Recently reminded by one of the regular annual recipients of this letter that it is long overdue, I plead guilty. By way of plea-bargaining, I submit that I've not had a busier, more productive year than the one now concluding. The tone of this year is best summarized by, "I complained I had no shoes, until I met a person with no feet."

From touring India with its abject poverty at the beginning of the year, through taking over financial aid, minority affairs, and affirmative action at Wentworth, the start-up and flourishing of an exciting (strange adjective in this context) suicide intervention program at my jail, the spatial loss of my boon companion-daughter to prep school and teen-hood in Springfield, a visit to the now-decayed grandeur of Greece this Summer, to unceasing awareness of the limitations imposed by increasing age and decreasing opportunity for more work, this had been quite a year. Why, even my muscle tone and house-plants are suffering from inadequate attention. Altogether, an eminently rewarding year, so far as it has shown in greater detail the depth and resiliency of the human spirit. An ironic period: I wouldn't wish upon anyone even a fraction of the anguish people have revealed to me this year; nor would I forsake a single moment of the increased awareness I now have of our continuing common effort in our voyage Home-wards.

Given the summary above (and fearing that time for details will run out before desire to share them does), I'll start with the normally terminal wish that you have joy in recalling the birth of our Christ, courage in welcoming the New Year, and a fulfilling 1978! Details follow.

Jessica, now past 14, is into the turbulence of adolescence I recall so vividly. Having found the attitudes and expectations of her peers and teachers in public school in Brookline to be at variance from hers, she did a lot of careful thinking, looking, and feeling, finally deciding to investigate girls' prep schools where she might reside for this year. Having now visited her a few times at the Macduffie School in Springfield, which she entered in September after looking at and interviewing some others, I'm pleased she and Macduffie found each other. Though I miss terribly our week-end times together with ballet, dining out, talking, trips to the Blood Bank, and just being with each other, I recognized after her Thanksgiving visit back to Boston that she is in the right place for discovering her emerging self at the right time. She spent a glowing Summer with cousins and friends in Belgium & Italy; has been smitten by boys whom until recently we thought of as play-mates; has had to interrupt flute and ballet lessons as she adjusts to the rigors of the disciplined academic life at Macduffie; is discovering more facets of herself as she shares living with a diversified group of fellow-students. It has been a bumpy road for her this year, but a road that seems to be heading along the course she intends.

LIFELINE - proper that it follows immediately my comments on Jessica, for it is second only to her in the joy and gratitude I've received from its birth and growth. Those of you who got last year's letter might recall it was one of great turbulence for me, so far as clarification of my role as chaplain at the Suffolk County Jail was concerned. Once the turbulent times ended, the work and opportunities at the jail grew apace till this March, when I was asked to participate with other members of the jail staff in a study of the potential for a suicide prevention program in the jail. Enter the SAMARITANS, a group who had their origin in England 20 years ago, and who began their first U.S. chapter in Boston four years ago. As their ads state quite simply yet profoundly: "Suicide? Despair? Call the Samaritans in confidence." The Boston chapter, manned around the clock 7 days a week by volunteers, non-professionals (except in the ultimate profession of caring human beings) who are carefully screened and diligently trained for non-directive, trustworthy befriending and listening to any person who might be ready to hang it up because all others have hung up on them, is getting about 50,000 calls and visits annually now. The Samaritans had cut their teeth on a previous effort at suicide intervention in another county jail; they came to our jail to train, sensitize, support, and befriend our LIFELINE Program as it began at Charles Street in April. To my knowledge this program is unique in the world's prisons and jails; the major work of befriending and counseling despairing, frightened, and suicidal inmates is done by fellow-inmates, who meet weekly for active support and counsel with members of the custodial staff, jail medical and psychiatric people, social services workers, and administrative personnel. The weekly meetings, attended for fortification and support by several Samaritan volunteers from outside the walls, are the greatest witness I've ever seen to shared humanity - though I direct the program and meetings, our meetings and interventions are free of rank or rancor, full of careful caring, bounded by bars without hierarchical barriers. As one of our inmate members reflected when stating the reason for LIFELINE, "Our purpose is to get to people before they are suicidal."

Apart from, though related to the flourishing of the LIFELINE program at the jail, has been a radical change in the atmosphere there, largely caused by the resignation of the former sheriff, the departure of the jail master with whom I had had difficulty last year, the hiring of a slew of new officers in anticipation of the possible court-ordered move to a new facility (it was a special treat to begin participation in the training of these new officers), the arrival of a new psychiatrist and beefing up of the medical staff. Now the various constituencies - inmates, officers, medical, social service, and administration - are talking with each other and generally working together to make our time at the jail better for all. Though social service concerns have no public constituency, for the funding of such efforts as LIFELINE in county jails, we go on. Perhaps one of the ingredients of our success is that the LIFELINE program (though endorsed by the administration) doesn't cost the taxpayer anything. Though five thousand inmates annually pass through the jail and I could not attempt to reach a significant number of them personally, the LIFELINE group has had a multiplier effect upon my endeavors. Though inmates are aware they receive nothing for the hours they spend working with despairing brethren (not even the packs of cigarettes they get for working in the kitchen or laundry), they seem to be discovering within themselves for the first time a sensitivity to the hurts and needs of others. The ultimate example of how the group has progressed was, at one of the meetings, an inmate's mention of an officer who seemed to be having difficulty; would it be permitted for him to befriend the officer? I could never have anticipated that inmates and officers would break through the uniform barrier and see each other as people. Now with Jessica away at school, the jail has become my affective home. Though it is a "temporary" holding institution, our 85% returnee rate (certainly the envy of Sheraton or Hilton) results in a pretty constant population over the years.

Partially as a result of the difficulty I had in attempting to refute charges made against me by the former administration at the jail (which, I learned after their departure, were bogus, perpetrated to get rid of me so that one of their friends could get my job), I've taken a greater interest in what happens to our people at court. Now having been up to municipal court and superior court on several occasions, I can well understand the absolute frustration under-educated/ poorly represented/ foreign-born people have in trying to cope with our justice delivery system. A day sitting in municipal court would probably be one of the best deterrents to crime for our young people: one look at the frequent capriciousness, bureaucratic delays, lost records, and so forth would well convince a person that the best way to avoid involvement in the system is to stay well within the law.

Though my capacity for individual intervention with inmates is greatly limited by my obligations to 9-5 at Wentworth and other involvements, I have gotten into the cases of a few of the people. One, arrested on what appeared to be a weak charge while a student at Wentworth, was bailed into my supervision with money raised by his classmates. After ten months of work with him I regretfully concluded that his pursuit of Angel dust (a new phenomenon for our youth, more pernicious and permanent in its effect than even heroin, and tremendously more available) exceeded his interest in forming a new life for himself, had to return him to supervision by the probation department. With each probation officer responsible for several hundred people, one can imagine what kind of individual attention this client is getting. Another, after five years of playing with cocaine, etc., was arrested inside a car not belonging to him, The LIFELINE group at the jail brought him to my attention. Contact with his family brought revealed that hey had expended every possible material and emotional resource to assist him: the judge suspended his year-long sentence, with the provision that he cooperate in our efforts to get him needed medical attention. Seven months later, I'm still getting up to a state hospital to visit him regularly; his family has been encouraged by the progress he is making there. Given the limited staff in state hospitals, however, and given the mystery of the human machine, it will be some time before we are able to know whether this young man will ever be able to lead an autonomous, unsupervised life again. Another, a senior citizen who had spent 40 years in several federal, state, and local prisons, found his lack of capacity to express himself well in English prevented his getting proper attention in Court. My French is rusty, but with the strong aid of the social services people at the jail, to cooperation of his court-appointed attorney, the culling of medical records from all over the country, countless trips to Court, kind consideration by the prosecutor and judge, it appears that this man will be returning to his roots in the South, there to end his days in peace.

Having witnessed our LIFELINE program in operation at the Jail, a Samaritan from England who is a former jail chaplain has taken our Manual (strange, the only book I ever wrote) back to the Home Office in London, which is responsible for all penal institutions in Great Britain. It now appears possible that the H.O. will be setting up a LlFELINE-type program as a prototype in London; if it works there, it might well be extended throughout the British penal system. It's exciting that we've had inquiries about our program from many other states and countries. Unfortunately, the success of our work is so totally dependent upon efforts by volunteers that I rather doubt government fiat will make it successful elsewhere.

BROWN is a little pin given me recently by the Development Office at Brown University; its presence on my lapel forces me (how reluctantly?) to explain the Tiffany Fin as a sign of my school, for which I continue trying to raise money and interview applicants. The Boston phonothons for Brown have been so successful in recent years that it has been decided to concentrate more of our efforts on Phonothons. Given the number of squawks I've made to the office about how they could be run better, I've naturally been put in charge of the phonothons nationally for two years. Numbers don't lie: the phonothon is the single most cost-effective means of raising money among alumni that has yet been found. Further, this new assignment gives me frequent opportunity to get down to Brown, where a side-trip takes me to the financial aid office for counsel about how to do my new job in financial aid at Wentworth from an experienced and charitable aid officer. Also, Brown is still one of my homes: the chance to be in constant contact with my friends there is neat. Both on the campus at Wentworth, and among the Brown applicants I've been interviewing, the former indifference to cleanliness and purpose seems to be giving way to a new sense of traditional values of work and responsibility.

You might recall that, last year, I was just beginning to feel comfortable running the cooperative education program at WENTWORTH. In fact, I had been given a person to assist me in my work with the program. Unfortunately, I chose too good a person for the job; within weeks of his starting there, the administration decided he could handle the job alone, moved me over to the affirmative action/ equal opportunity/ minority affairs slot, soon to he compounded with coordination of Wentworth's conformity to new federal legislation concerning the equal accessibility by handicapped persons to all educational facilities. Having been involved in the AA/EEO roles in former jobs, I was comfortable there. The new provisions for the handicapped, however, are so recent that there is no ready-made expert from whom I can plagiarize in the development of programs. Many people, when they hear of affirmative action, feel that their rights and merits might be swept away by our concern for formerly-bypassed people. Confronted with an expression of this concern by a department head, I noted to him that he was one of the protected classes. The disbelief on his face changed to a grin when I noted that people in their 40's are also protected. In fact, I don't believe anyone with competence has anything to fear from all of the new legislation and social concerns: BFOQ (bona fide occupational qualifications) are the sole concern of the legislation. We as employers, educators, and voters should recognize the social benefit of this rigid requirement that a person be considered for a position only on the basis of their skills and aptitudes. For the senior clerk, for the white architect, for the leg-less executive - in fact, for all people - there is now the assurance that the person who is hired or promoted or trained is the best person for the job. One need not tell me how far this theoretical ideal is from implementation, nor the struggle we must wage to bring it to pass; nor is any literate person unaware of the at-times vitriolic public debates over forced bussing, racial quotas, etc. All we can do is hang in; this too will pass.

Financial aid at a private college - just the right role for a clergyman, right? Wrong! Superficially, it might seem to be the ideal spot for a person trying to be of help. When that slot was added to my duties at Wentworth, however, I quickly learned that nine years of dealing with con artists at the jail was at least as significant a preparation for the financial aid role as was my theological training. An intensive two-week course for new financial aid administrators (that the course is offered annually in the Summer is some witness to the short half-life of people in that work) made me aware of how much the federal, state, local, and private largesse in the form of financial aid has been ham-strung by regulation and legislation. The programs had to be designed either by calculator manufacturers or vendors of midnight oil, given the multitude of forms needed for the delivery of money. We are making progress, however: the federal Office of Education shortened institutional applications for federal aid to twelve pages, with forty pages of backup, in quintuplicate. Two special dimensions of the problem at Wentworth: most of our student are first-generation college students (thus their families' lack of sophistication in completion of forms); and we are not a rich school (thus nobody's need can be fully met). Thus, a large part of my role is to track down the person trying to milk the system, as they thereby deny needed aid to a worthy honest person. It's constantly frustrating to have to tell a person with legitimate need that there is no more money. Since this is my editorial, I can state that we the voters eventually will have too deal with the fact that public higher education costs more (by a factor of at least 1.5) than does private education. The problem here is convincing the student who has a tiny public tuition that we the taxpayers are subsidizing public institutions, while the professors at private schools such as Brown watch their real earnings constantly erode. I feel we taxpayers are all too complacent about supporting inefficient public education. Would that alumni would be so generous to fund appeals by a Wentworth or a Brown!

I spoke last year of the possibility that my ordination to the Priest-hood might be forthcoming: not yet. The new bishop of Massachusetts has strongly endorsed my ministry at the jail, but feels it appropriate that I become more actively involved in the life of a parish and the diocese. Thus, I've begun tentative relationship with a parish in Beacon Hill. To date, the relationship has resulted in additional Sunday duties for me, no actual participation in, or support of, my work at the jail. Though this isn't what we are aiming for, it has been good to get actively functioning liturgically again. Funny how things work, though: before this involvement, no situation needing my immediate attention has come up at the jail on Sunday afternoons. Now, however, that I have opportunity to be with the parishioners at coffee hours, and at mid-week events, duties at the jail are increasing. Next year, I might be better able to assess how this latest twist in my clerical path is leading me.

BLOOD and BALLET continue: Saturday afternoons at the Red Cross give me rare opportunity to lie still for a few hours as platelets are withdrawn from my blood to get to some anonymous person. Whole blood donation is great, but I rather enjoy the immediacy of platelet giving. I have a greater sense of satisfaction seeing a cab outside the Center waiting to rush my platelets to Children's Hospital (or wherever) than I would were I to see my bag of whole blood be put in the refrigerator waiting for use. Now in its fourteenth season, the Boston Ballet is packing the house, adding to its program, and somehow becoming a respectable alternative entertainment for the general public. Possibly our free series of performances on the Esplanade by the Charles River each Summer has helped the public to realize that ballet is more than an effete twirling of tu-tu's; further, the annual series of presentations of new choreographers has educated us to the realization that Nutcracker and Swan Lake have been joined by exciting, dynamic demonstrations of performers', musicians', and choreographers' innovations. I've heard of blisters on ballerinas' feet: how about blisters on an affectionatoe's fist? At a recent benefit for the ballet society, I had the dubious distinction of corking several cases of Champagne; one sip out of each bottle and I'd still be flying. The point: even with packed houses, the ballet, as all of the performing arts, runs on a deficit. Give us the thousandth part of the money spent for sewage treatment and we could deliver all of the arts to the general public. Keep dreaming, David.

Now to travel: 24,000 miles and 27 flights after the start of last Christmass' trip to India, good old Pan Am touched down in Boston three minutes ahead of schedule. Each time I look through the slides of that trip I'm brought back to the farthest-out trip I've yet been on. From its start - a party given by friends in London whom I had met on trips in the Canaries, in Tahiti, and on Cape Cod - it was a voyage without precedent. Waking in the morning on a houseboat on Dal Lake below the Shalimar gardens in the Himalayas to see the snow-capped mountains frosted in orange; a New Year's party in Goa where our waiter said the wine consumed at our table of six cost more than his annual wages (just a few blocks from where St. Francis Xavier is interred); being asked by a porter in a former Maharajah's palace where tipping is forbidden if he could have the privilege of shining my shoes; riding an elephant up a mountainside (seasickness, anyone?) to gape at the jewel-encrusted Amber palace; spontaneously intoning the Magnificat as the only appropriate response to seeing the Taj Mahal as the moon irradiated it with a transcendent glow; meeting two families who tried to get their sons to Wentworth (only to find, after months of effort on both sides of the world that Indian red Tape had entangled them on the distant shore); having one of my cameras break as I stumbled over 4,000-year-old temple ruins in Mahabalipurum (thank God the accident occurred there; how else could I fit in such an incredible place name?); being given a tour in Calcutta of the glory that was Empire in that first English incursion into the sub-continent; being ensnarled in a traffic jam of cars, pedicabs, trucks, elephants, camels, oxen, and omni-present sacred cows (Do not touch nor disturb!), and pedestrians for hours. A caution: don't try to travel by road anywhere in India: you can't get there. Yes, the poverty of which we hear is everywhere in India; so, however, is one of the most gracious, self-effacing, hospitable, and dignified people I've had the pleasure of meeting. "Coming just now", one promptly learn, translates in India into a six-hour delay. But, as an Indian maid told me my first day there; in the West, we are the servants of time; in India, eternity reigns. Did have another chance for work in Goa: thousands of miles and light-years from home, an Indian asked if he might buy a surplus roll of my color film. When I joined his family's table, learned that he was the Indian manager of a firm from which I had been trying to get a co-op employment opportunity in Worcester. His payment for the film: a letter to the worcester home-office, strongly urging that Wentworth co-ops be hired.

A new world heard from: in May/June a Wentworth group was off to Greece. Though this second trip with a charter group has reinforced my preference for solo travel ("everyone back on the bus in 12 minutes"), it was good to check out a new (ancient?) place, to stand on the rock from which Saint Paul preached to the Athenians, to see Lord Byron's name irresponsibly carved in the ancient temple of Poseidon at the tip of the Adriatic, to visit the temples and arena of the Delphic oracles, to spend a carefree afternoon with old Boston friends driving along the coast, to cruise among the Greek isles (each one unique and seemingly untouched by the centuries), to organize a last-night party with 80 of the tour members, to return via Bangor, Maine (where? - not enough fuel to make it to Boston) - this was my Greece.

Had enough? I have. Now ready for departure from the real world in a few weeks for my annual recharging. As usual, departure Christmass morning, arrival at 6:00 the next morning in Cuzco on my way to the Inca ruins of Manchu Picchu, thence to Lima, on via Santiago to New Year's in Buenos Aires; loaded cameras ready for Iguassu Falls which separate Argentina and Brazil in twelve miles of cascades; finally (profiting from last year's lesson of exhaustion) crashing on Copacabana Beach in Rio for a week before returning to Boston, ready for another unpredictable year.

I do regret this letter is probably getting to you too late for a note of response in Christmass cards you might send; but I still hope to hear from you. I've made some editorial points in the foregoing; your rebuttal/support would be gratefully received.