Sabbath Messages > Sabbath Message: June 10, 2006
Good Sabbath
June 10, 2006
"Romance is the poetry of literature" (Necker) Madame Necker--a great name for a romantic--wrote three centuries ago, but romance and love are not owned by any era. They are the most wondrous parts of human nature that transcend any other sense.
Regardless of which terrorist found his maker, my Love is my preoccupation. In the morning I look down from the upstairs landing, as her red hair shines, illuminated by the dining room light, while eating breakfast. I look forward to that perspective each morning, for it brings clarity to my heart and monopolizes my soul. With her health so much better, she has begun driving. I pulled my Achilles and need someone to drive me any way as I go through more tests. As one approaches four score years, one realizes that most of their life is over, but should never be preoccupied with that fact.
The preoccupation should be the lifetime of their grandkids and the prayer that peace will reign and our collective values would please God during those coming years. But no one knows exactly when the end will be reached, nor should we care to know. What good would that do? Terminal illness is especially terrible when it afflicts the young who will never reach old age. They will be frozen in photograph, young forever, if not fulfilled.
When terrorist Zarqawi was torn from mortality by two 500# bombs, did he hear their silence or explosion? Were we disappointed by how quickly he died? When Katrina roared was it the last noise hundreds heard? When Hurricane Andrew exploded, how did it sound, like death approaching anchored by "I wish I had left my home!" When the twin towers were torn by the planes, we watched it on TV but could not possibly know anything except shock and our first collective experience with terror.
The '71 California earthquake was my neighborhood rumbling as I remembered the roar preceding it. That terrific roar, like a locomotive, has never escaped my memory bank, joining the shock of listening to the noise of things crashing and breaking, including every tree and stone wall in our backyard.
We could awake each day, filled with apprehension about how we might die that day. After all so many people fall in their homes, one would think about getting out of bed. But this is a waste of time, for knowing one's fate is a poor antidote to danger; it has no advantages, just dread. I wake up looking forward to that first glance at Fran's redhead, flaming as richly as her smile when she looks up in a response to "good morning, sweetheart".
"Who loves his wife as himself, honors her more than himself, leads his children in the right path." (Talmud)
But politics is another word for "mischief" for its tolerance is our weakness-perhaps downfall. How better is the purity of loving someone else, especially if that someone returns that affection.
We are born in the perfection of possibility, for reality is the reward and punishment for failure of imagination. Imagination is the wings of eagles soaring above all else. The rewards for imagination are reaching so many of our possibilities without harming any other human.
Today we'll visit the county fair even though my Achilles will remind me to be cautious, while appreciating the inventions of others, displayed annually at the fair. Fran and I stroll the many buildings with full appreciation, with smiling countenances, holding hands and hearts. My God, why not?
Have a most wonderful Sabbath
sandy
