Feeling Better

I'm reading "The Enchantress of Florence."

I read a short story by Rushdie once several years ago for class, and I liked it. He's an Indian author who lives in the muddled confusion that involves every culture influenced by globalization. Only he doesn't write about it head-on. He writes about its roots (in my current novel), or he just writes a really great story that involves a humanistic philosophy (what other philosopher would ponder 'the first person singular--the "I"'?) set upside down by the uncivilized world's march toward progress. At least, I hope it's a really great story. This one seems to be.

One very non-humanistic, very Christian idea (or is it?? Would Rushdie's main character learn a Christian lesson before Christ was born? Is it, instead, some Hindi religous idea that also just happens to be a Christian concept?) which I love: "The lessening from which growing could begin." Sounds to me like this: "I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds."

Current Status: Watching Benjamin Button

I've been feeling crummy all week...finally, Saturday morning, my head hurt so bad I went to the doctor. Turns out I have strep throat and a migraine that might or might not be a migraine and might or might not be related to the strep throat! Two prescriptions, lots of juice and water, and three slices of pizza (the medicine calmed my nausea so I could finally eat a full meal) later, I am happily ensconced in blankets on the couch, watching movies and drifting off whenever I feel like it. It is wonderful to have a legitimate reason to feel crummy :).
Funny, though, how I still have problems sitting still. Even when I have strep and a really bad headache.

Melt

I have excessive amounts of pride. Sometimes it seems to ooze out of my pores, there's so much of it. The thought occured to me yesterday, in a fit of choking frustration, that the tremendous lengths Jesus went to to win our freedom were neccesary, or my heart would never be softened.
It is the heart of Jesus that wept for Jerusalem, spent hours in the heat, in the sun, in the rain, on the dusty paths, just so He could gather His flock, teach His children (and His betrayers), long to reach the lost because we were worth it.
It is the gashes carved out of his back by Roman floggers, the gentle hands that used to hold a universe together and touch and heal a lepers skin, now torn sinew from sinew by blunt nails and a heavy cross because it was worth it.
It is the King who achieved His victory, who is simultaneously not ashamed to call me "brother" even in the face of the honest frankness that I am not worth anything alone, but worth everything in Him.
He melts my prideful, frozen heart and reminds me, "Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains [just one grain; it never becomes more but lives] by itself alone. But if it dies, it produces many others and yields a rich harvest."