Frank is Emptiness

January 16th, 2019

I met a young man named Kyle. Kyle is not an unusual name, especially for the generation that came into the world at the end of the 1980’s. I am referring to the first wave of the millennials. It seems like most of the boys born in that time period were named Kyle or Jacob or Joshua. Our son, Hans, was born in 1987. His name is unusual for his generation, at least in this country. If I had a nickel for every “Hans” I know, well…I guess I would have a nickel. Kyle and Hans would not seem to have much in common, but they do.

I met Kyle last night in the psych ward of the VA hospital. I sat with him after I put out popcorn and fruit for the patients in the ward. As usual, I had come to the VA with a couple other people to hang out with the vets for a while. I’ve been visiting the folks in the psych ward for about two years now, and I have learned a few things. The most important thing I have learned is that these people are just like me, or perhaps I am just like them, depending on your perspective. The fact is that we have very similar histories and very similar struggles. It is not unusual for some of the patients to assume that I am also there for treatment, and maybe I should be.

Kyle and I struck up a conversation quickly. He was sitting at a table with an older vet, who was of my generation or maybe Vietnam vintage. The three of us talked together for the entire duration of my visit.  The discussion flowed from one topic to the next, and it felt very natural and easy.

Kyle is an Army vet, just like Hans. Kyle served three combat tours in Iraq and he is still paying the price for those deployments, just like Hans is still paying for the six months he spent in Iraq back in 2011. Kyle is a well-built, good-looking man, but he has an ugly scar on his forehead, apparently from a wound that healed badly. He has has other scars on his body from bullet wounds (he showed them to me). Hans has scars too. The visible scars are from the wounds that healed. The wounds on their souls are still raw and bleeding.

I asked Kyle how long he has been in the ward. I remembered seeing him there a week ago.

He told me, “Yeah, I’ve been here a little over a week. Tomorrow I’m going into the “dom” (domiciliary, i.e. halfway house).”

I asked him, “Are you excited about that?”

“Hell yeah. Tomorrow I get to see my my kids for the first time in five and a half years.”

I paused for a moment. “Five and a half years?”

“Yeah. I’ve been a mess since I came back from Iraq. I didn’t want my kids to see me as an asshole. I wanted them to see me clean.”

I mentioned that my son, Hans, and his fiancee just had a baby boy. I told Kyle that Gabi is a very strong woman and that she understands Hans well. She has actually read the book that I wrote about Hans and the war. I remarked that she doesn’t take any shit at all from her man.

He laughed and said, “She shouldn’t take any shit.” Then he said ruefully, “I wish that I had found a woman that strong.”

He went on, “All the time I was in Iraq or at Fort Hood, my wife was here in Wisconsin. She got her masters degree. She divorced me as soon as I got back from the war. I can laugh about it now, but it hurt. She’s had the kids all this time.”

“What went wrong?’

“Hard drugs. Heroin.”

“That’s some bad shit.”

“I know. I needed to get straight before I was with my my kids.”

Both Hans and Kyle were stationed at Fort Hood. As far as I can tell, they both did the same sort of work. I told Kyle about how Hans went on patrols, and how he spent a lot of time clearing buildings and kicking in doors.

Kyle asked, “What unit was he in?”

I shrugged and said, “I’m not sure. I know that he was Armored Cavalry.”

“Was he a scout?”

I shook my head, “I don’t know. He was trained as a tanker, but they used him as Infantry in Iraq.”

Kyle nodded. “He was probably a scout. He was probably 1st Cav Division. Did he wear the stetson and the spurs?”

“I don’t know about that. All I know is that Hans was Cav.”

Kyle started remembering. “We didn’t do what your son did, you know, with kicking in doors and shit. If we had a HVT (high value target) in a building, we would use the IR (infrared) spotter to mark the place with a figure eight pattern, and then the Apaches (attack helicopters) would see the IR and use their missiles to blow the whole house away.”

I talked about how Hans handles his PTSD. I told them about how Hans rides his Harley to get some peace of mind. I told them that Hans calls us at home once or twice a week, just to talk. Hans talks and I listen.

The older vet asked me, “Do you give him advice?”

I shook my head. “No. I have no ideas for Hans. None. He has to figure out all this shit.”

The old man nodded. “Good.”

We talked about jail. Each of us has been in jail, and somebody I love has spent a lot of time in the slammer. It was a strange bonding moment. We traded stories.

The older man said, “They say that the jails in Kenosha, Racine, and Milwaukee are the worst.”

I agreed with him. I also said that every county jail was like its own little kingdom.

Kyle nodded. He has had experience. We all have.

It was time to go home. That caught me by surprise. The time had gone by so quickly.

I got up and shook Kyle’s hand. We both held on to each other tightly. I wished him well. He looked me in the eye and wished me well too. I felt close to him.

Kyle walked away. I went over to the older vet. We shook hands. He winced a little as he told me that his hand was broken, and that he had just had the cast removed that day.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

The old man shook his head, and said,

“No. I’m a Marine.”

 

 

 

 

January 15, 2019

“To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.”
― William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

This morning Father David gave the homily at Mass. Somehow, he derived from the Gospel of Mark that Jesus had the ability to “clearly see what was in front of him”. The idea was that Jesus could heal others because he simply recognized what needed to be done.

That sounded very Zen. Apparently, both Zen and Catholicism emphasize the value of a clear mind. In Zen this is sometimes referred to as a “beginner’s mind”, a mind that is free of the opinions and attachments that distort a person’s ability to perceive the world.

The only person I currently know with a beginner’s mind would be Weston, our three-week-old grandson. He has very few attachments at this point in his life. All he wants is warmth, love, food, and a clean diaper. To him everything in the world is new. Everything is interesting. Weston’s world is filled with wonder and awe.

Quite often, my world is not like that. This is strange because Weston and I both live in the same physical universe. Why is his world fascinating, and mine is sometimes tedious? The reason could be that Weston sees things as they are. He basically has no past, and he can’t imagine a future, so that little boy is totally in the moment. On the other hand, I have a long history on earth, and I have spent many years planning for an uncertain future. It is difficult for me to be here in the now.

Usually, something extraordinary has to happen for an adult to focus on the present moment. That could be gazing at the beauty of the Grand Canyon, or holding a newborn baby, or maybe getting run over by a forklift. I have had all three of those experiences, and each of them brought me immediately into the present. There is nothing like having your leg crushed by an eight thousand pound machine to cut through any extraneous prejudices. Reality suddenly becomes crystal clear.

Moments of clarity don’t always require a shock to the system. Sometimes they can be induced by meditation. Sometimes these epiphanies just happen. I was in the grocery store last week, rushing through the crowd to find some ingredients to bake a quiche. Then I stopped and looked around me. I was amazed by everything. I was fascinated by all the different kinds of vegetables. I was suddenly interested in all the other people that were shopping around me. The colors and sounds seemed brighter and more intense. The sensation didn’t last long, but it happened. For a brief time I was truly aware.

I’m an introvert, so it is easy for me to get lost in the labyrinth of my thoughts. I have to make an effort to look outside of myself. While I walked home from church today, I studied the bare trees (the oaks tend to hang on to some of their leaves). I listened to the hum and the crackle of the high tension wires carrying electricity from the power plant. I felt the cold west wind on my face. I smelled the faint scent of frying grease from a nearby McDonald’s. I noticed the broken shards of plastic on the shoulder of the road, probably from a long forgotten traffic accident. None of these things were really that important, but they exist. They were real to me.

I was aware.

 

 

 

 

January 9th, 2019

“God is a concept
By which we measure
Our pain
I’ll say it again
God is a concept
By which we measure
Our pain

I don’t believe in magic
I don’t believe in I-Ching
I don’t believe in Bible
I don’t believe in tarot
I don’t believe in Hitler
I don’t believe in Jesus
I don’t believe in Kennedy
I don’t believe in Buddha
I don’t believe in mantra
I don’t believe in Gita
I don’t believe in yoga
I don’t believe in kings
I don’t believe in Elvis
I don’t believe in Zimmerman
I don’t believe in Beatles
I just believe in me.”

“God” by John Lennon

I friend from the synagogue gave me a copy of “The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” by Sogyal Rinpoche. The author writes extensively about the importance of having a spiritual master. He quotes the Buddha as saying,

“Of all the buddhas who have ever attained enlightenment, not a single one of them accomplished this without relying on a master, and of all the thousand buddhas that will appear in this eon, none of them will attain enlightenment without relying on a master.”

Sogyal Rinpoche goes on to say that, if a person’s karma has been sufficiently purified over the course of thousands of lifetimes, he or she will find a master (I think he means the word “master” in a gender-neutral way). This master will be an outer teacher that reflects the inner teacher of the disciple.

I have to assume that my karma is still pretty nasty, because I haven’t found a master that matches the job description. Maybe I have met a master, but I didn’t recognize him or her as such. True spiritual guides seem to be scarce. Or maybe a person just has to be open and ready to accept the teachings of a master. I know that I am way too skeptical to completely buy into any program that a guru would have to offer.

Sogyal Rinpoche also talks about the problem of doubt. He is adamant that doubt keeps a person from gaining enlightenment. His words almost make him sound like an Evangelical pastor. He suggests that a person should possess “noble doubt”,  which seems to be a lot like “faith”. A person with noble doubt seeks the truth, and is not overly skeptical. But, like Pontius Pilate said, “What is truth?” Apparently, a person need a master to find the truth, and that person needs to trust that master.

Therein lies the problem, at least for me. It is hard for me to trust a master. The author notes that Buddhism isn’t the only path that emphasizes the master/disciple relationship. All of the world’s great spiritual traditions focus on that connection, on that deep bond. Twelve Step groups do that too. Twenty-seven years ago, I had a sponsor, who was supposed to be a master of sorts. The guy abandoned me when I was vulnerable and desperate for help and guidance. I have never completely trusted a master since then. The experience with that sponsor has perhaps blinded me in a way. Maybe now I can’t even see a master if he is standing in front of me. I don’t know.

Over the years, I’ve met plenty of people who might in fact have been true spiritual guides: rabbis, priests, Zen masters, tribal elders, shamans. I have learned things from all of these people, but none of them seemed to be the “one”. I’ve also met spiritual guides who were homeless guys, pysch ward patients, refugees, and ex-prisoners. I learned a lot from them too. Once again, none of them seemed to be “my master”. Maybe I don’t need a particular person to be my master. Maybe I can learn from all sorts of people at different times. I don’t know.

I’ll keep searching.

 

 

 

 

 

January 8th, 2019

We stopped at the Kenosha Transit building on 39th Avenue. She needed a bus pass. The young woman does not currently have a drivers license, and she is unlikely to have one in the near future. She can walk to a number of places, but she will probably need other options once she gets a job. She lives in an apartment near the lake, but most of the new businesses are located several miles away, close to the freeway.  I can drive her some of the time, but she needs regular access to other means of transportation. In Kenosha, that means taking the bus.

I don’t know how efficient the bus system is in Kenosha. In Milwaukee County, where I live, the bus system is slow, but adequate. The problem in the urbanized portion of southeastern Wisconsin is that the various municipal public transit systems do not cooperate. I can drive from our house in Oak Creek to Kenosha in forty-five minutes. For this young woman to get from Kenosha to our house by bus would take several hours. There is no regional public transportation operation. It’s a balkanized collection of transit systems that never connect over county lines. “You can’t get there from here” pretty much sums it up. It almost seems like the local public transit systems are designed to encourage the use of private vehicles. In short, if you can’t drive, you’re screwed.

We went into the Kenosha Transit office. It was almost empty. A woman (the only person in the office) greeted us. We asked to buy a monthly bus pass. The woman from Kenosha Transit said that she would be glad to sell us one. I pulled out my debit card.

The woman looked at me uncomfortably and said,

“We can’t take cards. We can only accept cash or checks.”

Really? This is the 21st Century. Almost everybody on the planet takes a credit and/or debit card. Not only is public transportation inconvenient, but it is apparently difficult to purchase. By sheer coincidence, I had $60 in cash on me, which is the price of a monthly bus pass. If I hadn’t had that money available, then the young woman with me would not have the pass she needs. This is not a good way to do business.

We got her pass, and then we went back to my less-than-reliable Subaru (the car stalls out at inconvenient moments, and the wipers work intermittently). The Transit facility has an tightly packed parking lot, and there was also a truck making a delivery there while I was attempting to back out of my parking space. I started to back up, and then I noticed a shuttle van backing up toward me. I stopped. I could see that the other driver could not see me. He backed up slowly and inexorably toward my beater.

I blurted out, “Goddamit!”

The young woman in the passenger seat yelled,

“BEEP THE HORN! Hurry, beep the horn!”

Crunch.

The driver of the van hit me. We could feel the sickening motion of the Subaru that said, “Oh fuck…”

I got out of the car, as did the van driver. The beauty of driving a beater is that it doesn’t matter if it gets dinged. The other driver looked at his van and at my vehicle. I made it clear to him that I didn’t care. He was very relieved to hear that. He wanted to avoid an incident at all costs. His job probably depended on that. He was all for pretending that nothing ever happened.

The young woman in the Subaru seemed tense. After the van driver pulled away, I backed out, and I made toward the exit of the parking lot. I took a moment to beep the horn.

The girl rolled her eyes and said,

“Well, it’s a little late for that NOW! I would have leaned on that horn!”

She shook her head wearily, and gave me a brief smile.

We both laughed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 6th, 2019

“This is a letter to my father
Cuz when my mother gave birth to me that man was gone
I didn’t mean to be a bother
Just Looking for guidance Why did he have to leave me all alone
This is a letter to my father
Cuz when my mother gave birth to me that man was gone
Would I have gone any farther?
To many father figures but none of them lasted that long
This has been my life”

from DroRaps

Hans called last night. He just wanted to talk for a while. We don’t really converse. He talks, and I listen. I’m good with that. I could never spill my guts to my dad, so it’s okay with me when Hans rambles on about whatever is bothering him. It’s good for him to vent. It’s good for me to listen.

At first he talked about the work that he needs to do on his car, because he almost always starts the call on that topic. Hans has a number of cars that need fixing, and he doesn’t really have the time or money to repair any of them. Maybe it’s a redneck thing: you have five vehicles, and four of them are stationary with the hoods open. One car runs, and the others are eventually hidden by the tall grass.

After a while, we got to talking about Hans’ new son, Weston. I asked Hans,

“So how’s he doing?”

Hans drawled, “Well, Weston’s all right. Gabi and I have been trying to get him to stay awake a little more during the day.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve been trying to spend time with him. You know, the other guys at work, they wanted to know why I didn’t come back right away after the birth. Those guys, when they had kids, they were back on the job the day after the baby showed up.”

“You needed to be with Gabi and Weston.”

“Yeah, I know. I mean I could have been making money, pumping concrete, but money ain’t everything. Yeah, I got bills to pay, but the bills aren’t the most important thing.”

“You’re right.”

“Dad, I mean that’s why I ain’t gone back to the oil fields. I want to be with Weston.”

“You should be with Weston.”

“I’ve been thinking that when I get vacation, you know, when Weston is a bit older, then I’ll take off a day now and then, and just surprise him by picking him up from school. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“I want to make it special.”

“Hans, you don’t have to make it special. You just need to be there for Weston. It doesn’t need to be anything fancy. Just be there for him.”

“Well, and I got crazy hours. I got bills to pay.”

“I know, Hans. I am very familiar with that.”

“I got to be away sometimes.”

“I know you do, Hans.”

“I mean, I want to be with Weston, but sometimes I can’t be there.”

“I know, Hans. I know.”

Hans laughed.

He said, “I was trying to get Weston to take a little nap. I was playing this soothing classical music. That didn’t help at all. So, I went to the other end of the spectrum.”

I asked him, “Death metal?”

He replied, “No, stuff like Dr. Dre and Ice Cube.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah, Weston fell asleep right away. I think it was the thump of bass that relaxed him. Gabi was pissed that I played that music for Weston. I figured that he was going to hear it someday anyway, so why not now?”

“What did Mom (Karin) say about it?”

Hans laughed again. “She didn’t like that at all.”

Hans is going to be a good dad.

 

 

 

January 6th, 2019

This morning the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel is printing the following letter from me:

“I don’t often agree with Donald Trump, and when I do, I start to doubt my own judgment. However, the President, on occasion, does something makes total sense. In this case, I am referring to his decision to remove U.S. troops from Syria. Likewise, his plan to bring back American soldiers from Afghanistan is a refreshing moment of sanity on his part.

We don’t need to be in these countries. We never needed to be there. After seventeen years of U.S. military commitment, Afghanistan is still a basket case. Syria is a chaotic mess that we can’t fix with soldiers and weapons. Now that I think of it, we shouldn’t be in Iraq either. The Iraqis don’t want us there anymore.

A nation shows its wisdom by carefully choosing its battles. During the last seventeen years, we have rushed headlong into wars that have both impoverished us and ruined other countries. I dare anyone to name a single conflict that has resulted in a successful outcome for the United States. Trump is right this time. We need to come home.”

January 2nd, 2019

“Yeah, we all could use a little mercy now
I know we don’t deserve it but we need it anyhow
We hang in the balance dangle ‘tween hell and hallowed ground
And every single one of us could use some mercy now
Every single one of us could use some mercy now
Every single one of us could use some mercy now”

“Mercy Now” by Mary Gauthier

I drove over to her new home today. She got out of the halfway house a week ago, and now the DOC (Department of Corrections) has her in TLP (Temporary Living Placement). TLP roughly translates to a shitty apartment in the hood. It’s better than being on the streets, but not that much better. Yeah, she won’t freeze to death, and she has a bed and a bathroom. It’s something. And I guess that something is better than nothing. We should be grateful for little things.

She has a curfew. She was on lock down on New Year’s Eve, and on New Year’s Day. She had to stay in her apartment. Her probation officer has her on a very short leash. She wears an ankle bracelet, and the cops can track her by her phone, if need be. She’s not in jail, but she is pretty damn close. Every day is an exercise in semi-freedom. Her first bold, revolutionary move after getting out of rehab was to dye her hair hot pink. I’m glad that she did that.

She needed to do some laundry today, and she needed to do it our house.  We drove home in the snow. Her dog, Shocky, greeted her with enthusiasm at the door. She put her clothes into the washer, and then she settled down into an bedroom to snuggle with Shocky and watch Netflix. I watched with her.

We decided to watch/join “Bandersnatch”, the new interactive film from “Black Mirror”. It’s a high tech version of the paperback books we used to read that had multiple possible endings. She made the choices offered for the characters on the screen, and then we observed the consequences. It wasn’t quite as scary as I thought it might be. Some of the movie was funny. The protagonist, a video game inventor from 1984, gets a mysterious message on his ancient computer that says: “I am watching you on Netflix”. It’s hilarious in a dark, twisted way.

She asked me, “What if somebody is watching us, just like we are watching the guy in this story?”

I don’t really want to go there.

Eventually, her laundry was done, and so was the movie. Shocky was bored. She asked if I wanted to drive her home. I told her I would do so whenever she was ready. In about half an hour, we started the trip south to Kenosha. Traffic wasn’t as bad as I had expected. It took only forty-five minutes to get her place.

She spent most of the ride switching radio stations at odd moments. It was her ADD kicking in. At other times she looked at her phone. Sometimes, she just stared straight ahead.

At one point, she told me in a voice devoid of emotion,

“Thanks for taking me to your house. Thanks for everything today.”

I replied, “It’s okay. I am glad to do it.”

I went on, “I want to do this.”

The truth is that I really did want to do it. I’ve come way too close to losing this girl forever. I have been scared too many times.  All I want to do is be with her a bit longer. I just want for us to be together while we can be together.

I am haunted by the words of a elderly religious sister. Out of ignorance, I went to this woman for spiritual direction. She told me bitterly that this young woman was using me, just manipulating me. I told the sister,

“I don’t fucking care. I know that sometimes she is playing me. So what? It doesn’t matter to me any more. She is suffering. I am going to help her.”

We could all use some mercy now.

 

 

 

December 31st, 2018

The roads will suck tonight. It’s been raining most of the day, but now it’s turning colder. The sky is full of fat, wet snowflakes. So far, only a few of them are sticking, but soon the streets will be slick as frog snot. I’m not going out again. It’s New Year’s Eve, but I don’t have any place to go anyway. Stefan went to friend’s house, and he will probably sleep over there. I’ll just hunker down with the two dogs. They’re not much for conversation, but then they don’t drink my beer either.

I am trying to reflect on the events of the last year, because that is what people do on New Year’s Eve. Well, some people do that. Other people go to Times Square in New York City to welcome the New Year. I’ve been to Times Square. That is not the place where I would want to be at the beginning of 2019. Why begin a new year with the equivalent of an epileptic seizure? Good Lord…

Sorry, I digressed. Anyway, I have been reflecting. This last year has been interesting. That cannot be denied. I have not been cursed with a boring life. If anything, I would be okay if my life eased back on the throttle just a bit. That won’t happen. It won’t happen because I actively look for new experiences, and people usually find what they seek.

My memories of 2018 are incoherent. There were a lot of different things going on at once. The early part of the year was consumed by my adventures with the Native Americans. Honestly, that, by itself, was enough stimulation to last for the entire year. It will take me along time to really sort through what I learned during those weeks I spent with the Indians. Simultaneously, there was intense drama with a girl we love: a series of small deaths and resurrections. During the course of the year, my father died and our first grandson was born. One son wrestled with his PTSD, and also became a father. One son became an Iron Worker, and split from his girlfriend. Karin and I stayed and prayed at monasteries. I took a course in immigration law, and then realized how little I actually know. I escorted undocumented immigrants to court. I tutored Syrian kids. I participated in a few peace demonstrations. I studied Spanish and Hebrew. I got drunk a few times. It was a busy year.

Did I learn anything? Hell, I don’t know. Probably not. I’m good at not learning from my experiences. I can be pretty dense that way.

I have an image in my mind. I see a long string, stretching endlessly from the past into the future. I see myself as just one bead on this string. There are many other beads. I am only one of an infinite number, but I am necessary to the pattern. This image came into my thoughts after my dad died, and especially after our grandson was born. I’m part of a pattern.

Many years ago, I spent time with a man named Peter. He is from Texas, and he does spiritual healing. I had a session with him. He watched my spirit, as a part of a vision. Later he told me what my spirit had been doing. It was hard to follow his explanation because his vision was symbolic and non-linear. Visions are like that.

Peter told me this: he saw me surrounded by my ancestors. They were all singing. Then a voice (maybe that of an angel) said, “Frank no longer needs to sing the song of his ancestors. He can sing his own song now.”

Do my children sing their own songs now? Do they still sing mine? What will our grandson sing?

It’s just a song. A song that echoes through the years, that may be heard by future generations. A song that has endless variations and harmonies.

Or maybe, it’s just a bead on a string.

 

 

 

 

December 29th, 2018

This letter of mine was printed by the Racine Journal Times on the 27th. It was also posted by the Capital Times in Madison, WI.

“Donald Trump and his lawless administration have done everything they can to hurt refugees and asylum seekers. I describe the President’s administration as lawless, because that is exactly what they are.

Over and over, his underlings, including his Secretary of Homeland Security, Kirstjen Nielsen, have violated both federal and international law in order to keep asylum seekers out of the United States. They have tried to make it impossible for asylum seekers to enter the U.S. They have made it extremely difficult for these people to even speak with immigration officials. They have done their best to deny asylum seekers due process. How is it possible for an asylum seeker to plead their case before a U.S. immigration court if they are forced to remain in Mexico?

Trump’s actions are not just immoral; they are also illegal. The fact is that Donald Trump does not care that these decisions hurt people who are already desperate and frightened. Even more disturbing is the fact that he does not care that his actions are illegal. He is truly lawless.”

 

December 28th, 2018

Rob has a Christmas party every year at his house. It is the only party that I ever attend. This is probably because it is the only party to which I am ever invited. The party always has a German flavor to it. Rob has a strong German heritage, and he displays it proudly at Christmas ( known in Germany as “Weihnachten”). He provides copious amounts of German food, beer, and wine. The highlight of the evening is when he lights up the Feuerzangenbowle, which is a traditional German alcoholic drink produced by setting a rum-soaked sugarloaf on fire and then letting it drip into mulled wine. The blue flame from the sugarloaf is beautiful to watch, and it also seems like a good way to torch your house. The party qualifies as “eine Weihnachtsfeier”.

Despite Rob’s best efforts, the party seems slightly less festive with each passing year. I think about why that is. Most of the people attending the party are former members of the German Bible study group. We used to get together almost every Saturday for a decade. Now we usually only all meet at Rob’s house for Christmas. It is a paradox. Over the years, we have all changed, but we have also become stuck somehow. The trajectories of our lives have diverged, but our opinions on certain topics have remained the same. One reason that I stopped participating in the Bible study was that nobody seemed to listen any more, including me. There was no longer a true exchange of ideas. Each of us had fortified our positions, and we defended our respective viewpoints. This process has continued over the years. If anything, the hardening of attitudes has increased.

Simultaneously, our lives have radically changed. We’ve aged, and we’ve all had crises. In my case, my perspective on a number of things has been greatly altered. What was important ten years ago means nothing to me now, and things that seemed trivial back then are now vital to me. I am sure that others at the party have had similar experiences, but they have interpreted them in other ways. We have lost much of our common ground.

I’m not trying to say that the party was a dismal affair. It was still fun. I had a number of meaningful conversations with some very good people. One of those people was Rick.

I saw Rick just as Karin and I entered Rob’s house. He was sitting at the kitchen table, and he greeted me with a smile. I sat down next to him. Rick looked frail. For several years Rick has been fighting against Parkinson’s disease and, slowly but surely, he has been losing. Rick looked thinner and slower and weaker than I remembered. He was tired, but he was glad to see me. I was glad to see him.

A decade ago, Rick and I would argue, mostly about politics. Those arguments formed a barrier between us. Now those conflicts are gone. Both of us are much more aware of our mortality, and we just appreciate the time that we can have together. We are both grateful for the opportunity to meet at Rob’s house for Christmas, because we don’t know if we will meet again next year. I think that Rick and I feel closer, because we both know that time is short. We just need to be friends. Friendship is the only thing that still matters.

Rick and I agreed to meet for lunch soon. Maybe it won’t happen, but that is our intention. That intention made Rob’s party a real Christmas party.