Every day, in saying the Our Father, I repeat, “Give us this day our daily bread.”  Today, I had to stop at the Pasta-eria in Plainview.  I saw some Calzones in the showcase, and being told it was chicken inside, I bought one and they put it in the oven.  It appeared to be a combination of Southern fried chicken, tomato sauce, and moozzarella cheese folded into a tasty pizza dough, so since it was lunch time I enjoyed a new variation of daily bread.

Intrigued when I got back to the car, my wife asked for a taste, so I shared it with her.  Yes, she liked it.  She had bought us some soda (Coca Cola and Sprite) and our daily bread was far from boring.

An omnipresent heavenly father is much more fun than some European philosopher’s chaos, like the one who thinks creation is an absurdity.  Admittedly, sometimes I’m stymied too, but I don’t think satisfying my tastes was a primary goal of creation – bringing me into existence was challenge enough.  I can develop my tastes whatever way I like, and hope it makes sense.

It’s called Divine Mercy Sunday, the Sunday after Easter, and it was promulgated by a nun who washed dishes.  She was a simple but dedicated religious, and in a vision she saw how the modern world was in need of forgiveness.  Ross Douthat, the New York Times columnist, reports that as a nation we have fallen from 70% to 43% professing a recognized religion in about seven years’ time.

While that does not sound good, although we have less professed Christians, Jews and Moslems, people still hold to the values of Western Civilization.  The only trouble is, who will teach the upcoming generations?  Christianity was spread.  I, myself, have ancestors who were converted by Irish monks.

I have an innate confidence that the Creator of this beautiful world will raise up people to bring us back.  What, after all, is the pandemic accomplishing?  Don’t tell me you see nothing but chaos.

We were out in Suffolk county (no overpopulation) and my wife asked me for some money at a large farm stand.  Having had a more carefree youth than she, I was on a jag to make it all up to her.  “What hanging basket would you like?” she generously asked.  I pointed to a white pot of maroon and white-faced pansies.  There was yellow in there too.  She went in and came out with a sales clerk to indicate the desired pot.

It was spring, and our whole universe was breaking out in the joyful wonder of rebirth.  I couldn’t help but believe I’d see this woman again where she was the richest woman in half a galaxy.  She drove all the way home, and I was able to save her from rear-ending a truck in a moment of inattention.

We receive and we give.  It is the story of spring and resurrection.  It is the story of life.

This compliment, offered for my brother, Rudy, at his death, mystified me at first.  After all, his was a six-foot, eight-inch frame, and he was eighty-two years old.  But I could see it might refer to a youthful genuineness, a forthrightness that is sometimes lost with age.  It might also refer to a respect for moral principle that is sometimes gone with maturity.

We like to hear it about those who have passed, especially the feminine version, where it would refer to that innocent charm that is so becoming in women.  There are many charms of youth that we should not lose.

It is believed that after the bodily resurrection we will have not only our best physical attributes, but all the enchanting virtues we acquired in such a hard-won way during life.  So here’s to a life immortal for all of us.

There was a time when writing was like crawling over broken glass, as I believe William Faulkner said, but with the blogs I’m writing today, it’s like a watch at the helm.  For a Long Islander, I’ve had very few chances at the wheel of a sailboat, even my brother Rudy’s sloop, so mostly I’ve left that pleasure to him.  I have, however, matched wits with the devil, and the joy of beating him (thanks to the Holy Spirit) is intense.

Nine of my eleven published books are on Amazon, and I had all sorts of feelings writing them.  No frustration, though, but my first book was bought by a British publisher, who paid me only half the agreed-on price.  That book made it onto the American market as Raising Your Future, a slightly different title.

I like to take credit for all this work, but the credit really belongs to Christ, who in the gospel promises answers to prayers.  I’ve always prayed, and in some really difficult situations at that.