Saturday morning was a scattered time, but a lot of little things came into alignment and got done. It felt good when noon rolled around as I got closure on some nagging irritants.
And I DID invest an hour in the big project. I had been the choke point, but I was able to do my part and the ball is on the other side of the net for now. But I know it won’t stay there long.
By early afternoon, I was itching to do something fun, not something necessary. I went to the patch of Mercy land which I am using as my recording studio at present and did a Facebook post on James Bond, Uber drivers and the poverty spirit. Thought it came out pretty well.
Then, since my truck has been doing noble duty to the county dump and back for a couple of weeks, I decided to take it to a good car wash and get it all gussied up. They did a good job and the black paint looked great when they were done.
About that time, a varmint that has been skulking around the shadows with one of my peeps made the mistake of sticking its head up above the parapet, so while I went to Lowe’s, we played Whack-a-Mole.
A great game.
I managed to put a hurt on the critter while picking up a lawn mower and forgetting the gas can. I checked out, still wrestling with it while I drove to the office. I realized I had missed the gas can, but didn’t want to go back and get one, so I biped over to Megan’s house, since I had the key to her storage room, and pinched her gas can for the day.
Eventually, we got some release. The person in question has some work to do in the next few days, working through a section of her time line to see every place where it got empowered, but my work is done for now.
At home, I had a wonderful triumph. The week has been marred with lack of laundry facilities. One thing after another went sideways. But this afternoon I got the final piece in place, with a functional washer and dryer, so we started on the piles of laundry that have backed up.
THEN it was play time. I broke out the lawnmower, gassed and oiled it, and pulled the cord. Like a good old Briggs and Stratton, it started on the first pull, right out of the box. Gotta love that brand.
I had a delightful time mowing a patch of variegated green that loosely goes by the term “a lawn.” It has been a long time since I have pushed a mower, and I relished the patterns and the smells. It is one of my dopamine reward activities.
The clippings were carefully bagged and loaded in my clean truck with all of their hot nitrogen content.
When I finished at the house, I headed back to the office, with a stop at Lowe’s to buy a pitchfork. My compost pile now has 64 cubic feet of decomposing matter in it, due to my alertness to all available resources in the recent days. I joyously added the high nitrogen green matter to my abundant dry carbon-based material and mixed it with the pitchfork.
Then I mowed the back lawn of the office and added that green stuff.
The compost pile is coming along so nicely that this evening I ordered a bunch of red wigglers and some European night crawlers to multiply the effectiveness of the chemical work going on. A happy day.
THEN, the plan God had been working on for months came into play.
I went to the gas station and filled my truck and Megan’s gas can. I went a couple of blocks to her new house and returned the gas can in good condition, relocking her storage room.
(Megan is still in California trying to finish up things at the apartment, so they can head this way with another big truck full of office and domestic stuff).
As I drove away, a neighbor of hers was frantically signaling to me, so I pulled over, parked, got out of the truck, and walked over to chat. His name is Antonio, and when he is not in a gym, building a bone crunching hand shake, he is a first responder and a neighborhood observer.
The short version of a long story is that he wanted to tell me that the house Megan has rented is haunted.
The last four people living there have died. The first one was by natural causes — old age — and the next three were from heart attacks. The widow of the last man who died stayed there until the end of the lease and often heard his spirit knocking on the windows in the middle of the night.
The body builder has a tendency to sit on his back porch during the night, and he frequently observed lights going on and off for no reason at 3:00 in the morning, and other such things, associated with a classic haunted house.
He thought I should know.
I loved it.
Now before you waste any emotion feeling sorry for Megan having signed a lease for a year in a haunted house that kills people, zoom out and look at the bigger picture.
-If you were God, and had a haunted house on your hands, who would you send to live there? An ignorant, powerless, heathen who would be murdered by some critter? Of course not. Four is enough. It is the most logical thing in the world to send a Noble Subject to live in a haunted house to clean it up.
And goodness knows Miss Megan has no lack of experience with portals, death, AHS, defiled time, land, etc. ad infinitum. God sent her to Belize recently to deal with the Spirit of Death on a Mayan level, and she passed the course with flying colors. She is ready for this.
And she has a loyal group of friends around her who will leap at the chance to give her a hand in the process.
So this is the most logical thing in the world. Save your pity for something else.
-The house has been vacant for five months since the last widow moved out. Megan watched it on the web for all that time, and was drawn to it repeatedly. Since the day she signed the lease, there have been all sorts of people wanting to lease it. There are signs on her doors from people wondering if it is for lease, and asking the owner to call. Clearly God made it invisible for a period of time because He wanted her there.
-Clearly God was micromanaging me all day. He flushed out a critter that has been dodging me for five years, so I would be doing deliverance in Lowe’s and not be focused enough to get my own gas can. And everything along the way during the day was designed to consume just the right amount of time, so that Antonio would be sitting on his porch, watching the haunted house when I went by to drop off the gas can. God makes it look so simple.
-Spartanburg is Teacher Redemptive Gift and the principle is Responsibility. One high point of responsibility is to voluntarily clean up other people’s irresponsibility, even when it is not your fault.
One thing is for sure — she did not kill those four people. But she is going to own the mess that is not her fault and clean up that house for the King, so whoever moves in after her is in good shape.
-And that brings us to the fact that the Teacher day of Creation was when redemptive death came into the world. No telling how big a treasure God plans to give her through the redemption of those four lives.
-When Megan and her mom were cleaning the house, they both knew that the master bedroom was massively dirty, so they doubled down on their physical and spiritual cleaning. Clearly they are way out ahead of the game. God just got Antonio involved to confirm what they already knew.
-When Megan left the house to go back to California to get her stuff, she left some MP3 players going in the house, in strategic places. “Blessing Your End of Life” on some, and “A Celebration of God” on others.
Gotta love it.
-AND as she was trying to figure out how to allocate the space in the house, she was really conflicted about the master bedroom. There was a strong push/pull but she did not know what it was. Now she knows. There is something of God that is very big there, as well as an overlay of plain old fashioned murder-by-demons.
She is up for it.
And I think the Tribe will be able to contribute some strategic bits of life to the house when she moves in and needs some significant celebrations of life.
For now, I am tired. I am going to send this to Sandy for proofing and publishing, while I go to bed with a smile, chuckling over the elegant simplicity of a missed gas can.
God plays a mean game of chess. Those critters guarding the AHS at the house had no clue what the implications were of my meandering through Lowe’s playing Whack-A-Mole, most unappreciative of the timing, but not at all willing to let that rascal escape after watching for him for years.
Copyright September 2018 by Arthur Burk