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That mother of mine didnâ€™t spank us, whip us, paddle us or slap us. I just remember her baby blues turning boogie-man black with â€śthe look.â€ť You know the look. Your wife probably gives it to you when you leave the toilet seat up. I give that husband of mine the look when heâ€™s talking on the phone to someone and discloses something that shouldnâ€™t have been disclosed. Itâ€™s a spiritually reckoning thing-the look, it is. It is a visual prompt to let you know youâ€™re wrong. People donâ€™t use the look unless there is a wrong lingering near.
Wrong is what it is. There is no denying wrong. Inasmuch, (and realizing that word just made me sound like a blonde attorney,) right is what it is. There is no denying right.
I can hear you all screaming back at the newspaper as you read that. Liberal minds all over are disagreeing with me. Iâ€™m not talking about politics when I use the term liberal. Iâ€™m referring to people who are overly open to new behaviors or opinions and willing to discard traditional values. That in itself is what it is. Think whatever you want. I certainly do. Having non-traditional values in itself is not wrong, obviously. I rather dig the differences of diversity and creative thinking. It only becomes an issue when at the core of your thinking you are thinking wrong. May I use this form for pointing out that true wrong doesnâ€™t need you or a team of free-thinkers to pick apart every word of every phrase that some not-so-liberal person is telling you is wrong. Wrong is purely what it is. Wrong. Wrong isnâ€™t really up for discussion. Itâ€™s a feeling at the core. Itâ€™s universal. Iâ€™d hope that both an Atheist and a Christian would both agree that wife beating is wrong. Iâ€™d hope that a Muslim and a Jehovahâ€™s Witness would both agree killing a school filled with children is wrong. Iâ€™d hope that a Norwegian and German would agree that putting butter and sugar on lefse is right. I digress. Wrong is wrong.
I have been wrong. I have done wrong and I have thought wrong. Every single one of those instances I knew it either before, during or after and I knew it big. Wrong feels like a sin even if you donâ€™t believe in God or a god.
I have been right. I have done right and I have thought right. Every single one of those instances I knew it either before, during or after and I knew it big. Right feels like you have been touched by God even if you donâ€™t believe in God or a god.
So where did it all go so wrong?
Killing a living soul is wrong. Not because the Blonde on the Prairie said it. Itâ€™s wrong because it is.
Having an affair is wrong.
Stealing is wrong.
Lying is wrong.
If you can do any of the above aforementioned things and not feel wrong then you may have a mental illness. And if youâ€™re doing any of the above aforementioned things and do feel theyâ€™re wrong but you keep doing them anyway then now might be a good time to stop. Right feels much better.
Volunteering is right. Not because the Blonde on the Prairie said it. Itâ€™s right because it is.
Telling the truth is right.
Being nice is right.
Saving the suffering is right.
If you can do any of the above aforementioned things and not feel right then you may have a mental illness. Now hereâ€™s the good part. If youâ€™re doing any of the above aforementioned things and do feel theyâ€™re right but you keep doing them anyway then now might be a good time to keep doing them and tell a friend!
Our America needs us to be right and it needs us to be right-right now! Come on. You can feel it. You can see it and it bothers you at night. Wrong keeps a spirit awake and right helps a nation to sleep.
That mother of mine gave us â€śthe lookâ€ť turning her baby blues into boogie-man black. Imagine the look our forefathers and Jesus are giving us now.
If we donâ€™t fix wrong with all our power and our might there will be no use for the word right. In anarchy -no such word exists.
This has been the Blonde on the Prairie-from the prairie-reminding all of you that if it feels wrong it is wrong-if it feels right it is right and when in doubt-DONâ€™T!
Ingstad lives on the prairie near Valley City and writes this column for the Times-Record.