It was clear winter night with a sliver of a moon and the visibility from thirty-seven thousand feet was a hundred miles. Both the Big Dipper and Orion hung bright in the sky, and I felt like if I stared into that starry sky hard enough, I could look into God’s eyes. But instead, my emotions pulled me, and my gaze, earthward. I was passing over Kentucky.

Years ago I read a science fiction short story by Philip José Farmer that I have never forgotten. The crew of an experimental starship manages to exit the outer boundary of our universe only to find other “universes” floating in space. When they realize where they are, it takes everything in them not to panic from the homesick feeling that overcomes them.  He wrote - “It takes a special type of man or woman to lose himself from Earth or his native planet, to go out among the stars so far that the natal sun is not even a faint glimmer. It also takes special conditioning for the special type of man. He has to believe, in the deepest part of his unconscious, that his ship is a piece of Mother Earth. He has to believe; otherwise, he goes to pieces.”

No matter how far we go. No matter how high we fly. No matter the distance through time or space. We always anchor ourselves in a singular reference – Home.

We were travelling west and our flight path took us just south of Lexington, almost over the top of Elizabethtown. Off to my left the lights of Nashville beckoned, as they have beckoned to many a dreamy-eyed singer hoping for country-music fame. On my right the lights of Louisville and all its commerce filled the horizon. A ribbon of highway full of headlights and taillights connected the two cities. My eyes were looking for the lights of the truck stop on I-65 not far from the farm where my parents still live.

A strange feeling gripped me as I followed the lights and zeroed in on the farm. I felt like a little child standing in front of the living room window with his nose against the glass as the ice cream truck ambles by. I felt like the child at the school bus window as he watches his mother wave goodbye and disappear from sight. I felt like the lonely college student stuck on campus during the holidays because he didn’t have enough money to go home. I felt like the soldier deployed to a far away land staring at the horizon wondering about his family. I felt like the tourist on vacation that even amidst all the fun and revelry, suddenly feels empty. Yes, we have all felt that feeling, and even after all these years of traveling for a living, I was homesick.

Homesick is a funny word. It almost sounds like you are sick of home, which is the feeling that most teenagers feel as they approach the age of maturity and can’t wait to get away from home. Or maybe a sickness has invaded the home. Using the word “sick” leads one to believe that it is an actual illness. Judging from the feeling in my stomach that night, I would describe it as a sick feeling indeed. Interestingly enough, it is a sickness for which there is no cure. You can suppress it, distract it, and work it to death, but you can’t eradicate that feeling. You can temporarily suspend it by going home, but as soon as you leave the comfort of your home, the deadly disease comes right back. Homesickness simply has no cure.

Within a matter of minutes we crossed the Mississippi river and put Kentucky behind us.

I sat there pondering the nature of our modern society and the speed at which it moves. With a click of a button we can connect to thousands, perhaps even millions, of people all over the world. We can share a snapshot of our life and display it for anyone, and everyone, to see right from the palm of our hand. In a matter of hours, not days, we can cross the globe in relative comfort and ease. We rush from place to place in planes, trains and automobiles always trying to arrive somewhere. We seem to have this incredible itch to move and connect that can never be satisfied.

A while later on the same flight, we passed just north of the little town of Burkburnett, Texas. Once again I followed the lights of the highways and streets and could barely pick out the first house my wife and I built. That feeling of homesickness came right back, but this time I was sick for the family she and I had made together. I thought about the memories of that house in north Texas, and all the other houses we have lived in. I thought about all the birthday parties, family dinners, school functions, sporting events, and trips to the emergency room. I got the overwhelming sensation that I was detached from life and watching it from a distance. Homesickness has no cure.

I was nervous when I got out the big ladder and prepared to climb up on the roof. It had been several years since I had ventured up there to put up Christmas lights, and the last time I went up there, I broke a tile. I’m not afraid of heights, but I’m not too keen about falling. I had on a new pair of running shoes with lots of grip when I climbed up the ladder and shimmied onto the roof over the garage.

For several years I let my older boys do all the work on the roof. That made me nervous too, but I figured they were much more nimble than I was, and besides they are young and recover from injury much more quickly. Last year I paid the kids to put up the lights. They needed the money, and I didn’t really have time to get them up. This year I had a few days off before Thanksgiving and decided to tackle the job myself.

I made the first trip to Lowe’s and got replacement lights, but when I got home, my wife informed me that she wanted to change out all of our Christmas lights. Back I went to Lowe’s, but I was smart enough to insist that she come along and pick out the lights. (I’m not a newlywed.) She picked out multicolored LED lights for the house, and color-coordinated lights for the trees. I couldn’t see it working out that well, but I saluted smartly and paid for the lights.

I decided to tackle the lower lights first. I got up the first section and turned them on. They weren’t as bright as I thought they were going to be, but after consulting with the wife, I pressed on. That’s when I realized that I was going to be short some fasteners and went back Lowe’s for more. Of course, they were out of the fasteners I needed. I headed to Home Depot, and thankfully, I found them. So after four trips to the store, I was ready to climb up on the roof.

It was late afternoon when I tiptoed across the tile roof and got into position to hang the upper lights. The weather was perfect – no breeze, clear skies, and seventy degrees. All of you living in Northern climates, eat your heart out. I strung out the lights and started hanging them on the upper eaves of the house, carefully watching my foot placement and avoiding the edges of the roof. After a few minutes I got comfortable, but as soon as I realized that I was comfortable, I made myself get nervous again. Complacency kills. I didn’t want my gravestone reading, “Died while hanging Christmas lights.”

 A funny thing happened while I was up there on my roof. Neighbors began to stop and talk to me as if I were standing in my front yard. Now, I live on a street akin to Mayberry, or maybe Beaver Cleaver’s neighborhood. So, it isn’t uncommon to see people out in their front yards prattling on about life, but I guess I never expected it to happen while I was hanging out up on the roof of my house.

One neighbor and I chatted about the recent election and gun sales, two things that seem unrelated, yet are not. Another stopped and related a story from his recent mission trip to Ghana to build a school. I was fascinated and moved by his compassion, but I was more impressed by the response of the people he helped. It made me realize how ungrateful I am for modern conveniences. Another neighbor stopped and talked to me about his job and invited me to check out their new facility (an aircraft maintenance hangar). I visited with the neighbor kids across the street while they jumped on the trampoline. People waved and greeted me as they went to the mailbox, or took their dogs for a walk. It was like being on the roof made me more accessible, or friendly, or maybe they were just worried that I would fall and they wanted to make sure their last words to me were friendly ones.

In spite of all the friendly interruptions, I managed to hang all the lights on the upper roofline and climb down without breaking any tiles or falling off. As the darkness approached, I stood in the street and admired the lights. The color scheme my wife picked out was perfect. The lights, although simple, brought the holiday spirit. I have to admit I enjoyed getting up on the roof this year. I especially liked how it attracted passing neighbors, and wondered if maybe I should get up there more often.

My experience on the roof reminded me of the scripture from Matthew, “What I tell you in darkness, that speak ye in light: and what ye hear in the ear, that preach ye upon the housetops.” (Matthew 10:27) The colorful lights weren’t the reason for the season. I went to the garage and pulled out my favorite part of the decorations – the nativity scene. I fixed the spotlight over the nativity scene, centered it on the baby Jesus, and illuminated a depiction of the most important birth in the history of mankind.

Merry Christmas!

I found out the other day that because of my political support of a specific candidate that I am pro slavery. This came as quite a surprise to me. I have never owned a slave (even though my children accuse me of working them to death). I have never promoted slavery in any form. I consider the institution of slavery vile and morally reprehensible. How could someone even think that I am pro slavery?

An old high school buddy had posted the blanket statement – anybody that will vote for Mitt must love slavery.

I stewed over the comment for a while, and then decided that I couldn’t let something so egregious go unanswered. I posted – Do you really think that because I support Romney that makes me pro slavery? I fail to see the connection in any way and I'm disturbed that you would make such a racial comparison.

I grew up in southern Kentucky. As a young man racism raised its ugly head in my hometown from time to time. I can still remember gossip and rumors about who belonged to the KKK. However, because I was taught NOT to be racist at home, the entire idea of judging another human being based on the color of their skin seemed ludicrous. I saw it for what it was, an ugly form of dehumanizing an entire race.

I knew when I posted the response I was probably in for some counterattacks, but it wasn’t an issue I was willing to let pass. I knew that my buddy was a fair-minded person and didn’t mind some dissent, but I figured a lot of his friends would probably agree with him. They didn’t disappoint me.

They countered my post with comments about the “divisive nature” of the RNC and how those policies affected the poor. I outlined a few of the RNC policies that he touched on and asked him again if he thought I supported slavery just because I supported Romney. Finally he answered with a simple “No,” but not on the thread itself. The conversation remained pointed, but not uncivil, so I stayed engaged. I was told that “…most whites don’t (understand) and you will never make them understand.” “The Gop’s underlying tone is one of prejudice as a whole.” “Taking back the white house…” was a racial comment. “You can’t get it (meaning that it was impossible for me to understand their plight).” “…they don't teach you the truth about America that Abraham Lincoln aint so honest and George Washington ain't so great…”

After spending a month in Russia (an experience I recommend to anyone that likes to complain about this country), I entered passport control at LAX with two newly adopted daughters and a mountain of paperwork. The lady that helped me was black. Her two coworkers were Asian and Hispanic. They laughed and joked with one another. They were friendly and clearly respected each other. It was an amiable and productive atmosphere.

I interrupted them, and with tears in my eyes, I told them how happy I was to be back in the USA. I went on to explain that over the last month I had been in and out of government offices in Russia where smiles were rare, laughter was unheard of, and diversity was only a word in the dictionary. Watching that everyday scene of mutual respect and ethnic diversity made me proud to be a US citizen.

It is easy to vilify a group because we view the group as impersonal and faceless. When we move from the inhuman group to the individual, it is much more difficult to demonize. That’s why I asked the direct question and made my buddy look me in the eye (speaking figuratively) and tell me that I am pro slavery, which he could not do.

The entire conversation disturbed me. I turned the comments over and over again in my mind trying to come to grips with the feelings of those I disagreed with. How could they possibly feel that way? How could they possibly make that connection?

I posted – If I understand you correctly, I will never “get it” simply because I am white. Does that mean I am automatically racist because I am white?

        

The philosophy that I, because I am white, can’t possibly be capable of understanding or caring for the black position is the same philosophy that was used to establish the Jim Crow laws of the South. They argued that blacks weren’t smart enough, or clean enough, or civilized enough to occupy the same space as whites. They argued that blacks would never “get it.” If it was bad for blacks, and it most certainly was bad for blacks and our nation, then how is it an appropriate philosophy for blacks to adopt?”

The whole argument seemed like such a non-sequitur to me that it rang absurd. But that wasn’t what they thought or felt, and I wanted to understand why. I couldn’t deny their experiences and feelings any more than they could correctly judge my motives.

I called a friend of mine. He grew up in the bad part of Saint Louis, the youngest of six children to a single mother. He has no idea who is father is. By all odds, he should never have made it, but he did. He is a successful businessman and father. He is a black man married to a white woman. He knows firsthand the struggles that blacks still face in this country.

My friend spoke candidly of his feelings. He still feels mistrusted by many whites, and blacks view him as a sellout. If he speaks like an educated man, people say that he’s a “smooth talker.” If he speaks like someone from “the hood” they view him as uneducated and not to be taken seriously. Even the friendship with his best friend started with a fight over a racial comment. It took them years for them to understand each other. He feels unaccepted in one world, and disenfranchised in the other.

Race is an issue that is charged with emotion because for too many years we haven’t talked about it candidly. We have swept it under the rug and danced around the topic afraid that we would be labeled with ugly names. Slavery ended a long time ago in this country, but we never got the closure we needed. Race issues become politicized and manipulated, but never solved. They affect our interaction in the marketplace, in religion, and in social settings. Racism is still a festering wound that needs to heal once and for all.

If we want to heal the wounds of racism, we must avoid the same mindset that has kept racism in this country alive for way too long. We cannot let our negative experiences with specific individuals taint our view of entire groups. We must avoid assigning a dark motive to everything that happens to us. If we are treated with bias, we must avoid the pitfall of applying the same philosophy of bias that has been used against us. We must carefully examine our lens and keep it free from any tint that might distort the true colors of life.

It’s time we open up and had a frank conversation about our feelings and experiences with racism. I encourage you to sit down with someone of a different race, and really listen to how they feel. Try to empathize with their feelings. Like me, you may not agree with their philosophy or point of view, but you cannot discount their feelings. You cannot deny their experiences any more than they can judge your motives.

I was driving down the street with my daughter the other day and pulled in behind a vehicle with a vanity license plate. You know, the kind that tells the world how cool you are in a coded message of seven characters or less. This particular plate read – LYVSGR8, and judging from the make and model of the vehicle, they did indeed seem to have a great life, or at least a nice car. I asked if her she could understand the message on the plate, and with a little help from me, she deciphered it as well. Then she asked, “Why don’t we have one of those?”

Granted, my life is great, and I have very little to complain about, but I still find things anyway. However, I have never felt the need to advertise some symbolic message in the seven letters of a license plate. I shrugged and kept driving, but her question and recent writing exercise made me think. What would I put on my plate that could symbolize my life?

I don’t think I have any life symbols that I use regularly. I don’t have a Rolex timepiece, but I do have a Casio that synchs up with the Naval Observatory every night and is always correct. I don’t have a gun case full of antique guns, but I do own a shotgun. (I do have three daughters after all.) Maybe I could count my iPhone, but I’ve only had it about a year. Maybe I could count the boat, but I even share that with a couple of good buddies, so it’s not exclusive. Maybe my running shoes, but I wear out a pair every six months.

The truth is that if my house were on fire and I could rush in and grab only one keepsake that defined me, I would probably just stand on the curb and dial 911.

It’s not that I don’t have material possessions. I just spent half a day cleaning out my garage because I had too much junk. It’s not that I don’t like physical items to help me remember who I am. I have a large trophy in the closet and a small bin of certificates, awards, and decorations tucked away under my bed. It’s not that my life isn’t centered on specific beliefs or traditions. My life is one continuum of personal and public rituals that define who I am and what I believe.

I would love to say that this condition was brought on by my incredible modesty and humility, but most of you that read this blog know better. Why don’t I have any symbols in my life that a stranger could use to better understand who I am?

My mother loves to shop for bargains. She frequents garage sales, flea markets, and discount retailers on a regular basis. She has purchased enough luggage to outfit the flight crew of a Boeing 747, minus the catalog cases that they store in the cockpit. (Come to think of it, she has found a few of those as well.) She has bought enough socks to outfit an army platoon. She has found enough good deals on children’s clothing to clothe a small orphanage in Mexico. She has discovered enough hidden deals on kitchen utensils to provide gifts for a year’s worth of wedding receptions. She doesn’t need any of it. Every last bargain was for someone else. All of that bargain hunting is symbolic of her life and her love for shopping for other people. I think her license plate would say – SHP4LUV.

My wife likes to quilt and scrapbook. She has produced some award-winning scrapbooks, (yes they do give out awards for such things) and a variety of quilts. As the kids grow older they love to pull out the scrapbooks and turn the pages of time. They still curl up on the couch in the quilts she made for each of them. They are symbols of her love for her children and her desire to give each of them something to remember her by. Her license plate should say – SCRPQEN or QILTMOM.

I have two brothers that love BMW motorcycles. (Admittedly, they are the best-built motorcycle in the world.) They have both logged thousand of miles in the saddle, but in addition to riding them, they also like to tinker with them. They both scour craigslist for old BMW bikes that they can buy and part out, or fix up. They make a little money in the process and support their riding habit. Maybe they need license plates that say – IRDBMW or BMWMOTO.

When I got married, my Dad told us, “Mowing hay is the next best thing to sex. So, make hay while the sun shines.” He spent a lot of time making hay. I know. I had to haul it all to the barn. He also had ten kids. You figure it out. He still spends hours out on the riding mower every week. The best symbol of his life would probably be a tractor out mowing hay. I think I would pick – MAKEHAY- as his plate moniker.

I want my life to be defined by the way I have lived. I want to be remembered for my mistakes. I want to be remembered for those few moments of greatness. I want to be remembered for my bold attempts, and my tragic failures. The bottom line is that I eschew symbolic items that define who I am today, because tomorrow I might want to be somebody different, somebody better.

I will never know what might have happened if I had jumped that day. I don’t regret my life. I have lived a life more exciting and rewarding than any one man should be allowed to experience. But I have always wished I had jumped. Perhaps, if I had jumped off the ledge that day, I would have preserved the reckless abandon of youth long enough to achieve more of the impossible dreams I once had. Somewhere, suspended in the air above a deep green pool of water hangs the reckless exuberance of youth, waiting for me to jump.

“Miss Rector is an Old Maid,” wrote my sister on her homework assignment. Miss Rector was the Sixth-Grade Teacher and the Principal of the small country school we attended. She had cat-eye glasses, wore her auburn-gray hair in a 1950’s style bun hairdo, and always wore a dress with matching shoes. You could hear her heels clicking against the tile floor as she roamed the hallways looking for errant students. She lived down the road from the school with her two sisters, and just like my sister said, none of them ever married. She ruled the school with an iron fist, and always got her way, until she went toe-to-toe with my mother over school lunches.

Prospect Hill Elementary served the northern part of Simpson County and enrolled about one hundred and twenty students in six classrooms. It was a brick two-story building with a large auditorium and a cafeteria in the basement. The playground had the usual equipment of the day, but also included a softball field and a large open field with some bushes you could hide or play in. After a good rain we sometimes found arrowheads near the fence. For a country boy, it seemed like an oasis of excitement among all the farms.

Miss Rector insisted that all of her students buy lunch at the school cafeteria. To help keep the program afloat, she made sure that everyone got paperwork to enroll in the free lunch program, and looking back, I guess that most of us probably qualified. My mother took one look at the paperwork and promptly ignored it. I was the fourth one to go to school, and so, in order to save money on lunches, we started taking our lunch. That didn’t set too well with Miss Rector, and she was never timid about her position. I was in second grade when the school lunch scuttlebutt transformed from skirmish to all out war.

My mother was very creative when it came to preparing school lunches. She would bake bread in old tin cans so that the slices would be round like hamburger buns and send us with hamburgers cooked the night before. She boiled eggs from our chickens and added them to tuna for tuna-salad sandwiches. She bought pimento cheese by the bucketful. She would whip up a batch of cookies before school in the morning and stuff them into plastic sandwich bags while they were still hot. By lunchtime they had usually morphed into one gigantic cookie blob, but they were still just as tasty. We picked fresh fruit from the orchard down by Granny’s house, and eventually we bought fancy thermoses for homemade soup. I thought our lunches were great, but according to Miss Rector, they were substandard and not suitable for student consumption.

Miss Rector fired the first shot across the bow when she sent home the paperwork for free lunches again. My mother responded by sending back a note, “We can provide for our own.” Not giving up so easily, Miss Rector singled us out and badmouthed our homemade lunches in front of other students, telling everyone that they “stunk up the place.” Undeterred but busy with young kids at home, my mother kept up the attack with brown paper bags full of tuna salad sandwiches. Miss Rector began inspecting our lunches and enticing us with hot meals as we munched on cold pimento cheese. Like any good revolutionary, my mother plucked along trying to win the daily battles. Like any entrenched power, Miss Rector used her position of authority to intimidate and coerce. It was the classic struggle between an unstoppable force and an immovable object.

At last, Miss Rector made a tactical mistake. She sequestered us at a table by ourselves and wouldn’t let us eat with the other students. That converted us from pawns in the battle, to zealous missionaries of the cause. We hunkered down against the persecution, and began to tout our freedom to choose among the other students. One day, another student with a shiny new lunchbox joined us at our table. Then a few days later, another brownbag warrior joined our cause. Soon we had an entire revolutionary army of lunchtime guerrillas fighting beside us at our own special table in the basement of Prospect Hill. Like any good revolution, we won by winning the hearts and minds of the populace and wearing down the better-equipped establishment until she no longer had the stomach for the fight.

I’m sure Miss Rector meant well. She gave her heart and soul to the school, and in addition to being the Principal, she also taught sixth grade. I’m sure she struggled to keep that small country school afloat financially, and that the school lunch revenue was a crucial part of her budget. She was a no-nonsense administrator with a knack for producing good students without many resources. She made a career of making Prospect Hill a successful school. But this time, she picked the wrong fight.

Ironically, my mother’s father was a teacher and principal of a small country school as well. My mother saw firsthand all the challenges that came to someone in Miss Rector’s position. She knew of the battles fought with parents, unruly students, and governments that underfunded and overexpected. She and Miss Rector were more alike than they were different, except on one issue – My mother would have nothing to do with government handouts or free lunch paperwork.

In a letter to Miss Rector, she explained that taking free lunches would set a bad example for us children. How could we learn to be responsible for ourselves when we were accepting help we didn’t truly need? She wanted to teach us that when somebody gets something for nothing, somebody else works for free. There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.

A few years after the school lunch wars, the county consolidated things. Prospect Hill Elementary was put on the chopping block. They closed it’s doors and gave Miss Rector an early retirement. Today the building is gone along with the playground equipment and the bushes we once played in. Last time I drove by there, it was a cornfield. I wondered if that corn ended up in someone’s school lunch?

I didn't use Miss Rector's real name, but this blog is not meant to disparage her just the same. I have searched for a picture of Prospect Hill School. Anyone with a picture is welcome to post it.

You can’t visit a town in Uruguay without seeing a statue or bust of José Artigas, the father of the country. His vestige looks down on the Urugayos in almost every plaza or school in the country. His image is on the money. His portrait is almost ubiquitous as the mate they drink. Funny thing is, he was never even president.

In June of 1982, I made the six-hour trip to Tacuarembó, Uruguay, on the Onda (the prominent bus company of the day) sitting next to a guacho. I tried to carry on a conversation with him, but it was pointless. I began to wonder if they taught me the wrong language. Thirty years later I drove a rental car into Tacuarembó with my oldest son Rian, and my sixteen-year old, Carson. I made the trip halfway around the globe to drop Carson off to live with the Fontes family so that he could experience life outside (way outside) the United States. I was also excited to spend some time with my sons.

I had the address to the home, but it wasn’t on the map, and my phone’s GPS wasn’t any help. “Don’t worry,” I told my boys. “Everybody in town knows David Fontes.” I stopped at the gas station and asked for directions. Nobody knew the address, but when I mentioned David, they had him on the phone in less than five minutes.

Small countries have more reason to celebrate their heroes than big ones. The heroes of small countries have a bigger impact on their history and leave bigger scars on the psyche of the population. Smaller countries also have fewer heroes to choose from. Artigas was no exception. His passion for the cause of the Orientales was unparalleled. He displayed all of the stubbornness and fire of an ardent patriot and put his own life on the line over and over again for the cause of independence.

We spent the afternoon in the house of friends and got Carson settled in. That evening we went to a mixer at Alianza School, the English school administered by David. I think we intimidated his students a bit. Maybe the setting was too formal, or maybe it was my domineering nature, but the students were a bit shy that evening. Having learned other languages, I can relate to that knot in your gut that keeps your mouth from working properly when you try to speak. I think the fear springs from looking stupid or inept. It takes courage to thrust yourself into another language and another culture.

The next day, Rian and I took a trip to the border town of Rivera. The pleasantly hilly city sits smack dab on the border between Uruguay and Brasil. We cruised around the open-air market in search of trinkets in both countries. We ate lunch in Uruguay. We went to the bathroom in Brasil. We literally crisscrossed the unseen line multiple times and discussed the possibilities of disappearing off the grid in such a town (if the occasion was ever required).

That evening we returned to the Fontes’ home and had our last dinner with Carson before leaving him to learn about life abroad on his own. When I hugged him, I wondered how the experience would change his perspective of the world and what impact it would have on him.

Since we were off the beaten path and traveling during the off season (it was the dead of winter in the Southern Hemisphere), we had some interesting hotel stays. One night we froze to death until my son figured out that the maid had left a window open behind the curtains. Another hotel was so old that the only electrical outlet was in the bathroom, and the elevator looked like it came from the Tower of Terror. We only rode it once. Water pressure was usually lacking, except for our hotel in Buenos Aires, where the shower felt like a fire hose. We chalked it all up to the adventure.

When you make a journey down memory lane be prepared for some emotional potholes. I had some wonderful reunions with friends from years past. They had flourished and found a measure of happiness and success, and our visits were warm and satisfying, but not everybody’s story has a happy ending.

Thirty years ago, I knew a successful doctor of a small town. He had a wonderful wife, two children, and lived in a big house. He had helped me deal with the stress of being a Branch President (the same as a local Pastor or Minister) at twenty-years old in a foreign country. I owed him a debt.

I searched him out and found him in a small row house on a dark street. When I knocked at the front door he said he remembered me, but I think he fibbed a bit. We sat at a small kitchen table in a bare kitchen. The night was cold, but he had no heating. Once a portly man, he was now thin, and wrapped in several layers to stay warm. His eyes vacillated between a far-off look and semi-wild excitement. He spoke of his life in platitudes with exaggerated smiles, but when I asked about his family, the truth was self-evident.

His wife had divorced him several years ago because of his drinking problem. Then she had contracted cancer and died. His son still lived with him, but from what I could gather, the son had fallen into the same addiction trap as his father. When I asked about his daughter, he laughed nervously and told me that she was very busy with her life and rarely stopped by.

Still true to the message of hope I delivered to a good doctor thirty years ago, I reminded him that the atonement of Jesus Christ could still apply in his life. I’m not sure if my words penetrated, but his face clouded over. When we embraced before I left, he pulled me so close that the stubble on his face rubbed against my cheek and he held me longer than a customary abrazo.

 The next day we put Uruguay behind us and took the ferry across the Rio de la Plata to Buenos Aires.

José Artigas had a grand vision for the region surrounding the Rio de la Plata that mirrored the structure of the United States, but as is often the case, his vision of independence was overruled by the political ambitions of others. He was outmaneuvered and sent to voluntary exile in Paraguay where he remained until his death.

We spent two days in Buenos Aires enjoying the sights of the “Paris of South America.” We spent all afternoon at the open-air market on Calle Defensa. We ate the famous Argentine beef until we were ready to moo. My son Rian found a leather jacket for a great price. We hopped a tour bus and saw the highlights of the city. We enjoyed the sights and sounds of a hustling, bustling city tucked so far away in the south that people forget that it’s there.

Our last night in Buenos Aires, I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about our trip. Although it had been interesting, and we had passed several happy moments as father and sons, and with friends, the journey had a lackluster feel to it. I had expected more. I felt like José Artigas. I had bigger plans, but due to circumstances beyond my control, I would have to accept the reality of the day, and move on.

Sometimes we make grandiose plans that never come to fruition. We feel like the things we do don’t make a difference in the world. We struggle to understand why others can’t see our vision for the future. Perhaps we too are exiled by the workings of others, or by our own decisions to move on. But life’s struggle is never wrought in a vacuum. Someday maybe, just maybe, the relationships we build, the friendships we forge, the lives we try and touch, will bear fruit, and future generations will honor us for what we attempted to accomplish.

We made our way back across the Rio de la Plata and on to Montevideo so we could catch our flight back home. Our last morning of the trip, I went for a run along the boardwalk. It was a great morning for a run. The temperature was cool, but not cold. The slight breeze was welcomed, and the sun was climbing in the sky. Traffic buzzed along the street as I took it all in. As I rounded a small point, the crowded buildings of downtown Montevideo came into view. Off in the distance in that concrete jungle was a plaza with an enormous statue of José Artigas on his horse, and below the statue lay the remains of the exiled liberator that became a national hero.