There was a time when peoples’ politics defined much of who they were—morals, character, virtues, fund of knowledge, their understanding of complicated world events and their personal empathies. Their beliefs weren’t always agreeable but were at least well-defended by deep roots and informed convictions.
Disagreements were conversation points revealing sharp differences yet with respect for the other person and a craving for depth and understanding of their opposing view.
Discussions were exited without driving wedges or assaults on character. They were deliberate, genuine attempts at bridge building though neither one might admit it in the moment.
To understand another’s fundamental politics was a desire to understand the entirety of the person. Conversations weren’t punctuated by sound bytes, innuendo or irrelevant periphery. They weren’t permitted hiatus on vague or shallow arguments and were always less about the party and more about the mind and heart of the person.
The end game was to evolve new ideas and solutions for all rather than digression into single issues of personal preference with feet dug in.
They embraced ‘what-ifs’ not as threats but as the creative bridges they were and ‘why-nots’ as opportunities to lay new stones for a unifying path, not for casting at one another across their divide. Indeed, they were dialogues of dream-builders engaged in the pursuit of a better life, a better world and prosperous opportunity for the all versus the one.
It was a hot day in August 56 years ago when a man spoke “I have a dream” and unified a sharply divided nation of a lesson that had yet to learn. That dream can still come true in this polarized world if people want it bad enough. Meaningful change waits for those who firmly grasp the fact that under the veneer, what we all want has more in common than not, and in many ways, is much the same thing.

Inside each conscientious writer is a tiny astronomer glancing upward to the skies for just the right word to change the hearts of men.

I spent 10 days with my daughter over the holidays and left for home a very proud dad and grandpa. I wrote this on the plane…

She hears every breath
And smells every smell
Sees front and behind
Months ahead just as well.
A Jill of all trades
A mistress of none
Not a moment she fades
Not even just one.
Her life is a calendar
Planned down to the minute
With dates for all others
But herself not in it.
Earns nothing in wages
But paid daily in love
Working harder and faster
Than we’re aware of.
Laundry playtime and dishes
And all tasks in between
She meets everyone’s wishes
While hers go unseen.
She’s a mother and wife now
First my little girl
Making good on her vow
She’s everyone’s pearl.

Our home is now spotless
The clutter is gone
Cupboards in order
The laundry is done.

Peace on earth?
We wish it in greetings of prose and song this time each year but is it really still possible or just a relic of holiday grammar; an empty, outdated hope from simpler safer times of long ago? Giving up on peace would be a resignation of hope and I don’t think most of us are ready for that just yet.

Nowadays it seems more believe in Santa Claus than believe peace on earth is genuinely attainable. It sounds warm, lovely and hopeful like many season’s greeting cards but is just as quickly quashed by the next hostile news report, shooting, act of war or other global mayhem across the pond or more recently in our own backyards.
I, for one, believe peace on earth is still possible because peace on earth isn’t static but rather a movement.

Abandon the seemingly impossible thought of global peace and view it as a series of individual efforts, consistent and connected, moving the cause forward, if but an inch with each deliberate effort. By definition, movements move. They seek momentum. They don’t stop and can’t stop. Those who pay it forward do so in small, imaginable, deliberate ways, not because of a season or words on a greeting card.

Peace is the easing of pain, the healing of wounds, the comfort of the afflicted. Peace is a warm coat, a hot meal, a ride to the store or a touch for the untouchable. We can do peace. Each of us can be peace to another. Peace on earth is the selfless sacrifice of effort. Selfish people rarely have it because they rarely give it, leaving it up to the rest of us to keep the ball rolling.
At this time of year of more selfish indulgence than any other, peace-full people make the extra effort not to just give it away but to pass it on like the gift it is. Stories of individual and family gives, abandons of conformity to the holiday commercialization and spontaneous ensembles of strangers uniting for the purpose of sharing with the impoverished abound.

Peace on earth is deliberate.
It doesn’t ride in on political coattails. It doesn’t take up residence in a heart of good intentions. It can’t be legislated, mandated or lightly accommodated and rarely arrives in waves of mass conviction. Peace on earth is a deliberate movement beginning with a single act of goodwill never bound to a time of year.

Peace on earth is a commitment.
Truth is, when the holiday season ends, so does much of the giving. Corporate giving reduces when PR opportunities are fewer and drops in individual giving follow, justifying their inaction by any excuse. But authentic movements of peace don’t slow or stop simply because the season is over. It never lacks resources. It doesn’t take a break. It continues to move. It has to.

Very soon, the celebration will be over, but the cause of peace will go on, feeding the hungry, warming the cold and serving the neglected—with or without you—albeit with less momentum, but never lacking intention or purpose.

At this time and at all times, our wish must be: Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me. Don’t give up the hope. We can get there. Vow with me to do your part to keep the momentum of peace going all year long and well into the new year.
Peace is a verb looking for you, we and us, the pronouns needed to keep it going.
It’s much too soon to give up on this world of ours or this season of peace.

A Short Father’s Day Story.

They woke us at daybreak from what little warmth our lightweight nylon tent provided, promising what was about to occur would be worth the wake.

It was to be the thrill of a lifetime for little boys like us. In a few minutes, we would experience the climax event of our fifty mile summer backpacking trip through the high sierras at the hands of fathers who always made life fun if not memorable. What could possibly be so exciting at daybreak above the timber line, halfway into two weeks where we’d seen no one but each other on the trail the entire time?
But they promised. And all three dads were looking to the sky, grinning in anticipation.
We were their young men. They thought we were unaware of the flasks stowed in their backpacks for times like this and the fact they were already drinking at 6am underscored its importance. We had spent the last eight days in blistered boots and full packs across grueling snowy switchbacks on summer vacation to arrive here. Along the way, they’d taught us how to fall in creeks, fall in love with mountains and mornings, though we’d fallen asleep early the night before exhausted after a dinner of freeze dried somethings.
But now we were awake and it better be worth it. Out in the cold at 8,500 feet, Thousand Island Lake’s shimmering surface stretched out before us reflecting the morning sun and the majesty of Banner Peak glowed rising like a blazing orange God on the horizon. Even for 12 year olds, it was a breathtaking view. Behind us were the many miles during which time we’d been becoming men, having traveled together to this glorious elevation together seeing no other soul for miles or days.
Irritated at the surprise awakening, too young for coffee and too cold for Tang this early, still, we stood there with frosted breath in the morning air, gazing up as men, awed and beholden by the beauty.
And then…far behind us beyond the horizon and what seemed miles away on fast approach, we heard it. Three grinning dads glanced our way, sipped their scotch and coffee and returned gazes upward as if anticipating the second coming of Christ right there in our midst. We were increasingly awake, a huddled group of little boys, alarmed at what we were hearing but strangely comforted by the smiles of our dads. A loud rumble at first, it gained deafening high frequency and intensified our way. I feared a bomb or a meteor shot from space and we were all to be sacrificed at ground zero in the woods.
From behind, the lake surface shook violently, we vibrated, and with hardly enough time to turn to look, the F-15 fighter jet raced in front of our team across the surface of the lake and trajected perpendicular up the face of Banner Peak right before our eyes. And as quickly as the deafening noise broke the silence, it disappeared and faded into the rays of the blue sky. In unison, our breath gasped.
We weren’t quite sure what we’d just experienced but something had flown into our lake valley and disappeared as quickly over the mountain ahead. It was an incredible sense of awe as if God himself had paid us a very loud and spectacular morning welcome.
Our three dads had made prior arrangement with a family friend on a fighter pilot cruise for a surprise fly by that very morning in this most unlikely of places.
A rite of passage, that morning, we became men.
If we’re not careful, the frenzy of young life can steal from us the most lasting of all gifts. Memories of our childhood, recollections of times past when we were young, innocent and impressionable. Times when big things happened that made us marvel at the hands of fathers who wanted nothing more than to see our surprised faces and smiles.
For older men, nostalgia is a wonderful gift. It entertains, it brings stories of joy and takes us to simpler times and nearly forgotten experiences with people who now only exist in our ability to remember them as they once were.
We have all lost our dads since, but will never lose the memories they made for me as little boys. They are wonderful gifts that give forever and make me smile like a twelve year old even now.

Though it was like a Christmas morning in July. I’ve carried this memory all year long every year since.
LifeMeansSoMuch.com

Our republic is in flames, but Megan is on the bus home from her second job at 2am and hardly knows today’s world news. She’s thinking about what she can make for three school lunches that need to head out the door in a few hours, how she will pay her overdue rent and if she can get just three hour’s sleep before leaving to her other job.
Important things are happening in the world tonight.