Life Lessons, Sunsets and Growing Old In America

Sunset At The Hospital Last Week

I am a proud Baby Boomer, born in 1956. My parents were in their mid-forties when I arrived—much older than the parents of most of the kids I grew up with. My grandparents were older too, and my sister and I were born into a family that had survived the Great Depression and World War II, a generation that watched the world change from radio to television. They had learned to count on one another when times got tough, because they often did.

My dad was a mailman. He knew everyone on his route. He was also active in local and state politics, so he seemed to know people everywhere. Within our family and his circle of friends, he was the one everyone called when someone needed help. Whether they were elderly, sick, or nearing the end of life, Dad made sure they had what they needed—groceries, medicine, a ride to the doctor, or simply someone to check in on them.

As a young boy, I often rode along with him. Those trips taught me lessons that no classroom ever could. Those lessons became values, and those values eventually became actions. Helping other people wasn't simply an obligation of faith; it was how healthy communities survived and thrived. People looked after one another. They offered helping hands along the way to make sure no one fell through the cracks.

When my dad passed away, something unexpected happened. The phone calls that had always come to him started coming to me, even though I was only 33 years old at the time. It felt like a role that required more wisdom than I possessed, yet somehow it had been quietly passed from father to son. I don't know exactly how people made that connection. Maybe they had simply seen me with Dad all those years and assumed I had learned what he knew.

As the years have passed, I've watched our culture grow a little colder and a little more distant. Perhaps computers and cell phones have too often replaced actually spending time with people. The relationships that once held families and neighborhoods together seem to be fading. I've heard it said that loneliness now claims more lives than cancer. Whether that's literally true or not, loneliness has certainly become one of the defining problems of our time.

These days, I spend a great deal of time with my mother-in-law, Alice. She's 86, and it seems her body discovers a new way to betray her almost every week. My wife, Denise, and I share the responsibility of caring for her, which means more doctor appointments and hospital visits than either of us ever imagined. Some days are hard. Occasionally I resort to sneaking some ice cream into her hospital room or taking her to a window to see a sunset. We discuss all sorts of things, some serious, some not, and a lot in between. The nurses scold me occasionally.  Guilty as charged, I guess.

Like my dad, Alice continues to teach me lessons about life—the kind you don't learn in school and certainly don't learn staring at a phone. She teaches me to slow down, to be patient, and to listen to a story I've heard more than once because, to her, it's still worth telling. She has taught me to observe carefully and understand what she's feeling, especially when she struggles to explain herself to nurses and doctors. Most of all, she's reminded me that sometimes what people need most isn't advice or medicine. Sometimes they simply need someone to listen, someone to care, someone to be there. Those are exactly the same lessons my father taught me when I was a boy.

I'm not sure modern culture truly values the wisdom and experience of its elders anymore. Many times when I'm with Alice at the hospital, I notice other patients who seem painfully alone. I can't imagine how frightening that must be—to be elderly, sick, and sitting in a hospital room, a nursing home, or even your own home with no familiar face beside you. Surely we can do better than that.

I once read about a program in Europe that paired older adults with children who had no grandparents or stable family connections. The children gained mentors and grandparents. The older people found companionship, purpose, and joy. Both groups benefited in remarkable ways. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we found more ways to do that here?

I'd genuinely like to hear your thoughts in the comments. Do you have older friends, neighbors, or relatives whom you help? If so, how has that experience affected you? Has it been a burden, a blessing, or perhaps a little of both? And someday, when you're the older person who needs a little help, what do you hope your community will look like?

Most of us will eventually need someone to slow down, listen, lend a hand, or simply sit beside us for a while. Perhaps the kind of society we become tomorrow depends on how we treat those people today.

Please share your thoughts in the comments. I hope our conversation will be thoughtful, respectful, and productive.

If you try to leave a comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select "Anonymous" in the "Comment as" field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

Thank you for reading—and for walking this road with me.

How Do We Find Our Way Back?

John Prine's first album - I've owned this since 1972

Like many people, I spend a lot of time wondering how we got to where we are as a nation. I'm not talking only about politics, but about our culture, our economy, and the way we relate to one another. Constant wars. Cell phone addictions. Growing social divisions. It often feels as though we're all pulling in different directions, and I find myself asking the same question over and over:

How do we find our way back?

    Last night, while talking with a younger friend about philosophy, wisdom, and the things that shape us, I had something of a revelation. It hit me like the beacon of an ocean lighthouse piercing through the fog on a moonless night.

    Almost casually, I mentioned that much of my personal philosophy comes from listening to John Prine.

    That surprised even me.

    Realizing that not everyone had the pleasure of seeing John perform while he was alive—or of spending much time with his music—I started thinking about why his songs became such an anchor in my own life.

    It began in early 1972 when I walked into Moles Den Records in Joliet, Illinois. I spent a good portion of every paycheck there, always hunting for music that commercial radio overlooked. The owner, Denny, knew my tastes well and often steered me toward artists he thought deserved to be heard. That day, he pointed to John Prine's self-titled debut album. More than fifty years later, it's still the only album purchase I can remember that vividly. From the first spin, I knew I was hearing something unlike anything else.

    John's music wasn't polished. His voice was rough and nasal. The production was simple and understated. His guitar playing wasn't flashy, but it was unforgettable. His Travis-style fingerpicking—with the thumb laying down a steady alternating bass while the fingers carried the melody—became instantly recognizable. Like many longtime Prine fans, I can identify most of his songs within the first few notes.

    But it was the lyrics that completely changed me. John wrote about people no one else seemed interested in writing about.

    Lonely old people.

    Veterans struggling with addiction.

    Middle-aged women quietly longing for something more.

    Ordinary people trying to make sense of an increasingly confusing world.

    He even challenged shallow displays of patriotism long before that became a common topic of conversation.

    Those songs helped shape the values I've carried throughout my life.

    "Hello In There" taught me empathy. I honestly believe it influenced my willingness to become a caregiver for aging family members and friends.

    "Sam Stone" remains, in my opinion, one of the saddest songs ever written—and perhaps one of the most honest portraits of what many Vietnam veterans experienced after coming home.

    "Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore" challenged the idea that patriotism is something you display rather than something you live. More than fifty years later, it still feels remarkably relevant.

    What amazes me most is that John Prine was only twenty-four years old when he released that first album. Kris Kristofferson summed it up perfectly when he said John was "twenty-four years old and writes like he's two hundred and twenty."

    That brings me to my point. Maybe we'd all be a little better off if we spent less time letting politicians, television personalities, and social media tell us what our values should be, and a little more time listening to artists who remind us what it means to be human. John Prine never told us how to vote. He reminded us how to care and what values really matter when it comes to building a community or nation that truly cares for one another.

    He reminded us to notice the lonely, the forgotten, the broken, and the ordinary people who quietly carry the weight of the world. Those lessons seem just as important today as they were to me in 1972.

    If you've never listened to that first John Prine album, give it an hour of your time. Then share it with a friend.  Who knows? If enough people did that, we might just straighten out this big ol' goofy world. You can listen to the whole album with commentary here.

    I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Are you familiar with John Prine’s music?  If so, how has his music affected your values?  Are there other artists who have affected you in similar ways? Let me know in the comments. The questions are open to everyone.  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

    If you try to comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

    Thank you for reading, and for walking this road with me.

What the Fourth of July Means to Me

The Mill Mountain Star, Roanoke, VA

As we, as a nation, prepare to celebrate the Fourth of July—and America's 250th birthday—I find myself thinking back to my childhood and the experiences that shaped my understanding of what Independence Day is all about. It was a different time and, in many ways, a different country. Whether those memories are completely accurate or simply the way a child remembers them, they are worth reflecting on.

    My father, my uncles, and almost every adult man I knew had served during World War II, fighting against the Nazis and fascism led by men like Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini. It was a brutal war. Not everyone came home, and those who did rarely talked about what they had endured. But their quiet courage formed my earliest associations with the Fourth of July: sacrifice, strength, patriotism, and gratitude.

    The parades were filled with red, white, and blue—not just red and blue. Sometimes I wonder whatever happened to the color white. To me, it symbolized the common ground that held us together.

    Most Americans can trace their family history to ancestors who came from somewhere else. Some arrived through Ellis Island, others through different ports and in different centuries. Many spoke little English and arrived with little more than hope. The Statue of Liberty has long reminded us that America has been shaped by generations of newcomers seeking freedom and opportunity.

    Our diversity has always been one of our greatest strengths. In World War II, Americans from every background served together—from the Navajo Code Talkers and the Tuskegee Airmen to immigrants and the children of immigrants whose families had only recently arrived. They fought as one nation.

    I remember President John F. Kennedy as the youngest president of my lifetime. He was also a decorated World War II veteran who commanded PT-109 in the Pacific and was seriously injured in combat. He came from wealth and could have avoided dangerous service, but instead chose to lead from the front.

    His words still echo more than sixty years later:

"Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country."

    That simple challenge inspired millions of Americans to think about service instead of self.

    When the Soviet Union secretly placed nuclear missiles in Cuba in 1962, the world stood on the brink of nuclear war. President Kennedy made it clear that any nuclear attack launched from Cuba would be regarded as an attack by the Soviet Union itself. It was one of the most dangerous moments in modern history. Through determination—and diplomacy—the crisis ended with the removal of the missiles.

    During the Cold War, there was little confusion about who America's principal adversary was. Political disagreements certainly existed at home, but there was also a broad national consensus about defending democracy and protecting the country.

    President Kennedy's wife, Jacqueline, became admired not only for her grace but for restoring the White House (especially the famous rose garden) and helping Americans appreciate its history. Together they projected youth, optimism, and confidence that seemed to reflect the nation's own aspirations.

    When President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas on November 22, 1963, the nation mourned together. I'll never forget the black-and-white television images of Jacqueline Kennedy and her young children walking behind the caisson carrying the President's casket. The eternal flame at his grave in Arlington National Cemetery still burns as a quiet reminder of service, sacrifice, and unfinished promise. The grave site has no golden statues or other overt signs of power or wealth, just his words.  

    After his death, the phrase "Camelot" became forever associated with the Kennedy presidency. Jacqueline Kennedy herself encouraged the comparison, portraying those years as a brief but inspiring era of idealism, hope, and public service. Whether entirely deserved or not, the image has endured for generations.

    The 1960s were also the years of America's greatest adventure in space. In 1961, President Kennedy challenged the nation to land a man on the Moon before the decade was over. On July 20, 1969, the crew of Apollo 11—Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and Michael Collins—fulfilled that promise.

    For those of us who watched it happen, it remains one of the defining moments of our lives. We witnessed something that many people thought impossible become reality. Despite the conspiracy theories that appeared later, the overwhelming evidence confirms that the Moon landing happened exactly as history records it.

    Freedom of speech also carried enormous weight during those years. I think of Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech and his "Letter from Birmingham Jail." America still struggles to fulfill the ideals he articulated, but his words continue to remind us that equality, justice, and dignity require constant effort.

    Narrating much of that era was CBS News anchor Walter Cronkite. His nightly sign-off—"And that's the way it is"—became synonymous with honest journalism. Whether every report was perfect is beside the point. Millions of Americans trusted him because they believed his first loyalty was to the truth.

    Those are the memories that come to mind every Fourth of July.

    Today, those values often seem overshadowed by division, outrage, and the endless stream of anger that pours across social media. Sometimes it feels as though we've forgotten how to disagree without hating one another.

    Perhaps my memories are colored by nostalgia. Every generation remembers its youth a little more fondly than it really was. The 1960s certainly had their share of turmoil, injustice, and conflict. But I also remember a stronger sense that we were all Americans first.

    I miss a time when friends were people you sat across from instead of people behind a screen. When disagreements usually ended with a handshake instead of an online pile-on. When people could hold different opinions and still recognize each other's humanity.

    As we celebrate the Fourth of July—and 250 years of this remarkable experiment in self-government—I hope we remember that the strength of America has never rested solely in its military, its economy, or its political leaders. It has always rested in its people.

Happy Independence Day.

    I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. What memories or experiences do you associate with Independence Day?  How do they shape your ideals today?  Let me know in the comments. The questions are open to everyone.  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

    If you try to comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

    Thank you for reading, and for walking this road with me.

Perfectly Imperfect: Discovering the Joy of 3 Balloons in Roanoke, Virginia

 

Last fall, my buddy Todd Marcum asked if I’d be willing to play some music for the grand opening of a new store in town called 3 Balloons, run by Todd’s friend Steve Stinson. I had no idea what 3 Balloons was and had never heard of Steve before, but my calendar was open, so I said yes. At the time, I thought I was doing Todd a favor. As it turned out, he was doing me one.

    At the appointed hour, I drove over to meet Steve and his merry band of creatives. What I discovered was one of the most delightful experiences I’ve had in a long time—and one of Roanoke’s best-kept secrets.

    3 Balloons bring something the world seems a little short of these days: joy, laughter, and love. They all comes free with every visit and everything that they sell.

    They call themselves “The Happiest Store in Town.” After spending time there, I have no doubt that they are.

    So what exactly is 3 Balloons?

    First of all, their motto is “Perfectly Imperfect”. Their Facebook page says that 3 Balloons is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization serving the Roanoke Valley that provides meaningful employment opportunities for adults with disabilities. That's true, but it hardly tells the whole story. Visit their website and you'll learn about Director Steve Stinson and the innovative model he has created for community inclusion. By combining a retail storefront, creative workshop, and children's bookstore, 3 Balloons creates a welcoming environment where individuals with developmental disabilities can work, interact with customers, and participate fully in community life. The storefront also helps challenge misconceptions by showcasing the creativity, talent, and work ethic of the people who work there.

    All of that is inspiring. But those words alone don't fully capture what I experience every time I walk through the door as a performer or customer. A few other words come to mind. 

    The first word that comes to mind is LOVE.

    As a performing musician, I want to do more than play songs. I want to connect with people. From the moment I arrived, Steve and his team welcomed me like family. They were engaged from the first guitar tuning to the final encore. They sang along to songs they'd never heard before. They laughed, smiled, clapped, and cheered throughout the performance. In all my years of playing music, I don't think I've ever felt so much genuine love from an audience. It's simply who they are. It's woven into the culture of the place. Their love is joyful, courageous, and contagious.

    The second word is PRIDE.

    The team members at 3 Balloons take tremendous pride in themselves, in one another, and in the products they create. These aren't mass-produced items rolling off some distant assembly line. Every piece is handcrafted by one of the artists, and every completed project is celebrated as an authentic expression of that person's talents and abilities. Each piece is signed by its creator. This past weekend, I purchased a beautiful plaque made by Alex. We shared a special moment, took a few pictures together, and talked about his work. That plaque now hangs in my home, and every time I look at it, I'll remember the pride that went into creating it. You won't find anything quite like it at Walmart, Amazon, or eBay.

Alex and I with the beautiful sign that he created

    The final words are HAPPINESS and GRATITUDE.

    The creative team at 3 Balloons is genuinely happy and deeply grateful for the opportunity to share their talents with others. They bring that happiness into every interaction, every conversation, and every piece of artwork they create.  "The Happiest Store in Town" isn't a slogan. It's a perfectly accurate description. No matter what burdens you carry through the front door, I suspect they'll feel a whole lot lighter when you leave.

    3 Balloons is open Wednesday through Saturday from 10:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. and is located at 536 McClanahan Street in Roanoke. Stop by sometime. And tell them Bob sent you.

    I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Have you been to 3 Balloons or know of another store like it? How does a store like 3 Balloons fit in with modern culture today? Let me know in the comments. The questions are open to everyone.  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

    If you try to comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

    Thank you for reading, and for walking this road with me.

Why a Stranger in Belgium Refused to Let Me Pay for Lunch

 

A close up of the Battle Of the Bulge Monument in Bastogne, Belgium
(Arkansas Democrat-Gazette/Michael Hoge)

Today is Memorial Day in the United States — a day to mourn, remember, and honor the men and women of the U.S. military who died while serving in the armed forces.

Growing up, I knew of relatives who had been lost in World War II before I was born. I was surrounded by veterans who had returned from the war — my father, numerous uncles, and almost every adult male I knew. Yet they rarely spoke about what they had experienced. For good reason, they wanted to leave it in the past, believing that World War II had been, as many hoped, the war to end all wars.

My grade school and high school history classes didn’t provide much more insight. The lessons were high-level and sanitized, at least as I remember them. There was little that conveyed the horror, grief, or human cost of war. Movies of the era mostly portrayed heroism and valor, rarely touching on trauma or sacrifice. In hindsight, many felt more like Hollywood recruiting films than honest reflections of war.

But my school years coincided with the height of the Vietnam War, and suddenly the reality of conflict felt much closer to home. Young men not much older than me were coming back in flag-draped coffins or wheelchairs. It was a confusing and chaotic time to grow up. Massive anti-war protests dominated the news, and public anger over Vietnam became so intense that President Lyndon Johnson chose not to seek reelection. In April 1975, just before I graduated from high school, North Vietnamese troops overran Saigon, the capital of U.S.-supported South Vietnam. I still remember the haunting images of desperate rooftop evacuations of American personnel.

During my own military service, I worked alongside many Vietnam veterans who had experienced war firsthand. One in particular left a lasting impression on me.

Major Dick Jones was the Maintenance Supervisor for the F-16 Wing to which I was assigned, and I served as his assistant. Dick was a good man — respected, capable, and deeply haunted. His service in Vietnam had left him with severe nightmares and a serious drinking problem. As we worked together, we became friends, and over time he shared some of the memories that tormented him.

Eventually, he could no longer cope with the demands of work, and I assumed many of his responsibilities. Dick was ultimately admitted to an Air Force psychiatric hospital. I never saw him again.

After leaving the military, I began a long career in defense contracting. Years later, while on a business trip to Brussels, my in-country representative — and good friend — Claire took me to the Bastogne War Museum and the Battle of the Bulge Monument, then known as the Mardasson Memorial.

The museum focuses on the Battle of the Bulge, one of the bloodiest campaigns fought by American forces in World War II. Nearby stands a monument honoring the 76,890 American soldiers who were killed, wounded, captured, or listed as missing during the battle.

Inscribed on the memorial stone are the Latin words:

LIBERATORIBVS
AMERICANIS
POPVLVS BELGICVS
MEMOR
IV.VII.MCMXLVI.

Translated, it reads:

“The Belgian people remember their American liberators — July 4, 1946.”

Afterward, Claire took me into the nearby town of Bastogne for lunch. We stopped at a small diner where everyone was speaking French. She helped me understand the menu and placed our order.

As we waited for our food, we chatted in English. An older man — about my father’s age — approached our table and asked Claire if I was American. When she said yes, he told us that my money was no good there. He insisted on buying my lunch.

It was his way of expressing gratitude for the American service members who had made the ultimate sacrifice to liberate Bastogne from the Germans.

That small gesture humbled me.

In that moment, I understood something no history class, movie, or Memorial Day speech had ever fully conveyed. It told me more about what my father, my uncles, and their generation had done in World War II than anyone ever had.

To this day, that moment defines Memorial Day for me.

Not a cookout.
Not a ballgame.
Not a parade.

It was an elderly Belgian man, decades later, still carrying gratitude for Americans he had never known — many of whom never made it home.

Today, I remember the 76,890 American casualties and missing soldiers of the Battle of the Bulge — and all those who gave their lives in service to this country.

May they rest in peace, and may their sacrifice never be forgotten.

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. What does Memorial Day mean to you and how were those ideas formed? How does that fit in with modern culture today? Let me know in the comments. The questions are open to everyone.  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

    If you try to comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

    Thank you for reading, and for walking this road with me.

Beyond the Bubble — What You Might Learn About Yourself and Others

My Zoom Buddies From The Speakup Ukraine Program

In these days, when society and cultures seem so divided - subdivided into ever smaller camps and the common bonds of civility and respect feel increasingly rare, it’s comforting to know there are still opportunities to enrich ourselves through gentle, human connection. For me, especially, the chance to meet people from different cultures and simply share conversation is something that truly nourishes my soul.

    I suppose I was born this way. One of my earliest friends in grade school was Gus. Gus was Mexican, the son of farm workers, and his family lived in the upstairs portion of a large barn. His home life and culture were different from mine, but none of that mattered. Gus was outgoing, friendly, funny—someone who got along with everyone. We rode bikes, played ball, shared sodas, and did all the things kids do. And in the process, I learned something that has stayed with me ever since: when it comes to friendship, things like race and culture don’t matter much at all.

    When I arrived at Western Illinois University in 1977, I was struck by the number of international students on campus. WIU sat deep in the corn belt, about four hours west of my hometown of Joliet, Illinois, and for some reason I hadn’t expected such diversity. But it was like a miniature United Nations. Before long, I had friends from Japan, South America, Iran, and beyond. A month or so ago, I wrote about my friend Cyrus from Iran. We spent time together like any group of college kids. Remarkably, a few of us are still in touch nearly 50 years later.

    My time in the Air Force only broadened those experiences. I met people from all over the world—different backgrounds, different stories—and we worked together, socialized, and genuinely enjoyed learning from one another.

    Later, in my corporate career, I worked closely with international customers and traveled abroad frequently. Meetings often required translators, but the dinners afterward usually did not. Somehow, we always found ways to communicate. The friendships I made during those years remain some of my fondest memories.

    One of my closest friends is a Vietnamese man who came to the United States as a teenage refugee. His escape from Vietnam alone could fill a movie script, but so could the life he built afterward. He learned English, graduated from the Virginia Military Institute, and built a dual career as an Army National Guard officer and an electrical engineer at ITT Night Vision, where we worked together. Eventually, he went on active duty full-time and rose to the rank of Major General before retiring two years ago. He was also one of the most patriotic people I’ve ever known. No one values freedom more deeply than someone who has lived without it.

    In recent years, I’ve been welcomed into the local Ukrainian community, forming close friendships along the way. We’ve celebrated together, mourned together, held vigils and rallies, and shared countless hugs. Most of all, I’ve come to understand their culture and values, and discovered something simple but profound: they are just like us.  

    Over the past year, I’ve also had the privilege of participating in a twice-weekly video conference called Speakup Ukraine. The program pairs Virginia Tech students and volunteers like myself with Ukrainian refugees eager to practice conversational English. Through the magic of Zoom video-conference technology, I spend a couple of hours each week talking with new friends as if we were sitting together over dinner or in a park. Some remain in Ukraine, displaced within their own country, while others now live in Poland, Romania, or Lithuania. Our conversations cover everyday life—movies, children, sports, and everything in between. What began as language practice has grown into genuine friendship, extending into emails and social media beyond our calls. I’m deeply grateful to Virginia Tech professor Dr. Matthew Komelski for opening that door—and to my new Ukrainian friends, who have welcomed me so warmly.

    If only more people would step outside their bubbles and take the time to meet others from different cultures. Maybe we could begin to ease some of the division and hostility that seem so pervasive today. Maybe we could work together for the common good. And just maybe, we would discover that we are not so different after all. And wouldn’t that be something?

    I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Have you ever had the opportunity to get to know people from other countries and cultures? How did it affect your life or ideas about them or even yourself? Let me know in the comments. The questions are open to everyone.  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

    If you try to comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

    Thank you for reading, and for walking this road with me.

A Good Friday I'll Never Forgot

I woke up to a beautiful morning today—warm air, sunny skies, birds chirping. It is Good Friday, one of the holiest days in the Christian calendar, traditionally marking the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. A solemn day for those who take their faith to heart.

And so the day began for me about sixty years ago, on Good Friday in the year of our Lord, 1966.

I was a third-grade student at Saint Paul the Apostle Catholic School in Joliet, Illinois, just south of Chicago. My school days were filled with readin’, writin’, and ’rithmetic, along with catechism classes that taught us the Catholic faith that many of us were born into back then. There was a lot to absorb. We learned about Jesus, Mary, and Joseph; the apostles and the saints; heaven and hell; sin and confession. We learned about nuns, priests, bishops, cardinals, monks, and the Pope.

It was a lot for a kid who spent most of his time staring out the window, wishing he were outside playing baseball or riding his bike.

During Lent—the forty days leading up to Easter—we learned about sacrifice and meatless Fridays. Eating meat on Friday was a sin. No bacon, no burgers, no exceptions. I didn’t mind all that much. It meant Friday nights at the Knights of Columbus fish fry, where I could gorge myself on deep-fried whitefish, which I loved. Beyond that, I’d dutifully give up something like avocados—something I never ate anyway.

Good Fridays, though, felt different. Mysterious. Heavy. We got the day off from school, but at 3:00 p.m. we were expected in church for a service entirely devoted to the suffering and crucifixion of Christ. Everything about it drove home the same point: Christ died for our sins.

In my nine-year-old brain, that translated to something much simpler—and much heavier. It was my fault. If I hadn’t screwed up so much, maybe Christ could have lived a long life, retired, and spent the rest of his days telling great stories in the temple. That was probably not the intended takeaway. But it was mine.

Good Friday in 1966 arrived sunny and warm—a welcome break from a long, gray winter. It was a perfect day to hop on my bike. My partner in adventure was Butter Lennon. “Butter” was short for Butterball, which his older sisters had christened him as a baby.  He preferred it to Arthur, his given name. He was a year older than me and a well-known source of mischief in the neighborhood. He went to public school, which I suspected was a mob of mostly unruly, troublemaking Protestant or Jewish kids. A suspicious crowd. I liked them, which probably made me a backsliding Catholic, even then.

Off we went, just Butter and me, looking for fun—or trouble—whichever came first. After riding around for an hour or so, we ended up at McDonald’s, home of the glorious 15-cent hamburger. I had no money, but Butter had a crumpled dollar bill and enough change to buy us each a burger, fries, and a small Coke.

It was glorious. Two men of the world, enjoying fine dining on a perfect spring day.

I took a bite of that burger—juicy, flavorful, perfect. I chewed. I swallowed.

And then it hit me.

Good Friday.

Not just any Friday—the most important meatless Friday of the entire liturgical calendar.

I had just committed what had to be an unforgivable sin. No confession, no priest, no number of Our Fathers or Hail Marys could get me out of this one. I was nine years old and, as far as I could tell, damned for all eternity.

The guilt was overwhelming. I carried it for years. I couldn’t tell anyone. Only Butter knew the truth.

The one small consolation was that he finished his burger—and the rest of mine—so at least I was less of a sinner than he was.

I held onto that guilt for a long time. Eventually, as a teenager, I drifted away from the Catholic Church, convinced I was deeply flawed—never quite good enough for heaven.

Years later, as an adult, I met a man who shared the Gospel with me. Through that, I came to understand grace and forgiveness. The burden I had carried for so long was lifted. I began to see that we are all flawed, all broken—and all offered grace anyway.

These days, I see people loudly professing Christian beliefs while embracing ideas that seem completely at odds with the Gospel. You can’t claim to follow Christ on one hand and threaten to bomb another country back to the stone age on the other. That’s not faith—that’s a distortion of it.  And yet, people believe it. Defend it.  

I find myself shaking my head, wondering what Bible they’re reading. Pope Leo, another good Chicago boy, called them out publicly on Palm Sunday, less than a week ago.  I hope that people heard that.  I’m praying for them.  I’m praying for us – all of us.  I think we all should, before it's too late.

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Have you ever had an experience like mine? How did it affect your life of ideas about faith?  Let me know in the comments. The questions are open to people of any faith or no faith.  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

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Thank you for reading—and for walking this road with me.