G-D

Gad, the troop, the tribe and the man; I don't know much about you.

But the Gadarenes didn't like it when their pigs flew over the cliffs and the gadfly stings and bites me today keeping me swatting at nothing I care about.

The gad flies and the pigs fly and the GAD flies in the face of everything I want to do today.

G-d was written on the paper I was grading and I instinctively marked it in red.  Is that what we've done to you?  We want the pigs; they're cute and we understand them.  They're food and we understand them.  They root and we stand under them with our own sense of "better."

Pearls before swine you said, and silk purse out of sow's ears I do every day.  Everyday I do this I'm less valued and more valuable; less like Gad, one of the troop- and more like G-d.  But living in the pigpen as a child of the King gave me something.  Is the something here more desirable than the something there?  Is the offal awful enough to at least sit up and take my head out of it?

There's a banquet waiting, and it's not with mashed potato mush frozen on the edges or peas & carrots, a brownie//black cornbread corner or any cellophane in sight.