An old farmer was sitting in a rocking chair on his front porch when it started to rain. At first, he smiled and thanked God because it meant the drought was over and his crops would be nourished. However, the rain came down harder and harder, and the man soon realized that it was the makings of a flood.

As the swollen current kept rising and the dark waters started to spill over the porch, a distant neighbor floated by in a rowboat. The man in the rowboat said, “Get in, if you like.”

The old farmer just smiled and replied, “Nope, the Lord’ll take care of me!” as he dragged his rocking chair inside and the rowboat slipped away.

A few hours later, the farmer was lugging his rocking chair up the stairs with the rest of his first-floor furniture as the lapping water nearly reached his living room ceiling. Suddenly, the deep blub-blub-blub of a power boat engine caught his attention outside the upstairs bedroom window.

A rescue crew, wearing life preservers, was drenched from the deluge as their Captain yelled over the increasing fury of the storm, “Need a hand?”

Again, the old farmer smiled knowingly, waving them away, and said, “Nope, the Lord’ll take care of me!” Reluctantly, the Captain turned the vessel and it roared off.

By nightfall, the farmer was perched precariously on his roof, clinging to the chimney, when a spotlight bobbed into view above the treeline and the thwup-thwup-thwup of a helicopter hovered overhead. The pilot, via loudspeaker, said, “Do you want us to lower a line?!”

Still, the faithful farmer ignored their offer and said, “Nope! The Lord’ll take care of me!”

Sometime in the middle of the night, the flood waters swirled above the chimney top and the old man drowned. Standing at the Pearly Gates, before he entered Heaven, the confused farmer asked St. Peter, “Why didn’t the good Lord take care of me? I waited faithfully.”

St. Peter flipped through his big book, nodding at the entries by the old man’s name and explained, “Well, we sent you a rowboat, a power boat and a helicopter!”

- Author Unknown

The above joke is a bizarre example of those who rely upon faith, alone, for their miracles. This sad story – Ava Worthington’s grandmother saw no reason for alarm (in today’s Oregonian) – isn’t funny at all. Losing a child is going to be deeply painful to anyone in their right mind, having a heart to feel, whether they are religious or not.

Many of the comments attached to this story are a snapshot of just how great this perfect divide is between believers and non-believers, but as long as your belief or feelings do not harm someone else, then it’s okay by me. However, when you drift off into airy-fairy land with only thoughts of faith, miracles and some magical, mystical mumbo-jumbo that has very little evidence, if any, to back it up, then my practical, logical side will laugh and demand proof.

I am neither a Christian nor an Atheist. My website is called Tao of Kat. I believe in a higher power and follow no man, woman or child along their religious or spiritual path. To each their own. I’ve yet to meet anyone that I would blindly worship or revere, no matter how much I might agree with the bulk of their dogma. To me, it is a personal path and I’m leery and wary of anyone who claims to know anything about what I need or should do with my soul. Frankly, my soul is none of their damn business.

I find great wisdom in a number of sources, including the Bible, but I don’t take it out of context. All of these tomes were written by men and women inspired by something, but they were filtered through the ego minds of humans who are fallible. It’s that whole feet of clay thing. I believe and respect those who walk their talk. I loathe hypocrites and snake-oil salesmen. Show me your faith by the sweat of your brow, at the end of a shovel handle and knee-deep in horse shit as you’re mucking the stall.

Go ahead and pray for that barn to be raised, the beans to be picked and the water to turn to wine. Don’t mind me if I fail to wait around for the Good Lord to pick up a hammer, bend over the vine or press the grapes beneath his newly washed feet. I’m not saying that belief, faith and prayer do not have a place in my life. I just put feet on ‘em. Faith without works is dead.

Fervor and zealotry do not impress me. Red-faced, brimstone-breathing, pulpit-pounding preachers bore me. In my good book, there is no special place (good or bad) for any of these participants. Heaven and hell are states of mind and can be found right here on Earth, spooning each other.

Ye shall know them by the fruit of their labors. It is a painful lesson, perhaps, and quite sad that an infant had to die because of its parents, elders and guardians’ belief, but I feel that at the deepest source of everything . . . there are no victims. Mirrors of energy, souls if you will, show up to do the dance of life and each one has a gift. Will all those attending this party be able to unwrap the present? Who will be held accountable? Who will take responsibility?

It isn’t a perfect system, but it’s the best one we have; the justice system, that is. It is in place because some people don’t know how to behave or do what’s best for themselves and others. Thus, the law steps in. When it works well, the wisdom of Solomon rings throughout the land.

At times, we all have our faith tested. Our beliefs can become shaky and we go through the long, dark night of the soul. It’s survivable. What you may learn from these experiences can make you stronger, if it doesn’t kill you in the process. I’m sorry you lost your child. My chastisement of your approach to her illness is because I would hope you look closely at your beliefs, so you don’t lose another one.

I’m glad my parents believed in taking me to the hospital when I had acute appendicitis. I’m thankful they took me to the emergency room when I fell off the hay wagon, slamming to the pavement, and tore the cartilage in my knee. I’m glad paramedics came to the bar the night of the fight to haul away the drunk who was throwing ice at my girlfriend and me, which led to my flipping him and his buddies the bird. I’m glad there were two ambulances; one for him and one for me, so I didn’t have to lie beside the rat bastard.

The beer bottle upside his head may have taken him out, but it also cut me up in the process. I’m glad there’s a system in place for when humans get stupid. Still, I have no faith in the doctor who sewed my hand back together, leaving an ugly scar in my palm, but I did learn something . . . stay out of bars and away from drunks. Oh, and don’t flip people off.

I realize that lawyers will lie, politicians are corrupt and doctors can be quacks, but I don’t believe in throwing the baby out with the bath water. Not everyone is incompetent. There are some very good people in this world and they are intelligent, talented and experienced in every area in which you might have a need. All you need is to have a little faith. Build it on a strong foundation . . . and avoid the quacks.

I know about pain and stupidity, though I’ve yet to lose a child and hope I never do. So, if I may offer a little advice, for your next faith-healing demonstration you may want to practice on a ducky or a bunny, first. You know, just until you can prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that what you believe in is consistent . . . especially when your child’s life is in your hands. Sorry, God’s hands.

It’s tough when the supreme deity lets you down. Who you gonna call?

The Kat