Paul's Policies

by Paul Morris

We grew up with spirits in our laughter,
writing on the edges of notebook paper,
asking AI for secrets
when the secret documents go unsaved—
buried in wiped storage
without flash drives that outdated us.

We fought with sticks and called it honor,
fell in the dirt and named it glory,
building kingdoms out of playground bark
and promises we never stopped believing.

We wore shoes that didn’t match—
left red, right blue, both fast.
We were rebels in color,
prophets in disguise.

Some of us got older and still rode bikes,
wind in our hair like unspoken hymns.
Some of us sold cake in Provo,
turning sugar into second chances.

Some of us learned that babies are assets—
not numbers, but miracles—
each one a dividend of love in a world that measures too little and spends too much.

And then, somewhere between growing up and growing quiet, we forgot how to knock on doors.

So listen—
Be kind to the Holy Spirit when Satan’s spirits whisper that kindness is queer.
Be a stranger friend to the strange neighbor next door. Satan wants to silence kindness,
so be brave and knock.

Don’t just send texts, because that makes you the friendly stranger, not the stranger friend.

Lift your eyes from the screen,
meet them in the doorway, and let your voice say what your heart already knows—that friendship is holy, and courage is just kindness spoken aloud.

Because someday, someone will remember that you knocked—
and they’ll tell their children
about the brave stranger
who became their friend.