During World War II operatives in Britain would alert underground forces in Nazi-occupied countries through various coded sentences. An intelligence officer might radio to guerilla fighters in Belgium: “John needs a haircut,” which could mean, “Be ready for an arms drop.” Just before the D-Day invasion, these radio operators announced the impending attack to the French underground using lines from the poet Paul Verlaine: Les sanlots longs des violons de l’automne (“The long sobs of the violins of autumn,”) followed by the next lines Blessent mon coeur D’une longueur monotone(“Wooed my heart with a monotonous languor).
In writing certain pieces posted here, I feel as if I am sending messages to those trapped behind enemy lines. Sometimes I think of a specific individual as I write, a troubled friend or family member, and I always write in the hope that you break the code and understand my message was for you.
You know who you are. You are les perdu—the lost. You are the ones suffering various agonies of life ranging from loneliness to illness, from self-contempt to the loss of loved ones, from some dreadful event whose explosion in your life seems irreparable, leaving you bereft and stripped of all you are. Some of your sufferings you have shared with me. Some I can only guess at from hints you have given or signs you have left on the trail.
At the same time, I often write these notes to myself. Then I am the one trapped in hostile territory, awaiting messages of assistance and assurance from some distant land. In those moments, I play both operative and agent, sender and receiver, the man safely ensconced behind the radio and the guerilla fighter surrounded by enemies, many of them self-created.
Which brings me to Christmas and a message for a few of us.
Advent, Christmas, the twelve days of Christmas: all can be a time of great joy, a season when our thoughts turn to family, parties, and gatherings, a time, too, when some of us recollect the coming of a child who split human history in half and who redeemed us from our sins.
Now we are approaching Epiphany and the end of the season joy and hope.
For some this season has brought darkness rather than light. Suffering has knocked at the door, entered the house, snuffed out the candles, and now sits at the table.
If you are one of those living in this darkness, one for whom each day brings travail, sadness, and despair, the message tonight is for you. No code this time. No secret words. Just a straight-up message.
Look for your strength. Look for the courage flickering in your heart. Seek out ideas and people to believe in. Let gratitude be your byword. Be thankful you are a part of the dance, a player on this miraculous stage we call earth.
In the Book of Mark, a man seeking a cure for his demon-haunted child says to Christ, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!” Whatever your religious faith, or my own for that matter, this is a worthy prayer for all those in despair: “I believe; help my unbelief.”
Long ago, when I was a plebe at West Point, the superintendent of the academy at that time was Major General Samuel Koster. Though he was not responsible for the My Lai Massacre in Vietnam, he was commander of the sector in which the massacre occurred. After the story broke, General Koster was ordered to resign his position as superintendent and face a court martial. Eventually, he was censured for failing to conduct an adequate investigation into the massacre and reduced to the rank of brigadier general.
On the eve of his resignation as superintendent, General Koster addressed the Corps of Cadets during evening mess. I remember nothing of his speech except his closing words, which he directed at us plebes. General Koster said: “Never let the bastards get you down.”
I was reminded of the general’s final order when my son and daughter in law gave me a coffee mug for Christmas inscribed with a mixture of Latin and mock-Latin. This inscription reads “Illegitimi non carborundum,” which translates as “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” This tag served as General Stillwell’s motto during World War II and encouraged Barry Goldwater during his 1964 presidential campaign.
Whoever and whatever your bastards are tonight—family, workplace employees, financial problems, marital problems, problems of addiction or unemployment or the death of a loved one—don’t let them grind you down and keep you in the dirt. Grieve your losses, lament your defeats, but don’t let remorse, self-pity, or self-loathing win the fight. These bastards may knock you to the ground, they may kick and maul you, they may delight in your downfall. Well, to hell with that sorry crew. Shove yourself to your feet and move forward.
Be strong. Fight as long as you have an ounce of fight in you. Shut your ears to the hobgoblins and gremlins whispering doubts and derision in your ears. Acknowledge your failures and vow never to repeat them. Repent of your sins and try to make amends. Learn from your mistakes.
You try to do it, and I’ll try to do the same.
You know who you are. You are les perdu—the lost. You are the ones suffering various agonies of life ranging from loneliness to illness, from self-contempt to the loss of loved ones, from some dreadful event whose explosion in your life seems irreparable, leaving you bereft and stripped of all you are. Some of your sufferings you have shared with me. Some I can only guess at from hints you have given or signs you have left on the trail.
At the same time, I often write these notes to myself. Then I am the one trapped in hostile territory, awaiting messages of assistance and assurance from some distant land. In those moments, I play both operative and agent, sender and receiver, the man safely ensconced behind the radio and the guerilla fighter surrounded by enemies, many of them self-created.
Which brings me to Christmas and a message for a few of us.
Advent, Christmas, the twelve days of Christmas: all can be a time of great joy, a season when our thoughts turn to family, parties, and gatherings, a time, too, when some of us recollect the coming of a child who split human history in half and who redeemed us from our sins.
Now we are approaching Epiphany and the end of the season joy and hope.
For some this season has brought darkness rather than light. Suffering has knocked at the door, entered the house, snuffed out the candles, and now sits at the table.
If you are one of those living in this darkness, one for whom each day brings travail, sadness, and despair, the message tonight is for you. No code this time. No secret words. Just a straight-up message.
Look for your strength. Look for the courage flickering in your heart. Seek out ideas and people to believe in. Let gratitude be your byword. Be thankful you are a part of the dance, a player on this miraculous stage we call earth.
In the Book of Mark, a man seeking a cure for his demon-haunted child says to Christ, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!” Whatever your religious faith, or my own for that matter, this is a worthy prayer for all those in despair: “I believe; help my unbelief.”
Long ago, when I was a plebe at West Point, the superintendent of the academy at that time was Major General Samuel Koster. Though he was not responsible for the My Lai Massacre in Vietnam, he was commander of the sector in which the massacre occurred. After the story broke, General Koster was ordered to resign his position as superintendent and face a court martial. Eventually, he was censured for failing to conduct an adequate investigation into the massacre and reduced to the rank of brigadier general.
On the eve of his resignation as superintendent, General Koster addressed the Corps of Cadets during evening mess. I remember nothing of his speech except his closing words, which he directed at us plebes. General Koster said: “Never let the bastards get you down.”
I was reminded of the general’s final order when my son and daughter in law gave me a coffee mug for Christmas inscribed with a mixture of Latin and mock-Latin. This inscription reads “Illegitimi non carborundum,” which translates as “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” This tag served as General Stillwell’s motto during World War II and encouraged Barry Goldwater during his 1964 presidential campaign.
Whoever and whatever your bastards are tonight—family, workplace employees, financial problems, marital problems, problems of addiction or unemployment or the death of a loved one—don’t let them grind you down and keep you in the dirt. Grieve your losses, lament your defeats, but don’t let remorse, self-pity, or self-loathing win the fight. These bastards may knock you to the ground, they may kick and maul you, they may delight in your downfall. Well, to hell with that sorry crew. Shove yourself to your feet and move forward.
Be strong. Fight as long as you have an ounce of fight in you. Shut your ears to the hobgoblins and gremlins whispering doubts and derision in your ears. Acknowledge your failures and vow never to repeat them. Repent of your sins and try to make amends. Learn from your mistakes.
You try to do it, and I’ll try to do the same.