The Francis Effect

Thirteen months ago Pope Benedict stunned the world by resigning.  His successor, Pope Francis, has been stirring up dust and sweeping away cobwebs throughout the Vatican since last March.  It started with the red shoes.  He simply refused to wear them.  Then he spurned the comforts of a chauffeur-driven limo to ride the bus with the Cardinals and showed up to pay his hotel bill in person.

What sort of Pope is this?  Clearly he hasn’t read the company policy manual.  Although not a single word or comma has yet been altered in Canon Law or Church doctrine, Pope Francis has made it abundantly clear that the status quo is no longer acceptable within the Roman Catholic Church.  His preference for simplicity over pomp and ceremony is refreshing and his concern for the poor appears to be quite genuine.  Protocol be damned, this Pope really likes to press the flesh and to be visibly present to the people.  His security detail no doubt suffers from collective migraines.

Pope Francis is a man of action who has chosen to lead by example.  His exhortation to the clergy to spend more time mingling with the people they were ordained to serve is a page right out of his own book of life.  Before joining the seminary, he held several distinctly non-clerical jobs including a chemical technician’s position in a laboratory and a stint as a janitor and nightclub bouncer.  Now that’s definitely mingling with the people.

From his moves to update the Curia and the Vatican Bank, to greeting people outside the walls of the Vatican, to his unequivocal condemnation of child sexual abuse, to his willingness to reach out to those who feel cast aside by the Church, Pope Francis is slowly changing the face of the world’s oldest Christian institution.

His message, like the man himself, is simple:  there is a God who loves us unconditionally.  Period.  We are the ones who are hung up on conditions, restrictions, and limitations…. all of which lead to judgements.

When Jesus walked the earth, he said, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her” (John 8:7) concerning a woman accused of adultery.  In perfect emulation, Pope Francis replied to a question regarding homosexuality by stating, “Who am I to judge?”

There is a long way to go before lapsed Catholics or even atheists rush to Church, but at least there seems to be some hope now of bridging the gap.  This shepherd knows that only a minority of his flock can be found in church pews on a Sunday morning.  The vast majority are outside those walls and he’s doing his best to reach them where they are.  Can the example of one person really change the world?  Just ask Jesus.  I bet he’s cheering on the “Francis effect.”

Wicked Winter, eh?

What a wicked winter, eh? Remember the catch phrase “when hell freezes over”? Well, it's a done deal – not even an ember left smoldering to warm up Old Scratch's hooves. The polar vortex has a strangle hold on North America and we are all caught in its long-reaching icy grip. Thirty torturous minutes on the treadmill can barely produce a sweat these days. Last night Hubby Dear swore that his poor old bones would take till July to thaw. What a cacophony of creaks and groans we make each night as we help each other up the stairs to bed. Not much chance of a race to the finish, that's for sure. All together now, let's hear a rousing chorus of “Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones.”

Even the deep south is in a deep freeze. From Virginia to Florida and across to Texas, cars are slipping off icy roads and people are bundled tighter than mummies in an Egyptian tomb. Canadian snowbirds are crying in their frozen daiquiris while shivering in their capris and sandals. It seems that the dawning of a new ice age has caught global warming proponents by surprise. What a mess!

I wonder if the winter of 2014 is producing a bumper crop of people suffering from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder)? I have always stated clearly and emphatically to anyone who would listen that I hate winter. Finally, scores of others have seen the light (or lack thereof) and are joining in my heartfelt plea to Mother Nature and Old Man Winter to bring an immediate halt to their nefarious version of Ice Capades. Enough already, you two sadistic old jackasses.

The frigid air has even managed to freeze dreams of escaping to a warmer climate. How far south would you have to go this year to find a tropical paradise? And who wants to spend half their vacation time stuck in an airport with thousands of other disgruntled passengers anyway while planes remain frozen to the tarmac?

Let's try to stay positive. We can wrap ourselves in blankets, consume copious amounts of calories for fat storage to stay warm, drink hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and watch Fantasy Island on Netflix. At least the planes are flying there and people are strolling sandy beaches or sipping cocktails in gently swaying hammocks under a palm tree. Sigh!!!!

Aloha'Oe, Aloha'Oe.....

Losing the Little Guy

There's a current TV commercial which shows a young mother taking a leisurely stroll through time to find the best food for her family. She eventually ends up in an old-fashioned little store where a smiling grocer personally serves up freshly cut deli fare for her to sample. Ah, a simpler time.

Like many of my acquaintances, I grew up in a tiny outport community nestled along the rugged shoreline of Canada's 10^th province. There was very little luxury in any of the homes which spread out from the brook running through the middle of town, but it didn't matter anyway because everyone had the same lifestyle. Scattered throughout the community were several little stores (shops) owned by local residents, and their contents were varied indeed.... “everything from a baker's fart to a thunderclap”, to use the vernacular. These little mom and pop establishments played a vital role in people's lives, providing them with food, sundries, and an opportunity for social interaction. The proprietors were also livyers and they knew everyone else in the community. When you walked through the door, a little bell sounded overhead and you were greeted with a smile and often called by name by the person behind the counter. Inquiries about your school grades or how your parents were doing usually followed as you passed in your mom's handwritten order. Then slices of ham or baloney were wrapped in brown paper and tied with string from a big bobbin sitting next to the meat cutter. If you were really lucky, a tiny paper bag filled with candy was passed over the counter with a wink as a little gift for doing so well in the latest spelling bee or getting an A on a math test. These pillars of the community certainly never became millionaires but they managed to make a living and they knew what it meant to help out a neighbour when times were tough. Many people in the community carried “tabs” with the local storekeeper and would pay up at the end of the month or whenever cash became available. Credit cards were non-existent but a family's good name was enough collateral to see them through when necessary.

Those days are long gone. Big box stores have cornered the market and, like mindless robots, we all line up with plastic in hand to put ourselves further in debt buying up the latest fashions and gadgets. Even in a remote area such as I live in, the small local retailers are dropping off one by one. They either can't compete with the prices offered by megastores or they are being forced out of prime locations to make room for the conglomerates. While I like a bargain as much as the next person, I find it sad that many small businesses are facing an uphill struggle these days. The little guy is being stomped into the ground by the invading giants. Where's David and his trusty slingshot when you need him?

Governments pay lip service to encouraging entrepreneurship, but the reality for business and tax revenues is that the almighty dollar dictates the bottom line. If you are fortunate enough to live in an area where there is a choice of products and services, please support the little guy whenever possible. You may just find yourself taking a pleasant stroll down memory lane in the process.

The Perfect Heart

The Perfect Heart

by Y.M. Tucker

the perfect heart began its quest to find the perfect home

around the world it wandered, ever on the roam

its splendour and its beauty, its pristine virgin state

remained intact until it met the soul of human fate

the joy upon a mother's face as she gently held her child

caused the perfect heart to swell with feelings new and wild

the shudders and tremors intensified and then the heart was torn

at the bedside of a little girl whose family prepared to mourn

an Afghan woman's disfigured face slashed the heart once more

but it revived as strangers came to help the homeless poor

the scars of life then marked the heart, its size and shape had altered

yet still it sought the perfect place, its search never faltered

beneath the glow of a heavenly star, in a humble stable stall,

a baby lay on a bed of straw, a gift of hope for all

battered and pierced yet full of love for present, future and past

the perfect heart had finally found its perfect home at last

What Really Matters

We sure know how to mess up a good thing, don't we? People get so caught up in insignificant little details and self-righteousness that they allow themselves to become as close-minded and obtuse as the ones with whom they have a difference of opinion. The latest pile of nonsense making the rounds of the hogwash circuit is a dispute over the skin color of Jesus, Santa Claus, and St. Nicholas. Who cares? How could the skin pigmentation of either of these messengers of harmony and goodwill possibly change one iota of earth's past, present or future? If humankind is made in the image of God, as related in the Book of Genesis, then He/She must be multi-colored. Wouldn't that be lovely to see!

Christmas is a gift. The spirit of this blessed season is one of love, joy, hope, peace, tolerance, compassion, kindness, forgiveness, generosity, acceptance, reconciliation...... It's not a competition of race or creed. Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus and any other denomination – yes, even atheists – can all benefit from a healthy dose of that magical elixir so freely dispensed by the bounteous Ghost of Christmas Present in Dickens' classic story.

As a Christian, I commemorate the coming of Jesus Christ at this time of the year. The actual date of his birth is immaterial - it's the celebration of that event that's significant. Amidst the frigid darkness of barren winter, the light of love brings warmth and joy to my heart and home.  Exchanging gifts and happy greetings adds to the spirituality of the occasion. I admit to being slightly miffed upon repeatedly hearing Happy Holidays or Seasons Greetings instead of the traditional Merry Christmas, but I get the fact that social and political correctness are currently in vogue. It's all just a matter of perspective. The underlying expression of benevolence remains the same.

So, while the antagonists of this world play their silly games I refuse to be drawn into such vacuity. I will happily accept your offering of Happy Holidays or Seasons Greetings if you will allow me the same courtesy as I wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas. To quote Tiny Tim, “God bless us, everyone.”

Baking up a Storm

It happens every few years, in cyclical fashion. I get an uncontrollable urge to bake Christmas goodies. In between years, I rely on the pastry chefs at the local supermarket to impress my guests during the holiday season. Last year the Grinch had a strangle hold on me as not only was baking nowhere on my checklist, but I didn't even put up a full size Christmas tree – just a tiny table top excuse for a tree with about six little bulbs on it! Sure, my livingroom was less messy and less crowded, but there was definitely something missing.

Things are going to be different this year. I've been devouring Christmas cookbooks for the past few days and writing lists of baking staples to be purchased so off I went to the grocery store today, hubby in tow to do the heavy lifting. Why the change of heart? Well, as I said, it's partly the cycle of life (for me, anyway) but it probably has more to do with the blessings which my family has to be thankful for this year. My husband battled cancer and won, my son suffered through a three hour flight with his appendix ready to rupture and was rushed into emergency surgery upon landing, and just a few weeks ago, we welcomed the birth of our first little grandchild. So, why not be happy and eager to celebrate the joyous gift of Christmas?

I'm even challenging myself to make a dark fruitcake to serve to friends and family this year. That's a major leap up the elf ladder for me because a.) I'm not overly fond of fruitcake, and b.) just looking at the lengthy list of ingredients and directions for fruitcake usually sends me scurrying for cover. But last night I found a recipe for a simplified version and it looked so incredibly easy that I currently have it baking in the oven. Imagine that! One down, many more to go. I'll no doubt spend more money on baking supplies over the next few weeks than it would cost to buy the store bought varieties, but I plan to enjoy every bit of mess I make in the process.

Speaking of kitchen messes, I recall one pre-Christmas baking frenzy when my kids were young and I enthusiastically decided to try my hand at creating a batch of intricately detailed gingerbread men. All was fine until the miniature menfolk went into the oven. Something distracted me (not much wonder, with three rapscallions galloping around the house stirring up heaps of mischief) and my poor little gingerbread men burned to a crisp. The smoke alarm first alerted me to the disaster and after removing the scorching cookie sheet from the oven, I ran around opening doors and windows to clear the air. Looking at the cluttered countertop, the sink full of dirty bowls and utensils, and the cindered gingerbread, my eyes burned with smoke and frustration. In desperation, I hurled a ginerbread man to the ground and watched as tiny cookie body parts flew all over the kitchen floor. It felt so darned good that I did it again. By this time, the kids had halted in their tracks and were watching their mother like silent statues. We all burst out laughing at the same time and then I held out the cookie sheet so they could join me in destroying the evidence of my baking fiasco. What fun we had smashing all of those little gingerbread men into thousands of gingery crumbs. Naturally, the cleanup was extensive. We didn't make another batch of gingerbread men that Christmas but we sure made a long-lasting memory. My grown sons still talk about it with fondness. Maybe my little grandson will have his own turn at smashing gingerbread men someday.

So, now the wind is howling and the snow is swirling outside but inside all is toasty warm. There's a lovely pot of beef stew simmering on the stove and the aroma of fruitcake is wafting through the house. There's plenty to go around if you'd like to drop by. I'll put the kettle on.

To Logan

The rhythmic beating of a swollen heart has coursed through my veins before.....

Love in various ways and forms has radiated joy afore......

Fingers intertwined with mine have passed affection from one to another.....

Tears have flowed from my eyes before for one reason or other.....

I've known the desire to protect and shield, I've felt its intense power.....

Breathed the soft sweet scent of newborn skin, unmatched by any flower.....

Laid bare my soul in darkest night to commune with the Maker in prayer.....

Thought I'd known all there was to know of life's bountiful fare.....

.....and then there was you. Precious one.