When I was a young father, I was pretty hands-on. Changing diapers. Mending knees. Drying tears. My wife worked part-time opposite my schedule so we could avoid daycare as much as possible. There were nights when I was exhausted, but homework and baths and bedtime prayers were still required. The truly exhausting part was the worry. Worry about finances. Worry about education. Worry about too much television, not enough healthy food. Worry about the friends they had or didn’t have.
Mostly I worried about screwing EVERYTHING up. Unwittingly doing some irreparable harm by not protecting them; preparing them; guiding them. There is something almost primal about a father’s need to love and protect his children – maybe its self-preservation. I don’t know, maybe when the first dad (Adam?) crawled out of the primordial ooze we were already pre-wired to protect our offspring in order to make certain our species would survive.
Lately I’ve been observing young fathers. There was a father at church yesterday who was comforting his baby daughter. This dad has three daughters – so he gets to go straight to heaven. But anyway, yesterday the little fussy one needed daddy to stand up and bounce her around in his arms. Which of course he did. Several times. At one point, I walked over and put my arm around him and reminded him that fatherhood means “doing whatever you think she needs for the rest of your life”.
I’m encouraged by the time and attention that I see young fathers affording their children today. I see dads lugging the diaper bags and pushing the strollers and holding the hands of their progeny. I watch and I recall that often when I was younger it seemed novel that I would be the one doing those things. Maybe in my father’s generation men were still the hunter-gatherers and womenfolk tended the children. But evolution has prevailed and now dads hunt and gather and bounce their babies, hold their hands, wipe up their spills, tie their shoes, and mend broken their hearts.
Sometimes when I see these young dads, I think about Saint Joseph. We know little about Joseph. We know that he had doubts. We also know that he said yes. He protected Mary and Jesus. Joseph is often depicted as an old man. But I believe Joseph was young when Jesus was born. A worker. A teacher. A companion. A Dad. Frightened but courageous. Ill prepared but undaunted. Beleaguered but bouncing Jesus if required to keep him still in the Temple. And I ask his intercession to protect all of us fathers.
My children are in their forties now. And I still worry, but I believe that our history together prepares them; guides them; protects them. “Look at what I did. Look at the mistakes that I made. Be smarter. Do better. And remember, to never stop loving beyond reason.”
(There’s a lot of Barbie® hype out there right now, so I thought my beautiful wife’s birthday would be a good time to update this post originally published 12 years ago).
When my wife was a little girl, she wanted to be Barbie – tall and blonde and all the rest. But instead, God decided to make her Midge® – Barbie’s best friend. Midge was shorter and brunette and NOT BARBIE. But even though Midge (Deb) is ‘vertically challenged’ you shouldn’t be fooled by her size. She is larger than life. Her circle of influence is boundless. She dreams big. She has more class in her little finger than most folks have in their entire body. And she has more friends today than I have had in my entire life.
Most descriptions of her include phrases like big heart; generous spirit; huge smile; hearty laugh; giving friend; loving mother, and grandmother. These are hardly the images of a mousey little Midge. And Deb does things in a big way, too. Meals are an event. You’ll never leave her table hungry. Holidays are a time for elegant decorating and grand entertaining, and fabulous food. She works hard and she plays hard, too.
And if you are in need, she’s the friend/sister/daughter/mother/grandmother to call on. If you need a laugh, she will always deliver. If you need someone to hold or if you need to be held, her arms are always wide open. If you need to cry, she will cry, too. Debbie has this incredible gift of making you feel that when she’s with you, no one else is more important or more needed at that moment than you. You have her complete undivided attention. She gives her entire self.
Her children and grandchildren will also tell you that she is a ‘force to be reckoned with’. And most importantly, you should NEVER attempt to hurt one of her children or grandchildren – she’s like a lioness in her need to protect them. And I believe that she would stare down the devil if the need arose.
As for me, well when Deb walks in the room it’s like everyone else fades into the background. All the light in the space seems to be emanating from her. She just gets to me. She always tells our granddaughters “To be pretty; you have to act pretty”. And she lives those words, too. Her beauty shines through.
Barbie, you might be a statuesque blonde, but you are empty inside, I’ll take ‘ma femme petite belle’ over you any day!
Even though I’m over a foot taller than she, I know that Deb stands well above me in terms of heart and soul.
Peace,
Denis
Debbie – Happy Birthday! It’s been my pleasure and an honor to look up to you all these many years. I love all four feet eleven inches of you and this life we share. ~ D
A few days ago, a neighbor was walking by and complimented our yard saying, “Everything looks so beautiful. You must be an avid gardener.” I thanked her as she walked on, and I thought to myself, I’m not truly an avid gardener; I’m more of a rabid gardener. Let me explain: I love the trees and flowers. I love spring and summer and the bounty of blossoms and greenery. But I neglect the gardens. I let things get a little out of hand. And I step outside and realize that I must get things under control! So, instead of patiently tending the gardens each day, I instead go into manic-mode and work in a frenzy until I’m a hot, achy, sweaty mess who is really too tired to enjoy his labor.
Hence, I attack the gardens like a rabid animal, but I get the job done. And I accept the compliments of a neighbor and ignore things for another week or so and then repeat the cycle. It’s exhausting. But it works.
I know of course that daily weeding and more careful tending of my gardens would in the long run ease my burden and then I might just become an avid gardener instead of a rabid one. There is always room for improvement.
This morning I was thinking that my faith life is somewhat like my gardening. I don’t give it the daily attention that I should. Instead, I let things go sometimes until they get out of hand. I fail to see God’s presence in my life. I often ignore the blessings in my life. I become cynical and defiant. And when things are a mess, I turn to God in my frenzy and my weakness, and I finally pray. When I am overwhelmed with pain and conflict and loss, I panic, I plead, I cry. In frantic desperation, I pray “God help me!” And somehow God answers the prayers of this simple man. When the weeds of sin and destruction are choking out the flowers in the garden of my life, Jesus still restores my soul. I pray selfishly, but it works.
Still, I realize that if I focus some attention on prayers of thanksgiving for the bountiful blessings in my life, my panic will lessen. My disappointments and heartache will be easier to shoulder when I remember that I am never alone. The struggles in my life will always remain but perhaps the ability to deal with those challenges will improve if I could just turn them over to God daily. There is always room for improvement.
It’s not perfect but, in the grand scheme of things my life has been remarkably blessed. And my gardens don’t look too bad either. I will continue to thank God for both.
Peace,
Denis
Pray without ceasing. In all circumstances give thanks. 1 Thessalonians 5: 17-18
Below is a song about prayer. It’s heart rending but it reminds me to thank God as often as I beg for help.
Sadly, I’m often surprised when a stranger is kind. Kindness, friendliness, and courtesy seem to have gone out of fashion these days. Recently at a grocery store someone offered my wife a shopping cart. It was a simple gesture but was much appreciated. When we headed into the store, we realized that the woman had left her mobile phone in the cart. I ran out of the store and found her about to exit the parking lot. Crisis averted. Many thanks were offered for such a simple act. Later in the store the cashier was friendly and engaging and made our mundane shopping experience actually pleasant. Later my wife and I remarked that kindness is so seldom offered that it has become remarkable. It is a sad commentary. Why is it that friendliness and kindness are remarkable?
I’m part of the problem. I admit that I am quick to judge. I blame it on my professional experience, years of sizing up customers and suppliers. Calling “bullshit” on the bullshitters. That’s an easy way out. The truth is, I’m a judger and I usually think that I know who I’m dealing with before a word is spoken. But what if I’m wrong? Suppose the person that I’ve encountered is battling illness or financial hardship or a failed relationship. And then I’m put out because they aren’t friendly enough to me? How pompous and arrogant! Many folks may be carrying pain beyond my comprehension and perhaps friendliness is just something that they cannot muster. My wife, who is kind and friendly by nature, often reminds me that not everyone is living a happy or healthy life.
Perhaps kindness begets kindness. So, I try (again) to be courteous to strangers. I try to be friendly. Then I look in the mirror and study my heavy brow line and my strong chin and realize that a smile can even improve my stern Germanic countenance. “Remember to smile and speak more softly”, I tell myself. But genetics and learned behaviors are hard to overcome. Then I pray. I pray that somehow, I will remember to be a reconciling presence in our world. God gives us the grace to mend hearts and share love with others. I can start in the grocery store, and in my own backyard. I can share God’s grace.
The people that I admire most are the folks who carry a quiet joy in their hearts. They’re not the dealmakers, or loud back slappers or the big jokesters but the kind, graceful people who offer me a smile, an occasional shopping cart, and a role model, even in my saddest, darkest, ugliest moments.
Perhaps kindness begets kindness. And grace. And redemption.
Peace,
Denis
From his fullness we have all received, grace in place of grace. John 1:16
When I was a boy, my heroes were cowboys. Not the real ones, but the TV variety. I had a Roy Rogers lunchbox, and EVERY BOY in my “midwestern suburban wilderness” had a holster and six-shooter. We were Marshall Dillon and Buffalo Bill Cody. We were Lucas McCain and The Lone Ranger. We were cowboys who made our own rules and lived in the sweet freedom of the range until Mom called us home for dinner. Truth be told, horses are big and kind of scary and I’ve never even held a real gun, but I was a tough little cowboy back in the day.
As I grew, those childhood fantasies were packed away, never to see the light of day. The teenage years gave way to cars and girls and jobs. The dangers “waiting around the bend” were real. I hung up my holster and the dream of becoming a cowboy was covered in the dust of a forgotten trail. As an adult I learned that Trigger, Roy Rogers’s beloved horse, had been stuffed and placed in a museum. It seemed a fitting coda to my cowboy life. Over. Gone. Dead.
A few weeks ago, we took a trip to South Dakota. We had been there before, but this time we traveled with our three youngest grandchildren. Somehow seeing the Badlands through their eyes brought back memories of my cowboy days. From Sioux Falls to Mount Rushmore to Wind Cave to Custer State Park, with each new vista we were bathed in the beauty and majesty of God’s creation. The buffalo, elk, prong horn sheep and prairie dog sightings were spellbinding. Every mountain range and stream, every meadow and vast prairie carried us on to the next adventure. Experiencing these things this time, through the eyes of our grandchildren, added depth and wonder to my travels. I was “saddled up” once again.
The joy of experiencing the beauty and wonder of South Dakota was only surpassed by the pride in my grandchildren on the journey. The 7-year-old and 9-year-old, who as all sisters do, sometimes bicker and get on each other’s nerves. There is often some competition or some perceived injustice. “It’s not fair!” is a rallying cry for a persecuted 7-year-old. Little do they know that I am impervious to the eye-rolling and “death stares” I receive when handing down my judgments. My wife is usually Miss Kitty to my Matt Dillon and the little criminals take solace in her heart of gold. But without order, the West would truly be wild. Miraculously, there were no quarrels, no disagreements, or whining on our trip. I was able to keep my pistol holstered. Their joy was contagious. They were two of the toughest little cowgirls on the range. No complaints, no fear, no hesitation to climb the next hill or wade into the next stream. My prayer is that this newfound confidence will serve them well into the future.
My 12-year-old grandson was Chester to my Marshall Dillon. He was my trusted aide, my confidant, and my sidekick. And he was the only other male on our westward journey. Our job was to “take care” of the womenfolk. His confidence and thrill of the next challenge was matched by the care he afforded his younger cousins. At times, unsolicited, he took the hand of one of the girls to steady their gait on a particularly steep or treacherous path. He showed patience and tenderness beyond his age. He encouraged them and comforted them. He is a hero that the West had never before seen. My prayer is that someday he has a grandson who will be his hero as well.
The thought of a road trip to South Dakota seemed daunting. The hours in the van, the potential exhaustion, the likelihood of whining (mostly mine), the possibility of bad weather, and the expense, gave me pause. “Maybe we shouldn’t…” kept me awake a few nights prior to our trip. But the experience was transformative. The girls were braver than they have ever been before. Our grandson became a young man before our eyes.
And this old cowboy got to come along for the ride.
I spent last week in McAllen, Texas at our southern border. I volunteered at the Humanitarian Respite Center which is affiliated with Catholic Charities of the Rio Grande Valley. Staffed by dedicated personnel as well as volunteers and supported by donations, the center provides a place for the countless refugees and asylum seekers, who have entered our country legally, to rest, have a meal, a change of clothes, and receive medicine and other supplies. Most families are at the center only 24 hours before continuing on their journey into the United States. They travel by plane or bus to their host family destinations.
There is so much reported on cable news shows about the “crisis” at the border that I wanted to see it for myself. I did and I am changed. The people that we served were refugees seeking asylum. The United Nations 1951 Convention and 1967 Protocol define a refugee as a person who is unable or unwilling to return to his or her home country, and cannot obtain protection in that country, due to past persecution or a well-founded fear of being persecuted in the future “on account of race, religion, nationality, membership in a particular social group, or political opinion.”I was overwhelmed by the need, but even more so by the gratitude and love shared from those we served. Each small act of kindness was followed by countless “gracias”.
I traveled with my friend Bob, who is veteran of service at the Respite Center. I’m certain I would not have survived without Bob’s tutelage. We stayed at a hotel in San Juan, Texas which is next door to a beautiful Basilica which reminded me of The Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City and provided meditation, prayer and worship with a mariachi band thrown in for good measure. I was feeling anxious about my poor Spanish skills and reached out to my friend Alberto in Mexico. He assured that if I just said “bienvenido” my actions would speak the rest. He was right! (Alberto mi hermano te amo)
Sometimes you just have to jump into the deep end headfirst. And I did. On Day One we served lunch to about 75 persons. The Haitians would thank us with “gracias” although clearly not their native tongue. There was one little girl about 2 or 3 who would shyly smile at me every time we met. I wanted to squeeze her and tell her that all would be alright but who knows? Walking a man to the bus station, he thanked me for my kindness and then he put his arm around me and took a selfie of us. Smiles all around! I was touched by an angel.
On Day Two we met a young man (probably a teenager) who needed his knees bandaged and was all alone. We learned that he had been abducted by a gang and had somehow escaped. No way to know what he had endured. A little boy named David about 6 years old asked me to throw a paper airplane. We played for at least 30 minutes. His joy was contagious. It was like playing whiffle ball with my grandson Noah. He asked my name and thanked me. His grin was from ear to ear.
Day Three was much busier. 300+ people served. We served families from Cuba, Guatemala, Ecuador, Venezuela, Haiti, China, Colombia, El Salvador, Honduras, and Chile. “Mucho gracias” from every smiling face. Parents looked exhausted. Kids were always ready to play. Highlight of the day was meeting Sr. Norma Pimentel. She is the Executive Director of Catholic Charities in the Rio Grande Valley and the founder of the HRC. She was named one of Time’s Most Influential People in 2020. She was so down-to-earth and so welcoming. Later that day, I attempted to help a man from China get cash for his taxi ride to the airport. We tried several things but to no avail. I was relieved to learn the following morning that somehow, he was successful.
Day Four was another very busy start to the day. We ran out of Pedialyte and baby bottles but a volunteer family from Kansas went and bought some more. Often as supplies are depleted, they miraculously reappear. I filled two emergency clothing orders. One was a family with a 2-year-old boy and a 3 three-year-old girl. I found a brand-new outfit for the girl. The mother couldn’t stop thanking me. Another mother had an 18-month-old who was completely naked. I gave him more than I was supposed to. This one brought me to tears. A woman prayed for the longest time at the image of Our Lady of Guadeloupe. Perhaps she was praying for a better life or thanking God for getting her this far.
On Day Five a little girl from Honduras tried to teach me Spanish while I tried to teach her English. She was the better student. We had some late arrivals that day. Managed to get them settled in and served a late lunch. A little girl who suffered a seizure was taken to the hospital as we were leaving that night.
On my last day we delivered 35 meals to the Siesta Inn, a hotel that is housing men traveling alone and anyone who had tested positive for Covid-19 (yes, it’s still out there for the unvaccinated). I put together care packages of toiletries and I packed lunches for air or bus travel.
Each day as the immigrants arrived, I remembered my “Bienvenido” and each day as they departed, I offered a “Via con Dios.” I prayed every night their journeys might bring them safely to a new life. I will continue to pray for each of them as I see their faces in my mind. I wonder if they are well and welcomed.
During each day there were plenty of “Que necesitas?” And as I struggled with each request, I was supported by some of the most amazing volunteers that I have ever met. Of course, I am blessed to know my good friend (and traveling companion) Bob. Also blessed by, Lara, Philip, Cecilia, Pat and Mary: all local volunteers, Joe from Notre Dame, Nick from D.C, Julie from Kansas, and Dan from Colorado, Father Patrick Russell, the students and administrators from Saint Dominic High School in my hometown, the Jesuits who said mass on Tuesday and Thursday at the Center, and countless others. They gave of themselves effortlessly, with compassion and joy. They were truly the hands and feet of Christ. I am humbled by their witness.
I pray that these weary travelers we served were offered a glimmer of hope and a glimpse of heaven.
Bienvenido – thanks for the advice, Alberto! It served me well.
Recently my wife and I were at a fast-food restaurant. The service was not fast. As I impatiently waited at the counter, a young man who works at the establishment stepped away and began blathering on with one of the cooks in the kitchen. Their conversation seemed to have nothing to do with burgers or fries or serving the increasingly annoyed old man waiting to give his order.
When this effeminate young man finally presented himself at the counter, I noticed his unkempt appearance and his greasy hair with bleached streaks. He also had some piercings and at least three visible tattoos. His burger shirt was wrinkled and messy. As I stood there silently judging him, I could barely hold my composure. Why should I have been kept waiting while he appeared to be flirting with the guy in the back?
I girded my loins for a confrontation because I was certain that he would challenge my order of two Kid Meals (because I really don’t look like I’m 12 or younger) but instead he politely accepted my request with a smile and a “thank you”. I was a bit deflated because all my imaginary rage was wasted. Happy for the discounted meals but disappointed that I hadn’t been right about this kid left me flummoxed. Just because two senior citizens are purchasing Kids Meals doesn’t mean we’re stealing; it just means we’re living on a fixed income and being financially responsible. Maybe my ever-so-slight dishonesty comes with the price of having to be waited on by this guy. Whatever the rationale, I enjoyed my burger and fries and my tiny child-size soft drink.
Then Counter Guy approached the table next to us where a young woman with Down Syndrome was struggling with getting the lid and straw secured on her soft drink. I recognized her as the person who wipes the tables and mops the floors there and her shift had apparently just ended. She often seems to be neglected and dismissed by the other staff members. But this guy helped her with her drink and inquired about her ride home. He then asked her what kind of car her mom drove, and when he spotted the car in the parking lot, he walked her out to the car and took the time to speak with her mother. He afforded her such care and compassion.
Now my meal was served with a slice of humble pie. God forgive me!
I had been so quick to judge, and I was so wrong. Because of his appearance and manner, I had pre-judged Counter Guy. With more than a little trepidation, I returned to the counter and told that young man that I had witnessed his kindness. I let him know how touching it was and thanked him for reminding me to be kinder. I might have embarrassed him, but he smiled and said, “I just like to be nice to people, and treat them with dignity and respect”.
Dignity. Respect. It’s never too late to learn.
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
I really like to be prepared. I like game-plans, dry runs, agendas, vaccines, first aid kits, insurance and road maps (remember those?) I don’t like surprises. I like a certain amount of control. Okay honestly, I like total control. It just makes life easier.
Our sons were Boy Scouts, and their moto is/was “Be Prepared”. How wonderful is that? The year that we lived in England our friends taught us that “there is no bad weather, only bad clothing”. We enjoyed every day outside, rain or shine, because we were prepared. Planning and preparation make perfect sense. My children can tell you that while they were growing up, I uttered this phrase ad nauseam: “Fail to plan; plan to fail”. It was often met with eye-rolling that was nearly audible. But we were ready for anything and everything! Until we weren’t.
When I look back on my life, I realize that most of my greatest blessings have occurred unplanned. My need for order and control has been upended in a heartbeat. Often literally. My wife and I lost our first baby in miscarriage at five months. All of our preparations were suddenly in vain. Not certain what the future might hold, our marriage and our life together suddenly seemed fragile and frightening. A year and a half later we heard another tiny heartbeat and prayed for our miracle baby. And he was and is. I’m convinced to this day, that we might never have loved our son Tyson as much as we do, had we not suffered that first loss. Five years later our family included our daughter Bess and our younger son Blake, and our love multiplied. Of course, after Blake was born, we realized we were outnumbered. We certainly hadn’t planned on that! Those of you who have raised children, know that God laughs at most of our plans. All the baby books and parenting classes end up being so much blah, blah, blah because your kid is special or weird or gifted or dull. So, we just did what we could to keep your heads above water. And somehow our non-plans worked out.
I’ve had job failures (epic ones) that at the time seemed like certain doom. Resumes and interviews and networking failed. I failed. Once during a very dark period, when employment was nowhere to be found, I met with our parish priest. I guess I was just looking for some kind of blessing or some inside “God help”. Instead, he just listened and then he assured me that our children would remain in school and tuition payments would resume only after I had secured employment. His words were a balm to my weary soul. Had I not lost my job, I would have never known his love and kindness.
I still like a plan. I still need a certain amount of control, but I’ve learned to cherish the unplanned. The surprises in life (the good ones and the bad ones) make us who we are. Many times, my certitude has been dashed in the blink of an eye. Plans fail. Stuff goes up in smoke. And in my exasperation, I pick up the pieces and start over. I believe these failures have taught me empathy. It’s easy to judge others when I perceive myself and my life as perfect. It’s in those wounded moments that I find my compassion.
I believe that I am able to carry the cross for others because so many have lifted the cross for me when I could no longer carry on.
Peace,
Denis
Thus says the LORD: When someone falls, do they not rise again? If they turn away, do they not turn back? Jeremiah 8:4
Throw open the shutters. Spring has arrived! Daffodils and tulips and the dogwood are blooming. Birds are singing. New life is in abundance!
Tomorrow is Easter Sunday, the day in which Christians celebrate Jesus rising from the dead. As believers, our salvation is ‘a done deal’ if we choose the gift of His redemption. So churches will be filled to capacity.
We need the joy of Easter. It is a welcome balm that can ease the pain in our world. I for one, love the carnival atmosphere of Easter Sunday services. Kids dressed in itchy new Easter clothes, barely able to sit still because of all the candy that they have consumed before breakfast; beleaguered parents who rose before dawn to hide eggs and prepare baskets full of the candy for the aforementioned little darlings; folks who have not been to church in a while looking conspicuously out-of-place; ‘the regular-attenders’ barely able to conceal their annoyance of having to share their pew. We squeeze in and make room for all. And we love and forgive and ask for forgiveness for the times that we have failed to love. The Alleluias return!
Baked ham, lamb with mint jelly, hot cross buns, deviled eggs and asparagus will adorn our dining tables. Desserts will be rich and plentiful. And don’t forget the candy, surreptitiously snatched from the kiddies Easter baskets while they’re being distracted by yet another treat left behind by the Easter Bunny. Welcome home Springtime!
Some Christians are bothered by all the focus on the Easter Bunny, feeling that it diminishes the sanctity of Easter. After all what does a bunny who hides eggs and gives candy have to do with our Risen Savior? I’m not sure. But what difference does it make? Easter supplanted pre-Christian spring festivals and it doesn’t make it any less sacred to me.
I’ll welcome the Easter Bunny to hop into my backyard again this year and hide his (her) eggs and leave behind some treats. I’ll smell the sweet aroma of new flowers and tree blossoms. I’ll love and forgive and ask for forgiveness. I’ll eat too much and sing my Alleluias. And be thankful for it all.
Peace,
Denis
“Why do you seek the living one among the dead?” Luke 24:5
I am blessed with an abundance of family and friends but still at times I want to be left alone.
There is escape in being alone. Being aloof and noncommittal can feel like freedom. Freedom from obligations. Freedom to do what I want to do. Freedom from other people’s misery. And sometimes I desperately long for that freedom. But freedom can lead to apathy and avoidance, and then I risk becoming insensitive to others’ needs.
This is why I am blessed to be in a community. A community of family and friends; a community of believers; a community of people who witness to me on a daily basis. I am constantly reminded that I need community. And I am strengthened and nourished by community. Community also allows me to share my limited gifts with others. I am humbled in knowing that I can bring goodness (God) to others.
Recently I learned of a father in our parish who suffered a stroke. His wife and young sons seem bewildered and are no doubt suffering immensely. As I stumbled to find a few words of comfort to offer to the mother, I saw a tiny glimpse of (relief?) (appreciation?) cross her troubled face. A small kindness that I couldn’t have offered her if we were not in community.
Two other young families of our parish have recently had babies. One family had their third daughter and they are delighted. I told the Daddy, with a wink, that raising three girls means that he “will get to go straight to heaven”. The other family had a set of twins which brings their brood to a total of five. I greet them each week and share in their joy and their exhaustion. We’ve taken them an occasional meal to ease their burden. What a blessing to be in community with them. These young families give me hope for our future.
In my small faith community, I have dear friend who has just received the gift of remission from her battle with cancer. I thank God and share in her joy! She is a testament to hopefulness and faith. She inspires me.
The tragic news of deaths and destruction due to tornadoes this week has been heartbreaking. But once again, I see communities coming together to help each other. The horrific news of yet another school shooting leaves me shaken and frightened. I have a daughter who is a teacher and five school-age grandchildren. How can we continue to watch as our babies are slaughtered? Once again, community steps in. We grieve the losses and bury the tiny bodies. On the saddest of days, I often want to pull the shades and climb under the covers, but I must use my voice and my vote. My letters to my senators and congressman may likely fall on deaf ears but I will continue to write, and protest, and vote! Because that’s what community does.
When my parents died, my community surrounded me with love and concern. We shared laughter and tears, and I could not have made it through those dark days without their hands to hold. When I retired last year, my community helped me navigate the uncertainty of life without a career. When my granddaughter was recently chosen “Mission Model” for her freshman class, because “she uses her voice for good and promotes human dignity”, my community shared my joy and pride in her accomplishment.
I am blessed to be part of a community who will carry me when I cannot walk, guide me when I am lost, and exalt with me in my days of jubilation. Being alone might feel like freedom, but my life has meaning when shared with others. Community matters.
Journeying & Journaling 