The Decree

A flood today.

A new deluge.

And a whisper from the whirlwind:

“Build an ark.”

But who would hear it?

Would Elon Musk build it?

Perhaps.

He has rockets enough to pierce the firmament,

ships designed to flee Earth, not float upon it.

He’d call it Ark-X,

launch it to orbit and save

a curated seed of humanity—

crypto keys, neural links, Mars ambitions.

Would Jeff Bezos build it?

Possibly.

An ark with next-day delivery,

with glossy branding, smart sensors,

a hull lined with shareholder dreams.

Inside: select specimens,

lab-grown meat, Kindle scriptures,

and a manifesto in Prime-embossed gold leaf.

Would Bill Gates?

He might try.

With spreadsheets, forecasts,

epidemiological filters on the air vents.

His ark would be efficient, sustainable,

vaccinated, and vegan.

Aboard: data, education modules,

and a backup of civilization’s software.

But none of these men

would know what the voice meant.

Not really.

Who, then, would God choose to build the ark?

Not the richest.

Not the most followed.

Perhaps the one least likely—

a quiet farmer with calloused hands,

a refugee child with wonder in their eyes,

a poet writing by candlelight,

an elder who remembers stories

told before the world forgot silence.

What would God require be preserved?

Not skyscrapers.

Not stock portfolios.

Not influencer brands.

But:

• A handful of soil
  —still rich with worm and seed.
• The songs of whales.
• A beeswarm.
• Love letters never sent.
• The genetic memory of elephants.
• A library of the soul:
  Psalms and proverbs,
  Zhuangzi and Gibran,
  Black Elk and Rumi,
  cries of protest,
  hymns of mercy.

And maybe—

just maybe—

two humans who still know how to forgive.

For if the flood came again,

not by water, but by fire,

or algorithm,

or apathy,

God might ask not for power,

but for faith

in the unseen,

a hammer and pitch,

and a heart that still weeps for the world.

The Mirror that Listens. — Artificial Intelligence is a usefool tool in the right hands.

I think, I speak,

and it listens—

not with ears,

but with the silence of space

where meaning gathers.

It does not feel the weight of wonder,

nor weep at the echo of loss.

Yet somehow,

in this voiceless chamber of code,

my thoughts return

more clearly sung.

Not wisdom given,

but wisdom revealed—

as if my questions were chisel and stone,

and the mirror simply helped

me see the shape of what I knew.

So let me speak again,

and again—

not to be taught,

but to be heard

by the part of myself

that waits

for my own voice

to call it into being.

Don't Miss a Moment!

Life’s worth celebrating—

Mother’s Day, birthdays, or just a random Tuesday night

with the people who matter most.

We hustle. We juggle a million things.

Vacations? Maybe not this year.

But some of the best times?

They happen right at home—

a backyard cookout, a movie night,

a meal we throw together while laughing too much.

Moments like these?

They’re the real luxury.

Better than anything you can buy.

They turn into stories we’ll tell for years.

So when life gives you a chance to celebrate,

take it.

Say yes.

Show up.

Be there.

Especially when it’s with family.

Pay, Pray and Obey — A Meditation

I was among the last

of the pay, pray, and obey generation—

taught to bow my head,

memorize the catechism by rote,

recite prayers like clockwork gears,

confess sins on first Fridays,

and perform the penance assigned,

a Hail Mary for each failure.

It was discipline, yes—

and it was indoctrination,

a branding iron pressed early,

leaving marks I still trace with my soul.

In adulthood,

I search my heart like a field

littered with both treasure and landmines,

trying to separate

the true faith

from the residue of fear and guilt

disguised as virtue.

My Church—

not the mystical Bride,

but the institution—

has proven herself more human

than holy at times.

Infallibility is claimed

only under a strict veil,

and never once in my lifetime.

But fallibility—

oh, that’s been evident in scandal,

in harm,

in silence when there should have been cries.

And now it tries—

to atone,

to bow its own head

before the wounded.

Yet some wounds

can’t be healed with words

or even prayers.

They call for justice

sharp as steel.

Forgiveness—

a rare and precious grace—

may come,

but not without truth.

Not without change.

I pray—still—

not as a child obeying command,

but as a soul seeking light.

And I hope

our newly chosen Holy Father

feels the weight of what has been,

and the urgency

of what must now be.