if i were only able to walk i would roam to the sea to the top of the mountains and to the deep forest trees if i were only able to run i would chase the sunset win the race to the sunrise run after all the colors of the skies and if i could fly well if i could fly and soar i would explore the world with the power of my wings as i listened to the sky colors sing never again to walk or run i would fly with the sun ascend to the stars and oh the songs i would sing as i fly and carry the moon on my wings
sometimes i need to find the time and silence to unwind these coils of lies these shackles of shame and the commotion in my soul so i sit in slow motion while i name each derision and consciously make the decision to breathe in the Light of the World and exhale all these false tales that shield my heart from receiving the love on the Cross He is bleeding for me losing His life to save my own taking my sin calling it His own this Christmas child a King has come to reign through love and set me free from the insanity of my own making so like these winter trees i’ll surrender the leaves those colors were so nice but it’s just a show so i’ll let them go and die to what i think i know will set me free and stay here in the mystery of winter’s necessary death it won’t last long so with each breath i’ll wait and sing a song to the Christmas King as He works in my soul and rights all wrongs He is my healer my story writer and life giver i’ll wait while He does some slow motion mending old things must have an ending to make room for the new
i wonder what she’s praying for she’s pleading for she’s kneeling for i wonder what this child of God is asking of her Lord
perhaps for peace inside her soul and in this world and in this world perhaps for peace inside your soul won’t you plead with her now
perhaps for love inside her soul and in your heart and in your heart perhaps for love inside her soul won’t you plead with her now
i wonder what she’s praying for she’s pleading for she’s kneeling for i wonder what this child of God is asking of her Lord
perhaps for rest from all her pain from all her pain from all her pain perhaps for rest for you and me from all the pain we feel
perhaps for pardon from her sins from her sins from her sins perhaps for pardon for your sins won’t you implore with her now
i wonder what she’s praying for she’s pleading for she’s kneeling for i wonder what this child of God is asking of her Lord
i wonder if we all could kneel we all could kneel we all could kneel i wonder if we all could kneel and join her right now cry out with her now be humble with her now be a child of God right now
i don't know about you but there is so much i need to say goodbye to i'll welcome the endings practice some surrendering
it's hard to study all the expectations that are now a pile of eliminations i thought this or that would be the life i would have releasing longings into the fiery ending of this day i guess it will be okay
turns out being free is not about me trying to step aside God are you tired of hearing about my pride set is ablaze like the end of this day i'm tired of getting my way
love and hope sin and shadow peace and stillness heartache and sorrow is there a place deep in the marrow of my soul where all the counterpoint of being human is awakened restored and rises whole
saying goodbye to all that tethers me to this dirt i'd rather stiffen my neck than lift up my eyes stand on my own than fall to my knees search me and know my heart let all the parts of me that you see with grace and mercy
This year, April/May rains give way to an “it’s as dry and hot as August” June and early July. The rebellious corn paid no attention to the high temperatures and arid conditions. You could practically hear the fields defiantly celebrating and shouting, “Knee high by the 4th of July! We did it!”
For years now I have been riding my motorcycle through the vast corn and soybean fields in the northern plains of Illinois. When the corn is proud and adorned with tassels, it feels like you’re surfing along ocean waves of green and gold as the wind turns the stalks into an emerald sea with “goldcaps” worthy of carrying, or capsizing, any sea vessel.
One of my favorite rides is heading north on U.S. Route 52. To be more precise, Route 52 follows a northwest, southeast orientation. Taking it northwest, towards the Mississippi River, I marvel at how the landscape lets go of the plains and clothes itself with gentle, rolling hills that can feature fantastic vistas of endless farm land, farm houses, and corn silos. My destination: Savanna, IL.
On this 4th of July ride it is almost too hot to ride. Bright, blinding sunlight bounces off of everything, giving the world a washed out, desaturated feel. It feels good to finally make it to the river. Savanna has a simple riverfront, with a boat launch and a path along the banks of the river.
I find a bench and, as I sat, I noticed an older gentleman sitting to my left at a covered picnic table. I kept my foam ear plugs in and enjoy an apple and some cold water. I couldn’t have been on the bench for more than 3 minutes when muffled words breach my consciousness and I turn to see the older looking gentleman walking towards me, greeting me, and taking a seat right next to me. His bright blue eyes match his blue jeans and blue plaid shirt.
“Are you from this area?”
“No. I am about two and a half hours from home. I ride a motorcycle and come here often to enjoy the river.”
And that’s how my connection with Richard began. I say connection instead of conversation, because that’s what happened. We connected. Of course, we had a pleasant conversation, but it was the connection that turned this 4th of July ride into a delightful memory and meeting.
Richard is 82. He tells me he is related to many, if not most, of the people in the county. His family came to the US by boat from Germany. His dad was a farmer. He has two brothers: one is a preacher, the other is a teacher, and Richard was the farmer.
He tells me he comes to the river to talk, because he is alone now.
Of all the scenes of his life that he shared – I mean, how much can two old guys cover while they talk along the banks of the Mississippi River on a hot 4th of July? – it was his recounting of his marriage to his wife that I found so captivating.
“What is your wife’s name?,” I ask.
“Twila. Not many people named Twila anymore.”
“No… not anymore. Such a pretty name.”
He tells me that Twila passed away 4 years ago and that she battled cancer for most of their life together. His life included countless trips to the emergency room, endless doctor visits and arranging for help to take care of Twila at home. He speaks with no regret, or bitterness in his tone.
He recalls taking riverboat rides with Twila and their friends. I comment on how Twila must have been quite a force to be reckoned with and he tells me the doctors all said the same thing.
I don’t know how long we talked about Twila, grandkids, our own kids, and a number of other topics, but suddenly he looked at his watch and said, “Well. I’m going to go eat some potato salad.”
I gently placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “Can I pray for you Richard?”
I told him earlier that I was a “preacher” like his brother, and that I have been pastoring for the past 20 years in a church in Minooka, IL.
We both bow our heads and I prayed for my new friend Richard.
Here is a bit of what I remember of my prayer: I am thankful for my new friend, Richard… I am grateful for the love and care that he faithfully gave Twila and how his example is helpful for me and a legacy for his family… I pray that he will continue to bear his loneliness with the same grace that he brings to connections along the banks of the river…
After a pause, I say Amen. We both lifted our heads and opened our eyes at the same time. His tears are flowing and make his blue eyes sparkle even more. We just look at each other in silence for a moment. I gently place my hand on his shoulder and simply say, “Life is hard.”
We both shake our heads in silent agreement. He rises and walks to his vehicle.
I wipe away my tears, filled with gratitude for a chance to connect to such a wonderful man. I make a commitment in my heart to do the best I can to welcome and connect to anyone that God brings my way. Because sometimes I fail to do so. Spectacularly so. That will be the topic of my next post.
The last three posts have been about images from my time in New York. Specifically, a meditation on my home and family on Long Island, and my stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge. This post contains a few “leftovers” from my time in Lower Manhattan and features The Oculus and a single subway image. If you enter “Oculus” in the search box to the left you can check out my other images of the amazing Oculus.
I have been on a three month sabbatical that will end at the end of July. One of my goals during this time was to spend time in New York with my dad and siblings. My previous post came out of my time in New York. In all the years spent growing up on Long Island, and then years going back to visit New York – we have lived in the Midwest since 1988 – I never walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. So, I decided to take a stroll on that beautiful bridge. Here is what I saw, part 1. Thanks for stopping by.
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.
rutakintome pictures 
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