CMO 94: CBWCM ... SHOW NOTES ... S9/E4 071525

 

Today on Coffee Break with Carlos Michael

- When Letting Go Isn’t Giving Up

- The Words Beneath the Weight

- More Than A Melody

Show Time: 19m, 07s

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Not to worry, I don’t intend to post a daily show. It’s just sometimes you have hurt, joy, or sorrow in your heart that you sometimes feel you need to share even if no one reaches out in return—and that’s okay. Sometimes just sharing is therapy enough. Welcome to what I like to call “The best virtual coffee shop in America.” Let’s coffee break.

-- Intro

Intro: When Letting Go Isn't Giving Up

This morning began as so many do—with quiet gratitude and the kind of hope that can only be whispered through tired prayers and strong coffee. But beneath that hope lives a heaviness I can’t dismiss, rooted in love, concern, and the ache of watching someone I treasure walk into an uncertain chapter.

Today’s reflection is tender and complex. It’s not a defense, but a testimony—a portrait of fatherhood stretched thin between faith and reality. A reckoning with what it means to care without control, to speak truth without being heard, and to love someone fiercely enough to let them try, even when your heart isn’t ready.

This isn’t about blame. It’s about the quiet, sacrificial rhythm of daily caregiving, the misunderstood weight of decisions made under duress, and the holy tension between holding on and letting go.

So, before assumptions rise and accusations echo, take a breath with me. Let’s step into the story as it is—not polished, but present.

What follows is not the whole picture. But it is the truth.

-- Intro

Tuesday Morning Reflection

This morning, I awoke with gratitude for the gift of a new day—much as I reflected in Monday’s entry—yet today, a heaviness shadows my joy. I recognize my own shortcomings in this: I did not turn to Our Lady and the Saints when frustration swept over my heart, nor did I choose to answer judgment and accusation with gentle words of understanding, as charity would have preferred. I knew, deep down, that whatever reply I offered might not be received in the spirit it was given, and so I hesitated.

There is sorrow here that the person reaching out to me cannot fathom—the ache and anxiety I carry regarding my son and his choice to leave our home. I spoke from my heart, sharing my worries and the pain of it all, only to be met with a polite but resolute reminder: this decision belongs to him alone. The law regards him as an adult, full stop. My role is reduced to expressing concern, but the outcome is no longer within my hands.

Weariness presses on me. Since June of last year, when my son’s struggles first manifested and the diagnosis of schizophrenia was given, countless hours have been poured into his care—far more than I can number. The toll on body and spirit is real, yet I know I am called to trust, to hope, and to seek help beyond myself, even in the midst of exhaustion.

To suggest that I “do not want my son here” is, frankly, unfounded. I have poured time, energy, and resources into caring for my son in ways I never have before—this, while also tending to an elderly friend, a younger son, the unending demands of the household, and remaining faithful to my commitments in the Church and beyond. I do not recount these things in complaint; rather, I am grateful for the opportunities to serve. Yet to presume that I lack the desire for my son’s presence, without having witnessed the sacrifices made on his behalf, is a grave misunderstanding. And I have not walked this path alone. Were it not for my youngest son—who, with honesty, admitted from the start that he was not prepared to bear the weight of caregiving—I dare not imagine the greater burden I might have shouldered. His candor, though difficult at first, proved a quiet blessing.

While I can comprehend the roots of their anger, to lay the entirety of blame at my feet—as if I alone bear responsibility, not only for this circumstance but for all that has transpired—feels unjust. Over the years, I have acknowledged my faults with genuine sorrow and contrition, never denying the places where I have fallen short. Yet, for one to overlook that this was always a shared undertaking, and to single me out as solely culpable, misses the truth that this was never a solo endeavor, but one borne together.

Let me be clear: I am not abandoning my adult son, nor am I casting him out. The door to our home remains open, the porch light burning—a silent promise that should life in his own space prove too great a challenge, he will always find refuge here. I am prepared, without hesitation, to resume my care for him for as long as I have breath. This is not a matter of fear over what might happen when he steps out on his own, but rather a movement of trust—trust rooted in Christ, in whom I firmly profess that my son is watched over and protected, and, if it be not the Lord’s will for him to remain apart, he will be guided home once more.

From his very first meeting with Family & Children’s Services, my son has expressed his hopes plainly: he seeks independence, a return to his studies, and the dignity of employment. As much as love compels me to care for him, I have come to recognize that my desire to shield and support may inadvertently hinder rather than help his growth. If he does not learn now to care for himself—as so many others do, even in the face of mental illness—who will be there for him when I am gone? It is naïve to assume family alone can or will shoulder that responsibility; experience has taught us otherwise.

So, I entrust him—imperfectly, but sincerely—to God’s providence, believing that the same love which binds me to him also calls me to let him go, so that he may learn, struggle, and, God willing, flourish in ways I cannot orchestrate or foresee.

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Outro: Where the Porch Light Still Burns

So here I stand—not in defense, but in devotion. Not seeking vindication, but extending clarity for those willing to see beyond the surface.

My son’s journey is his own, and my love for him is not erased by his departure—it’s etched deeper. Through sleepless nights, unspoken worries, and the kind of care that reshapes a soul, I have offered what I could—imperfectly, yes, but unrelentingly.

Let it be known: the door remains open, the light still glows on the porch, and this heart, though weary, still waits—not with bitterness, but with the quiet strength of someone who has loved deeply and refuses to stop.

So if misunderstanding comes knocking, may grace answer first. And if judgment lingers at the gate, may truth walk it home.

Let this be a page turned with dignity, and a step forward in trust.

I’m still here. And I always will be.

-- Intro

Intro: The Words Beneath the Weight

There are moments when silence protects. And moments when it misrepresents.

What follows is not an argument. It’s not a retelling crafted out of resentment or defense. It’s a letter born from the lived reality of a father navigating something few ever fully understand. It’s a response to an accusation that cuts deeper than words should, and a correction offered not in anger—but in truth.

This is a glimpse into the year that changed everything. A year marked not by absence, but by presence. Not by avoidance, but by sacrifice.

If compassion still matters—and I believe it does—then this letter might help bridge the gap between assumption and understanding.

Here is what they don’t see.

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Letter: What They Don’t See

Dear [Name Not Spoken, But Very Much Present],

I wasn’t going to write this. But sometimes silence gets mistaken for indifference, and I’ve carried too much for too long to let this moment pass unspoken.

You said I didn’t want my son. That I didn’t want him there, with me. And I’ve turned that sentence over in my head like a coin that refuses to land.

What you don’t see—what maybe you’ve forgotten—is that my youngest son and I were there when the shadows first crept in this time last year. We stood at the edge of confusion, meds, moods, and midnight panic calls. We didn’t flinch. We didn’t flee. We stayed. Not for days. Not weeks. But for a year—and counting.

Every appointment, every setback, every moment of calm that felt like a miracle—my son wasn’t alone. We showed up. And when he said he wanted to try living on his own again—not because he was unwanted, but because he believed he could—we listened, even through concern.

Yes, I expressed my discomfort. Yes, I worried. Because that’s what fathers do who love their children. Just as I believe you do. But the care team told me the truth I already knew: He’s a legal adult. He gets to decide. And I don’t get veto power—not in this, not when the law speaks louder than love.

You weren’t there for those conversations. I don’t mean the past. I know you were there then. I mean one year ago through today.  You weren’t there for the quiet nights and tearful mornings. You saw a headline. We lived the footnotes.

So, I ask—gently but firmly—don’t rewrite the story from the bleachers. Love doesn’t look like agreement. Love looks like staying when it’s hard, worrying when it’s inconvenient, and caring with no applause.

That’s what we did. That’s what I’m still doing.

And if there's a version of this world where misunderstandings heal and compassion wins—then may this letter be a stepping stone in that direction.

With strength, tired hope, and truth, Carlos.

-- Intro

What the World Needs Now: A Song of Hope

Reflections on an Enduring Anthem

Intro: More Than a Melody

Some songs stay with you—not for the tune alone, but for the truth tucked gently within each note. “What the World Needs Now Is Love” is one of those rare compositions that transcends time, stirring something sacred in the soul. It’s more than a relic from the 1960s—it’s a lyrical compass for today’s weary hearts.

This reflection explores how a simple chorus became a rallying cry for compassion, and why, decades later, it still nudges us toward prayer, mercy, and the kind of love that doesn’t just decorate life—it dignifies it.

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In the days of my youth, I remember a melody that drifted through the radio waves: “What the World Needs Now Is Love,” penned by the lyricist Hal David and set to music by the legendary Burt Bacharach. As history notes, it was Jackie DeShannon who first brought this song to life in 1965, her voice carrying its message into the hearts of millions. That recording soared to No. 7 on the Billboard Hot 100, securing its place as a lasting anthem of hope and unity—reminding us, across generations, of the simple yet profound truth that love is what our world still needs most.

At its heart, “What the World Needs Now Is Love” unfurls as a tender plea for empathy and togetherness in a world too often fractured by discord and longing. The song’s verses linger on life’s abundant gifts—sunlight, gentle rain, towering mountains, wide oceans—yet point out with aching clarity the one thing our world still lacks: genuine love shared among people.

The refrain, “It’s the only thing that there’s just too little of,” rings out as both a lament and a summons, reminding us that kindness and heartfelt connection remain in precious short supply. When the song first swept across the airwaves in the turbulent 1960s—an era shadowed by unrest and yearning—it carried extraordinary weight, echoing the public’s hunger for reconciliation and warmth.

No matter where or when it’s heard—amidst marches for justice, whispered vows, or the quiet rituals of daily life—the melody invites each listener to reflect on a truth both simple and profound: the greatest power we possess is not found in possessions or progress, but in the unwavering care we extend to one another.

To this, I feel compelled to add a gentle caveat—a call to prayer. Yes, love is the great balm our world seeks, but in equal measure, it hungers for prayer: yours, mine, ours together. As people of faith—whether Catholic, Protestant, or any path that bends the heart toward the divine—we owe it not only to ourselves and our children, or to those whose footsteps preceded ours and those who will follow, but also to the God who asks for nothing, yet listens always, that we lift our voices in prayer.

Let ours be the cry that rises from the wilderness, longing for peace, pleading for a return to what matters most: mercy, truth, love, the humble service to neighbor that springs from a spirit of friendship and forgiveness. And prayer needn’t be complex. It may be as simple as, “Father, thank you. Lead me forward today, changed and renewed, that I might walk closer in Your will. Amen.” Or quietly, in moments of doubt or gratitude alike: “Father, Thy will be done. Amen.”

Such prayers, whispered or sung, are the unseen threads weaving hope through the tapestry of our days. In love and in prayer, we help mend what is broken, nurturing the world—and ourselves—toward peace.

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Outro: Still Singing, Still Hoping

The world may have changed since Jackie DeShannon first sang those words, but the hunger for connection and peace hasn’t. Love may still be in short supply—but so is quiet prayer. And perhaps that’s the secret ingredient the song only hints at: that love and prayer together form the healing balm our world cannot live without.

So, as this anthem continues drifting through car radios, holiday specials, and grocery store intercoms, may we not only hum along—but respond. With kindness. With grace. And yes, with whispered prayers that echo louder than even the most timeless melody.

Until next time.

Credits:

Intro voiceovers: (Mark) Elevenlabs.io