Martha or Mary

If the rapture happens today, I hope it waits until after I get that pair of shoes I’ve been eyeing at Macys.

Summer, now being officially over, has left me feeling grateful. Grateful it’s over. This summer could easily be slotted as one of the worst of all times in the life of me. But autumn brings a little light-heartedness into view. Do you think people actually use the word “autumn” when speaking in normal conversations, or is it one of those words we wish we’d use more often but because we are lazy and forgetful we use “fall” instead? I think so.

The other day I actually found myself praying for Jesus’ return. Five years ago this never would have happened. Not because I’m not enjoying this life, but because life is just tough and seems to be getting tougher with age. Partly, I think it’s because I know how grand the Kingdom will be and how less-than-grand this world is. But then, I’m often too introspective, bordering on obsessive. Chill out – loosen up – relax! I know, I know.

Relaxation has never been one of my fortes, which could be why I married the man I did. He is capable of relaxing for hours with very little movement; while I anxiously tend to “business,” making sure everything is in its proper place and remembering to dot every proverbial i. I’d like to be more like him. Carefree, living in the moment. Not worrying about what catastrophe may strike if the carpet doesn’t get vacuumed today. You never know when the Queen of England may stop by for a bit of tea.

Lest you think I’m completely nuts, let me say I am improving. I no longer lose bowel control when noticing crumbs on the kitchen counter. Now I simply wipe them off. That’s correct. Right onto the floor. Sometimes I even leave them there for days.

Besides, I have more important things to worry about these days. Like raising a teenager. Why didn’t anyone tell me it would be so difficult? You did? That’s right, you did. I guess I didn’t believe you. I guess I thought if I was a pretty decent parent, she would sail right through adolescence without a hitch. HAHA. Not true, my friend. Now that I realize my parenting style needs a total makeover during these years, I feel like a fish out of water. Much like I felt the first week I brought my precious newborn home. I have no idea what I’m doing, is the prevailing thought.

Thankfully, I’ve become fully aware there is Someone who knows what to do when I feel helpless. Tapping into His wisdom has now become my full time job, and I get the idea the paycheck will be well worth my effort. Now, if I could just get Him to send me something in hardback, complete with step-by-step instructions, we’d make the greatest teenager this world has ever seen. (smile).

A City

Maybe I only love the big city because I’ve never lived in one.

I did live inside the city of Cincinnati for awhile, am now in the suburbs, but Cinci is tiny in comparison to Chicago, where I visited last month. The above photo is the view from our hotel window. It’s the second time I’ve been there, but was able to take in much more of the sights this time around. And I am in love. I can’t exactly put my finger on why or even if I’d love it long time, but I must say there’s a pulse in that place that makes me feel alive.

People in Chicago walk when they want to go somewhere, whether it’s the city blocks or getting to the trains and busses, there’s plenty of stepping to be had. I’m sure I’d lose a good ten pounds if you gave me a couple of weeks and a comfortable pair of shoes. Which I discovered I have NONE of. Well, except for my gym shoes which I wear strictly for walking because they are big and ugly. Why didn’t I wear those, you ask? I just told you – they’re ugly! I imagine the walking part may not be as enjoyable during a Chicago winter, but think of all the cute boots I’d have an excuse to buy!

The Bible says Heaven (new Jerusalem) will be a city. As much as the word “city” disgusts some people, it doesn’t mean there will be bumper to bumper traffic, thick smog, or rude people. I’m pretty sure none of those things will be in the Heavenly City, besides – I bet God knows how to build highways so they don’t become congested. And we will all have our own Porsche.

All “city” really means is a place where many people live in close proximity to one another and are subject to a common government. I imagine the bustling and busyness of an earthly city will be present in the Heavenly City also. Contrary to popular opinion, we won’t be lying around on clouds playing harps all day. I believe each of us will have a God-appointed job to do and will actually LOVE doing it! Imagine that. And people will be working together without the competition and politics involved in our jobs now. It will be Heavenly!

What I can’t fathom is what in the world will our work be? Serving God, sure…but how, specifically? Serving each other, sure…but in what way? I don’t know, I can’t think about it right now, I’m too foggy. I’m kind of hoping I’ll be taking care of the animals – minus cleaning the stalls.

Which reminds me that I’m totally bummed because a book I ordered on Amazon won't be coming because they are “out of stock,” according to the e-mail I just read. I’ve never had that happen; I guess I just need to find it from a different seller. The book is Hope Rising by Kim Meeder, she tells stories about the youth ranch she runs, from a Christian perspective. Kim takes in abused horses and couples them with abused or neglected children. I found out about the book from listening to her chat on the radio about some of the stories she has included. I was in tears the whole time I listened, particularly when she told a story about a horse she was checking out as a possible adoption and how it began trembling just at the sight of her. When Kim reached her hand out to touch its nose, the horse collapsed to the ground in sheer terror. This same horse, after being brought to the ranch was coupled with an abused child and the two of them bonded in ways which seem unexplainable. I wrestled with the idea of reading it, just because of the nature of the book, and knowing I’d probably be weeping like an infant all the way through it. But sometimes, I think, it’s worth feeling pain just to experience hope. Hope is all we really have anyway, a confidant hope that someday there will be no more pain. So we keep pressing on, never looking back, with our eyes fixed on Jesus.

An Insignificant Animal

Happy Wednesday to one and all. I need to ask you something. What would you do for a Klondike Bar?

I’ve given up all that tastes good in hopes of losing five pounds before Christmas, so I can put five pounds back on at Christmas. I was kind of half listening to the TV last night and there was some guy talking about how he convinces himself not to eat junk food by telling himself it’s going to cause an early death. I think there may be something to this, because whenever I pass a plate of brownies or some such I chant, “Evil evil evil.” And it helps me to resist. I wish I could do the same for gray hairs. They seem to be appearing at an alarming rate in spite of my disdain for them. Loreal says I’m worth it, and what the heck does that mean?

If we dissect the meaning, together, you and me…we can only come to one final conclusion. If one chooses to not get rid of the gray, one must believe they aren’t worth much. “Much” could mean the cost of a box of Loreal, which is probably around ten bucks or the time it takes to apply it – thirty minutes? So, the next time you notice a person with grays, just remember – they have low self esteem. Be kind. Offer a box of Loreal. You might want to carry one on your body at all times, just in case you ever get the opportunity to increase someone’s self worth. Yeah – then you can feel better about yourself and know you helped a fellow citizen. Who could ask for more?


***********
Almost a week later…

Happy Tuesday to one and all. It’s a crying shame I can’t crank out one simple blog in less than a week. And I call myself a writer. HA! I laugh.

You know it’s going to be a bad day when you take your mostly healthy pet to the vet and have it end up dead a few hours later. Don’t panic! It wasn’t Horse Head, he’s barking at the moon as we speak. It was our other pet, a bunny we affectionately called Bunny, formal name was Cinnamon. No, she wasn’t a stripper. You can see her picture over on the right side of the page, desecrating the manger scene.

Bunny was our first (and last) pet rabbit, thoughtfully bought for my daughter by her granddad about five years ago. I tried to halt this whole affair by talking to my daughter about how much work rabbits are, how tiresome cleaning their cages can be, and stressing the point that I would not be the one responsible for Bunny’s overall care. Of course, these mini-sermons sailed over the head of the then ten year old and with a few promises and pleading looks from her big brown eyes, I caved like an old woman’s chest.

I’d say it was about a month before Laura (said daughter) had grown bored and disenchanted with this cute, but strangely aloof animal. Bunny hated to be held, and wouldn’t hesitate to bite the hand that fed her. However, the animal lover that I am, it didn’t take me very long to discover Bunny had a few redeeming qualities as well. Everyday I’d let her out of her cage for a few hours (animals shouldn’t be caged – see Zoo Post). And she would use a litter box for her dirty business, which I was fascinated to learn about rabbits, since I had no clue. If there were some way to convert bunny poo into human food, there would be no more starving children. Or if one bunny poo equaled one penny, we’d all be rich! RICH I tell you! Anyway, you get the point. (If I could poo like that, I’m sure I’d be back into my size five denims in short order). Enough of that.

I also discovered Bunny loved to have her head rubbed, as long as you didn’t try to touch any other part of her body. She would go into a trance, and beg for more if you dared to quit. Sometimes she would demand this trance technique by nipping at ankles, I imagine it was the only time she felt peaceful. I only remember one time when I actually saw her sleeping; when you’re on the bottom of the food chain you’d better stay alert. Sometimes I would smash my face up against the bars of Bunny’s cage and she would lick me like a puppy. That was the best.

All the while we had Bunny I didn’t really believe that I was attached her. Sure, she was very cute, soft, and sometimes funny. And her personality reminded me of mine (just pet here, but don’t get too close). But after all, she was just a rabbit.

A few weeks ago we discovered Bunny had a few small “bumps” on her back, which I ignored because I wasn’t about to spend money on an insignificant animal by taking her to the vet. This past Friday we discovered the bumps were now scaling and Bunny was losing patches of fur. Can I ignore this or I am I going to have to spend forty bucks just to walk through the veterinarian’s door? After Googling the phenomena I became paranoid that Bunny could have something called Fur Mites, which could infest our dogs (we have two). Great! Just great! I’ve got to call the vet! Either that or set her free in the woods behind our house. …..Thinking…. Great! I’ve got to call the vet!

Prior to our beloved animal doctor/thief collecting my eighty-five dollars and forty-three cents, he had informed me that Bunny had a simple skin fungus which could be easily cleared up with a few shampoos of prescription stuff plus a topical ointment. I was at least relieved that I wasn’t dealing with some microscopic insect. Yuck.

So, we gave Bunny her first bath ever in the laundry room sink. She was less than thrilled with this endeavor, had it not been for my speedy reflexes, she would’ve ended up behind the washer on more than one occasion. She was towel dried, treated with the ointment, and left to romp around the house in her usual bunny fashion. Once again, all was well in the Titus household.

This story is turning out way longer than I wanted it to be, but I’m going to continue to type anyway because it feels kind of therapeutic, and when you’re a bunny-rabbit murderer, therapy is sometimes needed (excluding hunters, which I could never be- but hold no grudges against). To continue – Saturday afternoon Bunny had found a spot beneath the living room chair and I on the couch, having the whole house to ourselves (minus the two dogs) was welcomed after a week spent with visitors. So I settled in to do a bit of studying with all thoughts of the morning shoved aside. Sure, I had noticed Bunny hadn’t made her usual fifty trips to the litter box (I can always hear her jumping in and out of it and scratching around) but I was deep in thought. Finally, it was my notice of her slowly jerking body coming out from under the chair with eyes closed; Bunny never closes her eyes, at least that I’ve noticed.

What the heck is she doing? This doesn’t look good. Is she cold? Is she having a reaction to the medication? I was completely convinced Bunny was not well when I bent over to pick her up and she didn’t run. Bunny always runs. My first diagnosis concluded she had been poisoned from the shampoo and/or the ointment. I’d seen the exact same thing in my dog once, which almost died after a vet’s prescription. I laid her on top of some towels on the couch next to me and when I began Googling the name of her meds she began convulsing rather violently. Then came the panic. And the praying.

I knew there was no point in calling our vet because it was after hours and everyone knows vets no longer care for their patients once they clock out. I remember the good old days when you could call your vet at any time with an emergency and he would be available. They don’t roll that way anymore, at least not in these parts. Now we have twenty-four hour “animal hospitals” where you can take your sick animal and your last dollar. Emergency rates apply. To make matters worse, there is no animal hospital within thirty miles of my home.

I’m ashamed to admit (although that’s never stopped me before) there was a part of me that just wanted Bunny to meet her maker right then so I wouldn’t have to deal with whatever was coming next. Neither could I stand the sight of her suffering, and I prayed for God to end it right there. He had other plans. I couldn’t find any conclusive info about the meds being possibly toxic, although there’s always that chance. I knew if it was a common thing with this particular script – it would be splattered all over the internet as it was with my dog’s near death poisoning.

I called my husband who said he was on his way home, so I waited. Bunny was fairly lethargic during this time, with intermittent jerking and a few times I thought her eyeballs were literally going to pop out of her head. I felt utterly helpless and confused. Do I pack her in the car and just go? Do I spend hundreds of dollars trying to save a rabbit? Is she hot, should I turn the air down? Is she cold, should I cover her?

When Matt (husband) came in, I could tell he was as torn as I was. Then the most violent convulsion came, and with it – I couldn’t hold back the fountain of tears. Soon after we were in the car headed for the hospital. I decided Bunny was probably hot (I’d read they like to be cool and didn’t fare well with the heat) so while I held her in my lap I made sure the air conditioning vents in the car pointed directly on her. This memory still haunts me. The vet at the hospital said her body temperature was dangerously low. She also said her glucose levels had bottomed out and when that happens in rabbits, the prognosis is not good.

I don’t feel we were wrong in making the decision to have her put down at that point. But it didn’t particularly feel right either. The vet gave us a few educated guesses of what could have happened to Bunny, but nothing would ever be conclusive without a lot of testing. Later that afternoon I once again looked up my best friend, Google, and learned that rabbits have been known to die after having a bath (the vet mentioned this also). And if you did have to give your rabbit a bath, be sure to blow dry them afterward (I didn’t). Evidently it has something to do with the stress of the whole bathing experience. Bunny certainly had plenty of stress that day. I was only doing what the vet had told me to do, but still – it was at my hands that she was taken to the vet, held down for the prodding, and scrubbed during the bath.

I have enough people telling me it wasn’t my fault, so please don’t be another. In the logical section of my brain I know it wasn’t my fault. In the emotional, Bunny-loving section of my brain, I know it was my fault. I remember talking to a fellow rabbit owner once who told me rabbits only lick your face like Bunny did mine because she trusted me. She trusted me and I let her down.

She could chew through a computer cord quicker than a chainsaw could slice butter, and she could fill a litter box more efficiently than a dump truck at the landfill. Still, I miss her. And so, I bid a bittersweet farewell to a not-so-insignificant animal.

Connections

I’m in deep and there’s no shore in sight. No lifeboat has come to my rescue. No lifejacket thrown to my sinking body. Waves of faces pound and throw me from side to side. Merciless updates suck me under. I gasp for air and struggle to find the surface, but my fingertips only discover another friend request. Cool. That makes twenty-three.

Maybe I’ll just float for awhile.

Yes, I’ve been sucked into the time wasting vortex called Facebook. I successfully resisted this suction cup for several months, but after relentless prods from those who shall remain nameless but not Faceless, I shamefully succumb. Forgive them Father, they know not what they do.

Facebook is probably a good way to get in touch with old classmates, or people who you’ve lost contact with. But I can’t seem to find any of those people – probably because I don’t know their married names, or possibly because they don’t want to be found. It can’t be because they aren’t on Facebook. This is 2009 for crying out loud - the age of connecting, and doesn’t everyone want to be connected?

Apparently so. The first day I joined Facebook, I looked around at several profiles and was astounded to find so many people with two, three, and sometimes four hundred friends. Are these close friends, occasional buddies, or mere acquaintances? It didn’t take me long to discover the answer when people began sending me “friend requests,” and I had no idea who they were.

These were friends of friends and friends of friends of friends. I’m sure some were just being courteous to a newcomer, some writers trying to be read (who can blame them?) and some who just want another notch in their Facebook belt. “Look at me- I have 243,742 friends, I’m somebody!”

There’s something appealing about being connected to other people without really being connected. Like an electrical cord that’s been partially chewed through. The casing is gone, but a few wires still hang on. Connections without commitment. I want you to be known as my friend, but don’t expect a phone call or birthday card. I won’t come to you when I need a shoulder to lean on, and I’d never admit to you when I’m lonely. I want to feel loved, cared for, and needed. But for you to know that is far too risky. So I will expose my endearing qualities and shrink from the light of imperfection. I’ll never find you when I’m crying and promise to never make you feel uncomfortable. Just be my friend and love the image of me on your computer screen, but don’t come too close or I’ll lose something - especially time, I’m very busy, you know. And friendships require work.

Human beings were created by God to desire interaction with one another. You want proof? Just look at the likes of Facebook, Twitter, MySpace and scores of other websites that promise to bring people into your life. What’s ironic to me is many of these people who are obsessive about these networks have real live people living in their own homes who they rarely interact with. They have friends and relatives living on the next block who are rarely visited. I’m not pointing fingers – I’m just as guilty as everyone else. It’s so effortless to flip open the laptop and leave a quick message, and much more effortful to make a live appearance. Although, the differences between the two are like night and day. Don’t misunderstand, I believe real relationships can be formed and nurtured over the internet – if both parties are willing to put in the time and effort. Still, it’s a much longer process than face-to-face interactions, and even in the best of circumstances will never be equal to having that person by your side.

Bah – I take stuff too seriously. They say all artsy people are that way. I just love to know what makes people tick; now if I could just figure out my own devices – I could rule the world! And then I’d rule Facebook! I’d have eight thousand friends and they’d all love me, hang on my every word, and send me extravagant Christmas gifts which they can’t afford.

Hey – Facebook me!

Give Me Liberty or Give Me a Rare Steak

The second she stepped out of the building, Linda felt it. The thick humid air smacked against her skin. Day twelve of one-hundred-plus temperatures, and it didn’t seem to matter that it was only 7:00 A.M. 

Linda strode past towering buildings on either side that seemed to trap the heat between and deposit itself directly on her being. Blacktop covered parking lots mocked anyone with bare feet and blanketed themselves in a hazy fog that hovered just above its surface.

She hurried her pace anticipating the air-conditioned restaurant where soon she’d be serving eggs and coffee and carefully blotted the beads of sweat forming on her brow. Linda knew if her make-up became ruined, her tips were bound to suffer. Waitressing at this place was 10% service and 90% flirting, and she was mastering both.

THE END

I told you so.

Whatever happened to 5:00 PM rush hour? When did the world shift ahead two hours, and why didn’t anyone tell me? Coming through my semi-small town just north of Cincinnati at 3:00 PM has now become reminiscent of New York City on a slow day. Isn’t this traffic supposed to appear much later?

My husband’s twenty-one year old niece and her boyfriend came to visit with us for the week-end from Nashville Tennessee. Cassie, who’s always been a well mannered and delightful girl, slept in the spare bedroom while her bf slept on the couch – in case any of you finger-pointers are wondering. I am nothing if not consistent. Besides, I have a teenage daughter in the house and I don’t need to give her any more ammunition than she already has.

Cassie’s boyfriend, Brad, was born and raised in Tennessee and I have to say with all certainty this was the most polite, considerate, and well mannered young man I’ve ever met. Is this a southern thing? If so, I’m sending my daughter down there to find one as soon as she starts hearing wedding bells. This guy was all about please and thank you, consistently held doors open, and offered to pay for our lunch. When getting out of the car after a trip (knowing there was stuff in the trunk) he would beat me to the rear of the car and begin helping like it was second nature or something. Needless to say, I was thoroughly impressed. Way to go – all you Tennessee parents. I won’t elaborate on how this magnifies my own failures as a parent; I’ll just leave that to your imagination.

In all fairness to my beloved child, I must say her behavior is always exemplary - when she’s not at home. Since she was a pre-schooler, her teachers would add comments like, “A pleasure to have in class,” to her report cards. And since I’m boasting – I’ll go ahead and mention that she’s in all honor classes. Excuse me while I strut around the blog.

Hey! I saw you stick your foot out!

We took a trip to the Cincinnati Zoo on Sunday – which, by the way, is ranked one of the best zoos in the country. I’ll post some pics for your viewing pleasure as soon as I get my daughter to transfer them from my camera to the laptop; I can’t be bothered with such trivial work (translation = I don’t know how).

I’ve been to this zoo and others countless times, and I enjoy looking at animals I’d never get a chance to see up close any other time, but I can’t help but think the whole thing is just wrong. Animals like lions, bears, and apes all trapped in a small area, never to be free. It’s true, Cincinnati does a good job of making their environments look similar to where they’d hang out in the wild, but the spaces are still considerably smaller than if they were in, oh – let’s say – a jungle.

As I stood there with scores of other people staring at the apes, I longed to know what they were thinking. Are they content, bored, hopeless? Most of the animals just lie around while all of us oglers want to see them get up and do something, anything. The manatee swim in the same circle – round and round, and the cats pace the same path over and over. Can people really think this is a good thing? Is it better to capture an almost extinct animal just to have it, or let it live as it was meant?

Now that you’re thoroughly bored from my zoo rant, I’ll tell you a little secret. Are you listening? Lean in. Closer. Don’t tell anyone, but I lied today. Yeah – that’s right. I know it’s wrong! Geesh, give me a break, I couldn’t help myself. When the old lady from London e-mailed me today and told me she wanted her inheritance to go to good use by sending it to me, I replied by saying I’d be in her town tomorrow and we could have a face-to-face chat over the whole matter. You know, skip all the red tape. She could just give me the cash right there, on her death bed. Then I would kiss her forehead and promise to use the money to feed all the starving children in Ethiopia.

And that’s a wrap! Paula has left the building.

Chaotic

Esther Brownsby probably never thought being tied to a chair would eventually be part of her dining experience.

However, if one happened to be the unfortunate victim of Alzheimer’s while living in a nursing home, and was known for wandering off in the year of nineteen eighty-four, being tied up was par for the course.

Esther shoved the peas aside causing most of them to fall off her plate, and grudgingly stuck her fork into the over-cooked slice of meatloaf. I watched her face contort into a grimace just before she pulled the partially chewed chunk of meat from her mouth and threw it to the floor.
“Let the dog get it.” Esther remarked, just as I grabbed her napkin to retrieve the repulsive meat. She was beginning to fiddle with the straps on her restraint before I could distract her enough to grab the cup of ice cream. Esther was known for her love of chocolate.

THE END

Yeah, that’s as far as I got in writing last weeks challenge entry for Faithwriters.com. It’s one in a slew of partially finished short stories that die an early death due to a Thursday morning deadline, which sneaks up behind me and mocks my procrastination. But, hey – I wrote something, so there.

Why, I wonder, do politicians want to destroy our healthcare and kill us? Do people really want governmental bureaucrats managing yet another area of our lives? Rationing is okay for flour and cheese in war time, but if I need a CAT scan, I want it now.

Why do we curse people who are driving too slowly and speed around them, but when someone speeds around us we call them a “maniac”?

I’m on day three of writing this post. That’s right. Three days to write basically nothing worth reading. So I sit here having no idea what to write but force my fingertips to move across the keyboard anyway. Just string letters together to form words – something will come. Ignore the drops of blood forming on my forehead. Perseverance pays off, or so they say.

My husband found out he is a diabetic a few weeks ago, or as he likes to say, “Borderline damnit.” Which isn’t as bad as actually being in the country of Diabetes, apparently. Don’t cross the border or they’ll shoot your head off! I lied. My husband wouldn’t curse; I added the “damnit” for effect. It successfully portrays his mood when I bring up the subject of what he has on his plate. I don’t really get why people get upset because other people care about them. Maybe it’s the nagging factor, although I wouldn’t consider myself to be nagging – more like reminding.

DAY FOUR

I begin beating myself over the head with a rolling pin while mumbling, “Write write write .” Suddenly I halt the self motivation technique and notice a crumb on the kitchen counter. Which leads to noticing smudges on the microwaves, spills on the stove, and fingerprints on the pantry door.

DAY FIVE

The need to write is more powerful now. Maybe if I wait until Day Ten, the words will just overpower me and place themselves on the keyboard. Soon, I’ll be able to post the two paragraphs I’ve written for this weeks writing challenge.

Have I mentioned I’m married to a saint? Good married couples balance each other, however, the scales are heavily tipped in his favor and I just hold on for dear life. When we were married my mom said, “If you two end up divorced – I’m keeping Matt.” I don’t blame her; I would’ve said the same thing had it been my daughter. Luckily, once in a while his goodness rubs off on me and I get to wear the halo. But it’s usually not long before I find myself kicking it around in the street, using the sewer as a goal.

Welp, I think I have typed enough to actually post this in its entirety. It doesn’t make much sense, and you’ll forgive me, I know. I promise to do better and make you proud of me, and in the end you and I can celebrate in Hawaii while watching hula dancers and gnawing on pineapple. Just ignore the screams coming from my side of the campfire, “Are you eating potato-chips AGAIN?!!”

A Man's Mirror

There’s somethin’ about you baby, that makes me want to feed you a high calorie meal and lengthen your trousers.


I can’t say I was ever a fan of Farah Fawcett, who died this past week. Although I certainly knew who she was, and spent more than a few hours during my younger years, trying to copy her coveted hair style. I didn’t much care for Charlie’s Angels but did appreciate her performance in The Burning Bed, perhaps because I fantasized about doing such to my now ex-husband. Maybe I’m ignorant to all that was the icon-Farah, but I’m left with the impression her most notable accomplishment was nicely posing for a swimsuit pin-up.

Michael Jackson, who died on the same day as Farah, however, has left quite a different impression on my being. I was never a huge Jackson fan, but did grow up listening to him and enjoying his music, dance, and videos.

Nah, I never could get the “Moonwalk” perfected. My version looked more like the Saturn shuffle.

I can still remember the day the Thriller video made its debut, my friends and I gathered around the T.V. with high expectations and Michael delivered, leaving none disappointed. I’m not sure why I didn’t recognize it at the time, but this man was clearly a musical genius.

Some have said the bridge of brilliance can lead to the island of insanity. Or maybe only I said that, either way – what a trip!

As with many Jackson fans, the allegations of child molestation, weird, eccentric happenings, and the more than disturbing transformation (mutilation) he subjected to his face, sent up red flags all over our musical listening lawns.

To be fair, Michael was acquitted of all charges concerning the molestation incident and I remember feeling relieved when hearing the verdict, but certainly can’t pretend like I know what actually happened. I won’t deny there was always that speck of doubt that lingered in my mind, fueled by the media’s seeming angst against him. It was more than obvious to all of us by this time; there was something going on with this guy which made it impossible to ignore the fact that he had “issues.” Issues, which apparently stemmed from an abusive childhood at the hands of his own father.

But who of us don’t have issues? I’ve been known to panic after noticing dust bunnies swirling beneath the bed. I’m reminded of how grateful I am that there are no paparazzi reporting on my every eccentric-ism.

Still, I have to ask the question; why was the death of Michael Jackson such a shock to so many? It has to be more than his young years, he wasn’t twenty-five - he was fifty. While fifty is still considered much too young to suffer death, it certainly isn’t unheard of. Was it because he’s been out of the public eye for so long, the last thing any fan expected to hear about him next, was of his demise? Is it because of the magnitude of his fame? Is there some part of our brains that dehumanize these super-stars, deeming them untouchable – even for death?

Bigger than life.

Or perhaps a combination of all this, and more. There’s no question the tragic aspect of Michael’s life plays a roll in the outpouring of love and grief. Whatever you think of him, there’s no denying his musical talent and success far surpassed those of most entertainers. Someone who, from our viewpoint, had all that is desirable – yet was profoundly miserable.

If something good can come out of Michael’s death, I hope it will be that people will give pause to what they consider valuable. I hope people will discover we are all the same – in the deep crevices of our hearts lie the universal need to love and be loved. A desire to be accepted and appreciated.

Michael, with all of his talent, didn’t deserve to be loved any more or any less than any other human being. His accolades, awards, and platinum accomplishments couldn’t fill those crevices or smooth over the scars of his life, and our impressive automobiles and designer denims won’t serve any better.

If something good can come out of Michael’s death, I hope people will look up. I hope somehow, in some way, they find the only One who promises to accept, appreciate, and love.

Now – just BEAT IT!