A Letter to My Son

       A few weeks back, my son begrudgingly brought home a school assignment for his parents to do.  He  knows my feelings on projects that require parental participation.  I don’t do homework anymore and I dislike teachers who think assigning it to parents  "will be fun" or "a really great opportunity" for the parents to get involved.   His mother and I have been involved since P-K and at this stage in his academic life, he needs to be well on his way to self-sufficiency.

      His Lit class was reading Hamlet and they were dissecting Polonius’ advice to his departing son, Laertes.  You know it: “Never a beggar or borrower be” and “to thine own self be true" yada, yada, yada.  Our task was to craft advice to our son, as he prepared to graduate and start the next stage of his life.  The assignment was do the next day. He waited nearly a week to present it to us – that is how much he knows my feelings on the matter.

      Here is the 11^th hour homework we completed for our son so that he could maintain his GPA:

Dear Garrett,

      You are about to enter into the next stage of your life and you are probably both excited and nervous.   That’s alright, you are not alone.  All of your friends are feeling the same way and long ago your mother and I did, too.  You may be anxious thinking you are rudderless as you find your ship moving in to stronger currents.  You might feel a sense of urgency as if you need to have every aspect of your life figured out and a course plotted to get you some definitive endpoint.  You need to solve for the ultimate X.  That is hardly the case.

 

• We want to tell you to relax.  Breathe.   Always walk.  Don’t run.  What’s rush?  It isn’t a race you are about to start.  There is no discernible winner and the finish line is different for everyone.  There are no judges and those who will judge you are usually those least qualified to do so.
• Savor every bite you take.  Life is a buffet.  Take a little bit of everything, go for seconds, and leave room for dessert.   Better yet, try dessert first every now and then.
• Put necessity before luxury.  If you pay for what you want only to have to beg for what you need, you will never be more than a beggar.
• Pennies are not worthless.  If they were, homeless guys wouldn’t stop to pick them up. Spare change quickly adds up to a few bucks.  Money is worth more than the paper it is printed and should be handled with care.  Debt is credit past due plus interest.   Pay your bills on time.
• Shoes bought online are always returned.  There are certain things in life you need to try on for size before committing to them, like hats, glasses, cars, and love. 
• Words uttered in haste are like fog.  They cloud the moment but dissipate in time.  Words emailed in haste are a permanent record.   Type it once and then delete.  Type it again differently and then delete that, too.  Type it and delete over and over until the frustration dissipates like the fog.  After all of that, if you still have an overwhelming urge to send it, seek counseling.  You have anger management issues.
• Always stand up to be seen. Speak up to be heard and sit down to be appreciated.  When you stand well, stand still.  Saying more than you need weakens your position.
• Always wear clean underwear.  You never know when you will get in an accident.  If the accident happens to be in your underwear, take them off and clean yourself up and go without underwear.  Someone going commando is intriguing. Someone with dirty underwear is just nasty.
• There is a first time for everything but there is never second first time.  Recognize and appreciate novelty.
• Tip well when warranted.  People who serve you well deserve to be rewarded.  Tip less to discourage poor service.  But always tip.  Servers are trying to make a living just like the rest of us.
• No single raindrop believes it is responsible for the flood.  You do not act alone.  Every action you take has an impact on someone else so be mindful where you step.
• Read the instructions first. Review them after you are done.  It will probably explain why you have spare parts.
• World peace doesn’t sound so great to a career soldier.  If finding a solution will put you out of work, you would be better served to prolong the problem until you have another job lined up.
• Someone else gave you your name but only you can make a name for yourself. 
• Try laughing out loud once a day. 
• Don’t go to bed angry.  You will sleep better.
• Smile often.
• Love your Mom and Dad.

Love,

Your Mom and Dad.

Dissecting Romney's Report Card

Intellectual jack-of-all-trades, Norman Cousins, once noted that "history is a vast early warning system."  Though clearly an app for geopolitical purposes, its routine use on individuals is highly effective as well. Consider our use of sports stats to determine not only overall team rankings but each player's value as well. Candidates for public office are no different in this regard.

Their prior votes, long held views, planned or ill-prepared statements, and even personal histories are analyzed in hopes of trying to get a glimpse of how they may be based on how they were. No stone seems to go unturned in our collective attempts to find the sum of a person based on the whole of the parts.

             In that vein, let me tell you everything you needed to know about a potential Romney Presidency can be learned by simply interpreting the grades of his high school, freshman year, first quarter report card (http://www.mediaite.com/online/mitt-romneys-high-school-freshman-report-card-released/).

            B in English:  Ineffective communicator; lacks ability to connect with people. As the teacher's comment implies, he gets his message across but folks aren't feeling it.

            B in Elementary Algebra:  Doesn't really understand economics.  Note he tends not to study enough which means he probably cannot even make sense of his own fiscal policies.

            B in Biology:  Anti-woman, homophobic, creationist.  His difficulty with genetics is indicative of someone who has difficulty understanding when life begins and that homosexuals are born that way.  "Originality” and “imagination” suggest a fantastical obsession with Intelligent Design mythology.

            C in French: Unapologetic American Exceptionalist with an ineffective foreign policy agenda.  Early high scores - Olympics is international, right? - lulled him into assuming he was ready to lecture an ally; cede the religious center of the world completely to Judaism alone; and act like he had anything to do with Polish independence won 20 years before he took the stage. (Note the oddly conciliatory closing comment on his admirable and potentially successful efforts by someone with the initials HRC. Was a perennial Democratic favorite hedging her bets even then?)

            B - in Art:  Republican In Name Only.Despite attempts at being a slacker in an elective, he can't hide his true leanings. A real conservative would never take a course that leads to a lifetime of taxpayer subsidization let alone show any sign of being proficient in one of its profitless mediums.

Mitt Romney also had what appears to be an unexcused absence that quarter which could lead to calls for him to release his full medical records since birth.  The additional comment that he was “a more responsible citizen” that year begs the question, what was he before that? Some intentionally unnamed sources have it on good, albeit unanimous, authority that prior to 1961, Mitt was neither responsible nor a citizen.

(Based on this single transcript alone, one can conclude unequivocally who the better man is in this election.  And while President Obama has yet to release any of his transcripts we should take him at everyone else’s word that he is a genius; that 4 years of 8+ unemployment rates spurred on by billions in special interest stimulus is recovery; and that total annual deficit spending under his economy policies - more than that of all of his predecessors combined - coupled with increasing taxes and fees on all Americans is the only way to prosperity.)

Gay for Chik-Fil-A? NJ Won't Be Lovin' Ya Back

As an openly heterosexual male I have long found that Chik-Fil-A is a fantastic facility in which to aggressively make out with my wife.  For years now we have locked lips and slobbered over each other at the counter, across the tables, in the booths, bathrooms and even the indoor playground.   My car’s fender is all scratched up from trying to go at it while maneuvering the drive-thru lane.  We are not unlike the hundreds of thousands of other heterosexual couples who frequent Chik-Fil-A with the sole purpose of getting it on in there like teenagers in their parents’ basement.   Sometimes we don’t even order any food that is how conducive the environment is for inappropriate displays of public affection.  That is unless, of course, you are a homosexual. 

Same sex couples are not allowed to kiss each other in a Chik-Fil-A.  They aren’t allowed in the restaurant and even turned away at the drive-thru.  And we know this because?  Well, because of the big signs on the doors that say, “No Gays Allowed;” because of the voice at the drive-thru that prompts gays to immediately drive away while it offers to assist all others; and because of  the gaydar  at the counter that will sound when a covert homosexual tries to order value meal.  (The kids' meals come with a state issued Certificate of Marriage and Chik-Fil-A does not conduct same-sex marriage ceremonies in their stores.  It is written in their corporate rules as is the no-gays served policy.) 

Bearing ample evidence illustrating wholesale discrimination in each and every franchise across the nation, some in the LGBT community have said enough is enough and declared today National Same Sex Kiss Day at Chik-Fil-A.   Because nothing says we deserve equality better than inappropriately making out at a fast food restaurant, right?
 
Yeah.  Steve Goldstein, Chairman of New Jersey’s Garden State Equality advocacy group feels the same way about the effectiveness of this kiss-in campaign.   He rightly points out same sex relationships, just like straight couples, involve so much more than sloppy and awkward P.D.A.s.  They are deeper and more committed than that. While he doesn’t say this called for action makes a mockery of the basic human right he and countless others are fighting for, it is pretty clear he sat this one out.  The group didn’t offer up ringing endorsements to act like juveniles in heat at area restaurants.  Securing the fundemental right of loving partners to legally marry themselves and their property to each other is not won with sideshow antics that only reinforce belittling stereotypes.

Goldstein notes that GSE will recommend an alternative, more long-term action against the company to get its message out there.  He understands the first amendment and respects personal opinions and the right of private citizens to spend their money as they so choose.  He hopes enough folks will choose not to spend theirs at Chik-Fil-A.    No calls for pickets and protests of local franchises employing your neighbors but rather just the simple nonverbal expression of your first amendment right by driving right by it even if you are hungry and those nuggets are pretty damn good.

Some have already done so.   Local entities that have worked with Chik-Fil-A in the past are rethinking that relationship.  Others might not see any connection between the personal statements of a mostly nameless faceless CEO far, far away and the local chains serving up decent, reasonably priced meals in an extremely courteous environment.  How often do any of us really think about the political side of the profits we contribute to daily?  Folks like Steve Goldstein  are hoping now is the time you start, and not just by kissing it up at Chik-Fil-A.

http://www.courierpostonline.com/article/20120803/NEWS01/308030018/No-kiss-menu-N-J-gay-groups

Frankly, He Was a Great Guy

I was 27 when I met Republican Leader, Assemblyman Alex DeCroce.   Just a kiddo, in his vernacular.  He chaired my first legislative committee assignment in the General Assembly.  I cut my political teeth in Assemblyman DeCroce’s Committee.  I learned a lot about the process under his leadership but more importantly I learned a lot about the quality of the man and the value of his word under his friendship.

As with any effective legislator, he was  savvy, disciplined, conscientious and efficient.  He expected as much from everyone he dealt with, staff included.  As a politician, Assemblyman DeCroce knew the game well.  He understood the necessity at times for partisanship but beyond that as a public servant he instinctively sought solutions.  He knew the value of compromise and encouraged discussion from both sides of the aisle.  No bill was released from his committee half-done for the sake of a press release.  He wasn’t signing off on anything that wasn’t the best working product and had the consensus of all involved.  Substance was always more important than style and he never clamored for the credit or headlines. He just sought what was best for the state.

It was that manner in which he conducted business that revealed the dedication and humility of Alex and showed me that he was politician only when necessary but a gentleman always. 

Almost immediately I felt familiarity with the Assemblyman.  Both of us were born and raised in Morris County albeit the Morris County I grew up in was largely built by him. Both of us shared Italian heritage and working class roots. But what really struck me about Alex DeCroce was how strongly his personality matched that of my father.  It was the era in which they came of age that gave them both a quiet sense of duty and commitment, a respect for the rules and civility, and an appreciation for loyalty, and a great sense of humor.   

Generosity is another shared quality of the two men.  My father is always generous with his time and when able his resources.  Alex always had a moment to share with anyone who sought it.  From a staffer’s perspective, he was tremendously generous with his own personal resources to make sure those loyal to him always felt welcome (and well fed),  were treated with respect, and recognized for their efforts.  He strived  not only to maintain a staff that worked well together but to foster an almost familial congeniality among us.  His paternal influence in the office motivated all of us to excel  not merely to advance a political position but  because we knew it pleased him to see us do so. 

I found working with the Assemblyman to be a hardly working at all.  So much so that I always felt at home in his office, free to speak informally, free to offer honest assessments.  I understood his thought process and I knew where he would come down on an issue with little need for discussion.  I also recognized that Alex had heartfelt conviction which at times would need some pause if it were to be understood properly as insight and not mere opinion. 

Like anyone’s father, Alex spoke with sincerity and compassion shrouded in frankness.  At times he offered a necessary but bitter pill of constructive criticism.  Nothing was ever sugar coated and occasionally what first came to mind is what came out of his mouth but it was always delivered with the best of intentions.  He was never spiteful or mean-spirited.  There was no maliciousness in his message.

Alex was not an elequent orator (although there was often  eloquence to be found in the simplicity of his wisdom). He communicated with the plainspoken language of a bygone era where words were not artificially defined with political implications and turns-of-phrase weren’t entangled with potential liabilities.  What Alex lacked in finesse he more than made up for in honesty and forthrightness. He spoke from the heart not from well-tested talking points and speaking from the heart at times leaves you open to criticism, justified or not.  He spoke just like your father and family speak around the dinner table.

Staff tried often to have him work off of prepared remarks and Alex tried as best he could to read from his script.  But you always knew when Alex was off script.  When he went off script is when you heard passion in his voice and conviction in his tone.  When Alex was off script, there was a lesson to learn, a point to be made, and wisdom to be imparted.  He spoke from experience on the issues and not from knowledge - the latter being gleaned from pages of research prepared for you but lacking the dirt under the nails authenticity only experience can bring.

Those who took the time to listen recognized all of this in Assemblyman DeCroce and respected him for that. Those who didn't listen lost out on the wisdom of Alex DeCroce.  Then again, as the saying goes, you cannot impart wisdom as it is always taken as foolishness.  It is much like your father's comments in the midst of a daunting task.  If only you take pause you will respect and appreciate the advice of your father; realizing he knows what he is talking about not because he read the instructions but because long ago he rolled his sleeves up, got his hands dirty and did it already.

Tim Tebow and His Lord and Savior

Let me start by saying that I know very little of sports statistics and individual players.  Ask me to come up with 10 NFL players this season and I will get stuck at 5.  Ask me to rank those 5 by statistical success and the conversation is effectively over.  But what I do know is of those 5 I could name, Tim Tebow, for better or worse, would be one.

Why do I know Tebow? Because Tebow knows Jesus Christ. Not only is Jesus Tim’s personal Lord and Savior, but JC is also Tim’s right-hand man, his go to guy in the clutch, his ace in the hole.  I know this because Tim can’t help but tell anyone who may or may not ask that Jesus is his Lord and Savior. Tim can’t help but offer all things great and small or seemingly miraculous on field up to Jesus (and the cameras can’t seem to stop catching him in the act.) 

If the Broncos happen to win the Super Bowl this year, before Tim is going to Disney World, he is taking to his knees and giving a shout out to the Lord.

This seems to bother some folks.  His public displays of religious affection make a lot of media types uncomfortable.  Somehow his actions being broadcast into millions of homes weekly via public airwaves represents a gross violation of the separation of church and state.  If you ever want to catch a sports channel and not hear discussions of sports, catch it while they are discussing Tebow.  The very legitimate concerns of his pro-ball skills – he really cannot pass – are incidental to the very serious matter of his religiousity.

Personally, I don’t care to what Tebow attributes his inexplicable success of each game; Jesus, Buddha, his hard working mother who didn’t abort him, the red Powerade on the sidelines.  To me, his genuflections are no different than any celebratory touchdown dance by any other player.  Some of those have a little tip to God also.  I note the NFL penalizes excessive celebration and perhaps in time it will penalize all forms of player piety as well because of Tim.  But for now, it hasn’t and I view it no differently than countless other rituals pro-sports players do daily.  Jeter has a ritual.  He steps out of box after each pitch and readjusts the Velcro on his batting gloves with obsessive precision.

I recall a few years back having to endure Sammy Sosa constantly crossing himself before each at bat. To make it worse he had the audacity to kiss it all up to God each time, too.  In fact, I have had to sit through countless ballplayers and entertainment figures thanking God in some manner for their successes over the years. And like Tebow now with his Jesus, that other stuff then never bothered me.  Funny thing is it never bothered anyone else either.  Why Tim’s proclamation of faith is akin to prosthelytizing while other public figures’ affirmations are not reeks of hypocrisy.  Argue against it all or argue against none of it.  Selective application of censorship is tyrannical.

Like I said, it shouldn’t matter how Tebow handles his inconceivable gains and I suspect as long as the Broncos keep defying the odds, Management will allow Tebow to keep thanking Jesus.  Besides given how he ranks his career below his Lord and Savior, if anyone told him to stop or face suspension, Tim would drop in prayer thanking God for the opportunity he had to play ball, no matter how short it was.

The more we dwell on his actions, the more devoted to it he may become and therein is the problem with Tebow’s adherence to his faith.  He may take his Christian soldier marching onward a bit too seriously and begin to take pride in the status assigned him by his following.  Pride is a vice and serves to elevate our stature above that of God’s.  Pride is not a quality found in faithful servants of the Lord.  No prophet wanted the responsibilities thrust upon him by God.   Even Jesus sought a reprieve from His death before submitting to God’s will.   Tebow ought to keep that in mind before he chooses to   assume inhuman attributes afforded  him by his defenders.  Humility doesn’t seek the spotlight. Modesty doesn’t necessitate a response to every inquiry made of him. 

I know of two scripture passages in which Jesus discusses how we should pray.  One instructs us to lock ourselves away in a room where no one can see us.  The other offers up a humble sinner who lingers in the back of the temple too ashamed of his sinfulness to even lift his eyes to the sky as the manner in which God recognizes a humble and contrite heart.  Both instances criticize the very public displays of faith which seem to seek the attention and approval of onlookers over that of God’s attention.

Tim’s winning streak may not last beyond his next game but his props to Jesus will continue regardless. Detractors will be quick to jump on the next sack, interception and loss as a sign that faith is for the foolish. Maybe.  Maybe not.  If it helps someone survive another day, who are we to judge? But if Tim is looking to survive in the multi-billion dollar industry in which he has found himself, aside from some serious off-season re-training,  he might want to consider a humble and contrite approach to praising his Lord.

As the naysayers increase, and they will, Tebow no doubt will have the courage defend his faith. Here’s to hoping he also has acquired the wisdom to turn the other cheek more often not and the serenity to accept that Jesus already knows Tim is grateful for that unbelievable 93 yard, 4^th quarter drive before Tim even remembers to take to his knees in thanks.

Like a Good Neighbor

This weekend summer finally makes it debut in the Garden State and countless folks from Southeastern  Pennsylvania will begin their weekly  ritual of  crossing  the Delaware and driving to the Jersey shore.  South Jersey doesn’t need an equinox to signal the arrival of summer, nor does it have to count the hours of sunlight.  It simply counts the exponentially greater number of PA license plates on its highways to know what season it has become.   Heat and humidity brings with it tail lights and traffic jams.  Every Friday afternoon and Monday morning between Memorial Day and Labor Day  most of South Jersey becomes a channel from the Main Line to the Shore line filled with refugee like numbers of Pennsylvanians backing up lines at toll booths, gas stations and Wawa Hoagie counters.  While New Jersey appreciates all that revenue from its neighbors to the west, it is hard to dismiss as ignorance, the way in which some attempt to get here.  Perhaps now is the time to review some of the more important unwritten rules of New Jersey roads.

There is no short cut to the Jersey shore that involves the extended use of back roads and secondary roadways.  The fastest way to get from point A to point B will always be the Atlantic City Expressway.  This road was designed with anxious shore travelers in mind.  Any other route, regardless of what the GPS says, no matter how long your family has been taking it, will add, at the very least 30 minutes to the trip and serve only to aggravate you and the countless New Jersey locals trying to move about their daily lives.  You trying to navigate through the crossroads of Hammonton and Somers Point means at least a dozen locals leaning on horns, yelling obscenities, and crossing over double yellow lines to pass you.   New Jersey locals don’t think twice about eating their own on the road. What makes you think you will be treated any differently?

Stay out of the left lane unless you intend to pursue a career in NASCAR. Most painfully long and slow moving lines of cars in left lane begin with a Pennsylvania driver out for what appears to be a Sunday drive.  If you live in Pennsylvania and ever have the urge to just get out and take a drive, take it to points west.  Points east are less scenic and more hostile.   And contrary to what many Pennsylvanians think, the left lane is not the fast lane, it is the passing lane.  New Jersey has a simple rule, occasionally posted for out-of-state drivers, but apparently not often enough, “Keep Right, Pass Left.” 

The left lane is not intended to be used as a Pennsylvania Express route or a high speed thruway.  If you wrongfully assume it is the fast lane, take heed that you are, by Jersey standards, not driving anywhere near fast enough to stay in it.   You should expect to be mercilessly harassed by Jersey drivers and law enforcement.  State Troopers are encouraged to harass PA drivers crawling in the left lane and in fact are often rewarded for doing so with rapid advancement through their ranks.

The posted speed limit is dramatically different than the real speed limit.   The posted speed limit on most New Jersey highways is 65 mph.  However, New Jersey locals understand that to be the suggested limit while going through construction zones or inclement weather. On an average day New Jersey drivers will exceed 65 substantially.  A Pennsylvanian doing 70 mph in the left lane is pitifully inadequate. That is barely an acceptable speed on many off ramps in New Jersey let alone the left lane.  Most experienced New Jersey drivers will proudly admit to exceeding 75 or 80 mph in the left lane whenever possible – whenever possible being miserably limited by Pennsylvanians who neither understand  “Stay right, Pass left” nor that flashing headlights from the vehicle bearing down on them means “get the fuck out of the way!”  The unintended consequence of not understanding these two basic facts will result in your car being caught between two New Jersey drivers fixing to put you into the Malachi Crunch (see Pinky Tuscardero, Demolition Derby, Happy Days).

Texting and non-hands free cell phone use is illegal – for everyone but us.    This law was written for out-of-state drivers with particular emphasis on PA drivers. Multitasking under extreme duress is an inherently Jersey trait.  You can't do it so don't try.  If you are caught with anything but the steering wheel in your hands we will tail your ass like Tommy Lee Jones did Harrison Ford’s fugitive.  However, your car phone should always be with you and you should have two numbers on speed dial, your personal injury lawyer and your auto insurance carrier.  And your injury lawyer should be the first one you call in the case of an accident.

Do not intentionally slow down, yell at, or use an obscene gesture in response to a Jersey driver seeking to get around you.  Much like someone wearing a Cowboy’s jersey to an Eagles game runs the risk of getting his ass kicked for simply disrespecting the Linc, you doing anything but complying with our requests that you move could result in you not remembering large chunks of your childhood when you later wake up in the hospital.

If these simple Jersey road rules are better understood and followed by all, this summer’s weekend traffic will move a whole lot smoother.  New Jersey and You. . .Perfect Together?  Only if you Keep Right, Pennsylvania.

Happy Birthday, Maripat!

She had asked me several times before about my thoughts on our relationship.  About the moments when I first realized I loved her and wanted to marry her.  And I would dutifully answer her, each time getting uncomfortable and slightly annoyed that the question had been taken up again.  I guess it was her way of reaffirming our relationship  but I always felt it was a little bit like a cross examination.  As if she were trying to split hairs and catch a discrepancy in my recollection.   There was never any slip ups as I recall, though each time I spoke it became more of  litany of facts void of the emotion that makes for good story telling.  I was getting tired of retelling it fearing that our little moment of sparked romance would become  forever a cliché.  Besides, most of our family and friends knew the story by now  as it has been retold time and again on many occasions including at our wedding where it was broadcast to the congregation.

Everyone knows we met at college in the campus chapel during Ash Wednesday mass.  Everyone knows I gave her my seat and, as the same campus Chaplin who celebrated that mass proclaimed five years later at our wedding, 'He gave her his seat and then gave her his heart.'  Like they say, the rest is history.  History -- a litany of facts, void of emotion, memorized for recollection at a later point like a quiz where your only reason for knowing it is to receive a passing grade.  I think I passed every quiz I was given on our history.  I was always good at history. And everyone knew our history, yet nobody understands the story.

It was an Ash Wednesday mass in the basement of  a modular house on the tiniest corner of the campus far removed from the rest of the college -- A very tangible reminder of the separation of Church and State. It was an ugly structure.  It really wasn't anything more than a double-wide mobile home anchored on an eight-foot high foundation.  In the basement was a makeshift chapel, cluttered with Catholic articles of faith, homage and veneration.  The pews were nothing more than folding chairs wedged in between support pillars and bookcases.    Every Sunday evening this place was overrun with usually hung over college students, many often needing to stand against the walls while breaking fire codes on occupancy.   This particular midday Ash Wednesday mass was no exception.  If anything it was even more crowded. 

When I arrived, five minutes prior to the start, I remember pushing through a few girls to stake claim on an end seat; one of the last seats available.  Mass had started and students were still filing in with their eyes scanning frantically for a seat.  Most ended up looking rejected as they were pushed to the corners of the room to stand.  The opening prayers were said and we sat for the first reading.  I remember thinking this is going to be a long mass and thought about taking off my coat because I could feel myself heating up.  I opted not to do it, because it would have been too disruptive. Besides if I left it one I would be prepared to leave right after I received my ashes.  I remember feeling a bit agitated about this religious disruption in my otherwise pleasant day.  I looked down at my feet and drifted off from the reading.

The door was popped open as if it broke a vacuum seal on the room pulling air out and drawing my attention at its direction.  That is when I first saw my future wife.  The cold air of February was rushing in behind her and it was truly a breath of fresh air in the stagnant room.  Immediately I was struck by her unassuming beauty.  Her face, like the air, was fresh.  It was unlike the many female faces I was used to seeing in this chapel week after week. She wore little make up and no hair spray.

I know, I know, you are thinking fireworks, music, soft back lighting and gentle breezes combining to make an ethereal image of the girl of my dreams.  Well, it didn't quite happen that way.

She stood in the doorway, enveloped by her hooded overcoat, looking much like everyone else rushing in late.  However, she was different.  As I watched her big brown eyes frantically scan the room for a seat, I began to follow the gracious curves of her round face, the cascading shimmers of jet black hair, the amorously filled motions of a red sweater that draped over a straight black mini shirt which covered black stockings tucked into flat black shoes with silver side buckles.  And even though in church, I instinctively gave her a very approving once over.  She was very attractive, anyone would have agreed.

Again, you are thinking, an instant attraction.  He gave his seat to a beautiful women with some subconscious ulterior motive of getting to her later in a more appropriate setting.  Not so.

 Before I could look any further something in her arms broke my gaze.  She was carrying a young girl, no more than 2, who bore an uncanny resemblance to her.    It turned out to be her niece but, being a product of my unconventional times, I thought it was her daughter. And this is where my world collapsed around me.

In the instant it took for  me to see this child, I began to think, 'how wonderful that this women no more than 20 years old, not only kept an unplanned pregnancy, but she had the pride and confidence to bring her to a place that might not look too kindly on her.'  And it was more than that, too.  The image of mother and child, like the classic paintings by the masters - the Madonna and Child inspired portraits through the ages -  captured the essence of tenderness, selflessness, and womanhood itself.  As I looked at her and the child, something deep in my soul stirred.  Something so pleasant and settling that it seeped through my veins until an internal voice broke my daze.  "This is the mother of my children."

And it was at that moment, that I unconsciously began to make that voice's statement  my prime directive.  I didn't realize just then I would fall in love with her.  I didn't know just then that I would ever see her again, but I did know she did not just randomly wander into this chapel.  She was there for a very monumental reason.   She was sent to fulfill some preordained fate.  My soul shivered as if it were brushed by the hand of God.  And that, while a very comforting sensation, scared me to death.  I couldn't help but look at her, stare at her really.  All within those few moments, my heart begged her to come closer but my head began countering, "No way!"  And, yet, I sat there motionless the whole time.  I just sat there staring at her, unable to even to move my eyes away to break eye-contact in the event that we made any, which we did.

Well, the eye contact made was more attributed to her frantic scanning for seat than her destiny to meet me. (Like I had said I had already staked out my exit from this mass and my seat was positioned in the direct path to and from the door.)    The eye contact at first was more of her general look in my direction as she instinctively followed the natural flow of the room.  Yet as she moved forward the voice in my heart kept saying "This is the one" while the voice in my head that said, "Shit.  You are going to loose your seat."    I sat up uncomfortably straight as these two voices argued back and forth.

 "Yes! come here!"  "No! Go away!" "Alright, here she comes!"  "Damn it!  I am not standing up through this whole mass!"

On and on this went as she stepped closer.  And that was when we really made eye contact.  I sat stiff with that wide eyed intense gaze that probably told her “yeah, there are voices in my head that I can't control.”  I tried to counter that look with a follow up look that said, “What? Is there a problem with dueling voices in my head?”  But I think the whole thing was coming off like “he’s crazy!”

She later told me she remembered thinking as she walked passed, "What is this dork looking at?"  So I was close in my evaluation of that moment.

She moved by me and I heard her position herself against the wall to my left.  The voice in my head let out a big "Yes!" and I settled back in the seat chalking up another victory for selfishness.  For that moment voice in my heart whispering that  she was my destiny  went silent.

At this point we were starting the second reading.  As I complained to myself that there is no liturgical need nor a Papal mandate that there be two readings on Ash Wednesday I was cut off by the sound of her repositioning the girl on  her hip - that sac of potatoes being tossed followed by a weight lifter's force of air kind of sound.  That hit my conscience like a hammer and along came the destiny voice again fully rested and very smug in its confidence now.  "Give her your seat, you selfish ass!"

Not content with its prior victory, the sit down voice quickly shot back, "Don't you dare move!"

"Get up now!"  "She is fine. Don't move!"   "You are worthless! You disgust me.  She needs the seat. NOW!"

I jumped up almost instinctively at my heart’s command as the sit down voice went down for the count.  For a brief second I stood still and then, like a really bad soap opera actor, I mechanically turned on my mark to face her.  We made eye contact again.  If I could have read her mind, no doubt it would have told me that at that moment she was fearing for her life.

I opened my mouth and stuttered out "Please.  My seat.  Here."  I awkwardly gestured with my hand to the scratched folding chair.  Again I sputtered, "Please take."

Realizing that I was not about to attack her, she quickly declined, "Oh, no. That's ok."

"No please, sit down.  I feel terrible."  I moved away from the chair and toward her.

"Its ok.  I am fine." She said this time smiling at me.

"I feel terrible. Please."  I already positioning myself in her spot forcing her to move toward the chair.  She got the message and started to move in on the chair.

"Really.  It is ok. I can stand." She said this as a mere formality now because she was in full motion to sit down.  She continued to smile and then said thank you. 

"I feel terrible." I muttered again.  I think I may have said it one more time as I continued to gesture to the seat before I realized that the exchange was done, she was sitting down and most of the people around us were looking at me and most likely thinking, as my wife confessed, "dork!"

I leaned against the wall.  That destiny voice hummed a happy tune and asked me if I saw that smile.  And I did.  I saw the beautiful, full, honest smile filled with both gratitude and surprise.  It made me smile as well.  A contentment filled me as I watched the last bit of her hair settle on to her coat  as she settled herself and the child into the seat.   I accepted in my head that I had done something very proper at that moment.  I did not however at that moment accept that this woman was my future but that voice in my head was still too tired from losing the seat to start another battle with my heart. All it could muster was a disgusted groan as it went to sleep again.

The mass continued and I received my ashes and left as planned.  I felt no lingering obligation to address, greet or further acknowledge this woman who had blown into my life and accepted my seat.    In retrospect, that first encounter was all that was supposed to happen at that moment.  That is not to say she didn’t occupy most of my thoughts for the rest of the day and most of the rest of that week.  She was there, quietly working with my heart to finish off my head.

We did meet again and it was in a more appropriate setting to spark a friendship and kindle a relationship but that is a different story from this wonderful moment.  And, as they say, the rest is history.