Category Archives: Family Life

“… and I wish we could be friends.”

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Author’s note: 

Composing this essay, which deals with the healing of a tragically fractured family relationship, has confronted me with a dilemma. How much personal information is necessary to disclose in order to tell the story? After anguishing over this question, I have ultimately decided to adopt a minimalist approach.

Most readers, I dare say, have suffered through broken relationships that they wish could be repaired and restored. The specific details of the rift, while perhaps a curiosity, are not of paramount importance. Rather, it is the path to forgiveness and reconciliation that is the “good news.”

So, while what follows is admittedly incomplete, I will try to do my noble topic justice.

_____

My mother glanced warily at the bustling crowd just ahead of us on the platform. “Hold tight to your brother’s hand, Stephen,” she cautioned. “And give me yours too.”

As I followed her into the throng, the inevitable jostling began. Try as I might to fulfill my charge, the bumping and pushing ultimately got the better of me.

“Ma!” I cried out as I felt David’s fingers slipping from my grip. Turning around, with raw panic in my heart, I realized that my little brother was nowhere in sight.

_____

Mercifully, we found David rather quickly that day; and, the relief I felt when his hand was safely back in mine was almost otherworldly. Only much later would I come to see that blessed childhood moment as a harbinger of a far deeper reconciliation awaiting our older selves.

_____

The Bible is rife with tales of conflict between brothers. The “prodigal son” and his resentful older brother are characters in one of Jesus’ best known parables. The birthright struggle between Jacob and Esau, the shocking cruelty visited upon Joseph by his brothers, and the struggle for the throne between Adonijah and Solomon are other notable examples. How deep are these fetid roots? Well, the story of Cain and Abel might lead us to conclude that fraternal strife is as old as humanity itself.

Sadly, David and I fell readily into that familiar destructive pattern.

_____

My brother, who passed away at age 61 in September of last year, lived a life that I understood poorly since it was so very different from my own. We grew up in an alcoholic household and both of us gradually adopted blended roles within our dysfunctional family system. I became the hero/rescuer and David the scapegoat/acting out child. Rivalry proved inevitable.

The dynamic between our parents was a further complication. By the time David and I reached adolescence, our mother had all but given up on her husband exercising a fatherly influence in her sons’ lives. Her solution was for me to become a father figure in David’s life, even though I was less than three years older than my brother and definitely not equipped for the task. I tried to fulfill my mother’s expectations by assuming authority in David’s life, but it only resulted in his deepening resentment and distrust.

_____

In many respects, David seems not to have had a fair chance at life. Our father, who was prone to angry outbursts when intoxicated, once looked his younger son in the eyes and flatly told him: “You were a mistake!”

The damage inflicted by such a declaration, especially when spoken by one’s own father, is incomprehensible. Not surprisingly, David bore the weight of those awful words for the remainder of his life.

At the age of twelve, David was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, a condition that made him insulin dependent and left him feeling “different” from his peers. A year or so later, his sense of difference was further magnified by the growing realization that he was gay. Today, at least in some quarters, such an awareness would be met appropriately with love and acceptance, but this was the early 1970s.

My brother suffered for who he was all those years ago, and he coped by retreating into behaviors that put him at heightened risk. I sincerely loved him; however, in my ignorance and immaturity, I kept trying to redirect his life rather than simply being a supportive big brother. The result was alienation that seemed insuperable.

_____

David’s adult years brought further challenges – mental illness, disability, codependency, erratic personal care of his diabetes, and persistent substance abuse. Though my grasp of his struggles matured with time, we eventually reached a point where holding a simple conversation became virtually impossible.

The deathblow came when, with the full support of David’s psychiatric team at a Boston hospital, it became necessary for me to take a tough-love stance with my brother. For the next decade, David embarked on a campaign to harass and publicly discredit me. I wrote about that dismal period in my essay titled “Waiting for God.”

_____

David was by no means an evil person. In fact, he had deep faith and a terrific capacity to love and forgive; but, I was his relational kryptonite.

Part of his brokenness was an inability to distinguish feelings from facts. He often acted out of his emotions, which had been horribly scarred. I see that now. He also seemed to need a villain, someone he could identify as the root of his distress.

Knowing my faith and my long history of involvement in the Church, he dubbed me the “Preacher of Death.” (Enter villain, stage left.)

_____

On the night our mother was actively dying, I summoned my courage and called David to give him an update on her condition. As soon as he heard my voice, he erupted in rage and then hung up. A bit later on, I called him again to let him know that our mother had passed. I quickly conveyed the terrible news so as to be sure that he would hear me. Again, he flew into a tirade before hanging up abruptly. That may have been our lowest point as brothers.

_____

Through the years, I continued to reach out to David, but the result was always the same, utter hostility. I came to dread the sound of his voice while still wishing things could be different between us.

I petitioned God about my brother countless times with no result. Exasperated, and to guard my own sanity, I finally determined to cut myself off entirely from David. I told God as much; but, even as the words left my lips, I could sense the Healer had other intentions. Shortly thereafter, this thought came to me. If our voices are triggers, perhaps we could communicate another way – via texting.

I felt great peace about this plan. I resolved to write to my brother and simply say: “I love you, David, and I wish we could be friends.” If he responded angrily, which I absolutely expected, I would only respond with the same message: “I love you, David, and I wish we could be friends.”

I hit the send button the first time with trepidation. Although frightened by what lay ahead, the volleying had now begun. I don’t recall how many times David responded with anger; but, as I continued to extend my text-based olive branch, his tone slowly softened. When it became apparent that taking our communication to the next step was finally possible, I began folding in small talk, but I always ended our back and forth correspondences with the words: “I love you.”

Then, he began doing the same!

_____

In my opinion, the word “miracle” is tossed around far too easily. Still, even the skeptic in me sees God’s hands (and heart) all over this reconciliation. Further evidence can be found in the timing.

Just a few months after David and I finally began living our vocation as loving brothers, he received the awful news that he would need to have part of his leg amputated due to an aggressive infection in his foot and ankle. Diabetes! We were able to walk through that experience together. And, the former “Preacher of Death” even served as David’s power of attorney and healthcare proxy.

_____

David’s final months were spent in a nursing facility. We spoke frequently, sometimes multiple times a day, and I visited with him at least once a week, usually bringing one of his favorite snacks and/or a cup of Americano coffee.

We often spoke of our childhood, sharing fond memories of events and people and looking through family photographs. It was such a blessing!

One day, mindful that we’d never really had a chance to speak with one another about the loss of our mother, I asked David if he would like me to read him my essay that recounts the events leading to her death. He said that he would like that very much and listened attentively as I read “My Mother’s Hands” aloud. Afterward, with tears in his eyes, he told me that the essay was beautiful. That meant the world to me.

_____

Before closing, I would like to share just a couple of details about David that I believe reveal something about his heart.

Our mother eventually remarried after divorcing our father. Her new husband, Earl, was a very good man, but he and David struggled to get along. Earl’s impatience with David was quite evident; and, since they lived in the same small apartment, the tension between them could be palpable.

Toward the end of his life, Earl was in hospice care at home and was very weak. When he reached the point where he needed help to get from his bed to the bathroom, there was David with his arm around Earl, supporting him all the way.

When David himself was in hospice, he looked forward to visits from the chaplain, a Catholic priest, who always brought David the Eucharist. Once he had received the Sacrament, he would often call me to say: “I just received Holy Communion and want to share the blessing. The peace of the Lord be with you.”

_____

On the eve of David’s death, I was privileged to sit by his bedside, (once again) holding his hand. My little brother was safely in sight, and both of us were at peace.

May I Take Your Order?

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In the early years of our marriage, going out to dinner was a really big deal for Marianne and me because funds were so scarce at that time. These days, we typically dine out once a week as an established “date night” tradition; and, while we deliberately avoid the higher end (i.e., more expensive) restaurants, we also never really worry about paying the tab.

After a recent meal, as we were waiting for our check, an embarrassing memory came to mind. We were a young and still childless couple, and we had finally saved up enough money to treat ourselves to dinner out. I recommended that we try a restaurant my first family used to patronize when I was a boy. I remembered really liking their Italian dishes and looked forward to savoring one of my childhood favorites once again.

When we arrived, I noticed immediately that the restaurant had a new name; and, that was not the only thing that had changed. We were seated and handed menus, and our server told us that she would be back in a few minutes to take our order. When we looked at our choices – and their cost – our hearts sank. We didn’t have nearly enough money.

When our server came back, I explained that we had come there so that I could introduce my wife to one of my favorite childhood restaurants, and we’d not been prepared for the change in ownership and accompanying changes to the menu. In fact, I pointed out, my favorite childhood dish was no longer offered. We were told that the chef could make that dish as a special order, but I protested that it just wouldn’t be the same.

At that point, I think our server perceived what was happening, and she said: “I understand sir.” We thanked her for her kindness, gathered our things, and left. Perhaps it was my imagination, but it felt as though the other diners were staring at us as we exited, that they were somehow in on our shame.

Of course, I felt awful at the time, but now I am honestly grateful for the memory. Part of married life is walking through hardship together. Somehow, “date night” dinners are tastier and more meaningful now because we couldn’t afford that long-ago meal.

As I look across the table, that same beautiful woman is still my companion, for richer or poorer. We are so very blessed.

Gum Balls

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The little boy’s excitement was palpable. He bolted from his mother’s side and approached the array of gum ball machines at full tilt before braking abruptly just inches from the display. He studied his choices with wonderment, running his hand slowly over the glass as if some Divine guidance was forthcoming through his fingertips.

I studied him as discreetly as possible from my place in the checkout line. I remembered that feeling from many years past… and smiled.

But something else held my attention. The child’s face was badly scarred, no doubt from severe burns. He was also missing part of an arm below the elbow.

I couldn’t squelch the sadness that came over me in a wave. I thought about how hard it is to be different, how cruel and superficial the world can be. I wondered about his future and the courage and character he would need to survive. I hoped he would know unconditional love, acceptance (from others and from himself), tenderness, peace.

I knew that I would likely never see this child again; and, though my heart was deeply moved, I really had no right to project about his future. Almost certainly there would be struggles, but I also believe in grace, amazing grace.

Whatever the years ahead might bring, for that blessed moment, he was just a little boy in front of some gum ball machines, his heart racing as he considered where to insert his precious coin.

Some of My Best Friends Are…

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Preamble: 

What follows is an essay that has been stirring within me for some time. I have discussed a few of the thoughts expressed below with friends, but I have never had the courage – or, perhaps, the humility – to commit them to writing. This reflection deals with aspects of human sexuality, a topic that somehow remains perplexing for me even after sixty-three years of life and nearly forty years of marriage.

I wish to make it clear from the start that I do not write as a teacher of Catholic morality. Further, I make no claim to be a theologian, philosopher, or anthropologist. What follows are simply the ruminations of a man with faith, who has stumbled more times than he cares to admit in the sexual arena, and who also happens to be a husband, father, and grandfather within a beautiful, complex family.

Why tackle this topic now? I could rightly claim that I am motivated by prayer since the matter arises often in quiet moments with God; however, the deeper truth is that I write this especially for my youngest child, Matthew, who shall always be welcome in my heart and at my table.

By the way, two related stories are quite deliberately interwoven below. I hope the narrative won’t be too difficult to follow.

—– —– —–

When our youngest child, Matthew (Matt), was a toddler, he had a stuffed Pinocchio toy that he really loved. At bedtime, I would sit on the edge of his bed, assume my silliest Pinocchio voice, and bring the puppet/boy to life. It was a ritual we both thoroughly enjoyed.

Just before turning out the light, Pinocchio would always mischievously say:

“Good night.

Sleep tight.

Don’t forget to write.

Be careful, I might bite.”

Then, after a pretend chomp on Matt’s belly…

“You weren’t careful.” (Delighted laughter!)

—–

It happened nonchalantly. My wife Marianne and I were watching a movie on the loveseat in our den when she suddenly pivoted, lifted her legs, and draped them over my lap. All the while, her eyes never left the screen.

It was not an overtly sexual act; still, it was quite intimate. There was no hesitation, no concern that I might not want her legs restricting my movement, no worry that her feet might smell after a long day at work.

I glanced down and instinctively began massaging her calves, but my mind was racing elsewhere. I was caught up in marveling at how far we had come, at how fruitful our difficult journey ultimately had proven to be.

—–

Matt was a child of firsts: the first to keep us waiting, a full two weeks beyond his predicted delivery date; the first who, thanks to meconium aspiration syndrome, remained in the hospital for several days after birth before he could safely come home; the first whose skin assumed an orange tint due to his seemingly insatiable appetite for carrots and sweet potatoes.

Other firsts would follow years later: the first to try smoking; the first to dye his hair; the first to get a tattoo.

Being Matt’s Dad has not always been an easy proposition. He is the most temperamental of our three children and the one who has always seemed most willing to push boundaries. When he reads this essay, as I know he will, I suspect he may recall some specific examples. (Right, son?)

Matt is a talented musician and artist. He is highly creative, strong-willed, tender-hearted, and very passionate about causes and people he believes in. He is a devoted son, brother, and friend, and he has the gift of genuineness that can be both charming and a bit in-your-face.

On parent-teacher day, I recall his kindergarten teacher raving about his people skills and his tendency to coordinate social activities among his classmates. We were not surprised.

Growing up, Matt had a sincere faith in God. He was an altar boy in our parish, attended youth retreats, and enthusiastically entered into daily family prayers. In fact, one of the sweetest memories Marianne and I have of Matt’s childhood is when he would summon his older sister and brother to gather for prayer by calling out: “Guys, it’s time for we’re prayers.”

—–

Marianne is an incest survivor. Her rapist was a trusted uncle, who began molesting her when she was only ten years old. His violations continued until Marianne was sixteen, when she rose up in her own defense and finally ended the horrific abuse. We didn’t know each other at the time, but I am so very proud of her courage.

Of course, I have Marianne’s permission to mention her ordeal here. Otherwise, I would never have brought it up. I will provide no further details except to say that such a sustained trauma cannot help but leave lasting scars. In the early years of our marriage, even though our love was genuine, building trust was the essential work of our intimate life. And it was precisely work, requiring a great deal of patience and perseverance from both of us.

Marianne was by no means the only wounded member of our team. I have written previously of the dysfunction characteristic of my first family and of the downward spiral ultimately leading to my parents’ divorce. I will not rehash specifics of my father’s abuse that caused me to doubt my worth and personhood. I will, however, offer one story that I have never told here before because I believe it exemplifies the awful confusion of my teenage years.

As my parents’ relationship deteriorated, they reached a point where they could barely tolerate being in one another’s presence. Almost anything could serve as a catalyst for their heated arguments.

One day, they were particularly incensed with one another and were screaming back and forth between different rooms in the house. I always assumed the peacemaker role, so I went to the kitchen to attempt to calm my mother down. Unfortunately, there was no consoling her. She broke away from me, walked to the doorway, and deliberately began banging her face into the door frame. Before I could pull her away, she had already violently impacted the surface multiple times. Then, she reached for the phone to call the police to report (falsely) that my father had struck her.

The shame and embarrassment of that afternoon are chiseled into my memory. I was seated on the front porch, in full view of the neighbors, with the flashing lights of  the police car drawing attention to the scene, as the two responding officers questioned me about the incident.

“He’s not a good husband or father,” I recall myself saying, “but he didn’t do this.”

My mother was a genuinely dear woman with unyielding faith and a deep love for her family. Under supreme stress, however, she broke that day, and I was left to pick up the pieces.

I believe I was 17 at the time.

—–

When Marianne and I wed, we embraced a shared and hopeful future; but, if we were to grow together, we would also need to confront our emotionally shattered pasts.

—–

The Catholic Church teaches that a married couple’s sexual expression should always manifest both procreative and unitive dimensions. This is a beautiful, holy ideal; and, many Catholic couples strive heroically to live out this commitment, particularly through the practice of Natural Family Planning (NFP). Many others, however, for complex reasons known only to God, the couples themselves and, perhaps, their confessor(s) and/or spiritual director(s), come up short of full compliance. Marianne and I fall into this latter camp.

While I believe in the possibility of a Divine plan for human sexuality and really do cherish the ideal the Church sets before us, I also recognize it as exactly that, an ideal. Though I am not proud of our struggles, especially in the procreative dimension, neither do I allow them to shame me/us disproportionately. They are a part of our intricate reality, and our forgiving God has met us most generously along that path.

—–

One day, some years ago, Matt asked if he and I could have dinner together that evening. I queried if there was something particular on his mind, and he replied that he had something to share with me that might make me uncomfortable but that could prove a breakthrough for him. I booked a reservation at a nearby restaurant, waited, and wondered.

I suspect he wanted to talk with me first (and alone) because, for whatever reason, he saw me as a larger hurdle than his mother. Over dinner that evening, in an act of liberating courage, my youngest son told me that he is gay.

—–

Based upon Marianne’s and my lived experience of ministry to one another, I would broaden the Church’s understanding of the fruit of marital sexual expression to include a third dimension, co-creative, and I would easily give it equal weight. Within this framework, such things as honesty, transparency, prioritizing the spouse’s needs above one’s own, sharing the daily burdens of temporal life (jobs, chores, etc.), active listening, empathy, compassion, patience, forgiveness, shared meals and tears, prayer, laughter, and exhausted hugs are all, in my opinion, co-creative expressions of married life and love.

I once heard a female comedian say something like: “The sexiest thing a man can do at the end of the day is wash the dishes.” I think that’s often true.

Since we committed our lives to one another, Marianne and I have been all about co-creating with God, helping each other become the person God created us to be. I am unquestionably a better man due to this amazing woman’s enduring love and support. My bride has been a channel of God’s grace in my life, and I pray (and believe) that I have been the same for her.

Indeed, it is “not good that the man [or woman] should be alone.” (Gen 2:18)

—–

During his teen years, as his sexual identity apparently came into clearer focus, Matt became vulnerable to the kinds of wounds only the Church and/or its members can inflict. As a result, he began to rebel against Catholicism, which I mistakenly interpreted as a faith crisis. I have since come to understand that he was actually struggling to reconcile his blossoming sexual awareness with his heretofore faith community, and it wasn’t going particularly well.

—–

Just a few days after “the  dinner,” Marianne and I departed on a previously booked cruise vacation. Early on, we learned that a priest was onboard and that he would be ministering to passengers throughout the trip. I requested a one-on-one appointment with him to talk through issues related to what I’d recently learned from my son. I was seeking an objective, compassionate ear, and, initially, I was warmly received; however, as soon as I mentioned Matt’s news, the priest’s entire demeanor changed. In an oddly hostile way, he began angrily railing against “sodomites.” I tried to listen politely, but it was all too much. He was demeaning my son, albeit circuitously. I left that ugly meeting without confrontation (thank God!) but with a much clearer understanding of what Matt was facing, at least in some quarters of the Church.

—–

I once knew an elderly woman whose middle-aged gay son lived with her. In many ways, her unconditional love for her son was a model of acceptance. Her devotion to him was sincere, but she always secretly held on to an unrealistic hope. On more than one occasion, she discreetly whispered to me: “I hope he finds a nice girl and settles down.” This fantasy, I believe, was her coping mechanism.

Many parents, I suppose, nurture an idealized vision of how their children’s lives will unfold – good health, a joyful childhood and adolescence, a great college experience, a satisfying career, solid friendships, a loving marriage, adorable children, a nice home, ample money reserved for those anticipated “rainy days,” sufficient retirement savings, and, ultimately, a burial plot in a particularly lovely part of the cemetery. Marianne and I were guilty of that too; and, Matt’s news, initially at least, seemed to throw those prefabricated plans – our plans – into disarray.

By God’s grace, we have come to recognize that our calling is to embrace the reality of what we have learned about our son. Matt’s gayness is not temporary. It is not a phase he will outgrow. It cannot be prayed or reprogrammed away. While he could, theoretically, “find a nice girl and settle down,” we know that doing so would be fraught with complications that could undermine even the strongest of relationships.

Rather than abandoning parental dreams for our son’s life, we find ourselves rethinking them in light of this new – or, newly understood – reality. Matt, our former “orange baby,” is gay!

Since faith and active participation in the Church are central elements in our lives, our rethinking must also consider how to reconcile our love and support for our son with our experience of God.

—–

When Marianne spontaneously draped her legs across mine, I saw in that simple act a hard-won, uncomplicated trust, an affirmation of safety, a sign of the maturity and beauty of our love.

Our path had certainly not been “ideal,” but it had been authentic.

—–

According to the Catholic Church, the only morally acceptable option for homosexuals is to live a life of chastity and celibacy. This may be a holy and high ideal, but is it realistic? And, does the Church honestly support it?

Before continuing, I will reiterate that I write only as a Catholic Dad, who knows and loves his gay son, and not as a teacher of morality. Some readers may be disappointed by my ideas, but they faithfully reflect my conscience.

—–

Recently, I spent some time reviewing web-based information about the formation of Catholic priests for a life of chastity and celibacy. In the pieces I read, the difficulty of this calling and the special grace required to fulfill it are repeatedly emphasized. I also discovered that seminary educators and formators are specially tasked with cultivating in their students a deep sense of the “precious gift” of celibacy, especially insofar as it prepares one for priestly ministry.

The website of The Sacred Heart Major Seminary in Detroit included this statement on the topic:

”… Depending upon when a man enters the seminary, his formation can last from between six to eight years. The seminary has a well-developed and comprehensive curriculum for chaste celibacy. This curriculum outlines and examines key formation components: study of the Church’s documents; Sacred Scripture foundation; the history of celibate priesthood; psychosexual development; counseling others; prayer and a personal relationship with the Lord; celibacy and the evangelical counsels; intimacy in human friendships; discerning a call to celibacy; moral theology; and strategies for living celibacy and purity.”

Embedded in the excerpt above is a link to the “curriculum for chaste celibacy,” which helped me to understand more fully that Seminary’s comprehensive approach.

While I think it is entirely appropriate to form seminarians so carefully and comprehensively – over a six to eight year period – for a life of celibacy, I am left with some disturbing questions. Where is the corresponding formation for single and homosexual lay people? Are chastity and celibacy less demanding for them? Or, is their vocation simply valued less within the Church?

The truth is, many LGBTQ people, including Matt, already feel unwelcomed by, or alienated from, the Church. And, when people like Fr. James Martin, S.J., attempt to build bridges of healing with the LGBTQ community, they are often met with strong resistance, including from some brother priests.

Even if formation in chastity and celibacy were to be made widely available in parishes, which is where most active Catholics live out their faith, significant reparative work would likely need to precede the offerings in order to encourage participation. Further, and perhaps more importantly, I question whether a contemporary Catholic audience in Matt’s age group values or even understands celibacy.

—–

Knowing Matt as we do, Marianne and I seriously doubt that he will choose to live his life without a romantic partner. He is currently in a relationship, in fact, and it certainly seems to be blessing him, including helping him to trust and to heal from the wounds of his past.

I can easily imagine someone with the mindset of the priest on the cruise becoming apoplectic at the suggestion that a committed gay relationship could be a blessing; yet, can we really deny that possibility?

It is a cliché, of course, but some of our best friends are gay. As I write, I am thinking of a particular couple, Richard and Frank, who have been together for many years and are still very much in love. Their relationship richly demonstrates commitment. It also offers ample evidence of the fruit of the Holy Spirit – love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control (Gal 5:22-23).

Can this be ignored?

Perhaps I’m grasping at straws, but I find hope in the groundbreaking work of the Council fathers at Vatican II, who drafted and approved the Decree on Ecumenism Unitatis redintegratio. 

That decree was written against the backdrop of the long-held Catholic view that there is no salvation outside of the Church. The Council fathers, because they could not deny the evidence of the Holy Spirit at work in separated Christian denominations, acknowledged a salvific, albeit imperfect, communion between those bodies and the Church. In so doing, they both confirmed the long-held teaching and recognized salvific degrees of incorporation/communion within the Church.

I wonder if the Church might one day apply a similar rationale with regard to human sexuality, i.e., uphold the ideal of marriage between one man and one woman wherein every sexual expression is both procreative and unitive, but also recognize degrees of incorporation within that ideal for those of us – the majority, I suspect – who fall short of fully realizing that ideal.

Yes, I wonder.

—–

Along the continuum of views regarding homosexuality and the Church, I know good people on both extremes: some who would read what I have have written (above) and conclude, without hesitation, that I am advocating grave sin; and others who would simply say that God made Matt gay, and he should pursue his truest self.

Marianne and I are decidedly closer to the latter view than the former, but we are still somewhere in between. There is, however, one thing we can say with certainty. Matt is our beloved son, in whom we are well pleased.

And, we’ve really no doubt that God feels likewise.

Believing in Santa

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Did you ever have a “God moment?” Even if you’re not a believer, have you ever experienced a surprising insight, a sudden drawing back of the veil, that caused you to stop whatever you were doing simply to ponder what you’d just seen, heard, or felt in your heart? I’ve had many.

Once, for example, I had traveled to the Boston Public Library for a meeting. Since I’d arrived a bit early, I spent a few minutes people-watching in the lobby. An assortment of interesting characters passed by, but my attention was especially drawn to a class of middle-schoolers, who had come for a library tour.

The social dynamic among the students was eerily familiar. Some were the cool kids, comfortable being the center of attention, which they commanded by their antics. Others, the clear majority, seemed indifferent to their surroundings. They conversed in small clusters while waiting for the tour to begin. (This was before the age of the ubiquitous cell phone.) Finally, there were those bringing up the rear. I’ll affectionately call them the misfits. They generally appeared ill-at-ease and eager just to get beyond this ordeal. I understood.

As I watched, I felt compassion for this latter group, whose members quite likely endured taunts and trials for being perceived as different or for failing to measure up to some unjust standard. Then, however, I noticed something important. Yes, the misfits were segregated somewhat from the larger group, perhaps by choice; however, amongst themselves, they genuinely cared for each other. Maybe they weren’t as audacious as their more confident peers, but they talked, goofed around, and laughed together. They shared a bond, a communion of souls. It’s difficult to explain, but that awareness was startlingly joyful for me. In that unexpected moment of clarity – a “God moment” – I appreciated anew the wonderful blessing of comradery.

On another occasion, my wife Marianne and I were in our stateroom awaiting the launch of a Caribbean cruise. Shortly before the scheduled departure, the ship’s captain made an announcement that we’d be leaving late due to a mechanical problem. Since our balcony overlooked the pier, we were able to witness some of the feverish activity below as cruise line personnel scrambled to resolve the unnamed issue. It looked like exhausting work.

We finally set sail about three hours late, and I watched the departure from our balcony. As we exited the ship’s berth and crept toward the open ocean, I saw three workmen gathered at the far end of the pier. Most likely, they’d been forced to work overtime and were quite tired. Still, they lingered, enjoying each other’s company. The last sound I heard from those men was a hearty, shared laugh. It seemed to speak directly to my soul about the healing power of friendship.

Right there, I lifted up a prayer of thanksgiving… under the stars, on the Dolphin Deck.

—–

I’ve noticed that, on social media sites, some atheists mockingly equate belief in God with belief in Santa Claus. That always makes me smile.

I learned the truth about Santa on Christmas Eve when I was only six years old; and, for a few hours, it felt as if all the magic had drained from my world. Then, I had a “God moment” – perhaps my first (though I doubt that) – and learned what C.S. Lewis might have called a deeper magic.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. First, I offer this wee bit of context.

Exactly one year earlier, when I was five, I had a Santa Claus nightlight. It plugged into the outlet, just below pillow level, behind the headboard of my first big-boy bed. And, if I were frightened during the night, one quick look at Santa’s backlit visage, with rosy cheeks and kind, smiling eyes, was all I needed.

“He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake.”

How thoroughly wonderful that, with all of the many children in the world, Santa cared so much for me. My devotion was real, and it reached its peak on that long-ago Christmas Eve.

Alongside the foot of my bed, there was a drafty old window, which routinely frosted over during the winter months. By late December, the frost was already thick enough to obscure the night sky.

I was restless and far too excited to sleep; but, it was the promise of presence rather than presents that denied me slumber. Santa Claus would soon be near; and, thinking back, it felt as though hope itself, rather than blood, was coursing through my veins. Eventually, after many adoring glances at my nightlight failed to satisfy, I pulled off my covers and made for the window.

I haven’t many crystal-clear memories from early childhood, but that night is an exception. My big sister, Christine, who shared the room with me, asked what I was doing. “Watching for Santa,” I replied matter-of-factly, while scratching out an icy peephole with my thumbnail.

Through that tiny portal, I expectantly searched the dark sky for a sign. Every twinkle, every shadow passing in front of the moon, quickened my pulse. I couldn’t have identified it at the time, but this was, I’m now convinced, an early experience of desire for the Transcendent.

—–

That moment apparently left a profound impression. Even today, when I go to my prayer room hoping to encounter the un-seeable One, I can almost feel a ribbon of frost melting beneath my thumbnail.

—–

Despite a valiant effort, my five-year old self never did see Santa that night. I ultimately returned to bed and fell asleep. While I’m sure it was wonderful, I have no memory of Christmas morning that year or of the presents under the tree. The next year, however, would be quite different.

—–

Months passed, and Christmas Eve arrived again.

Just before bedtime, Christine, who would turn eleven the next morning, pulled me aside and said that she and my Mom “had something important to tell me.” She had a strange, sad expression on her face, and I sensed something was wrong.

They both knew of my sensitivity, and it must have been quite difficult for them to bear such crushing news. I don’t remember the precise words they used, but I do recall their reason for telling me on that particular night. Though I hadn’t known about it, our family had been struggling financially. Consequently, Christmas was going to be lean that year – just two gifts per child.

My Mom had decided it would be better to tell me the truth the night before than to have me wake up the next morning thinking I’d somehow disappointed Santa during the previous year. Today, I marvel at her concern. That night, however, I was too brokenhearted to think.

I cried… and, so did my Mom.

Grieving is hard work for a little boy, especially on Christmas Eve. I still had my Santa Claus nightlight, but looking at it only magnified my sadness.

That night, the frost on my window remained undisturbed.

—–

On Christmas morning, I lingered awake in bed. The birthday girl, my very closest friend, came over to encourage me.

“Come on. Let’s go see.”

“Okay,” I replied, but I was still slow to move.

“You know,” she said, “it’s not that Santa isn’t real. He’s just not who you thought he was.“

—–

Two gifts awaited me under (and beside) the tree. And, honestly, of all the presents on all the Christmas mornings of my childhood, they are the only two I can still recall. One was a paint-by-numbers kit with a special kind of glittery paint. The other took my breath away. It was my first and only childhood bicycle, a 24-inch Columbia that I cherished immediately. Was it my imagination, or did it really glow?

No other conclusion was possible. I must have been a very good boy that year!

I looked across the room at Santa’s now smiling face.

“She sees you when you’re sleeping. She knows when you’re awake.”

“God moments!”

—–

Philosophical proofs of God’s existence make my head spin. Try as I might, I just can’t follow the arguments; and, I’m honestly not edified by them. I don’t say this to disparage intellectuals, whom I greatly admire. It’s just that, if the world is comprised of thinking people and feeling people, I’m a card-carrying member of the latter group. In Myers-Briggs typology, I’m classified as an INFJ, which is a fancy way of saying that I lead with my heart.

My “proof” of God isn’t found in logic, reason, or even the theology I so dearly love. Rather, it’s found in the comradery of misfits, in laughter at the end of the pier, in frosty peepholes, and in Santa’s smiles and tender tears.

Yes, I still believe!