Joel Osteen and fake news

A lovely, sunny day in North Texas, temperatures in the 80s, humidity blessedly low. Hard to think that rain is still falling in parts of southeast Texas, and water is still receding only slowly, if at all. So easy to breathe a sigh of relief, but that would be premature. And easy to be grateful Harvey has moved east, but that’s a bad kind of gratitude, since it just wishes the misery on others who are now suffering. Port Arthur is apparently under water, and I hear remnants of the weakening storm may make it up to western Kentucky. Harvey’s dubious place in American history is little consolation.

I did it. I fell for fake news about Joel Osteen and his luxury yacht. I shared a post that was fake, but let me hasten to add that I didn’t realize it was a share button until I hit it. And it was a reflexive action, based I admit on an unworthy but intense dislike of televangelists and the new megachurches. I have since personally apologized to my daughter-in-law, who corrected me and asked me to take the post down. I have done that. She pointed out, rightfully, that the last thing Houston needs right now is inflammatory fake news.

And Osteen has borne the brunt of a lot of fake news, claiming that he refused to open the doors of his megachurch to the homeless. Truth apparently is that the building was flooded and not safe for people. Osteen claims he has worked with the city of Houston which has a shelter nearby and asked his church to serve as a distribution center for supplies. Some people are disputing this, arguing that the sudden drying out of the church is suspicious. I’m not going to judge, but I’m not going to share any more posts about Osteen. I feel guilty, gullible that I fell for fake news, but I am still the opposite of whatever a believer in the megachurches is. Not what Jesus would do.

Wrote my thousand words today. Funny, but this morning by the time I had shampooed showered, and done my walking exercise, I felt I had conquered the day. I hadn’t of course. Walking was better today but it was less humid, and Teddy as usual reassured me. He pointed out that yesterday I had a lot of drainage from the dental appointment, and that was bound to affect my lungs. He didn’t have a stethoscope, but he “listened” to my lungs with his hands, took my pulse, and pronounced me in good health. I believe him and am almost ready to cancel tomorrow’s appointment, but Jordan thought I was wheezing this morning when I got out of the shower. She even cautioned Christian to “listen” to me. So I’m going to let someone with a stethoscope listen and reassure me.

Teddy had all these reasons for my shortness of breath—dentist, my lack of stamina, humidity. I told him there was yet another dimension, and he asked what. I couldn’t pull up the exact words I wanted, from author Babette Hale, but it’s enough to say that authors of fiction have great imaginations. Teddy collapsed in laughter. I once dated a guy who used to say to me, “Go on, bring that bridge right on up here, so you can jump it.” Function of the same thing—an overactive imagination.

Nice dinner tonight with Betty and Jacob. Well, Betty and I had a good time. Jacob was sunk in a corner of the booth, hat pulled over his head (he knows how I feel about hats at the dinner table), face in his iPhone. He managed to thank the waiter politely and respond to his Aunt Betty’s questions, but he was pretty much non-communicative. Just when I thought I’d seen budding signs of maturity. Be patient, Grandma Juju, be patient. It will come. He’s basically a sweet boy.