tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80358914529169334832024-03-05T12:17:51.960-08:00HANGING WITH THE NEWZVernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-37746443127342224302020-10-24T19:54:00.000-07:002020-10-24T19:54:40.073-07:00MIDNIGHT MASS 2020: A VERY SHORT STORY<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtFJ7mmomuqFHVVmhzB19VUURtrDldFT2VhL69BD_e3RKpIJl1zgTF2f7_JN6MVsxv1q553g_irPrHXFj8mTRhF2XCMl6QuDC4ONxNkyMsTkT_TK1lOq6ZnNplb7cgwbqg3dg45PoKAEM/s250/laughing+Jesus+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="201" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtFJ7mmomuqFHVVmhzB19VUURtrDldFT2VhL69BD_e3RKpIJl1zgTF2f7_JN6MVsxv1q553g_irPrHXFj8mTRhF2XCMl6QuDC4ONxNkyMsTkT_TK1lOq6ZnNplb7cgwbqg3dg45PoKAEM/w322-h400/laughing+Jesus+2.jpg" width="322" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>MIDNIGHT MASS 2020</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> A Very Short Story</b></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jenkins, the Chief wants to talk to you,” the voice echoed in Jenkin’s earpiece.<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jenkins?”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yes, Sir!”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Get over there to that Delaware Street church immediately. We’ve gotten at least ten calls so far from the neighborhood reporting a large gathering of people singing Christmas carols!”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “I’m already there, Chief.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, what’s goin on?”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “I think maybe you need to come down here to see for yourself, Chief.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hey, you’re not my boss, Jenkins. I’m not comin down there. That’s why I have deputies like you. Now what in sam hell is goin on down there?”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, that church parking lot is pretty large, you know. And it’s filled with people. They’re holding candles and singing Christmas carols. They’re waiting for the Midnight service to start, and they’re going to watch it on their phones.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “For God’s sake, they’re gonna set each other on fire.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “They’re all battery operated candles, Sir.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Oh for Christ’s sake. You get on your bullhorn right now and tell them they’re in violation of the social distancing guidelines and to go home or to face immediate arrest.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Sir, they are all standing six feet apart and all wearing masks!”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “I don’t give a shit how far apart they’re standing. You get that crowd dispersed immediately.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Sir, I don’t think you understanad.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Oh, I understand all right. This town has a large segment of senior citizens and these god damned right wing radicals are putting all those elderly folks at risk. Now get them dispersed, Jenkins, or I will have your badge! How many deputies you have down there right now?”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “There are six of us, Chief, and with all due respect, Sir, I....a...well, you’re not getting the picture here....”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Look, Jenkins, I’ll call the Brownland chief and have him send his officers if my own deputies can’t step up to the plate or is it won’t step up to the plate? Which is it, Jenkins?”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Sir, a...every person here is at least over sixty-five. Some are in wheelchairs, quite a few have walkers, some are carrying those portable oxygen tanks, and some look like they escaped from a nursing home.”</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> The Chief was silent. And then growled. “All of them? Every single last one of them?”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yes, sir, All of them. And they’re carrying signs. Some say <b><i>God matters</i></b> and others read <b><i>Faith matters</i></b>.<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Is this a joke, Jenkins? Is this some kind of stunt? What will these white evangelicals think of next?"</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“With all due respect, Sir, a.a...there are all kinds of folks here. Mexicans, Black people, even a group of Vietnamese people from Orange County. And some one must have a police scanner because they know we’re talking and even what we’re saying.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“For God’s sake, switch over to the secure channel.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“That’s the channel that got defunded last month, Chief.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“What? What are you talking about? Okay, okay, I got it.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Sir, there are folks here from all over the southern part of the state.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“How do you know that?”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“There are busses parked on the street.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“My God, Jesus Christ, what is this?”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Sir, I just think you should come down here and get a first hand look for yourself. The crowd is peaceful and following all the rules!”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Are you a part of this movement, Jenkins?”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“No, Sir! I’m too young for one thing.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Just start arresting people, Jenkins, and they will disperse pretty quickly.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Sir, if I begin arresting people, what do I do about their wheelchairs, their oxygen tanks, their walkers, and I’m afraid I’d break a few bones. With all due respect, Chief, you’re not getting the picture. These folks are all...well, old, I mean OLD, like your Dad.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Don’t be bringin my Dad into this.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“I’m just trying to tell ya, Chief. You need to get down here.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Go into that church and arrest that priest.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“For what, Sir?”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“For disorderly conduct, for unauthorized assembly...whatever!”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Sir, I tried to enter the church. The doors are all locked, and there’s no one in the church but the priest. There’s not even an altar boy!”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“A what?”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">"An altar boy, you know?<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“No, I don’t know.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Well, there’s no one in the church but the priest. This gathering is all outside the church and all on church property, standing six feet apart and wearing masks.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“How do you know they’re six feet apart, Jenkins? Did you measure the distance between each person?”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“No, sir, but someone did! Just like in the store. There are these diamonds painted on the parking lot pavement showing people where to stand.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Jesus Christ! This is some kind of conspiracy!”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Hold on, Chief. Someone is making an announcement.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> <i style="font-weight: bold;">We want to let everyone here know, that the three of us here have set up a trust fund in three different local banks. And anyone who contracts the virus over the next fourteen days, we will provide complete in home care for you. All you have to do is hang on to that wrist band we gave you.</i><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Sir, could you hear that?”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jesus Christ! Who are those nut jobs?”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“I think they’re the three most wealthy men in the county, Chief! They just happen to be church goers. Maybe if you came down here, you could talk to them in person.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Fuck you, Jenkins. You are about to be fired. I am on my way!”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">“The crowd knows you’re on your way, Chief, and I don’t know if you can hear them chanting.”<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">WE LOVE THE CHIEF! WE LOVE THE CHIEF! WE LOVE THE CHIEF! WE LOVE THE CHIEF! WE LOV</span><span style="font-size: xx-large;">E THE CHIEF! WE LOVE THE CHIEF! WE LOVE THE CHIEF!</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“I don’t give a shit whether they love me or not. I hope they heard that too. I’ll be there as soon as I can get a team together of deputies who are not afraid to enforce the law and get this crowd of people to go home. And that priest is going to have hell to pay.” <br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHnMP5QHxLt4Ofl09ZKKBPHKuY-yBeALiNS5FYZ3ukCen7vkC0ORcPWR8i_e61wbWPNmmJ0F7r7rB8Cqhs6i3xE54UDfAZj9GqEDRnx4dQjw5J5vL8RjyvwXgOHw1l-dx8rWfeODoUYBo/s2048/st+ad%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHnMP5QHxLt4Ofl09ZKKBPHKuY-yBeALiNS5FYZ3ukCen7vkC0ORcPWR8i_e61wbWPNmmJ0F7r7rB8Cqhs6i3xE54UDfAZj9GqEDRnx4dQjw5J5vL8RjyvwXgOHw1l-dx8rWfeODoUYBo/w400-h300/st+ad%2527s.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p>Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-4021133240211871792020-10-17T21:55:00.000-07:002020-10-17T21:55:11.950-07:00 THERE IS SO MUCH ABOUT US THAT IS PRETTY AWESOME<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcjY-SJbilBn5XiSRqB9Ou7i7U01Pi5KtqkdFOjrEd_aDwaD_JPBqqWEXQgixW2GKC3DHYnqbC-TtoFshNiVIfjUWfAgvznLrGc1wNd7FodNhkKkcJxqxbBb7qUCDluytVgD8dKTM8LFw/s160/zerrel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="120" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcjY-SJbilBn5XiSRqB9Ou7i7U01Pi5KtqkdFOjrEd_aDwaD_JPBqqWEXQgixW2GKC3DHYnqbC-TtoFshNiVIfjUWfAgvznLrGc1wNd7FodNhkKkcJxqxbBb7qUCDluytVgD8dKTM8LFw/w300-h400/zerrel.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><b><br /></b><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div><span style="font-size: large;"> There has been an on-going conversation from the beginning of time about the nature of the universe and the nature of God. Some philosophers see perfection as the absence of change while others see change as an essential part of perfection. In the latter thinking, the focus is not on BEING but on BECOMING!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> Personally, I believe that, as human beings, we are always growing, developing, and changing, and there never comes a point when that process ends. And since we are made in the image and likeness of God, I think God is infinitely changing as well!</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> In our urgency to hold on to the changeless, we used to think, for example, that the brain had x number of cells and new cells were never created. Now we know that the brain, like any other part of our body, also generates new cells. So change and development is a critical part of who we are! And throughout this post, my use of the phrase, developing human being, applies to ALL of us no matter how old we are. So at age 75, I continue to be a developing human being. I am not the same person today that I was yesterday!</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> And speaking of the brain, I’d like to share with you a little bit about what I know of how our brain develops and works. It is absolutely interesting and fascinating and does not require us to be or become rocket scientists to grasp.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> It is amazing, for example, that our amygdala is fully-developed and functioning at age seven months in the womb! Whoa! </span><span style="font-size: large;">We have two amygdala, one on the left side of the brain and one on the right side. It is here that we give emotional meaning or significance to each and every life experience.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> So let’s back up and take a look at an overall view of how our brain works in general. We take in information through our sensory organs. So, our ears, eyes, nose, taste, and skin. Did I leave anything out? </span><span style="font-size: large;">That information, taken in by these sensory organs, goes directly to our thalamus which is a small pea-shaped part of the limbic system or inner brain. The thalamus literally decides what information to send forward to our cerebrum, and, in particular, the prefrontal lobe, where we begin THINKING about the information or the experience, if you will. But before the information can get to our thinking brain, the information gets leaked, so speak, to the amygdala. The amygdala processes the information emotionally and sends an immediate message to our muscles. Our muscles then move us either toward or away from the experience. It is similar in some ways to the flight-fight reflex, but NOT the same.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The limbic system (emotional brain) and the cerebrum (thinking brain) then begin to “dialogue” about our experience, and, at some point, we make a decision about how we are going to respond behaviorally to the particular situation. <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> This neurological dialogue does not become fully functional or fully developed till we are about seven or eight years old when the corpus collosum matures. It is a strip, so to speak, that runs down the middle of the brain and allows the left and right hemispheres to dialogue back and forth. But the emotional processing of our experiences is fully functional at age seven months in the womb.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> Our brain, in general, continues to develop throughout our life time. Major changes occur during adolescence. And even at age 26, the parietal lobe matures, so to speak, so we finally develop the neurological capacity to see life from a “big picture” perspective. That is why the cost of automobile insurance traditionally decreases after age 26!<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> So the point of all my ramblings is that we are ALL developing human beings no matter what age we are, and we can actually track our development. BUT, is there an age when we can say, “okay, I am no longer a developing human being?” And if so, what age might that be? <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Recently, many governments have either ruled or suggested that people over a certain age should or must shelter in place. Ouch! Such a move would literally destroy me economically. The move suggests that I can no longer defend myself against disease, even though, I haven’t had the flue in over ten years (WITHOUT a flu shot), and I am very picky about my diet, and I walk 6 miles four times a week at a fifteen minute per mile pace. I think I can decide for myself how to insure that I protect myself against viruses and diseases. My immune system continues to grow and develop and protect me, even if it is not as functional as it used to be when I was younger, BUT how do we know that and how do we measure that? As far as I know, my immune system is producing sufficient T-helper cells, but maybe it’s not! </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> I have almost no visceral awareness of my age. I can walk farther and faster than most of you who are younger than I am. The one area of my life that lets me know that I am older is my eyesight. My eyesight, not my vision! Others may see me as “old” but I don’t experience myself as old. I am good to go for.... Well, I use to aim to live to be a hundred. Now, I live for today and to live today with all the gusto I can create for myself.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I love to laugh and I laugh a lot. And I love to cry and I cry a lot. Did you know that chemically, there are nine different kinds of tears? The tears we produce when we are happy are different from the tears we produce when we are sad or angry! They contain different kinds of hormones which help us deal with our anger or our grief or excitement or joy. The tears that are generated when our eyes are irritated have no such hormones. Those tears contain only lubricants. So the notion that only babies cry is extremely unhelpful and counter to the way we are created! So cry your eyes out! <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Here’s something that is a tad unsettling for me to think about. At what age is it completely acceptable for one developing human being to decide that another developing human being should no longer exist? Who gets that privilege? Yes, privlege.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> So at what point will folks, like myself, over an arbitrary age, be considered a burden to society? And at what point will we be required to take a pill and never again be a burden to anyone? Don’t just scoff at the question, especially if you’re “young.” Think about it!<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> As much as we think we live in a democracy, our country is still based upon an hierarchical system in which certain folks are believed to have privilege over other certain folks. With privilege comes power.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> We often disguise this privilege by referring to it as our rights, and we like to think that we have God-given rights to take other people’s lives, other people who are developing human beings just like ourselves. But it’s not a right but a privilege which comes from our belief that we are ABOVE those people whose lives we feel free to take.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> In the last four hundred or more years in this country, it has been an on-going privilege for so-called white people to take the lives of so-called non-white people whenever they chose to do so! The so-called slaves’ lives were expendable. And then there are the Indigenous people with an equally cruel history of "treatment" from so-called white people. Some indigenous people were systematically removed from their land and then murdered ruthlessly. The Chinese immigrants who were brought here to build the railroad are another shameful example! And I am sure you each have your own stories of so-called non-white family members being persecuted, enslaved, and or killed. Japanese Americans during World War II are another sad and lamentable example. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> The systematic mistreatment and even killing of anyone who falls into the category of non-white continues to this day. And don’t think for even a moment that there is a political party who is, in fact, doing anything about it. Look beneath the surface.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> Yes, look beneath the surface. Let’s ask this question. What does any legislation do to promote the economic independence and success of so-called non-white citizens? I dare you to make a list of so-called non-white millionaires and billionaires in this country and another list of so-called white millionaires and billionaires. Why hasn’t either major political party done something to address this discrepancy? I’m not talking about welfare legislation or even affirmative action. I am inviting us to look way beyond that to a more generalized mindset and climate. <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> And lastly, the government has convinced us that it is our right to determine when to end the life of any developing human being yet to be born. It is not a right! There is no such thing. But it is a privilege, the same way that so-called white people saw it as a privilege to end the lives of any so-called non-white persons they chose. It’s not about right, but about privilege that comes with power that we choose to assert over anyone we deem beneath us and anyone we deem does not have a voice!<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> This issue of ending the life of a developing human being yet to be born is NOT a political or economic or even a health issue. This privilege that some hold so dearly is even beyond morals or ethics.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Thinking and convincing ourselves that it is our privilege to take the life of another developing human being and even at times finding justification in Scripture no less, goes to the very foundation of who we are and who we are not. And we don’t like to look at who we are and who we are not.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The kind of thinking that makes it okay to take the life of another human being is driven by fear. And by the way, fear and love are totally incompatible as we have so clearly seen demonstrated during the corona virus crisis. We have bought into leaving our parents and even our children to face illnesses and even death alone in fear of what? Ask yourself, in fear of what? This same fear keeps us from confronting our California leaders’ complete and total double standards during the last eight months. They require us to follow certain mandates which they see fit not to follow for themselves.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> What we are most afraid of obviously is death. That is a huge topic. AND we are ALL going to die sooner or later or later or sooner. I am at peace with my death, and it does not dictate my day- to-day decisions. Maybe all of us can get there and pass that on to our children so we are no longer vulnerable to being lead down paths that are ultimately not good for our children or our families.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> And if we are going to play the science card, then we better know something about science. One thing for sure, science is not an exact science but heavily based on probabilities. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But do your own research. Understand, for example, the statistical phenomenon that two-thirds of the population gets better no matter what treatment they receive. Ask yourself where science has been over the last how many years that we have dished out opioids like candy?<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I have a lot more to share, but I also have other endeavors that are callling to me. So I hope I have given us all something to think about. Something to think about and contemplate! Finally, I would recommend we all read Isabelle Wilkerson’s recent work entitled <b><i>Caste.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><span style="font-size: large;">THANK YOU FOR READING.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Oh, I almost forgot. A final thought-filled question. The child in the picture at the top of this post. At what age do you think her mother has the privilege to terminate her life? <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p>Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-85630410622319661892020-05-09T23:16:00.000-07:002020-05-09T23:16:13.345-07:00I'M LOOKING FOR A LEADER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Just for the record, I am a registered democrat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I have lived for a few years now. Perhaps more than many of the young leaders in our country. It is difficult to define young and old! I actually never feel old until I have to get out of the back seat of a car or when I “climb” out of bed in the morning. I stay healthy by avoiding bread and sugar and walking six miles in an hour an a half four times a week. I have to admit that my downfall is ice cream, and I can easily convince myself that a little bit of ice cream is okay! And it is. The only problem is I never have a little bit!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> From my perspective, leaders in their forties and fifties are still YOUNG! And there’s nothing wrong with that. We need young leaders. And we need young leaders who can recognize they are young and perhaps need to quickly age in their understanding of life and the world we live in. We need young leaders who embark on their own quest for knowledge and understanding rather than relying upon the money trail or our media whose history is marred with plenty of disservice to the public for the sake of selling news.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> So, what is this blog all about? Well, at my age, I am looking around for leaders to follow. I am looking for someone, into whose eyes and face I can look, and see there, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he or she truly cares about his or her followers, and acts in the best interest of his or her followers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I look for folks who know the difference between power and force! I look for folks who realize that freedom comes with a high price, namely letting go of our urge to control others rather than lead! It’s a HUGE difference! So I look for leaders who would never consider encouraging neighbors to snitch or tattletale on each other! That’s indicative of a leader who is actually just a little kid still.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I look for folks who consciously or unconsciously live in a mindset that resembles, in even a small way, the lives of people like Mother Teresa. Whoa! Yes! You read correctly! And why wouldn't we hold our leaders to such a standard? Her life was all about service,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I keep looking for a leader who is willing to be at the front of the line in our “battles” against whatever! </span><span style="font-size: large;">For example, I keep hoping to hear about some leader who is willing to go into the hospital wards and the nursing homes to provide some emotional support to those who are dying from whatever disease or illness, as well as support for those who are working there. Yes, I look for someone who wants to give a very concrete message to their followers that their lives MATTER, maybe even more than their own life. I keep looking for a leader who understands the science of interpersonal neurobiology and recognizes that sheltering in place and social distancing and preventing loved ones from visiting loved ones in the hospital and nursing homes can have a more serious impact on one’s health than any disease or virus.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Unfortunately, it is now fashionable for the government to dictate who I can take care of at the risk of catching whatever disease those patients have. That is MY choice especially when it comes to my loved ones.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> I keep looking for a leader who exercises every part of his or her humanity including his or her soul. I’m not looking for a leader who aligns with a particular religious system, but someone who can simply acknowledge that there is more to him or her than meets the eye! Someone who is willing to acknowledge mystery and that we do not know it all. Someone who can acknowledge that we will never eradicate disease, not matter how many vaccines we have or no matter how many medicines we develop, and who can humbly acknowledge that none of us are that powerful! And I keep looking for someone who has the humility to admit when he or she has chosen a solution that is ineffective.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I keep looking for a leader who can encourage his or her followers to live a lifestyle that provides the body with everything it needs to engage in the fight against disease. I keep looking for a leader whose notions about essential and non essential are based on some other value than big business and political support. I am looking for a leader who is willing to think rather than to look at what is politically advantageous. I am looking for a leader who is willing to acknowledge that the leading cause of death is Death!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I look for leaders who are encouraging their followers to LIVE life rather than run from death. I’m looking for leaders who really get that! And practice it!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I don’t know what would motivate a good leader to terrorize his or her followers into thinking that they are going to die from a virus in contrast to reassuring his or her followers that most people recover from the virus or disease at hand. I mean the stats are there. I don’t know what would keep a California political leader from telling his or her followers that according to the CDC, less than, way less than, three thousand people have died from the corona virus in contrast to almost eighty thousand deaths from all other causes during this same time period. The difference is HUGE! Very few people have died from the corona virus in California. Check out the website and the stats for yourself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/nvss/vsrr/covid19/index.htm</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I’m not discounting the almost three thousand who have died, but we sometimes forget just how many people actually die every day from all kinds of causes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I don’t know why a good leader would want his followers to lower their immune system by sheltering in place! I don’t know why a good leader would not want to THINK about the world panic and to do his or her own research to find out what is credible and what falls into the category of we just don’t know. I don’t know what would keep a good leader from looking objectively at the mathematical model that was used to stir all the panic in the first place! A mathematical model that has failed in its previous predictions of other outbreaks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I’m looking for a leader who acknowledges to his or her followers that there are plenty of contagious diseases that involve asymptomatic carriers and not just the current corona virus. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I am looking for a leader who can publicly acknowledge that much of what we call science is not factual but statistical probabilities which sometimes serve us well and some times not. I am looking for a leader who acknowledges that scientifically what is living inside a womb is just not a collection of cells and the issues of unwanted pregnancy is, in most cases, an issue of choice from the very beginning. And just to clarify, I’m not in favor of judging anyone. I’m just not in favor of creating scenarios that take away our freedom to be responsible and accountable. For example, I’m not aware of any legislation that stipulates the government should pay people’s DUI fines.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> If stopping work, losing your own small business or even large business really is essential to the health of a state or country, then a good leader will surrender his own salary and live in the same fear and poverty that so many other citizens are having to face at this time. I keep looking for a leader who is conscious of all the ways that he or she practices a double standard. One standard for him or herself and another standard for the followers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I keep looking for a good leader who gets it that it is never okay for us to begin resembling, even slightly, the very countries that we have traditionally faulted for their totalitarian approach to workers and ordinary people! I keep looking for leaders who are wanting to instill in their followers a sense of personal responsibility and accountability rather than a reliance upon and a dependency upon government. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I am obviously very concerned about the response our government has taken to this crisis. I am very concerned that so many intelligent people, like doctors, are afraid to come forward and challenge the compnay line. I am puzzled why Facebook and You Tube are committed to so-called community standards that eliminate intelligent and rational dissent. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> And I am also looking for Spiritual leaders who are not like the Apostles who ran and hid when Jesus was in trouble! Where are you? Why are you afraid to model for your followers what it means to let go and surrender not to the government, but to a Higher Power? I think it was Jesus who said that those who try to save their lives will lose it! And as we attempt to save ourselves from the virus, we are losing not only our lives, but EVERYTHING!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I am looking for Spiritual leaders who refuse to give the names and addresses of those who attend worship services. Have you stopped to realize the government does not require that of Walmart or of any of the large chain stores? So why places of worship? Are spiritual leaders too young for this to ring any bells? Just as in the large shopping stores, places of worship can also adopt social distancing and masks as well. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> WELL, THANK YOU for reading and please, at least THINK about what I have shared from my 74 plus years of life experience. I am not asking you to agree with anything I wrote. I only ask that you examine why you are following the leaders you follow or why you are leading your followers where you are leading them. BE RESPONSIBLE AND ACCOUNTABLE in your choices especially those that shift our country away from our constitution.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Once again, I am a registered democrat. </span></div>
Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-36973071222267667432020-04-26T16:09:00.000-07:002020-04-26T16:09:00.901-07:00THE LEADING CAUSE OF DEATH<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgquVfyG8TjqkxrIKGeyqY65GQPejN3bfNEU0SZT7ybEVgEPbn2cVk5JnH8EC0msaLgSqTQzjUc8JlUKEMjtwNNbEXvhwnWcUfjTZYV-QYKwy3Pb_sCxE25PJV66YIt-s30NCRnlvlNSSA/s1600/diannaNY+205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgquVfyG8TjqkxrIKGeyqY65GQPejN3bfNEU0SZT7ybEVgEPbn2cVk5JnH8EC0msaLgSqTQzjUc8JlUKEMjtwNNbEXvhwnWcUfjTZYV-QYKwy3Pb_sCxE25PJV66YIt-s30NCRnlvlNSSA/s400/diannaNY+205.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> Have we stopped to ask ourselves, “What is the leading cause of death?” Just think about it for a second or two or for as long as we want. Eventually, we will find the answer. It is really an easy answer. The leading cause of death is DEATH.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> The media wants us to believe that death is something rare and escapable and something we all need to be afraid of and something that if we quit going to work, stop patronizing businesses, stop attending church services, stay home, stop connecting with our grandchildren and our own parents and our friends–the buzz word is social distancing or worse isolation--somehow we will outwit death and live forever, especially if we practice this way of life for the next 18 months.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Where would we be if our first responders adopted this belief? Where would we be if our military adopted this belief? Where would we be if our hospitals and doctors and nurses adopted this belief system?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> What is kind of ironic is that if the media adopted this belief system and got the heck out of our lives, we would be living our lives quite normally right now. And yes, just as is happening, some people would die perhaps from the virus! But more likely, they would die from whatever it is they had before the virus showed up!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> NEWS IS NEVER ACCURATE OR FACTUAL. News is meant to sell, so the headline is always meant to grab our curiosity and consequently contains some degree of distortion or exaggeration. Most folks probably do not remember Joe Friday from the Dragnet series. He was always saying, “Just the facts....” Well, we can be sure that we will never get just the facts from the news media, which is truly truly sad. Just remember news is not free. It is supported by commercial interests which controls the bent of the news. Can we all just THINK about this? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> When it comes to death, I finally came to terms with my death some years prior to my open heart surgery and now, with the guidance of many different people, I live on the other side of my death, and since I am no longer fearful of dying or of death catching me, I live my life freely and fully! Just THINK about this!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Life is FULL of risks. All we have to do is look at the way we drive, look at the way we smoke whatever it is we are smoking, look at the way we drink, look at the amount of medications we ingest, look at the amount of hairspray we breathe in each day, look at the cocaine and meth we use, look at the amount of sugar we eat, look at ourselves in the mirror and see how overweight we are, look at the ingredients of the food we eat and contemplate what those ingredients are that we cannot even pronounce. And if we look at the pesticides and herbacides that are sprayed on our food, we might consider eating only organic! Can we just simply THINK about this.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> When we give our children medication for huyperactivity, do we have any idea what we are giving them? Would we give our kids methamphetamines off the street? But often that is exactly what we are giving them except it is methamphetamine from the drug store! What sense does that make? When we give our kids antidepressants, do we have any idea that the side effects are an increase in suicidal ideation? Really? Yes, check it out! Or maybe we already know that from our own use of antidepressants!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> When we tell our doctor that we are depressed and the doctor prescribes psychotropic medication, do we ever take the time to read the risks? Let’s say we do read the risks and the print out says that a particular side effect occurs in only .01% of the population. Well, what population are they talking about? If they are talking about the research group, how do we know that group represents us? The bottom line is that this .01% does not matter to the pharmaceutical company! If we are talking about the population of the world, we are talking about 87 million people who may be at risk! Can we just THINK about this?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> When the doctor prescribes a Statin for us to reduce our cholesterol, do we bother to read about the side effects? One of the main side effects is the depletion of an essential heart enzyme known as COQ 10! Why would we take the risk of robbing our heart of an essential enzyme? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Can we just THINK about this? Forget about taking any action. Just think about this!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> When I had valve replacement surgery five years ago, I was told that if I opted for an artificial valve, I would have to be on blood thinners for the rest of my life. One of the most popular blood thinners is an ingredient used in rat poison! When I asked the doctor why I couldn’t just eat foods that naturally thin my blood or take supplements like fish oil or Vitamin E to thin my blood, he told me that he could not trust that I would follow such a regimen consistently! Wow! How is it that doctors don’t trust us to take care of ourselves? Well, if we look in the mirror, maybe we will see the answer! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Recently, when I had eye surgery, I stopped taking my Krill oil a week ahead of surgery as directed. The doctor still had difficulty stopping my bleeding, the krill oil is that effective in thinning my blood! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> I am more and more aware of my age. I don’t feel old, but I do stupid stuff to indicate to myself that I am old. I run into open cupboard doors and hit my head quite hard. I stopped climbing onto ladders because I realized that I was soon going to fall off the ladder just because my balance is not the same as it was even five years ago. I am able to walk six miles four or more times a week and at a really fast clip. I am very pround of that, but that does not negate the fact that I still do really stupid stuff. My biggest fear is having an unnecessary brain bleed by doing something like falling off the ladder or walking into an open cupboard door with enough force to cause brusing! So, taking blood thinning drugs at my age is very very risky. The cardiologist wnats me to take baby aspirin each day, but I bleed EASILY, so I refuse. I even stopped taking the Vitamin E for the same reason. The 1000 mg of Krill oil each day seems to hit the balance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> I continue to THINK about all of this “stuff” and I invite all of us to THINK about this “stuff.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> And when we go to the doctor and report that we are depressed or anxious, the doctor does not tell us to take the time to look at our losses and our stressors. The doctor believes that the medication will eradicate our depression and stress. And it will for as long as we are on the medication, but in the meantime, we never heal. We never live a sober life. We live a medicated life. And for whatever reason, we are willing to endure all the risk factors with little or no thought to the consequences.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> We have surrendered our ability to THINK and rely upon folks who we assume have our best interest at heart, but we don’t even think and question if that is accurate.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx8_C_oApx6_JmNC4l2XpAF5pYU6qHbp-sN-7J6PR67DclZYxsSvSC18vXzK-gurP2tfGAqZ7TqLr0CD2KAwPlmkK3-cAFfri2jAVnxRwLyv-zBM6Pri-RTwPFmEh0vm51E-Nzz8qBKzU/s1600/neff+holding+sun+rev.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx8_C_oApx6_JmNC4l2XpAF5pYU6qHbp-sN-7J6PR67DclZYxsSvSC18vXzK-gurP2tfGAqZ7TqLr0CD2KAwPlmkK3-cAFfri2jAVnxRwLyv-zBM6Pri-RTwPFmEh0vm51E-Nzz8qBKzU/s320/neff+holding+sun+rev.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> The commentator, Mark Levine, recently suggested that if the government told us that it was sending a bus into our neighborhood to pick all of us up and take ut to a safe place where we would be free from catching the virus, that many of us would climb on board! How scary and discouraging is that?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> I know many grand kids who are truly suffering from not having the regular physical contact they are accustomed to having with their grandparents. There is an actual SCIENCE called Interpersonal Neurobiology that demonstrates the impact of physical contact on our DNA, on our cell growth and development, and on on our immune system! Check out Daniel Siegel, M. D.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglVWJ6X_uIX12wXppnUj_-xvajoRCfNBPK3K6mWw0DN-253WzddvwiCVL4fW5jHeSew7ehT99ezAmT-tfb_z5eu0Cjg8XATF9Il6EGdHyuJZBXf91oDqxxSj2dULRoepEIO3yVQPAzbFg/s1600/148.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglVWJ6X_uIX12wXppnUj_-xvajoRCfNBPK3K6mWw0DN-253WzddvwiCVL4fW5jHeSew7ehT99ezAmT-tfb_z5eu0Cjg8XATF9Il6EGdHyuJZBXf91oDqxxSj2dULRoepEIO3yVQPAzbFg/s320/148.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Can we just simply THINK about this information?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> There is a drug that is used to support folks with malaria and lupus that is being used to treat patients with the corona virus. The drug use is controversial because of potential risk factors, specifically irregular heart beat which in some cases leads to cardiac arrest. THIS IS ABSOLUTELY TRUE. The problem is that the drug seems to be helping some folks and yes there are risk factors which doctors are aware of and are monitoring.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> How is it that we overlook the risk factors in other standard treatments for all kinds of problems? Obviously, risk factors in other drugs do not stop the use of these drugs. I mean look at chemotherapy, for crying out loud. It just about kills a patient! Look at risk factors in ALL the popular psychotropic drugs?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Please just THINK about this stuff.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> And who started to promulgate the notion that if one gets the virus, automatically we have to go to the hospital and be put on a ventilator? We are finally hearing that we might need oxygen, and we would need respiratoy therapy, and we would be best to either lie on our left side or stomach, but that the majority of folks would not require a ventilator which may actually increase the risk of dying! Why have we not heard this important piece of “news” or information?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> The news does not tell us things like over 1100 people per month in California alone die from lung and respiratory illness that has nothing to do with the virus. Over 5000 people per month in California alone die from heart disease! We never hear about any of this? Why not? Because for whatever reason, it is not scary enough!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> JUST THINK ABOUT THIS STUFF!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> By the way, who is Bill Gates? What is the payoff for him to have our country shut down till there is a cure for corona virus? Please just think about it! As altruistic as Bill may be, I just have to wonder why he would opt for such an annihilation of our society! </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSd4XobukNJ6O53HQvv2jxpAqm_cNEyAlUw3Q0jFxfD7bjTrhkZUgjAVgW_jkeSDppO1R9Yc2aVrJtqVYr9iWeZ1hccMQLVLtlNSQJPmWOHpdJrgfpAPVneewZxBE_Vu-IsaRS9nZ4o0/s1600/vernNYplua+299.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSd4XobukNJ6O53HQvv2jxpAqm_cNEyAlUw3Q0jFxfD7bjTrhkZUgjAVgW_jkeSDppO1R9Yc2aVrJtqVYr9iWeZ1hccMQLVLtlNSQJPmWOHpdJrgfpAPVneewZxBE_Vu-IsaRS9nZ4o0/s320/vernNYplua+299.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> Do you know that fifty percent of the folks who have the virus are asymptomatic? Do you know that 80 percent of the folks who become ill from the virus actually recover and go on to live normal and healthy lives?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Do you know that corona viruses have been around for a very LONG time? It is not some new rare virus that we have no experience with. Some folks seem upset that China has shared nothing with us about their research on the corona virus, but please do not forget, there are researchers around the world who study these viruses ALL the time and I would be willing to bet that there is plenty of information available to us to find solutions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> We often hear talk about a cure for the virus. I think cure is somewhat misleading in that I don’t think we can cure a virus. We can find ways for the body to fight the virus successfully, and we may find cures for the illnesses that develop because of the virus getting into our body, but the virus itself will probably hang out for some period of time till it either mutates or just disappears the way the SARS virus disappeared.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Againk please just THINK about what we already know. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> What is the investment of the democratic political community in portraying the virus as fatal for all and the last thing anyone wants to catch? What is that about? Really and truly?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> What is the shameful story of Karen Whitsett all about? The problem with both sides of the political aisle is that no one knows what it is to work together. We are so intent on our side being right, being the winner, being the best, we are so intent on the other side looking like losers and worse, evil, that we have abandoned all together EVERYTHING that is available to us as people on how successsfully to work together as a team! How sad that our politicians are so uneducated and so self absorbed, and I’m referring to BOTH sides!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjJzvLAxRJGK1phFt8KnmMHg0ppCsp4KzrX868YZc-MU01BB0EgsGMckgkswk5xmpiFicaxPu8tcgLyIyFzC1y0oXT_yszyitNrn7rUmv9BH9jnOuMbOfdiKlsCYxwt2G5l4D7E7eGv4A/s1600/diannabday09+040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjJzvLAxRJGK1phFt8KnmMHg0ppCsp4KzrX868YZc-MU01BB0EgsGMckgkswk5xmpiFicaxPu8tcgLyIyFzC1y0oXT_yszyitNrn7rUmv9BH9jnOuMbOfdiKlsCYxwt2G5l4D7E7eGv4A/s320/diannabday09+040.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> I am a registered democrat, but I no longer idenify with ANY political party. If the democrates want to get rid of President Trump, then offer a candidate that can fill the shoes of the office. Joe Biden, I am sorry to say, is NOT the person. By the way, when did you see him last? If he is too vulnerable to come out into the public view, then he is NOT the person for the job. We need a president who is willing to risk his life for the office! Think about it!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> My biggest objection to Joe Biden is he went to Iraq after their elections and told Iraq leaders that we would not support the person elected who was a Shia but who was committed to work with the Sunis. Biden told the Iraq government that we would only support Malaki remaining in office. Malaki then proceeded to assassinate all the Suni leaders! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> The way we get a new president into the Whitehouse is through elections. Are the democrats afraid of elections? What is the deal? I would like to suggest that we pass a law that says that during any pandemic, politicians have to go home and receive no pay! And I am sure, we would see very quick legislation to contain the pandemic without shutting down the country. AND what about all the so-called essential businesses that continue to operate? They are each and all prime breeding grounds for the virus, yet we continue to go to these potentially virus infested stores. JUST THINK ABOUT IT! If we are not getting the drift here, perhaps the virus is not as smart as we deem it to be! Or not as devastating as the media wants us to think. We can at least consider reopening our businesses, our livelihoods while simultaneously continuing to practice smart disease controls. The Banks are doing it! The large chain stores are doing it! The gas stations are doing it! Delivery services are doing it. Restaurants and fast food operations are doing it! And apparently, quite successfully! JUST THINK ABOUT THIS STUFF!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> We all know there is really NO safe place to escape the virus! Yet we have been willing to go along with this complete shutdown of our country and our economy which has left many of us really hurting financially. And yet we climb on board to support the shutdown for an indefinite period of time again to the detriment of our jobs, our income, the countryu’s economy, and to the detriment of all the people in our lives. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> And we know there is absolutely no safe place to escape death. So let’s get a grip and come to terms with our own death and then begin to live on the other side of death. We can do that right here, on earth, today, right now, at this very moment. Please THINK about it!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> I SO APPRECIATE YOU TAKING THE TIME TO READ. OUR COUNTRY AND OUR FIGHT FOR OUR FREEDOM DOES NOT LOOK LIKE WHAT HAS BEEN HAPPENING LATELY. JUST THINK ABOUT IT!</span></div>
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Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-69255446665797057592020-04-05T17:17:00.000-07:002020-05-10T22:58:09.820-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>RETHINKING</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We are bombarded daily</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>With news</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>That has nothing new in it at all.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We buy and eat line after line</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Of this news, intended not to inspire us</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>But to in form us into conformity,</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>A conformity of fear!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We haven’t questioned the health benefits</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Of isolation, for example,</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Even though our immune system thrives,</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>THRIVES on touch and contact!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We are now wearing our masks visibly,</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Perhaps a symbol of the masks we wear</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Every day to hide from ourselves and others!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Why in the world do we hide from ourselves?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We allow the media to feed us</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Sensationalized statistics with no context.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We don’t even realize</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>That an astronomical number of the folks</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Who walk alongside of us</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Each and every day</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Pass on, often without our even knowing.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We gasp as we read the obituary or someone tells us</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>“Hey, did you hear.....?”</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>In California alone,</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Over 1100 citizens die EACH MONTH</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>From respiratory illness regardless of the reigning virus!</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>That’s over 12,000 a year.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>That’s not to mention the over 5,000</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Who die each month from heart disease.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>These statistics may or may not be true,</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>BUT, they are from the CDC!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>The L. A. Times reported this morning</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>That the death toll</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>From the virus (since January) in California</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Has soared to over 300.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>How is that soaring?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Well, it is soaring to scare us</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>And to sell news</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Which is no news at all!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We’ve been dealing with very serious diseases</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>From the beginning of time!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>What about ALL the thousands of people,</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>People like us,</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Who have recovered and have actual antibodies</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>For the corona virus?</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Wow! So a healthy immune system does work!</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Is the 104 year old veteran who survived the virus</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Just a fluke?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Or is he just a good soldier</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Regardless of what life he is living</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Or what battle he enlists to fight?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Do any of us stop and contemplate</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>That this finite time span</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>From our birth to death</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Is a given for each and every one of us?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We are born to live</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>And yes, born to die!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We can certainly fear this time span</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Or else,</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We can become aware that this time span</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Does not define our existence!</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>In fact,</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Many Christians believe in the resurrection</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>At least we did</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Til we subscribed to the L. A. Times</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Or tuned into CNN</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Or whatever the news source of our choosing.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>CHOOSING!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>An important word.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We are choosing to follow all the mandates</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Hook line and sinker,</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Even to the point of allowing our loved ones</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>To die alone in isolation,</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Much like Jesus on the cross!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>What would happen if everyone boycotted the news</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Which, remember, is no news at all.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Watching or subscribing to the news</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Is simply subscribing to being scared to death,</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Ironically, the very thing we all fear!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>There is no grace in our news,</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Nor life.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>How deeply have we buried our heads and hearts?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We have walked away from our places of worship</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Willingly and freely.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We have locked ourselves up in our homes</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Willingly and freely.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>We have abandoned people we love</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Willingly and freely.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>No shots fired, no takeover!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>It was easy for whatever that “force” is.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>I hold in my imagination a genuine rethinking of</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>What we have so freely given into</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>With very little questioning</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>And an abundance of innacurate information,</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>And an abundance of accurate but sensationalized information.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>I thank God we are, even as I write this,</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Rethinking and replanning</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>So we never surrender so freely again.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>By the way,</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>I am not against taking precautions.</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>I appreciate having my open heart surgery</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>In as sterile an environment</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>As they were able to create!</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Lucky me, I did not get infected by</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Whatever they could not kill!</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>And I deeply appreciate ALL those</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Who continue to provide us food,</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Supplies, and transportation.</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>I appreciate our fire and law enforcement folks</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Who are just plain out there,</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Fear or no fear.</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>I appreciate the medical personnel</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Who have continued to provide services</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Both to those infected with the virus</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>And those who need medical services.</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>And every time we have a chance,</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Be sure to personally THANK these folks.</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>They have bigger balls and bigger hearts</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>than most of us!</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>There’s a line from <i>A Course In Miracles</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>That goes something like this:</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>“If I really grasped who is walking alongside of me,</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>I would have no fear.”</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>And for those of us who rely only on Scripture,</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Check out Luke 17:33!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>“Those who try to save their lives will lose it</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>And those who lose their life will preserve it.”</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>AND</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>I don’t have to be right about any of this.</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>I simply want to share some of my thoughts!</b></span></div>
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Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-73780885786247176352019-06-01T21:57:00.004-07:002019-06-01T23:27:34.407-07:00ABORTION: A STRANGE VENUE TO FIGHT FOR EQUALITY AND POWER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN1qY2nOhKkqlQg3WI25gtdU89vUbRStiPpP7-leAjGct0elBjXzo9iyIl99W4y_tIMObyT7zhFpX40jr44cFezufBS-nKOdI4_5LQIkp-wJ4FPO_5LtoSeKFn3lDUSTdjucKmWlJiOQg/s1600/148.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN1qY2nOhKkqlQg3WI25gtdU89vUbRStiPpP7-leAjGct0elBjXzo9iyIl99W4y_tIMObyT7zhFpX40jr44cFezufBS-nKOdI4_5LQIkp-wJ4FPO_5LtoSeKFn3lDUSTdjucKmWlJiOQg/s400/148.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Experiencing myself as EQUAL to another human being is ultimately an “internal” experience or a spiritual experience. My internal or spiritual experience of BEING equal is not dependent upon someone else’s political or cultural beliefs about who is or who is not equal. Nelson Mandella is a powerful example of what I am attempting to express here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> When I believe that I AM equal to everyone else, I focus on the “I am,” My internal experience of equality, my belief in that experience, is about BEING equal no matter how much others may protest or hang on to the contrary belief that I am not equal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> If for whatever reason, I do not feel equal, making someone else believe that I am will not result in making me feel equal. Feeling equal begins with knowing that I AM equal. Once I experience myself as equal, then I begin to walk through the world with an aura of equality, an energy of equality, a power of equality, no matter how repressive the world outside of me may become. Again, the example of Nelson Mandella being imprisoned for twenty-seven years and for some of those years in solitary confinement, is an awesome image of what I am wanting to describe here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> When I do not believe I am equal, when I live in the image of others’ belief that I am not equal, </span><span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I unwittingly become a victim, and I begin to blame circumstances and other people for the unsettling and problematic situations in my life. The result is I not only feel unequal, but I also feel powerless. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> So where am I going with this? Thought you would never ask! So here we go.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I believe, beyond a shadow of any doubt, that women and men are equal. We are each different in many ways, and we each bring different strengths, vulnerabilities, amd limitations to the table, but nevertheless EQUAL. For me to believe this, I do not require legislation or popular agreement. It does require that I live in the belief and that I visibly treat women and men in a way that if I or others veiw my behavior, it will be clear and obvious that yes, I treat women and men as equal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I get the sense that there are many women and men who do not believe that women and men are equal. Wow! I just realized that EVERYONE will agree with this statement!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I kind of get it why guys have a “drive” to believe that women are not equal. It makes sense to me that the need to hold women down is connected to insecurities about one’s manhood (whatever manhood means!). Bascially, men are terrified of losing their “precious” jewels if they embrace equality. Yes, silly and crazy, but unfortunately, many of us have been raised to see ourselves as above women and somehow see equality as a road to inequality for men. Again silly and crazy. Ultimately, we are afraid of losing what we perceive as our innate, perhaps even God-given for some, right to lord it over everything and everyone without question or challenge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> But why do women embrace inequality? Again, like with many of us men, it may have a lot to do with what we have experienced growing up in our own families and culture and in society in general. And yes, there are still many areas in society where the social norm is to treat women as less than. The most outstanding example is in the lack of equal pay for women and men. It will not surprise me if a woman is elected president, that some folks in congress will introduce legislation to lower her salary! Right now, there is unequal pay for women and men within congressional staffers, which is really ridiculous and shocking when, in some cases, the congressperson is a woman, and a woman who screams repeatedly about equality.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I definitely support women fighting for equality, but more, I support women taking equality and not fighting for it. In any case, however, I find abortion to be a very strange venue for women to fight for their equal rights.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I am beginning to think that the women who are fighting so desperately to retain legal rights to abortion are perhaps not convinced on the inside that they are, in fact, EQUAL to men. I am beginning to think that they do not have an internalized sense of equality. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> For one thing, claiming a woman’s right to abort what is growing inside of her makes the woman appear to be a victim, and fitting that stereotype of the dumb blonde. If I were a woman, I would want no part of it. It reminds me of folks who cause serious accidents and then exercise their right to sue the party they injured.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I know many women who found themselves pregnant when they did not want to be pregnant, and I watched them “rally” their internal resources and power and move forward with both their pregnancy and their lives. In each case, their children turned out to be people who made an incredible impact on their part of the world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> These women are real. I am not making them up. They are professional women with careers. They are standouts in their communities. They are just as deserving as anyone to be released of such an unexpected or unplanned “job.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> These same women will tell you about all the people who attempted to talk them into having an abortion. Good people, well-meaning people, religious people, family and friends. One woman tells how everyone came forward to support her having an abortion, but no one offerred her support to carry the child. Often times, the male partner is the first to attempt to talk women into an abortion, and often times, women who have an abortion, will report that they did so because their partner wanted them to. So where is equality and power there?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I wonder how many of the women who are fighting for abortion rights even know what it is they are fighting for. And I wonder how many of them have outright expressed gratitude or better, experienced gratitude to their own mothers for not exercising their reproductive rights by aborting them. So, if your mother had had an abortion, she would have been aborting YOU!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> It is interesting to me that the same woman who fights so hard to have the so-called “right” to have an abortion, will also freely use birth control pills and or devices that do not set well with her overall health, pills and devices that mess with her natural hormone cycle, that leave her feeling nauseated, that prevent hern from getting pregnant when she is ready to have children, that put her at risk for cancer, that leave her unexplicably bleeding for days and months on end. The same woman who is screaming for the right to have an abortion does not feel free to say NO to her male partner’s demands for intercourse, nor is she willing to educate him in all the ways they can engage sexually without the big stud putting his penis inside her vagina. It’s interesting to me that a woman will express her equality by pushing for abortion rights, but is still hesitant to assert her equality in bed with a MAN!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> God created us with free will, and we are indeed free to choose all kinds of behaviors, including abortion. So there is no doubt that we are free to choose to have an abortion. We see people making all kinds of choices every day in our own households, in our neighborhoods, in our city, our state, our country, and our world. I wonder sometimes, what it takes for people to make the decisions that they make.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> And I wonder what it takes for a woman to choose to have an abortion. What is the thought process? And for those who are guiding women toward abortion, what is their thought process and their motivation? For example, are the parents, who push their teenage daughter to have an abortion, driven by embarrassment or social or religious shame, and do they forget their daughter is pregnant with their grandchild?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> When a woman is wanting an abortion, does she know that what is living inside her womb is HUMAN LIFE? It is, in fact, not anything less. Once the sperm and the egg come together, the new person’s unique DNA is created and every part of that new person’s being is held by that DNA. There will be no other changes unless there is some kind of intervention. There is always the possibility of biological changes that can impact the developing person, but there will be no genetic changes, unless, again there is some kind of medical intervention. And interestingly enough, our advanced ability to provide intervention genetically, is meant to preserve and enhance the life of the unborn person, not to destroy it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> What do I mean by biological changes? We know, for example, that nutrition, smoking, alcohol and drug use, medications, physical activity, and even stress levels can both positively and negatively impact the biological development of all of the systems of the unborn’s body. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Whatever the problems are that get presented when someone becomes pregnant, are obviously problems. And as a person, a parent, or a family, or as a society, we want to learn how to be both accountable and responsible for resolving those problems. Abortion is seemingly an easy solution, but certainly not without consequences, and it is my experience as a therapist, that the emotional consequences are long term, very similar, if not identical to, the emotional issues women face when they experience a miscarriage. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I do not sit in judgment of anyone. I only ask that those who are fighting for the right to have an abortion and for those who are choosing to have an abortion, ask themselves, if they, in fact know, what or who it is they are aborting? Human life does not require a heartbeat to qualify as human life! What is inside a pregnant woman is not just fetal tissue, or a harmless glob with human potential. It is human life, developing human life. What is inside a pregnant woman is SOMEBODY.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> If you are considering an abortion or fighting hard to keep abortion available, please take the time to watch an abortion for yourself so you know what it is you are desiring or advocating for. At least have the courage to do that much.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I’m not a religious fan, but I know I am not God, and I believe there is a God, and I believe God had something or a lot to do with the universe’s existence. I also believe that God created us with free will which is quite a gift when we look at both the use and abuse of power within humankind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The God I believe in is not sitting atop a throne waiting to cast down ligtning bolts nor sadistically waiting for my death to punish me or reward me. The God I relate to inspires me to take complete responsibility for my entire life including the parents I chose and to be humbly and honestly accountable in abslutely EVERYthing I do and say. And sometimes, I’m successful and sometimes, I am not, and sometimes I outright fail.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I always take comfort in what I call the batting average approach to life. In baseball, a really top-notch batting average is 300. You get paid millions for batting 300. But interestingly enough, batting 300 means you are getting a hit only thirty percent of the time and failing seventy percent of the time. And even more interesting, baseball requires that you fail seventy percent of the time because they require that you step up to the plate one hundred percent of the time knowing full well that the best you will do is thirty percent!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> You might wonder how I take responsibility for the parents I chose. Well, if I simply take responsibility for choosing my parents, even if that is impossible, I am home free. There is NO ONE for me to blame for anything!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The push for abortion in our society seems to me to coincide with our gradual move toward seeing ourselves as all knowing and free to do whatever we choose with little or no thought to either current or future consequences and especially with little or no concern how our behavior will impact other human beings. We are becoming progressively selfish and self-centered, or perhaps we always have been selfish and self-centered, and I have just been slow to recognize it!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> We no longer look inside to our connection with God, to the connection with the spiritual world, to resolve our problems, and consequently, our options become extremely limited, and we will continue to make the same mistakes over and over again, just because we can.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I am also increasingly aware that all the human beings I encounter in and out of my practice (including myself) are walking around with a boatload of unmet basic human needs. Our need for love, our need to love, our need for connection, our need for affection, our need to be liked, to be recognized as somebody, our need to experience ourselves as valuable, precious, one of a kind, our need to belong, to touch and be touched. Many of us have lived most of our lives with these needs going unmet, and when we engage in our first sexual experience, or our first drug or alcohol experience, it feels like these basic needs are met, perhaps for the first time. And so we are hooked and want to experience getting our basic needs met whenever and however we want with absolutely NO restrictions, with no accountability or responsibility.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> What does this have to do with abortion? I promised myself I would keep this article relatively simple and short, so I will save that for the next article. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Currently, my constant prayer throughout my day is the Serentiy Prayer, and I invite you to make it yours as well. THANK YOU FOR READING.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">SERENITY PRAYER</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">To change the things I can,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">And the wisdom to know the difference.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoaXPuh1-XdHpZ5fTQLW-lf-U_jpuY76lNlsCZAl-nPeWdnMBm4v7pOdrZmOWYcQ2EFBS4FuFkIqEyiDKil317X5I091627gi-jTeyyUqevC_n6v3PIQ3QPjG0EQhNPWdWRbBQ90DEMJU/s1600/z+at+the+fence+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="128" data-original-width="128" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoaXPuh1-XdHpZ5fTQLW-lf-U_jpuY76lNlsCZAl-nPeWdnMBm4v7pOdrZmOWYcQ2EFBS4FuFkIqEyiDKil317X5I091627gi-jTeyyUqevC_n6v3PIQ3QPjG0EQhNPWdWRbBQ90DEMJU/s400/z+at+the+fence+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-19822639472128314872018-01-16T22:03:00.000-08:002018-01-16T22:08:54.454-08:00HOLD OUR LEADERS ACCOUNTABLE<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbt61xwQVsjBf-YJpvdqAvNaB_3Z7llY9Bq2Mf8fZbCZGTaC3085xWA9iCl98xvtKhdGxd9eWuDB7yOhIqk4poJBKQYygs0DvJx_LmNoGjnaMfNittj44zIpfEggAfO4srao1aRyk5E-E/s1600/vernNYplua+104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbt61xwQVsjBf-YJpvdqAvNaB_3Z7llY9Bq2Mf8fZbCZGTaC3085xWA9iCl98xvtKhdGxd9eWuDB7yOhIqk4poJBKQYygs0DvJx_LmNoGjnaMfNittj44zIpfEggAfO4srao1aRyk5E-E/s400/vernNYplua+104.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">In a nuclear attack, people just evaporate!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The person or people to whom I am loyal, I am only truly loyal when I hold that person or those people accountable. If I am not loyal to a person or people, I can still hold them accountable rather than just trashing them and seeing myself as superior.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is so very important to INFORM ourselves these days and stay PRESENT and not to become complacent and accustomed to a so-called new normal. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We are in the process of preparing ourselves for yet another war, a nuclear war at that. If for some reason, that disturbs us, then we need to begin letting our leaders know how disturbed we are and hold them accountable in particular, to cease with the rhetoric. The rhetoric is not a deterrent nor is it helpful. The rhetoric only increases the chances of nuclear destruction of the Korean Peninsula and surrounding area, and who knows just how far that destruction might go, perhaps even to our own soil. We definitely face the possibility of North Korea detonating a nuclear warhead in the upper atmosphere and who knows how that might effect our country’s power grid. Nuclear arms are deterrents, not bargaining chips. The economic squeeze is, and seems to be working. So let it work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There are two people I have listened to lately, and I invite all of us to also listen as well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">One is Leslie Gelb, the man who Robert McNamara assigned to compile the <b><i>Pentagon Papers</i></b>. He has a unique perspective on the <b><i>Pentagon Papers</i></b> given that he was the one responsible for compiling them. He tells us that their purpose is to inform future leaders of the mistakes we made in engaging in the Viet Nam war so future leaders will not repeat the mistakes. Wow!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2001/06/29/opinion/misreading-the-pentagon-papers.html">http://www.nytimes.com/2001/06/29/opinion/misreading-the-pentagon-papers.html</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The second person is Masha Gessen who has lived under the autocracy of Vladimir Putin and sees parallels occurring in our country under our current leadership. Put aside any issues you have with her sexual orientation and simply read what she has to say.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.nybooks.com/daily/2016/11/10/trump-election-autocracy-rules-for-survival/">http://www.nybooks.com/daily/2016/11/10/trump-election-autocracy-rules-for-survival/</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I am not clear how I can hold our leaders accountable, but my first step is to inform myself and then to speak out. So that’s what this short blog is all about.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Just because we wake up tomorrow morning, and there is no rhetoric tomorrow morning, we don't want to become complacent and think the rhetoric is over. Saber rattling is archaic and it will not achieve peace. And I am not for peace at any price.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I am for mature, intelligent, thoughtful, engagement driven by what we have learned from our past mistakes. Just because Kim Jong-un</span><span style="font-size: large;"> may not be mature, intelligent, or thoughtful doesn't give us an out to being mature, intelligent, thoughtful in our engagement. The adage, "fight fire with fire" is a good tool for firefighters. But when leaders adapt such a stance, they are letting us see their preoccupation with filling their dead souls with prideful idolatrous images of themselves, which unfortunately will go up in smoke with the rest of us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Thank you for reading. </span></div>
Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-22084866093770396382017-05-29T11:56:00.000-07:002017-05-29T11:56:25.783-07:00THE GIFTS OF WAR<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This short story was initially published in 1999 as a "christmas story." With so much in the news today about our veterans, I decided to post the story here this Memorial Day (2017). </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> This story is dedicated to my uncle, Sargent Herman Zerrell. Sargent Zerrell, born in 1895, fought in France during World War I. He remained in France for a year after the war was over, taking care of German prisoners of war.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Interestingly enough, Herman’s father emigrated to the United States from Germany in 1871, so Herman was very much a German, himself. I wonder if he ever thought about that.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As with so many soldiers when they return, he was both loved and despised and not without good reason. He was definitely a wounded soldier. He was, in fact, never the same after the war. In a sense, our Uncle Herman never did return from the war. Miraculously, he lived to the ripe old age of 88. He died in 1983.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">✚</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This story was inspired by many different people and many different events and experiences. But the creation of this story literally happened after listening to John William’s sound track from <i>Saving Private Ryan</i> for several days in a row. I thought it was important to acknowledge how the Spirit works.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I also want to thank all of the combat veterans who have so graciously and so bravely trusted me and allowed me into their experiences. </span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Gifts </span></b><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of War</span></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I never thought that life would or could be the same again.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I never thought I would wake up in a bed again.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I never thought I wouldn’t be crawling on my stomach somewhere or ducking behind trees.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> When I was out there crawling around, trying to stay alive, I had frequent flashbacks. They were surprisingly pleasant and sometimes I would laugh out loud. Sarge would growl at me, “What the hell you laughing at, Soldier?”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> There I was, eleven years old, playing war in the field behind my buddy, Rollin’s house, throwing those dirt clod grenades and carrying my wooden rifle handcrafted by Rollin himself–certainly not an M1, but a damn good rifle.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> As the days turned into months, Sarge would bark, “this ain’t the field behind your house, Soldier....those aren’t dirt clods they’re throwing, Soldier.”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Gruff as he was, I liked Sarge. He was like a big ol’ dog who was always there. I don’t think I would have survived without him.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Sometimes, I was just grateful that I hadn’t joined the Navy. As terrible as my experience was on the ground, I could not imagine diving into that cold water and swimming through the midnight of the sea perhaps to my death. If I was going to die, I wanted to have my feet touching the ground!</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I remember one night seeing God coming for me, and I just asked him not to send me to hell for all the awful things I had already done.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The smell of another man’s blood never awoke in me any desire to be a vampire. I kept watching to see if anyone else was throwing up, and finally, I just didn’t care anymore if they did or didn’t. I just let myself throw up when I had to. Sarge warned me that I was letting myself get into a bad habit. I never argued with him, but I wanted so badly to tell him that I felt free after I threw up.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> It reminded me of when I ran track back in high school. At the end of a race, I would almost always run off to the side and puke. I thought I was a little strange, and of course, I developed a reputation. I always wondered if it had anything to do with my winning so many races. No one wanted to be too close to me at the finish line! But I learned later that it is not that uncommon. I guess it’s a combination of the nerves and then pushing the body to the limit. On the battle field, it was pushing my soul and my FGT to the limit. I pronounce it FiGiT. FiGiT–it’s my own original acronym. Made it up myself. It stands for fucking gag threshold! I learned to smell a lot of things out there, and Sarge told me that I would get used to it all, but I never did.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Oh yes, I was telling you about the time I saw God coming for me. I am hardly religious, you know, but the truth is it happened more than once. In fact, I saw God many many many times. It was the strangest apparition, and you are only the second person I have ever told. The scary part was seeing him come and take my buddies on either side of me or the soldiers fifty yards ahead of me. Sometimes God would look at me, and I thought for sure he was telling me that I was next.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> You want to know what God looked like. I couldn’t begin to describe what I saw. I know there was a fuzzy, hazy kind of light. The presence was powerful. I remember one night seeing a hundred soldiers come out of the sky. This ghostly unit swept down on our division like a cloud. As always, the incoming mortar shells were absolutely deafening. I thought for sure it was my time. It was almost as if God was snatching us up before the enemy had a chance to snuff out the life from our burning souls.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> For some fucking strange reason that I will never comprehend, I was never snatched up nor my life snuffed out. I always came out alive. I never lost a limb, not even a finger. I never broke a bone. Of course, my heart didn’t survive. It was slaughtered. Slaughtered. It’s out there somewhere. Well, I do remember clearly. It stopped beating the first time I killed another man. For the life of me, I could not pull the trigger--till I heard his bullet ricochet off my helmet. I never did learn to kill another human being. I just started pulling that trigger for shear survival. It’s frightening to me that I may have killed some of my own buddies. And then there are so many other...Well, I still can’t talk about those. It is incomprehensible what we think we have to do and what we actually do to survive. When you come across a farm house and see little ones with limbs blown off and you’re not sure how that happened. You try to convince yourself that it was the enemy who killed their own in friendly fire or you just feel bad that these innocent civilians somehow got caught in the crossfire. You see I can’t even talk about them as real people, only as innocent civilians. And when I asked Sarge about it, he just looked at me with those piercing court-martialing eyes and told me “You will never talk about this shit, soldier! Do you understand, Soldier?”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> It has taken me a long time to even begin to entertain the notion that any of us could ever be forgiven. Of course no one ever talks about that part of it, and we convince ourselves that it was for a good cause. I guess otherwise we would all go crazy. But at my age, I figure maybe it is okay to take the chance to look at the possibility that it was not a good cause, and I am no better than any of those guys on death row.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> For a long time, I felt almost nothing. It’s a cliche, I know, but it’s true. I was numb. I was always shocked when I caught a glimpse of myself in store windows–the deformity of my body and the way I walked. When I looked into a mirror, I couldn’t help but notice the vigilance and the fear in my eyes. I knew that something wasn’t quite right, but I also began to think that it was all just normal.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I am seventy-nine years old. I am going to celebrate my eightieth birthday in the year 2000. I have only recently begun to look back on all of this because until three years ago, the war was always today for me. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I’ve been sober now for three years. Not a drop for three years. The alcohol is just like the war itself. I have somehow survived it without serious damage to my body. I do not know how I managed that. I should be dead from alcohol. I should be dead from combat. And for that matter, any of my friends or loved ones, my wife especially, could have easily and justifiably killed me over these last fifty some years. I guess I need to be totally honest. My ex wife.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> During all those years, I was not able to have a good argument with anyone because every argument would turn into a bitter battle. Even worse, I never allowed anyone in my circle of friends or loved ones to make or forget a mistake. I detested that bumper sticker, “Shit Happens.” In my book, shit is caused by carelessness or stupidity, and I always made sure you knew which one you were. I am not totally sure why I took your mistakes so personally, but pretty soon, no one wanted to talk to me about anything. I have been one hell of a son of a bitch to live with. I have lost many a friend and many a loved one in that war that I fight every day, inside me and around me. Looking back, I realize that during the war, I fought for my life. Since the war ended in 1945, I have been fighting for my freedom.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I think what kills me the most is not holding my children and my grandchildren when they were little. I could not do that. I knew that, and they knew that. Sometimes I was even afraid that I would snap their necks if they didn’t stop crying. I am trying now to coax my great grandchildren to sit on my lap, but they are afraid of me too. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I look around at other men in my Thursday night group. It is amazing to me how many of us fight the same battles and have the same battle scars even though I am the only one in the group right now that has actually experienced combat. The rest are just guys, other men, some young, some middle-aged. I am the oldest.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The other night, one young man, about thirty, shared how his father used to “whoop” him with a belt. He told his story with almost no emotion. I was not sure why I was crying when he told his story. My father never “whooped” me, and I never “whooped” my children. I was afraid to.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Then it hit me. His experience of his father’s “whoopings” reminded me of dodging those incoming mortar shells. As he described his father’s bellowing voice, “This hurts me more than you, Kenny,” it was like the terrible howling of those shells, and I just knew at any moment I was going to get hit.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> When I looked into the mirror this morning, I wondered if it’s not too late to stand up straight or walk without a limp. Somewhere deep below the crust, I have always suspected and now I know that this pain in my bones is not arthritis.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I do not want to bore anyone or make people sick with the gory details. I guess in some way, I am trying to spare you from experiencing the war for yourself. I only remember one other time that I thought I could share something of my experience. It was some kind of Veterans Day celebration at one of the local colleges, and someone talked me into manning a VFW booth. I remember there were about ten people standing around, and I began telling them what the weather was like on the battle field in November, and before I knew it, I was telling them about this one particular patrol.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> It was a very cold night, and we were crawling across a wide field toward a large mansion which we had been told housed an enemy command post. Between us and the mansion were several small sheds. As we approached the first shed, we could hear someone moving around inside, and I volunteered to check it out. As I ran toward what I thought was the entrance, I was expecting to see machine gun fire, but there was none. As I entered, I could barely make out a shadowy figure hunched in the corner. In what little German I knew, I shouted several times words that I was told meant Surrender! When it was apparent that my opponent was not surrendering and instead was moving toward me like a defensive tackle, I lunged with my bayonet. I had never heard the sound of a pig being run through before or afterwards, and I ran out of that shed as fast as I could and returned to my unit. They all laughed at me, except for Sarge.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “I didn’t hear any of you dickless men laughing when I asked for a volunteer,” Sarge scowled.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> As I was telling my story, I noticed a crowd gathering and it became very very quiet as I spoke. I began to feel some relief telling my story, and I kind of liked being the center of all of these people’s attention. But then when it came time for lunch, it seemed anyway, that no one wanted to sit with me or even near me. And finally, thank God, a student came up and told me how much he enjoyed listening to me talk. He told me I should host a program for the college radio station, and then he started asking me questions about the medals I was wearing. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I do not know what would have happened had we not gone to war in 1941. Those are questions far beyond me. What I do know is that I have never been the same, and I am beginning to resent the price I paid. I am no longer sure if it was worth my freedom, because I have not been free for fifty-five years. I am beginning to feel free now only because I decided to walk into that church there on the corner of Broadway and Fortieth.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> When it comes to religion, I don’t know if I am really anything! I just remember Father Mike, one of our chaplains. He would hear confessions, and I remember once asking him if he could hear my confession even though I wasn’t catholic. He said sure. I remember the clean feeling and the incredible relief. It only lasted for about a half ‘a day. But I always remembered it.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I have no idea really what moved me to walk down to St. Charles three years ago. Maybe it was remembering that feeling.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I walked into the church as if I were walking back in time. I felt like I was twenty-five years old. I felt like I was turning myself in for what I wasn’t sure. When I walked into the confessional room, it wasn’t like they show in the movies where the priest sits behind a screen. He was just sitting there in a chair and there was a chair for me to sit in. Now I really felt like I was before the judge. I kept looking down and never really made eye contact with the priest. As soon as my butt hit the chair, I just started weeping uncontrollably. I could not even speak. The priest scooted his chair up to mine and grabbed a hold of me. I heard him pulling Kleenex from the box and the next thing I knew he was wiping the snot from my face like I was a little kid. When he did that, I was no longer afraid. I somehow knew that he knew. And when I looked up at him, I saw for the first time that he was an old man. Had to be at least my age. Then he told me with tears running down his face, “I understand. I was there too.” That is all he said. Then he drove me to the hospital where I stayed for almost a month.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> After my stay in the hospital, I felt like a new person. But soon I found myself hunkering down again. The front line was clearer to me in that I began to know the difference between the real war and the war inside and around me. But it was war all the same. As much as I wanted to escape the combat and go home, I was held back by a shit load of fear and paranoia. I am still so paranoid that just the other day when I could not find my check book, I imagined that a burglar had somehow stealthfully invaded my house and stole only the check book. Left everything else in the house untouched! How such a sniper could enter my house without a key or without breaking in entry was not an issue. It had happened. When I realized just how preposterous that was, I then began to think that my wife must have snuck into the house and stole my check book to teach me a lesson. She never lets me forget that I am the worst at all the things I harangue and blame other people for.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I did find my check book. I had, myself, carefully hidden it under a pile of bills on the kitchen table. I was in a hurry and even though no one else lives in the house, I wanted the check book out of sight, hidden from any and all prospective intruders!</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> So you see, as much as I have literally craved my freedom, especially in these last three years, as much as I have been able to taste my freedom at times, I still for some ungodly reason strive to be as gallant as Captain Queeg. I am always dressed for war. It is in my bones, in my blood, maybe even in my soul.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> But several months ago, I realized that I must be shedding some of this alligator skin because I was able to look into the eyes of a homeless man standing at the end of a freeway offramp. Ordinarily, I avoid eye contact with such miserable creatures or I look at them with as much disdain as my eyes can fire. But on that day, I was not afraid to acknowledge this person’s presence outside my passenger side window. I looked over at the old soldier. I caught his eye, smiled, and waved as we proceeded on home. My son was driving, but he was not aware and I didn’t say anything to him. He didn’t notice the shed skin on the seat as he helped me out of the car. But boy, I did. I could feel the change in my heart. I could breathe past the weight of that fear and paranoia that ordinarily huddles around my heart cavity like the smell of cooked broccoli.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I started looking forward to Christmas sometime last August. It was a very hot evening. I was driving home from my Thursday night group and believe it or not, there was an ad about Christmas shopping on the radio. I began to wonder if perchance, by being with my grandchildren and great grandchildren as they opened their gifts, I could make up for all the lost Christmases. I wasn’t sure if I could tolerate the emotional pain of it all, but I began to look forward to the possibility that someone in the family might chance it and let me spend Christmas Eve or Christmas morning with them. But as each day got closer to Christmas, I had this nagging fear that God would come to take me for reals this time. It’s like hanging up the armor is a cruel hoax. It’s like there’s no room up there for armor, and so once you get it all off, then it will be your time to go. I know that sounds crazy, but that’s been my biggest fear lately. The old priest told me that God does not work that way. He is not a trickster. The old priest kept reassuring me that I would have this Christmas with my family.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I wasn’t sure if I would try to get together with my wife this Christmas. She considers me dead. She left me finally about five years ago. She could not take it any more. I never beat her. Well, she would say I browbeat her. But I never laid a hand on her. Well, yes, that was oddly part of the problem. I never touched her.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I was not drunk all the time, but I was off somewhere else all the time. I was definitely not here, and I have no idea what gave her the courage at age seventy-three to leave me. It’s hard for me to talk about this and to be totally honest with myself. I don’t like looking at her picture of me, but looking has been an important step for me. Courage or not, the fact of the matter is she had good reason to leave.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> We do see each other at family get togethers many of which I have avoided until recently. But it’s a long distance and silent meeting. She sits on one side of the room and I on the other. We avoid conversation so as not to ruin the family celebration. But I am feeling somewhat hopeful about us after today. Well, at least I am feeling the courage to be hopeful. Perhaps she does see that I have changed enough, and may be there is still some of that young handsome guy left inside of me.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I would never in a million years have dreamed that last night and today would unfold the way they did. I spent last night with my son David and his children and his two grandchildren, and then this morning with my daughter and her children and her grandchild. It is hard to believe that we are all so old. My son is fifty-four and my daughter is fifty-two. I have another son who is forty-five and a daughter who is forty.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> David was somewhat nervous last night when I told him that I wanted to read The Night Before Christmas before we opened presents. I saw that look in his eyes. It was probably the same look he had when I used to rant and rave when I had too much to drink. When I was drunk!</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> At first, when I saw that look, I felt hurt and almost said, “Forget it.” But something made me stay with it, and I was able to touch David’s shoulder and I simply said, “just let me know when you’re ready for me. I promise I’ll read fast.” </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Then the most phenomenal thing happened today. During Christmas dinner, my ten-year-old grandson started his own congressional inquiry.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “Grandpa, Mom says that you were in the war.”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> His mother quickly put a firm hand over his hand and almost like a warning told him, “Grandpa doesn’t like to talk about the war, Danny.”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Everyone stopped breathing for a moment. Most of the adults looked down at their plates as if they were waiting for their heads to appear. But the kids were all looking at me with great curiosity.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “How many Christmases did you spend in the war?” my sixteen-year-old grandson asked.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> My son David got that nervous look again and quickly said, “Hey, it’s Christmas. No war stories on Christmas.”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “No,” I said. “I think Christmas is a good time to talk about war.” I could sense David bristling and getting ready to do battle with me, but I beat him to the punch. “But let’s wait till after our pumpkin pie. Whoever wants, we’ll gather around the fireplace, and I will tell you all about the war. Well, as much as I can remember.”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “So is that story about the German and American soldiers singing Christmas Carols together on Christmas eve true?” pushed Brad.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Brad was fourteen and his father looked at him with a smile and then to his brother, David, and laughed. “I think we’re outnumbered, Dave.”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> So I answered Brad and just continued talking. We never made it to the fireplace. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> It seemed like I talked but for a few minutes, but when I glanced up at the clock, I realized I had been talking for an hour. I told them what it was like being so far away from home on Christmas day. I told them that war is a terrible thing and that I hoped that none of them would ever have to spend a Christmas day at war. I knew they probably did not catch the full meaning of my hope for them, that I did not want them to be at war in any way on Christmas day, not even at war with each other or their wives or children.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I shared with them about some of my buddies. I told them all about Sarge and how he made us pretend we were eating an enormous turkey even though we were scraping the inside of a tin can. I must have talked about Sarge a lot because Brad finally said, “Did you ever see Sarge again?” </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Without giving it much thought, I simply said “No, I didn’t see Sarge after the war.”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Do you know what happened to him?” Brad persisted.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I paused for what seemed like a hundred years. I knew I was walking a thin line, but I decided to pass on to my heirs everything I knew about war. As I heard myself begin to speak again, I thought for a moment that I was Walter Conkrite.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “Three weeks before the war ended, Sarge stepped on a booby trap. It did not kill him, but he lost his legs and what he thought was the most important part of being a man.” I tried to say it differently than Sarge would. But ten-year-old Danny didn’t miss a trick and started to laugh and giggle. “He lost his dick!” Danny shouted and then laughed uproariously like ten-year-olds do. His mother rolled her eyes and scolded him.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> But I looked at Danny and shook my head in affirmation. “You’re right, Danny. And Sarge felt so bad that on the way home on the Queen Mary, he shot himself. He damned near shot the soldier sitting next to him.”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “Oh, gross,” twelve-year-old Melissa shrieked.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “Have we had enough war stories for one Christmas?” David began to bristle again and stare at me.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Danny continued to giggle and he said one more time out loud. “He lost his dick!” The other kids giggled and laughed. The adults also finally laughed as they watched Danny roll around in his chair. Well, except for David. He got up from the table and walked into the kitchen.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I knew I had been a booby trap for David all these years, and that somehow I had robbed him of part of his manhood. So I followed David out to the kitchen where he continued to fire at me. “I think you were better when you were drunk. At least you didn’t talk about this shit.”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I wanted to tell David that he was wrong, that I was better off now talking about this shit, and had I been able to talk about it all before that maybe I wouldn’t have had to go to war with him. But in my old age, I have learned the wisdom of silence. Well, at least some times I know when to keep my mouth shut.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I just stood there next to David and put my arm around his shoulders. I started to rub the tight muscles at the base of his neck. “It’s been a wonderful day for me David. I am grateful that you allowed me to be here today and last night.” In my fantasy, David began to cry and he let me hold him, but in reality, he just stood there emotionless and then walked back into the dining room. I knew it would be awhile before David and I could connect without our bullet proof vests. I like to think that I have already discarded mine, but sometimes pride keeps even an old man from recognizing his crusty old defenses.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “So when did you meet Grandma?” Brad asked. I looked across the table at my wife of almost fifty-four years. She had been here the entire evening, but as usual, we spoke not a word to each other. I was surprised to see her looking at me with a hesitant smile. Before I could answer Brad, she started talking.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “I met your grandfather at our senior prom. He was dancing with Susan Wilson, and I was dancing with Bruce Willis.”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “The movie star?” Melissa shouted.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “No sweety. Another Bruce Willis. But he could have been a movie star. He was very handsome, but not quite as handsome as your grandfather. I just kept staring at him and finally he noticed. He started blushing when he realized what was happening. I remember thinking that he was blushing because he was falling for me too. He wanted to marry me the week before he left for overseas. But as much as I was in love with him, I told him he would have to wait till he got back. I wrote him every day for the three years he was gone.”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “Did he write you every day, Grandma?” Melissa asked.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “Yes he did, Melissa. He kept a diary of every day and of every battle. I still put that old musty book under my pillow every night, hoping that he really will come back home some day.” And then she began to cry. I sat there filling up with so much pain, I thought I might be having a heart attack. I did not know if it was the right thing to do to let it all out or if I would even survive such an event. I mustered up all the force I could and put my finger in what was once a small hole in the dike, but was now a gaping hole yearning to break open--full blown. I walked over to her and picked up that little old woman in my arms, and she screamed and all the kids laughed. Then the adults all screamed as I stumbled and almost dropped her!</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Then leave it to Danny. He shouted again, “Look at Grandpa kissing Grandma. They’re frenching.” He laughed hysterically and his mother swatted his behind. But Danny was right. I was frenching my beautiful bride who thought I was dead.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> It’s a terrible thing to live so many years a prisoner of war, but it is a wonderful thing to become free and to enjoy finally the spoils of war. I wish I wouldn’t have had to go through this experience in the first place, but I did, and as the old priest told me, “there’s a reason for everything.” I don’t know if I believe that.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I don’t know what might have happened had I not gone to war in 1942. I don’t know what kind of person I would be today. I do know what kind of person I am having been there. I know I have paid a very high price and so has my family and loved ones. I do not know how to make any good sense of it all. And this part sounds almost as incomprehensible as war itself. I can only be grateful that at this very late moment in my life, I have finally discovered the gifts of war. I am not even sure what I mean by that. I could not even tell you for sure what the gifts are except that I am finally on the verge of being free. Free in a way that I could never be, without having gone into the depths of hell. It’s only a miracle that I ever saw hands reaching out to me, no, down to me, and I was somehow able to reach back and little by little climb out. I’m not one for letting other people help me, at least not in that way. Well, maybe that’s not totally true. Maybe I was that way once, a long time ago, when I was puking after races instead of after slaughters and when figit wasn’t an acronym but something I did when I was little and afraid.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I noticed another old man like myself the other day hobbling down Fulton Avenue. We looked at each other from across the street. I nodded and he nodded back. We old soldiers who never die can spot each other a mile away, as they say.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I am not any better than him. Know that. But he is still there. He is still there.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I can only hope that perhaps through some miracle of his own, he too received the gifts of war this Christmas. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The Gifts of War: A Christmas Story</i> Copyright © 1999 by Vernon R. Bradley. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, write to Vernon Bradley, P. O. Box 48, Yucaipa, CA 92399. </span></b></div>
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Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-5978380041262833062016-12-24T15:37:00.000-08:002016-12-24T15:37:43.300-08:00GOD'S DREAM<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"> It was Christmas Eve at St. Francis which stood in the middle of what they called “Old Town,” a part of the city that was purposely unchanged since the fifties. As John walked up the center aisle of the Gothic church, he smiled at the Christmas Eve crowd and the magical odor suspended throughout the nave and sanctuary like an invisible fog. This odor of sanctity was a unique Christmas eve blend of perfumes, fresh booze, and 70 years of incense. And tonight, he would add a fresh layer of incense during the blessing of the crib.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> John was famous or infamous, depending upon your point of view, for his Christmas Eve homilies. Always something different. It was John’s preference not to spreak from the pulpit. Instead, he preferred walking back and forth in front of the first row of pews and occasionally about half way down the center aisle.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> One year, he asked the adults, who suddenly became shy, what they knew about the meaning of Christmas. The kids throughout the congregation spontaneously and proudly shouted out answers. As unmanageable as it seemed to become, John loved every minute of it as did the kids. The adults haven’t stopped talking about it, but have continued to show up for midnight Mass anyway, most likely because by the time Midnight Mass rolls around, they are all a tad or a lot tipsy, at least enough to ultimately not care what Father John might have up his sleeve this Christmas Eve.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> When it came time for the homily, John stood on the step of the sanctuary where the congregation in years past had knelt to receive communion. He stood there for a painfully long time, looking about the congregation as if he were looking for someone in particular. He would tell you that he was really looking for everyone, and he also admitted that he did derive at least a little sadistic pleasure from the discomfort that gradually rose to a dead silence. And when there was not even the sound of breathing, he stepped down into the nave and began to speak.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “What a good looking group here tonight! Merry Christmas.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The congregation laughed a little and many responded with, “Merry Christmas, Father.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> For a moment, he donned an Irish brogue. “So yar all sober are ya? Raise yar hands!”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Some folks who were obviously not sober raised their hands and most folks just laughed. A six year old in the middle of the congregation shouted out, “Mom says Dad’s not sober,” and the congregation roared as they turned around to see who the embarrassed parents were!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Well, sober ar not, we’re har tis Christmas Eve, we are, ta celebrate sometin vary special.” And with that, he smiled, cleared his throat, and set aside his brogue.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “You know, I had to study for quite a few years to become a priest, and since my ordination, I have continued to study a great many things. I have read all the great philosophers and theologians. I’ve read the scriptures in Greek, Latin, and English and studied the Hebrew and Aramaic scriptures as well. I familiarized myself with other religions like Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Taoism, Hinduism. I’ve studied the Shamans and the medicine men and women of our Native American peoples. From all my studying, I learned a lot about God, but I never really found God.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “It seems that God is nowhere to be found in a church, a synagogue, a mosque or in any religious organization, nor in any particular theology. God is even difficult to find in the Scriptures that are often packed-full of violence and holy people who are quite judgmental and self righteous. The God in the Scriptures is also quite often judgmental, angry and vengeful, worse sometimes than all the so-called false gods.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> "But I’m happy to tell you this evening, that one day, I did find God. You might even say, stumbled upon God. It was about six years ago when I had to admit to myself that I drank too much. And I was fortunate enough to find a group of folks who like me, admitted that they drank too much as well. And I started getting together with these folks almost every morning, and we would share just what it takes for us to stay sober one day at a time. And we all agree that it is a journey and spiritual journey at that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Through sharing with these other ordinary people who also found God interestingly enough at the most humbling moment of their lives, and who have decided to literally turn their lives over to the care of God in order to remain sober, I discovered that there was a door through which I could walk if I choose. That door was the entrance to my heart and my soul, to the part of me that is both mysterious and sacred. The God that I found there was not interested in judging me. In fact, this God doesn’t approve of me being afraid of Him. This God was not only willing to take care of my life, but actually whispered in my ear, 'I love you, John. I love you, John, I do. I do.'"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “I slowly found peace and serenity with this God in my heart and my soul. And I remember thinking to myself, ‘Wow! All these years of studying and I missed God completely. God was right here, all the time waiting for me, not to find Him, but to simply open my eyes and recognize Him, right there in my heart and soul.’”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Well, then something really amazing happened, like two days ago. One of the folks in this morning group of drunks I was telling you about shared this most amazing story. He was telling us that it dawned on him recently that seven Christmases ago, the woman of his dreams, who was only an acquaintance at the time, actually dreamt about him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “‘Can you believe that?’ he said. ‘The woman of my dreams, who I didn’t even know really at the time, she was actually dreaming about me. I was in her dreams. She dreamt that we were sitting together all snuggled up in front of a fire place, just watching the fire.’”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “He went on to tell us that eight months later they started a serious romantic relationship, and now six Christmases later, they’re still madly in love. They’re romantics and a couple of old folks like many of us here this evening who have been up and down the roller coaster of life through both the storms and the calm, trying to live with crazy family members and even sane ones. We all know that story, don’t we? And most of us think we’re the only sane ones in our families.” And the congregation laughed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “So why am I sharing this story with you? Well, here’s what I got out of the story. You see a few minutes ago, I talked about finding God in my own heart and soul, but after listening to this man share about the woman of his dreams dreaming about him, I realized that I have it all wrong. God is not in my heart and soul. I am in God’s heart and soul, and I am in God’s dream just like each and everyone of you are in God’s dream. So you see, there can be no way that we are separate from God. We are literally a part of God, in particular, God’s dream. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “So why did God send Jesus to us on Christmas? He didn’t send Jesus so that we could turn around and kill him and that we did. He did not send Jesus to die for our sins. I know that sounds like heresy and you can email the Bishop when you get home.” The congregation laughed. “But think about it. He sent Jesus to let us know we are not separate from God, but a part of God just like Jesus. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Our job is not to repent for our sins. But to simply come to our senses and realize that we are God’s dream and to keep ourselves precious and sacred because that is how God dreams us to be.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Oh, I could go on and on here this evening talking about how we get caught up seeing God as a judge instead of as a lover. I could go on and on about how we tend to fear God and of course, love and fear don’t mix, and God is love, right? So God and fear can’t mix either. But I think I want to keep it ever so simple as is the Christmas story itself. A babe being born and layed in a manger.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “So take a few moments, right now.” He returned to his chair, and continued talking. “Let’s all close our eyes and just let ourselves become aware. You and I are God’s dream.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> He closed his eyes and drifted off momentarily and then awoke with a startle. At first he wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He glanced at his watch and to his relief, only a few minutes. When he stood up, he quickly looked around at the congregation. They were all sitting peacefully, including the kids, with their eyes closed. He smiled to himself. And then quietly said, “Please stand.”</span>Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-61957995260867236742016-12-17T21:24:00.000-08:002016-12-17T21:31:36.017-08:00THE WIZARD OF TRUMP TOWERS:JOBS RHETORIC<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have consciously stayed out of the political discussion in recent months just because it is so insane to me and rarely speaks to facts or reality. I decided to post this today because I heard Donald Trump one more time today in Alabama, talk about money being taken from America by foreign countries, and that he will put a stop to that and bring back jobs to America. Of course, the crowd cheered. What is the crowd cheering about? Or do they give these statements any thought?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Donald Trump is an intelligent man, and he knows this rhetoric is just so much bologna (made where?). What Trump does not tell the crowd is that foreign countries are not the culprits, but it’s corporate America of which he too is a part. Very few, for example, of Trump’s own brand products are manufactured in the United States of America. Donald Trump’s claims “they don’t even make them (his brand products) here any more” is something he wishes were true, but it is not.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">(Interview with ABC, May 08, 2016, <a href="http://www.factcheck.org/2016/05/trumps-made-in-the-u-s-a-spin/" target="_blank">http://www.factcheck.org/2016/05/trumps-made-in-the-u-s-a-spin/</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Donald Trump likes to sell himself as a business man. Great. So tell the whole story. He is not interested in providing a costly wage to anyone, and his bottom line is always the success of his own business and will continue to be so, except now, his business is being President of our country, and he will do whatever it takes to make himself look good and bring cheers from crowds of folks who see him as a savior, because they buy into his rhetoric hook line and sinker and don’t realize that he is first and foremost a business man running HIS business, not their business.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As a businessman, Trump has used his name to market a wide variety of products whose prices are inflated just because of the Trump label. I have nothing against that. It’s good business. But will he make sure that he levies a 35 percent tariff on those brand products manufactured outside the United States? Or better, will he insource to American companies to manufacture his brand products and be willing to pay more than he pays in Mexico and China so that Americans can have decent-paying jobs?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I personally have nothing against outsourcing other than it is a sound business tactic to avoid taxes and labor costs with questionable regard for the folks whose labor made it possible for the corporation to become successful in the first place. But just maybe there is an intelligent and profitable-for-all “fix” for this on-going balancing act for businesses and corporations here in America. Nick Hanauer discusses this very issue in a most informative article. Read it and be surprised what this billionaire has to say to his fellow billionaires.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> <a href="http://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2014/06/the-pitchforks-are-coming-for-us-plutocrats-108014" target="_blank">http://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2014/06/the-pitchforks-are-coming-for-us-plutocrats-108014</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;">The joke of all of this discussion is that there are millions of job opportunities in our country right now, but there is a lack of qualified applicants to hire into these jobs. Why is that? That seems like a more relevant problem than the so-called lack of jobs. And why isn’t Donald Trump talking about that? Why didn’t he tell this crowd in Alabama that there are plenty of jobs, and they need to reach down inside themselves somewhere and find what it takes to go after the training to be qualified for these jobs? Yes, it would make him very unpopular. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There is plenty of room in the business world for successful entrepreneurs, and I think in our technologically- advanced era, there are an infinite number of products, some perhaps not even on the drawing board yet, that require or will require manufacturing. Can Donald Trump focus his “charisma” in inspiring entrepreneurs to develop and manufacture new products, and can he inspire our country’s labor force to go after the training they need to be hired? Let’s stop blaming other countries, for crying out loud. The problem is right here and Donald Trump is a part of the problem. Hopefully, he will choose to come from behind the curtain and be part of the solution.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Just in case you are wondering, I did not vote for Hilary! I have nothing against Donald Trump except for his same ol’ BS that all the other politicians propagate, and he like other politicians, including Hilary, have no clue about the Middle East, their culture, their way of life, their values, their religion. For hundreds of years, our only interest there has been oil and military domination, and neither of those have been even remotely successful for us. Will we ever learn? Trump’s rhetoric on the Middle East sounds like he will continue in that vein, and we will continue to lose our children to the gods of oil and the gods of war. ISIS is not the problem in the Middle East. Our ignorance about the people, the tribes, the regions of the Middle East is the problem.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I think a good place for me to stop! Thank you for reading and increasing your knowledge about political issues that we never stop to really explore and think about.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFidqZtYtm0_k64f0Me4_QC72Mr5dpx6PyPrwlXAdR1pj13avuQM3S4uw-sXTnMC3gq0bLU6khLKt-e8wRJ1UETnMqOUabxCw8_en4PC8CqFtP6AosathmQi0ZuJmoyBSXJPbzKd5y3Vw/s1600/neff+holding+sun+rev.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFidqZtYtm0_k64f0Me4_QC72Mr5dpx6PyPrwlXAdR1pj13avuQM3S4uw-sXTnMC3gq0bLU6khLKt-e8wRJ1UETnMqOUabxCw8_en4PC8CqFtP6AosathmQi0ZuJmoyBSXJPbzKd5y3Vw/s320/neff+holding+sun+rev.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The opportunities are already here.<br />
We don't need to blame other countries for the lack of jobs.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-41132680339143139252015-06-28T11:07:00.001-07:002016-12-17T20:49:06.545-08:00REFLECTIONS ON GAY MARRIAGE<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsiL-Bj1u3u4y6e263JpQfPjhVK6ev5BiFZ4xcvDQQDLOu5HcjCB5Ue8v8QhDwAMx9Ya3y7GiCwgJuC7ldG5C6me8y1Wj0eK_-ivCA4rRQciJmk7GXAOh3F4Ru7ucr32wemh9h6fp0v6E/s1600/Creation_of_Adam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsiL-Bj1u3u4y6e263JpQfPjhVK6ev5BiFZ4xcvDQQDLOu5HcjCB5Ue8v8QhDwAMx9Ya3y7GiCwgJuC7ldG5C6me8y1Wj0eK_-ivCA4rRQciJmk7GXAOh3F4Ru7ucr32wemh9h6fp0v6E/s400/Creation_of_Adam.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture copied from <a href="http://www.oddee.com/item_98643.aspx#.VY9-p4yopR4.facebook" target="_blank">Ten Famous Paintings With Hidden Codes</a></td></tr>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">I am always concerned when we, who follow the Judeo-Christian theological traditions and beliefs, use the Bible the same way the Pharisees did. Have we learned nothing from Jesus’ crucifixion? That we, as people, crucified Jesus because Jesus did not follow God’s law?</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>I am grateful we do not follow the many many many many verses in the Bible that would have us kill people as punishment for their sins as well as banish people for being unclean, for example, lepers. How is it that our human wisdom directs us NOT to follow those directives? </b></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">It is interesting to me that many of us rely upon our OWN inspired wisdom to believe that life begins at conception. The literal interpretation of Biblical verses implies that life begins when we breathe on our own and we die when we stop breathing. But we use our own inspired wisdom to go beyond what is available in the Bible to cherish our unborn children and to cherish life in general.</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>So, can we also begin to rely upon our own inspired wisdom to recognize there are “things” in God’s creation that we do not understand, for example, that ten percent of the population have a sexual orientation that is different from the other ninety percent? Why did God do that? Is God a trickster? I, for one, do not think so, and I think in this contemporary time of some level of “tolerance,” God wants us to learn from gay people and gay couples something about our own sexuality and our relationships.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The gay men with whom I associate and work with in my practice, offer a gentleness and a kindness that I just do not see in straight men, and definitely not in homophobic straight men. When I work with gay couples, it is inspiring to observe them negotiating the relationship beyond the stereotypes that the straight world brings to relationships, and most of the conflicts in marriage center around these stereotypes, some of them hard fast justified by fundamentalist “Christians” who use the Bible to justify male egocentricity and domination.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>I realize there are many many many issues here, again issues that are difficult to resolve. For example, I wonder how it works for a child raised in a gay family without that “compliment” of a mom and dad. But perhaps the issue is no more or no less a concern than the zillions of children raised in a family with a mom and a dad who never address their gender wounds which they bring to their family from their own history and inflict these wounds upon their children in so many destructive and painful ways. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>To be honest, I don’t know what to think about “gay marriage,” except that I know the gay couples with whom I work in my practice are genuinely committed to each other and love each other and can be and are as much a sign of God’s love for God’s people as heterosexual couple can be and are.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>We have yet, as a species, come to know what it looks like to love. We are getting there, and there are many concrete examples of love in our world today, and some of you demonstrate love in your daily life as well as in your relationships in many outstanding ways. But in general, we still have a long way to go. We will know we have arrived when killing people for whatever reason is no longer an option in our world, and we use all the other powers God has given us to stop those who continue to kill.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>“Gay marriage,” is not a concept or an idea. It is about people who love each other and we may not understand it, but that is not a reason to condemn it and be afraid of it, And, even if you insist upon condemning gay marriage, see if there is something else on which to spend your energy, like inviting someone you don’t like over for dinner. And yes, I know I will get a lot of invites after this post!!</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>I posted the picture of the laughing Jesus because I think sometimes, Jesus doesn’t know what to do with us, but laugh! </b></span><br />
<a href="https://www.pinterest.com/pin/162833342753050988/" target="_blank">Pinterest link for this picture</a><br />
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<br />Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-83934443680676210282015-05-17T19:11:00.004-07:002015-05-17T19:34:00.307-07:00TODAY'S SMORGASBORD<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I love smorgasbords, and today I invite you to one of those smorgasbords. Unfortunately, it’s in my head, but I really suggest you take a bite of everything. Com’on, be old fashioned and just be obedient. Trust me. I’m an old guy with some wisdom for you. Take a taste of everything.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The first dish are my thoughts about war. If I remember my history correctly, we won the Revolutionary War partly because we were humble and smart enough not to arrogantly attempt to thwart off the British by lining up in a straight row and thinking that our brute force could outmatch their brute force.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the conflicts following the Revolutionary War, it would have been so amazing if our leaders could have continued to think with their brains rather than with their weapons and perhaps by now, we would have an entire arsenal of “weapons” that did not wreak havoc and violence and destruction, but actually brought both a peaceful resolve to conflicts as well as prosperity to both us and our enemies.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This second dish are my reflections on the events in Boston this past week. I’ve heard a lot of discussion about justice finally being served. (Fits the smorgasbord metaphor!). I’m not sure I get it at all. What justice? Two brothers thought they were carrying out some wild-ass bombing raid that would somehow change the world or have them go down in history or would somehow get back at America for what? Who knows? Perhaps their entire goal was simply to humble us, to make us feel very very vulnerable, and indeed, they accomplished that. I think it is good that we know we are vulnerable. We can always learn something from vulnerability, for example, hopefully the next time, terrorist decide to take another 9-11 shot, the folks at the airline gates or the border or the subway station or wherever will be slightly more intuned. I mean I still can’t fathom how all those folks managed to board those planes. Even before 9-11, you and I would never have been able to board a plane with as much suspicion as they carried with them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">After the jury’s decision, I heard one intelligent man say that Dzhokhar Tsarnaev had won an early ticket to hell. Well, that’s kind of interesting because apparently a lot of these folks think they’re going STRAIGHT TO HEAVEN and once there, are going to hang out with a bunch of virgins. So who’s right or does it even matter? The thing I’ve never figured out is why folks like suicide bombers and other “martyrs” haven’t put it together yet. Those virgins are virgins. What makes them think they’re going to give that up once they arrive! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Do we ever stop to realize that there are people all over the world who think that justice is served every time an American soldier is killed? Do we ever stop to think how many people around the world hate us because we killed their families, their children, destroyed their homes, their neighborhoods, their city, their country as a result of so-called collateral damage?</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCJBLUPYUBNExuEgFWDTFQmFlW68T4bB-SLj7BetCzeCqBE0qtH84j6R8huiT2O0vTLu06x0n5NGbMQmzy8LuMmOJxLedd4_gk5gpQRO52UFHF9q1NEahT-9ZxIBwhmMsD6mOdh8D5XB4/s1600/54013767.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCJBLUPYUBNExuEgFWDTFQmFlW68T4bB-SLj7BetCzeCqBE0qtH84j6R8huiT2O0vTLu06x0n5NGbMQmzy8LuMmOJxLedd4_gk5gpQRO52UFHF9q1NEahT-9ZxIBwhmMsD6mOdh8D5XB4/s320/54013767.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The bomber was tried and the jury decided his fate according to federal law. That’s not Justice. That’s cowboy justice. The Hatfields and the Mccoys. And each time someone is brought to so-called justice and murdered, the cycle is propelled farther down the road of hatred, violence, and more killing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The dessert portion of the smorgasbord is about the upcoming 2016 election.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPz4PfBqepJiMzsQJJkYrxovP-pHPWcfJYsuLwvd6JPRIjJlTXV-Y0-TYbRKRZ3HiHEtaeF7X3tEY8YqR1U53ejyrc8l9nEoYC1IW6aAx8tAcgO5n2CALP3DZIpcHP8RdfC9cm6Ty7T5Y/s1600/dessert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPz4PfBqepJiMzsQJJkYrxovP-pHPWcfJYsuLwvd6JPRIjJlTXV-Y0-TYbRKRZ3HiHEtaeF7X3tEY8YqR1U53ejyrc8l9nEoYC1IW6aAx8tAcgO5n2CALP3DZIpcHP8RdfC9cm6Ty7T5Y/s320/dessert.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’m looking for a politician to come along who will outline for the American people how little we have learned from every military engagement starting from the Revolutionary War, including the pitiful Civil War, including World War I, World War II, the Korean Conflict, the Viet Nam War, down to our pointless invasions of both Iraq and Afghanistan.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We are too arrogant to acknowledge we made HUGE mistakes on so many levels. That we chose oil and power over our own sons and daughters whom we sacrificed to the gods of war. Unfortunately it’s our American mentality that believes we are either the greatest or we are going to show and convince everyone that we are the greatest by sheer brute force. This archaic mentality drives the populous support of corporate driven military strategy with little consideration for the consequences to human life and world peace. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So I’m looking for a politician who will have the courage to stand up to our brute force prowess mentality and show us how we can become much more effective around the world if we support other people being the best they can be within their own culture, their own religion, their own economy, their own borders. We did it for Japan post world war II, and we can do it again for other countries, and we can do it without going to war with them. Interestingly enough, war with Japan started over oil. Yes, read your history. Pearl Harbor was an attempt to prevent our Navy from blockading Japan's ports. World War II was not about Pearl Harbor. It was about economics, the same way our own Revolutionary War was about economics.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’m also looking for a politician who does not want to be popular, and who will outline a way for us to take care of our own citizens and to stop making it about socialism and capitalism. Taking care of our own people doesn’t have to be a philosophical debate on economics. I’m waiting for a republican politician to stand up and tell his wealthy corporate jock straps that outsourcing is, plain and simple, UNAMERICAN. I think creating jobs in other countries is absolutely awesome, but don’t do it at the cost of jobs at home. I have to admit, I am not an economist, but I run my own business and I do it well, and I know that I am not the only business on the block or in the city or in the state or in the country that can be successful. And if I wanted to open up shop in another country, I wouldn’t have to fire all my employees here to do that. Oh, I forgot. It’s about taxes. For crying out loud, get a grip. Taxes are taxes. Figure it out. I mean, you always do, so don’t use that excuse. The reason you outsource is the price of labor. You want to use people for your gain. It is that simple. I know, you’ve gotten over it and you want me to get over it too, and I have. It’s just a fact, but I’m going to keep the truth on the table, and I’m looking for a politician to come along and put that truth on the table for all of us to see.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Now we come to the beverage portion of the smorgasbord, the fine wines and spirits of myth and reality.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The truth is that you can be as wealthy as you want to be in this country, and you NEVER have to achieve your wealth by using or walking on or over other people. It is certainly one way to do it, and many folks have done it that way. But you don’t have to. I’m not much of a believer in the distribution of wealth because I think there is plenty of wealth to go around for everyone. And you gotta be willing to go after whatever amount of wealth you want, using your own creative resources instead of talking people into working for you for as little as you can pay them; convincing them that you are doing them a big favor when, in reality, they are doing you the big favor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Instead, learn to attract folks to work WITH you, along side of you, and give them the opportunity to go after whatever amount of wealth they want to have. Attract people to work with you because perhaps you have the skills to teach them how to create and enjoy wealth. It’s not about socialism or capitalism. It’s simply about hard work and dreams.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And give up our arrogant "thing" about earning. If you're rich and wealthy, don't fool yourself into thinking you earned it. Either it fell in your lap OR you saw the possibilities and went after them. Sometimes, you took out any and everyone who was in your way, including your mother. What you didn't realize is that you didn't have to do that. It's part of the power mentality that makes you think you earned and therefore deserve every and anything you want. None of us ever deserve anything and none of us ever earn anything. The creative forces of the universe are not based upon such arrogant concepts. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And if we change the notion that the poor will always be with us and stop using Jesus’ words to jock strap our maintaining a hierarchical order in economics, then we’d all have to learn to enjoy work, enjoy paying taxes for the country we have, and enjoy our wealth instead of hoarding it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Well, I hope you took a bite of everything and please let me know what was tasty and what you thought was abominable. It's the only way we can MOVE forward.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I shared my thoughts on the Boston Marathon Bombing at the time it occurred. You can check it out on this <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKs3GWcr2l8" target="_blank">You Tube Link</a> . </span>Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-47017533471990840192015-05-04T19:59:00.000-07:002015-05-05T20:55:30.142-07:00REFLECTIONS ON MY FIRST COMMUNION<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Today is the first Sunday in May. Sixty two years ago, May 3, 1953, I received my First Communion. I was seven years old and in second grade.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I remember well, the day before, going for a haircut. It seemed uneventful to me, just another haircut, but my Mom and Dad were quite upset with the haircut. Dad joked that he had no sooner sat down to read a magazine and the barber was finished.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What I remember about the haircut is it was very very short on the sides and back. It didn’t look particularly bad to me as I looked in the mirror, but Mom and Dad were so upset about it that I was left with the impression that anyone who wasn’t blind would either be shocked or would burst out laughing. In my best recollection of what the “hairdo” looked like and my current ability or inability to make sense of what happened back then, perhaps once the barber had consciously or unconsciously taken off everything on the sides, he didn’t know what to do with the top! Or maybe Dad gave him some instructions that he heard differently from Dad’s intent. Who knows? But again, it was one of those childhood experiences that I didn’t know how to make sense of only that I looked shockingly weird. It was not exactly a good framework for such a blessed occasion. Of course, that's your cue. Play the violin!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I also remember being very very nervous. Scared I might swallow some toothpaste and break my fast. Yes, remember that insanity? It was a warm morning, and the church was crowded and stuffy. I had butterflies in my stomach, and by Communion time, I was feeling a tad faint. I remember having a hard time swallowing the host which stuck to the roof of my mouth, and that made me even more nervous. I was glad when Mass was over, and we went home to celebrate with danishes from Nurmie’s bakery. But I did relish that now I could approach the communion rail with everyone else and receive Communion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Since that Sunday, sixty two years ago, I have grown in my understanding of and love and appreciation for the Eucharistic CELEBRATION and for the miracle of the Eucharist. And that understanding, love, and appreciation has not waned.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">For many years, I took Jesus to the sick, and that was always a highlight of my day even with Joe who was so lonely that he practically tied me to the chair and did everything he could to keep me from leaving. I started falling asleep on Joe, I guess as a way to escape, but it didn’t bother him in the least. Taking Jesus to Joe was always an hour to an hour and a half “ordeal.” But that ordeal did not detract from the overall joy I experienced bringing Jesus, in the form of healing bread, to folks who were bed-ridden or house-bound for one reason or another.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">On one occasion, I stood on Bob’s oxygen hose during the entire time I was saying the prayers and giving Bob the Eucharist. I sometimes exaggerate the story and say that I couldn’t figure out why Bob was turning blue. “I was bringing Bob the Bread of Life and killing him at the same time!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I actually met very interesting people with very interesting and touching stories during my ministry, and some of them even famous which was so cool because I realized that we are all in the same boat here together, no matter who we are, no matter our so-called status in this world. We are all pilgrims, and we will all become dependent some day the same way we arrived, and we will all leave some day and move on to a heaven we know little about. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">My understanding, love, and appreciation of the Eucharist has not waned, but I have almost no desire to attend “Mass.” And with the building of bigger and bigger churches as a way to avoid changing the canonical law on celibacy, Mass is just that, a mass of people looking straight ahead and having no idea what this ritual is all about, and neither does the organizational church, unfortunately. I say that because Benedict, God Bless him, took us back in the Eucharistic prayers to a pre Vatican II English version of the original Latin Mass instead of the vernacular version prescribed by Vatican II. Many important prayers and responses have lost the significant meaning embedded in the vernacular translation of Vatican II.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Here is the most profound example for me. After Vatican II, when the priest holds up the host and the cup of consecrated wine to the congregation just prior to everyone receiving communion, the priest says, “Behold the Lamb of God.....Happy are those who are called to His supper.” The congregation responds with “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">For some reason, these meaningful changes must have been threatening to Pope Benedict, and when he finally got his chance, he took the Church backwards to the pre Vatican II Latin response which reads, “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">word and my soul shall be healed.” Note, pre-Vatican II, this response was never spoken in English. And the Vatican tries to persuade us that this version of the prayer is more closely aligned with Scripture. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Well, that is really weird, because the Scriptures were not originally written in Latin, but in Greek. And in the Scripture, this verse is based upon the story of the Centurion who requests Jesus to heal his servant. When Jesus said that he would come to the Centurion’s house, the Centurion replied, “Lord I am not worthy for you to come under my roof, but only say the word and my servant will be healed.” The Centurion said nothing about his own soul nor his servant’s soul. He wanted his servant to be healed, his servant’s whole being to be healed.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Image taken from <a href="http://www.laleocafe.com/wordpress/2010/02/16/the-kingdom-of-heaven-matthew-811-the-faith-of-the-centurian/" target="_blank">Laleocafe</a></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The Vatican II vernacular response gives testimony to our belief that in the Eucharist, we receive the body of Jesus, and in our reception, Jesus heals our whole person, all of us, not just our soul.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So these new revisions have successfully taken us back to a dualism between body and soul which ultimately allows the organizational church to disregard our physical humanity, to delegate our body to a split off lesser “place” in the scheme of creation. This conceptualization of being split into different parts, one being more important than the other, goes totally contrary to our current understanding of who we are as God’s creatures and the belief that our BODIES are temples. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Not to mention that Jesus did not speak in Latin and the Gospels were most likely written originally in Aramaic or Greek and only later translated into Latin. And in translating the Scriptures into Latin, there is a richness of the Greek text that is often lost. Take the phrase in John’s Gospel, “The word was made flesh and <i>dwelt amongst us</i>.” The Greek actually says “<i>....He pitched his tent amongst us.</i>” For me, that is a profound juiciness that gets lost in the Latin translation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">This reverting back to translating Latin into a literal English version rather than a vernacular translation reinforces the word ROMAN. The fact that the organizational church continues to hang on to the identification of Roman is a clear message that the organizational church, in other words, Rome or the Vatican, is not here to inspire us, but only to CONTROL us. The Vatican DOES NOT look like Jesus in any way whatsoever, and if anyone can show me one way that the Vatican looks and acts like Jesus, I will welcome your comments. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Yes, we have a new Pope who is much like John the twenty third, but like John, he is often held captive by an organizational structure that has its own existence as the priority and not the message of the Gospel. Francis is obviously humble and connected to us common every day people, and let’s pray that he will someday dissolve the organizational structure and create a new “structure” that is representative of the way Jesus lived his life and representative of the many invitations Jesus offers us in the living word to live our lives.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I do not think that most Catholics who attend Mass and who receive Communion have even the slightest understanding that the point of the Eucharist is for us to offer, as sacrifice, our body and blood and our lives as a pleasing offering to God. The word sacrifice, by the way, means to make sacred or holy. It does not mean to destroy or give up. The meaning of “do this in remembrance of me,” has been totally lost in a notion of worship. God does not want worship. God invites us to love and to transform our lives.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Part of what we hope to gain from our attendance at the Eucharistic Celebration is some inspiration in the homily as the priest or deacon gives us some insight into the Scripture readings. In “my” Church in Yucaipa, the priest reads his homily and it appears he reads it from a book. What? Why is he afraid to take the risk to be himself and trust that we will love him no matter how good a speaker he is and to share with us what is in his heart? I know that is a huge judgment, but the reason I say this is because there is NOTHING personal in the homily. There is no shepherd speaking to us. There is NO ONE for us to follow. The words are theological diatribe that are meaningless when it comes to facing our own day-to-day struggles and the day-to-day struggles of our family, our neighborhood, our city, our State, our country. Those words teach us nothing about getting out of the parking lot after the celebration is over or even before the celebration is over.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Yes, I am going visit him and gently and humbly offer my support in working with him to give a homily from his heart and his own experience of living the Gospel, both his success and his failure, as a model for us to continue to grow and continue to hope in a world that is often hopeless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I don’t know how common it is that priests do not address the Scripture readings with an application to both their own personal lives and to our lives, but when that is lacking, the Liturgy of the word and the Eucharistic celebration simply becomes an exercise to fulfill our obligation which is also meaningless in the big scheme of things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">If we were really taking in the meaning of the Eucharist, we would be willing to make eye contact with each person standing at the end of each off ramp and actually show them with our eyes and facial expression that we love them and are willing to do SOMETHING to support them in making their lives better. SOMETHING! Perhaps ANYTHING short of judging them and avoiding them and pretending that they are not standing there. Maybe we could take the risk of giving them whatever we can afford to give them at that moment in time, whether that be food, water, our time, money, ANYTHING. Maybe, we could even give them a job!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-YPGoMbE6shmGNZzb9x_4tVG6QoS2XU1TqGi9bBzTxz-mvc5r0NoKkbcwbxGNbd_G82_pra7c4PcDDRDYZg69OP3xK2PPTIB7lYliEerJf6WvUpwNNZeoiIOSiT2fKQy8kZdLjH5NPPY/s1600/homeless+offramp.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-YPGoMbE6shmGNZzb9x_4tVG6QoS2XU1TqGi9bBzTxz-mvc5r0NoKkbcwbxGNbd_G82_pra7c4PcDDRDYZg69OP3xK2PPTIB7lYliEerJf6WvUpwNNZeoiIOSiT2fKQy8kZdLjH5NPPY/s400/homeless+offramp.JPG" height="351" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">From <a href="http://www.kwaree.com/blog/2008/01/11/meeting-craig-for-breakfast/" target="_blank">Kwaree Blog</a></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">There is a wonderful line in the movie, <b><i>Lars And The Real Girl</i></b>, where the pastor says, “We have to ask ourselves here, what would Jesus do?” If we really take in the meaning of the Eucharist, we open ourselves up to looking at everything that is going on in our world today, especially the events we cannot understand or make sense out of and ask the simple question, “What would Jesus think, what would Jesus say, what would Jesus do?” This is what we could be helped with in a homily.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I could go on and on, as many of you know. But I do not want to profess my beliefs. I do want to live my values which means my behavior, on a day-to-day basis, reflects what I say I believe in. “What you do to the least of my brothers, you do to me” is a haunting belief of mine, and one that I cannot rationalize away no matter what my brother is doing or saying. I wish this verse were equally haunting to the organizational church.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So my daily endeavor is to find ways to bring Love to the world in every situation that I encounter. For me, killing people, war, punishing people because they deserve to be punished, excommunicating people from my circle, eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, are not options. Yes, it becomes challenging then to come up with options, but the foundation for any option for me is Love, bread, and healing.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCIpxfYyWrlUVsHe2OfJ9IXRtitnND0x1XQswxErBD4uVLJXpoC72Jm8eir4oE5nrdDYh8y6DKGxEn4EkKpmI-nHDRbEthoqAyzReLUCHkJ42DMuBIgTI_ZZ-12hRdppnhM2B9pWFOXo/s1600/sunsetdansdad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCIpxfYyWrlUVsHe2OfJ9IXRtitnND0x1XQswxErBD4uVLJXpoC72Jm8eir4oE5nrdDYh8y6DKGxEn4EkKpmI-nHDRbEthoqAyzReLUCHkJ42DMuBIgTI_ZZ-12hRdppnhM2B9pWFOXo/s400/sunsetdansdad.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So, today, I celebrate, my First Communion, realizing that my First Communion was really the “day” God said, “Let there be Vern.” And God said that for each one of us, and so it is not for me to decide whether or not you deserve my love, my care, my respect, my attention, all the goodness that God has given me to offer to you. And ironically, this kind of transformation I am writing about begins with Vern deciding to love Vern the way God loved me into existence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Thank You for reading.</span></div>
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Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-70615919918533775712014-07-05T14:08:00.000-07:002014-07-05T14:08:16.672-07:00YES, YOU CAN PROMISE US, ROB FORD<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT5AkaJIYYnkQyzuKxasnfeWY7KZUVEIxe9OiUSoLyMk-RkhB5aILug0s3Tq6Q5y47K0AGwlpS_67TucX1QzB3t1hgz6tHEkPML8R-yVbC5qES0zBEtUGh_THaf-J0KrRwzuAApe0MUyo/s1600/ROB-FORD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT5AkaJIYYnkQyzuKxasnfeWY7KZUVEIxe9OiUSoLyMk-RkhB5aILug0s3Tq6Q5y47K0AGwlpS_67TucX1QzB3t1hgz6tHEkPML8R-yVbC5qES0zBEtUGh_THaf-J0KrRwzuAApe0MUyo/s1600/ROB-FORD.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo posted on <a href="http://923thedock.com/archives/38872" target="_blank">92.3 The Dock</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Toronto Mayor Rob Ford says he wants us to trust him. Really! Trust him with or about what? Trust him that he will not relapse, BUT, he is not willing to promise us that he will not drink or use again! Wow! Politician par excellence. But not really.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">That “interesting” statement (trust me) is what self-centered and narcissistic addicts proclaim when they have yet to hit bottom and are not willing to take responsibility or be accountable for their recovery. Rob throws in there a tad bit of truth, that he can’t make promises over something he has “no control.” Absolutely correct. As addicts, we are control freaks, and our addiction slaps us right smack in the face because as much as we try to convince ourselves to the contrary, we have no control over our addiction. BUT, we are still “required” by our own integrity if we have any, to be accountable and responsible for what we are going to do about something we have no control over.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What Rob DOES HAVE CONTROL over is how he is going to address his addiction and what steps is he going to take to live a lifestyle that runs counter to his addiction and a life style over which he has ABSOLUTE CONTROL. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Rob <b>CAN PROMISE US</b> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">*that he is going to attend a twelve step meeting every day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">*He can promise us that he is going to practice living other-centered rather than self-centered.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">*He can promise us that he is going to search out a God of his understanding rather than the god of his addiction.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">*He can promise us that he is going to hang out with folks who will support him living clean and sober.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">*He can promise us that he is going to have a “sponsor” who will personally walk his walk with him each day and hold him accountable and responsible for keeping his walk in line with his talk.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">*He can promise us that he is starting and leading a support meeting each day for all the other folks in his administration who are addicted to one thing or another.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">OH YES, ROB FORD, there are LOTS AND LOTS OF PROMISES YOU CAN MAKE US. So we are waiting.</span></div>
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Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-72746348066725625182014-06-20T13:13:00.000-07:002014-06-20T13:27:44.345-07:00END OF LIFE CARE<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is an article I wrote for the St. Frances X. Cabrini grief ministry's newsletter, <b><i>Good Grief</i></b>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I hear so many people today say, “I never want to be a burden to my kids....I am glad that I took care of Mom/Dad, but I wouldn’t want my kids to have to take care of me that way....If I get Alzheimers, just shoot me....I don’t see the point of suffering through the agonizing last stages of cancer let alone someone having to take care of me....I’d rather just die than to go through chemo and radiation....When there is no quality of life, what is the point?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">These statements and questions reflect our fear and our dreaded powerlessness when it comes to end-of-life issues. And they also reflect a growing trend in our society to deny those who love us the opportunity to take good care of us when we need good caring. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">They reflect our inability to “surrender” to being loved. Some of us can’t even imagine that someone wants to love us by taking good care of us. We are becoming more and more like Peter who was adamant that Jesus was NOT going to wash his feet. Unfortunately, our stubborn and ironically selfish mind set feeds a growing interest in assisted suicide as an option to end-of-life “care.” And we are also teaching the next generation that it really is preferable not to take care of our aging loved ones, but to farm them out to the growing business of “retired” and “memory care living.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We have bought into the “company line” when it comes to illness and treatment. Our very language limits our response to serious illnesses and allows only one choice: die a dreadful death. For example, we talk about “terminal illness.” Or we might even go so far as to tell someone, “you’re terminal.” So what chance of life do they have, now that we have defined their life as terminal? The language indicates that the only option is to patiently or inpatiently wait for the death train to pull into the station to take them away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The fact of the matter is that every person on the face of the earth has only THIS MOMENT. We are all terminal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And when we talk about either ourselves or someone else no longer having quality of life, what exactly do we mean? How is it that we do not experience being exquisitely cared for at the end of our life by the people who love us as QUALITY OF LIFE. What better way to leave this earth than to be loved to the nth degree? Or what if receiving that quality-of-life care, perhaps for the first time in either our adult life or our life period, becomes the catalyst to our healing and recovery from our illness?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And if you don’t see chemo or radiation as a quality of life option for yourself, there are other options, and there are many many people in the medical field who are now investigating the divine power that each of us is given to self heal. <b><i>Wishes Fulfilled</i></b>, Wayne Dyer. <b><i>The Biology of Belief</i></b>, Bruce Lipton. Y<b><i>ou Are The Placebo,</i></b> Joe Dispenza, M. D. <b><i>Mind Over Medicine: Scientific Proof You can Heal Yourself</i></b>, Lissa Rankin, M. D. There are folks like <a href="https://perfectgenediet.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Pamela MacDonald</span></a> a nurse practitioner in Northern California who uses integrative medicine to support people healing from illnesses that typically leave one doomed for certain death. And folks like <a href="http://larrydosseymd.com./" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Larry Dossy, M. D.</span></a> who integrates spirituality and medicine in his practice and believes in miracles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’m not suggesting quackery, but simply informing you of the options being offerred to us by sound and scientific people who have come to believe that when we are ill, we are more than our diseased body.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And when it comes to pain in general, the business of medicine, consciously or unconsciously, wants us in the dark about pain management that does not require drugs. So that leaves us with a reasonable enough question. If there is not a drug to remedy our pain, especially at the end of life, why stick around? What’s the point of suffering? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">There is so much that no one teaches us about pain management. For example, I can have pain, but I can choose whether or not to suffer. Whoa! Am I for reals? Yes, in fact, a new pain management program at the <a href="http://www.bettyfordcenter.org/recovery/programs/betty-ford-center-now-offers-pain-management-track.php" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Betty Ford Center, Palm Springs</span></a> teaches folks, who live with chronic pain, how to take control of the pain without medication. Really? Yes, Really!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">David Kessler, who has been working with dying people for twenty five years, says this about assisted suicide. “I don't believe that if you're getting poor pain management or inadequate end-of-life care, in a civilized society, suicide should be your best option for a good death.” You can read the <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/david-kessler/paging-dr-kevorkian_b_50213.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">entire article</span></a> online.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">What if we talked about end of life issues differently? What if we looked at being taken care of at the end of our life as a divine gift? What if we looked at the experience of having our diapers changed as a tender moment rather than something burdensome and disgusting? What if we changed our entire vocabulary to describe the end of life as a time of healing, of caring, of loving, of preparing for the journey, a journey we invite all of our loved ones to be intimately involved in, with us, right there with us? What if we, as a faith community, committed x number of hours each week or each month to be a part of one of our fellow parishioner’s end of life journey? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Why would we walk away from such beautiful people when the end comes?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In 1977, We sent Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 on a journey deep into space to explore Jupiter, Saturn, Pluto and Uranus. In 2011 and 2012, these spacecrafts each plummeted BEYOND our solar system. To this day, they continue to send back information about their voyages. It takes 17 hours for the radio signals to travel from the probes to earth, and 17 hours for earth to send command signals back. These radio signals travel at the speed of light, so you do the math. 186,000 times 3600 times 17. That’s how “far out” these probes are.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">If we can go that distance, we must have the God-given intelligence to go the distance in caring for our loved ones and go the distance in allowing our children and loved ones to care for us in our common end-of-life journeys which will take us far beyond the universe as we know it. It’s not a “far-out” idea, but one that ancient and native societies practice as a way of living. Perhaps we need to return to those ancient and native values of family and community and hold precious those at the end of their life, revere them, wave good bye to them knowing assuredly that we walked with them to the finish line. And allow ourselves the same honor and privilege.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the next article, we will explore the spirituality of end of life care.</span></div>
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Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-49124149056768741592014-04-20T00:23:00.000-07:002014-04-20T11:06:05.505-07:00HE WASHED OUR FEET<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> <b> So you attend some kind of religious service on Easter Sunday. What is that about? No, seriously, I want to know. Love to hear your answer to the question.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> More of us, at least in this country, attend some kind of religious service on Easter than on any other day of the year, including Christmas. There is standing room only. Overflow crowds gather in buildings adjacent to the main building of worship and watch the services on closed circuit big screen television. I don’t know if the collections reflect the over flowing attendance, but I would imagine they do. So not only do we attend, but we feel generous to give to an institution about which at other times we have nothing good to say.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Hey, I am not knocking it. Just curious to know why we attend and why we give?</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So you attend a lengthy vigil service on Holy Saturday evening. Or you attend a rousing service on Easter morning. Yes, rousing. Usually the music is extremely celebratory and often extra instrumentation is added to highlight the feast. Maybe even a liturgical dance is performed. There is often a renewal of some sort, in many churches a renewal of Baptismal vows. Oh, and we dress up. We really dress up. Even the guy who never dresses up, dawns a white dress shirt even if he does leave the tails out.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So what is it all about? </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> As I reflect on the way Jesus was born and died and rose from the dead and ascended into heaven, the way he walked the earth and served people, it seems pretty simple, pretty uncomplicated, pretty non liturgical, pretty non-organizational in nature, and overall, non-descript.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Well think about it. Non-descript compared to our current religious rituals and liturgies, our lavish buildings, our marketing, our collection of goods and property, and our exclusivity. Yes, exclusivity. We have rules about who is in good standing and who is not, who can attend and who cannot. We have an absolutely awful evil trail of cruelty and wickedness toward people and cultures we judge not to be in either God or the church’s good graces.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> For whatever reason, during this Paschal time, we focus our attention on the crucifixion, and what little we know of the events of Easter Morning. We don’t know much about those events because we were off hiding. Remember that part? Somehow we equate the crucifixion and the resurrection with our salvation. But if we stop and think about it, the outstanding event of Holy Week is Jesus washing our feet and inviting us to do likewise. Maybe there is our salvation. Allowing Jesus to wash our feet and then doing likewise.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So who was the last person whose feet you washed? Hey, I can’t tell you either. So I’m in the same boat. I’m just asking the questions. I’m not pretending I’m any better than the rest of us.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> For whatever reason, we could not let this gesture, the washing of our feet, sink into our hearts. We could not go with Jesus after he washed our feet and pray with him. We fell asleep! We did not get it that our Faith is not about slaying “bad guys” with our swords, but about washing feet, even the feet of our perceived enemies.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Even though Jesus washed our feet, we could not stand by Him when the soldiers came to arrest him and go with him after they arrested him. We ran and hid. We denied we knew anything about him. One of us betrayed him outright.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Jesus also invited us to heal others, not with a big show, but quietly moving about the world, laying our hands on those who are wounded, letting them be healed by what Jesus placed in our hearts when he washed our feet, just as he did for Malchus after Peter cut off his ear.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> If Jesus were to show up today, He would again wash our feet. Unfortunately, shortly after washing our feet, we would have Him arrested and taken away again. We have yet to take in what it means for Jesus to wash our feet and his invitation for us to do likewise.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Jesus absolutely does not fit into any of our church settings or worship ceremonies. It is beyond me that we don’t get that, or if we do, we ignore it. Jesus would once again decry us for our dens of thievery, our philacteries and long tassels, and for our complete lack of service.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So, we went to a service either Saturday or Sunday morning. What are we taking away from our attendance? Perhaps, there’s not much there to take away. So go back, all of us, go back, go back to that evening when Jesus washed our feet. Let us look at the simplicity of his life and his absolute commitment to serve and heal us.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Just think about it. Let it sink in. Let it sink in. He washed our feet. Told us to do likewise and to heal. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Is that something we can take away and put into practice in our own simple, non-descript way? In other words, no one has to know when we heal someone. No one has to know when we wash someone’s feet. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> What do you think?</b></span>Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-36945096265750655582014-03-21T21:32:00.002-07:002014-03-22T10:22:07.348-07:00THE MOVIE: GOD'S NOT DEAD<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>I saw the movie, <a href="http://godsnotdeadthemovie.com/blog/" target="_blank">God's Not Dead</a> this evening, and even though I disagree with many elements in the movie, it is a good film, perhaps even an excellent film. I also like the fact that the screenplay and production of the movie were purportedly motivated by the “persecution” of Christian-oriented student groups on college campuses. It seems like every other belief system is tolerated in the secular scene but Christianity.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Unfortunately, the film seems to polarize any and everyone who is not a Born Again Christian and that was distressing, very distressing to me. Any other religious sect or belief system was either discredited directly or by innuendo. </b></span><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Born again Christians are good guys and saved, and the rest of us are selfish, narcissistic, atheists and bordering on being outright evil and slaves of Satan. The dubbing (as in knighting) of the Duck Dynasty folks as spokespeople for Christianity really through me for a credibility loop.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>The story line, a debate between a philosophy professor and a student over the existence of God would have been equally powerful without polarizing ALL of God’s people into two groups. The film not only seemed to discount any other religion or faith but seemed to imply that people who do not believe in Jesus will face a certain bad fate. They took the typical theme of most stories, good versus evil, and boxed it into Born Again Christians versus the rest of the world.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>As a philosophy major in the mid to late 60's at a Catholic seminary, I am very familiar with the God is dead THEOLOGICAL movement of that era, and the film never informed the viewing audience what that phrase really meant probably because the film makers do not know themselves. The God is dead movement of the 60's actually decried the loss of the sacred in our society. “...modern secular culture had lost all sense of the sacred, lacking any sacramental meaning, no transcendental purpose, or sense of providence.” (Gabriel Vahanian, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/God_is_dead." style="background-color: red;" target="_blank">God Is Dead</a> )</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Sadly, the phrase “God is dead” was portrayed erroneously in the movie, which for someone like myself tends to tarnish the film and makes me question what the real intent of the film is.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>The debate between the freshman college student and the Philosophy professor is absolutely brilliant. Although, I was surprised that the script writers did not reference Einstein who has a lot to say about the existence of God.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>The scene when the mother with Alzheimers has a moment of clarity and shares a Scripture passage with her angry and disillusioned adult son and then reverts back to not knowing who he is, is very poignant. And the reoccurring theme of synchronicity, God acting in our lives in unsuspecting and mysterious ways, is exquisite and funny. Unfortunately, the scene depicting the middle Eastern father, who loves his daughter dearly but physically abuses and throws her out of the house for her conversion to Christianity, although well-done from a dramatic perspective, was a tad scary to me, and, as real as that religious-cultural clash is, and as real as that scene is, it made me question the overall agenda of the film. We do not need to become Crusaders. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Despite my criticisms, it is a movie well-worth watching and will stir inside you some discomfort and self examination about how far you are willing to go to not only live your faith, but be willing to tell folks, who do not believe in God, that you do. And if you have somehow been wounded in your relationship with God, it may provide an impetus for healing. Unfortunately, the polarization may also only deapen the wound.</b></span></div>
Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-68532959623614590492014-02-15T13:12:00.002-08:002014-02-15T15:44:43.622-08:00SPREAD THEM OUT....PENETRATE....SCORE!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Well, first, we had to decide if we were going to let Jackie Robinson in the locker room let alone in the showers. Well, through some miracle of the universe, we got passed that (at least I think we did!), and then we had to decide whether or not to allow women reporters into the locker room. Now that is kind of weird to me especially for guys that wear cups that make them look like ballet dancers. Who really had a problem with women in the locker room? I can imagine any number of players with that “secret” dream to be a porn star screaming to let them in and thinking to themselves, "I can fulfill all my dreams and make my honey jealous all at the same time!" And I guess we solved that huge problem with a towel!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Now, we have our next challenge. Apparently, some NFL executives and coaches FEEL uncomfortable about having a gay player in the locker room. WHAT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Isn’t this the game where a man is required to penetrate eleven other men, through the red zone no less, to score? Isn’t this the game we see a coach putting his arm around a player, pulling in him really close, whispering something in his ear, and then slapping him on the butt to send him back into the game? Isn’t this the game where one guys walks up to another guy who is bent over, bends down a tad and places his hands right smack in between his crack and the family jewels? I think that spot is called the perineum. So here’s one guy hunched over another guy who is bent over, and placing the upper side of his hand hard into his pereneum and then he barks like a dog. That is ALL perfectly okay! Really? Okay, NFL folks, what is your problem? You’re cracking me up. Sorry! It’s a pretty silly time in history to try to bring up the rear. I mean one of the guys on your team has been playing with another guys perineum for how many years, and now you’re going to get excited about a very talented gay professional football player in the locker room? Uh? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'll only make one more comment about butts. It seems that the first picture that comes up on everybody’s mental screen when they hear the word gay, is a man having anal sex with another man. Gay men are no more interested in butts than heterosexual homophobic men are interested in butts. So it is a level playing field after all!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have one last comment. NFL executives and coaches, shame on you! <a href="http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/college-football/news/20140209/michael-sam-draft-stock/" target="_blank">(See Sports Illustrated Atrticle.)</a> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">You don’t deserve anonymity. Quit being ignorant dicks and treat all your players and potential players with respect. After all, they put a ton of money in your rear pocket!</span></div>
Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-36372207459263847102014-02-10T22:57:00.002-08:002014-02-10T23:25:34.189-08:00SPIRITUALITY AT ITS BEST<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I know I talk about humility in this blog, BUT! This is going to be the best article you have ever read on spirituality!</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>And hopefully after reading this, you too will want to at least consider surrendering to Life rather than trying to control Life.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Hopefully you will begin thinking about surrendering to heaven instead of forcing your way there. Hopefully you will realize you can stop running from hell and surrender to whatever Life has to offer you at any given moment.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Hopefully you just might surrender to the gnawing urge to give up trying to be better than everyone else.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Hopefully you will consider surrendering to this very moment with the faith that there is a More, both inside of us and surrounding and sustaining us if we only let it.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>And like the baseball player, hopefully, you will decide to stop judging your success by how many times you strike out, and you will see for the first time in your life that being successful thirty percent of the time is a DAMNED GOOD BATTING AVERAGE, A HELLUVA BATTING AVERAGE.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Anonymity is an important spiritual principle in twelve step work, so I have consciously made sure that nothing I share in my story jeopardizes anyone’s anonymity except my own, and I have chosen to be seen rather than remain anonymous with careful forethought. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>I am very fortunate that I started attending Al Anon meetings before I got honest with myself and recognized I was at the “wrong” meeting! (Check out my previous blog). You see, I am as judgmental as they come, and I think, had I not developed a connection with and a liking for the folks in the Al Anon group, I might have judged my way out of any AA meeting. I would have picked a part every person there and quickly came to the conclusion that everyone was way nuttier than I, and that AA could or would not do diddly for me let alone diddly squat!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>There were many miracles happening to get me to an AA meeting. First, it was a miracle I even went to the Al Anon meetings. It was even a bigger miracle that I got to that first Al Anon meeting alive, as the person driving was blinded by the setting sun at one point, and while I was literally screaming, “Stop,” she crashed into a cement island and then laughed hysterically! I laughed too because I had crapped my pants! No, just kidding.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>So when I finally get the obvious, that it could be even more helpful to me to go to AA (although many folks participate in both, Al Anon and AA), I discover there’s an AA meeting right around the corner from my house. In fact, it’s the same morning meeting I have been recommending to my clients for the past twenty five years! No, I never went myself! How funny is that? (Or is that sad?)</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>The meeting was also held in a building that was once a small church. It was the same little church where I had stopped several times a week in the afternoon to sit and talk to God until it was decommissioned! I was furious that they had desecrated MY sacred spot by turning it into some kind of multi-purpose hall, and I was preparing to write a letter to the editor of the local newspaper with my complaint. You know, how does the House of God become decommissioned? Is that some new brand of real estate theology?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>So it was becoming a tad difficult to turn a blind eye to a God at work here, and a God with a weird and great sense of humor. I mean what do you think? Gets me to an Al Anon meeting when I really need to be going to AA, gets me damned near killed on the way to the Al Anon meeting, softens me up for a few weeks listening and relating to some powerful personal sharings at the Al Anon meeting, and then directs me to the very same little church where, for the last thirty years, I had been stopping several afternoons a week to sit and talk to God? Is that total coincidence? Or is that the kind of “proof” we all look for to know that there may not be a lot of strings, but obviously some, and God does yank them around when He or She wants.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>So I walked into my first AA meeting, naturally a little nervous, a tad protective and defensive, but also open, very open, and to my surprise there were folks there that I already knew. Wow!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>One of the first things I heard shared or proclaimed was, “God did not get sober. I did.” At first, I wasn’t sure just what the person was trying to convey, but I just about fell out of my chair laughing, but I contained myself. I wanted so badly to say, “Hey, thanks for that information. Now I get it. God is drunk and you’re running the show.”</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>I heard another person share, “I come here each morning to have fun, and if you’re not having fun, I don’t know what in the hell you’re here for!” What a wild ass thing to say? I was sold. I hadn’t laughed that hard in weeks or perhaps months or perhaps years. So AA is not a punishment for me. It’s not something I have to attend. Never even thought of it in those terms. I go to AA to have fun, and I do. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>But here was the biggest kicker of all for me. That first AA meeting was the most powerful spiritual experience I had ever had in my entire life, and each meeting continues to live up to that standard for me. Yes, spiritual experience.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>So how is it spiritual, you ask. Well, first of all, it was and continues to be a very humbling experience. Not humbling in terms of shame or feeling lowly. Humbling in the sense of sitting in a room with other people who are just like me: ordinary, flawed, searching, wanting more, sometimes weak-willed, sometimes proudful, sometimes irresponsible, and they make no bones about it. They put up no defense to disguise themselves. You never hear folks groveling about any part of their lives even though some of them have lost a great deal because of their alcoholism, a great great deal. Yes, those are the rightful consequences, and yes, these men and women are willing to take complete responsibility for their entire life. Yes entire life, the good, the bad, and the ugly. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>And whenever anyone shares, they include something about their relationship with, well, some refer to their higher power, some, to the God of their understanding, and some just refer to simply God. Everyone acknowledges that they really don’t understand who God is or what God’s make up is, but they experience God’s presence and working in his or her life, and some of these same folks admit they aren’t really sure there even is a God, but they cannot deny their experiences of God. The most common experience shared is God removing the obsession to drink.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>And they don’t talk about this relationship in theological or dogmatic terms or in pretty terms. They are just plain ol’ down and dirty in sharing their relationship with God. They talk about God as if God is their best friend or a partner or a mentor or a guide. God is never described as punishing or angry or mean or cruel or tricky or dishonest or withholding. No one seems to have a fear of God. They talk about how this relationship moves them to grow and continue to grow a selfless caring for the people in their lives, particularly the people they love and have hurt including those who no longer want anything to do with them. They talk openly about ALL the ways they have hurt other people and continue to hurt people (that’s one of the things we do as human being, right?), and the ways they go about making amends. They talk about their daily prayer life not in some task-oriented way, not in terms of some religious practice where you better pray or else. But praying has become an important part of everyone’s day.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>You know, the stereotypic Mafia hit man, big bruiser, with the Italian accent? Well, imagine that guy sharing that he gets on his hands and knees to pray every morning and every night. And when he doesn’t, his wife reminds him to. That brings a big laugh. You don’t think I felt humble listening to him? Of course, I don’t get on my hands and knees. That’s for little kids or is it? Or is that who we are? Grown-up little kids? And you know what? During the last almost four years, I have heard that same sharing from different people, over and over again to the point I have begun trying it on for size for myself.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>People share things like, “Yeah, I got pulled over for drunk driving several times, but they always let me go and well, the last time, they didn’t let me go. And I knew almost instantly, that this was the best thing that ever happened to me."</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>“Yeah,” he would say, “the best thing that ever happened to me. It woke me up and made me realize what I was doing to my wife and to my kids and to all of you by being a drunk.”</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>And people share how God has lead them back to a life that includes a job, having enough money to pay the bills, being able to once again be a contributor, being able to hold their head up high, being proud to be out in public with their loved ones and family, knowing that no matter how challenging starting over is, God keeps giving them a sense of hope and confidence like they have never experienced before.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Oh, here’s another kicker. You’re not going to believe this one either. Every person shares how SERVICE to others is the final piece in the puzzle. Without service, sobriety remains incomplete. Service? Yes, service. If I want to remain sober, I better be doing something for my fellow human beings, something that benefits me nothing, except ironically, the final piece to my sobriety. And one better! Don’t tell anyone when you do something to serve others. Keep it to yourself!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>I knew that what I was hearing here on that first morning, and continue to hear, was and is real and coming from down deep inside each person’s soul. God was in this room in a way that I had never experienced in any church or any church service.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Now you got to understand, these folks are not what we think of when we think alcoholic. This AA fellowship represents the entire gamot of our little town including those alcoholic stereotypes. But everyone in this fellowship is seen and respected as an equal human being no matter their wealth or their poverty, no matter their formal education. Everyone is considered wise and having much to offer spiritually. And we listen intently to each person for what they give us. There are no priests or reverends in this spiritual gathering. There are no chosen authorities to whom we better listen. We are all a part of this gathering and simultaneously a part of something bigger than any of us individually.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>So it is no longer MY sobriety, MY journey. The same way that we all get it that Love is not a singular journey. Love exists in a relationship, obviously. So too, sobriety is not a singular journey. When you make it a singular journey, you are indeed sober, but walking around with hairs up your ass and you drive everyone absolutely insane, and you can never figure out why because after all, you’re sober just like everyone wants you to be. But you’re resentful about your sobriety. You’re proudful about your sobriety as if you did it all by yourself.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>I know all about sobriety ALL BY MYSELF (See the previous blog). This time around I decided not to go it alone. I have come to realize that sobriety is a connection to my highest self, so to speak, and that connection demands yet another connection to other human beings. My sobriety has also become my connection to God even if I don’t believe in God. That’s perfectly okay because I am still connected and I get it. I’m connected to “something” I’m not sure I even believe in, but somewhere in my soul, which I might not believe in either, I know there is an indisputable connection that has allowed me to accomplish what I never thought achievable before.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Even though at this moment in my life, I have no doubts about God’s existence and presence, I wrote the above paragraph the way I did because I know most of us have those questions and doubts. And they may come and go. Sometimes they are like fuzzy shadows and sometimes they are like absolute darkness. But that’s what is so profound about the spirituality of twelve steps. You do not have to be certain about God in order to connect to God. How is that for one big paradox or oxymoron? But that, my reader, is spirituality at its best!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Thanks again, to Phillip Seymour Hoffman for giving his life so I might be inspired to write about sobriety. There will be more.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>THANK YOU FOR READING AND THANK YOU for looking at where you are spiritually.</b></span></div>
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Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-25667027794692296522014-02-09T13:58:00.001-08:002014-02-09T18:30:54.896-08:00A TRIBUTE TO PHILLIP SEYMOUR HOFFMAN<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyY0On-XVz5YeOGo7IQfvN-On_Ex3xPpWJqXaSy_PmIbPGZIxkzmr9w04tj-dAw1GBVhtmHA8lcvYW_fLlstQc6UlEOuHMZkof-S9xw8MLIKGheNv1LU3BYiAoPitVIO9s5qgNlzcQZs0/s1600/philip+seymour+hoffman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyY0On-XVz5YeOGo7IQfvN-On_Ex3xPpWJqXaSy_PmIbPGZIxkzmr9w04tj-dAw1GBVhtmHA8lcvYW_fLlstQc6UlEOuHMZkof-S9xw8MLIKGheNv1LU3BYiAoPitVIO9s5qgNlzcQZs0/s1600/philip+seymour+hoffman.jpg" height="320" width="272" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture taken from <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/new-york/philip-seymour-hoffman-found-dead-new-york-city-apartment-report-article-1.1599537?utm_content=bufferacee8&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_campaign=buffer" target="_blank">DAILY NEWS ARTICLE</a> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> We like to convince ourselves that our sons and daughters die on the battle field for good reason. Those of you who know me know how much I think that is bunk, and that we should be on our hands and knees to our sons and daughters seeking their forgiveness for offering them up just because we, as a nation, still do not know how to resolve conflict.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> But for today, I am going to run with that notion that sometimes people die for good reason, and I am going to say that Phillip Seymour Hoffman died on the battle field of addiction so you and I might be SOBER at least for today. Maybe it is through his death that we find the courage to get off the battlefield and come home. And I don't mean that cynically, sarcastically, tongue in cheek, ironically, paradoxically. I mean it sincerely.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> In June, 1987, I attended a workshop presented by Claudia Black. At the time, I was forty-two years old and had been drinking daily since age twenty three and frequently drinking to the point of getting sick. I left that workshop knowing that I would never drink again.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> I began to literally enjoy being sober and feeling sober. I never wanted to experience that “buzz” again. Looking at the buzz from my sober memory, I realized that the buzz left me feeling off-balanced and disconnected from important parts of myself, my brain for one, and my mind and soul for two and three. I began to experience a sense of wholeness about myself that I had never experienced before.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> This journey into sobriety was not a self-righteous journey. I did not look down my nose on my friends and family who continued to drink, some quite heavily. I was simply clear about what I truly wanted for my life. I changed the way I ate. I began exercising and lost considerable weight. I thought I was beginning to look like the man I wanted to be. And I did it all BY MYSELF. No program, no meetings, no outside help, no rehab, just ME walking MY journey. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Seven years into MY sobriety, I decided to have <i>A</i> glass of wine. And I did, ONE SMALL glass of wine. That was it. In the days that followed my one glass of wine, I thought to myself, “I can do this. I can have one glass of wine. I am not an alcoholic after all.” I’m not sure what the “this” was when I said to myself “I can do this.”</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Sixteen years later, my liver was screaming. I was waking up in the morning wondering who drank with me the night before because I would find a wine glass, half-full, patiently resting right next to where I had fallen asleep (or blacked out) on the couch. Secretly, I knew the glass could not possibly be mine because I would never leave a half-glass of wine! And secretly, I knew I could not drink <i>A</i> glass of wine.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> I looked in the mirror each morning secretly wondering if I looked like an alcoholic. I did not bother to look into the night before where I poured myself two scotches on the rocks prior to guzzling enough wine straight from the bottle to leave approximately two glasses plus a splash for the bottom. You see, I knew that a normal person could drink about two glasses of wine over the course of the evening and not be in trouble. So I drank my two glasses and left that splash sloshing around the very bottom of the bottle, proof positive I did not drink an entire bottle of wine by myself. I don’t know why I thought the scotch somehow didn’t count! I guess a good alcoholic always has any number of invisible or stealth drinks. You know, like a thirty pack is just a couple of beers!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> During these sixteen years of relapse, I wanted more than anything to feel sober again. I would stop drinking for a day, two days, a week, six weeks, but the obsession for just one glass always took me for that wonderful ride that wiped out every stress, every worry, every drop of sadness, every pound of hurt, disappointment, disillusionment, self doubt, guilt, shame, old anger, old pain, new fear and old fear. I mean a couple of shots of Glenlivet single malt scotch and a “glass” of Folie a Deux’s Menage a Trois, were better than any pharmaceutical available.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> What happened next is interesting to say the least and probably just downright miraculous. I was lucky that I did not end up in jail, probably could have benefited from rehab. Where I did end up was an Al Anon meeting. Now, in case you don’t know, Al Anon is a meeting for folks who have a difficult time living with an alcoholic! With me!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> I wasn’t drunk when I went to that meeting, but I wasn’t sober either. I went to that meeting under the guise of supporting a friend who was leading the meeting that night. Oh how God works! That Al Anon meeting was exactly the place I needed to be to begin my journey back home to sobriety. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> I began attending those Al Anon meetings weekly, listening intently to very raw sharings, which unexpectedly triggered incredible sadness and tears for me, and I became starkly aware of the impact of alcohol on my entire life.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> My Uncle was the classic falling down drunk. But I loved him dearly. He bought me my first lunch pail and my first bicycle. When he came to visit, he took me with him everywhere he went including every bar along his “itinerary,” and of course, we got thrown out of every bar which initially I found quite exciting. It was sort of like a cowboy movie! “I’m sorry, sir, we can’t serve him.” Uncle Herman would let lose with the expletives. “God dammit, he doesn’t want a god dammed drink. He just wants a coke, right Butch?” I would shake my head yes and hold my breath!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> My Dad, on the other hand, was the classic sophisticated controlled alcoholic. He carefully measured every shot and counted every drink. First, the scotch and sodas, and then the wine with dinner. He drank only the best scotch and only premium wine. Whenever he broke out the champagne, he was a zillion laughs, quite funny. But day-to-day, he was moody, emotionally distant, and it was my Mom’s job to keep him isolated from us kids when he came home from work, not because he was mean and she was afraid he would hurt us, but because he wanted to be alone. He wanted peace and quiet, and he found that peace and quiet in alcohol.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> At some point in our growing up years, my sisters and I were all introduced to alcohol. First to wine with dinner and eventually to cocktails (I loved Manhattans!) on special occasions, and champagne, lots of champagne, on even more special occasions. For better and for worse, through Al Anon, I became aware that alcohol had been a significant part of my every day life for as long as I could remember.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> I actually continued to drink after the first couple of Al Anon meetings. In fact, I drank quite heavily. The bubbling pain was too intense, but somehow or another, my addicted brain was able to say out loud, “This is nuts!” So on September 17, 2010, I began my journey home to sobriety once again, and two weeks later, I went to my first AA meeting.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> As I share my story with you, I place no blame on my Uncle or my Dad, nor myself, for that matter. It’s ALL just part of my story. Are Uncle Herman and Dad the cause of my alcoholism? Am I genetically predisposed to alcoholism? Do I have a disordered addictive brain? Did I ever have control over my drinking and lost control? Did I have choices along the way, to drink or not to drink? At what point did the addiction take over my free will or my ability to make choices?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> These are all interesting, yes interesting questions. If we are in any way touched by addiction, we are driven to answer these questions. We want to find the cause, we want to find the thing(s) or person(s) to blame, we want to find the genetic link, we want to find compassion and or excuses for the person trapped in the chains of addiction, or we are just outrageously angry with them and blame them for being so shamefully out of control, so selfishly choosing guaranteed “death” for both themselves and the people who love them.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> And this is the absolute insidiousness and power of addiction. It MAKES NO SENSE, and there are no answers. Once an addiction becomes part of the equation, whatever the equation is, your relationships, your dreams, your goals, your life, nothing, NOTHING, absolutely nothing, NOTHING, NOTHING, NOTHING will ever add up or make sense.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> This is so difficult for us to accept because our brains are driven to make sense out of every and anything we cannot make sense out of. When we cannot make sense out of something, we are powerless over it. Ugh! I know you didn’t want to hear or read that! Sorry!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> When it comes to addiction, it is pointless to blame, it is pointless to search the neuropathways of the brain, the swirling chains and links of genes, it is pointless to beg, plead, threaten, shame, guilt, it is all just plane pointless. Perhaps addiction, like nothing else in our lives, takes us right up to that edge, right up to that wall where I can go no farther nor further on my own. It’s me against myself. It is me against the universe. As Ziggy once said, “I think we’re gonna get creamed!” This is the edge, the wall, where I realize I am an important but small piece in the big scheme of things, but I am not it, I am not all powerful. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So am I saying that when it comes to addiction, we are all victims? Did you hear me say that? Did you read me saying that? Isn’t it interesting that that is where some of us go? Immediately, no less!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> I AM saying that there are places or times in our life or in our world or in the universe in general where we are powerless and the way through that moment is to embrace the powerlessness. Embracing the powerlessness is not the same as embracing hopelessness or helplessness. It is not the same as dismissing all the power I do have. It is not the same as crying uncle. It is not the same as defeat. It is simply recognizing that I have come to an edge or hit a wall in my existence. It is like the scene in Harry Potter when he must get to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MTykayOv_XA" target="_blank">Platform 9 3/4</a> </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Embracing my powerlessness is simply acknowledging that I am not God. Whether or not God exists, whether or not I even believe in God, I accept, for certain, I am not God.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> It is a moment of faith, faith in the reality that there is something more; faith in the reality that I am something more; faith in the reality that I am not the sum of all of my unmet needs; I am not the sum of all my critics, including the critical voices inside my brain; faith that I am not the sum of all my decisions, right, wrong, and indifferent; faith that I am not the sum of all my accomplishments and failures; faith that I am just plain MORE, and finally, acceptance that my addiction, whatever it is, will never get me to that more. My addiction will never take me to platform 9 3/4. My addiction, as high as it might take me, as low as it might take me, will never get me to heaven or hell. It will always leave me STUCK at the base of that wall.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> It reminds me of yet another movie scene, the end of <i>Episode V </i>of <i>Star Wars</i>, where Luke is battling Darth Vader and has virtually no choice but to hang on and submit to Darth Vader or to let go and tumble into an abyss that seemingly will also bring certain death. So he lets go, and yes, down into the abyss he goes. And, of course, he does not die. In fact he is literally “snatched up” at the bottom of the abyss.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So hitting the wall is a good thing. Sometimes folks refer to it as hitting bottom. It is the place where we are willing, speaking of free will, to at least imagine that there might be a power which I cannot access through any scientific, moral, motivational or religious pathways. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So, do I think I finally have it? Sobriety? Do I think I finally embraced my powerlessness? I have for this very moment and it’s not something I am proud of or brag about, but something I am humbly grateful for.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Am I better than Phillip Seymour Hoffman? Are you kidding me? So, then, what is the story of folks like Phillip Seymour Hoffman? Well, we go right back to you and me trying the impossible, to make sense out of addiction.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> What do I think happens to folks like Phillip Seymour Hoffman? Do they go to hell? Do they get to come back and give it another try till they get it right?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> You know what? I do not need to be so smart to have those answers and for me to try to come up with those answers is simply one big act of grandiosity.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> I once told a panhandler sitting outside of Starbucks (a pretty smart place to panhandle by the way), that I was giving him money under one condition. If I were in his “boat” next week, he had to share that spot with me. And I was serious. Life is mysterious and tenuous, you know, and that is what I do know for certain. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So is this it? This is all I have to say on the topic? No, I am going to continue with several more blogs, sharing with you my moment-to-moment journey of sobriety and what has sustained me. So be looking for the sequels!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Thank you for reading and thank you for taking something away for yourself and your own recovery whatever you are recovering from. And thank you, Phillip Seymour Hoffman for giving your life that I might continue to discover the path of sobriety and most importantly discovering that it is not MY sobriety nor MY path.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>THANK YOU.</b></span></div>
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Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-87137950445908188932014-02-03T11:07:00.004-08:002020-05-25T21:15:32.180-07:00WE ARE ALL SITTING DUCKS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>IT'S BEEN ALMOST SIX YEARS SINCE I POSTED THIS ARTICLE ON RELAPSE. When I scanned the article, I realized that the wonderful definition of addiction from John Bradshaw was missing. So here it is.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>ADDICTION is anything we do TO ALTER OUR MOOD, but..... Here's kicker! So, anything we do to alter our mood, BUT with life-damaging consequences! Think about that! I really like that definition!</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> When it comes to relapse, we are all sitting ducks. It's like driving on a narrow windy mountain road with no guard rail. Even the best driver sometimes.... </b></span></div>
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<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> So what is relapse?</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> I can tell you this, it is NOT about will power! </b></span></div>
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<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> Whatever drives us into addiction in the first place, also drives us into relapse. And absolutely yes, I can never blame what drives me. I ultimately take responsibility for my choices even when I have lost the awareness that I have choices.</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> What drives every addiction and relapse is PAIN and typically OLD PAIN. We all walk around with old pain. It is stored in a part of our brain that we do not have conscious access to. That place is called the amygdala.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> How does that happen? Well, when we survive an over-the-top experience, the chemistry necessary to weave the experience (both the emotions and the story line) into our memory is neutralized by all the stress hormones flowing at the time, so the emotions associated with the experience never get processed into our explicit memory, but instead sit in their raw form in our amygdala, just waiting to be fired off in response to anything that even remotely reminds the brain of the original pain.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> When old pain gets fired off, we have no way of knowing it is old pain because it feels very very present, and the pain is real. Yes, all pain is in our head. What else is new? It still hurts!</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Is there a way to get that old pain out of the amygdala and processed into our explicit memory? Absolutely. First of all, I have to begin recognizing it is old pain. I want to take note of those certain emotions that keep getting triggered over and over again, like anger or feelings of worthlessness or shame or guilt. I have to begin telling myself, “I am just too reactive here. This must be old pain.”</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So once I identify old pain, then I create a story line to weave with the pain. And what if I don’t remember or know the story line? Well, you can ask relatives and family friends what they know about your “story.” And if they refuse to tell you, you can pretty much make up a story based upon the nature of the pain. I mean there are only so many stories that fit particular kinds of pain. And it doesn’t matter if you are correct. You don’t have to have all the facts. We’re not going to court here. We simply want to weave the pain together with a story line, any story line, so the emotion and the story can be laid to rest in our memory, and we are no longer reactive or vulnerable to being triggered.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> O my God, you are concerned about truth! Get a grip. There is only one truth. You are walking around with old pain which eventually is going to kill you or someone else. That is the most important truth. So weave it together however you can.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> You know what is really crazy? Some of us do remember the painful events. We remember them quite quite clearly which is a miracle in and of itself because it is more likely that the stress hormones pumping at the time of the event would have neutralized the brain chemistry necessary for memory. So yes, we remember, and if we could make a story out of what we remember, the weaving process could take place, and again, the painful event could be laid to rest in our memory in a way that it is no longer a trigger.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> But when we try to tell our story, when we try to check out our story, what does everyone tell us? They tell us we are remembering incorrectly. We are told that what happened to us happens to everyone, so no big deal. We are told to stop crying over the past. We are told that if we had any sense, we would let this painful event make a better man or woman out of us. When it comes to soldiers and first responders, we tell them NOT TO TALK, but to simply BURY THIS SHIT. That is what we tell them. Yes, those are the very words a World War Two Veteran told his son, a Viet Nam Vet, who was literally dying to talk about his experiences in Nam.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So it is like we have unwritten rules that tell us it is better to walk around with old pain and triggers than it is to find a way to lay the old pain to rest.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So the flavor of our discussion so far sort of implies that old pain comes from really over-the-top events like childhood abandonment and abuse, lack of early attachment experiences, some kind of terrifying accident or act of Nature, medical procedures, deaths of loved ones, being in the midst of a war, living in poverty, living in subhuman conditions, and so on. </b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> But much of our old pain comes from equally disturbing events but of a different kind. They are wounds that erupt ironically from “stories” that people make up about our character, our heart, our ambitions, and our dreams and unfortunately, we buy into these character assassinations hook, line, and sinker.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So, like what, you ask? Well, for example, being told that I do not measure up or that I will never measure up. Getting the clear message that whatever I accomplish is never good enough or basically that I am not good enough. Being told directly or indirectly that I will never be as good as my sister or my brother or I will never be the man my father is or the woman my mother is. Being told either directly or by implication that I am not very pretty or handsome or that I am fat (even when I am not), awkward, stupid, crazy, defiant, mentally ill, selfish, without talent (picked last for everything). Being told, at a moment I am genuinely apologizing and making amends, that I have never been sorry for anything in my life. Being told, after a large audience congratulates me on an inspiring presentation, that I was inappropriate in my language and delivery by one or two people into whose hands, for whatever reason, I have surrendered my self worth. These are the events, some of them occurring and reoccurring, that we never diagnose as deep deep wounds. </b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> When we hear these death sentences from a very early age and then again and again in our adult life, we walk around with a kind of low grade anxiety that whispers and warns us that we cannot accomplish what we set out to or when we do, this low grade anxiety literally challenges the reality of our accomplishments. Then we slip into an undefinable depression which we nor anyone else can make sense out of. So we find refuge in concluding that we must have a chemical imbalance.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So I win an Oscar for my performance, but it’s not enough for the little voice, and so I assume it must not be enough for anyone else, and then that pervasive sense of not being good enough surges like a tidal wave. </b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Unless we can find a way to look these “pains” and these voices in the eye, so to speak, they will haunt us for the rest of our lives and always beckon us toward addiction and relapse.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> There is something else, perhaps even more insidious, that invites relapse. When we are successful, that same little voice taunts us that the success will not last. The little voice drives us to find a way to make the accomplished feeling last, so we turn to our addiction to keep the high of the accomplishment going. It is a devastating way to celebrate our accomplish-</b></span><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ment.</b></span></div>
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<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> It is amazing when old pain gets triggered. I, for one, cannot believe that pain, that is so old, and that I thought I had already woven into the fabric of my being, can still get triggered and leave me feeling sad, I mean SAD, depressed, like a complete failure, like I am worthless, unlovable, unlikable, ugly, fat, and every other negative descriptor in the Thesaurus. </span></b></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>So there is one more critical piece for recovery and avoiding relapse that is important for us to look at and explore. Just like I was willing to venture into the bottle (of pills or booze), into the syringe, into the smoke, into the food, into the craps table, into compulsive sex, into religion even, I must be willing to venture forth into the realm of the spiritual.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So here’s what I am talking about. When I write a short story or professional book, a poem, when I compose a song, I am more and more amazed at what comes out onto the page or onto the staff. It becomes clearer and clearer that I am not the author or the composer. I know there is an Author or Composer much greater than me that is sending the inspiration through my brain, through my musical ear, through my fingers on to the computer screen. Yes, I am a small part of life (with a small “l”), and there is a Life out there with a capital “L.” For me, I call that Life, God or sometimes my Senior Partner or sometimes, Love. When I journal in the morning, for example, I begin with “Dear Love.”</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So almost every day, I come to places in my life where I hit the wall. When I hit that wall, old pain is immediately triggered, triggered in relationships, triggered in both business successes and failures, triggered dealing with my aging body, triggered in my fears, my disappointments, my dreams that seem dashed or far away. I consider everything I know to do myself. Blow up the wall, walk away from the relationships, push through, envision a miracle happening in my body but I do the envisioning with so much stress that I undermine my own miracle. If I am lucky, I tap myself on the shoulder. If I am really lucky, a friend or loved one taps me on the shoulder. If I am really aware, I stop. I stop trying to get passed that wall. I stop trying to get over it. I stop trying to go through it. I literally surrender to my own efforts and reach, reach, reach to Life, to God, to my Senior Partner, to Love, to what some folks refer to as their Higher Power or to God as they understand God. And I let myself have faith that my Senior Partner will reach back. And my Senior Partner always does.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> When I lose that connection with my Senior Partner in my daily life, in my daily recovery, I am a sitting duck for relapse. And I have to humbly tell you, and I hope you can humbly acknowledge for yourself, I am and we are all sitting ducks. Just like any relationship, staying connected spiritually takes daily commitment and work.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So embrace your old pain. Create a story about it. Don’t let anyone critique your story. It is your story. And reach out to Life, to God. Let your Senior Partner take your hand and walk with you and carry you just like in the poem <i>Footprints</i>.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> This surrendering costs you nothing. You lose nothing, not your personal power, not your will, not your ambition, not your dreams, not your abilities or talents. You lose nothing. Ironically, you gain it all including a Senior Partner. How cool is that?</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> And you know how I get passed that part of myself that refuses to surrender? It is not in solitude or meditation. It isn’t something I learned on my own. I learned and relearn to surrender by humbly sitting in a gathering of other sitting ducks, humbly listening, humbly sharing, and becoming aware that I truly am not alone on my journey. My Senior Partner has a billion hands.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>THANK YOU FOR READING.</b></span></div>
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Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-21512089089987368192014-02-02T13:02:00.004-08:002014-02-02T19:32:26.689-08:00A SYRINGE WITH HEROIN STUCK IN HIS ARM<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: blue;"> </span><span style="color: white;"> Of course it’s not your job to keep people from committing suicide! Or is it? I know, as a therapist, people can talk about killing themselves all they want to in the therapy session, but once they say, “Hey, thanks for everything, I’m out of here (going to kill myself),” then it is my legal obligation to do whatever it takes to keep that person from killing him or herself. I resent the heck out of that. That is so crazy to me, or is it?</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Well, I decided today to stop bearing the burden alone. It is up to EVERYONE of us to keep people from killing themselves. Of course, people have free will. Of course, people are going to continue to kill themselves. And I’m not talking about taking over the responsibility of your significant other’s pain pills and dishing them out so they won’t overdose because they do overdose every time they have a chance. Go to Nar anon, now! Contrary to what you think I have said so far, it is not our responsibility to keep someone else alive UNLESS.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> So here is the UNLESS.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Begin by asking yourself, why are so many folks in our country, in our immediate family, in our extended family, in our circle of friends ADDICTED to every and anything including food, television, exercise, church, sex, gambling, drugs, pills, alcohol, facebook, ad infinitum?</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Begin by asking yourself a similar question. Why am I ADDICTED to everything including.....?</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Begin listening to every word that comes out of your mouth. Dom Miguel Ruiz in <i>The Four Agreements</i> invites us to be impeccable in our word. Powerful invitation. What are we saying to our infants? Remember, they cannot process the words, but they process the emotion from seven months in the womb. Yes, I am not making that up. </b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> What do we say to our toddlers when we are frustrated with them? What are we saying to our school age children especially when we are under the influence of our own addiction? Listen to yourself.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> What are we saying to our teenagers? What are we saying to our significant others when they put on weight, when they fall apart for whatever reason, when they don’t measure up? </b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> What do we say to ourselves when we look in the mirror each morning or do we avoid looking in the mirror like the plague?</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> What do we say to our neighbors who look, think, and believe differently from us? What do we say about different people when we are under the influence of our own addiction?</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> What do we say to our children whom we continue to righteously sacrifice to the gods of war? President Obama ought to be ashamed of himself for using Sergeant First Class Cory Remsburg as a center peace for justifying war. I am glad Cory received such an amazing standing ovation, BUT. Yes, BUT. Instead of thanking him for defending our freedoms which is bull, we should be on our hands and knees APOLOGIZING that we are willing to sacrifice our children because we are too ignorant to resolve conflict other than the archaic means of going to war. Come on, folks, don’t be stupid here. Read your history, especially the last 100 years. War has accomplished nothing. Economic investment has, and guess why Iran is even willing to talk a little bit. They want their money!! Best move we ever made. What an effective weapon! Much more powerful than saber rattling or any other kind of gun, bullet, missile, bomb, troops, tanks. Nothing matches the power of MONEY! And it is money that drives us into war, NOT FREEDOM. Get a grip and use your intelligence, for crying out loud. It’s not difficult to figure out. Right, Mr. Cheny?</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> And if you want to play the Hitler card, then by all means, know your history. Learn how much American money actually supported Hitler. Yes! Learn how Hitler was inevitable because of our revenge mentality after World War I. Look at the fact that 532 California veterans over age 80 committed suicide between 2005 and 2008. </b></span><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/(http://newamericamedia.org/2010/11/suicide-rates-soar-among-wwii-vets-records-show.php)" target="_blank">Check it out!</a></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> YES. There’s a lot here that none of us want to look at. Of course not, because then we would have to take on a new kind of responsibility. </b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Then look at the medical industry. Why is it that people with chronic pain become addicted? PILLS, pills that make us feel really really good. I know of only one, and there maybe others, pain management program that teaches pain management without ANY DRUGS. This is not a commercial, but it is part of the Betty Ford Center in Palm Springs. There you learn how to use the most powerful drugs available. The ones in YOUR BRAIN. </b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Let’s go back to what comes out of our mouths. And let’s expand that to what comes out of my eyes, my body language in general, my heart, my mind. What am I doing today to create a climate around myself where in the people I know, the people I meet, the people I bump into, the people I stand next to in the check out line, the people I am driving behind on the freeway, the people I LOVE, WHAT AM I DOING TO CREATE A CLIMATE WHEREIN ALL THOSE PEOPLE ARE BOMBARDED WITH A DESIRE TO BE ALIVE AND TO LIVE?</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Obviously, there was not a rich enough climate, maybe going back years and years, to generate that desire to live for Philip Seymour Hoffman. We have work to do, folks. Will you join me? Will you become conscious of the life-giving or the death-giving climate that you create around yourself today? When it comes to the climate that we create around ourselves, most of us could use some climate change and global warming! THANK YOU FOR LISTENING and really THANK YOU FOR DECIDING TO MAKE A CHANGE IN YOUR LIFE. </b></span> </span></div>
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<a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/new-york/philip-seymour-hoffman-found-dead-new-york-city-apartment-report-article-1.1599537?utm_content=bufferacee8&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_campaign=buffer" target="_blank"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;">Picture taken from Daily News Article</span></a></div>
Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-23056760401762424942013-12-26T17:09:00.001-08:002014-01-11T14:38:08.980-08:00NO PLACE ELSE<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"> He sat there holding an old cardboard box and a sign, his face weather-worn, tanned and splotched with fresh sunburn, his eyes vacant, staring off into the distance somewhere, and his clothes matched his assumed occupation: lazy, hopeless, shameless bum, homeless or otherwise, and con artist. His assumed occupation also matched several other assumptions. He was an alky or drug addict or both, possibly schizophrenic, and maybe even dangerous. Any money collected, or earned as I would say, went to support his habit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> He did not pay rent on this small but valuable square foot of real estate, and he made no attempt to make eye contact with drivers coming up to the end of the off ramp as it intersected with Fortieth Street near Telegraph. </span><span style="font-size: large;">He had camped out here almost daily for about six months. On a good day, his take-home pay was about a hundred dollars. On a slow day, he managed a measly five dollars. It was hard work and tricky business especially avoiding Solomon, who had crowned himself King of the territory. Anyone panhandling in Temescal was required to give Solomon fifty percent of the take or face the consequences. That could mean a good beating, but it could also mean death. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> He was really no match for Solomon who towered to six feet, eight, with a beard that the birds and the rats could nest in comfortably. But Solomon decided to leave him alone after their first encounter. No one would tell me what had happened, just that Solomon had spread the word. “He’s hands off. Leave him alone if you know what’s good for you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I first learned about him while putting together my series on the homeless, and one day, just out of curiosity, I followed him at the end of his “shift.” He walked quickly down Fortieth street with a kind of rhythmic gimp, and took a right onto Ruby Street where he disappeared, like a ghost, into the space between an apartment complex at 3901 and an adjacent house. Of course, I thought it was strange, but I wasn’t about to venture into that dark space, and I had little desire to wait till morning to see if he might emerge from the same spot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;"> But that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about him just disappearing into the darkness like that. So yes, I got up before the sun. The moon was still hanging out, and I parked my car directly across the street from 3901 Ruby street. But my sleepless night got the better of me and I dozed off. When I opened my eyes, there he was already walking up Ruby Street to Fortieth. I missed it! </span><span style="font-size: large;">But seeing him walk up the street carrying his sign and box was going to be proof enough for me that he lived somewhere in that space between those two buildings. That’s all I needed to know or wanted to know really.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Yes, I am a reporter and cover a variety of beats, some dangerous, but my wife’s voice lingers in my ear. “A Pulitzer prize would be nice, honey, but having you alive is even better.” Of course, there is a story there. I’ll give you a hint. It involves a local Mafia figure who purportedly has Jimmy Hoffa’s head in his freezer. Does that get your curiosity itching? It certainly tugged at mine for awhile, and the more I chipped away at the story, excuse the pun, I began to see my head in the freezer as well. Yes, that’s all I am going to say. Sorry!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> So, my series on the homeless caused quite the stir when I told my television audience that panhandling was work, perhaps legitimate work, and hard work, and they should give it a try some time just to see for themselves. I specifically got a call from a Reverend Archer Stone, the pastor of a very popular conservative congregation in the City. For some reason, he wanted me to know that he was related to the great nineteenth century American preacher, Barton Warren Stone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Why would you legitimize something so abhorrent, Scott? It is not honest work, not honest work at all, and you know it. My church here in Frisco provides legitimate job training and jobs for these folks, but they have to be willing to give up the sauce, the drugs, and they have to be willing to work, for God's sake."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> When I asked him if he had heard about Joe White, he came unglued. “Listen, Scott, I know all about Joe White. I am very involved in this community, and if Mr Joe White had gotten his lazy ass over to my center, he’d be alive today, that’s what I have to say about Joe White. If he was such a good person, why didn’t his own mother take him in?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “So how many homeless folks does your center help each month?” I soon realized the Reverend Archer had hung up on me. So that brings us to Sunday, December fifteenth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;">Sunday morning, December fifteenth, that’s when the first....well, for lack of a better word, the first miracle occurred. The driver looked straight ahead, but her blind passenger, for some reason, looked right into the man’s eyes prompting him to approach the car and tap on the window. He stood there the way he walked with a rhythmic shift from one foot to the other, almost bouncing. The traffic signal seemed mercilessly stuck on red. Absolutely terrified, the driver cracked the window just enough to hear whatever it was he was mumbling.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Blind, blind, she’s blind.” Then he touched his eyes. “Jesus says, touch her eyes, touch her eyes. She will see.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> The light turned green and the woman pushed hard on the accelerator, made a screeching left, and headed up Fortieth for the ten o’clock mass at Sacred Heart Church.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “So are you going to touch my eyes like he said?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Mom, he's just a deranged homeless man that sits there every day trying to make us feel guilty so we will give him money for his fix. I hate to admit it, but I fell for it myself the other day, and gave him my leftover change from the toll.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Margie, what are you talking about? That was Jesus.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Mom, get a grip. I know how much you want to see again, but you know what the doctor told you. It’s over. Be glad they haven’t had to remove your eyeballs.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Margie, that was Jesus, and what’s it to you to touch my eyes and maybe heal me?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Mom, please don’t get psycho on me. It’s hard enough dealing with Dad’s dementia.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Margie and her Mom, Peg, sat in the middle of their familiar pew, three rows up from the front. The liturgy was like any other Sunday until Father Karl read the Gospel.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “....When John the Baptist heard in prison of the works of the Christ, he sent his disciples to Jesus with this question, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or should we look for another?’ Jesus said to them in reply, ‘Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind regain their sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have the good news proclaimed to them. And blessed is the one who takes no offense at me.’”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Margie told me that shivers ran up and down her spine. She turned and looked at her mother who met her eyes with her own blind eyes. “I told you, Margie, he’s Jesus.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> When they got back into the car, Margie looked at her mother. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I guess it can’t hurt. Okay, Mom, look at me and I will touch your eyes.” And she did. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Her mother smiled and then laughed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “This isn’t funny, Mom. Can you see or not?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> She screamed, “I can!”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Although Margie and her Mom agreed to talk to me, they really didn’t have to breathe a word to anyone. It was happening to other people as well. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>DECEMBER SIXTEENTH</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> On Monday, December sixteenth, a man, let’s call him Frank, scheduled to have valve replacement surgery, waiting for the light to change on the same Fortieth Street off ramp, simply nodded his head to acknowledge the homeless man’s presence. The homeless man, with his little jig of a walk, danced up to his half-open window, said nothing, but reached in, and touched his heart. Frank told me it all happened so fast that he didn’t have time to be afraid, but he knew instantly that something had happened, and an echo cardiogram confirmed that his aortic valve was back to normal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Frank told me his cardiologist was not happy. “That’s impossible, Frank. Aortic valves do not repair themselves, and no homeless guy, Jesus or not, is going to replace the likes of top-notch surgeons like myself. There’s something going on here, Frank, and we’ll be able to explain it without any help or interference from your homeless friend there.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Doc, chill out. He’s not my friend, but maybe he should be and maybe yours too. Everyone else in this office calls it a miracle. What’s your problem, Doc?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Miracles. Frank. That’s my problem. Miracles don’t happen. Medicine, Frank, modern medicine, this is the twenty-first century. We practice the best medicine since Hippocrates. Medicine, Frank, science, that’s what cures. Look, I go to church too, Frank. Church and prayer have their place. But this, this, this has a simple scientific explanation, and we will find it. Maybe there was nothing wrong with your aortic valve in the first place. Maybe we just made a mistake.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Or maybe you’re making a mistake now, Doc.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Frank, I’m your doctor, for crying out loud. I can’t afford to make mistakes. You know that as well as I do. Look, Frank, you talk to your priest or minister. He will tell you that the miracles in the Bible are just stories. Stories. Good stories, but stories. Jesus never performed miracles. People thought he did, and so Jesus just went with it. I mean I would to if people started saying I was performing miracles. And in a way I do, but they’re not really miracles. I’m just good at what I do. Miracles don’t happen, Frank, neither two thousand years ago nor today.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>DECEMBER EIGHTEENTH</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Another intriguing story belongs to, well I promised I wouldn’t use his real name, so let’s just call him Mr Silicone Valley. Now, he’s a guy in his mid-fifties. He runs a 10K every morning through the hills overlooking, well, let’s just say in the Bay area. He is in perfect health. On Wednesday morning, the eighteenth, he comes zipping off the freeway at Fortieth and stops for the red light, and without warning, goes into full-blown cardiac arrest. Our homeless man, bouncing as always, from one foot to the other, like he’s dancing in place, walks up to the car.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Not your time,” he says. “Not your time. You’re here. Yes, you’re here. Jesus says heal people. Look, there’s Jesus. Heal people Jesus says.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> The light turns green, and Mr. Silicone Valley doesn’t even hesitate. He just drives off, and about a mile down the road has to pull over to digest what just happened. When he drives back to the off ramp, the guy is gone. So he goes to the emergency room, and it shows he had some kind of heart attack, but now, he’s perfectly okay. So he decides to drive across the Bay and talk to one of his best friends who happens to be our Reverend Archer Stone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard about the guy on television. You know I have half a notion to call the Chief of Police and see what we can do about having that guy taken off the streets. A few days in jail or something, at least until Christmas is over.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “What are you talking about, Archie?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “You don’t really believe you had a heart attack and this guy stopped it, do you?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “You bet I do. Maybe you need to go see him for yourself. You know I told you last week, you could be healed or cured or whatever the word is, and you know exactly what I’m talking about. Go see him. Just get on the freeway and take the Fortieth Street off ramp. He’s right there.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “So what am I supposed to do, block traffic for fifteen or twenty minutes while we carry on a theological conversation, or I try my hand at schizophrenia and try to convince him to cease with the miracle whip?”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “You don’t want to be using that term, Archie. I don’t think you know what it means.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Why does everything have to have double meanings these days?”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “So what if this guy is for reals? What’s that passage when Jesus says something like when I was a stranger and you didn’t invite me into your home?”.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “You’re talking about Matthew twenty five and the so-called corporal works of mercy. You won’t hear me preaching about the corporal works of mercy. You got to be an idiot to invite a stranger into your home in this day and age, and all the folks out there that need to be fed and clothed, they just need to get real and find a job. Feeding and clothing folks will not gain you salvation. Why? Simple, because there’s nothing to be delivered from or for. Salvation is a big myth.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Our Mister Silicone Valley told me he just sat there in that jaw-dropping silence and stared at his life-long friend.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “O, come on, don’t be looking at me like that. Jesus, I hate to break it to you, but there’s no Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, no tooth fairy, and No God. I thought you knew that. I mean come on, when that schizo told you Jesus was there, did you see Jesus? Don’t even bother answering the question because I already know the answer. It’s a big NO.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “So what are you doing being a minister?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I wanted to be a minister as far back as I can remember. I think it was my Mom’s dream. I think she took me to church before she took me to see Santa Claus.” And he laughed. “Hell, I don’t know, there’s always been some kind of an attraction there. Some folks call it a vocation or a calling. I started preaching in the back yard to the neighbor kids when I was four years old. Can you believe that? Didn’t know what the hell I was saying, just mimicked the minister’s sermon. I think the attraction grew stronger when my Mom told me that my great great great, however many greats it is, grandfather was Barton Warren Stone.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “And today, as I look back on it all, I can say I have fulfilled my life’s dream. I became a great preacher like my great grandfather, and I have lived a good life. That is enough for me. There doesn’t have to be a God or heaven or seventy virgins, for crying out loud.” </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Are you kidding me? You mean this is all a sham?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “It’s not a sham. What we preach and purport to believe in is good for people. How else would we keep folks from descending into depravity? We're animals at heart! What I do for a living is just as valid as what you do. It contributes to society in many, many ways, and it keeps us from outright killing each other. So there.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “It finally makes sense to me.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “What?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Well, I never really thought this about you, Archie, but I often attend services with my wife who is Catholic, and I just figured if any of those pompous folks in that church’s hierarchy really believed in Jesus or the Gospel, they’d stop wearing all that regalia in a heart beat. What you’re telling me is none of you guys believe.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “You know, I like all that regalia. Told Sal I wanted to borrow those gold vestments and that miter sometime. That regalia is right up my alley. I thought about converting once, but I knew it would kill my Mom, and make my great great grandfather roll over in his grave as they say, so I stayed here. But you’re right my friend, If we lived according to the Gospels, Jesus, none of us church leaders would have a job. We’d be out begging for a living. God is business, my friend, and I think down deep in your own heart, you know that. Yep, big business, it has nothing to do with being saved or miracles. Not even sure it has anything to do with morality. It’s all business. In a sense we get paid to keep all the common folks under raps so we don’t have chaos. And don’t go there. Of course, I don’t follow all those rules, myself. I was going to say I hate to say it, but I don’t. I see myself as a little more intelligent than the hoi polloi, and I can make my own decisions about things. And on my death bed, I just want to be able to look myself in the mirror and know I lived a good life. Didn’t hurt anyone or take advantage of people, well, not too many people.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Mr. Silicone Valley told me that the Reverend Archer suddenly became very silent, almost as if he were surprised himself at all that he let out of the bag. Mr Silicone Valley turned and headed for the door. Then he stopped and looked back at his life-long friend. By now, tears were running over his eyelids. There was a long long silence.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The Reverend Archer sort of half smiled and said, “What’s with the tears? So does this mean you’re going to withdraw your contribution to our new interfaith community center?” </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> When Mr Silicone Valley reached his car in the underground parking, he stopped fighting the tears and sobbed. He told me he didn’t understand the tears, but perhaps it was like a little kid facing the reality that there is no Santa Claus, and now, no Jesus, not even a God. He told me he always knew that the Reverend Archer was an arrogant, self serving ass, but that didn’t make the conversation any less troublesome.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “It did make me aware of one thing,” he said. “I depend way too heavily on people like him for my own beliefs. I can believe in whatever and whoever I want, right?” And he looked at me hoping I would validate him. But he didn’t give me a chance to respond, but went right on. “When I think about that homeless guy telling me to heal people, the first person I thought of was Archie, but right now, I am so angry with him, that even if I did have healing powers, he’s the last person I’d want to heal.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> When I asked him why the Reverend Archer needed healing, he just looked at me. It was obvious there was a pact. “He just does.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Then he told me that the whole healing thing is driving him crazy. "I know plenty of people who really deserve healing, but I’m afraid to try it. Wouldn’t you? I mean what if it doesn’t work? I mean, I’ll feel really stupid, worse, look really stupid. I can see the headlines now. The tabloids would have a heyday.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>DECEMBER TWENTIETH</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Like any good news story, it only gets better. A group of men ranging in ages sixty to seventy-five had all signed on for an experimental treatment to slow down the progression of prostate cancer. Part of the requirement was that they attend a support group meeting once a week. Now the researchers knew they were playing with fire with that variable, but they did it anyway.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> So on the afternoon of the twentieth, the support group decided to pay the so-called miracle man a visit. To increase their good luck, they came up with a hundred dollars among them to put in his box. So they all crowded into a van and headed down the freeway to the Fortieth Street off ramp. When they stopped at the end of the off ramp for the red light, our homeless man jogged toward the van in his characteristic two step, almost like he knew they were coming and what they wanted. He grasped the driver’s arm with both of his hands.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “You, you, Jesus says, you, you touch them.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Everyone in the van started yelling, “Not him....he’s an asshole....we’re as good as dead now....”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The horns from the cars behind them began blowing. The light had changed, and the driver hit the accelerator. “Hey, hey,” he shouted. “We’re all as good as dead. What the hell ya talking about? Look, I’m going to drive over to Mosswood Park, two minutes from here, and we can chill out there and figure this out. If I’m supposed to heal each of you, then I will. I know I’m an asshole, but hey, I’m not that big of one.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> One of the guys in the back of van shouted. “You didn’t give him the hundred bucks.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> They sat around a couple of picnic tables at Mosswood Park, and the driver went to each man, one by one, touching his left arm with both hands in the identical way the homeless man had. Then he said, “Hey, just for good measure, why don’t we all do this to each other. Maybe that’s part of the deal. It’s just not me healing you, but us healing each other.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I didn’t hear him say anything like that,” one man shouted angrily. </span><span style="font-size: large;">“I’m not going to do that. I’m not sure I believe any of this in the first place.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Another man in the group spoke up. “Hey, who’s the asshole now? Who cares what you believe in? This isn’t about your beliefs, Dude, it’s about doing something for someone else. You at least believe in that don’t you?”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Alright, alright, I’ll touch each of you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “And you’ll let each of us touch you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Yeah, yeah, just get off my case. You’re all beginning to sound like my old lady.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Afterwards, they drove to Eli’s Mile High club. After the first round, they all looked at each other. “Should we be getting drunk?” one of them asked. “I don’t think so,” another chimed in. “Maybe, we need to go heal some folks tonight,” one of them suggested.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGuWyqwvr8uj3NX6bX52KH9ZNBULOJLn5Xb-rKQHPDx3UxVg8UXoDs3d9U81989cyapEAS1ttALYW9sd3Y8si40Z4PdEQJMetzNzOiMypMQg0JzeJwgOnYFryA43YsXMUyjUuNAgyU68s/s1600/eli's+mile+high+bar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGuWyqwvr8uj3NX6bX52KH9ZNBULOJLn5Xb-rKQHPDx3UxVg8UXoDs3d9U81989cyapEAS1ttALYW9sd3Y8si40Z4PdEQJMetzNzOiMypMQg0JzeJwgOnYFryA43YsXMUyjUuNAgyU68s/s320/eli's+mile+high+bar.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> So they decided to check out a few urgent care centers, and they caused quite the ruckus. They were about to be arrested when one of them touched a man with a broken leg and the man screamed “What the hell did you just do to my leg? A second ago, the bone was protruding.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Everyone just stepped back, including the police, and the men smiled and said good night to everyone and walked out. They decided that maybe a round of lattes at Peet's on Telegraph might be a good way to call it a night.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiner13Sgy9bLDfVDRNN_ilISVGJsCmqlzW1EN1HJLEfNT2ERER23GHLNMZmTjKcAMUbmKNkFgj8PQidnkGOGHncmp-w37IOKkA3ZGz6hzungxnxTpl20hNMZTc7yVYGCR9XIOsIpDbTvw/s1600/peets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiner13Sgy9bLDfVDRNN_ilISVGJsCmqlzW1EN1HJLEfNT2ERER23GHLNMZmTjKcAMUbmKNkFgj8PQidnkGOGHncmp-w37IOKkA3ZGz6hzungxnxTpl20hNMZTc7yVYGCR9XIOsIpDbTvw/s320/peets.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Well, the research director was fit to be tied the following day. He heard about his prized group on the morning news, and when he saw the group later that day, he saw something in the skin color of each man’s face that told him the cancer was gone. But he was angrier than hell and pounded the desk in the group room. He told them they all had to pay back the money they were given to participate.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Who said we weren’t participating?”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Well, obviously, you’re cured, so how can you participate?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Are you saying we’re cured?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “No, erase that, I didn’t say that. Obviously you’re in some kind of remission.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “So maybe it was your treatment,” one man said.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I don’t think so.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “And why don’t you think so? Is there something you haven’t been telling us?”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “That’s enough. Just get the hell out of here, and I’ll start fresh with a new group. Keep the goddamned money. Just get out of here.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> One of the men walked toward him and started to place his hands on his left arm.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “What in the hell are you doing? I do not need healing,” he shouted. “Look at me,” he continued shouting. “It’s obvious, I am a well man. If you insist upon touching me, I swear to God, I will call security.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>THE WEEK IN REVIEW</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> During that week, from December sixteenth to December twentieth first, I thought it might be interesting to randomly interview folks on the street, and when I did, many of them knew of the so-called miracle man, and some said that they planned to check him out after the holidays when they had more time.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> One woman, who described herself as a born again Christian, looked at me and asked if I thought the man was Jesus? Before I could answer, she asked if Jesus was my personal lord and savior. Before I could answer that question, she informed me that it was quite obvious that I knew nothing about being a Christian and further, it was obvious I knew nothing about scripture.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “This man,” she said, “is not Jesus nor in any way a part of Jesus. He’s Satan disguised as the Angel of Light. He’s part of Lucifer’s band.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> When I reminded her that that is pretty much what they said about Jesus some two thousand years ago and then had him crucified, she just looked at me, kind of stunned and didn’t know what to say at first, but then added. “You must be of the devil yourself.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> When I tried to interview folks on the Fortieth Street off ramp, I was was quickly interrupted by Officer Angelica Mendoza. I mention her name only because I was impressed with her professionalism. I found out later that she had received the Chief’s leadership award this year.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> She told me she knew who I was and what I was up to, but could not allow me to continue because I was creating a traffic hazard. She also said that one of the people I interviewed called nine, one, one, and complained. I practically begged her to let me at least interview the man himself, and so she gave me five minutes, but stood watch near by in her cruiser.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> When I went to sit down next to him, he became quite agitated and stood up and began that little dance that he does, bouncing back and forth in place. He wouldn’t look at me, but said very forcefully, “My spot. Not yours. My spot. Find your own.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I was a little surprised. For some naive reason, I thought it might be more like interviewing Jesus. His agitation seemed to be increasing and that made me nervous. But I continued.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “So tell me about your healing powers?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> At first, he didn’t respond, but then he scared the crap out of me with what he said next.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Bottom of the inning, bottom of the inning. Bases loaded. All up to you, yep, all up to you. You struck out. Struck out.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Whoa, how did he know that? I was in little league, bottom of the last inning, bases loaded, and my Dad, who was the coach, pulled the next guy in the lineup, who happened to be my best friend, David, and put me in as a pinch hitter because I’m the go to guy, the best hitter on the team, and yep, I strike out. I stood there at home plate, crying. My Dad came up to me, grabbed my shoulders, and screamed in my face, “Don’t be a pussy, Scottie. Suck it up.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I was trying my best not to cry and waved to my cameramen to cut. The homeless guy continued to look away as I said, “Well, you gotta be someone different to know that story.” And don’t ask me why I said what I said next. “You know I followed you home one night.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> He turned and looked at me straight in the eye. It was very unsettling. He said, “No, didn’t follow. Afraid. Yep, afraid. Stopped short, dincha? Yep, stopped short. Too chicken.”</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> As I said earlier, I’ve covered a lot of stories, but I have never been so unnerved, my brain swirling to make sense out of this man’s ability to know the otherwise unknowable.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I also tried to contact every major Church leader in the Bay area that week. But no one would return my calls let alone consent to an interview. That sort of surprised me. I thought someone would have something to say.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> I finally managed to slip into the chancery office while caterers were bringing food in for some kind of Christmas celebration, and was able to pull a few words from the Archbishop.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Scott, I have nothing against anyone who can heal people." </span><span style="font-size: large;">He knew me from a few months back when I gave him some good press for his efforts to connect with the Castro community.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Do I think he’s Jesus? No. Do I think he’s schizophrenic? Does it matter? As you so well know, over the past months, I have been humbled more than once. I’ve decided to be the last person on earth to attack another fellow human being for doing anything, especially something as wonderful as healing people.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> When I asked him if he was implying that the healings were genuine and real miracles, he gave the perfect answer.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Hey, a woman who was truly blind can see now. A man with an aortic valve that needed to be replaced has a healthy aortic valve. I know there are others, but those are the two I have read about. Why would I question any of that? You tell me. Why?”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “You’re excellency, you’re a wise Sicilian, aren’t you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I am definitely Sicilian, couldn’t be more Sicilian, but not sure if I am wise. But I’ll take it if you’re offering it, Scott,” and he laughed and excused himself.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I got wind of a meeting of several churches on Saturday night, December twenty first. Seemed like a bad time for a meeting given the demands of Sunday morning. The meeting was being hosted by no other than the Reverend Archer.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> He was not prepared for the lack of interest in the so-called miracle man. In fact, one very eloquent Black pastor got right in the Reverend Archer’s face and said, “So Archie, tell me this. What would Jesus be saying to us about now? What would he tell us to do with the miracle man? Come on, Archie, tell us, what would Jesus say?”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “E. K., get out of my face. Who cares what Jesus would say? Jesus is not here to speak.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “And that’s precisely the problem, Archie. Jesus is not here, and with that, I’m going home.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> And within moments, others followed, and the Reverend Archer was standing there alone, angry, very angry, vein-bursting angry.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> He hopped in his car and headed up the freeway to the Fortieth Street off ramp. As he approached the end of the off ramp, the light was green, but he slammed on his breaks and stopped and caused a chain reaction accident.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> He jumped from his car and started screaming and pointing. “It’s all his fault, this Jesus nut, this schizophrenic, it’s ALL his fault.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> When he turned to where he was pointing, there was no one there. Panhandlers, as everyone knows, except for the Reverend Archer, go “home” at sundown each day.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>DECEMBER TWENTY THIRD</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Yes, the day before Christmas Eve. I don’t have to tell you how close to insanity people get two days before Christmas. But actually it was a fairly quiet Monday morning in the Bay area. I think quite a few people were taking Monday and Tuesday off, and not much was happening on the freeways till Reverend Archer raced across the Bay Bridge to the Fortieth Street off ramp once again, but now driving a rental car, and his forehead bandaged from Saturday night. He pulled over on to the left shoulder almost running over the so-called miracle man who never budged. The Reverend jumped out of his car, furious.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Who in the fuck do you think you are? So you think you’re Jesus? Okay, so you’re Jesus.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The homeless man looked into Reverend Archer’s eyes and asked, “Jesus? I’m Jesus?”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Good God almighty, you’re nuts!”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I’m Jesus? Who’s Jesus?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “You sick pathetic son of a bitch! No, you’re not Jesus. You’re the devil!”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “O God, help me.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Reverend Archer leaned down and picked up the cardboard box filled with a few dollars and some change and tossed it high into the air.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Oh no, Oh No, ” the homeless man shouted. “O Jesus, Jesus, O God.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> By now, drivers were dialing nine, one, one, and jumping out of their cars to subdue the Reverend. The Reverend Archer suddenly pulled a revolver from his belt which made every one move back. He fired off three rounds. The man winced, but did not seem effected. The witnesses then wrestled the Reverend to the ground and held him there till the police arrived.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Am I dead?” the homeless man asked. “Bang, bang, bang. Three shots.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> When the police officer was putting the cuffs on him, Reverend Archer began protesting, “They were just blanks, for God’s sake. I just wanted to scare him. Some one has to do your police work.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Sorry, I’m not doing my job, Reverend Archer,” and the officer gave a few more clicks to the cuffs. “You’re damned lucky they were blanks, but you’re still going to jail.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Jesus, good God almighty, I’m not a criminal. Loosen those cuffs before I report you to the Chief. I’m good friends with him, you know.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I’m taking you to jail, Reverend Archer. You get one phone call, so call the Chief. I should’ve taken you to the psych ward Saturday night when I had the chance.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I’m not crazy,” Reverend Archer insisted.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Really?” the policeman responded, as he pushed him into the back of his patrol car.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> One of the drivers who had stopped to help, rounded up what money he could from the ground and then added a twenty dollar bill to the cardboard box. The homeless man started muttering. “Good man, Thank you, thank you,” and then reached out to touch him.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The driver jumped back. “That’s okay, pal. You stay right where you are. I don’t need anything from you.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Good man, thank you, thank you. You’ll see. Good man.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Okay, pal, you’re welcome. You’re not threatening me are you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Good man, thank you. You’ll see.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I’ll see what?” he asked him angrily.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Stop drinking. Yeah, stop drinking. She’ll come home.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “How in the fuck do you know anything about that, Pal? Has that bitch been out here talking to you?”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “You’ll see. Good man. Stop drinking.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> The man finally just got in his car and screeched off.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> So this is all third hand from the tow truck driver who also tossed a five into the cardboard box and told the homeless man, “I don’t have any problems, Buddy. You don’t need to do anything for me either. Have a merry Christmas.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The homeless man made eye contact with the tow truck driver and shook his head slowly up and down. The tow truck driver looked at me and said, “I’m getting out of here, Scott. He’s all yours.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> I slowly walked over to him. He was still quite distressed. I reached out to shake his hand, but he would not reciprocate. He simply said, “You again. Bye bye.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>CHRISTMAS EVE</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">My original series on the homeless was aired about four months ago. I was relieved when that assignment was over, never dreaming I’d be pulled back into the controversy a week before Christmas. It was difficult, to say the least, to keep up with the on-going events involving the so-called miracle man, and my daily assignments at the station as a newscaster for the evening news. I finally just forgot about any last minute Christmas shopping. Fortunately, I was scheduled to have both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off, and so I decided to put the homeless man on a shelf for a couple of days.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I was beginning to feel normal again as I got involved with Tee on Christmas Eve preparing our Christmas day meal, and we decided to top off December twenty fourth by attending the Christmas Eve service at our church.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The service at St. John’s Episcopal was somewhat uneventful, and I have to admit I had a hard time staying awake. Tee must have jabbed me a hundred times.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I remember only bits and pieces of Father Denman’s sermon. I remember him talking about driving his visiting relatives through Lafayette Square the other evening and being struck by the tents of the homeless.” </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> And I remember this part. “You are probably familiar,” he said in his eloquent style, “with the phrase, ‘the word was made flesh.’ This phrase is from St. John’s Gospel whose first chapter seems like theological quantum physics describing the incarnation.” I remember him pausing at this point, and it seemed like he was looking directly at me. I remember sitting up straight like, oh yeah, I am wide awake.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> He continued. “However, when we go back to the original Greek in which the Gospel was written, we see something quite different from ‘the word was made flesh.’ It actually says, ‘God pitched his tent among us.’</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> He went on to say that back in Jesus’ time, you didn’t just pitch your tent wherever you wanted. You had to be welcomed or invited or in some cases, if someone very important wanted to pitch their tent with you, it was quite the honor, and you didn’t even think of refusing.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “So let’s ask ourselves tonight, where do we pitch our tent? And whom do we keep from pitching their tent with us? And how well do we acknowledge all the faces of Christmas, or do we pick and choose where we want to see Jesus?”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> That’s about all I remember, but it made me begin thinking again about the homeless man. And as we sat around with family the following day, I asked Tee if she had ever heard that translation before. She looked at me and smiled. “Yes, many a times. In fact, Father has given that same homily for the last five years. So what’s bothering you, Mr Reporter?”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “You’re not serious, are you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I am,” and she laughed. “I imagine I’m the only person in the entire congregation who knows he has given the same sermon five years in a row. Everyone else is either too exhausted or drunk.” </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Tee, as always, you are just too funny. You know, as hard as I try to forget him, I just can’t get that homeless man out of my mind. You know, he told me the other day that he knew I followed him home. He basically told me I was a chicken, afraid to follow him all the way into the place where he lives. Damned, it’s like a black hole and he’s right. I wasn’t about to venture into that space. But it was unnerving to hear him tell me and left me feeling very small and cowardly.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “You know what else? He told me something from a long time ago, a very long time ago. I was about twelve years old and up at bat. I was always a good hitter. We had the bases loaded. It was the bottom of the final inning. It was all in my hands or in my bat. But I struck out. I felt awful, and I just stood there and could not stop myself from crying. I mean crying. My Dad, who was our coach, walked over to me, grabbed my shoulders and hollered. ‘Don’t be a pussy, Scottie. Suck it up.’ Then he just walked away and left me standing their at home plate with the bat in my hand. It was a long time before I allowed myself to get close to him again.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “How did the homeless guy know that?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “You tell me, Tee.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> She reached over like only she can do and looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Hey, it’s Christmas night. The perfect time. Let’s go. I’ll go with you and we can both venture into the black hole.” </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “O come on, you’re not serious.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Yes, I am.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Why?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I don’t know. I just have a feeling about it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> So now you get to know Tee a little bit. Fearless at four foot, ten, and once she gets an idea in her head, there’s no arguing, so off we went.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> But before I tell you about our adventure, I have to go back and tell you about Peg.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>PEG AND CHRISTMAS DAY</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Margie dropped her Mom off at the Piedmont Gardens. Peg told me when she walked into his room, he was sitting on the couch asleep with the television blaring. Vince opened his eyes but as usual did not recognize her.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Hi, Honey, how are you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I’m fine and who in the hell are you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"> She sat next to him silently for awhile, but finally spoke. </span> “Honey, I’m going to touch your eyes.”</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> She said he got very upset. “What for, Goddammit?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> She just ignored his irritability, and as she gently closed his eyelids, he surprisingly calmed down. She held her hands over his eyes for about ten seconds. She then stepped back. He opened his eyes and said, “Peg? Where have you been, Peg?”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “As you can imagine, I started crying,” she told me. “I tried to reassure him that I had been there every day.” She then snuggled up to him on the couch, and he put his arm around her and patted her.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Oh Gosh, Peg, it is so good to see you. Where have you been?” He kept saying that over and over.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> They sat there long enough for both of them to just doze off like old times. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Finally he nudged her.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Peg, I got something to tell you. My Mom and Dad were here earlier, and they said we’re going on a trip soon, but, well, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you can’t come. Is that alright, honey?”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Peg told me she knew exactly what he was saying and simply reassured him that it was okay with her. She then asked him if he wanted to come with her right now for Christmas dinner at Margie’s.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Can I?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> Peg called Margie and asked her to come get the two of them. Of course, Margie was quite reluctant until Dad asked to talk to her on the phone, and Margie just stood there dazed and then screamed to the rest of the family. “Grandpa’s back. He’s coming for Christmas dinner.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Peg told me that later that evening, she and Margie sat and looked at each other’s hands.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Mom, are we supposed to be doing something other than just sitting here?”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I don’t think so, Margie. If someone else needs our healing, God will let us know.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The day after Christmas, Peg and Margie decided to bring Vince home for good. The doctors were stunned and reluctant, but assured Peg that Vince could return to the Gardens if necessary. The last I spoke to Peg, Vince was still alive.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>THE BLACK HOLE</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> So you want to know the rest of the story with Tee and I? Well, Tee insisted that we head over to the spot, 3901 Ruby Street. It was around seven o’clock Christmas night. It was quite cold. An arctic blast was bringing subnormal temperatures to the Bay area, and the clouds were starting to let go of small drops of rain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I had a flash light and gingerly walked through the dark space between the apartment complex and the house next door.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Why are you stooping over, Scott?” Tee asked. “Stand up straight.”</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> I had to laugh. I had no idea I was stooping over as if I were making my way through a cave. Suddenly, there was a balcony light from one of the apartments and a voice.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Can I help you?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Oh, a, well, a, we were just looking for...”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Are you looking for him? Are you the police? You don’t look like police? Are you his parents? I’m Mary Zerrell, by the way. My husband Herman and I manage this apartment complex.”</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “Nice to meet you Mary, and Merry Christmas. I’m Scott Roseman and this is my wife, Tee.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “Hi,” Tee waved kind of hesitantly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “You’re the news guy on KNTV?”</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Yes, that’s me.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “And what are you doing out here on Christmas Night?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I don’t know how to explain myself. I just can’t stop thinking about him.” And I pointed into the dark space. “I know he lives back there somewhere.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “He’s there alright. I let him put up a tent back there. In exchange for the space, he actually does some cleanup around here. I don’t know what to make of him, really, but I know this much. He’s a good human being. I’ve heard people say he has some kind of healing power. I don’t know about that. He doesn’t bother anyone here, and everyone sort of keeps an eye on him. You can go on back there and see for yourself. Nothing back there’s going to get you. Go on!”</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> It was like she wasn’t going to let us out of this. Tee reached over and took my arm and we slowly ventured into the absolute pitch darkness with our flash light.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “Do you think she’s for real, Tee?”</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “What do you mean for reals?”</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “She seemed like a ghost to me. I mean she came out of nowhere. I have half a notion to come back tomorrow and see if she and her husband really are the managers.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “Just stop, Hon, now you’re starting to creep me out.”</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> We continued to slowly move through what seemed like infinite darkness, and finally, sure enough, there was his tent. There was a light on the inside, and there he was standing next to the tent, moving from one foot to the other, looking at us.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Police? Solomon’s people? My tent, my tent.”</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “No, we’re not the police.”</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Yes, TV man.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Yes, I’m the TV man, and this is my wife, Tee. I don’t know your name.”</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “Is it Jesus?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> Hell, I didn’t know what to say.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “My name, Jesus?”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Tee squeezed my arm. So I just said, “Yes, that’s your name. Merry Christmas, Jesus.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “My tent. Pitch my tent here. No place else.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Tee and I just stood there dumbfounded. He continued his little dance. </span><span style="font-size: large;">“You’re here. You followed me. Not a chicken."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> Then he looked right at Tee. “Your Daddy died. Too much booze. Not your fault.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Oh my God,” Tee gasped. How’d you know that?”</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> Tee began to weep, and I pulled her in close to me.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> He bounced toward us with that funny little walk. We both froze. He put his hands out. I have to say I was really hesitant. I had seen those hands when he was sitting at the off ramp. But what do you do? Refuse to take Jesus’ hands?</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> So Tee and I both reached back. His hands were not only warm but actually vibrating.</span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “Surprised me. Big surprise. Thank you. Getting cold. Go home now.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> We continued to just stand there, silent. We both said simultaneously, </span><span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> "Merry Christmas." </span><span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;">And then like an after thought, we added, "Jesus." </span><span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;">We turned to each other with that surprise when you both say the exact same thing at the exact same time.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> He </span><span style="font-size: large;">disappeared into his tent and we were like two people stuck in mud until we became aware of snowflakes falling.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Go home, now,” he shouted from inside the tent. “Go home.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> As we headed for the street, Mary's voice made us jump. “Did you see him back there?” She had turned her porch light off so we couldn't really see her.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “Yes, we did, Mary. Thanks and Merry Christmas to you and Herman.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> She did not respond. I wanted so much to say, “Tell me you’re real, Mary,” but I kept it to myself. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “What’s with the snow, Tee? Are we in a movie?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “Don’t you follow the news, Mr News? They said a chance of snow in the Bay area. It happens about once every thirty years. Freaky and unusual.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “Like everything else this past week. </span><span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;">Merry Christmas, Tee,” and I leaned down to kiss her.”</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Merry Christmas, Honey.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “You never told me the story about your Dad. You just said he died when you were fourteen.”</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “We had a big fight that night. He was drunk as usual. I finally just told him I hated him. He tried to slap me, and I ran and locked myself in my room and screamed at him, 'I hope you die.' He came storming down the hall but tripped and fell and hit his head, and the blow killed him instantly.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “Tee, why haven’t you ever told me?”</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “And why haven’t you ever told me your story?”</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> “So are we even?”</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “No, it’s never even. You know that!” and she laughed.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>DESSERT</b></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> We didn’t say much on the drive home. We just tried to digest what had happened back there on Ruby Street while enjoying the snowflakes dancing like popcorn in the headlight beams. Tee suggested we get a fire going and sip some hot egg nog when we got home. So we did. We sat back to back in front of the fireplace watching the flames gradually dwindle from their initial roar to a gentle wind with those intermittent crackles. Then Tee asked a question, and I could never have imagined the conversation that followed. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “So do you think he’s Jesus?” Tee asked. “Or an angel, or perhaps the devil? What do you think, Honey?” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I don’t know, Tee. I sure felt something different when he took our hands, well," and I started laughing, "when we finally accepted his hands. I don't know about you, but I was terrified to take his hands." </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Ah yes, Mister Germaphobe. I saw you wash your hands as soon as we got home." And she laughed. Then she became serious again. "Maybe it’s simple, Scott. Maybe we just need to notice every person who crosses our paths. Treat them as if they are God wanting to pitch a tent in our backyard. Maybe it’s just that simple.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “That’s good, Tee. I like that. I’m going to tell Father Denman that you should give the homily next Christmas.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I could do that, Scott.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I know you could.” And we both laughed. “So what about the healings, Tee?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Well, I think we can all be healers if we want to.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “If we want to? Like how do you mean?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “You remember in the old days when you’d walk in front of the rabbit ears, and the TV would fuzz? Or you hold your car remote up to your chin and you increase the distance from which you can unlock the car? So we know there is some kind of field energy connected to us, right? I mean all those tests and scans are based upon the electromagnetic waves that emit from our body and various organs. And just maybe besides the electromagnetic energy buzzing about us, there is also healing energy, you know, like whatever that was coming out of his hands. Or maybe it’s all one and the same. And maybe we just let too many things get in the way of our innate ability to heal."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I stoked the fire, as I thought about what she said. It’s very magical how first there are just sparks swirling around when you tap on the dying embers, and then poof, the flames appear again seemingly out of nowhere. I picked up the conversation again. “So like what gets in the way, Tee?” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> "The big thing is our disbelief, our lack of faith, and our total dependence upon medicine. Unfortunately, modern medicine is at its best when it signs off the cause of death on our ‘that’s all, folks’ certificate.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Tee, when are you going to do a stand up routine?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Oh, there’s more. I’m not finished. You want to hear the rest or are you bored with my lecture?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Are you kidding me? I love listening to you, Tee.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Okay, so here’s my conclusion. Modern medicine only addresses our physical body and leaves our soul totally out of the equation. They call the power or magic, if you will, of our soul ‘just’ the placebo effect. Pretty powerful to be so dismissed. And you know, whatever you believe about Jesus, who he was or wasn’t, it’s interesting to me that the Gospel stories about miracles, show Jesus, as a human being, healing, and at one point, he sent out the seventy two to do likewise, and they did! Okay, I’m done.” She laughed and then leaned into my back. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Ah, that feels good, Tee. I really enjoy sitting back to back like this. I think the first time we did this was on that camping trip, remember?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “How could I forget?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “That was a pretty special night, wasn’t it? So, Tee, speaking of the past, how did he know our stories? How’s that work? And you notice I’m giving you the podium again.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Well, thank you, Mr. News, and I love it. So here’s what I think about him knowing our past. First of all, we actually lived those stories. They’re real. They’re not fantasies. They’re real and they’re out there. We may think they’re secrets, but they’re out there in time and history, and maybe in that sense, they are fair game to whomever has the eyes to read them. And maybe, they’re not really out there, but written all over the lines in our faces and in our aches and pains and in the many ways our aches and pains misshape our bodies. Maybe everyone’s story is an open book waiting for someone to come along and read. And when someone does come along and read our story, that's a gift to us and an opportunity for us to transform."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Transform? Like how?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Well, we each have stories, you and I know that well, painful stories that we tend to desperately hold onto for dear life. God forbid I let go of my story, right? Those stories drive us into all kinds of insanity. We get to the point of doing whatever it takes to bury those stories, like they never happened, but when we do that, ironically we actually get stuck in them. We get stuck being a victim, or a bully or a rescuer.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Whoa, hold on. We get stuck being a victim, a bully or a rescuer. Did you just make that up?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “No, I read it some place recently. But here’s the deal. Once someone reads our story and acknowledges it, like our homeless friend did for us tonight, then we can let the story go, if we want to. Unfortunately, some folks want to hang on. But when we let go of our stories, they can then become woven into the fabric of who we are. And then, just like the transformers in the movies and the comics, we can transform into a hero. I think that’s who we are all intended to be, heroes. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Whoa! Hold on again! We went from victims, bullies and rescuers to heroes.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “It goes like this, Scott. When you're being the victim or you're bullying everyone to get your way, or you're taking care of all the crazy people in your life, then the best you can do is survive. You’re not really living. But when you finally have the courage to live your own life instead of everyone else's, and live that life, that God gave you, to the fullest, then you become a hero.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Okay, I’m with you, but say a little more, Tee.”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> She nudged me to turn around and face her. “God gave each of us a life to live, Scott. And whether you believe in God or not, everyone seems to know the difference between the so-called life they say they’ve been dealt, and the life they dream about. Yes? Well, being a hero is giving up the so-called hand you’ve been dealt, literally leaving that game and deciding to live the life you dream about. Your life. No excuses, and begin recognizing that that life, your dream life, is the one God gave you to live. And you go for it with all the same energy you use to bemoan and stay stuck in your bad hand. I think in literature, they call it the hero’s journey.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “So we were heros tonight?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I think so, Scott.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Can I quote you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Yes, you can. And tell everyone who I am.” And she poked me in the ribs and laughed. “You get it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “No!”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I poked you in the ribs, you know, Adam and Eve.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Okay, so you're the brains in the relationship?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “No, I wasn't going there, but I'll settle for being the soul."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Tee, where do you come up with this stuff?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I watch this guy on the evening news every night!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> I laughed, “What guy? What channel?" And she poked me in the ribs again. "Seriously, Tee, I am a lucky man. And as hokey as this sounds, you’re my hero or is it heroine?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> “It’s heroine with an e.” She laughed. “And you’re my hero, Scott. But don't forget, you have to be your own hero before you can be someone else's hero.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> We sat there quietly for awhile, sipping our egg nogs, watching the magic of the fire, and simply indulging in each other’s healing presence. When we finally climbed into bed, we held each other very tightly and drifted off to sleep and to dream.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbIABXGD_fVTzn_uR4dKw7rdhzx5-gnpZUjDLLz-du_8gaSFaxZR2f7Mk7q4z9yaXFaM3-aElJ2-9n8sMgKl_hC58I3cRkdJE3JzOxIoNAdHN_sdUu3RENZcEwUOKK7wwJPfXSjJv71q4/s1600/fireworks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbIABXGD_fVTzn_uR4dKw7rdhzx5-gnpZUjDLLz-du_8gaSFaxZR2f7Mk7q4z9yaXFaM3-aElJ2-9n8sMgKl_hC58I3cRkdJE3JzOxIoNAdHN_sdUu3RENZcEwUOKK7wwJPfXSjJv71q4/s320/fireworks.jpg" height="282" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> And the homeless man? He’s still out there. You can see him for yourself. In fact, he’s all over the place. Look for him, and look at him differently from now on. You can make him out to be a hero, if you like. After all, it’s just yourself you’re looking at, you know.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-26329405639966725362012-10-31T08:48:00.000-07:002014-05-13T16:53:44.714-07:00ENTRANCE ON CUE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2SS8VboZqwbFKwom83fGfPY92YIp-s4vEL4yuiVUS6hwvDv9xQiKbytzo6wyVUk5Ow6BSCqIwPNJnyJ5Lijf5ArN-y5dR2POCoTMBrg8wWO3YavT2_hsWQXSkWz5NIYXPn93zN60FtIY/s1600/housetransform+234.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2SS8VboZqwbFKwom83fGfPY92YIp-s4vEL4yuiVUS6hwvDv9xQiKbytzo6wyVUk5Ow6BSCqIwPNJnyJ5Lijf5ArN-y5dR2POCoTMBrg8wWO3YavT2_hsWQXSkWz5NIYXPn93zN60FtIY/s320/housetransform+234.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<b><i>Entrance On Cue</i></b> Copyright 2008 by Vernon R. Bradley.<br />
<br />
<b>INTRODUCTION</b><br />
The great fiery orb creeps across the dome, closely pursued by the darkness whose oozing fingers slowly but aggressively invade until every last, minute, remnant of light is blackened. The stars are, indeed, a great sigh of relief!<br />
<br />
The darkness always has its way with us, pawing at us, tossing us into the air, slapping us around, like a cat with its helpless prey. The night’s magic potions allow us to see things that during the daylight are only sensed by unexpected shivers that run up and down the hairs of our arms and neck.<br />
<br />
As you read on, hear the narrator’s voice fill the great hall of your innermost mind. When you hear that voice drop for the final period, gaze into the shimmering space in front of and around you. You will see clearly those haunting figments of your imagination and peripheral vision. They will fade quickly, so don’t forget to look up and about immediately.<br />
<br />
<b>THE STORY BEGINS</b><br />
An army of leaves, swirling in a cloud of dust, drives across the front lawn toward the house, and with perfect choreography, divides into two columns, each sweeping down the shaded hollows highlighting the property lines between the neighboring houses. The entire platoon disappears over the back fence, with little debris left behind. Only the autumn winds could so predictably and successfully launch such a sneak attack at three o'clock each afternoon. <br />
<br />
Sometimes the front and back doors would fly open and then slam, rattling the adjacent walls and windows. Dad would shout out, "Stop running through the house!" But the kids were quietly playing in the back yard, and no matter how often this event replayed itself, Dad was never convinced that it was just the autumn winds.<br />
<br />
I had come to stay with him for as long as it might take. In fact, all of us had come. It seemed like the only right thing to do. I mean why wouldn't we accompany him on his final laps? He was, for better or worse, bigger than life, our father, for crying out loud.<br />
<br />
Well, actually, there were plenty of good reasons to justify letting him go it alone, but we decided, perhaps our final opportunity for vengeance, to accompany him.<br />
<br />
It was a feeling that I could not find a word for. At times, it was comforting that we were all there to walk our father to death's door. At other times, it felt very odd, a little embarrassing even, a tad ghoulish, and at times invasive, like being in the room when someone is having a prostate exam.<br />
<br />
Despite the certainty of his impending doom, there was still a cosmos of uncertainty about the exact moment, whether it would be days or weeks or perhaps even the unlikelihood of several more months.<br />
Since I lived so far away, Dad was puzzled that I was obviously there for more than a visit. And when I would gingerly tell him that I wanted to be there when he died, he would say, "I don't see any demise happening here anytime soon. You might as well go home."<br />
<br />
But I couldn't pull myself away. I could not get on the airplane to return home. There was something addictive to being a part of an event so big and so small and so significant all at the same time. I wanted to be there when the time came, to run along side the train waving goodbye for as long as I could.<br />
<br />
My youngest sister seemed to be the expert about these matters. She claimed that Death would, at some point, actually enter the house. "You'll feel it, smell it, touch it, almost like the fog in a horror flick. You wait and see," Marianne predicted. “We will all know when Death has made its entrance."<br />
<br />
I had been there about two weeks when we were all, including Dad, sitting around talking after dinner, and someone brought up Shirley's story. The kids were all plugging their ears and saying, "No, no, don't tell that story.” Marianne began to laugh, and you could tell she was going to tell the story no matter how scary or creepy it was.<br />
<br />
She had taken care of her mother-in-law, Shirley, or Grandma Shirley as the kids called her, for the final months of her life. Gradually, there were more and more mornings when everyone was surprised that Grandma Shirley was wide awake and cheery given that she had struggled through the previous day and night just to breathe and to remain conscious. She just kept living. <br />
<br />
One day the doorbell rang. Rossi's flower shop was delivering a large arrangement of Shirley's favorites, a mixture of white daisies interspersed with bright red roses. It was at the very instant that Marianne took the flowers from the delivery woman and brought them into the house that she knew that Grandma Shirley had but a few days, or maybe even less. From that moment on, she could sense Death’s presence in the house.<br />
<br />
The card said the flowers were from Doris McCoy. When Marianne told Shirley who they were from, she just smiled. "I know," she said. "She told me she was going to send them." Marianne was too spooked to inquire any further about Shirley's conversation with Doris because Shirley hadn't had a conversation with anyone but family members for weeks.<br />
<br />
But the story doesn’t end there. Doris came up to Marianne at the grave side service and asked if Shirley had enjoyed the flowers. Now, here's the part that’s going to send a gentle chill across your skin, leaving every hair on your neck and arms standing straight up. Marianne did not know at the time that Doris was one of Shirley's close childhood friends back in Michigan, and had died ten years earlier.<br />
<br />
Dad said with a twinkle in his eye, "Well, if Death comes knocking or ringing the bell, for heaven's sake, don't let it in the front door. At least, make it go around to the back door."<br />
<br />
We all laughed because when we were kids growing up in the old house on Clark Street, Dad had a thing about the front door. On Halloween, for example, he would actually block the front steps with a long two by four with a "wet paint" sign tacked to it, and another sign with "Trick or Treaters, back door."<br />
<br />
Later that evening, Marianne said that when Death does enter the house, every thing changes. She said it’s almost as if everyone is propelled to move the person to the other side like when a group of folks get together to move and free a car stuck in the mud.<br />
<br />
She said that it took her a long time to feel really good about walking Shirley to death’s door because everything she did for Shirley had one singular outcome–Death. She just couldn’t get rid of the awful feeling that once Death entered the house, it somehow possessed her and then used her. <br />
<br />
The hospice folks continued to say that Dad's time was short. There were more and more signs of internal bleeding, and even though Dad was still walking and talking and sometimes driving us crazy, according to them, Death was closing the gap.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, the days moved by slowly. And one day, out of sheer boredom, I decided to ring the front door and then quickly run around to pound on the back door.<br />
<br />
As I ran from the front door, out of nowhere, the autumn winds sounded their attack. The army of leaves rustled and chased me like a pack of dogs. As I reached the back door to pound on it, it flew open on its own. I felt someone pushing me to the ground, and as always, the back door slammed and rattled the walls and windows in the service porch and breakfast nook. I looked about in amazement, looking for the person who had pushed me from behind. Then the back door reopened, and it was Dad.<br />
"What the hell are you doing? Is this some kind of joke? If it is, I don't appreciate it.” He looked at me with disdain and in my wildest imagination, I saw a figure, lurking in the darkened living room behind him, with the bright red grin of the joker. I quickly looked down, not wanting to know if what I was seeing was real or just imaginary. Before I could get up and without asking if I needed help, he closed the door, slamming it almost as hard as the wind.<br />
<br />
I felt pain in my ankle, I felt embarrassed, I felt angry that Dad had not changed one iota, as he would say, and a huge lump rose to my throat. I had to hide. I couldn't let anyone see me like this, but as fast as Dad had slammed the door shut, Marianne opened it back up again. She stood there and looked at me.<br />
<br />
"I don't know what just happened, but Death is here now," she reported.<br />
<br />
And sure enough, three days later, I waved goodbye to Dad as I ran along side that train.<br />
And just as Marianne had predicted, I couldn’t get over the feeling that I had killed my Dad. First of all, I allowed Death to enter the house through my chinanigans. And as Dad showed more and more distress from the cancerous tumor at the bottom of his esophagus, I began to participate in administering the medication. But he didn't get better. My brain concluded that I had administered death medication and killed him.<br />
<br />
And I can’t help but think when I meet Dad, face to face, on the other side, the first words out of his mouth will be, “So, my boy, are you proud that you brought about your old man’s demise?”<br />
<br />
Even though it’s been ten years since Death charged at the opportunity to sneak in the back door on the heals of the autumn winds and my chinanigans, Death persists at having its way with me. I can sense its smugness. It continues to laugh uproariously at its own slickness, its domination, its mastery, and its success at using me.<br />
<br />
Late at night, when I get up to go to the bathroom or get a drink, I refuse to look in the bathroom mirrors or the window above the kitchen sink, not wanting to give Death one iota of recognition. And when the doorbell rings, especially late at night, when I am not expecting any company or visitors, (and to make matters worse, the dogs bark and growl at the presence on the other side of the door) I always suspect it’s Death just playing a trick on me. That familiar gentle breeze sends that chill across my skin, and every hair on my arms and neck faithfully stand at attention and terror as I struggle to get the words out, "Who's there?"<br />
<br />
Now, this is just a story. Well, it’s my story. Death does not have to lurk any where in your life. You know that, don't you? Especially not in bathroom mirrors and kitchen windows. Get up at night and pee, for God's sake. And when your mouth is dry and full of cotton, get a drink, and look out that kitchen window at the sleeping universe. Don’t get freaked out when the doorbell rings late at night. Open the door and welcome the family member who simply can’t find their key. Don't be terrorized by the chance of Death lurking anywhere. The reality is Death does not have to lurk. You will always know the exact moment that it makes an entrance. It's never by happenstance. It's always on cue.<br />
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Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8035891452916933483.post-70967690990316482132012-09-18T14:37:00.001-07:002012-09-18T14:37:27.063-07:00JOHN CHRISTOPHER STEVENS<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9bc4Qc2iWIJW20A9Z1kAA_QxmIq16lyJi_NKHILRr_Uw2O88BDUZ6dkZqHzLncgF_KTkLiDFuZw1vz8YmPmrZ6TCLYMb8t0m7GmzJhIAZ0w4ksgvgb5pmztsVyP_IfcBtVtD3MQCz5Y/s1600/Ambassador_christopher_stevens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9bc4Qc2iWIJW20A9Z1kAA_QxmIq16lyJi_NKHILRr_Uw2O88BDUZ6dkZqHzLncgF_KTkLiDFuZw1vz8YmPmrZ6TCLYMb8t0m7GmzJhIAZ0w4ksgvgb5pmztsVyP_IfcBtVtD3MQCz5Y/s1600/Ambassador_christopher_stevens.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of Wikipedia</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ambassador John Christopher Stevens was born April 18, 1960 in Grass Valley, California. His parents were Jan S. Stevens, then the Assistant Attorney General of California and Mary J. Floris, a Native American from the Chinook tribe. His mother was an accomplished cellist and played for the Marin Symphony Orchestra.<br /><br />As a student at Piedmont High School, Stevens became active in the AFS program, and spent the summer of 1977 in Spain as an exchange student. In 1982, he graduated from Berkeley with a bachelor degree in history, and subsequently taught English as a Peace Corp Volunteer. In 1989, he earned his Juris Doctoris degree from University of California, Hastings College of the Law. More recently in 2010, he received a Masters Degree from the National War College. The <a href="http://www.ndu.edu/nwc/" target="_blank">National War College</a> is an interesting program. Check it out.<br /><br />Ambassador Stevens was a career diplomat and served in the United States Foreign Service from 1991 till his death. He served in the Middle East his entire career. He was fluent in English, Arabic, and French.<br /> <br />To be honest with you, I had never heard of Ambassador Stevens until his death. It is obvious though, from looking at his education and his career that he was not looking to become a General or a Colonel, not even a Lieutenant or a Sargeant. He was dedicated to bringing about dialogue between our country and the Middle East, using non-military means.<br /><br />He knew, as do all those who dedicate their working life to the foreign service that today might be the day, the day they are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. I think we honor Ambassador Stevens, particularly we honor his diligent work of twenty one years, by continuing to resolve this insane outbreak of protest and violence diplomatically. Our impulse to follow a knee jerk reaction to use even more violence to stop violence would be an insult to his commitment and his life. It’d be like saying, “Sorry, Stevens, your efforts were obviously futile. We’re going to come in with our big guns and clean up.” And we can do that, just like in the old Cowboy movies, and then we spend how many more years watching our back and awaiting another September 11. Vengeful people ALWAYS get even no matter what. There is no getting the last win, the last act of violence, the last strike. It works that way in video games, but not in real life.<br /><br />Please let us honor his life. </span>Vernon Bradleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551209729412541254noreply@blogger.com0