The author of Ecclesiastes was not the most optimistic chap on the block. The author of Ecclesiastes wrote:
The words of the Teacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem.
2 Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher,
vanity of vanities! All is vanity.
3 What do people gain from all the toil
at which they toil under the sun? (1:1-3)
I’m not willing to say all is vanity but I have (in a fun way) informed my wife that she has a bleak future. After I die, one day she will end up in a nursing home and, not having me to assist her, will not be able to find the remote. She will be yelling, “Where’s the remote? Where’s the remote? Somebody get in here and help me find a remote!”
Have you ever been in an assisted living center and heard a senior (out of their mind) yelling for help? If so, that’s the scenario I have in my mind. My wife is of sound mind now but when the remote can’t be located she – she is not happy. I can only imagine her at 95.
Let us remember that life is hard and life is stressful. At a minimum, let us try not to make life more difficult or stressful for people. Hopefully, like Jesus we can participate in the healing of people and the easing of their burdens. And, by all means, we can help the love of our life find the remote until we breathe our last.
We are all disturbed by the suicide of Robin Williams. The juxtaposition of Robin’s death/depression/suicide and all the joy and laughter he brought into our lives is awkward.
The suicide of a person can make you feel awkward. I speak from experience. My youngest brother committed suicide at the young age of 19. His death to this day is surreal.
We have not heard whether Robin Williams left a note. More often than not, a note is not left by someone who commits suicide. In my brother’s case, he did leave a note. Below is an excerpt.
Please say a prayer for me. I need it so bad. I want to go to heaven so bad. I’m living in a worldly hell, and I don’t want to go the real hell. I love all of you. . . I’ve hurt too many people. Please don’t think I’m insane because I’m not. I just can’t take all this confusion and pain I’ve caused everybody. It is all my fault and I’m to blame for this. I wanted so much out of life for myself and family.
I’m scared of dying and not knowing what to expect, but I’m dying inside and want to go somewhere where I won’t die. I pray from the bottom of my heart and soul that God will forgive me for what I’ve done and let me come to His paradise.
I’m sorry to put you all through this. Please forgive me. I thank God for all my blessings and I pray before I die that He will show a little mercy on my soul.
I truly love all of you.
Prayers for the Robin Williams family and all of us who are survivors of the suicide of a loved one.
Prayers, God, for those who married high maintenance gardeners. (I’m not mentioning any names.) Prayers for those who dig holes. Prayers for those who fill holes with premium soil, stinky mushroom compost, and Osmocote. Prayers for those whose beloved placed a plant in a location but now decides it needs to be somewhere else. Prayers for those whose Saturdays are spent weeding rather than some enjoyable activity. Prayers, Elohim, for those who hear rants and raves about “invasive exotics,” like monkey grass, which were in the yard when you first arrived over two decades ago and will be a pain in the ass to remove. Prayers, Yahweh, for backs created to play golf, not to be sacrificed for the beauty of hydrangeas and roses and ferns. Please consider letting us back into the garden of Eden. Pretty please. Amen.
I called my transgender golf friend who is now living in Florida. I always call her when I have some golf matter to brag about. Well, I don’t actually have that much to brag about golf-wise, but I do call her about once a week. We had a lot of fun playing golf together when she lived in Charlotte.
Now she is playing golf in hot as hell Florida. Do you know the worst thing about playing golf in Florida? It’s a tie: gators and skeeters.
My trans golf buddy was complaining about the mosquitos bothering her during today’s golf round. I told her, “I hate to correct you but Southern ladies call them ‘skeeters.’”
I know, I can be a pain in the ass. But so can she. One of the first times we were playing golf I hit a fantastic golf shot. I mean fantastic. She said, “That was a damn lucky shot!”
Another time I hit one of patented tree shots that landed in the middle of the fairway. She could looked at me and rolled her eyes.
Still another time I was complaining about how much easier the front tees are than the tees from which I was hitting. At which point, my trans golf buddy started hitting from the championship tees and beat my golf behind.
Did I tell you transgender golfers can be a pain in the ass?
The people I worry about, the people with whom I have the most trouble, are the ones who don’t realize, and don’t admit, that we can all be asses and we can all be gobs of fun.
Whatever you do today, have fun. And watch out for the skeeters!