Hi. Hello, Hey y’all. It’s time for a slice of (my) life. It has been a long winter surviving both record warmth—disappointing if you are into skiing or ice fishing—and record cold, complete with blizzards and incredible amounts of snow. While weather raged, I recovered from hip replacement surgery, passing the time by reading novels and watching the Winter Olympics and Para Olympics.

In addition, I have been attempting to keep up with a program called The Year of the Novel with Daniel David Wallace, a notable online writing teacher. Supposedly I will complete the first draft of a novel by the time the year is out. We shall see.

I have made more false starts on this post than I care to remember. I finally realized I was trying to put everything related to my novel project, church history, immigration and family history into one essay. For your sake and mine I’ve decided to break it down into several shorter posts.

Lord Have Mercy

Do daily news reports of wars, bombs, drone and missile strikes, death and destruction eat away at your sense of wellbeing as they do mine? If it weighs heavily on those of us observing from afar, what must it be like for those actually living in one of the multiple conflict zones around the world? Imagine trying to carry on with life if you never know when your home will be blown apart or loved ones will die in random attacks. When the necessities of food and shelter are hard to come by or simply not available. I shudder to think.

Today’s world is awash in immigrants, refugees, and displaced people. According to Pew Research as of mid-2025, there were 280 million people worldwide living outside their country of origin, including 117 million forcibly displaced, with the numbers escalating daily. A million have been displaced in Lebanon alone since February.

Lord have mercy.

Similar circumstances on a smaller scale and with less destructive weapons brought the first Europeans to the New World in the early 1600s. For over 400 years waves of immigrants and refugees from across the globe have clamored to reach our shores, often enduring unbelievable hardship to get here. They came in search of freedom: freedom of religion, freedom from violence and oppression, freedom to build a better life. At first newcomers were welcomed, even encouraged. With a whole continent to explore and populate who could object? Only the Native Americans who were overwhelmed by sheer numbers and pushed aside. However, the degree to which immigrants were welcomed has changed over time as has their ethnicity. The first settlers were English. Then came German, Irish, Italian, Polish, followed by Latin American, Asian, African, Middle Eastern.

The reality is that unless you are Native American, a first-generation immigrant, or a descendent of enslaved people forcefully transported, your ancestors were immigrants. My first known paternal ancestors arrived at the Port of Philadelphia in the early 1700s and settled in the state of Pennsylvania. My maternal ancestors who arrived in 1750 settled in the same area. They were among thousands who came in search of freedom to practice their Anabaptist faith.

Limitations were first placed on emigration with the Naturalization Act of 1790, a mere 14 years after independence. The act provided a pathway to citizenship for “free white people” with good moral character who had been in residence for at least two years. It’s nothing new then, that while by virtue of birth we enjoy the treasured American freedoms, many of us our hesitant to share our good fortune with new arrivals, especially those of different race, language or religion.

Lord have mercy.

The Oxford Dictionary defines mercy as compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one’s power to punish or harm.While I am aware that some limitations on immigration are necessary, I do long for mercy for the immigrants, the refugees, the displaced among us.

The question becomes, what does mercy look like in this context?

It depends, of course, on who you ask. My friends on the political right have vastly different opinions from my friends on the political left. Both see their differences as a matter of reasonable versus irrational, right versus wrong, good versus evil. It seems there is no middle ground. Religious beliefs often fortify political opinions on the left and the right, making the stakes for good and evil even higher.

What is an altruistic, conscientious person to do? The founder of the Christian faith gave the simple—but never easy—answer when he said, “love your neighbor as much as you love yourself,”

Challenged to define neighbor, Jesus told the story of the Good Samaritan, who acted as a neighbor by showing mercy to a stranger who was robbed, beaten and left to die. He provided first aid, found a safe place for the victim to stay and paid for his ongoing care. It’s noteworthy that Samaritans and Jews had been religious and political rivals for centuries and Jesus was speaking to a largely Jewish audience. Master teacher that he was, Jesus elicited the correct answer from his questioner, then told him to go and do the same thing. (Luke 10: 29-37). He also instructed his followers to love each other and to love their enemies. It’s not a stretch to apply the same principles to left and right, Republican and Democrat, Christian and Muslim et.al.

Is it possible that both conservatives and liberals can be responsible, thoughtful people, even Christ followers, and acknowledge each other as such? Think of the difference it would make if all 235 million Americans who identify as Christian treated one another with respect and kindness, going the extra mile when needed. Picture the changes in society at large if we the people—all 342 million Americans, extended compassion to each other, to the marginalized, to the rich and powerful, to citizens of warring nations. Imagine!

Lord have mercy on us as you teach us to practice mercy.

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I turned 50? I wish! No, it was my daughter. My youngest. It’s hard to believe she is that old, how old that makes me and how young 50 is—actually. So many years ahead, so many opportunities if you can get past thinking you’re too old to—fill in the blank.

Of course, it didn’t seem that way when I turned 50. However, 50 did galvanize me to follow my dream of becoming a mental health counselor. It served as a flashing yellow light saying, “now or never.”

I first encountered the benefits of counseling for myself and my family in my mid-30s. I found the experience life-changing, began to think of it as an enviable career, and stashed the idea along with other improbable dreams in the “someday” file in my head.

My pressing goal at the time was to finally complete my undergraduate degree, interrupted after two years of college by marriage, children, and multiple moves. I completed my BA at the age of 38 and continued working in the writing arena while my children grew up and my husband settled into his new career in health care.

My interest in counseling only grew as I did PR writing for a counseling center. Then somehow mental health stories kept popping up on the education and religion beat I covered for a local newspaper. Volunteer work as a Guardian ad Litem underlined the pressing need for mental health services in the larger community. More and more I felt called to live out compassionate caring in a practical way.

And so, I left my full-time job and entered a graduate program in counseling at Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary in Charlotte.

It was a scary transition. What about finances, student loans, and an aging brain? Would I succeed or would it be an embarrassing waste of time and money? It took me 18 years and five institutions to complete my undergrad. Why did I think I could knock out a masters in two years, after a 12-year hiatus?

I had loved school since third grade—but that’s a story for another day—and I delighted in being back in the world of academia. Not that it was easy. Going to class and interacting with professors and fellow students, ranging in age from 20 to 50, was the fun part.

It took persistence and determination to stay the course that included mountains of reading and research and endless written papers. Beyond using words to convey information, journalism and academic writing appeared to have little in common. I never learned to enjoy the rigors of scholarly writing, but I persevered.

Required internships in counseling settings brought stone-cold fear of facing clients on my own, and the joy of discovering that I loved doing just that. After two years of intense but gratifying labor, I graduated cum laude into the real world of therapy.

The first hurdle was passing the licensure exam, for which we students were well prepared by the robust academic program and challenging tests along the way. We were informed that everyone who had graduated from the program to date, had passed the test on the first try. No pressure!

Then came finding employment in order to rack up the 2,000 hours of supervised practice required to qualify for licensure. Two years later came the arduous process of credentialing with various health insurers to be eligible for third-party payments.

Along the way, I set up office in a church kitchen where clients were few and far between; in a battered women’s shelter working with preschool children; in a community counseling center with many severely mentally ill clients; and in a colleagues’ private practice that folded one year in.

Starting a business had never been on my bucket list, but because nothing else was working well, I launched Courage Counseling Services (CCS) in September 2006. Just in time for the 2008 recession to hit. Need I say, therapy was not top priority for people facing loss of home and livelihood?

The next few years were a long slog out of debt and into profitability. However, CCS survived and then thrived through three in-person locations and the transition to virtual sessions in 2020, officially closing upon my retirement in 2025.

The 27 years since I took the risk of changing course have been the most rewarding of my life. Had I known at 50 how arduous it would be, I might not have had the courage to begin. But I am so glad I did! It was well worth the risk.

My advice to those 50 and beyond—attempt the thing you’ve always wanted to do. Don’t let age deter you. Time passes regardless of whether you pursue your dream.

Taking my own advice, I’m starting to write the novel I have been mulling over for 20 years. Whether or not I succeed, at least I will have tried. Better late than never, right?

I will keep you posted.

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Author’s note: Why am I writing about something as banal as friendship when the world and our nation are in a daily state of crisis? Because friendships help to keep me grounded in troubled times and because I recently delighted in a college roommate reunion.

It all began for me on a steamy afternoon in August 1967 when I arrived on the campus of Toccoa Falls College in Toccoa, Georgia. I was welcomed by Lee, my hometown best friend, and Mary Ellen, her favorite roommate from the year before. For two years, the three of us shared a dorm room built for two with little aggravation and rarely a cross word.

This September, Mary Ellen and Lee converged on my home in Wisconsin from California and South Carolina for our first reunion in many years. We had a marvelous time as we hiked La Crosse’s Grandad Bluff with its view of the Mississippi River Valley, cruised the Mississippi on the La Crosse Queen, and viewed Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale. But catching up and reminiscing, meaning a lot of talk, was the most fun of all.

One of the joys of being with my college roommates is our shared history. They knew my late husband, Mike, before I did and they lost no time introducing us when I arrived on campus. Long conversations turned into dating, then going steady. I proudly wore his much-too-large high school class ring as proof of our relationship. By the time I went home for Christmas, Mike and I were engaged, though it was another year before he saved enough to purchase a diamond ring to make it official.

Today our version of dating would simply be called hanging out. 0n a typical day we met for dinner in the school cafeteria that offered homegrown, home-cooked food and plenty of it. I promptly put on the infamous “freshman 15” even though I would give Mike my second hamburger, and he ate three without gaining a pound. After dinner, we walked and talked, or sat on the stone wall that bisected the campus and talked, or sat in the student center and talked. In an era when cell phones hadn’t been thought of, there was little to distract us from conversation. On Sundays, we walked to the impressive waterfall the school is named for and then met a group of friends, including Lee and her boyfriend, George, for dinner and more talk. Off-campus dates were allowed once a month and only for juniors or seniors and their dates. Lucky for me, Mike was a junior.

The social highlights of the year were campus-wide banquets complete with tuxes and evening gowns. In the conservative Christian culture of the day, drinking and dancing were verboten. The sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll culture of the 60s passed us by, not a bad thing. But we did manage to circumvent the six-inch rule. Even holding hands was not allowed, but a gentleman could always give a lady his arm for a stroll, and no one monitored our activities when we were off campus.

Lee and George married in the college chapel the day after George’s graduation and promptly left for their first ministerial assignment in Maine. Mike and I followed suit two months later and headed for Michigan, the first of numerous moves for both of us. Mary Ellen stayed to finish her degree and then pursued further education before marrying and moving to California.

At first, we three kept in touch the old-fashioned way with letters and occasional phone calls or visits. Even while living hundreds to thousands of miles apart, we managed to meet each other’s children and develop auntie relationships with them.

Long-distance calls were pricey back then, so reserved for emergencies or special occasions. Now we can talk by the hour without running up the basic phone bill or send emails and texts. Lee and Mary Ellen still send Christmas and birthday cards, but I confess I rarely do.

For the last two years, we met once a month via video link. And on occasion, we hop on an airplane and meet in person. Mary Ellen’s 80^th birthday—no, I’m not there yet—prompted our September reunion.

Our 20-year-old selves couldn’t even imagine the senior citizens we have become—mothers, grandmothers, widows. Lee has four children, ten grandchildren, six great-grands, and counting. I have two daughters and three high school and college–age grandsons. Mary Ellen, who worked with children for years, has none of her own, but says she has no regrets on that score. She still has her “prince charming,” and they are quite content with their feline and canine fur babies.

Despite the differences in location, careers, and family or marital status, we three still have much in common. Cats, books, and church are part of all our lives. Walking is the preferred form of exercise, and singing in a choir passes for fun.

I am grateful that Lee and Mary Ellen stayed in touch when I was squeezing in education between marriage and children, moves, and career changes; when I was a stay-at-home mom, a journalist, and a therapist. I have just as closely followed the meandering journeys of their lives, rejoicing or weeping with them as life unfolded.

While our friendships flourished over the years, we have never lived in the same place. Of necessity, we each found local friends wherever we landed. For a while my closest local friend was Mrs. Rossi, who was 73 to my 23. When Mike and I had little children, other young families from church were the friends we shared life with. In our daughters’ school years and beyond, we found friends among colleagues, coworkers, and neighbors as most people do.

Ever since college days, walking and talking with friends has been one of my favorite things. I started walking with Debra in the 1980s when our families lived upstairs and downstairs in the same house. Later, we worked together and often walked during our lunch hour.

I took the first walk with my neighbor Carol in 1996, and the last one in 2014, just before we moved away. Eighteen years passed as Carol and I walked and talked three or four days a week, joined by Melba, Phyliss, and Dianne among others as schedules and circumstances allowed.

Though I haven’t found a consistent walking buddy since, I still walk—though not as far or as fast—and I miss the talk. These days, I talk with friends when we meet for coffee or lunch now and again.

In the ebb and flow of life, some friends have been friends for a season, while many friendships have stood the test of time and distance. Social media, for all its faults has made it possible to stay minimally in contact with friends who otherwise might have been lost in life’s twists and turns.

Maintaining friendships over time, whether local or long-distance, takes a commitment of time and attention, even money. Worth it? Absolutely. Treasured friendships in this life set the stage for a grand reunion in heaven someday!

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Why write about family reunions when the world is on fire? The daily news, a litany of grief and loss—wars, famine, fires, floods, political upheaval, mass deportations. Write perhaps as a reminder to cherish whatever is good, honorable and lovely in your everyday life, in your ordinary family. Or pause for a moment to remember your childhood reunions. Perhaps you grew up in the constant company of cousins, aunts, and uncles. Or maybe your family reunions, like mine, started with a road trip.

It began with a 16-hour drive on 1950s pre-interstate roads from South Carolina to Ohio. In a Chevrolet sedan with a family of nine and no air conditioning. It was not fun.

The payoff? A few weeks with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Well worth the trip. Our grandparents’ farm became base camp and from there we scattered to three other farms and several small-town homes. I never tired of helping Grandpa feed the pigs or getting underfoot while my uncle milked the cows. It was delightful to float on a giant inner tube in the farm pond or chase fireflies in the seemingly endless summer twilight.

On Sunday afternoons all the relatives would gather at the grandparents’ farm, spread tables under shade trees in the yard, and dig into a feast of homegrown, home cooked food, topped off with fresh strawberries and hand-cranked ice cream.

All accompanied—as I recall—with nonstop talk and loads of laughter.

Fast forward 25 years. Seven siblings have established seven families in seven different states. We learned as children that home is wherever you find yourself, and so we settled where college, careers, and spouses took us.

For decades our reunions were haphazard. Sometimes we managed to coordinate visits to our parents in South Carolina. After Dad died and Mom moved back home, we would meet in Ohio with the added benefit of connecting with extended family including occasional cousin reunions on a grand scale.

Still, after Mom passed in 2008, we siblings had no epicenter. We kept loosely in touch but soon realized that preserving our fragile family connection would require prioritizing reunions.

Beginning in 2011, siblings and spouses—missing only our sister who died years earlier at age 45—convened every other June to catch up, talk, laugh, and bond while enjoying a scenic, natural setting. It was almost as much fun for me as those childhood reunions, albeit a lot more work! When we went our separate ways in 2019 after our fifth reunion, it was obvious that we were all aging, but I assumed with our family history of longevity (our elders lived well into their 90s) we could plan on many reunions to come.

The pandemic upended the world in 2020, but it was in 2021 that the unraveling of our family began. It seems the downside of longevity is losing spouses not blessed with our genes. The first spouse died in January 2021. By October 2023, five of six spouses had passed away. Reunions were replaced by funerals, time set aside to share memories, honor lives well lived, and mourn our mutual losses.

Death moved into our sibling group in early 2025 with the passing of one of my four “big brothers,” the one closest to me in age, who told endless stories, who kept us all laughing. The only true extravert in a family of introverts.

We debated even having a reunion this year, but with the illusion of guaranteed longevity shattered, we agreed we had best get together while we can. In June we met at a state park in the Midwest, a picturesque setting with great hiking trails and available lodging.

It seemed a small group: only five of us and one remaining sister-in-law. Minus our extraverted in-laws and story-telling brother, it was rather quiet at times. Happily, a handful of our children, grandchildren, and one great grandchild filled the silence with the chatter and laughter we were lacking.

Family genealogy books that traced our lineage on both sides to the 1700s plus an informal memoir written by our mother fueled conversation, not to mention revisiting youthful memories, the resurfacing of childhood rivalries, and the chance to pick on their little sister yet again. The brothers argued the merits of the best major league baseball and NFL teams, and the Ford vs. Chevy dispute never ends.

We parted with a tentative plan to head west for our next gathering. We are in our 70s and 80s now. Even with good health and longevity on our side, I can’t help but wonder who will be present or absent from our next reunion.

I came home, as I always do, with a renewed sense of belonging. These are my people! This is my family! I marvel that we can be so different and yet so much alike. I am grateful that we have learned to set aside differences to focus on shared history, celebrate the strengths of our heritage and forgive its flaws. That is what family reunions are all about.

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I recently made a disconcerting discovery about myself. I am addicted to my laptop.

I use it for hours every day. Always with good reason, I tell myself. Since 2020, my laptop has connected me with counseling clients in two states. In my newly minted retirement, my laptop is for writing and research. Revisiting projects I haven’t had time for. Creating new ones. Connecting with my writers group. In the rare event I have nothing pressing or interesting to do, my laptop awaits. Always faithful. Always ready.

Until one Friday when it refuses to boot up. I turn it off. Give it a rest. Come back the next day. Same thing. The tease of “Lenovo” on the screen followed by gray squiggles. Monday morning I find myself on the doorstep of my local computer repair shop, having eschewed Geek Squad as too corporate with too much to sell. My resistance to a good salesperson is too low.

“Sure, we’ll figure it out,” Zach the computer guy says. “We’ll call you in one to three days.”

THREE DAYS?! But need it for 25 things today!

Three days later I get the message.

“Looks like the CPU is going. You will need a new laptop.”

Moan.

No, they don’t sell laptops and this is how much memory, how many gigabytes of RAM, which operating system I must look for in a replacement. They would be happy to make a clone (A clone? Who knew?) of my old one to install on the new one, and it will be quick and easy. Everything as it has been.

I do a cursory survey of locally available laptops before I resort to Amazon. Really good prices. Free delivery in two days. Lots of choice. I like that one—the HP with a 17-inch screen. I had an HP desktop once, and my HP printer works great.

Another Friday and my new computer arrives. I figure a week isn’t bad turnaround time and besides, it was a chance to organize my office and sort out overflowing bookshelves and closets. I rather enjoy not feeling compelled to write and be able to luxuriate in reading a novel in the middle of the day without guilt.

On Monday morning I plunk my shiny new laptop down on the computer shop counter.

“HP. This might be a problem. Who told you what kind of computer to buy?”

Well, no one actually. I had no idea the brand mattered.

“We can do the transfer, but it will probably take a little longer.”

This is my first clue that an HP is not a good choice, the point at which I should decide to return it and get another Lenovo. But I don’t really consider it. Too much hassle. I would rather wait for Zach to work his magic.

It turns out HP does not like clones from other brands, and worse yet, my Microsoft 365 online account is illusive. My password is not working, and Microsoft claims to have no record of my account. It takes a week to figure out that an old Microsoft account is showing up and somehow hiding my current 365 account. Or something like that.

With the validity of my account established, I presume that Microsoft’s technical support will know how to untangle the muddle. Wrong! After four hours online and no progress, the tech assures me the program that is now downloading will fix it. He will call back in an hour to make sure, but he never does, so I do. I reach another technician who runs through the same routine with the same non-results and the same assurance that he will call back. Only difference, this time I know not to expect a callback.

This weekend I attend a writers retreat and come home fired up to work on my project. But still, I can’t access Microsoft Word, although I can go online.

I remember that my longtime webmaster, Daniel, has done remote work for me in the past. I get in touch and start the process with him. He makes more progress than the Microsoft techs. However, he recommends that for best functionality the computer should be wiped to remove all evidence of my attempts to use it and returned to factory settings.

Now I think I should just send it back, but the return window closes in two days, and it will have to be wiped before it can be returned. So, it’s back to the computer shop. They agree with Daniel’s prognosis. The prescribed three working days to wipe it, reinstall all programs, and transfer documents and photos turns into six days with a weekend in the middle.

It’s been a six-week saga, but at last I am creating a Word document! However, I find I have lost the rhythm of writing time, my writers group has disbanded for the summer, and I’m sorting out vacation plans. It’s only the day after Memorial Day that I finally sit down to write. The opportunity has long gone to post my musings on Lent, Easter, the arrival of spring, and honoring those who died for our freedom.

I’m sure there are insights to be pondered, wisdom to be shared from this experience. But I’ll spare you and stick with telling the story of a wholly unexpected and largely unappreciated slice of my life. Because sometimes life is like that.

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“He gets us!” The arresting words and images of the well-known commercials got me to thinking. What does that even mean? This is my take.

He gets our triumphs and our tragedies. He gets our workaholism and our need for down time. He gets the pressures of our daily lives, our anger, our fears. Our hopes and dreams. Our despair. Our joys.

He gets how different we are, how much alike. The myriad personalities, the differing opinions, the racing thoughts, the empty minds. The fitness enthusiasts and the couch potatoes. The mountain climbers, skiers, sky divers, and those who stay home by the fire.

He gets our goodness and our callous indifference, our generosity, and our selfishness. He gets the conservatives and the liberals. The hate groups and the helping groups. The activist and the conformist. The soldier and the pacifist.

Jesus gets our little planet, teeming with life. Not to mention the awe-inspiring, breathtaking, indescribable universe. It was all in his mind from the creation of our world, whether through seven days of miracles or eons of time.

He gets our love of rivers and oceans, mountain vistas, and open prairies. Blue skies, sunshine, billowing clouds. The jungles, the wildflowers, the manicured gardens, forests, savannahs. The birds, the insects, all creatures great and small.

He gets our bodies, our complex brains, our idiosyncrasies. Our spirits that seek for something beyond ourselves. Yes, he gets us. He knows us. All peoples. All cultures. From the beginning until the end of time.

Jesus gets those who rejected and crucified him and those who worship him.

He gets all the forms his church has taken over the centuries. From the original apostles proclaiming the Good News throughout the Roman Empire, to the all-encompassing Catholic Church of the Middle Ages, to the Reformation and the tens of thousands of Protestant denominations today.

He gets the nones, the agnostics, and the atheists. The worshipers of literal idols, and those who worship fame, money, and power. He gets the Muslims, the Buddhists, the pagans.

Is this world—are we—all that Jesus desires? I think not.

But he does understand us, all of us. He weeps for and with us, woos us, embraces us, loves us. Jesus gets us!

Do we get him?

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I thought I could delete Valentine’s Day from my calendar this year. My sweetheart has passed on, and Valentine’s is not a family event since we celebrate six birthdays from December through March, not to mention Christmas. But then my writing muse Maureen Ryan Griffin (wordplaynow.com) presented a prompt for her Under Construction writing class that included the phrase “the space where you are not.”1 And I couldn’t help thinking of all the empty spaces in my day-to-day life once filled by my late husband, Michael.

At this moment I am in my Tuesday morning Zoom writers’ group, but you are not in the living room with one ear cocked for the sound of laughter that is so often a part of this gathering. When it is over you will not be asking what was so funny, and I won’t be attempting to repeat one of Kathy G’s hilarious always-true stories.

You won’t be telling me not to worry about lunch because you aren’t hungry. I won’t be reminding you that you must eat to live and convincing you to split an apple and a peanut butter sandwich with me. You won’t be pondering the wisdom of venturing out for a walk on a sunny but frigid winter day and opting for a nap instead.

You won’t be there at dinner tonight relishing the roast beef with rice and gravy, or pushing the Brussels sprouts to the side, saying it’s not that you don’t like them, it’s just that you’re full. Even though we both know that’s not true.

This evening you won’t be in your lounge chair watching the national news, commiserating with me about all the mayhem going on in the world. We won’t be searching for a Netflix show we both like, and in an attempt to compromise, choosing one neither of us like very much.

Tonight, you will not be in the king size bed that still holds pride of place in the bedroom, where I sleep in one corner surrounded by pillows instead of your arms.

In the morning you won’t be asking how I slept, or what my plans are for the day. We won’t be sharing our ritual morning hug and kiss.

Later you won’t be suggesting we go to Dawn’s Dollar Deals, your favorite thrift shop, or to Menards, the store that carries everything a man could want from tools to building materials to malted milk balls. You won’t be proposing going to Culver’s for lunch.

So many spaces where you are not. And yet there is one space where you are and always will be—the space in my heart for the love of my life, my husband, my lover, my friend. My heart, your space—forever.

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50s I grew up one of seven children—five boys and two girls. Migrated from Mennonite roots in Ohio to Minnesota then South Carolina. Reading was my favorite thing.

60s High school, college, marriage (1969).

70s Stay-at-home mom in survival mode. A medically fragile daughter and her healthy, active sister keep me hopping. Hubby works to support us all. I read for sanity and escape; historical novels are the best. I catch the writing bug.

80s We join Wycliffe Bible Translators as stateside support staff, assigned to the JAARS Center in Waxhaw, North Carolina. I am delighted to write PR pieces for WBT/JAARS.

90s PR for a counseling center, freelance for local newspapers, a stint as a newspaper reporter covering education and religion. Love writing SLICE OF LIFE newspaper columns/essays. At age 50, I enter a graduate program in counseling at Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary in Charlotte, North Carolina. Academic writing definitely not my first choice.

2000s Private practice Courage Counseling Service in Waxhaw and Salisbury, North Carolina, and La Crosse, Wisconsin. Remote since 2020. Writing blog posts—on again, off again—on my counseling website.

I read professional literature to stay sharp in my field, spiritual books to nourish my Christian faith, and novels to relax. A Zoom-based Charlotte, North Carolina, weekly writers group with Maureen Ryan Griffin (wordplaynow.com) keeps my writing juices flowing.

2023 After 54 years of marriage, I am a widow.

2025 It’s time to retire from active counseling practice and focus on writing. I ask my IT guy/webmaster Daniel Brinneman (danielbrinneman.com) for advice on transitioning my website from counseling to writing. He suggests Substack, a site I have been exploring. Before I know it, I have a Substack account, and Daniel migrates 15 years of mostly mental-health-related blog posts to my Substack archives.

So here I am, planning to write SLICE OF LIFE essays on Substack and work on my dream—the origin story of the Mennonite and Amish faiths in novel form, set in 16^th century Europe.

I would love to have you join me on the journey by subscribing to SLICE OF LIFE.

For more on what I will be writing, read my About page.

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The Martin Luther King, Jr. National Memorial in Washington, DC opened to the public on August 22, 2011. It honors Dr. King’s vision of freedom, opportunity and justice for all. It is the first major memorial along the National Mall to be dedicated to an African-American and to a non-president.

It seems fitting that the monument dedication—rescheduled from August 28 due to Hurricane Irene—will be led by the first African-American president.

King poured his life into righting the wrongs in our society. He was dedicated to non-violence, yet in the face of violence, he refused to run and he refused to hide. In his lifetime, as his assassination demonstrates, many who wanted to maintain the status quo considered him the enemy. In spite of this in his 39 years he inspired a nation to take steps, however slowly and painfully, toward equality for all minorities.

What made King so inspirational, his sermons so memorable?

Amazing skill as a speaker certainly plays a part, but for me, what shines through his speeches is the absolute conviction that we as a nation will reach the Promised Land of racial equality. Has that dream been entirely realized? Certainly not. Has progress been made? Without a doubt. For a sense of how much has changed watch the current movie, The Help, a story told from the perspective of Negro maids in Misssiippi in the 1960s.

Another word for MLK’s conviction is hope. Not the wishful thinking kind of hope, but robust hope that is certain of making progress and reaching goals.

Faith is another component. The kind of faith that believes in something or someone, totally and absolutely. King believed unequivocally not only in his vision of equality but also in his God and in the moral imperative of his cause.

And then there is courage. King had the courage to live—and die—by his convictions.

Beyond that, King’s life demonstrated that faith and hope—translated into courageous action—can move mountains.

I can think of a few mountains that need moving in our nation and our world, in our homes, in our lives. Your mountain might look like inequality, or it might look like any number of adverse circumstances—unemployment, fractured families, broken relationships, mental or physical illness, to name a few.

Whatever the nature of your mountain—faith, hope and courage are essential to conquer it. Without hope you cannot think creatively or solve problems effectively. With hope comes faith that change is possible. Hope and faith give the courage to persevere in the face of adversity.

Martin Luther King, Jr's faith and hope translated into courageous action stands as a shining example for us all.

This post was originally written in 2011 right after the MLK Memorial came online.

To argue or not to argue is the question faced by many couples. For the sake of clarity, I will call my fictional, but all too real couple, Jim and Jean.  Jean is convinced that every disagreement, no matter how minor must be resolved, and she can’t drop the subject or go to sleep until it is. With issues large or small, she’s like a dog with a bone, seemingly never letting anything go. 

Jim, on the other hand, just wants peace. He’s certain it’s better not to say anything. The best time to have an argument is never. After all, he knows Jean will say what she wants to say and do what she wants to do. So why bother to say what he thinks or feels?

Since Jim is not saying anything, Jean assumes she knows what he’s thinking and reacts to her assumptions. First, she tries to fix things and when that doesn’t work she resorts to criticism, leaving Jim feeling attacked. 

In the meantime, anger is building for both of them. Until one day Jim is fed up, can’t stand to listen to another word, and his unvoiced feelings explode in a torrent of rage. Naturally, instead of listening, Jean defends herself and the fight is on. The ensuing battle accomplishes no good purpose but leaves them both emotionally battered and bruised. 

It is a dance repeated over and over during their years together. Each argument creates a bit more distance and adds layers of self-protective emotional armor. Until one day Jean and Jim find themselves at opposite ends of their house barely able to be in the same room. 

Jean is ready to walk away, sure that Jim is never going to change, feeling that their marriage is a meaningless, empty shell. Jim, desperate to save the relationship, has done an about-face. Now he is the one pursuing every angle, following every lead, searching for a way to convince Jean that he does care, that he can change, that he has always loved her and always will.

Rather than welcoming Jim’s unprecedented attention, Jean views it as too little, too late, sure that any positive change Jim makes won’t last. After all, there have been times in the past when Jean floated the D word and Jim tried to please her—for a week or two—before things went back to normal.

Is there hope for Jim and Jean’s marriage? Absolutely, if both are willing to work at it. Strengthening their bond will require Jim to be willing to risk speaking up while Jean’s challenge will be to back off the criticism and listen to what Jim has to say. 

They must mutually change the steps of their dance. Jean will learn to trust Jim’s sincerity as he responds to her concerns. Jim will begin to express his thoughts and feelings when Jean considers his point of view.

When Jim overcomes his anxiety and takes a step toward Jean—against all her instincts—she must stop and listen. When she understands where Jim is coming from, she can take a step toward him by stating her opinion rather than criticizing. Perhaps Jim will take a step toward Jean with a counteroffer or another idea. It is crucial that each has a voice and considers the other’s point of view.

As they moved away from each other one disagreement at a time, they can reverse course and move toward each other a step at a time. Presently, the distance between them will shorten and they can pivot toward compromise, and agree to disagree without the usual anger. Not that emotion is lacking, but that Jim can accept Jean’s strong feelings and Jean can accept Jim’s desire for peace. And both can choose to say what they need to say in a way that is respectful of the other.  

Disagreements are bound to happen in any relationship. Respectful arguments will go a long way to keep communication going while building trust and understanding. 

Sacrament: a sacred ritual. To my way of thinking, life on this planet begins and ends with the sacraments of waiting and letting go. 

First comes letting go in the act of procreation. And then begins the sacrament of waiting, and waiting, and waiting. But it is not idle waiting as embryo becomes fetus becomes unborn child. It is instead an explosion of growing, dividing, proliferating cells. A symphony of organization as body systems develop and differentiate to form a new person, an infinitely precious infant, one of God’s image bearers.

            When the time is right and all systems are go, the mother’s body forces the infant from the security of the womb into the larger world, where it is welcomed and swaddled, fed, and nurtured. 

            Thus begins a lifetime of waiting, not idly but with energy, purpose, and focus. Parents waiting for their child to reach important milestones—to walk and talk and grow. Little kids waiting to be big kids, to go to school, to drive. Longing to graduate, to leave home. Yearning to find love. To create a family. 

Although normal and necessary, neither waiting nor letting go is easy. Ask any mother sending her child off to school for the first time, or parents seeing their young adult children leave for college, marriage, or careers. Then awaiting the return, at the end of a school day or semester. Anticipating holidays or family reunions.

Ask someone who is working toward a career or life goal and wondering when things will come together. or leaving behind one job or location with its attendant friends, family, and lifestyle, to venture in a new direction. If all goes well the rituals of waiting and letting go produce happiness, fulfillment, and personal growth. 

However, life does not always progress smoothly. At times it is necessary to ride the waves of grief that arise from loss, the shame of abuse, the guilt from poor choices, addiction, and thoughtless words and deeds. In these situations, the process of releasing can be excruciating. It may be necessary to give up the idea that you can manage everything on your own and reach out to faith, family, friends, or professionals for help.

The end of life as we know it sets waiting and letting go in sharp relief. The inevitable changes of aging often mean relinquishing a satisfying vocation, a favorite pastime, or a cherished home. Most wrenching is confronting your own mortality and awaiting the inevitable death of a loved one in the final farewell. 

It is the sacrament of life; waiting and letting go.

People come to therapy looking for change. Change in their circumstances, their family members, their spouses, and their feelings. “I just want to feel better,” or “I just want to be happy,” they say. “If only they would…, then I could….”

What they don’t really want is to change themselves. So, I am constantly saying, “You can’t change anyone else. You can only change yourself.” 

“Yes, but…” is a typical response while they go on to explain the partner, the job, the house, the circumstances, must change for them to do so. 

While it is true that your environment and the people you live and work with influence how you think and feel, transformation that significantly impacts your life depends on your own willingness to well—change. To go deep inside yourself, to see your motivation and behavior from another perspective. To acknowledge that the parts of yourself that you don’t like often serve a valid purpose.

It requires a willingness to let go of self-protective behaviors that are sometimes self-sabotaging. To be ready to forgive yourself for past mistakes, to forgive others for hurting you, and to accept forgiveness from others that you have wronged. 

Being open to questioning long-held beliefs and assumptions is foundational to lasting change, especially as it relates to anxious or depressing thoughts. Is this thought true? Is it always true? Is there another valid way to think about it? Altering how you think is most often the key to modifying your feelings. 

It is equally important to accept and validate your positive qualities. To cheer for the ways in which you have overcome, done well, and been helpful to others. To celebrate growth. 

No one is 100 percent right or wrong, good or bad. Which is to say we are all human, imperfect, and at times in need of growth and change. Genuine change is a tall order. It takes courage and it takes time. Your faith can be a powerful resource and mentors, friends, or therapists can be helpful. 

The most vibrant, healthy people are those who remain open to growth and change throughout their lives. It is a goal worth pursuing!

Susan ran out the front door and headed down the street, race-walked two blocks to the neighborhood park and crashed onto a bench. She forced herself to slow her breathing. Inhale—one—two—three—four. Exhale—one—two—three—four—five—six. Repeat. Again. And again. She pulled her long, blonde hair up off her neck, fished in her pocket for a pony-tail elastic. Took inventory—noticing her heart rate slowing, legs no longer primed to run. Shook out her hands, wrapped her arms around herself for a hug.

“You’re alright. No danger here. No cars coming out of nowhere. You’re alright.” Because there was no one around she said it out loud. The sound of her own voice helped to ground and settle her.

What was going on?

Susan had been triggered into panic by the music in a TV commercial. The same tune that had been playing on the car radio just before the accident that put her in a coma for three days and in rehab for two painful months.

This wasn’t the first time a sound, a sight, a thought, triggered her body into fight, flight or freeze mode. She hated freeze the most. It reminded her too much of waking up in the hospital unable to speak, barely able to move. At those times she felt like a deer in the headlights, unable to escape the inevitable collision.

Fortunately, as part of her recovery in the rehab unit, Susan had learned about the possibility of post-traumatic stress reactions. She knew what was going on and how to manage the panic. She knew that her first line of defense when panic hit was simply to breathe. Simple sure, but not always easy. It helped if she imagined the overwhelming feeling of danger as a wave breaking on the beach. It would come and it would go, and eventually subside. In addition she had earned how to use her internal dialogue to soothe herself.

Why was Susan’s reaction to danger signals so visceral? Because as is true for all of us, her brain was hardwired to prepare her body to protect her from impending danger.

If you are about to be attacked by a tiger, an enemy soldier, or an angry person intent on physical or verbal harm, it serves you well. You have the extra adrenalin to power you to fight back or flee the scene until the danger passes. Or like a backyard rabbit at the sight of a dog, you may freeze, totally unable to react because your brain signals stillness as your best defense, and at times it is.

Whether you experience a single incident of horrific trauma or repeated moments of distress over days, months, even years, fight, flight, or freeze becomes an automatic reaction easily triggered by external stimuli. The body really does keep the score.

The problem comes when the feeling of danger is real but there is no real danger, as in Susan’s case. Or like a combat vet who dives for cover when a car backfires. Or an adult who reacts to a partner’s legitimate anger as if to their abusive parent. In countless situations an unwarranted fight, flee, freeze reaction disrupts lives and harms relationships.

If you find yourself in a similar position, what can you do? 

The first step is to recognize what is happening. Know that you are not going crazy or having a heart attack. 

To have tools ready to use when the need arises, practice deep breathing and staying in the present moment when you are calm and centered.

Question the truth of negative thoughts and feelings and the underlying beliefs. Is it true? Is it always true? Is there another way to think about it? Banish worst case scenario thinking. Question the validity of your conviction that things will never be better/right/the way you want them to be. Use your self-talk to reassure yourself.

Look for resources beyond yourself such as

• Belief in a loving, caring, and powerful God

• Talk therapy

• Medication under physician supervision

• Yoga, Pilates and other body-based therapies

• Supportive family members and friends

Finally, be kind to your body. You can’t live without it. Heathy eating, regular exercise, and plenty of sleep build a strong foundation for the resilience and toughness necessary to thrive in an uncertain and often traumatic world.

Author Note: With appreciation to Bessel Vander Kolk, M. D. and his book The Body Keeps the Score, an excellent resource on recovery from trauma.

“What did you do this summer?” It’s a question you often hear as fall closes in and school starts. For North Carolinians, the answer usually involves family reunions and trips to the beach and the mountains, or a cruise, a trip out west or up north, or even to Europe. 

For us, transplants from North Carolina to Wisconsin, the summer was about moving. Again. July marked the third move since March 2021. Sixteen months. Are we nuts?! But I blame it on the super-heated housing market that necessitated leaping first and looking later.

In February 2021 we began to explore the idea, long on the back burner, of moving from North Carolina to Wisconsin. A thousand miles between us and our growing-up-too-fast grandchildren and their parents, being way too much. It was either constant travel that they didn’t have time for, and, we weren’t up for, or move. But we never expected that the first conversation with a realtor on Valentine’s weekend in 2021 would result in a move before Easter. But that’s the way it was.

With most of our possessions in storage in Wisconsin, moving from a small, temporary apartment to a house for the four of us—my husband and I, our daughter, and her dog—felt urgent. So, we grabbed the first accepted offer and moved to a 75-year-old fixer-upper. It turned out the great curb appeal didn’t translate to comfortable living. 

A year later we knew it was time to love it—more fixing up, more money—or list it. The cooling but still-hot housing market catapulted us into another quick move. Or at least we will blame it on that instead of our impulsiveness. 

One Sunday in June we toured a home that checked all the boxes. On Monday, our offer—one of six—was accepted. The realtor listed our house for sale the following weekend. When we returned from a family reunion five days later, we had multiple offers including a cash offer $20,000 over asking price. Who could pass that up? It all seemed like a “God-thing.” Especially when the fed raised the interest rates the day after we locked in the rate on our new mortgage. 

And so, in July we moved for the third time. August has been about settling in and discovering we really do love this one. No more moves!

Moving has dominated our two summers in Wisconsin. But even so we have luxuriated in the cool nights, pleasantly warm, occasionally hot, days with breathable humidity. When the locals complain we tell them how much better this is than months of 90-plus degrees with 90-percent humidity. And then they warn us about the winters. Can’t argue with that, but our one winter here was not as bad as we thought it would be. And even lacking mountains and beaches, you can’t beat a Wisconsin summer. 

However, Wisconsin does have beaches. It’s just that they are on rivers and lakes rather than the ocean. With the Mississippi River practically in our back yard and the Great Lakes, Superior, and Michigan, just a few hours away how can we complain? Not to mention the thousands of smaller lakes and rivers in the state and across the Mississippi River in Minnesota. 

I don’t know the statistics but there are clearly more boats per capita here than anywhere in North Carolina beyond Lake Norman. I see boats every day, parked in yards, garages, on streets. And oh yes, on the rivers and lakes.

And though they can’t compete with the Great Smokies, the Bluffs have their charm. What, you say, are the Bluffs? Forested hills reminiscent of mountain foothills. Formed by the movement of glaciers millennia ago, they run in a line from Minnesota, through Wisconsin to Iowa. Not a straight line, mind you, accounting for many a curvy, hilly road. The bluffs frame valleys, home to towns, cities and farmland complete with grazing cattle, soaring silos and red barns, all set in a sea of almost iridescent green. 

In our area the city of La Crosse, situated in a valley between the bluffs and the Mississippi River, has a typical midwestern grid of north/south, east/west streets until it runs up against the bluffs and begins to follow the lay of the land. So much so that in the village of Holmen, a bedroom community north of La Cross, there is a street named Crooked Ave. Seriously. It happens to be our new address. 

Maybe the founding fathers were tired of thinking up street names, or maybe as my husband speculates, everyone who lives here is in the witness protection program. Our neighbors seem to be just folks, schoolteachers, nurses, small business owners, retirees. Or so they say. Who knows? Roads with names like Z, ZN, SS, County B do make me wonder, could the powers that be not have been more creative with names?It’s Labor Day weekend and back in N.C. we would be taking a breath and planning a beach trip for the off season or a day trip to the mountains to take in the fall color. But we are in Wisconsin, so we will search out a riverside BNB for a quick getaway before winter sets in. We’re not up for learning to ski, but we will enjoy crisp, sunny days, a cozy home, the crunch of snow under our boots, and the snow-covered landscapes of a real winter.

What happened to the shepherds after the angels visit and their trek to Bethlehem to find a “baby wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.” Did they all become true believers? This is fanciful take on one who did and one who did not. 

Guest blogger, Michael V. Motte

My name is Eliezer. I am a poor shepherd from Egypt. It is quite rare for a shepherd to be able to read and write, but I could because I was not always poor or a shepherd.

My father was a prosperous carpet merchant in the town of El Minya, which is not far south of Cairo. I was young, privileged and irresponsible. Unfortunately, my love for gambling got me into deep trouble. Father came to my aid several times when I racked up gambling depts I could not pay. But he finally had enough of my bad behavior and disinherited me. He threw me out of the house and out of his life 

Now I was on my own and as irresponsible as ever. I piled up more debts and when I could not repay them, I was sold into slavery. Because I was educated and could think for myself, I quickly rose over the stupid scum I was forced to work with.

It was during my time as a slave that a remarkable event happened. What I am about to recount is not my story but a story I recorded as given to me by Oahu, a mere boy at the time. This is a debt of honor in Oahu’s memory.

I am a skeptic. I do not believe in the gods. How mankind got here is beyond my understanding. I choose not to try to figure it out. I believe faith is just superstition by another name.

Yes, I witnessed what Oahu supposedly witnessed, but I don’t think any of it really happened. I believe that the roasted lamb we had for our evening meal that night might have been bad and caused us all to have the same hallucination. 

I will start by telling you that I was the leader of a group of shepherds. There were about eight of us. I write the following as Oahu, the youngest of our group dictated it to me.

Oahu tells his story

The group of shepherds Eliezer and I were with were foreigners from the deserts around Egypt. Most of us were little more than slaves to our cruel Arab masters. It was grueling and often dangerous work. There was scorching sun by day and frigid cold by night. Wolves were never far away, and bandits would not hesitate to slit our throats to steal the sheep.

I was on the “late watch” that night, just another routine night. We had not even driven any wolves away. I had just turned sixteen. I remember pulling my robe tighter around me trying to fight off the cold and stay awake. I knew if my overseers caught any of us dozing, we would get a thrashing, but they were sleeping deeper than we were so for now I had nothing to fear.

Sometimes in the heat of a summer’s night thunderstorms would barrel through. We could see them coming in their fury and trouncing us with rain that fell so hard it hurt. I always wondered why the rain god, (if there was one), was so angry in the summer. If lightning fell it was sudden, bright, and loud, often causing the sheep to stampede. It was hard to control both the sheep and our dogs, but as this was in the dead of winter, there would be no thunder.

Suddenly, as if a tremendous lightning bolt had fallen without any sound an incredibly bright blinding light lit up the valley around us as if it were day. I distinctly remember seeing our shadows, sharp and well-defined streaking off into the distance. The light did not flash as lightning does but remained there like a sunbeam in the middle of the night. Strangely our masters and all the animals fell into a deeper sleep. 

In the middle of the light was this ghost, or angel, or whatever. He was dressed in white flowing robes and floating in the sky and was vastly larger than any man we had ever seen. He spoke in a deep rumbling voice making it clear to us that neither he nor those that would follow were ghosts. They were some kind of messengers. He spoke to us in a language not our own, yet we could understand him perfectly.

This messenger told us that we should not be frightened but rejoice. We were scared out of our wits because none of us had ever seen such a sight and we were definitely not rejoicing. There must have been some special power in the messenger’s words for suddenly an immense calm fell over us all. 

He told us that we should go to Bethlehem to see and worship a baby that would be born that night. This baby would command our worship. 

Now, the only time when we were religious was when it was convenient, or we were in imminent danger. Nevertheless, we knew how to follow orders and we knew we must follow our visitor’s instructions. 

No sooner had he uttered those words than an immense group of these strange visitors appeared with him. It looked like there were hundreds, maybe thousands singing praises to this child. The night sky grew many times brighter than it had been before. While all this was happening our sheep, dogs and overseers dozed or grazed as peacefully as if it had been an ordinary night.

As suddenly as they appeared, they vanished. There was silence for a long time before old Alek, the eldest, said, 

“What are we going to do?” Then more silence.

As in most groups there is always a take charge individual. Finally, Eliezer said, 

“I’ll tell you what we are going to do. We are going to Bethlehem tonight. Now!”

Another replied, “How can we do that. Our masters will kill us, and the sheep will all run away!’

“Three will go and the rest will stay and watch the sheep,” Eliezer said. “We will cast lots. I will be your leader. The two winners and I will go together. Don’t fear our masters. It is obvious a deep spell has been cast over them. I do not think they will stir till we return, so let’s be quick about it!’

“No one liked the idea, but no one had a better plan, so we cast lots. I was the youngest and the smallest. When I won one of the two slots some grumbled. They didn’t think I should be allowed to count but Eliezer—because I was a fair gambler—would have none of it. He said that I won fair and that I would be going with them.

Eliezer reminded everyone that we should not make such a bold visit without taking a gift. That presented a dilemma: we had scarcely any money. We thought perhaps we could take one of the little lambs knowing it would not be missed. We didn’t mind a little thievery but were unwilling to give a stolen gift at such a special time. We finally scraped together sixteen mites. That would have to do.

The journey to Bethlehem was not long. We were pleased and puzzled when we discovered our destination was not a palace but a stable. It was a relief because we would not seem so out of place as we would showing up at a palace.

The baby’s father, whose name we learned was Joseph, must have heard the noise as we approached. He bounded out of the stable with his staff held high, ready for battle. He had a wild look on him, the look fathers have when they are ready to defend their family. He was justified in his defense because there were plenty of thieves and ne’er-do-wells about.

Joseph was quickly joined by the old innkeeper with his own staff. I was never sure if he was defending his property or defending his guest.

Eliezer quickly prostrated himself motioning for us to do the same. 

“Who are you and what do you want,” Joseph demanded. In broken Aramaic, Eliezer told him of our visitation by the angels and their directions to us. Joseph eyed us with both fear and alarm. Finally, he relaxed a little, told us in a menacing tone to wait where we were, and went back into the stable. We could hear muffled voices but could understand nothing.

Coming out, with a friendlier voice he told us we could come in. He asked us to enter quietly and not to come too close. He feared we had fleas or lice. 

That is not as insulting as you would think, you see shepherds were almost the lowest of our society. The only class beneath us were the unclean, the lepers, diseased and deformed. We were among dirty animals for weeks at a time and water was not easily available. Besides, we were not concerned as much about being clean as we were about eating and water for drinking. And yes, we did have both fleas and lice; it was impossible not to. 

Joseph reluctantly escorted us to where his wife, Mary, and the baby were, but kept an ever-present eye on us. There was no way we could have harmed anything in that circle, not even a fly! Mary was modestly draped as the baby nursed at her breast. She had a puzzled look about her. How, she wondered, could we know anything about this special birth. Eliezer tried with his limited Aramaic and with Josephs’ permission to explain what had happened to us and what the angel had directed us to do.

An old woman, apparently the inn-keepers wife, was giving motherly support to this new mother. As a much-experienced mid-wife she leaned over and whispered something in Mary’s ear. Mary now understood. She nodded and motioned for us to come closer.

I, as the youngest, should been behind the other two but found myself so close that I could almost touch him. Mary turned the baby toward us so we could see him better. I know it doesn’t sound possible, but I am sure my eyes locked with his as he looked at me. It seemed that he was welcoming me into his family.

Men in that day could not show any weakness, nevertheless, tears filled our eyes. We made a secret pact later that we would never divulge our weakness that night. We were not quite sure how to worship anything, much less a baby, but I am sure whatever powers were there that night were pleased.

Before long Joseph signaled it was time to leave. Outside Eliezer took the small bag of coins and handed it to Joseph. Eliezer told him it was all we had, and it was for the baby, so Joseph could not refuse. We left a short time later knowing the town watchman would not be pleased with dirty shepherds rambling about in his town.

You would think that was the end of the story, but it was only the beginning. Our overseers were still in a deep sleep when we returned. As day came most of the others passed off what they had seen as some collective dream, but not I.

The next few months were as humdrum as could be. We reached our destination, and the sheep were sold. It was now time to head back. We had more sheep to take north.

It was then I suffered a terrible life altering event. We were moving a large flock of sheep North when a huge desert adder slid from under a bush. A full-grown ram almost stepped on the vile serpent. He panicked, turned to run, and collided with me causing me to fall hard on my back and hit my head on a boulder. I was caught totally off guard. I do not remember anything after that for a long time.

How long I was unconscious I do not know. My companions thought I was dead or would shortly die. This created a problem for my masters. They could not abandon me, but they had no intention of monetarily aiding a non-productive worker. Even though they were cruel and heartless what religion they had would not allow them leave me to alone to die. 

They waited till nightfall and carried me on a crude litter to the marketplace. Our master left me there with enough coins to satisfy his conscience and whatever gods there might be. 

The next morning as vendors returned there was a lot of discussion on what they should do with me. I am not sure what would have happened if it had not been for a widow named Misha.

Misha’s husband had been killed in a similar accident some years previous. Her only son had been killed by a drunk Roman guard. The guard made up a story that that he was defending himself and was never punished.

Though she had almost nothing she knew she had to help. She told me later that I reminded her of her dead son, and she nursed me to health as best she could.

When I regained consciousness, the part of my body I could feel was wracked with incredible pain. Death would have been welcomed but I survived, though it was years before I would walk again. As soon as I was able to do anything for myself, Misha and one of her widow friends dragged me on my litter to the market each day so I could beg for food or money. 

It was a miserable existence but since that was all I knew I just cursed the gods. Pain hunger, and now pressure sores caused me to develop a very bad attitude. I hated the world and everything in it. If this was the way the gods were treating me now how much worse would it be when I died?

Once when I was begging I saw a wee boy tagging along with his mother. I recognized him at once, the baby in the stable! I think he recognized me as well because he broke free from his mother’s grasp and started tottering on his little legs toward me. Just as he was about to approach his mother scooped him up in her arms and scolded him for being naughty by running away from her

A wave of disappointment came over me, and I cursed life for I felt something good was about to happen, but then it didn’t. 

During this time Misha eked out a living by weaving baskets and I was able to beg enough to keep us from starving. The days became weeks, and the weeks became months and then years. 

From time to time, I heard of a miracle worker who claimed to be the Jewish Messiah. He had a large following. It was said that he could heal the sick and even raise the dead. I doubted that it would ever mean anything to me though I wished it otherwise.

Then early one morning there was an excited crowd moving toward me. I thought it might be some rich merchant throwing money to the poor because it was the ‘Holiday of Giving.’ Through the crowd I spotted an ordinary man who did not appear to be wealthy, nevertheless he could hardly move because of the crowd.

Then our eyes locked. I knew it was the baby, the little child and now the man. He walked up straight to me and said, 

“Oahu my friend! I have waited a long time to do this!” He reached down and lifted me effortlessly. It felt as though fire spread through my body as feeling instantly returned. 

At first, I did not know what had happened but when he let go of me, I realized I was standing on my own! My withered limbs were now muscular as a galley slave and my pressure sours had disappeared. I cannot describe the emotions that engulfed me. I jumped and shouted. Was I dreaming? No, I wasn’t. I was perfectly whole. 

It was against tradition for a cripple to touch a whole man, but I could not help it. I grabbed this man with a mighty manly hug and swung him around in a circle. I set him down, dizzy with the new exertion. He looked at me and just laughed. 

Then he paused and said, “We will meet again.”

Those who knew my condition were both awed and frightened. The crowd pretty much knew what had happened and rejoiced with me and my friends. I was so busy rejoicing that I did not realize that he had moved on. 

For a few days I was the talk of the town. Misha cried for a week continually praising her God, Jehovah. I learned that I was not the only one that experienced miracles such as mine, I was just the latest. After a few days the excitement of the crowds wore off and I was just another story for the marketplace. 

Because I was eager to work, I soon found a job as an apprentice carpenter. Jacob, my employer, found I was reliable, a quick learner, and dependable. I was now able to provide for myself and Misha. The dear woman no longer had to work. However, she continued making baskets just because she wanted to up to the week before she died.

Jacob was a widower with no children. I became his son and he, my father. After he died, I inherited all that he had and led a comfortable life. 

Before he died, Jacob and I moved from Bethlehem to Cyrene because of better business opportunities. I was on my way back to Bethlehem to meet with a supplier of the Achaia wood that I used in making furniture when another life changing event occurred.

From time to time, I still heard stories of this ‘Jesus’ man. Once I heard him myself preaching from a boat. He had been doing this for some time but, according to authorities, was mostly stirring up trouble. 

On that fateful day, I got caught up in a mob following a large contingent of Roman solders driving three men condemned to death by crucifixion. That horrible punishment was unfortunately all too common. 

I thought such spectacles revolting and did not realize that this man Jesus was in the party of the condemned, that he had been accused of blasphemy and was sentenced to death by crucifixion. Without meaning to, I found myself at the front of the mob nearly abreast of the condemned. One of them turned his head and locked eyes with me. It was then I recognized him – the Jesus man. Suddenly I was sick to my stomach knowing there was nothing I could do.

Exhausted and in great pain, he stumbled and fell. The lead centurion cursed him and struck him with his whip several times. Then he realized that his prisoner could carry his cross no more.

I am ashamed to say that I shrank back into the crowd for I feared what was about to happen. Then righteous anger came over me and I stepped forward and gave the lead centurion a look of defiance he was not about to ignore. He shouted orders to a couple of his solders who turned and marched toward me.

To my horror I was grabbed, dragged and pushed to the centurion. He glared at me, pointed at the fallen Jesus with his whip and shouted at me to carry Jesus’ cross to Golgotha. There was no choice. My hesitation was met with the sting of his whip across my back. 

As I reached the fallen man I saw as bloody a sight as I had ever seen. What was left of his robe was shredded into strips, soiled with dirt, sweat and blood. There was the strong smell of urine as the whip had accomplished an additional humiliation. 

Our eyes locked once again. In that moment all the reluctance and fear left me, and I felt nothing but compassion for him. I stripped off my own cloak and attempted to render what aid I could before I felt the whip on my own back again.

The guards yanked me to my feet cursing me and telling me to take the cross and move on or I might find myself nailed to one. As I shouldered his cross, Jesus said, 

“Do not fear, my friend, now you minister to me!”

Everyone seemed to be enjoying my plight; for they, even the other prisoners, laughed as I stumbled up the hill totally bewildered at what was happening. As we arrived at the summit of the hill the cross was roughly jerked away from me, and I was pushed to the ground with yet another lash of the whip.

I blacked out then and knew nothing until morning. I awoke and found myself lying under some sharp thorn bushes though how I got there I do not know. When I came to my senses the place, Golgotha, was deserted. 

At the top of the hill were three crosses. The center one was empty. From those on either side hung two dead men. They must have had an agonizing death because their faces were contorted in a most horrific display of suffering. Their limp bodies hung in a most awful manner. I was relieved to see neither of the two were the Jesus man.

I needed water and some food. I was glad to find that no one had robbed me after I had passed out. With my purse I was able to find a public bath house, eat and refresh myself.

While there I heard that this Jesus man did indeed die. Contrary to normal executions where the prisoner was left on the cross as a public display of Roman authority, Jesus had been removed shortly after he was pronounced dead. He must have had some powerful friends. I understand one was a merchant.

But Jesus did not stay dead. Three days later he was alive again. The officials tried to hush it up, they even hired false tellers to spread the rumor that some of his followers stole his body to perpetuate the lie that he did not rise from the dead. 

That very day I decided that I, a Gentile, would be one of the followers of this Jesus. In time, his followers accepted me as one of their own and taught me all I now know. I wanted to leave my past, even my name. They suggested, and I gladly accepted my new name, Simon. Thus I became known as Simon of Cyrene, the one who carried Jesus’ cross. 

I decided that I would help spread his message as best I could for the rest of my life. I sold my business and gave the money to the follower’s treasury. As far as I was concerned my lot was cast. I would follow Jesus.

Eliezer picks up the tale

I, Eliezer, will now tell you the rest of Oahu’s story. He can call himself Simon if he wants but to me, he is still Oahu. He did a most vile thing, insulting his fore-fathers by changing his name! He wanted to be called a filthy Hebrew name, ‘Simon,’ and call himself a ‘Christian.’ He deserves nothing better than stoning and being fed to the jackals for abandoning his heritage. If it were not for the honor of my oath, his story would not be told.

Oahu was faithful to his so-called ‘Messiah,’ I will give him credit for that! A couple of years later when persecution against these fanatics was reaching its peak, Oahu got himself into some real trouble.

The temple priest had had enough of this up-start, so they accused him of defiling the temple. Even I, still a skeptic, knew that Oahu would never do that. These so-called righteous men stirred up a mob of like-minded zealots who accused him of all kinds of things they knew he never did.

No one would wait for a trial of any kind. Henchmen drug him out of town to the rubbish pit yelling and screaming all the way. The elders would not defile themselves with such a task, so they urged the rabble following them to stone Oahu to death. He was not the first, nor would he be the last, to end his life this way.

Dragging him out of town was unnecessary because he willingly went with them to his death. He told them he was honored for the opportunity to die for his Lord. That proved to me that he really was crazy. 

Even for someone as cold and heartless as I, this was a travesty of justice. I thought for a moment that I should come to Oahu’s aid but quickly realized I did not want to become a target of this mob-mentality. Besides that, he got himself in to this mess, let him get himself out. Maybe this ‘Messiah-Savior’ would deliver him.

It has been nearly thirty years since those events. I am an old man soon to face my own mortality. The Jesus movement grows ever stronger, his followers spreading the news wherever they go. And many people believe. Included among them the most impoverished and illiterate and the most educated and wealthy. 

I can’t help thinking, perhaps it is not such a hoax after all.

Enjoying first significant snowfall of the season. 6 inches overnight followed by a beautiful, sunny day.

Shakespeare famously said, “to be or not to be, that is the question.” And I would add, to risk or not to risk that is the question, for to be alive—to be—is to risk. 

Starting with the fact that from a purely natural perspective, we exist due to our parents’ planning or negligence. All of us get but one chance in the genetic lottery, surely the riskiest of them all. We have no choice in the matter, and our parents have far less influence than they may have imagined when they chose a life partner. If they even thought of it.

Not to mention how risky it is to choose a marriage partner. When you are young and in love and know everything, you may feel certain you have found “the one.” But chances are that in a few years or even months into marriage you will begin to have nagging doubts, if not downright regret, about your choice. There are no guarantees in life or love as the consistently high divorce rate proves. 

The genetic lottery comes into play again if you have children. Even if you and your spouse are healthy, you may have children who are not. And even if you have physical or mental challenges your children may be well and strong. It feels like the luck of the draw or an act of fate or of God, depending on your belief system. 

If you believe that God guides your choices, that God oversees the developing fetus and decrees the path of their life, it decreases the sense of risk, but does nothing to give you control of the outcomes. 

Making what appears to be a safe choice still involves a degree of risk. For example, if you decide to pass up a new job offer or a move to avoid the uncertainty of the unknown, you risk passing up an opportunity for something challenging and rewarding. 

It seems for every risk there is an equal or opposite risk. It’s much like the thrill of victory versus the agony of defeat. There is:

• The risk of faith/religion vs the risk of missing the richness that faith can bring to your life

• The risk of forgiving vs carrying a burden of resentment and anger

• The risk of loving vs not loving and winding up friendless and alone

• The risk of medical procedures vs missing out on life-saving treatment

• The risk of side effects from vaccines vs the risk of more serious illness

• The risk of a healthy diet vs enjoying your favorite foods 

• The risk of confrontation vs burying pain and anger

• The risk of therapy vs struggling with problems on your own

If you are prone to anxiety and have read this far you may be on the verge of panic at the thought of so much risk. If you are more courageous you may be intrigued, ready for a new adventure. Either way we live with risk daily whether aware of it or not. Thoughtfulness, good judgement and trust in something or someone bigger than you, can see you through life’s challenges and give you courage to take risks. 

So, what will it be—paralysis or adventure? The status quo or something new? 

Either way, it is a risk. You can embrace it or try to avoid it. The choice is yours. 

Moving is the stuff of life.

“Move along. Move over. Step it up. Get with it.”

“Get over it. Let go. Move on.”

“Get moving!”

Much of the advice bandied about in popular culture by parents, peers or professionals, involves moving—or not moving.

We know the universe is in constant motion, expanding outward. Dying stars implode. Our own earth, along with other planets, is spinning and rotating. Constantly.

The human body, even at rest, is in motion. Heart pumps. Blood flows. Cells regenerate. Neurons send messages. A body totally lacking in movement is a dead body. The life force gone.

Every year 31 million Americans move—as in relocate their households, to another residence, city or state. According to census data, around three million of those moves are interstate. As was the move my family and I recently made from North Carolina to Wisconsin.

I know. Nobody does that. The moves are all in the other direction. North to South. We moved for the same reason many people are following the never-together year of 2020. To be closer to family. And because we could. Next year, who knows? Maybe for one reason or another it will be less feasible. The current hot real estate market certainly made it a good time to sell a house, though buying one is just the opposite.

There is nothing like moving to make us aware of how much STUFF we have. Stuff we would keep if we weren’t moving across country. So, we start sorting and packing and selling and giving away. It’s amazing what sells and what doesn’t. What we can’t even give away. Power tools are a hot item but nobody wants that painting we rescued from Restore. It could be by some famous artist, if only we had time to have it evaluated by experts. I cringed as we loaded clearly useless items into my husband’s pickup for a trip to the dump. In addition to discovering how much money we waste on useless stuff, we are guilty of helping to destroy the planet. But what can we do?

The movers arrive and we’re still not through packing so they finish the job for us—for a breathtaking price, but what the heck, it’s only money and we had to get this done. Now.

And then the movers are gone. Oh no, they left the hand truck and the rocking chair and they took that box of must haves that we intended to keep with us. The refrigerator is full and we forgot to empty that cupboard and what am I going to do with that huge desk that I couldn’t take and no one bought? In 48 hours we have to catch a plane. The house has to be totally empty. Help!

Friends, neighbors and Good Will to the rescue. The three of us and our dog, (don’t even ask what flying a dog involves), make the flight. I’ve never been so glad for a seat, even if it is next to a masked stranger, due to COVID-19. Before the plane even takes off, I find myself dozing. The flight is uneventful and we are met in the airport by our daughter, the reason for it all, who delivers us to our new temporary quarters. No thank you, we do not want to go to your house first. We just want to get where we are going so, we can stop moving.

Two days later our cars arrive and the day after that our household goods are delivered, a few items to our apartment but mostly to storage. That’s when we begin house hunting in earnest, and I realize that we will be moving again—soon.

In the meantime, I set up my office in a corner of the bedroom and begin to connect with my N.C. clients. One of the gifts of 2020 for me was learning Doxy, the Zoom-like encrypted program for health care providers. As my counseling practice transitioned from office visits to virtual visits in the last year, my love-hate relationship with technology moved slightly more to the positive side of the continuum. I can actually see clients in North Carolina from Wisconsin. How cool is that?!

And since our latest house offer was accepted, we can relax until the closing date in May. Then we will be on the move again. But this time the move is local, we are mostly packed, and helping hands are nearby. And we will be home at last. Hopefully, our forever home for this life.

 Until we move to the next.

Help! is the instinctive cry of those who feel their life is in danger. Let’s say you’ve fallen through thin ice, been held up at gunpoint, been kidnapped, or any other high-impact movie scenario. Screaming for help will be your natural response.

Babies of all species, but especially humans, need help just to survive and they accept it. One might argue, they don’t know any better and that’s entirely true. But by age two or so most of us have developed the DIY urge and often resist the help we still need on many levels. 

Among the many challenges of parenting is teaching children to be appropriately independent and also willing to accept a helping hand when needed. As are most life skills, this is best learned by experiencing it in a loving, functional family, where we learn to be independent adults who really can take care of ourselves.

Hopefully, we also learn to relate to and reach out to others—first family members, then an ever-growing circle of outside influences, friends and resources. If all goes well, along the way we learn to seek out help when we need it.

 Some may learn to read, do math, ride a bike, play sports, practice good hygiene etc. etc. on their own, but most of us need a little help with the process. Once we have the basics down, we are faced with the adult challenges of careers, marriage, parenting, buying a house, planning for retirement. It never ends.

So why is it that so many otherwise sensible adults resist asking for help? It goes beyond the standing joke—or is it a fact—that men will never ask for directions. The advent of the GPS has changed that to a degree. Somehow asking an electronic device for directions or other information is okay, when asking another human makes us appear vulnerable, less than adequate. 

Some of the most wounded folks I meet in the course of my work as a therapist are those who didn’t get the help they needed growing up. Perhaps their parents were ill, addicted or simply negligent and they were left to raise themselves, if not take care of their parents literally or figuratively. They learn early that they can’t depend on anyone but themselves, much less trust anyone who might try to be of assistance. Asking for help with pressing life issues feels dangerous and so, often, they manage on their own for decades before some adverse life event takes them to the point of desperation. Then begins the arduous process of learning to trust someone outside themselves, be it God and/or other people, and ultimately to trust themselves again.

These days there is a tendency for parents to be too helpful. Enter the infamous helicopter parent who does everything for their teens just as they did for their babies. Not only do their children not learn the fundamentals of managing life, they learn that they don’t have to. 

This pushes some youth to reject parental involvement completely, to their own detriment, as they pass up legitimate help and wisdom from parents or professionals. 

Others internalize the message that they are inadequate, even helpless, to take care of themselves and get stuck in a state of endless dependence. Their expectation is that they will be allowed to do whatever they want while their parents meet their every need. Thus develops a toxic stew of unhealthy bonds between parents and adult children that boils over into the child’s adult relationships and negatively effects the next generation of children. 

If you see yourself in one of these scenarios—or if life has thrown you a curve ball you don’t know how to field—the most courageous thing you can do is ask for help. The last thing I want to do on most days is go to the ER but if I break my leg, I call 911. If I learn I have diabetes or another chronic illness I keep doctor appointments, modify my lifestyle and take medication if necessary. Not because I want to, but because I need to so that I not only survive, but thrive. 

The same goes for mental, emotional and spiritual health. Some problems are chronic and need long term attention. Some are acute and resolve in a matter of weeks or months. Either way asking for help is the logical as well as brave thing to do. 

Remember help is not a four-letter word, but something we all need from time to time. There is no shame in asking for what you need.

Imagine a scene in heaven, the home of the Godhead—Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Actually, they inhabit the universe with heaven as home base. 

“It’s been a long wait,” the Father says. 

“It has that,” the Son replies. “I’ve been waiting forever for this opportunity.”

“A long time in human years,” the Father answers. “But just in time, really. Your mission is critical, it couldn’t be rushed.”

“What makes this the right time, Father? Humans have always been in turmoil. What makes this time different from any other?” 

“They are ready now. They have writing systems, keep records, track the stars in the heavens. They have been studying old prophecies and the wise ones know that it’s time. And then there are the roads. It’s possible to travel one end of the Roman Empire to the other. And ships navigate the seas. The good news of your birth, your miracles, your kingdom will be spread far and wide throughout the world to all humans in all places, for all generations.”

“All generations? I thought the plan was for a short human life for me. I’m not to be on the earth for generations, am I?” 

“Not as a human. You will be born as a baby like every other person on earth. You’ll be a child, grow into a man, show people how to live, perform miracles, have a following and…” his voice trails off. 

“I know. I will die.”

“I don’t like to think about that part, son. I wish there was another way.” 

“It will be alright, Father. I will live even after I die.” 

“Yes, son. It’s true. You will live and you will make a way for all humanity to be part of your kingdom. Not just those alive now, but generations, millennia, of men, women, boys, girls from all nations and languages and races and cultures. One day at the end of human time they will all gather around your throne and worship you. 

“Father! That makes me sound like the ultimate narcissist. You know those people who think only of themselves and no one else. Who are always on the lookout for praise and adoration? Really, that’s not who I am. I love people. I want to become one of them so I can know and understand them, give them eternal life. It’s not about me. It’s about them.” 

“I know, son. The difference is that you are God—the son of the most-high God—therefore you deserve honor, even worship.”

“But people on earth won’t know that. They’ll think I’m what they call lunatic. Someone who thinks he’s God. And then there are those who don’t believe God exists. They’ll think I’m a liar. I don’t know if I can do this, if I want to.”

“People are so mean to each other. Always trying to prove that they are right and everyone else is wrong, judging those who disagree, assuming anyone different is inferior. It’s going to be hard to be a human.” 

“It won’t be easy, I assure you. But remember, you won’t be only human. You will still be who you are. My one and only son. My representative. The Spirit will be with you and I will be only a prayer away.” 

“So, I’m to be God and human at the same time? How is that possible?” 

“Remember who your father is. Nothing is impossible with God.”

“I remember creation,” the son said. “When we sang the galaxies into being, flung the stars into space, set them in orbit, programmed them for future expansion. That was wondrous.”

“And then you chose that little planet we call earth and brought everything to it that it needed to support life, from microscopic bacteria to killer whales to humans. It’s an amazing place, really, earth is. And so beautiful!”

“And yet so sad, filled with starvation, disease, war, death,” the Father observed. 

“Humans often ask why we let it go on. The Lord of the Universe could surely stop it all. Why not do it?”

“The plan was for humans to be like us, our image bearers. They can love, think, feel, plan, create. We can be in community with them. But we do not force it. It is always their choice to follow us—or not.”

“Don’t forget the Evil One, our enemy and theirs, would love to see all human life destroyed. He contaminated the earth with the virus of evil. Humans develop vaccines but some refuse to be vaccinated because they don’t believe it will work or don’t trust it’s intended for good. Viruses like measles and polio may almost disappear but they live on, waiting for the right conditions to re-emerge.”

“Thus, will it be with you, my son. Some will accept you with joy. Others will reject you and the good news of the kingdom. Some will mock while others seek to destroy your work and your message.”

“But to those who believe—take the vaccine as it were—you will bring deliverance, peace, hope, purpose.”

“But come now, the Spirit has prepared hearts and bodies to receive you. The angel Gabriel has announced your coming to Mary, the one who is to be your mother, and given instructions to Joseph, who will fill the role of father. They are God-lovers, descendants of King David, the most prestigious ruler of my chosen people, Israel. They look for the Messiah who will set their people free. That is you, my son. Your family is expecting you this very night.”

As the Father watched and the Spirit danced, angels filled the skies above the village of Bethlehem proclaiming peace on earth, good will to all people. The shepherds who received the news hurried to Bethlehem and ‘found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in the manger.’ The child who grew to be the man Jesus, the prince of peace. 

And so, it was that the Christ-child, Jesus, made his entrance into our world. A world then, as now, riddled with violence and fear, poverty and greed. Yet a world where there is hope for those willing to risk being inoculated with love, vaccinated with peace, protected by gratitude. 

There could be some unpleasant side effects. You might be thought irrational, naïve, or foolish. And you might just find that many intelligent, wise, discerning people agree that the vaccine serves the human race well.