Mulled Vine

She rested her head against my shoulder.
“I am so tired.”
I stroked her hair, my heart heavy with sorrow.
“I know, my love. Just try to rest, ok?”
She sighed, then suddenly sat bold upright and looked intently at the print on the wall opposite. A child’s drawing, filled with flowers, people, sun, moon and stars around a blue-green earth. I looked at her, dreading the next moment. She got up, went to the picture, peering at it closely, tracing around the earth with her hand.
“I see it,” she said, “I get it.” Then she turned to me wild-eyed.
“Do you see?”
I wished I did, but I didn’t, and shook my head.
“You never do,” she said, disappointed.
But I did. I saw everything; the gradual descent of the woman I loved most in all the world, into this.
It was her, but at the same time not her.
“Why don’t you come and sit down?”
She looked at me, her eyebrows furrowed as if struggling with some immense internal conflict.
“I can trust you.” It was at the same time a question as a statement. Then she sat down again, resting her head as before.
“I’m so tired.”
My heart wanted to break into a thousand bitter pieces but I didn’t let it. I had to remain in control.

Where was that doctor?

~~~~

“We’ll take good care of her,” the nurse said.
My eyes filled with tears as they walked her away, past the double doors, to the inpatient psychiatric ward. I had visions of white, padded cells, screaming, mutilated madmen, and leering, rapist guards with brutal hands. Tears in my eyes, I turned to the nurse. I was losing control.
“She will be Ok?”
She looked at me, a kindly old woman, and touched my arm.
“She will be fine, you’ll see.”
But I didn’t. How could this be made better? How could the God we both loved and served allow this to happen? An age old question to which I knew all the hollow intellectual answers, but now it was mine, cutting brutally through my heart.
I walked out of the hospital into the chilly night. The stars twinkled brightly overhead around a kindly moon, but I found no comfort. Great sobs escaped from deep inside me, and I looked up at the hand of the Creator, and cursed Him.

~~~~

She was playing Scrabble with some of the other patients. I hadn’t slept a wink and hurried back to the hospital as soon as visiting hours permitted. I approached cautiously, watching, waiting. She looked up, her face pale and wan, her eyes unrecognising. I said hello, but she looked away.
“The medication is quite strong in the beginning”, said the nurse at my side. “Give her time.”
I left, never before feeling so alone, but suppressed my anguish. The kids needed picking up from school.

~~~~

She stood at the top of the stairs, just woken from a nap, and pointed accusingly at my mother who had been tidying up.
“I don’t want you in my house.”
My mother looked at me, her eyes full of hurt, looking for comfort, but I had none to give. I shrugged.

~~~~

The dream now seems over, the nightmare nothing but a painful memory. Thanks to the marvel of medicine I have her back, or least someone like her. I feared her at first, expecting IT to pounce at any minute and wreck our lives like it did before. How I hated that illness that toyed with her mind. But then I learned to love her, to really love her, not the soppy romantic promises of a young fool who vows for better or for worse but knows not what he’s saying.
But I haven’t quite forgiven God, I don’t think, but He’s big enough to take that, and if not, well fuck it – I reckon I’ve been prepared for hell.

I lay on my back in the water, floating serenely underneath the cotton wooled blue sky. On my stomach lay the remnants of a delicious fresh water crab I had had just crushed with a stone and eaten on the spot. I considered brushing it off but really couldn’t be bothered – the moment was too perfect.

A harsh cry broke the stillness, “Heeeeenry!!!”

It was her, the otter woman, the woman I’d left my faithful wife for, the one I’d eloped with, the one I’d married, and now the one I was enslaved to.

“Heeeeeenry, why the hell haven’t you taken out the garbage again??”

Paddy and Murphy are working on a building site.
Paddy says to Murphy, ‘I’m gonna have the day off, I’m gonna
pretend I’m mad!’
He climbs up the rafters , hangs upside down and shouts:

‘I’M A LIGHTBULB! I’M A LIGHTBULB!’

Murphy watches in amazement!

The Foreman shouts: ‘Paddy you’re mad, go home’
So he leaves the site.

Murphy starts packing his kit up to leave as well.

‘Where the hell are you going?’ asks the Foreman.

‘Well I can’t work in the fecking dark!’ says Murphy.

Grossly overweight Buckie turf-cutter, 42 years old and 23 stone, Gemini, seeks nimble sexpot, preferably South American, for tango sessions, candlelit dinners and humid nights of screaming passion. Must have own car and be willing to travel. Box 09/08

Aberdeen man, 50, in desperate need of a ride. Anything considered. Box06/03

Heavy drinker, 35, Glasgow area, seeks gorgeous sex addict interested in pints, fags, Celtic football club and starting scraps on Sauchiehall Street at three in the morning. Box 73/82.

Bitter, disillusioned Dundonian lately rejected by longtime fiancée seeks decent, honest, reliable woman, if such a thing still exists in this cruel world of hatchet-faced bitches. Box /41

Ginger-haired Paisley troublemaker, gets slit-eyed and shirty after a few scoops, seeks attractive, wealthy lady for bail purposes, maybe more Box 84/87

Artistic Edinburgh woman, 53, petite, loves rainy walks on the beach, writing poetry, unusual sea-shells and interesting brown rice dishes, seeks mystic dreamer for companionship, back rubs and more as we bounce along like little tumbling clouds on life’s beautiful crazy journey. Strong stomach essential Box 12/32

Chartered accountant, 42, seeks female for marriage. Duties will include cooking, light cleaning and accompanying me to office social functions. References required. No timewasters. Box 3/45

Bad-tempered, foul-mouthed old b*stard living in a damp cottage in the ar*e end of Orkney seeks attractive 21-year old blonde lady with big chest. Box 40/27

Attractive brunette, Maryhill area, winner of Miss Wrangler competition at Frampton’s Nightclub, Maryhill, in September 1978, seeks nostalgic man who’s not afraid to cry, for long nights spent comfort-drinking and listening to old Abba records. Please, Please! Box 30/41

Govan man, 27, medium build, brown hair, blue eyes, seeks alibi for the night of February 27 between 8pm and 11.30pm….Box 35/55

This is the true story of George Phillips of Meridian, Mississippi, who was going to bed when his wife told him that he’d left the light on in the shed. George opened the door to go turn off the light but saw there were people in the shed in the process of stealing things.

He immediately phoned the police, who asked “Is someone in your house?” and George said no and explained the situation. Then they explained that all patrols were busy, and that he should simply lock his door and an officer would be there when available.

George said, “Okay,” hung up, counted to 30, and phoned the police again.

“Hello, I just called you a few seconds ago because there were people in my shed. Well, you don’t have to worry about them now because I’ve just shot them all.”

Then he hung up. Within five minutes three squad cars, an Armed Response unit, and an ambulance showed up. Of course, the police caught the burglars red-handed.

One of the policemen said to George: “I thought you said that you’d shot them!”

George said, “I thought you said there was nobody available!”

They stood together, brother and sister, hand in hand, at the cliff’s edge, trembling, waiting; dark clouds raging overhead challenging the turbulent sea below. The wind tugged at their clothes, willing them to jump, carrying the sound of dogs baying, first intermittent, then more persistent, reminding them of their purpose. They had run all day, having escaped from the children’s home, but could run no more.

She looked up at her older brother and spoke: “What are we going to do, Danny?”
He gazed back at her, his eyes deep pools of sorrow, belying his tender years, but despite the depths of hell he had seen, he didn’t know.

They huddled close, love in a bundle, the baying drawing nearer, and together jumped into the arms of the waiting angel.

They stood together, brother and sister, hand in hand, at the cliff’s edge, trembling, waiting; dark clouds raging overhead challenging the turbulent sea below. The wind tugged at their clothes, willing them to jump, carrying the sound of dogs baying, first intermittent, then more persistent, reminding them of their purpose. They had run all day, having escaped from the children’s home, but could run no more.

She looked up at her older brother and spoke: “What are we going to do, Danny?”
He gazed back at her, his eyes, deep pools of sorrow, belying his tender years, but despite the depths of hell he had seen, he didn’t know.

They huddled close, love in a bundle, the baying drawing nearer, and together jumped into the arms of the waiting angel.

“Hello, my name is Robert, and I’m a six addict.”

“Hello, Robert, welcome”, the group replied, “Tell us your story.”

“Well”, said I, “it began almost two months ago just after I got my new laptop and launched Internet Explorer for the first time; I know it was dangerous, but I was young, reckless, sigh…”

“Please go on!” they pleaded, full of of encouragement and nurture.

“Someone had told me about this website, a dangerous place if you were not careful, but full of wonderous excitement and exotic tales, all sooo alluring, and I just couldn’t resist even though it had that dreaded number 666 all over it; now I can do nothing else.”

The group nodded in sadness – another promising writer bites the dust, lost forever to the lure of 6 sentences.

In my dream I was led along a white corridor, through a great wooden door into a hall of madness where I was left, cowering in the corner, waiting.

They came for me, made me wash with scented soap, gave me a white gown to wear, flowers to put in my hair. I was then led to a room with cages in which men lay; unwashed men with great long beards, yellow teeth, overgrown toenails and crazed eyes that had seen the depths of hell.

“Choose, girl!” ordered a rough voice by my side.

The men looked at me hungrily.

I did not wake.

It struck me this morning how so many of the personal arguments against God’s existence follow thus:

The existence of God results in X, where X cannot be, so therefore God does not exist.

X may be replaced with your favourite objection: loving God and suffering, insufficient evidence for his existence, intolerable hell, multiple religions, contradictory Bible, and so on.

The logic is sound. If one thing implies another, and the implication is valid, and the thing being implied is invalid, then the first thing cannot be.

What is perhaps not so sound is our evaluation of X.

For example we look at our notion of God and the suffering around us and conclude: X is a contradiction. A loving God cannot coexist with a suffering world, therefore God cannot be.

But what struck me this morning (at last! I hear you say) is that by doing this we force God to be like we want Him to be, and will not accept Him otherwise. But if God is bigger than our conception, and we are missing information wherewith to deduce that X is false, then we need to be very careful about saying God cannot be.

I imagine an unfinished clay pot sitting on a wheel, saying that there cannot be a Potter, because if He was any sort of potter then we would not be rough clay pots but finely glazed objet d’art.

I imagine the Potter smiling as He puts us in the furnace.