Mother’s Prayer

Mom always said ” a person’s eyes are the windows to their soul”.

A shard of motherly wisdom emanates from her desktop picture.

The closed smile of an intense, oh so knowledgeable keeper of the faith

Behind her spectacles, the soul’s aperture heard all things, saw all things,

celebrated -cherished-protected  her sons.

Celebrated-cherished-protected the men in her life.

Sentry like – she observes me every day in every way.

 

The inevitability of life’s end becomes more clear,

her parting phrase  ” I pray for you every day” speaks louder and more emphatic

as the wintertime sunset is longer, darker, all encompassing.

She said, ” I am tired, the Lord can take me home”.

What a wonderful surrender. Peace.

May I listen and surrender.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coming Home

Fried Scrapple

Warm, soft chewy pretzels

Mennonite women with caps and long skirts

Catholic priests who laugh, pound the pulpit

Hug their flock

Much has changed in Pennsylvania Dutch Country

HOWEVER

Store keepers, teachers, role models

Here in the hinterlands

God’s country remains intact.

Born in the USA

 

 

 

 

GOODBYE DEAR FRIEND

The Lord is everywhere:

Steel gray clouds

Snow, Ice pellets in a crescendo

Crunching snow foretells our every step

The Lord has set the stage.

Oh yes, he knows our every move, every thought, every emotion.

HE knows we are coming.

The morose, gray atmosphere envelopes

the cemetery.

Silence, alone.

 

Fear heaving in our chest cavity.

Harold and Jean’s gravesite awaits

 

Somehow Harold knows we are coming.

Fifteen years gone by.. he knows we are coming.

He waited. As always patient and understanding.

He knew I had, yes had, to come and say goodbye.

Facing the pain of the moment.

 

The knees weaken

Tears flow

I grab for the tombstone

O Harold I cry, O Harold.

The father I never had,.that was Harold

A man of God

Harold knows.

We are together for a brief moment

God enables us to hold each other

God’s grace. Hold me Harold. I remember your hugs, your smiles

your words of wisdom, and your good works for the poor.

One last time.

The most difficult goodbye.

 

I turn to Al.. knowing I could not have

met with Harold without fear of collapsing

and having Al for support.

The Lord gives Al the grace to be a comforter

And so we silently walk

Chocking

Hoping to meet Harold in the afterlife.

May he rest in the arms of the Lord.

THE YOUNGER

Sereg, the youngest brother, observes the formless

filled daily noise of elder chatter

Trying to understand the tribal implications.

A discordant rhythm reflects a lifetime of lyrics.

Greek, Italian, African all merging, melding, cacophonous

The daily patter around the backgammon table

repeats itself..again. Unwritten melody of life.

Mirror image of incoming nighttime surf

The predictable vocal pattern reinforces

the clan as an informal brotherhood.

Again.

Shining brass clothing hooks: reserved, revered. Badger jackets

have a special place.

Unwritten seating charts. everyone respects who sits where.

Chores are understood: coffee maker: pastry chef: accountant:

discussion not required.

Messenger of news when illness strikes – shared,

Mourners at funeral parlor visitations: a solemn obligation.

Trust, trust, trust- the binding chemical constructed over years.

Again.

A family. a tribe, a clan, a brotherhood.

Common among all cultures, universal.

Social constructs which create communities of all sizes

Faith never tested. Enduring, God sent.

TOGETHERNESS FOR EVER

PLANTING THE SEEDS OF OUR FUTURE

Fire bombings, assaults in the streets,

Neighbors killing neighbors

Graffiti scarred walls act as barricades

Years pass, the “Troubles in Northern Ireland”.

So far away , across the pond.

We watched on the tele: sat in

the Irish bars in Chicago, Boston, Milwaukee

Horrified at the religious wars in the land of

Our ancestors.

It can never happen here.  Never happen here.

We’ve tacitly accepted the ongoing  black/white race wars.

Cities burn, race baiting is a common practice.

Separate but equal translates into plain separate

The dialogue , sensitivity community conversations

deteriorate to marches and riots.

A religious war? Protestant /Catholic/Jewish/Muslim

Listen carefully, watch body language

Attend “interfaith discussion groups”

Listen closely, very  closely.

Add the racial component.

The differences are visceral.

Demagoguery  run amok.

Genteel folks preface comments : “ With all due respect”,

Which is code for : You don’t know what you are talking about”.

Faces flushed. Fists hidden in pants’ pockets.

Inquire ; I dare you ..inquire

Have you studied a thesis of another faith? The Baltimore

Catechism, the Heidelberg Catechism, The Koran, The Torah,

Silence…

Any document other than our own is fallacious. By definition.

We know what we believe is the only true way.

It’s an obvious truth.

How far distant are we from “The Troubles”?

Internecine warfare begins when one faction  walls themselves

off  from another. Suspicion begets ignorance begets violence.

The increasing level of mistrust: the lessening of honest dialogue;

The troubles may not happen for generations… but the seeds are planted.

Are we all God’s people?

THEIR VOICES NEVER HEARD

We pause.  The plaintiff sounds of taps

reverberate from hamlet to city center.

Misty eyes.

Somber words from podiums spoke

remembering those who laid down their lives

to preserve our freedom.

Honor guards march with precision. Jaws squared,

Flags unfurled. Polished shoes glistening.

Barbeque grills and Bud six packs wait in the wings.

Where, where are the bodies of the dead unborn?

They have no headstones. No memorials, No national

day of remembrance.

Their voices – never heard.

Their talents never used. Their service to others a blank slate.

The lifelong pain of could have been mothers is

Intentionally hidden from public view. A topic unworthy of public discourse.

A fetus is not a child..say that three times while looking in the mirror

and  without choking.

What if ..yes what if, the mothers of our nation’s bravest who

are memorialized  had decided..yes what if they had chosen

abortion over life.  Who, yes who, would fight for our freedoms?

Have an answer? Tell it to God.

The Silent Leaf

 

 

 Two trees are planted in our simple yard.  They are positioned prominently as remembrances to our deceased mothers.  Knowing we are on the downside of our lives, it is hoped that these trees will display the beauty  of God for generations to come. Yes, it was our way of sharing memorials of beloved mothers.We see this as a  simple and meaningful gesture.  Plant the trees, nurture them in the early years, and nature takes over.

 For any species to survive in the Great Plains is a miracle.  For two trees to battle and endure the harsh climes is amazing. Twenty four months ago, we stared out the kitchen window admiring the latest  6” of overnight snow fall.  As always, the sturdy backyard tree survived the snow, ice, and 40 mph winds blowing south from the Canadian provinces. Mid winter and the soybean fields are now acres of dormant brown splotches. Falling burnt orange needles from the stand of  blue spruce  trees creates a protective bed for rabbits, squirrels, to hide during the arrival of inevitable  blizzards.

As usual, Mother nature awakens us from the dreaminess of  superficial  observations.  A furled, fatigued singular leaf catches our attention.  It remains attached to a narrow limb  on Grandma Gress’ otherwise barren maple tree.  Strong! The leaf hangs on with a determination reminiscent of Grandma.What is the message? Each wintry morning, steaming Colombian coffee in hand, we  gather at the window to see if our friend remains.  Yes, December, January, February it is still attached.

 What is the message? Is there a message?

We struggle to interpret what are  Grandma Gress and God saying? Is she  reminding us about her lifetime of strength, perseverance, indomitable religious faith.? She played such a major role in establishing our life values. Regrettably, on a gray  March morning we jointly notice that the leaf has disappeared. Our friend has slipped away silently into the darkness of a frigid winter night.  Sadness envelopes our hearts.  Will the leaf return?

 This winter has seen 19 days of unrelenting snow in the first 23 days of December.  Temperatures are 6 or more degrees below normal.  Snow storms seem endless.  Beautiful white mounds become a curse when we daily grit our teeth and feel the brunt of early morning arctic cold. We apprehensively part the lace curtains and check to see if the driveway and deck are again covered with more of the white fluffy stuff.  The surrounding forests and fields are again void of leaves and green color.

 God takes us by the hands and leads us to the kitchen window to enjoy the beauty of His snow covered landscape. There it is again, a singular leaf clinging onto  the same tree.  An identical twin of the furled brown leaf from 2 years ago, it beckons for our attention.  Again!Like its predecessor, this fragile gift of nature survives the impossible forces of harsh winter storms. The leaf faces us each time we look out the window.  Is it smiling at us? Is this real or a product of our imaginations? A blessing?  Fervent prayers for healing and perseverance have been heard and answered by God again and again as we have endured medical and other challenges in the 24 months since first being greeted by our leafy visitor. The leaf seems to reach out and encourages us to continue to  pray, to have faith. 

A freak of nature? Accidental, just a coincidence?  We believe those with little faith may have a difficult time explaining away this remarkable happenstance. It is time for us to pray, to listen, to meditate.  We have been blessed.  May we welcome the spirit that rides with the leaf back into our lives and tell us what is wanted.  Now is the time for us to  sacrifice.  We remain convinced that this is more than a coincidence!

Solitude – A single leaf by Christopher Flees.  Used with permission.

 

 

 

 

THE SAD DEMISE OF PENN STATE – A SCANDAL FOR THE AGES

Ten years old and life can be an uphill struggle in the mountains of central

Pennsylvania.

Wearing tattered clothing, sneakers with holes in the soles.

He  puts  his head down to avoid the snickers of others when

 Leaving  the school bus… all the kids know about his  poverty….

His father killed in Iraq: mother struggling with a minimum wage job.

Two younger brothers and sisters  are all of preschool age.

Tim’s ( as we shall name him for this article ) peers  know you get a free school

lunch and use food stamps.

The trailer roof leaks , last spring the electric power was shut off .

Penn State Lion images are everywhere in this rural town,

at the grocery store, the dentist, the pharmacy.

Pennants, stickers, pom poms , sweat shirts. Everywhere.

 Stories about Joe Pa and  the national championships are legendary.

The smart, tough guys who went to Linebacker U are heroes for generations.

The local dentist, attorneys, business leaders –all Penn State Grads.

The Harrisburg Sunday Patriot, Lebanon Daily News, Channel 4  TV in

Lancaster carry news of recruiting triumphs throughout the year.

Would the local 5 star all state full back from Bishop McDevitt  in Harrisburg

matriculate to Penn State or defect to Pittsburgh or Alabama?   As much a news

Item as the gubernatorial election.

By age 7-8: young men can tell you the histories of Joe  Paterno,  Rip Engle and

 Jerry Sandusky.

Sandusky designed the defenses for the national championship teams. 

Respected, smart, a guy who had access to Penn State’s campus, and carried

blue and white in his veins.

Tim remembers being “recruited” to join Jerry’s the Second Mile Program –

billed as a program to help his self esteem and make him a better person. 

Tim never had a chance – he was a prime candidate for the claws of the

predator.Parents revered Jerry Sandusky –   especially those who wanted to

give more to their kids – but couldn’t. The “ Second Mile” program was a

blessing – Jerry was a role model leader of the program.

Imagine, spending time with a folk hero who helped propel Penn State to

national football prominence?

 Jerry liked the kids.. An eagle eye for athletic talent, he also had the

uncommon ability to identify the most vulnerable.. to spot the young boys who

had that extra need for attention.. The kind of oral sex and anal sex attention

foisted upon them  by the sick predators of this world.

 From summer camps to the private, glitzy, big time locker facilities at Happy

Valley is a short walk for the well  connected Sandusky. According to published

 reports, locker rooms where he was seen performing oral sex on pre teens.

Over a decade, he allegedly violated numerous young men, using his fame as a

former Penn State coach for access to young minds and bodies.. and violated

them in Penn State’s football facilities as well as elsewhere.

Others knew – he was reportedly  seen with a naked boy committing oral sex in

a shower room .  A grad student observed  the horrific scene and turned him

into Penn State authorities .. and nothing was done. No action was taken.

The terror continued and continued.  And the authorities  covered  up.

 One needs to understand the allegiance of Pennsylvania parents to the

University.  The high regard for its ethics and values.  From toddler age 

through senior years the University and its athletic programs are

nigh unto a religion.  Always a bit above the Ohio State tattoo scandal,

Wisconsin’s shoe scandal , the dismal education rates among SEC athletes. Penn

 State was the shining example of the way to run a class athletic program.  Get

into trouble in a local bar – Joe Pa would bench the player at

the least – or make sure the young man transferred to another school.

This scandal does  not involve players but a former coach and university icon.

 Rather this is a legal and moral morass brought upon innocent children by a

sick pedophile who was apparently  enabled to continue his horrific actions by

the head of the athletic department and chief of security.

Sweep it under the rug and the dirt will disappear! Avoid the truth – an axiom

that never succeeds. 

 The proud battle cry of  Nittany Lion  fans when visiting the  Badgers at Camp

Randall is “ WE ARE PENN STATE”.  A shrill combination of pride and

defiance.  

 No longer.  Not this year.

 As a Roman Catholic who has watched the priest pedophile scandal grow

exponentially because of a culture of denial and enablement , one fears for the

viability of the institution at Happy Valley .

Most of all – the innocence of many children is lost.. and the scars last a

lifetime..

 So to my faithful readers, I admit my anger, embarrassment, and shame on

behalf of the University. Having been one of those who lived and breathed PSU

football since an early age, I will be one of those fans at Camp Randall who will

sit quietly during  the November game in respect for those boys who

were ignored by Penn State University in their horrific days, weeks, and years

of greatest need.

 To say we are sorry is not enough.  To say “ WE ARE PENN STATE” is an

embarrassment.

MOTHER TERESA and the CARPENTER

Artists, of  all genres, have spurts of intuition and insight.

Painters begin with a swab of paint and let their fingers do the walking.

Writers begin with a word, an idea, a concept, and their minds wonder.

Friends  inquire as to the source of ideas and inspiration for these muses.

Today is one of those times – a muse written as an observation of the good

works you bring to this author.

On Sunday  the smiling lady standing behind a scattered  pile of books said

“ Take as many as you want”.” They are from our library.”

 A collector of things written ( as overflowing book shelves attest).

I couldn’t resist – books for free – manna from Heaven.

Book diving in the bottom of a cardboard box – there it was talking to me

“ Mother Teresa – In my Own Words”.

Want a freshly baked humble pie? Think you are clever when

friends say –that muse really struck me in the heart?  Today’s comparison

with Mother Teresa grabs one by the scruff of the neck – wake up big boy!

Not a chance, Mother Teresa is in the big leagues.  A clean up hitter

when it comes to insights and action.

Reflect, take a deep breath, and learn from the words of a master

whom  I heard mesmerize an audience decades ago.

 Mother Teresa , bent, frail, charismatic, dressed in her customary humble garb

 addressed  a  hushed, awed crowd of thousands in Philadelphia. 

No soaring rhetoric of hope, change.

Calm, confident, engaging, yes one could describe her as angelic.

A forceful, low key,  captivating speaker .. to say you could hear

a pin drop in the audience is a gross understatement.

One of those seminal events when we have the gift of listening to

a “game changer” in the course of human history.

Her message of compassion, love, and service to the poor reverberates these

many years past.

Here she is again,  forcing herself into my consciousness: sharing her insights. 

A simple card table full of books In a country church in Fontana. 

Who would expect Mother Teresa here?

Open  this book of Mother Teresa’s quotes – pick a page, any page.

Discover the differential  between a Saint and us mere mortals.

Humble, insightful, seeing the world through a prism of understanding

to which we can only aspire.

Days later, the local handyman rings the doorbell – – a somewhat bedraggled

fixer of all things electrical, mechanical,etc.

Equipped with a  smile, a tool box, and a beat up van carrying gadgets and gismos.

His weathered ladders are splattered with paint,

His unkempt hair a month or two since feeling the snip of a barber.

Today he came to fix a light fixture in the bathroom.

Hi ! he pronounces – another great day in Packer Land!

The fixture ? . No problem  and off he chugs down the hallway.

 30 minutes later he climbs off his wobbly  ladder.

“ A little more complicated than I thought”.. That will be $15.00!

How is that possible I ask? Only $15.00?

He displays  this air of accomplishment – a  problem solved.

Money isn’t the motivator ..  a problem solved and a pleased customer.

This journeyman doesn’t wear his Christianity on his sleeve.  One

knows he lives his faith.. demonstrates his values. No preaching,

no giving out splashy flyers.. just watch  my example.

Mother Teresa said “ Whoever is dependent on his or her money or

worries about it, is truly a poor person. If that person places his or her

money at the service of others, then the person becomes rich, very

rich indeed.”

The  van’s engine turns over. A wisp of blue smoke fills the air. Down the

driveway and off to his next challenge.  A rich, very rich man has spoken

volumes by his deeds.

Will he and Mother Teresa meet in Heaven?

A Saint in our Midst

THE POWER OF CHILDHOOD INNOCENCE

A muggy humid day on the Monet-like flower covered wood lot

with ancient lakes and soaring pines in the hills of northern Wisconsin.

Adults scrambled for shade, natural ice tea, a cold Budweiser.

Eagles and squirrels snuggled quietly in nests and high grass.

 The world snoozed.

Almost asleep  – almost but not quite.

A child’s curiosity never sleeps.

Heat and humidity are non entity’s as life’s journey  has just begun.

Flowers, bushes, fallen tree trunks are a new adventure.

Rising to her waist and beyond, long stems of yellow greet her eye to eye.

A mutual hello, how are you? Curiosity, respect, welcome.

Golden wildflowers to be lovingly fondled for the 1^st time – creator’s gifts.

An audible sigh of delight flows from the bed of wildflowers.

Indeed a shriek of glee and amazement.

She reaches out, gently touches the flower. They converse with each other.

Intense, passionate, innocent, playful.

A lifetime relationship consummated in a millisecond.

Adults lovingly observe and are amazed.

Unknowingly  they see their values passed on to another generation.

They marvel at the pure joy residing in the hearts of their offspring.

Proud of her curiosity, beauty and respect for Nature.

“ Lookie at what I found”.. the flower is sooo big.

Exclamations of joy and discovery.

Our memory tapes speed back  through the years.

Attempting to recreate feelings we had at age 2 or 3.

Each corner turned beheld a new jewel. A shriek of joy.

Adults of the carriers of culture, customs, knowledge, values

plus admiration of all that is beautiful and wholesome.

Generation builds on generation.

Reclining on our decks, collectively “ solving the world’s problems”,

Retelling family tales of accomplishments and times passed.

Somehow our childhood sense of wonderment, amazement

Innocence: of 1^st time events are nourished in the pantry of knowledge,

Experience and culture.

Upon finding solutions to life’s problems- do you emote a youthful a ha?

A sense of discovery, a return of innocence> Do you feel the guttural repeat

of joy, heart pounding thrill of a 3 year old bouncing over fallen tree limbs and

through waist high savannah grasses?

Confidence regained? Giddy to see more, hear more, solve more?

No adult singed cynicism or over wrought analysis.

Let us listen to nature and our inner childlike voice revealing the truth about ourselves

Including our limitless capabilities to be spontaneous as the youngest among us in

the flower filled wood lot.

Photo provided by Jim Templin: jtemplin@ymail.com

Childhood Innocence