A Pensive Persistent Melancholy

When I am down and, oh my soul, so weary;
When troubles come and my heart burdened be;
Then, I am still and wait here in the silence,
Until you come and sit awhile with me.

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains;
You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas;
I am strong, when I am on your shoulders;
You raise me up… To more than I can be.

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains;
You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas;
I am strong, when I am on your shoulders;
You raise me up… To more than I can be.

There is no life – no life without its hunger;
Each restless heart beats so imperfectly;
But when you come and I am filled with wonder,
Sometimes, I think I glimpse eternity.

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains;
You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas;
I am strong, when I am on your shoulders;
You raise me up… To more than I can be.

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains;
You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas;
I am strong, when I am on your shoulders;
You raise me up… To more than I can be.

You raise me up… To more than I can be.
Josh Groban

Today, I am a little sad. Not the kind of sad that looks like the beginnings of some deep dark depression, but sad nonetheless. Maybe a pensive persistent melancholy is a better way to describe how I feel today.

Moving back to Vicksburg was about coming home. About coming back to the place that was so much of a tether, at least in my mind.

I was going to be grounded here.
Being surrounded by old friends, old surroundings, and familiar haunts was going to make this a safe place–providing a security I wanted and needed.

I am so glad I came back. I am glad Becki was here. I am grateful for the sense of being important and loved she gives me. She is a constant source of strength and encouragement. She has made this house we live in a home for all of our boys. Truly we rise up and call her blessed. That this town is a safe secure place is largely due to her.

But today, I am a little sad, a kind of pensive persistent melancholy.
Mourning a little bit.
Grieving just a tad.

Mostly today, it is about me.
The loss of me.
The loss of purpose.
The loss of friends, circles, and fellowships.

Don’ get me wrong. I am not without friends. I have a group of buddies scattered about–mostly in the South–and we communicate as a group every single day of the week and have for years thanks to the internet. Preachers mostly. We are all save one connected by the now defunct Magnolia Bible College. Most of these guys I have known since I was 18 and three of them from an even younger age.

Those guys are my friends and brothers (one of them is my little brother), and I love them unequivocally–even the one whose politics are way outside anything I can understand and appreciate.

But today, I am a little sad. Once again, a pensive persistent melancholy, if you will.
Rebuilding a shattered life was going to be easier here.
At least until I figured out it was going to be hard anywhere.

Life has a funny way of moving on.
People change.
Life happens.
Time rolls on.
And relationships have to be nurtured in order to be sustained.

In the meantime, please understand it is not nearly as dreary as it may sound.
I know good things are coming.
I know they are. I believe that with all my heart.
I do, however, get very frustrated when God’s timing is not in line with my I-want-it-now perspective.


Here’s to new friends and new situations…
Here’s to moving forward and growing stronger…
Here’s to building a new life on stronger foundations…
Here’s to God as the cornerstone and architect!

Today, I am a little bit sad and yet very determined to face the challenges of a great new adventure with the God who raises us up.

How about you?

Les Ferguson, Jr.

Where Eagles Fly

I am often told my writing is raw, honest, and full of emotion. Most of the time those that tell me also thank me for it.

I also hear from people who tell me how painful and hard it is to read, but read it they must.

Sometimes I think honesty is a trait of another time and place. We often pull our punches. We often tell people exactly what they want to hear.

I know some good people who would love for me to write today and tell you of all the wonderful things in my life… tell you about my successes and blessing… let you know of all the joy and happiness that has invaded my life.

And, if the truth be told completely, there are wonderful things, wonderful people in my life. In some places, in some areas I see successes, I recognize blessings. I am thankful that I do know joy and happiness–I am often able to easily find reasons for joy and happiness.

But if the truth were to be told completely, I’d have to tell you–even though it may not be what you want to hear–that there are still dark places, dark things I wrestle with.


I am tired.

A lot.

Add to that a cup or two of anger here and there and it is a potent mix.

I don’t understand why it seems the wicked prosper.
Why can’t I have some of that?

I don’t have a clue why life has to be so crazy hard at times.
Is it too much to ask for a day or two every once in a while on Easy Street?

My patience with God often gets stretched thin.

Here’s my truth: I am fully ensconced in just such a time.
I am exasperated with the constant sense of having to scratch and claw.
I hate feeling desperate and unsure.
I am so ready for God to work in my life in bigger and better ways.
So ready.

So this morning, in the absence of that, I did run therapy.
Three faster than normal miles on some dusty gravel roads.
And I listened to music.

Robbie Williams crooned…
When I’m feeling weak and my pain walks down a one way street…

Yep. I get that. Perfect words to encapsulate my frame of mind.

But, I didn’t need any auditory reminders this morning. So with apologies to Mr. Williams, that just wasn’t going to work. I needed music to groove/ move me faster–and help me out of my funk. And being that I am an unrepentant hard rock fan, I turned to the Red Rocker instead.

My musician Sammy Hagar can usually move me. Today he did. I like a bunch of his work, but my all time favorite and one of my most listened to songs is called Eagles Fly.

Sunday morning 9 a.m. 
I saw fire in the sky 
I felt my heart pound in my chest 
I heard an eagle cry 

Now I’m alive I can breathe the air 
Feel the wind, smell the earth in the air 
I watch an eagle rise above the trees 
Project myself into what he sees 

Take me away 
Come on and fly me away 
Take me up so high 
Where eagles fly 

I often dream I sail through the sky 
I’ve always wished I could fly 
The simple life of a bird on the wing 
Oh Lord, I could sing 

Take me away 
Come on fly me away 
Lift me up so high 
Where eagles fly 

Oh yeah- 
I’m alive, I breathe the air 
Wash the earth from my face 
I catch a glimpse of another dream 
I turn, I look but there’s no trace 

Take me away. 
Come on, fly me away. 
I wanna fly away. 
Pick me up so high 
Where eagles fly 

Oh yeah- 
Eagles fly, oh, take me away 
Eagles fly, oh, take me away 
Come on, let’s fly away where eagles fly 
Come on, fly away where eagles fly.

Sammy probably never intended for a guy like me to use his music to fight my way out of a funk.

But that’s where I am and not where I want to be, so fight I must.

Take me away. 
Come on, fly me away. I wanna fly away. Pick me up so high 
Where eagles fly…

Thank you Sammy for helping me move faster and groove on while doing it.
More importantly, thank you for reminding me of scripture…

Even youths grow tired and weary,
 and young men stumble and fall;
but those who hope in the Lord
 will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
 they will run and not grow weary,
 they will walk and not be faint.
Isaiah 40:30-31 (NIV)

Come on God, I am so ready to soar.
How about you?

Take me away. Come on, fly me away. I wanna fly away. Pick me up so high 
Where eagles fly…

Les Ferguson, Jr.

I Didn’t Believe

I didn’t believe.
God help me, I didn’t believe.

It was a normal stressed out Wednesday. I was getting ready to go home for supper and take a break before services when the phone rang. I heard the words, “something’s happened and it’s bad.”

Before the evening was through, a professional counselor would tell us she believed Cole had been molested.

A handicapped young man.
Wheelchair bound.
Totally dependent.
Mentally deficient.
Molested (and worse) at the hands of a seventy year-old man.

On our part, there was tears, anger, hurt, and confusion.

How could this be?
How could such a thing happen?

And then my distorted view of reality kicked in.
No way.
Not possible.
There has to be some kind of mistake.
Cole is just confused. He has no idea of such things.

I didn’t believe.
God help me, I didn’t believe.

How could I?
How could I suspend disbelief and even think such a thing was possible?

I know these things happen all the time. I know that sick perversions warp, hurt, and do damage to a degree we may never fully comprehend.

All the time.
In situations and places where kids ought to be safe.

I know this intellectually, but emotionally, I still find it hard to wrap my mind around such a thing. It makes no sense to me at all.

I didn’t believe.
God help me, I didn’t believe.

While we had lots of lively arguments and discussions at my house during those early days of discovery and comprehension, I was still determined to support my son. The disbelief of others made me incredibly angry.

And yet,
I didn’t believe.
God help me, I didn’t believe.

Before you judge me, hear me out.
I didn’t believe, not because I distrusted or doubted my son.

I was a Daddy who loved his boy with all that I was or could ever hope to be. Still do.
I didn’t believe because I didn’t want to.
Would you?

Who could want to believe such a horrible thing? I would much rather Cole be confused or even dishonest than to be forced into believing such horrible things had happened to him under my watch.

I didn’t want to believe because I didn’t want it to be true.

But, God help us, it was true and I had to believe.

You need to believe too.
You need to believe that there are sick evil people in this world who prey on the helpless, the innocent.
You need to believe there are those who will go to any measure to infiltrate the lives of good people in order to fulfill their wicked desires.

When it does happen to someone you know, please be sure to understand that how you handle the knowledge can have a lasting effect.

I didn’t believe.
God help me, I didn’t believe.

But I believe now.
And that belief will ever be vigilant for the predators among us.

If you or your church are interested in a conversation along these lines, please let me know.

Les Ferguson, Jr.


I think five times.

Just five.

I have visited five times.

I have this strange urge to go now, but three and a half hours is a long way to travel for a visit that has never quite lasted even ten minutes.

I am not a fan of cemeteries. They are not places of peace. They don’t engender moments of quiet reflection. They don’t inspire sweet memories.

They do, however, spark moments of rage and anger. They do inspire transcendental and irrational thoughts. They do bring a fresh feeling of horror and pain. Of disbelief and incomprehensibleness.

I don’t like cemeteries.
Especially this one.

Especially this one.

Maybe there will come a time in our journey where I can visit. Say hello. Or spend a quiet afternoon. But not now. And knowing me the way I do, quite possibly never.

It is hard to write of these things. There is renewed grief. And an aching in my chest and tears in my eyes that make it difficult to say anything of much sense or value. At 8:00AM on a Saturday morning as I write this, I am already exhausted.

So much has happened since the first day we traveled in the company of hundreds of others to that particular cemetery. So many changes.

Casey is growing up fast and missing his front teeth.
Conner is a Junior in High School, talking about colleges, and becoming this new man-child I hardly recognize.

So many changes. But one remains. I still don’t like cemeteries.

I don’t go there, but I do go to our basement.

Outside of October 10, 2011 and the subsequent funeral services and burials, the hardest days of my life were watching my mother and sisters pack up Karen’s clothes and things and the day I finally emptied Cole’s bedroom in preparation to move.

We boxed up some items for the boys when they are older. They will each have some jewelry, dishes, keepsakes, etc. Things they can look at, use, and remember. Or at least in Casey’s life, he can hold something tangible that once belonged to his mother.

Do you get the inherent unfairness of what I just wrote?

In my basement are stored things for their future lives to help them remember what must seem like a distant memory even now.

And I want to rage at the senselessness of it all.

In my basement are two footlockers once owned by a former neighbor. Those footlockers traveled all over the world on various US Navy Sea Bee deployments. These days they see no travel at all.

None whatsoever.

I hate going to the basement.
For anything.

We store lots of stuff there. Things that are helpful. Things that are seasonal. So sometimes we go there to bring up and out those things we might need for the occasion.

I hate going to the basement.
When I do, I am always drawn to those two green and battered footlockers.
Cole no longer has a bedroom to store his earthly treasures, so I store them there.

His Sea Wolves hockey poster.
His favorite CD’s.
His graduation cap.
Stuff that he surrounded himself with.
And Brett Farve memorabilia.

Going to the basement is hard.
Opening those footlockers is an agony all its own.

As it turns out, basements and cemeteries have a lot in common.
At least for me.

At least for me.

For those who are hurting and grieving, know we are fellow travelers. May our hearts be healed. May our painful places be less so.

Thank you for reading.

Les Ferguson, Jr.

A Song Can Rise

Normally I write on my Mac or my iPad. But last night, inspiration struck late. I spent awhile furiously scribbling on scraps of paper and left over stuff from the real estate day we had just concluded.

I can’t wait to finish it. I can’t wait to share it. I think it will be provocative and challenging. I believe if shared enough, if given a wide enough audience, it might just help us in the fight against those who who molest children or sexually assault others.

But in the midst of the writing storm, an old friend from my preaching days posted some song lyrics on Facebook. She didn’t give the name of the song. She didn’t share the identity of the group that sang it.

But how the lyrics resonated.
With me.
With my life.
With my struggle with God.

I am doing so much better than I was. I am standing. I am determined. I am moving forward to build the best life ever.

But there are days. Yes, there are days…
There are days of heartache and challenges.
There are days of little to no self-confidence.
There are days where the questions seem to overpower the hope.

But not for long.

So, as I work on an article I believe will be helpful, I’d like to share the lyrics from Worn by Tenth Avenue North

I’m tired
I’m worn
My heart is heavy
From the work it takes to keep on breathing

I’ve made mistakes
I’ve let my hope fail
My soul feels crushed
By the weight of this world
And I know that you can give me rest
So I cry out with all that I have left

Let me see redemption win
Let me know the struggle ends
That you can mend a heart that’s frail and torn

I want to know a song can rise
From the ashes of a broken life
And all that’s dead inside can be reborn
Cause I’m worn

I know I need
To lift my eyes up
But I’m too week
Life just won’t let up
And I know that You can give me rest
So I cry out with all that I have left

Let me see redemption win
Let me know the struggle ends
That you can mend a heart that’s frail and torn

I want to know a song can rise
From the ashes of a broken life
And all that’s dead inside can be reborn
Cause I’m worn

And my prayers are wearing thin
I’m worn even before the day begins
I’m worn I’ve lost my will to fight
I’m worn so heaven so come and fluid my eyes

Let me see redemption win
Let me know the struggle ends
That you can mend a heart that’s frail and torn

I want to know a song can rise
From the ashes of a broken life
And all that’s dead inside can be reborn
Yes all that’s dead inside will be reborn
Though I’m worn
Yeah I’m worn

I want to know a song can rise from the ashes of a broken life

With sometimes cracking voice and strained vocal chords, I am singing.

I suspect some reading this need to let God start warming them up to sing again.

Do you think we might sing together?

Les Ferguson, Jr.

No More Molesters

Yesterday was very productive. I wrote and sent a bio. I wrote and sent a book proposal to three different people. I asked another if He might be interested.

Now I wait. Very impatiently.

In the mean time, there is something I want to share…

In the aftermath of Cole’s molestation and multiple rapes, I was beside myself with guilt.

How could I have not known?
How could I have not seen?
Why didn’t I protect my child better?

Did I say guilt? Absolutely. I still find plenty of opportunities to beat myself up over my failures.

And then, after Karen and Cole were murdered, more guilt, more self-recrimination throbbed like a smashed thumbnail throughout my psyche and my soul.

This isn’t, by the way, about having you massage my guilt away or somehow make me feel less like a failure.

The truth is a bitter pill to swallow. When it counted most, I failed.

Please don’t get me wrong. I am not wallowing in pity. There were plenty of signs for me to see–there was ample evidence to have helped me grasp what was going on. But, I have since learned that child molesters are very smart and controlling people. They are manipulators who groom both their victims and those around them. They play masterfully on our preconditioned desire to trust–especially when we are needing help.

When we looked at Paul Buckman, we saw a kindly, grandfatherly man who loved us, loved Cole, and wanted to help ease a burden. We were ecstatic. That’s exactly what we were supposed to see and feel.

I will always believe Paul Buckman could have been stopped–should have been stopped. So somehow, someway, we have to find a way to protect our children. Even in churches. Especially in churches. We cannot allow a fear of conflict to hinder us from saying or telling what needs to be said. Especially for our children.

The very place we want to trust the most is an easy playing field for the stalkers among us.

I’d like to introduce you to a couple of blogs–http://jimmyhinton.org and http://www.findingahealingplace.com. These are important. The writers know first hand what it means to live with a predator.

The first blog is written by a preacher (Jimmy Hinton) who was also a preacher’s son.
The second blog is written by a woman who was a preacher’s wife (Clara Hinton).
Was is the operative word.

Together, they lived with a preacher husband/ father who is now in jail for being a child molester. A predator who went undetected for over 40 years.

Can you imagine the horror?
And yet, even having lived through my own hell, I still have trouble imagining how much and how often our children are destroyed by this pervasive evil.

It’s way beyond time to say no more. I am looking forward to hearing more of Jimmy and Clara’s story–not because I revel in ugliness, but because we must wade through it in order to stop it!

Standing up for children is everybody’s business!

Can I get an Amen?

Les Ferguson, Jr.

Dear God…

I ran two miles today–the second day in a row. Yay me! This morning as I ran, I tried to pray, but mostly I just cried in frustration. I am not suicidal or despondent or even bereft of happiness or hope. I have blessings and they are counted and appreciated.

And yet…

The following prayer is what I wanted to express to the Father…

Dear God,

I don’t know how to pray anymore.
I am not sure I ever did.

Gone are all the words of majestic grandeur. The ability to ascribe wonder, awe, and amazement toward your great and bountiful blessings seems to be a thing of the past.

These days almost every time I try to pray it becomes some wordless groan and cry filled with anger, hurt, bitterness, and questions.

And rage.
Let’s not forget the rage.

I am glad scripture affirms that the Holy Spirit interprets for you. He’s probably working overtime to translate my frustrations into legible communication.

I am tired.
I am weary.
I am sick to death of struggling, scratching, and clawing.
Rebuilding is hard work often with more steps backwards than forward.
I’m guessing you know that to be the understatement of the century.

I am a fighter, not a quitter, so you’re gonna have to deal with me for a long time to come.

But you have to know this hurts. You have to.
This. Hurts. Horribly.
And it leaves me feeling inadequate at best and a loser at worst–even as I know I am not.

You have to know how badly I want some relief, some breathing room, some respite, just a small amount of security.

Is that too much to ask?

Honestly, it feels like it must be the hardest, biggest, largest thing anybody ever pleaded with you for…

Do I need to be punished for something? Is there some lesson you have picked for me to either learn or be the example of? Do I need to remind you there is a house here full with four wonderful boys and one amazing woman who are paying the price too?


In case you missed it, there are thousands and thousands of people on this planet who feel the same way. The exact same way.

We are not asking for riches.
We are not asking for every little wrinkle in the road to be smoothed over.
We are not asking for something foreign that no one else has ever experienced

On the other hand, many of us are striving with everything we have to live lives not defined by our past or even the horrors or difficulties that so easily overwhelm us. To the contrary, we want lives that are defined by hope, a better tomorrow.

We know you can fix it all, and while we would love that, we would be greatly satisfied with feeling, knowing your presence in concrete ways that help us see better days and eased struggles somewhere close on the horizon.

And like Abraham of old, we ask, Will not the Judge of all the earth do right?


Les Ferguson, Jr.

Show Me The Way–Another Throwback Post

Thanks to a friend, we are chilling out, regrouping, relaxing, and recreating in Destin, FL. I came here with the intention of trying to write, but the beach and water call my name.

There is something restorative about the ocean… The never ending waves roll in and with them the certainty that life goes on.

I worry about the future. I stress constantly over being able to support my family. I wrestle with doubt. I strive with fear. I struggle with self-confidence… And still, life goes on.

Patience is not my strong suit. I want a voice from heaven that says everything is going to be alright. Bills will get paid. Opportunities are coming.

Yes, as I once said before, I am a mess. Certifiable.

In the meantime, I found another old post from my old life and old blog. Amazingly enough, it is so appropriate for where I am today. In the next day or so I hope to share something new. In the meantime. Check out my new endorsement and enjoy…

Every night I say a prayer in the hope that there’s a heaven
And every day I’m more confused as the saints turn into sinners
All the heroes and legends I knew as a child have fallen to idols of clay
And I feel this empty place inside so afraid that I’ve lost my faith

Show me the way, show me the way
Take me tonight to the river
And wash my illusions away
Show me the way

And as I slowly drift to sleep, for a moment dreams are sacred
I close my eyes and know there’s peace in a world so filled with hatred
That I wake up each morning and turn on the news to find we’ve so far to go
And I keep on hoping for a sign, so afraid that I just won’t know

Show me the way, Show me the way
Take me tonight to the mountain
And wash my confusion away

And if I see a light, should I believe
Tell me how will I know

Show me the way, show me the way
Take me tonight to the river
And wash my illusions away
Show me the way, show me the way
Give me the strength and the courage
To believe that I’ll get there someday
Show me the way

Every night I say a prayer
In the hope that there’s a heaven… (Dennis DeYoung)

I vacillate in the type of music I listen to. Some days it’s more about good classic rock. The kind of music I grew up with. The kind that has been belted out of my lungs from the first day I ever got behind the wheel. I love rock and roll. Put another dime in the jukebox baby.

Some folks might read this and laugh at the idea of a dime jukebox. Others are probably looking at this and trying to remember if they have ever seen an old jukebox in an old movie.

Isn’t that a hoot?

But I digress.

My other favorite is contemporary Christian, preferably the hard charging kind that is reminiscent of secular rock but with lyrics that reflect Christian values and/or praise God.

And from day to day and sometimes within the same day, I go from one to the other.

Imagine my surprise and delight when I connected with an old rock song from a group that is still around in one form or another a song with a decidedly spiritual touch. A plea even to see and know and understand that there is something out there that is better than the values of this world.

Enter Dennis DeYoung and Styx.

Show me the way.


I don’t know how I missed the import of the lyrics for all of these twenty-seven plus years that I have been singing along to this song. But I did, that is, until last week.

Show me the way. That might very well be the anthem cry of generations of young people, middle aged people, and old people.

Show me the way.

Politicians fail us.

Sports figures fail us. (Did Kenny Rogers really have pine tar on his hand?)

Teachers and principals and business leaders and religious leaders fail us.

Even our own flesh and blood can fail us in grievous ways.

Is it any wonder then that the world, at least those who are not so far gone in self-absorption, is looking for something better? And in particular, someone to show them the way?

That’s where you and I come in.


Beacons of light.

The people who can show the way, if we only will.

Matthew 5:14-16, (NIV) You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden.  Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.  In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.

Show me the way, show me the way
Take me tonight to the river
And wash my illusions away
Show me the way, show me the way
Give me the strength and the courage
To believe that I’ll get there someday
Show me the way

Every night I say a prayer
In the hope that there’s a heaven…

When Your Name Is Job


That’s not my birth name.

It’s not my nickname.

It’s not some weird family term of endearment.

In fact, if there is a biblical name I hate more than any… If there is a biblical story I despise more than any other, it is the name and story of Job.

I don’t want to hear how I am a modern day version of Job. It makes me sick. It makes me angry. It gives me questions for which I am still impatiently demanding answers.

I read Job’s story and find it utterly horrific that God would allow, much less encourage the kind of faith testing Job endured.

But as hard as it might be to wrap our minds around it, since the day mankind choose sin and self over righteousness and God, Satan has owned the power and authority to wreak havoc in our lives.

Satan did it in Job’s life.
Satan did it in mine.
And maybe not to the extreme others have had to face, Satan is still doing his best to wreak havoc in all of our lives. Mine and yours included.

It’s bad enough when it comes through the destruction of tragedy… it’s more than bad enough when it comes at the hands of wicked evil men.

But the truth is, it happens more often as a result of our own personal choices and decisions.

For every person whose family is murdered, destroyed–whose life/lives are damaged beyond comprehension, there are thousands and thousands–untold numbers–who face destruction, heartache, and grief as a result of their own making, be it poor choices or systemic failure.

There are people all around us who look to be successful, even “faithful” church folk. There are good friends and family whom we know and love… and they are hurting, struggling, dying on the inside.

And they are often ashamed.
Ashamed of their own weaknesses.
Ashamed of their own doubt.
Ashamed of their own lack of faith, belief, and trust.

I know this to be a fact.
I know it because I am one of them.

Regardless of how we got here, we are here. And we are most likely not going away.

So the question for the church is this: what are you going to do with us? My experience is that the church can do just as much damage, cause just as much pain. Platitudes will not fix us. Neither will hoping we go away. And expecting us to fix what is broken ourselves may be a lost cause.


When you are dealing with broken people, it doesn’t really matter how they became broken, does it?

It shouldn’t but it often does. Sometimes we see the nastiness of broken lives and because they did it to themselves, we try to extract our pound of flesh–to add some more punishment.

Really? Isn’t that what God would have us do?


In case you didn’t catch that, no.

If you are stubborn like me, we’ll say it again, no!

Everybody who has received mercy, who has been given grace, should be a conduit of the very same.


Besides, turn about is fair play and one day it might just be you caught in a bad place…

I once preached for a church where those in leadership refused to allow a baby shower for any unwed mother. The one place where this broken life should find help, hope, understanding, and forgiveness became a place that piled on even more shame.

If you or your church wants to be a beacon of hope for the lost and weary, you could honestly begin and maybe do your very best work right there in your own family…

You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

You save more lives with love than condemnation.

Thank you for helping save mine.

Les Ferguson, Jr.

The Bad Day Cycle

Good days.
Bad days.

Bad days.
Good days.

The bad days are inevitable. They will come. For one reason or another, logical or illogical, people happen. Circumstances happen. Life happens.

Sometimes it is just uncomfortable.
Sometimes it just, well, blows. Sucks even. And all you can do is just try to hang on.

Knowing that doesn’t always make it any easier. There certainly is little comfort to be drawn from the knowledge that bad days happen.

To everybody.
Rich or poor.
Wealthy or wise.
Feel free to plug in any descriptive words of your own choosing…

Yes, bad days are inevitable.

But, at this stage of my life, as we move forward–sometimes gracefully, sometimes clumsily, I am grateful to say good days are inevitable as well.

If you are stuck in what seems like, feels like an ever spiraling out of control endless number of bad days, don’t expect me to try and act like you are imagining it.

Once in the US Navy, a medical guy did an unmentionable procedure to my body… And just beforehand, he told me it didn’t really hurt. But if it did, it was because I imagined it. I asked him if I could punch him in the face–and if it hurt, it was just because he was imagining it.

He didn’t like that deal. And for some reason, he seemed to have a better attitude acknowledging my pain…

If you are hurting over a never ending supply of bad days, I get it. And feel your pain. No sugar-coating it from me.

Bad days hurt.
Bad days can sap all your energy and ruin your outlook on life.

But if you hang on long enough, good days are inevitable too.


Today has been a bad day.

For lots of reasons.
Some are the ripple effects of our tragedy.
Some are simply from living.
And some are the results of my own internal struggles.

Thankfully, I refuse to succumb to the bad days.
I may hurt.
I may agonize.
I may be frustrated out of my ever loving mind… (Today I have been!)

But I choose today to get through the day. To start over again in the morning.

As long we live, we can choose that option.

I, for one, am glad…

Good days are coming again. Count on it!

Now back to your regularly scheduled programming…

Les Ferguson, Jr.