Frank is Emptiness

January 10th, 2018

I was at the VA hospital last night. The psych. ward was a busy place. There were twenty-five patients staying there. The folks from the local American Legion post brought along pizzas for the vets, so the break room was full people eager to score some snacks. I put out some grapes for the patients. Besides the pizzas, we had cookies and sodas. We actually started to run out of food toward the end of our visit. That doesn’t often happen.

I spent most of my time conversing with a young Air Force veteran. I had seen him there the week before, but during that previous visit we hadn’t had a chance to get to know each other. Once I was done serving diet, non-caffeinated soft drinks to the other patients, I sat down with Adam, and we just talked for a while. Another patient, an elderly woman, sat at the table with us.

Adam told me, “I’m a drug addict.” He made a point of showing me his arms. He really didn’t need to do that. I would have taken his word for it.

I said to Adam, “Everybody is an addict.”

He paused for a moment and replied, “Yeah, I’ve heard that before, that everyone is hooked on something.”

It’s true. In some ways, the chemical addictions are the easiest to handle, because they are the most obvious, and they tend to get people into the most immediate sorts of trouble. But everybody is stuck somewhere on something. I have never met anybody who was completely free of attachments. I know I’m not.

Most patients don’t stay on the third floor for more then a week. The VA likes to get these people stabilized, and then move them to a halfway house, or somewhere. Adam told me that they didn’t have a place for him to go yet, so that’s why he was spending more quality time in the psych. ward of the VA. It’s not a happy place to be.

Adam and I talked about jail and prison. Adam has been in jail, and I spent a very brief period in there too. I mentioned to Adam that somebody I love is currently in jail, and that my wife and I were trying to help her. I also said that this young woman is likely to go to prison for a while.

The older woman sitting next to us to a break from gumming her slice of pizza, and said in a raspy voice,

“Anything less than a year in prison ain’t nothing.”

Adam thought for a moment, and replied to her, “Well, I’m sure you’re right, but any time in jail is bad. Even two days in jail are two days of your life that are lost.”

Amen, Brother.

Then Adam told me, “When I was in jail, I only got one letter from my parents. They told me not to bother them until I got out.”

Ouch.

I winced when Adam said that because, many years ago, I got in trouble, and my dad basically told me, “You’re no son of mine!” I know how that feels when your own flesh and blood turn their back on you.  It hurts, and it’s so, so wrong.

The person that we love has told my wife and me that we have in the past abandoned her.  Maybe so. A year ago, Karin and I took our loved one to stay with her cousin on a mountain in Oregon. We had no other ideas, and nobody else was willing to provide a home for the young woman. The experience clearly sucked, and Karin and I wish we had been able to do something else for her. We just didn’t know what to do. Honestly, we still don’t know what to do for the girl we love.

I don’t think that people hurt others out of spite or malice, at least not very often. I truly believe that people hurt each other mostly because of ignorance. We just don’t know the right thing to do. Perhaps we are willfully blind to the truth, or perhaps we are too frightened to recognize what we have to do. In any case, we cause suffering because we are clueless. That’s how I do it.

Eventually, the pizza was all eaten, and it was time for me to leave the VA. I shook Adam’s hand, and I told him to stay clean and to get healthy.

Adam is a good guy, but I hope that I never see him in the psych. ward again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 7th, 2018

I bought a train ticket. One way. Milwaukee to Seattle. That means forty-four hours of window time. Most of that period will be spent admiring the scenic beauty of North Dakota and eastern Montana in February. It will be a long, snowy journey. So, why am I going?

Don’t know.

I mean…I have a reason for travelling to Seattle. However, that reason simply brings up a new question. The plan is for me to participate in a peace walk with some Native American groups. The walk is called the “Longest Walk 5.3”, and it actually starts in Blaine, WA. Blaine is northwest of Seattle. If you go north of Blaine, you are in Canada, and if you west of Blaine, you are in the Pacific Ocean. The walk ends in Washington, DC. It begins on February 16th and ends, God willing, on July 14th.

The walk is supposed to promote awareness of domestic violence and drug abuse. I don’t know the route we will be taking. I don’t know where we will be staying each night, or who will be feeding us. All I know is that I will be gathering together with a large number of strangers in a strange town to walk to places I have never seen before. The idea is appealing to me. Why?

Don’t know.

I told Karin a few months ago that I wanted to go on another peace walk. I have been on a walk that went for 165 miles. This exercise is exponentially longer than that walk. Karin is okay with me going on this jaunt. She has grown accustomed to my adventures. She smiled and told me, “I’ll be okay.”

I replied, “I know that. I wouldn’t have even considered doing this if I didn’t know that you would be all right.”

So, is this a pilgrimage? Yes, it could qualify as that. Why do people go on a pilgrimage? To find God? To find themselves? To get away from the blandness of a regular routine? Why am I going?

Don’t know.

I don’t know if I will complete the entire walk. I somehow doubt it. The guy organizing the event, Bobby, knows that I write and he is visualizing me as the walk’s writer, media guru, and PR guy. I think he is vastly overestimating my abilities. There will have to be a lot of on-the-job training.

I am supposed to learn something from this walk. What am I supposed to learn?

Don’t know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 1st, 2018

My sister-in-law, Shawn, likes to send us music CD’s that are unconventional. For Christmas she mailed us a copy of “Yahudky” from DakhaBrakha. This is one of those albums that provoke unsuspecting persons to exclaim, “What the fuck are we listening to?!” Yes, it is twisted and disturbing, and oh so addictive.

The album cover is, well, odd. It shows some young Ukrainian women dressed in peasant blouses and long, dark skirts. These girls are wearing tall, black, furry hats that make them look like Slavic cone heads. The album has no liner notes. There is a list of the songs on the recording, but absolutely no other information about the band or the music. Thank God for YouTube. Apparently, there is male accordion player, two female drummers, and a female cellist involved in this process. All four of the band members sing… in Ukrainian.

Some of the songs are lively, with a lot of intense drumming. “Sho Z-Pod Duba” is like that. The beat almost feels African at times. The melodies tend to sound Gypsy, or Jewish, or just pagan. The female vocalists somehow remind me of the B-52’s on meth. The singing is often wild and frantic, until they crash, and crash hard.

The band likes to use minor keys. Some of the songs have a deep melancholy sound. The group also has an affinity for sound effects. One song, “Oy, U Kyevi” has the sound of the wind moaning across the steppe. “Na Dobranich” has wolf calls is the background, along with a cello part that sounds like it came from an Apocalyptica album. The vocal harmonies in “Na Dobranich” are eerie and haunting. Think “Sinead O’Conner Meets Dracula”. It’s music for a witch’s sabbath. I mean that in the best possible way.

Yeah, I think I will turn off all the lights, except for a candle or two. Then I’ll make sure the doors are locked, and crank up the music. I have to check if we have any vodka in the house.

 

 

December 31th, 2017

The following letter was printed in the Capital Times (Madison WI) yesterday. A similar  letter from me has been posted in the Chicago Tribune, dated January 1st, 2018. I am displaying the letter to the Tribune immediately below the letter to the Capital times. Pick one of them, and then try to be festive.

To the Capital Times:

“Dear Editor: I have been spending time over this holiday reading about the prospect of war between the United States and North Korea. Needless to say, I am not feeling the joy and peace that should come with this season.

It is fascinating to me how numb we have become to violence. The U.S. is currently fighting in several countries around the world, and it appears that we are edging closer to another war, this time in East Asia. In our current wars we have grown accustomed to the idea of “collateral damage.” We don’t even blink when civilians are killed by bombs or drones. However, with the slaughter of those innocent and apparently expendable people, we are only talking in terms of hundreds or maybe thousands of casualties. A war with North Korea would certainly cause tens of thousands of deaths, and possibly millions of fatalities. Millions. I get the impression from reading the news that somehow that number of deaths is acceptable (as long as they aren’t Americans). We’ve come a long way.”

 

To the Chicago Tribune:

“I have been reading the news regarding the prospects of war between the United States and North Korea. It strikes me that since 9/11 we, as Americans, have become increasingly numb to the tragedy of war. First, we invaded Afghanistan. Then we invaded Iraq. Now U.S. forces are fighting in several countries simultaneously. For most people these wars are just background noise. Few people actually pay any attention to them, unless they or a loved one are actively fighting overseas.

We have become used to the idea of “collateral damage.” It doesn’t seem to bother us if civilians in faraway countries are killed by our bombs or drones. The media seldom even report those deaths. We are not shocked when hundreds or even thousands of innocent (and apparently expendable) people die in our wars. Now, we are edging toward a new war, this time in East Asia. If we fight against North Korea, it will surely cause tens of thousands of casualties. It might even cause a million people to die. A million people.

I can’t even conceive of the slaughter of a million people, much less justify it. How can we go to war if we know that Seoul may be incinerated? Are we willing to protect Chicago by offering up Tokyo? If we are somehow okay with a million deaths, then we have come a long, long way on a very dark road.”

Francis Pauc

 

December 27th, 2017

Damn, it was cold when I went to the VA hospital on Tuesday evening. The thermometer in the Subaru showed that it was a solid two degrees Fahrenheit outside. I grabbed my bag of grapes, and walked through the parking lot to the entrance of the hospital. I kept my head down as the wind blew across the frozen tundra. There was a clear sky, and the air had that Arctic feel to it. It was not a good night to be out of doors.

I show up at the VA most Tuesday evenings to visit the vets in the psychiatric ward on the third floor of the building. Usually, I am there with several other volunteers from the American Legion. Since it was Christmastime, most everybody else was out of town, so only Jim and I were there to spend time with the patients. Jim brought sodas and sugary snacks, mostly homemade Christmas cookies, for the veterans. I always bring grapes, so that we provide at least one thing that qualifies as healthy. The patients like the grapes as much as they like the other snacks. There are never any grapes left over.

Christmastime is the busy season at the psych. ward. The third floor is packed at this time of year. The holidays bring out the best in people, or they bring out the worst. Folks who are already living on the edge tend to fall off when Christmas comes. The loneliness and the grief become overwhelming. The season of mandatory happiness is too much for the people who struggle to find any joy in their lives. The lights and the laughter simply accentuate their own darkness and tears. It’s not a good time.

Jim and I set up our array of goodies. Vets shuffled into the break room to grab bowls of popcorn, plates of cookies, cups of soda, and handfuls of grapes. Not many people wanted to talk. If they did talk, they were mostly talking to themselves. A woman my age sang off key to herself, and then laughed about it. She went out of her way to help other vets carry their food to a table. It helped her to be helpful.

One of the nurses shepherded a young woman through the break room. The young woman never spoke. She glared at everything and everybody. The nurse, and other people, asked the girl if she wanted anything to eat. She just gave us all that stone cold stare. Pain and silent rage. I know that look very well.

I thought about our loved one, who was at that moment in jail. Our girl has not had a Christmas at home for three years. This year she sits in jail. Last Christmas she was in a place just like the psych. ward. The year before that, she was in another jail. I was lost in thought until a vet asked me for some soda. I cleared my mind, and I gave him a cup of Diet Sierra Mist.

Some of the vets talked among themselves. Some just sat and watched “Wheel of Fortune”. For a while, even I was watching “Wheel of Fortune”. That’s depressing.

Maybe I wasn’t paying attention, but I didn’t notice much for holiday decorations in the psych. ward. It’s just as well. Why remind these people of a holiday that they can’t share? They all seemed happy that Jim and I were there. I don’t think that is was just because we brought snacks. I think it was because we bothered to show up. Sometimes the best thing a person can do is to show up. Just be there.

Jim and I hung around for a while. We talked with the patients. Some of them were new to the place. Some of them we knew from previous visits. Some of the patients don’t ever get better. They get recycled. They go to a halfway house or someplace else, and then they come back to the ward again, and again, and again. Some people can’t heal any more.

Jim and I left after about an hour and a half. The attendants on duty let us out. The doors are always locked to prevent an “elopement”. Yeah, people in pajamas try to leave the ward, and go somewhere. I don’t know where they try to go. I don’t think that they know either.

I walked through the windswept lot back to my car. Next time I have to bring more grapes.

 

 

December 25th, 2017

Karin and I attended Midnight Mass at St. Rita. I stood in front of the congregation late last night to proclaim the Prayers of the Faithful. I made a mistake during one of the petitions. In the prayer, as written, we ask God, our Father-Forever, to “help your children” who are suffering on Christmas, especially those who are imprisoned. For whatever reason, I actually said “our children”. I guess I said it that way because I really was thinking about “our children”, at least about one child in particular. It was difficult to get through that prayer because it was all up close and personal. It hurt.

Yesterday afternoon Karin and I drove to the Kenosha County Jail. We went to visit our loved one. She was worried that we would not be able to come to her because it was Christmas Eve. I had called the jail earlier in the week and they told me that it didn’t matter that it was Christmas Eve. As far as they were concerned, it was just another Sunday afternoon. The drive to Kenosha was a little stressful. It had been snowing. The roads were slick and the drivers were stupid. We got there.

I had my ten minutes with our loved one. We talked shop. We talked about when she would get the results of her blood test (drug scan). We talked about her public defender. We talked about everything except Christmas. I refused to bring it up. It just seemed too painful for the loved one and for me. In a way it doesn’t matter what the jail does to celebrate Christmas with the inmates. Anything that the jail does is simply a reminder of what the inmates cannot do. It would seem best to just ignore the holiday. It would be easier to pretend that Christmas did not exist.

At the end of the prayer for those imprisoned, I asked God to let them “feel Your loving embrace”. Does our loved one feel that embrace? Do I feel it?

 

 

 

 

December 24th, 2017

I’ve been thinking in German. This is the result of binge-watching a German Netflix series with Karin. The title of the series is “Dark”, and it is completely appropriate. It matches the show’s subject matter, the scenery, and the language. The series addresses a number of heavy themes: free will (Freier Wille), fate (Schicksal), the purpose of our lives, and the existence of God. I am convinced that no American TV show would even attempt to incorporate these topics into a drama. As it is, “Dark” combines wormholes, time travel, and the dangers of nuclear energy into a story of generations of tangled family relationships. Most of my time was spent trying to figure out who was connected to whom, as the series progressed.

“Dark” appeals to me for a couple reasons. The story takes place in a town called Winden, which is actually not terribly far from where Karin lived all those years ago. Part of the show, since it has to do with time travel, takes place in 1986. I was stationed in Germany in the early 80’s, so the images on the screen bring back some memories for me. It is impossible to completely re-create the past, but the show does a tolerable job of it. The mood in the series is spot on. I remember Germany as being often dark and rainy. Most of the action in the series takes place at night, or in caves, or in dimly-lit, Teutonic forests: dark places conducive to thinking dark thoughts. The premise of the show is a bit silly, but the feeling is accurate. The language accentuates the tension and the gloom. I don’t think this show would work nearly as well in Spanish or Italian: those languages are too light and too sunny.

One of the show’s hooks is that it touches upon the very human desire to go back in time, and tweak the past. People often want to unsay words or undo actions. There is a scene where an old woman tells her grandson, ”

“Wenn ich die Zeit zurückdrehen könnte, würde ich viele Dinge anders machen.”

“If I could turn back Time, I would do many things differently.”

I wonder about that. If I could go back, would I really change things? I doubt it.

The series has a strong Buddhist vibe. There is a heavy emphasis on the interconnections between all things. There is also the notion of being in the present moment. One character in the show is a elderly watchmaker/inventor/scientist. At one point he converses with a time traveler. The time traveler ask the scientist if he has any desire to see the future or to revisit the past. The old man replies,

“Nein, ich würde nicht in die Zukunft oder in die Vergangenheit gehen wollen. Ich gehöre hier … jetzt.”

“No, I would not want to go to the future or to the past. I belong here…now.”

That is totally Zen.

Generally, I don’t watch television. I find most shows to be mindless and superficial.

This one haunts me.

 

 

December 21st, 2017

We got a letter in the mail yesterday from our loved one. She tries to communicate with us via snail mail, seeing as she has no access to the Internet whatsoever, and any phone calls she makes to us are horrendously expensive. The girl will call us if she is in the middle of a panic attack, or there is some pressing business that she needs for us to handle. Otherwise, she takes pen to paper and does things the old school way.

There is a beauty and a warmth in receiving a handwritten letter. It is soulful in a way that other correspondence can never be. To feel the paper in my hands and to look at the soft curves of her penmanship is enjoyable. Even her occasional spelling errors are oddly endearing. A handwritten letter, especially if adorned with little drawings, can be a work of art. It feels more human. I can’t explain why that is so, but it is.

The loved one often writes about being bored and/or anxious. Those two things go together, especially for a young woman who has both PTSD and an anxiety disorder. Jail is a warehouse for humans, and there is generally no effort made by the State to keep the inmates entertained, or even occupied. For our young woman, who has no idea how long she will be incarcerated, the hours drag. She has lots of time to worry. She has lots of time to think. She has too much time.

Once, during a brief phone call, my wife suggested to this girl that she might try meditation. That provoked an angry and frustrated reaction from the loved one. Our young woman also has ADD, which makes it a bit difficult for her to focus on anything for more than a few seconds. She has attempted meditation in the past, and it hasn’t worked for her. Well, it hasn’t worked for her yet. I didn’t start meditating until I was forty-seven years old. A person has to be ready for that sort of practice. It’s not something that can be forced.

In the most recent letter, our loved one mentioned that it was her anniversary: thirty days of sobriety and thirty days in the slammer. It is commendable that she has been clean for a month, but it would have been easier on everybody if she had been able to accomplish that in other circumstances. If she remains incarcerated for an extended period of time (and she probably will), then this young woman will reach other sobriety milestones. Hopefully, that long, dry stretch will clear her mind. It may give her the opportunity to see things as they really are. That would be wonderful.

Karin and I will visit our loved one at the jail on Sunday afternoon, which just happens to be Christmas Eve. It’s the only present we can give to her right now. It’s the only present that we are certain she will appreciate. Karin will give her ten minutes of her life. I will do the same. Ten minutes is not very much, but it is everything.

 

 

 

December 16th, 2017

Rob has a Christmas party almost every year. It’s always a German Christmas party, “eine Weihnachtsfeier”. This is because most everyone in attendance, including Rob, has some deep connection with Germany. Some people, like my wife, are natives of Deutschland. Others, like myself, lived there for several years. A few folks are wannabe Germans; they just like the language and the culture. Anyway, the Teutonic thing is a common denominator for most of the folks who come to Rob’s house for the annual festivities.

There is something else that binds most of us together: we were part of the same Bible study group for almost a decade. We started meeting on Saturdays at Dan’s house back in 2003. We came together each weekend to study Scripture in German. Usually, we had to shift back into English after a while. Discussing theology in a foreign language is a daunting task. Even the native German speakers sometimes didn’t have the necessary vocabulary to keep the conversation moving.

It still amazes me that we came together in the small study group. I certainly didn’t fit in with that crowd. Karin, Sister Diane, and I were the only Catholics there. Everyone else was (is) some flavor of Evangelical. The discussions had a definite Baptist feel to them. We often had “spirited discussions”, which is a nice way of saying we argued. Well, I argued. Sometimes I did that out of sheer perversity; I like to be contrary. Sometimes I argued with people because I couldn’t tolerate their smug self-certainty. Most of the group agreed on some fundamental assumptions about God and the world, and I felt the need to challenge those notions. That didn’t always go well.

I didn’t argue in the group because I was Catholic. Any number of people will testify that I’m not very good at following the precepts of the Church. It was more that I had (have) a very different view of what Scripture is and does. The Evangelicals (at least some of them) look at the Bible as kind of a spiritual operators manual. I will over-generalize here, but they assume that, if a person follows the rules in the Book, then everything will be cool. God will bless a believer. They often seek definitive, immutable answers to messy, open-ended questions. They want The Truth, whatever that is (I think that Pontius Pilate asked the right question in John’s Gospel). They want the world to be black and white, with none of those pesky grey areas. I would also like to have some answers to the basic issues in my life, but I am more interested in wrestling with the questions. I am usually okay with some uncertainty and ambivalence. I am more interested in the process than the final result.

Eventually, after about ten years, Karin and I left the Bible study. For a while we had learned quite a bit with the group. I gained a new appreciation and reverence for the Bible. Then, members in the group, including myself, got kind of stuck. We kept revisiting the same controversies, and arriving at the same inconclusive conclusions. Sometimes it’s best to cut your losses. Despite disagreements, Karin and I remained close friends with the other people in the study group. They are all fine human beings, and we love them. They love us.

It’s ironic in a way. Joining that Bible study was my first foray out of the Catholic cocoon. Two years after joining the Evangelicals, I started going to a Zen Center to meditate with the Buddhists. I still do that. Two years after that, I started attending an Orthodox synagogue. I also started visiting a mosque and the local Sikh Temple. Some of the people from the Bible study are convinced that I have left the true path, but the fact is that they got me started on this journey.

In any case, we get together at Rob’s house once a year. That is about all we can handle. Well, it’s about all that I can handle. Thankfully, Rob provides plenty of good food and drink. The guests supplement his humble buffet with homemade treats. While eating, we talk about about various things. Some of the conversations bring up fascinating new topics. Some of the discussions hurry down to the usual dead ends. Some people are comfortable with rehashing old ideas. Some of us aren’t.

People change. Fourteen years can make a huge difference in a person’s life. Some of our friends are going through some severe health issues: cancer, Parkinson’s disease, heart problems. Mortality has reared its ugly head. Others have had intense personal struggles with family members. Life has not been gentle with most of Rob’s guests.

These sorts of challenges have different effects on different people. Some of our friends have found new strength in their faith, and they have become more tolerant and compassionate toward others who are suffering. Some have become more cynical. I am probably in that group. Some people have become more rigid, and they cling ever more tightly to the life preserver of their theology. Mostly, people have matured. We seem to be more accepting of our fate, perhaps because we understand that there is no other choice. We play the hand that we have been dealt.

I had one extraordinary conversation at the party. I spoke with a young man named Theo. He seemed to be utterly lost in the crowd of older people. I don’t how he got to Rob’s house. Some older relative must have dragged him to the gathering. Theo was sitting alone in a corner, silent and brooding. I went up to him and spoke.

I asked Theo, “So, what do you really like to do?”

He replied slowly, “Well, I play guitar and bass.”

“Really? I play bass too!”

After that, Theo and I discussed music. He talked about wanting to join a band. I told him about playing bass with my son, Stefan. We talked about the blues. I described to him the joys of Klezmer. After I told Theo about Tab Benoit, he looked up the guy on his smart phone. We told each other about our favorite artists. We discussed the bass lines in Jimi Hendrix songs.

Theo told me about how he wanted to play music for a living, but he didn’t want to prostitute himself to producer just to make a buck. I explained to Theo that almost nobody earns a living by playing music. It’s an art that has to be practiced for its own sake. I have a friend who plays blues guitar, and he drives a truck to support his family. Music isn’t usually a job. It’s a passion.

Karin was tired after about three hours at Rob’s house. We got ready to go home. We said farewell to Rob and to the other guests.

I shook Theo’s hand. He held on to mine firmly.

I told him, “I was really glad to meet you.”

He smiled and said, “Me too.”

 

 

 

December 14th, 2017

I’m usually pretty good with words. I can shape them and make them do my bidding. Usually. I found out their limitations, and my limitations, on Thursday.

Our loved one called from jail around noon that day. I was the only one at home, so I talked with her. I told the young woman about a meeting that Karin and I had with a friend named Carl. Carl runs a shelter/soup kitchen in Racine. He also works closely with ex-inmates. He is himself an ex-prisoner.

I tried to explain to our loved one that she really need to push for mental health support before she goes in front of the judge for sentencing. Carl had told Karin and myself that mental health help is very difficult to get in prison unless a person is a behavioral problem for the guards. That’s not a good way to get assistance. I apparently freaked out the young woman, because she was sobbing at the end of our conversation. That was totally not my intention. I just wanted her to be aware that she needed to advocate for herself with her public defender to get the help she needs. Unfortunately, all I accomplished was to push her into an anxiety attack.

Later in the day, I went to tutor the Syrian refugee kids. I spent most of my time working with Nada. She had a homework assignment from her science class. The worksheet was designed to teach a student about how to conduct an experiment. Nada needed to learn how to formulate a research question. She needed to understand the terms “independent variable”, “dependent variable”, and “constant variable”. She needed to be able to design a scientific experiment.

I am convinced that our time together was a dead loss, at least with regards to the subject matter. I don’t think she understood even 10% of what was being presented. Part of that is due to her limited English comprehension, and also due to my equally limited Arabic vocabulary.  Neither of us had enough words. I tried to explain what the terms meant, but I was floundering. Honestly, it is even difficult to define those terms to a native English-speaker. The concepts in the homework were not easy, and when I asked Nada if she understood, she just nodded shyly. That told me that she didn’t get it. Not at all.

I left Nada’s home deeply frustrated. What was the point? What was accomplished?

I talked with Karin about the session with Nada. Karin suggested that it was good for me to simply practice English with the girl. Even if she only learned a few new words or ideas, that was something. Also, Karin is convinced that just the fact that I was there to help Nada showed her that somebody cared. Nada knows that at least I want to help her.

Karin also told me that later on Thursday our loved one called back. She had spoken with her lawyer after I talked with her, and had resolved some of her questions about getting psychological help. Karin said that the young woman sounded much more relaxed and grounded than she had during my earlier conversation with her. Good.

Maybe I did something right.