Curatives

Curative - definition: curing, tending to cure, or having the power to cure. A thing that heals or brings a measure of comfort.

I like the word Curative. I prefer to think of Curatives as big fat drops of grace, kindness and tender mercy that God provides when we need them most. They turn up at any place, at any time, and for anyone who is troubled. Curatives often come as people who meet and end up helping each other. How is it that some people encounter other people who are uniquely qualified to aid, comfort, inspire and even help them change for the better? They may have nothing in common. Perhaps they normally would not mix. God arranges and shuffles people, places, things, and dogs as He sees fit. He also has a Plan, and we are part of it, whether we like it or not. He doesn’t need us to understand or approve, or even believe in Him, either.

God does this because He can. Maybe He gets bored up there, and He likes to help folks in His spare time – particularly and especially those of us who have made big mistakes and even bigger messes of our lives. He must love us, or perhaps He is simply embarrassed for us; we do make fools of ourselves – and He has to watch it all. Why doesn’t He get tired of us?

In the Parable of the Lost Sheep, a shepherd has an hundred sheep in his flock, one of which prefers to go his own way. He wandered off path, got lost, panicked, and he ended up caught in an evil bewitched thorn bush. The lamb cried. The shepherd heard. To the shepherd, the lost one is as important to him as the entire flock. He dropped everything to search. The lost was soon found. He carefully freed the lamb from the thorns. He lovingly gathered him in his arms and carried him back to the flock. That’s how it works for us.

The Parable of the Lost Sheep shows us how precious each of us is to the Good Shepherd. We ignore good advice. We repeat our mistakes. We insist on “going our own way.” Free Agency permits us to do some remarkably dumb things. If we insist on taking the wrong paths in our lives, we will discover that some paths lead to very dark places.

God never tires of bailing us out, though.

He constantly demonstrates His love for us, even when we insist on being unlovable idiots. Curatives are there for us because God Himself is there for us. He arranges people, places, things, and dogs along our path to guide, guard, protect, and encourage us. People to help us, and people we can help. Curatives show up when we need them, and we don’t even have to ask. God doesn’t dole out too much at one time, though, because we couldn’t handle it. We are a primitive species. Few of us even know what would make us happy, other than winning the lottery.

Many years ago, I represented a nice lady who was about the age of my Grandmother. She had no family, very few friends, and she lived alone in a small town. For reasons I’ll never understand, she made it her mission over the years to shower me with thoughtful gestures. She sent me greeting cards on every occasion invented by card companies to peddle cards. In each card she’d write a lovely note expressing her love, friendship and good wishes for me. She also sent gifts – ties, socks, shirts, watches, wallets, manicure kits, shoe shine sets, desk accessories and other items into which I suspected she’d put much thought.

Occasionally I’d send her flowers, or a card of my own. On Mother’s Day, her birthday, and at Christmas time, I would send her a check. I was too lazy to take time to shop for something special. Lots of thought goes into a check.

Over the years, and as my fortunes declined because of a voodoo curse someone put on me, I developed a deeper appreciation for her many acts of kindness. The cards and gifts were touching Curatives from my friend. They made me feel better, just like a big swig of Laudanum. The cards and gifts she sent brought cheer to my imagined desolation and despair; encouragement to my gloom and doom; and a ray of hope in my anticipated destruction and defeat. Instead of feeling like fat Idi Amin in exile, I felt more like -- Napoleon, only shorter.

For my friend it almost had to be a labor of love. I think she looked forward to shopping for me. Why? She went to so much trouble for me, and I am the wretch John Newton wrote the song about.

My friend was a Curative. She was someone special who helped. Our paths crossed at one point, and later on I would be richly blessed by her kindness. She probably had little notion of the encouragement I received from just one of those cards.

At certain times in my life, I have made dumb decisions. There are always consequences. Barack will fix it. Those bad choices led me to expend enormous time, money and energy on such projects as swimming down to the wreck of the Titanic. You can’t get there, folks, but I kept on trying, over and over, for a long time, and always with the same result. It’s cold, dark, lonely, and terrifying down there. Some of those fish are mean. By the time one realizes he can’t actually make it to the wreck of the ship, it is too late to make it back to the surface – unless a Good Shepherd happens by to the rescue. And He always does. He watches over us.

I haven’t talked to my friend in several years. I told you I was a wretch. But I am going to see about her now. She had to move from her small and modest apartment to an assisted living facility. She is 87 now. I don’t know about her health. I haven’t received a card in over a year, which is troubling. I need to thank her again for looking after me.

I’ve had many of these “Curatives” over the years. People seem to turn up in my life when I least expect it, and when I need them most. Just like the Elves in “The Two Towers.” The Curative People are uniquely situated to help me with my own challenges. This is good, because I often wonder if I am genetically pre-disposed to do the next dumb thing. I like to have a mess going on in my life at all times – something to poke at or jab, so I can make it worse. If there are no messes or drama, no resentments or anger to obsess over, then I will create some. This is how I must roll. Unless a rogue Curative comes along and helps me change and quit doing that.

Yep, I’m going to see if there is anything that lady needs. It is my turn to look after her now. I’m going to toss her a few of those Curatives. Maybe do some shopping for cheesy greeting cards and whatnot.


©2009 Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

The Catcher in the Fly

President Reagan ran a fever for several days after the assassination attempt in 1981. His doctors wouldn’t let him take a shower. One night, drenched in sweat, he decided he had to clean up. He went into the bathroom and gave himself a sponge bath. He noticed he’d slopped water all over the floor, and he was afraid the nurse might be blamed for his unauthorized bath. The President of the United States got down on his hands and knees and cleaned up the mess he had made. (Hospitals have people for that)

Last week, there was much press coverage (as there always is of anything President Obama does, pronounces, or emits) of the Fly Assassination that occurred during an interview. Goofy PETA weighed in on how truly precious is the life of the house fly. Buddhists are mad at him, as he might have slain someone who had been reincarnated as a fly, and who was trying to work his way up to wasp in the next life. The Aryan Brotherhood was furious and cried racism because it turned out the fly was actually white. Yes.

I’m impressed Obama was able to kill a fly without a swatter. I never could. Huge mutant flies often come into my house through the pet door. Micky helpfully lounges there, with her head and hands hanging outside, and her rear and hind legs inside the house. No, I don’t know why. Why does she try to trip me when I’m walking up or down the stairs? She is weird.

These big flies seek ME, and hover about ME, and all of my works. This is their job. If I can kill them, I will, because they are annoying. That is MY job. We always called them “dog flies,” because of my beloved dog, Rocky. Fat as he was, Rocky chased those bird-size flies all over the house, and he could actually catch and kill them in his mouth. Try doing that, Mr. President.

Yeah, I thought all the coverage about the fly incident was silly and, as always, much ado about nothing. It was funny when after Obama killed the fly, he flashed a gang sign and declared, “Gotchu, Beeotch. Tupac!” No one had ever uttered such a thing in the Oval Office, but these are different times, and black people are always yelling “Tupac” for some reason. I don’t have to understand everything.

Here’s what impressed me about the Obama vs. Fly story. My Babymama, Maureen Dowd, wrote that after the interview was concluded, the President of the United States took a napkin and cleaned up the mess he’d made when he killed the fly.

Why’d he do that? Why would the President clean up any mess? (They have people on White House Staff for that -- lots)

Here’s hoping that President Obama learned some simple lessons about life from the nice Grandmother who raised him. When you make a mess, clean it up. Think of others. Do the next right thing. President Reagan’s Mother advised him always to “do and say the kindest thing.” He lived by that motto, and he was kind and thoughtful to everyone he encountered.

I think the simple act of cleaning up the fly tells us something about President Obama. He has great power, an Ivy League education, and the amazing ability to read from a teleprompter. He must have an unimaginable ego from all the lemmingesque hero worship, and the animal sacrifices offered every day by his acolytes in secret Obama Temples around the world. (It’s all on the internets)

Maybe somewhere he learned modesty and humility. After eight long years of dumbness and cockiness, we have ourselves a bright President. If he’ll surround himself with smart advisors (not yes men/women), listen to wise counsel, and if he’ll take a little time each day to ask allah for guidance, he might be a good President. With the exception of the “allah” part, that is how President Reagan did it.

©2009 Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

Good Luck, God. You too, Jesus.

I was watching one of my favorite nerd channels, the Military Channel, this afternoon. The program was called: "The Color of War - D-Day." It was an interesting program, as are most documentaries about the war, even if they do recycle the same footage. There isn't much fresh footage of a 65-year old event, is there?

However, someone with the venerable Life Magazine uncovered some interesting, albeit creepy color images from those happy golden days of the Third Reich (before Poland invaded Germany). They recently were published in Life, and they are available to view here:

http://www.life.com/image/first/in-gallery/27022/adolf-hitler-up-close

Most of us who are history buffs, read books, or who have watched a few programs about the invasion of Normandy know the assault on Fortress Europe was an enormous risk. It was expected Allied losses would be staggering. There was nothing foregone about the outcome.

The Germans expected the landings to take place near Calais, which was closest to the English coast. Taking advantage of this perception, the Allies cheated and led the Germans to believe that George C. Scott would indeed land at the Pas de Calais. Sneakily, Allied planners actually selected Normandy, which was farther away, and would make the crossing, landing and permanent seizure of the beaches far more difficult.

To those of us who sided with the Germans because they had cooler uniforms and neato helmets, this wasn't fair. Oh well, maybe next war.

Invasion planners also faced the issue of awful weather, which was invented by the English, by the way. For about 95% of the year, even fish can't even swim in the English Channel because of rough seas. There would be no harbor, at least for awhile, through which could flow the streams of materiel for a huge army.

The Germans had years to prepare for the expected onslaught, and prepare they did with miles and miles of concrete bunkers, pill boxes, steel obstacles, barbed wire, machine guns, and anything else that could be spared from the Eastern Front, where the mean, mongoloid Russians (Patton's adjective) were.

The poor Germans.


It was serious business. Winston Churchill was particularly nervous, as he knew firsthand that even the best invasion plans do not come with any guarantee of success. The Dieppe Raid in August, 1942, was a disaster, and it was dwarfed by Operation Overlord, the largest invasion in history.

(Other than the dumb President Bush opening the borders with Mexico. Jus' sayin').

In the days before the invasion, Allied bombers bombed and strafed the coast, repeatedly and often. This was also cheating, as the Germans had already lost most of their planes and pilots, and they couldn't fight back. The purpose of these air raids was to knock out as many of the machine gun nests as possible and create "fox holes" on the beaches for cover.

Anyone who has seen "Saving Private Ryan," or talked to my friend Lyn, knows it didn't quite happen that way at Omaha Beach. The bombers missed their targets. There were very few fox or people holes and almost no cover, other than sand. There were plenty of machine guns, though. The Germans did as Germans do, and they gave our guys a chance to find cover before they fired on them.

Not really.

Now the British, French, Canadians, Polish and (I guess) Mormon troops landed at Utah, Sword, Juno, Gold Beaches. It wasn't so rough for them, and they were greeted by friendly folk wearing lederhosen and passing out Bavarian beer.


For the Americans, it sucked.

I've only touched on the risks involved with the Normandy landings, and I've done so in my usual irreverent manner. But I've visited Normandy. I've walked through the cemeteries. I've seen the cliffs of Pointe du Hoc. American Rangers somehow managed to scale the cliffs, just as some of our strategists were wondering if it might be best to cede the Omaha site and concentrate on the others.


Omaha Beach and Pointe du Hoc are among the grandest, most epic and moving places I've ever visited, other than Billings, Missouri and Billings, Oklahoma. I looked down below the cliffs at the beach, and then the channel. I wondered what it would be like to be seasick, stumbling off the LCVPs (Higgins Boats), toting a heavy pack, all the while being fired upon. I'd have called in sick or cried or something less heroic.

I asked myself, "how'd they ever do it? How'd we manage to land enough boys fast enough to finally swamp the Germans?" The answer, of course was behind me in the cemetery.

Row upon row of crosses and Stars of David. Sorry, no crescents. All those brave men who died so we could get fat and watch TV and eat Cheetohs.

General Eisenhower and his staff had every reason to be nervous about Operation Overlord. In hindsight, it was as easy and successful as a sappy John Wayne movie -- without the bad dialogue. But if it had failed, if goofy Hitler had allowed his generals to attack with the reserve Panzer divisions as Rommel pleaded, the invasion might have been repelled.

But he didn't, they couldn't, and it wasn't.

I'm getting to the point of this post. To each of the men and women involved in Operation Overlord, General Eisenhower issued a statement.


It's worth posting it all (click to enlarge):


My favorite part is the last paragraph:

"Good Luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking."

I think he brought God into the plan because "luck" is so seldom adequate when one invades a continent that is defended by Germans wearing cool uniforms and sporting neato helmets. Most of us aren't that lucky in life anyway. We don't win the lottery. If we win a scratch off at Burger King, it is for something dumb we don't even want.

"Luck" doesn't protect us from machine gun nests, either -- even if the chivalrous Germans did allow plenty of time to take cover.

Toward the end of the program, the narrator began to quote from General Eisenhower's stirring statement. The words were familiar to me, and I perked up. "I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory! Good Luck!"

And that was that. End of General Eisenhower's Statement. The narrator cut the phrase about beseeching the blessing of Almighty God. No reason to do that, really, other than we wouldn't want to offend any athiest-Americans, God-haters, mohammedans, or other hyphenated members of the community who think God isn't fabulous or magical enough anymore.

When the Draculas are coming by for a visit, I know I always put away the crucifix. Life is all about not offending, isn't it.

Political correctness annoys me, even though I can't do much about it. I'm living in the wrong time, I guess. For instance, I think a town should display the Ten Commandments if it wants to. I'd like to see the Walt Disney classic, "Song of the South," but I can't do that because it isn't politically correct. It is neither shown nor sold in the United States. Reckon why?

God, who has done quite a lot for us since 1776 (if one gives Him any of the credit) , is being eased and phased out of our culture because we don't seem to need Him so much anymore. So why be cheesy and corny and Frank Capra-ish and mention Him in documentaries? General Eisenhower wrote and distributed that statement, and the troops were inspired by it. Tens of thousands of soldiers did a great deal of beseeching that morning (ask one if you can still find one) . The invasion was a success in the face of almost insurmountable odds.

Never mind that the statement is part of history. Cut, paste, edit, change and ruin those memorable words -- like editors often do with crappily written, anti-American sounding, public school history books.

No more A.D. and B.C. It's now B.C.E. and C.E.

You're out, God.

You too, Jesus.

We'll holla when we need Thee. Maybe next time muslims fly planes into our buildings, or the Martians invade earth in an awful Tom Cruise movie. Until then,

Good luck, God. You too, Jesus.

©2009 Randall P. Hodge and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

Happy 85th Birthday Lyn

Franklyn C. "Lyn" Nofziger, 1924-2006

R.I.P., Georgia Eisworth Weir

Love, Bonnie & Virgil