Some Mystery Perfecta

You with your headaches
Me with my golden voice
I meant it all
I meant it all
The same
I’m working on a riddle
I pray that God can keep this secret safe another day
So I can find some time

Believe me
I’m fine

I’ve seen a father’s grief
I’ve seen a crazy drunk
I’ve taken some
And I’m waking up
The same
I’m leaning on forever
God knows I want to have it in my sight and I can’t say goodbye
I want to try

Believe me
I’m fine

Sneaking up again, again, the end
I thought that I was better

You and your virtue
Me and my silver tongue
I’ll let it out
I’ll talk about
The pain
Some mystery perfecta
These puzzles try to fool the fools and drive the genius mad
It isn’t safe to come home
It isn’t safe to pick me up

Believe me
I’m fine

“Relapse” by Adam Again
from the album Perfecta

I’m not into blogger battles or blogger beauty pageants tonight. Or bloggers who plaster themselves with “I Am A Christian” labels yet have no problem using cheesecake to draw visitors to their blog. Or said women composing assorted pieces about how it’s all good — especially since they were one of the ones chosen.

Let’s talk about something else instead.

This afternoon, I was having one of those moments known all too well by those among us who have entered into the unfortunate fellowship, namely the pain of contemplating the depth of earthly loss who those forever loved now wait for us in eternity.

Yesterday, I had contemplated writing a post about the whole kerfuffle involving Debbie Schlussel versus apparently pretty much everyone else. One version of the story is linked above; Ms. Schlussel’s is here.

“But wait,” one might think. “Didn’t you just say you weren’t going to talk about it?” Bear with me, I’m getting there.

In thinking about the post, talking about it with a beloved friend, I was reminded of something I had been told recently concerning my penchant for being a lone wolf. I was firmly chided for this modus operandi with the observation that often I acted like a lone wolf caught in a trap, the pain causing me to snarl and snap at those attempting to offer assistance, thus driving them away. Far too often an all too accurate description; most definitely something against which I need to be on guard. But I digress. At least a little.

As I was dealing with my moment of sorrow, the thought crossed my mind, in a hopefully not self-pitying fashion, how it would have been nice if the vast majority of those involved would have exerted one-tenth of one percent of the energy they were now devoting to slamming each other toward a simple statement to me of “I’m sorry” when my Mom passed away last month. Or when my aunt passed away in February. They didn’t. Nothing I can do about it now except forgive and refuse to indulge in bitterness, my occasional outbursts of yelling at God notwithstanding. (For the record, He reserves the right to yell back.)

The thought process continued amid efforts to stem the water works, since I much prefer not disintegrating while at work. Eventually, it came down to this.

For the love of God, people.

Where is the love of God here?

Where is the forgiveness?

We can throw firebombs at each other all day, each labeled with derogatory tags: Crazy. Anti-Semite. Delusional. Israel-hater. Insane. Jew-hater.

Enough.

At what point, if any, does someone say this is ridiculous?

We should be allies. We share the same views on so many things. Yet here we are, accusing each other of what we are not, labeling each other guilty by association. We make this a personal battle, a personality conflict of the lowest order.

Why?

I don’t care who started it. I don’t even care who’s right or wrong. All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. Our righteousness is as filthy rags before Him.

We should be standing together. Instead, we are like the one Gene Eugene so agonizingly described in the first person, victim of our addiction to pride and sin and self.

We need mercy. No matter how impossible it may seem to obtain, once we see ourselves as we are in our fallen nature.

We need to stop, people. Stop preening in front of the mirror. Stop basking in the glow of our latest contribution toward preaching to the choir. (The figurative one, not the band.) If we must call each other out, let it come solely from a contrite and broken heart, imploring those we care about, regardless of whether they return the favor, to abandon their blind hatred.

We need to start offering the open hand, not the back of our hand.

That’s all I have to say on the subject.

Well, there is one more thing.

We need to tell people we’re sorry when their loved ones pass away.