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Fighting Over God’s Love

This occurred in Albuquerque, New Mexico while I sold real estate for Falls Land and Development Co. 1970-71

Audie was a handsome, neatly tailored conservative Baptist turned Mormon. Hard working and easy going., he pored over the newspaper to improve his reading skills. Customers never realized that Audy’s sons helped him memorize the contracts. He asked customers to fill in the unique personal data on the contracts to make sure the data was correct. Actually, he did not trust his spelling. You would never guess He was anywhere near his forty-five years.

Tom was a rotund Seventh Day Adventist. He killed time reading magazines or watching the game on TV. There was no problem working on Sunday morning. Everybody should know that the Lord’s day was yesterday. Looking down his beak nose, he griped and moaned to anybody within earshot about the terrible state of the world and moral corruption. Tom was sure his sixty years and strong religious convictions gave him the right to issue moral rulings on almost any subject.

Waiting for Sunday morning customers in search of investment property to wander into the real estate office, we got bored. Like whittlers around the stove, we chewed on just about any subject. The Sunday paper often sparked righteous discussions between Audie and Tom. I was one of the group when it came to sales. They respected my salesman-of-the-month trophies. In these conversations though, I was considered a hopeless outsider. Each referred to himself as a “saint” and tried to enlighten the other about how the other was following a misguided faith.

They were God’s artillery corps hurling verse after verse from one to the other. Never was there a calm discussion of logic or fact. Only verses to be stated from memory and used as absolute proof of the other’s ignorance. I was not even welcome in these discussions because I tried to reason and be logical. That was heresy indeed. The one thing they agreed upon was the fact that I, a Catholic, was only a slight notch above an atheist. I worshipped statues and a Pope in Rome. They even quoted the same scriptural verses to show that I was a damned sinner beyond hope.

I hate to admit it, but their barrages made me wonder, to doubt even more my long questioned worthiness to be with God. They seemed so sure. I have always been so unsure.

Communication between My God and Me

Over the years I have talked to a number of Charismatics and Pentecostals who say that God talks to them on a regular basis. They aren’t Catholics. Most Catholics I know do not really buy this “God Talk” stuff. Most Catholics I know feel that God talks to us through the Church the Pope, the Priest.

A Pentecostal friend says that he actually hears his God. He talks to God, usually while kneeling in prayer by his bed. He often hears God.

“Got to be careful though,” he warns me, “because the Devil will get in there and try to mislead me.”

“How do you know when it’s the Devil talking instead of God?”

“What the Devil tells me doesn’t track with the Holy Scripture, God’s word does. If what I’m hearing contradicts the Holy Scripture, it has to be from the Devil. The Bible is God’s absolute word. If I’m not sure, or don’t understand what’s being said, I talk to my minister.”

Could it be that he has missed some of the best conversations with God? I have come to realize that there is a lot of truth in what a little Trappist Monk explained during a retreat at Gethsemani, KY. The monks are silent. They have a sign language that they use among themselves. I asked him why. He explained in a gentle voice that God talks to us all the time. If we are busy talking or we are bombarded by a lot of unnecessary noise, we will not hear him.

The Baltimore Catechism said prayer was a lifting of our hearts and minds to God.1 The Seeker’s Catechism describes prayer as a loving conversation with God.2

I’ve learned to hear my God, at least sometimes. Hopefully you have too. Rest assured that God is talking to you. Open up your heart and listen, trust. Trust the ear in your h-ear-t.

It was a shock when I realized that I, a closeted sinner, have been talking to God for much of my life. He was answering me. I just never really recognized him. He didn’t fit the mold the Nuns said he should fit. Of course I never fit the mold they said I should fit. I’ve seen the movies and heard the stories about Jesus and Mary appearing lots of places. They always dress like the pictures in church. Mary is always dressed like a Jewish matron of 2000 years ago. Jesus appears dressed like a Jewish traveler of 2000 years ago. That doesn’t make sense. The Bible describes Divine Appearances. What does God really look like? Through history, it’s recorded that Gods come to their people looking like, and dressed like, the people with whom they are visiting. The Bible describes God as contemporary. Therefore if God comes to visit us today, he’s logically still contemporary. He would dress like us, look like us, talk like us, and he would act like us. He would demonstrate his Divinity through his actions, not his dress.

It doesn’t make sense that God would be contemporary two or three thousand years ago – but not today. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? God? The Nuns? The publishers? The film makers? Whatever the answer, I don’t think it’s God’s error. Kind of makes me think of the TV series where Michael Landon played an Angel. How would people have responded to him if he wore robes and wings? They would have locked the sucker up in a flash and filled him with mind altering drugs.

Could it be that we have the opportunity to talk to God whenever we wish. Most of our lives we don’t. Even when we do, we don’t believe. It’s taken me fifty years to believe, and even then mine is a questioning belief. Over those years, The Divine and I have communicated in many ways. Petitions were the most common. Requests for guidance came later, during the dark years. Now I know that dreams or visions and personal interventions have played a large part as well. I’ll talk more about prayer later.

A little black prayer book I found in the sharing rack at the back of church in Page Arizona shed some light on opening ourselves to God’s words. “. . .Lord, teach me how to pray. Show me that the test lies not in my feelings of devotion or in my knowledge of a technique but in my perseverance and my generosity. The test of the artist and the linguist is this: what happens when emotion, suffering, and excitement intervene? So to with me in prayer. . .”.3

1 Baltimore Catachism # 207.

2 Pennock, Michael Francis, The Seeker’s Catachism: The Basics of Catholocism, Ave Maria Press, Notra Dame, IN. 1994. Pg 106.

3 Zeller, Dom Hubert van, A Book of Privatr Prayer. Templegate Publishers, Springfield, IL. 1960. Pg,143.

Broken and Memorabilia

Note: The following is one of several poems I found on a website geared to gay and lesbian youth that I liked very much way back in 1996. As I have started rebuilding the blog, I want to include these poems. I tried unsuccessfully to contact the poets for their permission. If this is your poem, I would love to hear from you.
Broken by oyster

Your name never spoken my heart lie still and broken.
You never gave me a chance to live,
all you ever wanted from me was to give.
You took my life, you took my gain,
you gave me grief, you gave me pain.
Soon will come one painful day,
a day you will see, a day you will pay.
mailto:tiny@intermind.net


Memorabilia by oyster

As I search through this old box
of old things, and old hearts,
I remember that time of brand new starts.
That time when I believed even magic to be true,
when destiny controlled my life, my fate, and perhaps you.
I see the pictures of smiling faces,
happy people and far away places.
But back to the present my wondering mind drifts,
and the memories of this old box fall back through the rifts.

Sometimes

Note: The following is one of several poems I found on a website geared to gay and lesbian youth that I liked very much way back in 1996. As I have started rebuilding the blog, I want to include these poems. I tried unsuccessfully to contact the poets for their permission. If this is your poem, I would love to hear from you.
sometimes by Earl age 16

i understand sometimes but,
why when i don't everyone else does?

my friends sometimes tell me,
i'm blind to what people do to me, sometimes.

but there was one time,
i can remember that someone made me feel loved.

this is a sometime that i'll never forget
i sometimes wish this time was all the time.

this may have only happened one time,
but at least it happened sometime.

Closet

Note: The following is one of several poems I found on a website geared to gay and lesbian youth that I liked very much way back in 1996. As I have started rebuilding the blog, I want to include these poems. I tried unsuccessfully to contact the poets for their permission. If this is your poem, I would love to hear from you.
Closet
by Jennifer, age 18

Its callused fingers, numb to any feeling,
tighten around my neck.
Squeezing, squeezing, squeezing,
choking every bit of myself out of me
draining my heart dry.
Drip, drip, drip.
Its darkness envelopes my life,
ruins my eyes,
beats my mind,
keeps me from seeing what I
want to see.
I can't see my life
leaving me,
but I feel it dying.
The darkness cannot take away
my feelings. I try to open the
door--to let some light in, but
if I'm not bold,
I can't. I have to be bold.
I'm not bold.
Desperate, desperate, desperate.
I need the light.
I gag on my own tongue,
with these murdering fingers,
fingers of darkness,
choking fingers.
Let go, let go, let go.

The Secret

Note: The following is one of several poems I found on a website geared to gay and lesbian youth that I liked very much way back in 1996. As I have started rebuilding the blog, I want to include these poems. I tried unsuccessfully to contact the poets for their permission. If this is your poem, I would love to hear from you.
The Secret
by A 16-year-old Lesbian

I look into my mother's eyes and
Swallow, guarding my best kept secret.
I feel it pushing against me,
Searching for a way out and
Bruising the walls that confine it, yet
I am afraid to let go.
As I run from the sadness I know
It would cause her, I
Stumble over my own emotions.
I look into my mother's eyes and
Swallow, guarding my best kept
Secret.

Homecoming Queen

Note: The following is one of several poems I found on a website geared to gay and lesbian youth that I liked very much way back in 1996. As I have started rebuilding the blog, I want to include these poems. I tried unsuccessfully to contact the poets for their permission. If this is your poem, I would love to hear from you.
Homecoming Queen by Frank, age 18 Sophomore at LSU

Put on a smile for the little
Bitches in the graveyard.
Let them talk on the phone,
Drive down the road to Jesus,
In Daddy's BMW.
There's so much to be said
For the pretty ones, the smart
Ones, the saintly ones.
Let her suck dick
To make the Good Son smile.
Drive down your little road,
Say hello to the Bugle Boy and his jeans
Before they open up your Pearled Gate.
Not much left to be said
For the older ones, the fatter ones,
The pregnant ones, the Homecoming Queen.
Let her know men,
To make Jesus blush in his P.J.'s
Ride your little storm girl
Say goodbye to that "cruel world"
No one's around now to talk
About the sagging ones, the
Trailer Park ones, the Wal-mart ones.
Maybe, Baby, that's what you get
For being a the good little Homecoming Queen.

Untitled Poem By Holly

Note: The following is one of several poems I found on a website geared to gay and lesbian youth that I liked very much way back in 1996. As I have started rebuilding the blog, I want to include these poems. I tried unsuccessfully to contact the poets for their permission. If this is your poem, I would love to hear from you.
Holly, age 16

"If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.."
those good little people in my proper little honors classes-
they never hurt your feelings, their mother taught them

"Treat other's like you want them to treat you.."
The teacher's strict rules in class, it will not be tolerated
for you to put someone down

Yes, they are good and proper
they tuck their shirts in, and are
cool

"fag!" that popular one grins, you know the one..
grins at his best friend
who is, of course, not a "fag"
never will be, of course, (it's a choice)

the teacher smiles, the teacher is very
cool
himself, you know the teachers
that think it is funny to say "fag"

They do not put anyone down
They do not say anything not nice
they do not know I am here
Or, do not know who I am
what I am

They don't know that one out of ten
Ha! The class reunion will be fun
of us are
"fags"
He doesn't know that his best friend is
His best friend doesn't even know.

Cupid’s Ultimate Mistake

Note: The following is one of several poems I found on a website geared to gay and lesbian youth that I liked very much way back in 1996. As I have started rebuilding the blog, I want to include these poems. I tried unsuccessfully to contact the poets for their permission. If this is your poem, I would love to hear from you.
Cupid's Ultimate Mistake by Mike

Eros in all of his stupidity
Shot the wrong arrow into my poor heart
Misdirecting all my cupidity
Limiting my chances right from the start
I've alienated some of my friends
Because of Cupid's sad misadventure
And caused more wounds than I can ever mend
I wish I was free of this sad censure
It seems to me now I can only mope
Because all my chances for love are poor
But I don't want to be a misanthrope
For I'm bound to find love in the future
I blame my problems on Cupid's dumb stunt
If I ever find him, I'll kill the runt

All I Want Is To Hold You Wild Wind

 Note: The following is a poem I found on a website geared to gay and lesbian youth that I liked very much way back in 1996. As I have started rebuilding the blog, I want to include them. I tried unsuccessfully to contact the poets for their permission. If this is your poem, I would love to hear from you.
All I Want is to Hold You Wild Wind
by gschmidt

From my memory I can't erase,
The image of your beautiful face,
As I call on a twinkling star,
I think of the many wishes there are.

But all I want is to hold you,
Kiss you, love you, be ever true,
To be a part of your heart and soul,
Is what I need to make me whole.

Like the moon your black hair shines,
Your gorgeous shape follows no lines,
Whispered words from your lips,
A friendly bump from your hips.

Yet in my heart I feel pain,
Dark and spreading like a stain.
I know you can't love me this way,
Unlike me; you aren't bi or gay.