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.

Nancy Grace: Is she fanning the flames of racial hatred for ratings?

Nancy Grace (CNN/Google)

Nancy Grace continues to repeat the claim -- which her network reported early on concerning ZImmerman's profanity laced 911 call -- that Zimmerman used the term "f'ing coons."

Justifiably, folks were enraged, arguing that was solid evidence of his racial profiling, even hatred.

But what Nancy missed, or chose to ignore as she fanned the flames of outrage over Zimmerman's acquittal (which has plenty of other, legitimate reasons to question, BTW) is that the FBI said that was incorrect, and now CNN has since acknowledged their initial analysis was wrong.

A new, enhanced analysis by CNN shows what was said was "(it's) f'ing cold."

I bring this up NOT to in any way justify what happened with Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman, at all. I bring it up to show the irresponsibility and arguably lack of professional ethics by Ms. Grace in continuing to fan the hate with claims she knows, or should know, are just plain wrong. 

The FBI report, for what it's worth; I make no judgments based on this one small part of the puzzle. It is what it is (click on the hypertext link to hear for yourself).

I'm a grandpa . . . for the first, and the third time.

So, I am a grandpa. For the first time . . . and for the third time.

Let me explain.

I already had two grandkids. Joshua, now in his 20s, and Lela, 6, are what I call grandchildren born in my heart. They came to us through marriage from our daughter-in-law and son-in-law, respectively.

But there are ties and bonds of love that will last or eternity, nonetheless. My wife feels the same way -- and that is how we will treat them, now and, well, forever.

This past Friday, though, my daughter gave birth to Gabriel Idal Mims-Tchoundjo. Gabe came about six weeks early, so he will be in the Neo-natal ICU for several more weeks. But the prognosis is excellent: he is active, alert, breathing on his own, gaining weight (born at 3 pounds, 3 ounces) and strength daily.

On Saturday, my wife Barbara and I were able to "Skype" with the proud mom and dad from their hospital in Baltimore to the proud grandparents (us) in Salt Lake City.

It was about a half an hour of watching Gabe thrash around, dine on pumped breast milk from Brenda (thank goodness, the pumping was not part of this "live" broadcast!), and respond to his mother's and father's caresses.

Gave me a totally new feeling of . . . completeness. It's a father-daughter thing, I suspect. And it wasn't just about the survival imperative, i.e. DNA being passed on to forge ahead in Time.

 

 It was, more I think, seeing her happy with her own family, and watching how tender and attentive my son-in-law was to her and his son.

 

 Think of the last time we smiled seeing a mother, father and infant huddled together in a mall, airport, train, bus, etc. There was just something "right" about it all . . . then multiply that feeling 100 times.

Sort of like that. 

Lessons from Woodrow: You can poop and walk at the same time, but not pee; and stand in the stirrups at a trot

 

Still thinking of yesterday's horseback riding. I was on "Woodrow," (someone likes Lonesome Dove at the stables?), a quarter-horse /Percheron cross with a steady, gentle and yet energetic demeanor and a beautiful black and silver coat.

Very responsive on the reins, the knee squeezes.

 Halfway through the ride he suddenly stopped, wouldn't budge. Then I heard the cascade, and the "oooooh!" of the kid riding behind me.

The drover, with his slouch hat and Texas drawl, said "It's OK, sir. They ken walk 'n poop at the same time, but not pee 'n walk."

 I remarked that was true for horses, perhaps, but I've witnessed humans do both. Albeit with dire effects on undergarments and pants.

I was given an El Paso groan.

Another quarter mile or so, Woodrow unleashed a mighty baritone blast of 20-25 seconds duration, eliciting not one but several "ooohs!" and gags from the riders behind. And a quarter mile later, out came the fertilizer, green and glistening in the morning sun. That drew more exclamations from the rearward portions of the trail.

"Good boy, Woodrow!" I murmured, stroking his neck.

This horse and I were soulmates.

Or so I thought. When the drover and my wife, Barb, got a bit ahead, Woodrow decided to break into a brisk trot to close the gap. I was . . . unprepared.

Things were getting whapped and slapped that should not be so treated. The stars were out, and it was mid-morning. I had a burning in my bosom, as my Mormon friends would testify, but the burning was about a foot and a half lower.

"Whooo-aaaHHhhhh," I croaked, weakly easing back the reins and taking a few deep, if ragged breaths.

No doubt about it. A gelding's revenge.
------

P.S.  So, I'm told when the horse gets to a trot, I'm supposed to stand up in the stirrups. Or, adjust the stirrups accordingly.

Miracles: They start by recognizing the miracle that is Life -- and the Lifegiver's love for us

My daughter, Brenda, is in the hospital for at least a couple days. Started having contractions one week into her third trimester. Naturally, docs in Baltimore want to prevent a premature birth, especially this early. 

She is holding it together, but a father can hear the worry in his little girl's voice.

 My son-in-law is the same steady, encouraging and loving man in a crisis as I have come to know in less trying times. And, our shared faith binds us together.

For Barbara and I, this is a deja vu moment. Thirty-eight years ago, my son was born at about 6 1/2 months. Three weeks in infant intensive care and the docs then refusing to say more than "we will do what we can." He made it and has thrived.

Docs then told us the "miracle" word was not to be dismissed, and God knows we prayed for one.
So many years later, the science of prenatal care has advanced far . . . but the outcome, as always, remains outside our hands.

In other words, friends, we find ourselves once more praying. We welcome your prayers as well, whatever form they may take.

I am reminded of the 139th Psalm, David's to the wonder of God and life, and the assurance that whatever we face, He is with us and cares for us:

"Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out; you formed me in my mother's womb. 

 I thank you, High God--you're breathtaking! Body and soul, I am marvelously made! I worship in adoration--what a creation! 

 "You know me inside and out, you know every bone in my body; You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit, how I was sculpted from nothing into something. 


" Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth; all the stages of my life were spread out before you, The days of my life all prepared before I'd even lived one day." (Psalm 139:13-16, Message)

Be charitable, but beware of bogus charities that enrich no one but themselves

One of my pet peeves is mindlessly giving to "charity" without having the smarts to first check them out.

When you think of it, blindly donating every time you get a letter soliciting donations, or a telemarketing call, is no brighter than giving your hard-earned bucks to one of those neer-do-wells holding a cardboard sign outside parking lots, street corners, etc.

You know, the same "homeless" folks you will see pouring out of a van as part of an organized professional begging operation, or later driving an SUV to a house in the suburbs. That's why, if you want to truly help the homeless, you should volunteer in a rescue mission kitchen or donate directly to non-profit shelters.

But I digress.

Let's talk about established "charities" that are nothing more than cash-generating machines. They take $1 from you, and maybe spend 3-4 cents on their purported causes.

They play off the desire of Americans who have big hearts, but little time -- or desire -- to check out where they send their donations and what ends up getting done with them.

CNN, the Center for Investigative Reporting  and the Tampa Times combined their resources to explore such bogus charities. Here's their list of the "Worst 50."

It's NOT my 60th birthday . . . I'm just 39, for the 21st time

Sixty years old. 

Sounds old. So, I'll express it this way: I'm marking my 39th birthday . . . for the 21st time.

Honestly, a few years ago I did not expect to make it this far. Except for, IMHO, miraculous intervention and skilled docs (they do work together, you know), I would not have done. Since age 55, really, I've felt I was on borrowed time, and I became convinced of it a little more than a year ago when an aortic valve replacement helped me avoid what the cardiologist said was imminent death.

It's been a strange journey. My profession has made me an observer. My faith has made me an uncomfortable participant, as belief has wrestled with that human feeling (certainty?) of cosmic incompetence.

You do your best. You depend on faith to bridge the gap between comfort and conviction, insecurity and aspiration, fear and courage, mediocrity and the dream.

You don't want to leave anything important undone.

I think of Hemingway's character, "Harry," in the short story "The Snows of Kilimanjaro," who awaits death from a gangrenous leg wound on a cot in an African hunting camp. He laments having waited to write things, thinking he had to wait for accumulated experience before he could do those things justice. Now, those things would go unwritten.

Now, that he had weighed his life, seen what was truly real, judged himself, punished himself. He faces the end, dissatisfied with his spiritual sloth, and yet, as he drifts toward the end, acceptance and peace and perhaps self-forgiveness come.

That was Hemingway's hope, for Harry and himself. The horror, the truth is that the realization of dreams unsought due to personal cowardice, insecurity and procrastination are too often the last thoughts before the end.

There's a hyena that skulks around the camp at night, coming closer each night. Like Harry's leg, is smells. In the story, the foul odor and death personified become one.

One passage I like a lot from the final moments of Harry's life is part of a prolonged conversation with his wife. I find it particularly poignant:

"Do you feel anything strange?" he asked her.

"No. Just a little sleepy."

"I do," he said.

He had just felt death come by again.

"You know the only thing I've never lost is curiosity," he said to her.

I wake up, every day, curious. Curious about what life will bring to me and my loved ones that day. Curious about how news events I will witness, report on and read about and see that day will affect the Story of Humanity.

That's the baseline, the purely human part of me, I suspect. Add to that a sense of awe, adoration of God and his creations, the rare wonder of life in all its varieties, and regardless of the really minor irritations that we perceive as mountains, it's worth getting up and walking into the dawn.