Me, Olive Oatman, and mr. trump

            Let me begin with gratitude. I cannot tell you how cheered and comforted I have been by the many caring responses to a blog I wasn’t even sure I should write. And I for sure had doubts about posting that picture. But so many of you have written with words of healing, some sharing your own falling experiences—yep, we all do it, and many offering healing suggestions and cures, from an MRI (my doctor/brother says my symptoms don’t call for it) to a magic cream that help bruises heal. You all make me feel loved, and I am grateful.

My bruises have spread, if anything. The right side of my forehead is now a faint purple, in contrast with the deep red around my eye. Most alarming, I have developed a deep red bruise (or blood leakage) that follows the natural downward line to the right side of my mouth, giving me sort of the look of a perpetual downturn to my mouth. It is not pretty.

I remind myself of Olive Oatman, an 1850s girl of fourteen when Indians in Arizona kidnapped her. They later sold her to the Mojave, who tattooed her face, around the mouth, with blue ink in vertical lines that almost match mine. She later was freed and made a name for herself telling the public about her captivity with as, one source says, artistic license. I don’t think I’ll take to the stage.

I went to nine o’clock church on my computer this morning, because I didn’t want to answer all the questions I was suree to get. During the pastoral prayer, the minister suggested we praise God with our silence. I bowed my head, tried to think appropriate thoughts, and waited what seemed an awfully long time for a moment of silence. When I looked up, the computer had frozen! Jordan was at the eleven o’clock and said she couldn’t help but giggling when the moment of silence came.

But what I thought during that moment was how weary I am of mr. trump. Yes, weary of his disastrous and impulsive decisions that are ruining the world as we know it, but more than that, I am weary of his domination of my life and thought. When I bowed my head to pray, my first thought was something to the effect of “Please, Lord, deliver us from this tyranny,” but then I rebelled. It’s as if he invades all the spaces of my life—and probably yours. Prayer should be private, an exploration of my place in the universe, and how I can help the world. Instead, I’m begging for help, and I’m not sure God wants to be the deus ex machina.

The sermon this morning was titled, “Curiosity,” but to me it was more about doubt. Dr. Peterman preached that doubt, and questions, are signs of a deep faith, while to have no questions is indicative of a shallow faith. I have always had doubts and questions and sometimes envied those who think they have the sure answers, but in my heart, I know better. I’d like to share that sermon—I even know several I’d like to share it with—but that strikes me as intrusive.

It’s a strange world we live in, but I guess if Olive Oatman could turn tattoos into fame, I guess I can turn lemons into lemonade. Or trump into triumph. Anyway I’m trying.