The Importance of Imagination

November 8th, 2026

“When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school
It’s a wonder I can think at all
And though my lack of education hasn’t hurt me none
I can read the writing on the wall”

– from the song “Kodachrome” by Paul Simon

“Tamarack Waldorf School strives to spark curiosity and creativity in every child through hands-on, art- and nature-based education for a diverse community of students in the heart of Milwaukee.”

– the mission statement from Tamarack Waldorf School

“Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.”

– Albert Einstein

Our grandson, Asher, is in kindergarten at Tamarack Waldorf School. Waldorf education is a niche teaching philosophy/system. Very few parents know about it, and even fewer are willing to put their children into that pedagogical environment. Admittedly, Waldorf is not for everybody. Our three kids all went to Waldorf schools when they were young, a quarter century ago. None of them have forgiven us for sending them there. I think they all got something out of the experience, but they haven’t quite figured out what that might be. Waldorf is not like most other schools, whether they be public or private. My wife and I tried a number of different ways to educate our kids, and that included homeschooling for a few years. The kids all wound in public high school after spending some years in Waldorf. That was a function of the total lack of any Waldorf high schools closer than Chicago. If there had been a Waldorf high school in the Milwaukee area, they would have gone there.

So, how is Waldorf different from other educational systems? I don’t even know where to start. I guess it is best to begin by looking at the school’s goals. You probably read the Tamarack mission statement that posted earlier in this essay. Focus on the words “curiosity” and “creativity”. The faculty at Tamarack really and truly tries to encourage those two attributes. The teachers want to students to want to learn. They attempt to draw unique strengths and abilities out of each child. They do this with art, music, storytelling, and other activities that require imagination. Imagination is fundamental to the curriculum.

Do other schools do that? Maybe, but not nearly as much. At many other schools the primary goal is for the students to do well on standardized tests. The students are encouraged to compete against their peers, even in kindergarten. I believe that most schools are designed to satisfy the needs of corporate America. They often produce worker bees, but not individuals who can think for themselves. Our children are now adults who think independently. They look at the world from a different angle than most other people. They may not always make wise decisions, but they make them on their own.

Waldorf education has a spiritual underpinning. Waldorf schools are not religious schools, but it assumed that there is more than just the material world. There is more to life than working to acquire consumer goods. Nature matters. Humans of every color, culture, and creed matter. Being a compassionate person matters.

A teacher at a Waldorf school may not excel at everything. They are mere mortals like the rest of us. However, they care about their students and that concern shows in their work every day. Many years ago, when our daughter graduated from Tamarack, her long-time main teacher told the people attending the graduation ceremony a story. The teacher explained how she meditated on each of her students every night before going to bed. She added that, sometimes, a child from her class would appear to her in her dreams and tell her what they needed. I found that level of commitment to be amazing.

Now, it’s Asher’s turn to go to Tamarack. He is doing well in kindergarten thus far. He sings songs in the car that he learned in class. He draws and paints at home. He is constantly nagging my wife and me to tell him stories, and he actively participates in creating the narratives. He is slowly learning to read and do math on his own, without any pressure from us, and I think he is doing these things simply because he wants to. He wants to learn.

That’s a win.

A Blurry Image

November 2nd, 2026

“It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend
On a faulty camera in our minds”

from the song “Sarah Said”, by Death Cab for Cutie

The young woman wanted a picture of herself and her five-year-old son. That seemed like a simple enough request, but it wasn’t. Due to the fact that the woman is incarcerated, nothing is simple. Everything becomes complicated very quickly.

Women in the prison frequently want to have their photos taken with family members, especially with their children. During visiting hours, there is an inmate assigned to snap pictures and make hard copies for the women and for the visitors. Of course, like everything else having to do with the Department of Corrections, there is a fee involved. Each picture only costs two dollars, but there is a convoluted payment process involved.

Upon entering the visiting area of the prison, friends or family members are allowed to bring with them a credit/debit card or cash, but not both. I prefer to bring a credit card to use in the vending machines. They operate sometimes like slot machines in that you might put in money and not get anything back out, or you might hit the jackpot and receive two items for one payment. If I get burned buy a machine, I can always dispute the charge on my card. If pump cash into the machine and get nothing back, I’m kind of out of luck.

To get a photo, a visitor has to use cash (and that has to be in singles), so a person has to bring in sufficient paper money to purchase a picture and any snacks that the inmate and others might desire. I brought in $25, and that was barely enough to satisfy all demands. Now, I could not pay the inmate with the camera directly. No, I had to pump two singles into a machine that gave me gold-colored tokens that I could then offer to the photographer. The woman wanted a picture for herself and one for her boy to take home, so I had to use the machine twice. Fine, whatever.

When we came to visit the young woman, she informed us that the pictures had to be taken within fifteen minutes of arrival. Why? Who cares? It really doesn’t matter. Just get it done. I paid the tokens and the woman and her boy got up to be photographed. They stood in front of a backdrop that looked like a Winter Wonderland scene. The prison also has a backdrop that looks like the beach of a tropical island. I guess the idea is for the people in the picture to appear to be enjoying life absolutely anywhere that is not that facility. The vacation effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that the young woman was wearing drab green inmate clothing. The boy gave his mama a big hug and a matching smile. They looked happy together.

We eventually received the two photos. They kind of sucked. The images were blurry. That annoyed me. The mom was okay with it. She just wanted a picture to hang in her locker to remind her that she had actually been hugging her boy. She does not plan on keeping the photo after she gets released. She doesn’t want it as a memento of good times. She wants it as a promise of a future reunion with her son.

I am looking at our copy of the picture now. It makes me think of my memories, in particular those from my childhood. I can only conjure up a few images from all those years ago, and they are as blurry as this photo. What will the boy remember? Maybe it would be best if his memories are fuzzy too.

Spirals

November 2nd, 2026

Karin and I went to the Waldorf school last week to talk with Asher’s kindergarten teacher. Asher came along with us because there was/is nobody available to watch him in our absence. I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate for Asher to be at the meeting, but his teacher was okay with it.

Asher sat down at a table in the classroom to do some drawing. He was close enough to listen in to our conversation with his teacher, which of course he did. We were supposed to talk with the teacher for twenty minutes. The discussion went for twice as long. Asher has a complicated history, and it took time for us to give his guide even a short briefing on what his life has been like.

Asher’s instructor is an intelligent young woman who has a background in teaching children who have experienced trauma. Asher matches that description, so she is a good fit for him. His teacher is perceptive and empathetic. She gives off a serious punk/hippie vibe which we like. She handles the students in her class in a way that is both calming and encouraging to the kids. She rocks.

After the initial greetings at the meeting, Asher’s teacher wanted to talk with us about spirals.

Spirals?

Okay, let’s back up here for a moment. At this point, it probably needs to be explained that Waldorf education is based on the tenets of Anthroposophy, a system of beliefs devised by Rudolf Steiner a century ago in Germany. Much of what Steiner proposed is arcane. However, some of the basic notions are incorporated into the Waldorf way of teaching children. Anthroposohy emphasizes a strong connection between humans and the natural world. It also assumes that there is a spiritual underpinning to everything in the universe. There is both a body and a soul, and they both need to be nurtured.

This brings us back to spirals.

According to “AI Overview”, this how spirals relate to children in Anthroposophy:

“Anthroposophy teaches that the soul‑body is the bridge between life and inner experience in children. Spiral symbolism, in many traditions, represents growth, cycles, and the inner‑outer connection.

While Steiner does not directly link “spirals” to the soul‑body, the spiral’s meaning aligns closely with its function: a living, integrating process where the child’s body and soul develop together, revisiting and transforming past experiences into deeper self‑awareness. This makes the spiral a fitting metaphor for the soul‑body’s role in a child’s spiritual and physical development.”

The teacher wanted us to know that Asher is creating lots of spirals. He draws them. He arranges his toys in spiral shapes. He sometimes moves around in spirals. It’s not an obsession with him, but spirals mean something to him, and in the Waldorf world that might be important. He is at an age, according to his teacher, when the soul is more actively entering the body of a child. Spirals are symbolic of inner growth and maturing. His teacher did not want to speculate on what exactly the spirals mean, but she wanted us to know that something is changing in Asher. Something is new.

If you have read this far, you might think, “This is all nonsense”. Perhaps it is. I am not a true believer in Anthroposophy, although some of it rings true for me. I believe that the human soul is real, and that there is more to life than just the material world.

It really doesn’t matter to me if the spirals have some deep, mysterious meaning. What matters to me is that Asher’s teacher is observing him closely. She watches what he does and listens to what he says in order to catch a glimpse of what is going on inside the boy. She truly cares about Asher, and she wants to understand who he really is and what he really needs from her.

That is amazing and I love her for it.

A Small Step

October 26th, 2026

“That’s one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind.”

That’s the quote from Neil Armstrong as he took his first step onto the surface of the moon back in 1969.

“I did it, Grandpa!”

That’s the quote from Asher as he rode his bicycle without training wheels for the very first time yesterday afternoon. He went as far as the length of our driveway. His feat didn’t really remind me of the moon landing when he did it. Actually, I thought about the first successful flight of the Wright Brothers at Kitty Hawk. Their ride was only a little longer than Asher’s, and I am sure those two men felt just as euphoric at their accomplishment as our grandson was with his.

Asher decided on his own that he wanted to try riding without the training wheels. Neither Karin nor I nagged him to do that. He asked me to take the small wheels off his bike, and then he pedaled from the open garage door to the street. It probably helped that there is a mild downward incline from our house to the road. After that, he wanted to ride in the street, and he briefly lost his nerve.

“Grandpa, hold me! No, not like that that! Hold on to the handlebars! I have to balance and pedal and steer all at the same time! This is hard!”

I agreed with him. I felt like that when I was learning to fly a helicopter back in 1981. Somehow, if you don’t think too much about it, it is so much easier. It’s true that you have to consciously practice for a while, and then suddenly you are just doing it. Your brain takes a break and your body takes over. That is a moment of pure joy.

Asher got back his mojo and started pedaling and steering. Then he was off to the races. I was on foot and I followed him at a distance. I did not chase after the boy. Grandpas don’t run. In any case, Asher was a thrill seeker at this point. He did not need mean near him.

My wife, Karin, came out and took a video. In our times, that is what people always do. We need to record the moment for posterity. She also yelled out advice to Asher, which he dutifully ignored. He was too busy doing to have time for listening.

Asher’s mama called him some time after that. She calls him every day, sometimes multiple times. She only gets to see him once a week, so the phone is their main form of contact. Asher told her excitedly about riding the bike without the training wheels. She was thrilled with the news but also disappointed that she had not been there to see him riding. Karin told her that she had recorded the event, and then she added,

“You can watch the video when you get out in a year or so.”

That is a small consolation. Asher’s mama is missing things in his life. I am not talking about the big stuff, like birthdays and holidays. I am talking about small steps forward and little victories. Asher is with me every day and every night, and I still miss out on some of the changes in him. Each day he is like a brand-new boy to me. How much harder it must be for his mother who only sees him briefly each week?

I missed out on a lot of things when our own children grew up. It did not help that I worked third shift and my sleep cycle was completely out of synch with the rest of my family. Even when I was home from work, I was often angry or emotionally distant. I could be physically at home, but not really there.

I spend a great deal of time just being with Asher. I am seeing things with him that I don’t remember from all those years when our kids were growing up. I am trying to get things right this go-around.

Being Married to an Artist

October 18th, 2026

Karin is my wife and she is an artist. Specifically, she is a natural fiber artist. By this I mean that she likes to work primarily with natural fibers (wool, flax, cotton, silk, etc.), although she will use manmade materials if absolutely necessary. She knits, weaves, dyes, crochets, spins, sews, felts, and prints. I am certain that she can do almost anything with fiber. Karin has probably 65 years of experience just with knitting. Her oeuvre (to use a fancy artsy kind of word) is extensive and eclectic. Her work is consistently excellent. She is a perfectionist, at least with regards to her craft. Fiber arts are her passion and her gift.

It is interesting to have an artist as a partner in life. After 42 years of marriage, I’m starting to get used to her way of doing things. There were warning signs early in our relationship. When I proposed to Karin all those years ago, I asked if she wanted an engagement ring. She did not. Karin wanted a spinning wheel, in particular a traditional Ashford wheel. We were living in Germany at the time, and I think her wheel had to come all the way from New Zeeland. She has used it ever since she first laid hands on it. Her spinning is her meditative practice as well as part of her art. It’s almost Gandhi-like.

Sometimes, people tell me how nice it is that Karin has a hobby. The word “hobby” is grossly inadequate. A hobby implies that the activity is just a pleasant way to fill up a person’s spare time. Karin’s fiber arts are much, much more than that. An artist is largely defined by their work. Their art is what they do, but it is also who they are. Think of it this way: would somebody ever say that Frida Kahlo had a nice hobby?

An artist is always bubbling with ideas for new projects. Unfortunately, the artist does not have the time, the energy, or the money to do everything that they want to do. It can be difficult for an artist to take care of the mundane tasks in life that have nothing to do with their passion. The urge to experiment with new things sometimes crowds out other thoughts and concerns. An artist is often a person who is endlessly creative but can never find their car keys.

Art comes in a multitude of different forms. I had a friend once who earned his living driving truck. However, his passion was playing blues guitar. He was phenomenal at that. He had a job and a family, but his true love was the blues. His basement was partially filled with guitars, amps, speakers, sound mixers, and other paraphernalia. He joked about having G.A.S. (Guitar Acquisition Syndrome). He spent a lot of time and money on his music. He composed songs, then played and recorded them. He was part of a band that did local gigs. He inspired me to try my hand at the bass guitar, and I still fumble around with it. However, I was always on the peripheral of his musical world. I could only enjoy his art from a distance.

It is the same way with Karin’s art. Her creations are beautiful, but I don’t understand how she makes these things. Her fiber arts have their own particular rules and nomenclatures. Take her weaving for instance. Karin has several looms. She has an eight-shaft floor loom, an inkle loom, a rigid heddle loom, and a table loom. She just started today on preparing a warp for her floor loom. She has already woven a variety of projects on her loom (towels, runners, scarves, etc.). Karin tries to explain her work to me, but I get lost in the jargon. Warp and weft. Treadles and heddles and shuttles, oh my! She asks me about the colors she wants to use. I can respond to her about that. The technical aspects of her weaving are far beyond my comprehension and will likely remain so. I love what she makes, but I admire her work from afar.

Her dyeing projects are even more arcane. Our basement has one wall devoted to shelves that contain her pots and pans and cauldrons. She has glass jars filled with various mordants and dyes. Many of her dyes come from native plants: e.g. goldenrod, walnuts, blood root. She has a propane burner to heat up her dyes. She has an old school Nesco roaster to warm the fibers in dye for long periods of time. As far as I can tell, dyeing fiber is more of an intuitive kind of work than a science. It is akin to alchemy. She knows what colors she wants, but the variables in the process make it impossible for her to know what she will actually get. The result of every attempt is a surprise to some degree. I think that is part of the fun for her.

People have asked me if Karin sells her creations. The answer to that is “no”. On rare occasions, a person will be so taken by one of her scarves or shawls or whatever that they spontaneously offer to buy it from her. However, she never actively sells anything. She would have to sell her work at an exorbitantly high price to just break even. So, she gives it all away. Her art is not her way to earn money. That is liberating in that she can do what she wants when she wants.

Karin has a craft studio in one of the bedrooms. It’s packed with all sorts of stuff. I seldom enter the room for fear of messing it up. Granted, it always looks like a grenade went off in there, but Karin somehow knows where everything is. Woe to me if I move anything from its rightful place.

The rest of the house is also her craft studio. Her Spinolution Echo wheel and a huge basket of roving occupy part of the living room (yes, she has two spinning wheels). Her floor loom and all of its associated equipment partially fill another room. Most horizontal surfaces in the house have yarn and/or some unfinished project lying on them.

I could go on like this, but I suspect you get the picture by now. Karin also online with numerous international fiber groups, and she goes to meet with her knitting friends a couple times per week. Her art satisfies her emotional, social, and creative needs. It’s her life.

And it is also mine.

Fear of Politics

October 15th, 2026

“I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible you may be mistaken.” – Oliver Cromwell

When I was young, back in the 1970’s, I used to watch “Firing Line” on PBS. William F. Buckley hosted the show and he was amazing. He was a staunch conservative, and he had a brilliant intellect. He would interview all sorts of people, many of whom strongly disagreed with Buckley’s political opinions. However, Buckley debated these individuals politely and in a leisurely manner. I remember watching one episode of the show where Buckley was leaning back in his chair, his pen held close to his mouth, and his tie slightly loosened. Buckley was smiling. He listened closely to his guest express his views, and then, almost causally, he eviscerated the man’s arguments. He did it in a civil manner and he never used ad hominem arguments. The worst thing I ever heard Buckley say to a guest was what he told George Wallace when he was on the program. Buckley told Wallace that he was not a conservative, that he was really a populist. It was clear that Buckley did not like Wallace at all, but he did not say anything more derogatory than that.

Fast forward to our current election cycle, some fifty years later. The speeches made by candidates today sound more like they belong on professional wrestling programs than in a debate on a stage. The politicians and commentators of our time are not shy about getting into the gutter. Their arguments are often incoherent. Buckley would demolish their views with ease. Alas, Buckley is gone, and we’re stuck with these people.

It might sound like I am nostalgic for the good old days of politics. I’m not really. I can still remember the demagogues of my youth. Nixon was a classic manipulator of public opinion. Wallace also comes to mind. He was a racist fearmonger who, unlike Lincoln, never appealed to “the better angels of our nature”. My dad voted for him, probably twice. Politics has always been a blood sport, and appealing to the dark side of voters is a tactic that has seldom been left unused.

In recent years, there has been a coarsening of political discourse. There was a time when at least some politicians were content to accuse their opponents of being wrong, or perhaps even stupid. Now, the adversary has to be described as evil incarnate. The candidate for the other party is now the enemy. There is no longer any place for a loyal opposition.

This frightens me. For a democracy to function there has to be at least a grudging respect for the people who disagree with us. An election is obviously a struggle for power, but it cannot become an all-out war. We have to be able to accept the results of our elections and then work together with our opponents in some way. It cannot be an endless, ruthless fight for supremacy. At some point, the common good has to take priority.

For some reason Halloween and Election Day are always close together on the calendar. Maybe it’s because both have to do with terrifying possibilities. We don’t have any Halloween decorations in our front yard. However, I have placed a sign on the lawn for my preferred candidate for governor. That is probably scary enough.

Descent into Barbarism

October 11th, 2026

There have been two recent news stories about planned executions on the Internet that have made me think. One story is about Christa Pike, and the other is about Nidal Hasan. Both individuals are convicted murderers who committed heinous crimes. Their stories have caused me to remember a quote from The Lord of the Rings by J.R. R. Tolkien. This particular passage is something that the wizard Gandalf said to a young hobbit, Frodo, regarding a vicious creature called Gollum. Frodo had told Gandalf that Gollum was a vile thing that deserved death. Gandalf answered him in this way:

“Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends.”

I am of the opinion that our government leaders cannot counted as being among the very wise, and it is clear that they are quite willing to deal out death. The war with Iran is just the most glaring example of this bloodlust. The two cases that I mentioned are also instances of an institutional desire to kill.

Christa Pike was sentenced to death in 1996. She has been held in solitary confinement ever since then. What is it like to be in the hole for nearly thirty years, knowing that you are going to be killed eventually? The State of Tennessee recently attempted to execute her, and the officials of the state botched it. So, now what happens? The woman is back in prison. Will the state try to execute her again? When is enough “enough”? When does the need for justice become vengeance? When does the rule of law become sadism?

Does she deserve to die? Undoubtedly. Is it right for the state to attempt another execution? I don’t think so.

Nidal Hasan is due to be executed by a firing squad. Does he deserve that punishment? Yes. Does it make sense to do so? I don’t know. I don’t think it will deter others who wish to commit acts of terrorism. If anything, the execution of Hasan on live stream will make him instantly into a martyr to those people who wish to emulate him. Has Secretary Hesgeth thought about that? Does he “see all ends”. Probably not.

We imagine our culture and our nation to be civilized. Public executions are not hallmarks of civilized countries. In some ways we are enlightened, and we can be examples to the rest of the world. However, our addiction to violence is a corrosive element in our society. It is causing us to slowly descend into barbarism.

An Old Soul

October 9th, 2026

My grandson, Asher, is in most ways a typical five-year-old boy. He goes to kindergarten and he likes to come home and sing the songs that he learned in class. Actually, he sings the melodies, but he often changes the lyrics to suit his fancy. He plays with his copious supply of toys. He likes to draw and paint. Asher especially enjoys convincing me to engage in “stuffie talk”. Stuffie talk involves the spontaneous making up of stories for his plethora of stuffed animals. These stories are mostly Asher’s creation and they are wildly imaginative.

Asher has a favorite stuffie. It is an absurdly rotund blue seal that we bought at a Love’s travel center in August. his name is “Big Blue”. Asher insists that, when Big Blue is in the game, I use a special voice for him. You might ask, “So, what does a fat blue seal sound like when he talks?” I’m not sure, but I have apparently been subconsciously channeling the voice of a Saturday morning cartoon character from my youth. There was TV show called “Tennessee Tuxedo and his Tales” that I watched as a child. The main character was a wisecracking penguin named Tennessee Tuxedo. He had a dimwitted walrus sidekick named Chumley. My stuffie voice is similar to that of Chumley.

Asher has been beginning to learn how to play chess. When we visit his mama, we wind up entertaining ourselves with board games. When we visited last Saturday, Asher wanted to try chess again. He’s only played it twice, but he picks up on the rules and objectives quickly. He likes to play defense. On Saturday he barricaded his king with other pieces to protect him. After I set up the pieces on the board but before we started playing, Asher looked me in the eye and said,

“Grandpa, I’m just learning this game! Don’t play me hard!”

His mother laughed and said, “Don’t play me hard?”

My wife exhorted me to refrain from being over-competitive. She told Asher that she would kick me under the table if I played too hard.

I let Asher take my queen with one of his pawns.

Sometimes, Asher is surprisingly mature. He has an old soul. There are a few children who act older that they are physically. Asher is one of them. He can shock me with some of the things he says.

Last night, he crawled into bed with me. He always asks me for my left arm to use as a pillow. Then he wants a few minutes of stuffie talk with Big Blue. We did that, and then I told him we needed to go to sleep. Asher got quiet and I settled down to doze off. Then out of the darkness, he spoke to me,

“Grandpa, are you going to be my legal guardian until I am an adult?”

I was awake again. I told him,

“Yeah, probably. I will be here to take care of you.”

Asher went to sleep. I did not. I thought about what he said, and actually I think about that topic almost every day. I am 68 years old. Asher will turn eighteen in twelve years. Will I even be alive then? Will his mama get healthy enough to care for him before he is all grown up.? I don’t know.

I do know that Asher asks perceptive questions and expects straight answers. That is unnerving to me. On most days, he’s just a little boy. Then suddenly he is my age.

Love Wins in the End

October 5th, 2026

Karin and I took Asher to Mass yesterday. We do that most Sundays. Asher generally does not like to go to church (really, how many five-year-old boys do?). However, he is okay with attending the service if Miss Jenny is there to teach the children’s liturgy. Yesterday she was at Mass to talk to the little kids about Jesus, so Asher was willing to go with us without too much grumbling. When we take Asher to church, always pack a bag with snacks and art supplies for him. During the liturgy, he eats something and draws pictures. This is not to say that he is inattentive to what is occurring during the Mass. He really does pay attention to what is happening, but as I mentioned before, he is a five-year-old boy, and the service is geared for an adult population.

Father Michael celebrated the Mass yesterday. He was filling in for our pastor. Father Michael used to be the pastor of our parish, but he got transferred a few years back. He baptized Asher and he still seems to have a soft spot for our grandson. Father Michael was extremely ill a while ago, and he did not entirely recover. Although he is younger than me, he is retired now, and that is why he can fill in for other priests. He is disabled to a certain degree. His hands are crippled up, and he walks slowly and haltingly. Still, he comes to us to celebrate the Mass. Despite his physical problems, he still follows his calling. He is still loyal to his vocation as a priest. I have to believe that he does his work out of love; love for God and for us. I admire him for that.

Just before the Scripture readings, Father Michael blessed the children who Miss Jenny had summoned for their catechesis. There were only a few kids there, and Asher was among them. Jenny took the children to another room to talk to them about God. Asher apparently likes how she does that.

The deacon gave the homily (sermon) at the Mass. He described a vision he had a long time ago. Jesus spoke to him in the vision and asked the deacon what he had done with all the time Jesus had given to him. According to Deacon Greg, the vision was brief but intense. God was asking Greg how he was using his life. In Greg’s homily he asked the congregation the same question.

While he spoke, Karin and I looked at each and then at the empty space in the pew where Asher had been sitting. We nodded to each other. We know what we are doing with whatever remains of our lives. It all revolves around a little boy.

Sometimes, I envy the people at Mass who have a firm and unwavering faith in God. I don’t. The preaching is almost always about God’s love and mercy, and I see precious little of that in the world outside of the church. I often think about Asher’s situation. He has no father in his life, and it is unlikely that he ever will. His mother is available to him for only a few hours each week. Asher has been traumatized, and God has seen fit to allow that to happen. The standard theological answer to my concerns and doubts is that it is all due to human sinfulness, and Asher is collateral damage. Maybe so, but I also know the parents of a family from Asher’s school, and their little girl has leukemia. Does a kid get cancer because of somebody’s sin? I pray for that family (they asked for our prayers), but I often feel like I am praying to God to protect people from God. Still, I pray anyway. I learned in the synagogue that prayer is our default mode. We can doubt God or be angry with Him/Her, but there is still nobody else to turn to. Sometimes a person needs to cry out, even if perhaps no one is listening.

I wonder sometimes if it worthwhile for Asher to go to religious education. What does he gain from it? Does it matter if he grows up Catholic, or Christian at all? Most of my closest friends are not Christian. During the last month, I have spent more of my free time with Buddhists, Muslims, and Jews than with my coreligionists. When I recite the Credo at Mass, the prayer that starts with, “I believe”, I have my doubts. When I say “I believe”, it is more like, “Yeah, sure, why not?”. I have been both a wounded person and a person who wounds others in my life, and I can no longer trust like a little child. I know Asher trusts me. Does he trust God? Can he trust God?

After the Creed, the children came back from their class. Most of them walked quietly back to their seats. Asher skipped all the way up the main aisle of the church to get to our pew. He was smiling and happy. The deacon smiled back at him. Asher showed my wife a hand stamp that he had received from Miss Jenny. I have no idea what he learned in class, except that Jenny loves him. That is probably enough.

When the service was over, we stopped in front of the altar to show our respects. There is a large crucifix hanging over the altar. Asher bowed like we did, and then he waved to Jesus to say goodbye.

A friend of mine from Asher’s school talked with me about his faith. I told him about mine. I said,

“I believe that love wins in the end. Everything else is peripheral to that.”

Sleeping Together

September 27th, 2026

Asher and I sleep together. That’s his choice. He has his own bed in his own bedroom, but he prefers to be with me. When he comes into bed, he insists on “stuffie talk” before he sleeps. His stuffed seal lies next to him, and I have to speak for the Big Blue Seal and tell stories until Asher is ready to doze off. When Asher is ready, he tells me,

“Grandpa, give me your arm.”

Then he finds a place on my left bicep to use as a pillow. Generally, he is asleep within minutes after having laid his head down.

I am prone to night terrors. I don’t know why. The terrors don’t visit me often, but they come with a vengeance. Usually, they arrive early in the night. I have these hellish dreams that I barely remember. They almost always involve some amorphous, shapeshifting being that is darker than black. I get into a fierce psychic battle with the creature, and that fight explodes into the physical world. I scream and flail about. My wife rushes to the bedroom to wake me up. She doesn’t touch me during these dreams because she knows that she might get hit.

Now while I get enmeshed in the nightmare, I am also probably holding Asher near me. During the latest night terror episode, I woke up to find the boy nestled in the crux of my left shoulder. He moaned a little, but he never woke up. As soon as I came out of the dream, Asher was back to snoring. He deals far better with the aftereffects of my night terrors than I do. I feel my heart racing and my throat hurting from screaming for quite a while after I awaken. Asher just rolls over and gets back to his own dreams.

Asher does not always sleep well. He is often restless. He will wake up in the middle of the night and demand my arm again. Then he cuddles up to me and sleeps. He often moves close to me in bed. My wife thinks that it is because the weight of my body creates a gravity hole that sucks Asher toward me. There is probably also an emotional draw.

I had a dream last night about my father. It was unpleasant. At the end of the dream, my dad faded away. I called to him. Asher heard me speak. Asher woke me up by saying,

“Grandpa! Grandpa! It was probably just a nightmare.”

He never opened his eyes while he talked. He said his piece and immediately went back to sleep.