Plaguing My Conscience

It's been a long time since I've written anything public. I have put a LOT of my resentment and anguish behind me. I don't think about my past much and I certainly don't talk about it-- not even with my psychologist. When I do ponder over the past, I rarely dwell on it. And I'm proud to say it doesn't ruin my day when I do remember something. Of course, there is seemingly ALWAYS an exception to the rule.

My (former) brother-in-law attacked me one day. He tried to gouge my eye out while he had me in a head-lock. My sister pulled him off me before things got out of control. I was calm during the fiasco, but I was warning him that if he didn't release me I would fight back. As his thumb scraped closer toward my eye, my hand slid closer toward my favorite knife, which I had strapped to my thigh. We'll skip all the rest of the story (no one went to the hospital, let alone the morgue), despite how troubling it is. Ah, screw it! I have to TRY to justify myself!

After he attacked me, he decided he needed to leave-- as in seperate from my sister. The whole thing started because he ran out of weed to smoke. He was grumpy and my nephew was being rambunctious. My brother-in-law pounced on him and spanked him savagely. When the boy began crying, his dad started screaming at him to shut up. My sister stepped in and a fight ensued. Meanwhile, I was trying to remain calm and neutral. However, I had an impending test at the college later that day and was trying to nap after working all the previous day and most of the night. As he and my sister were fighting, I stepped in and (not too politely) told him to calm down. That's when he attacked me.

So, now he's trying to "leave." He's packing up underwear, a pup tent, ...AND his Desert Star hand gun. My siter, having dealt with his emotionalism before, was afraid for his safety. They began wrestling over the gun. The loaded gun fell to the floor. My nephew picked up the loaded gun and handed it to me. Let me tell you: THE FIGHT WAS OVER.

OK. Now I've "justified" myself... Some time later, a couple years maybe, my brother-in-law saw that his marriage was in ruins. I was deep into my studies in the bible and making fine progress toward becoming a minister. He saw the unbelievable changes I had undergone and he, in all sincererity and humility, asked if I would study the bible with him and my sister. To save their marriage. I said I'd think about it. I never got back to him. They divorced five years ago.

Why this plagues me: Jesus is my king, and my exemplar (Psa 72:1,8; 1Pe 2:21). Obviously Jesus would never hold a grudge (Take, for example 1Pe 2:23). Jehovah god hates a divorcing (Mal 2:16). Knowing the truth from God, I have-- and had a responsiblty to teach anyone who wants to know Jehovah and his righteous ways (emphasis on Mat 28:20 (Mat 28:18-20)).

In a nutshell, I ignored the two most important commands in the universe: Love Jehovah with your whole existence, and love your fellow man (Mat 22:37-39). Up until recently, I got by with the assurance that repentence and obsevance of Jesus' sacrifice would absolve me of this (obvious) sin. OK, agreed.

Here's the catch: my nephews have reported that their father has been reading the bible lately, trying to make sense of it. I also hear rumors from reliable sources that he still loves my sister. I have heard, from my mother, that my sister admits to still loving him. They have both pretty much remained single since the divorce, especailly him.

Is it too late to get involved? Would it be presumptuous? Or would it be the Christ-like thing to do?

Reckless Abandon

I just dropped an abandoned cat off at the Humane Society. It was a long drive; the cat cried the whole way. I had to drive around back, away from the visitors' lot. In retrospect, it brings to mind a clinic where pro-choice mothers-not-to-be can sneak in and out the back.

Two pages of paperwork and 20 minutes later, I was seen. The couple ahead of me had to have their one-year-old dog put down due to extreme seizures. They were pretty torn up. I felt whacked out of place by their raw emotion contrasted by my cool detachment.

Upon entering the check-in room, I plowed into a conversation regarding "kill-free" shelters. The employee argued that they simply were not feasible considering the population explosion of unwanted pets, especially cats.

Despite my explanation on the paperwork, I was questioned by a very young girl who looked strikingly like my sister. I explained that this cat had been snooping about outside in the freezing weather for roughly two weeks. That he was friendly, but despised being picked up. That apparantly I wasn't the only person looking after him, considering how good he looked. That one of the complex's tenants had moved out about the same time this cat appeared.

One of the four employees gathered around me posed the apt question: "Who could do such a thing? Abandon such a beautiful cat?" I agreed; but I know the answer.

I am a cut-throat survivor. I can leave a friend behind. This is why I figured I'd be better off as a mercenary, rather than in the Army where no man is left behind. The cat was my cat. I decided to pop his cork after he began breaking rules important to me. Namely, don't steal my foil-wrapped beer bread off the counter at night; I feed you to damn well for that.

How's my wife feel about it? She hates him; he destroyed her furniture set, despite the hundreds--literally, hundreds--of dollars we've spent on varying styles of scratching utensils to cater to his needs.

So, I'm home now; the deed is done. No tears from me. Just the satisfaction that must come over a shrewd business man after a decision well-made.

As I was taking my meds, I thought I saw my cat walk under the kitchen table. I looked, no. Our other cat? the pleasing one? He was still fast asleep on the couch. Perhaps dreaming of survival. Of friends abandoned.

I seem to recall...

When I was quite young, I recall being overwhelmingly impressed that my step-dad could recite all the days of the week--in order!

And, too, I seem to recall inventing the number three. It probably went down like this:

I wanted some cookies, three actually. My mother offered me cookies: "Two cookies? Or four?" "Three," I replied. "Three?" she inquired, seemingly quite confused. Thus, I let her in on the secret: "It's one more than two, one less than four."

She still seemed quite perplexed, so I reached into the package of Oreo's and counted out: "One, two... three!" There you have it. You can thank me later. But, know this: had I been born sooner, perhaps woman would have three legs to caress and three breasts to ogle!