Echoes of Conscience

To be or not to be—no, not existence itself, but the essence of my being. Within these chambers of thought, where shadows dance with conscience, I grapple with the threads that weave my moral fabric.

What are ethics but whispers from the ancient winds? They echo through generations, etching their commandments upon the slate of my soul. The compass needle trembles, pointing toward virtue or vice, and I, the navigator, stand at the crossroads.

Is it enough to merely avoid harm? To tiptoe around the precipice of wrongdoing, fearing the abyss below? Or should I leap, wings of integrity unfurling, trusting that the currents of honor will bear me aloft?

I’ve glimpsed the faces of saints and sinners alike—their stories etched in wrinkles, whispered in taverns, and sung by the moon. Each choice, a brushstroke upon the canvas of destiny. Shall I paint with hues of compassion, or wield the brush of self-interest?

My father, stern and steadfast, taught me the weight of duty. His ethics were forged in the crucible of sacrifice—a sword tempered by love for family, country, and God. But my mother, gentle as morning dew, whispered of kindness, of empathy that heals wounds unseen.

And my own heart—a mosaic of fragments. The jagged edges of ambition, softened by empathy. The mosaic maker within me, arranging shards of right and wrong, creating patterns that defy symmetry.

The world spins, and I with it. In offices, I calculate profit margins and ethical trade-offs. On moonlit nights, I wrestle with shadows—the ghosts of choices made and unmade.

Oh, conscience! You relentless companion. You haunt my dreams, whispering secrets and warnings. Is it nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of moral dilemmas?

I choose the latter! For in this soliloquy, I declare my allegiance—to truth, to compassion, to the fragile web that binds us all. Let the tempest rage; I shall steer my vessel toward the North Star of integrity.

And when the final curtain falls, may the audience remember not my name, but the echoes of conscience that reverberate through eternity.

- Unknown

Whatever Happened to Civics?

ACT I

Narrator: Once upon a time, in the hallowed halls of education, there existed a subject—a beacon of
enlightenment—known as Civics. It was not merely a class; it was a rite of passage, a compass for navigating the murky waters of democracy.

The students, wide-eyed and curious, sat in rows, their desks etched with graffiti and dreams. The teacher, a sage with chalk-stained fingers, stepped forward.

“Welcome, young citizens! Today, we embark on a journey—a journey into the heart of our nation. Civics is not about memorizing dates or reciting the Preamble. It’s about understanding our rights, responsibilities, and the delicate dance of power.”

And so, the curtain rose on Act I.

ACT II

The years passed, and Civics morphed.

Student 1 (whispering):
“Why do we need to learn this? Can’t we just Google it?”

Student 2 (rolling eyes):
“Yeah, like, who cares about checks and balances when we have TikTok challenges?”

The teacher, now armed with a PowerPoint, soldiered on.

Teacher (with a hint of desperation):
“Class, let’s discuss the three branches of government.”

But the students were busy swiping left, their thumbs more adept at scrolling than civic engagement.

ACT III

The stage shifted to the real world.

News Anchor (intoning):
“Breaking news: Citizens protest, demanding change!”

But the signs they held were misspelled, and their chants lacked coherence.

Politician (smiling for the camera):
“Vote for me! I promise free Wi-Fi and avocado toast for all!”

And the people cheered, blissfully unaware of their crumbling infrastructure and mounting debt.

ACT IV

Back in the classroom, the teacher sighed.

Teacher (leaning on the lectern):
“Where did we go wrong? Civics used to ignite fires within hearts, but now it’s a footnote in a history book.”

The students, now adults, shuffled papers in their cubicles.

Employee 1 (muttering):
“I wish I knew how the electoral college works. Maybe then I’d understand my paycheck deductions.”

Employee 2 (typing an angry email):
“Dear Congressman, fix the potholes or face my wrath!”

And so, the curtain fell.

EPILOGUE

In the twilight of democracy, a lone candle flickered.

Narrator (softly):
“Whatever happened to Civics? Perhaps it’s buried beneath selfies, soundbites, and sensationalism. But fear not, for the curtain may rise again. Let us reclaim our civic duty, stitch the fraying fabric of our nation, and remember that democracy isn’t a spectator sport—it’s a participatory act.”

And so, dear audience, let us heed the call.

O Death, Where Is Thy Sting?

 O Death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. - 1 Corinthians 15:55-57

“Nature’s peace dulls death’s sting and the grave’s victory. Sin, our mortal shadow, fades before the law’s light. Divine grace, through the Savior, lifts us to eternal triumph.”

*********************

As I stand here, the sun casting long shadows, I ponder the passage of time.
Last Saturday, a chapter closed, a dear friend, Horace, departed this life's climb.
On Monday, with a heavy heart, I left a voicemail with Jim, an AA friend so prime.
And now, I've learned that Jim, too, on Tuesday, has left us behind.

Jim, with a heart of gold, a kindness unmatched, a soul so refined,
In the fellowship of recovery, he thrived, his spirit unconfined.
Horace, too, found solace in sobriety, their victories intertwined;
Both journeyed through life sober, leaving legacies kind.

I'm treading farther into the sunset years, where thoughts of mortality are designed
To remind us that life is fleeting, yet death is not unkind.
For in its certainty, we find a celebration, a release, a peace of mind.
God's grace abounds, and in our faith, comfort we find.

So I cherish each day, each moment, with gratitude aligned,
For the friendships forged, the love shared, the stars that shined.
Horace and Jim, your memories in my heart are enshrined,
Until my time comes at last, and to heaven, I'm assigned.

*********************

Rest in peace my brothers.