Measures our

Actual worth.

Unholy Communion

Originally posted on My Books:

Brother Cobb rose from behind the wide pulpit. Stepped out before the covered Lord’s Table.

Mildred started listening. About time that heathen shut up. If I wanted to hear that rubbish I could turn on TV or read a trashy novel. Smiled, ready to receive another blessing. Communion always made her feel worthy inside. As Momma always said, “It’s the Lord’s way of giving Himself to those who have chosen the right path.”

“Thank you, Brother Francis, for such an inspirational talk,” Brother Cobb exclaimed in his radio preaching voice. “I’m sure the rest of the congregation is as anxious to hear about your journey to salvation as I am.”

Sure, Mildred jeered inside, like I’m waiting formy hemorrhoids to flare up again. Chuckled into her handkerchief. Snorted.

“Now,” the Reverend Cobb continued touching his fingertips together prayer-like before him, “we will end our first revival service as…

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You can’t

Build up

Breaking down.













Time is spent waiting,

Hoping for something more.

Life is wasted hating,

Fighting a losing war.


We squander our days

On needless anxious toil;

Forget how to praise,

Starve body and soul.


Weep for the living

And not the dead;

Time’s better spent giving,

Freely sharing daily bread.


Originally posted on My Books:


I’m giving away an Amazon gift card for my book Second Blessingto the first three people sending an e-mail. (U.S. only)

Don’t worry, I won’t put you on a list.

Thanks for looking,

John Northcutt Young

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Red Ink

Originally posted on My Books:


SECOND BLESSING is available in paperback and Kindle Edition, but the e-book’s advantage is red print. Mildred Stanford Hayes finds Francis Paul Day’s notepad in her purse after her Holy Communion chaos of choking on the Host. Decides it’s her sacred duty to read it, to save Damascus from this heathen.


Mildred picked up the notepad, as gently as patting out biscuits, which felt strangely heavy. Flipped open the cover, read:

Resurrection Journal of Francis Paul Day

Keep out

The large and sloppy printing looked worst than a backward child’s. He even wrote in red ink, how blasphemous and dramatic.

Heave-sighed. Flipped the page. Father, forgive me for the filth I’m about to see.

October 16, 1987: I am born again.

Snorted. Rolled her eyes. Wanted to throw-up. Humph! Pish and pshaw! Yeah and pigs fly. Glanced at the ceiling. Oh Lord, help me. Must I really read these…

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Comes in

All colors.


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