A Letter to My Tea Party Friends

  Reading and watching the media the past few months when the federal government began to shutdown, I was more mindful than ever that many of you who I care for are “Tea Partiers”, or close kin of the same.

 I must say that I became concerned over your letters to the editors and posts. I may care for you but can no longer be silent. Let me here and now expose the elephant in the room.

 I have begun to suspect that you would cast aside your morality for fear that you will become a minority and people of color and or American citizens of foreign origin will erode your way of life.

  This country is based in a messy dynamic of checks and balances. Regardless it has, with the exception of the Civil War, functioned. The government, whether correct in their actions or not, has moved forward and sought on a functional level to represent their constituents in a reasonable fashion.

  I won’t quote numbers and statistics but rather ask if you believe it is the job of any segment of our legislature to put forth their ideology by any means at risk of the well being of the governed?

  Do you support the hijacking of the legislative process by a select few who have gained office through gerrymander and recent stilted campaign laws favoring corporate interests?

  Are you even aware that this is what is happening? I know you support family values, free enterprise, religious freedom, the right to bear arms and the rights of a human fetus among other things. I know you believe in the U.S. constitution yet suspect by your rhetoric and voting history that you have not studied or even read it.

  Do you believe it is right to refuse to compromise with others for the sake of our country and the world? Can you possibly believe that it is acceptable to put thousands out of work and knowingly damage the economy in order to force your minority opinion on the populace?

  I know you and when I am alone with my thoughts I fear that you will answer yes to these questions. I fear that you would isolate yourself in a cocoon of mistrust and prejudice until your ship has foundered and the only salvation are those that you would deny.

  In the end I will say that I agree with you on some issues and do not on others. All I know for sure is that we are fortunate enough to live in a country where we can disagree yet continue to seek harmony through a tried and true process of government. I can only hope and pray that you will ultimately believe in that process and that when you stand in that voting booth you will vote from the heart of your freedom rather than the fog of your fear. 

More Inconvenient Truths

                                                   

  Recently I once again heard the term, “inconvenient truths.” It has troubled me since. I am awed by our propensity to avoid moral responsibility in the face of these truths.

  Anyone or anything different from us is foreign and therefore bad. Is not the truth that we are afraid to allow change because it will somehow dilute who we are? How weak must be our core if change would destroy us?

  Our youth are maimed and die on foreign soil because we disagree with the ruling elite when all that truly exists is something different than what we choose. We are somehow threatened by the presence of conflicting ideas and government process.

   We bathe daily in the fear of immigration because zealots would attack our home ground. As that fear dries, our minds harden to common sense and decency for those who seek the same goals as us, freedom to work and worship and pursue happiness without oppression.

  Innocent people lie sick on the doorstep of medicine. Yet many of us would deny them basic care.

  Our youth fall in the educational ranking of a changing world yet we ignore the reality that we have handcuffed our teachers. Rather than educate, we would test, ever checking on our failure.

  We deny loving, law abiding, productive couples the same rights as ourselves avoiding reality for the sake of our own self-centered fear.

  When we stand in that voting booth we prove time and again that our driving force is what government can do for us or ours. We speak clearly of our disdain for those who have not risen to our “level” yet would do nothing to lift them up.

  Some have said that this is a Christian nation. Having grown up in the Christian faith, the message that I received as a child has held steady.  That message is that we should love our brothers and sisters as ourselves.

   The only fuel that “hate” needs is fear and ignorance. Love requires courage. Love demands sacrifice. Love lifts us above our petty groveling into the air of saints and Saviors.

  Each day, as we rise, I believe that if our most ardent prayer is to find love for all mankind in our hearts then we might find the cure for a poison that would destroy us all.

  We must always be guided by prudence and common sense. It is our duty to protect and defend against all evil. Even still, when we direct our energy at seeing evil through the lens of reality rather than fear our path will be true.

  In our deepest heart we know our fear rules most of what we do and say. I can only hope and pray that in the end we will accept the most inconvenient truth of all; we as humans have let fear win out over love and for that we must often live in turmoil of our own making.

Mosese of Shangri-la

                                        

  My wife, one son (my other son Tucker was indisposed) and I went on a nature hike today guided by a young Fijian they call Moses. His real name is Mosese. All the resort workers shorten their names to more European monikers for the sake of the tourists.  We are in Fiji of the South Pacific on a vacation of sorts.

An open motorboat ferried us across the deep blue lagoon. After careful maneuvering through sandbars in the shallows the boat scrunched to a halt on the coral sand shore. The coxswain waved a grinning goodbye as we pushed him off. Someone would come back “in a while.” I couldn’t help but wonder if that was “Fiji time” which is a tongue in cheek way of implying a certain relaxed flexibility.

  After being informed that the island had been inhabited until the early 1800’s by way of a wonderful bit of history and story telling by Moses we embarked into the jungle. My son Corson, with his surgically reconstructed left leg, strode carefully down the shaded and uneven path with his ornate wooden cane  (a gift and story of its own)

  Each ten to twenty feet or so Moses would stop and pull a leaf or point out a fruit or flower. He’d softly explain the medicinal uses and totem qualities of each. His grandmother had been a healer. She knew all the plants and their uses. She could direct young Moses (now a father) through the forest to the exact location of whatever plant or tree she desired. He shared his amazement at her ability to place him on the spot.  He’d retrieve the leaf, berry or bark for her to grind or manipulate in order to form the medicine. He laughed a comical, shrill gurgle like a bird.

 The day before he had shown us how to build a “fish house.” This is part of a conservation project to rebuild the reef. My sons, Moses and I had sat in the sand mixing concrete in five gallon buckets to use as mortar of sorts in order to build an igloo of broken coral and shells while their Mother and Lata (another story) searched for shells. He had guided each of us patiently while regaling with stories and describing his life and work.

 When we finished the “house” he showed us a shed where he kept a sea kayak. It was like being shown a secret hiding place. Moses explained that he’d place the heavy igloos of concrete and shells onto the kayak and walk them out into the water 150 to 200 yards and place them there. When you finished your house they gave you the GPS coordinates and the sequential number of that house so you could always track it on a computer.

  Eventually we reached the far side of the island. As the trail opened out onto a secluded beach I gazed into the vast ocean that evolved from shallow turquoise to deep blue.  A sudden breeze dried the sweat on my brow, neck and chest. Moses had cut a papaya from a tree with the rusty machete he carried slung over his shoulder on a rope. Sitting cross-legged in the sand he fashioned a sliver of knife from a piece of the same papaya tree that had yielded the fruit. He explained that he did not want to contaminate the fruit with the rusty blade.

 As we chatted I watched him precisely, slowly, slice the papaya into pieces. He’d peer out across the water and sky with his eyes shaded by the bill of a worn and faded blue ball cap as if he could see somewhere beyond this world. Then he’d grin as he handed each of us a piece of the juicy, sweet, orange-yellow manna of a hiker’s heaven. We were comfortable and sustained. Eventually, we departed for the meeting place around the point and over the crest to our left.

  My son had struggled with fatigue on the walk. He had endured a year of intense chemotherapy a while back. Concern rose as we crossed huge driftwood jams the sea had deposited on the inlet side of the island. He looked across at me and gave thumbs up in response to my questioning gaze. Of course he’d respond the same even if he were about to fall out on the ground.

  Motoring back to the mainland. I reveled in gratitude for nature and the peace of having my son and wife in the boat safe and resting. Moses sat reflective and grinning in the bow.  I knew he had a baby coming. He’d told us on the beach. They wanted to name him Ebenezer, “from the book of Samuel.”

  I also knew that he had been two units from a marine biology degree and ran out of money and had to go to work. It had been difficult to find. The resort had not had a position so he’d volunteered for two and a half years at the marine center there until they had been able to give him a job. That had been two years before. We’d discovered all this while inquiring as he had guided us through the construction of the fish house.

  As far as I could see, in comparison to America, these folk live a meager existence. They come to this resort called “Shangri-La” each day. They work serving and cleaning, teaching and guiding, entertaining and giving of themselves in such a natural way that you feel as if you have known them forever.

 Then they return to their villages of cinderblock, tin and thatch; windows always open, few screens, eating their simple diet, living their simple lives, knowing there is opulence yet clearly loving their lives and family and ancient way of life.

 The resort jobs must be a godsend and I would imagine highly prized. Shangri-La has several resorts in the Pacific. Each of them works to sustain and serve the people and environment where they are located. Here they have built schools, initiated myriad environmental programs, aided families and more. They treated us with such grace and generosity that we are forever humbled and grateful.

  We leave here tomorrow. This trip was granted my son by the “Make a Wish” foundation. They grant wishes to children that suffer from life threatening diseases. We’ll leave these childlike, welcoming people behind for our competitive, material contest of a world and have only been a ripple on the sea of their lives.

  Lord willing, Moses’ child will be born and Moses will teach Ebenezer the plants that are medicine and life’s blood to these people of earth and sea. Lord willing, another son will walk with his mother and father across this island of time into the love of the world that awaits him.

“Bula,” all ye angels of life. Peace, love and blessings to each and every one of you in far away “Shangri-la.”

  You are in our hearts … forever.

Lou

                                  

A while back they asked me to teach Sunday school to the middle schoolers at church. I must say that as an old scoundrel I was a bit intimidated to be responsible for the fresh minds of these children. Though I had a couple of tikes myself, they were my charges to mess up, not someone else’s.

I decided to observe the other two teachers first. Chuck played games with them. They were excited and had fun. By the time they left for “big church” they were exuberant. I couldn’t help but joke after they left,

  “Those parents are going to love you, my friend.”

He was a good teacher.

The next Sunday Lou was teaching. I was prepared for another round of exuberance. Lou was already sitting, books in his lap talking with a couple of the children. I noticed he spoke to them just like you would to an adult.

 “So what’s new in your world this week, Mary?”

“How’s your Mother doing, Jack?”

When all the children were semi-seated yet chattering and bouncing around like kids will do, Lou stated firmly,

“Alright, let’s all sit and get ready for the lesson.”

Expecting some resistance I looked around to play Master-at-Arms as is my general way but they settled and with just a little poking and wiggling began to gaze at him.

 Lou opened the bible and Sunday school guide and for thirty minutes or so he engaged in a conversation of lecture and questions and small asides with an attentive group of adolescents.

It was amazing that it was the same group of children from the week before. As they departed, Lou would pat one on the back or touch them lightly on the head. When the room was empty, except for him and I, all I could say was,

“Well done, Lou … well done.”

We shook hands and walked together toward the sanctuary. He told me he had been teaching for a while and it was all just second nature anymore. I couldn’t help but think of St. Francis though … sitting calmly in the garden among the birds and small animals as they sat on his shoulder or fed from his hand.

 I know that sounds a bit dramatic but that’s what came to mind as Lou and I walked down the stairs.

The children had come to play and had stayed to learn. They left to return to their loved ones having grown in the words of Our Lord and Savior with calm and grace and dignity. Lou gave them that. He gave the children that for decades.

Now he had given it to me.

When I saw your picture in the paper this morning, Lou I had to walk away and cry a little. You touched me that way. You touched many that way.

You have and will always be there when I try to teach the youth.

Rest in bliss and peace dear friend. I can see you there … with the children gathered at your feet, books in your lap … small bird on your shoulder, speaking calmly as the grown ups listen nearby.

Youthful Swimmers

  Periodically I teach the youth on Sunday at our church. In so doing I read scripture and attempt to follow a teacher’s guide.

  Like all study and research this process evolves. I will find myself pausing to reflect as the words, history and meaning seep into my consciousness.

  The thing that I am not always aware of is the slow but sure marinating of my sub conscious. I will present the lesson to what is, at times, less than eager youth. They are pleasantly willing nonetheless.

  As I gaze into their faces a need rises up in me to impart to them the value of these teachings to their evolving spiritual lives. I yearn for their expressions to open and receive these words so that they might avoid the traps of spirit that have scarred my existence in this world.

  My sons tell me I get a little “preachy” so I try to keep it dialed back. I try to ask them questions and cause them to reach into their hearts and minds for a place beyond the material plane.

  Then without fail … it happens. They teach me. They will answer a question or share an experience or thought and I will know that I am not so much teaching as I am swimming with them in a river of energy I’ll call God.

  You see, I've never been a great swimmer. I have managed to keep from drowning by holding back often pretending I'm more capable than I am. In the end I am simply managing.

  That is the secret I would have them know. That is why I become “preachy”. I want them to swim with the graceful ease than you sometimes witness in a pool or lake or sea when someone seems to blend with the water.  You've seen them, I know. There is so little sound. The water garbles like a gentle stream over smooth rock as they glide not through it but with it … IN it. 

  I would save these youth from my flailing and gasping experience. I want them to immerse themselves in the cool and caressing love that is Spirit. Even then they have a way of showing me that my need is subjective and possibly even unfounded. It would appear, in most cases, that they are better swimmers than I am.

Past Heaven

Peering out the window

I see the cars go by.

How much of all the chaos,

Really matters why?

Folks hurry along worried,

Racing to feed the maw,

Losing all their reason,

Sprinting for a fall.

It will not fail to trip them,

Even as they try.

Laughter only fools them.

Pain just makes them cry.

On the other side of heaven

Is a world where we can go,

If only we could travel,

Without the need to know

A map or way confusing,

A road to travel by.

Dissolve and lose the losing

Cast off the human lie.

Deeper I must fathom,

For narrow path beyond.

Light beckons from ether,

Word belongs to song.

There’s money, trial and worry.

There’s birth and death and pain.

But in the end what matters

Is a poet’s lone refrain.

If peace could flow like river,

We’d flow away to grace.

The sound would only sooth us,

 soften  the angry face.

So listen while you’re gazing

 and maybe you will hear,

The sound of lonely heartbeats,

The splash of falling tears.

Hold fast dear beloved,

This place will wash away

And then you’ll know past heaven

Where we might rest and stay.

Acecela of Fiji

  That first day when you came and sat on the window ledge by the breakfast table, I was a bit taken aback. I mean, a guy is sitting with his family looking out over the Pacific, still a little dazed from 16 hours of flight when a 6 and a half foot male weighing in towards 300 lbs plops down at eye level with you.

  You grinned that big grin with several teeth missing that said, “Hi, I’m friendly.” Your gold polo with the resort emblem clearly stated you were an employee.

  “Everybody calls me Ace. I’m here every morning. No worries. Where you folks from?” We bantered a bit and you moved on. Later you came out with your battered guitar and sang children’s songs to the little ones that were everywhere. They came and sat at your feet or you knelt down at their table.

  Even the most petulant would soften. One child reached over to touch your arm as if to insure that you were real. For the next six days you were always there; village tours, fire ceremonies, games and every morning with your battered guitar, singing to the children.

  You dressed as a Fijian warrior and did the war dance. You took us to a wedding of your niece and treated us like family. You took my teenage sons into town to shop for shirts that would signify we were of the same clan as you. More importantly we comfortably let you. You showed us your life. Most of all you showed us your heart and in so doing you showed us the heart of your people.

  I knew from the first moment that you harbored a story of trial and tribulation behind the dark pool of your eyes. We recognized the wounds in one another. Both of us sought to heal and pay back through our love of the children.  Everyone knew you. They respected you.

  The day before we left a father from Australia told us that he had come there to the resort yearly since childhood. He had a photo of you as a fifteen-year-old “cheetah of youth” lighting a torch, wearing native dress.

  Before the scars was this lithe, exuberant boy. Even in a still photo you could sense the need to run toward the next flame … the next person … the next experience. Even in that photo of a youth,

one could sense the joy and grace of a people such as I have never known.   I believe that you, my friend, more than anyone we encountered, are Fiji … from the laughing children to the scarred warriors.

  Thank you Ace. Thank you for putting your arm around my sons in friendship. On the last day you came to the breakfast table to say goodbye. You sang a plaintive refrain that I had not heard while my wife cried openly.

  I listened to the yearning hope of a powerful man with a child’s heart and saw in my mind’s eye a youth lighting a torch that reveals the soul of a people bound to land and sea.

 In that moment, on a balmy Pacific morning, you and all of Fiji became a part of my family forever. I suspect there are many you have caused to feel the same.