A Beacon of Light

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  • My name is Kevin Carroll. I was born and raised in San Francisco, California, where I attended Saint Ignatius College Preparatory. I am a graduate of both Santa Clara University and the University of San Francisco. Following a 40-year career in teaching and pastoral ministry, I launched a new career as a writer and speaker.

    I live in San José, California. My wife, Kathy, and I have three adult sons and five precious grandchildren. I have much for which to be grateful.

    I can be reached via email at kmc43sjc@gmail.com

    My books are available for purchase online from Amazon. I also have copies of some of these titles at my home for those who would like to buy them directly from me.

    A Moment’s Pause for Gratitude  (2017)

    Cherries in the Summer  (2021)

    The Ambassador of 38th Avenue  (2022)

    Dad: 12 Questions…  (2023)

    A Focus on Gratitude  (2024)

    Through the Lens of Gratitude  (2024)

    A Bahamian Odyssey (2026)

  • Liam at 11

    “The years teach much
    which the days
    never knew.”
    Ralph Waldo Emerson

    I must admit that, eleven years ago today, I did not understand how becoming a grandparent would change my life for the better. My eldest son, Tom, and his wife, Hillaray, gave birth to their first child, Liam, on September 8, 2014. There was certainly a feeling of celebration that day, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude, but I was completely unaware of how having a grandchild would be such an enjoyable and transformative experience for me.

    Not long after Liam was born, I was listening to music in my classroom after school one day. A song came on by Jamaican artist Pato Banton called Life is a Miracle. I love the song, so I was thoroughly enjoying listening to it when it struck me — Life Is A Miracle. Liam is an acronym! 

    When Tom and Hillaray returned to their jobs, Kathy was eager to help out with the childcare responsibilities during the week. Now, eleven years later, she has provided this service, this ministry, for all five of our grandkids. It has been an experience for which Kathy is incredibly grateful… and understandably tired!

    Since my retirement, I’ve helped with childcare responsibilities to some degree, but to be honest, that’s not how I wanted to spend my retirement years. Knowing Kathy was more than capable of taking good care of the children, and knowing how fulfilling it is for her to do so, my role was simply to step in when needed.

    Each grandchild is an individual human being with unique needs, interests, and wants. I am grateful for the somewhat limited role I’ve played in being a part of their lives. 

    Liam is a gentle soul. He is kind, thoughtful, and incredibly altruistic for a child his age. Like most kids, he has a variety of interests which include Pokémon and jiu jitsu. Recently, however, Liam has shown a focused interest on the game of baseball. He began playing in a recreational league last year. This year, Liam is playing on a “travel team,” meaning that his team will be involved in tournaments around the greater San Francisco Bay Area.

    Last week, I had the opportunity to see Liam in his first tournament game in Sunnyvale. Players on the opposing team were a year older than Liam and his teammates. It was a great experience for Liam. His team didn’t win the game, but what they gained in game experience is far greater than a weekend of practices at their local field. Liam had a good defensive game, making plays that came his way. He also had a solid base hit to left field against the older pitcher. He was clearly enjoying himself.

    Liam and his sister, Emily, along with their cousins Penelope, Scarlett, and Henry, have added so much to my life. Watching them grow has been a magical experience. Like flowers in a garden that need attention and water for nourishment, kids need the love and attention of their grandparents to help them live their lives to the fullest. And isn’t that how we are all called to live our lives?  

  • The Gift of Life

    “Life is a precious gift —
    a gift we often take for
    granted until it is
    threatened.”
    Lecrae

    I don’t think I’ve ever had a true “near death experience.” In fact, only one occasion comes to mind which make me think that I might have been closer to death than I realized at the time.

    It happened in June 1971. Playing in a pick-up softball game on campus after the last final exam of my junior year at Saint Ignatius College Prep, I misjudged a hard-hit ground ball. It smacked the inside of my left ankle. The pain was considerable, exceeded only by my embarrassment. After the game, a friend offered me a ride home. As I climbed into the back seat (behind the driver’s seat) of his two-door Ford Thunderbird, he thought I was completely settled. Actually, I was carefully bringing my left leg into the car. The car door crushed my ankle, the same one hit by the softball, between the door and the frame of the car. At that point, the pain was excruciating.

    I did my best to conceal my injury to my parents, as I was scheduled to leave for a six-week trip to Jamaica on June 24th. I didn’t want anything to jeopardize that trip. Fortunately, on June 17th, my mother noticed that I was favoring my left ankle when I walked and inquired about it. I tried to brush it off, but she wasn’t having any of it. She wanted to see it.

    The next thing I knew, I was on my way to Saint Mary’s Hospital, where I spent the next ten days in isolation. The diagnosis was a blood clot with staph infection. Needless to say, I didn’t leave for Jamaica on the 24th. The doctor told my parents later that week that if I had successfully concealed the injury and gone to Jamaica, there was a good chance that I would have lost my leg or my life.

    I got to thinking about all this yesterday afternoon when I happened to see one of my neighbors. Three months ago, just a little after midnight, I woke up to the sound of emergency vehicles outside my bedroom window. My elderly neighbor was having a medical crisis. Knowing that her two sons are not local, I went over to check on her. Paramedics were preparing to transfer her to Kaiser Hospital in Santa Clara. The look on her face was one of fear. I assured her that I would close up her home for her.

    I returned home and told Kathy I was going over to Kaiser. I didn’t want my neighbor to be there alone in that condition. As it turns out, I was not able to see her at the hospital that night and I had not seen her since that time — until this afternoon.

    She told me that she had just returned to her home after a stay at an assisted living facility. We had a wonderful conversation about health, hearts, and kidney function (she’s on dialysis now). She was out of her home for three months dealing with the various health issues. As we spoke, she kept telling me to appreciate every day, as we never know how many days we have left in our life. She’s 87 years old and noticeably more frail than I’ve ever seen her. I don’t know her medical prognosis, but her mindset is impressive. She wants to make the most of each and every day remaining in her life.

    It’s true: life IS a precious gift. It’s unfortunate that so many fail to truly appreciate their life until they have a brush with death. It is for this reason that the image above caught my attention. Today only happens once… make it amazing!  

  • Henry Time!

    “The soul is healed
    by being
    with children.”
    Fyodor Dostoevsky

    First there was Liam. Then Emily. A few years later, Penny was born, followed shortly by Scarlett. Finally, Henry entered the world. Five precious grandchildren. Five unique personalities. Five sets of interests and abilities. Each one different in their own way. Yet all five of these young ones have embedded themselves in my heart in very special ways.

    I have had the pleasure of spending time with all five of our grandkids through the years. Usually, the time we spend together is with family. Every now and then, however, I get to spend one-on-one time with them. If they only knew how much these little moments mean to me. My relationship with my grandchildren can be described with just one word: love.

    Liam is now in 5th grade. Emily is in 3rd. Penny started kindergarten this year. Scarlett is in her second year of preschool. All four of them spend the better part of their day at school now. Henry, however, is not yet two-years-old. Normally, while his parents are working, Henry spends his days with Kathy. He loves time with his grandma. But with Kathy in Europe for two weeks, I have the absolute privilege of caring for him during the day. I want to make the most of this time we have together.

    Henry is a character. He’s totally aware of what’s happening around him. He understands everything said to him. He communicates his wants and needs with the limited vocabulary he has at this point, but he leaves no doubt about what he wants. Henry also has a charming sense of humor. He loves to play games. He knows when I’m teasing him and he likes to tease me right back. At the same time, when I need to convey an important message to Henry, he understands the difference in the tone of my voice. He stops, looks at me, (thinks about it for a moment), then willingly comes to me. I’m tremendously grateful that he understands when I’m being serious.

    It’s only been three days since Kathy departed for Europe. Henry and I have visited two parks, taken a walk around the neighborhood, he accompanied me to an appointment I had at the Xfinity office in San José (where he charmed just about everyone in the room), stopped for a treat at Starbucks, took a walk around the Target store, and attended Story Time at the local library. I’m doing my best to keep him on the schedule to which he has become accustomed — lunch at noon followed by a two-hour nap. So far, this has served both of us quite well.

    In the next couple of days, we’ll be visiting other parks, taking rides on a local bus and on CalTrain, meeting my sister Cathy for lunch in Burlingame (that’ll throw him off his nap schedule for the day), going to either the library or a local bookstore to read books together (something he thoroughly enjoys), and… maybe even stopping for an ice cream or Boba drink somewhere along the way. 

    This opportunity will never be available to me again. I definitely want to make the most of it.

  • Clunk!

    “Thunder is good,
    thunder is impressive;
    but it is lightning
    that does the work.”
    Mark Twain

    Kathy, and her traveling companions on the KLM flight from San Francisco to Amsterdam, received quite a greeting as they descended into the Amsterdam airport. Without warning, there was a loud “Clunk!” sound. This was not a sound that could be easily ignored. Soon after, a flight attendant made the announcement that the plane had been struck by lightning. She assured passengers that this was not a problem, and, in fact, that it happens all the time. 

    All the time? To the best of my knowledge, I have never been on a plane that’s been struck by lightning. Scientists claim, however, that it really does happen fairly regularly — once every 1,000 flight hours, in fact.

    One might rightly believe that this would be cause for concern. Apparently, it’s not. The last time a plane went down due to a lightning strike was in 1967. Since that time, aircraft design has been improved to deal with such acts of nature. When a plane is struck by lightning today, modern aircraft are designed to withstand such strikes. The energy from the lightning strike follows a conductive path, typically on the exterior of the aircraft, and exits at another point without entering the cabin of the plane. 

    What a way to begin a trip! No matter what Kathy experiences during the remainder of her travels in Spain and Italy, she already has a shocking story to tell the grandkids when she gets back home. 

  • The Phone

    “All that we deeply love
    become a part of us.”
    Helen Keller

    How often do you wish you could pick up the phone for just one more call to someone you love who is no longer with you?

    The Great Highway, a 2.3-mile roadway which paralleled the Pacific Ocean in San Francisco, was recently closed to motor traffic and transformed into what is now called Sunset Dunes Park, a recreation area for walkers, joggers, runners, bikers, scooter riders, skateboarders, and people on roller blades. Some like the change. Many do not. What I do know is that one of the most beautiful, peaceful walks in San Francisco is along this roadway between Sloat Boulevard to the south and Lincoln Way to the north.

    The new park includes a few unique features: hammocks, benches, exercise equipment, a small skatepark and bicycle skills course, artwork, occasional live music, and… a telephone. Yes, a telephone, but not just any telephone.

    Where Ortega Street ends at the beach, there is a phone booth, of sorts. It’s not your typical phone booth. (Do such things even exist anymore?) This phone invites passers-by to make a call to someone they love who is no longer with us.

    Ocean Calling offers a unique opportunity to speak words of love, grief, and remembrance into the wind and waves of the Pacific Ocean. The phone is not connected to a land line. It’s a prop, one which may be used, or not, to connect with a loved one.

    Just to the right of the phone booth is a small sign, easily overlooked. I happened to notice it for the first time last week. The sign reads:
     
    “Here, at the edge of the continent, where the Pacific Ocean’s power is palpable, you are invited into a portal for speaking to your lost loved ones. When you offer your words through  the wind and waves, you join an interconnected web of people who have made and received calls.”

    The intention of Ocean Calling is to make grief visible and communal, to replace shame and isolation with the possibility of catharsis and maybe even connection to others.

    Sunset Dunes Park is more than just a recreation area. It is a sacred space, a venue which invites and encourages visitors to engage in thoughtful reflection and prayer, to express joy and grief, to enjoy companionship or solitude, and to experience the awesome power of nature. It is also a perfect location to take a moment’s pause… for gratitude.

  • Focus on The City

    “San Francisco itself is art.
    Every block is a short story.
    Every hill a novel.
    Every home a poem.” 
    William Saroyan

    A friend pointed out to me the other day that I’ve been blogging quite a bit recently about San Francisco. I hadn’t really given this much thought, but she’s right. She inquired as to why there was such a focus on The City in my writing. Since our conversation, I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and there’s no one answer.

    The fact that I’m retired, and that I have the time and energy to venture up to San Francisco on a regular basis, certainly plays a role in this. It also helps that I picked up a Senior Clipper Card, which enables me to ride CalTrain, San Francisco Muni, and even the ferry boats on San Francisco Bay for half-price. Trips to The City, therefore, are affordable. 

    Another contributing factor is that it’s summer time. When the temperature here in the Santa Clara Valley warms up beyond my comfort level, I can escape the heat by visiting The City. 

    I am also doing quite a bit more walking than I’ve ever done before. In the past, I either didn’t have the time or I lacked the motivation to get out and exercise on a regular basis. My goal each day now is to walk a minimum of 10,000 steps. When I walk in San Francisco, my step-count is more often between 14,000 and 30,000 steps, depending upon the weather, my energy level, and how many people I run into along the way.

    Walking in San Francisco, as Armenian-American novelist William Saroyan points out in the quote above, provides a plethora of writing ideas. With each block I walk, and every path I take, thoughts come to mind which are often viable ideas for future blog posts.

    For several days after the conversation with my friend, when I contemplated why I was writing more about San Francisco, one word kept coming to mind: buffering. Most of us are familiar with the frustrating experience of waiting for a video to load onto our computer. The little icon appears informing us that the process of buffering is taking place. This, however, is only one understanding of the term.

    Jean Moroney, president of an organization called Thinking Directions, offers a different understanding of the term. She explains that buffering means “doing a pleasurable activity to avoid feeling negative feelings about something else.”  

    For some, this understanding of the process of buffering involves alcohol or drugs. Others might rely on any number of other addictions to buffer the pain of life’s challenges — eating, gambling, binge TV watching, video gaming, shopping, etc. Each person is charged with their own strategy for coping with the struggles in life that cause them distress.

    Buffering strategies I employ to avoid negative feelings about someone or something include walking, writing, reading, sleeping, listening to either music or podcasts, and prayer. A change in venue is also helpful, so my visits to San Francisco provide the time and environment I need to do this. A little ice cream now and then helps, too.

  • What Now?

    What’s there to say? Yet another school shooting, this time at a Catholic elementary school in Minnesota — while the children, their teachers, and a number of elderly parishioners were attending the first school Mass of the new academic year. How does one make sense of such a cowardly, senseless act of violence? 

    Perhaps now is a good time to revisit Dr. Diane Dreher’s article in Psychology Today (May 2024) which addresses this question. Her words are certainly more appropriate than anything I might be tempted to write today.

    Here’s the link: What Good is Gratitude When There’s So Much Trouble in the World?

  • August 22, 2025

  • A Gathering Place

    “Coffee smells like
    freshly ground heaven.”
    Jessi Lane Adams

    I don’t drink coffee. I don’t like the taste. I do, however, love the smell of freshly-brewed coffee. It reminds me of my childhood when, after a number of hospital stays, my paternal grandmother would stay in our home for a few weeks before returning to her own home. 

    Since getting married forty years ago, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee has been part of my daily experience. Kathy is a coffee drinker, as are our three sons. Despite the fact that I never developed a taste for coffee, I thoroughly enjoy the aroma.

    This might be one reason I enjoy hanging out at coffee shops. Of course, there are other reasons, too.

    Clinical psychologist Laurie Helgoe pointed out, “One of the best places for a shy person to meet people is in a coffee shop. If you are a reader, bring a book and read it there. That gives a guy something to ask you about. Same goes for sketching, writing, or any hobby you can take with you.” Well, I wouldn’t describe myself as “shy,” but the rest of Helgoe’s statement rings true. Coffee shops are a great place to meet people.

    I had the pleasure of hearing Canadian author Malcom Gladwell speak in Seattle a few years ago. He sees a tremendous value in coffee shops. He said, “People who are busy doing things — as opposed to people who are busy sitting around, like me, reading and having coffee in coffee shops — don’t have the opportunity to kind of collect and organize their experiences and make sense of them.” It’s true. The coffee shop atmosphere is quite conducive to making sense out of life.

    Author Mark Driscoll has a very different opinion of coffee shops. He explained that the coffee shop is “the place where socially isolated, lonely, needy people gather together to ignore one another.” Yeah, I guess there’s that, too. 

    For the most part, though, I have experienced the coffee shop to be a healthy environment which offers myriad opportunities to interact with friends and strangers alike. 

    My favorite coffee shops are Java Beach Café on Sloat Boulevard in San Francisco, and the original Java Beach Café at the corner of Judah & LaPlaya Streets in The City. I have spent a considerable amount of time in these establishments through the years, and I cannot say that I prefer one over the other. Both venues offer excellent breakfast, lunch, and beverage options to satisfy the eclectic community of customers. 

    Back in 1993, when owner Patrick Maguire had a vision of opening a coffee shop on Judah Street, he dreamed of a place where people could gather, get to know each other, enjoy each other’s company, and get the best cup of coffee in The City. The “lower Sunset” (some refer to it as the “outer Sunset”) was in need of renewal at that time. Maguire envisioned a coffee shop which would bring the community back to life. And that’s exactly what has happened with Java Beach Café. 

    With the Great Highway recently being converted into a recreation area for walking, running, and biking, the two Java Beach locations offer a respite for those looking for a place to relax and enjoy a cup of coffee at either end of the park. 

  • Three Years

    One Last Touch

    Mom was sleeping in her bed,
    we knew the end was near.
    Although she knew that death would come,
    she had no cause for fear.

    For Mom had lived a wondrous life,
    with joys and heartaches both.
    It seems each challenge raised the bar
    promoting faith and growth.

    As she progressed throughout the years,
    her courage slowly grew.
    She stood her ground with confidence
    with everyone she knew.

    For setting boundaries was a task
    which challenged her for years.
    And yet, she raised a family,
    despite her pain and tears.

    Mom gained her independence
    on the night my father died.
    Although it was traumatic then,
    I don’t know if she cried.

    She loved my Dad, but he had been
    ignored when just a child.
    He graduated high school,
    then things got a little wild.

    His college years didn’t go so well,
    but still he worked quite hard,
    and when, one night, he met my Mom,
    he couldn’t let down his guard.

    A deep fear of rejection
    played a part in all he did —
    those memories which haunted him
    when he was just a kid.

    Despite it all, my parents lived
    a mostly happy life.
    They lived together peacefully
    avoiding useless strife. 

    I know Dad did the best he could
    despite his limitations.
    He put forth effort every day
    to meet his obligations.

    And when he died, my Mother knew
    that things wouldn’t be the same.
    She learned to thrive, not just survive,
    but never placed the blame…

    on Dad, for he’d provided
    all we needed to get by.
    His dedication to my Mom
    I simply can’t deny. 

    And then one August evening
    in twenty twenty-two,
    I sat beside my Mother’s bed
    and tried to talk her through…

    the doorway she’d been waiting to
    pass through for several years.
    I knew it was her time to go.
    My eyes were filled with tears.

    I held her hand so tenderly,
    as she had once held mine.
    I squeezed it gently now and then
    to give a little sign…

    that all her kids and grandkids
    knew it was her time to go;
    and that we loved and cared for her.
    Her breathing was so slow.

    I said goodnight, and knew quite well
    that this might be “Goodbye.”
    She lived to see another day.
    I’m sure she wondered why.

    That afternoon, she entered Heaven,
    this I know for sure.
    For anyone who loved so much,
    there could be no detour.

    It’s been three years since Mom passed on,
    and still she’s in my heart.
    I think about her every day
    although we are apart.

    Her portrait on my office wall
    reminds me of her love.
    I know she’s watching over me
    from Heaven up above.

    ©kmc2025