Writhing bloodsucking leeches. Boys will be boys.

I write this as more prerequisite reading to an upcoming post on the Abomination of Desolation. The Christian Irony is so very fierce, God’s love so blazing, that the merest glance at such truths needs much preparation… So…

When I was a twelve year old boy in the north woods of Minnesota, working up a pile of firewood in preparation for the extreme freezing temperatures of the winter months to come, but now streaming with sweat in the dog days of August, I stripped down buck naked and jumped in a nearby glacial and spring-fed pond to cool off.

Prepared for what was to happen, I had a Bell Jar with a twist-on cap containing a bit of water situated on the steep forested embankment at the ready. I also had a fishing line with hook already tied to the end of whatever branch was at hand for a fishing pole. Canoe and paddle were already half pushed into the water.

Having a touch of autism, I would then count the seconds similarly to Denzel Washington’s stopwatch activities a lifetime later in The Equalizer: “28-9=19.” About 28 seconds were needed for, say, nine kills. Climbing out of the pond to sit on the forested embankment, I would then pick off perhaps nine leeches, some very small, some mid-size, one or two frighteningly huge (multiple times the size of the biggest of forest slugs), with all the fresh wounds bleeding just a bit.

Ripping them off, sometimes easily, sometimes taking a number of tries with quite a bit of squishy effort, now with quite a bit of blood flowing, they would be dropped into the jar, one after another, except for one, which, with necessary ambidexterity, would be placed on the fishing hook for live fish-bait.

Then, dressed once again, all refreshed and with a “good tired” from having collected a large haul of firewood, and now out in the canoe with my branch-as-fishing-pole, the hunt for trout and crappies began (wish it were walleye but not northern pike), but usually just a lot of perch. Using myself as bait for capturing leeches was so much easier, so much quicker, so much more refreshing than merely digging for earth worms and grubs. Been there, done that. No shovel needed for leeches. Boys will be boys. Frying up the fish on a small camp fire, then finishing the day drawing out scenes from the Apocalypse back home, a perfect day.

As long time readers know, there’s always a point to such posts as this, usually an incisive analogy about the spiritual life. That’s also true in this case, but not in this post. That will come with the promised post on the Abomination of Desolation, with which post we’ll have an abundance of historical philology and horrifically glorious irony regarding our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

I just wanted to point out my experience with writhing blood sucking leech serpent monsters as a kid, since this went a long way in making things click in my little brain. Our Lord always uses all our experiences so that we might, in His good grace, finally get the plot, the economy of salvation which is staring us in the face.

Although I was pouring over the Scriptures as a kid, I didn’t understand irony at all.

When I pretended to grow up, going through the rigors of the Pontifical Biblical Institute with all of that highfalutin historical philology, I still didn’t learn much about the truths of the ironies of the Living Truth, Irony Incarnate, for the reality of Him taking us deadly seriously was simply a weight too heavy to bear, that is, for me. I was still depending too much on my own strength of which I do not have any, instead of depending on the strength of the Son of the Living God into which He draws us, right to His Sacred Heart.

If I put up multiple introductions to the upcoming post on the Abomination of Desolation, it’s because, in my stupidity, I’m trying to prepare readers who are, instead, much better prepared than I am for the truths about that Abomination, and about our Lord. I’m hoping that with such gentle introductions, perhaps less eyes will be glazed over.

In fact, that upcoming post will be so incisive with irony that I’m sure I will once again be reprimanded from on high for writing such things, reprimanded, you know, by those Karens, male and female, who complain about such things, not wanting themselves to take our Lord as deadly seriously as He has taken us. I know all about not taking our Lord deadly seriously. That is my grievous sin. In having repented, at least somewhat, I can, thanks be to God, recognize Jesus’ Irony just a little bit more. I am eager to share what I have learned.