Category: Let Them

“Emaciated Judgment” – The Word Pool Prompt for May 23, 2026 Intersects with AA Principes

This morning, I opened “The Word Pool” to the adjective “Emaciated.” I wanted to choose something different, but no – go with the first one you see. So, I then turned to the nouns, and my finger landed on “Judgment.” I typed those two words on this screen and let my thoughts roll. Here is what came:

Emaciated Judgment

“Can you think of anyone, if you’re honest with yourself, that you don’t have advice for?” Patrick asks this question of alcoholics, and I watch them say, “Yes,” and they’ll want to name a person and defend the response, but then Patrick tells them to get honest …, and as the person reflects over their life, a light comes on – if they’re honest. The truest answer is, “No.” We have advice for every person we encounter – every person but ourselves. And I turn the question inward – “Is there anyone in your life, Dacia, that you don’t have advice for?” Even when I walk through Lowe’s or sit at a table at the Cracker Barrel, I find myself sitting in judgment of most every person I see. If I’m honest, I can and will admit that.

This is especially true of an alcoholic. We believe we are different; we don’t fit. It certainly cannot be anything wrong with us – it must be everyone else, and the blame game is a way of life. If you wouldn’t. If he didn’t. If. If. If. Every other person needs to change in our emaciated judgment. Our alcoholic judgment, which pulls the victim card and waves it high and proud. It’s you; it’s not me. Poor me, and I drink, I shop, I seek attention, I pick up drugs … I’m saying “I” as a stand-in for all alcoholics.

We have an illness of a spiritual, physical, and mental nature. If we straighten out spiritually, the mental and physical straighten out naturally. But this is a hard thing to accept; it is an even harder thing to put into action. Taking steps to sort out the spiritual illness – first admitting it exists and second being willing to get honest about ourselves, our insecurities, our fears, our judgment – this is where the ‘rubber hits the road’ for an alcoholic who desires recovery. It is work.

I see the commercials on TV now for a pill you can take to help you stop drinking. I know alcoholics who take these medications, and hear me, please, these are Band-Aids. They are Big Pharma taking advantage of people who do not want to put in work, who do not want to take the steps, who want to (taking a phrase from the Big Book) rest on their laurels and have their problem solved without any actual change occurring inside. It is too uncomfortable to do the work in AA, which requires the individual to do work on self, to step away from that emaciated judgement I spoke of earlier, into an acceptance of the reality of who he or she is in the scope of life and recognition of the spiritual illness which only a higher power can resolve. The thing about this intense and discomforting work is that the result on the other side, once the steps are taken with willingness and honesty, is well … serenity.

On page 77 of the 12 & 12 (Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions), it says, “Learning how to live in the greatest peace, partnership, and brotherhood with all men and women, of whatever description, is a moving and fascinating adventure.” We read those words at the dining room table this last week as we sat with a recovering alcoholic going through the steps, and I wrote the words down on a piece of paper. This is a moving and fascinating adventure indeed! The book goes on to say, “Every AA has found that he can make little headway in this new adventure of living until he first backtracks and really makes an accurate and unsparing survey of the human wreckage he has left in his wake.”  A little later in the paragraph, it says, “But if a willing start is made, then the great advantages of doing this will so quickly reveal themselves that the pain will be lessened as one obstacle after another melts away.” Ahhhhhh … that’s what the work produces – the melting away of all that keeps an alcoholic sick – those things that are hidden deep inside, that no one knows, that the alcoholic doesn’t even know until the work is done.

When Patrick asks that question, “Can you think of anyone, if you’re honest with yourself, that you don’t have advice for?”, now, on the other side of recovery, I find I still do have advice for most people I encounter, but I’m quickly able to remind myself that most people, in fact, all people, are actors on the stage – we all participate in our own play where we believe we have control, though we are but actors. We want to manage the lights, the scenery, the other players, and the lines people say. We imagine ourselves as the director, but we are not – and we try to assume that role – and we sit in judgment because the other actors do not do what it is that we want them to do, and we find ourselves angry – and some of us take this to an extreme, and we drink over it.

Here I smile – today’s “The Word Pool” choice was emaciated judgment, and this often-had conversation from my dining room table is where that word combo took me immediately. When I sit in judgment of others, forgetting that they are also actors trying to control a show, I feel different, insecure, and my judgment is based on corrupted feelings where my base instincts are affected, afflicted, and I become defensive. I am set apart, and I put myself in a corner with hackles up and ready to fight – though most likely I’ll destroy myself along with everyone I encounter, especially those closest to me. This is not based on healthy, recovered thinking. It is emaciated – withered, shrunken, gaunt … weak judgment. It is a spiritual sickness.

As a recovered alcoholic, I know that apart from staying in fit spiritual condition, my judgment quickly becomes emaciated. I must do the work to stay in connection with my higher power, which for me is the God of the Universe who cares about me so much that He sent His Son into this world to die, to become a sacrifice, the only sacrifice that would suffice to save those who call upon His name. That is my personal belief and understanding based on my reading and research – based on my experience, strength, and hope. I cannot and will not push that (that you must do or believe exactly as I do) on anyone else – on you. Take your own journey to ‘serenity’ – perhaps through a pill – doubtful it will happen truly, but hey, you do you. Or find your own path to a higher power by realizing that you, in your own power, cannot turn emaciated judgment into serenity of heart, mind, soul, and body. You can try, but you’ll drive yourself to the depths of insanity. Step Two in the Big Book says this, “2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.” There’s something to this – and I can preach on it, but at this point, I remind myself that each of us has to truly come to this realization on our own – out of desperation for wholeness – or it doesn’t stick. Do it or don’t. Right?

Patrick also says, after taking people through the steps, “Don’t get mad at me six months down the road, if I make more use of this information than you do.”

Eek.

But he’s not wrong.

So, Dacia, today, where is your judgment at? Is it through the lens of your higher power where you recognize that every person you encounter struggles through this life just like you do, so grace and compassion are a must? Or will I not set my mind right, stay in a state of ‘I’m the one in charge,’ and want to direct every person I encounter to do my bidding and find myself feeling crazy because no one will do what I want?

It is a choice.

“Emaciated Judgment” – The Word Pool Prompt for May 23, 2026.

Using the word pairing, write a sentence, a story, a poem, or draw a sketch, paint a picture. Set your mind free and create. Post it here. Post it there. Post it wherever. Only, please tag it #thewordpool so I can enjoy it with you. Happy creating!

This adjective/noun combo comes to you directly out of “The Word Pool” – I didn’t cheat. I opened the book, took the first adjective I randomly selected with my finger (without looking), and then I turned to the noun section and randomly selected a noun with my finger (again, without looking). Maybe I wanted to choose something different, but no, we go with those FIRST finger-chosen words!  Ta-da! It’s that complicated.   Now, we write or draw; whichever we do, we create!

~ Dacia Cunningham, creator of “The Word Pool: Quiet Chaos: A Creative Writing Toolkit / Game of Words, Meaning, and Imagination.”

Mother’s Day Sucks. Anyone Feel That?

To the other moms out there who have a hard time on Mother’s Day. Many reasons might be the underlying cause for your sorrow today. I want you to know I see you. I hear you. I feel you. I am one of you. I know what it is to see the happy, shiny faces of mothers all over social media, in churches, in restaurants, with their children and grandchildren’s arms around them, celebrating them, and you feel a stabbing in your own soul with each picture or each encounter. I know. I feel it, too.

This is a hard day for me. My mommy went to heaven on November 12, 2022, and my own children … well, because of choices I made, which were self-absorbed in the past – steeped in alcoholism and fear and insanity – I am separated from my own children and grandchildren in distance and, some, in heart. My initial reaction is to despise Mother’s Day. I’m not a fan. Can’t wait for it to pass, and let’s get back to normal days.

But then, I remember that just as my choices in the past brought me to where I am today, recognizing that today is new and a gift from God, I can choose to set aside all that before-today stuff and focus on right here, right now.

In the right here, right now, I know that I do know how to be a mom – and I have been and will continue to be a mom; I had a great example in Marjorie Ruth Snare Hinkle, and I did raise my oldest three through to ‘adulthood.’ My younger three, I ache over the second half of their childhoods, but I will forever pray for them and love them as I can.

So, in the right here, right now, I know that I cared for many children over the years in a momma-way … Paige, Zaine, Khiana, Kambria, Kinzi, Skyler, and a lot of others – these, in my heart, are my babies.

And as a college professor, I’ve had many ‘children’ over the years – and I’ve been blessed to love so many! My son-in-love wished me Happy Mother’s Day last Sunday – he is that thoughtful! I love that guy, my Moti. I’m so happy he is my Kadi’s husband; he was also the first to say HMD this morning. I’ve also been blessed with a bonus son, Joey, who ensures to do special things for me on Mother’s Day, my birthday, and holidays because he knows my heart misses my biological children – and he endeavors to fill that hole. What a beautiful boy! What a big heart! And there’s my Zack and my Maddy. God gave Patrick and me children together through AA – and I love those two with my every fiber. Several young women in AA over the last five years have called me AA Mom, and I’ll gladly be that as they need. Through the years of teaching, several students have become children to me – Randall and Claudia specifically come to mind from St. Louis, and here in Tulsa, it is countless. Just yesterday, a student from this past year called me “second mom.” Oh my heart, Sydona, you don’t know what that means to me.

What I’m realizing in the right here, right now is that it is PERSPECTIVE. It is mine to choose to recognize all the beautiful ways God has given me to love the people He puts in my path – to be a mom. I am a blessed woman, despite what I see as my past failures. See, what I know, have to daily remember, is this … HE wants me to focus on today; HE will work out the rest as I choose to have faith in HIS path for me; HE will use those past ‘failures’ in situations to love others that I couldn’t even begin to put together on my own! Like Zack and Maddy in my life. Do today what I can for HIM, and HE will fill my heart and my soul with the love HE has for me to know. Just this morning, Maddy said to me, “Happy Mother’s Day! I love you very much. You’re probably the best mom I never had!!”

So, moms out there who don’t like Mother’s Day, maybe it’s time for a perspective shift. Stop focusing on what we DON’T have, based on our own feelings and thoughts, and recognize that you are here on this earth for a purpose. You have a story now, so let it fuel your everyday … Move forward, loving the people God puts in your path. Be a mom to the many who don’t have one. Be a mom to those whose hearts hurt. Be a mom to those who just need a hug. Be a grandma to the child who needs one. They’re all around us. Broken people, and we can use the hurt in our hearts to have compassion and empathy and give hugs that only sorrow-filled moms can provide. Let your hurt fuel your compassion, and be a mom every day. No matter what you get in return. It shouldn’t be about that, but what I do know is this … when we spend our days being of service to others, God will fill the hole in our hearts.

I walk that. Every day.

It’s just sometimes on a day like Mother’s Day, the tendency to feel sorry for myself tries to get the better of me. Not today, self-pity. Not today.

I am a Mom. I am a Grandma.

Period.

“Glazed Notion” – CELEBRITIES! That’s Who Has Glazed Notions! #thewordpool

Those people are sick in the head.

I made that comment on Facebook a few moments ago. The post showed multiple pictures of celebrities at the Met Gala, and it (the post) spoke about how much money the tickets cost ($100,000), how much was spent on food for the ordeal ($400,000), and how the amount of money that one night raised could have fed over 140,000 children for a year. These celebrities walked around at that event like they think they are somebody special – every one of them – wearing the stupidest outfits I’ve ever seen and calling it ‘fashion.’ No thanks, I’ll take my boots, jeans, and blazers over looking like I’m wearing trashbags and ferns. Sometimes I’ll wear a suit with my sparkly boots just for a touch of fun, and if my husband wants to take me to a nice dinner, I get dolled up in a nice dress. But never, anything ostentatious or me, me, me – inducing. I don’t need that kind of attention – but these people do, and it gets worser and worser (sometimes bad grammar and misspellings are necessary to make points).

It is wild, and not in a good way, to watch videos from the Met Gala of these people. Much more fun to watch the videos of regular, everyday people mocking the celebrities who think way too much of themselves – like DeShaunta McDonald. That girl is cracking me up with her Met Gala Recaps – mocking the self-importance of these people who have glazed notions that they are somehow more special than regular people. It is sickening to watch these people’s sickness unfold and get worse each year (someone said on FB that they’re giving off Hunger Games vibes – ya think?!?!) – and you know who put them there, who made them that way, who gave them those big heads … regular people who pay way too much to go see movies, who fawn over celebrities wherever they go, who think somehow once a person is famous that they become somehow god-like, and I’m over here going no … they get diahrea, too. And I think some of them need to be reminded of that.

But you know what I also know … people who need attention and do outlandish things to secure it have a deep, dark hole inside their souls, and they feed it with attention – and their morals decay over time. Have you seen that? I have … look up long ago pictures of Miley Cyrus. Then, trace her through the years. The more attention needed, the darker and more wild the outfits become – the less coverage – more skin, darker makeup, more sex involved because sex appeal keeps people’s attention, and then, they’re selling their souls to stay on top … and what they don’t realize is there will always be another little g god that will come along and one day, the public will toss them over like an old shoe to run after new flesh – the next Hannah Montana who they can watch deteriorate until she’s girating on a stage in order to sell tickets. Riding a wrecking ball through the air while she wears next to nothing. It’s sad. And people eat it up, they eat up the celebrities, and then, they toss out the garbage and find new meat … it’s vicious, and it’s like these celebrities don’t understand something vitally important to their own sanity and moral fiber.

You are just an entertainer.

That’s all you are.

You get paid to entertain people, and when they no longer find you entertaining, you find yourself discarded. Celebrities are becoming a dime a dozen, and they don’t seem to realize it.

The ones who buy ranches and spend more time in small towns are the ones who will survive the reality that one day, they will realize they’re normal people, too. Like Matthew McConaughey. The fact that he lives in Texas and teaches college is something I respect and can get behind. His wife, Camilla, makes cooking videos, and they are down-to-earth. There are many other examples – like Andie McDowell, who lives on a ranch somewhere north, like Montana or Wyoming. Good for her. They will survive their eventual no longer being the “it” person of the day when it comes.

And now, I realize I’m prattling on. I have concerns for these people dressing themselves crazier each year – one-upping each other – trying to get the camera, to stay in the spotlight. But … at the same time, they are irrelevant to my everyday life.

They do not pay my bills or do my job for me. My husband and I don’t go to movies; we barely watch TV – and the shows I do watch aren’t American-based beyond a few shows Taylor Sheridan has written. I’m an Acorn app girl. That, and PBS Masterpiece and BBC. I love good Australian, New Zealand, and British crime dramas. And I have no idea who any of those people are … except recently I finished “My Life is Murder” starring Lucy Lawless – Xena Warrior Princess of days long gone by. She’s down to earth, a retired detective who makes sourdough bread in her spare time and helps police solve crime. It is just a sweet show. I’m certainly not star-struck … if I ran into Lucy, I’d thank her for inspiring me to try making sourdough bread and thank her for keeping me company in the kitchen, because that’s when I set my phone up and watch my little crime dramas. Currently, I’m watching “Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries,” which is set in 1920s Australia and stars Essie Davis. I don’t know anything about her, and I’m good with that. The show entertains me while I cook. It’s also sweet.

My husband has no idea who most celebrities even are; there are more and more who I don’t know by face or name, and I am good with that.

Now, let me state that we did score free tickets to a Luke Combs concert in November 2024, and we drove from Tulsa to Nashville for that one, let me tell you. It was fantastic, and he was entertaining. Just as he should be. He’s an entertainer. After the show was over, Patrick and I went boot shopping down the street from Luke’s venue, “Category 10.” It was over – and there were boots to buy, so off we went. Not star-struck, just appreciative. May Luke Combs always wear that button-down shirt and ballcap. May he never deteriorate his morals or his faith. May he find entertainment as his job, go home to his family, and live a private life, never forgetting that being a husband and a father comes first.

This is what you call ‘freewriting,’ folks. You start with an idea and let your mind wander. I had no idea when I sat down to pound the keyboard about the stupid outfits at the Met Gala that I would find myself discussing Luke Combs and praying he never loses sight of his first priority – which is family.

Let your mind wander.

Start with a writing prompt … like “Glazed Notion.” See what happens. I drew those two words out of “The Word Pool” this morning, and I wrote a few lines. I had NO idea they would revisit themselves in the above rant in the perfect way they fit. As the words flowed out of my fingers, and I saw them on the screen, it made me laugh, and I made no effort to change them … I let them do what they wanted to do. Now, I think glazed notions might make their way into more of my writing because a definition has solidified in my head.

Good stuff.

And … celebrities, who? 🙂

Let’s Talk About Uptalk – OR – You Do You, Boo.

I can’t. I just can’t with this raising of one’s pitch at the end of sentences; this is called uptalk, and it makes every sentence that comes out of the uptalker’s mouth sound like a question and like the speaker is insecure. It’s like a plague in our society, and I hear it everywhere – mostly in young women in their 30s and younger. The ending of sentence after sentence with a rise in pitch makes the speaker sound unreliable, at best, and insecure, at worst, and I don’t understand how it goes unchecked.

There is a television commercial for Jacuzzi Bath starring Christina of HGTV, and her voice grates on my every last nerve. There is a rise to her pitch at the end of every sentence, and I can assure Jacuzzi Bath that Christina is not their best salesperson – in fact, she probably drives away customers as she sounds unsure, faddish, and well, ridiculous. I show that commercial to my students when we discuss non-verbal arguments.

38% of communication is tone of voice. 38%, people.

Last summer, I took a course through a company I will not name, and the speaker in one of the course videos spoke in uptalk throughout the entire lesson. I could not focus. She was in her 30s, and I’m in my 50s. I’m sure that makes a difference here; however, at the end of the course, we participated in a discussion thread about the materials the woman discussed. I chose to be honest about my inability to focus on the content because of the distracting uptalk, which made the woman sound inefficient, not to mention inexperienced, to lead a course.

Another participant in the discussion thread wrote, “Thank you for saying it!” in response to my direct comment regarding the speaker’s pitch. Others joined in agreement, and it is my hope that the facilitators of the online course will rethink the tone of that content’s delivery, which fell on an audience that values confidence in a speaker’s tone – we were all college-level educators for heaven’s sake.

Just two days ago, I went to a literary launch party … and there it was in a speaker … uptalk. It deeply concerns me that we are somehow teaching younger generations to speak this way. Is it TikTok? Where is it coming from? I don’t use TikTok, so I have no idea. To hear that uptalk at that event from someone who should know better… shocking.

There’s another part of me that wants to refrain from saying anything, say, ‘You do you, Boo,’ and let those who speak with uptalk have at their faddish tones of voice, which make them sound, dare I go ahead and say it? It makes them sound inept, so let’s let them; see, that offers more opportunities to those of us who understand that ending sentences on a lower tone conveys confidence and reliability. So, perhaps … let’s not tell them. But then again, I don’t want to have to continue to listen to it – it hurts my ears and my soul.

In our week discussing nonverbal argument in Comp II (That’s 2, not 11), please know I discuss tone of voice with my students – and I use a variety of sources that are not just me with my Gen X disdain for uptalk, one is Tony Robbins, and another is Vinh Giang (https://youtube.com/shorts/LpGIRhSZ3Jw?si=YC8N6Dp6a3a_aHHA). Each of these, along with other sources – like the Jacuzzi Bath commercial as evidence of what not to do, conveys the importance of tone – your pitch, your pace, your volume, and your timbre. The ability to control and use these in argument is rhetoric in its deepest sense, because 93% of communication is nonverbal (38% tone and 55% body language). My hope is that my students, especially the young women in my classes, grasp the dire necessity of focusing on more than just the words that come out of their mouths or appear on the pages of documents. HOW they are said matters more than what is said. Always.

Rant over. It was on my mind after the event I attended recently, so I needed to speak about it. And I also want to say, as a woman in her 50s who gets this, I am beyond grateful as a mother that neither of my daughters speaks in uptalk – get it, girls! I did something right.

Hate and Kindness Rambling

Never will I understand the hate that exists in this world. Actually, I can’t say that because I do understand it. That statement comes from a place of naivety inside me, but I know precisely where hate comes from. The devil is alive, and he hates God. He hates all who love God, and he wants to destroy all that God loves. So, the hate that exists in this world is at his stirring. The selfishness of humanity is him in his ‘finest’ work … and I understand, but it baffles me that so many people blindly follow along. I know some choose his ways with intention, and so be it. Go that way and reap the consequences. “Let them.” But those that so blindly follow, who are led foolishly by utter selfishness and allow themselves to hate anyone different from them … that hurts me, confuses me, and bothers me. I want to stand on a mountain top and yell to them all that there is another way to live! It is possible to live in peace with others! That you can hold different perspectives and opinions and still have respect for one another! It is possible not to hate! It is possible to love … It is possible, but only with love that comes from God. God’s love is selfless. It puts others first; it seeks the best for many over self. It is about service and kindness, though firmly standing on principles. Jesus hung out with sinners … not to do what they did, but to show them love and another way to live. He called them to a higher plane of existence, and many who encountered him chose to change. Not all … some didn’t like the love and selflessness that Christ preached because it would cause them to have to give up what they perceived as their ‘control’ and power, and they (the religious leaders of all people) plotted to kill him. He was messing with their ‘thing,’ and they plotted, and they killed him. And the devil thought he had made the ultimate play against God.

Only … the temple veil tore in two, the earth shook, the sky went dark, and three days later, Jesus Christ beat the chains of death and rose from the dead! There are many eyewitness accounts in Scripture and in historical documents. Believe it or don’t. I choose to believe, and because I choose to follow Jesus, I also choose to follow His leading in the New Testament —those to blessed words in red. I started reading to understand in Luke 11 two weeks ago, taking it in manageable chunks, and I’m now in chapter 17. I’ve encountered Jesus in a completely new way. What I know now is that in regard to faith and religion, He did not come to bring peace but to bring division. He came to show hypocrisy for what it was/is, to make it plain. He said to be ready. He said to be watchful. He said not to be the cause of someone else stumbling. He said to be shrewd. He said to be in the present moment. He said to be kind. He said to share the good news of eternal life with God the Father in Heaven, that our time on earth is short, but that heaven is eternal. What we choose here determines where we spend forever. I choose eternity with God the Father, Christ the Son, and the Spirit, who God has placed inside our souls, guiding us daily toward what is good, what is true, what is right, what is lovely, what is self-controlled, what pleases God in the human heart. So, for me to say I’ll never understand the hate that exists in this world is not a true statement. I do understand it, but I don’t like it. I choose not to live that way—in hate and selfishness. I choose to love people despite themselves and despite myself. I will not hate someone for being different from me. I’d rather understand why they’re different and look for opportunities to have productive conversations, to be kind, to be loving, and to be a light for Jesus, so that He can draw more people to His Father. In that, there is much rejoicing in Heaven! I understand the assignment. Be in the moment. Stay in the Word. Pray every day. Be kind. Be principled. Know why I believe what I believe. Be shrewd. Be watchful. Be discerning. Shake the dust off my feet when necessary. Always seek to be pleasing to the Father. Amen.

I intended this to be a piece about why so many perceived Charlie Kirk as being hateful … but I’m not going there fully. He wasn’t. There’s evidence of that. He was principled. He was shrewd. He was kind. He was watchful and discerning. He knew what he believed, and he stood on it, but he, like Christ, also chose to be among the people who were different from him and to have conversations. He never called people who disagreed with him ugly names. He didn’t put them down. He loved opposing opinions and debate. And he was killed for it. This puts us as a nation on dangerous ground. I see it, and it shocks me, though it shouldn’t. That’s that naïve part of me that wants all people to be kind and to be critical thinkers, although I know that is not reality because the devil roams like a roaring lion seeking those he can destroy – and he does so with selfishness and hate.  Some schools are opting not to have Turning Point USA chapters because of the perceived “hate” that many claim it espouses. See, here’s what I know … most who choose to hate something they’ve not truly researched are in Cognitive Dissonance, and there is no point in arguing with them. So, start a Critical Thinking Club; call it something else, and it will be okay. Ah, people. The “Let Them” theory comes into play here, and I know to keep moving forward, shake the dust off my feet, and find those who can participate in true argument, and have those kinds of conversations, where opinions can vary and kindness shared. Where respect reigns and wars can end. Some will find this light. Some will not. And I find myself saying, Maranatha again and again. Come, Lord Jesus.

Vatterott College Taught Me to Work Harder Than You

When I hear folks who work in a community college environment or a state college/university environment complain about their workloads, I disingenuously smile; internally, I roll my eyes and think they’d have never survived at Vatterott College, a high-stress, high-stakes environment.

Big boy pants, people.

At Vatterott, we were expected, as faculty, to retain our students. Every one of them. Any student who missed class had to be called, messaged, and recorded in our data system until an actual connection with the student was established. All communications (including attempts to contact and actual contact with the student) were to be documented in CampusVue for all staff and administrators to access. If you did not contact each missing student (and in our general education classes, we had 30 students per class; most terms I taught 7 classes, giving me 210 students every 10 weeks), your position at the school became endangered. If too many students dropped your classes, your position at the school was jeopardized. Retain. Retain. Retain. Talk them into returning. Keep them in the seats. Make them stay for 4 1/2 hours each day and don’t sit down while you’re teaching. No calling 911. (One day, one of my students threatened to shoot the place up, and it was determined, after he calmed down, that he would remain in the classroom … I put my foot down on that one and said, No. I took a risk even after being told there would be consequences if I canceled my class that day. I canceled the class. Student safety was worth it.) We were to note all interactions with all students in the system. High expectations. Fear of losing your job. Negative critiques. Walking on eggshells around corporate-level employees. Always knowing you’re being watched. Convincing students who are just trying to stay out of jail that they can and are students and can achieve – partly so you can keep your job by keeping them in the classroom, but also because you grow to care about the students who have complicated, unbelievably hard lives and drama in their lives. I learned how to connect, engage, and reach students in that environment. I believe that those of us who worked there developed a trauma bond with our students and with one another. Those of us who stayed, anyway.

I’m a survivor. I navigated 8 years and 2 months at Vatterott, collecting various positions (instructor, program director, member of the interview committee, registrar, retention officer, and subject matter expert) and recognitions (2013’s Most Innovative Instructor) until Vatterott closed its doors forever on December 17, 2018, at 4:00 p.m. I’ll never forget going home at 4:00 that day, sitting on my couch, and staring at the Christmas tree. What now?

Had it not died that day, I’m sure I’d still be in the Vatterott family; I grew to love it – probably that trauma bonding. I’m privileged to know so many wonderful people from those days. Bobby, Sam, Colleen, Brandi, Katie, Marcy, Shane, Ric, Craig, Scott, Virilyaih, Cheryl, Rhonda, Patrick, Maria, Charles, Al, Keegan, Cody, Melanie, Gonz, Rich, Jessie, Suzanne, Julie, Juan, John, Michelle, Velma, Velma, Celeste, Melanie, Barbara, Beth, Casey, Veronica, Brian, John, John, Rich, Jeff, etc. I’m smiling as memories flood my mind as I just write their names down. Strong people. Tough environment. #survivors #grateful #vatterottcollege

The opportunities since those years have been a blessing of ease; it is normal to hear me say that people who complain about their workloads should be required to spend a minimum of 2 years in a trade school environment. Then, they can come back and hit the ground running with gratitude for environments/schools/campuses that give autonomy and do not have the red-tape expectations that for-profit education places on their employees/teachers. Perspective is essential. Sometimes I think that colleagues who have only worked in a particular type of educational bubble don’t realize how blessed they are, how free they are, and, really, how spoiled they are. Me? Puh-lease. I know exactly what I have now and how blessed I am, and I could not be more thrilled to be an Assistant Professor of English at Tulsa Community College. It is a beautiful school with a beautiful mission, and I’m two feet in – Community Unites Us!

Two of my former Vatterott coworkers and I get together from time to time, and we laugh about how ‘easy’ our current positions are in comparison to what life was like before. We swap stories of the types of complaints we encounter in workplaces since our time at Vatterott and try to imagine those complaining folks working in the environment that the three of us survived—and not only survived, but thrived in. We know that the majority of these complaining individuals would not have lasted long in those roles we held and grew in. We are strong women, tough women, who can handle adversity and rise above it, who will work harder than most – we have proven this. And speaking of strong women, sometimes I think about reaching out to our former CEO and saying, “Thank you for being tough on us all.” Actually, the language I joked that I’d use was, “Thank you for being a tyrant.” I know, though, she was doing what she believed was best for the entire Vatterott system, and I’m beyond grateful for the lessons I learned there. I am the employee and the professor I am today because of my time at Vatterott College.

Some people say they’ve been to the school of hard knocks. Others attend Universities. Some choose state colleges or private schools when they desire higher education. Me? I attended a private Christian college for my bachelor’s degree, then a private University for my second bachelor’s degree and my master’s degree. But the school that taught me the most was the first school that took me in as an instructor, Vatterott College. I am grateful for a demanding work environment and a CEO with high expectations. I think everyone should have at least one experience in a place like that.

A Vatterott reunion would be ‘tops.’ Does anyone say ‘tops’ anymore? Probably not. A Vatterott reunion would be welcome. Good to have some trauma-bonded hugs. Perhaps one day.

Holidays at Our Home Always Include Passing the Trash

Around these parts, we spend most holidays in exactly the same way, and I don’t want that to change, at least not in any significant way. Our extended family, which includes both family and friends who are like family, comes together at either our house or my sister-in-law’s house to share a potluck, buffet-style meal. Depending on the holiday, the foods change. This past weekend, we hosted a birthday party at our house, and everyone came. Three different ladies showed up with foods but also with paper plates. We laughed because we know all of those plates will get used in the next three to four months.

There is always a lot of laughter and cigarette breaks. Our front porch is the smoking zone, and it is perfect for the activity. Three buckets for butts are out there, along with soft lighting and plenty of seating. At my sister-in-law’s house, the smoking crew goes to the back porch, where there is plenty of seating, and a crazy dog that runs circles around the yard.

At either home, my task is bustling around in the kitchen, which I love to do. Playing hostess-with-the-mostest is my ‘jam.’ Cooking for large groups makes me happy, happy, happy. My sister-in-law is the grill-babe. Anytime there’s grilling involved in our holidays and birthdays, she’s on that. Indoors is my domain.

Once the food is all together, the table expands from a 6 seater to a 10 to 12 seater with the addition of two leaves, and we all crowd around with over-full plates and extra chairs – pushing the table to the limits of up to 16 hungry and chatty family members. There’s a kitchen bar nearby, and 4 barstools, so the younger crew tend to hang out there with their plates. Most holidays and birthdays, we have anywhere from 15 to 30 people crowded in either home. Lots of good food and plenty of fun.

On birthdays, there is time for cake, and the family birthday song, which I cannot explain to you because you’re most likely not part of our family, and you must be in the circle of trust to know the family birthday song. After cake and singing, there are gifts. Often, there’s at least one gag gift, and the laughter continues.

Once the cake and gifts are done, the kitchen is cleaned, and the table is cleared of everything. The women hit the kitchen and all the dishes are washed and put away. We are a well-oiled machine. The container of pennies comes out, and two decks of cards hit the table. Everyone crowds in, razzing each other about who sits where and who is a cheater, and we settle in for a rousing game of “Pass the Trash.” I’ll include the directions at the end of this post. It’s the BEST game, and it’s our family game; it’s what we do. Newcomers tend to have wide eyes at the beginning of their experience with us in this game, but they settle in and start the name-calling and card-stealing with the best of us. My 84-year-old mother-in-law is the one you have to keep an eye on … she hides pennies, she hides cards, and she’ll cheat with twinkling eyes and a smile on her face.

After the game, the smoking crew moves outside, and conversations begin. Solving the world’s problems is often the basis of our talking, and we all love each other, and these evenings are the best of our days.

It is the same for holidays. Those might be earlier in the day, but the format is essentially the same, and we all love it. The routine of our get-togethers. There’s something beyond special about them, and newcomers to our crew always want to experience it again … and well, we will decide if they can. Sometimes we have additional ‘games’- mostly at Christmas. Though this crew of folks, blood-related and chosen family, will get together for any reason at all – holidays and birthdays are a given. My birthday is in 8 days, and the next party is in the works already. I’m not necessarily supposed “to know” about it … lol. But, I do. Patrick and I have a terrible time keeping secrets from each other. And that’s a good thing.

Generally, the evening winds down around 10:00 p.m.; sometimes, stragglers stay til 11:00 p.m. When parties have been at our home, that’s when Patrick and I sit out on the porch and talk about how much we love our family and how grateful we are.

Here are the directions for “Pass the Trash.”

A fast-paced and competitive card game that even kids can play.

Written down by Dacia Cunningham. Not official directions, but this is how we play.

To begin, each player receives 4 pennies.

Then, the dealer of the round passes each player one card face down.

Each player reviews their card and decides on what to do with said card because you do not want to be holding a low card at the end of the round – anything from Ace to even a 4.  They’re trash.

  • Ace is the lowest card. You do not want to keep an Ace. A 2, 3, or 4 can also be questionable as the game progresses.  So … if you have an Ace, 2, 3, or 4, pass that trash.
  • The player passing the trash slides the trash card to the person on their left and TAKES that person’s card.  The person must comply UNLESS that player has a King.  The King is the trump card, and that person can flip the King right up and say, “I don’t think so.” Or “Nope.” Or “Not today.” Or whatever comes along with the feeling of …. Haha, I won (for now)!
  • If a player has a 7 and higher on his card, he may feel confident that someone will have a lower card than him, so it is appropriate not to pass the trash – as the 7 or higher is not a trash card.  This player says, “I’m good,” or “I’m satiated,” or “I am pleasantly content.” Whatever floats your boat. 😊
  • Here’s a point to ponder … Let’s say you have a 3 in your hand, and you think that 3 is probably trash, so you pass it to the player on your left and take their card. When you look at it, it is a 2. At this point, that player looks at the 3 you passed to him, and he can, with confidence abounding, smile and say, “I’m good,” because that 3 trumps your 2.  The one you took from him.  Trust me, this is fun to do … for that player, not you.  You’re probably sunk.
  • Passing the trash is not always a good idea … but how do you know??? Ah, the stress of it. 

The play continues around the table with players passing the trash (and sometimes a trash card makes it all the way around the table and back to the dealer!)  Players either pass the trash or say, “I’m good,” and keep their cards. Also, play that King with a flourish if you have it.

When the play comes to the dealer, the dealer of the round can either use the card he has (which now may be a passed-to-him trash card) or turn over the card on the top of the deck. The dealer says, “Flip,” and all players turn over their cards.

The players with the lowest card (and there can be more than one who has an Ace) put one penny in the middle of the table.

The next round begins – the player to the left of the first round’s dealer becomes the dealer of the round for round 2 – and the process repeats itself.

Each player has 4 pennies and a bonus life called “On Your Honor.”

Rounds continue, and players lose pennies. Players will begin to get bumped out of the game because “They have no honor!” (and no pennies). Play continues until ONE player remains. Crowned the King or Queen of “Pass the Trash.”

Inevitably, you will all want to play again.

Honesty Saves Pain

As I went through the steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, I came to a deep understanding of myself that rocked me; it shook me to my core. My entire foundation had been victimhood for most of my life, and that platform no longer existed. It was no longer a ground I could stand on in defense of my behavior, my actions, my words, my dependency on alcohol, men, shopping, rearranging furniture, etc. I came face-to-face with a level of dishonesty in myself that, deep down, I think I had always known, but I had never admitted to a single person. Not one.

I cannot remember a time in my early life when I shared my honest thoughts or opinions; I kept those to myself. I was not taught to participate in debate or conflict; instead, I learned to keep my mouth shut and my head down, and I proceeded forward a “good” little Christian girl who knew Scripture, did what she was told, could answer all the Sunday School questions, and was the apple of my parents’ eyes … until a certain boy came along. I was 14, soon to be 15. He was 17. My father put his foot down and said, No, I could not date this boy. I did, though, behind their backs for over a year. This boy was unlike any person I’d known up to that point in my young life. He listened to me. We talked. I shared my thoughts and opinions with him. He didn’t take my virginity because, in his words, “I don’t want to do that to you; I want you to be my wife.” I was beyond confused as to why this young man, who respected me, was, in a sense, the ‘devil’ in my church-going family’s eyes. Our meeting in secret was discovered, and, at the age of 16, I found myself grounded indefinitely. I broke it off with the boy, but my heart broke too. There were lots of fish in the sea, right? I would find another boy – one like the first one – one that my parents approved of, one that my preacher-filled, extended family would welcome with open arms. And so, the first love became the standard by which I judged all other future prospects. None was him – not for another 33 years, but I pushed forward. Never honest. Never telling anyone how I truly felt and what I wanted. I tried to be who I perceived everyone wanted me to be. Long story short, I found myself married to a man, a Bible College professor’s son, who fit the ‘bill.’ He was a sort of ‘bad boy’ with a solid Christian family. He was looking for someone to be like his mom (which I portrayed that I was, but I was not, and he could not have known that, as we dated long distance before the days of everyone having a cell phone), and I was looking for someone to check off my boxes. We were oil and water. Volatile from the beginning. Two weeks in, we were fighting, and over the next 23 years and 6 children together, that escalated and became dangerous. I took up drinking, and I will not speak for him – his actions and behaviors are his story to tell in his own honest appraisal of himself. Never in all those years was I fully honest about why I married him, what my expectations were. It’s not that I didn’t have love for him, but, in retrospect, I was much more in love with what I perceived I wanted and needed. Never did I admit that I had never let go of the boy from high school in my heart, who had grown to be larger than life in my mind – a completely irrational perspective, though I had no idea I’d put him on such an unrealistic pedestal – he was godlike to me. Never had I even told a friend these things; I had ignored them, pushed them away. I tried to focus on the life I had chosen and make the best of it. I tried to control it all – make it all into the ‘perfect’ life I wanted everyone to see that I had.

I took up drinking at 32 years old. Out to dinner with our preacher, actually, and he informed me that I wouldn’t go to hell if I had a strawberry daiquiri. Oh, it was delicious, and I found that I could relax around my husband. I could stand up a bit, say what I thought here and there. Soon, vodka was in our freezer, and bottles of wine were in the cabinet. I shopped the alcohol section at the grocery store with all 6 children in tow – clinging to the basket and in car seats – praying no one I knew would see me. Only recently, my 26-year-old daughter informed me she used to sneak drinks of my vodka. Man, I had no idea.

I’d become so self-involved. All I was concerned about was my broken life and poor me … unloved, unwanted were my perceptions, and so I painted my then-husband as the bad guy when I sought advice from people about what to do about him. Never looking inward beyond Christian counselors telling me I should pray for him more and that I should greet him at the front door with a smile. I even read a book on submission and tried to be a dutifully submissive wife, though inside I boiled and hatred grew. I never spoke of the hatred – that would discolor the good little Christian girl perspective people held of me. The mom of 6. The perfect little wife. My reputation and how people looked at me were important. I certainly never told a counselor about the alcohol. I was not giving that up. My bravery. My courage. My sleeping “pill.”

Social media made it possible for me to do the unthinkable. And to protect others as the Big Book directs, I will only admit to my own dishonesty and behavior. I found validation in other men. This became addictive and set me on a destructive course that destroyed what did exist of that marriage, damaged six children, and hurt the extended family that was unaware of the depths of my hate and disgust because I was so good at living a double life. I ran away. I left that life and fled to my parents; I holed up, drank, and cried. We “tried” to work on the marriage, but neither of us was honest in that venture; it was a ruse, and it landed me in the psych ward for a second time, suicidal, perhaps homicidal. We divorced, and I understand it was devastating to a large number of people who had no idea how volatile that relationship was. The children only knew the life we led – the fighting, yelling, spewing hate on the other side of our bedroom door where they listened; I know this now. Some of my children possess a quality that their mother lacked for nearly 50 years – they are brutally honest, and I am grateful for that. On the outside, however, back in the last days of that marriage, in all the days of that marriage, we could put on a show. Some knew something wasn’t right, but they never knew how much of its demise was my responsibility because I was so good at being the victim.

I went on living with my parents. Working. Pursuing validation in men. Drinking myself into oblivion every night. Never honest. Always the victim. Miserable. Trying to control my life.

In December 2020, a conversation occurred with an individual from the past that severed that invisible thread of the ‘perfection’ I thought I’d missed out on in life. Two weeks later, I met Patrick. My now-husband. A man who told me from the get-go that God is first, and I will always be second. He is now 38 years sober; he is authentic in his faith, raw in it, and people tend to shy away from his brutal honesty. Not all people appreciate his manner of speech or his directness, but there are those who do. Like me. Honesty was not something I ever had the capacity for, and I was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. He led me through the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous after some time together; I internally fought it because taking a deep dive inside of myself and my motivations was uncomfortable and not something I welcomed. I could ‘pretend.’ But that was never good enough for him because he saw straight through my facade, and he called me out on it. He led me through the 12 steps without taking me outside of the Big Book of AA. No workbooks. No outside sources. Just was Bill and Bob and the first 100 recovered alcoholics wrote down in 1939, and I saw myself. I looked in the figurative mirror – my words and my life were all written down on paper, and I saw the pride, the anger, the greed, the fear, the envy, the lust, the dishonesty … levels of each that were vile and overwhelming, and it broke me.

I saw that the double life I had lived for years – portraying the good little Christian girl on the outside but being fully proud, angry, greedy, envious, fearful, lustful, and never honest on the inside. I hid the true me from everyone. Always. Even trying to hide from myself, which resulted in drinking and affairs, and it nearly destroyed me. I’m saying “it” but let me clarify that I know “it” is the devil. See, he did not want me to learn the truth about myself. He wanted me confused, lost, and dishonest – double-minded and unstable in all that I did.

I used to be told that I was crazy a lot, and I took offense at that – you know, out of pride. Now, I laugh at it. Yeah, I’ve got a touch of the crazy, and I’m okay with that because I understand what was going on for years in my head and my spirit and my heart. It was a spiritual battle for my life and my soul, and I, in trying to control it all myself, followed the wrong voice. I followed the voice that told me to only be concerned about myself and what I wanted, and I festered in it, and I was lost and broken. Now, I understand that had I not had so much pride, anger, greed, envy, lust, or dishonesty, my life would never have gone down the path it did. Had I learned at an early age to speak my mind, say what I wanted, and what I thought instead of trying to be someone everyone around me would be pleased with, my life would have been entirely different. So much of the pain I went through and that I caused others, including God, would NOT HAVE HAPPENED.

But it did, and I cannot change the past. I do pray for my ex-husband, and I encourage our children to maintain a good relationship with him. We both love them and our grandchildren wholly, and for that, I am grateful. My daughter tells me that he is a great grandpa, and my grandchildren talk to me about him, and I’m glad of it.

So now, I spend my time encouraging young people to think for themselves, to find their voices, to be true and authentic, to understand that they are unique and special – that every person is. That we are all valuable. That there is a reality around us that we often cannot grasp because we are so consumed by self. That every person has their own values, their own thoughts, their own opinions, and that we have the right to express those – at least in this country. That we are all capable of a good life, a peaceful life, despite our circumstances, if we can but learn to let go, be honest, and step into each moment as if it is the only moment. Personally, I know this is accomplished through an honest relationship with Jesus. And understanding that a battle for our souls wages around us, and the devil is a liar. He wants our eyes on ourselves in pride, anger, envy, greed, fear, lust, sloth, dishonesty, and not on God, and he, the devil, is good at mucking things up, and we – humans – fall into the drama and chaos of his ways. I fight this now. I am pushing back, and I am teaching young people to think for themselves, to get their eyes on others, and to be of service to one another, for it is only truly in serving others that we find purpose in this life. I tell my story at every opportunity, and I live an honest life. I am no longer double-minded, and I am a grateful woman.

I wish I had learned this level of self-discovery and authenticity when I was young. I wish there had been someone in my life who would have encouraged me to be honest and authentic – to have given me the tools to debate, to experience conflict, and to not be afraid of failure, life, rejection, of being alone, and of being so focused on me, me, me, me. I can’t live in wishes though, so I take the opportunity now to be an influence in the lives of the young people I encounter because honesty saves pain. It keeps us from unnecessary pain.

Let us be open to opposing perspectives – discovering why people believe as they do and allowing them to have their opinions apart from ours.

Let us be honest – about ourselves and our experiences – our failures and our struggles – how our values conflict – how we wrestle – how we grow – what we believe and why.

Let us be compassionate – to all. Each person has the capacity to step into the light. Not all will choose it – and that’s their prerogative, but speaking for truth and holding respect for debate and opposing perspectives will never be wrong in the eyes of God.

Let us be willing to serve others – get our eyes off ourselves and onto meeting the needs of others. The exact opposite of a devil-driven, self-absorbed nature is where we find purpose and peace.

Let us be change-makers instead of miserable, insecure, and self-involved pain-makers like I used to be. For far too long.

Rant on Stitt’s Oklahoma Homeless Crisis “Solution”

Yesterday, I asked him how he feels about Governor Stitt’s mobilizing the Highway Patrol and police department in Tulsa to clear out homeless encampments – providing the homeless with two options: treatment facilities or jail. I’ve read articles and comment threads; I’ve watched news clips, and in my mind’s eye, I see a young man who weighs no more than 110 pounds. He’s dirty and hungry. His hair is halfway down his back; he has a scraggly beard. He’s wearing girl’s jeans that he took from a random person’s laundry line; they’re short on him, like capri pants. There are no shoes on his feet. He stands inside an AA room, and people avoid contact with him, moving around him because he smells of body odor and garbage. He’s been living in abandoned buildings and eating out of trash cans – drinking and drugs like a tidal wave took his family, his security, and his dignity, and he is broken, hungry, and desperate for a kind word. I’m bothered – deeply – by what Governor Stitt has done here – and not from a self-righteous anger that’s my fad-related “hill-to-die-on” flavor of the week (I don’t normally have those anyway). I’m bothered because that young man in my mind’s eye, 38 ½ years ago, was my husband, Patrick. He, this man that I’m married to and love with all my heart, was homeless – a “throw-away” person. He was the man that Governor Still is removing with what seems like callousness and utter disregard. He is the man whom no one had taken the time to speak kindly to or find out how he got there in the first place, to ascertain what the catalyst of his homeless state was, where his people were, and what his mental state was. The questions and things to consider about why the homeless are in that position go on and on, but it seems like that’s not happening here. Just move them. Where? Treatment centers (which we do not have enough room in) or Jail (which we also do not have enough room in) – and most of them haven’t done anything wrong to warrant jail. I asked my Patrick how he feels about what the Governor of Oklahoma has done.

He is bothered. Deeply.

There must be better solutions. There are better solutions. However, those require actual work, care, resources, volunteers, and financial support. Patrick and I saw a small “village” of tiny homes off the Gilcrease Expressway the other day, and because of his past life, we got to talking about how that could be a solution for a portion of the homeless problem; this was before the Stitt activity began. The property owner could provide housing with stipulations. The homeless who genuinely want help will receive it, and those who don’t will be easily identified and weeded out. Those are the ones who are far gone in addiction and need either treatment or, only if warranted, jail. There are so many reasons why people are homeless. To lump them all into one category is offensive, wrong, damaging, and insane.

What about abandoned hotels? Why are we not using some of the tax dollars that line politicians’ pockets (and other well-meaning individuals’) to refurbish the old hotel eyesores around Tulsa, making them into homeless shelters with stipulations and resources? Tunnel to Towers is doing that with old hotels … turning them into apartments for veterans. Why is this not also an option for our homeless problems across this country, not just in Tulsa? There are reasons people are homeless. They’re not all criminals or scary. They are people whose lives tanked, and this could happen to anyone at any time. To look at my husband now, you might think it impossible that he was ever a homeless, throw-away, alcoholic/addicted man with track marks up and down his arms and his neck. This amazing man I’m married to, who loves me second, God first, has lived through harder things than most people I’ve ever known, and his relationship with God is sincere. His heart for the struggling alcoholic or drug addict is huge because he’s been there. He knows.

He knows that each of those homeless people has a story.

Each one ended up homeless due to a series of unfortunate events – whether of their own making or not; at a certain point, that doesn’t matter so much – how they got there. Help and healing matter. These people are salvageable. I know so… I am happily married to a man who was formerly homeless. Yes, I keep saying it. It is part of his redemption story! It’s an incredible story, and he’d share it with anyone who wanted to hear it. My husband showed up on the doorstep of AA looking for help. After some time, he found it there. Many homeless people are helpless in their circumstances until someone reaches out a kind hand instead of just removing them like trash, dumping them on the doorsteps of treatment centers that are already overwhelmed and understaffed.

I’m bothered. My husband is bothered. And I needed to speak up, even if only to start a conversation. This is not something I do often, as I generally keep my political views to myself. Not my belief in God Almighty, though, that is not to be hidden! But politics, I typically stay on the quiet side, but on this… I had to say something. This course of action will not solve the real problem – the underlying issues of WHY are these people “unhoused.” What a stupid term. This course of action (removing them, throwing their belongings away, putting them in either facilities or jails) is police-state. It has a blatant disregard for those whose lives don’t seem to matter as much as the people who are afraid of the homeless or find the homeless people’s existence to disrupt the beauty and calm of their own comfortable ways of life. They don’t want to see the homeless when they drive to get their manicures and groceries at Reasor’s. It’s discomforting and scary, embarrassing even, and might call on them to become aware that not all is “perfect” in the world around them.

Okay, so I’m bothered. I’ve said that more than once. Now, the question is this: “Okay, Dacia, what else are you going to do about it?” I will continue to follow my husband’s lead. On occasion, he helps a homeless person as he is led to, and I support him and follow suit. We remain open to God’s leading in our daily lives, and as He places someone or something on our hearts, we act, whether that is at a QuikTrip or in an AA meeting, wherever that takes place. And I will say out loud, through my fingers on this keyboard, moving the homeless “out of sight” will not solve the greater issue. We have a homeless crisis in our midst, and it’s not going to go away by throwing out the homeless people’s belongings and sticking the homeless in jail and treatment centers. That is not a solution.

It’s just not. We need real solutions.

Those who profess to be believers in Jesus, we need to consider many of His words in red—the ones we claim to believe and follow, where He says that whatever you do for the least of these, you do it for Him. How comfortable are we with tossing Jesus into a treatment center or jail? Or should churches, perhaps, step up, get uncomfortable, and be difference makers in our communities? Use all that building program money to care for the homeless instead …

The Sheep and the Goats

31 “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne. 32 All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. 33 He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.

34 “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35 For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36 I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

37 “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38 When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39 When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

40 “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

41 “Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. 42 For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, 43 I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’

44 “They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’

45 “He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’

Matthew 25:31-45

Finding God or Something to Believe In, a Higher Power, is Hard for You? I Have a Few Questions.

How do you know right from wrong?

My conscience.

Did you make it?

No.

Can you take it out and show it to me?

No.

Has it ever told you to do something wrong?

No.

Does it ever leave you?

No.

How long have you had it?

Always.

So, you have something inside you that you didn’t make, something you can’t take out and show to me, something that tells you right from wrong, something that has never told you to do a single thing wrong, something that never leaves you and has always been with you.

Hmmmm.

Is it possible that could be ‘God’?

Speaking directly to you.

Always there.

Always inside you.

Always telling you right from wrong.

Waiting for you to acknowledge Him.

Inside you. Waiting.

Start there with faith.