Unearned Luck

The problem with loss is you can't control it.  Sometimes, it can seem like gain can be controlled, but never loss.  When someone leaves, they leave.  It's a choice that is entirely out of your hands and you have to let go no matter how tight your grip is. How much you love and care matters not a whit and does nothing to change the outcome.  Your faithfulness, your considerations, your trustworthiness, the past you have together is never enough currency to buy another minute, another moment, another touch.  The end comes and there is nothing else except the deep, bitter loneliness. "From that time Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and suffer many things...and be killed...And Peter took him and began to rebuke him, saying, 'God forbid, Lord!  This shall never happen to you.'" See, Peter was trying to prevent the inevitable loss.  He was trying to control events, so he wouldn't lose Jesus, a man who was probably Peter'

"Trusting God to Read the Signs" was, originally, a response to an e-mail exchange.  I am in no way stating any opinion about whether or not general elections will be carried out in the United States in November.  I have no idea.  I'm pretty sure they will just like they have all of my life.  The point of the post was simply to stress how much we must trust God and not our own insights. We do, though, get the government we deserve.  What are you willing to do to ensure fair and open elections where you live?  Prayer?  Fasting?  Almsgiving?  It's up to each of us to ensure that this democracy prevails, if it is God's Will and to accept what He gives us, if it isn't.

Before we describe as paranoia the thoughtful consideration of the possibility that there will not be a general election in November, we should take an educated look around the world today and throughout history and come to understand how people have thought that the drastic changes quietly overtaking them were only others' paranoia.  Most in Weimar Germany never believed that the funny little man and his pitiful group of losers would ever be a leader let alone lead them into a world war which would destroy their families, neighbors, friends and lives and would leave a lasting sorrowful legacy for their nation.  Few believed that a book written by a couple of pissed off intellectuals would result in almost 100 years of organized, government-sponsored terror, murder and poverty like the world has never seen in two of the oldest countries on the planet during a century that historians and popes have called the bloodiest in history.  Calling a sensitivity to the lessons of history p

Demon, demon on my shoulder Whispers in my ear. “Tell me. Tell me now Everything you hear.” “All I tell you is the truth. You’ll feel it in your heart. I hear tell of your failures, your weaknesses, your many false starts. No one really likes you. They’re all using you just the same. For everything that does and has gone wrong, you’re the only one to blame. I hear tell that even God laughs, when you kneel at the rail. Your thoughts aren’t real. Your dreams are fake. All you do will fail. Everything is nonsense. All your life is crap. You’re much too scared for life now. Your fear has become my trap.” “But what of my girlfriend? Surely, she must be for real. She loves me so, is always true and always will be there.” “Are you kidding?” the demon replied. “She’s a nympho, never true especially to you. She’ll never leave? She’s gonna stay? But what can you offer her? You’re critical, condemning

A brilliant warm sun The bluest of skies Full of white clouds in A late summer breeze Me by myself Where can you be? Why aren’t you here Next to me? Your strong hand in The small of my back Warm, gentle, pressure Enjoying the curve of my butt. Hold my hand The perfect fit Close, tight, warm, pleasing Filling my need to know You are here forever My gentleman, my best friend My proof of love of fidelity You are my shoulder My laughter, my passion The hug, the kiss, the feeling This, you are natural and so right. You are the one To cook for to cuddle with to share my dreams My joker, my jester My sweet memories An impossible love A life yet to be. This is what you mean to me And always will.

If Martin Luther and Friedrich Nietzsche had ever coached soccer teams, would they have ever actually played a game?  Wouldn't Luther have always thought his team wasn't good enough and wouldn't Nietzsche have always thought that his team was too good? If they had played a match against each other, would it have ended nihil - nihil?

Tom pulled the 1997 Buick Park Avenue into the driveway and pushed the button above his head to open the garage door.  As the door slowly responded to the pulling chain, he took his wife’s hand and gently squeezed it.  “I love you, Baby.” Doris wrapped her arms around his and squeezed tight laying her head against his shoulder.  “Oh, Honey, I didn’t know I could ever love anyone as much as I love you.  It’s been forty-seven years and you still make me giddy as a schoolgirl.” Tom laughed.  “Better than Oil of Olay, huh?” Doris smiled up at her husband.  “Yes, much, much better.”  She reached up and kissed him. When they stopped kissing, Tom sat and looked into his wife’s eyes.  “Honey, the door is open now.  How about we find a much more comfortable place for you to lose yourself in my eyes.”  She caressed his face. “Uh, yea.  This armrest is always in the way.”  He pulled the car into the garage holding his wife’s hand.  As Doris prepared to step out of t

Baby hurts Lonely, scared Too much drama Too much pain. Can’t do anything Too far away Can’t reach out To stop the rain. She would erase 25 years Hold onto a boy she knew, she loved, She never kissed Could they try it again? Would it have been better? Would it have been the same? The passion, the love, the love Or would that have waned? Like this here today So much gone So much going away Was there ever anything to gain? She gave everything At least for a time But what can you expect When loneliness is your best of friends? She’s found her love That beautiful boy  She kisses him now He lets her mend. There are times She laughs and plays He holds her hand Together they mend. But the clock is fast Faster than home’s Forces her to part From her own heart. Returns to the dungeon Waits with the strain Will it break Or will it bend? Sits and dreams Of her new life  In love with her best fr