The Gods Were Cruel

Dark chocolate covered pomegranate. Créme Brule. Nachos drowned in melted cheese, sour cream, avocado, and ground beef. Sour dough french bread with real cream butter. Peanut butter pie. Ah, the foods of the gods.

That was so very cruel of them to give us their food and keep their metabolism for themselves.

Trust issues

Not many of us lack excess baggage. We all carry these things around that are like anvils around our necks. They weigh us down, age us, make us cranky. What are they? The easy answer is worry or not taking time to relax. I think the easy answer is wrong. Of course those two things wear at us, make us tired. They're just not really the root cause. Trust is the real answer.

I was told today that if I don't quit smoking immediately it's a short trip to inhalers, then oxygen tanks. If I don't lose weight soon I'll end up on blood pressure medication and insulin. I trust the doctor. I trust that he's right. But do I trust in my ability to let go? Can I?

Can I trust my Father's promise that he will hold me up? Do I? I say I do. That's easy to say when my mind is altered into a state of contentment with nicotine. "Of course I do," I say around a mouthful of chocolate. So here begins the test. Not of my Father. He promised. And he always keeps his promises. This test is mine. Will I trust him to carry me through?

Survival

I saw the coolest thing this evening as I was walking near the irrigation canal. A hawk was hovering well above the trees, it's body vertical, wings moving back and forth maintaining it's position. Suddenly it flipped head down and dove for the trees. Before it could complete it's dive, a swarm of small black birds flew up from their hiding place among the leaves and drove the hawk back.

Several minutes later, the hawk still hadn't given up, it just shifted position. It began soaring above its prey, light belly camouflaging it in the bright sky. The smaller birds in the trees quited down, began flitting from the trees to the ground hunting and bringing back their prey to the hungry chicks in the nests they had just been so ferociously protecting. The hawk dropped from its glide in the sky, straight for the unprotected baby birds. Or so it thought. Just as it reached the highest branches the air around it turned black. The hawk shrieked and retreated into higher air.

It circled a few more times before it flew away in search of easier prey. I'd like to think that most of us are like those tiny black birds. Certainly they overrode their own sense of survival in order to protect the defenseless. Can we?

Hamurabi had it right

Hamurabi's Code holds very little patience for wrong doers. Almost everything ends in death. If you accuse somebody and can't prove it, you die. If you steal from somebody and it can be proven, you die. The list is long of the things that you will die for having done. My over developed sense of justice loves this.

God's law is the same. If you do wrong, you die. But there's a clause that saves us. "For God so loved the world..." Probably the best known verse in the Bible. His justice is not tempered by his love, nor is his grace tempered by his justice. One creates a situation where we are convicted of our crimes. The other relieves us from ultimate judgement.

Hamurabi had it right. Mostly. He had no grace.

Why One Egg Short?

Here's the deal: I'm what's called a Third Culture Kid, or TCK. This term applies generically to all people who were raised in one culture, but live in another. I am American, but lived in the Dominican Republic. At home, we were American, spoke English, watched American TV and celebrated American holidays. When I walked out my front door, I was Dominican. I spoke Spanish, drove like a crazy woman, celebrated Dominican holidays, and generally blended in with the population (with the exception of being very obviously a white girl).

So how does that make me one egg short of an omelet? Because I live in dueling cultures. I am Hispanic by osmosis, American by birth. Both places think I'm a bit off my rocker, especially the grand Ole US of A. I look like I belong, but sometimes forget to act like it. My perception of life has been forever altered (or skewed, depending on your point of view).