The Butterfly Bush’s and the Rose of Sharon’s
blossoms bloom for bees and butterflies to land on.
Sharon closes her rose-colored blossoms at night.
The Bush’s blossoms stay open for butterflies to alight.
Do the fish in the pond and the birds in the air
see the glorious blossoms or do they even care?
Perhaps, it is enough for the couple to stand on their
balcony and, in wonder, simply stare.

For years he thought the Mourning
Dove was a Morning Dove because

often it spoke in the morning — who,
who, who. Only recently he saw the

spelling and it hit him that was exact-
ly right. The who, who, who was so

mournful. For whom did the bird
mourn? It couldn’t be his ever-so-

close partner, the one with whom he
went everywhere. He would call —

who, who, who and she would be
right there for him. Did she know

that there had been one before who
was long gone? Who was she? Does

he still mourn her departure? When
he cries who, who, who, does his

partner say, “I’m here, darling,”
or just answers in kind — who,

who, who? Had there been one who
had gone before in her life, too?

Or were all those whos really coos?
Perhaps both as most things come in twos.

It’s twenty-two years to the day
of the worst day of his life, the

day his wife of twenty-six years
died that day in a day. He look-

ed at his wife of almost twenty
years, a widow whose husband

died twenty-two years and seven
months ago and he said to her

that the remembrance of that day
is a day of sadness, maybe even

lingering anger given how the
death happened, emptiness, sor-

row not anything like joy, happ-
iness, contentment, hope, plans,

expectations — all the things that
they feel toward each other this

day, this sad day, but this day of
love and hope — love and hope.

We’re all so similar, aren’t we,
like about 99% the same? So,
if we are, then what I’m think-
ing is what Jesus might be think-
ing, something like, “What have
they done and are still doing to
me? I don’t even recognize my-
self. It’s okay what Paul, née
Saul of Tarsus, did to me. I kind
of like the whole mythologizing
thing, the Cosmic Christ. Wow!
That’s heady. He was drawing a
lot, I think, on his Greek educat-
ion, and I really like the whole
thing about me as Lord and Savior
as a Jewish poke in the eye to
Rome and Caesar. But all this
go to heaven and hell stuff?
What’s with that? Seriously,
were do they get this stuff?”

Having just finished a J.P. Beaumont
mystery, he began reading a Wallander
mystery and immediately felt the dark
clouds hovering over the state park resort
descend upon his mood. Glad to be out of
the ninety-degree heat and eighty-five per-
cent humidity and in a cooling breeze, he
still couldn’t help it as death, depression
and Wallander’s soon to be diagnosed dia-
betes creep into his psyche. The wind pick-
ed up, the intense rain blew in and he stay-
ed under the canopy as long as he could
then rushed into his cute egg-shaped travel
trailer, entered the head and relieved him-
self for the umpteenth time in the last few
hours. He had been exhausted seemingly
forever, had had leg cramps just like Wall-
ander had and he just knew the diabetic end
was near for one more depressed Swede,
not Wallander but himself. He found him-
self yearning for a Ingmar Bergman movie
staring that really beautiful, but depress-
ed blond. He looked in the mirror and saw
that he was about as bald as Bergman. He
thought to himself, he has to stop identify-
ing so closely with the mysteries’ protagon-
ists. Just a few minutes before he was an
alcoholic, American detective of French
ancestry living with the ubiquitous rain
of Seattle like at the campground. Again
he thought, maybe he should have one
more glass of wine and a Tylenol before
he died of immediate liver failure synd-
rome brought on by one more glass of
wine and a Tylenol. While sipping his
wine he was informed by the six o’clock
“Up-To-the-Second, Breaking Disaster
News Team that Issis members beat
their wives into oblivion on a mere
whim, kill Kurdish enemies with nerve
gas and continue to chop off heads —
so much for vacationing at the resort-state
park along the shores of Lake Erie where
there are e-coli, algae alerts and the
putrid smell of rotting algae blowing in
off the lake.

He is having a medical procedure
that is cutting edge, no pun in-
tended, because there is no cut-
ting. He didn’t want to discuss
it with his primary or local
orthopedic surgeon anticipating
professional objections to that
with which they might not be fam-
iliar. It’s quick and fast and
only needles invade the flesh.
It’s his body healing his broken
down body parts. The physicians
just move things from here to
there so to speak. After the
first shot, and well on his way,
he told his primary who, of cour-
se, consulted the orthopedic sur-
geon. In the face of scant know-
ledge, they both said, “Suppose
it can’t hurt.” He would have
anyway because it is his body
healing itself. That seems to
indicate it should be his de-
cision. Besides, without insur-
ance coverage, who else is going
to pay for it?

The family blew in from the
north like a chilling wind
settling upon the hot, humid
dune grass, leather sofa and
chair. Things were going to
heat up fast. They perked up,
stood at attention and walked
out to the driveway. “Hi.” “Hi.”
“Hi.” “How was the trip?” “Good.”
“Oh, I better not sit here; this
is your chair.” “No, it’s every-
body’s chair.” “Kids, calm down
now.” “Mom, he hit me.” “No, I
didn’t,” uttered with a smirky
smile. “Would you kids like a
snack?” “Sure.” “Don’t eat too
much we are taking grandma and
grandpa out for dinner.” “Okay.”
“We better get going; they’re
starting to fall asleep.” “Okay,
kids, wake up. Here we go.”
“We’ll meet you at the restaur-
ant. Dinner’s on us remember.”
“Okay.” “Hey, that was nice.
The brew pub is getting a bit
too commercial, though. I liked
it better in the old building.”
“Will success spoil Rock Hunter
syndrome.” “Okay kids, it’s
time for bed. We have to
be up early; we have a long
drive tomorrow.” “Good-
night.” Hugs, kisses. “Let’s
get a move on. Get the dog.
Oh, he just pooped in
the neighbor’s yard.”
“I’ve got a poop bag.”
“Everybody in the car.”
“Love you. Bye.” The
wind turned west and
blew out of town. With
the humid heat and the
morning sun rising, they
sat on the leather chair
and couch in the air-con-
ditioned house, sipped
their coffee and listened
to the lone call of a card-
inal in their backyard.
“Did we remember to
say thanks for the dinner
last night?” “I don’t re-
member; it was so hectic.”

The man wanted information kept
from a particular medical special-
ist. The man was to embark on a
new, but well researched procedure
approved by the AMA but given the
specialist’s behavior in the past,
the man didn’t want any potential
disagreements on the matter. The
man told his primary physician all
about it and the primary immediate-
ly consulted the specialist which,
of course, the man had an issue with
as a violation of confidentiality,
but the interesting thing is that
the specialist didn’t remember the
man after five visits. The man could
have had his ego hurt, and certainly
would have in the past, but surprise,
surprise, he didn’t. The good news
in all this? He didn’t care. It was
okay, perfectly okay. He didn’t need
to be remembered by the esteemed
specialist. The man considered that
a spiritual victory of sorts.

He sits and reflects on
forty-five years of
ordination to ministry —
the measuring stick,
the bar for a Christian
minister being how close
he or she followed Jesus
in one’s personal life
and in leading others
(parishioners in particular)
in the way of love, joy,
peace, patience, kindness,
goodness, faithfulness,
gentleness and self-cont-
rol on a personal level
and working for justice
for the poor, the outcasts,
the downtrodden, the victims
and helping to transform
structures of society to-
ward equality, dignity,
opportunity and possibil-
ity. In light of that
daunting task, he swallows
hard, shakes his head,
thinks about how much
easier it would have been
simply to call people to
believe in Jesus Christ
as their personal lord
and savior as a ticket
to heaven and out of hell,
but he knows he couldn’t
have done such an un-
biblical thing, so he
simply gives thanks for
grace and prays the Kyrie.

The medical doctor daughter had a big hurt, resentment, anger toward her academic doctor father. With great spite and condescension wishing to hurt him in turn, she said, “You’re no doctor. You’re a Ph.D.” He just stood there.

I would have said, “Daughter, you are a physician. I am an academician. We are both doctors,” but I’m not the one with whom she was having the hard time.

On an emotional level, of course, that wouldn’t have helped. Her hurt was deep and really had nothing to do with degrees, but if she is going to fight, she should fight fair, get her facts straight and call things as they are. Perhaps her father said nothing, because he knew no response to that statement would be helpful and so his silence was golden.

Perhaps later, if indeed he was culpable and penitent with a resolve to straighten up and fly right, he might simply offer that he was sorry for the hurt he caused and, by the grace of God, they might begin to talk — adult to adult/person to person and begin the journey to reconciliation — perhaps.

Ah, wouldn’t that be nice? Wouldn’t the adult journey to reconciliation be nice for all of us and our damaged and sometimes broken relationships — as much as it depends on us?