Dangerous Grace

In a recent moment of philosophical clarity, the image of a sword entered my mind and rested on me. 

Have you ever thought about how a sword is made? Not one of those cheap mass-production jobs pressed out of a machine and sold in bookstores. I mean a quality weapon: hand-forged by a master craftsman. 

From what I know of ancient Japanese swordmaking, it was a long and complicated process involving several stages. Different metals of varying carbon content (usually consisting of bits of nails, wire, buttons, whatever) were heated, pounded, folded up to a dozen times or even hundreds of times, reshaped, folded more, shaped, fired and cooled, fired and cooled, fired and cooled to get just the right temper (soft on the inside for balance and flexibility and hard on the outside for strength and durability). Then it was beautied and sharpened. 

Swords were often tested to make certain that the craftsman had done excellent work. A common test was striking a blow to a helmet to see if the sword would break or cleave open the helmet. One famous story from the early 1600's tells of a swordmaker whose sword, when tested, would not cut the "test helmet." He was told to make a sword that would cut the helmet or commit suicide. The swordmaker put a wet sheet of rice paper on the helmet and told the tester to try again. This time, his sword sliced right in. The paper kept the sword from glancing off the helmet as it had before. 

It occurs to me that I'm one of those swords. Fired and folded. Pounded and ground into a razor-edged work of art. I am a thing of beauty. And I am deadly elegance in the hands of my Master. In His certain hands there are no glancing blows and with me He strikes at the heart of His enemy. That's why the enemy tries so hard to break me. He's scared of what faithful weapon can do. 

I am stiff and unyielding at first but He is patient, skilled, determined, and righteous. He purifies me. He forges me according to His design. Then He stamps His seal on me, gives me a name, and makes me His own. And in His hands I am made whole. I am made perfect. I am home. 

Signs of Intelligent Life

Pardon me as I'm going to be a bit crude here for a few minutes but I've been thinking about something and I think you can probably relate. Have you ever noticed that... well... poots seem to be intelligent? I mean, not nice intelligent. I mean, out to get you, needy intelligent. Like when you're standing in the lobby waiting for the elevator and your stomach is all cramping up so you manage to squeeze one out quietly (hoping you haven't just soiled yourself because it's so hot you can't tell if it's heat or fluid) from a solitary place across from the elevator so that when it arrives you can get in the elevator and leave it dangling there behind. Only, when the elevator arrives and you cross the 15 feet of space, after the doors shut with another passenger or passengers you realize that the petty little poot has not only clinged to you and followed you onto the elevator but it blossoms into a cascade of aromatic effervescence that threatens to make everyone vomit before the next floor. 

What's up with that? Come on! 

And why do they always have to make noise just as someone's walking by? You sneak them out all day long with no one the wiser but as soon as someone walks by, it has to reverberate like a tuba. 

Dagnabit! 

These are just too convenient to be coincidence. There's surely a higher intelligence working here bent on detroying the fabric of pootlite society. Rise up against your opootsers and demand an end to their noxious and naughty schemes! 

Did I say that out loud?