Author: Denis Wilhelm

England to Oklahoma and back home…

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Last week I traveled back to England. It’s been nine months since we lived there and to be honest I’ve missed it quite a bit. Most things haven’t changed much in and around our old “stomping grounds”. Irish Anne is still the one-woman welcoming commitee at our wee Catholic church, St. Peter in Cirencester; the sea-salted chips at the Fleece are still the best I’ve ever had, especially when washed down with a Warsteiner; you can still get a decent pickle and cheese sandwich at Sainsbury for a quick lunch; Phil and Kirstie are still selling Real Estate on the telly; and Heart Radio relentlessly plays non-stop pop music (“Take me down like I’m a domino???!!!”).

EnglandThis was a quick trip: arrived on a Friday night and left on the following Thursday. Not nearly enough time to eat at all my favourite pubs or to visit all the museums, abbeys, and shops that we’ve come to love. This trip was solo, so of course Deb wasn’t there to enjoy it with me (or to make it more enjoyable for me). I was however able to reconnect with my workmates and share a pint or two and a few good laughs. (How do you know that the toothbrush was invented in Wales? Because if it was invented anywhere else it would be call the teethbrush.) I’ve heard that same joke here in the States – substitute Wales with Arkansas – but it’s truly funnier with a English accent (and a pint or two).

CowboyOn Friday morning, after arriving on a much delayed flight the night before, we drove to Oklahoma City to visit our son and daughter-in-law and bring our granddaughter home with us for a two-week visit. On our 1-1/2 days in Oklahoma City we visited the National Cowboy Museum. It was more enjoyable than I could have ever imagined. I love it when fun stuff is educational, too. There is some amazing art on display in the museum as well as a running history of cowboys and Native Americans. There are also sections devoted to the rodeo and to movie and television cowboys (I still remember the boyhood crush that I had on Dale Evans astride Buttermilk – Happy Trails indeed).

We were back home last night. And I’m back in my office today. Still processing some of the culture shock (overload?). It’s hard to travel from blokes to Oakies in one week. Not sure whether to “give it a go” or “hunker down” today. Perhaps I’ll do a little of both. And catch my breath.

Oh, and for the record, the toothbrush joke is funnier in Oklahoma if you use Arkansas in the punch line.

Happy Trails,

Denis

It’s Good And Good For You

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I’m blessed to be married to a good cook. Actually “good cook” is an understatement; great cook or fabulous cook is more accurate. It’s fair to say that we eat better than most. Our son who cooks professionally credits his mother for both his success in the kitchen and his love of food.

My standard line when served yet another delicious meal is usually, “It’s good and good for you.” Truth be told, the “good for you” might sometimes be a stretch. Someone much smarter than me once said, “Man cannot live by bread alone.” So occasionally we need a little butter or cheese or chocolate…

After living the better part of last year in England people often ask us if we miss our life there. The answer is always yes. When asked what we miss most, I usually say the food (and wine). There’s a common misperception in the U.S. that English food is bad. We found it to be quite to the contrary. The produce and meats and cheeses in our local markets were fresher and usually locally produced. And good French and Italian wines were inexpensive. English wine is lousy but this is made up for by the excellent cheese and goat butter.

Wild Duck Inn - Ewen, England

Wild Duck Inn – Ewen, England

Dining out in England could be at times challenging. There are plenty of ‘Fish and Chips’ shops and every village seems to have a Curry restaurant. Some of those places are a bit dodgy. But great restaurants can be found and often in unexpected places. Two of our favorites: The Wild Duck Inn located in a tiny village called Ewen and Cricklade House in Cricklade which is an old Saxon town. Both were just minutes from where we lived. Of course our best meals in England were served in Oaksey in our own cottage – thanks Deb!

I’ve never intentionally plugged a business in my blog but recently we had a restaurant experience that reminded us of some our best meals in England and Europe. We dined with great friends, which always makes a meal better, at a small restaurant just minutes from where we now live. Another amazing meal in an unexpected place. Stone Soup Cottage in Cottleville, Missouri is without a doubt the best dining experience we’ve had since leaving England (with the exception of Deb’s kitchen of course).

Chef Carl and his wife Nancy have converted a small house into an intimate restaurant. The food is beyond spectacular and the warm and welcoming environment add to the charm of the place. In Europe when you dine out you “own the table” for the evening. No one would ever bring you the check until you ask. None of this “I’m just leaving the check, please take your time.” which translates into “Please hurry up, we’d like to seat someone else at this table.” In much the same way at Stone Soup Cottage we were allowed to dine at our leisure. Carl’s creations were exquisite and Nancy’s wine pairings were perfect. We thoroughly enjoyed and savoured every morsel.

Dining at Stone Soup Cottage is not inexpensive and it might literally take months to get a reservation but it’s worth saving your pennies and planning ahead. After all, sometimes treating yourself really is “good and good for you.” And Deb deserves a break every now and again.

Bon appetit,

Denis

http://www.stonesoupcottage.com/

High School Class Reunion and Beyond…

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Saturday was my high school class reunion. I have to admit that I approached this reunion with some amount of trepidation. I’m not sure why. I’m not the only one who is now 40 years older than when we graduated. We’ve all had our share of life’s joys and sorrows; triumphs and setbacks. But High School leaves this indelible mark on your psyche: jock or geek; brainiac or goof-off; good girl or bad boy. Some of us spend the rest of our lives trying to live-down our high school hijinks and some of us spend the rest our lives trying to relive our glory days (sad to think that some might have actually peaked in high school).

I suppose secretly I was hoping that maybe the captain of the basketball team would be fat and bald and that the homecoming queen would be a hot mess. Turns out that they are still attractive and even more importantly they are nice people. Guys that were jerks in high school seem to have mellowed with age. Girls that were unattainable then are somebody’s grandmother today and still beautiful. Some former classmates have incredible families. Some have had amazing careers. Some have accomplished great things. Some have enjoyed simple pleasures and good lives. It appears that time is the great equalizer.

I was the geeky kid that always forced my way into situations where I didn’t belong (probably still do). My best friend was a popular jock in high school and NEVER stopped being my friend although I probably made it difficult for him at times when I was in full nerd mode (we’re still friends today). The smart kids were my friends in school too, even though I barely managed a C average (maybe they took pity on me). I suppose that I never knew my place. Still don’t.

But the place I’ve found, with my lovely wife, has been the perfect place for me. We’ve built a life together that is full of love, joy and laughter. We’ve celebrated our successes, shouldered our burdens together and been partners through it all.

My class reunion was a lot of fun. I reconnected with people I hadn’t seen in years. We shared a lot of good memories and plenty of laughs. I realized last Saturday that reunions are a reminder that life is precious and time marches on.

Once upon a time a group of individuals shared a special time and place: High School. It was unique to us. For some it might have been angst-ridden; for others it might have been delightful; and for still others it might have been a bore. But it was ours.

We were the Duchesne High School Class of 1973!

Peace,

Denis

Nearly a Near Death Experience

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For several years now we have vacationed on the Gulf of Mexico in Florida with our daughter, son-in-law and grandkids. Last week was our week on the beach. The first full day it rained – all day! So when the sun came up on day two, we were ready to have some fun. Because of the storms from the previous week and the subsequent strong waves and rip tides, red caution flags were flying. My daughter and I were undaunted. We would ride the waves but do it cautiously. After a few minutes in the water it became apparent that we were too far from shore. It all happened very quickly.

My daughter Bess abandoned her flotation device (actually just a swimming pool floatee) and swam toward the beach. As I watched her make it safely to shore the waves pushed me further and further out to sea. I considered leaving my floatee and swimming but by then I was in very deep water and after fighting the waves felt too weak to swim. I held on to my floatee.

So much to live for...

So much to live for…

While I was being submerged by capsizing waves and being pulled by the undertow I came to the realization that I might not make it. My son-in-law swam out to attempt a rescue but the waves were too strong for him (and he’s a strong guy). Again I thought – I MIGHT NOT MAKE IT. I never felt panicky just tired and a little dizzy. I came to the conclusion that drowning wouldn’t be painful – I would probably just doze off and slip into the water – THE END. As each gulp of salt water came more and more frequently it was clear that this was bad – really bad. But I wasn’t ready to die. So I paddled with my arms and kicked with my feet and hugged my floatee for dear life. DEAR LIFE.

After what seemed like hours but was really more like forty-five minutes, through luck and nature’s grace, I finally fought the under tow and came close to shore. A kind stranger came out to help me in the last 20 feet or so. My family met me on the beach with cheers and tears and swears and I collapsed in a heap.

I joked that I wouldn’t need salt on my afternoon margarita and tried to downplay the entire episode. I apologized to my wife Deb who had “told me so”. And I promised to NEVER be so careless in the water again. And I silently thanked God for the grace of allowing me more time.

I don’t know how close my “close call” actually was but it was close enough. Of course I was in the water the next day and several more days after that but only when the red flags were not flying. I’m not afraid to die but I’d rather live (there’s so much to live for!)

Oh, did I mention I saw a shark in the water, too?

Peace,

Denis

Pecking Order

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Recently when our  two younger grandkids were at the house I walked in and playfully shouted, “Look! It’s Monkey One and Monkey Two!” Anna, who is 2-1/2 years older than Noah, immediately informed me that she is Monkey One. I laughed at the time but I realized how important it is for her to know (and remind all others) that she is first in all things. Little brother, although loved, is always second. Let there be no mistake about it: she is Monkey One.

From left to right: Monkey Two, Monkey One

From left to right:
Monkey Two, Monkey One

This little episode got me thinking about how much importance we place on position, title and hierarchy in our world. And how little it really matters in the grand scheme of things. But we love our titles, whether earned or honorary. In a country with no monarchy we still pay deference to the chief, the bishop, the doctor, the professor, the maestro.

We love to rank people according to their (perceived) worth: Executives, Management, Support Staff, Hourly Workers, Temporary Labor. It’s not enough that people are paid well (or not) but they must also have a title that befits their status in society. I know folks that would take a pay-cut for the right job title. I suppose inside some of us live five year-olds who desperately still need to be “Monkey One”.

The people that I most admire are those individuals who are secure enough that titles really become secondary to the life that they live. I knew a priest that scoffed at the idea of one day possibly being elevated to monsignor (an honorary designation). He said Jesus was called teacher; not priest, bishop or pope. This humble priest would be honored to be remembered as a teacher. Dignity doesn’t come from titles or where we finish in the race or how many votes we get or how much money we make. Dignity is given to us from God.

And I believe that we abuse that gift when we spend too much time comparing ourselves to one another. At times it is extremely hard to love and value the unlovable and unworthy (especially when I’m looking in the mirror). But isn’t that exactly what we are called to do? I struggle every day to follow Jesus’ instruction to love another.

And it’s especially hard to do when I’m judging everyone else’s place at the table…

Peace,

Denis

Cuidad de Mexico Sin Mi Amor (Mexico City Without My Love)

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It probably sounds cliche but what I enjoyed most about living last year in England was being there with my wife.

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Today I’m leaving Mexico City on a trip that was mostly business but after 15 or 20 visits to Mexico (I’ve lost count) I finally visited the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Although the churches are beautiful – actually three – old, newer, and newest – and the rest of the gardens and plaza are amazing it was a bit of an empty experience without Deb. Such is the life of a traveling business person in love with their spouse.

Still in love after all of these years!

We’ll get to Mexico City together but until then I’ll have the memories of London, Edinburgh, Rome, Paris, and Madrid. And truth be told my best times with my wife are the days that are ordinary. Those days in which time seems to stand still; those days that are golden just because we can afford to waste time (which is never really a waste when we’re together).

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So today I was privileged to tread the steps of Juan Diego who in 1531 spoke with the Virgin Mary and witnessed the miracle that Mexicans still honor today. But while walking this holy place I was keenly aware of another miracle that happened in 1973 – Debbie loved Denis!

I’m headed home tonight. And after 40 years the miracle continues.

Peace,

Denis

 

 

 

Looking For God In All The Wrong Places

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Recently my five year-old granddaughter Anna decided that God is probably a man because “God is kind of a boyish sounding name”. She also remembered that in her Children’s Bible, God is referred to as Jesus’ father and because fathers are men God must be a man, too. I suppose we’ll deal with the Holy Spirit’s sexuality later.

Such is the need for concrete theology when you’re five years old. Anna needs black and white answers. And I get that. But what about adults? Why are so of us many hung up on the minutia? Why is the rule book so important? Why do we try to put God in a box. Why is it necessary to humanize the divine? Why does it seem that we must always make God small enough to fit in our limited view of life? And where do we find God? In the clouds? In our churches?

Lately I have realized that I’ve been looking for God in all the wrong places. Or at least I’m not looking EVERYWHERE. Or in EVERYONE. Thus I limit God. I suppose that there’s a little five year-old inside me that wants (needs) God to be a man and wants (needs) God to be up in heaven at the controls. That would be easier in so many ways. It’s comforting to think that I can just tuck God away for safekeeping. To be pulled out and dusted off when I need God. Of course we ask for God’s help and mercy during tragic times. Often it’s hard to find God in catastrophic events like the tornado this week in Oklahoma. Where are you God? If you are truly omnipotent, then please make the bad stuff stop!

Blog photoBut I believe that God’s hands are at work in pulling survivors from the rubble. I believe that God is in those who are comforting the mourning and bringing relief to the suffering. And I keep finding God in people who fill my life with love and joy.

Mostly I find God in my wife’s touch, in my children’s voices, and in my grandchildren’s laughter. God is present in the Eucharist but also present in my friends and my neighbors and the clerk at the local market and in my co-workers. It just takes a little focus (prayer) sometimes to see Him/Her.

So church is fine and clouds are beautiful and nature is awesome but I don’t find God there as often as I’d like (should?). God is here with me. And you. Next door. Down the hall. Just around the bend. God refuses to be limited by my human constraints and I keep reminding myself that God is not distant. I am.

Peace,

Denis

Aunt Gene

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She was born at home in 1919 and named Alice. The doctors told my grandmother that she might not live because she was small and sickly. A priest was summoned immediately and she was baptized in anticipation of infant death. But God had other plans for baby Alice.

The smallest of thirteen children, she was never allowed to work in the fields with her siblings because of her mother’s concerns for her health. Instead she was relegated to indoor duties – cooking, cleaning, sewing, etc. Most kids would have been happy to avoid the grueling farm labor but she always carried a certain amount of guilt for not having carried her weight. But as she told me many times, “Mom said no! And that was the end of the discussion.”

At thirteen years old she left farm and family behind and joined her two older sisters to enter the community of the Sisters of the Most Precious Blood in O’Fallon, Missouri. When she made her final vows in 1940 she became Sister Eugene Marie and began a life of teaching that included nearly 40 years at her beloved St. John the Baptist Parish in St. Louis.

Growing up, I knew that our family was special because my Mom had three sisters who were nuns. My Grandpa wore it as a badge of honor that three of his thirteen had dedicated their lives to God. And after Vatican II, Sister Lucy, Sister Noel and Sister Gene could freely join our family gatherings. My Aunts were “way cooler” than the school Sisters that taught me. We could laugh and joke around and I knew that they had lives outside of their classrooms (and brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews). My earliest memories of Aunt Gene are of her calling me “PeeWee” and me calling her “Shorty” – that would NEVER have happened with the Sisters at my school.

Perhaps Aunt Gene related to me because I was a scrawny kid like she must have been. Maybe I was drawn to her because she looked like my Mom in a habit. Regardless of the reason we have shared a bond that has lasted my entire life. As a child I loved the attention that she gave me. As an adult I saw how deeply she loved God and the children and families she served. Countless numbers of students were taught by Aunt Gene. And countless more were served in foreign missions through her tireless fundraising efforts. I often wonder if in her work for the missions she ever felt again like little Alice being told to stay indoors while others tended the fields? It doesn’t matter. She could do more with a few pennies than most of us could do with millions. And her gift was freely given.

My Mom and my Aunt Gene

My Mom and my Aunt Gene

This week Aunt Gene was carried home to God. She so desperately wanted to see her parents again. I imagine their reunion in heaven was quite a celebration. And those of us left behind will cherish our memories of her and celebrate, too. We honor the life of a humble servant, a great friend, a dear sister and a loving aunt.

I’d like to think she’s finally tending those fields right alongside her Mom and Dad and her siblings, Lucy, Ray, Edna, Art, Vernon, Noel, Frank, Everett and Bob.

Peace,

Denis

P.S. Check out the article from the St. Louis Archdiocese Mission Office: http://archstl.org/missions/content/view/207/308/

Daughter

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In her book Bossy Pants, Tina Fey writes a prayer for her daughter. Part of that prayer:

“Lord, When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half. And stick with Beer.”

Dear Daughter,

I just want to take a moment and thank you for sticking with beer. Many times I think to myself (and sometimes say aloud to your mother), “We need to remember to thank our daughter.” So here goes:

Thanks for being the ‘middle kid’ between two brothers who sometimes made your life hell but mostly made you smart, strong and well-equipped for dealing with immature jerks in your adult life.

Thanks for being every teacher’s favorite student (and no, you were not a suck-up! No matter what your brothers might have said).

Thank you for having a spirit of adventure and a love of travel and for being a foreign exchange student in Ecuador. ¡Y el español es excelente!

Thank you for not becoming a statistic at the University of Wisconsin (even though we both know it was a “party school”).

Thank you for not dressing ‘slutty’ and for never getting your neck or face tatooed. And for not piercing anything other than your ears.

Thank you for marrying someone so much like me that we often share the same stupid jokes (sometimes simultaneously) and because I know he’s the only man who could love you as much as I do.

Thank you for our beautiful grandchildren. And for grounding them in love and peace and joy. They are your spirit and light!

Thanks for dragging your husband and children to England just to see your Mom & Dad when we lived there.

Thank you for your faith in God and for sharing it so beautifully with your students but mostly for sharing it with your own children.

Thank you for letting me spoil your kids with stuff sometimes (but mostly with love).

Thanks for being enough like me that you’re funny and self-confident but mostly like Mom so that you’re loving and generous and kind.

Thanks for always stepping up, standing in, speaking up, and lending a hand (and sometimes a shoulder to cry on).

Thanks for making family a center of your life and for loving your grandparents, aunts and uncles, siblings, and cousins.

Thanks for your many friends who can always count on you (and for allowing them to become my friends, too).

Thank you for “needing to be home” and for making home a place where I want to be, too.

Thanks for letting me be your hero when you were a little girl (Daddy’s need that). And for being my hero now.

Love,

Dad

Reconciliation From Within

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In search of spiritual nourishment, I have recently inquired about joining a lay partnership of a religious order. This is a daunting task: the unholy (me) joining in prayer and mission with the holy (The Sisters of the Most Precious Blood).

The Sisters’ mission sounds simple: To live the charism of reconciliation in their daily lives, work and ministry. But it sounds overwhelming when I try to insert myself into this equation: To live the charism of reconciliation in MY daily life. What does that mean?

Charism is defined by Webster’s as an extraordinary power given a Christian by the Holy Spirit for the good of the church. And reconciliation is defined as the act of causing two people or groups to become friendly again after an argument or disagreement. Or the process of finding a way to make two different ideas, facts, etc., exist or be true at the same time.

This is hard to wrap my head (and heart) around. How can I bring peace to others when I’m often not at peace with myself? And then I re-read the mission statement. The charism (power given by the Holy Spirit) of reconciliation (finding a way to make two different ideas true at the same time). I re-read it again and again. And finally it hits me: this mission statement is both simple and profound; two different ideas but the same in this mission.

reconciliationNow for the practical applications: Judge less; love more. Exploit less; care more. Take less; give more. Worry less; pray more.

I’m going to pray that God will guide me as I discern whether or not to join the Sisters as a lay Partner in Mission. I struggle at times with the arch-conservatives in my Church. I often question the hierarchy. I see a lot of un-loving behavior. So I’m praying that I find a way a to make two different ideas, facts, etc., exist or be true at the same time. And of course my peace will be found in the Holy Spirit.

My two year-old grandson Noah often says at mass, “More Alleluia!” because he loves the music.  I suppose we could all use more Alleluia. I know I could.

Peace,

Denis