NOT ALWAYS BETHLEHEM

Joy to the World…The happiest moment of all…over the miles…happy with your family and friends…warmest Christmas wishes. …decorate your holidays…brightens your new year…gingerbread wishes…Santa is good to you! I was picking out cards for my Sunday School class of eighty to ninety year old women. Thankfully, they let me act like the teacher but they do most of the teaching after years of experience and knowledge.

The time of year for good cheer. Celebration. Expectations. New life. Promise of hope. But we are not always headed to Bethlehem. Not our year to rush to the nativity and be blinded by the wonder. We are blinded by the loss of those we love. Sister, father, infant child. We are stopped by new diagnosis, repeat diagnosis, anxiety over uncertainty.

One of my ladies is in the middle of such upheaval. Slow in coming but fast in descent. After being their only ones since high school, sixty-four years of marriage will see them parted into two living situations. Neither one of them have ever lived alone. It will be difficult. Which card do they get?

Some of us are running a race. Dashing. Middle of the night. Clenching a bedrail. Heartbeat drumming in our head. Not blinking. Standing strong. Pushing adrenaline. Focusing. Holding. Comprehending. But not growing weary. Hanging on to stamina.

Others are not racing. The journey is long, step by step. Avoiding the cracks. Brick by brick. Stone by stone. Lifetime. One step forward and two steps back. Never ending. A moving horizon. Pulling a bag of rocks. Growing strength rock by added rock. But never fainting. Just one more step. One more word.

We think we are not going to Bethlehem. We are not into wonder or even desiring the feel of awe in our lives. The wonder of love brought to earth.

But we are in wonder every day. The wonder of a healthy child. The wonder of a good, healthy outcome. The wonder of a sixty-four year marriage. The wonder of the fit of a new job. The wonder of a friendship with a crisp ninety-six year old woman. The wonder of a blue sky. The wonder of a light switch. The wonder of a dog’s companionship.

Mary carried her burden over many miles, riding a donkey. Joseph hid his anxiety over the coming birth and the future of his little family. Shepherds grew weary working from sun up to sun up, sleeping in bits and pieces. Heavenly hosts spread their wings. A shepherds’ reward to hear them sing. Joy to the World.

“And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger.” Luke 2:7

God’s gift. Jesus. Bethlehem. Full of wonder.

THE WHISPERS

We've been without air conditioning for five days and no end in sight. But we haven't been too miserable. I've been drinking my coffee on the deck watching Pup zip around his yard. Crazy racing. His breed loves to run, ears flat and no feet touching the ground, chasing sheep in his mind. Admittedly, there are days when he is a challenge for this not yet older adult who has not had a puppy in fifteen years. He has finally worn himself out and is resting in the side yard, out of view. 

My ears perk when I hear a woman calling to Pup. Lost and found dogs posts are on FB every day. My heart stops at the thought of my new puppy being snatched. Still in my robe, I fly into the house to an open window where I can jump out into the side yard if necessary. 

Much to my relief, I find a woman dressed in work clothes, topped with a yellow hard hat. My pupster loves the attention but stays away from her as she works. I run into the house to get dressed. 

Working on the meter, she tells me she loves her job because of the animals she meets at job sights. Horses to cattle to pups. Whispering and petting them, getting them used to the idea of her presence in their spaces. When she mentions snakes my skin crawls. My one, absolutely without a doubt, feared breathing, slithering, swimming, hanging, sunning, rattling, living creature. She doesn't like spiders. Spiders don't bother me. I would almost faint to see a snake.

She goes to get her leather work bag sitting on the roof of our old doghouse. 

"Oh my goodness. You have a baby bat clinging to the house." I lean out the window. Yes, a baby bat is clinging to the outside of my house. Not only is she a horse whisperer but also a bat lover, having raised raised baby bats before.  She can't take this one with her because she is in a motel. The next time you stay in a motel try to envision a little cardboard nursery of bats being nourished with a medicine dropper on the counter where you brush your teeth. I appreciate her restraint.

She studies the baby bat and says it has been fed recently. The mother must be nearby. Suddenly, I am getting much more information on the bat world, remembering they are mammals just like the two women standing over this little wonder. 

She turns back around to get her bag for the second time.

"Oh my gosh," with a tinge of horror in her voice. This is not a good sign. Five dead baby bats are scattered across the doghouse roof which we now realize is covered in guano. She says this is serious. I must call someone to come out and remove everything. She leaves me with the baby bat clinging to the wall. My Monday totally changes.

A wildlife agency gives me a number. I call that person, who is standing out in her fields and has to go find her husband to see if he is available. They can't help but they give me the number of the person I call The Bat Lady. We begin a texting relationship, I prefer voices on telephones but when you may have an attic full of bats you are very compliant with the person who is an expert. 

She rescues skunks and bats. But loves bats more than anything. This is an unsung hero spending her time relocating bats and educating the public on the humane ways to remove a roost. Most people do not have good stories to tell about bats. Just like the curiosity before a big surgery, knowing more about this bat situation is not comforted by Googling.  

She texts me and asks if I can contain the baby bat into a box and meet her in a nearby city. I confess. This is something I cannot do. My grandparents had a very old two story house complete with a tower room topped by a golden dome. It was a magical home. 

But the last night I slept in our beloved family home, the smell and sound of the bats living in the hiding places was scary.  I didn't see any bats. It was like the anticipation of The Birds except with The Bats. I went to sleep with a flashlight in my hands.

There had been bats inside the house. The Sheriff had been called one night to "save" two old ladies, my grandmother and her friend. They had been getting ready for bed when a daring bat begin to bat across the large bedroom. Without a thought, these very old ladies dove beneath the top sheet of the bed like sixteen year old girls. One of their brave hands reached out for the phone. There was precedent for visitations.

I just have a thing about bats. But looking at the little baby clinging to the wall perked my curiosity. Unfortunately, by early afternoon all signs of baby bats were gone. Even though I had gone ahead and called the Wildlife Lasso.

His large "over hill, over dale" truck filled the driveway. He kept it running because his brave dog sat in the front seat. Or I guess in case of a bat or wildlife escape. It was like having Crocodile Dundee standing in my yard. We went east to the sight of the discovery.  Hmm. Then we walked west to the other eave. The Bat Lady had recommended this man for his humane way of dealing with animal nuisance situations.

Yes. We had bats. He suspected a temporary nursery on the east side. Not sure but maybe a few on the west side. No way of knowing until he could get on a ladder. He sent a tall, skinny son later that day to go into the attic. Thankfully, thankfully their were no bats in the attic which meant none in the house. 

The best news of the day was the life cycle of bat life. This was the birthing time for bats. Not all bats are endangered but an attic full of purposely deceased bats was a horrible situation and one you don't want to know about. According to The Bat Lady, I did not want to experience even one bad error. 

Actually, the most crucial and important news was the babies and mothers could not humanely be removed until the nursery was not necessary. Baby bats don't fly immediately. Flight is necessary to leave the eaves. Maybe entertaining for six weeks. I think that was the best information of the day.

The thought of my new puppy running around the yard. Ick. I was considering temporary fencing to keep him out. He was curious. What could we do about any of it except enjoy our luck?

We sat in the un-airconditioned house. At bedtime we shut seven windows. Two had no screens. Those were shut. A cool, early summer made the nights pleasant.  

Bright and early but not the crack of dawn, Mr. Wildlife Lasso came by to assess the situation. The west eave was the quaint roost of seventeen bachelor bats.  Which is interesting in that the east eave had a nursery with mother and babes numbering about seventy. The Gentleman's Quarters could be removed but the Babes in Toyland would remain until further decisions.

I really have not been scared of these bats. Like my baby sister comparing an ancient volcanic mountain while hiking in Colorado, "Mama, it's more scared of us?" These bats are not out to get a human although much lore is built up around them. The Lasso Man did tell tales of homes in the oldest part of town with hundreds of bats. That would be hair raising.

Hair raising. One of the terrors of being near a bat. Especially if you have lots of hairspray on. A bat could fly into your hair with totally ulterior purposes. Your neck is nearby. Two tiny bites is all it takes to become the walking dead marching with the Devil. 

But this little baby bat clinging to the side of my house was fascinating. I could see him breathing and the formation of his muscles. He even had little fingers and toes. As we say, he had all of his parts. Really a marvel. 

Mr. Wildlife Lasso had good news at first. But upon further inspection my nursery held about seventy bats. The amazing thing was this was a temporary roose. He said that one of our neighbors had a serious problem and the bats were being pushed out into temporary roosts because of overcrowding. Somehow the idea of overcrowding bats hanging in the attic does make your skin crawl.

Our baby bat nursery was quickly solved one night. He said they just packed up and moved out. The little fellows could still hold tightly onto mother. If the Gentleman Bats lived at the west end and seventy moms and tots were on the east end, does that make them Lady Bats?

Thankgoodness our situation was easily remedied. 

The air conditioning took another few days. I went around blessing every inch of manufactured air. In relief, I went to shut the window blinds. It was then I realized that for all of this time, my nice big window with no screen was wide open all day long, just under the bat nursery. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the day going around the house shaking curtains and peeking in tiny crevices. But if you see the Sheriff's car at my house some night, you will know... 

RETURNING: AN ODD COUPLE AND THOMAS WOLFE

Gurgle, gurgle, bump,bump.  Drippy, drippy, drip, drip.  This is the sound of my magic elixir machine brewing the pot of liquid jolt necessary to begin my day.  Maybe not necessary.  I can jump out of bed and function in an emergency situation but not by choice.  In that case, I grab a cold Red can from the fridge and perform the same task but with a cold start.

I remember drinking my first samples of coffee when I was very, very young at my great-grandmother's house.  Maybe I was 4 or 5, with just as many tablespoons of sugar and milk and a couple of dollops of hot coffee.  She had the cutest little wooden spoon holder of a Dutch boy and girl.  That is a place I would love to go back and visit.  What a great way to get hooked on caffeine.

When I was growing up, caffeinated beverages were a treat, not a daily part of my life.  Even though my grandparents owned a hotel and had a cold drink box in the corner of the lobby, I had to ask permission before I could reach my hand into the freezing water and retrieve a bottle.  When I was six, we took our first big camping trip to Colorado.  I had my first fountain drink of Coca-Cola (nectar of the gods).  Being in the mountains, this new type of drink became a "mountain" drink in my vocabulary.  

My serious coffee drinking began in seventh grade using freeze-dried nuggets.  It is a wonder that I kept drinking the stuff.  I do keep a small jar in the pantry for cooking purposes or to grab for the allusive camping out experience, just like the plastic box in the garage containing all items required to equip a camping kitchen big enough for a small regiment.  Always, the just in-case, never must throw out or give away an item that may be necessary if a camping excursion were to commence on a moment's notice.  This is required to keep an old Boy Scout in good standing.  And the sleeping bags of uncertain condition after twenty years of little use.  I have become a real bed person.  Tie that to the top of the car.

Speaking of travelling like the Joads.  Once on vacation in Washington, D.C. I remember all of us climbing out of our brand-new minivan, which was packed to the gills.  Burt had just managed to park the car, which is no small feat in that city were the majority of the vehicles are small and convenient.  When travelling there, one will notice the rarity of the SUV's, trucks and vans that we Southern folks are partial to. Our niece was also travelling with us.  Princess and her cousin had been fighting over who was sitting where, almost for the entire trip.

A couple of  "sophisticated" young Washingtonians walked by and laughed, remarking about our license plate and the President.  It was a very tacky thing to do, especially to a tourist but more is the pity.  Afterall, I doubt they had ever been to the President's birthday party or stopped to offer him a ride on a cold January morning when he was jogging.  Bless their heart.

We had more camping equipment than luggage.  On the return trip home we were driving through the Carolina's and we already had a camping spot picked out.

                                                   An earlier trip to Carolina


Burt had only heard tales about this magical nook, the world's most beautiful camping spot, nestled in the mountains.  Away from the dirt-packed campsite, a green lawn of  moss led down to a cold, mountain stream which shimmered when a slice of sun filtered through the trees, reflecting off the smooth chips of Mica glistening   Nearby, a small swimming lake held waters too cold to swim in, even in August.  A bath house offered showers so frigid that young children were not required to bathe, especially after the experience of a screaming mother.

My family made the trek twice to camp in this very same spot.  For many years, we exchanged Christmas cards with a neighbor camper, a woman who pitched a tent in that same beautiful glade, and resided there as long as the NPS would allow.  Despite our best preparation, the rain would keep us away from the hallowed campsite on this trip.  Hopefully, Burt will someday get the chance to set up camp there.

When one is driving home from Maine, a diversion through the Carolinas is a must.  And a blessing in disguise.  My mother, father and I had not traveled this scenic route in decades.  The road wound along the very edge of a rushing mountain river full of boulders that looked like a gully God had rolled His marbles down just to see where they would land.  A metal guard rail clung to the most precarious edges as the curves prevented any high speed.

We saw the sign for the swimming lake first.  It still looked cold.  The bathhouse was still standing.  We got back into the car and drove to the campsite.  The Thursday afternoon was fairly quiet and not yet impacted by the certain influx of campers that would soon seek a beautiful October weekend.

I pulled into the parking spot beside the campsite.  Decades of growth had encompassed the site and with all things when looking back, the place seemed smaller.  A favorite of my father, native son Thomas Wolfe said, "You can't go home again."  And it is better not always knowing, the last.

But with memory, I walk the laurel-lined pathways of the campground of happy times.  With my sister, my parents and my cousin.   I see tiny garnets shaking together in the bottom of a cup.  The smell of carrots, corn, onions and potatoes cooking with hamburger for our camping goulash.  The feel of the slips of mica peeled away in delicate layers, a fairy's mirror.  The gurgle of a moss-banked stream and water too cold for feet.  But the perfect temperature for submerged cans of sweet refreshment.  Tucked into a warm sleeping bag, the sounds of the night in low voice.  Just in sight, on the other side of the table, my parents sitting in folding chairs with their feet propped on the outside rocks of a campfire, each cupping a small, plastic cup with steam rising, and the smell of coffee on the camp stove, as they each pause and take a sip between the words of their life's conversation as it drifts high into the trees, forever caught in the canopy of this magical glade.



signed,

a woman who will return


Originally published  September 14, 2013




I am not the Queen of Pumpkin in October. But recently a pumpkin flavored coffee at Fresh Market hopped into my basket in all of its shiny orange seasonal festoonery. Decaf Pumpkin Spice. I am a purist for milk in my coffee. Skim milk. Basic. Simple and not syrupy. But while at the grocer yesterday, my eye fell on a piece of possible luxury. Acutally decandent luxury if you knew how much it cost. But it was my beloved Starbucks. Drinking this would be cheaper than drive thru every few days. I took the leap and purchased the Starbucks Creamer Cinnamon Dolce Latte. The two put together are the essence of a fall evening. I will be spending many a night on my deck, with my feet up, sipping this concoction as the nights grow still. Before too long, I will be wrapped in my afghan basking in the cold after our long, hot summer, warming my hands around my nice, hot cup of coffee.

SAYING GOODBYE TO GOLD CASTLE

Memoryland. 

As far as my eye can see, spread out on tables under the dappled shadows of a finally sunny day. Inside the house, the chairs and sofas and cabinets of my lifetime, much of them purchased by my parents at an estate sale after they moved back from Morocco. I accidentally kicked something. I looked down. My mouth dropped open. 

Seeing the flat metal knife and fork are an instant pricking of recall. I'm standing at a concrete picnic table. The water is boiling in the big bucket, dinner dishes waiting for the spot of dishsoap which sweetens the air. Or the removable pot clamp clinched to the side of a skillet bubbling with goulash. Or white plastic coffee cups, unnested, filled with milk, waiting, placed beside four plates resting on the red gingham oilcloth, each sided by a paper napkin and a flat green fork on the left and a blue knife on the right. Bread and butter centering the table. The tiny goulash potatoes finally soft. The next day, every implement is packed up inside the big water pot, sealed shut. Daddy is loading up the trunk, a puzzle he re-creates every day, following a map down a road my Mama has picked out in February in Dallas during a cold spell. 

To Colorado. Nevada. Oklahoma. Fort Pickens State Park and a waterspout. Leaving beautiful Biloxi Beach the day before Camille.  Warm Springs, Georgia. The laurels of Highlands. The dunes of Kitty Hawk. Grand Canyon. Rocky Mountain August. Our family of four breathes vacation two weeks every summer.

Wow. There is our camping gear opened to show the offerings. I didn't catch this one. I am standing in my Mama's front yard. The lucky, appointed family member to watch as the world comes in and swoops up the leftovers of our life. My mother owes me a million bucks but I don't want her to be here. All of these items were of great value to us but to others, great captured bids and deals. The woman who bought my great-grandmother's china, Gold Castle, said she was eager to take it home. My Mimi had purchased the china, piece by piece at Kress Five and Dime a very long time ago. The new owner should make me happy. At least, I didn't cry.

Thursday was the day for tears. And it was raining and storming but we drove down anyway. My parents lived in their home for thirty years. I had just become a new mother when they re-located to the southern part of the state. My sister and I were thrilled to have them only an hour away. The lack of distance had saved all of us, many a time.

Mama and I and Glory, my new pup, walked through every room. Many of the sale items were in boxes, on the floor or on the furniture. The electricity was still on but not every room had lamps. The draped and shuttered windows squelched out even the dismal day.

Every room, every drawer, every closet. We weren't looking for things missed in our packing. Just go in your favorite room and imagine the leavings, the items you couldn't squeeze into storage or stuff into another box or pawn off onto a millennial child. Even the gleanings could hold the best. The best of things.We had had the best of things. 

The fifteen color designer wall paper in the computer room. A week of chickenpox. Two heads leaning in, looking at their first computer.  

The guestroom of a million guests - family and friends feted and dined in style. A room of relaxation with a sticking door. A retreat from the holiday festivities or funeral visitors.

The hall bath, with a huge mirror and vanity lighting, had been in its prime thirty years ago. Two families could lay out makeup bags and toiletries. The world's best shower head that we had "argued" over, who would get it in the will.  But no will in this departure. She wouldn't let us take it out and replace it with a newer, weaker version. Maybe the new owner didn't even know his shower of luck. 

Now my mother was leaving behind the best shower ever. And a yard full of tall trees and sticks and more sticks. Must not have sticks in the yard. The exercise of bending over and over and cracking the bigger ones with her foot. A full garbage can of stuck up sticks dragged to the curb. The forlorn piece of ground ringed with brick where dozens of  Apricot Beauty tulips had slowed traffic in annual around town spring sights.

She was emphatic she was not leaving a place. Her house was still her home, she still had friends to call on and she could still be sitting on the front row of FBC even though she did not agree with the SBC. She has always been fearless even when awakened by the City's Best at 3 a.m. on her front stoop. Wrong house. She was not leaving in fear. I believe her because I know her. 

Just like her mother, she has always been business minded. And fiercely independent. But much more pragmatic. She has chosen to move on her timeline. She will tell people her children "made" her move. That is a popular sentiment in the retirement community. But in her heart, she knows it was a decision she made and for good reasons. Primarily, for her eye. And also because she secretly knows a steady diet of Cheetos and walnuts washed down with Coca Cola and followed by a Magnum Chocolate Bar is not healthy. Maybe it helps that I am now ten minutes down the road but do not think for one minute she has not already driven to Walmart and Best Buy. I love this about her.

The living room was dark, no lamp or overhead light. Thankgoodness. I lost my mascara just sitting in one of the Ethan Allen wing chairs my parents purchased when I was seven. I was proud of those two chairs, even then. I hated not having a place for them in my house. Of course, does anyone really want to part with all of these things. But not things. My tears flooded my face. Glory looked up at me. I cried to say goodbye to every person I had loved since seven. Every word, some good, some bad. Every book. Every picture. Every nap. Every kiss. Every prayer. The room was full. The chair was full.

I was determined to eat one last meal on my beloved mahogany dining table with eight chairs plus leaves. I always dreamed of having it in my own dining room, designed by my architect husband just like Architectural Digest.  If I could offer my Mama a bribe. I would imagine it set with my china and the new fabric I would use to cover the seats. Most of all, the simple, elegant family dinners - just like Mama's. I would never forget the dinner my parents gave for our pastor and his wife, when I was little. While Dr. Howard stood very tall in the pulpit, Jesus towered over him in stained glass. It was almost like having Jesus at the table. My last supper was Popeye's Chicken. I don't imagine that table had ever had a chicken breast and a biscuit. My Mama doesn't fry chicken.

Despite all of Daddy's scrambled eggs and buttermilk fudge, Mama's Pot Roast and summer vegetables and chocolate pies and Billie's unforgettable, exquisite ham, the kitchen was unmovable. It did have one of the three house windows not painted shut which made it an exit, onto an ancient sofa about eight feet down from the sill. If you made it to the kitchen.

The laundry room smelled of Tide which we are still wrapped up in with every step in life. The back of the laundry room door marked up with pencil. The lines and dates of three grandchildren and the running race of heights in a competition dependent on spurts and calcium.

Much of Mama's bedroom furniture was a part of the auction. The room didn't look empty. She took her favorites to furnish her new apartment. I don't feel sorry for her and her balcony overlooking a park. I am concerned about the cat but that issue depends on how high is too high.

The master bath's only claim to fame is the other window which is not painted shut. The exit in case of emergency. The third and last exit is in the bedroom. But in fairness, it is a cheap security system. No fancy screens or storm windows. Just break the glass in case of emergency.  

The closets aren't big but are lighted when the door opens. Louvered doors. A very high end part of the house built by a builder known for solid, comfortable homes. I stepped inside Daddy's closet, remembering all of the crisp cotton shirts, fine wool suits and natty ties which made up his work uniform, always the best advertisement for the quality of The Store. Nothing in excess but everything the best. He would be lecturing me right now about the state of my excess.

At night, when the doors are bumped, the light comes on. My mother asked him what was going on. Daddy said he'd fallen and wondered what time it was. She asked him curtly, why do old people always want to know what time it is in the middle of the night? She got out of bed and sat down next to him. Nothing was hurting him but they agreed the two of them could not stand up and get him into the bed. She made a call. Help was on the way. Waiting on the floor, I imagine they were talking about sticks in the yard or his next dialysis. Since second grade, a never-ending conversation more breathing than words. Then the flurried arrival of the paramedics who could see a situation going south. Mama said "Darling, I'm calling Amy." The next couple of minutes he lay breathing quietly on a gurney, covered by a blanket. She looked in his eyes and told him, Jesus is coming for you. He believed.

It is not the things we can't stand to let go, although at some point in my auction I wanted to start grabbing things and run people out of my house so I could just sit in the wing chair and lose every tear in my body. We can hold a thing or nail it to the wall or bring it out of a pretty box for the holiday. But it's the place, the where, the first, the last. The air and the slant of the sun or lighted stripes falling out on the rug at 3 o'clock in the morning - I want to grab. The sacred minute which is not mine to hold but will always be there a few feet from the closet. The life experiences which take our breath away. The wonder of a well-loved home.

WHEN I GET TO HEAVEN

Martin Luther King, Jr., radical prophet and preacher, is one of the first people I want to meet. I will probably have to stand in line. He dared to have a dream for change in a never-ending storm. His God-given hope and direction called people to stand for right. 

In my earliest years, I do remember watching riots on the television and seeing dogs attacking people and water being used to subdue and disperse crowds.  These images were disturbing for a child.  One of the best gifts my parents gave me was a love for all people and a living example of The Golden Rule.

When Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot, I asked my mother what a negro was.  She told me that M. was a negro.  M. worked for my grandparents and I had known her all of my life.  “Oh, her skin is just  a different color.”  I was already being raised to judge a person by the content of their character.

Although it was not for good, I have been judged by the color of my skin.  Neither were pleasant experiences and both were desperate attempts to gain power.  One was to make sure I was white and the other was because I wasn’t black.  This was at a time of great racial tension in the education system, when integration and busing were struggles in every community.  I was living in a different state each time.

In this day and time, I think most people have been judged by the color of their skin.  Our country has a rainbow of colors.  A few years ago, my family toured The King Center in Atlanta.  For me, it was a reverent time, reminding me again of the importance of Dr. King’s message. 

I stood in line that day in Atlanta, waiting to sign a book of reflection.  A young African-American woman was in front of me, writing a few sentences.  She stepped away from the book. Imagine my shock when I looked down and read her racist comments.  I wrote a few words and came away, amazed that she didn’t get the message which was all around her.

But now, thinking about it, I should not be surprised.  So many things have not changed, especially in the South. 

Every Sunday morning, good Christian men tuck their shirts into their pants, held up by the Bible Belt of the South.  I have heard their ugly whisperings, directing their hate at an image on the television, judging a man by the color of his skin.  However, their judgments are made impotent by the lack of content in their character.  These same men and women lifting their praises to God on Sunday and  whispering their racist bitterness at lunch the next day.

Many years ago, a senator from Illinois came to town, stumping for a fellow politician.  My Daddy had been following the politics of this young man.  We sat on the steps of the Capital, at the foot of the casual podium, listening to this brief speech.  When you are close enough to hold eye contact with a man, in that brief second there is a bond of relationship.  My Daddy began the last year of his life watching this Barack Hussein Obama take the oath of office as President of the United States.  My father cried tears of joy.  He carried a New Testament in his briefcase and The Prayer of St. Francis in his wallet.  And Jesus in his heart.

Despite the progress made, the sky has never cleared completely, clouds linger low on the horizon. But hope is born everyday. The children are the answer. They do not describe or define a friend, teacher or a man walking down the street as black, white, Mexican. 

Love is the answer today just as it was fifty years ago.   And every day is an opportunity to act on the dream where all are created equal.

Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi

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.


O 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. Amen