- Mar 4, 2012
- 192
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We were drunk. So drunk that we couldn't speak, couldn't care, couldn't feel. There was momma - for me a foster mom, but momma to us four teenage boys, just a hair beneath manhood. She was a probation officer, and this was probably doubly painful for that reason.
I was the reason we got caught because for some reason a couple of us decided to sleep in momma's room that night, in that condition, certain that the candy we ate on the way home covered up the smell. But I'd never drunk wine, and especially not that much. In the middle of the night I just barely crawled to the bathroom next to momma's room (possibly saving my own life) and dropped my head into the toilet bowl, helpless to do anything but wretch, over and over again, until I couldn't even get up. On my 3rd and final trip, my head was snatched up and twisted to gaze impotently into the eyes of the one whose hand held it. Oh no. She bent down to sniff my gaping, slobbering mouth before literally tossing my head back into the bowl.
As soon as I could revive myself enough to stand, I joined the rest of my busted brothers whom she had assembled in the painfully lit living room where she not only lectured us, but did something I could not believe. She had an extension cord in her hand, and went down the line whipping us right in the places where we sat; but as I said, we couldn't feel, so each of us flippantly waved off the annoying lashes as if nothing but mosquitos were lighting on us.
That's when it happened. She brought out the big guns. Those guns that only women have, and a mother has learned to use better than any woman. Tears. Mother wept. 'Oh, I don't know why I try so hard to take care of you boys. I feel like I should just run away.' Suddenly we were all weeping putty all around her, patting, hugging, pleading, begging in a symphony of apologies and promises never to do it again. Please don't leave. Don't cry momma. Don't cry.
What the whip had not the power to do, simple tears of desperation accomplished. Why? Simple. Because we loved her. We didn't want to hurt her, but we were kids. Boys will be boys - stupid, human, sinful boys, and this would be a lesson we would never forget. Namely; Don't make momma cry!
I'll tell you something. Gramma's don't have to go that far. Gramma's have this power to influence and wrap her grandchildren around her little, feeble finger. How does she do it? With candy, and cookie sweet bribes, and tender gramma kisses, made sweet from all the years of the love evolving in her heart. She doesn't have to whip. She doesn't have to give stern looks. She doesn't even have to yell. No one wants to disappoint her. That's her power. Her love is so sweet, her image so noble, that no one would dare to dent it or shadow it with anything that went against it. Gramma doesn't have to yell because she is loved to death, and respected. The hardest of criminals become nothing but puppies in her lofty presence, wrinkles and all. They will do anything for her.
The Holy Spirit revealed its nature when it descended in the form of a dove unto the Son of God. Of all the images it could have taken, it chose one of the most harmless, delicate, lovely, kind and peaceful in, not humanity but the animal kingdom. It speaks volumes about how God, the Consuming Fire desires to be perceived by the New Covenant people. God, a Father; the Son, a sacrificial Lamb; and the Holy Spirit, a dove. Who cannot feel the love in the temple of God? Who wants to mar that image with sin, or disrespect? Who does not feel that there is no river, no ocean, no mountain too strong, wide, and high to traverse for love of the worthy image of God? Gramma doesn't have to yell, and the Spirit comes as a sweet, gentle whisper, saying, 'No, my daughter; no, my son, that is not for you. That displeases gramma. You don't want to make gramma sad, do you?' Isn't it enough to make you cry, beg, plead, 'Please don't cry, Lord. Don't leave, Holy Dove'?
We should not have to beat people with the extension cord of condemnation when they love God deep down. The Dove within will do the work with tears that our stern words of guilt cannot do. We have to pray for them and trust the work of God inside, not imposed from without like the law. Just remind them that they really don't want to mar that sweet, pure image. It would be a crime unthinkable.
And wipe your feet before you come into gramma's house!
I was the reason we got caught because for some reason a couple of us decided to sleep in momma's room that night, in that condition, certain that the candy we ate on the way home covered up the smell. But I'd never drunk wine, and especially not that much. In the middle of the night I just barely crawled to the bathroom next to momma's room (possibly saving my own life) and dropped my head into the toilet bowl, helpless to do anything but wretch, over and over again, until I couldn't even get up. On my 3rd and final trip, my head was snatched up and twisted to gaze impotently into the eyes of the one whose hand held it. Oh no. She bent down to sniff my gaping, slobbering mouth before literally tossing my head back into the bowl.
As soon as I could revive myself enough to stand, I joined the rest of my busted brothers whom she had assembled in the painfully lit living room where she not only lectured us, but did something I could not believe. She had an extension cord in her hand, and went down the line whipping us right in the places where we sat; but as I said, we couldn't feel, so each of us flippantly waved off the annoying lashes as if nothing but mosquitos were lighting on us.
That's when it happened. She brought out the big guns. Those guns that only women have, and a mother has learned to use better than any woman. Tears. Mother wept. 'Oh, I don't know why I try so hard to take care of you boys. I feel like I should just run away.' Suddenly we were all weeping putty all around her, patting, hugging, pleading, begging in a symphony of apologies and promises never to do it again. Please don't leave. Don't cry momma. Don't cry.
What the whip had not the power to do, simple tears of desperation accomplished. Why? Simple. Because we loved her. We didn't want to hurt her, but we were kids. Boys will be boys - stupid, human, sinful boys, and this would be a lesson we would never forget. Namely; Don't make momma cry!
I'll tell you something. Gramma's don't have to go that far. Gramma's have this power to influence and wrap her grandchildren around her little, feeble finger. How does she do it? With candy, and cookie sweet bribes, and tender gramma kisses, made sweet from all the years of the love evolving in her heart. She doesn't have to whip. She doesn't have to give stern looks. She doesn't even have to yell. No one wants to disappoint her. That's her power. Her love is so sweet, her image so noble, that no one would dare to dent it or shadow it with anything that went against it. Gramma doesn't have to yell because she is loved to death, and respected. The hardest of criminals become nothing but puppies in her lofty presence, wrinkles and all. They will do anything for her.
The Holy Spirit revealed its nature when it descended in the form of a dove unto the Son of God. Of all the images it could have taken, it chose one of the most harmless, delicate, lovely, kind and peaceful in, not humanity but the animal kingdom. It speaks volumes about how God, the Consuming Fire desires to be perceived by the New Covenant people. God, a Father; the Son, a sacrificial Lamb; and the Holy Spirit, a dove. Who cannot feel the love in the temple of God? Who wants to mar that image with sin, or disrespect? Who does not feel that there is no river, no ocean, no mountain too strong, wide, and high to traverse for love of the worthy image of God? Gramma doesn't have to yell, and the Spirit comes as a sweet, gentle whisper, saying, 'No, my daughter; no, my son, that is not for you. That displeases gramma. You don't want to make gramma sad, do you?' Isn't it enough to make you cry, beg, plead, 'Please don't cry, Lord. Don't leave, Holy Dove'?
We should not have to beat people with the extension cord of condemnation when they love God deep down. The Dove within will do the work with tears that our stern words of guilt cannot do. We have to pray for them and trust the work of God inside, not imposed from without like the law. Just remind them that they really don't want to mar that sweet, pure image. It would be a crime unthinkable.
And wipe your feet before you come into gramma's house!
