For The Love Of God

We all have a tendency to question our motives in life at some point. Most of us reach that fork in the road of our journey through life when we pause, turn and glance back at where we have come from. We try to focus into clarity all of the pot holes, all of the wash board, all of the ruts, all of the speed bumps, all of the gravel, and all the pavement that we have experienced in our travels. Reminiscing about our pasts, we ponder the positive and the negative choices we’ve made striving to gain insight of any wisdom that may be credited to our being from navigating the road of our journey.



We examine every experience thoughtfully in search of knowledge gained or lessons learned from choices we have made. Choice is the one thing in life that is completely free to each and every one of us. We all have the freedom to choose. Though having the liberty to choose does not mean that we can always choose what we want. But, invariably we all have choice. So the question is why do we choose to choose the choices we do.



For many people the answer to this question will vary. To me the answer to this question is clear. We make our choices from experiences that begin in infancy based on how we perceive our lives should be in the moment. If we as infants perceive ourselves to be uncomfortable we instantly choose to cry out for attention in an effort to change our current situation. If we as adolescents desire to become honor students in school, we make choices in our lives to apply ourselves diligently and begin to achieve that status. As adults if we wish to obtain a higher education or we long for a grand home and a lush automobile or we decide to marry and raise a family we choose to make choices that set in motion a drive within us to satisfy the cravings that our imaginations have desired for us. Our imaginations, then, plant the seed in our minds and we begin to nourish that seed with our obsessing desires to create what we momentarily imagine we want. The seed sprouts and grows and grows and grows until it is curtailed by some circumstance that causes our desires to change, allowing new carnal cravings to motivate a new image seed to take root within our minds.



With the growth of the new image also comes the choosing of new choices and the entire process is perpetuated again. So we continue through life prisoners by choice to our carnal desires allowing ourselves to be victimized by the process until we take a stand; until we choose to master the cravings of our imaginations taking control over which new seed gets planted. How and where do we find the strength take control of our destinies? What inner force is more powerful than our lusting carnal imaginations?



There is a little voice within all of us human beings which offers us guidance. To some that small whisper is referred to as conscience to others it is known as intuition and to some it is identified as a sixth sense. What ever the terminology used to describe that inner beckoning, the fact that the entity is termed at all, testifies to the evidence that the voice inside each of us factually exists. The primary purpose of that gentle speaker is to caution us away from the uncomfortable situations that might be encountered when following after the lusts of our carnal imaginations. Unfortunately, however, all too often we smother that voice in our complacency while in pursuit of our momentary passions only subjecting ourselves to its calling in hindsight when we come to recognize that the choices we have made were evidently wrong for us because they caused some misfortune in our lives.



I should have listened to my conscience or if only I had yielded to my intuition or I should have followed my sixth sense are statements so often made by people after the fact. How many individuals have had an experience where they were out window shopping on a Sunday afternoon and came home with a new television, stereo, living room suite or automobile just because they imagined in the moment that it was something that would complete their lives? Then, waking to the realization on Monday morning that they did not earn sufficient funds to comfortably afford the item they had desired and had purchased. I knew better or I knew it was a mistake they would utter aloud to others or in silence to themselves. How did they know that they knew better? Something obviously had previously cautioned them during their moment of impulsive decision making. That little voice so powerfully offering sound guidance if only they had subjected themselves. If only they had yielded to that still small voice they could have avoided all their new regrets. That tiny whisper so quite so small yet so powerful where does it come from?



Some would argue that the voice is just an extension of their carnal thoughts a collection of the wisdom they have gained through past life’s experiences - their conscience. Others will claim that it was their insight into others past fate that developed the calling they hear - their intuition. More will state that their sixth sense was wrought through the reception of vibes that they felt emanated during their interaction with other people. There are many reasons used to try to rationalize the source of that beckoning voice we often hear and too often ignore. But the fact is undeniable that that still small voice exists within us and offers us guidance; and if we listen to it we likely would avoid making many of our regretful mistakes. Why would some still small voice be trying to protect us from disastrous choices and why was it created within us? A quest for answers to such questions would require a thorough examination of each of our lives beginning in infancy.



My very early memories of childhood are fragmented as is the case with most people’s younger years I’ve discovered. The mosaic of pieces I retain, however, are still crystal clear in my mind years later. I remember being the only boy and second born to parents who would eventually parent five. I still have images of my elder sister and I at ages two and three living with my parents in a one room shanty set amidst a willow thicket on a fallow quarter section of property in a rural community about ten miles from the nearest town. No electricity, running water, or gas we heated our tar-paper shack with an antique white enamel wood stove; it had a water reservoir on one side and an oven beneath a flat cooking grill. For lighting we had coal oil lanterns and for cooling our perishables a two foot deep hole in the earth covered by a board was located just outside the dwellings entrance. A piece of automobile glass framed into the shacks only door let in a dull beam of daylight that twinkled with flakes of dust as it dimly lit the shadowy interior. Memories of the pioneer lifestyle during my first three years of life are still vividly impressed in my mind and have had a lasting impact which in part has wrought my adult character. Why my parents chose to live that lifestyle when they had the means for better confused me. Confusion develops through lack of understanding and understand my parents I could not until I gained insight into their personal childhood experiences - subjects that neither my mom or my dad willingly volunteered information about.



My dad was born into a modest lifestyle to parents of meager means in a small Saskatchewan town during the early thirties. At about age six his family migrated to Alberta for his father to search for work. They settled eventually on a government homestead property to which they claimed squatter’s rights. There they built a humble shanty from materials that they were able to bum, beg, or borrow from neighbors; for the next twenty years they called it home.



From that place called home my dad walked a few miles five mornings and afternoons each week to a small one room country school house that he attended until the eighth grade. After dropping out of school, he stayed at home helping around the homestead until age twenty six when he began to take on odd seasonal jobs to earn extra income. He continued in that lifestyle for the next four years until he met and wed my mother. Then they moved a small building that he had previously constructed for grain storage onto the adjoining quarter section of property and in it together he dwelt with my mom as they began their family.



My mom was the second eldest of five children born to parents who were continually on the move. Starting out in Saskatchewan, when she was a young child, her family moved across Alberta into British Columbia eventually making a u-turn and settling back in Alberta. Each stop in their journey of eighteen years was for my Grand dad to work at a job until his drinking created circumstances that motivated another move. Eventually, their moves landed them in the little town near my dad’s rural homestead where my mom met my dad.

My dad was just three months shy of his thirtieth birthday when he was wed to my mother ten years his junior. It was a shot gun wedding. Of course they deny that fact by trying to justify my elder sister’s early arrival in February, eight months after the wedding, as her being premature. My mom, by her admittance was my dad’s first love. Then, I arrived fifteen months later.



As is the case with most new marriages my folk’s marriage was likely fueled by passion, goals, and aspirations in the beginning. However, by the time I was old enough to develop a superficial understanding of the complex matters embracing relationships I had already identified that my parent's marriage exhibited some major complications from its inception. Being raised in the midst of a dysfunctional parental relationship an adolescent's mind is wrought in undernourishment as it nurses on a constant diet of mixed messages and repressed emotions until the development of confusion becomes the evident impairment.
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wherewerewe wherewerewe
46-50, M
Dec 13, 2012