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I. Plan: 1. My life in a pandemic. II. Main part: 1. My life in a pandemic. I don't think anyone remembers the pandemic era with good memories. It's true, when the quarantine started, all students were happy, they thought that now they can rest at home and get a salary without working. But later on, this quarantine leads to the economic stress of not only the citizen, but also the family, even the country, the laziness of the citizens, the people of various professions, and the ignorance of the students due to the fact that they have been transferred to full online education. many did not think. Imagine if a medical student spends more than 1 year studying online in quarantine, how can he be trusted to treat a sick HUMAN BEING after graduation. This is an example of one occupation. I don't remember the quarantine period with good memories either. Until the quarantine, I was temporarily unemployed due to the liquidation of our organization, my husband did not work anywhere, we had no income. In a difficult situation, I found a job in a private organization in the center of our region in the night shift and started learning. I had to support my family and pay off loans. Quarantine was announced on the third day after I started work, I left the night shift and went out in the morning. There is no one on the street, neither people nor cars. I had a lot of trouble until I got home, the fares have increased. When I was going to our district, they closed the border posts on the road and stopped the traffic between the region and the district. People were trying to move from district to region and from region to district in vehicles. I also lost the job I just got. In order to do business, I opened a store selling office equipment for rent in the center of our district. Quarantine measures were further strengthened. It was not possible to go out during the day or at night. Even if we talked with our neighbor near our house, the internal affairs officers would come and insist that we enter the house. We didn't have enough facilities in our house, internet, modern telephone or TV and so on. My 2 young children were very bored. Food was brought to our neighborhood every day in transport, but we saved money to buy it. In such a difficult situation, every day we saw information about daily illnesses and deaths of citizens on TV, and our morale was depressed. During the quarantine period, the Muslim holiday of Eid took place, and one of the good people gave us food from his son for our livelihood. Many thanks to the head of our state and other leaders, neighborhood workers and entrepreneurs, who during the quarantine period distributed necessary food products to the families in need in all 9255 neighborhoods in Uzbekistan. Quarantine has caused difficulties for some, but it has brought great benefits to others. For example, the price of a simple mask has increased up to eight times. Residents rushed to their homes and bought various types of food from the market, which led to an artificial increase in prices. This caused difficulties for poor families. During the quarantine, not a single person or car could be seen on our crowded street, which was a very boring sight. As soon as the quarantine ended, a person close to me offered to work at the university, I agreed and was very happy. I had a hard time until my first month, because we had just come out of the quarantine. Thank God, our situation is good now, we live happily with my family. I wanted to write many more life stories about the quarantine, unfortunately, it was limited. III. Summary Quarantine has taught us and our country a lot, showing the consequences of not having enough knowledge and practice of medicine during the pandemic, full online education of pupils and students, or citizens not leaving home, harming the future of education, and not following cleanliness. put One of the best news I heard during the quarantine was the partial restoration of the ecology and azan layer in various countries due to the decrease in tourism in the world. Everyone knows that the life of all living organisms on earth is closely related to ecology. In conclusion, thanks to our president who thought of our people during the quarantine, worried about them, took care of them and only thought of the people, put his family second and served the people, sleep and I thank the tireless doctors, internal affairs officers and other state employees. I would also like to thank the people who organized the contest of essays about quarantine, because everyone is relieved to share their experiences. I think that such pandemics will not happen again in my lifetime. I believe that by using the ideas in these essays, an article, a book or a documentary film will be published that will benefit people.
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I did it! For the first time. I discounted all my books to ONLY $0.99! It is my gift to all my readers, reviewers, and supporters, to all of you who loved one or more of my stories, and to all of you who will yet become their fans. Check out the dates and links below for these fantastic discounts. Sunday, December 26, 2021, 8:00 AM PST through Sunday, January 2, 2022, 12:00 AM PST Cruel Summer January River Look for Me Under the Rainbow A World Without Color Grab this unique opportunity and don't look any further. Thank you for your love and support, and please don't forget to leave your honest reviews. It can be just a one or two-sentence honest thought or impression. May the new 2022 year bring you everything you wished for and 2021 denied to you, and even more! Happy Holidays! BJ Original post: https://www.bernardjan.com/post/a-holiday-all-books-sale
"Holi Hain!!!" I stood there, shivering from head to toe, amid the wild jungle of human beings, who had suddenly come to life. I was scared....not because I hated socializing....but because....because that included colors. Slowly, I crept into the nearest bush I could find in my eyesight, not even stopping to think that someone else might have thought of taking the same refuge. "Hey!!" I yelped and jumped back in surprise, as the shadow of a boy arose from behind the bush. "Look..." he continued. "I know what you're here for, but I Don't like it. I Don't like splashing about in tubs of water and smearing each other with colours. I don-" He broke off. My insides had suddenly started to dance the conga on knowing that I was not alone, that someone else also had the same fear as I did. "Nor do I," I said quietly. His face lit up suddenly. It seemed as thousands of lamps had been lit up together by a single candle. He nodded excitedly, held my hand and pulled me into the bush, "Come on then, inside the bush. It's much safer here." My eyes stood searchingly into his green ones, as he plucked off a red Petunia, from the shrub and placed it on my auburn hair. Automatically, my hands raised up to the flower, and its magnificent white strips came into view. Nature's so simple, yet so extraordinary, isn't it?? It always has the habit of sending ornaments for the plants and flowers to adorn themselves. "I wish I was a flower," I said ruefully, making him look up. "Then I would not have to run about like this, hiding from others...as though I did a really serious crime." "You didn't," he said, and for the first time since we met, our eyes met. Blue on green. We had just met minutes ago, but it felt like we had known each other for months, years even. I was lost in an unknown trance when I suddenly felt something being rubbed against my cheek. My eyes looked at him in both horror and delight, as his warm hands smeared my cheek with yellow gulal. I was so overwhelmed with the bundle of mixed emotions swelling inside me, that I threw myself upon him, hugging him tightly as if we had been best friends for years, and decades... "Happy Holi," he whispered as my cheek brushed his lips. "Happy Holi."
Why did Jesus die so horribly? All have sinned, except Jesus. To God all mortals are worthy of the punishment for sin. Jesus is alive, and only He can forgive sin. Jesus is always faithful and just to forgive us of our sins when we ask Him for forgiveness, but we still need to know what we did wrong before asking. Without the awareness of sin, there is no forgiveness of sin. If a Christian cannot recite all Ten Commandments from memory, then how can a Christian live by God's grace in holiness, being ready for eternity? How can a Christian be ready for eternity without knowing repentance, forgiveness, and living by faith? How can one ask for the forgiveness of sin and repent of sin while ignorant/forgetful of sin? If a Christian does not know what sin is, then a Christian does not know why Jesus suffered and died.
To all my friends, followers, readers, and reviewers. To all of you who got in touch with me in this year and to all of you who will read this. I wish you all the best for the holidays and many days after. I wish you to spend them with the people you love and who give you their unconditional love; surrounded with warmth, happiness, kindness and with no worry on your mind. Whether you spend them with your family, friends or alone, let them be full of all good things that make this life worth living. I don't have big plans for the end of this year. I will work on my book, read books from my huge reading list, spend time at home with my parents and my online friends. I like to keep it quiet, cozy and relaxing, doing things I like best, because books are my addiction. This passion keeps burning inside me no matter what time of day or year. My other passion is spreading kindness and compassion to and for those in need, especially animals. Even in times of celebration and holidays I will keep thinking on them, wishing I can do more for them to ease their misery and suffering. There are days when being a vegan doesn't seem enough, when I feel I can do and should do more like jump in the catastrophic fires that are devastating Australia and be a protective shield between devouring flames and animals and people losing their lives and homes there. And it's not only Down Under. It's like that all over our beautiful planet! Do you sometimes feel the same? Do you feel bad, frustrated and angry seeing our planet going from bad to worse as it spins madly toward the cataclysm, and those in power to make a change do nothing or ignore it? They have the power, yes, but they are not the only ones. We have the power too, you and me. If we do something on our small personal level, things will move forward. And if others join us, we can do bigger, greater things. We can change the world, I firmly believe that. So, why not start now, during these holidays? Why not end this year and begin a new year with small acts of kindness? It's actually very simple. Having a plant-based Christmas dinner or New Year's party can mean a lot to animals who suffer, and it won't cost us anything. It will open our windows to the world of new flavors and smells, the best ones being kindness, compassion, and empathy. Those are the flavors I enjoy for 18 years already and they feel so good. The best things I've ever tasted! You'd give me a great joy if you tried them too and let me know how you liked them. One thing is certain: they get better with time because the more we taste them the more we heal our planet. It's the best natural cure our Earth can get from us. And, to be honest, it needs it! Thank you for spreading love and kindness, thank you for having a big and compassionate heart. Thanks for all good things you will do for others in the last moments of this year and for good things you will continue doing in 2020. Hopefully, it brings us all many memorable and pleasant moments, happiness, good health, and great books. Much love and my very best wishes! BJ Source: https://www.bernardjan.com/single-post/2019/12/20/My-Very-Best-Wishes-with-Hopes-for-a-Happier-World
To Lose a Child Through Life - A Poem It's impossible to know that you child is still OK To protect your child was your job, so you think you failed in every way When your child is no longer with you and still so very young You can't help but think there must be more you could have done You turn the music up and sob while in your car and the shower hides your tears You know you can't survive this kind of loss another day, another month, another year Yet, the years go by and you realize you're still alone Although you did all you knew and could, your child did not come home The child you carried and brought into this world has gone away There's nothing left to do but pray and pray and pray How evil are those who desire nothing more than to destroy the mother-child bond You continue to seek justice, but the gutwrenching pain goes on and on No matter how huge the loss, you have no choice but to start another day Without your child that gave your life meaning in every way You lie down at night and think of your child and feel so all alone There is nothing in this world you want more than for your child to just come home. - Robin Karr Losing a child ‘through life' is the most horrific way to lose a child.Until a couple of decades ago, nobody had ever lost a child in this way– at least not in mass numbers. And, children didn't go missing ‘legally'. No mother should ever have to lose a child through life. It's not normal. It's not natural. There is no closure. There is no end to the gut wrenching pain. The wound does not ever heal. In fact, it never even forms a scab toward healing. It remains perpetually open… The taking of living children from living mothers is something so terrible, so evil, that there is no way to really describe such a loss. Not really... Mama loves you, Bradyn and Gracelyn
He was the wisest man I have ever known. And the cruelest. He taught me to love art, music, poetry, to enjoy the free and open exchange of ideas, creativity, and the purity of thought for the sake of the purity of thought.The poet, the rebel, the non-conformist, I am all these because I am his son. Like him, I don't suffer fools kindly. He told a story when I was a child. He was in a meeting with the vice president of the company who asked him what he thought. My father picked up a napkin from the table, shredded it, and said, “This is what I think about your idea...” Then he told them all how it really needed to be done. A few weeks later, he was without a job. Again. The only difference between my father and me is that I have learned to hold my tongue. Usually. His cruelty scars every day of my life. Anorexia, at 7, alcoholism, at 16, the disdain I carry for myself - I can't look in the mirror - all stains he placed upon my life. His ill-health and his alcoholism forced me to work at 7. His cruelty cost me my childhood and my innocence. One day, my father had cornered my mother in the kitchen. I watched as he raised a hot pot of coffee high over her head. The pot was shaking. Coffee burning his arms. The more his arms burned, the angrier he became. I knew that if he hit my mother, I'd kill him. So at 13, I left home. At 16, he broke his hand on my face. I didn't cry. I just stood there calmly. I felt nothing, not even the pain of impact. He screamed in pain and told me what he'd do to me when he got his hands on me. I just turned and walked away. Just before he died, liver cancer caused by alcoholism, we took a walk to the church near where I grew up. “I have one regret,” he said. “That is?” I said, coldly. “We are not as close as I hoped.” “What are you talking about?” I said, lying. Whatever love I felt for him was beaten out of me long ago. Eight weeks later, we buried him. Life went on. I had every reason to fail. Abused children usually fail, at least it is what has happened to most of the ones I have met. When I teach, I can identify them quickly, especially the brightest. The story is always the same, and it leads to the same life-long suffering I have endured. When I was about 7, my father took me to the factory where he had worked before becoming an engineer. His father and brother still worked there. It was a terrible experience. The factory was dark, dank, loud, and smelled of urine, sweat, and machine oil. My grandfather and my uncle were filthy. My grandfather lifted me up on to his workbench and my uncle bought me a ginger ale. The pounding of the machines made it hard to hear anything. The floor of the factory and the workbench pulsed with every smash of the machines against the steel and aluminum they were machining. At one point, I watched as my uncle crawled under a machine as long as a football field to fix a part. “What will happen,” I asked, “if the machine falls on him?” “It will kill him,” my father said. As we left the factory, my father, who was 6'4,” looked down at me and asked, “What do you think?” “Horrible,” I said. “I don't ever want to work there.” My father spun me around, got down on his knees and took hold of me by the shoulders. “Fuck up your life,” he said, “and this is your future. There is no Plan B.” Honestly, I had no idea what Plan B was. I guess I didn't need to. The last thing I wanted to do was to spend my life in that factory. I can't say that experience turned my life around. I wasn't old enough to turn anything around. However, I never forgot it. I talk to my students about it. Whenever my life gets dark and I face failure, or, when I just get to the point where it is all too much for me, I remember looking at my father's face. The anger I saw in his eyes as well as the concern. I am because he was. The days are shorter now, The nights are longer and darker. If you knew me, chances are you'd say that I am loving, kind, patient, gentle, and caring. I am always surprised when someone says that. I don't know why I am or how I can be. Not after all the cruelty. Or, perhaps, I have found a way to love despite all I suffered. It doesn't matter. The past is past. “When the dead are left to bury the dead,” Koestler wrote, “the living are left alone.” I have been alone a very long time. Sometimes I wish he were still alive. Not because I need him in my life, I learned to live without him long before I turned 13, but because I want to know why someone who was so wise could be so cruel, and why I can't ever seem to leave the scars he cut across my life behind. As he lay dying, his stepmother, a miserable person, came to see him. There was an intercom in the bedroom so that if he needed my mother, she'd hear him call out. “Did you ever love me?” he asked his stepmother. “What do you mean?” she responded. He died without ever knowing the answer to the question that meant so much to him, and, sometimes I fear that I shall as well. I am because he was.
Someone once told me that you're not an alcoholic until you graduate. We heard this and laughed while binge drinking over the weekend on a rooftop bar, sipping our fruity cocktails and thinking nothing of it. I guess that's the beauty of the phrase, right? We can enjoy the irony as we attempt to destroy our livers, following what we presume is what we are supposed to do as students. Down it, fresher! I can't say that I'm not guilty in this cycle of drinking. Hell, I make my own wine in my closet and am sipping a gin and lemonade as I write this. I'm not as heavy of a drinker as I used to be, partially due to money and a higher standard of alcohol, but also due to working in the morning. I do have a beer everyone once and a while when dragged out to a social event, but not at the levels my peers were chugging back tequila shots faster than their stomachs could bring it back up. It's not fun being the most sober person in the room, and maybe that's a reason why we do it, in silent competition with one another. Or we know that the most sober of us is the one who has to take care of the most drunk one and spends their night in the hospital as their friend gets their stomach pumped. On the other hand, maybe it's the ever-depreciating mental state of the country's youth. I remember living with several other STEM students my first year at university, and when I was stress crying in my room, questioning my ability to carry on, I was told to drink. I liked the way it felt, just enough to calm me down. Relax, enjoy a glass of wine (preferably with a bath and a good book) and breathe. But my fellow students can't go a day without drinking something. Chugging cider after cider, shot after shot. Doesn't matter the day, or the plans for tomorrow. It's about living in the now. I always joke about being an alcoholic when people see my beer fridge in my room, but the number of cans rarely change. I know a girl who pours 10 shots or more in her drink, or as she puts it "until I can taste it," and assumes its four. I think it comes down to the culture, which is probably where the saying comes from. University students drink and study. We're young, we don't get hangovers. But I find it really sad. I'm not against drinking, but I am when you get to the point where you're belligerent and blackout. Moderation is key, but I fear many of us won't get to that point. Have fun in university, enjoy hanging out with friends. This is the only time your life will be like this. I just can't help but feel sorry for the girl who'd rather spend hundreds of dollars on cheap booze than more than $30 a month on food. The girl who talks constantly about wanting to travel, but would rather have that $50 case of beer every week. But hey, it's only alcoholism if we're graduated.
In the wake of the horrific Pennsylvania Grand Jury report detailing the sexual abuse of over 1,000 children by more than 300 Catholic clergy in our state, my Facebook feed lit up. Friends were outraged, mortified, saddened, shocked. In their dismay, several friends posed the question of how I can still be a Catholic. How can I seemingly condone the behavior of the Catholic Church by continuing to attend Mass on Sunday mornings? How can I fund the corrupt and criminal behavior of these low-life pedophile priests with my fundraising efforts? Why would I defile my children by sending them to a Catholic school where such abuse has occurred? Doesn't that make me an enabler, equally as culpable? It's a hurtful stance, like telling the mother of a school shooter that she may as well have pulled the trigger herself. Or it's like holding all of the American populace up to scrutiny for the acts of our elected officials who have, over the decades, cheated, lied, stolen, raped, and performed any of a vast array of illegal activities, and who, after all, we the people willingly voted into office. How can I still be a Catholic? Because my faith is not rooted in men. It's rooted in God. It's rooted in my belief in Jesus Christ and the Immaculate Conception, in the Holy Spirit, in the consecration and the resurrection. My faith has nothing to do with the people who run the church, just as my patriotism has nothing to do with the people elected to run this country. I am able to separate the organization from the doctrine, the leadership from the congregation, the sins of the leaders from my own salvation. How can I still be a Catholic? Because Catholicism has been a cornerstone of my life from birth. My grandparents, all Eastern European immigrants, brought their Catholic faith with them when they had little else. My grandfather, devoted to the Blessed Mother for all of his 97 years, was a pillar of the Croatian Catholic Church that served our town for decades. We helped to clean that church as children—never running, never messing around, always reverent because that was God's house. My church is God's house. Like in all of our houses, not everything that happens there is pretty. Not all of our family members are people we would choose to associate with given the option. Not every action is good and wholesome and pure. Few of us would opt to have cameras running in our homes, capturing our every move every day for everyone to see. God's house, unfortunately, is no different. There is no question that priests behaved monstrously, and the fact that their behavior was hidden by church leadership rather than punished is more monstrous still. Those individuals need to face justice. I, like many others, hope that justice is swift and decisive—both for those who did the unspeakable and those who hid it. We—the faithful of the Catholic Church—did not commit these crimes. But neither did we fight to drag them out into the open. Our church leadership failed us, yes, but we as a church body failed, too. We should have been more vigilant. We should have been more observant. We should have spurned our role as passive sheep and instead confronted head-on the wolves cleverly disguised as shepherds. It's too late for the victims described in the report (and countless unnamed others), but it's not too late for our children today. I want to be a part of a revolution in the Catholic Church that champions that transformation. How can I still be a Catholic? Because I believe in the people of the Catholic Church. The pierogi-pinching, paczki-frying, stuffed-cabbage-rolling ladies in the church hall. The members of the St. Vincent de Paul Society and the Ladies of Charity who selflessly deliver much needed help to those less fortunate. The choir directors and musicians who lift their congregations in song, bringing them ever closer to God. The Catholic school teachers who dedicate themselves tirelessly to providing a loving, faith-based education to children growing up in a world largely devoid of faith. I believe in the truly good priests who honestly and sincerely strive to lead their trusted flock to God, and do so with a smile, an inspirational homily, a prayer over a sick family member, a sacrament lovingly bestowed upon the faithful. They do exist, and I'm grateful to know them. And I believe in redemption. I believe that the Catholic Church, properly guided, can commit itself to change—serious, earth-shaking reform—and, as a result, can redeem itself. It can never make whole those who have been wounded, but it can become the beacon of light and salvation Jesus meant it to be from the beginning. How can I still be a Catholic? Because every priest is not a pedophile any more than every gun owner is a mass shooter. Because the church body is greater than the sum of its parts. Because my faith in God transcends my faith in the men who run the organization created in his name.
I remember a pouring rain, cleansing our souls as if it were holy water. I remember carelessly wiping streaks of makeup across our beauty stricken young faces. We'd just endured a night we thought to be so mundane, we had no clue the memory would stain itself into our brains for years to come. The 4th of July, what a holiday. A day dedicated to the craft of barbeque art and fireworks, these gigantic, beaming fireworks that left the ugliest asymmetric smoke clouds behind, lit by lightning from the storm that changed our friendship forever. Brielle, Courtney, and I had been friends for a majority of our lives. A memory so fond was bound to make its way into our little group at one point or another, but expect it, we did not. I was given the night off last minute from the Italian restaurant I worked in. In retrospect that was fate actively playing a role in my life, considering my boss had never thrown me such a bone before, and would never throw one again after that glorious night. Without as much as a second to consider it, I had Courtney on the phone, begging her to pick Brielle up and come to my house, where fireworks would be set off on the beach. They said yes, thank God. They came promptly and we took a walk through my tiny town, on a tiny island, within a tiny planet, inside a gaping open universe. We were so fucking small, but we felt as massive as the fireworks themselves, strolling past banal shops we knew like the back of our hands, laughing out echoing nothings in the dead center of existence. Sometimes I wonder about what pieces of my life I will remember vividly when I'm an old woman. What stories will I tell? Which friends will I refer back to? I wonder which moments will one day bring a glimmer to my eyes when I talk about them, and which ones I will keep tucked away in my thoughts. The night of 4th of July is one story I can already tell you will remain iconic until the day I die. What makes this night so important? It's not as much the night itself, but what pearls the night produced within us. Heavy storm clouds were rolling in on my tiny town, and each surrounding island postponed their firework festivities. A cancelled firework show was our biggest fear that night. That show felt like our lifeline. The sun tripped and fell beneath the shoreline and we made our way towards the boardwalk when the first drop of rain spritzed against my face. Another came, and another, until eventually water was all we could see. We ducked underneath awnings as we pushed ourselves to make the show on time, but the fear of no explosive sky celebration swirled inside my mind. We made it to the 43rd street boardwalk only to see an unbelievable number of people packed underneath a stray ceiling, waiting to see the fireworks. I veered at the beach, which normally scored thousands of beach towels and people on this night, and saw absolutely nobody. No one was on the beach. Already dripping wet, Brielle stared at the beach and back at the people hiding underneath the severed roof and said to us: “Let's just go on the beach.” Such a simple idea, yet no one else had come up with it. We nodded our heads and embraced the falling water in its entirety. It was rain, that was all it was, but everyone acted as though it was acid falling from the sky. We climbed up and down the lifeguard stand and did cartwheels in the sand, surrounded by the timeless sound of our own voices screaming out dares to one another, taking up as much space as we possibly could. And then, the first firework shot up. At this point the rain was undoubtedly coming down hard enough for my tiny town to cancel them, as did the surrounding islands, but they didn't. A significantly small group of people could even see, but the town said screw it and set them off anyway, just as we said screw it and watched them in a soaking wet state, spreading out along the beach's natural front row. Never in my life have I ever found myself in a setting so blatantly important, it was a visually obvious divide between the us and the them of the planet. Every single other person on that entire tiny island deemed the rain too unbearably wet to stoop down to the beach we found ourselves happily perched upon that night. They passed on maybe their only opportunity to bask in the gleam of lightning and fireworks up close, skin pruning in a perfect storm, they passed on their opportunity to even find out what makes such a scene appealing. It didn't matter how small the island was, it didn't matter how small we were, because inside of that singular instance, those fireworks were quite literally made for us. We remain confident to this day in saying that very few human beings have experienced such a beautiful, blunt moment, a moment that makes being in this life feel like a privilege and not a chore. It was the moment that told us how important we are, even in the scheme of the whole galaxy.
