Self Manipulation

picture provided by: Pilgrim Studios

The other day a coworker asked me if I believed masturbation was a sin. She asked this because of a post one of her friends made on a social media site stating that she believed the act was a necessary choice one made to help in the process of celibacy.  She compared masturbation to vegetarianism; where a man or woman would refrain from having sex with another person in the same way a vegetarian chooses to either only eat poultry and fish, or cut our meat all-together and include dairy their diet instead. My answer to her could be considered a broad one by many standards.  I believe although this personal act of self-manipulation can feel natural to most, it is not one all can handle, therefore; may be a sin for some.

So is masturbation really a sin?  It’s a question I’ve asked God myself.  Though in the Bible it doesn’t come out and directly say it is, there are many factors involved which can relate it to a sinful act.  In Matthew 5:27-29 Jesus says that, “anyone who looks at a woman to lust after her (or lustfully) has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”  This statement is directed toward men, but can also be used when women are looking at men lustfully.   In this way I feel that the act of self-manipulation is a sin, because for many there is no masturbation without the presence of some type of stimulation.  A large percent of people find this in pornography, or in the sexual imaginations of someone they are attracted to. 

My pastor once hinted at the subject during a sermon about marriage.  I can remember sitting in audience thinking, “Finally, I can get my question answered,” but afterward was still left in a sort of fog.  I wanted him to talk more about this subject which naturally seems so taboo, because I’d rather have advice from a more spiritually educated perspective.  What I can remember taking away from his sermon was that it was not a matter of the act, so long as you were thinking about your husband or wife, but a matter of where the act could lead. 

There are instances where this act can become an addiction, and the person finds themselves in a situation where they are no longer able to control the urge to self-manipulate.  In this way, masturbation becomes more of a drug that one uses to gain the euphoric feeling which comes along with the gratification.  Others may find it an easy outlet to gain access to those in the fantasy world whom they would normally not have the same freedoms with in reality.

If you are able to keep your thoughts in control, and they do not wander to persons outside the bonds of marriage, then masturbation, I believe is not a sin for you.  But if you are among a great portion of human beings who find it hard to commit the act without the consistent stimulation of a source outside of matrimony, then masturbation would most definitely be a sin.  After reading passages in the Bible to try and wrap my mind around how the Christian view on this subject would be, this is the conclusion I have come to, and it is the answer I gave to my coworker. My hope is that it cleared some of the clouds from the fog she had in her mind than it did for me when I first started asking the question. 

Elected Trouble

picture provided by: Businessinsider.com

Oh what a world we live in, now that Real Estate Mogul, Donald Trump is called the President of the United States, and the supposed leader of the free world.  The whole ordeal feels like a joke, or better yet, a bad dream which has made its way on to the scene of reality.  The country has been exposed to more than its share of warnings through mass media, rumor, and the words from this man's own mouth, about how crucial our decisions can be.  What direction will we be taken in under the direction of Trump’s leadership? My hope is that we are not a sinking Titanic, with the promise of greatness, but a destiny to fail.  How can a man who has no political background run an entire country?

The 2017 presidential election carried its campaign on the premise of the people’s deep seeded emotions. It’s just too bad those emotions were steeped in hate. Rumors have swirled about someone out of Russia hacking into America’s most confidential computer files and boosting the votes from the Electoral College in Trump’s favor.  It has also been said that Trump received a good portion of his support from the people who reside in the ‘backwoods’ of the nation, and hate groups like the KKK.  I must say that when someone like David Duke, a former grand wizard in the KKK steps up to publicly show his support for Trump, it seems a bit suspicious.  David Duke, a leading voice in a group of neo-Nazi-type Holocaust deniers, has himself been elected to the Louisiana state House of Representatives. It begs one to wonder what direction the government wants to take this country in. Are Latin people to be rounded up and detained?  The women freely fondled and harassed?  Will Muslims still find themselves under the eye of suspicion, and Blacks continually be oppressed?

I struggle though, to fully blame racist for their ignorant points of view. They were once impressionable children who knew no hate. But these impressionable children fell under the influence of hate-filled parents who chose to live their lives inside of such a taxing burden.  I can’t imagine why we call ourselves “the land of the free” when those who consider themselves the “majority” still live in chains. Yes, hate is a burden that keeps you bound in the prison of bitterness which steels every bit of joy you can have when compared to choosing the freedom in giving love instead.

I’ve been around my share of hateful people, and they all seem to share one thing in common; they are all so angry. I’m left to wonder if they are on the verge of a nervous breakdown.  “Racism is so universal in this country, so widespread, and deep-seated, that it is invisible because it is so normal.”-Shirley Chisholm. Will they build a mental facility big enough to house all of America’s racist when the weight of their abhorrence comes crumbling down?

We have now put into office a good representation of what goes on in the minds of the people in this country: lack of self-control, boastful loathing, a lofty thinking of oneself, and an agenda based solely to benefit the security and justice of those who view themselves as a type of deity above the rest of the nation.

History has been revised enough by government to allow for a biased way of thinking. This leads to a patriotism that is neither based on truth nor reality. I do have to say, the American system of government has done a fine job of being cunning enough to drive an educational and mass media system set up to shift the minds of its people so they truly believe they live in a nation who fights for each individual’s liberty and justice.  In truth, the system is set us to promote a false patriotism so that their ideals are established, and their crimes are protected and covered. One nation, who pushes out God, divisible, with liberty and justice for some.

My Daddy's Daughter

This year my Christmas was spent in a hospital room with my father.  He came there with what he thought was temporary blindness, caused by a fall, but it actually ended up being something much more serious. Colon cancer.

I remember standing in his room and watching him while he slept.  He had yet to learn I was there. My husband, children, and I stood around his bedside quietly so as not to disturb him.  Fear crept into my bones, because to me, he looked to be knocking on death's door. When he stirred I felt a temporary surge of relief, until he opened his eyes and I could see nothing but blankness behind his lids.  It was as if he'd already passed from this life to the next, yet with mobility still allowed in his body.  I prayed to myself that he would be alright. In truth, I needed him to be alright because no child is ever prepared to lose their parents.

To some in my family this may sound weird.  One would have to know the back story behind me and my father's journey in order to understand this.  You see, my father didn't raise me; nor was he apart of my life while I was growing up.  My mother constantly reminded me that he contributed all of $50 to the financial requirements it takes to support a child.  He and my mother divorced when I was only 4, and from what I knew of my father, he was nothing more than a monster who lived to control others.

This knowledge not only came from what my mother told me, it was also witnessed through personal experiences. In my young life I had seen my father raise a hand to my mother countless times. I spent many nights living in fear of what he may someday do to her. His habit of ruthlessness not only extended to my mother, but even lent itself, on many occasions, to his own mother.  She walked in consistent fear of her own son, yet she treated him as if he were a prince.

With all the knowledge I had of what my father was capable of, I was still his little girl, and up until the point where my mother and I were able to sneak out and escape, I was the only one he didn't hurt...

After my mother was finally able to break free from my father, he punished her by staying out of my life (at least from her perspective). But what my father failed to realize, until I became an adult, was that he was punishing me as well.  So many things happened to me as a result of his absence, and over time I grew bitter.  Gone was the little girl who wanted nothing more than to curl up inside her daddy's arms; she was replaced with an attention seeking woman who looked desperately for male approval.

I began to slander my father's very name.  Every thing about him embarrassed me, and when any one told me I looked like him, I vehemently denied it.  I did not want to be apart of anything associated with him outside of his family, who I dearly love.  My mother saw how this root of bitterness was taking hold of me, and in order to try and rectify it, she took to telling me stories about his time spent in war.  She described how he would wake up in night sweats, and move in bed as if he were in battle.  This was all due to his PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder).  Yet he sought no professional help for it.  She explained that he was a fierce soldier who saw the death of many comrades, but was brave enough to continue to fight on the front line of the battle.  With these explanations her hope was to turn me from my sour feelings, and help me see the other side of his story, so I would have a better understanding of the person he chose to be.  None of this worked.  It was only when I was able to write a book about growing up fatherless, (Paper Walls on Amazon.com, or any online book seller) and vent all of my frustrations out with pen and paper, that I was able to be set free from the unforgiveness I harbored for him.

Fast forward to my twenties and thirties, where my father and I actually spent time building our relationship regardless of the past.  After the book purge, I was able to allow room in my heart for the man I didn't want to know.  I was open to listening to him, and hearing his reasons.  He told me many stories which helped to shape my view of why he was who he was.

One story in particular affected him so gravely, when he spoke of it, its as if he were reliving the memory every time.  I sat and listened, as if for the first time, to my father tell me of the nun who told him when he was only a nine year old Catholic school boy, that he would die old and alone, under a tree.  In response to this nun's words, my nine year old father pushed that nun down a flight of stairs. My father will never know that I have heard this story told before, from his sisters on several occasions.  When they tell it, they speak as if my father was designed to be mean from the beginning of his life.  And though I hesitate to admit it, I have to agree, but he is still MY daddy.  There was a reason God called me to be his daughter, so I feel he can't be all bad. My hope is that his current season of incapacity will help him review his life and make a change for the better. Yes, its true he's hurt a lot of people, and he would still prefer to "shoot" someone rather than make friends, but God has given him the blessing of more time, and I pray he uses it well.

My heart hopes that while he is down, but not out, he remembers who holds his future, and that it can still be a bright one.  I long for the day when Daddy doesn't need my husband to stand by while he takes fifteen minutes to struggle into a pair of pants and I wait discreetly outside of his hospital room.  I most definitely want not to be a helpless witness to his weak cries of, "why me," because he no longer has the strength to continue dressing after a taxing attempt at brushing his teeth. I hope that my husband and I will never have to carry his feeble body back to his bed because he is too dizzy to walk.

I wonder sometimes if God is calling him to wake up.  Is he showing my father that He is the one who hold's his whole life in His hands, but yet still waiting for daddy to rectify his choices?  Instead of spewing hateful words with his tongue, God has given him more time to share love with members of the family that he fights so hard to keep to himself.  Eight out of the eleven children my grandmother had are still alive, and my father only allows two of them inside his inner circle.  I wonder how much time The Father will give Daddy to forgive his brothers and sisters the way he expects God to forgive him?

I wonder these things because I want to meet my father in heaven one day.  Hate is a powerful emotion, but love can conquer it all.  I pray my Daddy, with the rest of his time on earth, will choose to love, because there is a great freedom in it; one like he's never known.

The doctors were able to perform the surgery on Daddy's colon, and successfully carve out all the cancer, but the road to recovery is still a long one ahead.  Though the guilt of not being there for me when I needed him eats away at my father, I'm still going to be there for him as much as he needs me to be. I just hope he will conquer all of his demons and be the hero in this life that I always dreamed him to be. I am my daddy's daughter, and that will never change.

A Night to Remember

Recently I attended a wedding fit for a queen.  It was straight out of every girl's fantasy, complete with a chateau built like a castle.  Though I was not the bride, who I must say looked every bit the part of royalty walking down that isle; she was stunning,  I still felt like a princess being escorted on the arm of my own Prince Charming.

The Marcion Wedding

We walked in to a room filled with violinist music.  I looked up, and there she stood on the balcony of the great room, greeting us with her beautiful tunes.  My heels clinked against freshly polished marble floors, which shined so brightly I could have checked my makeup in it.  For one night I was able to be a member of the "elite," at least this was how I felt when we walked over to the check-in table and our names appeared on the list along with the other specially invited guest.

My husband and I were escorted up the stairs where behind silk curtains we walked into the "chapel" with a stone hearth being the focal point of the alter.  This would be where the bride and groom would say their "I do's" and pledge to spend the rest of their lives together. I was in awe. We walked the candlelit center isle to our seats, and I folded the hem of my dress over the 5 inch heels I wore to accommodate its length.

The music selection through the whole ceremony seemed the most appropriately ordained sound to entertain a host of love and matrimonial connections. Afterward, we were led back downstairs to a waiting area where we were served delicious hors d'oeuvres from the tradition of the brides cultural family roots in Louisiana.  Then we entered the dining hall, which also served as the ballroom.  Elegant crystal chandeliers adorned the ceiling and matching centerpieces sparkled brightly in the glint of the dimmed lights.

The event was luxurious, and such a perfect date-night get-away for me and my honey. We danced the night away on the marble dance floor, and toasted one another with flutes of champagne.  I felt amazing because its not often my husband and I get to dress up and be "fancy," but this wedding served as the perfect occasion.

To top off all of the festivities, the bride and groom were airlifted away directly from the drive up in front of the chateau's doors.  One would think a horse drawn carriage would be the dream, but this couple took it one step further, and showed all other couples how a wedding should be done.  While I'm not one for all the glamour and glitz, I could truly appreciate all I was fortunate enough to experience.

Instead of being taken away to Wonderland inside of a private helicopter, my Prince Charming opened my door to his brand new sports vehicle and we drove off to our own type of dream spot; home.

To the bride and groom, Mr. & Mrs. Franklin Marcion, I say congratulations.  I pray the Lord blesses your union to see many years, and that through those years you will share beautiful experiences and make lovely memories.  God bless you.

Gloom and Doom

I thought I was waking up from a bad dream this morning.  Trump for president?  A man with no political background and a hefty lack of self control will run this country come 2017.

It seems as though my fellow Americans are filled with the Springfieldian's complex. You know, the residents of Springfield, Wherever from the television show The Simpson's.  Their minds also seem to change with the shift of the wind. It almost becomes humorous to watch citizens fall for self-absorbed propaganda which compromises their interest and values simply because its wrapped in a rage they wish to impose on others.

America, how ignorant have we become?  Are we so determined to lash out against those who don't look like us, don't earn the same income, or don't share the same nationality that we would vote in a man who so blatantly boast of his prejudices? Not only that, but I shake my head at the women who support such degradation of their own gender.  This man has grown up with enough entitlement to believe he can just grab a woman in her genital area and get away with it.  It was a joke to him! Yet we put him in office.  We want this man to lead us, but lead us where; to our own demise?

America's  solution to this country's problems has become like that of a humorous cartoon.  It leaves one to wonder what is next for us under the direction of a man who claims to love war.  I,for one, don't want my children being raised in a world set up like a battle zone.

The hardest thing to open is a closed mind, so I don't expect much in the direction of progress for the next four years.  Obama, you will be truly missed.  I will savor the time we have left until January when all hell breaks loose. Reality will hit when America has to face the consequences of their decision.

Vote

Yesterday I voted and just as I said I would do, I wrote in a candidate.  My husband told me that I wasted my vote, but I don't feel I did.  Change starts as small and simple as a whisper; or in my case, on e ballot.  If it had not been for those in our history bold enough to be willing to let their one voice be heard above the many, we would still be sitting still, steeped in the ashes of our faults.

Whether we move forward or backward in our society depends on the people we place in leadership.  It seems other countries get this, but the "world leader," America, seems to lack enough people with the courage to fight back against its governmental injustices.  For those who are willing, they are quickly shut down by advertisements and support groups who show how "fairly" they treat the people versus the truth in their crimes. Some how those get covered up under the blanket of making the persecuted look like the real villains.  This happens through mass media, and the not so subtle subliminal messages in television and theater.

I'll bet most citizens didn't even know there were candidates outside of Clinton and Trump running for the office of president. I myself never really paid much attention, because they aren't spotlighted in the news.  Gary Johnson represents the Libertarian Party and Jill Stein represents the Green Party.  They have accounts of what direction they think this country should go in as well.  They debate serious issues, one of which are in the headlines.  Why not?  I want to hear what they have to say as well.  This way I can have all the information I need in order to make an unbiased vote when I go to the polls.

That's the way its supposed to be right? I wish!  You'll find people, few and far between, who are are willing to vote unbiased, and most of the time those who say they are, are probably lying. Voting unbiased sounds cute, sweet, and politically correct, but even the best of us have a preference which clouds our ability to hear any part of what another candidate has to say as long as they are not members of our own party.    This is why you see so many former Republican presidential candidates, who staunchly spoke out against Donald Trump and his policies, suddenly advertising in his favor.  They've mysteriously had a change of heart over night and now support the man and his mess.

You see what I did right there?  I just showed you my own bias.  Because even though I don't consider myself either Republican or Democrat, I would still like to think that I'm considering a leader based on his principles and not his party.

Whatever happened to Ralph Nader?  Is he still alive?  As far as I know he is the only Independent Party candidate who never gave up running in each election no matter how bad the defeat.  I have to respect a man like that. He was willing to, despite the odds, keep moving forward so his voice will be heard.  Will anyone else be willing to do that come November 8th? You may not be running for president, but you still have a voice.  Change starts with one person, then snowballs into something big enough to make a difference.

The Forgotten Child

The other day my son and I were sitting down at the table. I watched him while he ate his breakfast because he likes company when he eats.  While we sat, I began to reminisce about my grandparents and some of the things they used to say and do when they were alive.  One of the expressions my maternal grandmother used to say about a relatively thin person who seemed to eat a lot, but yet not gain weight, was such a funny-sounding kind of oxymoron, that it took me a while to ponder on before I was able to understand the meaning.  Even though the expression may not make much sense to a young mind when first heard, on the day I sat across the table from my oldest son while he ate his breakfast, it made perfect sense to me.

My grandmother used to tell us all the time when we were young, "you eat so much it makes you po' to tote it."  Some Southerners will get this, while those in the North will write if off as just another one of those mindless sayings they say in the South, but simply put, it just means that no matter how much you eat, your weight goes nowhere.

Thinking back on those times we used to run around Grandma's house, I also remembered how Grandpa used to relate to me as opposed to the other grandchildren.  His feelings for me, or lack there of, were quite sour.  As a matter of fact, he was not fond of neither me nor my mother, and she was his child.  My mother and I used to put our heads together and wonder if it was due to the rumor that she was the daughter of the neighbor across the street.  This rumor carried around the neighborhood and among my grandmother's friends, and was seemingly confirmed when the very neighbor, who so happened to be one of my grandfather's friends, told my mother when she was eighteen that he was indeed her father.  Both my mother and I were inclined to believe this because she didn't look like her other brother and sisters, nor did she act like them.  She spent her childhood wondering why she was different, and singled out by her parents.

This is not to say that I believe my grandmother was some sort of worldly woman.  She was a woman strong in her faith; one who showed great love to her family the best way she knew how.  I honor her memory and feel privileged to be called her granddaughter.  She, along with my Aunt, was the one to rush in to my rescue the time my grandfather lifted a blunt object to strike me in the head with.  I was only about eight or nine and couldn't understand how the sheer sight of me angered him so much.  All I wanted was his love.

Sitting there across the table from my sixteen year old, I began to remember all of these things.  I sat there engrossed in my thoughts while confessing to him my experiences.  I told him of the time when I was nine and my maternal grandfather was handing out loose change he typically kept in his pocket to all the grandchildren.  I sat on the sofa watching at first, not thinking he would even consider giving me any because he usually shewed me away. But then something came over me, a sudden hope that this time would be different.  I longed for his acceptance more than I realized, and it was that hope and longing which propelled me from my place on the sofa to go and join the circle around him.

As he took his time counting out change and extending it to the little hands waiting to be filled, he got to me and stopped.  The glare in his eyes reflected sheer contempt and he told me to go away because he wasn't going to give any thing to my "Gerald-looking a#!."  Yes, typically when my grandfather spoke to me, his initial response would be followed by a series of expletives, and for some reason, he never referred to me by my name.  I was always called by my father's name because everyone said I looked so much like him.

I pulled my hand back and returned to my spot on the sofa.  All the hope I had conjured was now gone as I sat back and watched as the rest of the kids get their portion of the change. There would be more times where I was left out from the gifts my grandfather shared with his grandchildren, but that one in particular has always stuck out in my mind.  It was a turning point for me, because it was then that I determined in my little mind  I would do everything I could to get him to love and accept me the way I did him.

I didn't really know much about my paternal grandmother at the time. My parents divorced when I was four years old, and both of them lived in two different states.  But, what I do remember is a night when my parents went out and left me, along with some of the other grandchildren on my father's side of the family, with his mother.  I called her Mama Lucy because she had sternly warned me to never call her grandmother.  She said that she wasn't anyone's grandmother, though she really was, but at the time she was still grasping for a fleeting youth.  Any way, on this night at bed time, I remember getting really excited because Mama Lucy was inviting all of the grandchildren she had to come and sleep with her in her bed. Everyone there was privileged to be around Mama Lucy all the time, I was the only one who lived out of state, and therefore; didn't get to see her as much.

I watched as all the little bodies scrabbled into her room.  Then I got up and proceeded to follow them, but before I could make it past my grandmother's bedroom door,  she stopped me.  I was told that I couldn't fit in the bed with the rest of the children, and that I would have to go and make a place to sleep on the living room floor.  My face fell, and I found it impossible to hide my heartbreak.  In my little mind, I had been rejected in favor of the other grandchildren even though I belonged to her as well.

When my parents came in later that night, on the floor is where they found me, curled up in a little ball, trying to stay warm.  Of course, my father blew a gasket and asked why his child was the only one on the floor.  My grandmother had told him that I wanted to sleep there.  I knew this not to be true, but I refused to speak up about it.  I figured if I told, it would just be a strike against me, and if I was ever going to earn Mama Lucy's love, tattling would not be a good choice.

When I was done reminiscing, I looked over at the face of my son.  He looked just like I had on the night my paternal grandmother made me sleep on the floor, and the day  my maternal grandfather denied me his gift of coins.  I was suddenly struck by the sadness he was feeling, not because of what happened to me, those things no longer bother me, but because my story had such a profound effect on him.  As his mother I would never want him to feel left out the way I did when I was growing up.  It would make me feel an indescribable devastation.  I live my life so that he doesn't have to know the pains of not knowing how special he truly is.  Every child deserves that.

I thank God  I am no longer affected by the hurts in my past; hurts suffered from my own family.  Sometimes the very ones you think are there to protect and care for you, can be the ones who make you feel the most insecure.  Growing up, I tried my best to please those I loved in hopes that it would make me more acceptable.  I am just learning now, as an adult, that there is no way I am able to please everyone all the time.  The most important thing is to be secure in who God made me to be, and try my best to live peaceable with people.  If who I am is not acceptable to some, even those within my family, I have come to know that it is okay, I am still called good by Him who made me.