When am I...

I spend several hours tonight trying to figure out what day this is without having to check my phone or computer. I found nothing in my mind.  Nothing about yesterday or today or the morrow that might anchor me.  I floated in a sea of blankness, trying not to drown.

Does it matter?
If my bills are paid and Amos and I are fed, does it matter?
Does it matter that I know not when I am?

I was cold. I watched my first hummingbird drain only one of the four feeders, never tasting the nectar of the others. I twitted Firewood Man about the length of the grass as he mowed and laughed at his retort, "But you like the grass to wave at you. I was just trying it make sure you could see it with your bum eyes."  I ate a salad. I watched a new-to-me BBC detective show set in Italy. I traced my fingers once more across my favorite bit of the 77th psalm in the 1715 Bible, because it has bothered me that the preferred translation of the Lutheran Church—sadly, not the NASB1977—does not have that bit.  I cajoled Amos into braving the fearsome grass to tend to his major business.  I ate a Granny Smith apple.

But none of that is an anchor. I did not know and could not ferret out when I was. When I am. Not without the help of Apple.

Does it matter?

Death and taxes...

Benjamin Franklin had it almost right. "'In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes and that Myrtle lost her keys in the move."

I told the story again and again and again.  The ONLY thing I lost in my move here was my spare set of car keys.  I looked and looked and looked.  I even contacted my old writing student, because she was the last person to drive my car (other than me) before I moved.  It was a long-shot, for she is most fastidious and never would have held onto my keys.  

Over the past three and a half years, as I have downsized, I make the rounds for where the keys could be.  And I regularly crawl about my car.  Some time ago, when having a bit of a clear out in the attic, I found the valet key to the car.  Although it has rather limited function, I was immensely relieved.  I mean, who just has one set of car keys?

Over the past three and a half years, not only did I bore others with the lament of my loss, but I pondered aloud the rather enormous expense of getting another set.  After all, it is a security key and a remote entry.  I was worried about having just one set of keys, especially with my failing memory, but spending hundreds of dollars to replace them was not something I could stomach.  So, I was glad to find the valet key as it fell out of one of the pieces of luggage that I was donating.

Yet, I keep looking.

And I lamented my loss.

Who loses their car keys in a move??

For a while, I had someone nearby who helped me out from time to time, as I did her.  So, I gave her a set of house keys.  Her life moving in a different direction, I asked for my keys back.  Maybe it is because I am single and essentially alone, but I someone to be able to enter my house if need be.  

Marie has keys.  The Texan in me just loves how free she is in using them.  Marie will come on in and help herself to whatever she needs, especially when I ask her to start her freezer cooking without me so that I can get a tad more sleep.  Even asleep I still want her to come as early as possible.  

[My!  What a loss it will be when she moves next year!!]

When she is gone, I will want someone else to have keys.  Often I have toyed with the idea of giving my neighbor a set, but her son has made some poor decisions—including having agents in their home and making his way onto the FBI watch list—whilst being led astray by those willing to take advantage of his autism.  So, the idea of having my keys at her house unsettles me.  I have wondered if the church would keep a set.  I mean, it seems like that would be a neighborly thing to do in caring for a member.  But folk can be kind of odd about keys.  At least those outside of Texas ... and those not named Marie.

I just don't want to be the woman whose bloated body is found weeks (or months) after her death.  And if I am stricken ill whilst away, carted off to the hospital and separated from my personal effects, I want someone to be able to come rescue Amos from starvation.  Clearly, my puppy dog would have absolutely no problem using the brown "grass" upstairs to tend to his needs.  And he feels utterly free to help himself to water from the toilets.  However, he would need food.

I also don't want to be the woman who loses her home to an unpaid bill.  The most recent tale that haunts me is a widow who struggled with the paperwork her husband had tended.  Her tax bill was late.  She paid that.  However, she did not pay $6.30 in interest.  Yes, she was given notices in the mail, which is all the law requires.  But don't you think that someone from the county ought to have shown her a bit of compassion and picked up the phone or visited her to make sure she understood that tiny amount, left unpaid, could lead to the forced sale of her home??  The auction of her home to pay that minuscule amount netted her—after the ridiculously low sale price, fees, and such—less than half the value of her home.  

So, I was really, really, really relieved when the real estate tax transaction showed up in my online account today.  Taxes were due yesterday, and I fretted all day and most of the night waiting to see that mine had been paid via the automatic payment I set up.  This was the last of all the financial automation I have worked on to try and protect myself from my own cognitive failings.

Death and taxes.

And keys.

I have been in ... shock ... since receiving my keys back.  Marie actually got them for me, and when she held them out toward me I was dumbfounded.

Those are not my keys.

Those couldn't be my keys.

Those keys include a set of car keys.

Whilst Marie was talking to me—despite the fact that I recognized my very odd, very old lock front door key—I reached past her to insert the house key into my lock to see if it worked.  It did.  Only a very little part of me remained with Marie in our conversation until she left.  Given what we were discussing, that is remarkable.  And sad.  And probably wrong.  I simply couldn't grasp that the keys I had loaned out included my lost spare set of car keys.

After she left, I sat down on the bottom step of the main stair case and studied the car key and fob.  At first, I thought that perhaps they were a replacement set.  Why such a purchase would be made was not even on my mind.  But close inspection of both proved they were old.  Used.  They just couldn't be my keys.

The woman who had them does not drive a Toyota.

Surely someone in her family drives a Toyota.

The keys have been mixed up.

I finally took myself, my puppy dog, and the keys out to the garage.  The fob unlocked my car.  The fob locked my car.  The fob set off the panic alarm.  The key opened all the doors.  The key started the engine.  The key opened my glove compartment.  The key set fit my car.  But they still could not be my keys.  My spare set of car keys were lost in the move!

Nothing.

Nothing is certain to me anymore.

Somehow, I managed to find the keys that I spent years (or was it months) looking for, loan them out, and then forget both that I had found them and had given them to someone else.  I remembered that I lost them. I remembered the guilt and the shame and the worry over doing so. I know I told the story of that loss over and over and over again.   I know that I looked for the keys over and over and over again.  In fact, I looked for them just a while ago when I washed my car, taking out all the mats and peering beneath the seats with a flashlight, and folding down the third row seats I've never used.

Nothing is certain to me anymore.  Not where my death will lead.  Not if my taxes will be paid.  Not what I have lost.  Or have not.

Nothing.

Thank you...

... for remembering this day, Annie and Celia.

Will the Lord reject forever...

There was this moment today, where a fragment of a psalm came to mind.  The tiniest bit flitted through my memory, briefly flaring something within and then fled before I could even grasp the line that had passed my lips.  Then, it was as if my whole being spoke the other words, the rest of the psalm that I do not remember, the whole of it, and its comfort filled me.  It was as if the Living Word was present, without out sound and without form, yet solidly within me, holding me, comforting me, granting peace.

For a short while, I doubted the moment happened, but the rhythm, the cadence of the line, lingers still, even though the words are gone.  The moment gave me pause.  Perhaps there is value in sowing the Word within me, even though I am forgetting it.  For ... perhaps ... it is not forgetting me.

What fragment, Myrtle passed through your mind?  you ask.

I had to look it up.  I knew which psalm it was, and so I read it over and over and over again, feeling my way through the cadence until I found the words:  Will the Lord reject forever?

My voice rises to God, and I will cry aloud;
My voice rises to God, and He will hear me.
In the day of my trouble I sought the Lord;
In the night my hand was stretched out without weariness;
My soul refused to be comforted.
When I remember God, then I am disturbed;
When I sigh, then my spirit grows faint. Selah.
Thou hast held my eyelids open;
I am so troubled that I cannot speak.
I have considered the days of old,
The years of long ago.
I will remember my song in the night;
I will meditate with my heart,
And my spirit ponders:

Will the Lord reject forever?
And will He never be favorable again?
Has His lovingkindness ceased forever?
Has His promise come to an end forever?
Has God forgotten to be gracious,
Or has He in anger withdrawn His compassion? Selah.
Then I said, "It is my grief,
That the right hand of the Most High has changed."

I shall remember the deeds of the LORD;
Surely I will remember Thy wonders of old.
I will meditate on all Thy work
And muse on Thy deeds.
Thy way, O God, is holy;
What god is great like our God?
Thou art the God who works wonders;
Thou hast made known Thy strength among the peoples.
Thou hast by Thy power redeemed Thy people,
The sons of Jacob and Joseph. Selah.

The waters saw Thee, O God;
The waters saw Thee, they were in anguish;
The deeps also trembled.
The clouds poured out water;
The skies gave forth a sound;
Thy arrows flashed here and there.
The sound of Thy thunder was in the whirlwind;
The lightnings lit up the world;
The earth trembled and shook.
Thy way was in the sea
And Thy paths in the mighty waters,
And Your footprints may not be known.
Thou didst lead Thy people like a flock
By the hand of Moses and Aaron.
~Psalm 77 (NASB)

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

The consolation of the sweet, sweet Gospel...

So, well, I tried to buy another copy of the NASB 1977 for my pastor to have on hand for catechesis ... you know ... if I can gird my loins enough to keep banging my head against the brick wall.  I actually found a Holman single column version and was ecstatic.  Not only would we be reading the same translation, but we could be on the same page in the same place.  Perfect, eh?  Yes, well, this is how it arrived:

I cannot give my pastor a second broken Bible.  And WHAT IN THE WORLD am I supposed to do with another Bible that needs proper disposal???

I honestly think that my foe simply doesn't want me to be instructed or at the Lord's Supper or be in church or free from terror and shame and guilt.  But, really, don't you think a Bible getting destroyed in a padded envelope is somehow just going a step too far?  A NASB 1977 Bible??  A single column version of the NASB 1977 Bible???

Speaking of the single column format.  Apparently, you can get quite a few translations of the Bible in a single column format.  In fact, the publishers of the English Standard Version (ESV) offer a single column format that is a journaling Bible.  It has ruled lines down the side of every page for notes.  I half think that is incredibly cool and half think that is breaking some reverence rule out there for Bible publication.  The point is, however, that anyone can enjoy ... savor ... delve into the Scriptures via a single column format.  Heretofore, I thought only lovers of the NASB 1977 could do that and only in the Holman publication.

Speaking of format in general, my friend Mary, the Gospel Giver and Myrtle Speak Whisperer, came across a book and sent it to me.

I didn't really have a chance to talk with her about receiving it until yesterday.  Children milling about her feet, Mary took the time to serve her anxious, terrified neighbor Myrtle.  I found it rather interesting that she said she found the format inspiring.  When I saw it, I immediately longed for exactly what Mary suggested to me.  Seriously, the desire of my heart God knew and had Mary give to me.

17

THE UNWORTHY USE OF THE HOLY SUPPER

TEMPTED.  I confess that the godly are made partakers of these benefits of Christ by their true and salutary use of the Holy Supper.  It troubles me not a little, however, that the Apostle Paul states that whoever eats the bread and drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty of the body and blood of the Lord (I Cor 11:27).  I fear, therefore, that I approach that heavenly banquet as an unworthy guest.

COMFORTER.  By acknowledging and lamenting your unworthiness, you will avoid the stain of being an unworthy guest.  The Apostle does not call those who are weak in faith unworthy.  Indeed, the Sacrament was instituted for the encouragement of faith and the comforting of the weak.  The unworthy are those who do not examine themselves nor discern the Lord's body (I Cor 11:28-29).  That is to say, those who, without true repentance and living faith, without a hatred of sin and an earnest intention to improve their lives, receive the Holy Supper as if it were ordinary food, who make no distinction between this heavenly banquet and any other common meal, and who fail to acknowledge its true excellence and to approach it with an appropriate preparation of the heart.  Such unworthy guests as this banquet sin no less by their unworthy eating and drinking of the body and blood of Christ than the Jews did by crucifying Christ  Let it be far removed from your piety, far removed, I say, that you would be reckoned among them.  Indeed, you confess the filth of your sins, you deplore the foulness of your nature, and you sigh to Christ the Physician of your soul that He would prepare Himself a worthy habitation in your heart.  You weigh carefully the greatness of those things that are present and offered in the Holy Supper, and you closely consider the importance of this heavenly gift.  You hunger and thirst after righteousness, and therefore shall be satisfied (Matt 5:6), for the sins that do not please you will not harm you.

Hasten to the Heavenly Father with tears, weep for your sins, and long to satisfy the hunger of your soul with this heavenly food.  Do no doubt that the most kind Father will run to meet you, kiss you, and embrace you with joy.  He will give you the best robe of innocence, He will clothe you with the garment of salvation, He will put a ring on your hand, He will seal you with the Holy Spirit, He will place shoes on your feet, He will guide you in the way of peace and righteousness, He will fill you with the flesh of that victim who was sacrificed on the altar of the Cross and was offered as a sweet odor to Him (Luke 15:20-23).  Therefore, put aside all fear of eating in an unworthy manner. He who is most unworthy in his own eyes is accepted before God.  He who displeases himself pleases God.  He who crushes himself by a true contrition of the heart is raised up again by the most kind hand of God.

Wow.

My.

That hurts.  

That hurts the way it hurts to look at Jesus on that great big thingy up at the front of my church. For I long for Jesus to be all those things for me, in spite of me.

Well, Myrtle, why are you not jumping up and down in joy of those words? 

Because they scare me.

Why?

When I read the Christian Book of Concord, I find in it such lovely consolation, such comfort for my terrified soul.  I do so, as I have written, because the Confessions talk often about folk just like me.  They talk freely about the anxious and terrified soul and present them as the very reason for the Gospel.  It troubles me not a little, however, that others do not seem to read the same things I do in the Confessions.  That I am ... odd ... in turning to them daily.  I fear that the truth is that I am only reading into them what I want them to say rather than what they actually do say.

The same here.

I am worried that the comfort of the Gospel given above, seemingly written so very, very, very clearly  for Myrtle are not actually for me.  That I do not meet the qualifications that leap up off the page and begin to assail me with doubts, trapping in the cage even though the door is wide open.

Am I discerning the body and blood of Christ?  I fear that I am not.

Am I truly repentant?  I fear that I am not.

Do I have a living faith?  I fear that I do not.

Am I approaching the Lord's Supper with an appropriate preparation of the heart?  I fear that I am not.

SIGH.

But then there are those parts that do not assail, that soothe and console me:

I confess my sins because they are ever before me.

I absolutely deplore the foulness of my nature.

I do long for Christ to prepare the habitation of my heart.

I do weigh the gifts of the Sacrament.

I do know their importance.

I do hunger and thirst after righteousness.

The sins that do not please you will not harm you.  WOW.  Really???

He who is most unworthy in his own eyes is accepted before God.  Could that possibly be true?

He who displeases himself pleases God.  Tell me, quick! Is this true?

He who crushes himself by a true contrition of the heart is raised up again by the most kind hand of God.  Oh, Lord God, please let this be true!

It seems to me that Johann Gerhard read in the Confessions the same things I do.  It seems to me that he believed the Gospel offers very real consolation to the anxious and the terrified soul.  That the consolation of the sweet, sweet Gospel is not merely an adjective (consoling Gospel), but a verb ... an active, powerful, and transformative verb.  Am I right?

What desire of my heart did God speak for Mary?  Well, in a very gently, very careful way, Mary observed that oft when I pour out my fears to her there are so very many things to which she could respond, but she finds herself really only speaking to whatever came last.  She ask me if I liked the format.  I refrained from screaming "Yes!"  She asked me if I thought it would be helpful for us to use that format.  I refrained from screaming "Yes!"  She asked me if I thought I could write out a few specific fears, to which she could write a consolation.  I refrained from screaming "Yes!"  This way, she noted, we could build a book of consolation just for me.  Who but the Holy Spirit could cause her to speak those very words to me??

What is my fear about this?  That I did not actually speak to Mary on the phone and that she did not actually offer such mercy.  I merely longed for it so deeply that I imagined it to be true.

Something additional about that passage from Handbook of Consolations: for the Fears and Trials That Oppress Us in the Struggle with Death.  Until I read consolation no. 17, I never thought about hungering and thirsting for righteousness from a place of anxiety and anguish, from fear and terror before.  Instead, I always thought that meant you had this great faith and, thus, exuded a hunger and thirst for righteousness stemming from that certitude ... not doubt, not despair.  But, after reading consolation no. 17, I read that verse more as saying that you are so hungry and thirsty for righteousness because you know how very wretchedly sinful and foul in nature you are.  You need that righteousness to live.  Could that possibly be true?

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

To save a body...

Firewood Man mowed and edged the lawn.  [BLISS]  I sheared and clipped and shampooed the puppy dog.  [Lavender aroma therapy]  Lots of grooming took place today.  On the morrow, Marie and her mother are stopping by, so I wanted my fluff ball in fine form.

When he was here, I asked Firewood Man if I needed to water the worms again, since, really, all I have yet is a worm farm, not a raised bed.  Being all brave (i.e., not squeamish), Tim stuck his hand in the bed and dug down deep.  About four inches into the foot high bed, the soil was nicely damp.  He said that he thought it could wait until we get rain on Friday.  

Then I asked him if he thought the worms were okay, since I did not see any real evidence of them consuming the lettuce and the bread crumbs I put out for them.  In fact, Amos already has a deeply held belief that the raised bed is a place for me to put snacks, so I have to scold him off of it each time we go out.  Thankfully, he has not yet figured out he can just leap on top, so all he does is raise him self up and stretch out his expandable torso to reach the pieces of bread.  Wilted lettuce has no appeal for him.

Once again, Tim stuck his hand in the bed and searched around until he came up with a worm.  Then, he pretended to toss it to me, as he said, "Check it out for yourself!"  I screamed and leapt away from where I was standing.  It was a few breathless, heart-pounding, queazy moments before I noticed that Tim was laughing as he held out his hand.  In his palm was a worm, a very, very, very wiggly worm.  Clearly, at least one of my 250 guarantors-charged-with-keeping-my-herbs-alive had survived the transition to his new home.  Or hers.  I am wondering just how soon I should put in some ground up egg shells for that fertility boost.

It is difficult to fight my deep desire to plunk the three rosemary plants in the solarium down in the raised bed.  However, after a few days of warm weather, we are forecasted to go right back to overnight lows in the 40s.  I want to be as sure as I can that those little babies that I have been nursing in the solarium since January are not going to be zapped by a late cold spell.  Frankly, I am convinced that we are going to go right from a lingering winter into a blistering summer.  

Okay, Indiana does not really blister.  What I mean is that I am not going to have a nice spate of time where neither the heater nor the air-conditioning is running in my home.  Such a scenario does not bode well for my utility budget. Mostly, I have been avoiding the heat a bit foolishly.  Ask Marie.  She cooked with a red nose the other day because of the near frost conditions indoors.  Maybe that is why Amos is clearly addicted to the electric blanket.  Too bad all the firewood is long gone.

Saturday is the final symphony performance in the Masterworks series.  It is a four-hour musical fest, featuring Beethoven's Symphony No. 9.  Thinking about what I wrote about The Mission, I went looking for a clip of the sound track and stumbled upon this bit of wonder, conducted by the man who created the music.  Would that it were the Fort Wayne Philharmonic had an evening of fantastic soundtracks (i.e., played all three of my favorites)!

In the movie, the Guarani were natural musicians, valuing that particular blessing from our Creator.  Being a bit partial to boy sopranos, I just revel in the Guarani performance of Ave Maria for the cardinal during his visit.

The cardinal and the Portuguese governor have an exchange regarding on of the children in the performance:

Altamirano: [about native boy] Don Cabeza, how can you possibly refer to this child as an animal?

Cabeza: A parrot can taught to sing, Your Eminence.

Altamirano: Ah yes, but how does one teach it to sing as melodiously as this?

Cabeza: Your Eminence. This is a child of the jungle, an animal with a human voice. It if were human, an animal would cringe at its vices. These creatures are lethal and lecherous. They will have to be subdued by the sword and brought to profitable labor by the whip.

At the beginning, when the Jesuit Gabriel first attempted to broach the Guarani above the falls, he did so with music.  This is such an interesting scene, especially for one who lived and breathed the story of Jim Elliot when she was in college.  Elizabeth Elliot and her first husband were evangelical heroes then.  She must have had a bit of Lutheran in her, because at one of her talks

Anyway, the over lay of the scene above, at the end, you hear the cardinal speaking what he was writing in his final report.  With an orchestra, the Jesuits could have subdued the whole continent. So it was that the Indians of the Guarani were brought finally to account to the everlasting mercy of God, and to the short-lived mercy of man.

Here is a beautiful recording of that oboe solo played live:

Oh, how I savor the music of an oboe!  SIGH.

Nothing the Jesuits did ... or Guarani ... in demonstrating the community of faith that God created in the jungle could sway the cardinals mind on which way his decision would go.

Altamirano: Why must they fight? Why can't they return to the jungle?

Gabriel: Because this is their home. Did you know this was going to be your decision?

Altamirano: Yes.

Gabriel: Then why did you come, Your Eminence?

Altamirano: To persuade you not to resist the transfer of the mission territories. If the Jesuits resist the Portuguese then the Jesuit order will be expelled from Portugal. And if Portugal, then Spain, France, Italy... who knows? If your order is to survive at all, Father, the missions must here be sacrified.

Altamirano: [a native child talks to Gabriel] What are they saying?

Gabriel: They say they didn't want to go back to the forest because the devil lives there. They want to stay here.

Altamirano: And what did you say?

Gabriel: I said I'd stay with them.


In his report, the cardinal also wrote: Your Holiness, a surgeon to save the body must often hack off a limb. But in truth nothing could prepare me for the beauty and the power of the limb that I had come here to sever.


Sometimes I wonder if the Catholic Church ever looks back at choices like these, where the institution was more important than the Church itself.  In this instance, what was saved by the surgery?

Before the impending invasion of the mission, Mendoza, the converted mercenary, asks Gabriel to release him from his vows so that he can fight with the Guarani against the Spanish and Portuguese troops.  Gabriel is aghast, believing that doing so, that fighting, would me abandoning faith in God.  In the end, Gabriel and Mendoza both die.  One fighting and one leading a procession of Guarani singing and praying.  I do not believe that Gabriel's position—based on the fact that "God is love and therefore battle is not of God—was right.  But I also do not believe that he was wrong to walk in faith through the fire to his death.  Was not each man following his vocation in the end?

I also wonder how many churches today are making the same choice: institution over the Church, expediency over the Gospel.  I wonder, right now, what surgeries are taking place under the guise of saving a body, when, in reality, the surgery is destroying it.

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Thus we make the world...

May 1, 2014, a brother saw his sister being attacked. He tried to protect her. He was killed for his efforts. Not an unusual story. But the brother was eight year old, trying to protect his twelve-year-old sister who was being assaulted by a sixteen-year-old boy.

One of my favorite movies is The Mission, set in the 1750s, depicting the struggle between the indigenous Guaraní and those who captured and sold them into slavery, amidst the efforts of the Jesuits to convert the Guarani to Christianity. Via the Treaty of Madrid in 1750, Spain ceded a portion of Paraguy to Portugal. Much as with American history, the indigenous and rightful owners of the land had no say-so in the process and precious little compensation. The film culminated in the Guarani War of 1754-56, during which the Guarani fought the Spanish and Portugues troops trying to enforce the treaty.

No need to discuss who won.  

You already know.  

It is not an unusual story.

The soundtrack is one of the most beautiful I have ever heard.  In fact, even now, my three most favorite soundtracks are ones from the movies of my past:  Out of Africa, Empire of the Sun, and The Mission.  For years, one of those was playing in my ears as I fell asleep at night.  None of the movies are beautiful stories.  In fact, they all depict the wretchedness of man and the sins we commit against each other.  But, to me, the music of the stories is beautiful.  Comforting.

I also like the story of The Mission, historical inaccuracies aside.  I like the tale of a man seeking repentance, expecting only death.  His sin ... knowing his sin ... gives him no hope.  And yet he finds compassion instead of death, which leads him first to seek out and then to bring the forgiveness of Christ crucified to others.  No, I do not ascribe to the theology of the Jesuits, but I do believe in the forgiveness of Christ and I like the tale of repentance that is told.

Moreover, even before I knew what original sin was, I liked the story for the message of that portion of the true doctrine.  I liked the story for the fact that we are shown, in the end, there is no escaping the sin of this world, the sin of mankind.  At our core is not goodness, is not godliness, is not compassion or love or sacrifice.  At our core is evil, deceit, and self-preservation.  In the flesh, we are and will always remain sinners.  

In the movie, the crux of the problem is that, while the land has been transferred, the Jesuit missions remained.  However, the Portuguese feared the work and influence of the Jesuits would impede their slave trade.  The Vatican sends a cardinal to investigate, a former Jesuit, and decide the course of action the Jesuits should take.  His choice is either to support the Jesuit missions in protecting the Guarani, risking both their protected status and an ensuing schism in the European Church, or to support the Portugese in their claim over both the land and its inhabitants and order the Jesuits to withdraw from their missions.  

Again, you know the outcome.

Slaughter.

Mankind is ever so skilled at that.

At the end of the movie, the Portuguese governor and the cardinal are ... reviewing ... the outcome of the cardinal's decision to support the Portuguese claim.   The governor's summation is: "We live in the world; the world is thus."  I love the cardinal's response:  "No, thus have we made the world.  Thus have I made it."  

The end of the movie is as stark as the final slaughter scene.  A black screen with a single line of white text: "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."  John 1:5!

I am not a theologian, clearly, but I do have many, many, many theological thoughts about the movie, the history, and the Church then.  When I was a missionary in Africa, I showed it to my 7th and 8th grade students.  We had long discussions about it.  I shudder to think of the errant theology that surely much have laced those conversations.  I really remember nothing of what we said or concluded.  But I do know the outcome was for more of them to come to the mission church services.  Why?  I cannot say.  I would like to think that the movie showed them the depths of original sin and that there is no escaping its reward—death—except through Jesus.

Knowing me ... then ... I imagine much of the talk was about godliness.

I wish someone would talk to me about godliness now.

How godliness fits in the pure doctrine, in the Truth of Christ crucified.

The imaginative part of me, the writer in me, would pen a reason for why I loved the soundtrack:  It was beautiful in the midst of horror.  That is the answer I would give now, for I still play it.  Sometimes, I still fall asleep to it.

I wish I could remember for true, but I do think that the verse hanging in the darkness of the theatre, the hushed, stunned theatre, was the real reason that I liked the movie.  I wanted its truth.  I wanted the Light to shine in my darkness.

I know that this world is full of sin and will remain full of sin until Jesus returns. I know that thus is the world.  But I also agree with the cardinal. I believe we make the world thus.  To me, I actually think the biblical story of Sodom and Gomorrah is example of just how we can make the world thus.  I think, in this last century, the Holocaust is a great example of just how we can make the world thus.  We can make or shape the type of sin in our world.

For isn't that the real reason behind those who fight so ardently against abortion?  Are they not trying to remake the world?  At least in America, are they not fighting to limit, if not remove, that particular sin?  Actually ... that particular slaughter?

I agree that the slaughter of babies ought to be stopped. I do.  But I wish that the slaughter of the sexual innocence of children would be fought with equal zeal, with equal shouting and marching and article-writing, and social media sharing.  

Today, I read an article about a woman who filmed and then posted her abortion, smiling throughout, to help give voice to the women who are silent about their abortions because of shame or fear of shame or whatever silences them.  That kind of silence is about the only kind of silence I can think of when it comes to abortion.  Because, on the other side of the fence, there is a lot of noise.  A deafening protest.

I have written several times about the power of silence in the perpetuation of sexual abuse, in the perpetuation of that particular slaughter.  This is the one written most boldly.  For even I, who longs deeply for the silence to end, oft remain silent because I know that for the survivor, life can be easier in silence.  Easier and harder.  But the easier is attractive, despite the toll silence can take on the survivor.  People who know treat you differently, judge you differently, making wrong assumptions about you that can (and often do) have a detrimental affect your spiritual, medical, and educational care, as well as your career.

But I also believe, rather strongly, that the story of a brother who died last week, trying to protect his sister, might not have happened if we stopped the silence.  I believe this because it is no real surprise, anymore, to read about sexual abuse where the perpetrator is a young adult or even a child.  We've made a world where sexual activity is accepted or expected from the age of the onset of puberty and where sexual crimes are common place, are even a favorite weapon of war.

Just ask the school girls kidnapped in Nigeria 22 days ago.  As this article reporter notes, the story of those girls remained largely silent until it was passed around social media enough to warrant notice.   

Our government finally took notice today.  The White House response: "Time is of the essence. Appropriate action must be taken to locate and to free these young women before they are trafficked or killed."  I wonder, what do the occupants of the White House believe has been happening to those girls in the past three weeks?

When it comes to the prevalence of child abuse, sexual abuse, and sexual assault as a weapon of war, I feel as if when I try to talk about the matter, the response is: We live in the world and the world is thus.  But I believe: Thus have we made it.

I believe breaking the silence can change this particular sin.

I believe breaking the silence can curb this particular sin.

I believe breaking the silence can bring light to this particular darkness.

And, honestly, because the Church is where we face sin, where we receive forgiveness and healing from sin, the Church should be place where the silence is broken.  Boldly.  Fiercely. Without shame.

Would that it were I lived in such a world.

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!  

Could the Bible be my altar...

Sometimes, when I struggle most with how much weaker I am, how little I actually do in a day ... a week ... a month, I go on a tear accomplishing things and wear myself out.  Yesterday was one of those days.

Because I am having to wear my compression stockings all the time, I am finding myself in need of doing more laundry.  The need to wear wool socks, still, is also adding to my laundry needs.  Really, I need to purchase more stockings and more wool socks.  But, Miser Myrtle, doesn't want to spend the money ... and she doesn't actually like that her lower legs are swelling and her feet are turning blue.  However, I was heartened to see the sunshine so that I could hang my laundry out on the line.

Look at that sky!  Look at that GREEN grass!!

Ever since posting the photos of the wood I sealed, I have been smitten by just how dirty my Highlander is.  I think I have admitted that I stopped washing it when even using a self-service car wash was too much for me.  However, I have not budgeted for car washes, nor do I really want to do so ... even at my rather slow rate of one car wash a year.  So, I tried to wash it myself.

I did.
But I fainted four times.
And I am still in agony ... my muscles, that is.

I think my vehicle actually grew larger as I was washing it.  Next spring, I will definitely have to find the most economical non-manual car wash in the city.  That ... or ... maybe try washing the car in a torrential down pour!

After a nap, I tacked the maple seedlings taking root in the fern bed.  I removed 207 of them.  However, I know that if I were to go out and look right now, more will have appeared.  My front yard is full of miniature maple trees.  I am really taken aback at this maple tree infestation and do not know what to do about it.  However, I am ever so grateful that at least 15 ferns have survived the brutal winter and the gutter pipe extension project.  The center of the bed is empty, and so I fear I might be tempted to actually purchase some ferns to fill that spot.  I have wanted to create my own fern bed by what I found and then cultivated in my yard.  However, I am starting to worry that I won't be around by the time the bed is as full as I would wish ... ferns from end-to-end and side-to-side and overflowing in abundance!

Such pressure to put on such a tiny frond, eh?  Only two of the 15 ferns are more than mere midgets at this point.

I also did most of my part of a barter:  cooking labor for cleaning labor.  Whilst I spent as much time cooking and cleaning up as Marie did cleaning, she had to work really, really, really hard at her part.  I am so ... well ... almost peaceful looking about and seeing my clean home.  But I am afraid she'll find the barter far too lop-sided to repeat.  I cooked her flour tortillas, Thai Honey Peanut Chicken, and Chipotle Chicken Chili.  Friday, during our cooking time, Marie also tried a new pasta lasagna recipe, looking for something to tempt her father's plain palette.  So, today, after exhausting herself cleaning my abode, Marie left with 24 freezer meals and 16 tortilla dough balls.

While she was here, we made Honey-Lime Sweet Potato, Black Bean, and Corn Tacos:

I am most decidedly not a vegetarian, but, just as with the Chipotle Chicken Chili, the recipe photo reeled me in, hook, line, and sinker.  So, I am very happy to report that these were as tasty as the photo indicated.  My photo is blurry, so really you should take a gander at the original recipe photo.

We forgot the avocado slice at the end, but they were rather tasty without it.  And, to be perfectly honest, I almost forgot the seasoning on the sweet potatoes.  I put them in the oven and then had to take them back out and finish seasoning them.  The interesting part was that I could not imagine sweet potatoes in a taco, but once I smelled the seasoning on them, I couldn't wait for the recipe to be finished.  And, well, how can you go wrong with something that has honey and lime in it??

Today, whilst I was cooking for Marie, I cooked for me. 

Again, my photography skills with food leave much to be desired.  Fatigue might have played a part in not really taking a good one of this ... or hunger ... but I am having a really difficult time not polishing off the left overs.  Chicken with Mustard Cream Sauce is truly a Myrtle recipe.

I didn't have brandy, so I made do with Barefoot Moscato.  However, I plan to buy some brandy and some vodka (for the next recipe I wish to try) as soon as possible.  This has two kinds of mustard, cream, garlic, butter, olive oil, and chicken broth in it.  I found the reduction part took too long and plan to adjust the cream a bit more next time.  I also wonder if the broth is really necessary.  However, since the Pioneer Woman has brought such success to my kitchen, I am not sure I should quibble over 1/4 cup of broth.

I can so readily plan to purchase the alcohol for both recipes because, clearly, cooking from scratch has decreased my grocery bills.  Yes, the transition has included a large capital outlay, between the freezer, larder staples, mason jars, a few cooking utensils, and the expense of my raised herb bed.  However, already the cost of the freezer and mason jars are being mitigated by the lowered grocery bills.  By the end of the year, I hope to be consistently at $150 a month, on average.   Realistically, that would be a savings of more than the $1,200 budgeted, because I always blew way past my grocery budget line item.  Since the 27th (my budget cycle), I've spent less than $25.  And I could very easily eat only what is in the freezer and have enough for the end of the month, buying only milk and cream between now and May 27th.  But those chunks of steak are calling out to me to try tackling the new recipes that have been waiting for two months now.  And, of course, I just have to try the vodka sauce pasta recipe I found. And I still have all that chicken ... hence today's culinary adventure.

The only thing about buying brandy and vodka is that I don't know what to get. I actually have blackberry brandy, but figured that would not work with a mustard cream recipe.  I am very ignorant when it comes to alcohol, with the large part of my infinitesimal knowledge being about liquors, since I am a sweet-tooth even in alcohol.

Hmm ... what do you think I could make with the honey liquor sitting in my cabinet??

Firewood Man has been working incredibly long hours and long weeks (not a single day off) at his job, so building the raised bed for my herb garden has been shuffled back a few times.  But after hearing that my worms are scheduled to be delivered tomorrow, Tim came after eating a quick dinner to work in my project.  He brought a friend.  Much to my embarrassment, many Myrtle stories were told.  I may (or may not) have and to resort to a swift kick in Tim's backside when he was kneeling over.  Something about a face plant in my beloved grass quells embarrassing story telling.

Tim worked by flashlight for much of the finishing work, but he ended up being able to create a home for my worms!

The back wood is in two pieces, one on either side of the fence and then braced.  That light bit of wood up top is to keep the dirt from spilling out, so I very quickly added sealer to it after Tim and his friend left.  It was 10:00 PM!!  I put the pea gravel in whilst they were measuring and cutting the cap pieces and then, once the cap was on, they added the mulch.  Before leaving, Tim and his friend carried the compost manure, peat, and potting soil over to the bed so that when I mix it tomorrow, all I will have to do is use my large scooper.  No lifting.  No fainting.

Yes, I know I am short on soil.  Even though Tim's Monday's are 12-hour days, he said if I got Lowe's to add more to my car, he will stop by on the way home and put it in my bed.  Merciful man.  A truly great guy ... even if he couldn't help catching his friend up on every single silly thing he knows about me!

So, my laundry is done, my Highlander is washed, my fern bed is weeded, my house is incredibly clean, and my herb bed is built.

To be honest, though, I have been trying to keep so busy that I would not have time to think.  Part of that plan was derailed by a package in the mail.  You see, I bought another Bible.  I did so before I had the thought that if I just stop fighting so hard to hold on to this area of my memory, my life, then I might not be so awash in anguish and terror.  So, as far as putting away all the reminders goes, I have one that I am reluctant to set aside.

A few years back, I discovered the Holman NASB 1977 single column Bible.  At first, I thought it odd, but I am now deeply in LOVE with this format.  I immediately went searching for another.  So, I had one in brown leather and one in hardback (a rather startling red color).  The next one I found, I bought and gave away.  Although, I do not remember to whom I gave it.  I was just so darned excited to share how different and thought provoking it is—for me, at least—it is to read the Scriptures in just one column.  Of course, in communications, presentation is everything.  So, maybe that is why I like it.  In any case, I find the format much, much, much easier to read.  After a long dry spell, I tracked down another one.  I snapped it up because it came with a bonus:

Tabs!

One of my sorrows and frustrations is that I struggle greatly in searching for books in the Bible.  I get them mixed up and cannot find them.  Well, if you want the Psalter just open a Bible up to the middle.  But as for the rest ... I can spend so much time searching that I become dispirited.  I care not that the stick on part is so old it has yellowed.  They are all there.  They all work.

The Bible is still a reference version, with the references on the edge, a set of maps, and a concordance in the back.  My kind of Bible!

It is funny, I talked with my pastor about everything and nothing and one of those everything-and-nothings was the fact that I don't know what to do with old Bibles.  I have all of mine.  I have my Ryrie Study Bible that has a broken spine and pages falling out.  I have my Zondervan Thinline that I took to Africa and is all moldy and tattered from being in the Liberian climate.  I have the Zondervan Thinline that I bought on my return, which also has a broken spine, but the pages are still intact.  I  have a putrid pink Zondervan Thinline that someone gave me, which is new but has pages falling out.  I have my personal copies of the King James, New King James, and Revised Standard Version.  I have an antique copy of the King James from 1865.  I have my copy of The Lutheran Study Bible (English Standard Version) and my missionary Bible that is a translation using only 800 different words for those who struggle with English.  I also have the old New International Bible only because it is in daily readings that are also in chronological order.  And I have family Bibles:  my great aunt's King James, my grandmother's Revised Standard Version, my father's King James, and my other great aunt's Revised Standard Version Anglicised.  Not full Bibles, but I also have three copies of the Common Book of Prayer.  There might be more that I am forgetting, but these are the ones I know the location of, the broken, battered, and other owner ones all in a box in the attic.

I cannot throw them away.
I do not believe they should be recycled.
I am burdened by Bibles I do not want.

The Ryrie Study Bible actually represents the bulk of my desperate years in the mainline evangelical church and, thus, distresses me.  The moldy Bible is in a ziploc bag, so I wonder if it will become a science experiment at some point.  I simply do not know what you are supposed to do with old Bibles.  And, these days, I basically think donating the usable ones to some place like Goodwill could end up with them being discarded, given the turning tide against Christianity in America.

Since the "reverent" way to discard an unusable American flag is to soberly and solemnly burn it, should old Bibles be burned?

I honestly have the same discomfort with the bulletins from Lutheran services that have sections of the Living Word printed in them.  I have a box of those in the attic, too.  Lately, I have taken to leaving mine behind so as to also try and leave the thoughts I have about discarding it behind as well.

I do not know why the texts are printed, since there are pew bibles.  I am not sure I have ever since anyone at any of the Lutheran churches I've attended carry a Bible to Divine Service.  Only at mid-week Bible studies at this one church.  As heavy as it makes my bag, I bring my Bible (or my Gospel Harmony), my hymnal, and a copy of the Christian Book of Concord when I go to church, even though there is never any need for the latter and I usually end up simply reading the Scripture from the bulletin since the version does not match my Bible.

I know that the Living Word is more than the printed text.  But that printed text is powerful.  And I do not think it should not be so disrespected as to be tossed in the trash can ... or the recycling bin.

That one line in the Large Catechism still staggers me:  "For it [the Word] has, and is able to do, all that God is and can do."

Of course, as my pastor pointed out, this was not really a problem until the 1500s when the Gutenberg Press was invented.  Then, again, not so much a problem until, perhaps, this last century ... or even half-century.  For much of human history, there was not such disposable texts of the Living Word.  And, for most of the printed press stage of human history, few could afford multiple copies or versions of the Bible.

I brought him a used, free copy of the NASB 1977, in paperback.  I wanted us to be able to read the same version.  Unfortunately, the first time he used it in catechesis, pages fell out. I gasped.  And was horrified.  He looked at them, the maps, and quickly told me that those pages didn't matter. The next time he used the Bible, more pages fell out.  I was even more dismayed and said I would get another copy.  Half-joking, my pastor quipped that were I to do so, then he would be stuck with trying to figure out how to properly discard a Bible.

Anyway, opening the package, my heart went wonky.  Literally, stress affects my cardiac function and I was full of all sorts of good stress.  In short, I was giddy at the sight of the package waiting on my porch and carried it quite lovingly inside.  And, to be honest, I have already slept with my new (old) Bible.  I have used every single tab. I have traced my fingertips across many of the pages.  I looked at all of the maps (none of which I have ever really understood).  I flipped to favorite passages and then looked up references.  I perused the concordance.  I clutched it to my chest.  I am a nutter for the Living Word, especially for its printed text.

Could the Bible be my altar?

After all, for most of my Christian life, the Bible is where Jesus has come to me.  The Bible is where I understand Jesus coming to me.  In fact, for the first few years of having faith, church was not an option, so the Living Word was all I had.  So, the Bible was (and remains) my refuge.

I suppose, too, I should acknowledge, given my rather strident thoughts about discarding the printed text of the Living Word, I am probably a textaphobe, as opposed to a crumbaphobe.

To be honest, I simply don't understand Christians who do not daily delve into the Living Word.  I mean, over the decades, I have oft been lauded for being a "great" Bible reader and that accolade is usually followed by the statement:  "I just don't have time to read the Bible that much."  Hogwash.  We have time for the things we make time for.  Period.  Yes, especially now, I have oodles and oodles of time to read, but even when I was working full-time (and then some) and even volunteering on top of that, I always had time to read the Bible.  I want to read it the same way—although differently—that I want to read one of my historical fiction or fantasy or science fiction novels.  I hunger for that text, the way I hunger for the joy of all text.

I also do not understand Lutherans who do not daily delve into the Confessions, especially now that the Reader's Edition has been available for almost a decade.  I don't understand why Lutheran parents are not out buying personal editions of the Confessions for their children once they reach upper elementary or middle school.  That book ought to be flying off the shelf.  But it is not.  I get that I am basically a freak in that thinking.

But the Bible...
I wish I knew other Bible freaks.
I wish I were not increasingly uncomfortable asking others to read the Bible with me, to me, to them.

Could the Bible be my altar?

I am both reverent and irreverent with the Bible.  Never have I bowed before a copy, but I do oft clutch a copy to my chest and/or stare at it in utter awe.  Sometimes, when I am too upset to read, to concentrate, I hold the Bible open and run my fingertips over the text.  Honestly, I would just love a Braille bible.  But a Braille bible is 18 volumes, I believe, and rather costly.  Having a copy of the volume containing the Psalter would be cool, though.  A page.  A single page of the Living Word in Braille for my fingertips.  SIGH.

Anyway, I do have a deep reverence for the Bible, for the printed text.  However, I also have carted it everywhere, splashed it with Dr Pepper, splattered it with food, dropped it in the bathtub, thrown it against the wall, left it out for my first puppy to chew, etc.  A torn and tattered Bible is just fine to me, but a torn and tatter altar???  I've never seen one of those.

So, the conundrum is that I am still having those thoughts, still longing to just not remember, to stop fighting to remember, to understand, to learn what I should know.  And yet I am beside myself with joy and happiness and awe over the latest copy of the Bible come to me.

A leather bound, single column NASB 1977 with tabs for a mere twenty bucks!!!!  What does it say about me that were I to come across another copy of the Holman side reference, single column NASB  1977, I would snatch it up in a heartbeat?  That I would very much welcome having a copy in every room of my house, one in my car, and one in my Kenya bag that I take when I have appointments and such so that I am never without the printed Living Word in the form that fits me best??


Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

Where is life taking me...

I find it sort of interesting that I regularly get pamphlets and things, as well as visits, from local churches.  The one I received today is entitled:  Where Is LIFE Taking You?

First, I learned about Heaven and Hell.  Then, I learned the reason I can go to heaven and how to get there.  1.  "God's Word says that all people are sinners." 2.  "There is a price to be paid for your sin."  3.  "The good news is that Jesus Christ paid your sin debt for you on the Cross."  4.  "Jesus wants to forgive you of your sins and give you the gift of eternal life in Heaven."  5.  "You must personally pray and receive Christ by faith as your Saviour."

The last bit, before the booklet flap of contact information, was the instruction:  "Pray this simple prayer from your heart to God.  Dear Jesus, I know that I am a sinner.  I believe you died, were buried, and rose again to pay for my sins.  Please forgive me of my sins and be my personal Savior.  Thank you for saving me now and giving me the free gift of eternal life.  In Jesus' name.  Amen!"

It is a Baptist church.

The saddest parts of the booklet are:

• If you try to pay for what you owe as a sinner, you must spend eternity in Hell, separated from God.  Baptism, church membership, or any other good works are not sufficient to pay the price for your sin.   
• If you believe that Jesus is the Son of God who died for you, was buried, and rose again, then forgiveness is just a prayer away.

It is good that good works are noted as not sufficient, but oh, how sad that Baptism is included in that list!  It is also sad that, believing is not sufficient either.

Where is life taking me?

Tuesday morning Amos ate one of my spilled pills. Theophylline.  He received a dose four times what a dog might be given.  I did not realize what was happening in time to induce vomiting, but I was able to give him activated charcoal—Amos will eat anything wrapped in cheese—which helped him make it through the overdose.  My poor puppy did not sleep for 18 hours.  He has primarily slept since that mark, taking until today to raise his tail off his backside and wag it.  For Firewood Man.  I'm still in the dog house for dragging him off to see the vet.

He is sleeping and sleeping and sleeping, working through the strain on his body.
I miss my puppy dog.
Life is taking me to a place where my clumsiness has resulted thrice in Amos getting medication harmful to him.

Last summer, while Sandra was away, I had Firewood Man work on her deck.  He cut away a 12x12 section, reworked the railing, repaired the steps, and built two raised bed boxes.  He was also to paint it, but the project was so much more than he anticipated that I helped with the first coat of paint and I painted the second coat, with some help from Sandra.  I also demolished this strange boardwalk that connected the deck to the garage.

While Sandra was gone, using her funds, I bought the lining, gravel, peat, compost, and soil needed to fill the beds.  Lowe's folk loaded the bags of those things in my Highlander and I lugged them from her alley, through her garage, and over to the raised beds.  It was very difficult work for me, but I managed it.  I wanted to do something nice for her whilst she was away, but the truth is that I also have this thought in my head that in order for someone to be a friend I must do things for that person.

Anyway, Sunday, I went to Lowe's and had the good folk there load up the same items into my Highlander again, since Firewood Man was to be building my raised bed for an herb garden.  It is not yet built—though my lush lawn was mowed today ... BLISS—but the bags of all that stuff were still in my vehicle.  They were still there because when I went to get them out of my car (who in the world would want compost manure in her car for any length of time), I fell straight on my backside.  The force I tried to apply to moving the bags did not budge them an inch.  It just budged me to the ground.  I was stunned that no amount of effort on my part could even move them in the vehicle itself.

I was stunned.
Life is taking me to a place where I am growing ever weaker.

When Firewood Man was mowing tonight, I went out to talk with him.  He had already texted me that it was going to be too late to build the bed, as he had planned to do, and rain-checked me to Saturday (hopefully).  But I really didn't want the stinky compost in my Highlander a moment longer.    I told him that I had fetched the same items as I did last summer.  And then I paused.  Tim filled in the rest:  "You cannot move them out of the car and want me to do so."  I nodded my head.  "And I'll need to carry them over the bed when you are ready."  I nodded my head again.  Tears slipped down my cheeks.  Tim, ever the rapscallion, and you're gonna pick a fight with me over thinking you need to pay me to do that lugging.  Which one of us do you think is gonna win this time?"  "Me!" I blurted out.  But even if I write him a check, he will just refuse to cash it.  Lugging things is not labor to him.  It is helping.

I told him that I ordered the earth worms.  He teased me that opening the container and distributing my new yard companions was not a part of our deal.  I retorted that I had already decided to see if Marie would be game to tackle that task.  Then, because he really is an impertinent pessimist, Tim asked my why I was spending money on food for the robins who have been keeping me company.  The robins or the cardinals.  He said the finches probably wouldn't want my red wigglers.  Now, I'm all worried that my birdie friends, who greatly cheer my spirit each time I am out of doors, will eat the worms I bought to help put the odds of my successfully growing herbs more in my favor.

Then, Tim said I need to feed my earthworms bread.  Is he pulling my leg?

Before he left, Firewood Man noticed that my house finches had had their babies.  LOTS of chirping is coming from the corner of the back porch roof.  He asked if I needed to borrow a shotgun, just to rile me up.  Then, before I could punch him in the arm, he very seriously said that if he found out that I climbed on the airing porch and hung over the edge to take pictures of the babies he would never mow my yard again.  I think the man can actually read minds.  Too bad the railing is not up yet.

I have been rather distraught and have become overwhelmed by feeling defeated over ever really escaping the spiritual terror that oft consumes me these days.  It is not that my pastor did not strive to instruct me on Monday, but that we went round and round and round in circles over the Lord's Supper.

He did create the Chart of all Charts for me.  It clearly deserves that accolade because he managed to show me the connection between the Small Catechism and the Large Catechism with regard to receiving the Lord's Supper worthily.  It was one of those times where I glimpsed what he was driving at and knew that understanding would ... eventually ... be possible.  However, a question he asked at the end really discouraged me not for his question but for my inability to answer.

There are three things that, in becoming a Lutheran, I most fervently wish that I never learned.  Three things that burden me immensely and terrify me.  One of those things is all the bloody talk about piety.

I am sure that I will cause great offense by writing this, but this is really for my memory—although at this point I am afraid in reading over recent entries will send me over the edge.  Part of our discussion was about crumbaphobia.  It really bothers me the folk who are greatly horrified if a host crumb falls or if some of the host wine spills.  The mixture of awe and horror and law over the care and handling of the consecrated elements really bothers me.  And, in a way, crumbaphobes are the epitome of my doubts.  I am not a crumbaphobe.  In fact, I cannot reconcile all that I have learned about our Triune God with a God who would desire me to be a crumaphobe.  Honestly, I think God would at least chuckle over the things folk fight about when it comes to handling the Lord's Supper.  But the least of those things is bowing before the altar.

I don't bow.  Nothing in me feels compelled to bow.  And seeing folk bow each and every time they approach or cross before an altar, especially multiple times when preparing things up there, really wigs me out (for lack of a better term).

Catechesis ran long, which left me feeling horribly guilty about forgetting to set a timer and help stay on task.  Since there was but an hour before the evening service, I stayed at the church.  I stayed at the church and camped down right up in front of the altar.

I camped out and waited.
Nothing in me felt compelled to bow or in any way express reverence whilst there.
Nothing.

In fact, the only thoughts in my mind were about the scene carved on the front.  Most of the guys on the right seemed to be arguing about something, not really paying attention to Jesus.  The guys on the left were looking toward Jesus, but I wondered if their minds were really on what was happening at the other end of the table.  And then I also noted that the way Jesus was carved, His face, seems far more rough, more rugged, than the way his face is carved on the statue up above.

The Lord's Supper Jesus looks far more plebeian to me, whereas the statue Jesus appears more patrician to me.  I wondered if a single artist created this ... thing ... or if many folk worked on it.  I cannot remember what it is called, though I asked again (for the gazillionth time), but I did write down the other two men, at whom I often stare during services, wondering who they are.  On the right is Peter, holding the keys.  And on the left is Paul, holding a sword.  I was told that Peter represents the ministry to the Jews, whilst Paul represents that to the Gentiles.  Jesus, in the middle, is come for all.

So, the altar.  Nothing.  Nothing at all in me.  If I really believed that it is where Jesus comes to us, why do I not have any desire to honor that?  I mean, put a gun to my head I know I would die rather than deny the benefits of what I receive in the Lord's Supper.  But if you ask me if I believe it is Christ's body and blood, I start to panic.  Christ said it is.  So, it is.  But that is Christ speaking.  Myrtle cannot speak those words.  Myrtle just doesn't understand.  And she is very, very, very worried that believing in the Word of God is not ... sufficient ... to stave off whatever harm there is in receiving the Lord's Supper.  That that same gun would go off because my only answer is what Jesus said.  Not what I think.  Or believe.  Or trust.

How is it possible ... is it even possible ... to believe in the Word and the benefits but not really know about the Real Presence?  And wouldn't I want to bow if I actually did have faith in the Real Presence?

I sat at the alter and felt nothing.
From what I understand of the term, I had no piety.
I worry that I have no real faith.

But, up there at the front of the church, I didn't merely stare at the altar.  I spent a far amount of time staring at Jesus.

Doing so hurt.
I hurt.

The whole time I was sitting at the rail, the question "Who do you say that I am?" was running to my head.  In fact, I probably whispered it a few dozen times, in between reading bits of the Bible ... and thinking about those disciples.  The thing is, I don't know who was asking the question in my mind.  Was it Jesus asking me?  I am confident in that answer.  Boy, I aced that part in the Baptist booklet designed for me to determine where I would be when I die!  But was it me asking Jesus?  I have no confidence, no certitude in what His answer would be.

Saul.  He haunts me.  How could he lose faith?  How does one lose faith?  As does Jesus response in Matthew 7:23.  "I never knew you."  Does Jesus know me?  Will that be His response to me when I have my shot at the figurative pearly gates?

I wept all of Monday night.  All of it.  Then I poisoned my dog.  More weeping.  Then, something Marie pointed out sank in ever so deeply and I wept more.

Marie called to ask how I was doing.  I blurted out my fear and the overall feeling of futility that pervaded me after my last catechesis lesson.  For one, I realized I couldn't remember that really awesome chart my pastor made for me about the two Sacraments.  I had made a binder (with top-loading sheet protectors, of course), but that was after.  So, I do not know where that scrap of paper is that I jotted down his chart.  Nor do I remember it.

I was bewailing my fear when Marie sort of interrupted me with her confusion that I would be so distraught since she was with me when Mary sent me a message with this really great thought about faith and brought me such peace.  Huh?

Marie tells me about the day, about us going to Fresh Market, about me showing her the message there, about her still being with me when I had to pick up Isaac.  Huh?

I have absolutely no memory of that.  None.  When Marie realized this was the case, she made another very astute observation that part of my problem is that I do not remember the consolation I have been given and that those in my life who can do so are not understanding that I do not remember.

She suggested I look at Mary's message again, but I could not find it.  And Mary is out of town.  I don't know if I recorded Mary's message of consolation on my blog.  And that is before Marie started getting my posts via email (and thus actually reading them).  So, she doesn't know if it is there either. I am afraid that if I tried to look, plowing through entries of things in the recent past that I already do not remember would leave me worse off than I am at the moment.

On one hand, it is good to have that additional bit of understanding about how my cognitive decline is affecting my spiritual anguish.  On the other hand, that I had no clue what she was talking about is utterly defeating.  What is the point of continuing catechesis if I cannot remember what I am being taught?  If the questions (the answers to which) I have longed to be taught are not something that I can retain, why waste my pastor's time?

I am tired.
I am tired of being terrified spiritually.
I am tired of fighting to grasp something that is no in my reach.

Especially.  Especially because it seems as if I am being punished for fighting, for trying to learn, for wanting to know what my confession really is.

I have been having this thought.  This very real thought.  I am thinking that if I were to take down all the crucifixes, put away all my Bibles and copies of the Christian Book of Concord, clear off the two shelves of study material that are in the bookcase at one end of the couch, and put away my wrinkled-from-being-wet baptismal napkin, then I might just forget.  I might forget Jesus and faith.  I might forget Jesus and faith and, thus, no longer be so utterly afraid.

Life is taking me to a place where the figurative langoliers are eating their way through my mind, leaving black nothingness in their wake.

I had another house dream last night.  In it, I had a terrible leak around the glass ceiling on the third floor.  I spent hours working with a repairman to get it fixed before its damage because too great.  I talked through the pros and cons of replacement verses repair and discussed the addition of weep holes in my existing storm windows so as to keep water from building up between the window and storm window, since the original windows are all set in wooden frames.  We decided to replace the beading and add the weep holes, instead of replacing all the windows because doing so would take the remaining small balance of my retirement fund.  I awoke in the middle of the project, my first thought was that today had a rain forecast and the worked needed to be completed before the downpour began.

I looked around in confusion because my walls were not the walls of my home.  The windows did not match.  Looking outside, the scaffolding that had been built to do the work was gone.  But, in looking outside, nothing was as it should be.  The neighborhood was wrong.  The trees were wrong.  The landscaping was wrong.  I was not in my house.

Only, I was.  I am.
This, where I am at this very moment, is my real home.
Life is taking me to a place where I do not always know what real is.

The final part of the booklet gave me the Key Steps in Helping You Grow in Your Christian life:

1. Realize you have a Know-so Salvation.
2. Make a public confession of faith.
3. Obey the Lord in believer's baptism.
4. Attend a Bible-believing church.
5. Read the King James Version of the Bible daily.
6. Have a daily prayer time.
7. Start winning others to Christ.

On this list, I fail at numbers 1, 5, and 7.  I do read the Bible daily ... many times daily.  But I read the NASB 1977.  I am not sure if finally being baptized would count since I am fairly certain that it was not a "believer's" baptism.  I took care of number 2 when I was 11.  Is accomplishing 43% of the list enough?

I have a collection of these booklets and pamphlets and door knockers.
I wish I would receive the Lutheran version.
But would that matter if I cannot remember?

I really am tired of being so afraid.  And I really do wish that I could just forget it all ... all the anguish, all the doubt, all the terror, all the shame.  My existence has become so small.  I believe forgetting now is possible.

The truth is that ... now ... I forget to feed Amos in the evenings more times that I remember to do so.  After starving him on top of poisoning him, I had a come-to-Jesus talk with myself and set yet another alarm, yet another reminder to ring throughout my days telling me what to do:  Feed Amos.

I honestly don't know why my puppy dog still adores me.


Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

What does that really mean...

I wish there was a translation of the Bible ... or at least a study bible with lots and lots and lots of notes ... for ex-evangelicals.  Really, I think I might not be the only one to benefit from it.

Here are a few examples that come to mind:

• Matthew 28:5-6: The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid; for I know that you are looking for Jesus who has been crucified. He is not here, for He has risen, just as He said."  The way that I would wish this were annotated:  It's okay.  I know you are afraid.  Seeing an angel of the Lord can certainly be a moment of fear.  But I am not here to tell you how to feel, now or in the future. I am hear to tell you the very good news that Jesus has risen from the dead.  So, go ahead and have feelings other than joy at that news, if you are still afraid in this moment, because the point is not about how you feel but about your risen Savior.  God understands and wants you to know and remember that, not regulate your feelings.
• Philippians 4:6-8:  Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.  The way that I would wish this were annotated:  It's okay.  If you are anxious, tell your anxiety that Jesus, your Savior and Mediator who ever prays for you, is waiting to bring your cares, you worries and fears and anxieties and hopes and dreams all to your Father in heaven.  And while you might still struggle with anxious feelings regarding your circumstances, you can tell those feelings that God doesn't answer prayer on account of the person, on account of your trust or belief, but on account of His Son and has promised to hear you.  So, even in times of struggle and trial, you can add to those struggles the truth that the peace of Christ, His perfect fulfillment of the Law and covering of all your sin, is yours and in your prayers, be they full of hope or doubt, you are reconciled to God, who will always care for you.  He isn't expecting you never to be anxious; He's reminding you that He is ready for your prayers.
• Galatians 5:19-23: Now the deeds of the flesh are evident, which are: immorality, impurity, sensuality, idolatry, sorcery, enmities, strife, jealousy, outbursts of anger, disputes, dissensions,factions, envying, drunkenness, carousing, and things like these, of which I forewarn you, just as I have forewarned you, that those who practice such things will not inherit the kingdom of God. But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law.  The way that I would wish this were annotated:  Your flesh is full of sin, sin that will hurt others and yourself, sin you cannot deny or escape.  You will always struggle with it, and your flesh will always lead you to death.  But, in Christ, you are also a new creation, a saint through whom the Holy Spirit will work fruit of the faith you receive from Jesus Christ.  That fruit is also a gift, evidence that you are saved and redeemed and righteous.  You might not see the fruit or understand it.  And my point is not that you are to go out and make yourself fruitful or take spiritual inventories to see if you have fruit in your life, but to rest assured that the Sanctifier is at work in your life, building and sustaining your faith and working His good.

SIGH.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!