Monthly Archives: October 2025

Passing out Halloween candy by President Trump and the First Lady at the White House was so cool; I watched the whole thing. Fresh from a successful Asian trip, Trump handed out the candy to children, chatting with kids and their parents, laughing, shaking hands, patting people on the shoulder as they passed by. Melania looked beautiful as always, bent down to speak with children as she passed out candy bars, smiled warmly as she talked with parents, and posed for a picture when asked; it was clear both enjoyed the evening with their guests.

As I was watching, I couldn’t help but wonder how the media would cover it, if they did at all. If people would just see these tender moments, I thought, what a difference it would make. Well, a difference it should make. I’m realistic enough to know that to those on the Left, none of it would matter. It’s too bad–sad, really. But I can’t let the naysayers bring me down. If they choose to feel miserable and hate, that’s on them. I choose otherwise.

I’m all in on God, my family, my country, President Trump, and our gracious First Lady, Melania.

All things work together for good for those who love God.

Here it is, Halloween, and I’m feeling safe, but it wasn’t always this way. I mean, I’m not one to believe in ghosts; hauntings were never my thing. But something happened, something I can’t explain.

It was 2021, and I was binge-watching Petticoat Junction when my screen went white. A low, unearthly hum filled the room. I heard an eerie voice say, “There is nothing wrong with your television set. Do not attempt to adjust the picture. We are controlling transmission…” and then it appeared-a ghostly apparition on my TV screen. It hovered right on the screen for a few minutes, its edges flickering with static, as if the signal itself was rotting flesh. The room felt cold, so cold the blood in my veins came to a stop. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. The flirtatious Billie Jo returned, and all was well.

But each successive Halloween the same thing would happen, only worse. The apparition appeared ghoulish, with an ashen, sunken, and almost skinless face, skin stretched so thin the face looked vacuum-sealed over bone. Hollow eyes glowed like dying embers in a skull. He looked like the Cryptkeeper from Tales from the Crypt.

At times, the apparition would float from place to place for no apparent reason, passing through the screen into the room itself. I’d catch it in the corner of my eye, drifting behind the couch, leaving a trail of cold vapor that smelled faintly of mothballs and government offices.

It spoke in a guttural, mumbling way in words not recognizable to me, but sometimes I swore I heard fragments, each syllable stretched and warped, like a tape playing the Beatles’ “Revolution 9” backward, repeating the phrase “Number nine” sounding like “Turn me on, dead man”. The words haunted me but are gone tonight.

I conducted research with local paranormal experts, and they informed me that many people have seen the same ghost-like apparition. At least I wasn’t alone. The experts called it “BIDEN.” It was the scariest four years of my life.

Note: At the suggestion of a reader on my FB page, I’ve added an alternate title.

My sister and I had a falling out years ago over our political views. We both said things in anger. We’re both stubborn. And we’re both older now, which means time is running short.

Our parents are gone. They would be heartbroken.

I remember her first time in church; she cried her eyes out. I was five years older, the protective older brother. To comfort her, I spent Sunday school class at the little kids’ table, squirting an almost-empty Elmer’s glue bottle in her face. With each puff of air, she went from smiling to laughing. Or the family vacations as kids, at the beach, a pool, or an amusement park; the shared good times of family. 

At ages nine and four, roughly, that’s what love looked like then.

As adults, the dynamic changes. We grow into our own convictions, our own lives. But those early shared experiences, moments of glue and laughter, should carry forward. They should matter more than the silence.

The Bible says: “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” -Romans 12:18 (NIV)

That verse does not promise peace; it invites effort. It does not say “agree with everyone,” but “live at peace.” There is a difference.

Sometimes the first step is not a grand gesture. It can be a quiet one: a memory shared, a note written and sent, a silent prayer. Even if the other person is not ready, you can still choose grace. Forgiveness may come later—or not at all. If the wound is deep and left to fester, it may remain. Grace doesn’t wait for an apology. It simply says, “I still care.”

If you are in a similar place, do not wait for perfect conditions. In other words, don’t wait until you are sure it will work. Just do what depends on you.

And don’t do it in baby steps. This isn’t “What About Bob?” with Bill Murray and Richard Dreyfuss. Lay it out all at once. Say what needs to be said. Because if you wait for step two, it may never come.

Reconciliation doesn’t mean abandoning your principles. It means choosing relationship over resentment. It means remembering what you once were to each other—and saying it while you still can.

No Kings? Nah, No Clues! This Anti-Trump Farce is Goofy, Misguided, and a Puppet Show for Wannabe Royals.

Well, shucks and gee willikers, yesterday’s “No Kings” blowout, with millions supposedly storming the streets to dump on Trump as some wannabe despot.

Folks are out there waving premade signs about “authoritarian excesses” like deportations and shutdowns, thinking they’re channeling the Founding Fathers to save democracy from the big orange bogeyman, call it what it is, the mental illness known as Trump Derangement Syndrome (TDS)

But here’s the goofy twist: it’s all smoke and mirrors, orchestrated by the same progressive power brokers, like MoveOn, ACLU, SEIU unions, George Soros, and the Open Society Foundations, even cameos from Kamala and AOC–who are just itching for their turn on the throne. Obama and Hillary want in, but both are used up and out of favor now.

These aren’t grassroots rebels; they’re the aspiring kings, herding your outrage into their donor-fueled empire-building for the next election cycle. It’s like mistaking the ringmaster for the lion while the clowns count the cash.
Trump? He won in ’24, fair and square, so democracy’s not under siege; it’s just got a new ringmaster. But why let facts get in the way when you can rebrand a shutdown as a “hate America” sequel?

Protesters, you’re not dethroning tyrants; you’re the paid and unpaid extras in someone else’s power play. Misguided? Check. Goofy? Tripping over your own pitchforks, ditch the signs, goofy ones, the real rebellion’s at the ballot box, where you can’t win. For now, real Americans laugh at you. We will celebrate it on July 4!

Besides, we can’t expect people who don’t know the difference between a man and a woman to understand the difference between a King and a President. And it was a day for, you know, old folks trying to relive their Vietnam protest days; trying to get in one last protest before they pass, with great grandkids in tow.

I call it the Gaza Agreement, the first phase of the peace deal between Israel and Hamas. My first thought was, ‘It won’t hold.‘ Too much history. Too much pain. Too many broken promises.

But Romans 12:18 (NIV) tells us, “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”

The verse doesn’t guarantee peace. It doesn’t pretend it’s easy. It simply calls us to try. To do our part. To live as peacemakers, even when peace feels impossible. Peace isn’t a moment; it’s a process. It takes work. There’s no magic wand. It takes work and, in my opinion, faith in God’s grace.

For me, my hope doesn’t rest solely on human effort. It’s important, but Jesus said in Matthew, “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”

Notice how Jesus prefaced His words: “With man this is impossible.“ All it means is that what seems impossible for humans is entirely possible with God.

That’s the anchor of my hope, not just for myself for this, but for the world. Even in the Middle East, where generations have known only division, peace is possible. Not because humans are perfect, but because God is faithful.

I know others walk different paths. Some find strength in other traditions, philosophies, or simply in their humanity. It doesn’t mean I believe they can’t help because they, too, can be among the peacemakers. Of course, my prayer is that one day, they’ll see the light of God’s love and accept Christ as their Lord and Savior.

Peace is possible, not because humans are perfect on their own, but because God is faithful and helps us strive for perfection. But that also means peace can fail. Not because of God. But because of us.