THE GRASS IS ALWAYS GREEN AT THE WIDE GATE.

Image source: www.cartoonclipart.com
Image source: http://www.cartoonclipart.com
Have you also marveled at the vanity of most celebrity lives?

I mean, the script almost reads the same.

Start off unknown, break into the limelight, gather so much materially, often pull a stunt and attract more media attention, lose your privacy, embark on all this reckless search until your frustrated self is found lying in a hotel room, poisoned on some drug.

Tomorrow’s front page mourns your demise and chronicles how sweet and talented you were (as we wonder why they never exclaimed all that when you still breathed)

And yet many of us still aspire to live your life we still have your wallpaper in the kids bedroom, if we aren’t googling your name, your music is on our playlist, if we are not watching your movies, we are reading your books.

We wanted to be like you, the grass looked green on your side, your side of more money, more autographs, more fame and more self love!

Until it hit us,

Until it hit us that the grass we are talking about could only be seen after you opened the wide gate, the wide gate Jesus talked about in Matthew 7:13.

“The wide gate that leads to destruction”

“For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it.” he said.

Maybe he knew, he knew the grass is always green near the wide gate

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2 thoughts on “THE GRASS IS ALWAYS GREEN AT THE WIDE GATE.

  1. Recently I noticed a sign beside a battered bridge spanning an irrelevant brook. I doubt its length was even long as my car. “Odd,” I thought, stopped and backed up to peer at the thing.

    In little print the metal plaque read, “The Harvey J. Scrog Memorial Bridge – 1940”.

    “Who was Harvey?” I wondered. The commemorative inscription stood on a lonely road in Lancaster County Pennsylvania’s far southern farm country. On either side of this cracked paved surface, thick walls of corn scratched at the sky. The sign was screwed to a canted pole driven into the dirt of America’s richest non-irrigated farm land.

    We all drive poles into something Eddie. Some three-quarters of a century’s past since Harvey’s was pressed into metal and sunken by that bridge… in memorial. By whom? For what? Perhaps he did wonderful things for his neighbors. Perhaps he was an official with the clout to erect this pole.

    It makes a difference whether our memorial is a self-indulgence or a gratitude. The contribution of the former is little more than a rusting sign on a crooked pole. But the latter… The best we can do is to bestow some measure of moral heft which, like a pebble tossed into life’s pool, will create ripples to uplift – however little – those we’ll never know. And those who will never see our name fixed to a drooping pole to wonder who we were. They’ll simply be a bit higher… closer to the heavens… by the ripples we made.

    Over the past 70 some years, I’ve come to worry less about myself and more about others. Perhaps the physician’s caution to, “Do No Harm!” is the best defensive start. Or perhaps a good strategic plan is to do unto to others as… Well… As I’d like to have done to me. But that’s still self-centered, eh?

    Probably the plan ought to be, “Enjoy life, raise a decent family, and figure out what’s good for the most people, then do a lot of stuff like that.” Oh, and don’t worry whether there’ll be a sign planted next to a bridge with your name upon it. Like Harvey J. Scrog, too often such names become detached from meaning.

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