The Stairway

     2625 Vale Crest Road.  April 26, 1960.  A foundation was laid.  A baby was born.  A home.  My values.
     A split-level home.  The front door.  The front entryway.  A stairway down to the den--an office, laundry room, a Singer sewing machine.  Mom.
    A defining moment.
     Late 1960s.  Pacifists.  Vietnam.  Mom's first-born son.  My brother.  My Idol.  The  Draft.  Drawing "your" number.  Lower numbers go to Vietnam first.
     Me.  The baby of the family.  Home from school.  I walk into the front entryway.  Mom hears me.  With baited breath I ask, "What was His Number?"
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     Not good.  Frightening.
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     Conscientious Objector.
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     Only later--much later--did I learn how close we came.  A hearing set.  Our minister set to testify.  Last minute change.  The minister could not come.  I do not remember what followed.  How did we succeed?  My memory fails me.
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    Our job?  Prove why a very young man be drafted into the quagmire known as Vietnam.  The quagmire put before our eyes by Walter Cronkite each night.
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    When Conscientious Objector status was granted, I understood the responsibility of pacifism.  Diplomacy.  World peace in our living room--conscientious objection at the Stairway.
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     Forty years have passed.  The memory--the image--of that moment is as clear as when I first stood at the Stairway.
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     The waving of the United Nations flag on October 24--the anniversary of the UN's founding--added to the responsibility to live conscientious of our life's commitments.  Meetings of the World Federalists in the living room--in the heart of our home--embodied the same spirit.
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     What happened to that young man?  Did he ever offer service?  Yes.  Yet today, he offers medical care to those who come to him in need.  Yes.  He offered service.  Yes.  He offers service.
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     2625 Vale Crest Road.  April 26, 1960.
     My home has changed.  Time has passed.
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     I pray we do not fall down The Stairway.  I pray we remain steadfast Conscientious Objectors to actions that mask themselves as National Security.  May we not pound our chests.  May we seek peace, understanding, diplomacy, and care.
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Family Crossfires

     My family is close.  Reconciled to inevitable differences present within any family.  Reconciled.  At peace.  Not seething silently.  We are blessed.  Some families are not so blessed.
     Christmas.  Christmas cards.  Childhood neighbors and friends remain close.  Some closer to me.
     Though not closest to me, two women are on my "must send" list, nonetheless.  One is blinded by sight.  The other?  Her mother--her housemate.
     The first woman is blinded by sight.  Yet, far beyond any physical manifestation of blindness, her mind has been blinded--blinded by her own volition-- to what might be possible if she believed.  No one forced it upon her.  By unbelief--by ultimate inaction--she has taken the strongest action.
     She is tragic of her own making.   More tragic is the blind ensnarement of her mother.  Imposed Catholic guilt is a joke most times funny.  This is no joke.  This is not funny.
     Born in a generation when etiquette, propriety, manners, and grace were virtues, the mother instilled these in her children.  Or, so she tried.  Through no fault of her own, Catholic guilt is being imposed on her by her daughter.  Though not privy to their conversations, there is no doubt.
     I need you.  Don't leave me alone in my blindness.  Literally.  Since my blindness imprisons me in this house, you cannot leave the house either.  Don't leave me alone.  If you dare, you will live to regret it.  I will take irrevocable action that you will live to regret.
     The mother's golden years are being held hostage.  The daughter's potential choked.  A travesty.  Imposed.  A travesty.  Self-imposed.  A travesty.
     What may I do?  Virtuous I am not.  I cannot violate the virtues instilled by my own mother.  So what can I do?
     A simple Christmas card.  Supporting UNICEF--supporting the belief of what is possible in each child's life, if we unite.  A simple Christmas card addressed to both mother and daughter.
     Merry Christmas.

A Changing of the Guard

     This week, a pronounced changing of the guard came clearly into view.  Two lives--two people--who have given me immeasurable strength were changed.  One by illness.  The other by death.
     Sunday.  Imminence.  Foreboding.
     How is it possible to owe more to someone than your life?  I don't know how.  Yet, I do.
     Sunday morning.  A voicemail system flashes the unnerving red signaling a call missed.
     A quart of blood lost.  Unknown cause.
     Wednesday.  Tests done.  A relatively clean bill of health.  With equal parts exhaustion, and relief, she returned home.  Yet, a huge toll has been taken on her.  Physically.  Emotionally.  Psychologically.
     Wednesday.  A gentle soul died.  Not before living very fully for many years.  Not before giving me, and many others, strength from his weakness.  Not before teaching me, and others, how to live quiet dignity.
     Thursday morning.  A never-before heard call.  A call to offer my hour's swim in thanksgiving to him--for him.  Unfamiliar though the call was, the message was clear.
     Friday.  The quart of blood lost to the woman to whom I owe my life, and so much more, is being restored more slowly than it was lost.
     My sense of imminence--forboding--has been calmed.  Yet, the strength has passed to me to offer.  The time for me to offer something back for all of the strength she has offered to me for more than a lifetime is now.    
     What will my offering be?