Author: Jim Mitchem

A human being thought the bombing through. If we’re all born innocent and pure, and we all agree that murder is bad, at what point do we give in to evil? I’ll tell you, when we forget to move toward the light. Because the dark side is an easy sell. Lust. Money. Power. These are easy concepts to sell people (trust me, I’m in advertising.) Love, however, takes patience and tolerance. In other words, work.   I once attended a Zig Ziglar…

It was a simple affair. A white trellis adorned with fresh gardenia. Two rows of white chairs. We held the ceremony at the home of a friend who lived on a tributary of the St. John’s River. There were maybe a dozen people present. My parents came in from Texas. Her mom and a friend drove down from New Jersey. Because it was such a simple affair, we felt guilty about them coming at all—but they insisted. And so here we…

People love their dogs. I mean REALLY love them. And you kinda have to, right? I mean, when you invite a dog into your life you spend 10-14 years with them pretty much every day. And they’re always there with a happy face and wet nose. It doesn’t matter whether you’re going through tough times. It doesn’t matter that the world feels like it’s closing in around you. The relationships we have with our dogs are based on something that…

A week after Trump Care passed, we find a woman, a girl, and a baby in the kitchen of a house in the rural south.  GIRL (16): But Momma, because baby Brittany was sick at birth, she’s gonna lose her heath care now. WOMAN: It’ll be fine, Darlene Mae. We’ll make do. The important thing is that we keep winning the war against the libtards who want to give away our hard-earned money to people who sit around smoking pot…

We compete with other soft Americans for the best life on Facebook. Shining light on our cars and jewels. Smiling with a glass of red. Seemingly oblivious to the plight of others who fight just to survive–even here in our own country. Oh sure, we change our avatars in support of injustice, and vent our frustration in our status updates (true solidarity among the privileged) for a few days–until we scroll to a photograph of a peer enjoying a beer…

What if all the birds in the world are singing the same song? A song with very specific roles for each type of bird. Where every chirp, tweet, and whistle is significant. A song so grand in scope that it has no beginning or end. A song so sweeping and pervasive that we cannot hear it except in miniature.