Fair is fair

The Dallas-based RE agent said she was going into detox, into yoga and much more. When she is released from 60-day jail.

60 days should be a good start. I’d rather 66 days, so I don’t break the chain of habit (per numerous studies).

Many J6 folks are now in jail. Many others think they can still get away with gravity, that the rule of Law doesn’t apply to them, that they are exempted from community work (oh yeah) and death itself (He who believes in me shall never die).

What’s fair is fair.

Personally I think (my opinion alone) God got a wrong address (or this is just a Rest Area) when He took on human form, with no hotel (inn) reservations, hence the manger and Magis – on the road, humming along (Silent Night….Oh Holy Night, two of my favorites).

Of course, I worship Him. Who wouldn’t. But perhaps it wasn’t meant to be, for people whose law (written and spelled out) doesn’t apply to them (Give back to Ceasar what belongs to Ceasar – the Maker submits to the (Ro)Man’s Law, a carpenter yet nailed to a wooden cross).

The point that flashed through my mind is: the people who think they fly above 30,000 feet (physics) always think they can get away with the Rule of Law until they landed, and found out they should have flown off into space (like George Clooney , cutting off his oxygen for Sandra Bullocks – giving her a chance to get sucked back in by gravity).

Detox and detour to elsewhere, where there might be life.

Here, what’s fair is still fair last time I check.

The Golden Rule. Reciprocity. Mutual Aids Society. I scratch your back…

The AP piece on Bob Dole was contributed by three writers/journalists, one of them deceased. When the Obituary writer died before his subject.

The life we are living (or pre-lived): fragile and full of uncertainties, except for one thing: that which has a beginning will have an end. Hence, I worship Him, Maker and Sustainter of this entire consciousness and vast domain, thanking Him for Common Grace (which explains the Realtors of the world).

Of course I am fearful and hopeful at the same time.

Fearful that I will face my judgment day. Hopeful that the sentence be lenient, like picking up trash (if there were any this next round) which in utter relief, I will also promise to go into detox and yoga ( I am not blonde, not white, and not as pretty and rich).

This Season of Celebration, I remember people who passed. People who perhaps have made it : like that little boy, floated on a basket, our little Moses, onto the Hong Kong shores, with just a pair of dirty shorts, stuttering – and not fluent even in our own native language. Yet he got his adoption papers to resettle in the UK. Hearing that, I emptied out my cash inadvertently did more harm than good. He got taken to the warden office, “Where did you STEAL these US dollars?” I bailed him out after hearing the rumble – it’s a tiny prison-turned-refugee-camp – still remember reading- Irving Stone’s Lust of Life. Forty years on. Yet like yesterday. I hope that stuttering boy do well in the UK: articulate in speech and with a British accent. Hope he pay forward, as many who did for me and I in turn, become just one node in the chain. Of distributed love, like the data packet that gets passed along inside the Internet.

God couldn’t have come up with something as elegant and secure as today’s mode of communication. Well, the only way to top that is to come in person Himself, to go through what we are going through and seeing our human end to get a feel for us. In short, to acquire empathy, the God head must become human head. For now, it’s the Season of birth, not burial, of manger not monument.

So Merry Christmas everyone. You are wonderful, since I know deep down, by faith, not by sight, that you and I carry that little spark of divinity, Imago Dei. (though from the East, I was born in the year of the Monkey – before Darwin came around; they had already cast us in a box, in a circular twelve like the Year of the Cat).

I wonder what year (animal symbol) that Dallas-based Realtor was born in. She has flown high and now finds herself incarcerated – not on the top floor of Betty’s clinic. If I were she, I would ask for an extended stay of 66 days to habituate myself with new and unbroken routine, which involves a new sense of self-deflation away from whatever upbringing that made her think she had arrived at a different landing gate than the rest of us. Perhaps in recent past, she even thought of herself as Goddess, like the Maker himself, whose time on Earth was just for a refueling stop. His destiny I am sure is much further and coverage area much wider. After all, He is the Boss, and all I can say is “Yes, Sir. What’s fair is fair.”