A hitman named Hate

October 24, 2018

 

 

Okay. It’s a cool afternoon yesterday as Marty works on his car.

 

Local deputies pull up.

 

I wonder, did they amble over to break the news? Or did they cut to the chase and cuff ’em up?

 

Either way, minutes later Marty sees his shackled wife and daughter saunter out their door.

 

“What’s—?” Marty's mind might have mumbled.

 

It's no big man. Just your household hiring a hitman to kill you.

 

According to news sources, that’s the bullet that hit Marty down in Rankin County yesterday. Unbelievably, he told a reporter that “he had no idea that the women were plotting to have someone kill him.”

 

Such news must make a man a little low. Ruin a nice afternoon. Muddle a mechanic’s mind.

 

What’s worse, his people offered a measly $500 to an undercover agent to do the deed.

 

Ouch! 

 

If my family whacks me (don’t get any ideas), please pony up least $1000 to polish me off.  Don’t let me go down like some blue-light special. Empty your pockets to pop me.

 

On a serious note, if this is true, it’s more than sad—it’s sick. Heart-sick.

 

Caution, we don’t know if these women are guilty. We don’t really know Marty’s side of the story or theirs.

 

But I can venture this—anger is at the core. Bitterness had a bed in that house. Resentment resided there too. 

 

The evil trinity of a god called “Hate.”

 

At times my heart has felt this triune force. (Okay, often times to be honest.)

 

If I don’t catch Hate quickly—and I don’t sometimes—I’m really just killing myself. 

 

I’m hiring my own hitman; slowly slaughtering my soul. And for no fee, except the price my family and/or friends pay. They’re taken down too, hopefully not to the grave.

 

They’re “hit” in their hearts by Hate. 

 

The Bible—a solid ethical source no matter one’s spiritual leanings—has an unsettling something to say about such scenarios. “Anyone who hates his brother or sister is a murderer” (1 John 3:15).

 

A murderer? Me? You? Hmmm.

 

Perhaps before I call out this perverse trio, I should handcuff my heart for my own preening murder case. Have my soul serve some solitary confinement. Dodge something deadlier than a speeding bullet. 

 

A hitman named Hate.

 

 

 

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