Tag Archives: Eric

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Compassion, Generosity, and Love

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Last week, a colleague asked if I was writing anything. I said a quick “No” before adding, “well, I’m working on a homily.”

“That’s writing,” she replied.

I delivered my homily at Spirit of Peace this morning. Despite having read it aloud numerous times in the past few days, I choked up when I shared the segments about my dad and the New York Times article. I hadn’t expected to falter through those words.

During the sign of peace and again during coffee hour, I received several compliments about my homily. In one conversation, we chatted about being part of the “universal church,” referencing the fact that the Scriptures we shared during liturgy today were shared by others around the globe.

When I opened my email hours later, I discovered a message from a person of a certain age who had joined our liturgical celebration via Zoom:

Karen, Your Homily this morning provided the best insights into this Gospel that I have ever heard. Thanks!

His message, and the conversation about our universal church, inspired me to share my homily in this post.

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Manual Harvesting © Cristina Deidda | Dreamstime.com

The first reading from Philippians [Philippians 1:20c-24, 27a] says, “For to me life is Christ, and death is gain. If I go on living in the flesh, that means fruitful labor for me. And I do not know which I shall choose.”

We also hear about labor in Matthew’s Gospel [Matthew: 20:1-16a], as Jesus illustrates God’s divine compassion and generosity. Numerous times after the first laborers begin to work, the landowner tells others, “You too go into my vineyard, and I will give you what is just.”

This parable is one I’ve struggled with in the past. Perhaps some of you have as well. Thankfully, a variety of resources helped shape this homily.

At Home with the Word 2023 explains, “The daily wage for laborers was enough for a small extended family of several adults and children to purchase bread and vegetables for the day’s meals with a bit left over for taxes and other expenses. Observant Jews had to be especially careful to keep enough for Sabbath days when they refrained from labor. The vineyard owner was thus making sure all his laborers could eat regardless of the work they put in. His concern was for the effects of the wage, not its value as a symbol of effort.”

Theologian Jessie Bazan had this to say, in part, on Catholic Women Preach.

“The first group of laborers in today’s parable get stuck in binary thinking at payment time:

Either you work a full day and get paid the usual wage, or you work part of the day and get paid part of the usual wage.

This thinking makes sense. It seems fair.

But then they see the later hires get paid the full wage, and the first group makes an assumption:

If those who work part of the day get the full wage, then those of us who work the full day will get the full wage plus a bonus.

Again, this thinking makes sense. It seems fair.

But the landowner rebukes this reasoning—and through his actions, Jesus shows us once again:

God is far too creative for binaries.

God is far too mysterious for assumptions.

Our God is a God of infinite possibilities, whose ways are high above the human ways to which we’ve grown accustomed. Our God cannot be tamed within the made-up constructs of in or out, worthy or unworthy, last or first. Our God is near to all who call upon the divine name in truth, no matter if we got to work at the crack of dawn or right before quitting time.”

Bazan’s words, “This thinking makes sense. It seems fair,” encapsulated my interpretation of today’s Gospel throughout the years.

My parents taught me about the importance of work, unions, and workers’ rights during my childhood in Butte. My paternal grandfather, Joseph  Antonietti, immigrated from Italy. He died in 1937 when my father was only nine years old. In 2015, I helped my dad with a brief family history. Together, we wrote:

“Joseph was a walking delegate for the Cooks’ and Waiters’ Union, No. 22. Dan remembers asking, as a young boy, why his dad had to make weekly treks to collect union dues. His father’s reply, ‘If everybody was honest, we wouldn’t need unions,’ inspired Dan to become a lifelong union member. Now eighty-seven, Dan recently celebrated sixty-five years of active union membership.”

My parents also taught me about compassion, generosity, and love.

I was reminded of Matthew’s Gospel as I recalled a conversation I had with my son Eric several years ago. We were talking about ROOTS—the young adult Seattle shelter I’ve mentioned before that serves 18-25-year-olds who are experiencing housing instability.

Those seeking overnight shelter can call ROOTS between 8:00 and 8:30 PM or sign up at the door during the same thirty-minute window and ask to be put on the list. If more than forty-five people sign up, a random drawing at 8:30 PM determines who can stay, or who is offered a plate of food, a blanket, and a bus ticket—the latter which could be used to try to access another shelter.

I told Eric a lottery system didn’t seem fair, and asked why it wasn’t “First come, first serve.” He said some guests might have phones or bus money that enable them to access the list more easily. Others may have neither and might have to walk long distances to get to ROOTS. Thus, not applying a first-come-first-served approach was more equitable. And if more than forty-five people were looking for shelter, first-time shelter guests and those with medical needs who were referred by healthcare professionals were automatically welcomed in, not included in the lottery.

I was reminded of today’s Gospel again last week by a heartbreaking article in The New York Times, titled, “Suing. Heckling. Cursing. N.Y.C. Protests Against Migrants Escalate.” The tagline read, “After migrants were sheltered at a defunct school, neighbors on Staten Island turned on a loudspeaker and put up signs to drive them away.”

The article talked, in part, about a 52-year-old father and his 24-year-old daughter, who had journeyed from Ecuador and had been at the shelter for twelve days. They were vetted by the U.S. Border Patrol and had an immigration court date scheduled in the future. The authors wrote, “The two had spent the day in Queens—a three-hour round trip—canvassing every Spanish-speaking restaurant and store for open positions. But no one was hiring. Their plan was to wake up early tomorrow to try again.”

So, returning to today’s parable…the laborers who showed up early might have had privileges the latecomers did not: beds, breakfast, and proximity or the means to get to the marketplace at daybreak. Conversely, those who arrived later might have battled hunger and thirst as they walked hours to reach their destination. Or some, like the father and daughter in New York, might have been looking for work the entire day.

As always, I received inspiration from this community too. In Tim’s latest homily, he encouraged us to open our hearts and look upon others with compassion. He introduced me to Marcus Borg, whom The New York Times described as “a leading figure in his generation of Jesus scholars.” Borg’s words, “God’s primary quality is compassion; therefore, a life centered in God will be compassionate,” are reflected in today’s Gospel.

Earlier this month, John proclaimed: “Comfort to you who courageously advocate for fairer distribution of resources and challenge the belief that wealth is a sign of favor from God.”

And last Sunday when Alan unfolded the readings, he urged us to treat each other mercifully.

When I dove into today’s readings, I was in the midst of listening to Robin Wall Kimmerer narrate her nonfiction book, Braiding Sweetgrass. She wrote, “Generosity is simultaneously a moral and a material imperative, especially among people who live close to the land and know its waves of plenty and scarcity. Where the well-being of one is linked to the well-being of all. Wealth among traditional people is measured by having enough to give away.”

Today’s reading from the Philippians directs us to conduct ourselves “in a way worthy of the gospel of Christ.” May we continually be inspired to model our Creator God’s compassion, generosity, and love. Amen.

I am grateful to all whose words enriched my own.

Reading picture books 1992.

The Beauty of Books

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Unbeknownst to me in 1990, Dr. Rudine Sims Bishop highlighted the necessity of providing children with diverse books in an essay titled, “Mirrors, Windows, and Sliding Glass Doors.” That same year, I was immersed in an array of childbirth, parenting, and picture books. I loaded infant Colin and three-year-old Eric into their car seats for weekly excursions to Tiny Tales story time at our public library. Eric and I unpacked bagfuls of board books and picture books on our way in, then replenished our supply after Tiny Tales ended.

Occasionally, I carted those books plus some of our own to the childbirth education classes I taught and scattered them on my students’ chairs. At the beginning of class, I pitched our public library and the joys of reading to children, ending with my hope that my students’ babies, like mine, would find comfort in “warm laps and good books.”

reading picture books 1992
Colin, Karen, and Eric Buley 1992

In 2017, years before I uncovered Dr. Bishop’s words, I penned a blog post titled, “Queer is not a bad word.” I reflected on my early parenting years, then added:

“Fast forward twenty-five years. I wish I had known to look for LGBTQIA books. That acronym was not in my vocabulary back then, but acceptance, empathy, love, and tolerance were. I have since learned that I am an ally. And Eric is queer. He is also a Fulbrighter. A City Year AmeriCorps alum. An Education Pioneer. A TeamChild Board Fellow. And an MPA. A recent graduate of the University of Washington, he was nominated to be both a Husky 100 and a Luce Scholar. He is fluent in Spanish; has lived on four continents; and is compassionate, kind, and an inspiration. His sexual orientation does not define him.”

My days of hands-on parenting, childbirth education, and obstetrical nursing are long behind me. Now, I work in a high school library. There’s a chance some students whom I helped to welcome into the world years earlier have since recommended books to me.

But students in parts of our country have less access to books than others do. As reported last month in U.S. News and World Report, “Book bans, while not a new phenomenon, have gained momentum in recent years. Censorship attempts have most recently targeted books that include LGBTQ characters or address issues of race and racism.”

In my quest to learn more, I discovered Dr. Bishop and her research. Her advocacy for literature that mirrors children’s experiences or provides glimpses or portals into the lives of others is more important now than ever, as I wrote in a June 16 Seattle Times op-ed.

Thirty-two years have passed since Dr. Bishop wrote: “When there are enough books available that can act as both mirrors and windows for all our children, they will see that we can celebrate both our differences and our similarities, because together they are what make us all human.”

If I were still teaching childbirth education classes, I would scatter board books and picture books—including The Day You Begin, Oglivy, Love Makes a Family, Antiracist Baby, and Love You Forever—on my students’ chairs. I would tell my students I have two adult children, “One is queer, and one is not, and I love them with all my heart.”

I would share my hope that their babies find delight in warm laps and good books, plus I would add a pair of fervent wishes. “May your children grow to discover and embrace their authentic selves, and may you harbor these words from Love You Forever in your hearts: ‘I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.’”

Bullock, Cooney, Williams: Election 2020

Montana’s 2020 Election

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Growing up in Butte, Montana, I learned invaluable lessons from my parents, Dan and Kay Antonietti. Lifelong Catholics and Democrats, they taught me and my seven siblings fundamental values like honesty, compassion, integrity, fairness, generosity and respect. They taught us to “love thy neighbor as thyself.” In their messages to my twelve-year-old self, they wrote “be charitable to all.” And when we recited The Pledge of Allegiance, they affirmed that “liberty and justice for all” meant exactly that. All.

As we close in on the 2020 election, thoughts of my dad and mom swirl through my mind. So too do memories of Montana’s 2017 congressional special election. Embracing the principles instilled during my youth, I campaigned hard for the Democratic candidate. I phone banked, knocked doors, and tabled at the University of Montana. I harnessed my son Eric’s courage and graduated into solo door-knocking excursions, something I thought I would never do. I described my trajectory here.

But amid the coronavirus pandemic, I’ve scrapped door knocking this year. Instead, I’m phone banking alone at the dining room table. I’ve penned two hundred postcards, displayed yard signs and bumper stickers, and written a letter to the editor.

Postcards to Swing States: Montana 2020
Postcards to Swing States

Our Papa died in January 2017. A World War II veteran, he was elected State Commander of Montana VFW in 1991. He later served as Montana VFW’s Legislative Chairman. Throughout his last twenty years, he testified on veterans’ behalf at both the national and state levels. Always his helpmate, Gram was his constant advocacy partner for the last seven.

In 2015, Gov. Steve Bullock invited my parents to Montana’s capitol. Though they had been there countless times, I had the honor of accompanying them on that special occasion. Gov. Bullock commended my dad for his years-long dedication to veterans and their families. Acknowledging my mom’s steadfast support, he thanked her too. Their humble pride was palpable. So was Gov. Bullock’s admiration.

Gov. Steve Bullock and Dan Antonietti, July 2015
Gov. Steve Bullock and Dan Antonietti, July 2015
Gov. Steve Bullock with Dan and Kay Antonietti and Karen Buley, July 2015.
Kay Antonietti, Gov. Steve Bullock, Dan Antonietti, Karen Buley

Now Governor Steve Bullock is running for U.S. Senate. Montana’s Lt. Governor, Mike Cooney, a Butte native like my parents, is running for governor. And Kathleen Williams, a three-term Montana legislator, is running for Congress. During the years Papa navigated the halls of Montana’s capitol, he visited with all three. He would be so proud to vote for each of them in 2020, as well as other Democrats up and down the ballot.

Cooney. Bullock. Williams. Montana's 2020 election.
Cooney. Bullock. Williams. 2020

Gram turned eighty-nine in August. Her memory fluctuates, but she remembers I’ve been phone banking for Montana’s Democratic candidates. She often asks, “Did you get everything done?” Occasionally she’ll pause, then add “for the election?” When I say I’m making calls one night a week, her reply is always the same. “God love you. I hope they win.”

Kay Antonietti, Spring Meadow Lake State Park
Kay Antonietti, Spring Meadow Lake State Park

In the quiet of my heart, I hear Papa echo her words.

1987 Lamaze class babies

Labor Day

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I met baby Anaya during a Zoom liturgy yesterday. Eight days old, the dark-haired, sleeping newborn rushed a swell of nostalgia.

Throughout my nursing career, there were two days each year when attending births bore special significance. July 20—my birthday and the anniversary of Neil Armstrong’s historic walk on the moon—and Labor Day.

A pair of other dates grew in magnitude, too. August 4—Eric’s birthday—and then Colin’s birthday on July 8. I will never forget the bolt of realization as I followed our Lamaze teacher into OB one summer evening in 1987. I’m not giving this tour, I’m on this tour. That night, I looked around the birthing room with a new perspective.

Lamaze reunion 1987
Matthew, Nicholas, Heavenly, Kyle, Adam, Ty, Amanda, Eric, Allison, and Jared

I have a wealth of joyful memories from the years I spent teaching Lamaze classes, parenting, and caring for both pregnant women and new moms and their babies.

reading picture books 1992
Colin, Karen, and Eric 1992
Andrew, Karen, and Melissa July 23, 2005
Andrew, Karen, and Melissa July 23, 2005

Now, we are in the midst of a global pandemic. Face-to-face childbirth education classes have been suspended. In addition, hospitals have adopted zero-visitor protocols to protect against exposure to COVID-19. Obstetrics units, like my old stomping grounds at Community Medical Center, generally allow laboring and postpartum mothers to have one support person with them throughout their stay.

On this Labor Day, I extend birthday wishes to Rachel Grace, born twenty-six years ago to my former coworker Mary. And to Mary and all healthcare workers, thank you for the vital work you do.

Thanks, too, to union representatives who fight for workers and communities and for a better life for all. According to a recent Gallup poll, 65 percent of Americans approve of labor unions, the highest percentage since 2003.

Lastly, thank you to my parents. Born and raised in Butte, Montana, they taught me so much, including the rich history and importance of unions. Though my dad traded his plumber’s toolbox for a briefcase in 1964, he maintained his membership in the United Association of Plumbers and Pipefitters until he died in 2017.

Dan Antonietti. My dad. My hero.
Dan Antonietti

My mom’s tales of her student nurse and RN days sparked my interest in her profession. And when I became a nursing student and was tasked to assist in a childbirth education class, she was the instructor.

Kay Antonietti, my sweet mom
Kay Antonietti

At eighty-nine, she still gets a twinkle in her eye when she regales me with her stories.

Buried treasures

Buried Treasures

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Last month, I unearthed a large, cardboard box marked “Christmas Extra” from beneath the stairs. Untouched for years, the box housed a collection of kids’ art from 1989 on, plus nutcrackers, candles, wreaths, a fabric reindeer, and assorted other decorations.

The pair of handmade books sparked a smile.

Buried treasures

I had neglected to add the year to Eric’s book—certain, I suppose, I would never forget when he gifted us with Christmas Rhymes and Riddles. 1997? His cursive signature made that guess a good bet. Colin’s book, A Very Buley Christmas, was memorialized with a 2001 copyright date.

When our family of four reconnected this holiday season, we shared a laugh over Colin’s tongue-in-cheek dedication. But none of us could pinpoint the date of Eric’s book. “Didn’t you write another one?” I asked.

“Yeah—I wrote a book about leprechauns,” Eric replied.

I found Little Green Men yesterday, cocooned in a storage cube.

Eric, like Colin, penned his book in sixth grade. Beginning with preschool cookbooks, though, the boys had seen their names in print throughout the years. The prolific writer, Ursula K. Le Guin, wrote, “To have written a book is a very cool thing, when you are six or eight or ten years old. It leads to other cool things, such as fearless reading. Why would anybody who’s written a book be afraid of reading one?”

Much has been written about the importance of reading, not just for our youth, but for all of us. Thank you to educators that promote reading and writing. And special thanks to adults like Curtis Jenkins, who, after gifting a Dallas student with a shirt depicting one of her illustrations, said, “I’m hoping this T-shirt inspires her to keep on writing books.”

I’m hoping that young girl keeps writing books, too.

Father’s Day

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We lost our Papa in January. In the months that followed, I cocooned myself in his gold and brown sweatshirt, its softness and scent comforts on cold winter nights. Colors of Capital High School Bruins, the frayed neck and sleeves bore evidence of the years Papa spent cheering for his grandchildren.

A special sweatshirt. 2009.
A special sweatshirt. 2009.

On his eighty-ninth birthday, Dad asked, “Do you think I’ll live to be a hundred?” His question earnest, we vowed to have a ninetieth birthday bash if he made it that long.

He didn’t. He died less than six weeks later, five days after breaking his hip. As we surrounded his hospital bed, I was reminded of a family gathering twelve years prior.

Please keep everyone healthy and safe had been my silent plea, Dad foremost in my mind as extended family bid Eric bon voyage. Not yet seventeen, Eric was headed to Argentina for a yearlong study abroad. I fought tears when he said goodbye to his Papa, wondering if it would be the last time they would see each other.

Ten days ago, Eric received his MPA from UW’s Evans School of Public Policy and Governance.  Gram with us to celebrate, I felt Papa’s presence, too. And when I saw the photo, I knew.

Papa's presence in a wisp of a rainbow.
Affirmation.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

Queer is not a bad word

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It was a new word for me. Queer. 1967, age eleven, I sought out my twelve-year-old brother, careful to catch him out of earshot of younger siblings. “What’s a queer?” I asked.

“Ssshhh!” He flicked his head toward the adjacent bedroom where our mother was putting away laundry. “Mom will hear you.”

His stage whisper was so loud, I was certain she heard him, not me. I left, my question unanswered.

I had a fallback plan: Julie, our thirteen-year-old neighbor. She would tell me. And she did. I don’t remember her words. Straightforward, they didn’t leave a lasting impression. The shushing did.

I didn’t fault my brother, though. Growing up in the 1960’s, the families I knew didn’t talk about sex. I added “queers” to the list and moved on.

Twenty years later, I had my first baby. When I changed Eric’s diaper, I practiced saying “this is your penis” and “this is your scrotum,” determined to say those words as easily as “Head of hair. Forehead bare…”

When he was four, I borrowed a kids’ library book to read to him and to one-year-old Colin. It had cartoonish drawings and talked about bodies and making babies, subjects I did not want to be taboo. That same year, Eric traced a panty liner on a piece of paper. “I drew a uterus!” He presented his drawing, his pride palpable. 

His drawing did look like the knitted uterus I used in my Lamaze classes. I reveled in his artistry, creativity, and in the way the word rolled off of his tongue.

Eric and Karen Buley.
Eric and Karen Buley.

Fast forward twenty-five years. I wish I had known to look for LGBTQIA books. That acronym was not in my vocabulary back then, but acceptance, empathy, love, and tolerance were. I have since learned that I am an ally. And Eric is queer. He is also a Fulbrighter. A City Year AmeriCorps alum. An Education Pioneer. A TeamChild Board Fellow. And an MPA. A recent graduate of the University of Washington, he was nominated to be both a Husky 100 and a Luce Scholar. He is fluent in Spanish; has lived on four continents; and is compassionate, kind, and an inspiration. His sexual orientation does not define him.

On the eve of his seventeenth birthday, Eric left Montana to spend a year in San Miguel de Tucumán, Argentina, as a foreign exchange student. Four days ago, I donned a pair of Argentine earrings he gave me, harnessing his courage as I prepared to embark upon my first solo door-to-door canvassing. His political activism began in high school when he restarted an Amnesty International club for his senior project. My activism, spotty throughout the years, kicked up last summer. In recent weeks, it has been on overdrive.

Montana has a special election coming up on May 25. Our lone seat in the House of Representatives was vacated in March. I have been working hard to elect Democrat Rob Quist. He represents Montana values, including equity. His Republican opponent opposed non-discrimination ordinances in Bozeman and Butte. But equity is a Montana value, so both ordinances won easy victories: Bozeman unanimously; Butte 10-2.

At a recent Special Election Action Forum, a speaker shared a conversation she had had with her mother. When she referenced LGBTQ rights, her mom asked, “What does the Q stand for?” then said, “Oh. That’s a word I don’t use.”

Her mom is a Baby Boomer, like me. I didn’t use ‘queer’ growing up, either. I do now.

Last week, while tabling on the University of Montana campus, I talked with another Baby Boomer. He expressed concerns about the candidates. I rattled off Rob Quist’s Montana values: public lands, affordable health care, Medicare and Social Security, public education. He told me he had been in the healthcare field, so we talked about that.

Then I shared the heart of my story. I told him I had never really campaigned before. I said that Rob Quist believes in equity, and I was fighting for my queer son who cried for two weeks after our November election. The current Republican candidate had fought non-discrimination ordinances, I said. I tried to keep the quiver out of my voice when I added that my fight was to elect a man who believes in equity.

He listened, then said that my son should not have to worry about being treated equitably.  He put his hand on my shoulder and told me he would vote for Quist “for your son.” He added, “My wife will, too.”

I thanked him, hoping he realized the depth of my gratitude.

I had another tender conversation when I knocked doors two days later. A man told me he had lost his wife the week before. His words matter of fact, I asked about her. Sixty—my age—she died too young. He told me about her cancer and her medical bills. I told him about my dad, who had passed away three months before, five days after breaking his hip. Eighty-nine, he had had a good, long life. We talked about affordable healthcare for all.

I told him I was campaigning because I had a queer son, and because Rob Quist believes in equality.

“Your son is what?” he asked.

“Queer.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s an umbrella term for non-heterosexual,” I said. I told him it was a reclaimed term, not the slur of our youth.

“I did not know that,” he said, his words thoughtful and deliberate.

We talked a bit more about his wife’s upcoming celebration of life, then said our goodbyes.

When I reached the sidewalk, he called, “Tell your son there are people out there who support him.”

“I will,” I replied, my voice catching.

Tears threatened as I walked to the next house. His words affirmed what I knew and gave me resolve. Montana has a single seat in the House of Representatives. I will continue to fight for Montana’s voice to be one of affirmation, safety, and inclusion.

Imagination Library

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I sent A Shout-out to Books, Libraries, and Dolly Parton to Hellgate High School staff fourteen months ago. Since then, I’ve talked with fathers, mothers, and a grandmother who subsequently registered their children and grandchildren in Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library. Their smiles and enthusiasm were heartwarming and made me wish I’d been able to offer Imagination Library to my Lamaze students years ago.

At times I carted board books and picture books to class, one for each student to peruse as I pitched our public library and its special children’s offerings. I hoped those efforts resulted in some library visits, not only because of my lifelong love of reading and libraries, but because one of my parenting highlights involved my lap, two boys, and good books, which segued to sitting on the couch, bookended by Eric and Colin reading “a page and a page.”

Bedtime reading with Colin and Eric. 1992.
Bedtime reading with Colin and Eric. 1992.

My days and nights of Lamaze classes, OB nursing, and read-alouds are long behind me. I miss the magic of birth, but I love the magic of books. Last week a teacher shared a conversation she’d had with her four-year-old grandson about a “chapter book” he’d recently finished, and about his pride at listening to longer books. We talked about Imagination Library, which prompted me to take another look at its website. Two days ago, the number of U.S. children (birth-age five) registered was 900,712. Today, that number has morphed to 939,462. Beautiful. I hope stories and books continue to thrill those kiddos into high school and beyond.

An Evening at ROOTS Young Adult Shelter

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During my recent visit to Seattle, I had the privilege of volunteering at ROOTS (Rising Out Of The Shadows) Young Adult Shelter. Its mission statement reads: ROOTS provides shelter and other essential services to homeless young adults. We build community, advocate for social justice, and foster dignity among low-income people.

ROOTS provides a safe place for up to forty-five young adults, ages eighteen to twenty-five, 365 nights a year. The night I volunteered, there wasn’t enough space to accommodate all who sought shelter. According to ROOTS’ website, this has become a more common occurrence. “These young people are spiraling out of the foster care system and onto the streets, fleeing abusive homes and failing to find work opportunities to survive in this tough economic climate.”

Those who weren’t lottoed in that night were given a plate of food, a blanket, a bus ticket, and a referral to another shelter if space was available. Of the guests in shelter, their resilience and unfulfilled potential were palpable. Some were students. Others were employed. But none had stable homes.

I helped two other volunteers prepare dinner. Though it was their second night at shelter, it was their first night on kitchen duty. We prepared a “feast” using leftovers, salad, fruit, baked goods, and four packages of egg noodles which we added to gorgonzola cheese sauce we scored from the refrigerator.

While we were preparing the meal, some folks carried in leftovers from a group gathering. Since we had plenty of food, we dated their donations and put them in the refrigerator, where they were sure to be a welcome discovery for the dinner crew the following night.

In addition to the above, several things struck me about my evening at ROOTS.

  • The dedication of staff and volunteers.
  • Preferred gender pronouns on staff and volunteers’ nametags.
  • An on-site resource specialist.
  • Donated clothing and books.
  • A sign which said that you could not use on-site, but if you arrived with dirty needles, they could be disposed of safely.
  • The smooth transition of the room as guests helped arrange mats and bins.
  • Guest access to computers, laundry facilities, showers and lockers.
  • The camaraderie between volunteers and guests.
  • The politeness and appreciativeness of the guests.
  • The opportunity for guests to earn locker privileges by volunteering in shelter.
  • The serenity of the room and its forty-five guests after lights out.

Our opening meeting before guests arrived and our debriefing after lights out were impressive. I was moved by the compassion and commitment of the volunteers, several of whom were in the age group of the guests.

During our debriefing, we were given the opportunity to share concerns, warnings given and an evening highlight. No one had warnings or concerns, but we all had highlights. One volunteer, whom we learned in our opening meeting was there for the first time, was enthusiastic about her desire to return. Others were regulars, evident by nods of recognition as they shared highlights about familiar guests.

When it was my turn, I shared three highlights: being part of a team headed by my son Eric, the evening’s Program Coordinator; seeing the welcoming, safe, inclusive place I’d heard so much about; and having guests help in the kitchen and in the dish room.

I didn’t share one huge highlight though, afraid tears would stifle my words. Working with my kitchen companions, and peripherally with the other volunteers, was deeply moving. To witness their kindness, compassion, dedication and connectedness with the guests was an affirmation of the goodness in our world. I wanted to tell them that they’re making our world a better place. I wanted to say that being in their presence made my heart sing, but I knew I would choke on my words.

I was touched by the guests as well. Through my observations and brief interactions with some of them, I felt so much unfulfilled potential. Two poignant memories stand out. As I was preparing a burrito for a guest, another awaiting his dinner asked, “How’s your night going?” I told him it was going well and asked how his was. “Pretty good,” he said. “That’s what we always say. Pretty good,” he repeated, with a hint of a smile.

What resilience.

Later, Eric had just given me a quick introduction to the dish room and sterilizer when a guest arrived and donned an apron. Wordlessly he turned his back to me and held out his apron strings for me to tie. Eric asked if he wanted help with the dishes but the guest said no, so I went back into the kitchen to collect our serving dishes.

After adding them to the overflowing counter, I thanked our helper for tackling the mountain of dishes. He said he’d done “twenty times that many” and told me he used to work in a restaurant. When I asked where, he hesitated. I’d wondered then if, in my attempt at small talk, I’d overstepped my bounds. He allayed my fear seconds later when he said in a soft voice, “Colorado.”

What a tender moment to be gifted with his trust.

Thank you, ROOTS, for the important work you do. Thank you for providing a safe, welcoming and inclusive place and for being a stepping stone as you raise young adults out of the shadows.

US v Belgium: 2014 Round of 16

World Cup 2014

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Brazilians love their futbol. O jogo bonito, they call it. The beautiful game. I had the good fortune of witnessing this love firsthand when, topping my husband’s bucket list, World Cup 2014 drew our family to Salvador, Brazil.

Truth be told, though I was looking forward to seeing some games, I was more excited about spending time with our sons, Eric and Colin. Living five hundred miles apart, our opportunities to get together are limited. Anticipating more than three weeks of family bonding had me over the moon.

What I hadn’t envisioned—something zealous soccer fans will have a hard time understanding—is just how electrifying it would be. To be. In Brazil. For the World Cup.

I’m no stranger to soccer. Rich and I began playing in our mid-twenties and, years later, I became a soccer mom. That status segued the summer of 2010 when our family played together on a co-rec team. Playing short one sweltering July evening, I was assigned to midfield. I still smile at the memory of Colin hollering, “MOM! GO TO THE BALL!”  O jogo bonito it was not.

Fast-forward to June, 2014. In the preparatory reading I did on the plane, I learned new—to me—soccer terms. Matches. Penalties. Pitch. Set plays. I read about the World Cup groups, teams, and star players. I learned that, after sixty-four years, Brazil’s devastating 1950 World Cup loss to Uruguay—coined el Maracanaço, the Maracanã blow—remained an open wound. A 2014 Brazil World Cup victory at Estádio do Maracanã could erase the lingering sorrow.

As we queued with hundreds of others to watch the opening match at Salvador’s FIFA Fan Fest, the excitement was palpable. Brahma flowed; drum beats, cheers, and vuvuzelas created a cacophony of noise; Brasil’s yellow and green ruled the night; and the home team won. It was magical.

FIFA Fan Fest™ -- Salvador

Throughout the ensuing days, the air sizzled as futbol reigned supreme. Soccer jerseys, flags and team colors led to conversations among strangers—filled with either pre-match anticipation and speculation, or post-match jubilation or angst. Whether watching a match at our pousada, in a restaurant, at the Fan Fest, or live at Arena Fonte Nova, it was a treat to gather with others—including more than fifty thousand in the Arena—and be a part of the ebb and flow of groans and cheers, high fives and stadium waves.

Before the France vs Switzerland match, I crafted a rudimentary sign, hoping to connect with our French student, Jordane, across the airwaves. Approaching the stadium, I was on a mission to score face paint to increase my odds. I spotted a young woman painting flowers on her cheeks—mirror in one hand, brush in the other. A young man, whose entire face was painted blue, white and red, supervised her handiwork. They were Brazilians, I learned, supporters of Esporte Clube Bahia, the local team which shares the French colors. As the woman interrupted her artistry to finger paint two flags for me, I told them our French friend was hoping to see us on TV. Her friend laughed and, carefully sandwiching his face between his hands, said, “I want to be on TV, too!”

I hope he was successful.

France v Switzerland. World Cup 2014.

Television cameras did not swing our way during the game. Outside the stadium, though, Colin and I hurried to a random camera to wave my sign and cheer France’s victory. Perhaps someone—somewhere—saw us, but we did not receive reports of a sighting from anyone we knew.

Added sweetness to our World Cup adventures included being joined by twenty-four other Missoulians three days before USA played Belgium in the Round of 16. In Salvador. On game day, Rich, Colin and several of the Missoula crew bused to the Pelourinho, the Historic Centre, where they found a dance-club-turned-game-watching-venue to watch Argentina beat Switzerland.

Joined by a group of boisterous Belgians, there was playful bantering regarding the anticipated outcome of the USA vs Belgium match. Many of the Missoula fans shared a confidence that the US would triumph.

US and Belgium fans share pre-game fun.

Dressed for victory, a faction of Missoulians was interviewed by Norwegian and Ukrainian television stations before the match, and by NBC and BeIN Sports after. ESPN captured them on camera, too; later replaying their enthusiasm on Sports Center.

USA!

But a victory was not to be had.

US v Belgium: 2014 Round of 16

Still, it was thrilling to see the US play. Watching them, and witnessing Tim Howard’s record-breaking sixteen saves in a World Cup match, was priceless. They played a hard-fought battle and, though they lost, USA deserves a thumbs up for making it to the Round of 16.

The Belgium team deserves a thumbs up as well. Their fans’ cheers permeated the stadium at the end of extra-time as they reveled in their team’s success. Not wanting to watch their post-game celebration, we scooted to the exit.

As we made our way through the Pelourinho, a Brazilian woman stopped Eric and me. “She wants to talk to you,” she said, gesturing to the school-aged girl beside her.

“I just want to say,” the girl said in a quiet voice, “that I’m mad that we lost, but I think we’ll win the next World Cup.” She lived in California, she told us, and the woman, her aunt, lived in Salvador. Her mom had watched the game with them, too, “but she’s over there.” She motioned across the square before adding, “She’s mad.” We ended our conversation with smiles and a shared hope for a 2018 USA victory.

Two blocks later, we were stopped again in the Praça da Sé. A reporter asked Eric if she could interview him for TeleSUR, a Venezuelan news station. Serendipitous, since Eric had worked in Venezuela a few years ago. The reporter asked him to add my USA scarf to his nondescript blue shirt, then the camera rolled.

Throughout our stay, I watched people from all around the world come together, and I witnessed how quickly a smile or a thumbs up transcended language barriers. A special thumbs up for Joseph Santini, proprietor extraordinaire, and his entire staff of the Pousada Manga Rosa, Portal do Mar Restaurante, and Dolce Vita Pizzaria. They love their futbol. And I feel their pain.