CMO 98: Personal Reflection

 

Sin

What is it about our condition—like ants beneath the heel of a boot, to borrow and bend a phrase from a Marvel film—that leaves us so bewildered by our own contradictions? Why do I, fervent in my love for God, a love I offer wholly and without reservation, still find myself returning to sin, slipping into actions that sever the connection I hold most sacred?

Never did I willfully rebel, nor did I intend to offend or provoke God. My failures were not acts of defiance but rather lapses—foolish moments where I yielded despite knowing better. Why do I persist in this self-sabotage? Am I truly contrite? Absolutely, the weight of remorse settles instantly, a tidal rush that follows each fall. Yet the question remains—why did I not simply refuse the invitation to sin in the first place? Why did I heed the chorus of voices urging me on, instead of the calm, persistent call of reason and the truth I know in my bones?

I despise sin—not only for its offense, but for the chasm it carves between myself and the ordered, loving relationship I long for with my Creator. God’s love is everything to me, and in return, I desire to offer all I am. This, I realize, begins with attentive listening and an unwavering commitment to what is right.

I am no longer young enough to excuse these familiar missteps. I pray that these words are not merely the echo of pride. Instead, I trust in the boundless mercy and enduring promises of God. I will seek cleansing through confession, laying bare this most recent failing, asking forgiveness with sincerity and resolve to turn from sin anew.

Ultimately, when all else fades, I am left with God alone—and in that, I find more than enough.

--Carlos Michael

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Quote

"Where there is no obedience there is no virtue, where there is no virtue there is no good, where there is no good there is no love, where there is no love, there is no God, and where there is no God there is no Paradise."— Saint Padre Pio of Pietrelcina

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My Best Buy Experience.

It is the caliber of service—subtle, genuine, and unmistakable—that ultimately won me over. Professionalism, yes, but seasoned with warmth and humor, and a comfort in conversation that is far rarer than any product on the shelf. It was Martin Strickland, our guide through this process, who truly sealed my conviction to become a Best Buy “guest” once more. Not the products themselves, indispensable though they may be, but the person delivering them.

It was his presence—his mannerisms, the levity he wove into dialogue, the assurance of his knowledge—not merely of procedure and merchandise, but of people. Most tellingly, Martin gave me the distinct sense that he cared—not in the perfunctory way of those paid to do so, but with an authenticity that is difficult to feign.

Having served as a Director of Human Resources and Employee Relations myself, with a particular focus on customer care, I can attest that Martin possesses all the qualities requisite to excel as a Store Director or Manager. His actions speak to a vocation rather than an occupation, and it is this rare blend of competence and compassion that, in the end, makes all the difference.

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Walking With God

Lately, my heart and mind have been heavy with contemplation—truly, a torrent of thoughts. I find myself holding in prayer a dear friend who recently confided in me about troubling symptoms: chest pain and shortness of breath. Such news weighs on the spirit; I cannot help but worry, and so I entrust him earnestly to Divine care.

In these quiet moments, my thoughts also turn inward—toward my relationship with God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I see, with a clarity born of grace, the pressing need to align my life more fully with His will; to become, with His help, a better son, servant, and neighbor. The call is unmistakable: the time has come to lay aside the remnants of my former self, to forsake the old patterns that once defined me, and step courageously into the present—into the embrace of His love.

Weariness has settled in my bones from carrying the burden of who I was. My longing now is simple and profound: to become the person I believe God is gently, insistently, calling me to be. There is a quiet strength, a deep truth, in the pursuit of holiness and in the daily striving to live rightly. I find that this way of life presents both valuable opportunities and meaningful challenges, offering a journey that merits commitment regardless of its difficulties.

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A Visit to the Dentist

Little did I suspect, upon greeting Wednesday’s dawn, that my day would carry me to the threshold of the dentist’s office for a tooth extraction. Yet, that is precisely where events led. Feeling a familiar ache—an insistent soreness in my gums encircling the obstinate lower left tooth, the very one that had already demanded two crown replacements last year—I reached out to Amy, the office manager at Smith Dental Group in Tulsa, OK. My hope was for a Thursday appointment, should fortune allow, to address this persistent discomfort. Life, it seems, often delivers its surprises not with fanfare, but with the quiet certainty of necessity.

Amy responded promptly, letting me know that a slot was available at 8:00 AM on Thursday. Yet, as the morning unfolded, the swelling and soreness grew more insistent, making it clear that waiting another day would be difficult. Hoping for an earlier reprieve, I reached out again and asked Amy if, perchance, a cancellation arose that afternoon, might I be squeezed in. To my relief, she replied that Dr. Smith could see me at 11:30 AM that very morning. A welcome change from the original plan.

Without delay, I gathered myself and made my way to the office, prepared for whatever intervention might be required. Still, I hardly anticipated the prospect of a tooth extraction—an outcome that, until that moment, had not entered my mind. Upon examination, Dr. Smith revealed a fracture running through the root canal, a final verdict that left no hope for salvaging the tooth, despite every effort on his part.

The extraction was swift, but the aftermath lingered: the rest of my day was spent wrestling with pain, wary of dry socket, and tending meticulously to the regimen of post-operative care. The ordeal, though unexpected, became a quiet testament to resilience—a reminder that even the most ordinary days can summon us to endurance and grace.

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Something To Think About

III.

"You are richer than 93 percent of people. Not in money, but in time.

Over 108 billion people have lived throughout history. 93 percent of them are dead.

You have what every king and queen, every pharaoh and ruler, every CEO and celebrity of the past would give all their wealth and power for:

Today."

Source: James Clear Newsletter: https://jamesclear.com/3-2-1/august-7-2025

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Dear Carlos From, Anonymous

Anonymous of southern California would like to know how I would respond to the following question: “Which belief once protected you, but now confines you?”

My Response:

“For years, I believed that keeping the peace meant staying silent.” It protected me once—helped me avoid conflict, kept relationships intact, allowed me to be the steady one in the room. But over time, that belief became a cage. It kept me from naming my wounds. It kept me from asking hard questions. It kept me from speaking truth in love.

I’ve learned that peace isn’t the absence of conflict—it’s the presence of honesty, grace, and healing. And silence, when rooted in fear, doesn’t protect—it isolates.

Now, I choose to speak. Not to stir division, but to invite connection. Not to accuse, but to reconcile. Not to be heard, but to be whole.

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Short Story (Sort of…)

This is a letter from Nathaniel Diaz Jr. to his father, Nathaniel Sr.—a man whose struggle with alcoholism shaped much of their shared past. For years, their relationship was marked by silence, missed moments, and wounds that ran deeper than either of them could name. But now, as a son grown into his own strength, Nathan Jr. writes not to reopen old pain, but to offer something far more powerful:

Forgiveness.

This letter is not a confrontation. It’s an invitation. To healing. To honesty. To a future that doesn’t erase the past, but redeems it.

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Dear Dad,

I’ve carried this letter in my heart for a long time. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I wasn’t sure if you were ready to hear it. And maybe I wasn’t ready to say it.

But I am now.

I want you to know that I forgive you.

Not just for the nights I waited for you to come home and didn’t. Not just for the words slurred in anger that left bruises deeper than fists. Not just for the birthdays missed, the promises broken, the silence that followed.

I forgive you for all of it.

Because I’ve come to understand something: You were hurting. And hurt people don’t always know how to love the way they want to. You were drowning in something bigger than you, and I was too young to know how to throw you a rope.

But I’m not writing this to relive the past. I’m writing this because I believe in the future.

I believe in second chances. I believe in healing. I believe in the kind of love that doesn’t keep score, but keeps showing up.

I don’t need you to be perfect. I don’t need you to explain everything. I just need you to know that I’m here— not as a judge, but as your son.

If you’re willing, I’d like us to start again. Not from scratch, but from truth. From forgiveness. From grace.

Let’s talk. Let’s walk. Let’s build something new— even if it’s slow, even if it’s fragile.

Because I still believe in you. And I still love you.

Always have.

—Your son, Nathaniel

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Moral:

Forgiveness is not weakness. It’s the quiet strength that chooses love over resentment, healing over pride. It doesn’t erase the past—it transforms it. When we forgive, we reclaim the power that pain once held over us. We open the door to reconciliation, not because the other person deserves it, but because we deserve peace.

In the end, forgiveness is the better road not because it’s easier, but because it leads somewhere worth going: Toward freedom. Toward grace. Toward the kind of love that can rebuild what was broken.

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Until next time.

-- Carlos Michael