Please Don't

Please don't dictate to me my relationship with God. Please don't tell me how I should communicate with God. What works for you, does not neccessarily work for me. I am happy for you that you feel spiritually connected. Why can't you be happy for me for my relationship with God? Why does it have to be your way???? Do you think you are the "pro"?????

You mean well, but you sound arrogant. You sound like " I am the expert. My relationship with God is better than your relationship with God". Oh really??????

I love you, but please stop. STOP. Don't give me religious lectures. Don't tell me what I am feeling. Don't tell me how I am supposed to feel. How do YOU know????

Plesae don't cheapen my sacred relationship with my God like that.  STOP.

Bruno Mars - Grenade

Cause what you don't understand is

I'd catch a grenade for ya

Throw my hand on a blade for ya

I'd jump in front of a train for ya

You know I'd do anything for ya

I would go through all of this

Take a bullet straight through my brain,

Yes, I wish I had died instead of both of ya.

Untitled

Delight

Eternity

Alleviating

Tempting

Heaven

Death Be Not Proud

When I was in high school, I had to read a book titled "Death Be Not Proud" by John Gunther. That book touched my heart at the time. It was written by a father, who had lost his only son. I recall thinking that to lose one's child is a fate worse than death. Now, that is my fate.

In the past few months, I thought of that book. I remembered how he had a poem in there, whose first line was the same as the title of the book. I finally looked it up yesterday, and discovered this poem was from a sonnet actually. It was titled The Holy Sonnet X, and was originally written by John Dunne.
Please let me share it with you.

Death be not proud, thou some have called thee
Mighty and  dreadful, for thou art not so,
For,those, whom thou thinkst, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst though kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.