Boils, Lightning & Locusts * June 29, 2007

Dear Readers,

    In our culture (and you have to respect my culture, because if something is a person’s culture you have to respect it these days, even if a person’s culture is to eat the wings off of live bats.  Personally, and don’t tell anyone, I will never respect the bat wing eaters even if it is their culture, because eating bat’s wings is just plain stupid.)

    But anyway, in our culture it is customary for the father (i.e. Patriarch) to give a father’s “blessing” to members of the family when they’re returning to school, going off to war, or just plain worried about something.  The father will put his hands on a family member’s head and give that person blessings, council, and, we believe, direct information from Heaven.  A father’s blessing is kind of a prayer with kick—much, much nicer that eating bat’s wings. 

    And Sherwood, our husband and father, gives a mean father’s blessing.  It’s like this;  my husband is an engineer, and I have accused him in the past of speaking to me as if I were charging him by the word.  He is, in fact, a man of almost no words.  One of the children once asked me why Dad sounded like Captain Kirk from the Star Ship Enterprise when he spoke.  “Someone (long, long pause) should (even longer pause) take out (pause so long you may think that he’s done) that (one more pause for effect) garbage.    I said that Dad was worried that I might be charging him by the word.  But when my husband puts his hands on one of our children’s heads and gives them a father’s blessing an amazing, dare I say miraculous, transformation happens, because then he sounds like Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments. 

    Sunday, Sherwood gave our son-in-law a blessing before Jose left for a month long trip to Italy where he will be participating in an international music festival—a very big deal.  Sherwood put his hands on Jose’s head, assisted by our other son-in-law, Phillip and our son Adam, and proceeded to speak without hesitation, pause, or stutter for ten solid minutes.  And, dear readers, may I say, it was as if our home was filled with the breath of God.  Suffice it to say, our family had a “spiritual experience.”  You may respect or believe as you will.

    That was Sunday.

    On Monday Adam got boils.
   
    On Tuesday I was almost struck by lightning in my own office, and yes I did see actual Frankenstein lightening shooting about.  The proof of which is that my copy/fax/scanner machine is toast.

    On Wednesday Conner (the one-year-old grandson) rolled off the couch and probably broke his arm (we’ll know more next week when the swelling goes down.)

    On Thursday Jose’s wife, Maren, tried to start her car but it had given up the ghost—in our driveway.

    Today is Friday.  We are all waiting for the plague of locusts.  Zoe has a jar ready for when they come so that she can catch some.

    And Jose?

    Jose is great.  Jose is having an amazing time in Italy.  Wishes we were there.  Is probably buying us cheap Tee-shirts as I type this.

    Here’s what I know.  Things could be worse.  Yes, Adam has boils, but they’re little ones—pimples really.  Yes, I was almost struck by lightning but the experience only made the hair on the back of my neck stand up and didn’t stop my heart.  Conner may have a broken arm but he looks darn cute in his little cast and sling.  Maren’s car did die, but it died in our yard and not in the middle of Gangster Town somewhere between here and there.  And yes the locusts are most likely on their way, but here’s hoping they don’t eat much.

    Here’s what else I know.  That for every “spiritual” experience there’s going to be a boil outbreak or something like unto it—so gird up your loins—and it’s like Adam said in our family prayer, “Heavenly Father, we thank thee for Sunday and for everything that’s happened since Sunday.”

    Amen,

    Linda (Do you hear buzzing?) Zern

   

    

   

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