Donna Fentanes

The Shoe Must Go On…The Last Blog

I have decided to end my blog. Not my writing, just my blog. With the kids all grown, I think it’s time the shoe must go on…to other writing projects, other stories and other endeavors.

I want to thank all my subscribers and readers. Thank you for all the comments and encouragement over the past 13 years. I’ve had a lot of fun writing From The Shoe. Thanks to the friends who helped proofread and edit my blog posts. You know who you are. 🙂

It’s funny, I no longer feel like a mom. With the kids grown and living their lives, my role as mother has formally ended. They don’t need me like that anymore.

I know I am still their mom, and will always be, but the work of a mother with minor children is over. And most of my columns were about raising a bunch of wild and crazy kids. I’d like to write different things now. We’ll see where the shoe goes.

I am in uncharted waters. I have never been this old. I haven’t been this alone (not lonely) just alone, on my own, in nearly 40 years. I look at how my folks navigated retirement and pre-old age, and still can find no map. They were well-rooted, grounded people unlike their hapless hare of a daughter. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways, acknowledge Him and He will direct your paths” will have to be my compass, the One Quiet Star. He is definitely trustworthy.

Nearly 40 years ago, I embarked on another unknown journey after I graduated from college. Then, too, I looked to the One Quiet Star. The Star I first saw through a bedroom window in my parents’ house when I was a teenager. I wished upon it. This was before I knew its Maker. I saw it that first semester at St. Mary’s sitting on a cold concrete stair looking at the blue-orange western sky, and it was brilliant. It comforted me as I started my last leg of college work at a new school.

I saw that Star in the San Pablo sun-setting sky amidst the happy chaos of rambunctious little kids, and even through the sad times when the course took an abrupt turn. It hung over the tempestuous Pacific during those difficult years. I see it from the back porch of my house, still guiding me on the journey I set out on in 1979 when I decided to follow Jesus. And even this past week, as I traveled home from the mid-west, the One Quiet Star shone almost as bright as the Strawberry Moon somewhere in the California desert, reminding me again of Who walks with me.

I am not going to worry like I used to about where I’d end up. Now, I am trying to be content in this moment, this day, this place, and with those who are around me now. Because I know, it’s not gonna last. One day, probably soon, the last of the kids will fly. Then the house will be really quiet. So, I want to continue “to be a pilgrim on the right journey, never to lose sight of the One Quiet Star on the horizon” wherever It may lead.

Heli-Texting: A Helluva Habit

One of the Helicopter Mom’s greatest tools is texting. I know many would say the Life 360 App is the best, but, I confess, I have never used it. I’m still old school. I still remember the days when my parents had no idea where I was and what I was doing. And, primarily, for that reason, and the fact that if I used that app, I would be a wreck, I have refused to use it. But my kids use it for each other, so when I am tempted to know where someone is, I tread the unpredictable waters and inquire from one of the kids. But I was a habitual heli-texter. Yes, you heard me right…”was”. I am proud to announce most of my heli-texting days are probably over.

Heli-texting, what the…heck is that? Well, I made up the word last night. Backstory… I live with three nocturnal creatures…my daughters. They go out every night, even after a long day at work or at school. And one of them is like a four o’clocker…almost always a very late night. Horrible conditions in which to quit heli-texting. I don’t know where they are. I have been long exiled into the “need-to-know basis” territory. Much to my chagrin.

Anyway, last night, I was home all alone, all the creatures, even the ones next door, were out. I didn’t know where most of them were. I had been working on ditching heli-texting for almost a month, but I did panic a little last night before I went to bed because one of the kids said they were coming home before going out again. Didn’t come home, didn’t text. So general anxiety panic disorder (GAPD) set in. (I made that up too.) And I fell off the wagon, and began to type out a text, copy it and sent to each of my offspring. To which I got two answers. Then I finally heard noises downstairs from one of those nocturnal creatures who had returned home. I went to check it out. I asked, “Where is everyone?” One of the persons present told me of a potentially harried tale while the other person present tried to throttle him. And all I said, “If they’re home safe, I don’t care.” And I added, “Hey, haven’t you even noticed I haven’t’ been “heli-texting” anymore?” To which, my daughter replied, “Hella texting?” “No, heli-texting…helicopter texting. Hey, I just made up that word.” She wasn’t too impressed. I went back to bed and went to sleep.

Heli-texting, or known as hella-texting apparently in the Bay Area, is helicopter parenting via text. That’s it. It’s blowing up their phones. I even googled heli-texting and couldn’t find any match for that word. Therefore, I hereby unofficially patent the word and take ownership. And why not? I am an expert…albeit a retired one.

I wrote a blog, “Hope For The Helicopter Mom”, about an incident when my oldest son tried to check my rampant heli-texting. Heading over to the City back when he was like 17, he told me I only get five texts. I sweated through the evening and he arrived home safe and sound just using five texts. But that was twenty years ago, it’s only recently that I’ve quit heli-texting.

A few weeks ago, I don’t remember exactly what happened, but as I’ve tried to emotionally distance myself from my grown kids and put the mothering to rest, I decided to quit bugging them via text. Just quit bugging entirely. They’re grown, they’re doing their own things (nail biting) and unless they loop me in, I’ve got to find something else to do. In a conversation on a podcast, the interviewer reiterated some of Jordan Peterson’s words to him: “I heard you recently talk about a mother’s ability to let her child go out into the world knowing that they’re still vulnerable and that it’s now down to them and the world to look after them, that’s one of the bravest things…” To which Jordan Peterson finished the thought, “It’s the female crucifixion.” He went on to describe the Pieta and Mary’s grief after the crucifixion.

Yes!! Letting them go, go out into the world – a place you know is dangerous and evil as well as beautiful and glorious – knowing they are so young and inexperienced is likened to something as traumatic as a crucifixion. Letting them go has been that hard. And what keeps me on track to not worry, be anxious or fretful is that, as a Christian, I am called to JOY, PEACE, LOVE and HOPE, things that cannot survive in the hazardous environment of fear.

Lest you think I’ve arrived at total acquiescence and indifference to my kids’ independence and activities, I do still peak out the bathroom window after I wake up and count the cars, and, sigh a heartfelt “Thank You, Lord.” So what am I supposed to do now? Read my last blog post here.

“Trust God” – A Testament to My Mother’s Quiet Faith

“Trust God” was all that was written on a little note my mother sent me in June 2006.

It had been a stressful three weeks. I was in the middle of a divorce and money was scarce. Proceeds from the sale of our little house in San Pablo would alleviate some of this stress. Finally an offer was made and escrow was set to close mid-June. I had to borrow money from my parents and even the realtor to get to COE. (Mind you, I was paying for two houses at the time.)

Over the Memorial Day weekend, me and the kids just hung around the house we had rented near our old house. Maybe some jaunts to the pool in Rodeo were on our schedule, I don’t remember. But, of course, late Friday on a holiday weekend, an abscess on one of my molars began to pain…that and the stress of divorce, caring for ten kids (who were great, by the way, during this sad time), anxious for the sale of the house, and having very little money….the toothache was a bale of straw on the proverbial camel’s back.

I managed by sheer grit to get a hold of a dentist and persuaded her to prescribe some antibiotics without having to go into the office…remember it was late Friday on a holiday weekend. You all remember the stuff that happens with kids on holiday weekends. Relief was 24 hours away. Hallelujah! But the camel’s back was getting to the breaking point.

Fast forward two weeks, tooth was better, school was out…we were waiting for the sale to close. The day before, no lie, the buyer backed out. I was devastated. I had no financial recourse…no way to pay bills or feed these kids. My soon-to-be ex husband barely provided anything. I had to ask my parents for more help. The camel’s back was breaking.

My mother was not a prolific writer like my father. When I was in Belgium many years before, I received a little card from her with about three sentences and a plain salutation, “Mom”. At this difficult time, she likewise sent me a little card…no greetings, no salutation, just two words in her beautiful cursive handwriting. Two words she lived by, two words that helped her through her tough times, two words which elevated my depth of despair to a fledgling faith where I ascended into a cleft of peaceful resignation and confidence.

Two weeks later, in a rare moment of taking the bulls by the horn, I approached my realtor, told him to reduce the price and if the house doesn’t sell by September, I’d move back there. There was an offer the next day…and escrow closed successfully in August. Reprieve. The camel’s back didn’t break.

It was my great privilege to accompany my mother to Rome ten years earlier. There I saw her faith fully animated in the ancient cathedral of St. Peter’s, on the cobblestone roads of the Appian Way, in the dark and dusty catacombs of St. Callistus and in the hurried visit to the Sistine Chapel. She was able to see her beloved sculpture, “The Pieta” as well as glimpses of Pope John Paul II. This simple faith, the Christian Faith, has been expressed, by not only my mother, but by billions of believers, over the centuries in magnificent works of art, architecture and adulation to the glory of God, the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. And I enjoyed watching her delight those ten days in Rome.

So, today is her birthday and in her honor, I write this testament to her simple, yet powerful faith, a faith (along with her prayers, no doubt) that bore me up on eagle’s wings when I had been dashed to the ground. And I commend to my children and my grandchildren, that they too, follow my mom’s example and “Trust God” not only at desperate times, but at all times.

“Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.”

Proverbs 3:5,6

Happy Birthday, Mom…tell Dad hello. We miss you both very much.

New Dreams For Old Folks: AKA What are We Gonna Do Now?

“I am old now…” like Orual in C. S. Lewis’ “Til We Have Faces. And like Orual, I have “this lean carrion that still has to be washed and fed and have clothes hung about it daily with so many changes,” well not so lean. Perhaps one of my new dreams is to get back into some better health. My old roommate from 1978 sent me photos from the “good old days”. I was trim, pretty and had all of my original teeth. I was even pretty athletic, maybe I can get back to that “lean carrion.”

One of my first dreams was to get married and have a big family. I wrote about wanting lots of kids, running around with animals, laughter, baking and fun. I wanted to raise them with a knowledge of the Lord so when they were adults they would chose His way. Most of that dream came true. The reality, though, was a little different than what I had imagined. But I did it…and I did it to the best of my ability with the tools I had. The regrets I have, I can live with.

My second dream was to get a house for my kids, especially after our lives exploded by divorce. I was obsessed for years, I was determined to find a place of our own one day, at least for the kids who were still with me. I was a regular on Redfin, scouring the site for houses I could afford. It took years to build my credit, and income to get to a place where I could buy. And finally, a couple years ago, thanks to my Mom and Dad, I had the new house, but before I knew it, the kids were all grown.

Some of them still live with me and enjoy this beautiful home…and I am grateful for the time I have left with these adult kids. Sometimes they will even hang out with me, like when a couple of the kids went to Paint Night with me or when one introduced me to a cool Irish pub in Berkeley last March. A couple even came with me to Vegas to see Barry Manilow back in 2023. Even though I see them daily and hang out sometimes, I feel a little like an outcast. They are into their own lives now, which is perfectly natural. But, nonetheless, I do think I may be suffering from a little post-maternal depression. It’s tough letting these guys go.

I am grateful though and glad that they like to hang out with each other. They are each others homies, well some of them are. There was a time when THEY were my homies (literally), they were my best buds and I hung out with them all the time. They were even my “Get Out of Social Events Free” card. Handy when you’re an introvert with social anxiety. They did everything I did, pretty much. Then they grew up. I’m not their homie anymore. That part of the dream of raising a big family is over. Boy, it seemed to go by fast.

Now, what am I gonna do? I have to work for a while longer…but soon I will retire. My imagination has withered, I can’t think of anything to do. Probably because most of the folks I hung out with for the past 35 years are otherwise engaged. All of the things I’ve wanted the past three decades had to do with the kids. And, now, poof! They don’t need me anymore.

But…what did C.S. Lewis purportedly say, according to that beacon of reliability, the Internet, “You are never too old to set a new goal or to dream a new dream.” I guess the Shoelady needs to find a new dream and a new goal.

I guess I could continue writing. I’ve had some success with my little screenplays. I could still do that. Writing is tough though, I spend a lot of time wrestling the self-doubt demons. I am determined to sell at least one story to Woman’s World Magazine. Si, se puede!

I should also probably be more active and get into better shape like those old 1978 photos, sans the beer. Especially if I am going to do the next thing.

I’ve had this dream of traveling around the world. Inspired by a photo taken of me by my friend on our Alaskan Cruise. “Shoelady Shoots the World” is the idea. Since I don’t drive freeways or fly, this world tour will be trains, boats and taxis. It’s a great idea, right? But I’m afraid I’ve become somewhat of an agoraphobe. I’m getting very comfortable in my room with my own library, my spa-like tub and my washing machine unit. I don’t even need to go downstairs and try to mix with the cool kids. Me and Columbo are having a good time up here.

But, then I remember the trip to Rome in 1996, my mother was pushing 67 (my age when I retire) and she was awesome. Running here and there, from the Coliseum, to the Catacombs along cobblestone streets and even chasing down the Pope in his Popemobile. I could do that, well maybe not chase down the Pope. I don’t have to resign myself to who knows how many years of Columbo reruns and self-pity parties. Come on, Donna. Dream better, dream wider, dream bigger.

My co-worker, who is a year older than I and wants to retire about the same time, was recently telling me about some trips he and his wife have booked. He even mentioned that they may plan a Christmas Markets trip to Europe. I googled the markets….oh my, cool weather, holiday lights, baked goods and hot chocolate smack dab in the middle of Europe. Europe, a place I’ve wanted to revisit when I’d have more time. Cathedrals, libraries, art museums…what’s not to love? Could I do that? That’s certainly new dream material, right?? Maybe my World Tour will take shape. After Europe, then Asia…Istanbul, the Holy Land, maybe India, Australia…my imagination can go wild.

There was a poem from one of my devotionals that was timely when I was just about to start working full time (about 12 years ago). I had to put my youngest into after school care and manage the after school activities of the other five kids who were still school age. I was terrified, but it was a great opportunity, and a stepping stone to providing for my family.

“Step out on the waves

that would crush you!

Step out in the storm

that would hush you!

And you will find,

As you touch the crest

You feared so much,

And walked on its breast,

There was One walking there,

The whole night through,

Walking, watching,

Waiting — FOR YOU!”

Dare I ride that wave again? Dare I dream of going to places I’ve wanted to see for decades? Dare I trust the Lord to guide continually, even in this endeavor, this new dream, this new goal?

What say you? (heehee a little LOTR reference) 🙂

So to be sure of what to desire in the future, I will cling to Psalm 37:4: “Delight yourself in the Lord; and He will give you the desires of your heart.” I will each day try my best to delight in Him, in prayer, in Bible reading and in trying to work out this faith in my daily life. As a co-worker, as a “mom/roommate”, as a woman stepping out onto another wave. The pastor in a recent sermon recounted a time where he called out to the Lord in prayer: “God, I want more of You. I don’t know what I’m looking for, I don’t know what I’m doing, I just need Your Presence here.” Although he recounts this as his point of conversion, I like the prayer as I enter a new season of my life. I want more of Him…I want to delight in Him…and then He will reveal to me the true desires of my heart. Amen.

Images generated in Canva AI. Canva AI is too much fun.

“Listen to A Picture”

I love photography. I love it when I get an image just right. A great photo or a painting or even a film can evoke beauty, inspiration or life changing actions. Even sculptures can tell a story. My favorite sculpture (which I’ve written about here) is Michelangelo’s Moses. In Bible College, the professor explained that the strength of the figure and the intensity of Moses’ gaze were because he was looking into the Promised Land into which he was not allowed to go. Now that’s a powerful image.

I can think of two images in particular that had great power; one, a horrifying photo of a mother weeping over the bodies of five of her children after they perished in a Turkish earthquake back in the ’80’s. I can’t even post it because it is so heartbreaking, even more so now that I’ve had children. This photo moved me tremendously and to understand that grief is universal, that everyday there is loss, death and calamity

The second image is the complete opposite.

It was 2017 after the Super Bowl. Of course, Tom Brady not only was in it, but the Patriots went on to win it. For Tom’s mom, it was the first game of the season she attended because she had been battling cancer all season. I looked all over the internet for the image, but it has been removed. It was in the throes of champion joy that Tom looks at his mom with his million dollar smile with great love and her face is full of so much pride, joy and love. It’s a beautiful photo and powerful image of love, resilience and joy.

Images impact emotions faster and can be more powerful than words. Henri Nouwen, when he visited a friend in France in 1983, first saw Rembrandt’s Prodigal Son. His friend asked him, “Do you like it?”

I kept staring at the poster and finally stuttered, “It’s beautiful, more than beautiful…it makes me want to cry and laugh at the same time…I can’t tell you what I feel as I look at it, but it touches me deeply.”

Henri Nouwen was so moved by the painting that he eventually went to St. Petersburg to see the original himself.

Rembrandt’s embrace remained imprinted on my soul far more profoundly than any temporary expression of emotional support. It had brought me into touch with something within me that lies far beyond the ups and downs of a busy life , something that represents the ongoing yearning of the human spirit, the yearning for a final return, an unambiguous sense of safety, a lasting home.

Nouwen went on the write his famous, The Return of the Prodigal Son, because of his encounter with a powerful image. Speaking of the Prodigal Son, the title of this blog is taken from one of my favorite sermons of Thru the Bible’s J. Vernon McGee. It too is titled Listen to A Picture. You can listen to it here.

This blog is about a recent “image” I saw. It wasn’t a photo, painting or sculpture, but it was a live illustration in a sermon. The sermon series at my church is covering the Sermon on the Mount. Last Sunday’s sermon was about the Lord’s Prayer, the “Our Father” as we called it growing up in the Catholic Church.

As the pastor gave his sermon, he did something so simple, so sublime, so unassuming…yet very, very powerful. As he was talking about “Our Father Who is in heaven”, he called his young daughter to the stage and she happily jumped into his arms. He paused and let that image sink into our minds and said, “This is what our relationship with the Father looks like.” He held her firmly with his arm and she beamed as she looked into his face. And he beamed right back into hers. The illustration lasted a few minutes, she beamed the whole time. She was in her daddy’s arms, safe, secure and loved. WOW!

Now, I know that God is my Father, intellectually, and I know I’ve been adopted into the family of God by receiving Christ into my life through faith…but as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, to those who believe in His name. I know that…but to see this powerful image of a loving father and happy child…sometimes that is not a reality in my walk with the Lord. I am fearful. I doubt. I do not trust the strong Arm that holds me. And I am certainly not always smiling. I’ve got some serious adjustments to make.

What does this image, this sermon illustration want us to hear? It wants us to hear, to know that we are beloved children of the Father, we are all kinda His favorites. That we have been legitimately adopted into His family through Christ, (that’s how great the Gospel is). And that there is nothing that can separate us from the love of God…

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Even the prodigal son was still a son in the pigpen.

I think an obstacle to returning to the strong arms of our Heavenly Father is our misunderstanding or misconception of what a father is. Some of us have had difficult relationships with our own dads, and there are residual wounds. Some of us have never been held like the pastor’s daughter was, securely and lovingly. It is foreign, even uncomfortable.

But…this is not without remedy. God really can heal those wounds and replace bitter experiences with new hope. I think as we, like the prodigal son, make our way back to the Father from whatever pigpen we’ve been in – fearfulness, anxiety, unbelief as well as a host of other sins – we will begin to bask in more of that Father’s love that was illustrated by the pastor and his daughter, and we will “rejoice in the Lord always: and again I say, rejoice” as Paul wrote from a Philippian prison.

Dyeing for an Irish Romance

“Be ready right at 6:30,” Katie grabbed her phone and replied to Eva’s text, “OK”. Katie untowelled her wet hair. Something caught her eye.

“Are you kidding me?” Katie wiped the condensation off the mirror and stared at her newly dyed hair. “No, this can’t be.” She looked at the hair dye box to see if it was “Dark Mahogany”. It was. She glared back at the mirror. “What the heck?” She dried her hair, and it was more brilliant auburn than when it was wet.

“Oh no, not tonight.” That red hair must’ve unearthed some determined indignation in her and she decided to make it right. She rolled up her long hair into a Giants baseball cap and headed out to the health food store.

“Can I help you?” the friendly clerk asked Katie. “Yes, I bought this henna yesterday. And it’s the wrong color. See on the box, it’s supposed to be Dark Mahogany. But it’s not…” The clerk interrupted her, “You need to go to the back counter and talk to the manager.”

“Thanks,” she replied. As she walked to the back of the store, she passed by the hair care section to retrieve a replacement box. She stared at the shelves, and of course there were no Dark Mahogany’s.

“Oh man…” she humphed.

At the back counter, she looked around for someone to help her. She noticed the small bell and gave it a good whack.

Out from the back office a man emerged whom Katie had never seen before. She was taken aback by his scruffy good looks, clear blue eyes and his more than adequate height. And on top of that, he greeted her with a lilting Irish brogue.

“Yes, love, what can I do for you?”

She bristled at the salutation. “I bought this Dark Mahogany henna yesterday and my hair has turned red. I’d like another one, please.”

“Of course, love. Let’s check the shelves and get you taken care of.” The manager motioned to go to the aisles.

Katie stopped him, “No, no, I already looked and there’s no Dark Mahogany.”

“Is there another color you’d prefer?” he asked politely.

“No, I want my Dark Mahogany. I’ve got an important party tonight; I need my regular color.” She insisted.

“Why not a nice auburn? That would bring out your lovely eyes.” He suggested.

Indignantly, she replied, “Auburn! You mean red, like this??” She flung off her baseball cap and her brilliant red tresses fell over her shoulders. He was stunned at her beauty.

“As you can see Mister….”

“Declan” he finished her sentence.

“As you can see, Mr. Declan…” He cut her off again. “No, no, my first name is Declan.”

“OK, Declan,” she became flustered, “what’s that Irish?”

“Ah, a smart lassie you are.” He grinned at her still enamored by her beauty.

“OK, Irish Declan…can you check the back for some Dark Mahogany, please?” Katie was flustered, exasperated and needed to get home.

“If you don’t mind me sayin’, that’s a lovely color on ya.”

“Thank you,” she sputtered nervously, “but I just need my regular color, please, I’m in a hurry.”

“Sure, love, I’ll check.” Declan retreated to the back of the store. Katie tried to compose herself. She found a mirror and touched up her face. The red was pretty, and it did bring out her green eyes. But there was no way she could go to the St. Patrick’s Day party looking like this.

Declan returned with a box of Dark Mahogany.

“Fuair mé é.” Declan exclaimed in Gaelic. Seeing Katie’s confused look, he translated, “I found it.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.”

“Not at all,” Declan smiled, and her knees went weak. “I like the red though, love.”

“Please don’t call me love.” Her cheeks burned redder than her hair.

Katie rushed home. In the bathroom, she looked at her hair, and it didn’t seem to repulse her anymore. She looked more like her mother with this shade. She remembered what Declan said about it too. Boy, what a handsome Irishman, she thought.

Again, the magic of the red hair worked on her and she decided to keep it red.

Katie was already to go when Eva rang the doorbell.

“What’ve you have done to your hair?” Eva exclaimed.

“I accidentally dyed it red… but I like it.”

“It looks good; by the way, Brian brought his cousin. I think you’ll like him.”

“Eva…come on, not again.” They went to the car, and Katie hopped in back.

“Ahhh, fancy meeting you here, and you with the red hair…” Declan’s warm blue eyes beamed as she scooted next to him.

“You’re the cousin?” Katie smiled blushingly. “Just my Irish luck.”

“Mine too,” Declan responded and grabbed her hand and kissed it.

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The Best Christmas Gift Ever

I’ve gotten wonderful gifts over the course of my life. The births of my ten children – my ten best days, my ten best gifts – Gifts from God. Then the grandkids…more best gifts, one coming a day before my birthday. A Christmas child in ’95 and a Christmas grandchild in ’23. (Second and third best Christmas gifts.) A bike one Christmas long ago when I was in third grade, my father and mother remembered. A vacuum…the first Christmas of my marriage (that’s what I wanted, it was awesome). A sculpture of a mama hare and her ten little bunnies…a wonderful gift from a true friend. All these and many more I am grateful for. However, the best Christmas Gift I received, the best Gift I received in my entire life was the One I received forty-five years ago less than ten days before Christmas 1979.

I was raised Catholic. I thought I was a pretty good Catholic, I loved the traditions and rituals of the Catholic Church. I learned basic theology in my CCD class at St. Eugene’s in Santa Rosa. Do unto to others as you would have them do unto you, don’t steal, don’t lie, be kind to animals…all from our little CCD study book which I still have. A good roadmap.

But there was something missing, I was still searching. Being raised Catholic did give me a good foundation for faith. I never not believed there was a God. I had no problem sitting at the cliffs near our Daly City house and imploring the Creator of the winds, the waves and the wonder of the ocean to reveal Himself to me perhaps like Bernadette or the children in Fatima or even Mary. But, alas, no. He revealed Himself in this way.

In 1978, I worked at a real estate office in Half Moon Bay during the Fall. It was wonderful, but lonely. Interest rates in ’78 were climbing toward 20%, subsequently, there were very few sales. The phone rang maybe twice a day. But my boss, Dick Stahl, an old friend of my dad’s, wanted me there and paid me to man the phones. So during the long hours between calls I read the Lord of the Rings and other books, but I mainly read the Bible, especially the Book of Revelation. I didn’t understand it at all. But I read it, I knew it was an important book. And those hours of reading whetted my appetite for more.

Fast forward through 1979, partying was getting wearisome, I had no real direction in my life and I was not making good decisions. I knew I needed to get it together, but how? Late that year, my best friend started going to this little church that met at the YMCA in Stonestown. She asked me to come along. Another true friend. I’m so glad I did.

I went to the service and enjoyed it. At the end, an invitation to faith was given. I remember clearly, Eric Sorenson had preached and was giving the invitation. He said, “If you wanted Christ in your life, raise your hand and we’ll pray for you.” I’m sure he quoted Revelation 3:20, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat, and he with me.” I struggled for what seemed like a long time…I had faith, I believed, I always believed. But had I invited Christ into my heart? No, I never had. Do I need to do this? Yes, I do need to do this, I want to do this. So I raised my hand up high, and asked kinda loudly, “Pray for me.” Startled Eric looked at me, but then nodded. I wasn’t supposed to say “Pray for me”. Oh well, here I am, forty-five years later, still raising my hand in different ways, “Pray for me.” The only consistent thing in my life. My best decision.

What brought me to that decision? It wasn’t the love of God, it wasn’t the superior teaching or even the rich history of the Church (albeit marred a bit)…it was that Jesus is the Truth. I was seeking for truth, the Truth. And He said in John 14:6, “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, no one comes to the Father except through Me.” That is why I came to Christ. And His love was a Blessed By-Product which took a long time for me to understand and accept. I am still learning to this day what it means to be loved unconditionally.

My conversion took place during the tail end of the Jesus Revolution. The main verse at that time wasn’t so much John 3:16, but John 3:3, “Jesus responded and said to him (to Nicodemus), ‘Truly, truly, I say to you, unless someone is born again he cannot see the kingdom of God.’” I was born again on December 16, 1979, my spiritual birthday, and for the past forty-five years, I have strove to follow Him. I have not always done so. But He continues to forgive me, stand me up, dust me off and straighten me out. He has been a faithful Friend, a patient Savior and a compassionate Father. He is the Gift that keeps giving. And on top of all of the benefits following Christ renders in this life, true joy, true peace, true love, there is also eternal life with Him. Amen.

So, dear reader, maybe you believe, but haven’t made that jump, opened that door or decided to give your life to Christ. Maybe you thought He was there all along, but aren’t sure, like me. Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 6:1, “Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.”, if you want Christ in your life…raise your hand and receive the Best Christmas Gift Ever and “…be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to obtain an inheritance which is imperishable, undefiled, and will not fade away, reserved in heaven for you…” (1 Peter 1:3, 4).

Merry, Merry Christmas!

“But as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, to those who believe in His name: who were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.” John 1:12,13

Pittsburg’s Small, But Mighty Bufano Bear Story

Many of us appreciate famous works of art like Michelangelo’s David, Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa or even famous local works like Rodin’s The Thinker at the Legion of Honor in San Francisco. But I bet many do not realize that Contra Costa County’s little Delta City of Pittsburg, the “New York of the Pacific” way back in the day, is home to one of famed sculptor Beniamino Bufano’s pieces. According to his Wikipedia article, Beniamino Bufano is “best known for his large-scale monuments representing peace and his modernist work often featuring smoothly rounded animals and relatively simple shapes.” Mr. Bufano was an internationally known sculptor who was based in San Francisco from the early part of the 20th century until his death in 1970. Many of his sculptures can be seen in and around San Francisco. One of his most famous pieces was the Peace Statue at SFO which was moved to Brotherhood Way around 1997. A beautiful sculpture of St. Francis of Assisi, which he sculpted, serves as his grave marker at the Holy Cross Cemetery in Colma, CA.

This is Pittsburg’s Bufano Bear story.

Sixty-four years ago next month on November 3, 1960, the students at Heights Elementary School in Pittsburg, along with local community members and dignitaries which included then Governor Edmund G. Brown, unveiled one of Beniamino Bufano’s sculpted bears. The story goes that on a spontaneous student field trip to the artist’s studio in San Francisco, and when the bus was pulling away after the Heights Fifth Grade Class visit, plucky ten year old Billy McKee hollered at Mr. Bufano, “Can we have a bear like that for our school?” To which, the humble sculptor replied, “Why not!”

And as the Saturday Evening Post’s article of January 21, 1961 reported, that set in motion a mighty community effort to raise the funds for the materials and the transport of the Bear from Bufano’s studio to Heights Elementary School in Pittsburg. Mr. Bufano donated his labor. The class even buried a time capsule underneath the sculpture.

Vince Ferrante from the Pittsburg Historical Society thought it would be nice to have a plaque commemorating not only the wonderful Bear that sits adjacent to the new Heights campus, but also to underscore what a community can do, even a small community like Pittsburg, California.

So, on September 30, 2024, in the presence of about a dozen 1960 fifth graders and about 100 current Heights ES fifth graders, the Bufano Bear plaque was unveiled. On the plaque is the full Saturday Evening Post article. A few of the members of the 1960 fifth grade class shared their memories of the field trip and even Mike Partain, who did the honors of unveiling the Bear in 1960 (with a parachute, no less), was on hand to unveil the plaque. Today’s fifth graders were captivated by eyewitness accounts of how Heights acquired this famed sculpture. Pittsburg continues to be a small, but mighty community doing many good works. The present day fifth graders were encouraged to continue the Pittsburg tradition of doing great things with little resources and big hearts.

Members of the 1960 Heights Fifth Grade Class

Plaque Unveiling

Pittsburg’s Small, but Mighty Bufano Bear Story

“And Mom and Dad Were Still Here…”

I was cleaning over the weekend, and what inevitably happens, happened. I found an old camera. I fired it up and checked out the old pics that were in it, some from last year and some even further back. I found this one. I knew I didn’t take it, but thought maybe Eugene did. I posted it on the Russian River Memories Facebook page where my brother, Mike, remembered the photo and took the credit. A beautiful picture, a beautiful memory from late August 2017. My brother commented, “August 24, 2017, before the fire…and Mom and Dad were still here.” That was all it took for the wave to hit.

“Try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh, so mellow
Try to remember the kind of September
When grass was green and grain was yellow…“

Ahhh, September…a time to remember. And, boy, this photo and that comment had me hurling back like in a time machine movie to a time when my parents were alive. Hurling back to the last licks of summer at the river – splashing, swimming or sitting in the sun – either when I was a kid or when I had kids, “…and Mom and Dad were still here.” The two people who walked the farthest with me on this earthly journey. (Mary might beat them though.) I miss them. I even miss my dad…as curmudgeonly as he was. I certainly miss him during football season.

Ironically, as I was recently watching videos of the tragedy of September 11th, I was telling one of my daughters about it. Then I realized, she hadn’t even been born yet. And the others were so young. Between the two instances, the above photo with my brother’s heart-wrenching comment and the conversation about 9/11, I felt like I was on this cosmic boundary (kinda like Janus) remembering people who are no longer here, and realizing the people I live with were not alive just 23 years ago. Am I making sense?

In 2017, when the photo was taken, my parents were “still here” and all my children had been born as well as three of my grand-kids. There are three more grand-kids who didn’t get to meet them. New people. New personalities. Descendants.

I am an autumn person, and reminiscing and remembering, (while listening to sad folks songs) is my cup of tea, I excel at it. I could get lost in the memories. Childhood, teenage years, young adulthood and the long journey of marriage and child rearing…all of which are in the rear view mirror now. Yikes! What a long, strange trip it’s been!

Now all these new people…little people, rough and tumble and rambunctious little boys and cute and coy and captivating little girls. Boy, how did I manage to raise ten??

As much as I long to linger in the past and remember when “Mom and Dad were still here”, I need to look forward and dive into the future positively, even eagerly, for these fun little people that the Lord has put in my life. And there may be more…LOL.

So how do I turn this around? How do I use autumn and this chronic habit of nostalgia as a fertile soil for future memories with these new little people and even with my own adult kids? How do I wrench my backward looking gaze to a future looking vision?

It’s a little scary to look forward now because those days are numbered, and I’m far enough through the tunnel to begin to see some light. And I am tempted to despair or be fearful about that…but I remember something, or Someone else. Someone who traveled with me even when I was “being knit in my mother’s womb.” Who continues to travel with me, and Who I will be with in eternity. “In my Father’s house, there are many abiding places…” John 14:2.

I think being nostalgic is safe for me. I’m safe in those memories because I lived them and survived them. If I look forward, especially now that my kids are grown and my parents are gone, there are no road markers. I’m in uncharted territory. Unmoored, untethered and unseen. But again…Isaiah writes, “I will lead the blind on a way they do not know; by paths they do not know I will guide them. I will turn darkness into light before them, and make crooked ways straight. These are my promises: I made them, I will not forsake them.”

My immediate and eternal future is safe in His hands, He will guide me. He promised! And I pray He will help me knit myself into the lives of those little people and those ones who used to be little while “I am still here.” And perhaps, I can knit some of my love of the Savior into all of their lives as well.

Summer’s Golden Hour

Cherie wandered out onto the porch of her family’s river cabin. She spied what looked like a great sunset.

“Mom, I’m gonna take a canoe ride, it’s golden hour.” Cherie hollered. “OK.” Her mom answered from inside.

She grabbed her camera and ran down to the pier. She slid the canoe into the water and gently got in, carefully putting her camera strap around her neck. She pushed away and headed down river. Evening had set in. The river was still, mirroring the tall redwoods which stood poised on the banks like attentive soldiers. The sun began to dip into the western sky as Cherie quietly paddled and spied the banks for birds and wildlife.

“Cherie!” a voice called out. Surprised, she turned to the voice, but couldn’t see who it was because of the sun’s glare. After she shaded her brow, she saw him on the pier. Chris Thomas! She hadn’t seen him in years and, then suddenly, she felt like a gangly, shy fourteen-year-old girl again.

“Chris, is that you?” she squinted.

“Yeah, are you going downriver?” he asked.

“Just a bit…why?”

“My boat ran out of gas…and I could use a lift?”

“Sure,” she blushed. Chris was her brother Billy’s friend who she pined over most of her high school summers. Ten years had gone by, and she still hadn’t met anyone like him.

She maneuvered the canoe to the pier and grabbed the gas can from his hand. Chris climbed in, “Thank you so much. I’m so glad I didn’t have to walk.”

“No problem.” After Chris pushed the canoe away, she tapped his shoulder with the wet oar and eyeballed the other oar. “You can help paddle.” He turned around, chuckled, and grabbed the oar. She watched him paddle from the back seat and all her adolescent emotions throbbed. Breathe, Cherie, breathe, she said to herself.

“How have you been?” Chris asked. “Billy said you finished your Master’s.”

“I did – it was a long haul and I’m happy to be done with it,” she answered.

“I’m very impressed!” He threw a smile over his shoulder.

“So…when did you get back in the country? You were in Europe, right?”

“I’ve been back for a while,” Chris spotted movement on the bank, “Hey, there’s a heron, did you want to get a shot?” He slowed the canoe while Cherie took pictures.

“This is the best time on the river.” Cherie mused. “After the summer crowds are gone, it’s so still and quiet, my favorite time.”

“Mine too.” He turned around and noticed how attractive she was.

The golden rays bathed the banks of the river as they canoed. Sparse cackles from various birds and gentle swishing of tree leaves provided a perfect summer soundtrack. “Hey, I read some of your articles, they’re good, and your photos are wonderful. I love your bird pics. What an interesting life you have!” Cherie admired.

“It’s fun, but there are more important things in life. Now, Billy has a great life, he met a nice woman and has beautiful, funny kids.” Chris continued paddling.

“You’re right, he does.” They canoed in silence, and Cherie caught sight of his boat and slid the canoe ashore. Chris got out of the canoe and Cherie handed him the gas can.

“You want me to wait around?” she offered.

“No, I think I’ll be OK.” Chris said, then something caught his eye.

“Gimme your camera,” he ordered quietly. She was confused but took it off her neck and handed it to him.

“Cherie…look at me.” He focused and took a shot. “Smile…” She smiled shyly. He took another one. He handed her the camera and said, “Take a look.” She looked at the picture, looked at him in astonishment and turned around.

The last full summer moon had risen right over the peaks of the redwood soldiers. If that wasn’t wonderful enough, the moon stood as a backdrop as a single swan perched on an old river log. The last golden rays highlighted the swan like a theater spotlight.

“Oh, wow…thank you! That is so cool,” she said breathlessly. She turned and took more photos.

Chris watched her in admiration. “Hey, I appreciate your help. I was just gonna go back to the cabin and cook some pizza. Wanna join me?”

“Uhm…sure, OK,” she answered nervously.

“We could talk more about photography and birds.” And in a French accent, he said, “See you in 30 minutes, Chéri?”

“OK, it’s a date…uhm, no, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant, yes, I’ll be there.”

“It could be a date.” He grinned and winked.

The boat’s small engine started with a purr, and he pulled the boat from the beach. “Go ahead, I’ll follow you home.” And they headed slowly upriver together.