The night before Opening Ceremonies, NBC talking head Meredith Vieira made a striking comment. She said she would be watching the Games to see how Russia portrayed itself, outside the Communist scope. Being of a certain age, Meredith thought of atomic bomb drills, Soviets taking over the world whenever she thought of the country. She even went so far as to say she believed most people of her generation would think the same.

I wish they were alone in that.

Before the Opening Ceremonies, there seemed to be a quiet tension presenting from some American social media sites. Russia was presented as that country where we won a hockey game which brought down Communism. It was referred to as the former Soviet Union – 24 years after the Berlin Wall fell.

A country filled with millions, large enough to stretch 9 time zones (the US covers 6), narrowed down to single period of its history. Then named by the former of that time, as if that were the pinnacle and it is forever broken or lesser.

The arrogance astounds.

I thought, that's one person's opinion, and that's before the Games get started. After some medals are won, skeletons slide and curlers bowl on ice with brooms and rocks, the world will accept Communism cost its people far more than it ever did anyone else, and the host country will be seen in a more complete light.

The torch will pass, Rio will samba in. Do a shot of good Russian vodka (for those whom it is a sin will then confess), and all of humanity will move one more step away from the horrors marring this land filled with paradox and robust wonder.

Or at least there won't be this bloodthirsty-edge demanding we spank Russia at hockey again.

Mexico Calls

I spoke with someone recently who spent the last nine years in Mexico. He left England with its crusty society and fine manners to be a teacher in a drug-ravaged, poverty ridden desert.

He said he had wanderlust. I heard courage.

There was nothing there to pull him, no lover, no job, no good reason. There was nothing at home, either, pushing him away, no grand desire or fashionably acceptable cause. There was just the soft call of doing something different somewhere else.

He's back now, in the land of Narnia's birth and Highland moors. Rebuilding himself.

Seems the desert burned away the lack of passion teaching held for him, and he's decided 38 is the new 20.

My mother fell three times this week. The first time made a Facebook update. The second was more of a stumble. The third she didn't tell me about until the following evening.

When someone who used to be an intimate of my mother's asked what her faith community could do to help, I went on a Facebook rant. I was angry and frustrated, short on patience. Someone asked something I thought was obvious and should have already been realized.

And I tore into them as much as my Southern manners and respect for elders would allow.

I thought I was being emotional and mean, the voices in my head were so loud and driving. I must be wrong, I must want what I shouldn't. Where is the logic in presenting the idea any community really exists as pure and as loving as that of the Church?!

And then I was questioned - again - by an elder of my personal faith community, a light on my personal ethics horizon. She asked if I had considered assisted living, thought of the time and effort involved.

She asked if I knew I was getting myself into. Three years after the start.

And I found a cross to die on.

I've always wrinkled my nose at that phrase. It reads as melodramatic and irrelevant, only speaking to those who only talk to themselves. But secretly, I wished there were something so important to me, I'd not care what others thought or argued; I'd stand by it.

Just... some idea, some truth, some.. something. 

Some thing that could hurt me. And be used to hurt again in the same way, for the same reason. Something worth holding my frustration, my sustained hurts carefully so it didn't rot, didn't turn bitter and damaging.

Some thing I could accept those I most wish understood not understanding; an experience or idea I could find the patience to explain again and again because I understood why those I wanted to understand didn't. 

And because it mattered enough it didn't matter if they ever understood. Because someone took the time to explain it to me over and over until I got it.

My cross' name: Community. 

That curious magic which turns a cup of coffee into a bared, vulnerable conversation. Which resides in some mystic room of the soul, but seeps in to hallow the cold, empty spaces of life. Makes more of less, leaving any memories before it pale and wanting.

And only requires the cost of fear.

Of setting aside the notion where we're familiar is where we're meant to thrive. That what we know we know isn't what we're meant to learn. That who we were dictates any aspect of our future at all. 

Grab your bag. Grab your coat. Mexico calls.