Who Done It?

This popped up on Facebook recently, a sarcastic offering from a Christian site. I had to think: there is nothing about this meme that “makes perfect sense”. The implication here being that since the poster doesn't understand how everything came to be, it must be the work of God. In this case, the Christian God.

I responded:

Our inability to explain something is not a good reason to say that “God” must have done it. Science peels the onion, layer by layer, and we learn. We know now that the earth is not the center of the universe, nor is it flat. The sun is not a god. There are no miracles other than everything itself, and the “laws of nature” that control all of it in a specific, predictable order.

These laws are never arbitrarily suspended by some interactive god answering a prayer. Two atoms of Hydrogen and one of Oxygen when combined under the same specific conditions will always yield water.

Period.

If people choose one of the more than 5,000 religions in this world to provide a metaphor that helps them better understand our existence, good for them. There are many paths and just because someone is on a different path than you, doesn't mean that they're lost.

There is one big miracle though, the miracle that is everything that ever was, is, and ever will be. But even that doesn't mean that “God did it”, unless you want to call the laws of nature "God".

Religion is crowd control, church is a business. But every religion is full of metaphors to help us understand that which cannot be understood. The trouble starts when we overlook the metaphor and take it all literally.

Sometimes things just are, and they don't require our understanding to be so.

When I Come Back Again...

It's been about 10 years since Hannah worked the lemonade stand. And I mean she really worked it, doubling the size of the tip jar, placing it front and center, running a tray of cold samples out to the passing crowd... parched, burnt, shuffling down St Augustine’s busiest tourist gauntlet like extras from “The Walking Dead”, in dire need of a cold lemonade. Hannah, dressing, the part, blared Reggae music, a Siren's song, from her oasis. She made way more cash in a day of selling lemonade than anyone ever had, more than I did in a day working real estate for that matter. She still attacks the challenges, it's just who she is.

Her sister, Ruth, is more like me, low key, less prone to be the show itself. But unlike me, she loves to go. Concerts, events, fairs, shows, anything fun. She deserves it though, she works hard, and makes a better living as a high end nanny/assistant to beautiful people out in La La land than I ever did...and has more fun at it. One thing we do have in common though, is our mutual love of brewed hops products. Andrew loves them too. I knew I liked that guy when I first saw him...with a mug in his hand.

But do you see an overall theme here? A touch of bitterness in the old man? I swear, if I'm a good boy in this life and get to choose, I'm coming back as a beautiful girl...and I'm going to work it. I mean really work it.

Hannah's Visit

One week down, and one to go before she has to fly back down to Bogota. Last Tuesday, Carla and I stood tall, like two Meerkats, watching for her approach. Hannah shot out of the arrivals terminal, smiling widely and jabbering non-stop before we could even hear her voice, and that's how the first week has been. She'll be jabbering away in another room and I'll yell at the ceiling of mine: “Hannah, are you talking to me? Because I can't really hear what you're saying!” “No Dad, I'm just talking.” she yells back. Everything with her is non-stop, fast, eager, hungry, excited...there are too many things to do in a day, every day. That's Hannah's life. It's great to have her here, I love her company and ride an endorphin high just by association. We made a huge pot of vegetarian spaghetti sauce and a blueberry pie, fresh boiled shrimp with lots of Old Bay and some dusted and fried with garlic. Last night it was Yamato for a boat load of Sashimi, washed down with warm Sake and several cold Asahis that dripped sweat rings into our napkins and made made the straw wrapper for Carla's iced tea expand and wiggle on the table like a white paper worm. Hannah and Carla run the dogs the long way around the lake each day after Hannah has already worked out...squatting and jumping, weights in hand, making the back deck flex and complain, then shaking sweat off like a wet dog before settling in for some serious yoga. Happy, she's always happy. Just so pleased to be here, or anywhere for that matter, totally immersed in, and loving, this gift of life that we are all given but which so very few consume as ravenously, or with such appreciation and attention paid to the meal itself.

Hannah" Hannah?

Seven days with no contact and I begin to wonder if I should start worrying. Just a little. But she's trained me well so I suppress it, let it go. OK, I did go to the FB page for Bogota, Columbia, fishing for a lead on a private detective service but then I got a piece of pecan pie and forgot about it. If she gets kidnapped and sold into Middle Eastern sex slavery, how would I know anyway? Unless there was suddenly some new kind of major unrest over there. She would choke them out, like a cartoon cat who swallows a mouse whole and violently spits it back out when the mouse lights up a big cigar inside the cat's stomach. They would spit her out.

She posts: “Back on the grid after a little hiatus involving a truck, power lines, and Columbia...”

I'm glad she's back in the ether...and soon to be home with us for a few weeks. Love it.

This painting of her is something new, I guess one of her friends did it.