If All Else Fails …

Posted on August 3, 2015 by dogtorbill | 2 Comments

As I sped past the billboard, the words lingered in my mind, and even began to bother me. “If all else fails, try Jesus.” The well intended slogan had it all wrong, much like the “God is my co-pilot” bumper sticker.

Seriously? What kind of friend would you consider me if I only called you when “All else fails?” Wouldn’t that make me the “vending machine god” where we only go when we want something, or worse yet, when we want something, and all else has failed?

It also dips into the “prosperity gospel,” where the believer, one with “enough faith,” gets good fortune, and answered prayers., but when we don’t see that answer, it’s because of our weak faith. Or – “Hey God, I’ a pretty good person, I do good stuff, I don’t cheat on my wife, I don’t tell (big) lies, I gave to the homeless dude this morning. I even go to church sometimes. I’ve done my part! What the hell do you want? Tit for tat. Quid pro quo. I’ve done my part, now give me mine.”

Our parents saw it during the Cuban missile crisis. Churches were packed, and lines to the confessional wrapped around the block. We see it during times of crisis. After 9-11, many returned to religion, or at least begging God, or whatever to come to our aid. How many of us have gotten on our knees (at least metaphorically) and prayed over the past week for the safe return of two 14 year old boys that are complete strangers?

Me too. And I prayed for so many reasons. I’m a father and I know the pain of losing a young son, and another child lost at sea for a week. I know the agony of a family pulled apart, and a heart broken, and hemorrhaging still. And I’ve seen so many lose their faith. I’ve shared stories and tears with other parents, some of whom completely lost their faith after their own darkest day: “How could a loving God allow …”

I’ve seen the faith of a child lost as the cancer took her aunt despite her pleas to her friend, Jesus.

Millions have reached up and asked for a favor. Bring these two kids home to their families.

I informed God that this was the time for a contemporary miracle. Show us a little sign. How ’bout a little trick? Jump through my hoop. “Think of the increase in faith! Think of those who will come home to you! It will be all for your greater glory, Jesus!”

And, because I’m human, and it would all seem pretty logical, I still think all that is true. But then reality crashes down. You see, miracles DO happen every day. But most go unnoticed, or written off as co-incidence, or nature, or lucky enough to have … “a good doctor, or whatever.” Seldom does anything work for “God’s greater glory,” or increase anyone’s faith.

No, in fact, “faith” is an odd thing. It has nothing to do with prosperity, or intellect, or merit, or even desire. Lots of people smarter than me are atheists. And lots of people smarter than me have strong faith. (Although I have noticed the majority of physicians and other health professionals have unshakable faiths, probably they see the complexity of life, down at the cellular level, and realize the notion of a random construction of life is absurd.)

Prayer does unite us. We realize that, although we’re walking this Camino by ourselves, we get much strength and consolation from our brothers and sisters.

Humbling ourselves in genuine prayer also reminds us how powerless we are to control our destiny, and that of our children.

Christians know that Jesus never promised us that we wouldn’t suffer, only that he’d be with us, and from my own experience, even carry us while we do.

Popular singer Matt Maher frames it beautifully, when he writes,

“Lost, everything is lost, and everything I’ve loved before is gone… Where were you when all that I hoped for, Where were you when all that I’ve dreamed, came crashing down in shambles around me? … You were on the cross…”

Not as an excuse as to why He couldn’t help us, but as an image we can contemplate on:

He was in fact, fully human, and knows the fear and agony we feel.

And so we continue to pray for miracles. And for comfort and consolation of a loving relationship, where we can enjoy life together, sharing our deepest joys and fears, and, sometimes, sit together in grief and loss.

Much of our journey here is a mystery. Most of it. But just because we’re not able to understand something fully is no reason to deny the only explanation for the journey in the first place.

We do continue to pray for the impossible. Every father I know would cry in thanksgiving upon the return of these two boys lost at sea. And we continue to pray for the consolation of such a faith that allows their families to continue to breathe and get out of bed each morning. Because that’s going to be difficult for them Trust me on this.

This is the very essence of our Judeo-Christian mindset. Compassion and encouragement. As “Church,” we love and support complete strangers. Because they’re not strangers. Even on the other side of the world, we are connected, so we send our support and offer our prayers. No, they’re not strangers at all, and we are our brother’s keeper. We are often the only Jesus someone will ever meet.

We can’t explain these things to someone who doesn’t get it, but our lack of an explanation doesn’t make that connection any less real.

Much love.

Cecil

Posted on July 29, 2015 by dogtorbill | 1 Comment

And predictably, there’s now some push-back from some hunting and even some conservation groups to (mildly) support Walter Palmer, the dentist from Minnesota who killed Cecil the lion in Zimbabwe. They wonder if the “outrage” of America’s now most hated man (big sigh this week from Bill Cosby) is really warranted.

The dentist who reportedly killed Cecil the lion is getting absolutely destroyed on Yelp

Well here’s the deal. The outrage is that the current evidence shows pretty clearly that he was aware that the animal was baited off the protected reserve. In my book, this ranks right up there with feeding corn to deer during entire off season to pick them off the first day of the season. I’m not a hunter-hater; I’ve spent countless hours in a dear blind, a duck boat, and walking the cornfields for quail, pheasant, and dove. I’ve even mounted some pheasant and fish, not because of the testosterone involved, but rather, as an animal lover, as a reminder of the beauty of creation. Please know also, I’ve only taken fish or game that I could eat, or released them.

It’s been a decade since I’ve pulled the trigger, and after having been in the healing arts for three decades, I have no desire to do so again. I also realize that hunter’s organisations like Ducks Unlimited, and hunting licenses pumps millions each year into wildlife management, conservation efforts and pays salaries of those that enforce the laws. To some degree I would even hold my nose and support legal safari hunts for the same reason. These are not gentle giants, nor are they sweet and cuddly, regardless of the stuffed animals on our beds, and the Disney movies we watch with our children. But again, this clearly crosses many lines.

This photo shows Walter Palmer with a leopard he killed in Zimbabwe with a bow and arrow. Photo: Blogspot.

This dude has evidently crossed some lines in his hunting past. Justified or not, the forces of hell have been unleashed upon him, and he faces the wrath of a public that doesn’t support any form of hunting. He’s screwed. At some point when we make decisions to do things that are “legal,” we must look closely and see if they are ethical and conscionable. This was probably not.

The saddest commentary is that this kind of outrage wasn’t voiced against Kermit Gosnell.

Shouting at an Empty Chair, Father’s day 2015

Posted on June 12, 2015 by dogtorbill | 1 Comment

Tyrone presented the family’s new puppy in for his first exam yesterday, and brought along his son, “To meet me.” I was taken back by this comment, and quickly replied that I was so glad that he had, and then I said something about how I was sure he was glad school was out for the summer. I asked if they had plans for the summer, and Andrew, reaching his hand out for me to shake it, said, “Yes sir, I’m working as a camp counselor at Wadeview Park.”

“Really?” I said, “That’s fantastic. What a great summer job! What kind of a counselor? Will you be teaching, like arts and crafts, or more like a coach, supervising athletics?”

Andrew, who looked to be about 15, respectfully looked me directly in the eye, and said he’d be willing to do whatever they needed, working with the underprivileged kids there. I looked over at his dad, and I said, “Good job, what a great person you’ve raised.”

Tyrone agreed, “He is a really good kid,” but shook his head, claiming none of the credit. But I knew better. If nothing else, he had been present for the boy, and done his best to be a really good man.

What makes some fathers step up and be “Dad,” and others walk away or stay around, but not really be “present,” is such an important question. What, in fact, is a “good father?”

Do you have to be perfect, never letting your shield down to reveal your human-ness? Should you lay down the law, and be the disciplinarian (because you used to be so wild and get into so much trouble). Or should you strive to be their best friend, letting them drink beer and smoke weed, high five-ing over last night’s “conquest,” and providing the latest and greatest toys?

I’ve seen both extremes. I’ve been both extremes. OK, not really so much the last one, although at some level, I really wish I could have been “closer” as a friend to all five of my kids. But we don’t get any do-overs. A priest at Whitehouse retreat in St. Louis once told me:

We are (and more specifically, that I am) much too hard on ourselves. “The world only has one Messiah, and you (thankfully and most assuredly) are not Him. You are not perfect. You are the way God made you – imperfect, but with the heartfelt longing to be as good as you can. And that’s good. But you can’t go back and do things differently, with all your new-found wisdom. Didn’t you always act out of love? Didn’t you always do what you thought was the best at that time?”

“Yeah, but…”

Yeah but nothing. By continuing to add that qualifier, Yeah, but…, you deny that Jesus is the Messiah, the Redeemer, the one who makes all things new again. We must strive to accept Him as our redeemer, and allow ourselves to be human. You are how you are, and its so much better to accept that. We are called to always strive to be better, even perfect, and we must try, day after day. But we’ll never be perfect. Not on this Earth.

You are made of blood and bones, breath and vapor. You are the product of the genetics He orchestrated, and that imperfect nurturing from your parents, or lack of them. Let Jesus carry the cross, you have plenty of other things to do. As the song goes, “He is God, and you are not.”

A lifetime ago, I was doing everything I could possibly do to save my first marriage. So in our first session with the marriage counselor, I proudly puffed out my chest and said I’d do anything to save the marriage, that divorce absolutely, positively was not an option. Less than two months later, he was just as positive that it was the only option. But we should continue on, to counsel with him, so we could be “better,” and so that we’d not keep “making the same mistakes” (presumably in our next attempts at a relationship).

And so, right out of his Gestalt theory textbook, the family therapist (sic) had me pacing around the psychologist’s office, shouting at my father, “seated” in the empty chair “What I really felt! What I needed so badly to tell him!” When I couldn’t come up with enough garbage to dump on him, I was goaded and prodded, “Tell him about all those little league games, band concerts, award presentations, and wrestling matches! Tell him he should have been there!” I continued to pace in silence. “But shouldn’t I be shouting at his father?”

He looked at me like a deer in the headlights, “You’re enabling him, you’re giving him excuses, he wasn’t present!”

“Can’t I just forgive him?”

Fritz and Laura Perls’ Gestalt Theory

“This will help you do that, you’ve got to put the blame on him!”

“But it’s not his fault. I think he did the best he could do.”

I don’t think I went back to Dr. Tony after that session.

And so this father’s day I had much to reflect on. And even more to let go of. If I can let the old man off the hook, shouldn’t I do the same for myself? It was a chair I’d sit in too soon myself.

Florida State University graduation, 2012

There are consequences to sins, and since we are social creatures, such consequences often impact others, including within the family and subsequent generations. I think this is called Generational Sin. The concept, I’d suppose originated with the “original Adam,” whose act of rebellion and disobedience resulted in our sinful nature, not coincidentally coined “original sin.”

Regardless of whether or not you buy into the whole Christian creation story, it’s a striking allegory. Clearly, something happened along the lines of (I’d maintain, “designed”) human evolution and development where we as a species developed a sinful nature. As a reasonably intelligent science based professional, I know of no other “creation” with the the willingness, or even the ability to choose to do evil. And somewhere, somehow, we made the first act of defiance; Our greatest gift became our greatest curse. Free will spawned original sin.

But God does not hold children, or present generations, morally responsible for the sins of their parents and ancestors. This is clearly laid out in Holy Scripture when the Israelites were blaming their troubles on the sins of their forefathers (see Jer 23:5-6, and Ez, 18:1-4).

Indeed, we need to look into our own hearts and repent so that we can find (and give) our own forgiveness and healing. God is surely not so unjust as to force children to “pay” in justice for the sins of others.

On the other hand, it is also true to say that the sins of our ancestors — right back to those “first parents,” do affect our lives today and leave us inheriting some pretty heavy baggage to carry around. With each passing day and event, I’m more convinced that we are connected by that “red thread,” or what ever you would call Providence, so that we can and do suffer both spiritually and bodily from the sins of others. We may think this unfair, but remember that the interdependence of the human race is also the source of most of our highest blessings, for example, the solidarity and intimacy of family life and the communion of love with all of us as brothers and sisters.

To make such supreme blessings possible to creatures with free will like us, our creator also had to permit us to misuse that freedom and interdependence, with all its tragic results.

This “interdependence” of the human race also means that the sins of ancestors and parents can affect us in other, more subtle ways. For example, some destructive conditions (such as alcoholism, depression, and hair-trigger tempers) can be passed down to us by genetic inheritance.

Moreover, the problems of our immediate parents and grandparents can be passed down to us in other ways, too. If they set a bad moral examples for us as, sadly, people tend to do from generation to generation, or if they abused us or failed to give us the love we needed when we are growing up. In such instances, we can become “saddled” with emotional and developmental scars.

For instance, if we weren’t given the love we needed as children, we may spend our lives struggling to learn how to love others and ourselves. This does not make them fully “responsible” for our sins and all our problems today, of course, and we have the responsibility to take action to find healing for these generational wounds ourselves.

Furthermore, in a concept known as transference, we tend to see God the father much as we have had that model of fatherhood displayed by our own father. If our’s was not forgiving, compassionate, and capable of unconditional love, it is extremely difficult to understand that our heavenly Father could behave in ways like this. And how could we believe selflessness and unconditional love even exist, if we reject that Jesus came to show us that very thing? St. Paul says Jesus brought this undeserved grace to the world as the “second Adam.” (Romans 5:12-21).

We did nothing prior to our conception to warrant or deserve original sin. Likewise, Christians believe we do nothing to “deserve” this Grace that Jesus brings. But we must accept it, we must open the door He’s been pounding on. We must forgive, and accept His forgiveness, “as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Jesus the Christ came and suffered to show us how to love, what unconditional, undeserved love is. When people fail to fully receive that gift from Him, through repentance and faith — i.e., if their contrition for sin and love for God was “half-hearted” in this life — then they remain in partial debt to God (still owing for, in theological jargon, “the temporal aspect of sin”).

In His parable of the prodigal son, Jesus used the image of a family to teach us God’s love. The “younger son” could not wait – and in demanding his inheritance, he effectively wished for a dead father, or at a minimum, felt that he was “dead to him.” The only way for the father to allow his son to really learn to love was to allow him that free choice. We all know how it ends, with the father’s unconditional love allowing the prodigal to return, but we often miss two points.

Is the father angry only grudgingly allowing this man to return? No! In fact, from what Jesus describes, this father daily peers into the horizon, hoping to get a glimpse of his returning son! After all, he still loves his son! In tears, he runs to welcome him home!

Although we play both of these character roles during our respective lives, it’s a harder concept for us to accept that more often than not we’re the other son, the good child. Too many times, I shout up at Him, “You’re not being fair! I do what you ask of me. I go to church. I believe in you. I play by the rules! And yet you allow this to happen to me? Yet I look around at other “prodigals” (from outward appearances) who have so much success and happiness. Ouch. The mirror is seldom a pain-free zone.

I was blessed to have a wonderful father. He was not perfect. He had his many faults. He didn’t lose his temper often, but when he did, I was sad and sometimes afraid and, now looking back, very disappointed, because I wanted our home to be “perfect.” Of course, it couldn’t be. But I knew absolutely, without a doubt, that my father loved me, and that he loved my children, and we were all blessed that he could show my oldest three just how much he loved them.

Jean M. Klein and my three oldest children

What is your story? Many of you have the vocation of fatherhood. Do unresolved issues with your own father or mother hinder your acceptance of God’s unconditional love? Do they cause you to have a negative relationship with your children? Do not let these keep you from experiencing the Father’s ever-faithful love.

Perhaps some among us desire to reconcile with our earthly father. We will need God’s grace either to ask our father to forgive us or to tell him that he is forgiven. If our fathers are already deceased, we can still do this, with or without the empty chair.

The prodigal son believes that his father will take him back, even if just as a lowly hired hand. Jesus paints a brighter picture: The father loves so much that he puts a ring on the son’s finger and kills the fatted calf.

We must believe that Our Father in heaven will do the same for us if only we go back to Our Loving Father. Pope Francis keeps reminding us: “God never tires of forgiving; we are the ones who tire of seeking His mercy” (cf. “Joy of the Gospel,” No.3).

The elder brother stands in the shadows with resentment and judgment, perpetuating his own cycle. But Michelangelo paints it so very clearly: We see how the cycle is broken: The prodigal son is on his knees, asking for forgiveness. We break the cycle on our knees.

Return of the Prodigal Son by Michaelangelo

Return of the Prodigal Son by Michelangelo

After all, we cannot help our sons become the men they need to be until we allow ourselves to return to the Father. We cannot help our daughters become the women they need to be until we enter into the kind of relationship which Jesus invites us to experience. Husbands here today cannot be the husbands they need to be if they are not coming before the Father like the prodigal son.

Missing Our Parents, Helping the Hurting

Posted on June 2, 2015 by dogtorbill

Fifty years prior, his WWII daily K-Rations had included just enough unfiltered Camel cigarettes to start a life-ending habit that would eventually rob us of our newly sober father.

None of his children were with my father when he died. Earlier that same day, Mom had assured me that, although he was in an oxygen tent and probably wouldn’t come home from the hospital, death wasn’t imminent. . I should start looking at plane tickets and adjust my schedule accordingly for probably the next week.

I was in surgery just a few hours later when the call came; my back slid along the wall and I wilted to the floor as the news was relayed to me.

I vowed to drop what I was doing if I ever received such foreboding news about Mom. And I was with her, but only because I took seriously the news that she had stomach pains and was in the hospital for observation.

I tried not to let her see my gasp of horror when I entered the room and saw her in that hospital bed. Who was this old person, with her hair flattened and unkempt, looking so feeble and weak? This face glowed and smiled as she looked up to see who was clenching her hand and leaning down to kiss her.

Only then did it really hit me, and I was absolutely terrified. My beautiful mother was, for the first time, very mortal. Until that moment, when I thought of her, she was 48. I have no idea why that age, but I remember her being that age, and regardless of how many decades passed; that was the image I conjured up in my mind when I thought of her, spoke with her on the phone, or saw her handwriting.

At about age 48, this is the way Mom will forever live in my memory. Maureen Blanton Klein

That day is mainly a blur. A surreal experience where nothing made sense. A Chagall or Dali painting where something, or everything, was out of place. I had spoken to my mother the day before. She was 83, but the picture of health: vivacious, bubbly, energetic, the quintessential do-gooder volunteer.

She was supposed to live for another 20 years; in fact had I built an extra ground-floor bedroom with a walk-in shower for her to finally retire to, when she decided to join us in Florida!

Mom had hosted a dinner party that night in her home, cooking and serving to 10 of her close friends. When everyone was leaving, she remarked that she had a bit of a stomach ache and so didn’t want anyone to stay to help clean up, she’d just do it in the morning, because she felt like she wanted to go to bed. She had not been sick a day before this.

Who was this person in this hospital bed, writhing in abdominal pain? As the sole medical professional in the family, I would take upon myself responsibility for her proper treatment, “Where is her medical record? What have you found, and what tests have you performed?” The staff smiled at me sympathetically, and condescendingly assured me that everything possible was being done. I would certainly be allowed to look at the medical chart, if the doctor approved it.

The problem was that there was no doctor. Her primary care physician sent her here in the middle of the night. The admitting doctor then turned over her care to the “hospitalist,” what-ever the hell kind of doctor that is. I certainly wasn’t impressed with him, or the system at St Francis Medical Center in Cape Girardeau, where Mom had been taken. I’d now been there for over 6 hours and no doctor had even walked in the room to examine her. I was “assured” that he had been by once and “saw” her, and was well aware of what was going on, because he had been on the phone with the nursing staff several times over the course of the day. Finally, after my constant harassment, the nurse winked and told me he had consented to my looking at the chart, and that she’d be glad to “explain things to me.”

As we walked to the head nurse’s station she asked me a question that will forever haunt me, “You must take comfort that your mother is at least resting comfortably now, has this been an extended illness?” When I told her, “NO! She hosted a dinner party just 9 hours ago, and hasn’t been sick at all,” she turned quickly towards me, and almost shouted, “REALLY?”

The medical record was astonishing. The complete and total lack of any semblance of a medical workup was puzzling. I remarked outloud, “She presented for stomach cramps and nausea, where are the blood profile results? Why have a CT, or even a simple radiograph (X-Ray) not been taken? The incredulous look from the nurse also haunts me. “Because, Mr. Klein,” the nurse now speaking matter-of-factly, she has a DNR request on her chart and on her wrist band.”

“Nurse, actually, I’m Doctor Klein, and I demand that you call the physician immediately. DNR means (or so I naively thought) ‘Do Not Resuscitate,’ NOT “DO NOT TRY!”

“How can you possibly make a decision regarding whether or not to treat something, if you don’t even make a minimal attempt to diagnose?” I pleaded on the phone with “the hospitalist” (again, whatever the hell that is). His condescending words also continue to haunt me, “Well what would you like me to do, doctor?”

I’ll leave this alone for now. DNR is a blog posting all by itself.

Although Mom didn’t hang on for all of her children to kiss her goodbye, she did get to hear their voices on the phone. She was fading in and out of our presence, and so we called two others, who were rushing to be with her. Tears dripped from our eyes and off of our cheeks as this seemingly unconscious vessel opened her eyes and smiled when she heard their voices. Her limp hand clenched mine firmly as my siblings told her how much they love her, and – goodbye.

I never got the time to grieve into closure. I had lots of “moments,” holding my wife and children, as we wept together. But mainly there was rage at this poor excuse for a hospital, and my own guilt. Lots of guilt (probably more of that Catholic thing that seems to be a theme in my life), because I was the only one there with the medical knowledge to understand what was happening, and what was not happening. And yet I did not stomp my feet, make a scene, and scream at the top of my lungs until a real doctor showed up. (Clearly I realize a hospitalist is a licensed physician, my point being the system in this hospital, perhaps the entire state, is dysfunctional and absurd).

And then the unthinkable happened. Much like a woman who later gets cancer in a second breast, a man who survives chemo only to die in an accident, or an amputee to later discover metastases.

The Christian band Casting Crowns seemed to feel our pain in Praise You in this Storm,

I was sure by now
God, You would have reached down
And wiped our tears away
Stepped in and saved the day
But once again, I say “Amen”, and it’s still raining

and Natalie Grant also knows a continued hurt with Our Hope Endures

You would think only so much can go wrong
Calamity only strikes once
And you assume this one has suffered her share
Life will be kinder from here
Oh, but sometimes the sun stays hidden for years
Sometimes the sky rains night after night
When will it clear?

Just a few months later, in the middle of the night, we received the second call. Our beautiful, wonderful Cullen had been in an accident.

Clearly, there are some things we just aren’t supposed to understand. I don’t understand.

As unfair as it seems at the time, life does go on, and others are allowed to continue on “as if nothing happened.” We live our own lives, we walk our own Camino, even when we travel with others.

Maureen Blanton Klein with William Cullen Klein

Mom and Cullen

Mom with Cullen

William Cullen Klein and Sharon Tidd Klein

Cullen and Sharon

Maureen Blanton Klein with William Lewis Klein

Our beautiful mother in 2007, on my wedding day

I wrote this post last year, but could never bring myself to hit the “publish” button. It just didn’t feel right yet. Things were too raw. Those of you who have lost parents, siblings, or the unthinkable loss of a child know all too well these emotions.

Recently, I participated in training seminars focusing on end of life, grief and bereavement, and some concepts regarding how best to support those “left behind.” The only thing that seems to consistently help is our “being present” when others are suffering from loss. There are no correct words that always apply; in fact most of the cliche’s that are said are absurd and (however well-meaning) actually deepen the hurt. But at least these people tried. So many people pull back from those they care about, because they don’t have something profound or healing to say. And so they say nothing. They disappear. They do nothing. And that is the most hurtful of all.

Some of who I considered my closest friends haven’t spoken to me since my son’s accident. And yet two acquaintances, whom I hadn’t spoken to in decades, reached out to me after Cullen’s accident, because they too had lost a child. Their kindness will never be forgotten.

Being present means you know they are hurting. Since they are loved and special to us, we hurt with them. Just sitting together, hugging, and crying. You are let in not because of who you are, but because who you are is formed by your history with the hurting, and your personal knowledge of loss. Empathy. It’s not something you read about, or something you do. It’s who you are.

Its the age old question. Its that which shakes our faith to its very core. Why must we hurt? Why does tragedy happen to good people? Hurt is the price we pay for our love. We truly wouldn’t know light without darkness for comparison. Warmth without the chill of loneliness. Compassion without our own hurt.

Rather, embrace your pain. For this pain exists precisely because you feel. You have not loved and lost, you have gained so much because you have loved, and have been loved. To feel is a chance to live, and a chance to love.

Reach out to those whom you love, especially when they are hurting. And not just when they’re hurting, and not just to those you love.

“You don’t choose a life, you live one.”

Camino to Morocco, Chapter 1

Posted on May 28, 2015 by dogtorbill | Leave a comment

Having only packed two pair of trousers for my two week trip to Morocco, I was less than thrilled, but the Irish stewardess clearly was, as she doubled over in laughter. This was contagious and instantly about six rows were all in stitches as I stood to reveal my purple crotch, drenched with Virgin Airline’s finest vintage, and now running down both legs. “Laugh it up, Ginger!” I encouraged her, who was still giggling uncontrollably, “I know, I know, it’s all good craic!” Katie informed us all that she would promptly wet her pants if she didn’t stop laughing, and the other attendant agreed, as if this was very normal and typical.

This is just a teaser. If you (for some reason) want to follow this year’s “Camino to Morocco,” please go to my other blog: click here, and don’t forget to click the “follow” button, over there, as well as “like,” and leave your comments and suggestions!

If you want to scroll down, you’ll see, in reverse chronological order, last years Camino to the shrine at Lourdes, and, several pages down, 2013’s infamous Camino de Santiago.

Camino to Morocco, Chapter 27

Posted on May 20, 2015 by dogtorbill | Leave a comment

May 17th, My Darkest Day

Last night I lay in bed, unable to sleep, blaming the heat and loud Arabic chatting from the adjacent room. But the real reason was clear. My plan to go to Chefchaouen tomorrow was absurd, and only an excuse. So many people had told me how beautiful and quaint this little village was, almost like in Switzerland, and I just “had to go there.” But this wasn’t why I was here. I wasn’t a tourist, on holiday. I was, like Dr. Tom in “The Way,” here, on “family business.” I hope to someday return for those reasons, but it will be with my wife, and certainly not on May 17th.

What I needed to do was to back to ALIF (the Arabic Language Institute in Fes) again to talk to Cullen’s Professor. We had met, earlier in the week, but not really talked.

I needed to sit in Cullen’s chair in room 100 again and see “his” classroom.

I needed to sit in the courtyard and drink coffee and eat almond cake. I needed to wander around the university library and gaze in amazement.

I needed to eat a camel-burger and drink a chocolate shake at the Clock Cafe. I needed to drink mint tea at the corner table in the cafe with pool tables. I came here to see the world through Cullen’s eyes. One last time, for him, with him.

But I didn’t want to. It would mean saying goodbye, it would mean that I was checking these things off, and throwing my clump of dirt onto the casket. I didn’t want to, but I needed to.

I jumped out of bed, and swung open the door to again tell Allal that there had again been a change in itinerary. We are NOT going to Chefchaouen tomorrow.

And so we did all those things, and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute.

On the last stop of the day, Allal had run across the street to digitally capture the moment. I sat at the cafe sipping mint tea, and he shouted to make the peace sign, because he knew our Cullen always did this in pictures.
And now, the end of the day, for some reason, and it was always unpredictable, I melted.

Allal pleaded with me not to cry. Today was the first time this year’s journey had immersed me here. I’d been in Morocco over a week, but this was the first time I would visit that place inside where I had such little control. After almost three years, I was, for the most part, in a really good place. But sometimes, and it was hard to predict the catalyst, the emotions would let loose. I had spent the day vicariously as my son, seeing these things with the same blue eyes we had gotten from my father. We tasted the same mint in every cup of tea, and overwhelming cumin and other spices in the food that was so different from what we had both eaten at the same table. We were drenched with same sweat, and burned with the same sand. We were feeling the same cultural amazement, and now had heard the same professor in the same room.

“Please, Mr. William, please don’t be so sad. Please don’t be always crying and sad!” This actually caught me a little off guard, because I wasn’t “always” crying, and certainly didn’t think I had been acting sadly. These moments were now few and far between. And even now, I wasn’t blubbering and wailing like I used to do. It was just a few tears running down my cheek, and probably wouldn’t even have been noticed under my sunglasses if I hadn’t started wiping them away.

“Cullen is with Allah, and it’s a beautiful thing, a wonderful place!” I’d had quite a few conversations about religion in the El Harrami household, and it was touching that he now felt comfortable saying such things in an attempt to console me. “He is at salam, (peace).”

One of those conversations with Allal included his sister-in-law Nisrine, who knew well the observance of Islamic law. And not just the ritual observance, this family seemed to have dug pretty deeply, and knew in their heart that their’s was the true religion. So, I’m not so sure they were thrilled with the place I was willing to exit our hour’s-long conversation. If I was such a truth seeker, why would I be content with my “false religion?”

I suppose “turnabout is fair play.” Being reasonably well versed in Catholic apologetics, I was used to responding to concerns from Protestants dispelling misconceptions about the RC tradition. At the end of the day, we Christians really do agree on much more than we disagree on, and certainly the most important tenants.

In fact, my then evangelical wife Sharon and I had had this very conversation on our first date. She was incredulous that I thought my faith tradition was right and others’ were wrong. Not that it’s a perfect church, precisely because I (and other humans like me) are part of it; rather I hold that She’s been guided by the Holy Spirit through apostolic succession for 2000 years. If I didn’t believe my faith was the “true” one, I’d most certainly be somewhere else.

Anyway, so here I am, a guest in a home who thinks any reasonable person who takes the time to learn about the prophet and his writings, couldn’t possibly come to any other conclusion. In their minds, they were as “right” as I am. The fact that I have all sorts of rebuttals for Christianity, and “gotcha” questions for my Muslim family was irrelevant. Perhaps we were both, in our hearts, as good, as faithful, and as loving, as we were called to be. Perhaps our very same God had revealed Himself differently to different cultures, in a way most appropriate to them, and their customs, and traditions.

I sat silently there with Allal for a few moments, for a few reasons.

I did need to recompose, but I also rather enjoyed hearing my new friend, who had never even met my son, be so confident that he was in paradise with Allah. The phrase Muslims almost always use to greet includes, “Salam,” which means “Peace,” or “God’s Peace.” This struck me a bit, since Cullen often lifted his hand with the peace sign in photos.

Allal looked directly into my eyes as I lifted my sunglasses to wipe them again, “I know this, my brother, because he is your son. He must be so much like you. You are so loving and such a good person, my brother.” This was a bit much for me also, so I lowered my glasses again, took a final sip of mint tea, and said, “OK, let’s go.”

And so I had done what I had intended to do. Cullen had had quite a “reversion,” a return to his baptized faith tradition when he had been here in Morocco. He had returned with a faith I ~~was~~ am in awe of.

And now I felt it too. He’d told me that every movement of every day he had felt proselytized, even assaulted in faith by so many here. I certainly hadn’t felt that way, but it was easy to see how a 18 year old could feel this way. And you had to be awe-struck, and even admire, their faith. Five times each day we would hear the Adhan, the Muslim call to prayer. For some reason (I’ll address later), I wasn’t allowed to (visibly) be present to view worship in a mosque, but I found this most interesting, even compelling.

It’s been called the most beautiful sound in the world, when the muezzin calls to prayer. I would differ in my preference, but I kind of get it. To be so focused on God, and doing what you feel is your reason for being here is a beautiful thing. it’s not all about me, it’s about why I’m here.

I saw so many things during “this year’s Camino.” This has been a culture shock x 10. On any of several occasions I saw things that would have made my son return from this place so changed, so deep, so much better than me.

I am thankful for so many things, and so many people – and you all know who you are. This has been quite a ride, and I am definitely better for it. Much love.

I realize this is kind of a sad post, and i apologize for that. Lots of good, happy, and funny posts still to come. May 17 will likely always be like this. Sorry.

“As-salamu alaykum”

Everybody Remembers a Mike

Posted on April 29, 2015 by dogtorbill | 10 Comments

I think Dewey and Vaudean Gimlin used to see me for what I was back then – Eddie Haskell, Wally Cleaver’s best friend on Leave it to Beaver. And although this was pretty correct, their son Mike and I used to feed off of each other. This is why we were best friends for about a fourth of my life.

Every time Mike got into trouble, Dewey pretty much blamed me. My long hair was probably why Dewey saw to it that Mike’s was never more than about a half inch – he was too curly to allow a military “flat top,” but this was the general idea.

Although I went to St Francis Xavier and he went to public elementary school, weekends and all summer long found us together. He was classmates with Paul Ensor and the three of us would always be together in some combination, typically together, and inseparable.

These were the days a mom could drop her 10 year old at the pool, and not see him again until dinner-time, and she’d still be a “good mom.” Back when we’d get up before daybreak on Saturday and fly off on our stingray bikes with fishing poles and spend the entire day at the ditch (crick for some of you), and come back with a “mess-o’-catfish” or empty handed, and burnt and exhausted, and fulfilled with what growing up in Sikeston, Missourah meant.

I remember one Saturday morning, knocking on the aluminum storm door. Normally it would be unlocked, and I’d peck on the front door, if it was even closed, and I’d hear the official welcome, “Come on in Billy!” But today, Mr. Dewey opened the front door, and spoke to me through the glass. His voice was stern, but that’s just how he was sometimes, especially if he was scolding Mike for participating in some of our shenanigans.

“Bill, Mike’s pretty sick, and won’t be able to ‘come out to play,’ today.” I assumed it must be contagious, because they normally asked me in.

“Oh, yes sir, uhm, ok, well.. Mr. Gimlin, please tell him to get better quick, my sister’s having a party this afternoon, and we’re gonna spy on them!” (Eddie Haskell indeed) “Sure, Bill, I’ll tell him.”

No big deal, we’d catch up later. Off I zipped a few blocks away to my classmate and other best friend Bob Leible’s house. We probably watched Johnny Quest and ate Alpha Bits and then played catch or whatever. Mr. Dewey or Miss Vaudean must have called Mom to let her know what was going on, because that evening, when I finally got home, she sat me down and told me that Mike was pretty sick, and not to go back over there until they called back to say it was OK. “But Mike’s going to be OK.” She was emphatic. I remember the emphasis, but I knew that already. “Of course Mike was going to be OK.”

Pretty sick to me meant the flu, or strep throat, or ‘chicken pops,’ or even a really bad sunburn. I had little concept of “pretty sick,” and certainly no concept of what pretty sick might lead to. My Grandpa and Grandma, and Papu and Mamu were all still alive. Mamu represented what really sick meant. She lived upstairs in her house in a steel bed, and whenever I was brought along to visit, she’d mumble my name repeatedly and nonsensically the entire time I was there.

I take that back. I did have a concept of death, but only from a far distance. When I was probably only 12 or 13, one of the kids on my street just disappeared. She just stopped playing with other kids and me. I remember her house, and that she was really sweet and nice, and very cute, and in band with all of us. Before anyone really knew she was gone, we were told that our little friend Kim Inman had died from something called Reye’s Syndrome. None of us went to her funeral; I guess you’re just supposed to shelter kids from depressing stuff like that.

Anyway, Mike had been gone about a month before I was told that he was in the hospital in Memphis at St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital with a thing called Hodgkin’s Disease. “Whew! At least he didn’t have Reye’s Syndrome!”

As it turns out, Hodgkin’s disease is a form of Leukemia. And today, it’s a form that can generally be put into remission. Back then, the odds weren’t quite so good, so they basically threw the chemotherapy kitchen sink at them. Afterwards he had radiation, which meant that even after he got home, it was weeks before I could see my best bud again.

Flash forward 40 years. Now we had buried all four of our grandparents, I’d said goodbye to Dad in 1998, and then held Mom’s hand as she passed just a few months ago. Death and mortality were often on my mind, and I was grappling with existential issues. One of my remaining close Sikeston connections, Dr. Sam, called me to let me know that my dear old friend Mike was in the hospital, and probably would not come home. He thought I should know.

And so I went home one last time. Not counting Mom’s funeral, it had been over ten years since I’d been here. Would Sikeston always be home? And it had been 30 years since I had seen Mike, except a few minutes at the one reunion. Why would I drop what I was doing, cancel my full appointment book to see someone I didn’t really even know anymore? Why would I care?

We all have “Mike’s” in our histories. And when we peel back layer after layer of the onion, we discover that person impacting our lives in ways, over the years, that we’d never really considered.

A cruel word by a classmate, an ass-kicking by a bully, or judgement from a parent or the pulpit seems to linger in our subconscious for decades, We remind ourselves how ridiculous this is looking back, but the effect is profound regardless. That’s why shrinks have patients shout at empty chairs, and say things previously left unsaid, but apparently helpful to finally get out.

Likewise, good experiences and loving words affect us as well. I don’t think this gets nearly enough attention. Mike was a good friend, and a wonderful person. We went different directions at college time, and we fell into vastly different crowds. Years later, Mike shared some tears and heartfelt regret over some of the things that happened during those years. I would grovel for not including him as a groomsman when I got married. I hadn’t seen him in years, and I honestly forgot about him. When we open up and share honestly, it seems to encourage others to come clean also. He had lots of regrets.

I have plenty too.

But, “back in the day,” Mike and I had so much fun, and so many good times. We told each other everything. My first steady girlfriend was his girlfriend’s best friend. (I later tried to date his wife’s sister Dolly, but he thought it was a terrible idea, because she was a “good girl,” and I was a dog). We played tennis and worked out together. We were in band together (with Paul and Kim and many of my friends). We partied together, SEMO style, and navigated together to all the “farm parties,” in some random barn, or “back 40.” I vividly remember listening to Willie Nelson, The Marshall Tucker Band, Bob Seger, and Rush, as we drove down the blacktop country roads in my Cutlass T-Top. One time we got lost, and stopped in the middle of the road, with 10 foot corn on both sides, when a giant irrigation rig rolled out and dumped about a hundred gallons of water into the open car, completely drenching us, and filling my floorboards.

And then there was the time I was riding shotgun in Mike’s beloved, yellow Mustang Fastback as he drove us one Summer afternoon to the movie theater. We were laughing so hard that he wasn’t paying attention, and ran that stop-sign. I saw the sign, and the oncoming car from the side street. Screaming “Mike!” I loosened my seat-belt and jumped into his lap. The impact destroyed the entire passenger side, and it’s door rested against the center console. Although I look back and chuckle about it, Mike never could. He had put his best friend in danger. And he loved that car. No really, he loved that car.

I suppose this is all part of the “human condition.’ So much of who we are, what we become is from our histories with those in our life at the time. I am thankful that I knew Mike, and that he was my friend.

Why do we find ourselves “close” with certain people anyway? How do we, just instinctively become brothers with a few of them, but just acquaintances with others? Is it God’s providence, or just the way things just turned out? I don’t know.

Today is Mike Gimlin’s birthday, and I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately.

What I do know is that I’m so glad I got that call before Mike died. We held hands and laughed until we cried about the old times. So many things I can’t share here, but suffice it to say, we lived lots of our young lives together. I apologized again for not asking him to be in my wedding. I felt guilty that all of my old friends had embraced him, but I wasn’t around. Paul, Andy, Chuck, everyone but me. I was so happy that at least they had been there. As he dosed off, I looked at the medical record sitting on the counter. The chemotherapy and radiation from decades ago had damaged his kidneys, and everything else was now also shutting down. He opened his eyes again and just started talking again, as if we hadn’t paused the conversation for 10 minutes. Mike turned his head and asked what I had brought in, probably hoping it was brownies or something. “It’s my bible, Mike. Would you like me to read to you?”

“Yes,” he whispered, “Yes, I would.”

I turned to what I had previously selected, the story of David slaying the giant Goliath. And that “All things are possible through Christ, who strengthens me.” And there I was, holding my friend’s hand, reading scripture to him, when Mike’s wife Denise, and her “good” sister Dolly walked in. Not really sure why I think that’s funny, but I do.

I hugged Mike, as he lay there, knowing this was his deathbed. As I turned back to wave from the doorway, I turned to see tears streaming down his cheeks. I went back for a final embrace. “Thanks for such good memories. I will see you again, good friend.”

Look back over time. How many “Mike’s” have changed you? They were there to laugh with for many good times, and to lean on through some bad ones. We’re quick to blame our rotten-ness on rotten people who we’ve chosen to let darken us. Perhaps its time to remember the good people in our formation. Thank them for being such a good person when you needed one. They’re the standard we compare the others to. Call someone today that you haven’t thought about for years, and thank them for good memories. If they’re gone, thank them when you pray. I’ll bet they appreciate it, either way. Much Love.

Pounding the Door in Morocco, My Continuing Camino

Posted on April 21, 2015 by dogtorbill | 3 Comments

As the dreaded 17th of May, our darkest day, draws near, I’ve been asked multiple times where this year will take me. My friends and clients just seem to know that the middle of May will find me on a sabbatical, of sorts. In 2013 I hiked west from St. John Pied de Port, France to Santiago, Spain, the infamous Camino de Santiago. This pilgrimage was depicted in the Martin Sheen movie called The Way, which my son Cullen and I watched the day before he would leave us forever.

2014 again found me at St. John Pied de Port, but last year I walked east to Lourdes. This famous shrine, where the Virgin Mary appeared to Bernadette proved most fitting. Who could know my grief more than the mother of Jesus after having lost her own son?

These are pretty clearly aligned with my journey and my faith, but why on Earth would I travel to one of the least Christian countries on the planet? How could this piece possibly fit into the puzzle called my life? Why would Fez be relevant to Cullen, my family, or my faith, on this journey that I often refer to as my “Camino?”

The year before he went to China, Cullen participated in another international study semester in order to garner the credit hours necessary for a “minor” degree in Arabic. This would accompany his minor in French, and dual majors, in Spanish and Chinese. Bear in mind, this was at age 19. William Cullen Klein would graduate from Florida State University in two years with four degrees, after finishing high school in two years, concurrently completing his AA through dual enrollment.

Although FSU did not have an official class placed in Morocco that Summer semester, Cullen fearlessly agreed to go it alone. He was driven to get the credit hours only this trip would provide, so he would graduate with his four degrees, on the rushed schedule he had so carefully crafted. But why was he in such a hurry? It was as if he knew his own timeline.

Sorry, but when I start talking about my son, I just seem to go on and on and on. And so, since I never tire of doing that, let’s do it some more. This is an excerpt from my CRHP weekend retreat witness:

I loved my daughters more than life itself, but a man wants a son… On my own 34th birthday, William Cullen Klein was born.

(originally about 30 more minutes of my bragging about him here, and then:)

Adolescence was upon us and so was fear, confusion, and anger. This, of course, was manifest as rebellion. Good times and kind words were a distant memory. The ball games, camp-outs, and fishing trips, dozens of concerts together, tossing the ball in the back yard, and even getting our Tae Kwan Do black-belts together – these were all a lifetime ago. He hated me, my values, my Church, my house.

His unfortunate every other weekend with us served up dinners together with my new wife and two additional siblings, a midnight curfew, breath check, and of course, mandatory Sunday church.

I realized that much of his behavior and emotions were from confusion and anxiety over those issues I’ve written about previously.

For years, I would kneel and beg God to remove his heavy burden. I prayed constantly, and made all sorts of offers, if Jesus would just show some of that compassion that I had heard so much about and make my son “normal.”

But I tried so hard for him to realize I didn’t reject him. I loved him so very much and I wanted him to know that it was truly unconditional. And I was so scared for him.

So, about the time Cullen turned 17, I stopped begging for God to make him “normal,” and being angry at Him for being so cruel. I began to recognize that I have a big God. A huge God that I could never begin to comprehend. A magnificent, omnipotent God who had made no mistakes, and is in control.

And so I started to simply pray for Cullen. That Jesus would meet him where he was. He had made Cullen the way he was for a reason, and that he was an incredible person, so smart and so beautiful, inside and out. And so I prayed that the creator of the universe would reach out and embrace my son

He loves him. He understands him. Through Christ, He IS the personification of love. And so, I prayed simply that they find each other. That God’s will be done.

Cullen spent the summer after his sophomore year studying on an exchange program in Morocco. I warned him about “you know what” before he left, and in that culture, well… I emphasized how much I loved him and wanted him back alive. He rolled his eyes, but knew both of those things were true. I prayed for him daily at Mass.

I was shocked at how God answered my prayers as soon as I changed the context of my prayers. I was amazed at the son that returned from Morocco. Had his orientation changed? Of course not, but it no longer mattered. They had met.

“Dad, I looked out from the airplane in Barcelona, and you’ll never believe how glad I was to see a cross at the top of a church. He said every person, every day tried to convince him that Islam was the only way to God. And so he kneeled with them in prayer several times each day. (They just didn’t know he was praying silently those prayers that he once found boring and pointless.)

My new Cullen wanted to go to Mass with us; he even had us pick him when he spent weekends at his mother’s. He went to adoration of the Eucharist, and truly knelt in prayer for hours. Not only had “they met,” Cullen ~~had~~ has a relationship with the creator of the Universe that I will forever be in awe of. We’d stay up late discussing God, and Scripture, and theology. I reminded him that the word disciple means “learner,” not blind follower. Dig deep and learn about the real, historic Jesus, his teachings and how and why He loves us.”

So now, my dear friends, you see why Morocco is calling to me.

Cullen had a persona that was magnetic, and so even though he had no Florida classmates on the Fez University campus, he was adopted by new friends from Chicago. I had no knowledge of this until Katie approached me after Cullen’s accident. She and Victoria, and so many other kind loving beautiful kids from DePaul University reached out to my son and made him part of their own group.

Cullen at DePaul table

Cullen had told me that he made friends with some classmates, and how funny it was, because he enjoyed talking with that upper-midwest, Chicago, almost Sarah Palin accent. When he talked that way he had us laughing so hard we cried at the dinner table. We still do, and although we’re not laughing so hard, they’re still very fond memories.

Morocco is the most religious country in the world. 99% of the country claims to be Sunni Muslim, the small remainder are Sufi Muslim, with about 360,000 Catholics, 50,000 Protestants, and 8,000 Jews. Morocco is, in fact, the most Western of the African Muslim nations, both geographically and politically. Religious diversity is allowed and encouraged, although it is still a capital crime for a citizen to convert away from Islam.

Katie and Victoria have planned quite an itinerary for me. They’ve prepared a few phrases to learn (which I have on flashcards in my pocket), a history of the culture and relevant current events, and contacted a host family for me to stay with. They’ve even arranged a guide for me to translate and take me to the University in Fez and places where they went with Cullen.

Unfortunately he was so fluent in Arabic and French that he was the only student placed in a family that spoke no English, so I’ll not be staying with them. However, stopping to break bread with that family will undoubtedly be one of the first stops my “guided tour.”

We don’t really appreciate what we have and hold dearest until we feel a life without. And so perhaps that’s why my son rediscovered his Christian faith in one of the world’s least Christian places. I have no doubt that’s a device our Lord used as he relentlessly knocked on the door of his heart. I imagine the intensity turning to a fist pounding on that door when the muezzin chanted the adhan, the Muslim call to prayer, five times each day, until he opened it.

“Be like men who are waiting for their master when he returns from the wedding feast, so that they may immediately open the door to him when he comes and knocks. (Luke 12:36)

And this will be consolation I hold dearest, deep in my own heart. I have so much to be thankful for.

I leave on May 5th, and return May 19th.

Please keep me in your prayers –

Much Love.

Leaving Peter

Posted on April 17, 2015 by dogtorbill | Leave a comment

Waymarker on the Camino de Santiago

It was early morning on the 8th day of my hiking the Camino de Santiago, and, as I approached a group of three ladies, I could tell they were speaking English. This wasn’t entirely unusual, as about a third of the pilgrims I encountered spoke my language, but I hadn’t understood anyone since dinner the night before.

As I closed the distance behind them, I realized they were Irish, speaking with quite a brogue. We introduced ourselves, with the typical small-talk, and they inquired as to whether or not I´d been to Ireland. Well of course these stories of Camille, my oldest daughter being a many time American Irish dance champion, with the resultant trips overseas, including Ireland came out. Soon we were discussing our friends Donica and Sheena (I never can get the Gaelic spelling of their names right, so I won´t even try), who own a B & B in Roosky, in Rosscommon.

As we chatted about such stuff, we walked through a typical small town in rural Spain, with the one beautiful village Church crumbling. Of course this then became a topic of discussion including the magnificent cathedrals throughout the place in much need of repair, and the consolation it brought to see at least a few of them being restored.

I made the passing remark that the churches in ruins were perhaps but a commentary of what has happened to Christianity throughout Europe and beyond. The Irish ladies, from a wonderful island that had provided perhaps more priests than any other part of the world, then commented that the church scandals had really damaged people´s faith, as well as any support of religion whatsoever, especially in Ireland.

The light-bulb, of course, then went on. I pointed out that throughout life, our leaders – our parents, elected officials, scout leaders, friends, mentors, and yes even our priests and ministers are in fact “waymarkers.” They serve to guide us, to point the proper direction, to guide the way. The problem is that all of these “waymarkers” are simply human beings, with all the weaknesses, frailties, and sinful tendencies that all of society, all of us have as humans – it is the “human condition.” Not to belittle the scandals, or any sin for that matter.

***

The Camino de Santiago is an assortment of routes that lead to the Cathedral of San-tiago (Spanish for St. James), where St. James the Greater, one of Jesus three closest companions was buried. Along these routings are markers to let the pilgrims (perigrinos) know that they, indeed, are on the right road. Most of the times the markers consist of a small, simple yellow arrow, painted on the street, curb or side of a building. This instills much confidence after hours of hiking that the weary traveler is traveling in the right direction. Outside the cities, towns, and villages the waymarkers are constructed of concrete, small pillars about three feet tall, with the symbol of the Camino attached as a ceramic tile to its side. These are strategically placed to greatly aid the perigrino by confraternity volunteers, and are greatly appreciated for the same reason. You come to expect these at regular intervals, every few miles, and start to feel lost and question your path when you haven’t seen one recently. Its rather easy to daydream, or get lost in thought, contemplation and prayer and miss an indicator which may have indicated a turn, for instance.

Most of the waymarkers along the road were in excellent condition, well maintained with fresh “clam-shell” icons, and a coat of paint. A few had a few cracks, but were generally in acceptable shape, and served the purpose of guiding us in the correct direction. However more than a few were in dis-repair, crumbling, and a couple in a sad pile of rubble on the ground.

Crumbled Waymarker on the Camino de Santiago

And so the metaphor seemed obvious. Because our way-markers are also human, they can crumble, like we can, and often do. “Still,” Irish Eileen exclaimed, she’d “not be going back into a church anytime soon.”

“Fair enough, I replied, “but perhaps this gives us some thoughts to ponder. The fact that our way-markers crumble doesn´t stop our journey, only to throw our hands up and quit. Furthermore, we leave the paths ourselves, even when they’re well marked, by not paying close attention, or thinking we know a better way. “Eileen laughed and muttered under her breath, “Something tells me you’re no longer talking about Spain.”

“Of course I am, but not ONLY the Camino de Santiago, also the Camino de Life!” Just a few days ago, I left the marked path because someone from Germany told me there was a more direct way. I left what I had known and trusted because I had heard there was a better path. Soon I was on a cow path that lead to a stream, and I had to turnaround and look for a way back to ‘the way.’ That was an honest mistake, probably my misunderstanding. But some people even lead us astray intentionally, because they don’t even think there even exists a final destination, and to them, it’s all about today, having fun, screwing everyone along the way.”

“And sometimes those we trust the most, just let us down. Our parents fail in their marriages, or have addictions; our friends really aren’t; and those who we look up to just fail. Because they’re all humans, they’re screw ups like us.”

“Although I doubt he coined it, a famous Jesuit retreat-master named John Powell SJ, shared this advice:

You don’t leave Peter because of Judas!

“So you’re right, it’s not just about being here in Spain. It’s about being fully alive. Everywhere we turn, we’re told to enjoy the moment, you only live once – ‘It’s all about me!’ Well, it’s not ‘All about me!’

“An ‘All about me’ attitude creates a selfish, entitled mentality. This draws us away from the path, and gives those in power license to use people, and destroy lives. The President that cheats, the priest or teacher pedophile, the addicted spouse. Then the victims and observers, ironically, take their own ‘All about me’ attitude that they get to make their own rules, because someone they once trusted was frail, and human, and made mistakes, even horrible ones.”

“Of course we expect our leaders to have a higher standard. And when they look at themselves in the mirror, I´m sure many are disappointed in themselves. As I am many times. As we all are, if we´re being honest.”

“Anyway, I’ve gotten off the path lots of times, and now I really feel like I’m back on it. Look down, this road still leads to Santiago, there will be twists and turns along the road, with the need to have guidance when there is an obstacle. The Church and all she offers, the Word of God, the Sacrifice of the Mass, the social gathering strengthening and supporting each other. The fact that the markers sometimes crumble is irrelevant to the goal, the desired endpoint. It’s not just about “me,” it’s about “God and me,” and because of that, its about, “You and me.”

They smiled politely, and said they’d be stopping for some lunch now, realizing I wasn’t going to join in the bashing of the monster they had encountered. Not that we shouldn’t fight the monster, and we certainly must protect our children, but it’s important to have perspective, and realize that monster is everywhere, in some form. Judas isn’t always the dark sinister figure in the shadows, often he looks back in the mirror.

Those words were easy to say. When the rubber meets the road, it’s often a bit more difficult. My children have never been abused, or raped, or even taken advantage of.

But we’ve all been disappointed, and let down. Just a few days ago, someone that I’ve grown to love and trust, and help me discern lots of important decisions acted in a way that, at the time, felt hurtful. My human side reeled, and I felt indignant. Then I did my best to stand back and learn those lessons that life has been trying to teach me. These are still my friends, and have made decisions they thought were correct.

We all make decisions based on the information we have in front of us. Seldom do we intend to hurt our friends, and so, in turn, we should give that benefit of the doubt to those we’ve invested our trust in. Sometimes a course of events appears to turn in a direction that we hadn’t expected or wanted. With deeper consideration, we’ll likely find that we, in fact, are still on the path, or with simple adjustments can get back with an improved tool-set from this experience.

The direction of our Camino leads to ¨Santiago” Let’s not give up the journey because we sometimes get lost or are confused as to whether or not we´re on the right road. There is a right road, a correct path. It does exist, and we all do our best to stay on it. Buen Camino

Crucify Him!

Posted on March 31, 2015 by dogtorbill | Leave a comment

Language Arts class in small-town Sikeston, Missoura High School English class included dissecting the minutia of literary classics of the day. Among these was Harper Lee’s treatment of rape, class, racial violence, and justice (and injustice) in To kill a Mockingbird.

Atticus Finch tells his tomboy daughter Scout to remember that “it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird”. Mockingbirds never harm other living creatures, but simply provide pleasure with their songs, “They don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us.” ‘To kill a mockingbird’ is to kill that which is innocent and harmless—like Tom Robinson.”

Atticus is a small-town southern lawyer who raises the legal standard with his unpopular representation of Tom Robinson, a black man accused of raping a white woman, named Mayella. Finch’s children Scout and Jem, and their friend Dill are central characters and through whose eyes we see the plot unfold.

Scout soon must defend her father’s honor when classmates taunt that he’s a “nigger-lover,” and defuses a lynch mob as she stands by him blocking the door to the jail. Atticus had taught Scout (and us) that mobs do not think, but rather act on emotion. Atticus tells Jem to remember that mobs are “made up of people”, meaning that if a mob is broken down into the individuals that are part of it, then it is no longer a mob thinking with the emotional collective brain. It is now just a group of individuals each with his own sense of right and wrong.

People, on their own, are far less apt to do the things that mobs do. Mobs tend to rely on emotion and not thought, whereas people are more likely to use some thought before they act. Even people who disagree on some issues can stand up for one another and protect one another.

Absent this, the mob creates headlines and horrible memories of Michael Brown, Rodney King, and Reginald Denny.

One of the many symbolic side-plots, Atticus must shoot a rabid dog (a not so subtle racism metaphor) running in the street, although it’s “not his job to do it.” This is clearly Harper Lee’s reminder of our own free choice to do what is right, despite whether or not it’s our obligation to do so.

And so we come back to Holy Week.

Jesus is approaching Jerusalem. Somehow word has leaked out that here is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee. Could he be the Messiah?

Word spreads in the gathering crowd. He’s riding on a donkey with her colt. Didn’t the prophet Zechariah say something about this? Could he be the Messiah?

By now the crowd is large. Then the actions start. Somewhere in the midst of all the people someone lays a branch on the ground in front of Jesus. Then someone else does it. Someone else lays a cloak on the ground. And before you know it seemingly everyone is doing it.

And such a clamor! Everyone is making noise, noise that comes together in a din, nothing very defined. Until, ringing out distinctly above it all, a word is heard, a prayer. Others join in. Finally, in unison, like a great choir, all around Jesus the crowd is shouting, “Hosanna!”

Save us, son of David, from the oppressive hand of the Roman rulers!

Save us from our sin, Jesus, you who come in the name of the Lord!

Of course you know what’s next.

It’s not just the Roman leaders here who think Jesus is a threat to the establishment. It’s also the Jewish religious leaders.

For many years the Jewish people have been under foreign rule. Uprisings have been attempted—even uprisings that were thought to be messianic. But now, at this time in history, the religious leaders have it pretty well. They are the “who’s who” in the city of Jerusalem. The Roman overlords give these religious leaders quite a lot of liberty. These religious leaders have grown accustomed to the respect shown them. And so on.

But now this so-called prophet, this Jesus of Nazareth, is causing a stir. Not good, as far as the religious leaders are concerned. Not good, to the point that they want him out of the way—to the point that they want him dead! Yes, he’s that much of a threat!

Apparently they’re not the only disgruntled ones. Whether it’s impatience, frustration, or something more sinister – truly evil, One of his closest followers, hand picked for redemption, has sold Him out for thirty pieces of silver!

Jesus is then tried in an early morning, nefarious kangaroo court, and found guilty on trumped up charges. Pilate, the Roman leader in charge of the trial, caves to the mob. Instigated by the Jewish religious leaders, the crowd shouts, again and again, “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

But here’s the worst part: this is by and large the same crowd that was shouting Hosanna just a few days ago. And now it’s, “Crucify him!”

We humans are fickle.

There are times we feel like nothing can come between me and Jesus. He has redeemed me; he is saving me from all my sin and wickedness; and he will lead me into glory. I know this in the bottom of my heart, down to the core of my being. And nothing’s gonna shake me. Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!

But you know how it is. Life sneaks in a sucker punch. We don’t see it coming, but all of a sudden the wind is knocked out of us. All of a sudden, we have questions, doubts, quandaries. And we begin to think, Maybe I’m not so sure about my faith after all. Maybe Jesus was just a man, that this story I’ve heard all my life, that this faith I practice, is just a complex Santa Claus story. Viscerally I believe, and not just with my emotions, but truly with my reasoning as well. But from somewhere creeps these doubts. Maybe the crowd’s right after all. Maybe I should just give up, forget this emotional wave I’ve been surfing. Maybe I should just give in and yell “Crucify him!” with everyone else.

So then, what are you going to do?

And so, here we are on Palm Sunday participating in the annual reading of Our Lord’s Passion. We get to the part where we’re supposed to be the worked up mob, “Crucify Him! CRUCIFY HIM!!!” My inner Pharisee feigns indignation. “I would never have shouted that!” Who am I fooling? Of course I would have.

Jesus hand-picked these twelve from anyone in the world. They lived with Him for three years. They witnessed miracles. Firsthand! They saw lepers cured; With their own eyes, they saw Lazarus and the small child raised from the dead! Three of them witnessed the transfiguration. They saw Him walk on water!

But they fell asleep when He begged them to stay awake. Everyone of them (except John) deserted him and ran for their lives. The man He trusted enough to hand over the “keys,” and whom He called “the rock,” denied him three times, cursing that He didn’t even know the Man.

And I think I’m better than they were? I, who beg and plead for a deeper love and stronger faith, because of my human weaknesses?

God has the fullness of time, seeing the past, present, and future all together. He knew these men would betray Him. And He made me this way. With all of my doubts, faults, and shallowness. He knows I try. He knows I love Him with all that my human weakness allows. But, in fact, I am human. “Lord I do believe. Help my unbelief!”

What you are is God’s gift to you. What you become is your gift to God (Hans Urs Von Balthasar)

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dogtorbill

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

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