Tag Archives: Faith

FramilySaid™: For When “Bless Your Heart” Isn’t Enough

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Benjamin Franklin had Poor Richard.
TheWiredResearcher now welcomes a guest contributor:
Poor Brentford Lee,
who has agreed to sanctify our troubled times
with a bold mix of satire and sass.

Approved by ole Ben Franklin.
Improved by Poor Brentford Lee

“Forgiveness is divine—but FramilySaid™ is faster and comes in gummable gummies.”

-— Poor Brentford Lee (b. 1947). Unlicensed. Unfiltered. Unapologetically adopted.
Known for saying the quiet part loud, he’s back by popular demand (and at least one cease-and-desist letter). Seasoned expert in nothing but experience. Sourdough connoisseur. Self-declared inventor of emotional supplements. Hangs out somewhere between a heavenly blessing and A HOMEMADE biscuit (preferably sourdough).

Years and years ago, in one of my brilliant moments—you know, the kind that arrive somewhere between misplacing your glasses and finding your purpose—I concocted a miracle elixir. An emotional balm. A psychological salve. A chewable sacrament.

And I’m convinced—when it’s finally patented, mass-produced, and widely distributed—it will relieve the world of all its wounds and arrows of outrageous fortune.

Or, at the very least, it will help you forget them for a little while. And really, isn’t that what the world needs most right now? Not advice. Not enlightenment. Not deep therapy.

All you need is Forgetfulness.

Chances are good that if you’re reading this—and have not forgotten—you’re an Oldie-Goldie who still remembers when love was all you needed, and your hips didn’t pop when you bent over.

But friend, times have changed. Now what the world needs isn’t just love—it’s a little bit of blessed, blissful forgetfulness.

So in the spirit of rock legends and gospel truths, I offer you an updated version of the Beatles’ classic. Hum along. Or gum along. Or just pretend you know the tune and clap on the offbeat:

All You Need Is Forgetfulness (Redux)
(with apologies to Lennon & McCartney—and gratitude, too)

There’s nothing they can say that can’t be un-heard
No shame so deep it can’t be deterred
No burn so old it can’t be un-spurred
You can let it go

All you need is forgetfulness
(Da-da-da-da-da)
All you need is forgetfulness
(Sing it like you mean it)
All you need is forgetfulness, forgetfulness
Forgetfulness is all you need

(Slide whistle optional. Biscuit in hand, sourdough preferred.)

Yep. That’s it. All you need is forgetfulness. Not the kind that sneaks up on you in your golden years, when you can’t remember who you bit when you meant to kiss or where you were going with your pants unzipped or where you’ve been with a bowl of popcorn when you went to get strawberries. No—I’m talking about on-demand forgetfulness. Reliable, immediate, with controlled-release options for holidays, family reunions, and any Sunday when your phone rings before you’ve had time to check your Fitbit to make sure you made it through the night.

That, My Dear Readers, is where FramilySaid™ comes in.

They mean well. They always do—those “bless your heart” people. But sometimes, what your framily says can lodge itself right in the soft tissue of your soul, like a splinter from the communion table.

That’s why I made FramilySaid™—not FDA-approved (yet), but clinically proven (by yours truly) to dull the sting of being emotionally ignored by people who should know better. In gummable form, naturally.

A Quick Word about the Name.

FramilySaid™ is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a mountain prof’s fusion of friends, family, and the things they’ve said—bless ’em.

Because sometimes, it’s the people closest to you (by blood—or, in my case, by adoption—history, or shared casserole) whose words linger just a little too long. Who don’t mean to hurt you but somehow do. Who support you privately … but not publicly. Who say “I love you” but never with the clincher: “just the way you are.”

When they speak and zing you with their petty little barbs? FramilySaid™ can help you. Un-hear it. Un-feel it. Un-bother yourself entirely.

A New Kind of Relief.

I developed this product in a dimly lit, emotionally unstable lab located precisely between my kitchen and a moment of near-epiphany. FramilySaid™ is the first over-the-counter solution specifically designed to help you temporarily forget your people. Not all of them, bless ’em. Just the ones whose “support” lost all its elasticity because you’re doing all the emotional heavy lifting.

Get this. FramilySaid™ is so hip that it comes in gummy form. Flavors include Denial-Drop Cherry and Emotional Support Butterscotch. Easy to chew. Easy to swallow. No dentures? No problem. Just gum it and go.

I just heard a panicked soul (bless their heart) blurt out:

“How can I get me some?”

Well, bless your little heart. It’s so simple. Go online–or use your phone app–and in just a few clicks you’ll be consulting with a doctor named “Jeff” who is definitely certified but not necessarily licensed. Within days or maybe even as soon as yesterday—Poof! A discreet brown package arrives at your door—just like your sex toys arrive, but with more dignity—and fewer batteries.

Anyway, from that point forward, you’ve got protection from friends and family. Take FramilySaid™ when the text message lands wrong. Take it when the smile feels fake. Take it when someone who “loves you no matter what” leaves your partner off the guest list.

Take it. Just take it. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it.

Now go ahead. Swallow your truth with a buttery sourdough biscuit, included free, one for every FramilySaid™ gummy included in your order. Remember: Cheaper by the Baker’s Dozen.

Now breathe. Breathe again. You’ve got this.

Situations When You Might Need a Gummy.

Situation #1. You call with good news—any kind of news, really—and they respond with:

“Oh, that’s… nice.”

You smile politely. Take a FramilySaid™ gummy. Let the world blur at the edges.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? Why, he’d just sigh and say:

“Law me, child…”

And then he’d smile sweetly, fold his napkin with precision, and add demurely:

“Well, bless your little pea-pickin’ heart. Would you pass the sourdough biscuits?”

Situation #2. You share something meaningful—a photo, a milestone, a moment—and get nothing but a thumbs-up emoji.

You chew slowly. Cinnamon apathy floods your tongue.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? He’d lean back, fan himself once, and say:

“Why, don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours nary one bit.”

Then, with that same cool smile, he’d add:

“Well, bless your little heart. Would you pass the sourdough biscuits? I need me ‘nuther one”

Situation #3. You confide in someone you thought might be a safe space. Instead, they tilt their head like a golden retriever hearing static and say:

“Well, as long as you’re happy.”

You double your dosage and erase five awkward conversations from memory.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? Why, he’d just sigh and say:

“Law me, child… we are officially rationing warmth now.”

And then he’d smile sweetly, fold his napkin precisely, and add demurely:

“Well, bless your little heart. Them sourdough biscuits sure are good. Can I have just one more? Not the whole basket. Thank you kindly.”

Situation #4. Someone finally asks:

“How did you two old geysers meet anyway?”

But get this. Their tone sounds more like a customs agent than a curious soul.

You suddenly feel like a suspect in your own joy. FramilySaid™ softens the interrogation.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? He’d lift one eyebrow, cross his silverware, and murmur:

“Law me, child. Love ain’t no interview.”

Then he’d smile–all teeth, all grace–and whisper at his loudest:

“Well, bless your little heart. I think I’ll have another sourdough biscuit—maybe two if you’re feeling generous.”

Situation #5. On one of your hardest days ever in your entire ancient life, you look up at the sky—not metaphorically, but really look—and ask:

“God? Really? After all I’ve done to live with grace, to love deeply, to forgive… and this is still where I land?”

That’s when you reach for the God-level dose. FramilySaid™ won’t answer the prayer. But it will quiet the ache long enough for you to refill your hope.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? He’d blink once, breathe deep, and say,

“Law me, child. Even Heaven can ghost you sometimes.”

Then with a reverent nod upward:

“Well, bless your eternal heart. Hand me a biscuit. The everlastin’ kind.”

™ … ™ … ™

Final Notes from the Founder.

Every time you take FramilySaid™, you’ll forget for a spell. You’ll feel better for a spell.
Might smile, hum a tune, maybe even whistle while folding your fitted sheets.

But eventually—inevitably—you’ll sit real still. And your heart will tap you on the shoulder and say:

“This ache? It don’t need numbing. It needs naming.”

And you’ll remember:

“It wasn’t the forgetting that healed you. It was remembering the friendship and kinship you truly deserve.“

So go ahead. Declare what you need. Claim your joy. Refill your prescriptions for love, laughter, and a little holy audacity.

And if someone still doesn’t get it?

“Well, bless their little hearts. Just hand ’em one of those perpetual sourdough biscuits and smile like you mean it.”

Coming Soon from the Maker of FramilySaid™.

Because sometimes one generic gummy just isn’t enough, the Maker offers you some specific options:

● SisterStrength™ – For passive-aggression that’s been simmering since the day before forever.

● CousinClear™ – When you can’t remember which cousin sells snake-oils and which one married his ex’s sister brother’s husband.

● UncleMute™ – One dose silences three stories about the Civil Wah he and his kin are still fightin’.

● MatriarchMax™ – For that layered guilt, always served hot, always with a side of pie—and a smile.

● HolidayProlonged Release™ – Kicks in during grace and peaks after the second round of green bean casserole.

A Final, Final Word from the Maker—Yours and Mine—The Big One Who Always Gets the Last Word.

Forgetting isn’t what you need, child.
Remembering what you’re worth?
Dagnabbit. That’s exactly what you need.
That’s the real prescription.
(Signed, sealed, and delivered by Poor Brentford Lee, totally unlicensed but highly seasoned.)

While you’re remembering, just reach up and hand me a sourdough biscuit, swallow your pride, go ahead and make up with your low-down, no-good Framily. And then? Move it. Move it. Move it—as fast as a tumbleweed in a windstorm.

And don’t forget Poor Brentford Lee, sitting here, there, and everywhere–all smiles–saying to himself for no one else to hear:

“Law me. Won’t you lay one on me? No, no. Not a biscuit—though they are mighty fine. Just a blessing, child. That’s all I ever needed.”

Poor Brentford Says

“Your worth doesn’t need a witness.
Show up for yourself.
That’s the real feast.”

The Demons We All Wrestle

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“You may have to fight a battle more than once to win it.”

— Margaret Thatcher (1925–2013)
British Prime Minister, nicknamed the “Iron Lady” for her fierce persistence.

Swearing is not my thing. But right now—for once, maybe even on a stack of Bibles (to my Mother’s eternal horror)—I’m going to do it anyway. I swear that my daily demons line themselves up every night when I go to bed, watching as I lie there all peaceful like, orchestrating my next-day goals.

I see them out of the corner of my eye, leaning in, peering, looking carefully as I tap, tap my list on my phone.

And you know what? I swear, they’re waiting for me the next morning.

More often than not, they show up as soon as I start my biking, maybe because that’s how I start my day, right after coffee. I know that if I don’t bike then, I won’t bike at all. The first demon arrives before I even lace my shoes. It whispers:

“Why so early? You’ve got other things you need to do first. You can bike later.”

Nice try. But I’m on to that trick. I know that when it comes to biking, later never comes.

Another one comes at me from a different angle.

“Today? You’ve been doing this every day. You need a break. Take the day off.”

“Get behind me, Satan! I’m biking as usual.”

But get this. By mile three, another demon shows up:

“You’ll never finish.”

I keep pedaling, but the demons keep coming. By mile seven, I’m hearing:

“Yeah. Your butt sure is sore. If you keep going, it’s going to be sore as hell tomorrow.”

I keep on going. And so it goes, on and on through all the miles—10, 15, 20—riding against a whole Satanic chorus, chasing me faster and faster and faster.

Fiercely determined. Fiercely persistent. Fiercely anchored. That’s how I win the biking battle. Usually.

The next demon that hounds me is procrastination. Don’t get me wrong—I know better. I know the wisdom about “breaking things down,” about taking the first step, about Ben Franklin’s truth that “little strokes fell great oaks.” But when I’m staring at the big picture, the demon of procrastination is quick to pounce.

It starts yammering:

“It’s too much. You don’t even know where to start. Better put it off until tomorrow. You’ll see it clearer then, rested and fresh.”

And the sly part is—it sounds almost reasonable. That’s how this demon works. It pretends it’s looking out for me. But I know the truth: once I give in, tomorrow becomes the next day, and the next day, and soon the oak is still standing, unscarred.

So I fight. I start small. One tap of the keys, one page, one email sent. A single stroke against the oak.

Fiercely determined. Fiercely persistent. Fiercely anchored. That’s how I win the procrastination battle. Usually.

I have other demons, of course. But they’re far too personal to divulge for all the world to know. I’m not about to share them.

Like the demon that tells me that my writing will never be good enough to be discovered by a magazine or a newspaper syndicate.

Or the demon that mocks long-range planning at my age, reminding me that there’s far more behind me than there will ever be ahead.

And I’m certainly not going to tell you about the demon that wonders what waits on the other side of the great divide—the same divide every one of us will cross, where all have gone before to face the mysteries of beyond forever.

Like I said, they’re way too personal. So I’ll keep them to myself.

But I’ve gotten to the point in my life that my demons don’t embarrass me anymore because I know that to be human is to battle the demons that strive to undo us.

And besides, we all have our demons. You do, too. Some of them may be the same as mine.

Or maybe you have the demon of worry, who shows up right on schedule, carrying a suitcase that never unpacks. The demon of regret, who loves to remind us of choices we can’t un-choose, words we can’t un-say. The demon of loneliness, who doesn’t bother knocking—just slips in and makes himself at home.

Or the demon of disappointment who lingers when the prize you’ve chased turns out to be a shadow.

Or what about weariness, when the weight of the day presses like red Virginia clay, and every step feels heavier than the last.

And then there’s doubt—the slyest demon of them all—always ready with the same question:

“Are you sure you’re enough?”

These aren’t strangers to you or to me or to any of us. They’re regulars. They know the way in. They don’t need an invitation.

I’m fairly certain that I heard someone somewhere right now screaming in disbelief:

“Get real. Those don’t count as demons at all compared to the ones that I’m battling.”

I hear you. I understand. I’ve been blessed because I’ve never had to deal with the demons of addiction—alcohol, drugs, gambling. Or the demons of abuse—physical, emotional, sexual—the kind that scar the body and the soul.

I’ve never faced the demon of homelessness, not knowing where I’d sleep. Or the demon of hunger, not knowing where my next meal would come from.

I’ve been spared the demon of crushing poverty, the one that never lets you breathe free. And I’ve never lived under the demon of war, with its bombs and sirens and losses that can’t be counted.

But it seems to me—and yes, I know my limited experience might make this sound overly simplistic—whatever demon we face, we have to be fiercely determined. We have to be fiercely persistent. We have to be fiercely anchored. That’s how we win our daily battles with whatever demons come after us.

But let me emphasize here one key word that I emphasized earlier. Usually.

Being fiercely determined, being fiercely persistent, and being fiercely anchored enables us to win our battles daily. Usually.

But as we all know, some days we lose the battle. We all do. And when we lose, it stings. The demons strut, they jeer, they claim the day as theirs. They would have us believe that losing once means losing for good.

But they’re wrong.

Because a lost battle is not a lost war. It’s a stumble, not a surrender. And tomorrow—always tomorrow—the fight begins again.

The demons will be there, lined up and waiting, whispering their same old lies. And we’ll be there, too. Fiercely determined. Fiercely persistent. Fiercely anchored. Ready to face them.

We may not win every day. Sometimes, we do. Sometimes, we don’t. But we show up anyway. Because being human has never been about living without demons. It’s about never letting them have the last word.

And in case you’re wondering, let me assure you. They’ll be back. But guess what? We’ll be back—bruised, stubborn, laughing, and still ready to wrestle.

The Route Home

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“I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”

—Douglas Adams (1952–2001. Best known for his 1979 novel The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a blend of science fiction, sharp wit, and existential insight.)

Home was just a few miles away–ten at best–and I knew exactly how to get there. I could have done it blindfolded. But as I headed home, I decided to fool around with my Jeep’s navigation system. Just for fun. Just for the hell of it.

● Start ENGINE

● Press NAV

● Select HOME

● Press GO!

Getting home have been easier. I knew that a gentle voice would tell me just what to do and when to do it.

● Please proceed to the highlighted route

● At end of the road, turn left on Hoover Road

● Turn left

I decided to turn right. That’s where my fun began.

● Route recalculated

● At end of the road, turn right

● In one thousand feet turn right

● Take the next right onto I-81 toward Edinburg

No way. I wasn’t about to hop on the Interstate, head south to Edinburg, then backtrack on Rt. 11 toward home.

I ignored the commands. I kept right on going while my Jeep’s voice kept right on trying to change my mind:

● Route recalculation. Make a U-turn where possible.

Eventually, I decided that I needed to stop foolin’ around. It was obvious–and I knew it anyway–that my Jeep’s navigation system would keep redirecting me with each of my wrong turns until I reached home.

But that little joyride made me realize something. I may not be the world’s best when it comes to getting from one place to the next, but I’ve always managed to find my way. Even in the days of printed road maps, I got where I needed to go. I highlighted my routes in yellow so I could see them clearly. And even when I forgot the map, I figured that I’d end up in the right place if I followed the road signs, stayed mindful of cardinal directions, and paid attention to my brain’s compass. It always seemed to work.

These days, with GPS built into every vehicle, I may not always take the shortest route. But I trust my Jeep’s system enough to head off anywhere, barely noticing my surroundings, confident that I’ll get a heads-up when it’s time to turn.

Still, after that bit of foolin’ around, I found myself scratching my head and wondering:

Do I extend that same trust to the systems that guide my life’s journey?

Do you?

In truth, we have navigational systems for nearly everything that matters—health, learning, careers, relationships, aging, and faith. We know the basics. We’ve heard about them. We’ve read about them. We’ve lived long enough to know that they work. But how often do we trust them? How often do we follow their cues with the same confidence that we give a GPS?

Take health, for example. The map isn’t mysterious: eat real food, move your body, sleep enough, manage your stress, hydrate, and laugh once in a while. We’ve seen the studies. We’ve heard it from doctors and mothers and friends who’ve faced wake-up calls. And still, we drive right past the obvious. We skip meals or eat meals that barely qualify as such. We stay up late, ignore symptoms, and postpone appointments. The check engine light flashes, and we figure we’ll deal with it next week.

And then there’s education. Curiosity and critical thinking are clearly marked paths. We’re told to keep learning, keep questioning, and keep evolving. And yet, how many of us treat learning like something that ends with a diploma or a degree? Or reject new ideas because they don’t come from their usual route? We scroll more than we study and nod along more than we inquire. We’d rather feel certain than feel stretched.

When it comes to careers, we’ve got entire industries built around career navigation—assessments, mentors, and step-by-step plans. We’re advised to find meaning, stay flexible, and avoid burnout. But those signs are easy to ignore when the faster route promises more money, more status, or just less fear. We trade direction for acceleration, only to find we’re speeding toward a place we never meant to go.

Even in relationships, we know the guidance there too: communicate, be honest, show up, listen, say thank you, and forgive. Don’t just speak—connect. Love is not a mystery novel. And yet we sabotage, assume, ghost, or stay silent. We expect relationships to work without maintenance. And when they don’t, we blame the other driver instead of checking the map.

Aging? There’s no avoiding this road. Ask me. I know. But there is a way to travel it. Let go of what no longer fits. Befriend your limits. Gather your joys and carry them with you. The people who age well usually do it with humor, grace, and a willingness to take new roads—even slower ones. But many of us cling to the idea that if we just hit the gas hard enough, we can outrun time. Spoiler alert: we can’t.

And faith—whatever form that takes. Every tradition has its own kind of compass. Not a GPS, no. There’s no turn-by-turn audible voice telling you exactly what to do. But there is the inner voice–the compass that knows, even when the map is blank. And there are coordinates: love, service, awe, humility, and compassion. Yet faith may be one of the hardest to trust because we’re not 100% certain of the destination. At best, we have a hope that we will arrive. In the meantime, faith requires that we keep on moving, even when the road ahead is unknown and sometimes dark.

I scratch my head again, and I wonder: Why is it so easy to trust the voice in our vehicles–and so hard to trust the wisdom we’ve already been given?

I think I know. Maybe it’s because GPS promises certainty. It offers fast answers, smooth roads, and an almost soothing illusion that we are in control. Life doesn’t work that way. Life meanders. It doubles back. It throws in detours, delays, and dead ends. And unlike our vehicles’ voices, the inner systems that help us live well—truly live—don’t shout. They speak softly in hushed tones. They require attention. They assume we’re willing to participate.

Still, I wonder: what if we gave those quiet inner systems the same trust that we give the GPS?

What if we followed the map toward health, education, careers, relationships, aging, and faith—not perfectly, but faithfully? What if, when we made a wrong turn, we heard a calm voice say: Don’t worry. Recalculating. What if we believed it?

Maybe then we’d realize that we were never really lost. We were just rerouted, always headed in the right direction–home.

“I Don’t Have Much to Give, but What I Have, I Give.”

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“It’s not how much we give, but how much love we put into giving.”

—Mother Teresa (1910–1997; Roman Catholic nun and missionary known for her selfless work with the poor, sick, and dying; awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1979 for her humanitarian efforts.)

The air inside the canvas tent was heavy, thick with summer heat and the smell of fresh-cut pine from the makeshift floorboards. Bare bulbs swayed on frayed wires, throwing jittery shadows over the crowd crammed onto metal chairs and wooden benches. Paper fans—free from the local funeral home—fluttered in tired hands, stirring the humid air as the preacher’s voice climbed, urgent and raw, above the hum of crickets outside. Kids fidgeted, women in cotton dresses leaned forward, and men with rolled-up sleeves nodded, their hats resting in their laps. And then, as always, came the offering plate—a dented tin pan, making its slow, clinking way through the crowd, carried by hands that gave what they could.

In the back of the tent sat a young crippled boy, crutches by his side. When the offering plate was passed to him, he laid his crutches on the plate, saying just above a whisper:

“I don’t have much to give, but what I have, I give.”

As the preacher ended the story, he always added:

“Narry a dry eye was left in the tent that night.”

I wasn’t in the tent that night, but more than once, I heard about what happened from the preacher who was there. The story gave me a gut-punch then, and it still does. It underscores the power of giving our all—even when it seems small or insignificant or inappropriate–and it emphasizes that giving isn’t about the size of the gift. It’s about the spirit behind it.

The message is exactly the same as the one that we discover in the Parable of the Widow’s Mite. Jesus sat watching people bring their offerings to the temple treasury. Wealthy individuals came forward, dropping in large sums, their coins clinking loudly as they gave from their abundance. Then, a poor widow approached quietly and placed in just two small coins—everything she had to live on–all she had. The parable and the tent revival story highlight the value of giving from the heart and the spirit of generosity, not the amount given.

History is punctuated with examples of how, time and time again, people give what they can, and their generous spirit makes an impact that lasts and lasts.

I’m thinking, for example, of how ordinary Americans helped fund the pedestal for the Statue of Liberty. It’s a powerful and inspiring example of collective giving. When France gave the Statue of Liberty to the United States in 1885, the statue itself was completed and shipped, but the U.S. was responsible for building the pedestal—and there wasn’t enough money to finish it.

Wealthy donors weren’t stepping up, and the project was at risk of failure. That’s when Joseph Pulitzer, the newspaper magnate, launched a fundraising campaign through his paper, The New York World. Pulitzer called on everyday Americans to contribute whatever they could and promised to print the names of all donors in the paper, no matter how small the contribution.

The response was overwhelming. Schoolchildren sent in pennies. Workers sent nickels and dimes, often with heartfelt letters explaining that they wanted to be part of something greater. In total, over 120,000 people contributed, many giving less than a dollar. These small donations raised the $100,000 needed (equivalent to millions today) and ensured that the Statue of Liberty would stand as a beacon of hope and freedom.

Fast forward to 1938, the heart of the Great Depression. People were scraping by, yet somehow, when President Franklin D. Roosevelt asked for help to fight polio, Americans found a way. He didn’t ask for much—a dime from every person. Just a dime. And those dimes came pouring in. Schoolchildren sent them wrapped in notebook paper. Factory workers sent them in greasy envelopes. Housewives sent theirs with notes of encouragement. The effort became known as the March of Dimes, and it raised millions to fund research that eventually gave us the polio vaccine.

For me, this story hits close to home—not because the March of Dimes directly helped me, but because I lived the reality of polio. I contracted the disease in 1951, a few years before the vaccine changed everything. As one of the lucky survivors, I’ve always felt a deep connection to the campaign. Every year, I joined in, adding my own dimes and encouraging others to give. The work didn’t stop with polio. By the late 1950s, the March of Dimes expanded its mission to fight birth defects and improve infant health. That little dime became something bigger—a reminder that small gifts, multiplied, can transform lives.

I’m thinking, too, of the mid-1950s, when civil rights activists in Montgomery, Alabama, were facing another uphill battle—segregation on city buses. When Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat, the black community responded with a bus boycott. But boycotting wasn’t free. People still had to get to work, to school, to the grocery store. So, what did they do? They gave.

Nickels and dimes paid for carpools. Families who owned cars gave their time, driving neighbors for free. Churches pooled donations to cover legal fees for arrested protesters.
It wasn’t easy—some folks walked miles every day rather than ride those buses—but they gave what they could. Their giving fueled a movement that lasted 381 days and ultimately changed the laws of this country. One ride at a time, one nickel at a time.

These stories, spanning decades, remind me of how I’ve been inspired by and touched by the giving spirit. Like the boy in the tent or the countless dimes sent to fight polio, these moments of generosity have shaped my own journey.

I have lots of examples where people gave from their heart to help me. I’ll share just one. When I graduated from high school in 1965, I was blessed to have scholarships and student loans to pay for my college tuition as well as room and board. Even so, I knew that buying textbooks would be a huge problem. My parents and siblings didn’t have a lot to give, but what they had, they gave. I still needed more, as did other classmates whose families had the same limited finances as mine. To our surprise and great joy, the citizens of my hometown established the Shady Spring Citizens Scholarship fund and awarded each of us college-bound graduates $150, specifically to buy our textbooks. That check meant my future to me.

Down through the years, that generosity has lingered with me, and I have looked for little ways to pay it forward.

For example, when my niece/goddaughter was born, I started saving my pocket change every day. That first year, pennies. The next, pennies and nickels. Then, pennies, nickels, and dimes. Pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters followed. Finally, all of my pocket change. I saved it regularly—no, faithfully, every day, seven days a week. Seventeen years later, when it came time for Janet to go to college, it was time for me to take all of my coffee cans—chock-full of daily pocket change—to the bank. I was surprised. Actually, I was stunned. As I watched the teller count the coins, I could hardly believe the final total: nearly $10,000. It wasn’t enough for a full year of tuition, but it was more than enough to ease her journey with textbooks, a laptop, and even a $500 savings bond—a future as bright as a shiny new penny.

For me, giving back has always been a way to honor the help I’ve received along the way. One way that I’m doing that this year is by donating all proceeds from my book More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed to the Student Success Fund at Laurel Ridge Community College where I taught. It’s not a lot, but I know that it might help a student in an emergency—maybe cover the cost of gas for commuting to class, pay for a textbook, or ease the stress of an unexpected expense. Small as it might seem, it’s my way of paying forward the generosity that shaped my own journey.

The truth is simple. Most of us aren’t in a position to make grand gestures, and we don’t have to be. The young boy in the tent didn’t. The widow in the parable didn’t. The countless Americans who gave nickels and dimes to fight polio didn’t. They gave what they could, and in doing so, they made a difference. We can, too.

Tomorrow is Giving Tuesday, a day set aside to do good. It started in 2012, and over the years, it’s grown into a global movement, inspiring millions of people around the world to give, collaborate, and celebrate generosity—not just on one day but all year long.

The idea is straightforward: give what you can, whether it’s your time, a donation, or simply lending your voice to support your community. From making someone smile to helping a neighbor or supporting a cause you care about, every act of kindness matters. We all have something to give, and together, those small acts add up to building the better world we all dream of.

As you approach Giving Tuesday, I would urge you to give to whatever cause that speaks to your heart. Whether it’s a few dollars, an hour of your time, or a gesture of kindness, remember that it’s not the size of the gift that matters—it’s the spirit behind it. Together, our small acts of generosity can spark change and lift others in ways we may never fully see but will always profoundly feel.

The News Is Here! Guess What? It’s Universally Good!

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We are all different expressions of one reality, different songs of one singer, different dances of one dancer.

–Swami Satchidananda (1914–2002; pioneering spiritual teacher who emphasized the unity of all religions and the interconnectedness of humanity, best known for founding Integral Yoga and promoting peace, love, and harmony globally.)

“Every cloud has a silver lining” is such a cliché that I’m appalled that I’m using it, no less at the beginning of my post. But I am. In a minute, you’ll understand why. For now, though, bear with me while I find out when the cliché was first used. Don’t run off! I’ll be right back after I consult my good friend, the Oxford English Dictionary (OED).

When I tell you what I found, you’ll be glad that you stayed. The expression started out as a truly original thought:

“Was I deceiv’d, or did a sable cloud Turne forth her silver lining on the night?”

That’s downright beautiful! Who gets the credit? John Milton. He used the phrase in Comus, his 1634 masque in which a virtuous Lady, lost in a magical forest, resists the temptations of the sorcerer Comus, the son of the wine god Bacchus and the sorceress Circe. With a combo like that, do I need to say more? Well, yes, I do, and I will. The “silver lining” in Lady’s dark cloud was the triumph of her chastity and inner strength over vice and deception. There. That says it all.

It took an understandably long, long time before Milton’s original thought veered off in the direction of becoming a cliché, thereby losing its impact. Let’s face it: most people would be challenged to remember Milton’s line, and if they did, they’d probably stumble over sable, perhaps not knowing that it means black or dark.

But don’t worry. Over time, the expression morphed into something more memorable and more understandable. More than two hundred years later, a variation appeared in Samuel Smiles’ Character (1871):

“While we see the cloud, let us not shut our eyes to the silver lining.”

Smiles was well-known for his self-help books, enshrining the basic Victorian values associated with the “gospel of work.”

Things started to speed up in the next decade, when an even more memorable version appeared in Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado, or the Town of Tutipu (1885):

“Don’t let’s be down-hearted! There’s a silver lining to every cloud.”

That comedic opera went on to become one of the most frequently performed works in the history of musical theatre. Little wonder that the line became overused and stale.

And there we have it: the birth of a cliché, with a small amount of its genealogical baggage tossed in for free. How’s that for good news?

Since the rest of this post is free, too, you’re getting a double dose of good news today. Who knows. With luck, maybe you’ll get even more. I hope so.

As for your humble bearer of all this free good news, apparently, I’ve been spreading it for a lifetime. My mother always boasted that I was born smiling, and I’ve kept right on smiling for nearly 77 years. I can’t help myself. Optimism is one of my core values. I guess you might say that I’m hardwired for seeing silver linings. There you have it: my personal good news and my rationale for opening this post with a cliché.

I wish that I could take full credit for seeing life as positively as I do. But I can’t. I have to acknowledge my mother. I have no doubt that while she was carrying me in her womb, she was conjuring up all the positive attributes that she wanted her sixth child to possess, and I’m sure that in addition to her conjurations, she was casting equally powerful spells on me and others by singing Gospels and by reading, praying, and preaching the Bible.

It took me a few years before I could sing the songs, pray the prayers, or read the Bible–the vessels carrying the Good News that was at the core of my Judeo-Christian upbringing.

But that was not a problem for me. Reading was not required for me to find my own good news, here, there, everywhere–outdoors.

I found as much delight in whispering to the buzzing honeybee cupped in my hand as I did chasing with wild abandon the heifer on the run through the coal camp, as confident that it would let me lead it home as I was certain that the honeybee would not sting the hand that proffered love.

I found as much joy lying in the grass blowing dandelion seeds into the sun as I did racing between the pitter patter of raindrops or as I did in dancing off to the end of the rainbow, coal bucket in hand so that I could bring back home all the gold nuggets awaiting my arrival.

I found as much miracle in green beans poking their fragile-coated selves through the hardness of blackened coal-camp earth as I did in the sticky white pinkness of the Mountain Laurel outside our kitchen door, stretching toward blue, over the top of the house.

And when someone reached up to the top of the Hoosier kitchen cabinet and turned off the horizontally ribbed, off-white Philco radio, I found myself believing that whatever song was playing would keep right on playing when someone else turned it back on, and if it didn’t, I believed beyond any shadow of a doubt that an even more beautiful melody would lift me up.

I found that the child in me awakened every morning, always delighted and excited to be part of a brand-new day, every second of every day. I had no idea what the day would bring, but I was eager for it to start ticking, knowing that I would find joy in its unfolding.

It should come as no surprise that everyone called me Little Mr. Sunshine. The good news that I found all around me stamped its imprimatur of a joyful smile upon my countenance.

It should come as even less of a surprise that when I learned to read and entered into a fuller understanding of the world around me, I was pulled as if by gravity itself to Robert Frost’s poetry and his profound connections between nature and humanity. In those early years of studying Frost, it did not matter that I did not see his darker side, personally or poetically. All that mattered was that his poetry spoke to my heart and made me believe–no, know–that I was part of the universal scheme of things. I’m thinking of poems like “Birches” and the speaker’s desire to escape the complexities of adult life and return to nature’s purity. Or “Mowing,” in which the speaker meditates on the act of mowing a field, focusing on the simple, rhythmic, and satisfying–almost sacred–connection between human labor and the natural world. And I can’t leave out his “Tree at My Window” and its compelling opening stanza:

Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.

I could relate. I never wanted the curtain drawn between me and the outer world, and, for that matter, I never felt that it could be drawn because I saw the outer world and my inner world as one and the same.

I could relate even more when I discovered Walt Whitman who saw mankind as an integral and interconnected part of nature, celebrating the unity between the human spirit and the natural world, where every individual is both a unique expression of life and a vital element in the eternal, cosmic cycle. I could blindly open Whitman’s Song of Myself, letting my hand fall on any page that I might open, hoping to find validation and the positive connection between man and the cosmos–my source for the good news–confident that I would find it. Right now, I’m thinking of Section 6, where Whitman uses the leaf of grass as a symbol of the individual and the continuity of life:

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

The leaf of grass becomes a metaphor for the cycle of life, the interconnectedness of all living things, and the mysteries of existence. Whitman reflects on how the grass can represent everything from the handkerchief of God to the graves of the dead, expressing his belief in the unity of nature and humanity.

The notion that all living things share an interconnectedness clutches my heart and shakes my soul in jubilant celebration. I am one with all. All is one with me. I’m not certain that the news gets any better. But it does. Let me explain.

When I started reading the Bible–one of the major books in the world declaring the Good News–I saw multiple ways of looking at it. Without a doubt, I understood that many Christians focus on the Good News as God’s plan to save humanity through Jesus Christ’s death and resurrection, offering forgiveness of sins and eternal life to those who believe. I also understood that others emphasize the coming of the Kingdom of God, where Jesus’ teachings bring transformation in how we live, treat others, and build just communities. Some understand the Gospel as a message of unconditional love, grace, and acceptance, where God’s love is freely given to all, regardless of merit. For some, the Good News is also a message of personal renewal and transformation, where individuals are invited to grow spiritually, morally, and in relationship with God. For others, the Gospel is about challenging social injustices and bringing peace, equality, and care for the marginalized, aligning with Jesus’ teachings on compassion and service.

It can, of course, be all those things. At the same time, a leaning toward one in no way excludes or minimizes the others. But for me personally, central to the spirit of the Good News is the belief that better times are coming. That doesn’t surprise me at all. This belief goes hand-in-hand with my conviction that every cloud has a silver lining. The idea that better times are ahead—whether today, tomorrow, or forever and a day—is a powerful way for me to stay hopeful and to embrace the positive transformations happening in my life. It’s uplifting for me to frame my life and life in general that way, because it keeps the focus on growth and renewal.

This is where the news starts getting better. The spirit of the Good News, as I see it—focused on personal transformation, hope, and the belief that better times are coming—resonates in other major world religions. While the specifics differ, many religions share themes of renewal, hope, and the potential for positive change.

Judeo-Christian beliefs are rich in Jewish thought and teachings with its strong emphasis on hope, justice, and the idea of tikkun olam (repairing the world). Jewish teachings often stress that despite the suffering or hardships experienced, there’s always hope for better times, often through collective effort and living according to the Torah’s ethical principles.

Emerging after Judaism and Christianity is Islam, with hope and transformation expressed through the belief in God’s mercy and guidance. Muslims believe that turning toward God, following the teachings of the Quran, and striving to live a just and righteous life bring both inner peace and divine rewards. The idea of continuous improvement (through repentance and good deeds) mirrors the personal transformation that I see in the Good News.

Another ancient world religion, Hinduism, also emphasizes personal growth through karma (the law of action) and dharma (righteous living). The belief in reincarnation offers a hopeful outlook that the soul evolves over lifetimes, learning and growing until it achieves moksha (liberation).

Closely related is Buddhism, in which the concept of transformation is central. The Four Noble Truths recognize the existence of suffering, but the Eightfold Path provides a way to overcome it, leading to enlightenment and freedom from suffering (nirvana). There’s a strong focus on personal growth and cultivating a positive mindset through mindfulness and right action.

In the same spirit, Taoism focuses on harmony with the Tao (the Way), advocating for living in balance with the natural order of the universe. The Taoist view of life’s constant flow and transformation aligns with a hopeful perspective, trusting in the natural unfolding of life and the possibility for renewal and peace.

Indigenous Spiritual Traditions agree with some truths to be found in these other paths of wisdom as I see them. Although indigenous belief systems are more localized, generally, they share a reverence for nature, for spirits, and for the interconnectedness of all life.

Search the foundational books and the oral traditions of all these world religions–the Bible, the Torah, the Quran, the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Bhagavad Gita, the Tripotaka, the Sutras, the Tao Te Ching, and the Zhuangzi--and you will discover that they are all deeply rooted in optimism, interconnectedness, and the power of personal growth. The wisdom of the world is that life is a web of connections–between nature, people, and the universe itself–moving outward in positive transformations.

I find comfort in knowing that the fire in me is in all, burning away the old in me, clearing space for new beginnings and transformation.

I find comfort in knowing that the rain that washes me washes all, rejuvenating, cleansing, nourishing, and purifying.

I find comfort in knowing that the wind that sweeps my face sweeps all, and elusive and unpredictable thought it might be, it blows in change, freedom, inspiration, and transformation.

I find comfort in knowing that the earth that anchors me anchors all, giving stability, permanence, and a connection to nature.

I find comfort in knowing that the life forces that live in me area are alive in everyone.

I find comfort in knowing that the life forces that surround in me are alive in all living things.

This is the Good News: in every faith, in every life, in every cloud, and in every clearing, there’s a silver lining. And that silver lining is universal. It’s hope. It’s renewal. It’s transformation. It’s better times ahead—for all of us. Together, one.

Beauty in Brokenness

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“You can’t break something that’s already broken, but you can always build something new.“

–Yoko Ono (b. 1933; best known for her avant-garde art and her influence in the peace movement alongside John Lennon.)

The pieces are on top of a bookcase, and they’ve been there for a month or so. Every time I walk past, I see them, five torn pieces of paper boasting blue, picked up from the floor after my dog finished her clandestine mischief.

Once upon a time, I would have just thrown the paper scraps away. This time, I didn’t. This time, I’ll take my time to put the pieces back together.

Here’s why. What Ruby tore apart and left behind for me to find was an important family recipe. Imagine an exquisitely moist applesauce cake replete with raisins, pecans, and candied cherries, baked in a pressure cooker. My mother made the cake every year a few weeks before Christmas, and it was one of my favorites. I haven’t had one of those cakes in decades, maybe longer.

Lately, I’ve had a hankering for that cake, and I’ve searched all over the Internet for the recipe, not remembering that I had it already. My mother had given me the recipe. One day, while looking for something else, I found the full-page recipe with ingredients and instructions, all in her gentle cursive.

I’ll do my best to piece that page together again, hopefully with enough precision that I can read the full recipe. The page, of course, won’t be the same. It never can be. Ironically, it will take on even more meaning because I cared enough to mend it and put it back together. Even though it will always show its brokenness, it will still be my mother’s recipe in her handwriting on her paper. I’ll bake the cake when Christmas nears, and I fully believe that it will be the best one ever because it will have an extra scoop of love.

This is not the first time that I’ve mended the broken.

I’m thinking of a sculpture in my living room. Its earthy tones reflect seamlessly into the highly polished cherry coffee table. The sedimentary rock reveals the raw beauty of erosion and time, with jagged edges and smooth, wave-like ridges suggesting years of elemental force, reminders of the rock’s enduring strength. The fissures, winding through the top, were not there when my late partner gave me the sculpture. But a month or so before Allen’s death, he stumbled against it, and there it lay on the coffee table, shattered brokenness. It stayed there, a daily reminder of fragility and brokenness. Time passed, and I mustered up the courage to artfully glue it back together, its fissures now seemingly an integral part of the rock, adding an almost mystical feel. It’s still on my living room coffee table. It’s still very much alive and reminds me of Allen’s presence.

I had another encounter with the beauty of brokenness years earlier. I had built a graceful, curved walkway on the east side of my home, near the Koi Pond. I wanted to maintain a natural rustic look, so I made the walkway out of large, rectangular natural stone pavers, stabilized by the very earth itself. I leveled the ground as I put the pavers in place, making sure they didn’t move when stepped on. When I finished the 60-foot stretch of walkway, I decided to test its stability by jumping on each paver. When I landed on the second paver from the end, I heard a crack. I looked down and could see a fissure running through the center. I looked beneath the two pieces and discovered a rock, small enough to escape my searching eyes when leveling the paver but large enough to cause brokenness. My immediate reaction was to replace the paver. But I had second thoughts. It still functioned as an integral part of the walkway, and if I widened the fissure just a little and filled it with soil, it might even add a sense of age and character, especially when small patches of grass and weeds started to grow through the crack, proclaiming nature’s power to take back what we think is ours.

My decision to repair what was broken in these three instances was influenced directly by Kintsugi, the centuries-old Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the breaks with a lacquer that’s mixed with silver, gold, or even platinum. The intent, obviously, is not to disguise the brokenness but rather to celebrate its repair and survival, believing that the broken can be mended, made stronger, and remain useful and purposeful.

It seems to me that we can all benefit from an important lesson, whether it be found in broken Japanese art, a broken paver, a broken sculpture, or a broken recipe. The essence of being is being broken. The strength of being is the power of repairing the broken. The virtue of being is valuing and celebrating brokenness.

Let’s face it. As human beings, we are all flawed and broken. It seems to me that if we can repair our broken objects and continue to see their value and their beauty, so too can we repair the broken parts of our own lives.

In our personal lives, we’re destined to encounter moments of fracture—relationships that crack, trust that falters. It’s easy to walk away and to discard the pieces. But when something matters—when love, friendship, or family is at stake—mending becomes an act of grace. It is in the careful work of rebuilding that we find deeper connections and more profound love.

Similarly, in our professional lives, we are not immune to failure. Our careers break under the weight of expectations, and our ambitions sometimes shatter. But brokenness does not mark the end of a career; it marks a turning point. The effort to repair, to rebuild, to piece together what once was, shapes not just our work but our purpose.

And in our spiritual lives—our most intimate, vulnerable selves—there are moments of doubt, of disconnection, of feeling broken. Yet, like ancient pottery, our spiritual cracks are not meant to be hidden. They are to be filled with light, with the gold of wisdom, faith, and renewal. It is through our brokenness that we find our way back to our wholeness.

What is broken can be mended. What is flawed can be made beautiful again. The cracks, the breaks—they are part of the story. And for the things that matter most—our relationships, our work, our spirit—they are worth every moment of care, every act of patience, every effort to repair and restore so that we can celebrate beauty in brokenness.

Listening to the Unsaid

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“Not to speak is to speak, not to act is to act.”

—Dietrich Bonhoeffer (1906-1945; German theologian, pastor, and anti-Nazi activist; Symbol of moral courage and a powerful voice for justice and human rights.

Years ago, a colleague and close friend told me something that I would never forget:

“Always pay attention to what people say …”

And as he continued his advice, his voice became more measured and emphatic:

“but pay more attention to what they don’t say.”

I knew immediately what he meant. When interacting with others, it’s crucial to notice not only their words but also their silences, whether in face-to-face conversations, emails, or text messages. For example, a friend who shares their day enthusiastically but glosses over a specific event might be experiencing discomfort or distress. At work, a colleague who avoids discussing a particular project might be facing hidden challenges or dissatisfaction. In emails, if someone consistently skips over certain questions or topics, it might be a cue that they’re uncomfortable or unwilling to address those issues. Similarly, in text messages, when someone constantly shifts the subject away from certain topics, it might suggest they’re shielding their true feelings. A total failure to mention something significant, like a major life change or a recent accomplishment, might be just as telling. This omission might reveal underlying issues, such as feelings of inadequacy or a desire to avoid judgment. Equally important is when someone fails to respond to something that you’ve shared. It might indicate disinterest or a reluctance to engage with the topic.

These unspoken cues–what I call the unsaid–often reveal more than words ever could, offering deeper insights into the thoughts and emotions that people might not openly express. For example, I’m thinking of President Biden’s July 21 announcement that he was withdrawing from the 2024 presidential race and his subsequent address to the Nation. My siblings have said nothing to me about it, and most of my friends have said little more. It’s as if the President never made the announcement. It’s as if the President never delivered the address. It’s as if those news items were overshadowed by other national and international news.

Right now, you might be thinking:

“Well, I don’t talk politics either.”

I hear you. I get it. You’re probably doing the wise thing. As a rule, I don’t talk politics either with my family and many of my friends because I know that they don’t want to listen to my views. But not even mentioning the President’s decision is different. Although I would not expect to have a discussion, I would expect to hear a brief mention.

The silence that has surrounded me, by and large, since the President’s announcement has caused me to spend more than a little time reflecting on the power of silence and what the unsaid can reveal.

Why People Remain Silent.

Reflecting on why people choose silence reveals a complex mix of motivations. Fear of conflict and judgment often play significant roles, as many worry that speaking up will lead to disagreements or criticism. A lack of confidence in their communication skills or the validity of their thoughts can also hold people back.

Additionally, some prefer to protect others’ feelings, avoiding potentially hurtful conversations. Cultural and social norms can discourage sharing certain thoughts or emotions. Uncertainty about timing or approach further contributes to silence, as does the desire to avoid confronting uncomfortable truths or difficult situations. Others might simply consider their concerns too trivial to mention.

Aside from exploring possible reasons why people choose silence, what about the consequences of this silence. By understanding the dangers of silence, we can better appreciate the importance of speaking up and listening to the unsaid.

The Dangers of Silence.

As I reflected on the whys and wherefores, the dangers of inherent silences popped up in my mind as well. Those dangers can infiltrate our lives and sneak up on us unawares. We need to be aware of them, lest we fall prey to the unintended consequences of our silence. Acknowledging these risks allows us to create a more open, honest, and empathetic environment in our personal and collective lives.

I’m thinking of a number of areas, and I’ve already mentioned two of them. Political Silence. Not discussing President Biden’s decision, for example, can lead to misinformation, apathy, and a lack of preparedness for future developments. Family and Friend Dynamics. Not exploring political issues within families and amongst friends can lead to misunderstandings, resentment, and long-term damage to relationships, potentially causing irreparable harm and estrangement.

Or what about Social Issues? Remaining silent on social justice issues at home and abroad can perpetuate inequality and hinder progress. Silence on systemic racism, gender inequality, and human rights abuses can allow discriminatory practices to continue unchecked, disproportionately affecting marginalized communities and amplifying their suffering.

Environmental Issues loom large, too. Silence on climate change, pollution, and conservation can accelerate ecological damage and irreparable harm, leading to catastrophic climate events and irreversible ecosystem damage. By not speaking out, we’re creating a planet in peril.

Let’s not forget about Workplace Environment. Silence can enable toxic behavior, low morale, and decreased productivity. It can also stifle innovation, perpetuate systemic issues, and harm employee mental health. By speaking up, we can foster a culture of psychological safety, promote positive change, and create a more inclusive work environment.

In the area of Mental Health, silence can exacerbate mental health struggles, allowing stigma, shame, and suffering to persist. By not speaking out, we prevent others from seeking help and hinder our own healing, but by sharing our experiences, we can reduce stigma and increase support.

Spirituality is another area that we need to consider. Silence can disconnect us from our deepest beliefs and values, leaving us feeling unfulfilled and without purpose. By exploring our spirituality, we can discover new sources of comfort, meaning, and resilience.

Obviously, too, we need to be mindful of Aging and Dying. Silence often surrounds the end of life, leaving us unprepared and unsupported. By not discussing our mortality, we miss chances for closure, healing, and cherished moments with loved ones and fail to make informed decisions about end-of-life care and legacy.

These are just a few examples that illustrate the far-reaching impact of silence across different spheres of our lives. Silence affects other areas of our lives, too, such as Education, Media and Journalism, Personal Relationships, and Community and Social Movements. By acknowledging the impact of silence in these spheres, we can work towards creating a more open, honest, and empathetic society, where our voices are heard and valued.

Transforming the Silence.

It seems to me that, at a minimum, we need to have these conversations–even the hard ones–with ourselves so that we know where we stand and what we stand for. Ideally, we need to have those conversations–even the hard ones–with our families, our friends, our neighbors, our colleagues, and our world at large. If we choose silence, we need to remember its inherent dangers. Equally important, if others choose silence, we need to remember to listen to the unsaid. The silences we hear can offer powerful and empowering insights.

As we navigate the complexities of silence, may we find the courage to speak up, listen deeply, and create a world where every voice is valued and feels safe being heard. Not to speak is to speak, and by finding the courage to speak up, we can break free from the constraints of silence and foster a culture of openness, empathy, and understanding. Breaking the silence is crucial not only for our personal growth and relationships but also for our collective well-being.

Let’s resolve to raise our voices and transform the silence.

Abandon Hope? Not a Chance!

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“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.”

—Desmond Tutu (1931–2021; a South African Anglican bishop, social rights activist, leading figure in the struggle against apartheid, and an enduring global symbol of hope and resilience.)

Sometimes, a recollection gets trapped in my mind and won’t exit, even when I open a door. One memory paid me a visit weeks ago, and it’s still lingering. I’ve decided that the best way to get rid of it is to write about it, send it out into the world, and let it take up residence in other people’s minds. So, here: it’s yours now.

The memory is from 1968. Student attitudes on college campuses–even at a conservative school like Alderson-Broaddus, where I was a junior–were marked by activism and rejection of traditional norms and authority. Fueled by the counterculture movement, we protested for civil rights, opposed the Vietnam War, and championed various social justice causes, shaping a decade defined by idealism and dissent.

Some of that spirit spilled over into the classroom and sometimes made some of us bolder than we might otherwise have been.

It certainly made me bolder that spring when I was taking a three-credit World Literature course. We focused heavily on Dante Alighieri’s epic poem The Divine Comedy, widely considered to be the pre-eminent work in Italian literature and one of the greatest works of Western literature. Divided into three parts–Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso–the poem explores the state of the soul after death and its journey toward God.

My classmates and I felt challenged by Dr. Callison’s rigor and her insistence that we gain an in-depth understanding of this acclaimed literary work. We did, as I recall, and we even grew to like the poem, playfully sprinkling our daily conversations with some of its famous lines.

Nonetheless, we all felt anxious as exam day approached. I decided to be bold and comedic by making a banner to put above our classroom door so that my classmates would see it as they walked in to take the exam. I created the banner alone, told no one about it, went to our classroom in Old Main, and hung the banner well in advance. There–in a position of prominence for my classmates and Dr. Callison to see as they entered–was a line from the Inferno section of The Divine Comedy as Dante passes through the gate of Hell:

“Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”

I wanted the banner to be a grim but humorous reminder that as we faced the Hellish torments of Dr. Callison’s exam, we could neither be redeemed nor rescued.

Everyone stared at the banner as they entered the classroom and proceeded to their seats. Some laughed. Some gasped. All questioned: “Who would dare be so bold, especially in Dr. Callison’s class?” Some even speculated that she was the prankster. I sat there quietly, hoping to look as innocent as one of the souls headed toward Paradise.

My countenance worked. No one suspected me, not even Dr. Callison when she walked through the door. To our surprise, she burst into laughter and continued laughing as she handed out bluebooks and wished us well on the exam.

I’ve thought about that day often down through the years, not because of my bold banter–revealed here for the first time ever–but rather because of my take on the famous line, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.” I understood the literal interpretation of the line precisely. It’s a warning to all who enter Hell that they are leaving behind all hope of salvation or escape. It sets the tone for the suffering and despair that pervades Hell, emphasizing the eternal nature of the punishment awaiting the damned souls within.

However, as a student then–and as a lifelong learner now–I find that literature takes on richer dimensions when looked at metaphorically.

I saw Dante’s poetic line then–and I see it now–as a caution against entering into a state of despair or hopelessness. It suggests that giving in to despair is like crossing a threshold into a mental or emotional Hell, where recovery becomes incredibly difficult if not impossible. It’s a warning to maintain hope and resilience even in challenging circumstances. Otherwise, we will create our own Hell and live in it right here on earth.

Don’t get me wrong. I know despair. Who doesn’t experience despair during moments of profound loss, such as the death of a loved one, the end of a significant relationship, or the loss of a job? We all do. Who doesn’t experience despair when grappling with chronic illness or debilitating injury, especially if it hinders our ability to pursue our passions or maintain our independence? We all do. Who doesn’t experience despair when feeling overwhelmed by financial struggles, loneliness, or a sense of purposelessness? We all do.

Although I understand the nature of despair, it seems to me that embracing a positive and optimistic mindset can be a powerful antidote to despair.

Years ago, I made a conscious decision that my glass would always be “half full” and that I would actively cultivate a positive outlook on life, even in the face of challenges. That approach has served me well.

Let me share with you some of the strategies that I use to foster positivity and optimism.

I strive to find joy in everyday moments. I cultivate mindfulness by being fully present and appreciating the simple pleasures of life, whether it’s a beautiful sunset on my mountaintop, a delicious meal in my kitchen, or a heartfelt conversation with a stranger.

I work hard at practicing positive thinking. When negative thoughts come my way–and they do–I reframe them in a more positive light. When I have problems–and I do–I shift my focus and dwell in the realm of solutions.

I make a point every day of counting my blessings. Sometimes, I carve out time to reflect on the things that I’m grateful for. However, more often than not, I take time to be grateful each time I’m aware of a blessing. I find that approach to gratitude lets me be in constant celebration of what I have.

I do my best to surround myself with positivity. I listen to uplifting music, and I spend time with optimistic and supportive people who uplift and encourage. Positivity is contagious.

I make living a healthy lifestyle a priority. I know that my physical well-being directly influences my mental and emotional health. Indoor biking is a priority for me, along with nutritious eating, adequate sleep, and meditation. All of those things work together to keep me upbeat and resilient.

I do my best to practice self-compassion. I try to be kind to myself when the going is rough, and I try to treat myself with the same compassion and understanding that I offer others who would be facing similar challenges.

I believe in laughter. I don’t have to work too hard to find humor in life through books, jokes, spending time with friends who make me laugh, or, best of all, laughing at being me. Humor provides relief and perspective in tough times.

I’ve saved my best strategy for last because it’s the one that I know I can rely on the most. I cultivate a sense of faith or belief in the overall goodness of life and humanity. I trust and believe that, despite challenges, humanity’s inherent thrust toward greatness and goodness will prevail.

I must add that because I work to stay positive doesn’t mean that I ignore or deny negative emotions. I don’t. I acknowledge them while consciously choosing to focus on the positive aspects of life and maintaining hope for the future.

As I look back on that bold act of hanging the banner, I realize how much it symbolizes a pivotal lesson from my college years—maintaining hope and resilience in the face of adversity. That memorable day in Dr. Callison’s class reaffirmed for me that humor and a positive outlook can transform even the most daunting challenges into manageable experiences.

Now, decades later, I believe that lesson remains relevant. We all encounter moments of despair, but we don’t have to surrender to them. By fostering positivity and optimism, we can navigate life’s hardships more effectively. The strategies I’ve outlined—practicing gratitude, surrounding ourselves with positive influences, and embracing humor—serve as a powerful toolkit against despair.

Ultimately, the famous line from Dante’s Inferno serves as a cautionary reminder not just of the perils of Hell, but of the importance of hope in our daily lives. By choosing to see our glass as half full, we can maintain a sense of purpose and joy, even amid difficulties. Let’s embrace the enduring message that hope and resilience can guide us through even the darkest times.