tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28007155287406369172024-03-13T03:26:42.846-04:00Living The Faith On A High Wire"If we don't live the way we believe, we eventually believe the way we live." (Archbishop Fulton Sheen)Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.comBlogger517125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-44510959331480107892023-05-25T22:38:00.017-04:002023-05-26T12:57:42.114-04:00A Life Well Lived and The Legacy We Leave Behind<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiub2mHPjiSGtLeNmfCeyTUyEATEKBVzc7yJ4q63W1chGKiqwIYoNsU4kaSr8uNt8qV8aMnA_SP8NLXj8ULtytW_Zc2M8FvIpwsd9w95Kswz8YK2igV3yxWpltNR5ExfFvx0-FqBfqOHxGtjr5krsaIpYfT_Rq5WxnleGwHqpO4bx82sDRIuSwp-glQ/s1364/sheldon-dunkel-miami-fl-obituary.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1364" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiub2mHPjiSGtLeNmfCeyTUyEATEKBVzc7yJ4q63W1chGKiqwIYoNsU4kaSr8uNt8qV8aMnA_SP8NLXj8ULtytW_Zc2M8FvIpwsd9w95Kswz8YK2igV3yxWpltNR5ExfFvx0-FqBfqOHxGtjr5krsaIpYfT_Rq5WxnleGwHqpO4bx82sDRIuSwp-glQ/s320/sheldon-dunkel-miami-fl-obituary.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Carlos, if I had eight more like you, I'd be a happy
man."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Those were the words my high school
baseball coach said to me one day during my senior year in 1982. Now, more than
forty years later, I still remember them. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That's the impact that kind words
can have on a young man and it's a reflection of the character that my
coach embodied throughout his life. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Coach Dunk, as he was known by his
ballplayers and assistants, was a players' coach. A man's man, who was genuine
through and through. He loved his players, whether they were the stars of the
team, or the also-rans like me. And, his players loved him, on and off the
field. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For many of my teammates, he was the
only father they knew. For others, who were fortunate to have loving
fathers, he was like a second dad. He had the innate ability to make people
laugh, feel good, and feel loved, because he sincerely cared.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This week, the man we called Coach
Dunk, Sheldon "Shelly" Dunkel, passed away. He lived a good life. He was 86. Yet, despite
his age, it was a jolt to his family and his wife of 62 years. His health had
been waning for several years. It forced him into retirement after 21 years of
coaching at my alma matter. But, his wit, sense of humor, love of cigars, salty
language and spirit was sharp until the end.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He had recently told his grandson to
break up with his girlfriend because her name sounded like she was a dancer at
a strip bar. It was a joke, of course, but that's the kind of man, Dunk was. No
holds barred, genuine and bigger than life. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After his son struck out three times in a game one time while growing up, Dunk went up to him after the game and said, "Congratulations." His son perplexed asked, "What do you mean, dad?" Coach answered, "You just joined the KKK!" His son told that story at the funeral service. Everyone had to laugh. (K is what score keepers write for a strikeout) <br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now, don't get me wrong. He wasn't all fun and games. He was tough as nails. He had to be all his life. Standing 5'6" with his shoes on, he had to scrap all his life. He starred at Miami High School after his parents moved from New York to Miami and made their Hall of Fame. He starred at the University of Miami and became team captain by his senior year. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As I sat there during the service
with a row of my teammates at my side, in a packed chapel with former players
from his first high school coaching gig, dating back to 1970, his only MLB
player that he ever coached, former coaches, colleagues, friends and family, it
occurred to me that despite being called a "legend" by many of those
that spoke at the podium, his true legacy was his family and the people he
touched during his life. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He loved his family. In fact, that
became a common theme, his love of baseball, his faith, and his love of family.
Family was everything to him and he was everything to them. It was quite
evident. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He was a devoted husband, a present
and loving father and grandfather, who never missed a baseball game or dance
recital, and a selfless friend. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When he had a fight </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px;">in the heat of the moment</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px;"> w</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">ith an old friend who was coaching a rival team one time and they didn't speak for about 3 weeks, Dunk wrote his friend a letter saying he wasn't going to let baseball come between their longtime friendship and apologized. The friend's son took the letter and gave it to his wife before the service. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Some members from his original high
school team, an all-black school during the racially charged environment of the
early 1970's, came to tell their story of what Coach Dunk meant to them. Coach
was the only white teacher at the school. They said they couldn't figure him
out at first, but he taught them more about life than about baseball. He showed
them unconditional love and respect. He brought them to his home and to his
family. They felt his genuine affection for them, and they reciprocated in kind. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dunk had a heart of gold. I remember
my senior year, our high school team had scraped and clawed to win the district
championship against two very strong rivals. We faced off against another
powerhouse in the regional championship. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The game was a dogfight that neither
team wanted to lose. It was zero to zero at the end of 7 innings and we went
into extra innings. There were highlight-reel plays made by our shortstop and
right fielder to get us to that point. But we couldn't score against one of the
best pitchers in the county, who had come into the game in relief because he
had pitched in their district championship a few days earlier. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the bottom of the 9th inning, we ended up losing one to zero on a fly ball that sailed over our centerfielder's head. He was playing shallow to reach any short fly behind the infield and throw out the runner at the plate and couldn't reach the long fly ball. The runner would have scored regardless. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was a heartbreaking defeat. It
was possibly as close as Coach Dunk ever got to the state championship. Most of
the guys were in tears, including Dunk. He wore his heart on his sleeve and
this was an emotional loss for all of us. It is one thing to lose a game in a
blowout but it's devastating to be left on the field. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I still remember his face after that game. Then
the next day, during a team meeting, as he lifted our spirits and said how
proud he was of us, he choked up again. There is crying in baseball! Maybe,
that's where I learned that it's okay for a man to show emotion and, as my
family can attest, I do it well. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Through the years, as life went on,
we lost touch. I saw him at a couple of alumni games. I went to see him when I
was considering trying out for my college team and asked him to write a
recommendation on my behalf, which he was honored to do. I attended an event in his honor as he was about to retire from coaching. We got together at a
team reunion about 15 years ago when my daughters were young. And my most
recent contact with him was through Facebook a few years ago. He read a blog I
had written on a former high school football player who had been his student
and he took the time to tell me he read the article and agreed with my
conclusion. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">During the service, the rabbi quoted
from Ecclesiastes, <i>"To everything there is a season, and a time to
every purpose under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. A time to
plant and a time to uproot what is planted... A time to weep and a time to
laugh. A time to mourn and a time to dance..."</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I remember the same reading being used
by a priest at my great uncles' funeral Mass a few years back. It made me
reflect on my own family. The legacy that my dad, who is about a year and a
half younger than Dunk and about to celebrate his 60<sup>th</sup> anniversary
with my mom, is leaving me. The legacy that I'm leaving my daughters and son. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I thought of the words of St. Paul
in his first letter to the Corinthians, <i>"If I speak in human and
angelic tongues, but do not have love, I am a resounding gong or a clashing
cymbal... if I have all the faith so as to move mountains, but do not have love,
I am nothing... Love is patient, love is kind... It bears all things, believes
all things, hopes all things, endures all things."</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Love is forever because it's a
choice not a feeling. That is the legacy that Dunk leaves behind through 62
years of marriage, three children, six grandchildren and a great grandchild on
the way, through 40 years of coaching, teaching, mentoring, and leading. It's
not that he was a legend, though he most certainly was, it is that he leaves a
family that loves him, friends, students, and players that love him, and a long
list of memories that they will never forget. That is a life well
lived. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At the end of my life, that's the
only legacy I want to leave. A legacy of love, of faith and of family. It's the
greatest legacy any of us can hope for. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mother Teresa once said, "Kind
words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless."
Without a doubt as Coach Dunk's words to me would testify... <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p>Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-23608001853158754262023-04-23T14:11:00.018-04:002023-04-24T19:21:16.622-04:00Changes, Relationships and My Son... <p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNFYPEyCl5IwcJHFQ2sZc06fKbITrKaPss-N4Nlq66pxtNwIctcyG_OYku0thpdazpmGQtAWKraN9F3LioBCFS4MWn_hplHlyXbaFfX6l9A9-EzkewK-VwEkXihJNnQ7o5KDVeKDH7hkciSjdlwJ1LbS-BpKYOzKKuAak3-ElDiaNIjL2q4fVjEyuo/s640/View%20recent%20photos.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="476" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNFYPEyCl5IwcJHFQ2sZc06fKbITrKaPss-N4Nlq66pxtNwIctcyG_OYku0thpdazpmGQtAWKraN9F3LioBCFS4MWn_hplHlyXbaFfX6l9A9-EzkewK-VwEkXihJNnQ7o5KDVeKDH7hkciSjdlwJ1LbS-BpKYOzKKuAak3-ElDiaNIjL2q4fVjEyuo/s320/View%20recent%20photos.png" width="238" /></a></i></div><i><br />"When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years." -- Mark Twain</i><p></p><p>My son and I have always had a great relationship. They say boys tend to be closer to their moms and girls closer to their dads. That may be true on a spiritual level in our household, but on a more practical and tangible sense, that doesn't seem to fit reality. </p><p>You see, my daughters were always with my wife; going to dance rehearsals, recitals, and competitions out of town, shopping, going to cycle classes, the beauty parlor, etc. Meanwhile, I was always with my son at baseball practices, games, and tournaments out of town, playing catch, taking him to social activities, hanging out watching sports or movies, and such. </p><p>There was a lot of crossover, of course. We shared most meals together, attended Mass, took family vacations and the occasional incursions, where the boys would go to dance competitions or the girls would join us at a baseball tournament, but for the most part, my son and I spent time on our own and my wife and the girls did as well. </p><p>My son has always had a rebellious streak, even when he was little. But, in general, he was obedient and listened to what I had to say. He learned to appreciate the music I liked. He took my accolades and admonitions when offered. He developed a similar sense of humor, political inclinations and passion for sports. In fact, despite being born and raised in Miami, he became a rabid fan of my two favorite teams; the New York Mets and the Washington Redskins. (Our oldest daughter as well and they'll always be the Redskins to us!) </p><p>We had our moments, don't get me wrong. People cannot live under the same roof without the occasional conflict. I am well aware that I can be demanding on my children and my ego and pride sometimes gets the best of me. But, overall, it was a positive and loving relationship. </p><p>Then came year fourteen. Although, it may have started in the latter part of thirteen to be honest. </p><p>We became like two rams butting heads. He started challenging me, defying me, rejecting my suggestions, arguing and bickering with me over the most trivial of things, whether it was an opinion about sports, about music, about movies I liked, or about life. It was a constant battle. There was constant strife. </p><p>I realize it was a rite of passage, as Mark Twain pointed out. The lion cub coming into his own and wanting to assert his courage and strength, but it was a bit shocking in the way it unfolded and manifested itself in our relationship. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidrxSu2Mgtav9BVr8GZP5O08-AgbIy_UaVIAKwt-djXFsM4SpYBdiVtSSFdGtqGefgxM3xsS-KstqtWn416BzgqoYYKWDVipX64JXPxdbsV9FQh57bY3bnhWeBgYITIgKDVe1H3IgI1zILms_oD_DlGCzOKGjZGsrXtCGqMYzXb6ux4DvJBzuFrZTa/s1999/View%20recent%20photos%20(3).png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1999" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidrxSu2Mgtav9BVr8GZP5O08-AgbIy_UaVIAKwt-djXFsM4SpYBdiVtSSFdGtqGefgxM3xsS-KstqtWn416BzgqoYYKWDVipX64JXPxdbsV9FQh57bY3bnhWeBgYITIgKDVe1H3IgI1zILms_oD_DlGCzOKGjZGsrXtCGqMYzXb6ux4DvJBzuFrZTa/s320/View%20recent%20photos%20(3).png" width="187" /></a></div>In the midst of the turmoil, he decided to give up catching in baseball, which he had worked at diligently for about four years, including during the covid year, where his private catching sessions were the highlight of our week.<p></p><p>He then started pitching and became a very good pitcher, working hard, competing in tournaments with kids, some of which were older, and excelling. </p><p>Then, he was disillusioned. His hard work did not pay off the way we planned. He had a great tryout in high school, throwing consistently harder than he had ever thrown with impeccable control on his fastball, curve and changeup, and earning the accolades of the Head Coach and Pitching Coach. He couldn't have done better. He made me very proud. Yet, despite that, he was cut from the team.</p><p>It coincided with his first love interest, a girl who he started seeing, and baseball was already taking a back seat in his life. </p><p>For me, this was a seismic change in our lives and our relationship. Not only, was his interest in baseball waning, which had been one of the bedrocks of our relationship, but now he was shifting his interest, which if you knew my son and his disinterest in girls as a child, was monumental.</p><p>I always liked girls. From the time I was five, I was locking myself in a car to kiss a girl. I fell head over heels for a pretty blonde girl, named Tina, in the third grade. I didn't even know her but sat behind her and would stroke her long hair all day in class. I never even asked if she minded. It was like I was under a spell by her beautiful blonde locks! I always had a crush on a teacher, or classmate, or a neighbor, or someone I would meet. I don't ever remember not liking girls. </p><p>But, my son, was a different story. I would point out pretty girls in his class or in his school and he would dismiss me with disgust. </p><p>So, there we were embattled in strife over anything, his baseball career hanging by a thread and a now a girl in the mix! Did I mention, I don't like change? </p><p>Look, it wasn't like it was Yoko Ono coming to break up The Beatles. I like the girl very much. I was actually excited that he had his first girlfriend. I had my first girlfriend in the tenth grade as well, which lasted all of two months! But there was a lot going on at the time and the relationship between father and son was falling by the wayside.</p><p>After his disenchantment with the way things devolved with baseball, I decided to take a step back and give him some space. I wanted him to keep playing because I knew he had talent, more talent than I ever had, but I wanted it to come from him. </p><p>So, I waited patiently on the sidelines. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and before I knew it, two months had gone by, and then three. He didn't pick up the baseball again until recently, four months after his tryout, when he threw with his girlfriend's little cousin.</p><p>In the interim, in early March, he decided to join the high school football team. Football? Really? I like football but he had never played and, to be honest, I never was interested in him playing football because of the potential for injuries. </p><p>However, I had already decided that whatever decision he made, had to come from him and if he was willing to sacrifice time and effort to play a sport that he had never played before, then so be it. I've been waking up at five o'clock every morning to drive him to football workouts, practice and training ever since.</p><p>As for our relationship, things were not getting better. We continued to bicker. It was very disheartening. He would be happy one minute when asking me to drive him to his girlfriend's house and the next minute be giving me the cold shoulder. </p><p>One night, sometime during Lent, he asked if I could drive him to Orlando to meet his girlfriend and her parents, who were going to Universal Studios after a school event. I had driven my son to Universal Studios at about the same time last year, after cajoling him to catch in a baseball tournament for a local high school, whose coach asked if he could catch for his team. </p><p>This time, he asked during a tumultuous week, where we had been arguing, probably over pettiness, and I told him, "No way!" I was not going to take him after all the grief he was giving me. Case closed! He told his girlfriend and was downcast for several days.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipG0KIy8_20pS6tN1NxKvOPzxZW2vCEHM8E_1lxvK0WOUkUNbZC1bbRiYqgE7PNdnW-AsgP38-a3r6XQEp0Tj0-9a5Lb-fw31VlWCZkQkV0RD69Aqu695hCRik7dmL_xW1JpW9-DWdKGWRPB8afkEqhk95HzY-EMlOgq8i961EtDJWHbQQ-tGuiyOb/s631/image.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="421" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipG0KIy8_20pS6tN1NxKvOPzxZW2vCEHM8E_1lxvK0WOUkUNbZC1bbRiYqgE7PNdnW-AsgP38-a3r6XQEp0Tj0-9a5Lb-fw31VlWCZkQkV0RD69Aqu695hCRik7dmL_xW1JpW9-DWdKGWRPB8afkEqhk95HzY-EMlOgq8i961EtDJWHbQQ-tGuiyOb/s320/image.png" width="214" /></a></div>One morning, during my Lenten readings, after preparing his breakfast and waiting for him to finish so I could drive him to football, I read the parable of The Prodigal Son.<p></p><p>It's one of my favorite parables in the Bible. A son demands that his father give him his half of his inheritance, which was tantamount to wanting him dead. He takes the money and leaves everything he had ever known for some far off land, which was a repudiation of everything his father stood for and had ever given him. The son goes off and blows every penny on a life of debauchery before a famine hit the land, leaving him destitute and working in a pigpen, which for a Jewish man was as low as one can get, before realizing his condition, repenting and returning home to ask his father for forgiveness. </p><p>It is a powerful story because it's more of a story about the loving father than the prodigal son. The father, who despite the insult and rejection, sees the son while he was approaching from afar, goes out to meet him instead of waiting, forgives him and welcomes him back into the family fold with a great feast.</p><p>I've read and heard the story many times. It's a story we use in a men's retreat that I have been part of for over 17 years. So, I'm very familiar with all the intricacies of the story. I even read a book by the great Fr. Henri Nouwen, titled <i>The Return of the Prodigal Son</i>, which is the best and favorite spiritual book I possess. </p><p>After reading it that morning, the parable began to resonate within me. I started thinking about my son and our strained relationship but mostly, I thought about the response of the loving father. I have always prayed to be that loving father to my children; a father who forgives, who shows mercy and who loves unconditionally. </p><p>I decided to be that father to my son. That night, as he walked around the house looking gloomy and not speaking to me, I told him that I would take him on the trip. Immediately his demeanor brightened and went from downcast to jubilation. "Really?" he asked with an incredulous smile. When I confirmed, and his mom said she would make the hotel reservations, he quickly went into our bedroom to call his girlfriend to let her know. He then came out and gave me a hug, saying, "I'm sorry." I couldn't help but to get choked up. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXju9XKAFf3BChFfajh6fMDu1S2k6gxIqztViq8CxilrIBZ0jI12ht8r737ASUu4KHfkLEbYDP20vzRyO_G4jbD8yjk7dXhFUXPR_S0fpzpjpZhXOGalX77HyXvRXuZI61rqmmrQzbI1gL7BAuS9YLEfR2KPMLdkXHC84MXM7PHE1ouulY8ttUMjBK/s640/View%20recent%20photos%20(4).png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="632" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXju9XKAFf3BChFfajh6fMDu1S2k6gxIqztViq8CxilrIBZ0jI12ht8r737ASUu4KHfkLEbYDP20vzRyO_G4jbD8yjk7dXhFUXPR_S0fpzpjpZhXOGalX77HyXvRXuZI61rqmmrQzbI1gL7BAuS9YLEfR2KPMLdkXHC84MXM7PHE1ouulY8ttUMjBK/s320/View%20recent%20photos%20(4).png" width="316" /></a></div>It's been over a month since the trip. I don't know if he appreciated it that much, is maturing and is starting to notice all the things we do for him, or that, despite my heartbreak from his quitting baseball, he realizes I still support him, but I think things are taking a turn for the better.<p></p><p>In recent days, he comes to hug me every night before he goes to bed. We are arguing less (Although, I don't want to say that too loud so I don't jinx it!). He is happier and more playful around me. And, although he is several years from 21, as Mark Twain once wrote (he's now four months shy of 16), maybe, just maybe, he is starting to realize how much I have learned, and things will begin to go back to where they were, albeit at a more refined level. </p><p>In <i>The Boxer </i>Simon and Garfunkel sang, "Now the years are rolling by me. They are rockin' evenly. I am older than I once was, and younger than I'll be; that's not unusual. Nor is it strange, after changes upon changes, we are more or less the same. After changes we are more or less the same." </p><p><br /></p><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></div>Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-46836962415535135402023-03-11T16:51:00.009-05:002023-03-12T21:52:39.134-04:00From the Disco to the Living Room Couch... <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm-IFZ-T6B05DtWZyJq9yGG8g8jbDtDRQam59aU8uS2qgenX9kURd2LjN9PVVix-vIPI5w39rWj9Co-4XYdTLKYSbu45RKmDQ5IRdFp1F6C6NCUVSen5EPSGEdydc0P2b1nxUeNEuIdGlyKLwuJfkTcA9jOzbt3sTww2GIyGOadZPJCooxYyytRYdf/s640/IMG_3858.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="509" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm-IFZ-T6B05DtWZyJq9yGG8g8jbDtDRQam59aU8uS2qgenX9kURd2LjN9PVVix-vIPI5w39rWj9Co-4XYdTLKYSbu45RKmDQ5IRdFp1F6C6NCUVSen5EPSGEdydc0P2b1nxUeNEuIdGlyKLwuJfkTcA9jOzbt3sTww2GIyGOadZPJCooxYyytRYdf/s320/IMG_3858.jpg" width="255" /></a></div><br />I wasn't looking for a relationship.<p></p><p>I was at point in my life where I was getting over a failed relationship, and I was enjoying spending time on my own without any attachments.</p><p>I had returned to my parents' house. What can I say? I'm Cuban! A man in his early 30's moving back home doesn't have the same negative connotations among Hispanics as it does in American culture. Although, Millennials may be changing that stigma! </p><p>Even so, there was always a bit of what Dorothy Day would call, the long loneliness (Granted, Day was referring to God, but I didn't know it at the time). There was always something amiss, a feeling of melancholy and emptiness that regularly accompanied me.</p><p>So, there I was on a fateful night in late January barhopping with a friend and co-worker, as we entered a 70's-theme nightclub called Polyesters in South Beach that had recently opened. We had just been there for a few minutes when I saw her; a beautiful woman that I immediately recognized because we had worked at the same company a few years back. </p><p>I quickly pointed her out to my friend, who knew her, and he went to say hello. I lagged a little behind him, not to appear too eager, since I knew her but not very well. However, my friend called me over and told her that I had noticed her from afar (It was sort of like the scene from the movie <i>Rudy</i>, where the unpopular smart guy gets Rudy to introduce him to girls). After an awkward greeting, we made some small talk then drifted as she was with a group of friends.</p><p>A few minutes later, I decided to go to the bathroom and told my friend I would be right back. As I was coming out of the men's room, the beautiful woman was coming down the hall that led to the bathrooms. <i>That was my chance!</i> I struck up a conversation. I can't even recall what I said but I made her laugh, and we ended up talking for about an hour in the hallway to the bathrooms. I am convinced that she followed me since she never ended up going to the ladies' room before her friends came to say they were leaving. </p><p>I didn't even have to show off my dance moves, which is not a feat to be overlooked, considering I was a <i>Quinceanera</i> ringer in my mid-teens. I danced in about ten <i>Quinceanera </i>parties, most of which I didn't even know the birthday girl. Since I was tall and held my own on the dance floor, a couple of choreographers invited me to be part of the court whenever they needed a guy. </p><p>Getting back to Polyesters,<i> </i>I didn't get her phone number that night, but I knew where she worked, and was smitten without a doubt. The challenge was trying to figure out how to fit her into my busy dating schedule. Despite my loneliness deep inside, I was dating. But I was like Adam. God hadn't made the right companion for me!</p><p>Yet, I knew I wanted to see her again. A few days later, I decided to call her at work. She was working as the Press Secretary for a local Congressman, who she had moved to Washington to work for before returning to Miami shortly before we met in South Beach. I worked in television news so it would have been natural for me to call her on a professional level. </p><p>Now, this certainly wasn't professional, I asked her out for that following Sunday, and I can honestly say with no hesitations, I fell head-over-heals in love with her on our first date. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZuOKLiuF6lK5NRsqNLkneXOwqEiXQgMYkrbjcq0ZgHUy543KimlJFMz83sTSdGFXunvAmqiixJasXnIivzhjd9Eh88gwN_Vut3vPe3KEuJ_dxiQINdyY52enEyuv4joBpzGxUWY0bodfdxdH4U7SJRNabm46HrCUItZUW4ZCIp_8XOBHQp71HZMAK/s640/IMG_3855.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="541" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZuOKLiuF6lK5NRsqNLkneXOwqEiXQgMYkrbjcq0ZgHUy543KimlJFMz83sTSdGFXunvAmqiixJasXnIivzhjd9Eh88gwN_Vut3vPe3KEuJ_dxiQINdyY52enEyuv4joBpzGxUWY0bodfdxdH4U7SJRNabm46HrCUItZUW4ZCIp_8XOBHQp71HZMAK/s320/IMG_3855.jpg" width="271" /></a></div>We talked about everything you're not supposed to talk about on a first date; our previous relationships, how they ended and why, politics, religion, family, and where we were emotionally on future relationships and marriage. It was effortless. Our conversation flowed naturally without any awkwardness. I couldn't get enough of her. She was smart. She was drop-dead gorgeous. We shared similar values. Moreover, she laughed at my jokes! I was done. The only thing I thought to myself was, <i>"Man, she is really skinny! I got to beef her up a bit."</i> She was a size zero at the time!<p></p><p></p><p>The next night, I broke my no-call-on-the-next-day-rule because my brother, who is an actor, was on <i>The Cosby Show</i> that Monday night and I had to call and let her know, since we had talked about him. She was out with friends and kind of blew me off, but I didn't get discouraged.</p><p>We went on a lunch date the following Friday, and another Sunday night date the following weekend. Then, our relationship hit its first crossroad; Valentine's Day!</p><p>I had absolutely no plans. On the Monday before the big day, I had no reservations at any restaurant, no gift, and no idea of what to do. I was scrambling. So, I sought out help of my coworkers.</p><p>They started giving me ideas, "Send her flowers," one coworker offered. Brilliant! </p><p>"I know the owner of a restaurant in Coral Gables, I'll get you a table," my boss said. </p><p>"Man, that place is for old people," another coworker interjected. "I have reservations at a nicer place that I'm not using." Perfect!</p><p>Then, came my own creativity; a bottle of Dom Perignon on ice, a couple of champagne glasses, and a blanket. I was thinking that maybe after dinner, we could go to the beach and, you know... Did I mention I was a little full of myself? </p><p>Well, everything went flawlessly and after dinner, we got in my car and I said, "We can go to South Beach to my favorite spot (a cool, swanky bar with expensive drinks), called the Berlin Bar, or I have a bottle of Dom Perignon and some glasses in the trunk of my car, and we can go hang out at the beach." </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtQxRomR7fPJ8rZ-DjM7OUDUJT8_q1iExOYt4yHxAphTo-OYNJZIE9gA5pAhy-MWLz0pbRdGw8AhLcHq8UY6zdwjWuwd6P74Anl0SqUxj797wowzaofE9cniT9KAYf1nFcosLYj3aRsEVvsTtd_igrhC_gXaH1x3xGtVMAux-md14pnOR_ACYMEr6z/s640/IMG_3860.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="521" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtQxRomR7fPJ8rZ-DjM7OUDUJT8_q1iExOYt4yHxAphTo-OYNJZIE9gA5pAhy-MWLz0pbRdGw8AhLcHq8UY6zdwjWuwd6P74Anl0SqUxj797wowzaofE9cniT9KAYf1nFcosLYj3aRsEVvsTtd_igrhC_gXaH1x3xGtVMAux-md14pnOR_ACYMEr6z/s320/IMG_3860.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><br />"Let's go to Berlin Bar," she shot back. But it wasn't what she said as to how she said it that resonated with me. It was in a like, <i>"Who the hell do you think you are?" </i> <p></p><p>The mood totally changed. I felt like I was doused with a bucket of ice and started second guessing my "brilliant" idea of the champagne dreams and caviar wishes! <i>"What did I do?" </i>I thought. <i>"I just screwed this up."</i></p><p>I felt a chill of tension between us, as she went silent. I could have sworn she mouthed the words of The Police song, <i>"De, Do, Do, Do, De Da, Da, Da, is all I want to say to you."</i> "What?" Oh, it was just in my head!</p><p>So, I was reeling and thought, <i>"Too late now. Might as well go have a drink and take her back home."</i></p>We got to Berlin Bar, and I went to get us a drink at the bar, feeling dejected and thinking the worse, when she finally breaks the tension and says with a pretty smile, "That was very nice of you to send flowers."<p></p><p><i>Say what? I'm back!</i> We ended up closing down the bar that night in the wee hours of the morning and we never stopped seeing each other after that.<br /></p><p>A year later, we were married.</p><p>Twenty-five years, a house, three kids, 4 dogs, several funerals and weddings later, we are sitting on our living room couch, eating sushi on a Friday night during Lent, drinking wine and watching Netflix, and I wouldn't want to change a thing. </p><p>What, you don't like sushi, wine and Netflix?... </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-77629472894579489522023-02-28T22:36:00.005-05:002023-03-01T12:15:45.833-05:00The Sound of Silence...<p _msthash="1758" _msttexthash="100854"></p><p><cite style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #666666; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 500; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: 2; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; text-align: right; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-size-adjust: 100%; text-transform: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"></cite></p><p><span _msthash="223184" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="100854"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span _msthash="223184" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="100854"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0D3A0eOchyw0YqeQqRsZbfkL7THw1pG5tpADvEGTWq-4bc5fm-dpWdeiuQUO1i0FwYKtM0vseZT0K0z6jXHtZLtPRBzFwVRqIrifDQIz4ctRapUrlTT3gFSquy9wBqde4kIO6ePfk1lTVaKYyVhXGCPDlQMiPkQSr0JXBQ0MO1Jea7DxHAm8L0hr/s640/IMG_3829.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0D3A0eOchyw0YqeQqRsZbfkL7THw1pG5tpADvEGTWq-4bc5fm-dpWdeiuQUO1i0FwYKtM0vseZT0K0z6jXHtZLtPRBzFwVRqIrifDQIz4ctRapUrlTT3gFSquy9wBqde4kIO6ePfk1lTVaKYyVhXGCPDlQMiPkQSr0JXBQ0MO1Jea7DxHAm8L0hr/s320/IMG_3829.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span _msthash="223184" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="100854"><div><span _msthash="223184" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="100854"><br /></span></div>Silence.</span><o:p></o:p><p></p><p><span _msthash="223183" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="8273928">The only noise was the humming of an air conditioning unit in the background
and the thoughts that formed quietly in my head.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223182" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="1391988">Uncomfortable? It can be, especially at first.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223181" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="583206">Revealing? Without a doubt. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223180" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="78977379">When you turn within yourself and attempt to quiet the thoughts that race
incessantly in your mind, the project that you need to finish for your new job,
the health issue your older daughter is dealing with, your younger daughter
going off to college soon, mortgage payments, car payments, school tuitions, among
many other things, it can be discomforting. It can be taxing. It can seem overwhelming.
</span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223179" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="52368004">We are so used to the noise, the racing thoughts, the constant distractions,
the breakneck pace in which we live, that dealing with silence and quieting our
mind can be a challenge for many people.
But it’s desperately needed. If anything for our mental sanity!</span> <o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223178" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="9376952">A priest once said that the things that keep us up at night, the things that
hijack our dreams, are the things that separate us from God.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223177" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="30577846">I can see that. Fear and anxiety are a lack of trust in God and preoccupation
with the small stuff blocks us from getting close to the Lord and thus, to inner
peace. They are like gongs that shatter the stillness that I was trying
to immerse myself in. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223176" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="60524594">But, in the echoes of the silence that enveloped me and the distractions
that broke my inner peace, God began to draw me in. Prayer slowly started formulating
in my brain shifting my focus from my own turmoil to Him. Things started getting
clearer. As I glanced at a Crucifix not far from where I was sitting, the
vision of Christ reverberated in my soul. </span> <o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223175" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="58709924">God would help me excel in my new job. God would give my daughter the faith
and strength she needed. God would
watch over my younger daughter so that she would not let the culture change who
she is. And soon, I felt a sense of solace, a sense of comfort and finally, a
sense of peace. The peace I had been
searching for. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223174" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="59343115">It’s the kind of peace the world can't offer. It’s a peace that comes
from entrusting your every being; heart, mind, and soul to the One who made
you, who loves you, who knows you better than you know yourself and who will
never let you down. That is the peace we can spend a lifetime searching for
and never find. Until we turn to God. </span> <o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223173" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="235094236"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span _msthash="223173" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="235094236"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_iwxgaFXgP2uvAuPSg-vymTMBZg3lFnt3CUs_zV6joz-7q0Y9t_MRgPxxlRhiJVkhAL8F4oKZc8IyWNrJ5Hi9Byw5LjNG6DgOE2OjM-vacB4I5mf4VfhwqpcM0J7cpeio-_eTqiPnxOZ-GyZWAk-nALCrfFE-DNYRhzUrVO7mVogTum-wT6ov9nwB/s879/0d04878e-8282-4ccc-9132-714404392f6b.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="659" data-original-width="879" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_iwxgaFXgP2uvAuPSg-vymTMBZg3lFnt3CUs_zV6joz-7q0Y9t_MRgPxxlRhiJVkhAL8F4oKZc8IyWNrJ5Hi9Byw5LjNG6DgOE2OjM-vacB4I5mf4VfhwqpcM0J7cpeio-_eTqiPnxOZ-GyZWAk-nALCrfFE-DNYRhzUrVO7mVogTum-wT6ov9nwB/s320/0d04878e-8282-4ccc-9132-714404392f6b.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span _msthash="223173" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="235094236">Last weekend, I attended a silent retreat based on the spiritual exercises
of St. Ignatius of Loyola in Delray Beach. We were seventeen men and two
priests. We prayed together, attended daily Mass, spent time before the Blessed
Sacrament and listened to talks on God’s creation, sin, God’s mercy, His
Passion and Resurrection, among others. We reflected on our own, meditated or prayed as we walked around the beautiful grounds and lake at the retreat house,
examined our lives, and shared meals together. All was done in silence, except
for the talks that led to meditations and a book that was read to us during
meals. </span> <o:p></o:p><p></p><p><span _msthash="223172" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="128780964">Some people at work were perplexed when I mentioned I was going on a silent
retreat. Silence is not something most people find comforting. Let’s face it,
we live in a noise-filled world. If we’re not on our smart phones, we’re on
social media, watching TV, listening to music, the car radio, podcasts, or
countless other ways of, as author Neil Postman once wrote in his book, <i _mstmutation="1">Amusing
Ourselves to Death</i>.</span> <o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223171" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="49460853">We don’t give ourselves time to think, much less talk to God in the innermost recesses of our souls. Therefore, thinking about spending time alone
with our thoughts can be unnerving. But that’s exactly why we do it; to get out
of our comfort zones.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223170" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="21644740">Pope Benedict XVI once wrote, “The world offers you
comfort. But you are not made for comfort. You are made for greatness.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223169" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="128940058">We all seek happiness. Many of us try to find it
with what St. Thomas Aquinas called the four substitutes for happiness; money,
power, fame, and pleasure. Yet, they are never enough. Just ask the millionaire
who, after making his first million, wants two million. Or the famous actor,
who despite all the fame and glory turns to drugs. We’ll always want more
because we were made for more. We have a
God-size hole in our souls that can only be filled by God.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223168" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="126830938">St. Augustine once wrote, “Oh God, thou hast made us
for Thyself and our hearts are restless until they find their rest in you.” Or, as the Catechism of the Catholic Church
puts it, “The desire for God is written in the human heart… And only in God will
we find the truth and happiness, we never stop searching for.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223167" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="5650658">I know from personal experience because it is my story
and that of so many of the people, I call friends. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223166" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="35510410">Mother Theresa once said, “The fruit of silence is
prayer, the fruit of prayer is faith, the fruit of faith is love, the fruit of
love is service, and the fruit of service is peace.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span _msthash="223165" _mstmutation="1" _msttexthash="145285179">We all seek peace and peace begins with silence. Keeping
that peace may be a fleeting proposition but I can always find it by returning
to the silence and focusing on the vision of the Crucifix that reverberated within
my soul, as Simon and Garfunkel once sang, “And the vision that was planted in
my brain still remains within the sound of silence” … </span> <o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p><o:p> </o:p></p><p></p>Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-63760032314015155412022-11-14T17:32:00.046-05:002022-11-15T22:37:48.449-05:00An Ode to Old Friends... <p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg71BNBCIOgpa2w41OOa_dTEtq3S4qsoFlba9KNHIfrEKXnpBybb8IsziSB3Q7KBeIw3FlAhyFsuzxAKqt6pvj54UCsQ-iJStPkTyW1OnICXGwm4u021Ca4GkjSrqrRr_7XuxdMu4nlc1QYUzjF7hZG3zr7vzkLjgld5FDVIS2_owzzQojvOLLY0RJ/s1344/Clarence%20It's%20a%20Wonderful%20Life....jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1344" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg71BNBCIOgpa2w41OOa_dTEtq3S4qsoFlba9KNHIfrEKXnpBybb8IsziSB3Q7KBeIw3FlAhyFsuzxAKqt6pvj54UCsQ-iJStPkTyW1OnICXGwm4u021Ca4GkjSrqrRr_7XuxdMu4nlc1QYUzjF7hZG3zr7vzkLjgld5FDVIS2_owzzQojvOLLY0RJ/s320/Clarence%20It's%20a%20Wonderful%20Life....jpg" width="214" /></a></i></div><i>"Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. And when he isn't around, he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?" -- Clarence, It's a Wonderful Life. </i><p></p><p>It was a lesson George Bailey had to learn the hard way. </p><p>Unfortunately, it's a lesson, we often have to learn as well. </p><p>This week, I was rattled by the news that an old high school friend, Tony, died unexpectedly. </p><p>The news came about a week after another high school friend, Ana, also passed away.</p><p>They were both about my age and graduated from high school my same year. </p><p>I hadn't seen either in almost 40 years, which is really hard to believe, but we reconnected through social media in recent years.</p><p>Still, their sudden demise made me reflect on how God uses people to touch our lives, regardless of how brief their time in our lives may be. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht3Bfj0Q1JCmNOt7sLfYLHpIs3BYyNZK_BwrRgnxNgxTHzunb451VyXu2Npm9j7cxbC4355AqIdscMRDHmbklCr9tKVlZzy6pf8zsk9ur9b_wDquivVyVO1MHyx_467-e9j9cdeeNHZOcMyIdRROwQKNgZ6HavUTBz5e0Q63I8FJerhwHqXynS6Smx/s640/Tony%20Garcia.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht3Bfj0Q1JCmNOt7sLfYLHpIs3BYyNZK_BwrRgnxNgxTHzunb451VyXu2Npm9j7cxbC4355AqIdscMRDHmbklCr9tKVlZzy6pf8zsk9ur9b_wDquivVyVO1MHyx_467-e9j9cdeeNHZOcMyIdRROwQKNgZ6HavUTBz5e0Q63I8FJerhwHqXynS6Smx/s320/Tony%20Garcia.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Tony was a guy's guy. The kind of friend everyone wanted to be around. In high school, he had long jet-black hair, a big smile and magnetic personality. He was the guy that girls loved because of his looks and charm and guys loved because he was fun to be around and genuine. He treated people like life-long friends, even when they first met, including me.<p></p><p>I remember the first time I met Tony, through another friend our sophomore year (which was our first year in high school since junior high was 7th through 9th grades back then). We were at a baseball party for my younger brother's team at our mutual friend Gus's house. Gus' brother played with my brother. Tony and Gus were old friends. </p><p>After several beers (yes, I was about 16 at the time), they asked if I wanted to go out with them and we left in Gus's van. After picking up a couple of other guys and getting more beers, we drove to a roller-skating rink in Hialeah. </p><p>We never went in. We were having a great time hanging out in the parking lot.</p><p>At some point, we did try to go in but there were a few guys from another group that took exception and before, we knew it, a fight broke out. </p><p>I remember being next to one of our guys and being surrounded by several from their group. Things got bit blurry for me from there. It was like a scene from <i>That 70's Show</i> where everything appeared in slow motion and then I went blank. </p><p>The next thing I recall was waking up in the van as we were driving away. Tony and the guys were laughing and recounting what happened. It turns out some of the other guys were members of a Carol City gang. As I came to, they started ribbing me about finding me passed out on the hood of a car. They said they had to carry me into the van. Needless to say, they all cracked up on my account and I couldn't help but join them in laughing. </p><p>We became good friends after that. I won't bore you with the details of other misadventures, including another night at a roller rink in Broward County, when a couple of friends that were with us got arrested, or the first day of school our senior year, when we had a tailgate party (sans the food) before the first bell rang, but I will say that I truly loved hanging out with Tony and always admired him. </p><p>Many years later, we reconnected on social media. We both shared a passion for our sons, who played baseball. He posted spectacular photos that he would take and would often comment and like my photos and videos. I looked forward to those acknowledgements from Tony. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVO6MdC95A-X_I5H2Sg8pM00q-LoIM5R38TbG9fQNXgRTKgy8LsVTMjarnsTKIs7m3H64BnjRxRLSNOO9-FLe7gjNnqO20FTjsxGfrjgjRGp8elhP5kM2FWF1B9kYGYjhFBriO0niF_ovT27tgkk3tMT6rzVBAWRco4D7QNYsXHR5Dzmi8CIzX0Ho4/s640/Ana%20Torralbes.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVO6MdC95A-X_I5H2Sg8pM00q-LoIM5R38TbG9fQNXgRTKgy8LsVTMjarnsTKIs7m3H64BnjRxRLSNOO9-FLe7gjNnqO20FTjsxGfrjgjRGp8elhP5kM2FWF1B9kYGYjhFBriO0niF_ovT27tgkk3tMT6rzVBAWRco4D7QNYsXHR5Dzmi8CIzX0Ho4/s320/Ana%20Torralbes.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>As for Ana, we became great friends when she broke up with one of my best friends in junior high. We started having lunch together and talking for the entire period every day. <p></p><p>Well, as Harry tells Sally in the movie, <i>When Harry Met Sally</i>, "Guys and girls can never be friends." Her contagious smile, beauty and charm got the best of me. I fell head over heels. After several weeks of vacillating, I finally mustered up the courage to ask her to go steady with me. She was the first girl I ever asked (It was 1978. I remember because Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive," was constantly on the radio. I still remember the words of the song!). </p><p>Ana told me she had to think about it. In hindsight, she had just broken up with my best friend! What was I thinking? I think that telling me she was going to think about it was her way of letting me down easy. She turned me down the next day. My heart took its first big hit. </p><p>She eventually got back with my best friend in high school, and I believe they dated for all three years. </p><p>As for our relationship, although it was never the same after that (I'm sure she didn't want to lead me on), Ana was always my biggest cheerleader. She was interested in how I was doing, who I was dating, and what was going on in my life. She would offer advice and encouraged me on everything from love to baseball. </p><p>Over the years, she would comment on my posts regularly. She was positive and sincere. We shared a love of family, she had a teenage daughter, and faith. Until one day she stopped commenting, without me even noticing, and then she was gone.</p><p>During the past few days, I've felt a sense of melancholy. I never got a chance to tell them how much they meant to me. </p><p>Clarence said it well in <i>It's a Wonderful Life</i>, their loss leaves an awful hole. I regret not making more of an effort to be their friend after high school. And that may be the lesson to be learned. </p><p>There's an old Latin phrase, <i>Momento Mori</i>, that translates to "remember death." It's a reminder that we are only here for a short time, and our judgement day will come before we know it. We need to live each day like it's our last and make more time for the people who have touched our lives, regardless of how long ago. </p><p>At the end of <i>It's a Wonderful Life</i>, Clarence writes a dedication on a book for George Bailey that states, "Remember, no man is a failure who has friends." </p><p>Farewell, my good friends. I am a better man for knowing you both and I will always cherish our memories. May God bless your souls eternally and may we meet again someday. </p><p><br /></p>Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-21760568901446746432022-03-29T16:36:00.002-04:002022-03-29T18:32:16.285-04:00Margaritas on the Rocks with Salt... <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUp-jncvTBwH0vNFMmKuCQvXm8FkQNF5uuwcIAs2ywXsyF70gIDe8P0FT5DfQiFFSwPNHlLNYSHS408B_frEc4-UIlUVuNJCjClHG3TJdfzlhFI1FQWwBqxfJcKmHy-RgLJhNQn1HdoXKxRJQ3yK73tCjSM6o9ZLz_Uf_tOYVO1XYk6dHsNsdemaCg/s640/IMG_0207%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUp-jncvTBwH0vNFMmKuCQvXm8FkQNF5uuwcIAs2ywXsyF70gIDe8P0FT5DfQiFFSwPNHlLNYSHS408B_frEc4-UIlUVuNJCjClHG3TJdfzlhFI1FQWwBqxfJcKmHy-RgLJhNQn1HdoXKxRJQ3yK73tCjSM6o9ZLz_Uf_tOYVO1XYk6dHsNsdemaCg/s320/IMG_0207%20(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></div>My wife and I are about four years away from being empty nesters but after almost a decade of limiting our travels to family trips, we finally took our first vacation sans the kiddies a few weeks ago, and I must say, it was a pleasant look at what our life may be in the not-too-distant future. <p></p><p>Granted, we were on vacation with none of the quotidian roles and responsibilities that make our lives hectic, but what was most refreshing was how much we enjoyed just hanging out with each other all day like we used to, doing nothing except working out and having breakfast in the morning, lounging by the pool all day, taking long walks around the resort and drinking margaritas on the rocks with salt.</p><p>It was a nonstop flow of margaritas, with Centenario tequila, from about mid-morning until we went to bed at night. We took timeout for wine during dinner but picked it back up after dessert (Well, I did cheat with a few Coronas from time to time during the day and scotch after dinner, but my wife was all in on the margaritas!). </p><p>It came to a point by poolside, where our waiter, Cesar, started bringing us four margaritas at a time. He said, "One to quench your thirst, the other to sip and enjoy." I guess he was getting tired of running back and forth to get us the same drink!</p><p>The most surprising thing of all this was no hangover! We got up every day well rested and ready for a little morning frolic, working out and more margaritas. (Of course, one night I zonked out as my wife was talking to me! We also zonked out during a his and her massage one afternoon after many margaritas.) </p><p>It was a 4-night stay at the Hard Rock Hotel Riviera Maya Resort, an all-inclusive resort about an hour from Cancun and fifteen minutes from <i>Playa de Carmen</i> in Mexico. My wife won the trip last year through Beachbody and we left it until the last weekend before it expired to go. </p><p>It actually worked out perfectly since it coincided with our 24th Wedding Anniversary and between my birthday, a few days before the trip, and my wife's birthday a couple of weeks after. So, it was God's perfect timing (Little did we know, I would get unexpected news upon my first day back to work, but that's for a different blog). </p><p>In any case, my wife and I always made a point of making time to go out on dates, trips (including 5 weeks after our first daughter was born) or out with friends without the kids when we first got married and it continued up until the kids started having a social life of their own and crazy busy baseball and dance schedules. </p><p>Most of the time nowadays, we are running on fumes, and aside from get-togethers with friends on occasions, we usually prefer staying home and relaxing on weekends. But the much needed "us" time has suffered in the process. </p><p>Well, just like the marriage retreats we do once a year to recharge our wedlock batteries (although we missed the last one and the previous year was canceled because of Covid), the four days and nights of margaritas on the rocks with salt were a jolt that we really needed. </p><p>It crystalized how much we enjoy being together and made us think, as my wife mentioned one day while enjoying our favorite libation, served by our favorite bartender, Cesar, in one of the tiki huts on the on the water (No, really, there were several Cesars at the resort! Either that or they all say their name is Cesar not to confuse the Americans) and feeling the cool breeze from between the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea on our faces and hair, what our life could be like once the nest is empty. We vowed to take an all-inclusive vacation once a year from now on. God is great!... </p><p> </p>Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-36596112323214051892021-04-17T16:30:00.003-04:002021-04-26T14:30:03.186-04:00Stoning a Man with Popcorn... <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxKLnoHO5GJpM2ObdLXmXsy004SZlghykprg1ujZdJD8He7y3dGZ4RbeorP_cvoKo-CO-yVDwVbt-RFGpEgQ4bNSE8PI97D9yccx2KTreWwA5mUoKdRSumQdFngr-eMUTItDTqMiCuVkg/s1050/the-confession-giuseppe-molteni-1838-.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="850" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxKLnoHO5GJpM2ObdLXmXsy004SZlghykprg1ujZdJD8He7y3dGZ4RbeorP_cvoKo-CO-yVDwVbt-RFGpEgQ4bNSE8PI97D9yccx2KTreWwA5mUoKdRSumQdFngr-eMUTItDTqMiCuVkg/s320/the-confession-giuseppe-molteni-1838-.jpg" /></a></div><br />I'm in line for Confession at my parish one recent Saturday morning; doing an examination of conscience and praying before the Blessed Sacrament, which is now exposed at the church after morning Mass and during Confession.<p></p><p>I look to the other side of the sanctuary and noticed a Carmelite nun in line for Confession as well.</p><p>I couldn't help but think of the classic Fulton Sheen line, "Hearing nuns confess is like getting stoned to death with popcorn" and laughing internally. </p><p>I refocused on my preparation, as the line moved forward and I was next. </p><p>After a short while, I see the door opening to the sacristy, where they have been holding Confessions because of social distancing. </p><p>The woman who went before me leaves. I walked in and quickly see an elderly priest, who is not one of our regular parish clergy but occasionally celebrates Mass and helps out during Confessions, sitting about six feet away from a kneeler and a chair. The priest must be in his late 80's to mid 90's.</p><p>I kneel before him and start, "Bless me father for I have sinned, it has been two months since my last Confession, since then, I have... " and began going through my list of sins. After getting through my most grievous faults, I noticed that he is closing his eyes. I continue but, after several more minutes, start wondering whether he is falling asleep. <i>Is he falling asleep on me? Am I boring him? Is he just too old for this? </i>My mind was racing while I kept talking about my transgressions. </p><p>Finally, I decide to stop digging deeper, although I was basically done, and ended it with, "For these and any other sins I may have committed and can't remember, I ask for forgiveness."</p><p>There was a brief pause and I wasn't sure if I was going to have to wake him. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and asked me to pray the Act of Contrition, gave me absolution and told me to read and meditate on the Gospel of Matthew, chapters 5, 6 and 7 for my penance.</p><p>I thanked him and, as always, went away feeling amazing. </p><p>I start to make my way out, stopped to say hello to a friend and then noticed the nun was getting closer on her side, which was with another priest. I also noticed our pastor was kneeling before the altar, getting ready for the Benediction and repose of the Blessed Sacrament, so I decided to stay.</p><p>As I was in a pew, joining in the prayers of the Benediction and reflecting on my experience with the elderly priest, I realized that, after hearing dozens of confessions that morning, maybe it was me that was stoning him with popcorn. </p><p>Then again, because of human nature, I can only imagine most Confessions probably start sounding alike, depending on sex of the penitent and their stage in life, especially for a priest who has been ordained for over sixty or seventy years! </p><p>So while our popcorn may not be as benign as a nun's popcorn. After a while, it may start sounding like popcorn anyway. </p><p>There is no sin a priest with some experience hasn't heard. And, there is no sin greater than God's love for us. While the details may vary from person to person, they all come down to offenses to the Ten Commandments, which are the barriers, as our former pastor would say, that safeguard us from falling into perdition.</p><p>Fortunately, Christ gave us the priesthood and gave them the power to forgive and retain sins <i>(John 20:23)</i>, so whether they are elderly or newly ordained, sleepy or wide awake, holy or sinful themselves, God uses them to convey His mercy and forgiveness... </p><p><br /></p>Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-42392044063874302012021-03-22T14:05:00.002-04:002021-03-22T14:05:53.686-04:00Merton on Need to Clear Our Heads... <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjsfozcOEzzjrha2LiQWteW5h8oXIafQ4P2sKHm_TKarCB8uETdM8Fq7ORy-TCNa1k7sxEfGQqvndF4jIKSomgf4w0Fe0JBvbFOxZ23qL_6Bqqxbv3o-n2MyzFuhWHK5irMMqsh1kUwHc/s720/Thomas+Merton....jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjsfozcOEzzjrha2LiQWteW5h8oXIafQ4P2sKHm_TKarCB8uETdM8Fq7ORy-TCNa1k7sxEfGQqvndF4jIKSomgf4w0Fe0JBvbFOxZ23qL_6Bqqxbv3o-n2MyzFuhWHK5irMMqsh1kUwHc/s320/Thomas+Merton....jpg" width="320" /></a></div><i><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></i><div><i><span style="background-color: white;">“The greatest need of our time is to clean out the enormous mass of mental and emotional rubbish that clutters our minds”</span></i><p></p><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">― </span><span class="authorOrTitle" face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold;">Thomas Merton, </span>world traveling intellectual and man-of-the-world turned Trappist Monk, mystic and social activist, who became one of the most influential Christian authors of the 20th Century. He wrote over 70 books, including his best selling autobiography <em>The Seven Storey Mountain</em>.</div>Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-87301541193628165972021-03-19T16:49:00.007-04:002021-03-21T11:24:26.276-04:00St. Joseph; the Man who First Set Eyes on the Face of God... <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhF7NxtydhJFfIwt5_p7F1yFmdqlebrtlzlqtjXzDnqDTgs4HtmglNRF4F05oyAVqK2sDRB38O44MuYDdT2tDBZisdXGvQMeW5Fw4-ZxiELsgqllhaO1PnEeuZwyAPDjcaxIt0T6qfdYg/s599/st+joseph+holding+baby+jesus.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhF7NxtydhJFfIwt5_p7F1yFmdqlebrtlzlqtjXzDnqDTgs4HtmglNRF4F05oyAVqK2sDRB38O44MuYDdT2tDBZisdXGvQMeW5Fw4-ZxiELsgqllhaO1PnEeuZwyAPDjcaxIt0T6qfdYg/s320/st+joseph+holding+baby+jesus.PNG" /></a></div><br /><i>"If discouragement overwhelms you, think of the faith of Joseph; if anxiety has its grip on you, think of the hope of Joseph; if exasperation or hatred seizes you, think of the love of Joseph, who was the first man to set eyes on the human face of God in the person of the Infant conceived by the Holy Spirit in the womb of the Virgin Mary. Let us praise and thank Christ for having drawn so close to us, and for giving us Joseph as an example and model of love." </i>-- Pope Benedict XVI<p></p><div>Outside of the Virgin Mary, whose blood intermingled with God's Royal Blood for 40-weeks or so, there is no greater saint in the annals of humanity than St. Joseph, who lived in the presence of Jesus Christ for almost 30 years. </div><div><br /></div><div>No saint no matter how holy, miraculous or devout can ever claim to be closer to God than the humble carpenter from Nazareth; not even the Apostles. </div><div><br /></div><div>For the past month, I have been reading <i>Consecration to St. Joseph, the Wonders of Our Spiritual Father</i> by Fr. Donald Calloway, an ex-California surfer and bad boy, who lived a tumultuous and nefarious life before converting to Catholicism and becoming a priest! </div><div><br /></div><div>The book is a wealth of lesser known information and reflections based on the writings, thoughts and devotions of numerous saints through the centuries, who shed light and perspective on the life of the greatest but possibly the most obscure of all the saints in Christianity. </div><div><br /></div><div>Consider how great St. Joseph is that he was there even before the Annunciation to Mary. He was there throughout her pregnancy. He was there when the God-child was born. And, although scripture doesn't mention it, there is no doubt, he was there to hold, comfort and put Jesus to sleep at times. And to watch him sleep peacefully in his bed. If I think about my own experiences as a husband and father, it's not difficult to imagine all the fatherly memories that Joseph shared with Jesus.</div><div><br /></div><div>Moreover, as the spiritual leader of the household, as customary in Jewish tradition, Joseph was responsible for teaching Jesus how to pray and how read and understand the Hebrew Scriptures. He imparted life lessons and set an example of hard work, humility and virtue. He provided for and safeguarded Jesus and the Blessed Mother. As a husband and father, that was his primary role; his purpose. </div><div><br /></div><div>While some scholars say Jesus probably looked a lot like Mary, since His humanity derived from her, like any son who looks up to his dad, the Lord probably acted and behaved a lot like Joseph. He may have had the same mannerisms and idiosyncrasies, the same sense of humor and interests. I know from my own experience, my son loves baseball because I love baseball. And, I love baseball because my father loves baseball. The same can be said for the love of God. </div><div><br /></div><div>There is little that is known about the foster father of Jesus. What is written about him in the Bible pales in comparison with his importance and impact in Christ's life. </div><div><br /></div><div>He was the man that God chose to raise, care and protect His Son! He was the "righteous man" that God entrusted to provide a home for the woman who would bear His only son and serve as the new ark of the covenant. </div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of protector and provider, many portrayals of St. Joseph in art depict him as an elderly man. This is because many theologians through the centuries have tried to reason why Joseph was able to control his passions and remain chaste while married to a beautiful woman. </div><div><br /></div><div>They extrapolate that he must have been an elderly widower with grown children, the siblings of Jesus mentioned in the Gospels. I must admit, I fell into this line of thinking. But, upon further reflection, I realized that it wouldn't make much sense.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not only does it take away from Joseph's virtues, but, as Fr. Calloway and many others point out, in the Old Testament, the ark of the covenant was the most sacred of all religious symbols for the Israelites. It was where the tablets that Moses received, manna and Aaron's staff were kept. It was meticulously guarded and revered. It couldn't be defiled in any way and even touching it to stop it from falling was enough to strike down a Levite priest. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joseph was a devout Jew. He understood what the ark represented, which carried what Israelites believed to be the presence of God. It wouldn't have been that difficult for him to discern that Mary was the new ark, since she carried within her the living God. If defiling the sacred chest of the covenant was tantamount to defiling God, how much more would defiling the Mother of the Son of God be? </div><div><br /></div><div>In any case, while the Church has never made an official pronouncement on the age of St. Joseph, as Calloway poignantly points out, why would God put his only son and his mother in the care of an old man? </div><div><br /></div><div>Would an elderly man be able to walk the eighty miles from Nazareth to Bethlehem (about Miami to West Palm Beach) and onto Egypt, about forty miles from Bethlehem but more like sixty miles to a city where he could work and find shelter (the distance from Miami to about Ft. Pierce)? </div><div><br /></div><div>As Mother Angelica, the founder of EWTN, once answered when asked if she thought St. Joseph was young or old, "All I know, sweetie, is old men don't walk to Egypt!" </div><div><br /></div><div>Would a man of advanced age be capable of ensuring the safety of his wife and newborn child in a strange land and culture, without knowing the language, and having to survive in whatever way he could for several years (as many as seven) until he was told it was alright to return home? Then he would have to trek back the 120-140 miles it took from where they lived back to Nazareth. </div><div><br /></div><div>These were rugged terrains; walking in the intense heat through mountains and deserts. There were no rest stops or roadside eateries. The mugging on the road to Jericho could have happened anywhere on their journey and there was no 911 or even good Samaritan around to help. It was up to Joseph. (By the way, the gold, myrrh and frankincense the magi gave them probably held the Holy Family over to start their life in exile for a little while but quickly dwindled. Their survival was dependent on the sweat from Joseph's brow)</div><div><br /></div><div>More likely, Joseph was a young, strong, virile and rugged man who, as a craftsman, was good with his hands and used to hard labor.</div><div><br /></div><div>Joseph is said to have died before Jesus started his public ministry, which is why he never appears at the foot of the cross to comfort his wife. He is called the Patron of the Dying and of a Happy Death. Only a man who, according to tradition, is said to have died in the arms of the Blessed Mother while staring at the Human Face of God can ever die so joyfully... </div><div><br /></div><div>St. Joseph, the man who first set eyes on the human face of God in the Infant born of Mary and helped raise Him to manhood, pray for us... <i>Ite Ad Joseph!</i> (Go to Joseph!)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-27907357154353085822021-03-11T18:22:00.001-05:002021-03-11T18:22:21.426-05:00Baseball, Sleepless Nights and Divine Inspirations... <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNhW7QcMXfldOJ-a75h1jaJz4kIuFq7_C75ifCfA9w4Yy9EHSn8s5UrhIamnHk1OyFNpY5s_OQHxP_f3eYMFfuXO_dDiOT5xSl_zNqK4L6CLhIVs1c_FE2o-m_fRTCCLosl0czhF_2DsI/s640/Nico+hitting....jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="366" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNhW7QcMXfldOJ-a75h1jaJz4kIuFq7_C75ifCfA9w4Yy9EHSn8s5UrhIamnHk1OyFNpY5s_OQHxP_f3eYMFfuXO_dDiOT5xSl_zNqK4L6CLhIVs1c_FE2o-m_fRTCCLosl0czhF_2DsI/s320/Nico+hitting....jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />"All my life I heard about believing in God but God believes in us, in you, in me. Faith in Jesus is important. But how about Jesus' faith in us?," the man asked in the video.<div><br /></div><div>That concept had never occurred to me. Jesus has faith in us? He believes in me? Why?</div><div><p>Let's face it, despite good intentions and earnest effort (most of the time), it's not like I am the poster child for holiness or righteousness. I have too many character flaws, starting with my pride, temper and impatience, to think I warrant God's faith. </p><p>In the video, titled <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kM3qHBAekhg">Dust</a>, </i>which<i> </i>was shown at a spiritual retreat I attended recently,<i> </i>former Evangelical Pastor Rob Bell puts in perspective the story of the Apostles, who were, as he described, mostly rejects who were already working in a trade. According to Bell, in those days, you were either trained as a rabbi, which were the most highly respected people in the community, or, for those with lesser scholastic capacity, you learned a trade. </p><p>When I write "scholastic capacity," I mean that they were expected to memorize the five books of the Torah by the time they were about ten-years-old. Those that did, would go to the next level, which required them to memorize the <i>entire</i> Hebrew Scriptures, or what we call the Old Testament, by their early teens. Then, if they got that far, they could approach a rabbi about becoming their disciple, which wasn't a guarantee. Only the best of the best were chosen. The rest had to become apprentices and workmen. </p><p>Peter, James and John were fishermen. Andrew, Peter's brother, and another unnamed Apostle were disciples of John the Baptist but most were humble and uneducated fishermen or craftsmen. </p><p>Those are the ones that Christ chose; the B team, the misfits and the rabbinical school rejects. <i>"You didn't choose me. I chose you,"</i> He would tell them. And those are the ones He believed in!</p><p>The thought resonated and lingered within me when the video ended. And, then it hit me (as the choir of angels sang). It was like the scales falling from Saul's eyes after meeting Jesus on the road to Damascus. </p><p>On the first day of the weekend getaway, the priest leading us in the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius of Loyola (did I mention it was a silent retreat?) told us that the things that keep us up at night, the things that make us lose sleep are usually the things that keep us from getting closer to God. </p><p>Believe it or not, one of the things that keeps me up at night, since about the summer of last year, is my son's baseball. Outside of financial concerns and work responsibilities, it's probably the biggest culprit of my sleeplessness. In fact, I would probably say that it's taken the lead at this point. </p><p>He's at an age when his development is critical if he wants to continue playing. Next year, he is starting high school. Having lost most of the year due to Covid last year, and having had to switch teams because his old team didn't have a 13 and under team, only to switch him back at the beginning of this year when they did, I feel a lot of pressure. Was I doing the right thing of switching teams? Was he getting enough playing time? Was he developing enough? </p><p>Most of the kids playing by their early teens are serious about the game. It's more competitive. And, most of the teams for him to play in are already set. Some have been playing together for years. So, it's not easy to break in. </p><p>A good part of it, as I Confessed to one of the priests and discussed with another during spiritual direction is my own ego and pride. My son is a reflection of me and, while I don't have illusions of grandeur that he's going to make it to the Major Leagues, I would like him to play college ball, which I never did; mostly because I gave up on myself. Since I didn't think I was going to make it to the big leagues, I quit. I don't know if I would have played college baseball but I never tried. It's one of my few regrets. </p><p>Still, another part of it, as I reflected on Rob Bell's video, is that I believe in my son, just as God believes in me. As a father, I think my son can be a great baseball player. He's good but he has a long way to go to be great. Yet, there's nothing more I can do. I can send him to the best academy, hire the best private coaches, have him play with the best teams and in the best tournaments as much as I want. It's up to him. He has to want to be great.</p><p>It was a revelation because, just as I see my son, I thought that God, who is a Father, sees me. I'm a reflection of Him (Or at least I should be!). I have potential. I may even be good to some extent but I'm not great. I have to want to be great; not mediocre as I tell my son but great; a great saint! </p><p>God chose me. He believes in me. But, just like my son, I have to believe in myself. It was a humbling thought. </p><p>Since the retreat, I'm still a bit consumed with my son's baseball as my wife would attest, maybe more than I should. But now, when I think about whether he can ever reach his full potential, I think, hey, it's not like he has to memorize the entire Hebrew scriptures. He can do this! </p><p>More importantly, I think about that weekend with St. Ignatius and realize it's not in my hands. It's up to him and God. And, God believes in him... </p><p><br /></p><p> </p></div>Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-36518771042673091042021-02-26T12:56:00.023-05:002021-02-27T13:25:24.209-05:00Rocky, a Bout with Covid and Trusting God... <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuGshdLARxM48-L9T2snpd6SXda2OP7Xl7By8RzUiH9ZYVYrdSjRhFVRa0i6H4oawvYamDdwz7ZcQ1feuWeh1DmjSNOHbfcHiHG0Jg71ARFj1tTSwnQJvJCrIxNacQSrrJeurVJIkuIiA/s960/Rocky+v+Apollo+good.PNG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="960" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuGshdLARxM48-L9T2snpd6SXda2OP7Xl7By8RzUiH9ZYVYrdSjRhFVRa0i6H4oawvYamDdwz7ZcQ1feuWeh1DmjSNOHbfcHiHG0Jg71ARFj1tTSwnQJvJCrIxNacQSrrJeurVJIkuIiA/s320/Rocky+v+Apollo+good.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>Towards the end of the fight scene in Rocky <i>(the original)</i>, after being knocked down by heavyweight champion Apollo Creed and floundering on the mat, as Mickey his trainer yells at him to stay down and <i>The Final Bell</i> musical score starts getting louder, Rocky Balboa musters up whatever energy he has left after 14 rounds of pounding, lifts himself up by the ropes, and gets to his feet, insisting to the ref that he was alright. <div><br /></div><div>Rocky is all bloody and has a broken nose. His face is swollen and his eyes barely open. And, he looks at Apollo, who is looking back incredulously and gesturing with both gloves says, "C'mon. C'mon," as if to say, "I ain't going down no more."<p></p><div>The Italian Stallion's body could have thrown in the towel like his trainer wanted but his heart wouldn't let him. He not only gets up but he rallies to take the fight to the champion and, in the last round, if not for the bell, may have won outright. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember the first time I saw the movie, which I've watched many times since, everyone in the theatre got up and cheered. It was a moving a scene, an apropos climax to an inspirational movie, which still ranks among the all-time best sports flicks ever made, earning an Oscar for Best Picture in 1976 (Now I <i>really</i> feel old!). </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, not to compare my bout with Covid-19 with Balboa v. Creed, but it definitely felt like I'd been in a slugfest with the heavyweight champion and part of me wanted to listen to Mickey and stay down for the count (only I wouldn't have lasted one round). </div><div><br /></div><div>It totally knocked me out and had me flailing on the mat (otherwise known as my bed and living room couch) for days and if not for me channeling the <i>Rocky Balboa </i>inside me and saying to myself, "I'm not going to be sick any more," (cue <i>The Final Bell</i> score) it could have lingered. As it was, I was out for over two weeks. </div><div><br /></div><div>As for symptoms, I never suffered fever but had severe body aches, especially my back (although at 57, it's not that uncommon. My wife says age is a state of mind but tell that to my body!). I felt overwhelming exhaustion, where I would fall asleep while trying to work from home. And, to add insult to injury, I lost my appetite completely, leaving me weak and lethargic. </div><div><br /></div><div>For about a week, all I ate was fruit because, aside from losing my sense of taste, I was grossed out by food. I couldn't take the smell of the air fryer when my wife and daughter were cooking. </div><div> </div><div>My saving grace were my faith that God would pull me through it and my family, who kept close tabs on me, including my brother who would check in on a me on daily basis from his home in Oregon. In fact, my wife confessed after I recovered that her family was a bit concerned about me. I'm not exactly the most svelte guy in the world and, while I like to think I'm healthy, I do suffer from borderline hypertension and sleep apnea. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, after a lousy 2020, it was a terrible way to start the new year! </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGK6fMFJjKL_P-igdi0LgEH-aa-3vvr-qsaDrjqhvORVAzrzY1VvG_Nw4fl3MygyR_Rj1yjRWBi3He61qXzUZO5LNAQ_i3Q24KFGRHZIfahrsbR3qpgsJ4y7uZvmBVMWYhrsy0g7IlZNI/s640/Espinosas...jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGK6fMFJjKL_P-igdi0LgEH-aa-3vvr-qsaDrjqhvORVAzrzY1VvG_Nw4fl3MygyR_Rj1yjRWBi3He61qXzUZO5LNAQ_i3Q24KFGRHZIfahrsbR3qpgsJ4y7uZvmBVMWYhrsy0g7IlZNI/s320/Espinosas...jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Our entire family, my wife and all three kids, got the coronavirus. But, unlike me, they recovered fairly quickly and with much milder symptoms. </div><div><br /></div><div>My wife was sick with flu-like symptoms the first couple of days of the New Year and by the third day was already exercising with my younger daughter, who had mild symptoms. My older daughter went up to Tallahassee where she goes to school after being diagnosed, felt sick for about a week and confined to her apartment for ten days, as the CDC recommends, but started feeling better afterward. My son had an upset stomach and headache for a couple of days and then was back to normal after that. But me? I took the brunt of it, even though I know it could have been worse. </div><div><br /></div><div>How we got it? We can only speculate. There are many possibilities but whether we got it from our teenage younger daughter, friends or at the supermarket, gas station or any of a plethora of places we went to regularly ("Do you know what a plethora is?," asked El Guapo). The point is we got it. I guess, in retrospect, it was bound to happen. </div><p></p><p>To be frank, I refuse to live in fear. Now, you can call it faith, denial, ignorance or defiance, but an old Cuban saying always came to mind, <i>"Cuando te toca, te toca,"</i> which translates to: when it's your turn, it's your turn. Not to mention, my prayer mantra from St. Sister Faustina's Devine Mercy vision, <i>Jesus I trust in you</i>, which I repeat throughout the day. In other words, as Blue Oyster Cult would sing, <i>don't fear the reaper </i>(with or without more cowbell). I entrusted myself and family to God. </p><p>Now, don't get me wrong. I did take precautions as recommended by civil authorities. I did lockdown in March with the exception of going to work, the market for necessities and running and walking the dogs on a daily basis, which were a great way to get out of the house (I even started a habit of praying the Rosary whenever I walked them, which I have continued). However, I wasn't going to let the virus or fear rule my world. I never did. And, I refused to let my family be ruled by fear either. </p><p>By the time summer came around, and things started to reopen, we were trying to live our lives as normally as we could, albeit limited by governmental restrictions and our estranged living conditions (more on that shortly). </p><p>We started attending weekly Mass. I would take my son to his catching lessons weekly. We went on vacation to Sanibel Beach, as we normally do every year, and my son attended baseball summer camp in July and started practicing four times per week with his academy in late August. We went to a baseball tournament in Ft. Myers in September. </p><p>Meanwhile, our daughter started dancing as soon as her studio reopened. Our kids attended in-person school when the new schoolyear began. We started dining out at restaurants on a limited basis. And, while hesitant at first, we allowed my high school daughter to resume her social life and get together with friends (Let's just say, we gave her a finger and she took the hand but we weren't about to stop living). </p><p>Now, we always wore masks and tried to maintain social distancing, although it doesn't always work, and washed our hands, to the point where I had to start putting a bottle of moisturizer in my briefcase. We ordered groceries delivered, which we have continued to do. But, we never obsessed about the death toll or infection rates. As I told a coworker recently, if I listened to Dr. Anthony Fauci, possibly the best known infectious disease expert in the history of infectious diseases, I'd be living in a bubble. </p><p>I realize a lot of people died; over 500 thousand in the U.S. alone and counting. Some were people that I knew or, better stated, knew of. Many friends lost family members, including moms and dads, aunts and uncles, grandparents. There was an old friend of my wife and father at my daughter's high school who was fifty-one when he died of Covid. A teacher from my daughter's school also passed away. I know the dangers. I work in TV news and that was part of my daily bread but I kept it in perspective. </p><p>I saw that most people that I knew personally, including extended family, recovered. Moreover, according to the CDC, between 97-99 percent do. </p><p>My biggest concern was getting sick and passing it onto my octogenarian parents, who I was living with from the time of the shutdown in March until our house remodeling was completed in May (Did I mention we were <a href="https://livingthefaithonahighwire.blogspot.com/2020/03/greatness-amidst-displacement-commuting.html">remodeling our house</a> during Covid?). </p><p>After our college daughter was forced to return from Tallahassee because her school shutdown to in-person classes, my wife and kids stayed at my Mother-In-Law's one-bedroom condo during the week and I was living with my parents at their house. Because of curfews and restrictions, we saw each other on weekends.</p><p>Even when we moved back home after the remodeling work was completed, I was always cautious every morning when I visited my parents on my way to work. Fortunately, God protected them. They recently got the booster dose of the Pfizer vaccine (2nd shot). </p><p>Anyhow, there I was in early January falling asleep at the drop of a hat, fatigued, depleted after having lost eighteen pounds (I've gained them all back!) and feeling like I just went 15-rounds with Apollo Creed but after two weeks, my wife started asking when I was going to start helping out around the house (there's nothing like the love of a pragmatic woman to jumpstart the healing process. Do you want to talk about <i>fear</i>?) and I told myself that was it, I wasn't going to continue being sick. </p><p>I looked at Covid in the eye and said, "C'mon. C'mon." Some of it must have been mental. I started feeling better within a couple of days. And, about a week later, I tried running for the first time (which went as well as Rocky's first attempt at running up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, sans the raw eggs). I've been feeling well ever since.</p><p>Not long after our recovery, I tell my high schooler, "Now we don't have to really worry about getting Covid for a while because of the antibodies." She looks at me slyly and says with a smile, "I know. I really wanted to get it for that reason." The mind of a teenager! </p><p>So it wasn't the best way to start the year but we realize how blessed we are. </p><p>God is good and, while we sometimes have to face the Apollo Creeds in our lives, and I'm not talking about the fun-loving friend in the later Rocky movies but the taunting, mean, undisputed heavyweight champion who is so imposing that no one wants to fight, or a microscopic infection, if we face them with God by our side, there is nothing to fear... </p><p><br /></p></div>Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-51486602654960047042020-09-10T13:31:00.004-04:002020-09-10T14:20:52.576-04:00Seaver, Childhood Heroes and Hope... <p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5nwQ53724YhSnIk3laSMaI35LJDGJ9Fx0UjUO0ox6juBE5OVcSGSkNADloO7D-rOfB63v0mHHXrDZ-wp3UzHxsx_x9KwVtxx-o_twVlGWvwJ-BvDOYmSsVkAvWt9GctEAC_vyWF-HhoA/s640/IMG_4891+%25281%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="516" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5nwQ53724YhSnIk3laSMaI35LJDGJ9Fx0UjUO0ox6juBE5OVcSGSkNADloO7D-rOfB63v0mHHXrDZ-wp3UzHxsx_x9KwVtxx-o_twVlGWvwJ-BvDOYmSsVkAvWt9GctEAC_vyWF-HhoA/s320/IMG_4891+%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom Seaver... <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />There are few childhood heroes in life who never seem to disappoint in one way or another and, for me, that hero was Tom Seaver. <p></p><p>Seaver, who passed away at the age of 75 after a battle with dementia and COVID-19, was without a doubt the greatest player ever to wear a Met uniform. </p><p>In fact, he and another one of my favorites, Mike Piazza, are the only two Mets ever inducted into the MLB Hall Of Fame.</p><p>Having just arrived in New York from Cuba in 1969, the year of "The Miracle Mets," it would have only been natural for an impressionable 5-year-old to start rooting for the orange and blue. </p><p>But, to be honest, it wasn't until 1971, when I first started collecting baseball cards and was drawn by the photo of a squatting catcher named Duffy Dyer, that I began to take an interest in the game and started watching games on Channel 9 (WWOR) with my mom and dad in our small living room to see if I could catch a glimpse of Dyer, who was Jerry Grote's backup. </p><p>Unlike many Cuban exiles who come to America rooting for the Yankees, my dad started rooting for the hapless Mets while still living in Cuba. The team's inaugural season was in 1962, five years after the two National League New York teams, the Giants and Brooklyn Dodgers left for California.</p><p>The Mets were terrible; finding new ways to lose every day and setting the record for most losses in a season at 120 in '62. But, they captured the hearts and imagination of fans, including my dad, and became the lovable losers. </p><p>In the early 70's, after we settled into our two-bedroom apartment on Williams Street in Port Chester, NY, we would sit around the television every night to watch Dyer, Grote, Tug McGraw (my mom's favorite because he reminded her of her younger brother who was still in Cuba), Jerry Koosman, Jon Matlack, Rusty Staub, Cleon Jones, Buddy Harrelson, Felix Millan, Wayne Garret, John "The Hammer" Milner, the great Willie Mays, who was acquired in the twilight of his career in 1973, and my dad's favorite, who would eventually become my favorite, George Thomas Seaver. </p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCrEj8uprAQq65TdObjBggn5ikuHoL-zzmc5DzKeNDgmRj3TNtU2vlHZPFM9X44VCy_AVtL9LoS8lE-H_jjgEVfA-y91ubQXegYNcPnEkzk-p3rAmCUdYxXyJVqRWbKHqjVWTt6q2RTY/s640/Baseball+is+my+life....jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="414" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCrEj8uprAQq65TdObjBggn5ikuHoL-zzmc5DzKeNDgmRj3TNtU2vlHZPFM9X44VCy_AVtL9LoS8lE-H_jjgEVfA-y91ubQXegYNcPnEkzk-p3rAmCUdYxXyJVqRWbKHqjVWTt6q2RTY/s320/Baseball+is+my+life....jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I reordered a copy...<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>My interest in Seaver blossomed by the time I started playing at Corpus Christi Catholic School at the age of 9. The coach liked my throwing arm, which I developed playing catch with my dad and grandfather, bouncing balls against a wall in my driveway and playing stoopball with neighborhood kids, and he made me a pitcher.</p><p>Then I read a Scholastics book, <i>"Tom Seaver: Baseball is My Life"</i> by Steve Jacobson. It was one of the first books I ever read cover-to-cover and it really solidified my interest in the great Mets' righthander. </p><p>I would try to emulate Seaver; his deliberate and graceful windup, high leg kick, and low lunge towards the plate, where his right knee often dragged the mound and would get his uniformed smudged; albeit not with the same grace or proficiency. The "drop and drive" as they called it. I couldn't get down low enough to dirty my knee but I tried. </p><p>I would even imitate his motion from the stretch, looking runners back to their base and pausing briefly and sometimes longer, to the chagrin of the opposing teams, before firing home.</p><p>One of my fondest childhood baseball memories was in 1973. Many of the mostly Italian-American boys in Ms. Butter's 3rd Grade class were huge Yankees fans and liked talking trash and bragging about Bobby Mercer, Thurman Munson, and Mel Stottlemyre, among others. </p><p>Despite being among the tallest kids in the class, they were often teasing and bullying me since I was one of the rare "spics" in the school (that's what they called me!). </p><p>After 1969, the Mets had winning seasons but were mostly marred in mediocracy with three consecutive 83-win seasons and third-place finishes from 1970-1972. </p><p>While Seaver, Koosman, and later Matlack made a formidable rotation (Nolan Ryan was traded before he was ever part of the regular rotation), their offense often failed them, and by late August in '73, they were stuck in last place and 10 games back. That is until Tug McGraw famously coined the catchphrase that became their motto, "You Gotta Believe" after a clubhouse meeting, and all of a sudden, the team went on a tear.</p><p>They ended up winning the division, scraping by with an 82-79 record, and beating the powerhouse and heavily favorite Big Red Machine of Cincinnati in the National League Championship Series, known for its bench-clearing brawl between Pete Rose and Buddy Harrelson, to go onto the World Series against the defending World Champions Oakland A's. (I hated Pete Rose for many years afterward!) </p><p>Seaver was 1-1, with a 1.62 ERA in 16.2 IP and 17 K's in the NLCS. </p><p>The school bullies' Yankees finished 17 and a half games out, behind the Orioles, although their record was not too much worse than the Mets at 80-82. </p><p>Seaver had another spectacular year in '73, going 19-10 with a 2.09 ERA, 251 strikeouts, 290 innings, 18 complete games, and 3 shutouts en route to his second of three Cy Young Awards for best pitcher in the National League. </p><p>Aside from the fight with the Reds, the image that stayed ingrained in my 9-year-old mind was in Game 7 of the World Series when Reggie Jackson stomped on home plate with both feet after hitting a 2-run home run against Matlack in a 4-run third inning. </p><p>We had gone to visit my dad's elderly aunt who lived in Elizabeth, New Jersey that day and were watching the game on her small television set. Jackson's showboating leap was like a gut-kick in my husky-pants-size frame. The A's went on to win 5-2. (I hated Reggie Jackson for a long time afterward!)</p><p>Seaver was outdueled 3-1 by Catfish Hunter in Game 6, pitching 7 innings and giving up 2. He also gave up 2 runs in 8 innings against Hunter in Game 3, which the Mets lost in 11 innings. In the series, he was 0-1 with a 2.40 ERA in 15.1 IP and 18 Ks.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPRrVB1tBPtCr8LvYP77A7RQExj3W-7AuV3i8WCIjvgRZ8IoGIqa0O1w2YNBv77AScOHdb6PgMiEq0wDqFuqPB7Tq4PDEdId381qywG9bx8tSRJrsm7UPNpCYOaNP7_dQAqCmoSClxi8/s765/tom-seaver-sinking-drop-and-drive-765x460.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="765" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPRrVB1tBPtCr8LvYP77A7RQExj3W-7AuV3i8WCIjvgRZ8IoGIqa0O1w2YNBv77AScOHdb6PgMiEq0wDqFuqPB7Tq4PDEdId381qywG9bx8tSRJrsm7UPNpCYOaNP7_dQAqCmoSClxi8/s320/tom-seaver-sinking-drop-and-drive-765x460.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting his knee dirty... <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>"Tom Terrific" or "The Franchise," as he was called, was known for his power, grace and fierce competitiveness. He had a sense of purpose, hated to lose and hated that the Mets were known as bumbling lovable losers when he arrived in 1967. He quickly changed that. </p><p>After watching <i>The Last Dance </i>recently, it's reminiscent of what Michael Jordan did with the Bulls when he arrived. He legitimized them, changed their mindset and culture.</p><p>But the future Hall-Of-Famer wasn't always a star. In high school, he was a 5'9" skinny kid, who learned to pitch with finesse, a "junkerballer" as he later called himself, who was cut from the team until his senior year.</p><p>A late bloomer, he grew about 4 inches and gained about 40 lbs by the time he started playing at a local college after joining the Marine Corps for 2 years, and getting noticed by the University of Southern California, where he transferred and excelled. He went from junkerballer to a mid-to-high 90 mph fastball and the rest, as they say, is history.</p><p>I thought a lot of Seaver last weekend as my son was playing in his first 13-years and under baseball tournament in Ft. Myers. It was the first time that most of the kids were playing with high school dimensions and it was a struggle for some to zip the ball around the bases, including my son, who just turned 13.</p><p>Although he is normally a catcher, the team carried two kids who are obviously more developed physically than my son behind the plate but they took him as a pitcher because he can throw strikes.</p><p>While he didn't play much, in fact, he only pitched an inning and a third in three games, watching him on the mound, made me think of that skinny undersized kid who went from getting cut in high school to the Hall Of Fame. I'm sure I'm not the only dad to look at his son with a similar hope. </p><p>Seaver is survived by his wife Nancy his wife of 53 years, two daughters, Sarah and Anne, and four grandsons, Thomas, William, Henry, and Tobin. </p><p>Not much has been written about Seaver's faith or even funeral arrangements for that matter. He was a very private man in the latter part of his life and his family had removed him from public life in 2019 after his dementia advanced. He was tending to his wine vineyard in California when he died. </p><p>His all-American good looks, clean-cut, charm, a former marine who was married before coming up to the big leagues and never was a source for scandal or embarrassment to his team, family, or fans on or off the field, Seaver was known as a great family man, a devoted husband and father and possibly the best pitcher of his time. </p><p>In a post-mortem article by <a href="https://nypost.com/2020/09/02/mets-legend-tom-seaver-was-truest-definition-of-a-hero/">NY Post's Mike Vaccaro,</a> Seaver was quoted as saying, "The greatest thing anyone can ever call you is a hero, for whatever their reason. And I don't think it's a hardship making sure you don't disappoint them."</p><p>He never disappointed me. </p><p>Heroes are people we can look up to and strive to be. When I think of heroes, I think of my dad and grandfather, who were always there for me and set great examples by the way they lived, or in my dad's case lives, his life. But, I also think of my childhood idol, Tom Seaver. </p><p>I can only hope that my son can have childhood heroes as admirable in his life... </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-4445518945562985462020-07-01T15:02:00.000-04:002020-07-01T15:02:14.430-04:00Jesus, Spartacus and Social Revolution... <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am Spartacus... </td></tr>
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"Christianity did not bring a message of social revolution like that of the ill-fated Spartacus, whose struggle led to so much bloodshed. Jesus was not Spartacus, he was not engaged in a fight for political liberation like Barabbas or Bar-Kochba. Jesus, who himself died on the Cross, brought something totally different: an encounter with the Lord of all lords, an encounter with the living God and thus an encounter with a hope stronger than the sufferings of slavery, a hope which therefore transformed life and the world from within."</i><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">-- Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI in <i>Spe Salvi (Saved by Hope). </i>considered by many as the greatest theologian of our time and among the greatest theologians in Catholic Church history. Served as Roman Pontiff from 2005 to 2013, when he surprised the world by announcing his retirement as successor of St. Peter due to health reasons. As Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, he served as Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith under Bl. Pope John Paul II from 1981 to 2005. A prolific author of over 60 books, three Encyclicals and three Apostolic Exhortations, he is currently living a life of prayer and meditation in the Vatican grounds, as the Pope Emeritus...</span><br />
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<br />Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-5774042918387872412020-06-17T18:37:00.008-04:002020-06-27T07:53:28.657-04:00My Daughter, Confession and Humility... <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bless me, father, for I have sinned... </td></tr>
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"So, if God knows everything, why do we have to confess to a priest?" my daughter asked in frustration after having gone to Confession for the first time face-to-face; that is, for the first time since her first Sacrament of Reconciliation in second grade and, that time, it was with a Polish priest with a heavy accent, who she couldn't understand!<br />
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I remember asking her what the priest had told her since he was apparently giving her valuable words of wisdom as she was sitting attentively in front of him to the left rear of the altar, as other kids were finishing their Confession with other priests before her. "I don't know," she answered with a smile on her face. "But he gave me absolution!" We all had a great laugh. </div>
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Well, juxtapose the more recent visit, after our pastor announced the church was reopening for Mass for the first time since the coronavirus lockdown and we went as a family the day before, she obviously didn't feel the same sense of joy and fulfillment. <br />
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She <i>really</i> didn't want to go face-to-face and got stressed when she saw that all four parish priests were sitting outside the church at a distance from each other in folding chairs listening to penitents who were also sitting in folding chairs across from them (of course, wearing masks and six feet away to comply with social distancing rules). </div>
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Apparently, as we learned that day, in all the years of Catholic grammar school since second grade, where they were taken to Confession once a month and first year of Catholic high school, she always received the sacrament in anonymity; where the priest is behind a curtain or screen in a dark confessional. </div>
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I remember my First Confession at Holy Rosary Catholic School in the Village of Portchester, New York a long time ago (1972 to be exact!). It was with less fanfare than our children's school which makes an event of it at night and the entire grade, parents and grandparents attend. </div>
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Mine was during the school day. We were taken by individual class to the church basement, where the chapel was located and there were confessionals in the rear on either wall, since the 1945-built church was being renovated, and all the kids lined up in front of the confessionals and waited our turn.</div>
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I have to admit, it was intimidating to go into that dark room with dark wood and the smell of mildew, common for older churches that dealt with snow and wet carpets for four of five months a year. Even scarier was thinking that I was going to forget one of my sins, which I went over as I stood in line, a discipline I practice even today. </div>
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Sadly, I recently read that Holy Rosary was merged with my second parish home for third and fourth grades Corpus Christi Catholic Church in 2008, and both parishes were merged into a new St. John Bosco parish with two other historic parishes in 2017 due to financial troubles. The four oldest parishes in Port Chester were merged into one. I believe both Holy Rosary and Corpus Christe were deconsecrated in the process. </div>
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In any case, I don't remember what I confessed or what the priest gave me as penance; although praying Our Father's and Hail Mary's were a staple in my early years of Confession, but I do recall the feeling of purification I felt afterward. I'm sure my sins were hardly that but the sense of burden lifted off my small shoulders was as cathartic then as it is today. </div>
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I guess there's some sense of security and comfort in anonymity, which is why it remains more popular, but, to me, there's nothing like owning up for my sins and looking the priest in the eye, as difficult and shameful as it may be. Then again, I'm 56-years-old and more at ease with my shortcomings and failures. My daughter is only 15 and less secure in her skin. </div>
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Anyhow, it was obvious by her question the experience had been somewhat traumatic; even as she wore her coronavirus Old-Western stagecoach robber mask to do so. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
"Because God wants us to humble ourselves," I answered, "And tell our sins to a priest. And, it's the priest, who in the place of Christ, forgives us." </div>
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As Catholics, we call it <i>In Persona Christi,</i> or in the person of Christ, where Christ forgives the penitent using a priest as His instrument of forgiveness (but I didn't get into a theological lecture that I'm sure she would tune out). </div>
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"Our faith is about humility," I went on, "We have to humble ourselves, repent and ask a priest for forgiveness."</div>
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It is really mind-boggling if you think about it. The God of the universe had the humility to take on flesh and died, the most humiliating and wretched death imaginable to atone for our sins. Then, as if this wasn't enough, He becomes bread and wine to feed His believers. The humility of our God to become a small piece of bread to feed His Flock! Unfathomable! </div>
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It's all about humility, which may be the reason that Jesus gave the Apostles the power to forgive sins after the Resurrection, saying, <i>"As the Father sent me, so I send you. He then breathed on them and said, 'Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, their sins have been forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they have been retained." (John 20:21-23) </i></div>
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The only way for the Apostles to forgive sins was to have believers confess them and, at the time, more than likely, it was face-to-face. Moreover, the Father sent the Son with full authority. Therefore, the Son sends the Apostles with the same authority, including the power to forgive and retain sins. <br />
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In the Letter of St. James, the author writes, <i>"Confess your trespasses to one another, and pray for one another, that you may be healed." (James 5:16)</i></div>
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And, St. Paul says, <i>"Anyone whom you forgive, I also forgive. What I have forgiven, if I have forgiven anything, has been for your sake in the presence of Christ." (2 Cor 2:10) </i><br />
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That is what Confession is all about; healing. It's about reconciling ourselves to God. Sin separates us from God and the Sacrament of Reconciliation restores us. It's God taking us into His arms, embracing us warmly and saying, "It's alright. I love and forgive you."</div>
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Even so, some may ask, as my daughter did, why confess to a priest who is just a man, sinful in his own right? Well, as the Gospel of John states, Jesus gave His Apostles, who were all men, sinful as any of us, the power to forgive and retain sins so who are we to question the reasons why? </div>
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Whether it's face-to-face, as my daughter dreds, or anonymous, the priest, regardless of his own holiness or lack thereof, has the power given to him by Christ to forgive, and, when he gives the words of absolution, we can be assured that Christ has spoken through him and our sins are wiped clean... </div>
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Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-13102207862111507342020-06-09T11:49:00.004-04:002020-06-10T10:11:37.428-04:00Can't Stop the Rain from Falling or the Sun from Shining... <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTTCAt_adGXFs-xVJC0RuW-qJZqex4p5hZlczf3gvWuFbQfvCPMPDiwVNerkrr9sPlxP_IaS4gyUHawXciQGW0wv8wAdAeukKN7CcEnktDx50Xi2mwVewrTL5cXa0y7MpE_nA9H4n0TXk/s1600/BEE+GEES.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="595" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTTCAt_adGXFs-xVJC0RuW-qJZqex4p5hZlczf3gvWuFbQfvCPMPDiwVNerkrr9sPlxP_IaS4gyUHawXciQGW0wv8wAdAeukKN7CcEnktDx50Xi2mwVewrTL5cXa0y7MpE_nA9H4n0TXk/s320/BEE+GEES.jpg" width="317" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The early years... </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<i><span jsname="YS01Ge">But I was never told about the sorrow</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">How can you mend a broken heart?</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">How can you stop the rain from falling down?</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">How can you stop the sun from shining?</span></i></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<i><span jsname="YS01Ge">What makes the world go round?</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">How can you mend this broken man?</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">How can a loser ever win?</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Please help me mend my broken heart</span></i></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<i>And let me live again</i></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<i>---Bee Gees, circa 1971...</i></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge">"It's over," she said to me, outside a Boca Raton lounge, where I had driven to see her perform that night. "I'm sorry but I can't do this anymore. I want to break up." I was aghast. I didn't know what to say. What do you say when someone tells you they no longer want to be with you? What is there to say?</span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge">I felt like the American businessman who hires the "Just OK" Dutch translator in the AT&T commercial, who says, "Tell him we need this merger." And the translator says to the Dutch businessmen, "This man is very bendy... He says he needs a hug." I could've used a hug. But, I never got it. </span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
Instead, she turned around and went back inside, leaving me standing in the rain (no it wasn't really raining but it should have been), thinking to myself, <i>what just happened?</i></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge">First of all, every time I hear the line, "I can't do this anymore," from someone breaking up in a movie or TV show, I think of the Egyptian slaves dragging ginormous blocks of cement in the sand in the intense heat of the Egyptian desert (I mean hot; Africa hot, as Matthew Broderick says in <i>Biloxi </i></span><span jsname="YS01Ge"><i>Blues</i>. Tarzan couldn't take this kind of hot!); </span>day after day, week after week, month after month and year after year. Now, those guys, they had the right to say, "I can't do this anymore." Anything less, is an overstatement. </div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge">In any case, I thought the relationship was going great. As often happens, the one who is broken up with usually gets hit with a two by four unexpectedly. We're always the last to know; until we find ourselves on the floor, bleeding profusely with half our brains in our hands and our hearts gripped in unbearable pain.</span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
We had been together for about a year and a half. We had endured a semester of her going away to college, about five hours away, which I knew intimately, since I would drive them a couple of times a month. And, we were happy; at least, I thought we were happy until that ill-fated night outside the lounge. </div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
The rest of the night was a blur. I'm not sure whether I went back inside or stayed outside. I just remember her leaving in a car I didn't recognize without even looking my way. </div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge">What a horrible drive home it was. It was about an hour and a half away from home and all I could do was cry and try to figure out what happened. What did I do? What could I have done? Was there any hope? What could I still do? </span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge">I'm sure there was plenty of guilt and repentance for things I had done or failed to do. It's never a one-way street when things fall apart. But, at that point in our lives, I was about 20 and she 19, things kind of happen in the natural course of life; there are too many ambitions, ego, pride, places to go and people to meet. </span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge">I was just transferring from junior college to the University of Miami and that first semester was all but lost to me. I really took the moniker for the U, "Suntan U," to heart. I skipped class and went to the beach to lay out in the sun every single day of that first semester. By the end of the term, I was not only looking like George Hamilton, but I had to drop every class but one; a television production class that I had with UM quarterback Steve Walsh and tight end Dennis Kelleher, who later married one of my wife's best friends. It was either drop the classes or fail them. I chose wisely, to my parents' chagrin. It's a good thing that school wasn't as expensive as it is today plus I had scholarships, grants and student loans to rely on. </span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge">You never really get over your first heart break. Oh sure, you eventually get over it. You move on, as a widow who loses her husband or a dog owner who loses their pet, or leaves it with family to take care of while they're on vacation only to get back and find out the dog ran away (True story. My family lost a relative's dog that way!)</span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
But, in the process, as harrowing as it may feel at the time, you grow strong. You learn a lot about yourself and about relationships. Then, eventually, you fall in love again, and maybe even several times (as in my case) or you get a new dog. But, you never really forget. And the pain leaves a permanent scar in your heart.</div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
It's a rite of passage. You never really grow up until you get your heart broken, sometimes more than once. </div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
Last week, my daughter suffered her first heart break and watching her go through it made me reminisce of what it was like.</div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
As a father, there's a sense of helplessness, because there is nothing you can really say or do. You know they will get through it but, in the midst of their grief, it's difficult to make them understand. </div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
Nothing I can do will make the rain stop falling, as the Bee Gees sang, or keep the sun from shining. It just takes time. Time and lots of tears. Eventually, the clouds go away, the sun peaks through and then the moon. Ultimately, the tears subside. </div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
Time and God, or should I say, God in time heals all wounds. The pain goes away. The heart mends, the loser wins and you learn to live again... </div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge"><br /></span></div>
Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-10422691581535467942020-05-29T15:40:00.003-04:002020-05-29T15:49:38.572-04:00True Happiness Is Not Getting What You Want... <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF67aCmZOP7-krnGLbB7xNUxFu2cBXM9glXuJGqIxanvSyx6EF1mD963gCDoK9w0NVpx4s8OHBHF6qPHxPgrjlQAH3tkM9dB_eK5fBUFgxF4H3e4OmrT5HG_GaxdmfLJCiBXlvLKIavN0/s1600/FULTON+SHEEN....PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="580" data-original-width="479" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF67aCmZOP7-krnGLbB7xNUxFu2cBXM9glXuJGqIxanvSyx6EF1mD963gCDoK9w0NVpx4s8OHBHF6qPHxPgrjlQAH3tkM9dB_eK5fBUFgxF4H3e4OmrT5HG_GaxdmfLJCiBXlvLKIavN0/s320/FULTON+SHEEN....PNG" width="264" /></a></div>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><font face="georgia" size="4"><i>"You will never be happy if your happiness depends on getting solely what you want. Change the focus. Get a new center. Will what God wills, and your joy no man shall take from you."</i><br />
<br /><br /></font></div><div><font face="georgia" size="4"><br /></font></div><div>
<font face="georgia" size="4">-- Venerable Archbishop Fulton Sheen, a priest, author and one of the first televangelists in U.S. history. He hosted a prime time television show in the 50's and 60's. His cause of canonization to be declared a saint of the Church was officially opened in 2001, and, in 2014, Pope Benedict XVI recognized him as "Venerable Servant to God," for a life of heroic virtue.</font><br />
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<br /></div>Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-13673531974901786772020-04-10T13:31:00.002-04:002020-04-15T16:01:09.883-04:00Why Good Friday?... <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUy6yOmZPeREI8nHX9JgM5xTWmpLeY0SsQWY67YjTwUImx8mtcJhLD6qlvJyRO1zzl5upUdcXA4kCnKHlEwLWvI9BxHBwKRujMk38OUEjt-YLE3aXNJkkKeg7iqiCAqpqkEdK-ZCQRoRI/s1600/DIEGO+VELAZQUEZ+CRISTO+CRUCIFICADO+1632.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="368" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUy6yOmZPeREI8nHX9JgM5xTWmpLeY0SsQWY67YjTwUImx8mtcJhLD6qlvJyRO1zzl5upUdcXA4kCnKHlEwLWvI9BxHBwKRujMk38OUEjt-YLE3aXNJkkKeg7iqiCAqpqkEdK-ZCQRoRI/s320/DIEGO+VELAZQUEZ+CRISTO+CRUCIFICADO+1632.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Velazquez: Cristo Crucificado 1632</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i style="color: #181818; font-family: merriweather, georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></i>
<i style="color: #181818; font-family: merriweather, georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">“Unless there is a Good Friday in your life, there can be no Easter Sunday.”</i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br />
-- Venerable Archbishop Fulton Sheen, a priest, author and one of the first televangelists in U.S. history. He hosted a prime time television show in the 50's and 60's. His cause of canonization to be declared a saint of the Church was officially opened in 2001, and, in 2014, Pope Benedict XVI recognized him as "Venerable Servant to God," for a life of heroic virtue.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-24860265329174013202020-03-23T13:29:00.002-04:002020-04-01T15:26:39.920-04:00Greatness Amidst Displacement, Commuting and Quarantine... <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4gOC3oj9i-_cE4L7lPEYub5U0FEZG_p8-xO1ZL1bjS-HoK75Q_icM04bFvdzIbi7bzq9pJBMhYobki2hXT_qoWeZfyaF7Gri8feWx1THU1GPZ7zNzh8MkpMNg2L9VpZwdPfHN0aN0Sh4/s1600/Home+construction....jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4gOC3oj9i-_cE4L7lPEYub5U0FEZG_p8-xO1ZL1bjS-HoK75Q_icM04bFvdzIbi7bzq9pJBMhYobki2hXT_qoWeZfyaF7Gri8feWx1THU1GPZ7zNzh8MkpMNg2L9VpZwdPfHN0aN0Sh4/s320/Home+construction....jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just getting started... </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Life is about adjustments.<br />
<br />
In the natural scheme of things, people adjust in one way or another from the time they are born until the day they die.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately for me, I'm not much for change.<br />
<br />
I've written about it in the past. I'm a creature of habit. I like the comforts of routine, consistency and familiarity.<br />
<br />
Well, my routine, consistency and familiarity were uprooted about eight weeks ago when we were forced out of our home for some much needed renovations that included, fixing our roof, re-plastering the exterior walls, installing hurricane impact windows, removing mold from the ceiling and several walls, making a small room for my son, opening up a wall in the living room, knocking down a wall in the kitchen, re-tiling the foyer and kitchen floors, redesigning our kitchen, adding recessed ceiling lighting throughout, refurbishing our wood floors, remaking our closets and moving our water heater, among other things. <br />
<br />
Then, about six weeks later, when we were just starting to settle into our new routines of living four days at my parents' house in Miami Springs, the weekends at my mother-in-law's condo in Key Biscayne, and driving about town from our son's school, my gym and home in Coral Gables, to our daughter's school in Coconut Grove, to dance in SW Miami, to baseball practices in West Miami, Westchester and Kendall and games in NW Miami and Flagami, we get hit with another whammy; the coronavirus outbreak!<br />
<br />
As the news hit, our older daughter was forced home from her state university. Shortly afterwards, our kid's were sent home from school, restaurants, bars and night clubs were shut down, ALL professional sports were postponed, March Madness was canceled, my son's baseball season was put on hold, our church, parks and recreational spots closed down, as well as cigar shops and liquor stores! <i>(Actually, after writing this I discovered that liquor stores are considered "essential" and can stay open)</i> Even my barber shop, when I was about to get a haircut, was shut down. I told friends that long hair and a beard may be the tipping point for my wife and it's getting worse by the day!<br />
<br />
Did I mention my mother-in-law lives in a one-bedroom condo?<br />
<br />
Needless to say, our already topsy-turvy living conditions took a turn for the worse.<br />
<br />
We went from life on commute to life in isolation and, obviously, with our college daughter back in town, I was ousted from the weekend retreat in Key Biscayne and separated from my family due to a lack of space; talk about a lifestyle enema!<br />
<br />
It's as if God was using the old Cuban saying with me, <i>"Aquien no le guste el caldo, que le den 3 tazas." </i>(which translate to: whoever doesn't like soup, give them 3 cups) <br />
<br />
And, speaking of God; if there is one semblance of normalcy in my life, it's the fact that we are in Lent, and I've established a new prayer and meditation routine and, since our parish started live streaming Mass because of the lock down, am tuning in via Facebook every morning. I've also been praying the Rosary every night as I walk the dogs and praying the Our Father <i>slowly</i> (to make it last 20 seconds) each of the zillions of times I wash my hands throughout the day.<br />
<br />
It's the only thing that has helped me keep my sanity through the turmoil. In fact, while people around me are freaking out and wracked with fear, faith has given me peace. That, and the promise I made to myself before the coronavirus to try to make the move as least disruptive for my family as possible.<br />
<br />
Now, to climb off my high horse, I realize that, at least partially, this is a bit self-serving. I goes back to comfort. The logic is that if I make things things more comfortable for my family, they, in turn, will make things more comfortable for me.<br />
<br />
Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI once wrote, "The world offers you comfort, but you were not made for comfort. You were made for greatness."<br />
<br />
Hopefully, the unprecedented level of discomfort and havoc in this Lenten season of displacement, separation, commuting and quarantine, leads us all to greatness.<br />
<br />
As St. Catherine of Siena said, "Nothing great is ever achieved without enduring much."...<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-59554967854405938892020-03-06T18:34:00.001-05:002020-03-09T10:44:53.550-04:00Faith, Coronavirus and the End of the World... <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRPhBCPjLGrx18M4HwU99CFKJ4Ml8hhcO5-J76rJIlkTRH0b4RxNkuftRq-ZnvTmp4dT3ejO9iqpGTlW025hDTS9krS91d1p8I7deDRZYO-ARUD2PZAiKCUm2YlxuO8M9IvCbFiNdQUq8/s1600/coronavirus-ss-jt-200120_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="558" data-original-width="992" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRPhBCPjLGrx18M4HwU99CFKJ4Ml8hhcO5-J76rJIlkTRH0b4RxNkuftRq-ZnvTmp4dT3ejO9iqpGTlW025hDTS9krS91d1p8I7deDRZYO-ARUD2PZAiKCUm2YlxuO8M9IvCbFiNdQUq8/s320/coronavirus-ss-jt-200120_.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">China was hit first... </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>"When men choose not to believe in God, they do not thereafter believe in nothing, they then become capable of believing in anything." -- GK Chesterton</i><br />
<br />
To me, it's surreal.<br />
<br />
It seems like the world is going delirious over the coronavirus outbreak and, in all honesty, I just don't get it.<br />
<br />
Maybe, it's just me. I have a tendency of downplaying things (although my wife might differ). Despite working in news in Miami for almost 30 years, I usually don't get rattled about developing hurricanes in our region, even though we attract storms like Trump attracts congressional investigations. I live by the motto of a former co-worker, who would say, <i>"Eso no viene pa ca!"</i> (translation: this is not coming this way!).<br />
<br />
But, even some of my friends and colleagues are saying this coronavirus thing, otherwise known as COVID-19, is getting a bit ridiculous.<br />
<br />
Obviously, the news media can't get enough of it. I know that firsthand from my ongoing debates during editorial meetings. Everything coronavirus-related is reported on; to the point where, I heard on the radio that the Baby Yoda toys may not make it into stores on time <i>unless</i> the virus is controlled and the workforce is back to full force by June (Just the thought of not getting Baby Yoda in time makes me shudder!).<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
In South Florida, we have music and street festivals being cancelled. Stores are running out of baby wipes, anti-bacterial soap, vitamin C, and surgical masks (which are as effective at stopping the spread of the virus as Michael Bloomberg's $700 million TV ad buy was to his election campaign).<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, school boards are making contingency plans for distributing computers so students can work from home and the stock market has taken more hits than a University of Miami quarterback sitting in the pocket.<br />
<br />
Even the Catholic Church is taking precautions. Because of the hysteria, as of this week, the Archdiocese of Miami implemented new guidelines, which among other things, discourages parishioners from shaking hands during the sign of peace (which already proved challenging when I was lector for morning Mass and the Eucharistic Minister and I went to shake hands then realized and shook each other's forearm), or hold hands during the Our Father, the suspension of distribution of the Precious Blood Christ during Communion, and the emptying of holy water fonts at church entrances (Shhh, don't say anything but our parish still has holy water!). <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-i0kz9BKotwmKg8QYjSVjDxPCp1lEDV1sM5NkxGaFtu3P1Aj7LAMdi65pkdbE25AHoGzOD430foo1MojovK86aC4PzRjSlIS4qOnU52mhGIulVUxgj3fkzRcMM5FYcIHwQ_vBDepoW4U/s1600/CALLE+OCHO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="262" data-original-width="400" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-i0kz9BKotwmKg8QYjSVjDxPCp1lEDV1sM5NkxGaFtu3P1Aj7LAMdi65pkdbE25AHoGzOD430foo1MojovK86aC4PzRjSlIS4qOnU52mhGIulVUxgj3fkzRcMM5FYcIHwQ_vBDepoW4U/s320/CALLE+OCHO.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Casualty of the Coronavirus... </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Private companies are also implementing measures like installing anti-bacterial lotion dispensers, requiring quarantines for employees that travel and encouraging personnel to wash their hands regularly. I already have co-workers whose hands are pruning and chapping! <br />
<br />
Mind you, this is all for an illness that has, thus far, been responsible for a total of eleven deaths in the United States and thirty four hundred people worldwide (As of this writing). That's three thousand, four hundred out of 7.7 billion!<br />
<br />
To put this into perspective, consider that, according to the CCD, the common flu (aka influenza) was responsible for the death of over thirty four thousand people in the United States in 2019! The Swine Flu, which my younger daughter got during the outbreak in 2009, was attributed twelve thousand lives.<br />
<br />
Moreover, doctors say that 80% of those infected will experience mild effects. Some may not even know they have it. The extreme cases, and those most vulnerable, are people with compromised immune systems. <br />
<br />
Now, I'm not saying that eleven deaths are anything to dismiss or that the numbers attributed to coronavirus won't rise over the next several months but, the mass pandemonium and doomsday predictions of economic collapse by news coverage, pundits and politicians (who are using this for political gain) appear, at least at this point, to be a bit disproportionate to the reality we are currently living.<br />
<br />
During a conversation one recent Saturday morning at our men's group, one of my friends made a poignant observation. He said, "This just goes to show that as much as we think we are in control of our lives, our finances and even our health, we're really not in control of anything. We are dependent entirely on God and every breath we take is a blessing."<br />
<br />
I was driving my son to school one recent morning and an ad came on the radio for a new apocalyptic "paranormal" syndicated show, titled <i>Ground Zero</i>, where the announcer was talking about the end of the world. My son must have been paying attention, a rarity on our commute, and says to me, "You know, Dad, everything they said is probably not real. Why do they do that?"<br />
<br />
I thought of the Chesterton quote and told him, "Do you know what buddy? The problem is that many people don't believe in God. And, when you don't believe in God, you end up believing anything." And, even those of us who do believe, at times like these, need a little more faith.<br />
<br />
I have a holy card of the Divine Mercy in my journal that states, "Jesus I trust in you" and to me, it's as simple as that.<br />
<br />
Let's be vigilant. Let's take precautions. But, let's not go crazy. There's nothing to fear. The economy is not collapsing. The world is not ending. As the old adage states, <i>this too shall pass</i>...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-48032326362564635192020-01-22T22:43:00.001-05:002020-01-24T15:21:09.801-05:00Beards and the Fight Against Gender Neutrality... <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiynP_eDax7oPkogbIAuO4LyCFcyqJbvAULyZStRtxDgWgCPLBe5wq0J3rDugCHIifD8pzDMMHjOfigyHyak2G07EI_0vjzapvbpcMPl_fgpYWG2ukCauMhwhZ0i7UHsvjpj7XadmV4kdE/s1600/IMG_4241.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="481" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiynP_eDax7oPkogbIAuO4LyCFcyqJbvAULyZStRtxDgWgCPLBe5wq0J3rDugCHIifD8pzDMMHjOfigyHyak2G07EI_0vjzapvbpcMPl_fgpYWG2ukCauMhwhZ0i7UHsvjpj7XadmV4kdE/s320/IMG_4241.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An attribute of manhood... </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>"For God wished women to be smooth, and rejoice in their locks alone growing spontaneously, as a horse in his mane; but has adorned man, like the lions, with a beard, and endowed him, as an attribute of manhood, with a shaggy chest - a sign of strength and rule."</i> -- Clement of Alexandria, circa late 2nd Century.<br />
<br />
OK., it's gotten to the point, where I'm getting a lot of flak for the length of my beard.<br />
<br />
When I got back from a 3-day silent retreat recently, the first thing my wife said after kissing me hello was, "I think it's time to get rid of that beard."<br />
<br />
Our 15-year-old daughter and 12-year-old son concurred.<br />
<br />
My wife says her friends are asking how long I'm going to grow it because I'm starting to look like I can go to a street corner and beg for money, which, come to think of it, may not be a bad way to pay the Christmas debt I accrued!<br />
<br />
Then, I get to work this week and a friend says, "So, what's the deal with the beard? How long are you thinking of growing it?"<br />
<br />
For months, people have been asking me the same question in one form or another. But, lately, it's been a barrage. I must be resembling Grizzly Adams but, as I told my wife, channeling Michael Keaton in <i>Mr. Mom</i>, "The beard is in a transitional stage right now, that's all. But when it comes in, it's going to look great!"<br />
<br />
When my Mother-In-Law asked about the facial hair last month, I told her, "I'm growing it because I don't have a red corvette. I don't have a mistress. So, I decided to grow a beard." I'm not sure how that went over but at least she laughed. (Maybe, she was thinking, 'My daughter married an idiot,' but she played it off well!)<br />
<br />
At first, people were calling me "The Most Interesting Man in the World," after the Dos XX commercials' white-bearded guy. But now, five months into my new, I want to say <i>Vikings</i><i>-</i>look, but my wife and kids would say it's more like Santa Claus (including the robust physique!) or, as a coworker says, "You look like Fidel Castro," I'm getting push back.<br />
<br />
I think my wife could handle the shorter beard look that some Hollywood actors have brought into style, but not the scruffy look that some millennials, professional athletes, old hippies, Hell's Angels motorcyclists and <i>The Lord of the Rings'</i> dwarf Gimli sport.<br />
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</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG-msKYhgWonHcS_RdbKG5NP5KMINSla11ISltzAHGIktR2n1OCR-nHsC8UbtbIPqRwx2fRW4puJyc3Ej3b70zsV77NiYkXP5J9dyYS8xNT4ld3s-Pq7UFT6yuUVMspspubmm1UIzm3iY/s1600/Gimli....jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1314" data-original-width="950" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG-msKYhgWonHcS_RdbKG5NP5KMINSla11ISltzAHGIktR2n1OCR-nHsC8UbtbIPqRwx2fRW4puJyc3Ej3b70zsV77NiYkXP5J9dyYS8xNT4ld3s-Pq7UFT6yuUVMspspubmm1UIzm3iY/s320/Gimli....jpg" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now, that's a beard... </td></tr>
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For generations, men with long beards were commonplace. In fact, it was expected. It was a sign of virility, respect, honor and wisdom. Whether on kings, philosophers, saints or, even Jesus Christ, beards were a symbol of masculinity.<br />
<br />
Yet, after the industrial revolution, when people started moving into closer proximity in urban settings, a kinder, gentler, less barbaric version of manhood emerged. The clean-cut look became widely accepted; to the point where beards became obsolete. <br />
<br />
In recent years, however, it seems beards have made a comeback. Young men have made it a thing and with athletes like Ryan Fitzpatrick, Julian Edelman, the Boston Red Sox (name the player) and the man they call, "The Beard," James Harden wearing them, it seems the scruffier, the better. Now, it seems everywhere you look, there's a guy with long whiskers.<br />
<br />
In fact, there seems to be a bond among bearded men, as I discovered one night out with my wife, when a bearded waiter, went out of his way to approach me and say, "Nice, beard." See. It's not that bad!<br />
<br />
So why are beards back in style?<br />
<br />
At first, the reason I started growing one was that I wanted to see if I could do it, or even have the patience to grow it long like those men of yore (I'm reminded of the <i>Friends</i> episode where Rachel bought the Apothecary Table at Pottery Barn, which Phoebe hated and she told her she found it at a flea market!). Not to mention, it hides my double chin.<br />
<br />
I'm sure the reasons that men grow their beards are as varied as the men who have them but, as I reflected on this for some time, I keep thinking there may be an underlining reason. It may even be a sub-conscience reason that most men don't think about. It may be a rebellion against the cultural push for gender neutrality.<br />
<br />
Let's face it, men today are constantly being told that they need to stop being men!<br />
<br />
In the fervor for women's equality, the rise of gender identity, the radical feminist movement and the "woke" and "cancel culture," men's reputation and, to be honest, self-esteem has taken a hit. Our every word and action is scrutinized and, when we don't conform to political correctness, the term "toxic masculinity" is liberally tossed about.<br />
<br />
In its wake, an unnatural animosity and suspicion has been created between men and women, who are meant to be complimentary and completing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ2JI8_gBYfW-cMxU31uYoUasiBcy2TQCl-fvZamggVwBIY5wj7w9vpT8Z-baPh6Sxiq7yKp2gLnInkxEGWT1Mk8toFL4MhPyR4w3QSTgD4ozijUftQm8OsZDUS8jDOl1Zb8ZMpOEjoNY/s1600/gender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1600" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ2JI8_gBYfW-cMxU31uYoUasiBcy2TQCl-fvZamggVwBIY5wj7w9vpT8Z-baPh6Sxiq7yKp2gLnInkxEGWT1Mk8toFL4MhPyR4w3QSTgD4ozijUftQm8OsZDUS8jDOl1Zb8ZMpOEjoNY/s320/gender.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Moreover, in the push for gender neutrality, where roles are interchangeable, we've lost sight of the fact that we <i>are</i> different! Even though we are equal, we were made for different roles.<br />
<br />
Men can never be mothers, no matter how much they try and women can never be fathers. <br />
<br />
Tossed out with the bathwater, is the greatest icon for womanhood; and that is motherhood. Women are told that children keep them from accomplishing their true purpose in life, even though the greatest purpose we can ever aspire to is love and the love between a mother and a child is possibly the deepest and most sincere. There is no greater purpose or fulfillment in life than being a mother (or father, for that matter!).<br />
<br />
I have two daughters and I want them to be strong and independent but also want them to fall in love, get married and have a family; a family that they commit to and are dependent on.<br />
<br />
I also have a son and I want him to be strong, courageous and assertive. I don't want him to be afraid to be a man, or being treated lesser because of it.<br />
<br />
I always tell my daughters, "Men are not your enemies."<br />
<br />
In fact, the soul of society can be measured by the relationship between men and women. As the great Fulton Sheen once said, <i>"When a man loves a woman, he has to become worthy of her. The higher her virtue, the more noble her character, the more devoted she is to truth, justice, goodness, the more a man has to aspire to be worthy of her. The history of civilization could actually be written in terms of the level of its women."</i><br />
<br />
Therefore, the reason I'm growing my beard now is that, in a subtle way, I'm fighting for the rights of men being men and women being women. We may never be able to put the cultural gender neutrality genie back in the bottle but, for me, and possibly some men who still believe, consciously or not, that the differences between men and women are what complete us in our humanity, maybe growing a beard is a place to start. <br />
<br />
As my bearded barber said when I told him I was getting resistance from my wife about the beard, "Tell her that a man without a beard is like a lion without a mane." Maybe he read St. Clement of Alexandria...<br />
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<br />Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-41608351068260081872019-12-11T21:24:00.003-05:002019-12-12T06:50:11.626-05:00Setting Deep Roots in a Changing World... <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."</i> -- Bilbo Baggins in <i>The Lord of the Rings</i>.<br />
<br />
I've been wanting to write this article for a while but haven't had the time until this week since I'm off from work.<br />
<br />
As I have written in <a href="https://livingthefaithonahighwire.blogspot.com/2019/06/proms-graduations-and-losing-control.html">previous blogs</a>, one of my biggest fears as a father is losing my kids to the popular culture; where moral relativism prevails, truths are distorted and compromised, God is molded into the image and likeness of the believer and licentiousness and confusion reign.<br />
<br />
In an attempt to inoculate our children as best we can against this tidal wave of secular populism, we've tried to cultivate a strong faith foundation in our household through prayer, living the Sacraments, serving as examples of service and commitment to God and through my endless barrage of life lessons, that often prompt an unwarranted, <i>"We know Dad! You say that all the time."</i> from the peanut gallery.<br />
<br />
Our kids have all attended Catholic schools throughout their educational lives, despite the financial burden at times. For our eldest daughter that meant fourteen years of parochial and Catholic preparatory school from Pre-K 4 through high school graduation (our younger two are still in Catholic schools).<br />
<br />
This year, our eighteen-year-old started attending a public state university and moved away from home for the first time; eight driving hours away to be precise. And, as ecstatic as we were to see her growing into her own as a woman, it was terrifying to me to see her leave (because of stated fear).<br />
<br />
In September, six-weeks into her college life experience, we went to visit her for the first time. Let's just say, our visit could have gone better. There was an obvious tension between her trying to assert her newfound independence and our cramping her style with, at least in her mind, the protective cocoon that we had raised her in.<br />
<br />
Although there were many moments of levity and fun, the 3-day visit was a bit strained, to the point where, on Saturday afternoon, we had a no-holds-barred animated exchange in the parking lot of St. Thomas Moore Catholic Church, where we had arrived early for Vigil Mass and she threatened to go back to her dorm and us to go back home (to Miami) if she did.<br />
<br />
It was a painful argument and my wife walked away upset, trying to gather herself and catch her breath. Fortunately, after our daughter broke down in tears and hugged me tightly, I was able to mediate a reconciliation between mother and daughter shortly before Mass.<br />
<br />
When we got back Sunday night, after taking her to breakfast and the long ride home, I texted her the blessing that I give the kids every night before they go to bed and told her I loved and missed her.<br />
<br />
Several weeks went by and we re-established our regular routines of communication via text or Facetime and everything appeared to be back to normal.<br />
<br />
For years, I had suggested that she should write. I saw her burgeoning skills and she loved to read and devoured novels at an incredible pace during primary school. But, she always said she didn't like writing. I think it was more laziness than anything else but regardless, when she sent her college application, she wrote an essay that apparently not only impressed the admissions office but also the editors of a national women's web magazine, who offered her a job as a contributing writer. She has been writing for them ever since.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8XZsptvMJm1CA1Eorira85U3QPKuCvxprbjSuPy0uYuKof5D4lHki9yGgAYbmgWb77x6MM9U_VbkZIVDJHw4C_yDxiSg6GkAdHyUV8RCdc2GVMNL8LKW7KSzopOFMWq48MPIEGF7FIXs/s1600/Parents+Weekend+Body+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="465" data-original-width="620" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8XZsptvMJm1CA1Eorira85U3QPKuCvxprbjSuPy0uYuKof5D4lHki9yGgAYbmgWb77x6MM9U_VbkZIVDJHw4C_yDxiSg6GkAdHyUV8RCdc2GVMNL8LKW7KSzopOFMWq48MPIEGF7FIXs/s320/Parents+Weekend+Body+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy times...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In October, she wrote an article about that family weekend, titled, <i><a href="https://www.hercampus.com/school/fsu/parents-weekend-made-me-realize-how-much-college-changes-you?fbclid=IwAR2HhaCKjvuBc3kfR4nD7x9x4S102pWG8ggFnT1cjZ4gEC3EbTXBRMcgvcg">Parents' Weekend Made Me Realize How Much College Changes You</a></i>, that broke my heart.<br />
<br />
While expressing herself honestly and venting pent-up feelings, the things that most hurt was when she wrote, "Being independent, no matter for how much time forces you into evolving into your own person. I no longer agreed with my parents on everything. I no longer lived in a tiny, Miami Catholic school bubble." Then later, "I had grown into a different person. I had begun seeing the world through a different lens then they do."<br />
<br />
When she called to get my reaction, as she does for every article she writes, I told her that there wasn't much to say. I told her it hurt me to read it and she said it hurt her to write it <i>(So why the heck did she write it?)</i>.<br />
<br />
Yet, I shouldn't have been surprised. In her brief college career, she was already starting to miss Mass regularly, something she never did during the past 13 years at home (when I attended a spiritual retreat and started going to weekly Mass). She became best friends with a former-Catholic-turned-Muslim girl, albeit, I'm still not convinced it's conviction rather than rebellion, and the girl's roommate, who is Jewish (How many jokes have you heard about the Catholic, the Muslim and the Jew who walk into a bar?) and taking a required course in philosophy with an atheist professor (Who would have thunk that in a public university the philosophy professor is atheist?). <br />
<br />
She was being exposed to all sorts of worldly thinking that she was sheltered from at home. In all honesty, I wanted her to go to Franciscan University in Steubenville, where while discovering everything that other college students discover, my hope was to surround her with fervent Catholic students who would help her stay on the Catholic path. She didn't even apply!<br />
<br />
Be that as it may, the article was really disconcerting. But, as God often works, it just so happens that the same week, I was preparing to teach an RCIA class (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults, which is a class for people who are converting to the Catholic faith, thinking about it or missing one of their Sacraments) on The Creed (what we believe) and it's first line, <i>I believe in God the Father</i>.<br />
<br />
One night in bed, as I reflected on what I wanted to stress and, what I portrayed to be my daughter's drinking of the cultural cool-aid, I started thinking of the story of The Prodigal Son, or more importantly, The Merciful Father.<br />
<br />
God was revealing to me what my actions should be; mercy.<br />
<br />
After the RCIA class, I put everything aside and decided to forgive and forget (and pray as hard as I could for her return to the Church). <br />
<br />
Serendipitously, or what we call God-incidentally, a few weeks later, she told us all about her Catholic boyfriend from Miami, who's actually taken her to Mass!<br />
<br />
In subsequent weeks and months since, she has reached out to me several times on questions she has on arguments for and against the existence of God for a paper, and more recently arguments against moral relativism, which happens to be one of the favorite topics of my life lessons for my kids, to which I sent her <a href="https://livingthefaithonahighwire.blogspot.com/2014/05/the-mayor-morality-and-pontius-pilate.html">an article I wrote </a>and she cited in her presentation, texting me, "Because I have the coolest Dad ever."<br />
<br />
Still, I know that doesn't mean she is not being influenced by society but at least, it gives me hope. Not all we taught her is lost.<br />
<br />
As JRR Tolkein wrote best, <i>"All that is gold does not glitter, Not all who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost.</i>" I can only hope and pray she gains her footing as she continues to go out the door...<br />
<br />Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-35744923179877978282019-11-02T15:39:00.001-04:002019-11-05T10:41:43.077-05:00Baseball, Detention and Life Lessons... <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY4mNlV2uE-8pJp2RfKBuezVxer45bpKcFsgHhu6ZZG1qT6rtI_xQaUdP8aL4tZSWTB5rqndx2bATRv5yq4rD6tbVwfPr3Ewh3TtRabHCgUbpb3irD_14vsqoT6HjjtTrFSuU8GrrXmUM/s1600/IMG_3781.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY4mNlV2uE-8pJp2RfKBuezVxer45bpKcFsgHhu6ZZG1qT6rtI_xQaUdP8aL4tZSWTB5rqndx2bATRv5yq4rD6tbVwfPr3Ewh3TtRabHCgUbpb3irD_14vsqoT6HjjtTrFSuU8GrrXmUM/s320/IMG_3781.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A chip off the old block?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I don't know what to do anymore.<br />
<br />
I've tried threats. I've tried punishments (No electronics for a week). I've tried encouragement. I've even tried guilt ("You're team really needs you, buddy or, the more recent, you know how much you hurt me when I can't see you play?") and nothing seems to work.<br />
<br />
My 12-year-old son does great for several weeks, maybe even a month or so, then bam! We get the dreaded text message from his school, "Your child has Saturday detention..."<br />
<br />
When I read that first line, my heart sinks and the rest of the text gets a bit hazy, "... They are to report to school at 7:30am in complete uniform. Detention slips have been sent home with your child today. God bless."<br />
<br />
God bless? I'll be honest, despite the positive tone and blessing, I usually feel far from blessed. It's the kind of feeling a man gets at his yearly checkup when the doctors says, "Everything looks good, so far," as he puts on a rubber glove. <i>Thanks, doc. I think... </i><br />
<br />
In any case, at the risk of sounding superficial, which I'll admit I can be at times, the first thing that usually comes to mind when I get that notice from school is, <i>does he have a game Saturday morning? </i>And <i>is it at 9:00am? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>Then my mind really starts reeling. <i>Is it an hour or two-hour detention? </i><br />
<br />
Last season, he missed a game because of a two-hour detention, which was a miracle of God since it felt like he was in detention more often then Caitlyn Jenner visited the hair removal specialist! Fortunately, he had many games scheduled at 11:00am or during the week.<br />
<br />
This year, he's already missed another game. But, unlike last season, most of his games on Saturdays are at 9:00am.<br />
<br />
His lack of discipline bewilders me. How does a kid who, for the most part, gets pretty good grades; mostly A's and B's, get so many detentions for missing homework? <br />
<br />
The thing is, he knows the consequences. There's no surprise. It's not like the Allstate Insurance commercial where the car thief knocks at the front door and tells the owner, watching on his cellphone, that he's going to steal his car, "What?"<br />
<br />
It's simple. If he doesn't do his homework, he gets detention. There's nothing to figure out!<br />
<br />
Yet, he keeps getting detention. It doesn't seem to register.<br />
<br />
One time last year, I remember asking, why he didn't do his homework, and after much silence and some aahing and oohing, and me repeating the question slowly, he admitted, "I didn't feel like it."<br />
<br />
<i>I didn't feel like it? Dude! What is wrong with you? </i><br />
<br />
I remember reading one time that a boy's brain doesn't fully develop until the age of 25. A girl's around 21. So when you ask a kid, What were you thinking? They're not! They're basically out of their minds. So a 12-year-old is even further into the brainless abyss.<br />
<br />
After his latest detention, I started praying and asking God what to do. His answer was swift and decisive. He asked, what makes him different from you? <br />
<br />
<i>Say what? What do you mean?</i><br />
<br />
How many times do you go to Confession and repeat the same sins? You know the consequences. There are no surprises but you keep committing the same mistakes! And how do I respond to you?<br />
<br />
<i>Love? Forgiveness?</i><br />
<br />
I'm telling you. That's not what I really wanted to hear at the time but it made all the sense in the world. Leave it to God to make great sense!<br />
<br />
As if to clearly state His case, the following day I was the lector at morning Mass and the reading was from St. Paul's Letter to the Romans, stating, <i>"For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want, this I keep doing. Now, if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but the sin living in me." (Romans 7: 18-19)</i> <br />
<br />
<i>OK., Lord. I got it.</i><br />
<br />
Then, if that hadn't done the trick, the next day I went to Confession and my penance from the priest was, "Read Romans, Chapter 7." <i>Really? </i><br />
<br />
My son is a good kid. He gets decent grades (I've always said I am more concerned with him getting into heaven than into Harvard). He's a loving and affectionate kid, if not with his sisters, at least with me! He makes me give him a hug every night after our bedtime blessing and prayer, and kisses me and tells me he loves me, even when he's mad. But, he has a problem doing his homework every once in a while. He's a bit undisciplined like his dad. I have to learn to love and forgive more.<br />
<br />
I may have to miss him playing a game from time to time but this is not about me. It's about him, through which God is constantly teaching me lessons of life...<br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
<br />
<br />Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-79051533707642630172019-08-13T16:59:00.000-04:002019-08-27T10:23:40.325-04:00Advice for My Daughter as She Goes Off to College... <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<i>I suppose this is the time I should give you advice. I never had any myself except once from your cousin Alfred. Do you know, in the summer before I was going up, your cousin Alfred rode over to Boughton especially to give me a piece of advice? And do you know what that advice was? 'Ned," he said, 'there's one thing I must beg of you. Always wear a tall hat on Sundays during term. It is by that, more than anything, that a man is judged.' And do you know," continued my father, snuffling, "I always did. Some men did, some didn't. I never saw any difference between them or heard it commented on, but I always wore mine. It only shows what effect judicious advice can have, properly delivered at the right moment. I wish I had some for you, but I haven't...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When advice was readily received... </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The words of wisdom the protagonist and narrator of <i>Brideshead Revisited</i>, Charles Ryder, got from his father before going off to college, which wasn't much.<i></i><br />
<br />
If you read <a href="https://livingthefaithonahighwire.blogspot.com/2019/06/proms-graduations-and-losing-control.html">my last blog</a>, you already know that my wife and I are getting ready for our oldest daughter to go off to school.<br />
<br />
As with most parents, it's a bittersweet time. Bitter, in the sense that we're really going to miss her. She's our firstborn, the one who made us want to be better persons and, to a lesser extent, our family soundtrack, who constantly breaks into song at a drop of a hat.<br />
<br />
And, sweet, in that, we realize we have done the best we can. She is growing up, has blossomed into a beautiful and smart young lady and is becoming her own woman. (Although I'll be honest, the sweet, as much as I want to convince myself, taste more like Minnie's famous chocolate poop pie in <i>The Help</i>!) <br />
<br />
In any case, as I brace for her departure, inspired by a book I read several years ago by one of my favorite authors, Peter Kreeft, titled, <i>Before I Go; Letters to Our Children About What Really Matters </i>and, hoping to avoid sounding like Charles Ryder's father and giving her some "judicious advice," delivered at the right time, I put some thoughts together to pass along.<br />
<br />
Some are things I have told her through the years. Others are things I want to make sure she knows before she leaves home.<br />
<br />
In no particular order, my advice for her is: <i> </i><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Go out and change the world, don't let the world change you.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Don't ever compromise who you are to be what people want you to be.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>You are not defined by <i>what</i> you do in life or how many accomplishments you attain, but by <i>who</i> you are. Always be true to yourself. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>The moment you change what you believe, even if only for public consumption because of popularity, is the moment you compromise who you are.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>What matters most in life are relationships; not career, accomplishments or things.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Don't ever be too busy for your family (or true friends).</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Men are not your enemies.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Love is not a feeling, it's a choice; an action you take to put someone else's needs before your own.</li>
</ul>
</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Never be afraid of swimming against the tide, even when you get criticized.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Don't look for the easy way out. Look for the righteous way.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Your dreams and what you think is important today may not be as important in the future.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Be humble. Pride is the downfall of many.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<ul>
<li>You don't know it all and that's OK. Never stop learning. </li>
</ul>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Truth is One. Error many.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Always go to Mass on Sunday. No exception.</li>
</ul>
</div>
</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>When you sin, repent and go to Confession. Remember, there is no sin that is greater than God's love for you.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Work to live. Don't live to work. Nobody on their deathbed says they wished they had gotten that promotion, made more money or spent more time at the office.</li>
</ul>
</div>
</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Avoid becoming complacent. Complacency is where dreams and passion die.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Real friends are those who tell you the truth no matter how harsh it may sound, not those that tell you what you want to hear. Seek real friends.</li>
</ul>
</div>
</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Don't give up on what you want because of setbacks. Setbacks are part of life. They make you stronger so you can try harder.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Just because something is popular, doesn't make it right. And, just because something is rejected by most, doesn't make it wrong. Know the difference.</li>
</ul>
</div>
</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Don't try to be everything to everyone. Be yourself to those you love.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Never be overconfident. Overconfidence leads to silly mistakes.</li>
</ul>
</div>
</div>
<ul>
<li>A man who doesn't respect you now, will never respect you.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>If a man really loves you, he's not going to force you to go against what you believe. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Before you say "yes," ask yourself, 'Is this the man who is going to lead me and my children to heaven?' If not, you're wasting your time.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Feelings are fleeting. Love lasts forever. Always choose to love before your feelings. </li>
</ul>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Success is not born. It takes hard work. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>When you feel like giving up; don't. Things always get better, even when they feel like they're getting worse. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>You can't hide from God so don't even try.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Don't waste you life waiting for "the right time." The right time is now. </li>
</ul>
</div>
</div>
<ul>
<li>True love is a reflection Christ's love; sacrificial, self-giving and life-giving.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Test everything you hear from your college professors. As smart and authoritative as they may seem, not everything they'll teach you is right or objective. To quote Fr. Robert Valle at your high school graduation Mass, "Be careful what you accept into your minds and hearts."</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>When something is really troubling you, you're under stress or don't know where to turn, find an Adoration Chapel and spend time before the Blessed Sacrament. You'll find no greater peace, consolation and clarity. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Don't lower your moral bar because everyone else lowers theirs, or because the culture says it's OK. Sadly, in the throes of human nature, people want others to fail so they can feel better about their own inadequacies. The lower the bar, the easier for everyone to feel the same.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Excuses are for those who fail to accomplish what they set out to do. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Never put your career ahead of your family.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Pray every night before you go to sleep. As we did every night while you were here, your sister, brother and I will be praying for you.</li>
</ul>
</div>
<ul>
<li>If you dress like a piece of meat, you're going to be treated like a piece of meat. </li>
</ul>
</div>
<ul>
<li>Don't follow the crowd. Lead your own.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>At the end of the day, you will not be measured by your career, how much money you made or how popular you are. You will be measured by the love you gave. Give it freely.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>You deserve nothing. Earn it.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Mom and I are always here for you if you need anything. </li>
</ul>
Now, I'm sure I can come up with A LOT more but these will suffice for now.<br />
<br />
Hopefully, my advice is more substantive than the one Charles Ryder got from his father or his father got from Cousin Alfred. Although, wearing a tall hat on Sundays is hard to top... <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-4374442767757919822019-06-01T14:23:00.001-04:002019-06-08T12:34:55.890-04:00Proms, Graduations and Losing Control... <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHatJog5-stugOqupS40TXbDiX933a0BaugROFtgABQmSoaHa4rr9Cs7WNAvS710xS38mdcLlU5REXm1T02Q5s9xnaqPM52e5wSt9Eo_OyejEZZ53njn2lAAATTIVwCvkeCNkdou1eBMU/s1600/The+Scream+of+Edvard+Munch....jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHatJog5-stugOqupS40TXbDiX933a0BaugROFtgABQmSoaHa4rr9Cs7WNAvS710xS38mdcLlU5REXm1T02Q5s9xnaqPM52e5wSt9Eo_OyejEZZ53njn2lAAATTIVwCvkeCNkdou1eBMU/s320/The+Scream+of+Edvard+Munch....jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Scream of Edvard Munch...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Acting? That's a life of constant rejection!"<br />
<br />
"Criminal Law? That's one of the most dangerous professions ever. Most criminals want to kill their lawyers or whoever they blame for sending them to jail!"<br />
<i><br /></i>
"A driver's license? Our insurance is going to go through the roof!"<br />
<br />
Those are just some of my greatest hits quotes on the homefront in recent weeks, as my oldest daughter prepares to graduate from high school and considers options for college. And, then I wonder why she's set on leaving home!<br />
<br />
I can't help it. There are just too many things going on in my life right now. We have two graduations this week, aside from our oldest, our second daughter is also crossing the threshold from middle to high school. We have proms, three in total since my middle schooler was invited to another school's 8th Grade dance. We have graduation dinners, Masses, parents' breakfasts, post-graduation celebrations, and the usual end-of-year parties. And, I won't even mention, the many outside school activities that our girls and son have!<br />
<br />
Then, there's work. My station recently launched three additional half-hour newscasts and, during the past 6-months, we have been overwhelmed with planning, hirings, adjusting schedules and staff roles, rehearsals, consultants and corporate scrutiny, audience analysis research, and a never-ending avalanche of meetings, meetings, and more meetings. <br />
<br />
To top it off, our high school senior finally decided to get her driver's license and started driving on her own!<br />
<br />
The last several weeks have felt like I landed on the planet Morag, where Peter Quill, aka Star-Lord, goes to steal the orb in <i>Guardians of the Galaxy</i>, surrounded by those freakish looking rats and Ronan's forces coming to get me. Except I don't have the high-tech helmet to help me fly or the double-barrelled guns, or the great cassette-player music playing in the background. Do you think Ronan would fall for another dance off? In any case, it's not what you think. As Matchbox 20 would say, "I'm not crazy. I'm just a little unwell." <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdt2Zw2Fb6WIZkjvqyKpXXkWdRs90LsbsfJIZAw7uABptisYi6mB77_Y8NAfq61I3VFfrMq8B742ynfQ_654HQgomNrsR3th6ittHoaabjFGrIENwTDj8jvFhTQci4y8VWzzggLYNlFK0/s1600/Star+Lord....jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="922" data-original-width="1080" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdt2Zw2Fb6WIZkjvqyKpXXkWdRs90LsbsfJIZAw7uABptisYi6mB77_Y8NAfq61I3VFfrMq8B742ynfQ_654HQgomNrsR3th6ittHoaabjFGrIENwTDj8jvFhTQci4y8VWzzggLYNlFK0/s320/Star+Lord....jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Star-Lord... </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So, yes, I've been a bit edgy. Anxiety. Concern. Apprehension. They've permeated me like the urge a teenager gets to check their cell phone for acknowledgment, after posting on social media; they can't help it!<br />
<br />
I realize it all stems from fear and fear is the true measure of a man's faith since, if you don't trust God, how real is your faith? Unfortunately, despite thinking my faith never waivers, at least since my return to the Church thirteen years ago, anxiety often gets the best of me, especially when it involves my children. It's the sense of losing control.<br />
<br />
I can lose control and place it in God's hands when it comes to me. As the saying goes, when you have nowhere else to turn, you turn to God. But, with my children, I'm used to being the one in control; where they go to school, when they go to bed, when they go to Mass, whether they go out with friends or not, etc., etc.<br />
<br />
Now, with my oldest daughter, I'm having to face the fact that soon, I won't be in control. And, it terrifies the heck out of me!<br />
<br />
As I admitted to some friends recently, my fear and insecurities are mostly based on the thought of having failed as a father; of not having passed on my faith to her correctly, of not instilling in her a proper moral foundation that will help her stave off challenges and of not having imparted a sincere desire for righteousness and holiness.<br />
<br />
Shortly, she will be exposed to a world that is totally opposed to God and, especially the Catholic Church and all that she stands for, a culture that is totally opposed to absolute truth, since it claims truth is relevant, and a society that is totally opposed to traditional family values and conservative principles, where her sheltered Catholic school life will be challenged in a sea of opposing points of view. The fact that I may not have more time to recover from my parental shortcomings is weighing heavily in my heart.<br />
<br />
Therefore, in an involuntary defense mechanism, which I know drives her farther away instead of drawing her closer, I get bitter. I challenge her interests in becoming an actress, even though my brother and his wife, have been successfully acting professionally for over 20 years, or becoming a criminal attorney, even though I know several highly successful criminal defense lawyers, or even getting her driver's license, because everything she proposes sounds like steps away from me; and away from my control.<br />
<br />
In a deeper sense, I guess, it comes down to love. The reason parents put rules on our children (use control) is because we love them and want them to grow up healthy, happy and safe. Let's face it, left to their own devices, kids can easily bring harm on themselves and others, whether intentionally or not; unless they use temperance and restraint. As parents, we don't want them to make the same mistakes we made. Therefore, we try to protect them from themselves. <br />
<br />
St. Theresa of Avila once said, <i>"Let nothing disturb you, nothing cause you fear. All things pass; God is unchanging. Patience obtains all. Whoever has God lacks nothing; God alone suffices." </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
It's time for me to show a little more patience and a lot more faith.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
I was serving at a men's retreat this past weekend, in the midst of my internal turmoil, and God spoke to me. Again, not crazy just a little unwell but it was clear as day. It came in the form of a drawing and bible quote from an unnamed 5th grader at my kids' school.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsaY64gxVoqOr9VZ2PJ5vVnuVQ6KGxqhCSr5GIXPDItcpsG5CIe_OSWKeyrBTdMn2DZ4c15cSnrriTcAEleAMWTx1A9OqqLF13Y-3B7kJ9ZZLoVBWL0lQRv7UB01ym6iiZE7qJRCMvwo/s1600/IMG_3237+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsaY64gxVoqOr9VZ2PJ5vVnuVQ6KGxqhCSr5GIXPDItcpsG5CIe_OSWKeyrBTdMn2DZ4c15cSnrriTcAEleAMWTx1A9OqqLF13Y-3B7kJ9ZZLoVBWL0lQRv7UB01ym6iiZE7qJRCMvwo/s320/IMG_3237+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Profound message from a 5th grader; or God!...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was a version of the passage from the Gospel of Matthew that states, <i>"Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you." (Matt 6:33)</i><br />
<br />
It's a popular verse, which I have read and heard many times before but what struck me, in the context of my insecurities, was the drawing the little girl had made.<br />
<br />
It was a drawing of a girl standing next to a church.<br />
<br />
As I studied it closer, chills came over me and my eyes watered. Of course! Seek first the kingdom of God. To seek first the kingdom means to believe in His Rein. And, to believe in His Rein means to accept His control, not mine! He was telling me to trust Him!<br />
<br />
The drawing put it all together. It represented my older daughter, who happens to have black hair like the girl in the picture, standing next to a church. As if to say, if I sought first God's Kingdom, believed in His control and trusted Him, my daughter would never be far from the Church!<br />
<br />
As hard as it seems to let go, with all the distractions and pressures of life trying to consume me, like the freakish rats in Morag and Ronan's envoys, sans the great background soundtrack, in the bottom of my heart, I realize my daughter doesn't belong to me. She belongs to God. And, His love for her is greater than I can ever imagine. <br />
<br />
Therefore, I need to ask for strength as the father of the boy possessed by a spirit says to Jesus in the Gospel of Mark, <i>"Lord, I do believe. Help my unbelief." (Mk 9:24)</i><br />
<br />
Lord, into your hands I commend your daughter...Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2800715528740636917.post-47768989109521072482019-03-30T13:19:00.004-04:002019-03-31T12:31:34.956-04:00Battle Ready Behind Enemy Lines...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doug Barry; Battle Ready... </td></tr>
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Following the attack on Pearl Harbor, Calvin Graham enlisted in the U.S. Navy.<br />
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He went to boot camp in San Diego, more than 1,400 miles away from his home in Texas, and, after the 6-week training, was sent to Pearl Harbor and assigned to the USS South Dakota.<br />
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A month later, Graham saw his first action in combat in the Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands, where he and his shipmates earned a Navy Unit Commendation for their involvement.<br />
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About 2 weeks later, Graham was injured by shrapnel during the Naval Battle of Guadalcanal but, despite the injury, he helped pull other wounded soldiers to safety aboard the ship. He was awarded the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart medals and he and the entire crew of the USS South Dakota were awarded another Navy Unit Commendation.<br />
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Graham was 12-years-old! After having served for two years, the military learned that he had lied about his age to enlist and he was immediately discharged. He re-enlisted in the Marines Corp in 1948. He was 17.<br />
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"There used to be a fighting spirit in America," Speaker Doug Barry told a group of about 250 participants at the Archdiocese of Miami's 9th Annual Men's Conference, which I attended recently at Nativity Catholic Church in Hollywood, Fl.<br />
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"Men wanted to enlist. They wanted to fight for what they believed and they were willing to die to protect what they loved back home."<br />
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Men have come a long way since those days. Unfortunately, not always in a good way.<br />
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Today, about the only fighting many men are willing to enlist for may be on social media, where the enemy is kept at a distance and the engagement impersonal. And, as far as service? Well, if you consider going by the drive-through window to pick up dinner for the family on the way home from work, maybe. Many men are sleep-walking through existence, too distracted to live up to their full potential and too defeated by life and the culture to take up arms and fight the good fight.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calvin Graham... </td></tr>
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Yet, now more than ever, Barry stressed, there is a dire need for righteous men to be ready for battle, "Men, your families are under attack and you're the first line of defense."<br />
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The former co-host of EWTN's <i>Life on the Rock </i>and current host of <i>Battle Ready</i> continued, "The attack is coming from the world, from the flesh, and from the Devil. We need to be battle ready!"<br />
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It's a battle for the soul, he says; for our salvation and for the soul and salvation of our family.<br />
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And for many, the battle may not come at them so fiercely as in pornography on the internet, a happy hour with buddies that leads to a night of carousing at a strip bar, or a new young secretary at work.<br />
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It may come in subtleties.<br />
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I constantly have to battle selfishness and self-centeredness. I constantly have to battle complacency and laziness. I constantly have to battle judging people who are not like me, and even those who are. I constantly have to battle taking my wife and kids for granted.<br />
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I can spend three hours watching a baseball game on TV but then complain I didn't have time to clear the dishwaters and put the dirty ones in the washer at night. It's a constant battle with myself; my own sinful tendencies.<br />
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As C.S. Lewis puts so eloquently in <i>The Screwtape Letters</i>, "Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one -- the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts..."<br />
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"There is a battle with an enemy," Barry says in the first episode of <i>Battle Ready</i>, "that seeks to destroy our souls for all eternity. The reality of this enemy is that it doesn't eat. It doesn't sleep. And, for thousands of years, this enemy has been watching mankind; looking at our weaknesses, our tendencies and how easily we get distracted and lose sight of the reality of the battle."<br />
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In his Letter to the Ephesians, St. Paul writes, <i>"Our struggle is not with flesh and blood but with the principalities, with the powers, with the world rulers of this present darkness, with the evil spirits in the heavens. Therefore, put on the armor of God, that you may be able to resist on the evil day and, having done everything, to hold your ground." (Eph. 6:12)</i><br />
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Faith is where it needs to begin. Faith brings forth hope. Hope, conviction. Conviction, courage and courage, readiness.<br />
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I sometimes tell my son, "Courage is when you do what is right even when you're afraid."<br />
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There is no shame in fear. The only shame is in allowing fear to keep you from doing what you should.<br />
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I love the scene in <i>The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King</i>, when King Theoden and his men approach the siege at the stone city of Minas Tirith, where Mordor's dark forces sit on the brink of destroying the entire city.<br />
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Theoden rides in front his numerous but outnumbered Riders of Rohan, who stand side-by-side on their horses, bracing for the battle against their behemoth foe. Theoden yells out, as he rides his horse in front of the warriors, "Arise, arise, Riders of Theoden! Spear shall be shaken, shield shall be splintered, a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!"<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Riders of Rohan; Battle Ready!... </td></tr>
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Then he turns back the other way and continues, "Ride now... Ride for the ruin and the world's ending!... Death!" They show the hobbit Merry Brandybuck and Theoden's daughter, who disguised herself as a knight to fight, gulp in fear. "Death!" Theoden yells a second time, as his troops gather themselves to begin their charge despite the odds against them. And, when the King yells a third time, his entire army, including the fearful Brandybuck and his daughter yell out in unison, "Death!" And the cavalry charges into the sea of Easterlings, Haradrim, and Orcs. They were the last hope for Middle Earth.<br />
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Barry told the men in the audience, "One of the favorite verses in the Bible for many men, which I hear as I speak to men across the country, is Ephesians 5, where it states,<i> 'Wives should be subordinate to their husbands as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of his wife as Christ is the head of the church.' (Eph. 5:22-23) </i>Christ died for the Church! Every day of our lives, we should look at the Crucifix and see what it means to be the head of our wife."<br />
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In the Book of Revelation, we read that when war broke out in Heaven, the dragon, Satan, and his fallen angels were hurled down, not to Hell but to earth!<br />
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Battle readiness, Barry argues, means being aware that we are behind enemy lines. We are in a spiritual war. We need to be prepared to protect and defend and get engaged.<br />
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"We have been entrusted with the lives of our families and we have to be ready to fight for them... Wives want their husbands to engage in the fight not to stand back and watch."<br />
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That doesn't mean getting into fisticuffs with an Atheist at the supermarket, It means Christian men need to learn their faith, live their faith, defend their faith and pass it to their children. Men need to, as Barry says, "own it."<br />
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Also, readiness doesn't just apply to mind and soul. It means the physical body as well, "If you want to be there for your wife and children, take care of your health... You're only ready to fight to the degree that you train."<br />
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The 54-year-old father of five (plus 2 in Heaven) from Lincoln, Nebraska, who has been married for 29 years, says that one day, his wife approached him while he was doing some housework and she said, "You know, God is going to judge you on a much stricter scale than He's ever going to judge me." She left the room momentarily as Barry babbled to himself trying to figure out why she meant.<br />
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She reappeared shortly and continued, "Because you, as a husband and father, will be judged by how well you tried to lead me and the kids to heaven. While, I as your wife, will be judged by how well I let you lead our family to heaven."<br />
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Edmund Burke once wrote, "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." Failure is not an option. Like the Riders of Rohan, we are the last hope.<br />
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"I am my family's defender and protector. I'm never going to relinquish that role. It's never going to happen. Not on my watch."<br />
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So like Calvin Graham and King Theoden, it's time to heed way to the dying advice of King David to his son Solomon, <i>"Take courage and be a man."</i><br />
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Of course, King Theoden dies on the battlefield and so did Jesus on the Cross but, in the end, Christ's Resurrection ensures that good triumphs over evil and so will we, if we are battle ready, prepare and engage...<br />
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<br />Carlos Espinosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16714149763127456271noreply@blogger.com0