Bliss in the midst of banal frustrations
Greetings cyber family,
This is your prodigal son writing, all full of the mud and excrement of devout words being shoved down my eyes, into my heart which is so soiled and defunct by nature, oh the old man, in Pauline lingo.
I'm just writing because i need to write, and there's some here who seem not to mind, thank you to them.
When i came down this morning, dad said sadly that he can't find his keys and his phone. This is not good, because i'm low on coca-cola and it would be an extravagance to take a taxi to go get that, and in my mind little things pester me, like does one have the taxi wait for you as you get what you need, and that for sure costs, time is doubly money when your on taxi time.
However all hope isn't quite dashed as we have some orange juice.
One of the Reformed/Puritan sets that will be released in November is the works of JOHN COTTON, and thanks to Monergism i have a few of his stuff, and just before logging back in here i read a few solemn paragraphs of his, oh the smoking pit in each of our sinful hearts it was calling attention to, which reverberated in my cerebral area the more clinical language about the same things in JOHN OWEN's treatise on The Mortification of Sin.
Sin is a major topic i relish in these old divines, i hunger and thirst to see things the way they did, so that the promise of this whole religion can become sweeter than sweet, and this is for me personally the kicker, that it makes the experience of living with the most annoying person i've ever known a little more acceptable, to gain a view of how horrid one's own inner being is, puts external things like members of family more palatable.
In matters of belief and this whole thing, the unseen aspects of life and one's experience of it, there's subtleties involved that make it unlikely that you can have a proper grasp of it without things being just so.
In religious terminology the Spirit guides you into the truth of these matters which i am not at present equipped to speak of, but it is these eminent men and some women of the past that give me the goods, presented with accurate emphasis, unlike the kinds of preachers and hucksters you see on the tv.
It's sad to me when i share about an eminent personage of the past and the one i live with asks if there's anyone these days like them, and then proceeds to name a popular person who shouldn't be mentioned in the same breath as them.
This kind of drive i have to always in my copious spare time to be reading can cause one to be puffed up, and look down on someone who physically and mentally finds basic motor skills too difficult, so that there's not even the question of studying and using the mind in any detailed and sustained measures. Who everyday loses essential items and then wrestles with blankets and stuff in order to find them, who gets mad when i provoke him about how much these sets of books cost, and that he doesn't have enough money for a coffee and breakfast.
Earthly concerns, and a persistent whining about pains both physical and mental, throw in spiritual too, his brothers think his medical problems are all fake, just like Trump Derangement Syndrome.
This kind of environment that is poorly sketched out here is that which my books help me escape, into the sinfulness of one's inner situation, and all those unseen parts of inner life. Like soul doctors they talk firmly and calmly to me about super-serious matters, which the unbelieving count as foolish. In learned and thorough ways mind you, that sweet blend of studiousness in matters the majority of secular enlightened folks see as foolishness, ahhh the balmy spring and resort vibes of getting away from it all in environs a few centuries ago. That is what my current days and nights of bliss are about.
This is your prodigal son writing, all full of the mud and excrement of devout words being shoved down my eyes, into my heart which is so soiled and defunct by nature, oh the old man, in Pauline lingo.
I'm just writing because i need to write, and there's some here who seem not to mind, thank you to them.
When i came down this morning, dad said sadly that he can't find his keys and his phone. This is not good, because i'm low on coca-cola and it would be an extravagance to take a taxi to go get that, and in my mind little things pester me, like does one have the taxi wait for you as you get what you need, and that for sure costs, time is doubly money when your on taxi time.
However all hope isn't quite dashed as we have some orange juice.
One of the Reformed/Puritan sets that will be released in November is the works of JOHN COTTON, and thanks to Monergism i have a few of his stuff, and just before logging back in here i read a few solemn paragraphs of his, oh the smoking pit in each of our sinful hearts it was calling attention to, which reverberated in my cerebral area the more clinical language about the same things in JOHN OWEN's treatise on The Mortification of Sin.
Sin is a major topic i relish in these old divines, i hunger and thirst to see things the way they did, so that the promise of this whole religion can become sweeter than sweet, and this is for me personally the kicker, that it makes the experience of living with the most annoying person i've ever known a little more acceptable, to gain a view of how horrid one's own inner being is, puts external things like members of family more palatable.
In matters of belief and this whole thing, the unseen aspects of life and one's experience of it, there's subtleties involved that make it unlikely that you can have a proper grasp of it without things being just so.
In religious terminology the Spirit guides you into the truth of these matters which i am not at present equipped to speak of, but it is these eminent men and some women of the past that give me the goods, presented with accurate emphasis, unlike the kinds of preachers and hucksters you see on the tv.
It's sad to me when i share about an eminent personage of the past and the one i live with asks if there's anyone these days like them, and then proceeds to name a popular person who shouldn't be mentioned in the same breath as them.
This kind of drive i have to always in my copious spare time to be reading can cause one to be puffed up, and look down on someone who physically and mentally finds basic motor skills too difficult, so that there's not even the question of studying and using the mind in any detailed and sustained measures. Who everyday loses essential items and then wrestles with blankets and stuff in order to find them, who gets mad when i provoke him about how much these sets of books cost, and that he doesn't have enough money for a coffee and breakfast.
Earthly concerns, and a persistent whining about pains both physical and mental, throw in spiritual too, his brothers think his medical problems are all fake, just like Trump Derangement Syndrome.
This kind of environment that is poorly sketched out here is that which my books help me escape, into the sinfulness of one's inner situation, and all those unseen parts of inner life. Like soul doctors they talk firmly and calmly to me about super-serious matters, which the unbelieving count as foolish. In learned and thorough ways mind you, that sweet blend of studiousness in matters the majority of secular enlightened folks see as foolishness, ahhh the balmy spring and resort vibes of getting away from it all in environs a few centuries ago. That is what my current days and nights of bliss are about.
46-50, M
