What is the Truth

Kooky Lucy Frost (29)

    
   "Kooky Lucy Frost (29)"
   
   Kooky Lucy Frost and Conor went to the Orthodox Church.  They joked lovingly about the Western Rite versus the Eastern Rite, yet both knew the child must have the TRUTH of Christ.  They decided to allow their child a chance at both ways; nevertheless, they still surmised the internal wisdom that talking to a Priest would be bold and sublime action.
   The Orthodox Priest had a beard and a wife.  He didn't show up in photographs, allegorically.  He wore a collar similar to the Roman Collar, but not quite.  He was a calm, gentle, innocent, and very humble soul.  Lucy and Conor explained their situation, and he offered his two cents, like the impoverished widow who gave the Temple what would equate to a mere penny, and after being mocked by the Disciples, Christ truthfully said:  "Verily, she has given more than any other."
   "You two seem like a nice couple.  And a child raised in Christ is raised in truth.  Does a Cadillac stretch?  No, but a Mercedes bends.  That's why Christ gave everything up, for if you have nothing; next, nobody can take anything from you.  But the rich man has great fear, for he can and will lose everything.  His money is a false god.  He has sown his seed on thorny ground, having no roots with Mother Earth, and all the nature of creation."  

Kooky Lucy Frost (28)

    
    "Kooky Lucy Frost (28)"

   "Russians get no credit," Pap said.  "We're Serbs Lucy, cousins to them.  Know where you came from; plus, we're Americans--puritanical is our history.  The say D-DAY won the Second War, but nope--it was Stalingrad.  Russians lost near 30 million, and they can't change the real axioms of history.  All an adversary does is make you stronger.  Too, we have a joint space program.  And in The Brothers Karamazov the Russian bard informs us that Monks outshine Priests, for Priests put jelly on their bread, and Monks do not.  Too, Pushkin's poem about the Knight getting killed by the Turk and how the Virgin Mary gets him into Heaven--you can't even find it on the Internet."
   "What about the Irish,"  Lucy asked.
   Pap with:  "Drunk on every corner every night, and loving poetry and being the best damn storytellers.  Whereas the English merely document."
   Lucy offered:  "Conor is pure Irish, and I don't know if we should raise the baby Catholic, his way, or Orthodox, our way."
   Pap stated:  "It's basically the same, but the Russians need to sow their seed on fertile ground.  And a woman is fertile, especially a Mother of Life.  They need to return to the Virgin as Rasputin was made invincible by Her.  They poisoned him, shot him in the head, froze him in ice water, but he would not die.  So, raise your child Orthodox, but Pope Francis loves animals; thus, you can take him to Catholic Mass on Saint Francis' Feast Day."
   It's all so confusing," Lucy said.
   Pap retorted:  "Nope.  For as Plotinus told us--the simpler something is, the closer it is to God, and God is not the Author of confusion."  

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Kooky Lucy Frost (27)

   
   "Kooky Lucy Frost (27)"
  
   After years of being neglected and abused; specifically, called retarded, stupid, lazy, and all the rest, the intellectually-challenged (so to speak) Lucy Frost had engaged in the playful art of intercourse, for the singular and sublime purpose of crafting life.  Even the rejected deserve to have a sense of security and love, but so many monsters of cruel energy thieve them away into a vacuous and abysmal pit of hopelessness.  One on one are fair odds; on the contrary, a million to one is the sincere gluttony of a ravenous and ruthless pack.
   Conor didn't brag to his buddies, for he had none, only thanked God to feel another incarnate soul after forty-four years of celibacy.  The only flesh he had touched in that suffocating quicksand of protracted seclusion was Christ in the Eucharist.  God tests the just man--it is written.
   Kooky Lucy Frost skipped home, embryo ignited, and she was stardust eternal, a glimmer of God's Good Will--the Almighty adoring ALL of His creations, even the shapeless divine.  Those asymmetrical people, broken and crushed, yet so honest and sincere, only wanting to be loved.  But as the Irish, Catholic Presidency said at one point in history:  "Life is not fair."  Thus, the magnanimous might of moral men must make it so.  For the downtrodden have thirsted for righteousness long enough.
   Pap greeted Lucy at the door, noticing her wondrous radiance, intrinsically knowing she had become a woman, getting her metaphorical wings back, and redeeming her own little, lost angel.
   If you don't remember where you came from; next, you truly have no place to go.  

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Kooky Lucy Frost (26)

   
   "Kooky Lucy Frost (26)"
   
   Kooky Lucy Frost decided to take the hint.  I'm back.  There would be no discharge on her face, or cruel and unusual engagement of sport-like intercourse; on the contrary, only a missionary love-make of non-lascivious lust, but two becoming one to produce the fruit of her broken womb.
   It was in Conor's room.  His parents were inside the house, yet this brought her comfort.  Not in a sick sense of getting caught to add to an exciting rendezvous of cool coitus, yet a shield of acquiesce, knowing his Irish, Catholic stock supported a new lineage; indeed, this was naked play in order to continue a line of two broken souls, allowing one of God's lit candles to exist, for the cruelty of life is a gift, if you see Christ next to you, suffering--ya gotta hang in there baby.
   The French kisses were not sloppy.  She noticed no boogers in Conor's nasal cavity, and he smelled like mint, and tasted like it too--fresh.  And while she experienced no euphoria, the sense of him there was pure union, and his discharge was as if not, but verily--she knew she was pregnant, and that life began before conception, ordered by something beyond our perception, this illusion of life, most merely using five senses, taking for granted the All-Creating Hand of God.  
   Conor rolled over and smiled sweetly.  She blew her dirty-blonde out of her face, painting him with a gregarious glare from a protracted glimpse by way of her forest-green eyes.