Grief

Sometimes the news comes quick. Sometimes the news comes slow. No matter how or when it comes, grief travels in the wake of the news. Grief is heavy, weighty, a burden, especially when it involves someone deeply loved. Grief is not meant to be carried alone. It’s too heavy and may last a while—and that’s ok. That’s what family and friends are for, to share the load. Jesus stood outside the tomb of his friend and wept but He did not weep alone. It was a deep, human moment. “ Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted ” (Matt 5:4). If anyone knows how we feel in grief, it’s Him. But His grief did not linger long, as at the mention of his name, Lazarus came forth. We are not meant to dwell in grief, but should leave room enough for it. Let it run its course. Like the song says, “ Every Storm Runs Out Of Rain .” Another song says, “ The storm We will dance as it breaks The storm It will give as it takes And all of our pain is washed away Don't cry or be afraid Some things...

Smoking Man

The sign clearly said (and I quote), “No smoking,” yet here was this guy standing right beside me in the restaurant smoking a cigarette! I was fuming.

“Excuse me, but the sign says, “No Smoking.” Do you mind?” I asked, turning and pointing to the sign over my shoulder.

He turned to me taking a long drag on his butt, blew a billow of smoke. “Sure do mind,” he growled.

I glanced around the restaurant hoping that one of the employees would notice and come to my rescue by enforcing policy. I turned again to the sign,”The sign says . . .”

“I don’t give flying backward flip through a rolling donut what the sign says,” He cut me off taking an even bigger drag from his cigarette, the pungent vapor made more acidic by his odorous breath. His teeth wore sweaters.

“Sweetheart, just leave him alone. He’s waiting to pick up his order and will be leaving soon,” my wife whispered in my ear, tugging on my sleeve.

“Why should anyone have to tolerate this? This . . . this . . . this is ridiculous!” I too loudly whispered back.

“Something wrong?” the offender rumbled, now standing much closer to me than comfort allowed.

I remembered my 9th grade High School drafting teacher, Mr. Willoughby, telling us on the first day of class about every person’s 3-foot bubble of personal space and to avoid the violation of it. Mr. Willoughby always made think of Archie Andrew’s High School Principle in the comics, only my teacher was not as bald. He looked like a fattened version of Larry Fine, the second Stooge gone solo. And suspenders. He always wore suspenders. The boys kept an eye on each other all semester, keeping close eye on our personal space. Mr. Willoughby was nowhere to be found tonight to enforce the bubble rule or the smoking rule.

Without even looking I felt how close he was standing and his offensive breath. His jeans smelled like they had not been washed—ever. I turned and before I could say anything, he poked me in the chest. “You gotta problem with me smoking in public? Well, get over it.” He paused, gathering an idea. “Hey, Why don’t you and me . . .”

The waitress approached carrying a tray bearing a large white bag turned on its side, the mouth folded closed. He paid for his meal, lifted the bag and turned for the door.

“I’ll be outside. Take your time.” He said, pushing the door open.

“Welcome! How many?” the hostess smiled at me and my wife.

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