Christmas in Sanford – Just Like Us

Posted on December 27, 2013 by dogtorbill

Sanford, Florida brings forth vivid images of Trevon to most of us – Images of hatred, intolerance and separate worlds. This is both unfortunate and ironic, since for decades, Sanford has been a microcosm of middle-America in the South. Black and white can work, and despite the headlines, it usually does.

Most families have memories of holiday get-togethers that didn’t go well. Ok, typically alcohol was involved. It’s frustrating and painful because its family, but much funnier when it involves a spouse’s family. My brother-in-law is considered a “rascal” for reasons and stories that aren’t my business or relevant to this post, except that he and my other brother-in-law had “words” again, this year involving Sanford.

Donnie loves Sanford, FL for lots of reasons. There is so much tradition – historical houses with Spanish moss, famous persons, and family lineage. Jeff asked what seemed like an innocent enough question regarding “gentrification” of the neighborhood, basically the changing socio-economic evolution (and property values) of the historical. and surrounding neighborhoods, and how the whole Trevon Martin thing had affected everything. Donnie got all upset, thinking there was an implication that he should move the family the hell out of there if the neighborhood wasn’t “improving.” There were really, really bad neighborhoods (the ‘hood) just a few blocks away, and the folks often stepped outside to get a breath of fresh air. He replied with something I never expected, but frankly I never really wondered why he lived here.

“Jeff,” Donnie addressed him tersely, “This is all part of the package; we live in the community, and we’re part of it. We love Sanford, and embrace her with all her faults.” Jeff was simply stunned that someone would live here by choice, regardless of how cool the vintage house is or how many wonderful friends he had, black and white.

Now don’t get me wrong, Donnie isn’t some “flaming liberal,” or someone who ignores common sense to make a statement. He and I are both just to the right of Ronald Reagan on most issues, but only “tow the line” when it’s logical, moral, and practical. For example, I do drive a Prius, but not because I really am convinced that hydrocarbons have changed our climate, and so I want everyone to see me shouting about it. I traded my Jeep for my Prius, because I drive 94 miles each direction, and frankly, have already paid for it twice in four years worth of commuting gas saved. Donnie’s the best joke teller I know, and his repertoire includes many of “color,” complete with colloquial expressions and accents. Never mean spirited, his jokes typically include Sheniqua, but if she heard them, she too would laugh. (Alternatively, they may include Lars and Yan, Norwegian farmers in Meenasoda). Anyway, so I did a double take to hear him preach about what it takes for us to get along and actually function with cultural diversity.

So, I was struck by Donnie’s realistic altruism, a kind of pragmatic open-mindedness. This, though, is the love that makes the world go round. It’s one thing to say you are tolerant, something entirely different to actively seek a world with tolerance.

Still thinking to myself, “Hmmm…,” I left the next morning for a training walk. (I haven’t officially announced it yet, but I’m counting the weeks until my next adventure, one that may begin to define how I commemorate my darkest day, May 17th). About an hour into my hike, I found myself walking along railroad tracks, a little bit lost, listening (of course) to Audrey Assad, Matt Maher, Sarah Kroger, Brandon Heath, and Chris Tomlin in a playlist shuffle that had me deep into thought (who would have guessed?) Technology to the rescue! IPhone out, MapMyHike Ap opened, and there was the route I had been travelling – not lost at all!

I soon saw a sign announcing that I had wandered into “Washington Heights,” looking like a typical middle income suburbia. It wasn’t gated, but was laid out with predictable cul-de-sac’s and dead end streets that had me passing many houses twice, coming and going. As I put two and two together, I passed a “Neighborhood Watch” sign and began to actually notice that all my new friends were black.

The irony was haunting, the previous day’s conversation about a community with diversity that actually functions, how that process may well be forever tainted or even ruined after Trevon Martin, a guy from out-of-town (me) walking through a neighborhood which is clearly not my own, now looking up at a Neighborhood Watch sign. The only thing missing was the hoodie. Or maybe not if the hoodie was a metaphor for some form of dress code inconsistent with the locals. I wasn’t exactly dressed like Ron Burgundy (Anchorman), but in my T-Shirt and plaid jeans, and my dorky walk and mannerisms, I certainly appeared as out-of-place as Treyvon did. Ok, in all fairness to Martinez, my “hoodie” didn’t make me look threatening, or hide my identity, and there hadn’t been months of criminal activity by someone dressed like me. So, fair or not, I wasn’t tailed by a “watch commander,” and the cops that were parked in the driveways actually waved back at me.

I forced myself to overcome the urge to cross-over to the other side of the street when I approached a group of teenagers, nodding and uttering what I thought would be an appropriate greeting, “Sup?” After all, I was in their home and uninvited, but never once felt in danger.

Admittedly, this was not the ‘hood that was previously mentioned, but simply another middle class neighborhood in suburbia. There were crime-watches because they don’t want crime in their neighborhood either!

I switched my playlist over to the soundtrack from “The Way,” because this was feeling more and more like another leg of my Camino de Santiago. I’ve learned that we’re always walking on our journey, and its up to us to learn those lessons our Lord puts in front of us everyday.

This was one of the humbling days, and my embarrassment profound as I realized how surprised I was to discover these people really were my brothers. I might have needed to travel to Haiti to recognize my that those who lived quite differently than I do are my brothers, but I shouldn’t have to go anywhere to recognize my brothers here at home.

Indeed, “these people” are just like us. Better, in fact, in many ways. Every one of the little children, playing on the sidewalks and in the streets looked me strait in the eyes and waved and responded when I said, Hi,” or “Merry Christmas.” Would that be the case towards a black man in my own neighborhood?

I looked and smiled at the hundreds of empty toy boxes, lining the street next to the garbage cans, displaying all the toys that are popular this year, virtually shouting “Merry Christmas” at me. Dozens of kids on trampolines, riding mini-bikes, skateboards, and bicycles. Most young fathers (they weren’t absent in this neighborhood) also smiled and waved at me, one as he washed his dog in the front yard. I was struck by the number of floks sitting in their front yard, socializing, watching the kids, drinking a beer, BBQing, being out together and enjoying Christmas together. I saw company logos, Miami Dolphin license plate holders, Obama bumperstickers (who knew?), and believe it or not two NObama! and one Nobamunist! stickers. Another “Hmmm…” this neighborhood of color had its own “diversity.”

I had spent almost an hour hiking up and down every street in Washinton heights, and headed out, towards my own Christmas dinner with the fam. Two blocks further, and I started getting hustled by a few teenage kids, anxious to provide whatever it was that I “was looking for.” Why else would this goofy looking old white guy be walking around through this part of town? I just smiled, knowing sometimes the best finds aren’t looked for, but rather stumbled upon.

Many times when we stumble, we fall. We naturally avoid those uncomfortable events and unfamiliar places to avoid the anxious tension that makes us squirm. And so, as we lose our balance or realize we’re a bit lost, we often so focus on keeping upright and not falling, we miss the sunrise and the blooming flowers. I’ve done this most of my life.

A few blocks further I again smiled as I declined another kind offer to get ‘something’ for me. “Thanks, bro,” I replied, “I’m good.” I was now in “the hood,” and realizing why I had seen so many “Neighborhood Watch” signs during my walkabout in Washington Heights.

Soon I left the classroom of this unplanned social experiment. Guess I was gone longer than I had planned, so I’d better gather some ammo as an excuse for not helping prepare for the 25 guests due to arrive in a few hours. Then I realized I’d been walking for two hours, and knew they’d be concerned, and wondering where I had been. But as I opened the door I simply slipped in and started frying bacon for the brussel sprouts topping.

As I turned the sizzling rashers, I thought of the Christmas the families on the other side of town were having, and I looked around at my own, and smiled again.

I Love My Teacher

Posted on December 22, 2013 by dogtorbill | 3 Comments

Whatever we think of the state of our public education system today, there is no denying that being a teacher is one of God’s holy callings. Being a parent is difficult enough, requiring patience and restraint, smarts and courage. But they are, after all, your own flesh and blood, and we seem to feel obligated to do our best to see that our own turn out well. (Most of us anyway.)

However, can you imagine what it requires to do this for someone else’s children? Some schools are for children resembling spoiled pets, who have never heard a reprimand or had any rules or criticism, resulting in a child feeling quite entitled. Many children from many cultures have never felt that love and compassion that we take for granted. Too many “me-first” parents who dump the kids off the first chance for someone else to “deal-with;” There’s just not enough time to spend with their spouse (if there is one), and certainly not for these inconvenient creatures. Funny how some parents only have 24 hours in a day.

I come from a family of educators. Mom taught and was a guidance counselor for forty years, my two sisters are teachers: Tina for years in Mobile, and Maureen still does in St. Louis. I think I’m pretty objective, but yeah, some of this is personal.

My wife Sharon has taught exceptional needs and disabled (ESE) children for over a decade, lately in a Title 1 school, where 90% of children can’t afford lunch. Almost exclusively minorities, most are from neighborhoods my friends don’t even know exist: The projects. A trailer behind a warehouse. A neighborhood that rots with the stench of crack, weed, old beer and urine. Most don’t know their father. Many don’t know either parent. These children are the least of our brothers, and although most do not endure the poverty I witnessed in Haiti, they may well have more despair and frustration, and certainly less love and hope. School is the highlight of their day. Many find their only food there, and some stay as late and return as early as they are allowed, because there is no electricity at home for lights to study by.

Their teachers smile and encourage, love and encourage. They aren’t allowed to hug them, but do so regularly. These are role models for these kids. They know their names and treat them with respect and dignity. They share stories about siblings, and piece together familial stories. Based upon this, home visits with a teacher and her principal, along with a social worker or the law sometimes is required to check a story out. Sometimes without merit, but these “leads” often put an end to unfortunate abuse when scars and bruises are noted at school.

Shar has bought as many shoes and socks for her students as she has her own children. Sometimes there is a need for a change in clothes, because of an embarrassing body or urine odor. You think children lack self-esteem from not having a new cell phone, or new $200 Nike’s? Try walking with your head held high when there’s no electricity or running water at home to bathe with. Children at these schools can be cruel too, and disparaging comments cut deepest when they are true. Teachers notice drooping heads, eyes on the floor, and little to feel good about.

My wife is one of the most incredible people I know. The strength, compassion, love and empathy she exudes is contagious. I find it almost impossible to pass someone with a cardboard sign now without rolling the window down.

Two weeks ago I went to (another) Matt Maher / Audrey Assad concert with my daughter Emily, and (of course) they were begging for Compassion International sponsors. For $38 a month you get a picture for your refrigerator of a third world child, and knowledge that you have fed, clothed, and educated them. Sharon, was quick to explain that we had “sort of” already done this.

I’ll omit the names for obvious reasons, but Sharon teaches two children of a family with six. Both of these kids are behind their peers developmentally and intellectually. One is what we used to call “retarded,” and may well never be able to function independently in society. None of these six children have ever had what “we” would consider a “typical” Christmas. Their father works hard as a gardener (field hand?) and handyman, and provides as best as he can. They do have water and electricity, and usually ample rice and beans on the table.

This year, the teachers and the PTA took the initiative and approached many of these families to ask what a nice Christmas would look like. Without hesitation, Shar found their family name on the tree in the teacher’s lounge. Each of the children named something that seemed reasonable, certainly not the frivolous “must-haves” for most of America. At 40 or 50 bucks apiece, it was a bit of a stretch for us, but well beyond the reach of a family like this that struggles to provide food and clothes after the rent and utilities. One wanted towels for her mom and tools for his dad.

The day before Christmas break, the students were allowed to go to the “School Store,” to purchase items for family and friends at a nominal cost. Sharon gave $3 to each of the six to buy something for themselves or a friend. The children pooled their money and bought their Papa a flashlight, and their Mama a necklace and brooch. Our “disadvantaged” family had children that had never been able to give their parents a present. This year was different.

Sharon described them walking from class to the bus as if walking on a cloud. Heads held high, and smiling from ear to ear. They were so anxious to see their parents reactions on Christmas morning! The parents won’t have the only happy faces on Christmas morning.

Like Gaspar, Balthasar, and Melchior, Sharon and her principal delivered the packages to the baby Jesus on Friday.

Merry Christmas.

Please know that although Sharon is an exceptional teacher and an exceptional person, she is not alone. Teachers are a special people. Please remember financially our unfortunate families and children, but also remember those who feel called to this profession in your prayers. The work they do with our children, the time spent into the wee hours grading papers and planning, and the money they take out of their own pockets for their classroom supplies is unknown to the general public. Pray for our teachers, and if you know one, tell them how much you appreciate them.

Haiti, Part 2 – Speaking in Tongues

Posted on December 12, 2013 by dogtorbill | 1 Comment

This is part two – if you’d like to start with part one, click here.
Kirby’s was not a works filled food distributing, hammer-swingin’ mission. We were there to evangelize, to spread the good news. “Sure,” Kirby explained, “We can, and we often do, clothe them and feed them for a day, but when we’re gone, it’s still just a miserable existence for these poor people.” By spreading the Gospel, we give them hope, something to look forward to, knowledge of our God who loves them and gives them strength and a will to life and love as they struggle through each day.

His logical explanation reminded me of Viktor Frankl’s observations of time spent in the death camps of the Holocaust – the ones that survived were the ones who had hope, a reason to survive, to scratch out an existence, to love and serve each other. They knew that their captors, their misery, only had power over them if they chose to let them, they would then give up hope and autonomy, and quickly their lives faded away.

Each day we walked most of the morning to a neighboring village. Only one had a well, and it was not potable water. The village leader gave us a walking tour as we were tailed by dozens of filthy and naked children, and we saw the well that the huts and the village were build around. A naked woman was sponge bathing and washing her clothes there in a bucket as her friend washed the families cooking pot into this water source. “Wow,” I thought, “This is one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen – a living National Geographic magazine. These kids will never forget this: This vision of true poverty, hunger and thirst, a third world culture, a three hour flight from home.”

These little villages all seemed to have a small church, and the best I could tell, were all served by Pastor Beau, a seemingly close associate of Kirby. We would all stay up late at night discussing faith issues, and he was curious that I could clarify and scripturally justify some major misconceptions he had about Catholicism; He seemed most fascinated to learn that some random Pope hadn’t inserted 7 extra books into the Bible, rather Luther disliked them and so after having been there for 1000 years, they were soon removed. Beau was equally impressed to find Cullen and me reading morning scripture as the sun was rising over the beautiful horizon.

The next morning found us walking a hot dusty road to the school that served the entire area. Hundreds of children wore blue plaid uniforms that were crisp and clean. Amazing. They take great pride, we were told, in sending their children to school clean and well put together, as a form of family pride. The children were all over us, but especially Noah and Cullen. I doubt they had ever seen white children before, and everyone wanted to hold hands and touch their strait hair. We arrived as they were beginning religion class, and were asked if we wanted to read to them out of our bibles; Pastor Beau and Kirby would interpret, line at a time. I was a bit embarrassed to realize that I didn’t know an appropriate passage to look up and read. I remembered the time Jesus was inundated with children, and the disciples were upset with them, sending them away, to which Jesus replied, “Let the children come.” How I wished I could remember where that was, because it seemed so appropriate now, as we were each about 50 deep with these beautiful children. So I blindly opened the book, initially disappointed to not have the Holy Spirit guide me to that very verse. Beau was interpreting each phrase, with the animation that would have looked like he was using sign language.

Soon my voice cracked as I read aloud the passage that I had turned to, Mark 9:36

³⁶And he took a child, and put him in the midst of them; and taking him in his arms, he said to them, ³⁷“Whoever receives one such child in my name receives me; and whoever receives me, receives not me but him who sent me.”

Not exactly the verse I was looking for, but even better – I’m pretty sure my opening the book here was no accident. (By the way the “Let the little children come” verse was actually amazingly close to where I had opened to (Mark 10:13)

Life is sometimes funny, and humility is so much more beautiful than pride.

I turned from my exuberant group, all jumping up and down and shouting for me to notice them, to the other side of the room to tell Cullen what a cool “coincidence” it was for me to “find” that verse, and I was stunned. Cullen’s group were all silent, staring intently at him, captivated by something. I moved through dozens of children to get closer. Instead of interpreting every his every line, Kirby was standing staring at Cullen also. I have no idea what verses he was reading, but one thing was clear. My son was reading out of his English bible, but the words that came out of his mouth were in Haitian Creole. My eyes then met Kirby’s, as we both mouthed the same word, “Wow.”

We sat and chatted for a while over an ice cold Coca-Cola from the good pastor’s private stash!

We were led from shack to mud hut, talking to people, praying with them, holding their hands. We knelt and prayed over the village elder woman, very aged and feeble, beginning her transition to the other side. We held hands with the young mother, with a “hemorrhage” that had lasted for years; I was asked if I wanted to say a prayer, and from somewhere I quoted Luke 8:43. She was weeping and so sure that her sins were causing her disease. By quoting this verse (also Matthew 9:20 and Mark 5:25), I did my best to remind her that through faith her sins WERE forgiven, through Grace; she was “touching the hem of Jesus’ garment,” and that her’s should be a familiar Christ message, “neither do I condemn you; go and sin no more.” The look on Kirby’s face was priceless – a Catholic quoting scripture in a “healing service!” I turned to see how my young Catholic boys were processing this event. I hadn’t noticed Cullen’s hand on my shoulder, and Noah’s hand on Cullen’s. Our eyes met and I saw a look of pride in his father that I will forever hold as consolation that he knew what I was made of.

As we walked the long mountain trail back to the mission, Kirby asked me if I’d like to speak at the evening service that night, that someone could interpret for me. For some truly unknown reason, without hesitation, I immediately told him that I’d love to! I’d never preached before (my children might take exception), so I wasn’t really sure how to prepare. All the folks at Bible study had their Scripture “tabbed,” so that seemed appropriate. I chose a few passages to deliver a brotherly love message on, and inserted bookmarks, sticking out as tabs.

That evening we travelled by truck to a much further village, where apparently clothing was also optional. Bad attempt at humor, but it all seemed so surreal. The few clothes that children had were obviously donated, or left behind by some other “missionary tourist.” Torn, stained Ron Jon surf shop and Van Halen t-shirts seemed out of place on children with nothing else on. Again, this was a living National Geographic magazine. Which reminds me of something that was pretty funny. As we walked towards that village well that morning, I shared with my boys how my big sister Maureen and I used to dart to the bookcase with National Geographics when Mom and Daddy went out on a rare date night. She was about 12, so I was 8ish and I remember like yesterday laughing ’til my sides hurt and her wetting her pants as we looked at the pictures of the naked African natives. The four of us were still belly laughing at this image as we reached the well, to see that young woman standing there naked, washing her only clothes in the only water source. She turned to see us, and made no attempt to cover up. It was we who were embarrassed that she might think we were laughing at her. Not such a funny a story after all.

Anyway, the leader explained that this village actually contained enough people that they had TWO churches. Kirby must have told them about “us,” because it was quickly explained that one of them was a Catholic church!!! This certainly piqued my curiosity.

Both “churches” were effectively huts – concrete block buildings held together by mud (rather than concrete mortar), with a galvanized steel roof. Not even a cross (or crucifix) on either wall. The Protestant preacher, Pastor Beau, was one of the leaders that had been walking with us, and he explained Father Sergio was equally friendly, and that we’d really like him, but that he served hundreds of villages, so only said Mass there about once every two months. One of the parishioners lectored and served as acolyte, distributing the previously-consecrated communion each Sunday.

We met, saw, and talked to different groups of folks at each of these two churches. Although only 100 feet apart, the members did not enter each other’s place of worship, supposedly out of respect, but I’m sure the misconceptions and superstitions of the culture played a huge role.

But here’s the rub. Pastor Beau seemed to really connect with us (most definitely due to Cullen’s presence and his language abilities), and his request to Kirby that I speak that night I later learned was quite a coup. Never before had a Catholic stood in front of his congregation, and no one could remember if the Catholic folks had ever been inside their Protestant church.

My message was basically that it was we that were honored to be with them, and that we are called to love and serve each other, with verses read intermittently, and my interpretation of how the message applied to our walk here together. Afterward, Kirby, Beau, and I all embraced, with what I, at the time, felt was a bit of an exaggerated response. I didn’t think it was really such a big deal.

Later, it was laid out for me quite clearly. “You have no idea what you have done tonight,” Pastor Beau and the Catholic leader agreed. “Our village has been very divided, at times violently so. The mistrust, and misunderstandings are rooted in differences in religion. As an outsider, you were allowed to do something we’ve tried to do for years. You stood as a Catholic, and simply claimed to be a brother Christian, stating matter-of-factly that we are called simply to treat each other with love and respect. If this white American is willing to come to us and tell them that they are his equal, his brothers…” Beau just shook his head and kept saying he never thought this could happen, and that I just didn’t understand.

It still just doesn’t seem like such a big deal. Of course I would feel differently if I was a Christian in the Middle East or a Catholic in 1500’s England or even 1970’s Belfast, or a Jew in Poland in the 40’s.

We turned on the iPod playlist as we readied for bed that night.

Third in line to turn up in the shuffle – Matt Maher: “and I’ll be my brother’s keeper, so the whole world will know that we’re not alone.”

You can’t make this stuff up.

Rosemary was Mom’s big sister and one of her dearest friends. Two of her children, Lewis and Rosie, are still good friends, and when Aunt Rosemary passed away earlier this year I felt obliged to fly up to Missouri to pay my respects. Lots of family came down for Cullen’s funeral, and I’ll always treasure that they cared enough to come; I now realize how much these gestures mean. The closing song at Aunt Rosemary’s funeral was “Be Not Afraid:”
Be not afraid.
I go before you always.
Come follow me, and
I will give you rest.

You shall cross the barren desert, but you shall not die of thirst.
You shall wander far in safety though you do not know the way.
You shall speak your words in foreign lands and all will understand.
You shall see the face of God and live.

“Wow'” I thought. So many gifts left behind. I get it.

Speaking in tongues forever takes on new meaning.

Much love

Haiti, Part 1 – Spring Break

Posted on December 11, 2013 by dogtorbill | 2 Comments

Really? You think I should just take off and go to Haiti for a week?” I asked, incredulous at my wife Sharon’s random idea. But it wasn’t really so random. I’d wanted to mission there for a decade.

“Baby, Cullen’s going to be in China this summer, and then stay another two years getting his masters’ degree. This is his last spring-break, and I think you should take him to Haiti for the week. You’ve talked about going for years, and this will be good for you.

Cullen and I had been having a much better relationship, and he seemed so much happier, content with who he was since returning from his summer in Morocco. At the time I wasn’t sure whether he had really “found Jesus” (or more correctly, fatigued by the incessant pounding on the door, finally opened it and let Him in), whether he was just “playing the game” and saying what he knew I would have wanted, or maybe just wanting to spend some moments with me before he left the nest. It didn’t really matter at the time, I would embrace any of those reasons. I had begged and pleaded for him to spend more time with us, as most of the preceding three years had spent at his mom’s house. My son felt that I couldn’t possible see him as any kind of a role model for the two new ones in our home.

On the contrary, I insisted, “Noah and Kayla look up to you, and love you so very much.” Cullen smiled and shook his head, “You and Sharon do not want them looking up to me, those kids are perfect!” “Of course we do,” I insisted! (I hope as earnestly as I think I remember); We all have ‘stuff,’ and despite it all, you are a really smart person, and even more importantly, a really good person. You are an awesome big brother for them, and a good friend.”

Sharon considered Cullen every bit as much her child, as I did Noah and Kayla, although the words were still fresh from our recent “remarriage” version of Pre-Cana: “Regardless of how much you will love your spouse’s children, when arguments and difficult times arise, it will be different. You didn’t know them when they were cute!”

For some reason they are deeply repressed in my distant memory, but there had been shouting matches and arguments. Regular hormone changes and adolescent rebellion were laced with confused angst that would come out, easily explained, if not justified, a bit later. I knew what would become the eventual explanation for much of that rejection of our traditional, newly functional home. I knew it long before he did.

But for once, Cullen actually wanted to spend time with me, and us. That’s the stuff I keep ready for reference in my memory, one of the “gifts left behind.”

Cullen had planned to go to Michigan to spend his Spring Break week with Tim and his friends, but without hesitation, chose to spend the week with me. He only had one class conflict with a test, and when she said it would be unexcused, he said something about her being unfair to him because of his religion, whereupon she laughed and allowed him to take it early.

When Sharon discovered that we actually were going to do it, she said she’d understand if I wanted it just to be Cullen and me, but that including Noah on our “boy’s trip” would be a good experience for him as well. I was thrilled. Less than two years prior, when we were writing our wills, she had insisted that Noah and Kay would be going to Susan and Donnie, and now she trusted me to take her only son to another country, a third world country. Besides, this would give Noah a chance to get to know his big brother before he left.

Kirby met us with an ear to ear smile and genuine joy at Port-A-Prince Airport. As a hardline evangelical Protestant, Kirby had discussed several issues with me the week he stayed with us, a year earlier. He seemed a bit surprised that a Catholic such as myself was actually familiar with scripture, and could reasonably well defend my faith. Mainly, I think he was just relieved that Rick’s wife was loved by someone who didn’t actually worship statues, and seemed to know and love his same Jesus.

But my concerns were with what Kirby’s fire and brimstone approach to “some issues” might do to Cullen’s newly reconciled faith. I now found myself less upset with Cullen, and more concerned with defending and protecting him. Having never met Cullen, I was a bit anxious to see how they would get along. Frankly I was concerned that Cullen’s mannerisms and body language would “give him up” and there would be tension, or even bigotry during the week.

This worry quickly vanished. When Kirby found us at the Port-a-Prince airport, he swept us all up like we were old friends, and embraced my Cullen like he was family.

Kirby Kepner was Sharon’s late first husband’s childhood best friend, and had served for years as a fulltime missionary, serving a tiny mountain village in northwest Haiti. It was late, so we spent the evening at an orphanage called New Life Children’s Home, there in Port-A-Prince. I glowed with pride as Cullen astonished him, so successfully speaking with the (mostly disabled) Haitian children. Cullen was flawlessly fluent in French (as well as Spanish and Chinese, and conversant in Korean, Italian, German, Portuguese & Russian), so within about 2 hours had become conversant in Haitian Creole as well. He and Noah wandered through the mass of their new brothers, demonstrating how to throw the footballs we had brought them, kicking their soccer ball, and just sitting and talking with those who could speak and holding those who couldn’t. The horribly disfigured, disabled children, thrown away from even the poorest culture in our western hemisphere were carried out to lay on blankets for a few hours, under the shade of the one tree in the playground, as their care facilities were cleaned and changed. Tears come to my eyes as I remember Cullen cradling one of these children without hesitation, talking to them in Creole as if they could answer back, unfazed as the saliva dripped from the disfigured mouth onto my son, as his brother Noah held the child’s hand that squeezed back in a gesture of appreciation.

This is another one of many memories later recalled when I read “Gifts of Passage,” by Amy Hollingsworth.

At dinner, we were asked to join the schoolchildren for their Wednesday night prayer service. I quickly accepted the offer before Kirby could gracefully decline, “Bill, I had wanted to pray together with you and your boys tonight.” “We can, Kirby, after their service, and for the next five days!” I replied. I was anxious to see worship in this culture.

Kirby and Cullen probably got the gist of the hour of Haitian preaching, but I was only drawn in by the music. Initially, I was fascinated by the native music, children singing, and rhythmic drum beat, and felt bathed in the Holy Spirit, it just felt so raw and authentic. And then, I was drawn in by something totally unexpected. In a night so dark in a world far away, these kids started singing songs that we sang every week at Holy Name of Jesus Church in Indialantic, FL! How did they learn English? Our voices couldn’t match their volume and enthusiasm as they sang beautiful harmonic duets of Chris Tomlin’s “Our God is a Mighty God,” “Here I am to Worship,” by Hillsong, and “You are my All in All,” by Natalie Grant. It’s hard to put into words the emotions I felt, sitting with my two sons doing my best to join these beautiful Haitian kids in prayerful song. About a minute into it I just put my head into my hands and wept.

Soon the lights came on, and I looked over to comment on how awesome it was. “Wasn’t that so cool that we could sing these songs with them?!!” Cullen turned with swollen, puffy eyes and said he couldn’t sing very much of it because he too had cried the entire time.

The next day found us cramped in a 4WD truck for 9 hours travelling on what I would have never before considered roads. First we had to navigate our way through the 3rd World traffic in Port-A-Prince, where traffic lanes and signals were pretty much just guidelines. Everytime the traffic came to a standstill (repeatedly), we were confronted by throngs of locals begging or trying to sell something. Believe it or not we bought several scoops of fresh conch salad from this large woman carrying around a big wooden bowl of fresh conch, spices, peppers, and whatever else goes into the stuff. Kirby said it was probably ok, since they use vinegar dressing, and not mayo, so we gave it a try. It was INCREDIBLE, and the cultural beginning to a day none of us would EVER forget.

The boulders in the road, the mud, the heat, mountain cliffs with no guard rail, the incredible “Travel Channel” scenery made for an exciting journey up to Kirby’s mission in “Petite (T) Paradise,” in NW Haiti. Much of the way up we listened to music on my I-Phone, with Christian music including every Matt Maher song ever made. Music was becoming one of those things that was touching our senses very deeply, and Maher’s song “Hold Us Together” seemed to play every time we restarted the 2000 song playlist on shuffle. It became so predictable it was a little eerie. This soon became our unofficial “theme song” for our trip, which felt pretty appropriate as we sang along our memorized lyrics.

“…and love will old us together

make us a shelter to weather the storm

and I’ll be my brother’s keeper,

so the whole world will know that we’re not alone…”

Saints & Mass Intentions – Part 2. And Morocco

Posted on November 21, 2013 by dogtorbill | Leave a comment

Always a little teary and short of breath when I hear my son’s name at church as a soul we’re praying for, but what I wasn’t prepared for was the next intention.

If you haven’t glanced at “Part 1,” please scroll down a bit first; its a really quick read.

The kneeling moments after communion often touch me deeply, for a number of reasons. As a devout Roman Catholic, I totally accept that the Eucharist is the Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity of our Lord Jesus Christ, quite literally. Even non-Catholics have shared with me how moving the reverence in a Catholic Mass is for our Lord. And if you truly believe in His presence here with us, how else would you behave? This in itself puts me in a special place.

The second reason is that one of my last memories of Cullen, my eternally 19 year old son, was kneeling next to him at an adoration service where the Holy Eucharist was present on the altar for us to reverence, meditate, and in an Ignatian way, to contemplate on. Sarah Kroger was the music minister, and I’ve always been so very moved with her worship music. After kneeling in prayer and adoration of our Lord, for over an hour, I looked over at Cullen. I truly expected him to be dis-engaged, even texting, or at least at this point, sitting. An hour is a very long time to kneel. I was taken back to see my beautiful boy, kneeling in deep prayer, tears running down his cheeks, and a smile on his lips. I was then also brought to tears. My son knew my God in a way that I am, to this day, still in awe of. He was conversing with our Lord, and so many of my prayers had been answered.

When he was a little younger, around 15 years old, my son was pretty typical. Rebellious and a bit of a smart aleck, Cullen preferred staying with his Mom, cause there were few rules there, particularly concerning curfew, weed, and sleepovers. He resisted going to Mass, and often butted heads with me on a few issues, but in retrospect, probably rooted in frustrations he had not yet come to terms with. He was much more like me than he could admit at the time, with a deep seated compass and a very conservative nature.

A self described “polyglot,” Cullen was fascinated with all things linguistic. At 17, he was fluent in Spanish, French, and conversational in German, Korean, Chinese, and Arabic. He was up at all hours of the night studying Rosetta Stone and reading, and Skyping with friends all over the world, practicing and attempting to speak without accent. Extremely intelligent, he was awarded his AA degree (having dual-enrolled at the local community college, he had completed his first four college semesters), and graduated from his high school after summer school his Junior year. So, nine days after his 17th birthday, Cullen started Florida State University as a Junior, with majors in Spanish and Chinese Mandarin. Wow.

Cullen participated in an international studies program in Fez, Morocco the next Summer, where he would earn enough credit hours to qualify for Arabic as a Minor degree. After that 6 week study program, he was to stay for two weeks in Barcelona, Spain with the sister of his mother’s best friend, who lived there. He planned to drop by to see us for a short weekend, then return to FSU to start the Fall semester.

We texted with a phone App periodically, but I do vividly remember Skyping with him one evening with his Moroccan family walking back and forth in the background. At some point the elderly grandmother started shouting at him, glanced at me on the computer screen, then shouted again. He laughed and explained that it was time for the family to eat dinner, and she treated him like all the other kids in the family, scolding him for not being seated at the table and ready.

I also remember vividly having the very serious conversation about his “orientation” in a Muslim country. I pleaded with him to take this stuff seriously when he was there, because I wanted his head to come back attached to his body.

It was also around this time when I dramatically changed my approach to praying for him.

I am a pretty religious guy; I seriously study scripture and Church teachings, and try to apply them to my life. I constantly converse with God, all day, every day. I ask for favors and intercessions, I give thanks, and I beg for guidance. So you could say I “pray” all the time. However, at times, I have a much deeper, contemplative prayer time, such as after Communion.

For the longest time – for years, I prayed for Jesus to have the compassion to change Cullen’s orientation. I knew it was so difficult on him, and that no one would “choose” to be attracted to the same sex. A lifetime of prejudice and hatred was certainly going to accompany him. I was sick with anguish about the physical and mental health risks. And certainly, as I’ve expressed previously, I was concerned as to how this would affect his salvation.

It was about this point in time, after so many years, that I found myself no longer praying for my son’s “healing.” “Normal” seemed to take a back seat to “healthy.” I prayed for extended periods of time that Jesus walk with my son and keep him safe; To guide him in his decisions; To know how very loved he was; To realize that God was knocking on the door and it was time to open it.

God had made my son the was he was for a reason. I’ll never know why. It still seems unfair, and even cruel – unless there are other components to our relationship with Him that we just don’t understand yet. And, of course there are.

So I prayed, longer, and deeper, and more often than ever before. I pleaded for my son to develop a healthy, happy relationship with my Jesus, who I knew so very well. The Jesus I know loves unconditionally, because He is love, personified. I begged for an intercession, by whoever was listening up there, to God to rescue my boy, to bring him “home” and keep him steadfast and righteous.

I had completed my 2 hour commute home from work on Saturday afternoon, about 2 weeks before Cullen was due to return from Morocco. For some reason we had decided to go to Mass on Saturday, as something was going on Sunday that would keep us from all being together. My wife Sharon had said something that led me to believe that my oldest daughter Camille was back in town for the day and would be joining us at Church, which I always considered good. Apparently everyone was “in on it,” except for me. So I remember being in a really good mood, anxious to see Cam and glad that she wanted to join us for Mass. I’m sure I bounced, in my happy, dorky way from the parking lot to where I saw them gathered in the foyer in front of Holy Name of Jesus Church.

I remember the odd look on everyone’s face when I looked around and asked where Camille was. Pregnant pause. Then their eyes left mine, and looked towards the fountain, and the statue of Jesus. Seated there next to Jesus was Cullen, with an ear to ear smile!

I get a little choked up every time I think of this scene playing over and over again in my mind. We ran to each other and embraced, both with tears down our cheeks.

Not that my shedding a tear is anything unusual. Everyone that know me, knows that I cry at SPCA and Hallmark commercials.

“Cullen!” I exclaimed, “Why did you come back so early?” I knew he had so been looking forward to being in Barcelona, in real Spanish culture, living with Spanish friends. “Dad,” he explained, “When I was landing in Spain, I looked out and saw a Cathedral. I never thought I’d be so glad to see a cross on the top of a church!”

“Every moment of every day,” he said, “Someone was trying to convert me to Islam … from the guy selling newspapers, to the pretty girl on the bench, to the host family.” The proselytizing had taken its toll, and he was ready to go “home.”

From that moment on, Cullen was so very different. He actually seemed like he wanted to spend time with me, with us. He looked forward to going to Church, and discussing religion and spirituality with me. At first I skeptical, it was just such a turn-around. But it became more and more credible every day. On Sundays, Cullen would call me from school, as he walked 45 minutes home from Church to his apartment, to discuss the homily. How many college kids walk 45 minutes each way to attend church?

So, I digress. But it does serve as background. Anyway, it was August 27th of this year. I was born on August 27, and so was Cullen. That’s right, Cullen was my 32nd birthday present from God in 1992. So of course I had requested Mass be said for Cullen on August 27. And, even though I was expecting it, the mention of his name as the “special intention” of the day’s Mass found me squeezing Cullen’s cross pendant necklace, and looking down.

The rest of the Mass was a bit of a blur, except the mention during the homily of the patron saint for August 27th.

St. Monica.

The very same St. Monica who prayed and cried daily for the salvation and return to the faith of her son Augustine.

With all my heart I now believe in the intercession of the Saints on our behalf. We are not here alone. We are part of the “Communion of Saints.” The time/space continuum is certainly something that we, as finite creatures just can not grasp, but one thing is definite. Is it a coincidence that Cullen and I were born on the feast day of St. Monica? Lately I’ve just noticed way too many things and people woven together with that famous “red thread” that Amy Hollingsworth discusses in Gifts of Passage. I’ve come to the conclusion that there are no coincidences.

Life does not end with our mortality. There is life on the other side, and it’s not somewhere else. Our loved ones are with us in a very real way, and touch us in ways we can not even imagine.

Catholic stuff like Saints & Mass Intentions – Part 1

Posted on November 20, 2013 by dogtorbill | Leave a comment

I never really understood why non-Catholics have such a problem with the saints, or asking the saints to intervene for our intentions, on our behalf, to God. My purpose here is not faith apologetics, there are plenty of resources devoted to that which would be more helpful to the curious seeker. However my own understanding is that the saints were just regular people, many in fact quite like me, very rebellious and sinful early in life, only to grow in their faith and touched by our Lord such that they became worthy of imitation. (ha, not that I am!) A common theme seemed to be their humility, none of them seemed to feel very “worthy.” We hold it to be a truth that these “Saints,” are in heaven with our Lord. Therefore, being “closer” than we are, it just seems logical that they could put a word in edgewise, and referencing Maccabees and Revelation 5:8, they in fact do receive our prayers (symbolized by incense) and relay them on to God. Why not pray to God ourselves? Well, of course we can, and should, and do. But when we’re hurting, or scared, or facing tragedy, don’t we also ask our friends to pray for us? And aren’t we more likely to ask those who we consider “the faithful,” “saved,” or at least “believers” to pray for us than our cousin Joey who thinks it’s all a bunch of crap? So who better to ask to pray for us that those we believe are so “saved” that they actually are with God already? I’ve heard claims that praying to the dead amount to necromancy or even “idolatry.” This is absurd, no one is conjuring up, worshipping or deifying the dead, simply asking them to relay a request.

Ok, that all being said, during my life, I haven’t prayed much or very often to the Saints – at least not until recently.

St. Monica (AD331-387) is remembered and venerated as a devout Christian during those early years, and her virtues, particularly the suffering against the adultery of her husband, and a prayerful life dedicated to the reformation of her son (Augustine), are legendary and heroic. Saint Monica was said to have prayed and wept every night for her son Augustine’s conversion.

Monica was married to a Pagan named Patricius, though like so many his religion was no more than a name; with a violent temper, he was drunkard and quite a carouser.

Monica seemed to spend a lifetime of worry centering on one of her three sons, Augustine; who was wayward and lazy. He was sent away to school, but lived there “dissolutely.”

Always the arrogant “intellectual,” Augustine had been living an “immoral life,” and adopted a heresy called Manichaeism. When he returned home, he shared his new theological views and Monica drove him away from her table. However, she is said to have experienced a strange vision that convinced her to reconcile with her son.

Monica followed her wayward son to Rome, where he had gone secretly; when she arrived he had already gone to Milan, but she followed him. Here she found and pleaded with the local bishop St. Ambrose for assistance. Through him she ultimately had the joy of seeing Augustine convert to Christianity, after seventeen years of his resistance, and decades of her prayers.

Augustine would become one of the most influential thinkers in all of history. Considered a “Doctor of the Church,” St. Augustine’s writings and teachings including his Confessions, have shaped Church teachings, as well as philosophy forever.

St. Monica is forever remembered as the “Patron Saint of parents,” especially “parents of troubled or wayward children.”

Being a “Cradle-Catholic,” I also wasn’t aware that other Christian denominations (and non-denominations) had a problem with “praying FOR the dead.” This was just something we always did, without really wondering if it was necessary or helpful.

Hadn’t the deceased already determined their destiny by their Faith (or lack of it), and consequential actions manifesting that Faith during their lifetimes? Of course they had.

So, of what good would prayers be for them? Not being a theologian, I’m not really sure; being a Catholic there was the issue of “purgation,” mentioned numerous times in scripture. Regardless of whether or not Purgatory is real or figurative; lasting “the blink of an eye,” or some longer element of time; and whether or not we can actually aid those in that position, I can’t be sure. Again, this has been argued for centuries by folks much smarter than I, but suffice it to say, it all becomes different when you lose someone you love.

I really have no knowledge whether or not it helps my Cullen grow a bit closer to God, or whether he’s there with Him already. I am relatively sure, however, of two things.

(1) The act of praying for my son certainly does no harm (Pascal), and (2) You would do so also if it was your own son.

Several Masses were said “for” my son, as well as for Mom and Dad this past year. The “Prayers of the Faithful” is a part of the Catholic Mass where we pray for each other, the world, victims of natural disasters, guidance for our leaders,etc, etc, with a special intention for the individual for whom that Mass was being said. “For the remission of their sins and the repose of their soul.”

It may or may not help my son on his journey.

It certainly helps me on mine.

I thought you should know…

Posted on November 13, 2013 by dogtorbill | 2 Comments

“Billy, um… have you looked on Facebook lately?” my brother Steve was calling me on the phone. Not shocking, but certainly an infrequent occurrence. “I thought you should know what Cullen posted.”

Being called “Billy” always startles me just a bit. I haven’t called myself “Billy” since the 7th grade, so it generally means family or a childhood friend.

One of the few famous people I know actually called me out with that moniker in college, and I was forever treated differently afterwards. Fraternity hazing was still a popular sport in 1977, so at the University of Missouri Theta Chapter of Alpha Gamma Rho, I was “lower than the fish-shit scum at the bottom of the ocean.” I can still smell the foul mouths of Kevin Shopher and Jim Famuliner as they shouted at the tops of their lungs what an embarrassment I was to the upperclassmen, and that I might as well quit right then, because I just wasn’t cut out to be one of the “finer gentlemen” of Ag-Rho. “Ha ha, what a bunch of jerks; If these two can make it into this frat, any one can!” Dave McKee and I used to double over laughing at these idiots when they weren’t around. But during the “evening activities,” we’d “Sir, yes sir!” and complete the obligatory 24,410 push-ups (we actually counted that pledge semester) that were required to get our ticket punched.

Anyway, I was in Schnucks Liquor store in Columbia, Missouri, with my “big brother,” Don Cupps and several others who loved me dearly, getting the beer, etc. for the football game pre-party at the frat house, when someone shouted, “Billy Klein” from all the way down the aisle. I cringed hearing this childish name that I had graduated from, knowing my “brothers” now had new ammunition to tease me with. We all spun our heads around to see James Wilder, the BMOC running-back for the Mizzou Tigers, who was in the midst of taking us to the Big 8 (later the Big 12) conference championship, and an unprecedented number 4 in ranking polls. Jersey number 32, known as the “Sikeston Train,” was a giant physically, and as it turns out, a really nice guy as well. He would later be drafted by the Tampa Bay Buccaneers (keeping #32), and in breaking all their records, rescue them from being such an embarrassment. His son James Wilder Jr, also wears #32 for Florida State (I do wish the Rams had drafted Wilder instead of the Bucs; Jr would be playing now for my beloved Mizzou Tigers, instead of the ‘Noles!

What nobody knew until that moment, was that I had grown up with Wilder in Sikeston, Missouri. Number 32, as you can imagine, was quite a sensation in our home town also. “The Mule” shattered every known record and the Sikeston Bulldogs went to the State finals for the first time in over 30 years! We admittedly weren’t the best of friends, because that was back when blacks hung with blacks, and whites hung with whites; we also never met until 7th grade, since I had gone to St. Francis Xavier Catholic School for the first six grades. But we did know each other from school, parties and athletic banquets; out of 365 kids in my senior class at Sikeston High School, only 5 went strait to the ‘ZOU, and so we certainly were acquainted. So when James called out to Billy Klein, my esteem zoomed immediately. Funny how life works.

(Back to that phone call) So on that day, when my 16-year-old son Cullen “came out” on Facebook by saying he was “bi-” and “in a relationship” with a boy, it was rather upsetting to the fam. I wasn’t thrilled that he had made the whole thing public, especially since Mom was alive and actively keeping up with all of her beloved family through FB, but I certainly wasn’t shocked. I had known for years which team he’d be playing for, and as I’ve explained earlier, had anguished over every angle, and every “alternative.” When we were going through the divorce, it was just horrible for everyone, and Cullen, as expected, acted out with some rebellious stuff, so I did take him to Anthony Feretti, a local family therapist to have “someone to talk to, and work things out with.” (It would be disingenuous of me to deny that I would have thought it quite a relief to learn, in working ‘things’ out, Cullen had discovered he was just ‘going through a phase,’ and that he was now ‘normal,’ and playing for our team.) Dr. Tony soon told me Cullen was fine, very healthy, and just a really good, sweet kid. God knows I knew all of that already.

I was well aware that even then, long before Allan Chambers would abandon Exodus, that reparative theory really did originate from a loving approach, but was horribly flawed in its theory. Sure, I blamed myself, blah-blah-blah, but I had read enough and educated myself well enough that none of this was supported by facts. Just as many straight kids have horrible parents, and just as many gay kids come from supportive, interactive, loving, functional families. Chambers and I have become friends, and I hope the world lightens up on him, as everything he did was out of love and honest integrity. Remember, in the 50’s physicians appeared on TV commercials promoting cigarettes as a healthy way to relax. It’s not lying if you believe current evidence supports your position.

Anyway, I’m not really sure what Steve thought I could do. Get him “into therapy?” Disown him? Throw him out? Give him a spanking, or at least a “good talking to?” I know I’m being snarky, but it truly is as frustrating as hell, as well as all the other emotions I’ve described elsewhere.

But what about my poor dear Cullen? It must have been so frightening, lonesome, embarrassing, and so many other emotions that I’ve had so vividly explained to me by so many gay people who have recently “come out of the woodwork.”

Having tossed that ball around in my head for so long, I replied with the only thing I could reply with. Remember “Pascal’s Wager?” this is my play on it. Weigh one horrible extreme against the other, and choose between the two possible tragedies.

“Steve, I’ve thought long and hard, cried many tears, and prayed many tears about this. I have come to the decision that I’d much rather hold my son’s hand as he’s lying there, dying from AIDS at age 30 than walk into his room to find him hanging from a rope in his closet at 15. So we’ve decided, God and I, to accept him, support him, and love him unconditionally. I’ll be there for him as much as he allows me to be, support him, and love him unconditionally. I’ll cherish the small time I have with him (since he seems to prefer to stay with Debbie), I’ll support him as best I can, I’ll pray for him, and I’ll love him unconditionally. And Steve, I ask that you pray for him, and us, as well.”

Steve really didn’t know what else to say, and I’m sure was , at that point, a little embarrassed. I hope not, because he also acted out of love, the best way he knew how. I did thank him for calling.

Every post I write seems so full of regrets, but how I reacted to the call, and Cullen’s coming out isn’t one of them. It was the very best I was capable of at that time. I love(d) him unconditionally.

I do however regret not telling Mom. I also miss her so very much, and her warm loving smile, compassionate voice, and healing embrace. In wanting to spare her “the hurt,” I robbed her of that true loving, honest relationship that she would have wanted. I effectively kept my son and my mother apart. I kept him from knowing her unconditional love.

I kept her from her reason for living, to love her family unconditionally, because she would have.

My mom was a true witness for God’s unconditional love through His son Jesus Christ. If I really did love Cullen unconditionally, and I very much tried, it came from her. Thanks Mom, and I’m sorry.

———-

Just a couple of footnotes. None of my family, my brothers or sisters have never have had unkind words that I’m aware of (at least as adults), and all actions have clearly been rooted in love. Feretti is a very competent therapist. I do wish James Wilder, Jr. played for Mizzou. Regardless whether or not you agree with his personal opinions, Alan Chambers is a good person. Alpha Gamma Rho is a wonderful organization, and it does “build better men.” I would join her again, in a heartbeat. I do miss my mom and my son.

Although I have lots of life regrets, I do have lots to be thankful for and feel very blessed.

The Mystery of Faith

Posted on November 12, 2013 by dogtorbill | 8 Comments

“So that’s it?” “I’m just supposed to accept so many things that don’t make any sense??”

I just smiled at my beautiful 18 year old boy, who’s new-found enthusiasm and truth-seeking I found inspiring and a blessing. “Cullen,” I replied, “you are a really intelligent person, a torch-bearer for the next generation. You are supposed to seek the truth. Fortunately, our faith tradition is a logical one. Ours is the church that Jesus Himself built. He appointed the apostles, He handed the keys to Peter, he instituted the sacraments, and on and on. Question, research, dig and seek for the truth, the dig some more. Pray for answers and revelation. Our faith tradition has a reason for absolutely every thing we believe, either written in scripture, or passed along in the oral tradition, started before the followers of Jesus could even read and write.”

“You may well find that you don’t like what you find, and you may well not agree. And that’s your prerogative, believe it or not, to disagree. But you can’t leave it there. Keep looking, deeper and deeper until you at least understand where these beliefs came from and why. Two thousand years of theologians who devoted their entire lives to discovering the truth, and thousands of Christians over the centuries, martyred because they were convinced that their convictions were indeed the truth, have certainly made a case for the truths of our tradition. Of course you’ll agree with most things, because it feels like common sense – you’ve been brought up to accept certain truths that others may disagree with. But you will most certainly disagree with other things.”

“Like the whole Adam and Eve story, when science tells us that’s a ‘fairy tale’?”

“Yes, of course, Cullen, like that, among many, many other things. But certain things in scripture may or may not have been meant literally. There are lots of literary devices in the bible – prose, poetry, allegory, hyperbole, metaphors, parables, etc, etc. The whole ‘Adam and Eve thing’ may indeed be literally true, or simply an allegory of how the first man’s original betrayal of God, because of his pride, arrogance, and disobedience led in some way to our sinful nature, our concupiscence, what we call ‘original sin.’ Could God have created two original people from “dust?” Of course He could have! Could He have caused the ‘big bang’ and directed an evolutionary process over millennia? Certainly! Wouldn’t that be “creation” also? We aren’t required to believe many of the traditional teachings of our faith, only the “dogma.” Many things are symbolic and have very deep meaning even though we don’t interpret scripture as “literalists” would. The stories in the Bible were written over many centuries for audiences in many different cultures, so they had writing styles that they would understand, and lessons that they needed to hear at that time. So as we read the inspired Word of God, its important to extrapolate, to glean the real message that God wants YOU to hear for your own life in our own times. This does take a lot of work sometimes, because you must immerse yourself into that culture. St Ignatious of Loyola showed us one way to do this – to focus on one lesson or passage, and to meditate or contemplate on it deeply, placing yourself into the event. Feel the hot dust through your sandals, hear the voices, smell the place, really feel the message because you are actually there.”

“Ok, I’ll try that,” Cullen promised, and then… “What about me, dad, doesn’t Catholicism teach that its a sin to be gay? Doesn’t the Church say I’m going to hell?”

Of course, I was waiting for that, and I really thought I was ready. I had read several books, and spoken with psychologist clients. I had downloaded and almost memorized Always Our Children, the pastoral letter from Catholic Bishops directed towards clergy as well as parents on dealing with this difficult subject with loving compassion. So I intended to pour forth with all my “knowledge.” And I did, and I agreed it was pretty compassionate (compared to Westboro Baptist). So out came the “Love the sinner/Hate the sin “clear explanation.” We’re all called to chastity, outside the confines of a sacramental marriage.

“No! Of course not Cullen, the Church does NOT say you are going to hell. You were born with a same-sex-attraction (SSA), and we all have temptations that lead us to sin. Now, acting on those temptations, now that’s another matter. Yes, the Church WOULD consider the same-sex physical act sinful – just as it would consider it sinful for your unmarried sister to be having sex, or myself, before I was married.”

Knowing full well about him and Tim, his “best friend” for two years, I was quick to clarify. “But Cullen, here’s the thing, and the beautiful thing about our faith. Forgiveness is the biggest and quite unique component of Christianity. We believe that God sent His son to walk among us to show us how to love, and the lesson he most often taught in words and action, is that of forgiveness. We’re ALL sinners, and we all make mistakes. Every Day! I do! In fact, I screw up more than anyone I know. But God does know how hard I try, and how sorry I am when I fall, and how I really do love Him and other people the best that I can. In walking with us, Jesus was like us in all things but sin. He was tempted, He hungered, He felt loneliness, He grieved and wept, and He felt pain. He really felt all of our emotions, because although He was fully God, He was fully human also. Now here’s something that requires “faith.” Faith is required not when something can’t be proven, but when it also can’t be disproven. It’s a true mystery, the ‘mystery of faith’ that He was God AND man both at the same time.

“Yeah dad, I know all that, but you never answered my question. Does the Church say I’m going to Hell?”

Cullen didn’t know the times I had literally wept over this very question – alone, in prayer, and in conference with priests at several of my annual Jesuit Retreats in St. Louis. How could the loving God that I know, sentence my son to life with such a burden? To create such a yoke of burden to bear all his life. How could a loving God be so unfair? To create a person who must choose between the love, affection, companionship and intimacy that we all long for or eternal salvation? Seriously? That just feels so unfair, even cruel! My Jesuit confessors were very sympathetic, it wasn’t the first time they had heard this lament. One even cried with me. “Remember, He is God, and we are not. And He IS the loving, forgiving, compassionate Jesus that you know. Love your son as He loves us. Let your son walk with God, and he will find salvation.” But we do suffer with our children.

I’m sure Cullen knew I was fumbling for his answer, but he knew I was always honest with him, and that I did my best to lead him. “The Church’s official position is that your SSA is the cross you must bear, and that you are called to celibacy. I realize it doesn’t feel fair, and frankly, I don’t know what I would do if I were in your shoes. One thing is for certain however. My strongest advice is to pray, talk to God, pray for guidance for the truth. Your relationship with our God is just that – YOUR relationship with a God so loving that He suffered and died on the cross for YOU. Kneel down in adoration at the cross, and see the definition of perfect love. Close your eyes and talk to Christ on the cross. Pray and contemplate like Ignatious suggests. Listen in the silence for His love poured out for you. That’s all I know. And always pray for strength to do what you know he is telling you. Just know that He will pick you up, time after time, when you fall down. Remember that God loves us, but He doesn’t just love us, He IS love itself. That’s why His is unconditional, unfaltering love.

I felt like I dodged the bullet, the hardest question of all time for someone like him when he then asked, “Dad, that’s the other thing, what’s the point of the whole crucifixion thing? I get the whole cultural thing back then, about offering sacrifice and all that, but – really? He was God. Couldn’t he just snap his fingers and forgive our sins?”

In retrospect this was really the question of existence, His and ours! But at the time, compared to the previous question, it felt like an easy one.

“Of course He could. But we wouldn’t see His love. He showed us He knows all our emotions: loneliness, isolation, and betrayal. He showed us He knows pain and physical suffering. That’s why He has the utmost empathy and compassion. He actually walked in our shoes, because He was one of us.”

That’s the gist of what I remember about our conversation that night in the kitchen. We both had lots to think about.

Shared Birthday “A Parent’s Coming Out”

Posted on November 7, 2013 by dogtorbill | 4 Comments

My birthday was actually in August and that was the date I had wanted to post here for the first time since walking the Camino de Santiago, but the emotional energy required just seemed elusive.

I’ve tried several times, but I seem to sit and stare at the keyboard, and type, and delete, and copy and paste, and delete, and stare, and just find myself not at all sure where to start, and what to feel comfortable sharing. It’s been 3 months since I opened up on any of my blogs, and my shield must be back up and trying to protect my “me.” I got up from my session, and exited without saving anything.

Finally, on my 90 minute drive to work yesterday I had my epiphany. I got my introductory thoughts, my segue to what I really feel like I need to say out loud.

It’s funny how our childhood events stay with us over the years. I’m over 50 and I still am moved by some of these experiences; many make me cringe.

I was never particularly athletic as a kid. So (unless “captains” were best friends), yes I was typically picked last for sandlot baseball, football, basketball, and even pretty awful trying to do stuff like waterski or fish. I didn’t know crap about how to do these things, I just hadn’t been taught. My big brothers were much older and weren’t around much, nor was my dad. In fact, modern psychology would likely blame these experiences and their consequences on their father, or on his absence. I suppose I should cross-post this to my blog involving him, and how the marriage counselor (who I saw as I desperately attempted to salvage my first marriage) had blamed all my faults and flaws on the absence of Jean Klein. Not that I didn’t try. I remember vividly climbing up in his lap to pretend I cared about Cardinal baseball or his one TV show, “Combat,” a 60’s series about life in the trenches during the battles of WWII.

We don’t usually see ourselves as others do, especially during childhood and adolescence, so I’m not sure if I was just a little guy and not very macho, or if I truly was the sissy that Paul Sherman referred to as he tried to beat the crap out of in high school; another time involving Sonny Riley also comes to mind.

The point is not that kids bully, or that I was bullied, but frankly, “Why are kids bullied?”
Today we tend to think bullying always involves a “gay” thing?” Why else (as if that would have been a legitimate reason) would you pick on someone for being what you thought was a sissy? Was it just to pick on someone who they perceived as weaker, so they could get away with it, ie. nature’s way to ensure the strength and longevity of the herd, by eliminating the weakest – survival of the fittest?

Or was it even more sinister? Guess there’s no way to know for sure; I’d guess the perpertrators wouldn’t even know, or even remember that they had committed these horrible “hate” crimes so many years ago. Probably just “boys being boys.”

I did my best to “push back.” Although I didn’t even try out for the football team – I was just too tiny, and had no idea whatsoever about the rules or what most of the positions did – I did go out for the wrestling team. I wasn’t very good here either but at least it was size appropriate. I worked my butt off, and got into pretty good shape in the weight room, but still just wasn’t very athletic.

Not really sure what it was, but I must have put off some funny vibes too. I remember getting a series of late night phone calls when I was about 14 from some anonymous boy, who was apparently attracted to me. I was stunned that he agreed when I called him a queer, and kept prodding me to admit I was too!

Bear in mind that this was a small town in southeast Missouri in the 70s; I didn’t have a “odd uncle Donald,” nor did I even know that “homosexuals” even existed in the real world. The closest I knew of such things was the reading the headlines of the Sikeston Standard Newspaper (as I rolled them for my paper-route) about a group of “perverted men” that were caught “running around naked at the rodeo grounds.” I had (have) no idea what that even means – perhaps 2 were caught in the act in a car or the restroom, but it sounded to an eleven year old like a naked free-for-all where they were doing rodeo stuff like riding horses, or bulls, or even playing tag or some other worthy olympic endeavor. Just wasn’t really sure why they wanted to be naked, or why it was against the law or newsworthy, or what a pervert even was, except something really bad.

Anyway, so this kid kept calling me late at night, and I remember getting really upset, and angry, and disgusted that I would be such a target. He only stopped calling when I claimed that the police were involved, the phone was tapped, and I only needed to keep him on the line for 6 more seconds. He never called back. However, I did find these calls disturbing. What signals or mannerisms had I been sending out? I was clearly attrective to him, and never gave it any more thought that he (they?) might think I played for their side!

Clearly not. I liked girls. Alot. Really. Perhaps too much, or perhaps it was normal to have my raging thoughts and fantasies about lots of girls. I couldn’t even name them all without a yearbook, or a phone book. Whew, what a relief. I was normal, not a freak. Hmmm… freak? pervert? queer? – what about – pansy? sissy? pussy? Is this what the “bullies” were thinking? When people were called these latter things, were they really thinking the former ones?

Have I been holding this crap in since I was getting “unsolicited” calls at age 14? or since I got hit in the face batting in little league trying to bunt at age 11, or when I was laughed at when I ran onto the sandlot for a weekend 10 year old football game wearing my dad’s vintage helmet from his days? Did they just think I was an idiot, or did they think I was a lesser “guy” because I didn’t have boy “stuff,” equipment or knowledge. Was my lack of “skills” because my dad never showed me, or was I really some kind of a “borderline” sissy?

So this has perhaps been my lifelong shield – to overcompensate, to hide my “issues.” Wow, the shrinks would have a field-day! Hours spent in the gym, so I could look manly. Dozens of girlfriends as “conquests,” again, proving what a “man” I was. An embarrassing, phenomenal amount of alcohol (etc) abuse – was it to numb the confusion and frustration? or to be like my old man, so history could repeat itself, yet another generation? Hundreds of weekends away, proving what a “great father” I was, at dance, gymnastics, and cheer competitions. The only thing I’ve proven is that I can be a shitty husband too, since my first attempt resulted in her infidelity after 19 years, and immediate divorce. I’m apparently pretty forgiving too.

So I’ve now spent a thousand words setting the stage, describing where I came from. How could this crap really be relevant 40 years later? Well thirty years ago, I became a father. Certainly I wasn’t the first man thrust into this role without a guidebook, or even much of a role model. Some of the finest men, strongest leaders, and successful athletes never even knew their fathers – or knew that they were a bum. So I really and truly doubt that any of my faults were because my own father didn’t have much of a guidebook either. His best friend, Mr. Dick Tongate, told us after Dad’s funeral that when they were kids together Papu would berate him and didn’t think he had ever told Daddy that he had done a good job (on anything), ever hugged him, and certainly never that he loved him or was proud of him. Wow, my brothers and sisters were so moved to learn this. So, would we kids be expecting too much from the old man? I should expect him to realize that it was important to teach me how to throw, buy me football gear, take me fishing, watch my band concerts, little league games, wrestling matches, teach me how to tie a tie, jog with me, discuss the Lord with me, talk to me about love and sex, or even explain what was going on in the Cardinal baseball and the Mizzou football games? To hold me with one hand, even if a Falstaff beer was in the other? This is rhetorical, of course.

Perhaps Jean Klein really did do the best he could. He had a rat for a father (had Papu’s father been inattentive and cruel as well?). Dad faced death in Belgium, France, and Germany. I’m sure he saw (and did) horrible things during that war. He had come home from that overseas hell addicted to nicotine and alcohol. Mom told tales of war demons that would haunt him for decades, often through nightmares. Life was frustrating also – as a farmer, he constantly pleaded for rain, or less rain, or less heat as his crops often failed, and his father berated his efforts for a bountiful harvest. Yes indeed, Jean M. Klein may well have done the best he was “capable” of.

Anyway so I quickly fathered two daughters, and thought I was a pretty good dad. Perhaps I was, but it was, in retrospect being a “pretty good mom.” You see my parental role model was really Mom. Maureen Blanton Klein was actually a bit of a supermom. I can deal with that in a different post, but suffice it to say, her’s was really the role I was playing.

But, as I would later say in his funeral eulogy, “Although daughters are wonderful, and mine hung the moon, a man wants a son.” So twentyone years ago, on my own birthday, I was blessed with William Cullen Klein. Not only did we share the same first name and birthday, I’d soon find out just how much alike we really were; and how different.

Like me, Cullen had my daddy’s piercing beautiful blue eyes. He was always so determined – it seemed like he could do almost anything he set his mind to. Despite the fact that I really (or so I remember) tried to teach him to throw and hit a baseball, and throw and catch a football, or even shoot a basketball, he had about as many athletic gifts as I did. I took him to Marlin and Dolphin and Cardinal games, and tried to explain the games’ rules to him, but he didn’t really care. Regardless, he was incredibly intelligent, in the “gifted” program at Gemini Elementary School, honor society, and strait “A”s. When I overheard a couple of his classmates call him a pussy, i flashedback to my own inner torment. My beautiful son was me, all over again. I saw a the proverbial “target” on the back of his head, and had to do something. I enrolled him in Tae Kwan Do, and even went to classes with him. He had his second degree black belt in no time, and we even went to the boxing gym together. My son would NOT be bullied.

Not so deep down, just under the surface, I saw the writing on the wall, and when he didn’t act on the advances of an absolutely beautiful 12 year old neighbor girl, I knew for sure. Cullen was gay. It doesn’t take much digging to know that I knew long before then; its likely that’s why I tried so desperately to do those guy things with him.

Was it my trying to protect him from those hurtful words and fists that I had felt 30 years earlier? Or was i actually continuing to protect myself? Did those same taunts still keep me up at night? Would this prove them right, what a pussy I really am if I raised a gay son?

So this was my epiphany as I drove home. Does this explain some of the pieces missing from the puzzle?

Of course I did the typical things all parents do when a child “comes out.” This will be a later blog post, but here’s a snippet: I grieved the loss of MY OWN dreams – family name would not go forward, no grandchildren, no generational Christmas mornings or Easter egg hunts; Fear for his physical and mental health and safety; Fear for his soul – as Catholics, we weren’t exactly “bible-thumpers,” but I certainly doubted this was part of God’s plan; We’d never do those things I had so longed to do with my own dad – football games, hunting trips, girl stories, grandchildren on the lap. Yes, and as I’ve read, those are pretty typical selfish emotions for parents of a gay child. But for me, there was much more, and I was just beginning to realize it.

So here it is.

To this day I have never posted on FB or even said to my social friends or employees, or even a single person on the Camino the words, “My son is gay.” Lots of people know, of course, but I have never said the words, except to family and my closest friends. This, in fact, makes me very, very sad. I have lost my son and will never again on this Earth hold him in my arms, and yet I’m still too embarrassed to tell people.

I’ve always used the excuse that anyone’s (his) sexuality is a non-relevant detail – like blue eyes, or a big nose, or even whether or not they like asparagus. These details don’t “define” the person; someone (Cullen) isn’t a “homosexual” or a “gay,” they are not a noun, they are an adjective. Instead, someone (Cullen) is a person that happens to be attracted to the same sex, and that’s ONE of many things about him, it certainly doesn’t define him.

That, in fact, is all true. That’s what I often told him. He wasn’t a “gay.” He was a great kid who happened to have SSA, as well as all of his other attributes. But has this all been a convenient excuse? My belief set was clear – absolute unconditional love, and this one feature did not define him. Although he didn’t choose this cross, he could certainly choose how to act.

But really. Was all this rewording simply an exercise in semantics? That’s the topic of a future blog. But my point is, did this re-wording allow me to sweep under the rug this little fact? When someone asked if he had a “little girlfriend,” I would smile and just say, “No.” Was I also obliged to share that his choice would rather be a “little boyfriend?”

Admittedly, there was a difference between asking Cullen to be discrete and not post “in your face” pictures of Tim and him embracing or kissing when Mom was alive and followed all her children and grandchildren’s every move on facebook. But those days are past, so what’s my excuse now?

I just don’t know. Hopefully simply expressing these feelings, and posting them, no longer so anonymously, is a first step.

New to my Blog?

Posted on November 6, 2013 by dogtorbill | 1 Comment

Welcome to anyone who is returning after having been away for a while; you haven’t missed much! Most of my blog time since returning from the Camino de Santiago has been spent commenting on a several other blogs that teach, inspire, and challenge me. Welcome also to my newfound Twitter friends and anyone who might have linked over from my Camino blog; My plans for this blog are significantly different – I hope you find the adventures worthwhile. For reasons that may become apparent soon, some will not find much interest here, and others may well be offended at content that they find controversial. I certainly would have not too long ago.

Anyway, here goes. First post will be in the morning…

	Wouldn’t you like to… on Rude (Part 2) – Why even…
	Christina on She wasn’t being ru…
	marydon ford on She wasn’t being ru…
	Gloria Paquin on Veneration
	Carla Jamele on Veneration

dogtorbill

“This saying is hard; who can accept it?”

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