It doesn’t happen very often, but every once in a while, I complain directly to God about something that’s bothering me. Last week, my frustration with an ongoing issue finally got to the point that one of my thoughts went up to God in the form of a question: Why can’t you just have an angel appear to me in a dream and tell me what to do? I’m tired of playing these cat and mouse games where I’m always struggling to try to figure out what I should do.
Last month, Georgette and I attended a retirement party for Dr. Ed Kaizer. The party was at Bradley University, where Dr. Kaizer taught music for 45 years. We got to know Dr. Kaizer during the early 1990s, when our three oldest children — Harry, Anna, and Maria — were students at Bradley. They were all involved in the music program at Bradley and each of them had the opportunity to take piano lessons from Dr. Kaizer.
Did you know that 100 years ago, very few people were concerned about body odor or bad breath? Back then, people weren’t focused on covering up the odors that were produced by their bodies. Their primary aim was to just get through the day. Simple things, like taking a bath, were difficult and time-consuming.
I recently heard about a conversation that took place between some members of my extended family. The question they were apparently attempting to answer was, Why does Harry take the time to write a religious article every week? They came to the conclusion that I probably have some deep-seated guilt about my past that compels me to write. Writing a weekly article is apparently the only way I can atone for my guilt.
Last week I told you about the nice-guy prisoner who had a lot going for him but ended up in prison because he did “stupid stuff.” For the purpose of this article, I’m going to call him “Rick.” When Rick and I met in my office, he told me that after graduating from high school, he attended a trade school and became certified in a well-known trade. He was later hired by a company that paid him $24 per hour to work at his chosen trade.
Perfect Hate
During the late 1970s, while I was in college, I met a young man — I’ll call him John — who was born in the Middle East. John immigrated to the United States when he was a teenager. He was a few years older than me and it seemed as though every time I saw him, we ended up talking about religion, politics, and the volatility in the Middle East.