GO TO NEIL’S OTHER BLOG ONE A DAY, YOUR SPIRITUAL VITAMINS and read the following brain teasers. CLICK ON URL BELOW There are over 600 stories and commentaries on this blog. It is added to daily.
THUS IS THE last of the SERIALIZATION IF YOU STARTED READING IT LATE…it was posted each week and thereafter
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RUST ON MY SOUL (A Novel) (Published by Bridge Press in 1985 & Distributed Internationally)
INTRODUCTION (Repeated for those new to the series)
In an old loose leaf notebook, Thomas Kettering wrote when there was a cry from his heart. He wrote when his inner longing spilled over into the reality of his days. He did not write every day, only when he felt he must. How often he wrote or when is not important. The journey is what counts, for it is a diary about all of us, to all of us. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” and even a stumble is a step.
Evening
I drove by the state prison this morning on my way to a new franchise we opened in Johnson City. I knew it was there, I'd just never been by it before.
A place of bars and chain fences and barbed wire.
I
watched the inmates walk from nowhere to nowhere. Parole? For some no
more than a short future away. And when the gates open, who will walk
out? The same man who went in? Ifso, he will soon return, a prisoner never really free. A prisoner without hope.
I thought, "that was I." For
so long, I was a prisoner without hope. Never really free. The walls of
my ego fenced me in. The walls of my anger against God holding me back.
The walls of peer pressure, even at my age, restricting freedom at
every turn.
But
not now. Free now to love God. Free to fall and be promptly lifted up,
forgiven. Free to run before the winds of higher ethics with God
shouting, "Go, my child. Give it your best. Give it your all."
Evening
The
pitting is not gone. The critical etchings, a reminder of my
yesterdays, will always be with me, but the corrosion that took the
shine from my soul has all but disappeared.
This
will be my last entry. My musings have served their purpose. I have
cried, shouted, cursed, moaned. Here, in this journal, I found a place
to stare at myself with intrepid honesty, to seek to rebuild without
illusion.
I
may pick up these pages-some day-should my wanderings need a road map
again. I cannot say I now completely understand me, or God, or His
world, or heaven above. But God understands, and that's enough for me.
To be continued
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