About James Bourne

James (Jim) grew up on his farm in Southern Maryland. A traditional tobacco farm, Jim now raises animals and vegetables on this 325 year old family farm. Jim studied to be a minister, was a Maryland State Trooper, has four daughters, and enjoys writing and teaching/speaking.

Shabbat Shalom

Friday was my shopping day, the last day I’d be in Rome. I needed to buy gifts for the special people in my life, a small token of the gratitude I felt for their love and support. I was not on the shopping list. I’d had a fantastic time seeing the sights of the city – often lost, sometimes walking in circles, always seeing beauty and eating well. I had already accepted my gift to me.

I headed over toward the Pantheon, to some of the better shopping areas of the city. One disadvantage of staying perpetually lost is the inability to backtrack easily. Getting back somewhere I’d been meant charting a new course. As I walked that new route, I passed a men’s clothing store. And kept walking. Fifty feet. And turned back, perhaps by the thought of “Why not, just go in,” perhaps something else. I simply had to go into that shop.

If you know me, you know I’m not a shopper. That doesn’t mean I don’t buy things. It usually means I go online, or I go into a store with a clear idea of what I want, get it, and go. I’m pretty sure it’s a genetic trait most guys share, genetic modification excluded.

A young man engaged me in conversation with very good English. (As I wore my black, pinch-front cowboy hat throughout the trip, no one mistook me for a native.) Before long, I was trying on sports jackets. Exquisitely tailored, made in Italy. Yes, I was uptown now. And then the owner of the shop walked in, the young man’s father.

Bazooka immediately took over the fitting – “50 drop 6, that is your size!” We talked. We connected. Even now, writing this a week later, I feel the chill of goose bumps. And so did he. “It is not by chance you are here. You are supposed to be here. Providence brought you in. Look at my goose bumps!”

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Bazooka and I share a common background in law enforcement, but perhaps a more profound commonality in faith. Bazooka is a Jew. I am a Christian. I’ve been to Israel. He has fought for Her. It dawned on me at one point in our conversation that I was in the presence of a very important person in the history of that country. Our relationship began to exceed the one normally reserved for commerce.

As I tried on clothing, Bazooka sent his son to order cappuccino for me. Shortly thereafter, a young lady arrived with a steaming cup of milk-frothed caffeine, served on a tray. I’ve never known such luxury. I felt as though I’d somehow landed among long lost friends.

Yes, I updated my wardrobe. I justified it by noting I’d not purchased good clothing for over a decade. Of course we justify what we want. The trousers needed to be hemmed, and so were sent out to the tailor. I’d come back around quarter past five to collect them.

I went about and did the rest of my shopping, had yet another great meal, and returned a bit early to the shop to pick up the pants. Friday afternoon in Rome is a lot like Friday afternoon in our metro area – too many cars, too few roads, people everywhere. Except that there’s basically no real rules to traffic in Rome except don’t hurt anyone. The tailor was stuck in traffic. So I waited and chatted with Bazooka and his son.

A phone call was made. “You will celebrate Shabbat with us tonight. Here’s the address and the phone number. Take a cab. I’ll see you at eight.” I rode in the cab that evening wandering exactly what I’d gotten myself into. Me, a complete stranger, going to a complete stranger’s home for dinner.

I called on my arrival and Bazooka came out to show me in. He and his family live in a nice apartment set back off the highway. Well appointed, spacious, with a generous outdoor terrace. Yet what was really amazing was the warmth with which he and his wife greeted me. I was given a yarmulke and prayers were said in Hebrew. I ate an incredible home cooked kosher meal – roasted artichoke, roasted eggplant, pureed squash, fish, and bread. And then, on a separate plate with separate utensils, a slice of lamb.

Dessert was served, pictures shared, conversation ensued. At the end of the evening, Bazooka’s son drove me back to hotel. “My father doesn’t usually do things like this. The two of you must have really connected.” Indeed, we did.

I wonder if heaven will be like this. Where complete strangers will embrace as old friends, their cares and conflicts stripped away by the Eternal Shabbat of the Almighty. Bazooka asked me to remind all my friends to pray for the peace of Jerusalem, the Holy City. That’s a prayer we all can pray.

Shabbat shalom.

A Small Tribute To My Father

He would be 95 today. James Elt Bourne, Jr., the son of James Sr and Helen Howes. The first child. The only son. Seven sisters. Tobacco farm. Do you feel sorry for him yet? I do and in many ways always have. This simple fact explains a lot about both of our lives.

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He lived through the depression. Received the best education that eight grades could offer, and then married the farm. Not that he had a choice. Sr had taken ill that year – double pneumonia, right after he’d broken an arm falling off an ox cart (why was he riding an ox cart anyhow?). Jr got the crop in the barn with the help of a hired hand. He presented himself to high school in late October – in reality too far behind to ever catch up. So he simply took to farming.

His mother never seemed to have a bit of warmth emanating from her, unless it was in regards to her daughters. I’m sure they worked on the farm too. One aunt took pains to emphasize that point at his funeral. But love from his mother resembled money in the depression. Scarce.

Something happened to my father along the way. By the time he was 41 and met my mother, he could barely hold a conversation in public. My mother never had that affliction. Jr later said their union was the result of two left-overs getting together. I suppose I’m glad they did.

Helen never cared for my mother. I guess she viewed her as some type of thief. When I arrived, my mother’s stock went up a bit. Another male to carry on the supposed dynasty. I get to hear about that every time I visit my mother now. It’s one of the few things she can remember. I suppose the whole affair made an impression.

Dad raised tobacco all his life until he didn’t. 1983 finished him up. That crop brought more ten years later than it brought that year. Many farmers simply tilled it in and started over the next year. Dad would’ve never done that. Too much waste. Thirty-two years later, some of that crop is still hanging in the barn. Makes for nice show and tell.

Dad’s life was pretty much all work, little play. I’m writing this from Rome, Italy. I’m not sure he could fathom that. When I came back to the farm, we butted heads a lot. He gave me the responsibility, but very little actual power. That took a long time to change, death being the most responsible party there.

I’ve worked through a lot of feelings about my father. Like any child, my parents conflict me to a certain extent. In the end, it is what it is. He loved me the only way he knew how. He taught me to work. He gave me his farm. He bestowed upon me his angst. He made a life out of what he was given.

It took years for me not to think of him everyday. I do so now with admiration and love.

-March 10, 1921 – July 14, 2004

He Restoreth My Soul

Today was Vatican Day. The day I set aside to brave the Roman metro and see the beauty and wonder of St. Peter’s. I had actually planned on walking across the city to get there. I wanted to cross the Tiber River on foot and reflect on all the aspects of that journey. Alas, I’m a little sore today after two big walking days. The metro seemed the better option.

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Thus far, I’ve found most people in Rome to be tolerant of me, the tourist. No hiding the fact that I’m not Italian – one glance’ll confirm that. Most seem to know a little English, and I do my best with the few words of Italian I know. However, the metro took me way out of my comfort zone. Lots of commuters, a feeling of swarming chaos, and trains that resembled sardine cans. But I didn’t miss my stop.

I’ve had my map reading skills sorely challenged this trip. I’m pretty good generally, but let’s just say the feeling of being somewhat lost hasn’t gone away yet. I’ve caught myself making circles several times now – a built in homing pigeon? What should have been a 5 minute walk took almost 45 minutes. But I found it.

Vatican City has walls, walls that are well over a millenium old. And those walls have many points of ingress and egress. Once inside, the beauty was nearly overwhelming. Massive. Elaborate. Inspiring. St. Peter’s Basilica must be experienced in order to be explained. No words written here would do it justice. Perhaps, were I not a Christian I could describe it in a technical sense. But the images are just too real, the history a part of who I am as a believer. Awestruck.

I exited the city to have a quick lunch, intending to go back and tour the Sistine Chapel and the Vatican Museum. And then it struck. Weariness combined with all the issues associated with travel descended on me. I headed back to the hotel.

Several hours later, feeling better for the rest, I ventured out again – and into a church. Not that that’s hard in Rome. But this time, I was not here as a tourist; this was a pilgrim’s quest. With the words of David’s psalm coursing through my head, I reflected on the goodness of a shepherd who desires to give food, water, and rest to his weary sheep. I prayed for the people I love, near and far away. I prayed to be understanding of those who no longer love me. And mostly, I just listened to the quiet.

And Then There’s The Food

I write this sitting in the George Byron Pub on National St in Rome. An oxymoron. I found this place yesterday, drawn in by the rain and the promise of a Guinness. I’ve come back for the Guinness.

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I know that doing so violates one of the basic principles of being in Rome – the food and especially the wine. Trust me. I’ve had my share. I’ve heeded the advice of friends and stuck to the back streets and alleys. The food has been incredible. Nothing is hurried here. You are seated. Your drink order taken and a menu given. Some time later, your drink of choice arrives. Red wine. A half liter. In a pitcher. Your food order comes to the table. The wait staff doesn’t hurry you. Dine in peace for they hardly check on you.

It seems that most establishments have at least one person who can speak English, but the language barrier hasn’t been a real issue. Pointing works. When you are done you can stay as long as you like. The check comes only when you ask for it.

This morning I strolled along the back streets. Fresh vegetables were being delivered in little 3-wheel trucks. Yesterday, I chatted with a butcher at a local grocery. All the meat on display was sourced local. Unfortunately, language did get in the way of that conversation. He ended imageup pricing me a 225lb dressed hog! I think I might have a few of those walking around back at the ranch.

You can tell a lot about a culture and its people by the food they eat and the way they eat it. So much food is regional. Whenever someone buys scrapple from me at the market, I ask where they grew up. Most often eastern PA, MD, and some parts of VA. No one eats scrapple if they didn’t grow up on it. (If you have to ask what it is, just consider yourself permanently outside the club on this one.)

Much has been written about our American food culture. One word describes it – fast. Whether it’s at home, in a restaurant, or on the road, we don’t want to spend more time than necessary. We have things to do, people to see, worlds to conquer. We live out that quip – “The business of America is business.” Busy-ness. And we pay for it. Poor digestion, diabetes, obesity, just to name a few of our lifestyle diseases.

In recent years, there’s been a movement to change things. The “Slow Food” movement, begun in Italy (of course?) has emphasized heritage breeds of vegetables and animals, bringing taste back to the table with the thought that if our food tastes better, perhaps we’ll linger longer. On the other hand, maybe we can pay attention to the immigrant cultures around us. They still seem to pay attention to the food/family connection. Of course, that would mean getting to know our new neighbors.

In the creation myth, the LORD God gives our first parents food before he gives them work.  Is the tree of the knowledge of good and evil a metaphor for over-work?  I drift into dangerous territory… All I know for sure is that rest, not work, is what is promised in heaven.  Oh, there’s a feast too.

Pardon me, my prosciutto and mozerella just arrived…

Lost…and Found?

IPhone says I’ve walked 23,610 steps, 11.22 miles, and climbed 25 flights of stairs. That’s about right. I’m in pretty good shape just simply because of what I do for a living. I average walking 4-5 miles a day. I’ve worked real hard on my eating habits. And I’m working on eliminating a severe chronic stress issue. Still, that’s a lot of walking.

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I’m attempting to walk Rome. I have no itinerary. I want to see the “must sees” – The Vatican, Sistine Chapel, Florence and David, the Pantheon, etc. I have great, well-travelled customers and friends who’ve helped me shape how to approach this vacation. But I’ve decided the best thing I can do is get lost.

Art literally is around every corner here. I turn down a street and I’m confronted with beauty and wonder, history and awe. I’m also confronted with thieves and swindlers. I learned quick (at the airport taxi hub) to ignore the latter and focus on the former.

I finally had to ask for directions – twice. You know, I’m a guy. I pride myself on my internal GPS; yes, I had to swallow hard. That’s good. The only way to confront control issues is to be open to losing control. Sometimes, not being right, getting lost if you will, is a good way to be found.

I had a conversation with a dear friend right before I left for Rome. There was a lot of sadness involved, a bitterness at the unfairness life brings to all of us. I told my friend that we always have to hold things with an open hand, to accept the possibility that what we cherish most may be lost. It’s a call to take nothing for granted; to live each day relishing the moment; to give space to the sunrise and wonder to the sunset. To leave nothing unsaid. I’m really trying to practice what I preach.

Tonight, I write this having finally found my hotel. With a bottle of wine I picked up from a street vendor. I think I’m the only guy in Rome wearing a cowboy hat. No hiding that I’m not from around these parts. Sometimes, you just gotta get lost in order to get to the other side.

The Journey

Flying to Instanbul in order to get to Rome is rather like trying to get to your pinky from your thumb by way of your elbow. But the price was right; the timing so far as the rhythm of the farm was concerned, almost perfect; and the need was great. And so, for the next few days, I’ll be blogging from Rome. Of course you know I don’t really blog – I essay, but let’s not quibble over details.

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It’s after midnight here and I’ve been traveling for most of the last 24hrs. This can be a lonely prospect, but I was fortunate to have a friend along. C told me about the flight. She knew I’d been looking to get away, clear some cobwebs, and do something for myself. C.’s husband, M., was in Rome on business; she had planned to join him. And so, what could have been a tedious trip was made bearable, and sometimes even enjoyable, by taking the journey with C.

Most of my time will be spent exploring the great sights, visiting the great art, and enjoying to good food here. I’ll probably get lost a couple times, but so what. Journeys are like that. Sometimes, it takes getting lost in order to find your way ahead.

Entangled

A Few Words on Community

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The day started off like most others when I take a trip to get feed from the mill. I travel 36 miles to an Amish community in St. Mary’s County, MD. My relationship with Stoltzfus Feed LLC has been mutually beneficial. I get the feed I want at a reasonable price. They’ve started two completely new lines of feed over the years to satisfy my requirements. These new feeds now account for over half their total business and is their growth sector.

After I’d loaded 5000lbs. of feed, I went over to visit my good friend, John Y. John and I have been friends for years. We do a lot of business together, helping each other along. John Y. is a good farmer, supported by a great wife, Barbara. Now that Stephen is out of school, John Y. has been able to expand his farm.

As I traveled down the gravel lane to John’s farm, a dump truck driver flagged me over. He motioned to a horse that was entangled in a barbed wire fence and asked me to get the horse some help. Pretty soon, John and I were over in the field, looking at the horse.

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The horse was a roan draft horse who had attempted to go through a barbed wire fence to get with his buddies. Apparently, the whole crew had gotten away from their farm and had been wandering around when someone let them into this particular pasture to keep them off the road. By the time John and I arrived, the horse had freed itself, but was bleeding profusely, having been ripped up by wire just above his right rear hoof.

Pretty soon, a whole crew came together to take care of the horse. John and I got Eli to help us catch it. Then we went over to get Benny, the community horse vet. When we got back, Eli had led the horse to a better area, where we had access to some water. Tranquilizer applied, the horse went into a slumber while Benny worked on him. Fortunately for the horse, no ligaments were damaged. Benny sutured the vein that had been severed, and administered the antibiotics through an IV saline solution.

This may seem like a typical farm type thing to you, but please note, not one person involved in this story owned this horse. The owner, Isaac, has had a run of bad luck and isn’t doing well. Overworked with no breaks, he’s hit the breaking point. That’s right – Amish are human too. Every person there had their own work to do; yet we all put those things aside to help. For me, I wasn’t going to leave until that horse had been seen to, and also because of my long friendships in that community. John, Eli, and Benny were there to help a neighbor in need. We did what needed to be done. When the doctoring was over and done, Eli led the horse to his farm and put him up in a clean stall. Eli will continue to look after the horse until Isaac can get him.

Entangled. We think of it as a negative word, something to avoid. The draft horse would have been better off had he not become entangled with the fence. And yet, entangled is also a way to describe community. Not only did John know whose horse it was, but he also knew the depth to which his neighbor needed help. Isaac’s uncle, John F. offered to pay us for our time. I told John Y. to just send my share onto the Hospital fund the Amish keep to help pay medical bills.

Pope Francis has asked Christians to have a different take on Lent this year. He’s asked us to focus on giving to the less fortunate and those in need, to look for opportunities to shine the light of Christ into dark places. I’m sure that the Pope’s namesake would agree that a poor Amish draft horse qualifies. I’m also sure if we all lived in communities like this one, the vast majority of our societal problems would solve themselves.

A Few Words on Life

The sheep were on the hill grazing as I walked out to feed the hogs. It was a picturesque site –forty some sheep contentedly grazing, despite the fact that it is now late December. The grass is still green due to our unusually warm temperatures of late. I spotted Tess with her twins, less than a day old. She didn’t like the fact I was trying to take her picture – because I’m not a sheep I must be related to a wolf (sheep thinking).

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In the last 24 hours, we’ve had 6 lambs born; two sets of twins and two singles. That makes 7 this week, with more on the way. Each morning has been like a rebirth of Christmas for my youngest daughter. Grace loves the flock and names each new addition, in spite of the fact they are meat sheep. Of course, this does lead to emotional trauma several times a year, but I digress.

New life is simply a miracle. Despite the fact that we can scientifically explain how it happens in the remotest of terms, once you’ve been a part of a birth your outlook on life is bound to change. Today, I had the chance to be a part of the process one more time.

April was out on the hillside with the rest of the sheep, but it became obvious she was in heavy labor. I noted the time and that she appeared to be having some difficulty. I finished my rounds and went in for a quick breakfast.

The sheep will sometimes get out and invade our yards, looking for the “greener grass.” I had just finished making the coffee when I noticed they were literally at my doorstep. I rounded them up and drove them back to their pasture. April was still in labor and not progressing, laying down, pushing, getting up, bleating, looking bewildered. Two small feet and a tongue presented. It was time to intervene.

Did I mention that sheep think everything other than another sheep is a wolf? It was impossible to approach April in the open field – she just ran away. She would have to go up into the sheep/hay shed. Once there, I still needed to pen her in a small space in hopes of working with her. I set up a place, but she had other ideas – she wedged herself between two large round bales of hay.

I had taken the time to grab several pairs of vinyl gloves and some baler twine (for attaching to the feet in order to pull). I simply didn’t have time to utilize either – I grabbed a little hoof and began to pull downward. April went down on her side and began to push. I reached in and freed the lamb’s head. Within seconds, the lamb was out. I did a quick check to see if there was a twin, but no, April had had a healthy single lamb. I’m happy to report mother and baby are doing well.

Life is precious. We don’t realize that until we are confronted with death. And yet both are completely natural – to decry death is also to decry life. We are part of a circle. What the ancients feared most was not necessarily death, but sterility – the inability to bring forth life, whether human, animal, or plant. In late summer, weeds begin to produce seed at an amazing rate, animals in heat seek a mate, humans have that clock thing going on. It’s nature way of saying, “Be fruitful and multiply.”

I’ve delivered calves, kids, piglets, and lambs. In all kinds of weather. With all kinds of outcomes. Breakfast was late today. The coffee was cold. But I saved a little lamb and his mom. There’s no need to hear any other sermon on a Sunday.

Christmas Tidings

I’ve a bit more shopping to do before Christmas. I know it’s late for this sort of thing, but my excuse has always been that I’m a guy, and that’s just how we do things. You know, drive around the mall parking lot for hours looking for a parking spot on Christmas Eve, just so we can find the perfect gifts for everyone on our list. Except that we have absolutely no clue what those “perfect” gifts might be. I’ve met a few guys who do early Christmas shopping (you know, before Dec. 1) but I think they are genetically modified…

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Our slogans for the season tout peace and goodwill. Of course, those traits vanish when two drivers head for the same parking spot, or a brawl breaks out at Wal-Mart over the last favorite toy available…until tomorrow. We are not a species constitutionally given over to peace and goodwill. We are not content. I am not content.

One of the principles I learned in management class many decades ago was that money is always a dis-satisfier. No one has ever said they have enough money with a straight face. Of course, there are varying degrees of this monetary dissatisfaction. Some are more driven to be dissatisfied than others. This is not unusual, or even a purely human phenomenon.

I’ve raised and tended to animals all my life. I bet when you read that sentence, the thought of cows and sheep contentedly grazing on a hillside pops into your mind. Or perhaps the hours spent tending to a weak newborn, or cutting hay in the summer to insure the animals have enough to eat in the winter. Yes, these are all accurate pictures. Then there is that old saying, “the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.” Yeah. Always.

I’ve spent more time chasing animals back to where they should be than any other activity on the farm. Given the right pasture and rotation, cattle tend to be the most content of the animals I’ve kept. Horses are pretty good too, though they are pasture killers. Both will exploit any weakens in a fence the moment they become dissatisfied.

And then there are sheep. Specifically, my sheep. They are a breed specifically designed for meat, shedding their wool/hair, and apparently, breaking down fences. They are simply not contented animals. I’ve had them destroy older barbed wire fences that have held cattle and horses for years. They laugh at an electric fence, their wool being a perfect insulator. If they want something on the other side of a fence, they will figure a way to get to it. I’ve had them push through a seven-strand barbed wire fence – brand new. Frustrating.

My youngest daughter is the farm shepherdess. Her physical education consists mainly in rounding up the sheep from where they shouldn’t be. My temporary answer to all of this has been to expand the list of places they can be. Off-limits now consist of the highway, the neighbors’ flowers, and my front yard (most of the time).

Contentment is an elusive commodity. If you’ve acquired it, congratulations. You’re at peace. The rest of us, not so much.

When the angels proclaimed peace and goodwill to the shepherds in the field, what were they saying? My take is that with the presence of the Christ child, the Almighty had entered our world in a unique way in order to bring about a peace that would reflect His character. Jesus became God’s unique expression of peace and love to His creation.

What we sometimes miss in the story is the fact that Jesus spent the first 30 years of his life preparing for the last three. Or perhaps we can say, maturing.

The fact that I have not arrived at the point of contentment and peace only means that I am still on a journey and the question isn’t so much about the my present location (in the weeds…) but the road and the destination I’m heading toward. John Bunyan wrote a book a few years back entitled “The Pilgrim’s Progress.” It’s about the journey, folks.

Western Christians tend to be pretty cerebral about their faith. Just browse the R. Catholic catechism. Eastern Christians are a bit different. Faith in the east has always been harder as it’s been up against other well-formed, dominant religions for centuries. It is a faith lived out against the backdrop of conflict and persecution. It is truly a life lived in prayer for “our daily bread.”

I’m tempted here to get all theological and write about Dante, theosis, and yoga. But nope, need to keep this focused. Just like the rest of life. Perhaps the key to finding peace this season isn’t so much looking at the big picture (“look at all the grass on the other side of the fence”) as focusing on the small. Here. Now. Our daily bread.

My wish this season is for each of us to be in the moment, but to also realize you are on a journey of incredible importance. You are loved, not by an impersonal force, but by the Creator who has plans for us for peace and goodwill.

Merry Christmas!!!

Presence

There are times when I sit down to write and I have a pretty good idea of what the piece will look like when I’m done. This is not one of those times. It may end up being one of those essays I share with a few friends and tuck into the back of my blog; then again, it may see the light of day as the sun burns through the mist and lifts onto a new day.

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Mist. I often forget the beauty of my farm in the morning, especially this time of year, as the mist settles into the small valleys we have and then gently begins to lift. All too often, I make a note of the beauty but rush to accomplish the tasks of the day. This morning was different. From the window of my hovel, I saw the mist against the trees in the distance.   I strolled onto the hill, took the photo, and enjoyed the beauty of the present. Magical…

There is beauty in the moment that is all too often overlooked. I believe most Westerners, and certainly most Americans, are oriented to the future. We get wrapped up in the “what’s it going to be like” mentality, the planning of success, the desire for more. When we are fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the moment, it’s brief. We are constitutionally unable to hold it for long – the future beckons.

I love the prayer Jesus taught his disciples. It is brief, yet economy of words doesn’t equate to poverty of meaning. Jesus asks us to live in the moment of the day – “give us our daily bread.” He tells us to forgive in order to be forgiven – “and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Jesus calls us to live each day with a clean slate; make your worries small and your heart generous.

I’m now well entrenched into my “middle ages.” My worries are not small. My generosity for forgiveness is under repair. It’s simply earth-shaking to wake up one day and discover you’re the Pharisee you’ve always preached against; to realize that I am the “eldest son” in Christ’s parable of the Prodigal. And then to grapple with the fact that the first person on the list to forgive is yourself.

Choice and change are the currencies of life. Change will occur; the choice of how to handle it will dictate who you become. My choice is to begin to live more in the Present. I’m encouraged to do this by friends who are already there – “Future cares have future cures…” a friend shared with me (from Sophocles). While we need plans to move ahead with the future, we live in the moment with family, friends, and ourselves.

The Christmas season, a time that should bring joy because of it’s profound message of peace and reconciliation is often the time of tremendous stress, anxiousness, and depression, largely because we are not at peace with ourselves, nor are we reconciled with others. I am quite frankly dreading the holiday season. I’m sure I’m not alone. How exactly does one manage a family situation that has become absolutely toxic?

My proposed solution is to live in the Present. To let the gift to myself and others be the gift of “Being There.” To let the future wait. And how does all this happen? Prayer.

Prayer is a wonderful thing really. While we pray about things past (forgiveness) and future (petition) we are wonderfully anchored to the present, in the presence of the God who lives in the eternal now. All things are “Present” before the Almighty. When we are able to be “Present” with ourselves and those around us, we extend the gift of God to them.

To those of you who read this, be present. Be present with yourself. Be present with others. Enjoy the life you’ve been blessed with. Breathe deep, don’t let important things go unsaid because of fear, live secure in the knowledge that we are all loved. That is what this season is all about.