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.

Next time, Apple, I'll just Shuffle past your store

I recently bought an Apple iPod Shuffle at Walmart.
Yeah, I know, that's like buying a BMW at one of those low-number, downtown side street used car dealer lots.
But it was new, and I got the service plan with it. So, the Shuffle went "stem up" (an Appleism I invented there). Walmart tells me, "Call this 800 number and they'll set you up."
The 800 number, after a 20-minute wait, says "Oh, just walk into any Apple store and they'll fix you up."
So, OK, the nearest one is at the Fashion Place Mall. I walk in. There's a nearly empty store, but still a young man stands at the front, a gatekeeper. I make the serpentine approach through nonsensical, airport-like chutes, feeling like livestock on the way to be branded.
An apt metaphor, as it turned out.
"I'm here to have my Shuffle repaired or replaced," I say.
"Do you have an appointment?" he sniffs, looking me up and down. I'm feeling like I should've worn slacks, pastel shirt and a sports jacket with some expensive kicks, all of a sudden -- definitely not a hoodie and jeans.
"Appointment? There's hardly anyone here. The service folks said to just drop by, drop this off and you'd fix or replace it," I say, whipping out my service agreement.
"OH. WAL . . . Mart," he smiles with ill-concealed derision. "No, you have to have an appointment, sir," and he waves me toward a nearby terminal.
So, the appointment is made for NEXT Saturday. To drop it off. To be repaired or replaced. Sheesh.
Effete, elitist Apple Jerks.
He wasn't that big, this Apple gatekeeper. I coulda taken him. It's not like he's the doorkeeper at a Queens night club, OK?
But, well, I didn't. It's a one-inch-square iPod Shuffle, for cryin' out loud. And you can be sure, it will be the last Apple product I buy.
Hey, I'm getting older. I'm entitled to unreasonable, vindictive consumer behavior.
Now, if it had been Android, I'd probably have been welcomed into the shed out back, offered ribs and brew, a new player and been offered a look-see at Bubba's classic shootin' iron collection.
... and, I wouldn't have paid $55, either, plus gas, and the irritation.
Grrrr.

Friends, foes and in between: Diamonds in plain sight, or in lumps of mud

Had a nice breakfast with an old friend, former pastor and occasional writing client Saturday, Arni Jacobson.  But friend is how I best describe Arni after a quarter-century of knowing each other.

Good to catch up with someone who just accepts you, flaws and all... and to offer the same back. Over the years, we've explored all facets of those things.

As you get older, you appreciate people more, see them for who they are underneath. Sometimes, the treasure you find is not totally unexpected; you suspected it was there and now, voilà,  there it is, exposed to the bright light of day, in full view. Confirmation.

With others, you have to dig through the mud a bit, pull out that lump of something, wash it off and discover you have had a big old raw, uncut diamond all along.

Each person in your life is a gem to God in some way. If we, as flawed mortals, are able to discover the treasures in our lives by peering under the mundane expectations a lifetime of cynicism brings, we touch the heart and mind of God.

So, as we split a Village Inn breakfast -- I took the scrambled eggs and fruit cup, he the french toast and bacon -- my friend and I talked about what we've learned in our relationships with others -- friends, family, professional acquaintances and colleagues.

It comes down to loving more, forgiving more, and letting resentments go. You come to appreciate, rather than regret the scars. 

I'm a living metaphor for that epiphany.

At least, I do believe I'm getting there.

I'll let you know, from time to time, how that works out.

Common sense is the first casualty of 'gun control' debate

The current "gun control" debate is maddening for its logical fallacies, both circular and "Straw Man" in nature.

I fully understand the angst over the deaths of the innocents in the Sandyhook school shootings and others in the past years.

In all cases, though, these have been mentally ill perpetrators, and in almost all cases, they were using stolen firearms . . . that is, illegally obtained weapons.

Still, some folks are using the shootings as an excuse to "control" legal gun purchases. Some argue for repeal of the Second Amendment, claiming we no longer need it.

Pesky Constitution. Maybe the First Amendment (free speech and expression) should be the next to go? Speak out for the Second, it seems, and you certainly will be slandered and shouted down.

Some insist that "assault weapons" should be banned, when what they really mean is anything that looks scary -- i.e. "military" -- should be banned. The whole term "assault weapons," which applied to civilian models of firearms like AR-15s and AK-47s, etc., is misleading, even dishonest.

The AR-15 is a semi-automatic rifle (one trigger pull, one shot). An M-16, which it resembles, is capable of three-shot burst and fully automatic firing, i.e. a "machine gun." The former is legal, the latter is not for civilian but military use.

I own a .22-cal rifle that holds 20-some shots in a tube inside the stock, a very common weapon for the past 50 years. It is semi-automatic, like most rifles -- except "bolt action" models -- are these days.

Why would that .22 not be an "assault rifle?" Because it doesn't look scary, i.e. it does not have a pistol grip.

So, much of that argument is specious, and simply semantics. Take a pistol grip off the AR-15 and, I guess, it's not an assault rifle any more? Well, it never was.

Then there's the capacity of rifle clips. Some want to limit it to 10 rounds instead of 20 or 30, etc. Really? In Vietnam, my generation's soldiers simply taped one clip to the other, upside down, and it took about a second to flip, lock and load.

Again, a capacity based solution is really an ignorant solution.

But the biggest point the gun control crowd seems to miss is that you can restrict, control, ban, etc. firearms -- but criminals will still have them. That's what a criminal does, after all, break the law. Regardless how many restrictions are passed, all they would do, ultimately, is leave the law-abiding less able to defend themselves.

That is Insane.

But what is also insane is not enforcing background checks for those seeking to buy firearms. Felons, minors, the mentally ill, those with violent records should not be buying firearms. Period.

How anyone could argue with that, I don't know.

Are you listening to that, NRA?