Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Wayne Dyer, You Changed My Life.

September 20, 2015 / boo king / Leave a comment

Facebook really knows how to deliver the news. Whatever is going on in the world, it ends up there in some way, shape or form. Guaranteed. So much of it is bullshit baffling brains. It’s a crazy-ass stew of hilarious, hysterical, heavenly, helpful, hurtful and harmful.

And every now and again, it’s gut-wrenchingly heartbreaking.

This emotional gutting happened to me a year ago when I opened my Facebook newsfeed, only to learn that my dear one and soul sister, Mary Frances had died. Then it happened again on Sunday, August 30. Wayne Dyer has left his body, passing away through the night. My first reaction to both death announcements was, “how’s that even possible?”

Initially, my entire being was thrust into abrupt and swift shock. Then, my soul struggled to fathom such an impossible notion, such a far-fetched and preposterous declaration. Surreal doesn’t even begin to describe what I was experiencing in that moment. Then panic set in. If Wayne Dyer isn’t in this physical dimension, then where do I go in times of fear, sorrow, anxiety, trouble and confusion? Who will comfort me? Where will I find solace and courage, strength and grounding? Who else can provide such powerful profundity and candid commonsense? For this is what his words and wisdom had provided me for the past three decades.

Then I just felt sad. Deeply. Profoundly. Fervently. Utterly. Completely. Every fiber, every cell, every piece of me went into mourning.

I was sad for everyone who loved him, his family and friends, his followers and devotees, those who were lucky enough to know him personally, and those like me, who knew him through his books, audio recordings, PBS appearances, his website and social media.

Like many, I “met” Wayne through his first book, Your Erroneous Zones. I say I met him because that’s exactly how it felt. And as I read more and more of his books, I felt like I was not only learning and growing increasingly aware of my interior and exterior worlds, acquiring a deeper understanding of this life and the one beyond the mist, but that I was also getting to know the man. And this man was extraordinary in every way.

Marvelous and wonderful. Magical and mystical. Intelligent and wise. Witty and entertaining. Mentor and teacher. Inspired and an inspiration.

And I am going to miss him. I’m going to miss reading his words. I’m going to miss listening to his voice in the truck on my way to work. I’m going to miss watching him pace the PBS stage, rolling his hands rhythmically in tune to the cadence of his lyrical voice, as he explained the power of intention and how to make our wishes come true. You’ll see it when you believe it, one of his many mantras. I’m going to miss all those too. I’m going to miss his inspiring quotes in my Facebook newsfeed. I’m going to miss meditating with him. I’m going to miss the “ah”.

So what does the student do when the teacher moves to a different realm?

Take the lessons learned and do something good. Something meaningful. Something kind. Something loving. Something compassionate. Something generous. Something optimistic. Something courageous. Something big. Something small. Something simple. Something profound. Something gentle. Something fierce. Something funny. Something intelligent. Something memorable. Something ordinary. Something peaceful. Something wise. Something imaginative. Something beautiful. Something human. Something divine. Something infinite. Something everlasting.

Thank you Wayne Dyer. You changed my life. I am eternally grateful.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Snapshot of Mel at Four.

June 18, 2015 / boo king / Leave a comment

Melissa sat in the brown Rubbermaid laundry hamper hugging her knees. She was wearing her over-sized blue sweatshirt with the Dalmatians on the front and purple leggings. Her feet were bare and pale.

She had pulled the hamper out of the closet and placed it in front of the television in my bedroom. Her petite body was fully contained with only her head peering out of the top like a sprung jack-in-the-box.

I don’t know if it was something she saw on TV, something someone said perhaps. I don’t recall. But she turned to me and said, with the simple unvarnished directness of a four-year old, “I believe in God.” In that moment, I saw her ancient soul. The one that had been around since the beginning of time. The wise One.

And in that holy moment, for it truly was divine, I was envious of this sweet wide-eyed child of mine. Because at four, she was so resolute and confident in this elusive thing called faith.

And I was not.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: A Mother’s Prayer for Peace.

May 10, 2015 / boo king / Leave a comment

Dear God,

It’s the middle of the night,

And I cannot sleep.

The rain is pounding on the roof

And the wind is howling outside my window.

But I am safe and warm,

Comforted by my feather duvet.

My faithful dog curled up at my feet

And my husband breathing softly next to me

Our children safe in their beds

Surrendered to dreams,

Sweet sweet dreams.

Yet my heart is not at peace,

It is broken with sadness.

For out there

Somewhere in a world I do not know

In countries I’ve only seen on TV

Are other families

With mothers just like me,

Who but for your gentle grace

Live a different life.

One not privileged with

Warm safe beds to rest,

To sleep, to dream of tomorrow.

Their lives, every bit as precious as mine

Are torn apart and shattered –

By fear

And hate

And hunger

And disease

And disaster

And ignorance

WAR.

I pray for these loving mothers

And for their dear families

That they ALL

Each and every one

Have what I have

And know, truly know

What it’s like

To go to bed at night

And NOT be filled with fear

That their beautiful child,

Every bit as precious as mine,

Won’t be harmed

Or blown to pieces

By an enemy no one really knows.

God, I pray that all these mothers

Know at least one moment of peace.

And that that moment grows and grows

Like a wave across the world.

A graceful, gentle, loving wave of peace.

It begins with one moment

And grows from moment to moment.

It begins with one mother

And grows from mother to mother.

And it saves one child

And grows from child to child.

May we share this moment of peace

Mothers of the world.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

Amen.

In gratitude and love,

boo king

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Reflections in Mud Puddles.

April 13, 2015April 13, 2015 / boo king / Leave a comment

I love sunny days and large blue skies. The brightness and optimism of the unblemished firmament that stretches from horizon to horizon, and takes me back to my Northwestern Ontario wonder years. No matter how bad things were on the ground I could always look up and see that immense sky, and get a glimpse of God’s miraculous hand at work. I remember it then, and still experience it now, the feeling of peace and comfort knowing that I am connected to something so big and so powerful and so utterly wonderful. What an awe-inspiring and breath-taking view.

But lately I’ve found a reason to like rain. Or more precisely, what remains after it rains. I’ve acquired an entirely new attitude towards the potholes that pepper the country road where I walk. For they are the conduit to the glorious mud puddle, my new favorite thing.

When I was a kid I liked to stomp through them in my black rubber boots. Or after a warm summer shower I loved to go barefoot and sink my toes into the soft buttery ooze. I used to ride recklessly through them on my bike. But as I grew older they became wretched annoyances to avoid. Little nuisances and painful reminders of the relentless rainfall on the West Coast from the beginning of November till the end of April. I’ve done my share of cursing after being splashed and sprayed by passing vehicles. And I am not amused by those who quip, “well at least we don’t have to shovel it.”

But about a month ago, as I was walking along the country road at lunch, I saw things quite differently. It was as though I was seeing a mud puddle for the very first time. Like I was wearing magic glasses. And instead of avoiding, I sought them out. What caused this sudden transformation of vision? Why did my perspective change? What captured my imagination?

It was one of those serendipitous happy accidents. It had been pouring miserably earlier in the day. By the time I headed out for my walk, the sun was grandstanding and showing off its brilliance. It aced the surface of the mud puddle at just the perfect angle for me to see. I mean really see something so ordinary but suddenly so utterly extraordinary. Something I’d seen a million times before. Yet at that precise moment it was as if for the very first time.

I saw a reflection. And it was a beautiful sight.

Tall and stately evergreens. Gnarled and naked Garry Oaks. Blades of grass blowing in the breeze. Cloud formations. The sun, a blinding orb overhead. Telephone poles with wires stretching like tightropes. Street signs and other directions from above.

In the past month, I have sought out muddle puddles. They have brought new meaning, joy and wonder to my lunchtime walk. I’m the crazy lady crouched on the ground snapping photos on my iPhone of these fascinating little pools of dirty water. The smallest one I’ve photographed was about six inches, the largest about six feet long. I feel like Alice in Through the Looking Glass peering into another world filled with magic and all things curious. Everything is distorted. Depth perception is challenged. Shallow one second. And bottomless the next: like I could easily fall in and be lost forever in the shimmering darkness. Seeing such gigantic things like trees and telephone poles reflected and held so spellbindingly inside something so small. The juxtaposition takes my breath away.

The most magical thing about the muddle puddles is this. Like snowflakes, no two are the same. And even the same puddle is different depending on the preciseness of my presence, the direction of the sun, how it skims the surface of the murky water, and of course the angle with which I peer into it. Standing. Crouching. On my knees. These all affect what I see.

As a writer I can usually find words to describe most things. But in this case, words are inadequate. In fact, they fail me. Hopefully the photographs don’t. I hope they have captured some of the miraculous that I have witnessed, the dirty beauty of the earth, the sky, the sun and the wind, and the surprising unpredictable moment of confluence of all perfect things.

Technical note from a completely non-technical person: all photos were taken with my iPhone 6 using the Instagram App, with the Nashville filter.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Believe in Something Bigger than Yourself.

January 1, 2015April 3, 2016 / boo king / Leave a comment

Girl Warrior. Know that you are connected to every living thing in this marvelous Universe. That’s a huge and daunting thought. So take it in. Fully. Breathe life into it. Wrap your loving arms around this notion until it seeps into your DNA and fills every cell. Clog your pores with this concept.

Figure out your place in the grander scheme of things. The beautiful, elegant, ingenious, creative, intelligent and precisely perfect design that dwells deep inside your soul. And that of every single being and creature that ever was. And ever will be. Imagine that.

Honor this exquisite essence.

Whether you call it God or Gitchi Manitou, Divine Intelligence or Great Spirit, Energy or Electricity, Jesus or Jane, it matters not. What really matters is the knowledge that you are a part of it. You are an essential drop of water in the great big sea. A twinkle in the starry night. A slice of light in the infinite sky. Your presence is requested. Here and now. For eternity.

And you are never alone.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Interview.

February 12, 2014February 12, 2014 / boo king / Leave a comment

This is an interview I did with the lovely Karen Elgersma, host of the TV show Go Island about my new book We Are The Girl Warriors. I was terrified. I had to practice Step 2 in the book: Stare Down Your Fears.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes.

January 1, 2014 / boo king / 4 Comments

Over the past year I have been asked if E’s cancer changed anything. What a preposterous question. Of course it changed things. It changed everything. But that’s not the question really being asked is it? You’re all too polite and kind to ask the big messy Q. Fear of intruding. Or opening wounds. Being considered nosey. But this is me you’re asking. I’ve been an open book since I started this blog in 2011. Poured my heart out. Spilled my guts. Let the cat out of the bag. Shared my deep dark dreary thoughts in this diary. So it’s perfectly okay to ask the real question on your mind.

HOW has cancer changed things?

If you were to peek into our house this Christmas, you’d probably smile, possibly sigh with relief, that everything appears the same. Sa-sa-sa-sa-same. Same family gathering. Same festivities. Same decorations and ornaments hung on the tree. It all looks very much like it did last year. And the year before. And the one before that. Right back to when E and I shared our first Christmas together. There have been a few different houses. We’ve all grown older. The kids are all now adults. There’s a grand daughter. A daughter-in-law. But the mood in the room is unchanged. Family jokes. Teasing. Cheerful banter. Laughter. Misty eyes. Magnanimous grateful hearts. Goodwill, and all that jolly ho-ho-ho.

Because of this ostensible normality it’s difficult at times to imagine that E is a cancer survivor. Sometimes I can’t even believe he had cancer at all. I think, did we really go through that? His 23 days in the hospital, now a distant memory slowly fading to black. I have to look at the photos that documented his stay there to bring clarity to my recollections. Fill in the gap between fact and fiction. Did this really happen? And sadly, have I diminished this life-altering experience to just another story that I tell?

Yet it was real. It did happen. Truth is, it changed everything.

There’s the obvious things. The loftier higher-self transformative stuff. Gratitude for a life being spared, given a second chance. Awareness of the fragility of our earth walk. Delight in the small precious things. Refined appreciation for all those we hold dear. Joy in the everyday and the mundane. Concern for all living creatures. Reverence for the fleeting passage of time. Appreciation of all that is good, for I am steadfast in my belief that there is more good than not. Awe and wonder at the sheer miracle of being here at all.

I thank God for this metamorphosis of the spirit. For giving my caterpillar heart butterfly wings.

But there’s more to this story. There’s the underbelly. The ugly shit that is difficult to admit. Even to myself. There’s the stuff I think I’ve kicked out the door and sent slithering down the road, only to turn around to find the ugliness standing in front of my kitchen sink doing dishes. Oh the shameful cowardly resentful thoughts I’ve had there. The devil’s face reflected in the white porcelain dinner plate. The monster in the bottom of the silver pot. The creep in the cast iron frying pan. All me.

There’s the fear that grips my gut and tears at my bowels. The anger that erupts and gasps and flares out of nowhere. The sudden and unforeseen tears that sting my cheeks. The frustration with a life interrupted. The impatience with everything, including E.

A foul tenacious undercurrent of dread flows through my nervous system. Silently terrified that cancer will return. It’s the uninvited guest in the room. The one that has outstayed its welcome. Can’t take a hint and leave. It’s the disturbing uneasiness beneath my flesh. The choking, suffocating, stifling vice grip. And at the heart of all this maelstrom, one thought prevails. Will this sinister beast return and snatch E in it’s Godzilla grip forever?

At times, often when I least expect it, I’m angry. Pissed off that a year later E is still in recovery. My impatient unkind inside-voice says, ‘get over this already.’ I want things to move according to my agenda, spoiled child that I am. Not E’s natural healing process. At the risk of sounding like Gilda Radner, ‘there’s always something.’ Rogue aches and pains throughout his body that seem to have nothing to do with cancer. Yet in some way they do. The hip bone is connected to the thigh bone, after all.

I cry. Like a baby some days. These crying jags are erratic. Out of the blue. Unpredictable. Indiscriminate and downright impolite. They take me by surprise. But then so did the diagnosis of cancer a year ago.

E’s personal mantra is that he “comes from good stock.” Hardy. Resilient. Tough as nails. It’s his Grizzly Adams fortitude and true grit that gets me through the hour of the wolf. It’s the call in the wilderness that keeps me going. One baby-step at a time.

Fuck cancer anyway. We don’t give up. That much hasn’t changed.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Rhythm of Running.

September 22, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

Running doesn’t come easy for me. The first few blocks are pure hell. Psyching myself to go for a run is a marathon in itself. Each new day is like starting over. Even after 30 years, it’s still the same.

Before I run there are a few things I do first. The Monday to Friday pre-run routine and ritual goes something like this:

1. Get up early. 5:00am at the latest. Except for the summer months, it’s dark outside and quiet inside. The house is hushed and still in the undisturbed darkness before dawn. Just how I like it.
2. Put on sweatpants and T-shirt or some other comfortable running attire. These are found heaped on the floor next to the bed where I left them the night before. I prepare ahead.
3. Grope my way through the hallway to the kitchen where I put on the kettle. Sometimes I hit the bathroom first and take a pee.
4. Head to my office where I check emails and cruise through Facebook while the kettle boils. Sometimes I read a Cowbird story.
5. Make a cup of Tetley’s Orange Pekoe tea. I like how the round bags fit perfectly int the bottom of the Vegas mug D gave me.
6. Practice yoga for an hour. Because I’m so spiritual I do this in front of the TV. Depending on my mood it’s either Steven & Chris or CMT. Until January it was CNN but I stopped that because it was counter productive and stressed me out.
7. Make the bed and tidy my office. I hate clutter and can’t get into an unmade bed. Just one of my many quirks.
8. Make my lunch for work. This is usually a salad and some kind of protein. I don’t really care what I eat for lunch just as long as it’s reasonably healthy and doesn’t make me sleepy by two.
9. Boil the kettle again. Make a cup of coffee spiked with cinnamon. I like to live dangerously. I also add cream, which is completely over-the-top and edgy.
10. Head back to my office, pull out my latest Hilroy notebook, a blue Bic pen and write my daily letter to God. This is private. But possibly some of my best writing.
11. Sip my creamy cinnamon coffee and say my prayers. I don’t get down on my knees. This hurts too much. God knows and doesn’t expect it of me. We’re pretty tight.
12. If it’s cold out, I throw on my big old grey hoodie with the bleach splatters and pills under the arms. If it’s warm than the T-shirt is all I need. I don’t wear a bra. I like to flop when I run.
13. Head downstairs and lace up my sneakers. Nothing fancy here. Nor expensive. If they aren’t on sale I don’t buy them. One of my best pair of runners came from Zellers. This was before Target took over.
14. Check the clock next to the back door. I don’t know why I do this. I never check it when I return and I don’t time my runs. I really don’t care how long it takes.
15. Walk around to the side of the house, past the Camellia tree, the bamboo and the old rose bush that scares the shit out of me.
16. Open the front gate, take a deep breath, hesitate momentarily, mumble ‘what the fuck’ under my breath and hit the streets.

I start to run immediately. It’s uphill right out of the gate. Brutal. Punishing. Grueling. My legs are already tired and I feel the burn. It’s killing me and I haven’t even gone a block. All I can think about is how lousy I feel.

But just when I think I can’t run another step, the sidewalk slopes downward and I coast along for the next bit. This is where grace and mercy come into play.

It’s during this little stretch that I set the pace. This is different every day. It all depends on how I feel that morning. Not just physically but emotionally. One day I could be the hare. The next, the tortoise. Sometimes I feel like a freebird. Other days, a slug. There are mornings where I feel like I could run forever. Or at least a mile or two. Maybe even ten. Then there are days – many, many days – where I ask myself, ‘what the hell are you doing?’ I just want to roll over onto the boulevard and curl up like a wood bug. Go to sleep. For a long time. Like Rip Van Winkle. Some days, my youth is renewed like the eagles. Others, I’m an old wizened woman. Gnarled. Weather-beaten.

The difference between a good day and a bad one usually comes down to rhythm. I don’t plug in while I run. No iTunes. No playlists. No music. No motivational talks. No podcasts. None of that.

I listen to my soul. My heartbeat. My inner cadence.

I hear the sound of my breathing. My footsteps on the concrete. Crows squawking on the telephone lines. The voices of the squirrels. Leaves rustling. Wind howling. Gentle breezes calling. Dogs barking. Cars racing. Doors slamming. All the early morning reverberations.

I hear the silence. And the pauses between the clamor. I hear God whispering my name.

It is here that I get in the groove. Find my rhythm. This is the sweet stuff of running. This is the meditative place. Where everything works. My body, mind and spirit are all in tune. Harmonious. Peaceful. Grounded.

I run to the rhythm of me.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: I’m Down on my Knees Again.

June 23, 2013August 29, 2013 / boo king / 2 Comments

Our daughter A training for The Ride to Conquer Cancer.

I’ve been brought to my knees. Countless times over the past year. In fear. Humility. Frustration. Weakness. In sorrow. To pray. Beg. Plead. Implore. Ask for mercy and forgiveness. A bit of kindness. A dose of compassion.

When I can’t stand this any more, I don’t. I go down.

I’ve arrived at this place through brokenness and love. Not just for E. But for our family and friends. All that I hold dear and want to preserve. Ultimately it has been this love that has inspired me to fold. Cave. Crumple. Collapse. Yes, you read that correctly. Inspired. For I will do anything for love. Even that.

Ironically, it is on my knees that I find the relief that I seek so desperately. Here I am free to surrender all. Rest. Find peace. An illusive whisper these days.

It’s a peculiar thing this Cancer journey. My heart breaks for E. For us. And all the other Big C pilgrims who know this road all too well.

I am down on my knees today. Not for E and me this time. I’m here because of a recent story in the news. A tragedy beyond words.

Last Sunday, while participating in The Ride To Conquer Cancer a young boy, barely sixteen, and by all accounts the sweetest, died. A family’s worst nightmare. A mother’s heart shattered. A sunny day gone dark.

A young boy and his family doing something so good for a noble and worthwhile cause. I can relate. Three years ago our oldest daughter embarked on this extraordinary ride, for the same reason. Just like this boy, she was on a sacred mission to do her part, to help the cause. To do something charitable for others she did not know. Altruism at its best. I admired her courage and strength. Her loving and caring heart. Her passionate desire to help. At the time, cancer had not yet crept into our lives. It was something that happened to others. Not us. Not this close. Nor this personal.

Just like this tragedy last Sunday morning, bad things happen. Often to good people. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe it’s not meant to. I can understand this mother’s pain. Profoundly. My heart aches for her, and with her. This is the inconsolable loss. It’s unimaginable. Inconceivable. Incomprehensible.

Yet not.

The very moment I knew I was pregnant, my imagination flooded with all the possibilities. I not only pictured all the good and wonderful things that this child would do and enjoy. A life of dreams fulfilled. Adventures embarked. Accomplishments achieved. But my heart, so loving and tender for this newborn child, also saw the fragility, the tenuous and gossamer nature of humanity. The randomness with which things happened. Both good and bad. This heedless Russian Roulette vulnerability to our earth walk frightened me. We’re all susceptible. No matter what.

Ultimately, all we want as parents is for our children to be safe and to joyously experience the cycle of life as it should be. Say farewell to us. Not the other way around.

http://donate.bccancerfoundation.com/site/TR?pg=fund&fr_id=1340&pxfid=14708

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Tick Tock.

May 28, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

The clock on the wall keeps ticking.

Start. Stop. Slow down. Speed up. Wait. Proceed with caution. The traffic signs of the Big C trip. We’re forced to walk when all we really want to do is run. For our lives. Things take time. There’s a process. Procedures to follow. We get it. But we’re also scared out of our minds. The Big C clock is ticking. And we don’t know if we’re running out of time. The meticulous orderly pace is excruciating. Never fast enough. At least not for me.

When we returned from our weekend getaway, things moved swiftly at first. We arrived home late Monday night and by Wednesday afternoon we had the results of the PET scan. The cancer was localized. Just below the tongue. Our greatest fears, that E was riddled with cancer from head to toe, were banished. We were grateful and did the happy dance. High fives all around. Big sighs of relief could be felt from coast to coast.

Three weeks later E met with the Surgeon, who examined his mouth and discussed his role in the upcoming surgery. Because this would be a 2-surgeon job, eight days later E met with the Plastic Surgeon. At this point, it was exactly one month since receiving the results of the PET scan. To a cancer patient and his family this is an eternity. With each passing day I grew more anxious. My mind went to its dark place, that cavernous dwelling filled with irrational horrors. All the ‘what ifs’ were examined. I snooped under every rock and coaxed all the scary monsters out. My thoughts Teased and taunted. It was crazy-making at its finest.

I think E was scared too. In between surgeon appointments he was baptized. This was something he had been contemplating for a few years but he became obsessed with the notion after the diagnosis. He wanted to come right with God. Get things sorted out between the two of them. The surgeons could heal his body but only God could repair his brokeness. This would be his first step towards spiritual healing. Truth is, it was more of a first dunk then a step. I can only describe it as a full backwards drop into the watery depths, John the Baptist style. E emerged gasping for air. Regenerated. Renewed. Reborn.

The triad of Divine Es – elation, euphoria and exaltation – wouldn’t last long.

The meeting with the Plastic Surgeon brought E to his knees. Shaken. Shattered. Scared out of his wits. Later that evening, he described the procedure. He shuttered and shook his head as relayed the gruesome details. I thought I was going to throw up. The surgery wasn’t going to be pretty. Lot’s of cutting skin and veins here, and moving them there, and then there, and there. Visions of Roger Ebert danced through my head. Enough said.

The day after the meeting with the Plastic Surgeon, E’s Mama died. He got the news at 7:00pm on the Thursday and was on a plane to Nova Scotia the next morning at 8:00. He spent a week with his family and friends, buried his mother and was back on the Westcoast by Good Friday. The next evening his band performed at a Bluegrass Fundraising event.

It was the last time he would sing.

E’s surgery was booked for May 6, which seemed like light years away. Everything was moving in slow motion. To us, the medical world was dragging its collective feet. Our anxiety eclipsed their tempo. We felt like lab rats scurrying through a maze of white coats and mysterious technology. Humming machines. Little cogs caught in the big wheel. Dancing on peanut butter. Plenty of action but really going nowhere.

E was diagnosed the first week of December, met with the Radiation Oncologist the end of January, had the PET scan in the middle of February, met with Surgeons in the middle of March and would have the operation on May 6. When someone you love gets the Big C diagnosis you just want the “evil” extricated from their body. We all wanted it out. Like Lady Macbeth, I cried, “Out, damned spot. Out. I say!”

Yes, I’ll admit, a bit dramatic. But still.

My Thing About God