Puli Christmas dreams

(I wrote this for Bern last Christmas, our last Christmas without Bela dog. He was in the kennel on Christmas since he had become so unpredictable and we didn't want him around our grandchildren. We had him mercifully put down in the spring, probably a week or two later than we should have. He was a bad dog, but we loved him so, so much, our dog of an empty nest for 13 years. Rest in peace, my love, my Bela, my dog.....)

PULI CHRISTMAS DREAMS

          He slumbers, feels a pain in his hip, rolls over, his head on the pillow that holds the faint scent of the Man and the Woman and wonders where they are. Then a brighter light comes on and there are noises down the way. ‘Breakfast’, he thinks, waking up a bit, ‘breakfast is coming….’

          The girl who smiles, the person he likes best in this place, brings him food.

          “Merry Christmas, Bela,” she says, sliding a bowl into his cage. “Christmas breakfast, big boy.”

          He pushes himself to all fours. It’s not easy sometimes, but he knows that breakfast will taste like home. The food he gets in this place is just like the food he gets at home. He eats it quickly, suddenly ravenous, and pretends he is home.

          There is faint music playing—Christmas carols, the girl told him. “We want you to know it’s Christmas.” The sound is soothing, but it’s not the sound he eats to at home. At home there is seldom music, but always voices are speaking—some concerned, some curious, some outraged, some joyful. Always the voices above his head as he eats at home.

          After each morsel is eaten, after he licks the bowl a few times, the Puli thinks. There is no thinking while he eats. Eating is a thing in itself: smelling, chewing, swallowing—no time for thoughts. Eating is All. While he eats there is nothing else.

          Still tasting the taste of home, he wonders why he comes to this place from time to time. It’s not unpleasant and the girl is so kind to him, but why does his Man—usually the Man alone, but sometimes the Woman too—bring him to this place. It takes no time getting used to this place, but the sounds of the other dogs give him shivers of fear from time to time. He doesn’t think those sounds always made him afraid. He seems to remember answering the barks with barks of his own—but not the last few times he’s been here.

          Why is he here? Why isn’t he at home? Where are the Man and Woman and why isn’t he with them?

          The Puli wanders to the back of his cage, sniffing and searching and finally he has a poop. That’s what the Man calls this activity. “Have a poop, Bela,” he says whenever they walk. And when he does, the Man, praises him.

          The Woman says it too, but sometimes she says, “Come on, Bela, kai-kai.”

          The Man and Woman have names for everything. That’s how he knows what ‘breakfast’ means when he’s here. Names for everything. It must be exhausting to remember all the words. Bela doesn’t know them all—mostly it’s just noise. But he has noticed there seem to be fewer words—less noise—these days. Even the voices above him while he eats at home seem fainter than they once were.

          “Office”, that’s a word he knows. It’s where he goes while the Man looks at the big box. The Puli has even figured out that that place is called ‘the cool room’ sometimes and the ‘office’ other times. And though it is the same place it is different too—the door has to be shut, the door to the long, narrow, dim place. When it’s ‘the cool room’ the door is shut and he can’t wander down the long, narrow place to look to see if the Woman is in the room with an even bigger box that never stays the same.

          He wishes he were in the office right now. Or even the room where the Man and Woman eat and watch the big bright box. Or anywhere, really, at home. Rather than here, where he lays and thinks.

          But thinking about ‘home’ makes him tired and a little sad, but more tired than sad. So, he falls asleep.

          In the midst of the distant music and the barks of the other dogs and the sounds of the humans doing what humans do in that place, the Puli sleeps.

          And he dreams. He dreams.

          He dreams of running through the snow. He dreams of running through the grass. He dreams of running—just that, running. Running.

          Running.

          And in that dream, nothing hurts. His hips and legs move and move and move until the great relief of running becomes the whole dream.

          Just running.

          Then he dreams of the place the Man and Woman call ‘the big bed’.

          That’s were he spends his night and sometimes a lot of his day. He dreams of the softness there and the scents of the Man and Woman. He dreams of laying in that softness and hearing the water running in the shower. He dreams of the Woman, still moist, coming from the shower to hug him and kiss him. He dreams of the Man laying beside him looking at one of the blocks the man always has with him. He even dreams of leaping up onto the big bed and going over to gaze out the window at everything out there.

          He can’t leap on the bed anymore, even with the step he used to use. The Man or the Woman has to help him up. The Woman does it better, more smoothly, but one or the other has to help him now.

          But in his dreams, he leaps by himself, without the step, just up and up to the softness there, and the sweet smells. Up he goes, soaring, defying gravity.

          In reality, he’s never leapt up on the big bed that is now, the way he did the one that was before. He needed the step and used it until he needed help.

          But in his dream, he leaps, he soars, he lands with perfect grace.

          Soaring. Always in his dreams.

          He wakes from his soaring and sees one of the people has filled his bowl with fresh water. He tries to hoist himself up. It only takes two tries and then he is drinking, drinking, drinking.

          Like eating, drinking water takes all his attention, all his effort. It is not so much ‘him’ drinking than it is ‘drinking’ itself. The water goes down and down into his stomach until he backs away and belches softly.

          The people have gone now and the brighter light is off. Even the sound of what the girl called Christmas carols is gone. The cage on one side of him is empty but on the other side there is a large dog, sleeping against the fencing. The Puli goes over and sniffs carefully at the dog. It is as dark as he is but has short hair and a ridiculous long, skinny tail. The odor of the dog is not threatening though Bela had been suspicious of him when he first came to his cage. The dog had been trying to be friendly, snorting and wagging his tail. But the Puli ignored him. He has come to ignore other dogs most of the time. He seems to remember he didn’t always do that. It seems he used to study other dogs intently, trying to know if they were a threat to his Man or his Woman—whoever was walking with him. In the recesses of his memory is the memory of going after the other dogs, snarling and barking and biting…whatever was needed to keep his Man and Woman safe.

          But now he mostly just ignores other dogs, not even acknowledging their existence.

          He wanders around his cage, finally stopping to relief himself of some of the water he had lapped up before. Here in this place, though they take him for a walk each day, he relieves himself in his cage. The first time each time he came to this place, the first time he relieved water or pooped in his cage, he had held it as long as was possible. He has known for most of his life that it is ‘bad’ to do that inside. Only outside for such things. He knows this to the fiber of his being, but sometimes, recently, he has relieved himself even in his ‘home’. He has been ashamed when he did—but it was mostly impossible not to, those few times.

          The Puli lays down where he can keep an eye on the big dog sleeping in the next cage, but not too close. He is intent on watching the dog, but the rhythm of the big dog’s breath lulls him.

          And he sleeps himself.

          And dreams.

          He dreams of the time when he wasn’t the only creature in his home. He dreams of all the cats he has known—the ones with short hair and long hair. The big, annoying creature the Man and Woman called ‘Big Fatty’ and sometimes ‘fat fuck’, though the Puli doesn’t know what those things mean. He dreams of the two short-haired cats, the ones that went outside a lot, unlike ‘fat fuck’. They had names too, but in his dream, he doesn’t remember them. ‘Cat’-something was the bigger one. They all went away, even the sweet, gentle one called ‘Lukie’. The Puli never had much use for any of them but the sweet one was okay. And he never chased them, unlike the big dog the Man and Woman’s ‘son’ (whatever that means) started bringing with them when they came. He dreams of that dog and of the one before, the one he would run with in the yard. In his dream, he wonders where those two (‘Lara’ and ‘Su’-something they’re called) were when they weren’t at the Puli’s ‘home’.

          But most of all, he dreams of the little things he never really saw, that made sweet sounds above his head, near the voices that were always speaking. The Woman and the Man would talk to those creatures, so they must have been there. When they were there the voices above his head were often music instead. And the creatures would sing along. When little people came to his home, as they sometimes did, big people would hold them up and point to the voices and the sweet sounds. Everyone seemed to like whatever those creatures were, so they must have been there, unseen by the Puli, but heard.

          Where are all those creatures now, the Puli wondered. Now he is the only one with the Man and Woman. He likes not sharing attention with the others, but he does miss the sweet sounds he heard when he was eating.

          The big dog is awake. He is barking and one of the people in this place is taking him out of his cage. It must be ‘walk’ time, the Puli thinks. And sure enough, as the young girls takes the big dog by Bela’s cage, she says, “Your turn next, Bela.”

          In the time that is not now, the Puli could never walk enough. Even though he did not much like the thing around his neck, it was worth it just to be outside and walking, taking in all the smells and sounds of that place. It smelled different from the walks he took with the Man and Woman—different and exciting. “Walk! Walk!” he would think, longing to walk and walk. Longing for that.

          But that was in the time that is not now. Now he is reluctant to walk, always happy to head back. Part of it was his hips—the dull ache there—but another part was that like the dogs he was once so alert about, there were things on the walks that gave him pause. Not in this place, but on the walks with the Man and Woman. Huge things whiz by—and the enormous yellow thing that carries children—and people riding on two wheels. All of it, that was once merely innocent, now feels a bit threatening to him. He has learned how to turn back from the way the Man wants him to go in such a way that the man frets and worries about the thing around the Puli’s neck. The woman is not so easy to turn back, but the Puli eventually wears her down.

          Turning back is now more important than walking.

          The girl comes back and puts a thing around his neck and leads him past a dozen other cages into the outside. He sniffs and looks around for a while, but before they go all the way up the hill and away, he convinces her to turn back. And when she does, he is relieved and pulls to make her go back faster.

          “That wasn’t much of a walk,” the young girls says, as she puts him back in his cage and takes off the thing around his neck. “But Merry Christmas anyway….”

          Those words again. First the sweet girl and now the young girl have said them. And he thinks he hears the people who work in this place say the same words to each other. The boy, who the Puli doesn’t like as much as the sweet girl and the young girl, or even the man that’s not his Man, says back, “right, Merry-working-on-Christmas to you.”

          The Puli does not like the sound of the boy’s voice. It is the sound of his Man’s voice when the Puli doesn’t go down into the yard, or pulls too hard on the thing around his neck, or won’t come in the door from the back porch, or won’t come to be pushed up the long steps to upstairs. He hears that tone in the Woman’s voice from time to time—but not as much as the Man’s. Had he the words to give to that sound, he would call it ‘angry’ or more accurately ‘hurt’. But the Puli does not have words like the people do. He has only feelings, instincts—and those tell him about those words and the way they are spoken.

          ‘Walk’ thankfully over, the Puli drinks some water and flops down. He intends to watch and wait for dinner, but instead he falls asleep.

          He falls asleep and dreams.

          Christmas dreams for the Puli.

          Not often, but sometimes, his dreams turn hurtful, not that he knows that word, but he knows dreaming of the other places where the Man and Woman used to leave him were not good. He dreams vaguely of the place where they were afraid of him (though ‘afraid’ is not the word but his feeling) and didn’t bathe him or take him out. He dreams vaguely of being taken to another place with the dog named ‘Su-something’ and Su-something not staying but he did. He did not like that place either, not like this place where all but the boy are kind and good and feed him.

          Since dinner is near, he dreams of eating. The eating dream is not a dream about eating. The dream is Eating Itself. He dreams and dreams that, unable to stop dreaming.

          But then the clatter and talking and dinner comes to him. It tastes, as always, like ‘home’. He clears everything from his mind and, instead of him eating, he becomes Eating Itself.

          Sometimes the people in this place give him treats. More often than his Woman does, but not nearly as often as his Man does. He seems to remember his Woman chiding his Man for so many treats. ‘Chiding’ is not a word he would ever know or understand, but he feels the feeling when the Woman talks to the Man about treats.

          Too soon, the food is gone. He dozes for a while, without dreams, until he has to drag himself up and wander around the cage until he poops. The people in this place always praise him when they pick up his poop. He’s not sure why, since his poops are inside and therefore ‘bad’. But they do. And they take the poop away to someplace he does not know.

          No new dogs have come today, probably, the Puli imagines with clarity beyond his ken, that it is whatever Christmas is since ‘Merry Christmas’ has been the phrase of the day. He is glad there have been no changes. Changes in routine are things that ‘bother’ him, though he doesn’t know that word. He just knows what the people call ‘changes’ make him feel anxious. Habit and ruts are where he dwells most securely. Changes, like coming to this place, cause him distress.

          Two meals, a walk, a treat or two from the smiling girl—a good routine, a pleasing rut—are over. The bright lights are off. He and the other dogs live now in an indoor dusk. And they sleep.

          The Puli sleeps. And dreams.

          Dreams.

          Again the running, the leaping on the big bed, the eating/eating/eating, the Woman and Man with him on the big bed, those bodies close to his, the scent of them, the warmth they have, racing up and down stairs, always full of energy, his mind alert to the threats around them, walking and walking and walking, never enough, and treats, sometimes his treats, sometimes food from the Woman’s plate, or the Man’s.

          Dreams like that fill up the rest of Christmas day and night. There is even a dream of a place that is nowhere and other dogs like him that he is with before a long journey in what the people call a ‘car’ to the place he’s always known as ‘home’. That dream is vague and distant and the Puli doesn’t quite know what to make of it, of the taste of milk, of the closeness of other creatures like him, of a place that he doesn’t really remember since his home has always, always been with the Man and Woman and the creatures who aren’t there anymore. But something in that short, vague, distant dream rouses him for a moment and he doesn’t know where he is. This isn’t there—the dream place—or ‘home’ or the big bed….In a while he remembers, he’s in this place and this is where he’s been and the dream he had of a place he doesn’t remember being fades away.

          He dreams some more. He dreams of the outside thing the Woman brought inside before he came to this place. He thinks the people called it a ‘Christmas tree’—there’s that word, Christmas, again. He dreams of the lights and little things they put on the tree. A tree inside his home. That makes no sense. But he somehow remembers other times when it happened. Most times, he remembers, the Woman brought two trees, but not this time. This time before they brought him to this place.

          He slept for hours without dreams. He just slept. He ‘was’ sleeping just as he ‘is’ eating and ‘is’ drinking water. And in his sleep he didn’t need to go up or down stairs, or get on the bed, or ‘do’ anything at all. He simply WAS sleep.

          But just before he woke on the day after Christmas—though he had been roused a time or two during the night, sleep not being as certain as it used to be—he had a dream even he would call ‘odd’ if he knew that word or what it meant.

          He dreamed he was in a place he’d never been before. It was a place so beautiful he almost forgot the place he’s always know—‘home’—and almost forgot the Man and Woman he shared that place with, first with other creatures and then, for a long time, with only the Man and Woman. In the dream the place he dreamed was enormous. And he ran and ran and ran and ran, like he’d never run before.

          And there was food that tasted like ‘home’ only better. And he wasn’t eating it, Eating was him. And water in a bowl, in a creek, in a lake, so cool and pure that he wasn’t drinking it, Drinking was him. And he ran, through snow and rain (which he used to hate but didn’t in his dream) and grass and weeds and trees and he ran and ran and ran and didn’t ever stop running. And it was a perfect Christmas Dream, though he still didn’t know what Christmas was.

          Morning came eventually. He dozed without dreams. The loving girl came to feed him what tasted like ‘home’. The other girl took him out and he actually ‘pooped’ or ‘kai-kai-ed’ depending on which of his humans you believed. Then he slept for a while, without dreams, until the girl he liked most came and started putting things he thought of as his into a big bag with dogs—not him—on it.

          “Your daddy’s here, Bela,” she said, “you’re going home”.

          It took him a moment to realize ‘daddy’ meant his Man.

          But immediately, he understood ‘home’.

          HOME—that he knew, that he longed for, that he loved.

          Always and for whatever ‘forever’ means.

 

belief

Someone asked me today, in total sincerity, "what do you have to believe to be a Christian?"

Well, I consider myself a Christian--an Episcopal, liturgical one. But the truth is, the older I get, the less I really 'believe'.

I believe there is a God/Goddess, though I don't know if He/She/It matches up with the whole Bible thing. And I believe that Being loves us totally, without limit, without qualification, with self-giving love.

I believe Jesus of Nazareth lived into that Love that gives itself away and his teaching should be followed.

I believe the Great Being has given us a Companion in life's way that you could, if you need to, call the Holy Spirit--though Companion is enough for me.

Beyond that, I don't believe much.

Stuff like the Virgin Birth and the bodily Resurrection and the Ascension and Pentecost 'inform my thinking' about the Being, but I don't need to 'believe' doctrines and dogma unless by 'belief' you mean 'to live as if...."

In most people's mouths, "belief" and "faith" and words like that mean you assume all that you say you believe is TRUE.

There's a lot of what I assume is TRUTH around. But I don't 'believe' it, I just accept it as TRUE.

Most of the Hebrew Bible, to me, is helpful myth and story. I don't even begin to wonder if it is TRUE.

I know enough about early Christian thought to know there was in no way any consistent agreement on what the first three centuries of Christians 'believed'. That didn't happen until the Council of Nicaea in 325, just as the church was to leave the catacombs and start building cathedrals.

The Roman Emperor Constantine had become a Christian, at least in theory, and Christianity was about to move from being a footnote in the Empire to being the 'official religion' all would adhere to. Imagine that shock! So the church had to clean stuff up so they could say what they 'believed' so everyone in the Roman Empire could agree to believe it.

The Nicene Creed, created by that Council, was, in fact, a guide to what you couldn't believe and be a Christian.

Just take the beginning: "I/We believe in God, the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth...."

There were lots of Christians around who did not believe the 'Father God' of Jesus was the God of the Hebrew Bible. So, they were out of the post-Nicene church.

I don't like creeds and when I introduce them I say "Please recite with me the Nicene Creed." I don't ask people to 'believe' it.

All this could probably get me defrocked as a priest, but I'm trying to be honest.

And Heaven and Hell stuff, just for a last example of my heresy, I don't trouble my mind about.

I'm actually a very good priest when someone dies. I don't tell any tales about the dead being 'in a better place'--since to a loved one of the deceased that sounds like being with them wasn't good enough.

And when people ask me, "why do you believe happens when we die?" I say, truthfully, "that's one of the things I'm leaving up to God."

And I mean it.

So, since I am a Christian by personal declaration, I obviously don't think you have to "believe" all that much to be one.

I'm much more interested in how you live your life--in your empathy, your compassion, your acceptance of all people as God's 'people', your kindness and generosity--that, for me, is what makes you a Christian...not what you 'believe'.

I've met a multitude of people whose lives made them 'good Christians' who would have laughed if I told them that.....

Things you don't want to know

I hate things I don't want to know.

Like, it's impossible to burp or fart is zero gravity.

I mean, burping and farting aren't polite things, but admit it, there is something good about them. But people on the space station can do neither. I didn't want to know that.

And like, some scientists believe that consciousness goes beyond death, at least as long to realize you are dead.

I'm still ruminating on whether I want to have a conscious thought about being dead or not.

But I certainly didn't want to know that.

"Wow, I'm dead!" isn't something I'm sure I'd want to know.

Bob Evan's chain of restaurants might go bankrupt next year.

I don't know the last time I went to a Bob Evan's, but I don't want to think about them being non-existent.

Donald what's his name is still President.

I really didn't want to know that.

We don't deserve her

We've had Brigit for two months now.

Her name was Annie, but when we said 'Annie' she ducked her head and turned away. Now she knows her new and always name is Brigit.

She has a new name and a new life--her forever life.

After only two months she is a perfect dog. She never demands but always longs for attention. She shakes all over when one of us comes home from somewhere. She still hasn't barked. Not once.

She appreciates everything and comes to find us if we aren't with her for a while.

She is a joy to walk and is, slowly, overcoming her fear of noises and sudden changes.

We don't know what all she's been through, but we know we don't deserve her.

We lucked out big time. The sweetest, gentlest dog ever.

Such a sweetheart.

That's what Eleanor, our two year old grand-daughter calls her: "sweetheart".

Out of the mouths of babes.....

Advent One sermon

Advent I 2018

           

          In the name of the God who is coming among us, Amen.

          “Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near….”

          That’s what Jesus says in today’s gospel. He is teaching in the Temple. He is standing in the holiest spot on the face of the earth for his people and he is teaching about the end of days, the Last Things, the Apocalypse, the signs that will signal the coming of the Son of Man in power and great glory. “Heaven and earth will pass away,”  he proclaims, “but my words will not pass away….”

          And what does he tell his disciples to do? How does he want his followers to face the end of all things? “Stand up!” he says, “stand up and raise your heads…your redemption is drawing near….”

          We tend to see Advent as the time to prepare for the celebration of Christmas. We tend to spend these weeks talking about “preparing our hearts for the Christ Child.”  But that misses the more dominant theme of Advent. Advent is a time to reflect, not on Jesus’ birth, but on his promised return to Earth as the Son of Man. Advent not about the ‘first coming’ of Jesus. It’s about his second coming…and the end of days.

          “When you see these thing taking place,” Jesus teaches in the temple, “you know that the Kingdom of God is near….”

                                                          *

          When I went to Israel 18 years ago now, our group toured an archeological site called Megiddo. Megiddo is located on the south side of the Jezreel Valley on the Eeron Pass—the route taken by conquerors from the Pharohes of Egypt to King Solomon to the Roman Legions to the British Army in World War I.

          Megiddo is a vital strategic location for anyone seeking to control Israel. That is why twenty different cities have been built on that one spot—one on top of the other. Each conquering army destroyed the city they seized and built their new fortress on it’s ruins.

          The first settlement at Megiddo dates back to 4000 B.C.—6000 years ago, at the dawning of human civilization. To stand amid the ruins of Megiddo today is to stand on a spot that dates back to the Stone Age. That is almost impossible to ponder—a place that takes in the whole of human history.

          But after telling us all this and more about the history of Megiddo, our guide told us something else. Megiddo has another name. It is also known as Armageddon.

          The hair on the back of my neck stood up. For a moment I could hardly breathe. All the old stories of the Pentecostal preachers of my childhood rang in my ears and in my heart. The Day of the Lord…the Second Coming…the last battle of planet earth—all that was contained in that single word: Armageddon. We were standing on the place where the Book of Revelation tells us the world will end….

                                                *

          When I was a child, the end of the world through nuclear war was something almost everyone imagined could be true. We got under our desks in grade school and covered our heads, practicing for the Atomic bomb attack.   And today, the ecological crisis should provoke our imaginations as well. It is possible that we human beings could bring death to the planet through our carelessness and greed. The end of the world, in that way, is not unthinkable.

                                                                   *

          When I was 25 years old, I spent many hours over the span of a week, sitting by my mother’s deathbed. I took turns sitting there with other members of my family, watching for the signs and portents of the end of my mother’s days. It was over 45 years ago, yet the memories of those days and hours and moments are still vivid in my heart. Though she was in and out of a coma and never spoke during that week, she did wake up enough one day to let me feed her a little cup of vanilla ice-cream with a plastic spoon. She drifted away before she had eaten it all and I took the last bite. I still remember that as one of the most delicious and sensuous bites I’ve ever had. All my senses were heightened because I knew each moment I sat there might be the last moment of my mother’s life.

          I would try to match my breath with her breath, try to breathe in rhythm with her. And in those moments, every breath I took was distinct and different. Like snowflakes, no two breaths were the same.

          Most of the time, I don’t even notice that I’m breathing.

          Jesus tells us this today: Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down…and that day does not catch you unexpectedly, like a trap….Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.

          Advent is the time to wake up. Advent is the time to remember to be aware, on guard, alert while we are waiting. Most of the time, we just don’t notice how life is flowing around us. Most of the time, we are asleep.

          While I sat and waited for my mother to die, each moment took on “meaning”, every instant was important, the normally unnoticed seconds of my life were precious and rare and like snowflakes, all different from each other.

          While we are “waiting for Christmas” or “waiting for the Coming of the Son of Man”, the gift and meaning of Advent is that the “in between time” is precisely where we will find love and purpose and hope and wonder and God…and each other.

          It’s not What we’re waiting for that’s important. What’s important is what we do with the “waiting time”.  Our lives have purpose. Our love “makes a difference” in this world. Every bite of ice cream, every moment of waiting, every second of our lives is full and overflowing with the glory of God.

          Advent calls us to “be always on the watch”, wide awake with anticipation, leaning into every hour of our existence as if God were always breaking into our lives.

          Advent calls us to wake up and notice every breath as if God were breathing in rhythm with us. The Kingdom of God is that close to us, as close as our next breath…

          “Stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”

Bush 41

I disagreed with much that he did, but unlike today, I always believed he did what he thought was right and good and moral and in the interest of his country.

I met him once because his aunt, Mary Bush House, was a member of St. Paul's in New Haven. A sweet, gentle, generous woman. He and Barbara would visit her at her nursing home, which made the nursing home crazy because the Secret Service would show up three days prior and turn things inside out.

He was as gentle and good as his aunt in our brief meeting.

I also know his brother. Jonathon, from Emmanuel Church. Jon--you would never know he was anything but a normal guy from the way he dresses to the way he interacts with us 'normal people'.

I emailed Jonathon to give him my heart in these days.

How much I wish a man of the integrity of G.H.W. Bush were in the White House today.

How much I wish that.

And how much I appreciate his long decades of service to his country.

Rest well, George Herbert Walker. We will miss you and your kind of man....