What A Healthy Old Age Looks Like

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What I’ve Learned from My Grandfathers Since They Died: Part 1

One of the challenges of this Third Half of Life is health. Sure, that means eating right and exercise, but it begins inside of our heads. 

When we get older and we get sick or injure ourselves, we are tempted to look at the calendar and say, “I’m old,” and think: 

Old = sick

Old = feeble

Old = dying.

We are not necessarily helped much by the medical profession. Doctors were once taught that the paradigm of health is a man. So, they treated things that were uniquely female, like menopause or having a uterus, as pathologies that needed medication or removal. 

 That may have improved. However, it’s hard for lay people and professionals to get past the unconscious assumption that the paradigm of health is a 19-year-old. The more we deviate from that ideal, the more likely we are to get  prescriptions and procedures to “fix” us. 

As my mother used to say, “Every time I go to the doctor, I get a new pill. Then, every two years, I wind up in the hospital and they take them all away from me.” 

Too many of us are conditioned to think that there is nothing we can do about our health. When I talk with friends about how a lot of chronic diseases like type 2 diabetes or even heart disease can be healed with diet and exercise, a lot of them say wearily, “just give me a pill.” 

I think that they lack a mental image of what a healthy old age looks like.  I am grateful that my Grandfather Talbott taught me that old people can rebuild their health after it takes a nosedive.

I’ve learned a lot from my grandfathers since they died. The older I get the more I learn. It’s not that I remember stories that they told me or any advice that they gave me. But, I do remember how they lived and how they negotiated old age. I am benefitting from their examples.

“Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.”

James Baldwin

Grandpa Talbott was a dairy farmer. He was active in the Dairyman’s League, a cooperative of farmers who banded together to sell their milk at a fair price. As my Dad took over the farm, Grandpa took on more responsibility in the League’s organization. Before I got to high school, he was commuting 300 miles to New York City every week to work at the League headquarters as the treasurer. Then, he became president of what was then the largest dairy cooperative in the country.

It was a lot of stress and responsibility. By his mid-60’s, he was sick and worn out. He spent several weeks in the hospital before he retired.

Shortly after he retired, he drove up to our farm one morning. Dad and I had finished breakfast and we were cleaning the barn after milking. The cows had gone off to pasture. The barn floor needed cleaning. I had used a shovel to take care of the manure. Grandpa picked up the push broom and started down the barn floor, sweeping everything on his left into the gutter. He went very, very slowly.

My Dad and I watched him. It was kind of agonizing. When he got to the other end of the barn floor, he leaned on his broom to catch his breath.

My Dad said, “Go take that broom away from your grandfather.”

I walked down the floor and said, “Here, Grandpa, I can finish it.”

He said, “No, Roger, I need to do this.”

So, we watched him come back, sweeping the other side. Then he got in his car and went home.

He came back the next day. And the next. It took a few weeks, but then he was sweeping the floor as fast or faster than I could. He would stay and help my Dad with other chores. He also worked on my uncle’s much bigger farm. In fact, he was plowing my uncle’s fields into his 80’s.

I, too, pushed too hard and too long on my work for my own good. By the time I retired in 2016, I was overweight and suffering from a severe digestive disorder. I found a doctor who said she could cure me. And she did. I made a lot of life-style changes and got better and better. Then, I spent December 2019 suffering from a flu-like illness. I spent six weeks in bed with mild fever, and moderate fatigue and brain fog.  Sounds like COVID-19 doesn’t it? Trouble is, doctors diagnosed the first case in New York City in March 2020.

Whatever it was, I feared I was going to spend my life as an invalid. But I started walking and working out. Then, I decided to try running. My son, Jim, who lives near us, is a runner. When my knees hurt, he taught me how to shorten my gait and land on my toes. The pain disappeared.

By the end of October, I could run 5 kilometers (3 miles). I had to thank my Grandfather Talbott. 

As I tied on my running shoes every other day, I thought of him pushing that broom.

When I could only run about 20 yards, I thought about him pushing that broom.

When it rained, I thought of him pushing that broom.

He’s been dead thirty years, but I keep learning from him. Next week, I’ll tell you what I’ve learned from my other grandfather since he died. 

Who have you learned from since they died?

How to Know When To Let Go

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We all know intuitively that the essence of the art of living is knowing when to let go. This is longer than usual, so I’ll begin with a summary:

  • It’s not wise to let go too soon.
  • It’s costs a lot when we don’t know when to let go.
  • If we let go at the right time, we get out of jail and find joy.

The good news is that we have practiced letting go all our lives. You took your first step when you let go of a parent’s fingers. You can’t take a breath without letting go of the one you took before.

We stumble in life when we don’t let go. My college roommate began Freshman year wearing his high school varsity jacket around campus. He was proud of it because his basketball team had won the division championship. But, after a couple of weeks, he realized that upperclassmen were laughing at him. He had to let go of that jacket or look foolish.

On the other hand, it took me almost a year of getting C’s to let go of my high school self-image as “the smart boy” to whom A’s came easy.

Letting go isn’t that hard in the first half of life. Like the toddler taking that first step, we are reaching out for freedom when we:

  • Take the car by ourselves for the first time.
  • Get our first job.
  • Leave home.

In this Third Half of Life, however, we often feel diminished when we:

  • Have to let go of our job/career/identity.
  • Let go of driving the car.
  • Let go of the home we may have lived in for decades.

I bet you know people who didn’t let go of those things soon enough. Do you think you will know when to let go?

Pharaoh can teach us about letting go.

Pharaoh? You mean the Egyptian king?

Yep. Pharaoh

.

I ran into Pharaoh a couple of weeks ago when I was asked to lead a Torah study for the National Advisory Committee of the Jewish Grandparents Network. How did a retired Methodist preacher find himself doing that? Because I let go. I’ll get to that below.

The Torah portion began at Exodus 3:17. Jews name their weekly Torah portions using the first word or two in the first verse. But the first word in this verse, in Hebrew, is “Pharaoh.” They didn’t want a Torah portion named after the Hitler of the 13th century B.C.E, so they used the second word, b”Shalach. The root, Shalach, means “to let go” — an action.The prefix “b’” turns it into a time. B’Shalach means “letting-go-time.”

So we translate it: “WHEN Pharaoh LET the people GO.”

This Third Half of Life is b’Shalach, “letting-go-time.” Time to let go of:

  • A job. A blessed relief for some. For others (OK, for me,) it means letting go of our identity.
  • The house we needed to raise a family.
  • Habits that our younger bodies could sustain (or survive) but are damaging our aging bodies.
  • Our role (and status) within our communities or in our family.
  • Communities in which which we have lived most of our lives.
  • Beliefs and prejudices that we grew up with that we have never examined.

What can Pharaoh teach us about when and how to let go?

Something will tell us when it is time

Pharaoh had Moses — a voice that kept coming to him to say, “Let my people go.”

You and I will hear a voice. It may be a doctor’s voice, a spouse’s voice, a child’s voice, a friend’s voice, or that voice inside our heads. It will say, “Time to let go.”

For many years, I was part of a committee that interviewed and guided people who felt “called” to become ordained clergy in my denomination. That may sound like religious mumbo-jumbo to you, but bear with me.

Most of these folks were going to have to let go of good jobs in order to go back to school to prepare for a profession that is usually underpaid and overworked and that carries a psychic load that few others in our society have to bear. That is a big jump. The only thing that sustains people through that change and in the practice of pastoral ministry is a deep inner conviction that this is what they are meant to do.

We asked if they were hearing that inner voice?

We got all kinds of answers. Some people had visions rivaling the Prophet Ezekiel. Others heard a still, small voice.

We also asked if anyone on the outside was saying the same thing?

Some people only heard the outside voice — a parent or spouse telling them they should become a minister. Others only heard the inside voice. No one else thought they would make a good pastor. We were most sure of the people who heard both voices.

We were even surer if they had a history of resisting those voices.

If we are smart, we will ignore the voice at first, like Pharaoh did.

Pharaoh didn’t rule Egypt by obeying every crackpot carrying a staff who criticized his policies.

You didn’t get to where you are by stopping every time the going got tough, leaving a relationship at the first argument, or changing your mind every time someone told you that you were wrong.

Most of the pastoral candidates we interviewed confessed that they kept thinking they were mistaken — or God was. They were there because they couldn’t shake the feeling that this is what they were supposed to be doing.

If we are stupid, we will continue to ignore the voice even after it starts to cost us, like Pharaoh did.

Pharaoh, famously, suffered — and Egypt suffered — through nine plagues, including the death of the first-born in every household, before he let the Israelites go. Pharaoh illustrates this truth:

“There is that law of life, so cruel and so just, that says that we must change or else pay more for staying the same.”

Norman Mailer, The Deer Park

One day I stepped on the scales at the doctor’s office and the nurse said cheerfully, “198. First one under 200 today.”

I was there because my acid reflux was so bad I began worrying about getting esophageal cancer. I had been ignoring my body, my doctor, the scales, the mirror, and reality itself. It was costing me too much to stay the same. I was as dumb as Pharaoh.

I weigh 148 this morning because I let go of eating meat, dairy, eggs, salt, oil, and sugar. It wasn’t easy, but I also didn’t do it all at once. In fact, it has taken me twenty years to make these changes. Ninety percent of the credit for that is that I eat every day with someone who has made getting healthy her life’s mission.

Letting-go-time is when we move from jail to joy.

Your first act of letting go — birth — happened because you could not grow anymore in your mother’s womb. It was a good place for you, until it wasn’t. When b’Shalach came, you and your mother both let go and you were free to grow into the mature adult you are now.

We have to leave Pharaoh behind here. He did not see letting go of his slaves as a growth experience, although it could have been.

Every time I have let go of something in my life, I have grown. That’s how I wound up on the National Advisory Committee of the Jewish Grandparenting Network. It is both a great honor and a source of much amusement when I think about where I came from.

I grew up as a conservative evangelical Methodist. I still think I’m a conservative evangelical Methodist, although many of my conservative evangelical friends would disagree so much that they want to start a new denomination that will keep out people like me. They think I am “tossed about by every wind of doctrine”.

Instead, I kept running into people of faith that led me to realize:

  • God is not a Methodist.
  • God is not a Protestant.
  • God is not a Christian.
  • God is not a White heterosexual male.

I didn’t even know that I believed some of those things until I let go of them. But, every time I let go, my heart grew, and my God got bigger.

When our son, Jim, decided to convert to Judaism and marry, Rachel, a Reform Rabbi, it was b’Shalach, letting-go-time, once again. We don’t celebrate Christmas and Easter with our grandchildren, but that’s OK. We get to celebrate Passover and Yom Kippur. Our lives are larger because we have Jewish grandchildren, which makes us Jew-ish grandparents. It was only a few more steps to doing the Torah study that night.

One final story. Four years ago, Jacquie and I started talking about the possibility of moving to New York City to be closer to those grandchildren and . . . to be in New York City. One more adventure. But, that meant letting go of a house that we had spent years (and thousand$) to make our own. It meant letting go of a neighborhood and city we loved. I, newly retired, and still reeling from having let go of a job I loved, was resistant.

Jacquie said, “Today’s joy is tomorrow’s jail.”

What time is it in your life?

In some ways, it is always b’Shalach, letting-go-time. We let go of every breath. We let go of every day when we go to sleep. It may have been a good day, but we have to let go.

Indeed. Life is like the monkey bars on the playground. If you don’t let go and reach out, you just stop and swing there. You have to keep letting go in order to reach the next one.

That’s the secret of life. The day will come to each of us when we will let go of our last breath and reach out for whatever joy lies beyond. That will be easy or difficult depending on how much we have practiced letting go.

Can You Make a Wish that Does Not Benefit You?

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It is not as easy as it sounds.

I use DayOne to keep a journal. It has a daily prompt that I usually ignore. I always have too much to write about. But today’s prompt caught my attention:

What would you wish for if you could wish for anything that would not benefit you?

That seemed easy at first. Then, I thought about it.

Not so easy.

World peace? How would that not benefit me?

Wish that all refugees will be safe and secure? All the changes that would have to take place in the world would have the same effect as world peace.

Wish for a social safety net that would mean there were no more hungry or homeless people? Imagine how much good would be unleashed in the world if the people who are scrambling every day to just stay alive could be free to work on their relationships with others, figure out productive ways to contribute to the community, unleash their creativity. How would that not eventually be good for me?

How about wishing that the fish in the sea were safe from pollution and climate change? Isn’t that far enough from my personal interests to be completely unselfish? But, the environmental changes would eventually mean the air also was clean enough to benefit my damaged lungs.

This got me really scratching my head. What could I wish for that would not benefit me?

I finally came up with a few.

I could wish:

  • That rich people would not have to pay taxes.
  • That Jeff Bezos will make another billion dollars this week.
  • That I will win the lottery. (Can you imagine the headaches that would create?)

I guess, if a genie ever offers me this deal, I’ll have to shake my head and tell him he might as well get back inside his magic lamp and wait for someone smarter than me to come along.

Winter Solstice 2020

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The sun touches the Tropic of Capricorn . 

Jupiter and Saturn share their shine.  

A vaccine for the rich

arrives at warp speed.

Money for rent

comes at a snail’s pace. 

The stock market goes high,

The food lines get long.

 The air is as full of lies

as the hospital beds are full of people

gasping for breath. 

“I can’t breathe” echoes

And echoes

And echoes. .

The night is very long and very dark. 

We cannot even draw together

to warm each other.

What shall we do? 

Even alone 

we will do what we have been practicing all our lives:

Light

Yule logs, 

Hanukkah candles, 

and Christmas trees. 

Sing songs of courage and carols of joy, 

or the kind of songs you make up when you have had too much to drink. 

 Read or remember stories 

about how the darkness almost conquered

a soul

or the world, 

and then the light shined in.

As I write, the sun is rising. 

Even the longest night 

cannot hold back 

the new day. 

The Duty and the Burden of Solemnity

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There is no good verb for what clergy do in a wedding ceremony.


We don’t “marry” the couple. They marry each other.
“Preside” implies that you are in charge of the wedding. I know that some clergy insist upon this role. They lock themselves into a battle of wills with the bride’s mother, the hotel/restaurant events manager, or the bride herself. Worst case scenario, the photographer wants to preside. In 45 years, I can only remember two weddings in which the groom took charge. Not a good sign, either time. On some simple, lovely occasions, I did “preside.” I would count the one couple who asked if they could be married in our living room with Jacquie as their witness as one of those. But presiding at most weddings means you are in charge of the choreography, the placement of the flowers, rolling out the white carpet, training the ushers, making sure the bridesmaids are zipped. That is beyond my competence.

The verb that works best, I think, is “solemnize.”


It’s harder work than you may think to solemnize a wedding. Weddings are, by definition, joyous. They symbolize peace and love and good will. They should be celebrated with good food and drink and music and dancing — and they usually are, after the ceremony. Weddings lead (snicker) to wedding nights and all that implies. It’s tough to be the one who tamps down that hilarity for an hour.


Yet, I always thought it was necessary. It is necessary for the community, represented by family and friends — or the pastor’s wife, to witness the couple making their solemn vows to each other. It is necessary for the couple to feel the enormity of the promises they are making. (Although only the widowed and the more-than-once divorced ever come close to understanding.)

It is necessary to place this very human and natural event into a larger context. The very fact that this couple has come together and chosen each other is a kind of miracle. Their love and faithfulness to each other, especially over the long haul, will be a sign and symbol of the Love that is at the heart of the universe.
That demands solemnity. It requires seriousness.


But, it can take a toll on the person who has to do the solemnizing.


Do you remember, when you were a little kid and made a face, your mother would tell you to be careful because your face might get stuck in that position?


She was right.


It has taken almost five years for my face to come unstuck. Like a lot of things in this Third Half of Life, I am reassessing what used to seem so important. I am not knocking ritual and tradition. I am not minimizing the enormity of the wedding vows. I am reassessing how and why it seemed so necessary for me to be so serious so often. Maybe it was necessary. Carl Jung believed that the clergy carry a necessary psychic burden within the community that no one else carries. He often treated clergy for free.


But I wonder if it would have helped if I had trusted Life provide the solemnity? After all, every couple faces days ahead where the vows they make on their wedding day will take on real seriousness. They will need to choose to love each other for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. Why not let them have one happy, light-hearted day to love each other and laugh with their friends and bask in their families’ pride?


Days like that are few and short. Why rob them of even one hour?


I have seen clergy, not in my tradition, I’m afraid, who seem to know how to put the joy and the seriousness together. I’m formulating a theory about why that is not common in mainline Protestant churches, but it’s not completely clear, yet.


All I know is that, as a Christian, I’m supposed to look to Jesus as my example. I see him at only one wedding. And for that, he brought the wine.

Everything I Needed to Know for the Pandemic I Learned in Kindergarten: Creativity

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Reading time: 2 minutes

In Kindergarten  we spent a lot of time with crayons, paint, paper,  paste, and scissors. This was the time when I felt most out of my depth. Every picture I drew, everything I made out of pipe cleaners or popsicle sticks looked like  . . . a mess. 

The picture above, for example, is not a keepsake from those days. I drew it this morning. I have improved a lot.

So, one of the things that I learned in Kindergarten is that “Art” is not for me. Later, the school choir director would tell me that singing is not for me. My failures at “Art” and singing persuaded me that the manual dexterity, self discipline, and ear required to play a musical instrument were not in my wheelhouse either.

My school days reinforced the lesson about “Art” that I learned in Kindergarten. “Art” is for other people who are more talented, disciplined, and creative than I am.

I bet that I am not only person who learned that lesson.

Our culture also gives us the message that “Art” is for the  professionals to make. The rest of us can pay for the concert tickets, recordings, museum memberships, and streaming services that support the professionals.

But, at its most basic level, art is what Mrs. Crawford tried to teach me with modeling clay or popsicle sticks that I could glue together. What I made did not resemble anything in nature, but I was putting things together, I was giving shape to the shapeless, and color to blank sheets of paper.

I was also learning that whatever I create will probably look like a mess at first. I eventually learned how to create with words. I made my living with words. Everything I write is a mess at first. It has taken me weeks to write these 500 words.

I see people around me putting things together, bringing a new order out of the chaos of COVID-19.  They may make messes, but they keep at it until something new emerges.  Some do it Mrs. Crawford’s way, with paints, and crayons, and colored paper. Some make mouth-watering dinners and desserts. Some are trying to work from home, keep their kids on track, and maintain their sanity. Some are literally trying to make something out of nothing.

My friend and former neighbor, Stephen Calhoun, who began playing around with his digital camera and an iPad and discovered  a whole new form of art, posted a quote on Facebook a couple of years ago that sums up what I want to say:

Creativity belongs to the artist in each of us.

To create means to relate.

The root meaning of the word “art” is “to fit together”

and we all do this every day.

Not all of us are painters

but we are all artists.

Each time we fit things together

we are creating –

whether it is to make

a loaf of bread,

a child,

a day.

—Corita Kent

The Old School

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Read in 1 minute

I wrote this a few weeks after our 50th high school reunion a few years ago. I know it isn’t great poetry, and I said the same thing more prosaically back then, but I thought I would post this anyway. I think a lot of people feel this way later in life.

One of the school’s staff members took us on a tour of the building that had been remodeled, updated and expanded a number of times since we graduated. I said to Jacquie, who had graduated with me, that I would find it easier to learn my way around a completely new building than this one, because I had the old school inside my head.

The Old School

I went back to the old school,

the one where we learned 2+2,

and that every state was a star

on the American flag.

(There weren’t so many then.)

I learned the facts my teachers thought were true.

I learned cursive writing,

how to use a card catalog,

and a cross-cut saw.

Half a century after I left in my cap and gown,

I went back to the old school.

The hallways I could walk with eyes closed.

had new branches

and walls blocked old passages.

PC’s sit in the old study hall

replacing desks carved

with words like “Fag” when

“Gay” still meant “happy”.

Rolls of toilet paper and paper towels

are stored where I stood,

on my first day of Kindergarten.

And the Periodic Table is 1/3 longer.

In order to find my way around this new school,

I will have to unlearn the old school.

As I have unlearned cursive on my keyboard.

As I have had to unlearn 2+2

In a world where everything doesn’t add up.

As I have had to unlearn the history that

supported the superiority of my race,

my country,

my culture.

I go to a New School now.

The school of Unlearning.

I learn almost nothing when I pass.

I learn everything when I fail.

Guest Blog: Everything I Needed to Know for the Pandemic I Learned in Kindergarten — Creativity

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As I ask friends how they are getting through this strange time, a lot of them talk about going back to things we did in Kindergarten: drawing, painting, making things out of clay or wood — the stuff we often call “art.” (Soon, I’ll share something for those of you who, like me, don’t turn to these practices.)

Recently the Rev. Nancy Talbott wrote a letter to her congregation about how to take these practices deeper.

Nancy is pastor of The Congregational Church of North Barnstead in New Hampshire. She is also my sister. (Yes, it’s probably genetic.) Nancy not only writes, she makes music, draws, bakes, and builds congregations. She and her husband, Steve, have put two families together to create an amazing three-generational tribe. 

Nancy gave me permission to republish her letter here: 

Dear Friends,
The other day I was in a conversation with friends about how they are using their time during this Covid-19 summer.

One shared she was crafting and the other shared they have been doodling and coloring as a way to relieve stress and anxiety.

The coloring craze has been around for a number years now, and we can find adult coloring books everywhere, however, this conversation reminded me of a prayer practice I took on a number of years ago, after reading a book called, Praying in Color: Drawing a New Pathway to God, by Sybill Macbeth.


This practice is meditative, creative, and opens our communication with God. You can practice this anytime, however, it is an intentional practice, so turn off the 24-hour news cycle and find a comfortable, quiet place, a cup of tea or coffee, and begin!


All you need is a pencil or pen, and piece of paper. You can get fancy and pick up some colored pencils and a special pad of paper or a journal, however, the point is not to do too much planning…just begin.

Start with a name of someone you want to include in prayer, or maybe your own name. Draw a shape in the middle of the page, and write the name inside it, then draw another shape, and connect the two with a line. Or place God, Jesus, or Christ in the center and expand out with names or feelings, from there. There are no rules, the point is to relax with yourself and God for whatever time you want to spend.


You can also do this with a short piece of scripture as a Lectio Divina meditation. Here is a link for instructions on how to do this: Praying Scripture – click here


I have included some images at the end of this reflection for ideas. I have also included a link where you can find templates to print, however, I think the circles and curly-q’s you draw yourself will be better than any template.


This Covid-19 world is stressful and brings on so much fear and worry about things we cannot control. Praying in color, or just in black and white, can activate our right brains where compassion and creativity wait for us to participate, relax and grow.


When our hearts and minds are praying about ourselves and others, the perfect love of God enters our space and casts out our anxiety and our fear.
See you in worship!

Your pastor,
Rev. Nancy
Praying in color templates click here

Everything I Needed to Know for the Pandemic I Learned in Kindergarten: How to Live on the Margins

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One thing the current pandemic has killed is camaraderie, a feeling of belonging. The bars and the churches where we used to gather with others who knew our names are closed (or probably should be). We feel sidelined and lonely.

I recognize the feeling. I dealt with it in Kindergarten.

I had three major disadvantages when I went to Kindergarten:

  1. There was no one my age within four miles of my house. I had no social skills.
  2. My bus was among the last to arrive every morning. That meant that the kids on the early buses had already commandeered all the best toys. 
  3. My fifth birthday was only a month before school started. Most of the kids in the class were older than I was.  Developmentally, I was behind. In fact, my mother made me these nifty overalls because my fingers could not manage the button at the top of a pair of regular pants, to say nothing of a belt buckle. It worked, but it wasn’t a ticket to the cool kids’ table.

So, my morning went like this: 

I watched the girl who got on the tricycle first ride around and around the room. 

Wayne came on the first bus. He took over the building blocks. He was always the boss of building a castle. He told me every day that all the jobs were taken.

The other kids playing with other toys would just say, “I was here first,” and keep on playing. When the teacher would ask the other kids to share with me, they would resent me.

Most of the time, I just stood on the edge watching. The other kids treated me like I didn’t exist. When I hear the word “marginalize,” I remember that experience.

In some ways, I’m back on the margins again. I’m watching from the sidelines as younger, healthier people minister to others, reopen their businesses, work from home, or go back to their places of employment. Age and underlying health issues keep me cooped up at home.

In more important ways, I am now the one who was there first. I am a white male Boomer. I get a check from Social Security every month. I get another from my pension board.

My neighbors are mostly people of color. A majority are either immigrants or first generation Americans. They were living on the margins before the pandemic. But they were making it. They were hustling in ways that I never saw white male boomers hustle in my whole life. Now, our emergency food distribution lines can be 600 people long. 

I remember how it felt on the margin, watching the kids who got there first, hoping they would share with me, or at least get tired and move on, leaving something behind for me to play with.

So, Jacquie and I have upped our giving, especially to organizations that are trying to serve people who aren’t eligible for other kinds of help, like undocumented immigrants. Yes, “illegals.” I know. We are terrible people, but they are our neighbors and Jesus told us to love them. I am trying to treat them the way I wish the other kids had treated me when I was standing at the margins.

The cool thing about giving is that I feel connected to others. I don’t feel like I am just watching from the margins.

Christmas in July

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Flight Into Egypt | Birth art, Pictures of christ, Jesus mary and ...Years ago, some Christians started a movement to celebrate Christmas in July. It was an attempt to decouple the real meaning of the birth of Christ from the obscene excess of the December holiday.

Maybe that was what inspired me, a couple of years ago, to start writing this poem on the morning of July 4th. Or maybe it was “doublethink” a word coined by George Orwell in his novel, 1984, that described the effort people had to make in his future nation ruled by Big Brother, to believe that Big Brother’s lies were true when they knew the real truth.

At any rate, I finished it this morning.

Merry Christmas.

Eternal Refugees

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary

Constantly on the run

Herod once slew kids with a sword

Now he carries a gun.

They flee by burro, or ferry,

By bus or inside a truck

If they make it to the border and cross it

It is more by grace than by luck.

Powerful men become scary,

When deep inside they are afraid

That their people will wise up and rise up

So they tell us to be afraid of a Babe.

So the Holy Family gets harried

From Judea to New York State

“Murderers! Rapists! Carriers of disease!”

The Holy Family is met with hate.

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary

Locked in cages and camps out of sight.

Our leaders say, “They are not like us.”

For once, they are right.