It’s tough to lose a close friend. As I write this post, I am in mourning; in mourning for Chuck Caton, a man who taught me a little more about love and a lot more about wearing my heart on my sleeve. And…I grieve for the man who convinced me that it is OK to cry.

It is hard for me to think of Chuck, without thinking of Liz. I can’t imagine one without the other. There was a deep bond of love between them. From the very first moment Chuck met Liz, he was hooked. Their love never diminished. It took root, grew and perpetually bloomed.

Now sometimes Chuck was bit over the top. We would be sitting around the table arguing politics, when all of a sudden Chuck would go silent, his eyes would fill to the brim and he would say, “Isn’t Liz beautiful? I love her.” This did not happen just once. There were frequent commercial breaks in which Chuck would remind his listening audience of his undying devotion to Liz. It was a bit much, but it was also sincere.

Chuck and Liz asked me to marry them. I was honored to do so. When the big day arrived, Chuck went off script. I asked, “Chuck, will you take Liz to be your wife?”

The correct answer is “I will.” Chuck, however, ad libbed, “Isn’t she beautiful? I love her!”

Chuck and Liz taught me something about the true nature of love. They taught me that love requires vulnerability, a giving of one’s heart without reserve. Without such vulnerability love fails to take root. It withers and fades. Love is a risky business, because not only do we open our hearts, but we also pledge that we will keep them open “for better or for worse until death do us part.” Easy to say when all is well, but not so easy to do when the dominoes of our lives are falling. Nevertheless, through thick and thin, Chuck and Liz’s love never wavered. They gave each other their hearts without fear or reserve.

Chuck also taught me to wear my heart on my sleeve. For Chuck, love meant to get your hands dirty. No need to preach, just live what you believe and it will be a sermon in and of itself. For Chuck, a great sermon was working on a Habitat house or putting new windows in a hospice home. It was not only to advocate for peace, but also to live peacefully…every day.

Chuck stood for justice for ALL people. He respected the uniqueness of all of God’s children. What do we not understand about Jesus’ instructions to “love one another and to judge not?” I never heard Chuck ask that question of anybody. He didn’t have to. He lived it. Thank you, Chuck, for teaching me to shut up once in awhile. To let my actions speak louder than my words.

Just about every Sunday I preached during my years in New Hartford, New York, Chuck would come out of church with tears running down his cheeks. He would say, “You got to me again.”

I would reply, “For God’s sake, Charlie, you are so easy. You started crying when I said, ‘Good morning!’”

My Dad taught me that “big boys don’t cry.” Chuck taught me that big boys ought to cry. Never was that more important than during some difficult days when the bottom was falling out of my life. I was flying so low that I was beginning to wonder if life was worth living. I knew I needed a dose of Chuck and Liz, so I made the trek from Rhode Island to New Harford. Chuck met me at the door and embraced me like my Dad never did. He let me wet his shirt with my tears. Before long, I felt his tears soaking my shirt. Chuck was crying with me and for me. Nobody ever cried with me or for me before that day. At that moment, I began to rise out of the ashes of despair. Chuck put flesh on and gave meaning to the words of the Psalmist, “Weeping may linger into the night, but joy comes with dawn.”

I could go on and on AND I WILL! Thanks Chuck for loving my kids. Thanks for loving my new family and for embracing Karin as warmly as you embraced me. Thank you for laughing with me over silly things, for intensely arguing politics, for teaching me what a real man-cave is and for showing me that it is possible to fall in love with tomato plants.

Charlie, your death severely tests me, but I get a little peace of mind in knowing that you are at rest in the arms of your Creator. Thanks for being you…for being authentically and honestly YOU. You gave so much more to life than you took from it and, beyond a shadow of a doubt; you proved that the best way for the Divine One to get into the world is through us. Charlie, I love you. I will miss you. There will never be another YOU in my life.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s been a long time since I went to a high school musical. I forgot how much fun it is! Recently, I went with our church youth group to see “Godspell” at Mashpee High school. Taylor and Nathan, two incredible young people from our church, had lead roles in the show. I knew they were talented, but I did not know they were that talented. Nathan sang a wonderful solo and Taylor brought the house down with her vamp and singing of “Turn Back, O Man.” I said to both of them after the show, “You have to keep using your talent, because to whom much has been given, much is demanded. Using your God-given talent will make our world a better place!”

Like all high school productions, Mashpee High’s “Godspell” is not quite ready for Broadway. As one who once directed high school plays, I am keenly aware of how difficult it is to stage a show like “Godspell.” It’s a huge challenge for the cast, crew and musicians. For the Director, it takes time, energy and, most of all, PATIENCE. Why patience? Because the most important thing about the production of a high school show is to get as many kids involved as possible. This means that some members of the cast, no matter how many rehearsals, will never be quite ready for primetime. Not everybody has the God-given talent to grace a stage. That’s where patience has a major role to play. To some in the cast, making a character come alive is relatively easy. For others, no amount of direction or rehearsal is going to result in a good characterization. Especially in high school productions, there will always be a few off-key voices, missed lines and a few technical difficulties. That, however, is not the point. The point is that a youthful cast of characters works together to create on stage something that makes them feel good and proud. In the end, it is that moment in the spotlight that really matters. Mashpee High’s “Godspell” was no exception.

We attended the first of three performances. At the beginning, the cast was a bit tentative as they got their “stage legs”, but by the end of the show, their energy and enthusiasm filled the theater. They held the audience (God)spell bound as they brought the show to its final curtain. Then, it was time for the best part. The cast returned to the stage to receive a well-deserved standing ovation. The sheer joy and pride reflected in the face of each cast and crew member’s face was worth far more than the price of admission.

Centuries ago, the guy from Nazareth said, “Let the children come to me, because such is the kingdom of heaven.” That was Jesus’ way of saying, “Kids should move to center stage with a spotlight or two shining on them, because this is God’s way of doing things.” Encouraging our kids to use their talents, no matter how great or little those talents may be and then shining the spotlight on them and applauding their efforts, is a wonderful antidote for the negativity that, far too often, surrounds our kids and clouds their future.

Advice is cheap, but I’m going to give you a little anyway. Find a high school theater production of “Godspell” or any other show near you, buy some tickets, take your seat, have your soul lifted up by our kids and then give them their moment in the spotlight. For a bunch of committed and inspired kids, it will make all the difference in the world!

 John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA

Got up early yesterday and headed off to Market Basket in Bourne. I choose to grocery shop there a couple of times a month, essentially because I am cheap. Even though it is only five minutes away, the prices at Stop & Shop give me severe sticker shock. It takes about 20-30 minutes to get to the “Basket”, but it’s worth it. It makes me happy to leave with a trunk full of groceries, without having to acquire a second mortgage.

Yesterday, the “Basket” was packed. There were cart jams in the aisles and long lines at all 15 or so of the check out registers. Most peoples’ carts were as full as mine. I was not surprised. It has been this way at Market Basket ever since the strike.

For those of you who do not live in New England, the Market Basket strike might have only been a blip on your radar screen. It was not, however, a normal strike. There was no union involved and the employees were not “striking” to get an increase in their wages or benefits. It actually was an uprising. The “Basket” workers rose up on behalf of the president of the company. When was the last time that happened? Never!

The details do not matter. All you need to know is that there was a family brawl in the boardroom. As a result, a cousin fired the workers’ beloved boss, President Artie. At least, he tried to fire him, but the workers rose up and said “No!” They shut the entire chain of stores down. It lasted for several weeks. The new management fired a few folks. They threatened to let everybody go. The “Basket” employees, however, remained resolute. When the new regime did try to open a store, not only did the workers not show up, but the customers also stayed away. The company began hemorrhaging money. At last, the cousin and his allies gave up. They sold out to Artie. The stores re-opened, the employees happily went back to work and customers flocked back to the “Basket” in record numbers.

The first time I went back, I accidentally crashed my cart into an employee in one of the over-crowed aisles. “I’m so sorry,” I said.

“No worries,” he responded, “I’m fine.”

I said to him, “We are all proud of you!”

He smiled and replied, “Thanks.” Then, he continued restocking Puffed Wheat on the shelf.

Yesterday, as I was shopping, I bumped (not literally) into that guy again. I said, “Hey, how are you? Do you remember me? I crashed my cart into you shortly after the store re-opened.”

“Yea, I remember,” he said, as he quickly moved out of harm’s way.

“How are things going?” I asked.

“Living the dream!” he said. As opposed to the guy who deadpanned the same thing to me at B.J’s a couple of years ago, his smile told me that he meant it.

Those employees risked their livelihood to stand up for Artie. They rose up for him, because he looked out for them. Artie made sure they earned a decent wage, received some benefits and were treated fairly. Artie must not have been trained in corporate human relations theory. The “Basket Employees” were not simply human capital to be acquired, expended and discarded. Nope. Artie sees them as living, breathing human beings that are the key to Market Basket’s success. They are. The long lines prove it.

There is, however, a greater lesson to be learned. In our society, we can easily be discarded, if we don’t stand up for ourselves. We can complain about our country all we want, but Artie and the “Basket” employees taught us that we still have the freedom to say “No!” to greed and inequity. We will be acquired, expended and discarded, only if we allow it to happen.

There is a lot going wrong in our world today. Inspired by Artie and the “Basket” workers, maybe we are past due in standing up for ourselves. Our fate need not be inevitable. There are more of us who want to do what is right and fair, than there are those who would abuse us in the name of the god of personal gain. The “Basket” employees also taught us that, even though we may be called upon to stand alone, it is much more effective to stand together.

I often get cranky with God. Why can’t God just snap a finger and fix what is wrong? But maybe God does not choose to exercise the power to acquire, expend and discard. Yesterday at the “Basket,” a thought popped into my head, “If I stand up for myself, God will stand up with me. If we stand up for ourselves, God will stand up with us.”

I like that thought. It was worth standing in a long line at “Market Basket” to learn it.

John Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

 

 

We meet some very interesting people as we move along our way. For me, none was more interesting than Lew Platt. I first met Lew at the home of his father in New Hartford, New York. Lew had flown in from the “left” coast to visit his Dad who was dying of cancer. A few weeks later, Lew called and asked me to visit his Dad again, I immediately went to see him and continued to do so on a regular basis.

One day when I arrived, Lew answered the door. His Dad was sleeping so we sat down in the living room and talked. I asked him what he did for a living. I was surprised when he disclosed that he was Chairman of the Board and CEO of Hewlett Packard, one of the largest corporations in the world. We talked at length about the challenges of our professions. As I left, we agreed to keep in touch.

A few weeks later, Lew’s Dad died. We held his funeral at my church. Lew spoke eloquently and lovingly about his father and made the point that “all the money in the world” could not buy the love that he received from his Dad. It was very touching. After the funeral was over, we parted company agreeing, once again, to keep in touch.

About a year later, I took a new job running a workforce development program in Upstate New York. I was asked to serve on a committee that was planning an economic development conference for our community. We needed a keynote speaker. I suggested Lew. Nobody believed that I could get the head of Hewlett Packard to come and speak, but one phone call later, Lew readily agreed to come! Everybody was really excited, including me. I looked forward to renewing our friendship

Lew did a great job as our speaker. After he finished, however, a cranky guy stood up and complained, “I am a stockholder. Can you tell me why you spend so damn much money on R&D? I think you should return some of that money to the shareholders.” Lew’s answer was brief and to the point, “We spend money on R&D so that we don’t fall behind technologically. If we miss the technology curve, we will be out of business in less than a year.”

There are two ways to go bankrupt in a hurry. One, as Lew Platt suggested, is to miss the technology curve. The other is to forget who you are and why you exist. It saddens me to report that most religion is failing on both counts. Many religions are withering away because they have missed the technology curve. They are out of touch with real life and in danger of becoming obsolete. The only headlines that many religions generate today are negative ones: headlines that highlight a nasty judgmental streak and, even worse, headlines that tell of beheadings and violence in the name of God. Too many religions also cling to a fatal flaw that essentially renders them pointless. They have lost their heart. To believe in the Divine is fundamentally a matter of the heart. Religion must never be reduced to a bunch of heartless, judgmental rules and regulations. As it was said to me long ago, “You can’t go wrong, if you lead with your heart.”

As to my own Christian religion, I believe our founder would be appalled at what we have become. He would indict us on the charge of 1st degree heartlessness. What Jesus taught can be reduced to a trinity of ideas rooted in the heart. First, we should love God and love one another. Second, a religion neither has exclusive access to God, nor does God pick one person over another or love one person more than another. There is equality in the Divine love. Sam Davis wrote: “We are chosen. Now and always, whoever we are, whatever we are like and wherever we go. We are not chosen instead of someone else or in front of someone else…and not chosen because we are better or stronger or wiser. We are simply CHOSEN, period.” Third, true religion requires us to be deeply disturbed by human need. We must never keep our hearts to ourselves. Our hearts are designed to be given away.

A religion with heart never withers or fades. Those who embrace such a religion will bloom and grow into the people God hopes for them to be: a people who love and do good, a people who “judge not” and a people who are disturbed enough by human need to try to do something about it. A religion with heart will never become irrelevant as long as those who embrace it always, ALWAYS, lead with their hearts. After all, that’s the whole point, isn’t it?

On good old Cape Cod, the artic blasts of snow and cold over the past month take me back to a different time and place. Since I am definitely not a fan of winter, that part of that “different time and place” I had hoped would remain out of sight and out of mind (Forever!), but another part continues to warm my soul. Welcome to “O Little Town of Harrisville!”

Winds driving across Lake Ontario give birth to lake effect snow. That does not sound too bad unless you have experienced it. When bands of lake effect snow set up and blow east, Tug Hill and the villages and towns on and around it are often blessed with a foot of snowfall, sometimes for several days in a row. Season snowfall totals on Tug Hill average nearly 17 feet a year. Harrisville is located on the edge of Tug Hill.

On a warm summer’s day in 1988, my boss called and said, “The Grand Poobah has in mind appointing you as pastor of our church in Harrisville.”

“Where on God’s earth is Harrisville?” I asked.

With a hint of uncertainty in his voice, he replied, “North of Syracuse and east of Watertown.”

I grabbed an atlas. It did not show a Harrisville in New York. With no Google Maps available back then, I went to my car and found a neatly folded, Exxon-produced map of New York. I located Harrisville, 40 miles east of Watertown and 80 miles west of Saranac Lake, on NY Route 3. My heart sank. “What did I do wrong? Why was the Grand Poobah exiling me to Harrisville?”

It got worse.

A couple of days later, I loaded my family in the car and took off on a reconnaissance mission. It was 173 miles from home to Harrisville. After driving for an eternity, we saw a sign that announced “Harrisville.” We drove for another minute, maybe two, before seeing a second sign that read “Pitcairn.” What? Did we miss the turn? We reversed course and drove a bit more slowly, looking for signs of life. Eureka! Just before we crossed a small bridge over the Oswegatchie River, we spotted downtown Harrisville on our left. We made a quick turn onto the main drag and drove past a restaurant, a bar, a gas station, a small store, a bank, a post office, a bakery and a pharmacy. After some additional scouring of Harrisville’s “suburbs,” we found the school, (Grades K-12 all in one building), a couple of churches, a fire station, a bowling alley and a cemetery. That was it.

As we drove home in silence, I thought, “I have got to find a way to get out of this.” But I couldn’t. The Grand Poobah would not be moved. Harrisville was my new church and home. Get over it.

We moved about a month later. Immediately, some strange things happened. I went to the Post Office to sign up for a mailbox. The clerk said, “Welcome to Harrisville, Reverend, we are glad you are here.” The same thing happened at the bank and at the gas station when I stopped to fill up my car. How did they know that I was a Reverend? I did not tell them. My family had the same experience. People knew them, even before they were introduced. It was weird, almost spooky.

There is, however, more to the story. Not only did the good people of Harrisville know and welcome us, but they also gave us the benefit of the doubt. They decided to like and trust us. Their “like and trust” was a gift. It was only ours to lose.

My first Sunday at church, there was not hint of skepticism about the new pastor. They embraced me as if I was one of their kids returning home from college. My children had playmates before the end of the morning and a gaggle of women warmly welcomed my wife. They, without conditions, loved us. The feeling was mutual. Within 24 hours, I fell in love with the good people of Harrisville.

Despite living there less than three years, it has proven to be a lasting love affair. I still get a warm feeling in my heart when I think about gentle Fred and barber Hal or when I get an email from church secretary Marion or follow the Atkinson Family Bluegrass Band on Facebook. I will never forget how they gave a rookie pastor the benefit of the doubt. Their love and acceptance made 17 feet of snow a year acceptable. Even in the long, dark days of winter, they made me feel as if life was a perpetual spring.

We live in such a skeptical world today. Security threats and ID theft make us nervous. Better not to trust anyone. Security rests in being suspect. NEVER give ANYBODY the benefit of the doubt. This may be necessary with regard to conducting our business on the web, but it need not be true with regard to those who live near and around us. The truth is that the vast majority of people who walk this earth are good people. They deserve and need to be given the benefit the doubt. Yes, we may get burned once in a while, but more often than not, when we give the benefit of the doubt, it ignites a spark of love.

That’s the truth, a Divine truth.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

From the instant I met Jay, I had a wide-eyed crush on her. I was, to quote the famous line from Walt Disney’s Jungle Book, “hooked.” Too bad Jay did not feel the same way. She humored me for a couple of months before informing me, somewhat gently, that I was NOT the man of her dreams. I found out a couple of days later that a dope-smoking, beer-swilling, backstabbing frat brother of mine had swept her off her feet. I only had myself to blame. I introduced Jay to him at a party. How was I supposed to know that Judas-of-a-fraternity-brother would find a way to steal her away from me? But…he did. It took a few consultations with my pastor, before I even considered forgiving him. The good Reverend told me that I had to love and forgive him, but that it was also acceptable to God to hate what he did. I was OK with latter part of the pastor’s equation, but it took a long time to embrace the former.

Despite Jay’s obvious poor taste in men, she was a very devout Christian. I was, at the time, in the throes of a rebellion against the rigid, judgmental Christianity of my youth. That brand of religion judged me to be a dirty rotten sinner. Since I refused to spend the rest of my life groveling before God, eternally begging for forgiveness, I decided I may as well “sin boldy.” After all, sinning was much more fun. Feeling the way I did, there was not an ounce of desire in my soul to go to church, but Jay wanted me to go and, wherever Jay wanted me to go, I went.

We attended the Presbyterian Church on the edge of campus faithfully each Sunday. On the inside, I was cursing the preacher and his God, while on the outside I appeared angelic and devout. One thing I did enjoy, however, was singing. The music in that church was amazing. The organist would pull out the stops on the pipe organ and Jay and I would sing our hearts out. The only problem was that Jay could not sing. She was so off-key that the people standing near us cringed.

One Sunday, the service ended with the singing of the oldie-but-goodie, “How Great Thou Art”. Not too many folks have the pipes to hit the high note on the refrain’s last “How GREAT Thou Art!” Jay, however, zestfully attacked it. Her voice fell far short of the high note, somewhere between bad and “badder,” and finally slivered down to rest on a note that wreaked havoc on any eardrum within a five-pew radius. As the organ moved on to the final verse, I leaned over to Jay and whispered with as much kindness as I could muster, “Jay, you might want to sing a little more softly.”

Jay, without hesitation, responded sharply, “God created my voice and He’ll have to listen to it.”

Poor God did have to listen Jay, but, unfairly, so did I and so did those seated within earshot of us. Her futile attempt to hit that note certainly put a negative spin on the Psalmist’s encouragement to “make a joyful noise unto the Lord.”

Now let me do an about face. Every time I see a picture of Kayla Mueller, I get so angry I can’t see straight. Several months ago, ISIS abducted Kayla, a beautiful young woman who was giving her life to help alleviate human suffering. Last week, she died, perhaps murdered, by those despicable and evil monsters. Every time I feel her eyes staring at me from the photograph her parents released of her, I let God have it. It’s really ugly what I have to say to God. Some of what I scream is not respectful of the one who is “how great Thou art”, but rather I state emphatically “how wrong God art!” With epithets I learned working in the steel mill as a kid, I give God an earful: “What the (expletive deleted) are you doing up there? Why are you fiddling while the world burns?”

I suppose if you were seated next to me while I was shouting my angry “noise” at God, you might lean over and whisper gently, “PJ, you might want to speak to God a little more softly.”  

To which I respond, “God created me with these feelings, so God will just have to listen to me. This has to stop. No more Kaylas! This **** has gone on too damn long. Stop it God! I can’t take it. Stop it NOW.”

Maybe I’ll sing “How Great Thou Art” again, but not until I don’t have to stare into the eyes of murdered innocence. As long as I do, God will have to listen to me. God will just have to listen to my angry noise.

 

 

The secretary announced his arrival: “P.J., there is somebody here to see you.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

There was no response, but a moment later, the secretary stuck her head in the door and whispered, “Don’t know him, but he says he needs to speak with you. Says it’s urgent.”

I did not have a good feeling. Times were tough and the church had a steady stream of “customers” looking for help. There is nothing wrong with helping folks. Lord knows I want to help if I can, but how do I know if a person’s needs are legitimate? If I give somebody money, how will they spend it? On alcohol? Rent? Drugs? Food? Because I have no way of knowing, I usually offer a bag of food or refer the person to a local agency who has the expertise to evaluate the need and the resources to help if the need is real. Nevertheless, it is always a tough call. For those of us in the “church business,” our top guy’s challenging words haunt us: “I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink.” Therefore, for me to say “no” to anybody in need makes me feel like a big, old hypocrite.

“Send him in,” I said.

The man entered my office. He was well dressed and soft-spoken. “Hello Father, how are you?” He said.

That ruled out that he was a Methodist.

“I’m fine. Thanks for asking. What can I do for you?”

“Father,” he said, “I am trying to get home. Can you lend me 10 bucks for a bus ticket?”

I replied, “We really don’t have money for such things. Have you tried Crossroads?”

“Yes,” he said, “but they said they couldn’t help me. They offered me some food, but food is not what I need. I must get home. My wife is in the hospital and needs my help.”

I believed him. I don’t know why I believed him. I just did. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet and gave him 10 bucks. “Here you go. Good luck. I hope your wife feels better.”

Tears came to his eyes. “Thanks, Father, I’ll pay you back.”

“I doubt it!” I thought. I always hear, “I’ll pay you back,” but I could not remember ever being repaid when I lent money to somebody who came in off the street. (It has happened one time since, but that is a story for another day.)  They always took the money and ran.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said as he headed for the door.

“I DO worry about it,” he replied as he exited.

I got back to work and very quickly forgot about that man.

Several months later, my secretary stuck her head in the door and said quietly, “There is a man here to see you. He has been here before.”

I got up from my desk and went out into the main office. It was easier to say “no” if I was not cornered in my office. The man was waiting for me.  He said. “Hi, Father, I want to repay my loan.”

I was stunned. I invited him into my office. He sat down in the chair next to my desk. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a manila envelope, opened it and proceeded to count out 10 silver dollars. I picked one up. I forget the date on it, but I knew enough about coin collecting to know that one of those coins was probably worth $50 or more. “Is this your coin collection?” I asked.

“Yes it is. My wife’s medical care has left us broke. We don’t have insurance, but I didn’t want to wait any longer to pay you back. Somebody else might need some help.”

I did not know what to do. I did not want to take his coin collection, but I also knew that it was a matter of pride for that man to pay me back. I thought for a moment and then took one of the coins and pushed the other nine back toward him.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“George,” he replied.

“George,” I said, “you know and I know that this coin alone is worth more than the 10 bucks I lent you. Take the rest of them home or, if you wish, sell them for what they are worth to help pay for your wife’s care. I am going to keep this one in my desk drawer and, when times get better for you, c’mon back and I’ll trade your silver dollar coin for a $10 bill. Does that work for you?”

He thought for a moment. “That works,” he said. “Thanks.”

We shook hands and he left.

Months later, George made one final appearance. He came into my office, pulled out his wallet and gave me $10. I opened my desk drawer and gave him his silver dollar. “Glad things are better for you,” I said.

“Me, too,” he replied. We shared a smile. Nothing more needed to be said.

The guy from Nazareth didn’t say it, but he should have. Jesus should have said, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” I learned that lesson the day George walked into my office to repay his loan. Everybody has his or her own “cover.” Everybody has his or her own unique story.

George sure did.

I do, too.

And…so do you!

 

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA

 

 

 

 

 

 

The “winter-cane” was upon us. The wind, howling at over 40 miles per hour with gusts up to 80 miles per hour, rattled the windows of our house. It blew the snow sideways. When the persistent, slow moving storm finally moved out to sea, we were left with 2-1/2 feet of snow and drifts that exceeded 5 feet in height. It took a Bobcat to shovel us out. And yet, it was also beautiful. It turned our heavily wooded acre of land into a winter wonderland. It was so peaceful. So quiet.  

In this little corner of God’s earth, the weather is a hot topic of conversation. Flip on the 6 o’clock news and keep track of how much time is devoted to hysterical weather people hyping the latest forecast. All the really important news of the day plays second fiddle to it. 

We can get ready for a blizzard, but we cannot stop it from dumping snow upon us. On Cape Cod, our lack of control of Mother Nature is complicated by our inability to forecast her whims. If there is the slightest shift in the direction of the winds blowing off the water, meteorologists tell us that the weather can change quickly. The Atlantic Ocean and Nantucket Sound certainly qualify as a major body of water. Therefore, Cape Codders should probably only worry about the weather one day at a time.

And yet, after the end of football season, what else do we have to fret about? For those who love winter (Not me!!!) and cannot wait to get out onto the ski slopes, obsessing over snow fall totals is a fulfilling way to occupy some time. Those who don’t like the cold season can study the long-range forecasts in search for evidence of an early spring. Both are a waste of time, but in my mind, during the dark days of winter, time is a wonderful thing to waste.

Which brings me back to last week’s “winter-cane.” There is no question that the Cape was impacted by a very nasty storm. Within a couple of days, however, the streets were plowed and life returned to normal. The over-hyped, “blizzard-like-no-other” turned out to be a “snow-storm-just-like many others.”

Immediately after the winter-cane, I began tracking the next major storm. It arrived today. The forecast started at 8-12” of snow and then declined from 4-8” to 2-4” to 1-2”. The reality, however, is that it is raining! A slushy mix of ice and snow layers the streets and dark puddles hide tire-shredding potholes. It’s lovely! Schools are closed, but I am at work. There is no rest for the wicked.

Today’s stinky weather caused me to think back to last week. I’ll take the light and fluffy 2-1/2 feet of snow over today’s mix of ice and rain, but even more, I’ll gladly take two more snow days so my world can come to an abrupt halt. I need to hit my “pause” button. Last week, there was nothing to do, but to spend some time with myself. I re-introduced myself to ME. I don’t always like ME. I am often too harsh a judge of ME, but last week I made a decision to like ME!

The greatest gift from the Divine One is that ME is loved with a love that will not let ME go. If God thinks ME is OK, ME must be OK, don’t you think? And, obviously, if God likes ME, God must like YOU too! Even if it arrives via a “winter-cane,” we could all use another day of peace and quiet to remind ourselves to like ME, which may be as good a reason as any to continue to waste a little time checking the long-range forecast.

John Holt, February, 2015

 

 

After a morning of fretting, the big news arrived via text message just after 11:30 AM. My first grandchild, Samantha Leah, was delivered safely into our world. Mom and baby were doing well! This text was followed shortly thereafter by another text that included the first picture of Sammy. As Grandma Kadi celebrated and my office staff came rushing in to offer their congratulations, Grandpa John’s heart was so full of joy that it suppressed me into my chair. Never one to be at a loss for words, I was left speechless as tears filled my eyes and began to leak onto my cheeks. There simply are no words to describe how I felt at that moment. How do you wrap words around feelings that transcend love?

The next couple of days were a blur as more pictures of Samantha arrived and we packed to take off for Washington DC. On Saturday, I had to run several errands. I am not at all ashamed to say that, at every stop, I somehow finagled a way to show off my Grandbaby’s picture to the store clerks. Most were more than willing to indulge me. They were very nice to agree wholeheartedly with me that Sammy was A-D-O-R-A-B-L-E! The guy at the hardware store was the only exception. After I dropped a bunch of stuff on the checkout counter, I brazenly asked (demanded), “Would you like to see a picture of my new granddaughter?”

He gave me a look that clearly said, “I could care less.”

Sensing his disgusting indifference to my precious bundle of joy, I looked him dead straight in the eye and said, “Do you want my business or don’t you?”

I think he would have told me to stuff my $15.33 purchase, except that the boss waltzed by, so the clerk replied in a voice dripping with a false sincerity, “I would love to see your grandchild.”

I made him look at 10 pictures just to teach him a lesson.

Upon arrival at my daughter and son-in-law’s house on Monday, I held Sammy in my arms for the very first time. Grandma Kadi caught the moment on her cell phone camera. It is now my favorite picture of all time. I am cradling Samantha in my arms with my daughter smiling in the background. Once again, I was rendered speechless. Once again, my feelings were soaring someplace beyond love.

Now I told you all that, so I could tell you this: Just before leaving for DC, I had a conversation with a good friend of mine. I said to her, “Put God or any sense of a Divine Being aside for a minute and think about the miracle of birth. How is that a baby develops in the womb for 9 months and then, in a matter of minutes, emerges as a living, breathing human being? And…how is it that the instant that baby is born, we fall instantly in love with that precious child? It’s just incredible. It’s awesome.”

The woman looked at me and replied, “That is God to me.”

She is right. I can’t put God aside on this one.

I am speechless.

Johannesburg, South Africa 2009: I was thrilled when we arrived in that city, especially since one of my heroes was and is Nelson Mandela. In many ways, he was more a hero to me than Martin Luther King Jr. I was in my early teens when Dr. King and the Civil Rights movement played out in the newspapers and on TV. During most of those years, Mandela was locked away in the Robben Island Prison and the movement to end South African Apartheid was viciously suppressed. I was, however, in my prime when, in the 1980’s, a worldwide movement against Apartheid gained steam. How exciting and exhilarating it was when Mandela was released from prison and, within a few years, elected President of South Africa! It was, and always will be, one of the great moments of history.

Before we left on our trip, I read Mandela’s inspiring book The Long Road to Freedom. His book led me to believe that it was a whole new world in South Africa. I could not wait to get to Johannesburg and see for myself the fruits of Mandela’s labors.

We arrived quite late at night. It was a starless night so there was not too much visible as the taxi took us from the airport to our hotel. The next morning we rented a cab to take a quick tour of the city. Everywhere we went, there were pictures of Nelson Mandela displayed on bulletin boards or hanging on buildings. Clearly, he was a national icon, but I also noticed that the city was in lock-down. There was barbed wire, security cameras and police cruisers everywhere. The windows and doors of homes and businesses had bars on them, which made them appear as if they were jails. It was a bit nerve wracking. I did not feel safe.

We returned to our hotel for lunch. I struck up a conversation with our server. I found out from him that there was great unrest in the city. Too many Black South Africans were mired in poverty. The server, although polite and careful with his words, suggested that the Apartheid caste system was still firmly in place. The lack of opportunity to climb out of poverty and the fact that economic power was still held firmly in the hands of the White South Africans resulted in frustration, crime and violence. Mandela’s “long road to freedom” had a long way to go. Mandela’s dream and the dreams of the Black South Africans were still very much a work in progress and, in the minds of many, that progress had slowed to a crawl.

Great people, like Nelson Mandela, dream big dreams. The ancient Prophet Isaiah dreamed of a “peaceable kingdom”, a world in which….

     The wolf shall live with the lamb,

                     the leopard shall lie down with the kid,

                     the calf and the lion and the fatling together.

                     and a little child shall lead them.

     The cow and the bear shall graze,

                     their young shall lie down together;

                     and the lion shall eat straw like an ox.

War and exile, however, proved Isaiah’s dream of a peaceable kingdom to be a non-starter.

            During Jesus’ lifetime, many Israelis who longed for freedom from Roman oppression embraced him when he re-invigorated Isaiah’s dream by proclaiming: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” Then, Jesus concluded by saying, “Today, this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.” Sadly, most of those who followed Jesus watched him and their dream for freedom die on a Roman cross. They must have asked, “Saviors don’t die on crosses, do they?”

            As we draw closer to the day that has been set aside to remember the life and times of Martin Luther King Jr., we will, once again, hear a lot of chatter about his dreams, one of which he cast in his famous speech from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial: “And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” And yet, even the most optimistic of those who listened to Dr. King that day often found his dream for equality frustratingly illusive.

            In our times, the unimaginable atrocities committed by ISIS in the Middle East and the terrorist attack in Paris last week, certainly put to rest any idea that our world resembles Isaiah’s peaceable kingdom. The people of North Korea or Syria might have trouble buying Jesus’ dream of the oppressed going free. No matter what your opinion of the shooting of a young black man in Ferguson, Missouri and the subsequent refusal of a grand jury to bring charges against the police officer who fired the shots, that tragedy calls into question the fulfillment of Dr. King’s dream. Is the dream of equality that is “deeply rooted in the American dream” reserved only for some and not for others? Is equal justice under the law a figment of our imagination? Progress toward the achievement of too many great dreams must be graded as “incomplete”. Sometimes it even feels as if we are “progressing” backwards.

            Just because too many big dreams remain unfulfilled, however, does not mean that we should stop dreaming them or give up trying to achieve them. Dreams do not have a life of their own. They will only be fulfilled if it is “within our hearts” to work toward achieving them. Dr. King wrote in his Letter from Birmingham Jail: “Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men (and women) willing to be co workers with God, and without this hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation. We must use time creatively, in the knowledge that the time is always ripe to do right.” Is it within our hearts to become co-workers with God in working to achieve the American dream of liberty and justice for all?

            We cannot ignore big dreams in the hope that they will go away or delude ourselves into believing that it is somebody else’s job to achieve them. Big hearts achieve big dreams. If it is within our hearts to achieve our dreams, human progress is inevitable. Our dreams can come true, but only if we embrace King’s challenge, that as “co-workers with God”, the “time is ripe to do right.”