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Wednesday, July 9, 2014

Loving Law



Breaking God’s law in one particular breaks the whole thing, says the Bible. I believe that’s because it isn’t just a set of rules; the law is God’s character. We are made in His image, and we ought to be like Him, but we are so screwed up since the fall of Adam, He’s had to spell out the rules like parents telling squabbling children, “You sit here, and you sit there, and don’t even look at each other.” (Or Bill Cosby saying “I don’t want anybody in this house to touch anyone else in this house ever again!”)
“Worship Me, not false gods.”
“Don’t murder each other.”
All ten of the Commandments are really pretty basic, but misbehaving children need them. Perhaps to help us grow up and become more self-controlled, Jesus distilled the law as “Love God and love one another.” We ought to function always as God’s creatures, who appreciate being created and loved and who love Him back. We ought always to show love for other human beings, because they are also His creatures, and He loves them. These are the simple criteria.
Faced, then, with, say, the prospect of a human infant coming along at what we deem an inconvenient time, how should we decide what to do? We can go God’s way, love in its essence, or we can do “other.” That is the only division, the only one that counts. And “other” covers a lot of territory. Once you’ve stepped out of the circle of God’s loving character, you have no more boundaries. Thus abortion in the first trimester in the direst of circumstances soon becomes second and third trimester killing, just because you’re unhappy or inconvenienced. And then babies who have been born can be starved to death, or, more efficiently, have their spines snipped with scissors by someone like Kermit Gosnell, and their feet chopped off as trophies.
There is little merit in trying to say which sin is worse, even though some are more spectacular than others. Is murder worse than adultery? Is homosexual practice worse than gossip? Is it worse to covet, or to bear false witness? No sinner need feel superior to others, because the law is one piece. All have sinned and come short of the glory of God. Every one of us is outside the circle, and the only way back is through Jesus, Who made Himself the gate, the way, the truth and the life. The law points us in His direction.

Monday, July 7, 2014

And... Cut!



I suppose it’s a sign that an injury is not too grave if your first thought is “Save the sandals.” When I dropped a large, heavy, sharp, shiny chef’s knife on my left ankle, and the blood began to flow, I grabbed at the buckle of my spiffy Merrell sandals with the pale aqua suede straps. I raced the rivulets. The rivulets won. Blood dripped onto the floor and left traces on my toes when I yanked the sandal off. A half-width of paper towel (I remain frugal even under duress) was the first absorbent thing I grabbed and pressed against the cut. Next, I tied a kitchen towel on top of the paper towel and began to hobble toward the bedroom that held the first-aid box.

Youngest son was plugged into his computer in the adjacent dining room and didn’t move. Husband emerged from the hallway with his phone pressed to his ear. “I dropped a knife on my ankle,” I said. He turned back into the hallway. By then, I was pretty well convinced that I could have bled to death in the kitchen, and nobody would have noticed until dinner time. “Hey, what’s for dinner?” Darling son would then post on Facebook and Twitter, “Mom’s dead. That sucks” and go back to GoreCavern 2: the Sickening.

The hubs turned up as I was scrabbling through the plastic bin in search of butterfly bandages. “I tell you I’ve dropped a knife on myself, and you do nothing?” said I.

“I couldn’t hear you.”

“Didn’t the towel around the ankle give you a clue?”

“I just thought you might have sprained it or something.”

Oh, well, of course, a mere sprained ankle on your wife is nothing to HANG UP THE DANG PHONE for.

But he did help find the right bandages and, with a great air of self-importance, applied the butterfly strip over the cut, and a regular bandage crosswise over that. When I sat on the bed, he squashed a pillow under my foot to elevate it. The shock wearing off, the cut stung, and my eyes teared up. I asked for a tissue. He brought it and insisted on drying my tears—by bouncing the wadded tissue on the center of my eyeball. Very Ray Romano.

Naturally, Facebook is the place to analyze such ordeals, and I posted a brief report, with a notice to an EMT friend who once posted a photo of someone’s feet shredded to pulp right down to the tendons and wrote “Boys and girls, this is why we don’t wear flipflops on motorcycles.” Probably because she has answered calls for things like “Go to the drugstore and pick up my prescription,” she rejoiced that we actually took care of the cut ourselves. So I guess that’s all right. And... cut.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Before, After, Never


          So I ordered this exercise program, mainly because my darling daughter has signed on as a coach/rep, and she gets credit. The thing actually sounds reasonable, an amalgam of yoga and Pilates, both of which I’ve at least sampled in the past without total humiliation, and I might be able to follow it and the diet advice. Except for the unlimited raw kale. Shudder. In the kit is a flyer for a free t-shirt. Free, that is, in exchange for before-and-after photos. In “form-fitting clothing.” Front view, rear view, side view and a sort of flexed-leg modelish pose. Did I mention the form-fitting clothing? In return for a t-shirt. Ha, say I, not for a thousand t-shirts. Not for the entire world’s supply of t-shirts. My rolls and wrinkles shall remain under wraps, my flab unphotographed. T-shirt, my… well, you know. Offer me a $10,000 New York shopping trip, why don’t you. I might start to consider it. But don’t hold your breath. Now pardon me while I go kick some kale.