Vain imagination

The recent immolation of a Jordanian fighter pilot by ISIS [warning: extremely graphic video here, beginning at 17:30] brought to mind the horrific torture of others, some delivered from the flames (Melchizedek, Daniel’s faithful compatriots) and some delivered to them (Abinadi, Alma and Amulek’s converts in Ammonihah). Contemplating their sufferings and those of our Lord, I sometimes imagine I would endure just as valiantly, with the same noble stoicism and resolve, bearing it patiently. As a prisoner of war, I would greet my abusive, flesh-tearing, joint-dislocating, bone-cracking captors with courtesy and without malice, cheerfully receiving my half-cup ration of rat-fouled rice, “seasoned” with dirt and the occasional maggot, with gratitude and good nature, remembering I am bound for a better world. I would awaken from tortured half-consciousness, naked, sore-covered and cramped, on the cold cement floor of my dark, dank cell or emerge from the tattered cardboard box I called “home” and not long with jealousy or covetousness for the mansions, pleasures and possessions of those having so much more. Nay, I would be like Jesus, without a care in the world, even though He had not wherewith to lay His head.

But experiences like those of last night convince me I would do nothing of the sort and be nothing of the kind.

Yesterday was nearly a “perfect” day for me. It was the best of circumstances. As is our wont, my family had prayer and scripture study before dawn. We were primed with the latest teachings of “Log”, who reminded us to practice The Golden Rule and be The Perfect Servant, giving everyone (within our power to do so) what they ask for, without sin. (What may not work in this world can work within families -- the only institution to extend and endure beyond this realm.) We were blessed throughout the day as each of us, remarkably, made the effort to be more like Jesus. 

After my wife and I knelt at bedtime, offering our prayers to heaven, I kissed her goodnight and readied myself for bed. 

Then all hell broke lose.

I discovered my toothbrush was wet!

Flashback: My wife has repeatedly allowed our one-year-old to play in the toilet with my toothbrush! I’ve asked her, repeatedly, to stop it! I’ve argued my case. I’ve even gone bat-ejectus crazy, just to make the point. I’ve demanded: “Don’t EVER let ANYONE use my toothbrush! Not even you! Is that clear?”

“Clear,” I was reassured.

In a house full of kids and chaos, the bathroom is the one place — the only place — I can have any reasonable expectation of privacy. Is it asking too much to be able to take a shower without a parade of people marching through the lavatory to brush (or straighten or curl) their hair, to tell something to mom, or just to “hang out”? Is it asking too much that my bathroom drawers not be rifled through? That my “private” things not be pillaged, pilfered, and molested?

Every time I grab my toothbrush and find it already wet, I ask myself “Who has been using this?! Where has it been?!”

It makes me sick. Sometimes, literally. I’ve gone to great lengths to get a new tooth brush (or boil the old one!) just to make sure it’s “clean” — offering concomitant remonstrations to the “offending” parties and getting reassurances from them that “it will NEVER happen again”. 

But it always does.

As it did last night.

And I threw another fit!

I won’t tell you what I said. I’m too ashamed to reveal it. It was unbecoming of any man wishing to practice The Golden Rule or be The Perfect Servant. With a plethora of relatively mild, but utterly scornful epithets, I got dressed, marched down to the local Walmart, bought four new toothbrushes, labeled each with a Sharpie marker — two for me and two for my wife — and, when I saw her, I laid into her again. (She had actually texted me a sweet apology while I was out, but because my phone had been silenced — we having gone to a movie that evening — I didn’t “get” her text until this morning.) We ultimately spent the night apart.

We came “to terms” this morning. I somewhat more calmly made my case. I gave her all the same reasons I wanted my stuff left alone, but added this threat: “If this ever happens again, I will take one of your toothbrushes -- every day -- and wipe my [nether regions] with it. Then I’ll wet all your toothbrushes so you’ll never know which one I used and you will always be guessing. Then maybe you’ll understand why I don’t want my toothbrush used by others and you’ll put a stop to it!”

I got her to pledge (once again) to keep her hands off my toothbrush and to not let our kids play with it.

But I didn't feel loving and I didn't feel she loved me anymore.

Thus ended "the perfect day".

Circumstances last night caused me to think about divorce for the first time. “Am I really going to let this relationship potentially dissolve over a toothbrush? Isn’t she bone of my bone? Flesh of my flesh? Haven’t we shared everything together? Are we not yet 'one'? How, then, can I let myself get so upset over this?” [Just imagine that dirty toilet bowl and my young daughter happily scrubbing away with gusto!]

I would not do so well in a prisoner-of-war camp. I would not suffer injustice and unkindness meekly. I would not go “as a lamb to the slaughter” nor would I be serene and stoic and noble as Jesus was. 

I would probably fight like hell.

Or perhaps I would be a basket case of self-pity, self-justification, self-righteousness and self-absorption. 

Or I would be a ranting, raving lunatic.

Or all of the above

Either way, when I imagine I would be otherwise, I’m just kidding myself. It didn't take a whip, a rack or a cage doused in gasoline to prove my weakness.

A simple toothbrush proved I have a long, long way yet to go.