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Archive for August, 2017


The instant receipt of $700 million may be yet another tragic story waiting to happen.

Far be it for me to get all sanctimonious about gambling because I’m not above popping $2 for a couple of lottery tickets once in a long while.

Belize has a lottery almost every day of the week (and enticing casinos) and that’s one reason Belize continues to have so many poor people.

For that matter, it’s one reason America continues to have so many poor people.

Anyway, I bought $5 worth of lottery tickets over four weeks just last month when I had some extra, unexpected cash come my way.

That said, I devoted a couple of pages of my book about poverty (The View From Down in Poordom) to lottery winners I interviewed back when I was a truth-seeking reporter. (I still have all the scars from all the cussings and threats from conservatives, liberals and boobs from the general population.)

I was reminded in the latest update about the record amount of the Powerball Lottery–a mind-boggling $750 million obscene dollars) of something Oscar Wilde in all his wisdom said:

    In this world, there are only two tragedies: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.

Everybody wants to get filthy rich.

Poor people want it and rich people often want it more: they just can’t get enough of it.

I want riches as much as anybody.

I also point out in The View From Down in Poordom that I would love to have more money than God, as they say. I say this because I like to think I could handle the corruptive power and status money brings.

I like to think I would be so smart in first taking care of my financial security and that of my family that I wouldn’t do what so many people do with huge lottery winnings: blow it.

I like to think I’d manage to make $700 million dollars grow in perpetuity for God’s glory and the greatest of God’s purposes while maintaining a far more comfortable and convenient but down-to-earth lifestyle.

I like to think I’d remain humble and… well, you get the picture.

But knowing me, I’d probably disappoint God and a lot of people with all that heady power big money brings.

In fact, I’d say it’s a pretty sure bet that I (and maybe you???) would be just another tragic story of one who got what he wanted.

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Down in the Trump White House in Florida, there are a lot of gold statues like these parrots having sex.

Parrot sex in the Florida White House. Pretty strange.

(Sounds like some kind of punk rock band: The Sex Parrots.)

Maybe with all the world dignitaries visiting the place now the parrots have been removed.

Maybe they’ll be placed someday in the Trump Presidential Library.

That’s First Daughter Ivanka back in the day.

There weren’t exactly a family out of Mayberry RFD but they can’t all be that.

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Here in the rustic but fast-developing tourist town San Ignacio, not a day goes by that I’m not approached by most of the same ragged and often inebriated street people asking me for something.

I mean, every day I hear it.

“Hey big man! Give me a shilling for some water!”

“Hey buddy! I need a dollar!”

“My friend! Can I borrow a dollar for a bottle of water?”

“I need money for noodles. Help me out, man!”

Honestly, some days I feel like saying, “Hey buddy, give ME a dollar why don’t you?”

They hang out by a small but thriving Chinese kiosk, right in the big middle of town. Scores of tourists pass by them every day. The beggars know better than to bug the visitors too much because downtown is heavily patrolled by police walking in packs.

But sometimes, for reasons I don’t understand, you’ll see one or more of them throw all discretion to the wind and swarm some nice-looking couple who just have too-nice-to-refuse written all over them. These nice folks usually stop and dish out the coins, most of which go to the Chinese-Belizean kiosk owner for rum or rolling paper or whatever.

The shop owner prospers selling his endless supply of cheap, mini-sized, plastic bottles of rum, beer, cigarettes and rolling papers for “herbs.”

Saturday night in San Ignacio is always festive and there’s a lot of music of all kinds in the air. When Sunday morning comes down, it looks like a ghost town. Walking by the kiosk, you might have to step around somebody like this man in this picture with the little rum bottle on his chest.

A beggar, after a Saturday night of mini-rum binging, at rest on Sunday morning.

Like I say, on my worst days I feel like telling the poor, wretched besotted beggars to bug off.

On my better days I remember the words of John Wesley, who wrote:

    A poor wretch cries to me for an alms. I look and see one that has an immortal spirit, made to know, and love, and dwell with God to eternity. I honor him for his Creator’s sake. I see, through all these rags, that he is purpled over with the blood of Christ.

Now, the drunken beggars aren’t exactly begging for alms, of course, unlike the many beggars you see in San Ignacio with mangled bodies from birth defects. It’s easy enough to honor the man born with no legs or the heart-breaking young girl with the twisted body in the wheelchair being pushed by her weary grandma.

And yet that alcoholic beggar laid low by poverty and all the varieties of self-abuse and destruction that poverty spins has an immortal spirit and is “purpled over” with the blood of Christ.

On their better days and moments, when they’re not blitzed out of their heads with alcohol, I smile at those beggars and maybe give them fist bumps and tell them I hope they’re having a blessed day and say “God bless you.”

They’ll say God stuff back at me, like “Yes, my brother–God is good!”

They light up with joy because I’ve given them what they really want from us all: affirmation that they too are children of God, created in the image of Ultimate Love, worthy of honor for the Creator’s sake.

Chapters in my book The View From Down in Poordom: Reflections on Scriptures Addressing Poverty, available online at Amazonbooks.com and Barnes&Noble.com.

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Guar–an-teed, to blow your head apart… (in a good way).

Listening to “Welcome Back My Friends…” is like taking a trip and never leaving the farm….

Boom.

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“Earth, Teach Me” (An Ute Prayer)

Earth teach me quiet ~ as the grasses are still with new light.

Earth teach me suffering ~ as old stones suffer with memory.

Earth teach me humility ~ as blossoms are humble with beginning.

Earth teach me caring ~ as mothers nurture their young.

Earth teach me courage ~ as the tree that stands alone.

Earth teach me limitation ~ as the ant that crawls on the ground.

Earth teach me freedom ~ as the eagle that soars in the sky.

Earth teach me acceptance ~ as the leaves that die each fall.

Earth teach me renewal ~ as the seed that rises in the spring.

Earth teach me to forget myself ~ as melted snow forgets its life.

Earth teach me to remember kindness ~ as dry fields weep with rain.

As the grasses are still with light.

*The Great Spirit
The Great Spirit (Wakan Tanka, Gitchi Manitou of Native American cultures) is a beautiful example of a non-theistic belief in an active, personal, non-anthropomorphic Deity that is intertwined with the fabric of the Universe itself on the large scale and yet is personally engaged with the web of living things and the world on an earthly scale.

These cultures are not completely homogeneous, and there are a variety of creation mythologies that need not concern us as (in my opinion at least) these cultures have always been aware that their mythologies are myths, that their legends are legends, that their sacred stories are stories, and thus they have avoided the curse of socially enforced orthodoxy or any sort of insistence on “belief”.

The myths themselves are intended and used as teaching stories that guide individual behavior in ways that support the individual and the community, not as metaphysical speculation.

These religions also seem to lack the hellfire and damnation meme – the Great Spirit doesn’t punish people for being bad, doesn’t inflict eternal torment on people for “not believing in It”.

In these cultures, a life out of balance with the Great Spirit, with the earth, with the community is its own punishment.

— Duke University physics scholar Robert G. Brown

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Thank you President Trump for your honesty & courage to tell the truth.

— White Supremacist David Duke on twitter in reaction to Trump’s meltdown in a press conference that was supposed to be an announcement about something we could all get behind: investment in rebuilding the infrastructure

A forlorn Gen. Kelly, blocking out Trump with his body language

You don’t have to be an expert on body language to understand how deflated Gen. John Kelly felt as Boss Trump had yet another meltdown showing his true colors Tuesday.

Gen. Kelly, a full-grown adult, of course is the bully-child Trump’s new Chief of Staff. He’s a 4-star general and war hero retired from the United States Marine Corps. He was supposed to bring order and discipline to Donald Trump’s dangerously chaotic Administration.

But if every picture tells a story, we see a picture of an old warrior who feels helpless.

Old military warriors don’t slouch, and yet we see a picture of a man slouching. We see a picture of a man with his arms crossed, a sign of someone trying to block out the sights and sounds around him. We see him trying to shrink himself so he won’t stand out.

This looks like the picture of a man dying inside, trying to grit his way through the anxiety eating him up inside.

This Tuesday event before the press was supposed to be about the Administration’s plan, assuming it really has one, to upgrade the infrastructure. That upgrade is something everyone right and left agrees is needed and something both parties want to get behind.

But Gen. Kelly, as disciplined as he is and as good as he is as an old military commander at demanding and maintaining discipline, simply is incapable of bringing order and discipline to an environment in which a mad man–and I mean mad in every sense of the word–has serious emotional and mental problems.

Perhaps the old warhorse Gen. Kelly is praying. For sure, he could use our prayers and all the other grownups feeling lost and helpless around Donald Trump could use our prayers.

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Miss Belize, pre-school fashionista.

“Iza ham.”


Mi hija Miss Belize Paulita McKay won’t start pre-school until Sept. 4, but she can’t wait to wear her school uniforms her mom made her. She wants to wear one every day and is allowed to put one on for a few minutes to keep it clean.

Like her big sister Stephanie, who starts high school Aug. 28, Paulita is looking forward to school.

Stephanie Garcia, Miss Belize’s big sister, is pictured the man who will be her math teacher at San Ignacio High School. Her mom is making Steph’s new, crispy-white Catholic uniforms for her. This was her uniform back at St. Andrew’s Anglican School.

You’ll recall that I’m raising funds at GoFundMe for Stephanie’s first high-school year. We haven’t spent any more of the donated money since the last time I updated the report at the GoFundMe account which is at the funding Website at “Stephanie’s Education Fund.”

However, I’ll be paying some if not all of the year’s tuition balance when school begins Aug. 28 for. The final deadline for full tuition is in early October.

We’ll also be shopping this week or next for school supplies, textbooks and workbooks and such. (Some of her friends have donated some of the books from their first year at St. Ignatius, which helped save a good bit of money!)

In the meantime, any donations to Stephanie’s Education Fund are much appreciated.

Go here to give–you’ll see the picture of the family at Steph’s graduation from St. Andrew’s–and thanks in advance for any amount you can spare. https://www.gofundme.com/stephanies-education-fund

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