"Theology" "OK, but keep it light"

I'll try.

The thing that prompted this bit of reflection was a column in a publication. It's a publication that is read almost exclusively by members of one denomination. The focal point of the article was the Apostles' Creed, and the point of the article was that the faith to which they adhere was the same as that expressed in the Apostles' Creed if you just tweak the Creed a little. The writer, I take it, was a newspaperman, not a theologian, so while he can be excused for not knowing this, I think he should have researched a little more thoroughly. He would have become aware of something:

He thinks he only tweaked a little here and there. But theologians and theological reflection live in the tweaks - in the seemingly minor details - and those tweaks undermined the very argument he was trying to make.

So, some thoughts on the theological task.

On philosophy and theology: there is an interrelation. Tertullian asked, "What do Athens and Jerusalem have to do with each other?" The answer is that theology has borrowed many philosophical terms, and has explored many fields that philosophy has. Ontology - what is the nature of existence? Descartes said that the principle he arrived at, about which he could not be deceived, was, "I think, therefore I am." Is he right, or is there an insurmountable difficulty in centering the nature of existence on the self? Epistemology - what does it mean to know? How do we come to know? For philosophy, a question may be, are we born as blank slates, as Hume and the Empiricists propose? If so, everything that we know comes only from our sense perception. Or are we with Kant, in maintaining that, while sense certainly has much to do with what we know, there is some knowledge - Kant would refer to it as a priori - that is truth independent of our sense perception?

While some terminology is shared between philosophy and theology, the latter field inquires into an area of ontology that philosophy (and science) cannot reach:

Why is there anything at all?

For the theologian, the question that Descartes tried to answer would have been moot. Existence is taken for granted, but how do you reconcile what science tells us with the creation stories?

How do we know? Can we receive saving knowledge only by revelation, or is there some knowledge at which we can arrive through reason and observation of what God has given in creation? Is there an analogy we can draw from existence - an analogia entis? The analogia entis was given by a prominent Protestant theologian as the reason he could not be Roman Catholic. For me, it's a large part of the reason that I am Roman Catholic.

Back to the tweaks, and a couple of illustrations of theology and its necessary "tweakiness" (if that's not a word it should be). There is a reason that, while Roman Catholics say the Nicene Creed, our Eastern Orthodox brothers and sisters do not. The reason? (Talk about a tweak): one word. Filioque. The third portion of the Nicene Creed starts: "We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the Giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son". "And the Son" in Latin is Filioque. Eastern Orthodoxy asks, does this not imply a subordination of one person in the Trinity to another?

Other tweaks were over, not one word, but one letter. "We believe in one Lord Jesus Christ. . .One in being with the Father." There was lengthy debate over one letter. "Homoiousios" translates as "bearing a strong resemblance to" but it does not posit an identity between Father and Son. The denomination to which this newspaper writer belongs maintains a homoiousios position. The word that won out in ancient times was homoousios.Notice one missing "i". Homoousios does present an identity between Father and Son ' "One in being with the Father." In the Greek that missing "i" is the letter "iota." So a missing iota made more than an iota of difference.

Tweaks, tweaks, tweaks. They make a difference. In the questions posed above I am not really a Cartesian - if I stub my toe on a rock I think I am not deceived about the existence of that rock. Epistemologically I tend to Kant, rather than Hume. My ontology is a bit of a hybrid - I believe in an intelligent design and Designer, and if that Designer wanted to use a Big Bang and billions of years, so be it. What are billions of years to an infinite Being?

I'm sorry - was I supposed to put the "Heavy Sledding Ahead" warning in place?  ;)

Thanks for hanging out for a few! Love your company, and I'd love your reactions.

Advent

Let all mortal flesh keep silence

And with fear and trembling stand.

Last Sunday began the Advent season. Advent, for Catholics, Eastern Orthodox and most Protestants has a twofold meaning, both related to the coming of Christ.

The first meaning is that this is a season of preparation for Christmas. We get ourselves ready for the observance of the birth of Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, one in being with the Father. He wasn't born on December 25 - not if angels appeared to shepherds in the fields that night, he wasn't; it's cold in those parts. No one really knows what the date of his birth was. But, December 25 works nicely. It was, in Roman times, the date of the feast of the Saturnalia. It was a time for a drunken orgy. The genius of Christianity has always been its ability to co-opt what it found in culture, and to turn what it found to the purposes of the faith. One of the rowdier days of the year became one of the holiest times of the year.

Besides, the shortest, darkest day of the year is December 21. Four days later, the light has started to return. "God from God, light from Light. . ." "And the light has shone in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."

So we prepare. We heed the words of Jesus' forerunner, John the Baptist. Advent is one of the two great penitential seasons (Lent being the other.) "Repent, for the kingdom of Heaven is at hand!"

Ponder nothing earthly-minded

For with blessing in his hand. . .

We don't just prepare for Christmas during Advent. We are reminded anew of something we say at Mass on Sundays through the year:

Christ has died;

Christ is risen; 

Christ will come again.

Christ will come again. We don't know when; even Jesus didn't know that. And we don't really know how, despite the claims of mssrs. LaHaye and Jenkins. But we are firm in the faith that he will come, at a time and in a way of His choosing.

From the readings from the First Sunday of Advent:

It is the hour for you to awake from sleep. For our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed; the night is advanced, the day is at hand.

And:

So too, you must also be prepared, for at an hour you do not expect, the Son of Man will come.

And so we prepare, for the celebration of Jesus' first coming, and for His second coming. And we hope - we celebrate hope itself embodied and lived. I am wrestling much just now with demons and darknesses of my own. But it's Advent. Soon to come is the birth of the One who was the Living Witness that our demons do not win, and that the Darkness cannot overcome Him.

Christ our God to earth descended

Our full homage to demand.

May we all have a holy and blessed Advent.

Thank you for hanging out for a few!

Thanks be to God

There are days that are just made for reflection. Thanksgiving is one such. Thus, reflection on things for which I'm thankful.

I am incredibly thankful that JESUS CHRIST IS LORD, TO THE GLORY OF GOD THE FATHER. Yes, I do mean to be shouting that. It still excites me.

I am thankful for my faith, the Catholic faith, that sustains me and encourages me. I didn't come to the Catholic faith until I was verging on middle age, so I have been able to maintain a view different from the view of a "cradle Catholic". I had been considering joining the Church at the 1993 Easter vigil. But, in September of 1992 I was advised that I had developed a severe stenosis (closing, for those of us who don't speak doctor) of the aortic valve, and would need open heart surgery. That rather violently accelerated the consideration process, so on September 26, 1992 I received the sacraments of baptism, confirmation, anointing of the sick, and my first Eucharist. Yep. Pretty accelerated.


I am constantly thankful for my wife, my best friend, my lover, the mom to our kids. She has put up with me for 35 years, and living with me has not always been a bowl of cherries. I am trying, though, and Cindy does let me know that I'm more trying on some days than on others. I have no doubt that marriage is a gift from God, and my wife most certainly has been such. I love you, Cindy, and eagerly look forward to our next 35 years.

I am thankful for our five kids. They've had their rough spots, and some of them are in such patches even now. I pray for you daily. In your successes I see my successes and your shortcomings, such as they are, are a reflection of my own. You will come through this. I did. I love you, and will go to my grave (not soon, I hope!) knowing that I couldn't have been prouder.

Thank you, God, for grandkids - 12 so far, to be 13 in February - that are way cooler than any Papa could ever ask for. I love you. Vanessa, Jasper, Olivia, Kylie, Meri, Logan, Jada, Jordan, Payton, (soon-to-be) Autumn, Derek, Jessilynn, Megan - thanks. Just for being you, just for being my grandkids, and for making my life more alive. I love you just the way you are.



I am incredibly glad for the family I grew up with - for parents that had a set of values that they lived by, and imparted to us. They're both gone, and I bless their memory every day. (And, yes, I think I am a Coats. Of everyone in the family, I think I bear the most resemblance to Uncle Kenny. IMO.) I am thankful for my sister, Sheri, who is most definitely one of my heroes.

I am thankful for having been able to reconnect with high school classmates. I apologize for not having known way back in 1971 how much you were to be treasured. I do so now. UT '71 ROCKS!!!! At the same time, I am saddened by the growing list of our classmates who are no longer with us. This earthly life is finite - but I cling to the hope and the thought that life itself is not finite. God is infinite.

I am thankful for our son-in-law, Chris, currently deployed. The count of days over there on this deployment has dropped into double digits. May those days pass quickly, and may you return home safe to your wife and your four kids.

I am thankful that I was able to serve, in the Navy.

To friends and coworkers, past and present, (you know who you are!), you make and have made my work life wonderfully rich and engaging. I hope I've returned some of that. You're all miracles to me.

I'm thankful for sobriety. I'm coming up on the 25th anniversary of my last drink. Thank you, God.

To everyone in this posting, to all Facebook friends, coworkers, classmates: I love you dearly. I wouldn't ever say that'cuz - well, you know - but I do.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow;

Praise God all creatures here below.

Praise God above, you heavenly hosts!

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost!

An addiction prism

There are several ways in which addictions are categorized.. One such is a contrast between "process addictions" and "substance addictions".

Substance addictions are what we usually associate with the term "addiction". Someone who starts smoking will have a very difficult time stopping. The body becomes accustomed to functioning with the substance, and does not easily adapt to the absence of the chemical. Nicotine has a powerful narcotic effect. Some alcoholics take years to develop their addiction, and some others were addicted with the first drink. Thus, the caution: THE ONLY DRINK (OR SMOKE, OR YOU NAME IT) OVER WHICH YOU KNOW YOU HAVE FULL CONTROL IS THE FIRST ONE YOU EVER TAKE! After that, it's a gamble.

Just to define a term I've thrown around quite a bit on this blog: Addiction. A common definition, and one that works for my purposes, is continued or intensified use of a substance or process in the face of escalating negative consequences. Someone knows a friend or relative who dies of lung cancer. They witness the whole painful process of dying of this disease. Still, they won't quit. Their line: "I'll quit when I'm ready." Um - OK. It would be nice to buy some food, but I gotta buy my smokes. Or beers. Or crack. Yeah, I'm sorry about my asthmatic kid, as the parent lights up. But, I'll quit when I'm ready.

And where, exactly, is the line crossed between use and addiction? At the point where you are no longer free to use a substance or not use it.

So far, this note has been about substance addiction. The other type of addiction is process addiction. Substance addiction is addiction to what you use. Process addiction is addiction to what you do.

Gambling addiction is the most obvious example of process addiction of which I am aware.

Can you be addicted to shopping? (I leave to you to answer.)

Exercise? Here's an example that comes to mind. On nice days - sunny, maybe 55 or 60 degrees - you see the joggers out in their Spandex suits. They're keeping fit, and that's well and good. On not-so-nice days - 35 degrees, windy, a cold cold rain-snow mix  - the exercise addicts are still out in those Spandex suits. Those only concerned with keeping fit are aware that the Y or other places may have an indoor track, or they can walk the mall. But, no. Process addiction dictates that they must jog on the same route, wearing the same thing, at the same time every day. Never mind that no doctor, no trainer, no exercise physiologist would dream of recommending this.

Process addiction. Smokers and drinkers that have not smoked or drank for a few days are past the physical craving. They're not past the process addiction, though.

Consider marijuana. Advocates for the recreational use of marijuana say that there is no known narcotic in marijuana, and this may be true. (Carcinogens are another matter, but come on, we haven't outlawed tobacco, have we?) So, you don't get addicted to the substance. You do get addicted to the routine of rolling the joint, of firing up that herb, of puffing. . .Think that's not a powerful pull? People who use often develop symptoms such as difficulty breathing and/or damage to nose and throat. Despite the absence of a narcotic, they can't quit, even in the face of these consequences. Process addiction.

As I have noted frequently before, I have no finger to point. This battle has also been mine. I am an alcoholic - a gratefully recovering one, but still alcoholic. So, I apologize if I  come across as judgmental. I have no judgment to make of anyone else. My objective is to point out that the subject of addiction is a very complex one, and addicts are very complex people. Also, most of us are addicts, and if someone knows you well enough they can tell you what your addiction is.

And never forget that there's hope. If you're caught up in some form of addiction, or if someone you know is, never ever let go of that lifeline called Hope. It's real.

Thanks for hanging out for a few! I'd love to know your thoughts.

Gotta go. The 9:00 Mass is calling.

Reading

One of my Facebook friends has a widget on her blog from GoodReads. I love the feature, and someday soon I will - I really will - figure out how to import that widget onto my blog. Meantime, what I'm reading, or have just read. . .

(really, I should ask Vanessa or Jasper how to do this. Grandkids, 13 and 11 years old, respectively. They could probably enlighten me. When I was 13 LBJ was in the White House, our deployed troops were in the 'Nam, and if you'd told me that every house had a computer in it, I'd have thought you crazy.)

ANYWHOOO. . .what I've just read: A book by Richard Elliott Friedman, entitled Who Wrote the Bible? At first glance the title seems a bit ambitious. The Bible is a collection of books, spanning about 2000 years. Asking "Who wrote the Bible?" is like asking "Who wrote the public library?" The question doesn't, on its surface, make any sense.

Friedman addresses a narrower topic. He starts by describing the four-source theory. It's not an hypothesis; it has found general acceptance among biblical scholars. In accepting that as his starting point, Friedman does nothing original. The theory states that the Torah - the books of Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy - were not, in fact, composed by Moses. Those who would insist that they were written by Moses are left to explain how Moses wrote the passage describing his own death, or why there would be two different accounts of the creation, two different accounts of Noah's flood, or other seeming anomalies. The answer, supported by the internal patterns of the writing, is that at least two different writers were involved.

As it turns out, there were four identifiable patterns - four different writing styles, four different theological approaches: the Yahwist, the Elohist, the Priestly, and the Deuteronomist. Friedman presents compelling evidence of this theory. But, then he takes it a step further. He tries to identify the exact writer, or at least the time and place when  this writer lived, and which group he would have been associated with. Here, while I found his evidence and arguments persuasive, I did not find them conclusive. Still and all, a good read, and I'd recommend it to anyone who is serious about study of the Hebrew scriptures.

WHAT I'M READING NOW: At most times I have my bookmark in three or four books. Right now, one of them is Newman 101, by Roderick Strange. Those who would gain an acquaintance of 19th-century British civilization would do well to make Newman's acquaintance. So would anyone who would understand modern Catholicism. He is one of the heavyweights in both arenas. Like many philosophers or theologians, he is, at times, not particularly accessible; one would do well to read something about him before trying to read him. I'm looking forward to the read.

A second book is by Peter Gay: My German Question. Gay was born in Germany in 1923 to a Jewish family. In 1933 Hitler ascended to power. Mr. Gay emigrated from Germany in 1939. He describes aspects of being a Jewish youth in Germany during the first six years of the Third Reich. I have always found studies of Hitler's Germany and Stalin's USSR fascinating. I'm constantly amazed at the willingness of the human animal, when it has unfettered control over any other group or individual, to exercise that control in the most cruel manner possible. See SLAVERY, AMERICAN. Or, NATIVE AMERICAN RESERVATION SYSTEM.

Love your thoughts. Love to know what you're reading. Thanks for hanging out for a few!

Vote. Please.

I'm going to date myself here. I cast my first vote when I was 19. I voted - are you ready for this? - for Richard Nixon.

I haven't voted for any Republican for any office since then, and I'm not going to start tomorrow. There have been times when I truly couldn't stomach the Democrat. I wasn't going to vote for Jimmy Carter in 1980, but I wasn't going to throw my vote at Reagan, either. I voted for John Anderson that year. If I had to do it again, I might vote for Carter, or I might do exactly the same thing I did then. But Reagan, or any Republican? Never.

But that's not the thing I want to say in today's conversation, friends. What I do want to say:

Vote. (Got that?) VOTE!! K, try this:

VOTE!!!!!

Whether you are on the left side of the continuum, or on the right, please vote. Whether you agree with me or not, vote. Show up. Don't be one of those mental cowards who stay at home, then put a bumper sticker: "Don't blame me, I didn't vote for him." I'd much rather face a lifetime of living with a government I don't agree with than live with a government that was selected by your voice being shut out or my voice being silenced (good luck with that!).

In South Africa, when blacks were given the right to vote, they stood in line for hours to exercise this right. They knew well what a precious gift this is. And we can't get 30% out?

Get out there. Please.

VOTE!!!!! 

Thanks for hanging out for a few! Love ya!

 

Bear

No, not the Chicago Bears. A different Bear.

Bear - a Yorkie mix (OK, a little mutt, if you must) belonging to our youngest daughter, Jeanette, and her husband. Bear.

Our family has a way of giving ironic names of large critters to tiny dogs. Our second daughter, Becky, and her husband have two Yorkies (not mutts - purebreds.) The name of the first of them?

Cujo.

Last night I - the dogsitter of the moment - took their three dogs out to their kennel so they could do their business. Tank (nothing ironic in that name - you could saddle him) and Sierra did their job.

Bear did something he's done before. He managed to burrow his way out of the kennel. On one previous occasion he'd gotten out and gotten hit by a car. He was injured, obviously. In collisions between Yorkies and cars, cars win. But he recovered surprisingly well.

This time he wasn't so lucky. Burrowed out. Ran into the street. Got hit, and that was the end. The fortunate thing, if there is such, is that I don't think Bear knew what hit him, and he couldn't have suffered much, if at all.

Out third daughter, Kim, had gone out to get the dogs from the kennel, and found two. She brought them in, and said, "I have to look for Bear" - calmly, because this has happened before. Only, this time, she rounded the corner of the house just in time to see the collision. She returned a basket case. I went out, picked up the body and put it in a safe place. Stay in your holes, raccoons and possums. Bear will not be your meal.

I don't know what animals deserve or don't deserve. If 'gators or bears attack humans, do they deserve punishment? They're just being 'gators or bears, and they're doing what 'gators and bears do. But I know this, for sure: Bear, you didn't deserve to die in a puddle of your own blood on Division Street. Even if you didn't know what hit you.

After I finished caring for the carcass, I went to bed. I'm not a cryer, and I didn't cry over this. But I slept fitfully, if at all. The images kept coming back.

RIP Bear. There were lots of people who loved you, and two other dogs are now missing their little buddy.

Gotta go. Thanks for hanging out for a few.

Into each life some rain. . .

Hi, friends!

This morning it rained. Lots. I was up at about 5:30. I went out to the front porch. And listened. And thought. . .

I have been dealing with stress lately. In fact, I don't think I've had a stress-free moment for weeks now. I'm not going into what, exactly, the stressors are, but it's one set in one place and another set in another place. The end result: there's no getting away. At times I have felt like I was about to split like a rotten nut.

I'm an introvert in the Jungian, Myers-Briggs Type Inventory sense. Being an introvert has its strong points. When confronted with the unknown an introvert tends to prefer to look to their own internal resources to deal with that unknown. MacGyver would be the introvert nonpareil. Introversion also has aspects that are neither good nor bad. Extroverts go to a party and, when it's done, say, "Where's the next party?" We introverts hate large parties. I characteristically try to make my escape from such events as soon as I gracefully can. If I have to plan one that's to my liking, it would be dinner with a few - a very few - close friends. When the party is done, we don't look for the next party. We look to go home. There is, at least, one part of being an introvert that puts us - at least, me - at a distinct disadvantage. We tend to internalize everything. Everything.

Had my life taken a different turn at a few points I could have been perfectly happy as a Trappist monk.

So, the rain. I went to the porch. The only sound was the rain and the occasional thunder. I sat on the porch. And in the silence, I found myself praying. Not for anything; I try not to pray like God's a short order cook: "I'd like two over easy, some toast, a side of bacon and some OJ and coffee, please. And take care of my stressors, will ya?" She knows what I need before I know it. But, my prayer, as it often is, was silence. And listening. Listening. I didn't consciously seek to be in that state, but I was.

And, for a few moments anyway, I had some truly stress-free time. For a few moments, anyway, it wasn't all about me and my problems, which are pretty petty, after all, in the grand scheme of things. For a few moments, anyway, I was as conscious as I have ever been that I and we are part of something and Someone much larger than we.

Be still, and know that I am God.

Thank you for that, God.

My life on my cube wall

On my cube wall at work I have, among other things, two prayers. They're not just wall decoration to me. Significant parts of my life, of what's meaningful to me, is in those prayers. I say them often.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference.

Those familiar with the origin of that prayer might guess I've had issues with alcoholism, and they'd be right. The prayer is strongly identified with Alcoholics Anonymous. Reinhold Niebuhr may have written it specifically for AA, and it's recited at most AA meetings (we wouldn't say it has to be said at all AA meetings, but that's because most of us alcoholics don't do rules well.) I don't know how much of my life I've wasted in frustration over being unable to change the unchangeable. I don't know how much I've ignored that in me which needed change, and was within my power to change. I do know that, even now, I occasionally find myself struggling with the difference.

When I wake up, I say an "Our Father", a "Hail Mary", and a "Glory Be" (yes, I am Catholic. You knew that.) Shortly after:

Step 1: Admitted I am powerless over alcohol, that my life had become unmanageable.

A tough step. We're not good at thinking ourselves powerless over anything. Frequently heard from alcoholics (and smokers): "I can quit anytime I want to. I'm just not ready yet." Yeah. Sure. There's a stage that recovering alcoholics and treatment professionals call the "want to want to quit" stage. There are those who don't even want to want to.

Step 2. Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

A tougher step. That sentence is loaded. We're not all that convinced that there is a "power greater than ourselves." A sign I used to keep around: "There is a God. You're not Him." And sanity? You're suggesting that we're insane? Wayulll. . .

A typical AA definition of insanity: repeat the same action. Expect a different result.

By the way, AA is not particular about how you label your Higher Power. I call mine God. For some who just cannot come to believe in a divinity, AA itself can be their higher power. You can use an old car radiator for your higher power if that works for you. The key concept: Whatever works.

But the first two of AA's steps are not on my cube at work, and they're not really a prayer. They're an acknowledgment. As one AA person observed in a meeting, for most of us church didn't lead us to sobriety. But for many of us sobriety led us to church.

The other prayer on my cube wall:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

Where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

and where there is sadness, joy.

Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console,

to be understood as to understand,

to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive,

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

This was the favorite prayer of one of my heroes in the faith, Joseph Cardinal Bernardin. I remember a story told about him in his final months, while he was dying of cancer. Some 20 years or more earlier he'd attended a meeting. The discussion touched on an area of controversy in the Church. I've forgotten the specific issue. The meeting grew contentious, and obviously neither side had moved the other. Those 20 years later, Bernardin called one of the women who had been at that meeting, on the side opposed to him. He wanted to make sure that she knew he still thought of her as a sister in the faith and a valued member of the Body of Christ, despite their differences. She was not a prominent person. There was no reason he should even have remembered her. He not only remembered her, he reached out to her.

I think of Pope John Paul II - a little too autocratic to make my heroes list, but he's close - visiting the jail cell of the man who had tried to assassinate him in order to forgive. Mehmet Ali Agca never forgot that. Nor have many of us.

I think of others among my heroes in the faith. I came to Catholicism as an adult. I was drawn to the Catholicism of Thomas Merton (a huge influence on me), of Mother Theresa, of Pope John XXIII. I hope I find and emulate role models in all of the ones I've mentioned.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. . .

Left? Right? Thoughts on false categorization

I think that the way one person perceives another's political stance depends as much on the stance of the perceiver as on the stance of the perceived.

Oh, geez, was that a convoluted sentence or what? Sorry! try again:

The way you see me depends as much on where you are as it depends on where I am.

A little better.

I consider myself a moderate liberal. A dear friend of mine, upon seeing that, noted that she sees me as being pretty hard left. I think it's more complex than that. I also think she'd agree that it's not quite so simple..

So, some left-right issues:

ABORTION: I am in line with my Catholic faith on this issue. I am opposed to abortion. This does not necessarily imply that I am in accord with all of the individual bishops on the matter. They seem to have quite the knack for making spectacles of themselves, to no useful end.

 But, to say that I'm anti-abortion oversimplifies a complex issue. Just to recall one "But what if. . ." issue: But what if the pregnancy is the result of rape/incest? Could you allow for the possibility of abortion for that circumstance? The answer to this question would depend on the reason for your opposition to abortion. If your reason is that abortion is taking an innocent life, then you must oppose abortion even in such cases. The fact that the mother was raped, as horrible as it is, does not make the baby any less innocent. Catholicism, and most Catholics I know, would permit abortions for rape victims, but our reason for opposing abortion is different. That's too lengthy and involved a discussion for this space.

And, oh yeah, about rape: I think the penalty for a convicted rapist should be life. No parole. First offense. Few, if any, exceptions. Again, a lengthier discussion than this space allows. I may be biased - dad to 4 daughters, grandpa to 5 (soon to be 6) granddaughters - but don't most people know what "NO!!!!" means from the age of two or so?

So, am I left or am I right? Liberal or conservative?

MILITARY: I want a strong defense. I served - Navy, as you may have gathered. My son-in-law is in the Army, and deployed right now. Many in the family have served in the military. We've got all the branches except the Coast Guard covered. I don't want the U.S. to be the people who hung a sign on their fence: "Beware of dog", then thought that they didn't have to bother with the dog. That dog is noble and protects, even to the point of self-sacrifice. I am proud of my service - again, you may have gathered this - and I couldn't be prouder of my son-in-law.

I got a little irritated a few years ago.when a group of talk show hosts - all conservative - went on a tour to visit service people deployed in the Mideast. One of the big talkers said something like, "I just wanted to put on the uniform of my country. . ." Yeah, big talker. Funny thing, guy: When you were 18 or 19 and it was the time that you could serve, you were somewhere else. Chickenhawks: Cheney, Limbaugh, et al. Serving - really serving - involves a hell of a lot more than just putting on a uniform. Radio Man had no clue about that.

I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy.

I see by your outfit you are a cowboy too.

We see by our outfits that we are both cowboys.

If you get an outfit you can be a cowboy too!

So, am I left or am I right?

WAR AND PEACE: I'm opposed to preemptive war, and I have yet to hear a compelling rationale for our having gone into Iraq. Here, I'm pretty clearly on the left. I identify with Thomas Merton. I understand that some wars must be fought, but I can think of few wars which, when traced to their origins, made any sense.

INFRASTRUCTURE: I do think roads need built and repaired. I think bridges need maintained. I think schools should not be left to crumble with students still using them.

Is that left or right?

By the way, how many free market economists does it take to change a light bulb? None. Market forces will compel the bulb to change itself.  (That was a joke, son.)

I think the government should pay their bills. That, I guess, makes me left. A definition of the Tea Party: the something for nothing crowd. The crowd that expects everyone else to lose benefits but "leave my Medicare alone."

To be sure, I do lean left. My position on the death penalty is in line with the Catholic pro-life position and the U.S. bishops (opposed; I won't repeat a previous blog post here). On immigrants, we have a responsibility to be more humane and human.And I do see the responsibility of society (the collective, if you must) toward the weakest, most vulnerable of its individuals. Mom and Dad may be deadbeats, meth dealers, whatever. This does not mean their kids deserve all the worst life has to offer. (Please note that I did not say that said useless parents had a right to raise those kids. Separate issue.) If you're going to be anti-abortion, you must come to terms with the fact that the kid you didn't want to abort deserves at least a fair chance at a decent life. There's no point in avoiding abortion if you're sentencing the baby to a short life, or to repeating the whole cycle. Again, all in line with my faith.

Labels are cheap. Labels are easy. Labels stop thought processes. Someone labeled Obama a  Socialist, and by golly he was - even if he wasn't - because once the label is applied, no further thought is needed for some folks. But, it's always, always more complicated than that.

Am I left or am I right? Before answering, make sure you understand your own perspective. Maybe it's best just to ditch labeling altogether, but this is the Internet age.

Thanks for hanging out for a few. As always, I'd love your thoughts.

Thoughts About My Church

Napoleon, speaking to a group of Roman Catholic church officials: "I will destroy your church!" (OK, OK, he said "Je detruirai votre eglise", but who's picky?) The response of Ercole Cardinal Consalvi, upon hearing this: "It won't happen. Our own bishops have been trying for 1000 years and haven't succeeded yet."

I am a Roman Catholic, and happy to be so. I find peace and contentment in my faith. I find an appeal to both my intellect, such as it is, and my emotions. At the level that matters, the Church does a great job of comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable. I love being what I am. I serve the Church in return, as best I can. I'm the Lector for the 5 PM Mass at St. Mary's, Davenport in April, July, and October. I am on the Parish Council for St. Mary's. Rarely does a day go by that I am not acutely aware of how blessed I am.

I believe in God, the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.

It's not as if the church has never had issues. During the tenth century the papacy was so corrupt that it was referred to as a "pornocracy." Later, during the time of Luther, the Pope was Alexander VI. Alexander had nine children by six different mothers. Yes, we've had our scandals, but we've been more open than most about bringing them out.

Heck, we even apologized to Galileo. It only took us about 300 years to get around to it.

So we have our issues. We always have. Jesus formed a perfect church, but then, in the only mistake he ever made, he went and let human beings into it. Dang.

I believe in Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, True God from True God, begotten, not made, one in being with the Father. . .

Yesterday I attended a Diocesan Planning meeting. The issue at hand was the changes that will need to be made to address the shortage of priests. The Davenport Diocese currently has 59 priests available for parish duty. In 10 short years, we project that we'll have 40. I don't know of many organizations that could well afford to lose a third of their best workers. The number of priests is dwindling, no doubt.

Yet one of the people at the meeting asked a question that should be asked: "What do we do to start planning for when we have too many priests?" Good question, and the questioner grasped something: The Catholic Church has survived 2000 years of cyclicality (if that's not a word it ought to be.) The pornocracy of the 10th century was followed by the Cistercians and Bernard of Clairvaux. The low points of the thirteenth century were followed by Francis of Assisi, St. Dominic, and the mendicant orders. And the time of Alexander VI was followed by St. Ignatius of Loyola and the Jesuits. The church has always found a way to live up to one of its mottoes: Semper Reformanda (always reforming).And, I am confident that there will be a time when the priest shortage will be a distant memory, then a footnote in the history books. Even now, there are regions in the world where there are more vocations to the priesthood than we know what to do with, and I'm told of a diocese in the U.S. - not one of the ginormous ones - that has 100 seminarians in the process.

A book I'd recommend: Graham Greene's The Power and The Glory. The society rejects the Catholic faith, in particular priestly celibacy. The priest is sought (and executed) because he observes that vow. The priest is called the "whiskey priest" - not a great recommendation -  but he stays faithful to what he knows. On his death, another priest gets off the boat.The message: we'll just keep coming.

We'll just keep coming.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the Giver of Life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son. . .I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church.

Thanks for hanging out for a few. As always, I'd love your thoughts.

Ramblin' around

This morning I went out and about for a bit.

I went to the Davenport Public Library to return some books. I had checked out two of them because I am having one of my periodic bouts of curiosity about my ancestry. I'm no genealogist, but I do know that my ancestry is largely German, and most of the Germans in this area are from the Schleswig-Holstein region.It's the part of Germany that is on the Denmark border. One of the books was a very small volume about the people who emigrated to the area as a result of the revolutionary activity in Schleswig-Holstein in 1848. They came here, speaking no English, and worked to build their lives here. Their kids were more fluent in English, but into the 1880s their newspaper was Der Demokrat. They were behind the founding of the Turners Clubs (Turnverein). It took three generations - or more - before the German was fully replaced by English. While this was happening, there were newspaper editorials decrying those who came to this country, took jobs, and didn't even bother learning English. Sound familiar?

After dropping the books at the Davenport Library I drove up Brady Street on the way to the Bettendorf Library. Great thing about a library card in the Quad Cities these days: with it, I can check books out from any public library and most college libraries in the area. The only holdout from the system is Augustana. God only knows what they think they can be so arrogant about. On Brady Street there was a sign that said "Garage Sale." Only, something else obscured part of the sign from my vision, so the sign looked like "rage sale." I wonder what units they'd sell rage in? "I'd like three of those little boxes of rage, please - I think someone's going to cut me off in traffic today." "OK, sir, but for just a little more you can have four of the big boxes of rage, and you can then be a member of the Tea Party!"

A little lesson in Realpolitik. Once someone is elected to office, their mission becomes to get reelected as many times as possible. Never mind "serving the people" or "getting rid of corruption." It's neither of those. It's, "I have power, and I mean to keep it." So, those who holler loudest about pork-barrel politics will be the biggest bearers of pork. (See "McConnell, Mitch".) My only question: do you think the Tea Partiers' candidates will be any different? Seriously? You see Rand Paul, when asked whether he would have voted for the civil rights measures in the '60s, waltz all around the question. A simple yes-or-no question, but the next day his people were accusing the interviewer of trapping him. Poor not-ready-for-prime-time Rand! Or you see Sharon Angle, when asked to explain one of her own comments, running from the reporter like someone had told her her shorts were on fire.

So what would you expect if you elect a lot of Tea Partiers? No more honesty - no cuts in budgets, just rearrangements - and a lot less smarts. Which may be what they really want.

I got to the Bettendorf Library. It's my favorite in the QCA - newer, cleaner, brighter than the others. You check out your books by scanning your card, then laying your books, CDs, whatever, on a table. You point to a screen to say whether you want a receipt. That's it.

One of the books I checked out is entitled 1688. Those familiar with English - or Western - history will recognize that as a seminal date - the year of the Glorious Revolution. I'm looking forward to the read.

So, thus goes my day on this cloudy, rainy, chilly late September day - one of those days when autumn shakes its wrinkled, crooked finger at us and says, "I'm back!"

Notre Dame-Stanford on now. It's refreshing to see two schools play whose athletes are expected to perform academically as well as athletically - whose students don't think "did that in high school" when they hear the word "graduate".

Differences between Notre Dame and Ohio State?

Notre Dame has class.

Notre Dame has classes.

And if She doesn't?

The other day I read a status by someone who's happy that God blesses those who do Her will. I was happy for this person. She's a family member, dear to her family and dear to me.

But what if God doesn't? What if? (Maybe Heavy Sledding Coming Up warning.)

The Wisdom literature in the Hebrew Scriptures seems to follow two tracks, and these would seem to indicate two separate origins. The inspired Word is, like any other writing, influenced by surrounding cultures, The dominant cultures in the ancient Near East were the Egyptian and the Mesopotamian.

Egyptian society was dominated by the Nile. The Nile flooded periodically, predictably. It left fertile silt for growing crops. It made irrigation easy. Egyptian wisdom literature seemed to be written with an underlying assumption that life is good - the gods are not out to get you. If you do what they want you to do, they will do what you want them to do. They will, unfailingly, take care of you.

You can see this strain of thought in The Book of Proverbs."My child, eat honey, for it is good, and the drippings of the honeycomb are sweet to your taste. Know that wisdom is such to your soul; if you find it, you will find a future" (24:13-14). You can also see the Egyptian influence in the Song of Solomon, with its beautiful portrayal of sexual love.

Mesopotamian society was dominated by very different rivers, the Tigris and the Euphrates. They flooded too, but much less predictably than the Nile. In good years, the Euphrates (the Tigris was unusable for irrigation because it  runs in a deep bed) flooded, and if the irrigation efforts were well coordinated a good crop could result. Other years, they would be all organized - only, no flooding. Other years, they would be organized, and the Euphrates would flood - and keep coming, and keep coming. In either case, mass starvation resulted.

Is it any wonder that the Mesopotamian societies thought the gods were out to get them? If you read the Mesopotamian creation account you see some similarities to the Genesis accounts (e.g., the seven-day time frame), but in the Mesopotamian accounts the creation of this world is a result of hatred - hatred toward the creation, warfare among the gods. In Genesis, the key differentiator is the phrase "and it was good." It's repeated like a drumbeat: "And it was good!" And forget that warfare among the gods. Genesis has only One.

At some point, the question arises as I asked earlier: "But what if you do everything God ever asks of you - and then bad things happen? What if you are God's obedient servant, yet the one thing you want most in life eludes you? What if you have what you wanted, and it's taken from you?" What if you're Job?

The Mesopotamian influence clearly shows in Job and in Ecclesiastes: "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity." And thus, the interplay between the two strands of thought: "If you do good, good will be done to you." "Fine - but what if not?" And here's the answer God gives Job: "Who do you think you are to even ask?"

Some years ago Rabbi Harold Kushner published a book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People. He posited three traits commonly ascribed to God: he is all-loving, omniscient and omnipotent. Kushner took suffering as evidence that we have to give up one of the three traits. Kushner gave up on the omniscience; he regards the universe as being a largely random thing. I am not there. I would rather think that I lack some understanding, rather then think of God as less than all-knowing.

Long way to say this, I know, but in the end suffering, pain, loneliness are a mystery. My question to myself: Can I make them into a gift to God instead?

Love your thoughts. Thanks for hanging out!

Book burning

I am thinking about that pastor in Florida who wants to burn the Q'uran. Then he doesn't want to burn it. Then he - well, he didn't really say he wouldn't, he just said he was suspending the event.

Please, Rev. Terry J. You've had your 15 mnutes of fame. You didn't deserve it, you've done nothing whatever to warrant it, but you've gotten it. Now get the hell off my stage. You're not worthy to have your 15 minutes extended, but you seem to want to milk it for all it's worth.

There are many considerations that  would make this action wrong. First, as has been pointed out by many who would know, we have troops in a place that would be terribly offended, even to violence, if this happens. If you thought there was an uproar over Danish cartoons of Muhammad, just wait until you burn Islam's sacred text. Pal, this isn't an abstract to me. I have a son-in-law of whom I couldn't be prouder who is deployed in the Middle East. If you put him in any more danger than he's already in, then may you roast forever, you sorry simple egotistical b-----d.

Gee, did my temper run away from me for a minute?

There is another reason that I don't want this person - or anyone else - burning Q'uran. I am Catholic, but not a cradle Catholic. I didn't come to the Roman Catholic Church until adulthood - age 39, to be specific. I have been in other denominations. I don't name those other denominations much. My reticence about them derives from respect for them. I am what I am for a reason. But, to say I'm Catholic and that I'm not whatever it is I used to be could be taken as a denigration - at least an implicit one - of what I was. And I will not go there unless pushed.

The way you identify yourself spiritually is very close to the core of who you are. If your core is different from mine, then we each owe the other respect to that core. If we're grown up enough about it, we even owe each other a celebration of the other's core. It means everything to them.

So I am not Jewish. I do not want the Talmud burned. (I don't want Torah or the Tanakh burned, either, but those are part of the Christian holy texts.) Many have died martyr's deaths with the sh'mah - from Torah -  on their lips: "Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One."

I am not Mormon. I do not want the Book of Mormon or the Doctrine and Covenants desecrated or burned. Although I do not regard these as sacred texts, millions do. Many of my family are among these, and they and their faith deserve my respect, and I hope they feel the same about my Catholic faith.

And I am not Muslim. I do not want Q'uran burned or otherwise harmed. It is the sacred book - near to the core of the values - for about a billion people. The huge majority are not the Wahhabi radicals; the nations with the largest population of Muslims are not even in the Middle East. You do Islam - and yourself - a disservice if you paint the entire Muslim world with one brush. You do not have to be a Muslim to respect their faith, values and lives.

And THAT'S why I have issues with the good reverend. Not that he would pay any attention.

As always, I'd love - and respect! - your thoughts. Thanks for hanging out for a few.

Rosh HaShana

L'shanah tovah! To a good year!

Tonight at sundown starts Rosh HaShana. It's commonly called the Jewish New Year, but the observance of this New Year holiday bears no resemblance to the noisy Bacchanalia that marks December 31 (or the regrets that follow on January 1) or the explosive celebration of the Chinese New Year. Tonight at sundown it will be the first day of the month Tishri in the year 5771.

Tonight at sundown - in these parts, just a few moments from now - starts Rosh HaShanah. It begins a ten-day period of somber reflection, of the recognition of where we have gone wrong - of resolving to do better. Christians who observe Lent will recognize the parallels. After the ten days, the Days of Awe, comes Yom Kippur and the party of all parties. But for now - reflect, repent, resolve to do better.

In that spirit, my apologies. I apologize if, at any time, I have belittled you, made you feel less than the wonderful human being, worthy of all respect, that I think you are. To my family, I am sorry for the times that I have been either emotionally or physically absent when I was needed. To my coworkers, both inside and outside of my company, I deeply regret all the times I have let you down, not been or done as you expected. To my friends, I deeply value your friendship, and I am sorry for every instance in which I have disappointed.

On a personal level, the upcoming weeks are a somber time for me, absent any religious consideration. Between September 12 and October 2 are the anniversaries of my Mom's death, my Dad's birthday, my mother-in-law's death and my Dad's passing. I try very hard to remain approachable during these weeks, but I know that I can be a bit more waspish than usual, more distant, less communicative. Again, I apologize to you if this affects you.

"Happy Rosh HaShanah" would be a terribly inappropriate greeting for this day. More common is the phrase I opened with: L'Shanah tovah. That's a short version of "L'Shanah tovah tikatev v'taihatem": "May you be inscribed and sealed for a good year".

So, from me to any who are reading, my wish for you: L'Shanah tovah tikatev v'taihatem.

Peace, and thanks for hanging out for a few!

Is it just me -

or did "normal" just. . .

I mean, we had a good start toward normal. My wife, my daughter Cheryl, and our grandkids Meri, 9,  and Logan, 6, were at the dinner table. Nice. Normal. Then Logan finished eating - that only requires a bite or two or three - and came around to the laptop that was on the table.

Isn't this where "normal" should come in? Was it so very long ago that this would have prompted a question - "A laptop what??" But normal went and moved on me. Now everyone knows what we're referring to as a "laptop". Who doesn't? I mean, gee, Grandpa! Get with it!

The next thing that struck me as not normal was a bowling game on said laptop. The bowling ball had eyes, and those things on the end of the bowling alley looked like people instead of bowling pins. Well, they used to be people. Now they're zombies, the stars of the Zombie Bowl-a-Thon. I kid you not. Sometimes the bowling ball shoots down the lane loaded with bees from a hive, and the zombies do their best to dodge not just the ball but also the bees. Other times it's Disco Zombies - the bowling ball with the eyes zings toward dancing Zombies. Again, I kid you not.

I don't know what we'd have called more abnormal - that Logan went on playing his game like this was all in the course of things, or the look on Grandpa's face while watching all of this. The latter was a source of great amusement.

Normal? I don't even own a cell phone. You know, those things you carry around in a suitcase? The phone's roughly the size of Cincinnati, so you get a crane to lift it up to your ear, and if you tilt your head just right. . .Ah - you mean I could fit one in my shirt pocket? And it can get me on the Web? (OK, all normal people my age, all together now: "WHAT Web!?") No one's even surprised by the power of those devices. We all remember when the kind of computing power in a very ordinary cell phone now would have taken up several floors of a sizable building. (Geez, Papa! For REAL?!)

Actually, I am gradually moving toward getting cell service (help? someone? Verizon? Sprint? AT&T is not a candidate.) But, no texting. (Texting? What - oh, whatEVERRR!!!) And I really have little problem with the idea of kids on the Web - supervised!!! But, I do have concerns.

I'm reading, not for the first time, Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. Will a kid who's only used to Web summaries ever manage that gem?

In Faulkner's The Bear there's a sentence that runs, in my edition, to nine pages. When I first read that sentence, I noticed pages and paragraphs sliding by before I noticed that there were no periods, no question marks or exclamation marks. Would a Web addict, used to having thought cut into bite-sized pieces for easy digestion, even know what that was about?

Heaven help the Webophile who tries to tackle any stream-of-consciousness material by Joyce or Faulkner. No chance.

I'm all for kids on computers. Meri and Logan know more about this technology than I did when I was in my 30s, and Vanessa and Jasper, also grandkids, can run circles around me. They're older, you know - 13 and 11.

But am I the only one who thinks that "normal" must have taken a hard, skidding turn somewhere. . .back. . .there?

Tony and Albert, how could you?

Today is the day Glenn Beck and his followers have their rally in Washington. I'm fine with that. The First Amendment, if it applies to any, must apply to all.

I do have a random observation or two. I noticed in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch that Tony LaRussa and Albert Pujols will be among the attendees. The article quotes LaRussa as saying that he accepted the invitation only upon being assured that this would not be a thinly disguised political event. Yes, the naivete was flowing thick.

Maybe LaRussa didn't catch the bias here because he shares that bias. LaRussa is a rare breed: a vegetarian Republican who chooses to live in Northern California. He is an intelligent, sophisticated individual and, normally, not afraid to engage in critical, independent thought. I am just wondering what kind of assurances would convince him that an event featuring Glenn Beck and Sarah "I quit" Palin would not be political.

Maybe they can pull that off. I'll be interested to see. Not interested enough to pay attention while it's happening, though.

I was amused to hear Mr. Beck's spokesperson say that Beck had no idea - not a clue - that this was the date that Dr. King gave his address. Yeah, I believe that. And pigs are flying right outside my window. You got a permit for that spot, on this date, and you want to tell us it was all coincidence???  Pulll-eeeeze. . .

Many have discovered a truth: if you are going to lie, lie big, bold, loud and often. Sooner or later, some folks will start to believe it. Lincoln said "You can't fool all of the people all of the time," but modern propagandists - Limbaugh, Human Events, anybody on Fox News - have realized that you don't need to fool all of the people all of the time. You only need to fool 51% on occasion.

So you want people to think that Obama wasn't born in the United States? Speak that lie often enough and loudly enough, and some will buy it. Never mind that birth certificate and newspaper announcement the day after. (Birthers. Geez. Can you see me rolling my eyes?)

So you want people to think that Obama is Muslim? One answer is "His religious affiliation is and has been openly Christian. Submit your proof." My preferred answer: "So what if he is? We have a new test for eligibility for office now?" (and, by the way, refer to answer 1.) Another lie - told often and loud, and therefore gaining traction.

And this event won't be political? We'll wait and see. Beck has said that he'll deliver his address from a few steps lower than the spot where Dr. King spoke 47 years ago. That's at least one appropriate concession.

One other observation: Mr. Beck calls this rally "Restoring Honor." I never lost mine. Sorry about Mr. Beck's. I think it'll take more than one rally to restore his.

Rarely has such a mellifluous voice as Mr. Beck's delivered as much BS as his does.

For My Granddaughters

Yes, you - Jada, Jessilynn, Kylie, Megan, Meri, Olivia, Vanessa (alphabetical order). You know who you are. Others may listen in. And, of course, you may chime in with praise of my great wisdom.

I have noticed that one of my granddaughters has given up on boys. She's 13. That's probably best. For now. And, since we are Catholic, convents are an option.

But - you'll probably say ix-nay on the convent thing. If your mothers had done that you wouldn't be here. So, maybe some things you should know.

Don't be surprised when you find that boys are incredibly immature and self-centered. Don't give up on them just because of that. Some grow out of it. Some don't. For boys at your age, it's impossible to tell which are which. Sometimes the great 14-year-old guy grows into the stubbornly selfish macho-acting-although-he-hasn't done-a-thing-to-earn it 18 year-old - you know, the gangsta wannabe. (Girls do exactly the same thing - at slightly different ages - but this note isn't about your relations with the girls.) So, don't be in any rush.

Mentally, emotionally, physically the guys are a little slower to mature than you are. If you're 13, don't expect any 13-year-old boy to be at the same level you're at. The difficulty - the ones who ARE at the same level of maturity as you are 15 or 16 - and those ones should not even be looking at a 13-year-old. This all does even out in the end - but it's kinda tough to deal with now, I know.

When CAN you tell when the guy gets over that "It's all about me stage"? Some never do, but by the early 20s the totally self-centered are pretty much set in their ways. Don't expect much change after that. If someone must have everything they want - can't take no" for an answer - can't discipline themselves - by the time they're 22, they won't be any less of a spoiled brat at 25, or at 35, or at 45.

See what I mean about not rushing? Have fun now - learn to relate now, but nothing serious before college. A lot - I mean a LOT - of college grads who have had lasting marriages met their partners in college. Don't let anybody put you in more of a hurry than you have to be or want to be.


And that boy that dumped you? Here's an exercise for you. Go outside on a 90+ degree day. Run a half-mile. Watch a drop of sweat run off your nose into the dust.


Any boy that would ditch a bundle of perfection that is my granddaughter isn't worth that drop of sweat in the mud.


I love you all dearly, and I am incredibly eager to see what great things you do with your lives.

The Clown of the Family

I have used this space in the past to discuss some aspects of addiction and alcoholism, and I do so again tonight. It's a subject I know a lot more about than I ever wanted to know.

There is a certain - irony? - here. I have long since stopped  treating my struggles with alcohol as a deep, dark secret. I have written about it here; I have spoken about it in church youth retreats (hear this message if you hear no other: THE ONLY DRINK YOU KNOW THAT YOU CAN CONTROL IS THE FIRST ONE YOU EVER TAKE. After that, all bets are off, unless you have an addict/alcoholic in your immediate family line. In that case, the bets are in, and the betting line is not in your favor.) I have given a safety training meeting at work on the subject, using my own experience as a backdrop.

If you hear a second message, hear this one: YOU CAN STOP! Genetics is not fate. At my low point I was living out of the back of a station wagon outside Ligonier, Pennsylvania. My family was back on Joliet. My last drink was December 7, 1985. I stopped and got my life back. You can, too.

Every time I have made presentations, or written something, my fondest hope is that everyone will say, "Had nothing to do with me. You bored me to tears." But, instead, every time, without fail, there has been someone who said, in one way or another, that what I had said or written has reached them. And I am very happy to know it. One of the things we learn in AA is that one of the important keys to us staying sober is helping someone else to do likewise. I and my family went through a lot. If I kept this among the secrets of my life, if I didn't try to help others in some way, our suffering would have been meaningless. (Suffering gains meaning by helping someone else? Wow - we're getting all philosophical here.) So, thanks for responding. Please know that you continue to be in my heart and in my prayer. And, as they used to say on TV, "Keep those cards and letters (and e-mails, and posting comments, and conversations) coming in, folks!" If I have said something that reached you - if you think that what I have to say is worthwhile at all - I'd love to know it.

In a previous posting I discussed the effect that addiction has on the families of the addict. We talked about the codependent and the addict, and how difficult it can be, once this family is in therapy, to determine who is in which role. This determination is made the more difficult by the frequent trading of roles between these two (usually the parents). We also discussed one of the types of children that come from such a family - the uber-conscientious, hyper-responsible people-pleasing overachiever. This person, usually but not always a firstborn, puts on the Supergirl mask so that outsiders would not guess about the family situation.

The second personality that often emerges from these situations is The Clown. The Clown has a great sense of humor, and is always ready to put on a show. He's always good for a laugh or a joke. This makes The Clown wonderfully popular, and The Clown seems to use humor to make his peace with life.

The Clown uses that sense of humor for something else, actually. This shows up when this family is in therapy. The discussion is getting intense and emotional. The family and the therapist are just about to confront something honestly (another key to recovery and healing is being honest with yourself) - right at that intense moment, The Clown decides to put on his show. The Clown's purpose is to distract the others from the subject at hand. The Clown has no intention of letting anyone know what this family's dynamic is.

It can be interesting to examine the interplay between the personality types. Often, Superkid is the firstborn. At some point, she will leave, usually at her earliest opportunity. Who, then, is going to care for everything at home? As often as not The Clown moves into that role.

It's easy to oversimplify this. There are Superkids and Clowns from families that are not touched by addiction. Just because you know such children, this does not mean there is addiction in the home. It just means that their personalities have formed this way. Children from addictive homes tend to have these traits on steroids - very intensely. But you don't want to get into amateur diagnostics. The human personality is a splendidly complex thing, to be loved and appreciated as a complex thing.

There's another personality type that often comes from these homes - The Lost Child - but that's for another day.

Thanks for hanging out for a few. I'd love your thoughts!

Humane to Humanity

As you may have noticed (or maybe you didn't notice), I took a bit of a hiatus. As they said in Poltergeist (slight paraphrase): "He's baaa-aack." I do have a few topics in mind, but I have been thinking about how to approach them with the sensitivity the topics call for. Racism is an example - did you seriously think it's dead and gone? Someone may need to help me out with this, but is DWB still an offense that will get you pulled over? But, as I said, I'm still sifting my thoughts on this. I'm not sure anyone - and I stress ANYONE - can claim innocence on this, least of all me.

Someone, in response to some earlier comments of mine, posted an article from Human Events on Facebook. Their comment: "For those who don't know what's happening in Arizona." I guess that was me. I'm not giving away anything you couldn't tell, but here's my bias: if your source is Human Events, you have no source. In this instance, Human Events simply published the Arizona law as passed and signed, showing modifications. I guess the part we were supposed to see was where it said that the officers are to pay no attention whatever to the race of the person being investigated.

Please - this isn't comedy. It really says that. So, if an Arizona law enforcer pulls over an Anglo, and this person does not have their drivers license, I am eager to see said Anglo taken in for investigation of immigration status. Oh, you don't think so? I don't either. I think said Anglo would get a ticket for driving without a license, and would have a court date. And that's it and that's all.

If the person pulled over was Hispanic - same offense, just forgot their driver's license - and spoke with an accent, that's when the full-fledged "papers please" process starts. There is, you see, "reasonable suspicion."

And, if it turns out that the Anglo is a citizen of another country who has overstayed her visa, and that the Hispanic is a U.S. citizen whose family has been there since long before Caucasian eyes saw the place - "Gee, sorry for the inconvenience."

So, I saw the part about race not being a consideration. You believe that? There's a bridge I want to sell you.

In today's Quad City Times there's an article about deportations of people who have been here, sometimes for years, often involving separation of families. Someone responded to another earlier comment of mine by pointing out that there is a petition process for such a situation. The reality on the ground: That petition process may take years. The family may be separated by deportation while in mid-process. Once the deportation has occurred the petition may become a dead letter.

My position is, I realize, subject to distortion. I see the ongoing flood across the border as a significant problem, and I would have little problem with the building of the fence. (I do, however, take issue with those who would want to find the money to build the fence, but can't see their way to extending unemployment benefits.)

But, for someone who has been here 20 years, who have families, whose other family members are U.S. citizens, isn't there some more humane way to deal with their status?

I would hope and pray so.

Pain From Loss

My first experience of loss occurred when I was in grade school. We had just moved from Davenport to East Moline. My school in East Moline was Hillcrest School. Moving was both exciting and scary. I had enjoyed my school time at Jefferson School in Davenport, but now I was going to be going to a new school where I was an unknown, where the social groups were already set. I think I took that move harder than I admitted to myself at the time.

The first person I encountered at my new school was the secretary. Time has cost me the memory of her name - was it Shirley? -  and that saddens me greatly. She offered a warm welcome and the boost that I needed to start finding some excitement again.

Within a year she was dead.

I remember the visitation that children in our school went to, at a church in downtown Rock Island. I remember the day as being ,cloudy,  threatening. Maybe that was just my mood. One of the brighter lights to that point in my life was gone.

Some years later I lost an aunt to heart disease. She was too young.

When I was 31 we lost our dad. He had two heart attacks within a month. When I am asked by a doctor if there's a history of heart disease in my family I answer, "Do you have a while?" When I was 43 we lost our mom. When Cindy was almost 31 she lost her dad. Just within the last couple of years Cindy's mom passed away.

We have lost more than one nephew under horrible circumstances.

Every one of these people were Mom - Dad - Grandma - Grandpa - Aunt - Son - Brother - Cousin - family - loved. The loss of every one of them caused unspeakable pain, a pain that seems like it will go on forever. Some time ago, a dear friend from work and I found ourselves experiencing family losses. The timing was eerie. I would lose someone, then within a month or so she would lose someone. Then she would lose someone else and, within a month, I'd lose someone else. It wasn't just the timing that was weird. It was that the relatives we lost were the same relatives: she lost a nephew, then I lost a nephew. She lost a mother-in-law, then I lost a mother-in-law. . .We went through about three exchanges like that. She and I agreed that we were funeralled out. No more! We promised each other!

It didn't work. My thinking about the subject of loss was triggered by the death of a sister-in-law, my wife's second-oldest sister, early Tuesday morning. She was only 62. It was sudden and unexpected, a complete shock. I can't say I knew her well. By the time Cindy and I married she was already married and had been living in Washington state for some years, but Cindy and the younger sisters looked up to her. In a family of 13 kids, she was the (rare!) quiet one, but she had her way of making her presence known. She was a mom to ten, one of whom has passed away. The other nine are all solid, responsible citizens. This loss hurts my wife far more than it hurts me. But it does hurt as the loss of any good person should hurt. Great wife to Bob, great mom to all her kids, great human being, a person who lived by her faith and found meaning in it. You can't ask more than that.

So, again, we experience the pain of loss. I've been through this enough times to know how this works. At first, the numbness, the shock. Then, the pain that becomes nearly unbearable, and seems endless. Someone, trying to be helpful, will say, "I know how you feel." No, no you don't. "God must have wanted another angel, so God took. . ." What kind of God do you believe in? I want no part of such a God! But then there's the true friend, the one that knows that what's really needed is for them to be there. Not to say anything - just be there. The touch of that hand means more than volumes of words.

Over time the pain does ease, and eventually you stop thinking about this person constantly. But, the agony never completely goes away. Some occasion will come up - a holiday will trigger a memory, a birthday will remind you, an anniversary brings back THAT day - and the pain is as bad as ever. It's hard to know this when you're in the middle of it, but over time the recurrences of the pain will become less frequent, the incidents will be milder. You may find your faith and your belief in the next life is renewed and more real than ever before. And, you can get to the point that, while there is pain, you can celebrate this person. The joy of having had the privilege of knowing them overrides the pain of losing them. And, hope refreshes. But, you never, ever forget, and that's good. We're human. We have memory.

As always, I'd love your thoughts. Thanks for hanging out for a few.

They don't call me Eddie Crocker. . .

 Something's burning.

Something's burning.

Something's burning,

And I think it's. . .

The pork chops.

This evening I was asked to help cook something. Horrors.

My history with pots, pans, stoves, ovens has not been a great one. Odd, because when I was a kid I took some interest in baking. (Yeah, I had my quirks.) I didn't do all that badly. I don't remember anybody running for the bathroom doubled over. I had no idea how much help my mother was in these endeavors. I was able to make my offerings with pride.

from some Hardee's commercials: "Without us, some guys would starve."

Soldiers who gathered  in England in preparation for the D-Day invasion recalled their diet: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, seven days a week, three meals a day. Many of these soldiers, for the rest of their lives, could not stand the sight of peanut butter.

I might have met that fate myself, and not because of any pending invasion, had I not met and married someone who could cook. We had four daughters, and they, for the most part, learned the fine art from their mom. Thank goodness!

On one occasion, when my wife was away due to her father's illness, I tried to cook some pork chops on the grill for our kids. I knew that I was supposed to put some foil on the grill. I didn't know that it mattered whether the shiny side was up or down. I managed to turn a bunch or perfectly good pork chops into hockey pucks. Our son threw one on the floor. It broke - the pork chop, I mean. Not the floor, although the outcome of the floor vs. chop conflict was in doubt.

I've turned chicken noodle soup into something - fried.

I've tried to boil water. Burned it.

So, imagine my terror when my wife called to me tonight. She was making something for our family reunion tomorrow. "Dear?" I walk fearfully toward the kitchen. "Yes?"

"I need you to stir these noodles until they come back to a boil." Then a pause. "Can you DO that??"

OH NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

Well, I did, and no disaster has occurred yet. What - you mean you can overcook those? Oh - BRB.

I'll be at the Iowa State Fair, working our pavilion from 4-8 PM on August 19, and from 8 AM-12 noon on August 20. So, which Applebee's? Yeah, it's the Embassy Suites I'll be staying at. No, I'm not going to try it myself. I'm into creating ashes, not eating them.

The Fourth of July

It's July 3, as I write. I can hear on the nearby streets the explosions of various devices. I'm not out there because after lo, these many years, I have concluded that my fingers are my friends and I'd like to keep them attached.

A little farther away, on the Mississippi River, the officially sanctioned fireworks display is being held. The fireworks are launched from barges on the Mississippi, and I hear that the Quad City Symphony was playing. I wasn't there, either. The older I get the more I hate crowds unless it's Wrigley Field and someone else is driving. And parking.

It's July 3. One day before the date we celebrate the beginning of our independence and two days prior to the celebration of a truly blessed event - my birthday. What!? - you mean all those fireworks and all that celebration isn't about ME!!??

Gee, all of that to get to the topic of the music. I would not be surprised if the Symphony played Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture tonight. Thanks to the Boston Pops, that piece is standard fare for this celebration. Am I the only one that finds it odd that we use music by a Russian composer, written in celebration of the Russian army's defeat of the French army to observe the independence of the United States? By most accounts Tchaikovsky didn't even like that piece of music very much.

The closing hymn for the 5:00 Mass at St. Mary's tonight was America, the Beautiful. The lyrics were written by Katharine Lee Bates. Ms. Bates was an English professor at Wellesley who in the summer of 1893 journeyed across the country. She went to Colorado Springs to teach a summer session. She was moved by the Columbian Exposition in Chicago, the "White City" ("thine alabaster cities gleam") and by the seemingly endless wheat fields of Kansas. The lyrics began to come together for her when she saw the view from the summit of Pike's Peak.

It has been suggested that America, the Beautiful should be our national anthem. I'd be all for that. As I write this I have, on my speakers, a rendition by the United States Navy Band and Sea Chanters. I've listened to versions by Lee Ann Rimes, by Willie Nelson and a number of friends, by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. My absolute favorite version remains the one by Ray Charles.

I can't help but notice that for every one of these artists this song becomes their own song.

And I can't help but notice that, for every one of us, America becomes our own country. And isn't that the beauty of it? We may not agree on everything. We may tire of the divisions while overlooking the freedom we have to have those divisions. It's messy, true - but I feel incredibly blessed to have been born in such a place. Thank you, God!

O beautiful for heroes proved

In liberating strife

Who more than self their country loved

And mercy more than life.

America! America!

May God thy gold refine

Till all success be nobleness

And every gain divine!

Thanks for hanging out for a few. Have a blessed Fourth!

Prayer and the pray-er

A theme that emerges a lot from my friends is that they would like their friends to pray for them, for some issue. It's not surprising. The people I hang with tend to be people with deep, abiding faith, and they know that I am such, also. And, so, I type on their post that I will pray for them.

Isn't typing easy?

Prayer, on the other hand. . .

Some examples: I pray for Kim and her daughter who have some difficult health issues. That prayer would be so empty, but I'm a dad to five, and I know the sleepless nights and endless worry. I can enter into their suffering, because I can identify. Typing is easy, but reminding myself of what that suffering was like, and thus pulling the prayer up from the depths of my soul, is something else again.

I pray for a former third-shift colleague who has battled some of the same health issues that I do, and has had a really (REALLY) significant new issue. Having been through much of that, I can pray for her from the depths. I hope you know that, even if I'm not with you, Pam, I am with you.

I pray for a niece (OK, technically a - niece-in-law?) who has had one child, is awaiting their second, and has had great difficulties each time. I've never been pregnant (how's THAT for stating the obvious?) but my wife and some daughters have experienced difficult pregnancies. I've never met Leah - I hope to some day - but I can pray from the depths because I've seen some of the problems of pregnancy up close and personal.

I have prayed for someone who works on the same program as I. Actually, I've prayed for her husband, who injured himself playing basketball. They thought it was a broken ankle. It wasn't, apparently, and we're glad. But, I tore a calf muscle once, and being immobile is pure misery. So, I pray for him, because of the misery. I pray for her, because my being immobile put those around me in misery.I'm guessing. . .

And I have prayed for my own family, in countless ways and for countless reasons. For myself, usually more than once a day, "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

I would not suggest that a person can't pray for another's issues unless they have themselves gone through those same issues. That would be nonsense. I don't see God keeping a reject file of prayer, and those having troubles would appreciate all prayer from anyone.

As I look through this list, doesn't it seem that it's a shopping list? "God, I want this, and that, and - no, not that grape jam, I want the strawberry preserves!" And, maybe if our whole prayer is "God, I want the strawberry preserves!" we don't hear God saying, "My plan is grape jam. Sorry!" Or - "The strawberry preserves were to be your surprise later."

A second method of prayer has been a blessing to me. It's not "I want, I want, I want. . ." I still do the prayer of supplication, because I believe in the power of that prayer, and I love the awesome God in whom I believe. But, it is so easy for that to become a one-way conversation. So the other method of prayer I've found valuable:

Just be quiet. Listen. Rest in the presence of that awesome, loving God.

This is, in my experience, a far more difficult prayer to offer. You create a quiet space. And then, quietly enjoy His presence. But then your own mind keeps making its own noise. Try it sometime. Just sit quietly, even for five minutes. It won't take that long for your own thoughts to pop up, seemingly out of nowhere, and you can't just shove them back into place. (The secret here: DON'T fight those thoughts. Just become an observer as they float by.)

You may find it useful to enter into this prayer by a slow, meditative reading of a passage of Scripture. This should not be a long passage - a chapter is too much - and you read it until some word or phrase catches your attention. Focus on that. Turn it over and over in your mind. Let it become your prayer word.

Much has been written about this contemplative type of prayer, or centering prayer, and lectio divina ("divine reading"), and I won't try to capture it all. It has meant much to me.

As always, thanks for hanging with me for a few. I'd love your thoughts! I appreciate all of the responses  to the posts, whether you agree or not. It helps me to know I'm not sailing these off into thin air.

Truly Random Observations and Musings. . .

. . .leading to no point in particular, but hey. . .

THIRD SHIFT: In one job or another I've been on third shift for seven or eight years. Those days are now done. I think. For the last year or so that I was on third we could watch TV. A little. Well. . .Not that I ever would. Nope. Not me. (Hmph.) During third shift by about three in the morning you realize that not only are your life and schedule all backward, but you're no longer even sure what they're backward from. You've either lost a day or jumped ahead one. You're so tired that your eyelids feel like boards and your face feels like drywall. Right when you're at your absolute worst the ad comes on the television. Lindsay Wagner, whose voice sounds like she just got up from a sound sleep - deep, thick, syrupy - talks about the wonders of that Sleep Number bed.It's just what a third-shifter needs to hear at that time of night. By the end of the ad we wouldn't even need a Sleep Number bed. Just a blanky on the floor and a coat for a pillow would do. Or the ad comes on for the sleep aid: "Only take ___ if you have eight hours to devote to sleep." You can only whimper "OK?!"

By the way, if you're trying to watch your weight, third shift is the absolute worst thing that could happen to you. Just sayin'.

A box of donuts almost got me killed one afternoon at work.

I got an e-mail from my U.S. Senator, Chuck Grassley (R-Iowa.) Haven't heard from the man for five years, but now he's up for reelection, so - well, you know. My computer labeled it "junk."

Smart 'puter!

I now work in the energy efficiency department for a midwestern utility. My job mostly consist of looking at a lot of rows of a lot of numbers. There are many people who do much more important stuff than I do in this arena. I'm proud and honored to have some as friends, Facebook or no Facebook. It amazes me that a small saving in kilowatt hours leads to a huge difference in the amount of noxious stuff that gets poured into the atmosphere.

I like that.

'Cuz I like breathing and stuff. Yes - breathing is good.(Don't tell the smokers that.)

ON MSN.COM: "Shipwreck discovered in Lake Michigan." So that's where the Cubs went.

TALK ABOUT BADLY TIMED COMMERCIALS. . .They run Viagra and Cialis commercials in prime time? Seriously? I wonder how many parents have had to have THE talk earlier than they wanted to because. . ."Mommy, that man has ED. What's that?" "OK I know you're six, but sit down. . ."

Well, enough random musings from me. I'd love your reactions.

As always, thanks for hanging out for a few!

Hello, young lovers

On June 21, 2010, Cindy and I will celebrate our 35th wedding anniversary.

Happy anniversary, dear. It wasn't until we'd been married 25 years that we really began to know what this means: I love you. And I love you now more than I ever have.

I've been around long enough to have observed this first point: Most relationships end badly. They do. And that's probably a good thing. It's a good thing to be sure that you're matched up with THE ONE before committing yourself permanently. Men and women being men and women, and hormones being hormones (OK, no one reading this needs THAT talk, do you?) carries the implication that you'll burn through more than one relationship before getting to THE ONE. That's all well and good.

I've been around long enough - in a 35-year-so-far marriage, after all - to know the second point: Relationships aren't easy. They are hard work. The initial glow doesn't last forever. The commitment does. In any relationship there will be times when you'll think that the only reason you're staying together is that commitment. We've worked through those times, Cindy and I. And now we have our 35 years together.

There will be mornings when you wake up, look at each other and say, "Who ARE you?" (Alternative version: "Lord, what did I get myself into?") There will be times when you don't even like each other much. But, if the commitment and vows are central for you you will work through those times.

There will be long hours and days spent in the hospital when the other is sick or hurt. There will be nights when the two of you are deciding who will spend tonight in the hospital with your sick child.

There will come the time when you realize that you're not as young as you were. Cindy married a healthy Navy guy. Now she's got a diabetic who has had open heart surgery and occasional difficulty getting around. We both know what the words meant, though: "For richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health. . ." Believe it or not, "in sickness" is usually easier than "in health." (I don't know how this happened, but Cindy stopped aging some time ago. She's still 30. I, on the other hand. . .)

There will be the times when you are responsible for kids, which carries agonies of its own. Then will come the time  when you're not responsible any more, and the pain is different, but there.

There's a lot of garbage to carry out - a lot of coupon-clipping and shopping the off-brands - a lot of dishes to be done - a lot of choices to be made when each of you needs to buy something, but you can only afford one of the items. It's difficult sometimes to compromise on what you want without compromising who you are. As you get older you get the knack. Trust me - we've worked through this too.

So, we've worked through all of this, and now we have 35 years. I'm only beginning to learn what I need to learn. But I know this:

I love you, Cindy. I can't wait to see what the next 35 years bring.

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

Dad's Day

I was six when this happened. We lived in an old house at 918 W. 6th Street in Davenport. There's not even a house there any more and the current use of that lot is more constructive than the existence of that house would be. It had two apartments upstairs that shared a bathroom. There was one apartment downstairs. If you had the downstairs apartment you didn't have to share a bathroom and you even had a shower in the basement. Later we moved into the downstairs apartment. We were living large, indeed!

When I was six I went to Jefferson School in Davenport. I was a first-grader, and therefore mature enough to be in the throes of my first crush. It was for Miss Takano, our teacher. She was from Hawaii, and I took to all things Hawaiian. I must have looked awfully silly, using a bath towel as a substitute for a grass skirt, hula-ing my way around the house. Yeah - "cute" my a**. . .If anyone has pictures, please burn them.

On December 24, during that six-year-old first-grade year, we awoke to find that the door to one of our rooms wouldn't open. Try as we might, we couldn't budge that door. We were sure that Dad could open it, but there was a mystery too: Dad was nowhere to be found. It didn't occur to me that it might not be a coincidence that Dad was missing and there was a door jammed shut.

The next morning, Christmas morning, when we woke up Dad had magically reappeared. And, lo and behold, the door could be opened. When we did open it, we saw something new. There was a piece of plywood. It seemed monstrous to me, but I think it was really about four-by-six feet. Maybe 5x8. Most of the wood was painted grassy green. There were gray-silver streets painted onto it. There were small buildings attached; Dad had built a little village on that board. There were railroad crossing signals where railroad tracks crossed the street. Yes, railroad tracks, from the model electric train that was also on the board.

To this day I have a thing about trains, and if there's a childhood hobby I'd take up again if I could, it would be model railroading.

Another experience Dad shared with me also involved trains. Many years ago a company in the Quad Cities - I do not remember who - sold packages for Iowa Hawkeye football games. The package included a round-trip train ticket from the Rock Island depot almost to the gates of Kinnick Stadium. It also included game tickets and a box lunch. We made that trip in two consecutive years. The Hawks lost both times. I am no longer a fan of the Hawkeyes (I don't hate them; I pay no attention to them.) I am still a fan of the memory. And there's still that thing about trains.

What follows is my opinion, based on nothing more than my observation. Of the four types of parent-child relationships it seems to me that the relations that cross gender lines are the easiest to understand and maintain. Not that these are easy in any absolute sense. Relationships, no matter the nature, are complex and require hard work. But, I think that fathers and daughters, and mothers and sons, understand each other comparatively well. Mother-daughter relationships can be a bit more difficult, but the hardest to understand of all of them may be the father-son relationship. I have no idea why. I can't substantiate that by research. My feelings won't be hurt if you tell me I'm wrong, or that your experience is different. But my Dad and I were certainly no exception. Neither are my son and I. I love both my Dad and my son dearly. We do try, and most of us get to where we should be. I just think the dynamics of that are really tough to grasp. It's the stuff of The Brothers Karamazov and Field of Dreams, not to mention the greatest of all short stories, the Parable of the Prodigal Son.

Dad never claimed allegiance to either political party. "Vote for the man, not the party," he'd say. But when he voted for the man it was Landon, Willkie, Dewey, Dewey, Ike. . .The one exception was in '64. He voted for LBJ because he couldn't stand Goldwater. Dad later regretted this. I voted for a Republican - Nixon - with my first vote for President. I have not since voted for any Republican. For anything. At any level. I don't think Dad put much of a stamp on me there!

There were other arenas in which Dad most definitely left his mark. Dad read the newspaper every day. He was a tool-and-die maker who could teach some civics teachers a thing or two. I skim - and sometimes more - six or seven papers a day. Dad would have done that, too, if he'd had the internet. We're both news consumers of the first order.

We both loved baseball first, with football a close second. Basketball and hockey? Something to fill time between the real sports. We both had a firm grasp of the history of the game. Ted Williams hit .406 with 37 home runs in 1941. Lefty Grove was 31-4 in 1931. Joe DiMaggio had his 56-game hitting streak the same year that Williams hit .406. The highest single-season batting average in the modern era was by Rogers Hornsby (.424). These days we would be astonished if someone hit .367 over a single season. Ty Cobb hit that over a 20-year career. These are things that Dad and I would both know off the top of our head.

We both valued concepts like work. . .duty. . .fidelity. . .honor.

We lost Dad in 1984. Our daughter Cheryl was eight; Becky was six. None of the others were old enough to have any real memory of him. I think of him frequently, and I miss him every time I do. In a very real sense I carry him with me still - with every step, in every gesture, with every glance.

This Father's Day, for those who still have your father with you, tell him you love him. Try to tell him how much you appreciate him. He may get all gruff and act like he doesn't need all that. He does. For those who have lost their father, the pain of loss never goes away. Your hurt is my hurt too. In the end the sweetness of the memories and the gratitude for their life and for what they shared with you will win out.

Thanks, Dad. I love you.

And thanks to those who've read this for hanging with me for a few. Love to know what you think.