Today another grandchild becomes a teenager. I’m convinced that our Ainsley is the sweetest teenager you will ever meet. She has an uncanny ability shared by few. Call it grace. Call it charm. Call it serendipity. Call it what you like. I call it a gift, because you will always feel better after any encounter with her. She carries her own light within her wherever she goes. And she shares that light with you.
Ainsley is quiet and thoughtful. She approaches new experiences with curiosity and poise. She doesn’t demand attention. She doesn’t need to be the center of attention, but don’t underestimate her. At her tender age she has already earned a black belt in Taekwondo. She is a disciplined and accomplished student and has won awards for academics, singing and leadership at her school.
Navigating through the teenage years can be tough. New freedoms. New rules. New friends. New temptations. And lots of demands on kids’ time. Teenageville can be a scary place. But this little light of mine, she shines!
Ainsley has strong faith. She loves deeply. She gives selflessly. And when you encounter her, you will feel better. You will feel better about your day. You will feel better about yourself. You will feel better about this world.
There are days when I want her to stay innocent and tender and untouched by ugliness, sexism, misogyny, discrimination, and hatred. But we need her to become the strong, confident woman she is destined to be. Because we need the gift that Ainsley shares to be spread throughout this world.
Someone (who shall remain nameless) recently reminded me that I’m not getting older – I have arrived. Then there are the folks who dole out left-handed compliments like, “you’re not that old” or “you look good for your age”, which always make me think of my dad who would say things about someone’s appearance, age, or demeanor, that I believe are too impolite to write down. Of course he was joking…I’m pretty sure he was joking.
And there are plenty of jokes about aging. My current favorites are: “You can cross off dying young from your list of things to worry about” and “Wow! They grow old so fast. And by ‘they’, I mean you”. I can’t promise I haven’t shared those, in a loving way, with some of my old (and dear) friends. Maybe I’m more like my dad than I think. Oh, well…
It also seems that my Medicare Supplement Provider warns me constantly of the dangers of my advanced age. Almost daily I receive IMPORTANT information about testing, drug therapies, and other preventable maladies or treatments that I should investigate, take part in or avoid depending on the situation, the need or the risks. And when I visit my primary care physician, I’m quizzed about slippery throw rugs, staircases and other potential household hazards that people my age apparently should avoid.
For most of my life, ignorance, avoidance, and denial have served me well. I intend to approach my golden years in this same manner. I refuse to live in fear. Being in my seventies does not necessarily imply senility. I’m still functional. I’m still literate. I can actually walk and chew gum at the same time (the knee does pain me, and the gum must be sugarless, but that’s beside the point). Lately I have been bombarded on social media with young people who are embracing self-care. I’m embracing “que sera, sera“. I may be old, but I’m not done. I refuse to sit down and be quiet. I still have a few versus to sing. And I’m counting on some other old-timers to join in my chorus.
Author Anne Lamott describes aging as a process that brings clarity, gentleness, acceptance, and a shedding of perfectionism, emphasizing love, service, humor, and the preciousness of life as central themes.
I don’t know about the clarity part, but I’m trying to be gentler and more accepting. And I gave up perfectionism a while back. So, bring on the love, service, and humor. Because life is precious.
Now that I’m older, I do have more time for service. I’m able to volunteer for organizations and causes that are dear to me. I have the luxury of more time for prayer. I can hold a hand, dry a tear, offer my shoulder, or carry the load for another. There is less hurry and even less worry. Again – “que sera, sera“.
As my own parents aged, I was reminded many times of my impatience. This poem both shames me and gives me hope that someday my children will slow down when I need them to.
Until then, I will keep on keeping on, and they can try to keep up, as they marvel at how witty, spry, and involved I am at my advanced age. A young person asked me not long ago why I walk so fast. I told him that I don’t have as much time as he does to get things done.
Here’s to many more years of defying the odds and my Medicare Supplement Provider.
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. Tomorrow, he turns sixteen. His world is full of high school hijinks, baseball, friends (and girlfriend), driving, technology, and all the other important and necessary teenage things. Soon college and career and adulthood will 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 as we sat there side by side. 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 or a prayer. 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 and a prayer.
When our kids were young, they loved Mr. Rogers. Truth be told, so did I.
In a hyperactive world of Superheroes, Voltron, Rainbow Brite, He-Man, My Little Pony and Cabbage Patch Kids, Fred Rogers was an anomaly. He was an island of peace and gentility in a sea of turmoil and marketing frenzy. His steady, mild manner was comforting and reassuring. Mr. Rogers spoke to children, not at them. And the only thing he was “selling” was dignity and self-respect.
The characters on his show remain fond memories: Daniel Tiger, Lady Elaine, and Mr. McFeely. And some of his catchphrases still remain in my vocabulary today, only to confuse adults when I utter, “Correct as usual, King Friday”. The concept of the show was simple yet profound and always had a calming influence on my children and their father as well. We learned things; we visited a crayon factory to see how they were made, or about body image issues with a catchy tune (your body’s fancy and so is mine) or we rode along on electric cars (long before anyone knew of Elon Musk), and Mr. Rogers showed us how some children live with special needs. Fred Rogers satisfied our curiosity with gentleness, kindness and humor. He helped us deal with challenging subjects with thoughtfulness and respect.
I have been an associate with a religious community for several years. It is something that I would have never considered possible as a young person: not holy enough, not too prayerful, not well-versed in scripture. But here I am (again) learning to love my neighbor. As I was reflecting on this past Sunday’s commitment ceremony, with the Sisters of the Most Precious Blood, Mr. Rogers Neighborhood crossed my mind. Each year, as associates (Partners in Mission), we recommit to spiritual growth and service to others. In addition, we welcome new Partners to join us on this mission. This year seven new members decided to come along on our journey.
The idea of welcoming our neighbors seems simple. It’s easy to welcome the neighbors who look like us and act like us and talk like us. The challenge of our Precious Blood community is to be a welcoming presence to all we encounter. That’s where it gets a little messy. I have to love the neighbor who doesn’t keep his yard well groomed? I have to love the neighbor who drives too fast down our little lane? I have to love the neighbor whose dog never stops yapping? I have to love the neighbor who never returns a friendly wave? The answer is yes.
And it gets harder: I have to love the neighbor who votes against all that I hold dear? The ones who vote for issues and candidates that I abhor? I have to love the neighbors who are racist, elitist, sexist, misogynistic, and homophobic? Again, the answer is yes.
The Sisters and Partners in my community continue to reinforce the charism of reconciliation. Their examples of love and forgiveness humble me. They accept me as I am; in my sinfulness, and weakness; in my struggles and failures. They remain with me always. Along with them, I choose to deepen my relationship with God and strive to heal our broken world.
Sometimes the first step is offering kindness and understanding to my neighbor. Or accepting someone’s offer of kindness and understanding to me.
Peace,
Denis
The commandments, “You shall not commit adultery; you shall not kill; you shall not steal; you shall not covet,” and whatever other commandment there may be, are summed up in this saying, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” Romans 13:9
Good luck getting that little ditty out of your head…
A good friend recently shared with me that when we speak, we should pause and ask our ourselves three simple questions:
Is it timely?
Is it honest?
Is it helpful?
I must admit, for me, the first two questions are no-brainers.
Is it timely? Deliver your message at the right moment, when it can have the most impact. And please, let’s only talk about things that are happening now or will be happening soon or what we wish could happen. Let’s not dwell on past mistakes, old grievances, and missed opportunities. Nothing good can come from those conversations. Drudging up the “coulda, shoulda, wouldas” only serves to sap us mentally, emotionally and spiritually. Makes sense.
Is it honest? Honesty builds trust. Before speaking, ask yourself if the information is true. Do your research. Fact-check. Consider the source. Misinformation or exaggeration can erode relationships and create confusion. Hearsay and conspiracy theories make you look foolish and shows lack of respect for the person with whom you are speaking. Don’t waste anyone’s time with nonsense, rumors and inuendo. Just know and tell the truth. Simple.
Is it helpful? This is the tricky part. Honestly, this is my biggest stumbling block. It might be helpful for me to get something off my chest or get my point across or make what matters to me the most important thing to say at any given moment. But that doesn’t consider the other person(s) experience or point of view. Still, it feels really good to be right. It serves my ego to be the “authority” on any given subject. I can bask in the glory of superiority and self-assuredness when I am the smartest and most informed person in the room. I can impart my wisdom, and the receivers should be grateful. And then God kicks me in the head and awakens me to a memory of a conversation that I had many years ago with our 7-year-old daughter. She was frustrated with her classmates who weren’t learning as quickly as she was, and the teacher would repeat lessons that our second grader had already mastered. She just couldn’t understand why the others couldn’t learn as fast as she did. I told her that it was okay to be the smartest person in the room, but it is unnecessary and unkind to remind everyone of that fact. Now, to be clear, I’m definitely not the smartest person in the room, only sometimes the loudest, most self-serving, opinionated, and arrogant. Not helpful.
Recently at the gym there was a young man wearing a black t-shirt with bold white letters stating, “I HATE SATAN”. I wanted to tell him that the message was confusing and counter intuitive. It seemed like an oxymoron. Jesus asks us to love everyone. That should include Satan. We needn’t follow Satan, but more hatred in our world seems like exactly the thing Satan is hoping to achieve. I decided that having a theological debate with this young man would not be helpful. So, maybe I’m learning. Also, I was wearing a t-shirt with the emblazoned message “Schnitzel Happens” so I suppose that I wouldn’t have been taken seriously anyway.
Then I laughed at my own foolishness. And that was helpful.
How many times in my life have I heard someone say, “Don’t sweat the small stuff?” Usually, it’s meant to comfort me when I’m feeling anxious about something that appears to be trivial to another. Or offered as an excuse or permission to fail to meet some expectation not shared by the person offering the solace. And there are scores of books written about not sweating the small stuff. You can purchase wall plaques, pendants, caps, key fobs, t-shirts, etc., all emblazoned with the phrase.
There seems to be a universal assumption that small things don’t matter. That unless something has monetary or political or social or intellectual significance, it is not worthy of our time. But I think that little things do matter. So, I will continue to sweat the small stuff.
After all, if the best things in life come in small packages then why not give them their proper attention and respect? The idiom, “The devil is in the details” implies that there is something hidden in the details; something that might seem simple at a first but will reveal itself to be more than expected.
I prefer the phrase “God is in the details”. The little things. Watching the moon rise on a starry night. Seeing storm clouds gather from the safety of your front porch. Taking a walk on a dewy morning. The sweet smell of a summer rain. That first cup of coffee in the morning. A favorite book. Resting under a shady tree. Hearing a child’s laughter. Receiving a friendly smile. Or a soft touch. Or a kind word. Letting a tear roll down your cheek. Simple things perhaps but hidden inside each of these is comfort, joy and love. And I believe God is there, too.
I’m sweating the small stuff. I will take the time to appreciate the details. I will hold the door for you. I will carry your load if you let me. I will set the table properly. I will use good penmanship. I will clean my house and mow my lawn. I will drive courteously. I will try to be a good citizen; a good neighbor; a good friend. I will say thank you and please and you’re welcome.
But more importantly I will say I love you. And I will say it again. And again. I want the gifts that I give to be wrapped literally and figuratively in all the beauty that I can muster. The gifts that I have to share may not be significant or of any financial value. In fact, in the grand scheme of things, my gifts are all just small stuff. But I will sweat them out. Anything less would have no meaning…
Peace,
Denis
Do to others whatever you would have them do to you. Matthew 7:12
The origins of the Easter Bunny are unclear, but he is mentioned in early German writings. The first edible Easter bunnies appeared in Germany in the 1800s and were made out of sugar and pastry. As a kid I often wondered what the Easter Bunny had to do with eggs. Polish folklore has the Virgin Mary offering eggs to the soldiers guarding Christ on the cross, as she begged them to be merciful, her tears left stains on the eggs. Eggs and bunnies and candy. There are so many conflicting images that all seem to converge at Easter in some pastel menagerie with chocolate and jellybeans thrown in for good measure.
I’ve read commentaries by some Christian writers complaining about the commercialization of Easter; how Easter is demeaned by the purchase of candy and greeting cards, etc. Easter-related spending in the United States is expected to reach about $25 billion in 2026, on everything from Easter candy to new clothes. But wasn’t Easter originally a pagan feast to celebrate spring? Painting and dying eggs pre-dates Christianity. It seems that early Christians just conveniently supplanted what was already a festival. Sort of, “Hey, we already have a party – let’s make it about Jesus!”
As a Christian, I’m not really bothered that Easter was formally a pagan feast day. I’m equally undisturbed with the Easter Bunny sharing the day that celebrates the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. If we find new life in Christ, why not celebrate the new life around us? And if you’re not a Christian, I still hope that you can enjoy a dyed egg and a chocolate bunny (or whatever means springtime to you). According to the National Confectioners Association’s survey 87% of people create an Easter basket for their kids. This just makes for happy kids. It needn’t diminish the importance of Easter. To the contrary, it should emphasize the joy we share. Why not “wearyour Easter bonnet, with all the frills upon it?”
For Christians this is our Holy Week. This is the most sacred time in our Church calendar. We celebrate and remember the passion and death of Jesus. We begin this week with Palm Sunday and continue through Holy Thursday and Good Friday, as we journey with Jesus to the cross. On Saturday at the Easter Vigil, we celebrate His rising anew. Through His death and resurrection, we are saved!
This year I’ve decided that instead of being annoyed with the secularization of Easter, I will embrace the world that God has given us. Whether I encounter those who are thankful for a Savior or folks who are just thankful for spring weather, I will try to share their joy. As some of my friends celebrate Passover and others are looking forward to a long weekend, why create conflict? Instead of looking for something to be angry about or focusing on our differences I will try to bring peace and reconciliation to those I meet.
I believe that God created a world big enough for all of us. So I’ll be singing Alleluia on Easter and later if I spy a bunny in my garden or a jellybean should find its way to me, so much the better.
Peace,
Denis
He is not here, for he has been raised just as he said. Matthew 28:6
Today is the Feast of Saint Joseph. As a father, I have a strong devotion to Joseph – the patron saint of all fathers. I have been blessed with three incredible children. I realize that I’m not in their league in terms of intelligence, ability, and achievement. And yet, God decided to bless me with these three.
I rely on Saint Joseph to help me. He knew the overwhelming responsibility of fatherhood. He understood that the love of a father is so strong and yet at the same time so tender it cannot be described in mere words. He certainly must have felt ill-equipped, at times, to deal with Jesus. I could write volumes about my ineptitude as a father. I take for granted that my children understand that they are in my heart so deeply that every day I am blessed by their very existence. But I’m not sure I always show them by my actions. Sometimes no matter how hard I try – I fail. I do the wrong thing. Or I behave unkindly. Or forget to say, “I love you”. God gave me Saint Joseph to reach out to when I make a mess of things.
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 like I was when my kids came along. A worker. A teacher. A companion. A dad. Frightened but courageous. Ill-prepared but undaunted. Beleaguered but unrelenting. He must have had a sense of humor. I’d like to think that Jesus laughed at Joseph’s “dad jokes”.
My prayers always include my children and my grandchildren but while asking God to protect them, I sometimes forget to thank God. So, thank you God! You did a great job creating these beautiful humans. God, thanks for letting me have a hand in it, too. And thanks especially for giving me St. Joseph as a model of fatherly love, patience, and devotion.
Recently I read, “This Lent I’m just going to give up.” It was written tongue in cheek and intended to be humorous, but it struck a different chord in me.
Some Catholics feel tremendous pressure to “give up” something to honor Jesus’ ultimate sacrifice. Or to “do something” honorable or charitable or extra-holy. It doesn’t do me much good to have ashes smeared on my forehead and then turn a blind eye to the mistreatment and suffering of so many in our nation.
Most of us needn’t go back more than a few generations to find ancestors who immigrated to the United States. In my own family we are descendants of fur traders who journeyed from France to Canada and ultimately to the Midwest around the time of the Revolutionary War, as well as Germans seeking political refuge in the 19th century. Some came seeking fortune and wealth. Some were fleeing poverty, political injustice, or religious persecution.
In November 2000 the U.S. Catholic bishops published “Welcoming the Stranger Among Us: Unity in Diversity”. The document states, “The presence of so many people of so many different cultures and religions in so many different parts of the United States has challenged us as a Church to a profound conversion so that we can become truly a sacrament of unity. We reject the anti-immigrant stance that has become popular in different parts of our country, and the nativism, ethnocentricity, and racism that continue to reassert themselves in our communities.”
That was over 25 years ago and still many in my parish community consider immigrants as dangerous and undeserving and unwanted. Seldom, if ever, does any message come from the pulpit in regard to welcoming the stranger among us. Rarely is there any acknowledgment of the brutal treatment by our government of immigrants and our responsibility as Catholic Christians to open our hearts and minds to our sisters and brothers. Our clergy often preach that we should be pro-life but usually that seems to only mean pro-birth. Welcoming those fleeing for their very lives is apparently too messy to deal with, let alone to preach about. Our congressman, a Roman Catholic, has built his career on hateful misogynic rhetoric and our local Church leaders remain silent.
Fortunately, I have great friends and spiritual advisers who understand that God’s love for us is indeed for ALL OF US. They are examples of unconditional love. They are models of true Christianity. I find hope and strength in their presence. Their actions speak louder than words. And their songs fill my heart.
Often the work of true Christians is done quietly; humbly, with little fanfare. We can continue to pray, but it’s time to make some noise. We need to put our words into action. We need to care for the poor and welcome strangers. We need to put those in power on notice. We need to comfort those wounded by their draconian policies. We must remember that all life is precious.
Speaking up and speaking out might be risky and more of a sacrifice than giving up chocolate or alcohol or saying extra prayers this Lenten Season, but I refuse to give up, and I refuse to be silent.
Peace,
Denis
Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or ill or in prison, and not minister to your needs? Matthew 25:44
In his book Are You Good Enough Yet? Father Joe Kempf writes, “You deserve to know that you are safe, you are loved, your life matters, and you are good enough just as you are. Because these things are true.”
I’m a natural born worrier. I worry about my friends who are battling illness or struggling with grief. I worry about my son (who I believe requires constant worry). I worry about our community, our nation, our world. I worry about my grandchildren; those precious souls who I’m certain will face disappointment or heartache or worse. I worry that others don’t worry enough. And my greatest fear is that I’m not a good enough worrier to deal with any of this.
My Mom used to say, “You can worry about 10 things and 9 of them will never happen and the one that does won’t be as bad as you think”. That was rich, coming from the woman who instilled fear and worry in me. In my mind I would often reply, “Unless of course it happens to you, Mom!”
So, I’ve become a “stoic” worrier. A “closet” worrier. A “put on a brave face” worrier. “Smile through the pain” worrier. “Stiff upper lip” worrier. “Hide your crazy” worrier. “Just get on with it” worrier. “No one needs to know” (and probably doesn’t care) worrier.
But what am I afraid of? I’m pretty sure that I’m mostly afraid of losing control. Which is amusing because I have never truly been in control of anything (including myself most days). Plans have been made and derailed in an instant. Dreams have been dashed. Batteries have died. Plumbing has failed. Power has gone out. Promotions have been denied. Jobs have been lost. Savings have been depleted.
In the arms of some of my Angels
Through it all, I’ve never been abandoned. I’ve never been alone. God has never left my side. And in my darkest hours God has sent his angels. My wife. My children. My grandchildren. My siblings. My friends. What a gift knowing that they are with me on this journey. Sometimes it only takes hearing a loved one’s voice to put my mind at ease. I am not alone.
I had a dear uncle whose prayer was that he would live one day longer than his spouse so that he could take care of her until the end. I share that prayer. It sounds virtuous but it’s really a little bit selfish because I can’t bear the thought of life without my wife. Uncle Ted didn’t meet that goal, as he died a few months before his beloved Sha. But you know what? She was taken care of until the end. He set an amazing example for all of us to follow. She was never alone. Things (even stuff that didn’t matter that much) were taken care of. And she passed peacefully and I believe she was welcomed home into Ted’s loving arms.
So perhaps my prayer should be, “Dear God, please make sure that Debbie is not alone and that someone takes the trash out, mows the lawn and cleans the gutters“. It’s not poetic but it gets to the point. One less thing to worry about…
Thanks, Father Joe for reminding me that I am safe. I am loved. My life matters. And I am good enough. These things are true. And I need to let go of my fear and stop worrying. God, please keep sending your angels.
