Aftermath

 I’ve never been happier to be wrong. It’s like thinking you’re having a heart attack, and all it was is indigestion from the slice of gas station pizza you scarfed down because you hadn’t eaten in a day, and your stomach was starting to sound like one of the brass bands that frequent the French Quarter in New Orleans on Sundays.

For those thinking it’s over and blue skies paint the horizon as far as the eye can see, not even close, but at least we won’t have to hear that Rachel Lavine is a brave and beautiful woman or that pronouns trump accomplishments, that gender outweighs ability, or that the way to a glorious future is the indiscriminate murder of the unborn, at least not for a little while.

Evidently, enough people showed up, hoping against hope, that their vote mattered, wherein they beat the spread. It’s not as though they didn’t try their hardest, but you could only do so much with what you’ve been handed, and a guy on crutches with a torn Achilles can’t be expected to be the deciding factor in a soccer game.

Jaded as the following may sound, there are still seventy-five days until inauguration day, and a lot can happen between now and then. The game has now shifted into overdrive. Those currently in power understand the existential threat the current projected winner of the 2024 presidential elections and the rogue's gallery of competent, accomplished, and motivated individuals he’s surrounded himself with this time around pose to permanent Washington and the deep-seated animus they have toward the unelected bureaucrats ruling and pulling strings from the shadows.

They are now backed into a corner with nothing left to lose, and the thought of what’s best for the country is the farthest thing from their mind. Havoc and chaos are two words that come to mind when I think about the next two and a half months, and once again, I hope from the depths of my heart that I am wrong.

Unlike many this morning, I am not in a celebratory mood; I’m just breathing a sigh of relief, being cautiously optimistic about being given a little more time to do what I’ve been called to do and not have to hand out charcoal pills to my girls every morning before they enjoy their squirrel ragout. A thing delayed is not a thing denied. A thing forestalled is just that. It has been put off but not reversed.

Band-aids on bullet wounds may staunch the bleeding for a while, but you still need to contend with the wound itself. There are no easy fixes, no magic wands, or other levers anyone can pull that will fix what’s been broken for decades on end. Spiritual problems cannot be fixed politically, no matter who’s in charge, but as I’ve stated before, being left alone to serve God and raise my children is enough of an incentive for me. That I won’t have someone with pink hair and a septum piercing knocking at my door asking why I’m not flying the rainbow flag, that transgender ideology won’t be mandated in my daughters’ school curriculum, or that the local burger joint won’t be offering a free abortion with the purchase of a happy meal, is a good thing. That’s as far as my expectations extend, and anything beyond that is a boon.

Globalism may have lost this battle, but those in the shadows are still fully intent on fighting the war to the last. For those who insist this election was inconsequential, look at the reactions of those pushing various depraved agendas over the next few weeks, and you’ll understand that it wasn’t.

We will resume our study of Job shortly. With this new wrinkle, we may still be around long enough to finish it. In all things, God’s will be done, and to Him be the glory.

With love in Christ,

Michael Boldea, Jr.