Life: Is it what happens to us, our how we happen to live?

A friend and longtime journalistic colleague of mine asked the other day why I hadn't blogged recently.

My answer was that life had been too complicated of late, that I had been reticent to write more about the downward spiral of Alzheimer's and dementia with my parents, the disappointments of work, loss of perceived purpose, etc.

In short, I have been waiting for something more positive, uplifting to write about.

The arrival of my second grandson was, without a doubt, the best of a trying beginning to a new year. My daughter and son-in-law send pictures, and we video chat (Skype) frequently, to see little Nate, his big brother Gabe, and our only granddaughter, Lela.

Another: This past week, after six years of hard work, my wife, Barbara, earned her B.S. in Accounting from Western Governors University. Her joy and glow of success has been a treasure, and for her an indescribable mix of elevated self-worth, victory over the odds, and meaning.

Those are the brightest moments these days. Those are the sailboats we choose to crawl aboard -- yes, choosing to sail toward the sun rather than sink deeper into the darkness of choppy seas.

Life goes on, in all its exhilaration, the laughter and tears of a new generation, and unavoidably, the sorrow and ongoing losses of the last generation.

It  dawned on me, then, that if I waited for some dramatic turn in fortune to blog again, I would be doing Life a disservice. And, I would be waiting a very long time.

We humans like to divide what happens to us into "good" or "bad." We are blessed, or cursed; loved or hated; appreciated or dismissed; relevant or discarded, relegated to less-ambitious roles by younger superiors, etc.

If you maintain the usual human linear assumptions -- our finite, fail-safe manner of thinking and experiencing life -- all of that seems true.

But nothing truly is linear. Matter, energy and our souls are alike indestructible. Mountains erode into sand; sunlight is absorbed by plants to feed and, when they flower, amaze us higher life forms; and corporeal bodies are born, age, break down and eventually decompose to their base elements, only to return as the elements of new life.

The "Breath of Life," that profound, ethereal and yet reassuring expression of creation and existence and rebirth into an infinite existence, exposes as woefully inadequate that linear view of Time, or Being, or Purpose.

We are in error if we do not realize that Reality, according to physicists and theologians alike, extends far beyond the meager dimensions in which we live and perceive.

We attempt to grasp at an understanding of the Creative Intelligence, visualizing human-like super beings holding sway over our lives. But in our hearts, we know that "God" is a Presence both horrifying in its difference from us, and in its iinfinite nature, and as wonderful, and awe-inspiring in its limitless embodiment of what we call "Love.”

And when it comes to Love, we perceive even that with only a microscopic, fragmentary understanding.

We see beginning, middle and end, and think we understand the nature of things. He sees all Time, all its permutations, alternate outcomes – and Space, what we perceive and the wilderness of endless stars, planets, life forms beyond -- as One.

Ultimately, we have two choices. 

 

We can, in our human arrogance, close the inquiries of our finite minds to the Infinite, to Love, Creation and Purpose beyond grasping; we can conclude that what WE cannot understand cannot exist.

Or, we can accept, embrace and trust the Creator and creative process that led to what we are -- as a species, as well as individual souls.

When intellect reaches its limits, there is nothing more than to surrender to the limits, and thus errors of our knowledge.

And, always, the proper response to Love is to live in it, allowing it to flow through us to others.

Choices in entertainment: Moral equivalent of garbage in, garbage out?

OK, just in case you forgot, let's quickly review the Ten Commandments:

1. You shall have no other gods before Me.
2. You shall not make idols.
3. You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain.
4. Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.
5. Honor your father and your mother.
6. You shall not murder.
7. You shall not commit adultery.
8. You shall not steal.
9. You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
10. You shall not covet.
    

There. Now we have context.

My wife and I have a few favorite television shows we regularly watch. The NCIS family of shows are at the top of the list, along with "Blue Bloods,"  “Person of Interest,” “The Black List,” “Forever,” and “Elementary.”

We trimmed the list of situation comedies, which increasingly seem thinly-veiled means to propagandize particular political, social and cultural causes. 

If you made a steady diet of such shows, you'd likely come to think there's not a single functional family existing that is made up of a happily married mother and father; respectful, focused children; and certainly not one with a meaningful (i.e., reflected in actions) faith in God – unless the latter is portrayed as something to scorn or dismiss as delusional at best, or bigotry worth a trip to re-education camps at worst.

But before we congratulate ourselves on that revelation, I've come to wonder what is, afterall, truly consistent for our Christian beliefs within the worldview of an increasingly radicalized secular society.

I'm talking about the one that ignores the erosion of moral standard;, expanding, greed- and corruption-driven gaps between rich and poor; and growth of violence fed by an epidemic lack of accepting personal responsibility for our actions. Screw up, and it's someone else's, or society's fault.

So, do our choices in entertainment, in form of 42 minutes (plus ads) of dramatic storytelling, underscore the value of moral standards – or work to relegate them to mere situational ethics and self-serving relativism?

The same can be said of our choices in music, reading material, etc. But let's stick with the TV, or universal escape from reality.

One recent episode of one our remaining favorites portrayed people violating eight of those Ten Commandments listed above. Another one, nine – leaving only the fourth, keeping the Sabbath holy, unsullied.

So, there's that. But one could argue that scorecard is, after all, an accurate reflection of what our society has become.

And, to be fair, most of those shows we watch do have some moral components, with the protagonists seeking to protect the innocent, fight evil schemes, sustain friendships, making sacrifices, etc.

TV dramas, like human beings, can reflect a battlefield of the soul. That can be instructive. It may even indicate that despite all the degradation, hopelessness, violence, corruption around us, there still is that flicker of desire for “good” that transcends the individual and reaches the Other.

But it is, too often, merely a flicker. 

That's hopeful, certainly, but still not the kind of raging, love-driven inferno we need to turn things around.

Yet.

Human history is replete with eras of reform, revival and restored hope, usually driven by the purer facets of faith.

Oh, how we need that.

A journalist's lament: Of breaking news, and breaking hearts

Well, I face a career conundrum, one increasingly hard to ignore.

A couple years ago, through the vagaries of the shrinking, constantly morphing newspaper business — and through no choice of my own — I found myself returning to reporting on crime, fires and other "breaking news" that comprises so much of the new "online journalism" model these days.

 

This past week reminded me of why I was so relieved to have left that aspect of my profession — or, so I thought — 16-plus years ago when I quit The Associated Press for the flagship newspaper of my region.

Every day, I am reporting on someone's crisis or grief. A death by accident, or crime; loss of a home to fire; critical injuries in a crash that, if not fatal, leave the victims crippled or in a coma.

It just never stops, this well of our species' pain and suffering seemingly without bottom, refilled every day with stupidity, greed, rage, avarice and hubris.

You get hardened to it all. Gallows humor thrives in the newsroom, a tool to maintain your sanity in having to report such events day in, day out, week after week, month following month, year after year.

Then, a "routine" story turns on you, taking a chunk out of your heart.

We do dozens of "missing person advisory" type stories in a month's time. Kind of a public service, in cooperation with police, to help locate people in crisis -- runaway teens, seniors with dementia, people with urgent medical problems, etc.

Usually, it ends well: someone sees the photo, calls 911, and the person is safely recovered.

This past week, a missing 14-year-old girl was the subject of such a story. But there was no happy ending.

She was found, having apparently hanged herself, near an irrigation canal.

In most cases, our paper does not report suicides unless they are accompanied by a SWAT standoff or are highly public, such as someone jumping off a downtown building as hundreds watch.

But this young woman had been the subject of a major police search effort, so we had to followup. Reporting the cause of death, suicide, could not help but further traumatize the family. 

I did not name the child, though her name had been out there from earlier reports when she was "missing." The grieving family wanted to insist it wasn't suicide, despite the clear and overwhelming evidence that it was.

"Denial," is a stage of the grieving process, after all.

Police initially provided some incorrect information, too, which didn't help. That was reported, though clarified as soon as the details changed.

Still, by doing my job, I added to the pain of this grieving family. Intentions mean little in such situations. Sure, the door was opened, so to speak, by the public appeal for help finding the girl, the extensive search, etc. Professionally, we had to to report the outcome.

But in my gut, I wonder how much longer I can do that particular job.

What is more important? Getting the beat on a tragic story over others just as determined to air dirty laundry? Or, even if you cannot be a healing hand, at least not being the source of more injury?

It's not the first time I've asked myself this question over the years. And, I sigh, more deeply each time, as I consider it likely won't be the last.

 But I wonder. Will there come a time when it is?

A walk with my grandson: Of Faith, Love, Integrity . . . ducks, geese and sunlight

My grandson, Gabriel, and I had a nice conversation as we walked along the Jordan River Parkway after I got home from work yesterday afternoon.

A perfect autumn day, the river placid, the soft, golden glow of a retreating sun backlighting the cattails and illuminating the canopies of aspen, willow, cottonwood and oak trees overhead. On the water, geese and ducks foraged and engaged in halfhearted territorial disputes, generally at peace with each other and the season.

In the trees, juniper and sage, Meadowlarks, swallows, mourning doves and the occasional magpie darted through the branches or took short flight as we approached, grandpa and stroller-borne grandchild, in conversation perhaps as nonsensical to each other as human speech is to the river's denizens.

As the miles passed beneath foot and wheel, I told Gabriel how blessed he was, in this age of family unit breakdown and eroding moral and ethical values, to have two parents who loved God, him and each other.

I promised, for as long as I live, to be there for him; to do my best to live Faith, Love and Integrity . . . in prayerful hope that he, too, will embrace those.

I told him I would always pray that he will have the fortitude to live those values, even when the mass of humanity chooses to chase the lies.

The Lies? That happiness depends on temporal possessions, self-gratification, and lifestyles that worships materialism and greed, rather than seeking eternal values, and the eternal destiny that comes only with trust in the God of Love.

He occasionally responded: Enthusiastic imitations of the ducks in the river, geese honking overhead in their "V" formations, the occasional dog that would pass with its jogging human."Quack," "Honk," Woof." Excited yowls and giggles came with a scurrying squirrel or a bird landing briefly on a nearby branch.

 It was a fine conversation, perfect for our last time together for, probably, quite a while, as he and his mother fly home back East this weekend.

Yes, eloquent, my grandson.

We understood each other, perfectly.

News sources: Whether CNN, Fox, MSNBC, information has become propaganda, and truth elusive

Observation: ALL our "major news outlets" have an agenda. 

Those agendas, as conceived and implemented, however, fall along a continuum between "subconscious" (i.e., kneejerk/ingrained political and/or worldview generated) to "intentional" (by design, through twisting or omitting "facts").

All are reactionary, according to the biases of individuals and corporations, and the opinionated soupy sea all sail.

If I want news that is presented with the least intentional bias, I'll hit CNN. . . though it, too, falls prey to some personalities' propensity for political prejudice through the weight of presentation, and on occasion injection of personal opinion in "news" accounts.

BBC is good for outside and more global perspective, though it has its own presumptions in presentation.

On the extreme end of the continuum, then, albeit from different worldviews, are Fox and MSNBC -- both spewing propagandized "news" in volume and hyperbole that would even make Joseph Goebbels, Hitler's PR man, stand in cynical awe.

The quandary for an electorate in need of being accurately informed is epic in this Information Age: Due to the politicization of most of our "news" sources, individual research -- and skills to know truth from half-truth or no-truth -- is essential . . . but rarely done.

That leads to ill- and un-informed citzens, polarized, left and right, by their ignorance.

"Honey Boo-Boo" cancelled: Proof for Intelligent (if delayed) Design

The argument for Design, as in how the Universe came to be, just got a HUGE boost.

"Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo," has been cancelled!

Hallelujah, cue a fireworks display of supernovas and quasars in the firmament! Fire up the Vienna Boys Choir!

Yes, in a cosmos full of ravenous black holes, erupting suns, extinction-level meteors making near-misses with that tiny blue gem orbiting Sol, this is, finally, assurance that the Universe is not totally chaotic.

There IS a design and order and, eventually, even  justice!

I say it again, Honey Boo-Boo and the rest of her obnoxious, survival-of-the-stupidest, white trash, devolved humanoid family are being pulled from the air by TNT!

Not that I have any feelings about it, you know, one way or the other . . . .

Read all about it, here: http://www.cnn.com/2014/10/24/showbiz/tv/honey-boo-boo-tlc/index.html

My cousin Rob died young, but learned lessons for the ages

The first time I met my younger cousin, Rob Castor, he rushed up to the table where my aunt had made breakfast for my dad and me . . . and, with a big toddler grin, unleashed a spit-laden raspberry all over my toast.

He ran off giggling, his plastic pants a blur.

Over the ensuing 50-plus years, my contacts with Rob were better. Along with his three younger brothers, they were the closest thing I had to male siblings.

The fun-loving kid grew into a sometimes wild, partying teen and young man. He always had a smile, laughed at everything, seemed to love everyone.

No judgment from Rob, who was all too aware of his own foibles.

Like many on the maternal, Scots-Irish side of my family, he had a weakness for, and lifetime struggle with addictive behavior. It was a gene I, too, have had to fight.

Alcohol. Tobacco. Drugs. Food. Whatever would fill the gnawing hunger inside.

Rob paid a heavy price, his health suffering as he grew older.

His 56th year, this year, would be his last. Just a couple weeks after we had a wonderful, upbeat talk on the phone, he suddenly passed away. 

We had talked about growing up in our strange clan, the good times, some of the bad. He was considering weight loss surgery, something I had gone through a few years back. He was optimistic, motivated.

I encouraged him. He shared his rekindled Christian faith with me.

He never had the surgery. They say a complete renal shutdown did him in.

The last thing I remember, now, is his laughter, and concern for my parents. "I love them so much!" he said. "I'm praying for them."

Rob died young. But he did not leave us before learning, and practicing, a lesson — perhaps The Lesson — many of us never embrace:

Loving and accepting each other, flaws and all, is what it's all about.

I'm proud of that about my cousin. And in that love of life and others, without judging them, he will always be my mentor.

God bless, cuz.

I'll see you again, soon enough.

I'll just listen for that deep belly laugh, step into the Light and give you a bear hug.

Will meeting E.T. be the end of faith? Depends. How BIG is your God?

I firmly believe in God. I am a Christian, albeit a rational one.

I have faith in Christ, not magic. I am convinced that the Truth has nothing to fear from the truth, in other words.

So, I've never subscribed to the fear some of my coreligionists have that the discovery of intelligent extra-terrestrial life would be the undoing of faith, somehow.

It depends on your "faith," I would argue. How BIG is your God? And does the idea that a finite human mind cannot comprehend the thoughts, means of creation, capacity for Love and Justice of the Infinite One also threaten your belief system?

If so, time to open your eyes and marvel at the cosmos. Time to open your heart, gaze into the eyes of a child, and experience wonder.

That we may not be the center of the Universe, or the only special, beloved creation in it, does not diminish the love for a special creation — whether us, or us and others created in the mystical image of God.

It's nice to know I'm not alone in that conviction.

Read this article, and soar.

http://www.space.com/16285-alien-life-discovery-religion-impact.html

Going home: Even with Alzheimer's, the heart knows the way

When I was a boy, our preacher's family moved often.

Before I was 11 years old, I had attended a dozen schools in California and then Washington state as Dad and Mom took various pastoral positions, or sought employment between those "callings."

Mom would work as a waitress, sometimes holding down two jobs at once. Dad would take odd jobs ranging from warehouses and grocery store stocking to janitorial work and department store window display.

Always, though, the first thing done when my folks arrived at a new house or apartment was to set up the beds for my sister and me. That, along with Mom and Dad, and the smell of poached eggs and toast to send me off to school in the morning, made it "home."

When I heard the saying, "You can't go home again," I didn't, at first, understand the idea. When I later read Thomas Wolfe's novel, I grasped, though still did not share, the concept.

Home was where my family was, where I was tucked into bed at night with a prayer and a kiss on the forehead, sometimes after a story from Dad.

"Home is where the heart is," Mom would often refrain, fond of such truisms.

She taught that lesson to me decades ago, when as a young boy I both anticipated, and dreaded, going to a new school, fighting new bullies to earn my place as the "preacher's kid," and hopefully making a friend or two before the U-Haul truck reappeared in the driveway.

Time, as it will, has slipped by like an unrelenting river. I'm no longer young, but a grandfather. Yet, my Mom still taught me the Lesson during my trip this past week to visit her and my father in eastern Washington.

Dad is in an assisted living facility now, frail, just recovering from a mild stroke, but at 92 still alert, his memories intact.

Mom is in a 24/7 Alzheimer's facility. At 86, she is physically healthy for her age, but the disease has robbed her, and me, of so much. So very much.

She no longer recognizes me, nor can she speak more than a couple words, and usually nonsensically. 

As I tried to rouse her from a near-catatonic state, caressing her face as she sat in a wheelchair, I watched her breathe. When she finally opened her eyes, there was, for so long . . . nothing.

She stared blankly into space. No response.

Finally, my wife, Barbara, and I rose to leave. But before we did, as has always been the practice upon parting in the Preacher's family, we prayed.

I prayed for her peace.

What else was there to petition the heavens for? 

Wasn't the unspoken prayer that, with so much of her gone, the rest of that flicker of a once sharp, articulate and life-loving woman could also depart?

A final time, I bent down, kissed her softly on the forehead, as she had so often done to me.

 "I love you, Mom," I said, then began to move away, fighting the hot tears welling in my eyes.

There was a murmur, almost a whisper. "Me . . . too."

I looked back at her, but too late. Her gaze was locked on some invisible realm I did not share.

But, for an instant, I was home.

Love, work and deeds: Do you 'play for mortal stakes'?

The late Robert B. Parker, who created the literary Boston detective Spenser, entitled one of the series' novels, "Mortal Stakes."

Not the first time, curiosity over a title or phrase or quotation in a Parker book spurred me to investigate further.

This weekend, while reading a collection of Robert Frost poems, there it was:

"Only where need and love are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sake."

I read it several times. It had the feeling of . . . scripture.

The stanza above comes at the conclusion of Frost's recounting his joy of chopping wood -- until two unemployed lumberjacks come down the trail.

Silently, they watch him work . . . and silently, he understands that what he does for joy, they need to do for making a living -- mortal stakes. In the end, their need overcomes his joy; he pays them to finish the work.

This poem ("Two Tramps in Mud Time")  has so touched me that I've posted the above stanza at my work station.

Somehow, it makes me feel much better about starting another week of labor.