Author: Denis Wilhelm

Fearful, confused, yet still hopeful

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When our son Blake was a boy, I worried more about him than his older brother and sister. This was the child that questioned everything and needed to have answers that were more than the standard “because I said so”.

When he was about seven years old, he disassembled the lamp in his room. When I him asked why, he told me that he was trying to see how it worked. After conversations about electrical currency and positivity and negativity and his serious risk of shock, he said that he would put the lamp back together. I doubt that I answered his questions about how electricity worked but he relented. He was inquisitive; I was afraid. He had sleepless nights worrying about his brother’s Jewish friend when he learned in kindergarten that Jesus was our Savior. What about his brother’s friend? Would he not get into heaven? I was flummoxed; he was afraid. When Blake would play outside, I kept a keen eye on him. He would climb trees and fences and perform other feats of derring-do. Always challenging the limits of physics and gravity, he was his own test subject. I would shout, “Be careful, or you’ll skin your innis.” His embarrassed and astonished response was often, “What’s an innis?” My response was always the same: “You’ll know when you skin it!” Our little game became a ritual, but it reinforced our fear, confusion and ultimate hopefulness. Somehow, embracing his fears while looking for answers, time and time again he would survey the risks, do it again and survive. And I would I gain another gray hair.

Recently I attended a meeting with a group of thoughtful people struggling with our current political situation in the United States. The stated purpose of our gatherings is to find transforming grace; to establish practices that will help us journey toward that grace. For me, there have been a few roadblocks. The current ‘us against them’ sentiment in our country makes it hard for me to reach beyond my own feelings; my own needs; my own fears. Politicians seem to be telling me that I should vote for or support a candidate or a position “because I told you so.” I am not okay with that.

I’m taking a page out of young Blake’s playbook. I’m going to push past my fears. I’m going to try to get to the truth. And I’m going to continue to love others with whom I disagree. It might take some feats of derring-do, but I’ll state my positions and put that bumper sticker on my car. I’ll listen. I’ll debate. I’ll pray, I’ll vote my conscience.

At the end of the day, I’m still afraid of the risk of losing our democracy. I’m confused why there is so much hate in our world, especially in the name of God. But I’m hopeful because many of the young people that I know are not afraid of immigrants or diversity or change. They were allowed as children to swing from those trees and jump off those fences. And when they fell and “skinned their innises” they got up and tried again. I might be overly optimistic, but I believe that truth and love will prevail.

Peace,

Denis

Thank a Teacher

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Teaching is more than a profession. It is a vocation. And yet, teachers are not always well regarded and are often the subject of ridicule. Certainly, their pay does not reflect the enormous responsibility that has been bestowed upon them. The people that maintain our lawns and groom our pets are likely paid more than the teachers with whom we have entrusted the education of our children. Public-school teachers and teachers’ unions are maligned. Private-school teachers are typically paid less than their public-school counterparts. School board members and parents’ advisory board members, many of whom have never spent a day in a classroom teaching, hold sway over our teachers lives and careers. Most politicians claim to value education, but their actions would prove otherwise.

Last week comments made by Vice Presidential candidate J.D. Vance in 2021 resurfaced. Vance attacked Randi Weingarten, the president of the American Federation of Teachers, for not having “a single child of her own.” It would appear that he believes someone without a “child of their own” is not qualified to teach.

Apparently, Vance was never blessed with the kind of the teachers that I have known. My favorite teachers were all childless. Whether by chance or choice or more likely by a conscious decision to live a consecrated life, these teachers tirelessly devoted their lives to other peoples’ children. I was the lucky recipient of their devotion to education. The religious Sisters that taught me in grade school and high school instilled in me a thirst for knowledge and a curiosity for life beyond my small-town existence. They taught me self-discipline and gave me self-confidence. None of them had given birth to a child, but they were all exemplary teachers. 50 or 60 years on, and I still remember those lessons.

My aunts, who were Sisters of the Most Precious Blood in O’Fallon, Missouri, dedicated their lives to education. Taking religious vows and being childless, didn’t weaken or lessen their ability to teach. In fact, I believe it strengthened their desire to serve others. They were all three remarkable women who taught, wrote, and had positions of leadership. I still, on occasion, will meet someone who was taught by one of my aunts. They are remembered for their love of teaching and their dedication to the children in their care. And not the just the children, they served the families of their students as well. Plus, they taught their own nieces and nephews by their examples of loving devotion.

So, if you are able to “do math” in your head, thank a teacher. If you know the difference between there, their, and they’re, thank a teacher. If you are able to read and write in cursive, thank a teacher. If you have a passion for learning, thank a teacher. If you pursued a career that you learned about in a classroom, thank a teacher.

It doesn’t matter if they had children of their own – they had you!

They had you and they gave you a part of themselves. Let’s lift them up! If they’re still around send them a note (in cursive) thanking them for the gift of education. If they have passed on, remember to thank God for them in your prayers. And thank God that they also helped you learn how to pray.

Peace,

Denis

Storytellers

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Some folks are great storytellers. They have a way of capturing your attention and touching your heart. My Dad was a storyteller. He never let the truth get in the way of a good story. Not that he lied exactly but his stories may have had a little embellishment from time to time. The best cooks add a little spice, so why not let a storyteller add a little flair. Besides, Dad’s stories seemed mostly true to his listeners. The essence of his stories was factual. The names, times and places may have been changed to protect the innocent. The stories Dad told have stood the test of time. He’s gone now but his stories live on. His kids and grandkids can regale any interested listener to this day.

Everyone has a story to tell. What is needed are listeners. How often have I avoided conversations? How many times have I dreaded crossing paths with someone because I didn’t want to hear about the latest heartache or heartbreak. I used to work with a guy who I routinely evaded. He was the kind of guy who if you asked him for the time, he would tell you how to build a clock. I think he was just lonely, and I was just a jerk. Maybe if I had acknowledged him, I would have made a friend. But I was too busy, too important, too egotistical to make myself available. I think my “could-have-been friend” had a story to tell but I couldn’t be bothered.

Now that I’m retired, I would like to use my career as justification for not always listening to others in the past. That would be lie, and not the harmless kind that Dad would weave into his stories, but a bald-faced lie. I just didn’t care enough to listen, really listen. What a loss.

Life is a journey and as with most journeys there are challenges along the way. And opportunities for growth. I’m learning to be an active listener. I’m trying to shut up and listen; to stop planning the response in my head while someone else is speaking. Unfortunately, I’m a slow learner. Perhaps this is the problem in our society today. People like me are so sure of themselves and their positions and their opinions that we don’t the take time to consider that there are others who have something to say; something worth listening to. I recently read (or heard) that truth is the integration of different points of view. That’s something to ponder. My opinion and your opinion and countless other opinions create the truth? If you think you’re right and I know I’m right, but we fundamentally disagree where is the truth in that? I have no idea but I’m trying to listen.

So, here’s the deal: We need to tell our stories. More importantly, we need to listen to others’ stories. And we can share our commonalities and learn to accept our differences. We need to open our minds and our hearts. My Dad once said, “Be open-minded, but not so open-minded that your brain falls out.” I chuckle when I remember that, but I get his point. We can listen to others’ stories respectfully. We can hold on to our “truths” while allowing others a chance to share theirs. We live in a diverse, pluralistic society where many voices make us stronger. We can and must listen and learn. Jesus shared his truth through parables. Perhaps we have our own parables to share.

I’ve read countless times, “Tell your story; sing your song”, but without listeners, storytellers have no story to tell. And we miss out on their wisdom; their insight; their love.

Peace,

Denis

My Everything

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Please indulge me as a I send a birthday greeting to my beautiful wife today.

Deb, we’ve been together since we were teenagers and most days, you still make me feel like that young man that was captivated by your beauty and charm and spirit all those many years ago. Of course, then I glance in the mirror, and I am reminded that more than 50 years have passed since the day that I fell head over heels.

We’ve had a lifetime together and I am one lucky man. We’ve shared some amazing adventures together. We’ve traveled the world, lived on two continents, survived several career changes, raised three incredible children, and been blessed with five beautiful grandchildren. We’ve had grand celebrations where we have been surrounded by countless friends and loved ones. But the quiet times, when it’s just you and me, are what I cherish most. The knowing look. The shared laugh. The gentle touch. The simple prayer.

Through it all, you have been my rock, my refuge, my home, my heart, my everything.

Somehow God decided that I was the one who got to share this life with you. Through the good and bad; through the joys and sorrows; I’ve had your beautiful hand to hold. And I’ll never let go.

Today when you’re blowing out your birthday candles and making your wish, know that my wish came true the day we met.

Love,

Denis

I created this video several years ago, but like our love it’s timeless…

Put a Woman in Charge

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I’ve been blessed to have some extraordinary women in my life, not the least of which is my best friend and soul mate, Debbie. We’ve shared equally in good times and bad. Carrying one another or being carried by the other as needed. Our life together has proven time and time again that she is my equal. She is simply unafraid. She is love and pure joy, but she is also tough and resilient and relentless when necessary. She has taught me that tears don’t make you weak and laughter is truly the best medicine (especially when you need to laugh at yourself). And she has instilled the same spirit and strength and humor in our daughter.

Bess, our beautiful and gracious daughter, has also inherited her mother’s gift of charity. She wants everyone to be happy (and cared for, and well fed, and loved, etc.). She always gives of herself, and she rarely expects anything in return. Her cheerfulness is contagious, and she makes others happy by just being around her.

We have four beautiful granddaughters. They each have so much to offer. I already see their potential and I am able to see into the future because of them, and it will be equal and fair.

Of course, I’ve known and loved many other strong women. In fact, I believe that in my family the female role models are the ones that stand out as the true leaders.

My Mom ran the show at her house. She knew more about politics, current events, and style than most women of her generation. For someone who was not afforded an education she was smarter than most other women and Dad certainly knew not to mess with Mom. She was not large, but she was in charge. Even on her deathbed she was calling the shots. She took care of us until the end, making us laugh to ease our grief at her passing.

My Mom’s sisters, my three aunts, Lucida, Noel and Gene Marie, were Sisters of the Most Precious Blood. These were intelligent women who were well-traveled and well-educated, not something offered to most women born in the 1910’s and 1920’s. They were teachers, administrators, catechists, authors, and persons of authority. They were our family’s “Blessed Trinity”.

The stories of my great-grandmother Elizabeth are legendary: Coming to this country alone as a teenager from Germany. Marrying and then raising her young family alone after my great-grandfather died. I’m told that she was tough, stubborn and a force to be reckoned with. And my great-great-grandmother Mary converted the entire family to Catholicism back when women had no say in such matters.

My three great aunts Marie, Minnie, and Liddy lived together in the family home that became the base of operations for all Wilhelm family gatherings. Aunt Minnie was a businesswoman – the County Nurse’s secretary. And she was well-respected in our hometown. I remember walking downtown with her many times and people would greet her very politely as “Miss Wilhelm”. I was always so proud to be with my Aunt Min!

And then of course there was my mother-in-law. She was a tough lady who fought for justice and looked out for the underdogs in our world. She was fiercely loyal to those she loved, and she protected her children like a lioness. She taught her daughter that real beauty requires confidence, kindness and a sense of humor. Jackie never went down without a fight. I’m not sure if you can “raise hell” in heaven, but if you can I’m sure she’s leading the charge.

When I reflect on my spirituality, I realize that it was my mother who first taught me how to pray. It was her model of faith that I continue to follow to this day. It was my Godmother’s hand that I held when I received Jesus at my First Holy Communion. It was my three Aunts who modeled compassion for those in need and service to God through service to others as Precious Blood Sisters. It is my wife who models patience, love and social awareness. It is my daughter who teaches me to show kindness to children by her example as a Catholic Educator. And it is my granddaughters who model unconditional love by even loving me, a cranky, opinionated, old guy. These women and girls proclaim The Good News to me each day. Author Joelle Chase wrote, “Mary knew her strength, the miracle of her body that would knit Life out of God’s seed.” That’s a powerful statement and it runs counter to the image of a helpless, hapless, teenage Mary who is poor, afraid, pregnant, unwed and uncertain. Mary said yes. Not because the angel told her that she should, but because she knew her own strength, her potential and her power.

Let’s embrace the power of women. Let’s “man up” and put a woman in charge.

Peace,

Denis

The Truth, The Whole Truth (and nothing but the truth?)

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They say honesty is the best policy. I don’t know who “they” are and I’m not always so sure about that honesty policy. Too many times the statement “to tell you the truth…” followed by some unsettling pronouncement has caused pain in my life. Or I hear, “honestly, …” and I mentally glaze over and those little flaps inside my ears slowly close, because I don’t want to receive any honesty at that moment. Sometimes the news has been medical in nature. Sometimes it has been work-related. The worst honesty is the relationship kind. When your loved one tells you that your jokes aren’t funny, but your outfit is. That’s hurtful.

Often it is someone sharing their political or religious “truths”. I have been surprised by some folks need to “educate me” on their particular point of view. This is usually unsolicited. Rarely have I asked for someone to tell me how to vote or what to boycott or where to worship. Still, the desire to influence, recruit, or evangelize is a powerful force in some people’s lives. I had a dear uncle who once said to me, “You’re entitled to your opinion no matter how wrong it is”. That statement was poignant, unsettling, and hilarious all at the same time. I’ve used it many times since.

We humans have an innate desire to share our joy, our sorrow, and our wisdom. This is a good thing. Everyone has a story to tell; a song to sing. Where we veer into trouble is when we believe that our story is the only true story. I’m guilty of this. One of my best friends once said to me, “I just look like this” while I was attempting to instill some wisdom. I was stunned. Her point: you are treating me as if I am ill-informed. You are making assumptions about me because of my sex, race, and age. She was right and that truth hurt. Once again, like my uncle’s statement, I have used hers many times since. It’s can be a showstopper.

Someone recently suggested that I say, “that has not been my experience”, when confronted by someone who holds an opinion opposite of mine. It’s much more tactful than what my brain is usually trying to get my mouth to say. Because “you’re stupid and wrong” might be truthful but it rarely resolves any conflict. In our current political climate, I’m constantly being challenged by statements made at sporting events, social gatherings, family dinners, organizational meetings and from the pulpit.

I am often at odds with people I love and respect. I try to tell them, “That has not been my experience”, or “I just look like this”, but it doesn’t register with the truth-teller. And then with prayer and a little self-examination, I finally look in the mirror and honestly ask myself, how often have I been the dispenser of truths? How often have I been the one who doesn’t listen but needs to share my story? How often have I told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but my truth?

I’m a Partner in Mission (a lay member) with the Sisters of The Most Precious Blood. Our charism is reconciliation. Those are fancy words which mean we are trying to bring peace to our world, to our communities, to our homes and to our hearts. It’s true that sometimes truth hurts. Every husband dreads the fateful question, “Does this dress make me look fat?” No easy answers there. Sometimes truth makes us squirm. Sometimes truth makes us fearful. But sometimes truth can set us free.

Perhaps telling the truth wouldn’t be so hard if I could remember to tell it with sensitivity, compassion and understanding. And to accept it from others even when it hurts.

Peace,

Denis

Judging

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Often, I think others are being judgmental. I look down on the “judgers”. How dare they make assumptions about me and those whom I love! Who are they to judge? They don’t know my circumstances or beliefs. They don’t know my history. They don’t understand what I find intolerable or what I hold dear. They make their assumptions because of my sex, my age, my race, my marital status, my nationality, my neighborhood, my faith. And it is tiring to constantly have to explain myself. Believe what you will judgers! You haven’t walked my path.

Then I judge. In my heart I know that I do. I judge people by their appearance, their age, the kind of car they drive, the neighborhood they live in, the way they speak and on and on. The very thing that bothers me about others is something that I am constantly doing myself.

It is so easy to think that others are being judgmental without ever looking in the mirror. In our polarized society, it is understandable to embrace an “us versus them” mentality. But it’s wrong. I know that. My heart and my head tell me it’s sinful and shameful to judge others, but I do it anyway. Almost instinctively, I find myself sizing folks up. Do they look like me? Do they speak intelligently? Do they conduct themselves in a manner that I find acceptable? Do they share my beliefs, my goals, my perception of what life should be?

I have a dear friend who once said to me, “I just look like this”. It was a simple and profound statement that declared to the world that she need not fit into anyone else’s expectation of who or what she should be. I love her for that and so much more. And I have used her statement myself. The challenge is to remember that everyone I meet “just looks like this”. I sometimes (okay, almost always) judge the folks on those electric carts in the supermarket and discount stores. Are they really disabled? Or just too big to carry themselves comfortably? Do they abuse the privilege because it’s just easier to cruise through the big box store rather than trek the miles down each aisle on foot? It is shameful, judgmental and ignorant of me. But there I stand judging.

I judge folks when I see them flying flags upside down. I judge people by the bumper stickers on their cars. I judge my neighbors by the way the keep their lawns and gardens. I judge others who declare themselves Pro-Life and Pro-Guns. I judge others who appear too pious. I judge others who seem blasphemous. I judge others who seem slovenly. I judge others who seem to be obsessed with their appearance. I’m kind of an all-purpose judger. And when I point that finger there are four more pointed back at me!

Currently I am experiencing an impinged nerve. And it’s painful. So, I’m limping and moaning and have had to accept much help from others, which I don’t like to do. My wife has been very patient while dealing with my impatience. My son-in-law, one of my heroes, helped get me to a much-needed doctor’s appointment. I probably received some stares from the neighbors as I stumbled around my yard looking inebriated. I’ve likely received some looks of pity or disgust from strangers seeing this old dude walking stiff legged and unsteady. If this pain does anything for me, I hope that it is a reminder that I am too quick to judge others. I know that it is wrong. I realize that it separates me from others for no reason other than my own pride.

Who am I to judge when the One who is judge of all keeps forgiving me? I hope and I pray for empathy. I ask God to help me be more loving and accepting of others. And I ask for forgiveness when I judge again tomorrow.

Peace,

Denis

“Stop judging, that you may not be judged. For as you judge, so will you be judged, and the measure with which you measure will be measured out to you.” Matthew 7:1-2

Cherished Memories and Hope for the Future

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When our grandson was about 2 years old, we had a concrete step that was being replaced at the back of our house. The thing was heavy and wouldn’t easily break apart. Disposing of it was going to be a major challenge. So, I decided to place it on the terrace in our back garden. It was lugged up the hill and sort of tucked away in a private spot that no one really ever noticed. Grandson Noah and I decided that it was a perfect place for he and I to hide out from time to time while everyone else was busy being busy. Hence it became affectionately known as “The He-Man Hideout”. It was our special place.

Of course, our boy is hardly a boy anymore. He’s a teenager. His world is full of schoolwork, sports, friends, technology, and all the other important and necessary teenage things. It won’t be long before high school and cars and girls and then college and career and adulthood overwhelm his world. He’s a loving grandson and he is good to me, but we haven’t spent any time in “The He-Man Hideout” in years.

When Noah was a little guy, he truly believed that we were hidden from the outside world. Today the Hideout is not really needed. It has served its purpose. Now it remains a reminder of a time not so long ago when we had a special place to hatch our plans and prepare for our conquests. A place where our imaginations would carry us away. Questions were asked and answered. We had a place where we could share a laugh or a hug. And we knew that our secrets were safe and secure.

“The He-Man Hideout” is still in our backyard, and it will remain there until the day I die. It is very likely that someday someone will look at that concrete step to nowhere and never understand the majesty of this holy place. They will only see its uselessness and absurdity and they will never know that it carried us on countless imaginary journeys. To outsiders, it will be met with the same perplexity as Stonehenge or those tags on pillows that can only be removed by authorized personnel. But I will always cherish the memories of sitting on that step with my little man and discussing the mundane and the mysterious; the silly and the serious; the simple and the profound. And dreaming of our future.

I believe that Noah and I still have some amazing years ahead of us. We may not be sitting side by side on that little concrete step in the back garden, but we are together as much as his expanding world allows. As he continues to grow and he takes on this world, I hope that he knows that I’ll always have a special place ready whenever he needs to get away. And we can still share a laugh and a hug.

Peace,

Denis

Cicadas and Other Tormentors

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After much media hype and many warnings, the cicadas have emerged. The decibel level in our yard is horrific. They produce noise over 100 decibels at close range, or about as loud as a rock concert or car racing event. According to researchers at Johns Hopkins, the cicada’s high-pitched buzzing could worsen my tinnitus. And so, it seems, it has. Now I’m a prisoner indoors, but it’s impossible to completely avoid the buggers. I have to mow my lawn and water the flower beds and outdoors is my favorite place to be.

I’m told that they will die off or descend into their underground lairs soon. Maybe in another month or so. But I’m afraid the ringing in my ears will remain long after the tiny monsters return underground. The times that I’ve carried one or two into the house only to have them screech while I squeal before they meet their untimely deaths has certainly damaged my psyche. And knowing that they are lurking beneath our lawn is the stuff of horror movies. Cicada nightmares continue!

My wife has wondered aloud if cicadas were one of the plagues mentioned in Scripture. And what did primitive peoples think of them? Were they horrified or mystified? We will never know.

While the cicadas are currently making my life a hell on earth, I can’t help but think of the other tormentors in our society today. Racists, sexists, xenophobes, and megalomaniacal politicians in our nation persist. We have a convicted felon running for president and we’re somehow expected to normalize this. When will honorable statemen and stateswomen stand up for justice and decency? When will the screeching stop?

This is Pride Month and I pray for my adult granddaughter and other young LGBTQ+ young people. I pray for acceptance. I pray for a Church that is inclusive. I pray for understanding. I pray for a heart that is loving. I pray for a spirit that is forgiving.

As with the cicadas, I sometimes want to just put my earplugs firmly in place and wait until the screeching ends. But it doesn’t seem to be subsiding. So, we must be louder than the screechers. We must drown out discrimination with understanding. We must drown out intolerance with acceptance. We must drown out injustice with love.

And maybe, just maybe, the screeching will end…

Peace,

Denis

Not What I Expected

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When I was a kid, I imagined my life differently. While playing with my ‘Kenner Girder and Panel Building Set’®, I fully expected to become an architect. Dropping out of college did not enhance my dream. I never designed nor built any amazing architectural wonders, but I did work in the building trades and learned on-the-job more than I would have likely learned from textbooks. My careers both in Civil Engineering and Architectural Millwork gave me countless opportunities to work with many talented engineers, architects, and designers. And I usually could hold my own with those who possessed much better degrees and pedigrees. Here I was, just a small-town kid from the Midwest who had once played with building blocks making decisions on million-dollar projects. Of course, along the way I had jobs in retail, worked in factories, delivered catalogs, and any number of other jobs just to keep our heads above water. Those jobs taught me humility and patience, but the ‘Kenner Girder and Panel Building Set’® gave me the desire to build some stuff. And given the chance I did.

In the 1960s I loved James Bond movies and ‘The Man from Uncle’ television series. I often imagined someday being an international man of mystery. I had never traveled outside of the Midwest, but I knew given the chance that I could handle a jet-set lifestyle and move easily from one country to another. Years later I was fortunate enough to live and work abroad. It was international and many days were a mystery mainly because I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I wasn’t as dashing as 007 but I witnessed things beyond my comprehension, mastered things I didn’t know I was capable of learning, and I am richer for the experience. My work associates often carried me through, and we remain friends to this day.

Parenthood was always part of my plan. I assumed I would be a dad like the ones I saw on T.V. as a kid. Kind of a cross between Ward Clever, Steven Douglas, and Ozzie Nelson. You know, one of those dads who came home from work (although no one ever really knew what he did), put his feet up, and read the newspaper, waited for dinner, and then solved any problems the kids had. I would wrap everything up neatly in 30 minutes. The reality of parenthood has been much more challenging and rewarding. I changed diapers, gave baths, read bedtime stories and said prayers. Later it was helping with homework, scouting, sporting events and the praying continued especially when teaching teenagers how to drive. Sleepless nights worrying about finances were accompanied by weary days of teenage angst and more prayer. As time marched on so did parenthood. There were graduations, college, military service, marriages and grandchildren. So much to worry about. So much to do. So much to celebrate. Ward Clever never seemed as exhausted as I sometimes felt, but I doubt he ever felt the joy and pride that I have thanked God for each day.

Marriage. I remember those movies where the hero would win the girl. He usually would sweep her off her feet. They might start out as adversaries or at least disinterested parties. Sometimes they couldn’t stand each other until some pivotal moment when they magically “fell in love”. It was often a surprise to both of them. How romantic! And I did fall in love, but not in the magical “I hate you but now I love you” movie way. More in the “I like everything about you” way, but mostly in the “I like me better when I’m with you” way. Our marriage is one of two nearly complete opposites who somehow make each other better every day. I never imagined marriage to be like this. I’m all “hurry-hurry let’s get this done” and she’s all “let’s slow down and smell the flowers.” I’m tall. She’s small. I’m impatient. She’s patient (even after all these years). Through the years we have learned that differences are not detrimental to a successful relationship. In fact, just the opposite. My wife and I complement one another. We fill in each other’s voids. We carry one another when necessary. We pray together. And the yoke is easy, and burden is light.

God has blessed me. My life is not what I had expected. It is more; so much more. Filled with adventure and tedium. Filled will joy and sorrow. Filled with certainty and doubt. Filled with achievement and disappointment. Filled with big moments and quiet times. Filled with friends and loneliness. Filled with laughter and tears. But always, always filled with unexpected love.

Peace,

Denis