I don’t know who to write about, my father-in-law (FIL) or my mother-in-law (MIL). In the end, I believe it will be about both.
First of all I want to say that I love and admire my mother-in-law. She is a strong woman, both physically and emotionally. My father-in-law, not so much. Lucky for him my mother-in-law is both physically and emotionally strong, otherwise, some say, he may have done some jail time because his beatings came close to killing her many a time. As it is, he should be in prison for other things his children say he has done, like having her signature forged on the divorce decree and other documents. My mother-in-law, aside from the above mentioned strengths, is also very kind hearted and forgiving. Again, lucky for my father-in-law.
My MIL says that whenever she sees a depiction of the Passion of Christ she is reminded of the physical abuse she sustained from him on a regular basis. Sometimes it was her head to the ceramic floor/wall/sink pounding, sometimes it was open hand slaps and/or punches and other times it was whippings with a thick leather belt, with him yelling at her that the next time it would be with the belt buckle. She was often dragged by her hair across the house prior to a beating. Why or how she survived, no one knows, perhaps to tell the story? She tells me she would be unable to walk or sit for days. Her son, my beloved and traumatized husband, tells me stories of all five children standing on the other side of the bedroom door wailing, pleading, crying, banging on the door begging him to stop, trying to knock the door down, not knowing if he would stop, praying that he would not kill her. If any of the children got in the way, he would hit them or send them flying, usually him and his older sister. The neighbors would run to her and tell her to hide because "the monster" was on his way home and he was angry about something or other and would surely take it out on her. My FIL has often used the excuse that she “was a jealous woman” my husband tells me that it wasn’t so much that she was a jealous woman, but instead she was a woman whose husband cheated on her on a regular basis. Some of his children have been heard using the same excuse, as if there is an excuse to justify a beating that can be compared to the Passion of Christ. My husband tells me that due to limited resources the five children had to sleep in one bed. He tells me that due to limited resources they had to cut out the tips of their shoes to wear them a bit longer. What little money there was, was used for my FIL’s cheating ways; women, including setting at least one of them up in her own apartment. But the ultimate betrayal was when he cheated on her with her own cousin. The cousin, who now flaunts the betrayal as a badge of honor, was having a rough time in her own life. My generous and kind hearted MIL took her in and shared what little my MIL had with her. The cousin, a woman who does not respect the bond of blood or the sacrament of marriage, plotted to dispose of his five children in one way or another. My FIL sent his children away if they were not married. Soon after, he married the cousin. She knew that if she had a child with him she could form a family unit and take him away from his other children. When she was unable to conceive they found a woman who was known to give or sell her children away. And that is what they did. They made arrangements to keep the child she was carrying. Some say that the cousin wore maternity clothes while the biological mother was pregnant to fool the townspeople and that they paid to have the birth certificate altered to reflect their names as the birth parents. This child who doesn’t know her birth mother or her biological siblings was raised by the most tender and loving father. Never did she see my FIL raise a hand to the woman who raised her. She has been given every luxury possible. While my husband does not begrudge that my FIL has paid for her multiple degrees abroad. He does begrudge that he and his siblings have been excluded in every possible way. They have been excluded emotionally and financially. My husband has questions that he wants answers to; what about the five siblings that grew up so traumatized by their father's abusive treatment? Why has it been so easy for him to discard them as if they are disposable? Why does he now reject them? I believe that the children he had with their mother represent a part of him that he is terribly ashamed of. Perhaps he regrets his past abusive actions. But then why doesn’t he simply acknowledge that it happened and ask for forgiveness and make things right and begin a relationship of inclusion? That is how true healing will begin. Unfortunately, as often happens, pride gets in the way.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Faith Shaken
I think, oh Jesus if only you had been here none of this would have happened. I am neither Mary nor Martha, nor is my father named Lazarus. His name is Luis. But I can imagine how Martha and Mary must have felt. If only…but Jesus is gone. Gone as in over 2,000 years gone. How can I count on Him when at times I cannot count on the people who share worldly spaces with me?
I always say, where there is life here is hope, where there is death there is faith. But there seems to be a scarcity of all of the above, no life, no hope and certainly no faith. What there is, is an abundance of death. My father fights for his life. He fell and shattered his cranium. His brain no longer functions, there appears to be no vision, no hearing, no voice, no memory, he lays there and grimaces, jerks around, looks straight at you without actually seeing. He is as close to a vegetable as they come.
A fall that was totally and completely preventable.
But I will deal with that anger later.
Right now I have to keep the angel of death at bay as he is circling the periphery of life. I am, however, ready to invite him in. I can no longer bear to watch my father suffer. He is attached to life by machines and liquids dripping upside down from bags on hooks. The scent of death is camouflaged by antiseptic washes. The sound of death comes from pings and beeps, a symphony of machinery designed to keep someone tethered to this world much longer than anyone in their right mind would want to. I fight back the bitterest of tears and tell him that it is okay to go, if he is tired and wants to go, he is free to go, we will send him off so that the Others can greet him. By now I am fighting the daily sobs. I wonder how much longer before the doctor throws in the proverbial towel and says “we have done all that we can.” I know, I will tell him. But Jesus never showed up to say “open the tomb.”
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Sharks in Suits and the Company They Keep
First of all, my apologies. My apologies to all my friends and family members who work in our legal system (i.e. attorneys, paralegals, etc…). God knows you have helped us out on many occasions. But I must say, our legal system is whacked. Perhaps at one time it hummed evenly on its axis, but now? It is clearly out of balance.
I recently was called to serve on a jury. Little did I know how this would end. But first, let me tell you the process. It began very much like being picked to be on a team in 7th grade gym class. Attorneys (team captains) would ask questions according to jurors' experiences, professions and opinions. If there was something that stood out as being beneficial to their case they'd keep you, if there was something said that they did not feel was advantageous to their case, they'd ask the judge to have the juror dismissed. Unfortunately for me, both team captains wanted me. I did not want to be on either of their teams. I did not even want to play their game. But before I knew it they had me hooked into their cat and mouse, gotcha and legal ping-pong game. I quickly learned that no one was allowed to lie, except of course, the attorneys. They lied by omission, they lied by slanting their perspective of their stories, they lied by stretching the truth so far it snapped in your face. But still I was enthralled by the story, many times struggling to contain my expression of "you've got to be kidding me?" or the rolling of my eyes (a technique I have learned from my teenage daughter). The trial involved a man, a train, the man's employer, and their legal teams. One legal team (plaintiff's attorneys) came all the way from St. Louis, MO. They were a team of relatively young lawyers with dollar signs in their eyes, lots of dollar signs. The opposing legal team, the defendant's attorneys, were local, a pair of older attorneys and probably had their jobs on the line.
The story is laid out in front of us. The judge explained that real life trials were not at all like TV trials. Perhaps true, but equally entertaining nonetheless. The plaintiff worked for a railroad yard and was on the premises when he was hit by a train. His claim was that in spite of several warnings and near-misses the railroad yard failed to place nothing more than a stop sign at the crossing, making it unsafe and perilous. The company claimed that they had met the standards as required by the government (they would have looked much better had they EXCEEDED the standards, in my humble opinion). The plaintiff had sustained several serious injuries, but appeared to be fine after several years. He could sit for long periods of time without being in any obvious pain, he could walk, he could take his coat on and off without any assistance. He had not seen a physician in years nor was he taking any medication. He had not left the stove unattended causing a fire or displayed any other long term effects due to head trauma. When he took the witness stand he seemed to be mentally and emotionally equipped to handle the line of questioning by the defense, and many times even appearing glib, making the plaintiff's claim that he needed 16 hours of care every day (to the tune of about 15 million dollars) seem incredulous. Furthermore, he spent the day playing video games, calling his friends and navigating on MySpace. The legal sparring kept me on the edge of my Lilliputian juror's seat (ever sit in one of those? They are cramped, tiny and made for the rear of a person born in the 1800's). Each side brought in their legal expert witnesses. Well paid too, ranging anywhere from $10,000 to $24,000. What a racket. They should pass a law making it illegal to pay expert witnesses; it’s a lot like campaign financing. You scratch my back and I will scratch, massage and apply sweet smelling cream to cover up the stench on yours. Okay, I am perhaps, just a little jaded from this experience.
The Straw That Broke the Camel's Back....
It was towards the end of the trial that I noticed something that made me want to scream, "Wait a cotton-picking minute!" I could not believe my eyes. The highly paid expert witness appeared to be trying to sway the jury with what was in my opinion, questionable means. At first I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. But the more I thought about it the more I came to believe that he knew exactly what he was doing.
This expert witness, a well known psychologist, stated that the plaintiff was a psychopath. He determined this after spending an hour with him. There were no facts presented to back up his claim. No lengthy criminal record was presented. No other psychological reports noting a history of pathology or dysfunction other than a self assessment indicating that at times he felt depressed. In fact, the only information presented by the defense was that he lied on his MySpace profile saying he made a lot more money then he actually did. Men lie about two things and how much money they make is one of them. Use your imagination for the second lie. If they counted these lies as a sign of pathology then we'd sure have a lot of psychopaths walking around. The psychologist gave us the definition of a psychopath, he said its not a ruthless, cold blooded killer like we see on television. A psychopath is a manipulator; he uses manipulation for his personal gain. We have a saying in Spanish; "look at the donkey talk about long ears."
This psychologist was the highest paid expert witness on this case. He had made $24,000 for perhaps 2 days worth of work. Furthermore, this was not the first time he provided expert testimony for this client. This was, in fact, approximately the 10th time he provided services to this client. Holy smoke, and I was sitting there making $40.00 a day as a juror, subtract my parking fee of $10.00, I am down to $30.00 a day, minus my $6.00-$7.00 lunch as there are no refrigerators to store or microwaves to heat lunches brought from home in the jurors room.
The psychologist had a lot of money riding on this, his client needed to win. And he was about to prove (in my eyes) that he'd do anything possible to make it happen.
During a sidebar, while the defense and plaintiff's attorneys were busy with the judge the expert witness held a book up titled "Without Conscience" by Robert Hare, a leading expert on the subject of psychopaths. How convenient I thought to have with him a book about psychopaths available and secondly for him to have carried it to the witness stand. He was no dummy; here he was with a PhD in psychology with years of varied experience, education and knowledge. This did not appear to me to be an accident. Or perhaps it was as we say in Spanish, "un accidente a propósito" an "intentional accident," on purpose, with a motive and an objective. He held the book up for the jury to see. His eyes did not appear to be reading, it seemed that he was actually paying attention to what was going on to his left, where the sidebar was taking place. When the sidebar broke up, he put his book away. That afternoon I went home confused. Unfortunately, I could not talk to anyone about it. I had to figure this one out myself. I could not call my psychologist friends or my attorney friends and ask what their opinion was or ask for advice. That night I tossed and turned and at 3:00 in the morning I decided I would write the judge a letter and tell her what had happened. Then it would be in her hands to decide how to proceed. When I walked in to the jury room the next day, I asked my fellow jurors, if they had seen something they felt was inappropriate would they say something to the judge? One juror said that if it really bothered me then I should let the judge know. I told them that I could not say what I saw to them but felt so strongly about it that I was going to inform the judge. I gave my letter to the bailiff.
It was customary to have late starts, we'd have to report at 9:00 am but usually we'd be called in to the courtroom around 10:00 am. Today was no different, except this day I was the only one called in. The judge read my letter to the two legal teams. The defense team no longer wanted me in the game and they made their case before the judge. The judge at that point had no choice other than to release me. She was very kind in dismissing me and felt I had acted according to my conscience; she said she liked me and appreciated my honesty.
And with those words, I was dismissed. I walked into the jury room and collected my things and the bailiff escorted me to the elevators. I visited my good friend Eileen for coffee that day and she reassured me that I had done the right thing.
I was crushed and felt that I was honest in my civil commitment and had invested time and energy into this and yet I was so easily dismissed. Why wasn't the expert witness called out on the carpet? Perhaps he was. Why didn't the defense legal team read him the riot act and ask for their money back? Perhaps they did. I, however, could not help but feel slighted. I had fully participated in this legal charade. I had followed the rules, why hadn't they? "They" being the participants in this very jaded legal system. I had invested time, money, emotion, brain power. And for them, it was a money game. A real shell game.
The Outcome
I had up to this point felt that the plaintiff did not deserve much of a settlement. His attorneys had failed to make much of a case. However, at the same time, I felt the defendants failed to protect any idiot from crossing the railroad track. I was not convinced they were blameless. There were no cross bucks, no bells, no whistles, no lights, just a moveable stop sign that drunken teenagers could move or take. If anything, I think I would have awarded the plaintiff a token to serve as a wake-up call to both sides of the legal aisle. But the jury that was left did not entertain such scenarios. Instead the jury declared that the railroad company was completely free of any responsibility and the plaintiff was entitled to nothing. So be aware that if you accidentally turn on to a railroad yard you could be hit by a train because the company may be too lazy, too stubborn or too cheap to warn you.
I truly hope I never have to participate in this warped legal system again.
First of all, my apologies. My apologies to all my friends and family members who work in our legal system (i.e. attorneys, paralegals, etc…). God knows you have helped us out on many occasions. But I must say, our legal system is whacked. Perhaps at one time it hummed evenly on its axis, but now? It is clearly out of balance.
I recently was called to serve on a jury. Little did I know how this would end. But first, let me tell you the process. It began very much like being picked to be on a team in 7th grade gym class. Attorneys (team captains) would ask questions according to jurors' experiences, professions and opinions. If there was something that stood out as being beneficial to their case they'd keep you, if there was something said that they did not feel was advantageous to their case, they'd ask the judge to have the juror dismissed. Unfortunately for me, both team captains wanted me. I did not want to be on either of their teams. I did not even want to play their game. But before I knew it they had me hooked into their cat and mouse, gotcha and legal ping-pong game. I quickly learned that no one was allowed to lie, except of course, the attorneys. They lied by omission, they lied by slanting their perspective of their stories, they lied by stretching the truth so far it snapped in your face. But still I was enthralled by the story, many times struggling to contain my expression of "you've got to be kidding me?" or the rolling of my eyes (a technique I have learned from my teenage daughter). The trial involved a man, a train, the man's employer, and their legal teams. One legal team (plaintiff's attorneys) came all the way from St. Louis, MO. They were a team of relatively young lawyers with dollar signs in their eyes, lots of dollar signs. The opposing legal team, the defendant's attorneys, were local, a pair of older attorneys and probably had their jobs on the line.
The story is laid out in front of us. The judge explained that real life trials were not at all like TV trials. Perhaps true, but equally entertaining nonetheless. The plaintiff worked for a railroad yard and was on the premises when he was hit by a train. His claim was that in spite of several warnings and near-misses the railroad yard failed to place nothing more than a stop sign at the crossing, making it unsafe and perilous. The company claimed that they had met the standards as required by the government (they would have looked much better had they EXCEEDED the standards, in my humble opinion). The plaintiff had sustained several serious injuries, but appeared to be fine after several years. He could sit for long periods of time without being in any obvious pain, he could walk, he could take his coat on and off without any assistance. He had not seen a physician in years nor was he taking any medication. He had not left the stove unattended causing a fire or displayed any other long term effects due to head trauma. When he took the witness stand he seemed to be mentally and emotionally equipped to handle the line of questioning by the defense, and many times even appearing glib, making the plaintiff's claim that he needed 16 hours of care every day (to the tune of about 15 million dollars) seem incredulous. Furthermore, he spent the day playing video games, calling his friends and navigating on MySpace. The legal sparring kept me on the edge of my Lilliputian juror's seat (ever sit in one of those? They are cramped, tiny and made for the rear of a person born in the 1800's). Each side brought in their legal expert witnesses. Well paid too, ranging anywhere from $10,000 to $24,000. What a racket. They should pass a law making it illegal to pay expert witnesses; it’s a lot like campaign financing. You scratch my back and I will scratch, massage and apply sweet smelling cream to cover up the stench on yours. Okay, I am perhaps, just a little jaded from this experience.
The Straw That Broke the Camel's Back....
It was towards the end of the trial that I noticed something that made me want to scream, "Wait a cotton-picking minute!" I could not believe my eyes. The highly paid expert witness appeared to be trying to sway the jury with what was in my opinion, questionable means. At first I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. But the more I thought about it the more I came to believe that he knew exactly what he was doing.
This expert witness, a well known psychologist, stated that the plaintiff was a psychopath. He determined this after spending an hour with him. There were no facts presented to back up his claim. No lengthy criminal record was presented. No other psychological reports noting a history of pathology or dysfunction other than a self assessment indicating that at times he felt depressed. In fact, the only information presented by the defense was that he lied on his MySpace profile saying he made a lot more money then he actually did. Men lie about two things and how much money they make is one of them. Use your imagination for the second lie. If they counted these lies as a sign of pathology then we'd sure have a lot of psychopaths walking around. The psychologist gave us the definition of a psychopath, he said its not a ruthless, cold blooded killer like we see on television. A psychopath is a manipulator; he uses manipulation for his personal gain. We have a saying in Spanish; "look at the donkey talk about long ears."
This psychologist was the highest paid expert witness on this case. He had made $24,000 for perhaps 2 days worth of work. Furthermore, this was not the first time he provided expert testimony for this client. This was, in fact, approximately the 10th time he provided services to this client. Holy smoke, and I was sitting there making $40.00 a day as a juror, subtract my parking fee of $10.00, I am down to $30.00 a day, minus my $6.00-$7.00 lunch as there are no refrigerators to store or microwaves to heat lunches brought from home in the jurors room.
The psychologist had a lot of money riding on this, his client needed to win. And he was about to prove (in my eyes) that he'd do anything possible to make it happen.
During a sidebar, while the defense and plaintiff's attorneys were busy with the judge the expert witness held a book up titled "Without Conscience" by Robert Hare, a leading expert on the subject of psychopaths. How convenient I thought to have with him a book about psychopaths available and secondly for him to have carried it to the witness stand. He was no dummy; here he was with a PhD in psychology with years of varied experience, education and knowledge. This did not appear to me to be an accident. Or perhaps it was as we say in Spanish, "un accidente a propósito" an "intentional accident," on purpose, with a motive and an objective. He held the book up for the jury to see. His eyes did not appear to be reading, it seemed that he was actually paying attention to what was going on to his left, where the sidebar was taking place. When the sidebar broke up, he put his book away. That afternoon I went home confused. Unfortunately, I could not talk to anyone about it. I had to figure this one out myself. I could not call my psychologist friends or my attorney friends and ask what their opinion was or ask for advice. That night I tossed and turned and at 3:00 in the morning I decided I would write the judge a letter and tell her what had happened. Then it would be in her hands to decide how to proceed. When I walked in to the jury room the next day, I asked my fellow jurors, if they had seen something they felt was inappropriate would they say something to the judge? One juror said that if it really bothered me then I should let the judge know. I told them that I could not say what I saw to them but felt so strongly about it that I was going to inform the judge. I gave my letter to the bailiff.
It was customary to have late starts, we'd have to report at 9:00 am but usually we'd be called in to the courtroom around 10:00 am. Today was no different, except this day I was the only one called in. The judge read my letter to the two legal teams. The defense team no longer wanted me in the game and they made their case before the judge. The judge at that point had no choice other than to release me. She was very kind in dismissing me and felt I had acted according to my conscience; she said she liked me and appreciated my honesty.
And with those words, I was dismissed. I walked into the jury room and collected my things and the bailiff escorted me to the elevators. I visited my good friend Eileen for coffee that day and she reassured me that I had done the right thing.
I was crushed and felt that I was honest in my civil commitment and had invested time and energy into this and yet I was so easily dismissed. Why wasn't the expert witness called out on the carpet? Perhaps he was. Why didn't the defense legal team read him the riot act and ask for their money back? Perhaps they did. I, however, could not help but feel slighted. I had fully participated in this legal charade. I had followed the rules, why hadn't they? "They" being the participants in this very jaded legal system. I had invested time, money, emotion, brain power. And for them, it was a money game. A real shell game.
The Outcome
I had up to this point felt that the plaintiff did not deserve much of a settlement. His attorneys had failed to make much of a case. However, at the same time, I felt the defendants failed to protect any idiot from crossing the railroad track. I was not convinced they were blameless. There were no cross bucks, no bells, no whistles, no lights, just a moveable stop sign that drunken teenagers could move or take. If anything, I think I would have awarded the plaintiff a token to serve as a wake-up call to both sides of the legal aisle. But the jury that was left did not entertain such scenarios. Instead the jury declared that the railroad company was completely free of any responsibility and the plaintiff was entitled to nothing. So be aware that if you accidentally turn on to a railroad yard you could be hit by a train because the company may be too lazy, too stubborn or too cheap to warn you.
I truly hope I never have to participate in this warped legal system again.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
A Listening Heart
"A LISTENING HEART"
What do four women; ages 68, 64, 22 and 18 have in common? The common thread is their desire to bring peace to an area torn by daily violence, bloodshed, tears and despair. These brave women will travel to Juarez, Mexico on August 31st for a four month stay.
A human rights (derechos humanos) group from Mexico has asked the Michigan Peace Team to provide a presence in this conflicted area. Who better than the Michigan Peace Team? That is what they do. They walk with those in pain, they mediate and act as a buffer in areas around the world where those with power think that violence is the only way to solve anything. These brave women take with them seeds of hope. Their mission is a simple one--- to go with "a listening heart". They will accompany those who long for tranquility and justice. They will become living instruments of peace and bear witness to Juarez's pain. Talk about carrying the Cross. They are my heroes.
If you know nothing about Juarez, all you have to do is Google "Juarez, Mexico" and article after article will surface about violent drug cartels, dire poverty and the mysterious disappearances of young women only to be found dead after rape and mutilation of their bodies. No one ever becomes accustomed to acts of violence.
One of these four women is someone who is near and dear to my heart, Sr. Nina Rodriguez, she is practically a family member. My parents, as a young newlywed couple, rented a flat from her parents before I was born. Sr. Nina has known me since I first stepped foot on this planet. She was a mentor to me during my trying teenage years. She is a member of my "village". Thank God. And now she is going to give to another village.
Sr. Nina and the three other women have all the inner resources required for such a demanding trip, in fact, they are quite gifted spiritually. What they lack are the financial resources. Sr. Nina called me on behalf of the other women, especially the two younger women asking for assistance. They are selling items from Guatemala as a means of funding their trip. If you are in need of beautifully embroidered items, such as table runners, bags, purses, pillowcases and other handmade items, please contact me directly (313-282-1340 or luliss27@aol.com) you can also contact Sr. Nina directly at 313-638-1428 or by e-mail nrodriguez@csjoseph.org. If you do not wish to purchase anything, she will gladly take your donation, and there is no amount that is too small, feel free to mail any checks to the Michigan Peace Team:
Michigan Peace Team
808 W. Barnes Ave.
Lansing MI. 48910-1304
michiganpeaceteam.org
Memo line should read: Juarez Peace Team
Those of you who belonged to the Detroit Ste. Anne's Youth Club back in the 70's and 80's I am making a special appeal to you on behalf of Sr. Nina.
Godspeed Sr. Nina. I look forward to your return when you will once again teach us the lessons of life, love and peace.
Lourdes
What do four women; ages 68, 64, 22 and 18 have in common? The common thread is their desire to bring peace to an area torn by daily violence, bloodshed, tears and despair. These brave women will travel to Juarez, Mexico on August 31st for a four month stay.
A human rights (derechos humanos) group from Mexico has asked the Michigan Peace Team to provide a presence in this conflicted area. Who better than the Michigan Peace Team? That is what they do. They walk with those in pain, they mediate and act as a buffer in areas around the world where those with power think that violence is the only way to solve anything. These brave women take with them seeds of hope. Their mission is a simple one--- to go with "a listening heart". They will accompany those who long for tranquility and justice. They will become living instruments of peace and bear witness to Juarez's pain. Talk about carrying the Cross. They are my heroes.
If you know nothing about Juarez, all you have to do is Google "Juarez, Mexico" and article after article will surface about violent drug cartels, dire poverty and the mysterious disappearances of young women only to be found dead after rape and mutilation of their bodies. No one ever becomes accustomed to acts of violence.
One of these four women is someone who is near and dear to my heart, Sr. Nina Rodriguez, she is practically a family member. My parents, as a young newlywed couple, rented a flat from her parents before I was born. Sr. Nina has known me since I first stepped foot on this planet. She was a mentor to me during my trying teenage years. She is a member of my "village". Thank God. And now she is going to give to another village.
Sr. Nina and the three other women have all the inner resources required for such a demanding trip, in fact, they are quite gifted spiritually. What they lack are the financial resources. Sr. Nina called me on behalf of the other women, especially the two younger women asking for assistance. They are selling items from Guatemala as a means of funding their trip. If you are in need of beautifully embroidered items, such as table runners, bags, purses, pillowcases and other handmade items, please contact me directly (313-282-1340 or luliss27@aol.com) you can also contact Sr. Nina directly at 313-638-1428 or by e-mail nrodriguez@csjoseph.org. If you do not wish to purchase anything, she will gladly take your donation, and there is no amount that is too small, feel free to mail any checks to the Michigan Peace Team:
Michigan Peace Team
808 W. Barnes Ave.
Lansing MI. 48910-1304
michiganpeaceteam.org
Memo line should read: Juarez Peace Team
Those of you who belonged to the Detroit Ste. Anne's Youth Club back in the 70's and 80's I am making a special appeal to you on behalf of Sr. Nina.
Godspeed Sr. Nina. I look forward to your return when you will once again teach us the lessons of life, love and peace.
Lourdes
Monday, June 7, 2010
The Bully
I was on the corner of Michigan Ave. and Outer Dr. at a red light MINDING MY OWN BUSINESS when a man in the next car motions to me. At first I thought he was going to ask me for directions or something about my car, like what kind of gas mileage I get since it is a hybrid. The outcome was very different.
This is the exchange that took place:
Him: "Hey, how's that change?" He asks in an angry tone
Me: "Change? I am sorry, I don't understand?"
Him: "I see you voted for Obama, how's that change going for you?" again he asks in an angry, smug and mocking tone.
By now I have figured out that he has spotted my Obama bumper sticker (located right next to my peace bumper sticker, which he has completely overlooked as its obvious to me that he WAS looking for a fight.) I smile and shake my head saying, "nope, not going there buddy...." he condescendingly nods his head "yea, aha...right.." and steps on the gas, so that now he doesn't have to listen to my answer. But had I decided to engage this "gentleman" I would have answered: "THE CHANGE WAS GETTING THOSE THUGS OUT OF THE WHITE HOUSE, SO I'D SAY IT'S GOING QUITE WELL!"
I started to think about this; (it was a long light, traffic was backed up due to the torrential rain we had earlier.) I bet if I were a MAN he would NOT have said anything to me. Not one word. He would not have had the "you know what" to, but he sees a woman, in a hybrid with a peace sticker, obviously an easy target. What a bully, well I got news for him; I am no easy target, no shrinking violet. What a coward I think, so I decide to tell him. I yell out "hey buddy, you are a coward, a real coward!" Even though he is a car in front and to the right of me, I can see that his veins are about to pop out of his neck. He hangs out his window hysterically motioning me to pull over. Yea, a real misogynist, he wouldn't pull this little stunt with a man. He is so angry; I have questioned his manhood (actually his lack of manhood). The light changed to green, had I had more time I would have told him to start looking for his missing anatomy.
He is fit to be tied. He looks like he is about to turn himself inside out he is so angry, and you think I am going to pull over? I shake my head, smile and I lock my doors. I drive straight ahead ignoring his tantrum, I may be crazy but not as crazy as you, are "Sir"....Where is Keith Olbermann to yell "WORSE PERSON IN THE WORLD!"????
This is the exchange that took place:
Him: "Hey, how's that change?" He asks in an angry tone
Me: "Change? I am sorry, I don't understand?"
Him: "I see you voted for Obama, how's that change going for you?" again he asks in an angry, smug and mocking tone.
By now I have figured out that he has spotted my Obama bumper sticker (located right next to my peace bumper sticker, which he has completely overlooked as its obvious to me that he WAS looking for a fight.) I smile and shake my head saying, "nope, not going there buddy...." he condescendingly nods his head "yea, aha...right.." and steps on the gas, so that now he doesn't have to listen to my answer. But had I decided to engage this "gentleman" I would have answered: "THE CHANGE WAS GETTING THOSE THUGS OUT OF THE WHITE HOUSE, SO I'D SAY IT'S GOING QUITE WELL!"
I started to think about this; (it was a long light, traffic was backed up due to the torrential rain we had earlier.) I bet if I were a MAN he would NOT have said anything to me. Not one word. He would not have had the "you know what" to, but he sees a woman, in a hybrid with a peace sticker, obviously an easy target. What a bully, well I got news for him; I am no easy target, no shrinking violet. What a coward I think, so I decide to tell him. I yell out "hey buddy, you are a coward, a real coward!" Even though he is a car in front and to the right of me, I can see that his veins are about to pop out of his neck. He hangs out his window hysterically motioning me to pull over. Yea, a real misogynist, he wouldn't pull this little stunt with a man. He is so angry; I have questioned his manhood (actually his lack of manhood). The light changed to green, had I had more time I would have told him to start looking for his missing anatomy.
He is fit to be tied. He looks like he is about to turn himself inside out he is so angry, and you think I am going to pull over? I shake my head, smile and I lock my doors. I drive straight ahead ignoring his tantrum, I may be crazy but not as crazy as you, are "Sir"....Where is Keith Olbermann to yell "WORSE PERSON IN THE WORLD!"????
Monday, May 24, 2010
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Blessed Sacrament Cathedral
Well no, not really, but plenty of funny things happened WHILE we were
protesting OUTSIDE the Cathedral on Ordination Saturday. People;
priests, lay and otherwise walked past us winking, nodding, whispering-
thank you for doing this, or good for you! - People passing by not
familiar with the Catholic religion would ask the dozen of us present,
"what do your signs about faith and inclusion mean?" I explained that
the church continues with its discriminatory practice of not giving
women an equal place at the table. Their response to our action was
encouraging; "Good, I am glad you are speaking out!" they'd say.
Not all comments were positive. Like the man who told us that any
opposition to the Church was a sin. Any opposition? I wanted to ask;
because we oppose the way the Church has handled the child molestation
crisis that too is a sin? Talk about falling into the rabbit hole!
Then there was the man who told us to take our "shit" and go
somewhere else. He quickly turned around and scurried into the
church. A man and woman looking like they were going to a high end
fashion show told us to join the Episcopalians. So much for inclusion,
the message was clear; YOU are not welcomed HERE. This is supposed to
be a silent vigil, in others words I have to keep my big mouth shut.
It's hard, especially when I wanted to yell back----
"Why should I leave? it is MY church too ya know?" But I did not yell,
not that time.
I did, however, fail to keep quiet when a woman drove by with a sign
written on the flap of an old cardboard box in what looked like
eyeliner stating; "we love our priests." She hung out the car window
while holding the sign screaming at the top of her lungs:
"WEEEE LOOOOVE OUR PRIIIIIIESTS!"
Sorry, it was automatic, the words just tumbled out my mouth…..oh if
"Sr. Eileen" had been there she would have looked at me with that Irish
twinkle in her eyes and pursed lips sweetly saying "now Lourdes,
silence please." So, so sorry…..but I yelled back, yes I did yell
back, not in an angry tone, but I do sheepishly admit to yelling, I did
want to be heard after all…..
"SO DO WEEEEEE!"
What makes her think we don't love our priests? Well, maybe not the
lily-livered priests, I don't particularly care much for them. I
don't much care for the ones who showed up in the nice new, luxury
vehicles either. There was one priest being taxied in a Hummer. Can
you imagine Jesus showing up in a Hummer? Or a Cadillac? Or a Lincoln?
Or a Lexus? Or a BMW? No, He probably would have gotten off the city bus, picked up a sign and walked with the twelve of us.
protesting OUTSIDE the Cathedral on Ordination Saturday. People;
priests, lay and otherwise walked past us winking, nodding, whispering-
thank you for doing this, or good for you! - People passing by not
familiar with the Catholic religion would ask the dozen of us present,
"what do your signs about faith and inclusion mean?" I explained that
the church continues with its discriminatory practice of not giving
women an equal place at the table. Their response to our action was
encouraging; "Good, I am glad you are speaking out!" they'd say.
Not all comments were positive. Like the man who told us that any
opposition to the Church was a sin. Any opposition? I wanted to ask;
because we oppose the way the Church has handled the child molestation
crisis that too is a sin? Talk about falling into the rabbit hole!
Then there was the man who told us to take our "shit" and go
somewhere else. He quickly turned around and scurried into the
church. A man and woman looking like they were going to a high end
fashion show told us to join the Episcopalians. So much for inclusion,
the message was clear; YOU are not welcomed HERE. This is supposed to
be a silent vigil, in others words I have to keep my big mouth shut.
It's hard, especially when I wanted to yell back----
"Why should I leave? it is MY church too ya know?" But I did not yell,
not that time.
I did, however, fail to keep quiet when a woman drove by with a sign
written on the flap of an old cardboard box in what looked like
eyeliner stating; "we love our priests." She hung out the car window
while holding the sign screaming at the top of her lungs:
"WEEEE LOOOOVE OUR PRIIIIIIESTS!"
Sorry, it was automatic, the words just tumbled out my mouth…..oh if
"Sr. Eileen" had been there she would have looked at me with that Irish
twinkle in her eyes and pursed lips sweetly saying "now Lourdes,
silence please." So, so sorry…..but I yelled back, yes I did yell
back, not in an angry tone, but I do sheepishly admit to yelling, I did
want to be heard after all…..
"SO DO WEEEEEE!"
What makes her think we don't love our priests? Well, maybe not the
lily-livered priests, I don't particularly care much for them. I
don't much care for the ones who showed up in the nice new, luxury
vehicles either. There was one priest being taxied in a Hummer. Can
you imagine Jesus showing up in a Hummer? Or a Cadillac? Or a Lincoln?
Or a Lexus? Or a BMW? No, He probably would have gotten off the city bus, picked up a sign and walked with the twelve of us.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The Mindless Menace of Violence-Remembering Bobby Kennedy
Dr. Martin Luther king, Jr. was killed 42 years ago today, April 4th, 1968. Bobby Kennedy was so devastated by this tragic and vicious act of violence that he gave the following speech. It is urgent that we take a stand against the mindless menace of violence not only in America, but around the world.
BOBBY KENNEDY
City Club of Cleveland, Cleveland, Ohio
April 5, 1968
"This is a time of shame and sorrow. It is not a day for politics. I have saved this one opportunity, my only event of today, to speak briefly to you about the mindless menace of violence in America which again stains our land and every one of our lives.
It is not the concern of any one race. The victims of the violence are black and white, rich and poor, young and old, famous and unknown. They are, most important of all, human beings whom other human beings loved and needed. No one - no matter where he lives or what he does - can be certain who will suffer from some senseless act of bloodshed. And yet it goes on and on and on in this country of ours.
Why? What has violence ever accomplished? What has it ever created? No martyr's cause has ever been stilled by an assassin's bullet.
No wrongs have ever been righted by riots and civil disorders. A sniper is only a coward, not a hero; and an uncontrolled, uncontrollable mob is only the voice of madness, not the voice of reason.
Whenever any American's life is taken by another American unnecessarily - whether it is done in the name of the law or in the defiance of the law, by one man or a gang, in cold blood or in passion, in an attack of violence or in response to violence - whenever we tear at the fabric of the life which another man has painfully and clumsily woven for himself and his children, the whole nation is degraded.
"Among free men," said Abraham Lincoln, "there can be no successful appeal from the ballot to the bullet; and those who take such appeal are sure to lose their cause and pay the costs."
Yet we seemingly tolerate a rising level of violence that ignores our common humanity and our claims to civilization alike. We calmly accept newspaper reports of civilian slaughter in far-off lands. We glorify killing on movie and television screens and call it entertainment. We make it easy for men of all shades of sanity to acquire whatever weapons and ammunition they desire.
Too often we honor swagger and bluster and wielders of force; too often we excuse those who are willing to build their own lives on the shattered dreams of others. Some Americans who preach non-violence abroad fail to practice it here at home. Some who accuse others of inciting riots have by their own conduct invited them.
Some look for scapegoats, others look for conspiracies, but this much is clear: violence breeds violence, repression brings retaliation, and only a cleansing of our whole society can remove this sickness from our soul.
For there is another kind of violence, slower but just as deadly destructive as the shot or the bomb in the night. This is the violence of institutions; indifference and inaction and slow decay. This is the violence that afflicts the poor, that poisons relations between men because their skin has different colors. This is the slow destruction of a child by hunger, and schools without books and homes without heat in the winter.
This is the breaking of a man's spirit by denying him the chance to stand as a father and as a man among other men. And this too afflicts us all.
I have not come here to propose a set of specific remedies nor is there a single set. For a broad and adequate outline we know what must be done. When you teach a man to hate and fear his brother, when you teach that he is a lesser man because of his color or his beliefs or the policies he pursues, when you teach that those who differ from you threaten your freedom or your job or your family, then you also learn to confront others not as fellow citizens but as enemies, to be met not with cooperation but with conquest; to be subjugated and mastered.
We learn, at the last, to look at our brothers as aliens, men with whom we share a city, but not a community; men bound to us in common dwelling, but not in common effort. We learn to share only a common fear, only a common desire to retreat from each other, only a common impulse to meet disagreement with force. For all this, there are no final answers.
Yet we know what we must do. It is to achieve true justice among our fellow citizens. The question is not what programs we should seek to enact. The question is whether we can find in our own midst and in our own hearts that leadership of humane purpose that will recognize the terrible truths of our existence.
We must admit the vanity of our false distinctions among men and learn to find our own advancement in the search for the advancement of others. We must admit in ourselves that our own children's future cannot be built on the misfortunes of others. We must recognize that this short life can neither be ennobled or enriched by hatred or revenge.
Our lives on this planet are too short and the work to be done too great to let this spirit flourish any longer in our land. Of course we cannot vanquish it with a program, nor with a resolution.
But we can perhaps remember, if only for a time, that those who live with us are our brothers, that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek, as do we, nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and in happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfillment they can.
Surely, this bond of common faith, this bond of common goal, can begin to teach us something. Surely, we can learn, at least, to look at those around us as fellow men, and surely we can begin to work a little harder to bind up the wounds among us and to become in our own hearts brothers and countrymen once again."
BOBBY KENNEDY
City Club of Cleveland, Cleveland, Ohio
April 5, 1968
"This is a time of shame and sorrow. It is not a day for politics. I have saved this one opportunity, my only event of today, to speak briefly to you about the mindless menace of violence in America which again stains our land and every one of our lives.
It is not the concern of any one race. The victims of the violence are black and white, rich and poor, young and old, famous and unknown. They are, most important of all, human beings whom other human beings loved and needed. No one - no matter where he lives or what he does - can be certain who will suffer from some senseless act of bloodshed. And yet it goes on and on and on in this country of ours.
Why? What has violence ever accomplished? What has it ever created? No martyr's cause has ever been stilled by an assassin's bullet.
No wrongs have ever been righted by riots and civil disorders. A sniper is only a coward, not a hero; and an uncontrolled, uncontrollable mob is only the voice of madness, not the voice of reason.
Whenever any American's life is taken by another American unnecessarily - whether it is done in the name of the law or in the defiance of the law, by one man or a gang, in cold blood or in passion, in an attack of violence or in response to violence - whenever we tear at the fabric of the life which another man has painfully and clumsily woven for himself and his children, the whole nation is degraded.
"Among free men," said Abraham Lincoln, "there can be no successful appeal from the ballot to the bullet; and those who take such appeal are sure to lose their cause and pay the costs."
Yet we seemingly tolerate a rising level of violence that ignores our common humanity and our claims to civilization alike. We calmly accept newspaper reports of civilian slaughter in far-off lands. We glorify killing on movie and television screens and call it entertainment. We make it easy for men of all shades of sanity to acquire whatever weapons and ammunition they desire.
Too often we honor swagger and bluster and wielders of force; too often we excuse those who are willing to build their own lives on the shattered dreams of others. Some Americans who preach non-violence abroad fail to practice it here at home. Some who accuse others of inciting riots have by their own conduct invited them.
Some look for scapegoats, others look for conspiracies, but this much is clear: violence breeds violence, repression brings retaliation, and only a cleansing of our whole society can remove this sickness from our soul.
For there is another kind of violence, slower but just as deadly destructive as the shot or the bomb in the night. This is the violence of institutions; indifference and inaction and slow decay. This is the violence that afflicts the poor, that poisons relations between men because their skin has different colors. This is the slow destruction of a child by hunger, and schools without books and homes without heat in the winter.
This is the breaking of a man's spirit by denying him the chance to stand as a father and as a man among other men. And this too afflicts us all.
I have not come here to propose a set of specific remedies nor is there a single set. For a broad and adequate outline we know what must be done. When you teach a man to hate and fear his brother, when you teach that he is a lesser man because of his color or his beliefs or the policies he pursues, when you teach that those who differ from you threaten your freedom or your job or your family, then you also learn to confront others not as fellow citizens but as enemies, to be met not with cooperation but with conquest; to be subjugated and mastered.
We learn, at the last, to look at our brothers as aliens, men with whom we share a city, but not a community; men bound to us in common dwelling, but not in common effort. We learn to share only a common fear, only a common desire to retreat from each other, only a common impulse to meet disagreement with force. For all this, there are no final answers.
Yet we know what we must do. It is to achieve true justice among our fellow citizens. The question is not what programs we should seek to enact. The question is whether we can find in our own midst and in our own hearts that leadership of humane purpose that will recognize the terrible truths of our existence.
We must admit the vanity of our false distinctions among men and learn to find our own advancement in the search for the advancement of others. We must admit in ourselves that our own children's future cannot be built on the misfortunes of others. We must recognize that this short life can neither be ennobled or enriched by hatred or revenge.
Our lives on this planet are too short and the work to be done too great to let this spirit flourish any longer in our land. Of course we cannot vanquish it with a program, nor with a resolution.
But we can perhaps remember, if only for a time, that those who live with us are our brothers, that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek, as do we, nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and in happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfillment they can.
Surely, this bond of common faith, this bond of common goal, can begin to teach us something. Surely, we can learn, at least, to look at those around us as fellow men, and surely we can begin to work a little harder to bind up the wounds among us and to become in our own hearts brothers and countrymen once again."
Friday, March 12, 2010
Waco, the City of Good Samaritans
My husband and I recently attended a concert in a city about 30 miles from our home. I had been excited about the Avett Brothers coming to Ann Arbor since having discovered their music. They are a band from North Carolina and play great music. Their style is difficult to describe because they are their own unique genre; a combination of bluegrass, folk, country, alternative, rock, all rolled up into four storytelling musicians…Since we NEVER and I mean NEVER go to concerts I was thrilled. We could have gone to see Michael Franti recently, but passed up on the opportunity mainly because Michael was playing with John Mayer. And although I like John Mayer's music and think he is talented, I cannot put up with his sophomoric style of kiss-and-tell antics (John, I'd like you to meet Lily Allen…I think you two will hit it off fabulously...) So there I was clapping, dancing, singing along to the AB's music, when my phone buzzed. I think the Avett Brothers were playing their penultimate song; Robert (my husband) took the phone call in the lobby. It was our daughter telling him to immediately call a friend's daughter. His friend, Christine Calloway, a former employee, had been my husband's driver for several years until her husband, Tim, became ill and died from a rare disease. Christine had quit working to take care of him. Christine and Robert developed a very special relationship when they worked together. He became a son to her and for Robert, Christine was his 2nd mother. Christine never recovered from her broken heart after Tim died. And quite frankly, that is what we think she died of, a broken heart. Her daughter tells my husband that she and her brother found Christine in her bed, still in her night clothes. She died in her sleep.
The entire ride home, Robert and I were in shock, saying all the things in between tears, laughter and sadness that one says after learning of such devastating news. We couldn't believe it, this was so unexpected, so quick, we never got to say goodbye. How could we accept her being gone? Little did we know that this was the beginning of a very bad evening. Bad can become worse sometimes and it did. Shortly after we arrived home, the phone rang. It's true what they say; when the phone rings at one in the morning it is never good news. It was my mother on the other end. My 82 year old father and 70-something-year-old mother decided they were fit and sprite enough to trek across the country and into Mexico. My dad, as always, would do the solo driving as my mother does not drive. This is quite a task for an 82 with a failing memory, severe diabetes and high blood pressure. They had made it as far as Waco Texas, and now my worst possible fear had become reality. My mother tells me that my father is missing, and that he has been missing for five hours already! What?!!? How can that be? What do you mean missing? How did this happen? Already with a sad heart, I am now terrified. My husband, next to me, listens on with an equally mortified look on his face. Our blood has now dropped to our feet, the room is spinning and we are stuck in the centrifuge of a nightmare. My mother tells me a police officer is with her, and his colleagues have checked hospitals, the morgue, jails..., anywhere he may possibly be but he is no where. We know he is somewhere, but where? In a strange twist, the police officer tells my mother that the police had pulled him over earlier; he had been driving the wrong way on a country road. I now picture every awful, terrorizing scenario that can befall an 82 year old elderly man; he is in a ditch, he is bound in some bad person's trunk, he is slumped over the steering wheel of his vehicle, he is dead. Wherever he is, I know he is in trouble and needs help. My mother and the kind City of Waco police officer tell me they will call back and give updates.
My husband is distraught, first Christine and now my father. He is also battling a virus. I tell him to go to bed and get some rest before he gets sicker, I will keep vigil. The clock ticks away the seconds, the minutes, the hours my father is missing. I keep busy, doing laundry, praying, washing dishes, praying, folding laundry, praying, tidying up, praying, praying, praying. I send a note to a friend who is connected with the IHMs (Immaculate Heart of Mary Sisters) asking for prayer. I begin to pray the rosary, but fall asleep. My dear friend, Heather, told me once that when one falls asleep in prayer the angels finish them for you. Thank you angels, but can you please find my father and protect him? I also send a note to my dad's favorite godson. He has a sister, my childhood friend, in the television business; perhaps she has a T.V. news connection in Waco. Sometime early Wednesday morning, the phone rang. It was that sweet police officer who has watched over my mother throughout this ordeal. My father has been found. We do not know the details, but he is okay although a bit confused and disoriented. His blood sugar level dropped. Diabetes is a wicked disease affecting body, mind and affect. But Waco is full of angels and good Samaritans.
My mother wanted to stretch her legs and walk; there was a hamburger place three blocks away. She told my father she would walk there while he rested and pick up their dinner. My father felt she had been gone too long, so he set out to look for her. Past dinner, his blood sugar began to dip to dangerously low levels. He became confused and drove into a field of high prairie Texan grass and became stuck in mud. He got out of the vehicle and began to walk when he fell. He knew that he could be hit by a car in middle of a country road with poor lighting so he dragged himself to the end of the road. At that time, it just so happened that a man who owns a party store a couple of blocks down the road was driving by. He saw him, stopped the vehicle and asked him what had happened. My father told him he was diabetic and had fallen and was too weak to get himself up. The man helped him up and took him to his store where he gave him a sugary soda and called an ambulance. Since the moment my mother reported my father missing kindness from strangers has abound. Everyone coming in contact with them has been kind and generous in words and in deeds. My mother has not been alone. From the Days Inn hotel manager to the City of Waco police department to the party store owner to the hospital staff....all have welcomed these weary and troubled travelers! My father is hospitalized and my brother is on his way to pick them up and bring them home.
We understand we have been tremendously fortunate. The outcome could have been tragic. Now I have been given an insight not experienced before. I know the anguish experienced by family members when a loved one goes missing. Those first few hours are agonizing, nothing compares to it. I found myself in between sobs and hope, in between despair and prayer. From now on, I will say special prayers for those who are searching for their lost loved ones and I will remember to treat strangers with the same kindness afforded to my parents.
The entire ride home, Robert and I were in shock, saying all the things in between tears, laughter and sadness that one says after learning of such devastating news. We couldn't believe it, this was so unexpected, so quick, we never got to say goodbye. How could we accept her being gone? Little did we know that this was the beginning of a very bad evening. Bad can become worse sometimes and it did. Shortly after we arrived home, the phone rang. It's true what they say; when the phone rings at one in the morning it is never good news. It was my mother on the other end. My 82 year old father and 70-something-year-old mother decided they were fit and sprite enough to trek across the country and into Mexico. My dad, as always, would do the solo driving as my mother does not drive. This is quite a task for an 82 with a failing memory, severe diabetes and high blood pressure. They had made it as far as Waco Texas, and now my worst possible fear had become reality. My mother tells me that my father is missing, and that he has been missing for five hours already! What?!!? How can that be? What do you mean missing? How did this happen? Already with a sad heart, I am now terrified. My husband, next to me, listens on with an equally mortified look on his face. Our blood has now dropped to our feet, the room is spinning and we are stuck in the centrifuge of a nightmare. My mother tells me a police officer is with her, and his colleagues have checked hospitals, the morgue, jails..., anywhere he may possibly be but he is no where. We know he is somewhere, but where? In a strange twist, the police officer tells my mother that the police had pulled him over earlier; he had been driving the wrong way on a country road. I now picture every awful, terrorizing scenario that can befall an 82 year old elderly man; he is in a ditch, he is bound in some bad person's trunk, he is slumped over the steering wheel of his vehicle, he is dead. Wherever he is, I know he is in trouble and needs help. My mother and the kind City of Waco police officer tell me they will call back and give updates.
My husband is distraught, first Christine and now my father. He is also battling a virus. I tell him to go to bed and get some rest before he gets sicker, I will keep vigil. The clock ticks away the seconds, the minutes, the hours my father is missing. I keep busy, doing laundry, praying, washing dishes, praying, folding laundry, praying, tidying up, praying, praying, praying. I send a note to a friend who is connected with the IHMs (Immaculate Heart of Mary Sisters) asking for prayer. I begin to pray the rosary, but fall asleep. My dear friend, Heather, told me once that when one falls asleep in prayer the angels finish them for you. Thank you angels, but can you please find my father and protect him? I also send a note to my dad's favorite godson. He has a sister, my childhood friend, in the television business; perhaps she has a T.V. news connection in Waco. Sometime early Wednesday morning, the phone rang. It was that sweet police officer who has watched over my mother throughout this ordeal. My father has been found. We do not know the details, but he is okay although a bit confused and disoriented. His blood sugar level dropped. Diabetes is a wicked disease affecting body, mind and affect. But Waco is full of angels and good Samaritans.
My mother wanted to stretch her legs and walk; there was a hamburger place three blocks away. She told my father she would walk there while he rested and pick up their dinner. My father felt she had been gone too long, so he set out to look for her. Past dinner, his blood sugar began to dip to dangerously low levels. He became confused and drove into a field of high prairie Texan grass and became stuck in mud. He got out of the vehicle and began to walk when he fell. He knew that he could be hit by a car in middle of a country road with poor lighting so he dragged himself to the end of the road. At that time, it just so happened that a man who owns a party store a couple of blocks down the road was driving by. He saw him, stopped the vehicle and asked him what had happened. My father told him he was diabetic and had fallen and was too weak to get himself up. The man helped him up and took him to his store where he gave him a sugary soda and called an ambulance. Since the moment my mother reported my father missing kindness from strangers has abound. Everyone coming in contact with them has been kind and generous in words and in deeds. My mother has not been alone. From the Days Inn hotel manager to the City of Waco police department to the party store owner to the hospital staff....all have welcomed these weary and troubled travelers! My father is hospitalized and my brother is on his way to pick them up and bring them home.
We understand we have been tremendously fortunate. The outcome could have been tragic. Now I have been given an insight not experienced before. I know the anguish experienced by family members when a loved one goes missing. Those first few hours are agonizing, nothing compares to it. I found myself in between sobs and hope, in between despair and prayer. From now on, I will say special prayers for those who are searching for their lost loved ones and I will remember to treat strangers with the same kindness afforded to my parents.
Monday, February 22, 2010
the promise of spring
I know, I know, we are in midst of the season's worst snow storm. Mama Nature has waved her wand over Metro Detroit and snow is falling mercilessly. We are covered in a white blanket, almost 8 inches thick!
But it doesn't matter. Why? because I have seen the promise of spring.
Yesterday, before the snow began to fall, I was in my sleeping garden. But believe me she is sleeping no more. My garden has started to stir as she does at this time every year. She is turning over and kicking off the winter, stretching her long legs and waving her arms. In February the deep sleep begins to lift and and life begins to unfold. She is stretching and yawning, slowly sending shoots up. My tulips are peeking above the ground, along with the crocuses, hyacinths and daffodils. They are surveying the early dawn of spring, waiting for that long stretch of sun and tepid weather to grow a little more. My lilac bush, the one that gives my senses so much pleasure and joy with her fragrant purple flowers has swelling branches and pregnant buds. It's just a matter of time. My roses are also getting ready to showcase their royal and majestic beauty with their hues of various pinks and apricot colours. The robins are preparing to leave the warmth of Central America where they spend their winter to visit us again. I hear the birds at the birdfeeder chirping and chatting about spring as well. Before long they will be busy building their nests, welcoming their new chirpers and chatterers. Soon my garden with its many colours and florid scents will invite the monarch butterflies and tropical hummingbirds to hover amongst her blooms. Yes spring is in the air, and so is love, as we have received the first wedding invitation of the season; Congratulations Gerry and Ying! Thank you for bringing the formal announcement of spring!
But it doesn't matter. Why? because I have seen the promise of spring.
Yesterday, before the snow began to fall, I was in my sleeping garden. But believe me she is sleeping no more. My garden has started to stir as she does at this time every year. She is turning over and kicking off the winter, stretching her long legs and waving her arms. In February the deep sleep begins to lift and and life begins to unfold. She is stretching and yawning, slowly sending shoots up. My tulips are peeking above the ground, along with the crocuses, hyacinths and daffodils. They are surveying the early dawn of spring, waiting for that long stretch of sun and tepid weather to grow a little more. My lilac bush, the one that gives my senses so much pleasure and joy with her fragrant purple flowers has swelling branches and pregnant buds. It's just a matter of time. My roses are also getting ready to showcase their royal and majestic beauty with their hues of various pinks and apricot colours. The robins are preparing to leave the warmth of Central America where they spend their winter to visit us again. I hear the birds at the birdfeeder chirping and chatting about spring as well. Before long they will be busy building their nests, welcoming their new chirpers and chatterers. Soon my garden with its many colours and florid scents will invite the monarch butterflies and tropical hummingbirds to hover amongst her blooms. Yes spring is in the air, and so is love, as we have received the first wedding invitation of the season; Congratulations Gerry and Ying! Thank you for bringing the formal announcement of spring!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Bishop Gumbleton's Appeal for Haitian Aide
Dear Friends and Family----
Please view the following video where Bishop Thomas Gumbleton makes an appeal for the Haitian clinic he established last year.
(you will have to copy and paste or click on the link to the left of this script.)
http://www.youtube.com/user/imakevideo#p/a/u/1/z3o-H-yePJ4
All my love,
Lourdes
Please view the following video where Bishop Thomas Gumbleton makes an appeal for the Haitian clinic he established last year.
(you will have to copy and paste or click on the link to the left of this script.)
http://www.youtube.com/user/imakevideo#p/a/u/1/z3o-H-yePJ4
All my love,
Lourdes
Saturday, January 16, 2010
If Only We Had Been a Better Neighbor....
If only we had been a better neighbor we would have noticed how destitute Haiti has been for the last 100+ years. If only…if only we would have noticed that desperate mothers were feeding their children mud patties to stave off their hunger pangs, and that many of them were dying of starvation in spite of their frenzied efforts.
But we were distracted. Distracted beyond belief. Distracted with mindless images of troubled celebrities, cheating politicians and the latest fashions. Distracted with trivial, mundane experiences which do not even come close to being labeled a "problem". Distracted when someone cut us off in traffic, or when our spouse forgot to pick up the clothing from the dry cleaner, or perhaps we bounced a check, or even several. Maybe we ran out of milk, even though the local grocery store is open 24/7 and we have a car that can take us there and enough money to buy half a gallon and a refrigerator to put it in and a house to put the refrigerator in with an endless flow of electricity to keep it running. No, we were too comfortable to notice that our neighbor is and has been in pain... for a very long time.
Haiti has been in distress for hundreds of years; mainly caused by man, not nature. Slavery, foreign occupations, corrupt governments, overthrown governments, cruel dictatorships, outstanding debt to foreign countries, extreme dire poverty…Add insult to injury; hurricane after hurricane and now the worst earthquake in its history.
Then there are the cruel observations made by heartless men, such as, Pat Robertson blaming the earthquake on the victims saying a pact Haiti made with the devil a hundred years ago caused this earthquake. (So much for being our brother's keeper, huh Patty?) Limbaugh saying that Obama "will use" this to "boost" his credibility with the "dark skinned." The cynicism of these two men's comments are injurious and insensitive. It appears they also do not know the meaning of being a good neighbor. Its time WE ALL become the good neighbor and come to Haiti's aid and this time for their benefit, not ours.
But we were distracted. Distracted beyond belief. Distracted with mindless images of troubled celebrities, cheating politicians and the latest fashions. Distracted with trivial, mundane experiences which do not even come close to being labeled a "problem". Distracted when someone cut us off in traffic, or when our spouse forgot to pick up the clothing from the dry cleaner, or perhaps we bounced a check, or even several. Maybe we ran out of milk, even though the local grocery store is open 24/7 and we have a car that can take us there and enough money to buy half a gallon and a refrigerator to put it in and a house to put the refrigerator in with an endless flow of electricity to keep it running. No, we were too comfortable to notice that our neighbor is and has been in pain... for a very long time.
Haiti has been in distress for hundreds of years; mainly caused by man, not nature. Slavery, foreign occupations, corrupt governments, overthrown governments, cruel dictatorships, outstanding debt to foreign countries, extreme dire poverty…Add insult to injury; hurricane after hurricane and now the worst earthquake in its history.
Then there are the cruel observations made by heartless men, such as, Pat Robertson blaming the earthquake on the victims saying a pact Haiti made with the devil a hundred years ago caused this earthquake. (So much for being our brother's keeper, huh Patty?) Limbaugh saying that Obama "will use" this to "boost" his credibility with the "dark skinned." The cynicism of these two men's comments are injurious and insensitive. It appears they also do not know the meaning of being a good neighbor. Its time WE ALL become the good neighbor and come to Haiti's aid and this time for their benefit, not ours.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Why I Go To The S.O.A. Vigil in Ft. Benning, Georgia
It was the baby's dress I saw in the video which described the atrocities committed by the students of the S.O.A. (School of the Americas). This tiny dress caked in blood and tears was unearthed when witnesses and investigators went to the village of El Mozote to document the tragedy. Fear indelibly woven into the fabric of this cloth. How could I turn my back on the owner of this little dress? She was probably 18 months old when she was executed for simply existing. How could a man point a rifle at a baby girl and pull the trigger? I fail to see how she could be considered a threat to the security of her country, El Salvador, circa 1981. Her cries call out to me from beyond and they lead me to this place. This place being the Gates of Ft. Benning, Georgia, USA. On November 20th, I will embark on a bus trip sponsored by the University of Detroit, Mercy, to the gates of the School of the Americas, also known as the School of the Assassins, located on the Ft. Benning U.S. Army base. The baby's dress is what propels me to stand before these gates and shake my fist at the heavens and demand answers and action from my government.
Others, several thousands, come as well. Yet the talking heads on television refuse to talk about the S.O.A. vigil. Only local reporters will be present, and even then, it will only be a blurb on the 5:00 news. The U.S. funded, supported, advised, trained, condoned, ordered, was complicit in blood shed, pain, death squads, executions, disappearances, torture and regime changing in El Salvador, Nicaragua, Guatemala, Chile, Argentina in the 70's and 80's. One way this was carried out was by bringing soldiers in from those countries and training them in "interrogation methods, crowd control, etc..." you get the picture...so water boarding should not have been a surprise. We have been doing it for years (and continue even today).
In December of 1981 over the course of two days, soldiers trained at Ft. Benning by the U.S. military, killed the approximate 1000 peasants of the village of El Mozote in El Salvador. First they lined up the adults and mowed them down with gun fire, then they raped the girls, some as young as 12 years of age, and then they killed the children. Our government did their darnest to deny this took place, denied that the U.S. had a hand in this destruction of life. Then when they could no longer deny, they tried to down play it, when that failed, they attacked the reporters who attempted to tell the world of what had taken place.
El Mozote is just one example of the continuing destruction caused by the School of the Americas; there are several more tragedies attributed to this training center of death. Bishop Oscar Romero was assassinated by graduates of the S.O.A. The soldiers drew lots to have the "honor" of killing him. Shortly after Bishop's death, there were the American churchwomen who were raped, executed and buried in shallow graves, also in El Salvador. Similarly murdered by S.O.A. graduates were the Jesuit priests of a Catholic University in El Salvador along with their cook and her teenage daughter. They were shot in the head at close range with high powered rifles.
Then, there is the Dirty War of Argentina, but that story I will tell when I get back from the gates of Ft. Benning where we will once again ask our government to stop training others in the devastation of life.
Others, several thousands, come as well. Yet the talking heads on television refuse to talk about the S.O.A. vigil. Only local reporters will be present, and even then, it will only be a blurb on the 5:00 news. The U.S. funded, supported, advised, trained, condoned, ordered, was complicit in blood shed, pain, death squads, executions, disappearances, torture and regime changing in El Salvador, Nicaragua, Guatemala, Chile, Argentina in the 70's and 80's. One way this was carried out was by bringing soldiers in from those countries and training them in "interrogation methods, crowd control, etc..." you get the picture...so water boarding should not have been a surprise. We have been doing it for years (and continue even today).
In December of 1981 over the course of two days, soldiers trained at Ft. Benning by the U.S. military, killed the approximate 1000 peasants of the village of El Mozote in El Salvador. First they lined up the adults and mowed them down with gun fire, then they raped the girls, some as young as 12 years of age, and then they killed the children. Our government did their darnest to deny this took place, denied that the U.S. had a hand in this destruction of life. Then when they could no longer deny, they tried to down play it, when that failed, they attacked the reporters who attempted to tell the world of what had taken place.
El Mozote is just one example of the continuing destruction caused by the School of the Americas; there are several more tragedies attributed to this training center of death. Bishop Oscar Romero was assassinated by graduates of the S.O.A. The soldiers drew lots to have the "honor" of killing him. Shortly after Bishop's death, there were the American churchwomen who were raped, executed and buried in shallow graves, also in El Salvador. Similarly murdered by S.O.A. graduates were the Jesuit priests of a Catholic University in El Salvador along with their cook and her teenage daughter. They were shot in the head at close range with high powered rifles.
Then, there is the Dirty War of Argentina, but that story I will tell when I get back from the gates of Ft. Benning where we will once again ask our government to stop training others in the devastation of life.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Dick Cheney, the Goat, the Bat and the Jackal
I recently read an article posted on The Raw Story website where Rep. Grayson describes Dick Cheney as a vampire. "Blood drips from his teeth" whenever he criticizes President Obama (I would have used a more descriptive word, such as, "fangs" maybe?) then at the end of the interview the congressman from Florida wonders if Cheney "turned into a bat and flew away" when he last attempted to admonish President Obama.
This story brought to mind another story my mother and her siblings often tell about one of their sisters. My aunt was married to a man who was extremely abusive and cruel when he drank. He would arrive home in rages fueled by the alcohol, the cruelty intensified as time passed. And each time his cruelty surpassed the previous cruelty. How my aunt endured this I will never know. Her life certainly has not been easy; a daughter succumbed to leukemia as a teenager, another daughter committed suicide as a young adult, a son is drug addicted with unknown whereabouts and more likely homeless or perhaps even dead, a grandson accidentally drowned as a toddler and another granddaughter is severely anorexic. My aunt is now in her mid 80's.
Once my uncle was so stupefied by the alcohol that when he came home he dragged my aunt out of bed by her hair and ordered her to sleep on the floor, where the goat slept. He carefully picked up the goat and put the goat in bed. He left and continued with his drinking through the night. The next day a neighbor came and knocked on my aunt's door telling her that my uncle was on the corner of Matamoros and La Avenida Revolucion passed out. My aunt, being the dutiful wife, and probably tired of being humiliated and embarrassed picked him up and brought him home. This occurred often. Finally, one day she had had enough and became desperate. Desperate enough to seek out the local potion maker, an elderly woman with deep wrinkles carved into her face. She had just the remedy, she told my aunt as she scanned her many glass bottles of assorted sizes and colors. Each filled with a guaranteed cure. She gave her a bottle filled with a clear liquid and instructed her to put it in her husbands' food and beverages whenever she knew he was going to drink alcohol. (perhaps a primitive form of antabuse?) That would not be difficult to gauge as he drank every day. She put it in his food, in his beverage, even in his bath water. When he drank that day he became so violently ill, that the family legend is that at one point he was turned inside out. He had vomited the desire to drink. Not only did he stop drinking, but he looked down upon anyone who did drink.
My uncle's abusive nature was tradition in his family, his mother was cruel and vindictive to anyone who was not her child (my aunt was often the target of her cruelty) he also had a sister who was manipulative, conniving and wicked. The family elders say she was known to dip into the darkness of black magic. Now the story tellers of my family swear to what happened at this sister's death bed. She anguished for days, suffering greatly as death lingered around her. Finally, when she gasped her last breath and rendered her spirit, a jackal came out from under her bed. A jackal? I often ask the women of the family who tell this story, how can that be? did they have a dog? I ask still incredulous to this story. Oh no, it was certainly a jackal that had come for her soul, sent by the devil she danced with in life.
And as I see Cheney dancing with the devil I wonder if a jackal will too come out from under his death bed.
This story brought to mind another story my mother and her siblings often tell about one of their sisters. My aunt was married to a man who was extremely abusive and cruel when he drank. He would arrive home in rages fueled by the alcohol, the cruelty intensified as time passed. And each time his cruelty surpassed the previous cruelty. How my aunt endured this I will never know. Her life certainly has not been easy; a daughter succumbed to leukemia as a teenager, another daughter committed suicide as a young adult, a son is drug addicted with unknown whereabouts and more likely homeless or perhaps even dead, a grandson accidentally drowned as a toddler and another granddaughter is severely anorexic. My aunt is now in her mid 80's.
Once my uncle was so stupefied by the alcohol that when he came home he dragged my aunt out of bed by her hair and ordered her to sleep on the floor, where the goat slept. He carefully picked up the goat and put the goat in bed. He left and continued with his drinking through the night. The next day a neighbor came and knocked on my aunt's door telling her that my uncle was on the corner of Matamoros and La Avenida Revolucion passed out. My aunt, being the dutiful wife, and probably tired of being humiliated and embarrassed picked him up and brought him home. This occurred often. Finally, one day she had had enough and became desperate. Desperate enough to seek out the local potion maker, an elderly woman with deep wrinkles carved into her face. She had just the remedy, she told my aunt as she scanned her many glass bottles of assorted sizes and colors. Each filled with a guaranteed cure. She gave her a bottle filled with a clear liquid and instructed her to put it in her husbands' food and beverages whenever she knew he was going to drink alcohol. (perhaps a primitive form of antabuse?) That would not be difficult to gauge as he drank every day. She put it in his food, in his beverage, even in his bath water. When he drank that day he became so violently ill, that the family legend is that at one point he was turned inside out. He had vomited the desire to drink. Not only did he stop drinking, but he looked down upon anyone who did drink.
My uncle's abusive nature was tradition in his family, his mother was cruel and vindictive to anyone who was not her child (my aunt was often the target of her cruelty) he also had a sister who was manipulative, conniving and wicked. The family elders say she was known to dip into the darkness of black magic. Now the story tellers of my family swear to what happened at this sister's death bed. She anguished for days, suffering greatly as death lingered around her. Finally, when she gasped her last breath and rendered her spirit, a jackal came out from under her bed. A jackal? I often ask the women of the family who tell this story, how can that be? did they have a dog? I ask still incredulous to this story. Oh no, it was certainly a jackal that had come for her soul, sent by the devil she danced with in life.
And as I see Cheney dancing with the devil I wonder if a jackal will too come out from under his death bed.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Words to Live By
"Be open to new ideas. Live gently. Live simply. Laugh often. Love deeply. Be hospitable. Give generously. Stand for a cause. See God everywhere. Dream into being a world without war!" Fr. Coman Brady
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Out of the Mouths of Babes
I recently overheard the following conversation between two 14 year old girls taking place in the backseat of my car (one is my daughter)-------
"I don't understand, when we were in kindergarten they told us; don't fight, don't hit, no biting or pulling hair and don't push! Talk to each other and work out your differences"
To which the other recently turned 14 year old responded,
"and then in high school, they say; ' hey, how about joining the Army?' where they teach people to do the oppposite of what they told us NOT to do in kindergarten!"
They both sighed.
"Adults! Who understands them?"
"Yea" said the other…...
"I don't understand, when we were in kindergarten they told us; don't fight, don't hit, no biting or pulling hair and don't push! Talk to each other and work out your differences"
To which the other recently turned 14 year old responded,
"and then in high school, they say; ' hey, how about joining the Army?' where they teach people to do the oppposite of what they told us NOT to do in kindergarten!"
They both sighed.
"Adults! Who understands them?"
"Yea" said the other…...
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tribute to Gus
Today I said goodbye to a good neighbor and friend. A funeral was held for an incredible man, Constantine “Gus” Kokas. It was very emotional. Especially difficult was watching his broken-hearted wife of 61 years. They both hold a very special place in my heart. I wrote the following thinking I’d have an opportunity to speak at his funeral. Unfortunately, the service did not lend itself to individualized tributes. I imagine that if it had we'd probably still be there because Gus was truly one of a kind.
My family and I had the great privilege and honor and incredible luck of being Helen & Gus’ neighbors for approx. 8 years. They broke my heart when they moved out. And the poor neighbors who moved in did not stand a chance because no one can ever hold a candle to Gus and Helen. I have since come to accept the new neighbors and even to love them, but still they are not Helen and Gus!
I can stand here and tell you how wonderful Gus was, but you already know that. I can also tell you about his sharp wit and great sense of humor but that too you know. A courageous man who once told my husband that “if this is what the Man upstairs wants, I accept it.” And accepted he did, with amazing grace and fortitude, always without anger or self-pity. The last twenty years of his life were lived in a body that betrayed him with Parkinson's, diabetes, multiple heart attacks and cancer of the bladder. He carried these burdens with such patience.
Gus taught us so much.
Today though, I want to tell you a story of a different sort. It is a a simple story about love. Yes, a love story. As Helen and Gus’ neighbor, I had a bird’s eye view of their amazing relationship. It brings to mind a Holy Scripture always read at weddings, but I think it is appropriate to read it here because Gus and Helen lived this every single day of their married life together. It is from the Book of the Corinthians, Chapter 13, verses 4 through 8:
“Love is patient, love is kind. It is not jealous, love is not pompous, it is not inflated. It is not rude. It does not seek its own interests, it is not quick tempered, it does not brood over injury, it does not rejoice over wrong doing but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things. Love never fails.”
For Gus and Helen, love never failed and bear all things it did. Now this doesn’t mean they did not have their differences. As a matter of fact, even how they met has two varying versions; the Helen version and the Gus version. And both contradict each other. Helen's version has her noticing him first. Gus' version has them meeting much later, but one thing he clearly remembered was what happened to him. Gus said that the minute he laid eyes upon Helen, and I quote: ”She captured my heart and she has had it ever since.” This was evident. When he looked at Helen, he always had a twinkle in his eye and a gentle smile would form on his lips.
There too were other differences; Helen, can I tell them how you liked to enjoy the party much longer than Gus did? He always wanted to go home much too early. Well, I think this is what has happened, Gus wanted to go home a little too early.
My family and I had the great privilege and honor and incredible luck of being Helen & Gus’ neighbors for approx. 8 years. They broke my heart when they moved out. And the poor neighbors who moved in did not stand a chance because no one can ever hold a candle to Gus and Helen. I have since come to accept the new neighbors and even to love them, but still they are not Helen and Gus!
I can stand here and tell you how wonderful Gus was, but you already know that. I can also tell you about his sharp wit and great sense of humor but that too you know. A courageous man who once told my husband that “if this is what the Man upstairs wants, I accept it.” And accepted he did, with amazing grace and fortitude, always without anger or self-pity. The last twenty years of his life were lived in a body that betrayed him with Parkinson's, diabetes, multiple heart attacks and cancer of the bladder. He carried these burdens with such patience.
Gus taught us so much.
Today though, I want to tell you a story of a different sort. It is a a simple story about love. Yes, a love story. As Helen and Gus’ neighbor, I had a bird’s eye view of their amazing relationship. It brings to mind a Holy Scripture always read at weddings, but I think it is appropriate to read it here because Gus and Helen lived this every single day of their married life together. It is from the Book of the Corinthians, Chapter 13, verses 4 through 8:
“Love is patient, love is kind. It is not jealous, love is not pompous, it is not inflated. It is not rude. It does not seek its own interests, it is not quick tempered, it does not brood over injury, it does not rejoice over wrong doing but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things. Love never fails.”
For Gus and Helen, love never failed and bear all things it did. Now this doesn’t mean they did not have their differences. As a matter of fact, even how they met has two varying versions; the Helen version and the Gus version. And both contradict each other. Helen's version has her noticing him first. Gus' version has them meeting much later, but one thing he clearly remembered was what happened to him. Gus said that the minute he laid eyes upon Helen, and I quote: ”She captured my heart and she has had it ever since.” This was evident. When he looked at Helen, he always had a twinkle in his eye and a gentle smile would form on his lips.
There too were other differences; Helen, can I tell them how you liked to enjoy the party much longer than Gus did? He always wanted to go home much too early. Well, I think this is what has happened, Gus wanted to go home a little too early.
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