A Prodigal Returns

February 14, 2018

Twenty eight years ago, I was a parishioner of The Church of the Nativity in Bartlett, Tennessee. I was the pastoral council president and participated in a weekend retreat at the church in preparation for the annual parish mission that was conducted by two visiting priests. During the retreat, each attendee shared something personal regarding his or her faith journey. My story was that of a modern day prodigal son.  To be honest, I was quite nervous. Following is the story I shared on the evening in which the topic was reconciliation. Following my testimony,  our pastor and the two visiting priests heard confessions. It was obvious that a number of parishioners had not been to confession in many years. I know this because some of my fellow parishioners expressed their appreciation for my personal story either verbally or in writing.  I was humbled by their responses.

                                                                A Prodigal Returns

Like many here tonight, I was born and raised Catholic. I attended Mater Dolorosa, a Catholic grammar school in New Orleans, which was run by Dominican nuns who drilled into my malleable mind the precepts of the Baltimore Catechism.  The fear of the Lord was instilled in me by those nuns. It was as if they held the Catechism in one hand and a ruler in the other. With the latter the nuns would inflict physical pain. With the former, they would inflict the fear of spiritual pain.

I learned of venial and mortal sins and the consequences of committing a grave offense against God.

“You can live your entire life in the state of sanctifying grace,” Sister Ruler-in-Hand warned, “but if you commit a mortal sin the day you die without the benefit of confession, you will burn in hell forever!”

The thought of living a virtuous life only to commit a mortal sin without the benefit of confession just before I died weighed heavily on me.  From an early age, these doctrines and beliefs were internalized in me and for years shaped my behavior.

But people change over time and sometimes not for the better. Despite the fear of eternal punishment for dying in the state of mortal sin, I strayed from my religion for several years, attending mass only twice a year, at Christmas and Easter. That was more as an obligation to my family than as an obligation to my Creator.

This change was subtle at first. It began during my teen years, that period of my life in which I tasted, to any degree, the freedom of choice. I began by missing mass occasionally. Then, those occasions became more frequent, until it seems that I rarely attended. Life was happening and religion seemed to get in the way.

During this time frame, I married my wife. We attended the requisite marriage preparation course and I listened to the presenters, but apparently their messages didn’t stick with me.

By my md twenties, I was too preoccupied with other areas or goals in my life, my career, college studies and other less worthy or perhaps less than honorable pursuits.

Before long, our oldest son was born and five years later, our second son was born.

When my wife and children went to Sunday mass, I remained at home, studying, reading, watching television or chasing other worldly pleasures. As far as being a Christian father was concerned, I wasn’t much of a role model. I wasn’t too interested in God at the time and I certainly didn’t find time in my life for Him.

Janice, my wife, was tolerant, patient and loving. She didn’t hassle me in any way. Instead, she prayed for me.

At the time, I didn’t appreciate intercessory prayers for another person, but I assure you tonight that praying for another can be a powerful testimony of love.

During that period of my life, I was high strung and quick to anger. Consequently, I wasn’t at peace with myself.

But, as time went on, something began to gnaw at me from within. Outwardly I appeared happy, but inside, I was miserable. Something was missing in my life and I recognized that feeling, but I didn’t know what it was I was missing.

After a long time, I sensed an urge to go to church.

My first attempt at returning to mass was a bummer. I suffered an anxiety attack right there in church and broke out in profuse perspiration.  I made it through the Gospel somehow, but I left church at the beginning of the homily, my shirt drenched and my hair matted.

I was convinced that all my neighbors and friends in attendance at mass knew I didn’t attend church and I felt as if every eye in church was upon me.

It was humiliating.

I decided I wouldn’t return to church the following week. Why suffer through another anxiety attack?

But, as Sunday approached, the gnawing feeling returned. I decided to try again.

The results were virtually identical to the previous week. Once again, I left mass early.

Believe it or not, this went on for a long time. I did manage, however, to last longer and longer each time I attended mass.  Still, I would eventually break out in a cold sweat. I begin to live with this problem, thinking that this was the only way I’d ever be able to attend mass. I also learned to avoid wearing light colored trousers because the perspiration was too obvious.

One Saturday evening, I attended mass alone at a different church. I sat in the rear pew – to easily escape if necessary.

Before mass began, an usher approached me.  He asked me to carry the communion hosts during the presentation of the gifts.

I nearly fainted. I hadn’t been to confession in years, much less received communion. I was in the state of sin and I certainly didn’t feel worthy to carry the hosts in my hands.

Inexplicably, I agreed.

As I walked down the aisle towards the waiting priest, I looked at what I held in the palms of my hands. I couldn’t help but think how sinful and unworthy I was to hold what I thought was the body, blood, soul and divinity of Christ. I was frightened. At any moment I expected to trip and spill what I was carrying onto the floor.

My knees wobbled. I shook. And yes, I perspired heavily. Little did I know that the hosts I carried were not yet consecrated; they were still simply bread.

God works in mysterious ways. A simple, innocuous request by an usher – a request made thousands of times each week – turned out to be a call to repentance.

The following Saturday, I was first in line for confession. It was my first confession in perhaps 7 – 8 years. It seemed like I was in the confessional for an hour or so, but it was more like 10 – 15 minutes. The priest was very comforting, compassionate and forgiving. I’m sure I had forgotten many sins, but he forgave those as well as those I could recall.

When I exited the confessional, I felt like an immense burden had been lifted from my shoulders. I lost a lot of excess baggage that Saturday evening.

I felt freedom again, but this time, it was true freedom.

During mass I received Christ in the Eucharist for the first time since our marriage. It was just a week or two before Christmas and I remember thinking at the time just how marvelous a Christmas present I had received. I was free from the bondage of sin.

I was excited. The anxiety attacks began to diminish. Finally, for all practical purposes, they ceased. Also, through God’s graces, I began to better control my temper and anger. I felt renewed and more at peace.

Sixteen years ago, God answered a wife’s prayers for her husband to return to his faith.

Through the power His love,

Through the power of prayer,

Through the incredible power of the Eucharist,

And, through the liberating power of the sacrament of reconciliation, another prodigal son had returned.

There are more prodigals in our lives. They need our prayerful support.

Every day in the privacy of my home, I thank the Lord for his love, mercy and compassion. I thank him for the sacrament of reconciliation.

I also thank him for the many blessings He’s given me: this parish community, three wonderful children and many other blessings.

I also thank Him each day for bringing into my life nearly twenty-nine years ago, a blessing named Janice.

Tonight, I would like to thank Him for giving me the courage to stand before you. I assure you, without Him, I wouldn’t be here.

Thank you.

Postscript:

Following my presentation, our pastor and two other priests heard confessions. I estimated that 80% - 90% of those who attended that night went to confession. As a penitent was absolved of his or her sins, the priest handed each a stone. Each penitent was instructed to drop or throw the stone into an aluminum bucket on the floor next to each priest. As the stones struck the bottom of the buckets, the sound could be heard throughout the church. The stones represented casting off the weight of sin. It was a remarkable sound.

Several years after my testimony, Jim, my older brother was suffering from terminal cancer. His last year was a painful one. He lived in Hurley, Wisconsin, a small town near Lake Superior. We spoke on the telephone once or twice a month. I’m never sure what to say to someone who is dying. Most often, I simply listened to him.

One day, during our conversation, Jim brought up the subject of religion, death and the afterlife. It was obvious he had given the topic some thought. Jim was brought up Catholic, but I didn’t know if he had continued to practice his faith. I didn’t ask him. I did mention my testimony at The Church of the Nativity in 1992. I briefly described my talk and he seemed interested. He asked me to send him a copy of my testimony. I mailed it to him, but the subject never came up again in our future conversations.

He died in August, 1996, at the young age of 55. I attended his funeral which was held in the only Catholic Church in Hurley.

Following the funeral, we gathered at my brother’s home. His wife pulled me to the side. She wanted to share something with me.

She pulled out the copy of my testimony that I had mailed to Jim. She told me that Jim cherished my story and read it several times. She said it meant a lot to him. I nearly broke down in tears. I was humbled. I could only hope that my story resonated with him and brought him some level of peace in his last few months.

One never knows the impact he or she might have on another. In my case, an usher was doing a job that he does every week. His request drove me to confession. My talk in 1992 affected several members of our parish community and some people returned to confession after a long absence.

 Pray for others. Pray for loved ones. Pray for those you don’t love so much. Pray for your enemies. Our prayers, our words and our actions often affect people in ways we don’t know and may never know. But, who knows. A prodigal somewhere just might take heed of your words and return.

Bad Decisions Make Good Stories

When it comes to dieting and exercising, bad decisions make good stories. At least I think they do. When faced with the choice of a sumptuous serving of steamed broccoli or a gooey serving of baked macaroni and cheese, how many possess the will power to choose the former?  If I’m eating out and the choice is mixed vegetables and French fries, which do you suppose I will choose? The mixed vegetables? Yeah, right!

When dieting, eating out is a treat. My philosophy is that if I’m going to blow it, then what the hell, just blow it. Of course, I could or should use some discretion. The better part of discretion usually does not include vegetables when fries are an option. But, there are times when I can, or think I can, rise to the occasion. Take for instance the decision I had to make Saturday.

My wife had a ladies’ golf association luncheon to attend so I was left on my own. It would have been quite easy if I had remained home while she attended her function. But, since the luncheon was seventeen miles away, I did the husbandly thing to do and I drove her to the golf club where the luncheon was held. I had no intention of driving seventeen miles home and then return to pick her up. Gasoline prices are still a bit too high to waste fuel pretending to be a taxi driver. Instead, I remained in the general area. I decided to eat out and then return to the golf club. If the ladies were still enjoying themselves when I returned from lunch, then I could buy a bag of practice balls and try to figure out why I lost my swing recently and where it was.

I had a choice of restaurants to select from. In the area, there was my favorite barbeque place, a Mexican restaurant, Olive Garden, Ruby Tuesday, Buffalo Wild Wings and Panera Bread. There might be more in the area for all I know. After an agonizing decision process, I decided to eat at the barbeque restaurant. After all, this is Alabama and barbeque is almost a way of life here.  Besides, I wanted a Pabst Blue Ribbon draft! There aren’t too many places that I know of where one can order a PBR.

Before leaving yesterday morning I went on line to check out the restaurant’s menu. I love the home made style French fries at this restaurant but I was determined to order a healthier side and avoid all fried food.

Everything I’ve eaten at the restaurant has been good but recently I’ve been ordering the hot pork link plate which includes three links and two sides. The waiter suggested I order the hot pork link appetizer which includes two links (hah! Calories saved) and a side of pimento cheese. The appetizer was considerably cheaper than the plate. It sounded good to me but, to assuage my desire to eat something healthy, I ordered a side of cream spinach.

“I would also like a PBR,” I told the waiter.

“Do you want the small or large?” she asked. Before I could respond, she added, “Oh, there’s a special. The small and large are the same price today.”

I’m no dummy. Why pay the same price for a smaller version of the same product. “Make it a tall one!”

After consuming two gratuitous small biscuits, I awaited my meal. While waiting, I decided to check the calorie content of the spinach and pimento cheese. The menu does not include nutritional values so I had to rely on my phone app (don’t know how I would survive without a smart phone). I searched for pimento cheese. There were a number of responses available but none gave me the information I wanted which was that pimento cheese was low in calories. I settled on pimento cheese spread.  A cup of pimento cheese spread is 640 calories! The cream spinach was only 180 calories.  Faced with this dilemma I had a decision to make: should I eat the cheese or not?  I compromised. I ate about 3 tablespoons of the cheese (120 calories) and minimized the damage. I consumed a whopping 1261 calories for lunch alone. My decision to eat what I thought was reasonable was anything but. I have no idea how many calories I consume when I order and eat the link plate, including fries, and frankly, I don’t want to know.

I didn’t fare much better at dinner. I consumed 1315 calories! That cup of split pea soup must have really got me last night.

Yesterday was a free day, but I took the free day much too far. In all, I consumed 3002 calories (nearly a pound worth of calories). I burned 581 (running, walking, driving range). My net calories were 2420. I was 595 calories over my daily goal. Saturday was among my worse days since I began this journey, all because of one – no, make that two – bad eating decisions. Frankly, unlike the title of today’s blog, I don’t consider it a good story.

But, today is another day. It’s another opportunity to get back on track and start pushing again. I can only hope my journey is not like that of Sisyphus. I will probably write about Sisyphus in a future blog. People trying to lose weight can probably relate to his story.

Note: I first published the blog several years ago, but eventually deleted. After reviewing it, I think it is a decent story.

© William J. Charles, November 2011

  

Hey! Quiet in Church!

In the late 70’s one of the more popular movies was the comedy, "Oh God!" starring John Denver, Teri Garr and the inimitable George Burns.  Denver played the role of an assistant manager in a southern California supermarket and Garr played the role of his wife.  God, played by Burns, speaks to Denver.  At first, Denver doesn't believe that it is really God speaking to him.  Denver's doubts rise when God appears to him. The Almighty has the appearance of an elderly, albeit fatherly man.  This can't really be God.  But God proves himself as he and Denver are driving in Denver's car on a beautiful, sunny day.   To prove his divinity, God creates a rain shower within the automobile.  Denver's character, wet and stunned, is convinced.

Unfortunately, no one, including his wife, believes his story.  They think he is hallucinating or on drugs.  Denver loses his job and things continue to go wrong in his life.  Finally, he accuses an evangelist of not really acting in accordance with God's will and the evangelist files a lawsuit, charging Denver’s character with libel.

During the trial nothing goes well for the mild-mannered Denver.  He's convinced that God will appear during the trial and prove his point.  As the trial ensues, Denver digs himself into a deeper hole. Desperately he tries to convince the judge and jurors that God is real and could appear at any moment.

"Suppose I were to say that God will appear in person," Denver says.  Pointing to the doors of the courtroom, he proclaims, "Suppose God were to walk through those doors right now!  Would you believe?"

The courtroom became hushed and all heads and eyes turned toward the courtroom doors half expecting God to appear.  There is a moment of silence and anticipation. But God chooses not to appear at that time.

What would the jurors and audience have done had God, in His Almighty splendor, appeared? Chances are most would have been in complete awe.  Many would have prostrated themselves in homage to him. Others may have offered praise and glory.  After all, isn't that what we would do in God's presence?

If he suddenly walked through the doors of the church in a form that we, as humans could comprehend and fully understand that it is indeed God, then we would likely fall down in reverential fear and love.

I would suggest to you that God is here in our church.  He's here not only communally as in "Wherever two or more are gathered in my name, there I am also."  He is here in body, blood, soul and divinity.  He is here in the magnificence of the Eucharist, His Body and Blood.  That is our Catholic faith. That is what we believe. 

Since God is here in His real presence, shouldn't we acknowledge as much?  If we truly believe in the miracle of the Eucharist, shouldn't our behavior reflect our beliefs?  Should we not offer praise and glory to Him or kneel or sit in reverential silence? 

Stop for a moment before mass and listen.  Do you hear the silence of prayer?  Do you observe the reverence due our Lord?  Or, do you hear loud and constant chatter?

I was born and raised Catholic in New Orleans.  During the 50's it would be unheard of if people carried on conversations in church.  Church was a special place, a place of God.  We were instructed to keep His place holy.

Many people arrive at church early in order to be in His presence.  Should they not be afforded the opportunity to pray in relative silence?  The restless children and crying babies are not the issue. They will always be among us.  But adults should be considerate, if not of God, then of those who wish to pray in silence.   

            

Much has been written of recent surveys that indicate a large number of Catholics may not believe that Jesus is really present in the consecrated host.  If anyone should doubt then I suggest he prayerfully read John chapter 6.   This chapter is the discourse on the Bread of Life.   Jesus instructs those listening that they must eat his flesh and drink his blood.  In verse 56, he says "My flesh is real food and my blood is real drink."  Is not bread real food and is not wine real drink?   Furthermore, the verb he uses for eat is a Greek word better translated as "munch" or "gnaw."  His message is too far-fetched for some of his followers so they leave him.  If Jesus were speaking symbolically why did he not stop the doubters from leaving the fold?  Why wouldn't he admit that his words were not to be taken literally, that he really didn't mean that they should eat his body and drink his blood? In other Gospels, when his followers did not understand his teaching, he explained whatever message he intended to convey at the time.  But, in John 6, he does not offer any explanation other than what his words conveyed.  The reason is that Jesus meant what he said.  And if he meant what he said then we can only conclude that the Eucharist is really his body and blood.  If we believe this basic Catholic teaching then we can only conclude that we are in his real presence whenever we are in a Catholic Church.

Should there be any other reason, then, to pay him the respect due him?

I pray that we will all remember this fundamental truth every week when we arrive at church. If you must speak, please give consideration to others and do so in whispers.

 

© January 2003

Leather Jacket

My sixteen year old son is obsessed with owning a leather jacket.  It's not just any leather jacket; he insists on black leather.  I could handle that, but, he wants one with silver zippers, a few shiny, chrome buttons strategically located over the breast bones and, last but not least, wide lapels. He wants a jacket porpularized by Marlon Brando in the movie Hell’s Angels.

 You've seen them.  They are worn by those who are anachronisms from the fifties, sitting on or zooming by on large, monstrous Harleys, terrorizing the citizens of small town, USA. I can see my son sitting atop a Harley, proudly wearing his motorcycle jacket. He probably has a Marlboro dangling seductively from the side of his lips. Yuk!

 I have nothing against leather whether it be black, brown or tan.  In fact, I own a brown leather jacket.  It's my favorite.  It's warm and comfortable yet, it doesn't stand out in a crowd, drawing disdaining stares from others.  No one suspects me of having an infatuation with motorcycles nor do they conclude from my appearance that I'm into something kinky.  But, Jeff won't even consider a tasteful leather jacket and, he doesn't understand my opposition to one that is commonly associated with less-than-desirable members of society.

Never mind the fact that the cost of leather motorcycle jackets run anywhere from $200 to over $300.   Jeff must believe that money grows on trees or on exaggerated lapels.

 "Look at this one," I prod, showing him the $159 price tag on an attractive, black leather jacket.

 He snubs his nose at it.

 "It's not me."

 He's obstinate.  Why does he try so hard at being different?  Being different isn't necessarily bad, nor is it outrageous.  Many brilliant people have been different, but, few have worn black, leather motorcycle jackets, except of course for Brando.  Jeff may be different but he certainly hasn’t yet shown anything remotely brilliant.Different behavior - the kind that's not within the realm of the law or social mores - is outrageous.

We continue to search for a compromise, something he could wear as an expression of his unique identity and something I could accept not only for its price but also for its general appearance.

He is unwilling to compromise, even just a little.

I try a different approach. 

"Jeff, I've never spent $200 on a jacket or suit for myself.  I'm certainly not going to spend that much for a jacket you might wear for a year and a half." 

Hopefully, he will attend college after graduating high school.  "No one wears those things on college campuses," I protest.  "So why should I spend that kind of money on a jacket you'll wear for only a year?"

He shrugs his shoulders, his face takes on an expression of complete disdain.

"Besides," his mother interjects, "the kinds of people who wear those jackets are thought of as hoodlums, generally, bad people."

"Well, what about my friends?  Zack, Vince and Gary wear them.  Do they look like bad people?" he asks.

Janice and I look at each other and bite our tongues.  We'd prefer not to answer.

"Look at the people in this shopping center," I suggest, pointing around with a general sweep of my hand.  "I haven't seen one person wearing a jacket like that," I add triumphantly.

Again, he shrugs his shoulders.  His face is expressionless..

We continue to walk, not speaking.  OOPS, there's a kid wearing a shiny, black, leather motorcycle jacket.

"If you really want one, get a job and spend your own hard-earned money," I advise him.

We left the warmth of the mall and searched the crowded parking lot for our car.  The Memphis night embraced us with her cold, indifferent chill.  Jeff walked quickly, shivering.

"Well," Jeff retorts, "will you take me to an army surplus store and buy me a green, army jacket?"

"I'll consider it."

"Well, what am I supposed to do about the weather in the meantime?" he asks.

"Freeze," his mother snaps.

© December 1989

A Slob By Any Other Name

“You’re a slob!”

“Why do you always criticize me dad?”

He picked up a shirt that I had thrown on the floor and a pair of sweaty running socks and threw them onto the sheet-less mattress.

“You throw your crap all over the place. You never make your bed. Look” he said, pointing at the foot of the bed, “your sheets have come off the mattress and you couldn’t care less.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “So what! It’s my room. I should be able to do with my room as I please!”

“But, it’s my house and I expect you to take proper care of my property.”

I saw my dad’s next target. Before he could mention the running shoes, I nudged them under the bed, using my left foot as a tool.

“You’re twenty-five years old and you have no respect for my property.” 

“Dad, don’t go off the edge. It won’t take me but a few minutes for me to straighten my room.”

He stared at me. I could tell he was upset. No, make that angry. That wasn’t too uncommon.  I was used to seeing him react like this because of my slothful ways. There were few things that angered my father. He could handle a driver cutting him off in traffic or an inept cashier at the local McDonald’s.  He did not become upset when the newspaper delivery person skipped our house on occasion. But, as soon as the first sock hit my floor, he became apoplectic.

“A few minutes, my ass! Once you pick up all the crap on the floor and on the furniture, you will find foreign substances that need to be removed.”

“Foreign substances? What are you talking about?”

“Dirt,” he yelled, “and dust!”

My mother usually vacuumed and dusted the furniture. However, nearly four weeks earlier, she and dad informed me that she would no longer be responsible for those chores that, in dad’s words, “a twenty-five year old should do.”  I had not yet done either.

“I’ll vacuum and I’ll dust if that will make you happy!”

“Don’t get smart with me! If you don’t want to do your part around this house, then I suggest you move out.”

Wow. He was really angry now. I didn’t want to move out of my parents’ home.  Sure, I graduated from the University of Alabama Birmingham with a Bachelor of Arts degree and a major in English. And, even though I make $750 a week, my monthly wages would quickly be depleted if I had to rent an apartment. Besides, how would I be able to afford those things that bring me comfort, such as my iPod and iPhone?  How could I regularly upgrade my computer? Let’s face it, personal computers are much like automobiles. Once you take them from the store, they begin to depreciate and lose value. Within twelve months, if not sooner, a newer, faster and better computer is on the market. A young person who depends so heavily on computing devices wouldn’t think of using the same desktop or laptop for more than a year, eighteen months top.  Speaking of laptops, I’ve had my current one for eleven months and now have my eye on the newest Mac model.

I need my money for things other than silly rent. I might live with my parents for 5 – 6 more years. Of course, I have not yet told them of my probable plans. But, that shouldn’t surprise them at all. The McKinney’s, our next door neighbor, have been landlords for two adult children, the oldest of whom is thirty-five years old. Hah! I still have at least ten more years to go!

My grandmother often chides me about being single.

“You’re getting old, Lawrence. Why don’t you find a girl and marry her? Your grandfather and I were nineteen when we married. You shouldn’t wait much longer, especially if you want children.”

Children were the least of my concerns. I can’t imagine little ones crawling all around getting into my personal items. Can you imagine the damage a toddler can do to an iPhone? Or a laptop?  I would be horrified if I were to find milk or pee on my keyboard!

“Grandma, I’m not that old! Many of my friends aren’t married. Besides, I can’t afford a wife and family yet.”

“You can’t afford a wife because you spend too much of your money on all that crap you buy.”

Wow, for my grandmother to counter with such language meant she was angry. For all my life I had been her pet and I don’t remember her even being upset with me.

“You’re too damned spoiled,” she continued. “And sometimes I think you care about no one but yourself.”

Yikes, that hurt coming from her.

“Grandma, my personal electronic devices are important to me. In today’s world, that’s how people connect. We text, we twitter and we email throughout the day.”

“Why the heck don’t you pick up the phone and call some of your friends instead of tweeting, twixting or whatever the hell you call it.”

I could see I wasn’t going to change her mind nor was I going to convince her of the demands and needs of a modern man to stay connected with friends and networks. I tried to change the subject.

“Grandma, are you staying for dinner?”

“Don’t think you can change the subject like that. And another thing, if you want to eventually marry you ought to start looking for a better job!”

This just wasn’t my day. First my dad nagged me and then his mother jumped all over me. They worked in precision like a WWF tag team. My dad threw me against the ropes and grandma pounded me with a folding chair. Soon mom would enter the ring and pin me to the floor. I was losing this match.

Now that my livid family had left the room I decided to try to see my room and myself as they saw me. Whenever I looked in the mirror I saw an average man.  I didn’t consider myself handsome, ugly or homely. Just like my friend Justin was just Justin, I was just me, Larry Langley. I stood five foot ten. My hair was brown and quite thick and my eyes complemented my hair. I didn’t wear designer clothes or shoes. In fact, I’m not sure I would know where to look for them. I either rely upon my mother to buy my clothes, which she had done with much certitude for most of my twenty-five years, or I simply buy jeans, shorts and shirts from Wal-Mart. I wear clothes not to be stylish but to avoid prison.

My room doesn’t look as bad to me as it obviously looks to my parents and my grandmother. The three working computers don’t take up that much space. Neither do the spare hard drives, fans and other parts that I keep in my room to repair not just my computers but those of friends and family members. Hah! They don’t complain about my room when I fix their computers!

So, a few hand tools are on the carpet. Big deal. It’s not like the screwdriver is stuck into the carpet. And the five empty plastic water bottles that lay around aren’t much of an issue. I can pick them up anytime, can’t I? I have over two hundred DVDs and I have only one room in this large house. Where else can I store them other than on top of my chest of drawers, in my bookcase, on top of my dresser and even on the floor. I know the ones on the floor have been there for about two months, maybe five. But, I’m culling them to see which ones I want to get rid of. Mom said I haven’t culled any in at least a month but how would she know? Oh, I see they are covered with a thick layer of dust. That might be a clue. Perhaps if I dust once in a while, she might think otherwise.  

Dad keeps complaining about the pile of paper that has accumulated on my desk, file cabinet and dresser. He wants to know when I intend to throw most of it away. Dad! That’s my mail. I can’t just throw it away without going through it, can I? You say it’s been there for how many months? Gosh, I guess I should begin to see what’s in these stacks of mail. I wonder if my cell phone bill got mixed up with this stuff. I received a notice that my bill has not been paid. I called the company and told them that I didn’t receive a bill. But who knows, maybe it’s here somewhere in one of these stacks.

I never was much of a basketball player. The school coach told me I wasn’t quite tall enough. I didn’t believe him.  Frankly, I don’t think my shooting and ball handling skills impressed him. But, I’ve been practicing! That’s why, in addition to the empty water bottles, there are dirty clothes on the floor. I’m trying to improve my skills! I currently make about 30% of my shots and, I’m proud to say that’s up from 23% last month. Dad once asked me why I didn’t attempt any slam dunks instead of three point shots. He also asked if I’ve ever attempted an offensive rebound. I tried to explain that just about anyone can slam dunk if the basket is only four feet off the floor. What fun would that be? But, to tell the truth, I didn’t have a good answer for not attempting any rebounds. I could only assure him that eventually I would place the dirty clothes into the basket.

I have been thinking of getting my own apartment. I wouldn’t have to listen to my parents’ constant nagging and I could live as I want, not that I’m not doing pretty much that now. But, the most reasonably priced one bedroom costs nearly $1000 per month! My take home pay is only $2500 or so. That would leave me so little to enjoy the things in life that bring me joy. I only pay my parents $200 per month. Mom says that doesn’t nearly cover room and board. She claims that if she included her services, which she compares to those of a maid, then I should be paying over $1200 per month. Yeah, right!

I don’t believe for one minute that she works that hard on my behalf. Like I said, I only have one room in this large house.

Now that I’ve tried to look at my room as they do, I honestly can’t see what they complain about. I think I keep my room pretty neat.

   

© W. J. Charles July 2015

Passion Unused

In one his famous poems, Dylan Thomas wrote “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower.”  Like most poets, Thomas was a master at choosing the right words to convey complex emotions. I have always viewed the Thomas’ use of force in the above verse as synonymous with passion.   A natural passion drives the flower. It has no choice but to do so since the force has been ordained by nature to do just that. In the natural world, the force or passion that controls the seasons, the flowers, the shrubs, the oceans and streams cannot do anything but that for which it has been divinely created. During times of drought or other natural phenomenon, nature’s passion might be temporarily disabled or ineffective but it eventually returns or it evolves with the elements.  Nature is very efficient and does not allow her forces to go unused for too long.

On the other hand, man’s passion is not as regulated as nature’s.  Man’s passion is primarily emotional and he can choose to act upon it or he can choose to ignore it.  When one acts upon and follows his passion, the usual result is happiness and joy and some level of success in whatever endeavor he’s engaged.  Too often, though, people do not follow their passions. Instead, they surrender to their more immediate needs or to others’ expectations.  They pursue careers for expedience rather than for addressing their true needs and desires. They remain too long in jobs which may not particularly satisfy them but which keep them and their families clothed and fed. There is really nothing wrong with taking a path such as this. However, the price so many people pay for doing so is the suppression of their creativity.  Most highly successful people who are also happy decided at some point to pursue their passion.  Something done with passion is usually something done right.

Passion unused dwindles. It evaporates. It leads to regrets and to “what could have been.” How many men and women, in their later years, have lamented the life paths they chose and wondered how their lives would have been had they only pursued their dreams?    Like the battered prize fighter portrayed by Marlon Brando in the classic, “On the Waterfront”, they cry out “I coulda been a champion!”  How many people have cried out, “I could have been a doctor,” or “ I could have been a pilot,” or “I could have been a writer.”  The list is endless. So many coulda, woulda, shoulda’s. So many dreams wasted. So much passion unused.

Fortunately, humans have been blessed with significant mental faculties. We can think rationally. We can make decisions daily. We can, regardless of our station in life. This holds true for young and old alike. It doesn’t matter if a person has failed to act in accord with his passions every day of his life. Today, he can choose differently. He can choose to act on his passion. 

If today, just 5 percent of us acted on our passions, we would change ourselves and we just might be able to change the world.

Wouldn’t that be a grand thing!

As Christmas Approaches

No other season captures me more than Christmas.  My love for this time of the year has nothing to do with receiving gifts. I truly enjoy the spirit of Christmas – the sense of giving. I also enjoy the other aspects such as the music, decorations and the attitudes of most people. I listen to Christmas songs and I sing along which helps me get into a joyous mood.

Yet, there is also an aspect of Christmas which is saddening. So many people have so little and yet ask for practically nothing. I read an article in the Birmingham News several days ago that dealt with the many letters addressed to Santa that are received by the US Post Office.  Many of the letters are enough to bring a grown man to tears. More than one child wrote that he or she wanted nothing. Instead, if Santa could just bring their father back from Iraq then that would be enough. Others forsook their own desires for those of their mothers or siblings. One child wrote that he could get by with no gifts this year but he asked Santa to treat his sister kindly.

Stories like these remind me that Christmas discriminates. It discriminates unintentionally. And it’s not Jesus’ fault. In fact, I’m not sure he would approve of the way so many people and so many nations celebrate his birth. Rather than celebrate this holiday in a humble manner, more consistent with the way Jesus came into this world, we have commercialized the season to an incredible degree.  Through advertising and other means, we have made it clear that Christmas just isn’t Christmas unless one receives the latest X-Box, doll, toy, etc.  That in itself is not too bad. Many people can afford such niceties. Unfortunately, many, if not more, cannot. So, a disparity results between the haves and the have-nots.  How can we face those children and those adults for whom December 25 will be just another disappointment?  Sure, we help by giving freely via angel trees and other charitable means. But, despite our best efforts, so many people fall through the cracks.

I do not need anything for Christmas. If someone insists on giving me something, then fine. A book will do nicely or perhaps some golf balls. The most important thing I desire for Christmas is a sense of Jesus’ love for my fellow man.

Links To The Past

“Y’all golfers?”

It seemed such an odd but innocuous question and, I certainly hadn’t expected it. I and my four golf buddies had just finished eating a great country breakfast at Big Daddy’s Café in Fayetteville, a small town in central Alabama. The small café was somewhat busy. I suspect that since it was nearly 9:00 AM that the normal breakfast crowd had already eaten and were now on their way to work. A few regulars remained, drinking coffee and finishing off a serving of eggs, ham and biscuits.  They were easy to spot. Some wore overalls or jeans and tee shirts of varying shades. One even wore camouflaged trousers, which seemed appropriate considering the location.  On the other hand, the five of us were dressed sharply.  We were attired in neatly ironed Dockers, Izod or Adidas shorts. Our knit shirts bore various brand names and logos. Our caps were Titleist, Callaway and Taylor Made and two bore the name of the now defunct Heatherwood Country Club. We stood out in direct contrast with Big Daddy’s regular customers.

I turned to the patron who asked the question. He was a black man and appeared to be middle aged, perhaps a bit older. A weathered hat adorned his head. His face was unusually smooth and appeared none the worse for what I guessed was a lifetime of labor outdoors. He grinned beguilingly, as if he were hiding a secret.

“Yes, we’re golfers.”

“Y’all going to play at FarmLinks?”

Was this a trick question? FarmLinks Golf Club was minutes down the road from the cafe and was the only golf course within 20 – 30 miles of Fayetteville. Where else would we play?

“Yes, we’re going to play FarmLinks,” I responded, and then added, “I’ve never played the course but I’ve heard a lot of good things about it.”

I wasn’t sure my words were of any importance to the man. He seemed more concerned with what might be on his mind rather than mine.  I really thought he could not care less about golf. He just didn’t appear to be a golfer. Nor did he seem the type that was interested in the sport.

He grinned even wider. “I was born and raised on the land where the seventh tee is.”

“Really?”  I feigned interest and I wasn’t sure why that bit of trivia might be important to me but I didn’t want to appear rude and ignore him.

“When you’re up on that tee and getting ready to hit your ball, think about that.” He paused, taking another sip of coffee from the Styrofoam cup he held in his weathered right hand.   “Just think about it,” he commanded.

I nodded and studied his face for a moment longer. My eyes locked on his. I realized that I was indeed being rude by staring at him. I abruptly averted my gaze.

“I sure will.” I wished him a good day and walked away.

Within minutes we entered the impressive gate to FarmLinks. I was excited to finally have the opportunity to play the course. I had heard so much about this course located in an area which cannot, in any way, be described as a golf hotbed. FarmLinks is a research golf facility and attracts golf course superintendents from around the world to study some of the golf industry’s most advanced resources and technologies. The facility also attracts golfers from all over with the unusual offer to play unlimited golf for a daily fee. I had heard of the fairways with different types of grass on each and I’ve been regaled with numerous stories of how well the staff treats its guests.  Today, thanks to the Southeastern Seniors Golf Association, I would finally play the venue.

After paying the tournament entry fee at the SSGA registration table, I went to the practice range. Like many senior golfers, I need several minutes, if not more, to warm up before playing. I hit perhaps thirty balls with different clubs and then spent ten minutes on the practice green. Before proceeding to the first tee, I stopped at the practice bunker to hit a few sand shots.

I felt good, if not a bit nervous on the first tee. I was playing in a threesome with two men whom I had met just that morning. They were exceptionally nice and were the type of golfers I wouldn’t mind playing with in the future. But, as is the case whenever I play in a tournament and especially when playing with strangers, I had the first tee jitters. My shoulders tightened a bit as did my hands and legs, a sure sign that my nerves were in control of my body. This was an indicator that I would slice or hook my first drive. Somehow, despite my nervousness I hit a decent drive.  Although my drive was shorter than Wally’s or Rusty’s, it came to rest in the middle of the fairway.

Seniors often play at a leisurely place.  Since I was riding alone in the golf cart, I allowed my mind to absorb the experience and the spectacular views. A golf course can be quiet and peaceful and FarmLinks was no exception. I took advantage of the pace of play and made the decision to simply enjoy the moment and the scenery.

The course starts in a valley. The fairways are generously wide and forgiving. In fact, it takes quite a slice or hook for one’s ball to find trouble. The greens are fast and most are contoured which makes for challenging putts. If you stay below the hole, generally the putt is easier. If your ball comes to rest above the hole then the speed and contours of the greens can exact a toll on one’s scores.

The highlight of the front nine is the par 3 fifth hole. From the fourth green to the fifth tee box, the elevation rises 170’. The tee box on the fifth hole offers a panoramic view of the distant hills and the valley below. The green is the largest on the course but it certainly doesn’t look so large from the tee box. The scene is postcard quality. Many golfers, including myself, capture the beauty of the hole by taking photographs from the tee box. I was grateful that my cell phone has a camera option.

It took nearly two hours to complete the first six holes, but I was content just soaking up the experience of FarmLinks.  We pulled up to the seventh tee and after waiting for the group ahead to clear the fairway, I teed my Callaway ball and stood behind it. I selected a target and tried to visualize the shot I wanted to hit. With the shot firmly visualized in my mind, I addressed the ball.

“Just think about it.” 

The intrusive thought and voice from within seemed real. I was startled. It was as if the gentleman from Big Daddy’s was standing behind me, nudging me and demanding that I do as he said.

I backed away from the ball. Slowly, I scanned the area, taking in the scenery. The bright lush green fairway stood in contrast with the one foot tall fescue borders that beckon wayward tee shots.  The fairway bunkers, with meticulously raked sand seemed ornamental rather than penal. I could see the green over three hundred yards in the distance, much too far for me to drive.  I tried to imagine what the land looked like 30, 40 or 50 years ago, long before a golf course had even been considered. Had it been farmland or had it been a southern pine forest? I’m sure that whatever it had been, it was beautiful. I don’t know if the land that now serves as the 7^th hole had been tilled for crops or was simply dense foliage. It probably didn’t matter except to the family that claimed it as their own.  Now, the land had been transformed from its natural state to perhaps an even more pristine state that still honored its humble past. For a moment, I could sense the man as a child running around, playing with siblings and friends and enjoying this modest parcel of land for everything it was worth. Now, I had the opportunity to share, in some way, what he had known and what he obviously had revered.  I felt privileged and blessed.

I returned to the task at hand. Once again I selected a target. My focus became sharper as I saw, in my mind, the shot I would hit. Addressing the ball, my limbs became relaxed. I waggled the driver twice and again glanced at the target.

I now knew what the black man in Big Daddy’s Café wanted me to know. He was as much a part of the golf course as were the fairways and greens. He was proud of his family’s stewardship and he was sure that the new stewards would take pride in their contributions to the land.  Change can honor the past.

“Thank you,” I whispered quietly.  “Thank you.”



© June 2009
William J. Charles

Sacrament of Reconciliation

Catholics believe in the sacrament of reconciliation whereby a person confesses his sins to a priest and, through the priest, receives absolution for his sins from Jesus Christ. According to church teachings, the priest represents Christ and thus has been anointed to grant forgiveness on behalf of Jesus. Most Catholics profess a belief in the sacrament of reconciliation. However, based upon the relatively few Catholics who participate in this sacrament, many do not really believe in it, or are too intimidated to confess to a priest. Like our protestant brothers and sisters, many Catholics confess their sins directly to God and believe their sins are forgiven. I wish it were that easy. It is, after all, somewhat inconvenient not to say humbling, to take the time to go to confession, considering, confession is available in most Catholic churches for only a short time each Saturday or Sunday before mass.

Many people do not believe priests have the authority to absolve one of his or her sins. They argue that only God can forgive sins. That sounds much like the Pharisees in the New Testament who questioned Jesus when he forgave sins. “How can man forgive sins. Only God can,” they claimed. Too often, critics of the Catholic sacrament of confession don’t consider John 20, versus 21 – 23, in which Jesus anoints the apostles with the Holy Spirit and commands them to go forth and do as he did. Further, he tells them that “Whose ever sins you forgive are forgiven and whose ever sins you hold bound are held bound.” I don’t know what other explanation there is for these versus other than that Jesus gave man, via the apostle and their successors, the authority to forgive sins.

A CEO is the top authority for a company or corporation. He is accountable for the success or failure of a business. However, few, if any CEOs, assume responsibility for establishing every work rule, job description, specific performance levels for their employees. Nor do they evaluate each employee’s performance. Most of these responsibilities are delegated to those who report to the CEO through the chain of command. A supervisor or foreman will generally be accountable for his employees’ performance. A manager will be responsible for the supervisors, and so on up the line. This is analogous to Jesus delegating the sacrament of reconciliation, along with ministering the other sacraments, to the cardinals, bishops and priests. Jesus, the CEO of His church, has established a line of succession and accountability through the clergy to do the things He did and more. It’s as simple as that.

Employees are usually rewarded for doing a good job. Similarly, Catholics who take advantage of confession are rewarded with forgiveness, absolution and peace of mind, heart and soul.

 © January 2017

William Charles
 

Rehearse Life Roles Each Day

Each of us has several roles in our lives. Some are mothers, wives, employees. Others are fathers, sons, husbands. Most are also friends to another or many. Some are runners, golfers, quilters and writers. Some roles require similar skills and talents. Many roles demand different skills and talents and varying degrees of dedication and passion.

We usually excel in those roles for which we are very passionate. Passion drives us to be the best father and best husband. Sometimes, though, being passionate about an endeavor doesn’t necessarily equate to excellent outcomes. I am passionate about golf. One can argue that I’m addicted to the game. However, passion aside, I’m not a very skilled golfer. Likewise, I was once a devoted runner. I never won any running awards, but I certainly gave my best whenever I ran a race.

The thought occurred to me that life is but a play, a theatrical production. Each person is an actor in her own lifelong play. If we are actors, why don’t we prepare as actors do? Why don’t we audition and rehearse every day for our daily roles or roles we wish to pursue? I seldom play a round of golf without at least a minimum level of practice which usually includes hitting a full bucket of balls and 10 – 15 minutes practicing putting. Keep in mind that my practice sessions do not always equate to low scores, but at least I manage to minimize my errant shots during the round.

If I rehearse before a round of golf, why don’t I do likewise in my other, more important roles of husband, father, grandfather, friend, writer, etc.?  Why don’t I take time each day to audition and rehearse my role as spouse? I could easily take a few moments to reflect on what I hope to accomplish each day in each role. I can engage in self dialogue that would support my goal to be the best husband. I can also create new dialogue and in doing so, I can possibly create a new self.
One could argue that most successful people dialogue with themselves each day in a positive way. Athletes certainly practice positive self talk. By doing so, they condition themselves for success. An actor rehearses his lines countless times, often in front of a mirror, before auditioning for a part in a movie or play.  Why don’t we do the same?

I’m in my late sixties. I realize that I’m on the far side of life’s mountain. However, I’m still breathing. My heart still pumps and my lungs continue to function. As long as I’m alive, I will continue to strive for self improvement.I realize that as I continue to age, my physical capabilities will gradually dwindle. Yet, I can strive for excellence appropriate for my physical condition and age.  Why should I settle for less than my best?

I plan to change my dialogue. My goal is to rehearse each day for my different roles. No one else will assume those responsibilities. Nor can they. After all, I am the author and playwright of my life.

© December 2016

William Charles

A Stranger's Gift

                     

 It was a cold and damp wintry afternoon many years ago.  The space heater was ablaze in the front room of our small, frame shotgun house.  The room served not only as a living room but also as a bedroom.  With only two bedrooms and seven occupants, sleeping accommodations were at a premium. So, the living room served as the third bedroom.  The couch was also a bed.  During the day we sat upon it; at night we unfolded the bulky piece of furniture and it became a bed for two of five siblings. At different times over the years, the five siblings, two daughters and three sons, made that room their bedroom. 

The insulation was poor and there were many cracks in the paint and woodwork alongside the windows and doors.  In the winter, cold air easily penetrated these numerous, narrow openings and mixed with the heat from the open flame of the space heater.  The combination of cool, moist outdoor drafts and the warm dry air of the heater produced condensation which streaked down the walls and windows in uneven lines and patterns.  We would say of the streaks of condensation that the walls were “sweating.”

            I was only seven or eight years old at the time, but the memory of that day is still vivid in my mind.  My mother was in the kitchen, smoking homemade cigarettes she rolled herself with a small cigarette rolling device. She would insert a small piece of cigarette paper into the top of the machine, pour enough tobacco to ensure a good smoke and then she rolled the cigarette by operating the lever on the machine. It was cheaper than buying a pack of cigarettes.   As usual, she was drinking a cup of chicory laced coffee.  It was a Monday and the aroma of red beans simmering on the stove permeated the entire house.

My father, a streetcar conductor, was between shifts.  He lay in bed sleeping.  Mom would wake him later and he would freshen up, dress and return to the streetcar barn located on Willow and Dublin streets in the Carrollton area of New Orleans for his second shift of the day.

I was in the living room as usual playing with some of my toys.  The television was on but because dad was sleeping, the volume was low.

There was a knock on the front door.  There was little crime in New Orleans in the fifties so it was not uncommon for the front door to be unlocked or to open the door without  first asking who was there.  Besides, it was always someone we knew, a neighbor or an acquaintance. Perhaps it was Mr. Schiro, the insurance agent who personally collected insurance premiums weekly from his customers. Or the person knocking could be the Community Coffee representative who delivered his product to homes. 

I opened the door only to find a stranger standing outside.  He was tall and thin.  His face was gaunt and the speckled stubble on his cheeks and chin matched what hair showed from beneath a soiled, beige baseball cap.  His hands were stuck in the pockets of an obviously old and weathered windbreaker.  His elbows were drawn in and his shoulders hunched upward in an attempt to better fend off the chilly breeze. 

His eyes caught my attention.  Dark brown, they were set deep in their protective sockets and they seemed lifeless.  They spoke of misery and want and hinted of a lifetime of pain.  He looked pathetic and ravaged.

"Is your mother in son?"

 I didn't even bother to close the door nor did I invite him in from the cold.  I ran quietly through the two bedrooms and into the kitchen. I was careful not to wake my dad from his midday nap.

"Mom, there's a man at the door."

"Who is he and what does he want, Billy?"

             I hadn’t asked so I couldn't tell her.

She followed me to the front room.  The door and the stranger were exactly as I had left them.  Mom studied the stranger.  I detected a slight frown on her face but I didn't think it was one of anger.  I stood by her side, clutching her dress.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry to bother you, but I’m out of work.  Been out of work for a long time.  I'm broke and I'm hungry. Ain't had nothin' to eat in a couple of days.  Can you spare some food?"

Mother hesitated, apparently eyeing up the stranger in an effort to assess the truth.  Suddenly, her countenance changed.  I saw it in her eyes.  A wave of pity and empathy enveloped her. 
"Sure.  My dinner's not cooked yet but, I can make a sandwich for you if that's OK."

 He bowed his head slightly, almost embarrassed by his condition. He replied in a low voice, “I'd really appreciate that ma'am."

 She started toward the kitchen and then stopped abruptly.

"Please, come in from the cold.  Have a seat but, please be quiet.  My husband's asleep."

The stranger nodded.  He entered the house tentatively as if he were entering forbidden territory.

 "Billy, keep the man company."

 I sat on the floor.  The television was on but my eyes were on our guest.  He was poor and I felt sorry for him.   He didn't say a word.  He only stared at the floor with his plaintive eyes.  He loosened his shoulders somewhat as the warmth of the room quickly embraced him.

Within minutes mom returned with two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, an apple and a small container of milk.

            "If you like," she said, "you can eat in here."

He rose to his feet and took the offering. 

"No thank you ma'am.  You've been kind enough and I'll just move along.  Thank you so much and may God bless you."

He opened the door and slipped back into the cold air.  I stood behind the eight-foot windows that stretched from the living room floor to just two feet from the ceiling. Through the condensation that covered the thin pane of glass I watched the stranger.  He descended the porch stairs, opened the gate and walked north on Green Street.  Within moments, he was out of view.

I was saddened by this event.  We were of modest means.  Some might even have considered us poor, but we always had food to eat and a roof over our heads.  I had never known poverty nor witnessed it before. Yet, here it had been, right in my living room.  I didn't know quite how to respond.

I prayed.  I asked God to help that poor stranger.  I promised God that if he would make that man a millionaire then I would become a priest.  All he had to do, I thought, would be to send Michael Anthony,  The Millionaire's executive secretary to the stranger. The Millionaire was a weekly television series during the fifties.  Each week, John Beresford Tipton, a wealthy philanthropist would select a person in need, usually one who was down in their luck.  He would dispatch Anthony who would present the recipient with a cashier’s check for one million dollars.  The millionaire changed lives in a moment.  That happened every week on television. Why couldn’t it happen to the stranger who had entered my life so briefly?  Like most seven or eight years old at the time, I didn't know that the popular television show was simply fiction.

In the ensuing years, I would think of that incident occasionally.  I don't know what ever happened to the stranger.  Did he get back on his feet?  Did he find work? Did he die alone and poor with no one to care for him?  Did he become a millionaire?  I hope the latter didn't happen because I'm married now with three children.  I don't think God would want me as a priest.

As I've grown, my faith has grown also.  Somehow, in my heart I believe God has taken care of the stranger, if not in this life then in the next.

I'm grateful to that tall, gaunt man who entered my life one cold afternoon so many years ago.  He allowed me to see a generous, sympathetic side of my normally pugnacious and argumentative Irish mother. He gave me a memory of her that I still hold dear today.  His brief visit and my mother's response also instilled in me a sympathetic heart towards those in need.

On that day, over fifty years ago, a stranger received a gift of two sandwiches, an apple, a container of milk and a dose of compassion from my mother. Little did he know that I would receive an even more precious, wonderful and enduring gift from him.

Thank you stranger.

© September 2016
William Charles