Tag Archives: absolution

Polar Bears.

[*formerly entitled: The Tail of Winter.]
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Boscov’s had chocolate.
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Upstairs, above the endless racks of merch ( likely special purchases from the south that didn’t sell ) three whole glass cases of it, at least a third of which: gluten free. I’d been craving since 3:30 pm, and this was the tail of winter, the flagellate, whipping us into a frenzy on the final frigid night of the year.
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Parking lot nearly empty, normally packed to the gills during the day and across the weekend, it was Thursday night, the cusp, and see above. I’d fought the craving for over four hours. At 8:02, time enough to get there before closing, the flush of rationale; hustling into the store with one other straggly woman, braving the ascending escalator, straight ahead I saw them: not confections — end of season sheet sets. My having just ordered a dog print flat and pillow shams from catalog for a resounding 93 bucks, these fleece for 19.99 tempted redemption. Grabbing a King of pale blue polar bears, I rounded the corner of packaged displays to the candy counter.
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She was stooped over the open rear of the fudge case, sweeping crumbs into a tray, when I called out. A short, ponytailed woman with a Latino accent and what would be a penchant for calling me “honey”, she had a cold.
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This, of course, was God. This was his reprimand for my weak, sniveling sin of the flesh. He would let me have the desires of my heart, but send leanness to my soul. I would eat a bag of chocolate, but be exposed to a virus likely potent enough to cause pneumonia and a reactivation of the chicken pox. I would get shingles, followed by post-herpetic neuralgia, and be in excruciating pain for the rest of my life.
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In reality, selecting thirteen pieces with sugar and two without, I’d pay for everything, take the elevator down to the first floor because of descending escalator PTSD and head home in the solitary dark.
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The cold. The God forsaken dripping nose. The two sugar free were packed in their own box; I could tear open the end, where she didn’t touch, and pull one almond bark out for the car.
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So as not to break the last, number six stainless wire of orthodontia, I went for the first bite with two molars, rear left. Coasting down Peach Street, I thought of every diabetic I’d ever known and how relatively grateful they’d be to be eating something shaped right that sort of felt recognizable under the teeth. Like some chocolate with your carnauba wax? Anyone?
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But, the total price was gnawing. $34. 95? for a box of chocolate? Not even Suzanne Somers charged that much for her cancer-safe creations.
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She’d said, albeit nasally, that the sugar free was 19.95, honey, and the regular 17.95. I’d always let mum do the math. And, money was no object to addiction. But, mum was gone now, for almost twenty years, leaving me quite adrift when it came to tallying up indulgences, let alone the flat out mortal variety.
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Pulling up to the curb, I crawled out, locking the driver door, and headed in. Dispensing with the bag would prevent transmission of the virus to the edibles within. Reaching the kitchen sink, I grabbed a plastic container and poured the bag’s contents into it. Even under the LED track lighting, this stuff was the shit; dry, faded, even the white peppermint bark lacking luster, I stared at thirty four dollars of specialty confection and felt nauseous. The girl who’d called me honey had ripped me off. At this price, there should have been twice as much candy.
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After one phone call to the Boscov’s operator and the courtesy desk, I was already out the door. I-79 was a bleak vista at this hour, but a straight shot back to the mall. I’d find a manager. No; I’d confront her, quietly. No; I’d get the courtesy desk, which “didn’t know anything about the candy, let me put you through to can —” No; I’d say nothing – just dump it out, onto the counter.
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Maybe the caffeine, theobromine, maltitol had created a synergy. Maybe the dark highway, and me alone on it. But, I began to follow a different train, one which took me deeply into the psyche of the candy woman. She had a family, at least some children. She made minimum wage, working the candy counter. She was a first generation immigrant,  and she was sick.
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Just ahead of the parking spot closest to the Boscov’s entrance, I’d resolved my intention; I would speak confidentially, my voice hushed. We’d be the only two who knew what had been done, and I’d tell no one else. She needed to feed her family. And, she could have the chocolate. The receipt had indicated 9.95 for two “seasonal” candy purchases; she’d falsely categorized my purchase, too. There was the 19.99, and a grand total of 34…….my lungs filled with the purest air, swelling my chest with a powerful self righteousness that could have been true goodness on a better day.
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Then, I spied them. Sitting on the front seat. The pale blue polar bears, dancing across their fleece sheets inside the plastic see through case with the PAID sticker on it. And, mum, faintly, speaking from the world beyond, calculating out loud again, rising vocal inflections reaching the slightly hysterical, and me, seated again at the corner of the kitchen table against the wall, feet over the heat vent as she “helped” me with my math word problems. Now, listen to me!!! Nine ninety five plus nineteen ninety nine for the seasonal sheet set equals: $34.95 !!!
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My foot was still on the brake pedal.
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Turning the key in the ignition, I thanked my own for saving me, as by fire, from public humiliation and full on, single mother first generation immigrant retaliation. Every scenario ever devised by my oppressively overactive imagination converged, in a flood of expulsion. Thrust back into the present, I flew down Interchange Road to the interstate, stuffing chocolate absolution into my gullet like a starving Biafran.
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The candy was disgusting.
I’d been whipped by addiction, for the last time.
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Boscov’s had nothing on epiphany.
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© 3/7/19 Ruth Ann Scanzillo.

Absolution.

 Absolution.
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This morning, John Paul Downey, priest to St Paul’s Episcopalians, exhorted his congregation in prayer. He asked God to renew our hearts to look “beyond our absolutions.”
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I heard this from my seat at the cello, near the pipe organ and the rest of the musicians. And, as is so often the case during one of John Paul Downey’s homilies, the Spirit set my mind to contemplation.
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On Good Friday prior to this Resurrection Sunday ( now so – called by the Church, lest we confuse Christ’s triumph over death with the holiday otherwise celebrated),  the atmosphere had been emotionally charged. Pastor Timm, of the high Presbytery at First Covenant, had embodied Christ on the cross like nobody since my own father, and was a much larger and more cavernous resonating chamber than dad could ever have hoped to be. My whole body’d reacted to his thunderous declaration of the Son of God’s final words:
IT.IS.FINISHED!
and, I’d spent the rest of the service in tears.
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But, “absolution”.
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After a brief stop for Russell Stover creme eggs, I came home and went for the Webster’s. First, the root:
Absolute:

free from imperfection; perfect; not mixed or adulterated; pure.

free from restriction or limitation; ultimate; positive; certain; complete.

And, then this:

something that is not dependent upon external conditions for existence or for its specific nature.
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Buzzwords come and go in our society, and I’ve lived long enough to witness many an incantation. Perhaps we can credit the talk show circuit for these trends, but somewhere between 1997 and just last week, the response: “Absolutely!” locked in as the only hip retort to any pursuit of affirmation. We had all become, for reasons I have no authority to cite, ultimately, positively, perfectly sure  – and, remained so for over a decade.
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But, “not dependent upon external conditions for existence………”……now, there’s a state.
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One of the most baffling aspects of Christ on the cross, as he had come to be recognized by Christians over the centuries was his having taken, upon the body he bore, the weight of all the transgressions of mankind committed against his father, God. Or, Eloi, as he’d called him from Golgotha (and, probably earlier, in the garden of Gesthemane.) Jesus had agreed to die in exchange for the entire creation’s absolution. Yes. Complete, total forgiveness. And, he being believed to be uncorrupted, was the absolute sacrifice – pure, perfect, complete, AND: believed to be holy and divine, not dependent upon external conditions for his existence.
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Now, I’m neither linguistics expert nor historian, but the source indicates that the term “absolute” first appeared in the 13th century. Thirteen hundred years after the birth of Christ. I don’t know what earlier thought evolved the concept, but its embodiment in the form of an omniscient God who, paradoxically, needed no body to house His Spirit was sufficient for me from my birth. Perhaps this is merely indoctrination (the source of any faith?) ; tradition, the result of its practices. Yet, I do have science on my side.
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Because, I also consider the state of utter and complete distinction, of total independence from external conditions. Apparently, such “absolutes” exist in nature, in chemistry and mathematics. But, when did we first lay hold of, and then depart from, a “belief” in Absolutes? Were there external influences affecting this? Can we blame Relativism for whole generations of entirely too much flexibility of position? Have we weighed both sides of every issue for so long that we can no longer come to any decisions that will hold up under the fixed scrutiny of finality?
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One thing seems clear: When we read the words of Jesus, we never find ambiguity. Whenever he is challenged, he responds with the conviction of inner authority. And, neither is he shy of leaving one with a question as an answer. He had a gift for knowing when to declare, and when to let a query be the impetus for further inquiry. Could this be because he knew the answer was absolutely discoverable?
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Father Downey urged us to look beyond our having been forgiven. I should be so thankful that, more than once a year, I am called to witness Christ’s declarations from my seat in the musical ministry. I should be so grateful that he still provokes me to search out the truth. Most importantly, I am truly and deeply moved to be certain when I have found it.
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Absolutely.
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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo
4/5/15  all rights those of the author. Thank you. Selah.
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