Years ago, I trained myself to do two things, to keep myself humble.
First, every time I heard or read the story of a bad person in my law practice or in the newspaper, I carefully comprehended his negative personality characteristics, and looked for the same in myself.
They were always there. Always.
So, very, very, very much, I realized that there but for the grace of God went I.
Second, I kept the sins of my own life ever before me. Every day. Every moment. For me, I never quite walk out the door of the confessional.
I discuss one of those sins, below.
John DiBart, Magnolia Little League President, who is always filled with joy, I think because he is a really good person, will probably remember at least some of the following.
Our 3 sons are all men, now. Big, big men. The earth shakes when they walk.
Josh, the oldest, is out and married. We tell the other two, Reid and Jeremy, that whoever stays at home has to change our diapers when we get too old to take care of ourselves. I am sure that that helps to generate appropriate ambitions in connection with moving out.
Each of the boys, as they were growing up, had their own intriguing characteristics.
It is said that God the Holy Spirit inspires parents to give their children names appropriate to their personalities.
Since I had the baptisms as their Catholic father, we gave each of the boys Hebrew-derived names, in honor of their mother's Judaism.
Thus, "Joshua," for the oldest. For me, a wonderful name of a great leader in the Old Testament (an Old Testament Roman Catholic saint -- there are quite a few of these); for Rise`, the given name of her mother's great grandfather Joshua Israel.
"Reid," for the middle boy. For me his name was a subtle twisting of my grandmother Carolina May Ried's surname; for Rise`, a celebration of her father Ruben's given name, because of the initial "R"; for both of us, the English alphabet rendering of the Hebrew pronunciation of the Hebrew term reish, sometimes used (for unclear reasons) to refer to the papyrus reeds growing in the wetlands of the Nile Delta, the Persian Gulf and elsewhere in the Fertile Crescent.
"Jeremy," for our youngest son, our "accident." For both of us his name was a celebration of the strong and great Prophet Jeremiah, whose Old Testament book I was reading at the time.
The given names of each of the boys turned out to be an appropriate celebration of the personality characteristics of each. In other words, that "folksy" story about the Holy Spirit assisting in the naming of God's children is non-fiction.
Reid's name was especially significant in this regard. Reid was my tough son -- really, really tough. In his young years, though he was the smallest and skinniest of our sons, Reid exhibited a special ability to "bend with the wind," like the reeds of the Nile Delta. Nothing -- no force on Earth -- could destroy Reid.
Which was fortunate.
For a time in Reid's toddler years, I would respond in the wrong way to my kids. I resorted to yelling and anger, to make my kids conform to the demands of my busy law-related schedule. I yelled, and yelled, and yelled at them.
For some reason -- I think because Reid was a little guy! -- I developed a habit of picking on Reid more than Josh, with my yelling and anger.
One of the things which really annoyed me about Reid is that he was always picking the skin on his arms to the point of bleeding. I would yell at him for that!
To put it bluntly, for a time, toward our children, and especially toward Reid, I became an angry, yelling b - - - - - d.
I've asked him about this time. He does not remember it.
One day, when he was only 4 years of age, my son Reid, with raw courage and righteousness, changed things.
I was yelling at Reid, but -- thank God -- he had the courage to object. "Dad, Dad, Dad," he said, "You are yelling at me, but I haven't done anything wrong!"
His words hit me like a pile of bricks. He was right! I was yelling at him, but his objection awakened me to the fact that he was innocent of any wrongdoing -- that he was guilty of absolutely nothing, but I was still yelling at him!
What kind of father was I?
At the time, I had to go see my secretary in Medford, a lady named Joan Miles. On the way, I stopped and asked a Catholic priest friend -- the kind of priest I could put my trust in -- to hear my confession. He agreed. And I confessed to the sin of crushing my sons' personalities with my loud-mouthed anger, especially Reid's.
After my work in Medford, I returned home, apologized to young Reid, thanked him for his courageous objection, told him about my confession to the priest, and spent the rest of my life working to develop a good relationship with him.
And then something amazing occurred -- Reid's habit of picking the skin on his arms to the point of drawing blood vanished.
That picking, picking, picking by Reid that annoyed me so much turned out to be something caused 100% by my unjustified anger and yelling.
Sometimes in life we think we're "good," when the truth is that we are not-even-adequate moral failures.
In any event, we signed-up Reid for T-ball. I would return from work before Rise`, and take Reid down the Vaughan Oil Driveway across Warwick Road from us. I'd cheer Reid on when he was playing. When his team was in the dugout, I'd read the book I invariably brought along with me. (One of my favorite memories from this period is how the mother of one of the other boys on Reid's team became my friend. I was 100% wrapped-up in my book, while Reid was in the dugout, one game, when someone suddenly slugged me hard on the shoulder. I looked up from my book and there was this pretty blonde lady sitting right next to me, looking at me with an angry face. "You won't talk to me because you heard I used to be a go-go dancer!," she accused. A "typical man," I thought, "Cool! A go-go dancer!" and I smiled and held out my hand and introduced myself. We shook hands, and were neighborhood friends after that.)
In any event, Reid graduated from T-ball to the youngest group of Little Leaguers the following year. It was then that Reid made a remarkable discovery. (He was given to analyzing the order of things around him, one of the habits he picked up from me.)
Reid realized that the pitching in the youngest group of non-T-ball Little Leaguers was so bad that about 1/3 of the time, if he just stood there with the bat like a statue and did absolutely nothing, instead of trying to hit the ball, he'd get hit by the ball, and they'd let him go to first base as though he had just hit a single; or the pitcher would throw 4 "balls," and they'd "walk" him, anyway!
On Reid's team, it was more effective to not swing, than it was to swing and try to hit the ball. Suddenly, by doing nothing, Reid ended-up getting on base more than any other player!
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