My Hero

I have many interests in my life. I like to play and watch golf. I like a good movie. I have enjoyed many good books. But my hero is neither a golfer nor an actor nor a writer. My hero is a grandmother. She is a church lady. She is physically less strong than she once was, but she could move mountains with the strength she has inside.

My hero is my mother.

A mother who (with my father)chose to adopt four children. She also mothered pregnant teenagers who needed support, a foster child with severe psychological challenges and a foreign exchange student who, until her death, still called my mother "mom". After the tragic murder of my good friend, my mother was the one who spoke the only sane words I could digest: "God is angry too", she said. She put my feelings to words when my daughter was born: "You never imagined you could love anyone so much, did you?".

As her adopted children entered various stages of adulthood, she supported us as we sought out our birth mothers, genuinely excited about our discoveries and the extension of our love to those who gave us life.

My mother loved and lost two husbands. She weathered the storm of grief while gathering in the other loved ones. She spoke and acted with such wisdom through her pain.

My mother has challenged laws and leaders. She stood up to teachers she thought were less helpful than they could have been and to priests who could have been more priestly.

Through it all, she has remained a woman of faith. She has taken care of herself while being as selfless as anyone I have ever known. She keeps her children under her moral umbrella, guiding us silently with her saintly examples. Her love gets stronger and reaches further as we extend our family and move in different directions. We are always remembered. Well Mom, you are remembered as well and will stay in my heart always.

The Princess and the Monster

"Daddy, tell me a story about the princess and the monster." My daughter Valeria requests this a few times a day, sometimes a dozen! One thing I have learned; there are at least a few hundred ways to tame a monster. I won't ever let the monster eat Valeria (she's the princess of course.) They usually end up eating something sweet and tasty together. Maybe there's a lesson in the stories. Maybe the lesson is for her, but I know I am benefitting. I rarely refuse her. Sometimes I take time from a ballgame or surfing the web. The story reminds me that she comes first. I know the story is her "in". She knows the story is likely to bring me to her, no matter how far apart she feels we are in that moment. The story keeps our creative juices flowing too. If I'm stumped, I'll alert her that it's her turn and she spins a tale that makes her powerful, demanding the monster get out from under the bed where he's been bumping around. Who knows? There may be a book in this for us.

I am found in LOST

I am having a unique entertainment experience. I have recently started viewing the TV series "Lost". While I frequently enjoy getting myself lost in television programs, in this case I have found a heartwarming life-lesson that does not make me want to go away as a person. It is hard to find a TV drama that is not in some form dualistic; pitting good guy against bad guy with a hero who predictably prevails in the end. Each episode of lost unveils the history and humanity of its characters. I'm sure it is possible individuals will emerge as clear heroes and villians as I get past the first season, but I will be disappointed if this is the case. I am encouraged to believe, as I exit the TV room, that people are more complex than what I see on the surface and I might even take a stab at falling in love with a few more of God's children.

Fatherhood

In the cold recesses of my conscience, I remember the few times that I was cruel to my father. It must have been confusing to him. He was many things to me (sometimes harsh), but never cruel. I know that I was reaching for something then, desperate to belong, striving to feel big in some way. Somehow we moved on from those times and I knew he loved me, even after the worst of them. It was actually harder for me to forgive myself.

I think I get it now; how he hung in there with me. He had laid the groundwork long before my adolescence. He had let me into his heart the day he first laid eyes on me. I'm sure of it! I did not always let him in, but I know now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he treasured me.

My little girl sparkles as I watch her walk and talk and laugh and roll around on the floor. There are days when I get tired, when I wonder if I'll be able to keep up with her until she falls out, but I never wonder if I will love her no matter what. I am confident that she will have a good life; that she will be a strong confident person. But even if I'm wrong, I know that I will follow her to the end of the earth to show her how much I love her. I had a good role model. Thanks dad!

sunday afternoons

I remember Sunday afternoons as restful. My father would often fall asleep in the chair reading the paper. We watched golf if it was on and dinner was usually special and important. Our larger family had a brunch once a month and the love was palpable among the coffee cake and egg casseroles. Sundays were simple then and carried minimal dread.

Now I am usually only able to enjoy half of a Sunday, dreading returning to work and feeling I didn't get enough weekend. Today, I feel Sunday in a big way. I am squirming in its shadow; wanting it to sweep me all the way to Friday. I endure it until the golf and baseball games are over and then I hope to have a tasty morsel that will keep me from remembering it is Sunday night.

The warmth is deceiving.
Wind swirling
and the spitting rain jabs.

It is conflict
brewing
inside of me.

I am climbing
the tall wall
and straining to see.

I know there is
another side
and I am near.

I regret my insolence;
my near stupidity-
face in my hands.