Six years is about to pass. The son knew what the dad could not comprehend. They knew what they knew and did what they could with what they had. With firmness of a wise man, the son limited the choices but not his father's dignity. Letting go the dad stopped fighting and he let the ego rest.
With the first step of a lifetime journey he knows peace. God is doing for the father what he could not do for himself. A final Christmas gift from one son to a grateful dad.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Sunday, December 05, 2010
A Long Walk
I finished a long walk following a river through a frozen marsh. The river wanders attentively deficient, probably distracted by the slim tributaries that sporadically feed it ideas. Doc, a Chesapeake Bay Retriever who owns me, was trudging a few paces in front of me. The crunch of the cold apple didn't catch his attention and Doc likes apples as much as anything and he knows when I'm eating anything. The second bite I took to share a chunk. I looked at my big headed, four legged pal and said, "Aaron,ah Patrick, er DOC!" Where did that come from?
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
The Band Perry - If I Die Young
The sharp knife of a short life...funny how when you die people start listening.
Every time I want to hear this song all I have to do is turn on the radio and search the stations. I wonder if it works like that for everyone who misses a son or daughter.
www.AaronsHouseMadison.org
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Who Is This God
They said their prayers, on their knees, at their beds. All of the family members were remembered as they asked God to hear their prayers. From hut, house, mansion, or cardboard box, prayers are offered to a God as the sun sets around the world.
Who is this God? Is he the God who causes the pain that sends a child to a hospital or is he the God who created the doctors? Is he the God who let's a child walk out healed, or is he the God that allows the parents to leave alone. Is he the God who answers prayers with miracles or the God of No? Is he the God who answers the teenagers prayer for a car, or the God who denies the Mothers prayer to keep her son safe on the highway? Is this the God we ask for peace or the God who who lets our sons and daughters be damaged and destroyed in war?
Maybe this is the God who is alone with us in times of deep sorrow and humble joy. Maybe mercy and moments of peace in times of great sorrow and joy are the miracles and blessings of God. And that's enough.
Who is this God? Is he the God who causes the pain that sends a child to a hospital or is he the God who created the doctors? Is he the God who let's a child walk out healed, or is he the God that allows the parents to leave alone. Is he the God who answers prayers with miracles or the God of No? Is he the God who answers the teenagers prayer for a car, or the God who denies the Mothers prayer to keep her son safe on the highway? Is this the God we ask for peace or the God who who lets our sons and daughters be damaged and destroyed in war?
Maybe this is the God who is alone with us in times of deep sorrow and humble joy. Maybe mercy and moments of peace in times of great sorrow and joy are the miracles and blessings of God. And that's enough.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Harvesting Memories
Last sounds of mowers
through open doors.
Sights and sounds of young sons,
in my mind.
Harvesting memories
blurred by puddles.
through open doors.
Sights and sounds of young sons,
in my mind.
Harvesting memories
blurred by puddles.
Monday, September 06, 2010
Depths of Grief
In 2005 I bought a book to understand this blogging thing people were talking about. My first entries were about ideas related to an attitude of abundance. I knew so little. Maybe I learned the door to deeper understanding opens whether you nudge it, push it, or decline to open it. All that's required for the opportunity is to stand at the door.
"Abundance" became a way to say, from the depths of grief, goodbye and I love you. Five years and four months later I may not yet be ready to say goodbye. A photo in the paper this weekend of a DeForest football player in your 15 jersey choked me. It's fall and I will always love you.
"Abundance" became a way to say, from the depths of grief, goodbye and I love you. Five years and four months later I may not yet be ready to say goodbye. A photo in the paper this weekend of a DeForest football player in your 15 jersey choked me. It's fall and I will always love you.
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
Reminder
Just an observation--You can't always get what you want; but you get what you need.
My son has been sad because something he wants to keep seems to be gone. Something he didn't expect to lose is being lost. Something he worked smart on slipped away.
Today I got a chance to walk in his moccasins. Shows me once again: sad is sad regardless of the cause. Maybe I needed the reminder. I didn't want to be reminded. I wanted what I wanted.
My son has been sad because something he wants to keep seems to be gone. Something he didn't expect to lose is being lost. Something he worked smart on slipped away.
Today I got a chance to walk in his moccasins. Shows me once again: sad is sad regardless of the cause. Maybe I needed the reminder. I didn't want to be reminded. I wanted what I wanted.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
One step forward, another giant leap back
Three-D movies have come and gone and come back. This time they seem to have staying power. Did I see Four-D advertised? If the dimensions continue we'll be seeing movies performed live.
E-mail is evidence that nothing says "new idea" like repackaging old-hat in a new wrapper. The Founding Fathers who wrote letters to friends in the colonies and across the seas. Abe Lincoln was a born a letter writer and died a telegrapher in 1865. Telegraph messages were short--maybe 140 characters, and sentences left off unnecessary words: "SEND MONEY stop OUT OF WORK stop HOME BY FOURTH stop LOVE BILLY. By 1870 work was progressing on a means to talk to people you can't see, which I witnessed perfected last night on State Street by a man who appeared to have no permanent address or living friends. Letter writing, our most personal connection to our past, was dieing a slow death by 1927 when the first trans-atlantic conversation was held. Telegraphs held on though. I know that to be true because I saw James Stewart reading one in It's a Wonderful Life. stop.
War has a way of giving us the most insight into man's humanity and the letters of soldiers and loved ones, written by people with high school educations, are some of the best written words in American History. For example: "I may not get the Purple Heart for being wounded but if they give them out for being scared as hell I certainly rate one." from the American Experience Belgium 1944 Carl Schluter. PBS Link
Letter writing didn't end with WWII but it soon was pushed to the side with the advancements in telephone service. Penmanship was still valued in the 1960's, at least by the black linnen clad, earing pulling, ruler slapping of the hands, Sisters of St. John Grade School. I suppose they were getting us prepared to serve the war in Southeast Asia. The Green Bay Diocease must have had a directive from Secretary McNamara in the Pentagon: "Sisters, JFK needs you to build a fighting man who is driven to kill the black pajama dressed enemy, and write a nice letter home to Mom letting her know the war is going fine and the chow is great, or vice versa."
Today we don't worry much about penmanship. We have returned to letter writing over phone calls but we "key" the letters---I'm not sure if anyone is taught cursive. I didn't know what cursive meant until my sons were in grade school. I knew the difference between writing and printing but never paid attention to the name for the flowing and connecting of letters. Just as we put a name to the art we put the art on hold and went back to pounding out letters instead of calling. Email is filled with long letters and rambling comments. I suspect email is the cause of more heartaches than U.S. Postal mail; it takes more thought and time to address an envelope, stamp a letter, and trudge t to a post office box. The time and effort difference between that chore and hitting SEND is just enough pause to reconsider angry and hurtful words. Imagine the world if Krushchev and Kennedy had email: Kennedy: "tap tap tap, tippity tap: Go to HELL!! (SEND). Krushcheve:"tap tap bang bang bang: идти к черту. (SEND) Twenty minutes later we all would have seen Bert the Turtle's light "Duck and Cover".
Isn't the text message just a combination of telegraph and telephone? (stop and SEND)
E-mail is evidence that nothing says "new idea" like repackaging old-hat in a new wrapper. The Founding Fathers who wrote letters to friends in the colonies and across the seas. Abe Lincoln was a born a letter writer and died a telegrapher in 1865. Telegraph messages were short--maybe 140 characters, and sentences left off unnecessary words: "SEND MONEY stop OUT OF WORK stop HOME BY FOURTH stop LOVE BILLY. By 1870 work was progressing on a means to talk to people you can't see, which I witnessed perfected last night on State Street by a man who appeared to have no permanent address or living friends. Letter writing, our most personal connection to our past, was dieing a slow death by 1927 when the first trans-atlantic conversation was held. Telegraphs held on though. I know that to be true because I saw James Stewart reading one in It's a Wonderful Life. stop.
War has a way of giving us the most insight into man's humanity and the letters of soldiers and loved ones, written by people with high school educations, are some of the best written words in American History. For example: "I may not get the Purple Heart for being wounded but if they give them out for being scared as hell I certainly rate one." from the American Experience Belgium 1944 Carl Schluter. PBS Link
Letter writing didn't end with WWII but it soon was pushed to the side with the advancements in telephone service. Penmanship was still valued in the 1960's, at least by the black linnen clad, earing pulling, ruler slapping of the hands, Sisters of St. John Grade School. I suppose they were getting us prepared to serve the war in Southeast Asia. The Green Bay Diocease must have had a directive from Secretary McNamara in the Pentagon: "Sisters, JFK needs you to build a fighting man who is driven to kill the black pajama dressed enemy, and write a nice letter home to Mom letting her know the war is going fine and the chow is great, or vice versa."
Today we don't worry much about penmanship. We have returned to letter writing over phone calls but we "key" the letters---I'm not sure if anyone is taught cursive. I didn't know what cursive meant until my sons were in grade school. I knew the difference between writing and printing but never paid attention to the name for the flowing and connecting of letters. Just as we put a name to the art we put the art on hold and went back to pounding out letters instead of calling. Email is filled with long letters and rambling comments. I suspect email is the cause of more heartaches than U.S. Postal mail; it takes more thought and time to address an envelope, stamp a letter, and trudge t to a post office box. The time and effort difference between that chore and hitting SEND is just enough pause to reconsider angry and hurtful words. Imagine the world if Krushchev and Kennedy had email: Kennedy: "tap tap tap, tippity tap: Go to HELL!! (SEND). Krushcheve:"tap tap bang bang bang: идти к черту. (SEND) Twenty minutes later we all would have seen Bert the Turtle's light "Duck and Cover".
Isn't the text message just a combination of telegraph and telephone? (stop and SEND)
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Points of His Compass
E.B. White wrote a book with copyright 1954-1958 and 1960 - 1962. The copy I found in the FREE bin of Frugal Muse once had a place in the Madsion Public Library. Perfect penmanship of librarians inscribed order with numbers 824 W582p and SM 62 15077 on one of the nearly blank first pages. On 29 Oct 62 something was done with the book, and in February 67 I turned eight and the book dedicated to William Shawn was noted in pencil as Tr. from Main. I assume that means transferred. In red on the first page when the cover is opened we are notified the book is OFFICIALLY WITHDRAWN-SALE COPY. I wonder what price was paid to free this beauty from its cell in the public library.
Once a decimal less number held captive inside the perfect order of spaces patrolled by skinny women who demanded silence and protected the resting place of written ideas from disorderly conduct of adolescents and other homeless beings, Mr. White's treasure was paroled to the highest bidder some years ago. A rooster perched atop a weather vane, not a compass, is pressed into the soft hard cover. He sat patiently facing no apparent direction until one day the keeper of the book took him, probably along with others, to the Frugal Muse where he and the others were swapped for cash or in-store credit. How the book with the rooster ended up in the FREE stand and Twilight or New Moon have price tags baffles me.
My stack of vinyl albums from 1977-1981 moved from house to dorm to apartment to apartment to state to state to home to apartment to home to home and then to apartment once again. Last played some time when mullets and padded shoulder shirts, both for men and women were in style, the cardboard jackets grew to make me sneeze. I no longer have a needle on my record player and have no idea if needles are still sold. In fact, I don't think I own that record player. I know it is not in my possession. Simply Discs reviewed my stack of wax and offered me $3.00 for one album by the Beetles and the 3 by Bruce Springsteen. I declined, not because the offer was low but because I didn't feel right leaving my youth with a person who didn't boost my self esteem. The man who appeared to have many more years of academia to his credit flipped through my collection the way house party attendees used to search in vain for something that wasn't western or eastern. In the end he confided in the 21st century version of the skinny librarian; an equally skinny girl with premature gray hair and cat eye glasses. His appraisal, with her blessing, concluded the Springsteen and Beetles would net me "not much, maybe $5.00". I bargained by asking if the five bills would include him taking Barbara Striesand and Boston off my hands because they make me sneeze and cringe.
The man gave me a wrinkled Lincoln and I wandered around the store fully intending to spend the bill on Greek Yogurt and blueberries, but I thought it polite to pretend. When I exited I saw the FREE stand which I had snubbed as beneath me on my way in to the used book store. Forever grateful I am for getting out of my ego. The black X on the front gray and black chest might have caught my eye and the gold letters on the spine drew my hand. Books that best fit me measure about 240 pages. This one opened to page 91 titled The Shape of the U.N. It starts "My most distinguished neighbor in Turtle Bay, as well as my most peculiar one, is the U.N., over the East River. " The heading reads "Turtle Bay, December 1, 1956". I love history that tells the story of the years just before I was born. It's fascinating to me that people were reminiscing about the past and contemplating the future while I was in the minors or sitting on deck. or in God's dugout waiting to be brought up. I like knowing that the future they feared is in the books as history we choose to rewrite to our liking.
E.B.'s compass and his rooster came home with me. I got them for free and spent the dough on Greek Yogurt and Michigan Blueberries. We went directly to my kitchen and then to a chair. The yogurt is history and The Points of White's Compass is my new friend. I think I will keep him on my bookshelves forever.
Once a decimal less number held captive inside the perfect order of spaces patrolled by skinny women who demanded silence and protected the resting place of written ideas from disorderly conduct of adolescents and other homeless beings, Mr. White's treasure was paroled to the highest bidder some years ago. A rooster perched atop a weather vane, not a compass, is pressed into the soft hard cover. He sat patiently facing no apparent direction until one day the keeper of the book took him, probably along with others, to the Frugal Muse where he and the others were swapped for cash or in-store credit. How the book with the rooster ended up in the FREE stand and Twilight or New Moon have price tags baffles me.
My stack of vinyl albums from 1977-1981 moved from house to dorm to apartment to apartment to state to state to home to apartment to home to home and then to apartment once again. Last played some time when mullets and padded shoulder shirts, both for men and women were in style, the cardboard jackets grew to make me sneeze. I no longer have a needle on my record player and have no idea if needles are still sold. In fact, I don't think I own that record player. I know it is not in my possession. Simply Discs reviewed my stack of wax and offered me $3.00 for one album by the Beetles and the 3 by Bruce Springsteen. I declined, not because the offer was low but because I didn't feel right leaving my youth with a person who didn't boost my self esteem. The man who appeared to have many more years of academia to his credit flipped through my collection the way house party attendees used to search in vain for something that wasn't western or eastern. In the end he confided in the 21st century version of the skinny librarian; an equally skinny girl with premature gray hair and cat eye glasses. His appraisal, with her blessing, concluded the Springsteen and Beetles would net me "not much, maybe $5.00". I bargained by asking if the five bills would include him taking Barbara Striesand and Boston off my hands because they make me sneeze and cringe.
The man gave me a wrinkled Lincoln and I wandered around the store fully intending to spend the bill on Greek Yogurt and blueberries, but I thought it polite to pretend. When I exited I saw the FREE stand which I had snubbed as beneath me on my way in to the used book store. Forever grateful I am for getting out of my ego. The black X on the front gray and black chest might have caught my eye and the gold letters on the spine drew my hand. Books that best fit me measure about 240 pages. This one opened to page 91 titled The Shape of the U.N. It starts "My most distinguished neighbor in Turtle Bay, as well as my most peculiar one, is the U.N., over the East River. " The heading reads "Turtle Bay, December 1, 1956". I love history that tells the story of the years just before I was born. It's fascinating to me that people were reminiscing about the past and contemplating the future while I was in the minors or sitting on deck. or in God's dugout waiting to be brought up. I like knowing that the future they feared is in the books as history we choose to rewrite to our liking.
E.B.'s compass and his rooster came home with me. I got them for free and spent the dough on Greek Yogurt and Michigan Blueberries. We went directly to my kitchen and then to a chair. The yogurt is history and The Points of White's Compass is my new friend. I think I will keep him on my bookshelves forever.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Slipping Into the Future
Little is really known about the present. We know the moment is here and gone before time can be captured and its present held for scrutiny. Why is the present so elusive?
May 9, 2005 I stood on what I thought was firm ground. My determination was to live in the present, not regretting the past and not fearing the future. At 5:05 PM that day I took a call from Aaron on my cell phone. I was getting out of my car for an appointment when the phone rang. Aaron was on the phone telling me he had gotten a job. I don't remember my response. We chatted briefly. We said goodbye and I exited the car and walked to the present. Aaron and I would never talk again. If I could live in the present, I would live in the presence of that phone conversation and never hang up.
On May 10, 2005 my phone rang again. I thought it was Aaron. The caller was the deputy coroner. If I could live in the present, I would live in the presence of that phone call and never answer.
Firm ground of '05 was actually no more than pea gravel. When the ground gave away I was face down in mud, and blood, and tears. I may never have been closer to God or further from all that is not and does not matter, and yet I could not stay in that present.
It's 9:13 PM on May 9, 2010 and time is slipping into the future of the present May 10, 12:17 PM. I'm tired. My head is buzzing. Grief waited for me to arrive back at this moment. It's always here. I can see it at a distance once the corner into spring is turned. Grief has the patience of a book. Grief sits at the sign posts of memories in time, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded over a knee, head back, gazing into the distance; just waiting. The phone doesn't ring today, but it will ring on the 10th of May and I don't want that phone answered. Call somebody else... please.
May 9, 2005 I stood on what I thought was firm ground. My determination was to live in the present, not regretting the past and not fearing the future. At 5:05 PM that day I took a call from Aaron on my cell phone. I was getting out of my car for an appointment when the phone rang. Aaron was on the phone telling me he had gotten a job. I don't remember my response. We chatted briefly. We said goodbye and I exited the car and walked to the present. Aaron and I would never talk again. If I could live in the present, I would live in the presence of that phone conversation and never hang up.
On May 10, 2005 my phone rang again. I thought it was Aaron. The caller was the deputy coroner. If I could live in the present, I would live in the presence of that phone call and never answer.
Firm ground of '05 was actually no more than pea gravel. When the ground gave away I was face down in mud, and blood, and tears. I may never have been closer to God or further from all that is not and does not matter, and yet I could not stay in that present.
It's 9:13 PM on May 9, 2010 and time is slipping into the future of the present May 10, 12:17 PM. I'm tired. My head is buzzing. Grief waited for me to arrive back at this moment. It's always here. I can see it at a distance once the corner into spring is turned. Grief has the patience of a book. Grief sits at the sign posts of memories in time, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded over a knee, head back, gazing into the distance; just waiting. The phone doesn't ring today, but it will ring on the 10th of May and I don't want that phone answered. Call somebody else... please.
Thursday, May 06, 2010
The Last Gift
The gift to commemorate his 18th birthday was a twenty dollar bill. Maybe two. Memories of gifts of money are as vague as the gift itself. On his birthday Aaron gave me a gift and it's as precious today as it was then. Peace. Aaron gave me peace.
With a fresh baked cake half eaten, Aaron sat in his truck and offered to share. The cake was baked by Liz, a classmate. As if a gift from a girl could be as simple as that, just a gift, just a friend, just because she cared, just because he cared. "Are you sure she's not your girlfriend?" "Yes. She's a friend. Friends do those things, Dad." "Why isn't she your girlfriend?" "Because she's not Mrs. Right." "And you're MR. Right?" "Yes I Am." An arrogant attitude could be disguised as confidence, but a healthy sense of self worth comes out in a person's eyes. I saw character in Aaron's face and eyes. He had nothing to hide and I knew what I was missing in me.
Two days later I had the opportunity to reciprocate Aaron's gift. The opportunity was taken and I consider that my greatest accomplishment of my life. I told Aaron everything I admire about him, everything I have witnessed in his growth. For the first time, I acknowledged that I got it. My hypocrisy was what caused much of our conflict. I was trying to force an image of a personal reputation and my character was flawed. The reputation was phony and the character was apparent. In Aaron his character was unquestionable and he was letting go of his reputation. Aaron was so far down the road and I then knew there was much leg work to do for me.
Patrick is 19 now. Letting him know that I admire his humility and character is a simple pleasure of mine. Adult conversations with Aaron were cut short by my failure to acknowledge his maturity when he was 17 and then terminated by death just as I wised up. Patrick has the wisdom that comes from walking the roads less traveled and from keeping a clear and open mind. Aaron's gift to us is consequential. He helped me be the Dad I need to be when he and Patrick need me most. Aaron gave PT insight which Patrick has used to be the son I need him to be when I need him most.
Those are gifts that last.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Counting My Blessings
Danny Orvick and Chris DeGroot. Two fellows, a year older than Aaron, who I judged incorrectly. I didn't know Aaron's friends well enough to decide if they were part of the problem or part of the solution. Who to trust, believe, question, or run off was my everyday dilemma. I chose to run everyone off. Given the chance I would have isolated Aaron In fact, I suppose that was the ultimate decision in 2003.
April 2005. Five years ago. I remember too clearly the time of my life. How five years has passed bewilders me. Looking back over the journey there were days where I felt total awareness and now I wonder how I managed to put one foot in front of the other. I was such a mess for so long. But five years ago today I was standing tall and looking to the future. Aaron had come clean on a relapse, faced the school, paid the price, and was living in peace Two friends, I'm sure there were others, had made suggestions he took to heart. Chris was encouraging Aaron and helping him make better choices Danny had the man-to-man chat Aaron needed to have and it made all the difference.
Oblivious to the time expiring, Aaron and I had one last Father and Son talk where Father told Son to "Toe the line or pack your things and go." Not exactly My Way or the Highway. More: You Can Check Out Any Time You'd Like. Given the invitation to pack his things and go, Aaron spent the night at Danny's. At 6:00 AM, Aaron called me. "Danny and I were up all night talking. He helped me understand what I need to do. I can't wait to talk to you. He made alot of sense. Can I come and talk?" We met at the house later that day. Aaron announced that Danny had advised him to follow house rules. Parents have a car, Aaron has a car. Leave parents car alone. Use your own car. Finish school. Get a job. I don't know if Danny was speaking a different language, but it made sense to Aaron. I asked what he was going to do, thinking he was ready to move out I thought he was going to say he was moving in to Danny's. Nope. "I'm really tired. I think I will take a shower and go to bed."
The date was probably April 25 to 27. There was never a cross word spoken by Aaron to me or me to Aaron after that. Two weeks of peace and mutual respect. And time kept slipping into the future. Danny and Chris were doing God's work and they never knew it. I'm grateful and blessed.
April 2005. Five years ago. I remember too clearly the time of my life. How five years has passed bewilders me. Looking back over the journey there were days where I felt total awareness and now I wonder how I managed to put one foot in front of the other. I was such a mess for so long. But five years ago today I was standing tall and looking to the future. Aaron had come clean on a relapse, faced the school, paid the price, and was living in peace Two friends, I'm sure there were others, had made suggestions he took to heart. Chris was encouraging Aaron and helping him make better choices Danny had the man-to-man chat Aaron needed to have and it made all the difference.
Oblivious to the time expiring, Aaron and I had one last Father and Son talk where Father told Son to "Toe the line or pack your things and go." Not exactly My Way or the Highway. More: You Can Check Out Any Time You'd Like. Given the invitation to pack his things and go, Aaron spent the night at Danny's. At 6:00 AM, Aaron called me. "Danny and I were up all night talking. He helped me understand what I need to do. I can't wait to talk to you. He made alot of sense. Can I come and talk?" We met at the house later that day. Aaron announced that Danny had advised him to follow house rules. Parents have a car, Aaron has a car. Leave parents car alone. Use your own car. Finish school. Get a job. I don't know if Danny was speaking a different language, but it made sense to Aaron. I asked what he was going to do, thinking he was ready to move out I thought he was going to say he was moving in to Danny's. Nope. "I'm really tired. I think I will take a shower and go to bed."
The date was probably April 25 to 27. There was never a cross word spoken by Aaron to me or me to Aaron after that. Two weeks of peace and mutual respect. And time kept slipping into the future. Danny and Chris were doing God's work and they never knew it. I'm grateful and blessed.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Fading Love
When does little boy learn to spell "Happy Fathers Day. I Love You Dad"? Kindergarten for some, maybe first or second grade? Seventeen or eighteen years ago, or what seems like yesterday.
The key-fob gift is made of plastic and roughly 2 inches by 4 inches with a metal ring attached. Inside the plastic is a white piece of poster paper. One side in blue and black marker the words say Happy Fathers Day. On the reverse in what was once red marker, I Love You Dad. When Aaron gave this chunk of love to me I would have been as grateful as any Dad, and as practical as possible. All of the keys I owned could not balance the heft of this gift and there was no way I could fit keys AND the hunk of plastic into my pocket. I don't remember what I did and I don't recall any feedback from Aaron, but I know the fob never held my keys.
A few months ago Cathy re-gifted me. In a box of odds and ends of sentimental journeys was this unused key-fob. Multicolored and in the hand writing of a child who knew how to say I Love You, the little treasure now fit perfectly into my world. I took the fob right to my car where I found a place to hang it so I could always see Aaron saying "I Love You Dad" and the sun shined a little brighter on me in the driver's seat. To hear him say the words I have to concentrate and will the sound of his lost voice. The tone has faded to nearly silent.
I noticed the letters are a little less sharp. The sun working daily, not time, is dulling the ink. Slowly and visibly the words are fading away. Maybe I will keep it riding with me until the end of the Ten Days of May. With a small addition to the key holder, the fob could make a Christmas ornament.
The key-fob gift is made of plastic and roughly 2 inches by 4 inches with a metal ring attached. Inside the plastic is a white piece of poster paper. One side in blue and black marker the words say Happy Fathers Day. On the reverse in what was once red marker, I Love You Dad. When Aaron gave this chunk of love to me I would have been as grateful as any Dad, and as practical as possible. All of the keys I owned could not balance the heft of this gift and there was no way I could fit keys AND the hunk of plastic into my pocket. I don't remember what I did and I don't recall any feedback from Aaron, but I know the fob never held my keys.
A few months ago Cathy re-gifted me. In a box of odds and ends of sentimental journeys was this unused key-fob. Multicolored and in the hand writing of a child who knew how to say I Love You, the little treasure now fit perfectly into my world. I took the fob right to my car where I found a place to hang it so I could always see Aaron saying "I Love You Dad" and the sun shined a little brighter on me in the driver's seat. To hear him say the words I have to concentrate and will the sound of his lost voice. The tone has faded to nearly silent.
I noticed the letters are a little less sharp. The sun working daily, not time, is dulling the ink. Slowly and visibly the words are fading away. Maybe I will keep it riding with me until the end of the Ten Days of May. With a small addition to the key holder, the fob could make a Christmas ornament.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Blessed Sacrement
Let me hear the things you need me to hear.
Let me speak the things you need me to speak.
Let my mind and heart be open.
It's still in my daily reflections book, folded over just as it was on the morning May 10, 2005; that little note. Still in the same place -- the crease of the book between May 10 and May 11. The daily reflection is "Freedom". In my hands, my life was not freedom that day. At the end of the day I was in a prison of misery. Freedom would come in proportion to my willingness to live that little prayer.
This morning I met with a Men's Group at Blessed Sacrament Church. Sitting in a room resembling a family living room I shared the story of God's mercy as it was bestowed on me. Many years ago I envisioned a life of a Hero for myself. One where I would be invited to enlighten people, for a fee of course, on the ways of financial wealth and success. Here I am today at 7:00 am not talking about wealth and success, but about spiritual blessings and brokenness. Death of a Hero, Birth of a Soul. My compliments to the author.
The God of my youth, the one who was a giant genie waiting for me to say the magic words before pouring material gifts and happiness on me, was gone. A God of mercy and compassion asking only for the same from me is beside me today. Life is simpler. The darkest days are my greatest possession and while I can't give them away or trade them for brighter, I am grateful for the chances to share them.
We never know when we are in the presence of angels.
Approaching the ten days of May.
Let me speak the things you need me to speak.
Let my mind and heart be open.
It's still in my daily reflections book, folded over just as it was on the morning May 10, 2005; that little note. Still in the same place -- the crease of the book between May 10 and May 11. The daily reflection is "Freedom". In my hands, my life was not freedom that day. At the end of the day I was in a prison of misery. Freedom would come in proportion to my willingness to live that little prayer.
This morning I met with a Men's Group at Blessed Sacrament Church. Sitting in a room resembling a family living room I shared the story of God's mercy as it was bestowed on me. Many years ago I envisioned a life of a Hero for myself. One where I would be invited to enlighten people, for a fee of course, on the ways of financial wealth and success. Here I am today at 7:00 am not talking about wealth and success, but about spiritual blessings and brokenness. Death of a Hero, Birth of a Soul. My compliments to the author.
The God of my youth, the one who was a giant genie waiting for me to say the magic words before pouring material gifts and happiness on me, was gone. A God of mercy and compassion asking only for the same from me is beside me today. Life is simpler. The darkest days are my greatest possession and while I can't give them away or trade them for brighter, I am grateful for the chances to share them.
We never know when we are in the presence of angels.
Approaching the ten days of May.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Summer
I started writing this on June 9, 2009...finished it today 3/25/10.
Aaron and Patrick were summer boys. Aaron with a sun dried, peeling nose. Patrick with tiny sweat beads on his nose. Swimming, running, biking. Aaron was up, ate, and out the door. Patrick, I believe took a little longer to get going. Well, I don't know for sure. I wasn't home. My memories are illusions.
I talked to Patrick today. He's the same boy he was 10 years ago, just taller and without a baseball glove and bat. A wrench and a car took their place in PT's life. Friendly as ever.
Aaron is in my dreams most nights. He's just as easy to dazzle with a story and usually off doing something of no significance. Reminds me of the message I sent to him one day--Play the guitar. The world has enough business people.
Patrick is becoming his true self. He's worn the clothes of pride but now dresses in humility.
"I say, beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes." -- Henry David Thoreau, Walden
Patrick works for US Cellular. His job required a new wearer of clothes. He wears humble clothes still.
Aaron and Patrick were summer boys. Aaron with a sun dried, peeling nose. Patrick with tiny sweat beads on his nose. Swimming, running, biking. Aaron was up, ate, and out the door. Patrick, I believe took a little longer to get going. Well, I don't know for sure. I wasn't home. My memories are illusions.
I talked to Patrick today. He's the same boy he was 10 years ago, just taller and without a baseball glove and bat. A wrench and a car took their place in PT's life. Friendly as ever.
Aaron is in my dreams most nights. He's just as easy to dazzle with a story and usually off doing something of no significance. Reminds me of the message I sent to him one day--Play the guitar. The world has enough business people.
Patrick is becoming his true self. He's worn the clothes of pride but now dresses in humility.
"I say, beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes." -- Henry David Thoreau, Walden
Patrick works for US Cellular. His job required a new wearer of clothes. He wears humble clothes still.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
All That Matters
I've come a long way as a Dad. How do I know? Patrick told me so. A text message from PT yesterday lifted me to the highest ground. "...Helps me be a better person as well." A compliment, an affirmation that effort is recognized is always comforting. The sharing of the influence the work has on the one who compliments is the greatest gift. It's all that matters.
When I was a young dad all that I wanted to matter was what I produced in terms of money, fun, and objects. What those said about me was good enough, to hell with anything deep and meaningful. Looking out at the countryside as the sun enters the day, I see a landscape waiting patiently to produce whatever man insists. "Do my will," we say to earth and earth obliges. Then when the earth gives abundance we say "Not enough. Give me more." How often did I treat my part of the earth with disrespect and think I was being a man worthy of respect from his sons?
I admire the young father who lives life being grateful, patient, and forgiving. I am content being the older father who is growing to be the father he is able to be when his sons need him most. That's all that matters.
When I was a young dad all that I wanted to matter was what I produced in terms of money, fun, and objects. What those said about me was good enough, to hell with anything deep and meaningful. Looking out at the countryside as the sun enters the day, I see a landscape waiting patiently to produce whatever man insists. "Do my will," we say to earth and earth obliges. Then when the earth gives abundance we say "Not enough. Give me more." How often did I treat my part of the earth with disrespect and think I was being a man worthy of respect from his sons?
I admire the young father who lives life being grateful, patient, and forgiving. I am content being the older father who is growing to be the father he is able to be when his sons need him most. That's all that matters.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Live and Let Live
Why can't you just live and let live?" The rhetorical question in many forms was directed at me by teenage Aaron over the years. With a more developed insight than vocabulary his statement typically got an effect from me which uncovered a more disguised intellect in me. My frustration and fear showed. So did my lack of any logical answer. I did not know what a healthy "live and let live" attitude looked like.
The concept of "live and let live" (LALL) is at its best a beautiful, peaceful way of being. It is also used as a shield by every "ism", and culture demanding hands-off when it comes to protecting their intrusive principals. As a shield, LALL resonates more as "Hands Off" or "Mind Your Own Business". Nazism, Fascism, Capitalism, Communism, Socialism, Nationalism prefer that the world LALL. So does the drug culture. Peace brother...and keep your hands off my stash.
Live and Let Live has a place in serenity, and in harmonious life. But LALL requires reciprocal respect. My actions fail to meet the minimum standards of peace when they intrude on the freedoms and serenity of others. Regardless of my style of trespasses, be they business, personal, material, drugs, or money, I can not claim LALL if I am walking on the peace and serenity of other people.
When evil exists in my presence it is not service to God to LALL. I have not been given life to look the other way when evil persists and people suffer. When evil works to tear down, resisting evil, not fighting it is required if I believe in Live and Let Live.
I see LALL practiced in my son Patrick's approach to life and I learn from his example. He is a man of peace and serenity.
The concept of "live and let live" (LALL) is at its best a beautiful, peaceful way of being. It is also used as a shield by every "ism", and culture demanding hands-off when it comes to protecting their intrusive principals. As a shield, LALL resonates more as "Hands Off" or "Mind Your Own Business". Nazism, Fascism, Capitalism, Communism, Socialism, Nationalism prefer that the world LALL. So does the drug culture. Peace brother...and keep your hands off my stash.
Live and Let Live has a place in serenity, and in harmonious life. But LALL requires reciprocal respect. My actions fail to meet the minimum standards of peace when they intrude on the freedoms and serenity of others. Regardless of my style of trespasses, be they business, personal, material, drugs, or money, I can not claim LALL if I am walking on the peace and serenity of other people.
When evil exists in my presence it is not service to God to LALL. I have not been given life to look the other way when evil persists and people suffer. When evil works to tear down, resisting evil, not fighting it is required if I believe in Live and Let Live.
I see LALL practiced in my son Patrick's approach to life and I learn from his example. He is a man of peace and serenity.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
A Son Turns 19
He walked in to the movie and I was watching for him at the door. The son I was looking for was younger and less assured than the young man who caught my attention. "Is that Patrick?" I asked and looked closer. This morning I picked up a chubby old book of quotations off of the shelf. When the pages of this grandfather last saw the light of day I don't know. Something stated and recorded generations ago would surely speak to me from the yellowed pages on Patrick's nineteenth birthday and I watched for it."Let the boy earn his spurs." Edward III reached out across eternity to speak the words I sought. We can't always sit down with our wise elders to hear paternal advice but if I am open to hear what God wants me to hear I always get the message. Cut me with a knife and it will not hurt half as much as seeing a son battered about by life's blunt forces. Rush in to defend, destroy the evil, or drag the boy to safety is the instinctual way. Instincts of preservation of a child's life has a time and then we must set aside our physical strength for emotional, spiritual growth, and let go. Letting go is the more challenging.
Life doesn't ask us if we are ready to become men; we are challenged and the answer is obvious. Initiation has no rules. On May 13, 2005 God touched Patrick and I saw him answer with yes. From that day on he walked a little more determined although. While Patrick was more alone, he was never isolated. With more insight into life and death, Patrick explored, contemplated, battled, struggled, recovered his footing, and carried on.
Today Patrick turned 19 and when he walked in to the theater I did not recognize him although the face looked familiar. I knew it was my son when I heard the sound of spurs. I'm grateful for the times I did not rush in. Those were the times when I let God be with me.
Love you PT. Happy Birthday.
Dad
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