I am emotional. I feel betrayed. I was raised in faith that the Watchtower was God’s organization. I believed that my mom and dad knew the answers that one day I’d come to learn. I just felt slow and stupid and that eventually I’d get it. I trusted. I had faith. I believed. I knew my parents were smarter than me. I had read it in the poem that hang on his bedroom wall.
I now learn that while they can’t answer me from the scriptures when will my father live again they will deny the scriptures as they are written as truth.
“And the rest of the dead do not come to life until the end of the thousand years.” — Revelation 20:5
Despite that verse, and the one which precedes it which clearly defines who will partake in the first resurrection (which is immediately followed by this verse—”And the rest of the dead do not come to life until the end of the thousand years.”) she’d say that “apparently” my father, and all other loved ones, such as my uncles and my best friend, will come to life again during the thousand year reign.
“But who will they rule over?”, she asked.
I attempt to offer the answer, it lies therein, in the next verse—
“the nations which are in the four corners of the earth, Gog and Magog” the ones who Satan’d deceive, let alone the man on earth who would yet thus believe and come to reside, as the scriptures say, in the holy city.
My parents tell me there will be only 144,000 in heaven, you see.
And thus on the earth the great crowd should be.
I wonder and am confused, what mystery she believes? (Revelation 17:5)
The 144,000 are in heaven, yes, we agree.
The great crowd, regardless—where is it?!—where will Gog and Magog be?
My parents won’t answer, and a answer will not be.
They offer confusing theories, the efforts or effects of their personal theology.
“The dead are not dead”, he says, “don’t you see?”
Or is it that he says that they are dead, but only spiritually?
And ‘the Son of Man which every man will see’, well not, every man will “see” he’d have me believe?
The man who says he was the Son of God would ask me to believe, and he asked in the first century, “what if you would see the Son of Man ascending to where he was before?” apparently now the truth that we should seek is “what if you would see the Son of Man descending to where he was before he was where it is that he still is or would still be?”
Oh, I sigh, I ask and cry, “You men of Galilee, why do you stand looking into the sky?”
My parents would say that though they dropped their jaws, and gave good pause so the Lord would sent his angels to mark the day, that it not matter, despite the manner, they not believe “This man, who was received up into the sky will come back in the same way as he was seen going into the sky.”
No, we’d not see, it’d be seen, no not all all.
It is not green eggs, no, it is not green eggs and ham, at all.
It was not for us but for the few he’d call, those men that they’d say of that long since past long ago day, some day once before no, never, not seen, it was one day when some one said he say him, somewhere near 1919. He came invisibly, known only once he came though their inner chamber doors; yet we shouldn’t worry, as though it were a desert, no not in desert no wilderness, nor should we go seek him, no it was in Brooklyn that as a thief he broke in.
My heart is like a child’s, like a king’s it’s been broken.
I have no throne, my crown is sore and of my ego there’s not much left to be worn,
But a princess I’d be—in the kingdom of heaven—my heart still plays make believe.
I give it all, I swear I would. I understand, I’d dare I could, Paul he’d be a man after that which is me—My Dad, my mother, my sisters and my brother, my family—please take them, take them before me?! My life, my life, I’ll give it, pray, I pray, please, oh please, not them but me! My body you’ve beaten, battered and abused, my mouth you smote and my faith you moved. My fear was shattered and my soul I cared not, who knows what I know, and who needs what I’ve got?
My father, my Father, before both I bend my knee. I beseech you I pray in my scattered soul, that thing which I not know if man need, my heart has been thrashed, and my heart thus does beat. Take my shame, give me blame, or lift from below?—I can’t breath. My eyes lay but for a moment on your son, and my heart stirred, ashamed I chastised myself, for your son I am beneath.
Why make me wonder I already know. You know my mother told you so. I look good in red, that’s what she said. And you know I’ve always wished to be worthy of wearing white. Your woman of revelation, adorned in skies diamonds, my mother think I’d be better off in colored jewels. You both tease thus, it seems I must, admit the scriptures are my muse?
But in seriousness, somberness, in undertone day and night. You know it is, from child’s breath, to adult fright, I’ve read you in delight. I had faith though life not make me believe. My spirit broke, then I found myself on bended knees. I lay my head to the ground, where once long ago I was found. It against that flesh that I find myself, the dust of which I am, the dust which I deserve.
Why make me dream, drowning me in stars? Why test my heart, and send my mind so far? I have no family in heaven, my father beneath my feet sleeps. My mother’d not believe me if I told her it’s me you’d seek. She thinks its the devil, and thus shame has won, how it is that I’d tell her, it is the best that I’ve done?
What shall you do to make them believe? What is it that shall come to make the world see? I care not for my life, but he that gave his for me. How is it that you lived without him? A perfect man, your child, your seed? My father knows not of the pain of which we call my life, he never came to know that a man called me his wife. As I stood before that man, for your mother and father you must leave, that man told me that I must forget—for him you must not grieve. How jarring it is this moment to try to say where all the other words thus in poetry lay—he said it he said it he said it callously, he said ‘get over it’, and that he said it I still can’t believe.
I’m done. I’m done. I’ve said all I can say. You’ve empty my heart, and I’ll hit send and pray.
I think of my father, and then you sent Muppets and clowns my way. I adore my childhood, and my life I wouldn’t trade.
I imagine another live would be one less boring than mine. I still can’t said I would trade it to live next to the divine. The roses smell sweet when not genetically altered, and you know it is not less than often that before earth’s herbs I’ve faltered. Rosemary I rub in my palms to breath its fragrance given next to the busy street, basil I adore and roses maybe more, though my scent I still seek. Do you have smells where you dwell, or could I have herbal retreats? Is it true, I heard once you drew a vision a man knew not to seek… upon a stone he struck his head and in slumber he did sleep. Though his eyes were closed his spirit rose, in wonder it did peak. He saw the stairs, or a ladder who cares, it was heaven it did seek. Angels came and went and the night was spent and of it the scriptures do speak. I laugh and wonder, could it be a man should go asunder so he might find on the other side an elevator ride, one like no other? (Genesis 28:10-19) I know, I know, in case she should read, yes the man who first before him must proceed. That death he gave and wine we drink, in life will live and death in we will breath.
Ecclesiastes “The Teacher”
In anguish, Solomon says in his heart,
“Who knows the spirit of man,
whether it goes upward,
and the spirit of the animal,
whether it goes downward to the earth?”
Why? Why had it entered Solomon’s heart that might might “go upward” as opposed to the “downward to the earth” that he knew of the death of animals?
A Prayer by Moses, the man of God.
Why is the prayer of Moses in the psalm referring to “flying away“?
Lord, you have been our dwelling place for all generations.
Before the mountains were born,
before you had formed the earth and the world,
even from everlasting to everlasting, you are God.
You turn man to destruction, saying,
“Return, you children of men.”
For a thousand years in your sight
are just like yesterday when it is past,
like a watch in the night.
You sweep them away as they sleep.
In the morning they sprout like new grass.
In the morning it sprouts and springs up.
By evening, it is withered and dry.
For we are consumed in your anger.
We are troubled in your wrath.
You have set our iniquities before you,
our secret sins in the light of your presence.
For all our days have passed away in your wrath.
We bring our years to an end as a sigh.
The days of our years are seventy,
or even by reason of strength eighty years;
yet their pride is but labor and sorrow,
for it passes quickly, and we fly away.
Why is it, by the way, that you’d believe that a generation can be anything other than what the scriptures define? There are so many little studies I did in child like curiosity and learned so many little things. Check every single reference to lifetime and you’ll see, a generation is forty if a life for the mighty would eighty be. Christ died and prophesied that a generation would see, and then thus it was that less than that it came to pass and thus they came to see. Why should I though all I know who believed have thus died believed what was not taught? Is it not man who over whom man it is that injury is wrought?
I apologize. While there might be some meter or rhyme, I haven’t the slight clue how to communicate it in writ. I offer you thus what you might imagine is puss, but I hope instead you see wit.
I am a gift from God, think no more of myself from sod, of where a seed dost thus lay. However this wheat should be no more neat than in thus death it stray. For in that if it be true then thus it is that I do a seed a harvest display. I long ago since died, and each time I think it the last that I’ve cried, but as your child I’d lied, and thus I lay my heart humbly before you this day.
I, Angela Marie Niblick Benson Baxley, and of all other aliases both present and formerly, am of sound mind and judgement of body.
“For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline.” — 2 Timothy 1:7
I seek love and self-discipline, and the power to overcome weakness in speech.
But first, I shower.