And so it goes: Of pigeon-holing, limitations and unmet expectations

As an editor and writer, the thing I hate the most is being pigeon-holed in the eyes of others about what I can, and cannot do.

I've found this frustrating phenomenon inside the journalism biz in the past (as have many colleagues), and more recently outside the office in freelance work.
Certainly, folks DO have limitations and should accept them (like Clint Eastwood's "Dirty Harry" Callahan advised, "A man's got to know his limitations.")

But I want to protest, nonetheless. In my decades I've worked a dozen beats, written books of fiction and non-fiction, technical papers, poetry, in-depth investigative articles, briefs, cops-and-robbers yarns, medical and high tech stories, magazine pieces, won more than my share of awards
.
I know. Yada, yada, yada . . . still, I don't see the same limitations.

But that's my judgment, based on what I've done and know; others make their judgments based on what they perceive. And ultimately, you can't really counter those gut assessments.

Life is like that, regardless your profession. You do what you can do, and move on -- always keeping in mind what is truly important: the ability to make a living for your family, love of wife, kids and friends, taking pride in your work and walking humbly before your God, or at least consistent with your principles.

And, so it goes.

Still, it sucks, as least for a moment or two.

Onward.

"Blind faith?" That's superstition. True faith has no fear of reason.

Learned today that for some folks, "faith" means blind faith, a resolute, eyes-closed, suspension of reason and refuge in circular arguments (i.e., why, if you aren't healed, you lack faith . . . and if you seek to confirm your healing through the docs, that's a lack of faith and, voila, no healing for you!)

Sort of an Evangelistic Soup Nazi approach, I guess. (A Seinfeld reference, folks).

Sad. For me, "blind faith" is more akin to superstition than belief and practice I believe Christ called his followers to emulate.

 

So, to those souls to afraid to test their faith with reality, I offer this from St. Augustine:

"Understanding is the reward of faith. Therefore seek not to understand that you may believe, but believe that you may understand."

And since I'm on a rant, this from Lee Strobel, a self-described former atheist turned believer: 

"Is that what faith is all about—fooling yourself into becoming a better person? Convincing yourself there’s a God so that you’ll become motivated to ratchet up your morality a notch or two? Embracing a fairy tale so you’ll sleep better at night? No thank you, I thought to myself. If that’s faith, I wasn’t interested."

For Strobel, it was the evidence and reason behind open-minded faith that led to his conversion.

And finally this, from C.S. Lewis:

"You can have faith with or without religious affiliation - faith is a state of being. Faith is putting hope and power into that which we can not see now...but know we will see in the future.
"Faith is the art of holding on to things your reason has once accepted in spite of your changing moods."

Beauty and imitation: Real world unrivaled when God's 'special effects' are displayed

One of the reasons I enjoyed the movie "Avatar" so much was the stunning special effects, the beauty of the exotic, extraterrestrial jungles, floating mountains, plants, animals, etc., created for the backgrounds.
The same appreciation was evident in the "Lord of the Rings" movies in the mammoth sculptures on the rivers, mountain fortresses and especially the abodes of the Elves with their surreal light and detail.
All fiction, those things.
But, to me, they pale next to the reality of breathtaking beauty in our "real" world. I was reminded of that when I stumbled upon this website, featuring the photo above -- and more than 20 others.
Stunning scenes, all the more so because they are places we can visit, touch, see, experience and . . . wonder.
So, take a look, and then, I dare you, go back to your daily tasks without a lingering sense of the inexpressible beauty of our planet, and gratitude to its Maker.

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.

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.