Grandfetus revealed (and how). It's a he, and his name shall be Gabriel

Since my daughter, Brenda, and her husband Idal told us she was expecting, I've been calling my future grandfetus "Critter."
This was tolerated, barely, by the future parents.
Now, halfway through the pregnancy, a sonogram snapshot confirms that "Critter" is a male.
Captured for all to see are the appropriate . . . accoutrements to the male gender. Let's just say, without bragging, that the evidence is impossible to miss.
Even if the viewer suffered poor eyesight. Just sayin.
Moving along . . . 
So, the child's name shall be . . .  Gabriel Mims-Tchinang Tchoundjo.
I suspect, as the years come along, I will be calling him "Gabe."
After all, it took me nearly a year to get the pronunciation of my son-in-law's name (he's originally from Cameroon) correct.
It is nice they included our family name in there, though.
And, who knows . . . I might even have a special nickname for little Gabe down the road.
Hmm.
Maybe . . . Critter!

P.S. Not sharing the aforementioned sonogram, at the parents' request.

P.S.S. I'd have to include a viewer's warning, after all.

Packing heat? Why, O why? Here's why

People who just can't understand why anyone would want a concealed-carry weapon's permit need to ride the 5 a.m. TRAX train to work with me, and get off in the dark one block north of three homeless/drug treatment facilities. 

Or, like today, just ride the train.

During their once-a-month, check-your-ticket visits to the early train to downtown, a Utah Transit cop came upon a fellow sitting across from me whose transfer pass was two days out of date. No I.D., but did give his name, and found he has twice before been cited for trespassing on the train . . . and had numerous arrest warrants. 

As she was citing him again, another guy -- tats, piercings, angry and obviously cranked up, started bellowing into his cell phone from two seats away:

"I don't wanna go back to Max and end up slitting my wrists, dude! Do something! Y'all ain't got my criminal history, I'll never get out, $#!@!" 

The UTA officer quietly called for backup, and when the second, burly transit cop arrived the bad boy was out the door and down the street and into the dark.

So, yeah. THAT's why. Armed cops were there, this time, a once-a-month fluke. One day out of 30.

So, perhaps a .38 Special with five 158-grain, "self defense" rounds in the cylinder, could be something of a comfort. 

You know, rhetorically speaking. Sort of.

It's Spring. Live. Just breathe.

Introspection, and the all-too-human arrogance of thinking our "plans" have any real meaning or permanence as they float around like neurons winking out in the mind of God, blinds you (me, all of us) to the pure joy of living.

 I realized this, an epiphany repeated for the millioneth time it seems, as I looked up from my work station monitor and out the window at the Salt Lake Valley. 

There it is: Spring, quiet, bright and airy, and thunderous in its silent witness to things ever so larger than my own petty concerns.

Just breathe.

 Work to live, to eat, provide shelter, clothe yourself and loved ones. Don't live to work.

St. Paul put it this way:

"But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that. Those who want to get rich fall into temptation and a trap and into many foolish and harmful desires that plunge people into ruin and destruction. For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs." 1st Timothy 6-10 (NIV)

Christ is risen -- then, and now

He is risen.

Faith tells me it was true more than 2,000 years ago. 

The joy that fills me at my deepest, undefinable being,

that place where intellect and spirit merge

 in a secret place of innocence and peace,

 convinces me it is true today.

Happy Easter.

Of Alzheimer's and "tough love"

Unpleasant duties ahead this week. Have I mentioned how much I hate Alzheimer's? It not only robs your loved ones of their memories of you . . . but taints and buries your fondest memories of them, with the pain and rejection of the confused, occasionally angry, bitter people they have become.

Tough love is supposed to be what you, as parents, give your children -- those times when you bear the pain of their anger and seeming loss of their love BECAUSE you love them that much. If you would die for them, you should be willing to bear that, too.

I have known that; I have had to practice that.

I never, ever thought that role would be reversed, where I, the child, would have to experience the same pain doing what is right, but painful, for my own parents.

This past week, anticipating -- dreading, really -- the next stage of care needed for my mother, I have deliberately tried to remember the way she was, not that long ago. The laughter, the twinkle in her eyes, the feisty courage of a 5-2 Scots-Irish heroine who taught me how to fight, ride a bike, throw a ball, the conditionless love and support, the hours at night spent helping me pass math, ace spelling tests . . . the times when I was sick, her cool hand on my brow, the soft prayers.

Now, that woman is . . . gone. What is left has slipped into the cloudiness, confusion, paranoia and anger of the disease. So, my heart goes out to all of my generation dealing with parents suffering from this horrible disease.

My mother is gone. What is left is a shell, and the love we give her is unreturned. Not out of spite, but out of inability to understand it. I know that.

But I cannot just let this go.

I know, the rest of what is left of my mother will some day, and if there is mercy, soon, join what has already passed on. But I will find a way to honor her -- and my father, also in his final days. There will be some way I can fight Alzheimer's, some way to comfort others suffering from, and with this disease.

I will find it.

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. 

Papal permutations: a hard habit to break

So, the Pope Emeritus Benedict is flown off to a papal retreat.

Forgive me, but why did the image of the ex-pontiff in a Olympic pool-sized hot tub with nuns doing synchronized swimming around him, and "pool monks" in flipflops waving billowing censers over his emeritus papal pate flash before my eyes?

Twisted imagination. It's a hard "habit" to break.

OH! Cassocks and conundrums!

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.

Nanny State: Get over it. The Big bad world doesn't owe you a thing

St. Paul, upon learning some folks were gaming the new Thessalonian Christian community and living off its charity -- thus robbing those who really needed a helping hand -- wrote, "If a man will not work, he shall not eat." 

Primitive social welfare policy? Not really. Remember, a primary command of Christ was to provide for the poor and widows and orphans. So, Paul's admonition was to the point. Those who could work, should; those who could not, a loving community had your back. 

Today, though, many folks truly feel entitled to the proverbial something for nothing. They won't work because it is too stressful, or not their "field," or doesn't pay enough to supply both their WANTS and their needs. 

You need food, shelter and clothing. You may want a big screen TV, new car or a house no lender in his or her right mind would give you a mortgage to buy. If you cannot work for legitimate reasons, we should help with the former -- not the latter. Your needs do not include taxpayer-underwritten entertainment, the best ride on the block or a $500,000 home when you need to rent an apartment instead.

In what many call the "Nanny State," though, we continue to pay regardless -- those who do work, through taxes, and those who truly cannot work due to illness, disability and honest crises, they pay through harder-to-get aid already taken by the undeserving. 

The attitude of entitlement goes beyond the easily targeted "welfare fraud," though. Do something stupid, you can shift the blame on anyone but yourself; be lazy and end up with your just rewards -- little or nothing -- or fail to study hard enough and get a C-plus, you can sue for a better grade that you deserve (a Lehigh student did this, and lost, but still tied up the courts doing so).

It all makes me want to sing, no shout, no scream the lyrics to "Get Over It" by the Eagles: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1H-Y7MAASkg

It's not always complicated . . . or rats in the walls

I wonder if this is a gender thing. 

Our main TV, in the living room, lost its cable feed. The one in my office did not. Hmm. 

So, last night I'm troubleshooting it. Checking the connections, turning gizmos off and on, changing the "source" settings, etc. 

Convinced a rat in the wall must've gnawed through a cable leading to the big screen, ready to call Comcast and/or electrician techs. 

Barb comes out, grabs a remote, selects "03" . . . and fixes it with a muffled, "Mennnnnnn."

Well, it could've been a rat in the wall.

It could.