Love

A Tale of No Tail

/ Denis Wilhelm / 1 Comment

We have a squirrel living in our garden who has no tail. Of course, as a mere human I have anthropomorphized him. I call him Stubby. Not a particularly clever name but, it definitely fits his situation. Stubby seems undaunted by his lack of tail. He climbs trees. He frantically buries acorns. As he is happily scampering across our lawn, I wonder if he is he aware of his disability? Do the other squirrels shun him? Will he become a hero like that red-nosed reindeer? He seems to like our backyard. He lives in our big live oak tree. We’ve become (sort of) friends.

I’ve read a bit about tailless squirrels. Squirrels may be born tailless or lose their tails to injury; although this affects survival, many adapt and thrive regardless. I hope that Stubby can beat the odds and thrive. Mostly I hope he comes back and digs up all those acorns so that I don’t have a bunch of little oak trees sprouting up in our garden next Spring. I’m pulling for the little fellow. He likely won’t attract a mate because he can’t do that tail shaking move that all the female squirrels seem unable to resist. He’ll probably remain a bachelor. Maybe he’ll be the fun uncle. I just hope he survives the winter. Being different needn’t define him.

Watching Stubby dart across our lawn and strain to climb our tree, I can’t help but think about my own challenges. How often have I struggled with physical limitations? How many times have I accepted defeat and not even tried something new out of fear? What if it is too hard? What if I fail? Worse yet, what if I’m singled out for not “fitting in”?

Some of my disabilities are physical, a few are emotional, and many of mine are spiritual. Many people I know are steadfast and confident in their faith. Many people I know have the assurance of God in their daily lives. Many people I know never question their belief. But I’m different. I sometimes struggle with the self-righteousness and hypocrisy of others. I often struggle with church hierarchy and their silence in the face of social evil. Sometimes in the midst of the cruelty and unkindness of this world I wonder if God is paying attention. And I struggle with my own prayer life at times. My prayers can seem futile. I feel empty, lost and alone.

Faith in God is not easy. What is easy is to explain away all of my hardships and struggles and sadness as random acts in a world full of chaos. What is easy is to accept that some folks will always have better luck/money/position than me. What is hard is to find solace in times of sorrow and desperation in a God who at times feels very distant. Sometimes it’s challenging to find joy in others’ happiness when I am feeling overwhelmed with my own difficulties. But this is the essence of faith. I learned a long time ago through trial and error to stop looking for God in the stars. To stop praying to the clouds. God is in my friends. God is in my family. And when I look deeply (this is the really hard part) I can find God in me.

So, maybe I’m different. But that needn’t define me.

Peace,

Denis

Things I’ve Done for Money

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I started working as a kid. I had a newspaper route when I was 12 or 13 years old. I rode my bicycle and threw newspapers, ideally on to front porches, but more often into shrubberies or the occasional gutter. I think I earned about $30.00 a month and because this was a daily paper, I suppose I was making about $1.00 a day. I had several other part-time jobs while in high school which according to my parents would build character and net some savings. No real savings were ever realized and as for the character, well let’s just say that I met a few characters along the way.

As an adult, I’ve had some less than stellar jobs. Once, after getting laid off from my job as a surveyor’s assistant at a Civil Engineering firm, I took a job delivering catalogs to put food on the table and keep the lights on. This was before the Internet and people actually purchased things from catalogs. Truth be told, most of the catalog recipients didn’t appreciate the free catalog. I was met by slammed doors and chased by vicious dogs. It made me long for the golden days of holding a range pole in the bottom of a frozen creek bed in the middle of January. Ultimately, I found a job as a drafter indoors. Thank you, Jesus!

The absolute worst job I ever had was as the T.V. man at our local hospital. Deb and I had just had our second child, and her part-time job became more part-time. Because we had a new baby and a not quite two-year-old I decided to take a second job and work a few evenings a week to make some additional money. I found a job in the ‘Help-Wanted’ ads and the “no experience necessary but a clean appearance and a good personality, a plus” seemed tailor-made for me. My new part-time job was at a local Catholic hospital that didn’t have the funds to equip rooms with televisions; I was working for the company that provided this service for a fee. My job was to “sell” television to the patients.

Humility

My full-time job was at a factory that produced large commercial refrigeration units for retail customers. I worked in the custom shop that created non-refrigerated pieces that would allow stores to accommodate corners or create unique configurations as desired. We would draw the layouts and custom build and test the units as designed. This was sometimes heavy and hard work. And because this was on the factory floor, I would often be dirty by the end of my shift. Plus, I had about 15 minutes to get from that job to the part-time job. So, I would ‘clean up’ as best as I could while driving my Volkswagen Beetle and change from my factory clothes into the hideous tie and blazer provided by my new employer. Each night I made it to the hospital just in time.

For a fee of $2.00, I would turn the television sets on in patients’ room with a special key. This was the 1980’s and there was no cable television just the 4 or 5 local channels. Maybe 6 channels if you counted UHF. The lady that owned the television business was scary (think Cruella Deville) and because this was a CASH ONLY business, I was responsible for any shortages which would ultimately be deducted from my paltry paycheck. Further humiliation resulted from the aforementioned gold blazer that I was forced to wear which was 2 sizes too big. This blazer made me look a theater page but identified me as THE T.V. GUY. The upside of this job was that many of my customers, in fact, looked forward to seeing me. I suppose recovering alone in the hospital without your soap operas or “Price Is Right” or “Dallas” would have been a struggle. Of course there were some sad nights, like when someone didn’t have the $2.00 and my ‘magic key’ would have to darken their room. Truth be told, I sometimes turned on T.V.’s for folks who couldn’t afford the fee. Because this was the local hospital in my hometown, I often encountered people I knew. Trying to explain why I had sunken to such a lowly position in life could be quite humiliating. One particularly awkward evening was when I encountered my best friend’s wife in labor. The ‘fathers-to-be’ were always good customers – they looked forward to any distraction from the business at hand. I will always remember the night my best friend’s son was born with a smile. My friend and his son are now both in heaven. I pray that they remember that fateful night with a chuckle as well.

I only kept that job for a few months. My wife and I figured out how to better manage our meager incomes, and I got to spend more time with our little boy and our infant daughter. Thinking back, I believe that the greatest benefit of that job was the lesson in humility that I learned. Certainly, we needed the money but that was soon gone.

The lesson in humility remains to this day.

Peace,

Denis

Stone Soup

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There is a European folk story about a monk who comes to a village, carrying nothing more than an empty cooking pot. Upon his arrival, the villagers are unwilling to share any of their food with the very hungry monk. Then the monk goes to a stream and fills the pot with water, drops a large stone in it, and places it over a fire. One of the villagers becomes curious and asks what he is doing. The monk answers that his is making “stone soup”, which tastes wonderful and which he would be delighted to share, although it still needs a little bit of garnish, which he is missing, to improve the flavor. The villager, who anticipates enjoying a share of the soup, does not mind parting with a few carrots so these are added to the soup. Another villager walks by, inquiring about the pot, and the monk again mentions that his stone soup has not yet reached its full potential. More and more villagers walk by each adding another ingredient, like potatoes, onions, cabbage, peas, tomatoes, corn, pork, butter, salt and pepper. Finally, the stone (being inedible) is removed from the pot, and a delicious and nourishing pot of soup is enjoyed by the monk and villagers alike. The monk, who began with nothing, by offering to share his soup with others has successfully transformed it into a tasty meal for himself and the villagers.

Lately I have felt like that monk. Empty. With nothing much to share.

That’s when giving is the hardest, when my joy is depleted and I am unable to find any goodness in my world. Government shutdown. Political ugliness. Lack of public decency. It has all become overwhelming. And I feel hopeless.

Recently I had the opportunity of seeing our granddaughter perform in her high school production of “Radium Girls”. A very serious and tragic story of young women exploited in the early 20th century. Great performances of a true story that unfortunately seems relevant as so many are being treated as less than human by society. The pain and suffering that these women suffered at the hands of the powerful for profit seems unfathomable today and yet we are turning a blind eye to the injustice and cruelty being forced upon so many in our country as I write this.

But then, like the monk, I put my stone in the pot, and I invite others to share ‘my soup’ in the hope of creating something better. I join a dear friend at a food pantry that works towards systemic change. We afford dignity to the clients as we provide food for their bellies. I tour my grandson’s high school, and I am prayed for as a grandparent who is providing a foundation of faith and strength (well, trying anyway). I am loved by my wife, even at my most unlovable moments, and reminded to keep the faith. I am valued by my friends and my family, even as I question my self-worth. I realize that my pot is overflowing even in my weakness. I am blessed by my loved ones’ generosity and kindness. I am lifted by their spirit.

And hope returns.

Peace,

Denis

Give and gifts will be given to you; a good measure, packed together, shaken down, and overflowing, will be poured into your lap. For the measure with which you measure will in return be measured out to you. Luke 6:38

Grace For the Trials

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It’s hard to find grace these days. There is so much anger in our world. Our nation’s politics have become poisonous. So much cruelty inflicted on innocent people. So much hate in the name of righteousness. I often feel desperate and frightened. I fear for my grandchildren and what the future holds for them.

Our congressman just stated on the House Floor, referring to his fellow citizens across the aisle: “they literally will kill those with whom they disagree, just as their predecessors—leftists Marx, and Stalin, and Lenin, and Pol Pot, and Fidel Castro—did.” He was ratcheting up more hate and distrust between our political parties instead of representing the people in his district. Apparently, Bob Onder, a self-proclaimed Pro-Life Catholic has shamefully chosen ugly rhetoric instead of bipartisanship. So much for respecting all life as sacred. Sadly, we have a president who behaves likes a petulant child. I suppose our congressman is doing his best to emulate Trump’s behavior.

On these worst days I become cynical and morose. I throw my hands in the air and exclaim WTF!

But then I encounter the angels in my life. And I realize that I am not alone in my pain and worry and despondency. Last night while watching a particularly sappy moment in a movie my wife reached out and held my hand. That touch restored my soul once again. I was reminded of a poem that she shared with me 50 years ago. I have returned to it many times in the ensuing years.

Help from above; unfailing sympathy; undying love. Being afraid, crying out in pain, needn’t be a sign of weakness but of surrender. This week Pope Leo addressed a crowd at St. Peter’s Square with these words:

“Jesus teaches us not to be afraid to cry out, as long as it is sincere and humble. A cry is never pointless if it is born of love, and it is never ignored if it is delivered to God. It is a way to not give in to cynicism, to continue to believe that another world is possible.”

So, instead of wringing my hands and cursing the future. I will hope for a better day and pray for the courage to hold on until it arrives. And I will remember that there is no justice without compassion, no joy without sorrow, no peace without pain. So, bring on the rain!

Peace,

Denis

Fragile

/ Denis Wilhelm / 1 Comment

In 2023 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 provided a place for the countless refugees and asylum seekers, who entered our country legally, to rest, have a meal, a change of clothes, and receive medicine and other supplies. Most families were at the center only 24 hours before continuing on their journey into the United States.

On the third day I met a young girl from Honduras who captured my heart. She was likely not aware of the gravity of her situation. I suspect that she didn’t realize that they were literally running for their lives. She was traveling with her mother who was fleeing violence and death threats in her native country. They didn’t want to leave their home but felt they had no choice. The mother was fiercely protective of her daughter and was willing to leave everything she knew behind to provide a safe home for her daughter. Who amongst us wouldn’t sacrifice all we have for our children? Still, this sweet girl seemed undaunted by the circumstances in which she and her mother found themselves. Did she not understand that her life was about to be profoundly changed? Did she know that she would possibly never return to her home? I suppose her mother had explained in a child’s understanding what was happening. They would be struggling to make a new home in a foreign place with likely unfriendly people, but the little girl seemed as if she was on a pleasant journey to a magical place. I learned her name was Ana which further tugged at my heart because my own beautiful granddaughter is named Anna.

Ana tried to teach me Spanish while I attempted to teach her some English. She was the better teacher. Her joy was contagious, and she had no trace of sadness in her little being. Her mother was being brave for her daughter and held back tears when I spoke with her privately about their ordeal. Her only concern was Ana. “Mi preciosa hija” she said over and over again. And she was precious indeed. She wanted nothing other than to be with her mother and share her love with those of us around her. The name Ana means “grace” and she certainly graced us all with her presence.

I often wonder what has happened to the people that I briefly served in McAllen. Did they make it to their host families? Have they found sustainable employment? Have they navigated the immigration courts successfully? Have been treated with compassion or dealt with cruelly? Have they missed a step in the immigrations process due to misunderstanding or miscommunication? Are they languishing in some detention center?

I pray that they have found safety, security and peace. I pray that Ana is thriving. And that she is still laughing, singing and teaching some old guy a few words of Spanish. God, please watch over her!

Peace,

Denis

Showing Up

/ Denis Wilhelm / 1 Comment

When I was 10 years old my sister was born. I was the third son. So, a girl, after three boys and all those years was a cause for celebration. Back in those days, mothers were kept in the hospital for at least a week with their newborns. I was excited about the baby, but I missed my mom terribly. I admit I was a momma’s boy, and I hated it when folks would say, “well you’re not the baby of the family anymore!” or “I guess now you’ll be a little jealous of that baby sister”. For the record: I was never jealous of her, and I still love my sister more than life itself, but I missed Mom. I’m not sure if I had ever been apart from her until that week. To make matters worse, Dad didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Mom had always taken care of everything at home and Dad was ill-quipped to meet the needs of a ten-year-old boy.

Everything came to a head when Dad came home with dinner one evening. He had stopped at a deli and brought home braunschweiger on rye bread, sauerkraut, three-bean salad, and pickled beets. I was horrified. I refused to eat. Dad shouted that the food was perfectly good, and I screamed that I wanted Mom and promptly ran away from home. I was halfway to Boschert Creek by the time my 17-year-old brother Dave caught up with me. I was prepared to drown myself or at least ruin my clothes trying. But Dave showed up and we sat down and talked it out. He knew that I missed Mom. And in his seventeen-year-old wisdom he probably understood that a recently displaced ‘baby of the family’ was struggling to make sense of it all. He assured me that Dad wasn’t being cruel, just obtuse. In the mid-sixties people didn’t care much about kids’ feelings. But Dave did. He might have even taken me to ‘Burger Chef’ or some other exotic teenage hangout for dinner that night. He rescued me from drowning or at least destroying the clothes hamper. Most importantly, he was present. He showed up then, and he has shown up countless times in my life.

I think about the times that I have tried to ‘show up’, for others. I’m not sure if I’ve ever been as heroic as Dave, but I try. I think of all the times I have asked (or been asked) “how are you?”, not really wanting a response beyond “fine”. What if I actually took the time to listen? That’s where things get messy. It requires patience, understanding, and attention, and I often find those traits in short supply. Fortunately, I am part of community of believers who meet regularly for spiritual guidance and renewal. We routinely show up for one another. Taking the time to hold a hand, listen, and truly be present for someone else, I have learned, that being present, is a gift that I can freely give. It doesn’t require great wisdom or grand gestures. It doesn’t require massive resources or advanced degrees in theology or psychotherapy. Just ‘show up’. If a knucklehead like me can offer comfort, share joy, and give hope, I’m sure you can too.

And remember to thank God for all the ‘show-er up-ers‘ in your life.

In her book, Almost Everything, Anne Lamott writes, “We remember the mustard seeds. That the littlest things will have great results. We do the smallest, realest, most human things. We water that which is dry.”

Friends, there is a lot of desert out there, but if we each water just a little…

Peace,

Denis

Back Home

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For years my career involved travel. There were the times when we relocated, and I would be in the “new place” while my wife and the kids would stay behind until we could get settled. And there were the times when my job required that I be at a customer’s jobsite during construction or at a factory or somewhere giving a presentation. I loved my job, and our situation was not unique in my industry, so we always made the best of it. Still, there were many times I would get road weary. And likely more times when my wife just needed me home.

The toughest part was leaving behind our three kiddos. Missing nighttime rituals and bedtime prayers and having to hear about school achievements and challenges over the phone was far from ideal. Not making it home in time for a game or a performance was devastating and yet somehow, we survived. I still have a memory burned into my soul of our youngest standing on the front porch as I drove away. The sunlight made his blonde hair shimmer, and I thought his little arm might fall off from the vigorous waving. Tears blurred my vision, but I didn’t take my eyes off of the rearview mirror until he was just a dot in the distance. So much for grown men not crying.

After the kids were grown and on their own, travel was less challenging but no less tedious. I wasn’t missing games and concerts and plays but I still missed their calls home or their surprise visits, and I desperately missed my wife. Even the beautiful places that I visited felt empty without her by my side. Later in my career, my wife and I could occasionally travel together, and it was sublime.

But the love was always there even if I couldn’t be. The sad goodbyes were soothed by the many happy returns. I realize now that my travel was in many ways a blessing. We didn’t take one another for granted. We cherish our time together. We have learned to make the best of each day we share together. Our children grew up to be confident, brave, independent persons who are not afraid to try new things, live in new places and never fail to say “I love you” at the end of each phone call or visit. My grown children are not ashamed to hug and kiss me. My wife has been a model of love for them, and I am the lucky recipient of all that affection. God has been good to me.

It is written that “Home is where the heart is”. I know this is true. No matter where we have called home it has always been filled with love, grace, blessing and joy.

In my mind’s eye, I still sometimes see my sweet boy waving goodbye on that front porch all those years ago. Now I get to turn that car around and scoop him up in my arms and come back home.

Peace,

Denis

Fire!

/ Denis Wilhelm / 2 Comments

Last week I had the honor and joy of being my grandson’s Confirmation sponsor. Standing in that magnificent Cathedral with my arm on his shoulder I was overwhelmed by the gift of Noah’s presence in my life. They say that at death, your life flashes before your eyes, at that moment I felt his life flashing before my eyes – holding him as an infant, playing with him as a toddler, cheering him on as a student and an athlete, watching him grow from a boy into a young man. I have been blessed with a front row seat in witnessing this beautiful life. I must admit as the Chrism Oil flowed down his forehead, I could feel a tear escape and touch my cheek. My boy. My man. My God!

While preparing for Confirmation, we had an opportunity to attend a gathering together at his parish church. There were several presentations that evening and his teacher spoke of how the Holy Spirit descended upon the Apostles. She challenged us to think beyond the simple flame atop their heads pictured in religious art and instead she suggested, “It was more like, FIRE, FIRE, FIRE!” The Apostles were on fire with the Spirit! Her shouting and animated reenactment left us chuckling, but it also left an impression. Noah would be changed. And that change would require action.

Lately I have been saddened by the state of our government and have felt desperate. I fear the future. I watch in anguish at the mistreatment of immigrants, minorities, the poor and marginalized in our society and even more so at the delight by some politicians and fellow citizens in the cruelty being appropriated. It is beyond my comprehension, that so many could be filled with so much hate. Where is love? Where is hope? Where is God? I realize that I need to stop waiting for God to “fix things”. I need to use my voice, my actions, my love, my influence for good. I need to bring the “FIRE“.

In her book Seasons of Your Heart, Macrina Wiederkehr writes, “If you’re wondering what Easter really is – it is despair moving over to make room for hope. It is joy suddenly crowding out your sorrow. It’s beautiful and real, and it’s intent on touching and healing all who are around us.”

Witnessing Noah’s Confirmation, I felt his joy crowding out my sorrow. His exuberance is beautiful and real, and he is healing me with his beautiful life. And I believe that together we can make a difference.

Peace,

Denis

Saying ‘Yes’ to ‘No’

/ Denis Wilhelm / 1 Comment

Recently there was a Medieval Fair in Oklahoma where my son and his family live. While driving past the fairgrounds our youngest granddaughter caught a glimpse of a sign that read, ‘Swords and Shields’ and declared that that was something she would love to have. Her hopes were dashed when my son said, “You are not getting a sword and shield!” Undeterred, she declared, “Looks like I’m going to have to take this into my own hands!” I’m not certain how an eight-year-old with no financial independence was going to manage purchasing the aforementioned sword and shield, but I admire her pluck. Personally, I would have honored her request, but I was reminded, once again, that parenthood requires discipline and denial.

Pondering Gwen’s resolve, I began thinking of the many times I have been denied and have remained silent. How often have I just accepted “no” as an answer? How often have I acquiesced to others’ policies and opinions? How many times have I witnessed fellow humans being dealt with unfairly but lacked the courage to speak up in order to ensure my own safety and privilege? How often have I chosen to “go along, to get along“?

It’s hard today to not become discouraged with our government and the chaos that we are being subjected to. Whether we are personally suffering or witnessing the suffering of those we love, our world is fraught with injustice. As Christians, we are all called to speak out against injustices when we see them and yet our pulpits often remain silent in the face of discrimination against immigrants, the disabled, minorities, elderly, and LGBTQ members of our society. Sometimes my frustration, hopelessness and anger are met with tears.

In his book, The Tears of Things, Richard Rohr writes, “Grief and sadness are doorways to understanding life in a non-egocentric way. Tears come from both awe and empathy, and they generate even deeper awe and deeper empathy in us. The sympathy that wells up when we weep can be life-changing, too, drawing us out of ourselves and into communion with those around us.”

So, I will let my tears fall but I also will stand up, speak up and say ‘yes’ to the naysayers. I will challenge the silent enablers. I still have a voice, a vote, a conscience, and a faith that tells me to care for the most vulnerable in our society. Gwen gives me courage. I’m taking things into my own hands. I will peacefully protest. I will continue to write to my senators and congressman. Most importantly, I won’t let my fears and tears keep me from speaking out against injustice.

As we enter Holy Week, let us remember that Jesus’ suffering and death is not in vain, instead, it is a profound expression of love for humanity. 

Peace,

Denis

She stood behind Jesus at his feet weeping and began to bathe his feet with her tears. Luke 7:38

Lifetime Valentine

/ Denis Wilhelm / 2 Comments

Once upon a time a boy met a girl, and they fell deeply and desperately in love. They were young and he was poor and uneducated, and many people thought that they would be doomed to live a life of despair. But the boy hoped to one day be worthy of her love by becoming the man she always believed he could be. Years went by and their love grew, and they were blessed with three beautiful children and five even more beautiful grandchildren. The man is no longer a boy but his love for the girl has never diminished or wavered. He’s still not sure if he’s become the man of her dreams but she remains forever his Lifetime Valentine and their love has survived the years, the tears, the good times and the bad. The man still believes that God has made them for each other, and he is thankful each day for her love and devotion.

And they continue to live happily ever after…

Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 1 Corinthians 13:6-7