Do not judge lest ye be judged, gentile. We provide the young with shelter, sustenance, a loving home, and a loving family. We watch them crawl, then toddle, then run. We nurture them, teach them, and provide them with a job, a sense of purpose. And we also warn them of your gentile ways -- of the dark, hateful, unrighteous ways of the Lucifer outside the boundaries of the Lord Thy God's circle of protection.
We lead our boys, our young men, to become leaders -- not only in the ways of self-sacrifice, strength, and breadwinning, but also of the faith, the pursuit of righteousness, and acceptance of the Elder's guidance. And, for our females, we educate in not only the craftsmanship of a holy household, but the pursuit of a blessed and fruitful womb. Ah, the blessed joys of dedication, holy union, and motherhood. For they shall balance the duties of not only fulfilling the Elder's carnal requirements, but for fulfilling our Lord's dictates for an honorable and pleasing wife. And, as celebrated by King David in Song of Solomon, to suckle our blessed projeny on breasts that have just budded forth not one year's hence.
Blessed be Moroni. Blessed be Jesus Christ, the Eternal God, who manifests himself and our truth to all people and nations.
Blessed be thy name.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Tuesday Writing Prompt (May 20, 2008)
The Angel
It is a very strange feeling, one that I haven't experienced before. That is clearly my jacket. I put it on this morning, long sleeved and black leather, with our club's angel insignia. And my watch, the Corum Bubble with the roulette-wheel face. And my hand, laying upwardly open, fingers moving slightly, my wedding ring sparkling from the early evening sunlight.
I didn't see the tree across the road until after the turn. Pine trees everywhere, actually, but I can't smell their fragrance. I can't breathe in, in fact. I try, but it is like I have no breath. I can move my lips, but I can emit no sound. I can look about -- but I cannot turn my head. Why am I laying over there, but looking at myself from over here? How can I be looking across the road at myself laying down . . . and at my Harley, laying sideways. At the bottom of my boots, with their nearly new, barely scuffed soles.
My body feels light and tingly, but my vision is clear. My body is there, but my ponytail is here, laying long and braided on the road before my eyes, under my chin, pointing toward my feet on the other side of the road. I . . . I don't understand. How can this be? Am I an angel?
It is a very strange feeling, one that I haven't experienced before. That is clearly my jacket. I put it on this morning, long sleeved and black leather, with our club's angel insignia. And my watch, the Corum Bubble with the roulette-wheel face. And my hand, laying upwardly open, fingers moving slightly, my wedding ring sparkling from the early evening sunlight.
I didn't see the tree across the road until after the turn. Pine trees everywhere, actually, but I can't smell their fragrance. I can't breathe in, in fact. I try, but it is like I have no breath. I can move my lips, but I can emit no sound. I can look about -- but I cannot turn my head. Why am I laying over there, but looking at myself from over here? How can I be looking across the road at myself laying down . . . and at my Harley, laying sideways. At the bottom of my boots, with their nearly new, barely scuffed soles.
My body feels light and tingly, but my vision is clear. My body is there, but my ponytail is here, laying long and braided on the road before my eyes, under my chin, pointing toward my feet on the other side of the road. I . . . I don't understand. How can this be? Am I an angel?
Tuesday Writing Prompt (From May 6, 2008)
My rapping knuckles emit a feeble tapping noise against the hardwood panels. I reach up and use the metal knocker. A clanking noise breaks the silence, and the window slowly slides up revealing a pair of gray eyes under bushy white eyebrows . . .
“Slide your manuscript in, please,” an old-yet-regal voice beckons.
Manuscript?, I think to myself. What manuscript? Was I supposed to . . . Ah, yes. Remembering that I had used my “Writing Prompt Tuesdays #1″ poem to plug a hole in my shoe, I quickly unlace and liberate it, smooth the page flat, and slide it under the bars toward the doorman’s squinted eyes.
“One moment, Sir,” the voice says as the window slides closed again.
Nearly an hour slips by and I toy with the idea of forraging for berries on the nearby bushes. I slip to the ground outside the door and lean upon it. The clanging awakens me, and I leap to my feet.
“Madam will see you now, sir.” More clanking and the door swings inwards. “I beg you to forgive the formalities, sir. Please enter. Ms. Rowling is very selective about her ghost-writing staff. She awaits you in the great hall.”
“Slide your manuscript in, please,” an old-yet-regal voice beckons.
Manuscript?, I think to myself. What manuscript? Was I supposed to . . . Ah, yes. Remembering that I had used my “Writing Prompt Tuesdays #1″ poem to plug a hole in my shoe, I quickly unlace and liberate it, smooth the page flat, and slide it under the bars toward the doorman’s squinted eyes.
“One moment, Sir,” the voice says as the window slides closed again.
Nearly an hour slips by and I toy with the idea of forraging for berries on the nearby bushes. I slip to the ground outside the door and lean upon it. The clanging awakens me, and I leap to my feet.
“Madam will see you now, sir.” More clanking and the door swings inwards. “I beg you to forgive the formalities, sir. Please enter. Ms. Rowling is very selective about her ghost-writing staff. She awaits you in the great hall.”
Tuesday Writing Prompt #1 (from 4/22/08)
Said Heathcliff to her long dry tresses,
“I feel like hippopota-messes.
Under the moors your teeth are dust,
your frilly buttons turned to rust.”
Said Heathcliff to her cold crevaces,
“Come dance with me upon the grasses.
With Venus now eclipsed with Mars
I’ll watch your eyes reflect the stars.”
Said Heathcliff to her at the dawn,
“Your whalebone hoopskirts turn me on.
And all the little things you brave
Like eating mushrooms from your grave.”
Said Catherine as they lay together,
“Your skin, Heathcliff, is supple leather.
Just shut your mouth and kiss me well
It’s cold down here, as cold as hell.”
— Paul R. Wade
“I feel like hippopota-messes.
Under the moors your teeth are dust,
your frilly buttons turned to rust.”
Said Heathcliff to her cold crevaces,
“Come dance with me upon the grasses.
With Venus now eclipsed with Mars
I’ll watch your eyes reflect the stars.”
Said Heathcliff to her at the dawn,
“Your whalebone hoopskirts turn me on.
And all the little things you brave
Like eating mushrooms from your grave.”
Said Catherine as they lay together,
“Your skin, Heathcliff, is supple leather.
Just shut your mouth and kiss me well
It’s cold down here, as cold as hell.”
— Paul R. Wade
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