ANOTHER WEEK.

Another day.

Another funeral.

They come along regular.

“What are you gonna do this week?” my wife asks.

“Go to a funeral,” I say.

“Who died?”

“Don’t know yet.”

I shrug.

“But the phone will ring.”

She sighs.

The phone rings.

As I sit and listen to the eulogy about a person’s life, boiled down from a pulpit to fifteen minutes, I realize one thing.

Life is all about choices.

Good ones.

And bad ones.

They weren’t all good at the time.

They weren’t all bad.

Twenty years later, we look back, and the choices finally take shape.

We take one job.

We say no to another.

We marry one girl.

We forget another.

We divorce one woman.

We find another.

We drink too much alcohol.

We abstain altogether.

We drive too fast.

We remain forever in the slow lane.

We take a chance.

We ignore all risks.

We pack up and move.

We decide to stay.

We write because we love the written word.

We ignore the written word because there’s no money in them.

We write mysteries.

We live mysteries.

We write romances.

We live romance.

We don’t write at all.

We keep our secrets.

Choices.

They make life worth living.

They make life a living hell.

They’re wonderful in novels.

I hate to make them in the real world.

They define us.

Or they destroy us.

We remember them.

We are haunted by them.

But who knows?

The road not taken, the road we see so clearly in our regrets, may have wound up as the roughest road of all.

In the years I’ve been on this earth, I’ve made good choices.

I’ve made a lot of bad ones.

I have to live with them.

But you know who winds up as the most unfortunate soul of all?

The one who faced choices, looked away, and didn’t make any of them.

Please click the book cover image to read more about the Golgotha Connection. I made the choice to write it, and it’s a road I’m glad I took.