I have this image of myself as a woman whose veins run with the milk of human kindness.
I judge not, lest I myself be judged. I comdemn not because I – believe it or not – am not without sin.
I am obviously being modest about that last part because I am pretty sinless.
In fact, when our Bishop came to our church in New Zealand, she preached on the fact that none of us are without sin and added: “Except Vivienne, of course.” So it’s official.
Anyway, I digress.
I started to question my own self-image at the weekend thanks, of all things, to Tom Jones.
I was listening to My Elusive Dreams, which I had not heard for years.
In it he sings of a woman who follows him and remains with him through thick and thin and even the loss of their child. She refuses to give up on him even though she knows the dream he is following does not exist.
The bit where the baby dies always makes me cry and I am filled with admiration for the woman.
After I dried my tears, I started thinking about all the other tragic songs in the world and that is when I discovered that, contrary to self image, I am as judgemental as any judge!
My Elusive Dreams is a song worth crying over!
But go back to the earlier 1960s and tell me the Teen Angel didn’t deserve to die.
This is a teenage girl whose boyfriend’s car gets stuck on a railway line. He heroically rescues himself and her, but she goes rushing back to the car and gets hit by the train.
Did she die because she remembered someone else in the car? Was she trying to reach vital medication that would cause her, or his death, within seconds if not taken? No!
She rushed back to retrieve his high school ring which he had given her.
The ring was more important than the boy.
It’s a good thing she died because the marriage would never have worked. She would have been more interested in the wedding than what came after.
My kids reckon it’s not really Christmas until I cry. That is mainly because I am always a world away from someone in the family at Christmas and songs that include lines like “Through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow” have me sobbing in the aisles.
But the Christmas tear, as opposed to cheer, started when I was 12 and my grandmother gave me an Elvis record featuring the song Old Shep.
How could I ever enjoy another moment when this poor man had just had to shoot his dog!
I am not saying I am dramatic, but the Christmas after proved just as harrowing when I got the complete Anne of Green Gables series of books and wept bitter tears over this poor, misunderstood orphan.
Honey by Bobby Goldsboro is worth crying over– and I still do.
There is a bit of judgement there, though. Did he not know his wife was dying? And if he did, why did she die all alone?
Tell Laura I Love Her? Tommy dies in a stock car race but at least he was racing to try to buy Laura a wedding ring, so judgement on his death is suspended.
Good grief! I could go on, but I am suddenly wondering how as sensitive a soul as I has managed to cope with life when surrounded by all these horrific tragedies.
Music, according to Shakespeare, is meant to be the food of love – but looking back over my lifetime of music, it’s more likely to be the food of indigestion!