Longing for normal at college campuses

Ivy covered walls of knowledge,
hallowed halls of learning
aren’t so sacred
aren’t so safe.

Our children take their lives into their own hands
when they go away to college.
We not only hope they will make the grade
as they dive into their courses,
we pray they will make it out alive
without having to dive under a desk
while bullets fly overhead.

Why?

The final for which they cram
may not be that end-of-term exam.
It just might be their final day of life.

Too often examinations at a university
aren’t always based on what a professor says.
With eerie regularity the tests our students face
are rooted in what a classmate does.

A conflicted classmate
who acts on his depraved instinct
and robs fellow students of their futures
and an entire nation of its next breath.

It’s becoming epidemic.
Fragile freshmen scared and scarred
walk through a campus in a daze
fazed by the random acts of hate.

Sophomores find in death
that life is harder than any syllabus predicted.

Juniors are dwarfed by monsters
riding galloping nightmares
that trample any hope of sweet dreams.

Seniors have aged overnight.
Hopes of Commencement Day have been
complicated by the horrors of a day just past.

All because heinous crimes mock
the rhyme and reason
of normal life in dorms and dining halls
in libraries and lecture rooms.
O how we long for normal.

Lord, have mercy.

The good old days still are in Wenatchee, Washington

A Norman Rockwell painting of
a soda fountain scene I love
depicts a cop in uniform
with someone much like me.

The marble counter and the stools
were once a hangout after school
where I would stop while heading home
to slurp a chocolate malt.

My boyhood haunt was called The Owl
where soda jerks with moistened towel
would wipe the fountain counter clean
of spills we kids had made.

The jerks would call us by first name.
They were quite happy when we came.
The Bean Town pub they once called Cheers
had nothing on The Owl.

And after all these many years
they still serve shakes instead of beers.
It is a landmark in our town
that’s often in the news.

It’s like the old-time coffee shop
where just like clockwork neighbors stopped
to chew the fat and digest news,
to laugh and shed a tear.

The Owl is still the place I go
to reminisce with folks I know
when I return to my hometown
to see my dad and mom.

Toasting an American Idol and her Greek-American husband

America idolizes you.
But Nicky loves you more.
Hey Kat, I know our loving God
has awesome plans in store.

Forget the things that Simon says.
Dismiss Dawg Randy’s bark.
And don’t let Paula doubt your worth.
Your star shines in the dark.

And so this prayer I offer you
now that you two are one.
May God our Father bless your lives
through Jesus Christ His Son.

And let His Spirit fill you both
with what it takes to love.
The kind of love that plays for keeps.
That’s what I’m speaking of.

We Greeks have several words for love.
Phileo means you’re friends.
There’s eros which is passion-prone.
But that is not the end.

Agape is the kind of love
that chooses to be kind.
It’s love that’s often undeserved.
The kind of love that’s blind.

Agape is the love of God
by which we are embraced
In spite of what we do or say,
we’re loved. Some call it grace.

Yes, Katharine and Mr. Nick,
I wish for you all three.
May all three loves be yours to share.
“Efcharisto poli!”

* Nick Cokas (who married Katharine McPhee on February 2, 2008) is a life-long friend of our family. Nick’s grandparents and my parents worked for a ministry among Greek-Americans forty years ago.