Tag: love

Sandwiches and Santa Claus

by earlthepearl137

WordPress sent me one of those algorithmic love notes: “You might like this blog as much as they liked yours.” It’s their way of nudging bloggers into polite reciprocity. When I first started my blog, 100% of my readers were close personal friends.  Now, 90% of subscribers are other WordPress bloggers.  She liked mine, so I clicked her link.

Her site was called _______IsAChristian. I won’t use her real name—let’s just say it was unmistakably evangelical. Now, I’ve been an atheist for twenty years, and an agnostic for twenty before that. So I approached with caution. But etiquette is etiquette. She liked my blog. I owed her a visit.

Her post was a long, winding story about her church group making sandwiches for people on the street. The kind of tale where the sandwiches are almost incidental. The real star was God—God in the bread, God in the mustard, God in the sidewalk. I read about two-thirds of it. That’s more than I give most stories.

Somewhere along the way, I left a comment. I said I wouldn’t try to debate her religion the same way I wouldn’t tell a child there’s no Santa Claus. It was a simile. It was also a little snide. But it was honest. I wasn’t trying to be cruel—I was trying to explain why I wouldn’t debate her beliefs. I figured she’d appreciate the boundary.

I followed up with something more generous: “As an atheist, I wasn’t moved by the religious framing, but I was moved by your group’s compassion for the hungry.” I meant it. The sandwiches mattered. The kindness mattered.

She replied: “You don’t love Jesus as much as I do.” And then more sermon. Less sandwich.

I commented one last time: “Bye.” And unsubscribed.

Then came the final message. A digital benediction wrapped in barbed wire:

“It was pleasure meeting, but I would be so blessed if you deleted me as a subscriber, so I don’t have to hear your negative comments on my posts because I don’t care about you, bye.”

My first reaction, of course, was “F*** you,” but I’ve learned to count to 10 when I’m mad.  My second reaction came after 2 or 3 reps of Seated Marching exercises. Ten counts on each leg. My final reply was simply “Done and Done. Bye.”

I’m telling this story from my point of view, of course. I imagine hers would be very different. Maybe she saw me as the Grinch who stole her comment section. Maybe she felt invaded. Maybe she just didn’t like the Santa Claus line.

But here’s the thing: I saw kindness in her actions. I saw people feeding the hungry. I just didn’t see the need to wrap it in theology. And maybe that’s the real divide—not belief, but packaging.

Sandwiches and Santa Claus. One nourishes the body. The other comforts the soul. And sometimes, both come with a side of unsubscribe.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

Raiders of the Lost Liquor Cabinet

by earlthepearl137

Back in the day, our basement wasn’t just a hangout—it was a teenage Shangri-La with vinyl grooves, checkerboard tiles, and just enough parental distance to feel like we were living on the edge. My brother and I would head down there with our friends to spin records, swap stories, and—unbeknownst to each other—conduct covert operations involving Dad’s liquor cabinet.

We weren’t throwing wild parties or reenacting scenes from Animal House. No, our rebellion was more… artisanal. A sip here, a splash there. Just enough to feel like we were pulling off a heist worthy of a Saturday matinee. And we had a system: mark the bottle with a crayon, take your sample, top it off with water, and erase the evidence like a magician with a disappearing act. Genius, right?

Except we were both doing it. Independently and repeatedly. By the time Dad poured himself a highball, it had the alcohol level of a snowball. His bourbon gradually became as colorless as gin with less kick than a Shirley Temple.

Our parents were highball aficionados—elegant glassware, fizzy mixers, and drinks so gentle they could’ve been served at a toddler’s tea party. The real excitement came during neighborhood card nights. At our house, the games were quiet, strategic, and sober—unless someone brought beer, which we hadn’t yet figured out how to misappropriate. But when the party moved down the block to a neighbor’s house — That’s when the cards flew, the rules bent, and the laughter spilled into the street like a runaway keg. We could hear them singing from a block away, and we knew: those folks weren’t sipping watered-down whiskey.

It wasn’t until last month, during a visit with my brother, that we finally compared notes about our teenage years. We were mildly surprised that we’d been running parallel bootlegging operations like two competing moonshiners. We laughed until our ribs hurt—not just at the memory, but at the sheer absurdity of thinking we’d fooled anyone. Dad probably knew. Maybe he even preferred his bourbon with a splash of sibling sabotage and a twist of teenage ingenuity. Maybe he was glad nobody got rip-roaring drunk in our house.

🧪 Teenage Highball Recipe

  • 1 part Dad’s bourbon
  • 3 parts tap water
  • 1 crayon (for marking the bottle)
  • 2 stealthy siblings
  • Stir with guilt. Serve with laughter.

Bottoms up!

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

The Adult in the Room

by earlthepearl137

We were taught to respect him. He wore a tie to breakfast. He had opinions on everything from foreign policy to potato salad. He shook his head at protests, praised moderation, and told stories where he was always the hero.

He was The Adult in the Room.

He built systems that favored the seasoned and the serious. He spoke in spreadsheets and nostalgia, mistaking legacy for wisdom. He said youth should “wait their turn,” even as the clock ticked toward irreversible climate change, social fracture, and another news cycle full of grief.

When the world caught fire, The Adult offered a lecture. When the oceans rose, he proposed a committee. When children cried out in fear or fury, he complimented their passion… and resumed business as usual.

But then something shifted.

It started small—barely audible under the weight of legacy. A 14-year-old refused to buy another plastic bottle. A class of 10-year-olds planted trees where asphalt had smothered their playground. Teens organized online, flooding streets not with rage, but with resolve. No party lines. No lobbyists. Just clarity.

They didn’t shout down The Adult. They simply stopped listening. They acted instead.

And it wasn’t the first time.

Youth had moved mountains before:

  • In the 1960s, college students rode buses into segregated towns and risked their lives to register voters.
  • In Soweto, 1976, students stood up to apartheid and faced down bullets so future generations might breathe freer air.
  • During the Arab Spring, youth ignited democratic sparks with nothing but hope and handheld devices.
  • After Parkland, high schoolers led marches that rattled Capitol steps and dinner table conversations across America.
  • Greta Thunberg sat alone—then inspired millions.
  • And in Uganda, young community reporters taught us that poverty isn’t hopeless if you let voices rise from the ground up.

They weren’t waiting for the world to be better. They were making it so.

The Adult in the room realized that if the world were a house on fire, youth weren’t fleeing through the exits—they were grabbing the hoses. They weren’t reckless; they were relentless. They weren’t naïve; they were awake. Where others saw smoke and chaos, they saw a chance to rebuild. They didn’t wait for permission to act—they became the response.

In boardrooms and parliaments, The Adult kept raising his hand. But votes no longer waited for him. In classrooms and studios, youth painted visions that didn’t center on him. On social media and city squares, they chanted not for power, but for possibility. They didn’t ask permission. They asked what’s next.

And gradually, The Adult in the Room grew quieter.

Not out of defeat, but recognition.

One day, at a summit meant to “restore order,” the Adult arrived early. He sat, tie knotted, notes prepped. But when the session began, something was different.

The chairs were filled with young voices. The agenda had changed. And for once… He chose to listen.

The Adult in the Room saw business opportunities, but not the damage those businesses brought to society. A fresh, altruistic approach is the only way forward—and that must come from the youth. It was young protesters who helped end the war in Vietnam. It is youth who helped end apartheid, who demanded civil rights, who called out for justice from Tunisia to Tallahassee. Now, youth movements can get us back on track to saving the planet, and saving ourselves.

“Come mothers and fathers Throughout the land And don’t criticize What you can’t understand Your sons and your daughters Are beyond your command Your old road is rapidly agin’ Please get out of the new one If you can’t lend your hand For the times they are a-changin'” – Bob Dylan

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl