The events in Ferguson, Missouri, quickly transported me back to my teenage years and the turbulent and tense days in our nation as the African-American people rose up against the injustice of segregation. What has come to be called the Civil Rights Movement has been idealized as the years have passed. However, as a young kid watching the images of riots and cities aflame flash across our black-and-white TV, I did not feel idealistic, but rather I felt frightened, unnerved and unsettled. And…I was viewing those events from a distance!

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. witnessed the pain of his people living under the cruel hand of segregation up close and personal. He saw his people tear-gassed, attacked by dogs, beaten with clubs, shot, jailed and even hung from tree limbs. He witnessed a people who had the boot of oppression clamped on their necks. He was severely critical of those who oppressed his people. He refused to accept any solution other than equality. The dark days grew even darker as Dr. King’s people were battered and bruised by those who were unwilling to give up their power. Those entrenched powers, both political and religious, tried to persuade Dr. King to slow down, that change would come, but it would take some time. Dr. King, however, believed that justice delayed was justice denied. He knew that “justice did not roll in on the wheels of inevitability,” therefore he refused to be silenced or to moderate the pace of change. Instead, he called upon his people to ramp up their sacrifice and endure additional suffering in order to gain their freedom.

Even as he spoke harshly to those who perpetrated the evil of segregation, however, his powerful voice unfailingly proclaimed hope. His followers took to heart words spoken by the ancient prophet Isaiah and reiterated by Dr. King: “Every valley shall be exalted and every mountain and hill made low, the crooked will be made straight and the rough places a plain.” Dr. King assured those who looked to him for encouragement and hope that one day their “eyes would see the glory of the coming of the Lord!” This hope was based on his firm belief that God could not be marginalized, that the “Lord would see them through.” Dr. King warned them that the only truly mortal sin was to “live without hope.”

Several years ago, I attended a Martin Luther King, Jr., dinner to celebrate the civil rights victories achieved forty years earlier as well as to embrace the continuing hope that equality and freedom would one day be achieved for all of God’s people. After that inspiring event concluded, I was walking out the door with a young, African-American activist. I said, “That was awesome. Dr. King was a prophet of God, the greatest man of his generation.”

The young man looked at me and said, “King is dead. Who is going to lead us now?”

I still think long and hard about that question. I keep praying for a leader of the stature of Dr. King who will lead our world to the Promised Land, but I continue to be profoundly disappointed. As I look around, I see too much justice delayed and denied. I mute the TV and lower my eyes as videos roll that capture beheadings, shootings in schools and synagogues, tanks and troops rolling into one country after another, killing on our own streets and cities ablaze with violence. I get annoyed when it is said that it takes time to fix things, because nothing EVER seems to get fixed. I go faithfully to the polls and vote only to be rewarded with the same old same old. It’s discouraging, even depressing.

What is going on in our world is nothing new. Muslims and Jews have been killing each other for centuries and now Muslims killing Muslims has been added to the mix. Russia took only a brief break from violently forcing its will upon its neighbors. Kids have been dying in the streets for years, whether by shootings or shooting up. The poor get poorer. Homeless shelters sell out early. An insidious greed reigns supreme. Entrenched and powerful interests seek to abort change by contaminating the political process with money, after all a dysfunctional government is just what the doctor ordered to maintain the status quo. And now, regardless of how you feel personally about the events in Ferguson, our cities are in flames again. What will be next? Unleashed dogs? Mob rule? Oppression? Suppression? Depression? Recession? Maybe Paul Simon was right that “after changes upon changes, we are more or less the same.” His lyrics, however, prompt me to ask more questions: Is the apocalypse upon us? If it isn’t, who will lead us now? Is there any hope for justice and peace? If there is hope, then who will lead us now? But as the martyr Dietrich Bonheoffer wrote before his execution, “They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.”

But then, an answer! It came upon me like a thief in the night: Waiting for someone to lead us now is dodging responsibility. WE MUST LEAD US NOW! As Dr. King suggested, the people of “good will” must raise their voices and be heard over the incessant din of negativity and hopelessness, over the constant clamor of hate and despair. We must speak! We must be heard. We must take a stand and not allow the “same old same old” to reign supreme. Justice must NEVER be delayed by indifference and peace must not be reduced to only a dream. All of God’s children, whether black or white, Asian or Latino, gay or straight, rich or poor, oppressed or free must never give up hope, for it is indeed a mortal sin to live without it.

WHY we take a stand is rooted in the Divine values of justice and peace.

WHERE we take a stand against violence and injustice is up to us.

HOW we take a stand is limited only by our imaginations.

WHEN we take a stand is a matter of great urgency; otherwise, more bodies will end up lying lifeless on our streets.

AND THAT is simply intolerable.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

Last week, I wrote about an “odd duck” named Dr. Ray. The point of the post was that even an odd duck needs a flock to fly in and, in some way, we are all odd ducks, since each one of us is divinely and uniquely created. I also asked if some of you would like to sign up to join the “ODD DUCK FLOTILLA.” I am pleased to report that the flock has multiplied and been lifted up as if soaring on a pair of duck’s wings. Welcome aboard!

Life lessons, courtesy of Dr. Ray, continued after his place in our flock was assured. As time waddled along, Dr. Ray began to call me weekly to check in. His outreach was heart-touching, because he called to find out if I was OK or if I needed anything. It was never about HIM. It was always about ME. Dr. Ray’s weekly calls were a bird of a different feather, because most of the calls I receive on a daily basis are the exact inverse in their intent.

Dr. Ray’s calls were at the heart of his mission in life. He may have been a duck out of water in relating to the masses of humanity, but he easily paddled around in his small pond taking care of his pastor and a flock-mate or two! To further this mission, since Dr. Ray had no close relatives, he invited my family to his house every year for Christmas cookies and apple cider. He also gave each of us a thoughtful stocking stuffer. Since Dr. Ray was so kind to us, we began to invite him as well as Custodian Jim, who also had no family, to Thanksgiving dinner. For the next couple of years, they joined our family, Custodian Jim wearing a worn and overly large suit coat and Dr. Ray in his white suit, red shirt and black cowboy boots. Even though none of us cared for it, Dr. Ray always brought a freshly baked Mince pie to share.

As my ducklings entered the wonders of adolescence, I thought perhaps we should reserve Thanksgiving dinner for family ONLY. A few weeks before Turkey Day, I suggested to my flock that we not invite Dr. Ray and Custodian Jim for Thanksgiving dinner. There was a stunned silence. Then, my daughter stared me down and said with a don’t-mess-with-me intensity, “But Dad, it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without Mr. Jim and Dr. Ray.” My son nodded his head in total agreement. Instantly, Dr. Ray ceased to be annoying, odd or funny to me…FOREVER. I grasped what my daughter already knew, that although Dr. Ray led with a humble, quiet, and sometimes awkward caring, Dr. Ray loved us with an “uncommon” love. Dr. Ray’s gift of love could easily have been left unopened, for he gave it with no fanfare and no expectation of anything in return.

I flushed my clearly misguided disinvite down the drain and, the next day, invitations went forth so as to give Dr. Ray plenty of time to bake his Mince pie and Custodian Jim to spruce up his oversized suit coat.

Most of the people in my spiritual community did not see the beauty of Dr. Ray’s gift. They thought he acted like a Catholic and that he was a bit odd or off his rocker, especially on Sunday mornings when he doubled over in a formal bow to me. But I accepted his gift and, from the day my kids insisted that Dr. Ray have a seat at our Thanksgiving table, whenever he bowed to me, I bowed back. It was the best (ONLY?) way to acknowledge his love and his gift.

When we feel invisible, unnoticed, unappreciated, funny, different or odd and, even if we feel the inverse, let’s bow to the truth that our Eternal One implanted in us an incredible beauty and goodness. This divine stocking stuffer is not ours to lose; it is only ours to acknowledge and embrace.

A couple of thousand years ago, a funky, somewhat weird and odd-duck-of-a-guy named Jesus extended an open invitation to all of humanity: We are all invited, especially outcasts, outsiders and the bakers of Mince pie, to pull up a chair to God’s table. Seats are forever available. RSVP

Happy Thanksgiving!

John Holt, Cotuit, MA

Dr. Ray was an odd duck. He was a retired professor, a life-long bachelor and a loner. Dr. Ray was, more often than not, the “odd-man-out” in the spiritual community of which I was a part. As a leader of such communities, it is not unusual to have folks like Dr. Ray in the mix. After all, most every odd duck still needs a flock to call home. Sadly, most people found Dr. Ray so very odd and strange that they simply stayed away from him, not because they were mean, but because they just didn’t know what to do with him or what to say to him. Even for me, to try to talk with him was often an exercise in futility.

Not too long after my arrival in Dr. Ray’s hometown, a woman named Barbara approached me in the church social hall. She pulled me aside and, in a confidential whisper that dripped with conspiracy, said with deep conviction, ”PJ, you have to do something about Dr. Ray.”

Having been sucked into the quicksand of a set-up more than once, I asked her innocently, “What’s wrong with Dr. Ray? Is he sick or something?”

“Well,” she said, “He’s Catholic! EVERYBODY thinks it’s terrible!”

What Barbara said was a half-truth. Dr. Ray was not a Catholic. He was, however, a life-long Methodist who acted very much like a Catholic. On Sunday mornings, Dr. Ray would sit in the front row of the church, in front of the pulpit, dressed in an all-white suit, Episcopal red shirt, slim black tie and cowboy boots. Before and after every prayer, he would dramatically cross himself and, anytime I or any other clergy-type drew near, he would almost double over in a slow bow. I kind of liked it. It felt good being king for a day! Although it certainly was rather bizarre behavior, Dr. Ray really was not hurting anybody, so I thought for a moment and then said to Barbara, “You’re right. Dr. Ray is way too Catholic to fit in here. The last thing we need is a replica of Pope John Paul II floating around in our sanctuary.”

“So what are YOU going to do about it?” Barbara demanded.

I replied, “I am going to tell Dr. Ray that YOU and EVERYBODY else here don’t want him around. I’m gonna kick him out of the church. I’ll call him tomorrow and see if he can get together with us. YOU and EVERYBODY else who wants to ex-communicate him, however, must come to the meeting to share your concerns with him face-to-face, before I ask him to leave. It’s only fair. He has been here a long time.”

Horrified, Barbara said, “That’s mean! YOU can’t kick him out!”

I said non-anxiously, “Oh yes I can. As pastor, our Methodist rules are quite clear that I can kick out anybody I want.”

Of course, this is not quite true. It was just a little bit of a fib, but it served its purpose.

“Well, you can’t do that,” she said firmly.

“Well, I suspect that Dr. Ray is not going to change much, so I guess he stays,” said I.

Frustrated with her uncooperative Pastor, Barbara left.

Dr. Ray stayed, bowing and crossing himself, dressed in his red shirt and cowboy boots.

And…I enjoyed a few more years of being treated with a reverence not befitting my true self.

I sometimes wonder where some religious folk get their ideas. They claim to be guided by the Bible or Koran or some other Holy Book, and yet they clearly pick and choose what they like or dislike. They also decide who is in or out, who is “normal” or “odd.” All the Holy Books that I have read, however, advocate for and embrace those who are on the outside looking in or who are odd ducks looking for a flock. My guess is that in the eyes of the Divine One, that’s not only an eternal truth, but also a thing of beauty. What could be more beautiful than a wounded pigeon or a few bedraggled sea gulls flying in formation with a flotilla of ducks or a gaggle of geese?

The Dr. Ray’s of this world will always be invited to fly with me, if for no other reason than that there are more than just a few very odd quirks about yours truly. I think inviting all the “odd-ones-out” to join in flight might also result in leaving “no-one out.” We might even be winging our way closer to the One who created all us odd ducks in the first place.

John E Holt, Cotuit, Massachuesetts

Don is a down-to-earth guy who is perhaps a bit more wide than he is tall. He has a humble spirit and is always willing to lend a hand to anybody who needs a lift…literally. Don, with his grandson in tow, often picks us up in the early hours of the morning in his huge pick-up truck that has every gadget ever invented installed on the dash and hauls us off to Boston Logan as we take off on our latest trek to some part of the world. Don is also a proud veteran. He served in the Army and experienced the worst of war in Vietnam. He is the reason for this story.

My first year on Cape Cod, I decided to organize a community-wide event on Veteran’s Day. If we were going to have a national holiday to honor veterans, then it should be more than a day off work or a chance for a weekend get away. There were a couple of local parades and other celebrations, but it often seemed as if the people on the Cape who really cared about honoring our veterans were the veterans themselves. This was not right, especially since in 2008 our country was fully engaged in Afghanistan and Iraq, with casualty lists appearing daily in the newspapers.

I challenged my flock to give up an hour of their holiday to gather and honor our vets. One friend volunteered to round up a color guard and Tim, another friend, wrote a beautiful song for the event entitled, “Send Me a Soldier Tonight.” The program included stories (that I found on-line) of veterans who fought in wars all the way back to the Revolutionary War. I thought it was better to hear veterans’ stories in their own words, rather than for me to share my thoughts on war and peace, especially since I flunked out of college ROTC! We also planned to sing the Navy Hymn, “Eternal Father Strong to Save,” as well as “America the Beautiful” and our National Hymn, “God of Our Fathers.” I had no idea how many would choose to attend so I was deeply appreciative when about 30 folks showed up for our first-ever Veteran’s Day event. Even better, attendance has grown to nearly 100 over the years.

The first one went quite well. The color guard presented the colors, the songs were sung and the stories heard. At the conclusion, the colors were retired. I gave a blessing and we concluded by singing “America the Beautiful.” As I walked down the center aisle toward the back of the church, I noticed Don. Wearing a colorful Vietnam War Veteran’s leather vest that also displayed the name of his army unit and the dates of his service, he stood at rigid attention in the middle of the aisle. His hand was raised in salute as tears streaked his face. I stopped and gave him a hug. He whispered in a voice choked with emotion, “This is the first time anyone ever thanked me for serving my country.”

From that moment on, I knew that we had to organize a Veteran’s Day event as well as highlight our Memorial Day service every year. After all, Memorial Day is not really a celebration of the first day of the summer season on Cape Cod. Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day are times to express our gratitude to those men and women, like Don, who gave or are giving their lives or a part of their lives so that we may walk this God’s earth free and equal.

Now it may seem odd to you after reading this that I am as close to being a pacifist as you can get. I do understand that occasionally pure evil does arise in the world that might make a war just. Perhaps the horrific war being waged by ISIS in the Middle East is one of them. It makes me nauseous when I think about it. Even as awful as it is, however, I still TRY to believe that there must be a better way, a more peaceful way, to solve our differences other than resorting to violence. I also believe that, if there is a good God in the heaven, that God looks down upon any act of violence and weeps. If God is about love, then God must also be about peace.

When it comes to our veterans, however, it does not matter if I am an “almost-pacifist.” I can and should still take the time to thank Don and any other veterans who I encounter on my earthly journey. After all, I have only theorized about war and peace, while they actually put their lives on the line on our behalf.

On Tuesday, November 11^th, perhaps you will encounter a proud veteran who has never been thanked. I think you now know exactly what to do: A simple expression of gratitude will make a world of difference to a veteran who has never been thanked.

Don, thanks again.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA

“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!