Making Peace

It is Christmas.  It is a time for being in peace, for thinking about peace.  

One would hope that peace would be on our minds every day of the year, and be something we strive for in everything we do.  Peace shouldn’t just be one of those popular ideas of a particular season.  

Many of us have religious beliefs that profess we believe in peace, that we should be peacemakers as we go about our lives, raising our families, do our jobs, and live in our communities.  

Yet, much of societal life is obsessed with competition, making a profit, and feeding a variety of addictions.  Lying and stealing, even though we find other names for that, is ever-present in our community lives.  

If I really believe in peace, and know that I have a Divine direction to live in peace, to practice peace, and to truly be a peacemaker, then how do I accomplish that?  

I get pulled and dragged to live otherwise.

If I pay attention to popular culture, and much of the media, then I soon find myself absorbed by violence, by bigotry, fear, anger, greed, and addiction.  Material possessions, instant gratification, and self absorption fill my mind and guide my day.   Yet, I am left hungrier for true satisfaction, true fulfillment, and farther from my real purpose as a human being on this planet.   

The bell ringer at the grocery store, and the pile of solicitations in my mailbox tempt me to “make peace” by writing a check, or putting some cash in the red kettle at the store.  But, does that make peace, or simply fuel a bureaucracy clothed in the appearance of charity and peace making?  

Some commentators urge me to buy a bigger gun and a larger ammo clip, or support arming teachers, or deploying squads of sharpshooters, in order to bring peace to the latest mass casualty crime scene, to stop random shooting sprees, to thwart the crazy actions of the angry sociopath who is looking for a newsworthy end to his troubled life.  

The cops I’ve worked with spend much of their time responding to the seemingly endless calls of domestic violence, drug abuse, child neglect, and the sad loneliness in people’s lives they try to self medicate with alcohol, drugs, and violence.  Yes, they are peacemakers, applying first aid to a troubled society we like to think is seeking peace, but so often is trapped in the cycle of pain, violence, self medication, and despair.

Adding more guns that that explosive mix is just creating more havoc, more violence.  I suppose we would become more efficient in spilling blood, and adding more fuel to the fires of anger and rage and isolation in our already self-absorbed society.  I wonder what the lessons would be that we would teach our children.  What would be our legacy to them? 

My soul calls me to reject all that.  In my time on this Earth, I’ve seen that war and violence, and anger and self gratification don’t make this world a better place.  I’ve learned that compassion and unconditional love, and being truly selfless are the beliefs and actions that grow flowers and save souls.

I can make peace in my home, creating a place of beauty, serenity, and purpose.  In order to truly do that, I need to make peace with myself, to truly connect with God, and be content with my purpose in life, my real values.  I need to realize that I am beautiful, and part of the Universe.  I need to tend to my own candlelight.

It starts with me.  And, when I am filled with Peace, then I can be a peace maker.  I can reach out into my community and be a small flame of peace and unconditional love.

I walk past the red kettle and the bell ringer, and I toss all the dunning letters into the trash.  

Instead, I visit the nearby prison, and drink coffee and play games with young men.  We play guitar and sing songs, and tell stories of our lives.  And, in our conversations, I talk about my life, and my struggles.  I talk about love and peace.  And, they do, too.  We learn from each other, and we talk about peace.  

Soon, those young men will be out of prison, making their way in this troubled world.  They will be tempted by the drugs, violence and sexual exploitation, and all the other war making forces in our culture.  They will doubt themselves, and they will struggle to find their place in all of that.  

Yet, they will have that small flame burning in their soul, the flame of self esteem, of inner peace, and universal love.  They will have our relationship, and their own nurtured peace-loving souls to guide and comfort them.  

In their new beginnings, they will have some answers and they will have the beginnings of a strong foundation in their lives.  And, when they become workers, and husbands, and fathers, they will be on the right path, and will know who they truly are, and where they are going.  

I can’t change the world today.  But, I can start with one person, and light that candle, and nourish that small, flickering flame in the dark.  That one candle lights a dark room in the depth of one’s midnight despair.  

With one candle, one can light the world.

A Sweet Time

A Sweet Time

“Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder.
Help someone's soul heal.
Walk out of your house like a shepherd.”
Rumi ♥

As my friend, Gary Seelig would say, a sweet time.  

Yesterday, Christmas Day, was a magical day for Karen and me, filled with spirit and joy.

We went to the OYA youth prison, and visited with the young men I’ve been mentoring and visiting.  They were filled with the experience of receiving gifts and a communal Christmas dinner served to them in the half basketball court that also serves so many other functions in their young lives.  

We’d given a T shirt to several of the guys I’d been talking with over the last few months, and they wore them proudly, big smiles on their faces.  One guy hasn’t had a family visit for three years.  I make it a point to say hi and give him a hug.

“D”, who is becoming my chess partner, had never had a visit here from a sober person.  I’m the first guy he’s had a conversation with, except for OYA staff, for the last five years.  He liked my book on wolves and the poetry book.  He writes some great poetry, and is a leader at their monthly sweat lodge and in treatment classes.  

His essay on Measure 11, the mandatory sentencing scheme he’s enduring, is so well written and compelling, that I plan on sending it off to the Governor, the Oregonian, and the sentencing reform commission.  He’s taking four college classes on line and plans on earning his associates degree before he gets out in 2013.  Then, he wants to go to OSU and become a CPA.  

We watched another young man, a guy who hasn’t heard from family for four or five years, the guy I had bought a soda and candy bar for about eight months ago, on Family Day, and watched him burst into tears at the thought.  He was sitting with his new mentor and a local youth minister, laughing and telling them a story, a big grin across his face.  

And, then there’s “T”, the guy I’ve been mentoring every week.  It’s our one year anniversary of sitting down and having coffee, talking, and learning about each other.  I’ve learned more than he has, but he’s also grown three inches in height and about five years in soul wisdom this last year.  He’s not quite sure how to deal with the new guitar that Santa brought him, or his new self.  He’s never had anything new for Christmas or family to celebrate Christmas with, without breaking out into a fight or a drug induced haze.  He struggles with sorting out the new emotions in his life this year.

“D” comes over to sing us “Silent Night” and “Noel”, and we tear up at his beautiful voice and his tender rendition of the carols.  We soon join in and families at other tables in the basketball court, now family room, join us, our voices echoing off the cement walls festooned with a few garlands of glitter.  

On the way home, my brother called, from the cardiac care unit in a Seattle hospital.  He’s been there nearly two weeks, and survived a five artery bypass on Wednesday.  The afibrial rhythm irregularities of his heart were also addressed during his five hours of open heart surgery.  He sounds weak, but determined.  I could hear his smile as he told me he’s coming home Monday (today).  He’s got some serious exercise and conditioning work ahead of him, but now his damaged heart is working with every artery at full capacity.  I’m on that road, too, a few miles ahead of him, and I am hoping the power of spirit and the challenges and opportunities of post-heart surgery depression will guide him to peace and health.  

Yet, the best of Christmas was ahead of us.   The day before, a guy I’d been meeting with at OYA, and then the county jail, and had picked up at jail on his release date, had called.  Everyone else at the transitional housing he’s at was gone for Christmas and he was all alone.  I knew that the Salvation Army box of food we’d picked up that first day was long gone, and his food stamps were probably running out.  The loneliness in his voice echoed deep into my soul.

At the end of that sad phone call, I’d invited him over to share Christmas dinner with Karen and me.  We hadn’t planned anything very extravagant, just a simple dinner with some Christmas music playing on the stereo.  With a guest coming, we ramped it up a few notches, and decided to put on the dog a bit.  What the heck, it’s Christmas.

The young man didn’t quite know what to expect when I pulled up at his house, my Santa hat on my head, and drove back home.  He had on his best shirt and pants, but I could tell he was pretty nervous.  He’d never met Karen or been to my house, and he didn’t know what to expect, his first Christmas out of prison in four years.

I knew he loved to play the guitar, so I sat him down and put a guitar in his hand, as we finished the last minute preparations for dinner.  But, soon he was hanging around in the kitchen, a crystal goblet filled with soda in his hand, chatting up a storm.  

I steered him to the Christmas tree and put his Christmas present in his hand.  A boyish grin shined across his face, his eyes glistening as he unwrapped the little helicopter that could fly.  

We feasted at the dining room table, complete with table cloth, real napkins, and china.  I had him light the candles and we put him at the head of the table, and watched him fill his plate.  

He told us many stories of his childhood, and the chaos that he’s just taken for granted.  As the stories continued, we learned this was the first Christmas dinner sitting around a table he’d had since he was 12.  Other stories came flying out, my wife  exchanging glances of disbelief and astonishment at the hellfire he’s endured, and the strength he must have to endure his life.  His big heart filled with love and sweetness lit up the room.

When asked if he wanted seconds, our Oliver Twist said yes, and cleaned up his plate again.

At dessert time, he’d lost the rest of his shyness and asked for two desserts, the huckleberry pie and the ice cream with strawberries.  

We moved into the living room, at the tail end of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir concert that had regaled us in the background during dinner, and picked up our guitars.  The three of us stumbled through a number of carols, Karen and I singing, and our guest silent, but soaking up every tune.   

He grinned his thanks to us, eagerly grabbing onto the plates of more food and more dessert Karen had wrapped for him to take home, and we headed back to his room in town.   For once, he was quiet, and we didn’t talk much, yet I heard his humming, of all the Christmas carols we had sang.

Just before we got to his house, he asked me about marriage and family, and how that all worked for me.  He wanted that for himself, someday, and someday soon, he thought.  And, he wanted it to work for him.  

I left him there, his first stop in life after prison and jail, his arms filled with tomorrow’s dinner, and another big hug from me.  But the biggest hug was from him, the young man we’d asked to come for dinner.  

Arriving home, I walked through the door, my heart still overflowing with the emotion I had experienced that day.  My wife was at the sink, finishing the mound of dishes we had created for the young man who’d come for Christmas dinner.  I asked her how she was feeling.

“Joyful,” she whispered, a tear running down her cheek.

--Neal Lemery 12/2011

Holiday Gifts

“What do you want for Christmas?”

The question gets asked a lot this time of year, and I’ve had my share of wish lists and wants for the holidays. Yet, what really keeps coming to the top of my “list” for Christmas, is time, showing up and just being present in someone’s life.


It’s time spent listening to someone’s story, someone’s life experiences, and finding joy. In the telling, there is magic, and there is that special bonding that makes your heart glad. No possession or holiday trinket or toy can even come close to measuring up to getting to hear someone’s story or being with them as they experience the joy of something simple.


One Christmas, I watched my grandnephew open a number of gifts on Christmas Eve. He was the youngest in the family and we all had gotten him presents. Two years old is a wonderful age to experience Christmas. Soon, he had toy trucks and balls, and mechanical toys and some electronics scattered all over the living room.


Yet, after a while, he was busy making a fort out of a big cardboard box, and his squeals of delight rose higher in the room, as the fort turned into a garage for trucks, or a house, or a spaceship -- whatever his imagination could conjure up. The magic of Christmas that year was not the amount of toys, or the variety, of all the noise and color of whatever we might have found for him. Instead, it was the magic brought on by the boxes and his imagination.

This year, I’m spending Christmas at the local prison for young inmates. I’ve been mentoring several of the young men, and they’ve been teaching me more about life and courage and determination than what I’ve been offering them. At least, I think its at least a two way street for everyone involved.

They don’t expect much for Christmas. The prison has a $25 budget for each of the young men there, where most of them don’t seem to get any visitors. I’ll bring a few gifts for the young men I’ve been spending my Sunday afternoons. Everyone will get a present or two, and there will be a special dinner. Still, it’s prison and most of the guys won’t have anyone to show up to visit with them.


For the two guys I see every week, we’ll get some coffee and a snack, and play some cards or a board game. But, mostly, we’ll just talk, me listening to the stories of their lives and what they’ve been doing. Often, it’s not exciting, world changing stuff, but rather the stories of young men exploring their world a bit, and finding out what they like about themselves and who they are.


They are learning how to talk to a guy, and get a sense of just how to have a conversation about life. It’s a new experience for them. In their past, many of the adults in their lives taught them how to be angry and how to feel stupid and unwanted. And, some of the men in their lives abused them. What I’d call “normal” is nothing they’ve experienced, and so we all grow in how we look at the world, and ourselves.

They struggle to figure me out and how to get along with me. I try to offer some “normal” in their lives, and sometimes, the tears in all that struggle roll down their young faces.


I won’t bring much for Christmas: a few gifts of clothes and some books. Maybe a few movies I can donate to the prison, so everyone gets to see a few good movies during the holidays. One guy’s getting a guitar, so he can express himself in more than his conversation with me once a week, or the occasional letter I get. He’s grown a lot in the past year, and I think he can grow a whole lot more. We’ll see where the guitar in his young hands will take him in the last three years of his prison sentence. I expect to be amazed.


But, most of what I bring is simply my ears. I listen a lot. I share their lives and their stories, and maybe offer a few stories of my own.


I’ll say hi to some of the other guys there, the men who work in the canteen. They don’t get visitors much, so they spend the visiting hours earning the minimum wage around here, 25 cents an hour. Sometimes, I buy them a soda, and I get some big smiles in return. I joke with them, and read their poetry or the occasional essay they’ve written in their English class. What they write is deep and thoughtful, and I’m moved by their sincerity and their pain.


One time, I paid $3 for a couple of photos of a guy, so he could have something to send to his son and to his mom. He’d spent all of his 25 cents an hour income on other guys, the guys who come into this place without any money, and need some toiletries and maybe a CD player, so they can have some music in their lives. He didn’t want me to pay, but I insisted.


He’s never forgotten that, and he makes sure to say hi to me every time I come in to buy our coffee and popcorn. I ask about his mom and his son. He gets a sad look on his face, saying he hasn’t had a response to him sending the photos out to his family. But, he’s happy he made the effort, and he likes to let me know that. He hasn’t had a visitor for four years, so the least I can do is to say hi, and ask how he’s doing.


When I see the ads on TV for all the toys and the latest consumer trends, I just laugh. That’s not Christmas. Buying and giving all that stuff really doesn’t mean much, and it never has. Christmas is all about spending time and letting someone know they are loved.


It’s the two year old boy playing with the cardboard box on Christmas Eve, and it’s the young man in prison smiling because someone came to talk to him, or bought him a soda, or even helped him send his photo to his family.


That’s what’s on my Christmas list and that is what Christmas is all about.

--Neal Lemery 11/27/2011