This chapter is discussed in Notes On the Spectrum: Patience with God
All quiet on the home front. Chupacabra is out for the night. It’s 6:30 am, I’m due at my survival job at noon. Applied for 15 jobs using “easy apply” this morning. Daughter did finally reply, “so busy…”
Okay, let’s all do the ghost for the holidays.
My ex-wife and her husband were alerted to my son’s renewed fascination with controlled substances. She offered her advice. No more therapy. He gracefully declined the invitation to go with them to DC. He really needs you, rn.
And quiet. Quiet. Quiet.
Motherfuckers. All is good. I can be frustrated about a lot of things. Their mulling on the crisis brewing in my house… Well, as I said earlier, I’m okay not to escalate until after Thanksgiving and my birthday. I guess I’m the turkey.
In a conversation with my Jesus mentor I felt the weight of the pain I’m feeling about my son’s relapse.
Pause.
Pray.
Patience.
That’s it. That’s the advice I gave to myself.
Again, no so much into Jesus, but perhaps that’s my issue. Father-son. The holy ghost. Burning bush. I felt the weight of what I was saying to my friend. The tears came easily, I was driving home from a shift.
The house was lovely and quiet when I came home last night. Not a blip of communication from my son. Just gone out for the night. Still out at dawn. Where is he sleeping? In his car again? At a girl’s house he just met? Boy’s house? Drug dealer’s house?
No telling. I’m considering the acceptable terms of surrender for him. He’s moved the last rifle from the garage to the shed, his idea. He’s agreed not to pack the Glock on his cock in my house. Easy.
And we pause, pray, and find additional internal patience. It’s a life lesson and a constant struggle.
Stop thrashing. Breathe. Assess the situation and determine what is under my control. My actions? Check. My words? Check. My control or influence over my son, daughter, or ex-wife? Ziltch. Okay, now we know the playing field. We’re going to run out the clock on this one.
I did learn, me trying to force the answer was not helpful. I had ideas of initiating an intervention on my son in the coming days. I did not mention that to my ex-wife. We’ve been done this road together, two years ago. Two years… We’re still in the matrix of active addiction. Active gun obsession. 25-year-old man, in charge of his own path. He has his own higher power. He hasn’t taken the time to meet him.
It’s okay, similar to my relationship with Jesus H. Christ. I have met him. Prayed to him. Confirmed my faith to him and the Presbyterian church. And I just don’t feel it for Jesus. I’m more of a Jebus man. The continuous meme of Homer Simpson jumping out of the plane about the Survivor Island episode, “Help me, Jebus!”
Jebus. Yes. The misunderstanding and misuse of God’s human example. Well, shit. Guess what? I’m also a human example. I’m like Jesus, lost in the desert for 40 days, or two years of days plus some change. I am connecting with my own inner resources. There is no one else to provide comfort. The cats cuddle more now that the cold weather has just started in Texas. So, I’ve got some unconditional love, provided I fill the food bowl with joy. And, I do.
I have become Homer. I understand Jebus about as well as Homer did. I understand Bart and Lisa about as well. Let’s see, is there wisdom from Homer’s supplication, even flawed? I think the answer is yes. If we pray, even if we don’t understand, we are sending up our signal. I’m sure God/Jesus/Holy Spirit is flooded about this time of year. Do you think god listens to everyone’s prayers, or just the Christians? Do you think God takes a side when both football teams say a prayer at the start of the game?
God, if you’re out there…
It’s me, Homer.
+++
AI (Perplexity.ai) answers the Homer and Jebus question in the link. That link a few words back. +++
Homer is not a believer, he’s a “save me” type. He’s not a Christian. Am I? Unclear.
What my other Jesus mentor and long-time friend says about me and my creative explorations to excavate Jesus is, “You’re a seeker.”
Yes, I’m in the tradition of Rumi and the Sufi. My favorite sister had a Sufi name given to her by Pir Valight. Anahita.
Sorry, one more digression. Here is what perplexity had to say about the name Anahita in my primary research just now. An example of what I’m calling “mass intelligence.”
<begin ai>
Anahita was a pre-Islamic Persian goddess associated with water, fertility, healing, and wisdom, venerated in Zoroastrianism and earlier traditions. Some scholars and contemporary mystics have explored symbolic parallels and the lingering influence of Anahita as a feminine archetype within Persian Sufism, particularly through poetry and heart-centered mystical practices.
+++ <end ai>
Okay, that tracks. I need to do a bit more digging into Anahita, the heart-centered mystic.
I am a mystic, for sure. I believe my conscious contact with god is unfettered by Christian doctrine. God does not need a conduit. God hears, whatever that means, our prayers. Does God respond? No idea.
Yesterday at the store, a young woman was checking out in an adjacent lane wearing a shimmering yellow God is Love t-shirt. Radiant was the word that came to mind. She appeared to have several gold chains with charms wrapped around her exposed midriff.
I saw god for sure. I saw love.
Maybe that was a signal. God is love. God is here. God is everywhere. God may not do much that we understand. God.
WWHD? What Would Homer Do? A man of our times seeking faith, love, and support.
“Help me, Jebus.”
Now, my part.
