Doomed Prophet

'Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone, in a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone. I had come down the chimney with presents to give, and to see just who in this little house lived. As I looked all about, a strange sight I did see, No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree. No Stockings by mantle, just boots filled with sand, On the wall hung pictures of far distant lands. With medals and badges, awards of all kinds, A sobering thought came through my mind. For this house was different, it was dark and dreary, The home of a soldier, I could now see clearly. The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone, Curled up on the floor in this one bedroom home. The face was so gentle, the room in such disorder, Not how I picture a United States Soldier. Was this the hero of whom I'd just read? Curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed? I realized the families that I saw this night, owed their lives to these soldiers who were willing to fight. Soon round the world, the children would play, and grownups would celebrate a bright Christmas day. They all enjoyed freedom each month of the year, because of the soldiers, like the one lying here. I couldn't help wondering how many lay alone, on a cold Christmas Eve in a land far from home. The very thought brought a tear to my eye, I dropped to one knee and started to cry. The soldier awakened and I heard a rough voice, "Santa don't cry, for this life is my choice". I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more, My life is my God, my country, my corps." The soldier rolled over and drifted to sleep, I couldn't control it, I continued to weep. I kept watch for hours, so silent and still, as we both shivered from the cold night's chill. I didn't want to leave, on that cold, dark night, this guardian of honor, so willing to fight. Then the soldier rolled over, with a voice soft and pure, whispered, "Carry on Santa...., It's Christmas Day...., All is secure. One look at my watch, and I knew he was right, Merry Christmas my friend.... and to all a Good Night. ~ Author Unknown *~

JamesHu27192912's tweet photo. 'Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,

in a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone.

I had come down the chimney with presents to give,

and to see just who in this little house lived.

As I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,

No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.

No Stockings by mantle, just boots filled with sand,

On the wall hung pictures of far distant lands.

With medals and badges, awards of all kinds,

A sobering thought came through my mind.

For this house was different, it was dark and dreary,

The home of a soldier, I could now see clearly.

The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone,

Curled up on the floor in this one bedroom home.

The face was so gentle, the room in such disorder,

Not how I picture a United States Soldier.

Was this the hero of whom I'd just read?

Curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed?

I realized the families that I saw this night,

owed their lives to these soldiers who were willing to fight.

Soon round the world, the children would play,

and grownups would celebrate a bright Christmas day.

They all enjoyed freedom each month of the year,

because of the soldiers, like the one lying here.

I couldn't help wondering how many lay alone,

on a cold Christmas Eve in a land far from home.

The very thought brought a tear to my eye,

I dropped to one knee and started to cry.

The soldier awakened and I heard a rough voice,

"Santa don't cry, for this life is my choice".

I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more,

My life is my God, my country, my corps."

The soldier rolled over and drifted to sleep,

I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.

I kept watch for hours, so silent and still,

as we both shivered from the cold night's chill.

I didn't want to leave, on that cold, dark night,

this guardian of honor, so willing to fight.

Then the soldier rolled over, with a voice soft and pure,

whispered, "Carry on Santa...., It's Christmas Day...., All is secure.

One look at my watch, and I knew he was right,

Merry Christmas my friend.... and to all a Good Night.

~ Author Unknown *~

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DoomedProphet retweeted

Mr PitBull Stories

@MrPitbull07

7 months ago

"My name's Raymond. I'm 73. I work the parking lot at St. Joseph's Hospital. Minimum wage, orange vest, a whistle I barely use. Most people don't even look at me. I'm just the old man waving cars into spaces. But I see everything. Like the black sedan that circled the lot every morning at 6 a.m. for three weeks. Young man driving, grandmother in the passenger seat. Chemotherapy, I figured. He'd drop her at the entrance, then spend 20 minutes hunting for parking, missing her appointments. One morning, I stopped him. "What time tomorrow?" "6:15," he said, confused. "Space A-7 will be empty. I'll save it." He blinked. "You... you can do that?" "I can now," I said. Next morning, I stood in A-7, holding my ground as cars circled angrily. When his sedan pulled up, I moved. He rolled down his window, speechless. "Why?" "Because she needs you in there with her," I said. "Not out here stressing." He cried. Right there in the parking lot. Word spread quietly. A father with a sick baby asked if I could help. A woman visiting her dying husband. I started arriving at 5 a.m., notebook in hand, tracking who needed what. Saved spots became sacred. People stopped honking. They waited. Because they knew someone else was fighting something bigger than traffic. But here's what changed everything, A businessman in a Mercedes screamed at me one morning. "I'm not sick! I need that spot for a meeting!" "Then walk," I said calmly. "That space is for someone whose hands are shaking too hard to grip a steering wheel." He sped off, furious. But a woman behind him got out of her car and hugged me. "My son has leukemia," she sobbed. "Thank you for seeing us." The hospital tried to stop me. "Liability issues," they said. But then families started writing letters. Dozens. "Raymond made the worst days bearable." "He gave us one less thing to break over." Last month, they made it official. "Reserved Parking for Families in Crisis." Ten spots, marked with blue signs. And they asked me to manage it. But the best part? A man I'd helped two years ago, his mother survived, came back. He's a carpenter. Built a small wooden box, mounted it by the reserved spaces. Inside? Prayer cards, tissues, breath mints, and a note, "Take what you need. You're not alone. -Raymond & Friends" People leave things now. Granola bars. Phone chargers. Yesterday, someone left a hand-knitted blanket. I'm 73. I direct traffic in a hospital parking lot. But I've learned this: Healing doesn't just happen in operating rooms. Sometimes it starts in a parking space. When someone says, "I see your crisis. Let me carry this one small piece." So pay attention. At the grocery checkout, the coffee line, wherever you are. Someone's drowning in the little things while fighting the big ones. Hold a door. Save a spot. Carry the weight no one else sees. It's not glamorous. But it's everything." Let this story reach more hearts.... Credit: Mary Nelson

MrPitbull07's tweet photo. "My name's Raymond. I'm 73. I work the parking lot at St. Joseph's Hospital. Minimum wage, orange vest, a whistle I barely use. Most people don't even look at me. I'm just the old man waving cars into spaces.
But I see everything.

Like the black sedan that circled the lot every morning at 6 a.m. for three weeks. Young man driving, grandmother in the passenger seat. Chemotherapy, I figured. He'd drop her at the entrance, then spend 20 minutes hunting for parking, missing her appointments.

One morning, I stopped him. "What time tomorrow?"
"6:15," he said, confused.
"Space A-7 will be empty. I'll save it."
He blinked. "You... you can do that?"
"I can now," I said.

Next morning, I stood in A-7, holding my ground as cars circled angrily. When his sedan pulled up, I moved. He rolled down his window, speechless. "Why?"
"Because she needs you in there with her," I said. "Not out here stressing."
He cried. Right there in the parking lot.

Word spread quietly. A father with a sick baby asked if I could help. A woman visiting her dying husband. I started arriving at 5 a.m., notebook in hand, tracking who needed what. Saved spots became sacred. People stopped honking. They waited. Because they knew someone else was fighting something bigger than traffic.
But here's what changed everything, A businessman in a Mercedes screamed at me one morning. "I'm not sick! I need that spot for a meeting!"

"Then walk," I said calmly. "That space is for someone whose hands are shaking too hard to grip a steering wheel."

He sped off, furious. But a woman behind him got out of her car and hugged me. "My son has leukemia," she sobbed. "Thank you for seeing us."

The hospital tried to stop me. "Liability issues," they said. But then families started writing letters. Dozens. "Raymond made the worst days bearable." "He gave us one less thing to break over."

Last month, they made it official. "Reserved Parking for Families in Crisis." Ten spots, marked with blue signs. And they asked me to manage it.

But the best part? A man I'd helped two years ago, his mother survived, came back. He's a carpenter. Built a small wooden box, mounted it by the reserved spaces. Inside? Prayer cards, tissues, breath mints, and a note,

"Take what you need. You're not alone. -Raymond & Friends"
People leave things now. Granola bars. Phone chargers. Yesterday, someone left a hand-knitted blanket.
I'm 73. I direct traffic in a hospital parking lot. But I've learned this: Healing doesn't just happen in operating rooms. Sometimes it starts in a parking space. When someone says, "I see your crisis. Let me carry this one small piece."

So pay attention. At the grocery checkout, the coffee line, wherever you are. Someone's drowning in the little things while fighting the big ones.

Hold a door. Save a spot. Carry the weight no one else sees.
It's not glamorous. But it's everything."

Let this story reach more hearts....

Credit: Mary Nelson

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Doomed Prophet @DoomedProphet

7 months ago

@SaltiWolf66 @EODHappyCaptain My unit had an untrainable soldier. He was barred from reenlistment due to all the equipment he damaged through negligence.