I removed my cycling helmet and
gloves and cozied up to the micro-
brew bar and found myself sitting

next to a shrunken, withered, wisp
of a man. The man asked in his soft,
quiet, barely audible voice, “Come

here often? You seem to know what
beer to choose.” I responded that
my wife would be following shortly

in the “sag wagon” with the bike
rack on it and join me for our
Saturday, two p.m. regular visit.

We then discussed “stuff.” The
“wisp” was in his late eighties,
never exercised and smoked and

drank most of those years adding
that he had cut down on both lately.
“Not doing too badly,” 
he said. The

“wisp” had two long-haired dachs-
hunds that kept him pretty busy
but the biggest task he had as a

widower was raising the two great-
grandchildren, two and four, all
by himself. He said he got a sitter

so he could get out of the house.
The babies and the dogs were driving
him crazy and he just needed a beer.

I just shook my head and bought him
that beer.

He heard someone say that it is time to
bring closure. Was the person talking
about a meeting, a process, a procedure?

Wrap it up, close it down? Makes sense.
These things can’t go on forever. There
will be other meetings, other processes,

other procedures. Yes, those things.
Hopefully not in response to a relational
loss like, say, the death of a loved one,

but that is exactly the context. Not only
does that sound strange but even cruel.
How is it somehow up to someone not in-

timately involved in the grieving process
to pontificate: It’s time. The coffin
lid nailed down, the body lowered, the

dirt shoveled over, the new grass grown.
It’s done. No. It’s never done. Grief
isn’t something to close out; it is

something to be ushered in, embraced
and in its own time (the grief’s own
time; not mine) it will begin to take

its leave only to return just to let
you know, to remember how much you
loved and still love and always will

love. Yes, grief, that one time horrify-
ing monster, returns as a friend just
to say you don’t bring closure to love.

(It’s that time of year when Christmas letters [or family brag rags] touting glorious accomplishments and grand adventures ending with “wish you were here with us in paradise” arrive in the mail. A former parishioner facetiously spoke of wanting to send a letter detailing a family’s misfortunes. I don’t think Larry is the only one to have that thought. Here is my attempt.)

Dear Friends and Family,

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year and Happy Holidays.

It has been a mixed year here, but, we aren’t giving up.

Son Freddy, former youth pastor at a wonderful church, did plead guilty
to pedophilia and started serving his sentence in July. He’s in solitary
confinement, which will give him precious, glorious time for prayer.

Son Ralph has been in the program “Praying You Out of Being Gay” for
a few weeks and even though he has threatened suicide, the counselors
say that is just normal and nothing to be worried about. We don’t know
about this whole thing but our associate pastor says he will corral the
church prayer warriors to help Ralph.

Daughter Margie went out-of-town for a while to lose weight. We were
worried about that growing tummy bump. She’s only seventeen and we didn’t
want her putting on the “Freshmen fifteen” at college. She came home with
a flat tummy and, while she didn’t make it through her freshman year at
the local community college, we expect great things as she moves up in the
local grocery store from grocery bagger to the “sky’s the limit for this beautiful child,” as the very nice manager, who has taken Margie under his
wing, assured us.

Mom is working her AA program. She’s had two month’s sobriety and we are ever
so proud. She’s finding ways to recycle all the bottles around the house.
The Christmas season is a particularly perilous one for alcoholics so pray
that mom remains “on the wagon.”

Dad is staying by himself in his “man cave” most of the time.

We will be attending our wonderful congregation’s Christmas Eve Candlelight
Service in spite of the fact that our beloved (now former) pastor won’t be there.

He ran off with the choir director. We are praying for the pastor’s family who will be leaving the parsonage. The deadline is Jan. 1. Unfortunately, we can’t continue to pay for them and we need the space for the next pastor and family.

Well, that about sums it up.

Wish you were here to enjoy this most sacred and festive season with us.

Your loving family and friends

Do clergy, from the pulpit, quote
G.M. Hopkins to sound
cultured and profound
and impress those sitting around?

Do they sincerely appreciate the sound
of every alliteration, rhyme, meter,
every musical note?

Would they still quote,
if they knew that during his
short, sad, quirky life,
he was thought
to be a bit of a joke?

I would rather quote
a down to earth poem
encapsulating, sustaining
life’s narrative — of pain
and pleasure, joy and sorrow
like a George Jones’ country
song of note.

One points to haute culture
ever so profound —
do they like, as they
proffer the words,
their own voice’s sound?

Wouldn’t it be more to life’s point
just to tell a story about someone
being unceremoniously thrown
from some sleazy, “bucket of blood” joint?

But doing such
might scandalize the bunch
as would be my hunch,
so keep quoting The Rev. Gerard Manly
and with the flock,
at the country club,
enjoy a most pleasant brunch.

He is a pompous old man, a senator
who is starting to lose his marbles.
He keeps repeating himself and
contradicting himself and attemp-
ting to take off his glasses when
they aren’t there. He would retire
shortly, but before that he would
be joined by another senator who
looks just like a turtle and sounds
like one if a turtle could talk —
like gravel rolling around in his
mouth. They are joined by several
other senior citizen, white legis-
lators who don chain-mail vests,
football helmets and carry shields
and spears and AK47s into inter-
national battle just declared by
the House and confirmed by the
Senate. The old geezers, in brave
solidarity, stated unanimously
that this is a job for men not
boys.

*idea from a meditation by Frederick
Buechner

While jogging he saw
a man get out of his car
and walk to his garage door.
The man reminded him of
someone he once knew.
While watching a mystery
he saw a character who
reminded him of the same
someone he once knew.
What should he do?
Synchronicity? Providence?
What to do?
If he sees the man somewhere,
somehow tomorrow,
he’ll know what to do.
If you knew that man,
you, too, would know what to do —
jog somewhere else
and watch a different channel;
that’s what to do.

The summer of his fifteenth year, his family, without his sister, his only sibling, because she was now married, traveled again from their home in the south suburbs of Chicago to the north woods of Wisconsin to vacation with his dad’s only relative in the states, his aunt, a sister to his dad’s late mother.

The fifteen-year-old wandered the woods wearing the new Minnetonka moccasins his parents had bought him and he went fishing with his father. All the while he thought about a girl back home. He didn’t think she was his girlfriend. She was a girl and a friend. He really didn’t know what a girlfriend was.

Just before vacation was over, he bought her what he could afford, a small, leather coin purse just large enough for the word Minocqua to be burned onto one side.

When he got home he ran to her house and he talked all about his vacation. She talked about a new boy she met, someone who obviously came from a well-to-do family as the boy had talked about the family boating on Cedar Lake in their new Chris Craft speedboat.

He fingered the coin purse in his pocket. It seemed small and not a very good gift to be giving. Surreptitiously, he took it out of his pocket and slipped it between the couch cushions and then he left.

Days later at school she asked him if he had left the coin purse for her. He nodded. She said thanks and that it was a nice purse, and that was that for the kid in his fifteenth year and his friend who was a girl and a friend but not a girlfriend.

I haven’t even read
the news of the day
but it is with trepidation and dread
that I make my way.

The events of political power
as they wind their way
are filled with ephemeral odors so sour
like putrid water to be thrown away.

It doesn’t even make good prose,
monosyllabic words tweeted.
English teachers propose
“better word usage” (maybe poetry)
is needed.

Kennedy had Frost;
Clinton had Angelou;
Obama: Alexander and Bianco.
The next: no poetry just obscene tweets
to muddle through.

In the beginning was the word
and the word was with God.
Now only lies are heard
working up the mob.

May the word return
in a glorious new coming —
truthful, honest, falsity to burn,
restoring justice, banishing cunning.

Quenching this parched land,
may poetic waters gladden the heart
reviving spirits, lifting praising hands,
causing fleeting miscreants to depart.

A woman speaking her mind —
she was calumniated.
Some say she was
even hated.

They say she was out-of-place
and wasn’t very nice —
and through her
veins ran ice.

But, if they
knew her heart,
they would know
some are set apart

to do that which
may bring no pleasure
but is instead
truly a measure

of one’s vocare,
a calling to do
that signaling true care.

On occasion she
needed a re-starter
by asking herself
if she was just a martyr

holding near the pain
so she could find comfort
in elusive, fleeting…fame,

likening herself to
Joan of Arc.
She knew that was
something of a no start.

Maybe she’s tilting at windmills
for the sake of Dulcinea Del Toboso
as she cries out to those windmills,
“Set my love free! Let her go.”

Her calling was to speak
for justice, mercy,
genuine agape love
and peace.

Yes, they say in her veins ran ice
but she spoke to a status quo only
wanting behavior deemed “nice.”

And so she was resolved to pay
with no pleasure to gain
the penalty come what may

and that she would
reconcile to a misogynistic fate
of being misunderstood
and the object of misguided hate.

And then…
she would speak again.

He had a job to do, a
leadership obligation;
that’s what people in
charge are charged
to do, advising on big
ideas, plans with con-
sequential outcomes,
which could determine
future viability. Did some-
one just utter, “Earth to
Person Elected to Lead
and Advise”? He’s wear-
ing a Santa outfit as
he exits the company
Christmas party. The
deer with the big red
nose flashing is ready
to fly. “A merry Christ-
mas to all and to all
bye, bye.”