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Tuesday, March 24, 2009

What Is There Left To Do?

I know there's prayer.  I pray.  I recognize God's strength and his dominion over all of us.  I'm saved by it.  But every day it's a new and more aggravating story.  This morning it was a homeless person trying to perform a good deed.  In attempting to stop the harassment of a woman at a U-turn, he was run over and killed by her molesters.  And I mean, I'm not a bleeding heart to the homeless community.  It takes a lot for me to spare some change for a person on a street corner.  And it's not that I'm not a Christian.  I pray like my good friend Tammy's Grandma Maddie - with arms outstretched, mentally or physically, I pray towards the four winds - for all the people in the north, all those in the East, all the sufferers in the South, and all God's children in the West.  I care.  And give where I see fit - mostly to police organizations.  In spite of all the corruption in that great brotherhood, the blood in my veins runs pretty blue.  Service folk have always had my highest respect. And that's why it's so frustrating to me to see someone trying to perform an act of service being killed so heartlessly.  It brings out my inner Tawanda.  And while that might inspire a chuckle by the literary folks in the group, this probably won't - it makes me more determined to get my concealed handgun license.  And here's why.  I WILL NOT be a victim to someone else's mood swing.  And I do believe in an eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth. Maybe that's not my right.  Maybe you think I'm not praying hard enough - that my heart is hardened by the same poison that infects the murderers out there. And maybe it is in a way.  I'm not a stranger to suffering, and this has always made me a little crude in my sympathies. That feeling that people get - the sorrow for someone else who has been cast a bad lot, I get it, too, but it doesn't last as long in me.  Because I'm always thinking, "What did you do to get yourself here, and what can you do to get yourself out?"  People make stupid decisions all the time, and hell, I was one of them. I never felt sorry for myself when I screwed up royally. I sat outside of myself and looked in at the girl who cried alone and gave her what for.  "It's your fault," I'd say.  "What are you going to do now?"  And then I'd get up and do something.  For every action, there is an appropriate reaction.  And my reaction to the increase in senseless, cold-blooded crime is to fight back.  


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