Grandma Ruthie
He who created the universe,
Willingly confined to bones and flesh,
Immortality became mortal,
Accepting frail humanness.
We, the product of his hands,
Allowed to touch with ours,
The very hands and face of God,
Who for us subdues his powers.
His visage could have struck us dead,
But instead, was marred by man,
For from the very dawn of time,
His death was his own plan.
How can I comprehend it?
A humble incarnation,
Design of an Almighty God
To bring to us salvation.
I just read an article saying that Hillary was right about “deplorables” and their desire to reverse Roe V. Wade and therefore, take away women’s autonomy over their own bodies.
Deplorables are depicted as uneducated right-wing Christian
fascists. Well, that’s pretty insulting
to someone like myself who has a graduate degree, typically scores in the 98th
to 99th percentile on tests, and does not consider my views to be
off the rails into extremism.
I have NOT wanted to vote for Trump in the past two
elections. It required “holding my nose.” I am appalled by some of his attitudes and
behaviors. However, I was also appalled
by the policies espoused by Hillary and now Joe.
I actually do not believe that all abortion is murder. I know that may be heresy to some of my
Christian friends. I think it is
warranted in certain situations…very few situations, but some. I can stomach the idea of early abortion,
particularly in cases of rape and incest.
However, if nothing else, abortion demonstrates disrespect for
life. That general diminishing of the
great importance of human life is behind other ills in our society. School shootings are one thing that come to
mind. Human life, including one’s own
life, must be significantly devalued to the point of mental illness for such
atrocities to occur.
I would argue that a woman gives up control of her own body
when she spreads her legs and allows a man between them. She is surrendering her autonomy either to
him or to her own passions. There are
natural consequences to our behaviors. The
risk of pregnancy is one of them. Either
you accept the consequences of your behavior, or you find some way out…perhaps
by terminating the life of your own child.
Whether Hillary et al. want to believe it or not, there are
moral absolutes. Our society has totally
abandoned that notion. When everything
becomes acceptable, we leave ourselves and our children drifting in a nightmare. To what will we cling? What hope do we have? What we do have is despair as exhibited by
most school shooters and large segments of our society, who feel oppressed and
misunderstood. They act out in rage or dull
their pain through substance abuse.
Trump was in many ways not a reasonable man. (I hope that he
does not run in 2024.) I am hopeful that his appointees to the Supreme Court
are reasonable people who will do whatever they can to restore some
foundational beliefs which have been flushed down the drain in recent years. If they can’t do that, our country is going
to go swirling down the sewer into chaos and complete moral decay.
“It’s all a matter of perspective.” I have heard that expression at times thorough out my life and have previously pondered it.
Today I am flying from San
Francisco, California, to Charlotte, North Carolina, and I am thinking about
how different one’s perspective of the topography is from a bird’s eye view as
from a walking or driving view. What
appears to be an insurmountable barrier from below, looks like nothing more
than a slight indentation from 30,000 feet above. As we drive along a highway passing through
cities and towns, we have no concept of the vast wilderness that is on either
side of it. We may stand next to a river
watching its flow, but we have no understand of where it comes from or where it
goes. A wind turbine looks like a bit of
a toothpick from the air, but having stood at the base of one, I can tell you
that they are enormous.
My granddaughter accused me this
week of not understanding what it is like to be a child. She doesn’t just think I have forgotten. She thinks I never was a child and went
straight to being a grandmother! She is
seven, so she can be forgiven for this total lack of logic. Actually, I do remember what it is like to be
a child, and that is why I bother to attempt to correct her behaviors. I also remember what it was like to be a
not-yet-mature adult, which is why I was not offended greatly when a grandson
told me that my ideas were out-dated and irrelevant. There is a perspective
with age. One might wish to impart a 70+
year old perspective to a young person, but unfortunately…or maybe
fortunately…we each have to live life and experience some pain and sorrow to
gain perspective from the passage of time.
Gender also impacts perspective. I have been better than most females at
understanding what goes through the male brain.
I generally get along better with a group of men than with a group of
women. I like women and have women
friends with whom I share a deep connection, but trying to function with a
group of women sometimes drives me a little crazy. It’s not that there is anything wrong with
the way men and women think…it is wonderful that both exist. But they come from different perspectives. Something which gets discussed in
mind-numbing detail by women would be quickly decided by a group of men. I was once part of an all-female committee
that spent three meetings discussing what color the napkins should be at an
up-coming event. I didn’t attend the
last of those meetings, because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to control the
words that came out of my mouth.
Perhaps, the most important
perspective comes from one’s worldview.
How did we get here? Do we have a
purpose? Do our lives have meaning? If so, what is it? I have been at social events where the
discussion has led me to believe that my worldview is quite different than that
of the typical middle-class white person.
I believe there is a God who is creator and sustainer of the
universe. I believe we are here to honor
Him with our lives. I believe He has a
grand design for the world and humanity, and that we each are to play a part in
fulfilling His plan. I believe
everything we think we own, really belongs to Him. It comes from His kindness to us, and we are
responsible to Him for how we use it.
That includes our time, talents, and material resources. I believe God sent His only Son in the person
of Jesus to pay the penalty for our sin and to restore our broken relationship
with Him. This is the perspective that
has impacted my entire life.
If you are reading this, spend
some time thinking about your perspective.
Veterans’ Day 2020 is a long way from the end of World War II in 1945. That was a very significant time in my young life. I was born just before the war ended. I was 7 months old before I met my father who had been serving in the Army in France. Today I am thinking about my family members who served.
My Dad worked in a grocery store as a butcher prior to the
war. After being drafted and going
through basic training, he was viewed as having leadership potential and was
sent to Officers’ Candidate School. While in the military, he tripped a mine,
but other than a ruptured eardrum, he was not hurt. He told me that the day I was born was the
last day anyone actually shot at him. He
came out of the Army as a 1st Lieutenant, and this gave him a leg-up
in job hunting after the war. He worked
for a time at Wurlitzer, a company that made juke boxes, and then began working
for American Standard as the foreman in the core room. He later moved and ended up as the production
manager in a small business. He spent his life as a “blue collar” worker but
always in management positions within the factory.
My Dad’s brother Roy was a conscientious objector, so he went
in the military as a medic. He was
stationed on a hospital ship in the Pacific and saw some pretty awful
things. He had one experience that
caused him to realize that he could kill someone if he needed to do so. Coming out of the Army, he used the GI bill
to go to college. He became an engineer
specializing in cooling systems. I knew
he traveled all over the world in the early 1950s, a time when such travel wasn’t
typical. Near the end of his 91
year-long life, he confessed that he had been working on cooling systems for
nuclear reactors and couldn’t really admit that or talk about it. He never married or had children. I was his only niece and was probably closer
to him than the nephews were. He
believed having to be in the military had negatively impacted my Dad’s life and
earning potential, so in later years, he would send Dad large sums of
money. Dad would turn around and donate
it somewhere. This annoyed Uncle Roy.
My mother had three brothers, all of whom served during WWII. The oldest brother Frank was already married
and had a child when he left for Europe.
He was wounded by a German sniper, had a metal plate placed in his elbow,
and recovered in England, before being sent back to the states. In his absence, his wife had an affair with
her boss. She left Uncle Frank, divorced
him, and took their son with her. He
tried to keep up with his son initially, although they were living in another
state, but eventually he gave up. He
remarried, but never had another child. I don’t remember his exact career path,
but he ended up as a Family Court Clerk.
Mom’s brother Chuck was my Dad’s best friend when they were
young men. That is how my parents
met. Chuck also served in Europe. When he came home, he had a fairly short
career as a fireman, but then went back into the military in the Air
Force. He made a life-time career of
this, so he was around the least of my uncles as I grew up. He sometimes sent letters and photos of
places he was stationed. He was in
Alaska in the 50s and was once stationed at the Pentagon. He was married but had no children. He died unexpectedly at the age of 50 as a
Lieutenant Colonel and is buried in Arlington National Cemetery. I have visited his grave there.
Mom’s youngest brother Art was in north Africa during the war
and contracted malaria. He had some bouts
with this after the war. He used the GI
bill to attend college and law school.
He married and was into a promising career as a lawyer when his young
daughter died of cancer. He went through
several disastrous years of grief and not working. His wife supported them for a time. Eventually, he pulled himself out of this
time of despair and became a college professor.
He structured one of the first paralegal programs for a junior college. He had always been a heavy smoker and died of
lung cancer at about the age of 60.
In retrospect, I can see ways in which military service
benefited some family members and had a negative impact on the lives of others. No one talked about PTSD back then, but I
suspect they all had it. My parents said
that after the war, they went to a movie together. There was a scene at a party, that abruptly went
into a war scene with guns blazing. My
Dad flattened himself on the floor of the theater and was shaking so badly that
they left the movie.
None of these wonderful men are living now. I have fond memories of all of them. My uncles were very kind and encouraging to
me. Immediately after the war, all of
the men I have mentioned except Uncle Roy were living with my maternal
grandparents. I was the little princess
in the house, and my wish was their command.
I was spoiled rotten. My mother
thought she would never straighten me out.
Some of my first words were also their “colorful” language, but there was
a great deal of mutual affection with all of these guys. Uncle Chuck gave me anything I asked for,
Uncle Art taught me to tell my mother I was “standing on my constitutional
rights” if she scolded me, Uncle Frank was tallest and would bump my head on
the ceiling….I called him Uncle Bink, and Uncle Roy and I developed a life-long
secret word with which we greeted and admonished each other. My Dad was a sometimes harsh and difficult
man, but I loved him. We butted heads
right to the end, but we appreciated each other.
I am grateful they all made it home in 1945!
Now and then, an event in my past life comes to mind, and I have no idea why. This morning, I thought about a patient I took care of long ago. I think he was in his 50s or 60s. I don’t remember his name, but I think he was Scottish as he had a plaid robe that seemed to have significance for him.
I must have taken care of him for several days, because I
remember being with him on both the day and evening shifts. Typically, as students, we would work 2 weeks
of days, followed by 2 weeks of evenings and then 2 weeks of nights, on each
unit to which we were assigned.
I know I took care of him on the day shift, because I have a
distinct memory of discussing him with the Team Leader. She was a middle-aged lady with a European
accent, flaming red hair, and too much blue eye shadow. She had no sympathy for him. She was convinced he was just fond of
narcotics and didn’t need pain medication.
She paid no attention to my protests that I was sure he was genuinely in
pain.
I spent enough time with him to assess his pain…both intensity
and type. He described his upper
abdominal pain as “pulsating.” I
dutifully reported and charted this believing it was significant.
I don’t remember what tests were done or why it was that days
later, it was suddenly decided on the evening shift that he had to go to
surgery right then. I guess someone
finally figured out that the pulsating pain was a large aortic aneurysm
threatening to rupture. I helped to put
him on the gurney to go to the Operating Room.
He was clearly frightened.
As others bustled around him, I touched his shoulder, bent down, and
said quietly, “We will be waiting for you when you come back.” There was no family present, and I wanted him
to know someone would be there to greet him on his return.
With a trembling voice, he said, “I’m not coming back.”
He was right. When they
attempted to repair the bulge in his aorta, the tissue disintegrated, and he bled
to death right there on the OR table.
Would it have made a difference if someone had believed his
pain and my description sooner? I don’t
know. I do know diagnosis would be much
easier and faster now with MRIs.
Vascular surgery techniques have improved too.
I also know that he is
one of those patients embedded in my memory.
Was it a good thing or a bad thing that my father could sew?
When he was a little boy, my father had rheumatic fever. His mother was hard-pressed to keep him quiet
and avoid physical activity.
Grandma had been a tailor…not just an accomplished seamstress…but
a tailor. Prior to her marriage, she
worked at a clothing company that made men’s suits. When sewing for the family, she even made her
own patterns. She would take
measurements and trace out a pattern on newspaper. Due to her skills, I never had a store-bought
winter coat until I was in 7th grade. Also due to her skills, in desperation to keep
my dad inactive, she taught him to sew.
As a sickly child unable to rough house with the boys, he made
clothes for his sisters’ dolls. As an
adult, he could sew on his own buttons and do minor repairs. After my mother passed away, the problem with
this emerged.
Dad never had very good fashion sense. Years of my mother “dressing” him didn’t give
him the picture. After she passed, he
decided that she had encouraged him to wear his slacks longer than he thought
they should be. He was living with us
after she departed, so one day when I arrived home from work, he announced that
he had shortened all of his slacks. I
was horrified when I saw the results. He
had carefully hemmed his slacks into “high water” position.
So attired, he forged out into the world, happy with his
accomplishment and thinking he looked great.
I decided this was not a battle I wished to fight. I had enough trouble getting him to go to the
barber instead of doing a hatchet job on his own hair.
I hope my mother doesn’t scold me when I see her in
heaven. I think she will shrug it off
and be as glad to see me, as I am to see her.
What new book should I read,
What different place explore,
What question should I ask,
I should open…which door?
Is there something I’ve never
tried,
A path I haven’t walked,
A truly interesting person
To whom I haven’t talked?
Is there a song I haven’t sung,
A joke I haven’t heard,
A flower I haven’t smelled,
A previously unknown bird?
Is there a prayer I haven’t
prayed,
A task I’ve left undone,
Have I neglected God’s desire
That I glorify His Son.
Well then, I have good reason,
Another day to wake,
To continue to seek out,
The path I’m meant to take.
Today one of my daughters and I were talking on the phone about the influence grandparents have on grandchildren. She commented that it was too bad all my grandparents had died by the time I was 13. She wondered what would be different about me if I had had that on-going interaction into adulthood. She wondered if Grandma Kratzat would have taught me to tat.
I told her one thing I was certain was that Grandpa Baumeister
would have taught me how to grow roses.
He had a small backyard in the city of Buffalo, but he had many roses,
and I was fascinated. I particularly was
curious about how he propagated new rose bushes by placing a rose with part of
its stem attached in the ground under a mason jar. To me, it seemed like a miracle that a new
rose bush could be grown in this way.
When Grandpa B was in the hospital and seemed to be dying, I
was taken to see him. As I bent down to
hug him, he held me close and with tears said, “I am so sorry. I promised to show you how I grow my roses this
summer, but I won’t be here to do that.”
I was not quite 12 years old and had no idea what to say. I just continued to hug him.
Before talking with my daughter today, it had not occurred to
me that the information on how to do this might now be available on the
internet, so I went searching. Sure
enough, the technique is described. It
does say one should use a “rooting hormone” to stimulate the develop of the
roots. I am fairly certain this would
not have been available commercially 65 years ago. I wondered what naturally occurring rooting
hormones might be available. I found a
list: cinnamon, aloe, apple cider
vinegar, honey, aspirin and saliva. As I
thought about each and what the likelihood of Grandpa using it might be, I
thought, “Ha! Saliva!” I can picture him spitting on the cut bottom
of the stem. What’s more, I can picture
that had he been able to show me his technique, he would have said, “OK,
Ruthie, spit on this!” And since, a
young lady spitting was frowned on, it would have been a delicious secret
between Grandpa and me as the rose bush grew, that it had required my saliva.
When I get to heaven and ask him about this, I might be
disappointed if I find out he used cinnamon or vinegar from Grandma’s cupboard
or aspirin from the medicine cabinet. I
prefer to think that something of himself went into those rose bushes.
I Corinthians 13 is a very familiar passage from the Bible…often known as the Love Chapter. Recently a phrase from that section of scripture hit me in a new way as I read it from the Phillips translation.
…if there is knowledge, it will be swallowed up in
truth.
This can’t happen soon enough to suit me. There is so much supposed knowledge floating
around these days, and I am certain that some of it is not “truth.” It can’t possibly all be truth, because some
of what is purported to be knowledge is in direction contradiction to other
pieces of knowledge. Truth could be
staring someone in the face and not be at all obvious.
This problem is largely due to the prevalence of social media
which has given absolutely everyone a platform for their ideas…a way to
disseminate them unchallenged. Any
contradictions can be dismissed as coming from someone less knowledgeable or
with a significant bias, and who’s to judge that? The purveyors of the “knowledge” are not
personally known to the consumers of it.
In simpler times, there were, of course, crackpots on both
sides of issues, but these individuals did not have a very large sphere of
influence. Most were spreading their
opinions among family and friends or in a local enough way that everyone knew
someone who knew them. The fact that
they were unstable or given to really crazy ideas could easily be
determined. Those close to them knew
their level of expertise. They could not
claim to have a body of knowledge on a subject when their level of education
and experience were well known or easily verified.
Not so today! Any nut
case can get on the internet and spew their message. He/she can claim to be educated or to have
had firsthand experience, and we have no idea whether this is totally false or
a smidge exaggerated.
This is dangerous! Not
everyone is discerning. Many perfectly
intelligent people are being taken in because they think they are listening to
experts who “know” the facts. Some of
these facts influence life and death decisions.
Our world is so broken.
Only the one who defines truth can straighten out this mess and swallow
up our pitiful knowledge with absolute TRUTH.
Even so, come Lord Jesus.
There have been a number of times in my life when I wished I was wrong….oh, how I wished I was wrong!
One day while I was in nursing school, I was assigned to care
for a very large lady who had had gall bladder surgery. In those day, there was no laparoscopic
surgery, so there was a fairly large incision high in the abdomen on the right
side. This often caused people not to
want to breathe deeply and to avoid moving around. It was the nurses’ job to make them do deep
breathing, even if it was uncomfortable, and to get them out of bed and walking
to avoid both pneumonia and pulmonary embolisms resulting from blood pooling
and clotting in the legs.
My obese patient refused to get out of bed and was even resistive
to moving around. Every time I came into
the room, she had talked someone into cranking up the knee gatch. I tried to explain that this was a dangerous position
for her, as it would cause blood to pool in the vessels in her upper legs.
Her response was, “You young things think you know
everything! I know my own body, and I
will know when I am ready to move around.”
Complicating the situation was the fact that she was very good
friends with her doctor’s wife, who showed up with a girdle, so that she could
hold things in when she felt ready to get up.
I wasn’t convinced that was a good idea because I was concerned about
vessels in the groin area being compressed, but how does one tactfully object
to what the doctor’s wife is doing with the patient.
I was not working the next day and was relaxing in the dorm
when I got a phone call. We all knew we
were required to watch a certain number of autopsies. A friend who was working called to clue me in
to the opportunity to watch one that morning.
I inquired who the patient was.
My heart sank when I learned it was my patient the prior day.
I observed the autopsy that morning and two things about it
are vivid to me. One was that she had
eaten scrambled eggs for breakfast, and they were in her stomach undigested. The other….she died of a pulmonary
embolism. Blood had pooled in the leg
vessels and formed a clot. The clot let
loose and traveled to her lungs, and that was it.
Sometimes a young thing knows what she is talking about.
I am old and sometimes I still know what I am talking about.
I will never watch another autopsy. I hope I don’t have to pay my respects at any
coffins.
I want to be wrong. Oh…how
I want to be wrong!
I declared, “You may come this far, but no farther. Here your proud waves must stop.” Job 38:11
The proud waves roll toward the
shore,
Creeping farther and farther,
Onto the barren sand they come
Sweeping away debris.
Walking along in the surf,
I feel the outward pull.
I stay in the shallows
Not wanting to be swept away.
But what if I stray too far?
What if I don’t see the larger
cresting wave?
What if I am encompassed, overpowered,
And pulled into the deep?
There is a boundary set
By a more powerful hand.
“This far, but no farther”
The Almighty roars.
The proud waves of evil roll,
Attempting to sweep all of us
Outward through the harmless foam
Into the depths and darkness.
But the Almighty has set a
boundary.
With a voice louder than the surf,
He roars “This far, but no
farther.
Enough! It is finished.”
I read the word schadenfreude today, and I have been pondering it.
I take absolutely no pleasure in the pain of others…even those
who have made poor decisions that have led to their troubles, or those who have
harmed me in the past. I would not consider
gleefully dancing on anyone’s grave. It
would be more likely that I would stand next to it and weep. I cringe as I watch some make ruin of their
lives. Sometimes I want to stand by the
side of the road and scream, “the bridge is out ahead!” But usually, I am ignored as people I know
and love speed by with pedal to the metal.
I know that what I see as right may not be RIGHT. I know there are differences of opinion, and
plenty of room for alternative choices in life.
But, as an old lady who has been around the block a few times, I can
often spot trouble before it actually happens.
The degree to which I am correct in my assessment of situations is a bit
scary…even to me. Sometimes I “know”
things I don’t really want to know, because I can’t do anything about the
situations anyway.
There are current social and political issues about which I
have opinions. Other intelligent and
morally upright people may disagree with some of those opinions. Only time will tell whose perspective is
closest to truth. Sometimes I would
really rather be wrong. If it turns out
I am right, there will be grief rather than schadenfreude!
How can a life be so precious to one,
And yet so cheap to another?
One man sacrifices his life to
save lives.
Another sacrifices his life to
take lives.
Good and evil coexisting,
Love and hatred confronting each
other.
The devil laughs gleefully,
Almighty God weeps, biding his
time.
Some of us stand at a distance,
Others must enter the conflict,
Live on the razor’s edge,
Tomorrow uncertain, unknown.
But when the agony creeps back to
us,
A staggering reality pierces the
soul,
A black hole expands at one’s
core,
Swallowing all joy and light.
“How long, O Lord, holy and true,
until you judge and avenge…”
(Revelation 6:10)
It is amazing how gradually loss of energy creeps up on one. I have tried to do too much recently, and I find myself exhausted. The whole aging thing is such a sneaky process. One day I was running through life full tilt, not feeling the need to sit down and take a break, and it seems like only a day or two later, I do a simple task and then sink into a chair. Doing several loads of laundry used to be incidental to doing numerous other tasks during a day. Now it is the whole project for the day.
A couple of nights ago, I woke up having slept like a log
after an exhausting day. I lay there
awake thinking with amazement of what I used to be capable. It amused me to think that as a nurse the
summer I was 21, I worked at a large hospital in Buffalo, NY, and sometimes I
was the only RN for six units. There was
an LPN and aide on each floor, but I was responsible for medications,
procedures the LPN couldn’t do and decision making. One night I had two patients dying at the
same time, and they were two floors apart.
I wasn’t satisfied with the speed of the elevators that night and spent
the night running up and down the stairs, in order to be on top of the
situation. I confess that now walking up
two flights of stairs sometimes tires me, especially if I am carrying
something.
On another occasion, I was working as a float on the night
shift at hospital from which I graduated.
I was a full-time college student and was paying my own way by working
on weekends. When I checked in before
11, the supervisor told me that they were really short staffed and asked me to
cover the orthopedic unit. It was a very
large unit with two separate nurses’ stations.
The hospital was the length of a city block and the ortho unit was about
2/3 or ¾ of the length. I ran from one end to the other all
night. When I clocked out in the
morning, the supervisor said, “You are the only person I know who would have
agreed to do that. Anyone else I asked
would have turned around and walked out of here.” I have no idea where that energy came from….except
YOUTH.
So there my old bones were laying in the bed with my old brain
pondering my fatigue. We old people
watch toddlers run around, and we feel tired just watching them. Where does that energy come from? we wonder. Here we are with the storehouse of knowledge
and painfully acquired wisdom of old age, but the energy to utilize it is
beginning to fade. We would like to
impart some of the knowledge and wisdom to the younger generations, but some of
them think what we have to offer is outdated and irrelevant.
My Dad used to say, “We are too soon old and too late smart.”
Sometimes we encounter younger people who are interested to
learn from us. A young lady sitting in
the plane with us recently asked us what the secret of our long happy marriage
was. It is nice to be able to share what
one has learned with a younger person and feel they are genuinely interested.
But, whether or not they are interested, I will try to share
what I have learned with those who still have the energy to implement it.
Very important piece to pass on: The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.
Proverbs 9:10
Not ready for the rocking chair,
Motion in one plane,
Forward and backward,
A monotonous refrain.
My life is not a neutral,
A gray or beige or buff.
Nor is it full of glitter,
An accent is enough.
It’s not a quiet whisper,
Nor a blaring horn,
Not a jittering staccato
Or dirge with which to mourn.
But a palette of all colors,
A symphony of sound.
Never dull or boring, but…
On new adventure bound.
Deuteronomy 18:22
If what a prophet proclaims in the name of the Lord does not take place or come true, that is a
message the Lord has not spoken. That prophet has spoken
presumptuously, so do not be alarmed.
Back
in February, Dr. Sherri Tenpenny predicted that the COVID vaccine would be used
to depopulate the country and that a massive die-off would occur between 41 and
365 days in the future. I do not know
whether she believes in the Lord or views herself as speaking for him, but I
think the concept in this verse applies.
If someone makes a prediction and it doesn’t come true, we should not
continue to give that person any credibility or to allow them to make us
fearful.
It
is now over 180 days past the time she made the prediction and the massive die
off did not begin at 41 days nor has it since.
The deaths now occurring from COVID are over 90% in the
unvaccinated. Tenpenny meanwhile has
gone on to declare that the vaccine makes people magnetic…that metal objects
will stick to their skin. She claims
there are pictures all over the internet showing this phenomenon. I have looked and can’t find any…just the
usual tricks people do with spoons dangling from various body parts. My husband and I are vaccinated and neither
of us have metal objects sticking to us. This is also not happening to the over
2000 people in our retirement community who are vaccinated. It is actually rather whacko! The vaccine contains nothing metallic. Her claim has no basis in science or in
observed facts.
She
is a FALSE PROPHET. Do not believe her
and do not be alarmed. Please don’t
allow her or any other false prophet to keep you from being vaccinated.
If
you are hesitating, please stay aware of the results of ongoing studies. Perhaps at some point, you will have your
fears allayed and feel secure in getting the injection. You don’t have to admit that you were
previously “wrong.” Just quietly go have
it done.
The
vaccination is way past being able to be viewed as “experimental.” Even if it was, I was willing to be a guinea
pig. I have been vaccinated for 6 months
and have, thus far, had no ill effects. If
I had, well, I am expendable.
I
also don’t understand why people view vaccine mandates as loss of
liberties. Laws require us to wear seat
belts, put our children in car seats, wear helmets on motorcycles, license our
cars, get building permits, pay taxes, etc.
We are in a crisis. Of course, I’ll
get the jab. If you go get the
vaccination of your own free will, the government won’t have to force it on you. No need for another law.
What
of all these worries about it being RNA?
RNA does not go into the nucleus and change DNA. Rather DNA is a template on which RNA is
formed. And by the way, as state after
state legalizes marijuana, cannabis does cause gene mutations. Don’t be smoking weed if you are really
worried about your DNA being altered!
There
is way too much fearmongering going on from people who are not as informed as
they think they are. Too many among us
are listening to the wrong “experts’ who are, in fact, false prophets.
If
what they predict doesn’t turn out to be true, don’t be stubborn! Jump ship!
About 4:30 this morning, I was lying awake when I heard a sound distressing to my nurse’s ears. Our bedroom is at the back of our apartment. The window was open a bit and faces the driveway of an adjacent apartment building. The sound I heard was a man coughing, but not just any cough. The cough exhibited the telltale sound of constricted airways. I wondered if he was having an asthma attack. I thought perhaps he was on the way to his car, but there was never the sound of a car door, and the concerning cough continued.
Eventually I got out of bed and peeked under the shade. A man was standing on the small back porch of
the building behind our apartment complex.
I watched for only a few seconds when I saw the flash of a lighter being
used. He was smoking. Ah!
That was the explanation for the horrible cough.
I wanted to shout out the window…”Oh, please, mister. Stop smoking!
Don’t you know you are already showing signs of COPD? You will soon be tethered to an oxygen tank.” But it was 4:30 AM, and I wasn’t sure who
else I might awaken in our complex. I
was certain one of those disturbed would be my husband. I also was fairly certain the guy wouldn’t
think I was the voice of God or an angel giving him a message not to be
ignored. I was just a busybody old woman
peeking out of her bedroom window.
I went back to bed thinking about the whole notion of
smoking. I grew up in a family with many
smokers. My paternal grandfather smoked
cigars and died at 69. My Dad smoked
cigarettes until I was about 7 years old.
He quit and living to be almost 91.
My maternal grandfather smoked and died at 65. My mother’s three brothers smoked and died at
50, 61 and 70. Two of her brother’s
wives smoked. I am uncertain how old
they were when their health deteriorated.
But, there certainly was a pattern in our family between smoking and not
living to a ripe old age.
I saw so much smoking when I was little, that it is somewhat
attractive to me. The whole notion of
having something in one’s mouth and manipulating the cigarette is something I
can almost feel myself doing. I
certainly “smoked” candy cigarettes as a child and imitated the motions I had
seen. I have, however, never tried a
single cigarette in my life.
I wonder if no one has worked on the idea of developing a
cigarette than is pleasant to inhale, but which also delivers medication to
open airways without filling the lungs with black goo.
Things to ponder when awake at night.
