Isaiah, oh Isaiah. With your endless chapters of prophesies that all boil down to the same scenario – Israel as the flashy chick who dumps God, then discovers that all the other guys (idols) out there don’t do it for her, and comes back groveling on hands and knees. And God will take her back, but only after rubbing her nose in how badly she treated God. You WHORE, ho ho ho.
Um, you’re putting a slightly negative spin on it, don’tcha think? Because most Happy Chipper Christians read it and praise God for taking back a nation of people who weren’t worthy. That He will always take you back, no matter how hard you far.
Yeah, yeah, but then there’s chapter 47
1 "Go down, sit in the dust,
Virgin Daughter of Babylon;
sit on the ground without a throne,
Daughter of the Babylonians.
No more will you be called
tender or delicate.
2 Take millstones and grind flour;
take off your veil.
Lift up your skirts, bare your legs,
and wade through the streams.
3 Your nakedness will be exposed
and your shame uncovered.
I will take vengeance;
I will spare no one."
I am never getting out of Isaiah, folks. I’m stuck here until the end of time. I have daydreams of someday reaching the book of Acts, which I’ve always wanted to read, but context is so important to me, which is why the idea of reading the Bible chronologically in the first place was appealing. But here in the wilderness of Isaiah, I’m just dying. Dying in the dust alongside the bared wady legs of the Virgin Daughter of Babylon.
This weekend kicked my ass allergy wise. Housesitting with Ginger Puppy and Basil. Normally, I can handle their fur. But I can’t handle their fur, extreme heat and Griffith Park dust.
So Saturday, I’m cowering in the TV room, trying to watch > To Catch A Thief, deciding that there simply is no one more lovely than Grace Kelly in that first ice blue dress, and dying because my nose is now a raw red mushroom on my face. Ginger Puppy is staring at me but, but, but, I don’t understand! Why don’t you stick your nose on the top of my head and rub my ears like you usually do?! Don’t you love me!? GASP! YOU DON’T LOVE ME! Oh my GAWD! What’d I do!? What’d I DO!? You’ve shunned me like some Virgin Daughter of Babylon.
I’m popping Benedryl, Claritin, Alavert, I’m sleeping every twenty minutes, and waking up when I can’t breathe.
And finally, even though I think it’s stupid and petty, I send up a prayer to God, Dear Father in Heaven, I would really really really like to breathe, pretty pretty pretty please.
And no lie, within ten minutes of shooting that desperate missive up, I CAN breathe.
Now, do we think that’s God unblocking my nasal passages? Do we think that’s coincidental timing, and it really was the massive amount of loratadine finally working?
I guess it’s however you want to call it. And though Sunday was still an I Can’t BREATHE/ Hey, One Nostril Is Better Than None tug of war, the whole weekend is a reminder that God is not a genie, and my prayers aren’t answered instantly. Sometimes it takes ten minutes. Sometimes it takes ten years. But it’s never ever ten seconds.
Everyone cheer for Carlen. , she’s kicking mucho ass on Script Frenzy. Gooooooooooo Carlen! YOU CAN DO IT!!!!!