Brian Lynch

Pastor Carol asked me to do the daily contemplation based on a book we're reading as a group. It seemed relevant today in a COVID-19 world. You can listen as a podcast , and  see the Slides here .

The season of commencement is upon us: my diploma came by email last month. (Those online correspondence course grad parties are pretty wild, conducted by webcam.) "As I mentioned to you a few weeks ago," wrote the friendly editor, "we are approaching the term limit for your Sunday columns. Sorry. I'm looking for a new group to start in July." I immediately suggested he consider my esteemed colleague, Ryan Blynch, but I don't think he ever followed through. I also offered up a fine list of talented friends from across the spectrum of opinion: two Lutherans, a Catholic and an agnostic, blue, red and ultra-red. So, who will take my place when I'm gone? Every transition includes that question. Those kids in the classes after yours, they don't know what the school REALLY is about. Your successor in a job will never be as good as you, or if she is, it's because she doesn't carry the same burdens you had in that position. The hardest part is disc

The six kids bent their heads together, their classroom chairs drawn together in a circle. Urgent whispers escaped their huddle: "No, not the Dali Lama book! It's the China book!" A consensus emerged, then their speaker stood, collected himself a moment, then assuredly intoned, "Dancing To Freedom: The True Story of Mao's Last Dancer, by Li Cunxin." The moderator beamed. "Correct!" This particular Battle of the Books was hard fought, ending in a tie between two elementary school teams. After ten "battles," my son's team emerged in the top half of the competition, proud of their placement and richer for the exposure to a wide range of literature in the thirty contest titles. (Bravo to Edward Bain School of Language and Art for repeating as champions!) I wish we'd had BOB when I was a kid; it would have further justified my many hours on the rug between the living room curtains and the love seat where no one could see, devouring

There are a million things I ought to worry about... but I don’t. I can’t. I just don’t understand them, and I’m still struggling with the Great Imponderable: how does Knight Rider work? Global warming? Too complex for me. No matter how far I dig into the science, I really don’t have a basis for understanding. We live in a paradoxical age of too much information, and too little clearly acknowledged authority. Facts are manipulated by “expert witnesses” to the degree that a reasonable listener, with no agenda of his own, cannot reasonably arrive at meaningful conclusions. The Birthers, the conspiracy theorists, the single global currency alarmists – you name it, there's a web site and legion of true believers eager to enroll you in their cause, marshalling vast battalions of facts and refutations of their opponents’ equally massive fact-hoards. The result? Someone (well-intentioned or evil, doesn’t matter) cries “Wolf!” Instantly, a dozen observers, using unmanned aerial vehicle

The Zaxorian took careful aim, squeezed the trigger, and unleashed the furious energy of his ionic disruptor. A rock exploded just over my shoulder. I dove for the ground, rolled, and pulled the pin on a plasma grenade, hurling it into my enemies' dugout. Three... two... one... "Mrr-OWF!" My eyes opened. The digital display read 3:24. Not 3.24 gigajoules of destruction, just 3:24 am on a cold weekend morning. "Mrr--OWFF" repeated my puppy, fully waking me to his need to go outside. "Quiet, pup,"' whispered my sweet wife, pushing back the comforter. "I'll get him," I said, swinging my feet out of bed. "I was trying to fake him out, but he really needs to go." Grumbling inwardly only a little bit, I took him out and stood shivering in the snow, wondering how I'd returned to caring for dependents in the middle of the night. When we first had children, I had made a point of being first up to change a diaper; being under-

My wife has never eaten at Taco Bell. Never. And at this point, she really can't. Break a decades-long string? Not her. She's also never seen "Titanic." Again, at this point, she really can't. It has become something of a badge of honor that she alone among millions has not seen the biggest movie of all time until James Cameron topped himself with "Avatar," which she also won't see. Lest I make my sweet, cherished spouse sound weird -- she's not, not even quirky, just... definite. I know where she's coming from. Up until a snow day this week, I'd never seen Groundhog Day. Seriously. ("I get it," exclaimed my youngest, who knows of my ambition to earn millions writing two-word movie reviews. "Everything RE-HAPPENS." Dang--she's good!) That "can't believe I haven't" list nags. Whistling through fingers: honestly, this basic kid skill eludes me. Why should it? At any point in life, one can say,

"Whenever we have pancakes, we ALWAYS get to school on time!" my nine year old exclaimed. "With maple syrup," his sister chimed in helpfully. Mimi and Grandpa's Sunday supper had ended, a summer-fresh gazpacho still tingling on the lips, the pups hungrily eyeing the leftover scraps of cheeseburgers. The perfect time for answering the Big Questions, like "What's your family like?" A family friend, a career counselor, had disclosed one of his secrets in assessing clients' personality and character. He would invite the candidate and spouse to supper, and pick them up at their home. While there, he'd make small talk with the children, and try to ascertain the Prime Parental Directive operating within the family. Usually younger kids could sum it up with the answers to "In our family, we ALWAYS...' and "We NEVER...." I'm not sure if the relationship between pancakes and promptness richly defines life in our family, but

“Arnold, you sit here!” the elderly father commanded his sons, themselves in their early sixties. Supper was ready to be served, and he was eager to get down to eating. Arnold and his brother Otto were both men of accomplishment and reputation as leaders, both priests, one a monsignor, the other president of a large Catholic high school, a notable fundraiser and advisor to the Archbishop. These were men well accustomed to giving direction and seeing it carried out. And now their father was taking a heavy hand in something as mundane as telling them where to sit for supper. At first he bristled, Fr. Arnold said, before accepting that of course he should do as his father commanded. Fr. Arnold was always fond of telling this story as an example of the importance of obedience to God, but I’ve always taken it at face value, illustrating the importance of obeying your earthly father. Normally an essay of appreciation like this would wait for Father’s Day, but having recently grieved th

We all own our favorite characters from fiction. People in books are especially vibrant and real friends, because of their in-the-mind intimacy, but those from movies and TV count as well. We revisit those most beloved by re-reading and re-watching, wishing to extend the friendship long after we have gleaned every detail of their lives. Indeed, it seems that if they do not continue extending into new realms of story, then they have in some ways died, their life histories concluded, and we miss them as we miss other friends who have passed. But strangely, while on the one hand we want these our friends to behave as we want them to behave, we want them to evolve, too; yet we don't want them to outgrow us, or grow away from us. (Just like real people.) For continuing works of fiction, this tension ends in either a stale sameness to all creations that comes after the original, or in a re-conception and restart. One need only look at the way Kirk, Spock etc. became caricatures of them

He dangled the toy, then shook it. Sunlight streamed in through the window of the waiting room, highlighting his black curls and brown eyes. Faint cries from adjoining rooms echoed off the industrial cement block walls. He looked up, shyly, pleadingly. So many had offered hope before, only to shake their heads and leave him to wonder what was wrong with him, that no one would take him into their care. He licked his lips nervously, then ventured a happy little chuckle, barely audible. "What do you think?" The kids looked at me. Of course they wanted him in our family; my youngest especially had always wanted to be a big sister. "Maybe we should text a picture to Mom first," said my son. We did. She agreed. Thirty minutes later, as we drove home, Mel christened my car with pee. We had become dog owners, insane pet owners, emailing pictures of kids and pup to everyone we knew, shocking friends and family alike. "But you were NEVER going to get a dog," we

These are confusing days of hard news and unfathomable changes in the economy and our daily lives. Beyond our own circles of friends and families, we each seek solace or consolation from our own favored sources; in our pastors, or our favorite writers, or Oprah or Rush or Colbert or The Onion. An occasionally smart-alecky local monthly newspaper columnist might seem an unlikely source for a quiet moment of reflection and encouragement; and indeed, your essayist doubts he has the standing or the stature to attempt to provide it. Yet unoriginal as these reflections may be, I feel somehow called to it regardless, and beg the reader to let heartfelt sincerity suffice where credentials fail. It has been a hard month. I've seen two different family members undergo painful medical trials with slow recoveries. I've seen colleagues laid off from careers they passionately pursued for decades, and know dozens more in friends-of-friends networks. A dear friend suffered a stroke which wi

"My Old Man's A Sailor -- whattaya think about that?" I sang out to the assembled Girl Scouts and moms at the Tea Party. I'd been tapped as the "entertainment" for this fancy-dress affair, and was leading a sing along. So far, so good. "He wears a sailor's collar, and he wears a sailor's hat. / He wears a sailor's raincoat, and he wears a sailor's shoes. / And every Saturday evening, he reads the Sailor's News. / And someday, if I can: I'm going to be a sailor / The same as my old man." The song continues with increasingly complex titles to pack into two beats: anthropologist, refrigerator repairman, etc.; lots of fun, as the girls added their own dad's jobs. And then that little doll threw us all for a loop: "My old man's an Environmental Health and Safety Inspector! Whattaya think about that!" Thirteen mangled syllables of laughter ensued. Afterward, I wondered: how many kindergartners really underst

W tumbles off the stilts, dusts himself off, checks his elbows for road rash or bruises, then jumps right back aboard. K sings her way up the driveway, Skip-It keeping time as it whirls around her ankle. Z and M duel with light sabers, J circling around them offering tactical advice. Saturday morning, after the sleepover. Not a parent in sight. Heaven. Today, I just watched the kids. Not “watched” as in “was the responsible adult on duty.” Or, heaven forbid, as in “babysat;” it’s not babysitting when it’s your own children. Today, I just watched; didn’t guide, didn’t hover, didn’t resolve their disputes, just soaked in the pleasure of seeing kids be happy as they played in the yard, while I, like Marlin Perkins on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, observed from the anonymous safety of the living room window. As part of the Helicopter Parent generation, that’s not easy, nor common for us. There’s always a Next Thing to get to: a practice, or a meeting, or errands, or homework, or b

My antiperspirant is making me stupid. Blame the aluminum, sometimes linked to causing Alzheimer's disease. The doc says there's probably more risk from soda cans, cooking utensils, lack of exercise, dehydration and satellite brain control waves, but I like to blame the antiperspirant for mental lapses such as forgetting names or appointments, or leaving school lunches on the kitchen counter. The worst mental lapses, though, come when actual adult cognition has been replaced with phrases from children's books. Humans have always relied on crutches for speeding information processing and composing coherent answers; hence the effectiveness of aphorisms, old sayings, fables, proverbs, and more recently, advertising jingles and tag lines. This is why one should load the brain with elevated. Long ago, as a liberal arts undergraduate a bit over-full of the erudition being stuffed into his head, I would have prided myself on dropping references to Renaissance poets, or anci

"Dad, can I tell you something?" my son asked. "Sure, buddy, " I replied, hoping to hear some of the "true facts" and other misinformation that third graders delight in, such as how much killer whales poop. Discussions of these and other slightly naughtier topics (usually booger or poop-related) are accompanied by the special cackle of a kid getting away with something in plain sight and loving it – a sound I love. The usual data source for this mischief is a charming classmate, the apple of everyone's eye, whom for the sake of privacy we'll call Zbigniew Brzezinski. Of course, Zbigniew doesn’t make up all this stuff himself; his bigger brother imparts this wisdom. (Again, for anonymity, let's call the older brother Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria.) It seems that Zbigniew and Archduke Franz enjoy a pretty tolerant household policy when it comes to movies. Having watched the entire "Blood Spattering Cheerleader Vixens" series

It will no doubt distress my patient editors at the Kenosha News to have me pierce the cloak of trade secrecy that permits professional writers long lunches. Nevertheless, here's the dirty secret of the writing trade: nothing gets written without 1) a deadline and 2) a hook. The only difference between published writers and unpublished writers is that published writers create deadlines for themselves, and keep them. Hacks never finish the Next Great Thing, so it remains ever the Next Great Thing. "Hooks" are the tricks writers use to hang together disjointed ideas and gags. Commonest among them is probably the Top Ten list; for an example, see next month's column, "Top Ten Things I Should Have Written About In My First Ten Columns." I mention all this because I recently discovered that it takes exactly four weeks, four days and four hours to write this monthly essay. (My gracious editors must also wonder why these lovingly polished gems show up almost a