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.

From The Desk Of The Elder Statesman

As an elder statesman and former fictional candidate for President, I possess a wealth of insight into political strategies and the subtle (and not-so-subtle) methods politicians use to lead the public down one path or another. Normally, I prefer to be compensated for sharing this hard-earned wisdom, but today I offer it as a public service — a modest attempt to spare you a case of buyer's remorse after the next election.

Politicians understand that most issues are complex, full of nuance and trade-offs. Fortunately for them, their financial supporters are always ready to help simplify things — often pointing out the “correct” way to view an issue and which stance will keep the campaign cash pipeline wide open. Those same donors also provide the polished talking points needed to make it all sound good. Let’s break that down.

Running for office — at any level — costs a fortune. Candidates spend most of their time asking people or organizations for money. And large donors rarely give out of pure altruism. They expect something in return: a vote, a public stance, or favorable attention. A candidate backed by a major pharmaceutical company, for example, might feel pressure to reduce regulations or oversight — which could fatten profits… and, in darker chapters of history, even cost lives, as the Purdue Pharma scandal proved. When you’re chasing big corporate donations or PAC money, you may have to trade a sliver of your soul for each check. You’d never admit that to voters, but let’s just say it’s not unheard of.

Messaging, meanwhile, is everything. Politicians must compress complex issues into 30-second soundbites that inspire action — donations, volunteer work, or votes. The secret ingredient? Fear. Fear motivates. Fear sells. Politicians have mastered the art of making threats — real or imagined — feel personal and immediate: The neighbor who doesn’t look like you. The taxes that “steal jobs.” The foreign nation that “hates our freedom.” Facts don’t motivate like fear. Facts take time. Fear makes you act now.

So let’s wrap up. Your favorite politician may be bought and paid for by a corporate giant, spinning fear instead of facts, and calling anyone who disagrees “an enemy of the state.” The media isn’t immune either — much of it is owned by billionaires with their own agendas. Even search engines have algorithms shaped by bias, so don’t expect pure truth there.

How can an ordinary person find the truth? Well, you could ask me — the internet’s only fully certified, entirely self-appointed elder statesman of truth (bound, of course, by the laws of the internet and Al Gore’s eternal oversight). I’ll even make you a deal: the first answer’s free. Short answers: $10 a month. Long ones, complete with sources: $100. Just ask your question in the comments section below and I'll respond with unmatched wisdom and clarity.

Or, if you prefer something more traditional, try Ground News (recently recommended to me by my buddy Dr. K). It’s a news-comparison platform that helps you see multiple perspectives on the same story — left, center, and right — and shows how each side covers or ignores events. It’s a powerful tool for cutting through media bias and finding your own version of the truth, or just seeing what the folks on the other side are seeing. 

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Do you find the statements and positions of most politicians wrapped in fear or hope?  Give me some examples in the comments if you can. Which individual politicians do you trust and why? Let me know in the comments.  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

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

My Iranian College Roommate, Cyrus - What He Taught Me

The Higgins 6 Crew from 1977 with Cyrus in the middle (with blue jacket) & me in gold dorm shirt

Today’s news about the US and Israeli attack on Iran takes me back to the fall of 1977 — my first year at Western Illinois University in McComb, Illinois.

WIU had around 17,000 students at the time and a noticeable number of international students, including several from Iran. Most of the Iranian students kept to themselves. They dressed in dark clothes, spoke Farsi, and rarely mixed with American students. To an 18-year-old kid from Illinois, they seemed distant and mysterious.

Then I met Gholam Hussein Soltani — better known as Cyrus, because nobody could pronounce his real name.

He was the only Iranian student I really got to know, and he was nothing like the others.

The first time I saw him, he was wrapped in bandages. His car had overheated, and he’d opened the radiator cap too soon. Scalding coolant sprayed across his face and chest. He lived down the hall from me on the sixth floor of Higgins Hall. He wore a sailor’s cap and a denim vest with no shirt. His smile was wide, his handshake strong. He was eager to meet everyone.

It didn’t take long before Cyrus became part of our group — a ragtag collection of mostly Chicago-area guys thrown together by dorm assignments and fate. There was Marty, the boxer from the South Side; Tom, the artist from Elk Grove Village; Gomez, our Puerto Rican buddy; Tim, the Vietnam vet; me — and Cyrus. We were there to party and, with luck, earn a degree. Mostly, we majored in beer drinking, skipping classes to go fishing, and chasing girls. It was the 1970s. That sort of behavior was considered normal.

But Cyrus was different in the best possible ways. He was a terrific cook, could cut hair like a pro, cleaned fish with surgical precision, and drank vodka straight from the bottle. He blasted Neil Young and Crazy Horse at full volume. And when it came to politics — especially Iran — he was light years ahead of the rest of us.

That fall, unrest in Iran was building toward revolution. Cyrus explained the Shah, the protests, and SAVAK — the secret police who monitored dissidents at home and abroad. When we invited him to move into a rented house with us for the following school year, he hesitated. He told us he might be under surveillance. SAVAK kept tabs on Iranian students in the U.S., especially those suspected of opposing the Shah. They liked to abduct and torture them. Sound familiar?

We told him we didn’t care who was watching as long as he paid his share of the rent and bought beer occasionally.

Through Cyrus, I had my first real education about the wider world. The Shah, backed by the United States, was seen by many Iranians as corrupt, repressive and brutal. Protests were massive. The regime answered with censorship, arrests, and torture.

In early 1979, the Shah fled. Ayatollah Khomeini returned from exile and established the Islamic Republic of Iran. It was a seismic shift. I asked Cyrus whether it would be better.

He shook his head.

Khomeini, he said, was a religious extremist. The repression would continue — just under a different banner. The culture clock would be turned back about a thousand years.

That regime has held power ever since, at least until this morning.

After graduation, I moved back to Joliet. Cyrus visited once before returning to Iran. We said goodbye, not knowing it would be the last time. Five or ten years later, I learned through a mutual friend that Cyrus had been killed in the Iran-Iraq War.

The news hit hard.

Cyrus wasn’t a caricature from a headline. He wasn’t “Iran.” He was my friend — smart, funny, principled, and hopeful. He wanted what most people want: honest leadership and a country worthy of its people. He would have made a good leader himself.

I still think about him. And today, as the drums of war beat again, I can’t help but wish that the kind of future he hoped for — for himself and for Iran — had somehow come to pass.  Especially today.

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Have you ever known someone like Cyrus? If so, did knowing that person change or inform the way that you thought about their country?  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

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

While the World Watches the Games

 

We’re a little more than halfway through the Winter Olympics as I write this. For as far back as I can remember, I’ve been a complete junkie for the Games—the competition, the glamour, the drama of it all. I could never get enough.

But this year, I haven’t watched a single minute.

Why?

Four years ago, while I was soaking in every Olympic moment, Russian troops were massing along the borders of Ukraine and Belarus. The signs of invasion were unmistakable. President Biden issued warnings and declassified intelligence in an effort to alert the world. Vladimir Putin denied everything.

On February 24, 2022, he launched a brutal invasion of Ukraine.

No one gave Ukraine much of a chance. The consensus was that Kyiv would fall within days—three at most. I knew almost nothing about Ukraine beyond the fact that it appeared to be doomed. I felt sympathy, certainly. But I assumed it would be over quickly, and life would move on.

Ukraine, however, never got the memo.

When offered evacuation by the United States, President Volodymyr Zelenskyy reportedly replied, “I need ammunition, not a ride.” It was a David-versus-Goliath moment that will live in history.

For the first year, the American people—and our government—stood firmly behind Ukraine. But wars that drag on lose their headline appeal. The daily updates blurred together. Attention spans shifted. Then came the presidential election circus, and Ukraine slipped quietly out of the spotlight.

Now, three years later, much of the world has moved on.

Meanwhile, Ukraine has endured relentless bombardment—attacks on power grids, heating systems, and civilian infrastructure, especially during these past brutal winter months. Millions live with rolling blackouts and freezing nights of below zero temperatures and wind chills. Russia’s campaign is not merely territorial; it aims at erasing identity, culture, and sovereignty. That would be a genocide larger than the holocaust.

And still, Ukraine fights on.

Ukraine is now home to the most battle-tested military force in Europe. No other European nation has comparable recent combat experience defending against Russia. If Ukraine were to fall, that hardened force would not simply disappear. It would become part of Russia’s expanded war machine—the tip of the spear for further aggression.

Imagine the consequences.

The European Union represents one of the three largest economies on Earth, alongside the United States and China. A broader European war would not remain “over there.” It would ripple across global markets, supply chains, energy systems, and financial institutions. Refugee flows would surge. Factories would go dark. Trade routes would fracture.

Southwest Virginia would feel it. So would every other corner of this country.

Yet as I write this, much of the United States—and much of the world—is captivated by figure skating scores and downhill finishes. There’s nothing wrong with celebrating athletic excellence. I’ve loved it my whole life. But this year, my mind isn't able to process the horrors of war with the glitz and glamor of the games. It feels like a betrayal of my values and I refuse to be distracted from the hard realities that exist for Ukraine, Europe and the rest of us. So I choose to pass on the Olympics this year. 

Autocrats count on fatigue. They count on short memories. They count on the world’s attention drifting to something shinier. Four years ago, many of us assumed Ukraine would collapse in days. It didn’t. Today, assuming the threat has passed would be an equally serious mistake.

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Whether you agree or disagree, civil discussion is the bedrock of democracy. I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive.

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

Former Fictional Candidate On Our Next President

If you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, you may remember that two years ago I launched a fictional campaign for President of the United States. It was a useful exercise: a way to define my platform and articulate how I’d run the country if elected. Because the campaign was fictional, it stayed within budget and required no fundraising, no influence-peddling, and no selling of my soul.

The outcome was predictable. I received too few votes—fictional or otherwise. Still, the exercise accomplished exactly what it was meant to do. And while today is February 2, 2026—Groundhog Day—I have no intention of repeating it.

Having now retired from fictional presidential politics, I have entered the revered role of elder statesman, a position that automatically increases the value of my opinions and qualifies me to comment freely on matters of public concern. I trust the cable networks and print media will be in touch shortly.

Today marks the beginning of what I expect to be a semi-regular feature on this blog: advice offered to voters and candidates alike. Some of it will be playful. Some of it will be deadly serious. I will not be labeling which is which. If you’re unsure, then the column is working as intended.

Whoever becomes our next President will need the wisdom, strength, and moral clarity of Abraham Lincoln to govern a nation this fractured. Healing it will not be easy. But on day one, I hope the President requests the resignations of all nine Supreme Court justices. He need not accept them—but anyone considered for appointment should face a clear, non-negotiable test.

They must commit to reversing the Supreme Court’s 2010 decision in Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission—a ruling that demolished a century of campaign finance law and legalized the unlimited purchase of political power. That decision is the foundation of our current corruption: billionaires buying elections, installing compliant judges, and bending government to serve wealth instead of citizens. Truth and justice were the first casualties.

The question before us is simple: can we reclaim a democracy that has been sold to the highest bidder, one transaction at a time? I believe we can—but only through the same courage and civic responsibility that created this nation 250 years ago.

That means standing up. Getting involved. Supporting candidates who refuse dark money from PACs and Super PACs. Knocking on doors. Making calls. Writing checks. Democracy is not a spectator sport, and freedom comes with a participation requirement. This is what the founders understood. As Benjamin Franklin warned, we were given “a republic, if you can keep it.”

Whether we do is no longer a theoretical question. It’s a choice.

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Whether you agree or disagree, civil discussion is the bedrock of democracy, and I hope that all such exchanges are both civil and productive. Please feel free to share your experiences in the comments below, and share this post with others who appreciate both humor and thoughtful reflection about this blue marble we all share.

If you’d like to leave a comment but receive an error message, it’s probably because your browser is set to reject third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” window and simply leave your name or initials if you wish. Thanks for reading — and for walking this road with me.

Faith, Doubt, and the Silence Between Prayers

Photo: Kiev In Winter, Artem Hvozdkov/Getty Images

    Most of my readers know that my blog tends to wander across a fairly wide landscape — from humor and gentle satire to subjects that are more serious and personal. This post falls squarely into the latter category. It’s about something that matters deeply to me, and I hope, in some way, it may resonate with you as well.

    In any relationship, communication is essential. It’s the exchange of thoughts, concerns, questions, and sometimes disagreements. Without it, there isn’t much of a relationship at all.

    But what happens when the relationship isn’t with another person — when it’s with God?

    For people of faith, communication often takes the form of reading scripture and prayer. Yet that raises an uncomfortable question: can a faith relationship survive without some sense — any sense — that our prayers are being heard? Acknowledged? Even if not answered in the way we hope?

    My own faith did not come easily. I was born into a Catholic family, but as a teenager I rebelled hard against what I perceived as too many rules , too much guilt, and too much pomp and circumstance. For nearly a decade, I walked away from organized religion altogether.

    Then, somewhat unexpectedly, I met a barber named Joe. Joe wasn’t a theologian. He didn’t quote scripture or lecture — his life was the lesson. What struck me was his peace — a deep, grounded peace with himself and with the world. His faith wasn’t about rules; it was about relationship. About grace. About forgiveness. That version of faith was far more compelling than anything I had known growing up.

    Over the years, my faith — and my understanding — has grown. I see the hand of God in many places: in the natural world, in moments of grace, and in certain events in my own life that seem to defy odds.

    At the same time, scripture is filled with stories of unanswered prayers and raw human anguish. The Book of Job is essentially the story of a man who loses his health, his wealth, his family, and his friends — and curses the day he was born. His cries are not polite. They are honest.

    One of the most influential books I’ve ever read is When Bad Things Happen to Good People by Rabbi Harold Kushner. Though written from a Jewish perspective, it helped me wrestle with one of faith’s hardest contradictions: how can an all-powerful and loving God coexist with evil, war, cancer, cruelty, and loss?

    In 2026, I find myself needing to revisit those questions often. My thoughts are frequently consumed by concern for the people of Ukraine, and for so many others around the world who live amid violence, injustice, and destruction. I pray daily that suffering will ease, that peace will prevail, and that good will overcome evil.

    And yet — if I’m honest — evil often appears to be winning. Suffering multiplies. Innocent people, including people I know and love, continue to be deeply affected. The Bible speaks extensively about evil, suffering, compassion, and the responsibility of believers to care for the afflicted. It also reminds us that “faith without works is dead.”

    So I try to do more than pray. I write. I talk. I raise money and encourage others to join me. Still, it isn’t an easy road to walk. Perhaps faith that is never tested isn’t really faith at all.

    I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. What have your experiences been with faith and doubt? Have you found peace with the tension between them — and if so, how?

    Please feel free to share your experiences in the comments below, and share this post with others who appreciate both humor and thoughtful reflection about this blue marble we all share.

    If you’d like to leave a comment but receive an error message, it’s probably because your browser is set to reject third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” window, and simply leave your name or initials if you wish.

    Thanks for reading — and for walking this road with me.