Author: Tom Darby

More than once, I’ve been told that now is the time to “turn the other cheek.” That advice usually comes my way after some ruckus–whether a family squabble, a political shouting match, or someone honking at me because I took a half-second too long when the light turned green. But the most recent reminder came after the assassination of Charlie Kirk.

And no, I’m not here to debate politics, conspiracy theories, or who was right and wrong. My take is much simpler–I’ve already turned my cheek, and it’s been that way for so long that if I swivel any further, I’ll look like an owl trying to reverse into traffic.

But before we get too tangled, let me explain where this whole “turning the other cheek” thing comes from. Back in the days when Jesus walked the dusty roads of Galilee, Rome had the power and Rome made the rules.

Romans were legally allowed to slap Jews in the face, usually with the back of the hand. The point wasn’t to hurt so much as to humiliate, to remind the Jews of their “place.”

Now, here’s the clever bit–if a Jew turned his head after the first slap, he forced the Roman into a choice. A second strike would have to come with the open palm.

And that was a problem, because in Roman culture, an open-handed slap wasn’t for subordinates. It was the kind of blow you gave to an equal in a heated argument.

In other words, the Jew, without lifting a fist or raising a weapon, had quietly forced the Roman to admit equality. That’s not just passive resistance–it’s passive rebellion.

A way of saying, “You can strike me, but you will not diminish me.”

And let me tell you, there’s a certain beauty in that kind of defiance. So yes, I’ve turned my cheek, not because I’m too weak to fight back, but because turning it is its own kind of fight.

Now, I’m no saint. I’ve raised my voice, muttered a few sharp words under my breath, and even once slammed the door so hard Buddy hid under the dinner table.

I’ve got a temper that pops up like toast if you leave me too long with people who chew ice or insist on explaining “how things really are.” But when it comes to the deeper stuff–when it comes to keeping my dignity intact in the face of insult or injury–I’ve learned that turning the other cheek is sometimes the only move left on the board.

It’s also, oddly enough, the move that leaves me smiling.

Let me give you a small example. The other day, I was in the hardware store trying to navigate the aisle without running over anyone with my cart, which wobbled like a baby giraffe on roller skates.

I was hunting for a box of screws when a fellow customer shoved past me, gave me a look like I’d stolen the last crust of bread in wartime, and muttered something about “people these days.”

Now, old me might have muttered right back. Maybe even followed a few steps so they knew I wasn’t going to take it lying down.

But instead, I thought of “turn the other cheek.” So I smiled, tipped my head, and said, “Have a good morning.”

The poor guy nearly tripped over his own shoelaces trying to figure out what to do with that. And I walked away with my screws and my peace intact.

That’s the thing about cheek-turning–it unsettles the other person far more than lobbing an insult ever would. Because when you don’t respond the way they expect, you’ve already won.

Now, don’t mistake turning the cheek for rolling over. I’m not suggesting you let yourself get treated like a doormat.

You can turn your cheek with steel in your spine and a glint in your eye. It’s rebellion wrapped in kindness, defiance packaged as dignity, and sometimes it’s just common sense.

After all, if I got into a fistfight every time someone insulted me, I’d never have time for breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

And half the things that get us riled up aren’t worth the blood pressure anyway. The neighbor who lets his dog bark at 2 a.m., a coworker who steals your stapler and pretends it’s his, or the person online who insists on typing in ALL CAPS LIKE THEY RE YELLING AT THE ENTIRE WORLD.

Are these worth throwing punches over? No.

But turning the cheek doesn’t mean you stay silent forever. Words are powerful–sometimes more so than fists–and used well, they’re sharper than any slap. A calm, pointed remark, spoken with humor, can make the other person realize they’ve lost without you ever breaking a sweat.

That’s what I mean when I say I’ve already turned. When the world strikes me with its backhanded slaps—through loss, through insult, through tragedy–I turn.

I don’t turn because I’m afraid, but because I know that I’m standing taller. Some people call that weakness. I call it strategy.

Have you turned your cheek yet? Maybe you’ve been holding back, thinking that to do so would be to let “them” win.

But the truth is, when you turn your cheek, you’ve already shifted the game. You’ve refused to let someone else dictate your response, and in that small, stubborn act, you’ve claimed your dignity back.

Sure, it feels strange at first. You’ll feel the sting of the first slap, literal or figurative, and your gut reaction will be to lash out. But when you resist that urge and instead turn, calmly, deliberately–you’ll be amazed at the power that wells up inside you.

Turning the other cheek is like saying, “I see your contempt, and I raise you my dignity.”

And there’s humor in it, too, if you let yourself see it. Watch the expression on someone’s face who’s expecting fireworks but gets a smile instead.

It’s priceless. It’s like giving someone a wrapped gift box. The person feels confused, agitated, and suddenly angry without an outlet.

So I keep my cheeks ready, not because I enjoy getting slapped around by life, but because each turn is a reminder–I am not less, and will not be diminished. And if you want to try again, well–good luck with my other side.

Because at the end of the day, I’d rather walk away smiling with my box of wood screws than storm off angry and empty-handed. So yes, I’ve turned the other cheek, and more than once.

Sometimes clumsily, sometimes with style, but always with the knowledge that the act itself is its own quiet rebellion.

How about you? Have you turned yours yet–or are you still standing there, red-faced and ready to swing?

Did you see or participate in the mass protests and riots staged by “right wing extremists” after the assassination of Charlie Kirk?

No? Me neither.

That’s because they didn’t happen. Not even a single trash can fire or a looted Dollar General. Not a single shoe store cleaned out, unless you count that one guy in Tulsa who bought his own boots on sale and went home happy.

It’s funny, in the sad kind of way, that whenever tragedy strikes one side of the fence, the media bristles for fireworks—whole newsrooms leaning forward in their chairs, like dogs waiting for the dinner bell. They’re poised to show you smashed glass, stolen flat-screens, and folks running around in masks carrying things they didn’t buy.

But when the bell doesn’t ring—when all you get is prayer vigils, casseroles, and a bunch of folks hugging each other in church basements—the cameras somehow get very shy. Instead of riots, we got quiet.

We got folks meeting in living rooms and bowing their heads in prayer. We got grandparents telling their grandchildren why faith doesn’t falter just because the world takes away a man.

You’d think, in a sane world, that would be news. That peace would be headline-worthy.

But peace doesn’t sell ads, and it doesn’t whip up fear, and it doesn’t keep people glued to the television waiting for the next firebomb. Peace, by its very nature, is boring to people who don’t live in it.

I can hear the critics now: “Well, they just didn’t care enough to riot.”

Hogwash. It’s because the critics cared more about the message than the man.

Charlie didn’t tell people to fight in the streets. Said to stand, to speak, to reason, and to pray. That doesn’t translate to bricks through windows, no matter how much a headline-writer might wish it did.

You know what happened? Moms hugged their sons a little longer before sending them off to work. Dads sharpened their old tools and reminded themselves that raising a family is the real resistance. Neighbors waved at each other across fences, not because they agreed on everything, but because they knew life is too short to stew in hatred.

Meanwhile, on social media, there was plenty of gnashing of teeth. Folks posted memes, wrote long rants, and some unfriended each other—because apparently nothing says “I love free speech” quite like hitting the block button.

But that was about as violent as it got. If you count words as bullets, then maybe, yes, there was a firefight. But if you count peace as strength, then we stood unshaken.

The truth is, restraint is harder than rage. Anybody can light a match; it takes a grown-up to put the lighter down.

Anybody can scream; it takes discipline to whisper a prayer. And when you’re hurting, restraint looks like weakness—but only from the outside, because on the inside, it’s a furnace, roaring to keep you from freezing solid.

So no, I didn’t see a riot. I saw folks take their grief and aim it heavenward.

I saw people choosing to live out the values Charlie debated rather than stain them with the same violence they’d condemned in others. And if that’s boring, then give me boring all day long.

Someday, someone will write the history of this moment, scratching their head, wondering why the “angry extremists” stayed home. And if they’re honest, they’ll see the answer was simple–because love doesn’t need to burn down a city to prove itself.

And if they’re dishonest, well, they’ll probably still say there were riots, but you and I will know better.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we live in a country where a bartender can land in jail for serving one too many beers, while a judge can turn a violent criminal loose on the public and go home to a steak dinner.

Think about that for a second. A bartender, in the middle of a Friday-night rush, has maybe ten seconds to size up whether a fellow is buzzed or bombed. One bad call, and if that customer crashes a car later, the bartender can be charged right alongside him.

Now let’s move up the ladder. A judge, sitting in a quiet courtroom, has an entire file on the person.

Pages of priors, details of violence, reports from probation officers — the whole sordid history. Sixteen convictions.

No problem. Back on the street you go, son.

And when that criminal kills an innocent woman riding the light rail, what happens to the judge? Nothing.

Not a fine, not a charge, not even a stern talking-to. Just another day at the office.

If the bartender has to carry the weight of the drunk’s bad choices, shouldn’t the judge shoulder the weight of the criminal’s next one? Common sense says yes.

Fairness says yes. But the law, as it stands, says absolutely not.

And that’s the part that gnaws at me.

The bartender doesn’t have access to background checks. He can’t look up DUIs or pull an FBI file before pouring a pint.

He’s working off watery eyes and slurred words. The judge, on the other hand, has the entire rap sheet.

It’s like a neon sign flashing: Warning! This one is dangerous! Yet when that danger explodes, the judge shrugs and says, “Well, we can’t predict the future.”

That’s hogwash.

If we expect accountability from those serving drinks, then we should demand it from the folks serving justice. Imagine if we did.

“Judge Miller, you released a violent repeat offender who went on to kill. Step down from the bench — and step into the defendant’s chair.”

That might finally bring balance to a system tilted so far it’s falling over.

Now, I’m not saying every judge is careless or cruel. Most want to do right, just like most bartenders desire that their customers get home safely. But when a judge knowingly rolls the dice with public safety, and the worst happens, why should they be shielded while the bartender is shackled?

The truth is, judges don’t just release individuals — they release consequences. And sometimes those consequences have names, faces, and grieving families left behind.

So here’s my proposal, plain and simple–if the bartender is liable, the judge ought to be too. That’s equal standards and accountability.

A drunk on the road and a criminal on the street are both preventable tragedies. And the people who helped put them there should share the blame.

Otherwise, we’re saying that pouring a beer is more dangerous than emptying a jail cell. And if you believe that, I’ve got a bridge to sell you — and I won’t even card you before I hand you the keys.

Revelation 11:10 has been rattling around my head these last couple of days. And I’ll tell you what–it’s not the sort of verse you stitch on a sampler.

“And those who dwell on the earth will rejoice over them and make merry and exchange presents, because these two prophets had been a torment to those who dwell on the earth.”

That’s heavy. Almost sounds like Christmas with a dark twist: prophets lying dead, and the neighbors rushing to the dollar store for wrapping paper.

Now, I’m no saint, but I do know human nature. And if there’s one thing we’re good at, it’s throwing a party when we think we’ve won.

Doesn’t matter if the victory is clean, cheap, dirty, or short-lived. Somebody always buys balloons.

The verse paints a picture of folks so fed up with being told the truth that when the messengers finally fall silent, they treat it like Mardi Gras. Think about that.

Imagine a town where the only two voices calling out, “Hey, stop setting fire to your own houses!” finally get knocked over the head, and instead of grief, everyone lines up to bake casseroles, light sparklers, and shout, “Good riddance!”

Sounds absurd, right? Except, if you’ve lived long enough, you’ve seen it play out.

I’ve watched people cheer when the “do-gooder” finally fails, when the guy with the unpopular opinion loses his job, when the woman who stood up for decency gets worn down and walks away. It’s almost a relief to the crowd.

No more mirrors’ reflection held up to their faces. No more voice making them itchy in the conscience. They can go back to business as usual, thank you very much.

But here’s the funny part. The “torment” these prophets caused wasn’t with swords, tanks, or bad table manners.

It was just words. Truth spoken out loud. That was their big crime. And yet, truth is always the hardest burr to pull out of your sock. People will suffer a lie gladly if it keeps them comfortable, but even the gentlest truth pokes and scratches until you can’t ignore it.

I once had a neighbor who’d water his lawn twice a day, every day, until his yard was the kind of green you’d think was Photoshopped. The problem was that we lived under water restrictions.

I mentioned, gently, that maybe he ought to dial it back, seeing as how the rest of us were rationing and the lake was drying up. He told me to mind my business.

Two weeks later, the city slapped him with a fine the size of a new washing machine. His response? “Well, thanks, Tom, you jinxed me.” See?

Telling the truth makes you the villain, even when you’re right.

The prophets in Revelation were the ultimate truth-tellers. They were Heaven’s reporters on assignment, no fluff, no spin, no “both-sides-ism.”

And people hated it. So when they fell, the world danced on their graves. Literally.

“Rejoiced… made merry… exchanged presents.”

Imagine giving your buddy a fruitcake with a card that reads, “So glad the prophets are dead! Cheers!”

But here’s where it gets punchy–that party didn’t last. Truth has a stubborn habit of returning.

The following verses tell us the prophets rise again, dust off, and finish the job. Which is a reminder for anyone dancing too early–don’t pop the champagne until the credits roll.

For the rest of us, maybe the takeaway is simple–don’t be surprised if speaking truth makes you unpopular. If the wicked threw a block party over dead prophets, they’ll certainly throw shade at you and me.

But don’t lose heart. If your words are rooted in love, mercy, and the good sense God gave you, then let them sting.

Let them be a torment. Better to be remembered as a holy nuisance than a quiet enabler.

So next time you see folks dancing on graves and buying balloons, remember Revelation 11:10. And maybe smile to yourself, because truth always has the last word, and you can’t keep a good prophet down—not then, and not now.

I was late joining Charlie Kirk’s livestream that day. Five minutes in, the screen filled with a tent, folding chairs, and young faces eager—or maybe just curious—about a conversation. Then, faster than my coffee could cool, the world turned upside down.

A shot cracked the air. A chair rattled. A microphone slipped from someone’s hand.

Charlie slumped sideways, eyes fixed on eternity.

That’s not note-taking anyone plans to do. But I wrote it down, maybe to remind myself that evil isn’t abstract.

It has a smell, a sound, a stain. And it shows up right when you expect a good, old-fashioned argument about truth.

That evening, I was supposed to lead a prayer meeting, but truth be told, I didn’t feel much like praying. My hands were still, my soul pacing like a caged raccoon.

I was angry and sad. I wanted to clam up, to whisper, to wonder if speaking out loud about faith was worth the risk anymore.

Because let’s face it—the world’s not simmering. It’s boiling. Europe trembles, Israel burns, rockets fly, and here at home, a man gets shot for opening his Bible under a tent.

What do you do with that?

Here’s what I remembered–Jesus never whispered. He preached on hillsides, in synagogues, in boats, and at dinner tables. And when people told Him to hush, He didn’t retreat—He picked up a cross. Not a symbolic one. A real one. Splintered. Heavy. Bloody.

And He told His followers, “If you’re coming with Me, bring yours too.”

That’ll sober a prayer meeting right up.

So instead of leading our saints into mourning, I led them into battle—not the fist-shaking kind, but the kneeling kind. The kind where you weep beside the wounded, pass out living water, and refuse to run when the fire gets hot. That’s the fight Charlie fought. That’s the fight we inherit.

Paul once asked, “Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?”

He stacked the deck with every fear—tribulation, persecution, danger, even the sword.

Then he lit the whole list on fire, “No. In all these things we are more than conquerors.”

That means bullets don’t win. Headlines don’t win. Fear doesn’t win.

You can lose every earthly comfort and still walk into glory crowned. That’s not wishful thinking—that’s resurrection math.

And if Charlie’s body slumped in the grass, his soul was already standing tall in heaven. I like to think Stephen, the first martyr, met him at the gate.

Scripture says Stephen, in his last breath, saw Jesus standing at God’s right hand. Did you get that? Standing, not sitting—rising to welcome His servant home.

I believe He stood again.

Now, don’t get me wrong—fear is real. I feel it too.

The tremble in your spirit, the thought that maybe silence is safer. But here’s the thing–fear makes a lousy theology. If Christ is King, then no gunman, no critic, no regime gets the last word.

History’s full of men and women who wouldn’t bow—stoned, burned, mocked, chained. Some were children who sang while flames licked their feet, and every last one of them arrived, not limping, not silenced, but crowned.

So let’s not mourn like the world mourns. Let’s not write eulogies dripping with sentiment. Let’s sing resurrection songs. Let’s carry the banner higher, not lower.

Charlie Kirk didn’t fall. He crossed.

And the gospel he carried? It’s still here, sharp, alive, and still real.

So friend, don’t worry about who is going to pick up the microphone; you pick up your cross. The tomb is still empty, but heaven is not.

You know, ninety-eight percent of folks I run into online—heck, sometimes in person too—are ready to tell you what Charlie Kirk said, what Charlie meant, and how Charlie ruined the world with it. I read the comments, shake my head, and think, none of you have ever heard him speak.

Not once, not even five minutes. And yet, there you are, waving your digital pitchforks like a town crier who never actually went to town.

It’s funny, really. Human nature has this way of letting rumors outpace reality.

You get a snippet, twist it into your own shape, and suddenly it’s gospel. I’ve been guilty of it myself, oh yes—but I try to catch it before it leaves my mouth, or, in today’s world, before it leaves my thumbs.

Last week, I found myself in a diner—small town, greasy coffee cups, the kind of place where you know everyone’s business and sometimes wish you didn’t. I overheard a young man at the counter telling his friend, “Charlie literally said this, and I hate him for it.”

I smiled because I knew the words were half wrong, maybe three-quarters, or the opposite entirely. So I walked over, sat down with my own cup of coffee, and said, “You know, maybe you ought to hear the whole story before you decide to despise the guy.”

He looked at me like I’d grown antlers overnight. “I don’t need to. Everyone knows.”

“Everyone knows what?” I asked.

He fumbled with his sugar packet. “That Charlie said…”

“And maybe he didn’t. Maybe he said something else entirely,” I said gently. “Maybe he said it poorly. Maybe he said it perfectly and everyone just twisted it. The point is—you’re letting somebody else do your thinking for you.”

He blinked. The friend was already looking at his phone.

Classic. Classic.

I realized this wasn’t about Charlie. It was about us—all of us—trying to carve out certainty in a world that never stops pushing confusion into our heads.

“You know,” I continued, “listening takes effort. Paying attention takes humility. And admitting you might be wrong? That’s courage. All the rest—hating someone without hearing them—that’s just cowardice pretending to be conviction.”

The young man frowned, like I’d just handed him a puzzle he didn’t want to solve. But then he shrugged, probably thinking, what’s the harm in listening to an old guy drone on for a few minutes?

So I droned on. About nuance. About context. About the difference between a sound bite and a sentence, between a rumor and a reality. It’s something I actually know a little bit about, given my radio background.

By the time I left, the young man was quieter. Maybe even thinking. That’s all you can ask for sometimes. Not a conversion. Not a debate victory. Just a pause. A crack in the armor of certainty.

And me? I sipped my coffee, paid my check, and walked out into the sunshine. Because, really, the world doesn’t need more hate.

It wants more listening. More humility. More willingness to look at a person without judging them by the echo of what someone else said.

Charlie? I have no idea what he actually said that day.

And maybe that’s the point. The lesson isn’t about Charlie at all.

It’s about us—how we treat the words we hear, how we carry them, and whether we let them weigh us down with anger before we even lift a finger to check the truth. And that, my friends, is the hardest thing of all—listening first, deciding later, and keeping your pitchfork in the shed until you’ve got the facts.

Life’s too short for anything else.

How I wish I could tell you that I cannot remember the last time I wore a necktie. Unfortunately, I can.

I remember because I’ve had to knot that slippery piece of cloth around my neck at least six times this year. Not once has it been for a wedding, a graduation, or even one of those dressy dinners where somebody tries to convince you snails are “a delicacy.”

No, every single time, it has been for a memorial or funeral. Today it was for Dave Mencarelli.

Now, funerals usually wring the joy right out of me. I sit there thinking about the last conversation I had with the person, the last laugh, the last handshake, and the hundred things I should’ve said but didn’t.

Then I notice how tight the necktie is and start plotting my escape before I pass out. But today was different.

Oddly enough, I wasn’t sad. Instead, I found myself quietly rejoicing because Dave was ready, having been baptized, and he spoke openly—without an ounce of embarrassment—about his love for Jesus. That changes everything, as it meant this wasn’t a farewell so much as a “see you later.”

It struck me as strange at first. Grief is supposed to be heavy, like a wool blanket in July.

Yet, in this case, it felt more like a gentle breeze nudging me along. I’ve come to think of those nudges as the Holy Spirit’s way of giving me a push in the middle of my back.

You know the kind—like when your friend is hesitating at the edge of the swimming pool, and someone comes along and gives them just enough of a shove to get them moving. They land in the water sputtering, but afterward they say, “Thanks, I needed that.”

Well, I think I’m getting one of those shoves.

For a long while, I’ve hesitated about writing more openly about my faith. I worried I might lose readers.

After all, nothing clears a room faster than someone climbing onto a soapbox and shouting “repent!” at the top of their lungs. I promised myself I’d never do that, but still, the fear of being labeled “too churchy” lingered in the back of my mind.

But here’s the common-sense truth: people don’t gather at funerals to hear about how popular somebody was. They gather because that person mattered, because they left a mark, and because there’s comfort in knowing they’re not gone forever.

Dave left me with that comfort. And if my writing can offer even a sliver of that kind of hope, then popularity can sit in the corner and pout.

It’s funny, really. We spend our lives fussing about things that don’t matter—whether our tie is straight, whether our shoes are shiny, whether our jokes land properly at the dinner table. Then one day, we sit in a pew, listening to people talk about someone who’s passed on, and suddenly all that polish and pretense falls away.

What matters is love, kindness, and, yes, faith.

I know this much: I don’t want my life to be measured by how many “likes” I got or how many people thought I was clever. I’d rather be remembered like Dave—for having peace in my heart and the courage to speak it aloud.

So maybe my tie is doing me a favor. Every time I tug at that knot and wonder how many minutes of oxygen I have left, I’m reminded that life is short and not to be wasted. If it takes a necktie and a funeral to push me a little further down the road of faith, then so be it.

One day, I hope someone will sit in a pew at my service and say, “Well, he sure did ramble on, but at least he finally wrote about what mattered.”

If that happens, I’ll count it as a win. Until then, I’ll keep writing, tie or no tie, shoves included.

I’ve always liked instructions. I like lists. I prefer things to be spelled out clearly, ideally in bold letters and accompanied by a picture.

That’s why I never understood the Big Book for Alcoholics when it said, “Take it one day at a time.”

One day at a time? Which one day? Today? Yesterday? Tomorrow? Or some mysterious day tucked away in the back corner of the calendar that nobody told me about?

I asked a pastor about it once, figuring a man who wears a collar and smiles a lot would have an answer. He leaned back in his chair, hands folded over a Bible that had more creases than my grandma’s face.

“Tom,” he said, “it’s always today.”

“Today?” I asked. “But it’s almost noon.”

“Exactly,” he said, “God gave you today. Not yesterday, not tomorrow. Today. You’re still sober right now, aren’t you?”

That hit me like a brick in the chest. Not that God wants to hit me with bricks—He’s way more patient than that—but it got my attention. I had been worried about yesterday’s mistakes and tomorrow’s uncertainties, and had forgotten about this day.

So I tried it. I woke up, one foot in front of the other, thinking, “Today, I won’t worry, I’ll pray. Today, I’ll call someone I love and make sure they know it.”

Here’s the funny part: I made it about two hours before I forgot entirely.

That’s okay. I tried again.

And then I laughed at myself because the whole process felt like one of those infomercials: “Call now, and we’ll throw in forgiveness, peace, and a side of humility, free!”

One day at a time. It doesn’t matter if you screw up at 10 a.m., 2 p.m., or 9 p.m.

The point is that the day is still yours to live well. The grace of God is big enough to cover every slip, every stumble, every glazed-over glazed donut you weren’t supposed to eat. Yes, donuts count as a slippery slope when you’re trying to keep promises to yourself.

I told my best friend about my revelation, hoping he’d be impressed by my newfound wisdom.

He looked at me and said, “Tom, I’ve been living one day at a time for years. I just didn’t know it had a name.”

That’s the beauty of faith and common sense rolled into one–God’s instructions aren’t complicated. They’re simple, persistent, and gentle.

You wake up, get on your knees, ask for strength, and then you walk through the day. Maybe you stumble and have to get up again. But you always start with the one day God gave you.

And here’s the tender, humorous, human truth–when you really pay attention, you’ll notice that the “one day” is made up of a thousand little moments.

The cup of coffee you savor without hurrying. The text you send to a friend who’s struggling. The door you hold open for a stranger.

The “I’m sorry” you whisper before bed. Each tiny moment is its own day inside the bigger day.

So I finally know what the Big Book meant. It’s this day.

And right now. And the next moment after that.

And the next. And if God is patient—and He is—you can keep taking them, one at a time, for the rest of your life.

And when someone asks you how you’re doing, you can honestly say, with a little laugh and a lot of humility, “I’m taking it one day at a time. Today, to be exact.”

I keep saying, “The world’s gotten so violent.” Then I remember I’m wrong.

Humans have always been violent. Always.

Remember Cain and Abel? Population: four.

Number three kills number four. That’s right—four people.

Four! And already somebody’s lying in the dirt while someone else’s hands are bloody.

Think about that. The world didn’t need video games, reality TV, or the internet to be violent.

Just one brother, one field, and a bad attitude were enough. And here we are, eight billion people later, complaining about “kids these days.”

The irony tastes like burnt toast and coffee this morning. We act surprised, don’t we?

“Who could’ve seen this coming?”

But God, apparently, had a sense of humor. He’s standing there in Genesis 4, shaking His head, saying, “I warned you about sin, but did anyone listen? Nooo…”

Here’s the kicker–Cain whines about being punished, acting like God is being unfair.

“My punishment is too great!” he says.

Really? You just killed your brother!

I half expect Abel to roll his eyes from the grave. The world’s first murderer—and already whining about consequences, and we call this civilization.

We like to tell ourselves things are different now. Wars, mass shootings, social media beefs—it’s all worse than it used to be.

Maybe. But it’s not new.

We’re just getting better at broadcasting it. Cain didn’t have Instagram, thank goodness, otherwise, he’d be trending: #SiblingProblems #FieldLife.

Irony isn’t limited to crime, though. It’s in us, too.

We see violence in the world and sigh, thinking, “If only people were more peaceful.”

Meanwhile, we hoard anger, gossip behind screens, and plot revenge over nonsense like the way someone parked in the wrong spot. The world hasn’t gotten more violent—we’ve just perfected the art of noticing it.

And yet. Even here, in all this irony, there’s grace.

God didn’t strike Cain dead. Nope. He marks him for protection, promising that no one will kill him.

A murderer, marked for mercy.

How’s that for irony? The first human crime, and God invents a witness protection program.

That’s the point, really. Faith allows us to see the absurdity without despairing.

It lets us laugh at the ridiculousness of it all—while still taking sin seriously. It reminds us that violence is old, but mercy is eternal. That hatred and jealousy are as predictable as sunrise, but forgiveness is even more unstoppable.

So next time we say, “The world’s so violent,” maybe we should pause and smile a little. Four people, first murder, first brotherly feud, first case of human stubbornness—and God was already at work, showing us the bigger picture.

The world hasn’t changed. People haven’t changed.

But Jesus did. And that makes all the difference.

Cain killed Abel. Yes. But grace keeps killing sin, and mercy keeps winning.

And the rest of us? Well, we get to live in the ironic, messy, beautiful middle, hoping a little and laughing a little while we try not to murder anyone over the last slice of pizza.

When I came home this morning, I expected the usual greeting. Buddy, waiting by the door, tail wagging like a metronome set to “happy.” But not today.

Instead, I found him still in bed, looking mighty cozy, which should’ve been my first clue. Sure enough, nestled beside him like a fuzzy houseguest who forgot to check in at the front desk, was a gray rabbit.

Now, before you think I’m exaggerating, let me assure you: this was not a stuffed toy, not a dream, and certainly not a hallucination brought on by lack of coffee. It was a living, breathing, twitchy-nosed rabbit. And when I leaned down to scratch Buddy’s head, the rabbit did what rabbits do best—it exploded into motion.

I’ve seen a lot of things move fast—teenagers with car keys, politicians dodging a straight answer—but nothing compares to a rabbit in a blind panic. It ricocheted down the hall, bounced off the couch, and made a beeline for the master bedroom. Before I could say “Elmer Fudd,” the thing had gone to ground under the bed.

So, I did what any sensible person would do: I became a one-person animal control unit. First step: close all doors.

Bedroom? Shut.

Bathroom? Sealed tighter than Fort Knox.

Kitchen? Secured.

Then, armed with nothing more than patience and a low threshold for nonsense, I crouched down and peeked under the bed. Two glowing eyes stared back at me, as if to say, “You think you run this house, human? Think again.”

With some coaxing and a lot of shooing, I managed to drive the rabbit back into the living room, then out through the open sliding door. Victory, or so I thought.

Because here’s where the story turns from weird to Twilight Zone. Out in the backyard, Buddy and the rabbit stood facing each other—still as statues.

It wasn’t the casual look two strangers give each other. No, this was deep.

It was, “I know your soul” deep as if they were exchanging classified information via some canine-lagomorph telepathy.

I called Buddy inside, thinking that would break the spell. Instead, he trotted back to his bed—and the rabbit followed him. Back to the same spot, to the same nap. Two furry friends, side by side, like it was the most natural arrangement in the world.

Now, I’ve lived long enough to know when I’m getting left out of a plan. Whatever pact Buddy and that rabbit had, it didn’t include me.

So, I stood there in the hall, scratching my head, and finally said out loud: “Okay.”

Then I went to my study and shut the door behind me, leaving the two of them alone—with the back door open in case Mr. Rabbit decided he had rested enough. Some folks might say I should’ve chased the rabbit off for good, or at least called animal control.

But common sense tells me this: if Buddy, who has never gotten fooled by a squirrel, a cat, or the UPS driver, decided this rabbit was safe company, then who am I to argue? Besides, in a world where we humans spend too much time fighting, fretting, and fussing, maybe there’s something to learn from an unlikely friendship between a dog and a rabbit.

Maybe it’s as simple as this: trust your friends, keep the door open, and don’t assume you’re in charge of everything.

Still, I’ll be keeping an eye out. Because if I come home tomorrow and find that rabbit wearing Buddy’s collar—or worse, sitting in my chair with a cup of coffee—I’ll know the conspiracy is complete.

And before I forget, I’m thankful it wasn’t a skunk.