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Jonathan Swift said, “We have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.” SECOND BLESSING ponders this truth.
RESURRECTION JOURNAL
from Second Blessing
Mildred cautiously picked up the notepad with her right hand, three fingers up, which felt strangely heavy. She held it in her left hand, flipped the cover, and read:
RESURRECTION JOURNAL OF FRANCIS PAUL DAY
KEEP OUT
The large and sloppy printing looked worst than a backward child’s. Mildred snorted. He even wrote in red ink, how blasphemous and dramatic. She heave-sighed, flipped the page. Father, forgive me for the filth I’m about to see.
October 16, 1987
I am born again.
She snorted and rolled her eyes, wanting to throw-up. Yeah and pigs fly. She glanced at the ceiling and prayed out loud, “Oh Lord, help me. Must I really read these lies?” She waited a moment, knowing the answer without a heavenly sign. Again she adjusted herself, heave-sighed, and stared down.
Brother Mike rescued me from my sorry life. I can finally admit that I was an alcoholic, drug addict, male whore. I sold my soul for less than nothing. Praise Jesus for dying on the cross and making me whole!
Mildred gasped, the journal fell into her lap. She clenched her breast, wanting to pitch the notepad across the room but afraid it might hit something. Why am I torturing myself so? Why must we martyrs face such suffering? Humph! Pish and pshaw! I really should have my smelling salts ready. God knows this trash will bring on an attack.
She blinked, inhaled deeply, adjusted her bed jacket, regained composure. No, this is something I must force myself to do. I must continue reading no matter how repulsive. This is for the good of the Church. Again she picked up the journal, right hand, three fingers up, and flipped back to where she was. This time, her hands clenched each side of the notepad; her fists squeezing tight.
I’ve been here at Safe Harbor for ten days now. Brother Mike says writing down my thoughts and feelings helps my recovery. Even my babbling will make sense. I pray so. I was killing myself with the drinking, smoking, and shooting up.
I lived the everyday addict’s horror story. Snowballing to Hell. Jumping from whole to wasted in leaps. My fall was a plunge. Praise God now and forever for rescuing my soul!
Where did things go wrong? Is there a specific place or just everywhere? It seems like my life has always been a mess. I don’t see how going back to the beginning helps, but Brother Mike says it does.
Mildred snorted, glanced up, rolled her eyes. Lord help us, another pathetic sinner’s sob story that claims to have found the light! Bet he’s looking to be published; hopes somebody will make a movie of his life. We should be use to this foolishness by now. Can’t pick up a newspaper or turn on the TV without somebody fixing to be executed pleading for forgiveness. If they didn’t want to die, they shouldn’t have committed the crime. It’s enough to make any God-fearing soul sick. She stared back down.
Free Kindle Edition 1/13/2026- 1/17/2026
UNCERTAINTY
The uncertainty of life is pondered in this collection of 65 poems about faith, hope, and love.
FREE KINDLE EDITION until January 10, 2026.
GAIN
No great loss,
Small one either;
Dropping this cross,
Taking a breather.
Reached the end
A million times;
Can’t smile, pretend,
Ignore more crimes.
Leaving a burden
Pulling me down;
More than certain
I will rebound.
Snatching off this albatross,
Ripping up this letter,
Everything’s gained, nothing’s lost;
Life is already better.
ENDS TODAY
FREE A FINE YOUNG MAN KINDLE EDITION
The good always die young. Ten-year-old Roy Brown hears this after his sixteen-year-old brother Billy, the Eagle’s star basketball player, is killed in a wreck before the annual rival game against the Tigers. Alone in the kitchen before dawn the morning of Billy’s funeral, Roy remembers that day.
A FINE YOUNG MAN
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Roy shakes his head back and forth, the good feeling a memory. Drinking is wrong when you’re driving on Pine Landing Road. Miss the curve past Big Bend Bridge and smash into a pine tree. I ain’t ever going to taste beer! I ain’t even going to learn to drive!
Gets up. Pulls the quilt closer and shuffles to the back door. The quilt feels like a hundred tons. Pushes the curtain back. Wipes the glass with his hand and stares through the lopsided circle. Now the on-at-dusk off-at-dawn pole light just shines on the family car.
Heaves. Sighs. Looks at the clock. Soon Dad will be up milking. Then Mama making breakfast, Shirley setting the table, Martha staying in the bathroom too long and the kitchen will be warm. The black will become gray, then dawn starting the day. Everything will look like yesterday. Each hour will tick sixty minutes. But nothing will ever be the same. Closes his eyes. Sees the new tombstone in the cemetery with Billy’s name.
“Dammit no!” Roy hollers out loud pounding his fist against the door. “It ain’t fair! It ain’t right! Why did Billy die? I promise if it was yesterday again I’d do everything different, even the smallest detail, and my brother will be alive. I don’t care if Brenda Sue is his girl and Dodo Bird his best pal. I don’t care if I can’t go to Ralph’s and have to sit with Mama and Dad during the game. Please give me another try! I promise never to ask for another thing in my life!”
And standing before the door, Roy waits for the sunrise.
BREVITY 