Do you remember the story of the Emperor’s New Clothes?  It’s an old cautionary tale by Hans Christian Andersen. I’ve taken a few liberties with the story (okay – a bunch of liberties!)  in an effort to refresh and update the story a little, but here it is:

There was once an indulged and much-loved prince.  This prince, we’ll call him Bob, grew up in a palace surrounded by love and luxury and free from conflict. Bob grew up happy and naïve.  His father, the old Emperor, was a wise and good man who got along well with all the neighboring kingdoms. Food was plentiful for everyone and overall, the world was a happy place. Eventually, the old Emperor died and Bob took his place.  At first, everything remained calm and content, but the tranquility and peace eventually became boring to the young leader and his friends, and slowly, over a bit of time, they became critical and dissatisfied with their lives.  They began to reject the status quo, and even to go so far as to condemn it as unenlightened and wrong.  Feeling unhappy became stylish, and the angriest and least polite became the icons and mentors in the land. 

 Clothing fashions changed as well, and designers competed to create styles best reflected the celebrated angst and turmoil.  Bob led the way with fashion trends, willingly letting his valet dress him in increasingly trendy garb. The old Empress, Bob’s royal mother, tried to tell her son that his choices were unwise, but he tired of her nagging and sent her to live at the Abbey where he didn’t have to listen to her anymore.  One day, two of his most trusted designers (who also happened to be mean-spirited pranksters) came into Bob’s dressing room carrying a box.  They told him they had created for him a suit that would upend the fashion world and bring him renown throughout the kingdom and beyond.  Excited, Bob dropped his robe on the floor and allowed them to dress him.  “This suit is made from very special materials.  Only the most enlightened and awakened in the land will be able to see it.  Anyone who is still clinging to the old ways won’t be able to enjoy the stunning beauty of it.”  Bob tried to keep the confusion and skepticism off his face when he could see nothing inside the box.  A few minutes later when he looked in the mirror, Bob stared.  What he saw with his eyes was a slightly paunchy young ruler dressed in purple boxer shorts and red socks, nothing more.  He looked around in confusion, and was met with adoring faces.  “It’s a wonderful suit!”, “The fit is perfect!”, “A fashion breakthrough!” exclaimed those around him. 

Afraid to be deemed Unawakened, Bob smiled.  “A triumph,” he pronounced. Within the next few weeks, nearly the entire empire had begun wearing clothing made from this new material.  As he surveyed the members of his court, or waved to his subjects as he rode in his carriage through the land, Bob complemented and smiled, hiding the fact that all his eyes saw were greying tighty-whities and lacy panties.  A strange thing happened though as time went on, the longer he told himself that the clothes were beautiful, the more he began to believe it himself.

Summer gave way to fall, and a sort of unrest began in the empire.  The Awakened were vexed by a faction of people, who quickly were named the Sleepers because they were not woken and spoke out against the lack of clothing on others.  The Awakened began calling for Bob to outlaw the Sleeper movement, and to throw the Sleepers into the dungeon.  Hatred and division increased, and the empire became a lousy place to live.  Finally, as snow clouds billowed on the horizon, the situation came to a head, and Bob, urged into action by his most outspoken Awakened friends, signed an edict demanding that every subject in his empire gather in the palace courtyard at next day.  Dutiful and obedient, every single person in the empire complied.  Most were attired in their best Awakened fashions, but a few arrived swaddled in old fashioned boots and sweaters, thick cotton leggings and coats.  Bob stood alone on his raised balcony as was the custom, feeling a bit chilled by the gusty wind, listening as the lawyers and pundits argued and called their witnesses.  The hearing drew on. A little after noon, stray snowflakes began falling and the wind picked up.  At three o’clock, the lawyers for all sides rested their cases.  The courtyard grew silent as every eye lifted towards their Emperor.  He stood rigid and unmoving.  Silence stretched.  When, as darkness began to fall and the Emperor still had not spoken, one of the servants, a devoted minion who had spent most of the day inside by the fire, was sent out on the balcony.  He approached Bob slowly, carefully touching his arm, “Your Majesty, the people are waiting your verdict.”  Instead of speaking, Bob’s arm snapped off and fell to the marble floor.  The crowd gasped, realizing that their Emperor was now a frozen statue.  Realizing they were now without a leader, the anger and angst that had driven the people boiled over in violence and fear.  The old Empress, standing at the back of the courtyard in a warm cape and fur-lined boots wiped a tear from her cheek and turned away as the empire she loved fell into chaos and ruin.

A phrase I hear a lot lately is “You do you.”  At first, I liked the sound of this.  On the surface, ‘you do you’ sounds healthy.  It encourages authenticity.  It celebrates uniqueness and individuality. It relieves us of the obligation of should. When someone says to another person, “You do you,” the message is reported to be: I love you and value you for who you are.

Except.

As I think about this phrase, I look at the choices people are making, how we are behaving and treating one another, and I wonder.   Is “You do you” really the mantra we were created to ascribe to?  When I buy into the idea that I shouldn’t worry about the feelings or reactions of others as long as I am ‘doing me’, and if our society forwards the notion that in order to love someone we have to encourage them to please and satisfy themselves above everything else, then where is God? When Jesus met the woman at the well, he didn’t pat her on the back and tell her, “I affirm your right to choose your own path, you do you”.  Nope.  He lovingly pointed out the poor choices she was making and talked her to about worshipping God in spirit and truth.

In His ministry, Jesus spent a lot of time with sinners, prostitutes, the low, and the unrighteous. He also talked with the upper class, the Pharisees, Sadducees, the authorities. The clear intent in all His relationships was to love them.  He accomplished this not by celebrating them as they were, but by encouraging them to walk away from themselves and their own failings, self-centeredness,  and selfishness and embrace Him.   Jesus didn’t ever say “You do you”, He encouraged us with something akin to “you do Me.”

This will be my first winter in three years.  Since 2016, winter for me has consisted of lows of 72-75 degrees and water temperature of 82.  Once in a while I had to put on a long-sleeved shirt in the evening.  Even more rarely I had to sleep under a blanket.

Now we’re in Wyoming and it’s October. Winter is stalking us, toying with us, taunting us with chilly nights and crisp breezes.  On Friday, the wind began howling right after sunset. As the dark fell, the velocity rose – to fifty mph or higher gusts and sustained winds at about 45. 

Please remember that since April, Karl and I have been living in a camp trailer.  Let me be clear, trying to sleep in a trailer that is being buffeted by in a 50-mile-an-hour wind is not an easy task. Karl, Shoot the Kitty, and I hunkered down together under the covers and held on for dear life. We survived, but now, the weather forecast is claiming that the low temp this coming Wednesday night will be 19 degrees.  Nineteen! That’s 13 degrees BELOW freezing.  Our trailer is nice, but it isn’t an all-season unit, and while the furnace works well, the chance of freezing pipes and our noses at 19 degrees is a real possibility. 

We are not completely done with the remodel of our house.  The kitchen doesn’t have a counter or sink and the woodwork isn’t installed.  The wood floors need one more coat of sealer.  (Joyously, Karl hung the interior doors this week and finished the bathroom on Friday, though!)   Because of the number 19, what’s undone doesn’t matter. Tuesday, we are moving out of our trailer (and making sure it’s well winterized), and into our house!  Yay!

Over the years I’ve blogged about things that annoy me or disgust me.  When we lived on island, I shared about roaches and centipedes and spiders and probably other crawlies I encountered.  Now that we are back in Wyoming, I can attest to the fact that a rain forest has lots of little creatures, but I can also claim with certainty that not one of them there is as annoying, or repulsive, or completely creepy compared to a miller.

Not everyone has met a miller.  They don’t live in the Caribbean, nor California, or Texas.  Just Wyoming and some of Colorado.  Lucky us.  For those of you fortunate enough not to know, they are a kind of moth, about the size of a quarter.  They don’t bite, they don’t eat clothes.  What they do, however is far worse. 

For the past month, before we go to bed I walk around our trailer with a fly swatter in my hand, hunting the little menaces.  I never find one, they are too sneaky for that.  Then, I get into bed, tuck myself happily beside Karl and just get into the book I’m reading.  Now since Karl usually is playing a game or reading on his Kindle, they don’t bother him.  Me? I have a nightlight above my head that enables me to read, so of course, I’m the miller target. One at a time for the next twenty or thirty minutes, our bedtime routine is interrupted again and again as from out of nowhere comes the familiar thump and flutter of a miller.  He’ll dive frenetically through our bedroom, running into the ceiling and walls and then suddenly dive bomb my head.  Each delights in trying to get as close to my face as they can as they bounce around in their dastardly frenzy, running into walls and circling lights.  And.  Every where they touch, they leave this gross black dust that flies off their powdery, wicked little wings.   With each attack, we both get up, grab flyswatters and whack walls and ceilings (and once in a while each other) in a silly dance until one of us manages to flatten the stupid miller.  Then Karl retrieves the body – not me! – and we get back into bed.  Settle in.  Snuggle up.  Repeat.   The next morning, I have to wash the dark, dusty smears from walls and ceilings.  Yuck.

I try to be faithful and to Rejoice in the Lord always. I am thankful for butterflies, I can even understand the ecosystem’s need for flies and maggots, I can appreciate spiders since they eat other bugs. But really, Lord? Millers?