Believing In Christmas

My feet shuffled through the remnants of today's snow shower, searching for icy spots to avoid.  Winter had come early to La Crosse, which had doubled-down on a crappy fall season, filled with rainy weekends and cold gray skies.  Heavier snow was reported to our north, but today the Coulee region had to deal with a mixture of freezing rain and light snow.

To my right stood a lighted, plastic blow mold Santa, with bright red splotches on his nose and cheeks.  The four foot figure stood on the yard of my neighbor, along with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman.  These vintage molds always reminded me of my childhood, when I would see them on rooftops and front yards throughout the neighborhood.   Today, they had been replaced by inflatable lighted Santas and snowmen.  Somehow, they didn't have the same warmth and charm of the plastic blow molds of yesterday.

I had decided to take a walk this evening to clear my head.  The busy-ness of Christmas had a way of clouding one's thinking, and I had been dwelling on how much the holiday season had changed  since Matt and Sean had left to go to college, and years later, to bigger cities for jobs.

This year's Christmas was different -- from a season of anticipation and excitement, to one of observation and reminiscing.   I hated living in the past, but lately I had been having a hard time living in the present, with its pre-programmed, 24-hour Christmas music and the start of holiday shopping a month before Thanksgiving arrived.

I had helped decorate the house with false enthusiasm -- putting up the tree, displaying Santas, hanging stockings over the fireplace, swaying garland and wreathes, and stringing lights on the bushes in the front yard.  But the process had left me wishing the boys were home to help.  Many of the ornaments hung on the Christmas tree were from their childhood or from our time in Michigan when Liz and I were just starting to share our Christmases together.

A passing car brought my thoughts back to the present, and I discovered I had walked many blocks from home.  I crossed a street to stand before one of two churches in our neighborhood.  I had always enjoyed walking past Our Redeemer, with its contemporary architecture, highlighted by a towering cross that was the main fixture on its outer sanctuary wall.  Thin, vertical stained glass windows embraced the cross on either side.  Tonight, its stone façade was beautifully lit by a flood light that shown on a wooden nativity scene, complete with Mary and Joseph, the baby Jesus, wise men kneeling before the stable and an angel watching over all.

I paused for a moment, then decided to sit on a stone bench to enjoy the Christmas scene.  As I looked at the gentle faces of Mary and Joseph, I wondered who was responsible for creating them -- surely someone from the congregation with an artistic touch.  But also someone who understood the dignity and reverence each character had for the baby Jesus.  As if to say, "Welcome my God, my Lord, and my Son!"  For some reason, this sentiment brought a tear to my eye, and I realized many people today have completely missed the meaning of Christmas.  Instead of an offering of myrrh, frankincense and gold they came armed with video games, phones and new tech.

Instead of improving my sour mood, the worn appearance of Mary and Joseph seemed to confirm that Christmas had lost the culture war, to be replaced by Black Friday sales and gift cards.  It wasn't just the commercialization -- I longed for Christmas carols and being a kid again.  I missed going to church with my mom and dad, and returning home to Christmas presents under a real tree.  Something had pulled back the curtain, and with it, the magic of Christmas.

With a sigh, I decided to get up and head back home, where Liz was probably wondering why I had left so suddenly.  As I stood, my footing slipped on a patch of smooth ice and I crashed to the ground hitting my head on the sloped sidewalk leading to the church narthex.  As I closed my eyes, I remember looking to the heavens and thinking "when did it start snowing?"  Then darkness.

Unknown to me, a snow flake sent from the heavens above, and briefly illuminated by the lights shining on the nativity scene, gently landed on my face.



*     *     *     *



"A little higher, Tim!"  

My dad stood at the foot of the ladder and directed the placement of the wooden frame above the pulpit.  It wasn't an easy task as I had placed the ladder inside the raised stand, but had to lean against the wall because there was so little room to open it.

"How's that?" I asked, looking down on my dad, who for the first time in my life looked smaller than me.

"Perfect," dad said.  " Now get down before your mother returns and tells me how dangerous this is, and how I shouldn't let my 10-year old son fall and break his neck."  

My father was a  quiet man of average height, with a strong face, peaceful eyes and thinning hair with a curl that would never stay in place, unless he used an extra dose of hair tonic.  He stood below me with his hands on his hips, a look of approval glinting from his blue eyes.  Years ago, at the request of our church, he had constructed the star in his workshop, and displayed it every year for everyone to see.  I loved seeing it on Christmas Eve as we sat in church singing "Silent Night" and "What Child Is This?" 

I carefully climbed back down and bounced the ladder down the pulpit steps until it was safely on the floor.  Placing the ladder against the wall, I stepped back and looked up at my handiwork.   Above the pulpit hung a five-pointed wooden star.   It was five feet tall and covered by garland and large Christmas lights.  Although we had boxes of colored lights to decorate the church Christmas tree, all of the lights we used on the star were white.  Each bulb was protected by a silver, star-shaped foil bulb protector.  We also had them on our Christmas tree at home to keep the bulbs from burning the tree when they got too hot.

"Let's turn the lights on and see how it looks!"  I raced to the wall, found the extension cord, plugged it into the wall, and raced back to dad.  We stood there with pride on our faces and some relief that the job was finished before mom came back. 

"That's so cool dad!" I said, alternating my view and appreciation between the star to our left and the church tree to my right.  Other members of the church had decorated the tree and put pine boughs on each pew a few nights before.  Finally, I thought, Christmas had arrived in church! 

Dad patted my shoulder, walked to a church pew and sat down.  "Come here for a second.  I want to tell you something."  My dad wasn't one to do a lot of talking, so I began to wonder if I had done something wrong.


"Yeah?" 

My dad looked up at the Christmas tree, which was much taller than the one we had at home, and said "See that angel?"

My eyes searched the tree, traveling right to left, then from bottom to top.  Colored lights and ornaments adorned the tree (the ladies club had made ornaments from left-over fabric and hung them from the branches).  But I didn't see an angel.

"Look higher."

Eventually my eyes found the top of the tree, where an angel was perched looking down on the empty church pews.

"I see it!"

"An angel atop your tree shows that you have a strong spiritual side, you are a kind soul and that people will turn to you in times of need.  The people of our congregation want the world to know that Jesus was all of those things.  Now look at the Advent candles that we've lit for the past four weeks.  They are a reminder that God is coming and that you and I should prepare for his birth.  And finally, look at our star.  The star means you have a strong belief system, you think of yourself as a strong leader and you have a strong moral compass." 

I glanced away from the star and noticed dad was looking at me. I wasn't exactly sure what he was telling me, but I knew it was important.  "Those three things -- the angle, the candles and the star -- have always made Christmas special.  I know some day you will feel like Christmas has lost its meaning, like it did for me.  We get so busy getting ready for Christmas that we forget why we celebrate it."

He paused and grabbed my small hand in his.  The only sound coming from the church was the sound of an ambulance racing down West Avenue toward St. Francis Hospital.  

"There will come a time --when your mom and I are gone -- that you will stop believing in Christmas.  Trust me.  You get distracted... there are kids and work that get in the way.  When that time comes I want you to remember the meaning of the angel, candles and star.  Just like the three wise men and shepherds in the fields who heard the story of his birth, you will find Christmas and the baby Jesus is inside you, waiting for you to find him again."

I sat there thinking about what my dad had said.   I believed him, of course, but I doubted I would ever stop believing in Christmas.  It was all around me.  The lights, songs, presents and family.  And yes, Jesus.  I had stopped believing in Santa, but I would never stop believing in Christmas!

"There you two are," echoed an impatient voice from the back of the church.  It was mom letting us know that it was time to go.  "The ladies are done wrapping the candy for next week's children's program. So, if you two are done with the decorations, let's go.  There's a lot to do at home yet, and I feel like we are running out of time."

As I stood and turned to prepare to unplug the star, I heard dad say in a voice that began to fade, then disappear, "Don't stop believing in Christmas, son.  Just look inside yourself."



*     *     *     *


"Just look inside..."

My eyes opened to the sight of snow flakes -- big, fat and wet snowflakes -- falling from the sky.  I lay there on my back trying to remember what had happened.  Then a pain from the back of my head reminded me of my fall.

I rolled over and got to my knees, shaking snow from my face and hair, then briefly stood before sitting again on the bench.  I needed to see if I was going to be ok.  I didn't think the fall had knocked me out, but it had left me dazed and in a little pain.

As I sat there, a memory of a Christmas from fifty years ago started to come back to me.  At first it was just an image of my old church, then a Christmas tree and finally a star that my father had made.  And with the images, came the words he  had told me -- "don't stop believing in Christmas."

What was that all about?

Had I stopped believing in Christmas?  Maybe I had.  At least, the true meaning of the holiday.  My fall had somehow triggered a conversation I had forgotten.

Before me was the same nativity scene, but for some reason it seemed different.  Instead of a worn and tired Mary and Joseph, I saw joy in their eyes as they glanced down at the baby Jesus.   The faces of the wise men and shepherds, who had traveled so far, were in awe of the Christmas miracle.

My father had said Christmas was a time of celebration -- and that there is a gift inside each of us.  These gifts  - our voice, our minds and our bodies -- are beautiful because Jesus was born in a manger so many years ago.   How was it possible he foresaw this day when I would fail to see the beauty that is in this moment and the people around me every day?

I stood and carefully walked to the street and headed toward home.   Before I entered the darkness of the night,  I took one last glance at the star shining above the manger.  Despite the falling snow, it remained easy to see, as if giving me one last memory of my dad.

A few minutes later, I walked through our back door and into the kitchen.  As I removed my snow covered jacket and shoes, Liz walked in asking me where I had gone.  As she approached, I could see the concern in her eyes and on her face.   "Where were you -- you had me worried," she said, wrapping her arms around me.

I smiled and hugged her back.  "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just left like that.  But no need to worry.  I went to see someone who helped me believe in miracles again.  It's been a long time, but I really mean it now when I say Merry Christmas."

Liz looked at me with her warm, brown eyes and said, "Merry Christmas to you too... it's a wonderful time of year."

A Long Way There

The busyness of the evening had slowed, and most of the guests had left for their homes and families.  The sliding door opened and Paul stepped onto the deck to joined us at the end of the table.  Wine bottles were scattered across the table, indicating another successful wine party, affectionately referred to as the great Wine Adventure. 

At this point, only the mosquitos showed much life, but they were being held at bay by the citronella candles burning at various points along the deck.  Our wives were in the house, putting away food and catching up on each other's fading summer plans.

I was filled with melancholy, perhaps attributed to the wine or maybe I was feeling sad at the prospect of another summer coming to a close.  Fall was around the corner, with its cooler temperatures and longer nights, and I was thinking about how quickly the summer had passed. 

I was asking Doug a question when Paul sat down and emptied the remaining wine from a nearby bottle into his glass. 

"So, Doug, do you know what we were doing forty-two years ago?" I asked.

Doug's face, illuminated by one of the candles on the table, repressed a smile and nodded,  "No amount of wine will ever keep me from remembering that trip.  Four hundred dollar car, Little River Band on the radio, chalk outlines on cement and you learning how to drive a stick."

Paul put his glass down and added, "And getting carded buying some beers on the beach."

I laughed, "How could we ever forget that?  You bring it up every time we're together."

"Just saying."

"What about tossing all that fruit out the window as we entered New Mexico because we were afraid they would bust us at one of their checkpoints?  I don't think they bother anymore, but we were scared shitless that they would find us with oranges or bananas."

"We were so clueless.  I'm still amazed that we were able to find our way."

We were silent for a moment, then I added, "Think about it guys.  We were kids right out of high school driving over 2,000 miles in a car that Doug had bought for a bad song.  I don't know about you two, but I had never been further west than Minnesota.  And that's not saying much."

Doug said, "Before GPS, Google Maps or computers in our cars."

"Before John Lennon was shot."

"And Microsoft Windows, Apple iPhones and Facebook."

"September 11, 2001."

"And Make America Great Again!"

I looked across the table at the gray haired guys who were still my best friends, despite everything life had thrown our way - marriage, the passings of our parents, children, jobs, and Father Time.  Sometimes I think we wouldn't be life-long friends if it wasn't for that trip.  A trip that defined not only our adolescence by ending the banality of high school, but also changing our lives in ways none of us ever imagined.

Yes, it was unforgettable -- the trip of our lives.






I was eighteen when Doug, Paul and I left for California.  We were nerdy kids who wore rolled up jean shorts and foot high athletic socks.  We were all from the Great Plains, who firmly fit the corn-eating, vanilla chit chat, Midwestern Nice profile.  We avoided trouble in high school by spending our Friday and Saturday nights playing euchre at a friend's cabin.  In a throw-back to "American Graffiti," we occasionally enjoyed driving around downtown on a weekend night  looking for chicks and avoiding a guy named Malum who once pointed a gun at us because our stupid antics had pissed him off.  But, typically our summers consisted of a few girls, minimum wage jobs and wasting a few afternoons on the Mississippi River. 

I'm not sure whose idea it was to drive to California, but there was little doubt it would happen once it was mentioned.   California sun?   Disneyland?  Pacific Ocean beaches?  Mexico?  San Francisco?  Check, check, check, check and check!

It was a different time --  when our parents didn't worry about mass shootings, climate change and safe places.  If we had the money and our own transportation, they were ok with it.  None of us can even remember calling our parents while on this trip, which is unthinkable today.  I can imagine my mom telling us to drive safe, eat every day and get lots of sleep.  Oh, and keep your eyes on Paul -- he could be trouble.  I made up that last part, but it's a good joke every now and then.  Everything else was up to us.

It was a time when Fleetwood Mac was on top of the charts with Rumours, which stayed at number 1 for 31 weeks.  Star Wars introduced a generation to a galaxy far, far away, and a peanut farmer became our 39th President.

It was also a time when after four years of unmistakably plain high school, we were heading in different directions.  Paul and I were heading to college, but not the same one, and Doug was heading to WWTC to study auto mechanics.  It was an opportunity for one last adventure -- before summer ended and we went our separate ways.

Our road warrior was a four-hundred dollar, 1972 Chevrolet Vega GT, a straight line four cylinder hatchback, which was famously known in its ads "as the only little car that does everything well."  What a slogan!  Reminds me of those ads today telling you not to settle for someone who is  "pretty good" at something.   Coincidentally, 1977 was the last year of production for the Vega, as reliability, safety, rust and engine durability spelled its doom (good thing our parents didn't know about that).

With the backseats down it bragged about having a whopping 49.3 cubic feet of interior space with the seats down.  It had holes in the passenger quarter panel from a dent puller and a manual shift, meaning I had to learn on the fly.  I thought I did ok, except the one time I was pulling out in front of a speeding semi-truck somewhere near Anaheim.  I had shifted into third gear, which for anyone who has driven a stick knows will either stall the car, or at best, cause the car to chug-chug-chug until you pick up speed. 

Honestly, I had things under control, despite what the other two will tell you.

The Vega rear hatchback also served as a bed for when we would drive through the night and one of us needed to get some sleep.  After a day, the sour smell coming from sweaty socks, uneaten food and three bodies needing a bath was almost overwhelming.  If lack of sleep didn't knock you out eventually the smell did.   And I don't know how we squeezed into the back because it contained all of our clothing, food, camping gear and everything we purchased.  But, we were young, flexible... and thin.  A lot thinner.

We passed time by listening to the AM/FM radio, talking on the CB radio or popping in a cassette tape of Little River Band's first album with "It's a Long Way There," "Curiosity Killed the Cat," and "I'll Always Call Your Name."  Little River Band would go on to have a number of Top 40 hits.  Another band, but one much less known, was Lake with songs no one would ever hear of,  "On the Run," "Time Bomb" and "Jesus Came Down."  We also enjoyed listening to Boston's first album and everything Rush.  We must have listened to those songs until the cassette tapes broke or spooled out of the cassette player like strings of silly string.

By my calculations, it is over 2,000 miles from La Crosse, Wisconsin to San Marcos, California.  To get there we drove through Minnesota, Iowa, Kansas, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California.   Our first night was spent in Liberal, Kansas in a campground after 884 miles and more than 13 hours of driving.  I'm sure it was a long day, but the freedom we felt and the excitement of new states, new landscapes and people was enough to keep our young bodies and minds racing toward the next town.

The following day, we made a quick stop in Dalhart, Texas so I could buy a tooth brush and toothpaste  (I'm not sure if it was my idea or Paul and Doug who had to sit next to me in the car).  From there we made it to Tucumcari, New Mexico where we bought some food and drinks, but decided to pass on the goat heads that were for sale in a convenience store.  I'd heard of head cheese while working at K-Mart Foods, but never the whole head.  I'm pretty sure we got out of there as quickly as Paul did whenever he heard my mom's voice, wondering what new trouble he was getting us into.

Before our experience with the sadistic head hunters of Tucumcari, we encountered another novelty (to us at least) in New Mexico -- agricultural checkpoints when you crossed their border on Interstate 40.  Our naiveté was on full display as we started throwing oranges out the window, only to find out later that they weren't interested in three guys driving a Vega hatchback to California.  Of course, you never knew what other "illegal substances" they might find, so we were always on our best behavior when crossing the borders of New Mexico, Arizona and California.

After a less than exciting night in our small tent the night before, we decided to forgo stopping again  and continued our push through the hot desserts of Arizona by driving all night long.  It was a trip of over 1,100 miles and more than 17 hours --  before satellite radio, iPhones and GPS.  There was no internet or DVDs of Mash, Threes Company or All in the Family to pass time.  And the only FaceTime was the one you had with the person sitting next to you in the car. 

It was during these long, cramped hours that our conversations wandered from girls, sports, girls, music, girls, school and life.  We were too young to have the burden of 8 to 5 office hours, diapers and baby food, or even the responsibility that comes from a steady girlfriend or wife.  Our interests were our own and our obligation to ourselves.  The trip was full of new experiences for all of us -- a strange voice coming from a radio station originating out of Albuquerque, New Mexico at two o'clock in the morning, sunrise in the desert, with the sky becoming a deep neon blue as the sun's  upper limb broke over the horizon, a gas station warning us that this was the last gas for 200 miles, and a night sky filled with millions of tiny stars, forming brilliant constellations we was seeing for the first time in our lives.

With determination and a little luck, we arrived the following morning at our destination, California, the land of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.  At least that's what the Rolling Stone magazine said before it was lost in the growing pile of stuff in the back of the Vega.  At the time, I couldn't tell you if California had more sex and drugs than any other state, but I could certainly dig their rock 'n' roll  --  San Francisco and Los Angeles alone produced some of the best 70's bands -- the Eagles, Journey, Doobie Brothers, Grateful Dead, the Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Santana and of course the band that was synonymous with southern California, The Beach Boys.

Our plan, once we reached California, was to spend time with Paul's aunts and uncles living in San Marcos and Costa Mesa.  This was southern California and pools were everywhere --  some of my best memories come from George and Carol Halland's pool in San Marcos and Orv and Darlene Mundinger's pool in Costa Mesa.  However, our enjoyment at Disneyland and Knotts Berry Farm was muted as we watched the CBS evening news on August 16, 1977 to learn Elvis Presley had died in the bathroom of his Graceland mansion in Memphis, Tennessee at the age of 42.

We also went to Tijuana, Mexico for a day, even though none of us had passports.  In today's violent world, I don't think we would have wandered through the streets of San Diego's sister city looking for leather belts and wallets.  Were we in danger?  Who knows, but none of us gave it a second thought.  What did three boys from the midwest know about cardboard shanty towns and drug cartels?

The last few days of our trip were spent traveling north to the much cooler (both figuratively and climatically speaking) San Francisco where we would spend a few days with Paul's Uncle John and his partner Don.  I never gave their relationship a second thought -- beyond wondering what their neighbors thought of three young boys coming for a visit.  But hey, it was California, where everything goes!  Visits to the Golden State Bridge, Fisherman's Wharf, Alcatraz and riding the cable cars were like dreams come true for all three of us.

If it hadn't been for Paul's relatives, I'm sure we would've been part of California's first homeless invasion, living in a Vega down by the Pacific Ocean.

As it was, we enjoyed a week in the luxury of the gods (at least by my standards), sleeping on nice beds, swimming in private pools day and night, body surfing in the Pacific, cruising the beach in a convertible, and being treated to great beach-front Mexican restaurants and bars.

But all good things must end, and like the morning fog in San Francisco, ours ended  much too soon with a non-stop trek through Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, South Dakota and Minnesota.  It meant driving all 2,029 miles without stopping for much more than bathroom breaks, some food and something to drink.  While our trip out to California was an adventure full of excitement, our trip back was one filled with monotony and a desire for our own beds and our mother's homemade food. 

Lack of sleep eventually caught up to us in Minnesota, only a few hours from home.  None of us can remember whose turn it was to drive, but as the sun was rising over the pockmarked landscape of rolling hills and plains of southern Minnesota, we could go no further.  It was Paul, perhaps driven by my mom's final words to him when we left -- "make sure to bring my favorite child home" -- who pushed us through the last one-hundred miles to arrive home, safely.

In the end, it WAS the trip of a lifetime. 

Not because of where we went --  we have since all travelled much further from home and to much more exotic and older destinations than California.  But because of who we were and what we meant to each other.  It prepared us for life by teaching us about life.  And the bond that was developed in Doug's 1972 Vega GT, where we traveled more than 4,000 miles in little more than a week, has remained strong even forty-two years later. 

We all did our own thing after that long trip in a small car -- college, marriage, kids, death of our parents and everything else in between.  But no matter what came our way, good or bad, we have remained great friends.  My memories of that eventful journey always bring me back to them and to our midwestern roots where we could be kids, have fun and explore the great unknown without fear.

Thanks guys!


"Hey everybody yeah, don't you feel that there's something?

Feel it, feel it?

Hey everybody yeah, don't you feel that there's something?

People on their own are getting nowhere,
I am on the road to see,
If anything is anywhere and waiting, just for me.

Every night I walk around the city.
Seems like I'll never know,
That feeling of being together when I go.

And it's a long way there, it's a long, long way
it's a long way to where I'm going," 

- Little River Band

Livin' On The Edge

"There's something wrong with the world today
I don't know what it is
Something's wrong with our eyes

We're seein' things in a different way
And God knows it ain't his
It sure ain't no surprise
Livin' on the edge.
-- Aerosmith



In light of the recent shootings in El Paso, Texas and Dayton, Ohio, I've been thinking about fear, anger and hate, and a look at local and national news leads me to believe that those on the wrong side of that equation may be winning the battle.

When I attended a Lutheran parochial school in La Crosse as a young child, I was reminded of my sins on a weekly basis.  Friday morning was my time to recite -- from memory -- an assigned Bible passage that would remind me not to steal or lie to my parents, or how I could be doing more for those in need of a helping hand.

For a young boy still learning what it meant to be a teenager, it was an excruciating exercise in resisting the temptations of puberty.  I was leaving years of purity, innocence and simplicity of life for one where my self awareness and preservation were more important than others.  Girls, money and recognition were far more interesting than another humbling passage from the New Testament.

Years later, I am beyond grateful for those passages which continue to show me the way whenever I am tempted by girls, money and power (some things never change).  But with the removal of the Ten Commandments, or worse, the removal of anything that upsets people, like civil war monuments or conservative speakers on campus, restaurants and movie theatres.

It's a mental component that seems to be missing in so many people today -- from friends and neighbors that disagree over politics, to people in honorable positions like politicians, law enforcement and pastors.  People no longer know their limits.  Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead!

The result is a loss of  basic civility, challenges to First and Second Amendment rights and new interpretations to long-held religious beliefs.  It's the unraveling of the America that I grew up in as a kid.  Every decade seems to have lost some of it civility to the point that people today will tear their neighbor's head off if they put a political sign in their yard supporting the "wrong" candidate.

A generation ago, most people knew the difference between right and wrong.  Today, not so much -- politics (with the help of cable news and social media) have assaulted the founding fabric of America, including sex, marriage and family.  The left has successfully removed God from schools, courtrooms and public parks.   Sometimes I think they've even been successful in removing God from church!   The moral compass of our lives used to be church, and now with fewer and fewer people going, it is missing from many of our lives, leading to some of the worse behavior and language I have ever known.

The '60s radicals in education have reaped the benefits of their self-proclaimed "tolerance" and "diversity", resulting in less free speech on campuses once known for protesting the Vietnam War and President Nixon.  The hypocrisy of our education system is unmatched anywhere in our society.  Diversity is no longer something to be used for admissions.  Today's definition of diversity has become political, like everything else.  "Diversity" prevents conservatives from giving their side of an argument, because it's counter to a minority position.  Our country's laws -- written to protect us as American citizens -- are to be followed by the political underclass, but not those running for elections or illegally crossing our borders.

Our future is grim when we can't even agree on the definition of things like justice, equality, racism, illegal alien, or making America great again.




As Yoda, in The Phantom Menace famously said, "Fear is the path to the dark side.  Fear leads to anger.  Anger leads to hate.  Hate leads to suffering."

We would all be wise to listen the Jedi master.  The Texas and Ohio shootings are a reflection of how far down the rabbit hole our media and politicians have descended.  You can't reason with hate.  And -- not to disappoint presidential candidate Marianne Williams -- but you can't convince someone to love you when they are filled with so much hate.

Many democrats, tech giants like Google and Twitter, and Hollywood actors have criticized Trump for his "hateful rhetoric" when he defends his stand on illegal aliens and building the wall.  They are equating love of country -- one of Trump's signature beliefs on the campaign trail -- with white nationalism.  Trump's nationalism is being proud of being an American and wanting the best people to come here and contribute to our future.  Legal immigration IS what has made America what it is.  Diversity can be a strength if you follow the laws and assimilate into this county, rather than tearing it down and making it into the country you left behind.

My friends, what I hear from too many on the left -- democrats, communists and socialists --  is hatred for this country.  How else do you describe their positions on open borders?  Illegal aliens?  Free education?  Free health care?  If they successfully win the presidency, they will attempt to destroy so many of these things that have made America great.  When was the last time you got something free that was great?  Not only are they pandering for votes next year, but should they win, they will quickly kill our health and educational institutions as well.

I am genuinely worried about what comes after hate.  Violence?  The hate harbored by the shooters  in Texas and Ohio spilled over into violence.  And now we are left with suffering.  Instead of dealing with the hatred being spread on social media, we have politicians asking for gun control.  Someone with an open mind can see guns are not the problem.  And having easy access to them isn't the problem either.  Not that many years ago, you could order a gun from a mail order catalog!  Seriously.  No background checks, just send money and in few days you have a gun at your door step.  And guess what?  No mass shootings.  So it's not having guns that has changed.  It's people.  And that's why we have to address the cause of all this hatred if we are ever going to prevent more suffering.

But something tells me the left is not going to stop in their sowing of discontent during a year leading up to 2020's presidential campaign.  Which is tragic when you look at how many people really want it to stop.





The left has become so deranged in their hate of Trump that they label any criticism or disagreement as being racist, or worse yet, being a white nationalist.  Tell those who hate America to leave?  You're a racist!  State facts about Democrat-controlled cities that are failing?  Racist!  Denounce white nationalism?  Then you must be a White Nationalist! 

A recent study of the media showed cable news hosts calling Trump a racist over 1,000 times in just one weekend.  And Trump's accurate portrayal of Baltimore has also been labelled racist because he attacked a black Congressman's district for being "infested" by rats.  Who knew "infested" was a code word used to denigrate blacks?  He has also been credited with hate speech because he used the word "invasion" to describe the illegal aliens crossing our boarder.  What?  The only invasion I'm worried about is the invasion of stupid comments like that one!

It's just insane.  From where I sit, dividends from President Obama -- eight years ago -- continue to be enjoyed by the left.  Opponents couldn't criticize anything he did without being accused of racism and today, if anything, it has gotten worse.

Look at this exchange from last week:

President Trump said, "In one voice our nation must condemn racism, bigotry and white supremacy.  These sinister ideologies must be defeated."

The left's response?   This headline from the New York Times sums it up pretty well, "Trump uses a Day of Healing to Deepen the Nation's Division."

Amazing isn't it?  How does one twist unity into division?  With stupidity like this, this country is never going to survive.

In my parent's house, talking politics used to be avoided.  I can't remember my parents ever discussing the racial unrest of the 60's, the Vietnam War, or Ronald Reagan.  My uncles and aunts were more politically astute, but even they knew not to bring up politics when we got together.  Today, everything is contaminated by politics, including our sports, movies, late night comedy and even tragic events like last weekend.

When did anyone think calling half of your fan base "racists" was a good idea?  Football games need fans in the stadium, and movies need butts in the theater, so why are athletes and movie stars attacking their audience?  Not that I represent everyone, but I don't watch football like I used to, I've lost respect for women's soccer and tennis, and I don't know when I watched a movie or television series that featured one of these woke millionaires.

Our country used to agree on more things.  The stool that supported our country's foundation for nearly two hundred years consisted of God, family and country.  How tragic to think that all three have been successfully attacked by the left.  Today, we have removed God from our lives, having a family is now a minority position, and country means "no borders."

The result is as appealing as a root canal.




America is sick, and we didn't need the latest shootings in El Paso and Dayton to convince anyone.

The emptiness that fills our souls cannot be addressed by anything government can do or say.  You can blame Donald Trump if you want, but Americans have been unsatisfied with the country’s direction for most of the last five decades.  If we leave it up to Washington to save us we are in deep trouble.  Our salvation, like those Bible passages I used to memorize in parochial school, can only be found in ourselves. 

"You have heard that it was said, "You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.  But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven."

Words I'm glad I learned many years ago.