End of Days

Pain has a way of rewriting the rules when and where it decides to stay. This one isn’t the quick, screaming kind I’ve stared down before—those short, vicious rounds throughout the day I could outlast with clenched teeth, a few jokes,and stubborn pride. No, this pain moved in like a tenant who never leaves. It’s consistent, persistent, long-term, the kind that starts before coffee and keeps perfect attendance through every hour until the next one.

Sleep checked out months ago. The body won’t shut down, the mind won’t quiet, and the nights just stretch out like a bad sitcom with no punchlines.I keep reminding myself I’ve been through worse. The difference is duration. Past pains were lightning strikes thorough out the day—bright, brutal, then gone until the next attack. This one is a violent monsoon, steady and soaking. That’s where the everyday truths come in handy. You know the ones: “This too shall pass” sounds cute on a coffee mug, but when you’re living it, it becomes a quiet chant you repeat between breaths. Or my favorite, the one I mutter to no one in particular: “Keep swinging, even if the hammer or gavel’s heavy.” Pain isn’t here to break you; it’s here to see what you’re made of when the easy days are canceled.

The only tools left in the box are the old, honest ones. Prayer, simple and direct, just me talking to the One who set the whole thing in motion. Meditation, sitting still long enough for the noise to settle. Music—sometimes loud and defiant metal, sometimes soundscapes soft enough to wrap around the ache like a blanket. And of course that quiet herbal friend, whether flower or concentrate, slips in without fanfare and softens the edges when everything else has already tried.

What keeps the whole thing from tipping over is faith. Not the memorizing scripture kind—just the steady knowledge that this isn’t random cruelty. It’s part of a larger plan, a blueprint only the Lord could draw. I hold that thought close. Spirituality isn’t a luxury right now; it’s the main beam holding up the roof. Without it, the walls start leaning. The roof starts sagging.

There’s something almost esoteric in the work, if you squint at it right. Like a rough stone on the builder’s bench, I’m being squared and leveled, stone chip by painful chip. The suffering isn’t punishment—it’s the mallet and chisel shaping something spiritual that wasn’t finished yet. I can’t see the final form, but I trust the hands doing the carving. He has a plan.

So I keep going. Prayer before bed, music in the dark, meditation when the body screams, and that small natural mercy when the hours feel too long. I’ve been through worse, and I’ll come out the other side of this one too—maybe not prettier, but definitely stronger. Maybe not in this world but the next, but I will win. The pain is consistent, but so is my refusal to let it have the last word. God’s plan is still unfolding. My job is to stay upright, keep the inner light burning, and swing the hammer one more time.

Dear St. Dismas, thank you for your example of repentance and for interceding with the Lord on behalf of all who turn to Him in their final hour. Amen.

Feast of St Dismas
March 25th

Life is full of hard days. Pain comes in waves—sickness, loss, loneliness, or money troubles that never seem to end. Sometimes the hurt feels so heavy that a person thinks about ending it all. Suicide looks like a quick way out. But many faiths teach that it is a sin, one that opens the door to hell forever. I believe with all my heart that bearing a lifetime of pain here on earth is far easier than facing an endless punishment in hell. A short season of suffering beats eternal fire any day.

Think about time the way God made it. Our lives on earth are like a single page in a very long book in a very long series in a very huge library.. Even if you live eighty or ninety years and every one of them carries pain, that time still ends. One morning you wake up in heaven, or at least the pain stops when your body gives out. You may have cried every night, but the tears dry up. God sees your struggle. He knows you stayed faithful when it hurt. The Bible whispers that this world is not our home; we are just passing through. Pain here is temporary, like a storm that passes after a few hours.

Hell, though, is different. It has no clock. No sunrise to bring relief. No “this too shall pass.” If suicide breaks God’s rule against taking your own life, the punishment never stops. Imagine fire that burns but never consumes you. Or darkness that presses on your chest forever. No friends to talk to. No hope of tomorrow getting better. It is not a week, a year, or even a thousand years. It is infinity—time without end. No escape button. No second chance. That weight is too much for any soul to choose on purpose.

Picture two roads. One road has bumps and rocks, but it is only a few miles long. You walk it slowly, maybe limping, but you reach the other side and rest. The second road stretches forever. Every step brings fresh pain, and you never arrive anywhere. Which would you pick? Most of us would grit our teeth and walk the short, rough road. Life is that first road. Hell is the second.

Faith gives us strength to keep walking. When pain feels bigger than we can handle, we can pray. We can lean on family, pastors, or kind strangers God places in our path. Many people who once wanted to quit later say, “I am glad I stayed. Good things came after the hard part.” God does not promise easy days, but He promises He will never leave us. He carried the cross Himself—nails in His hands, thorns on His head—so He understands pain better than anyone.

Choosing life honors the gift God gave us. Our days, even the painful ones, have purpose. They build our character. They let us help others who hurt too. And when our time here ends naturally, we can stand before God with clean hands and say, “I trusted You through the storm.”

So if the dark thoughts come, remember this simple truth: a lifetime of pain, no matter how long or heavy, is still just a moment compared to forever. Hold on. Light a joint. Breathe. Reach out for help. God is near, and heaven waits for those who finish the race. The hurt will pass. Hell never does. Life, even with its scars, is the kinder choice.

Too many people have died around me lately. Friends. Family. Past loves. Brothers. Most older but a disturbing amount my age or younger. The grief often hits without warning: a strange tightness in my chest, scrolling past an old friend’s obituary, or the memory of holding my grandmother’s hand as she fought for her final breaths. Sometimes it’s simpler and stranger—glancing at my phone and realizing I still have half a dozen dead people in my contacts. (Once, caller ID actually rang from one of those numbers. Not cool.)

In those moments, mortality stops being abstract. We’re mortal. I’m mortal. This life ends—no do-overs, no extensions, no saved games to fall back on, no negotiation. The truth lands like a brick, and for once I don’t shove it away like I did when I was younger. I actually let it sit.

The feelings crash in, messy and overlapping. Fear arrives first and hardest. Death doesn’t care about my schedule or my bucket list. It could come tomorrow—a drunk driver, a random clot in this cursed leg, or my heart simply deciding it’s finished. The sheer randomness and infinite possibilities terrifies me.

I used to picture dying peacefully in my sleep, maybe surrounded by family, or at least leaving some meaningful mark. Instead I confront the possibility that it could all just… stop. Lights out. Gone. It feels like a cheap shot from the universe. Just a kick in the spiritual balls. A cosmic street fight. No rules. No promises.

And yet, right beside the fear, something calmer slips in. Not the brittle, forced “everything’s fine” peace I usually sell to myself, but something real. When I stop fighting the fact that I will die, the pressure releases. Tomorrow stops feeling like an enormous final exam. Suddenly the coffee has taste. Music becomes music again. I notice how the wind moves every leaf on the trees behind the restaurant next door. Background noise turns into the main event and my own personal concert.

I admittedly still dread the unknown—no one likes stepping out of existence—but there’s also relief in dropping the pretense of forever. No more chasing things that don’t matter. The fear keeps me awake and grateful; the peace lets me stop running myself into the ground. They don’t cancel each other—they coexist.

Joining my Lodge and learning Hiram’s legend gave me an unexpected lens on this strange fragility. Death is the great equalizer: Master Craftsman or newest apprentice, it claims everyone. Through ritual’s blind allegory, I faced death symbolically, watched the body rot beneath debris, and saw the spirit reborn. For a brief moment the earlier feelings of finality clashed with that promise of renewal.

My ideas about how death “should” happen have shifted too. I once wanted guarantees—painless, quick, maybe skipping straight past Purgatory to the Heavenly Gates. Reality offers no such promises though. Accepting that brings humility. You look at your life not with gloom, but with a stunned “fuck, I’m lucky to still be here.” type of mentality. You say the things you’ve held back. You stop wasting time on garbage that doesn’t count.

I’m told people who’ve stood at the edge often report the same arc in their final hours: terror is real, then something shifts. The struggle drains away, and a quiet settles in—like the soul finally exhaling. That’s the peace I want.

Bottom line: knowing you’re going to die doesn’t ruin life. Sometimes it illuminates it. The fear keeps you human. The peace sets you free. You walk a strange, beautiful line between being scared shitless and strangely okay with it all. And oddly enough, that’s exactly when you start really living—seeing in true color, hearing the hidden notes in songs you’ve known forever. In the final moments… you truly live.

Dear Lord, as a loyal Catholic I come before You with a modest request: when judgment comes, please apply ‘time served’ toward my Purgatory sentence before entering your kingdom.

Dealing with leftist liberals and their endless nonsense down here has felt like boot camp for the soul. Surely that counts toward time off?