Stopping in with my Family

Here I sit.

Did the dishes.

Nowhere else to go right now.

Listening to my God-voice, as ever, Whom I now understand to be truly God.  He follows all the faithful like this, at least us pop-Christian rockers anyway for sure.

Navigating a horrible moment in which the tide turns toward an appreciation of the fruit of the works of His hand in my life and in general.

The topic is a burning one which has been burning and burning and burning for going on half a century; maybe my whole life.

Th’injustice.  The fury, holding on past all holding, tumbling in the abyss.  Watching…my children die, and keep clinging, as my born one suffers.

Oh there have been twists and turns.

But they all come up fruitful for ME at this juncture of time passing.

I am talking, of course, about my family history, Dud, who is at the helm, and Mam, who partakes of him; and the “CHILDREN” play at War and their lives slide away; as they age, and age–as those two, whose reputation goes quizzically as mother and father in the shadows of an old hi-tech career best hidden for the sake of Daddy’s woeful embarrassment as a person while he held down this job.  Not to be seen in the limelight for this reason.

 

 

 

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