Colossians 3:18 Wives, be subject…

SUBJECT! Use this word in the context of “wives be subject” and walls of resistance will immediately go up. For women and men that word, subject conjurors up all sorts of incorrect emotions and actions.

Subject – being under domination, control, or influence and all the men cheer while women give me a dirty look. It is my OPINION that either Paul spoke the wrong word or Webster got the definition incorrect. There is nothing warm and fuzzy about this definition and I understand that not everything is warm and fuzzy when it comes to God or relationships. But to me being under dominion does not sound like God. I do not view my relationship with Him as being under His dominion as I am there by free will and of my choosing to be responsive to His invitation.

Within the very same dictionary is the following definition…

Subject – that which forms a basic matter of thought, discussion, investigation, a branch of knowledge, a motive, cause, the theme of, and my favorite… the principal melodic motif or phrase in a musical composition.

Married women exist, occupy the position of the principal melodic motif or phrase in a musical composition.

Paul says, with ed’s interpretation, “ed let Ann Marie occupy the position of the principal melodic phrase in your musical composition.”

AMAZING!!!! This helps me greatly as a husband. To see my wife and understand the role God intended for her to “Be” in my life. This definition to me raise her up to a level I have never understood before. It’s all about her inward being, which is her true self as she has been built. This is an epiphany for me.

Consider the two for yourself… “Wives exist, under dominion” or “wives occupy the position of the principal melodic phrase in your musical composition.” There is no doubt in my mind and i am reminded for what ever reason of one of my favorite verses from Matthew 11:28-30

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”

The ed translation – “Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on your marriage, relationship with your husband, with your wife or perhaps yourself? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your relationship. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace, the principal melodic phrase in your musical composition. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly in your relationships.”

When wives learn the unforced rhythms of His grace. When Ann Marie submits to my ”loving” leadership and follows “God’s” intention for her, she is fulfilled and so am i. It’s a win, win! Efforts to reverse or confuse the duties of wife and husband destroy the blessing each is to be to the other.

Leadership is not dictatorship or lordship. It is loving. In fact, both myself and Ann Marie must be in relationship to the Lord as well as to each other. It is a mutual respect under the lordship of Jesus Christ. When Ann Marie, a Godly woman, is in relationship to the Lord and with me, she experiences a release and fulfillment that she can have in no other way. This mutual love and relationship creates an atmosphere of growth in the home that enables both myself and Ann Marie to become all that God wants us to be.

3 elements to keep in mind regarding being subject:

Being subject does not imply inferiority.

Being subject is not absolute and there may be times when Ann Marie must refuse to be subject to my desires because they violate God’s Word.

my authority is not to be exercised in an authoritative, overbearing manner, but in the context of a loving relationship.

It is my belief that being subject takes nothing away from the dignity of Ann Marie, but rather it enhances her worth in God’s eyes, for such a life is pleasing in His sight.

The true meaning of being subject is of two equals. What integrity Ann Marie who loves God has, because she is willing to be subject to an equal in order that God’s order and function may take place in our family.

If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving an infant’s life, she will choose to save the infant’s life without even considering if there are men on base.  ~Dave Barry

“4 How beautiful you are, my darling!
    Oh, how beautiful!
    Your eyes behind your veil are doves.
Your hair is like a flock of goats
    descending from the hills of Gilead.
² Your teeth are like a flock of sheep just shorn,
    coming up from the washing.
Each has its twin;
    not one of them is alone.
³ Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon;
    your mouth is lovely.
Your temples behind your veil
    are like the halves of a pomegranate.
⁴ Your neck is like the tower of David,
    built with courses of stone^[i];
on it hang a thousand shields,
    all of them shields of warriors.
⁵ Your breasts are like two fawns,
    like twin fawns of a gazelle
    that browse among the lilies. 
⁶ Until the day breaks
    and the shadows flee,
I will go to the mountain of myrrh
    and to the hill of incense.
⁷ You are altogether beautiful, my darling;
    there is no flaw in you. ⁸ Come with me from Lebanon, my bride,
    come with me from Lebanon.
Descend from the crest of Amana,
    from the top of Senir, the summit of Hermon,
from the lions’ dens
    and the mountain haunts of leopards.
⁹ You have stolen my heart, my sister, my bride;
    you have stolen my heart
with one glance of your eyes,
    with one jewel of your necklace.”  Song of Songs 4:1-9 NIV

An important strength of journaling and doing devotions through specific books of the Bible is that I am forced to deal with topics and issues that I would rather pass on…  Song of Songs 4 is a chapter that I’d rather have passed on.  In Song of Songs 4:1-15, Solomon is doing something that I have great challenges with.  He is being romantic toward his wife and expressing his love to her.  Because romance, affection, and expressing love are not strengths of mine, I surely learn several things from Solomon today.  Ironically enough, I am writing this devotion on Valentine’s Day.

This chapter likely speaks of the wedding night of Solomon and Abishag.  In their culture, when a couple got married, there was a great celebration and wedding feast.  There was a bridal chamber that a couple would go off into and consummate their marriage in while the party was going on.  When they were done, they would come back and re-join the party. 

The verses we are reading today picks up in the bridal chamber during the wedding when Solomon has removed his wife’s veil and is undressing his wife.  Yes this stuff is in the Bible!  This is why I noted in a previous devotion that in Ancient times Rabbi’s would forbid any man under the age of 30 from reading this text.  They feared the emotions and passions it would bring up in him because of its erotic nature. 

As Solomon is with his wife, he takes the time to affirm her and to speak words of romance to his love.  This text shows how a man should view his wife.  Bible Commentator, Thomas Nelson says of this passage that it is the, “Greatest and most inspired bit of text as to how a man should see his wife.” 

Let’s join Solomon and his wife in the bridal chamber for awhile and see what he says to his wife:

“4 How beautiful you are, my darling!
    Oh, how beautiful!
    Your eyes behind your veil are doves.
Your hair is like a flock of goats
    descending from the hills of Gilead.
² Your teeth are like a flock of sheep just shorn,
    coming up from the washing.”  Song of Songs 4:1-2 NIV

Here he recognizes that she has all of her teeth!  This was probably attractive during that time because there was no dental work and people could easily lose their teeth. 

“Each has its twin;
    not one of them is alone.
³ Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon;
    your mouth is lovely.
Your temples behind your veil
    are like the halves of a pomegranate.”  Song of Songs 4:2-3 NIV

He points out that she has rosy cheeks.

“⁴ Your neck is like the tower of David,
    built with courses of stone^[i];
on it hang a thousand shields,
    all of them shields of warriors.”  Song of Songs 4:4 NIV

As he continues to describe her, he points out that she has a really big neck.  We can remember from Song of Songs 1, that Abishag has some insecurity about her appearance and her looks.  Solomon points out that she has a huge neck… but he likes it.  He recognizes her flaw as attractive to him because she is his standard of beauty.

^“5 Your breasts are like two fawns,
    like twin fawns of a gazelle
    that browse among the lilies.”  Song of Songs 4:5 NIV

Here is an interesting verse.  Abishag is a virgin and has not been with a man before.  This is their honeymoon night and she has undressed before her husband for the first time.  Solomon sees her bare body and her breasts for the first time and he refers to them as small furry woodland animals!  This doesn’t seem very flattering or the best way to compliment your wife on the night of your honeymoon! 

In context, two fawns are basically two baby deer.  They are known to be perky, playful, and fun.  Yes… this is in the Bible and may just be a new life verse for husbands!  When you go to the zoo, you typically find baby deer in the petting zoo! 

“⁶ Until the day breaks
    and the shadows flee,
I will go to the mountain of myrrh
    and to the hill of incense.
⁷ You are altogether beautiful, my darling;
    there is no flaw in you.”  Song of Songs 4:6-7 NIV

Solomon says that there are no flaws in his wife.  Have you ever seen anyone with no flaw?  Everyone has flaws.  Solomon points out to Abishag however that she was his standard of beauty.  He doesn’t compare her to other women.  There is no flaw in her because she is the standard of beauty.  Husbands and wives don’t compare your spouse to someone else.  Don’t compare them to the person you dated before.  Don’t compare them to the celebrity pictures at the grocery store.  Your spouse IS your standard of beauty.

^“8 Come with me from Lebanon, my bride,
    come with me from Lebanon.
Descend from the crest of Amana,
    from the top of Senir, the summit of Hermon,
from the lions’ dens
    and the mountain haunts of leopards.
⁹ You have stolen my heart, my sister, my bride;
    you have stolen my heart
with one glance of your eyes,
    with one jewel of your necklace.
¹⁰ How delightful is your love, my sister, my bride!”  Song of Songs 4:8-10 NIV

Solomon calls Abishag his sister and bride.  This is important to note as single men should treat single women as SISTERS first.  When you are single, serve God with your sister.  Get to know her.  Honor her as you would your sister… and wouldn’t try to use her to have sex with.  MEN – BEFORE YOU TOUCH YOUR WIFE’S BODY, YOU MUST TOUCH HER HEART.    

Don’t build the relationship on sex, but on being a brother or sister in Christ first.  Best friends and worship of God together and bride

Holy Spirit give me eyes for my wife ONLY.  May she be my standard of beauty in all ways.  Teach me to touch her heart before touching her body.  In the strong name of Jesus Christ I pray, amen.

1. Who introduced this case (Luke 20:27)?  What do they believe (Acts 23:6-8)?

Luke 20:27-28—Then came to him certain of the Sadducees, which deny that there is any resurrection; and they asked him, Saying, Master, Moses wrote unto us, If any man’s brother die, having a wife, and he die without children, that his brother should take his wife, and raise up seed unto his brother.

Acts 23:6-8—But when Paul perceived that the one part were Sadducees, and the other Pharisees, he cried out in the council, Men and brethren, I am a Pharisee, the son of a Pharisee: of the hope and resurrection of the dead I am called in question. 7 And when he had so said, there arose a dissension between the Pharisees and the Sadducees: and the multitude was divided. 8 For the Sadducees say that there is no resurrection, neither angel, nor spirit: but the Pharisees confess both.

2. What was Moses’ teaching to confirm the possibility of such a case (Luke 20:28; Deut. 25:5)?

Luke 20:28—Saying, Master, Moses wrote unto us, If any man’s brother die, having a wife, and he die without children, that his brother should take his wife, and raise up seed unto his brother.

Deuteronomy 25:5—If brethren dwell together, and one of them die, and have no child, the wife of the dead shall not marry without unto a stranger: her husband’s brother shall go in unto her, and take her to him to wife, and perform the duty of an husband’s brother unto her.

3. What was the experience of the woman (Luke 20:29-32)?

Luke 20:29-32—There were therefore seven brethren: and the first took a wife, and died without children. And the second took her to wife, and he died childless. And the third took her; and in like manner the seven also: and they left no children, and died. Last of all, the woman died also.

4. Now, what was the question intended to ensnare Christ (Luke 20:33)?

Luke 20:33—Therefore in the resurrection whose wife of them is she? for seven had her to wife. This question is simply dripping with sarcasm from ones who want to prove there cannot possibly be a resurrection!

5. What was the basis of the Sadducee’s religious dilemma (Matt. 22:29-32; Acts 23:8)?

Matthew 22:29-32—Jesus answered and said unto them, Ye do err, not knowing the scriptures, nor the power of God. For in the resurrection they neither marry, nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven. But as touching the resurrection of the dead, have ye not read that which was spoken unto you by God, saying, I am the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob? God is not the God of the dead, but of the living.

Acts 23:8—For the Sadducees say that there is no resurrection, neither angel, nor spirit: but the Pharisees confess both.

6. Doubtless the woman was sad and lonely with losing seven husbands or with never having a child, but what could have been her hope and joy for eternity (Matt. 5:4; Luke 6:21)?

ANS: Anyone who lives faithful to God has the hope of peace and joy eternally.

7. If we were to have such a life, what should give us cause to laugh and be comforted (Rom. 8:17-25)?

ANS: Part of the reason might be our new body, and the glory that will be revealed in us eternally.

Romans 8:17-25—And if children, then heirs; heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ; if so be that we suffer with him, that we may be also glorified together. 18 For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us. 19 For the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God. 20 For the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by reason of him who hath subjected the same in hope, 21 Because the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. 22 For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now. 23 And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body. 24 For we are saved by hope: but hope that is seen is not hope: for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for? 25 But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.

8. Give Mark’s account of this situation (Mark 12:24-27).

Mark 12:24-27—And Jesus answering said unto them, Do ye not therefore err, because ye know not the scriptures, neither the power of God? For when they shall rise from the dead, they neither marry, nor are given in marriage; but are as the angels which are in heaven. And as touching the dead, that they rise: have ye not read in the book of Moses, how in the bush God spake unto him, saying, I am the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob? He is not the God of the dead, but the God of the living: ye therefore do greatly err.

9. Give Christ’s proof of the resurrection (Luke 20:37-38).

Luke 20:34-38—And Jesus answering said unto them, The children of this world marry, and are given in marriage: But they which shall be accounted worthy to obtain that world, and the resurrection from the dead, neither marry, nor are given in marriage: Neither can they die any more: for they are equal unto the angels; and are the children of God, being the children of the resurrection. Now that the dead are raised, even Moses shewed at the bush, when he calleth the Lord the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob. For he is not a God of the dead, but of the living: for all live unto him.

POINTS TO CONSIDER:

1. What will be wholly unknown in heaven (Matt. 22:30)?

Matthew 22:30—For in the resurrection they neither marry, nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven.

2. Why will there be no weeping in heaven (Rev. 21:4)?

Revelation 21:4—And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

3. What determines divine relationship (Matt. 12:48-50)?

Matthew 12:48-50—But he answered and said unto him that told him, Who is my mother? and who are my brethren? 49 And he stretched forth his hand toward his disciples, and said, Behold my mother and my brethren! 50 For whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and mother.

4. In the resurrection, what radical changes will be made to our bodies (1 Cor. 15:50-54)?

1 Corinthians 15:50-54—Now this I say, brethren, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God; neither doth corruption inherit incorruption. 51 Behold, I shew you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, 52 In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. 53 For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. 54 So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.

5. What will our new bodies be like (Phil. 3:20-21; Matt. 22:30)?

ANS: Philippians 3:20-21—For our conversation is in heaven; from whence also we look for the Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ: 21 Who shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like unto his glorious body, according to the working whereby he is able even to subdue all things unto himself.

Matthew 22:30—For in the resurrection they neither marry, nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven.

6. What are the angels like (Heb. 1:13-14; Exod. 33:18-23; Matt. 18:10; Luke 1:19; Judges 13:16-21)?  How are the angels’ forms different than a man’s?  (not to be confused with cherubim and seraphim)

Hebrews 1:7—And of the angels he saith, Who maketh his angels spirits, and his ministers a flame of fire.

Hebrews 1:13-14—But to which of the angels said he at any time, Sit on my right hand, until I make thine enemies thy footstool? 14 Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?

Exod. 33:19-23 Man (flesh and blood) cannot see God and live.

Matt. 18:10 Angels behold the face of the Father, so their bodies are not flesh and blood.

Luke 1:19 Gabriel stands in the presence of God, so he is not flesh and blood.

Judges 13:16-21 the angel took on the form of man.

Notice in Exodus 33:19-23 that man is flesh and blood and he cannot see God and live.  Angels “behold the face of the Father,” so their bodies are not flesh and blood (Matthew 18:10).  Gabriel stands in the presence of God, so he is not flesh and blood (Luke 1:19).

In the account of the woman with 7 husbands, we are told that we shall be “as the angels” when we are resurrected with a new body (Matt 22:30; Mark 12:25; Luke 2:15).  Many people have no understanding of the resurrection, our new spiritual bodies or the life we will lead.  Some might think being like the angels is no big deal, because they are just “people” that have wings and are dressed in white.  A deeper study of these mighty beings gives us a marvelous picture of God’s messengers (Heb. 1:7; Heb. 1:13-14).  An angel’s body is able to “fly (Rev. 14:6),” appear and disappear (Judges 13:16-21), become a flame of fire (Heb. 1:7; Judges 13:20), take on the form of a man (Judges 13:16-21).

Just one angel was all it took to kill every firstborn in Egypt in one night (Exod. 12:23, 29), or destroy 185,000 valiant soldiers in one night (2 Kings 19:35).  Prophet after prophet fell on his face or fainted at the sight of one of these mighty spiritual beings (Dan. 9:27).  They appeared with horses or chariots of fire (2 Kings 6:17; Zech. 6), raiment white as snow (Dan. 7:9-10; Matt. 28:1-4; Mark 9:2-3; Rev. 1:13-15), body like beryl, eyes as lightning (Daniel 10:5-6; Exod. 24:16-17; Rev. 19:11-12), and the list goes on and on.

Ted Godfrey a college buddy, and I, as well as our wives, were on a cruise with a stop in Corfu, Italy. One of the options was to have tiny fish eat the dead skin off our feet–for ten Euro! Who would not jump at that opportunity? Well, our wives chose not to enjoy this experience with us.

Cropped screenshot of George Brent from the trailer for the film Dark Victory. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I went to this bookstore and saw this Hollywood book

and there was this story about Dad.

Said he had five wives

so I went home and said

Dad, we’ve had a few wives, have we?

Photo from now.msn.com

There is a generally accepted concept in the orthodox Jewish community, that whatever ails a young person can be cured by getting married.  If a person is rebellious, unmotivated in school, unmotivated to find a job, suffers from physical or emotional handicaps, or is gay – all can be fixed with a walk to the chuppah.

From my experience in the secular world, this concept of marriage as a cure-all runs contrary to the popular way of thinking.  I can remember older relatives discussing wayward young people by saying things like, “How is he ever going to get married if he doesn’t get serious?  How will he support a family if he can’t hold down a job?  She will never find a husband if she keeps behaving this way!”  The assumption was that you needed to get your house in order before adding another tenant.

In orthodox marriages, it seems that people are, literally, unfinished, before getting married.  Not unfinished as in, the future spouse is the last ceremonial brick put into place, completing the structure.  Unfinished as in, the wooden frame is barely up.  Both because of the young ages at which men and women marry and because of familial and communal involvement in making matches, many young people find themselves under the chuppah with a virtual stranger.

They might also find themselves under the chuppah not because the other person loves them, but because they are using them to repair damages they have suffered – either to their reputations, their emotional health, or their sexual identities.  Marrying someone for any other purpose than love, seems to be a disaster waiting to happen.

I am reminded of a story I was told by a woman who had suffered such a circumstance in her first marriage.  Names and details have been changed to avoid recognition.  Any similarities to people bearing the same names and in the same circumstances are purely coincidental.  This woman, we will call her Penina, became religious through an orthodox Jewish youth group during her teen years.  Living in a small town with little Jewish life, she decided to move to a large east coast metropolitan city for college.  Penina quickly adapted to big city life, and joined a thriving Jewish congregation primarily made up of baalei teshuvas (secular Jews who have become religious).

As Penina made friends and participated in Jewish life in her new community, she naturally became interested in shidduchim and the prospect of finding her bashert (soul mate).  She had a few other female baal teshuva roommates, and they would swap dating stories and give each other encouragement through this process.  In the orthodox world, those young people from orthodox homes usually have their parents helping to navigate through the world of matchmakers.  For those without orthodox ties, they are dependent upon their rabbi and rebbetzin for dating suggestions and advice.

While Penina and her friends were going about their lives as newly observant young women, Sholom and his friends were also tackling similar issues from the men’s side.  Sholom grew up in the city where Penina now lived.  However, he too grew up in a secular environment.  After graduating college, Sholom found that he grew ever more confused about his life and where it was headed.

One day, an orthodox rabbi, we will call him Rabbi Ploni, came to give a lunch time shiur at the large consulting firm Sholom worked at.  After the shiur, Sholom spent a good twenty minutes shmoozing with Rabbi Ploni, who invited Sholom over for shabbos.  That was the beginning of a wonderful relationship, not only with the rabbi, but with his family and many other new friends from his congregation.

Sholom moved closer to the shul, in order to be able to walk there on shabbos.  He began keeping kosher, shabbos, yom tov, and davened with a minyan three times a day.  His mode of dress began to change.  He grew a beard, wore a kippah, a white shirt, dark pants, and black jacket.  His new uniform really made him feel the part of the person he wanted to become.  There was only one problem.  Sholom was gay.

Ever since Sholom was a boy, he felt different from the other guys in his circle of friends.  During his teenage years, when everyone around him seemed obsessed with girls, Sholom felt indifferent.  He supposed that as he got older and reached puberty, he would start noticing girls too.  However, puberty came and went, and Sholom still did not find himself attracted to women.  Disturbingly, he found himself increasingly attracted to men.  At first, the attraction was directed towards Hollywood celebrities or models in advertisements.  He could handle the feelings if they were only directed at strangers.

In college, he roomed with a young man who, at first glance, was a complete computer nerd.  Sholom and his roommate, Mark, hit it off directly.  Sholom was a gamer back from the days of Atari, and the two set up television screens and gaming devices in their dorm room and played during their spare time.  They shared a love of skiing and mountain biking as well.  Eventually, during their Sophomore year, Sholom began to realize that for the first time, he was attracted to a man he knew in real life.  More than attracted, he was in love with him.

The next two years of college were agony for Sholom.  He kept looking for clues to discover if Mark was gay or straight.  Usually, it was obvious right away if a guy was straight.  Either he talked incessantly about girls, or he had a girlfriend, or was trying get one.   Mark didn’t have a girlfriend and didn’t talk about girls.  He didn’t talk about guys either.  Mark also never made what could be seen as “a move” on Sholom.  It was murky.  Sholom decided the best course of action was to keep his revelation to himself and suffer in silence.  When they finally graduated, Sholom felt sad at the prospect of saying goodbye to Mark, but relief that he would no longer be tested every day.

In his innocence, Sholom was wrong.  He would be tested many more times as he met men at work, out with friends, and yes, even at the very synagogue where he was trying to turn his life around.  After being part of his new orthodox community for about six months, Sholom finally worked up the nerve to confide in Rabbi Ploni about his homosexuality.  The rabbi spoke to him with such compassion and conviction, Sholom knew he had come to the right place.

Rabbi Ploni assured Sholom that in this messed up world, it was easy to get your feelings confused.  He told Sholom that there was no such thing as a homosexual Jewish man.  Hashem did not create men to want to be with other men.  What Sholom was experiencing was akin to a crossed wire.  His feelings of arousal were being misrouted to the wrong place.  Rabbi Ploni knew how to reroute Sholom’s wires so that they would activate with the correct stimulation – toward women.

For the next six months, Sholom had a chavrusa with Rabbi Ploni.  They learned sources in the gemara that talked about the nature of men, as well as some kabbalistic sources.  Rabbi Ploni told Sholom to call him whenever he felt an attraction toward another man.  By talking through his feelings, Sholom determined that he was really only acting out to avoid dealing with other childhood issues still bothering him.  His same sex attraction was merely an avoidance method to dealing with real problems in his life.

Sholom felt such a sense of relief that he wasn’t actually gay.  The more he worked with Rabbi Ploni, who assured him he was almost ready for marriage, the more optimistic Sholom felt about his future.  He would marry!  He would be a father!  He would be an upstanding member of the orthodox Jewish community!

One day in the late summer, Rabbi Piloni took Sholom aside and said that he was proud of how much Sholom had progressed in their learning together.  He told Sholom there was only one thing left to complete his transformation.  Marriage!  Rabbi Piloni had the perfect young lady for Sholom.  She was a baal teshuva, almost finished with college, and looking for another educated baal teshuva to create a bayis ne’eman b’yisroel.  Her name was Penina.  She was also one of Rabbi Ploni’s congregants, and they were a perfect match!

Sholom was overjoyed at the prospect of closing the old chapters of his life, and creating new ones.  However, he asked Rabbi Ploni if he should reveal his past confusion to Penina.  Rabbi Ploni assured him that nothing good could come of Sholom telling Penina about his past.  It was forbidden to speak loshon horah, even about oneself.  Sholom should enter their marriage with a clear conscience and a light heart.

Sholom and Penina went through a whirlwind courtship and were married within two months after the chagim.  Children followed soon thereafter.  From the start, Penina sensed that something was wrong.  With the exception of their wedding night, Sholom never instigated intimacy with her.  At first, she took this as a sign of respect and consideration.

In fact, Sholom told her that he only ever wanted to engage in intimacy if she was in the mood – he never wanted to force his will upon her.  However, after awhile, it seemed to Penina that Sholom was perfectly content to never engage in intimacy if she didn’t suggest it.  Despite taking care of her appearance and trying to be desirable for her husband, Sholom did not seem attracted to her.  Penina’s self-confidence plummeted.

Ten years into their marriage, Penina was taking Sholom’s suit to the dry cleaners where she found a bill from a hotel bar.  Sholom had been in St. Louis on a business trip the week before, but supposedly he was alone.  The bill’s tally showed that multiple cocktails were ordered, and Sholom never touched alcohol.   That was the first red flag.  The second red flag was a computerized statement of their credit card bill, which showed a charge from a local jeweler for a watch.  Penina had not received a watch from Sholom, nor was Sholom sporting a new watch.  Penina became certain that Sholom was having an affair.  It would explain his distance and lack of desire.

Finally one evening, after the kids were in bed, Penina confronted Sholom.  She accused him of sleeping with another woman.  Sholom’s face fell, and he began to cry.  He eventually admitted that he was having an affair.  Sholom was having a relationship with a coworker named, Dennis.  He apologized profusely, but said that he could no longer live a lie.  He and and Dennis were going to move to a different city, set up their own company, and live as partners in their new life together.  Sholom packed up shortly thereafter, moved in with Dennis (who was not Jewish), and began a secular existence as a gay man.

Penina now lives as a single mother in an orthodox community, who packs her kids up several times a year for visitation with their non-religious father, and tries to make sense of her life and where it went wrong.

I take Penina and Sholom’s experience as a cautionary tale.  Marriage is not a magical band-aid for the ills that plague us.  Marriage should not be used as a method to run away from our true identities.  Marriage is not something that should be foisted upon a couple by well meaning bystanders.  Marriage is a commitment that should be made by two loving, consenting, and mature adults who want to build a life upon a foundation that is already solid.

Jackets in May in New Orleans is unheard of.  The Sicilian and I went to the Fest last Friday. I wore a long-sleeved knit shirt and brought a windbreaker. The Sicilian, who hates being cold wore a short-sleeved shirt. I said, “Are you going to be warm enough?” I know my deep south boy has no tolerance for the cold, and yet he wants the AC in the house so cold we could age beef in the den, but that is another story.

“I’ll be fine, he says.

I thought otherwise so I said again “you better take a jacket.”

“No, need,” says he.You guessed it. There was a need. Three hours later he could not get warm inside the huge tents erected for some of the performances. Usually we avoid sitting in the tents as they are like a sauna of human heat and odors,but  not this year. Hundreds of us crowded in the tents for warmth. When we walked from one tent to another and the Sicilian was shivering. Was I ready to leave. No. I wanted to hear Irma Thomas and Willie Nelson, but I said,”Let’s go.” I know if the situation was reversed, and I was sweltering in the heat, ready to collapse from heat stroke, the Sicilian would have left. Turn about is fair play, but next time I will put his jacket in the car. Mother, or in this case, wife knows best.

And now the second installment of the Toad Launching, Southern Style. If you want to know what is happening with Amy Signs, A Mother, her Deaf Daughter and Their Stories, check out my website www.rebeccawillmangernon-writer.com

TOAD LAUNCHING, Part 2

“I researched toads today on the Internet today,” I called to the Sicilian as I prepared supper. “What we have in our backyard is a hoard of common toads.” I paused for effect, and said, “Bufo woodhousei to be exact,”
“So?” He mumbled from the den. The Sicilian’s thumb remained rigid on “the clicker.” He stared transfixed at the radar screen on his beloved Weather Channel. I continued my discourse on toads, hoping to break into his trance.
“Those bumps on their body are parotid glands; they secrete a toxic fluid.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said,” as I chopped carrots for our salad, “the toads and their tadpoles are toxic. Their poison could kill my fish. The only thing that preys on toads is one variety of snake, and I’m not bringing any snakes into this yard.”
“Who said anything about snakes? Don’t get worked up. We’ll get rid of them. We just need to scoop more of them out.”
“Who’s this ‘we?’ My elbow is killing me now. If I scoop tomorrow, I’ll have to put my arm in a sling and I won’t be able to cook your supper. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not! I’ll do the scooping.”
The Sicilian’s thumb no longer remained poised on “the clicker.” I finally had his undivided attention. “One website had audio clips of the different noises toads make. You want to hear them?” I was anxious to share my recently acquired amphibian knowledge
“Are you crazy? Of course not. don’t like their croaking for a lullaby, and I definitely don’t want BRRUURPing for dinner music.”
“Only the males make that noise, and just during breeding season. When the time is right for mating, the . . . ”
“Stop! I don’t want to hear any more. You know I can’t stand those nature programs on TV because they always showing animals mating. And toads, for God’s sake, who cares how toads mate?” He tossed “the clicker” onto the coffee table.
“You better care.” I stopped chopping carrots and walked into the den. After hours of surfing the web, I was now a knife-wielding, walking encyclopedia on toad behavior. “Listen to this. The male has little suction cups on his feet. During mating he leaps on the female’s back, clamps ono her with his suction grippers. They can float together in that sexual death grip for more than an hour!” I punctuated my sentence with a thrust of the knife.
“I don’t want to hear anymore. And watch what you’re doing with that knife, you’ll kill us both.”
“ Worse yet, the female lays 3,000 to 5,000 eggs after mating. God knows how many toads did their dirty little deed in our pond last week. We probably have a million eggs in the water. We’re doomed. ” I tromped back to the kitchen to finish supper.
The Sicilian was speechless. He sagged in his recliner. Listless, he stared at the Weather Channel, even his beloved radar screen gave him no comfort.

The following night the scene was the same, but the topic was new. The Sicilian was on the couch caressing the “the clicker,” and I was in the kitchen getting steamed up over pots of boiling shrimp and the demise of my flower gardens. “Something has killed all my huge, indestructible caladiums along the back fence.”
“Hmmm, is that so?”
“The people behind us must have sprayed poison that came through the fence and killed my plants. It’s too late to talk to them tonight, but tomorrow I’m going over there and find out what the hell they sprayed.”
“Rebecca, don’t blow a couple of dead plants into an international incident.”
“It’s not a couple of plants. My entire flower garden is brown and dying.”
“Watch what you say. I can’t take off time from work tomorrow to bail you out of jail.”
“You should talk,” I hollered. “You become a raving maniac if a neighbor parks their car in front of our house instead of in their own driveway.”
“That’s different.”
“Yeah, right. Supper won’t be ready for thirty minutes. You have plenty of time to scoop tadpoles.”
“It never ends.”The Sicilian, shuffling toward the back door.
***
The next day Captain Buddy Falgout, a retired commercial fisherman, was on his hands and knees pulling minute weeds from an immaculate rose garden when I approached. After admiring his garden, I said in my most polite voice, “Mr. Falgout, I was wondering . . . ”
“Call me Buddy, everyone does.”
“Okay. Buddy, uh . . . yesterday I noticed many of my flowers along the fence are dying. They look like they’ve been sprayed with weed kill.”
Buddy scowled and grunted, “Hmmm, that’s too bad.”
He didn’t sound sorry. Worried that Buddy might think I was planning a law suit, I said, “I’m not accusing you of anything, and I wouldn’t expect you to replace my plants, even if you had sprayed something that killed them, I just want to know what was sprayed.”
“I don’t use anything toxic near my roses.” Buddy snarled. He stood, and became a giant, a burly man more than six-feet tall. Veins in his forehead bulged. Hands that moments ago had so tenderly pulled weeds, were now massive angry fists. “Come here, I want to show you something.” Buddy motioned for me to follow and disappeared around the corner of his house.
Maybe he’s going to stab me with a rusty pitchfork because I insinuated he killed my plants. Rounding the corner of his house, I saw Buddy standing among a mass of wilted plants; his vegetable garden, or what was left of it.
Buddy hissed a few words I couldn’t understand, but I got the gist of his feelings by his hand gestures. “Every year my tomato plants are wiped out by toxic fumes. If any manage to survive long enough to bear fruit, I wouldn’t eat ‘em because they glow in the dark. I ought to concrete my side yard and give up trying to garden here.”
I felt like an intruder watching Buddy mourn his garden. I couldn’t even stammer, I’m sorry.
“I’m not your problem,” Buddy hissed through clenched teeth. “You need to speak to the man next door, Wallace T. Evans. ”
Wallace T. Evans. The news couldn’t have been worse. Wallace was our neighborhood’s nightmare. A 1983 turquoise Buick Le Sabre with four flat tires, tires that hadn’t touched the pavement since 1992, was perched precariously on cement blocks like a grinning gargoyle in his front yard. Masking tape “Xs” dangled from his windows, a remnant of Wallace’s futile effort to keep debris from breaking them during hurricane Larry. Strewn across his weed infested front lawn was a collection of yellowing newspapers and dented beer cans. A rusty lawnmower, missing the engine and wheels, was shoved under a leafless bush. A two-gallon jug of Satan’s Urine, an industrial strength weed kill sat in the empty engine cavity. A discarded toilet filled with faded plastic flowers surrounded by chipped concrete gnomes, completed his landscaping.
I’d never met Wallace T. Evans, but several weeks ago I’d caught a glimpse of him through the cracks in our wooden fence. An odd hacking noise drew me to the fence. My inch-wide view revealed a shirtless, behemoth of a man wielding a sling blade on monstrous weeds that covered his backyard. After five minutes of fruitless chopping, he tossed the sling blade toward his shed and disappeared into his house. I’ve never saw him again. His ragweed forest grew until it topped the fence. Those pollen-bearing monsters shook their heads at me with every passing breeze and dared my allergy medicine to give me any relief. The ragweeds were now dying. I put two and two together and summed up that Wallace’s idea of lawn maintenance was to apply a healthy dose of Agent Orange so he didn’t have to mow.
For a brief moment I considered speaking to Wallace, but then I remembered the day I’d planted my caladiums along the fence. It was hotter than billy goat hell. I was wearing a swimsuit, so I could hose off every few minutes to avoid spontaneously combusting. While hunched over with my butt up in the air, something lunged against the fence hard enough to make it wobble. I leaned forward, peered through a knothole, and to my horror less than two inches from my eye was a growling, salivating jaw of teeth. I recoiled from the knothole and made a butt-covering splat on a pile of fire ants. “Hell fire and damnation.” I raced toward the house swatting my backside. Wallace’s two Rottweilers that I later nicknamed Killer and Fat Chance barked until they were hoarse.

Deep in thought, I mumbled goodbye and wandered home. I never liked those caladiums. They are too big and they don’t bloom. I knew that was sour grapes, but I figured a five-foot two inch Yankee, armed with an aquarium net and a pet cat too afraid to go outdoors was no match for a good old southern boy with a rusty sling blade and two nasty hounds.
At home, I lay on the couch consoling myself with chocolates, when The Sicilian burst through the door overflowing with enthusiasm.
“Guess what?” He exclaimed. “I have the solution to our toad problem.”
“Really? So do I. I called the vet today.”
“The vet! How can he help. His job is to save animals, not eliminate them.”
“Believe it or not, he has the same problem we do. At night, he catches the toads, puts them in a covered bucket, and the next morning he releases them in a park.” I sat up, put my chocolates on the coffee table and sighed. “Catching toads doesn’t sound easy, but I suppose we could do it. I have an empty kitty litter bucket that has a lid. You could catch the toads and the next morning you could . . . ”
“Forget it! I’m not lugging a bucket of toads anywhere.”
“All right, what’s your bright idea?” I snapped.
“Similar to the vet’s, but better. This toad plague must be all over town. Bob at work said his pond is invested with them. He said catching toads is easy; they just sit there like warty lumps when he shines the flashlight on them. He catches them and then hurls the damn thing over his fence into a neighbor’s yard.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“Nope, I’m serious.”
“We have nice neighbors. Who are we going to pelt with toads?” Ah ha! I thought. I know just the person who deserves our toads.
After telling The Sicilian about Wallace’s killer spraying, The Sicilian’s get-even mentality kicked in as I knew it would. He suggested, and I readily agreed, “Napalm Wally” deserved our toads.
Now that The Sicilian had a plan, and one that involved revenge, he was eager to put it in action, but our nights were quiet. Unknown to us, we were in the eye of a toad hurricane, the killer storm would soon arrive. A week later, at 11:03 P.M. we were assaulted with a torrent of BRRRRUUUUP, BRRRRRUP.
The opportunity to avenge our dead plants spurred my groggy husband into action. Slipping on flip-flops, he grabbed a flashlight and charged outside. I paced from window to window, anxious to know what was happening. Overgrown foliage reduced my view; I heard leaves swishing, an occasional grunt from the Sicilian and caught an occasional glimpse of light darting around the yard. BRRRUP. After fifteen frustrating minutes, I darted outside.
“Did you find any?” I called.
“Shhh! Do you want to wake the neighbors?” He hissed back.
“Did you find any?” I whispered.
“Four, so far.” The flashlight beam swept over the rocks surrounding the pond, “Look, there’s one now. Hold the light so I can grab it.”
I waved the flashlight beam over the rocks. “ Where is it?” I muttered. The Sicilian grabbed the flashlight and spotlighted the toad.
“There! Now do you see it?” He snapped.
“Okay, okay, I see it. You don’t need to bite my head off.” I focused the light on the toad. As The Sicilian knelt to grasp the toad, I moved the beam of light to see my yellow waterlily. “Why did you do that?” He yelled, “Now I can’t see the damn thing.”
“I thought the toad would see you,” I whispered. “How can you sneak up on it if it sees you coming?”
“Are you nuts? They don’t they pay one damn bit of attention to me. These are toads, not rocket scientists. Give me that light.” He stomped toward me.
“No! I want to do it.” I hide the flashlight behind my back. The Sicilian grudgingly agreed, to avoid a midnight screaming match. He paced as I illuminated each rock. “There’s one on that smooth rock.”
“I don’t see a thing,” he growled.
“Look! It’s right there between that big rock and that other rock over there,” I snapped, exasperated with his inability to see the warty toad.
“With that description, any fool could find it.” He grabbed the flashlight, and for the fourth time the toad was located. The toad stared unblinking into the beam of light. The Sicilian bent over, snatched the toad and launched it into the night sky. In that split second I saw why The Sicilian had been such an excellent first baseman. The toad flew seventy-five feet and then dropped without a sound into Napalm Wally’s dying ragweed forest.
“I can’t believe it,” I said. “That toad didn’t even try to get away.”
“Toads are stupid. Shhhh, quiet,” he said
We stood like statues in night air so heavy with humidity sweating was not possible. I tried to swat mosquitoes quietly, not an easy task.
“I don’t hear any thing. I guess that’s it for tonight.” The Sicilian swaggered toward me like a victorious gladiator. “Now get in the house before the neighbors see you in your nightgown and the mosquitoes eat you alive.”
Once inside, The Sicilian washed the toad toxins off his hands, crawled into bed, and announced, “I outwitted those little demons. That’ll teach those varmints to mate in our pond.” My brave toad launcher was asleep in less than thirty seconds. SNNNK!
As usual, I lay awake in the darkened room watching the numbers change on the digital clock. 11:53 P.M. BRRRUUUP. Nudge, nudge. No response from The Sicilian. A forceful prod followed.
“I’m not snoring,” he mumbled.
“Wake up! Did you hear that?”
“Hear what? I’m sleeping,” he grumbled. BRRUUUP. “Good God! What time is it?”
“Eleven, or so, ” I lied.

“All right, I’ll go find it.” He shuffled toward the door.

“I’m coming. I want to catch one.” I followed him outside.
The Sicilian loves daylight, I love the night. For me, searching for toads was an exhilarating, midnight scavenger hunt. The Sicilian, however despises having his sleep interrupted for any reason. I know he felt the toads were a curse from God, and one he deserved, because of the way he treated the nuns in grammar school.
“There’s one,” he hissed, highlighting a toad.
I bent over, eased my hand around the toad. It squirmed, wiggling for freedom. “Yuck! I can’t do this!” I dropped the toad which scurried into the papyrus reeds.
“Oh for heaven sakes! Go in the house. I’ll do this,” The Sicilian snarled.
Dejected, I slunk into the house. Damn it! The toads have beat me. I can’t scoop tadpoles because my elbow has exploded, and I’m too timid to grasp a squirming toad.
When The Sicilian come in, I siad in a voice far to perky for midnight, “How many did you find this time?”
“Two more,” The Sicilian grunted.
“Wow, that makes seven! Hard to believe isn’t it? You’re doing good.”
“Oh, it’s just wonderful,” he sneered. “My God! It’s after midnight. I have to get some sleep; I have to work tomorrow..” He collapsed onto bed; his head almost touched the pillow. BRRRRUUUP.
“Not again! Damn it!” The Sicilian grabbed the flashlight and stomped off. I wisely remained in the house.
“Well, how many this time?” I asked twenty minutes later.
“Three.”
“Did you launch them all to Wally’s?”
“Yes.” The Sicilian shouted as he scrubbed his hands. “I feel like Lady Macbeth with all this hand washing. ‘Out damned spot, or better yet, out damned toads.’ A couple of those toads landed on top of Wally’s. I hope the little bastards die up there!”
“What a horrible thing to say about one of God’s little creatures.”
“God’s little creatures, my ass. More like demon spawn if you ask me.” He slipped under the sheet and in less than a minute was asleep. His rhythmic snore provided background music as I wrote in my journal, Tonight The Sicilian tossed ten toads to Napalm Wally’s. This must be a world record.
***
After a lot of soul-searching, and reminding myself I’d touched things far more odious than toads, like stinky diapers for two kids, I decided a two ounce warty amphibian would not humiliate me again. I arranged my flip-flops, garden gloves, mosquito repellant, cans of fluorescent spray paint, and a battery operated head light beside The Sicilian’s flip-flops and the flashlight.
That night, the toads commenced their wooing at 11 p.m. BRRRRRUP! I nudged my disgruntled, sleep-deprived husband. The Sicilian staggered toward the door cursing. I hopped out of bed in my leopard print nightgown, doused myself in bug spray, slipped on my garden gloves and flip-flops, strapped on my head lamp and grabbed a can of spray paint.
“What the hell are you doing?” The Sicilian stared at me.
“I’m going help you.”
“In that outfit? I hope to God the neighbors don’t see you.”
The Sicilian was too tired for arguments, so I followed outside him like a bizarre shadow. Toad number one was spotted within three minutes. The Sicilian wound up for the pitch when I shouted, “Wait, don’t throw it.”
“Why not?” His arm stopped mid-swing.
“I want to mark it with spray paint first.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“No, I want to know if we’re getting the same toads over and over or if new ones are coming into the yard. If I spray a bit of this orange paint on the toad then . . . ”
“Who the hell cares?”
“I do. I don’t know much about toads.”
“I already know more than I want.” The Sicilian noted my determined face. Not up to a long discussion, only wanting to toss toads and return to bed, he mumbled “Here, spray the damn thing.” I shook the paint can WHOOSH. A stream of pressurized orange paint hit the toad’s underbelly. In return, the toad sprayed us with a hideous body fluid.
“Yuck! That was gross,” I groaned. Seconds later the fluorescent toad was on its wild ride to Wally’s.
Minutes later The Sicilian had another toad. I raced to his side; the marble in the steel paint can rattled. As I sprayed the toad shocking pink, the toad squirted the Sicilian with toady fluids.
When the next toad was caught, the Sicilian held it above his head. “Get away from me,” he yelled. “I’m not having any more God-knows-what kind of toad juice squirted on me.”
“Come on, just a few more.”
“No. You’re not painting any more. What if Wally goes in his back yard and sees a bunch of fluorescent toads hopping around. Did you ever think about that?”
“No,” I mumbled, lowering the can of spray paint. “But if we don’t paint more we’ll never know if the same toads are coming back into our yard,” I moaned. “Two toads isn’t enough for a scientific study.”
“Rebecca, we’re not out here to conduct research for the Discovery Channel. Make yourself useful and catch a couple of toads so I can get to bed before dawn.”
Before midnight, we’d made five trips outside; the score was toads, zero, The Sicilian, fourteen. We were amazed and bedraggled, but the night was young. My toad-painting experiment was foiled, but I discovered that by wearing gloves I couldn’t feel the toads squirm in my hand and the little demons couldn’t escape between my fingers. These revelations allowed me to catch and launch my first toad at 12:25 a.m.
“I did it! I did it! I tossed one!” I shouted. My first launch was neither forceful nor long distant. I throw underhand, like a girl, plus my elbow was throbbing, but the toad arced high enough to clear the fence and drop into Wally’s yard.
“Be quiet, for God’s sake. You’ll wake the neighbors.”
Swish! The Sicilian’s latest catch sailed through our maple tree toward Wally’s. The moonlight illuminated five warty toads and one fluorescent pink toad on top of Wally’s shed. Plop! Number Seven joined the lineup. Our count was now twenty-eight!
“This is like a grade B horror movie,” I joked as I tossed another toad over the fence. “The feature movie tonight is Toads from Hell . . . watch spellbound as The Sicilian, the demon toad launcher, battles an invasion of alien toads that swarm over the planet eating everything from bugs to babies. You’ll scream, you’ll be terrified, you’ll . . .”
“Knock off the theatrics.” The Sicilian laughed in spite of his exhaustion.
At 1:45 on our umpteenth trip outside, we experienced Revenge of the Toads from Hell. As we approached the pond, the flashlight’s beam splashed across a deformed lumps that glowed with fluorescent paint. Closer inspection revealed the warty lump was not one toad but two toads happily engaged in “their dirty little deed.” The Sicilian, who instantly punches “the clicker” when the Animal Channel shows mating activities, now had psychedelic toads mating right before his eyes. His thumb twitched the flashlight off and on, but the disgusting scene did not disappear.
“Ye gods! What next!” The Sicilian tossed the flashlight in my direction. “The dirtly little bastards are in the middle of the pond. I can’t reach them. I’m going into the pond. I’m going to get those dirty little bastards.” He stood at the pond’s edge, leaned forward as far as he could balancing on one foot, and thrust his left arm toward me and yelled,”Hold onto my hand. When I’ve got the toads, pull me upright.”
The plan sounded down right stupid to me, but two in the morning is not the time to argue with a sleep-deprived husband. I grabbed his hand and held on for dear life until a swarm of B-52 sized mosquitoes intent on draining my entire circulatory system attacked. “Yikes! I’m being eaten alive.” I swatted at the horde of offending biters.
“AAAARG!” followed by a loud splash was The Sicilian’s only comment. The neighbor’s noise-activated yard lights made our yard as bright as high noon. Car alarms howled. Killer and Fat Chance led a chorus of barking dogs; cats howled. Several doors squeaked open.
I stood transfixed as The Sicilian thrash among the pond plants. I didn’t know if I should help or run for cover. When he righted himself, pond plants encircled his head like a halo, a boa of water hyacinths clung to his wet pajamas. “Damn it all to hell and back. Why did you let go of my hand? I almost drown,” he sputtered, “but I got the little bastards.”
Full of righteous anger, The Sicilian wound up for the pitch. To the whine of car alarms, the toads, still joined in connubial bliss, sailed toward Wally’s making a shocking pink fluorescent streak across the night sky. Killer and Fat Chance did a fine imitation of a werewolf’s howl.
As the yard lights winked out, The Sicilian and I crept into the house. Finally the car alarms ceased and only the soothing trickle of our waterfall broke the stillness of the night. At 2:30 in the morning I wrote in my journal, July 15th. Forty-two toads took flying trips to Wally’s.
Unlike Paul Harvey, who concludes each broadcast with, “and now, you know the rest of the story,” our toad saga didn’t end that night. The newspaper headlines the next day proclaimed, “Switchboard at Police Station Overloaded by UFO Calls.” The article reported that dozens of citizens in a four-block area had heard a variety of strange noises followed by orange and pink lights shooting across the sky.
Wallace T. Evans was quoted on the evening news. “I don’t know nuthin’ about UFOs, but my dawgs won’t do their business in the back yard anymore. An’ now both my hounds got a weird rash. The vet said he’s never seen nuthin’ like it. Somethin’ strangeis happenin’ out there and I ain’t goin’ take a look any time soon.”
I contacted the Guinness Book of World Records; they don’t have a category for toad launching, but if they did, I’m sure we’d get top honors.
As for Wally, I still haven’t met him yet. But if he ever ventures into his ragweed jungle, he’ll be faced with a plague of toads that’s Biblical in proportions. I hope he’ll be toadily happy.   THE END.

As I thought about this statement, I thought about the magnitude of the truth it conveyed.  Being a wife, mother, and a mother-in-law, I have found myself on both sides of the coin.

When two people get married it often brings with it two very different families and therefore two very different family cultures.  While in most cases, the guys are less likely to bring their family into the marriage, girls are highly likely to.  I remember my mom would always say “You have a son until he takes a wife, you have a daughter all your life.”  This is true a lot of the time.  This is not necessarily bad or good but can many times be one or the other.

Before you get married is the best time to take a good look at what each family can bring to the marriage.  It is important to discuss such things as family culture, family holiday traditions, and religious beliefs and practices.  By doing this you can save yourselves a lot of unnecessary problems.

If you are the parent or parent-in-law/family member or family-in-law member I encourage you to do your best to not choose sides but choose the side of promoting a healthy, loving, God-centered marriage.  Making this choice, you will not only help the marriage but you will help impact future generations.  Your support can and will make a difference.

The study showed that a woman who gardened, was on average 4.98kg lighter than a non-gardening female, roughly the equivalent to a whole dress size.

Meanwhile, green-fingered men were shown to be 7.25 kg lighter than their non-gardening counterparts.

Also the research revealed that men were 62 per cent less likely to be overweight or obese if they gardened, while the women were 46 per cent less likely to collect on the kilos.

And the differences in weight could not be explained away by good genes, as the study found non-gardening brothers and sisters were not as slim as their green-fingered siblings.

But it seems that spouses benefit from their husbands and wives endeavors – possibly due to helping out in the garden or eating the fresh fruit and veg grown at home.

Cathleen Zick, professor of family and consumer studies at the university said: “We know that obesity is costly, this study begins to shed light on the costs and benefits of the choices families make about eating and physical activity”.

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Strolling in Seoul, Korea as a foreigner, at night, atop higher grounds, I can see huge red crosses illuminating from the steeples of churches amongst a thriving glittery city. Just twenty years ago, I was only twelve years old, and it was such a different view and different way of life here. It amazes me how much has changed as far as the increased visibility of churches, corporations, and foreign businesses but at the same time an increased visibility of sex establishments all in the short span of two decades. In retrospect, after having seen with my own eyes, what we do to our own women and men in the sex industry, it seems like so many Koreans are living under the pretense that there are no whorehouses and “room salons” on every other corner in this city, no massage parlors with happy endings in every alley, no corporations frolicking in taboo establishments after every dinner meeting, no Korean deportees getting their built-up sexual tensions relieved as soon as they land at Incheon, no love motels that cover up married men’s license plates for them as they swing by for quickies, no married-rich-bored women getting their fair share of the sex industry through young money-hungry, abused gigolos, no vacationers, soldiers, and tourists paying to get their fetishes satisfied at least once, no government officials who are paid off to keep quiet, no media outlets that write coverup stories, no sexual slaves who are desperately seeking for a way out, and last but not least, that there is no sex-trafficking happening into every single vicinity of Korean populations in America? It saddens me as I see what goes on in the alleys of all these beautiful red crosses strewn across the skyline of my mother country–beautiful Korea. It is atrocious at home in America, in my Korean community, to be able to recognize the sound of the perverse night as it flourishes behind the law and morality of God. When I’m here, I’m there, and when I’m there, I’m here.