Hi, Daddy. Time to make our march again, from Christmas to Good Friday, from our last festival to your death. Wow, has it been 21 years? For a fellow who didn't care much for Catholics you sure fleshed out a liturgical year. I recalled today how we always celebrated Christmas just after Christmas, Epiphany really, because of the sales on all Christmas items. It made sense to get our tree on Christmas Eve; so many were given away by then. Of course, I remembered today the one Christmas Eve you brought home the free tree that every dog in Tolono, IL had peed on. Mom hated it, but our dog then. . . her best Christmas ever.
Not sure what to report, Poppy. You should catch sight of the Republican candidates for president. I remember how much you were a diehard Rockefeller supporter. Nobody should run for president unless he is filthy rich and can't be bought, you said. We suspect wealth now: So I guess we make sure that everbody can be bought and sold. But if you are surprised by the Republicans you should get a load of who we have for president . . . I know you were raised in Prince Edward County, VA, once labeled the most racist in America. I heard my siblings' story about you in your younger days; you came a long way. But I bet you still wouldn't vote for a woman or a person of color . . .
I still love and study the Scriptures, but my take on them is different from yours. I have been studying science, but my understanding is different from yours. I became a pastor, like your father and mom's father, but I think I walk in the way differently than they did . . . do you know all this? You gave so much to give us a better life, and we tried to give the same to our children, but some days I think we are slipping backwards, and I don't know if my children will have a life better than mine; or if they should, if it means the continued destruction of the planet.
Somehow, daddy, we always started from different places and yet ended in the same one. Perhaps, at Christmas, we still are . . .
And ye beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow
Look now! for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing
O rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing.
For lo! the days are hastening on,
By prophet bards foretold,
When, with the ever-circling years,
Shall come the Age of Gold;
When peace shall over all the earth,
Its ancient splendors fling,
And all the world give back the song,
Which now the angels sing.
Bye, Pop; be back on Good Friday.