we take time we use time we waste time we forget the last time we make the most of time we run out of time we forget what time we miss the time we pass through time we lose track of time we look forward to the next time
and time passes and time tests and time takes and time ran out and time is up and time begins and time is past and the time may come and the time may never arrive and it’s about time
tell me there is something that lasts all these moments scurry into the past seconds hours days weeks months years disappear
then
i pause
i wait
i take time to realize
that i need someone
to hold me
so i raise my eyes to the One who made me for in my heart He has placed eternity for in time all things fade and we can’t trade this moment for any other
we have now
the present
to love pray surrender confess worship contemplate
and meditate on the unfailing love of God the enduring grace of God the timeless presence of God the everlasting God
I suppose that I will always be – if not always feel like – a New Yorker. My hometown of East Meadow was right next door to famous Levittown. After WWII, returning vets heard the siren songs of suburban living, and Levittown sang loud and proud.
Not quite sure where East Meadow fits in the swift rise of suburbia, but it mostly likely knew the songs that were in the air.
In 1964, Wilfredo and Carmen purchased a small, two story Cape Cod style home on a corner lot in East Meadow. I’ve always loved the name of our street: Wilson Lane. It has a noble sound befitting my mom and dad. They were poor, could hardly speak English, and were uneducated. Their royalty was in their wisdom, their tenacity and, in full measure, their love.
And you would need love to survive the “dawning of the age of Aquarius” in East Meadow, located in Nassau County, on Long Island, in New York State. Ironically, we were a little island of Puerto Ricans in an ocean of Italian, Irish, and Jewish families. And it was wonderful. I mean, where else could you go to school with Carmine Paradisio – is that a name, or is that a name?! – and then, as a high school student, sing in musicals with members of the local Jewish synagogue. I also grew up with the long, cold shadows of the normalization of hatred and racism.
And about that, I will say this: it wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized that it was difficult for my mom and my dad to live in that white suburban community. I’ll spare you the details of some of the stories, suffice it to say that, by some, we were not welcome. So much so that messages in the form of dog excrement being tossed in the yard was just one of the ways the turbulence of the times reached our corner lot. My mom and dad were silent about it, as far as I can recall. To this day, I truly believe they were teaching me important lessons. Don’t be a person who hates, even if you feel you have every reason to hate. Don’t order your life around those who have struggles in their hearts. Be a person of peace on a small little island in East Meadow in an ocean of turmoil. Peace would also need to make room for suffering, loss, and sorrow on that island. As much as we all want to live and experience life, this life can take so much from us that, even if we are still breathing, it feels like there is no reason to.
Rosalito was her name. Their firstborn. She lived for a few days. My mom mourned her until her last day. This event was the seed of much of my formation, but that’s a story that continues to unfold.
Which, of course, brings us to the present. My mom passed away in 2023 at the age of 97. She passed in the safety of her corner house… her little island in an ocean of love: my dad.
He still lives in that house and, even though my story is being told on the backlot of the Midwest, far from the Atlantic shore I love – more on that later – I have been returning home to be with my family almost every year for…well… 39+ years. And, following the well worn path of my childhood, those visits often included an eastbound trip on the Southern State Parkway to visit Rosalito.
I find that some childhood memories can show up for a visit in vivid, 3-D, surround sound. I find myself taking in the mysteriously beautiful sound of crunching autumn leaves as we brush them from around her tombstone. I can still feel my body sigh in relief as the cold water from a nearby hose washed away the unbearable heat and humidity of a Long Island summer. I can still smell the fresh, winter air as I huddled in my coat while my mom and dad whispered prayers and shed their tears. Home, family, and our little island in East Meadow will, for me, always be associated with death. And that is not a bad thing. It just is.
On this particular visit, a rainy, cold, late May welcomed me back home. Thankfully, a summer like early June won a toss of weather fronts with May. I set aside more than two weeks to be with my dad. We spent a day heading out to the southern tip of Long Island to greet the lighthouse at Montauk Point. A 3 ½ order lens (it sounds like I know what I’m talking about, but I don’t) built in 1902 was recently restored to the tippy top of that lighthouse. In a culture that places unnecessary value on new and improved, it’s comforting to realize that old and traditional can still guide and lead sojourners to light and safety. Of course, we visited Rosalito and Carmen. My mom was finally resting with my sister. We cleared out weeds, took out the artificial flowers that signaled care and love all through winter, and planted fresh, impossibly red flowers. If my mom could speak, she would tell me what the flowers were.
Though uneducated, she was a brilliant “botanist” who could revive any withered leaf, twig or petal and, as if she named each and every one herself, would tell you the name of just about any flower. God created a unique kind of nurturing spirit within her and I think losing her first child only deepened her longing to give and sustain life. Our house was a greenhouse. Green, colorful life was everywhere. And now, my dad made sure that color and life adorned the resting place of his little girl and his bride of over 60 years.
Any pilgrimage back east must include multiple mini-pilgrimages to the southern shores of Long Island. Specifically, Jones Beach.
Like the faithful ostinato from Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor, this State Park has always been a part of me. Whether it’s a frigid, windswept winter seascape, or the end of a summer day showing off with a dazzling display of clouds and shafts of light shooting into space, or the slow motion blending and mixing of sunrise colors that Crayola never dreamed existed, this shore has been a place for reflection, prayer, worship and peace. And, every now and then, I hear and see the rocks cry out and tell of a Savior alive in this world.
I enjoyed a mid-morning stroll with my dad along the 2-mile long boardwalk. I marvel at his endurance and determination as he struggles to maintain balance and manage pain while he walks on his two artificial knees.
During a quiet, pre-dawn stroll on the shore, as the sun began to work on its morning art project, I am trying to figure out a way to take the colors right out of the sky and put them in my backpack.
sons and brothers brothers and sons may you carry well the love i tried to share with you magnify any wisdom you may have seen or heard please forgive me when you were young i was trying to figure it out too and it still feels like i am beginning
and now you walk together and can see more as you share the path tell each other the story of your movements through this world and through my shadows you may see me as i hoped to be as i was and as i am
know i hold you both the breadth and length of you stories are tucked away in my heart an endless album of images and melodies from the day the music of your tears announced your birth to this moment as you read these words i hold you both in love in honor with pride with joy my sons my dear sons love one another
This blog has been quiet lately because we sold our home and moved to a new home! The new house is about 8 miles from our old house. We have been talking about downsizing for a few years now and… here we are! Packing up 20 years of living is crazy! We are grateful. Recently someone asked if I miss our old house. My reply, “Not at all.” However, I didn’t expect it to be so hard to say goodbye to our dining table. I helped the family who purchased our table and hutch by dismantling as much of the table as I could. When they took the table top out, the tears suddenly came.
a sturdy table how many times did we say grace a setting a space for us just to be… us
conversations confessions interactions admissions revelations contrition a table is set and becomes the place where all the weight of grave and gold stories are told and the broken bread leaves a trail leading to baby cries spaghetti on the floor broken family ties a spilled drink someone’s at the door embraces of grace birthday candles graduation cake love is a messy thing it’s a long dangerous journey of faith hope and love
homework and coffee thanksgiving turkey deep, endless laughter tears and the dread of uncertainty are served alongside a heap of understanding conflict and honesty
i was surprised when the tears appeared as the table was hauled away i wondered would they take away the echoes of our conversations the forgiveness that we found the acceptance that we gave the hurt that was served the pain that was assuaged
it’s called downsizing but my tears are singing a different tune my soul is filled my hearts breaks somewhere along the fault line of gratitude and lament time to reset the table of my heart a place of welcome peace family love
i’ll try and tell you why this endless sea and sky brings to me a sense of grace it’s a calming space memories of family my little legs running away from the waves or dancing above the hot sand shivering in the Atlantic cold maybe i’ll be bold and just jump right in and swim on the crest of this swell crashing down now in a swirl of briny sand tossed and thrown upon the shore i always got up and ran in for more i remember dad first taking my hand then lifting me in his arms as he marched into the sea delighted and frightened it’s all right i’ll hold on tight the waves don’t seem to bother him at all and if i stood still at the edge of the arriving and departing ocean i thought it was neat that the sand would steal my feet could it just swallow all of me into the salted sea it tasted so good to me the roar and crashing waves were like a melody and at the end of the day the world felt okay it was so good to be with family by the endless sky and sea
we got a little brick house in Rockdale the one with the great big tree we know it’s not london or paris and not parsippany
but there’s a real nice park across the street where the slides go on for miles and the girls can climb and laugh on the swings right there in front of our little brick house the one with the great big tree
it’s not rome or breckenridge or schenectady it’s a home for the girls and for you and me here in Rockdale we’ll make memories in our little brick house the one with the great big tree
did you ever feel like
you were chasing bubbles
and realize
that all the trouble
you go through
to chase radiant spheres
which refuse to stay near
smiles and giggles
chasing frail bubbles
still chasing something
that looks new
something true
about this life we live
and hurt we feel
about the longing
singing
trying
and dying
chasing bubbles
with a carefree smile
well
for a while
it seems
that i’ll catch one soon
and cradle it in my hands
and see the colors dancing
and swirling across
the crystal globe
maybe the bubble
will fit in my pocket
or i’ll take it home
and keep it safe
pop
it’s gone
in a flash
we’re gone
she’s gone
i wonder if
eternal bubbles exist
i’d like to find one
and follow it
wherever it may lead
perhaps a place
where there are
no troubles
no tears
just light
no fears
and brilliant color
crystal spheres
dancing all around
she loved flowers
and it seems
like they loved her too
countless plants
happily shared the rooms
of our home
my mom would call each one
by name
no strange plants in her home
it takes someone special
to see that life thrives
the colorful flowers
the herbs and the spices
the garden outside
was no different
than the garden of our hearts
she tended to each one of us
and we grew in love
and tenderness
because she knew
that all things that are loved
grow and sing and shine
all things loved
grow
and sing
and
shine
sitting with my mom
the years that surround her are so long
she is reflecting and pondering
telling stories and wondering
and this is what she had to say
— all my siblings have passed away
but you can’t cry all the time
you have to laugh
you have to think
love is so simple
and sometimes you
don’t realize it’s there —
and my dad brings her flowers
the hours of another day
slowly pass away
my dear mom
so far from the world she once knew
i’ll try and remember
to let the tears speak
and the laughter sing
and I’ll wonder and ponder
and try to remember
for my remaining days
to see the love before me
and then give it away
We (my wife and I) are grateful to be back in the hometown that we grew up in on Long Island. My parents still live in the house I was raised in, so coming home is always filled with nostalgia and the telling of old stories and discovering new memories.
It is rare to visit Long Island and not go to the beach to take pictures, but the weather has been dark, rainy, and windy. More like a blustery day in November from a Winnie the Pooh story than springtime in New York.
So, since walking through torrential cold rain along the shore did seem to have its drawbacks, I decided to take pictures of my home and found myself drawn to the… well… probably thousands of… knickknacks? Home decor items?… that are just… everywhere. I suddenly realized that my childhood home is like living in the pages of an “I Spy” book.
I am quite sure that Better Homes and Gardens (is that magazine still around?) would not feature this home in an article on “How to Decorate Your Home with 1,000 Little Things” or “The Latest Home Decor Trend: I Spy Living.” But I sure had fun finding little treasures on this Winnie the Pooh blustery day.
Retrobox! How cool is that? And tiny Santa pants, and a snow covered cottage, and – this is one of the themes in my home and life – “Coffee please.” Coffee, in case you are wondering, is the fountain of youth. Just ask my mom who is about to turn 97.
Music is another theme in my home. My dad would play energetic Puerto Rican (another theme) beats in a Spotify-less world where the radio host would announce the next song or two by completing a string of basically slurred Spanish words delivered at the speed of sound with a hearty, “LA SALSA!”
Jesus is another… not a theme… I would say a presence in my home. Reverence… spiritual interest and pursuit was imprinted on my heart in my growing up years. I am grateful for how that influence shaped me.
The deepest, most precious, immeasurable treasure in my home is love. This is my bride embracing my mom when we arrived in the evening. Moments like these adorn this home. It was not a perfect home. It has known heartache and sorrow. But at the center of a thousand knickknacks is a story of love… warmth… family… a wordless embrace… love.
You must be logged in to post a comment.