The Magi

(I believe in love.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 6 a.m. and drank a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Then I read the headlines on my smartphone while taking a shit. A group of middle school students from Sejong City fell into the trap of online gambling. There was only one problem. They didn’t have any money. So what they decided to do was target a weakling and bully him into handing over his cash and bank card. This went on for months before the boy had an emotional collapse. He is now undergoing psychiatric care at a local clinic.

I ate hash browns for breakfast as I watched Fox News. A lot of churches in America are no longer Christian. They’ve been taken over by progressive libtards. For instance, St. Mark’s in Fargo, North Dakota has a pastor named Micah Louwagie. Micah is a mentally ill woman who believes she’s a man. Anyway, she delivered a sermon about the recent school massacre in Tennessee, claiming that the true victim was Audrey Hale—the transgender shooter who murdered three children.

I called my mother using Facebook Messenger.

I said, “It’s Good Friday over here.”

She said, “Really? I had no idea that Easter is just around the corner. It completely slipped my mind.”

“That’s because you’re a pagan.”

She nodded. “I guess I am. I certainly don’t spend much time thinking about Jesus.”

“How’s your blood pressure doing?”

“Good. It’s 120 over 78.”

“Wow, you’re like a marathon runner.”

“I take my medicine every day. Plus all my memories are coming back. I think my brain is finally healing.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “You certainly sound much better. When I was in America, you kept on mistaking me for your brother.”

“After the stroke, I had this crazy idea that I was living back in my childhood. I kept looking for my mother and father.”

“The mind is a terrible thing.”

My day at work went well. I’m currently reading The Gift of the Magi with the high schoolers. Most of you are probably familiar with the tale. Della loves her husband so much that she sells her beautiful hair to buy him a chain for his prize watch. And Jim adores his wife, selling his watch to buy her a trinket for her hair. It’s a beautiful story.

I looked at the students. “O. Henry was a powerful writer, but don’t get fooled by all this sugar.”

One of the girls raised her hand. “What’s the problem? You don’t believe in love?”

“Of course I do. But this isn’t real love. This is nothing more than an idealized version of the emotion.”

She became nonplussed. “Your class is fun, but sometimes you’re nothing more than a bitter old man. Just because you’re miserable, that doesn’t mean the rest of us have to follow you into a dark pit.”

I appreciated her honesty. I am a bit of a twisted geezer, after all.

I said, “Are you familiar with Jesus’s story of the good Samaritan?”

“Yes.”

“In it, he gives an example of perfect love. Have you ever taken a homeless man to a local hotel and paid for all his food and medical care?”

“No.”

“Well, don’t feel bad. Neither has anybody else. That’s why the world is filled with alcoholic bums and indigent schizophrenics. Only God is capable of displaying all-encompassing love.” I paused for dramatic effect. “O. Henry is doing the same thing in The Gift of the Magi. This is how marriage is supposed to be. But I’ve never met a single husband or wife in all my years who treat each other with this amount of kindness. It simply never happens.”

She shot me the stink eye. “You suck!”

I laughed and laughed and laughed. I try not to take life too seriously.