Rose

This morning I was sitting out on my little side porch reading poetry. It's a gorgeous day, except for the pollen that is viciously attacking my vulnerable sinuses. Anyway, I saw the woman walking across the street. I've seen her many times, always walking to the store and back. Or sometimes just walking. Her hair looks like she just got out of bed, just wild, going in all directions. She walks a little humped over, and she always wears mismatched clothes. Today she wore a black and red sweater with bright purple pants. Her breasts swing freely under her clothes, clearly unbridled. Her face is very wrinkled, her chin jutting out as if taking the lead. She always walks alone. I saw her at the 4th of July parade, just walking on the outer edges of the crowd, as if invisible, unseen by the people lining the road.

Today she saw me on the porch and crossed over to my side of the street. And kept coming. "Hey!" she said with bunched lips, behind which were few if any teeth.

We got to talking.

Her name is Rose. She has seven children, and none of them talk to her, though they all live in Nebraska. Her husband died a long time ago, but if he'd lived, they'd have been married for 40 years. He "beat on her alot," so it was a good thing he was dead. She lived in the white house with the green trim, just a few doors down from the corner, I could see it from where I sat. Pays $400 a month.

Larry walked by, in the midst of hauling garden remains to the dump. She nodded. "I bet he gives you a lot of grief, huh?"

I laughed. "Maybe a little, not much," I said, "he's a good guy." She looked at me as if she didn't believe me. I suspect she figured all men "beat on" their wives.

She asked me where I was from, and I told her, New Jersey. "Hmmm..." she said. "Jersey." She said, "yeah, New Jersey really just is a continued state off of New York, that if you look at the New Jersey shoreline at night, it runs right into New York, and it all looks just like one place."

"You've been to New Jersey?" I said, just a little bit -- ok, a LOT-- surprised.

"Oh sure, I went there a lot when I was truckin'..." she said, matter of factly.

"You were a trucker..." I said, chuckling.

She proceeded to tell me that she was a trucker for many years, kept a Colt 45 in the glove compartment of her rig but never had to use it. She told me about the time a "cowboy" tried to treat her "like a whore," so she "beat the crap out of him." It was in a bar where he approached her and she kicked him "between the legs, hit him in the stomach, and got him in the face" a few times.

"I said to him, I said, 'you ain't gonna treat me like no whore, you
mother-f@#%*r!' and I let him have it, the whole bar was laughing," she said, chuckling herself.

She asked me what I was reading, which happened to be a book of poems by Garrison Keillor, and she said, "oh, I like that Lake Wobegon, that's good." I agreed.

I kept looking at her. She had a hooked nose and a pointed chin that had a few stray gray hairs sticking out from it randomly. Her eyes were a cloudy blue, set back amidst a complicated design of wrinkles. She said she walked a lot, especially when it was so nice out. She sneezed, always turning away, because she said, "I don't wanna sneeze on you, that would be very rude." I appreciated it.

"Well, I gotta go do some housework, I 'spose," she said and started walking away, still talking without looking back, "I'll talk to you later!"

I watched her hunched-over back and her eye-catching purple pants as she limped away across my overgrown grass. Her name is Rose. Now she has a face and a name. And a story. She was about 5'5", but I could imagine her "beating on" that cowboy in a bar. She wasn't someone to be messed with. And she was living now about three doors down from my porch.

What a wild world.

Why I Get Up In the Morning

I remember many times in my life where I lost hope. They are never far from my memory. But I believe that it is those times that feed my faith. Can we know what hope is if we've never known hopelessness? I don't think so.

Of course, when my life was immersed in the Church, my definition of faith was that of the institution. Faith is trust in Christ, in God. Faith is belief in Christ as the Son of God. Faith was the belief that God made the Church to be a vehicle of that faith. A messenger, a container. But in the last couple of years, I have lost faith in the Church. I think that's a good thing; I wasn't meant to have faith in the Church, the Church is/was only a means of faith, not the thing to have faith in. Maybe I needed to learn that. Losing faith in the Church, having been painfully disillusioned and having experienced a sense of betrayal at the hands of the Church just about knocked me out. What is faith without the Church? Is there such a thing?

For me, the answer is yes. Everything that supported and held my faith together was blown apart this past year. I had to sit in the rubble for awhile. I see now, that even in the midst of that, I had faith. Faith that it would and could only get better! Faith that there was something more out there for me. Faith that God --whoever He/She/It is-- had not abandoned me, and that God is not the Church, nor is God any human being that claimed authority over me. The Bishop, I believe, had come to believe that she is God in my life and in the life of pastors "beneath her." That I could not accept. No human being is God. When one believes that they are, all hell breaks loose.

I have faith that is changing shape, changing "containers." I have faith that when I pray, Someone is listening. I have faith that the world is not supposed to be the way it is now, and that human beings are given a part to play in making it better. I have faith that Love is the Answer and that Hate Destroys. I have faith that God has plans for the future of this earth and of its inhabitants, and it is a future of redemption, transformation, and resurrection. I have faith that God has given me gifts to share. That's what got me out of the rubble of despair. I believed that the end of my relationship to the Church was not the end of me or of my relationship with God. My faith has grown deeper in the last few months, because I couldn't hide behind the printed word or a creed or a denominational book of laws. I had to figure out what gives me life. What gives me hope. Why do I get up in the morning? I've been to that place many times when I didn't see any good reason to get out of bed. So I didn't. But I've made it past that time. I now have a reason to get up in the morning. That reason is that I've been put here to love, to give hope to others when I can, to offer grace in a graceless world, to use my gifts to be a presence to others, an image of the Christ of love.

I have faith that this is not all there is. If it is, I'd go back to bed!! I have faith that God has more grace than we ever will. I have faith that there is another reality, just a breath away from this one, that is eternal and good and is Life. That vision keeps me going, keeps me hoping, keeps me breathing.

I have faith that my life has meaning, and that the lives around me do too. So I look deep, and I try to connect with others who see something deeper and more beautiful than what is most obvious. We are eternal beings. Someone said we are spiritual beings having a human experience. I believe that.

And so I can go on.

Bumpy Road Ahead

I'm reading a book about being a "highly sensitive person" in this world. We kind of joke about it around here, "oh, it's because you're a 'highly sensitive person,' my husband will say when I get overdramatically upset about something inconsequential. I joke about it because it's true. Being a sensitive person, highly or not, can be hell in this world. I learned it can be the death of you in the Church-- I wish someone had told me this-- but perhaps I did what I was supposed to do for a time, and then got out to save my soul.

It's a dangerous world for people with passion and heart. Maybe that's why I love Elvis so much, and others like him who got eaten alive by the world. I've often felt like I found myself in someone's jaws just in time to get the hell out of there. When I gave birth to my daughter, I had this overwhelming sense then and ever since, that my heart was now outside of me, vulnerable to the world. It gets worse as she grows up, learns to drive and has a life away from me. Thank God she hasn't fallen in love yet! That could be the death of me! I "fell in love" for the first time at 15, and whereas now I see it as the first taste of the delicious feeling of loving and being giddy in love, at the time I felt like my heart was run over by a semi. The thought of watching my daughter get her heart broken for the first time sometimes terrifies me. Hopefully someone will remind me at that time that I survived my first broken heart and a few others and lived to tell about it.

Sometimes, when I've gotten hurt, I've said that I felt like I was walking around with several open cuts in a world full of rubbing alcohol. It's a tough world for us sensitive types. Others say sensitivity is a gift, but it's a gift with a price. I'm better at what I do: writing, caring for the hurting and the dying, comforting the bereaved, even preaching when I did it-- precisely because I am sensitive. But it also opens me up to severe pain and hemorraging. People can be rough, even mean. Meanness is not just for elementary or high school anymore. It's everywhere. That whole bit about playing nice, sharing, hold hands when you cross the street, and stick up for the underdog were lessons for little kids. Us grown-ups have a hard time listening to those lessons anymore, it's for kids. Just like "Love one another," "Treat each other like you'd like to be treated," and all that mamby pampy stuff Jesus talks about; we just don't take that seriously anymore. It's good Sunday School stuff, but it doesn't work for Board meetings or for Monday morning at the office.

But I can't help it, there's something in me that still holds out for love and kindness, even though I know I'm setting myself up for pain. I grew up with Jesus, and so I still think he wanted us to listen to what he said about how to live and act. He did mention, of course, that it would be dangerous, and he didn't shelter us from the fact that that kind of teaching and living got him killed, and would again if he were here in person. But I can't change the fact that I and my daughter are "highly sensitive people" and therefore we'll get creamed a time or two along the way. But I also know that in the midst of the danger, I catch glimpses of heaven on earth. My heart is stirred when it deeply connects to another human being, even though it opens me up to getting hurt again. It's what makes life worth living, this love stuff. Giving. Reaching out. Telling someone who doesn't know it that they're beautiful. Sure, there's the risk that they'll think you're nuts or "gay" or liberal or some other inflammatory term, but there's also the risk that you'll catch a glimpse of heaven on earth or make a friend that will love you well into eternity.

You never know. But proceed with caution.

Road Trip

I just got back from a two-week road trip with Larry and Sarah. Sarah is one of those odd teenagers that still enjoys hanging out with her parents, and even spending 24/7 for two weeks on the road! I am grateful. It doesn't matter where we went, because we have the most fun just getting there.

If you must know, we went to Pennsylvania, to "Happy Valley," as it is known to Penn State fans, to see Larry's side of the family, and to eat at all our favorite places near where we used to live at the beginning of the new millenium. It doesn't take much to entertain us! On the road, we have time to talk. Sarah and I read voraciously while Larry enjoys driving and thinking. We sing along to the radio. We eat at restaurants we don't have in Nebraska, and stay at hotels with swimming pools and hot tubs. We simply enjoy being together, with endless uninterrupted time to talk, laugh, and create memories and private jokes.

We went to a minor league baseball game in Moosic, PA, where the Red Barons used to play, and now the farm team to the Yankees play. We ate stadium hot dogs despite the recent study on the news about how unsafe stadium food often is. We stood and sang "Take Me Out to The BallGame" when they told us to, watched grown men and women do silly antics on the field, and little children compete in strange competitions to win a T-shirt. We ducked when fly balls went foul and gasped when one of those balls hit a fan in the side of the head (he was ok). We laughed at a big blue furry mascot with yellow horns on his head as he led cheers for the Yankees. We brought along Bill, an old friend of Larry's from his church there, who doesn't get out much anymore, but loves a good baseball game. Bill always thought of Sarah as his "little buddy," even though she's not so little anymore. Bill heard that Sarah is crazy about Elvis so he told his daughter who went digging through her closet and found three original tin movie posters of Elvis, and gave them to Sarah as a gift. Bill could not know what a precious gift that was, or how it made Sarah's whole vacation to receive it.

We also attended the one-day-only nationwide showing of "Elvis On Tour," in celebration of 75 years since Elvis' birth. We were crammed into the theatre with a full house of middle aged and elderly fans, some sporting Elvis T-shirts, who knew all the words to all the songs. We clapped at the end, and no one laughed when someone was heard to say, "We love you, Elvis," because we all felt the same way. That's why we were there.

We took our granddaughter Mackenzie to HersheyPark, and rode the ride through Chocolate World and listened to the whole schpiel of how they make chocolate as if we hadn't heard it many times before. We hugged chocolate bars that roamed the park, and Sarah and I rode rides that turned us upside down, right and left, and upside down again. My step-daughter Jennifer and her boyfriend Mark took me on a ride that shot out of the gate going 0-75 in 3 seconds and then proceeded to tumble us, spin us, and roll us all over. I laughed. And laughed! Like someone was tickling me and wouldn't stop!

We stayed in Larry's hometown of Lewistown and discovered that you really can't go home again. That things change, not always for the better, and it's hard to see something and some people that you love not live up to its potential. Sometimes it's best to just remember how it was and move on.

We ate at DaVinci's Pizza, which is now across the road from where it used to be but still has the best Italian food. Every chance we could we drank coffee and ate donuts at Dunkin' Donuts because Nebraska does NOT run on Dunkin' and sometimes we wish it did. We went back to Mountaintop which was a hard place for us, and went to the Dunkin' Donuts there where we often drowned our sorrows in coffee and Coolattas. We remembered the people we fell in love with there, in the midst of painful times, and remembered again that nothing is all good or all bad. We drove through Lake Winola, my favorite place in PA, a place on the side of a mountain, a place that gave me hope and healing during a tough time of my life. The people there have a very special place in my heart for reasons I can't really put into words. You know how you go through something hard or wonderful or profound with someone and those experiences bind you? That's how it is. We had many of those experiences together, not least of which was 9/11. We cried together, we prayed together, we tried new things together, and we celebrated together. Those four years were the most memorable and gracious of my ministry.

We went to the Falls Church and ignored the "No Trespassing" signs and climbed through the trees and over the rocks and fallen trees to find the Buttermilk Falls. It was a hidden gift. A place of peace and solitude. A place of incredible beauty. Hidden in the trees.

When we turned our car West again, we were all ready to come home. It was good to get away, to get a break from work, but we all agreed, finally, that there really is no place like home. And particularly no place like Nebraska. We all ached to be back in the flatland, to see the corn, the wide open sky, flat, straight roads, and to wave to strangers on the way. Being on the road gives you time to get perspective on your life. The stuff that stressed us out before seemed so silly suddenly. As we talked about our lives to others faraway, we realized just how much we love our lives, our jobs, our little family and home. And we are grateful. We couldn't wait to get back! To hug our friends, to go back to work with our awesome co-workers, to sleep in our wonderful little home that belongs to us. To harvest our little garden, can the produce, and even mow the lawn. Simple pleasures that make our lives so precious....

There's no place like home.

In the Beginning

When I was halfway through my seminary education, I had to find a ministry placement, a kind of internship, to work in while I continued in my classes. The most logical option at the time was to be appointed to a student position to fulfill that requirement. So in June of 1991, I was appointed by Larry's District Superintendent to serve as an associate to a four-point charge. They were four small churches within commutable distance of our home in Ceresco, NE, where Larry was then serving. Since I was in class in Kansas City all week, I was basically supposed to preach in two of the churches each Sunday, alternating with the other pastor. The other pastor's name was Doug, and he was a first-time pastor, serving the churches there full-time. He didn't go to seminary, but had a college education and had gone through the one week of Licensing School in Nebraska.

Doug and I got along ok at the beginning. We didn't have to interact with each other much, since we preached in different churches every week, and I was in school during the week. I knew he was much more conservative than me, but again, that didn't affect me. I knew also that as a pastor that would begin the Course of Study route of education for ministry and become a Local Pastor and not seek ordination, he didn't think a seminary education was necessary.

I enjoyed preaching at the little churches on the weekends, seeing my name on the church boards out front as one of the pastors for the first time. I have pictures of all four of those church boards with me standing proudly nearby. All four churches were in little towns, some of which required travel on gravel roads, which was new to me, being from New Jersey. The little church in Denton, NE was a beautiful little white church, beautifully maintained by a huge endowment fund. Traveling on the gravel road to get there, I swerved to miss snakes and turtles every time, as they basked in the hot Nebraska sun-- right in my way. Another church was in the town of Pleasant Dale, which I thought was a wonderful name for a time. And it was pleasant. A sweet little town with many trees and a small neighborhood for kids to ride bikes safely and adults to go for a walk at night. Malcolm was a small town that was known to have a bar that served the best steak. The church itself was on top of a steep hill, with steps leading up that steep hill-- a challenge for myself to climb, much less the elderly membership of the church. There was on and off campaigns in the history of the church to build a new church, one that was handicap and elder-accessible, but the ones who were members forvever did not want to give on the old building. Even if their health or age prohibited them from attending the church as it was. Change never comes easy in the church world.... no matter how necessary.

The fourth church was in Raymond, another tiny town that was near a beautiful state park. We got our bait in the town of Raymond to attempt an afternoon of fishing.

The people responded well to me, my preaching, and my leading of worship. They helped me gain confidence in my gifts for ministry. The summer went smoothly, I was able to attend meetings on weeknights since I was out of school for summer break. I was able to attend other church functions that met during the week. When September came and I had to go back to school, that's when the tension started. Doug didn't think it was fair that I got paid for just showing up on Sundays and preaching. He tried to insist that I add to the list of responsibilities already agreed upon by the District Superintendent. But it was drilled in me that school came first, and most weekends I was deep in the books, writing papers, or studying for tests. One Sunday Doug's wife and kids showed up at one of my services. I felt I was being "checked out." Apparently some parishioners had told Doug that I was a good preacher, I know one older man suggested Doug might learn something from me. That is never good.

Doug's kids really liked my sermon and children's sermon and told me so after church. One weekend soon after, we had to meet with the Pastor-Parish Relations Committee to decide salaries, which meant basically they decided whether to give the pastors raises or not. I was sent out of the room for their discussion of me, but the walls were thin and I didn't trust Doug. And for good reason. I overheard him trying to convince them that I did not do my job and that he wanted them to cut my already meager student pastor salary and give what they cut to him on top of what he made. They considered it. They brought me back in to discuss it to see if there was more I could do for them to earn what they'd already agreed to give me.

I called the District Superintendent and asked to meet with him. I told him what happened. He did nothing. I called him again when they agreed to cut my salary and give it to Doug. The District Superintendent said he'd look into it, and did not. I'd heard that Doug was bad-mouthing me to parishioners behind my back, trying to lessen my credibility. I called the District Superintendent for help, he said he'd talk to Doug. He did not. I was stressed out. I could not get my D.S. to listen, much less be the advocate that he was supposed to be. It was hurting my grades as the stress interfered with my studies.

I called a special Staff-Parish Relations Committee meeting, as pastors are allowed to do, and I asked the D.S. to come. I'd written a letter to the committee that I read out loud in their presence, stating the events that had happened, my efforts to resolve it, and the lack of response. Therefore, I stated, I was leaving the position, effective immediately.

My D.S. was furious. I expected that. I called him on what he'd done, or rather, didn't do. He insisted I leave immediately, which I did. I was a nervous wreck. I had just moved halfway across the country months before to attend seminary in Kansas City, I'd gotten married in June, and was in my second semester of a new seminary with completely different expectations than my first one. Larry was with me, as he didn't want me to face the Big Man alone, and he took me for a drive. When we got home, there was furious message from the DS, demanding a meeting the next day. At that meeting, he gave me a dressing down, told me I'd had no right to do that. I made him look bad. I told him I couldn't get him to listen or address the problem, he'd ignored all my pleas for help. He was red in the face. He threatened me that this would reflect badly on me on future appointments. We were dismissed.

That was my first experience of the United Methodist appointive system.

I decided not to ask for another appointment while I was in seminary, I needed to focus on school. I'd gone through enough stress to get to Kansas City, to attend a school that I believed would better prepare me for local church ministry. I didn't need the added stress. A pastor from a large church in Lincoln who had been assigned to be my mentor, called me to meet. Being a woman, I hoped she'd be helpful. She, too, scolded me and defended the District Superintendent's actions and reminded me that if I was seeking eventual ordination, I would have to obey the System. What I heard was, "...no matter what." I understood early on that you don't question the System without a good slap in the face.

For my internship, Larry presented the idea to his own church board to hire me as an intern. There I preached once a month, helped start a Young Adult Group, start a Church Choir, and assist Larry with worship every week. I did that for two years, and we had a good time. I learned a lot. We started a Church Choir and it brought out gifts in me that I didn't know I had. We got a Young Adult Group started, did melodramas, got Gene Lowry to come and do a concert, and did a lot of creative things in worship. It was a good decision that resulted in good ministry for the church, and a time of healing for me. Ceresco (and Valparaiso) was good to us. They loved us as a newlywed couple, gave us a home, appreciated our gifts and were very kind to us. We had a good time, and I hated to leave when I graduated, which necessitated a move for both of us. They will always hold a special place in my heart....

There Are Days

there are days

i'm walking on flower petals

gentle underneath my toes

and uncrushed



fragrance of tulips, lilacs

colors of rainbows

so vivid

my eyes are moist

and anything

anything is possible



there are days

my skin tingles

with anticipation

and beauty radiates

in the eyes of another

and they don't even realize it



it's as if

all the filters are removed

from my senses

and the holy

permeates everything



and I giggle

because no one else

seems to know

and i've been privy

to a miraculous secret

while others go on

cursing at burnt toast

traffic jams

or kids throwing hissy fits in Wal-Mart

Rollo

I never quite know how to shop for cards for Father's Day. My father tends to be in a category all his own. He doesn't fish, he doesn't like sports, he wasn't the kind to bounce us on his knee or teach us how to ride a bike. He lectured me on Freud, Rogers, Maslow and May growing up. I knew about the Trauma of Birth and Penis Envy before I knew about the Revolutionary War or the Ten Commandments. Mine was a bit of a strange childhood.

Rollo was born and raised in a small town near Bombay (what is now Mumbai) India. He was a British subject in what was then a British-occupied country. He grew up with mango trees outside his window and servants that attended to his every need. He was the youngest of children, several of whom died in early childhood. His own father died when he was 14. I know very little about him or my grandmother, who stayed in India till she died in her late 80s. I never met her. I don't know much about my father's childhood-- he never spoke of it much. I knew he was anxious to leave India, especially when India gained her independence from Britain. He came to the United States in 1949, sponsored by a U.S. missionary from Kentucky, a Mr. Skelton. Rollo came to Asbury College in Louisville, KY, where my mother says he was ushered in ahead of the line like some British royalty. However, her disgust did not last long, and they fell in love.

Dad was never the Michael Landon type of father. Of course, where he came from, female prodigy were often quietly disposed of, so I cut him some slack. He read a lot of books, mostly on psychology and theology, and he liked to lecture on what he'd read. When I was in college, my friends were fascinated by him. They literally would sit at his feet while he spoke and ask him all kinds of questions. He'd start philosophical conversations at the dinner table, sometimes frightening my brothers' girlfriends, and I knew never to bring home a boy to dinner. Actually, dating was difficult for me, as my father would psychoanalyze each prospect that came into my life, and had them summed up and rejected before they would have taken their first bite.

In the mornings, after asking us questions that were too intense or deep for our brains to compute at such an early hour, he'd go to the door, pause with the doorknob in his hand and say with great drama, "I go to prove my soul." I think he felt a great responsibility each day to do something magnanimous, and it was a great burden.

I remember on Saturdays we'd never take any trips too far from home because my father had to mentally and emotionally prepare for Sunday. It was an all-day endeavor, and to be away from home would have thrown him off. He sat at his desk in his bedroom, gesturing, whispering, preparing the great drama that would unfold in the pulpit the next morning. Every Sunday afternoon he was so exhausted he had to take a nap. So we didn't go anywhere on Sundays either. In the pulpit, he was intense. His grip was fierce, from all those years of hand-gesturing in the pulpit. His sermons were a dramatic event, a course in human potential, a calling forth to wholeness. People were taken up in his grip and in awe. He was never Rollo to his parishioners, but he was "Dr. Michael." In their eyes, he stood apart and above. In Erma, NJ, the UMC there named their fellowship hall after him, Michael Hall. They threw him a "This Is Your Life Rollo" event that made the area papers, flew his mother in from India, and showered him with gifts. Another church gave him his own trip to India and a Tiffany lamp.

So my father was a huge presence in my life, kind of towering and other-worldly. He spent many of his off hours in his green vinyl recliner, either watching the Evening News or meditating. We were not to disturb him when he was meditating.

The memories I have of him as a Dad include the time he attempted to build me a treehouse in the pine tree out back. Unfortunately, he didn't realize that the branch on which he intended to build was dead. It snapped at some point, and I remember walking out of the back door of our house just as my father's ladder came toppling over, dumping him mercifully in the soft bed of pine needles below. He left all the wood up in the tree... and abandoned the project. Another time, he told the assistant pastor that he needed to take a picture of him for the newspaper, when in actuality, he was taking the picture for me, as I was deliriously in love with the assistant pastor. Stu Dangler. 25 years old, long hair, dark glasses. The first love of my 11 year old life. I truly believed he'd wait for me. Alas, he did not.

He hasn't been the kind of Dad that took me on his knee, got all teary-eyed when he saw me in my prom dress, or ran behind my bike as I learned to ride. There were other men in my life that fulfilled those roles along the way. My father taught me to devour books, to think deeply, to ask big questions, and to relate to God on a mystical level. He taught me to learn as much as I can. And all those years watching him and listening to him in the pulpit probably made me a better preacher, infusing some of the drama and intensity. These days Dad is long retired in Mississippi where his wife, my mother, finally convinced him to move. He loves eating at Cracker Barrel--he sneaks in a hamburger when my mother's not looking--and he still teaches Sunday School and preaches a sermon when it's needed at my mother's home church. He's still perplexed at southern culture, but in his own way, he analyzes it and tries to understand what he will probably never truly understand. He's self-conscious, I think, sticking out with his British accent in a world of strong southern accents, but many people still find his "otherness" fascinating. When I think of my father, I remember a man who was always telling me what books I ought to read or what subject I ought to write a paper on, just for "fun." And I have to smile. NOBODY, I'm sure, has a father like mine.