Good Morning, Digital Neighbors! Blessed Sunday to any and all! While every day is a day to thank God, Sunday is the day of gratitude. Every Sunday, disciples of the Risen One celebrate His victory over sin, fear, and death. When they can hold those truths close to their hearts, they can become an unstoppable force for good in the world—true salt to preserve what is good and bring out its fullness, true light to illuminate creation in such a way that it reveals the handiwork of the Creator of all light and beauty with which He first formed His creation.
All this is done so that others might come to believe in the goodness of God, so that praise, honor, and glory are given to Him. It is not an easy feat. Too often, disciples can come to believe it is all about them and think that our good works are ours alone. Spiritual conceit is an ever-lurking problem if we cannot keep rooted in our own unworthiness—not in some sort of groveling, self-deprecating way, but rather in a simple and humble recognition that I am nothing without God and that I can do no good without His grace. That type of humility gives the Spirit ample freedom to act in our hearts. While our good works do not save us, it is clear to me that they sanctify us, and without them we risk not grasping the tremendous gift given to us without merit.
Well, enough of my preaching this morning—on to a prayer of gratitude. Know of my prayers for you this day as I go about shepherding the people I am so blessed to serve and love, and offer with them praise to the Living God. Thank you for allowing me to visit with you through is amazing medium of the internet. May your day be blessed.
Thank you for the tranquil night.
Thank you for the stars.
Thank you for the silence.
Thank you for the time you have given me.
Thank you for life.
Thank you for grace.
Thank you for being there, Lord.
Thank you for listening to me,
for taking me seriously,
for gathering my gifts in Your hands
to offer them to your Father.
Thank you, Lord. Thank you.
Michel Quoist, 1918–1997
Today marks the three hundred and thirtieth birthday of the Frenchman François-Marie Arouet, better known by his nom de plume, Voltaire (1694-1778).
Born into a bourgeois family during the reign of Louis XIV, the “Sun King” (r. 1643-1715), Voltaire suffered tragedy at a young age when his mother died. Never close with his father or brother, Voltaire exhibited a rebellious attitude toward authority from his youth. His brilliant mind was fostered in the care of the Society of Jesus, who introduced him to the joys of literature and theater. Despite his later criticisms against the Church, Voltaire, throughout his life, fondly recalled his dedicated Jesuit teachers.
Although he spent time as a civil servant in the French embassy to the Hague, Voltaire’s main love was writing—an endeavor where he excelled in various genres, including poetry, which led to his appointment as the royal court poet for King Louis XV. Widely recognized as one of the greatest French writers, and even hyperbolically referred to by ...
Padre - Tom Miller invites you to a Coffee Talk, Speakeasies, Schmoozes, Tea Times, Afterhours and other gatherings.
https://teams.live.com/meet/93792382189049?p=DiBHsYfuECPgDrG7vO
2026 Coffee Talk with the ADD Irregulars
Thursday, January 1, 2026
6:00 AM - 8:00 AM (CST)
Occurs every day starting 1/1 until 12/31/2027
Coffee Talk - Daily beginning at 6:00 AM Central Time Zone - USA
White Pilled Wednesday - A break from the heaviness of news and current events to focus upon things more personal & positive for the first hour of Coffee Talk.
Afternoon Chats - Most Tuesday, Friday & Sundays 2:00 PM Central
Other chats as posted in the community.
Don’t argue with people over sixty.
Just don’t.
It’s not just an age; it’s a masterclass in survival.
They grew up without Google, without DoorDash, without therapy podcasts, and without an "undo" button. If something broke, they grabbed duct tape, WD-40, a hammer, and a look of sheer determination that made even the broken appliance second-guess itself.
As kids, they knew exactly what kind of mood their mom was in just by the sound of how hard she slammed the cast-iron skillet onto the stove.
They were the original latchkey kids — walking home from middle school with a house key tied around their neck, with strict orders to heat up lunch and not burn the kitchen down. By the time they were ten, they could bike to the corner store, buy a gallon of milk for the neighbor, feed the family dog, and still have time to play freeze tag in the yard until dark.
Their knees were a permanent canvas of scrapes, bruises, Mercurochrome, and rubbing alcohol. Their universal first-aid kit was just ...
