This was back when I was a hard core chirstian. My great great uncle who is in his 90's was down as he used to every year, and stayed with my grandfather (A odd baptiist minster) as he usually did. Now one day I was reading the first book of the left behind series (They are only good for starting a fire) And he asks he whats that about, so I explain, and too my surprise he says "thats bullshit, let me tell you a little story about why god is not real. When I served in ww2 I was a medic and on a june day we were rolling into normady. I was finishin up taking care of a little biy missing a hand and a leg and a little girl missing a arm, when this middle aged man pulles up in a pickup truck and comes running out. Please sir please help my son! What is wrong with i asked. He just led me to his truck saying please, sir please. He gestures to the blanket and I pulled it only to find the pieces of a boy maybe 16 or 17. I then turned to the man, and after seeing plety of blood and gore for one day said, I'm not jesus I can't help him. I later found that the boy was the uncle to the children I had helped earlier, and he was walking through field with them in each hand to make sure they did hit a mine." My uncle then starkly continued " I was raised in a catholic school, I know all about the bible. But how could god allw such evil."
Incidentally my uncle lives where that high school girl was threatened in rhode island.
Incidentally my uncle lives where that high school girl was threatened in rhode island.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
