 When I was in third grade, I gave my teacher a Valentine’s Day gift. It was a heart-shaped box filled with assorted Russell Stover chocolates. I carried it to school so tenderly that an observer might have thought it was an actual beating heart about to be transplanted into the body of someone I loved. Truth be told, my own heart was torn that day. I was filled with pride and excitement at being able to give such a spectacular gift. But my heart was also overflowing with an amount of envy I could barely contain. I wrestled with the devil when it came time to part with the gift. It was like holding the winning lottery ticket and having to hand it to someone else. Oh, how I wanted that box of chocolates! A child would have never received such a Valentine back then. Gifts like that were reserved for adults only. That blessed grown-up might offer a lucky child the opportunity to pick “just one” from the box. The weight of such a choice was enormous. A child might pick a sweet, delicious chocolate-covered cherry, or find herself biting into a coffee cream as bitter as her disappointment. All that third-grade day, I wondered if I would EVER receive such a valentine. It had nothing to do with finding romance, love, or even chocolate. I also coveted that box! A heart-shaped box?! It defied gravity and all of the other laws of nature. While it was reported that good things came in small packages, I was pretty sure that the best things came in heart-shaped boxes trimmed with ruffled red ribbon. Obviously, the giving that day was more about me than about the teacher. At best I was showing off, at worst, I was brimming with envy. But as all children do, I was learning the life lessons that come so slowly, lessons about giving and receiving, about generosity and selfishness, about desire and self-control, about what lasts and what doesn’t. Forrest Gump said, ‘Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re going to get.” Later in life I would learn that sometimes we can reduce the risk and increase the satisfaction by locating the key that is printed somewhere on each box of chocolates. It is possible to make better choices when you are a grown-up and know how things work. Thankfully, giving is no longer about me and my own desires. My needs are met, and my heart is full, not with envy, but with a desire to win the lottery and pass it on. May your hearts be full today and all of your needs met. Choose wisely and remember there is a key on every box of chocolates. Happy Valentine’s Day! I love you all.
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 Man is born broken. He lives by mending. The grace of God is glue. Eugene O’Neill I pull into a parking lot where others wait in their cars for the office doors to open. Soon people begin hobbling into the waiting room. My son and I follow them inside. Their wardrobe accessories include slings, braces, and walkers. Winter coat sleeves hang loosely from shoulders. Slippers cover bound feet. Here, no explanations are needed for limitations that are so evident. Here, human brokenness is not just acceptable, it is the reason this place exists. The unique wardrobe accessories are badges of courage for a kind of brokenness legitimized by doctors and their prescription pads. People eye each other and joke about their state of dress, their appliances, and their injuries. I sit among this community of the broken as it gathers for mending. Some might call this church. Instead of St. Peter at the gate, there is a woman named Brenda at the front desk. Her affect is bright and she greets each patient by name and with enthusiasm. While Brenda is not a physical therapist, there can be no doubt that she is part of the therapy. Brenda recognizes and greets each patient and regular caregiver. She knows each patient’s name, schedule, health insurance, and balance due. She remembers the weather the last time one patient was seen, and she jokes with another patient about wearing shorts on a cold December morning. On the rare occasion when Brenda is not at her desk, the entire experience seems off. I experience the feelings of unreality known to the lost: Where am I? The high priests here are the physical therapists. They are generally young, fit, and sure of themselves. They are friendly and kind and greet each patient with that brand of humor that comes with familiarity. Patients seem to feel the need to urgently confess their sins the minute the therapists call their names: “I didn’t do all my exercises this week,” or “I re-injured myself chasing after a toddler.” There is no shame here, no reason to hide the truth. The therapists offer quick reassurance. In a couple of months, we will all say good bye to Brenda and these high priests as we each go our own way with bodies healed. All-in-all, it is a pleasant experience. I ponder the example as I wait for my son to finish his therapy. Rarely, in our daily lives can we be so open about our brokenness. And rarely, is there such a clear remedy or so much hope. There is no sling for a sagging self-esteem, no brace for a broken heart, no boot to correct the steps of a wayward child, and no assurance that the suffering will be temporary. We piece together our lives with threads that are not always sturdy. There seems to be no end to the threats that can break us. And yet so much of what hurts is hidden. What if we could be as honest about our brokenness and as open in our mending as these folks inside the physical therapy office? What if there was someone who could see to the place inside us where it hurts? Determine how much weight we can bear? Legitimize our suffering? Write a prescription for the cure? We find ourselves preparing for Christmas in a time when the whole world seems broken. We await the birth of a savior. The example in the story of Jesus is that of a man who was born and then broken. He mended and rose again. Along the way, he healed the sick, found the lost, and welcomed the outcasts. He did this largely by seeing them. May we celebrate this holiday season by seeing each other and by offering to others some of the glue and the grace that holds us together. And in the New Year may we follow this advice from Rabbi Lawrence Kushner: When you see something that is broken, fix it. When you find something that is lost, return it. When you see something that needs to be done, do it. In that way you will take care of your world and repair creation…realize the awesome power God has put into [your] hands.” Happy holidays my friends. Good tidings of comfort and joy!  I turn the page on my calendar and discover that today is World Tuna Day. A sometimes lapsed Catholic, I wonder if this might be a new Holy Day of Obligation. For the non-Catholics out there, a Holy Day of Obligation is a day on which Catholics are expected to attend Mass and refrain from work and other activities that might interfere with their worship of God. I consider attending Mass, but that sounds like work to me, and I am too late anyway. I will add this latest lapse to my growing list of sins to be reported the next time I seek confession which is a Sacrament, another type of obligation, but not one that takes up an entire day, unless you are a child of Satan and have a lot to report. With my curiosity aroused, I turn to the Tree of Knowledge to fish for some answers. According to the information posted on www.un.org, in 2016 the United Nations passed a resolution making May 2nd World Tuna Day in order to spread the word about the dangerous situation faced by this important fish. Apparently, the future of tuna is threatened by overwhelming demand and unsustainable fishing practices. Overfishing has endangered the species and the delicate ecosystem of the ocean’s food chain. Overfishing also threatens to impact the livelihoods of people all over the world, and the United Nations is taking measures to safeguard the value of tuna stocks—the Wall Street version, not the stack of cans in a good Catholic’s pantry. Sailing around the internet, I learn that there are seven commercial species of tuna fished from four different oceans. All my life, I thought Charlie the Tuna was the only one. As of 2018, the tuna industry was worth about forty billion dollars, and that does not include the tuna fishing gear industry. I am more than a little surprised that with all that is at stake the United Nations waited until after Lent to bring this up. Let’s face it, observant Catholics are complicit in this developing tragedy. Before Charlie the Tuna, Jesus was a pretty well-known spokesperson. Jesus was really into fishing. Some of his apostles were actual fishermen before Jesus made them fishers of men. Jesus was also known for his famous loaves and fishes routine. I am pretty sure that was when the tuna fish sandwich became popular on the Catholic menu. By the 1950s, the decade in which I was born, tuna noodle casserole was a mainstay of the American Catholic’s diet on Friday nights and all throughout the season of Lent. It was cheap to make, the ingredients were easy to find and non-perishable to boot. The meal was easy to prepare and provided leftovers. It was also popular at church potlucks and a nice gesture of comfort in times of tragedy. I think we all have something to confess here. But the Church is good at granting dispensations-- an act for which a lawful superior grants relaxation from an existing law in a particular case. You might need that if you find yourself craving tuna noodle casserole given the plight of the tuna. You might want to shoot for Eat What You Want Day which is coming up on May 11th. Eat What You Want Day is a day to eat whatever you want without fretting over fats or fishing. A day without guilt. I’m pretty sure that can’t be a Catholic Church holiday.  (In memory of Allison St. Claire who loved books, her library card, and bringing our words into print.) Fueled by SPAM and saltine crackers, we made our way from California to Ohio in the back of a Rambler station wagon. Our father had orders to deploy to Pakistan. Amidst the upheaval, I deployed to first grade. While my father had many years of military experience and was ready to go, I did not have the benefit of basic training—no preschool, no kindergarten. A shy and quiet child, I was not just reluctant, I was terrified, but there was no choice. And so, like my father, I donned the uniform. He marched off to Pakistan, and I marched off to Catholic grade school. Dressed in her traditional 1960s nun’s habit, the teacher was every bit as intimidating as a drill sergeant. Following orders, I sat up straight, eyes forward. We turned our attention to a large flip chart that seemed to be the height of a first-grader. Sister Eulalia turned back the cover page, and with her long pointer, she tapped the word at the bottom of the page: “Look,” she read aloud. We all repeated, “Look.” And so it began. I was officially a reader. Never again have I felt so powerful and proud. I had no idea that Dick and Jane and the Catholic school version John and Jean would soon be on their way out along with Spot and Puff. I had no reason to be aware of the debate going on in academia about methods for teaching reading: site reading versus phonics. I was too young and my world too small to be aware of the biases and stereotypes depicted on the pages filled with white faces and white picket fences. I, along with 85 million other American children, learned to read with Dick and Jane and John and Jean, Sally and Judy, Spot and Puff. Unaware of the catalog of faults, I enjoyed my school books with the watercolor art, sweet stories, and urgent action words: Look! See! Run! Come! Thomas Jefferson wrote, “I cannot live in a world without books.” And since that first day when I was ordered to look, I cannot stop looking at books. A lifelong student of human behavior, I have maintained a preschooler’s incessant need to know why. Why do people do what they do? Why do I do what I do? Inside a book I can mingle with unsavory characters and walk away with my reputation unscathed. I have the privacy to get to know myself. Without an audience and without shame, I can get down into the dark corners of my own dusty layers. I can sort out what I know, what I think, and what I might do next. Books allow me to see myself, but they don’t demand that I mount a defense. Though books now come in many forms, I still love print--the firm cover that cracks when opened for the first time. I love the smooth pages and the dog-eared ones that remind me to look again. I am awed by the power of words and the importance of order in giving meaning to language. The words liberty and death can be “Death to liberty,” or “Give me liberty or give me death.” I melt into the pictures painted by the brushes of gifted writers. I swear I have tramped through the marsh Where the Crawdads Sing. I have traveled through time with Kristin Hannah and felt the grit in my eyes blown there by the ferocious winds of the dust bowl in The Four Winds. I have wept for the curse that was slavery as I rode The Underground Railroad with Colson Whitehead. I have learned history and geography in meaningful and memorable ways not possible in the classroom. I also love the companionship that books provide. Every character becomes someone I know, a wise old friend. There are authors I trust. They give me confidence and something to look forward to. I turn to them again and again. William Zinsser wrote that writing is a public trust and that truth is a gift. He speaks of clear thinkers with a passion for their subjects and notes that how we write and how we talk is how we define ourselves. Yes! “We can write to affirm and to celebrate or we can write to debunk and destroy…nobody can make us write what we don’t want to write. We get to keep intention.” Character is revealed through writing. In this crowded world, it can be hard to find your people. I find mine in books. And I find solutions. I am better prepared for the future having walked the unfamiliar path upon a page with someone who has been there, with someone who knows. And when I am weary, and fresh out of dreams, I find something new that restores my spirit. Without books, my mind is homeless. It is Read Across America Day! Thank you, Sister Eulalia, for teaching me to read. And thank you Dick and Jane for inviting me to Look!  When we enter a new year, we embrace a fresh start. We resolve to change. We will become healthier, thinner, richer, better organized, better educated, and better read. We will quit smoking and quit complaining. We will be positive, motivated, and successful. We have high hopes as we wait for the ball to drop and the fireworks to light up the sky. We are high on wishful thinking: the New Year’s Eve sparkle will rub off on our ordinary lives and make us new too. We will enter the salon and the wrinkles will magically disappear. The pounds will melt away as we enter the workout studio. On that fresh first day of the year we convince ourselves that the terrain will be smooth, the trip will be easy. We can do it! About two weeks into the journey, we realize that our traveling companions are holding us back. We should never have brought our old selves into the shiny new year. We drop the ball. Game over. No celebratory fireworks. We spend a lot of time and money on packaging. Sexy sells. When it doesn’t, we elevate ourselves by drawing attention to what is wrong with the other guy. After the last few soul-crushing years, I am wiped out. I know others are as well. I have nothing left for whipping up smoothies or for boxing with myself on the latest home workout mirror. It is a 9-1-1 emergency. A mass casualty situation. And so, in 2022, I resolve to focus less on the vessel and more on the divine spark within—my own and that of others too. This year, I am making only one resolution: Fan the flames!  As we have opportunity, let us do good to all. - Galatians 6:10 I am a woman on a mission. I am looking for a few good men. Well, not just men. I am looking for good people of any sort. Two stories have taken up residence in my head launching me on this mission. The first story is about Edmund Burke, a respected member of the British Parliament in the 18th century. The words, all that is required for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing, have frequently been attributed to Burke. While those exact words have not survived fact checking, in Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontents (1770), Burke is recorded as saying: When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle. The second story on my mind is the Bible’s tale of the destruction of Sodom. The Lord tells Abraham that the city will be destroyed due to wickedness. Abraham’s nephew, Lot, lives there with his family. Abraham beseeches the Lord to consider saving the city if fifty righteous men can be found. The Lord agrees, but Abraham continues to negotiate. They settle on a final number, and the Lord says, “For the sake of ten, I will not destroy it.” We all know how the story ends: the city burns, everything is destroyed. Lot escapes, but his wife disobeys God’s instructions. She looks back as she flees and turns into a pillar of salt. It has been impossible to escape the daily news in 2021. Dare I look back? The year began with a pandemic threatening our health, weather events threatening our planet, and angry politicians threatening our democracy. People have remained uneasy and some have given voice to a fear that we are approaching the end of times. I am not a prepper. I have no fortified bunker. I do not stockpile nonperishable foods or practice survival skills, but I do want to be ready. If the Lord offers me a deal, I want to have list so that I can name names. In a country of 334 million people, I pray I can find fifty good ones. So far, I’ve got Ed, the homeless gentleman I wrote about on November 16th. A week later, I encountered a nameless and faceless truck driver, but I jotted down his license plate number. God will know the driver by his deeds. I encountered the truck driver as I headed out of Columbus via Interstate 71 North. The urban traffic was heavy and aggressive, moving much faster than the legal limit. My entire body was brittle with tension as I held my breath and I merged from the city ramp onto the highway. Traffic continued to whiz past me even though I was going the maximum posted speed. Feeling anxious and looking forward to getting beyond the city limits, I tucked myself in behind a Wooster Motor Ways truck. Remarkably, the driver maintained the speed limit and slowed for vehicles merging into the heavy traffic. I felt a rush of relief in finding this personal escort, a guardian angel. I followed the semi out of town and through the countryside. We traveled a good sixty miles together before parting ways at the Route 30 exit. While it is a small thing to obey the traffic laws and show consideration to other drivers, it is not without significance. Maybe God will see it as a test of character, a measure of goodness. Then on November 29th, I met Ahmal. After several days of cold, rain, sleet, and snow flurries, the sun came up. By mid-afternoon the thermostat registered a sunny 42 degrees, and I headed outside for a walk. A half a block from home, I saw two obstacles blocking the narrow path ahead. One item appeared to be a bulging gym bag about three feet wide. Bright orange extension cords poked out from the top. Next to the bag was a Shop-Vac. As I came closer, I saw a man standing on the curb studying his smartphone. “Do you know where West Fifth Avenue is,” he asked. “It’s about a half a block straight ahead.” The man looked so relieved, I thought he might cry. “That’s good. That’s good,” he said as he picked up his things. “I’m headed that way. I’ll walk with you.” The man refused to let me carry a thing even as sweat poured from his scalp and dripped onto his shoulders. A few steps in, the man sat the items down in an attempt to re-adjust his load. At that point, I insisted, “hand me the Shop-Vac.” As we made our way to the bus stop, the man told me his story. He had gotten a ride to a local business to detail a food truck. The splattered grease stain that covered his white tea shirt corroborated the story. He told me that he had loaned his rent money to a family member with the promise that the money would be repaid by the time the rent came due. The borrower had not repaid the loan. With just two days remaining, this desperate but determined man was taking every odd job he could find to meet the first-of-the-month deadline. He told me how he had lost his regular job doing yardwork and landscaping when the weather turned cold. Perhaps there was more to the story, but I would not look for fault in a man willing to work this hard to pay his rent on time after sacrificing for a loved one. Slowing down, the man squinted and looked ahead, “I don’t see it. I don’t see no bus stop!” Feeling his exhaustion, I encouraged him to keep going. “The sign is hidden by the trees. We’re almost there.” We took a few more steps. “I see it! I see it now! I got about a two hours bus ride to get home and change so I can get to my next job.” As I set the Shop-Vac down on the sidewalk next to the bus stop sign, the man asked me my name. “Lilli,” I said.” “I’m Ahmal,” and he threw his arms open wide, embracing me with the gratitude of a man whose life had been saved. I felt entirely unworthy and said a prayer of thanksgiving for the sun and the mild temperature that propelled me onto the bike path and into his arms, for the strength to share the mental load and to carry his Shop-Vac to the bus stop. And because I was fortunate, my rent was paid. In this time when everything is askew and the headlines warn of more doom and gloom to come--the end of democracy, the end of decency, the end of the earth, I am buckling down on my mission to find fifty good people. I add Ahmal to the list. The holiday season is a good time to embark on this exercise. In the Christian tradition, Christmas marks the birth of a savior. It is a story of hope, a season of second chances. For Christians, that is not fake news, it is the Good News. But good does not triumph easily. Because it comes into the world quietly and with humility, it risks being overlooked and demeaned. Sometimes there is no room for it at the inn. But a light shines upon goodness for those who seek it. Wise men travel far to find it. In the secular tradition, Christmas is about a jolly old man who sees us when we’re sleeping. He knows when we’re awake. He keeps track of our deeds with his own list of who is naughty and who is nice. He checks his list not once but twice. The nice are rewarded on Christmas morning. I had the good fortune of being born in the post-war era, a time of growth, abundance, and opportunity. I never questioned that I lived anywhere but in the greatest country on earth. Despite our history and our difficulties, I always believed that we would keep growing, and that, in the end, good would triumph in this homeland. The past few years have challenged my beliefs and sense of national identity. COVID has rattled the nerves of everyone on the planet and arrived at a time when democracy was already under grave threat all around the world. News of the day can make it hard to keep believing. But it is Christmas. Whether you celebrate in the Christian tradition or the secular, Christmas is an important reminder of hope, a message that God, or the Something Greater, does not give up on us. Goodness matters and good can be found in surprising places. Mankind is an imperfect lot, but also an unfinished one. There is still time. May goodness find you this Christmas. Prepare to name names.  With democracy crumbling all around the world, I went looking for some happier news that I could sink my teeth into. I landed on something big! Today, December 8, 2021, is National Brownie Day. I am not talking here about apprentice Girl Scouts; I am talking about the chewy delicious food that made it hip to be square. Of course, controversy swirls even in a world of just desserts. Who is the actual inventor of the brownie? Is it the socialite Bertha Palmer, wife of the Palmer House Hotel owner? Some say that in 1893 she instructed her hotel chef to come up with a small cake that would fit in a boxed lunch. The Palmer House brownie contained walnuts and apricot glaze. The invention stuck to Bertha’s hips and to the Palmer House Hotel menu. A few years later, in 1904, some real housewives in Maine claimed the title of inventor with their recipe for the Bangor Brownie. Who knows? But by 1907 the brownie appeared for the first time in a cookbook, and the recipe gained wider circulation. Since then, Americans have consumed brownies in numbers that make the Build Back Better budget look measly. During the pandemic, I came across a simple brownie recipe that is my family’s new favorite comfort food. Given the length of the pandemic, I have made it many times. These brownies are delicious warm and even better a few minutes out of the freezer. The recipe calls for chocolate chips, and we have tried them all: mint, peanut butter, and various types of chocolate. Our favorite is the Ghirardelli Premium Baking 60% Cacao Bittersweet Chocolate Chips. (Sorry, Hershey’s!) Feel free to experiment. Remember that you're not alone if you prefer nutless--60% of people do. One Bowl Brownies (courtesy of Hershey’s) Makes 16 brownies. Ingredients: 1 ¼ cups sugar 2 eggs ½ cup melted butter 2 teaspoons vanilla extract 2/3 cup all-purpose flour ½ cup Hershey’s Cocoa ½ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon baking powder 1 cup chocolate chips Directions:
Should the news leave you in a mood to stir things up, grab a bowl and a hand mixer. Take to the streets with an armful of brownies. Savor the wonders of this American invention and the reminder that we are still capable of creating good things that last. (With or without the nuts.) |
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May 2023
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