Today, a homeless woman passed out on the toilet in The Beanhouse.
Now I suppose I could tell you that she had drunk an entire giant bottle of mouthwash and then swigged the coffee remnants from a cup she found in the patio trash and that is why she passed out.
Or I suppose I could tell you that I clocked her a good one because she told me I looked like Hillary Clinton and that is why she passed out.
Which one would you believe?
Oh. Lord. Sweet GOD in Heaven.
You know how sometimes people come up to you and say, “Has anyone ever told you you look like so-and-so?” We’ve all heard that, right? And don’t we think, generally, when people say that, they mean it as a compliment? That, from their perspective, this news is a good thing; that you will see it as a compliment, too? I think we think that, right?
Sometimes, though, it’s too horrifying and you simply cannot see it as a good thing. You. Cannot.
Like today.
Now I’ve heard many different “you look like so-and-so’s” over the years. You probably have, too. Mine seem to vary based on my hair color and haircut: Madonna. Princess Diana. Donna Mills. And when I’ve been a redhead: Gillian Anderson. Julianne Moore. Whatever. Those ain’t too bad, I s’pose.
So today I’m at The Beanhouse, the place where, just recently, I was “really beautiful without my glasses,” when I walk by this woman and she jerks her head around in my direction. I wipe down tables; she openly stares at me. I’m aware of her stare, but there’s weirdos aplenty ’round that place, so I chalk it up to that. Suddenly, she rushes me. I am more afraid of her tight white pants with the little pink flowers than anything else. That is, until she opens her mouth to share with me, all breathless and googly-eyed:
“Has anyone ever told you you look like Hillary Clinton??”
AH! AH! AH! AH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
What?? WHAT am I supposed to say to THAT? “Thank you”?
“THANK YOU”??
Oh, yes! Thank you for telling me that I look like a bug-eyed harridan whose face bloats and sags like a loaded diaper and whose body … bloats and sags like a loaded diaper??
Knee-jerk, I gasp and shoot back, “NOO!”
Then my brain decides it is just too awful to be borne, shrivels up, and croaks.
The lady tries to rally, tries to make this, THE WORLD’S MOST HIDEOUS INSULT EVER, seem better somehow. She rattles off some claptrap about striking coloring. Uh-huh. I stare at her pants.
“Uhm …. okay.”
I just walk away without another word.
And I thought the brink of the financial abyss looked bad.
But HOW CAN I GO ON LIVING, peeps, if I look like the woman that no woman anywhere at any time would ever want to look like or BE?!?
That’s it. I am dead to me.
I am still working on several of “those” posts. I’m struggling to put them together, for a variety of reasons, one of which is this: Because of one unscrupulous, horrible man, My Beloved and I are facing the real possibility of financial ruin. I won’t go into any more detail. Those details are accurate; they will suffice. We may lose our place, the place we waited so long to buy. We may lose everything.
And I am sitting here, writing this with tears in my eyes because I just glanced at My Beloved and he has fallen asleep on the couch …. a calculator in his hand.
It is too much for me right now.
I’m sorry to be so “naked,” but I would appreciate any prayers.
I love this: Maps you can create of where in the world you’ve traveled.
Here’s my World Map. (Um, it’s way down because I babble on and on here.)
Reminds me of two things: 1) I really want to travel more and 2) I really need to write some posts about my 2004 trip to Thailand. Oh, and I’m cheating there on South Korea. During the trip home, we had a LONGGG layover in Inchon — so long we were hoping to leave and see some sights while we waited. Nope. The price to escape the airport at Inchon was waay too high. Seriously, it was like they made you post bail or something. Forget you, Inchon.
And, right then, I remember the bad mood really kicked in.
Because, basically, I’d been up for 30 hours straight, been trapped in a torrential downpour in Bangkok right before the flight, and was now walking around in clothes that I’m pretty sure were starting to mildew. Oh, and one of our pastor’s bratty kids HIT me. This, of course, did not go unnoticed (ahem) by ME. Here I was, on a missions trip for our Lord, puffed up by my own rampant goodness, and I suddenly wanted to throttle a little kid. Trust me, you would’ve wanted in on that action, too. He was not a little kid; he was a little snot. And I STILL think that. I’m sure God understands. I mean, HE made ‘im. He knows. Oh, I remember before we even left on the trip — during one of our planning meetings where the holy terrors were engaging in blatant, unchecked floor-rolling, a practice I DETEST — My Beloved leaned in to me and whispered, “Those kids have international incident written ALL over them.” Haha!
(Although maybe he hit me because I smelled like a load of rotten laundry. I dunno. Whatever Snot’s reasons were …. he did NOT hit me again.)
Oh! I just remembered something else about that airport — sitting there in that modern, eerily empty space, peeking over the shoulder of a bizarre teenage kid who’d come on the trip with us. I am being kind when I say he was bizarre. He was not so much bizarre as he was BIH-ZARRE. When we wasn’t randomly flicking his pocket knife open-closed-open-closed, he was suddenly practicing aikido, and when he wasn’t suddenly practicing aikido, he was scribbling in his journal, and at this particular moment, he was scribbling in his journal, and I was, frankly, bored. So what was the harm in a little peek? This kid fascinated me because after two weeks of observing his behavior and that vacant, thousand-mile stare he had, I’d decided that one fine day he’s going to go Mosquito Coast on someone’s ass and I’ll be able to say Hey! — and I knew him when he was just a weird random knife flicker. Peeping over his shoulder, I could see his scrawl and I got a gander at THIS: “I dont know what to say. I am so filled with imosions.”
I jumped up, moved away. I was choking with laughter. From all the imosions, you see.
Oh, yeah. South Korea counts.
So — Yes! The map:
(Hmm … it doesn’t all fit. Why doesn’t it fit? Oh, well, this portion covers my world travels thus far anyway!)
create your own visited countries map
And my USA Map:
(Not enough room here either. Um, what’s missing from my USA travels here? Oh, Massachusetts.)
(A re-post.)
So a while back, I was riding in a car with a person I’ll call Plumcake. At a stoplight, while deep in discussion about something else, Plumcake suddenly gasped and delivered this raging non sequitur:
“Look at that car — it has a ‘333’on the license plate! Oh, thank you, Lord!”
Hmmm. I looked at the car. It was just a car. I didn’t get it. I was NOT catching the fever. Or whatever she had.
She continued earnestly:
“The Lord has told me that whenever I see the number ‘333,’ it means He’s thinking about ME and loving ME.”
Umm, wha???
Clearly, Plumcake was joking or temporarily off her nut. I decided a solid, but noncommittal, response was the chuckle. What person, whether joker or nutter, could object to the chuckle? So I chuckled. Instantly, Plumcake threw a withering glare at me. It seemed she was utterly serious, I was 5 years old, and that chuckle was wrong, wrong, wrong! Shame on me! Duly chastised, I shut my mouth, too stunned to make a peep now. I sat in silence while she rhapsodized about ‘333.’
I thought this was an isolated incident, but since that moment I’ve heard her publicly gush over anything with 333: addresses, phone numbers, digital clocks. I was at her house one afternoon when the kitchen clock struck 3:33. I watched wide-eyed as Plumcake and The Plumcake Kids danced a little jiggedy jig of joy: “It’s 3:33! God’s thinking of me. Woo-hoo!” I, however, did not join in the jiggedy jig, nor did I feel the joy.
Frankly, I thought the whole hubbub seemed rather exclusionary, seeing as how God was apparently thinking just of Plumcake and there WERE other people in the room. Kinda rude, God.
And if God is in the numbers, I’m scared. Terrified, really. Because I ain’t good with numbers.
I’ve given some thought to Plumcake’s spiritual epiphany and I’ve got just a few niggling questions. First, why 333? I mean, why that number? Is “God in the number” because the three digits are identical? Is that the magic of it? And what would happen, Plumcake, if I just wrote 333 on a piece of paper? Would that mean God’s thinking of you or would that mean that I just wrote 333 on a freakin’ piece of paper?
But, wait, let’s not be too dismissive now. Maybe God is speaking this way. Maybe God IS in the numbers. So then what’s next? Story problems?
Oh. Sweet. Lord.
Just think of the ones ALMIGHTY GOD could come up with: “Two trains depart from Toledo. If one travels at the speed of a hummingbird’s wings, and the other, the speed of an eyelid blink, which one arrives in HELL first??”
Oh, the shivers. I’d be toast for sure. My utter incompetence with numbers would cement my spiritual doom forever and ever. I’m shiny with sweat just thinking about it.
But maybe it’s not story problems. Maybe it’s these numbers, as Plumcake says. So then does God speak exclusively through the identical three-digit number? And how do all believers get one of these? Because I don’t think there are enough of them to go ’round.
I mean, let’s count together, shall we:
000, 111, 222, 333 (Plumcake’s), 444, 555, 666 (uh, Satan’s), 777, 888, 999.
By my count, that leaves only 8 of these “God numbers” left over for the rest of us.
Wow. This is really rough. I’m sorry to tell you that God does not love you, nor is He thinking of you. Tough, tough break.
What is going on here?? Where are Christians getting these foolish, fairy-tale notions? Where? Please understand. Plumcake is a lovely(-ish) person. I don’t question that for a moment. What I question is superstition and fantasy creeping into believers’ hearts, weakening or replacing firm foundations. You may say, “Well, I don’t buy into these notions.” To that I say, “Thank God,” but there are enough Christians who do that we need to be concerned. Really concerned.
This concerns me too: I know a couple who dubbed their youngest child the “Resurrection Baby.” The husband had had an affair and in the midst of the traumatic fallout, they got pregnant. According to them, the baby was a “sign from God,” of the “resurrection” of their marriage. Wow. No pressure, baby. Mess that diaper. Spew those peas. Save that marriage.
One day, the husband blithely said to me, “Well, I guess this means I get to stay married now.” Really? Is that what the blessed baby means? Or does it perhaps mean a chance to avoid, to deny, the deep and abiding issues that brought your marriage to the brink? Or — does it perhaps mean that you deftly manipulated your broken and betrayed wife into bed — at least once? Why is that a sign from God? Given his flippant attitude, I questioned whether baby was, indeed, a “resurrection” or a deflection.
Has the God of the universe transitioned into the business of saying what we want to hear, of saying that which is facile, expedient, and small? Or have we become so immersed in our spiritual ADD and laziness that we want — no, need –– God to speak in ways that are facile, expedient, and small?
It seems The Word is no longer enough for us. Our souls are so hollowed by society swirling around us that we seek, not just instant gratification, but instant sanctification. The lifelong process is simply too wearisome, too burdensome. We need a God who speaks in newer, better, faster ways. We need a God who’s just more efficient. Please be easier to understand, God. Please speak to me right now, God. Please give me a “word” that makes things better for me, God. What we want from God diminishes the very idea of “God.” What we want from God diminishes our chances of becoming more like him. Still, we want it. And believe me, it’s astounding what “God” will say to a desperate, vulnerable mind. I’m adamant here … because I’ve been there. And back, thankfully.
God gave us the Word, His radical love letter to the world. He woos us to The Enduring Romance, but we settle for the quick, cheap thrills of “333” on the back of a car. He gave us His precious Spirit, but we still crave a sign, any sign, as long as it’s the one we want. His Word gives us a foundation, but we long for flights of fancy, for the whimsical escape of other, newer words. We are desperate for His love, but numbed to the bloodied, beautiful proof of it on the cross.
Just give me another sign, God. Speak a new word to me, God. Thanks for 333, God.
We have The Cross. We have The Word. We have The Holy Spirit.
What else do we need?
“Leave your simple ways and you will live; walk in the way of understanding.” Proverbs 9:6
Found in Poorla’s notepad tonight:
So … i always write a mental warmup before the show to clear my head:
aaaaadle eeeeedle oooodle iiiiiidle iiiiidol Ready!!
elliotts ears — can he hearZ with those earZ
they are SO funny …. hey is he a smurf??
chris + paula = luv4evR ….. tell your wife to BACKOFF!!
SOMIN! i mean SIMON!! he is such a ….. a …… um ……. what is that word ….. meanieass!
simon needs midol!
midol ryhmes with idol
and Midol – M = Idol wow. Think about THAT.
parises butt makes me hungry. Its a candy apple on a stick butt!
hey — is randy jackson related to MICHAEL jackson!!?? That would really freak me out.
i just remembered that time when michael thought i was webster. SO gross.
Shut up, Ryan! You are such a girl!! Yeah, your wearing suits now, but gimme back my blouses, lame-o!!!
taylor’s dancing reminds me of when i danced with that cat
hey!!!! he was a pretty cool cat but it’s really rude he hasn’t called me.
my Taylor Fat Cat — see the dancing jiggly belly? hee!
omigob ….. WHAT is happening?? CHRIS! The stage is on fire!!!!!
someone call my farmacist!!!
OHHHHHHHH, NOO!!!!!!!
oh
randy just told me thats the video projection. but maybe he’s just messin’ wich me. “straight up now, tell me,” dawg!! LOL!!! Man, I am in da dawg pound tonite!!
heeey, katherine — are you scrubbing the floor or something?? well, girl, you missed a spot!! ROFL!! Why am I always SO funny when no one hears it??
i really should have my own show.
hey, i was serious about the farmacist thing. and that is a totally weird word, like a farmer with a cist!! which is gross if you think about it. i hate farmers.
taylor just said lover. Did he mean love her? like he loves me?? ohgawd, not again. why does this always happen to me? They all fall in love with me and what am I sposed to do? …. those vitamins from my farmacist must make me totally irresistable or something!
Well, I guess I’m just 4eveR your girl!!
Damm!! U crack me UP, Paula!!!
I have several drafts I’m working on about our infertility struggles — or what I sometimes refer to as What to Expect when You’re Expecting to be Expecting. (Don’t steal my book title, haha!)
I’m just dashing this off before I head to The Beanhouse to say that when I write of these things, I’m writing of how I felt in the past. Sure, it’s the fairly recent past, but I don’t feel quite that same way now. No one can live in that intensity of grief for too long and LIVE. You can’t. You move on, out of sheer exhaustion, if nothing else. At some point, there becomes no choice. You must. Living any kind of life DEMANDS it.
So maybe it’s like the difference between a sound — a loud sound — like a gong — and the echo of that sound. I’m living in the echo. It’s not so fresh. It’s not the same constant clamor. It’s no longer those waves that seemed to drag through my entire body. No. Now, it’s the echo. I still can hear it. I still can feel it. But it’s more quiet, less intense; more manageable, less insistent.
But accessing those feelings isn’t hard at all. For the rest of my life, it will probably never be hard, even if it’s not fresh.
So again, PLEASE don’t feel you must say you’re sorry. I know you are.
I really, really do.
She and I rarely talked about it. Years went by before I even owned there was a problem. When I finally did, I stood in the kitchen and she sat at the table, the wide expanse of counter between us. There’s always a wide expanse of something between us. I spoke haltingly, hoping not to cry too much, and in less than a minute, I’d said what I needed to say. She sat there, didn’t move.
Why didn’t you say something sooner?
I don’t know. I was waiting for the right time, I guess.
Well, you always used to be able to tell me things.
Hm.
Oh, you don’t think you can tell me things?
Some things.
But not this?
I’ve told you this. Now you know.
If that’s what you want to call it. I just want to help. I’m your mother.
Do you know how you could help?
How?
Well, maybe you could pray with me. I mean, when we’re together like this, maybe we could pray.
No. No. I can’t do that. I pray by myself in my own way. I just can’t do that.
Okay. Well, you wanted to know how you could help.
Well, I can’t do that.
Okay ….. I gotta go, then.
Well, wait a minute.
She got up, moved toward me. She patted my back.
Let yourself feel bad for a couple of days and then just move on.
Mm-hmm. Well …. see you later, Mom.
All right! Here’s the original of the picture I used for Evil Dolly. Some background: I was in kindergarten and this was my first school picture ever. I remember the photographer kept trying to get me to smile and acted like a complete LUNATIC in doing so. You can tell two things from this picture: 1) It did not work, and 2) I did NOT like him. Look at how wary I am! All his crazed effort for naught, haha! And may we please discuss my BANGS?! WHAT is going on up there?? They look like a wild dog just chewed ’em off. Oh, and the white you see me wearing? THAT is a big, ol’ lacy gramma collar on a hand-me-down dress from my sister. Ugh. I was unhappy in SO many ways on that day. Well, I showed you, everybody. Take that! Here’s an unsmiling, bug-eyed mug for all posterity:
Here’s one of my favorite pictures of my dad as a dad, posing with my sister and me. Not sure which one’s me? Really? I’m the pale Buddha face with the bizarre white sun hat. Wow. That HAT!! Am I The Flying Nun? Am I AMISH?? A little Amish Flying Nun Buddha baby. Ah, how ecumenical of me. All right. Enough of that! Because ….. I’m sorry …. LOOK at my dad! My Lord. I can’t help it. He is simply stunning. I love his expression here, his warmth, how he’s holding my sister close. He looks content and comfortable, doesn’t he? (And you certainly can’t tell from this, where I look like a big blob of bread dough, but I have his eyes, smushed in there somewhere!) Look at how my sister is snuggled up to him, so happy, her little hand on his leg. Oh, my gosh, she looks so much like Piper! The eyes, the mouth! Wow. My dad and sister, so cozy, so sweet, and then … me. It’s killing me that my face looks like a popover. Ah, well. A few years later, my brother joined the picture. And many years later, my cheeks slimmed down nicely.
But, wow. Look at my dad again. That face.
Here’s a comment I received on my paper doll post. It went into moderation because it included a link. I still haven’t “approved” it and, well, I see no need to now. I won’t name the person here, but say only that he’s never made his presence known on this blog before. For all I know, he was a first-time visitor.
And if you’re reading this, friend, well, ya bugged me. You REALLY bugged me. But I’ll get to that.
On to the comment first.
(And the “definition” in this comment is where I simply cut and pasted the link he used as corroboration that I apparently worship dandelions or practice voodoo or WORSE!!)
Here we go:
I’m concerned you may have re-invented the “Poppet,” a device commonly used in Wicca and Santeria.
Definition: A poppet is a small doll or figure that represents a person in a ritual or spell. These items are NOT evil things for you to stick pins into. Poppets are frequently used in healing spells, and are usually hand-sewn and stuffed with the appropriate herbs. Magick of this kind is common in Santeria.
Of course, the purpose is prayer, not magic, but the similarity is, at least on the surface, disturbing.
Although it has to be said that Pagans do a lot of things Christians also do, such as prayer, fasting, eat, drink, et al. The mere presence of an equivalent in a non-Christian religion doesn’t mean they are one and the same thing. Must think about this…
Ya know, friend ….. thanks for your concern and sorry you’re disturbed and all, but if you’re going to lay a charge like that at my feet, you’d better do your homework. Seriously. And I’m not buying the guise of benign, Christian concern, either. You come on my blog as someone previously unknown to me, and THIS is where you comment and what you choose to comment upon? Listen to your WORDS. You are basically accusing me of engaging in occult practices and I CANNOT tell you how offensive that is to me. And you offer, as substantiation of your concern, a single link to a page that contains ONLY that definition above? NOTHING more? You have no other proof than that? So I guess it’s just maybe I’m an occultist?? I know I’m laying into you here and I wish I could say I am sorry, but I’m not. I imagine I don’t sound too “nice,” but I see no call to “niceness” in Scripture.
We ARE called to speak the truth, though.
So in speaking to THAT, I did your homework for you. I’m sure you won’t mind if I demonstrate the difference between my doll and these poppets and giddily demolish your charge, will you?
First, “poppets” ARE used in healing and other spells. They’re used for specific intents — “healing” of illnesses, for creativity, prosperity, help with relationships, improvement in grades, pretty much whatever. Lengthy rituals surround the use of these poppets.
Here are a couple of personal stories on the creation and ritual of poppets that I gleaned from a site called Earth Witchery. Oh, and these are not MY personal stories, just in case that’s NOT clear:
For a friend who was addicted to cocaine… On a very windy day when the moon was waning, I made a poppet out of red wax, for life force and survival energy. I used a piece of amethyst as its heart to give her a clear mind. To make the poppet symbolize her, I used pieces of her hair and carved a small tattoo on the poppet representing the one on her body. Once I felt the poppet was united with her, I used knot magick to rid her of the need for coke. I then made the cord into a necklace and let the magick take its course. Between the poppet and an intervention of friends, my friend had turned herself into a rehab center. It must have been hard but she is better now.
(Yeah. And I’m SURE it was mostly because of the poppet.)
Anyway, here’s another one:
I propose to make a healing poppet for my mother. She is 81 years old, visually impaired and has recently moved to a hostel [aged care facility] (ed. here: um, I think she means “hospice.” Maybe she needs a poppet to get ‘erself some brraaaains. But Gammie in a “hostel”? Now, that’s funny) where she is not settling well.
I have asked for guidance and will make paper poppets. The first will be on grey paper. I will cut out a small poppet and draw grey hair, closed eyes, and a sad mouth. I will write the reasons why mum had to leave her home. I will set up a cleansed area similar to an alter (we know, hon) and have ready a green or white candle, a shallow dish and a box of matches. I will also have another paper poppet of green or white paper and also coloured textas. I will call on my guardian, my guides, and Kwan Yin to assist me. I will meditate and ask my mother’s higher self if she will accept this healing. If the answer is positive, I will proceed.
I will light the candle and use it to light the grey poppet, which I will place in the shallow dish to burn. As this poppet burns, I will use the coloured textas to write on the other poppet all the benefits of being in her new place of residence. I will say these aloud as I write them on the front of the healing poppet. On the back of the poppet I will use the ashes of the grey poppet to draw, with my licked right forefinger, the Rune – Nauthiz- the banishing rune. This will help turn frustration and stress to one’s advantage and will help turn a bad situation into a good one.
Finally, another elaborate description of one practitioner’s ritual:
I was going to work on a prosperity poppet, but decided to work on one for protection instead. I am constructing it out of dogwood twigs, lashing the twigs together with black thread, so the twigs will be like the “skeleton,” using an acorn for the head. I’m using nine herbs, cotton thread, cotton, eucalyptus, sage, thyme, oak leaves, parsley, some dogwood shavings, fern and birch bark. I began consecrating these items and grinding them last night, meditating on the purpose all the while. Also I have mixed in nail clippings, my hair and some blood. I will be mixing this over the next two nights, completing the spell on the 20th during the full moon. On a piece of birch bark I will draw the rune of “Ohl” with Dragon’s Blood ink, roll it up and tie it to the “torso’ of the poppet with black thread. I’m fashioning clothes out of an old pair of shorts beyond repair but dear to me and an old t-shirt. I’m applying my own hair to the poppet. I won’t be doing the face thing since I feel that there will be enough of my own energy within the poppet already between my own “body parts” and my favorite clothes .
On the night of the full moon I will cast my circle, sew my clothes onto the little guy and stuff him. After I’m done stuffing him, I will be anointing him with cedarwood oil and placing him on the pentacle on my altar. I will meditate in his purpose and then dedicate him to the south and do my incantation.
Whhhhhewww!
Notice a similar theme in these descriptions, friend? Besides the gross, exhausting, and nearly obsessive-compulsive ritual of it all? I DO. A poppet for another person is meant to symbolize the OTHER person — with pieces of her hair, her characteristics, etc. For these occultists, the poppet becomes that person. Notice how the one description spoke of the poppet being “united” with her friend? I can’t help but notice, too, that these practitioners call on “guides” and “guardians” and “higher selves” for assistance in these poppet rituals. They chant and burn and futz about with herbs and twigs because they actually believe there is power these THINGS.
MY doll was an image of me, NOT my friend, with some verses from Psalms on the back.
I did not chant over her or burn her or smear her with blood. I did not draw runes on her or anoint her or dedicate her in ANY direction. There were no twigs or fingernails or ratty old shorts involved in her creation. I did not call on guides or guardians or Kwan Yin.
Rather ….. I sat at my kitchen table, sick and depressed, frankly, and needing to reach out to someone ELSE. As I created this doll, I thought of my friend far away who was sick, too, sicker than I. Thinking of that put things in some much needed perspective for me. During the process of making this little thing, somehow, I recovered small bits of myself that I’d lost over many, many months. Frequently, I found myself thinking of how WONDROUS it is that, as believers, we have this bond through the Holy Spirit. A bond that crosses all boundaries and covers all distance, connecting me to my friend. It is transcendent. I do not even understand it.
While I worked, I prayed, yes. I prayed that my friend might be encouraged by this small token of affection. I prayed that the Lord might use even someone like me, who at that moment was a low, self-pitying wretch, but someone who needed, who HOPED to be used for something right then, no matter how small.
In a way, my doll was a greeting card, although more elaborate, pehaps. And, you know, every Christmas, millions of people send out cards with their pictures on the front and a joyful greeting or some Scripture on the inside. Maybe even a prayer for the new year. Still other people actually send get well cards expressing fervent prayers for the restoration of a sick loved one. I wonder if you, friend, have ever sent out something like these yourself? Or received such evils into your house? *Gasp!*
This was just a paper doll with my picture and God’s Word on the back. By itself, it had no special powers except that it cheered both the giver and the receiver.
So, really, really, how dare you drag a such a simple thing through the mud of your “concerns”? How dare you throw careless words around with no corroboration? How dare you suggest it was something occultic and sully everything it meant? How dare you, without even knowing me, assume the worst of me?
Comment on this post, if you choose, but then, please don’t come back here again.
(And ….. you know ….. just now …. after I mixed Dolly’s toenail clippings and blood from her chopped-off heads into a roiling smelly brew which I used to doodle random runes on her butt, she bubbled to life long enough to say, “Taa-taa and tooodles, Judgey-duuudles!”)
