Where Politics come home

I can not thrust my political opinion upon anyone else. I know that. There are many days that I'm not even sure what my political opinion is. I know where I lean. I'm pretty sure I know why. But I'm not intimately familiar with the ins and outs of Social Security.  I don't agree with either political party on what they would consider a just war. I think pronounced approaches toward Israel are lacking. Etc, etc.

There is a place where politics come home for me though. I will be impacted by how the Dream Act pans out after this election. The Development, Relief and Education of Alien Minors Act will help children of undocumented parents start a path to citizenship. More importantly, the youth who take advantage of this act will be recognized as valuable members of our society: a society they were thrust into and have come to know as their only influence. I will be affected because I have three nieces whose lives beyond school depend on if this act is upheld beyond this administration.

These young women are a part of my life. I love them like daughters and I would die for any one of them. They came to us eight years ago worn from a 2-day, sardine-packed van ride across the United States. The van was the easy part, after being separated from their mother and being held in a Safe (and I use that term loosely) House in Tuscon. Lizbeth was four, Lizeth six and Jessica eight. They were tired and timid when they arrived. Everything was strange. As hard as we tried to make our place a home for them, it took awhile. English was hard at first. It was hard making friends while learning the language. I can't speak for all of them, but I would guess the word to describe their first year of school would be "hell". But they learned and they made friends and they grew and have become sweet, intelligent, caring, aware young women- all of them.

Do they think about what it means to be here? Do they care about their immigration status? I'm not sure where it falls on the list after cell phones and first kisses, but I'm pretty sure it's not toward the top. Some day they'll care. Maybe when most young people start caring- when they start making their own decisions and when their lives depend on those decisions. I want them to have opportunities when they start caring. I don't want them to experience the humiliation of deportation. No matter what they decide to do as adults, I want them to be able to call this country home along with their native Mexico.

Some minds will turn to parental choices. As irrelevant as this is, I want to address it. If you had to choose to do something illegal to help your children survive, wouldn't you? Under the current economic system in Mexico, opportunities are scarce and U.S. businesses have not helped the situation by utilizing the cheap labor in Mexico and many other struggling countries. Our ancestors (with the exception of Native Americans) left somewhere to come here by whatever means necessary. Some of our ancestors forced slaves to transport them. The history is deep and complicated and most groups have some representation that wanted to close the door behind them. It seems it would be more productive to discuss how we are going to work to effectively reduce (and eventually end) global poverty. It's the only fair, humane solution to this problem and I hope my nieces will be here (or wherever they choose to be) to help our world take steps toward that solution.

Wherever You Go...

I hate the cold. I have never been a fan. I am from the Midwest and spent my fair share of time outside in the winter, but I always preferred a hot summer day running around shirtless, sweating in the summer sun. I know Cold though. We made friends once.

 I was working at the Saint Francis Catholic Worker in Waterloo, IA. It was my first experience of immersion. I lived and served and often did not know the difference as I slowly became part of a community. But violence would come to reign on us as a friend was taken in a shooting. Another friend died beneath a bridge. Another friend reached for help as he struggled in the grasp of mental illness and alcoholism and we all suffered as we watched him sabotage his success. Some who lived among us found they could show the worst of themselves where they knew they would still be loved, so they did and we had to evict people who could not respect the community. I loved what I was doing, but a part of me ached and I was not sure why. Community members helped me arrange a sabbatical. The first stage of the sabbatical was three days and nights at a Trappist Monastery. It was a few weeks before Christmas and the Iowa winter was already biting.

I honored the vow of silence the monks had taken and I kept silent even among the other retreatants. I read and reflected and I spent a lot of time outside, finding peace in the stillness of the trees and excitement as birds and squirrels rustled through the branches. My thick beard scarved my face but, even with gloves, my fingers ached. My body shivered and I let it. I was alone there, as alone as I'd ever been. I faced demons I had forgotten about and thought honestly about what God might be calling me to do next. There were worse things than cold and I had seen some.

I was fortunate to have those days at the monastery and I continued my spiritual journey after, then joining a friend and entering into prayer and study with a group at a retreat center in Wisconsin. When I returned to the Worker, my housemates were decorating the Christmas tree they had gotten while I was away. The house had light and color and I felt awake. Maybe I had needed the break. Maybe I could have listened better to my friends and let them help me through. Whatever the case, eventually I left the Catholic Worker and came East. Perhaps I was escaping something. But I soon learned to heed the words of author John Kabat-Zinn who penned a book entitled, "Wherever You Go, There You Are".  Maryland was a new experience with new friendships and new challenges. I was able to continue the work I believe I was called to. I had to learn to live in my skin though. I still struggle with that occasionally. Now I live in community with my family and we have a union within the community we live in. It is a rich way to live among the poor.

Nun is a lot!

Much of the influence that has helped to mold me as a person I credit to women of faith. First and foremost, to my mother, whom I have recognized and given to you in more detail in previous posts of this blog. But, more behind the scenes, I have benefited from the faith and wisdom of Catholic sisters. I owe much of my education and my catechism to them. Specifically, I remember Sister France Anne who was my first principal and led with love and courage (even when I was being disciplined.) I also remember Sister Judy who took a few of us out for Big Macs for helping her with office chores. Sister Carol was a gentle influence. She was one of the first teachers to encourage my creativity and share a bit of her religious life. Sister Rose Anne taught me passionately about social justice.

I observed, early on, that these sisters lived together. Only later would I discover that they lived in community, which heavily influenced my decision to work and live that way. In my adult life, I have had several fulfilling relationships with sisters who I have met through the the Catholic Worker movement and in other circles where I have chosen to associate myself with people who are committed to work for peace and justice.  I am indebted to them! I talk about this work. I have high ideals and want the world a certain way. They put themselves in harms way to make it so. They witness violence and terror in places most of us would not go.  They speak the truth in lands where this is dangerous to do and challenge politicians without being directly political. They live and work on the margins of our society, giving to the the poorest of the poor and the weakest of the weak. They are the servants of the church. (Let it be said that there are many priests and brothers doing this same work, but men are not being specifically challenged right now-to my knowledge.)

In recent days, the wisdom and value of these sisters has been questioned. An investigation, commissioned by the Vatican, has called sisters to the carpet and proposed that they are supporting values which are contrary to the values of the church. There are clear differences in the experiences of those on the front lines from those enforcing the laws of the church, pinned to its dogma. Any church doctrine that suggests someone operating outside the lines of the church is any less of a person or less whole in God's eyes needs to be questioned. As people, as a society, we have evolved in our recognition of the reality of human sexuality and we have given (at least lawfully) women the right to serve as equals in all offices. Women of the Catholic church deserve this same consideration. They fight for justice in the world and they deserve justice in their home, the church.

I stand with these sisters. I pray for them. I value what they have done for the church and for the world. I want to listen. I want to see what the church can learn from them. The officer commissioned to conduct the investigation has said, in so many words, that conformity is the only response the Vatican will accept. I hope this is not true. I hope the church will find an opportunity in this chasm to establish communities where people can hear the Word and know the Word is speaking to them. It will take time. It will take compromise and sacrifice. But this must happen for the church to survive these times. It must happen for the church to be whole and remain holy.

Beyond Imagination

"Did you ever imagine you could love anyone so much?" These were the words of your Grandma Craig when you were born, Valeria. This was a question that was easily answered. No. I never could have imagined. Even now, as you sit pouting in your bed, angry because you don't think I understand you...even now, it is hard to imagine how I am capable of loving you this much.

I have done some selfish things in my life and I once wondered if I was big enough to ever give my love unselfishly. You exist because I am and I will never stop loving you. I will disagree with you and look at you side-eyed and punish you when I feel there is no other way to teach you. I will be wrong and I will try to own up to mistakes as we go. I will forget things and get preoccupied with things not near as important as you are. But I promise I will do my best. You are in the front of my mind no matter where I am. There is not a day that I don't tell a story about you or brag about you or just gleam with pride and adoration as I show off your picture.

I hope that, by the time you read this, your memories give weight to what I'm saying here. I have big hopes for you. I worry sometimes, but not near as much as I hope. I hope you know you are loved, especially at the lowest and hardest times in your life. I hope you are held in esteem at the things that you love to do and in the company you choose to be with. I hope you remember how good you are even when others forget or don't know. Finally, I hope that your goodness spreads like wildfire to those around you and that you will know God's love as you give your heart to a hungry world.

You are my angel. Your small hand in mine so many times a day. Your sweet eyes that love me back  even when I don't feel loveable. And your tears and rage and resistance. All part of the moments that make me feel alive. I am with you- always.

Away with Words!

Honest armadillo- I'm just a short order, shank happy, beans and rice, kiss and make up kind of guy. And yet, on the wings of words, I feel higher than my limited stature would allow on a given day. In this window of space I am free to be the man I want to be, the man I dream to be or even some version of my real self. It's all good! There was a time when I thought maybe this venue would be a vessel to move toward greatness. Anymore I hope I can move toward grace. Words, in the recess of the mind, spill out like dice on a game board and I'm left to make the next move. If I delay, I forfeit. If I submit, I am ultimately rewarded with at least a feeling of release. Occasionally the result is relief. So I pause and ponder and pontificate. The words meet air and I scramble to gather all and keep them warm and sheltered in sentences. And, with a wisp; nothing, empty--out! "Come again" the sign might read. And I return to my dull existence.

Aware

There is something in my body that does not belong there. That is the easiest way to say it. No test has found it. Can't find a doctor who believes anything but tests. It has grown. Some days it is worse than others. I can hardly describe what it does inside me (and I'm damn tired of trying!) But I will say that it moves and it hurts. I have learned to focus myself around the pain and through it sometimes. This makes my case even weaker. It would be more distinct if I walked around with a grimace. I can't seem to make it evident though. I even push the triggers; caffeine, exertion, lack of sleep, in hopes that something will manifest and I'll start vomiting blood or pass out cold or something. I wish it were easier. I wish I knew if I was dying. For lack of an answer, I assume I'm dying. Not because I'm negative or glum, but because it helps me to really take in special moments. We're all dying. I am not scared anymore. I imagined for years I would be. I watched others who were sick and I didn't think I could ever be brave enough to die. Now I realize, if it's not today it will be tomorrow and so on and so on. I am still not brave. I am just aware. I never thought I would be but I am. When I wake up in the morning, the pain will just be there, like my shoes, waiting for me. It will be lighter in the morning, evident in the afternoon and perhaps only painful at night. And I'll sleep better tonight just because I took time to express myself.

Golf and life with Dad

Keeping in mind that this blog is all about you Valeria, my Angel, I want to share with you a part of your grandfather that I have probably never told you about in such depth. I wrote this in 1994 and I have to say, at second glance, I may have taken some liberties for dramatic effect, but be assured the spirit of the man portrayed is accurate and the significance of the game of golf in my relationship with him is as depicted here.

This may have something to do with why you call every sport I watch on television "golf". I hope I have not denied you any due attention to honor this game and my real prayer is to share it with you, if you so desire. You are four now and I hope you will soon walk the fairways of life with me and breathe in the sweet air of summer as we stride together toward the green heaven your grandfather now inhabits.
(He really did caddy for Bob Hope, by the way!)


KEEP YOUR EYE...

In the early evening, on a bus from Newark to Wilmington, Delaware, in the middle of a string of meditative associations, I find myself thinking of golf and of my old man. My senses transcend the rocking bus and I am standing under a tree back in Waterloo, Iowa at Gates Park Municipal Course on a Saturday afternoon near the tee of a 430 yard par four, the smells of birch and pond water, the splashing sounds of frogs playing on the weeded bank.

I love to watch him. He's not as graceful as the tour pros on television, but he has a class that doesn't require nice polo shirts or PING clubs. There is a depth in his stroke and in his eyes as he follows the propelled ball to its landing, his hand held on his forehead as a visor. I watch him watch. Over the years he has given me a lot of advice: most of it "goes in one ear and out the other", as he would say. But I hear him clearly in that still-framed moment under the Iowa sun, his attention seemingly focused on a small rubber band-wound, plastic covered sphere: "Keep your eye on the ball. Follow through," he says, without saying anything at all.

I see my father's life in his stroke. In my mind's eye, I tailor a black and white photo of him when he was twelve. I put him on that same golf course at that same hole where he caddied as a child. He caddied for Bob Hope once. I see him caddying for the legendary comedian, holding a bag almost as tall as him, pinpointing Bob's ball for him "just in the shadow of the third pine tree." After the round, Hope gives him five bucks and dad goes home bragging to his brothers and, under the intent gaze of his father, dutifully places the five in a jar marked with his name. All eight of his brothers caddied. He was in the middle of fifteen children. They each learned to pull their own weight and to take pride in a good day's work.

One day I would caddy for him. I started out just walking, tagging along. It was nice just to be with him. He enjoyed my company and it was obvious; teaching wasn't important yet. He just walked and talked and wrote on his little score card and I followed him and watched him hit that shafted hammer into that ball that seemed to go forever. He bought me hot dogs and Pepsi in the pro shop and dropped me a five every once in awhile when I got strong enough to carry his bag.

He played with friends, but I didn't care who he played with; I just wanted to be with him, my dad, my buddy. Sometimes we rode in a cart. I got to sit in the cart, all alone behind the steering wheel while the men stood at the tee and waited for the group in front. Dad never got a cart if he had any say in it though. It wasn't his style. It still isn't. He's a walker. He spies lost balls in the deep rough, under trees, by the roadside and even fishes one out of the shallow pond with a 9 iron on occasion. His feet track the earth as he strides through the high grass of the rough, crossing from one side to the other, lending an eye to the less attentive.

Then I started to play. He never demanded that any of us kids take up the sport; it was our choice. How could I not play golf? ...so many memories, so much a part of me, of him, of our whole family. I took lessons when I was twelve and I played three days a week, as specified by the green ticket I paid five dollars for each year. Growing up I played with other kids. I always had the worst score in our foursome. I used a baseball grip on my club, must to the chagrin of my teacher and even more so to my father. It took years to break me of that habit and I have several others I have never learned my way out of (not that dad hasn't tried his damnedest to help.)

One summer, I hooked up with a friend who's brother managed the University course. It was quite a deal. If my friend or his brother were working, I was allowed to just walk on. I got off work at three-o-clock and went straight to the course every day. I breathed golf and once in awhile I'd even have a good game. I'd get home and call dad about a part I needed for my car or ask him how his back was and slowly work into telling him that I had birdied number three that day by sinking a chip from the edge of the green.

Years went by and I fell into a permanent golfing slump. In spite of a valiant coaching effort on dad's part, I pulled up in his driveway one July afternoon and threw my clubs on his sidewalk, "You can have 'em! I don't ever want to see these stupid clubs again. I'm just not cut out to play golf!" I left him with those words. I had given it to him straight; put him in his place. "What nerve! How dare he try to teach me something that brings him such joy!"

The next summer, my clubs were there waiting for me- no questions asked, no rubbing it in. My game hadn't improved much but my attitude had changed. The time off put the game into perspective. I didn't start playing golf because I wanted to win or even to score well. I played because, walking up the long fairway or standing in waiting on the green, I could feel the presence of my father. Through adolescence and into adulthood, when I was unwilling or unable to ask for his attention, I found him at my side, even when I was golfing alone, carrying the weight of ten golf bags. I took hundreds of quiet walks up and down the hills and around the green, manicured curves of our city golf courses and pondered what it meant to be alive: sweating in the humid Iowa sunshine, hurrying ahead of the black ominous clouds and floating balls into the turbulent winds. I've never played a round of golf without thinking of my dad.

It's January here in Delaware. I'm a thousand miles from home and the rain has finally washed away the six-foot snow drifts that have made it hard to see the street from my window. I'm working sporadically at three different jobs, one that I would compare to playing an entire nine holes in the bunker. I'm working so I can go back to school, even though I don't know what I'll do with my degree when I get it. It's hard to concentrate when I'm so unsure, but dad is helpful without even knowing it: "Keep your eye on the ball, Tim; follow through." And finally I hear his supportive, gentle, reassuring voice, "Good ball, Tim. Nice shot. That'll do. That'll do."