Eye Take Know Response Ability

Last night I went to bed with the bedroom window open. It was one of those incredible sleeping moments. I was treated to a cool breeze flavored with lilacs and a touch of mock orange blossoms. The night birds were trying out all of their new songs. I was genuinely spent physically and content emotionally when I lay my head on my pillow. My last thought was about it being gorgeous end to a wonderful day. Then I took an ethereal ride to a bizarre dream that would normally give me nightmares. I dreamed about doing statistical analyses of a variety of events that ranged from normal and stopped at downright embarrassing. The best part? Pearl Jam was playing a live concert for me and my cohorts as we diligently made our computations and pronouncements of validity. Why would this normally give me nightmares? I don't do math or Pearl Jam. A friend of mine tried to get me to listen to a Pearl Jam song once. The lyrics were so raunchy they could stop the heart of a truck driving longshoreman.

It wasn't one of those songs they were playing in my dream. They were playing songs that my mother used to sing to us when we were very young. My mom was a character. She had a genius level IQ, a tenth grade education formally and a PhD from the school of life. She was nearly 6' tall, had big green eyes, a great voice and a wicked sense of humor. She was well read, knew her world history and made just about every mistake a young woman could make on her road to maturity. She died at 50 and I knew that was young but as I am going to be 55 this year, I understand more and more just how young she was.

In my dream it was perfectly natural that a band I loath as I loath Pearl Jam should be singing songs from mom's repertoire. She used to sing to us about Horace the horse on the merry-go-round. He went up and down, round and round but he's been sad since the day he found he was the very last horse on the merry-go-round. Horace tried and tried but he just never could win. Horace cried and cried 'cause all the other horses were ahead of him. Then one day on the merry-go-round, Horace looked and turned around and he said "Gosh! Oh, Gee! I am the very first horse on the merry-go-round 'cause the others are a followin' me!" I think I was 16 when I figured out what that song meant.

Then there was the song about the woman washing her baby down the fluddle. Fluddle? What's that? Well it seems a woman was washing her baby one night, poor little mate, so slim and so slight. She turned 'round to get the soap on the rack, twas only a moment...but when she turned back. "Oh where, oh where is my baby!" she cried. "Oh where, oh where can he be? Oh where oh where is my baby?!" she cried and the angels they replied:

"Your baby has gone down the drainpipe! Your baby has gone down the float. Poor little mate, so slim and so slight, he should have been washed in a jug! Your baby is perfectly happy, though the chlorine is bad for his eyes. He's 'avin' a swim and it's 'ealthy for 'im! He needed the exercise. Don't worry yourself just be 'appy, and remember 'e suffered no pain. Your baby has gone down the fluddle. Let's 'ope 'e don't stop up the drain!"

I'm not certain I got those lyrics in the right order but there really is a song like this. Mom sang it often when I was young. She sang lots of songs from the 50s and 60s. Streets of Laredo was a favorite of hers when she was working. Ghost Riders in the Sky has never been sung so hauntingly as it was by mom. She should have recorded it. That and the song Last Kiss were my mom's best.

So, why this trip down memory lane? I woke up thinking about two things: blogging with the title of the blog article was as you see it and some verses in Daniel 2:20-23. I agree, that's pretty strange and I don't think for a minute I can call this an edifying post, here it is nonetheless. Here's the strangest bit of all. While writing this I looked online for the lyrics to Last Kiss and guess what I found?

I can't explain it. I never knew they did it and no, I don't think God is trying to speak to me in my dreams. I'm filing this under random things I cannot explain but make life interesting for moment. That said, I take no responsibility......

Spiritual Aphasia aka Senseless Theology

I was recently asked why I read theology and follow theological debates. "It's all just words and opinions." Words. Words on a paper, words on a blog. Words that travel invisibly through our airwaves and our minds. What would our inner monologue consist of without words? Harsh words, gentle words, untrue words, and solid you-can-die-behind them words. They have secret lives in the depths of our souls. They overflow in torrents of grief and joy. They seep out of our character flaws, wearing down the weak convictions that hold them back until they contaminate all those around us. All of us are stained within and without by the raw sewage of unkind words. Our souls are in jeopardy for want of The Word. Jesus Christ. The Gospel. The Good News. Words matter. Doctrine matters. Theology Matters. What you win them with is what you win them to. I study theology because I was lost too long in a world that scrambles truth with its own ideas and preferences. I was fed a diet of tosse

Super Church a song for the Emergent-sy

In the early 70s I was in a youth choir at my church. Our youth pastor was a musician and his way of connecting with us as a group was through the choir and music. Somehow there was an affiliation between him and The Continental Singers, New Hope and Jeremiah People. He was worked with Moishe Rosen of Jews for Jesus too, I think. Are any of these names familiar to you? Though I remember the church fondly I was a profoundly lost and troubled young woman during my years there. That and time have muddled the memories quite a bit. Today I was digging through some old paperwork and one of the books to the musical we did. It's Getting Late For the Great Planet Earth, a folk rock oratorio by Cam Floria. Yes, that's right. Cam Floria put Hal Lindsey to music. There's a lot to laugh about and some to groan about but as I was looking through the songs and remembering, I found this little ditty and I only wish I could sing it for you. Just remember that this is circa 1972 and even th

What if.....

...what if I just need a place to let some words spill out? What if they spill out in bouquets of bright colors and pleasing scents but their frames are made of snakes and lies? Will you the reader be able to tell? Will it matter? When words smell like lilacs and honeysuckle do you care what lies beneath them? Perfumed syllables cover the stench of hope's decay. A violet or two will fool most surface dwellers, allowing them to pass by quickly and unaware. Is that what words are supposed to do? What if my aesthetics with words are similar to Morticia Addams' with flowers? What happens when luscious blooms are discarded? When the ragged silhouette of thorns is all that remains will you still see the beauty? Perhaps we'll find out.

rambling rosemarie

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