Garry Potter And The Same Old Nonsense by David Backhim (my miracle luna book free read .txt) 📖

from my destination of Belfast. However, I had no sooner parked my car by the side of the motorway than a passing motorist and his family offered me a lift to the nearest garage. By some peculiar fortune, we seemed to be as far away from a nearby petrol station as was humanly possible. I think that it took my helpers in the region of forty minutes to find a garage and return me with my petrol can to my car. Giving up a large chunk of their time at about nine on a Saturday evening was massive. If these residents of Carrickfergus who drove a silver Nissan are not angels, then who are?

IT’S A MIRACLE
Do you believe in miracles? Many times I have been in need of a miracle of some sort or another. I used to foolishly bemoan that miracles were only something that happened long, long ago in Capernaum or Jerusalem. However, if we look closer to home, in fact if we look in the mirror, we can see a miracle staring back at us. You see, humans are not machines that are purchased in a shop, complete with a box, to be brought out of the container and then plugged into the electricity mains. Nor are we battery-operated. We function by means of the most vastly intricate system of machinery contained within our bodies. Take such a vital organ as the heart. It keeps beating without fail, every second, minute and hour of the day, each day of every week of every month of every year for as many years as we dare to hope. Yes some hearts last longer than others, but have you ever stopped to consider that your heart could choose to stop at any moment. It’s almost a frightening thought, isn’t it?
Similarly there is something equally awesome about our consciousness. We go to bed, fall asleep and appear to be half-dead, and yet lo and behold several hours later we return to complete consciousness, ready yet again to confront the challenge of the day ahead. It’s remarkable how our mind can switch off and then on again. I could write a large volume about the complicated processes of the other vital organs. As for our legs, arms, fingers, feet, and mouth, isn’t it extraordinary how they are able to operate as we wish?
I have come to the awakening that my life (and yours too) is a miracle, not least in how we emerge from the womb and evolve from tiny little children into grown-up adults. So who or what is responsible for this phenomenal state of affairs? Well, I am more than ever satisfied that there is a God whose wonders are the very source of our existence. For all you God-deniers, what other possible explanation is there? Are you seriously telling me that a big bang has resulted in my body and yours functioning in the miraculous way that they do. No folks, there has to be a greater power providing the feat of engineering that has resulted in the creation and prolongation of the human race.

BEREAVEMENT
There is no manual or textbook that provides appropriate guidelines on how to cope with the enormous loss of a loved one. Responses after all vary from hysterics to morose behaviour, neither of which is good or bad, nor right or wrong. For everyone touched by the searing pain of bereavement, I would suggest the following two sources which in their own way act as an enormous comfort.
First of all, whatever misgivings many people may have about the Orange Order, the institution’s prayer for the bereaved is an excellent form of consolation. It runs something like this:
‘Grant O Lord to all who are bereaved the spirit and strength
That they might meet the days to come, not sorrowing as those without hope
But in thankful remembrance of Thy great goodness in past years
And in the sure expectation of a joyful reunion in the Heavenly places.’ Amen.
Secondly, I have always been struck by the reaction of King David to the loss of his wife Bathsheba. His entourage not unnaturally expected the king to be mired in the depths of anguish, and they were understandably anxious to avoid the king, lest they be subjected to any anticipated display of grief. Instead of which, David had a wash, put on his best clothes, emerged looking untouched by any personal tragedy and confidently explained to his startled onlookers that “she cannot come back to where I am. However, some day I will go to where she is.” Now that’s what I call faith!

BIBLE-BASHERS
I recently saw an episode of The Weakest Link where one particularly weak link expressed the hope that the person voted off in the next round would be the so-called “Bible-basher”. There is something nonsensical about the term ‘Bible-basher’, which just about sums up the anti-Christian bigots. They suggest that someone who has the cheek to quote from God’s written word is a ‘Bible-basher’. However, it is quite clear that any such well-intentioned soul is highlighting God’s word, and certainly not bashing it. After all, who bashes something that they respect? I mean, if someone liked to quote from the Communist Manifesto, would they qualify as a Marx-basher? Of course they wouldn’t. No it’s not people who dare to quote from God’s word who are bashing the Bible. It is instead those smart alecs who reject God’s word who are the real ‘Bible-bashers’.

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I’LL SEE YOU AGAIN”
My late father had been on his death-bed for several weeks, surpassing a previous medical prediction that he had about two weeks to live. There was no knowing when the end would come. I found myself having to return to work in England after a month of bedside vigils. It was with a heavy heart that I was abdicating any semblance of a duty of care to a loved one, but I had little option. When the Thursday morning came when I paid one last visit to the hospital before taking my leave of my Dad, it was potentially an emotional scene. As it transpired, my father chose precisely the perfect words for such a parting. It was almost as if he had given careful thought to what might be his final words to me and they have remained embedded in my consciousness ever since.
Having drawn closer to the Lord during his two-year struggle against terminal illness, Dad was able to elect a farewell that strikes a resonance with all Christians. He said, with calm confidence, “I’ll see you again.” I guess it is not far removed from the words of Jesus as He bade temporary farewell to His disciples and subsequently ascended into heaven. My Dad’s words always struck me as a remarkable declaration of faith, based on the likelihood of a heavenly reunion. After all, when one Christian leaves this temporary world and all its cares for the permanency of Paradise, then naturally he or she will bid a farewell couched in such positive terms. Christians don’t really believe in ‘goodbye’ because they anticipate a joyful reunion in eternity’s resting home. Therefore, my father’s words, “I’ll see you again” were not only inspiring but very much in keeping with a man confident about his eternal future.

HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE
With every day that passes, I am becoming more alienated and disenchanted with the rest of the people of Britain (and beyond).
Firstly, take the so-called ‘working’ class. I have grown to despise them. Your stereotypical working class alpha male or caveman, has to get his head shaven so that he can sport his ‘wee hard-man haircut’ to fit in with the hair fashion of his mates. He must also adorn tattoos to enhance his street credibility, while an ability to utter vulgarities in every spoken sentence is necessary too. When I approach two or three blokes on the pavement, busily engaged in yet another vacuous mobile phone conversation, I wonder if I can pass by without over-hearing a string of obscenities. I usually can’t. Throw in an enthusiasm for hard drinking and a passion for aggression and violence, not forgetting the need to read the obligatory tabloid trash, and voila you have your imperfectly formed, totally uninformed working class male cretin. Is it any small wonder that white working class men are regarded as the biggest under-achievers in our society? The very notion of trying to better themselves by reading a more informative newspaper or watching current affairs or nature documentaries would be anathema or too ‘cissy’ for these butch buffoons. Thus many Neanderthal tee-shirt wearers remain in the gutter, but they need not worry because there is an army of young clingy, desperate, insecure female admirers only too eager to fall for the ‘charms’ of these charm-less beasts. Ah yes, the working class deserve each other.
A step up from the white trash are the middle class – a thoroughly unhappy and mean-spirited lot. Just tell someone ten years ago that they would now be earning thirty thousand pounds or more per year and they would have been thrilled. Well, actually they aren’t. High earners look over their shoulders at their neighbours, work colleagues, and relatives, and the need to compete and achieve bragging rights is an absolute must. Therefore, if Mr and Mrs Well-Off are earning fifty thousand pounds per year, this counts for nothing if their suburban neighbours have completed an extension to their conservatory! Similarly, what good is earning forty thousand pounds per year if your wine-bar acquaintances are all buying up foreign properties