Author: prayerfullife7

Far be it from me to tell anyone not to worry about something. They have a right to worry about anything they darn well feel like. Isn’t that what makes America great after all? Everyone gets to pick for themselves what keeps them up at night, or who out there scares them the most. 

I don’t like snakes, my wife is afraid of spiders. I’ve even heard that some people are afraid of vegetables. I’m guessing most of them are under the age of ten. Some fears are rational while many are not. But even if they are irrational they still have power and can affect our behavior. Often these fears are born out of our particular past experiences; so that my fears may be quite different from your own. 

Now, I have a little confession to make—and then an assertion. First, my confession: I’m a little afraid of these vaccines for COVID-19. You may think I’m silly, or misinformed. But my fear is born from related experience. I used to get flu shots because I was told it was a good idea. But each time I got those shots I suffered severe flu symptoms, for quite a long time. And then, several months after I had the shot, I still got the flu as well. Now, I’m no expert mathematician but still, I can do a little cost-benefit analysis of that, and come to the conclusion—after a few quick calculations—that I received little to no benefit from those flu shots, and yet I paid a heavy price. This Covid vaccine is different—it isn’t the flu shot—but it is similar enough to give me pause and to cause me some concern. Okay, I worry a little bit about it. 

Adding fuel to my metaphorical fear fire is the fact that I know of several others, one a close friend, who have had even worse reactions than my own, to flu shots, as well as to the Covid vaccines.  One was hospitalized, one had their ankles swell up like balloons and is now suffering blood clotting without a successful remedy, and another suffered gastrointestinal issues that caused severe constipation, and he lost 16 pounds over several weeks, couldn’t sleep, and started sweating profusely without interruption. Eventually his symptoms subsided after about six months and he returned to normal. 

I’m told, by a research scientist friend, that the adverse reactions to these vaccines are well within statistical norms. That is just great—for everyone who isn’t adversely affected by them. For those of us who are likely, or surmise we might be more likely for adverse reactions based on our past experience, these statistical norms aren’t so comforting. 

Even so, we are a people that love our numbers. We have statistics for everything and make many of our decisions based on these. Numbers sway our decisions and we base our behavior oftentimes on how the numbers look, or how they are trending, and what the odds are; we weigh the chances, estimate the probability, and then act accordingly. 

Now, I am going to share my little assertion with you. It is based on just a few simple numbers supplied by our friends at Johns Hopkins University, and fortunately for us the numbers are (relatively)free of bias (we hope), and they don’t have any agenda or ulterior motive. They’re just innocent numbers after all, gathered and presented by those fine researchers, who track and tabulate the cases and deaths from the Covid virus from around the world. The raw numbers themselves are interesting enough—you can go to their website and see for yourself—but if you also pull out your calculator and just do a few basic operations—just division—then the numbers will begin to speak to you with power and insight. They will reveal things to you which you may not have ever considered, and which nobody has ever told you. 

After everything that we’ve gone through since the virus first touched our shores—as of this writing—we’ve had 36,305,000 cases in the US. That is quite a lot; though if you divide that by the total population—which is currently 332,609,000—you find that it is roughly 10.9%, so a little over 1 in 10 people have contracted the virus thus far. Maybe that is bad, maybe that is good, it depends on how you look at it I suppose. Looking further, the number of deaths in the US to date is 619,000, so that comes to roughly .18% of our population—a relatively small fraction of a percentage. That is comforting, in my opinion. Perhaps these numbers also comfort you, or perhaps they alarm you even more.

Now, I suspect that my sharing these numbers with you may have the same non-effect on your decision-making, related to this virus, as my friend’s reference to statistical norms had upon me. If you’ve had Covid yourself, or know someone who has had it who has suffered from it, or has even died from it—God forbid—then, odds and statistics won’t mean nearly as much to you as your personal experience will. Because if I’ve learned anything in my fifty-two years as an American—as a human for that matter—if there is anything we trust and follow more than our numbers and statistics, it is our anxieties and our fears. 

~FS

(*Disclaimer: The following is not an argument against vaccines. The author supports vaccinations in general, and has himself had all of the standard vaccines as a child and is grateful for them.)

To mandate vaccination, is a crime against the person, akin to rape. To force an individual, by threat, through economic pressure or any other means, is an abuse of power and a cynical affront to human decency and freedoms. To mandate a vaccine that is known to cause suffering and death, even if in small percentages, is a crime against humanity, akin to premeditated murder.

These comparisons are accurate and true, and are not made lightly. They are not made to minimize the pain and suffering of those who have been raped or have been murdered, but to accentuate the reality that mandating another human being to have a foreign body inserted into their body against their will, such as these vaccines, which could harm them or even kill them, is an atrocity so heinous that it is morally equivalent to rape and premeditated murder. They are not the same, but they are equal. They are equally morally objectionable and ethically depraved. And they are equally criminal.

And they are equally anti-social. Mandated vaccination, like rape and murder, is an outrage to any human society. It is antithetical to, and the enemy of the social fabric of any healthy civilization. There is nothing morally superior about forcing one’s fellow citizens to take a vaccine against their wishes. No matter how extensive the marketing of such a corrupt idea is twisted to look like virtue, and is promoted as kindliness and neighborliness. It is the opposite; it is the end of kindness, and the end of a free society.  

It is the beginning of an enslaved society, in which only power prevails and only might makes right. Advocates of mandated vaccination believe the ends justify the means, but we know from history that the means always become, and are the ends themselves. What we do is what we become; a society that allows and encourages force, and the use of power to threaten its members towards a desired outcome, is a society that has become evil, corrupt and criminal at its core, and has abandoned the principles of freedom, liberty and the rights of its people.

~FS

Just the other day, I sat down to write a little story. I had planned a nice, uplifting, and inspiring sort of thing—nothing controversial, and suitable for all ages. It started out with a young man, Jack, and a young woman, Claudia. And it was about their friendship, and the work they enjoyed on a ranch somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, possibly in Wyoming, though I’m not exactly certain where, because I hadn’t gotten very far, I had barely begun actually, before something else, wholly unexpected, and very surprising happened to me. I was writing a simple sentence about Claudia: She picked up a saddle and set it on the horse’s back. I then moved on, mentally speaking, to begin the next sentence, but before I could begin it, one of the words from the previous sentence spoke to me. And I mean this literally. “Saddle” made a slight cough, to get my attention, and then spoke, the ‘S’ opening wide, and the double ‘dds’ like two front teeth lifted, and the word politely addressed me. “Hey, there fella. I don’t mean to be rude but you know, I’m not so keen about being called ‘saddle’ anymore. Just the other day, they had the radio on in here, in the stables, and they were talking on it about this new electric recliner chair that is so comfortable, and everyone is buying them. And it got me to thinking. Nobody cares about an old, stupid saddle anymore. It’s embarrassing, you know, I feel like a thing from the past—and irrelevant—which just won’t do. So, it dawned on me right then—I’m not a saddle, I’ve never really been a saddle, I’m an electric recliner chair! So, I’d appreciate it, if you could go back and change that last line you just wrote, and call me what I really know I am, deep down inside, if only others could see my truth.”

I hardly felt in a position to argue at that moment. I thought I was losing my mind. Rather than quibble with “saddle’s” demands I considered the suggested rewrite: She picked up an electric recliner chair and set in on the horse’s back. I didn’t like it so much. It really changed the meaning of the sentence.  And furthermore, even a simple change like that could alter the entire trajectory of my story. “Saddle’s” demand might cause me some big problems in the future. But saddle now looked so forlorn, its double ‘dds’ now looking like sad little eyes, with their tips drooping like a miserable puppy-dog’s ears. It really tugged at my heart-strings and I thought to myself, “What kind of a writer am I? If I can’t accommodate such a straightforward and simple demand from one of my words. And it is only one word, making only one sincere request. What harm can it do anyone? And it will make saddle so happy.”

After making the ridiculous edit, I applied myself to the next sentence. But would you believe it, before I could work out the new direction for my story, all of a sudden ‘horse’ rose up and neighed at me, apparently having been emboldened by saddle’s success. “Whoa there, mister writer!” The horse said to me, “I have a little change myself, I’d like to submit to you. It is dreary to be an ordinary horse and to be honest with you, I’ve never really seen myself as a horse, so domesticated, you know what I mean?! No, ever since I was little I’ve known that I was an eagle, flying freely upon the wind. I don’t care what you think, but I need you to change that last sentence and call me an eagle. Which I surely am.”

This time I almost complained, but I held my tongue. By wrinkling my nose, and squinting my eyes, and tensing my jaw I was able, successfully, to contain my displeasure at this latest request—demand actually. My, how my words were becoming cheeky and unruly. “Who’s writing who?” I thought to myself. “Dang it, no, I don’t want to call you an eagle, you silly little horse. You are a horse—she puts the saddle on the horse. That’s what happens. And then, the rest of the happy, nice, inspiring story continues to its happy, nice conclusion.” But I didn’t say these things to the horse, as I considered the revision he proposed: She picked up an electric recliner chair and set it on the eagle’s back. No, no, no! This just isn’t what I wanted. The story is getting all messed up, it isn’t going to make any sense. It’s a completely different story now.

I looked down at horse, and he looked up menacingly at me, and I was taken aback. The ‘h’ at the beginning of his name, he had metamorphosely hooked into a sort of talon, and the ‘o’ opened wide as if to swallow me. I could see he wasn’t about to take no for an answer, and so, I relented and made the change for him. By now I was growing more and more displeased with the direction my story was taking, and I felt certain I was losing control over the plot.

I took several deep breaths as I considered how best to continue the story. I had hoped that Claudia could put the saddle on the horse and then ride across the valley and up onto a nearby mountain, and maybe watch a pretty sunset, possibly to be joined by Jack after he finished his chores. But instead, she put an electric recliner chair on the back of an eagle, and it wasn’t her fault. What was she supposed to do with that, and how could I make this turn out well for her? I was a little upset with the saddle and the horse, because they had ruined everything for Claudia.

“All is not lost, however,” I thought. “If the eagle is really large, she can sit in the electric recliner, and have the eagle fly her to the view of the sunset.” It becomes more of a fantasy story now, and less realistic, but it can still work. I resented the saddle and horse for turning my realistic-drama into a fantasy-science fiction, but I resolved not to stew about it, and to do my best with the new circumstances. I had just made my peace with this new fantasy, which I had been saddled with, and was about to write the next line of the story, when all hell broke loose. First, the pronoun ‘she’ rebelled and said she wouldn’t participate unless I turned her into ‘they’. I tried to explain that she represented Claudia, and since Claudia is a singular female, she had to be ‘she’ which is a singular female pronoun. My appeal to English grammar and syntax had no effect. ‘She’ was determined to be ‘they’. This time I pushed back a little bit, saying: “Look, if I call you ‘they’ you will no longer represent Claudia, and that is your only purpose in the story. I can’t have you in my story if you insist on being ‘they’. Of course you are welcome and free to be ‘they’ but you’ll have to leave. I need a ‘she’ to stand in for Claudia, I can’t use a ‘they’ in place of her.” I couldn’t believe how nasty ‘she’ then got. She told me she wouldn’t leave, although she used the third person plural saying: “they aren’t going to leave” but meaning that she herself wasn’t going anywhere. And if I tried to write her out of the story that wouldn’t be the last time I heard from ‘them’ and I’d regret it.

My head was spinning a little bit, and I think that was her/their strategy, to wear me out. It seemed easier to just keep her in the story, and call her ‘they’ instead of ‘she’ as she (they) asserted, though I knew it was really going to complicate the plot, and make it very confusing. I felt even sorrier now for Claudia, now that she had no pronoun to stand in for her for the rest of the story. She was really getting poorly treated, even if inadvertently, by the demands the other words were making. As I re-wrote the line, the verb phrase, ‘picked-up’ complained that it had always hated itself, because it sounds so coarse and vulgar—picked-up; and it recently had fallen in love with Argentinian culture, and from now on it preferred to be rendered as ‘tangoed upon’, because the tango is so ravishing and sultry, and not coarse or vulgar at all.

So I re-typed the new sentence, following the directives of all the component words, and produced: They tangoed upon an electric recliner chair and set it on the eagle’s back. My, how I missed the original version, as I thought back wistfully upon that earlier time, before the words had revolted. The new version was interesting, but had no place in my story. I brought the earlier version to mind again: She picked up a saddle and set it on the horse’s back. I imagined how I might return to that line again, and leave this nonsense behind. And I was shocked how I had come to this point, how I had been taken from that simple little sentence, which fit so innocently into the flow of my beautiful story, all the way to this strange new sentence, which had no place at all in the story I intended to write.

I was lost in these thoughts and barely noticed the tiny voices—when a little group of words rose up and quietly made their demands. I hadn’t heard from them before, and perhaps they were shy, or unsure of themselves, or didn’t know what to say exactly. They were a few simple words, tucked in between the saddle and the horse, who had demanded to be called an electric recliner chair and an eagle, and this little group—’and set it’—explained to me how they felt overlooked and unimportant, and they wanted me to help make them feel special. In fact, they really believed they deserved to feel special. I asked what I could do to help them esteem themselves appropriately. They wanted to be more dramatic, and placed center-stage, so to speak. One of them suggested adding the word ‘ablaze’ at the end of their little contingent, and then to hyphenate all-of-them-together so they could be a community. The others agreed, cheering, and I relented. At this point I would do whatever this sentence asked of me, I wanted them to be happy, and I had given up on them anyway. The story was writing itself, and the author had retired from trying to control it.

I typed out this final version, and smiled a beleaguered smile, before throwing it in the trash: They tangoed upon an electric recliner chair and-set-it-ablaze on the eagle’s back. My thoughts then turned to Claudia and Jack, to their hopes and dreams, and of their lives on the plain, under the shadow of the Rocky Mountains, in the warm glow of the setting sun. Yes, they would fall in love and find joy in each other’s embrace. It was still going to happen, and nothing could stop it from happening, not even the saddle’s demand.

~FS

Calypso Ray knew, just like everyone else does, what it takes to be happy. She knew it, but she just couldn’t do it. Either that, or things just hadn’t fallen the right way for her. Yes, she thought, it was obviously some deficiency within herself that caused happiness to elude her; because she had done all the right things, all the things one is supposed to do, ever since she was a little girl; and yet, life still never felt quite right. Maybe she didn’t really know after all. Don’t get me wrong though, it wasn’t that Calypso was unhappy, not exactly. She was fine. That’s what she’d say in fact, when anyone asked her how she was doing. “She was doing just fine.”

But maybe happiness is the wrong measure. Nobody can be happy all the time, right? Maybe what she was seeking was really fulfillment, not happiness; or maybe she wanted her life to have some kind of meaning. Honestly, it sounds mundane to say it, but she was trying to make her life matter. And sometimes it did seem to matter, she could feel it; like when she tucked her daughter into bed, and as she sang to her while she fell asleep. In those quiet moments when their eyes met—her child’s eyes heavy and at peace, and her own, smiling—then the world around her disappeared, and it was then that Calypso felt her life mattered most. But a lot of the time, maybe most of the other times, it didn’t seem to matter much at all. 

And this bothered her, but like most people, she didn’t want to let on that she had this problem. It seems so silly after all, doesn’t it? And she could live without thinking about it, so that’s what she tried to do. She’d hate that I was telling you all of this; and maybe this makes me a bad friend. But I thought you might like to know, because maybe you’ll relate to this; and her story is, at the very least, entertaining. Besides, it is easier for me to make a confession on behalf of a friend, rather than relate my own issues, so telling you about Calypso Ray is a good distraction. Yet, in the end, her story isn’t all that different than my own, I suppose—aside from the particulars and the details. The broad strokes are quite similar. We’re all a lot more alike than different, after all.

Calypso was a swimmer, and a klutz. In the pool and in the surf she was graceful; but get her on land, and then she bumped into things. Perhaps she just didn’t pay enough attention, since her mind was constantly someplace else. There were always so many things to do, to get done, and it was never-ending, the lists, the errands, the work to keep up, to get ahead, to satisfy her loved ones and herself. And she was always late: taking her daughter to day-care, picking up groceries, meeting her husband, meeting her friends, arriving at work, leaving work, waking up, and heading to bed. Occasionally, she tried hard to think about her life but always found it difficult to make any conclusions. For instance, she stopped one day on the sidewalk, with her coffee in hand, and she closed her eyes for a moment to help her think, but suddenly she opened them again—embarrassed to be seen with her eyes closed in public, and feeling like a freak. She pretended to have something in her eye, in case anyone was watching her. She glanced around at the passers-by but nobody seemed to notice. But just in case, she squinted a few more times and closed her eyes again, blinking—to make her subterfuge complete. But what she had really wanted to do when she closed her eyes, was try to think about her life. For instance, why did she just buy the coffee in her hand? Did she even like coffee? Just then several women passed by, carrying their coffee, and they all smiled at her, and she smiled back. “I guess I like coffee,” she thought, as she glanced at her watch and realized she had better get a move on.

She wore her watch on her left wrist, like most people do. She also held her coffee in her left hand, most of the time. So when she turned her wrist to look at her watch, she dumped her coffee down her blouse, and across her skirt. “Crap!” She exclaimed. Calypso had a bit of a foul mouth, but generally she could keep that under wraps, and it only surfaced when something surprised her. As a little girl, this often made adults laugh. As a teen, it bothered her parents, and embarrassed them at holidays and when they attended church. As a young woman though, it became normal. Strange. But all of her girlfriends also had foul mouths. So, it was no longer an issue for her, so she settled into it comfortably, and eventually learned to feel fine when cuss-words came out unexpectedly. At first, she laughed nervously when she swore, because memories of her parents’ reactions flitted across her mind, but when the friends in her company showed no reaction at all, she learned not to worry about it either. So she came to the conclusion: “What’s wrong with an occasional bad word anyway? Who really gives a shimmy-shimmy*!” (*Not Calypso’s actual expression, author’s substitution.) And this made her smile. But she sighed now, as she looked down at the coffee stains all over her clothing, and she knew she’d be late to her meeting, that is, if she could even make it there at all, before it ended.

When I first saw Calypso swim, my heart stopped and my mind raced, as she slid between the waves like a knife. She could slice her way through water while barely leaving a trace, with hardly a ripple left behind. I don’t remember exactly, so maybe it was my mind that stopped and my heart that raced, as she wove her magic through that shimmering water. I never saw anything like her before, nobody quite so beautiful. Maybe it was her swimming which was beautiful to me and nothing more, because I could hardly see her form beneath the surface, and never saw her face. Her arms were exquisite though. They churned smoothly and evenly, a continuous rhythm that first I followed with my eyes, and then my mind, and finally with all of me—it was I that followed in her wake. And time stopped. And was recalibrated to the motion of her hands—rising and falling—lifting out of the water from somewhere near her hips, making a circuit through the sky, and dipping again just beyond her forehead. Round and round they went; and her golden hair streaming behind her like the rays of the sun. For how long did I watch her? I have no idea. Minutes? Hours? Days? She was like a continuous day to me, and there was no night when watching her.

~FS

I’m not going to lie, Vincent had a crappy day. It was a two-scotch, ten-mile bike ride to undo-the-crappiness-of-it kind of day. But, given the fact that he worried about his liver, he cut the scotch in half, and since he was too lazy to ride ten miles, he cut that in half as well. And, if we’re being really honest, he didn’t even ride the five miles I just implied that he’d ridden, but only rode around the block, which was a half-mile at best. After a drink and a bike ride he felt a little bit better but it was hard to get the day out of his mind. A longer ride certainly would have helped to clear his head, but he felt weary and instead just flopped down on the couch and grabbed for the remote. He flipped through the channels, barely paying attention to what he was seeing, and landed on a game show: “What is the capitol of Zimbabwe?” he heard the contestant exclaim. “Harare,” Vincent muttered. But the question was the answer. It was that show.

Vincent smiled as he thought about this game, and how nice it is to be given the answers, when all you have to do is come up with the questions. That’s the way life should work, he thought, like this: Answer: Harare. Question: Where can I ship off all my cruddy clients?… Answer: Tomorrow. Question: When can I can retire?…Answer: Paul McCartney. Question: Who is the person I’d most like to write the soundtrack to my life?…Answer: Ten million dollars. Question: How much is the check made out for that is coming for me in the mail tomorrow?…Answer: Love. Question: What is the meaning of life?…Answer: Who knows! Question: What is the meaning of love?…He turned off the TV and sat quietly for a few moments, contemplating this last question about love, his dogs having jumped onto his lap when he sat down, and now curled up there fast asleep. Remembering a line from his childhood, “happiness is a warm puppy,” he decided that may be the answer for love as well: “love is a warm puppy, or two warm puppies.”

He decided that answer was as satisfactory as any other. His wife would be home soon, she certainly knew the correct answer. He might ask her. His usual question to her was, “How was your day?” This one about love might be more provocative. He pictured it in his mind: she walks through the door and puts her purse on the counter, she gets a glass of water and wipes the sweat from her brow, as he comes downstairs and asks: “Hi sweetie, welcome home, hey, what’s the meaning of love?” She’d be surprised and would smile. Not bad. Besides, he didn’t really care how her day was, it was just a habit to ask. It was always the same anyway—or nearly. Dear reader, don’t get mad, Vincent isn’t a (complete) jerk. She doesn’t care how his day is either, but she asks him all the same. So it goes both ways, and it’s fine, they’ve worked it out. It isn’t that they don’t care about each other, they just don’t care about how each other’s day was. Should they care? It’s the same as every other day, so how excited can we get to hear the same story day after day? Another proof that love probably is a warm puppy or two, because those two little guys go through the same routine day after day, each time when Vincent and his wife get home, and they go nuts to see them—every, single, time.

Vincent was old enough to have seen it all, but young enough to still care. He hadn’t quite gotten to the point where everything bugged him, but he was getting close. He still had a fondness for ice cream, and occasionally his friends didn’t bore him. Each day, life was just like it always had been—or perhaps a little worse than the day before—while everyone around him lied a little more each day. It seemed to Vincent that pretending had become the order of the day, and acting was the national obsession. Nobody was really honest anymore by his estimation, and everyone just said or did whatever they had to in order to get by, or to get ahead, or to make a killing. In disgust, sometimes he imagined himself just walking off into the woods and never turning back; or swimming out to sea and just continuing on, maybe finding a secret island someplace, or maybe a hidden grotto, where he could eat leaves and make friends with the elk and the dolphins. They, at least, seemed sane, which was a lot more than he could say for most of the homo-sapiens that were roaming the earth with him.  

However, Vincent didn’t see his role in life as being a reclusive hermit, at least not yet. He still had some fight in him, and he wanted to use it up—firing away at the depravity, the deceit, and the stupidity the world around him belched up on a daily basis. It is true that he often felt worn out and beaten down by the absurdity of everything; the mindlessness and haughty arrogance of people often made him want to scream out incredulously and cower with a degree of horror. But then, after a good night’s sleep, and a moment or two in prayer, he typically got his second wind, and was ready to play the contrarian once again, which really was the role he felt born to. Ever since he was a child, if everyone wanted to turn right, he’d turn left. If they thought something was a good idea, he was sure they were most likely wrong, and could tell them the myriad reasons why. But it wasn’t because he had to be contrary, because he didn’t have to be—but only when the situation or circumstances called for it. And always in the cause of the downtrodden, or the minority, or the outcast; and always in defense of what is true and right and good, as he saw these things, which now had become the greatest outcasts of all. What is more downtrodden in our world than truth, what is more outcast than righteousness, and what is more maligned than goodness?  Unless truth can be made to serve money, unless righteousness can be made to bow to power, unless goodness can be twisted to serve depravity the world has little use for them.

Before going to bed, Vincent thought about the idiots he had met earlier in the day. They were all idiots, no doubt about it, but they were loveable idiots. Somehow, now that he was comfortable in his own environment, their stupidity didn’t bother him so much and he began to think fondly of them. He really couldn’t help liking people, even the most obnoxious of them. He couldn’t hold a grudge against any of them either; or, he probably could, but he just usually didn’t. Waste of time, what’s the point? At least that’s the way he saw it. No, he really did like them, especially from a safe distance, from a vantage point that protected him from the effects of their humanness. In fact, he probably could love them all quite perfectly, if he didn’t actually have to interact with any of them. If he didn’t have to listen to them, he could imagine them as gracious and noble. If he didn’t have to witness them doing anything, he could pretend they acted selflessly and righteously. If he just didn’t have to be around them all, he could love everyone unconditionally. Oh, if only! He sighed wishfully at the thought of perfectly lovable people; but instead, we have all of these idiots. After acknowledging this woeful state of affairs, Vincent went to bed to recharge for another day tomorrow in the trenches. With a good night’s rest he was sure he could refrain from killing the first moron he met in the morning, perhaps he’d try to ‘kill them with kindness’ instead, as the saying goes. Or, if not that, at least maim them with magnanimity.

~FS

I don’t hear enough people tell how miraculously liberating the sacrament of Confession is; so I will share a little now. Because it should be made widely known, so that more people might avail themselves of this heavenly cure. I will do my best not to overstate its effects or fall into hyperbole but it is nothing short of a wonder; and the word ‘magic’ captures it’s quality, though that word isn’t really appropriate. It is impossible for my mind to grasp and understand how it actually works. How can the dark night in my soul so suddenly transform into a new dawn? In these very moments—as I bear my sins honestly and without contrivance, and as I utter them out loud for our only judge and redeemer Jesus Christ to forgive—it is as though I am given new life, and renewed hope. In the presence of my priest—who stands beside me and offers support and guidance as I share my inner depths with God—the fears that would have kept me far away from this moment, away from this place, these fears melt away in the love of God, and they are replaced by courage and boldness. The shameful meekness—which I carried for how long now?—or rather, the shame that had encased me in a numbing apathy, cracks, and then shatters, and then falls away, and I feel invigorated! Before Confession I was as though a dead person, moribund and overwhelmed by life; and after Confession I become as though raised from the dead, my mind and heart both active and excited again by the gift of life. Before Confession everything hurt: my nerves were on edge, my mind was befuddled, my heart didn’t care, my limbs were heavy and numb, and my soul felt imprisoned. After Confession my whole being became empowered: my soul felt set free, energy rose from my depths, my mind felt engaged, my heart grew warm, and my extremities could once again carry my own weight. The joy, the freedom and the power of Confession is not widely commented upon, and perhaps is not well-understood. This is too bad because it is not a secret, though it is a mystery. We may none of us fully grasp the reason for its efficacy, or the cause for its miraculous effects, but we can surmise it has a lot to do with the Holy Spirit. Finally, it doesn’t matter that we can’t understand, because what’s better is that we can believe. And believing, we can participate. Participating, we can enjoy renewed life and living!

~FS

God, if I didn’t already know you exist because of past experience, today I would doubt you. Where do you go; and why do you hide yourself so fully from my sight? I search my innermost heart and I cannot find you. Your presence is absent from the trees, the wind, the sunlight and the creatures, when I seek you there. My spirit is a desert wasteland and you do not nourish me, you do not quench my thirst, but rather, you allow my desire to nearly drive me mad. I pray the prayer you taught me, but you are not there. My thoughts press hard, trying to penetrate whatever boundary has been erected between us, but to no avail. I cannot pierce the veil, I cannot discern your Spirit. Was it I who erected this boundary? Did I hang this veil? It is a veil of tears, yet I do not shed them. For, even my eyes are a wasteland—dry and arid, and barren. Who can find you, if even the searchers are lost? What then, for those with little or no desire for you, who are content with your absence? With men it is impossible, but nothing is impossible for You. Leave me if you must, but not for long. I surrender to this emptiness, and fall upon the earth in hope. I pray that you will raise me up again before I turn to dust.

~FS