This Pilgrim's progress, and yours

Saturday morning, I took the dogs for a walk along the Jordan River's back trails. 

Once I got past the abandoned shopping carts, one homeless man's well-established and, uncharacteristically clean campsite (and a few impromptu refuse dumps, it was beautiful. 

The trek was a John Bunyanesque metaphor AND, to a point a metaphor, for a spiritual journey. I walked into areas where the well-worn foot trails became hints in the brush and through the limbs of trees, raining down gold and red foliage with each sigh of breeze; into sunlight filtered through the canopy and reflected in the frost on a downed cottonwood, and glistening from the moss on rocks. Beyond, power-blue skies, and clouds of fluff.

I stepped out of the pain, the detritus of human shortcomings, the bitterness of some lives expressed with disdain for themselves, and nature, the cast off wreckage of dreams, even, and into beauty.
It was like going to a cathedral, quiet but for the sighs and whispered prayers of the private penitent, looking up and finding myself walking inside the sunlight of stained glass with saints and sinners, all of us forgiven.

It was, for a blessed, crystal clear moment, being caressed and absorbed in that deep, abiding Love. . . and being reminded, again, that He is with me, and with all who just pause to let go the offense, to forgive, and be aware, to be present.

This, my Lord, transcends mere human doctrines, buildings and their grasp at the out-of-context pieces of scriptures while willfully ignoring the whole.

And, finally, here is a truth I've discovered. If you say you are a Christian that "whole" calls upon us to judge OURSELVES. We, and often poorly and with failures too numerous to count, "sin" -- fall short of the mark, from the word's Latin roots.

Paul put it this way in 1st Corinthians 5:12-13: "For what have I to do with judging outsiders? Do you not judge those who are within the church? But those who are outside, God judges."

And from what I believe, that latter part is in Love and compassion beyond our imagining.

Thus ends the sermon. smile emoticon


If all, some or part of it resonates, I didn't waste my time, or yours.

Be blessed. It's up to you.

Happy 42nd anniversary, sweetheart

Faith, and marriage.

 For me, the former has remained strong at its ancient roots through my River of Life sojourn.

It has ebbed and flowed, trickled through droughts, sustained under a glaring sun, refreshed in torrents and lulled to peace in the rare, precious stretches reflection and, yes, blessings.

Ah, but the latter, too, has been my companion, my warm human touch, the sustainer of love in a touch, a smile, a kiss, a prolonged embrace.

My lover and friend, my life's diamond, my priceless gift from the author of Love, who is that friend who sticks closer than a brother.

When I look in Barbara's eyes, I glimpse eternity. Faith and Love come full circle.

Happy 42nd anniversary, sweetheart.

His Love Wins. Always.

"Love Wins."

See a lot of that since the Supreme Court's decision to expand the constitutional definition of "marriage" to include same-sex couples.

I understand the honest sentiments of those expressing it. And, I will not judge the genuine-ness of their love for each other.

That, my friends, is not my job -- nor your's. There is but one judge, and I do no presume to know the mind of God.

But the truth is, more than 50 percent of people who marry, however they define it, will fall out of "love" and divorce,

But yes, Love Wins.

Greater love has no man, than he lay down his life for another.

Love won 2,000 years ago, it wins today, and it will win in eternal ages to come, because of a unique, selfless act of ultimate love.

Mother's Day: Of generations fading, generations rising -- and tiny miracles

Mother's Day 2015 was sweet and melancholy, affirming even as it brought the aching of, and blessings of memories.

 Barbara received lovely cards, flowers and heartfelt calls from the kids (and me), and we reached out to our daughter and daughter-in-law with what we hope were the same levels of love. That was the sweet.

But it also was a melancholy day, with some tears. Barb's and my memories of her mom, who also was one of my best friends, are fresh and a little less painful years after her passing.

And there's my mother, in the final stages of Alzheimer's, no longer knowing or remembering me or my sister, or my dad. When I check on her, though, there's this: the nursing home staff says her loving, if now nonsensical attempts at speech are for her two baby dolls.

Sad, but I also smile at this: both her dolls are babies of color. So are her two most recently born grandsons.

Somewhere in her shredded memories, is there an inkling of this next generation? I don't know.

But the nursing home staff says she specifically chose, and constantly holds those two specific dolls out of the assortment of mostly white babies.

I always smile when my daughter sends me the most recent video of newborn Nate and toddler Gabe. This Mother's Day, I was able to smile a bit broader.

In so many ways, I have lost my mother as much as Barbara has lost her's. The mourning is different, but feels very much the same . . . and yet, there was this "miracle of the dolls."

I'll take it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

 

A journey of awe, love and faith: Forty years with my best friend, lover and mother of our children

Musings on 40 years of marriage.

It really isn't that time flies. Rather, it is that SO much living can be crammed into a mere four decades; that so much of the beautiful and wonderful and exhilarating could come, seemingly just when needed, to wash away the pain and disappointments that are part of all our destinies, our Fate, and yes, our legacy to our children and grandchildren.

How the power of Love, between a girl of 18 and a boy weeks removed from 19, could endure so much, empower so much, and takes us so far -- despite not-always-conquered temptations of self-obsession and selfishness.

Faith we have shared, in God and each other, even as we were exasperated and awe-struck by trials and blessings, mountain peaks and valley pits, sweet sunshine and flower-scented breezes and thunderstorms, lightning and deluge.

It has always been, even if not always realized, not the destination we set out upon on Sept. 1, 1973, in Spokane, Wash., but the journey -- and that we have taken it together, hand in hand, comforted by each other and that occasional warm Hand on our shoulders.

I do not know what lies ahead, but I know that children we remain, despite the years, the gray, the aches that may make us slower (just a little!), and for all of it, only a bit wiser.

I think back to the summer of 1972, when I went on a three-week backpacking trip into the wilderness of the Kaniksu National Forest, trekking with the friend who would later be my best man. It was an intentional break, from everything, to be sure that when I asked Barbara to marry me, I was indeed ready to be committed to her in all things, for all time.

The journey, then, was imagined, both exciting and terrifying, but unknown.

Today, I call back to the youth, building the extra-large campfire to dry out clothing soaked by a mountaintop storm that shook a small pup tent with the crack of sheet lightning. The flames crackle, the heat comes in waves from coals glowing red and white.

Listen to the breeze in the pines, kid. She will be your lover, your best and truest friend on earth. She will be the mother of your children. She will surprise you with her strength, move you with her tenderness and compassion, and being the perfect receptacle of that torrent of Love you sense within yourself.

Years later, you will still marvel at her deep, green eyes, that still undiscovered country that beckon, assure, calm and inspire, always there, even at the end of life's squalls of madness and the pain.

Young man, you have no idea of what is ahead. But God has indeed brought you your soul mate. Laugh at the night, breathe deep the scents of fresh rain, sodden pine needles and feel the warmth of the fire spreading inside.

Don't be afraid to take her hand. It's going to be one wonderful, crazy, breathtaking ride.

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.

Nick Vujicic's faith, courage and message of hope

(Photo above: Trent Nelson/Salt Lake Tribune)

Courage. Faith.

And, for the knee-jerk skeptics out there, 99 percent ofAustralian Nick Vujicic's presentation Thursday -- simulcast to 200 Utah schools as part of an anti-bullying campaign --was NOT evangelism.

He made a simple, brief opening statement of his faith as a source of personal inspiration. . . then, he offered hope and encouragement to bullied kids that anyone -- believer, non-believer -- could, and should, embrace.

And, by the way, this man who can fetch $10,000 for his secular motivational appearances, did this for free. 

No fees. Because, this fellow, who some would argue has gotten a horrible shake from Life, simply cares.
                
Here's his story in The Salt Lake Tribune. 

Alzheimer's and Mom: Of the living and the breathing dead

I made one of my two weekly calls to my folks today and realized, belatedly, that my last meaningful, even understandable conversation with my mother was sometime in the past.

Truth be told, it probably was a couple years ago.

My folks are in Assisted Living in Spokane, Washington. Mom has Alzheimer's disease, a form that has rapidly deteriorated her ability to reason, understand or even speak without referring to every noun as "that place" or "that thing." 

 

Half the time, she has to think hard to remember who I am, her only son. The other half of the time, she thinks I am her grandson, or her brother, John.

She has forgotten how to use the phone, and as her vocabulary has evaporated along with her ability to think, the conversations have disappeared.

Two years ago, Mom could talk your ear off. If I called home, I knew I needed to have emptied the bladder beforehand, because 45 minutes was a short conversation.

She was articulate, interested, sharp. This is the woman who got me through math in high school, for crying out loud.

Now, she doesn't know the difference between $100 bills and a quarter, she has forgotten how to use a washer, or the TV remote; she gets lost in the hallways of their facility, and floods their unit regularly when she tries to wash clothes in the sink . . . and leaves the water running.

All that is left for her are emotions, and a resolute stubbornness. That stubbornness got her through a childhood that saw her going to work at 15 to help support a Montana preacher's family of 14. . . and raise her own family during times of hardship and too little joy.

And now with Mom 85, my 62-year-old developmentally disabled big sister -- who has the mental faculties of a 4-5 year old and lives in a group home -- has more on the ball.

I hate Alzheimer's. It has robbed me of my mother, while leaving behind a poor, fading reflection of her.

In all the ways that matter, my mother -- the vibrant, optimistic, natively intelligent person she was -- has not-so-gradually passed away. All that is left in a breathing, emaciated shell of a confused woman, a shadow, a wraith that bears her name.

All that is left is to love her, on an increasingly primal level. Even her ability to return love is fading, as her world continues to implode, retreating back to . . . what? A psychic womb? A spiritual ovum?

Where has she gone? How do I find her?

No answers. Just faith that what is Katherine Powell Mims is being safeguarded in the arms of the Eternal, to live again.