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So can I wear it every day?

Some of you won’t get this… I laughed exceedingly upon viewing this upon a Tee-He-He-Shirt.

Some days, I get my motivation from despair.com…

According to a Cnet story, every second 2 blogs are formed.

According to recent statistics from blog-tracking site Technorati, the blogosphere has doubled every six months for the last three years. That’s 175,000 new blogs per day worldwide. Technorati added its 50 millionth blog on July 31, 2006.

For June, English gained as the most popular language among bloggers, at 39 percent, followed by Japanese (31 percent) and Chinese (12 percent). The most popular times of day for English language bloggers to post is between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. PST, with another spike at 5 p.m. Pacific Standard Time.

On average, there are 1.6 million posts per day, or 18.6 posts per second, according to Technorati.

Of other note, 70% of the “pings” on blogs are from spammers, looking to put their message somewhere.

Come to think of it… Pretty much all of my friends that I stay in regular connection to have a blog of some sort. Usually several of them. The average number of blogs seems to be about 3.

So hello to all of you in the blogosphere, and welcome to the 220 new bloggers that have joined us since I started this post. Keep reading. Keep posting. It’s a whole new world out there.

Drip

Drip-drip

(silence)

Drip

As we move towards the master bedroom, we see a bunched form lying in the shadows, with several blankets lying in ruins around him. Tommy’s hands gripped the pillow with a strangle-hold, breathing heavily.

The irregular sound of falling water from the cracked kitchen faucet was only drowned out by the cacophony of thoughts thrown across his tired mind. He dared not open his eyes, afraid he might see her. Afraid he might see…

Jenny was an attractive woman. Perhaps she was too attractive, since a lonely man felt it necessary to force himself into her company. Over and over she had told him no, and over and over, he wouldn’t listen. Tommy never listened. Maybe that’s part of the reason she…

Tommy didn’t finish that thought, but instead listened to the dripping awhile longer. Inside something was building, although he wasn’t sure what.

“Why did we have to bring children into this world? Was this Jenny’s way of trying to make me stop drinking? I’m glad Samantha can’t see how drunk her daddy is right now. It was just like Jenny to take even my little Sam away from me…”

Tommy cursed. And then cursed again as he covered his head with her pillow. Violently, he threw the pillow across the room. Her smell was too much for him.

The constant, pounding of the water grew louder in his ears, as he pulled himself to a sitting position. The patter of drops seemed to be getting louder with each drop.

dripDripDRIP!

Something had to be done about the leak.

Tommy lurched to the closet, grabbed his loaded 12-gauge shotgun, walked to the kitchen, pointed, pulled the trigger…

…and silenced the drip.

The whiteness of the paper sucked the words from my mind, despite my flailing to write something that would stick and anchor my sinking soul. No manner of words could fill the void of a missing life and no amount of emotion spent could fix the wrong of a ruined past. As pens ran dry and pencils dulled, I wiped the tears from my eyes and threw down the stack of pages, scattering them across the room. A muted scream of frustration escaped as I bit down on my fingers in tormented sorrow. My expression had failed me when I needed it the most, and now my only recourses would only serve to complicate things further. I needed an exit from this tortured soul and it’s memories which lashed at me night and day.

I’m firmly convinced that the worst part of being lonely is not having anyone to share it with. The realization that what you do in your inconsequential life won’t be noticed unless it’s in reprimand is perhaps an even worse curse than loneliness. To not be thought of, mentioned, written in one’s diary about, or invited to anything other than to a place where something is expected of you…

The good side to being inconsequential is: no one cares what you do as long as you don’t get in trouble. The bad side, of course, is the same as the good.

But what if I wanted to be more? What if your invitation meant the world to me, even if I pretended I didn’t want to go? What if 5 minutes of our conversation was the only positive contact I had with civilization for the day? What if I had thought that same thing on a topic and was looking for an opportunity to discuss it? Guess neither of us will know what could have happened.

I return to my scattered papers, sweeping them into the fire, and taking my usual seat at the narrow window, I stare out at the world that’s passing me by. And I think…

The blank stare of a pair of dark piercing Navajo eyes told the story of a short life made long by the abuse of a broken home. The hardships of primitive camping paled in comparison to the hardships these souls would experience upon returning to their homes, as made evident by the idle comments and longing waves when they packed into the rusty blue van for the last time.

The heart of a Navajo is heavily guarded, and to really see the soul within, you must learn to see past their rebellious attitudes, idle jokes, and stony glares and see them how God sees them. Although it may be true that children in all parts of the world need the Love of God in a special and real way, I believe that the dry and barren landscape of the New Mexico mesas is luscious in comparison to the love experience in the majority of these children’s hearts.

There are others from the group who have shared, much better than I could, all the emotions and needs we were privileged to minister to on our recent trip to New Mexico. I encourage you to read the lazy philosopher’s version, because their story deserves to be told.