In the Fik of it

I quit my job.   To be honest, I'd quit my job long before and only a shell of what once was me was still roaming across the floors.  I functioned well, supported the mission, displayed the proper attributes, dressed the part and played the roll, yet I really wasn't there.  I believe that the inertia of nearly 30 years could have carried me for another 3 or 4 years before it became obvious that there was no one in the car.  That alone was proving to be more troublesome in my heart as that would make me yet another eviscerated, old white guy, in an industry full of eviscerated old white guys.  Optics aside - I knew that's not what I was built for.   Had they allowed me to move into a new role of "Corporate Chaplain", I may well have found new meaning and purpose in my work - I so love the people there and it was their passionate grip that held me together.  There's no desire however, to mix Jesus with office furniture and since he'd twice demonstr

With a loud crash she rolls under the recycle bin.   Tin cans, beer bottles, cardboard egg cartons; they all go flying over as she slides under.   Her inconsolable screaming is underscored by blood from her cut knuckle smeared on the washing machine, the dryer, and her clothes.   Were it a Passover sign, the angel of death would surely pass us by mistaking the smears as lamb’s blood. Day two of her frustration.   I know it will pass but the deep biting of her fingers and the blood can only mean a future infection, future bloated and blackened digits, huge antibiotic pills that we need somehow coax down without a vomitus eruption.   The mouth is not only the most dangerous weapon in the world; it’s the most infectious.   I don’t know what her issue is, she can’t tell us if she hurts or is simply angry.   In her anger she bites, in her sorrow she hits, in an act of consolation as she cries, she pinches herself and all we can do is mop up the dripping blood as it flows.