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Holy Hell, Blessed Chaos, Mystic Mania (and other oxymoronic occurrences we ought to own)

The Wine: Conundrum Red

The Winery: Sourced grapes from Central California, “Perfect-looking grapes don’t create the best-tasting wines. Complexity matters more than perfection.” -

The W(H)ine: Holy Hell, Blessed Chaos, Mystical Mania

(and Other Oxymoronic Occurrences We Ought to Own)

“No pain, no gain,” Martha, my gym god fairy (aka: paid-for-personal-pain-trainer) blasted intently into my stiff-necked ears even as I simultaneously retorted, “Bullshit.” Every body part aches, even though today’s focus is just legs.

What the Holy Hell?

My former pastor once preached a sermon, “The Holy and the Horrible.” Leaning in at the oxymoronic title presentation, I anticipated some theological segmenting of Good versus Evil.

Shockingly, he instead posited these two seemingly opposing ideas as neither 1) far apart proximally/experientially, nor 2) antithetical constructs.

What the Holy Hell?

If any of you read this blog regularly, you will undoubtedly recognize my life’s journey has involved its share of pain, probably likes yours. I mean, Life is Difficult.

I used to run from pain, though. Fast. Lightning fast. In every possible way. My brain processes faster than most, so I totally relied on scholarly intellect to rapidly remove me often from overwhelming feelings of angst. A former athlete, I also can physically outrun many in my middle-aged bracket if I have to, though not fast enough to escape a former assaulter. But there have been a plethora of opportunities to avoid residual pain from that horrid happening.








I startled awake this morning at 3:45 am. I was due to meet Martha at 5, with my offensive alarm only fifteen minutes away, I huffed into my pillows, “Oh, Hell, No!” Then texted Martha my apologies for canceling, and cuddled said pillows as I attempted a return to slumber, praying desperately for sweet sleep as opposed to the horror that woke me.

I dreamt my six sisters purchased joint property without me, desiring retirement haven spared the ‘drama’ that historically accompanied my involvement. Hence, no notice.

Chaos, minus any blessing, appeared the character trait my sibling set hoped to avoid in excluding me from their perpetual-happiness plans. “Bullshit,” I barely uttered with short breath.

What the Holy Hell?

Is that who I am now? Why am I being judged so harshly by some perceived maniacal history? I am a product of circumstance and trauma, am I not? Wait, Lisa, ’twas ONLY a dream.

But, there is more.

This same pastor taught me to interpret scripture and properly preach to the masses. Hermeneutics and Homiletics. I mastered the academics, yet lasted barely a year. Not because I wasn’t gifted or able. But because I wasn’t ready.

Holy Hell. Bless Chaos. Mystical Mania.

He taught me to land the proverbial plane. To bring each proclamation to its effective, effectual and efficient closure. With the audience still intact. Engaged. And ready for action.

Got it.

But, How do I land the Living Plane? Best News Ever: I. Don’t.

Pastor’s conclusion to this contradictory contemplation rendered a resolute Truth: We finite humans may, in fact, miss the Holy heralding while we experience the Horrible happening.

Our Humanity underestimates the power of the Divine to utterly transform any angst, any ash, any aberration into an alternative All Things Plan for our Ultimate, and Perpetual Good. Sometimes the awful and the awfully Good sit hand in hand, paired like Conundrum Red and Chicken Fried Waffles, and despite the apparent horror before us,

Sacred, sanctifying space unfolds….

What if the perfect-looking circumstances don’t produce the best life?

What if, like Conundrum’s wine producers discovered long ago, Complexity matters more?

What if our colorful pasts, historical traumas, and lamented losses are the Way.

Holy Hell. Blessed Chaos. Mystical Mania.

I can Own that Oxymoronic Shit.

Copyright ©️ 2021 Lisa Maaca

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