Blog 1566 – 12.31.2019
Yet Another Same Old Lang Syne
I worked and practiced long and hard to put together my latest Mockingbird Song of Dan Fogelberg’s, Same Old Lang Syne, attached here:
Same Old Lang Syne
By all means do Google the original for a real treat. That is one of the intents of all my Mockingbird Songs, to pay tribute to the writers and singers who made the songs famous. To add my voice, too, to sing the praises of the accomplishments of others. The Sinatra’s, the Perry Como’s, the Elvis’s, the Josh Groban’s, the Celine Dionne’s, the Cher’s, and the Adele’s make that look so easy, still the way to get to Carnegie Hall is the same for everyone – practice, practice, practice and performance, performance, performance.
Since I did give the extra effort on this song, and I hope it shows, and so I include it again, this last day of 2019 in this my New Years Eve blog. Who knew besides me, four and half years ago, when I began this blog that I would have over fifteen hundred and fifty blogs posted by the end of this year end and be still at it.
It still thrills me when I get a message that someone new is following my blog, or that a new country has been added to the many already where I have been read, but especially when someone comments even to share their disagreement with some opinion that I might have shared. My truths are not everyone’s and may not even be mine tomorrow. For more and more I make it my habit to discard any belief that is no longer serving me. Though that may sound like sacrilege to some it sounds like sanity to me. Someone, several perhaps, have defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over, hoping for a different result. It just may be the same about believing the same thing over and over even when we are no longer happy with the results.
This past year on April 15th by beloved father-in-law, Wallace Mendel Stokes passed off this stage. A loving and long-time Christian, Wallace had the kind of religion that though it may have made him love everybody in spite of their sins, chief among them in his mind not believing as he did, it did not make him happy. I remember more than once after myself rejecting that narrow box of fundamentalist Christianity, wondering why anyone would want to hold on to such an unhappy religion. To me it appeared that the last two years of Wallace’s life after Dementia stole most of his religious beliefs were his happiest.
My own dear mother had the same religious beliefs that Wallace had. In spite of them or perhaps in some part because of them her life was so miserable to her that she ended it by her own hand before her sixty-ninth birthday almost twenty years ago. I think, and it is only an opinion, that many people buy the notion of total depravity and original sin because they cannot bring themselves to accept and love themselves as they are because they really believe that they have done so many terrible things that surely a god would have to die to pay for them.
I no longer believe that about myself or anyone. And sure, I like you have made many mistakes along the way, some doozies, but never not even the worst made me unloveable, unworthy, or unforgivable. The Prodigal son was never unloved by his father, and neither his daddy nor his older brother ever had to die for him to be accepted back home. Love is bigger and better than all the self-imposed crosses and nail-scars we bear. And I know writing and talking like this offends those who still need Jesus bleeding, beaten, and dying to believe they could ever be loved. I believe that Jesus and every baby ever born was a love note of promise from God, the Universe. I love you, is a note not meant to be nailed to a cross but to be written indelibly upon each child’s heart and remembered all the time not just for old Lang Syne.
Kiss someone you love tonight, especially that most deserving one in the mirror.
Your friend and fellow traveler,