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Thank You, God
November 20, 2004
11:40 pm
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Worried_Dad
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Dear God,

I guess you know that this is a crazy, mixed up world that you have created. I don't understand so many things. I don't understand why people are so difficult, why we do so many mindless, careless things.

I don't understand why we hurt each other. I don't understand why we are born to suffering and toil and death. I don't understand why greed drives us. I don't understand why we lie and cheat and steal and murder each other.

I am not one of your best creations, God. I am selfish, and stingy and vain. I am fearful and suspicious and full of wrath. I look down on those who do not share the advantages you have given me.

Sometimes I think that I have seen too much evil, and that it has become an inextricable part of my soul. I watch evil ones do their evil work, and most of the time I do not lift a hand or speak a word to stop them. Again and again I turn away.

I sometimes feel as if all of the Love has been beaten out of me and I hate what I have become. I cannot resist a good argument, and I am easily seduced to anger. I have argued with the Devil, and it has changed me for the worse. The Devil knows these things about me and he rejoices.

I am not one of your best creations, Oh Lord.

But sometimes, when I am sulking, brooding, fuming in my own private Hell, Grace catches me by surprise, and I wonder if I might yet be saved.

Evening in the city, I hear a child crying, and my body becomes electrified, I jump up ready to defend, before realizing that it is just bedtime for a cranky little boy.

In the park, a mallard hen takes flight, while a toddler gapes in wonder, a tiny shriek of joy escapes her tiny mouth and follows the bird up into the sky.

And the sky is alive with light, with smokey blue clouds tinged with fire, racing toward the mountains, and the cold air fills my lungs with the fire of life.

Each morning, on my way to work, I walk past rows of rotting, stinking tenements where a sweet old woman, with a dustpan on an stick, and a scarf around her head, patiently, devotedly, in her tattered housecoat sweeps the sidewalk clean of last night's cigarette butts and needles and condoms, so that I might walk a path that is uncluttered by last night's sin. "Good morning, dear," she smiles at me in my fine woolen pea-coat, beaming at me with love and generosity, as if she can see the poverty in my heart, and in pity offers me the only gift that I am not too proud to recieve.

And on my evening walk back home, as I pass that most atrocious clapboard shack which scandalizes our block, where the one-legged crone lives with her three-year old grandaughter, I wonder that this shriveled, half-blind old woman has the strength to nourish the life brought into this world by her crackhead son and daughter-in-law, who have not been seen for years.

And I am appalled momentarily by the ugliness of it all until my trance is broken by the sight of the half-naked little black girl who runs onto her porch and gapes at me, her eyes huge, bright unbelieving, yet wanting to believe as she asks me "Dad?....Are YOU my Daddy?"

And there it is. An arrow, right through my breastbone, and the blood begins to flow. And it flows. And there is light, blinding, pouring in through the top of my head, and the sound of a hurricane in my ears, deafening. Behind my eyes, the light is like blue fire, pure and actinic. The light and the wind pour, racing, raging down my throat, filling my chest, cutting downward through my abdomen where the bile and hatred are stored, cleansing, purifying. The light rushes, like fire through my groin, down to the ground, down my legs and burning, through the soles of my feet to the ground.

And I realize that I live. I am not dead yet. It is not my time to sleep, not my time to turn to stone, to dwell beneath the stones.

And this arrow still protruding through my breast, points directly at and pierces the only thing that differentiates me from from those stones, and from the men who pretend to be stones. These tears streaming down my face are proof that I have not yet lost everything, that the blood of a million years still pulses and flows within me, yearning to lead me to my humanity, my divinity. And I am grateful.

So I beg you, God, please let me live just a little longer. Just one more day. Let me feel a just little bit more. I beg you please! Please, I promise I will do better! I will watch and I will see. I will speak and I will act.

I will feel and I will weep. I will not become a stone. I promise.

November 21, 2004
12:03 am
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on my way
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WD, you jut poured out your heart here. Thank you for sharing parts that are so deep, so angry, so feeling, so aware, so real, so sad, so ravaged by the real world. This touched my soul, so thank you God, for Worried Dad. Wow.

November 21, 2004
2:10 am
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sewunique
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WD, I am awed and blessed to have you here and I thank God for your warm and humble heart.

November 21, 2004
1:54 pm
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CAMER
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September 30, 2010
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thanks WD for sharing, great post!!

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