Author: frankisemptiness

February 12th, 2021

“They look like shit.”

That was the comment of one of my nieces when she saw a picture of Karin and myself on social media. The photos had been sent by Shawn upon her arrival at our house last Friday. My sister-in-law, Shawn, had flown up from Texas to help us care for little Asher. Shawn showed up at our house at the bitter end of a tumultuous week, and Karin and I were pretty ragged.

Karin and I had not expected that Shawn would suddenly make the long journey to Wisconsin, especially since we were hip-deep in snow, and our local temperatures were the lowest they had been all winter. Shawn had been here before during the depths of winter, but not for a long time. It’s been at least a decade since she made the trip up to the north country.

I guess she was due.

Shawn decided to fly here on the spur of the moment. She has a good friend who let her use her accumulated flight miles to make the trip. Shawn convinced her employers to give her a week off (Shawn cares for an young autistic man). In a way, it seemed pointless to me for Shawn to visit us for only a week, but I was wrong.

It’s hard to describe how tired and lost Karin and I felt a week ago. The girl we love was/is in jail, and we were responsible for the young woman’s two-month-old boy. We had all sorts of people (mostly of the government sort) talking with us or visiting our home. We have a mountain of paperwork to complete, and we really don’t have heads that are clear enough to do it. All of a sudden, Karin and I are parents again, and we are out of practice.

Shawn’s visit was a godsend. She swiftly and effortlessly slid into our routine. Shawn cared for Asher when Karin and I were tired and irritable. She gave us breathing space. Shawn was with us here for a week, and that was enough for us to get a tenuous grip on our new reality.

Shawn is good for conversation. She is smart and she is deep. One morning while we drank strong coffee, I asked her why she came to us. She said,

“I don’t know. I needed to be here. I didn’t know what I would do. I do know how to feed a baby and how to change his diaper. I thought that would be enough.”

It was.

Shawn is a vegan. We’re not. We had to adjust our lives a bit to her presence. That was probably a good thing.

Shawn had many long conversations with Karin and/or with me. We talked about babies. We talked about the Virgin Mary. We talked about Buddhism. We talked about racial violence, sexual abuse, and bad craziness. We have known Shawn for over thirty years. We all have a history together.

Shawn’s presence helped me when I received phone calls with the girl in jail. Those were/are always stressful for me. They reek of fear, guilt, and sorrow. I literally collapse after talking with that young woman. I’m not angry with her. I’m not offended by what she might say. I am just exhausted.

Shawn talked to me after one of the calls. She gave me her perspective, and that helped. Shawn can see and hear different viewpoints.

Shawn and I made one trip outside of our home. We drove up to the east side of Milwaukee and visited one of my friends from the synagogue. We went to Ken’s house. Ken is a writer. He publishes novels. I am a writer (obviously). Shawn is a writer. She is working on a book about Mary, the mother of Jesus.

Ken invited us into an empty room in his basement, where we could drink craft beer in a socially distanced way. Shawn doesn’t drink alcohol, so she had tea. Ken’s wife, Julianna, was there too. We all talked about writing. Shawn talked about her Catholic essays. Ken told us about his Jewish stories. Julianna listened and made perceptive comments. (Julianna is a yoga teacher, a woman in serious pain from back surgery, and a Buddhist). It was important for me that Shawn get to meet Ken and Julianna. These people are integral to my life.

Yesterday afternoon I drove Shawn to the airport. She was wearing a scarf, mittens, and a humungous cap that Karin had knit. I pulled up to the American Airlines entrance, and I pulled out her bag.

We stood facing each other on the curb, and we placed the palms of our hands together in gassho. We bowed ever so slightly to each other. We chanted softly,

“Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo”, three times.

She hugged me.

Shawn walked away.

Asher is sleeping next to me. It is a fitful and edgy sleep, but he sleeps.

In the end, it is all about Asher. Shawn’s journey was all about Asher.

I’m tired, and I hear the boy cry out.

February 9th, 2021

The furnace is running. Lately, it seems to always be running. It is currently a solid zero degrees Fahrenheit outside. The forecast is for the weather to remain frigid for at least another week. We cranked up the heat inside the house to make Asher more comfortable. We can afford to pay a bit more for gas to keep our two-month-old baby warm.

I got up an hour ago to feed Asher and change his diaper. I let the dogs out (they did not stay outside long). Now Asher is in his bouncy chair sleeping fitfully.

Asher always sleeps fitfully. The visiting nurse came to our house yesterday to check on Asher. We mentioned to her that Asher is a remarkably noisy sleeper. He grunts and groans, mutters and snuffles, and makes the sound of a bleating goat while he dreams his baby dreams. The nurse shrugged and said that these nocturnal noises are normal for a premature birth. The nervous system is the last thing to be completed in a human, and it’s not quite done in Asher. She went on to say that 90% of the premature babies get over this phase. Eventually, we will be shocked and surprised by how quiet he is. This happens already on occasion: Asher suddenly gets quite in bed, and then Karin and I immediately panic. We are okay once we know that he is breathing.

Despite COVID, Karin and I are meeting many new people. Asher’s mom is in jail right now. Asher’s father is MIA. We brought in Child Protective Services (CPS) to help with the situation. That was a life-changing decision. Getting the government involved was like getting on a rollercoaster. We are in for a ride.

Everyone we have met from CPS during the last week (yes, it’s only been a week since this all started) has been friendly and helpful. The case workers, nurses, and lawyers have all seemed to be remarkably grateful to us. They keep thanking Karin and myself for stepping up to care for Asher while his biological parents are unavailable. Apparently, this sort of situation is not typical. My understanding is that often nobody is willing to care for the child. I find this to be both disturbing and depressing.

(There has been a brief pause while I fed Asher another bottle of formula. The lad has all the patience of a boiling tea kettle.)

Everybody we have met has a laser-like focus on the wellbeing of little Asher. That comforts me. They really do care. This is a good fit since it coincides with the our interests. We all want Asher to be happy and healthy.

Thus far, Asher is very healthy, and often happy. He has been thriving in our home. He was doing well when his mother was living with us, and he is doing well now. Asher weighed 3 lbs. and 13 oz. when he was born on December 2nd of last year. Now he tips the scales at 10 lbs. and 1 oz. That’s not bad. He is filling out nicely.

What happens next?

Don’t know.

The father is absent. He has been peripheral to Asher’s life, and I expect that he will remain so. The beauty of having CPS involved is that, if the dad decides to enter Asher’s life, he has to deal with the State of Wisconsin, not with us. If he has complaints or gripes, he can go directly to CPS. I don’t think they will be particularly sympathetic.

The mother’s future is uncertain. She might go back to prison, but I think that is unlikely. Everyone, including her parole officer, is trying to get her into treatment. The universal goal is to get this young woman healthy and reunited to her baby. That makes me hopeful.

Karin and I don’t mind caring for Asher. He is truly a blessing from God. We are not alone when we love him. Many people have offered to help us with Asher. In fact, my sister-in-law, Shawn, flew up from Texas to be with that little boy. Asher is makes us feel like we’re really living. And honestly, Asher is probably the only reason that his mother is still alive. He is alright being with us.

However, it would be better if he was safe and serene in his mother’s arms.

February 3rd, 2021

“[Horror fiction] shows us that the control we believe we have is purely illusory, and that every moment we teeter on chaos and oblivion.”
― Clive Barker

I have attempted to organize the events of the last three days into a coherent narrative, and I have failed utterly. Creating a meaningful story from the chaos and confusion of the last 72 hours is impossible for me to do. Maybe a person who has some distance from what has happened can make sense of it all. I can’t.

So, I will try to describe various scenes, without explanation or comment. They will be like photos without captions, or like shards of a shattered mirror.

To start…

I heard Asher crying late on Sunday night. Karin and I had both been asleep for a while. Asher was in the other bedroom with his mother. I listened to Asher cry, and waited for a couple minutes. It usually takes the young woman about five minutes to give Asher a bottle, and then get him to settle down. Asher cried for much longer than five minutes.

I got up and walked across the hallway. I opened the door to the young woman’s bedroom.

Asher was lying on the floor, on his belly, wailing. The young woman sitting on the floor nearby, her head slumped over. I tried to rouse her, but she was passed out. She’d been using something, but what? I picked up Asher, and felt the old sensation of fear. Anger came too.

The paramedics came after we called 911. They went to the young woman’s room. She hadn’t moved at all. A paramedic patiently tried to pry information from the girl. She balked at that. The paramedic became impatient.

“Hey, c’mon, work with us here! What did you do?”

She mumbled that she had drank hand sanitizer. The medics poured her into an ambulance.

The cops showed up.

One officer came in, looked around, and said,

“I’ve been here before.”

I nodded and replied, “Yeah, you have.”

The police know our address very well.

Karin and I talked to the cops. We told them that we just can’t deal with the stress and fear any more.

The cop asked me, Do you want us to call CPS (Child Protective Services)?”

“Yes”.

Hours later…

I got a call from a doctor at the hospital where the young woman had been taken. He told us that they had dried her out. Then he explained to me that she had left the hospital, gone to a local store, bought booze, and got drunk in public. She was back in the ER, asleep. He told me that her BAC was at five hundred (.500). That’s close to being dead.

Much later…

I drove the woman home from the hospital. Upon our arrival, it became clear the the girl was still drunk, or at least not thinking straight.

A loud argument. Harsh words. She screamed at me,

“I should have stabbed you when I had the chance!”

I took that as a threat.

Another call to 911. Some of the same cops showed up. The girl fled to her bedroom. I walked with the police down the hallway.

The sound of shattering glass.

The sight of a smashed window, with the young woman standing in the snow outside of it.

The cops took her.

Still later..

A two hour-long conversation with a woman from CPS. A change in custody. Papers to be signed.

As we signed the paperwork to get Asher to stay in our home, the lady from CPS said,

“You look worried. Are you regretting doing this?”

“No.”

“Are you worried about the young woman?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re okay with this protection plan?”

“Yeah. This is hard, but it has to be done.”

The lady nodded.

Now…

Asher sleeps next to me. Karin is in bed getting the rest she desperately needs. The young woman is in jail somewhere.

I keep picking up pieces of broken glass.

January 26th, 2021

The young woman was in the hospital for four nights. So, for four nights, Karin and I cared for little Asher. He is eight-weeks-old, and he’s going through a growth spurt. In fact, he gained almost a pound last week. So he is drinking three ounces of formula every two hours, night and day. That means one of us was up with him every two hours.

The first couple nights were chaotic. We didn’t have a system. Then we got a groove. A parent never really forgets how to care for an infant. It’s kind of like riding a bicycle or having sex. Even after many years, the old skills come back.

Karin and I divided up the night shift. She is by nature a night owl, so Karin cared for Asher during the first half of the evening while I slept. I consistently wake up in the middle of the night (after effects of working third shift for decades), so I started watching Asher after midnight. Karin would feed and/or change Asher, and then go back to whatever she was doing. If she was already in bed, she would take care of the boy, and then try to sleep again. I chose to stay up once I started my turn with Asher. For me, interrupted sleep really isn’t sleep at all. I would stay awake until Karin roused herself in the morning.

There really wasn’t much I could do when I was on watch, other than hang out with the little guy. Sometimes, if he was sound asleep, I could put him in his vibrating seat and do some writing, like I am doing now. At other times, Asher was not so cooperative. He’s a good kid, but he he needs to eat, and he needs to poop. He also needs to be held.

I held him a lot.

I walked with him around the house, chanting to him softly. Asher rested his little head on my right shoulder as I held him close to my body. After I while, he got heavy and I sat down with him. I slouched back in a chair, and Asher laid on my chest. His breathing was occasionally fitful, but most of the time it was steady and soothing.

When Asher is sleeping deeply, he makes little sounds with his outbreath that sound like “hah, hah, hah…”. As he rested on me, he relaxed to the point that it felt like his bones had turned to jello. His body was warm against mine. I could feel him breathe. I could feel the rapid beating of his tiny heart.

I suspect that he could feel my heartbeat too. He could sense the pattern of my breathing. We connected without speaking, without words. Two bodies and two souls seeking a common rhythm.

It was hard at times to care for Asher in the middle of the night. It wore me out. I don’t have the stamina that I used to have.

However, someday I won’t be able to hold like I did. Someday we won’t be able to bond like that. It might not make any difference to him, but I will miss that time together.

January 23rd, 2021

Traffic sucked. We were heading westbound on I-94 at exactly the wrong time of day. The afternoon rush hour was in full swing, and the vehicles slowed to a crawl as we were crossing over the Marquette Interchange in downtown Milwaukee. About a mile west of the interchange, the freeway narrows to three lanes. This creates a chokepoint that stalls traffic every day. When we got there, I saw nothing but a sea of red brake lights.

I was taking the young woman to the hospital. She had a packed bag with her. She wasn’t necessarily looking forward to going there, but she was resigned to doing it. I wasn’t thrilled about driving her to the hospital but, like the young woman, I knew it had to be done.

We had just left a house full of anger and sorrow, and being in a traffic jam was actually a relief from that stress. When the cars had been moving along swiftly, we had not said much to each other. We had been focused on our own thoughts. The girl had been munching the last of her McDonald fries, and finishing off a can of Bubbl’r. I had been watching the cars racing past me or changing lanes without signaling. Then it all slowed down.

We had time to talk.

The young woman asked me, “Do you know the ‘Baron Trump’ story?”

“The what?”

“The ‘Baron Trump’ story. Some guy, a hundred years ago, wrote a story about Trump, and it’s totally accurate.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I mean the first name is spelled differently, but a lot of the stuff is the same. It’s like this guy already knew Barron Trump.”

“Okay…”

The young woman continued, “That story is just like my life.”

“How so?”

“Well, remember when I was little, and I thought that I was really a princess? It was like there was this fairy tale about me. Well, Barron Trump has a fairy tale about him. There’s got to be a story about me.”

“You think so?”

“Well, yeah. I mean people always come up to me and say, ‘Don’t I know you?’, or ‘I’ve seen you before somewhere’. People dream about me, and then they meet me. It’s like these other people already know my story.”

I thought for a moment, then said, “Everybody has a story. Maybe it’s written already, or maybe we are writing it now.”

She spoke of her baby boy, “Asher is in my story.”

“Yeah, he is. Did you know ‘Asher’ means ‘Ten’ in Arabic? I’m not sure about Hebrew. The word for ‘ten’ in Hebrew is like that, but not quite the same.”

(“Ten” in Hebrew is עשר, pronounced “Asir”. That is pretty close to “Asher”.)

The girl got interested. Asher’s name means ‘Ten’? Ten has always been my favorite number. You know Asher has a lot of ‘twos’ in his life. He was born at 2:00 PM on 12/02/2020. So, the number two is big. Asher is a Jewish name. What is ‘two’ in Hebrew?”

“I can’t remember. I know in Arabic the number ‘two’ is ‘ithnain’ (اثنان).”

(“Two” in Hebrew is שניים, pronounced “Shnime”)

She shook her head. “What does the number ten mean in Hebrew?”

“It’s just a number.”

“I mean, does it mean something else besides that?”

“I don’t know. I do know that there is a whole science of numbers (gematria) in Hebrew. The letters in that alphabet are also numbers. So, words have hidden meanings, and numbers can have hidden meanings.”

“I wonder what all the twos mean for Asher.”

“Maybe we can find out.”

“Yeah.”

Traffic started moving again. We were quiet for a while.

She told me, “We need to write my story.”

“We may have to change names to protect the guilty.”

By that time we were pulling up to the hospital entrance.

I told her as she pulled out her bag, “I’ll wait here until I know your admitted.”

“Okay.”

“Good luck with everything.”

“Thanks.”

Then she said, “Do some research on Baron Trump for me.”

Then she walked away.

January 17th, 2021

“The Heart Kyol Che is an opportunity for students who cannot sit the traditional Kyol Che, or who can sit only part of it, to participate by doing extra practice at home and doing together practice as they are able. This will run concurrently with the traditional Kyol Che. By doing this Heart Kyol Che together, we will strengthen our own practice, and provide support to our fellow students who are able to sit the traditional Kyol Che. We in turn can draw inspiration and energy from their commitment.”

from Peter Neuwald, abbot of the Great Lake Zen Center, Kwan Um School of Zen

Kyol Che is a winter meditation retreat that is practiced in South Korea.. The participants are often Buddhist monks and nuns, although nowadays Kyol Che is mostly practiced by lay people. The phrase “Kyol Che” roughly means “tight practice”, which implies a enhanced type of meditation routine. Since monastic communities tend to be geared around prayer and meditation anyway, this retreat is just an intensification of their normal regimen. However, the retreat is more difficult for lay persons, seeing as the demands on their lives are different from those of monks or nuns.

That I know for sure. I just woke up fifteen minutes ago to help feed our grandson, Asher. I’m sure that some Buddhist monks and nuns get up at 2:30 AM, but I doubt that they are awakened to the sound of a crying infant.

On Saturday morning, the Great Lake Zen Center hosted a mini-retreat on Zoom. I attended for a while. The retreat went for three hours or so. There was chanting, sitting meditation, and walking meditation on the schedule. The session attracted all the usual suspects. Meditation is often considered “together action”, and there is a real, although mostly spiritual, sense of unity when we all sit in the same room silently. However, due to the pandemic, we aren’t sitting together, and that feeling of unity suffers.

The half-day retreat also offered kong-an (koan) interviews with Zen Master Dae Kwang. A kong-an is a question that does not necessarily have a rational answer. An example of this would be: “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” The purpose of the kong-an is to force a Zen practitioner to break through discursive thought to find an intuitive answer. Or perhaps the kong-an is a way for the student to become more aware of his or her attachments. The interviews with ZMDK are ways for the Zen student to find out if they are on the right track with solving the riddle of the kong-an.

I sat through the morning bell chant during the session. That is how Zen practice starts. Most of the time, the chanting helps me to relax and focus my mind. That didn’t happen on Saturday. The other members of our household were busy caring for Asher, and a six-week-old baby produces certain amount of unavoidable noise and chaos. I found it impossible to meditate with the maelstrom of activity swirling within a few feet of where I was sitting. I gave up practicing after the bell chant, and joined the fray.

I also saw no point in participating in the kong-an interview with Zen Master Dae Kwang. I know that years ago he gave me a kong-an to ponder. I have completely forgotten it. If I had joined him for an interview, he might have given me a new kong-an, and I am certain that I would forget that one too. I really like talking with ZMDK, but I’m not going to solve a classic kong-an. It’s just not going to happen, so why should I waste his time?

Yesterday morning, the young woman who we love brought Asher to me in the kitchen. She needed to take a shower and clean up their bedroom, so the girl asked me to watch over the lad. I did so.

I held Asher to my right shoulder. He snuffled and burbled softly as he slept. Asher rested his tiny cheek on my shoulder, occasionally spitting up on my sweater. His right hand tugged reflexively on a long, white strand of my beard. I walked with him.

I thought of another Buddhist friend, Senji. He’s a Japanese monk, and he follows a different tradition. In his order, they chant and drum. They almost exclusively use the phrase “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo”. This phrase is a from the Lotus Sutra, a famous Buddhist text. The founder of Senji’s order managed to distill thousands of verses from the Lotus Sutra into seven syllables. I have to admire that.

I asked Senji once, “So, really, what does ‘Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo’ mean?”

Senji gave me a broad smile and said, “It means: ‘You are love. You are beauty. You are Buddha’.”

I doubt that is a direct translation, but I’ll go with it.

As I walked slowly with Asher, I whispered into his ear,

“Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo. Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo. Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo…”

Over and over again.

I have meditate when and where I can. I won’t be sitting on a cushion. However, I can walk or sit with Asher. I can meditate on him, and follow his breathing. I can feed him or change him. Asher is my Heart Kyol Che.

January 16th, 2021

I wake up at night every time I hear Asher cry. This occurs multiple times. Asher’s shrill voice is not all that rouses me. I also hear that rapid footsteps of his mother in the hallway, as she rushes from their bedroom to the kitchen to make him a bottle of formula. It takes at most five minutes for the young woman to get up from her bed, prepare Asher’s meal, and then feed him. Somehow, that feels like an eternity while I listen to Asher making his needs known.

I could get up to help the young woman, but how? I can’t comfort a hungry baby. Asher knows exactly what he wants, and he wants it now. I can’t help the young woman do her work any faster. It seems like in these instances the best that I can do is to keep out of the way.

Maybe I just have a guy attitude. My wife, Karin, is much more inclined to leap into the fray and give assistance, even when none is required or wanted. Sometimes that works. The young woman is independent in most matters, and prefers to do things on her own. This is usually commendable, but she needs to know her limits. She is learning that the hard way.

She is a new mom.

I hesitate to write about the struggles of a new mother, since I have never been one, and I never will be. I don’t understand all that is involved. I probably don’t understand any of it. I can only rely on my experience in helping Karin to raise three children of our own. Even a dad can learn a few things.

The young woman who lives with us is learning about how to love. She learning what love really means, and this is always a difficult lesson. Love is about sacrifice, so we don’t learn about it, since our society tends to avoid it at all costs. Love may or may not have to do with feelings. In the case of this young woman, she is motivated by her feelings for her six-week-old son. These feelings are no doubt overwhelming. She is starting to understand that she will do anything for this helpless child. Her desires, and sometimes her needs, take second place to what Asher needs. That’s how this works.

The young woman has to learn that her needs do, in fact, matter. She cannot adequately care for Asher without taking proper care of herself. She needs to eat and sleep in order to help her son. It is hard to to know when to receive help and when to give it. We have already run into situations where the young woman has pushed herself too hard for too long, and the consequences have been unpleasant. The girl is slowly becoming aware that Karin and I, two old people, are here to assist her. We can ease her burden within to a certain degree. We are all mere mortals, and we all need to know when to say, “Enough”.

I truly do not know how mothers can raise a child. I know that these women do it all the time, but at what cost? Here we are, three adults in our house, and we are still exhausted from caring for one tiny boy. We have most, if not all, of the material things that this child needs. We just need the time and the energy. Those are sometimes in short supply.

We are all learning how to love. We are all learning when to say, “I need some help”. We are all learning when to say, “I’m here for you.”

It’s a process and a struggle.

It is worth it.

January 13th, 2021

The World Health Organization has defined violence as:

“the intentional use of physical force or power, threatened or actual, against oneself, another person, or against a group or community, which either results in or has a high likelihood of resulting in injury, death, psychological harm, maldevelopment, or deprivation.”

 Americans love violence. We really do.

We are just selective about who we want to hurt.

Many of our Representatives and Senators have spoken out about the violence during the riot at the Capitol last week. Five people were killed during that melee. Without exception, our legislators have condemned the violence of the mob, and the subsequent loss of life. People have described the barbarity as being “un-American”. That is not true. That sort of mayhem was very American. It’s totally American.

Last week these very same members of Congress overrode President Trump’s veto to pass the NDAA (National Defense Authorization Act) and fund our nation’s military institutions with another $741 billion. The bill passed by a vote of 322 to 87 in the house, and 81 to 13 in the Senate. Very few of our legislators voted against spending damn near three quarters of a trillion dollars to get America the best violence that money can buy. Of those who did vote against this spending bill, I am sure that even fewer did so because they abhor violence.

It all depends on who is getting hurt. We don’t really care if a wedding party in Afghanistan gets blown away by a Hellfire missile fired from a drone. We don’t really care if some Iraqis die when we invade and occupy their country. We don’t care if civilians in Yemen die from disease and hunger because we are arming the Saudis. As far as we are concerned, this is all the price of doing business in the world. We don’t know any of these people, and we don’t want to know them.

However, we definitely do care when a crazed mob of Trumpistas bust into the Capitol and terrorize the legislators hiding there. We are outraged when five people die in this recent madness, but we shrug when we are told that hundreds of thousands of Iraqis have died because of the violent behavior of the United States.

My son fought in Iraq. He told me about killing people there. He shot some folks, and he stabbed a man to death. My son got medals for doing that sort of thing. The guy who killed the cop at the Capitol with a fire extinguisher won’t get a medal. He will most likely go to prison forever.

The killer at the Capitol has been roundly condemned. The policeman he killed has been called a hero. Flags are flying at half-mast for the cop. Our country honors Officer Brian Sicknick, and it should do so. He was defending those who were defenseless and in danger.

The cop who killed Breonna Taylor in Louisville is free. So is the police officer who pumped seven rounds into the back of Jacob Blake in Kenosha. Are there any flags flying lower for Breonna or Jacob? No. Why not?

It all depends on who is getting hurt.

I wonder if our connection with violence goes deeper than our conscious thought.

I woke up from a night terror an hour ago. Bad stuff. I never remember much from these dreams. I only know that in the dream something dark and evil was coming at me through our front door.

I heard Karin’s voice calling to me frantically. My wife roused me from my dream. This has all happened many times in the past. Karin often pulls me away from my demons. She has some self-interest in all of this. When I have my dark and twisted dreams, I lash out. I sometimes strike Karin inadvertently.

I woke up from Karin’s anxious words. My heart rate was through the roof. I could only hoarsely say, “Sorry.”

It was quiet in the dark.

I finally broke the silence and said,

“Good night.”

Karin sighed deeply. She murmured sleepily,

“Stop hitting me.”

January 11th, 2021

Karin and I don’t often go to Mass on Saturday evening. In general we try to attend church services on Sunday morning. However, Karin has had a hard time gathering her strength early in the day. She is by nature a night owl. In the best of times, Karin tends to drag in the morning. Seeing as she is still recuperating from COVID, it is even more difficult for her to rouse herself. Her energy is very low when she wakes up.

I wanted to take Karin to Mass, but she was unsure about being fit enough to go. She has experienced brief bouts of dizziness and vertigo. She told me that she would decide about attending Mass on Saturday afternoon. Karin felt well about an hour or two before it was time to leave home. She took a shower, dressed, and then I drove her to church.

As we entered the church parking lot, I asked Karin,

“Do you want me to drop you off at the entrance?”

She replied, “No. I’ll walk with you from the car, just in case I need to lean on you.”

This liturgy this last weekend celebrated the Baptism of the Lord. That marked the official end of the Christmas season for the Catholic Church. The creche (Nativity Scene) was still set up when we came into the church. St. Rita has a large wooden Nativity set. It has all the usual figures: Mary, Joseph, Jesus, the shepherds, angels, the Magi. In most ways, the creche is nothing out of the ordinary.

Karin loves one aspect of scene. Most Nativity scenes show Mary gazing at her child with awe and wonder. A person looking at her image gets the idea that she is already worshiping her boy as God Incarnate. The statue of Mary in our church’s manger scene is different. Mary holds her baby to her breast and hugs him.

Karin said, “I really like that. That’s what a real mother would do.”

True.

Karin and I sat together at Mass. Father Michael greeted Karin. He was very happy to see her. She hadn’t been in the church since November. Other people also came up to her to welcome her back. Their words were warm and authentic.

The fact is that the pandemic has shattered the church community. There are many people missing from the pews. Some of them will return. Some of them will never come back. There are various reasons for their absence: illness, fear of infection, crisis of faith. A few of the parishioners are dead. It is a big deal to see somebody is in their usual place once again. It is a bit like witnessing a resurrection.

There is a certain amount of physical movement involved in Mass participation: standing, sitting, kneeling. Think of it as Catholic aerobics. Karin did fine during most of the liturgy. We both knelt during the Eucharistic Prayer. I stood up at the end of the prayer. Karin did not.

Karin sat in the pew. She looked worn out. I stood while the congregation recited the Lord’s Prayer. Karin gave me her hand, I held it while we prayed together.

Karin felt well enough to get up to receive Communion. I was glad for that. I know how important it is to her.

At the end of Mass, several people came up to speak to Karin. I think that was a great comfort to her.

On the way out, Karin spoke to a friend about the creche:

“See how Mary holds her baby? That’s how a real mom would do it!”

January 7th, 2021

Today I feel ashamed to be an American.

Yesterday’s violence and chaos in the Capitol makes me physically sick. How can I talk to any of my friends overseas, and not feel embarrassed? How can I talk to anybody, and not feel humiliated by the actions of some of my fellow citizens?

All my life I’ve watched people in this country wave our flag and puff out their chests, shouting, “America is number one!” In some ways that’s true. We have the largest military. We have the biggest economy. The United States is materially rich beyond the dreams of most of the world. We are world leaders with regards to technological advances. In almost every physical way, America is number one.

How do we rank morally?

Yesterday, the actions of our President, of his political acolytes, and of the MAGA mob, indicate that our country has a deep and pervasive rot in its collective soul. We have always prided ourselves on being a shining beacon of democracy, an example to emulated by other nations. We have believed in the myth of American exceptionalism, the notion that the United States is in some obscure way superior to all those “shithole” countries. We have assumed that we are inherently good people.

It is tempting for me to write it all off as nonsense. After all, our history is loaded with violence and hypocrisy. We have been at war with somebody almost continually since the birth of the United States. We enslaved Black people. We practiced genocide against the indigenous population. We claimed to follow God, when we actually worshiped the Almighty Dollar.

I grieve for my country. Both I and my eldest son served the United States in the Army. We both took an oath to fight for the Constitution, against all enemies, foreign and domestic. I hesitate to call myself a patriot, but if I wasn’t, yesterday’s disaster wouldn’t hurt me so much.

Americans have done many positive things in world, despite everything. People around the world admire American virtues. They depend on us to provide a good example. They want us to be as good as we claim to be.

Yesterday we let them all down. We failed them.

We can be better than we were yesterday. We will be better. I know that. I believe that we really are good people.

I won’t feel ashamed for long.