Happy Mother’s Day

How should I describe the mother of my children,
whom I celebrate today?
She’s my spouse? Too legalistic. My better half?
How about my better eighty percent. My best friend?
Sounds like high school besties. Soul mate?
Hmm. Getting closer but not quite adequate enough.
More so would be: the face of true Love.
She’s the one who saves me from teetering over the edge.
She turns my head back to reason lest I fall on my own sword.
She is the superglue that binds together the
fractures in my universe.
She is the ladder bridge across life’s every
crevasse on my path to summiting my destiny.

Wait a minute! Isn’t all that what God is supposed to do?
True. But God wears people in this world,
and He’s wearing the mother of my children quite well.
The face of true Love looks like my
Judith Ann.

Jelly Beans

It must be Easter time because
they have made their appearance.
Bagsful in the grocery store candy isle
and now into a fancy dish on our table.
I love ‘em. That attractive, tempting palette of color.
Some give away their flavors without a doubt.
Orange is orangy. Red is cherry. Green, sour apple.
Kids don’t like the Black Licorice. Just older folks.
What about the one that’s sadly pale?
A mystery flavor. Coconut or Cream Soda?

I asked Alexa “What are jelly beans made of?”
She immediately came back with
“The basic ingredients of jelly beans include
sugar, tapioca or corn syrup, and pectin or starch,
and a shellac of Confectioner’s glaze.”
Mmmm. Love the shellac.
Whatever the content, they are perennially
a chewy deliciousness that disappears
quite quickly from my Easter basket.

But not before the chocolate.

11/22/63 Revisited

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Recently, thousands of documents relating to the JFK assassination have begun to be made public. Whether the truth about what really happened that day may be found or not, the Kennedy years are a moment in time that older folks like me will not forget. That considered, I thought now would be a good time to revisit my thoughts from a post on Nov. 22, 2015.

Seems as though most of my memories of John F. Kennedy are archived in black and white:

The TV campaign debates with a sweaty Dick Nixon, who looked like a stiff cardboard prop in the shadow of the bigger than LIFE magazine war hero bred for achievement by Massachusetts’ premier political family.

The bright but bitterly cold inaugural on the steps of the Capitol, frozen under a Nor’easter snowstorm’s fresh blanket of dazzling white, a distinctive backdrop for a fledgling president’s epic “And so, my fellow Americans, ask not” speech, challenging us in a valiant call to arms against tyranny, poverty, disease and even war itself.

The televised series of White House tours graciously hosted by a sophisticated, shyly soft-spoken Jackie who assured us that it was just as much “our house.” The candid photos of handsome toddler John John playing hide-and-seek under the desk of the most powerful man on earth.

The who’s-going-to-flinch-first live TV broadcast to an on-the-edge-of-our-seats audience by a stern and deadly serious JFK demanding that a raging Russian remove his nuclear missiles from Cuba – or else. We held our national breath, praying, all eyes fixed on the doomsday clock.

And then came that day in Dallas.

It started out with smiles and waves – and color. Like heaven’s giant spotlight, suspended in a flawless azure big-as-Texas sky, a beaming golden noontime sun illuminates a cheering crowd at Love Field, all reaching out for a once in a lifetime touch from the chief executive’s hand. The First Lady, wearing that now iconic strawberry pink and navy trim Chanel wool suit and matching hat, cradles so tenderly an ill-fated bouquet of red roses, too soon abandoned on a blood-spattered seat of the presidential Lincoln Continental where the life of Camelot’s king was lost and everything suddenly faded back to black and white again.

For a very long time.

An Ugly Remembrance: Auschwitz

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Today marks the 80th anniversary of the liberation by Soviet soldiers of Auschwitz, the German extermination camp in Nazi-occupied Poland. More than 1.1 million European Jews died there in gas chambers or crematoria behind the walls and barbed wire hiding horror and suffering beyond description.

Looking back over six or seven thousand years of our blood-spattered world history, the “Final Solution,” as the Nazis euphemistically referred to the extermination of Jews, gypsies, the disabled, criminals, homosexuals and others deemed unworthy persons, must rank among the top five on the list of brutalities committed against innocent human beings.

The imprisonment process took away everything from a person, no matter what age. They lost gold teeth, shoes, clothing, their dignity, even their names — substituted by tattooed numbers. I’m guessing many lost all hope and even a glimmer of what was left of their faith. Then, they lost their lives.

Recently I saw a post of the railroad tracks going into the gate at Auschwitz with this text over the photo: “If there is a God, he will have to beg for my forgiveness.” It had been carved on a wall inside a building there in the camp.

Today I plan to pause, alone, and listen to a powerfully moving work by composer Henryk Górecki titled “Symphony of Three Sorrowful Songs.” The setting of the first is a Fifteenth-Century lament from the Monastery of the Holy Cross in Romania, and the third replicates a mournful folk song in the dialect of a region in southwest Poland. The source of the second movement’s text, sung so woefully by soprano Joanna Koslowska, is a prayer written on the wall of a Gestapo cell in Zakopane, Poland, by an 18-year-old girl imprisoned there. The town’s name means “buried.”

In an interview Górecki spoke about the horrific events of the war and commented that “Those things are too immense; you cannot write music about them.” I agree with his sentiment, but must argue that his composition has indeed sadly accomplished what he denies is possible.

Thanks to his sorrowful music, I will never forget, even if, in a vain effort to erase the images of unspeakable brutality, I want to.

“O Come, O Come Emmanuel

. . . and ransom captive Israel.” I’ve wondered recently why we would sing this song in our churches during the four-week long Advent season. For Christians, the Messiah has come, historically some 2,000 years ago, and on a personal level, when one embraces Jesus as their own Lord and Savior. There remains then no longing or anticipation of a deliverer. Emmanuel, literally Hebrew for “God with us” is with us.

The hymn has its origins over 1,200 years ago in monastic life in the 8th or 9th century, sung as a liturgical antiphon. The words and music developed separately. The Latin text was first recorded in Germany in 1710, whereas the tune most familiar in the English-speaking world has its origins in 15th-Century France. A certain John Mason Neale published the five-verse Latin version in his 1851 collection Hymni Ecclesiae (Church Hymns). In the same year, Neale published the first documented English translation, beginning with “Draw nigh, draw nigh, Emmanuel.”

Perhaps we should sing more so on Israel’s behalf, to “ransom captive Israel / That mourns in lonely exile here / Until the Son of God appear,” in spite of the fact that to His own He has appeared, but to rejection and blinded eyes (read Roman 11:7-10). We certainly do not refer to the civil state of Israel, formed in 1948, but regarding the ethnic Jewish people, already rescued once before from captivity in Egypt long before Christ.

Maybe the tune would make far more sense if we included the fifth verse, rarely if ever heard, the lyrics being:

O Come, Thou King of nations bring
An end to all our suffering
Bid every pain and sorrow cease
And reign now as our Prince of Peace
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come again with us to dwell.

This then becomes the hope of every Christian alive today who longs for the Second Coming of the King of kings and Lord of lords. He will then also on that day reveal Himself to His people Israel, as declared by the prophet Zachariah (see Zach. 12-14), a thought reiterated by Paul in Romans 11:26: “And . . .  all Israel will be saved, as it is written, ‘The Deliverer will come from Zion, he will banish ungodliness from Jacob.’” (Paul quoting Isaiah 59:20)

Whew! It seems that I have answered my own question. I love when that happens!

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU AND YOURS, no matter what Christmas carol you might sing!

All About Eve

I don’t mean the 1950 film starring Bette Davis at perhaps her most barbed wire personality worst. I am referring to the Bible’s first woman and genuine femme fatale.

What if Eve had stood alone in front of that special tree, without The Tempter? Would she have succumbed to the magnet of mystery, biting off more than she could chew, the juice of disobedience running down her chin, the inside of her head exploding with knowledge and her soul shrinking into a heart of darkness? I say No. She needed prodding, to hear the hissing lure of doubt in her ears.

What if I had stood alone, facing that tree?

Immigration, 1914

Our family was fortunate to have recorded several sessions of oral history with my maternal grandmother, Maria Ocneriu Popa, before she passed in 1979 at age 88. Her recollections were vivid and remarkably detailed, all the way back to her early childhood. I would like to share her memories of coming to America as a 22-year-old from Cristian, a quiet village in Romania.

In 1914, almost 1.2 million foreign-born people entered the United States. Two of them were Maria and her father, Vasile.  They left home in the dark on a Sunday in mid-March, taking a train to Hamburg, Germany. Our research with immigration records indicated they boarded the Hamburg-American Line’s S.S. President Lincoln. “We traveled third-class. I was seasick most of the trip,” she said. They reached New York harbor on April 3, after 15 days at sea. “My father, who was not in good health, was singled out by the doctors who noted his condition with a chalk mark on the back of his coat. This meant he might be returned to Romania.”

Maria and Vasile were detained at Ellis Island for “two or three weeks until the authorities received word from our relatives in Omaha that they would be responsible for us.” Finally reaching their destination, they stayed with Maria’s sister in an apartment in South Omaha. “I wasn’t interested in much of anything during those first few days, she lamented. “If I had the money, I would have returned to Romania. And if the health authorities had deported my father, I surely would have gone back home with him.”

What was Omaha, Nebraska, like back then? Poet Carl Sandburg was succinct in his 1915 depiction:

Omaha, the roughneck,
feeds armies, eats and
swears from a dirty face.
Omaha works to get the world
a breakfast.

Maria, age 22.

“I was able to find a job right away, working for Armour’s,” she remembers, “cutting big pieces of meat into little pieces for seven cents an hour.” During the early 1900s, Omaha was on the way to becoming the livestock and grain marketing center of the Midwest. Armour, along with other slaughterhouses like Swift and Cudahy, capitalized on an unskilled and inexperienced immigrant labor force willing to work for pennies a day.

Eventually, “by making friends and going to the Romanian dances on Sunday nights, I was able to get over my homesickness,” Maria said. Among the several Romanian suitors calling on her was Nicolae Popa, who arrived in New York in 1906. She did not recall the names of all the young men who proposed marriage, but Nicolae became Maria’s first and only choice. “When I went shopping for my wedding dress, my father and sister went with me,” Maria recalled. “The price was $10.00 for the dress. The veil was extra.”

When Maria was on the train to Hamburg, a woman from the nearby village of Apoldu de Jos boarded and sat next to her. “She asked where were we going and why was I crying. When I told her ‘to America,’ she said ‘Maybe you will meet a young man from my village there.’” She did.

Maria traveled almost five thousand miles to meet and marry a man who had concurrently grown up in a village within walking distance of her own. Often it seems, we have a plan for our lives, only to discover that God’s plan is different than ours. His thoughts for us are often much bigger than we realize, and His ways take us on paths we could never have imagined. And I rejoice that it is so.

You can add this to your My How Things Have Changed folder.

It’s that time of year again

Crickets begin their one-note sonata
now in the lazy afternoon shade,
chirping through the night.
Monarchs are the butterfly kings,
floating above what’s left
blooming in the garden.
The neighbor’s ash tree hints
at what an early frost will yield
with a bough or two of yellow.
Porchlights go on a bit earlier
every evening.
If you’ve been around
The Midwest long enough
you know what’s coming.
It’s in the air; you can feel it.
Change.
Philosopher Heraclitus
said it is the only constant in life.
One not need be a sage
to realize the irony in that truth.

The calendar page
is about to turn to October. Again.   

Gone forever: The world of Norman Rockwell.

I don’t know when it left. Maybe when he died, in 1978. I suspect maybe earlier, in the Sixties. Some readers may not even be familiar with the name, especially if you are younger than 50.

Norman Rockwell was a celebrated American painter and illustrator for over five decades. His works had a broad popular appeal for their reflection of the American culture of his time. He is most famous for his cover illustrations of everyday life created for The Saturday Evening Post magazine. He is also noted for his more than 60-year relationship with the Boy Scouts of America (when they were just boys), during which he produced covers for the organization’s publication Boys’ Life, for calendars and promotional posters.

Maybe his most recognizable piece even today is titled “Freedom From Want.” The composition depicts a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. Around the table, a multigenerational family eagerly gathers as the grandmother sets down what must be a 25-pound golden brown turkey while grampa stands behind, ready to carve it. It’s among my favorites, along with “Saying Grace,” which shows an older woman and a young boy pausing, heads bowed to pray before their meal, drawing curious glances from a wide demographic of fellow diners.

The art world of his day found Rockwell sentimental and out of touch. Many of his works continue to be denigrated by modern critics, especially the Post covers, which they say tend toward overly idealistic or romanticized past portrayals of American life. I disagree. I’m a Baby Boomer. I grew up in the Fifties, and lived what he painted.

Back in the day (that sounds so senior citizen-ish, because it is), automobiles were big and sleek, with large tailfins and a flowing design that mimicked the look of Space Race rockets. They had actual chrome bumpers but no seatbelts. They were gas guzzlers, but nobody cared because you could drive up to your neighborhood Texaco pumps and fill up the tank for five bucks, get your oil and tire pressure checked, and even have your windows washed by a friendly station attendant. Seriously.

 Few women actually went to work. They were housewives. Mom wore an apron while cooking and baking. Dad came home and read the newspaper. They both went to school PTA meetings. All together we watched a black and white TV on a screen inside of a piece of furniture called a console. We hurried through dinner and dishes to tune in to I Love Lucy, Gunsmoke and Father Knows Best (can you imagine such a sit-com in today’s anti-patriarchal culture?) I ran around the neighborhood dressed up like a cowboy — hat, boots and all, with cap guns blazing. We used pencils, paper and a 64-pack of crayons in grade school and learned about the practical value of civics, grammar and history. Movie theatres handed out special glasses so we could cringe viewing Creature from the Black Lagoon in 3-D. Ladies wore hats and gloves to church. Folks dressed up to go out to eat and to board an airplane, and if the flight was more than an hour long, were served a hot meal. You could smoke everywhere.

This storybook lifestyle had its share of dark pages, however. We worried about the Atomic Bomb and polio outbreaks and the Cold War. The civil rights injustices in the South were about to go national, and while freedom eventually won, the process was ugly.

Norman Rockwell was an original. No one has ever outdone him in a contemporary expression of everyday life elevated to an iconic level. I admire his efforts to chronicle a now bygone era. Gone forever.

What is the self-reflective and world view of the American identity today? Who is painting that, whatever it is? You’d have to be from outer space not to admit that our country has gradually abandoned traditional moral and ethical values, once celebrated as foundational to our stability as a society. When a culture decides that moral absolutes are too restrictive to personal freedom, then what replaces the behavioral compass in order to prevent getting lost in a dark maze of narcissistic relativism? Is there a way out? Does anyone actually want out?

So then if eventually everything inevitably changes, for better or worse, are there no absolutes, no constants? Perhaps not in the natural world, but I suggest you look into the supernatural: “I am the LORD, I change not,” is a verse from the most reliable source of truth, the Bible, in Malachi 3:6. Lamentations 3:22 declares that “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end.” That’s Old Testament. The New Testament in Hebrews 13:8 says Jesus is the same “yesterday, today, and forever.” 

What a comfort to know that, while everything these days seems to toss us about in a raging sea of uncertainty and fear, we can drop an anchor of hope in an immutable God whose faithfulness is forever. (Heb. 6:16-20)

You can file this post in your
My How Things Have Changed folder.

More to come.

Are you a man, or a mouse?

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I researched the origin of the man/mouse question and discovered that in some form or another it may go as far back as the mid-1500s. Over time, the expression became a popular means to goad someone into being brave when they are frightened of doing something. Actually, from today’s perspective on gender identity, I see that there could be more to the question than that. In accordance with today’s society of absurd extremes, I suppose I could ask instead if you perceive yourself as a cat, or a wolf or Tinkerbell. I’ve seen the videos on YouTube and Instagram.

Maybe you have chosen to identify as an asexual box of breakfast cereal, like Cap’n Crunch. How are we to address you then? “Hey, how’s it goin’ Captain?” Which almost by implication puts a masculine quality to it. “Are you feeling like an easy snack that goes great with couch time, anytime?” Or I might actually ignore your sensitivities and just call you a fruitcake.

Of course for the sake of satire I’m being a bit facetious. But with the current display of sadly and tragically comedic gender dysphoria, it’s really not that far off. The condition often presents itself by youngsters in schools and even adults in plain view of the public, like some kind of obvious mental disorder. But, because of polite political correctness, the controversy often remains the proverbial elephant in the room.

Dysphoria is defined as a state of dissatisfaction, anxiety, or restlessness. How about adding the word confusion? It makes me think about the song, “Ball of Confusion” released in 1970 by the Motown sensation The Temptations. The lyrics were touted as a bold political statement on the chaos and disorder of their times. Isn’t that interesting? The subtitle was “That’s What the World is Today.” And it still is, over 50 years later.

Perhaps some of these folks are expressing an extreme form of Cosplay just to get attention. Young children are the most prone to fall victim to seeds planted in vulnerable minds by adults with ulterior motives in the identity-confusion culture war. Once you enter the arena of surgical procedures – actually mutilation – and gender transitioning drugs, it becomes serious business, and a very lucrative one to the fringe medical community promoting such choices. That’s when the contra naturam line is crossed from curiosity into irreversible consequences.

Earlier this year, at the confirmation hearing for Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson, Sen. Marsha Blackburn asked the Supreme Court nominee to define the word “woman.” “I can’t.” Jackson replied. “I’m not a biologist.” Well, neither am I, but any child who’s heard about the birds and the bees should be able to give an appropriate answer.

When a biological male makes an artificial transmutation into the opposite gender, it should be more alarming to women than to men, especially when they intrude into the military or especially the sports world. The element of competitive fairness obviously goes out the window in the celebration of equity.

I’ve heard critiques lately from certain far-left circles about “toxic masculinity.” Their term refers to a subjective interpretation of offensive, harmful beliefs, tendencies, and behaviors allegedly systemic in traditional male roles taken to a dangerous extreme. I will be the first to condemn any man who physically or verbally abuses a woman or child, or a person in authority. Add animal cruelty to the forbidden list. There is no excuse for justifying violent or inappropriate behavior. Period. “How beautiful maleness is,” writes English novelist D.H. Lawrence, “if it finds its right expression.”

But just as fervently I will promote the fact that men need to be appropriately masculine in the exercise of their roles as husbands, fathers, leaders and mentors to a generation of boys who are being feminized when their innate nature is actually to be energetic, adventurous and fearlessly curious about the world and themselves. Boys like to play in the mud and poke a stick in the bonfire. Danger is not in their vocabulary. They are born untamed and will resist every attempt to be anything to the contrary.

Unfortunately, social civility forces them for the rest of their grown-up days to be harmlessly domesticated. That seems to be the goal of the opponents of an authentic male gender which has gradually been deliberately diminished in our modern era.

Things went off the track long ago in Eden when Adam failed in his duty as a protector and in his role as a leader (1Corithians 11:3). He further avoided responsibility by assigning his culpability to Eve. How ironic, because Adam was told by God about the prohibition concerning the forbidden fruit even before Eve was created (Genesis 2:16-17). And so the passivity and blame syndrome has continued down through every generation since. Thus for all of us men, it has become a struggle to reconnect with God’s original design for manhood and our purpose to reflect the image of our Creator.

Let me wrap this up with an honest self-revelation: I’ve never envisioned myself as William Wallace of Braveheart fame. I’ve never been bass fishing in the Canadian wilderness, nor shot a firearm, even at tin cans. I don’t care to throw hatchets at a target at a men’s church gathering. I went camping once and hated it. I don’t wear camo. My idea of roughing it is a hotel that stops room service at 11pm. I do however write poetry and consider myself a spiritual warrior, as did the biblical King David, who, although flawed, is identified as a man after God’s own heart. So, besides my genitalia, what credentials should I present for evidence of my own manhood? 

It’s not confusing at all. Real masculinity does no harm to the innocent. It builds up. Real men rejoice with those who rejoice, and mourn with those who mourn. He is loyal, leads courageously, always puts the other person first, is respectful and responsible. He is a man of action, not mere words. Authentic men never grumble or complain; he feels pain so intensely that at times it can be crippling, yet he keeps going, pressing forward for the family, for the friend, for the tribe. He is ready to lay down his life, not for a cause, but for people. It’s non-negotiable. He is devoted to his Christ, the one and only model to imitate and follow.

I found this quote quite affirming to such a perspective: “We do not admire the man of timid peace. We admire the man who embodies victorious effort; the man who never wrongs his neighbor, who is prompt to help a friend, but who has those virile qualities necessary to win in the stern strife of actual life.” – Theodore Roosevelt, 1920

Obviously this essay was addressed to my male readers, but I don’t want to slight the ladies. Maybe you have a husband, son, dad, a boyfriend who could benefit from reading this. Do them a favor and pass it on.

I leave you with this admonition from Paul writing to the church in Rome: “I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God — this is your true and proper worship. Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is — his good, pleasing and perfect will. (Rom. 12:1-2)

P.S. Here are several outstanding easy-read publications I highly recommend to study these issues further:
Mansfield’s Book of Manly Men, by Stephen Mansfield
Wild At Heart, by John Eldridge
The Barbarian Way, by Erwin McManus
The Warrior Poet Way, by John Lovell, and finally (Don’t let the title scare you)
I Asked God to Kill Me, by my friend and spiritual comrade, Jim Motz