Saturday, August 27, 2005

Commercial Comments

Well, folks, this was a new one on me. Turns out there are automated blog commenting programs that spew out commerical messages into the comments section of your blog...feels a little bit like a home invasion somehow, or a night on the border near Yuma, Arizona.

So I've had to turn on the word verification feature to hopefully allay the problem. Hope y'all don't mind one extra little step in letting me know what you think of my pondering!

God's blessing to all you (real) people!
Laurel

Friday, August 26, 2005

Big Sam's Mama Died

Well, you know wherever there's a little Sammie there's a Big Sam, and wherever there's a Big Sam there's a man who was his own mama's little Sammie one fine day long, long ago. But it didn't seem that long ago when Big Sam's mama passed to her reward the other day.

She died in her own apartment in the old folks home, asleep on the beige flowered couch in front of the TV, her ever-present, nattering, beloved TV. Big Sam's brother went to the home to check on her like he always did on Tuesdays and Thursdays and found her in her comfortable, but deceased, state.

Big Sam's brother called him and said, "You'd better come on over here, Mama's gone". Running out the door, Big Sam told his boss he wouldn't be back for a week or so, Mama was gone and there weren't no way he was coming in to work till what had to be done was done.

He wasn't but halfway there when the tears began to flow.

He'd been complaining about her constant demands just yesterday. What did she expect? He had a family to raise and no time to spend hopping after her little desires. Besides, the senior citizen's place had everything a lady of elder years could need. Even a chaplain! What more could Big Sam do than he already did?

Big Sam never knew exactly when he turned into little Sammie again, but it must have been somewhere between the Coca-Cola billboard and the concrete stairs of the old folks home, because the big red lettering was the last thing he remembered before he tottered up the stairs in full little Sam mode, wanting his mama and wanting her bad. Snuffling and wiping off tears and snot on his sleeve, he rang the bell.

The TV was off when his brother let him in the apartment. It was too quiet, and little Sam was scared. He walked over to the weightless, tossed-aside shell that was all that remained of his mama, his mama who'd always had the answers for everything, for every hurt and sniffle, and dropped on his knees next to her.

"Mama! Wake up! Please, Mama, please..."

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Walking Your Children to Moloch

I read a scary article in our local newspaper the other day. Was it about child molesters, rape and pillage by foreigners invading our land, or even the criminal mismanagement of our tax dollars? No, it was much worse than that. It encouraged daddies to walk their children to the government school on opening day.

Mmmm, mmm, mmm. What an idea! It's promoted as a way for daddies to show they care for those young'uns. Yessir, I guarantee it was written just that way.

Now I know a bit about government schools, having had the misfortune to teach in one. And while that little elementary school down the block might not look like the mouth of Moloch's furnace, darlin', I promise you it is. It just takes 12 long years to consume all the sweet little Sammies you leave at the door. I guarantee you won't recognize the ashes blown out at the other end.

Salt and Light, I've been told. That's what our little Christian darlin's are to be through that fire. But you know and I know that Sammie is easy to fool, kinda like his daddy was before he found the Lord. He'd trust the devil himself if he showed up with a video game in his hand.

So, daddy! You with the clean overalls on as you head out the door with little Sammie's damp hand clutched in yours, TURN AROUND! And mama! Tug on your husband's arm and beg him for the privilege of teaching that tyke at home.

Don't go leading that trusting little guy up the hill, or don't be surprised when his sweet blond curls start to roll up and crisp when the first heat hits him once he walks through that door.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Natural Consequences

Some of you, my dear readers, may be wondering why the title "Natural Consequences" for my blog. Well, when pondering all the mistakes I've made in my natural, sinful self, the common denominators are the consequences I've endured. Every lousy little mistake comes with its natural sting. So the title "Natural Consequences" seems very appropriate to me.

Thanks to the grace of God and His forgiveness I'll avoid the ultimate "natural consequence" (and you can as well, if you repent and trust in Jesus), but I'm hoping my pain can be your gain.

Like a mother who tries to keep her child from the mistakes she herself made, I'm here to offer the only thing I can, hard-learned lessons.

And no, it's not smart to run with scissors. Here, sweetie, look at this scar!

Friday, August 12, 2005

The Breeders Win!

OK, folks, it should be obvious by now. Feed your wife birth control pills and enjoy the bass boat (enter your favorite recreational idol here) you got because she didn't have another kid to suck the money out of your pocket. Then watch the numbers of people who look like you and believe like you dwindle. Then you'll sit in your bass boat shaking your head, saying, "Dadgummit, there ain't no kids around here that I'd let little Sammie play with".

What WERE you thinking? A bass boat won't hold your hand on your deathbed, won't change your diapers when you can't go to the john no more. A bass boat won't love you beyond death and memory. It won't share your grandmammy's eyes, or your papa's quirky smile. Not even the biggest bass you ever pull flopping over the rail can ever do that, or be that, to you.

But no, you have to go out and play. Fishin' is fun, but it doesn't have much of a future without a son to share it with.

Meanwhile Juan or Ahmed is home raising up sons to defend him, sons to take what you have now, even that beloved bass boat of yours.

You gotta give 'em that, the Juans and Ahmeds, they love their kids, and plenty of them. Think about that the next time you kiss your wife on the cheek instead of her lips, then head out the door to that pretty red truck towing that nice little bass boat of yours. Leave her to her cold, empty house...and remember...

The Breeders win!