PASTORAL DIARY 15 Dear diary, I hoped I will not go off ad infinitum again. It's been two to three weeks now, but I hope you will take me as I am. Like I said earlier in my last journal, I attended a marriage seminar. I hope that is not the ideal marriage seminar? I …
Am I lost, or just less found on the straight or roundabout of the wrong way?
I have to come to terms with myself. I have a problem and its killing me.
Some days back, I was in church and the pastor said we should write our problems on a piece of paper, lift them up to God and trust Him to solve it. It was my umpteenth time of scribbling this word. I wrote it so fast, folded the paper so that the guy sitting next to me who had been staring at me since the service began won’t see what I have been fighting with for almost 10 years. As I lifted my ‘unholy, polluted hands’ to God, a tear dropped on my shirt..it was my shame..I am pretty messed up and my heart prayed for the whatever time…”Father…
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This has got to be one of the rudest shocks of the year... I am still in shock. I still don't believe it. I scroll through Google, hoping it is all a lie. I can't even stop the tears, all I can I do is just pray from the safe return of a friend and …
I really don’t understand what it means to ‘stand on existing protocol’. Nevertheless, I will go ahead and stand on existing protocol.
1. On the day that Deng Xiaoping became leader of China in 1978, he was just under 75 years old. Between 1980 and 2010, China lifted 680 million people out of poverty. There can be no doubt about it — Deng Xiaoping’s reforms which opened up China’s economy played the biggest part in the stunning transformation of that country.
At a mere 72 years old; age cannot be an excuse for you. You’ve wanted this job for so long anyway. Now, it’s showtime
2. Between 1870 and 1910, over a million Swedes (around 20% of the country’s population at the time) abandoned Sweden for a new life in America. They left a country that was a pretty poor and dark place and suffering repeated crop failures…
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I remember the night my friend and I tried to get a poet arrested
for his crimes against literature, his hiding
of horribly sentimental lines by speaking like a seller
of cheap real estate, those broken down houses
where everything and everyone leaks, in neighborhoods
divided by the tornado roar of long, slow trains, night and day.
It was just poetry, I know, words arranged like a landscape
of dark trees against the, whatever, azure sky,
but why should he escape punishment like the stealers
of poor people’s minority fortunes, the rule makers
who make us break our backs at hard labor
while they sit up high in penthouse suites
eating their feasts, drinking the best wine,
as they sneer at the riff-raff drawing heavy strings
and pushing square wheels along concrete floors
in the moldy basement, thump thump?
We called the police. “There he is,” I said,
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