Everybody Remembers a Mike

Today is the anniversary of my first publishing this. It also would have been Mike’s birthday. I forgot that I had written this one night over a glass of wine or two and a few tears. I know it’s long but I’d love for you to read it to the end. It’s one of my very favorite writings.

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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.

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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…

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Everybody Remembers a Mike

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…

Source: Everybody Remembers a Mike

Everybody Remembers a Mike

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.

eddiehaskell beaverandeddie beaver

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.

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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.”

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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.

Election Day, August 2014

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Over the course of the past 2 months, I have fielded dozens of calls and messages from associates and old friends offering me support for my election campaign.  Of course, I’m not running for anything, despite the name on the ballot. I’ll repeat, I am NOT running for Brevard County Commissioner in District 4.

I did quite a double-take the first time I drove by one of “my” roadsigns.  I’ve waved to him numerous times as he stands at the intersections holding “my” signs in an attempt to garner support.   Sometimes I even honk enthusiastically, even though the likelihood of success in a field of seven is anyone’s guess.  I just hope we don’t get embarrassed, with like 3 votes.  And in the long-shot that I do win, I surely hope I’m not a crook!  Heck, I can make myself look bad all by myself!  I don’t need some other guy making it worse.  He probably thinks the same thing as he sees the lines of people waiting to see me on Saturdays.  “Crap, I sure hope that vet knows what he’s doing!”

I realize this is all quite silly, and my wife Sharon thinks I’m nuts. “Just last night, she said, “Babe, you do realize you’re not running, right?”

So what’s in a name, anyway?  What if your reputation really did depend on someone else?  I imagine Daddy looking down at me, with his brow furrowed much of the time, wondering just what the hell I think I’m doing.  He shook his head in bewilderment, and thought we were so different when he was alive.  Mostly, I hope he’s smiling because lots of my good stuff come from him, I think now he’s OK with those things we were so different on.  I hope he’s happy with how I’ve carried his father’s name, with the reputation, the image our family name is remembered with.

And of course, I was Mom’s baby boy, and so I could do no wrong in her eyes.  Now that she has her Beatific Vision” of Heaven, she sees right through me!  I’m embarrassed at the times I look back and did the wrong things.  I was so relieved that she didn’t know; I didn’t want to disappoint her!  Now she’s laughing out loud – of course she knew all along.  Somehow she pointed me in the right direction, guiding me to get back up and learn from my mistakes, without even letting on that she knew everything I was up to.

Good parenting requires knowing your children. An insightful father knows his children long before they know themselves.

And I’m quite sure my son Cullen also watches us.  You know that feeling you get when you’re “alone,” but you just feel someone watching you? I get that all the time.  Sometimes I lose my cool or get short with someone, or say something out of frustration,  and I swear I can hear him laughing at me, saying, “That’s my dad!”  But other times, when I find myself correcting someone’s close-mindedness or bigotry, I get really warm all over, and I smile.  I realize that I’m not the same man I was, and I hope he’s proud of me, because so much of what’s better in me is because of him.

I also think of my Heavenly Father looking down on us.  One of my contemplations involves the Trinity looking down at our globe, and discussing how things have turned out.  Are they pleased with us?  I’m unable to judge others through Their eyes, so I’m just talking about myself, and mine.  If I call myself a Christian, I’m representing Him in everything I say, and do.  Of course I don’t hold myself to this standard of perfection, but others may hold me accountable.

As a visible Christian, I am the only Christ some people will ever see.  In that context I carry a huge responsibility.  Of course I’m just a human with all human weaknesses and failings, but to many that I encounter, I represent Church, and all things Christ.

Regardless of whether or not Gandhi actually said the words, lots of people claim he said, “I don’t reject Christ. I love Christ. It’s just that so many of you Christians are so unlike Christ.”

I can only imagine Jesus looking down at us, shaking his head in frustration, at one time or another, in frustration.  Just like my parents.

So again, what’s in a name, anyway?  What if your reputation really did depend on someone else?

Which reminds me of a prayer led by a Jesuit mentor:

Most of all, Lord, Let nothing that I shall ever do, serve to keep any of my brothers from finding you.

Much Love.

What I learned about my father from a Jewish Girl

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I look back at college days at Mizzou and think I was a pretty typical frat boy.  But I was never really that typical.  Once, when everybody else was trying to get the hookup talking about classes and what they do for fun, I distinctly remember talking to Diane Bau about theology.  I suppose it’s not a surprise to any of you that this was never an area I considered taboo, even with a Jewish girl.

So we were about four beers into our TGIF mixer, and I vividly recall her astonished look when she repeated what I had just revealed to her.  “Seriously? You think you should be good because you don’t want to go to hell?  That’s why you try to avoid sin?”  I thought it was a good thing.  And admirable.  And I was apparently proud that I was considered myself “religious.”  And considered myself pretty righteous, in the midst of all these jerks that just wanted to get laid.  I was better than that.  Haha, right.  I puffed my chest out and was a hypocritical Pharisee.  I’ll leave that alone for now, because at 19, of course I wanted that also.

Anyway, she was simply incredulous, and genuinely fascinated that this was a Christian’s philosophy.  I asked her why that was so surprising.  I was proud that I believed in God and hell, and therefore wanted to do what was right.  She looked at me with deep, dark olive eyes and said, “So the reason you try to be good is because of fear?  Why not be good out of lovebecause God is your Father and He loves you, and that’s why you love Him?”  I don’t remember whether I was surprised, or embarrassed, or oblivious, but I do remember that conversation like it was yesterday.

So here’s the funny part of the story.  I dated Diane Bau for weeks before I learned that she had an identical twin (and I do mean identical!).  I did think she was pretty moody sometimes, and really, really acted differently on some dates, but I pretty much wrote that off because she was just drop-dead gorgeous in an exotic, ethnic kind-of way.  Anyway, about the time I really started digging her (them), she (they) informed me that she (they) was kind-of into me also, so she (they) really should stop going out because I wasn’t a Jewish guy.  I was kind-of (really) insulted.  This was my first experience of being discriminated against because of my professed religion.

But here’s the deal.. The girl was right.  I was catechized by a Jewish Girl.  Truly this is the essence of our relationship with our heavenly Father.  And since today is Father’s Day, it does seem like a pretty cool day to remember this story.

This is also “Trinity” Sunday, and I imagine the three of them looking down at Earth, and the Father saying with such disappointment, “They still don’t get it.  They simply don’t understand how much we love them.  He looked over at His Son and motioned down to us and said,  “One more time.  This time let’s not just tell them about our how we want them to live, lets show them how to live, how to love.  Let’s show them what love is.  Our Father motioned over to Jesus and explained, “You go down and love them.  Show them how much I love them, what love is.”

Diane was right.  It never would have worked out.  Her “father” would not have approved of me.  Although I was surrounded by it all of my life, I realized it, what love “is” much later in life.  I never really knew my father when I was growing up.  Either of them.  I do now.  And how much he loved me, they both love me, in ways I only now can understand.

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Svedka and the Gifts Left Behind

“I never really liked little dogs, but now that my wife is gone, ‘Sandy’ is all I have left of her.  My God, she loved this dog.  I don’t think I could go on if anything happened to her,” the old man told me as he clutched the Pomeranian. Sandy was getting on in years and had severe periodontal disease and now an abscessed tooth from years of having refused routine prophylaxis. Seventeen years or not, the old dog was suffering and we really needed to so some dental work, the risks of anesthesia were now irrelevant. But Sandy was not just this man’s pet, she was how he was gasping to keep alive this only remaining part of his spouse.

A Jack Russell Terrier named “Buddy” squirmed and bounced on the exam table, a complete lunatic. These little dogs (what we like to call Jack Russell Terrorists) are out of control on a good day, and this one was truly a “special needs” case. This dog hadn’t heard the word “no” in months, and was coddled and talked to in ways that defied logic, unless you know the story. Buddy had been best friends with the 16-year-old daughter of this couple – one of the teens killed last year in a horrific auto accident that made state headlines.

Cullen and his best friend Tim ran up the stairs with all the excitement and giddiness that would accompany a new puppy.  They had slipped out of Tallahassee after classes, passed us in Melbourne and spent the morning sitting on the ground in South Florida, with a litter of Siberian Husky puppies running, licking, and jumping all over them.  He would leave in Miami half of what he had saved that semester, from tutoring classmates in Spanish, Arabic, and Chinese, and return with so much excitement he was ready to burst.  “Svedka” was an absolutely stunning pure white Husky with eerily transcendent crystal blue eyes that would pierce into me.  I’ve been a vet for almost 30 years and had never seen a white husky before (although now they seem to be everywhere), and I was taken back at this beautiful creature.  She immediately squatted to urinate when he put her down, no surprise to me after a 4 hour car-ride, but Cullen was surprised and embarrassed, as he was so proud and thought everything about her was “perfect.”

Having had no prior knowledge of his stealthy plan, I was astonished and confused.  I do remember the YouTube video of the Husky howling “I love you” that Cullen had thought was so cool, playing it over and over in amazement and asserting that he was going to get one and teach it to talk too!  But my prodigy would be graduating at age 19, and leaving on a Chinese Master’s degree fellowship in just a few months.  “Have you lost your mind?  Why would you get a puppy right before you leave for two years in China?!!  Are you crazy or just irresponsible?” (One more thing I said over the years that I wish I could take back)

He just looked at me and smiled, telling me to calm down, that he had all the details worked out.  Tim would take care of Svedka while he was gone!  That seemed pretty logical to a 19-year-old.

Cullen Sved Puppy Sved Puppy Crop

Amy Hollingsworth authored a book entitled, “Gifts of Passage,” where she describes “gifts our loved ones leave behind.”  She artfully weaves Where the Red Fern Grows, the “Myth of the Red Thread,” lots of C.S. Lewis, and experiences from hospice care nurses into this masterpiece that finds the reader constantly nodding their head in affirmation.  This had been one of a dozen or more books I had been given when I was in the depths of grief after my darkest day.  The baby boy that I had prayed for and been given on my (our) birthday, nineteen years ago, would leave for China, and be killed in the strangest of accidents.

One can not comprehend the anguish of losing a child, nor be of any consolation.  Witnessing the sobbing of several old men when they shared with me the loss of their own child makes it clear that the grief, like the love, endures decades, and forever.

I have, however, come a long way.  I can type these words without weeping, although a later re-reading, as I proofread, will tend to prove painful.  We’ve struggled with lots of things to make sense of, or at least accept our loss.  I went to one Compassionate Friends grief support group for parents.  It was so depressing with many parents still hysterical with that drunk driver, or that f’ing cancer, or simply at God, and ironic that now so many were now drunks and addicts themselves, climbing inside the bottle or vial of Zoloft to be numb.  But I did not want any of this stuff.  An open, bleeding wound where my heart used to be would probably remain forever, but surely there was some form of healing to be had.  And so we worked on it, and “working through” grief is truly work.

Sharing stories and feelings with the rest of the family, mentoring with friends and priests, lots of conversations with our Lord, and my infamous 500 mile Camino de Santiago have all helped immensely.  I have become an avid reader, having read more in the last year than my preceding 50 years combined.  My days always start with a page or two of scripture to think about during the day, and usually end with a few chapters of my “book of the week.”

I’ve now read this Hollingsworth book three times, and always tear and laugh at the same places.  There is a legend in Asian culture of “the read thread” that connects and pulls certain people destined to be together or to impact each other in some way, providing  love, a lesson, or support.  Wending its way, crossing time and culture, spanning age and death, this red thread connects me to those whose stories would matter to me, would teach me.  Each gift has unraveled like a mystery, so that I have learned not only about the gift, but about the process I am going through to discern my own.  With each of these stories, the red thread tightens, pulling me closer to the meaning of his “Gift of Passage.”

This may well be what we Christians call “God’s Providence.”  Our days, our very lives are directed by our free, often stupid, choices.  However, His hand presents us with continuous new choices and second chances to live righteously – despite, or perhaps especially because He knows well in advance the outcomes, and how our time here will end.  His loving hand guides us to opportunities and choices where we can overflow His love, or not.

Hollingsworth tells of these gifts left behind – the most obvious ones are the conscious, intentional gifts of those who know they are dying.  Sometimes in a will or a list of “worldly goods,” or may be simply a conversation or heartfelt confession.  They plan out thoughtful comfort, meant to convey a loving message, something they want to be remembered by.  But the surprising gifts are those where an acute or catastrophic accident occur, where no one has had warning.  Such times the gifts aren’t so obvious but they become evident as the journey continues.  The “seeds have been planted” to help us cope, or even understand.  Like The Red Fern, there’s no way to know where seeds are planted until the red fern begins to push its way out of the soil.

Cullen had left many such gifts: Stories from his friends of his acts of love and kindness, memories of the recent times spent with us, the loving compassionate things he had said to complete strangers, the fighting people he had brought together, the itinerary he had planned for us to visit him in China, and the most loving text message he had sent me that very morning.

Svedka was also my gift left behind.  I had been so adamant that his getting a dog was such a stupid, irresponsible decision.  So after moving him out of his apartment at FSU, we dropped Sved off with Tim’s grandmother, Joyce.  We already had three big dogs who had destroyed the yard and made the house impossible to keep clean.  Our house was too full of dogs already.

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Svedka on floorboard under sleeping Cullen, on the way home from FSU

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Cullen inscribed a classmate’s notebook, “Cullen was here.” They later added, “For a reason.”

But on May 18th 2012, our home suddenly was very empty.  Much like our hearts, this house was desolate and drained, devoid of happiness and life.  We tried desperately to force some normalcy to feign sanity, especially for Cullen’s siblings.  So we sat on the bleachers, watching Noah enter the dugout with his head down.  Without prompting, each of the South Beach Dodgers went up to my 11-year-old son and hugged him that day.  As he approached the plate for his first “at bat,” he crossed himself and pointed to the heavens.  It was more than I could handle; before I left, I leaned to Shar and said, “I want to get Sved.”  She smiled through her own tears, glad that I had suggested something so rational.

I don’t remember Kayla and I speaking as we left the game and made that long drive.  Nor do I remember Joyce and I speaking.  Not with words anyway.  We wept as we hugged in her driveway; Svedka had already jumped in and was on Kayla’s lap, kissing her.  Now she rides with my old boxer, Nieve and me every day to work, and never complains about the long commute.  Most of the drive she leans against the back of my seat, often leaning her head on my shoulder.

These gifts are not a “consolation prize” for my broken heart, but rather they set in motion an anguish through which the real gift is given.  Like Psyche‘s rage against Cupid in C.S. Lewis’ Until We Have Faces, my real gift is that I have learned how to love, really love the god who separated me from my son.  The real gift is the transformation of the beast into something beautiful, a true understanding of the love of God.

Much Love.

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Dreams and Signs

My brother-in-law Donny spoke matter-of-factly as he described that night, in great detail, what he saw through sleepy eyes.  He had dozed off on the couch in the living room, and woke to the feeling that he was being watched.  This startled him, prompting him to suddenly open his eyes and lift his head.  He rubbed his neck from the awkward neck cramp and turned towards the hall to see his mom standing there, very much alive, looking down at him with a smile and shaking her head.  “It’s as if she was laughing at my having dozed off on the couch again,” he explained.  “She used to always think I was so funny – guess I should be glad that I can still entertain her!”  I feigned a laugh, but deep down I was so frustrated.  Regardless of whether or not he was really awake or simply dreamed this, I was so jealous.

When I was a child, I had colorful dreams, sometimes even screaming nightmares.  I remember my father rolling his eyes, calling me “a dreamer” with his heavy “Missoura drawl,”  and Mom agreed that I had a vivid imagination, as I would recount the adventures I had encountered the night before.  But I don’t dream much anymore, or if I do, I just don’t remember them – even tiny glimpses into what I had encountered in my slumber.  Oh, how I wished I could see some of my own loved ones.  A vision of some sort would be really cool, but I’d even settle for a dream encounter.

I’ve lost several of my favorite people recently: my dad 16 years ago in 1998, my mom in 2010, then my grade school best friend 2 years ago and my 19-year-old son 5 months later in 2012.

Last year, a friend who knew of these longings, told me that a famous psychic would be speaking just a few miles away.  Mark Anthony (his “professional” name) owns lots of credibility because he is also a licensed Florida attorney, is well-educated, well spoken, and, as you can imagine, quite charismatic.

I wrestled with the ethics of it all.  Christians are prohibited from “conjuring up” the dead (necromancy), and specifically consulting for advice or to predict the future.  The logic is that there’s no possible way to discern between your loved one, a good spirit, or an evil one.  The “evil one” is a master of disguises, and sure to lead us astray.

But it’s always easy to make an justify exception for yourself for basically anything.  First of all, according to Anthony, we’re not conjuring up anyone – the spirits, including our loved ones, are right there with us all the time – we just can’t see them.  But a psychic can, apparently.  Furthermore, I wasn’t looking for advice or predictions, I just want to know they’re ok.  Sounds good, right?

So, of course we were there in his audience.  What we didn’t know was that we really needed to get there early, sit in front by the aisle, and be the first to volunteer if he asked for one if we really wanted something for “free” .  The idea that he would pull us out of the crowd and describe Mom or Cullen, Mike or Ricky was perhaps unrealistic, even if it happens that way on TV.  Shar did pull my arm and tell me to stand up when he asked if anyone knew an elderly woman in a flowery yellow dress.  At this point I was back to my skeptical “Missoura show me” cynicism, so I simply rolled my eyes at the thought this might be my Mom.  But three others certainly thought it was theirs.

I did feel obliged to give him a “second chance” when we went up afterwards to have him sign one of the books he had authored (I had read it years ago).  I also wanted to ask him a question regarding something he had said during his talk.  Someone had asked him about feeling so important, being able to connect the living with their loved ones who had “crossed over.”  He replied with much humility, that he was just a regular person, that for some reason could pick up on the different “vibration frequencies” that these passed spirits have, much different from our own, since we’re still alive.  He said he had the same questions and doubts that everyone else has.  But this intrigued me; I was fascinated.

As my turn in the queue to Anthony’s table neared, he looked up, turned to me and kind-of gave me a funny look.  I wasn’t sure whether he saw “something” around me, or if he was just perturbed that so many wanted his signature.  Just as I was making sure that my “Camino with Cullenbracelet was hidden, and my Chinese tat of Cullen’s name was tucked under my sleeve, he greeted us and I proceeded to ask him my question.

“Mark, you mentioned having doubts, just like everyone else.  What the heck does that mean?  If I could see and communicate with the other side, I can’t imagine having any doubts.  As a matter of fact, I’d be on TV and the radio, proclaiming from the mountaintops what I had seen!”  Frankly I don’t remember his response, because before he answered he said something about knowing St. Francis of Assisi being important to me.  Now, I hadn’t told him my name yet, so there’s no way he could know I had once owned “Assisi Animal Hospital,” and since I wasn’t coming from work, I wasn’t wearing scrubs or any other tell-tale animal or vet adornments.  So I was in a bit of a WTF mode and I forgot everything else he said to me.  Bear in mind that this was also more than a year before our new Pope would take the name of Francis, so even if he had seen me at church or come other Catholic “marker,” he couldn’t even know this.

Whether or not dreams really mean anything, it would still be nice to talk to my son.  Or Mom.  Or Daddy.  Until then I just need to keep plodding forward on “Faith.”

“Because thou hast seen me thou hast believed: blessed they who have not seen and have believed.” JN 20:29

Guess having faith is what we’re supposed to do anyway.  So although I’d love some kind of a vision or apparition, I really gotta stop demanding one.  As I remember, Jesus got pretty upset when people were demanding “signs” so they could believe.

“The Pharisees came and began to argue with him, seeking from him a sign from heaven, to test him.  And he sighed deeply in his spirit, and said, “Why does this generation seek a sign? Truly, I say to you, no sign shall be given to this generation.”  MK 8-11-12

I suppose the line forming for “people who have made Jesus upset” is another one I’d rather avoid when I leave here.

Much Love.

Holding the spirit