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. 

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.