The God of The Bible is not allah…Muslims do not speak of God as their heavenly Father. In the Islamic faith, Allah is not only a different name for god; the deity it designates is far more impersonal than the God of the Bible. Father—the very name that Jesus gave us as the designated name for use in prayer—is a name that simply does not fit Allah as depicted in the Quran.

Furthermore, Muslims claim that Allah has no son. This represents a head-on collision between the God of the Bible and Allah. For, as the Bible makes clear, the one and only true God is most perfectly revealed as the Father of the Son, Jesus Christ. In the Gospel of John, Jesus repeatedly teaches that no one has truly known the Father, except by the Son. In one of the most clarifying verses in the New Testament, Jesus declared Himself to be “the way, and the truth, and the life,” adding, “No one comes to the Father except through me” (John 14:6).

Because Muslims deny that God has a son, they explicitly reject any Trinitarian……


I authored this post when Obama was elected for a second term. With the death of American journalism hypocrisy and lies feed nearly half of this once great nations worth. Its citizens make up that value, and many are morally bankrupt. We now have a new President whose battle cry is “Make America great again”. I support President Trump. He has his work cut out for him. The undercurrent of hate and lawlessness feeds off its own depravity. We teeter on the edge of all out war. Moral relativity is an accepted way of life for the uneducated, that is to say educated in barbarism and blind to reality. They may have degrees received from colleges that excel in social brainwashing but fail in actual learning. Ask as many as you want on questions of historical importance being prepared for blank stares. Murder, rape, drugs, theft are normal for these wicked socialistic losers. Scales are out of balance, we ask Christ to place his thumb on the side of the just. Is it too late?
                                                         Written  12/ 2012:
History will record November 6, 2012 as the day moral compasses pointed South,
Revealing the will of God for a Godless Nation;
a modern-day Sodom.
Abortion, same-sex marriage, drugs, alcohol, open boarders and perversion, at its core, shall now define America.
Once a great Nation founded upon a spiritual foundation,
The rock of the World is now supported by Socialistic sand.
The bank is empty, the average American teeters on the brink of economic disaster.
God is angry with this Nation, His Wrath Is Terrible.
Trouble of unmanageable proportion is on the horizon.
Turn to Jesus asking Him for the pardon that awaits you.
He will forgive your sins, you will be saved.Do not stare at the spot you fell. Stand up and move forward.
Prepare yourself and loved ones for the hard times that loom.
Love God with your whole heart and mind and your neighbor as yourself.
Accept those things you can not change, change those things that you can and pray for the wisdom to know the difference.
Suffering, pain and death may be felt across our Country; prepare for the worst.



Remembering Walter who passed away three years ago:

April 1939 – March 2014

Junior was his childhood name, which he disliked immensely. But this fact only became known to me as an adult. Growing up together “Junior” taught this boy how to net butterflies, assemble an aquarium and catch sunfish naming only a few. He was more than a cousin; he was my friend. He was a multi-talented man with the greenest of thumbs. He could plant any seed, any time of the year and have it grow into something beautiful. My sister Ruth and I were his childhood actors. Walter would write and direct plays staring us. This included costumes but never an audience. We would happily rehearse our parts over and over until they met with the director’s approval. I must admit he tried, unsuccessfully, to teach maturity to me, but my alcoholism would not allow it. I admired him immensely and never shared that fact. I cried today when hearing of his passing. Walter Szczublewski was a gift to this world, and we will see each other again when I go to my mansion in the sky. We shall net butterflies, build aquariums, and I will call him Walter.




Through the eyes of alcoholics reality is not seen

Casting down a glass

They choose instead to drink from the bottle

Brightness is sought in the dead of night

Darkness arrives in the morn

When liquid hell permeates the brain

The alcoholic’s intellect mirrors insight

Truth speaks otherwise


Unceasing rain batters the windshield making it near impossible to see. The road is dirt, dropping off into ditches on both sides. These trenches are waterways deep enough to swallow any vehicle leaving the road. Darkness is having a dinner party, and the guest list includes disaster; I pray it does not show.

I am awash in fear, voices yell in my head in cadence with water flinging wipers. I am a drunk in need of a drink. The need is three weeks old. Thoughts lurch through brain cells like angry fire flies, they blink, they scold. You desensitized all your relationships, such a fool you are! If you had pictures on the mantle they would only be of you. Your daily life makes nightmares seem like a very peaceful place. Loser is what you are!

His name is Jordan, the man I am driving to see. Jordan has somehow remained sober for thirty-six years and I want what he has. I was given his name at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. AA members tell me sobriety heals the mind. Continuing to drink will insure death, sheer spurning guaranties lunacy. Wild bees begin to swarm inside my psyche, and voices yell in the darkness. Jordan’s log cabin appears between wiper swipes. Pulling in to the drive, I sense something in the back seat and quickly leave the car slamming the door. Walking onto the porch, the door opens without knocking.

“You do know there are two kinds of dry Bobby, and you’re mighty wet; welcome to the cabin, I’m Jordan. Let me take your jacket. Go sit by the fire, I’ll pour us coffee. Nasty night to be driving, did you have any trouble getting here?”

“Never bothered me a bit Jordan, they call me Mr. Tough.”

“A rough dude I see, coffee black?”

“Yeah black is fine.” My shaking hands spill coffee. I set the cup on the barn wood table.

“When was your last drink Bobby?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“You do not need coffee, Mr. Shaky, you need sugar. I keep a jug of orange juice with Karo syrup in the fridge; I’ll pour you a glass.”

“Fine, and don’t call me Mr. Shaky.”

“If you want me to be your sponsor I’ll call you what I damn well please. If you really want to get sober, the first word to learn is acceptance, a day at a time. Now chug down the juice, I’ll pour you another.”

The warmth of the cabin and several glasses of Jordan’s super juice calm me. “Jordan I did not mean to be nasty but it’s the way I am.”

“I was the same way Bobby, took me seven to ten years to unravel the spaghetti in my head.”

“That long! Are you telling me ten years? I’ll be dead in ten years.”

“I’m telling you how long it took me to be completely sober. That does not mean your quality of life lags behind. When I first started attending AA meetings I was completely insane.”

Are you calling me crazy? Don’t you think insane is a bit much?”

“No Mr. shaky, insane is what we are. Consider this; you are in a room with two doors. Behind door one is a three hundred pound guy with a ball bat. Behind door two is a blonde in a Corvette. A drunk will choose door one, get beaten by that bat, over and over and over. That is what we do, every time we take another drink, and yes, it is insanity. How many years have you been drinking?”

“Eleven years old is when I had my first drunk, and now I’m thirty-six, do the math; I cant think.”

“Twenty-five years, twenty-five years of door number one, qualifies as being insane. Bobby, what drove you to AA?”

“I discovered I drank when I did not want to drink. My life is like living in a trash can! I’ve lost my job, wife, kids…but I, I still wanted… no needed to drink.”

“You are powerless over alcohol Bobby; powerless! Your life is unmanageable. If you do not stop drinking, you will die; understand? There is only one way. Make a decision to turn your will and life over to the care of God. If the word God pushes you away from AA, the bottle will push you back. Are you are an alcoholic Bobby?”

“Yes I am I am.”

I begin sobbing, and time seems to stand still. I can feel hate, and resentments clawing their way out. All of the despicable things I have done were flashing through my mind. Seeing the real me without a fake facade is crushing my ego. Pain shaking hands with joy is the most awkward feeling wounding yet healing.

“Go ahead and cry Bobby, just let it out. Everything inside this home stays here.”

For the next hour and a half I pour out my sordid past. Every horrid happening, never divulged to a living soul, lay bare. I had lied about much of the past. The real truth plus lies, having been spun in minds blender, leaving me unable to distinguish between reality and make believe.

“That is all Jordan, the garbage truck is empty; I am ashamed.”

“Don’t be. I’ve heard worse. Now bury it right here, covering it with a shovel; then break the shovel handle so it will never be dug up.” Jordan, pausing for a moment, continues.Have you ever wondered why rear view mirrors are smaller than windshields?”

Never thought about it.”

They allow only a glimpse of what is behind you. Windshields offer a panoramic view of what is in front of you. The point is this; do not dwell in the past live in the present.”

“Is this the meaning of a day at a time?”

“Yes, yesterday is history tomorrow a mystery, just live today. It is going to take sometime but if you stick with me you will have a life that will be beyond belief.”

“How did you stay sober for so long?”

“I keep repeating a quote from the poet Dorothy Parker, which I have turned around; I’d rather have a frontal lobotomy then a bottle in front of me.”

Jordan, reaching into a drawer, retrieves a copy of The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. This is yours Bobby, take it home and read Chapter five. If you feel like taking a drink call me first, I will answer twenty-four seven. Today is Tuesday, I’ll see you at my home group Wednesday at eight PM. Walk slow, and drink lots of orange juice with Karo syrup.”

“Thanks Jordan, will you be my sponsor?”

“Yes, Mr. Shaky, I will.”

As I drive away, I soon realize an unusual feeling is present. One not felt in such a long time I cannot describe it. What is this, this sensation? I begin to cry again, as I identify the lost feeling; it is peace. Smiling with wet eyes I turn on the radio for the first time in years. The song is Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark, and I think; I can make it; I can make it a day at a time.

Winds of change in sobriety become puffs

Pouring down from mountains of hope

Storm clouds form not and

Pain no longer travels on currents of regret






D. Edwin Burbee

It is a wintery evening as people leave work to start and brush snow from cars. Laughter seasoned with see you tomorrow blends and fades into darkness. One man remains walking first left then right and stops, his mind races. I do not know where I parked my car. Budding fear soon blossoms into terror as he checks his pockets. No keys, no wallet, My God help me, where am I? The streets are empty he is completely alone. I must get home I have been gone for weeks. He begins to run aimlessly, cold air burns his lungs with tears freezing to his face.

Icicles captured by a clothesline tinkle lightly, softly, played by unseen fingers of breeze. Translucent piano keys, suspended necklace-like from the once taunt line, perform micro symphonic music. A high-pitched clinking, much like the sound glass objects make when they knock against each other, creates a grouping of sounds; a tune. The melody attracts, captivates, and hypnotizes the man rapt by this mellow music, and he wonders is this the key that unlocks my memory?

Ernie wakes drenched in a cold sweat. “It is the same awful nightmare,” he mumbles, “identical situation every night for weeks; ever since I was hit by that Acura, and ate an air-bag.”

A ringing phone shatters thoughts. Ernie picks up the receiver with a moist shaking hand; “hello.”

“Mr. Savage this is Coastal Neuropsychology, Doctor Sweeney’s office, calling to confirm the appointment you made last week. It is for tomorrow.”

“Thank you, it’s at one correct?”

“Yes, at one.”

“I’ll be there.”

As Ernie thumbs through magazines in DR. Sweeney’s waiting room, a nurse beckons him in. “Good afternoon Mr. Savage I’m Doctor Sweeney.”

“You can call me Ernie.”

“Alright its Ernie then, what is troubling you?”

“Nightmares, actually singular as in nightmare every night it is exactly the same.”

“Can you tell me the basic content?”

“I dream I have amnesia it is real, petrifying. I need to go home but I do not know where I am”

“Do you know where home is?”

“No, but the need to quickly get there is overpowering.”

“Ernie I’ve gone over tests from your accident and no physical damage is indicated. It appears the emotional component may be the reason for this nightmare. What do you see?”

“A frozen clothes line with icicles hanging and the wind causes them to chime musically. I become enchanted by the sound believing it holds a solution to my amnesia. Yet, all the while, my brain is in turmoil trying to think where I am. Every time I sleep the nightmare returns, the same. I believe that soon I will not wake up; I can not take much more of this!” Ernie begins sobbing, rocking back and forth in the chair.

“Easy Mr. Savage, relax. I have a few more questions, are you up to it?” Breathing deeply

Ernie calms, “I am fine go ahead doctor.”

“During this dream are you cold?”

“No, I realize it is cold but I do not feel cold.”

“Any background, can you see anything else?”

“It appears to be white all around me.”

“Go home and take these sedatives. You need rest. Relax Ernie; we will find the underlying cause of this. Call me if anything changes.”

“Thank you Doctor.”

Ernie leaves Doctor Sweeny’s office and returns home. Washing down pills with water, he collapses on the sofa, falling asleep immediately. He comes to hours later, trembling violently. A riveting thought shocks; I must see Dr. Sweeney, the nightmare changed.

Ernie returns to the Doctor’s office. His appearance conveying the condition within.

Wearing the same clothing from the last visit, he is also wearing a vacant stare.

“Sit here Mr. Savage; I’ll have my nurse bring a glass of water. Your phone call suggests the nightmare has changed?”

“Yes, as I stare at the icicles I hear a voice calling my name.

“Do you recognize the voice?”

“No but it sounds like a women.”

“Ernie, are your parents alive?”

“No, I’m adopted”

“At what age were you adopted?”

“My earliest memory is being nine years old.”

“And you have no recollection of an earlier time?”

“No, not at all.” My adopted parents are both deceased, killed in a fire while I was in college. A

social worker told me that my mother lost her life in a plane crash, however I have no knowledge of my father.”

“Go home and attempt to rest. I will research records using your Social Security number to shed some light on your past. If I discover any relevant information, I will call you. Feel free to call if your condition worsens.”

“Yes Doctor.”

Upon returning home, Ernie lays down on his couch. Within minutes, he is

asleep. Seeing the icicles once again, their charismatic tinkle bewitchingly freezing his stare.

“Ernest, come inside honey it is too cold and everyone is waiting for the birthday boy.

How that boy loves the outdoors, why he would live out there if I didn’t call him in.”

“Let him play awhile Millie, he’s well dressed.”

“I know, but he is all I have. When I fly to New York next week just make sure, he wears his leggings when outdoors.”

“Aunt Alice will be in charge, now how about a glass of port on the rocks?”

Glasses are filled with ice and wine while Alice lights the five candles on Ernie’s cake. The two women sing happy birthday. Ernie blows out the candles everyone claps and cheers.

“Open your present Ernest, your mother can’t wait.”

“Thanks Mommy.” Ernie rips off the wrapping paper revealing a glass globe music box. Inside is a winter scene, a washerwomen is hanging clothes on a line; Icicles hang among clothing. Ernie turns the box on and a tinkling chime-like melody plays.

Jesus loves me, this I know For the Bible tells me so

Little ones to Him belong They are weak, but He is strong

Yes, Jesus loves me! Yes, Jesus loves me!

Yes, Jesus loves me! The Bible tells me so

A hospital loudspeaker blares; Code Blue room 234…Code Blue room 234….

At lunch, a nurse asks an intern, “What was your Code Blue for?”

“For Ernest Savage, the guy who was in a car wreck and has been in a coma since he was

admitted last week; he passed away.”

“I often wonder if a person in a comatose condition has the ability to think.”

“There is no answer to your question but he died with the most pleasant expression on his face.”



Most folks recall Nancy Pelosi telling the local elected officials assembled that Congress “[has] to pass the bill so you can find out what’s in it, away from the fog of controversy.” Although Democrats claim, her statement was taken out of context, the framework of the entire comment drips with Demo-speak.
Last night, and into today, Democrats stalled voting on a new healthcare bill by making a clerk read the entire bill, page by page.
The best writers of satire could not have contrived the absolute irony of this request. The hypocrisy of the Democratic Party glows brighter than a carbon arc light at a Wal-Mart opening. Ringling Brothers may have taken down their tent but clowns still have jobs as members of the Democratic Congress…