“Trunk or Treat?”

Yep…that’s what I said, “Trunk or treat?”

Our church has an annual event the Saturday before Halloween called “Trunk or Treat”. I do not know who thought it up, but this year about a hundred parents and kids showed up to visit the Halloween-decorated trunks of about 20 cars. Goblins, Winnie the Pooh, Dorothy, a Marine Sergeant, ghosts and a myriad of other characters toured the parking lot, helping themselves to a plethora of candy just waiting to be extracted from buck-toothed carved pumpkins residing in each trunk. It was a blast.

Walking across the parking lot to join the line at the hot dog stand, I was confronted by a 3-1/2-foot high Ninja Turtle. He stood in front of me menacingly, preventing me from reaching my desired destination. He said nothing. This Ninja Turtle was all business. He was on mission from God to stop old P.J. from satisfying his hot dog craving.

It would have been impolite to step on him, so I acted very frightened and asked, “W-w-w-ho are you?”

“I’m a Ninja Turtle, “ he answered.

Eyeing the ever-growing line at the hot dog stand, I replied, “Do you see my wife over there? Why don’t you go over and attack her? She would enjoy it.”

But he was a Ninja Turtle on a mission. I was that mission. He would not be moved.

“Are you really a Ninja Turtle?” I asked.

He flipped back his mask and his adorable little face, full of joy, smiled at me.

“It’s me!” He said, “Mom wouldn’t let me bring my sword.”

“I think your Mom was right, after all I was very scared with you just being an unarmed Ninja Turtle. Acting frightened again, I asked, “Are you sure you are not a Ninja Turtle?”

“It’s me! Ethan!” he said and gave me a big hug. Then, he put his mask back on and dashed off to the next trunk and Ninja Turtle mission. I made a beeline for the hot dog stand.

The next day I took a walk. I thought about Ethan saying, “It’s me!” It reminded me of a young man who spoke to a group of us after we watched a documentary about the Rhode Island Training School. The young man had been incarcerated there. His life’s story was one of the stories told in the documentary. His story was both disturbing and moving. It was disturbing because of the difficulties this boy faced growing up, a living hell that no child should ever have to face. The story was moving because it was clear that, through the efforts of some very caring people, he was beginning to rise above that hell and could envision a much better future.

I was so moved that I asked him, “What can we do to help? Is there anything we can do to help you be the person you want to be?”

He thought for a moment and said, “Say hello to me when you see me on the street!”

All that young man needed and wanted was for somebody, ANYBODY, to pay attention to him, somebody to CARE! That’s all Ethan wanted, too. That is all most of our kids desire: some attention, a little caring, a lot of love.

A certain man from a tiny village in Israel always paid attention to kids. Just to make it clear, he said, “Bring any kid you want to me, because kids are the essence and stuff of heaven.” Might I suggest that we go one step further? Why not create a little heaven in the here-and-now? When we see a kid on the street and he or she looks at us with a wide-eyed innocence that says, “It’s me!” — Stop, pay attention, care a little, love a lot and a little slice of heaven will be created on earth.

Now I’m forgetting about more hot dogs. I’m off to find me another Ninja Turtle or two.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA

Old cranky theological types have argued incessantly about how we can get it right with the Holy One. Some say we are so freakin’ rotten that we can’t possibly save ourselves, so the best we can do is to trust that God will help us pick the winning number. Others argue that we have to do it ourselves. We have to build up a whole bunch of “do-good” points in order to win the heavenly lottery. Still others think we should mix and match: a little bit of faith, coupled with doing a whole lot more good stuff than bad stuff, ought to result in us winning the salvation jackpot. “It will be what it will be,” but if the Eternal One is a good and loving God, then the odds are better that we are “IN” rather than “OUT.” There is, however, no doubt in my mind that I HAVE been “saved” by our DVR.

Enjoy it while it lasts. Sooner or later, the corporate marketing mega-minds will figure out that we are not watching their insane commercials anymore and devise a new method to extract gold from our pockets. But for now, by simply “DVR-ing” my beloved Pittsburgh Steelers’ games, I can start watching the game at 2 PM, instead of 1 PM, and fast-forward through the endless, repetitive commercials that make men appear as drunken, lusting piglets and portray women as if they enjoy such belittling attention. Even better, I can DVR my 1 PM game, take a nice nap, run some errands, take a walk and then at 4 PM turn on the TV and watch the whole game. I can fast-forward through commercials, time-outs, half time and the constant huddling of officials to discuss the latest penalty flag thrown because some player decided to block or tackle somebody from the other team (National Flag Football League, anyone???). In doing so, I have effectively reduced the whole game to a mere 1-1/4 hours. Go DVR! I’m “saved!”

The greatest moment of DVR salvation descended upon me, however, when I figured out that I no longer had to listen to any political ads. I neither have to listen to Democrats blame evil, “Tea-Partying” Republicans for wrecking the nation, nor do I have to listen to Republicans blame Democrats for supporting the “devil-incarnate-Obama,” he being the obvious cause of all our worldly ills. I can tune-out the guy who tries to convince me that he alone will straighten out healthcare in this country by exercising his ONE vote in a 435-member Congress, or the woman who assures me that, if she is elected, my taxes will drop precipitously as if the legislature has nothing to do with it. I can DVR away the snarling attack ads that try to convince us that one candidate or another is morally unfit for office because they “sayeth one thing while they doeth another.” Yawn. What else is new! If it were not for my DVR and fast-forwarding through, as Dr. King once said, all this “jangling discord,” I probably would have devolved into such disgust that I would have decided not to vote at all. But go DVR! I’m voting!

With all the time I saved by “DVR-ing” away beer commercials and political attack ads, I actually found the time to check out some candidates. I even did a little intelligence gathering through some old friends to get the inside scoop on some of them. Believe it or not, I found a guy I would like to support as they did in old Mayor Daley’s Chicago…I want to vote for him “early and often!” I don’t know the guy. Never met him. Only when I read an article about him in the Boston Globe did I learn what office he is seeking and his party affiliation. I can’t vote for him. He will not be on the ballot on old Cape Cod.

Seth Moulton is running to represent Massachusetts’ Sixth Congressional District. Stealth reporter, Walter V. Robinson discovered the shocking fact that Mr. Moulton “chose not to publicly disclose that he was twice decorated for heroism until pressed by the Globe.” As a platoon leader in Iraq, he received the Bronze Star for valor in 2004 because, with “four of his men wounded, Moulton fearlessly exposed himself to enemy fire, moving among his men while ignoring incoming mortar rounds and sniper fire.” In 2003, he received the Navy and Marine Corp Commendation for valor by “clearing an enemy stronghold” and “rushing to the aid of a wounded comrade” while still under fire.

Why is Seth not talking? Most politicos would not only brag about their heroism, but also embellish their story and even run ads to score heroism points. Mr. Moulton, however, said that he “is uncomfortable calling attention to his own awards out of respect for ‘too many others who did heroic things and received no awards at all.’” As Mr. Robinson reported, “Moulton asked that the Globe not describe him as a hero. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘we served our country and we served the guys next to us. And it’s not something to brag about.’” With his voice choking with emotion, Moulton said, “The greatest honor of my life was to lead these men in my platoon, even though it was a war that I and they disagreed with.”

If I had “DVR-ed” this interview, I would watch it repeatedly to remind myself that there are people out there running for office who are humble, not arrogant; eager to serve and to do what they believe is best for our people and who are not in it only for themselves. We just have to “fast-forward” through the nonsense, dig a little deeper, ask a few more questions and we will find them. They may not be in our party or even share our own political philosophy, but I’ll vote for humility and integrity on any election Tuesday over party affiliation or political talking points.

It has been said that we ought not to think too highly of ourselves. This does not mean that we should put ourselves down. Better that we “fast-forward” over our imperfections and embrace the goodness that resides in all of us. Humility, in my way of thinking, is to understand who is divine and who is not: God is divine; we are not. Perhaps that is all that is necessary to get it right with God. Maybe all that is required of us is to “walk humbly with our God.” We can fast-forward through all the rest.

Go DVR! Go Vote! Go God!

Walking humbly, we live “IN” the heart of God.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA

            Okay, I admit that I am a creature of habit. I am not sure what the ramifications of O.C.D. really are, but if I am anywhere near accurate in my interpretation of the symptoms, I am certainly afflicted with it. As I reported last week, my day begins at roughly 4:30 AM when our boss, Pako the Cat, walks repeatedly across my head, insisting that it is time for his drink of fresh water from our kitchen sink’s filtered faucet. As he laps at the gentle flowing stream, I prepare my breakfast of Quaker Puffed Wheat with skim milk flavored by one packet of Splenda and a side of an orange or a cup of fruit, after which I fetch the Boston Globe and the Cape Cod Times. While eating my 240-calorie breakfast, I scan the papers, examining each section in the same order every day, after which I enter my calories on My Fitness Pal before returning to bed to doze off for an early morning nap. Then, it’s “up and at ‘em” and off to work.

            Finished with phase one of my work day by about 1:30 PM (unless I have a lunch date), I return home for a lunch that consists of ham and Laughing Cow low-calorie cream cheese on two slices of whole wheat bread, 1-3/4 ounces of Utz Dark Pretzels and ½ cup of 60-calorie Boston Cream Pie pudding. Total calories: approximately 500. Next in the queue: Nap time! After about a 40-minute snooze, it’s time to work on a sermon or write my blog, followed by 45 minutes of walking, gardening or biking, preparing and cooking dinner, watching CBS News, rushing off to an occasional evening meeting and, at last, settling down for snack time and watching a couple of episodes of “International House Hunters” or “Million Dollar Listing” with my bride. Pako then herds us into bed. I log in my total calories for the day (usually about 2000) and try to read a bit or play a few games of Solitaire on my cell phone, before flipping off the light at about 10 PM for some blessed rest. The next day dawns at 4:30 AM and I do the same old thing all over again.

            Of course, given my profession, interruptions of my daily drill are all too frequent. I am used to this, but I am also a skilled master at getting my routine back on track as soon as practically possible. I whine about these interruptions and announce frequently how nice it will be when I can retire and live a “routine-free” life with minimal interruptions, but I will most certainly require extensive and frequent therapy to break out of my insidious patterns. Sam Keene once said that he wasn’t sure what the second half of his life would be like, but that he was certain that it would be “radically discontinuous” from the first half of his life. That may be true for Sam, but how come I have this overwhelming sense that the last third of my life (I am way past the break-even point!) will simply be an adjusted routine with a different combination of interruptions?

            Not that all interruptions are bad. Sometimes the disruption of our routine gives the Eternal One an opportunity to invade our space. This certainly happens when the dominoes of our life are falling, when our earthly elevator is descending rapidly to the basement. Nobody likes tragedy. It stinks. My experience, however, is that, when the bottom falls out, it is one of the few times we consider opening our hearts and minds to Divine intervention. When we can’t pull ourselves up out of the mud, as Calvin Seerveld once wrote, it may become the moment when we are willing to “take hold of God and pull.” Perhaps it is an opportunity for us to seek shalom, a peace that can only come from beyond ourselves. Why, however, wait for a negative busting of our routine before we open ourselves to the One who exists for us, in us and around us? We don’t have to.

            Last week, I had nearly finished my “routine” for the day. It was about 8 PM and I was driving home from an evening meeting. As I turned into our driveway, I saw something spectacular, miraculous actually, peering through the branches of the pines and oaks that guard our house from public view. It was the rising of a huge, brilliant, harvest moon. My instincts told me to stay on track. My routine was calling me to snacks and an episode of “International House Hunters,” but I, with great determination, rebelled. I did a “U-y” and headed to one of my favorite vantage points on Cape Cod. It is the beautiful, peaceful spot at which the Santuit River widens as it heads toward Nantucket Sound. I parked my car and walked down to the edge of the river, plunked down on the bridge and just watched that harvest moon rise over the still waters of the barely flowing river. I cannot even begin to describe the incredible beauty of it. There are no words. And yet, just when I thought it could not get any more stunning, a flotilla of ducks paddled their way gently by, barely disturbing the serene waters, as if following the trail of moonlight arcing across the bay. It literally took my breath away and put an end to any thought of getting my evening routine back on track. Instead, the words of an ancient songwriter whispered to me: “O Lord, my Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth.” And then, from somewhere far beyond myself, I felt a Divine nudge, a feeling that transcended my understanding: Shalom. Peace.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA.

            “Pakobel Canon AM Liiv-Holt of Cotuit and Middletown, Rhode Island” is the full name of our black and white tuxedo cat. We adopted Pako 7 years ago or, truth be told, Pako adopted us! We went to the Potter League (Aquidneck Island’s Animal Shelter) just to “look”. As we walked in the door, there was a big cage incarcerating a litter of “black and whites.” They were all sleeping, except for Pako who was wide-eyed awake, running around the cage like an Olympic sprinter. I walked over to the cage to check him out. Pako stopped running, reached his little black-arm-with-an-adorable-pure-white-tip paw through the bars of the cage, snagged my leg and I was instantly hooked (in love actually). I looked at Karin with eyes as wide as Pako’s that said, “I’m ready to buy this kitten’s freedom.”

            Karin wasn’t so sure: “I think he might be a little bit too wild.”

            Not to be dissuaded, I asked the attendant if we could take Pako out of the cage. “Of course,” she said. She reached in, picked up Pako and placed him in Karin’s arms. That wild little kitten, knowing instinctively (wicked smart!!) that he had a chance to win the Mega-Millions Cat Jackpot, instantly fell asleep in Karin’s arms. She looked at me as wide-eyed as Pako and I said, “I’ll start the paper work.”

            The next stop was a Christmas-in-July for Pako at PETCO: New litter box, fresh litter, engraved collars, grooming equipment, the filet mignon of kitty dry food and a beautiful new drinking bowl. Pako did win the lottery that day and it is the gift that keeps on giving. Pako gets whatever Pako wants whenever Pako wants it. Tiina, my mother-in-law, immediately accused us of spoiling Pako, especially when Pako refused to drink out of his new bowl and would only drink out of a correctly positioned running water faucet. It was hard to refute Tiina’s criticism until one early morning, while we were visiting her, I came downstairs and found Tiina at the kitchen sink with Pako attempting to get his morning re-hydration. Tiina was lovingly asking Pako in her beautiful, Estonian-accented voice, “Pako is this the right angle?” Yep. She was hooked too!

            Sometimes it does get a little much. Recently, a certain preacher’s wife has been heard singing hymns from an earlier era around the house. My personal favorite is the new lyrics she composed to the old tearjerker “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” The lyrics have been re-composed to “What a friend I have in Pako.” I am not sure how Jesus would feel about this, but he’s not around at present to take exception, so as Tiina would say, “It will be what it will be.”

            Of course, I am no better. Pako wakes me up every morning at exactly 4:30 AM (which is why I am writing this post at 5:30 AM) in order to get his morning drink from the our sink’s fountain, then he disappears down the basement for his morning constitutional, followed by snuggle-time between Mom and Dad in bed. Pako does not have his own bed. His bed is our bed. We are only temporarily renting space from 10 PM to 7 AM, Monday through Sunday. He makes this abundantly clear, at any given hour on any given night, when he makes us change our positions in bed if that is the spot where he wants to curl up and sleep. By the way, Pako also gets his mushy wet food promptly at 4 PM each day. If I forget, he nudges me with his incredibly artistic black, pink and white nose. If I am unmoved, he chases after my feet attempting to nip me into submission, at which point, I humbly apologize for my defective parenting skills and reward his dogged determination with an extra dose of high-quality salmon wet food.

            Yep. I am totally and unashamedly hooked. I am convinced that Pako was born of the Virgin Cat Mary and has to be the second coming of the Cat Messiah. I make no apologies for my firm belief in this. In the words of the old spiritual, when it comes to faith in Pako, “I shall not be moved.” Do you know why? Because even on the worst day of my 63 years Pako makes me smile. I don’t care how bad it gets or how downcast I am. I don’t care how shaken the foundations of our world, when I come home Pako is waiting in the hall with his wide eyes staring me down. I reach down and pick him up and, just like that day with my wife at the Potter League, he snuggles in next to me and sometimes he even seems to give me a cat kiss. My frown instantly sets and a smile dawns. How good is that?

            People ask me not infrequently why (or how can) I believe in God. I usually attempt to answer their question intelligently by elucidating on St. Thomas’ Aquinas’ “Five Ways” or some other erudite argument for the existence of God. After all, I did go to seminary for three years. But laugh at me if you wish, in my heart-of-hearts the simple truth that “Pako loves me this I know” coupled with his never-failing and miraculous ability to bring a smile to my face even on the worst of days is all the proof I need of a Divine Presence that is alive and well in my life and in our world. Pako lives! God exists! So be it! Amen!

 

It was dry for a very long time. No rain. My carefully cultivated gardens were begging for water. I studied my AccuWeather and MyRadar apps hourly hoping for some hint of a sprinkle. It was frustrating because every passing rain cloud just missed the Cape or just nicked us, only providing a few drops that did nothing more than tease my poor impatiens, hostas and hydrangeas. Water restrictions meant that the lawn could only get a drink every other day. That was not enough. Wilting!!!

Then, in the wee hours of a Tuesday morning, without warning or even a hint on the radar, I awakened to the sound of rain pattering on the roof outside our bedroom window. I didn’t get my hopes up. But then, it poured for about 45 minutes! The intoxicating smell of rain reinvigorating the parched earth brought new life to me too. I wanted to join my flowers in singing the “Hallelujah Chorus!”

As autumn rudely elbows summer aside, there will soon be far too many days of fog, drizzle and rain on old Cape Cod. I will curse the darkness and beg for the sun to shine. I will carefully review my weather apps looking for any sign of hope. And then, once again, just when I can’t take another day of wet socks and screechy windshield wipers, the sun will break through the mist. Thank God!

As I write this, I cannot help but think that the coming and going of sun and rain are also a metaphor for life. One day, we have the “thrill of the victory;” the next day, the “agony of defeat.” And on some days, we get both at the same time. Once upon a time, I wrote a poem during some very dark days in my life, days when I was praying (begging?) for a little light:

Every day

begins in darkness.

“Deep darkness,”

in prophet speak.

But I pray:

“Sunshine follows rain.”

 

“No end-of-the-tunnel light,”

he complained.

It’s a mucky,

murky future.

Inversely, I think:

“Sunshine follows rain.”

 

“Harmony not agreement,”

she believed.

Differing voices,

blending together.

“Why not?” I wonder:

“Sunshine follows rain.”

 

In the wilderness

the dark night of my soul.

Is it pregnant with possibilities?

I don’t know.

But let it be so.

“Sunshine follows rain.”

 

“I‘m lost,”

my soul cried,

I’m done,

nowhere to go.

Yet, hope still lingers:

“Sunshine follows rain.”

 

Sometimes I ask,

“Why bother?”

Deep inside,

no exit, no light.

Then, a still small voice

whispers to my soul:

“Sunshine follows rain.”

The greatest gift the Eternal One gives to us is that every day is a new day. No matter how bad the day before, regardless of how dark it gets, the next day is always waiting to dawn. The old admonition to “live one day at a time” is good advice. Easy to say, but not so easy to do. As it was once said, “When you are up to your (expletive deleted) in alligators, you forget that you came to drain the swamp.” However, taking life as it comes is really the only option. Nobody can predict tomorrow or control even the next minute, maybe not even God! We may as well live in the present moment and, as long as we are holding court there, why not live with the hope that sunshine will forever and ever follow the rain?

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

                    After three years of keeping close company with my iPhone 4, I traded it in for an iPhone 5S in August. Despite the obvious benefits of my upgrade, it was not easy to let go of my old BFF iPhone 4. After all, other than charging it overnight, it was my constant companion. Whenever I misplaced it, panic set in. Good Lord! How could I go on without it? However, I have to confess that it did not take long to develop a close bond with my iPhone 5S. It likes me and I like it, especially when my new phone talks to me. It’s so nice to have somebody, anybody, ask me several times a day, “What can I help you with?” My grammar-obsessed Grandma would be horrified by that question. NEVER end a sentence with a preposition! The proper grammar is “With what can I help you?” But really, who cares? Proper grammar is a dinosaur. All that is required now is that recipients can decipher our abbreviated text messages. But I digress: the point is that the bells and whistles of my new phone and the fact that the soul of my iPhone 4 was downloaded to my new iPhone 5S quickly enabled me to say gently to my old BFF iPhone 4, “Rest in peace.”

                  Now, however, Apple has done a number on me. Last week, they released the new, exciting, advanced, “you-can’t-live-without-it” iPhone 6. All of this is very enticing. I am tempted to go stand in line at the Apple store, listen to my new, free U2 album in iTunes and trade in my iPhone 5s for an iPhone 6, EXCEPT THAT I CAN’T! It’s one thing to trade in a three-year-old iPhone for a new one. That’s kind of like a benevolent retirement, as if my old cell phone was eligible for Social Security and Medicare. But to turn in my faithful iPhone 5S after only a three-month relationship is like cheating on your partner. I cannot in good conscience perpetrate such infidelity. After all, my iPhone 5S has been completely faithful to me. I simply cannot dump it, especially since it asks me every day, “What can I help you with?” I cannot and will not be unfaithful to my new BFF. Not yet anyway.

                  On a more serious note, I walked into a Pizza/Mexican restaurant for lunch last week. It’s a good place to get a reasonably priced lunch with uncommonly good food. It attracts a large clientele for lunch, especially during the summer, since it is only a few blocks from a Cape Cod beach. It also appeals to the disappearing middle class that work in the trades, landscaping, or on a Geek Squad. When I walked in for lunch last week, the place was packed, but it was also dead quiet. Everybody had their heads down, staring at their mobile devices and doing whatever important, “can’t-wait-until-later” stuff was crucial to maintaining civilization as we know it. The only time anybody looked up was to order their food or to pay their bill. I suspect that it will not be long before we can get rid of the distracting waitstaff and just text our taco order directly to the cooks and our debit card payment to a “non-person” cashier who will thank us in a generic manufactured voice for our payment, just like my new BFF iPhone asks me, “What can I help you with?”

                  Call me old school, out-of-date, too-old-to-understand or simply nostalgic for the old days when we went out to lunch to connect with friends, tell some jokes or stories, listen to someone who needed a friendly ear or pass on just a little gossip. Why can’t, at least once awhile, a friend or even somebody I work with call me on my iPhone 5S so I can hear their voice? When my family, friends and co-workers call me, I can tell from the sound of their voice how they really are and I can ask them, “What can I help you with?” Isn’t that better than a manufactured voice asking me that question? Text messages and emails are devoid of emotion and I think we need more emotion, more passion and a lot more connecting “ear-to-ear” and “face-to-face.”

                  I may be technologically challenged, but one thing I do know is that connecting to our Higher Power, or spiritually relating to the Divine, is most likely not going to happen via a text message. Since God is God and I am not, I cannot rule out that a Divine connection can be made iPhone to iPhone. But the Divine Power in our universe does not often miraculously appear to us and ask, “What can I help you with?” More often than not, we connect with God because somebody embodies God’s love for us and becomes the conduit through which God’s grace, hope and shalom is given to us.

                  FYI: I’m neither giving up my iPhone 5S nor am I going to cheat on it by succumbing to the flirtation of an iPhone 6 (LOL!). I will still connect with people near and far by every means available. Better to connect by text, than not to connect at all! Nevertheless, I refuse to give up connecting with people ear-to-ear and face-to-face, for it is in this connection that I sense the presence of my Higher Power and catch a whiff of the Divine. So…I really hope to talk 2 U ASAP. I really hope to C U soon!

            The heart-wrenching news of these disturbing times are, at least for me, becoming increasingly difficult to hear and watch on our flat screens. The constant bombardment of ugliness descending upon our world is downright depressing. How much more can we take of videos of men clothed in black, knife in hand, preparing to behead innocent hostages? It causes stomachs to churn when we see the streaming images of an NFL player slugging his now-wife in an elevator or when we read on the front page of the Boston Globe of three little children found dead in their home, apparently as the result of the actions of a deeply disturbed mother. How much more can we absorb of the irrational and continual shedding of blood in the Middle East and in Ukraine? It is all too much, just too damn much! Nevertheless, I think it important to remind ourselves that the vast majority of the people in our world really are good people who, more often than not, are striving to do the right thing.

            “AM” and “PM” are my nicknames for two incredible people who are part of my spiritual community on Cape Cod. They moved here a few years ago for what they said was retirement, but has, in reality, been far from restful or entwined in inactivity. I suspect that from an energy-expending viewpoint, AM and PM might long once in awhile for the much more serene worlds of their teaching and business pasts!

            Shortly after I met them, it was quite apparent that they were extremely passionate about a place called the Child Rescue Center in West Africa’s Sierra Leone. I kiddingly labeled them as zealots. The Child Rescue Center provides a home for orphaned and impoverished street children, some of whom have been deeply impacted by a horrific 10-year civil war in that part of the world. To put it mildly, AM and PM give their hearts to these kids. Traveling at their own expense, twice a year they make the long sojourn to Bo, Sierra Leone to volunteer their time and skills in support of Sierra Leone’s kids.

            Over the years, the passion of PM and AM has gone viral. Many folks in my community are now infected with helping these kids as well. Tragically, however, a more insidious virus is now at work in West Africa. The devastating, life-taking Ebola virus is threatening millions of people. It has struck particularly hard in Sierra Leone, so much so that the government declared the nation to be locked down, with almost all daily activity put on an enforced hold.

            Early last year, the director of the Rescue Center resigned and AM became the acting head of the organization. In late summer, AM and PM came back to the States for a hiatus to catch up with their “normal” life and fulfill some important family obligations. While home, the Ebola virus quickly metastasized. The number of those infected climbed and the death toll rose rapidly. Most, sane volunteers to any West African country would not dream of returning to those countries until the Ebola outbreak is contained. While AM and PM are quite sane, they are also deeply committed to their kids. Despite the fact that the cost of airfare to Sierra Leone has sky-rocketed AND that their worried spiritual leader (me!) asked (begged!) them to wait until the virus abated, first AM returned to Bo to resume his interim leadership of the Center and, yesterday morning, PM texted me from the Bo airport that she had arrived safely. Together, they continue to compassionately care for and love the children living in lockdown at the Child Rescue Center in that beleaguered and suffering country.

            AM and PM’s passion, commitment and compassion blow me away. They could have remained safe and sound, living in their beautiful home overlooking an idyllic Cape Cod pond, but the needs of the kids at the Rescue Center and AM and PM’s love for the people of Sierra Leone trumped any concern for their own safety. They returned because, as AM told me, that’s what “God wanted them to do.” AM and PM don’t mess with or attempt to negotiate their way out of what they believe to be their Eternal One’s marching orders to love and serve the kids of Bo, Ebola virus or no Ebola virus!

            Yep. We can get depressed very quickly if we narrow our vision to view only the bad or hate-filled actions of some people in our troubled and disturbing world. As for me, I refuse to allow the hate-filled actions of the few to push to the sidelines the heart-inspiring actions of the many. I refuse to allow evil and hate to shroud my soul in darkness. I am in awe of the courage, commitment and love of AM and PM. They embody the words of the ancient poet who once said, “Weeping may linger into the night, but joy comes with dawn.”

            AM and PM have administered a healthy dose of hope and joy to many of us on old Cape Cod in both the “A.M.” and in the “P.M.” I hope that the thought of them will give you a little of both as well. God knows we all need it!

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

 

 

 

 

When the storm raged…

…towers crumbled and fell

…smoke blinded, fires burned

…fears rose, despair lingered.

Yet in the eye of the storm…

…calm prevailed

…hope hovered

…God lived.

When the storm raged

…tears mingled together

…a mother wept for her child

…a father held vigil for his son.

Yet in the eye of the storm…

…there was the hint of dawn

…the fog of despair lifted

…God commanded, “Let there be light!”

When the storm raged

…evil encroached upon the good

…death threatened life

…doubts gnawed at faith.

Yet in the eye of the storm

…God subdued the howling winds

…God calmed the seas

…God spoke, “Shalom. Peace!”

When the storm raged…

…God touched our spirits and whispered,

…“Remember!

…You are not alone,

…not now,

…not ever.

End of story.

So be it.

Amen.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

Spending time with people who are dying is never easy, if for no other reason than it confronts us with our own mortality. And yet, it is not an uncommon human experience that, when we are standing near the portal of death, lessons of Divine proportion are learned. Even more incredible, these insights into the Spiritual Power of the universe are more often beautiful, rather than life shattering.

I first noticed Diane and her partner Kara when I saw them sitting in church in some regular attendee’s sacred pew. (Wrong thing to do!) This identified them immediately as visitors. Wrong pew, must be new! I made a mental note to seek them out at our usual Sunday morning “meet and greet.”

They were not shy about why they had come to my church for a spiritual test drive. Kara noted that they searched on-line for a church on the Cape that was open and affirming, not just to gay folk, but also to everybody. We are! This reason for their visit made my heart sing! But when Diane quietly, almost hesitantly, told me another reason why she came, my heart wept. She was likely dying of pancreatic cancer so she needed to check out the “God-thing.”

Over the next several months, my heart was torn between singing and crying; crying as Diane’s declining health became apparent and singing because she lovingly invited me into her life. We truly connected with one another heart-to-heart.

One day Diane called and invited me to visit them at their home, but when I arrived, Diane kicked Kara out. She wanted to talk to me alone, one-on-one. We sat in the living room with a coffee table between us upon which rested a well-worn Bible. Our conversation was so personal that I would never dare share it with anyone, especially since Kara is still very much in this world and still very much a friend. The only part of the conversation I will share is one of her questions, because that question is not hers alone: “PJ, have I come to this God thing too late? Should I fear God?”

I answered, “It’s never too late, especially since God transcends time. There is also never a reason to fear God. God is sheer love, love that will never let you go or force you to go it alone. Diane, you are in. You are in God’s heart forever.”

Tears welled up in Diane’s eyes as she breathed a sigh of relief.

A few months later, Diane’s aggressive cancer required greater care than Kara could give her at home. Diane was given the gift of space at an incredible hospice house on the Cape. I visited her often. As she neared death’s door, we continued to laugh and cry together.

One morning, I arrived to find Diane very agitated and anxious. Her pain had reached a level that significant amounts of morphine were needed to control it. Kara was distraught as Diane’s agitation ebbed and flowed between injections. Instinctively, I knew that her anxiety was not due to pain alone. I moved to the side of her bed, held her hand and whispered into her ear, “Diane, breathe out anxiety; breathe in God’s peace. Breathe out anxiety. Breathe in peace. Breathe out. Breathe in.” In harmony with me, Diane began to breathe out her anxiety and breathe in God’s peace. Her anxiety lessened. A slight smile revealed that God’s peace was making its presence known. Not too long after that, Diane breathed her last breath. Without a doubt, Kara and I believe that eternal peace had been gifted to her.

Diane’s life, particularly her last days, has grown increasingly significant in my life. Just a few short days ago, I visited that same hospice home again. This time I went at the urging of a friend to visit a family that was keeping vigil for their 22-year-old daughter. (That beautiful young woman died a couple hours after I wrote the first draft of this post.) There is no tragedy that I have witnessed in nearly 30 years of pastoral care that equals the pain and grief of a parent losing their child.

Upon my arrival, the Mom invited me into her daughter’s room to say a prayer. After that, she asked to speak with me privately. We went to the chapel, but before we could even sit down, the Mom painfully, even a bit angrily asked, “Why is God doing this? Why does a good God let this happen?”

This was not the first time I have been asked that question. It is a troubling question with no really satisfying answer. I used to respond by saying, “I don’t know, but an old professor of mine once said that he didn’t know either, but the God that he thought he was in touch with was in heaven weeping.” Not a bad response, but not good enough. How many tears must a supposedly all-powerful God shed before God intervenes to bring a halt to undeserved human suffering? Wasn’t the genocide of six million Jews enough to get God off his duff? The old professor’s answer would never satisfy that grieving Mom, so I told her about what I learned from Diane’s last days at the same hospice home.

I will never be able to answer the question of “Good God, why?” Diane, however, left a clue for us. An all-powerful God that allows undeserved tragedies to thrive cannot be a good God, which leaves us with a choice: We can either declare God to be evil OR we can redefine God’s power. I choose the latter. Perhaps God’s power is not coercive. Maybe God’s power is a persuasive or a wooing love. Maybe God can’t fix what is tragic and broken in life, but instead woos us to draw near so that our hearts and souls might be healed. God’s power is not to fix what is around us, but to create peace inside of us. God’s power nudges us to breathe out anxiety and breathe in God’s peace.

I must reiterate that I truly do not know the answer to the “Good God, why?” question. That question is bigger than me and God is bigger than any question. But, on the basis of my own personal experience, I embrace that God’s loving power may not change my world, but it will change my heart. This answer satisfies me for now because of what I witnessed at the bedside of my friend Diane. It satisfies me because, after my talk with that grief-stricken Mom, I saw her at her daughter’s bedside, stroking her beautiful daughter’s arm and whispering, “Breathe out anxiety. Breathe in God’s peace.”

Breathe out anxiety. Breathe in God’s peace.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Peace.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts