Panic in the Butter Aisle

My wife, Gina, handed me a grocery list on my way out the door.

Which struck fear into the very core of my being.

Because I knew what awaited me. That is, though there might only have been three simple items on the list, once I got to the store, I would find that, for each of those three simple items, there would be multiple variations modified by multiple adjectives that, for me, a simple and common man, would be undecipherable, unfathomable and, most important, unable to allow me to go home until I figured it out.

Lincoln had the Civil War.

I faced "One pint of buttermilk."

Scientists have striven for ages to pry Earth's secrets from her tightly clasped hands.

While I have striven for over ten minutes to decide which kind of cheese to buy.

So there I stood, with the words "Salted Butter" in front of me. And butter is the worst. Multiple variations and sizes. Everything from "Unsalted" to "Salted and Sweet."

Which is when I almost gave in and called home.

Yes, my wife has learned that, when I go to the store, she has to keep her phone handy. That's because I'll likely be calling home for more details about items on the list.

But, instead, I defined myself.

Right there in the butter aisle, I made a stand - for myself and for all men. Like William Wallace in "Braveheart," except I yelled "I will buy the salted and sweet butter!" instead of "Freedom!"

A longer statement, yes, but just as powerful.

And my decision will echo through the years.

But then came the cheese aisle.

Where's my phone?

Thoughts and Prayers

Are our thoughts and prayers really with them?

I received an email last week from an acquaintance, telling me that someone in their family was sick.

When I replied, I mentioned that my thoughts and prayers were with them.

But after sending the email, I realized that I hadn't, in fact, said any actual prayer.

So I closed my eyes and quickly said one.

And, though that fit the "letter of the law," it most definitely didn't fit the spirit.

In fact, after I did it, I felt a bit like a hypocrite.

And I wonder how many of us are doing the same thing, using "thoughts and prayers" because it's easier, because grief has a way of turning us into mumbling strangers.

Now, I don’t believe we're doing this intentionally.

After all, knowing what to say when someone has gone through something terrible can be hard.

But I've also noticed that, now, everyone seems to be using it. In the wake of tornadoes and school shootings. But also from defense attorneys, speaking to victims’ families on behalf of their indicted clients, to spokespeople, speaking on behalf of their indicted companies.

Now, I'm not saying these people are being insincere. Only they know.

But what I am saying is that "thoughts and prayers" can quickly become a cliché.

And I can't think of many things worse than saying we'll pray for someone, and then not doing it.

So, next time, instead of saying “thoughts and prayers,” I’m going to say what I really mean. Like “I feel so bad about what you’re going through, my friend. Please let me know if you need anything – and I just said a prayer for you.”

Maybe it will take me a few more minutes, and maybe it will be harder to find just the right words.

But isn't it the thought that counts?

That, and the prayers.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

Our son is leaving on a jet plane.

Gina and I took Matthew to the airport today. Our sixteen-year-old was joining his class for a week-long trip to DC and New York.

And though it might not seem like a long time to be gone, or too far a distance, for us, it was long and far enough.

As we waited at the airport, Gina and I took pictures with him. He was excited and probably a little nervous. And, while Gina and I were proud of him, there was also sadness behind our smiles.

The same sadness I felt yesterday while planting a garden with Alexandra. Every year, we’d buy seeds, plants and soil. Then we’d invite her friends over and they’d have a ball, getting their hands deep in the dirt, playing with worms and roly poly bugs.

This year, though, as we worked, I looked at her, now a young lady, and felt bittersweet.

Because I can’t stop it. And it seems to be going even quicker now.

Like our oldest son, Jeremy. As he drives off for work, I watch his taillights, and remember holding him as a little boy, his eyes growing wide when we went to see the Power Rangers.

So, all I can do is photograph the moments, with a camera, with words, with my eyes.

On the way home from the airport, Gina and I talked between silences about Matthew, about all the kids, who are doing exactly what they’re supposed to be doing. Growing up.

Then, later, we were relieved when Matthew texted us that he’d arrived.

My mom used to say, “I wish you kids were young again.”

Now I know just how she felt when she said it.


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Copyright 2013, James. R. Warda. All rights reserved.

Letter to my Daughter

Dear Alexandra,

I saw your Facebook update this week after the Boston bombings.

The one that said, “ANOTHER child abduction? Wasn’t there one like two days ago? A bomb yesterday?!? The shooting at Sandy Hook? The shooting at the dark knight rises premiere?? This world is so sick sometimes!!”

And I’ll tell you. As your Dad, I felt so sad for you – and helpless. When there doesn’t’ seem to be a safe place anymore, with violence at schools, colleges, movie theaters, and now even finish lines.

So, I’ve been thinking about what to say to ease your mind. And I keep coming back to this.

We have to love more than they hate.

Yes, the world can be sick. But it can also be beautiful.

After all, just look at what happened immediately after the bombs exploded. How the first responders, volunteers and others rushed to help, not even knowing if there might be other bombs waiting.

And at Sandy Hook, and Aurora, Colorado, and Columbine, where heroes died, protecting others.

And, of course, the list of honor goes on. For every horrible event tracing back through time, there were corresponding moments of grace.

So, if I can say one thing to you, it would be this.

You are the answer to the evil you’ve seen.

Because, like your brothers, you are compassionate and courageous. And that is exactly what is needed in these bitter days.

We have to love more than they hate.

Yes, you will help lead our world through this madness. You and your generation.

Don’t despair, my daughter.

You are kind. And you love.

And that is more than enough to change the world.

I love you,

Dad

My Good Friend..... Jesus



Ted Neeley, as Jesus in "Jesus Christ Superstar"


I’ve got a friend in Jesus. Literally.

I’ve always been wary of mentioning Jesus in my writing.

Because, as soon as I do, I worry that people will say my message about finding the sacred in moments is only for Catholics, especially since I am one.

But it isn’t.

It’s for everyone.

But that doesn’t dismiss the fact that, all my life, I’ve been drawn to Jesus. Whether I was watching “Passion of the Christ” or “Last Temptation of Christ” or talking to Ted Neeley, who portrayed Jesus in the musical and movie “Jesus Christ Superstar,” after one of his performances. Where I noticed his peaceful eyes and calming voice, most likely borne of a lifetime playing such a man.

And, in fact, I’ve often wished I could have hung out with Jesus. Walking. Talking. Grabbing a snack. Telling jokes. Sometimes cheering him up when he realized how much the world still had to learn about love.

As I said, I feel like I know him.

Now, to be honest, I often struggle between faith and doubt as to whether a man could actually have been the son of God and rose from the dead. But, for me, he didn’t really have to.


For me, it was enough that he died for love. And, for me, anyone who would do that is part of God anyway.

Yes, Jesus’ simple message, love each other, even your enemies, even when it’s hard, in fact, especially then, was more than enough to make him someone I’d admire, and follow.

Love each other.

Simple, yet profound.

Then again, my friend Jesus always had a way with words.

A House Divided

Why is everybody so angry?


Over 150 years ago, Abraham Lincoln used the words, “A house divided against itself cannot stand,” from the gospel of Mark to prophesize what could happen to our country, already splitting apart over the issue of slavery.

And it strikes me how well those words still apply today.

Where so many in our country seem to be so angry, so divided. So ready to jump down each other’s throats, if not actually choke them.

From religion to politics to backup referees, and everything in between, we all seem to pick a side and hold on for dear life, gritting our teeth and our minds against moving.

Then we vent on radio talk shows, post scathing posts, and write Letters to the Editor in all caps.

And I wonder how we got this way.

And why we’re all so angry. So strident. So sure we’re right and the other side is not only wrong, but almost evil.

And I wonder when we’ll remember that we’re all in this together.

That this country is ours. Not yours. Not mine. Not theirs.

Ours.

And I wonder if there’s something in the water. Or if something that was in the water is gone.

Or something that was in our hearts.

So that’s it. No easy wrap-up. Nothing resolved yet.

Just an observation.

We’re angry.

But if this “Great Experiment,” these United States, are going to work, it’s in our hands.

So that, as President Lincoln offered in his later Gettysburg Address, “government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”




@Copyright 2013, James R. Warda. All rights reserved.

An Open Letter to the Departing Iron Monopoly Token

Dear Iron Monopoly Token,

I owe you an apology. Since I was a kid, I’ve played Monopoly hundreds of times. And, all those times, I could have chosen you.

But I hardly ever did.

As a boy, I would typically go for the racecar or dog. Then, as I got older, I'd pick something more eclectic, like the hat, wheelbarrow or cannon.

And when I was really feeling like pushing the envelope, I'd select the thimble, smirking inwardly, knowing my selection would momentarily knock my competition off-balance.

But, in all those times, on all those days, throughout all those years, I rarely chose you.

Looking back, I'm not quite sure why. After all, you tried to be accommodating. You were light, flat and thin on the bottom, and also had a handle that made it easy to move you around the board.

Yet, somehow, I believe that lightness kept me away.

Because how could I hope you'd hold your own against the solidity of the other tokens?

But now that you're going away, replaced by a cat, I'm feeling regret.

How could I have treated you so poorly?

As if you didn’t matter.

And now it's too late. I can write you letters, send flowers, even fill up your voicemail, but I know you won't return my calls. Instead you'll just move on. Probably to another game. In fact, I've already heard rumors that the Candyland people are in negotiations with your agent.

So, I guess I'll just wish you well. And say that, once again, I'm sorry.

And that I've learned my lesson. I'll never take another token for granted. Even those non-descript plastic Trouble pieces.

I wish you well, Mr. Iron.

Press on...

Take care,

James Warda