Author: frankisemptiness

April 27th, 2019

We drove along some twisting, winding roads through the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas. There was farm land in the narrow valleys, but we also saw deep forests covering the steep hillsides. The scenery was beautiful, for the most part.

Small houses and trailers peeked through the trees. Some of the homes were neat and tidy. Other houses were in various states of disrepair. A few of them were literally collapsing. Many of them were surrounded by piles of junk. I found that to be both curious and disturbing.

As we drove by these homes, I could see abandoned cars and trucks, broken swing sets, stacks of rotting lumber, rusting bicycles, and other things that had somehow become useless to their owners.  I’ve seen scenes like this before; on the marijuana farms in the hills of Oregon, in the backwoods of Appalachia, on the reservations in Montana, on the farms only a few miles from our home in Wisconsin. The images are always the same. Things are left exactly where they stopped working, or where they fell to the ground. A screwdriver lies in the dirt. A truck sits in the yard, never to move again. Kids’ toys lie on the ground, faded by the sun and half-hidden by the weeds.

Why?

It’s the dark side of consumerism. These people in the woods are most likely poor. They don’t have more junk than anyone else. They just can’t afford to hide it. They can’t haul the stuff away, or put into storage.

We have a big enough house to store all of our crap. Our home is a living example of the Second Law of Thermodynamics: entropy (disorder) always increases. Our house is full of things that are held in an environment of barely controlled chaos. We have all sorts of things that we no longer use, or no longer work.  We hang on to possessions out of sentiment or laziness. Clutter increases. We consider throwing things out, but we never actually do it.

If the folks in Arkansas cleared out the stuff on their property, would it really help? If we threw our things away, would it help? All this debris would just wind up in a landfill somewhere. It wouldn’t disappear. It would become somebody else’s problem.

I don’t want to buy any more stuff.

 

 

April 26th, 2019

Weston was crying. Babies do that sort of thing. Fortunately, Karin was there.

Hans and Gabi went out for the evening. God knows they needed it. They hadn’t had an evening for themselves since Weston was born back in December. They just wanted to go out to eat at a nice restaurant, and then have some uninterrupted adult conversation for at least a little while. It seemed very reasonable.

Weston is four months old. His needs are simple: food, sleep, and a fresh diaper on occasion. His needs are also immediate. When he is hungry, tired, or nasty, he wants attention now.

Karin and I agreed to watch the little guy while Hans and Gabi got their reprieve. Babysitting is part of the grandparent gig. It’s in the job description. There really is no getting around it.

Weston was sleeping in his sling when Hans and Gabi left. Gabi had fed Weston just prior to their departure. Exactly two hours later, Weston got hungry. Then he got loud.

It’s been a long time since Karin and I cared for a baby. We may have forgotten a few things, but then it all came back to us in a rush. It’s like riding a bicycle: you never really loose your touch. For me it was a little awkward, but that might be because I’m a man. Karin dealt with the situation with the quiet confidence of a grandmother ( FYI, she goes by “Oma”. It’s a German thing).

Gabi had frozen numerous plastic bags of mother’s milk. We thawed a couple of those, and Karin attempted to fill a baby bottle. For some reason that didn’t go well. It took Karin a few minutes to load up a bottle and ensure that it would not leak.

In the meantime, I held on to an increasingly restless Weston. He looked at me with a certain amount of anxiety. Honestly, I do look a bit scary. I have that dark Sith energy that some people find unnerving. So, Weston was a tiny Kylo Ren, and I was Darth Frank. Weston held on to my beard with a death grip. He has remarkably strong hands. He got more and more agitated, and his soft crying turned into a full-throated howl.

At this point, Karin had the bottle ready, and she took over. I gave her Weston. He kept several hairs from my beard. It took a while for him to settle down. Weston had wound himself pretty tight. He slowly calmed down enough to nurse, but then he sucked in a lot of air along with the contents of his bottle. Then he cried again because he was bloated. Karin burped him repeatedly. At long last, Weston exhausted himself, and he slept the sleep of the just.

Hans called. He and Gabi wanted to know how we were doing. We told him that Weston was asleep. Hans said that was good, and that they were going to a dance hall. Nice.

The cycle repeated itself. After exactly two hours, Weston wanted to eat. This time we were better prepared. Karin fed him, burped him, and Weston cuddled with her. Once again he slept in a way that I can only envy.

His parents came home happy and remarkably relaxed. They were savoring this time, as they should. Karin and I were savoring it too.

 

April 25th, 2019

The following essay appeared in the Capital times yesterday. They must like me there.

“Attorney General William Barr recently ordered immigration judges to deny bail to asylum seekers while their deportation cases are being reviewed by the courts. This action is reprehensible for a variety of reasons.

First, on a purely humanitarian level, it is callous to incarcerate people who have fled to our country because they are in fear of their lives. I believe that this decision by the attorney general is designed to be cruel, in order to discourage other asylum seekers from even attempting to come to the United States for help. The message quite clearly is: “We don’t want you.”

Second, it is nearly impossible for an asylum seeker to effectively plead his or her case in an immigration court if that person is incarcerated. It is not enough that the asylum seeker show that he or she is fearful of returning to their native land. The asylum seeker needs to demonstrate that he or she is being persecuted specifically because of “race, religion, nationality, political opinion, or particular social group.” That is a high standard of proof. It is a standard that cannot be achieved if the asylum-seeker is in jail, and therefore has no access to legal counsel or necessary documents. The Trump administration is making certain that no asylum seeker can win their case in court. It is a perversion of due process.”

April 25th, 2019

“Southern man, better keep your head

Don’t forget what your good book said

Southern change gonna come at last

Now your crosses are burning fast

Southern man”

From “Southern Man” by Neil Young

 

“Well I heard Mister Young sing about her

Well I heard ole Neil put her down

Well, I hope Neil Young will remember

A southern man don’t need him around anyhow.”

From “Sweet Home Alabama” by Lynyrd Skynyrd

 

“You’re just a damn Yankee!”, true words spoken to me by Delphia Wallace.

 

I hate Branson. I’ve never actually been to Branson, Missouri, but I loathe the place just from reading the billboards that line Highway 65. They are disturbing. There are signs advertising something called the “Presley Country Jubilee”, which to me simply point out the dangers of inbreeding. Then there is the sign for the Dolly Parton “Stampede”. That appears to have something to do with music, fine dining, horses, and huge American flags. I don’t quite understand the message. For the denizens of the Bible Belt, there is a show titled “Samson”, with amazing special effects. Finally, there are ads for two tribute shows: “Six Million Dollar Quartet” and “Legends”. I guess that these are shows honoring musicians that have been dead long enough to now be considered wholesome entertainment. They might want to rethink the Michael Jackson tribute.

In short, the billboards highlight the worst of the stereotypes concerning southerners. The operative word here is “stereotypes”, because Southern Man isn’t really like that.

I have a bit of spent time in the South. I was sent to Alabama three times by the U.S. Army. I have made trips to visit family in Texas nearly every year for the last three decades. I’m starting get a feel for the place.

I should point out that there is no such thing as “The South”. It is not a monolithic cultural region. The laid back streets of New Orleans have little to do with the tightly-wound Baptist towns in Mississippi. Florida is much more diverse and urban than Arkansas. Texas is its own little empire.

Over the years, I have met many people in the South. They have been unfailingly polite and courteous. That’s not a bad thing. They put great emphasis on family and church. That isn’t bad either. It is true that we often have different goals and values, but the southerners are not bad folks, and they are definitely not stupid.

It is said sometimes that southerners are prejudiced. That’s true. So, are damn Yankees, like myself. I have seen a number of Confederate flags during my travels in the South. The owners of those flags can make the argument that those nasty pieces of cloth reflect their history and cultural heritage. Yeah, maybe. However, I have also seen rebel flags flapping in the breeze in upstate New York and in Wisconsin. How do those people justify flying them?

I like the South. I like the forests and the farms and the rivers. I like the barbecue and the moonshine and the jambalaya. I like the slower pace. I like the people.

 

 

 

 

April 24th, 2019

Hans likes old pickup trucks. Apparently, he likes them best when they are barely running. At this point, Hans owns three trucks, only one of which is mobile. Two of the vehicles are currently resting in somebody’s field, slowly being camouflaged by the tall weeds growing nearby. One of the static displays has an irreparable transmission. The other one has an engine that overheated to the point self-destruction.

Hans showed me the truck that still is operating condition. It is a 1980 Dodge D150, with a slant six engine. As we were looking at it, Hans lit up a Pall Mall, and told me,

“Yeah, Dad. She needs a little work.”

A little work? Well, let’s see… 

Hans explained to me that the headlights don’t work, but the blinkers do. The truck shifts intermittently. The carburetor is very fickle. The only gauges on the dashboard that work are the engine temperature and the oil pressure. The windshield has a spiderweb crack that looks like it might have been caused by a bullet.

Hans opened up the large and heavy hood to show me the engine. I noted that the engine compartment looked almost empty.

Hans took a drag on his cigarette. He replied,

“Well, the heater’s missing, and so is the power steering. All we got here is the engine, the carburetor and the alternator. It gives me a lot of room to do repair work.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

Hans cracked open a Hella Chela, a local IPA beer with the delicate taste of ghost peppers. The stuff is undrinkable, even for me. Hans took a sip and said,

“All I need is some time and some money to get this thing all fixed up.”

The problem is that Hans has neither time nor money.  He works at the concrete company for seventy to eighty hours a week. He is trying to support his family with his wages. The truth is that this Dodge probably will not get fixed.

Before coming to Texas to visit with Hans, Karin and I spent two nights at Subiaco Abbey in Arkansas. We checked out the gift shop while we were there. Karin wanted to buy a rosary and a crucifix. While in the store, we talked a bit with Donna, who runs the place. I spoke to her about our son’s love of disabled vehicles. With her southern twang, she told us a story.

“My nephew, he bought himself an old Malibu. It was a 70’s model, or maybe 60’s. I can’t remember. He drove that thing for a few months before he fried the electrical system. Then it sat in his daddy’s field forever. Eventually, a maple tree grew up right through the middle of the car. They had to cut down the tree in order to finally remove the car.

I wonder if any trees are growing in Hans’ trucks.

 

 

 

April 21st, 2019

I like to travel, but I don’t like to pack. Actually, I don’t mind packing my stuff. It is just that it gets stressful when Karin and I are loading the car together. That never goes well. I never seem to load the bags correctly. Whenever I have been foolish enough to take the initiative, Karin has always rearranged our belongings in a way that meets her own requirements. I am now at the point where I just let Karin load everything. If something is heavy, I will place it in back of the car exactly where she wants it. Even then, she usually needs to adjust things a bit.

We loaded the Toyota a few minutes ago. Karin had two suitcases and several other carry on bags. I had a backpack. She asked me about that.

“Is this all you are taking?”

I replied, “Yes.”

“Are you sure? This is all for four weeks? You’ll be stinky.”

I sighed. “Okay. The fact is that all my clothes are little more than rags. Why pack them? I need to get some new clothes anyway. I’ll buy things as we go along. I can also wash things as we go along.”

Karin seemed somewhat satisfied with that answer. The truth is that I seldom buy clothes, and I wear what I have until they are reduced to shreds. More than once, I have mistaken for a homeless person.

Seeing as today was Easter, and I had to read from Scripture in front of the congregation, I wore some relatively new slacks. Karin complimented me on that as we drove to church. I muttered something to the effect that I don’t care how I dress.

Karin thought for a moment and replied, “Well, that’s not quite true. You wouldn’t wear something pink or flowery.”

I sighed, “Yes, that’s true.”

Karin went on, “But you don’t dress to impress anybody with how you look.”

“That is also true.”

I have spent most of my adult life wearing a uniform, both in the military and out. Sometimes the “uniform” simply meant that I had to wear a necktie. For years, I dressed to meet the idiosyncratic requirements of various organizations, and now I am done with that. I’m retired, and I just don’t give a damn. I am no longer part of the system. I don’t answer to anyone, and there is nobody that I need to impress.

I do not own a tie. I think that the last time I wore a tie was when Bill Clinton was in office. I can conceive of no situation where I would even consider wearing a necktie.

There is a story about Dorothy Day, the founder of the Catholic Worker movement. She cared for the poor, and she was notoriously frugal with regards to her own needs. One year, just prior to Easter, she considered buying something nice to wear to Mass. After much soul-searching, she finally decided that she should buy herself some new shoelaces.

Last Thursday, I bought myself some new shoelaces. I needed them.

 

 

 

 

 

April 16th, 2019

“I’m going to prison!”

The girl was sobbing as she told us this over the phone yesterday. She had just finished her conference with the probation officer liaison. It appears that the young woman had run out of second chances, and the judge had run out of patience.

She wailed, “It’s not fair!”

Some people might laugh at that claim. After all, this woman had violated the provisions of her probation repeatedly. According to the law, she should go to prison. She knew the rules and she broke them. A person could easily say that she chose to do the wrong thing. It was her own decisions that got her into this mess.

That all makes sense if a person assumes that this girl is capable of making rational decisions. What if she’s not?

The girl has a long history of mental illness and addiction. This implies that, at least at times, she is not able to make good choices. All these screw ups are not due to any moral failure. She wants to do the right thing. She wants to be happy and productive. But then she sabotages all her good efforts by using.

So, in a sense, she is right. It is not fair that she go to prison. She probably should not be on her own, but prison is unlikely to help her, or help anyone else. At this moment, this young woman can’t function all alone. That much is obvious, even to her. She needs some supervision, but is prison any kind of answer?

In America we use jails and prisons to control people who are sick. I suppose that other countries do that too, but it seems that here we punish people who are mentally ill, rather than trying to heal them. We take people who are desperate and wounded, and we incarcerate them. Out of sight, out of mind. Not all criminals are mentally ill, but many persons who are mentally ill are treated as criminals. We don’t have money to cure people, but we always have money to imprison them.

This girl might well be dead if she wasn’t in jail right now. The sad truth is that jail is a safe place for her, for now. Will prison be a safe place? I don’t know, and I have no influence on future events. Will she get any kind of medical treatment in prison? Probably not. Prison is simply a warehouse for unwanted souls. It’s just a purgatory here on earth.

This girl, along with many others, is in a dark and scary place. It’s a place that doesn’t need to exist. It’s a place that we, as a society, have created and maintain.

It is wrong.

 

 

 

 

April 12th, 2019

I arrived at the Oak Creek Community Center at 7:00 AM on Wednesday. I was expecting to meet Mario from Voces de la Frontera. He told me that we needed to be there very early if we wanted to speak in front of the Joint Finance Committee hearing that was scheduled to start at 10:00 AM. We weren’t the only people there early. There was already a small group of people gathered in front of the building, braving the wind and snow.

A man named Dave stood at the door with a large, yellow notepad. I’m not sure who he is, or what organization he represents. However, he took charge of things. He made a list of people as they showed up. I think he ended up with well over one hundred names. Dave explained to each person that everyone would line up in order at 8:30, at which time, in theory, the community center would be ready to accept us inside. Dave told me that I could hang out in the cold (not my top choice), or I could go have a coffee somewhere, and come back to the center at 8:30.

I went for coffee at a nearby Starbucks with Mario and Deb. Both of them are from Voces. Deb mentioned that she planned on going on a trip to Las Vegas in the near future. I mentioned that I have bad memories from Vegas due to the fact that I was in jail there. Mario wanted to know why I was in jail. I explained that I engaged in civil disobedience during a protest at Creech AFB in 2017. Deb has also been busted at times for CD, but mostly on the behalf of Voces de la Frontera and its immigrant constituency.

Mario told us that he admired us because we were brave enough to be arrested for our beliefs (I am convinced that there is fine line between courage and stupidity, and sometimes those two things are hopelessly intertwined). Mario further explained that he came to the United States from Guatemala, years ago. He remembers the army in Guatemala killing people, even little children, because they were “communists”. He also remembers people, protesters, disappearing…forever. That’s a whole new level of courage for people willing to protest. Yeah, getting busted at a demonstration in the U.S. sucks, but we have no idea of the real costs of standing up to power. I don’t.

We went back to the community center at 8:30. It was still cold and windy as the milling crowd formed a ragged line in front of the building. I found my place between a young man and an older woman in the queue. The younger man was named Allen. He was there to speak about closing the MSDF (Milwaukee Secure Detention Facility). He had been incarcerated there, and the authorities had turned off the water to his cell for 48 hours. The woman behind me was Joyce, the wife of a local Protestant minister. Joyce has been an advocate for the poor for many years. I know that she is has been in jail many times because of her efforts to fight injustice in its myriad forms. We talked for a while, as we slowly shuffled into the center.

I had never been to this kind of hearing before. The people running the meeting issued a pink slip of paper to each person who wished to testify. We each filled out the slip with our name, address, and phone number. Then they filed each slip in the order in which it was received. We were all told that each of us would get a solid two minutes (120 seconds) to speak our piece in front of the committee members. The only exception to that rule was that a group of speakers would get a whole five minutes to plead their case.

The venue for the hearing was small, way too small. The hall filled rapidly, and soon there was standing room only. It became obvious to me that some groups were well organized, the folks from AARP had managed to fill four entire rows in front of the dais. There were also a large contingent from a group that was there to close down MSDF and stop funding for more prisons. Everybody was there on a mission. There were no idle spectators.

I sat with a few other people from Voces. We were there to speak up about getting drivers licenses for all state residents, including those persons who are undocumented. How does that issue affect the state budget? It affects the budget only in a peripheral sense. The fact is that undocumented immigrants work and pay taxes. If they cannot legally drive to work, they won’t work, and they will not pay taxes. That is the tenuous connection between drivers licenses for immigrants and the Wisconsin state budget. It’s a bit of a reach, but it’s all we got.

There were serious players at the hearing. The Milwaukee County Executive spoke to the committee, as did the chairman of the Milwaukee Common Council. There were a lot of suits there (men and women with coats and ties). Money spoke first. It always speaks first.

The first person to give his comments from Voces was Ken. He was using a walker to get up to the microphone. Ken did what he was expected to do. The budget hearings are generally about dollars. Ken had a prepared statement, from which he read. He rattled off numbers to convince the members of the committee that it made economic sense to give undocumented immigrants a license to drive. He paid little attention to the alerts from the timekeeper as he ran through his figures. Eventually, the chairperson asked Ken to end his comments. Ken reluctantly surrendered the microphone to the next speaker.

Others spoke, some eloquently, some not. People got up to ask for more money for schools. People got up to ask for a more equitable sharing of state funding. People got up to talk about conditions in jails and prisons. An older black man spoke softly about his horrendous experience in the MSDF. That cut to the core. AARP spoke about providing assets to allow seniors to stay in their homes. Anything that had to do with money was fair game. That meant that almost any comment was relevant.

I waited anxiously to speak. I wasn’t scared to talk in front of the crowd. That didn’t bother me. I was more worried that I would not get called in time. I needed to take an undocumented immigrant to his court appearance in Jackson at noon. It would have been ironic if I had been unable to speak before the committee, just because I needed to help a person who was the topic of my speech. I waited. I do not wait well.

Deb struggled to compose her two minute speech. She had it all worked out on her phone. She asked for my opinion. That was probably a mistake. To me, it seemed far too long. Like Ken, she had all sorts of facts and statistics. I told her that it looked good, but that she should focus on what she was most passionate about. Speak from the heart.

Time dragged. Dozens of people went up to the mike to talk about their issues. With rare exceptions, they all read from written documents. I understand the need to have something in writing, but those words always seem flat and lifeless when they are spoken. I listened to the speakers and I looked at the glazed expressions of the committee members.

Deb and I were finally called up for the final queue. Deb went first. she did well. She incorporated the experiences of her immigrant ancestors into her brief talk, along with her numbers and facts. Deb spoke clearly and passionately. She spoke well.

I went up shortly after Deb did. I had no notes. I had nothing prepared, except what was already in my mind and my heart. I am by nature an introvert. That is why I am writing to you now. However, I can, at times, speak to others. It is hard for me, but I can do it, sometimes.

I got up and went to the microphone. I said,

“I have no numbers for you. I only have my experiences.

My name is Francis Pauc. I work with the New Sanctuary Movement, and with Voces de la Frontera.

I take undocumented immigrants to their court appearances. I escort them because they need me. These people are scared. I am not their lawyer. I am not their translator. I go with them because I am their friend.

These people are in court almost always for traffic violations. They are there almost always because they are driving without a license. They are driving without a license because the State of Wisconsin won’t give them one. So, why do they drive without a license? They drive because they have to get to work, and there is no public transportation system to get them there. They have to drive. They have to work. They have to pay their bills and support their families.

We are criminalizing them because they are doing what they are supposed to do.

These people pay their taxes. As a byproduct, you will get you revenue.

I am in favor of giving licenses to all Wisconsin residents because it is the smart thing to do.

It is also the right thing to do.”

I did not use my two minutes. I did not need to do that.

I just walked away from the mike. I walked toward the back of the room. Some people smiled and waved. One man shook my hand. Mario gave me a hug.

I don’t know if I made any difference. I don’t care. I did my job.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 12th, 2019

The boyfriend called us late on Monday afternoon. He was in an utter panic. He had gone to visit the girl at her motel room. She was not okay.

The boyfriend told my wife, “I talked to her on the phone while I was on my way to her place. We were going to hang out together. When I got there, she was already high. I asked, ‘What did you do? Are you huffing aerosols again?’ That wasn’t even five minutes from the time I called her!”

He went on, “I am so done with her! I have tried so hard to help her, and she just can’t keep clean! I don’t know what to do any more.”

The boyfriend kept going on and on like this for several minutes. He is a good man, but he tends to babble. I find that behavior irritating in the best of circumstances, and this was clearly not the best of circumstances. As background, this young woman has been to the ER twice in the last two months because she was found unconscious, because she was huffing keyboard cleaner. That stuff may get you high, but it will also kill you.

Finally, I couldn’t listen to the boyfriend rant about how he didn’t know what to do. I got pissed off and said,

“I know what I am going to do! I’m calling her P.O.!”

I tried to find the phone number for the girl’s probation officer. The boyfriend was still on a roll. My ability to focus was limited by my emotions, so I told him,

“Enough with the conversation! Let me look up the fucking number!”

He got quiet and told my wife, “Well, maybe I will leave guys alone for a while. Uh, I’ll check back later, okay?”

Whatever.

I called the P.O.’s office. A nice lady answered the phone and tried to connect me with the probation officer. I got sent to voice mail. I called the office again, and I told the pleasant receptionist about this girl, and my concern that she was going to die. The woman told me that she would get hold of the P.O., and she did.

Shortly after that, we got a call from the girl. She informed us that she was going directly to jail.

Some time after that, the probation officer contacted me.

The P.O. spoke in a crisp, professional manner. “Mr. Pauc, I am returning your call. The girl is now in custody.”

I sighed, and said, “That’s a good thing.”

She replied, “We will see what further steps we need to take.”

I told her, “I would prefer that she doesn’t die.”

The P.O. said to me, “I believe we share the same goal.”

I shook my head, and sighed again. Then I told the P.O. slowly,

“I am convinced that if she will die if she is on her own.”

There was a pause. The probation officer responded,

“We’ll see what can be done.”

I fought a feeling of impotent anger. I calmed myself and told her,

“Well, I appreciate you returning my call. Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome. Goodbye.”

I have been wanting to cry ever since then. The girl is in jail, and she is not getting released any time soon. I don’t know what lies in her future. Hopefully, some kind of mental health treatment, but I don’t know that. All i know is that she can’t OD where she is now.

I don’t regret ratting her out. I truly believe that I had to call the probation officer to save this girl’s life. But I still feel dirty. I went behind her back. I broke our trust. At this point, I don’t know if she is even aware that I turned her in. I don’t plan on telling her, not yet anyway. The whole situation makes me sick, physically sick.

I feel like Judas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 9th, 2019

Somebody once explained to me what it actually means to “carry one’s cross”. The person who told me about this made a point of differentiating between involuntary and voluntary suffering. This individual made it clear to me that involuntary suffering (e.g. cancer, famine, HIV) is not actually “carrying your cross”. That kind of pain obviously sucks, but a person has no choice in the matter. Voluntary suffering, like when Jesus picked up his cross and walked toward Golgotha, is a very different thing. When a person takes on a burden of their own free will, that is what it means to carry your cross.

Lent is about carrying your cross, whatever that may be. It is about following Christ on the Via Dolorosa. It is about t’shuva, the Jewish idea of turning back to God. It is ultimately about dying. It is about dying to oneself in order to rise up again as something and somebody new. In short, it is painful.

The season of Lent would be relentlessly depressing, if it were not for the fact of the Resurrection. I am not just talking about the resurrection of Jesus. I am talking about the resurrection of everybody. We all go through a series of small deaths during the course of our short lives. We can all rise again. I believe that we all will rise again.

I know that I am not orthodox, and I know that many Christians believe that some people fail the test, and burn in hell. I don’t believe that. I have never believed that. Life is too hard, too cruel, and too ambiguous for anyone to fail. I cannot look at my life, and the lives of others, and think that somebody, anybody, doesn’t make the cut. We all deserve peace and rest after this time on earth. I mean all of us. No exceptions.

A friend of mine recently wrote to me, and said, “I notice that your situation with (a girl) has giving you the opportunity for an arduous Lent. I hope you experience a glorious Easter.”

Amen, brother.

The situation to which my friend refers is with a young woman whom we love, and who struggles mightily with mental illness and addiction. She tries every day to live a meaningful life, despite her challenges. She never gives up. She suffers. We suffer. We try to help her to carry her cross. Sometimes, she falls, and we all fall. When we fall, we learn what love really means. Love means sacrifice. It means action. It means a small death.

I willingly help this young woman carry her heavy cross. I will carry it with her as long as she lives, or I live. I once said that I would go to hell with this girl rather than let her go there alone. I stand by that. I will not abandon her. I will not turn my back.

Will there be an Easter for her? I don’t know.

All I know is that, whatever comes, I will be with her.