Last week I arrived early for a funeral at a Catholic church which gave me some time to sit, meditate and pray before the actual service began. This particular church had a huge, imposing crucifix (as opposed to just a Cross) mounted high on the wall behind the alter. I began to count all the crucifixes and Crosses that I could see without moving and got up to seventeen before being interrupted by a friend coming in.
I was born into the Catholic faith and raised
I am rich, very rich in daughters.
And then a year came when that blessing grew by two, then three and four and now, like wildfire into five, count them, five glorious little lives all their own called grandchildren. They snuck in on little ships one day when I was busy doing something else that seemed important.
I am not sure just how this all happened. There's no manual, no playbook, nothing on being grampy. Just unwritten expectations that come without words or reason. Each of them, Kevin, Madison, Owen, Joshua and Zachary just moved in to the middle of who I am, set sail and changed whatever course I thought was mine.
March winds blew characteristically cold and strong, sweeping dune grass and longer shafts of late-day shadows in a symphony of sight and wind-song there near the oceans edge. They came trudging, noisily, over one dune and up the next, a pack of life and confidence, nineteen in number and headed straight for the water's edge. For years I've led groups of young people to the seaside, most especially to Horseneck Beach and each and every time my heart leaps with wonder, watching and feeling as the wind and water pulls us home again.
"Life is made up of marble and mud." - Nathaniel Hawthorne
Strange words to wake up to I must say. But it seems they're true. Yesterday our fair town had an election with several important funding "override" questions at stake. The outcome of one ballot question especially would determine the future of my employment working with our youth. And as the sun's early rays stream across my desk I realize that this is the first morning in several months that I can say with certainty where I'll be working next year and beyond. It's a very good feeling, indeed.
For me the "marble" has been the overwhelming outpouring of support by many residents of all ages that my position as Youth Advocate should continue. These townspeople, from twelve-year-olds to seniors, were rock solid, smooth and determined to speak out and be heard. They wrote letters, spoke at meetings and in effect became the very definition of community. It's a truly humbling experience and discomforting sometimes, to watch ones life work being carried and given voice by others. It requires trust, letting go and somehow surrendering to the process. Personally, I have much to be grateful for and many people to thank in the days ahead.
I row on a team with other guys three times a week. On my non-rowing days I walk along a shore road, around an old fort, and loop back for a 2.5 mile brist walk very early in the morning. Last week the wind was howling and it was bitter cold as well so I kept my ski cap on and hood up from start to finish. As most people know, sounds are muffled when your ears are covered and that, coupled with the nylon hood flapping madly in the wind added its own demention of distraction. Still, I kept hearing this far-off "tinkling" sound
I received a MySpace message from a boy, age 16, who asked me to check his MySpace Profile and read what he had recently posted. He was naming his heroes, and he was naming me as his first hero in a world of limitless choices. I was honored for sure and somewhat embarrassed, too. After all, I'm
Last week I was driving home from a meeting with clergy and ministers at our nearby local Interchurch Council office when I found myself stuck behind a large, dirty panel truck that seems to be traveling all of about eight miles per hour.
Marshal Rabedeau was a plain man who lived his days along the Chazy River near the village of Champlain, New York. His icy-blue eyes and instant smile belied the price that sixty years of farming does to the human form. Some teach and meter out their wisdom around a podium or in an office where the fee is measured by the minute. Then there's the Marshal Rabedeau's of the world who come in coveralls and sun-faded shirts, who could signal with one callused finger and say, “Boys, the work is this way."
One of the groups I facilitate as part of my work as the Youth Advocate for the Town of Dartmouth met earlier today. This particular group was for children in grades two and three. Our weekly topic was "Keeping Me Safe," in which we discuss various aspects of personal, physical and emotional safety and how to know when things don't feel right.
Heart Journal Entry. A day among others.
Nine-thirty one morning a boy recalls the sounds and sights
of visiting dad imprisoned for murder.
He's young and strong and broken already at twelve.
His hands flex into a fist and says,
"I am not like my father, no matter what they say."
I tell him he's distinct, whole and separate.
He listens. Hopes, wants to believe
and agrees to continue on a little card
called "next appointment."
At 11:00 another child of fifteen going on twenty-two
