when the wind was just right, all teaching and whatever widely scattered learning that may have been in the process of trying to take place came to an abrupt and screaming halt until inbound and outbound 727’s and Coast Guard turbo propped ‘Clippers’ took off or landed.  My memory of the time is that the clippers were louder than the jets and I’m astounded that my ears still work.

The other cool thing about Melrose was that it was just around the corner and a couple of blocks from the building that housed operations for the ‘hurricane hunter’ aircraft – the flying weather stations whose brave crews sailed directly into the eye of the storm, or belly of the beast if you prefer, to gather the most up to date meteorological data available to forecasters of the day.  Plus, an enterprising sixth grader, not unlike my precocious self, could just walk right in, tell the desk jockey’s he was researching a school report on hurricanes (none of those sissy tropical cyclones with girly man names back then) and walk out with an armful of cool black and white 8X10 glossy photos and hurricane maps, the coolest of which was one of a coconut palm with a single piece of Everglades sawgrass sticking out from both sides of the tree, blown through the resilient, spongy trunk by some previous storm.  I had that photo for years, and it’s probable still somewhere at my Mom’s home in Opa-locka beneath the staggeringly oppressive weight of forty-seven years of memories.

Of course, I eventually did leave the perennially sloshy humidity of south Florida, vowing never to return for more than a disappointingly short visit, the tepid attraction of tropical cyclones notwithstanding.  I managed to hold onto that promise with dogged determination for almost forty years, at which point the tempestuous sirene call of the fury dragged me back on the twelve foot wings of everglades swamp skeeters, with the sticky reminder that not only is it not nice to fool mother nature, but probably the last thing you want to do in life is tell God where you will or will not go.  In the words of Solomon, Son of David, King of Israel:

A serpent may bite when it is not charmed;
The babbler is no different.
The words of a wise man’s mouth are gracious,
But the lips of a fool shall swallow him up;
The words of his mouth begin with foolishness,
And the end of his talk is raving madness.

Ecclesiastes 10:11-13  (NKJV)

And here we are – right back where we began.  Friday, 1^st June, 2012.  First day of the official Atlantic Tropical Cyclone (A.K.A Hurricane) Season.  Alberto and Beryl have come and gone. Chris will be next, tossed into the mix for no other reason than to confuse the masses.  After all – Chris might be short for Christopher…but it might just as well be short for Christine.  Time will tell.

Remembering Bobby Pagano and 'The NAM

At the time of this posting, Memorial Day in the US was yesterday – Monday, 28 May, 2012. Honestly, I think it’s a Hallmark Holiday with good intentions. It’s not nearly as blatantly self-serving as, say, Sweetheart Day, Secretary’s Day or Buy Someone A Card Just Because Day for those few days that don’t have a card already attached to them, but given that the original idea of honoring those who have fallen in the line of duty for their country has been perverted to ‘pick the closest Monday so we can weasel a three day weekend out of it’ and ‘what the heck – break out the white shoes and summer frocks and call it the ‘official’ first day of summer’ even though Summer Solstice is actually closer to the end of June than the end of May. I fully recognize the part about honoring fallen heroes. The three day weekend bit?  Not so much.

Still, it serves its purpose

This is the part, faithful reader, where every year at this time and in this spot, relatively speaking, I break out the litany of family members by blood and marital ties (which, come to think of it, still meets the ‘by blood criteria albeit in an entirely different form) have served or are serving in some branch of the armed services in some capacity. Take a deep breath and relax – I’m not doing that this year.

I want to focus instead on the one I missed, and personalize it, if I may.

My war, if you will, was Viet Nam. I missed it for a combination of reasons, the most important of which are my place and date of birth. I was born in north central New Jersey on New Year’s Day, one thousand, nine hundred fifty three anno domini, and therein do it lie, the birthday boy caveat emptor. Yes, I know that’s not the word I want, but my Latin is lacking, and you gotta admit if you’re not fluent in ‘Every Day Latin for the Common Man (AKA ‘Latin for Dummies’), you wouldn’t have been aware of the faux pas.

I was the second child granted admission to the newborn ward of Somerset Hospital Newborn Ward (the preceding comment brought to you by the Department of Redundancy Department - don't worry - read it a few times and you'll get it), much to the disappointment to my parents, not the least of which reason being that it totally scrapped their New Year’s Eve party plans. Worthy of a side bar is that the firstborn that day and place was given a full tuition, books, fees, and residents pass to the New Jersey Ivy League college of her (yes, the firstborn was a gurl ^(sic)) while all my parents got was “Congratulations Mr. & Mrs. Roth – it’s a boy!”

The door prize came five years later, when school started. This was, of course, during the Jurassic period (now called Study Hall) when school started with kindergarten at age five rather than the currently popular pre-pre-pre-pre-preschool which begins as soon as they apply enough Max Factor to the newborn’s bum to cover his/her/its first head on confrontation with corporeal punishment – the slap on the bottom to get you to cry – a reaction for which you will be told for most of the rest of your life, is unacceptable socially in good families.

Because of this, I started school a year later than my friends, and if you trace my timeline, something I had long before Facebook, you will note that the occasion of my eighteenth birthday was Winter Break (we still called it Christmas Break back then) my senior year of high school.

I went down the next day, my birthday being not only an international holiday, but the day of the big three parades and bowl games, and registered for the still popular Viet Nam Draft.

The number I pulled in the lottery was in the three hundreds. Mr. Nixon signed the papers ending the war days before my number would have come up (and it wasn’t even an election year – not to mention he was in his second term, so re-election wasn’t on his bucket list, and long story short (I know – too late) the Nam came and went without me.

Not so for many of my high school chums. Jeff, Ilene, Bill and Bobby enlisted into the Army. Bruce went Air Force. Others chose from the remaining three branches of the armed services, and some were ‘chosen’. As I said, I opted for the education deferment to let me finish high school, something two years prior had not appealed to me, and ended up missing everything but the Sylvester Stallone Rambo and Chuck Norris movies.

Jeff, Ilene, and Bill made it home. Bruce died, but not from the Nam.

Then there’s Bobby.

Bobby was my best friend. We were in the same Sunday School class at Northwest Baptist Church. We were in high school together. We walked the Everglades at night with Jimmy Booth, another church friend with whom we’d gone camping in the Glades but didn’t bring a tent. Even with 6-12 (90 weight motor oil masquerading as mosquito repellent) we had to keep moving to give the 12-foot wing span blood suckers they grow in the Florida Swamps a moving target to even up the survival odds). We were both in Campus Life, a Christian service club sponsored by Crusade for Christ, and Octagon, a secular service club sponsored by the Optimist Club, and were in the same Boy Scout Troop and Patrol. I was a guest at his parents’ table and hitched a ride to church with his family now and then if I missed the church bus. Bobby was in the Pep Club, and I was the school Mascot. We were grouped together everywhere except high school class. We were the same age, but Bobby was a year behind me in high school because he was held back a year somewhere along the road. We did all night birthday parties, went snorkeling and rode out tropical storms and hurricanes together.

And Bobby died in the Nam fighting to let me keep and enjoy the freedoms I still enjoy.

Oh, it didn’t get him right away. Agent Orange killed him. Friendly fire, you might say. It gave him the tumor in his brain that took twenty years to put him in the ground.

Bobby is why I observe Memorial Day. Bobby and others like him who fought and sometimes died because freedom isn’t free. It has never been free. It will never be free.

Bobby Pagano and others like him are the real heroes. Not the fake comic book heroes who wear a cape, the wannabe heroes who strut about half naked on a stage with a microphone or in front of a cinematic camera, or the spoiled rich kids who make more money in sixty minutes of playing a game than I’ll see in my lifetime.

Real heroes. Heroes who pull on a uniform, pin on a badge, buckle on a gun or a medical kit, and heroes who wear dog tags. Heroes who put themselves in harm’s way every day of their life in my place.

Bobby Pagano was that kind of Capital ‘H’ Hero. My friend.

On this day after Memorial day, I remember my friends and a real hero, and say Thank you, Bobby, and thank you to all the men and women who wear or have worn the uniform. And especially the heroes from ‘my’ war – the Nam. Thank you, God Bless you, and because we got it so terribly wrong thirty five years ago – WELCOME HOME!

Understanding

There is a difference between knowing about a thing and understanding a thing.  For example, I know that if I stand in the edge of our front porch roof and step off onto that portion of the space time reality where there is no porch roof, however gracefully done, I will in all likelihood break something when I come to the sudden stop at the end of my rather brief experiment with human flight.  This is the same thing experienced when Sir Isaac Newton was bopped on the noggin while resting beneath the infamous apple tree, resulting in the invention of fruit filled fingerling cakes.

The technical moniker for this bit of discovery is ‘gravity.’ I know it exists.  I even have a working understanding of what it does.  I don’t have a clue as to how it works.  Ditto wind, by which I mean the kind born between high and low atmospheric pressure inversions, as opposed to that which is the byproduct of having consumed too much cheese, which, the wind, not the cheese, can be ‘broken’

I know what it is.  I know what it does.  I do not understand at even the most rudimentary level how it works.  That is true for both gravity and wind.  I know they exist, I have a working, if fundamentally fragile understanding of how they do it, but I’m so far removed from grasping the elemental mechanics of either scientific discipline, I am without question the wrong person to send hip deep into a pool of curious third graders intent upon expanding their circles of scientific inquiry.  I am, however, a good target for their spitballs and paper airplanes, and hence not a complete waste of skin.

My point is this.  I am not the person you would seek out to further your understanding of either scientific theorem.

Why, you ask?

Good question.  One for which I am eminently qualified to provide you with an answer.  Ready?  Good.  Here goes:

I don’t know the answer. 

My education and training, and in no small part, personal areas of interest include neither meteorology nor physics. Oh, I could give you an opinion.  I have one for almost every topic imaginable, and a few on topics about which you never considered,  and in most cases, I could speak for a very long time and give every impression of knowledge in these areas, but the fact remains, I would be mostly making it up.

I call this the IDIOT (the Impossibly Dim Influencing the Ostentatiously Trivial) Syndrome. I am not alone in this field of postulating an opinion on a subject about which I have little or no knowledge.  Depending on the subject, at times it’s a little crowded in here. One might go so far as to suggest that we’re surrounded by IDIOTS.

For example, last week Barry Soetoro, A.K.A. Barack H. Obama,  A.K.A. POTUS (President Of The United States) went on record in support of homosexual marriage. To add merit to his proclamation, Barry called upon the Bible for support by citing, however vaguely, an axiom of Scripture known to Believers and unbelievers alike as ‘The Golden Rule’.  In Leviticus 19, it appears as a portion of Mosaic Law saying, “You shall not take vengeance, nor bear any grudge against the children of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord.” (vs. 18, NKJV).

As recorded in the New Testament Gospel according to Matthew, Jesus refers to this passage: “Therefore, whatever you want men to do to you, do also to them, for this is the Law and the Prophets.” (Matthew 7:12 NKJV), and again in Matthew 22:37-40 NKJV: “Jesus said to him, “‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the first and great commandment.  And the second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets.”

The holy book to which Barry personally subscribes makes a similar proclamation: “Not one of you is a believer until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself.” (Forty Hadith of an-Nawawi 13, Quran).

I could give you a forever list of Barry’s stumblings, but since we’re concerning ourselves mostly with how he demonstrates that he is a card carrying, lifelong IDIOT, I’ll stick to the matter at hand.

Barry is not a Christian.  He is certainly not a Bible scholar or theologian. His membership as high ranking IDIOT is demonstrated by how he interprets, or rather MISinterprets the Bible.

The ‘how’ of his misunderstanding is clearly explained by the ‘why’. Barry doesn’t know the Christ of the Bible, and because he doesn’t know the Christ of the Bible, he cannot understand, much less give authoritative explanation of what the Bible is saying.  The Bible itself makes clear the principle of how understanding the Bible works: “But the natural man does not receive the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him; nor can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned.”
(1 Corinthians 2:13-15 NKJV)

From Genesis to Revelation, God condemns homosexuality.  From Genesis to Revelation marriage is ALWAYS described as the union of a man and a woman.  The first command given by God to his human creation was that they (man and woman) procreate.  By design, two men or two women cannot procreate naturally. From the very beginning of humankind on this planet, God intended that the growth and continued existence of human beings would be blessed by the union of a man and a woman. It’s not that difficult to grasp unless you’re one of the IDIOTS.  Here’s what God said: “So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.  Then God blessed them, and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply; fill the earth and subdue it; have dominion over the fish of the sea, over the birds of the air, and over every living thing that moves on the earth.” (Genesis 1:27-28 NKJV).

Homosexuality, on the other hand and irrespective of gender (male/male or female/female) is always condemned in the Bible.  In Genesis 19 the depravity of homosexuality is so great that God destroys the city whose name describes the act of homosexual sex.

But this is not the issue in question.  There cannot be a misunderstanding of what God says about sin in general, or about the specific sin of homosexuality.  The misunderstanding lies elsewhere.  The so-called Golden Rule and how that applies to homosexuals and other sinners are what is misunderstood.

You see, God never told His people to hate homosexuals or any other sinner.  God said hate the sin, but love the sinner.  The problem is that the one is not synonymous with the other, and it is only by the clarity of understanding that God bestows on His children through the teaching of His Holy Spirit that clarity and understanding come.  Love your neighbor as you love yourself never means love your neighbor’s sin.

Barry may have suggested that loving your neighbor means approving of your neighbor’s sin, but Barry saying it does not make it true.  Barry, after all, is not God, and God who does not change his mind because the political or moral climate has shifted, has already spoken on the matter.  Despise the sin, but love with the love of God, Who sent his Son to be crucified for sinners, those who sin.

Sumertime

The last time I wrote one of these was back in February.  Oh, I wrote a poem in April, but when I post them in this spot they are, more often than not, filler.

I called this Summertime more because of the weather than the juxtaposition of the sun, moon and earth in their annual transit through the space/time continuum.  I mean, it’s 11:00 PM (2300 hours if you’re keeping score that way) and according to my nifty Weather Channel electronic weather station, it is 79.6°f (26.4°c), 71% relative humidity and the dew point is 71°. I think that means if it cools off another 8.5°, gills are required to walk the dog.  Fortunately, the forecast says we’ve probably already bottomed out for the night.  Barometric pressure is 1014 millibars and falling, so we might get rain.  If the temperature drops, the humidity will take care of it whether there’s rain or not.  There is no wind to speak of, so the ‘feels like’ temperature is the same as the actual temperature.

Of course, the calendar disputes my numbers.  According to the calendar Summer doesn’t start for another five and a half weeks.

Of course, the weather has absolutely no bearing whatsoever on my lack of linguistic legerdemain.  I don’t write because I’m lazy – at least part of me, anyway, and I’m frankly not motivated enough to try and resolve the issues with the dysfunctional bits.

After about a minute of typing and my left hand take an unscheduled, long term break, and I’m not patient enough for one handed typing.  I also have software that will transcribe my spoken word into printed text onscreen.  It’s a great idea, and works well – but (and there’s always a ‘but’, isn’t there) but here’s the thing.  For me, writing only works smoothly when it flows from thoughts to fingertips.  Thoughts to spoken word – at least for the purpose of writing – doesn’t work for me.  Oh, I can speak extemporarily at the drop of a hat, but to just start telling a story can’t do it.

 <===And here’s the culprit: the picture is the CT of my brain just a few hours after my second thalamic stroke, which took place on 20th April, 2008 – just a little over four years ago.  The white spot inside the circle is a quarter sized dollop of blood resulting from either a cavernous malformation, or an A/V (arterial/venal) malformation.  Think of it as that old bike tire tube you kept having to patch because there’s a weakness in the rubber that first forms a bubble in the weakened rubber and then finally bursts.  Long story short, it’s like an aneurism.  I had two of them in the exact same location (right side of the brain near the thalamus) thirty three months apart.

I believe God healed the damaged blood vessels, but I now live with the consequence of ignoring high blood pressure for fifty-one years.  My BP in under control, and the CT scans and MRI’s are all clean, but the neurological damage is in all likelihood permanent.

But that’s OK.  It’s even cool that I can walk on a leg I can’t feel.  I cook and do other things with an arm, hand and fingers I can’t really feel.  My speech, memory and cognitive centers were unaffected.  And God continues to bless me and open doors for me to serve Him.

I’m still writing, however slowly, and will dust off the text recognition software and, somehow learn how to direct my creative writing that way.  Even an early summer can’t stop me – as long as the A/C keeps working.

Who knows – I may even get a poem finished this month. AND sometime during the first week of June I get to conduct an exclusive interview with #1 New York Times bestselling author Lisa Unger in conjunction with the release of her new thriller, Heartbroken, which comes to stores June 26th.  Now is that cool or what?
So – last night I had this dream about performing “Summertime” with the Wynton Marsalis Big Band in a sultry New Orleans jazz style,  What a shame you can’t videotape dreams, huh?

Happy Trails!

Spring Break

It is completely inexplicable,
the curious enigma
so bold in its tempestuous confrontation.

Oh, I’ve searched for a definitive answer,
a satisfactory resolution,
a logical solution,
or simply put, a sensible riposte.

Occam’s razor left me wanting.
I sought, but did not find;
gave without receiving,
knocked on the door
of an apparently empty flat.

The neatly categorized,
purposefully filed,
precisely organized,
diligently maintained,
and seemingly endless
repository of nouns,
verbs, adjectives and adverbs
in all their glorious form and style

has abandoned me,
in abrupt manner
and deliberate fashion
not unlike that demonstrated
in the cruel reality
of two dissolute marital relationships.

I am left
with the frightening realization
that even the words
which comprise my most meaningful
and longest lived associations
have abandoned my company
in favor of some sort of
linguistic spring break.

Oh, the shame of it all.

“Prick us, do we not bleed?
Tickle us, do we not laugh?
Poison us, do we not die?
Wrong us, shall we not revenge?”

~Shylock
Merchant of Venice
Act III, Scene I
W. Shakespeare

Spring Break
By David Roth
© 11th April, 2012