A journalist's lament: Of breaking news, and breaking hearts

Well, I face a career conundrum, one increasingly hard to ignore.

A couple years ago, through the vagaries of the shrinking, constantly morphing newspaper business — and through no choice of my own — I found myself returning to reporting on crime, fires and other "breaking news" that comprises so much of the new "online journalism" model these days.

 

This past week reminded me of why I was so relieved to have left that aspect of my profession — or, so I thought — 16-plus years ago when I quit The Associated Press for the flagship newspaper of my region.

Every day, I am reporting on someone's crisis or grief. A death by accident, or crime; loss of a home to fire; critical injuries in a crash that, if not fatal, leave the victims crippled or in a coma.

It just never stops, this well of our species' pain and suffering seemingly without bottom, refilled every day with stupidity, greed, rage, avarice and hubris.

You get hardened to it all. Gallows humor thrives in the newsroom, a tool to maintain your sanity in having to report such events day in, day out, week after week, month following month, year after year.

Then, a "routine" story turns on you, taking a chunk out of your heart.

We do dozens of "missing person advisory" type stories in a month's time. Kind of a public service, in cooperation with police, to help locate people in crisis -- runaway teens, seniors with dementia, people with urgent medical problems, etc.

Usually, it ends well: someone sees the photo, calls 911, and the person is safely recovered.

This past week, a missing 14-year-old girl was the subject of such a story. But there was no happy ending.

She was found, having apparently hanged herself, near an irrigation canal.

In most cases, our paper does not report suicides unless they are accompanied by a SWAT standoff or are highly public, such as someone jumping off a downtown building as hundreds watch.

But this young woman had been the subject of a major police search effort, so we had to followup. Reporting the cause of death, suicide, could not help but further traumatize the family. 

I did not name the child, though her name had been out there from earlier reports when she was "missing." The grieving family wanted to insist it wasn't suicide, despite the clear and overwhelming evidence that it was.

"Denial," is a stage of the grieving process, after all.

Police initially provided some incorrect information, too, which didn't help. That was reported, though clarified as soon as the details changed.

Still, by doing my job, I added to the pain of this grieving family. Intentions mean little in such situations. Sure, the door was opened, so to speak, by the public appeal for help finding the girl, the extensive search, etc. Professionally, we had to to report the outcome.

But in my gut, I wonder how much longer I can do that particular job.

What is more important? Getting the beat on a tragic story over others just as determined to air dirty laundry? Or, even if you cannot be a healing hand, at least not being the source of more injury?

It's not the first time I've asked myself this question over the years. And, I sigh, more deeply each time, as I consider it likely won't be the last.

 But I wonder. Will there come a time when it is?

A walk with my grandson: Of Faith, Love, Integrity . . . ducks, geese and sunlight

My grandson, Gabriel, and I had a nice conversation as we walked along the Jordan River Parkway after I got home from work yesterday afternoon.

A perfect autumn day, the river placid, the soft, golden glow of a retreating sun backlighting the cattails and illuminating the canopies of aspen, willow, cottonwood and oak trees overhead. On the water, geese and ducks foraged and engaged in halfhearted territorial disputes, generally at peace with each other and the season.

In the trees, juniper and sage, Meadowlarks, swallows, mourning doves and the occasional magpie darted through the branches or took short flight as we approached, grandpa and stroller-borne grandchild, in conversation perhaps as nonsensical to each other as human speech is to the river's denizens.

As the miles passed beneath foot and wheel, I told Gabriel how blessed he was, in this age of family unit breakdown and eroding moral and ethical values, to have two parents who loved God, him and each other.

I promised, for as long as I live, to be there for him; to do my best to live Faith, Love and Integrity . . . in prayerful hope that he, too, will embrace those.

I told him I would always pray that he will have the fortitude to live those values, even when the mass of humanity chooses to chase the lies.

The Lies? That happiness depends on temporal possessions, self-gratification, and lifestyles that worships materialism and greed, rather than seeking eternal values, and the eternal destiny that comes only with trust in the God of Love.

He occasionally responded: Enthusiastic imitations of the ducks in the river, geese honking overhead in their "V" formations, the occasional dog that would pass with its jogging human."Quack," "Honk," Woof." Excited yowls and giggles came with a scurrying squirrel or a bird landing briefly on a nearby branch.

 It was a fine conversation, perfect for our last time together for, probably, quite a while, as he and his mother fly home back East this weekend.

Yes, eloquent, my grandson.

We understood each other, perfectly.

News sources: Whether CNN, Fox, MSNBC, information has become propaganda, and truth elusive

Observation: ALL our "major news outlets" have an agenda. 

Those agendas, as conceived and implemented, however, fall along a continuum between "subconscious" (i.e., kneejerk/ingrained political and/or worldview generated) to "intentional" (by design, through twisting or omitting "facts").

All are reactionary, according to the biases of individuals and corporations, and the opinionated soupy sea all sail.

If I want news that is presented with the least intentional bias, I'll hit CNN. . . though it, too, falls prey to some personalities' propensity for political prejudice through the weight of presentation, and on occasion injection of personal opinion in "news" accounts.

BBC is good for outside and more global perspective, though it has its own presumptions in presentation.

On the extreme end of the continuum, then, albeit from different worldviews, are Fox and MSNBC -- both spewing propagandized "news" in volume and hyperbole that would even make Joseph Goebbels, Hitler's PR man, stand in cynical awe.

The quandary for an electorate in need of being accurately informed is epic in this Information Age: Due to the politicization of most of our "news" sources, individual research -- and skills to know truth from half-truth or no-truth -- is essential . . . but rarely done.

That leads to ill- and un-informed citzens, polarized, left and right, by their ignorance.

"Honey Boo-Boo" cancelled: Proof for Intelligent (if delayed) Design

The argument for Design, as in how the Universe came to be, just got a HUGE boost.

"Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo," has been cancelled!

Hallelujah, cue a fireworks display of supernovas and quasars in the firmament! Fire up the Vienna Boys Choir!

Yes, in a cosmos full of ravenous black holes, erupting suns, extinction-level meteors making near-misses with that tiny blue gem orbiting Sol, this is, finally, assurance that the Universe is not totally chaotic.

There IS a design and order and, eventually, even  justice!

I say it again, Honey Boo-Boo and the rest of her obnoxious, survival-of-the-stupidest, white trash, devolved humanoid family are being pulled from the air by TNT!

Not that I have any feelings about it, you know, one way or the other . . . .

Read all about it, here: http://www.cnn.com/2014/10/24/showbiz/tv/honey-boo-boo-tlc/index.html

My cousin Rob died young, but learned lessons for the ages

The first time I met my younger cousin, Rob Castor, he rushed up to the table where my aunt had made breakfast for my dad and me . . . and, with a big toddler grin, unleashed a spit-laden raspberry all over my toast.

He ran off giggling, his plastic pants a blur.

Over the ensuing 50-plus years, my contacts with Rob were better. Along with his three younger brothers, they were the closest thing I had to male siblings.

The fun-loving kid grew into a sometimes wild, partying teen and young man. He always had a smile, laughed at everything, seemed to love everyone.

No judgment from Rob, who was all too aware of his own foibles.

Like many on the maternal, Scots-Irish side of my family, he had a weakness for, and lifetime struggle with addictive behavior. It was a gene I, too, have had to fight.

Alcohol. Tobacco. Drugs. Food. Whatever would fill the gnawing hunger inside.

Rob paid a heavy price, his health suffering as he grew older.

His 56th year, this year, would be his last. Just a couple weeks after we had a wonderful, upbeat talk on the phone, he suddenly passed away. 

We had talked about growing up in our strange clan, the good times, some of the bad. He was considering weight loss surgery, something I had gone through a few years back. He was optimistic, motivated.

I encouraged him. He shared his rekindled Christian faith with me.

He never had the surgery. They say a complete renal shutdown did him in.

The last thing I remember, now, is his laughter, and concern for my parents. "I love them so much!" he said. "I'm praying for them."

Rob died young. But he did not leave us before learning, and practicing, a lesson — perhaps The Lesson — many of us never embrace:

Loving and accepting each other, flaws and all, is what it's all about.

I'm proud of that about my cousin. And in that love of life and others, without judging them, he will always be my mentor.

God bless, cuz.

I'll see you again, soon enough.

I'll just listen for that deep belly laugh, step into the Light and give you a bear hug.

Will meeting E.T. be the end of faith? Depends. How BIG is your God?

I firmly believe in God. I am a Christian, albeit a rational one.

I have faith in Christ, not magic. I am convinced that the Truth has nothing to fear from the truth, in other words.

So, I've never subscribed to the fear some of my coreligionists have that the discovery of intelligent extra-terrestrial life would be the undoing of faith, somehow.

It depends on your "faith," I would argue. How BIG is your God? And does the idea that a finite human mind cannot comprehend the thoughts, means of creation, capacity for Love and Justice of the Infinite One also threaten your belief system?

If so, time to open your eyes and marvel at the cosmos. Time to open your heart, gaze into the eyes of a child, and experience wonder.

That we may not be the center of the Universe, or the only special, beloved creation in it, does not diminish the love for a special creation — whether us, or us and others created in the mystical image of God.

It's nice to know I'm not alone in that conviction.

Read this article, and soar.

http://www.space.com/16285-alien-life-discovery-religion-impact.html

Going home: Even with Alzheimer's, the heart knows the way

When I was a boy, our preacher's family moved often.

Before I was 11 years old, I had attended a dozen schools in California and then Washington state as Dad and Mom took various pastoral positions, or sought employment between those "callings."

Mom would work as a waitress, sometimes holding down two jobs at once. Dad would take odd jobs ranging from warehouses and grocery store stocking to janitorial work and department store window display.

Always, though, the first thing done when my folks arrived at a new house or apartment was to set up the beds for my sister and me. That, along with Mom and Dad, and the smell of poached eggs and toast to send me off to school in the morning, made it "home."

When I heard the saying, "You can't go home again," I didn't, at first, understand the idea. When I later read Thomas Wolfe's novel, I grasped, though still did not share, the concept.

Home was where my family was, where I was tucked into bed at night with a prayer and a kiss on the forehead, sometimes after a story from Dad.

"Home is where the heart is," Mom would often refrain, fond of such truisms.

She taught that lesson to me decades ago, when as a young boy I both anticipated, and dreaded, going to a new school, fighting new bullies to earn my place as the "preacher's kid," and hopefully making a friend or two before the U-Haul truck reappeared in the driveway.

Time, as it will, has slipped by like an unrelenting river. I'm no longer young, but a grandfather. Yet, my Mom still taught me the Lesson during my trip this past week to visit her and my father in eastern Washington.

Dad is in an assisted living facility now, frail, just recovering from a mild stroke, but at 92 still alert, his memories intact.

Mom is in a 24/7 Alzheimer's facility. At 86, she is physically healthy for her age, but the disease has robbed her, and me, of so much. So very much.

She no longer recognizes me, nor can she speak more than a couple words, and usually nonsensically. 

As I tried to rouse her from a near-catatonic state, caressing her face as she sat in a wheelchair, I watched her breathe. When she finally opened her eyes, there was, for so long . . . nothing.

She stared blankly into space. No response.

Finally, my wife, Barbara, and I rose to leave. But before we did, as has always been the practice upon parting in the Preacher's family, we prayed.

I prayed for her peace.

What else was there to petition the heavens for? 

Wasn't the unspoken prayer that, with so much of her gone, the rest of that flicker of a once sharp, articulate and life-loving woman could also depart?

A final time, I bent down, kissed her softly on the forehead, as she had so often done to me.

 "I love you, Mom," I said, then began to move away, fighting the hot tears welling in my eyes.

There was a murmur, almost a whisper. "Me . . . too."

I looked back at her, but too late. Her gaze was locked on some invisible realm I did not share.

But, for an instant, I was home.

Love, work and deeds: Do you 'play for mortal stakes'?

The late Robert B. Parker, who created the literary Boston detective Spenser, entitled one of the series' novels, "Mortal Stakes."

Not the first time, curiosity over a title or phrase or quotation in a Parker book spurred me to investigate further.

This weekend, while reading a collection of Robert Frost poems, there it was:

"Only where need and love are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sake."

I read it several times. It had the feeling of . . . scripture.

The stanza above comes at the conclusion of Frost's recounting his joy of chopping wood -- until two unemployed lumberjacks come down the trail.

Silently, they watch him work . . . and silently, he understands that what he does for joy, they need to do for making a living -- mortal stakes. In the end, their need overcomes his joy; he pays them to finish the work.

This poem ("Two Tramps in Mud Time")  has so touched me that I've posted the above stanza at my work station.

Somehow, it makes me feel much better about starting another week of labor.

A painful lesson in Grace, 'truth,' and anger

Some lessons in life, seemingly, need to be repeated time and time, and time, again.

Case in point: Before you go off on someone about something you are just sure is true . . . confirm it, regardless the apparent veracity of your source. Then, think twice, three times, before going off on someone, period.

You can apologize after, that is true.

But you can never take back what was said, emailed, whatever. It still scars, regardless of a mountain of subsequent remorse and pleas for forgiveness.

I have, more times than I will allow myself to think about long enough to count, been on the receiving end of this phenomenon.

And I have been the perpetrator, too. Even lately.

Makes me slap myself, and appreciate Grace all the more.

We all deserve a coach ticket to hell, many times over, based on what we have done, thought, or even deliberately ignored or dismissed in our relationships with other human beings.

It's a good thing, a very good thing, that our Judge offers us forgiveness, not because of what we do, but through Grace, i.e. unmerited favor. Because of who He is: Love.

Doesn't mean, though, that we cannot improve. Day by day, decision by decision, we can choose.

I am going to try to choose better, and to do that with renewed commitment.

How about you?

Faith: A choice, a yearning to be more than an evolutionary dead-end

Take an evangelical, fundamentalist preacher's kid and mix him with a liberal arts education. 

Season him with more than a few decades of living, and you either come up with an agnostic, a metaphysical schizophrenic, or a believer, stripped down the basics of his faith.

I confess to, at times, flying like a confused, sometimes angry or at least disheartened moth, too close to the flames of the first two fates. The journey to faith — my own faith, not necessarily that of my parents — has been occasionally exhilarating, often painful, and all too human.

It has been, philosophically, an eclectic odyssey. That likely was inevitable, considering my History and Journalism double major and a minor in Psychology, followed by a career in journalism (a petri dish for cynicism, as professions go).

Ultimately, it is human nature that convinces me my faith — albeit skinned of what I concluded were doctrinal and theological assertions created not by an infinite God, but by finite human minds — makes more sense than pure secular humanism.

I could (but don't worry, I won't) write reams on why I find this so. Let a couple observations suffice:

— The fact that our species has not ceased warring with itself since it began, committing genocide on ever-larger scales, makes me bitterly laugh at the idea we are the pinnacle of sentient evolution on Earth. 

 

We may boast how much more sophisticated and civilized our high-tech, educated society is now compared to our stick-wielding, tree- and cave-dwelling ancient ancestors, but we continue to produce the same rotten fruit.

It's still about territory and resources, and who has the right — or might — to claim them. And since such brutal calculus always makes our "better angels" wince, we still use politics, religion, culture and racism as excuses and justification for dehumanizing and dismissing the Other.

— Yet, we desire to be more. I would argue that we were created for more, but are broken. Despite all the pain and madness humankind inflicts on itself and its planet, goodness persistently bubbles up within individuals, and reform movements. 

Changes for the better, history teaches us, are as finite as our bodies . . . yet we continue to reach down to the fallen with one hand, even as we bludgeon our enemies with the other.

So, faith. Because without it, without the saving grace of our Maker, we will remain stuck, either as an evolutionary dead end, or a creation to be ultimately redeemed, reborn and perfected.

I prefer to believe the latter.

Lessons from a mountain hike: The earth, friends and faith abide

It has been a long time since I have been able to go hiking with another guy of my generation.

Last time, in fact, was when I was just 20 years old. That three-week excursion was with my best friend, Clark, and we backpacked all over northern Idaho's Kaniksu National Forest, sleeping on the ground next to a campfire with our rifles nearby, in case the occasional bear, coyote or cougar should happen by.

We shot (well, I shot) and skinned, cooked and ate a squirrel, and had quite a collection of marmot skins we hunted in a logging slash high above Priest Lake. (Clark's dog mauled the skins, which had been scraped, salted and stretched to dry . . . but since that springer spaniel also chased off a big brown bear we surprised on the trail, all was forgiven).

We bathed in lakes and icy mountain streams. We slept under the stars, and a couple nights under pup tents as thunderstorms rocked the mountains with sheet lightning and torrents of rain, only to rise at dawn, shoulder our packs and head higher.

Now, I'm 60. Old knees and a repaired aortic heart valve have slowed me down, but that just means it takes longer to get up the scrub oak-dotted slopes of the Wasatch Front to the firs along the ridges. The elevation is higher and the air thinner in Utah's mountains, the rivers, streams and lakes not as numerous as the lush pine mountains of my youth; my boots now crunch on dry undergrowth rather than spring from a moist carpet of moss and evergreen needles of the Pacific Northwest.

What has not changed, though, is the pure, simple joy of a hike with a friend. The smell of fresh air and wild flowers, the thumping of your heart, pulsing of the blood in your legs, the tightening of muscles, even the aching of your feet and rivulets of gritty sweat soaking into your shirt, are serendipitous companions to discovery.

Here, a new view of the Great Salt Lake Valley and Western Desert; there snow-capped peaks above Emigration Canyon and the highlands to the east. Or, following a game trail that leaks into an arbor of trees and a shady alcove, you catch your breath, sip warm water from a canteen and share a few words, a laugh and the moment with a friend.

Tuesday's excursion, a rare day off during the week for me, was with such a friend, Rich. Obstensively, the purpose was to sight in his new pistol, and for me to inaugurate my own compact 9mm "conceal carry" and sight it in as well. We hiked into a likely area, a couple miles away from the road, found a safe place with a good bank of dirt, and did that.

The hike was the thing, though. Blue wildflowers were bursting from the greenery erupting from recent rains, and a stream along the trail was full with spring runoff. Birds flitted through the branches, seemingly frantic in their nesting, food gathering and the exercise of territorial imperative.

After walking back to his truck and safely storing the weaponry, we trekked up the side of another slope, perhaps half an hour or so, to check the condition of Rich's archery tree stand.

It was a good spot. Elk and moose tracks, some less than a couple weeks old judging by the most recent rainfall and the slippage evident from the hoof prints, were everywhere. I listened to Rich's observations, picking up on his knowledge -- and respect for -- wildlife, the terrain, and the unspoken joy of sharing the outdoors.

One more, important thing my friend and I share is an understated, yet resilient faith in God. We talked a bit about that, too. Simple faith, perhaps, but it has grown profound and deep with decades of pain, joy, grief, triumph and most of all, trust in and acceptance of our Creator.

And in those moments we climbed the trails and smiled and drank in the vistas where northern Utah's high deserts blend into forests, I better understood the musings of an ancient king who wrote of things temporal and eternal.

"One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh; but the earth abideth for ever." (Ecclesiastes 1:4 KJV)

Across continents, white, red and black, we are family

Irony seldom disappoints me. Often, it delights me.

I'm just back from a recent trip to see my daughter Brenda, her husband Idal, granddaughter Lela, 6, and our grandson Gabriel, who is closing in on his first year on this planet.

Our grandson's full name seems a perfect segue for this post: Gabriel Idal Mims Tchoundjo.

-- "Gabriel," in Hebrew, translates to "God is my strength," or alternatively "man of God." As an archangel, he appears whenever something big, indeed history-making, is about to occur: Daniel's prophecies of the future, including the End Times; announcing John the Baptist's unexpected coming, and then Mary's coming role as mother of the Messiah; he also is to trumpet in the End of Days, according to St. John's Revelation.

-- "Idal" reflects the given name of our grandson's father. It is a name that appears, in various forms, throughout both African and European cultures, often meaning "noble."

-- "Mims." That was a blessing from my son-in-law and daughter, a way for our family name to live on in the next generational bloodline. The family name goes back to the the Middle Ages, perhaps starting with a folks operating a ferry over the then-significant Mims River in the vicinity of modern-day Wales (Mymms), though DNA and genealogical records show more instances of the name in Ireland, as well as Middlesex, England (Mimms). In America, the name embraced lineages of the Cherokee, too.

-- "Tchoundjo." The family name of my son-in-law, whose origins go back to west-central Africa and the Republic of Cameroon. The history of his people is hundreds if not thousands of years older than the United States, and today they are united by their shared French and Bamileke languages.

West-central Africa generally was the origin point for the slave trade, though most of America's African slaves came from the Ghana-Senegal regions. Still, in the 1700s, some coastal peoples in Cameroon were abducted, by other tribes or white-led raiders, and sold to slavers headed to the Deep South. In other words, it is possible that some of my southern forebearers may have worked their plantations and farms with African labor bought on the auction blocks of Virginia, the Carolinas and Georgia.

Most Mimses fought for the South, but there are about 30 who donned blue uniforms -- a few of them whites from the Northern states, but more than two dozen of them African slaves who had escaped, or in rare instances been freed by their "masters." Recruited by the U.S. Colored Troops Divisions, they shed their blood for freedom under the only surname they had ever known, Mims.

The circle has closed with a union of love and bloodlines that stretches across continents, time and space, in the smiling, laughing form of a child named Gabriel.

One day during our trip, our rainbow family visited Harpers Ferry, where in 1859 abolitionist John Brown and his band tried to seize the armory with the goal of arming a slave rebellion. He failed, his followers either slain or imprisoned, and he was hung. But his act arguably accelerated the ultimate break between North and South, eventually leading to the end of slavery in America -- and the beginning of the long, tortuous path toward racial equality.

Somehow, it seemed very right to share that visit with my son-in-law, especially. A young man I have become so proud of in the short time I have known him. He is a brilliant medical professional, a newly sworn-in 1st Lieutenant in the U.S. Army Reserves, a man of integrity and faith, patience and compassion. All those things, and more -- a loving husband and gentle, yet firm father.

We are Family.

The times we live in: Where even the cops say arm yourself for that walk to work

Our police chief in Salt Lake City of late has been boasting about how crime is down in the city's downtown core, i.e., the environs of the homeless shelters and free clinics.

Or, perhaps it is simply that people who used to report crimes -- folks you a couple years ago moved into new condos erected as the formerly depressed area of rail yards was "gentrified," got tired of the futility of calling in drug deals, bum fights, drunks urinating and defecating on the sidewalks, etc.

I work in the middle of the worst of this area. Every morning before dark, I ride the train downtown and get off one block from the shelters and the scene of weekly stabbings and strong-arm robberies committed by that criminal element that thrives within any large homeless community.

Like wraiths, there are always a couple of shadowy forms peering out from the parking lots, alleys and not-yet-open business entry ways.

During the daylight hours, the danger is likely less, but you cannot walk half a block without being accosted by beggars with stories of woe, and the hungry, wan look of meth or crack addicts in bloodshot eyes.

Twice, by different police officers I've dealt with as a breaking news reporter, I've been strongly advised to get a concealed/carry permit and carry a locked and loaded firearm.

Having once been confronted in the predawn dark by a couple street men, one circling behind me while the other attempted to cut me off from the front, I took the advice.

On the cited occasion, I was somewhat younger and lucky enough to find a piece of scrap rebar in a vacant lot that convinced the two to walk away.

Now, a last resort would be a legally obtained and licensed handgun. I pray I never have to pull it out, let alone fire it in a desperate, last ditch defense of myself, my family or an innocent stranger.

But this is the world we live in, and as my police acquaintances told me, going unprotected into such areas as where I work, and at the time of day I work, is to go naked into a den of hyenas.

So, today was another morning in the Zoo, the Asylum, or some circle of Hades, whatever you call these occasionally very mean streets. The shadowy forms flitted into and out of the dim street lamp lights, and away.

On the train platform where I daily get off to walk the couple blocks to the office, someone had abandoned a shelter blanket in one place, and a pair of underwear a few feet away. On other days, I've walked by huddled forms, their ragged faces brielfy lit by the glow of their crack pipes.

And, in front of the Tribune's main entrance was an abandoned syringe, the needle gone. I carefully picked up the syringe tube and tossed it in the garbage.

After all, little kids walk that sidewalk later in the day on the way to a nearby children's museum and school children by the busloads visit the planetarium across the street. 

Still, it seems an almost futile effort, like trying to dig through a mountain of sludge with a teaspoon.

The economy, and lack of jobs -- at least ones that can support a family or pay a mortgage; drug addiction; mental illness ignored by underfunding of needed treatment programs; and the human predators who thrive within a desperate, often hopeless community . . . all are contributors to the sickness.

All those things, and at the heart of it all, of our existence as human beings, the hopelessness of spirits broken by life, and however to define it, yes, sin.

And so, here's the bitter irony. On one hand, I am a Christian who gives tithes and offerings toward various outreach programs to the homeless and others suffering on the fringe of society.
And on the other hand, I live in a world where just going to my job means facing the possibility of a life-threatening encounter -- and, in the most extreme of circumstances, one where it becomes -- as it has for others, too often -- a decision to take a life to keep your own.

Obama's foreign policy . . . of denial and misdirection

So, our President's foreign policy (is there one?) gets slapped around like a trollup in Kiev, and in addition to anemic "sanctions" and brave words, his response to Russia's expansion into Ukraine is to dismiss them as a weak "regional" power? 

A regional power still with enough nukes to turn America into a glass desert, and one devoting more and more of its resources to modernizing and building its military; a regional power that is actively thwarting peace efforts in the Middle East.

No wonder, then, that as I watched this president, for whom I once voted, give Putin the raspberry in his news conference Wednesday, I thought of the crazy Emperor Caligula.

He took an army to the English Channel to invade Britain, only to declare victory and telling the troops to collect sea shells as their spoils of war.

I would have a lot more respect if The President just said, "Hey, our military is exhausted by war, and public won't support any new adventures, and frankly, we just don't much care about Ukraine."

What's in a name? Consider rock bands Led Zeppelin, Rolling Stones . . . and Electric Prunes?

In 1967, I was 14 and had just gotten a "portable" stereo system for Christmas (a 50-pound suitcase thing with a flip out turntable for LPs, and speakers that detached from the sides).

Along with "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" and every Steppenwolf album that came out, I bought the first (and arguably only "real") Electric Prunes album.

EP was a an experimental "psychedelic" band, and their song "I had too much to Dream (Last Night)" ended at No. 11 on the top 40, despite the band's laughable  name.

EP kind of disappeared in the U.S. after than, going through a lot of attrition and wild creative swings before disbanding about '69. There is a current EP, reformed from geezers who comprised one of the last rosters of the band -- none of them original members -- that "reunited" in '99 and began touring Europe (they were big in Sweden).

But for about two weeks in '67, after an American Bandstand appearance, the original EP was considered groundbreaking in the so-called "acid rock" movement.

But come on, Electric Prunes? (What? They give you static regularity?) Not quite the literary props of Steppenwolf, or the poetic quality of Rolling Stones,  cool imagery of Led Zeppelin or the dark metaphor of Black Sabbath. The other bands went on to greatness on a path that followed, and eventually overtook/succeeded the Beatles. 

So, time travel with me a bit. It's a hot eastern Washington summer afternoon, humid, the windows of a 14-year-old kid's upstairs bedroom open to a limp, ineffective breeze.

You lie on the linoleum floor, sweating, stripped down to an old pair of cutoffs, forgetting for a moment that the longer you try to grow your hair and bushier and curlier it gets, a sort of celtic version of an afro.

The needle drops into the groove, a bit of static erupts from the speakers, one inches from each ear, and this is what you hear.

Exoplanets: New places to dwell, or do we have neighbors out there?

According to a Slate.com article, prospects for finding intelligent life other than our own (?) has gotten markedly better . . . or at least, we have a lot more places other than Earth to screw up once we figure out how to travel through intersteller space.

I don't know. But I'll bet that some day, when we meet the denizens of some of these new worlds, we are going to feel pretty silly (i.e. ashamed) about how we've treated our planet, and each other.

I'll wager a galactic credit or two that we get blackballed from the Galactic Lodge.

For a Christian, this all presents something of a conundrum. I think back to when I read C.S. Lewis' space trilogy, in which he suggests Earth is a planet in rebellion and other abodes of intelligent life didn't mess up their Garden of Eden-esque debuts.

 Whatever. Our view of ourselves and our petty concerns should be getting markedly smaller, though . . . even as our perceptions of God and the Universe explode into something truly eternal and humbling individually, and as a species.

Some of the findings Slate.com reports the Kepler space telescope has made of late includes confirmation of an additional 700-plus "exoplanets" orbiting 300 other stars.

Of those, 95 percent are smaller than Neptune and 100 are about the same size as our Earth. . . and four of those planets reside in their stars' "habitable zones,"in other words, they are in the right range to sustain liquid water, perhaps oxygen-rich atmospheres and conditions we humans might find familiar.

What may have arisen in those places? People, like us? Beings sentient, but dramatically different in shape? Angels? Demons?

Or, just new places for us to dwell?

Alzheimer's: For loved ones, it's not 'misery loves company,' it's need for compassion

While recently commiserating with a colleague who also was lamenting, and enduring the long death of Alzheimer's in a loved one, I remembered the old idiom, "Misery loves company."

The concept has been around as long as human suffering, though it usually is credited to the 16th century play "Doctor Faustus."

Mephistropheles tries to discourage Fautus from visiting hell (which he ignores), by reciting the Latin phrase, "Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris." 

(Literally, that translates "to the unhappy it is a comfort to have had company in misery." But typically, we humans have truncated that over the centuries to "misery loves company."

But, as I admittedly love to do, I digress.

In the referenced conversation above, it is NOT comfort taken from the pain of others . . . but understanding of those others, a selfish desire for compassion and, yes, affirmation. . . .

. . . To not only receive those emotional drinks of cool water in a desert wilderness of Alzheimer's hell, but to offer them as well.

We need each other. No one should walk alone through the sloughs of despair.

Russian Winter Games: Reasons to whine, or are we just pampered Americans?

OK, speaking of the Russian Winter Games accommodations, I'd whine, too . . .

If there was no water (or what there was was dirty).

If the toilet's plumbing didn't work.

If I had no privacy to do the doodoo (even if there was toilet paper), because the stall walls were removed for "security" reasons.

If my room was wired for video and sound by the Russian security folks.

That said, these things we take for granted in the U.S. -- clean water, privacy to poo, being (somewhat) free of prying eyes and ears, etc. -- are exceptions on most of the rest of the world. 

Maybe we are, in retrospect, pampered Americans, after all?

Click on this link, read and consider.

Super Bowl: Don't forget, Seahawks, it all began with Jim Zorn and Steve Largent

It was sweet.

Surrounded by Broncos fans, proudly displaying their orange jerseys at an after-church Super Bowl party, the long-awaited breakthrough for this Seahawks fan came true.

I kept my cheering subdued. But my smile was big.

I had to wait until I was 60 years old to see this -- a long way removed from a summer back in 1976, on the campus of my alma mater, Eastern Washington University, when the NFL's newest expansion team arrived for its inaugural training camp.


Jack Patera was the first coach, a big, profane and somewhat arrogant man who presided over a bunch of pros past their prime and second-tier rookies. But there were a couple players who stood out right away, both for their enthusiasm and skills . . . and quiet faith.

Jim Zorn, who had briefly been on the Dallas Cowboys roster the season before as an undrafted free agent,  was (is) an unapologetic, born again Christian, and his favorite target, Steve Largent, also was a believer. Along with other Christians on the team, they held prayer meetings and Bible studies together -- but there was no preaching or grandstanding, as some later would accuse Tim Tebow of doing (fairly, or not).

Zorn was outgoing, positive, and a scrambler who could zip a left-handed bullet off a rollout like no one I had ever seen then, or since. He ran the Seattle backfield for seven seasons before his star declined, but he never seemed to let it get him down.

I interviewed him again a few years ago, while he was an assistant coach at a small college (later, he would coach quarterbacks for Seattle, briefly, and make a bid as head coach for the ill-fated Redskins).

Largent went on to be a Hall of Fame receiver. He and Zorn would be the first two inductees to Seattle's "Ring of Honor."

For that first season and the next two, I worked with and for the Seahawks as a stringer. I'd do feature articles on players for small dailies who could not afford sending staff of their own. After each practice, I would gather injury reports and quotes on standouts, etc., from Patera and his assistants and call them in to the PR department.

For a 21-year-old small town weekly newspaper editor, the money was good -- and the experience gave me a taste of what I would experience a few years later as an AP sportswriter.

That first season, 2-12 for the 'Hawks, was a tough one. A lot of routs, some spells showing the future brilliance of the Zorn-to-Largent connection.
So, this past Sunday, I'll bet Zorn was smiling. A fellow believer, Russell Wilson, was holding the Lombardi Trophy.

It took nearly 40 years for the dream to come true, but Jim had to be happy for the team where a kid from Cal Poly-Pomona, initially dismissed by the sports experts of his time, became an NFL star.

What both of these quarterback will share, long after the Super Bowl memories fade, will be their faith and humility.

Those qualities are eternal.

On a melancholy day, Jupiter provides perspective -- and a cure for the blues

Some days, you just feel like you flop out of bed in the predawn darkness only to painfully crawl into the day.

It's "Hump Day." That mid-week marker of futility that reminds you that Life has settled into a routine of work that, thank God, pays the bills, but has long since ceased to challenge.

There was a time when in-depth reporting, well-crafted writing and meaning imbued your job -- but with the decline of the long-form narrative in newspapers in favor of the quick-hit, short digital briefs posted to the Web, those days are pretty much gone.

And, occasionally, on days like this one, you mourn the meaningful past and lament the shadow your journalistic career has become.

You reach out, freelancing editing and writing. For a while, that works. An up-and-coming media company gives you three years of steady work; it's fun and it pays well.

But success leads to larger staff. The need for freelancers disappears with more full-timers on board. Progress for them; back to the drawing board for you.

And on this morning, trudging through the dark and cold and snow to the train, you realize that THIS has become the "now." And, it sucks.

Yes, you have a job when many do not. Gratitude is expressed to the heavens. And yet . . . melancholy.

Suddenly, the mist puffing from his scarf-wrapped mouth, a fellow smiles and asks: "Do you know what that star is, just to the right of the moon?"

You look up. The moon is nearly full. Next to it is a sparkling, aqua-to-bluish light twinkling. It is cold, distance and . . . amazing.

"Actually, that's not a start at all," the man continues. He points to the light. "That's Jupiter!"

He continues, his enthusiasm infectious. Jupiter has 40 moons, and counting. Jupiter has two and a half times the mass of all the other planets of the solar system, combined. 

 

Jupiter is . . . huge. You could fit, roughly, 1,400 Earths within the gas giant's mass.

"You can tell I'm an astronomy buff," he finally says.

I look up and smile. The moon is a shimmering silver orb, Jupiter hanging off its shoulder like a cosmic broach.

No only are we on this planet not at the center of the Universe, but our lives are both infinitesimally small and uniquely precious and fragile, all at the same time.

Perspective.

Life.

Not so bad, after all.

An old cassette tape discovered, a father's musical legacy saved

When my dad was 57 (roughly my age now, plus a few years), he was at the peak of his musical abilities, playing his plectrum, four-string long-neck banjo is ways the likes of Eddie Peabody and a few others of the greats in this form applauded.

Dad was so good that he was repeatedly turning down professional gigs. As a preacher, he believed at the time that he should limit is playing to the "Lord's venues." Playing for the "world" would almost be akin to intentional backsliding, a sin. So, he smiled, treasured the compliments of the pros, and pastored small churches in small towns throughout the Northwest.

Today, almost 92 and slowly losing his sight and musical memory, he struggles to play a few songs on a banjo-tuned ukelele.

He told me a few weeks back that he wished he could hear how he used to play. Well, in the mail last week came a package from an uncle with some documents we needed for our POA roles, and wrapped in plastic was an old cassette tape.

On it, 60 minutes of my Dad playing his old gold-plated, pear-inlaid Gibson, one song after another, including original arrangements and medleys of decidedly old but classic secular hits.

From 1979, he navigated through complicated notes, chords, runs and riffs that reminded me just how good he was.

I was able to transfer the cassette's contents and burn some CDs for him and my kids.

Already, I have a happy new year.

Click here to listen to a sampler of my Dad, one of the best banjo artists, ever.