Mindfulness!

The practice of self-awareness has a rich history, yet it often deepens and evolves as one navigates the passage of time. Each year, mindful individuals become increasingly attuned to the subtle transformations within themselves, both body and spirit. They may observe the gradual changes in their physical form, such as the softening of the skin, the shifting contours of their faces, and the surprising appearance of grey hairs sprouting from the nose and ears. 

Reflecting on their youth, many might recall witnessing these signs of aging in their elders, and this observation often sparks a sense of wonder. Did those older generations truly acknowledge the march of time, or did they overlook these fleeting signs of life’s inevitable progression? I’m sure they had enough concerns with living during those times. Not much different than now. Different times, different problems.

In the exuberance of youth, distractions abound, making it easy for young people to prioritize what seems urgent over what truly matters. The concerns of earlier years, which once felt paramount, can fade into the background as one grows wiser. This evolution underscores the unique advantages of youth while simultaneously illuminating a profound aspect of maturity: the gradual acceptance of change and the enriched understanding of oneself that comes with embracing the journey of growing up.

Reflecting on my experiences, I realize that my mind can simultaneously spin through a thousand ideas. Yet, in practical terms, I can only focus on a single task at any given moment. It’s as if I wander through a labyrinth of thoughts, often feeling momentarily disoriented. To counteract this mental whirlwind, I seek engaging tasks that capture my attention, particularly in the garden. Working around the yard grounds me and immerses me in nature's vibrant colors and textures, providing a refreshing sanctuary for my restless mind.

Yet, I find it essential to nurture the deeply rooted belief that I possess a purpose—a sense of worth and a duty to guide those who may tread the path I have walked before. I often reflect on the profound Biblical truth, “When I was a child, I acted like a child, but now that I am a man…” We have transcended the fleeting days of our youth; we are no longer the carefree teenagers of 40 or 50 years past. As we embark upon the latter chapters of our journey, navigating this course with intention and integrity is imperative. In this realization, we come to terms with the fact that control was never truly ours to wield, and it remains elusive even now. I must confess that there are moments when I feel utterly adrift, uncertain of how to occupy my time. Yet, paradoxically, I find myself caught in the relentless grasp of a schedule that never seems to allow me the freedom to pursue the things I genuinely desire. That is writing, researching my ancestry, playing word puzzles, walking, learning new things, watching new television programs, and traveling.

Is mindfulness truly making a difference in my life? The answer is a resounding yes! Through consistent practice, I have become better at organizing, compartmentalizing, and managing my thoughts, which used to swirl chaotically in my mind. I often found myself weighed down by the burdensome “wouldas,” “couldas,” and “shouldas” from my past—regrets that seemed to cling to me like shadows.

The journey hasn’t been easy; I face persistent challenges each day. Some guilt lingers from choices I wish I could redo, regret tugs at my heart when I recall missed opportunities, doubt creeps in and makes me question my abilities, and fear can sometimes be overwhelming. These emotions distract me from focusing on the present moment and the positive steps I want to take.

However, I have come to view this struggle as a daily battle, and each time I push through the negativity, I feel a sense of victory. Mindfulness practices—deep breathing, meditation, and grounding techniques—have equipped me with the tools to confront and overcome these obstacles. With each small triumph, I gain more clarity and strength, helping me cultivate a peaceful, resilient mindset. Everyone has personal issues; none of us is exempt.

Lord, the journey has not been easy. I placed my faith in the redemptive nature of humanity, believing it could shine brighter than divine salvation. I clung to the hope that a singular source, a beacon of promise, would elevate me from the shadows of isolation into the radiant embrace of comfort and abundance. I doubted that Your Grace would offer me more than the fleeting support of man. The lessons I’ve learned have come at a steep price, revealing the depth of my misjudgment in the harshest ways. Forgive me. I refuse to become a foolish older man.

Father!

A poignant memory of my father's absenteeism resurfaced while I was discussing my brief military career with my wife. I found myself grappling with a haunting question: if my father had been present during those pivotal moments when I was contemplating whether to leave or extend my service, how different might my path have been if he had been there to offer guidance? My wife sensed the bitterness in my voice, a lingering shadow of a wound that I had never truly forgiven. I reassured her that I had come to terms with my feelings long before his passing, but as the conversation unfolded, I began to wonder if I had genuinely reconciled in full. 

My wife often reminds me of a nurturing mother, embodying the spirit of selflessness. She has devoted her life to the well-being of our children, sacrificing her dreams for their happiness. When I turned sixteen, my mother navigated the challenges of single parenthood, bestowing us a wealth of attention and love. With unwavering determination, she resolved that her boys would not find themselves imprisoned by poor choices or buried too soon. 

After returning home from the seminary, I was met with the stark reality of my parents' divorce, a revelation that felt like a seismic shift in my life. As the eldest, I instinctively assumed the mantle of responsibility, eager to support my mother however I could. My younger brother, just two years my junior, was a spirited force of nature, often testing the bounds of our relationship. With punishment off the table and frustration building, our disagreements frequently erupted into spirited battles, a testament to the complexities of brotherhood amidst the upheaval of our lives.

As a child, I vividly recall seeing my father returning home from work, his big, black lunch box swinging by his side and his trousers rolled up to reveal his weathered ankles. He would call out to us, the laughter of our play echoing in the air, before disappearing into the house to change clothes for the evening ahead. My mother, gentle and soft-spoken like my wife, worked the night shift at the hospital, her hands often tenderly caring for little ones in the pediatrics department. Occasionally, we would hear the distant sounds of their disagreements—sharp words cutting through the air—but those moments were few and far between, like fleeting shadows in the warm glow of our family life.

My father was well-known in the neighborhood for giving pocket change to the kids our age, but we barely got words of encouragement from him. The other kids would tell us what house they saw him in when he should have been home with us. My baby brother expressed his dislike of him, whereas I hid my contempt and disappointment. But, one day, that all changed when I turned seventeen and back home. 

Just before sunset, we heard a knock at the door one evening. It was my father, and we were taken aback to see his arm wrapped in blood-soaked cloths. He asked if he could speak with Mom, hoping she would be able to tend to his injury, as he had been hurt in an altercation. My brother and I felt strongly about not letting him in. However, my mother, a nurse and a compassionate person, chose to help him despite our objections. She carefully treated his wound, stitched him up, and sent him on his way.

Initially, my brother and I were frustrated with her decision. We couldn't understand why she would assist someone who had caused us pain. Mom took the time to explain her reasoning to us, emphasizing her belief in the importance of helping others regardless of their past actions. This experience reminded us of her values and her unwavering kindness, which ultimately served as a lesson in empathy and compassion.

Not long after, Mom received a letter that my father had relocated to another state to stay with his sister. I found myself following in his footsteps by joining the Navy, the same branch of service, at the age of nineteen. My decision was driven by necessity; the military offered a reliable source of income, allowing me to send monthly payments to support Mom. When the day finally came for my discharge from the Navy, a mix of anticipation and apprehension filled me as I had lingering questions for my father. 

However, he had already moved from his sister’s home, leaving no forwarding address. For over two decades, none of us heard from him. It wasn’t until my uncle, his brother, informed Mom that my father had returned, now residing five blocks away in an assisted living facility, that we learned of his presence. 

Despite the passing years, he remained shrouded in embarrassment and shame, refusing to visit us, and ultimately, none of us sought to reconnect with him. Mom wanted us to see him, but we couldn’t bring ourselves. In a striking display of compassion, she would cook him dinner and deliver it herself, fully aware that we held no inclination to see him again. 

Mom dedicated herself to shaping my upbringing, often reiterating the age-old commandment to honor your father and mother. She emphasized that despite everything, he remained my father, urging me to embrace forgiveness as a vital step toward healing and moving beyond the burdens of the past. I was encouraged to rise above my pride and visit him—an idea that lingered for years. 

Finally, in my forties, I confronted this chapter of my life. As I approached the door, my heart raced with anticipation and trepidation. When the door creaked open, I was met by my father, who stood before me with an oxygen tank by his side. The man I once knew as towering and robust appeared diminished, frail, and burdened by time. In an instant, a wave of sympathy washed over me, and I couldn't help but see a reflection of my fears in his weakened state. 

I felt an overwhelming regret as I confronted the image of an unfulfilled life that loomed before me, one I desperately wanted to avoid. My brother, who had grown, married, and settled far away with his family, was now a distant figure in this narrative. He and his wife had embraced the call of duty, joined the military, and built a lovely life, never looking back to acknowledge our father. The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken words and unresolved feelings. My father and I apologized and agreed to forgiveness, but were they empty words? We’ll never know.

I must compliment my wife on her wisdom and understanding. She is very much like my mother. I can see that I haven’t let go of my issues with my father. I’m still addressing him as my father, not Dad. I even remember calling him Mister so and so, too. As I have gotten older, I have several unresolved issues to address, a few of which my wife has pointed out.