Cross roads.

There's many a time that I'm at cross roads in life. Just like everybody else I think and those cross roads give me headaches, because how do I know that I choose the right turn off? All I know is where I came from and I can't go back. So that leaves me with 3 roads: left, right and straight ahead.

And of course I look for signs that give me clues as to where I'm heading. Even animals look for signs in the woods. But I'm not an animal and I got brains bursting with information, from past experiences. So, hopefully that will protect me from taking the wrong path, although I still don't have a road map to tell me exactly where to go and what the outcome will be.

The most tricky part is that I'm a Christian and thus have to do His Will. Which is all very fine, but where is He now, while I'm turning my head like an owl in all directions?
No Big Hand is coming from the sky like in a movie to gently push me on the road He has in mind.
No angels playing music to accompany me and certainly no backpack full of food to sustain me while I dither.

"Oh God, this is difficult. I have a decision to make and it could change my whole life if I make the wrong one. I don't see or hear You, so You must be busy elsewhere. I understand God. It can't be easy to be You. I just hope that I'll make the best decision and that You'll be there to pick up the pieces if it's the wrong path. Amen".

But this is not what happens at all. I might feel all alone but I'm not.

You see, the biggest Gift God could give us was our free will. He could have given us just instinct like all the animals, but He didn't. We are His children and like all children we are growing up. As our Heavenly Parent He sees us, and knows exactly what we're up to. He also knows that if He pushes us onto the right road every time, we won't learn a thing. Just like when you have children and you want to protect them from all harm, so you lock them up in the house. Yes, they will be safe, but they won't have a life either. They'll turn into mental turnips, not equipped with experiences to help them get through life.

He wants us to use our brains. That's why we have them. He wants us to make decisions, for ourselves.
He also wants us to know that He's there, in case we get completely lost. And as any good parent, if asked, He'll help us. No matter what your decision might be.

How I didn't become an Opera Singer.

I might have some talents, but one I definitely don't possess is having a singing voice. I used to have one, though, but I deliberately messed it up. And this is how it happened.

My Dad loves listening to Opera music. So when I grew up, every weekend Dad put on a cassette of one famous Opera or the other. The cassette-player was just a box with in-built speakers and the sound that came out of that thing was terrible. No matter what you played. But Dad loved it as the severely distorted music was turned up. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and smoked a big cigar.

We kids flew the house the moment Dad even went near that cassette player; we knew what was coming and spent the day either at friends houses or in the Library.

But my Dad had a dream. His daughter (me) was going to be an Opera-singer. But, although I had a rather good voice in those days, this was the seventies. A time when your parents were uncool and you were. A time of rock bands and Woodstock. Of long hair, tight jeans and painting your bedroom bright orange. And opera was definitely considered to be uncool by me. If dad had offered me a job as a singer in a rock band like the Stones, I would have been standing next to Mick Jagger in a flash of course. But Opera? Absolutely not, out of the question and I told Dad so.

Dad was disappointed; his dream of seeing his daughter on stage wearing a wig, long dress and especially singing with the voice of an angel was shattered. "Would you like to play an instrument then instead?" He asked with a hopeful note in his voice. "No, not really" I replied. "Playing the recorder was bad enough. I'm just not musical. "

And I thought that that was the end of it. But Dad didn't give up and now and then he brought the Opera-thing up again. So I decided to do something about my voice; I was all of 14 or so. I took up smoking and wrecked it completely. In no time my "singing voice" was gone; I couldn't reach the high notes anymore.

Dad noticed it too and went back to his cassette player again.
But I've always wondered....What would have happened if my dad hadn't mentioned the "uncool" word "Opera" to me in those days.

My biggest fear.

Yesterday it started: Pain in my right elbow. This is nothing new; It began about 17 years ago. Several doctor visits later it was decided that an operation was needed. As a woman speaking her own mind, I was against it, and said so. But doctors don't only go to Medical School to learn what goes on inside us, they also take classes in "How to persuade a stubborn patient that we know best." These classes are very similar to what used car sales people have to go to. Perhaps they all go to the same school, and sales people know as much as the Medical professionals about our innards, I don't know.

Anyway, after that completely botched-up operation 17 years ago I've come to the conclusion that I might as well discuss my possible medical problems with a car salesman. The result might be even better: The answer will be in plain language and not sprinkled with Latin.

Slowly it got better again, and although I don't lift heavy objects with my right arm, I could still hold a paint brush so all was well. Until yesterday.

After organizing my work table I finally sat down and started doing some serious work. Pain shot up right through my arm all of a sudden. I was angry, because now I have the inspiration and this happens? What did I do to deserve this all of a sudden?
But the pain is back, that's for sure.

I'll have to be careful from now on or I can say painting goodbye. And that is not on of course. Because it's what I am, it's my whole being. It's not a job, it's not what I do. And that's the difference; It's the core of my whole being, and in the make up of my soul.. If something or someone takes that away I'll turn into a half-person, deprived of something that's incredibly important to me. And sitting here writing all this, I can't even imagine a life without painting.

This is hard to understand for other people., perhaps.
But I think that other painters out there understand what I'm saying.
It's not a hobby, it's what I am.

Dang that inspiration!

So I finally bought a nice big table to do my painting and other artwork on; the kitchen counter is
going to be used for preparing food as was my full intention about a year ago. It didn't come to that, not quite, because I needed space to paint as well. And after carrying my artwork from room to room, dripping with wet paint, around dinner time, I finally bought my "art table".

Buying the table wasn't difficult. Nor was arranging my paint, brushes and various bits and pieces as if a famous photographer would come in and take a picture of it.
I even put a bunch of flowers on the table as well as some of my favorite arty books. And it looked good, even if I say so myself. Now all it needed was me doing some actual work there.

And then inspiration left me completely. I don't know if it was that the "work table" looked more like something thrown together by an interior designer than a real work space or that I was too busy with other things. But the table stayed in pristine condition for almost a week.

Then this morning, just as I was expected somewhere else, inspiration came back.

And that was all very well, but the timing was all wrong, and I left my house really frustrated. Of course the moment I got back I almost ran to my table and started painting like a woman possessed. And got it out of my system.

And the table is now splashed with paint. The way it should be.

Doom and gloom on a Tuesday morning.

There was a knock on my front door. When I opened it 3 rather dour looking women were shivering in the Fall wind, Bibles firmly clutched to their chests, while holding big bags in the other.
I have no idea what those bags contained; could have been their lunches. Although that's unlikely, unless they were planning on going on a plane to far away places after they visited me. Perhaps a lengthy world trip, who knows.
Perhaps those bags contained money, donated by my neighbors, although that was very unlikely.

As I was pondering over the mysterious contents of those huge bags, one of them finally found her tongue.
"Good morning." she whispered. " The world is going to end". The other two looked down at their shoes, overcome with grief after this sad announcement. It clearly wasn't a good morning for them at all.
As I was waiting for more depressing news I wondered which Church they were representing. Because if this was their opening line every Sunday, they weren't going to see me.

Now I'm an optimist. And although I can't discuss the Bible very intelligently because I haven't studied for it, I do know what's in it. And my overall impression is that it has some darn optimistic messages in it.
But then, I usually start reading a book from the beginning, and don't flick pages to read the end first. These three clearly had read only the part where it wasn't going so well, and skipped the goodies.

And now there's a whole new movement who believes that in 2012 the world will cease to exist. Why? Because the Mayans said so. And all because they looked up at the stars quite a bit when they had nothing better to do. And even if you believe in astrology, today's expert-Astronomers say that they had their measurements all wrong. The Mayans calculated the planets movements on a perfect circle (they move in ellipse instead) and planets move, and have moved over the past couple of thousand years in that vast place we call the Universe.
So the nightly sky we see is quite different from what the old Mayans saw. And so their predictions are wrong and we'll be still here in 2012.

If not, you can send me an angry e mail.
But I'm counting on the Bible's predictions and everything that has to happen first before Earth blows up forever.

I'm an optimist.

The pantomime.

"Have you seen that thingee?" dh asks me. "Wait" I said. "I'll get my crystal ball out". "What does it look like?"
Dh. starts frowning with concentration. "Its like, you know. Sort of like that other thing, but then a bit different".

This is a description that I definitely don't like. We have a house and especially a garage full of "thingees". And dh's "thingees" all look mysterious to say the least. They are also scattered all over the house and from what he tells me, it could be anything, anywhere.

So the guessing-game begins. This could take up hours and it's always when the one TV program that I really like is on. My questions range from "Is it edible" to "What shape, material, size" to if it's even in the house. "Does it run on electricity?" will narrow it down considerably, and is usually my first question.

While dh is wildly moving his hands in frustration as if he's carrying out a pantomime, I settle in the cushions. I'm hoping that the neurons in his brains make the connection quickly, because I haven't got all day. But this is so much better than watching TV so even if I knew what the heck he meant, I still wouldn't say it. Although I haven't got all day, I can still spare an hour or two to watch the show enfolding.

"I better close the blinds" I'm thinking. "This might look odd to the neighbors, if they're watching".
While muttering "Hmm, yes, we're getting there" I get up and shut the blinds.

"Its small and kind of like plastic but not quite" Dh continues. "And it sticks". "Well, now we're getting somewhere" I say. "That narrows it down to only 6798 items we have in the house." Then it dawns on me: He means duct tape.

"Yes, I know what you mean" I say. "But I haven't seen it. We've run out of it".
I better write it down before I go to the shop. I'm not sure if the shop assistant is going to appreciate my pantomime as much as I did dh's.

I've been invited to His birthday party.

When I walked in one of those Superstores this afternoon I couldn't help but noticing all the Christmas-trees. And when I get those in sight I become a big baby.

"Oooooh" I whispered to myself, "My time has come again." And with big eyes I wandered around the isles, filled with Christmas decorations. The first thing I needed was a bigger tree. For years I've wanted a big, giant one of at least 7ft. The very small one, that lasted for at least 20 years, was bought at a time when our money was tight. And in the end I just put it in a corner and decorated it for myself. On Christmas Day son is usually off to his friends (after unwrapping the presents) and dh is usually almost locked up in the pantry searching for yet more food; and thereby missing the twinkling lights in my little tree.

But that was when we celebrated Christmas with only adults. Now we have a little grandson to fuss over. Now I can go absolutely nutters with my tree, decorations and presents.
So I finally bought my big tree. And I'm going to enjoy Christmas enormously this year; nothing beats the shining eyes of a 3 year old around that time of year.

I'll be happy too; after all, I've been invited to a birthday-party on the 24th of December.
But don't worry; you're invited too!

"A Classic, Mom"

Our son has moved back in with us. And with him he brought his ancient car that had to be put in our garage. Our cars are on the driveway because I usually use the garage for a lot of things, like storage, and of course to do my painting.

When our son declared that he was moving in again, we said that of course he was welcome. What we didn't count on was that old car. "An absolute classic, Mom" son said with bright enthusiastic eyes. "They don't make them like this anymore".

No, they don't and for good reason, I thought as son and dh pushed the thing uphill into our street.
Halfway the hill one wheel fell off which brought the whole expedition to a sudden halt. As the wheel was gathering speed towards the next street the "classic" stood smack in the middle of ours on the handbrake. Son and dh ran after the wheel while picking up nuts and bolts.

But finally the car was in our garage. With a huge dent where the wheel should have been. "Nothing that can't be fixed, Mom" son said happily.
"But it's not going" I said. "And now it has only 3 wheels". I looked at the car with dismay. "Couldn't you have bought a good second hand Japanese car? One that actually has an engine in it?" I said.

Our offspring looked at me. "Mom, I have a dream."
This sounded a bit like Martin Luther King had said, albeit that speech was not about old cars in my memory. As I was waiting for a profound message involving saving the world, solving the issues on racism, and stopping all wars, son went on. "I want this car on the road. No matter what, no matter the cost."

I came down to earth and reality. And looked at son. He has a dream alright, I thought. A small one perhaps and certainly a costly one. He'll live with us forever while that car is cluttering up our garage. He'll pour every penny he's going to earn into that darned car. The chances that that rust bucket is going to on the road are about zero in my view.

All that was going through my mind.

But to have a dream and making it into reality isn't so bad. I had dreams and against all odds made them work. At the time nobody believed that they would work. But I believed in myself and I just knew that I was on the right path.

Our son has this dream of fixing this car and driving it. Even if it's for 1 day. He can already feel the sheer joy of turning it onto the highway with his stereo on full blast. To have made his dream into reality.

In the meantime he lives with us again. For a while anyway.

Surprises on a Sunday afternoon.

"My husband and I have a psychic connection. Yes, just like in the Mills and Boons romance novels. We never have to say anything to each other. In fact, we haven't spoken in well over 25 years. Talking is totally unnecessary in our marriage; we read each other's minds."
I can just see myself saying this to someone. And it would be a blatant untruth.

We do talk and I cannot read my husbands mind, although in some cases he's surprisingly predictive, which might be mistaken for a psychic connection on my part.

Today we ended up in a small seaside town where they have the cutest little shops, where I wanted to browse. My dh (darling husband) is, like 97.35% of all men, not particularly fond of shopping. I, as a woman, consider shopping as a hobby.

That is not to say that I always want to spend money; although if I see something that I like or need, I will buy it.
My dh doesn't mind spending money, but only if there's food involved, like dinner in a restaurant or tools to buy. He clearly falls into the 97.35%.

When we arrived in this seaside town, there was an art market. Now, this is something I really like, so dh turned the car and we went there first.
And I saw a very nice necklace, on this art market.. It consisted of about 7 beads on a thin leather string. When I expressed interest in buying the necklace, the lady (who made it) became very enthusiastic. I asked the price and it was $75. This was disappointing, because I've seen jewelry like this for at least 1/3 of the price, and I was not going to buy it.

After hearing the price my enthusiasm died quickly, and I assumed my husbands less-than enthusiastic attitude he normally displays towards purchases like these (since they don't involve food or power tools) had already died while getting out of the car.

I turned around towards dh and expected the usual: Face turned away towards the food stalls and distancing himself quickly after mumbling something like :"I'm hungry, let's eat first".

But to my big surprise he was still there and said "Oh, come on, you like it, don't you? Buy it."

Now, this was said with a big smile to the not-unattractive lady, who, in turn smiled back of course.
I pulled dh forcefully away from her stall and the necklace, and whispered: "Have you gone mad all of a sudden? You never say things like that. I was kind of hoping for your usual reply here; that it was way too expensive"
"But you liked it, and I thought of supporting you. " he replied. "Yes, but only sometimes, and not in cases like this. Next time just say what you always say; that way I can be counting on it and there won't be any surprises".I said.

So, when we arrived at the antique shop dh was back to normal, to my immense relief. Everything was too expensive, according to him. Especially that darling little cabinet that I wanted to buy, but didn't know where to put it, if I'd bought it.

Psychic connection? No. But I can safely predict what he's going to do or say after all these years. Bar the exceptions of course.

God's Army: He's recruting

I have to admit that I have the slightly unlikely combination of being a cynic and a Christian. But in my view the Christian of today isn't the gullible, uninformed and uneducated fool he once was. We question and we can think for ourselves.

That has nothing to do with questioning God or even the Bible. But it has everything to do with this new brand of men and women who don't mutely follow whatever is told to them. Because we think. And we want to incorporate our learning in this world. And this world is different from 30-40 years ago. Technology has played a big part in that. But also that Christian Churches all over the world have stepped up and produced a new type of Church leader that's modern in thinking and acting.

A shining example are the Jews. Before WWII they were scholars, after WWII they emerged as a strong people well able to fight for what they believed in. The Jew of today is not to be messed with.

And so it is with Christians. There's still place for scholars and monks, but the Christian of today is no longer the mumbling fool who goes to Church because his parents did the same. Instead I see men and women who have a sound opinion of what they believe in and are willing to defend that opinion.

Because this world is asking for this new breed of brave people. We cannot afford to have nostalgic thoughts of bringing back the 1950's when life was simple. In those days of my youth everybody we knew went to a Christian Church. Whole towns went to a Christian Church!
I can't even remember encountering someone in the days of my youth who had a different faith.

But today is different. Streets world wide have changed, people from other countries have moved in, to live where we live.
And I'm not saying that they have the wrong faith. Not at all; many of these faiths preach love and understanding, exactly what we believe in as Christians.

And I believe that the world is big enough for all of us. In fact, it's my biggest wish that we can all live together in harmony. But that takes two, doesn't it?

Late at night
I sometimes gaze up to the sky
Staring at the
millions of stars
I often wonder
if there is
someone just like me
On that far-away planet
also thinking
the same thing.

Perhaps it's "Just a tree trunk" and many people will pass
it without even noticing the tree. But it's teeming with life;
little bugs call it home.
Taking its food from the soil at the bottom, giving us oxygen
back from its leaves on top.
A tree provides us with shade in Summer and gives us
beautiful colors in Fall.
In Spring it gives us hope, as tiny green leaves erupt so
bursting with life.

Just a tree?

I love waterlilies and these looked so beautiful,
that I just had to take a photo.

Noses and flower-stems.

I have a definite issue with noses. Painting them I mean. Nasty stick-outs, full of shadows and every person has a different one. And if it were up to me, I would leave them out altogether. But I can't; it would look weird if I did. But I've painted some faces without the usual: no eyes, nose or mouth.

And, since I have a problem painting noses, I've become very observant. So every person I see, every actor on TV is scrutinized by me. Charlie Sheen has a slightly large and bent nose I've noticed. Others have small noses with huge nostrils. And then there are the wide, narrow and in-between ones.

I have the same problem (albeit from a different kind) with painting stems. These long sticks, attached to flowers, do nothing for me. And although they're easy to paint, I skip them wherever I can. This also saves me the trouble of painting the vase; and all I have to do is concentrate on the flowers, and occasionally the leaves.

No wonder there are so many sayings about the nose: "Nosy Parker","You're being nosy", and "Keep your nose clean".

That big old Universe picks it up alright!

Our Creator was (and still is)very creative. And whether you call Him God, Creator or something else, that doesn't matter. And I believe that when we start creating something we set something in motion that reverberates right through the Universe. Like radio-waves.

And these signals are picked up; immediately.

Why am I bringing this up? Because when I paint I hear music. Perhaps I'm the only one who experiences this; I've never heard of it before. Nor have I ever thought about it. It just happens. And this is strange, because I must be the most a-musical person on this earth. When I hear classical music I couldn't tell you the difference between Mozart or Beethoven.

It works the other way around as well. When I listen to music, I see pictures. "Fur Elise" brings me a picture of a girl on a swing, laughing with pure joy as only a child can.
And "Summer" by Vivaldi brings me waving wheat in a gentle breeze, with a blue, blue sky.

Why and especially how this happens, I don't know. The music I hear is definitely classical. But unlike other music there's no beginning, middle or end.

But of one thing I'm very sure: Something happens in that big old universe of ours, the moment you start creating. Could it be that Somebody is very pleased with our efforts to create something? And perhaps, just perhaps is pleased to find some sort of kindred spirit while we create something as well, in our own little way?

Gifts and talents.

I'm grateful for the talents and gifts I have. The artistic gene has been passed on to me from both sides of the family and so I say a big "Thank you" to my forefathers who've been dabbing paint on canvas long before I was born. Perhaps there have been cavemen in my family who are responsible for decorating the caves now so admired by many tourists. I don't know, I haven't traced my family-tree that far into history. But it's a possibility.

But it's all very well being born with a certain talent; if you don't work on it nothing is going to happen. Claude Monet didn't sit in his garden looking at his waterlilies sipping "du cafe au lait" and left it at that. Instead he bought himself a roll of canvas and started painting.

And it's interesting to see the early works of famous artists vs. later works. You can see that there's a big difference.

And so is it with all artists, myself included. I've tried different materials, styles and techniques over the years. Not always successfully if I may add.
But, although the germ of talent was given to me at birth, it needed (and still needs) hard work. It needs to develop and that will take a life time. But that doesn't matter; it's the journey that counts, not the destination.

And so it is with everything in life, no matter what you do. Whether you're in Banking or into painting, it's a path of growing. Of making mistakes and feeling frustrated. Only to come out of it and start all over again. To improve, to learn from previous mistakes. To become better than before.

But what a journey, what an adventure! Ah yes, it's called life.

A big bubble in my head.

Months go by and I feel nothing. I do everything else, but no painting. Then it happens. It starts as a tiny bubble in my head. A tiny germ with colors. And it starts growing until I just have to get my paint and brushes out or else I burst.

After months of feeling nothing now I've gone to the other end of the scale. Feeling incredibly creative I'll be painting until my hands drop off. I'll be painting from early morning until late at night until my bubble is empty.

I have no idea if other artists have the same experience; but for me this is how it always works. And when I'm done and it's temporarily over, I look at my work and my hands and think: "How on earth did I do all that?".

Until I feel that little bubble growing again and it will start all over again.

Life is a funny old thing....

To me, every day is a new beginning. Full of hopes and dreams that might come true. Or not; it doesn't matter.

My family is scattered all over the globe; name the country and no doubt I have a cousin living there. And it's a huge family, all in all. But unfortunately not a lot of them live close to us. So when my one and only sibling told me he was going to live in Europe, I was shattered.

Then I realized that it was a bit selfish of me; he has his life to live and I got mine. Not all paths are the same and his is clearly going into a different direction. Away from us.

Strangely enough all of a sudden old friends start calling me for chats. People I haven't seen in years show up on my doorstep and my social calendar is filling up like never before. And our son found a great girl who has a 3 year old son and we were launched into grand-parenting all of a sudden.

It's true: Where one door closes, another one opens.
The Universe, in all Its wisdom has listened to me and gave me what I so needed at this moment. Instead of falling into despair and loneliness because my brother is going to live so far away, I'm getting gifts of other friendships, and other people to give my love to.

Yes, life is a funny old thing. And full of doors, waiting to be opened.

My car: Old, dusty and messy.

"Look, here's a picture of the new Lexus in the newspaper" my husband said. I didn't even look up. "Huh" I said, "It's just an expensive Toyota".

I don't know anything about cars; all I know is that it's a box on wheels with an engine in it. And that, when I get in and turn the key, that it should go. I'm not interested in anything else as far as cars go.

Of course the inside of my car is a mess; banana peels, an overflowing ashtray and various other items that shouldn't be there. Lipgloss, sunglasses, paperclips, plastic bags, a discarded steering wheel cover, just to name a few. The outside is a non-descriptive color and blends nicely in with the other cars when parked in town. It's an older model and nobody in its right mind would steal my car; it's just not worth it.

My Mechanic loves my car. He should, because he keeps it in tip-top shape. Under the bonnet I mean.

There are times when I look around me and think that my old car should be replaced by something that looks a bit better on my driveway. My husband and also the neighbors all have shining machines that look good with their houses. And every Saturday they wash, wax and polish the outside of their cars.

And then there's mine: Dusty, messy and certainly old.
But it never fails me. Because it's what under the bonnet that's important.

Follow Me, and Me alone.

The discussion is on: What is a Church and what is not a Church. More precisely: What to follow and who to follow?

I"ll do my best to explain this rather murky situation. Suppose a new Church came to your town. And, although you might not be very religious, you're curious as what they're up to so when Sunday arrives you poke your nose around the door. Just out of curiosity; and you're not planning on staying long.

But, to your surprise, the people there look just like you, talk like you and are dressed like you. That already feels like home, doesn't it? And the two sturdy, but very friendly guys by the door invite you in. And so you sit down. The singing begins and you join in. No harm in a bit of singing on a Sunday morning, is there? So far so good.

The service begins. A lot of talk about the Bible, blah blah you think. And finally it's over. Then the collection comes. And this is when it starts. But it's only the start....

You brought $5 with you. You're on a benefit from the Government, you can't spare more than $5. When you throw it in the collection basket the two guys urge you to give more. The "King" as he calls himself urges you and everyone else to give more; he says it's not for him, but for God. Which, as you understand it, is the same. This preacher- guy calls himself King and identifies himself with God and Jesus all the time.

You look around you: People are giving more than they can afford, by the looks of it. These aren't rich people. They're people like you.

The next Sunday is basically the same. However, this time you have to sign a document. And there it is: (among a long list of other do and don'ts) When you see the "King" you have to bow to him, you have to look him in the eye during the Church-service the whole time, except when you bring presents to him. Also: not to start eating, unless the "King" is present and seated.

And this is what I have a problem with.
Let's be clear on this one: A Priest, Pastor or Minister are servants of God. They are humans like you and me. They are not above us and certainly not above or even the same as God.
And of course 99% of Clerics understand that and are lovely, and in most cases wise and genuine people. And to elevate them to Super Stardom is seen by this 99% as highly inappropriate.

Mainstream Churches ( Baptist, Catholic, Salvation Army, Anglican etc.) preach nothing like the so-called Church I just described. (although it really exists, unfortunately) In these Mainstream Churches you'll find that the people are friendly and that there's no pressure of any kind. If you need somebody to talk to, there's always a Pastor, Minister or Priest willing to listen, and in most cases willing to help. You'll find that a real Church is built on a community that exists of people just like you and me.
No bowing to Clerics, no signing documents and nobody will claim that they are God.

To bow your head in humbleness, to praise, to adore should be reserved only for Him.
And you don't have to sign a contract with Him either. He doesn't need one.

Was Jesus married or not?

This question has been on people's minds for a while now. And I have no idea why it intrigues them so much, unless it has to do with whether He left offspring or not.

Now, I don't know the Bible inside out and I'm no Theological expert. All I have is my common sense. And you can believe my explanation or not; it's all the same to me.

First of all I believe that people want mysteries. And then solve them. Even if there's no mystery at all, they'll create one. And Jesus was a bit of a mystery-Man to some. What human-kind really wants is a photo of Him, complete with a list of what He ate, how He spent his spare-time when He was not out and about, etc. etc. etc. Preferably a Face Book profile. Where we could go into the chat and ask Him direct questions, and get an answer straight away.

Since this is not going to happen, whole stories are woven around Him. Especially whether He was married or not.

I firmly believe that He was not. And to believe that you'll have to read on.

You see, He came to this Earth with a clear job-description. And by the looks of it this was a 24 hour job. Wives take up time and want husbands to come home after 8 hours or so. Not going on trips into the dessert and not going out on dangerous missions, where He could be arrested.
And He knew that. He also knew that His responsibility and love was towards all people, not just one. His love was not of the romantic kind. It was never meant to be; His reason for coming here was not to get married and have children. His existence was not to have a house, an ordinary job and to bring home the bacon. Nor to sit by the fire at night and discuss domestic topics like how much new shoes for little Johnny cost.
He was here for a different reason.

But what about that incident with Mary Magdalene and the ointment? Yes, what about it.
Look, she saw Someone in pain. So she bought oil and put it on His feet. But that's no reason to marry Someone and have children with Him. Because to marry a person you need to have romantic feelings first. And I don't believe that that was going on at all. There was love, certainly.
But this kind of love that existed between Jesus and His followers rose far above romantic feelings. There's even a Greek word for it: Agape. And it's this kind of love that Jesus had and still has, for all of us.

And if you understand the meaning of the word "Agape", that describes a love so great that it rises above anything else, you'll also understand that Jesus was not married.

Swimming lessons old style.

When I was a child there was no such thing as "nurturing the fragile mind of the young". Parenting was kept simple; at least in my family. Dad was the head of the household and Mother did the housekeeping. And that was that.

When I was naughty I received a firm smack on the bottom and I was sent to my room, crying. Not so much from the pain but from frustration.
But Dad was almost God in our house and whatever he said went; whether you wanted or not.

We were taught that adults were always right and children not very often. Of course later on in life I discovered that this wasn't always true; it just made life easier. Not for us kids, just for the adults.

And so it was decided that I needed swimming lessons. Of course I had no desire to stand shivering just dressed in some lycra in the freezing wind. Nor did I have any desire to plunge into the stone-cold depths of a swimming pool while everybody else was still making snow men.
But no matter how I pleaded, I had to go; it was all paid for and Dad was not about to throw good money down the drain because his kid had other plans.
Besides, suppose I fell into a river I had to be able to swim ashore, said Dad. It didn't matter that there were no rivers within a radius of at least 100 miles from our house. The only water in our town I'd ever noticed came from our shower or the Fire brigade. And, of course in that swimming pool.

I stared down the aqua blue water, shivering. Holding on to my towel for warmth I looked up at the slate-grey sky. Then I looked at the swimming instructor. He resembled a doorman of a bar, well capable of throwing drunks out. Or a mob-member but then dressed in white. He proved to be a fair mix of both of them.

As I was the only kid that had shown up he could give me his undivided attention that day. I didn't know why he was rubbing his hands together; he was wearing a thick woolen sweater and pants. But, as I was found out later, that was not from the cold, but sheer anticipation for what was to come.

"Yes, stand there, right by the edge of the pool" He ordered me. And I did, because adults were always right and you had to do what they said.
And then I felt a big push and I was gasping for breath in the water. Somehow I found the concrete edge of the pool again and clinging on for dear life I looked up. He was smiling. "See? Swimming isn't so difficult. It's just a matter of keeping your head above the water" he said.

That night I spoke to my Dad. There was no way I was going to go back to "That Nazi". Dad listened. I was going to have further lessons, but later on when it was Summer. And from somebody else, not that guy.

Of course I learned to swim., when it was warmer.

And the swimming instructor? He was thrown in the pool by some teenage boys, a couple of years later. I saw it happening and grinned.
He resigned not long after that incident. Perhaps he's a doorman now. Or joined the Mafia. Who knows.

Freebees at the Doctor's.

A couple of weeks ago it started: Feeling sick. Pain in all our limbs, our heads nearly exploding and we could barely see because our eyes were that watery. In short: We had the Flu and we got it bad. After consulting each other (which is what you do first, when you don't want to pay a real professional like a Doctor) we came to the conclusion that we might have the Swine Flu.

We looked through our blurry eyes at each other. This was bad news; we could die from it. My Medical books (which are at least 20 years old) had nothing about Swine Flu in them; it simply didn't exist then.
Of course it had been all over the Internet and TV, but we never really picked up on all the information so well explained by the experts. Because that sort of thing doesn't happen to us. Never. We get ordinary Flu's, which are like bad colds; which are in fact colds and have nothing to do with the real Flu anyway.

But we were so sick that we finally agreed that we really, really needed to see a Medical Pro and not flick through an outdated book and hope for the best. Nor pretend that we knew what we were doing, because we didn't.

So we went to the Doctor. On arrival the first obstacle was a table where boxes with tissues and surgical masks were strategically placed as well as a big sign inviting you to take some. For free.
After nearly tripping over the table (blurry eyes) we decided that since not much comes for free in life anymore (and certainly not Doctors) that we should take a mask and while we were at it, some tissues as well.
The masks were in bright sky-blue and after securing them over our mouths and nose we looked at each other and laughed.

The receptionist didn't. Friendly but firmly we were ushered far away from the other patients. Who also looked as if they were at death's door, but weren't wearing a mask, so perhaps they had other contagious diseases like Bird Flu or the Plague.. I don't know, but it must have been less serious than what we had, because they looked very afraid of us.
Then again, the bright blue masks covering our faces could have been dead giveaways.

Sitting in our lonely corner we pretended to be Surgeons having a break. Which was slightly odd, because one presumes they would take their masks off in their leisure time. And I don't think the patients at "The Other Side" fell for that, actually, since our blurry eyes were still showing.

When the Doctor saw us he started smiling and told us to take the masks off. We didn't have the Swine Flu; yes he was very sure. We were informed that it was an ordinary Flu and with the aid of anti-biotics and rest we would be well again in a couple of days.

I still have my free surgical mask though.