December is a busy month for celebrating. Just this past week we encountered the Winter Solstice, the official start of that cold weather season in the Northern Hemisphere, but a day important to those ancient tribes we now call pagan, who honored it as the indicator for the rebirth of the sun. The previous week people of the Hebrew faith observed their own Festival of Lights we know as Hanukkah. In a few days most of us will celebrate Christmas for either its religious attribution for the Christ child’s birth or its cultural role in having a wonderfully good time with family and friends. And then there is Kwanzaa, a late arrival to our holiday mix, but an important addition to our need to celebrate. It is the time of the year chosen to honor the many cultural contributions of the Pan-African community.

No matter your ethnicity, politics, educational achievements or social status there should be something in at least one of these four events that can spark a festive sensibility of even a brief duration. The traits they share touch on positive aspects of the human experience and for a time allow even the most jaded of us to glimpse a transcendent spirit that sees in the mundane a miraculous consequence. Life takes on the appearance of meaning, which gives virtue a logical place in our hierarchy of self-awareness.

The presence of light is a key theme in these December observances. The Hebrew menorah, the African kinara, the yule log and lights on an evergreen tree all impart warmth in the hearts of their respective adherents without overwhelming them with an oppressive brilliance. In fact the opposite is true. The subtle softness of the light from a lamp, a candle, a light bulb or the embers of a slowly burning piece of wood possess their own mysterious quality of assurance of human dignity and righteous purpose.

Food projects bounty in the same way song imparts harmony. Color abounds in the decorations, place settings, and seasonal clothing, while gift giving becomes a reciprocal response of the beauty within us answering the call of the external beauty displayed in these disparate celebrations.

If this be true, then perhaps we can put an end to the imagined conflict between seasonal blessings. Merry Christmas does not have a mandate for presiding as the only December compliment. Therefore, it is best to know another’s beliefs and preferences in order to express in their preferred idioms the blessings of the event they celebrate even when we do not share this precious aspect of their worldview. It indicates the depth of our care for them as friends, colleagues or acquaintances as we demonstrate our respect for their cultural practices by greeting them or imparting a blessing in the appropriate manner. Of course Happy Holidays will remain the safe fallback statement when another person is essentially an unknown entity to us. But don’t despair. There is always time to learn about the people we associate with and December affords us the best opportunity to do so. It is called hospitality and can be practiced in whatever location you call home.

May your days, then, be very merry and bright. And may you have a peaceful and prosperous New Year.

It is still a little too early for me to get excited about the Christmas season, if excited is even the proper word to indicate how I treat this holiday in my old age. It holds a different kind of magic for me now in contrast to the exuberance I felt as a school boy. Then we were released from a relentless scholastic drudge to enjoy a blessed two-week reprieve from pretending to learn. The dream of seasonal indulgences such as having divinity to eat, decorations to bring out of the attic, and presents tactfully placed under a brightly lit tree, as if Santa had paid a visit to our house, was about to come true once again. And the singing of Silent Night never failed to add a spiritual dynamic to these material comforts.

Now I hold these things in memory and chose to shelter them there rather than attempt to replicate them.  I cannot bring back the people whose depth of compassion and commitment to family were the true ingredients for what made those days the delight of my childhood. The sadness of their absence from this life is fortunately countered by the gratitude I feel for having shared even a season of this life with them. Their mark on this and other holiday celebrations is as indelible as the imprint they left on my soul. The result is that I am content to leave it all to contemplation, a private reverie far more muted but no less rewarding as the joy of waking Christmas morning to prospects of gaining a childish wealth all wrapped and beribboned in token to a spirit of gift-giving that eluded me at a time when I was intent on being the recipient.

Of all the music associated with Christmas I still cherish the ones that celebrate the faith I grew up with and underscore who we were as we gathered around the table to enjoy a sumptuous breakfast feast my aunt and uncle provided each year as a gift of which we all could partake together. But one song has gained in significance for me as I have aged and hopefully matured in my appraisal of things. The first line of its refrain is the title of this week’s message and instantly hints at an archaic perspective on life. After all, who still uses the word tidings in their daily communications, although its meaning seems to be perfectly attuned to today’s Twitter culture.

Tidings are brief messages, their brevity meant to impart a sense of importance to us without having to endure a long-winded explanation about just how important we should appreciate the news to be. And in this case the news is a blessing; our own comfort and joy being the desired result of our verbal benefactor. These twin virtues stem from the song’s proclamation that our deliverance from evil has been secured through the birth of a child, whose entrance into this world we celebrate on December the 25^th even though the actual month, day and year remain unknown to us. And, in fact, his birth is not the true cause of our deliverance, but his death. But the song betokens, for me at least, that same sense of anticipation I experienced as a child, waking to a blessing that would bring me a comfort and joy I could not fully appreciate at the time. Some blessings, apparently, fail to reach their full benefit until the recipient has grown in sufficient proportion to the magnitude of the tiding.

God rest you merry, everyone as the song’s opening line intends. May you both hear and speak tidings of comfort, joy, peace, love and all the other qualities which can make this time of year the blessed event we desperately desire it to be.

Do to others as you would have them do to you. (Luke 6:31, New International Version)

This statement follows a passage in Luke’s narrative, where Jesus pronounced blessings on any of his followers who were poor, hungry, grieving, or hated. He asked them to rejoice, to leap and shout for joy, because there would come a day when their misfortunes would be reversed, not by personal merit, but by their entry into a heavenly kingdom for having suffered in the same way the true and faithful prophets of old had suffered.

Jesus then pronounced a type of cheerless foreboding on those who were rich, well fed, haplessly content, and respected. They too would one day experience a reversal of fortune, but he refrained from saying where that reversal would take place. Instead he drew a comparison between how they were being treated in this life and the way the false prophets of old were treated. The implied outcome was that they would find themselves sharing the same fate as those who lied about God’s will in order to curry favor with the political and economic powers of the day. Seems harsh, but it only became more so in a surprising way.

These were just generalizations he made to a large crowd, who had gathered to hear him speak and to seek relief by having their illnesses healed. Turning his attention fully on his own followers, he told them that they must love their enemies, bless those who cursed them, and pray for those who abused them. He left no room for his disciples to equivocate about the implementation of these directives. If they were hit, they were to turn the other cheek. If their cloak was forcibly taken from them, they were to offer up their tunic as well without any thought of asking for it to be returned to them. The harsh expectations of Jesus’ teaching were revealed as being even more demanding of his followers than of those who merely listened without becoming encumbered by a conviction.

And then came the capstone of this passage, a proactive statement requiring his disciples to do only good to everyone in every circumstance. Goodness was determined by what any faithful person would regard as the goodness they wished to experience for themselves; faithfulness being defined in the pronouncement of blessings and woes at the start of his address.

We call it The Golden Rule and understand its value to be in the non-legalistic realm of moral choice rooted in the Christian concept of grace; the gift-giving mindset of knowing that nothing good is earned. Otherwise we all would be dead in our sins.

This week the Supreme Court heard a case about a baker’s refusal to bake a wedding cake for a gay couple. The baker’s defense is that he, as a craftsman, should not be forced to perform his trade in a manner which violates his religious beliefs. An aversion to a sexual preference not one’s own is clouding the true issue of Christian service as it was promulgated in a Judean revival meeting conducted by an undocumented rabbi.

We can rest assured that in Jesus’ day there were people among those who earnestly waited to be healed, who would identify with today’s LGBTQ community, and whatever other letters you wish to add to this acronym. They were not turned away. Jesus, who was described by his followers as someone who knew peoples’ hearts, would have been able to easily discriminate against the sexual lepers among the crowds, who desired at the very least to touch the hem of his garment, but he didn’t. And therefore neither should we.

The Supreme Court will determine the rule of the land. Jesus has already determined the rule of the heart. We call is the Golden Rule and it should lead us towards making the best of cakes for those who are forced to seek protection as abused minorities in a society where the rich, well fed, content and respected majority imitate the false and doomed cake makers of old.

If I could choose an appropriate anthem to play for leading a redemptive cause that could lead us out of the self-incriminating, self-destructive strategy of suing our enemies rather than loving them, I think I would overlook the many hymns I grew up with, though their words are inspiring and their melodies in perfect harmony with their messages. Instead I would chose Mary Gauthier’s plea for “Mercy Now” since she is someone who has experienced the injustice of our religious taboos and yet understands our need for a virtue the Supreme Court will dismiss as irrelevant in reaching their lifeless, legalistic decision about the solid cold facts of rights.

The fourth verse of Mary’s song is one we all should be able to identify with and affirm. So let us all join hands and sing in unison:

Every living thing could use a little mercy now
Only the hand of grace can end the race towards another mushroom cloud
People in power, they’ll do anything to keep their crown
I love life and life itself could use some mercy now

Sometime after my mother’s 80^th birthday, she decided to start ridding her home of the long cherished treasures she now considered to be clutter. This included rarely if ever worn clothes, seldom used utensils, table settings and flatware, decorations and an array of mementos from long ago travels with my father. This also included the family photo albums. She removed the prints she couldn’t bear to part with just yet and discarded the rest. Some of the photographs were taken as long ago as the 1920s, but most were from the 40s, a very momentous period in her life. Her older brothers were going off to serve in the Pacific during World War II. Two new sisters-in-law moved in with her and her mother. And it was also the point in time when she met my dad. They married before he shipped out to fight the war in Europe. And in very short order three babies were born to the three young brides left behind for the duration. Fortunately, all the men came home unharmed and filled in the few empty spaces in an already cramped household, until new careers opened up and the family dispersed to establish their own homes and enjoy the peace and prosperity that came with victory.

All of this and more is chronicled in those photographs. So when I lamented the demise of images I had looked at many, many times growing up and asking about the occasions on which the photos were taken, or about a person I had never met being an intimate member of a family photo op, my mother chose to box up those remaining prints and present them to me for safekeeping and (apparently) to clutter up my home in order to make her life easier.

I love history and with this new gained wealth of visual information I set out to document what I could about the lives of the people I love; at least the history on my mother’s side of the family tree. This prompted me to subscribe to the on-line Ancestry.com service, which took me back in time to the earliest days of the 19^th century as I followed the linear trail of births, marriages and deaths back as far as I had the patience to endure. You do get tired of adding “greats” to an ever growing list of grandparents, aunts and uncles and attempting to decipher how many and when to apply the term “removed” to a cousin who inhabits the furthest branches of one’s familial tree.

My search did resolve a few mysteries but added others. I was able to substantiate the rumor that we are related to the Crocketts of Tennessee, as in that little boy who was born on a mountain top and killed him a bar when he was only three. (I only wish I still had that coonskin cap my mother bought for me when Fess Parker was the most popular celebrity on the planet.) Other family mysteries remain, however. I have yet to discover where my maternal grandmother was born. Her obituary listed as her birthplace a community in Missouri that never existed. More disconcerting is that we do not know her father’s name or whatever happened to him. All I have been able to document is that my great grandmother went from being a Sharp to a Fowler (my grandmother’s maiden name) and that she eventually married a Crawford, also of Missouri. The fact that my beloved grandmother apparently never talked about her father to any of her children makes me think that he must have committed some act of indiscretion that led to his early departure, whether on horseback or at the end of a rope remains to be determined.

Armed with pages of documents downloaded from the internet, I started troubling my mother with more questions about the people she knew, the aunts and uncles and near relatives of the small town in Oklahoma where she was born and raised. I use the word “trouble” in this instance because some stories are not always pleasant and one of the less gracious aspects of our family saga is how my grandmother was treated by her in-laws after she became a widow, with three young boys and a baby girl on the way. My grandfather’s family was part of the wealthy, Episcopal elite in town. My grandmother was a lowly Southern Baptist, whose status was made even more disreputable by the fact that she was a laundress; a common working girl. But her small stature and angelic beauty captivated the lanky eldest son of the prominent Barr family and he married her for love, which abided firmly between them until his death nine years later. My pregnant grandmother moved her young family in with her mother and younger half-sisters and went back to work in the laundry, where she stayed for the next twenty-five years, or so, without ever complaining about the misery of her circumstances.

No help was sought from or given by the in-laws who spurned my grandmother. But those were the people I wanted to know more about, even though our relationship to them was tainted by their sense of pride, which seems to come with wealth and community status, no matter how small the community.

Given that Okmulgee, Oklahoma is still a small town, my mother grew up in a close, nurturing environment surrounded by family and friends, which left her with the impression that she was related to half the people who lived there. It also meant that my mother, with her mother and brothers were intimately aware of and still had some contact with my grandfather’s parents, sisters and younger brother. I never met Edwin, or Uncle Ned as I sometimes heard him referred to. And when I asked my mother about him, her reply made me glad I never did. What she said stunned me, for even though my mother could be wonderfully, comically blunt when talking about people she liked, her statement about her father’s younger brother, the infamous Uncle Ned, was to me tragically out of character for her.

“I hope he burns in hell,” is what she said to me that day. The backstory for her outburst was truly unbelievable, when you consider that most of the stories I had ever heard about the family my mother was blessed to be part of were virtually always supportive. And these stories at some point always made reference to my widowed grandmother as the foundation for that happiness, citing her endurance through every trial and her gift for graciously sharing with everyone that kind of self-sacrificing love she read about in her Bible, which the Greeks called agape.

On a rare occasion when the family was visiting at the spacious Barr home, my teenage mother was directed by her Uncle Ned towards a room away from the rest of the family members. And in a place that should have represented a safe haven if not a truly loving one for her, with just a closed door separating the two of them from everyone else, Uncle Ned reached inside my mother’s blouse and fondled her breasts so roughly that he left her bruised and hurting; physically for a short time, emotionally for the rest of her life. She says she did not scream, she did not cry, and she did not tell, which seems to be the pattern to the experiences many women are now sharing by means of the #MeToo social media site.

Mom was not blessed with her mother’s beauty. Nor was she amply endowed in such a way that might attract an overt act of masculine lust. But she was vulnerable. So without provocation Uncle Ned simply exerted his power to achieve a quick and easy thrill. And he seems to have relied on the sanctuary of silence many men have enjoyed despite their despicable behavior, for he did not threatened my mother with any description of the dire consequences she would suffer if she told. He turned away from her to leave, but before he opened the door he spoke to her in a tone of pure erotic male arrogance and said how she should be pleased by having attracted his attention.

Mom told me this story when she was in her 90s. And the vehemence with which she expressed her un-forgiving attitude towards her uncle indicates how she never escaped the emotional clutches of his attack, even after nearly 80 years had contrived to separate her from that incident. She passed away, age 96, this past September (2017) before the #MeToo movement became popular. But if she were alive today, and with her permission, I would have helped her add her story to the many others, who are hopefully finding some release from the humiliation of being someone else’s susceptible target.

I have taken the liberty, as the good son, of sharing her story. I think she would approve as she cannot be hurt by it anymore.

And may Uncle Ned burn in hell.

Most of us are familiar with the story of the ugly duckling by Hans Christian Andersen. We learn of it as children, whether read to us by a parent or teacher or seen in one of the animated versions available on television (to us old folks) or on-line for a younger generation.

It is a wonderful tale of transformation as a seemingly ugly duckling matures into a beautiful swan. The change comes as a blessed surprise as the homely protagonist emerges from a long winter of despair and alienation to be welcomed into the society of its own majestic kind.

The joy we feel on the duckling’s behalf clouds the issue, for me at least, that the animal wasn’t a duck at all. And this case of mistaken identity has nothing really to do with being ugly but about being rejected for being different. And while the intent of the author may have been one of making a symbolic statement about an inner transformation we all can experience, the truth is that it could only be told in this type of romantic format by acknowledging the harsh reality that we rank physical beauty as being supreme in our selection of the most desirable attributes.

For people maturity is not so kind. We age and the signs of our passage mark us in ways, which leave us humbled both in stature and visage. The swans of humanity appear in our youth, age being the untamed uglifier we wish to curtail with whatever cosmetic remedy is within our means to effect.

Cute kids may become adorable teenagers and beautiful young adults. But beyond those chronological boundaries, there be monsters. Weight, wrinkles and receding hairlines conspire with poor circulation and aching (needing to be replaced) joints to render us fatigued shadows of the swans of our youth.

My rant against this beloved fairytale of my youth, submitted here with all due to respect to Andersen’s creative genius, began with my own real life version of Driving Miss Daisy. It involved taking my mother on her once a week outings to dine out and to shop. As her strength declined, the shopping was easily sacrificed for the enjoyment of dining out and that usually a breakfast since mornings were the best part of her day. She came to eschew the use of makeup as a waste of time on a lost cause, except for one thing. She always put on lipstick before entering any restaurant. “Otherwise,” she said, “people will think I’m dead.”

It occurred to me that the story of the ugly duckling, though well intended, was false. We adults cannot ignore the gross inequities that come to us all as we age. It was once said of women, who did not marry while still teenagers or at most in their very early twenties, that they had been put on the shelf. We who are elders in the hyper-fast, high-intensity Facebook, Snapchat, Twitter era can commiserate with our spinster ancestors. Any marketing outreach targeting us concerns remedies for erectile dysfunction, high blood pressure and the joys of assisted living.

We are today’s ugly ducklings and the passage of another winter will not reveal our true nature as having the beauty of any graceful swan. We will spend our time looking at seed catalogues, planning next year’s garden, and relishing the maxim that hope springs eternal, Spring being the season which captures our flagging hopes in reincarnation here or in any heavenly realm promising us a chance at Nirvana.

The plastic surgeon is our Anderson. Both make their living spinning fairytales of surreptitious beauty.

Since Eden, gardens have represented a most tranquil place in which we may find solace and wellbeing despite the conflicting currents of thought and action in the world about us. We plant them, the work of our own hands, creating on a modest scale the bliss and harmony of a lost chance at perfection. We visit them, the carefully crafted botanical gardens that grace many of our larger communities as an extension of our own dreams for peace and solidarity.

Some gardens are truly unique, touching on the divine purpose of their ancient ancestor. One such place is the Garden of the Righteous Among the Nations, which is part of the Yad Vashem museum complex in Jerusalem. The museum is a memorial to the victims of the Holocaust, its name derived from the Hebrew text of the Prophet Isaiah’s promise to eunuchs, those who had been mutilated in service to their masters and denied the privilege of generating new life, that they would one day know an abiding peace in the eternal presence of a just God.

We have similar museums and memorials in this country, even though they may not represent the scope of the horrific nightmare inflicted upon the Hebrew people living in Europe during the Nazi ascendency. The National September 11 Memorial and Museum in New York City and the Oklahoma City National Memorial are prime examples of our attempts at paying permanent tribute to the innocents, who died as a result of the same type of sinister mentality that troubled Europe when a conclave of hate was in session. Bricks and mortar, concrete and stone, such places rightfully honor the dead with the intent of showing the events to be so repugnant that such things will never happen again, even though they do.

The Garden of the Righteous Among the Nations represents something else, however. It was designed to honor those non-Jews who during the Holocaust risked their lives to save Jews from extermination by the Nazis. The Garden, itself a living monument, honors the living, who gave the precious gift of life to those who were powerless against the superman onslaught of what we now politely call ethnic cleansing. The Garden exemplifies something equally important for us to sustain in our collective memory in the way the Museum reminds us of the destructive nature of genocide and that is how to live and preserve life so that others may live and enjoy the same peace and security that we desire for ourselves.

The passage from which Yad Vashem draws its name is a truly inspired choice for the larger context in what the prophet of God proclaimed for all to hear includes a promise to non-Jews, foreigners who bind themselves to the Lord to serve him, to love the name of the Lord, and to worship him, all who keep the Sabbath without desecrating it and who hold fast to my covenant – these I will bring to my holy mountain and give them joy in my house of prayer. Their burnt offerings and sacrifices will be accepted on my altar; for my house will be called a house of prayer for all nations. The Sovereign Lord declares – he who gathers the exiles of Israel; I will gather still others to them besides those already gathered (Isaiah 56:6-8 New International Version). Appropriately, Yad Vashem is located on the western slope of Mount Herzl, reflecting God’s promise to bring all who keep his covenant to his holy mountain.

Part of the Museum complex is the Avenue of the Righteous. It was created on bare Mount Herzl on May 1, 1962 with the planting of eleven trees along the path leading to the Hall of Remembrance. Each tree was planted by the rescuer it honored in company with the Jews they rescued during the Holocaust. At the Avenue’s dedication, then Israeli Foreign Minister Golda Meir likened their efforts to drops of love in an ocean of poison. This living tribute to compassion’s persistent proclamation of human dignity has been supplemented over the years as more rescuers have been acknowledged by the designation of being Righteous, with more trees planted and more emphasis placed on what it means to be good. Just such a Garden and just such an Avenue  is what America needs right now as hate has once again taken center stage in the way we govern and in the way we protest such governance.

We have ample space for establishing a garden of major proportions with avenues aplenty along which we may walk and reflect on virtue and beauty. We have more than enough talented architects of nature, who can craft a perpetually growing sanctuary.  And no doubt there is a place in the heartland where a stream runs through undeveloped property, living water as opposed to a concrete pond, where the charm of Eden can once again be established in praise of a righteous cause. The trouble for us will be in deciding who are the righteous among us today? Our tendency towards worshipping at the altar of celebrity would make it likely that any selection committee would default to those who already have their halls of fame for keeping us entertained. The beauty of the Garden of the Righteous Among the Nations is that it honors ordinary people who did extraordinary things at great personal risk.

Since I lack the means of constructing this garden and these avenues of which I can only dream, perhaps I must be content to await the fulfillment of another prophecy, this one made by the Apostle John, a Jew, who was a proponent of the Way. While imprisoned by a ruthless empire whose power the Nazis could only envy, he saw a New Jerusalem established on the earth in a future where there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain; no more barbed wire, gas chambers and human-fed furnaces or museums, which memorialize their infamy.

Instead, what John saw in the midst of the city were the elements of a garden reminiscent of the Eden, where we began. Of this vision he wrote, Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the city. On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations (Revelation 22:1-2 New International Version).

When you are a guy and wish to or need to appear clean shaven, you spend a lot of time peering into a mirror while scrapping your face clean of any telltale bristle. It is during these times of self-inflicted facial abrasions that you see the physical flaws you cannot wipe away. The reflection confronting you in the mirror is harsh and unrelenting in its appraisal of the blemishes, which cannot be cured by the anemic virtues of any over the counter remedy. Reflections without mirrors, however, are far more malleable and therefore far less cruel in presenting us with blush free images.

I have spent a lot of time lately reflecting on the past, my past, with a bent towards the loneliness caused by absences, when loved ones leave home or leave life behind permanently. But the past has its own healing purposes as well and the reflections without mirrors that I am inclined to favor now show me images that are easily embraced for their reassuring pathos.

For as long as I can remember I have loved music and enjoyed singing. When I was a child my mother would merely say “Sing us a song” and I would launch right in to whatever song came to mind. It pleased her most when I sang a hymn, but not so much if I belted out a tune from a popular television commercial such as “What’ll you have? Pabst Blue Ribbon” or “You’re lucky if you live in America. Luck, Lucky Lager beer.” But while I was a passable singer in those days, I was absolutely not a musician.

I envied people who could play a musical instrument. I tried to play a few during my childhood; piano, saxophone and guitar. But I lacked the patience to practice and gave up on all three. Being outside was my heart’s desire and growing up in Southern California made being outside an alluring prospect year round.

It wasn’t until I was in college and met the girl I would one day marry that I determined to finally learn how to play the guitar. This was out of a simple but compelling notion that if the girl of my dreams could play, then I could too. Competition had been the basis of my existence all those years of outdoor activity, such as playing baseball with my friends. And now it served me well in my new commitment to play the guitar as well as my sweetheart did.

My technique for learning to strum basic chords was simple. I bought a book which showed the finger position for each chord and figured out that going from E major to E minor was about as simple a chord progression as one could make. It only requires the movement of your left index finger to make the change; press down for the major and lift for the minor. So I worked at that until the chords sounded clearly, which meant that my fingertips had calloused sufficiently to keep the tone from being dull. Then I worked at going from E minor to A minor, a step up in difficulty but still manageable. And then I added D major, D minor and A. All of these required the use of only three fingers, but once I was proficient at playing them I added C, G and F to incorporate the use of all four fingers, while my thumbed curved over the next of the guitar to press down the bass string. My ultimate attainment was being able to strum B minor 7 without fail.

During the first year of our marriage a good friend would come to our apartment on weekends and the three of us would play guitars and sing the popular songs we knew that made use of three part harmonies. Songs by Peter, Paul and Mary were favorites and easy to reproduce since we had the right gender combination. Then we added two songs by Crosby, Stills and Nash to our repertoire; Teach Your Children and Helplessly Hoping. At some point during that year we were joined by a friend from my wife’s college days, who lent his guitar playing rather than his vocal skills to our low-cost, living room floor show.

Both Du and Max were far more accomplished on the guitar than I was. They didn’t just strum chords, they picked when they played, which was a talent I sought to develop. And once again my methodology was to start simple by copying a style that was used by Leonard Cohen on many of his early songs that had what I would call a percussion-like feel to the fingering. But as I progressed and developed a picking style that was only slightly more sophisticated the sound I was hearing influenced the melodies I was able to conceive while indulging in that other fantasy of mine, being a singer-songwriter. One of those early compositions was entitled Where’s Jennie?

The origin of the lyric was inspired by the movie musical Camelot, which I thought was one of my wife’s favorites. That impression was based on her comment that she cried whenever she saw it. In the movie King Arthur’s pet name for Queen Guinevere was Jennie. So being young and in love I thought it quite romantic to occasionally call my wife Jennie as a way to show my affection for her and to acknowledge her passion for this particular musical.

Other allusions, which made it into the lyric, were based on things that happened or that we talked about during the early days of our marriage. My wife had and still has a propensity for going places and doing things without letting me know the when, where and why of her absence. She did and still does have a need for naps and she was typically the first of us to go to bed as I was the night owl of the family. So the thought that she might be sleeping also made it into the song.

Anyone who knows my wife knows that she cries easily. You will find a reference to that aspect of her character being used here. And my personal aspiration to someday own a wooden house as a symbol of our financial success is another element of the song, as is the fact that music was an important part of our life together. It was always with regret that those singalong sessions with friends came to an end. And you will find that sentiment mentioned here as well.

I compressed all of those elements together to form a lament that has remained a favorite of mine to this day. The irony is that it wasn’t until years later that I found out that my wife hated the movie Camelot because it was so depressing. So I was likely very clueless about the impact my calling her Jennie had on our relationship. But we’re still together. And I still enjoy singing this song when I am in the mood for a little homespun sentimentality.

Where’s Jennie?

Where has my Jennie gone?

I’ve looked for her all day long.

Can’t find her. Can’t find her.

There when the music died

I knew in the way she sighed

to wonder. Can’t find her.

The wishing is here to try

to see her again.

Maybe she thought I lied

and maybe I made her cry.

I wonder. I wonder.

I must have lost my sight.

The changes came overnight.

No wonder, can’t find her.

This old wooden house has lost

the comfort she gave to it.

The wishing is here to try

to see her again.

Maybe she’s sleeping.

Maybe she’s sleeping.

I hope she is fast asleep

in dreams of me.

Long before she entered her final illness, mom planned her funeral. It was her way of still being in control, even though she would be noticeably absent from the memorial service. It was her choice to be cremated, so not even an embalmed body in a flower-festooned casket was in evidence. But she did have one final trick she wanted to play on those of us gathered to honor her well-lived and lengthy life.

She recorded a message to be played at the end of the service. It effectively gave her the last word at her pre-planned event. What follows is her script in 14 point Times New Roman bolded and with plenty of space between the lines to make it easier for her to read. It took her three attempts to get it right so that no distracting glitches would mar her final performance.

When the message was played, it had its desired effect. People were surprised to hear her voice, but they also enjoyed this fitting demonstration of her will to entertain while keeping everyone informed about her life and – ultimately – her death.

And with this web log post I will say good-bye to my time of indulging in what C. S. Lewis termed A Grief Observed. The events since mom’s passing have prompted memories of other such losses I have endured. And now it is time to look forward again, although current events are hardly any less depressing than writing about the death of a parent. So let’s agree to look for hope in the midst of the despair plaguing our beloved country.

Mom would want it that way.

Dear Family and Friends…

Please don’t be anxious because I’m talking to you; I know that

hearing my voice will be unexpected! But I just wanted to remind you that

I am a child of the King, and I am with my Savior even now as you are

listening to this!

The Scripture in Psalms 71, verses 9, 12, 17 and 18 is about growing

old.  I have certainly fulfilled that requirement to claim these verses.

Verse 9 – Cast me not off in the time of old age; forsake me

not when my strength faileth.

This verse doesn’t disturb me because I went forward in church when

I was in the 5^th grade. I then belonged to Jesus.

Verse 12 – Oh God, be not far from me; Oh, my God,

make haste for my help.

 I only have to say His name, because He is already there.

Verse 17 – Oh God, thou hast taught me from my youth

and hitherto have I declared Thy wondrous works.

This next one I readily embrace:

Verse 18 – Now also when I am old and grey-headed, Oh God,

forsake me not until I have shown thy strength unto this

generation and Thy power to everyone that is to come.

This is for my sons, grandchildren and great grandchildren, and my

nieces and nephews. You all are to carry on the legacy my Mother, in a

quiet and loving way, instilled in us all; that is to trust Christ Jesus and live

for Him daily. The last words my mother spoke before she died was “my

wonderful children and my wonderful grandchildren.”

My passing from this earth marks the end of my generation,

but each of you has the opportunity to carry on this legacy for your

generation.

Loved ones, please BE FAITHFUL to your heritage – faith in our Lord

Jesus Christ and a life dedicated to Him.

And one more thing: please don’t mourn for me. (I say this with a

smile on my face!) – Just miss me!

We are told that birth order is a major influence on the development of our personalities. Firstborn children are the model children; confident, conscientious and controlling. Second borns, like me, are the class clowns with a compelling notion to gain attention by any means available. Firstborns are the good kids. They seem to enjoy behaving, while us seconds are intentionally rebellious and, as I can attest, enjoying every minute of the chaos we incite.

I was content in my role. No one fostered any great expectations for my future. Their primary hope was that I wouldn’t do something outrageously stupid that would result in excessive damages, fines, jail time or premature paternity. But that all changed in the early morning hours on the day after Thanksgiving, 1970.

The phone rang at a time of the day when phones are supposed to be silent, letting us all know in advance that the news was not going to be good. A nurse at the hospital where my older brother had been spending the last days of his life called in those early morning hours to inform my parents that the end had come. My mother, in tears, came into my room to tell me what I had already surmised. She struggled to say his name and in the end could only eek out two words, “He’s gone.”

He was just twenty-six years of age, a husband and father of two and during all of my own frivolous existence had worn the mantle of the good son. In our household that had been a heavy burden to bear. He was born in 1944 when our father was overseas for the duration and was an active child before ever being introduced to someone named Dad. Their first meeting was awkward and set the standard for their relationship for all of his remaining years. In truth sometimes that relationship was brutal, but my brother never gave up the responsibility for being good. If only for the benefit of our mother, he was all of that and more until the phone rang that morning at our home. And in that one telling conversation, everything changed. Family expectations switched their allegiance in the most subtle of traumas I have ever experienced.

“Ye must be born again” is the path to salvation writ large into my earliest of memories. My understanding of the concept was something quite apart from what happened in the days that followed my brother’s funeral. My rebirth was a gradual process in contrast to the sudden spiritual transformation I had witnessed so often from my vantage point in the last pew of our church. There my mother thought we were safe from observation and the silent condemnation from others concerning my incessant, comic behavior. What my mother’s true friends actually told her though, in tones intended to be consoling, was that I was just being “all boy.” It is a statement that today’s access to an array of performance de-enhancing medications has rendered obsolete.

The obligations of becoming the good son and taking on the characteristics of the first born child laid to rest forever that manic, devil-may-care attitude of my childhood. My natural born identity died its own death and was buried without the benefit of a memorial service or a marker to acknowledge its brief existence. In its place emerged the new self. The old had been set aside and the new persona emerged, one which mimicked all of the qualities of the good son, a first born child, though one born out of season.

My career, my role as husband and father, my place in the hierarchy of friendly and family relationships began with the consequences of that phone call. The high school student, who nearly failed to graduate from a fool proof system of advancement, emerged from college with the Latin equivalent of “with honors” stamped on his diploma. The discipline, which had evaded me when attempting to learn to play a musical instrument or to speak a foreign language at an age when other kids (first borns no doubt) excelled at such endeavors, found me a willing acolyte when it came time to learn to care and provide for my own family.

The new me completed a one year accounting program in three months, was hired right out of school to be a field accountant for a multi-national company, used my experience to get a more settled job with a public accounting firm, and served as lead auditor for their various audit engagements, which ultimately led to my being hired by one of their non-profit clients for a senior administrative position. In less than ten years I had transitioned from being a church janitor (while attending the business school where I earned my accounting certificate) to being what I had previously most disdained in life, a businessman in the full-dress uniform of suit, tie and wing-tipped shoes. I attained a respectability I had never anticipated or even desired. But it was only possible by my first becoming the good son to replace the loss of my older brother.

Other career changes followed, all of which chronicled an improvement in my business and social status. All of them came with a nagging doubt, however, that I was in over my head and being deceitful about my display of apparent stability in the midst of solving any crisis confronting my work, family and church commitments. I look back with a sense of wonder of how varied my career path has been. And I do honestly revel in the realization of some incredible and unforeseen accomplishments having taken place under my administrative care. But I am just as bewildered by the quality of these achievements as I am pleased to have them on my resume.

My final act as the first born child was the care of my mother during the last four and a half years of her life. My country home became her safe haven and from her perspective the sorrows she witnessed on the broadcasts of the daily news were events from another planet. She basked in the serenity contained in the farm and woodland scenery surrounding our home. I became her financial planner, events coordinator, tour guide and chauffeur. Doctor appointments were scheduled by me as her minor ailments occurred. Medications were purchased and their intake or application monitored to insure the desired results. The only concession to any appearance of neglect was about food. With her doctor’s permission she was told she could eat anything she wanted. Coffee, sugar, chocolate, anything smothered with copious amounts of gravy, and lemon meringue pie became her five basic food groups. She died just a few months shy of her 97^th birthday, her last words to me concerning her profound appreciation for the loving care of her good son.

The writer of the Biblical book of Hebrews told his audience that they were surrounded by a cloud of witnesses comprised of those whose stories of faith were chronicled in the pages we Gentiles refer to as The Old Testament. His intent was to encourage a faithful adherence to that old time religion in the hopes of receiving that same state of grace our spiritual ancestors attained for never deviating from the straight and narrow path.

A cloud of witnesses surrounded me during the time I was responsible for my mother’s care and wellbeing. The presence of my father and brother, my maternal grandmother and other family members who had gone before were ever present with me, evaluating my efforts on my mother’s behalf. It was their praise I desired for being the good and faithful servant inherent in the identity of being a first born son. And the image of one day seeing them in a glorious heavenly realm, where we could be at peace together without any hint of failure on my part for fulfilling my given role, inspired my performance as the current bearer of the family legacy

Now they are all gone; my brother, father and mother. And with them can be laid to rest the guise of the good son I have borne for nearly fifty years. What remains is the task of rolling away the stone that covers the tomb of the second born. “Lazarus, come forth” may be the new life verse for my resurrected self, though it will probably be a persona chastened by its lengthy comatose experience. If the soul does have the capacity for regeneration and the will to live afresh, affirmed and renewed while still on earth, then I hope to find it in the remainder of days allotted to me; a blessing bestowed on one for having been born out of season yet faithful to the call.

The end of my work week concluded with a three hour meeting concerning the site preparation and construction issues for a new display building for a local museum. My role, like many such projects I have been part of over the years, was to consider the feasibility of something other than the sequencing of the work described by the very capable contractors engaged to do this project. Rather it was about the ability of the organization to raise the funds needed to pay for everything. And while scribbling notes as I listened to the presentation I could not help but reflect on the fact that twenty years ago I sat in the same room and listened to a similar proposal requiring a capital campaign to make everyone’s dreams come true.

People who know me will not be surprised to learn that the new and the old projects are for the Mid-Continent Railway Museum in North Freedom, WI. Nor will there be much surprise in the fact that the very first fund raising campaign I did for Mid-Continent, and the first of my career, was to raise money for what we thought then to be the repair of the Chicago & North Western steam locomotive No. 1385. Now we know that the repair was a full-blown restoration project in disguise, which is still a work in process. For a peek at what is taking place just follow the link to Mid-Continent’s Steam Status page or come out to the open house at Spec Machine in Middleton, February 20 and 21 for a first-hand look at what a repair can become when you decide to do the job right.

My first campaign was an education in more than restoring an historic artifact. It was a trial by fire in the ways of development that I had only previously observed taking place at other non-profits, where I was the bean counter and my colleagues were the ones courting the prospective donors. I knew, or thought I knew, the routine comprising their work and could talk a good talk outlining the steps to take in establishing and reaching a fund raising goal on the scale of what we term a capital campaign. Outlining and doing are two different things, though, as I came to appreciate by participating in what came to be known as the Help Steam Live campaign.

Brochure cover

I was a member of the original campaign committee by virtue of being the new general manager, but my duties then did not include fund raising. That function was handled by a board member, who also functioned as the museum’s development director. He worked with an advertising agency we had on retainer and together they came up with the campaign title and fund raising strategy. This included the creation of a campaign brochure encouraging people to give in amounts strategically shown on the brochure in keeping with the accepted wisdom for how to elicit donations at the highest possible amount.

Inside panels of the HSL brochure

The campaign committee did everything according to Hoyle, if that erudite gentleman had been interested in donor development instead of laying out rules for gaming. Although gaming may be exactly what we were doing since after one year’s hard work of planning and preparation, the bank account holding our restricted donations for the Help Steam Live campaign represented less than 10% of the fund raising goal as compared to the 50% we had scheduled in our timeline. And with that dismal result, people were starting to disassociate themselves from what they viewed as another museum failure where fund raising was concerned. Being new, being naive and being frustratingly limited in the scope of my responsibilities as general manager, I asked the museum’s president if I could take over the campaign, which I did, in keeping with those guidelines I had witnessed in my prior work experience.

In due time we reached our goal. Hooray me! But let me now go back and stress that point about being naïve. We succeeded despite my ignorance. What I learned then, and there was plenty for me to learn, has guided all of my subsequent fund raising efforts. And here are a couple of takeaways I am glad to share free of charge to anyone who has found themselves in the terrifying position I was in twenty years ago.

Meeting notes increasing the scope of the campaign

First, capital projects never cost what you think they will. They cost more, a whole lot more, which means the campaign goal will need to be higher as well, like it or not. The original fund raising goal for the Help Steam Live campaign was $100,000, which at the time was more than double the museum’s best year in fund raising. But it was not enough to do what needed to be done to return the steam locomotive to operating condition. I found that out after sitting through a few more meetings and even donning coveralls in order to climb in the locomotive’s firebox to get first-hand knowledge of the repairs the shop crew planned to make.

By the time I was done getting up close and personal with the mechanical beast the goal had increased to $250,000. This is the fund raising goal we attained. But even that proved to be insufficient once the work began and the hidden areas of a steam locomotive came to light, revealing damage that we did not know even existed. Hence a much revised and still in process restoration game plan.

Second, the majority of the campaign gifts you receive will not come from the sources you so ardently planned for. I had dutifully researched the museum’s best potential sources of revenue and distributed to the board of directors a segmented list showing my best guess at the amount each segment would produce. It is shown here along with my penciled corrections after meeting with the directors, some of whom turned hostile and declined to seek re-election the following year. Their gripe: I was expecting them to “buy” their director’s seat by asking them to donate to the campaign. I have learned over the years that very few people who desire, even demand, to make decisions are willing to personally finance those decisions.

Proposed and amended giving tree

In last week’s meeting about the new building I took notes, asked questions, and bumped up the estimated cost of the capital campaign significantly. Fortunately another member of the committee was cognizant of the fact that as we talked we identified items not included in the purview of the contractors that still needed to be addressed and paid for by the museum. We’ll see if my guesses this late in my career show any signs of wise council in another, and perhaps my last, campaign.