All It Takes Is A Little Love

I’ve never been able to comprehend conflicts brought about because of religion, and yet it is a fact of history that some of the most terrible wars and persecutions were precipitated by religious fervor. As a Catholic I’ve read much about those of my own religious persuasion as both aggressors and victims of political oppression. When I witness certain religious beliefs being demonized I always worry, because so many times the initial tongue wagging and fears devolve into very dangerous situations. Little wonder that our Founding Fathers had the wisdom to demand a strict separation between Church and State. Sadly that line of demarcation is often blurred to a toxic level that has the potential to erupt into a kind of civil war. 

I recall glancing at headlines about the troubles in Northern Ireland during my earliest years as an adult. The town of Belfast became synonymous in my mind with bombs and terrorist activities. Eventually the violence spilled over into England as well. It baffled me that so much trouble occurred with religion at its root, even though there was a tangle of many other factors as well. Somehow religious wars and conflicts are oxymorons to me and yet I know that the Puritans who fled the old world for the new, did so in hopes of finding a place where they would be free to follow their own religious beliefs instead of being literally jailed because of their differences. 

Last week I watched the Kenneth Branagh film, Belfast. It was a kind of memoir of his youth in Northern Ireland. The movie centers on a young boy named Buddy and his family who were living peacefully and happily in a neighborhood composed of Catholics and Protestants. The movie begins with a lovely scene of children playing when a gang of thugs descend upon the street to damage the homes where Catholics were living. From that point in 1969, the seriousness of the situation grows ever more dire until Buddy’s family begins to wonder if they must leave the city that they love for the sake of keeping everyone safe. 

Belfast is a beautiful and touching film that makes the conflict in Northern Ireland feel intensely personal. It also speaks to the sadness of divisiveness brought on by religious bigotry, a theme repeated again and again throughout history. I left the movie feeling a universe of emotions, but mostly wondering why we humans do not see the signs of trouble long before they erupt into wars between one another. Why do we allow such poisonous behaviors to grow and multiply? What makes one group of religious folk become so self-righteous that they justify violence toward others by invoking God?

I honestly worry right now about the continuous mixing of religion with political influence that is happening in many corners of the world. In the Middle East many nations are built on the principles of a particular Muslim sect. In our own country there is a constant push to place Christianity at the center of public policy, thus ignoring the the many diverse religious beliefs of vast numbers of the population. I fret over the idea that there is one best way of governing the people when it is based solely on a limited religious preference when even within the term Christianity there are so many differing rules and traditions. 

Like the Founding Fathers I strongly believe that religion should always be a personal thing, not a purview of the State. When folks ask for prayers to be part of the daily routine at schools I doubt that they think that every conceivable religion should be represented in those recitations. Too many insist that this should be a Christian country even as we are filled with a population of many different faiths and even some who do not believe in such things at all.

When I hear of such demands I shudder because even though as a Catholic I think of myself as being a Christian, I know that many think of Catholics as being something other than Christian. We all saw the backlash against Mitt Romney’s Mormon faith when he ran for President of the United States. There are far too many advocating for a Christian country who totally misunderstand Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists, and even Jews. Ours must be an all inclusive democratic republic that allows each individual the right to religious views of their own without pressure from the government to conform to a single way of believing. 

Watching Belfast only hardened my thinking that, but for the brilliance of those who wrote our original Constitution, we would have had a civil war not just over slavery, but also over religion. Sadly, we are dangerously close to such a slippery slope in the present. Decisions made by our government should never be influenced by one faith over another, but rather by a consideration of the general welfare of all of the people. 

We are already more politically divided than at any time since the Civil War. Friend is turning against friend. Anger has overtaken reason. Lies and propaganda are spreading like wildfire. Religion is too often being used to drive us apart. We don’t want to become like Belfast once was. Our neighborhoods are beautifully diverse. Let’s protect our lovely differences and live together in harmony and peace.    

I met with a group of long time friends recently at a local Italian restaurant. We were happy to reprise our tradition of meeting and exchanging gifts at Christmas time. Mostly what we enjoy about this annual gathering, that was interrupted by Covid last year, is feeling so accepted by each other in spite of any differences in our political persuasions, backgrounds and lifestyles. We simply love each other in the most comforting of ways. Our gatherings fill each of us with a joy that sets the tone for the Christmas season.

This year we spoke of how sad it has been to see people around us allowing politics and small slights to rent their friendships in two. Each of us had experienced such things during the past couple of years. We understand how trying the times have been, but it is difficult to believe that a mother and child would become enemies simply because they voted differently in the 2020 election, and yet one of our party personally knew of such a situation. So too did everyone experience a breech in a long time friendship over everything from being vaccinated to wearing masks to believing that the 2020 election was fraudulent. 

I count the blessings of my many friends and I believe that the anxieties that many among us hold have been stoked by elected officials who have drawn lines in the sand to purposely divide us. The media of all sorts, under the guise of freedom of speech, has all too often gleefully amplified our differences in ways that sadly turn family members and friends against each other. I for one have been unfriended by individuals whom I continue to love in spite of their rejection of me. Somehow their allegiance to certain ideas has superseded their loyalty to me. A single comment or belief from me has erased their memory of the times we have shared in both happy and sorrowful moments. I have become a non-person to them as though I no longer exist. 

I can understand eliminating someone who is abusive or disloyal, but I have trouble accepting that small slights or differences are grounds for smashing a long time relationship. I remain determined to be like the father in the story of the Prodigal Son in the hopes that one day I will celebrate the return of the folks who are upset with me over small missteps that they believe I have taken in my view of the world. Somehow I cannot take the advice of well-meaning friends who have advised me to just accept that some relationships have an expiration date and I need to just walk away. These people have meant too much to me for far too long to so easily write them off. I intend to wait until a time when we might be able to make amends. 

I tend to believe that when such things happen there are bigger issues at play than a single slip of the tongue or disturbing belief. For that reason I cling to the hope that at some moment in the future my patience will pay off and I will be reunited with individuals who allowed the crises of the moment to create a rift in what had once been a wonderful union of diverse mindsets. Somehow at least for now, they do not seem to realize that I may not agree with them on particular issues, but those things have nothing to do with how I feel about them as people. We have waded through too much together for me to so quickly forget what they have always meant to me.

I have already lost so many dear, dear friends and family members. Perhaps that is why I so appreciate those who are still around to walk with me. I often grieve for those who have died and worry that I somehow never really let them know how much I loved them. I hope that somehow they nonetheless knew that I never took them for granted no matter how busy or distracted by life I became. I value people over anything else and I have a tendency to never give up on them. I suppose that I was better at letting my students know how much I cared about them than teaching them mathematics. I simply refuse to believe that anyone is expendable and sometimes my heart has been broken because of that. Nonetheless, it is the way I am and I will not apologize for my determination to retain deep feelings even for those who become angry enough to push me away. 

One of my favorite stories of reunion came from my dear friend, Egon, who sadly died all too soon. His mother was living in Norway during World War II when the German army invaded the country. Egon’s father was a German soldier charged with maintaining control of the population. While stationed in Norway he met Egon’s mother and the two of them fell in love in spite of their differing allegiances. After the war they married and lived in Germany. 

Over time they returned to Norway so that the woman might visit with her relatives, many of whom met her husband with cold politeness or even downright disdain. After decades when it became apparent that the once Nazi soldier was a good man who had been drafted into service that was not particularly indicative of his own beliefs, one of the woman’s brothers boldly announced to the family that it was time to set aside all of their rancor and welcome his sister’s husband into their midst. After that they all spent many happy years enjoying one another’s company and loving each other without conditions. 

If a group of people were able to overcome such painful memories I am confident that my beautiful ones will one day lead to a reunion with those who remain special to me. The love we have shared is far more important than our differences. The spirit and the reason for Christmas convinces me that love will always win. 

My dad never owned a gun and my mother never had an inclination to purchase one even when she was alone in a home that had been burglarized several times. In fact, she felt uneasy around guns and sometimes admitted to her fears of them by telling me about family members who visited her with concealed carry permits and weapons hiding in their purses or their cars. In spite of my mom’s hesitancy around guns I saw my share of them while growing up in Texas. Most of my uncles had guns of some sort, usually for hunting. A bachelor uncle who lived with my grandmother kept a loaded pistol on his dresser. All of us cousins tiptoed around the weapon when we visited our grandmother, but we were also in awe that our uncle would leave it out in the open knowing that we often invaded the confines of his room to avoid the smoke and loud chatter of the adults who seemed not to notice the element of danger that was right before us. 

My husband came from a family of hunters, and so he brought a variety of weapons with his clothes and other belongings when we got married. Admittedly I was never comfortable having the guns in my home, especially when my children were small, so I made him keep them unloaded and safely stored away. Over the years they have mostly sat unused save for the time when he decided to shoot at paper targets and then enter marksmanship contests. Once he became shooter of the year at a local club, he locked the guns away again and has not touched them for several years. 

I am fully aware of the second amendment and the nuances and questions associated with it. I understand that there are perfectly reasonable adults who enjoy the sport of hunting and even those who see guns as a form of protection of their families, but when we have more guns floating around than the number of citizens in the country, I begin to question our fascination with lethal weapons. 

In my state of Texas anyone can now openly carry a gun without any kind of formal training. While there are supposed to be waiting periods and checks and balances regarding the legal sale of guns, we have all witnessed loopholes that provide even shady characters with arms. We Americans appear to have a kind of obsession with the idea that if everyone has a weapon we will somehow be able to better protect ourselves from evil doers. While there have indeed been a few cases of brave souls who have thwarted violent incidents with their guns, for the most part the crime rate has only increased along with deaths from gunshots that were either purposeful or accidental. Furthermore, we are putting guns into the hands of younger and younger individuals while also being quite lax about storing them safely in our homes. 

I don’t have big problems with those who have secure gun safes that they carefully monitor. Nor am I terribly upset by those who enjoy hunting, even though I find the the idea of killing animals only for sport to be a bit appalling. I see my hangup about taking the lives of animals as being my own, and therefore something that should not affect the enjoyment of others. What bothers me the most is that we the people of this nation have seemingly become so accustomed to school shootings and mass killings that we are unable to find sensible compromises for controlling the numbers and types of weapons circulating in our midst. It feels as though each new tragedy only increases the proliferation of arms rather than curbing the wild west mentality that now pervades our society. 

I am a teacher, retired from public school classrooms, but still regularly providing knowledge to a small group of students. I spent my adult life inside schools and I innately understand all of the stresses and strains on our educational system. I was still active in education when the tragedy of Columbine made national headlines. I wanted to believe that the incident was a random anomaly even as I had to engage in training for a potential shooting in my own school. Suddenly we were not only having fire and tornado drills, but also practices for shooter lockdowns. I had to discuss procedures with my students who reminded me that the lock on my classroom door had never functioned properly. I worried that if anyone entered the school from the back parking lot my and I students would be sitting ducks. I decided that I would offer myself as a shield if need be. I felt that I had live my life and they deserved to live theirs as well. 

I watched metal detectors being installed in the buildings where I worked. I watched as all entry doors were kept locked during the school day. Suddenly armed  resource police officers were staying on campus all day long. Systems of doors that might trap an intruder became a way of life. It felt uncomfortable and icky, stealing so much of the joy of teaching. I had to become ever alert for trouble. I had to rehearse what I would do if there was ever a danger inside the hallways.

On one occasion in one school where I worked we were told that an armed shooter might be on campus. We went into lockdown. As a school administrator by then I had to run from classroom to classroom to be certain that every door was secured and that the teachers and students were aware that they must stay inside. It was a tense moment that was many times worse than those drills. Fortunately the individual who caused the real time execution of our planning was apprehended outside of the gates of our campus and we were all soon sighing with relief, but the danger had been too close to feel entirely comfortable. 

The numbers of school shootings have continued to multiply. Invariably the shooters have had access to guns that were legally purchased. The response each time is momentary horror followed by the purchase of more guns and new prevention ideas that put the onus on teachers and administrators rather than addressing the reasons why such events have become so commonplace. Suggesting that teachers carry weapons is an example of one of the worst of the ideas while mentioning that we need to restrict gun ownership in a sensible way is generally decried. Thus we do little or nothing and get nowhere, while already overworked and stressed educators add the worry of watching their students being killed to their list of duties. It is a travesty that we do not seem to have the courage to adequately address. 

I do not pretend to know the answers, but I am certain that we can’t keep looking away from the reality that we have a gun problem in the United States. We are no safer now with guns in every nook and cranny than people hoped and believed we would be. The access to lethal weapons is easier than getting a license to drive a car. It’s time that we be honest and come together to protect our schools and public places, not by all being armed and ready for a gunfight, but by insisting that gun owners have reasonable rules about purchasing, storing and learning how to use guns safely. It’s no doubt a task as difficult as dealing with climate change, but it’s time we begin to tackle the issues that really matter. If we do not, it is only a matter of time until more innocents will be killed. Being pro life should mean really caring about everyone and working to keep them safe.

Throughout my life I’ve known people who were so sentimental that they were reduced to tears at the mention of a memory, a person, or even a song. My mother was one of the most likely to weep at the drop of a hat. I had a friend who once ran from our table in a restaurant when the strains of ‘White Christmas” wafted through the air. She later explained that the tune had been a favorite of her mother. I tended to feel a bit embarrassed by such outbursts of emotion, but while I did not understand them I always consoled the people who so easily cried. 

I suppose that I have generally been stoic. Even when my father died I held my eight year old self together. I was always the rock who saved my tears for the private times behind closed doors. I had a good cry and then moved on with whatever work was a hand. I suppose that to some I appeared to be a bit heartless. I showed no signs of sobbing even at funerals. The only time I did so was when I got ambushed by an unexpected occurrence at my grandfather’s funeral. Somebody played the song “Grandpa” which so perfectly described my relationship with him that I totally lost it in a swell of heaving and contorting of my face. Otherwise I have generally been in total command of myself, a trait which has led some to question my feelings and even accuse me of being a bit cold. 

I am rather certain that I learned how to keep my sentiments to myself when my father died. Somehow I believed that it was up to me to take care of my little brothers and even my mother. Since she was prostate in her bed with almost continuous wailing, I thought that I needed to be the counterbalance to her outbursts. I now know that my assessment of the situation was not to my benefit, but somehow it worked for me so well that staying calm and cool in public became a kind of trademark of how I respond to sorrow. 

In the last few years, as I have grown older I find that my ability to maintain a semblance of composure is waning. I only need to see a photo of an old pet to get misty eyed. If I watch a video of my grandson reading a poem that he wrote, I totally lose my composure. Like my friend, songs trigger memories of people and events resulting in bringing on the waterworks. I’ve become so sappy and sentimental that I sometimes wonder what has created the big change, Mostly though I like the way it feels to allow myself to respond to the moment in exactly the way my mind is telling me to be. 

Christmas is especially moving to me, as I suppose it is to everyone. I can think back to a time when I still believed in Santa Claus and life seemed to be filled only with joy. I had so many people who loved me as I loved them. I had not yet felt the sting of loss that has repeated itself many times over since then. I once had grandparents and dozens of aunts and uncles and cousins who were regular stars in my constellation. It was an innocent time when everyone shielded me from the ugliness that sometimes enters our world. I can still envision the joy that surrounded me and when I do, the tears of happiness fill my eyes.

It’s been a long and lovely journey from that time to the present. There have been bumpy moments when I felt my strength being tested, but with resolve I made it through even the darkest challenges. I find myself lately looking back on the souls who helped me reach this point in life. Many of them are no longer here and I seem to miss them more and more rather than becoming accustomed to their absence. In a strange way just remembering the happiness we shared is comforting, but it almost always makes me cry. 

Perhaps it is because I have more time and fewer responsibilities that I am learning how healing it is to be genuine with my thoughts and feelings. My tears are not the product of sadness but rather a reaction to the loveliest of memories. Somehow I no longer feel embarrassed by my sudden shows of emotions like I once was. I’m not careful to be staunch anymore and it is a freeing experience that I almost wish I had tried a bit earlier in my life.

So this Christmas I have visions of Christmases past, present and future. It is with gratitude that I remember all of the wonderful folks who have so blessed my life. It is laughter and goodness that has been the legacy that they have given me, so perhaps it may seem silly that thinking of them makes me cry. I miss them but thoughts of them also make me smile. I suppose that a confusion of feelings creates a storm of tears that leak across my face. Somehow it is a very good thing, so I don’t feel foolish being openly sentimental like I once might have been.

I would guess that most of the people of the world are experiencing a flood of conflicting emotions during this holiday season. No doubt everyone is thinking back on times that were more certain and pleasant. They are remembering loved ones who have long been gone or who may have only left this earth in the past year. They may find their emotions overtaking them. I would advise them to let their feelings flow freely. There is nothing to hide. It is a very human thing to laugh and cry. Have that moment and then go forth and enjoy this life. 

This holiday season we are in a moment filled with tentative hope, while also looking over our shoulders for the Boogey Man to steal our joy. I’ve learned over the last two years that optimism is a saving grace, but caution is advised. I’ve never been one who enjoyed a roller coaster ride either literally or figuratively, but of late I’ve found a semblance of joy in whatever the fates send my way. Back in February I celebrated my first vaccination with ecstatic tears of joy. Somehow in that moment I believed that the end of Covid had arrived and a return to normalcy was on the horizon. 

Indeed, two weeks after my second vaccine I went out to eat for the first time in over a year. I eventually set up meetings with friends and even got to attend the college and high school graduations of my grandchildren. Perhaps the most wonderful moment came when my husband and I helped our grandson move from home to an apartment in Austin where he would soon be working on his first post college job. 

Next we went on a grand vacation through parts of Texas, New Mexico and Colorado. While we still donned our masks and kept our distance from other people, we were unafraid to eat in crowded restaurants, visit museums, shop in stores, and gather in large groups. It felt as though we had been permanently liberated. In fact, I was so certain the worst of Covid had passed that I told my mathematics students that we would begin meeting in person again during the fall semester. I also enrolled in a class that would be held at Rice University. It felt so good and I was relieved that I had escaped the virus and would no longer have to worry about it, or so I thought.

Then came the Delta variant and a new phase of the virus. The hospitals near me became full and people that I knew were contracting Covid and sometimes even dying from it. My level of confidence waned, especially when Rice University informed me that the class for which I had registered would be remote just as the one from the previous year had been. My niece cautioned me to teach vis Zoom as well, so I had to break the disappointing news to my students and their parents. It felt like moving back to square one. Suddenly my forays into normal society were greatly reduced and I felt like crying once again, but this time my tears would not be joyful. 

Always one to adapt I took my new normal in stride after a time. I kept mostly to myself until I became eligible for the booster shot and the number of cases in my area had gone down dramatically. Then I went gallivanting back to Colorado once again for a glorious fall vacation with my brother and sister-in-law. It was just the tonic that I needed to make me feel that this time Covid was in its death throes. 

Somehow the feeling held for many weeks and bit by bit I became more and more daring. Hubby and I even attended a live performance of Joe Bonamassa with a mostly maskless crowd. I blended well with the Asians who were still wearing masks as I hard-headedly clung to the face apparel that I was not yet ready to abandon. I happily ate at my favorite restaurants and enjoyed face to face visits with my children and grandchildren without any masks at all. It was glorious!

Then came news of Omicron, another new variant. An uptick of cases in Europe seemed to cause a kind of worldwide panic once again. Suddenly I understood that it would be best to temper my enthusiasm for freedom. I realized that the virus is fighting back as hard as we are. In the end it will be the survival fo the fittest, and while I am betting on humans, I also know that not everyone is doing everything possible to keep Covid from finding new hosts in which to live. My efforts have not always been replicated by my fellow citizens, and so the virus keeps doing its natural thing and in the process, preventing me from celebrating its demise as soon as I would like. 

I’m a veteran of the Covid wars by now. I know the drill so far. I hunker down voluntarily when the virus is out of hand and wear my variety of masks like a fashion accessory. I’ve learned how to enjoy and appreciate my time at home and how to make the best of whatever comes. I’ll keep getting jabs as needed and hoping that one day we will defeat the nuisance that we know as Covid. Nobody will rain on my parade because I am able to find happiness wherever I have to be and with whatever I have to do. The fact is that I have been one very lucky woman so far. Complaining would be a very selfish thing to do. 

Thanksgiving this year was fabulous for me and most of the people I know. I’ve got my fingers crossed for Christmas. I have my annual traditions for the season lined up for in person celebrating. Barring something unforeseen, it just might feel somewhat like normal for most of December. My fingers are crossed, but I have plans B, C, D and E if a sudden change comes my way. I’m a survivor and always have been. I’m betting on good tidings of joy for Christmas and the New Year, but I’ll be ready if I have to switch gears once again.