I. AM. HURT.
I'm hurt over the state of this economy.
Money is nothing. Money is also everything.
I feel pain as I constantly tell my children "No." to the simple desires of their hearts. I feel pain when I talk to my friend who is a single mother and just got laid off. I feel pain when I think about homeless illegal aliens who have been returned to Mexico. I. FEEL. PAIN.
I don't like to admit I hurt. It's humiliating to say, "my feelings are hurt." So instead I allow Anger to seep into my heart.
I like Anger. Anger feels powerful.
Anger also creates wrinkles. But I don't care.
I want to blame. I don't know what to throw or who to break.
SOMEONE IS AT FAULT! Right?
HELP ME OUT HERE! Let's get ugly! Let's furrow our brows and raise our fists! Let's turn down the coners of our mouths and say nasty things!
Who can we BLAME?
Let's blame Obama and his Minions, shall we? Yes. Let's.
Let's hate Mexican illegals, shall we? GO HOME, SPICK!
Let's Hate B.P. and Democrats and Republicans and conservative white women who shop at the Gap...
LET'S HATE.
True Story Time:
A little boy walked with his father and a burro. They shared the same name. Miguel Vasquez.
Wild Apache Indians were vicious and blood thirsty in that part of Mexico.
The father heard a tribe of Apaches approaching in the distance. Fear coursed through his veins. He knew what they would do if they found them.
"Hide in this tree, mijo," he said to his son. "Hide here in these branches and no matter what happens do not make a sound. Do not come down until after dark."
His son sat in the tree and watched as his father was tortured to death. He watched his father scream as they sliced off the bottoms of his feet and his scalp. He watched as they tied him to a horse and let the animal drag his bloody body. He watched as they took pleasure in the death of the man he loved most in the world.
He obeyed his father and stayed in the tree until long after the Apaches had finished their gruesome business.
Miguel Vasquez Jr. grew up. He saved his money for a long time and purchased a splendid rifle.
Miguel vowed he would kill any Apache he saw on sight, point blank, for the rest of his life. And he did. He killed many of them with his father's name on his lips.
I have handled the rifle he used. He was my great-great grandfather.
We have a bad temper in this family.
This story has always been told to me with pride. It is only tonight that I put myself in his shoes and see how unhappy he must have been. He was hurt. He converted that pain to Anger and Hate.
He let the Hate for Apaches consume him. He fed the Hate like a fire. He thrived on that Hate.
Miguel's father died for him so that he might live.
But did he? Live? Can we really live when we are swallowed whole by a cloud of darkness? Can we truly enjoy the life we've been given if we succomb to the negativity and sins which do so easily beset us?
I am a Christian.
I believe there was a man who gave His life so WE might live.
Jesus Christ taught Love. Jesus Christ IS Love.
Even if you don't believe He was the Savior of the world you cannot disagree with Love.
All I want in life is to be filled with Love. I want Love and Light to shine from every pore of my body at all times.
True Love often eludes me. Love eludes me because I elude It. When I feel emnity there is no room for Love. One can feel only one or the other. There is only darkness or light.
It sucks we are expected to Love no matter what. We are expected to Love those who have wounded us. We are expected to Love those who Hate us. We are expected to Love.
We cannot be happy if we feel anything BUT Love. If we allow anything but Love to enter our hearts we experience pain (and pre-mature aging).
Love is cheaper than Botox.
"Forgive them for they know not what they do."
