frankisemptiness

Making it Work

January 24th, 2026

I visited my friend from the synagogue a couple days ago. We did what we always do: sit around, drink a beer or two, and commiserate. It is a cheap form of therapy, and it works. We try to meet for a session once a week if we can.

One of the topics in our discussion was my friend’s upcoming fortieth wedding anniversary. He was wondering out loud what to do to celebrate the occasion with his wife. Forty years together is not as big a deal as fifty, but it is still a major milestone, and it should be recognized as such. My wife, Karin, and I had our fortieth in August of 2024. I told my friend,

“Karin wanted us to get a blessing from our priest during Mass, so we did that.”

My friend thought that was absolutely hilarious. He was imagining an Orthodox rabbi he knew marrying him and his wife in a Jewish ceremony and he burst out laughing. As a note, his wife is not Jewish and has no intention of ever becoming Jewish. I can see how my example of how to commemorate a wedding would seem absurd.

However, my point in mentioning the blessing in church wasn’t really about celebrating the anniversary in a religious way. It was about celebrating the event in a communal way. Yes, Karin and I wanted the priest to pray over us, but we also wanted a public display. We wanted other people who knew us to share our joy (and surprise) at making it for forty years as a couple.

I could write a long essay on how to make a marriage (or any other type of relationship) work, but I would be talking out my ass. Honestly, I have no idea how Karin and I made it four decades. Our struggles were numerous and sometimes overwhelming. My words and actions often made it more difficult for us to stay together. Yet, somehow, here we are, still married after nearly forty-two years. It’s amazing.

I want to go back to the communal aspect of a relationship. For those who are film buffs, you might remember a scene from The Godfather where the young Michael Corleone marries his Sicilian bride in her home village. In the movie the couple has a wedding procession through the little town and are surrounded by boisterous well-wishers. I mention this because Karin and I had a similar experience on our wedding day.

We were married in a small centuries-old chapel in her hometown of Edelfingen in Germany. We walked at the front of a procession through Karin’s village from her parent’s home to the church. Friends and neighbors cheered for us. I had my pockets full of candy and pfennigs to toss to the little kids lining the Strasse. It was a communal event.

Why were the people shouting and waving? Well, Edelfingen was a sleepy little community, and our procession was a show, like having the circus come to town. On a deeper level, I really believe that the people gathered there cared about us. The unspoken message was, “What you are doing is important. It matters to us. You matter to us.”

American culture considers marriages and other intimate relationships to be private affairs that are nobody else’s business. To an extent that is true, however, to make a relationship work in the long term, outside support is needed. A couple usually cannot do it on their own. Other cultures make it clear that the health of a marriage has a powerful impact on the entire community. We have lost that sense of being part of a larger whole. In America it’s raw individualism with little thought for anybody else, and we are poorer for that.

Just Get in the Car

January 23rd, 2026

Getting Asher to school in the morning is often an ordeal. Asher is a kindergartener at a Waldorf school in Milwaukee which is about a half hour drive from our house. That’s on a good day when traffic flows. There have been a few mornings when driving in rush hour actually took us a full hour. So, my wife and I make a concerted effort to get Asher up, fed, and dressed in a timely manner. We have to get on the freeway before it is packed with slow-moving vehicles.

Asher is not necessarily uncooperative. It is more that he is easily distracted by the world around him. He is at an age where everything is interesting, and his mind flits from idea to idea like a hummingbird darts from blossom to blossom. The primary struggle is to get Asher to focus and keep him on track. The secondary goal is to do that in a way that does not require shouting. It is difficult to remain calm while a young child revels in chaos.

I can give you a classic example of what I mean. I generally wake Asher up at 6:20 AM, or at least I try to do that. Yesterday morning, Asher hugged the pillow for dear life and only grudgingly got up from the bed. I carried him to the kitchen and then he grumpily refused all of my wife’s suggestions for breakfast. Karin, Asher’s oma (Note:”oma” is the German word for grandma. Karin from Germany, therefore she is Asher’s “oma”), had made him a waffle with Santa’s face on it. He liked that, even though the Christmas season is long gone, and he reluctantly sat down to eat.

I sat next to him holding two hand puppets. I had Ellie the elephant and Froggy the frog. They need to eat with Asher if Asher is going to eat breakfast. Asher talked to the puppets while he carefully cut and consumed the waffle. Then he had to take his daily vitamins. Then he needed to drink some strawberry and banana smoothie. All of this takes time.

From the breakfast table, Asher and Oma went to the bathroom so he could brush his teeth. She also got him dressed. I let Karin do that. She is amazingly patient with the boy, and she can make getting dressed into a game. In the meantime, I got Asher’s backpack and lunch into the car. I got myself ready to go for the road trip.

Asher still needed to get on all of his winter gear: coat, knit cap, scarf, mittens, sweater, snow pants, boots. Once again, this all takes time. Karin has made Asher numerous knit caps, all of which look like animals: tiger, reindeer, frog. Asher had to carefully select which cap to wear. Everything Asher does is accompanied by a nonstop monologue. He seldom does anything quietly.

At last, the boy was dressed for the cold, and he came with me out to the garage. I had the car door open and was ready to hustle him into his child seat. Apparently, we weren’t quite ready. He told me,

“Grandpa, I got to go back inside to tell Oma something!”

He ran back into the house to give Karin instructions regarding what to do with his stuffed animals. My patience was wearing thin.

He came back out and started to explain what he had told Oma.

I said, “JUST GET IN THE CAR!”

He did, but not without protest.

I finally got on to the freeway and rapidly shifted three lanes to the left. Asher said to me from the back of the car,

“I don’t like it when you yell at me.”

I replied as a semi roared past us, “I don’t like it either.”

He responded, “Then why do you do it?”

“I don’t know.”

Asher was silent, but I could tell that he did not think I gave him a good answer.

The cars moved along well until just after the Mitchell interchange. Then all I saw was a sea of brake lights. We slowed to a crawl.

Asher asked me, “Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

He said, “I need you to be okay.”

“Okay! I’m okay!” I said this as some bastard cut me off without signaling.

Traffic started moving again. I cruised past the twin spires on St Stanislaus Church on my left. As we approached the high-rise bridge, Asher told me,

“Grandpa, I like you.”

“Good”.

Then he continued, “But I like Oma better. Is that okay?”

I smiled and replied, “Yeah”, and then tried to slide over three lanes to the right to get to the McKinley Street exit.

We were on the last leg of the journey. I turned on to Brady Street. The school was only a couple blocks away.

Asher said, “Grandpa, I love you so much.”

I made a left turn on to Franklin Place and miraculously found a parking space across from Tamarack Waldorf School.

I parked, sighed, and told him, “I love you too.”

Wars that Come Back Home

January 20th, 2026

“Another head hangs lowly
Child is slowly taken
And the violence caused such silence
Who are we mistaken?

But you see, it’s not me, it’s not my family
In your head, in your head, they are fighting
With their tanks and their bombs, and their bombs, and their guns
In your head, in your head, they are crying

In your head, in your head
Zombie, zombie, zombie
What’s in your head? In your head?” -from Zombie by the Cranberries

I got a call a couple hours ago. It was from a young man who is very dear to me. He lives in Texas with his wife and young children. I have known him for many years. He served in the Army. Fifteen years ago, he was deployed in Iraq. That experience changed him forever.

The young guy did most of the talking. He wanted to tell me about his work pumping concrete at construction sites. He lives in the country. A lot of his jobs are in the Bryan/College Station area. He told me that six out of eight of his company’s recent jobs were cancelled because ICE agents were grabbing people that looked illegal to them. He had mentioned to me previously that almost all of the concrete finishers on the jobsites were Latinos. During the last few days very few of them have been showing up for work, so the young man has not been able to work either. In general, he likes to work with the Latinos. They bust their ass on the job. In the past, they have been friendly and shared their food with him.

He went off on a tangent for a moment, and said, “Well, if things get bad pumping concrete, I might just join up with ICE. I don’t know what else I would be able to do.”

I thought to myself, “Jesus Christ, don’t do that.” I didn’t reply out loud to his comment. I could imagine the conversation going down a deep rabbit hole.

At one point, the young man asked me,

“What do think of that woman who got killed in Minnesota?”

I replied, “I got some thoughts. It’s not a good idea to surprise a guy carrying a loaded gun.”

The young man said, “She was coming at him at high speed.”

I got pissed off, “No, she wasn’t!”

He answered me, “Yeah, well, I would have done the same thing he did.”

I responded, “I know you would. If somebody started coming at you, you would be right back in Iraq.”

I felt scared and hurt, nearly shaking. The young guy was speaking the stone-cold truth. If he had been in that situation, he would have pumped four rounds into the woman too. I know that in my heart. He would have been at war again.

I had actually been thinking about the killing of Renee Good before the young man called me. I have been wondering if the ICE agent was a combat vet. I have been wondering if he had PTSD like the young man I know. Did the shooter just react? Was the decision to shoot automatic? Was he suddenly back in a very scary place far, far away from Minneapolis? Did he bring the war back home like my young man?

I don’t know. I can’t know.

The young man knew I was upset. He told me, “Well, I took a different path. I’m not an ICE agent.”

I replied, “I’m glad.”

Civil Disobedience

January 16th, 2026

Have you ever been to a protest demonstration? Have you ever been arrested at a demonstration? Did you ever go to jail for civil disobedience?

Some of you reading this article can answer yes to all of those questions. Well, so can I. However, I cannot say that I was ever teargassed or knocked to the ground by a law enforcement officer. I am sure that some folks reading my words have been exposed to that kind of violence at demonstrations. My experience with civil disobedience is limited to one specific event. In the scheme of things, it wasn’t that big of a deal, but it changed my life.

I participated in a week-long protest at Creech AFB in Nevada in the spring of 2017. Our group of protesters were demonstrating against drone warfare, and Creech AFB personnel were involved in that type of operation. One morning, a smaller subset of our team decided to engage in civil disobedience. All of us planned to block the entrance of the Air Force base during the change of shifts. Most of us were going to vacate the road after five minutes (the police made it clear that anybody still impeding traffic after that time would be arrested). A few of the protesters intended to remain the street and get busted. I had no desire to be part of that select population.

As it turned, I became part of that small group of malcontents. I stayed with them in the road and was arrested along with the other six people. Did I allow myself to be incarcerated because of a deep commitment to our cause? Hmmm, no, not really. I had been standing next to an older veteran, Ray, and he had put his hand on my shoulder and told me how glad he was that I was standing with him. The stone-cold truth is that I remained with him out of friendship and solidarity. As somebody told me later, I made a “game time decision”. My choice to get arrested was not terribly rational, however it was right. I have no regrets. Oddly enough, of the seven people arrested, five of us were vets. That probably doesn’t really matter, but I found it interesting.

The Clark County cops held us for about fourteen hours and then released us. That was the first time in my life that I had ever been arrested, and it made an impression. The police were professional about the intake process. It was a relatively painless experience, but it was still scary, at least it was for me. I learned a lot rather quickly. It reminded me a lot of my basic training in the Army. The one rule was “shut up and do as you’re told”. I have experience with that sort of thing, so it wasn’t too hard for me to adapt to the jail environment.

The reason that I am writing about a this is because of the current violence and chaos in Minnesota. My experience is vastly different to what is happening there, but I still have some thoughts.

When I got busted, both the protesters and the law enforcement officials made efforts to maintain a nonviolent interaction. The police made it crystal clear to us what they wanted us to do and what the consequences would be if we chose not to follow their instructions. For our part, we did not verbally abuse or harass the cops. This sort of protest had occurred at Creech AFB repeatedly in the past, so almost everyone knew the rules of the game. That was a very good thing. It is unwise to surprise a guy carrying a loaded Glock. When people get scared, they do stupid things.

I believe that a person in the United States has the right (or perhaps an obligation) to break a law that goes against their conscience. I also believe that when a person does disobey that law, they should be ready to accept the consequences of their actions. Nothing is for free. Valor has a price tag. A person should stand up for what is right, but they have to understand the potential costs involved with their decisions.

The goal is not to be a martyr. History is full of the names of people who died for their beliefs: Oscar Romero, Martin Luther King, Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Now there is Renee Good.

How do we work for justice without getting people killed?

Is It Morning Yet?

January 12th, 2025

Asher stirred. He had been sleeping restlessly. We had gone to bed early since the following day was school for him. Asher still had his head resting on my bicep. My little grandson uses my left arm as a pillow when he first goes to sleep. He had been lying on it for hours when he started moving around and woke me from a dream.

He rolled closer to me. Then he said,

“I love you so much.”

I whispered, “I love you too.”

He asked me, “Is it morning yet?”

I looked up at clock. The illuminated numbers said, “11:56.”

I replied, “No.”

Then he told me, “You got to tell me when it’s morning.”

“Okay,”

Asher relaxed next to me and dozed off. I listened to his soft and slow breathing. I couldn’t fall back asleep. I gazed up at the skylight. It was clear and cold outside. I could see the bright light of Jupiter and two stars from the constellation of Gemini shining through the window. It was glorious, but so distant.

My mind was churning with thoughts of current events: war, violence in our nation’s streets, and the frightening and seemingly insane comments from our government officials. Asher was calm and in a deep sleep. He was snuggling next to me for protection from a threatening world. How did he know it was threatening? Maybe he tapped into my anxiety. Asher is very good at sensing the emotional wellbeing of others. Apparently, my physical presence was enough to comfort him.

How do I protect Asher in a world gone mad? How does anyone do that? How do I give a five-year-old shelter? How do I keep him safe? I don’t know. I can only try.

It is a scary world, but oh so beautiful. It’s always been this way. I need to show Asher how to revere and enjoy the awesome splendor of it all. I need to teach him how to be courageous and fight the darkness that is also there.

Morning is almost here. I need to tell Asher that.

An Honest Answer

January 8th, 2026

““We live in a world in which, you can talk about international niceties and everything else, but we live in a world, in the real world … that is governed by strength, that is governed by force, that is governed by power. These are the iron laws of the world since the beginning of time.” -Stephen Miller

There is almost nothing I like about Stephen Miller. However, the above quote sadly rings true. There is much handwringing about the collapse of the rule-based international order. There are those who contend that President Trump is demolishing it. Maybe. It’s far more likely that the order has been on the verge of collapse for decades, and he is just giving it one last nudge.

Miller’s quote specifically concerns Trump’s recent attack on Venezuela. That was not the first time that a great power has used force against a smaller country, nor will it be the last. Just since WWII, both the United States and Russia/Soviet Union have had their way with a number of weaker nations. On Russia’s scorecard we have the attack on Hungary in 1956, the assault on Czechoslovakia in 1968, the invasion of Afghanistan in 1979, and of course the current slaughter in Ukraine. As for America, we have the attack on Grenada in 1983, the intervention in Panama in 1989, the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq in the 2000’s. This list does not even count the U.S. covert operations to overthrow governments in Iran in 1953, Guatemala in 1954, and Chile in 1973. I’m sure that I am forgetting some of the acts of aggression, but you get the idea.

Both I and my eldest son served in the U.S. military. I was an Army aviator in West Germany during the 1980’s in the Cold War. The reason for me being there was to keep the Red hordes from invading western Europe. I guess that was at least somewhat true. Many years after I served in Germany, long after the Berlin Wall fell, I met a couple people who had served in the Soviet Army. Oddly enough, their perspective was radically different from my own. They thought they were protecting Mother Russia from the Yankee imperialists. Maybe we were both right.

After I was deployed to Germany, I spent my remaining time in the Army stationed at Fort Ord with the 7th Infantry Division. Our mission was to be a rapid deployment force if things went bad in Central America. We were training to go to Honduras as a staging point for an invasion of Nicaragua. This was back when Reagan really wanted to get rid of the Sandinistas. Fortunately, we never went to Honduras, but that was the plan.

My oldest son was deployed to Iraq in 2011. He was not as lucky as I was. He killed people and he got wounded over there. He told me once that when he was in Iraq his goal, and those of his comrades, had nothing to do with democracy or oil. They just wanted to get out of there alive, and they did.

Over the years, the United States and other countries have tried to justify their acts of aggression. We have always been claiming to be defending America and/or democracy. It was both shocking and refreshing when Trump said that we were going after Venezuela’s oil. That at least was an honest answer.

When it comes right down to it, the real reason why the United States or Russia or anyone else invades another country is:

“Because we can.”

Flying and Letting Go

January 4th, 2026

I sometimes dream about flying. I guess a lot of people do that. I have heard that it is a common type of dream. It might be a different situation in my case in that there was a time when I actually did fly. I was an U.S. Army aviator back in the day. For five years I flew helicopters, initially Hueys (think of the movie Apocalypse Now) and later Black Hawks (the film Black Hawk Down comes to mind). I was never in combat, but I flew. It was often fun, and occasionally terrifying. I stopped being a pilot back in August of 1986. That was a long time ago, but apparently that role is still part of my life, or at least of my history.

My flying dreams are usually frustrating. I never actually get to fly. I am always preparing for a flight, sometimes on the verge of takeoff, but I never quite get into the air. Apparently, the problem is that the current version of myself is trying to be who I was forty years ago. In my dream I have a long beard, which I do now, but obviously did not have as an Army officer. In the dream I am not in uniform but should be. In the dream, somebody is giving me orders that I have no intention of following. It just never works out. I stay on the ground.

People ask me, “Do you miss flying?” the answer is: “Of course.” However, I know in my mind and my heart that flying is no longer part of life. That part of my story is done. It was wonderful while it lasted, but it’s over now, and I have many other things to do. I have other responsibilities. I am no longer a pilot. I can’t return to that identity. Even in my dreams, I know that I can’t go back.

I had a conversation yesterday, via Zoom, with a woman who is the guiding teacher for the Zen sangha to which I belong. She asked me questions about my life and I babbled on for a while. Then she spoke briefly about detachment and letting go. Zen is all about that. Zen is about being in the moment and not hanging on to things that are either lost in the past or hidden in the future. All there that exists is the present. The past is dead and the future a mystery.

The teacher gave me a subject on which to meditate. I am not very good at letting go of things, especially relationships. It is hard for me to stay in the moment, although our young grandson, Asher, does his best to keep me in the here and now. Caring fulltime for the little guy does not allow me much time to wallow in the past. That is a very good thing. In that respect, Asher is an excellent spiritual guide, and one who loves me, as I love him.

I write about Asher frequently. At this point, my life revolves around the boy. I have a friend, who reads my blog, and he once asked me what I will do when Asher is no longer in my life. The guiding teacher from the Zen sangha also touched on that. Will I be able to let go of Asher when he no longer needs my full attention? I don’t know. I will not know the answer to that question until the moment when he slips away from me (or I from him).

It is clear that someday Asher and I will separate. That is inevitable. That will hurt. The only question is how I will accept it.

He will be always in my dreams.

Prayer

December 31st, 2025

“No, you can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
And if you try some time, you find
You get what you need” – from the Rolling Stones

I have a thin, yellowed strip of paper that I keep on top of my bedroom dresser. On it is written,

“July 2, 2019 Ernesto Martinez + Lawyer”

I was given this scrap of paper back in the fall of 2019. I was in Ciudad Juarez in Mexico, just across the border from El Paso. I was visiting two missionaries there with a Catholic group. We were in Juarez to learn more about the migrants and the situation on the border. Things were bad then, and I am sure that they are worse now. Father Peter and Sister Betty had been living in a tiny house in the Anapra neighborhood serving the local population. These two missionaries were elderly, and they experienced the same level of poverty and insecurity that their friends did. I had then, and I still have, great admiration for both of them. They were not just preaching the Gospel. They were living the Gospel.

Violence in Ciudad Juarez was endemic. The locals lived with it day in and day out. Betty and Peter had a wall in their backyard covered with names of persons who had been murdered by gangs. There were hundreds of names. It was the custom of these two missionaries to offer the names of the dead to visitors in hopes that the folks who came to their humble home would pray for the deceased. I picked out Ernesto Martinez.

I pray for him, maybe not every day, but often. It’s strange. I know almost nothing about the man other than his name, occupation, and date of death. I guess that’s enough. God knows all the rest of his story. Why do I pray for him? Honestly, I don’t know. I do it partly because of the love and respect I feel toward Father Peter and Sister Betty. I do it because maybe nobody else remembers Ernesto. I do it because it feels right.

Do my prayers actually help Ernesto Martinez? I have no idea. This is an act of faith. I believe that all prayers have an effect, but how that works is beyond me. It is my experience that I often don’t get what I pray for. I usually keep my prayers simple and vague. I ask God to give somebody what they need and then let the omniscient deity decide what that is. If the intention behind my petition is pure and based on love, then something will come of it. I just don’t know what that could be.

I am convinced that the main effect of prayer is to transform the heart of the pray-er. That has also been my experience. If I pray for the wellbeing of another sentient being, then it changes me. If I pray for Ernesto Martinez, it may not do him much good. He is a martyr and is probably already at peace. He may not need my prayer. However, I might need to send it for the sake of my own soul.

Ernesto, pray for me.

Incarnation

December 24th, 2025

Karin, Asher, and I attended the Christmas Vigil Mass at St. Rita’s yesterday evening. Asher went with some reluctance. We had to threaten him with a loss of possible Christmas gifts to get him to go. Karin, being a German, has been telling Asher that “Christkind” (the Christ child) won’t bring him presents unless he is a good boy, which means he needs to be at church to celebrate Christkind’s birthday. Asher was fine once we got there. Upon our return home, he was happy to learn that Christkind kept his part of the bargain.

I was uneasy during Mass. A lot of people were in the church. I am certain that the increased attendance was because of families coming together to worship. Our own family is fractured, so only the three of us were at Mass. The Christmas service is designed to stimulate love and joy. For some of us, the music, decorations, and ritual of the celebration only highlight an intense feeling a grief.

The deacon offered the prayers of petition to the congregation. One prayer hit home. The deacon told the parishioners,

“For those who have difficulty with Christmas, may they see how much God really loves them.”

He was talking to me there. I always struggle with Christmas. Karin knows this and she doesn’t expect a lot from me. Christmas comes with a lot of baggage. My version of the ghost of Christmas past likes to conjure up painful memories. The ghost of Christmas present doesn’t offer much to inspire me, and the ghost of Christmas future shows me a blank screen. I don’t enjoy Christmas as much as I endure it.

The priest preached about the Incarnation, which is what the holiday is all about. “The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.” The whole notion of God taking human form is astounding. There is a laser like focus on the birth of Jesus, which is completely understandable, but also a bit unfortunate. The priest did say that one reason for God becoming human was to allow humans to be more like God. We have the opportunity to share in that divinity.

Why do we love the image of the Christ child? What is so attractive about the crèche? Why do we want to hold the baby Jesus in our arms, and have God hold us as well?

Asher is asleep in bed right now. I held him until he dozed off. He cuddles up to me for security and warmth. When I hold him, I hear his breath and feel his heartbeat. Asher brings me closer to God. When I have Asher in my arms, I am embracing the Christ child as well.

William Wordsworth wrote,

“Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home.”

We love small children because they are still so close to God. Even a five-year-old like Asher trails clouds of glory. He still exudes love and joy, not all the time, but enough. His birth is part of the Incarnation of Jesus.

Another English poet, William Blake, contemplated that essence of divinity within each person. He was once questioned about it by a scholar named Crabb Robinson.

Crabb Robinson reported: “On my asking in what light he (William Blake) viewed the great question concerning the divinity of Jesus Christ, he said, ‘He is the only God;’ but then he added, ‘And so am I and so are you.’”

Blake may have taken that a bit too far, but he was essentially right. We all have a piece of God within us. In the East, they would refer to that as Buddha nature. St. Francis of Assisi embraced the leper because he recognized God within that suffering individual. Dorothy Day saw Christ when she served the poor and the homeless. There is that divine spark in every person. In my case, I’ve buried it pretty deep, but it still flickers. It’s still there.

Any child born at any time anywhere shares in the Incarnation of Christ. True, Jesus was born two thousand years ago in a backwater of the Roman Empire. But he’s still being born now, each and every moment.

I look at Asher and I know that. Then I rejoice.

Christmas Cards

December 21st, 2025

I send Christmas cards. Lots of them. I think that my wife and I have mailed over seventy cards this year. I have posted most of them. Almost every day I wrote notes in some cards, put stamps on their envelopes, and dropped them into mailboxes.

Why do that?

The main reason that I send out Christmas cards is because I like doing it. I suppose that is the main reason for me to do anything. In this case, I do it in order to maintain the tenuous relationships I have with far-flung friends and family. I write cards to people all over the world, and with some of them I haven’t seen their faces or heard their voices in decades. Yet I still feel a connection with them. Sometimes we get responses to our cards, but often we don’t. Writing a card is a lot like putting a message in a bottle and tossing it into the sea. The recipient might get it, and they might read it, and they just maybe might write back. Writing and sending physical messages is an anachronistic practice, one that is nearly lost in our age. However, it a means of communication that has soul. There is something almost magical about sending or getting a handwritten card.

It should be noted that I am choosy about what kind of card I send to an individual. Some folks are very focused on the religious aspect of Christmas, and to those persons I usually send a card with a Christian theme. However, I know Jews, Muslims, Buddhist, and atheists who don’t give a hoot about the birth of Christ, yet they celebrate during the season. They get other types of cards. My Jewish friends all got Hanukkah cards. We are celebrating different festivals, but they long for the same things: love, joy, and peace. I try to express similar hopes and wishes in the cards I send to other non-Christians. My family celebrates Christmas, but the message of the Incarnation is universal.

I know people who are insistent that Christmas be solely about Jesus. These are the ones who believe there is a secular war against Christmas. There may in fact be a war, but the real enemies of the holiday are consumerism and greed. Christmas has always been tied with paganism in some way, and that is not necessarily a bad thing. Years ago, we had a real tree in our house and burned real candles on it. That’s a very old German tradition that harks back to pre-Christian times. Christmas has a deep connection with ancient feasts that celebrated the winter solstice and the rebirth of the sun. The holiday is fundamentally about the return of light and warmth in a world that has become cold and dead. The symbolism is all around us this time of year. I have only to look out my window and see all the Christmas lights trying to bring a bit of joy to my part of the world.

When I send a card, I write a message in it tailored to the recipient. I seldom just scribble my name on a card and call it done. Do others actually care what I say? Maybe not. I think they realize that some effort has been put forth. I hope the recognize that I give a damn.

Peace on earth.