The Stitching at the Seam

Hello All:

The concept of the "Doppelgänger" has haunted human folklore for centuries, usually as a dark omen of one’s impending demise. However, the idea of a "Felt-Gänger"—a parallel version of ourselves stitched from fleece and stuffed with polyester—adds a layer of surrealist whimsy to the transition from this life to the next.

Jim Henson’s original Kermit the Frog was actually constructed from his mother's discarded spring coat and two halves of a ping-pong ball. It’s a testament to the idea that even the most iconic souls can be born from the most mundane materials, much like the strange transition our protagonist is about to face.

The Stitching at the Seam

Arthur Penhaligon did not expect the end to be so quiet. There was no bright tunnel, no choir of angels, and certainly no review of his life’s regrets. Instead, there was a sudden, jarring pop, like a bubble bursting, followed by the sensation of being hoisted upward by an invisible hand. When his eyes finally adjusted, he wasn't in a hospital room or a celestial meadow. He was standing in a hallway that looked suspiciously like the backstage of a 1970s variety show, draped in heavy crimson velvet.

The air smelled of cedar shavings and hot stage lights. Arthur looked down at his hands, relieved to see they were still flesh and bone, though they felt strangely heavy. As he took a tentative step forward, a door at the end of the hall creaked open. A figure stepped out, and Arthur’s heart—which he was fairly certain had stopped beating minutes ago—gave a phantom thud of pure, unadulterated confusion.

Standing before him was Arthur. Or rather, it was a three-foot-tall version of Arthur made entirely of tan felt. The puppet had the same receding hairline made of wispy grey yarn, the same oversized plastic spectacles perched on a foam nose, and was wearing a miniature version of the corduroy jacket Arthur had been buried in. The Muppet-Arthur stared up at him with unblinking, black-button eyes.

"Took you long enough," the Muppet-Arthur said. His mouth moved in a stiff, rhythmic "flap-flap" motion that didn't quite match the resonance of his voice, which sounded exactly like Arthur’s, only slightly more nasal.

"You're... me?" Arthur stammered, kneeling to get a better look. The floor beneath him felt soft, like a giant pincushion.

"I'm the version of you that didn't have to worry about cholesterol or taxes," the Muppet replied, patting Arthur’s knee with a soft, four-fingered hand. "I’m your Internal Essence, rendered in high-quality fleece. Every human has one. We live in the Liminal Green Room. It’s where the soul gets its final costume change before moving on to the Big Show."

Arthur looked around the hallway. Through the gaps in the velvet curtains, he could see other pairs. A stern-looking woman in a lab coat was engaged in a heated debate with a blue, furry monster that shared her distinctive mole. A young boy was playing tag with a vibrant, neon-orange version of himself. It was a chaotic, surreal processing center where the gravity felt optional and the physics were governed by whatever would be funniest in the moment.

"So, what happens now?" Arthur asked. "Do we merge? Do I become... soft?"

The Muppet-Arthur laughed, a buzzy sound that vibrated in Arthur’s chest. "Not quite. I'm here to conduct the final interview. I’ve been acting out your life over here on the B-Stage. Every time you tripped on the sidewalk, I did a pratfall. Every time you fell in love, I sang a power ballad to a cardboard moon. Now, we have to decide which parts of the 'performance' were worth keeping."

The puppet pulled a tiny wooden stool from behind his back and sat down. "Tell me, Arthur. When you were alive, did you ever feel like someone was pulling your strings, or were you the one with the hand inside the glove?"

Arthur sat on the floor, leaning against the velvet. For the first time since his diagnosis, he didn't feel tired. He felt light. He began to talk—not about his career or his bank account, but about the time he spent three hours trying to save a bird with a broken wing, and the way the rain smelled on his wedding day. As he spoke, the Muppet-Arthur nodded, scribbling notes on a tiny felt clipboard.

Slowly, the crimson hallway began to fade. The velvet turned to mist, and the smell of cedar was replaced by something fresh and vast. Arthur realized his own hands were starting to look a bit more vibrant, his skin tone shifting toward a healthy, saturated hue.

"Final verdict?" Arthur asked as the light grew blinding.

The Muppet-Arthur stood up and offered a fuzzy hand. "You were a bit of a drama, a little bit of a comedy, and occasionally a technical glitch. But overall? A solid run. The audience loved you."

As Arthur reached out to shake the puppet's hand, his fingers didn't meet flesh. They met soft, warm fleece. He looked down and saw his own arm was now a glorious shade of sky-blue foam. He didn't feel diminished; he felt simplified, distilled into his purest, most joyful form.

With a final "wocka-wocka" echoing in the distance, the curtain rose on whatever came next.

Embracing the 21st-Century Workforce: Why Age Should Never Be a Barrier to Employment

Hello All:

I've mentioned recently of a little crisis I had back in December in which I lost my job. Rest assured, I've landed a new one and am in a happier place. But over the weekend I had an enlightening experience which led to reflect on how employers go about interviewing and hiring candidates--mainly, when it comes to the older worker which many of us agree do receive a considerable amount of discrimination.

Shortly after being laid off (as in the very next day) I had an interview with a promising employer. My resume was rock solid. I interviewed well. I met all the criteria and even passed the little hands on test in the lab. Well, I didn't land the job. No hard feelings, right? The other guy was just better qualified, right? But they didn't just hire one other guy. They hired a large group of people, my colleagues, at the same company that I had been laid off at!

It was weird. I wasn't sure what to think about it. Why all of them, but not me. It didn't take long for me to realize that it's because I'm nearly 55. 

Now I'm not complaining. Really, I think my current gig is better. But my objective is to address the millions of employers out there who seem to be hanging onto 20th Century thinking when it comes to the older worker. I hope I can at least reach a handful of these employers and reassure them that the older worker is an excellent investment for the company. It's time to move out of the 1970s perspective of the older worker.

Read on!

Embracing the 21st-Century Workforce: Why Age Should Never Be a Barrier to Employment

A few evenings ago, while preparing dinner with my wife, she mentioned something that hit hard: a company I recently interviewed with had hired several of my former colleagues from our last layoff wave—but not me. The realization stung. At nearly 55, I've come to believe age played a key role in that decision. It's a reminder that outdated stereotypes about workers in their mid-50s persist, even in the 2020s.

We need to move beyond the 20th-century mindset that labels anyone over 55 as "old," tired, or simply biding time until retirement. The reality is far different. Financial pressures mean many of us cannot afford to retire early—recent studies show Gen X households often have median retirement savings as low as $40,000–$100,000, far short of what's needed for a comfortable retirement. Many continue working not just out of necessity, but because we find purpose and fulfillment in our careers.

Gen X has grown up prioritizing health, fitness, and an active lifestyle. We're not slowing down; we're redefining what it means to age. Advancements in medicine, technology, and wellness allow us to stay sharp, energetic, and adaptable far longer than previous generations. This isn't the 1970s—people today are healthier, more engaged, and better equipped to contribute meaningfully well into their 50s, 60s, and beyond.

Reflecting on my own experience, the situation felt especially odd. I was among the first interviewed at that company, with nearly 25 years of specialized knowledge and a detailed resume showcasing proven results. Yet a large group of former colleagues was brought on—except me. It reinforced a frustrating pattern: too often, employers overlook seasoned candidates, assuming they're overqualified, expensive, or nearing an exit.

The evidence suggests this bias is widespread and costly. Recent surveys indicate that 90% of workers over 50 believe age discrimination is common in the workplace, with many reporting they've seen or experienced it directly. In tech and other industries, older workers are disproportionately affected during layoffs and hiring, despite bringing irreplaceable benefits: deep expertise, strong work ethic, reliability, lower turnover, mentorship for younger teams, and advanced problem-solving from years of real-world experience.

Employers who embrace experienced workers gain a competitive edge. We deliver consistent productivity, institutional knowledge, and a mature perspective that fosters innovation and stability. We take our roles seriously as a meaningful part of a balanced, purposeful life.

It's time for companies to catch up to the 21st century. The next time a candidate with decades of experience walks through the door, look beyond assumptions about age. Hire the talent, the drive, and the proven track record. You'll find motivated contributors ready to add immediate value—and build stronger, more resilient teams in the process.

Age should never be a barrier. Let's build a workforce that values experience as an asset, not a liability.

The Reality Persistence Protocol

 Hello All:

It is fascinating to consider how much of our personal history is now stored in "the cloud," a digital ether that we trust implicitly to safeguard our most precious memories. Digital forensic experts have discovered that data "ghosts"—fragments of deleted files—can sometimes persist on servers for years, yet an intentional algorithm can wipe a specific person's existence from your photo library in milliseconds?. This intersection of absolute surveillance and absolute erasure provides the perfect backdrop for a tale of high-stakes suspense.

The Reality Persistence Protocol

The morning mist clung to the jagged coastline of Big Sur like a damp shroud as Alexander Hartley stared at his smartphone, his thumb hovering over the "Recent Photos" folder. He had spent the last forty-eight hours in a high-stakes meeting at a secluded estate, brokering a deal that would change the face of global logistics. He remembered the handshake, the flash of the camera, and the celebratory drink with a man whose face was known to every intelligence agency on the planet. But as Alexander scrolled, the screen showed only empty landscapes and the interior of a cheesy roadside art gallery he’d ducked into to lose a tail. The man—the key to everything—was gone.

Every photo featuring his contact had been surgically excised, leaving behind blurred backgrounds where a human being should have been. Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at Alexander’s spine. This wasn’t a glitch; it was a digital assassination. If the photos were gone, it meant the "Security Feature" of his encrypted cloud service had been breached by someone with back-door access—likely the very people who wanted the deal dead. He looked toward the SUV limousine parked near the cliffs, its engine idling with a low, predatory hum. His chauffeur, a man he’d known for a decade, sat motionless behind the tinted glass.

Alexander stepped back from the overlook, his mind racing through the events of the previous night. They had improvised a meeting at a bizarre dollhouse museum to avoid detection, laughing over the absurdity of such a powerful man standing among miniature Victorian parlors. He distinctly remembered taking a selfie in front of a scale-model lighthouse. He opened the app again. The lighthouse was there, but he was standing alone, his arm outstretched to embrace a ghost. The realization hit him: if they could delete the digital proof of the man's presence, they could delete Alexander just as easily.

A notification chimed on his phone—a single text from an unknown number: "Syncing Complete.". Suddenly, his phone began to heat up in his hand. He watched in horror as his entire contact list began to vanish, name by name, flickering out like dying stars. He scrambled toward the SUV, desperate for the protection of his security detail, but as he reached the door, the window rolled down. It wasn't his chauffeur behind the wheel. It was a stranger wearing a clean, corporate smile and a headset.

"Mr. Hartley," the man said, his voice as smooth as polished glass. "Google has flagged your recent activity as a violation of our reality-persistence protocols. We're here to facilitate the manual override.". Alexander turned to run, but his legs felt heavy, his surroundings beginning to blur at the edges just like the photos. He looked down at his own hands and saw them turning translucent, the colors of the Big Sur sunset bleeding through his palms. The bar where they’d shared drinks, the dollhouses, the SUV—it was all being scrubbed from the server. As the world faded to a digital white, his last thought was a terrifying question: was he the one being deleted, or was he the one who never existed at all?.

Sweepstake Prize: a family evening with President Donald Trump (fiction!)

Hello All:

The other night I had an interesting dream about our president. I kind of giggled when waking up because it felt like he were my friend. It's not the first time I've dreamt of Trump. Shortly after the 2016 election, he came to me in a dream to tell me we had a lot of work to do. After the 2020 Election was stolen I had a dream that he approached in his limousine and gave me the power fist.

And today's story is my most recent dream. No, the family in the cover artwork is not my own family. They are AI generated.

Evening with Donald Trump

Our family had won a sweepstakes. The prize was unusual, to say the least—a visit from none other than President Donald Trump.

The day of the visit arrived, and with it, a large SUV limousine pulled up to our house. A chauffeur in a crisp uniform stepped out and opened the door for Trump who emerged, dressed in a sharp suit, his signature red tie neatly knotted. He greeted us with a warm smile and a firm handshake; exchanged pleasantries as we settled into the limousine.

Of course this is the President of the United States and you have to make the most of the time. Whoever was in charge of this event had to improvise a plan for the evening and settled on a cheesy art gallery featuring dollhouses. It was weird, and we all hoped it would be enough to keep the President entertained.

As mentioned before, the art gallery was a quirky place, filled with intricate dollhouses that showcased various eras and styles. Trump seemed genuinely amused by the display, taking his time to examine each one with a curious eye.We felt a sense of relief as he laughed and joked about the tiny details.

We spent the evening wandering through the gallery, taking photos in front of the dollhouses. Trump was a good sport about it, posing for selfies and even striking a few playful poses. We couldn't believe how well the evening was going, despite the odd circumstances.

After the gallery, we decided to grab a late dinner at a nearby bar, complete with plenty of Secret Service agents to keep the president safe. The atmosphere was lively, with patrons enjoying their drinks and chatting loudly. People were excited to see President Trump. And he insisted on paying for the meal which left us with a strange mix of gratitude and disbelief. We clinked glasses and shared stories, and for a moment, it felt like we were all just ordinary people enjoying a casual outing. Trump was charming and engaging, and I couldn't help but admire his ability to adapt to just about everything. As for the family, we continued to take photos, capturing moments of laughter and camaraderie.

At the end of the evening when President Trump departed for the White House, we noticed something strange. We tried to access the photos on our phone, but they were nowhere to be found. We checked our Google Photos app, only to discover that every picture with Trump in it had been deleted, leaving a feeling of pang of disappointment, wondering if it was a security feature or a political statement from the app.

Earl of Sandwich

 Hello All:

We have a little flashback story for you, at least for those who might have been following the blog for the past 20+ years. If you've been around for a while, maybe you remember this one. Oh, but I've updated the cover artwork with the use of Google Gemini. Everything else is the same.

Earl of Sandwich

Earl of Sandwich was a great gambler who lived in the land of Sandwich (of course). He was a nobleman, and as a result was privileged to dine with the royal family and noble class in the palace with the king and queen.

One night, Earl was at a pub making bets and gambling as usual. One of the patrons of the pub mentioned some of the forbidden foods that could not be enjoyed by the regular class as the king had declared those foods to be royal. While listening to this discussion, Earl was enjoying a sandwich, a creation he had made popular in a card game and was his trademark meal while playing.

Earl had a great idea for a bet. "This sandwich that you see me eating: many of you would agree that the noble and royal class wouldn't be caught dead eating this in the palace. Who would like to match a bet with me that I could get the king, the queen, the royal family and noble class to enjoy sandwiches in the palace?"

Everyone in the pub laughed at Earl. Everyone knew that it was required to eat with forks and knives in the palace. And to rip away at meat & cheese, wedged between bread, was the most ill-mannered behavior of peasants. Seeing that the odds were stacked up against Earl, everyone in the pub pooled their money together.

The following evening, Earl stepped into the palace diner and sat down in his usual spot. There were many noblemen and women who planned on dining with the king and queen. The servers brought out stuffed peacock, pheasant and fruit. One could eat fruit with the hands, of course. But the juices that may have run while taking a bite must be quickly removed as if not to offend the king and his guests. The bones of birds needed to be held daintily so that the meat could be pulled away with forks and knives. For you see, the king & queen, royal family and noble class were expected to act civilized in comparison to the working class and peasants.

Earl took a couple bites of the peacock and then looked up at one of the servers. "What is this rubbish?"

Gasps could be heard from those dining around him.

"Excuse me, Sir?" The server had never heard complaints from person dining with the king.

"This rubbish you are serving: you actually feed this to the royal family and noble class? Take my plate back and make me something else. Put down a piece of bread, layer some meat and cheese on it and top it off with some lettuce and tomato. Finally, put another piece of bread on top and bring it to me. And bring me more wine!"

Earl took everyone in the palace diner by surprise with the way he was ordering the servers to bring him something else. Most people wondered if the king had been insulted; but he continued to watch while eating.

Soon the server returned with Earl's request. No sooner had the plate been set in front of him; Earl took a hearty bite of the sandwich. The entire dining hall was agape upon seeing the nobleman pick up this mixture of bread, meat, cheese and vegetables with his bare hands. He opened his mouth and tore away at the combination and proceeded to noisily chew.

At that, the king dropped his fork. He was outraged! "How dare you come in this palace and eat a hideous meal of meat and cheese between two slices of bread like some peasant? How dare you insult the royal family and all these noblemen and women? What's this all about?"

The guards drew their swords with a rapid approach towards Earl as he was about to be punished for his ill manners. But he quickly spoke in defense, "My dear king and queen, family, fellow noblemen and women: there is nothing wrong with this meal. Many countries have their dishes that are recognizably the creation of that country. Take Italy; they have Spaghetti. China has chop-suey. What does Sandwich have? Until now, we have had nothing. But this night, going forward, we have the creation that I call the sandwich. The whole world will recognize the sandwich that came from the wonderful land of Sandwich!

The king motioned the guards to lower their swords and then ordered everyone in the dining room to cease eating. The servers were commanded to take away the food and bring back sandwiches for everyone. The servers did as asked and quickly returned plates of sandwiches with more wine. At first, the royal family and noble class were a little uncomfortable eating the sandwiches with their hands. But they soon learned the pleasure of enjoying a good, hearty sandwich.

Soon it was announced in the land of Sandwich that placing meat, cheese and other items in between two slices of bread was to be called a sandwich. It was declared that a sandwich could only be enjoyed by the royal and noble class. Any of the common or working class found eating a sandwich would be punished. But although ordinary citizens were informed of the new, forbidden fruit; the royal meal was enjoyed by the common and working class behind closed doors at dinner time. Extreme caution had to be exercised when enjoying a sandwich because the penalty could be harsh taxes, prison, even torture.

A secret informant to the king heard word of this illegal eating of sandwiches behind closed doors by the common and working class, and informed the king. The new knowledge launched surprise visits by soldiers and police to the homes of common and working class during meal time. Many people were jailed and heavily taxed. But it only made the sandwich more appealing to the common and working class.

As for Earl, he did some traveling to distant lands after winning an enormous amount of money from the sandwich bet. He forgot about the land of Sandwich that now was dealing with this new existence of the royal food called sandwiches.

Back at the palace, the noblemen and women were growing tired of eating sandwiches and opted for smaller ones with fewer ingredients. This would ensure an empty stomach for the royal and noble class. For you see, they had plans of eating a regular dinner of pheasant, stuffed peacock or lamb upon returning home.

When the king heard of this, he was outraged. He was about to order a similar invasion of the noble class homes to make sure his noblemen and women were not eating peasant food such as peacock, pheasant or lamb. But Earl of Sandwich returned from his trip to far off lands and secretly suggested to the king that he have the servers bring out double-decker, and even triple-decker sandwiches during meal time to ensure the guests would be too full to go home and eat something else.

The king took the suggestion and also added that anyone not finishing a sandwich would be punished. Earl of Sandwich saw this problem as an opportunity to further travel and enjoy his lifestyle of gambling. He suggested to the king that he should travel to distant lands and seek other ideas for sandwiches so the noble class would not be unhappy. Needless to say, Earl was not a popular person in the land of Sandwich after introducing this controversial meal that disrupted the lives of all the classes. The king gave Earl some money and ordered him to go and seek out new meals similar to the sandwich.

Months later, Earl returned to the eager king with his findings. Earl had spent some time in Mexico where he gambled, drank Mexican beer and enjoyed Mexican food. He showed the king how a flat piece of bread could have scoops of beans, meat, cheese, vegetables, and other spices and sauces so that it could be rolled up into something called a taco.

The king was delighted and ordered all the noble class to the palace for a taco party. The guests loved the tacos because bowls of ingredients were laid out on the table. They could add whatever they wanted to the taco and then eat. Thanks to Earl, the palace now had their choice of either tacos or sandwiches.

The common and working class heard of this new meal called the taco, and sought ways to enjoy this royal food in the secrecy of their homes. But they had a difficult time obtaining the spices for the meat.

For years Earl traveled to distant lands and brought back ideas to eat such as sausages inside of buns, calzones and even pizza. He restored his popularity among the noble class and further gave the working and common class forbidden fruits that could not be enjoyed. But the most interesting tale of a sandwich invented by Earl in the land of Sandwich took place during breakfast. He realized that people wanted something other than tacos, sandwiches or pizza for breakfast. So one morning, he asked one of the servers to take his jar, which contained peanut butter, and spread some on a slice of toasted bread. In addition, he requested that a spoonful of the king's royal honey be poured on the peanut butter, after which another slice of toasted bread was to be placed on top.

The people during breakfast all gasped upon hearing Earl ask for some of the king's royal honey. Honey was exclusively a royal food which meant it could only be enjoyed by the king and his family. But to sanctify this request, Earl asked that a similar sandwich be brought out to the king.

Soon the two toasted peanut butter sandwiches with honey were brought out. The king loved the combination, but was outraged upon seeing Earl eating a sandwich made with the royal honey. This time Earl was too arrogant and lost. He spent some time in the dungeon for eating a royal food. Nobody eats honey in the palace except for the king and queen!

But it created a whole new adventure for the noble, working and peasant classes. They sought ways to get honey so they could enjoy this new creation.

Crystal Friends

 Hello All:

In many esoteric traditions, quartz is considered a "master healer" and a literal storage device for information. In the world of technology, quartz crystals are used in watches and radios because of their piezoelectric properties—the ability to turn mechanical pressure into electricity. It makes one wonder if a sufficiently large crystal could act as a bridge between our dense physical reality and the vibrating frequencies of a dimension we cannot see.

Crystal Friends

Howard sat in the center of his dimly lit sunroom, the evening light catching the jagged facets of the Tibetan quartz perched on his lap. It was the size of a grapefruit, clear as mountain water, and heavy with a presence he couldn't quite name. He had bought it from a dusty shop in the Cascades, where the owner had whispered that this particular stone "listened." For weeks, Howard had meditated with it, feeling a subtle thrumming against his palms. Tonight, for the first time, the thrumming became a voice—not an audible sound, but a cascade of geometric thoughts that unfolded in his mind like blooming flowers.

"We see you, Howard," the thoughts sang. They introduced themselves as the Resonants, entities of pure light residing in a dimension of harmonic resonance. Through the crystal, they showed him visions of a world without friction, where colors represented emotions and every breath was a symphony. They were kind, or so it seemed, praising Howard for his high vibrational state and his "exceptional clarity." For the first time in years, the crushing loneliness of his quiet house vanished. He had friends—extra-dimensional, ancient, and wise friends who promised to teach him the secrets of the cosmos.

As the weeks passed, the communication grew more intense. The Resonants began to speak of "The Exchange." They explained that their realm was one of infinite thought but finite vitality, whereas the human realm was bursting with raw, chaotic energy that they could use to stabilize their shifting landscapes. In return, they promised Howard a "Gift of Manifestation"—the ability to heal his chronic fatigue and reshape his life according to his desires. The crystal, they explained, would act as a transceiver, a two-way valve. Howard felt a surge of altruistic pride. If his vitality could help a world of beauty, and he gained his health in return, it was a fair trade.

"Initiate the link," the Resonants commanded during a blood-red sunset. Howard placed both hands on the quartz. It felt unusually cold, like a block of dry ice. He closed his eyes and gave his consent, visualizing a golden cord connecting his heart to the center of the stone. Immediately, the room temperature plummeted. The crystal began to glow with a sickly, ultraviolet hue that made his retinas ache even behind closed lids.

At first, the sensation was a strange, tingling numbness. But within minutes, the numbness turned into a terrifying hollow ache. He felt as if a vacuum had been pressed against his very soul. The "raw energy" the Resonants wanted wasn't some abstract byproduct of his existence; it was his life force, the very spark that kept his blood moving and his thoughts coherent. He tried to pull his hands away, but they were fused to the quartz by a static charge so powerful it locked his muscles.

"The exchange is incomplete," the voices hissed, no longer melodic. They sounded like the grinding of tectonic plates. Howard watched in horror as his skin took on a translucent, greyish pallor. The "Gift of Manifestation" they had promised was a lie—a lure to get him to open the door. He tried to scream, but he didn't have the breath to vibrate his vocal cords. He looked into the depths of the crystal and saw them—not beings of light, but jagged, parasitic shadows that fed on the warmth of the living.

By the time the moon rose, Howard was a shell of a man, slumped against the wall of his sunroom. The quartz sat in the center of the floor, now dark and opaque, having gorged itself on his vitality. The Resonants were gone, leaving behind only a cold, mocking silence. He reached out a trembling, withered hand to touch his face, finding only sunken cheeks and papery skin. The crystal friends had taken everything, leaving him a ghost in his own home, while the stone waited silently for the next person to pick it up and listen.

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.