November 4th, 2026

 

The Phoenix and the Elephant

A Time for Rebirth, Renewal, and the Return of the Grand Old Party

November 4, 2026

    Sometimes the greatest opportunity comes not from winning, but from losing.
   There will be a great many Americans waking up happy this morning. There will be many waking up disappointed, angry, and perhaps wondering what happened to the country they thought they knew.
      Such is the nature of elections.
    Somebody wins, somebody loses, and somewhere between the celebration and the disappointment, democracy continues its long, imperfect march forward.
   I cast my first presidential vote in 1984. I was eighteen years old, and I voted for Ronald Reagan.
      I have been a Republican ever since.
    Not necessarily the kind of Republican you see shouting on television these days. I consider myself fiscally conservative and socially moderate. I believe in personal responsibility, limited government, fiscal discipline, individual liberty, and the importance of strong families and communities.
    As a Catholic, my faith helps shape my conscience, but I have always believed that religion and politics must maintain their proper boundaries.
     Faith should guide how we treat our fellow man, not become a weapon with which to beat him. There is room for that philosophy within the Grand Old Party.
    Over the past decade, I have increasingly wondered where that room went.
   This morning, following the elections of November 3, 2026, I find myself thinking something that might surprise my fellow Republicans.
        Perhaps losing was exactly what we needed.
   Early election reporting indicates that Democrats have captured control of both the House of Representatives and the United States Senate. Republicans have suffered significant defeats, including Senate losses in states long considered reliably conservative. The final accounting is still underway, but the message from voters is unmistakable.
    The American electorate has delivered a rebuke, but a rebuke need not be a death sentence. Sometimes it is an invitation. Sometimes it is an opportunity to begin again, and sometimes, before something can be rebuilt, something else must finally be allowed to fall.
   For more than a decade, the Republican Party has been tied to Donald Trump.
   His arrival in presidential politics in 2015 changed the party in ways few could have imagined. He energized millions of voters who felt forgotten by Washington. He challenged political conventions, questioned longstanding institutions, and gave voice to frustrations that traditional Republican leaders had failed to address.
    Those accomplishments and their consequences deserve acknowledgment, whether one admires the man or not. However, somewhere along the way, the Republican Party became less a party of principles and more a party organized around one personality.
     Loyalty to a man increasingly replaced loyalty to an idea. Disagreement became betrayal and compromise became weakness. Political opponents became enemies rather than fellow Americans with different opinions.
    The party of Reagan had become the party of Trump. There is a difference.
    Reagan was certainly partisan. He fought for his beliefs and challenged his opponents, but he also understood that governing required relationships, negotiation, and occasionally accepting something less than everything one wanted.
   He worked with Democratic Speaker Tip O'Neill despite their considerable philosophical differences. They could disagree fiercely during the day and still recognize each other's humanity when the work was finished.
      That seems almost quaint today.
  Our politics have become an endless contest of insults, accusations, grievances, and personal destruction.
     Before Democrats begin congratulating themselves too enthusiastically, they ought to examine their own house. Their party has its own ideological divisions, its own extremes, and its own troubling tendency to confuse disagreement with moral failure.
    Neither party holds a monopoly on virtue. Neither holds a monopoly on foolishness, and neither has demonstrated much recent enthusiasm for working with the other.
              But I am a Republican.
   The Democratic Party can conduct its own examination of conscience.
Mine belongs to the Grand Old Party, and I believe the next two years offer Republicans an extraordinary opportunity.
     Donald Trump is constitutionally barred from seeking another elected presidential term. His presidency has entered its closing chapter, and with Democrats preparing to control Congress, his legislative ambitions face substantial obstacles.
   There will undoubtedly be investigations, accusations, vetoes, political theater, and endless television appearances. The shouting will continue.
The finger-pointing will continue. Washington will probably spend more time assigning blame than solving problems.
     Republicans do not have to spend the next two years participating in every argument. We can choose to rebuild instead. We can begin asking what it means to be a Republican without Donald Trump standing at the center of every conversation.
     We can rediscover fiscal responsibility without abandoning compassion. We can defend individual liberty without treating those who disagree with us as enemies. We can embrace traditional values without insisting that every American live precisely as we do. Perhaps most importantly, we can learn to disagree among ourselves without trying to destroy one another.
    A political party cannot govern a divided nation if it cannot tolerate disagreement within its own ranks.
         There is a lesson here from an unlikely place.
       Last month, Indiana University's football team lost to Ohio State.
The Hoosiers entered that October 17 game carrying a remarkable twenty-two-game winning streak. They had become accustomed to winning, and with every victory came the growing burden of protecting that streak.
     Ohio State defeated Indiana, 19–15, ending the longest active winning streak in college football.
      The loss was painful, but I wondered whether it might also prove liberating.
     No longer would Indiana have to defend twenty-two consecutive victories.
There would be no twenty-third game to protect the streak, no twenty-fourth, no twenty-fifth.
       The burden was gone.
   The team could return to the simpler business of playing football. Preparing, competing, and improving one game at a time. Sometimes a winning streak becomes a weight. Sometimes success creates expectations that prevent honest self-examination. Sometimes losing removes the very thing that has been holding you back.
      Last night, Republicans lost more than congressional seats.
   They may have been handed an opportunity to put down a burden they have carried for more than a decade. The burden of defending every statement, every controversy, every personal grievance, and every political battle surrounding Donald Trump.
       That does not mean abandoning conservative principles.
     It means remembering that those principles existed long before Donald Trump entered politics and should survive long after he leaves Washington. The Republican Party belongs to no single man. It belongs to generations of Americans who believed that government should serve its citizens rather than command them. It belongs to those who value hard work, responsibility, opportunity, and freedom. It belongs to people who understand that strength and decency are not mutually exclusive, and it ought to have room for moderates like me.
     I do not know who will emerge as the Republican presidential nominee in 2028. Perhaps that person is already serving in Congress or governing a state.
Perhaps it is someone whose name is barely known outside a small political circle, but whoever emerges should understand something fundamental.
    America does not need another political savior. It needs leadership. Leadership that listens. Leadership that understands compromise is not surrender. Leadership that recognizes Democrats are not the enemy, and Republicans are not automatically the answer.
      We are Americans first and if we cannot remember that no election victory will ever repair what has been broken.
    The next two years should not be spent waiting for Donald Trump to fail or hoping Democrats stumble. That would merely continue the politics of resentment.
     Instead, Republicans should use this time to examine their mistakes, welcome new voices, restore civility, and develop serious solutions to the problems facing ordinary Americans.
     Let the president govern as best he can. Let the Democrats govern as best they can and let Republicans decide what kind of party they intend to become.
    There is an ancient image of the phoenix, a magnificent bird consumed by flames only to rise again from its own ashes.
     Rebirth requires destruction of what came before, but the ashes are not the end of the story. They can be the beginning.
    The Grand Old Party has endured civil war, economic depression, political scandal, ideological conflict, and extraordinary changes in American society.
     It has survived before and it can survive again, but survival alone is not enough.
    It must become worthy of the American people's trust. Last night was a defeat for the GOP, but it cannot be looked as a defeat to America.
     This morning can be the beginning. The elephant has stumbled. The phoenix has an opportunity to rise, and perhaps the greatest victory the Republican Party can achieve in 2028 will begin with what it learns from losing in 2026.

November 3rd, 2026

 
“The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.”
         William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
    When I turned eighteen, my mother took me to vote in my first presidential election. It was 1984. My ma voted for Walter Mondale, and I voted for Ronald Reagan.
     My Oldman had a different lesson about elections. He told me it was important to vote for your president, your senators, and your congressman. He believed the elections closest to your front door deserved just as much attention, if not more.
    The mayor, the village board, the school board, the county officials, the tax collector, the dog catcher, and especially the judges.
        Dad was relentless about judges.
   Do your homework, he said. Find out who is qualified, who understands the law, and who has earned the privilege of sitting on the bench. A black robe is not a lifetime achievement award, and the taxpayers are not running a retirement home for political hacks that can’t hold a real job.
     He also wanted me to keep an eye on the assclowns who have their hands in my knickers every time I turn around. The greedy pricks reaching for my wallet.
    Property taxes, water bills, gas taxes, electric bills, and infrastructure. Roads that look like they survived the Battle of the Bulge. Schools that need to educate children instead of merely spending money on union strikes.
   Who is minding the store? Who is spending the money? Who is getting rich while telling the rest of us to tighten our belts?
     Shakespeare understood the danger long before anybody invented a political action committee.
      “The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins remorse from power.”
 That is the trouble with power. Too many people want the authority, but too few want the accountability.
    My political philosophy has never been particularly complicated. Give me a job. Don't take too much of my paycheck. Protect me from assholes, and let me move around freely, provided I am not being an asshole myself.
    Take care of the young. Take care of the old. Take care of the American soldier. Stand by our allies and scare the living shit out of our enemies.
              …And for God's sake, fix the potholes.
   We have spent 250 years arguing about whether this country is swinging too far left or too far right. We have survived wars, depressions, scandals, crooks, fools, and more than a few elected officials who couldn't see the difference between their rearends and a hole in the ground.
   Royko called them mealy mouths, Mayor Daley called them fakers, and my Oldman said they talked like men with paper assholes.
    We have had our difficulties, but the Republic is still standing.
 Not because politicians are particularly brilliant, but because generations of ordinary Americans have gone to work, raised families, paid taxes, served their communities, and kept this country of ours moving along.
      Because enough people have cared to hold their government accountable and today we get another chance.
    I don't particularly give two shits who you vote for. That is between you, your conscience, and the little curtain at the polling place.
       But vote.
 Read about the judges. Know who is spending your money and where it is going. Understand who is making decisions about your neighborhood, your schools, and the streets you drive every morning.
    Because the people who make those decisions will still be there tomorrow, long after the campaign signs have disappeared.
       And one last thing.
  If you are going to spend the next few years bitching and moaning about the government, the taxes, the politicians, and the general state of the American experiment, you'd better have an “I Voted” sticker on your lapel today.
     Otherwise, save the sermon.
You have no business complaining about who is running the store if you couldn't be bothered to walk through the front door.
     Today is going to make Thanksgiving a little more colorful.

November 2nd, 2026

 
“Be like a clock, keep ticking…”
       All right, here we go. The first weekday with sunsets before dinnertime.
    I am a little sad that my 2026 balcony cocktail season has officially ended.
I will miss saying hello to the half-dozen regular dog walkers who make their daily rounds along Lincoln Avenue. I won’t see the tattooed runner making his late-afternoon jog. I will miss the bearded dad strolling along with a toddler at his feet and a baby strapped to his belly.
    I will miss the elderly couples getting their steps in, still holding hands after all those years of walking through life together.
   There is something particularly touching about those couples. Over the years, I have watched a few return the following spring walking alone. Somewhere between balcony seasons, a husband or wife became a widow or widower.
   That is a sobering reminder of just how life can change while we are waiting for the weather to warm up.
     Perhaps the regular who stays with me most is the elderly father who slowly walks Lincoln Avenue alongside his middle-aged son with special needs.
    I wonder about them often. About the years they have shared, the responsibilities of fatherhood that never really end, and the quiet devotion found in something as ordinary as an afternoon walk. There is a shit ton of life passing beneath my balcony, and plenty of love too.
    Between today and next March, when the 2027 balcony cocktail season begins, any number of things could change. Familiar faces might not return, and new ones might appear. Children will be a little bigger, parents a little older, and the rest of us will have another winter under our belts.
       Life is fragile that way.
   I did manage to close out the season on a happy note. Along with tossing out candy bars from the third floor balcony to the Halloween trick-or-treaters, I made sure to take care of a few of my regular neighbors who passed by.
   A small thank-you for making my ordinary afternoons something I look forward to.
    Come next spring, I will be back on that balcony, cocktail in hand, ready to say hello to strangers and neighbors.
  Hopefully, all those familiar faces will be there to say hello back.
       Until then, I will just keep ticking.
   There is a Bears game tonight. I figure I’ll be sound asleep sometime after the first quarter.

November 1st, 2026

 
   It is All Saints' Day for us Catholic League kids. It is also Autistics Speaking Day.
  That second one hits particularly close to home for a father raising an adult son with autism.
   I could have taken the easy way out this morning. I could have chalked something about National Calzone Day, National Cinnamon Day, or even World Vegan Day.
   I decided to tackle the Almighty, autism, fatherhood, and the American family. All before my proper Sunday breakfast.
  Today's quote tells us that the task ahead of us is never greater than the strength within us. I have spent a good part of my sixty years trying to understand that.
       For me, it comes down to four words.
              His will be done.
  My Catholic faith has always taught me that the Heavenly Father doesn't abandon us when life gets difficult. He gives us the strength to face what is put before us, even when we aren't particularly convinced we have that strength.
      Sometimes, I think He has a peculiar sense of humor.
    Consider the American family portrait. We have all seen those pictures on Facebook.
    There is the perfect family. Everyone wearing matching sweaters, flashing big smiles on a ski trip somewhere or they are standing on the sidelines, huddled around Jimmy after his last football game at Saint Basil's.
    Mom and Dad are holding hands. The kids are smiling. Even the dog is looking at the camera. Everything is wonderful.
     Then there is the other family portrait.
 The husband is standing on one side of the picture, and the wife is as far away as humanly possible on the other. Both are wearing tired smiles.
     One kid is looking off to the side, refusing to make eye contact with the camera. Another is slumped over in an anarchy T-shirt, with sadness in his eyes. The youngest is standing off to the side with a shit-eating grin and a nonchalant middle finger.
    There is an ashtray on the table, a couple of empty beer cans, and a kitchen sink full of dirty dishes in the background. Nobody thought to straighten up before taking the picture.
    We have all seen those plastic, I mean, perfect family portraits, and we have seen the messy, upside-down ones.
   The trouble is that we have a habit of assuming the first family has everything figured out.
No drama, no police reports, no bad grades, no affairs, and no financial problems. Just matching sweaters and happy endings.
     Photographs don't tell us much about what happens after the camera is put away.
    That second family might have a child with autism who doesn't particularly care to look into a camera. Another child might be struggling with sadness or feeling overlooked because so much attention goes toward a sibling who needs extra help.
      And the third kid?
        Well, maybe he is just struggling to get through the shitshow.
  Meanwhile, Mom and Dad have drifted so far apart that the distance between them in the photograph is the least of their problems.
   Look back a few years ago, and you might find pictures of those same two people standing together, young and in love, convinced they had the whole world figured out.
     Life has a way of rearranging the furniture, and sometimes it knocks the dysfunctional house upside down.
   My family looks a lot more like the second picture. The parents are rarely photographed together. One of my children has struggled with sadness. Another is trying to find his way through life. And the oldest talks loudly, talks constantly, and notices things the rest of us never seem to see.
     His name is George and he has autism.
 Five years ago, that kid climbed onto his bike in the middle of the night and rode six miles through some sketchy neighborhoods to come live with me in Riverside.
   He hasn't left my side since and there is a decent chance he will be with me until the day I rejoin my parents.
   I am not chalking this to brag about my fatherhood or bitch about the hand I was dealt. I am chalking it because the Heavenly Father knew George and I needed each other.
    George talks loudly, often nonstop, and rarely seems to listen to a fucking word I say, but he notices the little things.
    Things I walk past every day without giving them a second thought.
He sees details I miss. He understands things that leave me scratching my head.
     When my home computer starts flickering while I am trying to buy a thousand put spreads, George gets it working for me.
      Here is the part of George that means the most to me.
  Almost every night, he comes into my bedroom, tucks me in, and tells me he loves me.
    …And that is something.
Because when I tell George I love him, he generally responds with one of two things.
    "Okay."
       Or...
        "I know."
     That is George.
  Love expressed on his terms, in his own way, and on his own schedule. I would not trade those moments for any matching sweater photographs.
    I don't know why some families seem to sail through life while others spend their days bailing water out of the boat. I don't pretend to understand all of God's intentions. There is a reason George and I are together.
   Maybe I am supposed to teach him how to navigate this world, and maybe he is supposed to teach me how to see it.
     Perhaps we are both works in progress.
  That is where today's All Saints' Day comes into the picture.
For us Catholic League kids, the saints remind us that holiness is not reserved for people who lived perfect lives. It is found in sacrifice, patience, forgiveness, perseverance, and love.
     Sometimes those things are practiced in a messy kitchen, with a sink full of dishes, by people who are simply doing their best to get through another day.
    I have come to appreciate those imperfect family pictures. What you see is what you get, and I have learned not to assume the perfect family photographs are telling the whole story, either.
   Every family has its own bullshit and shenanigans. Some just have better lighting. The real difference isn't between families who have problems and families who do not.
     It is what we do with the problems we have. Whether we show up. Whether we forgive. Whether we love each other when loving each other is not particularly easy. Whether we remember that the person standing next to us might be fighting a battle we know absolutely nothing about.
        So, Chalkheads, remember this.
   Every one of us has something stressful jagging up our lives. That is why Chalkhead Nation needs to support one another.
     Straight on, without judgment, and without the bullshit.
    His will be done.
     Go get some gusto and know that November brings astonishment.

October 31st, 2026

   
    It is the last day of October. It is Halloween, and it is the final day of daylight saving time.
    While we are sleeping tonight…
        …well, while I am sleeping and some of you are stumbling home from Halloween costume parties, our clocks will turn back an hour.
   All this really does is rearrange the lightness and darkness in our days.
It doesn't give us another hour of life. It simply moves the daylight around.
    I have been thinking about that hour and the new arrangement we will be living with for the next 133 days.
   We won't move our clocks forward again until March 14th, 2027. There is quite a bit on the calendar between now and then.
  We start with an opportunity to rearrange our government at the ballot box this coming Tuesday. Then comes Armistice Day, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas, and the arrival of 2027.
           And, for some of us, Dry January.
   That is a lot of living to squeeze into 133 days, but I have been thinking that these next four and a half months might also give us an opportunity to rearrange some of the darkness and lightness in our own lives.
    I have been calling it wintering these last few years. A time to work on both my heart and my soul. A time to take inventory of what I have done, what I have lost, what I have learned, and what I still want to accomplish. A time to figure out where the fuck John Shepley fits into this whole scheme of things.
             … And believe me, that remains a work in progress.
   I am not going to chalk out a list of suggestions or some grand master plan for how we should all go about wintering. We each have our own ways of cleansing, healing, reflecting, and finding a little peace.
Some of us need solitude.
Some need company.
Some need forgiveness.
Some of us simply need to forgive ourselves.
     I am going to make one recommendation.
            Just one.
               Buy new lightbulbs!
  I have got these lightbulbs around my home that brighten and dim with a remote control. They change colors, moods, and the whole atmosphere of a room. Tonight I am going orange for Halloween.
    The next few weeks, in particular, are going to be increasingly dark. The sun will disappear earlier, the evenings will stretch longer, and winter will begin settling in around us.
      We can't do much about the darkness outside our windows, but we can do something about the light inside our homes.
   And maybe, just maybe, that is a pretty good place to start.
                Buy new lightbulbs!

October 30th, 2026

 

Today's quote mentions two things I do a shit ton of, worry and pray.

    I tend to pray the most for those I worry about the most. The funny thing is that I don't worry about myself nearly as much as I did when I was younger.

    The prayers for myself these days usually involve catching that green light up the road or asking the Good Lord to help the Bears and White Sox win a few more games.

    Apparently divine intervention has its limitations when it comes to touchdowns and homeruns.

   I have also learned not to sweat the small crap that is beyond my control. Some things aren't mine to decide, and no amount of worrying is going to change that.

         So, fuck it.

       There is a certain freedom in accepting that.

   On this date in 1938, Orson Welles frightened a good portion of America with his infamous radio adaptation of The War of the Worlds.

    He used a medium that was still relatively young to convince his audience that Martians had invaded New Jersey.

    It became one of broadcasting's earliest examples of the power of media to create panic, although the extent of the hysteria was greatly exaggerated.

    Nearly ninety years later, we have perfected the art of frightening ourselves. Only now, instead of Martians invading New Jersey, we have twenty-four-hour news channels, social media prophets, and keyboard bullies convincing us that the world is ending before breakfast. We have either come a long way or dug ourselves one hell of a deep hole.

    I still listen to those old radio programs every Saturday afternoon on WDCB. I have been listening to Those Were the Days since I was a little boy sitting on my Oldman's lap.

       Just like that, October is packing its bags.

   This is it, Chalkheads. Turn those clocks back this weekend. The season of wintering is upon us.

      There is a silver lining…

      Twenty-four-hour Christmas music returns to 93.9 FM next week.

A little Sinatra, a little Bing, a little Wham and a reminder that there is still some good in this wacky world.

     Finish October strong, Chalkheads.

            Worry a little less. Pray a little more and be ready for the gusto and astonishment waiting for us in November.

October 29th, 2026

 

    A cat that dreams of becoming a lion must lose its appetite for rats…

   We all spend part of our lives chasing things that eventually lose their appeal. What seemed important at twenty doesn't necessarily matter at forty, and by sixty, you begin to wonder why you wasted time chasing stupid shit in the first place.

   A lion doesn't become a lion without hard work and instinct. He needs to change his appetite and hunting patterns. He has to stop settling for the trivial things that keep him from becoming something greater.

       And that is the trick to growing older. Knowing when to stop chasing rats.

     Today is National Oatmeal Day.

   I enjoy a hot bowl of oatmeal a couple of times a week. My ma made me a bowl on the first day of school every year, from kindergarten through my senior year at Dear Old Cathedral. From Sister Balthazar to Father Kelly... 

  ...seventeen years of first-day jitters, Catholic girl uniforms, freshly sharpened pencils, and a bowl of oatmeal made by someone who loved me.

   The Board of Trade cafeteria made a helluva bowl of oatmeal. Nothing hit the spot like a steaming bowl after a bitter winter walk from the Lake Street el to the opening bell in the bond room.

   Back then, I was a young lion with an enormous appetite. I wanted to make money, make a name for myself, and make my way in the world.

     Forty years later, I still have some of that appetite, but the menu has changed with wisdom and instinct.

   This morning, before heading off to work, I got to kiss both of my sons and tuck them in. I spoil those two magnificent bastards, and I make absolutely no apologies for being their Oldman.

     Funny how life works. You spend your younger years trying to become a lion, only to discover that life's greatest pleasures are as simple as a bowl of oatmeal, a mother's love, and kissing your children goodbye before the sun comes up.

     Maybe the lion's greatest accomplishment isn't what he manages to catch. Maybe it is what he learns to cherish.

        Gusto and astonishing performances today, Chalkheads!

October 28th, 2026

 

        You got to pray just to make it today…

   Stanley Burrell might not be the first person you think of when it comes to spiritual guidance, but the man had a point.

    It seems that over the last few days, I have added more people to my prayers.

My morning prayer.

My driving-to-work prayer.

My biscuit-break prayer.

My teatime prayer.

My nighttime recap prayer.

    Apparently, my prayer list is growing faster than my Christmas list.

 I think it is pretty clear to the Chalkhead Nation that I am a foul-mouthed Catholic kid.

   I have been getting paid to scream and yell for forty years. Bids, novenas, offers, and litanies. I have a deep Chicagonese accent, a vocabulary that I picked up as an altar boy, and I am pretty fucking fond of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

   In fact, I catch her having breakfast with my ma and gramma when I am saying my driving-to-work prayers.

     I like that picture. Three women that I love sitting around a kitchen table somewhere in heaven, having a cup of coffee, a cinnamon roll, sharing some gossip, and shaking their heads at the bullshit going on down here on earth.

   Especially my shenanigans and stunts…..

   Today, I thought I would share my driving-to-work prayer with the Chalkhead Nation.

    Of all the prayers I say throughout the day, this is the only one that remains the same.

    Every morning, word for word.

  It needs to be uniform because, while I'm concentrating on my faith, I also need to concentrate on the road.

     After all, I don't think the Good Lord wants me rear-ending somebody on Mannheim Road while asking for a little divine intervention.

    So here it is. Never shared or heard in public before this morning. Someone should notify Geraldo Rivera.

      Jumbo’s Driving-to-Work Prayer.

Good morning, God.

Good morning, Jesus.

Good morning, Mary and Joseph.

Good morning to all you angels and saints and all my brothers and sisters who have gone up to heaven before me.

Look down upon me and bless me.

Forgive me of all my sins.

Give me the strength to be a better person today and know how much I love you.

Look down upon those who have asked me to pray for them.

Look down upon those for whom I have promised to pray.

Look down upon Jojo and Uncle Bill out in Wyoming and his family.

Look down upon Terese and George and Fritz and Hazel.

Look down upon my Uncle Chris, my Aunt Barb, my cousin Ann and her family, my cousin Trish and her family, and my cousin Chucky.

Look down upon all my dear and close friends.

All those who have come around through the years and, at one point, thought that I was kind of special.

Look down upon my colleagues, my neighbors, and my acquaintances.

Bless them all.

Give them the strength to get through this day!

 … and let the devil know I plan to fuck up his day today.

Amen.

     It isn’t a fancy prayer or something Leo is going to repeat in the Vatican. There aren't any big theological words or passages from Scripture. It is just a conversation between a Catholic kid from Saint Ita and the people he believes are listening.

      I do not pretend to understand how prayer works. I do not know why some prayers seem to be answered while others leave us scratching our heads.

    And I sure as fuck don't believe that saying a prayer guarantees that everything is going to turn out the way we want.

    But I do believe there is something powerful about taking a few minutes out of your day to think about somebody other than yourself.

To remember the people who are struggling.

To remember the people who are sick.

To remember the people who have lost somebody they love.

     And to remember the people who might just need a little help getting through another Wednesday.

   Maybe prayer changes things. Maybe prayer changes us. Maybe it is a little of both. I don't know because prayer is just another mystery of our faith.

    Somewhere between Riverside and Heaven, every morning, I have a conversation with Papa God, His long-haired Son, the Holy Ghost, and the Blessed Virgin.

   I ask them to forgive me for yesterday, help me be a better man today, and keep an eye on the people I love.

    Somewhere up in heaven, I like to think my ma and gramma are finishing their breakfast with the Blessed Virgin Mary. My ma is probably apologizing because I still swear too much.

       And Mary is probably smiling and saying…

                    "Cecilia, at least your boy remembers to call."

     Have a wonderful Wednesday, Chalkhead Nation. If somebody crosses your mind today, say a little prayer for them.

    It doesn't cost anything. You don't need to make an appointment, and you never know how much they might need it.

     After all, you got to pray just to make it today.

                                     2 Legit 2 Legit 2 Quit.