Tragic testosterone

I have always suspected that I belong to the weaker sex. The pseudo parading of the male race often hides the weaker genes behind gallant gestures of chivalry, brawn hugging activities expressed in blood sports, and the eternal arrogance that they are in power. It flies in the face of experience when men are too often the first to rush to the door the moment real life gets rugged. The battlefield of screaming kids, wives with searing headaches, broken toilets, and dinners unprepared. This battlefield often left for another conquest, another victory flag to prop up in their unending search to be the powerful, the providers, the ones in control. But sadly if not unchecked the male becomes the pathetic pretender in the light of the greater sex who sits still, waits it through, suffers much, lives responsibly to make sure the generation is secure. I was impressed when reading the accounts of the risen man Lazarus and the unexpected confessions of Martha whose spirituality is usually relegated to the kneading of dough. Here she confesses as boldly as Peter, the great confession of faith that the person Jesus, is God-person, the deliverer of humankind. It is the woman who bear the agony of the murder and slaughter of the innocent. The men fled, as one reporter announced, with one whose nightshirt was torn and butt-naked behind the rest ran underground. The woman encircled that tomb with love, and when they announced their new born faith it was the men who would not believe. They weren’t there, they were not in control, they were not important, they had to be the ones to climb Mt. Everest first, be the first to shout the Good News. The greater race were their when the battlefield was ugly, when the flies invaded wounds, and the sun made paper eyes. God bless woman, you are saints.