Redemption – Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership

Teachers, Mentors, and the Grace That Carries Us

“There is no Frigate like a Book / To take us Lands away.”

Emily Dickinson wrote these words in her quiet room, understanding something I didn’t grasp for decades. The greatest journeys begin within.

I know her poem only because of my 11th grade AP English teacher, Mr. Cox. As a rambunctious and cocky 11th grader, would I have taken any of my “super valuable” time to read poems, sonnets, short stories, even books? No way.

But because of his work (and the work of countless other teachers along the way), I did read. A lot. I learned tons of material and information that didn’t matter to me at the time…but matter a lot today.

My focus back then was simple. Be the best student, get the highest test scores, pass as many AP tests as possible, and earn varsity letters in multiple sports. Mostly, I wanted to beat everyone else, pure and simple. It helped that I was blessed with an almost photographic memory and could recall facts and formulas with ease (sadly, not so much nowadays).

I carried that mindset into college. I loved being the student who defined the grading curve for the class. I was annoyed if I didn’t get every single point on an assignment, midterm, or final. I had an almost uncontrollable drive to outshine everyone…as if that was all that mattered.

I was completely wrong.

On the bright side, that drive and motivation made me a successful student and propelled me into my early career.

On the other hand, seeing everyone as my competition, and less as people, meant I probably missed out on a lot of fun. And lots of friendships that never happened. I was so focused on the destination that I forgot to notice who was traveling with me.

That realization connects me back to Dickinson’s frigate in ways I never expected. She saw the book as a vessel capable of carrying anyone, anywhere, without cost or permission. But what I’ve learned over nearly fifty years since high school is that I was asking the wrong question. It was never “How far can I go?” It was “Who am I becoming, and who’s helping me understand?”

My journey from that hyper-competitive teenager to what I hope is a much more caring, thoughtful, empathetic, nuanced, and life-giving person has been propelled by those same teachers I mentioned earlier, and a longer line of guides who keep showing up at the right time in my life.

I didn’t realize it then, but those books, poems, and teachers were all part of my fleet of frigates. Each one quietly helped me close the distance between knowledge and understanding, between my ambition and wisdom.

My mentors, family, and friends have all been vessels that carried me through changing seas. Some taught me to sail straight into the wind. Others reminded me that drifting for a while can be part of my journey as well. Each lesson mattered, even the ones that didn’t make sense at the time…especially those.

Over time, life has a way of sanding down our sharper edges, revealing something deeper underneath. My focus slowly shifted from being the best at something to becoming the best version of myself.

Now, when I think about Emily Dickinson’s frigate, I picture something far greater than a book. I picture a lifetime of learning, carried by the people who invested their time, wisdom, and patience in me. Mr. Cox, and others who gave freely of their time and wisdom, helped me see that the destination isn’t solely becoming the top of the class. It’s finding a profound depth of understanding, the expansion of empathy, and the ability to see beauty and meaning in small, unexpected places.

If I could go back and talk to that 16-year-old version of myself, I’d tell him the real tests aren’t scored on paper. They’re graded every day in how we treat people, how we listen, and how we show grace.

I’d tell him that the frigate he thinks he’s steering alone has always been guided by grace. The true measure of his voyage will be how much space he makes for others to come aboard.

We’re all learning to sail, carried by the steady hand of God.

We never really travel alone.

Photo by Rafael Garcin on Unsplash

The Gift of Grace

There are times when we are firmly in the right. The facts are clear. The other person made a mistake or caused harm. In that moment, we face a choice. We can leverage our position of strength and press our advantage. Or we can give grace.

Grace is the strength to let go of proving a point. The willingness to give someone space to recognize what went wrong and find their way back. Every one of us needs that space, because every one of us makes mistakes.

Grace holds truth in one hand and love in the other. It sees what happened and names it honestly. It also holds out the invitation to begin again. In this way, grace strengthens relationships and helps keep them whole.

Grace looks to the future. A person rarely grows when held down by another’s righteousness. They grow when they feel the freedom to face their mistakes with dignity. Grace creates space for that freedom.

The flow of grace is a gift that we depend on. It honors truth. It protects relationships. When we give grace, we often find that it changes us as well.

We may discover that the person we extend grace to carries burdens we never knew about. When we choose grace over vindication, we become more human, more aware of our own weaknesses, and more capable of genuine compassion.

“Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, heartfelt compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience, bearing with one another and forgiving one another, if one has a grievance against another; as the Lord has forgiven you, so must you also do.” – Col 3:12–13

Photo by Mrugesh Shah on Unsplash

The Manger and the Memories: A Christmas Story

It happens to all of us this time of year. The days get shorter, the winds grow crisper. Something stirs within us that doesn’t quite fit the mold of any other season. There’s joy, sure—joy enough to make us believe in miracles again. But alongside that joy, like the shadows cast by twinkling lights, there’s a touch of sorrow. Like an old friend who shows up every December, pulls up a chair, and says nothing at all.

Words that lie dormant eleven months out of the year come alive at Christmas time. Jingle Bells. Rudolph. Good tidings. Noel. The Manger. Words so beautiful and strange, yet they create beautiful poetry on our hearts. Sugarplums dancing in dreams. Mulling spices on the stove. Decorations we see only in this season but remember more fondly with each passing year—twinkles of joy at their best, empty reminders at their worst. And somehow, merriment and brightness find their way in, even when the years haven’t always been kind.

If you listen closely, you can hear hymns calling us across the cold and lonely nights:

“O come, O come, Emmanuel”

“Silent Night”

“What Child is This?”

There’s a funny thing about Christmas—it’s a season of paradox. A time for rejoicing, and a time for remembering. For celebrating, and for mourning. All in the same breath.

Every year, the world gathers around a single story. A manger in Bethlehem, where our Savior came as a child. It’s a story that whispers hope into the cracks of our broken hearts.

“Fear not, O Zion, be not discouraged!” That’s what the prophet Zephaniah said. “The Lord, your God, is in your midst.” And somehow, two thousand years later, we do believe. We light candles and sing songs of joy—because we need to. Because joy matters.

It’s funny how much effort we put into this season. Trees trimmed. Ornaments hung. Villages built. Wishes made. And when the last batch of cookies or Cornish pasties come out of the oven, we sit at tables crowded with food, and laughter, and the people we love. Sometimes we even catch a glimpse of something eternal in it all—the way the lights reflect off the fancy silverware, or how a child’s eyes light up at the first sight of presents.

But there are empty chairs. They’re harder to discuss. Maybe it’s a father, a mother, a grandparent, or a sister. Maybe it’s a friend, a brother, an aunt or an uncle who have gone far too soon. We feel their absence even more at Christmas. We see them in the lights we hang, and the hot chocolates that we make. We hear them in old songs, the ones we used to sing.

And then there are the faces we miss in another way—our family who are still with us but just too far away. The ones across states, oceans, and time zones. We think of them when we pull out the old family recipes and photo albums. We wish they could be here to see the kids open presents, to share in the laughter over the pies that we burned, or took out too soon. But instead, we send texts and pictures, leave voicemails, and whisper a prayer hoping they know how much they’re loved, even from so far away.

Yet even in sorrow, there’s something beautiful. Because love never really leaves us. And maybe that’s the greatest promise of Christmas—the one hidden behind all the ornaments and stockings, and twinkling lights. That the Child who came to a manger promises us something more. He promises that the story isn’t over. That one day, we’ll all sit at a table that never empties, in a place where joy knows no end.

For now, we celebrate as best we can. We bake our pies and pour our cider. We listen for sleigh bells in the distance and leave room in our hearts for joy to enter—just like it always does.

And when the night gets quiet, and the fire burns low, we remember. We remember the ones we’ve loved, the ones we’ve lost, the ones too far away to join us, and the One who came to bring us home.

That’s Christmas. A little light, a little shadow. A little merry, a little sorrow. A season that changes the very words we speak and, if we let it, changes the very hearts we carry.

So if you’re out there tonight, sipping mulled cider by the window, just know this:

You’re not alone. The Savior is here. He’s in the manger. He’s in the laughter. And He’s in the quiet, too.

And maybe—just maybe—He’s singing over you, as one sings at a festival.

The Bible verse that inspired this post when I heard it in Church last Sunday:

Shout for joy, O daughter Zion!
       Sing joyfully, O Israel!
   Be glad and exult with all your heart,
       O daughter Jerusalem!
   The LORD has removed the judgment against you
       he has turned away your enemies;
   the King of Israel, the LORD, is in your midst,
       you have no further misfortune to fear.
   On that day, it shall be said to Jerusalem:
       Fear not, O Zion, be not discouraged!
   The LORD, your God, is in your midst,
       a mighty savior;
   he will rejoice over you with gladness,
       and renew you in his love,
   he will sing joyfully because of you,
       as one sings at festivals.

– Zep 3:14-18a

Exiting the Tomb of Pessimism

“We must strive to exit our tomb of pessimism.” I heard this phrase echo through the Cathedral during the Easter Vigil homily, a little over a week ago.

As Catholics, we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ every Easter…His triumphant exit from the tomb, three days after his crucifixion.

In a much smaller way, we have a daily invitation to cast off our heavy shroud of negativity. To exit our tomb of pessimism.

To break the shackles of hopelessness and redirect our thoughts toward a brighter horizon.

If everything great begins with a thought or an idea, imagine channeling this power toward an optimistic future, filled with amazing possibilities.

It’s easy to stay in this tomb of our own making, looking through the bars at all the people out there who are clearly happier, more successful, and have all the things we yearn for.

The truth is none of them matter. They have no impact on us…except to show us some possibilities, some ideas, and some pathways that worked for them.

We have the power to rewrite our own narrative, to pivot our lives toward a more hopeful outlook. The choice is ours alone.

Escaping the tomb of pessimism demands courage and resolve. It requires us to confront our deepest fears and insecurities, to challenge the status quo of negativity that has held us captive and kept us comforted for so long.

Yet, it is only by confronting these challenges that we can find the promise of transformation. Only through the struggle that we can discover a new sense of purpose.

Will you remain ensnared in the confines of pessimism, or will you seize the opportunity to step into the light, and walk away from your tomb of pessimism?

The choice is yours.

Choose wisely.

p/c – Jelle de Gier – Unsplash

The Gentle Shepherd

This poem is dedicated to the Gentle Shepherds God brings to each of us as we make our way along His path…

Our pastor recently announced that he’ll be leaving our parish after serving here for 10 years. Needless to say, he has had a profoundly positive impact on all of us, and he will be dearly missed.

During his homily last Sunday, announcing that he’ll be returning home to Spain in a few short months, I kept hearing the words, Gentle Shepherd, in my mind.

I realized these words were describing the amazing and loving man who was speaking to his flock about trusting God and the path He has for each of us.

Inspired by Father Sergio’s loving service to our parish and his homily last Sunday, this poem is dedicated to the Gentle Shepherds God brings to each of us as we make our way along His path:

The Gentle Shepherd

Graced with the compassionate love of God,

Through valleys of darkness, and deserts of despair,

He humbly guides his flock.

He is the Gentle Shepherd.

With fidelity to God and His Church,

Our shepherd shares with us the Word of God,

Unwrapping its sacred mysteries for all to hear.

He is the Gentle Shepherd.

Strengthened by our loving God,

He brings great tidings of joy and mercy,

Of God’s forgiveness and redemption.

He is the Gentle Shepherd.

He trusts and serves the Lord,

His purposes and His desires,

By loving and protecting each of his flock.

He is the Gentle Shepherd.

May the Lord’s blessings always shine down upon our Gentle Shepherd.

-Bob Dailey, 2022

Before the Law

The biggest challenges in life aren’t delivered in the first step but in the thousandth.

What can Franz Kafka’s parable, written in 1915, tell us?

Before the Law

Before the law sits a gatekeeper. To this gatekeeper comes a man from the country who asks to gain entry into the law. But the gatekeeper says that he cannot grant him entry at the moment. The man thinks about it and then asks if he will be allowed to come in later on. “It is possible,” says the gatekeeper, “but not now.” At the moment the gate to the law stands open, as always, and the gatekeeper walks to the side, so the man bends over in order to see through the gate into the inside. When the gatekeeper notices that, he laughs and says: “If it tempts you so much, try it in spite of my prohibition. But take note: I am powerful. And I am only the most lowly gatekeeper. But from room to room stand gatekeepers, each more powerful than the other. I can’t endure even one glimpse of the third.”

What exactly is “the law?” I’m sure it’s something real, but it doesn’t matter. Alfred Hitchcock once said that every movie is a search for the MacGuffin. Every character in the story lives or dies in relation to quest for the MacGuffin.

How often have you confronted a gatekeeper? That mysterious person with unknown power. They appear to hold the key you need. Their power emanates from the knowledge you need. Knowledge they often don’t possess. Their greatest power comes from your insecurity. The gatekeeper represents your desire to stay safe, risk nothing, step back. Thank God that gatekeeper’s there! Otherwise, I’d have to actually step through that gate, without any obstacle to block me.

The man from the country has not expected such difficulties: the law should always be accessible for everyone, he thinks, but as he now looks more closely at the gatekeeper in his fur coat, at his large pointed nose and his long, thin, black Tartar’s beard, he decides that it would be better to wait until he gets permission to go inside.

The gatekeeper isn’t there to grant permission. Access isn’t his to grant. Our hero focuses so intently on every last detail of the gatekeeper that he gets to avoid thinking about what lies beyond the gate. The biggest challenges in life aren’t delivered in the first step but in the thousandth.

The gatekeeper gives him a stool and allows him to sit down at the side in front of the gate. There he sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be let in, and he wears the gatekeeper out with his requests. The gatekeeper often interrogates him briefly, questioning him about his homeland and many other things, but they are indifferent questions, the kind great men put, and at the end, he always tells him once more that he cannot let him inside yet.

Status quo is warm and comfy. Pursuing the mundane is safe. Busying ourselves with the day-to-day tasks gives us something to do, but doesn’t move us any closer to what lies beyond the next gate.

The man, who has equipped himself with many things for his journey, spends everything, no matter how valuable, to win over the gatekeeper. The latter takes it all but, as he does so, says, “I am taking this only so that you do not think you have failed to do anything.”

All the preparation in the world is meaningless without the desire to put that preparation to work. To take what you’ve learned and test it in the real world. To learn the real lessons that come from experience. To make the mistakes that can cost you everything…and nothing. To risk real failure, and real triumph is what makes life most interesting.

During the many years, the man observes the gatekeeper almost continuously. He forgets the other gatekeepers, and this one seems to him the only obstacle for entry into the law. He curses the unlucky circumstance, in the first years thoughtlessly and out loud, later, as he grows old, he still mumbles to himself. He becomes childish and, since in the long years studying the gatekeeper he has come to know the fleas in his fur collar, he even asks the fleas to help him persuade the gatekeeper.

How long have you waited for someone to pick you? How long have you waited for your stars to align? Stars are part of a perfectly ordered and yet totally chaotic system. Their alignment is rare and temporary at best.

There are about 6 billion of us on this planet. The law of averages (and large numbers) works against us being picked. More likely, our small piece of the world is waiting for us to choose, and run in that direction.

The gatekeeper isn’t good or evil. He has only one function. To guard the gate, and warn us about the challenges that may lie ahead. Nothing more, nothing less.

Finally, his eyesight grows weak, and he does not know whether things are really darker around him or whether his eyes are merely deceiving him. But he recognizes now in the darkness an illumination which breaks inextinguishably out of the gateway to the law. Now he no longer has much time to live. Before his death, he gathers in his head all his experiences of the entire time up into one question which he has not yet put to the gatekeeper. He waves to him since he can no longer lift up his stiffening body.

We don’t have to grow old for our vision to fail. That can happen at any age. It’s easy to lose focus. It’s easy to find darkness in the midst of all the light. We each have beacons of light to guide us if we choose to look in their direction.

The gatekeeper has to bend way down to him, for the great difference has changed things to the disadvantage of the man. “What do you still want to know, then?” asks the gatekeeper. “You are insatiable.” “Everyone strives after the law,” says the man, “so how is that in these many years no one except me has requested entry?” The gatekeeper sees that the man is already dying and, in order to reach his diminishing sense of hearing, he shouts at him, “Here no one else can gain entry since this entrance was assigned only to you. I’m going now to close it.

Woe is me! I’m the only person in pain. I’m the only person with these challenges. I’m the only person struggling. The world is so unfair. The deck is stacked against me. Get over yourself!

Never assume you’re the only one struggling. I saw a quote from That Gratitude Guy (look him up) recently that said, “Never compare your inside to their outside.” Excellent advice.

Each of us has a path to follow. Sometimes it’s smooth. Sometimes not. We will encounter obstacles on our journey and even more gatekeepers.

The most powerful gatekeeper of all is fear and the stories we tell to hide it.

No one else can overcome your fear. That task is assigned only to you.

Photo Credit: Unsplash, Joshua Earle. Why this photo? Why not a photo of a gate, a bureaucrat, darkness, or fear itself? This photo reflects a beacon of light and an “impossible” next step. Here’s hoping he finds his way past fear and towards the light.

Thinking about Redemption

“It comes down to a simple choice, get busy living, or get busy dying.”

If I’m flipping around the TV and happen to fall on The Shawshank Redemption, I stop what I’m doing and watch. It may just be starting. Andy is erroneously convicted of murdering his wife. Or, it could be in the middle, as Andy and Red’s lifelong friendship is building. It could be the end as Andy makes his triumphant escape by climbing out of the hole he dug in his cell and swimming down a 500-yard sewer pipe to freedom. Doesn’t matter, I’m in until the end.

I could go on about all the nuances of the plot, the symbolism, the character development, and the thematic genius of the movie, but I won’t. Well, maybe just a little.

I’m focused on one quote from the movie:

“It comes down to a simple choice, get busy living, or get busy dying.”

Throughout the movie, Andy Dufresne is hit with life-crushing challenges. He takes each hit, feels overwhelmed, and even mourns being the victim. He then gets up, dusts himself off, and takes control. He decides to get busy living. The alternative is unacceptable.

His redemption isn’t just his ultimate escape from the prison, but the redemption all of the people he touches along the way. Andy brings a new perspective to everyone around him. He helps the other prisoners find their own value. He sets in motion a long, and silent, quest for justice. Even as a prisoner, he controls the direction of his life, and his own redemption. It isn’t the world around him, but the world within him that points the way.