I was born, baptized, and educated into the Catholic Faith. In first grade, in 1955, this was the first question and answer from the Baltimore Catechism that the sister handed out for us to use every day.

Who made me?

God made me.

So anything Catholic that happens in the world reminds me of my childhood Faith.

Coincidentally, I’ve been listening to Bob’s 1979 album, Slow Train Coming, with one of my favorite Dylan songs, Precious Angel, with this chorus.

Shine your light, shine your light on me

Shine your light, shine your light on me

Shine your light, shine your light on me

Ya know I just couldn’t make it by myself

I’m a little too blind to see

Oh man, if one of the greatest cultural individualists of all time, also the author of Like a Rolling Stone, and

How does it feel

To be on your own

With no direction home

Two songs, fifteen years apart, with a similar theology. If even Dylan, the orneriest, don’t tell me what to do genius, needs help, as he pleads early in Angel,

To show me I was blinded, to show me I was gone

How weak was the foundation I was standing upon

Then what about an average schmuck like me who thinks he escaped from his Faith half a century ago?

It turns out it isn’t easy to be an atheist or an agnostic, which is not believing in either the existence or nonexistence of a deity.

A couple of weeks ago, through a Lifelong Learning course and the book Born Believers: The Science of Children’s Religious Belief, I learned that the human brain includes cultural tools that make believing in gods easy or natural. One such tool, which the proponents of the Cognitive Science of Religion call agency detection, is a built-in bias to look for agents behind events, present from the earliest beginnings of homo sapiens.

This is the proverbial need for Mr Caveman to take the thinnest possible evidence of a predator seriously because the cost of not doing so was too great. Last night, for example, I heard a door creak and immediately was on alert.

There are other tools like that, but I think you get the point. Every human society includes gods of some sort because our brains are biased toward this phenomenon. Our instructor makes clear that this cultural prejudice does not mean there is a God gene or that religious belief is inevitable or is proof of God.

This idea, our noggin’s natural fealty toward the transcendent, is new to me. And I’m processing it. Something, I hope, my own brain is still able to do at 77. But it does help me understand why I’ve never been able to let go of the feeling that, in the theologian Marcus Borg’s words found in The Heart of Christianity, there is a MORE out there,

A nonmaterial layer or level of reality, an extra dimension of reality.

My sometimes Muse Bob seems to know, as reflected in his long lifetime of songs.

Me? Though I now understand why I’m still in the God game, the answers from my first religious instruction don’t suit me as an adult. Because my brain apparently has a default position, it’s incumbent upon me to keep searching, which perhaps doesn't come so naturally. Still, one is more than his brain, isn’t she?

As I walk tentatively toward what might or might not be the abyss, I wonder what I might find, or if there will be any longer an I to discover what is or isn’t there.

If not, that would be a bummer, so my brain says.

Thanks very much to Mary Acton for the prompt about changing one’s mind. More November prompts are available here.

No Nonsense November

More stories here.

the Challenged

The God Question was originally published in the Challenged on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“Newly elected senators walk toward an orientation meeting inside the U.S. Capitol on Monday, less than a week after Democrats took control of the House and Senate,” read a CBS lead sentence.

The fellow in the blue suit, new guy Josh Turek, representing my state of Iowa, has never walked, having been born with spina bifida. But he has crawled up hundreds of stairs, dragging his wheelchair, asking for our votes.

When visiting our community for the first time a year ago, he said something that stuck with me.

Running for the United States Senate is not the hardest thing I’ve done.

This is not an essay about the details of Josh’s life, politics, or America’s midterm election.

It’s about each of our stories. How we’ve traveled from A to B. What challenges we’ve faced.

Once you look closely at a new person, choosing the better verbs becomes much easier.

The Person in the Blue Suit was originally published in The Daily Cuppa on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I heard the plunk from the bathroom. “What was that?” I called through the closed door. Nothing.

Everyone has a family story of someone who collapsed while shoveling snow, raking leaves, or reading in their morning chair, just as Rebecca was doing, while I was tinkling.

But in this case, I knew precisely what had happened. And my call-out was a bit of play-acting to fool my brain. I knew it was Bob, back from visiting the Pope. When I last saw him a few months ago, the hood was white, and the stage was black.

I knew the thud was likely Dylan’s weighty songbook along with my MAC, notebook, and writing desk.

Instead of singing the chorus of Like a Rolling Stone in the twenty seconds I washed my hands, I thought about my partner's absence and felt “I love you,” as I came through the door.

A Brief Reminder of the Possibility of Loss was originally published in The Daily Cuppa on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I was born two years after Black American Jackie Robinson started at second base for the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947, 11 years before John Kennedy would become the first Catholic elected President, and 26 years before Ella Grasso became the first woman elected governor of an American state, Connecticut.

Sadly, it tells us how far the USA had to travel to inch closer to the ideal of equality expressed in the Declaration of Independence, itself 250 years old.

Firsts and milestones are both signs of progress and symbols of intransigence.

As the first two images suggest, the USA’s recent national midterm election produced unprecedented winners. I’ll add another: Josh Turek, the first disabled person (spina bifida) to represent Iowa in the United States Senate.

On Monday, before America’s historic midterm election, when I read James Parson’s prompt about gender stereotypes, I thought about America’s missed opportunities in 2016 and 2024, not only to beat Donald Trump but to elect either Hillary Clinton or Kamala Harris, which would have been another first.

Four days later, this 77-year-old white man is still walking on air in one of his three slip-ins, thinking and feeling differently about his country's possibilities. Tight hamstrings for older men, unfortunately, are real.

But equality for all shouldn’t be this hard. Its main instrument is a stereotype that justifies one group keeping power over another through lies passed down and turned into barriers. When discriminatory walls break down, the lies are exposed.

This morning, I’m particularly proud to be an American. It’s multicultural government looks a lot more like its multicultural people.

You can find James Parsons' prompt here.

No Nonsense November

And prompt stories.

the Challenged

The Beauty and Power of Equality was originally published in the Challenged on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Carole Olsen asks whether our teeth are good.

Well, Carole, mine could be better.

Like everything else on me, they are wearing out. 77 years take their toll. I remember my 90-year-old mother sitting on the front porch during a visit about 15 years ago, biting into a piece of pizza, and having her front tooth detach. Luckily, we retrieved it before she swallowed, and her dentist glued (Gorilla Super Glue?) it back in place.

As you can see in the photo, I’ve still got all my teeth, including the molars crammed together. These powerful grinders are remnants of our meat-eating ancestors. Last night, we had pot roast so tender even my mother could have chewed it without mishap. Someday, our human jaws will catch up with our softer food-eating habits.

I’m a pretty healthy late septuagenarian, but on most days, especially by late afternoon, I feel like my teeth look.

Or my colon, with four precancerous polyps found and removed in a recent colonoscopy, two of which are marked below.

Don’t worry. That’s the only photo I will show you of an aging organ.

But Carole’s question has made me wonder. Does our definition of what counts as good change as our bodies change?

Can crooked and discolored teeth be accepted?

Can age spots be sexy?

Can sag become the preferred muscle posture?

Can flattened cheeks trump rounded?

Not so much for our culture, but for us, with all our physical imperfections marching along with the years?

Can we be wise without wisdom teeth?

What do you think?

More November prompts here.

No Nonsense November

And stories.

the Challenged

What Does Good Mean? was originally published in the Challenged on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Peanut butter on cinnamon toast is one of our favorite breakfasts. But the swirl creates a weakness in the bread that, when heated, makes it likely to separate if I pull the piece from the top with the tip of my fingers, as I did yesterday. I know I should use tongs, but I don’t, until I try once again to retrieve the bap the way I believe it ought to come out.

Though I know the history of my cinnamon toast failures, it's as if my brain is on autopilot as the bread browns, and I repeat the same mistake.

My error is in assuming rehashing is enough. That’s like retreating to the golf range to repair that slice by redoing the same swing, the path well traveled.

Instead, I’ve got to retrain my brain by focusing on what I want: a whole piece of bread.

I’m in charge.

When You Fail Again, Don’t Relive It was originally published in The Daily Cuppa on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

To be you?

Tell me, and I’ll write a story in less than 300 words. With you in the starring role, unless you'd rather be in a bit part. Some people do, you know. And that’s OK. I'm here to listen and not to judge. I’m sick of judging.

I promise it will be about you and not me. How do I know? Because before I come into the office every morning, I’ve been writing about me from 4 to 6. Except this morning, one day after we set our clocks back, it was between 3 and 5. The point is, by that time, I’m tired of me and ready to hear your story. Everyone has a story and deserves to be heard, especially you.

Not your whole story, of course, just the bits and pieces. And one or two photos will help. I’ll do the rest, fill in the gaps, especially about your inner life. There will be some conflict, necessary in every good tale. And a resolution.

For example, yesterday a man came in with this photo.

With a sigh, he told me how much he will miss getting emails and texts from candidates running for office. They’ve become his friends, like the stuffed animals, cartoon and TV characters he grew up with. He knows they don’t really care about him and only want his money and his vote. Once the votes are counted, they’ll leave him, like Popeye, Olive Oyl, and Bluto. And yes, Puff, but he acknowledges he was the one who left Puff. And that was a mistake.

He now realizes he needs all of them.

So, the day after the election, when he came into the building for his bi-annual dentist appointment, he saw my sign,

HOW DOES IT FEEL

TO BE YOU

And set up an appointment for a conversation.

Thanks to Rodrigo S-C for a creative prompt about the kind of retail story we might own. You can find more prompts here.

No Nonsense November

More stories here.

the Challenged

How Does It Feel? was originally published in the Challenged on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Oh, you can’t beat fun at the old golf course, especially on a cloudless fall day, with no one but Mike, me, and Jim, Elvis impersonator, the superintendent of this nine-hole course in northeast Iowa.

An empty links meant hundreds of tinkle options for me, hazarded by four cups of coffee.

This glorious day, something miraculous. On two consecutive holes, Mike chipped in from off the green with a seven-iron. Each time, his ball bounced several times before hitting the flagstick and plunging into the cup. For duffers like us, these were images to recall in the depth of winter.

But it also got me thinking about last times. We’re both late-stage septuagenarians with months before our next game.

Will there be golf in heaven?

Will there be a porta-potty on every tee box?

Will we listen to the late Jim or the real Elvis?

The Last Game was originally published in The Daily Cuppa on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

A few days ago, I bumped into my friend Reg, whom I hadn’t seen for a while. He was putting a small package that he had taken out of a backpack into a UPS drop box. I noticed a bike propped against a bench that he would mount when we finished this brief catch-up.

“How you doing?” I asked. “Oh, a bit rough today,” he offered. “You?”

“I’m OK. Say, you look tired. Do you need help with that package?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Are you still coaching tennis at the high school?

“Yeah, staying visible. It’s easy for older people to become invisible. Got to stay in the game.”

“I saw you playing the other day. How old are you?”

“I’m 82. You?

“77. I’ve been worrying that 80’s right around the corner.”

“Oh, 80, man, that’s a different world.”

“Hey Reg, that doesn’t look like an e-bike.”

80 is the New… was originally published in The Daily Cuppa on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’ve got a lot of people to blame for this dumb story.

Someone in my older men’s book group last week used the word jejune, and he pronounced it ‘ja-june.’ I thought, I haven’t heard that word since Father Harrison included it in a vocabulary quiz in 1963. And it’s ja, not jay or gee, huh. That’s interesting, ironic, don’t you think, that a word that means dull or insipid can be interesting.

This morning, I woke up wanting it to be November. I blame my favorite editor, Adrienne Beaumont, for this, as she wrote, “I can’t wait to get started on the first [November] prompt. I love words,” and Piotr Treichel, who asked about a word we liked for no reason.

And Romulus, the first Roman king, who set the calendar months and gave October 31 instead of 30.

Of course, my Medium friend Carole Olsen asked us today for our favorite and least favorite city. Well, Carole, that requires judgment based on a bunch of criteria, and it seems a bridge too far for me this morning. On the other hand, last night Rebecca and I watched Episode Five of the Netflicks series Diplomat, and a bird’s-eye view of the Thames reminded me of how much I loved the bridges of London.

I thought briefly of leaping ahead to November 2 and my buddy Rodrigo S-C’s intriguing stimulus about what type of retail shop we’d like to run. Probably a porn shop or a cannabis dispensary, but I didn’t really want to follow either down those rabbit holes. Some things are probably left unwritten. However, I do have some photos I could use.

That left me, as it usually does, with Bob Dylan. Yesterday, as I rode around town in my Subaru Forester, I listened to Dylan’s first of three Christian albums, Slow Train Coming, from 1980. I’m a fallen-away Catholic, an agnostic, or, if you push me, a seeker, and open to the possibility that there is a MORE out there beyond the human. In other words, not a traditional believer. So I’ve kept that segment of Dylan’s work at a distance.

Then I heard the second song on the album, Precious Angel, which I’ve linked for you if you choose to listen. I love everything about this song, especially the musical arrangement, so I played it several times in the car and then put the album on last night for Rebecca and me while we rehashed our day over Old Fashioned cocktails.

“So, Paul,” Rebecca said later over a wonderful chicken, black beans, and rice dinner, “are you thinking of becoming a believer?” Let me add here: she is a Presbyterian who believes there is something spirit-related after death. Rebecca also thinks that in 100 years, most religious people will be mystics.

“No, I’m not that susceptible,” I responded, “I’m just enjoying Bob’s arrangement and lyrics, thinking about them.”

“Whew,” she replied, "you're still my anti-jejune guy.”

Seriously, thanks to Adrienne, Carole, Rodrigo, and especially Piotr for stimulating ideas.

Here are more prompt stories.

• the Challenged
• No Nonsense November

Dull and Insipid was originally published in the Challenged on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.