Monday, March 31, 2014

Things you forget you love...

Yesterday I noticed that for the first time in a long time, there was no snow at all in our yards on on our house's roof or anywhere on our property. I breathed a sigh of relief...

Then, I woke  up to snow everywhere and I remembered that I forgot that I love snow. I could love it again because I know it's not sticking around for months or weeks or even days. So much snow this winter made me forget that I love snow, the wonder of it, how it falls on your face, how our Puli, coming back from his morning walk, looks like a snowball until he shakes it all off on the front porch.

So I started thinking about things I forget I love. I've made a list.

1. Avocados--for some reason we don't eat them much, but I put some on our salad tonight and remembered I loved them.

2. Seagulls--there are seldom any in Cheshire, but one was in the Stop and Shop parking lot the other day, obviously deranged or lost to be so far from the sea, but there he was and I remembered I love sea gulls.

3. Sea-salt caramel gelato--actually, I never forget I love this--I simply try to curb my craving from time to time and then give in's magic....

4. Rubber bands--you hardly see rubber bands any more and forget about them, but I opened a drawer on my desk I seldom open and found a bag of Smart Living high quality Rubber Bands, assorted sizes that weighed 1/4 pound. Heaven!

5. Sponge Bob Square Pants--Bern, through some odd and inexplicable moral stance--doesn't watch cartoons. But the other day, when she was out, I walked by the TV room and she'd left on the TV and there he was, that lovable little, undersea guy. I watched an episode and fell back in love.

6. My Dad. I just realized that tomorrow is his 107th birthday. April Fools' Day is when Virgil Hoyt Bradley was born. And I was born a couple of weeks later 40 years later. My mom and dad were much older than my friends parents since I was the only child of a 40 year old father and 38 year old mother. I had friends in southern West Virginia whose grandparents were my parents contemporaries! Sons and fathers have issues. And Dad and I had our share. I came home with Bern the Christmas after we had married with a beard and when Dad greeted us at the door and was appalled, he wandered off into the snow in his bedroom slippers while my mother assured us he'd come back before he froze to death. He was a right-wing Republican (for all the wrong reasons, not to admit there are any 'right' reasons) and I was a left-wing Democrat. (However, as right-wing as he was, he wouldn't recognize his party today...he'd have to be a moderate Democrat to be in the same place on issues he was back then as a Goldwater man....)

But tomorrow would be his birthday and I suddenly am aware of how profoundly he loved me and how he taught me to catch a baseball and bought me a dog that I loved for years, a beagle named Fatso, though he wasn't, and how he was so proud of me in college and seminary and how, even though he was a 'Hard Shell Baptist' (google it if you dare!) my being an Episcopal priest seemed to be something he approved of more than the college English teacher I intended to be. And I remember how, when he came to live with us in New Haven, he would wander away, and I remember how painful it was for both of us for him to go into a nursing home and how disconcerting it was for both of us as he slipped into dementia and how the last time he was at our home in New Haven, he soiled himself and as I was cleaning him in our downstairs bathroom he was weeping and telling me over and again how sorry he was that I had to do that though he had done it for me hundreds of time and I remember how I was with him in St. Raphael's hospital and told him, "I'm going home now, Dad," and he replied, "so am I", though he wasn't, I knew and if he'd been a parishioner I would have known what he meant and as a son I didn't and when I got home the phone rang and he was dead and Mimi hugged my legs and said, "you're an orphan, Daddy" and I was.

And tomorrow is his birthday, and like the late snow, I am so glad, so honored, so humbled to remember that I forgot how much I loved that man, my father, my Dad....Virgil....

Saturday, March 29, 2014


I actually love rain. It comes from visiting Cleve Bradley, my step-grandmother, whose house had a tin roof. One night in the rain sleeping under a tin roof will make you love rain forever.

When I was 10 or 12, somewhere in there, I shot 100 foul shots at the basketball goal in our yard every day, no matter what the weather. And shooting foul shots in the rain was the best. I'd end up soaked and peeled off my clothes in the bathroom after such an outing and wrapped myself in towels dried by the air and sun and not a clothes dryer and would lay on my bed, covered with towels for a while and ponder how wondrous the wet basketball felt in my hands and how being wet was like being born, since we come from the sea. (I was a science geek at that age age and pondered how amazing it was that water gave life....)

I love rain so much that I thought at one time I should live in Seattle until I found out that the annual rainfall in Connecticut is just about the annual rainfall in Seattle.

I was just on the back porch smoking a cigarette (OK, I know it is socially unacceptable to smoke! I get it! Leave me out of your political correctness!) Looking toward the street light on the front edge of our property and I noticed droplets of rain falling from the lines, golden and wondrous. At first imagined there were fireflies dropping from the rain but then, after a moment or two of actual thought process, realized we won't have fireflies in Connecticut until July or so.

Anyhow, it was beautiful to see the rain falling, catching the golden light of the street lamp. Another reason to love rain.

I especially like rain in September on the beach on Oak Island, North Carolina, where we go every September. There is always lightening far out in the Atlantic, streaking down to touch the water there. Again, the beauty of a rainy night.

Our daughter Mimi is with us for a day or two. She has a job that takes her back and forth from NYC to the Berkshires--she's the new development officer for Jacob's Pillow, a dance place. Tim, her fiancee is going to be away for a week doing work stuff in Chicago  (for Linked In, whatever that really is) so she came to see us for a couple of days rather than driving back to Brooklyn. The fact that Mimi is under our roof and it's raining is yet another reason I love the rain because my love for Mimi is boundless.

Our Puli dog doesn't like the rain, so taking him out for his 10 pm walk is going to be a pain. But he loves Mimi like I do and has been ecstatic since she arrived this afternoon, following her around, laying outside her bed room door, smitten, so maybe Mimi being here will make him not so upset about going out to pee in a half hour or so.

Rain, like Mimi being in our house, makes me feel safe, good, comfortable, assured, warm....

Friday, March 28, 2014


That's what Bern and I call it in our personal patois--Ba-KET-ball. Just like we call 'sleeping' "see-pin" and 'comfortable' "comproble". I suspect people who've known each other one year short of half-a-century and have been married 43 of those years develop a vocabulary all their own.

We still call motorcycles "mo-mo-cycles" which is what Josh called them as a toddler.

But I'm writing about ba-KET-ball right now. It's March Madness and Bern is almost certifiably 'mad' by the sweet sixteen.

As far as I know, she doesn't have an athletic bone in her body, but she loves sports--basketball and tennis most of all.

I tried to teach her tennis when we were dating, but when she figured out you had to chase your own balls--that there weren't ball-boys-and-girls, she lost interest in learning.

What is wonderful this year is that she was in West Virginia last week and didn't get around to filling out a bracket. So, it's much more calm watching with her because she isn't always worrying about who she picked to win. (Five or six years ago, she won two consecutive bracket pools with some friends of ours and people they worked with. After the second win, they banned her....)

I didn't fill out a bracket either, so it's lots more fun for me. Normally, when I do pick winners, I lose the sheet of paper and don't remember who I picked. And woe unto me if I keep up with my bracket and do better than Bern....Hell hath no fury like a woman bracket is out scored....

We have this running argument because I root for the same teams I've always rooted for and she roots for teams she's come to like lately. It's just a psychological difference. For example, if Satan played for the Yankees, they'd still be 'my team'. But she doesn't like the LA Lakers (my pro ba-KET-ball team) because she thinks Kobi is a jerk.

We do agree on one thing in college sports: our three favorite teams are West Virginia University and whoever is playing Virginia Tech and Notre Dame that day....

Our agreed upon mutual hatred of Virginia Tech and Notre Dame has contributed mightily to our 43 years of marriage....

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

The only time I was ever in Germany

It was on the way to Israel in December of 1999. We landed in Frankfort in the wee hours of the morning. I had forgotten all about it (but at my age 'forgetting' is normal....) But I was reading from the notebook I took on that trip and found this poem.

Watching dawn come at Frankfort Airport

Staring out on a school of
(neatly arranged like huge
  patients in a ward
  attached with feeding tubes
  of walkways to the
dawn creeps in.

It comes as a lightening
    of the sky
      from black
      to indigo
      to navy blue
      to steely gray.

Somewhere on the flight
somewhere over the north Atlantic
somewhere at 37,000 feet
I lost six hours.
Dawn comes late in Frankfort
   in December
but my watch is still at
   10 'til 2 in the tiny
   hours of Eastern Standard Time.

Who owes me these six hours?
How do I get them back?
All around me members of
my group are sprawled
  on black, comfortable
dreaming that in sleeping they
  can steal back the time.
But those six hours are
   simply gone, I tell you!
Poof! Disappeared! Lost....

Now a monorail passes outside the window,
   people lit up inside, heading for airplanes.

I can see planes dropping to earth
and leaping away on faraway

People are trapped inside
each of them, headed toward
Budapest, Singapore,
New York, Moscow,
New Dehlia. Losing
or finding hours as they

I hope someone nice finds
 the six hours I lost
 and uses them well.

Lazy day

I've done almost nothing today. I slept until almost 10 and took the dog out and watched a little tennis on TV and ate three meals. And oh, I did go to Bob's to by 2 pairs of pants (gray and dark blue--I only have one pair of pants that aren't jeans or khakis) but my wardrobe isn't what I want to write about, I want to write about what a lazy day this has been.

Well, I did buy Bern a birthday present and card while I was out looking for pants. And I read almost a whole book and will finish it before I sleep. And I played hearts on the computer and talked to Bea at the Cluster office and wrote half a dozen emails and was outside for a while looking at the sky, thinking of the dwarf planet some scientists found in the last few days. And I fed the dog and the cat both breakfast and dinner and took a shower.

Just goes to show you, even on a lazy day, things happen, stuff gets done almost in spite of itself.

But I'm retired. I need a lazy day now and again....

Monday, March 24, 2014

It's gotten cold again

The chill in back in the air for a few days--maybe a snowfall, either a dusting or a blizzard, depending on who you listen to.

If you asked me "what is you're most positive character trait?" I would tell you this: patience.

So, I'll wait for Spring to be sprung. I'll wait for warmth to come and stay. I'll be patient.

I wasn't always, you know, patient. I used to, 35 years ago, have proudly on my office wall at St. James in Charleston, WV, a poster that said, "God, give me patience...NOW!"

And that was who I was.

At Emmanuel Church, Killingworth, we read the chapter below. What people wanted to know was this: 'were you really that arrogant, that unkind, that self-centered?" and the answer is, resoundingly, 'yes!'

And I know now all that bluster and arrogance was to cover for my self-doubt and not knowing what I was doing...always a bad thing for a human being....I'm just thankful and humbled that with teachers like Fr. Dodge, I grew out of all that and learned humility and patience.

Spring will come. It will. And I'll be here to greet it.....

Father Dodge and Hot Stuff

When I arrived at St. James, the congregation was being served by Fr. Bill Dodge, a retired school teacher who was a Title Nine priest. Title Nine is a strange little piece of Canon Law also known as “the old man’s canon”—though to be politically correct it should now be known as “the old wo/man’s canon”. (If it’s not “ageism” to call people “old” these days….) Episcopal Church law is more strict about ordination than most any denomination; however, Title Nine is an “out”, a way around the rules for those late in life who feel called to priesthood. If the Church determines the call is legitimate, the candidate is allowed to study privately, usually with a near-by priest or group of priests and be tested after the term of study is met.
That’s what Fr. Dodge had done. He’d become a priest through the back door. When I was newly ordained, after four years of theological study and two (count ‘em—two) Master level degrees, I had little patience with Title Nine priests and even less with Fr. Dodge. He was in his 70’s and, to my exalted standards, not up to snuff. But I was going to be a deacon for a year and needed somebody to help me liturgically. Deacon’s Masses, which are weird both theologically and as liturgy, would serve from time to time, but the congregation deserved a “real “ Mass monthly or so and Fr. Dodge was the best I could find. Plus, for reasons beyond my comprehension, the parishioners seemed to have a deep affection for him and were always happy to see him. It wouldn’t have been astute of me to get rid of the old codger since I needed him and the parish wouldn’t like it.
(It’s embarrassing and humbling to listen to myself talk like that! I thought of myself as such “hot stuff” in those days! I was God’s gift to St. James Church and worldwide Anglicanism as well. At least that’s what I thought. The truth is, looking back, I was brash, arrogant and unkind almost all the time. Hot Stuff, indeed!)
In addition, I considered myself a liturgical genius---the be all and end all when it came to ritual and celebration. In fact, I’d spent four years at Harvard and Virginia Seminary, neither of which has any claim to teaching liturgical practice. Liturgy at Harvard had been mostly of the “feel-good”, lots of balloons and readings from Kahil Gibran. Worship at HDS began with Unitarian politeness and didn’t go much further or deeper. In fact, any resemblance to Christian, much less Anglican worship was totally accidental. A typical chapel service would include—in no particular order—readings from the Koran or Hindu scripture, a little jazz played by my friend Dan Kiger or other musical students, some silent meditation and the singing of some of the hymns of Hildegard of Bingham. The Archbishop of Canterbury would have been horrified! The closest thing to a Eucharist I remember was when Rabbi Katinstein brought some Passover bread and Harvey Cox talked about the religious symbolism of sharing food and we all went up and took a piece for ourselves. I loved it, felt I was in the forefront of liturgical renewal.
Virginia Seminary was, when I was there, a “Low Church” seminary. That meant that worship was restrained, proper and in good order. That (“restrained, proper and in good order”) meant that no Popish nonsense would be allowed to infect the purity of Protestant worship. One of the lame jokes we often told was this: “You know what streaking means at VTS? Running through the chapel in full Eucharistic vestments!” There was a lot of controversy at the seminary when I was there because altar candles had been added to the “communion table”. Candles made some of the faculty nervous. You shouldn’t open the door to “catholic” practice---first come candles and then (gasp!) incense and the adoration of the blessed sacrament!
Once, during my senior year, some of the students from more High Church dioceses organized a “high mass” with chanting, bowing, genuflecting, incense and much crossing of oneself. I was fascinated. I’d never seen such a thing. My old nemesis, Reginald Fuller, was the celebrant. He was “streaking” around the chancel in his vestments, censing the altar, chanting in his Oxbridge accent, genuflecting like one of those little yellow birds that keep dipping into a bowl of water. Several of the faculty walked out in a huff at such going’s-on. There was serious discussion over sherry about suspending the student planned Wednesday services.
That one service was all I knew about Anglo-Catholic worship when I arrived at St. James. Fr. Dodge, I have to admit, seemed to know when to cross himself and genuflect (which I couldn’t do without nearly falling on my face). St. James, like most African American parishes, had been founded in a rich High Church tradition that disappeared when the first white priest came to be their Vicar. So, one good reason for keeping Fr. Dodge around was so I could figure out how to celebrate in a way that was Anglo-Catholic in a mirror dimly. So, those times I’d let him come and celebrate I’d watch him out of the corner of my eye to try to find a pattern to his movements.
However, Fr. Dodge didn’t seem to follow any discernable pattern. I came to believe that if he ever knew what he was doing, he’d forgotten how and was crossing himself at random places in the service. Even though I didn’t know how to celebrate a real mass, I resented him for not knowing! And that wasn’t the end of my complaints about him. His hands shook when he elevated the host and chalice, sometimes spilling wine on the fair linen. He’d lose his place and I’d have to prompt him with a stage whisper several times during the service. He mispronounced words all the time. Several times, rather than “in your infinite love” he said “in your INFANT love”! I mean really, how much could the good folks at St. James and I stand of this sloppiness?
And the one time I let him preach—horrors! He read his sermon haltingly at best, mixing words up and shaking to beat the band. Besides that, if he’d had any kind of decent delivery at all, his theology was more Pilgrim Holiness than Anglican. He talked about Jesus as if he were a good guy from down the street, someone who would teach you a lot and lead you to heaven when you die. Obviously, he’d never studied homiletics—or much of anything else so far as I could tell. I was embarrassed for him, but more than that, I was embarrassed that I needed him.
So the day of my ordination finally came. I invited Fr. Dodge to be in the service out of guilt over what I planned to do. He was so excited about being near the altar with the Bishop and the two dozen other priests. He told me afterwards that it was one of the greatest days of his life and that he was so proud to work with me.
The next week I fired him.
Well, it wasn’t really a “firing”. I drove up to his house high up on a hill about 20 miles from Charleston and talked to him on his front porch. I explained how now that I was a priest I really didn’t need for him to drive all that way twice a month. I told him he needed to take it easier at his age. I reminded him that there were two churches much closer to his home that would probably be overjoyed to have his help. I thanked him for all he’d done and told him that I really didn’t need any coffee and that I’d had lunch already. “No,” I said, “I really don’t have time for a piece of pecan pie.”
He said he understood. He told me how much he’d enjoyed working with me and how much he’d learned from me. “You’re going to be a wonderful priest,” he said.
I thanked him and slinked away to my car. By the time I got back to Charleston, what few qualms I’d had about what I’d done were melted away. I was a priest—a wonderful one at that—and I was finally free of Fr. Dodge. Things would really get rolling now at St. James. It would be like releasing the emergency brake that had held me back while I was a deacon.
A month or so later, Remitha came to see me. Made an appointment and everything instead of just dropping in like usual. We even sat in my office and did small talk—something Remitha never did and wasn’t good at. Finally, she cleared her voice and began….
I wanted to come and find out if anything was wrong with Fr. Dodge,” she said. “I notice he hasn’t been here since your ordination.”
I started explaining how since I was a priest now I didn’t need him as much. “And,” I lied, “at his age, he and his wife felt it was a long way for him to drive….”
She held up her hand and got up. “That’s fine,” she said, “just as long as he isn’t sick again….”
She was half way to the door when I caught my breath and said, “Again?”
She spoke with her back to me. “Well, his first stoke wasn’t too bad….”
First stroke….” Is all I could get out.
But the second one laid him up for months,” she said. Then facing me she continued in a soft voice, “but you know, since we didn’t have a priest, he got his wife to drive him down and he did the service sitting on a stool. He couldn’t give us communion, of course, but Morris and Ben did that for him….And when the service was over two of the younger men would carry him down to his wheelchair and…..”
I didn’t hear much more. I wished she’d stop talking or I’d be struck deaf and dumb or the floor would open up and I could crawl inside.
You know what I admire most about Fr. Dodge?” she was asking when I tuned back in.
I shook my head and tried to speak. I think I was struck dumb.
How he was willing to continue his ministry even though that wonderful reading voice he had and the regal way he held himself at the altar was taken away from him.”
He had a good voice…?” I croaked.
Sometimes he’d sing a solo for us,” she said, killing me with her matter-or-fact tone. “And I wish you could have heard him read the service,” she continued, consigning me with her smile to one of the lowest circles of hell. “Before the strokes he was one of the best speakers I ever heard. He gave up a career in radio to be a schoolteacher. Did he ever tell you that?”
I found that I was sitting back down though I didn’t remember doing it. “No,” I said, softly, “he never did.”
Well,” she said, backing toward the door, “just shows what a humble man he was. Humility makes a man a wonderful priest….”
Then she was gone and I was left alone to consider humility.
(One of the things that happened at VTS on a regular basis was “Bridge before Lunch”. There were half-a-dozen or so card tables and while whoever was assigned to help set up lunch was doing their job, bridge would break out. My partner most of the time was Rodge Wood. I was a novice at bridge but Rodge was a master. He’d played in tournaments before coming to seminary. As inept as I was, Rodge carried me. We were a good team, so good that none of our classmates would play with us but the underclassmen could be duped into a game.
They’d see us at a table and come over and ask if we’d like a game. Usually, since no one wants to be in over their heads, they’d say, “are you any good?” Rodge would answer for us both. “Jim’s bad and I’m OK.” Then we’d embarrass them for a few hands.
Once, over lunch, I asked Rodge why he didn’t tell other people the truth about his playing.
Rodge quoted scripture: “He who humbles himself will be exalted,” he said.
Somehow, I don’t think that’s what the passage means.)
Humility” has the same root as “humus”, dirt, earth. True humility isn’t about demeaning yourself or pretending to be less than you are. True humility is realizing, beyond any doubt, who you are and where you come from. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”
Being humble means being close to the earth from which we all come. A friend of mine often says she “doesn’t trust anyone who hasn’t had their face of the pavement.” What she means, I believe, is that once you’ve hit bottom you realize that whatever you accomplish or however far you rise the earth is patiently waiting for you. The bigger part of humility is perspective and point of view.
Things look rather distorted when you’re a Hot Shot. It’s like flying in a plane and thinking about how everything down on earth looks small and toy-like. Things may look that way from up high, but you best not forget that they aren’t really small—it’s just your perspective and point of view.
While Remitha talked to me about Fr. Dodge, knowing all the while what infamy I had committed, what a rat I had been, my face had descended from “on high” to the grit and grime of the pavement. The ground, the earth, the humus had swallowed me up. It was a blessed gift, one I’d need to receive countless times again.
I called Fr. Dodge and drove out to his house. I told him that I had been wrong. I told him that I wanted him to come back, twice a month, to celebrate and preach once each month. I told him I realized that I didn’t want to do it all by myself. I told him I was sorry and asked him to please consider coming back.
He was as gracious as before, only this time I hadn’t had lunch and we ate tuna-fish sandwiches on homemade bread, washed it down with sweet ice tea and each had two pieces of Mrs. Dodge’s pecan pie.
For a year or so after that, I sat at his figurative liturgical knee. I came to delight in his mispronunciations—“infant love” might work better than “infinite love” when all is said and done. It became a pleasure to prompt him or merely point to the altar book in the right place. I finally started “lining” out the service when he celebrated by pointing to each line as he read. (In fact, I train the seminarians who work with me these day to do that for me!) And, for the first time, I noticed how he was with the parishioners of St. James. He never pretended to remember names when he didn’t. He listened to them intently and didn’t say much in return. He smiled almost constantly and the slight crookedness of his smile from the strokes came to be dear to me. I never bought his simplistic theology, but I did learn that if we can’t talk about heaven we most likely will never be able to imagine it…or go there….
Then he died, suddenly and in his sleep. It was my honor to commit his ashes to the ground. I drove up to his house on the hill and scattered them in the garden he loved to work in, among his flowers and bushes. Mrs. Dodge told me how much “Billy” had enjoyed working with me and being at St. James.
He told me many times that you were a wonderful priest,” she said, brushing away a tear.
Takes one to know one,” I told her and she beamed.
That makes him happy,” she said, “I just know it does.”
We left Fr. Dodge in the garden (and in the heaven he so clearly imagined) while we went inside to tell stories, laugh and cry and eat some pecan pie.

Sunday, March 23, 2014


I haven't recommended a book lately, but there's one I would love for you to read. It's by Alice McDermott and it's called Someone.

There is an elegance and beauty to Alice McDermott's prose that is hard to describe. And this novel is about very ordinary people. It begins between the two world wars in Brooklyn and seldom leaves that borough. Marie, the first person narrator is an unremarkable child when the novel begins and remains rather unremarkable as she grows up, has a family, grows old. But the story she tells is as remarkable as any I've heard lately. And full of grace and humor and deep, deep sadness.

The way Someone is told is as remarkable as the story itself. It is told in concentric circles, arching out to the deep future and then back to the past and passing through the present in both directions. It is not linear and yet it is so layered and so faithfully told and so rich and poignant and rare that I think it  has moved into my favorite novels of all time.

Treat yourself--but don't forget some Kleenex and your laughter....

Saturday, March 22, 2014

Something I've probably shared before but don't regret sharing again

I happened across this looking at things I've written. It was Bern's Christmas present 2 years ago. I hope you enjoy it.

Mary's Christmas--2012

Here's what Mary knew: hunger, real hunger for the first time in her life; cold, more cold than she could remember; fear, again, a first time feeling, if you didn't count thunder storms; pain, in her feet, all four of them.
And it was dark. She was wandering in an unknown place, trying to remember home and the Man and the Woman and the Girl and the Boy. But her memory was not all it could be. Being in Mary's brain would be like being in a place like a desert, or an empty field, or snow-covered ground with just occasional object to break up the monotony. Mary's brain was like the brain of any Lab/Cocker Spaniel mix, or any Lab's, or any Cocker Spaniel, any dog at all....
Brendan, who was 'the Man' in Mary's mostly empty mind—which registered only basic things: hunger, cold, fear, pain, heat, safety, someone's touch, joy, love--often thought to himself that he would prefer to be in Mary's head than being in Joe's head, the Maine Coon Cat who lived with them. Being in Mary's head, Brendan thought, would be simple, easy, in the moment, verging on Zen. He was not anxious to know what a cat thought. Cats, he thought, always being a 'dog person', though he loved Joe greatly, would have a mind that was Byzantine in complexity, full of traffic circles and cul-de-sac's and dead ends. A dog's mind, Brendan believed, would be basic and uncomplicated and verging on sublime. That, Brendan imagined, would be a comforting place to be for a while, away from the complexities of his own mind, simple and safe. The mind of Joe, a cat's mind, on the other hand, would be risky business, something better avoided, something to stay clear of. Cats, thought Brendan, were inscrutable, foreign, removed. Extricating yourself from the mind of a cat might be something like trying to escape quicksand—the more you struggled the deeper in you would sink.
But on this day, this Christmas Eve, Brendan wasn't thinking such philosophical thoughts. His thoughts were clear and full of terror. Mary was missing and he was beside himself and in mourning. So were the other people in his house—Lydia his wife and Alan and Ellen, their children, 10 and 7 they were. For three days, none of them were functioning at a very high level, not since that night three nights ago (the first day of winter) when Brendan took Mary with him to go pick up some gifts at Macy's in the mall in Waterbury. It had been warm for December and Mary loved to ride in the car. The packages were waiting for him at the service desk—a few things for good friends that Lydia had ordered on line to pick up at the store, already wrapped.
Brendan had left the window down a bit, so Mary could stick her nose out if she wanted, but usually she was fine in a parked car, either curling up in the front passenger seat or stretching out in the back seat of Brendan's Kia to wait patiently. Mary was nothing if not patient. She always snoozed a bit when left in the car. And it only took Brendan 10 minutes to collect the packages and get back to his car in the crowded parking lot.
But the packages were left, still in their bags, on the pavement when Brendan saw the overhead light on in his car and the back door open and no Mary. He ran toward his car calling, “Mary, Mary, Mary come....” But Mary didn't come.
An elderly couple was standing near his car—a Black man and woman in their 70's—the woman was crying into her husband's chest. The man held her gently and looked up as Brendan came running up.
“My dog?” he asked, frantic.
The man shook his head. “We were getting out of our car and saw some boys taunting her through the window.” The man's hair was white and tight to his head, his skin was ebony. “Louise, my wife, yelled at them and then one of them opened the door. Your dog leaped out and ran from them. They were still yelling and chasing the dog, but he outran them.”
She,” Brendan said, realizing as he said it that the gender of the dog didn't really matter. “Mary's a girl....”
“I'm sorry,” the man said, “we tried to stop them....I'm sorry about Mary.”
“Which way,” Brendan asked, “which way did she go?”
The man pointed toward the far end of the mall, toward Sears.
“That was awful,” the woman said, between sobs, “those awful boys...that poor frightened dog....”
“You go look for her, son,” the man told him. “I'll get your bags and put them in your car. Go on, now. Mary needs you.”
Brendan ran through the gathering darkness, calling for Mary as he ran. Several people moved away as he passed, thinking him deranged, which he was. He couldn't think, couldn't reason. All he could do was run through the huge parking lot, calling Mary's name as he ran.
A security guard going off duty saw him and said, “is Mary your daughter?”
“No,” Brendan said, “she's my dog.” He realized he was gasping and that his face was covered with tears. The back of his throat ached as it had when he was a child and was frightened or greatly saddened. He felt as lost as a child, terrified, torn apart, his heart breaking.
“Just a dog?” the security guard asked. “You're this upset about a dog?”
Brendan ran on, he was coming near the end of the mall now, his heart pounding, sobbing as he ran. “She not just a dog,” he was thinking as he called for her, “she's Mary. She's Lydia's dog.”
With that thought, he stopped running. Mostly because he was out of breath, but also because of that thought. Mary was Lydia's dog. Lydia picked her out at the animal shelter. Lydia loved Mary almost as much as she loved her children and, sometimes Brendan thought, a little more than she loved him. Lydia would go to sleep rubbing Mary as the dog slept between them on their bed. Lydia made Mary's food because the dog was allergic to processed dog food. Lydia cut Mary's nails and cleaned her ears and, much to Mary's displeasure, brushed the dog's teeth with a beef flavored toothpaste to get rid of tartar. Brendan walked the dog in the morning and the evening, but it was Lydia who took Mary to her Mazda and drove her to the old Farmington Canal at the bottom of the hill from their house in Cheshire and walked her all the way to Jennifer's bench. There were benches on the canal path, dedicated to people who had died. Jennifer's was the last bench. Jennifer had been a child who died and had loved the canal.
“We have to say hello to Jennifer,” Lydia told Brendan more than once, “then Mary and I come home.”
Suddenly, Brendan couldn't think. It was akin to being inside Joe's mind. Nothing was logical, nothing made sense, there was no way out of what had happened. Mary was gone and Brendan was lost in a confusion of thoughts and emotions. What would he tell Lydia? Then he realized he had to call Lydia and tell her why he wouldn't be home anytime soon—that he'd be searching for Mary in the dark as the air grew more chill, as hope slipped away.
The first call from his cell phone to home had been difficult. His daughter, Ellen, had answered the phone and wanted to chat about her school concert and the special doll—something Brendan had no clue about—that she wanted, really wanted, for Christmas. By the time he got Lydia on the phone he had a modicum of composure back, but she still knew from the tone of his voice and ragged breath, that something had gone off the tracks, something was radically wrong.
“What is it, Brendan?” some anxiety rising in her voice.
“It's Mary...,” he began.
“What about Mary?” she interrupted.
“She's gone....”
After a long silence, Lydia said, “you mean she's dead?”
“No, no,” Brendan told her, that ache back in his throat, “she's missing. Ran away. I can't find her.....”
The whole story took a while to tell, especially since Lydia kept interrupting to ask questions that didn't quite register in his head.
“I'm going to look for her for a while....quite a while. I won't be back for dinner,” he told his wife. “Don't tell the kids yet. Hopefully I'll find her. I don't want them to worry.”
But he didn't find her although he searched every foot of the enormous, very full parking lot. Although he asked dozens of people if they had seen a lab/cocker spaniel anywhere...”looks like a lab only smaller, very friendly, named Mary....” Although he walked several miles of Union Street and Hamilton Avenue in the dark, fearing every moment that he'd find her body on the road—nothing worked, nothing helped. Three calls from Lydia, when he could tell beneath her stoic facade that she was nearing panic, were fruitless. Finally she said, “Come home, we'll try tomorrow.”
He'd called the Waterbury Police and the Humane Society, getting an sardonic reaction from the duty Sargent about “just a dog” and a recording from the Humane Society to call back during business hours. It was nearly midnight when he got back to his car and found, as promised, his Macy's bags in the back seat. He drove home in a stupor that reminded him of college beer nights. It was like he was watching himself drive. Like any active and practicing Episcopalian, he seldom prayed, but on that drive he did, with the kind of fervor worthy of Gethsemane. He prayed for Mary, her safety, her homecoming. He prayed for his family and what this would do to them. He prayed for himself, for his great guilt and regret and pain at senselessly leaving the car unlocked. And, not surprisingly he received little comfort from his prayers. Guilt and Regret are ultimately feelings that require one to forgive themselves. The Almighty has better things to do.
Mary had been on Union Street along with Brendan, but in the other direction. She was not used to cars—except the ones she rode in—and their lights and exhaust frightened her greatly. That's not completely true. Fear isn't an intellectual evaluation for a dog—it is a viseral and physical reaction. The hairs on Mary's neck bristled. She became wary and anxious. She wanted to bark but something in her throat, not un-akin to Brendan's own aching throat, held her back.
Lights flashed—from cars, from Christmas decorations, from small buildings—she stayed close to buildings and finally, totally unable to understand what had happened to her (what took her from dozing peacefully in the back seat of The Man's car to this inhospitable and completely unfamiliar 'place') didn't register at all. What did begin to surface were long unknown and forgotten instincts—DNA deep behaviors to keep her from ultimate harm.
Exhausted, hungry, chilled, she fell asleep in the partially sheltered entrance to a Tattoo Parlor for the night. Her dreams, sparse but active, were troubling, even to her mind that was so nearly vacant most of the time. She dreamed of The Man's car and of the boys who chased her away, of her fear and her misery. Just that.
Thirteen or so miles away, Brendan and Lydia clung to each other. Brendan couldn't eat, could barely think and, like Mary, fell into disturbing dreams. In the morning the children would miss Mary. Already, Joe prowled around as if confused and not-quite-whole. His friend—if cats can be said to have 'friends—was somehow, inexplicably, missing. Incomplete, he scoured the house while Brendan fitfully slept and Lydia held him, slipping in and out of sleep, softly moaning and weeping.
“She's just a dog,” Lydia told herself several times during that long, troubled night. But she knew that wasn't true. She was Mary, she was 'their dog', a part of their family. Mary. And life would not be the same without her.
Mary wandered. She passed many people and many buildings. Down Union Street she went until it became East Main. She stayed closed to the buildings to avoid the traffic. Some people stopped to pet her and she licked their hands. Others—mostly young boys—chased her and yelled at her and one even threw a bottle at her that broke on the sidewalk and she stepped on it with her back left paw and cut herself and began to limp.
Had she been able to know, she was going in the exactly wrong way. Rather than moving toward her home, she moved toward the center of Waterbury, toward the Green. And, by afternoon of that next day, after the night the boys chased her from the car and from The Man, she found the park in the middle of the city. There was dying grass to lay on, and she did, licking her cut paw, resting for a while. Many elderly people were there and many young people. Some stopped to talk to her though Mary only understood a few words. One Hispanic woman noticed the blood on Mary's paw and used a handkerchief she had brought from Guatemala of fine linen and a lace her grandmother had crocheted to clean Mary's foot and pull out a sliver of glass.
Mary licked her face as she worked. And the woman spoke to Mary in Spanish, soothing words, words from another place about the dogs in the stable that first Christmas night.
“I cannot take you home,” the woman told Mary in Spanish, “my apartment has no pets.” Mary did not understand anything the woman told her, but licked her none-the-less.
Several hours later, a bus driver who had stepped outside for a cigarette before he had to move on from the Green, saw the dog and took his bottle of water and poured it into his McDonald's coffee cup and offered it to Mary. She was parched from her journey and drank it down. The bus driver rubbed her head and said a prayer in his native language, Hungarian, for her. Mary understood none of the words, but licked his hand.
An old Italian man came by and shared his sandwich with Mary. She had never tasted the meats and cheeses before, but she ate with gratitude and licked his hand as well.
She had moved from the place beneath one of the trees on the Green and already someone had cared for her wound and someone had given her water and someone had fed her with Provolone and salami and bread. Though she longed for her home and her Man and Woman and Girl and Boy, she had been cared for.
She wandered around the safety of the Green until darkness was falling again and her fear came back. The day was turning cold and she was hungry after half the Italian sandwich and thirst was coming back.
Then a black boy appeared. He looked like one of the boys that had let her out of the Man's car and chased her away into this chaos, so Mary was hesitant when he approached. But the boy was gentle and talked to her in soft words. The boy took off his belt and put it around Mary's neck like the leash she was so familiar with and led her to his home.
It was an apartment on the second floor of a three-family house several blocks from the Green and the trees. There were loud voices from the bottom floor and the sounds of breaking things that frightened Mary. But in the boy's apartment, there was heat and water in a bowl and a hot dog wiener that the boy put on a plate for Mary to eat and eat it she did.
It was strange to Mary that there were no Big People—no Man and Woman—where she was, but water and food was enough. And she slept with the boy in his bed, the second night of her exile from her home.
Deep in the night, Mary was woken by noise in the room next door. A Big Person who was yelling and knocking things over.
“Don't worry,” the boy said to Mary, “that's just my mom coming home. She's a bit drunk, I think. But she won't look in on me. We can go back to sleep.”
And they did.

That day Mary spent on the Green and that night she spent on Thomas' bed, even after his mother came in and made so much noise, Brendan and Lydia were busy. Brendan had a picture of Mary on his I-phone with the two kids hugging her. He quickly sent it to his computer and printed out 100 copies with the following words: “Mary is lost, please help us find her. Ellen and Alan want her back to love.” He added his cell phone and Lydia's to the poster as he printed them out.
Then he and Lydia spend most of the next day putting the posters up on every telephone pole and building and walls around the Mall in in both directions. Ellen went with Brendan and Alan went with Lydia. Each had tape and a stapler and they worked for two hours before they met, as agreed, outside of Sears at noon. No one wanted to eat, so they didn't, separating again—Ellen and Brendan toward the center of town and Lydia and Alan moving away from the city—calling Mary's name, looking for her, longing to have her back.
That same morning Thomas took Mary back to the green, leading her on his belt. In front of the large Roman Catholic church, he let her go, telling her words she didn't understand—“I'll be back after school and if you're still here I take you home again, OK? Mama would be mad to find you in the apartment. So wait for me, OK?”
Mary licked his face and then he was gone. It was the day before Christmas Eve, though Mary could not have known that. All day she wandered around the Green, growing hungry until a kind woman gave her an apple and some bologna. The day was chill but not cold enough to harm her, so she dozed on the grass and waited—for what she did not know. Again boys ran at her and threw plastic water bottles at her, but they did not hurt and her foot was much better, though she limped a bit.
All that day, Brendan and Lydia drove around Waterbury, looking for Mary. Each of them passed the Green several times, but by then Mary was laying beside a homeless man, who smelled strange but not troubling to her. He had given her food he'd gotten from the Soup Kitchen and water in a Styrofoam bowl from the same kitchen at St. John's Church. The man had been sleeping on a bench when Mary found him, smelling of alcohol and human body odor—neither of which is troubling to a dog.
She licked his hand that was hanging off the bench and he woke up.
“Hi, Dog,” he said. “What's your name?”
Mary, of course said nothing. She licked his face.
“What a friendly dog,” he said to her, “and since it's almost Christmas, I think I'll call you Mary.”
At her name, Mary barked.
“So, I've named you well,” the man said. “Let me go to the soup kitchen and get us some food....”
Then he took the twine that held up his pants and made a leash for Mary and tied her to the bench while he went to get them food.
The man talked to her through the day, telling her the story of his life: how he had been much loved as a child in Tennessee and gone to a school called Vanderbilt but had something bad in his brain that caused him to become a wanderer on the earth and someone who never could hold a job or be relied on. But there was something else in his brain—a way of knowing that he neither asked for or understood. “The way I knew your name and the way I know I'll make sure you get home safe.”
Mary understood none of what he said but knew he was a kind and good man and spent the night with him at a place where he led her on the twine that once held up his pants. They slept beneath a bridge with several other people and there was food, generously shared, though not as good as she was used to, and a small fire in a drum that gave some warmth. People there called the man who brought her Joshua. And though the name meant nothing to her, she savored it in her mind and heart.

Back at Mary's home, things were not well. Presents were not wrapped, the tree was only half decorated, No one had been to Stop and Shop to buy food for Christmas dinner. Invitations had been refused. Brendan and Lydia were growing near despair. The children weren't interested in Santa or gifts. Everyone—even Joe—was aching for the want of Mary.
How many miles had they walked and driven? How many thousand of times had they called her name? How terrible was the pain in their hearts?

Christmas Eve for Mary began beneath the bridge. All the people, who smelled so odd to her, were very kind and petted her and rubbed her and called her sweet names.
She and Joshua went to the Soup Kitchen for lunch, just as the day before. And Mary ate well.
In the late afternoon, Thomas, her friend, who had given her a sleep in a bed, found Mary and Joshua on the Green.
He rushed up to her and knelt down and she licked his face.
Thomas looked at Joshua. “This is my dog, I found her,” he said.
Joshua looked at him for a long time.
“No,” he said quietly and kindly, “this dog has a family and tonight we will find them. You were kind and wondrous to Mary and she will never forget that, but she needs to go home.”
The boy stared at Joshua for a long time, first in anger, then in confusion, then in wonder.
“Who are you?” he finally said.
“One who knows things without knowing how,” Joshua told him, “one who will tonight lead Mary home.”
“Why?” the boy asked him.
“Because,” Joshua said. “Stay with us tonight,” he said to Thomas, “stay with your friend and me.”
“Why?” Thomas asked.
“Do you really want to know?” Joshua asked him.
“Yes,” Thomas said.
“All will be well, if you stay with us. Mary will go home and you will be safe.” That is all Joshua would tell him.
Brendan and Lydia had decided they must go to church on Christmas Eve. They needed to recapture their hearts and have Christmas...but most of all, each of them knew, they needed Mary. The decided on the late service at St. John's, the Episcopal Parish on Waterbury's, Green. Mostly they went to the Episcopal Church in Cheshire, but tonight they wanted to be anonymous, they didn't want to have to see their friends and either pretend to be cheerful or have to tell them the story of Mary's loss. They just wanted to be together and sing the familiar carols and listen to the organ and the strings and lose themselves in the ancient liturgy and familiar stories.
Most of the day they had taken turns driving around Waterbury some more, but somehow they knew it would be in vain. They didn't believe they would ever see Mary again when they were honest with themselves. Mostly they sat around until it was time for church. They forgot to turn on the Tree's lights and the kids mostly watched TV with blank eyes, not using their I-pad or going on line at all.
They left for church around 9 p.m. As they traveled, Alan said, “aren't we going to St. Peter's?”
“No,” Lydia told him, “we're going to the big church in Waterbury.”
Ellen clapped her hands, the most energy she'd shown in days, “that's where Mary is,” she said, “maybe we'll find her!”
Brendan sighed. “Don't get your hopes up,” Lydia told her. “You don't want to be disappointed again.”
There was silence from the back seat for several miles. After they turned onto I-84, Ellen said softly, “It could be the 'Christmas Miracle'....”
Brendan and Lydia looked at each other in the dim dashboard light and smiled sadly. Truth was, they didn't believe in the 'Christmas Miracle', but they were somehow heartened that Ellen did.

Most of the rest of the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Joshua and Thomas and Mary walked around Waterbury, far and wide. The boy and the man talked a lot. Joshua asked Thomas many things: about school (Thomas loved school and did well); about his parents (Thomas' father was absent and his mother, he told Joshua, “was sad and drank too much”.)
“I know all about that,” Joshua told Thomas.
About six o'clock, Thomas said, “I should go home. My mom will be worried.”
Joshua was silent for a long while. “No, son,” he said, resting his hand on Thomas' shoulder, “she has other things to worry about. You stay with me. I'll take you home when our friend, Mary is safe and going home.”
Thomas started to insist that he should go home. But instead he asked, “how are you so sure Mary's going home?”
Joshua didn't answer for a while. Thomas was used to his silences by now and simply waited.
“I don't know, Thomas, how I know,” he finally said, “just know things. Something's funny about my brain.”
As they got to the Mall parking lot, Mary seemed anxious and skittish, she began to whine.
“Let's turn around now,” Joshua said, petting Mary's head. “Something bad here for Mary.”
The walked back down Union Street.
“My friend Armando got shot in his brain,” Thomas said, reverently, “some gangs were shooting at each other and he was in the way....He died.”
Joshua said nothing. After a while, Thomas continued, “it was a block from my house. I'm afraid a lot.”
A block or so later, Joshua stopped and looked at Thomas. “Something tells me, that's going to change soon. You won't need to be so afraid.”
“What makes you say that?” Thomas asked, further confused by Joshua. Then he realized he'd never told anyone, not even his grandparents or his mother about his fear. He'd never talked to a white person, who wasn't one of his teachers, as much as he'd talked to Joshua that long afternoon.
Joshua shook his head and laughed for the first time since Thomas had known him. “That thing in my head....I can't explain it.”
They were near a McDonald's and Thomas said, “I'm hungry. I bet you and Mary are too. My Grandmother gave me $20 last week. She and Grandpa live in Cheshire. They both used to be school teachers. I could buy us some food.”
Nodding, Joshua said, “get yourself and Mary something and me a small coffee with milk and three sugars. That'll keep me going.”
So Thomas had a Big Mac and Mary had a cheese burger and avoided the pickles and Joshua drank his coffee.
“Your grandparents,” he said Thomas, “they seem like upstanding folks.”
Thomas' face lit up with a smile. “I love them so. They're so smart and so good. My uncle and aunt too—they both live in West Hartford and are teachers too. Something, I don't know, something between my mom and dad made things go wrong for her. She was the youngest in the family, in college, studying to be a teacher like the rest of them and met my dad and then there was me. I just don't know....” The smile had gone. Thomas was sad suddenly.
Joshua sipped his coffee. “I think you're going to be fine, Thomas,” he said. “I think you'll be a teacher...a college professor maybe....”
“That's all I want!” Thomas said. Then he was suddenly embarrassed because he had never, not ever, said that to anyone before, much less a homeless, white man. But it was hard to be embarrassed for long with Joshua. Thomas had never imagined meeting someone like him—white, wise and homeless all at once. He suddenly wondered why he was still here. Surely his mom would be worried. Surely he should go home. But he knew he wouldn't. He wanted to be with Joshua. He wanted to know that Mary was going home for sure.
Joshua finished his coffee and rubbed his face hard with both hands, something Thomas had seen him do before. He was a good looking man, Thomas thought, for a white man. His eyes were very light, gray. He was tall, over 6 feet. And thin, which, Thomas imagined, wasn't odd for someone who ate at soup kitchens. His face was what some people would call handsome, though his hair and beard could use a trim. But what was most amazing about him to Thomas was that he moved slowly but with great grace. And whatever was wrong with his brain was fascinating to Thomas, who, in the secret part of his heart, wanted to be a Psychology Professor.
“Now it begins,” Joshua said, rubbing Thomas' head with his right hand and Mary's with his left. “Let Christmas Eve get serious....” Then he laughed again and they set off, this odd trio, toward the Green.
“We're going to visit the churches of Waterbury,” Joshua told them as they walked.
“Why?” Thomas asked him.
A block later, Joshua answered. “You know what journalists ask?” he said, “the four big questions?”
'When?' 'Where?' 'Why?' And 'How?' is that right?” Thomas said, remembering how in 6th grade he'd wanted to teach journalism in college.
“Exactly right,” Joshua said some twenty steps on. “You are a smart boy. Here's the thing, I can tell you 'when'--when they are having Christmas Eve services; 'where'--at the four big churches down town; “how”--by walking from one to another. What I can't tell you is 'why?' The 'why?' question is always the hardest.”
“Why?” Thomas asked.
“Exactly,” Joshua replied.
The visited the Lutheran Church first. Joshua knew the times of the services, though he didn't tell how. They stood at the door and listened to hymns. It was 7 pm. Then they walked slowly through the parking lot and on-street parking near the church. Nothing happened. Thomas didn't ask any questions and Joshua was obviously giving no answers since he knew none.
At 8 pm it was the Congregational Church. Same routine. Nothing happened.
At 9 they went to Immaculate Conception, the really big Roman Catholic church on the Green. There was only a small parking lot so they wandered the down-town streets. Again, nothing happened, though Thomas was growing impatient.
“What are we doing?” he asked, with a testy sound to his voice.
“I don't know,” Joshua answered immediately, “and please be patient.”
It was a little after 10 pm and they were headed toward St. John's.
“I eat here every day,” Joshua told Thomas. “I like this place.”
Thomas was about to be fed up and leave, going home to what he imagined, on Christmas Eve, would be a very drunk mother who might need his help. But when they walked into the church's parking lot, something happened.
Mary, who Thomas was leading with the twine from Joshua's pants, suddenly bolted. Thomas almost lost hold of the twine.
“Let her go!” Joshua called out. “Let her go!”
So Thomas did.
They found her at a Black KIA in the middle of the lot. She was scratching at the door. Other scratches were there. Those scratches looked a lot like the new ones Mary was leaving in her excitement.
Joshua took the twine from her neck and tried the door. It opened.
“Always lock your door in an parking lot,” he told Thomas, who already knew that.
Mary jumped in. Both Joshua and Thomas rubbed her and got licks beyond counting on their faces. The they stepped back and Joshua shut the door. They waited until the light went out and Mary was stretched out on the back seat before they left.
“So show me where you used to live,” Joshua said.
Thomas shook his head. “I still live there. You are one weird dude.”
Joshua smiled. “That I am,” he said.
“I'm going to miss Mary,” Thomas said, and it was true.
“Where do your grandparents live?” Joshua asked him.
“Cheshire, why?” Thomas replied.
“No reason,” said Joshua, “just wondering....”
It was a 10 minute walk, but Joshua kept his hand on Thomas' shoulder all the way and talked softly to him about things Thomas didn't really understand.
Turning the corner onto Thomas' street was jarring by the three police cars with lights pulsing and a number of well dressed Black people standing on the sidewalk in front of Thomas' building. He recognized them immediately. His Grandparents and Uncle and Aunt.
“What's happened?” he asked Joshua, full of fear.
“We will see,” Joshua answered, “in time we will see.”
As soon as the people saw Thomas they all rushed to him.
His aunt and uncle held him until his grandmother and grandfather replaced them.
Great emotion, hasty explanations, tears of joy and sadness.
It seemed that Thomas' mother had come home greatly drunk and torn up the apartment. Her neighbors had called Louise and Mark, Thomas' grandparents and then they had called his aunt and uncle. All had been at the apartment since then, wondering and worried about Thomas.
What would happen was that his mother was already on the way to an alcohol and drug treatment center. He would go to live with his grandparents in Cheshire until his mom was better and then both of them would live there as long as needed.
It was confusing and horrifying and painful and disconcerting to Thomas, but he knew life would be better for his mom and for him. So he started babbling about Joshua and Mary and the KIA in the church parking lot.
All the four adults who loved him listened with great interest but there was no man named Joshua there. They were confused.
“He kept me safe,” Thomas told them, “and Mary went home.”
His grandmother, Louise, was suddenly interested. “A dog in a KIA? A yellow dog?”
Thomas nodded his head vigorously.
Louise looked at her husband. Their looks matched. “Could it be?” was what the looks said.

Joshua was heading toward the bridge. His friends would be waiting. He would have liked to meet Thomas' family, but in the way his brain let him know what he couldn't explain...well, it was just as well. And it was Christmas Eve, there might be some fruit cake someone had stolen or gotten from the soup kitchen or some do-gooder. Who knew? Actually, Joshua did know, but it annoyed him and he tried to push it out of his mind.
The music had been magical. The ancient liturgy and the Christmas story wondrous. The sermon had been inspiring. And they tasted the Body and Blood of Christ on the very night of his birth.
Yet Brendan, Lydia, Ellen and Alan were still in pain, not feeling the joy and gaiety of Christmas.
Until, they opened their car's doors.....

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About Me

some ponderings by an aging white man who is an Episcopal priest in Connecticut. Now retired but still working and still wondering what it all means...all of it.