Life – Page 3 – A Work in Progress

Happy Valentine’s Day!

It appears I have found myself in a bit of a quandary this Valentine’s day. I wanted to do something original for my wife, so she could really understand what she means to me. So the first thing I tried to do was sit down and write her a song. There were two main problems with that idea:

1. I don’t know how to write songs.
2. I have about a 2 note range, and I don’t know how to sing, so when I do, it looks and sounds something like this:

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or maybe this:

So my romantic idea of a sweeping, romantic love ballad was dashed on the rocks.
Next I thought about a Valentine’s Day breakfast in bed thing, then I remembered:

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So that was out. And a light turned on in my really big, peach fuzzy head.
Why don’t I just tell her how I feel, and embarrass her publicly.
Check. I can do that. What better way than Hall & Oates memes?

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Oh, wait, that’s Beyonce.

Here’s another idea:

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I could do that, but, really, this is a good way to describe how I feel:

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Just a couple more truths.

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And this, from me, but through the immortal words of pop artist and ladies man, Rick Astley. Things I am never gonna:

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But seriously.
You are proof that the Father answers prayer. Look at our kids, and our home, and our life.
I love you, pretty girl. Happy Valentine’s Day.

RIPs in Advance

So the celebrities have really been checking out at an increasingly rapid rate, especially musicians and singers. The men and women who made the music of the 60s, 70s, and 80s are getting a little long in the tooth, and you never know what’s going to happen, or when. I enjoy a lot of that older music (real instruments, and real vocals–good and bad) because I have older sisters that introduced me to it when I was younger. I am really grateful for that.

When they pass, social networking goes bananas with tributes and RIPs. So I thought I would pay some respect to the bands I loved when I was younger, and love today.

Ozzy Osbourne/Black Sabbath and solo. My friend had a Paranoid LP, and we played it a lot when I was younger. Then I got one of my own from my sisters, I think. Such a great and heavy record. Today, Ozzy speaks like a stroke victim in recovery, but he can still sing. Ozzfest 2002 was awesome.

Deep Purple. Amazing band. I only need two works to prove it. Highway Star.

Styx. Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto.

Journey. They rock, and the ladies love them. What’s not to love?

Judas Priest. Oh, my gosh. Still one of my favorite bands from the 80’s. Rob Halford is in his 60’s, but he still has it.

Iron Maiden. A friend had a recording of Live After Death. So good. And Piece of Mind? Please…

Don’t let me forget Bruce Springsteen, either. Not metal, but Born in the USA and The River were like old friends during a really tough time. And then my sister gave me the live boxed set for my birthday, I think. Done–lifelong fan of his music. Never mind his politics.

That’s the beauty of recorded music. The performers will be gone, but we will have the music forever.

Band-Aid on a Neck Wound

I think it’s completely understandable that when there is some sort of gun-related crime that makes the National news, people become more concerned about the ease of obtaining firearms, especially if the incident is a multiple-victim shooting.

There have been so many of those of late, the President has vowed to issue an executive order for what he and those like him have deemed better gun control laws.

Ok, go ahead.

It just seems to me that they are–metaphorically speaking–putting a Band-Aid on a neck wound. They may temporarily stop the bleeding, but the wound is still there.

If you doubt the veracity of that statement, take a long look at Chicago crime statistics–where you will find some very tough gun control laws.

In my opinion, our nation’s problem with guns is more related to the de-valuing of human life, and less related to gun purchases at firearm expos and large capacity magazines.

For so many, I believe, human life is meaningless.

The President rails against well publicized gun violence when it occurs, but at the same time supports an organization responsible for literally, millions of deaths. How am I then to take his diatribes seriously?

From what news sources indicate from all sides of the spectrum, gun purchases are surging. I’m not sure what that will mean in the end, but it’s seems very possible this president will go down in the annals of history a little differently than he would probably like to.

Maybe his executive order will help things. I really hope so. Time will tell.

Maybe the President will realize that all lives really do matter, and that simple truth needs to resonate.

Seriously, Though. Thicken Your Skin a Little

I read an article on Yahoo News a little while ago about the actor Chris Hemsworth attending a “Wild, Wild, West” themed party dressed in “indian” garb and matching headgear. The writer of the article referred to the Hemsworths as wearing racist costumes (there is, apparently, a picture on Instagram).

Every time I read something like this, it shocks me anew. Not that Hemsworth wore an indian costume, but that all these folks–activists, probably–got their collective panties in a tight enough bunch they were deeply offended.

So apparently, the next thing will be for Mr. Hemsworth to go an apology tour–which is what usually happens, I believe. It also surprises me that knowing how sensitive and quick to jump on things the press is, Thor and his wife did not dress as amoebas or something less offensive. Anyone under the harsh Hollywood microscope should probably know what they are getting into.

Although because he is technically NOT a single-celled animal/organism, he would probably be vilified for claiming only one cell when he actually has lots of them.

Now that I think about it, I saw a dude in Walmart this past week dressed as an overweight white man in cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a tee-shirt proclaiming the splendor of his “dad-bod.” He wasn’t white, though.

Racist.

The Worst Thing I’ve Ever Seen

Still image from video shows men purported to be Egyptian Christians held captive by the Islamic State kneeling in front of armed men along a beach said to be near Tripoli

I took a picture a couple of years ago, and the object I was photographing nearly took my breath away with its subtle beauty. I looked at it again today, and it made me think of how easy it is to find beauty when you least expect it.

I also saw the image above, and it took my breath away, too. 20 men–all ostensibly believers–about to die for nothing more than believing in a God a large group of extremists hate with a violent passion.

I have seen a lot in my life. There has certainly been a lot in the News this year–plenty for Conservatives and Liberals to chew on, and get angry about. For my part, the image at the top is the most terrible thing I have seen all year, and maybe all my life.

These men are Egyptian Christians. Taken captive by ISIS for more or less doing nothing other than worshipping what this group of individuals thinks is the wrong God. I think the terrorists called this video something like “A message signed in blood to the People of the Cross.” Erudite, these people are not.

I found the image online, as well as an article and an accompanying video I will never be able to unsee. I didn’t intend to watch it, but the article mentioned the men crying out at the end, and I felt compelled to bear witness to that. They are marched down a deserted beach, and made to kneel on the sand. The man in the camo with the knife gives his shpiel and near the end, mentions who the men are (without naming any of them), and what’s going to happen to them. He tells them to cry out to their God. They do cry out here and there, and then are forced into a prostrate position, and their heads are sawed off with knives.

There was even a link to an article quoting Pope Francis that mentioned the men crying out to Jesus in their last few seconds.

They really did die for their faith. Scripture promises they will be raised up again in Revelation 4. After Jesus, I want to meet these people and others who died for the God they believed in (I am not numbering the multitudes of idiots who blew themselves up for Allah among them).

Anyway, that image really made me think–long and hard–about what’s coming. I know many of you don’t believe in a literal bible, and that’s your choice.

That doesn’t change what’s coming, for those who believe and those who do not. In the movie Return of the King, Aragorn says something to Théoden like “Open war is upon you, whether we would risk it or not.” And that’s where we are today. It doesn’t matter much what the President chooses to do (or more accurately, not do), I don’t think.

And I have been wondering all year, what would I do for my faith?

Will I die for it?

Would I cry out for Jesus as some jackal with a knife executes me?

I hope so.

And then I’ve been wondering where all the beauty in the world went off to? Is there any left?

Turns out there is, and it’s everywhere. The world is terrible and wonderful at the same time. And amongst all the strife abroad, or here at home, there are nuggets of beauty among the ashes. I will do my best to consider the beauty that still exists, and the God that has a hand and heart in everything. And I will wait for whatever is coming, knowing that I will not go through it alone.

The image at the bottom of this post is what I was talking about at the beginning. I took it on a patch of dirt and gravel, next to a pile of old and rusted metal and a dumpster.

Beauty amongst trash. It exists. And it’s comforting. It comforts me because to me, in my heart and mind–it is evidence that God also exists. I didn’t need it, but it’s wonderful to see.

And it makes the rest…more bearable.

Remembering Ol’ Blue Eyes

I heard noises coming from my kitchen this morning, or at least I thought I did. They were not the kind of noises from someone breaking in, or stealing, because I know my otherwise worthless dogs would have barked up a storm, and they were not making any noise at all. It was not my wife, because she was sleeping next to me. It seemed more like the sound of someone moving about and getting ready for their day—the sound of small dishes clinking together, a radio coming on softly. I looked at my bedside clock and it was 0330 exactly (shortly before I normally get up).

I got out of bed and wandered down the hall in my boxers, because why not? I immediately saw a light on in the kitchen, and when I came around the corner, my mother was there in a bathrobe, frying something in a skillet. She turned to look at me and said my name, “Tommy.”

I haven’t been Tommy in a number of years, but this morning I was. I started to respond, but then I realized my bladder was really full, and I rolled over and looked at my clock, and it was exactly 0330.

Although I realized it was a dream right away, it also occurred to me that I hadn’t seen my mother since 1987, and the last time she’d been in a morphine coma. She looked pretty good today, all things considered.

So I sat on the couch, and I read a little. I had a couple microwave pancakes. I was restless, and I couldn’t concentrate, so I pulled up an episode of Hawaii Five-0 on Netflix. Kono was lost at sea on a catamaran trip she began in honor of her mother. There were a lot of flashbacks with Kono and her mom, where the mom would relay this…homespun Hawaiian wisdom to her that helped her survive. “For crying out loud,” I thought. What on earth kind of morning was this going to be?

I guess I was supposed to think about my mother. Which I do almost every day, anyway. So that is what I’ve been doing.

I don’t have a lot of stories of mom passing along wisdom—I don’t remember her that well, honestly.

But I remember she loved old-school country music. In San Diego, the station was called KSON. I don’t know if it still is.

I know she liked to dance—I remember seeing her cut a rug with her brothers when I was very small. We have a couple home movies as well.

I remember rainy picnics on the kitchen floor. Sitting cross-legged on the floor and eating PB & J as my mom sang “rain, rain, go away.”

Other times she taught me this snippet of a George MacDonald poem called Baby. “Where did you come from, baby dear?”

To which my response was “out of everywhere into here.” My sister tells me she had this old book, and it came from there.

I do have one of her old books, though, and I really treasure it. It’s an old and falling-apart Living Bible, featuring marks she made with a fading felt-tip. It was given to her by my aunt Cathy back in 1979. I don’t know how much she read it then—I don’t remember seeing her with it until the months before her death.

There was one psalm she underlined in several places, and I just found that a couple of weeks ago. 31 years after she died. Amazing. And very comforting. Here is Psalm 116, which she underlined in purple, at some point before the end.

“I love the Lord because he hears my voice and my prayer for mercy. ²Because he bends down to listen, I will pray as long as I have breath! ³Death wrapped its ropes around me; the terrors of the grave^[a] overtook me. I saw only trouble and sorrow. ⁴Then I called on the name of the Lord: “Please, Lord, save me!” ⁵How kind the Lord is! How good he is! So merciful, this God of ours! ⁶The Lord protects those of childlike faith; I was facing death, and he saved me. ⁷Let my soul be at rest again, for the Lord has been good to me. ⁸He has saved me from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling. ⁹And so I walk in the Lord’s presence as I live here on earth! ¹⁰I believed in you, so I said, “I am deeply troubled, Lord.” ¹¹In my anxiety I cried out to you, “These people are all liars!” ¹²What can I offer the Lord for all he has done for me? ¹³I will lift up the cup of salvation and praise the Lord’s name for saving me. ¹⁴I will keep my promises to the Lord in the presence of all his people.

¹⁵The Lord cares deeply when his loved ones die. ¹⁶O Lord, I am your servant; yes, I am your servant, born into your household; you have freed me from my chains. ¹⁷I will offer you a sacrifice of thanksgiving and call on the name of the Lord. ¹⁸I will fulfill my vows to the Lord in the presence of all his people— ¹⁹in the house of the Lord in the heart of Jerusalem.”

So today I will remember my mom all I can. I will thank the Lord for the time I did have—18 years. Not all good, but good enough. There were struggles, but there were also a great many blessings. I’m grateful for them. If anyone I know reads this, I’ll show you that old bible next time you’re at the house. It’s awesome.

I just remembered my mom used to talk to people on a CB radio my dad put in the kitchen. Her handle was “Ol’ Blue Eyes” to my dad.

That’s awesome, too.

Not trying to be sad, or make anyone tear up. Just remembering Ol’ Blue Eyes.

A good thing to do.

On Extremism, and Starting a Conversation

Not everyone dressed like this is a terrorist, or (according to the Federal Bureau of Investigation) radicalized Muslims. A hijab and a taqiya are just articles of clothing.

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These people were, however, and did carry out their plan, although probably not to the degree they wished, thanks to a hail of bullets and a tactical vehicle.

For some reason—although they were known to the FBI very soon after their deed was done—it was determined by someone not to release information regarding their identities right away. I can actually imagine why without straining my brain too hard. The powers-that-be did not want to create anti-Islamic paranoia while blood was still hot over what had been done, which was, of course, murder motivated by terrorism and perpetrated by people taken captive by a hateful ideology.

No, I am not talking about the GOP. In spite of what many of our liberal friends might think.

(I am not planning to address Donald Trump’s remarks here. That’s for another post)

Personally, I do not know any practitioners of the Muslim faith. No, I do not believe they all want to kill me. I would say, of course, that some do. It would be foolish to deny that.

But certainly not all, and nowhere near a majority.

That said, what do we do? Do we round them up? Kick them out of the country? I don’t know. It makes me think of Japanese internment during WWII to an extent, and that was wrong. It feels the same way here.

BUT.

Radicalized Japanese people were not coming to the U.S. under a peaceful guise and murdering people at office Christmas parties.

Also, I understand how left-leaning purveyors of social justice might be worried about citizens getting all exclusion-y and prejudiced regarding Islamic people in the U.S. I get that—and they probably should worry, to an extent. Many people do and say stupid things, especially when people have been murdered.

I don’t know what the answer to that is. I don’t know how to keep people from feeling like they are the arbiters of justice, social or otherwise.

I think this is a dialogue the country needs to (and hopefully will) have.

But I also think it is liberal-minded folly to behave as if NO Islamic extremism has occurred in the U.S. since 9/11.

Sure, the U.S. can be held captive by ideology, too. It isn’t just GOP, though. Extremism exists in every country, every faith, and it is beyond dangerous.

I’m just trying to recall the last time folks from the U.S. got dressed up in their cowboy hats and baseball caps and took their game to Islamic countries….nope, I got nothing.

We just need to stop denying what’s going on. And we need to have a reasoned conversation, and not a blame party. Are we honestly supposed to believe San Bernardino was because of the NRA? Come on, folks. Pretending there is no danger domestically, doesn’t mean there is not. It just means it isn’t only ostriches who bury their heads in the sand.

Let’s put our respective agendas aside, and figure this nightmare out.

Blue Collar Love

Lately, when I have a moment or two, I’ve been thinking about love.

Not in the way you might think—this is not one of those gooshy, “I love my wife sooo much” posts (although I do).

Rather, I have been thinking that there really is a pretty big difference between the sort-of star-struck love you feel while dating, even leading up to your wedding and the real, deeper, blue-collar love you feel after you’ve been married a while, and the work of marriage begins.

Star-struck love gets you to the altar; blue-collar love keeps you together, and growing closer.

It isn’t that the romance ends when you tie the knot, because it doesn’t. It actually gets better.

Personally, I don’t think a soulmate is someone you slow-dance with your entire marriage, and say things like “you complete me” to at every opportunity, while staring into each other’s eyes and sighing.

That crap is for the movies, and it isn’t real marriage—it isn’t blue collar love.

I think a soulmate (if there is such a thing) is the person you can come home to and say “my day was crap,” and then they sit on the couch with you, drinking a beer and not talking about it, while the kids destroy the rest of the house.

A “soulmate” is the person you can just be with sometimes, and that is enough. It doesn’t have to be a Bruno Mars song all the time.

A “soulmate” is someone who can see you in all your morning magnificence and still give you a kiss, then tell you your breath smells like ass.

Blue-collar love is not perfectly arranged, candlelit dates at fancy restaurants. It’s driving to Dairy Queen barefoot at 10pm for a blizzard because nothing else will do.

It’s making your whiny, complaining husband a pie that everyone else in the free world hates, because his mom made it for him, and when he has it he remembers her.

Blue-collar love is not running off when things get tough, or when you have an argument or disagreement. It’s rolling up your sleeves and working that stuff out.

Blue-collar love is being able to say to your spouse “I don’t have it right now. Everything feels wrong. Can I just…talk a little? I need someone to listen.”

Or sleeping sitting up in a Hospital chair while your spouse gets emergency surgery on Valentine’s day.

It’s having common goals; the same things are important to each person. It’s hitting your knees and doing the work of real prayer when it needs to be done. Battling together for your kids and your marriage.

Sometimes blue collar love is cleaning up messes you didn’t make so they don’t have to.

Or calling them out when they fart worse than you.

Or knowing when to offer input or just listen, even when your day was just as bad as theirs sounds.

Blue collar love is ugly-crying and not being embarrassed, because you know they will probably tease you after you get it out, and that is awesome.

Blue collar love is goofing around in the kitchen until you almost fall, then falling anyway, grabbing onto each other the whole way while screaming with laughter (and then groaning like you took a hit from Warren Sapp afterward).

But blue collar love can also be work, and that makes it even better. Marriage is not for the faint of heart.

If neither I nor my wife was willing to work at things, life would be wretched.

But I also think if everything was easy all the time, life would be crappy, too.

It isn’t until we face adversity of some kind that we learn what we are capable of, and how strong we are as individuals and as a couple.

I may not be the most romantic man in the world, certainly not the most observant. I forget things. I’m bad at planning things for my wife-who is conversely the bees knees with all that stuff.

My wife knows this well, and let’s me slide with sucking at it.

Individually, we probably have issues. Everyone does. But they aren’t deal-breakers, and they do not lessen what we have together, which isn’t a perfect marriage.

But it’s a great one. We love God, and love each other. We put in the OT when it’s needed (which is always), and always extend the extra Grace.

Because without a little work every once in a while, the rewards aren’t as sweet.

My wife is the only person I have truly loved, in the way people usually mean it. She is, to me, proof that God loves me. She is—literally—an answer to prayer, and will be my pretty girl until I look like this:

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And even when I come home from work or anywhere smelling like a herd of rabid buffalo, she gives me a kiss…then tells me to go wash up, because I smell like trash, or whatever I happened to be into that particular day.

Or for my part, I can come into the bedroom while she’s using the w.c. and prance around the bathroom door in my Superman chonies. Or take a picture of my rear with her phone and make it wallpaper. It’s all good. She just laughs at me, and that’s a good thing.

You want to know my secret to staying happy? Be willing to sacrifice your dignity for a laugh every once in a while.

Come to think, we laugh a lot. Seriously, a LOT. That woman is funny, and I am more than willing to embarrass myself, especially in front of the kids. I want to teach them how to one day love their wives.

That’s the least I can do.

We have a blue collar love, and we are happy. Even when it’s hard, and life is being lame.

And, before I forget, I might add that it’s fun to freak out the kids every chance we get, too. If you don’t know what I mean, try giving your spouse a kiss in the presence of your children. You will usually get the wedge, or told to never dance again (I’m never gonna dance again…guilty feet have got no rhythm).

That’s another thing my wife has to put up with–constant and random 80’s song references…

It’s work, man. But it’s the most satisfying you will ever do. home

Kaleidoscope

I read someone else’s blog recently about parenting, and I thought it was both funny and carried a lot of truth. It’s tough to be a parent–the toughest thing in the world. Parents are usually not thanked for their efforts, at least not until our kids are grown and have a family of their own.

Kids are individuals, just as we are, and Lord, do they sometimes have their moments. So what do we do as parents?

We try to take what we’ve learned and use it, all the while filtering out the nonsense that our parents got from their parents, and we got from them, and so on.

Sometimes there’s a whole lot to filter. Sometimes not.

My parents were not the worst ever, though they had plenty of shortcomings like everyone else does, too.

I guess I kind of think of my own experience as a parent as something ever-evolving. Ever-changing. It’s not all good, and is sometimes really challenging, especially when they are being little toolbags. It isn’t all bad, either, because a lot of the time we get it right. I guess for me, it’s a lot like looking into a kaleidoscope, and seeing all those reflections of little pieces of broken glass or plastic or whatever it is. Triangles of bright glass multiplied by mirrors. Sometimes they combine in such a way as to make a beautiful mosaic. That’s what it’s like when I feel like I get things right as a parent, and do good deeds. When I give my kids stuff they can use.

Other times, the glass combines to make something straight up ugly–like mirrors and something gross. I somehow dredge up some of the less-than-good parenting habits of my folks. I crap the bed as a parent, like some of my Marine friends might say.

But you know what? Another thing I’ve discovered is when that happens, you can shake the kaleidoscope a few times and move on. The picture looks different.

Sure, parenting is hard. Everything good is, at least for me.

Strange and Interesting

Today is my younger son’s fifth birthday, and it got me thinking how strange and interesting life is. Mainly because I never thought I’d have any kids of my own. It just sort of never seemed like it would happen. I wanted it to, but I was nowhere near getting married. I wanted the whole enchilada, as they say.

For me, I always have. Even when I was younger. Maybe part of it was wanting the chance to give someone else the childhood I didn’t have myself. It was pretty much a mess, and if it hadn’t been for my sisters, I would have no idea what life as a kid was supposed to be like. I knew apathy pretty well. I knew about addiction, and depression, and mortal illnesses. I knew about physical and mental cruelty. I knew lots about fear.

My sisters taught me about love without condition. They taught me about feeling safe, and how it felt to be chosen first. All three of them were amazing at taking care of kids, and I will always be thankful for that. And my brother-in-laws were more father to me than my own, especially Philip. Dad died way too young, and before that he was worn out by life, and work, and functional poverty.

But I never expected to have a family of my own. Or a home—a real home. One with a foundation that was mine. And a door with panes of glass. Always wanted that for some reason.

My last…whatever it was ended badly a little more than a decade ago, and I went on a deliberate hiatus for a number of years after that. I came to belief shortly after Y2K, and built on that foundation for a few years as well. I needed to, or I was never going to be useful to anyone else.

The good of the hiatus part is that I was able to work on my heart issues, and what some might call my “core woundings.” It wasn’t fun by any means, but it was like…physical therapy for my soul.

And I needed it.

There came a day I wanted to try…getting out there again. I wanted to meet someone desperately.

I discovered I didn’t have much game pretty early on. None would probably be a better descriptor than “much” in this instance.

I fumbled around a little, and had very little success. A couple of first dates, and a lot of phone calls.

Then someone contacted me (I will always believe that was God getting my attention, and giving me what I needed, even if not exactly what I thought I wanted), and it began.

We emailed, and took a lot of those MySpace quizzes. We talked on the phone like smitten teenagers (and the funny things was, she was the first person I had been with since high school that was age appropriate).

I was all in, and I knew that after just a few weeks.

We were engaged December of the same year we met. December 22, to be exact. At her family Christmas dinner. Not what I planned, but given the value she placed on family, totally appropriate.

And I decided to move away from California, my lifelong home. I had always wanted something new—a fresh start. Nothing like moving to Arizona to be with your girl and her son to start things over again.

We married 9 months after we met. We got pregnant 9 months after we were married. And our son was born the usual 9 months after that.

That’s when I realized that even though I was living in a place I didn’t know very well—a place that was hotter than a monkey’s butt—I was pretty happy with life.

And that was strange, too.

We’ve been through plenty of difficulties of our own, but we’ve always laughed with each other. We pray together, and to this day I love holding her hand. And as far as I know, we’ve never went to bed angry at one another.

I was reaching into our living room closet the other day for something, and I turned my head and looked out the panes of glass in my door to the front yard, where there are trees. Two cars in the driveway.

I don’t know, man. I know it shouldn’t be a big deal, but it is. Having a home. There isn’t a white picket fence, but it’s a pretty good thing we have going here. I know I won’t be able to right all the wrongs done to me by having a family and trying my best to do right by them. But the healing of and in my heart has allowed me to forgive many things, and that’s a huge deal.

My life is full, and it’s completely not what I thought it would be, but everything I wanted it to.

Truly, I should not be here. But I am. Through addictions, through lots of things. I went through life feeling like an accident. But the truth is I am not.

I am here. God meant me to be.

I acknowledge that I only have life, and draw breath, and come home to hugs and kisses from my kids because of the presence of God in my life.

What does it profit a man to gain the whole world, but lose his soul?

I don’t know. I gained what feels like the whole world, and discovered my soul.

It isn’t just because of the house. It isn’t just because of the family.

I think…no, I know. It’s because my feet are finally on the right path. I still stumble, and sometimes even fall.

The fulfillment I feel in just…trying to be obedient makes it worthwhile.

And I get to come home to this insane enclave of kids, and dogs, and a wife, and it’s pretty awesome.

God is good, all the time.

And the funny thing is, he always was. It’s funny how much you hear when you actually listen.

Life is good, too.