Lord, if You’re listening, I know You are really fond of this Freely-Given Love thing, and I know that requires Free Will, and Free Will means people are going to Sin, and Sin Breaks The World.
I know all that. So I know You aren’t going to reach down and brainwash all of us so that we stop doing awful stuff to each other.
But maybe You could help us think a little more clearly and love a little better and be a little stronger and a little more compassionate and a little more motivated to change the world around us for the better, so that maybe this kind of shit might become a little less frequent?
I don’t just mean the Big Stuff. There’s just so much, big and small, and sometimes it all hits at the same time and sucks. For example:
Men Behaving Badly To Get Their Rocks Off.
Can we all just admit now that it’s the culture, stupid? It’s not isolated Bad Guys doing things that Horrify All Good People. It’s men pushing the boundaries and the rest of us going, ah, well, it’s fuzzy, don’t shame people for their kink, don’t be a prude, don’t raise a fuss, boys will be boys, give an inch he’ll take a mile, what did you expect, how was he to know, he just made a mistake, what were you doing there anyhow, but some women like that stuff, she should be flattered, it wasn’t real rape, it’s her word against his... and we nod or scowl and argue and split hairs and still it keeps happening, not just over there or over here, but all over.
And while we’re at it, could we start by taking domestic violence more seriously as a criminal behaviour, not just a relational problem?
Skeptics in the Immigration Office, I Mean You, Officer CK-ERMoving from the societal to the very immediately personal, I’ve once again been told that the evidence for my husband’s cohabitation and presence in our home since moving to Canada is insufficient. I have roughly another week to finish pulling together more evidence to scan and submit electronically to “Officer C-3PO,” as my husband recently called the immigrations official handling our case. I’m beyond stressed out about this, and the faceless nature of the correspondance and identity-masking agent appellation only increases the feeling of interacting with an implacable, unreasonable, inhuman interrogator–one I cannot call, cannot introduce to my children or show around my house or in any way bring into direct contact with the evidence that should be most obvious and most evident.
If you read this, Officer CK-ER, you’re invited to dinner any time you like. Show up unexpectedly, and I’ll be thrilled. You can trip over my husband’s boots and interview my kids about the chore routine Papa set up and the stories he tells and the way they have been watching Father Brown with him on evenings when he doesn’t work. You can talk to our marriage therapist about the challenges of readjusting to a renewed life together under the uncertainty and stress of immigration and government paperwork. Heck, I’ll give you a number to call and talk to the Revenue Canada agent who is helping me sort out the financial tangle that has resulted because Revenue Canada DOES believe my husband is a member of my household and are re-adjusting all my benefits and payments for the last several years in response so I can tell them again that he wasn’t here *before* May of 2016.
And then maybe you can chip in to help pay for my Ativan refill.
I attended a friend’s mother’s graveside service this week. Another friend is still mourning her parents, who died within two years of each other, leaving her orphaned just a bit over a year ago. The hope of the resurrection doesn’t make death any less a tragic consequence of the brokeness of the world. It doesn’t unmake the pain of loss. Jesus knew he was going to raise Lazarus, and still Jesus wept.
Culture of Death Crap
Pro-euthanasia caregivers and midwives lobbying to be allowed to end life. These should be oxy-moronic nonsense descriptions, not everyday headlines in a society so afraid of suffering that it has allowed itself to be wooed by death-bringing. Better that Jesus come and take us all now than that we go further down the road of confusing murder with compassion.
Just…migraines. I usually get maybe one a month. This last month it’s been more like one or more a week. I’ve never thought of myself as a migraneur because my episodes have always been so self-contained and easily managed by sleeping them off, but after a three-day bout last week, I’m ready to talk to a doctor about migraine-specific medication. Once I have time. And money for a new prescription. Arrrgh.
Minor Addendum: Weather, and the Children Who Don’t Believe In It
Temperatures that drop near or below freezing require socks and coats and hats, stubborn children. Do you think I make you wear these things for my own gratification? Just put on the damn coat and socks and one of your five-pairs-of-shoes-and-boots-acquired-because-you-kept-complaining-about-the-ones-you-already-own and get moving already!
Feel free to register your own complaints with the universe in the comments, or just hop over to This Ain’t The Lyceum to find some hopefully more cheerful quick takes!
Image credit: Edvard Munch [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons