aepyornis /ˌē-pē-ˈȯr-nəs/ - elephant bird
A word coined in 1851 for a bird that has been extinct since 1000-ish.
Sunday, October 28, 2018
Today's word
From the most recent Dictionary Devil:
aepyornis /ˌē-pē-ˈȯr-nəs/ - elephant bird
aepyornis /ˌē-pē-ˈȯr-nəs/ - elephant bird
Friday, October 26, 2018
Sometimes . . .
. . . there can be conflict between accepting who we are and becoming who God is calling us to be.
Come to think of it, I'd venture to say that it's way closer to "always" than merely "sometimes."
For instance - and this is only one example that I happen to have encountered recently that happens to be relevant to me - there's a lot of scientific discussion to be had yet on the degree to which gay, lesbian, bi, and trans people are "just born this way." And I don't believe that God makes mistakes in assigning our physical and emotional, and even spiritual, sexuality.
But even if it turns out that some people are, there's no question that one way we're all "born this way" is that we're all touched with sin.
There has to be a way to balance how we are by nature with our call to holiness that doesn't reject the idea that living God's revealed plan for our sexuality is a key component of the holy lives to which we are called. I accept people however they are, but I don't believe any of us are called to remain as we are, no matter how far along the path to holiness we may be.
As a person who definitely tends to think of himself in terms of one of the categories in the third paragraph, it is dangerous for me to fall into the trap that I should just embrace being a can of carrots when my outside label says peas. I am called to holiness, and to lay down my life for my bride; to embrace being any one of those categories instead of simply being the holy husband I am called to be interferes with God's plan for my life.
Come to think of it, I'd venture to say that it's way closer to "always" than merely "sometimes."
For instance - and this is only one example that I happen to have encountered recently that happens to be relevant to me - there's a lot of scientific discussion to be had yet on the degree to which gay, lesbian, bi, and trans people are "just born this way." And I don't believe that God makes mistakes in assigning our physical and emotional, and even spiritual, sexuality.
But even if it turns out that some people are, there's no question that one way we're all "born this way" is that we're all touched with sin.
There has to be a way to balance how we are by nature with our call to holiness that doesn't reject the idea that living God's revealed plan for our sexuality is a key component of the holy lives to which we are called. I accept people however they are, but I don't believe any of us are called to remain as we are, no matter how far along the path to holiness we may be.
As a person who definitely tends to think of himself in terms of one of the categories in the third paragraph, it is dangerous for me to fall into the trap that I should just embrace being a can of carrots when my outside label says peas. I am called to holiness, and to lay down my life for my bride; to embrace being any one of those categories instead of simply being the holy husband I am called to be interferes with God's plan for my life.
Tuesday, October 23, 2018
For all that my dad . . .
. . . despised me for my weakness, I must have been a damned strong kid to have survived all the horrors of my childhood.
God's grace at work.
God's grace at work.
Monday, October 22, 2018
What haunts me
It isn't the boarded-over windows in the front door, nor the fogged up enclosure in what used to be our open-air side porch, both of which provide a creepy feeling that I suspect is really more about the personal stuff that haunts me.
It's the house where my dad continued his desperate efforts to remake me in his own image, always trying to make me more athletic.
It's the house where he spent countless drunken nights stumbling around and swearing at his personal ghosts, for whom mom and Karen and I were sometimes stand-ins.
It's the house where he and mom fought over his drinking.
It's the house where I once accidentally landed on my sister's head in the swimming pool when I was trying to jump over her and slipped. (Thank God she wasn't hurt.)
It's the house where I overheard him arguing with my grandmom over whether my mom had ever given him "plenty of sex."
It's the house where I first remember being sexually abused by someone: my dad. I've been told that it had happened once before, when I was younger, but I don't remember that.
It's the house where I chose my side, rooting with mom for Notre Dame over dad's Alabama preference in the 1973 Sugar Bowl, even though I didn't know squat.
It's the house where we stayed with my aunt while mom tended to dad in the hospital after his accident in PA.
It's the house where he finally shot himself while the rest of us were off on vacation. Mom told us he died of a "cerebral hemorrhage."
It's the house where my uncle told me, "You're the man of the house, now."
It's the house where mom finally told me, maybe as much as two years later, that he'd killed himself, and how.
It's the house where she also finally told me he wasn't my biological father.
It's the house where mom first introduced us to the man who would become (far and away) my worst sexual abuser and, much later, due to the silence about that into which he manipulated me for so long, my stepfather.
It's the house where my wife and I first made love.
It's just a house. But what a freak show my childhood in it was.
It's the house where my dad continued his desperate efforts to remake me in his own image, always trying to make me more athletic.
It's the house where he spent countless drunken nights stumbling around and swearing at his personal ghosts, for whom mom and Karen and I were sometimes stand-ins.
It's the house where he and mom fought over his drinking.
It's the house where I once accidentally landed on my sister's head in the swimming pool when I was trying to jump over her and slipped. (Thank God she wasn't hurt.)
It's the house where I overheard him arguing with my grandmom over whether my mom had ever given him "plenty of sex."
It's the house where I first remember being sexually abused by someone: my dad. I've been told that it had happened once before, when I was younger, but I don't remember that.
It's the house where I chose my side, rooting with mom for Notre Dame over dad's Alabama preference in the 1973 Sugar Bowl, even though I didn't know squat.
It's the house where we stayed with my aunt while mom tended to dad in the hospital after his accident in PA.
It's the house where he finally shot himself while the rest of us were off on vacation. Mom told us he died of a "cerebral hemorrhage."
It's the house where my uncle told me, "You're the man of the house, now."
It's the house where mom finally told me, maybe as much as two years later, that he'd killed himself, and how.
It's the house where she also finally told me he wasn't my biological father.
It's the house where mom first introduced us to the man who would become (far and away) my worst sexual abuser and, much later, due to the silence about that into which he manipulated me for so long, my stepfather.
It's the house where my wife and I first made love.
It's just a house. But what a freak show my childhood in it was.
Today's word
From the Dictionary Devil:
ritornello /ˌri-tər-ˈne-(ˌ)lō, ˌri-ˌtȯr-/ - 1a. a short recurrent instrumental passage in a vocal composition b. an instrumental interlude in early opera 2. a tutti passage in a concerto or rondo refrain
ritornello /ˌri-tər-ˈne-(ˌ)lō, ˌri-ˌtȯr-/ - 1a. a short recurrent instrumental passage in a vocal composition b. an instrumental interlude in early opera 2. a tutti passage in a concerto or rondo refrain
Driving past my haunted house
. . . or maybe it just haunts me.
Had to drive past it four times this weekend.
It still hurts.
More on that later.
Had to drive past it four times this weekend.
It still hurts.
More on that later.
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