The Devil's Gift

There actually is such a place. It’s just outside Huntington. WE GOT THE WEENIES. It’s a very popular “point of destination.”

Tomorrow is Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday. Were he still alive he’d be 95, and we’d be singing “Happy Birthday.” But he’d not be happy.

My New Year’s Eve post went out as scheduled last Sunday. Once I saw it, I started kicking myself. STUPID ME.

We don’t need astronomers to verify the Bethlehem star any more than we need them to verify the star that appeared at the birth of Emperor Augustus.

Tonight there’s a child bathed in goodness and light and another bathed in hatred and bitterness plotting death and destruction for its mortal enemy.

Once upon a time, I believed in Santa. I believed he was as real as my Uncle Rufus who lived in Georgia.

I was glad for a recent dental appointment. It was a relief to walk into a place not named “hospice.”

Jay Hurley died last Saturday. A sad day for our town. A sad day for hundreds of his fans and friends.

I visited a friend at Hospice of the Panhandle—the second friend admitted there in just four weeks.

This is a time to weep for the world. So I offer you this song of lament from Sinead O’Connor based directly on Isaiah chapter five.