Frank is Emptiness

April 26, 2024

I wrote the following letter to the editor. The Los Angeles Times saw fit to publish it today.

“The U.S. Supreme Court may allow municipalities to crack down on homeless encampments within their jurisdiction. This would effectively make homelessness a crime.

This attitude is nothing new. Nearly 100 years ago, G.K. Chesterton wrote:

‘For our law has in it a turn of humor or touch of fancy which Nero or Herod never happened to think of: that of actually punishing homeless people for not sleeping at home.’

We live in a culture where we idolize the rich and despise the poor. We penalize the poor not for any particular offense, but simply because they bother our consciences by their very existence.”

April 23rd, 2024

I never understood why my dad would go out for breakfast once a month with his former comrades and coworkers from the City Water Department. They were all retired, and they met at some restaurant in West Allis for reasons that were obscure to me. I didn’t ask him about it. I was busy raising my family and working long hours at my own job. I figured that when I retired, if ever, I wouldn’t get nostalgic about my previous career. I couldn’t imagine meeting up with guys that would remind of all those years of toil and trouble.

Guess what I did two days ago?

I had lunch at a local bar and grill with six men that I used to work with. One of them had taken the initiative to get us all in one place for an hour or two. I have been to a few of these soirees before. Often, it is just two or three of us that find the time and energy to meet. Seven people was quite the crowd.

I have been thinking about why we even bothered to have a burger and a beer together. Since each of us retired, our lives have taken different trajectories. Some guys travel now and take trips to Myrtle Beach or Pensacola. Some of my former coworkers help to care for their grandchildren, although perhaps not as much as I do. I am raising my grandson fulltime. Some of the men have medical issues like bad backs or damaged shoulders, injuries that are the long-term results of the work they day after day for years. Some have spouses who are hurting. One man’s wife struggles with diabetes and is waiting for a kidney transplant. The one thing we all have in common is that mortality is daily becoming more real. Time is short.

For most of these guys, retirement is their second act. They spent decades working at the same trucking company that I did. Now, that part of their lives is over. For me, retirement is more like a third act. I was an Army officer before I joined the corporate world. In any case, we are all trying to decide on what we really want to do with our remaining years. We are also trying to make sense of the years that have gone by.

We spent a lot of timing talking about the old days. I don’t say “good old days”, because they weren’t. They were just different. The company was much smaller when we started working there. Things were up close and personal. Emotions flared and people yelled. I know I did. However, we all knew something about each other’s lives outside of the workplace. The environment was often tense and stressful, but it was also deeply human. As far as I can tell, the employees at that company are now just cogs in an impersonal wheel. They are ciphers and they are totally replaceable.

What is the value of reminiscing? It isn’t nostalgia. It is more a matter of reassuring each other that these events actually happened. It is a clumsy but cooperative effort at coming to terms with what we did with what were perhaps the best years of our lives. Was it all worth it? Did it make any sense?

In a sense, all seven of us are survivors. We spoke of many people in the past tense. A lot of the folks we knew are gone, in a permanent way. Some of them died shortly after retirement. Some of them never even made it to retirement. Heart disease or alcoholism or cancer cut them down before they had a chance to look back on their lives. We are blessed in that, even with our struggles, we can still carry on. We still have the opportunity to start anew.

My father eventually stopped going to his breakfast meetings. Maybe he lost interest. Maybe some of his friends moved away. He did. Maybe some of his coworkers got too sick to join with him. Little by little, they all left. I think my dad was the last man standing. He outlived them all.

It’s odd, now that our professional work is done, we still come together. In a way, we need each now more than when we did all those years ago.

April 23rd, 2024

We had a dog named Shocky. Eight days ago, we put her down. My wife, Karin, and I had expected that we might have to do that, but the timing of the euthanasia was a surprise to us. Maybe it should not have been, but it was. We had to make a sudden decision about the dog, and we were not psychologically prepared for that. Honestly, I doubt that we were ever going to be prepared for it.

Shocky was a border collie. Our daughter got her when she was a puppy. The tiny dog had hair sticking out in all directions. She looked like she had stuck her paw into a light socket, hence the name “Shocky”. Our daughter cared for her pet for a while, but for most of the last decade, my wife and I have looked after the dog. Still, our daughter has always considered Shocky to be her “baby”. There has been a strong emotional bond between the two of them.

Shocky was very lively in her youth. She loved to run around the yard, even though we had no sheep for her to chase. I would take her long walks, and sometimes we went together for several miles. I remember going with her on a snowy winter night all the way to the railroad tracks. We saw a Union Pacific freight roll toward us through the darkness. Shocky got scared by the air horn. We moved back a bit and watched the train roar past us, kicking up a storm of white powder in its wake. Shocky was ready to go home after that.

Recently, the dog turned thirteen. Shocky moved more slowly than before. She slept more often. She started to have more trips to the vet. Shocky had three bad teeth removed. She had to take anti-inflammatory meds for a while. She got a cyst on her right eyelid that caused irritation. She was getting old.

About three weeks ago, Shocky stopped eating. She still drank water, but she had no interest in food, any kind of food. She used to inhale liverwurst if I offered it to her. That’s how I got her to take her medication. But suddenly she had no appetite. The dog only excreted something slimy and orange yellow in color. That was clearly not healthy.

My grandson, Asher, and I took Shocky to the vet fifteen days ago. The doctor examined Shocky, and took a blood sample. She wanted us to bring her a stool sample from Shocky, but that was kind of difficult since the dog wasn’t eating. The vet told us that she was concerned that maybe Shocky had a liver problem.

Two days later, the vet called me with the results of the blood test. Shocky’s liver was healthy, but she was not producing enough red blood cells. The doctor did not have enough information to know why that was the case, but she prescribed Shocky four different medications to at least get the dog eating again. We couldn’t administer the medications in pill form, so we got liquids that we needed to give to the dog with a syringe in her mouth.

Karin had to help me to give Shocky her medicine. It was definitely a two-person job. The meds seemed to have no effect. Shocky still refused to eat. She was listless. She only moved when she wanted to be near a human in the house. Then she would slowly get up and go to the room where I was or where Karin or Asher were present. She would drink a little water and later go pee. Otherwise, she laid on the floor and slept.

Karin and I did not tell our daughter about Shocky’s illness. We did not know how bad things were, and we did not know if her pet would recover. Our daughter was in a position where she was not able to help her dog or even to visit with her. Until my wife and I knew something concrete about Shocky’s condition, our comments would only cause our daughter undue anxiety. That was our thinking anyway.

Eight days ago, the vet called to get an update. I told her that Shocky was not responding to the treatment and that she was still not eating. The vet was livid about that. She told me,

“You should have taken her to an ER for more tests or called us to set up euthanasia. Shocky is suffering! We can’t just let her starve!”

Fair enough. We didn’t know when we were supposed to start panicking, so we had just been continuing with the meds. Now, the vet was adamant that we make a decision about Shocky, and make that decision right fucking now.

I understood the doctor’s viewpoint and I appreciated her intense concern for our dog. Unfortunately, our daughter had not been involved in the process and she needed to know what was happening. I didn’t want to call her after the fact and say,

“By the way, we killed your dog.”

No, that wasn’t going to fly. I needed to contact her in a hurry. Our daughter was in a place where it was almost impossible to get hold of her quickly. I had to leave messages, and finally she called me. She was clearly and understandably upset. I explained to her that we had to put Shocky down, and we had to do it that afternoon. She accepted my reasoning, but then what other choice did she have? She couldn’t be there with Shocky when she died, but at least she was aware of what was in store.

Karin, Asher, and I went to the vet’s office at 4:15 on April 15th to put Shocky down. Actually, we went into a side room that was furnished in a homey manner. It was like a funeral parlor for pets. Shocky was lying on a blanket on the floor. She was mildly sedated. The vet talked with us for a while to explain the procedure. She was empathetic and compassionate. She gave Shocky another sedative, and then she injected the dog with a chemical that stopped her heart. Karin and Asher stroked Shocky’s back as the vet did her work.

The doctor checked Shocky for a pulse. There was none. Then the vet gently bent forward and kissed Shocky’s forehead.

That’s when I cried.

Grief is a funny thing. When a person dies, the survivors often have mixed feelings: sorrow, guilt, maybe resentment. There is usually unfinished business that accompanies the sense of loss. When a pet dies, the grief can be profound, but it also feels pure. A pet can give people unconditional love and affection. I know that a dog can do that. I’m not sure about goldfish or snakes. I know that’s what Shocky gave to us.

April 18th, 2024

It’s starting to get light. The eastern sky has hints of pink and orange at the horizon. The naked trees stand in black contrast to the dawn. A few of the tree limbs have buds on them. The maples are beginning to get leaves. The walnuts and the locusts are still bare. The world is still partially in shadow. The sun will come soon.

I’ve been up since 3:00 AM. I feel like I did when I worked third shift years ago. I’m tired but wound up. I am tempted to lie down and try to sleep some more, but that is pointless. I’m going to be active the rest of the day, a day that really hasn’t even started yet.

Asher, our three-year-old grandson, lives with me and my wife. He sleeps with me at night. He’s restless, constantly moving as he dreams. He often wakes up during the night. He sits up in bed and demands that I carry him to the kitchen and give him a warm bottle of oat milk. I do that. Then I hold him in my arms as I sit in a chair by the table in the dark kitchen. Eventually, he dozes off, and we both go back to bed.

We went through this process around midnight. I woke up three hours later feeling something warm and wet. It was Asher, and everything near him. He had peed through or around his diaper, soaking his pajama pants, the bed sheet, the mattress pad, and the bed cover. Asher was unhappy. So was I.

I stripped the wet stuff off the bed, and then gave Asher a fresh diaper and new pajamas. Then I fed him again. Then I held him. Then I put him down and laid next to him in bed until he slept. I am now in the second phase of the program. I’m washing the soiled bedding and keeping an eye on the boy. I made coffee. That is one thing I did for me. Writing this essay is the second thing.

It is amazing to me that, at the age of sixty-six, I am still preforming the child rearing tasks that I did thirty years ago, along with some other chores that I probably didn’t do back in those days.

I never thought I would be a new parent again.

April 16th, 2024

When I put my grandson, Asher, to bed last night, all I could think about was the fact that Iran was attacking Israel. That scared me, and it still does, because the show is not over. I’m not so much frightened for myself as I am for my grandkids, in particular the little boy who we are raising at home. I’m old. I am in the seventh inning stretch of my life, so Armageddon doesn’t bother me that much. However, Asher, and my other three grandkids are just starting their lives.

What kind of future will they have, if any?

I like to read history. It’s a nasty habit, probably worse than smoking crack, but I am interested in learning about the blunders of previous generations. Human nature has not changed much over the centuries, and it is depressingly predictable. Our ancestors fought innumerable wars, and they never learned that these bloody affairs generally don’t end well. The outcomes seldom match the initial expectations of the adversaries. Just glance at World Wars I and II for evidence of that.

It would be nice to believe that the United States has a handle on the current events in the Middle East. We don’t, and I don’t think it matters who is in the White House trying to run things. Our best friend in the region is Israel, and they do whatever they want whenever they want knowing full well that we won’t interfere. That makes Israel simultaneously both our ally and a rogue state. Our other allies in the neighborhood are also kind of iffy.

We might like to think that Iran and its surrogates in the Mideast are all in lock step. I doubt that. I have read that Tehran was a bit surprised with Hamas’ action on October 7th of last year. Iran has allies, but these organizations also have their own agendas. The ayatollahs don’t own these people.

I don’t foresee Israel and Iran deciding to play nice. For decades, both nations have characterized the other as being an existential threat. Iran’s drone and missile attack of a couple days ago won’t be the last round in the fight. The potential for this struggle to suck in other parties, like the United States, is very high.

I am not so scared about Israel and Iran going at it. I am terrified by the prospect of a variety of forces getting involved, each with its own goals. This game has way too many players, and not enough rules.

I hold my grandson and I pray that this all ends with the world left in one piece.

That is also iffy.

April 6th, 2024

Passover is coming soon, and its meaning seems a bit different this year. Pesach is all about freedom, in particular the liberation of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt. In one sense, it is the reliving of the Jewish triumph over the power of the Egyptian army. It is the story of a glorious and miraculous victory, but there are also subtle nuances involved. The following quote applies:

“Yet our celebration of this extraordinary victory is muted: the Hallel, the psalms of thanksgiving, is recited in abbreviated form on the seventh day. According to the Taz, a famous 17th-century commentator on the Shulchan Aruch, we shorten Hallel on the seventh day in remembrance of our enemies who perished. The Taz’s comment is based on the Talmud, which imagines a divine cry of pain and grief, directed at the angels about to sing their morning song: ‘The work of my hands is drowning in the sea, and you sing songs?’ (Sanhedrin 39b). At this moment of exhilaration and triumph, God commands us to feel empathy for the defeated. – by Benedict Roth from an essay in The Jewish Chronicle

Hamas is not by any means defeated. The war in Gaza is not over, and there seems to be no chance of it ended any time soon. The Israeli forces are engaged in a slow, grinding type of urban warfare. In the process of uprooting their enemy, the Israelis have killed over 31,000 civilians. When the Israelis win this war, if they can win in any meaningful way, will there be any empathy for the noncombatants? What is the end result of this bloodshed going to be?

I go to an Orthodox synagogue about twice a month on Shabbat. The war in Israel and Gaza is always front and center in the minds of all the congregants. They all support Israel, and they are all very concerned about the hostages who are still held by Hamas. Yet, in talking to a few of the members of the shul, I find that there is also an uneasiness about the violence and destruction in Gaza. As one man told me about the Palestinians,

“They are people too.”

We are all God’s children.

At every Shabbat morning service, we all pray for the U.S soldiers and government, and we pray for the soldiers and government of Israel. When I first started going to the synagogue, I was bothered by this prayer. However, I have found a way to deal with it.

When my oldest son, Hans, was deployed to fight in Iraq in 2011, I prayed for him every day. I prayed that he would return home safe and unharmed. He came back, but not unharmed. I prayed that he would never have to take the life of another human being. He did kill people, and once it was up close and personal. God brought Hans home, but my son returned to us a very different man.

When I pray for Israeli soldiers, I pray for their safe return home. I pray that they never commit an unnecessary act of violence. I pray that they never suffer a physical, psychological, or moral injury. I don’t want these Israeli soldiers to go home changed for the worse. I know how that is.

At the same time, I pray for the people of Gaza. Some of them are ruthless killers, but many of them are innocent, as innocent as people can be in our world. Most of them don’t deserve this agony.

When the war started in October, I emailed a friend from the synagogue, and I emailed a person I trusted at the Milwaukee Muslim Women’s Coalition. I had the same question for both of them:

“To whom can I make a donation that will help in Gaza, but won’t get somebody killed?”

My Jewish friend suggested giving to Magen David Adom (the Red Star of David), which is the Israeli version of the Red Cross. My Muslim friends suggested SAMS (Syrian American Medical Society).

I give to both.

April 4th, 2024

My daughter-in-law in Texas sent me this photo a couple days ago. It’s a picture of her daughter (my granddaughter), Madeline, kneeling on top of a wobbly table on their porch gazing at a flag bearing the emblem of the 1st Cavalry Division. My oldest son, Hans, is Madeline’s father, and he served in the 1st Cav. He was deployed to Iraq with the Cav back in 2011. Hans and Gabby just bought this home with the porch, so I am pretty sure that the flag is also a new purchase. Hans never had a place to fly a flag before. Now, it proudly waves in the Texas breeze.

I like the photo. It is mysterious in a way. I can only see the back of Madeline, so I don’t know what her face looks like. I can’t see her expression. I can’t guess what she may be thinking. All I know is that this three-year-old is intently watching Daddy’s flag flap in the sunshine.

Hans identifies strongly as a vet, especially as a combat vet. The flag waves in his yard because it means something to him. I don’t know if Hans can adequately explain what it means, but I do know that it is important to him. It represents part of his history, an extremely vital part of it. Part of my son, and part of Maddy’s father, is in that flag.

Hans has a military ancestry. His paternal grandfather was a Navy man on an aircraft carrier in the Carribean back in the 1950’s. Hans’ maternal grandfather was a radioman in the Luftwaffe during WWII. I was a helicopter pilot for the Army in West Germany during the Cold War in the 1980’s. Hans followed suit and joined the Army. However, Hans was trained as a tanker, and then Hans went to war.

When Hans was growing up, he saw stuff that I had kept from my time in the service. When I was young, I saw stuff that my father had from his time in the Navy. I saw things that my father-in-law had in his possession from his years in the German military. These things add up, and the next generation, for good or will, takes them to heart at a very young age.

I don’t know what Madeline sees when she looks at the 1st Cav flag. Maybe she just thinks it’s pretty. That’s okay. I know for sure that she knows it’s her daddy’s flag and that is all that matters.

April 6th, 2024

My wife and I went on a date yesterday. Generally, this sort of event would not be very newsworthy, but in this case, it is. The fact is that Karin and I have not gone anywhere as a couple for well over year. This lengthy interval between outings has not been entirely voluntary. We are the fulltime caregivers for our toddler grandson, and he is with us all the time. We have never been able to find the time to find a babysitter for Asher, so except for the rare instances when our youngest son and his wife are available to stay with the boy, Asher is in our care.

As it turned out, Asher’s mom was willing and able to watch over her son for a couple hours. There was other adult supervision on hand when Asher visited his mother, so Karin and I were free to go. We did.

We didn’t go very far. Two hours really isn’t that long a period of time when you think about it. We drove a couple miles to the east side of Milwaukee and parked near Downer Street. Downer has a small retail section with a movie theater, a couple restaurants, a grocery store, and a bookstore. There isn’t a lot to do on Downer Street, but then we didn’t have much time available to us. We walked south down Downer and strolled into Boswell Books.

Boswell Books is an old independent bookshop. It’s part of a dying breed. Boswell hosts frequent book talks by authors eager to sell their wares. It is a focal point for both writers and readers. The bookstore has an eclectic selection of titles, and it is a place that invites the visitor to wander about. Karin and I were not looking for much of anything in particular, although I really did want to find a copy of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. I found one. Mostly, we just picked up books at random, and after a short time, each of us had three books to buy. We splurged. We don’t buy much outside of necessities. Of course, for Karin yarn is a necessity, but usually we aren’t eager to make extraordinary purchases. It felt good to do that for once.

From there we walked to the Cafe Hollander. It’s a bar/restaurant that specializes in Belgian food and beer, mostly beer. The food menu is all listed on two sides of a single laminated sheet of paper. The beer menu is more like a pamphlet. Karin ordered a veggie sandwich and a fancy latte. I got a cone of French fries and a beer. It is worth noting that in Belgium the outdoor kiosks sell fries in a paper cone. I remember that from when I was doing Army flight training there back in 1982.

Karin asked me, “You’re only getting French fries? Don’t you want something nicer? We don’t go out much.”

I told her, “I’m getting a beer with it.”

I got a .250-liter glass of Piraat, a blonde Belgian ale with a hint of cardamon and orange peel. It’s truly a sipping beer, partly because of the octane level. A Piraat has a 10% alcohol content. One glass is usually sufficient.

The truth is that Karin and I were both thinking frugally. In a sense, we are like new parents, and the money habits we had thirty years ago are back again. It’s really hard for me to just let go and spend freely on myself. It just doesn’t feel right.

It’s interesting how hard it is for me to begin a conversation with my wife when the little boy is not with us. It was initially awkward. Then it felt good. We talked about family. We talked about politics. We talked about adult subjects. The time went swiftly, too swiftly.

We drove back to pick up Asher. He was happy when he saw us. The boy had a good time with his mom, but he was ready to go home. We packed him into the car. He was asleep before we got to our house.

March 29th, 2024

I have been in contact with a woman who is spending endless hours trying to get Afghan refugees to safe locations. Her years of effort have enabled a trickle of Afghans to leave Pakistan and arrive someplace where they can start a new life. Portugal has been a destination for some of these migrants. It is difficult and expensive to find new homes for these mostly young people. My friend who is organizing all of this sometimes feels frustrated, and rightly so. She wrote this to me,

“I realized my tendency has been to focus on each individual that lands in a safer setting and think, ‘You’ve made it! Good for you! Now you can begin a new set of plans.’ But it seems most of our young friends see themselves as so inextricably linked to their loved ones, their relations, that they can’t imagine getting ahead without trying to help the whole group and so almost no one has saved any money for their own future. What to do? Will they all become homeless? Sadly, most have not made much progress learning Portuguese, and this will hamper them in seeking better paying jobs or entering Universities.”

I had to think about what she said. It made me remember things, and it made me realize that every migrant has the same struggles.

My people came to America 120 years ago. They left Slovenia, which was at that time part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and took a ship from Trieste to someplace in Canada. Mysteriously, they ended up in Wisconsin. Apparently, there was no razor wire on the borders back in those days. In any case, they started new lives in the United States, and they effectively cut the cord with the folks back in the Old Country.

Did they want to leave it all behind? Probably not, but back then there was no other option. There was no phone service available, much less an Internet. If they wanted to keep in touch with family and friends, they only had snail mail. They had to hope to God that their letter found its way to some obscure little town in the Alps. Then, they had to hope that somebody on the other side of the world wrote back to them. I have experience with overseas snail mail. Even today, I write letters to a friend of mine in Spain. Usually, he gets my mail, but by the time he receives the letters, they are more like historical artifacts than current news. I also write to a friend in the Dominican Republic. He has never received any of my letters, not one of them. So, for my ancestors, the odds of maintaining a relationship with those they loved in Slovenia were low. My people cut the cord as soon as they boarded that steamer.

The young Afghans who managed to get to Portugal or wherever have the ability to be in instantaneous and constant contact with loved ones who are stuck in Afghanistan or Pakistan. They don’t need to cut the cord, and so they don’t. It is completely understandable to me why they want to maintain that connection, but as my friend noted, it is to their long-term detriment. They can’t move forward if they are looking back.

I have a friend whose family came from Palestine. We talked about the Afghans who arrived in Wisconsin after the fall of Kabul. She spoke of her own experiences, and said this to me about refugees:

“They all have one foot in the Old Country, and they all believe that they will get to go home before they die.”

That is true. It cannot be otherwise.

These young Afghans are longing for their homeland, and it will take years before it sinks in that they are not going home, ever. That is simply the migrant experience. Eventually, reality will dictate that they start new lives in a new place. They will adapt to a home that has a culture that is alien to them. Their children will grow up in this new home, and they will have no memories of the Old Country. These children will never understand the sadness of their parents. They won’t understand why their parents cling to old traditions. That’s neither good nor bad. It just is.

My wife is an immigrant. She came here with me in 1985 from Germany. To this day, she considers herself to be a German. To our grandchildren, she is “Oma”. She has not been back to her home village in the last twenty years. My wife has adapted to life in America. There is nothing left for her in Germany. And yet, even after nearly four decades, she still has one foot in the Old Country.

April 1st, 2024

The church was crowded yesterday morning. It wasn’t full, but then it’s never full anymore. Usually, for a Sunday Mass, only about one third of the pews are occupied. Yesterday, being Easter, we were at around three quarters of capacity. I remember when, not too long ago, it would have been almost impossible to find a seat if a person was tardy for the Easter service. Nowadays, there is plenty of room for anyone who strolls in late.

Personally, I would have been okay with blowing off Mass yesterday. Easter is supposed to be joyous, and it is difficult for me to handle all the positive energy. Deacon Greg, who is a good friend, greeted everyone with a hearty, “Happy Easter! He is risen indeed!”

Okay, whatever.

My wife, Karin, got dressed up for Mass. She wore a new shawl that she had knitted, over a white blouse. Our little grandson, Asher, wore black pants with a multicolored button-down shirt. The shirt had a lot of pink in the mix, and Asher likes pink. He also likes to look good, and of course he did.

I wore a dark sweatshirt, blue jeans, and sandals. Work clothes.

Easter is the culmination of a long period of preparation. There are the forty days of Lent and Holy Week. In the Catholic scheme of things, a person is supposed to use the time during Lent and Holy Week to get ready for the celebration of the Resurrection. Lent is there for prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. Holy Week is for meditation on the Passion of Christ. The culmination of it all is Easter, and a new birth, at least in a spiritual sense.

I didn’t do any of that, and so Easter was “whatever”. I would have liked to take the time to prepare myself and get into the groove, but for the most part it didn’t happen. Lent and Holy Week consisted of days filled with chaos and confusion, anxiety and turmoil. I don’t remember there being much time to catch my breath, much less sit quietly to ponder the mysteries of the faith. Easter was not a day of exhilaration. It was a day of exhaustion.

My sister-in-law has a blog with many Catholic readers. In the days before the holiday, she sent an email with Easter greetings to all and sundry. I read her message on a day when I was in a particularly dark mood. I replied to all, and said,

“I don’t believe that God gives a fuck.”

I really didn’t believe that God cared at that moment. In retrospect I can see that it was inappropriate to send that message, but it came from the heart. Most of the time I can grudgingly accept the idea that God loves humanity. More to the point, I can usually buy the notion that He loves me and mine. But probably once a day, especially in recent days, I conclude that God is not all that interested in human suffering. The evidence is for that is mixed. Ask Job.

I spent most of the Easter Mass chasing Asher around the church and narthex. That’s what I do. Years ago, I would have been shocked to see kids running around in church. Those days are gone. Over the years, Karin, and I have gone to a variety of services, and we have discovered that this need to have children passive and silent during a liturgy is more cultural than Catholic. We have gone to Latino Masses where the kids run amok and swarm near the altar, and the priest is okay with it all. Actually, our pastor is okay with it too, so Asher is mobile and so am I.

There was a baptism during the Easter Mass. Two little girls got baptized. The congregation renewed their baptismal promises along with the godparents of the girls. It’s curious that during this recitation people solemnly promise to believe all sorts of things. It’s basically like reciting the Creed at Mass. We say that we believe in a variety of theological doctrines, but we never, not once, say that we believe that God loves us. But that’s the whole point. None of this has any meaning if God doesn’t care for each and every one of us. If we don’t believe that, then why not just close up shop?

Do I believe that God loves us?

I believe it when I hold Asher in my arms.