Jokingly, he called through the
window for his wife to stop gold-
bricking on the job of shoveling
the sidewalk. She put her finger

to her lips. She was listening to
two men argue a few houses away.
He went to the front porch and
listened. It was a father and son.

The father had retreated inside
and the son stood on the porch
yelling profanities at the man
who stood on the other side of

the glass. It’s January, the
time for all the fall out from
the posturing of pleasantness
at Christmas, the fakery and

finally, the drink or two too
many too many days in a row.
It’s Epiphany season, the time
the church celebrates the light

of Christ’s love for the world,
but it’s still a season of dark-
ness, in more ways than one,
and of longing, groping, and,

ironically, fighting, kicking and
screaming one’s way through to
the love and acceptance of an-
other — like the sad, soul-

ful shouting of father and son
a few houses away. As he turned
from the shouting and into his
house he thought he heard the

plaintive cry of a little boy,
“Please love me,” and as he
closed the door and intruded
no more, he knew that was the

universal cry in his own heart.