Tonight I feel like the salami in the Sandwich Generation. I have been sliced about as thinly as I can take. I am a Presbyterian minister. I have listened to a long string of folks vent about getting caught up in family crud. I admit I have not felt enough empathy when they complained about how twisted their relations can behave under family stress. Now it's my turn. Whee.
On a brighter note my father-in-law sent us a new poem. He writes free verse. Always the traditionalist, my idea of good poetry involves quaint notions like rhyming. Oh, and an actual theme. But Jerry's work squirms its way past my defenses. I like it. He makes me think. He uses far fewer words than I do. (Our son Dan does the same with his poetry, though sometimes his work is too deep for my tired brain.)
Jerry's new poem consists of advice from a grizzled veteran of life. He pulls no punches. One line says something like, "Work on your faith or quit pretending." But he also keeps his sense of humor. I know of very few men his age who can get away with references to, ah, achieving intimacy with their wives with such believability. But I believe him. I would believe him even if I weren't hoping for an inheritance.
I really needed a boost from my family. Thank you, Jerry. Thank you for these 35 years(!) of loving me--and many others--in your deep, quirky, utterly reliable and believable way. Men like you show me the way.
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