Right Wing Duck came closest to winning my contest.
I stressed to my vast audience of readers that no one actually WON but here comes Ducky, waving his feathers around screaming "I win! I win!" so I will say something nice about him.
Right Wing Duck READS my blog. Not only does he read it, he comprehends it, he remembers it.
He said reading my blog makes him feel like a friend of the family.
Ducky writes funny stuff on not only HIS blog (I'd prefer he update a bit more and not use such big words so I can understand) but on IMAO and he is blog-famous over there.
I'm extremely lucky that he even FOUND my blog much less reads it regularly.
I'm not worthy of his attention.
ALL HAIL DUCKY!
One of the local radio stations was broadcasting live from The Strand (one of my favorite places) in Galveston for the big Mardi Gras festivities.
I could have sworn I heard Outlaw Dave say this was the 8th year for Mardi Gras Galveston.
Well, that can't be!
As much as I would love to think it's only been 8 years since I was in highschool, I know that's not true. I know it's been more than 8 years for Mardi Gras Galveston because I WENT to Mardi Gras in highschool and that was *cough -more than 15- cough* years ago.
Even after highschool, I found my way to The Strand for Mardi Gras.
I've endured being slammed in the head by a guy's huge arm while he was jumping for doubloons then being asked out by said guy when I called him a "fucking asshole" (I guess he's into that!).
I've seen people I went to highschool with showing their tits for cheap plastic beads.
If I'm going to show my tits to a crowd of drunk guys, I want more than plastic beads. I want diamonds or cash.
One year, with a former friend, we noticed two drunk guys holding each other up walking down the sidewalk. When I pointed and laughed, my friend screamed, "Oh my God! Those are my uncles!!!"
We picked them up and gave them a ride back to the mainland but not before one of them projectile vomited in my car, hitting me in the back of the head and showering his brother.
We stopped on the old causeway road to clean up which included the guys removing their soaked shirts and throwing them in the bushes.
We drove the rest of the way home with the windows down.
I left Mardi Gras that year with a moon pie, a few beads and two drunk, shirtless Mexicans in the back of my car.
Good times...
No one, bitches!
I posed the question "What does De do?" (Or as tinyman says "What do De do?") but no one got it right.
Some got close....pretty damn close.
Right Wing Duck said IT/Computers. He was the closest although shank was ever-so cute with his vampire/grocery stocker guess.
Anyway...without further ado - what do De do?
Do you remember going to the library as a kid?
Do you remember those old wrinkled librarians with their steel grey hair in a bun, their half glasses precariously perched on the edge of their noses and their pastel colored sweaters buttoned at the throat? Remember the "shushing"?
That's me!
Except I have long, flowing locks of brown hair, no glasses but lots of eye make-up, several tattoos and I wear jeans with fabulous shoes. I don't "shush" but I will tell a kid to shut the fuck up after I slap him around a little bit.
I am a Computer Information/Reference Librarian.
I'm the New Millennium Librarian, bitches!
of sorts...
I have made a pretty good effort not to talk about work too much on my blog. At least not anything specific.
However, I don't mind telling you what I do but I thought it would be more fun if you guessed it.
Now, there are a few of you that know already (Johnny, Johnny and maybe Sheila) and I KNOW you know so don't EVEN try it!
Anyway...if you can figure out what I do for a living, I'll write something nice (or honest) about you on my little blog.
I was going to offer to send you something but I ain't got nuthin! All I can give you are my words.
So, kiddies...What Does De Do?
Updated stuff below:
Ok...I've gotten some funny answers:
RightWingDuck says:
Provider of Neighborly Internet service?
Supermarket Aisle Critic?
Merlot PR rep?
FCC Censor: Don't say TW@T!
Reviewer of books?
Now that I think about it - Hmmm. Nope, no clue. I remember reading a post where I thought - "Oh, I know somebody who does that." I'll have to search my memory banks - or your archive.
Maybe I have mentioned. Not sure.
It's clear you read my blog and for that, I adore you.
Jimmah says:
By day, DeAnna, a mild mannered copy editor. By night, DeLite, superspy of the
NSA specializing in geriatric seduction.
I could be stretching on the copy editor part. A more realistic guess would be
Hand Model.
Although, I am boring enough and a know-it-all enough to be a copy editor...no.
A hand model...I was the world's best hand model once...
That is until I was pushed into a ironing board and as a reflex, grabbed the hot iron with both hands, there ending my hand modeling career.
/Seinfeld
shank says:
when I was a kid, I stocked groceries at the local Winn-Dixie. There were two
shifts of stockers, evening and night. I worked evening because I was still a
wee git; and that shift ended at about 10 or 11pm each night. At which point,
of course, the night shift came on. The night shift stockers worked 11p - 7a,
and they were some stange folks. Most of the time they didn't speak to anyone
else. They all had these faint dark spots under there eyes, a couple had some
odd looking tattoos, and one of the ladies had a pair of those gigantic
low-slung sunglasses from like, the 1970's.
But yeah, I think that's what you do. You're a night shift stocker at the local
grocery store.
Not EVEN sure how to take that, shank!
My tattoos are not odd and didn't you know the 70's were back?
My first job was at a grocery store. There were two cool places to work back then; Shipley's donuts and this particular grocery store.
I think it was cool to work at the grocery store because it was widely rumored that the manager was dealing drugs and cheating on his wife constantly.
How could a place run by a guy like that NOT be cool?
Oh...it wasn't.
I had lunch with a friend today.
He was telling me a story - about Valentine's Day, I think.
In telling the story, he chronicled his entire day including what time he got up, what he did when he got up, what he fixed for breakfast...everything.
After he finished with the evening portion of the story, he said, "I don't know why I had to tell you all of that just to get to the point of my story."
I think I know why he did.
I've felt the need to tell somebody what an ordinary day in my life is like.
I think it's a need to feel like you're a part of society. Your life becomes mundane to you but if you tell someone, it makes it more real, more connected to humanity.
I've done that on my blog before: A Day In the Life.
There is something about sharing the ordinary parts of your life that makes it not quite so...well...ordinary.
Maybe that's why a lot of us started blogging. We wanted to be more than just commuters on the highway, office drones or nameless people in the checkout line.
With a blog, we become people with something to say and we can find an audience to read about our ordinary lives.
It's a little depressing to think when I die, it's all over.
Most people have children to carry on their legacy of some sort.
I'm not having kids and at this rate I'll probably never get married so will anyone remember me when I die?
What will I leave in this life to let the people that come behind me know I existed?
What is YOUR legacy?
My sister started highlighting her hair years ago.
Some people thought it was to cover grey. Some thought it was to look younger.
I am convinced it was to reveal her true blonde self.
The other night we were all sitting around her living room chatting about this and that. "We" included my young nephew, sister, brother in law and mother.
My brother in law brought up the hoopla surrounding Brokeback Mountain and how some guy at work photoshopped two other coworkers faces on the movie's promotional poster.
We laughed knowing it's being done all over the internet.
We then discussed the issues surrounding the movie; how some people might not be ready for it, how some people are completely against it and how my sister and I really want to go see it.
Then my sister chimes in with this gem:
"Not to mention the name of the movie! I mean couldn't they think of a better name than Brokeback?"
We all answered with vague "mmhmm's".
Apparently, she thought we weren't getting it.
"You know, Brokeback, like he broke his back having anal sex?"
She was met with screams of
"Ok! GOD!!"
"Jesus Christ, WE GET IT!"
and the worst..from my 16 yr old nephew: "Oh my God, Mom! You are NOT allowed to talk anymore!"
Parents on a good day are extremely embarrassing to a teenager. Parents who utter the words "anal sex" will cause you to simply disappear from the humiliation.
Sometimes the greatest material can be found in instant messaging.
Me: there is a man that comes in here...he's old but handsome
Me: I would do him
The Friend: would you now
The Friend: what does he look like?
Me: old
The Friend: so, you'd do guys hunched over walkers, huh?
The Friend: that's pretty kinky, I guess
Me: you’re gross and ghey
The Friend: YOU brought this all up in the first place, toots!
Me: yeah well I wasn't talking about walkers and shit
The Friend: but you didn't play along when I asked what he looked like....
The Friend: "old" isn't very descriptive, especially for a wordsmith
Me: He's ruggedly handsome with salt and pepper hair brushing his forehead. He dresses with wild abandon, unconcerned about current fashions and trends. He walks with a swagger, hinting at years of wisdom and adventure. He smiles, knowingly, as if to say "I could have you. I've had many like you before."
Me: how's that...ass
The Friend: LMAO!
The Friend: yeah! That was great!
The Friend: are you sure you don't write for either Harlequin or one of the soaps?
Me: nah...I'm too good. I prefer to waste my talent here in Obscurity. You remember Obscurity? It's just north of Suicide and to the east of Oblivion
Is it wrong that I find great pleasure in standing in the wine aisle at the local grocery store and judging all the people buying wine?
I studied a well-dressed older gentleman who obviously worked out and groomed himself well. He must have been expecting a woman/man for dinner because he was holding a jar of spaghetti sauce in one hand, a package of dinner rolls in the other and trying to pick out a bottle of wine.
Would he go for a nice shiraz? A great Zin? Or preferably, a superb Pinot Noir?
He shifted the dinner rolls to the same hand holding the sauce and reached for a bottle. No! Don't do it, man! For the love of gawd, don't!
Merlot.
He went for Merlot.
Good luck getting laid tonight, dude.
...and other maladies.
I thought maybe I posted an entry about how Piper came to be in my life but I can't find it so I guess I never did.
It's a pretty amazing story but right now I'll just say that before she came to me, she was more than likely abused or mistreated in some way.
Now, she adores me but doesn't fully trust me. She's scared of almost everyone else and even I have to be careful with how I treat her or even how loud I yell in my own home.
The smallest infraction could send her under the bed for days.
Piper's got some skin allergies. She's allergic to flea bites and other things so her skin is often dry and flaky.
I decided to make her an appointment at a doggy day spa called The Pink Poodle. They promised they would condition her skin and hair, trim her nails and the hair around her feet, clean her teeth and make her feel like a million bucks.
I figured she would hate every second of it but it would be worth it in the long run.
I got up early on Saturday to take her to The Pink Poodle in the pouring rain.
The place is just too cute. It's got a picket fence around the porch and a big sign with a (of course) pink poodle.
Inside, it's immaculate. Since I was a first time visitor, I had to fill out some information. One of the ladies took Piper who was shivering violently. I tried to soothe her but she looked frightened.
She was going to hate it, but it would be ok, I told myself.
After leaving my name and number, the receptionist told me they would call me when Piper was done.
They had a boutique where they sold all kinds of ridiculous dog and cat accessories and I'm just the sucker they target.
I asked if I could shop a little and she enthusiastically told me to take my time.
Not even a minute later, she came into the boutique area and said, "Umm, we've got a little problem."
Uh oh.
"Piper is trying to bite us and she's pooping all over the floor. She's REALLY freaked out!"
She opened the door into the groomer area and there was Piper, cowering in the corner looking terrified.
I called to her. When she heard my voice, she looked up and made a bee line for me.
I scooped her up and she shook in my arms.
"I don't think we can do this today. Maybe you could bring her back and let her get to know us a little during the week."
"Sure," I said, with no intentions of ever bringing her back.
I knew she would hate it, I didn't know it would scare the shit out of her....literally.
I felt like the world's worst dog owner. How could I have subjected her to this trauma?
As soon as I got her into the car, she seemed fine.
She curled up in the passenger seat and watched me the whole way home.
I even stopped at Shipley's donuts for a sausage kolache for her. Food seems to make a dog forget about all their troubles...for a while.
She did save me $50, a sausage kolache was the least I could do for her.
The weather sucked like it's never sucked before.
It was cold, wet, windy and just down right miserable all weekend. We were out in it on Saturday but on Sunday, I just stayed my ass in bed all day.
It's one of those days that you want to curl up with your significant other and sit in front of a roaring fire.
Too bad I don't have a fireplace....or a significant other.
Sometimes, you have to have a sense of humor when you're not supermodel skinny...
A recent IM conversation:
Tammy: I love baby phat clothes
Tammy: Kimora Lee Simmons is the shit
Me: me too
Tammy: she likes pink as much as you
Me: I know!
Me: but I wouldn't wear anything with the word “fat” or “phat” on it
Me: that would just be redundant
Tammy: shut up
Tammy: *rolls eyes*
Me: shit I crack myself up
Tammy: besides she makes husky clothes
Tammy: husky....that always made me laugh
Me: i know...just call it "fat ass"
Me: husky is so patronizing
Tammy: husky clothes don't sound flattering
Tammy: short peeps get petite
Me: yeah...petite is cute
Tammy: nice and delicate and shit
Tammy: huuuuuuusskkkkyyy
Me: yer HUUUUUUUUUUUSKY, bitch!
That would be me.
I'm a slave to marketing.
All it takes is a pretty wrapper or an eye-catching design and I'm in.
God help us if I really had any money.
But I'm getting this:
Not the magenta one, but the PINK one.
Pink, of course. Surely, you're not surprised?
Saturday, we rolled into Sonic and placed our order. Just a drink and a smoothie, nothing fancy.
As we waiting for our order, a young girl in a large SUV pulled up and after a few seconds of deliberation, placed her own order.
Girl: Can I get the Sweetheart Brownie Blast with vanilla ice cream?
Disembodied Voice: It IS made with vanilla ice cream.
Girl: Right but can I get it without the dark cherry favoring?
DV: Yes, you want a Sweetheart Brownie Blast without cherry?
Girl: Well, yes, but I want extra brownies and I want another Sweetheart Blast with no whipped cream?
DV: you want another Sweetheart Brownie Blast with cherry flavoring and no whipped cream?
Girl: What? No. I want another Blast WITHOUT cherry and no whipped cream but extra brownies
By this time we were laughing and I shook my head, "God, what a high maintenance little girl!"
I then turned my head and found myself staring at the larger-than-life-size poster of the Sweetheart Brownie Blast.
It DID look good. Ice cream, bits of brownies, whipped cream....but I hate cherry flavoring and it WOULD be good with lots of extra brownie bits.
Me: *pushes the button*
DV: May I help you?
Me: Can I get a Sweetheart Brownie Blast without cherry and with extra brownies?
DV: *heavy sigh*
Just recently, I found out a new coworker was reading my blog.
I've taken great pains to keep my blog and my work separate but they converged on this particular day and I felt very uncomfortable.
I don't blog about where I work, what city it's in or what I do.
I rarely talk about people I work with so I am not worried about that type of backlash but I would never want to have this kind of discussion with any "higher ups".
It made me uncomfortable to know that someone I worked with on a daily basis was reading everything I wrote without my knowledge.
I am not sure why because there are complete strangers out in the world who have the ability to read everything on this blog and I'd never know.
But somehow, when it's someone I am face to face with everyday, it was different. Creepy, almost.
It's no surprise that I'm a different person on my blog than I am in real life. If I were completely anonymous here, I could get more creative, use more of the things in my life for some interesting blog posts but I created a precedent when I allowed people who know me to read my blog.
I have to censor myself and that's hard when trying to be creative.
Perhaps I'm just too self conscious. Maybe I should adopt more of an I-don't-give-a-shit-what-you-think attitude.
There are so many bloggers out there who blog as "themselves". How do you do it? Do you just not give a shit?
We have this family friend...I'll call her Tracy.
Tracy is actually a coworker and friend of my mother but she's become like one of the family.
Tracy is one of those people you immediately love or hate. She can talk to anyone about anything. She is completely genuine. What you see is what you get. She doesn't pretend to be anything more or less than what you see and she will tell you the truth everytime.
Some people adjust their personality and behavior depending on the people they are with; not Tracy. Tracy will say the same thing to her best friend or her grandmother. It doesn't matter.
Now, let me tell you about Sister #3. (We'll call her 3 from now on). 3 is the very definition of uptight.
She hates it when I or any of the other sisters use the word "fuck". She (hopefully jokingly) admits that her husband has never seen her naked with the light on.
She has a perpetual stick up her ass and we've known this for years. We accept it (though we talk shit about her behind her back constantly).
Every month, 12 of us get together for a card game.
It's at a different person's house each month and we sit 4 people to a table.
This month, it was at Tracy's house and as per usual, Sister #2, #3, Tracy and I sat at a table.
Our mother sits at the main table with the other elders of the group. She's usually out of earshot so we will sometimes talk about things we wouldn't want our mother to hear.
Sometimes, these are things 3 doesn't want to hear either.
We were discussing American Idol of all things when Tracy mentioned a contestant's clothing and how you could almost see her twat.
Yes, she said "twat".
I was a little shocked to hear this word come out of her mouth. Sister #2 was surprised as well but 3 was appalled!
2 and I were suddenly nervous.
It wasn't that long ago that Tracy said something inappropriate that pissed 3 off and when someone is wound as tight as 3, you're POSITIVE something's going to blow at any given moment.
I tried laughing it off, hoping a little comedy would lighten the situation.
"Tracy! (hahaha) You can't say that word! Some of us don't even know what it means!" (hahaha)
It didn't work. It made matters worse because Tracy had to explain the meaning of "twat".
"You know...pussy....cunt....TWAT!"
I felt lightheaded, like I was suddenly having an out of body experience. 3 was going to fucking explode!
I couldn't watch. 3 looked angry and we certainly don't like her when she's angry.
The angrier 3 got, the more Tracy said it.
"Twat Twat Twat Twat Twat Twat"
Was she doing this on purpose? Surely not. Does she not know she's playing with fire? 3 is unpredictable. 3 is volatile. Pissing 3 off is like playing raquet ball with a hand grenade.
"You have a problem with twat, 3?" she asked.
"You couldn't hang with us then, 3. We say shit like that all the time. Pussy, dick, twat....."
"Where did you come from 3? At work we say stuff like that and your mom doesn't get freaked out!"
Twat twat twat twat twat... this is really going to fuck with my google rating!
I kept hearing it.
It was echoing in my head.
Surprisingly, 3 kept her cool and simply said "I am not comfortable using that kind of language."
The next day, Tracy asked my mom what she did to us to make us like that.
The only thing my mother could say was "I just taught my children what was appropriate and what wasn't. Using that kind of language in mixed company simply isn't appropriate."
Later, Mom said to me, "I guess they all think I raised a bunch of uptight kids."
Are we to be considered "uptight" because we choose not to use that type of language in a diverse group of people?
Most of the people in this card group are my mother's age and older. Some are old enough to be my grandmother!
I wouldn't even want to HEAR the word "twat" in my mother's or grandmother's presence, much less say it.
Isn't that just good manners?
The previous entry was my way of saying I made it through the anniversary.
Thank you all for your kind words. They were very much appreciated.
The apartment right next door to me has a revolving door.
And by that, I mean people don't stay long. I'm sometimes afraid it's me but since I smell pretty good, I don't party late at night and I TRY to be a good neighbor, logic tells me that it's probably because it's in a crappy location.
It's sandwiched between two other apartments and lacking a patio.
I guess it's a transition apartment for wayward people.
This sucks for me because every six months or so, I get new people. It's a freakin crap shoot and I never know what I'm going to get.
I had a psycho woman who accused me of stealing her newspaper.
I had a young girl who thought we were going to be best friends and knocked on my door every night to get me to come out and chat while she smoked.
I had a newly pregnant 17 yr old who was getting her first apartment with her not-so-thrilled-about-being-a-father baby daddy. He played video games with the front door standing wide open and it pissed everyone off.
One day, I walk up the stairs to find the cops taking a statement from newly preggers and I hear ".....then he knocked the cell phone out of my hand so I couldn't call my mama...?" as I unlock my door.
They were gone within the week.
The next tenant was a nice woman with a small boy. She didn't last 6 months. I noticed her ex was staying the night a lot. I wasn't surprised when she moved out and moved back in with him.
I am fortunate enough to get a good few months between neighbors. I enjoy the freedom of not having to worry about people knocking on their front door which is about 2 inches from mine, running into them coming up the stairs or my dogs trying to run into their apartment if they happen to open their door at the wrong time.
I had been enjoying said freedom since around Thanksgiving. I was getting used to it and beginning to wonder if they were ever going to rent that apartment out...then...I saw light through the patio door one evening.
Someone is there. I glimpsed the corner of a chair and a picture on the wall. I have neighbors again.
For about two weeks, I could see that someone was living there but I never saw them and I never heard them.
I usually hear the front door open, close and lock but this time, I had an invisible neighbor. They obviously couldn't be seen or heard.
Well, until today...
As I was herding the dogs up the stairs after our morning constitutional, I heard a disembodied voice say, "Hello there!"
I looked around and finally saw a head sticking out of the doorway.
My neighbor IS visible!
He introduced himself. What a CUTIE!
Ok, I'm not hot for this kid. He's young. REAL young.
But he's just your average dorky, sweet kid.
He's got long, shaggy hair, acne, braces and tattoos.
He's extremely honest, too. He asked me if I was the one with the wireless connection. He wanted to offer to pay a fee to tap it.
He then told me his work schedule just in case I needed anything.
I hope he doesn't turn out to be some kind of serial killer.
If I stop blogging suddenly and they find my body hacked into pieces and stuffed into trash bags, tell the cops to look for a guy named Nick.
To speak blog frankly; the following post is sad.
Tomorrow marks one year since my nephew's death.
If you're here looking for funny, don't read on.
I'll be back Monday.
I haven’t planned this post out enough to do research but it seems that one year is the unspoken cut off date for mourning.
I can’t imagine telling myself I can’t miss my nephew anymore. How can I tell myself, “Ok, you’ve cried enough. Dry it up, De!”
On Friday, February 3rd, it will be one year from the day my nephew died.
One year ago, on that Thursday night, I received a phone call that I’ll never forget.
It came at 10pm and by 1am I was riding in the passenger seat as my sister #3 raced down dark, isolated Texas roads to find our boy.
It was a boating accident, we were initially told. A boating accident and Rick was missing.
In my mind, I pictured him clinging to a buoy or washed up on the shore, waiting for the Coast Guard to find him. It was night after all; people were hard to find in the dark waters.
It was later, right before we left, that I heard a more accurate version: The boat got away from them; he dove in after it and never came back up.
That’s when I panicked.
We will never know exactly what happened on that day. There were two people in that boat. One is dead. The other is a liar.
I think, besides the obvious, that this is the part that is the hardest to deal with.
I have no idea what Rick’s last few minutes on this earth was like.
Did he know he was dying? Did he realize that he was drowning? Was he scared? Did he scream out in terror? Did he beg God to help him as the frigid water consumed him?
These are questions that I’ve refused to ask myself until now. If I think about it too much or for too long, I might just go complete insane.
Joan Didion wrote about grief in The Year of Magical Thinking.
I’m not sure if this year held magical thinking for me, unless you consider lying to yourself magical.
I’ve been able to convince myself that Rick is away at school or working on the wildlife refuge far away.
It’s only 3 or 4 times a day that something reminds me that he’s indeed dead and I will never see him again.
It never fails to knock the wind out of me, this harsh realization.
I literally have to pause no matter where I am or what I am doing. I stop suddenly and try to catch my breath. I fear my heart will either burst from my chest or shatter into a million pieces.
I try to pinpoint exactly what it is that I feel when I am grieving. Is it because I will never see him again? Is it because I’ll never attend his wedding or know his children? Is it because I’ll never get to tell them stories about him as a child?
Yes.
But it’s also because I can’t freaking stand the thought of him at the bottom of the bay, cold, lifeless.
I can’t bear the thought of him terrified, screaming for that other person to help him, while she did nothing but stand on a sandbar and wait for the next boat to come by.
I want so bad to think that it was peaceful; that when the water became too cold he simply stopped feeling and went to sleep.
I would give anything to know that for sure.
One year has passed and I’ve dreaded this day for nearly the whole year.
What will I do? I can’t pretend this day is the same as any other.
I want the day to be over. I want it to pass me by and I don’t want have to think of the next anniversary for a while.
As fast as this year as gone, I feel like these last few days have crept by like I was living in slow motion.
I would love to go to bed and wait for it to be over. But, I know that if I did, I just might as well die too.
The day after we returned from the refuge, after Rick’s body was recovered, I went to bed and didn’t get out for two days.
I didn’t shower, I didn’t brush my teeth and I didn’t eat.
I lay there, praying to God to let this all be a nightmare. Please let me see Rick one more time. Please, I begged him.
I couldn’t do that again. Getting out of that bed and facing the reality of it was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. I couldn’t do that twice.
Watching my sister go through this is the second hardest thing I’ve done.
If this is how I feel, I can’t even imagine her pain. I don’t even pretend to and I think she appreciates that.
She hears a lot of “I know how you feel.” And she hates every single one of them, even when they come from someone who has lost a child.
No one knows how you feel.
No one knows how I feel but I hope that Rick knew and still knows that I loved him so much.
I was so proud of him and I admired the hell out of him.
He was a good boy and he grew into a great man. No, he grew into an amazing man. How we share DNA, I’ll never know.
A few weeks after his death, my sister (his mother) used his Bible to look up a passage. She found that he had marked this particular verse. The truth and the foresight of this Bible verse shook her and has become something we try to draw comfort from.
Isaiah 57
1 The righteous perish,
and no one ponders it in his heart;
devout men are taken away,
and no one understands
that the righteous are taken away
to be spared from evil.
2 Those who walk uprightly
enter into peace;
they find rest as they lie in death.
