This was sent to me by a good friend after it was sent to him by his good friend.
I think you will find this interesting. Fred is a friend and ex-minister who gave up the ministry when he was told he must soften his sermons so the elect can come and go without doing much thinking in between. His E’s are entertaining and do leave room for thought. Enjoy
It has been ten days since . . . hope was put on hold.
There has been an ominous pall come across America during these last ten days. The let down from election night whether national or local has been a body blow to the national psyche. People breathe, they move, they go about the daily doings and . . . wait. Wait for what? The other shoe to fall. An eery disappointment and a strange somberness seems palpable. “Why?” I ask myself.
HOPE. The Old Testament Bill Clinton amassed a collection of thoughts and sayings and it is referred to as “Wisdom Literature.” Such a term seems euphemistic because it didn’t seem to work positively for the archivist. But in the book of Proverbs chapter thirteen verse twelve is a phrase that holds water this tenth-day morning. “Hope deferred makes the heart weary . . . . ” [some translations say “sick” instead of weary] But “weary” fits on this ten-morning-after. Almost instantly the Blackhouse went back to arrogant partying; the party of hope and “good boys” (Romney and Ryan) were rejected and so went back to compromise and Gestalt self analysis; the military icons of “hope” fell off their pedestal; and four normal Americans are murdered with the ball-bouncing golfer and island doper yawning. “Hope”??? where has it gone.
The chatter on the streets of our tiny-town America is brown. If people dare to speak in more than weather cliché’s it is to say “What’s gonna happen to US?” and their eyes stare off into empty voids of concern. Hospital management is bag-eyed trying to figure out if a hundred-year-old health provider will be open by ’14. Pre-printed retro-tax bills here in californicate arrived the DAY AFTER the election to tell property owners that they owe retro tax on a bill secret-signed a year ago set to kick in “if” . . . and the unthinkable “if” happened. The teacher-prison guard cabal won the day and the drones voted to use more drugs and pay more tax and slam marriage in the streets. If the citizen has investments in the Wall Street Casino, they are watching their 401-k’s shrink daily and the tax bite for withdrawing it is now appearing cheap compared to the daily value loss. Magazines arrive in the mail with the cover covered with rehabbing double amputees from the adrenalin-fronts in outer space called Iraqistan. Where is “HOPE” that the election results would bring good news and AT LEAST renew hope?
All except for Matt. Matt is a clerk at the local lumberyard. Yes, we have a lumberyard in the country. I have encountered Matt for several years now and he is always sorta pleasant, never very talkative, and acts over-qualified for the position of lumber yard wood sorter. I would guess he is “post” something. Probably military early retirement. Needs to work but doesn’t need to worry and over educated but unambitious . . . he drones on in life. On six november (remember six november?) I was in the lumber yard to purchase some fasteners and what is this? Matt is now a desk clerk. He is animated, speaks boldly, greets out-loud everyone coming in the store door . . . . I am curious. I grabbed the needed screws and went to check out. “Matt. Have you voted yet?” I asked at mid-morning. “Nope. Lunchtime.” he replies. “But, I just can’t make up my mind who to vote for . . . .” Now this is not your bused in transient waiting for some goon to stare at him and hand him a sample ballot filled in to copy in a booth. His head works —between mary-jane joints. “I really think we otta give ’em another chance to straighten it out . . . the mess we’re in.” Matt looks at me to see if I’ll respond. “Do that out of sympathy and we all get flushed down the toilet” I remind him. “Yeah, well we probably deserve it . . . .” he pipes.
So, yesterday, I’m back at the lumberyard desk. There is Matt . . . totally ebullient. “Nice day, right Fred?” he hums. “Things sure look good now —I mean with the election and everything . . . .” Matt is nearly singing. He is serious. He is not gloating —HE IS REJOICING. I think I’m in the twilight zone. I must be living in the National Nut House. We have just lost the culture war; I’m not on the government dole role; Israel is just attacked (again); Ben Franklin’s City has just reported from 51 precincts that 100% of the votes are for the Kenyan Liar and Thief Cleveland the same from fifty-nine ‘cincts . . . and Matt is chart-breaking with happiness. What the . . . . . . .?
What to do???? To save what little sanity I still embrace, I go home, gather a few neighbors who owe me favors, and we walk across the street to a recent widow’s yard. Her husband of many just died in August and they are the proud owners of a near-hundred year old walnut tree. It grows leaves and little fruit. But in fall it drowns the sidewalk with wet, slimy leaves inches deep. We rake and clean and chatter and laugh and Widow Smith comes striding out with eyes wide. “Oh, thank you SOOOO much!!” she exclaims. I wondered what I was ever going to do to get all these leaves up before they froze to the ground . . . . ”
What do you do when you lose “hope”? You give it to someone else that least expects it. There is human kindness. The luxury of living rural still has rich rewards. Cash them! I may lose hope but I don’t have to lose humanity. I may lose my country to Islam [that is the game plan if you haven’t figured out the agenda] but I don’t have to become a slave to despair.
On State Highway 2 linking North Idaho to Montana is a village: “Hope.” Driving, you will pass through Hope quickly. But, three miles later lies another village: “Beyond Hope.” What lies beyond hope is up to the driver. Beyond “hope” is the reality that you will fashion by self-determination and the Grace of God. No gifts. It takes effort. You may sense you are insane. But if doing good the right way is “insane” —here’s for a house full of such nuts!
I am still Fred.