Ah, October. Fall arrives, and the lingering vestiges of summer in September give way to the undeniable in the change of weather and turning of leaves. Pumpkin spice suddenly is unavoidable, and then the pumpkins themselves.
Before long, the Halloween enthusiasts are busy in their merriment. November, past that point, really can’t get here soon enough for me.
It’s difficult to explain why I despise Halloween without sounding like a killjoy. Possibly the macabre and occult don’t register on those not given to implications, but here I am, being hit in the face by a season where all the messages of the enemy are on full display to the delight of the oblivious. All I see in the ensuing doctrinal mayhem is faith trying to pull souls out of the riptide of humanity sweeping them toward perdition.
I freaking hate Halloween.
It wasn’t always like that. I was a kid once, though I don’t remember any favorite costume … outside of those plastic face masks that impeded visibility and respiration while feeling like a clammy eggshell plastered to your face. It was always great fun to go out and extort various forms of processed sugar from willing and unwilling neighbors.
Being kind of a jerk of a kid tutored by bigger and older jerks—as I was—Halloween evolved into an excuse to commit minor vandalism for the joy of overreaction such delinquency can evoke.
I blame my upbringing, company at the time, and the sparse distribution of law enforcement in rural South Dakota communities. Doing so provides a ready excuse to ignore some of my more obviously innate tendencies to follow the lesser angels of my nature, you see. Those escapades are another story, regardless of any statutes of limitation that may or may not have been exceeded by now.
I failed to absorb a vital precept until after the process of maturing delivered me through a number of idiotic incidents, any of which might have converted me to a statistic. Death’s bait is adventure.
Flirtation with the macabre and the occult is spiritual adventurism. What for the unwary appears to be dress-up and make-believe is, in the eyes of the enemy, affiliative. Meanwhile, in the wings of this occult high holiday are those who demonstrate a total commitment to his camp in spiritually degrading and horrid acts for a variation of the same thrill I felt soaping windows and … oops, there’s that potential statute of limitations thing again.
I largely outgrew my rebellion. Some souls will not.
Over time, I grew to see faithful living as a guardrail at the edge of a steep drop-off. What Works and What Kills are staples in the storehouse of wisdom, and too often the harvest of lessons bitter enough to be remembered long after the fact.
God, The Craftsman, Yahweh, the great I Am, as He said, Is above all. So is his enemy, that poisonous fruit out of the first elements of Creation, who was given the same choices inherent in the gift of free will. For the sake of those who love, He endures the loss of those who will not. The nature of love as a choice imposes by implication its antithesis.
The same spirit of rebellion and reckless abandon is tainting society in ever more obvious ways. Every day is becoming Halloween in the form of self-indulgent personal definitions, as Those Who Will Not choose the temporary attire of a preferred costume over their natural state.
The costume wearers among us can’t opt out of their place in the natural order, nor can they wish an alternate reality into being. They can only pretend until Creation’s codex of natural law imposes itself at whatever time the divine clock strikes twelve at their own personal midnight.
Then the ball is over, and it’s time to go home … or elsewhere.
Choose to love, -DA
In production news, primary editing continues on Novel12/Boone6 Ghosts of the Republic, featuring Boone, Ritter, Deb Vosse, Blade Altsoba, and others. She Who Must Be Obeyed is approximately 40% through her tasks on a schedule not allowing a projected publication date quite yet. Once we get closer, you will , of course, be some of the first to hear the Rohirrim-level trumpeting.