Planting Happiness Where You Are

It’s been my experience that most of us spend a great deal of time, energy, and resources looking for ways to be or to get happy.

What must be realized is that happiness, first and foremost, is an inside job. The joys and miracles visited on the outside can never be fully appreciated until we are at peace with ourselves right where we are. This requires some gardening. The grief, pain, rejection, and sadnesses of the past are buried deep. They require attention to detail, hand cultivation, and tilling. Otherwise, each will keep coming back as a weed among the wheat with power to multiply like horsetail or thistle causing resentment or bitterness. Once eradicated, our seedbed is ready for planting and new life.

When I worked as the clinical director at a residential treatment center in Brevard, North Carolina, we designed our logo symbol as an acorn containing a mature oak tree inside. Our message was that each and every one of us contains all the necessary ingredients for a full life. Once planted in rich soil, only germination is required.

Martin Luther, who started the Protestant Reformation, was a Catholic Monk with just such a gardening mission. He wrote; "Even if I knew the world would end tomorrow, I would plant an apple tree today.” This is the promise not only of new growth, but of fulfillment, love, and happiness.

“The wind, one brilliant day,
called to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
”In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I’d like all the odor of your roses.”
”I have no roses;
all the flowers in my garden are dead.”
”Well then, I’ll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.”
the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
”What have you done
with the garden that was entrusted to you?”

by Antonio Machado
Translated by Robert Bly”

There are plenty of external struggles and bright shiny objects that divert us from the work that must be done. We live in times where the next best things, bigger, better, and more prestigious are promoted as keys to contentment. Power, control and greed fight to choke out the seeds we plant. They tell us that only by working harder and longer can happiness be obtained. In reality, their harvest is mostly despair and emptiness.

Interior gardening surrenders to a power greater than ego. It finds a way to YES. Suddenly we will realize that the world and all of life is a miracle growing out of God's love. We will be able to contribute, live and breathe without wanting anything in return. The jobs we perform, family, friends, and community we celebrate will all truly bear the fruits of God’s Spirit. We won't always get to witness the outcome or bounty of our gardening and planting, but harvests will continue for generations.

This will be our legacy.

Religion Can Still Transform; Hope for the Future

I was lucky enough for my car to pick up a nail in the left rear tire the other day.

So, I made an appointment at my favorite shop to get it fixed. Warranties are so nice. The whole thing was free. Arriving at 6:50 in the morning, which is a perfect time for those who have attained elderhood, I found five old boomers and a millennial waiting for service. The doors opened precisely at 7:00.  We were processed into a computer queue and surrendered our keys.

Two of our group left their cars and were picked up by doting children. The rest of us settled into chairs with coffee in hand. The conversation started out with an octogenarian woman complimenting the hat of another who was somewhat younger. Funny how things can get started. I am reminded of the scriptural reference that whenever two or more are gathered, God is among them. Rough translation. Of course, God is always with each of us. But there is a sacredness in gathering together because an immediate community has a chance to emerge.

During our hour together, an unusual depth of sharing happened. We spoke of a spouse who is suffering from dementia in a nursing home, stories of growing up black in rural Memphis, recovering from surgeries, a defiant adult grandchild, the effects of growing old and trying to stay fit. We talked about karma, punishment and love. All the time, our young millennial was listening intently. She even said she was learning and appreciated being part of the unintentional group.

Our little meeting reminded me of the church in so many ways. Religion, like everything else, seems to be undergoing some big changes. Some of those are not very pretty. A so-called spiritual advisor who has the ear of our top leaders ranted in a public prayer that called on Jesus Christ to “command all satanic pregnancies to miscarry right now.” She later walked it back saying she was being metaphoric. A televangelist recently flashed a photograph of the Speaker of the House of Representatives while referring to "demons from hell." Islamist extremism caused 84,000 deaths in 2017.

Fanatics seem to be running rampant in almost every religion. I dare say that not one of them is reflecting the true nature of their faith nor are they representing God in any way, shape, or form. But they have followings and their voices divide a world that so desperately needs love, healing, and a joining together.

There is also a movement afoot that envisions a spiritual reawakening which it purports is underway right now. It's clerics and laypeople ask for organized religions to become transformational rather than transactional, teaching about simple living, nonviolence, inclusivity, and love of enemies. People seem to be starving for this kind of revival. Meetings such as those of AA, Celebrate Recovery, Cursillo, Tres Dias, and spontaneous gatherings like the one I experienced the other day speak to the depth of that hunger.

Thomas Keating once said that “The primary purpose of religion is to help us move beyond the separate-self sense to union with God.” I believe and teach that our separateness from self and from each other is merely an illusion. This is reflected in the Spanish folk song, De Colores. which is beloved by children and widely used in retreats. It sings simple lyrics of love, acceptance, and oneness which should resonate with all authentic faith systems.

De colores, de colores

Se visten los campos en la primavera.

De colores, de colores

Son los pajaritos que vienen de afuera.

De colores, de colores

Es el arco iris que vemos lucir.

Y por eso los grandes amores

De muchos colores me gustan a mí.

English Translation

In colors, in colors

The fields are dressed in the spring.

In colors, in colors

Are the little birds that come from outside.

In colors, in colors

Is the rainbow that we see shining.

And that is why I love

The great loves of many colors

We have come to a time in which authoritarian (my way or the highway) religion suggesting a vindictive and punitive God who plays favorites should come to an end. Hearts are crying out to our God of Love for restorative salvation, freedom, and acceptance by the entire community of human beings who long to be joined hand in hand.

The Incredible Gift

Here it is. The gift of another moment, another hour, another day. It’s ours to have. Full of mystery and possibilities, we can share it or keep it to ourselves. We can savor it, gobble it up, or throw it away. We can thank and acknowledge God or pretend God is absent and has nothing to do with it. We can open it or not. No matter what, the gift is right in front of us to do with as we choose.

There is so much happening that we often find ourselves disconnected from each other, from ourselves and from God. Henri Nouwen says that the crisis of our time is to say that 'most of us have an address but cannot be found there'. The gifts are left at the doorstep but nobody comes to claim them. They vanish, one after another, as if stolen by thieves in the night. Lost forever.

I often think about how poignant and tragic this refusal to open the gift can be. Robert Frost wrote a verse that speaks to the loss in his "Nothing Gold Can Stay" poem so well acted out in a scene from "The Outsiders" a Francis Ford Coppola classic in 1983.

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Our wholesale failure to open that gift is obvious. We are so fragile, yet often live recklessly and plunge headlong into an abyss. This is evidenced by ever-increasing numbers of people succumbing to the opioid epidemic and shocking statistics from CDC telling us that suicide rates for ten to fourteen-year-old children tripled from 2007-2017 or the fact that police officers are at greater risk for suicide than any other profession. Hate crimes have hit a sixteen year high. And we have reached a societal and political crescendo in which expediency and lies seem to be accepted without outrage as the new normal.

There is plenty that can be done to restore the world to sanity. We can put a stop to the idea that one group has dominion over another. We can put an end to bullying and scapegoating. We can look beneath the surface of objectionable behaviors and try to understand the trauma that might be causing it. We can focus much more of our energies and resources on prevention rather than figuratively and literally putting out fires. But before any measures will work, we must develop a new understanding of our most precious gift.

Here is what must be understood in order to stem the tide of anger, sadness, and loneliness which seems to be overtaking us.

• We are not as fragile as we imagine. Any sense of hopelessness is an illusion. Richard Rohr calls this understanding a radical okayness.

• A Power Greater than ourselves is in charge. We are never alone. God is always at our side.

• In the end, only love remains. It endures when everything else fades away.

• Grasp and celebrate the moment here and now as if it was the only one that will ever be. That is reality.

I am a gift.

All that I am is something that’s given,

and given freely.

Being doesn’t cost anything.

There's no price tag, no strings attached.

~ Thomas Merton

Merton says it well. The most important thing of all is to accept and embrace the incredible and undeniable fact that you are the gift itself. When that truth sinks in, nothing will happen which can separate you from the miracle of life, the endlessness of hope, and the Wonder of God.

Thinking, Passions and Dreams; What to do with a Talking Frog

One day, a man well in to elderhood was strolling on a path near his favorite pond. He heard what sounded like a squeaky voice on the ground and looked down to see a frog who seemed to be moving it's lips as if to communicate. He picked it up and listened closely.

The frog said; "If you kiss me I will turn into a beautiful princess."

The man frowned, pondered, and then put the little animal in his pocket.

"Don't you want a beautiful princess?" she asked.

He replied; "At my age I'd rather have a talking frog."

My cousin, Tom, shared this joke from Rev. Nicholas Vieron the other day and I immediately stole it.  Ripped it off as we used to say. Sorry Tom and Father V. but the theft is part of my shtick today. I'm sure they will forgive me. Men of the cloth have big, forgiving hearts. I don’t think anyone can really own a joke (or even a parable) anyway.  Once told they must be spread around like peanut butter. 

When I was a kid, minor stealing was an offense that resulted in corporal punishment and banishment to your room. One time, at age seven, I put some candy in my pocket without paying for it at the Liberty Market in Danville. My mother found the contraband of course. I was marched back to the store to apologize and beg forgiveness. Then came the long, solitary confinement while I followed the dreaded mandate of “Just wait til your father gets home.” It wasn’t pretty. 

So, it was with great hesitation that I lingered at the bookstore shelves in front of Abbie Hoffman’s paperback “Steal This Book” in 1972. I couldn’t follow those instructions due to prior conditioning, so bought it instead. Imagine how crestfallen I became after reading his assertion that it was immoral not to rip things off from the status quo. What a weak willed activist I was!

My thinking has evolved however. I saw a copy of Abbie’s book on auction the other day and never considered ripping it off. Maybe that could have been a tough thing to do on EBAY. My passions have changed too. Though liberating people from psychological and spiritual bondage has been my dream and life’s work, I have no desire to ‘take it to the streets’. That’s the way it works for most all of us. Thoughts and passions mellow and become something akin to sage wisdom. We need both the young wide-eyed idealists and experienced elders to make the world go round. The problem is that too many of us abandon our dreams somewhere along the way.

With all this in mind, let's go back to that frog in your pocket. Mysterious and miraculous things flourish when fairy tales come to life. They transform reality and open up possibilities. Walt Disney demonstrated how to spread around pixie dust willy-nilly even when circumstances seem most impossible to overcome. He refused to give up or give in despite bankruptcies, professional scorn, and door after door being slammed in his face. But ultimately, with persistence and a little abracadabra, he created for us a mouse and a magic kingdom. By so doing, countless thousands are delighted every day, and millions of lives have been brightened forever.

Though passions and thinking might change over time, they should never be compromised or abandoned to the humdrum. So, kiss a frog, or benefit from its ability to talk. Either way, don't be so self-absorbed that you pass her by in your hurry. Pick her up. Live passionately. Uncle Walt might just give us this advice...If you can dream it, you can do it. All your dreams can come true, when you have the courage to pursue them.

Life's Not Fair

We human beings are big thinkers and even bigger judges.

We categorize, classify, pigeonhole, and compartmentalize so that everything fits into neat little packages informing us of what is just and what is unjust. We find it frightening or almost impossible, as Martin Luther King, Jr once said, "to become tough-minded enough to break loose from the shackles of prejudice, half-truths, and downright ignorance" because to do so would expose the truth that life's not fair. And we desperately want to believe that it is. There is an element of arrogance in such hope, because it assumes that things are supposed to work out and the 'game' is to be played by one unique set of rules. This is a setup for bitter disappointment.

My grandchildren are at a stage where they're trying to figure out what's fair and what isn't. The second grader has pretty clear thoughts on the matter. She doesn't like it when one kid is praised and another is not. It bothers her that one person has a lot of comforts and others are homeless.

The kindergartener's idea of fairness is still rather limited as to whether things tilt to her benefit or not. They are both developing the way they should. But as they tell us what is unfair, it strikes me that my own notions of fairness have changed quite a bit over time.

When I was thirteen, President Kennedy was assassinated. My grief that such a good man could be taken away was overwhelming. This was so senseless and unfair. It became obvious to me that people were capable of gross injustice. Jews had been exterminated in concentration camps. One race of people had been almost wiped out and another enslaved in this country for no reason other than greed or economic advantage. I was indignant about such things. And remain so...but with a twist.

I have come to believe that if something reeks of injustice, the only way to get rid of the smell is to do something about it. It is my responsibility to 'do the next right thing' rather than gripe and complain. I also arrived at the conclusion that I don't necessarily have the answers as to what is fair.

Dr. King, as well as others, told us that the arc of the moral universe is long, but that it bends toward justice. While it may appear that life has been overly generous to some and very stingy with others, there is a power greater than ourselves nudging us in the right direction. I can say with certainty that God does not abandon us.

What seems awful and unfair right now might just be a course correction leading to what God intended for us in the first place. Perhaps it's all as simple as the Golden Rule. But even more fundamental is the certainty that if each and every one of our actions is grounded in love we’ll have done God's work. At that point we will be able to say that while life might not always seem fair, it is wonderful nonetheless.

Our Ifs and Almosts

Our conditional 'ifs' and halting 'almosts' are like ghosts come to haunt the night with regret. When 'Ifs' are attached to anything a contractual arrangement comes into play and spontaneity is all but eliminated. When we hear an intonation of 'Almost' there is little doubt that disappointment will fill the air. 'Ifs' and 'Almosts' are terms and conditions, stopping short, and turning back. They create an incomplete state of being fearful of change. Passion is traded in for safety. Hands reach out and touch nothing.

Several years ago, I was visited by old friends who were passing through on their way to a vacation in the mountains. Our reunion was a good one, filled with tales of youthful exploits and misadventures.

At the end of the evening, one of my old pals asked me whether I had any regrets.

Without hesitation, I replied that I did not. He was flabbergasted. After all of what he rightly perceived as heartaches, losses, errors in judgment, and recklessness in my life, the thought of my being without regret seemed highly unlikely. I went on to explain that each of the difficulties and pitfalls of life brought me to the here and now. It would have been impossible to be the person I am today without each moment that led me to this place and time. Each molded me into the person I have become. Regret would presume that I know better and could have orchestrated things more astutely than God.

He then began a litany of his own regrets. Each was punctuated with an 'If' or an 'Almost'. If only he had been less headstrong with his true love they might have forged a life together. If only he hadn't taken a certain job he wouldn't have compromised his belief system. He almost backpacked in Europe.

He almost joined the Peace Corps. I think he wanted me to join in but I could not. I listened. It is just what I heard every day from the folks who came to me for professional counseling. And I had certainly felt the same way at one time.

Often disguised as would-have, should-have, and could-have, we all have life stories that could be reduced down to 'Ifs' and 'Almosts'. But those filters colorize and mask the wonder and beauty of who we have become and are becoming. The burdens of grief and loss are overwhelming when we look at things in that way.

There is a lesson going forward. Eliminate any ‘If' that constricts a relationship to this-for-that. Forget about what 'Almost’ was and celebrate what is. Stop with the woulda, shoulda, coulda. Time accelerates to a practically blinding speed as we get older. Here is a guaranteed formula. Just let go and let God. This roller coaster ride is a lot more fun if you take your hands off the restraining bar and throw them up in the air.

A Blessed Gift to Others; Four Themes of Love

It is virtually impossible to bless the lives of others if you can't grasp the fact that you are blessed.

That's not to say that your deeds of generosity and compassion are insignificant. It just means that they are ego driven, coming from a place of obligation, pity or even self-interest. The good news is that each of us is already blessed and has been since we were conceived. The bad news is that most of us don't believe it.

One day, while acting in my role as both diagnostic coordinator and spiritual director at a residential treatment center, a fifteen-year-old boy came to me for some counsel. He had been raised in a strict religious family and struggled to understand how he had slipped into such a dark place in his life. A runaway, he had been abused on the streets using drugs and alcohol to cope with the traumatic reality of his situation. Jacob fully engaged in the program of recovery but still felt lost spiritually. He carried deep shame over what he perceived to be his willful abandonment of God. A lecture I had given piqued his curiosity. Jacob sat in a chair across from me and fidgeted with a sobriety chip he carried in his pocket.

Finally he blurted out the purpose of his visit. He said "Dr. Bob. Would you bless me?" That was the first time anyone had asked me that question in a clinical setting. I was unprepared and somewhat unnerved. But I responded affirmatively. Having had some rather extensive religious training, I felt competent to fulfill his request.

So, I leaned forward, made a sign of the cross on his forehead and said some words about how loved he truly was. Jacob looked at me when I leaned back and said; "That's no blessing."

He stood up and I followed suit. The next thing I knew he threw his arms around me while weeping softly. I hugged him back, whispered his name in his ear, and told him he had been specifically chosen from all eternity, was forever blessed beyond his understanding with a purpose that was his alone, and that nothing could ever take those things away from him.

No matter what happened. The young man stepped back, looked me in the eyes and simply said; "Okay, That's what I needed. That’s a for-real blessing." Later, Jacob was placed with his grandparents and went on to graduate from high school. He kept in touch for awhile, but moved on as time passed. I found him on a social media page not long ago. It appears that his life is good.

According to author Henri Nouwen, there are four spiritual movements. He cites scriptural text, personal experience and religious tradition in his book "Life of the Beloved" to say that every one of us is Chosen, Blessed, Broken, and Given. I call these The Four Themes of Love.  In my work with abused boys and with adults who suffer with substance abuse disorders, awakening to those themes has been a healing balm. Like Jacob, when the full realization of undeniable blessedness sinks in, life takes on a different sheen. The basis of an authentic spiritual journey always seems to have elements of these love themes.

1. Chosen: From the dawn of creation we are exclusively chosen by God. No exceptions. There has never been another like you and the mold has been broken. Your special gifts, talents and energy will shape the nature of the world.

2. Blessed: Your chosenness allows for extraordinary blessings. Recognizing and accepting the specific blessings with which you are endowed allows fulfillment of your destiny. You have been called with an individual directive for your life. There are opportunities that present themselves every day in which you can draw from your blessedness.

3. Broken: Our brokenness is also uniquely our own. Nobody else has had your losses, heartbreaks, difficulties or sadness. Through them we have been shaped and hollowed out. Remarkably, it is this special wounding that makes it possible to be a compassionate person. Without it we would be unable to relate to suffering. It gives us the gift of common ground.

4. Given: The process of being chosen, blessed and broken allow us to be wholly available and valuable to others. This is how we become able to love unconditionally. As Nousen tells us, we have to become bread for the world. Our lives will continue to bear fruit from generation to generation.

If you listen closely in the silence of your heart you will feel drawn to a small voice whispering your own name. You are beloved. The mission of your lifetime awaits you. The time is always now.

A Deeper Tolerance; 2020 Vision

“A peaceful future depends on our everyday acts and gestures. Let us educate for tolerance in our schools and communities and, most of all, in our hearts and minds.”

— Federico Mayor, Director General of UNESCO at the 1993 dedication of the Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles

The "No Hate, No Fear Solidarity March" across NYC's Brooklyn Bridge on Sunday, January 5, 2020, was a wake-up call for tolerance. Increasing incidents of antisemitism across the country fueled more worries about safety in places of worship, education, and business. It drew thousands to rally in support of the Jewish community. Tolerance, it seems, is skating on thinner and thinner ice. Perhaps it’s fear, anxiety, and insecurity that drive this sense of imminent danger supposedly posed by a cast of 'others' who look different or who have opposing beliefs and customs. We seem to have forgotten that tolerance and acceptance are the building blocks of democracy and decency.

Several decades ago, I attended a conference where a successful designer, builder, and author Chuck Chamblain spoke to us about how he was taken down to his knees by a drive to succeed mixed with lots of booze. And then about what restored him to 2020 vision. Change, he said, was an inside job. He told us that he had been given a new pair of glasses. His law of life said if the only thing poured into it was love, then love was all that would be given back. Chuck was all about tolerance and acceptance. I came away resolved that it doesn't matter what others think about me, but matters greatly what I think about others.

Deep tolerance incorporates absolute acceptance and unconditional love. Dangers to our security cannot be achieved by diminishing the stature of others. We won't achieve peace, harmony, and serenity by killing our perceived enemies. God is never on the side of hatred and violence. We can't possibly continue to stumble along this rocky path without keener perception.

I think we need to invest in that new pair of glasses if we are to overcome the tide of short-sightedness which threatens to destroy us. We must embrace the fact that the only way to achieve a future free of threat is by acceptance, tolerance, and working on that ‘inside job’ Chuck Chamberlain endorsed. Our unrealistic fear and mistrust of others will be replaced by an enduring faith in a power far greater than ourselves. We will be blessed with new freedom through the miracle of the new vision.

The Personal Epiphany

At this time every January come celebrations of the 12th Night and Epiphany.

So many people have a sense of emptiness as our widely recognized holidays in the United States wind up after New Year's. But for many around the world, the joy is just gaining steam as the seasons of Mardi Gras and Carnival begin. I guess we don't allow this contagion to take hold because it would get in the way of our need to be engaged in the busyness of work, school, schedules, and other pressing responsibilities. Joy and Celebration are reserved for weekends. Why only on weekends? The feast should go on every day!

But I digress. Epiphany is meant to remind us of a dream that warned the Magi who sought and found baby Jesus to avoid a royal lynch mob by going home another way. It was a life-saver for them. But like most of those stories, there is a broader lesson for each of us. The awakening and new understanding of those Ah-Ha or Eureka moments were not relegated to Wise Men two thousand plus years ago. They are not confined only to holy people or those seekers on a spiritual quest. For Thomas Merton, the monk and author, a personal epiphany came on a shopping trip to Louisville, Kentucky. For Bill Wilson of AA, it came during a white light moment while hospitalized. For Albert Einstein, it came while he was sailing. Harper Lee writes about hers in the semi-autobiographical To Kill A Mockingbird through the eyes of the little girl, Scout;

I turned to go home. Street lights winked down the street all the way to town. I had never seen our neighborhood from this angle. There were Miss Maudie's, Miss Stephanie's-there was our house, I could see the porch swing-Miss Rachel's house was beyond us, plainly visible.

The result of an epiphany is a new or expanded sense of self and of life. It creates a deep belief. The cry of the heart announces; "I found it" followed by wonder and awe. Light is shed on what had been unseeable. What was unknowable overcomes darkness with love.

My own epiphany came on a camping trip in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. I was sleeping in a tent under an awning of stars with my best friend near what is believed to be a Cherokee ritual space among huge boulders. I was awakened in a dream to find the back of the tent gone. The vision offered me a glimpse at the edge of the Universe overlooking all of creation. It was all good and it was all God. Nothing separated any of us from each other or from anything that ever existed. It has shaped my life ever since. Not that my wanderings have always been without doubt or misdirection. I have stumbled more than once. But that moment of dream induced clarity can never be erased. It influences me regardless of the circumstances.

As this new decade descends and plays out, it will make all of the difference if we are willing to receive personal epiphanies. They come in small discoveries and in profound experiences. A great way to start is by allowing the season of celebration to continue. Let's not drag ourselves into the humdrum of ordinariness. The possibilities are endless. Every single moment is pregnant with hope.

Five Rejuvenating Resolutions for 2020

Welcome to a brand new year and decade. Something wonderful is coming into being.

In a world that often seems bent on dashing our hopes, we triumph over all that today. It presents us with an opportunity to reflect on what we have done or failed to do and then dispose of them by resolving to make changes. It's time to be reborn, restored, renewed, and rejuvenated.

To say that I grew up in the woods is an exaggeration.  But in a sense, much of my growing up did take place in a small wooded area behind Schlarman High School in Danville, Illinois.  My friends and I played there, season in and season out, for most of my formative boyhood.  I learned about expanding imagination.  I learned about being invisible.  I learned that nature is sacred.

There was a sundial in the backyard of the old Tyson mansion in my woods. It stood on a pedestal in little nook overlooking Lake Vermilion and had the inscription that carried Robert Browning’s words.

Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made.

The poetry was confusing, haunting, and almost scary back then. My best friend and I would be chasing butterflies or heading back to work on our hidden fort and I would often stop to look at that old sundial. "Grow old along with me!” I would think; “Now that's stupid...who wants to get old anyway?"  Then I would run on.

Now that I am have officially achieved elderhood, the wisdom of the sundial makes more sense. The best is always coming. And each of us is someone new. The best of life, of love, and of all that God has to offer is at hand if we just open up to the possibilities. Then, we can squeeze every drop out of our moments and let them fall where they may. Some will evaporate and some will become rainbows.

Here are my five rejuvenating resolutions (offered for rainbow making);

1. Speak Kindly

2. Listen Carefully

3. Forgive Generously

4. Hug and Hold Hands

5. Celebrate, Laugh, and Dance

Happy 2020. May you be forever young as you grow old along with me.

The True Meaning of the Holidays (And Those 5 Golden Rings)

Today is known by some as the Fifth Day. It isn't widely celebrated nowadays, but there is good reason to give it another look.

We have been bombarded by familiar holiday songs for the past several weeks. One played over and over is The Twelve Days of Christmas. With partridges in pear trees, pipers piping, and lords-a-leaping, we sing along wondering what in the world it all means. Some say it represents secret Roman Catholic teaching during times of persecution. Whatever the origin, when we come to the fifth of those days, the true lover (God) brings the gift of five golden rings.

One explanation of this has stayed with me over the years. Bob Brown, a psychology professor of mine at Kishwaukee College used the metaphor to explain the relationship between our five basic human senses of touch, sight, hearing, smell, and taste which allow us to better understand the world around us, and what King Henry VIII called the five "inward wits" of instinct, imagination, fantasy, estimation, and memory.

While not the premiere of a new holiday tradition, FX’s new A Christmas Carol taps into the story’s promise of spiritual renewal..

Bob taught that the five rings become golden when all ten senses are engaged, hence connecting our outer and spiritual selves. This, he maintained was the essence of a healthy psyche. He certainly had a good point. When we are completely in tune with physical reality and our deeper stirrings, we are likely to be quite well balanced. It could be that the Fifth Day is a gift which points us toward a more enlightened way of living in the coming new year and new decade.

There is a new version of Charles Dickens classic story "A Christmas Carol" presented this year on FX cable channel. It's a spooky departure from the original tale of Ebenezer Scrooge's dark night of the soul. For those 'Scrooge purisits' among us, their artistic license has stretched itself to a breaking point.

In it, Ebenezer is a victim of childhood trauma by his father and chronic sexual abuse at the hands of his school headmaster. He acts out and survives his victimization by relying only on his five basic senses. But driven by resentment and lack of any emotions, Scrooge's cruel acts cost others dearly and doom him to a bleak solitary life. Like too many of us, he is able to justify amoral behavior as a byproduct of financial gain and success. Whatever the consequences, they are chalked up as unforeseen and unintentional.

It is the job of Jacob Marley and three spirits (Past, Present, and Future) to not only make him face his responsibilities, but to imbue him with legitimate feelings and a sense of connectedness. His redemption doesn't end as the story closes. And the writers make it very clear that those same spirits have plenty of work to do with each of us. Merging ten senses into five golden rings, it seems, requires quite a bit of work. But it is a gift that enables our physical and spiritual lives to explode with new meaning.

The calendar is bringing us closer to year and decade end.

In the next couple of days, we have a unique opportunity to get serious about what we would like to make of ourselves. An imaginary clean slate is waiting for the words we will write and those that will be written about us. The choice is ours. Will it be a headlong plunge into grasping for more or could it be a wading into transformative self discovery leading to kindheartedness? One will lead to an ending and the other will lead to a becoming. Dickens reflection of what might happen is a treasure.

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world...May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!

Christmas Days of Yore

Christmas, for me, is among other things a time of fond remembering. Some of my most vivid memories are of the late 1950s and early 1960s celebrations at the country home of the Trenchards, my uncle and aunt, in Deland, Illinois. In the middle of the endless Central Illinois farmland sat Bondurant Place. Named for Uncle Wendell's grandfather, it was nestled among hundreds of trees with a winding driveway. Truly a festive gathering place for my granddad, his nine children and their families.

I remember waking up early to see what Santa brought to our house at 18 West Winter in Danville. Mom and Dad were in their robes and we opened presents and hugged and laughed. It was hard to get me away without taking a favorite something to go on the road to Deland. But by the time we got to Champaign on two lane, snow packed roads, I was anticipating the event at Bondurant Place!

Uncle Wendell would be HO! HO! HOing at a door wrapped with an image of Santa! Aunt Helen would gleefully shriek at our arrival almost as if she didn’t know we were coming. "They're Here! They're Here!" they would exclaim. We were always the first to arrive...except that cousin Joan, her husband Taylor and the boys had spent the night...and had Christmas Eve together. The oldest son, Bon, would be down at the trains in the basement. I was so excited I could burst. People would start coming almost in order! Granddad and his companion Mavie were next, then Aunt Beulah, and then everyone else almost at once and then.....Aunt Nellie, Uncle Lester, Irene and Sarah! Always last...always anticipated with joy! Everyone received the happy "They're Here!" greeting. The smells of turkey and goodies filled the house. The cousins played mostly downstairs. There was no need for lots of toys...but there were plenty of them. We just delighted in each other. We shot each other with Ack-Ack Guns, played with the best model train set in the world, looked for spooks in the coal bin, explored the unknown....Every now and then one of the parents or uncles or aunts ventured down for a minute. They knew that we were OK but just wanted to share in the fun! My older cousins could only resist for awhile. We usually got them involved without much struggle!

Then came the call! Dinner was ready. All of the adults sat at the big table and the younger members at the children’s table. As people moved or died you graduated to the adult table. I never made it. The littlest kids sat in the adjacent sun room next to the kitchen and the older kids sat at the table in the hallway. Everyone hushed and Uncle Wendell called for order. Aunt Nellie said the blessing. Then we got in to the feast. What a feast it always was! Turkey, dressing (traditional and oyster), cranberries, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, fancy butter....place cards at every seat made by Aunt Cil....Oh Boy! When the main course was done we got to have special frozen Santa ice cream made just for us and Hickory Nut Cake (We all LOVE Hickory Nut Cake).

There was short a play time while we waited for the next tradition. In a few minutes we would all line up according to age and put our hands on the right shoulder in front of us. Sarah was always in front of me. Granddad Jones was first and held the long strand of Jingle Bells. Uncle Wendell would fire up his lights and movie camera. Then we marched through the house singing "Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle All The Way". Opening presents took forever! Someone would play Santa and bring a present one at a time. The relative would open it and we would all go "Oooh and Ahhh". Then the next one.

FINALLY...we could go and play again! It was back to the basement. Uncle Lester would fall asleep on the couch. The Moms would clean up and the other Dads would play gin rummy. This would be story time in by the fireplace in the basement. I would start with the most horrible ghost story that I had learned that year. Usually Strawn, Penn, Danny, or Debbie would sit on my lap. The room would hush. Terror would fill the room!

Now the call would come again! Aunt Helen would have made a special bag of goodies and leftovers for each family. It was time to go home. Sometimes I wanted to cry...but usually I was eager to get home to tell my buddies about "what I got". I could never relate to them that what I got at Bondurant Place was more important and more fun than anything that came in a beautifully wrapped box. It was dark and there was snow hanging on every branch. I fell asleep in the back seat of our Chrysler. Happy Family....Happy Christmas to all.

Making Peace

Ho! Ho! Ho! Just when all of our seasonal organizing seems to be in order, concerns and roadblocks appear en masse. Will Uncle Henry like the socks and matching sweater? Is anyone else getting tired of our annual ham and green bean casserole? Did the airlines really just cancel that flight? It's hard to find peace with all of the goings-on. Divisive politics sure don't make it any easier. But now is exactly the right time to seek it and to make it. There are more people who will lead us in that direction than those that tend to lead us away. Police Chaplains who come through the fog of tragedy to listen and hold the hands of those stricken with grief are a perfect example. And there are others.

My hometown in Illinois was richly blessed by the life of Rev Charles Bourke Motsett who could truly be called Danville's pastor. He was one of those people who made peace. A Roman Catholic priest, there was nobody of any denomination or religious persuasion who felt left out of his ministry. Hardly a civic function, school sporting event, or service club meeting took place without him being there. We lived across the street and Father Motsett was ever-present. I can easily envision him with a stopwatch at Schlarman High School athletic events shouting encouragement to runners. He occasionally came over to our house at Happy Hour to have a drink and lively conversation with my Dad. They were both avid sports fans and Dad had been a University of Illinois track star which delighted Motsett who was student manager of Notre Dame’s football squad under Knute Rockne. He provided sometimes strict but always loving guidance to me both before I became a Catholic and after. His greeting of; "May peace be with each and every one of you good people" still brings a smile to my face. Once when I was struggling with some significant inner darkness, he shared the deathbed letter of Chicago’s Joseph Cardinal Bernardin. It was a prayer that brought me peace and helped me find my way.

What I would like to leave behind is a simple prayer that each of you may find what I have found—God’s special gift to us all: the gift of peace. When we are at peace, we find the freedom to be most fully who we are, even in the worst of times. We let go of what is nonessential and embrace what is essential. We empty ourselves so that God may more fully work within us. And we become instruments in the hands of the Lord ~ Joseph Cardinal Bernardin

Monsignor Charles Motsett died at age 98. He never demonstrated against wars fought by armies but waged an ongoing battle with forces that destroy inner harmony. For he knew full well that external strife is fueled by internal chaos. Resentment, fear, anger, greed, envy, and sadness are the culprits. When we discover where peace dwells in our own hearts and dispel the violence within, we will be able to become makers of peace in our relationships and in every step we take. Helpers, teachers, and guides are available. What better time than Christmas and the seasons of light for such a transformation. Lord make me an instrument of your peace.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2svZhZT6Pro

God With Us; Pure as the Driven Snow

Once upon a time in our nation's capital, a young man slept on the third story of an old home in the heart of Adams Morgan. It wasn't easy to fall into dreamland with all of the disturbing noise from Columbia Rd. below. He had grown up in a small midwestern town and now lived in a remote cabin nestled among the laurels of Western North Carolina. Gunshots and sirens had taken the place of a mountain stream's lullabies. Restless sleep was punctuated by noisy violence in this place where he was attending classes. What woke him were not sounds of increased disorder and turmoil that night. It was a sudden silence. He rubbed his eyes and listened.

The strange hush made him wonder what was happening. He looked out the window only to see bricks of the building next door inches away. Rising from his bed, the man wandered down the hallway to a window on the street. Big flakes of snow were falling heavily, covering cars, sidewalks, and the entire District. A thick blanket had quieted the night and sent almost everyone inside. Shining lights of monuments and the twinkling of Christmas decorations were more brilliant than ever as Washington lived up to its' moniker of The Great White City. All of that which seemed evil had been made just as pure as the driven snow. Peace reigned. If only for an hour.

My snow experience in DC so many years ago will stay with me always.

Though there are many winter weather stories knocking around in my aging memory, this is the one that resonates. As Christmas comes along again with Advent messages of Hope, Peace, Joy, and Love, I recall the clear message of that night as an epiphany of Emmanuel. God With Us. It's not hard to slip into despair even during the seasons of light. One in seven people is going hungry while over one-third of the world's food is wasted. We angrily divide ourselves along political party lines as we turn a blind eye to children trafficked for sex. We spend fortunes on nuclear arsenals while homeless veterans seek shelter and basic healthcare. What an ugly mess we make. But even so, God is with us.

When we wake up to that reality, the most amazing things happen. I think of Linda who was a woman victimized throughout her childhood. Dually diagnosed with multiple personality disorder and chronic addiction, her family and friends had given up hope that she would ever be well. It was shocking to those of us who were treating her illnesses that a few words of wisdom one day would somehow cut through her tortured past, leading to a kind of rebirth. This is what she heard;

“You are my child. The beloved. You were lost and now you are found. You were dead and now you are alive. You are with me always. Everything I have is yours.”

The words were a compilation of scriptural text given as a Christmas talk by a visiting treatment center alum. The next day, Linda brought me a beautiful hand-drawn calligraphy she created with those words. She said; “Now that I know this I can get better.” And, somehow, the miracle of miracles came to pass. She finished inpatient treatment and with hard work, help and time, became a mentor for others who were discarded as incurable. God was with her through the darkness. She was no longer alone.

Healing mercy is always at hand. The blanket of redemption is not an exclusive property of the pious. Emmanuel knows no boundaries and plays no favorites. God does not sit on a towering and remote throne judging those who are naughty and nice. I think that is the domain of Santa and his elves.

When everything is covered in snow and silence overcomes the hubbub we are transformed and restored to our real selves. God is revealed as a fragile human being and the rest of us are made whole. Thus, with this revelation, we are empowered to make things right. Hand in hand there is nothing we cannot fix.

O Come, O Come Emmanuel. Ransom us to become instruments of your love...that we might join with you to co-create a world as pure as the driven snow.

Hope is Made of Memories

The sights, sounds, and smells of this holiday season evoke memories of days-gone-by. We should be keenly aware that for some, those reminders are not necessarily pleasant.

While the fragrance of cookies baking or lighted decorations and traditional music may warm our hearts, the same things might also call to mind old wounds. What is wonderful for one causes depression for another. It is always a good idea as we cheerfully celebrate the light, to walk gently and with open hearts for those who struggle silently during this season. What we can bring along with us as we travel together is hope. For it carries the universal message that love will overcome all adversity.

I borrowed the title of my column today from the visionary activist and spiritual leader, Joan Chittister. She goes on to say;

“Hope reminds us that there is nothing in life we have not faced that we did not, through God’s gifts and graces...however unrecognized at the time...survive. Hope is the recall of good in the past, on which we base our expectation of good in the future however bad the present. ”

— Joan Chittister

And so, indeed, hope is made of memories. Even when those recollections are painful. We are still standing despite, or even because of adversity. We have overcome it all and have the potential to serve as a beacon for others. This is why sharing our memories is so important. If we remain silent in denial of our valuable experiences, nobody will have the opportunity to know us, connect with us, or learn from us. Hope is a gift both given and received when we are brave enough to share our stories.

Here is an example of what I'm trying to get across.

The most amazing things happen around the tables at a meeting of AA (and other Anonymous groups). Though the foundations and principles of recovery are contained in their 12 Steps, much of the healing that goes on happens as people openly tell their life stories. It is initially unsettling for an outsider to hear men and women laughing as a speaker discloses what seem to be horrific losses and tales of damaging misadventures.

But without fail, some other participant will approach the teller later and make the remark that they felt as if they were hearing their very own story and how much it meant to know they are not alone. Hope flows around those rooms more freely than anywhere I have ever visited.

I think one reason their unfettered sharing is so powerful is that their revelations roughly follow a formula described as 'what it used to be like...what happened...and what it's like now'. In other words, there is no room for war stories if they cannot point toward hope for tomorrow. Wouldn't it be great if each of us could be so courageous as to offer our own memories.

Since hope is made of memories, make time to reconstruct some of your favorite and most meaningful ones this season.

Tell them to those with whom you gather over the holidays. Write them down or record them for loved ones to treasure in the future. Some hearts will be gladdened. Someone will be touched. Someone will see a flicker of light where darkness seemed overwhelming. There is no gift presented which will have more impact or be more fondly treasured than this.

Here is one of mine which I call The Christmas Boxes.

One of the warm Christmas memories that I have comes from 1992. I had been living in the mountains of North Carolina near Brevard for almost two years and had just moved into an A-Frame home near Lake Toxaway. My good friend, Michael Sessom, had been staying with me. The move took place in November and it was obvious that the house would lend itself nicely to holiday decorations. Michael called it a Christmas House. The steep two-story ceiling would accommodate a huge tree but buying one that tall would be impossible. Friends of mine came to the rescue. They chopped down a gigantic pine and hauled it down to the house for Thanksgiving. A wood frame had to be constructed just to hold it. Hours of planning, building, pulling and yanking finally resulted in success. The living room was filled with a magnificent tree. Michael spent days putting balls and ornaments on it. He made dozens of “God Eyes” and other things to hang. It took lots and lots of lights as well. The finished Christmas tree was impressive to say the least but the few little presents underneath looked lonely. This led Michael to make a decision that would change the way that I would look at presents.

We were admiring the tree after work at Bridgeway Treatment Center one chilly December night. Michael was disappointed in the emptiness underneath and made a suggestion. “Let’s wrap up the moving boxes like Christmas presents.” He said. “You take half of the boxes and I will take the other half. Then we will write a Christmas memory and put it in the box. On Christmas Eve we can open them and share our memories.” I agreed with some hesitation. It sounded like a silly idea to me. But, we went about the job for the next several days. The big wrapped boxes looked stunning around the tree. It was perfect. Our Christmas Eve opening was moved to the day before because I was headed up to Illinois to be with my daughters. There was never a more emotional or deeply moving present exchange. Each box contained such joy and happiness. The old memories reflected the great love that we both had experienced in our lives. The meaning of Christmas went far beyond the material things that year and has traveled with me ever since.

A Journey at Night; The Road That Takes Us Home

They roused him up in the dark of night. It was time to go. They even watched him get dressed. Humiliated, he pulled on his jeans and yanked a tee shirt over his head. A shiver went up his spine. Or maybe it was a shudder. All he knew for sure was this is what had filled him with dread for so many days since the hearing. Fighting back tears, he looked up at the woman and the police officer. There was no way he was going to cry in front of them. And no getting out of this situation. He would be leaving home for good and going somewhere to be with people he didn't know. Through the darkness and rain they went down unfamiliar streets until the Plymouth pulled up in front of a big house. There were people under a dim light standing on the porch.

Stories like this one have been shared with me over the years by dozens of boys and girls who 'fell into the system' for one reason or another.

Foster placements, detention centers, or other institutions become makeshift homes where wounded and broken kids are hidden away and sometimes forgotten. But I tell this compilation tale, not to shed light on our often woefully deficient children's services programs. I'll save that for another day. I tell it to you because this is your story. It's the story of each of us. It pauses at some point with a dim light and door opening. There is no clue to process or outcome because that’s how life's spiritual journey goes. It is always searching for home.

I've written extensively about the spiritual journey, faith, love, and transformation. These seem to be the things most important to explore. And during these seasons of light, we are reminded that in order to really appreciate the light we must have known darkness. We are taken far away on bumpy roads and put into boats. Our wanderings take us to troubled waters with no land in sight. Hard times and good times alike make us begin to ache for home.

With no compass and only the North Star to guide us we begin to stumble back in the general direction as best we can. Our hunger to be welcomed is only equaled by the fear that we will be rejected. For the kept secrets have been revealed and we will be fully known. Then we reach the hilltop overlooking those familiar fields.

The sun is just rising and you have been discovered. Both father and mother run out to greet you. The fatted calf is being prepared in your honor. The one who was lost has been found. They whisper in your ear the words you have so desperately needed to hear. You are my beloved child. Welcome home. Welcome home. Welcome home.

The Grace of Unknowing

As the season of light presents itself again this year, it is important to remember that for some, a poverty of spirit obscures it.

Grief, loneliness, fear, and the darkness of depression block access to any kind of joy or celebration.

While we wait in eager anticipation, they wait for the other shoe to drop. It is at this festive time of the year that those of us who celebrate are more urgently needed than at any other. Setting aside our busy schedules in deference to being present for those who suffer is an act of compassion that can carry lifesaving comfort. But the gift we receive from so doing might be even greater than the one we give. When allowing ourselves to be transported from wellbeing, certainty, and control into the gloom of another person’s shadows, it becomes possible to experience the grace of unknowing.

We don't like to think about unknowing or unlearning. It takes us away from being in control. The certainty of our belief systems, the rhythm of routines, and adherence to the status quo makes us feel secure.

I remember asking my mother why we 'went visiting' every Sunday. Her response was; "It's what our family has always done." That was an unacceptable answer to me because it didn't really tell me anything. Nobody seemed particularly thrilled with staying dressed up after church to drop in on folks who might have had other plans (or for those of us who would rather be outside playing basketball). But we did it because it was what we did.

My objections didn't change anything. We still 'went visiting'. What might happen if we didn't follow our custom was never discussed. And I have to admit that the Sunday regimen was comforting despite its discomfort. Departure from our ingrained, embedded practices feels pretty risky. We want to find an escape hatch to that 'old-time religion' or 'those thrilling days of yesteryear' where the Lone Ranger rides again. Everything was knowable and everyone was safe. Approaching any treasured belief with an open-minded posture of unknowing (I don't know) shakes the foundations of our personal self-concept and identity. It requires the painful process of unlearning and relearning

The best, most divine knowledge of God is that which is known by not-knowing ~ St. Dionysius

The grace of unknowing is the source of wisdom, growth, and transformation. It releases the glee of Ebenezer Scrooge who once was the master of his destiny. He awakens from his visitation by Three Spirits with the full understanding that he never was the one in control. He began to dance a jig singing "I don't know anything. I never did know anything. And now I know that I don't know on this Christmas morning."

He was not the same person. By letting go of knowing and embracing unknowing, he gained all the wisdom he would ever need. Dickens relates that henceforth it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May we all be blessed with such grace…the Grace of Unknowing.

Awaiting The Wonderful

The fall and winter holiday seasons always seem so far away. There is plenty of time to plan and prepare. Then it swoops in like a hungry pelican over an ocean luncheon. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, New Years...here they are. I have gathered them all together in an Advent basket which I call The Wonderful. Each has tradition, joy, celebration, and a spirit of giving and receiving. And of course this has a story behind it.

Several years ago, my life-long best friend, Steve Magin, called a few days before Thanksgiving to chat about holiday plans. He ended the conversation by telling me to expect "The Wonderful" which made me question just what in the world he was talking about. His response was cryptic and playful. "You'll see" he chirped, and then hung up. That response bordered on curious and annoying. It stirred up memories of hidden Christmas presents cleverly stashed away in secret places by my parents. As a boy, I always made it a point to search for clues like Sherlock Holmes until, one by one, each wrapped enigma was discovered. The next thing was to try shaking, sniffing, or peeking under paper folds to determine the contents. I never quit until I was sure of about everything that would be under the tree. Anyway, I was sure that Steve would let me in on The Wonderful in due time, but such knowledge did little to stifle the nagging mystery. So, just like the boy I used to be, the quest of unraveling the riddle began. Google and other search engines didn't help a bit. A call back to Steve was little more than frustrating. When I told him I was waiting for The Wonderful, he just said it was on its' way. Well, great. The mail, UPS and FedEx brought good stuff to the door, but nothing tagged The Wonderful. Every morning had an element of anticipation to it. Surely whatever-it-was would arrive in one form or another today. It didn't occur to me until Christmas Eve that The Wonderful had been delivered every day since Thanksgiving. A bit of me had been magically transported to Neverland along with Peter, Wendy and the Lost Boys. The Wonderful brought back a delight that I thought had dimmed long ago.

Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known. ~ Carl Sagan

So, with today being the first day of Advent, I would like to share my holiday basket with everyone who reads or listens to this. The Wonderful is coming. Reach in and you will find more than special calendar days, presents, elegant meals, parties and family gatherings. They are all in there. But don't stop looking. Pixie dust, sleigh bells, twinkling lights, and an unattached elusive shadow can be found too. And, of course, an abundance of unconditional Love. Childlike and barefoot, we might rediscover that eager anticipation is the essence of life. This is what makes undeniable the faith in a power greater than ourselves.

Thanksgiving Past; The Gift of a Perennial Message

Though my memories of childhood Thanksgivings in Central Illinois are not nearly as vivid or detailed with family lore as Christmases, they are fond all the same. We didn't go over the river and through the woods to be with the extended Jones Family in Monticello, but rather stayed in Danville and celebrated with my mother's family. Until the late 1950's the big feast was held at the Swisher Ave. home of my grandparents, Chester and Nora Baum. But they had made the decision to spend their golden Thanksgivings in Pompano Beach, Florida rather than endure the unpredictable midwestern weather of late November. So from then on we were left to our own devices. We gathered with the Glen T. Smith family either at our house or theirs. Helen Smith was Mom's sister. It was always fun and festive. Uncle Smitty was the expert of all expert turkey carvers and we always had plenty of food to take home or send along as the case might be.  Occasionally we went down to the family homestead in Indianola to be with our Sandusky cousins. They were always more fun than anyone I knew. But all of that said, there will always be one Thanksgiving from my childhood which I can never forget.

It was a week which began innocently enough. I had just turned 13 on November 17th. Now it was the 22nd. Mother and Dad were down in Florida helping my grandparents settle in to their winter digs while I was allowed to stay with my pal Scott Golden on Fletcher Ave. His house was adjacent to North Ridge Junior High School where I was in eighth grade. Everything was going fine. It was Friday with a fun weekend ahead. Then, after lunch, while I was in Art Class, the world changed and went into slow motion. There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Allison, the librarian, whispered something to our teacher, Mrs. Gillis. She composed herself, and gave us the news that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. Soon the same information came over the loudspeaker from Mr. Yeazel, the principal. School was dismissed with the news of his death. I ran through the woods on a shortcut to Goldens, slipping into a cold ravine on the way. When I got to my friends house, his mother was crying in the living room. All I could think about was how awful it was to be without my parents when the world seemed to be ending. We called my mother in Florida and she promised they would fly back to Danville as soon as possible. I was so devastated and lonely.

Mom and Dad arrived at the Danville airport on Saturday night. I was never so glad to see them. We said goodbye to the Goldens and headed home. The next few days were pretty much spent in front of the television as our shocked and grief stricken nation mourned and processed. On Sunday, Dad shouted that Lee Harvey Oswald had just been shot. Mother and I were in the kitchen and came running out to see the murder replayed in front of our eyes. The next day was President Kennedy's funeral at St. Matthews Cathedral. We all watched John-John's salute. And then it was over.

Thanksgiving was only three days away. My friends in the neighborhood had started to do things outside again. There was some touch football and shooting hoops in Gary Cox’s driveway. School would be out until the next Monday. But we were all subdued. The idea of celebrating seemed out of the question. Nobody felt much like a big family gathering after all we had witnessed. So, our decision, like that of so many other families, was to keep it simple and stay at home. The 90 minute Macy Parade filled in the space where Monday's funeral procession to Arlington had been dominating our living room. Like the huge Donald Duck balloon that year, we were a bit deflated. Three people gathering around a turkey seemed rather bleak. Then my Dad, standing at the head of the table, gave us his message. It is one I'll always remember. He said;

This has been a hard week for everyone. But we will be okay. We have so much to be grateful for. We have a great country where women and men like Jack Kennedy fight and die for our freedom and way of life. Thanks to them we are safe. We have a warm home, good food, and our nice friends and family. Most of all, we have each other. Things won't be exactly the same after what happened in Dallas. But we will be okay.

And the clouds seemed to lift a little. We went down to the Sandusky/Stines on Saturday. There was a big party as always. With loving arms around us, we could be happy once again.

For the first time in history, an entire nation grieved together. It was on live TV. By grace, Thanksgiving followed. It was just the bandage we all needed to bind our wounds and carry on. Perhaps that's the simple message of this American holiday every year. Things may be rough, or even tragic. Empty chairs can be found around many tables. There have been other losses and disappointments. But then comes Thanksgiving. Ever since that first harvest celebration in 1621 of 53 Pilgrims and 90 Native People, we have been looking to the promise of new possibilities while thanking God for our rich blessings. We put aside our troubles in favor of gratitude and hope. Dad was right. With this spirit and attitude to guide us...We Will Be Okay.