Frank is Emptiness

November 13th, 2024

Caring for a sick kid is always stressful. It is especially hard to do if the small child is in pain and sobbing uncontrollably. That was the case with Asher, our little grandson, early on Sunday morning. He had been struggling with bouts of diarrhea since Friday. His condition seemed to be getting worse. The volume and intensity of his cries were growing stronger. My wife and I needed to do something.

That something was to take him to the local urgent care. We didn’t really want to go to the emergency room because we were not convinced that he had a true emergency. However, we couldn’t wait for the following morning to take the boy to his pediatrician. The situation did in fact seem to be urgent.

There are actually a couple different urgent care facilities not too far from our home. We took him to the one affiliated with the office of our primary care physician. We have had good experiences with his office, and we hoped that this urgent care would give us the same level of service.

I held Asher in my arms as I approached the lady at the front desk to check in. She was rather chipper for being there early on a Sunday. I handed her Asher’s insurance card and then she asked me about my relationship to Asher.

“I’m his grandfather and his legal guardian.”

She replied, “Do you have a copy of the court paper showing that you are his guardian?”

“What?”

She said, “We need to have proof that you are actually his guardian in order to treat him. You need to have that with you.”

After a short pause, I asked her, “How would I know this?”

She smiled and said, “Oh, you wouldn’t know it. That’s why I’m telling you now. It’s to protect the child. Hasn’t anyone ever asked you this before?”

“No, nobody has. I don’t have the anything on me. What exactly what do I need?”

She replied breezily, “Oh, it’s a paper from the court with a stamp on it. We will just scan it and then he will be in our data base. If you want, you can run home and get it and then come back.”

That dumbfounded me. Here I was with a sick little boy, and they won’t touch the boy unless I can show my legal status. How bad does something need to be to qualify as urgent? I knew I have the paperwork at home, but I had no idea exactly where it was. Going on a treasure hunt was not going to work.

Apparently, I stood there for too long lost in thought because she said to me,

“Or you could go down the corridor to the ER.”

I consulted with my wife. The boy was miserable. We were tired. This woman was useless to us. We walked to the emergency room.

That was quick and easy. We were in and out of the ER in 45 minutes or so. The doctor was good with kids, and he had no trouble examining Asher. He determined that Asher had a nasty stomach virus. There wasn’t much that we could do but make Asher comfortable and let the virus run its course. We were relieved that it wasn’t anything worse than that.

After we got home again, I dug around for the magic paper from the court. I found it, and I put it aside for the next time.

November 21st, 2024

When driving to visit our son, Hans, the GPS usually takes us through the forests and pastures of eastern Texas. We travel around big towns and through the small ones. and going by the back roads is actually faster than trying to get to Hans’ home by freeway. However, we often need to slow down along the way. The advantage to reducing speed is that it gives the traveler the opportunity to observe his or her surroundings. I try to do that.

I’ve noticed than that in the small Texan towns, regardless of size, there seems to be at least half a dozen churches, usually a mixture of Baptist, Methodist, and Pentecostal. Near Huntsville I saw a congregation called “Branded for Christ”. That looked interesting, but rather weird. It sounded like a cowboy cult. In any case, the spiritual soil of eastern Texas is supersaturated with Calvinism. It permeates everything. The region is definitely part of the Bible Belt.

Also, I’ve noticed a plethora of billboards with Christian themes along the highways. We have those up north too, but not in such profusion. It makes me wonder what the purpose of these are and who the audience is. It baffles me.

It appears to be a hard sell form of evangelization, but I can’t figure out who the sponsors of the billboards are trying to reach. I don’t think they are trying to reach people who have never heard of Jesus. I doubt that anyone living in the area falls into that category. Even if by chance, a religiously ignorant person traveled through the region, they would most likely just be puzzled by the messages on the signs.

A popular message on the billboards is “Jesus is the Answer!”. My immediate response to that is “What was the question?” Another classic line is “Jesus Saves!” I mentioned that sentence to a friend of mine at the synagogue. He smiled and quipped,

“Jesus saves. Moses invests.”

There is the possibility that the billboards are there to call back the backsliders. I guess then the question is how far have they backslid? To make sense of the signs, a person to have some understanding and appreciation the Christian tradition. However, if the individual has totally jettisoned that belief system, then the billboards are ineffective. If a person thinks that the Bible is just a book like any other book, it was all a waste of money and effort to use that message to reach them.

I am thinking that the billboards are mainly to encourage the true believers to stay the course. The signs exist to convert the converted.

November 20th, 2024

A long journey with a small child is by its very nature a challenge. A road trip with a sick little boy increases the difficulty of that trek exponentially. This we learned as Karin and I drove home to Wisconsin from Texas. Our almost-four-year-old grandson, Asher, caught a virus somewhere, and he had been struggling with a head cold and a cough. Now, as we were on the last legs of the trip, he also had bouts of diarrhea. This created problems.

Asher is generally a wonderful boy, but he can be moody and particular about how certain things are done. When he does not feel well, his mood grows worse, and likewise his behavior. It’s this way with adults too, but somehow the tantrums seem more intense coming from a preschooler.

Karin and I had divided the journey home into four bite-sized pieces. Madisonville, Texas to Tulsa, Oklahoma on the first day. Then, Tulsa to Lawrence, Kansas on the second. It should be noted that Lawrence is the home of the Yarn Barn, a pilgrimage site for knitters and weavers. My wife falls into both of those categories. On the third day, we went from Lawrence to Coralville, Iowa. The final day was to be the sprint home. That was the plan anyway.

The night before the last segment of the trip, Asher slept poorly. He rolled around and moaned. His tummy hurt. None of these things were good omens. He refused to eat anything when had breakfast at the hotel. Also, not a good sign. He just wasn’t feeling well.

After breakfast, we emptied out our hotel room and dragged a cart full of bags down to the foyer. I walked to the parking lot to grab the SUV. I drove the RAV4 near the hotel entrance and saw Asher sobbing uncontrollably. Awesome. Now what is going on?

Asher stared at me with tears streaming down his cheeks. He cried,

“I wanted to go with you to the parking lot!”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“But I wanted to! You have to take the car back to the parking lot!”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Yes, you ARE!”

There was a standoff. Karin, the only rational person in our group, suggested we load up the car. I tried to lower my blood pressure. Eventually, after we had all our stuff wedged into the RAV, I told Asher,

“If you get in and be good, I’ll drive back to the parking lot.”

He sniffled, and said, “Okay, but first you got wipe my tears.”

I wiped his tears. He prefers that I use the sleeve of my hoodie to do that. Then we all got into the car, and I slowly drove back to the exact same parking spot I had previously vacated. I asked him,

“We’re here. Is this okay? Can we go now?”

He said softly, “It’s okay, Grandpa.”

I wanted to put some miles behind us, but that was not to be. As we crossed the Mississippi, Asher loudly proclaimed that his tummy hurt. As fate would have it, sitting on a bluff on the riverside was the first rest stop in Illinois. I took the turn off and stopped at the welcome center.

We got out of the car, and Asher informed us, “I pooped.” No surprise there. I took him into the bathroom and dutifully changed his diaper. There wasn’t much in there besides his butt. We went back outside. A few minutes later, the boy told us, “I pooped again.” This time he wanted my wife to change him. So, she took him into her bathroom and did the same that thing that I had done. Just a smidgeon of feces, but it was enough to require a change.

We all went together to the playground a couple hundred feet away from the welcome center. He played for a while and then told us,

“I can’t go down the slide.”

“Why?”

“I pooped.”

I muttered darkly. Once again, he wanted Oma to change his diaper. She asked him if she could do it at the playground. She pointed out that there was a cushiony pad on the surface of the playground. Asher agreed to change outdoors. The was poop, but not a lot.

Asher played some more. I was eager to move on. He announced, “I pooped again.”

Oh well, fourth time is a charm. When Karin opened up the diaper, it was apparent that a shit grenade had exploded in it. She started to clean him up and said,

“We are running out of wipes.”

“That’s no good.”

Seeing as she has a great deal of experience with this sort of thing, she used a clean portion of the contaminated diaper to wipe his ass. She managed to get him sanitary again with what wipes she had available. He felt better.

He played a for another couple minutes. We bundled Asher into the car. He watched monster truck videos and ate an energy bar. After several miles, he dozed off.

I floored the accelerator.

November 18th, 2024

Several days ago, Karin and I had dinner with a young friend of ours. He recently moved back to Tulsa, and we stopped there to see him on our way back to Wisconsin from visiting family in Texas. We have known him for years. He was a novice in formation to become a priest at our church eight years ago. He was with our congregation for a year, and then he moved elsewhere for more training. Since then, we have tried to stay in touch. He has kept us abreast of his activities, and we have let him know about the drama in our lives.

This young man grew up in Tulsa, and after he left home, except for short visits, he did not see his family very often. Now, he is home again, although the word “home” is probably not accurate in some ways. As we sat and ate, he told me,

“I didn’t recognize the place when I came back here. Neighborhoods that were good fifteen years ago no longer are, and parts of town that weren’t very good are now better. My siblings have all moved on with their lives. I don’t see them much. I visit my parents and help my mom. She has health issues. They aren’t life-threatening, but she struggles to do some things.”

His comments reminded me of when I left the Army and moved back to the Milwaukee area after an absence of twelve years. My situation had been similar. I never really came home. My parents and my brothers were different from what I remembered. Also, I was different. I was meeting them again for the first time. The old relationships were severed, and it was hard to establish new ones. In some ways, I never connected again.

I think of my friend as a being a priest, although he left his religious community before he was ordained. He was trained to be a priest, and he always will be to some extent, just like I am still a soldier although I haven’t worn a uniform since 1986. I told him how sometimes a veteran can recognize another vet on first sight. He nodded and said,

“An indelible mark.”

A priest upon ordination is said to receive an indelible mark on his soul. This happens too with somebody who has served in the military. Being a priest or a soldier is not just a job. It is a vocation or a calling. A person who freely chooses one of these careers is set apart from the rest of society. The individual joins a culture that has radically different values from the population at large.

Can a person who was a committed member of a religious organization for many years assimilate into the “real” world? Can a soldier do that?

The short answer is: “No”. A soldier or a priest can never really belong there.

Sebastian Junger wrote a book called Tribe. His book speaks to this situation. A tribe is a group of people who differ from other groups in some fundamental way. One of the salient characteristics of a tribe is that each member is intensely dependent on the actions of the other persons. Each member is more concerned with the common good than with their personal wants and needs.

A couple days prior to dining with our friend, I was talking to my oldest son, Hans. We were riding in his pickup truck, and he told me about how hard it was to adapt to the values of civilians. He said,

“When I was in Iraq, when we went out on missions, everybody had to watch each other’s back. If someone chose not to do that, or if they froze when things got bad, well, then we had a party for him when we got back to base. Some of the guys who had a party left it with a couple broken ribs or a black eye.”

Hans smiled, “None of that ever got reported.”

Then he shook his head and said, “A brother is a brother, but when he isn’t anymore…” He left that part of sentence hang in the air.

Being a member of a tribe, whether it be a religious community or a military unit, means that there is a significant level of trust. Everything depends on this trust between tribe members, sometimes even survival depends on it.

My friend who is a priest in his heart is facing life in a culture where nobody gives a fuck about anyone else. That’s hard for him to handle. It was hard for me when I entered the civilian world. It was especially difficult for Hans, because he is a combat vet. We don’t fit in.

We don’t want to.

November 15th, 2024

Last week, my wife, Karin, our little grandson, Asher, and I were visiting our son, Hans, and his family in Texas. We didn’t get to see much of Hans. He was working most of the time. He pumps concrete for a living, and he often works absurdly long hours. Concrete pumping is a weather dependent occupation, so it is feast or famine with regards to how many hours Hans gets during any given week. When Texas has its monsoons, he is idle. When the weather is good, he may easily put in seventy hours in a work week. One week he was on the clock for eighty-eight hours. By any measure that is excessive, and probably unsafe.

Hans work schedule necessarily affects his family life. He and his wife, Gabby, have three small children: Weston, Maddy, and Wyatt. Gabby cares the kids fulltime while Hans earns money. They both have rather traditional roles. Hans does not often get to interact with his children. He is many times absent due to his job, or he worn out from it. It is not a perfect situation for Hans as a father, nor is it the best thing for his kids.

A few days ago, Hans had a relatively short work shift. He was home early, and he had the energy to play with his little ones. I watched how the kids acted with their daddy. Maddy, his three-year-old daughter found a hobbyhorse with a dinosaur’s head on its end. She held the long stick in her hands and attacked Hans with the T Rex head. He pretended that he was being devoured by the carnivore and fell to the floor. Hans got on his hands and knees and crawled on the floor as Maddy jumped up on his back. When she was done using him as a beast of burden, her older brother, Weston, took her place. The youngest boy, Wyatt watched the show in delight from his mama’s side.

After all of the horseplay was done, and its participants exhausted, Hans smiled at me and said,

“I live for that.”

He does. He truly does live for that.

I understand how he feels. When our children were the same ages as his kids, I was working third shift for long hours, and I did not get much chance to just play with them. I missed a lot of their early years. I was never one to play rough with them. What Hans does with his kids is not anything he learned from me. It’s just who he is, and he is good at it.

Hans is aware that children are only little for a short period of time. He knows that he can’t afford to miss any opportunity to wrestle around with them, or just be silly. Soon enough, he won’t be able play with them, or they won’t want him to do so. Childhoods are fleeting. You blink and your kids are all grown up.

It does my heart good to see Hans having fun with his children, and to see them enjoy his playfulness. I think that it is healing for him. Hans had plenty of trauma when he was deployed to Iraq. The laughter of his children does him a world of good.

November 6th, 2024

“God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.” -Serenity Prayer

My Wife, Karin, our three-year-old grandson, Asher, and I are currently on a road trip. Last night we stayed in a hotel in Tulsa. I woke up at 3:00 AM and looked at the incoming election results. Already by that time, Trump has a lock on becoming the next president. I went back to bed and thought for a while. Eventually, I fell asleep.

Early in the morning, I texted our daughter who is staying our house while the rest of us are traveling. I told her:

“You can pull down the Kamala sign if you want.”

She replied, “Ok. I will.”

I expect that some of my neighbors will proudly display their Trump signs and flags for the next four years. Why not? They won. They might as well flaunt it.

Harris’ defeat was a disappointment, but not much of a surprise to me. I was never really that excited about her. I didn’t care much for her policies, even when I could understand them. I wasn’t enthused about her personality. I voted for her simply because she was not Trump. That’s it. That is the only reason.

In the last forty years, only two of my preferred presidential candidates actually won election, so I am used to bad post-election hangovers. The two guys who were victorious proceeded to disillusion me once they got into office. I take part in the political process, but I don’t have high expectations. These events are not a matter of life and death to me.

Am I worried about the second coming of Trump? Yes, I am. I think his plan to deport millions of people is at best impractical, and at worst inhuman. I foresee four years of unparalleled chaos. However, there isn’t much I can do about it.

While I laid awake in bed, I thought about how his election actually affects my life. On a personal level, I don’t see much change. I will probably do all the same things I planned on doing if Kamala had won. I will get a dental implant. I will take the RAV4 in for an oil change. I will continue to watch over our little grandson each and every day. In the short term, life will remain the same. The sun will rise each morning.

In the long term, who knows? Will Trump end the fighting in Ukraine or the Middle East? Will he become the authoritarian that so many people fear? There is no way for me to know what will happen, and there is very little chance that I can make a serious impact on future events. I can continue to write articles, and I can try to help struggling immigrants. I can only do small things, and those I will do.

One of the things I do that is rather anachronistic is that I love to write postcards to people when I travel. I mail a lot of them. So far on this trip, I have probably sent out seventy postcards to friends. I only mention this idiosyncratic behavior because I have a wide variety of acquaintances all over the country, and they come from diverse backgrounds. They are of different religions, ethnicities, and economic status. Often, I disagree with them about politics. However, we remain friends, and we try to stay in touch. All of them have generous hearts and care about their families and communities. They care about the United States. They are patriots in their own unique ways.

There are millions of people like them throughout out our country. These are all people of goodwill. We need to remember that.

The great challenge of the next four years will not be about securing the border, or taming inflation, or solving the crisis in Gaza. The real struggle will be for Americans to remember that we are in this together. We are not enemies. We are brothers and sisters.

November 10th, 2024

I know a man who has been working overseas for over a decade. Prior to moving to Germany, he lived in our local area, and many of his family members are here. He returns to Milwaukee once a year, usually during September. He stays in town for a few weeks and then goes back to Europe. When he arrives, he has a busy schedule of visiting with friends and relatives. At some point during his stay, he meets up with his grandchildren. I have no idea how much time he spends with them. I suspect it is only a small portion of his entire sojourn.

The man likes to talk about the interactions he has with his grandkids. He goes on and on about the fun things that they do together. He is convinced that he has a deep relationship with these young people.

I find that hard to believe. I don’t doubt that he gets along well with his grandchildren. I am sure that they are glad to see him when he comes to visit each year. However, how can he really know them of only sees them for such a short period of time?

My wife and I just got back home from visiting our three little grandchildren in Texas. We only see them once or twice in a year, and only for a week at a time. I can’t speak for my wife, but I don’t feel like I know the kids very well. I can’t possibly know them. I don’t interact with them often enough or long enough. To know a person, really know a person, it is usually necessary to be with them physically for an extended period of time. I would need to be with my Texan grandchildren for weeks or months in order to understand who they are. A few days out of the year just don’t cut it. To them I am just a tourist, somebody who enters their life briefly and then promptly leaves again.

The contrast between my relationship with the Texan kids and our other grandson, Asher, is striking. My wife and I are fulltime caregivers for Asher. He is always with us. After almost four years, I know that boy very well, and he knows me. My connection to Asher is more akin to the bond I would have with a son as opposed to a grandson. I am with Asher when he is healthy and happy, and I am with him when he is angry or sick. The man I know from Germany thinks he has a close relationship with his grandkids. I know that I am close to Asher.

I would very much like to be near to the Texans, if not in geographical terms, then at least in emotional terms. At this point in time, I don’t know how to do that. They don’t have the ability to come up to Wisconsin, and my wife and I can’t spend more time down in Texas. Things will eventually change. In a few years, one or more of the kids from down south may be able to come up and spend summers at our house. Or maybe, I will be able to go down there on my own, and my wife can watch over Asher for a while when he older. We do video calls with the Texans, but that’s not the same as being with them. It just isn’t.

Being there matters.

November 8th, 2024

My conversations with my oldest son, Hans, tend to veer in strange directions. He may be explaining to me in great detail the differences between the various types of hollow nose ammunition, and then start talking about the best places to get beef brisket. It is nearly impossible for me to predict what will come out of his mouth. I have to be ready for anything.

A couple days ago, while he was telling me about a check engine light on his F250, he told me,

“I am going to go back to church again. I just don’t know when.”

I thought for a moment, and replied to him, “Do it when you’re ready.”

Years ago, I would have been ecstatic at the notion of Hans getting back to the faith of his youth. Now, after my own struggles with organized religion, I’m not as enthusiastic with the idea. If going to Mass again helps him to heal from his wartime trauma, more power to him. He has to find his own path.

Hans kept talking about religion. He said,

“When I was in basic training, I went to every religious service that was offered. I even went to the Muslim meetings. At first, I just went to get out of doing stuff, but then I started listening to what they were saying. It was all the same message: ‘Take care of your brothers.’ Well, there are extremists that don’t go with that idea, but you know what I mean.”

I replied, “All traditions have extremists.”

Hans looked at me and said, “The Crusades.”

“Yeah, and the Inquisition.”

Hans nodded.

Considering Hans’ history, I found his comments to be quite interesting. Hans fought in Iraq, and he has every reason not to think that Muslims have the same message as Christians. The fact that he sees the similarities between traditions is a bit surprising to me.

I agree with Hans’ perspective. Obviously, there are major differences between the various religious traditions in the world. On the other hand, based on my experience, most of the people I know who follow their faith seriously, whatever it might be, are alike in many ways. They all tend to be humble, generous, and compassionate. The core command to love your neighbor as yourself is paramount to those who really want to know God (however they imagine the divine). That’s across the board. People who are really doing it, are always countercultural and they have much in common with each other.

Now that I think about it, I wonder if Hans’ participation in the violence and chaos of war actually facilitates his understanding of what religion is really about. Maybe, what he has gone through makes him more aware of what is really important than the experiences of other people. Many individuals skim along the surface of life and are never truly tested. Hans has been tested and I think he recognizes the truth better than many of the folks who sit comfortably in the pews.

October 31st, 2024

“There’s one thing that’s real clear to me
No one dies with dignity
We just try to ignore the elephant somehow”

from the song “Elephant” by Jason Isbell

Halloween is for kids. Apparently, it is also for senior citizens. Our grandson, Asher, went trick or treating with his three Texan cousins this afternoon at the Texas Loving Care Senior Living facility in Madisonville. None of us had never been there before. My wife, Karin, and Gabby, the mother of the Texans, went in with the kids. Asher was dressed as a hot dog (with ketchup and mustard). Weston went as a dragon from Minecraft. Maddy was Princess Peach from Super Mario. Little Wyatt was Blippi. There weren’t any other children at the nursing home when we arrived, and there weren’t any when we left.

Texas Loving Care is a small operation in a larger than average suburban home. When we walked into the home, about a dozen old folks were seated in a circle in a room with a fireplace. By “old” I am saying that they are older than me, so that means over sixty-six years of age. Some of them were clearly much older than I am. There was a man sitting near me with a cap that indicated that he was a WWII veteran. That implies that the guy is pushing 100 years of age. He seemed more alert than most of his fellow residents.

The four kids range in age from two to five. They did not seem to be completely aware of all that was going on. The same could be said of some of the people handing them treats. Not many of the old folks talked with the kids. They appeared to be distracted. The residents all wore costumes: Spiderman, Little Red Riding Hood, a witch, a skeleton, a pumpkin. I am sure it was all meant to be festive, but it was also a bit macabre.

As I watched the children make their rounds, I thought to myself,

“Fuck, I will be here soon.”

Well, maybe not in Texas Loving Care, but some place similar. I was not happy with that thought. The staff had put up Halloween decor. The space also had Bible verses posted on the walls. One side of the room was the “Wall of Honor” with old photos of long dead vets hanging there. It was like a version of Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion. Everybody sitting in that circle was teetering on the edge of the afterlife. My mind filled with dark thoughts.

We were only in the home for maybe ten minutes, although it seemed like an eternity. The kids had their bags of loot. We made a hasty exit after thanking the people inside.

My son, Hans, the father of Weston, Maddy, and Wyatt and an Iraq War vet, had been waiting outside smoking a several Pall Malls. I told him what it was like in there.

Hans told me, “Don’t talk like that. Those people have hearing aids.”

He went on, “I saw that WWII vet in there, and I thought for sure that Gabby would put me in there too.”

Gabby replied, “Damn right.”

When I am old, really old, will I want to have somebody dress me up as Spiderman to amuse toddlers on Halloween? I have no idea. Maybe I will.

Why not?

October 24th, 2024

A while back a friend sent me a link to a video about the dangers of empathy. I watched the video until the presenter got redundant, which didn’t take long. The point of his entire spiel was that empathy is a risky business. A person can get hurt by being empathetic.

As I listened to the man, I thought to myself, “Yeah, and… your point is what?”

I am not naturally empathetic. There are plenty of people (especially at my former workplace) who would testify that I am a heartless bastard. However, once in a while I feel and understand the pain of another person, and then act on that feeling. It is not necessarily a comfortable sensation. There is often the nagging question of “What am I getting myself into?” It is sometimes a leap into the unknown. I don’t usually enjoy that. I have already been burnt by standing too close to somebody whose life is an emotional dumpster fire.

Empathy, or let’s call it compassion, is heavily promoted in the world’s great religions. Both Jesus and Buddha were deeply compassionate, as were many of their followers. The Gospels give numerous examples of Jesus’ deep concern for those who were suffering. Images of the Buddha often show him with unusually large ears, apparently so that he could better hear the cries of a wounded world.

The speaker in the video remarked that many professional caregivers (nurses, therapists, etc.) burn out because they empathize too much with their patients. That’s true. A person’s resources are finite, and you can only give from what you have. I have learned the hard way that if I don’t care for myself, I can’t care for others. There are times when a person has to pull back and recharge. The stories of Christ and the Buddha describe how they did that. If a person who is divine, or nearly so, has to take break, then mere mortals definitely need to do so.

It should be noted that being a caregiver brings joy as well as pain. I am not a professional caregiver. I don’t get paid for watching over my toddler grandson, Asher, 24/7. I still retain my amateur status. Sometimes, caring for the little boy gets overwhelming, but there is also a loving bond between us. There are rewards for empathy that are nonmonetary, but nonetheless real.

The presenter also made a point that empathetic people are often manipulated and used by others. That’s true too. However, I go back to my question,

“Yeah, and what’s your point?”

I’ve been manipulated by the U.S. military and by corporate America. I’ve been played by the best. We are always being used by somebody, and we are always manipulating others, whether we are empathetic or not. I would rather get hustled by a homeless person or by my three-year-old grandson than by a slick salesman or a politician.

In Zen Buddhism there are koans, or unanswerable questions, that practitioners of the tradition use for meditation. One of the most familiar of these koans is, “What is the sound of one hand clapping?”. I used to sit on a cushion and practice Zen meditation. Since I started caring for Asher, I have concluded that he is my koan, my riddle without an answer. Being with him all the time leads me to another common Zen question:

“How can I help?”

Actually, this question is probably the most pertinent to my life, and also the most difficult to answer because the situation changes constantly. His needs are different every day. Asher is growing and developing as I watch him. He is a moving target, and my decisions on how best to help him move along with him.

The question of how I can help relates directly to empathy, and not just empathy toward the little boy. There is always an opportunity each and every day for me to empathize with someone and help them. The dilemma comes with deciding how best to do that. Sometimes, the answer requires a great deal of thought. Other times, especially in an emergency, the answer comes in a flash. Meditation of any kind can help a person see a situation clearly. Zen meditation makes the decision of how best to help intuitive. If I meditate on how to help often enough, then I can decide what to do quickly, almost automatically. In some instances, I don’t have to think about how to help, I just know.

I can still get hurt. As the maker of the video stated, empathy is scary and uncertain. For empathy to be useful and effective, a person needs to be perceptive. The person also needs to have courage. It’s easy to recognize suffering and then still turn away. I’ve done that, and I’m not proud of it.

Sometimes, I have stepped up and turned my feelings into actions. Those are the things that have made my life worthwhile.