Frank is Emptiness

January 19th, 2025

Some problems don’t have solutions. This is a fact that I have often found difficult to accept. I am by nature and training a problem solver and troubleshooter. I often expect that, with sufficient knowledge and resources, I can fix almost anything. As I have grown older, I have found that there are many things that I cannot fix.

I have been trying to care for a person with a chronic and perhaps fatal disease. I have known this person all of their life and have actively been involved with the treatment of their disease for well over a decade. There was a time when I thought I had a handle on things and that I knew what to do for the person. I no longer think that way. I don’t know what to do, and I probably never did know.

A debilitating disease is hard on the sick person and on everybody that knows them. Even people who are supposed to be experts really don’t know how to treatment the ailment. It is a shocking realization to learn that everyone is fumbling in the dark for a cure, or even for a way to just alleviate the suffering. Over the years, we have tried a wide variety of treatments. We have received advice from many well-meaning people, and some of it has been good, but never quite good enough. What has been an effective treatment for one person is not necessarily useful for anyone else. Every person is unique and constantly changing. There is no single cure for all people with a particular disease. There can’t be.

It has been hard for us to deal with the progress of the disease. There have been interludes of relative stability and good health. These periods have occasionally been long enough for us to relax. The temporary calm sometimes lulled us into a false sense of security. Then, without warning, there would be a crisis, and all hell would break loose. Suddenly, things were crazy and terrifying. There were days filled with panic. Those crises stay with us and scar us. I am at a point where I can no longer relax. I am always on edge waiting for the next emergency.

I ask myself, “What should I do?” Sometimes, there is something I can do to help. Sometimes, there is not. When I can’t find a way make things better, or at least not make them worse, I feel utterly helpless. This is a feeling that I have often and with increasing frequency.

“What should I do?” is probably not the right question. I have become aware that I may not be called to do anything. There are times when I only need to be. Sometimes, I can only be a witness. I can only listen. I can only suffer along with the other person.

I am learning how to be.

January 19th, 2025

It’s a solid three degrees Fahrenheit outside. I spent a short time in God’s freezer earlier today. I had to do some shopping, and when I cranked up the car, I saw the hated “low tire pressure” light. I wasn’t surprised at all, but I was still frustrated. Sudden temperature drops almost always cause it to pop up. There must be one tire with a bad seal that loses just enough air to trigger the light.

I found a gas station with an air pump. Most every filling station has a pump. The trick is to find one that lets you fill your tires for free. The Kwik Trip has an air pump that costs nothing to use, but it is almost always in use or broken. Today it was broken. So, I went to a Shell station and paid $2.50 to inflate the tires up to 35 lbs. I found that annoying for several reasons. One was that it seemed ridiculous for the owners to gouge a customer for using the business’ air. Another reason was the fact that I had to fill the tires in the cold and the wind.

It’s nearly impossible to get the tiny plastic tire caps off while wearing gloves or mittens. So, I had to remove them with my bare hands, and then I just kept my gloves off while pumping up the tires. It didn’t take long before my fingers got red and stiff. Then they hurt, and they kept hurting for quite a while after I finished replacing the caps and drove away.

The episode reminded way too much of the days when I worked as a supervisor on a loading dock during the winter for a local trucking company. The dock was not heated, and the hundreds of doors in the building were usually wide open. The outside temp was the inside temp. My superiors insisted that I do all of my computer work on the cold dock. I never understood the logic behind that. That was also a job that could not be done well when wearing mittens or gloves, so I took them off. I remember how my hands would ache after a while. I would take a break in the warmth of the office and wait there until the pain ebbed away. Then I would go outside and start the process all over again. That went on for an entire shift.

I retired nine years ago, and I am grateful that I did. As I age, my tolerance for cold weather diminishes. On days like this, I am happy just to sit inside my warm house (like I am doing right now) and look at the frigid landscape through my window. The few minutes I spent pumping up my tires today helped me to recall why retiring was such a good decision.

January 12th, 2025

There are very few children coming to our church services. It’s not like when I was a kid. Back then, there was a special place called a “crying room” just for restless babies and toddlers, and their moms. Older children sat with their parents in church, and woe to the youngster who caused any commotion. Adults were in the minority at any Mass, and they spent an inordinate amount of time keeping their offspring quiet.

The demographics are reversed now. Grey heads or bald heads dominate. There are more walkers than strollers in the church. A few families show up with little ones, but they are rare. People long to hear the voice of child, even if the kid is crying his or her lungs out. I suspect that one reason for the shortage of children at the services is the fact that their parents’ generation has no use for the institutional Church. Another factor is that families are much smaller than when I was a boy. A family with even three children is unusual.

We care fulltime for Asher, our grandson. He is four years old now. Karin and I take him to church most every Sunday. It is sometimes a struggle to get him to Mass, but generally he is a good sport about it. He can be squirrelly. He is not one to sit still in the pew, but then where can you find a little boy who does that willingly? In the old days, the more mature people in the church would give dirty looks to the parents of unruly children. At least, that’s what my father thought. He was ruthless about his kids being well-behaved and not embarrassing him. It made for stressful times during the service, and often afterward.

I read from the Scriptures this morning during the Mass. I am assigned to proclaim the Word to the congregation on occasion, and I am used to doing that. I started serving as a lector (reader) back in 1992, so I am comfortable with speaking in front of a crowd. It takes a lot to get me flustered. Asher sat with Karin in the pew as I got up to read from the book.

Today I read part of Paul’s letter to Titus. I dislike reading from Paul’s letters because he loved long complicated sentences with many subordinate clauses. It is nearly impossible to read some his epistles out loud and be clear and compelling. His words often sound like something from a dry academic lecture. Listeners get bored almost instantly. I get bored, and I’m doing the reading.

As I stood at the pulpit reading Paul’s epistle, I heard the sound of footsteps coming up the steps toward me. I looked down to my right and saw Asher standing next to me. He grinned and said,

“Grampa.”

I hefted him up on to my right hip and continued to read to the congregants. I got back into the flow. It is expected that a lector pauses briefly at the end of the Scripture reading before speaking the final verse. I did that.

Asher immediately interjected, “Hey, that little girl is running!”

I concluded my part and said,

“The Word of the Lord!”

I carried Asher down to the pew. We muddled through the rest of the service. He played with his monster trucks and ate blueberries. I glanced around to check for any disdainful looks from my fellow worshippers.

At the end of Mass, the priest came down to greet us. He’s an elderly man with a good heart. He smiled at Asher and said,

“I loved how he came up to join you for the reading. That was beautiful. He’s a good guy!”

Indeed, he is.

January 14th, 2025

“Stop! Stop yelling! You’ll wake up Asher!”

That’s what I heard as Karin wrenched me out of the night terror. This is not the first time that she has had to do that, and I am certain that it won’t be the last. It’s extremely disorienting when Karin has to drag me back into the material world. She only does that when she is worried that I will hurt myself or somebody else during a night terror. I tend to thrash about and scream. That bothers her.

Asher sleeps with me. He has never slept alone, and he insists that I hold him in my arms when he is ready for bed. Often, we both fall asleep simultaneously, and I will wake up hours later only to realize that my left arm has gone completely numb from the weight of his head on my bicep. At that point, I generally try to free my arm from underneath his noggin without waking the boy. I can usually find a way to slide it out.

My night terrors like to arrive early in the evening. They don’t appear often, but when they do, they mean business. I don’t know why they come. Their emotional content is overwhelming, and the dream events are vague and illogical. Like any good horror story, the scary parts are half-hidden and obscure. If Karin does not wake me soon enough, my heart rate goes sky high, and I wind up with a sore throat from yelling. These are not pleasant episodes.

Last night, I dreamed that Asher was lying in bed with me, which in reality he was. At the foot of our bed stood two mysterious figures. One looked like a massive white wolf and the other reminded me of a vampire, jet black with glowing red eyes. The two of them exuded menace. I knew intuitively that they were demons. I wanted to protect Asher, so I started praying at an incredibly high volume. I got through one Hail Mary and one Our Father. The two demons quivered and flickered like candle flames in a drafty room.

Then Karin burst into the bedroom. It was just as well. If she had left me alone, I would have recited the whole rosary like the lead singer from Five Finger Death Punch, and I would have awakened the little guy.

Once Karin was certain that I was up, she quickly left. I glanced to my left and saw Asher fast asleep. His cherubic face was illuminated by the moonbeam that was pouring into the room from the skylight. He dead to the world. He hadn’t heard me at all. Good.

I did not go back to sleep for quite a while. The images in my mind were still vivid and raw. Are there really demons? I pondered that. Carl Jung was convinced that dreams are meaningful. I have to agree. But what do they mean? What did this one mean?

I’m up now, obviously. Asher is still sleeping, and he is likely enjoying innocent dreams. He tends to giggle in his sleep. I’m happy for him.

January 13th, 2025

I know a young person who is currently in a hospital. She does not have access to her own phone, but she can call out from the hospital phone once or twice a day for brief periods of time. I’ve come to expect her daily calls. I am not surprised to hear from her.

A few days ago, I got a call from the hospital. I picked up the phone and heard the cheery voice of a nurse announcing to me that I had a call from So-and-so. That struck me as a bit odd since the person who usually calls me does not go through anyone else. She calls straight through to our house. The nurse made the connection and I said,

“Hello.”

There were a few seconds of silence on the other end of the line. Then I heard a quiet voice ask,

“Who are you?”

I told the person who I was. There was another pause and then the individual said,

“Oh, yeah, well, hey, so when do you think I will get out of here.”

I said, “I don’t know.” I was confused. If this was the young woman I knew, she was on some heavy-duty meds. I wasn’t sure. 

The young lady replied, “Well, maybe soon. You know, yesterday I got funny looks from a couple people here, both male and female. Maybe it’s because I can’t poop. I have to take a stool softener. Who is going to pick me up?”

This was feeling creepy. The voice was wrong. Once again, I said, “I don’t know.”

She went on in a sedated monotone, “Yeah, will it be Grandma Lynn?”

Now I was certain. This was not the person I knew. Maybe there was some kind of a mix up at the hospital. I was talking with a total stranger who appeared to be feeling no pain.

Then she said, “Hey, I’m homeless and poor, but those aren’t the same things. They are just two aspects of the same reality. I think I will skip lunch. I don’t want people looking at me funny. I have to take a stool softener.”

I hung up. 

Now, days later, that call still freaks me out. Who was this woman? Who did she think she was talking to? Did she even care who I was? Did she just want to talk somebody, anybody, and she convinced the nurse to put in a call to my number? Should I have kept listening?

What would you do?

January 4th, 2025

The news media have spent a great deal of time reporting on the recent acts of deadly violence in New Orleans and Las Vegas. In particular, there has a been lot of speculation as to the motives of the two perpetrators. Since both men are dead, it is unlikely that we will ever really know why they did what they did. Speculation is ultimately pointless. What is of interest to me is that both individuals were veterans. I am wondering how significant that fact is.

At this point, the military background of Shamsud-Din Jabbar and Matthew Livelsberger would seem to be the only common denominator between the two men. In most other aspects, they led very different lives. It makes me wonder.

I have a son, Hans, who is a combat vet. He was deployed with the Army to Iraq. He’s been back for well over a decade, but his experiences in Iraq have had a long-lasting effect on him. The two veterans who committed terrorist acts a few days ago may have also been permanently scarred by what they saw or did in Afghanistan. This is clearly a gross generalization, but some vets never really come home. They return to America as warriors who are still fighting.

There is a series of ancient legends about Cú Chulainn, a fierce Irish warrior from the Celtic times. The stories speak at length about how Cú Chulainn would go into a violent frenzy while in combat, and how difficult it was to calm him down afterward. In Wikipedia there is part of a tale that explains what other warriors (in this case his enemies) had to do bring him out of this berserker mode:

“He returns to Emain Macha in his battle frenzy, and the Ulstermen are afraid he will slaughter them all. Conchobar’s wife Mugain leads out the women of Emain, and they bare their breasts to him. He averts his eyes, and the Ulstermen wrestle him into a barrel of cold water, which explodes from the heat of his body. They put him in a second barrel, which boils, and a third, which warms to a pleasant temperature.”

The story is not to be taken literally, but it effectively describes what measures are required to return a soldier from a war. I had a conversation several years ago with Native American rancher whose daughter had fought in Iraq and had been wounded there, at about the same time my son was deployed. The rancher’s culture, like the traditional Celtic culture, has rituals and time-tested methods of healing a warrior. The rancher told me about “horse medicine”, a way to establish a bond between a returning vet and a horse to help dissipate the warrior’s rage and fear. The rancher told me that the horse would absorb the negative energy from the veteran, sometimes to the extent that the horse would die. The process of healing took a long time for his daughter, but she was able to finally leave Iraq. I’m not sure that my son has ever been able to do that.

What does all this have to do with Jabbar and Livelsberger? Maybe nothing or maybe everything. Our American culture does not have traditions or rituals to heal a veteran and bring the warrior back home. We somehow just expect that the soldier will adapt and recover on their own. That is often not the case. Many vets never leave Vietnam or Iraq or Afghanistan.

They continue to fight their wars to their own detriment, and sometimes to detriment of those around them. Then these old wars may find a new home in New Orleans or Vegas.

January 6th, 2025

We had just finished eating supper. I was getting ready to clean up.

Suddenly, a four-year-old shouted, “The floor is lava!”

I looked at Asher and asked, “What?”

He repeated, “The floor is lava! You have to get your feet off the floor. Hurry!”

“Why?”

“BECAUSE THE FLOOR IS LAVA!”

I sat on a chair and lifted my feet off the floor.

Asher told me, “I need to throw my stuffed animals on the floor, so I can walk on them, and not step into the lava.”

“Let’s not do that. Asher, I need to wash the dishes.”

“Can we play hide and seek first?”

“On lava?”

“The floor is…floor now.”

“Oh.”

Asher asked again, “Can we play hid and seek?”

“Well, for a while.”

“Okay! I need that little flashlight.”

“Why?”

He looked at me incredulously, “To find you!”

“So, I’m hiding first?”

“Yeah.”

I replied, “Okay. I’ll find a place.”

Asher said, “No. You’re doing it wrong. Go into the bedroom and turn off the light. Then I will come and find you.”

“You can’t tell me where to hide.”

He ignored my comment and said, “Here. Just go into your bedroom and turn off the light.”

I went in there and hid behind the bed. I heard Asher yelling,

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, ten, twelve! Here I come!”

I squatted down in the dark, and I heard him run down the hallway. He opened the bedroom door and flashed the light here and there. He got confused, and said, “Grandpa?”

“BOO!”

I jumped up and he jumped back. He was laughing hysterically.

He said, “You can’t do that!”

We played for a short time. I got tired of it. I told him,

“I have to wash the dishes now.”

Asher slumped over a bit and said,

“Okaaaaaaay…”

I walked over to the kitchen sink and turned on the faucet.

Behind me I heard, “THE FLOOR IS LAVA!”

January 2nd, 2025

A few days ago, I attended the last morning Shabbat service (Shacharit) to be held at my synagogue. The shul will no longer offer religious services, which means that for all practical purposes the synagogue is inactive. The Jewish community at that site may reconstitute itself in some fashion, but the synagogue itself is done. It is part of the past.

The number of people in attendance at the shul yesterday was small. This was no surprise. The number of participants in the synagogue’s religious services has been dwindling for quite some time. This trend has been driven primarily by demographics. There have been very few young people coming to the shul. Most of the population is old, in many cases too old. Being that it is an Orthodox congregation, most members do not drive on the sabbath. People walk to the services. At some point, a person cannot make that walk anymore, and therefore they can’t participate at the synagogue. A number of long-time congregants have passed away in recent years. I can think of at least three funerals that I have attended during the last couple years. If the members of a group are dying, then so is the organization. It’s that simple.

The gabbai at the synagogue (the group leader) kept counting heads to see if there would be enough for a minyan. A minyan, a group of ten Jewish males, is required for there to be a reading of the Torah. The Torah reading is the focal point of the service. It’s a big deal. It’s the big deal. The rest of the service is beautiful but somehow lacking without the Torah reading.

Alas, we were short one Jewish adult male. Nine guys just don’t make the cut. As the gabbai remarked, “Yes, we have ten men here, but one of them is Catholic (me), and we have our rules.” The gabbai gave a brief talk to the group. It just happened to be about minyans and where the rule for them came from. He had done some research on Wikipedia to help him plumb the depths of the Talmud. The origins of the “rule of ten” are buried deep in the Torah and have been debated by the rabbis for centuries. The Talmud makes note of the decisions that came from these discussions, and it also records the dissenting opinions. Some of the dissents assert that to read the Torah, you need ten Jews, but not necessarily ten male Jews. However, tradition goes along with the majority viewpoint, so there has to be ten men.

As a Catholic, the whole affair reminds me of the Church liturgies. Catholics don’t worry about minyans, but we are very concerned with having a priest. Without a priest, a Mass cannot be celebrated, and the congregation cannot share the Eucharist. The Eucharist, like the Torah reading, is the focal point for the service. Everything in the Mass revolves around the sharing of communion. Oddly enough, the priest has to be a man (echoes of the minyan rule), and centuries of tradition based on selective interpretation of Scripture have enforced that regulation.

Are the rules concerning the minyan and the rules concerning priests and the Mass fair? Are they logical? Probably not. However, life in general is neither fair nor logical, so I guess these rules are normal in the human experience. In any case, both Jews and Catholics are burdened with traditions that seem to be set in stone, and we just deal with them.

The thing with a minyan is that, if a synagogue cannot scrounge together ten men once a week, it is a death knell for that community. Likewise, a Catholic parish without a priest might as well close up shop. Jews will go somewhere that has a Torah reading and Catholics will find a church where they can go to Mass. That’s the reality of it.

So, where will we all go? I don’t know. There are other Jewish groups within walking distance of the synagogue: WITS (Wisconsin Institute for Torah Study, Chabad, and Hillel. The remnants of our community will likely disperse to those locations. They will ease into another Jewish congregation.

For myself, the future is less clear. I have spent fifteen years with this particular Jewish community, and it took years for me to be fully accepted. Do I really want to start all over with a new congregation? Jewish communities, especially in the current political environment, are very leery of new people (in particular non-Jews) wandering into their midst. I can try to find a new home, but it will be hard to sell myself.

I grieve for this synagogue. Honestly, I can’t say why I feel this way, but it has been my home. It is one of the few places where I have truly felt like I belonged.

Even if I don’t count for a minyan.

December 29th, 2024

Have you ever noticed that no one of the male gender can talk about monster trucks in a normal tone of voice? Guys automatically speak in a deep baritone and start yelling about “MONSTER TRUCKS!”. It’s weird. It reminds me a lot like pro wrestling. Monster trucks bring out an inner macho and a sudden burst of testosterone.

Asher is a monster truck fanatic. Of course, he’s four years old, so that sort of thing is age appropriate. He is in love with huge trucks with loud, powerful engines, especially when these vehicles are doing stunts that are objectively crazy. Asher will watch endless numbers of YouTube videos of monster truck shows. He has acquired probably two dozen toy monster trucks. They are all different models, and he knows all of their names. He is appalled and amazed that I don’t know them too. When I display my ignorance, he expresses disbelief,

“How can you not know that this is El Toro Loco?”

I obviously disappoint him. Not so his uncle. Asher’s uncle is planning to take Asher and another boy to a monster truck show in downtown Milwaukee. Asher is counting the days until the event. Asher’s uncle loves him.

A couple days ago, Asher was playing with his Christmas loot, most of which had to do with monster trucks. His uncle bought him a launch pad for his toy trucks. With enough oomph Asher can toss one of those vehicles halfway across the living room. I am waiting for him to hit a window.

While Asher was racing and launching his trucks, I was trying to play some music. I have a phonograph turntable. It’s old. I bought it in Germany forty years ago, but it still works. I have been reluctant to play any records while Asher is around. The turntable just begs to have a little boy fool around with it. I explained to Asher that I was going to spin some records, but he needed to keep away from the phonograph. His eyes widened and promised to keep his distance.

Yeah, whatever.

I dug out a dusty copy of “Tommy” from The Who. I found the track with “Pinball Wizard”, set the disc in motion, and turned up the volume. Asher was suitably impressed. He asked,

“How does it work?”

“The needle on the arm picks up the vibrations from the grooves in the record.”

I might as well have said, “It’s all magic.”

I walked away to grab a soda. When my back was turned, I heard the sound of the music slowing perceptibly. Without turning around, I yelled,

“Asher, leave it alone!”

He replied, “I’m not doing anything.”

I walked over to the turntable and readjusted the speed of rotation.

“Leave it alone. If you break something, I don’t know if I can get it fixed.”

He looked at me and said, “I didn’t do anything, and I won’t do it again.”

Good enough.

While the boy sped “Boneshaker” across the kitchen floor, I found an album from Pat Benatar and played “Heartbreaker” at a high volume. Asher found his boogie and danced to the song. He told me,

“That’s a monster truck song!”

It figures.

Then I located the double album from Derek and the Dominos. I found the track for “Layla”. I cranked that up. Asher perked up when he heard Eric Clapton and Duane Allman tear through dueling guitar solos. Asher said to me,

“This is a monster truck song too!”

Cool. I won’t be going to the show with Asher, but it’s comforting to know he will be listening to the classics.

December 23rd, 2024

It happened almost twenty years ago. It was on a day like today: cold outside and just prior to Christmas. I haven’t thought about the incident for quite a while, but somehow, it’s back in my mind.

Back then, my wife, Karin, was a teacher’s assistant at the Tamarack Waldorf School on the east side of Milwaukee. Karin helped teach handwork to the students. Waldorf schools put an emphasis on having the children learn to how to make things with their hands. It is an essential part of the school curriculum. Karin taught kids from each class how knit, crochet, and sew. She has always been creative with fiber arts, and she loves to show other people how to do what she can do.

When I had days off from my job, I would visit Karin at the school. We would go out for lunch, and then I would wander around the downtown area while she taught her class. When she was finished at the end of the day, we would go home together. I generally had a couple hours to just explore the city or walk down to the lakefront. I enjoyed doing that.

One of the places I liked to visit was the Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist, which is only maybe half a mile from the Waldorf School. The Catholic cathedral is a massive building with two sets of heavy doors at the entrance. Once inside of the church, the noises of the city traffic are almost completely blocked out, and the interior of the church is dark and silent. It’s an excellent place to think or meditate or just sit.

I liked to go there to meditate for a while. I had started going to a Zen group, and I wanted to spend more time sitting quietly. Some environments are conducive to meditation. The cathedral had a stillness that made meditation relatively easy. There were minimal distractions. During the week, the church was nearly empty, although on very cold days the pews in the back were occupied by homeless people looking for shelter. They sat bundled up in their clothes, often dozing off. The cathedral was one of the few places downtown where these folks could sit and rest. It was then, and probably still is, a refuge for poor and forgotten people.

On this particular day, I walked into the cathedral and found a seat in a row near the altar. I picked a place where I would be alone. I settled down and closed my eyes. I started to concentrate on my breathing. Then I heard noises. They got closer and closer to me. Then the sounds and the person making the sounds were right next to me.

I opened my eyes and looked to my right. Sitting next to me was a middle-aged Black lady. She had numerous plastic bags with her. She appeared to be a nomadic person who was carrying all of her belongings with her. The woman was missing teeth, and I could hardly understand her when she spoke. She talked to me, and I got the impression that she wanted something. I didn’t know what that something was.

During my visits to the cathedral, I was sometimes hit up for money. It didn’t happen often, but occasionally a person would ask me for help. I decided that this woman wanted some cash. I reached for my wallet and dug through it. I only had two singles on me. That seemed rather pathetic. I pulled out the two bills and handed it to the lady. She nodded and thanked me.

I closed my eyes again and tried to relax. It was pointless. The woman was scrounging around in one of her plastic bags. I heard her muttering and digging deep in the sack. I found it annoying, but I just tried to ignore her.

Then she tapped me on the arm. I looked at her and she handed me an envelope.

She said, “This is for you.”

Then she gathered her possessions and shuffled off. I sat in the pew and stared at the envelope. I opened it. Inside the envelope was a used Christmas card. I opened the card.

Inside of the card were my two dollars.