Levity is Good for the Soul. Intelligence is good for the mind. This should soothe both!

Greetings, dear reader! Today thought I’d catch you up on some of Mister Tom Gauld’s latest and greatest. Please visit Tom’s website if you can and give him a little love. You won’t regret it!! ❤️

On the meantime, here are a few laughs.

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing #comic #tomguald

2025-07-13 11:30:00

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Only summer sounds like this

Summer is universally loved. In spite of the heat, there's a great charm in the sweat and the being of out of doors that no other time of year quite matches. As I walked out this afternoon to decompress, it struck me how I haven't taken a single moment to enjoy my summer.

Here's a little glimpse of that moment for me. Join me, won't you? Taste it.

Sorry about the audio. Wind noise is aggravating.

The bees this year are't quiet as robust. I think I might need to harvest some honey. Maybe an abundance is making them lazy? or their weak? Not sure. but probably about half of this activity right now.

2025-07-11 19:25:00 #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Mornings are not for answers, but for contemplation and observation.

A pathway along a river slow Red and winding, shrouded in shade

Spiderwebs in the morning sun Stretched amongst the honeysuckle.

Glistening dew already burned away Leaving a dusty thread of white

A mom runs behind a stroller, pushing her newborn (Burning the baby weight — not too fast, mom)

A little bird peep peep peeps over the muffled roar A waterfall beyond the high hedge row

Wet-smelling mist drifts into the low morning sun While water cascades

Down

Down

Down

Like the wants of a heart that never run out Filling the river of a lifetime That runs into the sea of a family

This is the payment for an early morning walk Fed by a God of beauty and kindness

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing

Path of a Heart

Mornings are not for answers, but for contemplation and observation.

A pathway along a river slow Red and winding, shrouded in shade

Spiderwebs in the morning sun Stretched amongst the honeysuckle.

Glistening dew already burned away Leaving a dusty thread of white

A mom runs behind a stroller, pushing her newborn (Burning the baby weight — not too fast, mom)

A little bird peep peep peeps over the muffled roar A waterfall beyond the high hedge row

Wet-smelling mist drifts into the low morning sun While water cascades

Down

Down

Down

Like the wants of a heart that never run out Filling the river of a lifetime That runs into the sea of a family

This is the payment for an early morning walk Fed by a God of beauty and kindness

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing

2025-07-22 12:00:00

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Sometimes we are born again through the memories we left in cold rooms.

I was looking for my hat—the wide-brimmed one I wore when I was someone else, someone who drove through red dirt roads and squinted into the sun like it was a dare. The kind of hat required in Dust Meridian.

It had been missing for years. Maybe longer. I didn’t even know I was looking until I opened the refrigerator and there it was, perched beside a frosty beer and a carton of eggs.

Cold to the touch.

But not dead.

I blinked.

“What are you doing here?”

I wasn’t joking.

It felt like it owed me an explanation. It had disappeared ten years ago. I looked high and low, traveled and called everyone I knew, but it never materialized. I lamented its loss—the countless adventures we’d shared. It was practically part of my identity for nearly a quarter of a century.

The hat turned slowly—almost shy—and answered, but the words slipped sideways, as if the air between us was warped. I heard syllables like birdcalls, like eucalyptus leaves whispering in spirals.

Like a secret I knew once, but had since packed away with my passport and the smell of old firewood.

Still, I smiled. Not because I understood. But because something in me stirred—some flicker of a self I’d shelved. Not abandoned, exactly—just chilled for safekeeping.

I held it to my chest. It smelled faintly of sweat and eucalyptus, of rain that never came.

I considered putting it back in the fridge. Maybe it liked it there. Maybe it was hiding from the heat of a life half-lived.

But I didn’t.

I slipped it on, and for a moment, the kitchen spun into something vast the wood floor cracking into gravel, the hum of the refrigerator becoming cicadas in the trees.

And there I was.

There WE were.

Me, and the version of me that remembered what the wind felt like in wild, open places. The one who once drove toward the horizon with no map.

And no need for one.

2025-08-02 11:09:49

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing #dream #poetry

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”
 — Thomas Campbell

You may recall my forlorn farewell to an old friend from a few days ago. DE lived in Dust Meridian for nearly 20 years. Before that, it was two decades in the South Pacific and another ten in Southern California. He’s a mature man in his mid-sixties, so it came as a surprise when he pulled up stakes, sold both of his homes, and headed to the other side of the country.

He says it’s for his wife’s health. The allergies here in Dust are brutal for many. On top of that, years ago, she suffered a stroke that left her speaking with what sounds like an Icelandic accent. Her heritage and native tongue are Peruvian. She went from sounding like a southern girl to something ethereal and ancient—almost elvish. Like someone installed an Old Norse filter on her voice.

I thought she was faking it at first, but it’s a real thing. Foreign Accent Syndrome. Rare, but real. The result of a traumatic brain injury that causes someone to suddenly start speaking with an accent from a region they’ve never even visited.

In her case, it even shows up in her writing. She spells things phonetically now, based on how she hears herself speak. It’s charming, honestly. But also a constant reminder of how fragile the brain is. That same stroke could’ve left her unable to communicate at all. That would’ve been a terror.

My own sister suffered a hypoxic brain injury—lost her short-term memory, and now struggles even with simple tasks. She’s aware of her limitations, which might be the cruelest part. It occasionally lends itself to moments of levity, but mostly, it’s just tragic.

As for DE, I don’t doubt his reasons—physical or mental. His wife or his own. From experience, I believe the lifestyle and mentality here in Dust Meridian takes a tole on anyone with sufficiently curious or robust intellect.

That sounds harsh. Like dummies thrive here. Apologies—I calls ’em like I sees ’em. There are many fine minds here, many dear souls. But there are also plenty of fantastically difficult situations. My own family not excluded.

So no, I don’t blame DE for the move. It’s exciting. I’m a little jealous, if I’m honest. Not that I’d pack up three trucks and drive 1,500 miles to West Potato—but the idea of a fresh start, a new landscape, is tempting. Then again, he’s lived in three other vastly different places. Why not make it four? He’s tapped all four compass points while he still can.

My brother-in-law, RLW, volunteered to be part of the cross-country convoy, hauling DE’s belongings to his new home. That’s significant because RLW is the same man who buried his wife—my wife’s sister—just sixty-nine days ago. A partner of 45 years, gone in an instant. Snuffed out like a candle in the rain.

When talk of the trip started, RLW had big plans. He’d trailer his motorcycle behind one of DE’s work trucks, help with the move, then spend a few days exploring West Potato. From there, he’d kit out the bike and ride west—through the Northwest, down to the Pacific. He talked of revisiting places he and his wife had seen, and discovering new ones. He didn’t say it aloud, but I suspect he meant to scatter some ashes along the way.

But as time wore on, the plans shrank. Late spring snow made the northern routes dicey. Then he nixed the coast. West Potato lies just beyond the Continental Divide, and soon enough, he cut out any idea of leaving the mountains at all. By the time he left two days ago, the month-long journey had been trimmed to a week.

A few hours ago, he texted that he’ll be back in Dust Meridian tomorrow night. Yep. Thirty days of freedom and healing, whittled down to just four.

There and back. Turn and burn.

His son, SLBY—the boy (a man in his thirties, forgive an aging Wolf)—tells me he thinks his dad just misses home. The quiet of the road was heavier than expected. That makes sense. My nephew wants his dad to get out and see new places, to build memories without her. A critical step in healing.

When I speak to RLW, he says it’s his son and grandson who are nudging him to come back. He can 'hear it in his voice' that if he was back, they would all be happier. Home is big and lonely and his son misses his family. Doesn't like being without his core. His people. His comfort zone.

Essentially, they are both arguing the other wants to be together again. They tell me what the other wants. But really, they're telling me what they themselves long for.

SLBY the boy has told me more than once this last few weeks that he can’t stand being alone. He’d grown used to the bustle—his wife, his son, his parents, all under one roof. They live in a mobile home, so sharing space really means sharing.

Constantly.

With his mom gone, dad out of town, wife at the chiropractor, and the boy at school, SLBY finds himself alone on a rock hurtling through space at sixty-seven thousand miles per hour. Working from home means his only company is the blinking cursor on a plastic display.

He’s admitted, with surprising emotional honesty, that he cries often. This from a man who, just a few years ago, was all whiskey, beer, and bravado. Guns and guts. Today, the bottles are dusty and the guns live in a safe—a large one, granted—but they’re just objects now.

SLBY has become the kind of man who can acknowledge his pain and grow through it. A shock, honestly. But a welcome one.

His father, RLW, has also cracked open in ways I didn’t expect. Always the quiet, stoic one—he now speaks freely about how much his wife meant to him. That she was his light. His purpose.

And being retired is salt on the wound. 10 years ago, he would at least have a job he had to contend with, coworkers and daily business to get back to. But now? His only obligations are those which he chooses. A full plate with his spiritual family, but that can be shelved much longer than it should be. Leaving him in self-inflicted isolation.

Since her passing, he sleeps maybe four hours a night. He cries often. I imagine these moments are private—the kind where your ears roar, your eyes burn, and you fight to contain the flood so others don’t have to feel it too.

Every time we’ve spoken since he hit the road, he’s mentioned that he can’t stop crying. Triggers are everywhere. A song. A vista in silence where she would have commented or asked to pull off and take a picture. The absence of agitation at his driving (the way he jerks the wheel in little increments). No one stuffing the door panel with trash.

But mostly—silence.

An imagination haunted by 16,425 sunrises and sunsets together... and all that is in between—the subtle golden rhythms of a life shared. Every small moment now echoing in absence.

My God, how do you move on from that?

Patience.

Patience and tears. And prayer that God will intervene and part that ocean like he did for Moses.

I told him as much. “It’s good you’re blind with tears. You probably need to really cut loose—and that’s hard to do with a seven-year-old always around, or your son who’s dealing with his own grief. I hope this trip gives you some catharsis. That it helps you begin to heal in earnest.”

Grief is the price we pay for love. The greater the love, the higher the cost.

Three thousand miles in four days. And tears, door to door.

Luke 22:1-6 Now the Festival of the Unleavened Bread, which is called Passover, was getting near. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for an effective way to get rid of him, because they were afraid of the people. Then Satan entered into Judas, the one called Is·carʹi·ot, who was numbered among the Twelve, and he went off and talked with the chief priests and temple captains about how to betray him to them. They were delighted at this and agreed to give him silver money. So he consented and began looking for a good opportunity to betray him to them without a crowd around.

Mark 14:1,2 Now the Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread was two days later. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to seize him by cunning and kill him; for they were saying: “Not at the festival; perhaps there might be an uproar of the people.”

Mark 14:10,11 And Judas Is·carʹi·ot, one of the Twelve, went off to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. When they heard it, they were delighted and promised to give him silver money. So he began seeking an opportunity to betray him.

#essay #travel #memoir #loss #death #biblereading #100DaysToOffload #Writing

2025-04-11 09:35:00

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

'Dad's heart stopped after I said amen to a prayer'

At 11:44am Sunday November 9, 2025, the Conductor took his last breath. My friend, a minister of the Bible, watched his father pass away even as he said a benediction for him. It is heartbreaking and beautiful.

It was a 3 month long journey that resulted in the Conductor laying in a hospital bed for more than 30 days all told over the course of the illness.

I read recently that none of us truly become men until our fathers die. Dubious logic, but absolutely beautiful poetry. And in the generations of today, losing our fathers may be the thing that is needed to trigger the metamorphosis of maturity.

It is a hard passage if it's true. I think I'd prefer to be Peter Pan if it is.

The Conductor and his family have been in and around my life since childhood. His widow, the Queen of Swords, is among my closest friends. He was a vaguer component for decades but in the last 10 years has emerged as a clear cheerleader for this wolf, often telling me how much he appreciated everything I've done for and with his family.

He was a weird guy. One of our friends describes meeting him 30 years ago in a suit with no socks or shoes. Probably about the best and most succinct way of understanding this complex creature.

He was gone a lot from his family. Conductors have to conduct (trains as well as symphonies) and his route kept him on the road for days at a time. It provided a good living for his family, but the absence took it's toll emotionally.

I don't' think it was the job so much as it was the baggage of his life, but he struggled with addiction for decades before finally kicking the heavy stuff. Though he was hooked on tobacco until things got serious for him about 3 months ago.

He had a sister who struggled emotionally too. She passed away a few years ago from heart failure. The same thing that killed her brother. His sons are now rightly worried about their own life-pumps.

As I have watched him over my life, I have seen the Conductor through the eyes of his sons and wife, all close friends. They always hoped better for him and honored him as best they could in their own flawed ways. But he could never measure up to the standard the Bible holds out to those who hope for the approval of Jesus and His father.

And so I did, as righteous men often do, judge him. Inferior, broken, needing to change. But, in all the years I knew him, he remained absolutely confident that he would have a place in God's kingdom. As a man myself who feels unworthy of that role, I always found it eyebrow raising.

He would need to change this and that in order to yadda yadda. It's a life-long mantra of the Bible-thumper. In recent years, I've started to change my understanding and softened a lot. On others as well as myself—well somedays I'm less soft on myself, but trying. And I've started to see that there are good-hearted humans who just cannot meet that standard. Something in them is broken beyond repair and they are doing the best they can.

We all have demons. Some of us are better at cowing them than others.

Some of us have to hide under the bed, or behind a haze of chemical stupor in order to function. It isn't fair to say 'you aren't good enough' if you're doing the best you can. I think the Conductor was. I think I am.

Sometimes all you can do is limp through life.

In the end, he was a kind man, a good man—if flawed. In truth, I've known many 'better' men from a righteousness point of view who didn't have half the kindness or thoughtfulness. Maybe that's why we discuss Jesus we focus not on his righteousness, which no man could match, but rather, his goodness.

He was a guidepost. A point of consistency on the landscape of my existence that's gone now. It will be far worse for his wife and his sons, but the loss of that waypoint will effect us all.

It's terrible and sad. Another loss in a long line that will just continue until the Wolf breathes his last breath. And that's not the scary part; the last breath. The scary part is all the unknown between today and that moment.

Death is only a problem for the living.

Good night, Conductor. I'll keep waiting faithfully for my own line. I'll wait as best I can. Broken, tired and unworthy. Thank you for showing me that it's less about what others think of you and more about being honest with yourself. It's a weight I am still learning to carry.

Just like all of us.

#death #memorial #essay #writing #100daystooffset

originally published: 2025-11-10 15:00:00

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

I believe that there is one story in the world, and only one, that has been writing itself over and over again—one story. The story of good and evil.

Originally published 2025-04-08 13:24:24

There’s a farm road I take when I need to cross town and I’m not in a hurry. It skirts the city, wrapping around it gently, and deposits me where I need to be. There are many things on this farm road.

There’s an old sign shop with “JUNK” splashed across the yard. There’s a big red barn—metal and modern, but designed to look like something out of a North Carolina postcard. There’s a row of country homes, spaced so widely apart you couldn’t walk door-to-door without turning it into a day trip. You have to drive to visit all your neighbors out here.

One of those houses catches my eye every time. The yard is cluttered with used cars and trailers. The owner clearly sells trailers, maybe even builds them. I can see the large metal building way in the back of the property—his workshop. It reminds me of my father. He built trailers in his garage, too. He built railings, worked on cars, created things from scratch. His hands were never still.

But I think about this man now, the trailer-seller, and his neighbors. The homes flanking his are neat and manicured, with green lawns and white fences made of old oilfield pipe—a crude material turned elegant by effort and paint. The trailer man’s fence is rusted and brown, like the rest of his property. I wonder how his neighbors feel.

We can't choose our neighbors. We can only be patient with them. I try to be a good neighbor. I suppose that matters. After all, we wouldn’t want everyone to be exactly like us. The differences test our patience. They shape our character. No man is an island.

We need our culture. We need our people. We need our worker bees and queen bees. We need our ditch diggers and maybe even our politicians. More than anything, we need the Kingdom.

Under the Kingdom, people will learn to be kind. If someone builds trailers in their yard, they'll do it with care. And if they don’t, neighbors will speak with grace instead of letting resentment brew.

I’m passing a house now that’s under construction. The roof deck is up, felt paper waiting for shingles. I can see the toe boards nailed across the steep pitch—the same kind I used when I was a roofer.

I remember those days. It feels like yesterday. I knew the work so well. Even now, I could get out of the car, pick up a bundle of shingles and a hammer, and by afternoon I’d have a good-sized portion of roof done. And yet, I’m not a roofer anymore. We aren’t always what we once were, even if the knowledge never leaves us.

Some of us were once lost, and now try to do good. But we still hold the capacity for bad. We may still desire it. Sometimes it slips out in moments of passion. When does that make us wicked? Only if we willingly choose the wrong we know to be wrong. Perhaps that was Lot’s wife’s failure.

Maybe she didn’t look back out of weakness. Maybe she was simply honest. She didn’t want to leave. Her life was there. Her home. Her identity. Was it so wrong to mourn what she was being pulled from? The Bible says she became a pillar of salt. We think of that as punishment. But maybe it was mercy.

Maybe God knew she wouldn’t survive the wilderness. Maybe turning her to salt spared her a different kind of death. Maybe it was the kindest thing. The hand of flaming fire and hailstone never touched her. Maybe that was the best ending she could have. As a bonus, we get a lesson on faithfulness.

I think about that as I drive. I think about myself. I ask a question I wrote the other day: If I am becoming her. I keep looking back. I can’t seem to stop. I keep desiring, wanting. I’ve lost things—goals, faith, the hope of being someone respected. A man of standing. A man of God.

Can I reclaim those things?

No doubt—no doubt.

But the real question is:

do I want to?

Luke 19:29-44

29 And when he got near to Bethʹpha·ge and Bethʹa·ny at the mountain called Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, 30 saying: “Go into the village that is within sight, and after you enter it, you will find a colt tied, on which no man has ever sat. Untie it and bring it here. 31 But if anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ you must say, ‘The Lord needs it.’” 32 So those who were sent went away and found it just as he had said to them. 33 But as they were untying the colt, its owners said to them: “Why are you untying the colt?” 34 They said: “The Lord needs it.” 35 And they led it to Jesus, and they threw their outer garments on the colt and seated Jesus on it.36 As he moved along, they were spreading their outer garments on the road. 37 As soon as he got near the road down the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to rejoice and to praise God with a loud voice because of all the powerful works they had seen, 38 saying: “Blessed is the one coming as the King in Jehovah’s name! Peace in heaven, and glory in the heights above!” 39 However, some of the Pharisees from the crowd said to him: “Teacher, rebuke your disciples.” 40 But in reply he said: “I tell you, if these remained silent, the stones would cry out.” 41 And when he got nearby, he viewed the city and wept over it, 42 saying: “If you, even you, had discerned on this day the things having to do with peace—but now they have been hidden from your eyes. 43 Because the days will come upon you when your enemies will build around you a fortification of pointed stakes and will encircle you and besiege you from every side. 44 They will dash you and your children within you to the ground, and they will not leave a stone upon a stone in you, because you did not discern the time of your being inspected.” 45 Then he entered the temple and started to throw out those who were selling, 46 saying to them: “It is written, ‘My house will be a house of prayer,’ but you have made it a cave of robbers.” 47 He continued teaching daily in the temple. But the chief priests and the scribes and the principal ones of the people were seeking to kill him; 48 but they did not find any way to do this, for the people one and all kept hanging on to him to hear him.

#essay #existentialcrisis #travel #thoughts #bible

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Art is not for commodity. It is for passion.

Someone set the sky on fire.
Just now—
in those grey-dark moments
before the day begins,
a match was struck,
a tiny ember glowing.

In minutes it flared
into a red-hot blaze,
burning through
the eastern clouds.

Pastels spread,
then yellow,
orange,
red,
indigo,
violet—
a spectrum spilling wide.

No gavel will ever fall
on this masterpiece.
The artist sketched it in a breath,
then cast it into being,
a gift to his
greater creation.

—

#essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing #poetry #

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

The beauty of finding oneself in the gutter is the unadulterated view of the stars!

Broken-minded, but not a broken spirit.

A dark room alive with night sounds. A whirring refrigerator fan. The dishwasher hums quietly nearby. Something tick ticking. The faucet. – low drip every minute or so.

The leather couch is cool against my cheek when I turn my head. I realize I’ve fallen asleep watching music videos. My wife has long since retired, traipsing through the dream realm. I vaguely remember a kiss in my twilight. Was that a dream? Or were her gently parted, cool lips a goodnight gesture before she shut down our evening, cast the cat into the night air, and went to bed?

I decide it was real—a quiet gesture of love after last night’s emotional storm. We had a long, tense early morning that finally ended in calm and a mutual resolve to keep moving forward. I appreciate that she seems to be celebrating our life rather than regretting it.

I love this couch, but it isn’t made for sleep. It’s a modern affair—long, low, white leather with stilted legs. Italian-made. A quality piece of furniture. But it has three distinct seating cushions built into its very frame. When a 200-pound gorilla curls up on it for a night of television, five hours later he’s aware of two prominent bars subtly pressing into his rib cage and thigh.

It’s time to follow through on the bedtime routine I skipped earlier when I drifted off. Toothbrush and pills, then I’ll roll out my pallet in the studio. First, I need to reclaim my pillows from the dryer. I had to wash them after last night’s disaster with a large bottle of ink.

After two beers spiked with lemon vodka, I thought it wise to unplug something on my bookshelf. In doing so, I unknowingly knocked a large glass bottle of black India ink onto the tile floor—right next to where I sleep these days. In my very relaxed state, I didn’t notice until hours later, when I woke up lying in a pool of something cold, viscous, and everywhere. My pillows, blankets, face, back, shoulders, arms, and chest—everything was soaked in the rich liquid I usually love to draw with.

If you’ve never spilled artist’s ink, you haven’t lived.

Remember The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss? The one where the kids get a spot of something in their mom’s clean house, and the cat’s efforts to clean it only make it worse? I’m convinced spilled ink inspired that book. It never stops spreading. It took over an hour to clean what I could this morning, and most of the day to scrub it from my skin and hair. My pillows will bear the scars of battle until retirement.

Incidentally, isn’t it strange that those two kids in the book were left home alone? I recall being left to my own devices around age ten or eleven. As an adult, that now feels far too young. I shudder remembering the bent proclivities of people like fictional Hubert Hubert and his appetite for innocence.

I called on a woman early this morning in my ministry whose daughters—nine and ten—opened the door alone, explaining their mom was at work and they were home by themselves. I shivered. The house is on a busy thoroughfare, just a block or two from what appears to be a drug den.

Please close and lock that door, girls. And don’t let in any cats, with or without hats.

I fumble in the dark for my phone and check for new messages.

Nothing.

I’m equal parts satisfied and disappointed. I’m glad my friend is safely tucked away in the mountains of the East, waiting for nine hours of sleep and a full day with friends. The family is spending a week volunteer-teaching and preaching somewhere in the east—hillsides, hollows, and curious souls. A world away from Dust Meridian.

I reflect on my own day in the preaching work. We made subtle efforts with a few people, all while trying to avoid heat stroke. This time of year is always a challenge. But it’s a pleasure to be doing something worthwhile together. We were joined by a friend who needs people—a widow of two decades. Her adult daughter recently moved to the Northeast, and it’s been a hard adjustment. I can tell—when we’re together, she chatters constantly. Not in a bad way. She just has no one to tell her stories to.

That’s a theme with the single women in my life, usually older, often widowed: they love to talk. A quick call to check on their well-being often turns into an hour of catching up.

This morning, one story stands out. Her 25-year-old daughter had a crush on a man a few years older. The spark faded fast after he told her that getting coffee is the woman’s job. It sounded one “toots” away from a swat on the backside. So much for that budding romance.

The morning of spiritual conversation was followed by a couple of hours of lawn and building maintenance at the our house of worship, a light lunch, then a nap and a movie (Idiocracy). Evening came too quickly. A friend’s call pulled me away for some emergency counseling—a couple burdened by guilt and regret over past choices. They needed to be reminded that they are not seen for their mistakes, but for their successes.

We all carry so much guilt. And we don’t have to. Of course, letting it go is easier said than done.

I’ve lived a long life convinced of right and wrong. And those truths exist. But lately, I’m learning that survival means doing what’s good for you, not just what someone else says is right.

Be good. Do good works. Don’t beat yourself up if you don’t get it all right all the time.

Back home, my wife started the evening with music videos on YouTube. The first 45 minutes were soundtracks from old films—The Way We Were, Barefoot in the Park, Heartburn, and others. Beautiful songs. Some were new to me.

I finally dozed off during a reel of classic film clips. The last I remember was a scene from Casablanca—Rick coming in to find Sam playing “As Time Goes By,” and ushering him out when he sees her again.

Which brings us here, dear reader. To my reverie on an early Sunday morning in July, the year of our Lord, 2025. 4:38 a.m. CST.

I feel indifferent tonight. I feel hungry. I feel like flying. Maybe it’s just fatigue. Maybe it’s yesterday’s argument.

One way to find out: sleep a few more hours and see if the fire returns—or if it’ll take a few days to relight my zeal.

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Listen or suffer the consequence.

A good name is to be chosen rather than great wealth; to be respected is better than silver and gold.

The rich and the poor have this in common: Jehovah made them both.

The shrewd one sees the danger and conceals himself, but the inexperienced keep right on going and suffer the consequences.

The result of humility and the fear of Jehovah is riches and glory and life.

Thorns and traps are in the crooked man’s path, but whoever values his life keeps far away from them.

Train a boy in the way he should go; even when he grows old he will not depart from it.

The rich one rules the poor, and the borrower is a slave to the lender.

Whoever sows unrighteousness will reap disaster, and the rod of his fury will come to its end.

The generous person will be blessed, for he shares his food with the poor.

Drive away the scornful man, and contention will disappear; disputes and insults will cease.

The one who loves a pure heart and whose speech is gracious will have the king as his friend.

The eyes of Jehovah safeguard knowledge, but He overturns the words of the treacherous.

The lazy one says: “There is a lion outside! I will be killed in the middle of the public square!”

The mouth of wayward women is a deep pit. The one condemned by Jehovah will fall into it.

Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a boy, but the rod of discipline will remove it far from him.

The one defrauding the poor to increase his wealth and the one giving gifts to the rich will end up in poverty.

Incline your ear and listen to the words of the wise, in order to apply your heart to my knowledge, for it is pleasant to keep them deep within you, so that all of them may constantly be on your lips.

For your confidence to be in Jehovah, I am giving you knowledge today.

Have I not already written you, imparting advice and knowledge, to teach you true and reliable words, so that you can return with an accurate report to the one who sent you?

Do not rob the poor man because he is poor, and do not crush the lowly man in the city gate, for Jehovah himself will plead their cause, and he will take the life of those who defraud them.

Do not keep company with a hot-tempered man or get involved with one disposed to rage, so that you never learn his ways and ensnare yourself.

Do not be among those who shake hands in a pledge, who put up security for loans. If you have nothing to pay, your bed will be taken right out from under you!

Do not move an ancient boundary marker that your forefathers put in place.

Have you seen a man skillful at his work? He will stand before kings; he will not stand before common men.

#biblereading #proverbs #reflection #essay #memoir #journal

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper