To Bake, Or Not to Bake

So, apparently, The Rapture is scheduled to take place tomorrow, May 21^st. Or October 21^st. Or, possibly some time in between. I guess that’s why, though he announced a date, Reverend Camping left us guessing as to time.

And, that’s unfortunate.

You see, it’s clean-up day at the high school tomorrow. All football players and their parents are expected to attend. I suppose we could blow it off. I mean, it’s not as though they’ll be taking attendance, right? But there’s this feeling that if you don’t show up, the coach will notice. You’d be passing up an opportunity for face time, a chance to make an impression so indelible as to create a presence he won’t be able to ignore while fine-tuning the starting line-up. Yes, there is the perception that a day like tomorrow could make or break a kid’s high school football career, rapture notwithstanding.

I spoke with my grandson yesterday. He finished the conversation the same way he always does.

“When am I coming to your house, Nonni?

Had Reverend Camping seen fit to settle on a time, I might have planned a short visit. I could have arranged a sort of Bon Voyage party, just in case. I mean, granted, Elijah probably hasn’t been born again, but that could be because it hasn’t been an awfully long time since he was born the first time. Surely the selection committee wouldn’t hold that against him, right?

My son’s birthday is Monday, and he really, really wants to be fourteen. After all, he’s had a whole year to plan. In anticipation of the event, I purchased a pretty fancy guitar. It’d be a shame if he never got to play it, but I could probably get my money back. There are sure to be plenty of guitar players left behind…

And, of course, a pending rapture calls into question the need for cake. To bake, or not to bake? The cake my son has requested is, when complete, three layers of decadent gooey goodness. The ingredients aren’t cheap and preparation takes some time; time possibly better spent on “making arrangements”, if you catch my drift…

On the way to dinner tonight, my son gave a lecture on rapture. His knowledge was impressive considering his formal religious education is spotty, at best.

“The whole thing is bogus, Mom. I mean, anybody who reads the Bible knows that even predicting the rapture is a sin! Nobody’s supposed to know when that’s going to happen!”

This is the point at which I realized my son has been receiving Bible lessons from someone other than me. We’ve discussed God, rehashed stories, investigated traditions, and read many of the Psalms. I love the Psalms. David is among my favorite poets. But we only discussed Rapture once. I remember we were watching VH1….

Politics and Pharisees

I work in an office populated by political people, the majority of whom prefer their chairs roll only to the right.

And, then there’s me.

Clinton was still in office when I started this job. Those were the salad days…

Other than a few last-minute shenanigans for which he reportedly employed official pardons and office equipment to, in essence, give his successor the finger, my office-mates had little to complain about.

Political discussions, many of them heated, became more the norm after Bush took office and particularly after he made the decision to invade Iraq. They reached such a fever pitch, in fact, that administration mandated they stop. And they did, forcing those so inclined to perfect the use of loaded questions and pointed barbs as a means to draw political blood.

“What do you think about Donald Trump running for president?”

I studied the face of the asker for signs of sarcasm and/or levity, finding neither in her blank stare.

“I don’t know…”, I started, hoping she’d take the bait and declare her position.

“I saw him on Entertainment Tonight last night! He’s got some good ideas!”, she gushed around the hook.

I leaned back in my chair and focused on attaining the same level of blank upon my face as that with which she’d greeted me.

“Really? Like what?”

As I spoke, my mind flashed back to an earlier conversation in which she had detailed Gary Busey’s firing from “The Apprentice”. So she knows, I thought. She knows, and she’d vote for him anyway. Despite my efforts, I felt a twitch begin in the crow’s feet surrounding my left eye.

“Well, like Afghanistan. He said in the old days, when we declared war on a country, we just went in and took over. He wants to do that in Afghanistan!”

“It’s not really that easy, you know?” Only conscious effort kept the “Mommy” out of my voice.

She was silent for two beats before dragging her sneakered toe across hopelessly unattractive institutional carpet.

“Yeah….”, she managed to mumble, deflated.

My “smartphone” was impressed enough by Trump’s decision not to run that it alerted me immediately.

I, in turn, went to a different co-worker, who soon after declared she had never watched a single episode of “The Apprentice”.

“Trump’s decided not to run! Who will we vote for now?” My moan dripped with sarcasm.

Cora, a seventy-five-year-old woman who delights in telling people she’s known me for over forty years, turned in her chair.

“Well it sure as hell won’t be Newt Gingrich!”, she nearly shouted. “Can you believe he’s running?” Many more sentences followed before she ended with, “I mean he’s obviously a very smart man but he just can’t keep his pants on!”

I’ve noticed that those in my office (This might be read as everyone except me.) who support Republican/Libertarian/Tea Party candidates seem to do so with a “religious” fervor.

Take June, for example. Sunday mornings find June, her husband, and any college-age offspring who happen to be home for the weekend, in “their” pew inside a large sanctuary replete with ecclesiastical “Jumbo-trons” necessary for those in the very back of the church to see the pastor.

At work, June occupies the cubicle next to mine. Her youngest daughter, fresh from freshman year at UGA, has joined her. And, yesterday morning, her brother stopped there on his way to his own office. Did I mention I work in a family business?

I don’t know what they were talking about. I didn’t hear anything before the word “Pharisee”.

It’s not a word you hear everyday. I can’t, in fact, remember the last time I heard it.

“Isn’t that rich?”, June giggled in that way she has, reminding anyone within listening distance that she still has lunch with several sorority sisters once a month.

“I mean Obama, the Pharisee, was actually quoting from the Bible!” She giggled again.

Her family members remained silent until her brother offered up a weekend anecdote.

I made the decision to forget. I filed away her words, her giggle, and the surprising spark of indignation I couldn’t deny feeling.

After all, I haven’t been this disillusioned by another human being…ever. Obama wasn’t my first choice but, by the time the election was held, he was the only choice. I did my best to believe in him and, despite his admittedly inspired rhetoric, he turned out to be just like the rest of them…

But, I couldn’t. I couldn’t forget. I thought I knew what a Pharisee was, but I wasn’t absolutely sure. It nagged at me all day.

I held my own special brand of indignant curiosity at bay until I got home from work. I fed chickens, collected eggs, checked in on the garden, flipped through mail, and gave my son an extra-big hug before sitting down at the computer.

And, then I “Googled” it.

“phar·i·see/ˈfarəsē/Noun

1. A member of an ancient Jewish sect, distinguished by strict observance of the traditional and written law, and commonly held to have pretensions to superior sanctity.

2. A self-righteous person; a hypocrite.”

President Obama is definitely not Jewish.

But then, neither is June.

41“Why do you look at the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? 42“Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Brother, let me take out the speck that is in your eye,’ when you yourself do not see the log that is in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take out the speck that is in your brother’s eye. 43“For there is no good tree which produces bad fruit, nor, on the other hand, a bad tree which produces good fruit.44“For each tree is known by its own fruit. For men do not gather figs from thorns, nor do they pick grapes from a briar bush. 45“The good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth what is good; and the evil man out of the evil treasure brings forth what is evil; for his mouth speaks from that which fills his heart.

Luke 6: 41-46

Going To The Birds

My very favorite place to spend a spring-time Sunday morning is on the patio in my backyard, where the birdsong is exquisitely varied and sung at a pitch that is awe-inspiring. I’ve often thought I should bring my camera with me. Today I did.

Female Cardinal

Male Cardinal

A Pair

Red-Headed Woodpecker

Female Purple Finch

Brown Thrasher

Robin Red Breast

Blue Jay

And, my very favorite. They live here year-round and still, they take my breath away.

“…I’ll come flying through your door, and you’ll know what love is for. I’m a Bluebird. I’m a Bluebird.”

“…Touch your lips with a magic kiss, and you’ll be a Bluebird, too…”

“…and at last we will be free. You’re a Bluebird. You’re a Bluebird.”

“We’re living in the trees, and we’re flying in the breeze. We’re the Bluebirds. We’re the Bluebirds.”

Lyrics taken from “Bluebird” by Paul McCartney

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell…Osama-style

It was a Tuesday.

I had already worked long enough to induce desperate glances at the clock in hopes that it would soon be time for lunch.

My desk phone rang.

Ann calling to say she’d be late wasn’t unusual. The frantic tone in her voice was. It took several minutes and many incomplete sentences, for me to realize something truly terrible had happened.

The need to call my husband was visceral, not so much to relay the news as to hear his voice.

I would have given anything to call my son. I fought the urge to pick him up at school, take him home, lock the doors, and hold him…forever.

It was Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

The world had just tilted on its axis.

I shared the small amount of information I had gleaned from Ann with my husband who, in turn, filled in with what he’d heard on the radio. As he spoke, images of other recent acts of terrorism flashed across my brain. When he finished I said, “It was Bin Laden. I know it was. He’s the only one smart enough, evil enough. This has his fingerprints all over it.” And, it did.

I felt a sense of triumph when the Bush administration announced American troops had entered Afghanistan in search of Bin Laden…until they didn’t. The subterfuge began. Personal agendas superseded national security, and suddenly Sadam Hussein was painted as the new face of the Taliban.

And they believed.

People I know to be intelligent, successful people, learned people, people who contribute to their communities, people who knew better, believed. Even now, as I attempt to write about it, nausea threatens and a whirring begins inside my head. Everything about that time defied reason. Everything.

It took decades for me to learn not to worry about things over which I have no control. The lesson came in handy as I read a memo, circulated by two vice-presidents of our company, forbidding negative commentary about the Bush administration and/or its policies. The directive was, of course, couched in language less than direct, but the message was clear. I turned off the television. I removed NPR from the pre-sets on my car stereo. I pushed the newspaper out of the way when I sat down to eat lunch. I dropped out.

To be honest, I haven’t given much thought to Osama Bin Laden. Oh, I paid attention when he released videos. Well, they said he released them, I was never quite sure.

At one point, I heard he had kidney disease. Soon after that, I began to imagine him dead. It was a coping mechanism, I’m sure, and goes a long way towards explaining my shock upon hearing he really was.

But, not really.

The shock came with the words, President Obama’s words, “Tonight, I can report to the American people and to the world that the United States has conducted an operation that killed Osama bin Laden…”

It was the word “killed”.

Inside my head, the sentence compressed, and I heard “…the United States killed Osama bin Laden…”. Even now, I get stuck on the word “killed”. Perhaps his speechwriters could have chosen more carefully?

“Killed” is raw. “Killed” is brutal. “Killed” is harsh, and cold, and violent. On “24”, Jack Bauer might have used the word “marginalized”. That’s a good word…

I’m not comfortable with killing. I don’t kill bugs. Okay, I’ll kill a cockroach. But that’s it. Well, and a bee, but only if he’s expressed an intent to get me first.

And then, there’s the other side, the side that says, “We created him, and now we’ve destroyed him.”. I can see justice in that.

I go in late on Mondays. By the time I get to the office, everyone else has been there for hours. Even so, I thought someone would say something. When Joe Biden commits a verbal gaffe (which is, admittedly, almost every time he appears in public) the talk is incessant.

No one said a word.

I breached the office door of the only other non-dyed-in-the-wool-republican in the building and asked, “Have they talked about it at all?”. He shook his newly hairless, Carvillesque dome from side to side while wearing a look of reluctant resignation.

Sometime around ten yesterday morning, I felt relief. By noon I was ready to admit it. An older woman, the mother of one of the memo-writing vice-presidents, finally tossed it out there just before she left for the day.

“What do you think about our troops killing Bin Laden?”, she asked, loudly, as she reached for her $400.00 handbag with one hand while flipping the light switch with the other.

An officemate who had recently declared her intent to vote for Donald Trump in 2012 spoke first. For the first time in a long time, she was proud to be American. (Cue the fireworks…has anyone seen Lee Greenwood?)

I admitted feeling relief in knowing Bin Laden was gone.

No one else said a word.