Author: frankisemptiness

January 1st, 2021

The snow is coming down hard. Wet, fat flakes are covering the street. The wind looks like it’s coming from the southeast, and it is making the snow swirl and twirl as it falls. My car is parked in the driveway, getting whiter by the minute. That’s okay. I don’t want to go anywhere. I don’t need to go anywhere.

I am trying to remember 2020, and it is all a blur to me. Too many things happened too quickly. The situations weren’t all bad. Some really good things happened last year. It’s just hard for me to sort it out. How does a pandemic connect with a premature birth with a toxic national election with the grand conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter in the night sky? Do any of these connect?

I think that they do connect, but I can’t figure out how.

Zen Buddhism emphasizes the interconnectedness of all things. However, Zen doesn’t explain how all this stuff interacts. The Buddhists simply point out the fact that nothing is separate from anything else. Non-Buddhists have said the same sort of thing. John Muir stated:

“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.”

The hardest part about dealing with the past year is that it was so chaotic. Seldom, if ever, was there any kind of logic or meaning to the sequence of events. Every morning was the start of another “what the fuck?” kind of day. Troubles aren’t quite so bad if they make sense. Carl Jung once said,

“Man positively needs general ideas and convictions that will give meaning to his life and enable him to find a place in the universe. He can stand the most incredible hardships when he is convinced that they make sense; he is crushed when, on top of all his misfortunes, he has to admit that he is taking part in a ‘tale told by an idiot’.”

2020 was a “tale told by an idiot”.

Zen promotes the assertion that anybody can be a teacher. Our four-week-old grandson, Asher, is teaching me something. Trump is teaching me something. The dharma teachers in the sangha teach me something. There is no need for a person to have a cool-looking robe and an official title to pass on wisdom. Everybody can do it, and actually everybody does.

When you come right down to it, everything in the universe is a teacher: a star, a snowflake, a border collie. All things teach me if I am only willing to pay attention. There lies the rub.

What did 2020 teach me? Well, it taught me (or tried to teach me) patience. It taught me to be in the moment and roll with the punches. It taught me to give others what they need, regardless of what I might want. 2020 taught me to accept what is right in front of me, and not yearn for things that I can’t have.

As a teacher, 2020 did a pretty good job.

I hope I passed the final exam.

December 28th, 2020

“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.”

– William Wordsworth

“There was also a prophet, Anna, the daughter of Penuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was very old; she had lived with her husband seven years after her marriage, ³⁷and then was a widow until she was eighty-four. She never left the temple but worshiped night and day, fasting and praying. ³⁸Coming up to them at that very moment, she gave thanks to God and spoke about the child to all who were looking forward to the redemption of Jerusalem.” -Luke: 2:36-38

“And Leah said, Happy am I, for the daughters will call me blessed: and she called his name Asher.” – Genesis 30:13

The young woman is tired. This comes as no surprise. She and I went to St. Joseph Hospital yesterday to pick up the girl’s baby boy, Asher, who was finally well enough to leave the NICU. The young woman had been waiting almost four weeks for her son to come home to her. Once we got Asher into the house, things got busy.

The young woman was well aware that an infant, especially one who is still not full term, is a lot of work. She knew that between feeding and changing the boy, she would get a very limited amount of sleep. Knowing that is not the same as actually experiencing it. This morning the young woman could feel the fatigue. I could see it in her face.

Karin has been trying to help with caring for Asher. Sometimes her efforts have simply caused friction between herself and the young woman. I have tried to maintain a respectful distance. I can do some things with a baby, like change its diapers. However, when the conversation turns to breast feeding and related topics, I acknowledge my limitations.

Karin is not completely over the after effects of the COVID, so she can only do so much before she becomes exhausted. I try to help Karin when she is trying to help the young woman. I made Karin breakfast this morning, and I offered to hold Asher while Karin ate her French toast.

I do know how to hold a baby. That much I can do. I held Asher in my arms, cradling his tiny head with one hand. I swayed back and forth with him in my arms. I would tell him softly, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Asher never opened his eyes. He made quiet mewing sounds once in a while. Otherwise, he just slept while I held on to him. His breathing was rapid. His heart rate more so. He didn’t fuss at all.

Asher is so small, so fragile. On the other hand, he is remarkably resilient. He arrived in our world seven weeks too soon, but he has been strong enough to grow and thrive. He’s still thin, but he is slowly filling out. While I held Asher, I can feel the heat radiating from his little body. I could feel the life force within him. He is probably more alive than I am. He’s just starting the journey. I am closer to the end.

Asher spends his time eating, sleeping, and shitting. That seems to be an age appropriate lifestyle.

He is doing exactly what he needs to do.

December 25th, 2020

It was cold last night. It was that kind of bone-chilling cold that usually doesn’t arrive here in Wisconsin until late January. As I drove past the bank on Four Mile Road, I could see the temperature on the sign:

“Nine degrees (Fahrenheit)”.

Good Lord. Well, at least it wasn’t snowing. The roads were clear. The car didn’t warm up until I was almost all the way to the church.

It was after 10:00 PM, and I was going to Midnight Mass at St. Rita. I had volunteered to read from the Scriptures during the liturgy. I think I had agreed to serve as lector before COVID ripped through our house. I wasn’t sick anymore, but I felt tired. I had been told that the fatigue from the virus could last for weeks, and that’s a fact.

I got to the church, and I asked Father Michael about which readings I should use (there are a number of different readings for Mass on Christmas). He told me to use the Scripture passages for the Christmas Mass at Dawn. That was interesting since we were starting this service at 11:00 PM (and still calling it “Midnight Mass”).

The first reading was from Isaiah. It starts with: “See, the LORD proclaims to the ends of the earth: say to daughter Zion, your savior comes!” (Isaiah 62:11-12). I like to read to the congregation from Isaiah. His words have an emotional impact.

The second reading was from a letter of St. Paul. (Titus: 3:4-7). I hate proclaiming passages from Paul’s letters. The man loved to write long sentences with numerous subordinate clauses and subsections. It is nearly impossible to read aloud from St. Paul without getting lost in his verbiage. The part I was supposed to read from the Letter to Titus was just one, extremely convoluted sentence. Nice.

I sat down in a pew, and rested for a bit. The Mass wasn’t going to start for another few minutes. I looked around the church, and I let my mind wander.

I remembered a Midnight Mass from many years ago, when I was just a kid. When I was a boy, my family went to Mass at St. Augustine Church. It was a small ethnic church in a working class neighborhood. The people in the parish were mostly Croatian, either immigrants or children of immigrants. One Mass every Sunday was celebrated in Croatian. The elderly folks were often people who fled from Europe after World War II. I suspect that a few of the old guys had been part of the Ustashi (the Croatian fascist troops who were allied with the Nazis). When the war ended, Marshall Tito and the partisans strongly encouraged members of the Ustashi to leave Yugoslavia. I think some of them wound up in Wisconsin.

Midnight Mass at St. Augustine in West Allis was always packed with people. The old men huddled together with their wives. The wooden pews in the church had little metal clips on the back. These were there to hold the fedoras that these old Hunkies wore. All these guys wore hats outside, and they all smelled of cigar smoke. The women wore veils. That was still standard practice in those days.

There were two evergreen trees in the sanctuary, on either side of the altar. They were real trees, so the church smelled of pine resin, beeswax candles, and incense. There were lights on the trees; the old school Christmas lights with big, colored bulbs that burned brightly. The lights would get hot, and it was easy to burn your hand if you touched a light.

Midnight Mass in those days still had a lot of the Latin Mass ritual to it. There were lots of bells and smells. There was a sense of mystery and wonder. That was a good thing.

I stopped woolgathering, and looked around St. Rita’s. People were slowly drifting in from the cold and the darkness outside. The crowd was pretty thin. That was understandable. We were celebrating Midnight Mass during a pandemic. It was the middle of the night. It was cold as hell outside. I didn’t expect many folks to venture forth from their homes.

There was still time before the Mass would start. So, I remembered another Midnight Mass from long ago.

It was in Bethlehem in 1983. I was traveling through Israel with two friends. We were staying in a hotel in Jerusalem. The tour guide offered us an excursion to the Church of the Nativity on Christmas Eve. We went.

Bethlehem is only a few miles from Jerusalem. It was a short bus ride from our hotel to Manger Square. There were numerous Israeli troops all around us. Nothing is more festive than seeing a bunch of guys with loaded Uzis. When we got off the the bus, we wandered into chaos.

There was absolutely no chance of us getting inside the church for Midnight Mass. None. The people inside the ancient church knew people who knew people. We were stuck in Manger Square with the hucksters, folks who were trying to sell pieces of the Lord’s swaddling clothing. The square was crowded and noisy. There was a large screen set up for people that wanted to watch the Mass remotely. That was pointless. The event in Manger Square had all the religious significance of a Packer game. We could hear the vendors yelling:

“Here! Buy falafel! Just like the falafel Jesus ate!”

Maybe it was just like the falafel Jesus ate. I don’t know.

Somewhere in the dark, there was the noise of firecrackers, or maybe gunshots. The Israeli soldiers ran quickly toward those sounds. My friends and I got back on the bus, and returned to Jerusalem. Debbie, Mark, and I then went directly to the bar in the hotel, and toasted Christmas from there.

It was time for Mass to start at St. Rita. Father Michael had accosted me earlier, and asked,

“Do you have a pyx to take Communion back to Karin?”

I told him, “Yes.”

Karin wasn’t feeling strong enough to go to church with me. Father Michael knew that.

For those who don’t know, a “pyx”, is a small metal container (usually gold in color) used to bring the Eucharist (the wafer of bread that is also the Body of Christ) back to people who are unable to attend Mass. Communion is a big deal in the Catholic Church. There is no bigger deal. The Mass is the center of Catholic spiritual life, and the Eucharist is the center of the Mass. There are many levels of meaning to Communion. Sharing Communion binds us together in Christ. It’s difficult to explain. Either you get it or you don’t. For one person receiving Communion is the purest and deepest connection with the Incarnate God that is possible. To somebody else, it is just eating a cracker.

I read in front of the congregation. That exhausted me. Reading from Scripture is always an intense experience for me. Last night it left me feeling drained.

Later, I got in line (socially distanced) for Communion. I want to Deacon Greg, and I held out the open pyx.

He asked me, “Only one?”

“Yeah.”

Greg put the Eucharist into the pyx, and I snapped the lid shut. Then he lifted up another host and said,

“The Body of Christ.”

I replied, “Amen.”

Mass ended with a few people singing “Joy to the World.”

I walked out the front door. The wind whipped across my face.

It was snowing.

December 19th, 2020

“The heart has its reasons which reason knows not.”
― Blaise Pascal

“Create with the heart; build with the mind.”
― Criss Jami

Senji Kanaeda is a Japanese Buddhist monk. He and I met on a peace walk back in 2014. During that time, Senji and I became friends; perhaps more like brothers then friends. My wife, Karin, and I have stayed at Senji’s temple on Bainbridge Island several times. Over the years, Karin and Senji have connected in a deep way. It’s hard to explain in words. They just seem to have an intuitive understanding of each other.

Senji has a strong artistic talent. He is especially skilled in calligraphy. His beautiful writing is also part of his prayer, much like the painting of an icon is a prayer for an Orthodox Christian monk. Senji’s prayers are repetitive in a way. He almost always chants or writes “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo”. However, each time he writes that prayer, the end result is unique. None of his prayers are exactly the same, and none of his calligraphy is ever exactly the same.

When Senji learned that Karin was sick with COVID, he sent her this:

It is a prayer for Karin’s recovery and healing. Senji created it specifically for her. It is a message from his heart to hers.

The piece of paper hangs on the wall above Karin’s bed. Will the prayer make her better? Will it help her to physically recovery from the virus?

I don’t know. All I know is that the calligraphy was created with love.

With love all things are possible.

December 17th, 2020

“No, I would not give you false hope
On this strange and mournful day
But the mother and child reunion
Is only a motion away”

“Mother and Child Reunion” – Paul Simon

The young woman was able to see her son yesterday. She was finally cleared for COVID, and she went with her fiancé to St. Joseph Hospital to visit little Asher. Asher is in the NICU at the hospital. He’s “out of the box”. He no longer needs to be in the incubator. The young woman was able to hold her boy, for the first time since she gave birth to him.

Asher is two weeks old, and tiny. He will be in the the hospital for probably another five weeks. Then, at last, he will to come to our house. It will be his first home.

I could write more, but words are too clumsy. Instead, I am posting two photos.

The pictures say more than I ever could.

December 15th, 2020

“Life in a prison cell may well be compared to Advent; one waits, hopes, and does this, that, or the other- things that are of no real consequence- the door is shut, and can be opened only from the outside.”
,Letters from Prison – November 21, 1943”
― Dietrich Bonhoeffer

“Into this world, this demented inn
in which there is absolutely no room for him at all,
Christ comes uninvited.”
― Thomas Merton

“At this Christmas when Christ comes, will He find a warm heart? Mark the season of Advent by loving and serving the others with God’s own love and concern.”
― Mother Teresa, Love: A Fruit Always in Season

Heidi called last night. She’s one of the teachers in the citizenship class at Voces de la Frontera. I’ve worked with her a lot over the years. A few weeks ago, I was studying in her class with an immigrant named Pedro. He took his citizenship yesterday. I was working with him intensively because his test was so soon, and because he really wasn’t ready for it. I tried to meet with him every other day to help him to learn the answers to the questions.

Then COVID hit.

I told Heidi about COVID erupting in our house. Then I told Pedro. Heidi took Pedro under her wing, even though she had many other students to teach in her class. I felt bad about abandoning Pedro, but I had no choice in the matter.

Anyway, Heidi called me last night. She was excited. She had asked me earlier if there was anything that she could do for us while we were all down with the virus. I had told her not to bother. We had plenty of food, and nobody wanted to eat anything anyway. COVID is a surprisingly effective diet program.

Heidi told me,

“I’m bringing you a meal! You just have to warm it up! I’m only five minutes away!”

I initially thought to protest, but then I said,

“Sure, come on by. I have the porch light on.”

I waited for Heidi to show up. I noticed a a car parked on the street two houses away from us. Then I heard Heidi talking with a neighbor. Then I saw her walking toward our home.

She shouted at me as she came nearer to the house.

“Pedro passed his test!”, and then she laughed.

She continued, “I didn’t know how he did it, but he passed!”

Heidi dumped the food on to our porch, and kept a safe and respectful distance from me.

I said, “Yeah, he’s like a god. He knows how succeed.”

Heidi said goodbye, and returned quickly to her vehicle. I dragged the supplies into the house.

Mother Teresa advised people to “Mark the season of Advent by loving and serving the others with God’s own love and concern.” Heidi needed to express that love. She really and truly wanted to love and serve us, and to do it in a concrete, physical way. I needed to allow her to do so. Love requires both giving and receiving. She needed to give. I needed to be vulnerable enough to receive.

Advent is about opening ourselves wide enough to allow God to become Incarnate. Are we making room for the Christ Child in our house? Well, I know that we are making room for a baby boy named Asher. He’s as close to a living, breathing Christ Child as we are likely to see. All of us in our house long to meet Asher. We can hardly wait. He won’t make it out of the NICU before Christmas, so our Advent will last a few weeks longer than that of most people. When he does arrive, we will open our door to him.

We have already opened our hearts.

December 14th, 2020

“Expose yourself to your deepest fear; after that, fear has no power, and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You are free.”
― Jim Morrison (lead singer of the Doors)

“The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.”
― Joseph Campbell

When Karin first went into the hospital with COVID several days ago, I talked with my sister-in-law, Shawn, who lives in Texas. I told her about Karin’s inability to get enough air on her own. Shawn and I have known each other forever it seems, and we are able to discuss anything. We have both been through a number of unexpected and traumatic experiences. We understand each because of those challenges. We spoke on the phone for a long time, and then I was exhausted. I nothing left to say.

Later that day, Shawn sent me a text. It simply asked,

“Are you scared?”

I had to think for a moment. Then I wrote back,

“No. When you get your ass kicked enough, you just go numb.”

She replied, “Yeah, I know. I don’t even cry any more.”

We’re both battered by life, and normal emotions no longer flow through us.

Karin came home on Saturday. I thought she was on the mend.

Karin had to go back to the ER this morning. I’ve been sleeping in another bedroom, and Karin tried to call me in the middle of the night. I didn’t pick up. I checked my phone, and then I checked on her before dawn. Karin seemed to be sleeping quietly in her bed. I looked in on her again a bit later.

Karin was lying bed, staring toward the ceiling. She told me,

“We need to call somebody.”

“Who?”

“9-1-1.”

She went on, “I can’t breath. My chest is tight. I see spots before my eyes. I almost passed out when I went to the bathroom just now.”

I called 9-1-1.

The fire station is just down the block. It didn’t take the paramedics long to get here. Their flashing lights and sirens shattered the early morning tranquility of the neighborhood. The guys suited up and came inside the house to check on Karin. They questioned her and then they took her by ambulance to the closest hospital.

I waited at home. The young woman we love asked me what had happened. I told her that Karin wasn’t getting enough air. The girl looked worried.

I didn’t feel much of anything. I was curious as to what would happen next, and what I would need to do. Part of me shrugged and said, “Whatever.” There was nothing that I could do to change the situation. Everything was in God’s hands, and God generally isn’t very good about explaining his plans.

As it turned out, after four hours, and multiple tests, the doctors sent Karin right back home. She is in her bed now, sleeping.

Karin told me when we got back, “It’s scary.”

Yeah, I guess it is, even I can’t feel it. I know that Karin is scared. Every time she struggles for enough oxygen, she’s afraid. She should be. She can stay hydrated, and she can get all the rest she wants, but she can’t cure herself. The doctors can’t cure her either. Either she gets well, or she doesn’t, and there is almost nothing that any of us can do about that.

I made her some lunch. She picked at it. I encouraged her to drink a lot. She nodded in agreement. I don’t know what else to do besides give her some space. I’m not going to nag her. That is not part of the healing process, as far as I can tell.

Karin is an active participant in her body’s struggle. I am only an observer.

I don’t like that.

December 12,2020

“When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be

And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be”

from “Let it Be” by the the Beatles

My wife, Karin, is home. I just drove her back from the COVID care facility at State Fair Park. She was there for three nights. Karin is healing (she eats now), but she is still very weak.

The Alternative Care Facility is run by the State of Wisconsin. It’s enormous. The overflow hospital opened up on October 14th, but so far it has only served 156 patients. It has the ability to provide beds to hundreds of people. Based on how the pandemic is going into overdrive, the facility may in fact need those beds.

Karin told me that the staff members were all really nice. They sent her home with devices to help her build up her lung capacity. Karin told me that the facility was extremely loud (the ventilation fans make a racket). The place was also very well lit. Once I got Karin into her own bedroom, she leaned back on her pillow and said,

“It’s dark here, and it’s quiet.”

I am grateful that Karin was able to get medical help. She was slowly fading while she was with me at home. It was like Karin’s life was ebbing away. The people at the care facility were able to turn her around. Karin isn’t done with COVID, not even close, but I am no longer worried that COVID is going to kill her.

Our grandson, Asher, is doing well in the NICU at St. Joseph Hospital in Milwaukee. He will be there for six more weeks. He struggles at times. Premature babies have to be fighters. He only weighs 3 lbs. and 13 ounces. Like Karin did, Asher is getting excellent care. I have heard wonderful things about the staff at St. Joseph. The little boy is in the best place he could possibly be for now.

I used to think that signs that said, “Thank you, frontline heroes!” were just empty words. I don’t believe that any more. These people really are heroes.

I am grateful to them.

December 9th, 2020

“Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.” – The Buddha

My wife, Karin, is in the hospital. That is part of the present moment, and it really kind of sucks.

Karin has had COVID for at least a week or more. The symptoms have become progressively worse as the days have passed. Karin has suffered the attacks of a violent, wracking cough, usually followed by a wheezing, whistling sound coming from her lungs. She has eaten nearly nothing during the last several days. COVID killed her appetite. She’s been lying in bed, too weak to do anything besides stagger to the bathroom.

I made her tea this morning, and I brought her some hot soup. At about noon, she called me into the bedroom. She stared straight ahead and said,

“I think I need to call somebody.”

I replied, “We already called our doctor. He told us that he couldn’t see you. I don’t think urgent care will either. All we have left is a trip to the ER. There is nobody else to call.”

Karin looked away from me. Her breathing was shallow. She looked pale and drawn. She was listless. Sometimes, Karin will argue with me just for the sake of arguing. Not today. She just nodded in a defeated sort of way.

She said, “Maybe I should dial 9-1-1.”

I told her, “Let me know if you want me to drive you to the ER. I can drive. It’s okay. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

She nodded again, and said,

“I have to get dressed.”

I put on my shoes and my coat, then I went back to her bedroom.

She asked me, “Can you get me my purse. I can’t bend down to pick it up. I’ll get dizzy.”

She checked through her bag to make sure she had all that she needed. She got up unsteadily, and handed me her bag.

“Take this. It’s too heavy.”

It took it. Then we went to the garage and got into the car.

It was only a ten minute drive from our house to the ER. When we got there I helped her out of the Toyota. I went inside with her, and kept my distance.

The lady at the desk asked Karin for her personal information. Karin had to dig out her social security card because she has never been able to memorize her number. Karin had trouble understanding the woman. The masks made it difficult, and Karin’s hearing is iffy at most times anyway.

The woman, knowing that Karin had tested positive, told her to sit in an enclosed waiting room. I moved to follow Karin, and the woman firmly told me,

“There are no visitors.”

I knew that already. I just didn’t want Karin to be alone.

I went home. After a couple hours, I found out that Karin was being sent to local COVID care facility. I took her some clothes, and her meds, and her phone charger. I didn’t get to see her.

I don’t know when I’ll see her.

December 7th, 2020

Everybody in the house has COVID. I should probably put a sign on the door with a skull and crossbones. Right now I’m feeling tired (after twelve hours of sleep), and I can’t seem to get warm. I get the chills. They start in the small of my back and then radiate upward into my chest and arms, or down into my legs. My ability to focus sucks. So, this essay may be less then coherent.

The girl we love tested positive last Monday (November 30th). That was very difficult for her to handle. Partly, it freaked her out because she was pregnant. Partly, it destroyed her hopes of having a baby shower (hers was scheduled for Saturday, the 5th). The young woman had been planning the event for months. We had a venue in a local coffee shop set up. We had a a local Mexican restaurant ready to cater the food for us. The girl had been spending hours making her own artwork for the party. And then, suddenly, it was all gone.

I’m in the best shape of anyone in our house, which isn’t saying much. Karin has been in bed for over a week. She has the COVID cough. I can hear her sometimes. She coughs viciously, and then she has a kind of low whistling sound coming from her lungs. I find that disturbing. She got herself a Oximeter to check her oxygen level. She’s in the upper nineties (percentage) of oxygen, so she’s good for now.

Karin called our doctor and spoke to him about her condition. I listened in, at Karin’s request. That was an interesting conversation. The doctor made it abundantly clear that COVID is serious business. Then he explained that there is no treatment program for people sick at home. None. Nothing. Basically, if you are dealing with COVID at home, you are on your own.

The young woman has been very traumatized. She gave birth to her son on Wednesday, December 2nd. He was seven weeks early. The young woman believes that the COVID infected the placenta, and that precipitated the birth. She got to see little Asher for all of 30 seconds after the birth. Asher is currently at St. Joseph Hospital in Milwaukee. He’s in ICU. He will be there for six weeks. The girl can’t see him until she is out of quarantine (maybe two more weeks).

The young woman has been very,very sick since I brought her home from the hospital. She has been coughing so violently that she has thrown up in bed, or peed herself. Karin and I have tried to help her. I have washed a lot of bed linen, one load after another, in order to give the young woman a clean place to rest.

I have wondered to myself what people can do if everybody in the house is incapacitated. Okay, through no virtue of my own, I have been well enough to help Karin and this girl while they are both stuck in bed. What happens if I go down? Who does the wash? Who takes out the garbage? What happens when everyone is struck down by the plague? We can’t bring in somebody from the outside to help.

I think about the girl. She is going to use a breast pump to have her milk ready to give to Asher, when she can at last visit the lad. She longs to hold her boy. I can see that. She wants so much to be with her son, and she can’t. Not yet.

The young woman asked me, “Can you still have a baby shower if the kid is already here?”

I told her, “Why not? Let him attend his own party.”

The girl will have her shower, somehow.

It will work out.