Religion

I often heard my father speak in hushed tones of the heartrending tale Victor Hugo wrote.
This did not impress me when I was young. It was a long time before I was awestruck that an Italian immigrant who had only attended school for three years in his native country could read, comprehend and appreciate Hugo’s genius and insight in “Les Misérables.”
As time went on, I, too, read the story. When it became a Broadway production, I listened to the tapes and merrily sang along with the music.

Whatever the reason, I have had young people on my mind for many days. Perhaps it is because my grandchildren have left the comparative ease of grammar school and are challenged by the demands of high school and college. Perhaps my optimism is waning and I desire a boost of hope and trust. Perhaps my reading of a book written by young adults has caused me to ponder the awesomeness of youthful zeal and ideals. In any event, they are on my mind.

It has been nearly two weeks since news broke about the devastating carnage that took place in Sandy Hook, Conn.
Words could not and cannot contain the heartbreak. Empathy was evident, but never sufficient. Compassion only created a deluge of tears. Silent shock provided a shield from a horror too pervasive to admit entry into our consciousness. The slaying of innocents, the slaughter of innocence, is too terrible an experience to voice.

Christmas Day is not so far away. Everyone is pulling at our heartstrings and our pocketbooks.
Salvation Army buckets are omnipresent with expectantly smiling bell ringers at each spot. The needs are great everywhere. At the same time, department stores inundate us with ads for all sorts of goodies to buy, wrap and send. Spend, spend, spend is the cry. What should we do?