I believe from the time we’re born our lives are focused on learning ever-streamlined and subtle survival skills. And or course, I don’t only mean physical survival. We must find ways to survive mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and even socially. Along the way, if we’re lucky, we find friends and co-workers who support our efforts. But we also run up against those whose complete raison d’etre seems to be tearing things down, stomping on dreams, and generally hurting those around them.

Over the course of my working years, I’ve had to deal with all kinds of people. I’ve worked with women who thought getting ahead required them to shelve any softness in their natures and become hard cases. I’ve had to deal with the snarky comments from co-workers who resented any recognition I might have received – as if my successful completion of a project took something away from them. And I’ve smashed up against the glass ceiling when I was promoted to an administrative position previously held by a male, and for which he was paid nearly twice as much as I was offered.

But I’ve also met incredible, intelligent, kind, helpful and genuine men and women – some in positions of great responsibility. And I’ve had the pleasure of working with truly dedicated folks who’ve earned my respect. To all those people, to the folks who care about other people, who dedicate their lives to bettering the world, to them I say, “Hooray for you. God bless you.”

And to those whose lives are dark with envy and hatreds I say, “May you get everything you’ve ever wanted.”

A couple of days ago I was talking to a relative I’ll call Sam about the different ways families deal with the loss of loved ones. I told her I’ve seen families stop speaking to each other after having a row over the disbursal of the deceased’s personal possessions. I know of a house that has sat empty for years, rotting down around its foundation, because of one family’s refusal to come to an agreement regarding how best to dispose of it – one sibling wants it sold, another wants to put it on the market as rental income, and the third wants to buy it for personal use. But the story my relative told made me take stock of my own expectations and willingness to compromise when it comes to material possessions.

According to Sam, a man’s mother died, leaving behind a house full of beautiful antiques, dishes, silver serving pieces, expensive jewelry, and an oriental rug. Since the man and his wife lived closer to his mother than either of the other two siblings, they were first to get into the house after she died. The wife proceeded to pack all her mother-in-law’s nicest things into boxes, which she then put into storage. She “allowed” the other two siblings to divide up the less-than-nice remaining items. Sam said the woman and her husband were in the process of building a new home, and the woman wanted all the lovely furnishing to put into their new place. The other two siblings, unwilling to squabble with their materialistic sister-in-law, and out of love for their brother, chose out a few items that had special meaning to them.

I found myself growing enraged at the selfishness of the sister-in-law. And even a bit angry at the siblings who allowed their in-law to walk over them. I thought of several possible ways I’d have dealt with her if it had happened to me – none of them pretty.

However, Sam said, the new home was within a few days of completion when the sister-in-law dropped dead of a heart attack. No warning, just boom and she’s gone. The furniture, fine china, and other items she so coveted were all still in storage. Other than the jewelry, she never got to enjoy a single piece of it.

Note to self: It’s just stuff. What good would it do to pile up all the wealth in the world, when we’re only going to be here such a short while? As my mother used to say, I’ve got more important business to attend to.

My husband and I have decided to try to eat healthier meals. Instead of hamburgers and french fries, we’ll just have the burger (What?). Instead of mashed potatoes (and this is going to be really tough), we’ll have something called mashed cauliflower. Rather than eat white rice, we’ll opt for its wild cousin. And we’ll add good things like a small amount of nuts, lots of veggies, and brown beans.

Now I was raised on pinto beans and cornbread (the stains on the screen are my tears at having to give up cornbread). Of course, dried beans are nearly pure carbs, but they’re supposed to be “good” carbs, right? Right?.

But I only know of one way to prepare the beans – boil them with a ham hock, add a bit of salt, then enjoy. In my search to find other great recipes I looked online. But nothing jumped out at me. Beans and something called dirty rice doesn’t ring a chime. I want something different.

My husband says I’m just being hardheaded. That I’m refusing to admit defeat in the face of my declining metabolism and stick with higher protein foods.

Most protein equals meat. So, I’ve come up with my own great recipe: beans on a skewer with bacon. Now that rings a bell.

Sometimes I wonder about us human beings. I wonder what makes us tick, what motivates us to behave in certain ways, and how much control we really have over our own behavior. We want to know, for example, what makes one person morph into Jeffrey Dahmer when another grows up to become Mahatma Ghandi. Is it just that we need to suss out the causes to ensure we don’t make the same mistakes with our own children? Or is it that we humans have a need to assign guilt, to figure out the whys and fit them neatly into the same-sized slots in a box labeled Answers to Imponderables.

At one time in our history, a troubled child would be labeled “bad seed.” Tough on the kid, but it made the rest of us feel secure in our paradigm – it freed us from responsibility to intervene or help. “Oh,” we say, “that kid’s been a bad’un from birth. Can’t expect anything good from him.” Or, “She’s just like her sister – going to get into trouble before she’s sixteen.”

Reflect upon this: yesterday, while taking an exit off Interstate Twenty-Five, my husband and I pulled up to the stop light at the end of the exit. There stood a man who appeared to be in his fifties, give or take a decade, holding up a sign that read, “Homeless. Anything helps.” As usual, my husband reached for his wallet and pulled out a dollar. The car in front of us slowed, the driver’s window rolled down, and an arm reached out toward the homeless man. The man approached the car, but before he got there, the driver threw a fistful of change onto the ground, yelled something that sounded like, “Get a job,” gunned his vehicle and drove away pleased with his brand of the curdled milk of human kindness. The homeless guy, head bowed, shuffled toward the dump-site, stooped down and sifted through the dirt for the coins.

Interestingly, the coin-thrower drove a beat-up car at least fifteen or twenty years old, with red plastic duct-taped over one tail light and a piece of cardboard covering one window. It seemed odd, in light of piles of research indicating poor folks are typically more altruistic than rich.  An imponderable.

We know all about the case studies that supposedly prove panhandlers can earn as much as $30,000 a year by begging. And we’ve heard the stories about beggars taking their proceeds and buying booze. Or drugs. Or aftershave to drink. And some people loudly protest that folks live on the street because they want to – never mind the research that indicates nearly 70% of chronically homeless people are mentally ill.

My husband and I might be suckers, but we decided it’s not up to us to determine how folks spend what we give them. In the end, one dollar isn’t going to break us. And it might just mean lunch for the other guy.

Today is my wonderful husband Victor’s 75^th birthday, and I thank God for sending him into my life. He’s the most gentle, loving, supportive, honest, and genuine man I’ve ever known. It’s nearly impossible for me to wrap my brain around the number of years he’s lived. But the good news is he’s in good health (Thank you, God), and he acts like the average happy-go-lucky three year-old. Life is never boring with my husband.

I’ve learned so much from Victor during our nearly thirteen years of marriage. He loves Our Lord, and the world and everyone in it. He is grateful for life and will often lift his arms and exclaim, “God is so good.” He expresses his love to me daily, without reserve, and in wonderful ways. He adores all the members of our blended family, dotes on our grandchildren, and is awestruck at our four great grandchildren.

Victor especially loves furry creatures. He would love to hug, wrestle, and play with polar bears, koala bears, huge dogs, and even cows. Of course, he knows earthly polar bears would probably chew his face off, but he claims their Heavenly counterparts will be open to his hugs. “Of course there will be animals in Heaven,” he says, a beatific smile on his face. “It’s filled with all things wonderful.”

But I guess the characteristic I’ve found most endearing about Victor is his willingness to openly express his feelings – all of them. He’s often overcome by the beauty in the world, and allows himself to weep in the joy of it. He sees beauty everywhere – in even the most mundane. A pair of doves, one white and the other gray, seem to have made our back yard their sanctuary, and we often look out the back door to see a rabbit eating our grass. Victor revels in their presence, and gives thanks to the Creator for them.

Happy Birthday to my wonderful, Hungarian Victor. Ain sedatem mogot nodyon.