the paleo diet (as seen by unintentional dietee)

Through a hazy window, I’m watching ginormous bees slurp at swollen zinnias, thinking. Wow. I’m hungry.

Usually I blog things I learned, am learning, or just need to process. Today, I am blogging about my life and how much I just want ice cream right now.

A little history…

About 3 years ago I found out I have tiny esophagus condition. (There’s a name for it, but it’s hard to say and I always spell it wrong.) Essentially, my throat is itsy-bitsy and bad cells stick to it. In the past, it was a pain in the tush to eat lots of things. (It should be noted that I still made a way, and LOVED to eat. still do.)

Since the discovery, I’ve been beyond blessed to work with great doctors, nurses, and specialists who’ve both stretched my tiny throat several times, and helped me journey towards discovering what’s causing all the issues.

The 6 food elimination diet

In this discovery process, they think food might be corralling these bad cells. So here’s where I find myself.

No wheat, soy, eggs, fish, nuts, or dairy.

Hm. How do I say this tactfully? I am a fairly… thin person. My ma and da are both tall, leanish people. Most of my relatives are tall leanish people. I am tall and leanish too.

So when I am deprived of food, it seems like my stored fat cells aren’t burned up in the metabolic inferno, my happy cells are. My happy cells are burned-up and now blowing like ash in my black, black soul.

I want ice cream so bad. I want cream in my coffee and a piece of peanut butter toast. I want noodles that don’t taste like corn and leave cloudy pee-water in my pan. I want soy sauce on rice and lots and lots of eggs for breakfast. I want the biggest, most gluten-y brownie there is.

Paleo disciple

Unintentionally, I am basically on the paleo diet and I am not quite loving it yet.

If you don’t know what paleo is, it’s basically eating like “a cave man”–meat, veggies, fish, nuts, fruit, tubers, dead roadside raccoons, spiders on your deck, basically anything you can hunt or gather besides grain. don’t gather grain.

I can’t follow the paelo perfrectly, cuz I can’t have fish, nuts, or some of that other stuff–sooo, I’m eating whatever I can, including weird flours like tapioca but NOT the forbidden gluten-pregnant-wheat. So paleo dietee… I’m basically there.

A few things I’ll admit:
1. I’m not bloating at all
2. I’m not having strange random stomach aches
3. If I eat periodically, I actually stay full longer
4. I’m secretly a tiny bit happy that I’m cleansing out nearly every processed food and lots o’ sugary things that give me mood swings

I’m no paleo propogate yet. But. I’ve lonnngggg thought that eating real food (that you actually know what’s in it) is probably safer, better for you, smarter, even tastier, than all the processed nonsense sending US of A into obesity oblivion.

That’s it for now… I’ll keep you posted on if I turn full cave-women-paelo-disciple in the next four weeks.

Curious about paleo? This guy has a great and entertaining take on getting started.

Bugs in ears & unwanted advice

As I was sitting outside on our little clogged little deck to write something spectacular, a tiny bug flew into my ear.
I surprisingly didn’t panic. It was more like the “ugh. gaaahh… get out.. mehhhh…okay” kind of reaction.

But the brief bug thing brought me to some thoughts.

First, why do we say “let me put the bug in your ear” when we want to offer some stellar advice/insight/wisdom to someone? I mean… bugs are mostly annoying and definitely unpleasant when invading bodily cavities.

When I’m on a bike ride, for instance, nearly my greatest fear is going down hills around dusk when the bugs decide to party in my cerebral stratosphere… Annnnd will probably end up moving the party to my nostrils. It’s hurrble, just hurrble (in my best Frank Caliendo-imitating-Charles-Barkley-voice)

Anyways.
Bugs in ears are annoying. As is “putting the bug in someone’s ear” when they really don’t want it. In different terms, unwanted advice.

There’s a whole lot of bad advice out there, but the curse of unwanted advice goes wayyyyyy beyond “follow your heart” stuff.

First, you can be an unwanted-advice-giver.
I am an all-star at this and pretty much always offer my advice. Ironically, this blog is sometimes victim to my advice-giving. Seriously though, I’ve literally said the words, “I know you’re not asking for my advice, but it’s not in my nature to keep silent.” At the time, this was kinda funny, between friends and all. But honestly, I know that sometimes I need to just cork it.

Second, you can be a horrible unwanted-advice-receiver.
I also suffer from said condition. I can practically shred a pillow with my screams if I’m given advice when I just freak’n want to vent. …though maybe if I would’ve communicated that in the first place, I could have vented to my black little heart’s desire, swept out some soul-soot and gotten back to sanity.

I see some really, really, really simple (but ironically hard to carry out) solutions to both these issues.

1. When in a situation that I may want to give advice, I ask, “would you like my input on this or do you just need to vent?” Asking if he wants advice is important, but offering him the chance to just have a sounding board is just as important. Then the follow-up on this one is listening. Eyes-to-eyes, words-into-brain, real listening. “SOLER up.” Squarely face him/her; open posture, lean in, eye-contact, relax.

2. When in a situation that I’ll probably receive advice (but don’t really want it), I specify first: Can I just vent to you? Now this doesn’t always work and particularly not so well with humans. Because humans are by nature fixers, we are creationists, made to desire order and not chaos. So asking for a venting session doesn’t necessarily guarantee one OR give me permission to shut a somebody down who is hoping to help. I still might receive a little advice, but hey, it might turn out to be helpful too.

I’m wondering how you handle unwanted advice and/orrr bugs flying in your ear.

Thanks for readin’

~Meg

Just deal with it

True: my zine is heading into editing tomorrow (!)
False: I think it’s awesome
True: I was this <> close to scrapping the whole thing yesterday
False: someone told me I was awesome, so I didn’t
True: There are a lot of good writers out there
False: Therefore, I shouldn’t even try

Today I gave my zine ‘manuscript’ one last lookie before I will send it in for shredding (editing). Needless to say, I’m a little bit nervous. I’d probably be biting my nails right now (if they weren’t already weak little stubs due to my my run-in with the persuasive nail technician.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwomPoefhAA

You see, just like the 5-year-old in this video dismantles the whole hip-hop world with
his 30 second spiel, so thousands and thousands of bloggers scream at me: it takes like hardly any skills to write! Not to mention actual training…education…experience. Nada! You can just sit down and flutter your chubby little fingers over a keyboard and wah-lah! You have likes, hits, re-tweets!

But, like little Jordan recommends, I just have to deal–get over myself and get over everybody else– forget those pseudo-lives on instagram or facebook photos. It’s all just flamboyance, a highlight reel; we’ve all got our behind-the-scenes-boring stuff. It’s false to assume something about someone’s lives or skills or personality without ever knowing them. What I do know is true is that comparison only fuels fear, pride and jealousy.

Yes, there will always be those people who make parts of life, or certain skills, or jobs, or relationships look easy. At the same time, there will always be those who struggle with what we find simple.

Evergreens and oranges don’t grow in the same soil.
In the same way, we all have stuff that comes organically and stuff that doesn’t.

Maybe its time we just deal with it.

Picking up Pennies

Pot or Not?™

With the big pot debate circulating through more and more states, I think it’s time we launched a movement. Pot… or not™ ??

Pot or not™ is website where you can look at pictures of people and vote whether or not you think they’ve done pot. Soooo, …let’s go with Michelle Obama, I seem to feature her a lot… you find a picture of her; she’s kinda half-blinking, hair still in pajama-land. You take said horrible photo and put it on the Pot or not™ site and the voting begins!!!
(For the record, I’m not serious, mom.)

but still. Pot or not™ sparks a memory of one nerdy-guy with a vengeance who took a half-smashed thought and built a blue and white empire.

Picking up Pennies

Ideas. Why is it that some of us never have them? Or never have good ones? Or if/when we do, we strike a match in the wind; they’re gone as quickly as they burst into flame.

I just don’t believe it. Just like it’s impossible to live without a moral standard, it’s impossible to be without ideas. We are creative creatures, with creative impulses, and–if recognize them–creative outlets.

So who’s killing the ideas?!!

1. You are.
I do it too. I have an idea, even just a fleeting thought. And I don’t write it down, don’t flesh it out, or simply disregard it as stupid or impossible. I strike a match… and just as quickly, blow it out. *

2. Your boss is.
Or your friend, or you dad, or you spouse or someone you know. Now sometimes the spirit-of-stupid takes over and we need someone to challenge us— but squeeze is different than squash. We need someone to critique or thoughts without sitting on them, suffocating them into oblivion.

3. Your inner critic is
Yes, this is still kinda you, but really the nasty shrew side of you, who comes out looking all hawt and put together and reminds you how much you rely on chocolate and how freaking strange you were in middle school. S/he doesn’t have to say much, and your idea is abandoned to fend for itself in your mental lion’s den.

*true or false, I never lit matches until about 2.4 years ago because I was so scared of burning my fingers. true. [walk of shame to charlie brown song]

Keeping Ideas alive.

Last night I went for a run. It was a bad run, fueled by 3 delicious (and un-regretted) Ghirardelli chocolates banging around in my stomach. So during one of huffing/ jogging moments I looked down and saw a penny. Not wanting to stop my attempted run, I never picked it up.

But if we do this to our ideas, if we bypass every penny we see on street, how will our eyes be trained? How will we see the water-washed and wrinkled corner of $20 bill sticking out of a snowbank?

If we leave all the small ideas for the next guy, won’t we also bypass the big ones? If our eyes are never trained then maybe our world, or community, even our neighbor might be denied the benefit of one of our ideas.

my idea notebook, given to me by an inspirational lady

My tips to fanning the idea flame:

1. Get/make an idea notebook. something that is small enough you can put it in a purse or even back-pocket. If something pops into your mind, write it down. Don’t let it slip away just yet. Maybe years down the road, with new wisdom and experiences, that little note will have gone from caterpillar to chrysalis.
2. Have an idea person. Or a few. These are people you can go to with with a couple of your shiniest pennies, see which hold the promise of becoming something bigger. These are people you can trust to be honest with you, but not to harsh. People who can squeeze but not squash you.
3. Follow-through. This one’s hard. But start small. An idea to plant a herb garden, or paint an elderly person’s fingernails, or write a zine… can turn into starting a movement, a business, a community of like-minded people.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I write as a way to process my ideas, but they’re never complete without input.
What keeps your ideas alive?
Which ones have fanned into flame and which have blown out?

Silly rabbit! Tricks are for…

Oh, those commercials were maddening.

I remember the childhood angst as I watched that cute little rabbit. Time and time again he would miss out on his chance to taste a stryofoam-sugary bowl of Trix cereal. He was so close! But just like the coyote never catches the road runner, just like President Bush with all of his horses and all of his men, didn’t catch Osama bin Laden, the rabbit never got his cereal.

And then that line, “Trix are for kids!!”
empowering.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s already been a few weeks since we returned from Haiti.
It was E’s eighth time, my first.

I learned ahead of time about the culture shock, was told to be flexible, not to question decisions, and say “see ya” to American favoritism of efficiency, independence, even dress.

I didn’t know what to expect and yet fully expected to be ‘broken.’ Shredded to pieces by the poverty, lack of justice, sub-par education, political corruption.

But the first tears I cried were for myself. Hot, tired tears in the corner of a bare room. This after a long day of working a chaotic medical clinic, riding on dusty country “roads,” eating little. I missed America, hated the non-stop sweat on my face, crouching behind buildings, luke-warm water. Only 3 days in, and I coveted the promise of a soft mattress at the end of a day, missed showers with running water and fruit refreshingly chilled in a fridge. Truthfully, the tears came because I was both wanting and ashamed of my want; needing to be home and hating myself for the pathetic neediness.

E found me sniffling, told me to lie down, gently helped me see Who to rely on again.

a few lovely women I met at one of the medical clinics

Days later, there was a shift. My mind began to align with my body– which was actually doing well– well fed, pretty-well rested, surging with sun-infused vitamin D, fueled with the laughter and song of this fascinating people. It’s strange how quickly the body assimilates to waking early with roosters, eating rice for every meal, bathing from a bucket. It’s the mind and spirit that resist.

The days went by and I saw the shift change from acceptance to love. Their happiness astounded me. like the cool that came in so kindly with the evening rain, their humility was lovely, refreshing.

On several nights, we all sat together, Haitian and American, and offered encouragement to one another. And to hear the Haitians speak, full of gratitude and humility, was the unraveling I expected to find surrounded by the sick and fatherless.

They knew our need for bottled water, our fear of big beetles and lurking rodents, our dependence on shiny toilet seats and huge beds with soft sheets. They weren’t ignorant to our privilege, deaf to our pride. And it struck me. We could’ve been shamed by them, laughed at. We could’ve been rejected for how easily and constantly we were and are fooled–coerced into believing in our constant, many needs. These needs which are simply wants, met by the very people and industries who create them.

Create the ‘need’–sell it; fill the need.
It’s a system we slip into and pass on as quickly as last year’s styles.

Though, we “know” excess may not bring happiness, it is too comfortable to let go. To engrained to carve out of our lives and culture, the heritage we pass on to our children.

Looking into my Haitian friend’s face, I see her knowledge of my flaws, ours really.
And I see acceptance. We both know our cultures are very different; we both have things to learn from the other.

I only hope that as our partnership to bring healing and hope to Haiti continues, we, as Americans, never bring pride. For we have much to learn. I pray, we always, always put on humility– the same humility that enables the Haitian people to accept and love us, silly rabbits.

The Art of Criticism: What Would Hester Heckles Do??

Every year around December 15th, my parents would commission me to write a family Christmas letter. As an oldest child, naturally I lapped up this responsibility and found Xtreme pleasure in being able to sardonically expose my family via one 8.5X11 sheet of paper. Inevitably, the ‘rents would read my work and deem the first draft much too “sarcastic” or “mean”… and annoyed I would storm off and hiss– “fine, then write it yourselves!” But… of course, being the controlish-freakish o.c. I was, I couldn’t really let it go. So draft after draft my precious letter would morph into yet another mundane (though slightly more sassy) Christmas letter.

Ironically, today I yearn for the open critique my parents offered–just a little feedback–even if negative. Though critique burns at the start, like any great wine the finish is well worth it. And my writing or thinking or something else I do usually improves or is at least challenged.

But because the “like” button on facebook has all but destroyed our ability to form opinions into words, I’ve decided (in oldest-child-bossy-pants-fashion) to offer some instruction on HOW to criticize/critique well. (Let’s be clear on this, even if you don’t care about critiquing writing, you may have other areas of interest that could use some genteel nudging toward betterment).

Take a look at the below critique written to Zach, author of Funwater Awesome 3. (Zach included this in his zine BTW, so I think that says something about how good it was)

Zach:
Most people are fine with the pointless feel-good of your zine, but I, for one, want more than what’s in the flabby folds of your head. There is nothing practical in your zine! Nothing of quantifiable SUBSTANCE! Where are the true Tumwater tales, the lessons, the stories of some use to people of today? Good minds want to know.
– Hester Heckles

Things to note:
1. There is no beating around the bush. No Minnesota nice.
2. And yet.. there is humor. “Flabby folds.” C’mon. You laughed.
3. He asks for specifics. He wants tales, lessons, and something a little more useful.

An easy/snarky way to deter unwanted parenting advice, I suppose

Take-aways:
I think we all stink at criticism/critiquing a little because, for the most part, it’s been done wrong to us. So we either 1. repeat the mistake, criticizing poorly (which leads to defensiveness or shame on the part of the other) or 2. avoid it all together (which leads to annoyance or dissatisfaction or worse on our part). But look at Hester Heckels– he did it. And so can we. We can be straight-forward, yet good-natured in our requests. We can help people and things grow without coming across like a bad-mannered, discontent sass-hole. It’s possible.

Your thoughts, critiques??

p.s. now next time I include a snapshot of some of my zine writing, you are well equipped to (kindly) lambast me.

The Post Office

The time and materials necessary to create a zine are seldom matched by revenue from sale of zines.– taken directly from wikipedia.

With all this winter-wonder landing on you like dead weight, maybe you have more time to think.
Maybe you’re wondering about taco bell serving breakfast and what Michelle Obama thinks.
Maybe you’re still hung up on Bob Costas’s eye. (good sport, he is).
Maybe you’re wondering about my zine and if it’s still happen’n.

Probably not, but I filled you in on the other two, so… here goes.

The zine. I’ve been a bit distracted by some contract writing and political thoughts and trying to keep my last-living plant still with us. But though it’s slow going, it’s going, and as promised, I’ll share a little tid-bit of what I’m working on.

it's pretty beat up, but no weird smells yet-- so I think he's still kickin' — he’s pretty beat up, but no weird smells yet– so I think he’s still kickin’

As a reminder, most fiction/autobio snippets/reviews in the zine will be loosely tied together because of their affiliation(s) with Prior Lake (P.L.)
Snarky comments, bogus suggestions, and all forms of criticism welcomed.

The Post Office

There few things in life that I like to blame for my problems. If I have a bad day or something goes awry, I allow myself to blame A. no one, B. myself or C. one of my scapegoats.

My list of Scapegoats:
PT Cruisers
Post Offices

With PT Cruisers the answer is obvious, but post offices, you may ask… why?

A few stories to illustrate
{1st story removed from post but will be in zine}

The Scapegoat

With walls the color of dried spit and the scent of fast-food slip resistant sneakers, you can expect to enter the post office and see a long line of other peasants, clutching packages, walking toward immanent disappointment at the spurn of a post-worker’s scepter.

“You’ll have to purchase packing tape,” or “Stamps just went up in cost.” They say unflinchingly and motion with two long creaky fingers for the next person to fill your place in line.

You grab the tape and head back toward the front. You gaze toward the postal worker with pleading eyes.
Justice? Your spot back?
Your eyes are met with a look of such glazed indifference from the postal worker you imagine a dementor may be sucking out your soul. Slouching, you once again retreat to the rear of the line.

Redemption

It’s inevitable. I have to mail a package. I have to or we’ll be charged for a bunch of vitamins and other junk we didn’t order and need to return. And even though they’ll make us pay the shipping, frankly, I can’t let them have the satisfaction of forcing those pills (literally) down our throats.

I leave our condo. Leave the cool, and traverse in non-swimwear into the August heat to a place that I’ve successfully avoided for months.

Upon arriving, I pause outside the door and take a last gulp of real air. Post offices always smell like regurgitated breath. I enter. I am greeted with as suspected, yes, but also with the friendly (!) tobacco-stainless-smile of a female postal worker. Suspicious, I kind of smile back and edge forward to enter the line.

Cardboard, hot glue and new paper smells come into focus as I creep toward the abnormally high counter. A few minutes pass. It’s my turn; I’m summoned forward and offer up my package, a flawed oblation. I”m told, of course, that I need packing tape and it’s no surprise; the box is badly beaten, having once already made it’s rounds from sender to recipient.

I take my time finding the tape, assuming the back of the line is my fate anyways and lackadaisically scan the bright assortment of birthday boxes and cheesy cards. I find the tape, evaluate the price, and remember I have to buy it no matter what.

I look up. The postal worker is beckoning. Inviting me to the front? I creep cautiously forward… so far no death stares from those in line … and reclaim my place. I hand her the package and tape. Nimbly, she reinforces it, fixing up the rips, then weighs it, pronounces the price (which was notably less than expected) scans my plastic.
“Keep your packing tape in the car,” she says, “Most people forget it and ended buying it new each time.”

She is handing me a receipt now, smiling, wishing me a good day.
It’s over? That easy??
I am nearly floating toward the door—feeling light, fulfilled. Such simple acts of service and I find myself smiling. I exit through the glass vestibule and into thick summer sun, into peace and with one less place on my scapegoat list.
(Since writing this, the DMV has replaced the post office for reasons that I have no space or time to go into.)

What about you–have any scapegoats??

Politification Part II: Sugar with your tea,________ party?

Oh the parties.

What a horrible name by the way– party? There’s nothing partyish about a political group. Unless, of course, they win the election (the big one) and send their elephant/donkey confetti into the air, which is followed by a bit of high-fiving and pompous strutting in ____ party’s respective offices,… then followed by the realization that gas prices went up again and the cafeteria food still sucks.

Tea Time

Let’s imagine I sit down to tea with Mr. Elephant and Senior Donkey and get to ask them/challenge them on anything I want.

Stay with me for a bit…

Hello Elephant, Donkey.
How are you, you old wrinkly mammal… And you! you silly jackass—how’s life?

(chuckles and chortles exchanged; Donkey takes two large spoonfuls of sugar and Elephant says he prefers coffee anyway, so never mind.)

Okay gentlemen,
I’ve invited you here this afternoon to ask a few…tough questions.

First, what does Freedom and Democracy really mean to you?

Donkey, it seems that freedom to you, is leveling the playing field by reaching your hooves into pockets and forcing the “good” out of people.
But aren’t you, be forcing generosity, stealing the joy that humans naturally find in giving of themselves willingly? And don’t you trust the American people to take care of their neighbors friends?

And democracy to you, Elephant, seems to be ignoring the ensuing problems of the middle-lower class to watch as a Darwinism-type effect weeds out the weak and leaves only the strong. When you choose ignorance, are you not going against your moral traditions of helping those who are in need?

(Neither creature comments.)

Okay… Let’s touch on a less offensive issue…
Abortion.

So Donkey, you stand for women’s rights, correct?—the freedom for women to choose?
(Donkey shakes mane up and down vigorously, hee-hawing in agreement, a few recently printed bills slip out of his mane.)

What of the unborn child’s freedom to live? Is this not a violation of that human freedom and will to survive? … blobs of tissue? C’mon… you and I both know that’s how you started too, that’s how a lot of 40-year-old men still look, and the high-dollar abortion industry is either duping you or doing something shady to keep you quiet.

(silence)

And you, Elephant. You believe abrotion wrong. Morally abase, inhumane and wrong.
(Elephant rears giant back, standing on 2 hind legs and lands, violently shaking ground, …several old people nearby call into a local news station, report experiencing a mild earthquake.)

But what about funding programs for single mothers, funding educational programs for impoverished communities, standing up for not just the unborn babies, but the now living children?

(silence)

End scene.

In my own life, I’ve struggled with the hypocrisy within each political party; these blaring inconsistencies so often go unquestioned. With such little knowledge of what happens day to day on capitol hill, I know I’m not the right person to start a political revolution. But I hope to be part of a revolution of new thinking for those in our generation. From birth we’ve been fed the breast-milk of divisive intolerance which has led to our fully matured political division.
Before it becomes a national division, what can we do to re-unify?

If you could sit down to tea or coffee with Mr. Donkey or Senior Elephant, what would you ask?

If you’re a believer, how do we pull away from corrupted ties to political parties and truly represent our God?

V-day for real

This morning I wake up twice. Once, briefly as my husband dresses in partial light. The second time to the sound of my phone seizing on by bedside table.
8:00.
Love Calling.

I answer and E tells me Happy Valentines Day, tells me he’s on his way to the second meeting of the day.

Valentines Day? Oh, yes. Valentines Day.
I was going to make brownies! Do I have ingredients?
I was going to blog about Saint Valentine. Nobody knows who he really was though…
I was going to do something super thoughtful for… for lots of people.

I stumble to the kitchen, to the bathroom, back to the kitchen. Hot coffee, my laptop, some really nasty/healthy oatmeal and the worst work out of my life, then I’m in the kitchen again. Powdered sugar is everywhere and I’m butchering the brownies into a cheesy heart-shaped one for E, some smaller ones for the office.

Why?
I don’t know. I really really don’t know.

Because if he comes home, and takes off his works socks in kitchen, draping them over one of the stools for me to pick up later, and I say nothing…
if I ask him how work was and really, really listen…
if I let my mind draw near to his victories & hardships
he’d be loved.

And if we really loved then all the other stuff, the 1.whatever billion Americans spend on candy and crappy toys, it would fall away. Swallowed up by real.

A valentine’s blessing…
For the singles feeling slightly anxious and the doubles feeling less-than satisfied– for us– may we cling to the real. May we cherish the memories when we felt love drape us, a silk-lined perfect fit; may we hold to the moments we hewed out little pieces of our own hearts and minds to fully love another. May we cling to the real.

And when we see Love calling in many forms, may we always, always let Real Love in.

Politification Part I: Lefties, Righties and Tighty Whities

About a month ago I started reading a little non-fiction book called Pastrix. The book cover boasted: the cranky, beautiful faith of a sinner and saint. I like reading about cranky people and faith is good, so giddy-up!

The more and I read, the more I began to pick up on the author’s associations with ______political party. Though the majority of the first-person narrative was both interesting and insightful, the stories were funny & challenging, and the writing was good, the associations with the political party really started to rub me the wrong way. She even began to identify herself as a “______ Christian.” And the more she did this, the less I read.

I wondered… why am I doing this? Why can’t I read this book anymore?

And then a very sudden thought came to me: true *Christianity is not associated with any political system.

I mixed this around in my head a bit, waited a good month, and then started to write. And as fair warning, these next few posts may come off as pretentious at times. It’s more my writing style than believing I’m some sort of political genius. Let’s just make one thing clear: I’m not.

(commercial break)

Christianity is not associated with any political system.
(Right now I’m envisioning Bob Costas reiterating that in his amazing, liquidy man-voice and squinting that horribly red eye of his… poor soul.)
p.s. See E, I was right… there was something wrong with his eye and it’s like trendin’ big time on google.

By what strange means do I make this claim??!!!

A story:
There once was a people group that God was really involved with. He brought them out of captivity, blessed the socks off ‘em and made (and kept) some pretty bold promises. (If you’re like, LOL I’m not a Christian, yo. just look up the historicity/# of copies of the bible compared to other ancient writings. It’s pretty wild.)….Back to the people. They became known for their strength and though nomads for many years, became famous for their God—a deity who actually showed up and did real stuff and wasn’t just a statue.

Over these people, God appointed judges and He also chose to speak through specific individuals, called prophets. He was active, ruling the people fairly & justly… but the people got bored. They didn’t like not having a person rule; a guy like the other nations had who wore a little tiara and stole their land and shit. So they asked God for a king. God, needless to say, wasn’t too happy. He was their King, the only fair, just, and all-knowing One out of the bunch. Though hurt, He conceded (He’s no bully) and gave them what the wanted, a king.

Time after time, even the good kings showed themselves to stink in one area or another—whether it was making poor decisions in war, or being a bad dad (which led to more bad kings), or having so many wives (which was often a political allegiance) the nation became over-run with perverse, unjust horrible things.

Fast forward a couple thousand years, annnndddd here we are…still led by people (who may not wear silly tiaras but, ultimately, still stink at what they do at least somewhat). Even the really good ones– even the really moral, or intelligent, or well-spoken ones— they’re human too.

God never stunk at being a ruler. He knew His people and still does. It’s pretty clear that God would’ve kept it His way: no kings, no political parties, just Him being the good ruler and perfect shepherd He is. So should we ever let ourselves fully associate as being liberal or conservative?

In my mind, being a liberal or conservative has about as much to do with Christianity as underwear models. (see, I finally tied in the tighty whities.)

Your thoughts?

Meg Writes Life

stories & essays on life and living with loss

Author: Megan

the paleo diet (as seen by unintentional dietee)

Bugs in ears & unwanted advice

Just deal with it

Picking up Pennies

Silly rabbit! Tricks are for…

The Art of Criticism: What Would Hester Heckles Do??

The Post Office

The Post Office

Politification Part II: Sugar with your tea,________ party?

V-day for real

Politification Part I: Lefties, Righties and Tighty Whities

By what strange means do I make this claim??!!!