Cadaver

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Cadaver: (n) a corpse.

I found myself at the bedside of a dying friend, as her family came in to offer their farewells.

Even though I knew the woman quite well, her kin were a little bit of a mystery to me. But each one came to her side, said a word or two, and she shared a
sentiment. Tears sprouted, they gave her a kiss and scooted aside.

There was a girl about twelve years of age who came up, said her speech, did not receive any encouraging words, but went ahead and kissed my friend anyway. As she pulled away the nurse stepped in, took a pulse, realizing that the lady had passed away.

The young girl lurched back in horror, and before she considered what she was saying, proffered, “Yuck! I kissed a dead person!”

It made me think.

Moments before, this was her great-aunt but because breath had left the body, she had instantly become a frightening cadaver.

It’s why we all work so hard to stay alive. The breath that the Creator breathed into us is what really makes us valuable.

Once it’s gone, we just become kind of yucky.

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Buzzards

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Buzzard: (n) a large hawklike bird of prey

Sometimes I find myself discontent with my status and very fussy about my being.

Even though the more religious souls around me would disagree, I believe the Creator was much better intentioned than adept at design.

You know what I’m saying? Every once in a while, each one of us gets in a mood to buy some watercolors and try to paint a picture. Even though the experience may be pleasant, the results of the painting adventure need to buried in the back yard.

Yet what often causes me to recover from my spiritual swoon is considering how fortunate that I am not another type of creature.

I would despise being a cockroach.

Being a rat living in the sewers of New York City seems uncomfortable.

And I wouldn’t want to be a buzzard. Job description: flying around the sky all day long looking for dead things. Sometimes really, really dead things–so I can eat.

Now, I know that hamburger is just the remaining flesh of a cow, but when you add some ketchup, pickles and onions, it can be quite good.

Buzzards have to land and pick the bones of the dead.

I don’t want to be a buzzard. And I especially don’t want to be an emotional buzzard–flying around looking for the disasters in the lives of others so I can chew the fat with the old birds about their demise.

I don’t like buzzards–but they are part of creation.

So may I say, “Carion, my wayward son.”

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Buttress

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Buttress: (n) a source of defense or support.

I construct a buttress–a physical barrier to communicate that I am prepared to withstand an attack.

I suppose if it stopped there it might be fine. Certain safeguards are necessary in a violent world.

But once I physically construct a buttress, I begin to believe it’s necessary to build a mental buttress for my brain.

What is that?

Only certain information is allowed. This data must be in harmony with my present philosophy and level of understanding.

Once I’m fully protected from the possibility of errant or alien ideas attacking my mind, it becomes necessary to build a buttress for my spirit–the soul.

And how shall I construct such a protection? By developing an unwavering conviction on who God is and who the Creator is not, never allowing foreign doctrines to permeate my walls.

Even if I am granted a vision sent from the heavens, I must defend the traditions–or risk losing the certainty I have over established belief.

So now I’m protected from physical assault, mental aggression and spiritual infiltration.

I certainly must complete the isolation by erecting a buttress to guard my feelings.

The emotions need to shrink, only including certain members of my family, color, styles and predilections. I find myself getting cold but adjust to the chill by warming myself with a cloak of self-righteousness.

Now I am fully encased, each buttress in place to secure body, mind, soul and heart.

But why am I awakening in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, screaming?

What has come in?

What is troubling me?

What has breached my fortification and now disrupts my rest?

I am undefended from me.

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Bramble

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Bramble: (n) a prickly scrambling vine or shrub

Is the Universe a sporadic series of incomplete evolutions, or a well-constructed and defined object lesson?

It’s a damn good question.Dictionary B

Because if I were to believe that everything is spawned by chance, then I might be completely unable to make sense of anything around me.

But if there is some sort of reason, purpose or genius behind the way things are placed, then I have the glorious task of unraveling the mystery.

Why do roses have thorns?

And why do bramble bushes have prickly parts that make it difficult to pick the berries which often inhabit their vines?

What’s the message?

Is there a need for us to be discouraged in the pursuit of beauty and nutrition?

Are we to understand that blessing is achieved, rather than guaranteed?

Is the Creator trying to separate the perseverant from the lazy?

Because plucking a rose is risking a prick.

And hunting for berries might tear at your skin.

Is there a message here? Or am I reading deeper thoughts than intended into an evolutionary mishap?

I’m not sure.

But I can tell you, the pursuit of wisdom never fails us … even if there’s very little information to be uncovered.

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Bored

Bored: (adj) feeling weary because one is unoccupied

With those who have communion wine running through their veins, I would probably get in trouble for suggesting that there are parts of the writ of Holy Dictionary BScripture which could certainly use a good edit.

As a writer, I edit myself all the time. Matter of fact, if somebody pulled out an article I wrote seven years ago, it’s possible that I might need to apologize.

So as I look down the list of the Seven Deadly Sins (which I shall not mention due to space and out of fear of immediately falling under conviction) there is one obvious absence, which should either be inserted to replace one of the existing choices–or maybe as just a header, to describe what causes all seven.

Bored.

When we are bored we are capable of everything from stumbling to atrocity.

I do not know where we got the idea that life was hatched in the mind of the Creator with the intention of constantly entertaining us, but part of maturity is certainly realizing the importance and inevitability of “down time.”

For instance, nothing is more annoying than a seven-year-old child telling you that he’s bored–especially if you’ve just returned from the park, a movie and Baskin Robbins.

The need to be entertained is what motivates both sluggard and murderer.

I always feel I have achieved the best of humanity–and made the Good Book sensible–when I finish my day without ever feeling bored.

 

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Boggle

Boggle: (v) to be astonished or overwhelmed when trying to imagine something.

Human beings are emotional creatures.Dictionary B

Perhaps our greatest error is when we fail to recognize this simple fact.

It’s not that women are emotional and men aren’t. Men cry like babies when they lose a football game.

We even have religions which try to do away with emotion, contending it’s the universal stumbling block to spiritual growth.

Good luck.

Our emotions will not be denied, ignored or passed over in favor of reasoning.

So long before our minds are boggled, we are emotionally confused and spiritually vacant. In other words, we have a feeling about something and no belief system to address it, so we are brain-dead-confounded.

One of the best reasons to believe in a Creator is to understand how we were created. We feel, we believe and then we think–even though there are those who say we should think first and then develop belief, ending with a confident feeling.

But it doesn’t work that way.

We feel first and then have belief so that we actually can think about it and come up with a common sense solution.

Our entire society, political arena and world order is presently boggled.

Why?

Because no one wants to deal with their feelings, and then find the faith to be reasonable.

 

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Blameless

Blameless: (adj) innocent of wrongdoing.

Dictionary B

People were killed because they happened to be in a night club with a man who brought a gun and a nasty vendetta.

It doesn’t make sense.

Human beings who insist on the world being sensible end up either committing suicide or writing really bad poetry.

But we are not blameless.

I want to find my fault in the fiasco. I am weary of studying the scrambled brains of troubled little boys.

None of us are blameless.

All have sinned and fallen short of glorious possibilities.

An attempt to point fingers–especially prompted by political motivations–is what truly enrages our Creator.

So I went off yesterday morning and did what I think I do best. I shared a message of good cheer enjoined with personal responsiblity.

For after all, I will never change the world by focusing on its tribulation.

I am also useless if I quietly intone to others, “Be patient because God is in control.”

I find value in the human tribe when I bring a spirit of good cheer with a simple idea on how to make things just a little bit better.

I didn’t shoot one bullet at the Pulse Night Club in Orlando, Florida.

But legislation is useless. I must share a responsibility to make this world a little bit more pleasant by offering a courtly grace to the next brother or sister I encounter.

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