Category: daily life

The Quiet Edges.

There was once a resident in a condominium I owned, a man so enigmatic that no one ever quite claimed to know him.  He drifted through the halls like a rumor made flesh, and before long he became the quiet talk of the association.  Here’s the story:

He kept to himself, and barely anyone knew his name.  It was said that Alonzo’s jet black, laid down styled hair shone so bright it might have lit up all of Sage Pointe.  His hair was a shimmering emblem of confidence and unspoken connection.

“Alonzo,” those who knew his name would say, “He got the thickest, the baddest, the most outta-sight edges this side of Sage Pointe.”

“Alonzo?  Ain’t he the one with the black patent leather hair?”

“Shiny and bright, that Alonzo is.”

I know that Alonzo’s secret was SoftSheen Dark and Natural in “Jet Black.”  I’ve seen the box he threw out in the recycling bin.  His “secret” might have looked unnatural as vinyl patent leather shoes, but he had not one grey hair on his head.  It was a one-tone black from the back of his head to the slicked down edges in the front, from sideburn to sideburn.

As time passed, Alonzo’s hair became more than just a spectacle; it turned into a beacon of curiosity and a source of fascination at Sage Pointe.  People were in awe about him at the monthly condominium association meetings – the few times he bothered to show up.  They marveled at him in the church, drooled at him in the grocery store line, admired him at the barbershop, and speculated about his unknown secrets at the local diner.  Yet Alonzo carried on, keeping to himself, his glossy raven hair unfaltering, like a strange moon in its perennial glow.

But one summer evening, at the annual Sage Pointe party, Alonzo broke his silence.  He sauntered onto the wooden dance floor at the activity center with his head held high, dressed sharp as a razor in a cream‑colored linen suit that caught the breeze just so, a narrow burgundy tie tucked neatly against a crisp pale yellow shirt, and red shoes polished to a mirror shine.  The flashing dance lights cast dazzling reflections off both his raven‑black hair and the blinding shine of his shoes.  Eight gold rings gleamed on his fingers — thick, heavy bands with diamonds, emeralds, and garnets that flashed each time his hands cut through the air, catching the lights as surely as his raven‑black hair.  He moved with an easy, unhurried confidence, swaying to the beat of funk music like he had been born for that moment.

Earlier that evening, I watched as he stood off to the side of the party room sampling the appetizers— deviled eggs dusted with paprika, tiny ham biscuits, and those colorful cellophane-tipped toothpicks that skewered a variety of cheese cubes that squeaked when you bit into them.  He washed it all down with two strawberry daiquiris so cold that the condensation rolled down the red plastic Solo® cup like sweat on a July window.  He sipped them slow, savoring each icy, syrup‑sweet mouthful as though it were part of some private ritual that he wanted no one else to be a part of.

I watched him in awe along with the crowd and laughed when Alonzo pulled a small group of kids into his groove.  “It’s all in the soul, you crumb crunchers!  Dance like your hair shines brighter than the stars,” he declared, a wide smile breaking through his elusive façade.  That night, he wasn’t the enigma they had speculated about.  He was the rhythm, the light, the joy.

That is what everyone wanted to believe.

By the time the party was over, it was said that Alonzo’s edges shone so bright it might have lit up all of Sage Pointe.  After the party, although he disappeared into the quiet mystery of his condominium once again, his name would be remembered as the man who brought the condominium association an evening they would never forget.

But in the weeks and months that followed, people began to notice something strange: no one saw Alonzo at church, or in the grocery line, or even passing by the barbershop window.  His apartment blinds stayed drawn, his mailbox appeared untouched.  Some said he’d moved away; others whispered he’d simply slipped into the night the way he’d always lived— quietly, without explanation.  His silver car would be in his parking spot, and sometimes not.  His monthly assessments still were paid in full and on time.  But no one actually saw him.

Now on certain humid evenings, when the streetlights flicker and the cicadas fall silent, a few swear they’ve seen a glint, just a brief flash, like moonlight on patent leather, disappearing around the corner before they can call his name.  And in Sage Pointe, that is enough to keep the legend alive.

In time, the condominium association learned to stop asking where Alonzo had gone.  Life in Sage Pointe moved on, as it always does, yet something in the air felt slightly altered, as though a faint shimmer had been left behind.  The wooden dance floor where he’d once spun the children around seemed to hold a deeper polish, catching the light in ways no one could quite explain.  And every so often, when the dusk settled low and the streetlamps hummed to life, someone would pause mid‑stride, certain they’d caught the scent of pomade or felt the whisper of a beat only Alonzo could hear.  Whether he had slipped away to some quieter corner of the world or simply stepped into the shadows he’d always belonged to, no one could say.  But the memory of that night, and the man whose hair shone like a secret, lingered in Sage Pointe like a story half‑told, waiting forever for the rest of its truth to surface.

 

 

0

Cutting the Mustard.

A Lesson in Gluttony and Control.

Finally, there is only French’s® yellow and Gulden’s® brown on my pantry shelf.

Once upon a time, that space was also shared – packed, in fact – with small jars holding other variations: champagne, chipotle, curry, honey, jalapeno, siracha, Dijon, . . .

Then, one day, I said aloud, “That’s it!  No more of these yuppified wannabees!”

And Lo!  The clouds parted and the sun came out.  Best Friend assented my exclamation with a “Hear!  Hear!”

We do like mustard.  It was easy to pick up a small jar of something a little different when we stopped by our local winery.  What’s a two-ounce jar of champagne honey mustard?  It didn’t take up much refrigerator shelf space along with the other six or seven two-ounce jars.

Yet, that one day, I had enough.  Those “specialty” mustards began tasting pretty much alike.  There wasn’t anything special about them anymore, except perhaps their unusually shaped jars that really had no further purpose for me after the last bit of mustard was scraped from the sides.

I was throwing money out the proverbial window.  And for what?  To feel like we were indulging in something special or upper class?

Pfffft.  It was a waste.  We said right then and there that those types of mustards won’t darken our doors again.  From then on, it will be a bottle of yellow, a bottle of brown, and a jar of Dijon.  That’s all!  No more yuppy mustard, as we call it.  No more fancy-this and fancy-that.

Along the same lines, in fact, the equivalent goes for fancy horseradish – I have a bottle of siracha horseradish that I bought a few weeks ago from a mom-and-pop grocery store in a neighboring town.  Is it anything special?  No, not really.  It’s really not what I expected; it’s not any hotter or spicier than regular horseradish, and it has a strange, sweet background taste to it.  I could kick myself for not reading the ingredients list better, because this bottle of weirdness has corn syrup in it.  (We’re cutting out corn syrup from our diet).  So, if I want the kick that siracha gives to my bowl of pho or broiled chicken or vegetable stir fry, I can get the siracha bottle from the refrigerator and squeeze a shot or two on my plate.  If I want horseradish, I can make my own fresh or buy a jar of straight horseradish.  I don’t need an odd yuppie horseradish-siracha concoction. Keeping it simple, silly!

So, we’re cutting the mustard.  We’re keeping it unpretentious.  Now on the refrigerator shelf sits a container of yellow, a bottle of brown, and there is a space for Dijon because I need that specifically for making Steak Diane.  Otherwise, any other types of strange mustards will remain on the store and winery shelves, available for other shoppers and connoisseurs to fill up their refrigerators and sate their taste buds with frou-frou table mustards.

It’s minimalism for us now.

0

Wigged Out.

At dinner the other evening at the country club, we sat at a table at the back of the restaurant, nestled in a cozy alcove dimly lit by a warm, flickering candle in a glass votive.  Our wine glasses of glimmered in the low light.  The clinking of silverware and the soft hum of chatter filled the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter from a boisterous group near the bar.

Across from us, a couple sat at the immediate table opposite ours.  They immediately drew my attention with their striking contrast.  She was a petite, frail-looking woman, her presence almost ephemeral, yet undeniably elegant.  Her baggy, sequined blouse sparkled faintly under the muted light, a deep emerald green that complemented the intricate plastic pearls cascading down her neck.  Her white pants, cut high to mid-calf, were snug and showed off her caboose.  Every gesture of hers was deliberate, placing her napkin, adjusting her sleek clutch, moving her wine glass, as though she were orchestrating a performance of refinement.

Across from her sat the undeniable foil to her practiced image.  He was a large man, his frame spilling over the edges of the overstuffed dining chair.  His attire was an amusing affront to hers: a pair of sagging khaki shorts, socks with sandals, and a faded, nondescript polo shirt, the type that might have been gray once but had since resigned itself to a black, lavender, taupe ambiguity.  His bulbous nose was faintly red, matching the ruddiness of his face.

But the pièce de resistance became the highlight of the evening.   It was his hair.  His hair—or rather, what aspired to be his hair was . . .  “different.”  A Just for Men “Darkest Red Brown” masterpiece of a wig was perched atop his head, so incongruous with the rest of his appearance it felt like a punchline to a joke only he didn’t quite get.  The thick, wavy wig seemed precarious, as if it might slide off at the slightest provocation.  It sat too high, too perfect, too ruddy-brown and defying both gravity and reason.

He leaned back in his chair with an air of self-satisfaction, plucking at a breadstick while his lady friend sipped delicately from a wine glass.  They exchanged sporadic words, her responses curt and his booming laugh echoing through the restaurant, prompting raised eyebrows and glares from nearby diners.

They were a spectacle, a living contradiction, a joke, an editorial cartoon.  The woman seemed to be holding onto a bygone era of sophistication, while the man seemed content to bulldoze through it, unbothered by appearances or subtlety.  Yet, there was something oddly appealing about them with a mystery to unravel, a story hidden beneath the surface of their mismatched personas.

 

 

0

Books that Form Us and Deform the World.

First in a Series of My Book Reviews.

 Anyone who knows me knows that I am, at heart, a voracious reader.  Books have been my lifelong weakness and delight.  From the Little Golden Books that we poured over as kids, to my first parochial school library borrowing of A Is for Annabelle by Tasha Tudor, to the day I trudged home from the public library carrying eleven books for the mile‑and‑a‑quarter walk back home— stories and education have always been my companions.  Good books do more than entertain; they shape the soul in ways that are subtle yet profound.  This is the first in a continuing series that highlights books that I have recently read.

Books that I have read so far in 2026:

Toxin by Ouida (1895).

✒️ This short, fast reading story started off strong and ended weak.  All that for an opal necklace, a murder, and a wedding!  The writing style of Ouida (Maria Louise Ramé – 1839-1908) is intelligent, smooth, descriptive, and is peppered with French and Italian phrases.  Other readers might find this story their string of pearls and phial of a deadly toxin, but it wasn’t for me.  What I did learn about Ouida was that she was a contemporary of Oscar Wilde, Wilkie Collins, Robert Browning, et al.

Ole Mammy’s Torment by Annie Fellows Johnston (1897)

✒️ This was an entertaining short story with a lot of great dialect, funny scenes, and believable characters with true dialect in their voices.  The authoress is well-known for writing “The Little Colonel” series, which was made into one movie in 1935 with Shirley Temple.  My goodness!

The Children’s Own Longfellow by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1908).

✒️ What a fun book of poetry that I thoroughly enjoyed from cover to cover!  This is an early 20th century collection of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poetry, curated especially for young readers.  Gathering some of his most cherished works, the volume presents Longfellow’s storytelling in a form that is accessible, engaging, and rich with imagination.  The collection includes well-known pieces such as “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” “Evangeline,” “Paul Revere’s Ride,” and selections from “The Song of Hiawatha.”  This was enjoyable.

The Status Civilization by Robert Sheckley (1960)

✒️ This book is a lesson for today.  Will Barrent comes to consciousness aboard a prison transport headed for the planet Omega, his memories erased and his guilt for murder already decided. Omega is a place where the only way to stay alive is to break the law—because the law itself requires wrongdoing. With most newcomers surviving only a few years, Barrent is forced to adapt quickly to this upside down, topsy-turvy society while searching for answers about his own past. His journey eventually returns him to Earth, where he uncovers startling revelations about both planets and the hidden machinery of power that binds them together.

 

Our Lady of Good Studies, pray for us.  O Mary, our hope, have pity on us.

Indulgence of 300 days each time.  – Pope Pius X, January 8, 1906

 

O Mary conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to Thee.

Indulgence of 300 days each time.  – Pope Leo XIII, March 15, 1884; S.P. Ap., April 15, 1932.

 

 

0

The Darkness of the World.

The world is messed up.

If you are paying even the tiniest bit of attention to what’s going on in the world, you might just finally realize that this world is more evil than you would ever imagine, and with vastly complicit help not only from political leaders, but also from the average populace.

I’m sometimes surprised at how jaded I’ve become.  As a young idealist way back in the old days, I had all the optimistic and positive outlooks anyone could have.  That’s saying a lot.  Last year, with a new President in office, I barely delved deep into the current events.  I had it in my mind that he was the same as he was in his first term, so what was there to worry about?  This year began just as pacific for me, until February 28 with the war, and since then, well, you know how nutty everything has become.  Or has it?

My best friend mentioned to me that he noticed that this President wasn’t the same, and maybe so since last fall.  That’s when I took a better look and realized he was on to something.  Yes, he certainly is not the guy we voted for.  We were all duped.

People in general have changed, and vastly so since 2020.  It seems that people have such ease in lying right to your face.  They’re ruder.  They even seem to be lazier.  None of it is good.

The Church isn’t the Church I grew up in.  It’s now the Synodal Church.  The true Roman Catholic Church exists, but one must diligently look for it in other places.  I question the current Pope in the form of Robert Prevost, because what he teaches is, well, all over the place with little consistency for Roman Catholicism.

Nevertheless, I think, the longer a person is on this Earth and seriously pays attention to the idiocy that seems to accelerate by the hour, just about anyone could get pretty jaded.  That’s why I am working towards being in the world, but not OF this world.  It’s sometimes a struggle, because I have it in my head that I need to know what’s going on in the world now, for instance, when the bomb is going to be dropped.  Conversely, isn’t it better to not know, and just be spiritually ready for it exploding at any minute?  Yeah, probably.

The moral disorder in our world is far more profound than the everyday vapid scandals people argue about.  It extends beyond routine political dishonesty and the familiar patterns of institutional failures.  What we are now being confronted with instead are deeper, more sinister forms of corruption; systems of exploitation and abuse that flourish in secrecy and rely on the complacency of the very structures meant to safeguard the vulnerable.  These forces are not isolated or accidental; they are organized, persistent, and woven through the generations from the beginning of time.  Their influence reaches into the institutions that shape public life: government, law, media, entertainment, finance, sports, religious establishments, et al.  This is perhaps why meaningful accountability rarely materializes.  The problem is not that the system has malfunctioned; the problem is that the system, as it currently operates, protects the very darkness it should be exposing.  The world is operating exactly how it’s supposed to, with all the evil engrained in it.

Drain the swamp?  Catchy little slogan, that is.  Instead of draining, the loudest mouths just went ahead and joined the swamp.  Why not?  It’s profitable, and in so many ways, too.

It is naïve to think that the ordinary general public will rise to meet these challenges.  Sure, it’s a nice thought that people will wake up and fight for a successful end to malevolence, but in reality, most people, overwhelmed by the pace of modern life and the cozy comfort of laziness and apathy, have settled into becoming passive observers rather than active participants.  Assuredly, outrage flares briefly online with an angry post typed from behind the keyboard, a click of a shared headline, a momentary surge of indignation, but only to retreat into familiar routines.  But when the moment any public criticism touches celebrities or political figures, the reaction is even more predictable: people defend the evil and/or the evil doer or just shut down and move on to something insipid and vapid, which is usually their comfort zone.  Their attachment to public figures functions as modern idolatry, a sick and macabre loyalty that overrides discernment and sensibility.  Many people will defend entertainers, influencers, government notables, popes and televangelists, and other public personalities despite recurring scandals, unanswered questions, weird speeches from pulpits, and patterns of troubling associations.  For them to confront those realities would require them to acknowledge that their long‑held assumptions were misplaced, that trust was given too freely, and that the narratives shaping their lives were not as benevolent as they believed.  For many, that admission is too costly; therefore, comfort becomes preferable to clarity, and distraction becomes easier than responsibility.

There is also a deeper layer of wrongdoing that most people cannot bear to confront.  Beneath the surface of public life exist networks, institutions, and hidden spaces where exploitation thrives, albeit hidden.  These are not the sensationalized fantasies people dismiss, but the quieter, more pervasive forms of abuse and corruption that flourish when shielded from scrutiny.  The very idea of such concealed systems unsettles people, not only because of the moral horror they imply, but because acknowledging them would require reconsidering the trust they place in the social structure.  This is why so few bother to investigate further.  Once one begins to see the depth of institutional rot and mold, it becomes impossible to return to the comfort of ignorance; yet many people would rather stay in their pretty little cocoons and not be bothered.  Peel me another grape, Daphne.

Is the present moment an actual “awakening?”  That’s hard to say, but even if that is true, it is an uneven one.  Most people struggle to sustain attention in a world engineered for constant distraction.  A new crisis, a new headline, a new spectacle appears, and public focus instantly resets.  The duplicitous news stories change faster than the weather in Chicago.  Faster, faster Pussycat, whip up the chaos!  Whip it up good!   Chaos and confusion, to and fro.

Outrage becomes episodic rather than transformative.  The average citizen does not demand accountability, structural reform, or transparency; instead, they drift back into the familiar rhythms of daily life.  They continue to support the very systems they criticize, through consumption, through compliance, through lazy habits.  In this sense, the problem is not merely institutional corruption but a culture that has grown accustomed to passivity, comfort, and distraction, even in the face of profound moral failure.

The individuals who perpetuate profound harm are not merely “troubled;” they embody a level of moral corruption that defies explanation.  Their actions reveal a conscience that has been systematically eroded, a capacity for empathy that appears extinguished.  Yet, they move through public life with practiced ease— smiling for cameras, delivering speeches, presenting themselves as benefactors, all the while concealing the ethical void that enables their behavior.  This dissonance between public image and private reality is precisely what allows such corruption to persist.

Yet these systems endure not only because of those who exploit them, but because of the collective willingness to look away.  As long as society continues to fund, celebrate, and unquestioningly trust the institutions and figures who benefit from the status quo, little to nothing will ever change.  Evil does not thrive simply because it is powerful; it thrives because good people convince themselves it is safer not to see it.  It’s so easy to play the poor put upon ostrich and bury one’s head in the sand.  The refusal to confront uncomfortable truths becomes, in effect, a form of approval and permission.

Cognitive dissonance is real, but far more often, it’s more of the slow erosion caused by apathy, constant confusion, and the relentless flood of information, outrage, and accusation.  When every voice demands attention and every headline contradicts the last, people slip into a kind of mental fog — not because they’re incapable of thinking, but because they’re exhausted by the effort and they would rather take the easy way.  And in that dazed state, many retreat to what feels familiar.  They worship their idols.  They cling to the idols that reflect their preferred illusions, the figures who reinforce their false beliefs and offer the comfort of never having to question anything at all.

The world is very messed up.

 

0

Cousin Eddie.

I once lived in a neighborhood called Arrowroot Ranch where the residents were so clique‑ish that my household and I barely knew anyone beyond a polite wave, if even that!  People kept to their own circles, and newcomers like us remained on the outside looking in.  So, it came as a surprise one morning when my best friend returned from the mailbox with a story that would become our own neighborhood legend.

My best friend said to me one cool June morning that as he stepped outside to collect the mail, he was greeted by a stranger standing in the driveway next door with an oversized coffee mug in his hand.  He was an unshaven man who wore sandals with knee socks, shorts with an elastic band (or were they swimming trunks?), and a faded red bathrobe left wide open that left nothing to the imagination.  The robe flapped in the breeze just enough to reveal a bare, hairy beer‑belly gut spilling over the waistband of his shorts.  It was, to put it mildly, an unexpected sight before lunch.

We eventually learned that this man was the new owner of the house next door.  We nicknamed him “Cousin Eddie,” partly because he reminded us of the madcap trailer-living cousin in those Hollywood “Vacation” movies and partly because the name suited him in a way we couldn’t quite explain.  It was affectionate nomenclature, in its own odd and funny way.

Cousin Eddie had an ever‑changing cast of characters living with him, and they were most likely renters.  Two of them we came to know by nickname alone: “Turban” and “Lady Godiva.”  Turban earned her name honestly; she used to wear a turban every day while sitting on a lawn chair in the driveway, talking loudly on her cell phone as though the entire neighborhood needed to hear her side of the conversation.  Lady Godiva, on the other hand, was waiting for her new house to be built, and she was seen popping in and out of her car she parked at the curb.  Why we called her Lady Godiva is lost to memory, though it probably had something to do with her long hair and her tendency to dress… scantily.

Cousin Eddie himself was a snowbird.  From October to April, he lived next door, and from May through September he returned to the forested backwoods of northern Wisconsin.  Each year he hauled his Harley in the bed of his pickup truck, making the long trek north like a migrating bird with chrome handlebars.

When he was in residence at Arrowroot Ranch, we always knew it.  Almost every morning, he fired up the Harley and roared off, returning only when the sun was low.  If he wasn’t riding, he was making noise of another kind; running a jigsaw, grinding rust off his patio furniture, or operating some screeching electrical tool that echoed down the street to the next cul-de-sac.  I had heard that inside his house, he kept several mounted animal heads, deer, elk, and who knows what else, along with a full‑sized pool table planted right in the middle of his living room.

Turban and Lady Godiva added their own flavor to the daily soundtrack.  Turban’s phone calls could be heard from three houses away, and Lady Godiva drifted in and out like a character from a half‑remembered dream, always on her way to somewhere else and constantly talking to someone if they were within earshot.

Yet when Cousin Eddie packed up and headed back to Wisconsin each spring, the neighborhood changed.  The tools went silent, the Harley’s rumble faded.  Yet, for a while, everything felt calmer— almost too calm, as if the street itself were holding its breath.  Turban’s driveway monologues continued more loudly into the warm air.  One winter Lady Godiva was gone.  Another renter showed up, this time it was a man, and we never really saw him, except when an ambulance was called one morning and he was laying half covered on the gurney.

Every now and then, just after dusk, we’d catch something odd: the faint smell of gasoline drifting from next door through the clump of cacti, or the distant whine of a jigsaw even though no one was outside.  Once, my best friend swore he saw a bathrobe flutter past the mailbox, though no one was outside in the wild stormy wind that heralded an approaching rare thunderstorm.  We told ourselves it was imagination, the leftover noise from a noisy neighbor.

But sometimes, on those quiet nights at Arrowroot Ranch when the crickets paused and the streetlamps flickered on, it felt as though Cousin Eddie hadn’t really left— that he only stepped sideways into some unseen corner of the neighborhood, waiting for October to roll around so he could wander back into view like he’d never been gone at all, where he’d shuffle back into view with his faded bathrobe flapping open and his sandals slapping the pavement like he’d never left.. Even now, years later, there are evenings when the air shifts strangely, and for a split second the street feels off‑kilter, the purple mountains standing sentry in the background, as if waiting for someone to step back into it.  In those moments, I think that I hear the faint slap of sandals on pavement, coming from nowhere in particular, as though Cousin Eddie is still wandering around, looking for a mailbox that isn’t his anymore.

 

0

The Age of Adonis (Part 3).

Part 3 of 3:  The Middle Distance.

There is a peculiar vantage point one gains simply by living in close proximity to other human beings.  Not close enough to know their secrets, but close enough to witness their habits; their triumphs, their peculiarities, their kindness, their small vanities, their authenticity, and quieter graces.  It is the view from the middle distance, where comedy and clarity often arrive hand‑in‑hand.

From this vantage point, I have watched our neighborhood Adonis swell into his mythic proportions, strutting through the hallways and on the neighborhood sidewalks like a man auditioning for a protein‑powder commercial.  His life is lived in bold, glossy strokes of sweat, swagger, and spectacle.  He found the easy way in life to make a dollar, becoming a grifter front and center on the unholy stage of a community fellowship group, sermonizing under the guise of praises and blessings peppered within his readings of scripture verses found in a distorted Bible.  He is the sort of person who seems to believe that if he flexes hard enough – whether it is flexing by quoting scripture or flexing muscles – the world will mistake it for virtue.  At the same time, he soaks in the adulation and attention as one would with water from the River Jordan.

And then, from the same vantage point, I have watched the quiet ones; the door‑holders, the plant‑waterers, the hallway‑softeners moving through the building with a gentleness that neither asks nor demands anything in return.  Their lives are lived in gentle lowercase letters, steady and unadorned.  They are not trying to be noticed, which is precisely why they are.

Modern life, for all its noise, has a way of revealing character in the smallest of moments.  The man who performs goodness loudly often performs it only for the applause and attention.  The man who waters the begonias when no one is looking is not performing at all.  He is simply and unobtrusively being who he is.

Discernment, I’ve learned, is not about judging people harshly.  It’s about seeing clearly and recognizing the difference between shine and substance, between the man who builds his body like an Old Testament golden monument and the neighbor who quietly builds a life of decency.  Humility, too, is not a grand gesture.  It is the quiet refusal to make oneself the center of every hallway and fellowship stage.  To learn what not to become is one of the great lessons of life.

And what about the comedy of modernity?  It’s everywhere.  It’s in the man who cannot lower his arms because his torso has become a personal billboard.  It’s in the fluorescent lights catching a thousand sequins on Cowgirl Betty’s jacket in the middle of a sunny day.  It’s in the way we all, at one point or another, take ourselves far too seriously.

But the deeper comedy is the one that makes you smile long after the moment has passed.  It is this: the people who most want to be admired rarely are, and the people who never think about admiration often end up holding the whole place together.

In the middle distance, the truth becomes clear.  Strength is not measured in inches of bicep or the girth of one’s chest.  Beauty is not measured in lumens of sparkle.  Virtue, the real kind, is almost always quiet enough to miss if you’re not paying attention.

But once you see it, you start noticing it everywhere.

This is the final chapter of three parts.

0

He is Risen, Alleluia!

Matthew 28 (Douay-Rheims Bible)

28:1. And in the end of the sabbath, when it began to dawn towards the first day of the week, came Mary Magdalen and the other Mary, to see the sepulchre.

28:2. And behold there was a great earthquake. For an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and coming rolled back the stone and sat upon it.

28:3. And his countenance was as lightning and his raiment as snow.

28:4. And for fear of him, the guards were struck with terror and became as dead men.

28:5. And the angel answering, said to the women: Fear not you: for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified.

28:6. He is not here. For he is risen, as he said. Come, and see the place where the Lord was laid.

28:7. And going quickly, tell ye his disciples that he is risen. And behold he will go before you into Galilee. There you shall see him. Lo, I have foretold it to you.

28:8. And they went out quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy, running to tell his disciples.

28:9. And behold, Jesus met them, saying: All hail. But they came up and took hold of his feet and adored him.

28:10. Then Jesus said to them: Fear not. Go, tell my brethren that they go into Galilee. There they shall see me.

28:11. Who when they were departed, behold, some of the guards came into the city and told the chief priests all things that had been done.

28:12. And they being assembled together with the ancients, taking counsel, gave a great sum of money to the soldiers,

28:13. Saying: Say you, His disciples came by night and stole him away when we were asleep.

28:14. And if the governor shall hear of this, we will persuade him and secure you.

28:15. So they taking the money, did as they were taught: and this word was spread abroad among the Jews even unto this day.

28:16. And the eleven disciples went into Galilee, unto the mountain where Jesus had appointed them.

28:17. And seeing him they adored: but some doubted.

28:18. And Jesus coming, spoke to them, saying: All power is given to me in heaven and in earth.

0

A Ministry of Mayhem.

Parents who do not teach their children to respect and obey actually prepare them for a life out of step with God’s Word and in step with the devils.

You might assume that a man styling himself a pastor would have a household that at least vaguely exhibits the teachings of Jesus.  You know, the kind of pastor who should be an example to society, a spiritual guide, a moral compass, and a weekly dispenser of authentic wisdom on the stage of his Fellowship Congregation.  You might even imagine that he’d model basic manners and modesty.

A long time ago, when I lived in a certain condominium, one such person paraded bare-chested in the condominium hallways and public sidewalks.  You’d probably would think that this “pastor” would’ve covered himself up and not parade around in public bare-chested.  By doing that, he was teaching his son well to do the same, which eventually happened, too.  As time when on, his pre-teen daughter was wearing low cut tops and belly-button-showing jeans and beachwear.

This particular family let their children throw out the family garbage, not through the garbage chute, but leave it hidden in the janitor’s closet until the odors compelled other residents to investigate.  The kids squirted soda or some sort of drink on the carpet in the elevator (I saw them do that just as the elevator door opened.)  If the parents double-checked their kids’ chores and where they were, they could’ve corrected them and set them on the right path.  Maybe.

Their children, old enough to know better, ran through the halls at all hours: dawn, mid‑afternoon, nearly midnight.  The thundering footsteps were so intense I occasionally wondered if the building had been repurposed as a training facility for buffalo stampedes.

And again, these were not toddlers.  These were pre‑teens, fully capable of understanding rules, boundaries, and the concept of “other people exist,” so be thoughtful!

The “pastor’s” wife, too, contributed to her own public ministry: it was an evangelization of scent so potent it could’ve knocked a person out.  It was so strong and long-lasting, it made the neighbors think she most likely applied the body lotions and colognes uncontrollably from head to toe.  Her cologne didn’t merely enter the hallways or elevator; it conquered, planted a flag, and dared anyone to challenge its sovereignty.  Her neighborliness went as far as waving at you with her arm behind her head, but never turning to face you and say, “hello.”

Maybe I’m all wet here; however, my thoughts always were that when a husband/father is a pastor of some wort, he guides his family on the path of holiness according to Jesus’ teachings and they all become a positive example to the neighborhood and to the world.  Yet, in that case I wrote about, they weren’t all that friendly, the kids were wild, and they sure solidified the neighbors’ opinions that a “pastor’s” family can be a shining example of what not to do.

In the end, it’s sad: a “pastor” who cannot shepherd his own household, a family whose public displays consists of hallway chaos, elevator dirtying, public undress, and overall disrespect towards neighbors.

But beneath all that sits a quieter truth.  When parents refuse to teach respect, discipline, and consideration, the world instead becomes their children’s classroom, and the lessons are rarely kind.  A household without order doesn’t just scandalize and inconvenience its neighbors; it forms a generation unprepared for the responsibilities, reverence, and self‑control that a faithful and respectable life requires.

 

 

0

Website Built with WordPress.com.

Up ↑