Vintage

Today I remember my friend, Dora.  I met Dora years ago through activities at my church.   This makes total sense, since she was one of those dependable servants of God who served in many functions over the years.  She and I were working as catechists during her last five years or so, and our paths crossed continuously for different reasons.  I always looked forward to her smile and that ever-so-constant twinkle in her eye.  We had a special relationship, she and I!  I always teased her about her accumulation of years, and she teased me for my lack thereof.  I was the only person allowed to call her an “old bat,” because it was always said with a smile and heartfelt love.  She always laughed and hugged me and then gave me back what I had just dished out. 

Dora was one of those dedicated people who spent her life serving others.  Her husband had died before I met her, so she had plenty of time on her hands and spent it well.  She worked with people going through bereavement, and often volunteered to say the rosary at the viewings of deceased parishioners.  She was a chaplain at a local hospital and served on various parish and community committees.  She and I shared a strong desire to educate our fellow parishioners about their faith, and we shared a lot of opinions.  I enjoyed our talks about our faith and how well (or not) certain students were doing.  Dora had accumulated, along with her abundance of years, an abundance of wisdom, and I was always ready to absorb some of what she knew.

The last time I saw Dora was several months ago, and I asked how she was doing.  Over the years she had undergone multiple medical treatments to unclog her carotid arteries, and she had survived breast cancer many years ago, before we met.  She had developed a dowager’s hump as well, but she always smiled and carried on her rather proper way.  I never saw her without her lipstick and make-up, and her hair was always done.  So there she was, dressed up for church, and her response to my question was that some preliminary tests indicated that she might have pancreatic cancer.  My blood ran cold and for once I was speechless.  What do you say at that time?  I wished her well and asked her to let me know if I could help.

Shortly afterwards, I stopped at her house, but she was not home.  I found out from a friend at church that she had moved in with her daughter on the north side of town during her treatment.  I also found out that she had brain cancer.  I knew, though I tried to deny it, that I would not see my friend alive again.  Those accumulated years that I had teased her about were not working in her favor anymore.  I sent her a few cards to wish her well, but I heard that she was tired and losing ground and spent much of her time sleeping and recovering from her chemotherapy and radiation treatments. 

My dear friend died on Christmas day.  We found out at mass the following Sunday, and when the announcement was made there was a sigh from the congregation.  When I went to church for the recitation of her rosary, I could not help but think back on her work in this area.  I did not go to see her in her casket, though I could make out the purple hat and its satin ribbon that she wore to cover the loss of her beautiful white hair, and I could see that she still wore her red lipstick.  I wanted to remember her as I had always seen her – with the knowing smile and that ever-present twinkle in her eye, bustling off to do some errand or other.

Good bye, my dear friend!  You will be missed, but I look forward to seeing you again someday. 

I was scheduled for jury duty this morning.  I’m one of those strange and wacky people who doesn’t mind my civic duty.  I figure that what goes around comes around, and someday – Heaven forbid! – if I am accused of a crime, I’d want someone like me on a jury.  Without people willing to inconvenience themselves periodically, our judicial system would crumble, and with it our society.

So, I found myself in a crowded jury room this morning, watching as the numbers appeared on the screen and listening to the announcements.  When we were released at mid-day, there was a stampede for the doors and sighs of relief for those of us who were not called.  Having been through this before, I just noted it as an event and left the building.

While I was downtown, however, I decided to indulge in a roasted eggplant sandwich at a little Italian deli that I used to frequent when I was a corporate soldier, so I began walking further into the downtown canyon to hunt down my lunch.  As I walked, I heard some drums and saw some street blockades and uniformed people.  “Ah, Veteran’s Day parade!” I thought to myself.  Not being much of a parade watcher generally, I thought that I would get my sandwich and watch the parade, and show our vets how much I appreciated them before heading back to work.

I bought my lunch and found a spot on the parade route.  I looked at the people around me, waiting for the parade to start.  Across the street was what appeared to be a Mexican family, consisting of a grandmother, her son, her grandson, and a little boy, who must have been her great-grandson.   I saw an Indian (as in the country India) mother and adult daughter.  I had followed a group of Middle Eastern men to the parade route.  There were several Anglo families with small children, clutching flags.  Near me were three vets – an African-American (in fatigues), a  Latino, and  an Asian man (Korean?).   I was surrounded by people of all nationalities, genders, and ages.  A golf cart came down the street and handed out flags.  The father of the small Mexican boy got several, and each member of his received their very own flag.  The little boy was jumping and waving his in the air.  I bought a flag for a little girl who was with her mother in front of me.

As I heard the bands begin to play, the excitement grew.  I cried several times during the parade, watching the aged warriors standing in the back of the trucks, with ramrod straight backs and eyes that always looked forward.  After all the years, they were still proud of their service.  I was momentarily saddened by the sight of a single veteran, carrying the black POW/MIA flag.  How many mothers and fathers are still missing sons and daughters?  There were the usual units, and then the special groups came by – the Korean vets, the Chinese-American vets, the Vietnamese, and even one Native American, with his feathered headdress and carrying a military flag.  Even the French were represented!  The disabled women’s veterans came by, one in a wheelchair.  Several other disabled veterans appeared, proudly pushing their chairs along, with flags and all.   I clapped for every veteran that rolled or walked down that street.  There Gold Star Moms and Blue Star Moms, and just Moms.  I was honored to honor them.

As I watched these men – the ones in the parade and the ones on the curb, I thought back to my jury duty dismissal.  I was ashamed of the people who had been so relieved to get out of the inconvenience of taking part in this great society for just a few days.  I could only imagine what these veterans had endured so that we could all stand together, in a street, because we wanted to. 

There’s a difference between duty and honor.  At times they overlap, at times they don’t.

For those men and women in the parade today, it overlapped.

And I was honored to witness it.

A series of events have coalesced, and I now know the topic of the retreat which I am to give in February.  I have been considering several topics, but had not come to a decision. Sometimes we just have to see what God is sending us!

I recently started a spiritual program, and each day there is a reading which I meditate upon.  Today’s reading was Mark 6:30-44:

The apostles gathered together with Jesus and reported all they had done and taught.  He said to them, "Come away by yourselves to a deserted place and rest a while." People were coming and going in great numbers, and they had no opportunity even to eat. So they went off in the boat by themselves to a deserted place. People saw them leaving and many came to know about it. They hastened there on foot from all the towns and arrived at the place before them. When he disembarked and saw the vast crowd, his heart was moved with pity for them, for they were like sheep without a shepherd; and he began to teach them many things. By now it was already late and his disciples approached him and said, "This is a deserted place and it is already very late. Dismiss them so that they can go to the surrounding farms and villages and buy themselves something to eat."  He said to them in reply, "Give them some food yourselves." But they said to him, "Are we to buy two hundred days' wages worth of food and give it to them to eat?"  He asked them, "How many loaves do you have? Go and see." And when they had found out they said, "Five loaves and two fish."  So he gave orders to have them sit down in groups on the green grass.  The people took their places in rows by hundreds and by fifties. Then, taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to heaven, he said the blessing, broke the loaves, and gave them to (his) disciples to set before the people; he also divided the two fish among them all. They all ate and were satisfied. And they picked up twelve wicker baskets full of fragments and what was left of the fish. Those who ate (of the loaves) were five thousand men.

Most people, when reading this passage, focus on the miracle of the feeding of the five thousand.  What caught my eye was the miracle of the HUNGER of the five thousand.  Just imagine the scene: Jesus and his apostles have been working hard, and find themselves at a point of mental exhaustion and need a break.  (And THAT situation really strikes home right now, but that is another story.)  Jesus says, “Hey, guys, let’s get in the boat and go somewhere where we can rest and get away from the crowds for a while!”  So they jump in the boat and begin rowing away.  The crowd on the shore sees them pull away and begin running around the lake.  Now, Jesus and crew are going in a straight line across the water.  The crowd must take the long way around, on foot, watching to see where Jesus is going to land, and STILL manage to beat Jesus to the shore!  Now, THAT is desire! THAT is a hunger for what Jesus had to offer!  They didn’t know where Jesus was heading, nor did they know how long they would be gone.  They dropped what they were doing and went after what they considered most important.

I’ve had a horrendous, horrible, Pluto-orbit stress level, wishing-I-had-the-courage-to-slit-my-wrist week.  Fortunately, I picked up a phrase that helped me get through it: “First things first”.  Though things are still not settled completely, I made it through by thinking about what I had to do First at Each Moment.  Did I need to hold my tongue, control my tongue, or scream in a dark room?  Did I need to do this task, do that task, or take a nap?  By focusing on what was the most important thing, I dragged myself through the week.  I am scarred, battered, and bruised, but I got through it.

The people at the lake also focused on their First Thing.  For them, it was the message of  hope that Jesus gave them.  They lived under Roman occupation, and I’m sure hope was a powerful message for them.  I admire their hunger, their drive, their desire for Jesus’ message.

And that brings me to the topic of the retreat (at least, as of today), “Seek Ye First,” from Matthew 6:33:

But seek first the kingdom (of God) and his righteousness,  and all these things will be given you besides.

So, I shall begin seeking God first, in what I do.  I shall try to emulate the crowd of Jews, racing Jesus around the lake, constantly searching the water with their eyes so as not to lose sight of Him as their ran, tripped, bumped into each other, and ran again, racing around the lake.  And, I hope, to meet Jesus on the other side, where he can feed me and care for me in the ways that are important. 

As they continued their journey he entered a village where a woman whose name was Martha welcomed him. She had a sister named Mary (who) sat beside the Lord at his feet listening to him speak. Martha, burdened with much serving, came to him and said, "Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me by myself to do the serving? Tell her to help me." The Lord said to her in reply, "Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her."

With practice, I can move closer to being a Mary instead of a Martha.

The winds gathered together and said

“Let’s have some fun!”

They gathered themselves up and began dancing in circles,

Whirling faster and faster!

Spinning, spinning, spinning,

Like young children at play,

The winds gathered themselves up

And pushed, faster, faster, faster!

Screaming out their delight ,

They moved from the water to find new friends.

As they left the waters,

They continued to play,

Kicking around rubbish

Like children on a playground.

The trees were jealous of their movement,

And wanted to be free, to move like the wind.

They called out to the wind,

And  wanted to dance with them.

They began bobbing and weaving

With the wind.

“Faster!” the wind cried out,

Spinning ever more quickly.

The sun hid its face

As the wind more swiftly flew,

And the trees threw their leaves in anger,

Straining to be released from the ground.

Twisting, bending, stretching, reaching out!

Shaking themselves in frustration,

And in their frustration they bent themselves down

And shuddered as their boughs cracked with the strain.

Alas! Freedom was not theirs

And the wind howled with laughter

Until tears fell in torrents,

And were lashed about wildly

As the delirium ran unabated.

“Faster!” the winds cried, howling into the darkness,

And the trees again tried to gain their freedom.

And when roots finally released from terra firma,

They found their  freedom was for naught

As the released captive fell to the ground,

Still straining to join the wind in its wild revelry.

Finally, the winds tired of their game and moved on,

Leaving the trees sighing in the waning breezes,

Counting their broken limbs and lost greenery,

Surveying their dying brothers.

“If only,” they said sadly to each other.

“If only.”

And the winds spent themselves,

Dropping tears in exhaustion upon the earth,

Their dancing slowly fading away,

Until only a small whisper was left,

Tickling the leaf of one last shrub,

Far from where the frenzy began…

“Maybe next time,” it sighed,

And rested.

Normally I am known to have rather specific opinions and, according to some, can be a bit of a know-it-all.  I read a LOT, and listen to talk radio rather than the current FM brain rot, so perhaps I am a little more knowledgeable than some, less so than others.  But today I began to wonder “Since when…” and have no concrete answers to my musings.

Since When did our media become the official approval processing center for political candidates?  The way the major news media personalities are carrying on because Sarah Palin’s VP candidacy was kept a secret from them has revealed the depth of their narcissism.  I was shocked at seeing Sam Donaldson almost come out of his chair in rage the Sunday after Governor Palin’s candidacy became known.  The gnashing of teeth and hair pulling that continues as of this writing reminds me of a toddler’s temper tantrum.  I am happy that finally someone is standing up to the media.  Which leads me to my next musing…

Since When did our political candidates assume the jailhouse pose when put in front of the media?  I know the media is important for disseminating information, but really!   I lose all respect for the politicians that constantly play up to the media in order to get good reviews and garner public support.  Since the media controls the flow of information, they are in prime position to filter out – or in – the information they want us to know.  This usually coincides with their personal bias…which leads me to another musing:

 Since When did the media stop reporting the news and began making the news?  I was under the impression that journalism was an attempt to report news to inform the general public.  Now, the pretty ones on our TV screens think they are kingmakers and policy creators.  Forget the experience (or lack thereof) of any candidate – I want to know which journalists have the background to hold high public office?  If they think they can select our next president, surely they would have the qualifications to know, in-depth, what the office entails.  Having white teeth, pretty hair, and an obnoxious desire to ruin our society is not, in my humble opinion, enough qualification to take on this very important responsibility.   I would prefer that they provide the very valuable and valid service of reporting the facts, and leave the editorial to, well, the editorials!  If you are not an unbiased reporter, then be honest with the public!  Even reporters are allowed to vent their opinion – as long as it is understood to be opinion instead of fact!  Radio talk show hosts such as Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck admit to being biased in a particular direction, and their shows are to provide entertainment based on the current events of the day.  They have never claimed to be anything other than what they are, and I believe that is fair.  But when a journalist presents himself or herself as a “journalist” and are to be reporting “facts,” but in fact are spouting their personal opinions, then that is fraud.  They are taking advantage of the large segment of the public who remain relatively politically ignorant.   For them, it’s like taking candy from a baby.  And people who take candy from a baby are usually and rightfully reviled.

Since When did we lose our pride in ourselves?  Was it during the era of “sex, drugs, and rock and roll” when it became very popular to despise our government?  Was it The Pill, which gave the youth, full of energy and of themselves, the freedom to do the previously forbidden with freedom from consequences?  Did the media change during the Vietnam War, or during the Nixon Watergate years?  Since When was it the ultimate to find a “gotcha” story than report on the good in our society?  The wrongs should be exposed, but I have a hard time finding the good publicized.  The heroes in our world are relegated to the last 20 seconds of the nightly broadcast so that the “journalists” can go home secure and snug in their belief that they have presented all sides of our culture.  We who watch all the way through those last 20 seconds can leave their show feeling good about ourselves.  It’s like putting the seat down on the toilet without flushing.

Since When has it become politically correct to hate ourselves?

Since When did the rest of the world’s opinion of us become more important than our opinion of us?

Since When did our society become the dregs of culture, the scum on the pond, the bottom of the barrel?

And can someone please explain to me why we are inundated with people who literally die to get here?

 I just returned from a shopping trip at a local department store.  I noticed a young – VERY young – girl with a pink shirt in hand go to the self-checkout aisle and start pushing on the screen.  I knew this youngster would not be paying for her selection, but her mother was nowhere in sight.  She continued to push at the screen until her baby sister approached her, and then the two wandered off behind a display and out of my sight.  I brought this event to the attention of the customer service rep who was helping me, and she became very concerned and asked where they were.  “They were right there,” I pointed, “but they walked off that way.  I just don’t know where there mother is.”  “They just announced a lost child,” the rep said.  “Really?” I asked, then added, “I think I’d shoot myself if I allowed my kids to run around a store without me.”  Right about that time, the shirt girl reappeared and began pushing at the screen again.  “There she is!” I said, “and there’s her little sister with her.”  The CSR went to the girls and asked where their mother was, and I saw shirt girl point off somewhere.  “Then you two need to hold hands and go be with your mother.  Go on…go on!”  The two girls walked away and the CSR followed them and asked the mother to keep her children with her.  As I left, the mother looked at me as if she was angry.  Why?  Because I’m not comfortable with her children getting carried off by some pervert?

I’ve noticed a gradual loosening of parental control over children over the years.  I used to go to PTA meetings but stopped.  I quit going not because I was unconcerned about my children’s school, or because I was nonchalant about their future, but because the noise from all of the children playing and carrying on (and the parents talking at the same time as the speaker, by the way) frustrated me to no end.  I even saw one child with a toy that his parents had brought for him to play with during the meeting – a toy gun that made noise!  I decided it was best for to stop attending before I slapped someone and got sent to jail. 

I’ve noticed an increase in rudeness in general, but the lack of parental control truly astounds me.  I’ve seen kids careening around stores in grocery carts, banging into the aisles and nearly running over customers, laughing uproariously.  I never saw those parents.  I wish I had.  I would have loved to express my dismay at almost becoming in-store roadkill. 

Do parents not care about their children anymore?  Are they TRYING to get rid of them?  Do they not care about their physical safety, or their future social skills?  These kids that today are allowed to eat food in the store as they shop learn that it’s okay to take things without paying for them.  Then the parents are upset because their pwecious widdle baby-wabies are prosecuted for shoplifting.  Alternatively, their kids-come-grownups have little idea of how to behave in public because Mommy and Daddy were so busy either trying to be their friends or ignoring them that they were never taught social norms.  Why don’t they have friends?  Why can’t they be successful?  Freud had it right – go and look at the mother.  Or lack thereof.

Please parents, keep your children with you in the stores!  Teach them (and yourselves) to respect others  by keeping your mouth shut when the speaker is speaking.  By respecting others you provide a role model for your kids.  When shopping, don’t allow anyone in your party to open any package until it is paid for.  Be responsible.  Teach them to be responsible.

Then the perverts will have a harder time getting to your kids.

Then you may be asked back to places you visit.

Then prices in stores may go down because the shrinkage will be less.

Then we may be able to feel more confident about our future, because we can be more confident in our future adults.