How my children, their spouses and grandkids saved Christmas

Children and grandkids save the holidays.

Without them, my Christmas 2013 would have gone down as one of the most dismal, personally, in my six decades on this planet.

Approaching 92, my father is frail and just plain tired; his telephone conversations with me from an assisted care center in Spokane, Washington, have degenerated over the past year.

Where once he showed interest in our lives in Utah, and told me corny jokes, now he dwells in the negative.

I don't mean it as a criticism. I understand, and in his shoes, would likely share the sentiment.

But when you are trying everything you can think of to provide care and security from 800 miles away, the dark conversations can wear one down.

For me, the doses of old age depression come twice a week: that's how often I call, usually once early in the week and again on the weekend.

I've grown to dread these calls. Sometimes, it takes me several hours to work up to the 15-20 minutes of complaints, confusion, anger I hear. 

By this Christmas, I'm afraid, the weight of being upbeat and encouraging had morphed from being a loving gift to an emotionally draining act fueled by guilt and duty.

Again, I don't for a second forget it is worse for my father and mother. He is still alert, albeit depressed (I have asked the nursing staff to explore antidepressants for him); my 86-year-old mother, with her rapidly worsening Alzheimer's disease, is forgetting everything and everyone -- except frustrations over her confusion and the paranoia of dementia.

My heart breaks for them, and the tears do come.

But it is not just my parents. There has always been, overshadowing our lives as a family, my sister. Cerebral Palsy and brain damage in the womb left her the eternally crippled 5 year old. . . three years older than me, yet always the little sister.

The wild mood swings, from giddy happiness to rage in the blink of an eye, finally made it impossible for my parents to care for her. When I was 11, she entered institutional residency, and now lives in a group home.

I have always called the folks and her for the holidays though. Merry Christmas? My father, understandably, wasn't feeling it this year. Mom, who can no longer communicate in anything but gibberish, would not even take the phone. I admit, part of me was relieved.

When I called my sister, the irony hit me: For the first time I could remember, she not only could communicate better than my mother, but seemed the only one in our nuclear family to be happy.

So, there is the overly long prelude to my opening statement.

Suffice it to say, I was feeling especially down, worn out, spiritually depleted when my wife, Barbara, and I went over for a Christmas dinner at my son Rob's house. Our daughter-in-law, Rachel, had prepared a vegetarian feast. Warm hugs, conversation, and playing with their two dogs was a welcome respite, along with a group phone call from our grandson, Josh.

Then, we Skyped with our daughter, Brenda, and son-in-law Idal, granddaughter Lela and new grandson Gabriel. Seeing and hearing the joy of the children, Lela, at 6, opening our presents; Gabriel taking a bottle from his parents, cooing and smiling -- and crying a bit, too -- provided perspective, and not a little joy.

Belatedly, it reminded me of my own childhood Christmases. More than a few of them were magical, I now recall. 

I remembered the smiles, when they were witty and happy and healthy, of my parents; my sister's always childlike laughter with a new doll or stuffed animal; my own gifts from the folks, with the realization that they sacrificed much to make the moments happen . . . that they loved me, and that we were -- however unique -- a family.

For me, the best part as a child would be Christmas Eves. I would sneak out of my bedroom after the folks and sis were asleep, curl up on the couch and just watch the lights blink and shine on the tinsel of the Christmas tree.

The pine scent filled the house, and the essence of peace, love and safety would eventually send me, yawning, back beneath the covers.

Thanks, kids, and grandkids, for reminding me.

Marital Sea Change: Same-sex, polygamous rulings death knell for dominance of 'traditional' secular marriages?

So, is the cultural and legal sea change toward same-sex marriage a portent for unraveling of traditional marriage as we have known it?

Of course it is. You must decide yourself, according to your own beliefs and conscience, whether that is a bad thing or some sort of societal leap forward.

I can hear the cries of "hater!" and "bigot!" now, but hear me out: my opening statement is rational and, to my mind, irrefutably logical.

In the past two weeks in the state of Utah, arguably the bastion of all things conservative and where voters overwhelmingly voted to limit marriage legally to one man and one woman, not less than TWO court decisions have turned the world on its head, marriage-wise.

Both came from the federal courts. First, a judge gutted Utah's long-time law banning polygamous marriages (a historical move that cleared the way for statehood more than a century ago, when the Mormon prophet gave up the doctrine of plural marriage).

Equal protection under the law, and the inability of the state to argue the harm to society, et al, were keys to that decision.

Ditto for another federal judge's decision late last week striking down the state's ban on same-sex marriage.

Monday morning, hundreds of gays and lesbians lined up at courthouses to get their licenses, where clerks were under orders to comply with the ruling.

Of course, the state of Utah is appealing both decisions. But the historical course is inevitable. Both decisions, sooner or later, will be upheld. 

This fight may not be over, but it is decided.  

The next battleground could, and likely will be whether, and to what extent, business owners and churches can exercise their faith-based resistance to the morphing definition of marriage.

Talking whether a bakery or caterer can legally bow out of a same-sex event, or whether a church can keep its tax-exempt status, or ability to perform "legal" marriages, if it does not conform to the politically correct tides.

Same-sex marriage/rights advocates argue that will never happen . . . just as they did that approving same-sex marriage rights would not have a slippery slope effect where polygamy would benefit from the same arguments.

What IS marriage, legally? It IS, regardless the apologists' who insist the LGBT Pandora's Box has not been toppled, a definition that is now wide open . . . if not in actuality now, inevitably later.

If same-sex marriage is legal, and if polygamy is legal, where are the restrictions for anyone, other than minors, engaging in this particular legal contract, etc.? 

 

Why not, then, a bisexual/polygamous marriage or any other variation of genders and numbers of partners? 

Any attempt to place limits on marriage, by any definition, will be mortally wounded by the same arguments that got us to this point.

Decades ago, I read a science fiction series where in marriages varied by gender, number and even the definition of what was "human."

One "family" consisted of a man who had cloned himself multiple times, at various ages, and married him-selves as well as other men and women and artificial intelligences.

Then, I thought: What an imagination!

Now? Not so much.

I don't have the answers to this whole thing. And I refuse to be the judge of others. Not my job.

But as an historian, and a believer, I have to observe that when spiritually informed morality is removed from the societal equation, as we seem to have done with our secular society, the very fabric of its institutions can become, certainly, unrecognizable, and perhaps unraveled . . . if not in present fact, then possibly in future reality.

Duck Dynasty: Belief, free speech and the tyrrany of political correctness

So, "Duck Dynasty" patriarch Phil Robertson expresses his faith, and his biblically based belief in "traditional" family structure and "normal" sexuality.

And, he gets suspended from the most popular TV show on the air.

He also has become the cause célèbre for a large, if increasingly reviled segment of American society under an unrelenting attack from the so-called "tolerant" among us.

Tolerant, that is, unless someone had the audacity to dispute the mantra now in vogue by the extreme Left. Tolerant, until someone suggests he or she views any behavior – let alone sexual behavior – a “sin.”

Everyone these days seems to want a smiling, laughing, never judgmental God, and anything – including His purported Word to the contrary – is swept under the metaphysical carpet, as it were.

The crudity of Robertson's discussion of sexual preference for vaginas over anuses makes one wince. It also goes the the heart of the argument that, for the first time in history, how someone decides to sate his or her sexual urges has become equated with racial, ethnic, political and religious minorities and how they were treated in the past.

It's the supposed new "civil rights" movement, we're told. But I wonder how someone's honestly held, indeed once universally held views that biological construction and purpose point to male-female unions rather than colonic, same-sex coitus as not only the norm, but the Design.

That is essentially what Robertson said, albeit in far more graphic, earthy terms.

I grew up during what I dare to call the real Civil Rights era, when African-Americans and those supporting them literally put their lives on the line to end institutionalized discrimination in education, business and at the ballot box.

Sorry, but I do find it difficult to extrapolate that to the call today to gag the free, albeit unpopular speech of anyone.

And yes, that also means the free expression of anyone -- gay, straight, liberal, conservative, Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, agnostic, atheist -- to say what they think without the fist of political correctness slamming them into the ground.

Disagree today with a liberal about the failures of the Obama administration, or suggest that marriage was and always has been, heretofore, between males and females, and you are labeled a bigot, thrown into the same "hate" group as Nazis, the KKK and the Taliban.

Lost in the rush to PC judgment is the fact that folks like Robertson are not advocating any form of discrimination against gays, and in fact have made it clear they strive to treat everyone fairly. The issue, for them, is a moral one, based on their beliefs.

Other Christians have differing opinions on any number of issues, including homosexuality. But they are largely ignored in the rush to throw anyone with evangelical Christian roots into the same intellectual gulag.

I, for one, recognize two things: First, I cherish friends I have who happen to be gay; to me, if their lifestyle is “sinful,” then so are those of other friends who cheat on their spouses, their taxes or their commitment to provide a fair day's work for their wages. 

The more strident among us, believers and unbelievers, tend to forget that we are, all of us, sinners and can only be “saved” through grace.

And second, that being the case, I am content to love all my friends and leave judgment to God . . . and I suspect He is and will be far more compassionate that any of us can comprehend, or deserve.

But back to Robertson and "Duck Dynasty." A&E's reaction may have been knee-jerk, a decision driven by reaction to the outrage of some who seek to muzzle the new dissidents in our society. But it also is A&E's right to do so. Employees these days are let go for far less, even no reason, being more and more "at will" staff. 

 

There always is a price to pay for standing up for what you believe, and sometimes -- due to questionable judgment in how that is done -- the price can be high.

But given the strongly pro-Robertson reaction thus far -- petitions, statements of support by celebrities, etc. -- perhaps A&E should look more to its bottom line.

A lesson in grace: Alzheimer's a sorrow for caregivers, a horror for spouses

A lesson in grace.

I am one of those Baby-Boomers trying to oversee the care of my elderly parents. 

 

In my 91-year-old father's case, it is a matter of a still sharp, though unchallenged mind trapped inside a frail, failing body.

The opposite is true of my 86-year-old mother. Her physical health is fairly good; it is her mind, rapidly being destroyed by Alzheimer's disease, that is the biggest challenge.

And, it is a challenge beyond resolution.

My epiphany this week is NOT those realizations, however.

Rather, I have learned that the grief, helplessness and frustration I feel over their not-so-golden years pales when I allow imagination to let me live for a second or two in their minds, their spirits

.

Inside a small room, my father is more than just trapped in a body too weak to move more than a dozen steps at a time. He is trapped 24/7 with the shell of the woman he married 65 years ago, a remarkable woman once vivacious and mentally sharp, but now unable to speak a coherent sentence or remember what she did five minutes before.

That does not, however, stop her from babbling, stringing words together, all day long -- and in her sleep -- that apparently only she knows the meaning of.

And that, I realize, would drive me mad. Quickly.

Finally, it has driven my always stoic, generally positive father into depression.

Dad had endured for the past year and a half as Mom's Alzheimer's ravaged her mind and memories. Last night, it was just too much.

"I'm just tired of opposing," he said when I made one of my bi-weekly calls.

In the code language we have adopted (since Mom has, occasionally, flown into a rage at any perceived criticism overheard) he was telling me he's exhausted by the losing battle to find some emotional equilibrium for Mom and himself.

Then, unable to speak any longer as he choked up, he put down the phone. Mom picked it up.

"Er, Mom, how are you?"

"Mom?" Confused.

"Yes. You are my Mom. I'm your son, Bob Jr."

"What? That's funny. Who?"

And so it goes.

She hung up.

At least, in forgetting her children, she doesn't have the pain of missing them. So, there's that.

But I mourn her. So much of her has died, even as what little remains continues to fade within a body that has outlived its owner.

You do what you can. 

 

In this case, it was calling the medical provider for my father and asking he be evaluated for anti-depressants.

Then, I prayed.

Suicide: The challenge to the faithful, and faithful survivors

It was little more than 10 years ago that I lost my best friend, Ken, to suicide.

It happened one bright spring weekend. The day before, knowing he had been uncharacteristically out of touch, I tried calling him, no answer. I went over an knocked on his door, rang the door bell. Left phone messages. Emails.

He loved action movies. Let's go out and see a flick, I offered. You know. Escape life's stresses and worries for an afternoon. Laugh, like we always did. Talk, sometimes about deep things, other times just memories.

Ken had some great stories. Stories so great, you would wonder if they were apocryphal . . . until you learned from someone else that, "Yes, he did take on four guys in a park and sent them running." Or, "Yes, he did break a sack of cement over the head of an obnoxious boss once."

He loved practical jokes. Me, too. We victimized each other from time to time, and he always bellowed that deep laugh of his, and grinned widely . . . even as his eyes told you, "You're next, bud."

He was a big man. Big tall, 6-foot-4, and big physically, a man mountain. When he laughed, people noticed.

But there was no answer from Ken that March day in 2003. Finally, the fire department arrived. They found him in his bedroom, dead, from a massive overdose of over-the-counter sleeping medications.

He had gone to several stores to get enough; the empty bags and cartons and receipts were nearby.
In the days and weeks that followed his funeral, we learned of his dark, abusive side. It was a hidden horror his family had endured.

Those times came in cycles, at first rare, but as his mental state deteriorated, more frequent. I remain convinced to this day, that he finally decided to end it, at least in part to protect his family -- before one of his black moods ended in bloodshed.

Nothing, of course, is ever so clearly defined. Some suicides are plain acts of selfishness, a desire to punish from the grave. Others come at the precipice of hopelessness, grief. Yet others are unexplainable, brought on by psychotic breaks with reality, desperation to end the hell of perception when reality flees and gives way to madness. And some are all these things, and more.

In my current role as a public safety reporter, hardly a week goes by where there is not a murder-suicide. The most recent was an elderly couple. She was in terminal, failing and painful health; he wanted her pain to end, and his own.

That almost seems understandable. My own parents, one in the late stages of Alzheimer's, the other enduring painful arthritis and failing eyesight, might be such a couple but for their enduring love for each other and trust in God. Faith sustains them, helps them endure, and trust that their time will come when it supposed to -- by His hand, not their own.

To this day, I am convinced Ken could have been helped. But in the sad equation of his life, he refused to do the therapy, take the drugs, and he had lost faith. Perhaps he was not capable, at that point, of reaching out for help. I don't know; and I will not judge.

But I still miss my friend.

This year, suicide also touched the life of internationally known pastor Rick Warren, of the Saddleback Church and "Purpose Driven Life" fame. His youngest son took his own life.
How this man of faith, along with his remaining family are dealing with this at Thanksgiving time is poignant, and faith- and life-affirming. In a piece requested by Time Magazine, we wrote in part:

"This year became the worst year of my life when my youngest son, who’d struggled since childhood with mental illness, took his own life. How am I supposed be thankful this Thanksgiving? When your heart’s been ripped apart, you feel numb, not grateful.

"And yet the Bible tells us "Give thanks IN all circumstances . . . ." The key is the word “in.” God doesn’t expect me to be thankful FOR all circumstances, but IN all circumstances."

Warren goes on with this list what he is thankful for this season. Here are some of them:

I’m thankful that, even though I don’t have all the answers, God does. In tragedy we seek explanations, but explanations never comfort. It is God’s presence that eases our pain.
 
I’m thankful for the hope of heaven. I won’t have to live with pain forever. In heaven, there are no broken relationships, broken minds, broken bodies, broken dreams, or broken promises.
 
I’m thankful for my church family.  ... in our darkest hour as a family, they gave all that love back in a split-second, the moment Kay and I returned to speak after a 16-week grief sabbatical.  We can handle anything with prayers and support like that.

I’m thankful that God can bring good even out of the bad in my life, when I give him the pieces. It’s his specialty. God loves to turn crucifixions into resurrections, and then benefit the whole world. God never wastes a hurt if we give it to him."

To read Pastor Warren's article in full, click on this link.

NO Christmas trees before Thanksgiving, you holiday-ruining turkeys!

There really should be a law about playing Christmas songs before Thanksgiving, at least.

The commercialism and forced yuletide cheer is annoying enough without bombarding us with Saccharin-sweet ditties that were stale and headache-inducing when our grandparents were young, for crying out loud.

How many times, people, can you really listen to Alvin the Chipmunks sing about Hula Hoops and the holidays?

Even before Halloween, the big box stores were stocking the shelves with fake trees, ornaments and all the other Christmas detritus.

Let us progress, as the holiday deities intended, to Thanksgiving and then, if you must, start flocking the pine and/or plastic trees and caroling, or braving the manic aisles of the toy stores, etc.

So, it should be no surprise at all that I am a Facebook fan of Playing Christmas music BEFORE Thanksgiving is ANNOYING!
That's where the awesome cartoons come from.

Finally, a place to give vent to my primordial Scrooge.

Some wisdom from the site:

"Everytime a Christmas Tree is lit before Thanksgiving, a baby reindeer is drowned by an angry elf."

Veterans Day: To generations dead, crippled and haunted by war, thank you

Veterans Day.

In what has been a melancholy autumn for me, today is a time of reflection and perspective.

To take the second point, first: My disappointments and valley experiences with surviving several rounds of layoffs this year at work, the transitions in what had been a steady freelance writing contracting gig, and most of all the denouement of family relationships . . . all those things seem rather small compared to the sacrifices made by our soldiers, airmen and sailors.

From the American Revolution through the Civil War, World Wars I and II, to Vietnam and, I presume, even today, Mimses have served in uniform. 

 

Three Mimses are on the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C., cousins, black and white, who died in combat on the ground and in the air.

Air Force Capt. George Mims, of Manning, S.C., was shot down over North Vietnam in December 1965, never to be heard from again, an MIA eventually declared dead in 1973. His body was never recovered.

Third-class Petty Officer Felton Mims, a Texan, drowned in Go Cong Province, while serving on a Navy river patrol boat in March 1969. (That's him in the photo above, getting a haircut from a crewmate).

Army PFC Kenneth Mims, from Alabama, died when stepped on a land mine as he and other members of the B Company, 1st Battalion, 501st Infantry, 101^st Airborne Division patrolled near Thua Thien in April 1971.

Four of my uncles served and survived, albeit with nightmares, the crucible that was World War II in the Pacific.

The Civil War killed relatives by the dozens, North and South, white and black. It directly affected my line of the family, with my great-grandfather, wounded severely in Shiloh, was left crippled and dependent on morphine before he died, leaving my 7-year-old grandfather and his mother destitute.

His poverty and a brutal upbringing by an older brother haunted him, and by extension my own father, who struggled with a distant, demanding relationship with his Dad.

To a far lesser extent, I experienced some of the same in my early years, before a mild heart attack left my dad more engaged -- just in time for my critical teen years.

Two Mimses fought the British, another fought for them, in the Revolution.

Now, the reflection part? Somehow, today at least, I feel far less sorry for myself.

And on this day I am quietly, thoughtfully grateful to those who fought, and sometimes died for their principles and country.

Obamacare: Mr. President, 'fess up to failure. Scrap it, start over -- do it right

This is painful for me. I am a supporter of the concept of universal, single-payer health insurance.

Along with millions of other Americans, I had hoped Obamacare would at least go some way toward what we need, but it has turned out to be an only slightly mitigated disaster. 

The President's efforts to wiggle out of his promises with an Orwellian revision of the historical, and multiplied record of his blown off promises is maddening. 

Scrap it, start over and do it right.

Fifty-two million -- roughly a fifth of us -- stand to lose our insurance coverage, regardless of the President's repeated, ad infinitum, promise that we can keep our plans, keep our doctors.

Read about it here: http://www.mcclatchydc.com/2013/11/07/207909/analysis-tens-of-millions-could.html

Obama's 'most transparent' administration looking a lot like Big Brother

Forget Obamacare.

Well-intentioned, but flawed, likely fatally, in its execution, only the future will tell what becomes of the dream of universal health care in the United States.


It wasn't Obamacare that won my vote for our first African-American president in 2008.

Like millions of Americans, 
I bought the "Change" message, especially his promise to give us "the most transparent" presidency and White House in history.

Regardless whether you seen NSA secrets-leaker Edward Snowden as a heroic whistleblower or a traitor (and there are points for both views), his revelations about the mindboggling scope and privacy-raping practices of the NSA's worldwide cellphone, email and Internet monitoring have put the lie to the President's promise.

And they are only the tip of the iceberg. The Obama Administration may prove to be not only NOT the "most transparent," but one of the most secretive and oppressive of the electorate's right to know what it's elected leaders and their bureaucrats are up to.

The Society of Professional Journalists' periodical, Quill -- hardly a conservative rag by any definition -- explores the soul-sickening extent of the Obama Administration's politics of opacity. One nugget: This White House has used the 1917 Espionage Act seven times, more than any other administration, to gag or intimidate would-be government whistleblowers.

Read it for yourself and then ask: Does Big Brother look a lot like a president who promised he and his would do nothing in the dark?

Here's the link to the article "There Goes the Sun." 

Monster: Steppenwolf protest song of '60s could be today's anthem — and that's sad

  Back in the crazy, rebellious and arrogant optimistic Sixties, my favorite band was "Steppenwolf."

  They made it big with "Magic Carpet Ride" and then "The Pusher."

  But, to me, it was their 1969 prophetic classic "Monster" that touched me, then a teenager peering fearfully ahead as the Vietnam War escalated.

  When my draft number came up a couple years later, it was low enough that I was one week from induction as an Army medic trainee before Nixon's suspension of the draft saved me.

  Now, I'm a graying 60-year-old man. And I look around and, other than our wonderful technological advances, little has changed.

  Raspy, now old John Kay could still belt out "Monster" today and it would fit, perfectly.

  And that, to me, is incredibly, deeply sad.

  Consider a portion of the lyrics to that song:

"Our cities have turned into jungles

And corruption is stranglin' the land
The police force is watching the people
And the people just can't understand
We don't know how to mind our own business
'Cause the whole worlds got to be just like us
Now we are fighting a war over there
No matter who's the winner
We can't pay the cost
'Cause there's a monster on the loose
It's got our heads into a noose
And it just sits there watching.

America where are you now?
Don't you care about your sons and daughters?
Don't you know we need you now
We can't fight alone against the monster...."

Believe or not believe: It's important to know what you really embrace, or reject

Believe, or not believe.

Your choice, and I'm certainly not going to judge anyone's choice. It's highly personal, and your value as a living, breathing, sentient being does not change, regardless. 

That said, this video simply shares the unadorned, basic Christian message -- without the politics, without the holier-than-thou attitude, and without compromise.

Not everyone can accept it. Even those who do accept it too often add other agendas, political, social, ethnic, etc. agendas they wield like clubs against others.

Secular activists browbeat believers, Some believers demonize skeptics. It makes me think of errant believers and Christianphobes alike being condemned, some day, to writing on a galaxy-sized blackboard, for eternity, John 11:35, "Jesus wept."

As much as "accepting" Christ, living a life afterward that honors his love, sacrifice and embrace of all of us "sinners" is the point, at least for this cynical preacher's kid who has seen way too much judgment and far too little grace and humility.

Stupid reporter tricks: The Case of the Exploding Cigarette

I recently was reminiscing with a colleague about stupid reporter tricks.

I've committed . . . a few.

 I recalled that, some 35 years ago at a Spokane, Wash., alternative newspaper, I stuffed match heads into the cigarettes of my managing editor while he was at lunch. 

He returned, and I could hear his Zippo click open. He must have gotten two, maybe three puffs before the flare. (That is not him below, by the way. But it illustrates the tale, albeit it bit exaggerated.)

I still recall the shrieks of obscenities that blew forth from his office, followed a ragged breath or two later by an angry, "Mims! Get in here!"

 Not only were the still glowing shreds of tobacco just beginning to halt their rain onto his desktop, but he claimed the flare had singed his moustache and eyebrows.

Good thing that he was my friend. Remarkably, he still is.

Also, good thing my current editor at the Salt Lake Tribune doesn't smoke.

Hey, I may be 60 now, but that impish 20-something guy is still sloshing around inside and occasionally rears his horned head.

After all, years after the Exploding Cig Incident, I left a phone message note for my boss at Associated Press with a number that answered with a recorded come on for a dating service. 

It began, "Hey, big boy . . ." I kid you not.

Said editor was both irritated and amused, I think, in equal measure.

He was less reticent about his orders to never do that again.

AP also brought out the beat/worst of my competitive nature. Misdirecting rival UPI reporters, unscrewing mouthpieces of pay telephones after racing to one to dictate breaking news, ducking under police barricades to get close to mudslides and semi truck explosions . . . and being chased by a bull during one of the latter incidents as I crossed a pasture, after climbing through a dry canal under a blocked off freeway.

I may grow up, some day.  

Probably, when I'm dead.

 

Anniversaries: The rare jewel of marital commitment is a generational gift

Today, my son Rob and daughter-in-law Rachel celebrate 16 years of marriage. 

In a time when people struggle with commitment, I'm proud of their devotion to, and love for each other.

Also this week, my daughter Brenda and son-in-law Idal mark their first year of marriage, their lives now busy with my newborn grandson. May they also find the depth of love and commitment Rob and Rachel have.

Recently, Barbara and I marked our 40th. In January, my Dad and Mom, ages 91 and 86, will be married 65 years.

Dad will remember, Mom probably will not. But even as Alzheimer's disease continues to take her memories, she continues to be devoted to "Daddy."

 It seems, after all, that Love endures.

St. Paul was right, when he declared (1 Cor. 13, NIV): 

"If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing. 

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

"Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

"For we know in part and we prophesy in part,  but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

"And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

 

Miracles: They come in small, squirming, grunting and wide-eyed packages

My last installment from the Beltway trip is the best.

Gettysburg, D.C., Fort McHenry, etc., were all on my "bucket list," to be sure.

The best part of the trip, though, was one I had frankly given up on ever happening: holding a grandchild who would carry on our crazy, good, bad and indifferent gene pool to another generation.

I have two other grandchildren I love deeply. Joshua and Lela. I like to say they were "born in my heart," though not my bloodline.

And I mean that with all my heart.

Holding Gabriel was precious, though, in a way I had not expected to experience.

I marveled at all those ancestors -- now including my wife, Barbara, and myself -- who culminated genetically in that tiny, grunting, squirming bundle of boy I rocked in a Towson, Md. townhouse for two weeks.

Add that to the generations of his father, Idal, represented. . . men and women stretching back into the mists of West Africa's nation of Cameroon.

Gabriel's heritage, then, spans three continents and most people groups, other than Asian. Amazing. A lot to put on a (then) 7 pound, 5 ounce infant, though.

And if there is such a thing as generational healing, perhaps it culminates in Gabriel's advent, too. A couple centuries ago, some of my relatives bought West African slaves and used them to gain wealth on plantations throughout the Deep South.

When I visited Gettysburg, standing on Little Round Top, I mused that I trod ground where my southern ancestors fought and died, ultimately losing a decisive battle that ushered in the demise of slavery in America. 

And at the end of that Civil War, a Maj. Mims was a signatory of the Appomatox surrender registry for the defeated Army of Northern Virginia.

Standing in the rows of Union troops witnessing that surrender likely were other relatives, the Sprouls from Maine, and not a few runaway slaves who enlisted in the U.S. Colored Troops divisions, men who signed up under the name "Mims," having long since lost their own names.

Irony. And justice. All those historical metaphors.

But the best part of Gabriel was inexpressible.

How do you describe the warmth, peace and fulfillment of holding a newborn grandson?

God bless you Gabe, Lela and Joshua.

May the heritage this grandfather passes on to you be one of faith -- in God, your family and yourselves.

And Gabriel? Never forget your parents named you so for a reason. Your name? 

It means: God is my strength.

Beltway meanderings: Monuments to history, lessons and what we've sacrificed

A second blog in the Beltway Trip series is all about history.

While in the Maryland, D.C., and Pennsylvania areas recently, I had the privilege of marking off several items from my “bucket list.”

Saw the White House, on a day when a madman with a shotgun went on a killing spree at the Naval Yard just a mile and a half away. 

My first inkling of this horrific event was seeing snipers appearing on roofs around the White House (and atop the presidential residence), plainclothes Secret Service agents in LaFayette Square checking black nylon bags for their automatic weapons, a flood a uniformed Secret Service and metro cops suddenly appearing, and steel barrier pillars rising out of Pennsylvania Avenue to block vehicular traffic.

Otherwise, people continued on with their daily routines. We followed a large delegation from the People's Republic of China for a while as we trekked the National Mall, seeing the Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson and other monuments; the Vietnam Memorial; the Reflecting Pool, etc., joining them in snapping photos.

Another day, we drove to Gettysburg, Pa., to see where ancestors on both sides of my family tree fought the decisive battle of the Civil War. As I stood at Little Round Top, and later the scene of Pickett's Charge, I mused about what it must have been like for those Mimses from Virginia and Georgia who struggled up the crags and slopes into a wall of musket balls and cannon grapeshot.

I realized, as I walked, that one of my ancestors may have trod the same ground, albeit under far less serene, peaceful circumstances.

Now, it is sacred ground; then, it was hell unleashed on earth, the soil soaked red with blood and strewn with broken bodies.

Later, I stood at the earthworks of Fort McHenry, where a small garrison withstood the might of the British Fleet to save Baltimore, after the redcoats had torched Washington, D.C. I had a new appreciation for the “Star Spangled Banner,” and the emotion and pride Francis Scott Key must have felt in writing those words while watching from the deck of a truce ship.

I, too, had pride then, as I watched the flag flying at the fort.

I also had sadness, wondering what all that blood, sacrifice and pain we have memorialized had bought, and how our nation today squanders it,, allowing fear, selfishness and materialism to fray the liberties and moral character so hard-earned.

Musings from the Beltway: Newspapers' demise and an informed electorate

This will be the first of several blogs from my recent trip to the East Coast and the Beltway.

I guess that chronologically is usually the way to go with such endeavors, but my mind works differently.

Instead, I will dispense with the event that, even 1,800 miles removed, affected me personally the most: the massive layoffs at The Salt Lake Tribune.

It is where I do my day job; it has been for the past 15 years since I escaped, finally, an unstable and often malevolent boss at the national news service where I had worked for 18 years, three months, 12 days and 5.5 hours.

I learned about the layoffs, my good fortune and the misery of the unlucky, in a telephone call from my editor.

The newspaper industry's woes are well known, and they have not skipped the Trib. In the past two years we have lost half our staff, and cuts that came, unexpected and deep, at my vacation's mid-point were devastating.

So, I kept my job; 20 percent of the remaining staff did not. What the future holds only God knows. I may work at the Trib until I retire in 5-10 years or so, or I may find myself joining my now-unemployed colleagues when the next unexpected cuts come.

End of the year budget reviews come to mind, though -- as we have been told with lessening conviction by management in the past 3-4 layoffs -- this latest, most painful cutback is hoped to be the last.

I put my trust in God . . . and continue to beat the bushes for freelance work with an eye to the time when I may have to depend on such opportunities to pay the mortgage.

So, there's my personal reaction. My professional reaction is far deeper: I fear for our already tattered republic is professional, balanced and investigative journalism disappears, along with newspapers.

Not that newspapers have done well, in my opinion, in living up to their supposed commitment to fairness and balance in reporting. They have not done so.

Still, they provide the best foundation for those informational elements that keep the electorate informed.

Founding Father Thomas Jefferson was abused horribly by the press, but still held that a free, unfettered journalism was essential to our nation's political health:

"If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be," he said.

As I visited the monuments and memorials spread along the National Mall in Washington, D.C., recently -- including one honoring Jefferson -- I mourned for my departed colleagues and wondered how the electorate will be adequately informed in the future as they make choices that affect us all.