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MidReal Story
The Complainer
Scenario:The complainer was born complaining when the doctor splaped her bottom with his hand the moment she entered the world from her mothers womb. Her loud out cry form the pain on her buttock could be heard outside the deliver room. A small, fistey and beautiful baby she was. The complainer's birth was the beginning of a life long protest of everything and everyone she didn't like in the world and her life. From infancy to her elderly years even until her death, the complainer complained about everything and everyone. Why, no one really knows why the complained the way she did. All anyone knows is that she always complained and found something wrong or not right with any and everything. Believe it or not, the complainer even complained on her death bed; and who knows, maybe her last breath was a complaint. Everyone who knew the complainer still loved her and accepted her charater, because the undertood somethings about the compainers that others or strangers didn't. But, the amazing things they loved about the complainer is that she was a born again child of God devoted to her faith, eve though she complained about things through her life, she had some good and happy times when others shared with her, and her complaints weren't mean or spiteful, they were gentle, respectful and purposeful. I mean the complainer want eveeything and everyone to be and do the right thing, The complainer was more like a disiplining teacher or pastor who make ever effort to try o change or correct things and people, for the better. The complainer complaints had accomplished a lot of amazing things during her life, which helped other to better themselves, and which brought changes in her family, community, church, and the city in which she lived in. The complainer even wrote books which were filled with her complains from politics, religion, relationships, social injustics, and so on. Some people even began to believe that the complainer purpose in life was to complain until God got things and people to change they He wanted them to, which He successful accomplished through the complainer gift and life of complaining. Some wonder if the complainer knew this about herself? The truth about the complainer is that she never really complained as people thought and labled her as. The complainer was really "advocating" for change, justice, peace, and a better world and life for everyone she had encountered in her life. The complainer wanted life, everyone and everything to be just as the Holy bible, Christ Jesus, the disciples and phrophets of God tells us about and lived in the bible. She want heaven on earth while she was on earth they it was suppoed to be and will be when Jesus return. Let us all learn something from the complainer aka the advocate, because with them nothing in the world or anyone's life would have never changed for the better.
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Betty
She is a devout Christian who spent her life advocating for change, justice, and equality. She is determined, passionate, and outspoken. Born complaining loudly, she defied expectations from the start. Her lifelong quest for improvement began with correcting others’ mistakes and soon shifted to reforming societal injustices. She wrote numerous books outlining her grievances and proposals for a better world. Her family and community respected her tenacity. Despite her fiery nature, she sought to uplift others, leaving a lasting impact as a devoted servant of God, whose unwavering faith guided her relentless pursuit of perfection.
Dr. Lee
He is a dedicated physician who delivered Betty. He was professional, attentive, and caring. Despite Betty’s immediate complaint upon birth due to his initial touch, Dr. Lee provided compassionate medical care throughout his career. His expertise spanned multiple generations of the family, earning him the respect and loyalty of his patients, including Betty. His presence in the birthroom marked the beginning of her lifelong journey as a vocal advocate for change, making him an unwitting catalyst in Betty’s personal development and mission.
Grandma Agnes
She is a warmhearted, traditional grandmother who raised Betty. She was nurturing, patient, and loving. Her gentle guidance shaped Betty's early years, instilling faith and values that would influence Betty’s adult life. Agnes cherished Betty despite her energetic and sometimes confrontational demeanor as a child. Her family welcomed Betty into their home with open arms, providing a stable environment that nurtured her spirit and laid the foundation for her future activism. Even in old age, Agnes remained a steadfast support for Betty’s endeavors.
The complainer was born complaining when the doctor slapped her on her buttock the moment she came out of her mother's womb into the world.
She let out such a loud cry that it could be heard outside of the deliver room.
Everyone who heard her cry laughed and said, "It sounds as if she is complaining about something already."
And, as it turned out, they were right.
The complainer complained about everything and everyone her entire life.
She complained about the sun being too bright, the moon not being bright enough, the stars being too far away, the birds singing too early in the morning, and the crickets chirping too late at night.
She complained about her food being too hot, her drinks being too cold, and her bed being too hard.
She complained about her shoes being too tight and her clothes being too loose.
She complained about it being too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter.
She complained about having to go to school and having to stay home from school.
She complained about having to do her homework and not having any homework to do.
She complained about having to read books and not having any books to read.
I step onto my front porch at exactly 7 AM, just as I do every morning.
The wooden boards creak beneath my feet as I settle into my favorite rocking chair, Bible clutched to my chest.
Just as I open to Psalms, the sun peeks over Mrs. Henderson's oak tree, blasting directly into my eyes.
I shift left, then right, but can't escape its glare.
Squinting, I raise my hand to block the intrusive rays, muttering about how God's light shouldn't be quite so blinding.
I shift my weight in the creaky wooden rocker, muttering about how the carpenter who built it clearly didn't know the first thing about proper balance.
The Bible in my lap keeps sliding off whenever I lean forward, and the pages flutter annoyingly in the morning breeze.
Standing up with a huff, I drag the heavy chair across the porch boards, scraping them - another thing that needs fixing.
After three attempts, I finally position myself where Mrs. Henderson's oak tree partially blocks the sunlight.
"Morning, Mrs. Henderson," I call out, spotting her watering the roses.
"Morning, dear," she replies, glancing up with a knowing smile. "I see you're wrestling with the sun again; perhaps it's trying to tell you something."
Finally comfortable in my new spot, I open my worn leather Bible, its gold-edged pages catching what little sunlight filters through the leaves.
The binding creaks - another thing that needs fixing - as I turn to Psalms.
My bookmark, a faded photograph of my baptism, slips out and flutters to the porch floor.
I have to stretch awkwardly to retrieve it, muttering about how these old bones don't bend like they used to.
Mrs. Henderson's wind chimes start their incessant tinkling, threatening my concentration.
I grip my Bible tighter, squinting at the small print that seems to get harder to read each year.
The wind chimes continue their irregular clanging as I try to focus on Psalm 23.
My whispered words compete with the noise, forcing me to speak a bit louder.
"The Lord is my shepherd," I say, my voice wavering.
Mrs. Henderson's roses catch my eye again - they're planted too close together, I notice.
The cramped flowers remind me of the crowded pews at church last Sunday.
I glance up to see a boy walking up my cracked sidewalk.
He's carrying gardening tools and looks like the Johnson boy from next door, though I can't be sure with that baseball cap pulled low.
His shoelaces are untied, and his shirt is half-tucked in - typical teenager sloppiness.
He waves and calls out a greeting that's much too loud for this early hour.
As he reaches my porch, he trips on the loose bottom step I've been meaning to fix.
"Watch that step," I warn, though it's too late.
He stumbles but recovers quickly, his tools clattering on the porch floor.
"I'm here to help with your flower beds," he says, his voice still too loud.
I squint at him, trying to remember if I asked for any help.
"Flower beds?"
I repeat, my voice sharp with annoyance. "Yes, ma'am," he replies, his tone too cheerful for this early hour.
"My church youth group is doing community service. I volunteered to help you with your yard."
He gestures towards the overgrown flower beds lining the front of my house.
"They're looking a bit wild."
I narrow my eyes at him, wondering what business these kids have telling me how to tend my garden.
"I don't recall asking for any help," I say, my voice firm.
"Oh, no worries," he says, his smile unwavering.
"It's part of our service project. We're supposed to earn hours by helping out in the community."
He pauses, looking around my yard as if searching for something else to fix.
"You've got a lot of work here. I can definitely help you out."
I sigh, feeling the weight of both his words and my years.
"Well, I suppose I can't turn down free labor," I mutter, trying to sound more gracious than I feel.
The boy grins, adjusting his cap. "Great! And maybe while I'm at it, I can fix that step too."
I watch the Johnson boy stumble toward my rusty toolshed, its door hanging crooked on broken hinges.
He yanks it three times before it finally opens with a screech that sets my teeth on edge.
Inside, he fumbles through my collection of gardening tools, dropping my favorite pruning shears twice before finally emerging with a rake in one hand and a trowel in the other.
I shake my head, pushing myself up from my creaky rocking chair.
My knees protest with each step as I shuffle over to him.
"You'll need a spade for that job," I say, pointing at the rake in his hand.
He looks down, confusion etched on his face.
"But... isn't this a spade?"
I sigh, taking the rake from him and replacing it with the correct tool.
"No, boy. That's a rake. This is a spade."
He nods eagerly, his smile reminding me of my grandson when he first started helping me in the garden.
"Okay, now let's start with the roses," I say, guiding him to the flower beds in front of my porch.
I planted those rosebushes twenty years ago, when my husband was still alive and we had two young children.
They were our pride and joy, those roses.
We spent hours tending to them every weekend, teaching our kids how to nurture life from the earth.
The Johnson boy kneels down and begins digging, but he's doing it all wrong - scooping up dirt and disturbing the roots of the good plants while missing all the weeds.
I wince at his carelessness, but I can't stay quiet any longer.
"Here," I say, grabbing my own trowel from the shed and kneeling beside him.
My knees creak in protest as I lower myself to the ground.
"Watch carefully."
I demonstrate how to dig around the base of each plant, gently loosening the dirt before removing it entirely. The boy watches intently, his eyes wide with concentration.
He nods along as I explain how to avoid damaging the roots, but when he tries it himself, he ends up yanking out half the soil along with the weeds.
I sigh inwardly, wondering if he'll ever get it right.
But then again, maybe that's why they call it "practice."
As we work side by side, memories flood back - memories of my children playing in these very flower beds when they were young.
Memories of my husband's patient hands guiding me through the process of nurturing life from a tiny seedling into something beautiful and strong.
I point at the rosebushes as we work.
"You know, those roses were planted by my husband and me twenty years ago. We spent an entire summer tending to them."
The Johnson boy looks up at me curiously as he digs.
"Really?"
"Yes," I say, smiling at the memory.
"We had just moved into this house and wanted to make it feel like home. My husband was determined to get everything just right - including those roses. He spent hours researching different types and colors until he found the perfect ones for our front yard." The boy nods, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tries to mimic my movements with the trowel.
"He sounds like a really cool guy," he says after a moment.
"He was," I reply softly, pausing for a moment before continuing.
"Now, let's see if we can make these roses proud."