Memorial Day: Only the names of our wars and the victims' faces have changed

Memorial Day.

 This time, every year, I am once more 17, a pallbearer at the military funeral of my childhood friend, Lee Olemacher.

 Lee, a year ahead of me at Cheney High School, was drafted. The Vietnam War was supposed to be "winding down." The "Vietnamization" of the war, the White House called it. Our boys soon to come home while their boys shouldered the responsibility of defense.

 Sound familiar? Maybe we should call it "Afghanistanization," which may work better than the "Iraqization" of our wars, which has left a violent, sectarian, divided mess.

 But nonetheless, that autumn day in 1972 we laid Lee to rest in a flag-draped coffin, Taps were played, the honor guard fired the empty, somber salute. A folded flag was given to a mother grieving for her only child.

 Lee was a rare innocent, who took simple pleasure in a smile, a rough pat on the back, teaching kids to play baseball as a Little League coach. 

 Forty year ago, now. Had he lived what could he have accomplished? How many lives touched, enriched? I am almost 60, a graying, aging man with memories, good and bad, sweet and bitter. Lee is forever young, we'll never know what he may have become.

 Since Lee, tens of thousands more American men and women have died in service to their country. A new generation of maimed and wounded -- physically, mentally, spiritually -- come back to our shores.
Forty years, and still we war, still we hate, still we thing violence would serve the good, or we are forced into violence to meet violence . . . and the cycle goes on. 

What version of God or gods, ideology, political system or economic advantage is worth the blood we have shed, or been forced to exact in return from those who shed blood?

When will be beat our swords into plowshares and learn war no more?

Happy Memorial Day? Rather, I wish for us a Contemplative Memorial Day, and the commitment to work for peace, love and the dignity of our brothers and sisters one life, one family, one community, one city, one state, one nation, one planet at a time.

God bless, and empower us all to dream of, and help make better times.

And so it goes: Of pigeon-holing, limitations and unmet expectations

As an editor and writer, the thing I hate the most is being pigeon-holed in the eyes of others about what I can, and cannot do.

I've found this frustrating phenomenon inside the journalism biz in the past (as have many colleagues), and more recently outside the office in freelance work.
Certainly, folks DO have limitations and should accept them (like Clint Eastwood's "Dirty Harry" Callahan advised, "A man's got to know his limitations.")

But I want to protest, nonetheless. In my decades I've worked a dozen beats, written books of fiction and non-fiction, technical papers, poetry, in-depth investigative articles, briefs, cops-and-robbers yarns, medical and high tech stories, magazine pieces, won more than my share of awards
.
I know. Yada, yada, yada . . . still, I don't see the same limitations.

But that's my judgment, based on what I've done and know; others make their judgments based on what they perceive. And ultimately, you can't really counter those gut assessments.

Life is like that, regardless your profession. You do what you can do, and move on -- always keeping in mind what is truly important: the ability to make a living for your family, love of wife, kids and friends, taking pride in your work and walking humbly before your God, or at least consistent with your principles.

And, so it goes.

Still, it sucks, as least for a moment or two.

Onward.

"Blind faith?" That's superstition. True faith has no fear of reason.

Learned today that for some folks, "faith" means blind faith, a resolute, eyes-closed, suspension of reason and refuge in circular arguments (i.e., why, if you aren't healed, you lack faith . . . and if you seek to confirm your healing through the docs, that's a lack of faith and, voila, no healing for you!)

Sort of an Evangelistic Soup Nazi approach, I guess. (A Seinfeld reference, folks).

Sad. For me, "blind faith" is more akin to superstition than belief and practice I believe Christ called his followers to emulate.

 

So, to those souls to afraid to test their faith with reality, I offer this from St. Augustine:

"Understanding is the reward of faith. Therefore seek not to understand that you may believe, but believe that you may understand."

And since I'm on a rant, this from Lee Strobel, a self-described former atheist turned believer: 

"Is that what faith is all about—fooling yourself into becoming a better person? Convincing yourself there’s a God so that you’ll become motivated to ratchet up your morality a notch or two? Embracing a fairy tale so you’ll sleep better at night? No thank you, I thought to myself. If that’s faith, I wasn’t interested."

For Strobel, it was the evidence and reason behind open-minded faith that led to his conversion.

And finally this, from C.S. Lewis:

"You can have faith with or without religious affiliation - faith is a state of being. Faith is putting hope and power into that which we can not see now...but know we will see in the future.
"Faith is the art of holding on to things your reason has once accepted in spite of your changing moods."

Beauty and imitation: Real world unrivaled when God's 'special effects' are displayed

One of the reasons I enjoyed the movie "Avatar" so much was the stunning special effects, the beauty of the exotic, extraterrestrial jungles, floating mountains, plants, animals, etc., created for the backgrounds.
The same appreciation was evident in the "Lord of the Rings" movies in the mammoth sculptures on the rivers, mountain fortresses and especially the abodes of the Elves with their surreal light and detail.
All fiction, those things.
But, to me, they pale next to the reality of breathtaking beauty in our "real" world. I was reminded of that when I stumbled upon this website, featuring the photo above -- and more than 20 others.
Stunning scenes, all the more so because they are places we can visit, touch, see, experience and . . . wonder.
So, take a look, and then, I dare you, go back to your daily tasks without a lingering sense of the inexpressible beauty of our planet, and gratitude to its Maker.

The heart of the matter: Year out from surgery, a new valve -- and a grateful Heart

I had a milestone today. My year out from aortic valve replacement surgery, I met with the surgeon who sliced, cracked, scooped out the old, about-to-fail valve and sewed in a new cyborgian metal, plastic and bovine model this time last year.

If all is well, one more battery of tests in August and then, hopefully, just an annual thing.

I've had so many EKGs and echocardiograms and blood draws (and the occasional cable up the femoral artery) this year I could put the sensors on myself; I can recognize the various chambers of my ticker when looking at the monitors.

I deal with this rather well, when I approach it with a journalist's curiosity, and intellectual awe at what medical science can do today. Kind of like being immersed in a Discovery Channel documentary.

It's when I get a glimpse of this ordeal through the eyes of loved ones that the appreciation also becomes emotional, even spiritual.

Perhaps, a lot spiritual, as in gratitude broadcast out to the cosmos and the Spirit of Love I know as God.

A through-the-eyes of others moment caught me by surprise on Sunday. Barbara and I took a walk on a glorious spring afternoon, finding a park bench to just sit and hold hands. The sunshine warmed our faces, the breeze caressed us and brought the scent of cherry blossoms. Time stopped.

She leaned over, put her head on my chest and hugged me, holding on for several minutes.

"What?" I said, with my usual sensitivity to the import of the moment (not).

She looked up at me, a tear spilling from her eye. "Just listening to your h-h-heart," she said.

"Does it sound weird? Is it clicking?" I joked. (That's how I handle those moments in life when things get too . . . serious. And often, when I handle it this way, it comes across as inappropriate. But  I am what I am; flawed in character, as well as in the cardiac realm.)

Live with it; I do. Thank God.

"No. It sounds ... like your heart," she finally answered, and began to sob softly.

So, I just shut up. And held her.

I was humbled in a way the word "humble" falls far short of expressing.

When you feel Love like that, sometimes you just shut your mouth, and hold on tighter.