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.

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.

"End of Life" decisions? Ultimately, we decide nothing. Thank God.

I learned Wednesday that by this time next week, if all continues to go as hoped, my 91-year-old father will be able to return to his assisted living facility, rejoining my mother.

I learned this in a late-afternoon conference call with his medical staff at a skilled nursing facility, where he has been for the past two weeks after nearly a month in and out of the ER with internal bleeding issues.

At one point during this sojourn, I had a call from his doctor asking about how far we wanted him to go with care, should he stop breathing, or have heart failure. We spoke about DNRs ("do not resuscitate") orders, should Dad's Living Will kick in at some point.

We came to a general threshold for letting go: severe brain damage, to the point of losing sentience. We hung up, and I have spent the next few weeks wondering “when?” . . . .

In those tender, plaintive and grittiest of conversations with Dad of late, he wondered himself about longevity vs. quality of life. And, considering my mother's progressive Alzheimer's, he would occasionally confess, in his rasping voice, that living with his frail health and failing eyesight (macular degeneration), and watching Mom drift away, neuron-by-neuron, was not the promise of the so-called "golden years."

Our miraculous medical technology has been wonderful for prolonging life, when intellect and wonder are still intact. But what happens when life implodes into a world of pain, constant hospitalization and increasing helplessness?

Worse, perhaps, what happens when our bodies become earthly tents, sewn shut by artificial longevity as the mind dies inside?

Our ability to extend physical life beyond the spiritual, or for the skeptics among us mortal "sentience," poses moral and ethical paradoxes seemingly unique to our generation. Life is more than machinery, more that mere heart beats and another breath, we are learning.

I am convinced that no thing, and no one is ever "lost." The former is a case of science, in that neither matter nor energy ends; the latter a conviction of faith, perhaps extrapolated into the metaphysical realm from the physical.

My mother seldom recognizes me anymore, has lost so many memories . . . here. But I firmly believe that someday, when the machinery finally fails, what is left of her here will be reunited with what has already passed on, There.

So, all these musings and internal, and ultimately external, debates about What is Life, and End of Life decisions, seem to pale in those undiscovered countries of being.

Ultimately, we “decide” nothing. We may delay the inevitable, but our clocks began ticking toward the great Transition from the moment of conception. And, at the beginning -- and the end -- it indeed comes down to a matter of the heart.

Physically, and metaphorically.

As I heard the medical staff conclude that Dad could be returned to assisted living, and my mother, within a week, something else drowned out the words.

It was my father, in the background, weeping, stuttering out how the news was "wonderful," how he missed my mother, was worried that she would finally forget him, too, and that he always saw "her sweet face" in his mind.

So, “When?”

Not yet, Dad. Not yet.

Stay OUT of Syria; stop ignoring the crises in our own backyard

Obama and a yet another war?

 I'm still trying to figure out how, strictly speaking, Syria's civil war -- between a brutal dictator on one hand, and al-Qaida led rebels on the other -- is a matter of our national security. 

It's like trying to pick which devil to back based on which has the shorter horns. In this case, it smacks of a lost, confused "leadership" trying to restore its "rep" by throwing around its military might, as if that will somehow restore its lost morality.

I'd like to see us get out of Afghanistan sooner than later, NOT get into Syria at all, and pay more attention to crime, employment and health issues in our own hemisphere. 

If we're looking to pour blood, treasure and compassion into a "cause," we have only to look at our inner cities, and our neighbors to the south.

We need to keep our treaty obligations to Israel, the only true democratic republic in the Middle East. We do NOT need to be the world's policeman and nanny, getting involved in sectarian civil wars, or trying to impose our form of government on societies with no history of, or affinity for this Western concept.

Humanitarian aid? Absolutely. Food. Medicine. Help with developing new markets.

But when will we learn that when it comes to the Middle East, removing one monster only makes room for another?

 

Journalism and Janitors: Dirty birds of a metaphorical feather

 When I was a poor preacher's kid working my way through college, I had gigs as a dishwasher at Holiday Inn, and as a janitor on campus. 

Thirty-plus years later, I realize it was the latter job that prepared me best, mentally anyway, for a career as a journalist.

Living the dream, folks. I rise before dawn, get to work when the sun rises and essentially shovel away the "crap" left over from nightside, leaving the news porcelain seat clean for the day's Buns 'o' Destiny.

When you get down to it, whether in coveralls or a suit, loafers or hip-boots, wielding a laptop and cellphone or a spray bottle of disinfectant and a Johnny brush, we all essentially scoop and flip the tasks of the day in order to put that roof over our heads and food on the table.

Which reminds me: Always wash your hands after work and before eating.