The spiritual battle rages on, on all fronts, with the booty, the humans that are at risk of losing their souls to monsters, displaying an oblivious state of mind, acting unaware of the danger they are in.
Most days I have world-pain, world-weariness: the time to weep is upon me, and I wonder, why it isn't upon more people?
Moving forward. The latest common refrain is this: We must move forward ... as though all that matters is what is to come, regardless of what has happened. There is a one big happy family reunion that people want to attend, where everyone gets to pick a hamburger or a hot dog to celebrate togetherness, with the theme being how the New Year will play out in the most marvellous of ways, under a returning president. Trumph, my name for the frumpy man with the cheesy smile that speaks repetitive and boastful platitudes, is the man of the hour: he is going to be on deck soon enough to resume his people appointed position of power in America.
I am miffed. I admit it, and my irritation is showing up in ways that I have to question. Do I really want to continue bothering to point out what is sickeningly obvious to me, that others obstinately refuse to acknowledge? What, is the point?
I think of John the baptist, warning people to repent, because the kingdom of heaven was at hand: Jesus was indeed, very near while John was prophesying. Alas, many heard, many heeded, recognizing their need to repent of their sins, while others continued on their way, without a glance backward, at the possibility that they needed some brain refreshing and heart transforming. Minds have become muddled and clogged up, and the great deception, the great failing away is so real, there is nothing a gal can do to stop it, no matter how hard I try.
What, is the point, I am now asking myself, yet again. I suppose, when I am really and truly painfully honest, I am the broken record that belts out sorrowful songs of loss. It is already December the 2nd, and Christmas is upon us. My elder sister was known as Santonella this time of year; she loved to shop, loved buying and giving gifts. It delighted her to find just the right item for each person in her life, and sometimes, because she could not stand the suspense of having to wait to gift give, she would tell the person what she had bought them, or give it to them early: for Santonella, the anticipation of seeing appreciative facial expressions, was apparently too excruciating to endure. Childlike, my sister was childlike in her generosity.
Try as I might, the birth of Christ, celebrating his designated birthdate, doesn't spark a fire in me. I love my Saviour everyday, and wouldn't want a day to go by without telling him how much I love him, and how grateful I am that I am a part of his family. Christmas will be, is, a very sad occasion for me this year, and I cannot separate my sentiments from the event.
I wrote the last sentence, wanting you to understand, dear reader, that separating our feelings, or distancing ourselves from them, ought not to be an easy thing to do, just because a date in the year rolls round once again. I am not an actress, I cannot pretend, nor do I want to. I do not eagerly anticipate the unwrapping of the New Year. I do not look forward to what awaits regarding the state of humanity. Looking forward is not my plan, or in my make-up ... I see blood, and hear silent shrieks from those that are suffering; the memory of my incapacitated sister, lying on a hospital bed, her life ebbing away, haunts me. My younger sister was the best mourner I have ever seen or heard. I thank God for her honesty: she gave herself over without reservation, to loud, implacable, soul wrenching grieving, when she knew our sister was dying.
Each time I go after perpetrators that pushed poison in syringes on the masses, I live my commitment to be relentless toward those that openly, repeatedly, imposed lethal doses to the unsuspecting, the childlike, trusting, vulnerable, susceptible, the manipulated, and coerced. I know my sister suffered from those injections, and it irritates me to no end, to hear or read the excuses people make for the perpetrators, Trumph in particular.
And so, I am at the famous choice crossroads, once again. Do I continue to care for those that prefer the pretending, prefer the rationalizing and excuse making over the very lovely and worthy truth, or do I give up on them and leave them to their own wiley and self-deceptive devices, wash my hands and say no more?
At the crossroads, there is divergence. One path looks pleasant and easy, and taking it will have me indulging myself, freeing myself from the world pain and world weariness of caring. The other road looks strewn with sorrow, where weary travellers will invariably stumble and land on spiky rocks and jagged boulder edges.
Do you think me a sullen fool, dear reader, for knowing already, which path I must take?
Don't worry, be happy ... if only ...
Know that I do not only weep for a sister I cannot see or hear or touch or love on in this plane anymore; know that I weep for the many that are facing the same excruciating marrow sucking losses, that cannot shake the sadness, no matter how often they are told they must look forward now.
In a death culture, grief is an oddity. For a Christian, sorrow makes perfect sense in a world that has gone lawlessly mad.
My solace is always The Word of God. Where else can one go, for the eternal Truth?
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8)
