I’m emotionally preparing myself for what will surely be a difficult weekend.
In the Fall, my step-father, whom we affectionately called General Jim, passed away after caring for my mother, Irene, for several years before he was forced to place her in a nursing facility when Alzheimer’s claimed the mind of the woman he loved.
I understand those who point out that it’s hypocritical to #standwithparis when there are so many places where terror and violence occur on a daily basis, and my heart surely grieves for anyone subjected to fear, brutality and inhumane treatment.
But anytime the world can unite in peace and love, it’s a good, good thing. I am moved by the outpouring of love and support through the Facebook tricolor profile pictures of individuals the world over.
Veteran’s Day stirs my soul.
The gesture made by men and women to place others’ lives ahead of their own moves me, and I am touched by the sacrifice, courage and commitment these soldiers make on our behalf.
This year will be no different; and yet, it will be entirely different and particularly poignant.
I’ve had my heart broken a multitude of times. In fact, I sometimes think my heart must look like some sort of Frankenstein-ish heart covered in scars.
The scars are there. I know because sometimes when I think back on those times when my heart was crushed, the old wounds flare up inside my chest.
My mom is still living, but she’s no longer here.
Sometimes I feel like she has already died, and sometimes, honestly, I wish she was already in Heaven … for her sake.
I have had encounters with angels. Several times. This is the story of one of those encounters.
Many years ago, I was just coming out of several years of heavy drinking that very nearly killed me. I was so very fragile emotionally, physically and spiritually. I started going to a 12-step program in Seoul, South Korea, where we were living at the time, and there I met a fellow alcoholic with more than 25 years of sobriety, who would have a great impact on my own recovery.
Be honest. How many of you, man or woman, found yourselves running around trying to finish last-minute preparations for Christmas, looking a whole lot more like Martha than Mary?
My daughter has this huge floor mirror that she received for Christmas a few years ago. I love that mirror because for some reason, whenever I check myself out in that mirror, I look really thin. Not going to lie, I like that.
There was a time not so long ago when I might have said the same heartbreaking words that Naomi utters in the Book of Ruth after losing her husband and sons in battle, which forced her to return to her homeland with her tail between her legs and her Moabite daughter-in-law Ruth along for the sad trip home.
Francis Ware Wright, Jr. (right), better known as Caesar, with his lifelong friend, Bill Hoyer, on the waters of Lake Erie — the place where he once said he felt closest to God.
His name was Francis Ware Wright Jr., but he was better known as “Caesar.”
He was my dad.
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