I wonder if every word we utter isn't a prayer, if what we get isn't what we prayed for...albeit, unintentionally most often.
Sometime ago, I said in passing, a throwaway line in truth, that I'd like to be able to do as Jesus did when he stood accused before Pontius Pilate...stood silently before his judge, saying not a word.
I am here to shout that since I blathered that (now I recognize) bald-faced lie, I have been slandered, judged, found wanting and marginalized. Marginalized is just a fancy word for ignored, and, whoa Mama! There's my worst fear...with cleats.
I've got to say, I can find it funny when I take the time to see it as an answered prayer. But, even as I type, my ego Lucy With The Football is writing a script to use to get a certain person told.
I read a recent George Will column (which is surprising enough) but that I agree he nailed it is almost scary to me. Nonetheless, he wrote that Americans are addicted to indignation, and I identified from my toenails up. I regret that I identify, but there it is.
The sliver of gold is that addiction, if done right, will lead us to crash-and-burn...hopeless despair, i.e., powerless. From that necessary end, God's will is born, and we begin to trust God, to clean house, to help others.
We are brought down...to the grace of love and laughter.
Thank you.
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