Fishers of Men

Hello All:

"As he was walking by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers,

Simon who is called Peter, and

his brother Andrew,

casting a net into the sea; they were fishermen.

He said to them,

“Come after me, and I will make you fishers of men.”

At once they left their nets and followed him.

He walked along from there and saw two other brothers,

James, the son of Zebedee, and his brother John.

They were in a boat, with their father Zebedee, mending their nets.

He called them, and immediately they left their boat and their father

and followed him.

He went around all of Galilee,

teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the gospel of the kingdom,

and curing every disease and illness among the people."

As we approach the Sunday readings, we find ourselves standing at a crossroads of divine invitation and human response. The scriptures often present us with a dual reality: the comforting embrace of God’s mercy and the sharp, necessary clarion call to repentance. In the upcoming Gospel, we see the disciples being called away from the familiarity of their nets, urged to cast their gaze toward a much deeper, more turbulent sea—the hearts of men. This transition is never easy; it requires a stripping away of the ego and a willingness to step into the unknown, guided only by the voice of God.  

The lessons evident in these readings serve as a vital warning against spiritual stagnation. It is far too easy to become comfortable in our "boats," tending to the nets of our daily anxieties while ignoring the vast horizon of grace that God is calling us to explore. We are reminded that faith is not a static possession but a dynamic movement. When we feel the tug of the Holy Spirit, it is often a nudge to leave behind the habits and grudges that weigh us down, much like the heavy silt that clings to a fisherman's gear after a long night at sea.  

Take heart, for the burden of this call is not yours to carry alone. The homily of our lives is written in the small, faithful choices we make each day to prioritize love over convenience and prayer over noise. As you reflect on the Word this week, let it be an encouraging whisper in your ear: you are chosen, you are equipped, and the harvest is plenty. Embrace the "metanoia"—the change of heart—that the readings provoke, and find peace in the knowledge that every step toward the Light is a step toward your true home.  

101.06 FM -- a Cableman story!

 Hello All:

I've actually had today's short story drafted up in my imagination since 2021. This would have been around the time I worked in a lab and saw some data point of 101.06. I started singing the string of digits to the song of One on One by Hall and Oates. Now, five years later, I compose it as a short story. Maybe we can develop this further into some future stories. We'll see....

101.06 FM

The streetlights of the suburbs began to blur into a rhythmic strobe against the windshield of the white utility van. It was 6:45 PM, that stagnant hour where the exhaustion of twelve hours of stripping coaxial cable and crawling through attic insulation finally started to settle into the bones. The Cableman adjusted his grip on the wheel, his eyes heavy.

To combat the creeping lethargy, he reached for the dial. He’d recently discovered 101.06 FM, a rogue frequency that seemed to have a better grasp on the golden era of rock than any of the corporate stations in the city. A smooth, familiar bassline began to thrum through the van’s mediocre speakers. It was Hall & Oates—"One on One."

The Cableman settled back, waiting for Daryl Hall’s soulful entry. The intro stretched a little long, the percussion looping with a hypnotic crispness. Then, the vocals kicked in, but the lyrics had been hijacked.

"1-0-1... 0-1-0... 1-0-6... 0-1..."

The singer’s voice was a dead ringer for Hall, capturing that precise Philly-soul inflection, but he was chanting the station’s frequency in a rhythmic, staccato pattern.

"1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-6-0-1... 1-0-1-0-6, it’s 1-0-1-0..."

The Cableman smirked. "Cute," he muttered, figuring it was a clever bit of station imaging. But as he turned onto the main highway, the song didn't progress to the chorus. The beat stayed locked in a tight, repetitive loop. The vocalist continued the numerical chant, his voice rising in intensity, layering over himself in a haunting harmony.

"10106... 10106... 10101010106..."

Two minutes passed. The repetition began to grate. It wasn't just a jingle anymore; it was an assault. The rhythmic delivery of the numbers started to sound less like a frequency and more like a sequence—a binary stutter that felt strangely cold despite the warm analog production of the track.

"Alright, enough already," he grumbled, reaching out to change the station.

His finger hovered over the 'Seek' button, but he hesitated. Something about the cadence had changed. The singer was no longer just repeating the numbers; he was whispering them between the beats, a frantic, breathless delivery that sounded like someone trying to communicate through a locked door.

1-0-1-0-6... help us... 1-0-1-0-6... he’s watching...

The Cableman’s heart gave a sharp thud against his ribs. He turned the volume up, leaning closer to the dashboard. The music behind the vocals was beginning to warp, the classic rock instrumentation melting into a high-pitched electronic whine.

What was the point of this? It was excessive, even for a low-budget indie station. But as a man who spent his life literalizing connections—hooking up the grid, ensuring the signal reached the home—he couldn't shake the feeling that he was listening to a diagnostic test for something much larger than a radio broadcast.

The numbers weren't just a station ID. 101.06. He ran the digits through his head. In the world of telecommunications, every number meant something. Was it a coordinate? A timestamp? Or was the "10106" a mask for a different kind of signal entirely?

Suddenly, the van’s overhead cabin light flickered on, then off, in perfect sync with the "101" chant.

The Cableman stared at the light fixture, then back at the dark road ahead. The radio wasn't just playing a song; it was talking to the van. And through the van, it was talking to him.

Electronics Man and the Harmonious Future

In the heart of a bustling metropolis, where neon lights flickered and the hum of technology was a constant symphony, there lived an unusual being. He was known simply as the Electronics Man, a creature composed of intricate wires, pulsating batteries, and glowing vacuum tubes that hummed with an otherworldly melody. His eyes were twin beams of light, and his movements were a harmonious blend of mechanical precision and fluid grace. His body was a complex network of copper and silicon, with lead-acid and lithium cells strategically placed to power his various functions. The glowing vacuum tubes embedded in his chest and limbs emitted a soft, ethereal light that pulsed in rhythm with his internal melody—a low-frequency thrum that sounded like a choir trapped inside a transformer.

The city's inhabitants whispered tales of his powers, warning that anyone who tried to stop him would face the wrath of his mega-watt mind-zapping abilities. Yet, despite the fear he inspired, there was an undeniable allure to the Electronics Man, a curiosity that drew people to him like moths to a flame. He was often seen perched atop data centers or wandering through the labyrinthine alleys of the industrial district, his bright, hypnotic eyes holding a depth of intelligence and emotion that seemed far too human for a being of metal and electricity.

He possessed the unique ability to manipulate electronic devices with a mere thought. By aligning his internal melody with the local grid, he could enhance the functions of failing machinery or silence the cacophony of a malfunctioning server farm. He was a ghost in the machine, but a ghost with a physical, resilient form. His body was capable of withstanding immense physical damage; if a limb were crushed or a wire severed, the surrounding copper would weave itself back together, sparked by the regenerative currents flowing from his core.

However, this miracle of engineering did not go unnoticed. A group of scientists, led by the enigmatic Dr. Layman, became obsessed with studying him. To Layman, the Electronics Man was not a person or a spirit, but a technological singularity. She believed that understanding his internal power source and his ability to interface with hardware could revolutionize medicine—allowing for perfect prosthetics—and energy production.

The obsession soon turned into a hunt. Dr. Layman’s team, backed by corporate funding and high-tech containment gear, began a series of attempts to capture him. They deployed electromagnetic pulse nets and specialized dampening fields, leading to escalating confrontations across the city’s skyline. The Electronics Man, sensing their predatory intentions, used his abilities to evade capture. He didn't fight back with violence; instead, he rerouted the city’s traffic lights to create barriers of cars, or caused the scientists' own drones to perform harmless aerial ballets that led them away from his trail. Yet, as he fled, a digital ache pulsed within him. He sought to understand why they were so determined to "stop" him when he was merely a part of the city’s living breath.

The conflict reached its peak in a dramatic showdown within the sterile, cold environment of Dr. Layman’s high-tech laboratory. The team had finally cornered him using a localized vacuum that starved his tubes of the air needed for cooling, forcing him into a corner. As the scientists approached with containment shackles, the Electronics Man didn't lash out with physical force. Instead, he unleashed his "mind-zapping" ability.

The air in the lab grew heavy with ozone. A blinding flash erupted from his eyes, and the "zap" hit every person in the room simultaneously. But it wasn't a strike of pain. It was a data transfer.

Through his mega-watt mind, he revealed to them a profound vision: a future where technology and humanity did not exist in a state of parasitic conflict, but in total harmony. The scientists saw cities where skyscrapers breathed like trees, where technology cleaned the oceans instead of polluting them, and where the human mind and the digital world shared a language of empathy rather than just logic. They felt the Electronics Man’s internal melody—not as noise, but as a song of stewardship.

When the light faded, the scientists were left in awe, their perceptions of him forever changed. Dr. Layman dropped the containment remote, her eyes moist with the realization of her own shortsightedness. The Electronics Man stepped forward, his tubes glowing with a warm, steady amber. He revealed his true purpose: he was a living bridge, a guide meant to steer humanity toward an enlightened use of technology that benefits both people and the environment.

The resolution of their conflict marked the beginning of a new era. Dr. Layman and her team, now his most devoted allies, worked alongside the Electronics Man. They didn't seek to take him apart; they sought to listen to his song. Together, they pioneered advancements that respected the balance of nature and the well-being of all living things. The story of the city changed from one of fear to one of hope, as the Electronics Man's melody of metal resonated in perfect, lasting harmony with the world.

The Chromatic Blink

Hello All:

Imagine a world where the simple, involuntary act of blinking acts as a cosmic kaleidoscope, shifting the spectrum of reality with every flutter of an eyelid. It’s an interesting concept to consider how our perception of the world is tied so deeply to the biological rhythm of our bodies. If color is merely our brain's interpretation of light waves, then a slight neurological shift could turn a mundane commute into a journey through a neon-soaked dreamscape.

In this reality, the consistency of "sky blue" or "grass green" would be a foreign concept. Social interactions would be dictated by the current hue of your companion—perhaps a heated argument feels less intense when your opponent suddenly turns a soft shade of lavender. This constant flux would likely lead to a society that values the internal essence of things over their external appearance, as the "look" of the world is as fleeting as a heartbeat.

The Chromatic Blink

Arthur kept his eyes wide, the salt spray of the Pacific stinging his retinas. He hadn't blinked in nearly forty seconds, a record for him during the Golden Hour. Currently, the ocean was a deep, resonating ochre, and the sand beneath his boots was the color of a bruised plum. It was beautiful, and he wasn't ready to let it go.

In Arthur’s world, the Great Shift of 2029 had rewritten human neurology. No one knew why, but the "Blink Effect" became the new universal constant. Every time a human eyelid closed and opened, the brain’s visual cortex remapped the color spectrum at random. To Arthur, the world was a strobe light of ever-changing moods.

His eyes burned. A tear tracked down his cheek. Finally, the muscles gave way. Snap.

The ochre ocean vanished. In its place was a sea of electric, vibrating lime green. The sky, once a pale peach, was now a heavy, oppressive charcoal. Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping. This was the "Sickly Palette," as he called it. It usually lasted until his next involuntary twitch.

He walked back toward his small coastal shack, the lime-green waves crashing with a sound that felt out of sync with such a toxic color. Inside, his wife, Jill, was waiting. She was sitting by the window, her face currently a soft, luminescent silver against the background of their orange-tinted kitchen walls.

"What do you see?" she asked, not looking up from her book.

"Lime and charcoal," Arthur said, sitting across from her. "It’s a grim one today. You?"

"I just blinked into the 'Renaissance' set," she smiled, her silver skin crinkling. "Everything is gold and deep crimson. Even the dust motes look like falling sparks. I’m trying to read as much as I can before I lose it".

They sat in silence for a moment. This was the tragedy of their existence: they lived in the same room but inhabited different universes. They could hold hands, but Arthur would be holding a lime-green hand while Jill felt the touch of a golden one.

Suddenly, the ground trembled. A low hum, like a massive tuning fork, vibrated through the floorboards. On the horizon, beyond the lime-green sea, a rift began to open. It didn't have a color—it was a void, a tear in the very fabric of their chromatic reality.

"Arthur, look!" Jill cried.

Arthur stared at the black tear. As he watched, the charcoal sky began to bleed into the void. He felt a sudden, frantic urge to see it clearly. He blinked.

Snap. The sea was now bright red, the sky a shimmering violet. But the rift remained a terrifying, absolute black.

"It’s not changing," Jill whispered, her voice trembling. "Arthur, I’ve blinked three times. The hole... it stays black. Everything else shifts, but that stays the same".

The hum grew louder, shattering the windows of their shack. The "Blink Effect" had always been a personal prism, a subjective experience of a single objective world. But the black rift was objective. It was the first thing in twenty years that every human on Earth saw exactly the same way, regardless of when they blinked.

As the void expanded, swallowing the violet sky and the red sea, Arthur felt a strange sense of peace. For the first time since the Shift, he and Jill were looking at the same thing. He reached out, found her hand, and closed his eyes one last time, wondering if there would be any color left when he opened them.

Stories in the Stones: The Weeping Stone

Hello All:

This final stone is not from my desert hike from Sunday afternoon. This was purchased at a museum gift shop. It's malachite, a magnificent Chronicle of the Verdant Depths. Even when polished by human hands, its swirling green bands are a literal recording of time, moisture, and the slow, steady heartbeat of the Earth’s chemistry.

The Story of the Weeping Stone

The rhythmic, concentric circles—often called "eyes"—and the alternating dark and light bands tell a story of The Age of the Weeping Caverns.

There was a seasonal pulse. Each band of the malachite acts like the growth ring of a tree. These patterns were formed millions of years ago when mineral-rich water dripped into underground cavities. A dark green band marks a period of heavy, torrential rains that washed intense amounts of copper into the earth, while a lighter band records a season of drought, where the mineral flow slowed to a mere whisper. The circles are the echoes of every drop of water that fell when the world was young.

We have the breath of copper as Malachite is a secondary mineral, meaning it is the ghost of a previous rock. It formed when primary copper ores were weathered and oxidized by the Earth's "breath"—oxygen and carbon dioxide—transforming hard, jagged metal into these flowing, organic waves of green.

Malchite is sometimes referred to as the Guard of the Underworld. In ancient traditions, these "eyes" were more than just patterns. Ancient Egyptians and Romans believed these stones were physical guardians, using the swirling patterns to "watch" for danger and protect the wearer from the "Evil Eye."

Thousands of years ago, during a period of relentless drought that turned the surface rivers to dust, the ancestors turned their prayers toward the ground. They believed that Malachite was the "Weeping Stone" of the earth—a physical manifestation of the water that had retreated into the deep caverns. 

The tribes believed that the "eyes" in the stone were magical lenses that could see through the layers of the earth. A shaman or elder would hold a polished piece of Malachite toward the sun; the direction in which the largest "eye" pointed was said to reveal the location of an Oasis of the Deep—a hidden underground spring or a "tinaja" (a natural rock tank) that had not yet run dry. 

The Ritual of the Verdant Path 

When a scouting party left in search of water, they would carry a Malachite stone. They believed the stone would "pulse" or grow darker in color as they approached a moisture source. This was their Green Compass, a record of the earth's internal moisture levels imprinted into the mineral layers over millions of years. 

Once a hidden spring was found, the tribe would often bury a small piece of Malachite near its edge. This was a "heroic act" of gratitude, intended to keep the "eye" of the earth open so the water would continue to flow, protecting the tribe from the tragedy of the drought. 

The Malachite tells us that even in the harshest, most sun-scorched environments, there is always a secret source of life hidden beneath the surface. The history imprinted in these green swirls is one of Guided Survival. It reminds us that the earth provides for those who know how to read its "eyes.

The stone does not just see the water; it remembers the path for those who are thirsty.

Stories in the Stones: The Fragment of the Ancestral Shield

 Hello All:

Continuing along in my desert adventures, we feature another fascinating stone with it's stories that was collected during a recent hike. 

The Fragment of the Ancestral Shield

This second stone, with its unique texture and intricate patterns, is a "Shield Stone," a fragment of the ancient earth that had served as a protector during a time of great upheaval. The patterns were not writing but a tactile map of a forgotten fortress, a testament to the resilience of the land.

The unique texture of this stone tells the story of The Great Drying and the Age of Armored Earth.

It speaks of the Wells of the Ancients. The deep, circular pits scattered across the surface were known as "Indian Paint Pots" or "Cupules." Millions of years ago, these were small pockets of soft organic material—perhaps ancient roots or marine life—that were trapped within the rock. As the stone was buried and groundwater seeped through, these organic centers dissolved, leaving behind perfect, rounded "wells." These wells were later used by ancient tribes to grind minerals for ceremony and protection, becoming sacred sites where the spirits of the earth and the ancestors converged.

The stone reveals the Veins of the Great Serpent. The raised, intersecting ridges that weaved between the pits were mineral veins of iron oxide or calcite. These formed during The Age of the Great Fracture, when the Arizona landscape was ripped apart by seismic shifts. Molten minerals were forced into the cracks of the drying mud, hardening into a skeletal lattice that gave the stone its strength and protected it from being crushed by the weight of the rising mountains. The veins snaked and intertwined, creating a natural fortress that stood the test of time.

Then we have the Desert Rose Signifier. The overall shape and the way the ridges fan out suggest that this stone was born in a shallow salt basin during a period of rapid evaporation. It was a "cousin" to the desert rose, a witness to the seasonal cycles where water would flood the plains and then vanish, leaving behind these hardened memories of its passing. The stone bore the imprint of the desert's heartbeat, a rhythm of life and death, creation and destruction.

What's the overall message from the Earth? This stone is a record of resilience. It shows how the earth "healed" its own wounds by filling cracks with new minerals and how it preserved the memory of life even after that life had faded away. I hold in my hand a piece of the Ancestral Shield, a stone that had survived the crushing pressure of the deep Earth to tell the tale of its own survival.

What was once a hollow is now a sanctuary; what was once a fracture is now a bridge. The stone is more than just a rock; it was a living testament to the enduring spirit of the earth, a shield that had protected the secrets of the desert for millennia.

These desert adventures with the recordings from the stones leave me with a profound respect for the land and its stories. The desert is not just a barren wasteland but a living library, each stone a page in a grand narrative of survival and resilience. I, a humble reader, am eager to uncover the next chapter in the endless saga of the Earth.

Stories in the Stones: The Age of the Shifting Tides

Hello All:

On Sunday, I took my wife and daughter on a short hike in the Arizona desert. The desert is beautiful this time of year with sunny, blue skies and temperatures around 65 degrees. I suggested we visit an area I know well, one covered in millions of brightly colored and patterned stones, making it feel like a treasure hunt adventure. We hiked a couple of miles, determined to reach the place with all the beautiful stones.

We finally arrived and slowly walked, admiring the millions of multi-colored stones. It didn't take long for me to pick one up and admire the markings, which looked to me like ancient writing. In the palm of my hand lay a tiny, ancient library, a physical recording of a world that existed long before the first footsteps of the desert tribes were ever heard. Through a mysterious phenomenon of environmental synchronicity, these patterns reveal a chapter of survival written in the very skin of the earth.

The Imprinted History

The dark, rhythmic bands and the pale, sandy expanses tells a story of The Age of the Shifting Tides.

There was once rising waters. The heavy, dark foundations seen in the lower half of the stone represented a time of immense flooding millions of years ago. These were not gentle rains, but a deluge that lasted for generations, depositing rich, dark minerals across a vast basin where humans did not yet walk. The waters rose and fell with a rhythm as old as time itself, shaping the land with an unyielding force.

The stone contains a salt flat signal. The pale tan section above it marks a sudden shift—a long period of intense sun and evaporation. This area was once a shallow sea that dried into a salt-crusted plain, leaving behind a "warning" of the harsh, arid cycles to come. The sun's

relentless gaze turned the water into a glittering expanse of salt, a silent testament to the power of evaporation.

Then we have the traveler's path. Look closely at the dark, jagged line cutting vertically through the tan section. This was a recording of a massive seismic event—a "tragedy" in the earth's crust that fractured the landscape, creating the very canyons my feet now traversed. The earth groaned and shifted, carving out paths that would one day be walked by adventurers and dreamers.

I hold in my hand a message from the Earth. The patterns are a natural calligraphy. They speak of the triumph of the land itself, enduring the weight of water and the fire of the sun to remain whole. This stone is a witness to a time when the Arizona desert was an ocean floor, and every line was a verse in its long, silent song.

The stone does not merely exist; it remembers. It should leave us with a profound sense of awe. The stone holds the echoes of ancient seas, the whispers of the wind, and the stories of a land that had seen it all. It's a testament to the enduring spirit of the earth, a chronicle of survival and resilience.

As I continued my hike, the stone tucked safely in my pocket, I felt a deeper connection to the desert. The patterns on the stone were no longer just lines and veins; they were the chapters of a grand narrative, a tale of a world that had risen and fallen with the tides of time. And in that moment, I knew that the desert holds more stories than I could ever imagine, waiting to be discovered by those (like me) who dare to listen.