I'm going to keep this short for reasons which will soon become obvious.
With Mr. Miyagi's encouraging voice in the back of our minds all day, we painted all the walls of our fairly large living room. I did all the rolling, but Mary did all the cutting in (which is really the hardest part, requiring a steadier hand and lots of attention to detail).
We started before noon and almost twelve hours later, we're still not quite finished. (I'm taking a quick break, with Mary's blessing, to blog so I make sure I get one in for today.) Tomorrow, at some point, we will do all the trim.
This is hot, exhausting work, but we're doing it, which is pretty amazing actually. We're saving lots of money by doing it ourselves, and it's totally going to be worth it. It already looks great, and it's not even all the way dry just yet.
I only broke one, maybe two things today. When I was taking a look at the work our contractor guy was doing in the bathroom, I stubbed my foot on the top of the toilet seat (which was leaning up against the wall) and it broke cleanly into three pieces. Then later, when I was moving the fire pokers away from the wall, one of them (solid metal, and quite heavy) fell squarely on my left great toe, which hurt quite a bit. Maybe it's broken, maybe it isn't, but I put a bag of frozen peas on it for an hour or so just to make sure.
Anyway, I'm gonna cut this short so we can finish up for the night. It's been a long day, but a good one. I'll post some pictures once all this is finished, for those who care to see them.
Till tomorrow...
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
Poems For Your Perusal: Fresh Alpha Poetry
Bet you thought I wasn't going to get a blog post in for today, being that it's rapidly approaching 11:00 pm as I write this. Well, I thought so too. But here it is. Long day, brain is tired. It was all I could do to muster up these brand-new alpha poems. Enjoy, and good night!
as luck would have it
i still have a few
coherent thoughts to share
despite the fact
that my brain is taxed
beyond the usual.
we'll see how this goes.
bite your tongue.
when the bleeding starts
spit it out
(the blood, not your tongue).
who lied and said
that words don't hurt?
chomping at the bit
to tell your dirty secret.
why would you want to rush
to your own judgment?
do a one-eighty
then do one more.
back where you started
you're getting nowhere.
everything but the kitchen sink
has been displaced
and replaced again.
and the sink's going next week.
i'll be glad when this is over.
firing on all cylinders now
my mind, like a steel trap
is racing towards a conclusion.
but jumping prematurely
is just as bad as never moving.
go back to the well
the one you tapped before
seeking new problems to solve.
finding none, you seek questions
to ask which explain the answers.
hates my guts
thinks i'm the scum of the earth
doesn't want to ever see my face
again. what did i do
to get that lucky?
if the shoe fits
and it's the right color
and the right price
and you need it
(or at least you want it)
then what are you waiting for?
(i'm not talking about shoes.)
joined at the hip
they walked in separate directions
and soon parted painfully.
should've seen that one coming.
know where you stand
if you're at the precipice
of a bottomless pit
knowing could save your life.
last ditch effort
i'm only going to ask you once.
go or stay, come or go
decide and do it
fence-sitting is for losers.
make a long story short
by suspending your belief
in happy endings.
works every time.
no brainer
i am uniquely qualified
to answer this question
defined by what i lack
(or possess, but choose
to use unwisely).
on a soapbox shouting out
my stun-gun manifesto
agree to disagree
and you could get
the shock of your life.
pencil you in for a 10 o'clock
and shrug when you don't show.
i knew i couldn't count
on your cooperation.
quick bucks come easy
but when you get caught
you'll pay through the nose.
don't blow it!
rest on your laurels
as though the past
is guaranteed to repeat
itself, like history.
it doesn't always
work that way.
sick to death
of half-hearted efforts
give it your all
or keep it to yourself.
take it to heart
or leave it alone.
take it from me
i wasn't using it anyway.
it works fine
but i don't need it.
it's all yours.
under the gun
to make something happen
i scrape the edges of my mind
and see what sticks.
small miracle if anything does.
variety is a spice
that tastes like everything
and nothing all at once.
life is what you make of it
or what was planned
in advance. more likely that.
when push comes to shove
someone will rush in
to break up the fight
and you're left standing there
shadowboxing with ghosts.
x marks the spot.
hidden treasures found
where no one even thought
to look. that's what they get
for being narrow-minded.
you had it coming
if anyone ever did.
you got exactly what
you deserved. and i
couldn't be happier.
just being honest.
zig when you should zag
it's all about looking ahead
and you can't see clearly
with sand in your eyes.
as luck would have it
i still have a few
coherent thoughts to share
despite the fact
that my brain is taxed
beyond the usual.
we'll see how this goes.
bite your tongue.
when the bleeding starts
spit it out
(the blood, not your tongue).
who lied and said
that words don't hurt?
chomping at the bit
to tell your dirty secret.
why would you want to rush
to your own judgment?
do a one-eighty
then do one more.
back where you started
you're getting nowhere.
everything but the kitchen sink
has been displaced
and replaced again.
and the sink's going next week.
i'll be glad when this is over.
firing on all cylinders now
my mind, like a steel trap
is racing towards a conclusion.
but jumping prematurely
is just as bad as never moving.
go back to the well
the one you tapped before
seeking new problems to solve.
finding none, you seek questions
to ask which explain the answers.
hates my guts
thinks i'm the scum of the earth
doesn't want to ever see my face
again. what did i do
to get that lucky?
if the shoe fits
and it's the right color
and the right price
and you need it
(or at least you want it)
then what are you waiting for?
(i'm not talking about shoes.)
joined at the hip
they walked in separate directions
and soon parted painfully.
should've seen that one coming.
know where you stand
if you're at the precipice
of a bottomless pit
knowing could save your life.
last ditch effort
i'm only going to ask you once.
go or stay, come or go
decide and do it
fence-sitting is for losers.
make a long story short
by suspending your belief
in happy endings.
works every time.
no brainer
i am uniquely qualified
to answer this question
defined by what i lack
(or possess, but choose
to use unwisely).
on a soapbox shouting out
my stun-gun manifesto
agree to disagree
and you could get
the shock of your life.
pencil you in for a 10 o'clock
and shrug when you don't show.
i knew i couldn't count
on your cooperation.
quick bucks come easy
but when you get caught
you'll pay through the nose.
don't blow it!
rest on your laurels
as though the past
is guaranteed to repeat
itself, like history.
it doesn't always
work that way.
sick to death
of half-hearted efforts
give it your all
or keep it to yourself.
take it to heart
or leave it alone.
take it from me
i wasn't using it anyway.
it works fine
but i don't need it.
it's all yours.
under the gun
to make something happen
i scrape the edges of my mind
and see what sticks.
small miracle if anything does.
variety is a spice
that tastes like everything
and nothing all at once.
life is what you make of it
or what was planned
in advance. more likely that.
when push comes to shove
someone will rush in
to break up the fight
and you're left standing there
shadowboxing with ghosts.
x marks the spot.
hidden treasures found
where no one even thought
to look. that's what they get
for being narrow-minded.
you had it coming
if anyone ever did.
you got exactly what
you deserved. and i
couldn't be happier.
just being honest.
zig when you should zag
it's all about looking ahead
and you can't see clearly
with sand in your eyes.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Literary Experimentation: Three "Drabbles"
So here I go again, trying something new. Not a bad thing, really. It stretches the mental muscles. What follows are my first attempts at writing "drabbles." Don't know what a "drabble" is? Well, according to Wikipedia.org it's "an extremely short work of fiction of exactly 100 words in length...The purpose of the drabble is brevity, testing the author's ability to express interesting and meaningful ideas in an extremely confined space." I found a website which gave some helpful drabble prompts – groups of three seemingly unrelated words or phrases you can use as a jumping-off point for your drabble-writing experience. The prompts I chose are in bold/italics below. I don't really know what I'm doing here, but I always like a good writing challenge, so here we go...
Let me know what you think of these. Feel free to comment with your own drabbles, if you feel up to the challenge! :)
concerned, buried fruit jar, sleeping bag
I'm starting to get concerned. I can't remember where I buried the fruit jar last winter, and it's time to bake the pie. The dog could help, but he's curled up on the sleeping bag like he doesn't have a care in the world. Which he doesn't, lucky dog. Maybe I could use fruit concentrate. But it's just not the same. There's nothing like the taste of fruit you canned yourself. Maybe I'll bake the dog in a pie instead. Never mind, it would take too long to fillet him, and I don't have much time. I'd better keep digging.
knights, hubcap, baby
Clarissa's in the driveway practicing her cheers. "Go Knights, go!" and all that jazz. All she really has to do is remember to smile. She wishes she could get her braces off sooner. She thinks her smile looks like a big hubcap with lipstick. (It doesn't – it's pretty.) Time to call it a night. Mom'll be bugging her to come change the baby any time now. Clarissa wishes she could change the baby...into a dog. But Mom won't let her have one just yet. Says it might try to bite the baby. Yeah, right! The baby'd bite the dog!
skateboard, noodles, chocolate
Well, I've gained another five pounds. I guess it's time to start hitting the old skateboard again. I know I've been eating too much chocolate lately, but I can't help it. I've been under a lot of stress at school. I still don't know how I'm going to tell Dad about the "D" I made on the science test yesterday. He said if I didn't start applying myself, there would be heck to pay. (LOL, Dad!) But when he finds out about the extra weight I've gained, he'll put me on that Ramen-noodles-only diet again. Ugh, just shoot me now!
Let me know what you think of these. Feel free to comment with your own drabbles, if you feel up to the challenge! :)
concerned, buried fruit jar, sleeping bag
I'm starting to get concerned. I can't remember where I buried the fruit jar last winter, and it's time to bake the pie. The dog could help, but he's curled up on the sleeping bag like he doesn't have a care in the world. Which he doesn't, lucky dog. Maybe I could use fruit concentrate. But it's just not the same. There's nothing like the taste of fruit you canned yourself. Maybe I'll bake the dog in a pie instead. Never mind, it would take too long to fillet him, and I don't have much time. I'd better keep digging.
knights, hubcap, baby
Clarissa's in the driveway practicing her cheers. "Go Knights, go!" and all that jazz. All she really has to do is remember to smile. She wishes she could get her braces off sooner. She thinks her smile looks like a big hubcap with lipstick. (It doesn't – it's pretty.) Time to call it a night. Mom'll be bugging her to come change the baby any time now. Clarissa wishes she could change the baby...into a dog. But Mom won't let her have one just yet. Says it might try to bite the baby. Yeah, right! The baby'd bite the dog!
skateboard, noodles, chocolate
Well, I've gained another five pounds. I guess it's time to start hitting the old skateboard again. I know I've been eating too much chocolate lately, but I can't help it. I've been under a lot of stress at school. I still don't know how I'm going to tell Dad about the "D" I made on the science test yesterday. He said if I didn't start applying myself, there would be heck to pay. (LOL, Dad!) But when he finds out about the extra weight I've gained, he'll put me on that Ramen-noodles-only diet again. Ugh, just shoot me now!
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Short Story: "Nothing To Write Home About"
This is a new story I just wrote, based on a self-imposed writing prompt. My challenge to myself was to take a well-worn cliché and use it as a title to write a story around. This (hopefully) humorous piece is what I ended up with. Hope you will enjoy reading it...
Dear Mom + Dad,
Thanks a lot for sending me to this stupid summer camp! I'm having TONS OF FUN so far!
Firstly, I'm not getting any sleep at night, which you've always said is important for a growing boy. (Do you feel guilty yet? Wait for it – you will.) The main reason why I'm not sleeping is that I am being forced to share a room with three other boys – Marshall (who smells funny), Dawson (who looks funny), and Tobie (who thinks he's funny). I talked to the camp director and told him how much I – like most kids my age – value my privacy. But the camp director just said, "Tough noogies!" and walked away. (Is it even legal to insult an innocent child like that? I think not!) Also, the bed is made of a very hard wood frame and is covered by a "mattress" that's as thin as two pancakes (not the fluffy, scrumptious kind that Grandma makes, but the flat, burnt ones that you're good at, Dad).
Secondly, contrary to what you told me before I came here, I have not met lots of nice people, nor have I made any new friends. I can sort of have a conversation with Marshall, as long as I can stand at least four feet away from him (upwind) and still hear what he's shouting. But then about five minutes into our conversation, Marshall will let one rip and they will have to evacuate the whole cabin again (this has happened six times so far in the three days I've been here). Every time I try to talk to Dawson, I accidentally take a look at his face, then I get queasy, and have to make another unplanned trip to the bathroom to ralph up my lunch. (More on that later.) Frankly, I don't enjoy barfing three times a day; therefore Dawson will not be making the cut on my "new friends" list. Whenever I try to talk to Tobie, he says, "Knock! Knock!" and I try to change the subject, but he keeps saying, "Knock! Knock!" over and over again until I say, "Who's there?", then he says something stupid like "Atch", to which I reply, "Atch who?" to which Tobie says, "Gesundheit!" Then I'll try to walk away, but he'll grab me by the shoulder and start telling me some other dumb joke. Ten minutes and twenty-plus groans or (if I'm feeling kind) fake smiles later, and I'll finally think of some excuse that'll get me out of there, like that I have contagious rabies or something.
Thirdly, the brochure said that we would enjoy "delicious, piping-hot meals three times a day." They were lying to you. For breakfast, they give us donuts – and not the good kind either. The kind of donuts that taste like they were made three days ago by somebody who doesn't even know how to make donuts, and doesn't really care that their donut-making skills are sub-par. I'm pretty sure they don't even add sugar. It's disgusting! Even you wouldn't like them, Dad, and Mom always says you're a human garbage disposal because you'll eat anything. (Was I supposed to repeat that, Mom? If not, I apologize.) For lunch, we get hamburgers that we have to patty out ourselves and cook over a campfire (they say doing it ourselves builds character, or some junk like that). The clothes hangers they give us with which to hold the burgers over the fire aren't very sturdy, so more often than not our burgers drop in the fire and get ashes all over them. And then when they're finally cooked – if they even make it that far – they refuse to give us buns, because (they say) this is a carbs-free camp – which, if you think about it, is kind of stupid since they feed us donuts for breakfast. Unsweetened donuts, mind you, but donuts nonetheless. Whether or not we get supper each night depends on how well we do on the daily challenge. For instance, yesterday we were doing this ropes course (which I wasn't real excited about, since I'm scared of heights). For every obstacle or element that you conquered you earned one boiled potato (these were piping-hot, so there was maybe a tiny bit of truth to the brochure). If you got all the way through the course successfully, you earned ten potatoes. I did okay on the low course, but when it came to the high-wire stuff, I was scared so I just quit. I earned a total of four boiled potatoes, which didn't leave me hungry but certainly didn't make me full.
Fourthly, this girl Felicity won't leave me alone. I think she likes me or something. Don't get me wrong – she's real pretty and everything, but I'm 12 years old – I'm not ready to settle down yet! She was like, "Be my friend on Facebook," and I said I would once I got back home to a computer, and she was like, "I'm going to write on there that we're married, and all you have to do is confirm it on your page." And I was like, "That's just gross, Felicity. Only old people get married – you know, twenty-five-year-olds." But she didn't listen. She said some junk about how time and distance mean nothing when two people are in love, and I asked her who the other person was who was in love, and then she slapped me. I thought that'd be the end of it (this happened last night after the ropes course), but then this morning Felicity insisted on eating breakfast with me, and she showed me this list of names she'd written up and tried to get me to pick which ones I liked best for naming our future children. I know it wasn't a nice thing to do, but I did shove a few donuts in her mouth when she said that. Not a ton of them, just enough so she couldn't talk anymore. Then I ran back to my cabin and locked the screen door.
Fifthly, they're making us row a canoe across the lake tomorrow. As you well know, I have an irrational fear of lake monsters, a fact which I also mentioned it to the camp director this afternoon. But he just said, "Deal with it!" and walked away. If this is the last letter you ever receive from me, it will be because I have been eaten by a lake monster. If I am killed, please remember me fondly, and know that I will miss you both very much. Also, please don't mention to anyone we know that I was once a huge Power Rangers fan. Even in death, I would like that painful truth to stay buried.
Sixthly, it's extremely hot here. I haven't stopped sweating since I got off the bus. The cabins are not only not air-conditioned but also barely ventilated, the showers and sinks only spray out hot water, we cook our lunches over open flames, plus they make us wear these heavy fleece sweatshirts and sweatpants at all times (they call them our "fun uniforms", which is not quite the words I would use to describe them). I'm pretty sure that this would qualify as cruel and unusual punishment, though it is quite "usual" around here.
Seventhly, you owe the camp $1.50 for me having written this letter. They said that the Camp Terms & Conditions agreement you signed clearly states in tiny print that "camp fees do not include any materials used for the writing of letters to parents, friends in prison, or Congressmen while the Child is at Camp, and any materials needed or used for that purpose will be charged to the account of the Child's parent, legal guardian, or parole officer." The $1.50 is actually the price for a whole pack of paper, but the camp director said he would not have had to open the pack or "break the set" (whatever that means) if it had not been for me, so the entire cost of the pack must be charged to you. Sorry about that! If it makes you feel any better, I'm making this letter extra-long in order to get your money's worth out of it.
Eighthly, I understand that I am a good seven hours away from home and that gas is expensive, but please, please, please, please, please come pick me up! I hate this place with every fiber of my being. I'm not real happy with you two for sending me here, but I promise to forgive you immediately if you'll just come and get me! I don't like hanging out with kids who smell funny or look funny or think they're funny. I'm tired of donuts, hamburgers, and the occasional boiled potato. I don't want to get married and have babies with anyone until I'm at least thirty-five. I don't want to be eaten by a lake monster. I crave air conditioning, thick mattresses, cold water, and lightweight clothing. I promise I'll do my homework whenever I have any, I'll wash the dishes without complaining – I'll even clean my room! Just please don't make me stay here another day!
Your son,
Robbie
Dear Mom + Dad,
Thanks a lot for sending me to this stupid summer camp! I'm having TONS OF FUN so far!
Firstly, I'm not getting any sleep at night, which you've always said is important for a growing boy. (Do you feel guilty yet? Wait for it – you will.) The main reason why I'm not sleeping is that I am being forced to share a room with three other boys – Marshall (who smells funny), Dawson (who looks funny), and Tobie (who thinks he's funny). I talked to the camp director and told him how much I – like most kids my age – value my privacy. But the camp director just said, "Tough noogies!" and walked away. (Is it even legal to insult an innocent child like that? I think not!) Also, the bed is made of a very hard wood frame and is covered by a "mattress" that's as thin as two pancakes (not the fluffy, scrumptious kind that Grandma makes, but the flat, burnt ones that you're good at, Dad).
Secondly, contrary to what you told me before I came here, I have not met lots of nice people, nor have I made any new friends. I can sort of have a conversation with Marshall, as long as I can stand at least four feet away from him (upwind) and still hear what he's shouting. But then about five minutes into our conversation, Marshall will let one rip and they will have to evacuate the whole cabin again (this has happened six times so far in the three days I've been here). Every time I try to talk to Dawson, I accidentally take a look at his face, then I get queasy, and have to make another unplanned trip to the bathroom to ralph up my lunch. (More on that later.) Frankly, I don't enjoy barfing three times a day; therefore Dawson will not be making the cut on my "new friends" list. Whenever I try to talk to Tobie, he says, "Knock! Knock!" and I try to change the subject, but he keeps saying, "Knock! Knock!" over and over again until I say, "Who's there?", then he says something stupid like "Atch", to which I reply, "Atch who?" to which Tobie says, "Gesundheit!" Then I'll try to walk away, but he'll grab me by the shoulder and start telling me some other dumb joke. Ten minutes and twenty-plus groans or (if I'm feeling kind) fake smiles later, and I'll finally think of some excuse that'll get me out of there, like that I have contagious rabies or something.
Thirdly, the brochure said that we would enjoy "delicious, piping-hot meals three times a day." They were lying to you. For breakfast, they give us donuts – and not the good kind either. The kind of donuts that taste like they were made three days ago by somebody who doesn't even know how to make donuts, and doesn't really care that their donut-making skills are sub-par. I'm pretty sure they don't even add sugar. It's disgusting! Even you wouldn't like them, Dad, and Mom always says you're a human garbage disposal because you'll eat anything. (Was I supposed to repeat that, Mom? If not, I apologize.) For lunch, we get hamburgers that we have to patty out ourselves and cook over a campfire (they say doing it ourselves builds character, or some junk like that). The clothes hangers they give us with which to hold the burgers over the fire aren't very sturdy, so more often than not our burgers drop in the fire and get ashes all over them. And then when they're finally cooked – if they even make it that far – they refuse to give us buns, because (they say) this is a carbs-free camp – which, if you think about it, is kind of stupid since they feed us donuts for breakfast. Unsweetened donuts, mind you, but donuts nonetheless. Whether or not we get supper each night depends on how well we do on the daily challenge. For instance, yesterday we were doing this ropes course (which I wasn't real excited about, since I'm scared of heights). For every obstacle or element that you conquered you earned one boiled potato (these were piping-hot, so there was maybe a tiny bit of truth to the brochure). If you got all the way through the course successfully, you earned ten potatoes. I did okay on the low course, but when it came to the high-wire stuff, I was scared so I just quit. I earned a total of four boiled potatoes, which didn't leave me hungry but certainly didn't make me full.
Fourthly, this girl Felicity won't leave me alone. I think she likes me or something. Don't get me wrong – she's real pretty and everything, but I'm 12 years old – I'm not ready to settle down yet! She was like, "Be my friend on Facebook," and I said I would once I got back home to a computer, and she was like, "I'm going to write on there that we're married, and all you have to do is confirm it on your page." And I was like, "That's just gross, Felicity. Only old people get married – you know, twenty-five-year-olds." But she didn't listen. She said some junk about how time and distance mean nothing when two people are in love, and I asked her who the other person was who was in love, and then she slapped me. I thought that'd be the end of it (this happened last night after the ropes course), but then this morning Felicity insisted on eating breakfast with me, and she showed me this list of names she'd written up and tried to get me to pick which ones I liked best for naming our future children. I know it wasn't a nice thing to do, but I did shove a few donuts in her mouth when she said that. Not a ton of them, just enough so she couldn't talk anymore. Then I ran back to my cabin and locked the screen door.
Fifthly, they're making us row a canoe across the lake tomorrow. As you well know, I have an irrational fear of lake monsters, a fact which I also mentioned it to the camp director this afternoon. But he just said, "Deal with it!" and walked away. If this is the last letter you ever receive from me, it will be because I have been eaten by a lake monster. If I am killed, please remember me fondly, and know that I will miss you both very much. Also, please don't mention to anyone we know that I was once a huge Power Rangers fan. Even in death, I would like that painful truth to stay buried.
Sixthly, it's extremely hot here. I haven't stopped sweating since I got off the bus. The cabins are not only not air-conditioned but also barely ventilated, the showers and sinks only spray out hot water, we cook our lunches over open flames, plus they make us wear these heavy fleece sweatshirts and sweatpants at all times (they call them our "fun uniforms", which is not quite the words I would use to describe them). I'm pretty sure that this would qualify as cruel and unusual punishment, though it is quite "usual" around here.
Seventhly, you owe the camp $1.50 for me having written this letter. They said that the Camp Terms & Conditions agreement you signed clearly states in tiny print that "camp fees do not include any materials used for the writing of letters to parents, friends in prison, or Congressmen while the Child is at Camp, and any materials needed or used for that purpose will be charged to the account of the Child's parent, legal guardian, or parole officer." The $1.50 is actually the price for a whole pack of paper, but the camp director said he would not have had to open the pack or "break the set" (whatever that means) if it had not been for me, so the entire cost of the pack must be charged to you. Sorry about that! If it makes you feel any better, I'm making this letter extra-long in order to get your money's worth out of it.
Eighthly, I understand that I am a good seven hours away from home and that gas is expensive, but please, please, please, please, please come pick me up! I hate this place with every fiber of my being. I'm not real happy with you two for sending me here, but I promise to forgive you immediately if you'll just come and get me! I don't like hanging out with kids who smell funny or look funny or think they're funny. I'm tired of donuts, hamburgers, and the occasional boiled potato. I don't want to get married and have babies with anyone until I'm at least thirty-five. I don't want to be eaten by a lake monster. I crave air conditioning, thick mattresses, cold water, and lightweight clothing. I promise I'll do my homework whenever I have any, I'll wash the dishes without complaining – I'll even clean my room! Just please don't make me stay here another day!
Your son,
Robbie
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Things I Find Fascinating: When Animals Sneeze!
I've never been one to follow trends all that much, preferring to dance to beat of my own drum – a little off-rhythm and not very well-coordinated. But one trend that's hot right now, not only on the internet but on television too, is videos of sneezing animals. In particular, the sneezing baby panda video (see #1 below). Well, call me a bandwagon jumper if you want, but I find these videos not only fascinating but hilarious. If you've seen them, enjoy them again here. If you haven't seen them, prepare to laugh. And hit "Replay" a few times. I know I sure did. Enjoy!
1) Sneezing Baby Panda – You might have seen this one before, as it's been making the rounds just about everywhere. But if not, here 's the best one of them all. Pay close attention to both the baby and the mama panda in this one. The first few times I saw it, I thought that the mama panda was doing the sneezing, but it's actually the baby – which automatically makes it ten times cuter, of course! But the mama panda's reaction is priceless!
2) Sneezing Baby Elephant – This little rugrat sneezes so hard and loud he scares himself and runs to mama. What a shame since he was smiling so nicely at the camera before that happened. Oh, well!
3) Sneezing Cat – Finally, another cat besides my Mikey whose sneeze sounds like a kazoo! Get that poor kitty some amoxicillin – stat! Bless you, Poki, indeed!
7) Sneezing Bear Cub – Somebody give this little guy a Zyrtec! But you might wanna give it to him and run, cuz those little teeth of his already look pretty sharp!
8) Sneezing Parrot – When an animal sneezes, and you say "Bless you!" and it replies "Thank you!" – well, that's an animal that is okay in my book! Check out Morris the Parrot here. I hope this isn't fake; if it's not, it's quite awesome!
9) Sneezing Kangaroo – Either this is some really strange mating call, or this marsupial needs a Kleenex. This one cracks me up big-time!
10) Sneezing Zebra – One great thing about going on a safari (I've never been on one, but I'm just guessing here) is being able to get up close and personal with wildlife. This unfortunate videographer did just that in a way she probably didn't expect. Since "zebra" is the most commonly searched-for term which directs people to my blog, I figured I'd end this list with a zebra sneeze. Enjoy!
1) Sneezing Baby Panda – You might have seen this one before, as it's been making the rounds just about everywhere. But if not, here 's the best one of them all. Pay close attention to both the baby and the mama panda in this one. The first few times I saw it, I thought that the mama panda was doing the sneezing, but it's actually the baby – which automatically makes it ten times cuter, of course! But the mama panda's reaction is priceless!
2) Sneezing Baby Elephant – This little rugrat sneezes so hard and loud he scares himself and runs to mama. What a shame since he was smiling so nicely at the camera before that happened. Oh, well!
3) Sneezing Cat – Finally, another cat besides my Mikey whose sneeze sounds like a kazoo! Get that poor kitty some amoxicillin – stat! Bless you, Poki, indeed!
(just click on the link above –
the video wouldn't load properly)
4) Sneezing Dog – This must be what a dog inside of a salad spinner or perhaps a washing machine might look like. Hilarious little fuzzball, ain't he?
5) Sneezing Baby Elephant Seal: This tubby guy doesn't let a little thing like sneezing interrupt his day. He just does it where he lies, kicking up dust every which way, and making a sound much less like sneezing than flatulence. Funny stuff!
6) Sneezing Chicken – Maybe she's allergic to the corn? I dunno. But it's funny!
7) Sneezing Bear Cub – Somebody give this little guy a Zyrtec! But you might wanna give it to him and run, cuz those little teeth of his already look pretty sharp!
8) Sneezing Parrot – When an animal sneezes, and you say "Bless you!" and it replies "Thank you!" – well, that's an animal that is okay in my book! Check out Morris the Parrot here. I hope this isn't fake; if it's not, it's quite awesome!
9) Sneezing Kangaroo – Either this is some really strange mating call, or this marsupial needs a Kleenex. This one cracks me up big-time!
10) Sneezing Zebra – One great thing about going on a safari (I've never been on one, but I'm just guessing here) is being able to get up close and personal with wildlife. This unfortunate videographer did just that in a way she probably didn't expect. Since "zebra" is the most commonly searched-for term which directs people to my blog, I figured I'd end this list with a zebra sneeze. Enjoy!
Monday, April 9, 2012
Sometimes You Step In Dog Poo
Some days are great. Yesterday was one of those. After a meaningful Easter sunrise service, a time of finger-food fellowship, then morning church, and a nice brunch, we spent most of the rest of the day just relaxing. A little work around the house, but not too much. The errant nap or two. It was Easter Sunday, after all, and we enjoyed every moment of it.
Some days you step in dog poo. Today is one of those. I don't mean that I literally stepped in dog poo, mind you – though I wouldn't be at all surprised if it happened, especially now that I've mentioned it. I use this extreme example to describe the kind of day where anything that could go wrong does.
The kind of day when you're finally leaving your house to get to work in time after countless days of being horribly late, and you get halfway down the road in front of your house, wondering what's that strange thumpa-thumpa-thumpa noise, and you get out of your car to see that, oh yeah, your tire's flat.
The kind of day where you go to the ABC Store to get more empty boxes for packing (and you're sure that someone you know is going to see you walking in or out of the store and get the wrong idea) and you come out balancing eight empty boxes far more gracefully than you would normally do, only to have the wind blow them out of your hands not once, not twice, not thrice, but four separate times – so much so that the ABC Store clerk has to come out and help you load the empty boxes into the van for you because you're so pathetic.
The kind of day when the van's gas light comes on just as you're arriving home, and your wife was planning to load the van with already-packed boxes to haul away to the storage unit once you're back at work, and you realize she's going to have to stop and get gas with a loaded-down van before she can even make it to the storage unit.
The kind of day when the donut tire which AAA has thankfully come and installed on your car starts going thumpa-thumpa-thumpa about a third of the way back to work, and you're certain it's gone flat, too, only to find that it looks perfectly fine once you arrive at work (having driven 25 miles per hour for nothing), and you realize you could have stopped and gotten a bite to eat after all, if you'd only known it wasn't flat.
The kind of day that, when you finally get back to work from lunch (almost twenty minutes late), you bump your elbow on the door frame outside your boss's boss's boss's office and spill half a can of Mountain Dew on the floor right outside his door.
This is that kind of day. I'm sure you've been there. It's not fun. In fact, it's horrible. Of course, it could be worse.
A log truck could have released its cargo through your windshield on your way to work, and you'd be not only deceased but decapitated, and your car would be totaled (not like you'd ever know).
A dirty bomb could have been dropped on your city, and you could be only hours away from dying a horrible, painful death at the hands of heartless terrorists.
Or you could finally get lunch after missing out on it earlier, only to find that a small mouse has died in your hamburger.
There's always something worse. But this is bad enough. I would like to respectfully ask for a rain check for the remainder of this day, and just sail on through to tomorrow. It's gotta be better than today – doesn't it?
Some days you step in dog poo. Today is one of those. I don't mean that I literally stepped in dog poo, mind you – though I wouldn't be at all surprised if it happened, especially now that I've mentioned it. I use this extreme example to describe the kind of day where anything that could go wrong does.
The kind of day when you're finally leaving your house to get to work in time after countless days of being horribly late, and you get halfway down the road in front of your house, wondering what's that strange thumpa-thumpa-thumpa noise, and you get out of your car to see that, oh yeah, your tire's flat.
The kind of day where you go to the ABC Store to get more empty boxes for packing (and you're sure that someone you know is going to see you walking in or out of the store and get the wrong idea) and you come out balancing eight empty boxes far more gracefully than you would normally do, only to have the wind blow them out of your hands not once, not twice, not thrice, but four separate times – so much so that the ABC Store clerk has to come out and help you load the empty boxes into the van for you because you're so pathetic.
The kind of day when the van's gas light comes on just as you're arriving home, and your wife was planning to load the van with already-packed boxes to haul away to the storage unit once you're back at work, and you realize she's going to have to stop and get gas with a loaded-down van before she can even make it to the storage unit.
The kind of day when the donut tire which AAA has thankfully come and installed on your car starts going thumpa-thumpa-thumpa about a third of the way back to work, and you're certain it's gone flat, too, only to find that it looks perfectly fine once you arrive at work (having driven 25 miles per hour for nothing), and you realize you could have stopped and gotten a bite to eat after all, if you'd only known it wasn't flat.
The kind of day that, when you finally get back to work from lunch (almost twenty minutes late), you bump your elbow on the door frame outside your boss's boss's boss's office and spill half a can of Mountain Dew on the floor right outside his door.
This is that kind of day. I'm sure you've been there. It's not fun. In fact, it's horrible. Of course, it could be worse.
A log truck could have released its cargo through your windshield on your way to work, and you'd be not only deceased but decapitated, and your car would be totaled (not like you'd ever know).
A dirty bomb could have been dropped on your city, and you could be only hours away from dying a horrible, painful death at the hands of heartless terrorists.
Or you could finally get lunch after missing out on it earlier, only to find that a small mouse has died in your hamburger.
There's always something worse. But this is bad enough. I would like to respectfully ask for a rain check for the remainder of this day, and just sail on through to tomorrow. It's gotta be better than today – doesn't it?
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Per Your Suggestion #5: "Zacchaeus Reloaded"
Today's blog post/story was suggested by my friend David Edwards. His writing prompt was simply "Whatever happened to Zacchaeus?" Today being Easter Sunday, I decided to incorporate Zacchaeus' story into the last week of Christ's life, as well as his eventual death, burial, and resurrection. The story's a little rough around the edges, I know, and likely needs some rewriting. But I hope you'll enjoy this early version of it at least. Happy Easter, everybody!
March 30th, A.D. 33
Wow, what a day! I'm still trying to process everything that's happened, so forgive me if my words come out a bit jumbled. It all started around mid-morning. I had just opened for business, but customers were few and far between.
Nobody wants to have to pay taxes, so I'm not the most popular guy. Up till today, I've not really cared much for my clients, either. Sure, I'd take their money -- and then some -- but I couldn't care less about them personally. You wouldn't believe how many sob stories I hear in a typical day -- "I can't afford to pay my taxes because I can't find any work." "I have so many kids, they have to eat -- I must choose between starving my children and paying my bills." "I refuse to pay taxes to a government that cares nothing about me." Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah! After a while, it all sounds the same. Which is why I've never felt that guilty about overcharging those poor saps. I've got the power to do it, and I've always figured why not. Who's going to stop me? Besides, I've got a wife and kids of my own, and they've got to eat too, you know.
Anyway, I'm getting off-topic. So I had just opened the tax office, and all of a sudden, I hear a hubbub of activity outside. I peek out the front door, and the street is literally wall-to-wall packed with people. I try to see what's going on, what all the fuss is about, but it seems like everyone who passes by me is at least a head taller than I am, and I can't see a thing.
I've always preferred to think of myself as more grounded than everyone else, but the truth is I'm just plain short. My father, an average-height man himself, always told me when I was growing up that I was just one growth spurt away from catching up to all my friends. I kept waiting, but it never happened. By the time I'd reached twenty-five years of age, I knew it never would happen. Fortunately, I found a nice woman who didn't mind my being short, and we fell in love -- a good thing, too, because we were betrothed to be married by our parents anyway, no matter how we felt -- and we soon started our lives together.
Anyway, back to our story. I told you I might ramble. So, I was standing there at the front door to my office, unable to see a thing. I tried to glean any snippets of information from the passersby, but all I could make out was a name: Jesus. I didn't know any Jesus, personally, but I had heard talk of a popular teacher who was headed through Jericho. Seemed to have quite a following. Must be this Jesus fellow everyone was talking about. I thought I'd better check him out, to see if he was worth listening to.
I closed the door to my office, and crawled out my back window. The alleyway behind the office led to the edge of town, where there were more trees than structures. Maybe if I could climb a tree -- something I always loved to do when I was a boy -- and get a better vantage point so maybe I could see and hear what was going on. A sizable sycamore tree just at the edge of the woods looked like the perfect spot and I quickly scaled the tree -- just like old times! -- and waited for the crowd to approach. I didn't have long to wait.
As they approached my position, the man at the center of the crowd -- who I could only assume was this Jesus fellow -- stopped at the opposite side of the road where Old Man Marcus, the blind beggar, sat calling out for help (like he always does). I assumed this Jesus was going to drop a coin or two in Old Man Marcus's lap, a kind gesture from a charismatic teacher. Plus, how great would that make him look to his many followers? They'd lap that stuff up like it was gravy!
But I was shocked and amazed by what this Jesus actually did. He put his hand on the old man's forehead, bowed his head, and appeared to be praying. Then he leaned down and spoke to Marcus quietly and the old man looked up at him, smiling. To everyone's astonishment, Old Man Marcus stood up and started shouting, "I can see! I can see! My eyes! I can see!" If I didn't know the old man personally as a life-long resident of Jericho, I'd have sworn he'd been planted there and the whole thing was a big act. But it wasn't! Old Man Marcus could see! The crowd only got louder in their adulation of the man at that point. I could definitely see the appeal. He was either the real deal, or he was a very good actor. Either way, I could appreciate what he was doing.
A minute later, Jesus and his entourage were passing just below me. I got a good look at him now. He wasn't a particularly handsome fellow, but he wasn't too ugly, either. He was just your average guy, by the looks of him. But there was something about him that stood out -- something you can't easily put in words. His followers felt it, and I have to admit -- I felt it too. I was still staring curiously when Jesus surprised me by glancing up at my tree and looking me square in the eye!
"Hello, Zacchaeus," Jesus said matter-of-factly.
"How do you know my name?" I was floored.
"Never mind that," he continued. "Why don't you come down from that tree now?"
"I wasn't doing anything wrong!" For some reason, I felt guilty, even though I don't think his comment was intended to shame me in any way.
"Of course you weren't, Zacchaeus. You simply wanted to get a better look. Come down from the tree now. We're going to your house for supper."
"My house?" This guy was crazy! First of all, I didn't know him from Adam. Second of all, if he was such a great person like all these folks thought he was, he wouldn't want to associate with the likes of me (a dreaded tax collector) in any way, much less share a meal with me and my family. Thirdly, my wife will kill me if I bring home some strange man and his close friends for a meal with out warning her in advance. But all my objections seemed not to matter in that moment.
"Certainly. Now come on down from that tree." Jesus spoke with quiet authority, not scolding, but persistent nonetheless. I could only obey his wishes and follow him. What was that all about?
I could tell that some of the people outside of Jesus' close circle of friends were also in disbelief at this strange remark. I could hear the whispers. "What is Jesus thinking, taking a meal with an old sinner like Zacchaeus?" "Serves him right! That fool Zacchaeus is finally going to get what's coming to him!" Who was I to argue with that? As strangely exciting as the thought of entertaining this stranger was, I was also exceedingly nervous and unsure what to expect from him. I climbed down from the tree, in wonder.
Two hours later, as we -- me, my family, Jesus, and his disciples -- were finishing our meal, I realized what it was about this man that made him so different. He was completely unselfish, completely unconcerned with who I was or what I did for a living. He cared about me -- Zacchaeus -- and he knew I needed what he had to offer. What I needed, what he provided was forgiveness. Without judging me, without telling me the wrongs I'd done (though he undoubtedly knew, and I can't tell you why I think that, I just do) -- he forgave me. He said, "Your sins are forgiven."
Now I'm not stupid. I know no man has the power to forgive sin. Only God has that power. But as I looked at this man, and listened to the words he spoke, and was fully convinced that what he had said was true, I knew. This was no ordinary man. This was God in the flesh. This was my Messiah, the one I -- and all of our people -- had been waiting for, for so long. And I believed.
"Jesus," I said, as he finished his last bite of bread. "I am a very rich man, as you may well see from my home and my belongings. But I have not gained this wealth through honest means. I have cheated and defrauded others to fill my own pockets. But no more! I will repay all that I owe four times over. I will give half of my belongings and wealth to the poor. I will make right what I have made so very, very wrong."
Jesus didn't say a word in response. He just smiled, put a hand on my shoulder, and rose. His disciples followed suit, and gathered their things and headed toward the door.
Just before he left, Jesus turned to me and my family and spoke these words: "Today salvation has come to this house. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost. You were lost, Zacchaeus, but now you are found in me."
"Thank you." I couldn't think of anything more profound to say. But I don't think anything more was necessary. I was grateful. For his forgiveness, for his love, for his presence in my life, unexpected though it was. I know that my life is forever changed. The Messiah has come!
April 6th, A.D. 33
I still can't believe this is happening. It all happened so fast. Too fast! This is not the way this story was supposed to end. I'm sorry, I'm rambling again. I can't help it.
They've killed him. They've killed my Jesus! A mockery of a trial, a plea to Pilate, and just like that, Jesus is on a cross, dying for crimes he didn't commit, and too soon it's over. He's dead!
But this doesn't make sense. He was the Messiah! God in human form! He can't be dead! Who can kill God?
Unless...unless I was fooled too. Unless he was just a man like Caiaphas and his lot were saying. A man who spoke blasphemy, claiming to be God's Son. Maybe that makes more sense than this. I don't know. Nothing makes sense anymore. All is lost.
April 8th, A.D. 33
This is unbelievable! I've spent the last three days moping around because Jesus was killed, and for good reason. My Messiah was murdered in cold blood, and for what? For me, that's what! Or who, rather. But now!
But now, the news has come from his disciples. Jesus is not dead -- not anymore at least -- he is alive! He's risen from the dead! I don't even know how that's possible, but apparently it's more than just rumors. Many have seen him, not just the disciples, but hundreds of others too.
I have to wrap this up quickly, because my wife is packing our things right now, and we're heading to Jerusalem to see him for ourselves. I'm ashamed that I ever doubted him, because now I know the truth. He is the Messiah! Who else could raise themselves from the dead but God? Jesus IS alive!
March 30th, A.D. 33
Wow, what a day! I'm still trying to process everything that's happened, so forgive me if my words come out a bit jumbled. It all started around mid-morning. I had just opened for business, but customers were few and far between.
Nobody wants to have to pay taxes, so I'm not the most popular guy. Up till today, I've not really cared much for my clients, either. Sure, I'd take their money -- and then some -- but I couldn't care less about them personally. You wouldn't believe how many sob stories I hear in a typical day -- "I can't afford to pay my taxes because I can't find any work." "I have so many kids, they have to eat -- I must choose between starving my children and paying my bills." "I refuse to pay taxes to a government that cares nothing about me." Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah! After a while, it all sounds the same. Which is why I've never felt that guilty about overcharging those poor saps. I've got the power to do it, and I've always figured why not. Who's going to stop me? Besides, I've got a wife and kids of my own, and they've got to eat too, you know.
Anyway, I'm getting off-topic. So I had just opened the tax office, and all of a sudden, I hear a hubbub of activity outside. I peek out the front door, and the street is literally wall-to-wall packed with people. I try to see what's going on, what all the fuss is about, but it seems like everyone who passes by me is at least a head taller than I am, and I can't see a thing.
I've always preferred to think of myself as more grounded than everyone else, but the truth is I'm just plain short. My father, an average-height man himself, always told me when I was growing up that I was just one growth spurt away from catching up to all my friends. I kept waiting, but it never happened. By the time I'd reached twenty-five years of age, I knew it never would happen. Fortunately, I found a nice woman who didn't mind my being short, and we fell in love -- a good thing, too, because we were betrothed to be married by our parents anyway, no matter how we felt -- and we soon started our lives together.
Anyway, back to our story. I told you I might ramble. So, I was standing there at the front door to my office, unable to see a thing. I tried to glean any snippets of information from the passersby, but all I could make out was a name: Jesus. I didn't know any Jesus, personally, but I had heard talk of a popular teacher who was headed through Jericho. Seemed to have quite a following. Must be this Jesus fellow everyone was talking about. I thought I'd better check him out, to see if he was worth listening to.
I closed the door to my office, and crawled out my back window. The alleyway behind the office led to the edge of town, where there were more trees than structures. Maybe if I could climb a tree -- something I always loved to do when I was a boy -- and get a better vantage point so maybe I could see and hear what was going on. A sizable sycamore tree just at the edge of the woods looked like the perfect spot and I quickly scaled the tree -- just like old times! -- and waited for the crowd to approach. I didn't have long to wait.
As they approached my position, the man at the center of the crowd -- who I could only assume was this Jesus fellow -- stopped at the opposite side of the road where Old Man Marcus, the blind beggar, sat calling out for help (like he always does). I assumed this Jesus was going to drop a coin or two in Old Man Marcus's lap, a kind gesture from a charismatic teacher. Plus, how great would that make him look to his many followers? They'd lap that stuff up like it was gravy!
But I was shocked and amazed by what this Jesus actually did. He put his hand on the old man's forehead, bowed his head, and appeared to be praying. Then he leaned down and spoke to Marcus quietly and the old man looked up at him, smiling. To everyone's astonishment, Old Man Marcus stood up and started shouting, "I can see! I can see! My eyes! I can see!" If I didn't know the old man personally as a life-long resident of Jericho, I'd have sworn he'd been planted there and the whole thing was a big act. But it wasn't! Old Man Marcus could see! The crowd only got louder in their adulation of the man at that point. I could definitely see the appeal. He was either the real deal, or he was a very good actor. Either way, I could appreciate what he was doing.
A minute later, Jesus and his entourage were passing just below me. I got a good look at him now. He wasn't a particularly handsome fellow, but he wasn't too ugly, either. He was just your average guy, by the looks of him. But there was something about him that stood out -- something you can't easily put in words. His followers felt it, and I have to admit -- I felt it too. I was still staring curiously when Jesus surprised me by glancing up at my tree and looking me square in the eye!
"Hello, Zacchaeus," Jesus said matter-of-factly.
"How do you know my name?" I was floored.
"Never mind that," he continued. "Why don't you come down from that tree now?"
"I wasn't doing anything wrong!" For some reason, I felt guilty, even though I don't think his comment was intended to shame me in any way.
"Of course you weren't, Zacchaeus. You simply wanted to get a better look. Come down from the tree now. We're going to your house for supper."
"My house?" This guy was crazy! First of all, I didn't know him from Adam. Second of all, if he was such a great person like all these folks thought he was, he wouldn't want to associate with the likes of me (a dreaded tax collector) in any way, much less share a meal with me and my family. Thirdly, my wife will kill me if I bring home some strange man and his close friends for a meal with out warning her in advance. But all my objections seemed not to matter in that moment.
"Certainly. Now come on down from that tree." Jesus spoke with quiet authority, not scolding, but persistent nonetheless. I could only obey his wishes and follow him. What was that all about?
I could tell that some of the people outside of Jesus' close circle of friends were also in disbelief at this strange remark. I could hear the whispers. "What is Jesus thinking, taking a meal with an old sinner like Zacchaeus?" "Serves him right! That fool Zacchaeus is finally going to get what's coming to him!" Who was I to argue with that? As strangely exciting as the thought of entertaining this stranger was, I was also exceedingly nervous and unsure what to expect from him. I climbed down from the tree, in wonder.
Two hours later, as we -- me, my family, Jesus, and his disciples -- were finishing our meal, I realized what it was about this man that made him so different. He was completely unselfish, completely unconcerned with who I was or what I did for a living. He cared about me -- Zacchaeus -- and he knew I needed what he had to offer. What I needed, what he provided was forgiveness. Without judging me, without telling me the wrongs I'd done (though he undoubtedly knew, and I can't tell you why I think that, I just do) -- he forgave me. He said, "Your sins are forgiven."
Now I'm not stupid. I know no man has the power to forgive sin. Only God has that power. But as I looked at this man, and listened to the words he spoke, and was fully convinced that what he had said was true, I knew. This was no ordinary man. This was God in the flesh. This was my Messiah, the one I -- and all of our people -- had been waiting for, for so long. And I believed.
"Jesus," I said, as he finished his last bite of bread. "I am a very rich man, as you may well see from my home and my belongings. But I have not gained this wealth through honest means. I have cheated and defrauded others to fill my own pockets. But no more! I will repay all that I owe four times over. I will give half of my belongings and wealth to the poor. I will make right what I have made so very, very wrong."
Jesus didn't say a word in response. He just smiled, put a hand on my shoulder, and rose. His disciples followed suit, and gathered their things and headed toward the door.
Just before he left, Jesus turned to me and my family and spoke these words: "Today salvation has come to this house. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost. You were lost, Zacchaeus, but now you are found in me."
"Thank you." I couldn't think of anything more profound to say. But I don't think anything more was necessary. I was grateful. For his forgiveness, for his love, for his presence in my life, unexpected though it was. I know that my life is forever changed. The Messiah has come!
April 6th, A.D. 33
I still can't believe this is happening. It all happened so fast. Too fast! This is not the way this story was supposed to end. I'm sorry, I'm rambling again. I can't help it.
They've killed him. They've killed my Jesus! A mockery of a trial, a plea to Pilate, and just like that, Jesus is on a cross, dying for crimes he didn't commit, and too soon it's over. He's dead!
But this doesn't make sense. He was the Messiah! God in human form! He can't be dead! Who can kill God?
Unless...unless I was fooled too. Unless he was just a man like Caiaphas and his lot were saying. A man who spoke blasphemy, claiming to be God's Son. Maybe that makes more sense than this. I don't know. Nothing makes sense anymore. All is lost.
April 8th, A.D. 33
This is unbelievable! I've spent the last three days moping around because Jesus was killed, and for good reason. My Messiah was murdered in cold blood, and for what? For me, that's what! Or who, rather. But now!
But now, the news has come from his disciples. Jesus is not dead -- not anymore at least -- he is alive! He's risen from the dead! I don't even know how that's possible, but apparently it's more than just rumors. Many have seen him, not just the disciples, but hundreds of others too.
I have to wrap this up quickly, because my wife is packing our things right now, and we're heading to Jerusalem to see him for ourselves. I'm ashamed that I ever doubted him, because now I know the truth. He is the Messiah! Who else could raise themselves from the dead but God? Jesus IS alive!
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