Silence, Reflection, Remembrance

Today is the Memorial Day holiday, a day dedicated to the men and women in our Armed Forces who have given their lives in honorable service to our country, particularly those who have died in combat. We also pay tribute today to those men and women in uniform who are in harm’s way in various places around the world.

Town squares and city parks around the country have memorials dedicated to the local servicemen and servicewomen who have served and sacrificed their lives in our behalf. Given the enormity of the sacrifice being recognized, we build our largest and most impressive memorials to honor these men and women and those who have led them. We build these memorials because we don’t know what else to do to offer an ongoing recognition of the debt we owe to those who have secured our freedom at the cost of their lives.

There’s nothing we can put in words to adequately honor these soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen, nothing that can even come close to capturing the magnitude of their courage and sacrifice. That’s why it’s customary to observe a moment of silence in their honor. In a world filled with talk and clamor and the gunshots of the never-ending wars we fight, silence is such a rare and treasured commodity that it serves as a nearly perfect means of remembrance.

I think about how close my family came to forever experiencing this day in a deeply different manner. When a hellish “improvised explosive device” exploded next to the Humvee my son was riding in near Fallujah on May 13, 2004, a name was added to one or more memorials around the country, the name of a young Marine sitting only a few feet from my son. I think about that Marine and his family often; today I honor that Marine and his family. I do so knowing that another half rotation of the tires on that Humvee could have reversed the roles being played by two families today. I fall into a moment of profound silence in the grip of that thought.

I spoke above of silence being a nearly perfect means of remembrance. There is only one perfect means of remembrance for those who have died in war – and that is the silencing of the gunfire, the explosions, the weapons of war. Peace is the only way to properly honor those who die in war. As long as the world is willing to add new names to the memorials to those who have died in wars around the world, then the world is not willing to truly and completely honor those who died for the purpose of ending war and bringing peace. Every other form of recognition falls short of the mark.

What would happen if all the people in the world would pause for a minute of silence at noon each day wherever they may be? And in that minute we would only think about what unites us, about our common humanity and our shared longing for peace. As the day unfolds around the globe that simple observance would mean that millions of people would be in silent reflection somewhere in the world essentially every hour. What would happen if people everywhere would stop each day and remember the price we’ve paid, individually and collectively, for our hatred; our vengeance; our retaliation; our anger; our disdain; our disputes; our arrogance; our national egos; and for the violence we all have employed in the name of our designated God and in order to advance our self-defined and often self-serving form of social, political, economic or religious justice?

I recall the impact such a moment had on me as I stood in silence at noon on an early August day in the Peace Park in Hiroshima; then again a few days later as I stood in silence on a street corner in Tokyo, facing Hiroshima, at 8:15AM on August 6, 2001.

The world would slowly change in the midst of such silence, as we began to realize and then abhor the price being paid in blood and human life every day, sometime, somewhere. In the calmness of that minute the reflection we see would first startle us; then trouble us; then stir us; and then motivate us to act differently at least in the next few minutes. Perhaps minutes would build into hours, and hours into days, and days into years, and years into a new era.

Then, what if we built upon an Islamic model and observed this silence five times each day, only one minute at a time? Only, in these five minutes there would be only thoughts of peace and a renewal of our individual and collective commitment to peace; there would be no thoughts about politics or religion or anything else that divides, separates or distinguishes us. After all, 1,435 other minutes would remain in each day for those thoughts.

Cynics will sneer at the flower-child idealism this suggests. Skeptics will have a thousand reasons for why such minute “inaction” wouldn’t make any difference. They may be right. But I believe they’re wrong. I believe in the human capacity to bring to pass any reality that it collectively envisions long enough and hard enough. After all, we’re the authors and creators of the realities that bring war; why can’t we be the authors and creators of those that bring peace? We can.

I salute those men and women who have fallen in conflicts that were pursued in search of a better world. I believe their lives, their deaths, and their sacrifices can still bear fruit and can still make a monumental difference in the search for peace and a better world. There is power in their memory and in their memorials – if we’ll just stop and reflect in moments of silence. In those moments, these brave and honorable men and women will speak to us; they will lead us to a destination we’ve been trying to reach since the first one fell.

I pray for silence; I pray for reflection; I pray for remembrance.

Zoom, Zoom, Zoom!

Today is race day! 1,100 miles of turning left; drafting; bumping; spinning out; hitting the walls; tire wear; gas consumption; pit stops; and green, yellow, black, white and checkered flags. It’s a day for men to flex their Y chromosomes and for women to get in touch with their masculine side. It’s a day to put away all the ales, microbrews and foreign labels and chill down some Bud, Coors or Miller Genuine Draft. Fire up the grill; showering and shaving are optional; just sit back, join the hundreds of thousands of people at the track, and enjoy the roaring madness.

“Gentlemen, and Danica, start your engines!”

Auto racing, whether in its Indy, NASCAR, Formula 1 or other forms, is a sport that lives on the hair-raising edge almost every minute it’s going on. It’s a carefully choreographed order that rubs against chaos and invites mayhem. Is it any wonder why guys love this stuff?! It’s damn near primal.

I love the Indy 500 in particular. When I was in grade school I would listen to the race on radio because there was no TV broadcast. Part of my initial attraction was due to Arizona natives, Jimmy Bryan and Roger McCluskey, being stars in the Indy firmament. Bryan won the 500 in 1958. When TV coverage finally arrived it wasn’t broadcast until the weekend after the race, so I listened on the radio and then watched it on TV. The advantage of that combo is that I knew when chaos and mayhem were going to break through.

In May 1960, while living in Williams, Arizona, my 6th grade classmate, Joel, and I decided to take my transistor radio and listen to the Indy 500 in a wooded area a few hundred yards behind his home. There were some small caves in the area where we liked to hang out and a pond where we built and floated around on a raft (which was both gutsy and stupid because I didn’t know how to swim at the time). Our Arizona hero, Bryan, wasn’t a front runner that day so we lost a little focus during the race. For reasons known only in the reptilian mind of 11-year old boys, we decided to gather some leaves and pine needles and light them on fire. No problem, until a little gust of wind blew some of the burning leaves a few feet away – into another bunch of dry leaves and needles. They ignited and our little fire began to spread. I believe the technical description for this fire is “out of control”. We tried stomping it out but that didn’t work. Panic began to set in as we envisioned having touched off a full-fledged forest fire. Finally, we each torn off our shirts and began flailing away at a surrounding area to clear the leaves and needles, and then we flailed at the flames, trying either to smother them or literally beat them down. Somehow, it worked. We then spent the rest of the race soaking those shirts in pond water and wringing them out over an area about five times the size of the fire, just to make sure there were no embers left behind. Meanwhile, Jim Rathmann beat our next-best favorite, Rodger Ward, to the finish line at the Brickyard. Having just dodged a bullet traveling much faster than an Indy race car, we didn’t particularly care.

My dad fueled my interest by taking me to see Indy cars race in the Bobby Ball 200 in Phoenix a couple of times when I was a kid. A.J. Foyt, Rodger Ward and Parnelli Jones were there, wheel to wheel. I loved the ear-piercing sound of the engines and the constant movement from the green to the checkered.

Today, I’m back into remembrance about Danny. He was a blossoming sports fan. He liked playing baseball, watching football and he had an emerging interest in car racing, particularly the Indy 500. He watched it with me each year after his mom and I got married, and each year he stayed with it longer. The first year he watched only the first 50 laps, but by May 2001 he was in it for the duration. Nice memory.

Oh, yeah, I mentioned 1,100 miles but I’ve only talked about 500 of them. NASCAR runs this little 600-mile race in Charlotte, North Carolina, later today. It’s not Indy, but it’s not a bad show, either. I’ll be in virtual attendance.

I also pause on this Memorial Day weekend to salute every man and woman in uniform and to remember all who have given their lives in the service our country. God bless them.

It’s time for some green flag racing!

364 Days of Remembrance

Interesting juxtaposition – the last posting here was a lighthearted commentary about a dark mood on a particular birthday one year. This posting is a heavyhearted commentary about a dark mood on a particular birthday every year.

Danny would have been 19 today. It’s the darkest day of the annual “Danny calendar” for me. As his illness progressed from diagnosis through treatment and eventually to his death and burial, a Danny calendar began to develop in our lives. We mark days on that calendar that are of no particular meaning to anyone else. Those days range from initial diagnosis on November 19 to things like the removal of his orthodontic braces on January 23 in preparation for a bone marrow transplant that never happened. We take note of hospital admission and discharge dates; relapse dates; dialysis dates; a minor stroke date. We also note bittersweet dates like the celebration of what we thought was the end of treatment in June 2001 and the trip to Japan in July and August that year that was a well-deserved reward for that milestone.

But for me, May 27 is the nadir date in this annual trek through mountains and valleys. This day has become the antithesis of a birthday celebration. How do you mark the birthday of a boy who died two months before his 15th birthday? The birth/death incongruity in this day is a two-edged blade that has no handle – it cuts us no matter how we hold it. It’s easier to mark his death date, because the sequential numbers just keep coming and the count won’t stop until the day we die. Even then, the numbers will continue to come one after the other for several decades, until everyone who knew Danny is gone.

But the passage of sequential birthday numbers for Dan stopped at 14 on May 27, 2001, ironically at a time when we were filled with great hope and anticipation of the end of treatment and a return to a normal life for a young man who deserved a break. Now, we’re left to mark this day by saying, “Dan would have been…” That’s a sentence that is at the same time empty and filled with sorrow.

This is a day not just of sorrow, but a day of anger for me. When Dan was diagnosed in late 1997 he had an 80% chance of “event-free survival” five years later. Someone said, “If you have to get leukemia, this is the best kind to have.” But, sometimes, the “best” isn’t good enough. For reasons we don’t understand and probably never will understand, Dan drew the 20% short straw. And so did we; and sometimes anger is all we can feel because we don’t know what else to feel. Sometimes, sorrow isn’t good enough.

We know there is much to celebrate about Danny’s life. He was a Category 5 kid who flowed over and sometimes breached our levees. His personality would flood our home and his high-water marks are clearly visible on our walls! Those marks trigger many memories; they produce the soothing stories and warm smiles of remembrance and at times they come close to celebration.

But not on May 27th. At least not for me. Today, I mourn. Tomorrow, I will return to remembrance and the hope for celebration.

The New 60!

My oldest son turns 30 today. I’m worried for him, because birthday angst might be a genetic thing. I hated my 30th birthday. For whatever reason, it has been the only birthday that has truly depressed me – so far. I wish a better day for my son.

I spent my 30th at the home of my former in-laws in Salt Lake City, where my family and I were visiting while in transit between Navy duty stations. We’d left the Philippines a couple of weeks before and were due to report to the Naval Academy a couple of weeks later. I was “in transit” in more ways than one. I felt like I was at a way station between my carefree youth and free care thanks to Medicare.

My dark mood on that November day in 1978 was waiting for me when I awakened. I overslept, probably due to a subconscious awareness of my inability, or at least my unwillingness, to face the pending transition. I woke up alone in a bedroom that wasn’t mine. The fact that I didn’t own a bedroom in SLC or anywhere else was part of the problem. At 30, it’s possible to feel like life is half over and one should have their own bedroom midway through the backstretch in their run for the roses.

When I went upstairs to join the family, they were in the midst of making a nice breakfast for me. A special place had been set for me at the table – with a rocking chair, pillow and blanket ready at the head of the table. I recall that there was a bottle of Geritol sitting beside the orange juice. Everyone was getting a real kick in the shorts about the setup. Said another way, everyone I loved was mocking me; I was awash in celebratory ridicule right out of the gate on this, my oh-so-special day. My mood darkened in the presence of their guffaws. I put on a brave face and acted like I enjoyed it; but my blatant lack of integrity on the issue only made matters worse.

That day left me wondering if the birthdays that herald the arrival of each new decade of life were the issue. Over the coming years I pondered the approach of my 40th birthday. But, turning 40 was cool. I had always wondered what I’d be when I grew up and on that birthday I finally felt like I knew the answer to that wonder. I’d entered the mainstream. I didn’t feel in transit. After all, I owned my own bedroom; and, just outside that bedroom I had a swimming pool in a yard in California that had palm trees swaying in the breeze. Like those palm trees, I stood pretty tall in the breeze on my 40th.

But I got it in my head that surely the birthday angst was something that came along every other decade. I began to view 50 with quiet trepidation. Fifty couldn’t be good; I mean, how could 50 be anything other than not good? People tried to cheer me up by saying, “Hey, 50 is the new 30!” Great; I hated turning 30. I felt 50 when I turned 30; so I was seriously skeptical about feeling 30 when I turned 50. I would have felt a lot better if they’d said “50 is the new 40.” I would have settled for hearing that “50 is the new 48.”

Turning 50 proved to be the antithesis of turning 30. I loved it; it was great. It felt like 50 was the new 25! For some reason, when I turned 50 I felt liberated. I felt free of the need to prove myself to anyone, ever again. I had arrived. I had achieved my professional goals. I was happily married. My children were beginning to settle into their lives. I was satisfied. Even being in the midst of a family crisis, as my stepson battled leukemia, didn’t overshadow the day. Dan was nearing the end of his first round of chemotherapy, which we thought would be the last round; he was in remission and doing well. I was awash in hope.

Now, the specter of 60 looms on the horizon. It awaits my arrival. I’m in no hurry to get there. Sixty portends the arrival of the ends – the end of a career; the end of seeing kids finish school; the end of watching them get married (for the first time anyway). Sixty is the end of “middle age”; it’s the beginning of senior citizen discounts (I ignore the few that are offered to those over 55). No one feels like they reached their peak at 60 or beyond. Peaks are in the rearview mirror. Only valleys lie ahead. Valleys can be nice; they can have green pastures and clear streams in them; they can be peaceful places. But, one of those valleys has a shadow in it.

The angst is returning. People tell me that 60 is the new 40; but I fear that 60 is worse than that. I fear that it’s the new 30. I may not have mentioned it, but I really hated turning 30. I told my son yesterday that I’m concerned that 30, 60 and 90 are going to be the problem birthdays for me.

Oh, well … it is what it is; what will be, will be.

Happy birthday, son! Try not to dwell on any genetic angst I may have passed on to you. Try not to dwell on the thought that 30 is the new 60. Instead, just pull the blanket around your sore knees and enjoy your orange juice. Hopefully, your loved ones will have skipped the Geritol gag. Given our genetic makeup, it’s not all that funny, anyway.

The Deciders

Who lives? Who dies? Who decides?

We do. That means I do; and you do.

That’s the provocative question and equally provocative answer that Texas State Senator Judith Zaffirini laid before the Class of 2006 at the commencement ceremony for University of Texas Law School on Saturday. My wife’s nephew was among the graduates in Austin who were challenged to consider this proposition in Senator Zaffirini’s commencement address. I don’t know how the graduates reacted to it, but it made me think.

Senator Zaffirini, a Democrat from Laredo and the first Hispanic woman to be elected to the Texas Senate, illustrated her point by referencing her work on Texas legislation involving the death penalty and AIDS-related research, concluding that laws such as those have a direct impact in determining who lives and who dies in Texas. Like the president, she’s a decider with regard to those questions. But she was quick to point out that each of the new graduates, and by logical extension everyone else in attendance, is part of the process that decides who lives and who dies – in our state, our nation and our world. It’s a sobering proposition.

When it comes to lawyers there are obvious life and death implications for those who become criminal prosecutors, defense attorneys and judges. But even in my job, in which I’m responsible for my company’s environmental compliance and worker health and safety programs, it’s certainly possible, if not probable, if not certain, that something I do, or fail to do, could play a role in determining whether someone lives or dies. I could be a decider. I may have already been a decider.

When I think more about it, it strikes me that the senator is right – essentially every one of us is part of the process that determines who lives and who dies. I suspect that most of us can rather quickly find a direct connection to that process in our employment or some other significant part of our life. It actually seems pretty difficult to identify someone who does not impact life and death determinations.

As I sit here, I can list one occupation after another that helps decide who lives and who dies – everyone involved in healthcare, including mental health professionals and lab technicians; the military and those who support the military; law enforcement; fire protection and fire fighting; drug- and alcohol-related programs; the clergy; corrections facilities; architects and engineers who design countless structures, pieces of equipment, highways, autos, trucks, planes, boats, and trains; the contractors and mechanics who then build and maintain those structures, equipment, highways, autos, trucks, planes, boats and trains; professional drivers; non-professional drivers; party chaperones and designated drivers; lifeguards; the firearms and weaponry industries; pilots and flight attendants; ship crews; security professionals; members of state and national legislative branches of government; members of the executive branch of government and its regulatory agencies; members of the judicial branch of government; investigative journalists who help to hold government accountable; everyone working in or for the United Nations; anyone connected with the handling of toxic substances, explosives, carcinogens or other dangerous materials; tobacco growers and cigarette manufacturing; utilities and other energy generating and transmission facilities; the pharmaceutical industry; water collection, storage and transmission facilities; agriculture; beef, pork and poultry industry and other food generating and distribution systems; information management and data quality professionals and technicians who provide the correct data necessary for all of these other groups to function properly; countless teachers, professors and others who impart or fail to impart life-saving or life-endangering skills.

We can’t leave out the artists, musicians, poets and writers who inspire and motivate others to do things that save or take lives. We must include people who are members of countless local, regional, national and international charitable and relief organizations, and others who donate significant amounts of money or labor to help protect and provide for people whose circumstances expose them to life and death situations. Then we add parents and other influential family members and close friends who help to set another person, young or old, on a path that leads to life or death. Where does the list end; who isn’t on the list?

Who lives? Who dies? Who decides? We do; every one of us.

We’re all responsible for the well being of one or more other people. We’re responsible for one another. Each of us matters in the matrix that connects each of us to one another. Each of us makes a meaningful difference in matters of life and death. The only question is how many lives, how many deaths.

We are all deciders. Our life makes a difference.

The Dreaded Gay Agenda - Part 1437

A friend directed my attention to SB 1437, a bill pending in the California legislature that is causing the Religious Wrong to froth at the mouth. She received an RW communication regarding this bill that came equipped with a warning that SB 1437 is “a bill that will harm our children in the classroom.” Without reading further, you know that it’s about either homosexuality or evolution. The genealogical link to primates is safe on this one.

This bill basically does two things. First, it adds sexual orientation to the list of things that school instruction, books and activities are prohibited from “reflecting adversely” upon (i.e., race, ethnicity, gender, disability, nationality, sexual orientation, or religion). Second, it adds people who are gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender to the list of people whose contributions to the economic, political, and social development of California and the United States are to be included in age-appropriate social science instruction. The other groups of people singled out for such emphasis are men, women, Black Americans, American Indians, Mexicans, Asians, Pacific Islanders, “and other ethnic groups”. There is supposed to be a particular emphasis on portraying the role of these groups in contemporary society. The first objective was the intention of the bill as originally introduced. The second objective was added by subsequent amendment.

I support the original objective that prohibits school instruction, books and activities from “reflecting adversely” upon the named groups, including gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people. I also support the idea that such school materials should discuss the positive contributions made to the state and the nation by all groups and individuals without regard to who it may be. I would support a bill that says that no such school material shall exclude positive references because the contribution was made by a gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender person. However, requiring these school materials to specifically address the positive contributions of gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender people goes too far, not because of the sexual orientation of the contributors but because I don’t know where we would/could/should end this kind of requirement.

What’s next? Will we eventually have to include references to the positive contributions of police officers and firemen; the workers in certain industries; cancer survivors; foster parents; common-law couples; domestic partners; migrant workers or other immigrants; etc.; etc.; etc.? Why are we required to focus on the contributions of Mexicans but not Canadians; why on American Indians but not on New Delhi Indians; why on Pacific Islanders but not Icelanders? Oh, wait; these good folks are covered in the handy little catchall “other ethnic groups”. So, we’re okay on that point, right? But, if we’re going to include persons of varying sexual orientation on the list in the first objective, why aren’t we including religions and the disabled on the list in the second objective? This damn social engineering is so complicated!

If someone, if anyone, has made a noteworthy contribution to our state or nation, that’s great – point it out without regard to their gender, race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, religion, etc. But, mandating the discussion of such contributions is a winding, pothole-filled road with no destination.

The dire RW communication my friend received can’t resist the temptation to overshoot the mark, as their frantic “warnings” usually do. It purports to address what will be “mandated by each school district and textbook publisher at every grade level from K-12 in teaching about the homosexual / lesbian lifestyle and their positive influence in our history.” Wrong.

The bill says nothing about teaching anyone’s “lifestyle” to kids in the classroom. But, you can’t adequately stoke the fires in hell by simply opposing something that requires that positive contributions be noted. There’s no froth-inducing crusade in that. So, you have to go on to imply that the dreaded homosexual “lifestyle” (i.e., the manner of sexual expression and sexual relations) is going to be included in the mandated instruction even if it’s not going to be included. After all, truth can be sacrificed in the war to protect children from harm in the classroom. Truth is almost always a victim in war. And, heaven knows that the only harm that a kid has ever suffered at school is due to the so-called gay agenda. Well, at least the RW heaven knows that.

I’m a little embarrassed to say that sometimes I initially voice support for something only because I’m reacting to some hyperbolic, the-sky-is-falling opposition to the thing in question. Very few things push that button like a diatribe from the Religious Wrong. Only after standing back and cooling down can I sort through the thick froth that overlays the subject of their diatribe and determine what I support and don’t support.

As for SB 1437, I support the positive step forward in this bill as originally introduced and oppose the mistake in this bill as amended.

The Pitter Pat of Little Minds

A blog posting has fallen from heaven – personally delivered by none other than God. Pat Robertson opened his mouth, lip synched for none other than God, and postings fell from heaven into blogs throughout the free world. When Pitter Pat speaks, everyone listens; then everyone except the terminally insane either laughs or cries. If Pitter Pat doesn’t make you either convulse with laughter or fear for the well being of your descendants, then you need to check yourself into the nearest mental health facility.

Pitter Pat says that God spoke to him recently, during his “annual personal prayer retreat”. If that’s the case, then God needs to get out more; God needs to stop retreating. Someone needs to introduce God to some new people. Pitter Pat is making people laugh at God because, like children, God says the darndest things when s/he gets channeled by Pitter Pat. In this latest not-so-close encounter of the third kind, God has become a weatherman. Pitter Pat has previously spoken for God as news anchor. I suspect sports is up next, probably during the 2007 retreat.

Pitter Pat says that his god told him “the coasts of America will be lashed by storms” this year. Well, I think it’s safe to say that we can put that one in the “No shit, Sherlock” rain barrel. After the 2005 hurricane season, third graders from Portland, Maine, to Portland, Oregon, are making playground predictions about bad storms hitting the American coasts again this year. Pitter Pat’s god is not much of risk taker in the prediction business. I expect something more profound from God in that regard. S/he should at least let us know if the levees will hold this year. That would be helpful.

Speaking of Portland, Oregon, Pitter Pat one-ups the third graders by informing us that his god says we’re in for a tsunami somewhere in the Northwest this year. Actually, Pitter Pat’s god is a little tentative on that one. S/he told Pat, “There may well be something as bad as a tsunami in the Pacific Northwest.” Apparently Pitter Pat’s god hasn’t quite decided what will happen yet. I expect something more definitive from God in that regard. S/he should at least let us know if the Space Needle is in danger. That would be helpful. I’ll bet waves of apprehension about this lack of divine clarity are already passing through Portland and Seattle.

Can you imagine what this world would be like if we all agreed to just one rule – God does not talk to people – never has; never will. If that rule were in effect, it’s possible that the natural peace that flows from the hand of a peaceful Creator might have a chance to reign in the hearts and minds of mankind because our hearts and minds would be immeasurably quieter places. As every parent knows, peace and quiet walk hand in hand.

If that rule can’t be accepted because mankind demands a Big, Bad Talking God, meaning a God who talks like we talk, then the next candidate for Rule No. 1 would be – if God does talk to people, God does not talk through one person to or for another person – intermediaries need not apply. God does not talk to Pitter Pat about you, me or anyone else. God does not talk about other people; s/he is not a gossiping god.

People who hear the voice of God are, indeed, hearing voices – their own voices, voices from the legion of fears, delusions and ego-based judgments that live in their crowded and hyperactive heads.

We’re all balled up about national security these days; but that’s fair; it’s an insecure world we live in. We’re now constantly identifying threats to our security, which is probably what we should be doing. But we must never fail to identify the threats to our well being that are already among our ranks. Remember Pogo: “We have met the enemy and he is us.” Pat Robertson and his ilk are a clear and present danger; they are as threatening to our national well being as their brethren, the Islamic fundamentalists. They are fear mongers and extremists; they are purveyors of prejudice and meanness. Threats are their stock and trade. They just raise the ante by telling us that they speak in the name of their god.

The world does not need a pretend prophet telling us America should assassinate Hugo Chavez or that Ariel Sharon’s stroke was divine retribution for the pullout from the Gaza Strip or that Hurricane Katrina was payback from heaven for the sins of New Orleans. That is the voice of vanity not the voice of God.

“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh His name in vain.” Exodus 20:6. Synonyms for the word “vain” are most instructive: ineffective, hopeless, unsuccessful, idle, unproductive, futile, useless, worthless, empty, fruitless, and, ironically, abortive. Whenever they claim to speak in the name of the Lord their God, Pitter Pat and his pattering partners should listen carefully to the Voice from the mountaintop, rather than the clamoring voices from the shadowed valley of vanity where they walk.

No Ringers at the Border

Earlier this week the nation witnessed what is probably the most inconsequential presidential use of the Oval Office in the history of that office. The president took that high-profile stage and staged an inversely proportional low-profile event by announcing the use of 6,000 National Guard troops to help support the protection of the 2,000-mile border between the U.S. and Mexico. A collective yawn was heard from sea to shining sea as most of the country saw the speech as high on symbolism and low on substance.

An Oval Office speech is supposed to be a big deal. Historically, it has been used to go before the country, and the world, to address only the most important topics. In Washington, DC, the crisis or emergency being addressed has to match the significance of the stage being used. This president, in keeping with that tradition, has previously used that stage only for major speeches about Afghanistan and Iraq. The problem we have with illegal migrant farm workers and undocumented hotel housekeeping staff crossing the Mexican border hardly rises to the level of an Oval Occasion.

I know the phrase “national security” gets invoked these days for an amazingly wide array of “threats”, but I don’t perceive a significant threat to national security coming from the men, women and children we see running through the Arizona desert or fording the Rio Grande. This speech was an act of political necessity that was primarily intended to shore up the national security of the Republican Party.

I support the strengthening of border security. Our borders are too porous and we clearly should do more to secure them. Every nation has the right to secure its borders, and it has the obligation to do so if there are genuine threats to its national security. But, when the discussion comes around to genuine threats to national security, we’re shooting at the wrong target by aiming our efforts at Mexican immigrants. It’s popular, and fair, to invoke 9/11 in the border security discussion, but closing the gaps in the Mexican border in that context should be lower on our list of priorities.

September 11 and its spin-off threats have taught us that the Canadian border is a much greater risk in terms of terrorist crossings. On top of that are the obvious gaps in the overseas visa-granting process that allows terrorists to enter the U.S. in plain sight through immigration control at our airports and docks, not to mention our failure to keep tabs on these “legal” visitors once they get here. We may not be able to prevent them from buying box cutters, but we can make sure, for example, that there’s no pilot training given to anyone who doesn’t at least have a green card. If we can monitor the phone calls of millions of American citizens, we should be able to better monitor the public activities of our temporary visitors.

The use of troops on the border in the manner proposed has a long list of problems. It will take more than 150,000 of them to provide the supply of 6,000 Guard troops who will be rotating through this job during their annual two-week training cycle. Given two days of travel and two days of onsite mobilization and demobilization, we’ll get about 10 days of work out of each cycle. These troops aren’t trained for this duty and on-the-job training is rarely a good idea when your job involves carrying and using an M-16. These troops won’t be getting the other training that they’re supposed to receive during their annual training period in order to prepare them for the other jobs we’re asking them to do – like fight in Iraq and rescue people in natural disasters or other national emergencies. Having more than 150,000 men and women tied up in a border rotation is likely to be more than problematic for the already strained logistics supporting these other missions.

Illegal immigration from Mexico is a serious problem, but it does not rise to the level of national emergency that requires the immediate deployment of precious military resources. Illegal immigration has obvious economic and social impacts and the U.S. has the right and the obligation to address those impacts to ensure that we accept only those impacts that we collectively choose to accept. In short, we should appropriate the money necessary to hire and train the border patrol agents and to buy the surveillance equipment that we need to do the job the right way.

Of course none of these factors particularly matter in the political decision making process, especially when an unhealthy dose of partisan panic is in the system (i.e., check out the abysmal approval ratings for the president and his party). The president’s speech was an attempt to throw a sop to the conservative Rebs in the House in the hope that this “tough” and “decisive” action will cause enough of them to support the immigration reform package that he’s likely to get through the Senate. Most of those House conservatives have already sent him their response: “Nice try, sir; but this isn’t even close enough to the stake in the ground to count in a game of horseshoes.”

But, this isn’t a game of horseshoes. This is a real problem that requires real leadership. Unfortunately, we have more gaps in our political leadership than we do in our borders. The Rebs are a house divided, as people running in panic are wont to be. On the other side of the aisle, the Dims are either sitting motionless on the imaginary border fence or they’re walking in tight circles mumbling, “Dear lord, don’t let us screw this up,” to themselves.

Meanwhile, the game goes on and there are no ringers in sight.

The Tour

Our golf tour to the Monterey Peninsula was outstanding. Three of the four courses were very challenging, significantly more so than any that we play in or around Bakersfield. The fourth course, Pacific Grove, was not nearly as tough but the back nine, which runs along the ocean, was the most beautiful golf scenery I've ever seen. Deer and Canadian geese roamed the fairways as an added bonus for the blue sky, the even bluer ocean, and the crashing waves that provided a marvelous background rhythm for golf.

It was a perfect day – no fog, no clouds, no wind. The temperature was in the low 60s, allowing the jacket to come off on the second green. The course was very enjoyable and the back nine, in addition to its scenic quality, was a true links layout with rolling topography and ice plant covered sandy dunes providing the lateral trouble instead of the massive, not to mention magnetic, trees that lined the other three courses.

My tour objective was achieved – all my scores remained in double digits. Several of my colleagues suffered from the uncomfortable three-digit fidget – that being the nervous twitch that immediately surfaces when you’re asked how you scored and the next word out of your mouth is “one”. One of our good fellows topped out at 107. On the other end, an equally good fellow bagged a 77. Most of our scores fell comfortably near the midpoint between those two poles. I averaged 94 (plus a little loose change), in spite of a demonic driver that randomly sent my drives anywhere along a 120º arc in front of me, with distances that ranged from 90 to 290 yards. I closed out the tour by shooting an 89 in the last round, with a most enjoyable 41 for the last nine at Pacific Grove. I was so relaxed in that almost hypnotic setting that golf became secondary to the sensory pleasures around me, which resulted in the best nine-hole score I had all weekend. It’s possible that I could learn something from that. It’s not probable; just possible.

The plans are already coming together for the next tour. I’ll be there. Hopefully the exorcism I have planned for my driver will be successful. Hopefully my good colleagues will keep me comfortably in the middle of the pack. Hopefully, nature will once again surround me with scenes that relax and please to the point that good golf comes to the fore simply due to the lack of resistance.

Golfers are naturally hopeful people. They make good colleagues.

Moms

To any mom who happens to read this, Happy Mother’s Day! Having attended the birth of my five children, I have only half-jokingly said that I understand why a woman would have one child; but I have no idea why any woman would have a second one. Pregnancy, labor and deliver are many clicks beyond hard work. How many men attending the birth of their child have passed out just watching? Is there a single delivery room nurse who, upon seeing the ashen color and fixed stare on an expectant father, hasn’t said, “Are you okay, dad; would you like to sit down?” Carol Burnett has said that the only way a man can understand what it’s like to deliver a baby is to grab his bottom lip and pull it over his head. Most men aren’t willing to pull their bottom lip to the tip of their nose.

I miss my mom. Her death at the age of 77 in July 1999 seemed premature to me. We had no warning of its approach. I’ve rarely felt the depth of emotion that I felt as I held her hand when she died. As Mother’s Day approached in May 2000 I recall the empty feeling I had when I stood in the Hallmark store and did not buy a card for my mom. I still looked at cards that I might have selected for her, and I still thought about what I might have written in them. This year I’ll just say, “Thanks, Mom; for a list of things too long to begin to note.”

Mother’s Day is a bittersweet day in my home now. My wife genuinely cares about how she recognizes her mother and always tries to do something a little special. And, more importantly, she is herself a superb mother who enjoys a special day of recognition where everything is as she would like it to be, which means a day upon which the men in her life do everything she would like them to do. Sadly, everything is not as she would like it to be; and not all of the men in her life are here to do what she would like them to do. The death of her son four years ago tore the fabric of this holiday. To her credit, she has repaired that tear remarkably well; but her loved ones can easily see the patch sewn over the hole.

My wife and I now have the joy of supplementing this day with warm feelings about the young mothers in our family – three daughters and two daughters-in-law, the loving mothers of eight wonderful grandchildren. Needless to say, the spirit of motherhood is alive and thriving in our family and that spirit provides a huge portion of the joy we experience as a family. That spirit has almost a mystical quality to it, perhaps because the depth and consistency of a mother’s love is a mystery to us. Even mothers may be mystified by it from time to time.

Moms aren’t just a source of life; they’re part of what makes life worth living.

Hoping For A Consistent Fade

I’m headed off to play four rounds of golf over the next three days with a pack of 12 guys from work. We make at least one “tour” of a series of California courses each year. This year’s tour is headed to the Monterey Peninsula, where we’ll play the Pasatiempo, Bayonet, Black Horse, and Pacific Grove courses.

The first stop this afternoon is at Pasatiempo, the home course of the famous course architect, Alister MacKenzie, who also designed Augusta National, the famed home of the Masters tournament. Golf Digest has named it one of the three best courses to play in California, along with Pebble Beach and Spyglass Hill.

On Friday, we’ll play Bayonet and Black Horse, located on the former Ft. Ord, where I went through Army basic infantry training in late 1969 and early 1970. Bayonet was designed by an Army general who was a left-handed golfer who hit a consistent fade – so he built the course around that shot in order to lower his handicap. I’m a left-handed golfer who hits a fade, so this could be my course. Of course, my fade is often pumped up on steroids and morphs into a slice. And, unlike the general, my fade isn’t consistent, so this might not be my course. As for Black Horse, inasmuch as it is the last 18 holes of a 36-hole day, I’m not sure anything will help or matter on that round. Finishing with dignity will be the objective.

On Saturday morning, we’ll play Pacific Grove, which is referred to as the “poor man’s Pebble Beach”. It deserves this title not only because it has several holes positioned beautifully along the ocean, but it was designed by Jack Neville, the same man who originally designed Pebble Beach.

The golf will be whatever the golf gods decree it to be with each passing shot. I plan to sacrifice a small farm animal at the stroke of midnight each night before each round in order to appease these capricious gods. No form of fowl will be placed on my altar, lest I offend the eagles and birdies that I hope will rain down on me. I must note, however, that no rain is in the forecast.

At least the scenery will be spectacular. A good time should be had by all – should be – it may not be; but it should be. Golf has a knack for getting in the way of a good time. After all, Mark Twain said, “Golf is a good walk spoiled.” Well, I have a remedy for that assessment – don’t walk; ride in a cart. No one has ever said that golf is a good drive spoiled.

Move Over, Lou!

Ten years ago today I turned to the spirit of Lou Gehrig, the late, great New York Yankee, and said, “Move over, Lou! You are no longer the luckiest man on the face of the earth. You’re yesterday’s news in that department.” The spirit of The Iron Horse looked at the beautiful woman walking down the aisle in my direction and without further ado simply surrendered his long-held title. He patted me on the back and said, “No doubt about it.” A Dodger doesn’t beat a Yankee very often; but it happened on May 10, 1996.

On that perfect spring day, I married the love of my life, the woman who had become my best friend. To me, those two appellations go hand in hand; I don’t see how another person can be “the love of our life” if they’re not our best friend. The icing on my wedding cake is that I’ve been told that I hold the same two-sided position of honor in my wife’s life.

One of most pleasing memories of that day is that I shared it with my parents. They weren’t present for my first wedding, something that I regret to this day. But they were there for this one, and they were there with joyful hearts and big smiles. They loved my wife. She won their approval at their first meeting, primarily because it was clear to my parents that she had become my best friend and genuinely cared about my well being. Oh … and she saw things a lot like my mom saw things. That helped, too.

Another pleasing memory is that of my wife’s two young sons, nattily dressed in their matching suits, walking her down the aisle to give her away to me. They were also there with joyful hearts and big smiles. Of all the pictures we have of that day, that one is a treasure.

My wife and I only had 18 months of “normal” married life before her youngest son, Danny, was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia in November 1997. We then went through a four and half year battle for Danny’s life, which we lost. In March 2002 we entered a grieving process that has gone through several phases with the passing of time; it’s a process that has no end.

When Lou Gehrig gave his famous farewell speech at Yankee Stadium on July 4, 1939, after being diagnosed with ALS, he explained why he called himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth. Included in the list of reasons was the following simple tribute to his wife, Eleanor:

“When you have a wife who has been a tower of strength and shown more courage than you dreamed existed, that's the finest I know.” Well said, Lou. He might have been almost as lucky as me.

I watched my wife be a tower of strength for her son and show more courage than I dreamed existed. It was, indeed, “the finest I know”. Out of that experience and the grieving process that followed it a new woman, a better woman, has emerged. Fortunately, out of that experience and that process a new man, a better man, has emerged at her side. Many couples who go through the death of a child are not as fortunate. Their grieving, or lack of grief, can take them in radically different directions, so when they “emerge” they are no longer at each other’s side. We’ve read that somewhere between 50 to 75% of such couples separate and divorce.

My wife and I have survived because we are each other’s best friend. Because we are each other’s best friend, we’ve been able to keep a grip on the kind of love that I discussed yesterday – each of us has remained dedicated to the other’s growth and well being. Each of us hurts when the other is in pain; each of us rejoices when the other is joyful. Each of us looks for ways to lift and help the other. Each of us has grown in the unique mix of light and warmth that is reflected from the other. With few exceptions, our similarities are binding and our differences are complementary. We’re not perfect by any means; but we just may be perfect for each other. Best friends are like that.

Some of the inherent similarities that drew us to each other initially, things that were more undercurrents in each of us than anything manifest outwardly, came to the surface after Danny died. We believe that our truer selves broke through after years of being buried under layers of various assumed identities. It’s pretty amazing that we could have been attracted to each other through those assumed identities and then continue to be attracted to each other after laying them aside. That speaks to how similar our individual paths have been.

It’s hard to believe that a decade has passed since a vision in white walked slowly down an aisle toward two men, one seen and one unseen. It’s hard to believe that it’s been ten years since two young boys, nattily dressed in their matching suits, placed the hand of the love of my life into my hand. So much has transpired; so much has transformed. But one thing has remained constant – friendship has remained in the embrace of true love. We remain hand in hand.

We’ve been lucky – two of the luckiest people on the face of the earth. An unseen man agrees. And, so does Lou.

Happy Anniversary to my best friend and the love of my life!

The Four Corners

I told my daughter and her fiancé that my fee for officiating at their wedding was that they had to listen to me for about four or five minutes. In spite of that steep cost, they decided to proceed. Now, anyone reading this post gets to pay the same price.

I devoted those few minutes to the suggestion that there are four corners to the union now being built by this newly married couple. I suggest that all marriages should be built on these corners.

First Corner

§ Understand the true meaning of love. We must understand that true love is not about how someone makes us feel; it’s not about the things that someone does for us. Those things are about us and about what we’re getting out of the relationship; they’re not about the other person. Therefore, those things don’t tell us enough to know whether we truly love that person.

§ Rather, true love is being dedicated to the growth and well being of another person. It’s the kind of love that a parent experiences for a child. The challenge is to find that same true love in a marriage. If we find that we’re consistently motivated by this kind of dedication to someone else, then there’s a very good chance that we truly love that person.

Second Corner

§ We should make a full commitment to our partner. Contrary to some popular wisdom, marriage is not a 50/50 deal; it’s not about two people meeting in the middle. A 50/50 commitment allows no margin for error. If one person in the relationship is lacking only 1% on a given day, the connection between them can be broken.

§ Rather, marriage is a 100/100 commitment in which each person goes beyond the middle to meet the other person where they are. A 100/100 commitment leaves a large margin for error. It allows both people in the relationship to be lacking on a given day, or one person to be substantially less than their best at a given time, without the connection between them being broken.

Third Corner

§ Communicate, Communicate, Communicate! Couples should communicate with each other early and often. They should be proactive and preventative in that communication, rather than just reactive or reparative. And, every couple should be aware of the onset of any pattern of passive-aggressive silence; it can be a warning sign.

Fourth Corner – The Cornerstone

§ Above all other objectives, seek and find peace. We should seek peace in our individual lives; in our marriages; in our homes; and with God. The presence or absence of peace is the most reliable barometer of success in each dimension of our daily life.

§ We should remember that we can have peace in poverty and in wealth; we can have peace in sickness and in health. We can have peace at any time, at any place, and under any circumstance, be it good or bad. This is true because peacefulness is about the condition of our heart. Its presence or absence is determined by whether our heart is filled with love or filled with fear. If we’re in the grip of fear, peace is not possible. If our heart is filled with true love, then we’ve come back around to the first corner and the foundation of our united relationship is sound.

At least that’s my theory as conveyed to two people I love on the most important day of their life. I could be wrong; but as a temporarily deputized Commissioner of Civil Marriages under the laws of the great State of California, I seriously doubt it.

Oh Say, Can You See, Too

HOTS touched a nerve, which isn’t a bad thing. But, sometimes when you touch a nerve in the hand, it’s the foot that twitches. That’s what I see happening with the subject of the National Anthem supposedly being sung in Spanish. The two responses to last Wednesday’s posting about the National Anthem point out part of the problem with controversial political discussions in a country that seems addicted to polemics. When we generate an issue in American politics, the participants in the debate don’t always listen to one another. The words from one participant often don’t connect to the words of the other participant. The body isn’t registering what’s happening to the hand; its transferring the reaction to another body part.

The problem I see in the comments is the tendency to divert the discussion to another topic, such as what should be expected of someone “demanding citizenship”. I wasn’t writing about citizenship, in the hoped-for form, the requested form, or the demanded form. That’s another issue. I have no problem whatsoever with requiring an applicant for American citizenship to have a certain level of proficiency in English before being granted citizenship. If they want all the benefits of citizenship, they should learn the lingo.

But, we have a lot of immigrants who are here legally who are not hoping for, requesting or demanding citizenship. They’re here on legitimate visas or they hold a green card; they’re quite happy with their citizenship status; and they may or may not speak English. Their English proficiency will probably turn on the basis for their legal presence here. For example, student visa holders will speak English; work visa or green card holders who have been sponsored by an employer are quite likely to speak English, based on the requirements of their job; a green card holder sponsored by a spouse or other family member may or may not speak English.

If someone wants to propose that all green card or visa holders must speak English, they can make that argument. I don’t support it, in part because Americans won’t be interested in playing by the same rules when they’re in other countries, but that also wasn’t the subject I was addressing in the prior posting.

Another diversionary issue is the reference to “another national anthem”. I said nothing about “another national anthem”. There is one and only one National Anthem for the USA, and I honor that National Anthem as much as the next person. The Spanish song in question is just that – a song written in Spanish that is being sung and used by a group of people. We can call it an anthem without creating any substantive issue, because anthems are not national anthems, much less the National Anthem. Anthems are sung in churches, schools, fraternities, clubs and organizations around the country, giving praise and devotion to this or that person, place, or thing. National Anthems are an entirely different matter. Nuestro Himno is not a national anthem; and it certainly isn’t a substitute for our National Anthem. I’m no more interested than the next person in having “another national anthem”.

I still have no problem with another person singing our National Anthem in another language. I’m referring to a direct translation, not something like Nuestro Himno, which isn’t a translation. If that person is standing and honoring America by singing the same thing that I’m singing, the language is not relevant to me because our intention is the same – our hearts, the symbolic seat of our devotion, are aligned. If s/he is more comfortable singing in a native language how does that diminish what I’m singing in any way? It doesn’t. And any assertion that it somehow diminishes the power of the words being sung in the heart of the singer is a throw-away comment.

Another comment addressed the fact that there is nothing wrong with national pride. I agree, as long as it doesn’t become jingoism or excessive nationalism. History is filled with the carnage that can flow from severely twisted patriotism. I’m proud of America, and I have the deepest respect for our flag and our National Anthem. That’s why the bozo gnawing on the Dodger Dog during the National Anthem bugs the hell out of me. I get very aggravated with the countless Americans who can’t stand up, shut up, turn off their cell phones and iPods, take off their hats, put their hands over their hearts, and honor our country when the flag passes or the National Anthem is played. But, my deep respect doesn’t lead me to worship these symbols as holy.

That last sentence tempts me to jump into a discussion of whether such symbols are sacred. Personally, I save that word for something more directly consecrated to or belonging to God; I see it as a synonym for “holy”. Sacred “things” can easily bump up against idolatry and it’s my understanding that God has issues with idols. In any event, I doubt we can cut through the semantic overgrowth on that discussion.

As for illegal immigrants – that also wasn’t the topic of last Wednesday’s posting. But, alas, that topic is the foot that twitches when almost any other semi-immigrant-related body part gets touched. I’ve previously posted on that subject and I’ll probably come back to it some day. But, today, I’m going to go get a nice, soothing foot massage. Anyone care to join me?

The Dam Broke

Yesterday, I had the privilege of seeing the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen. Coincidentally, she was my daughter. I say that because I know that every father thinks his daughter is the most beautiful bride that he’s every seen, and I know that anyone reading this who didn’t see my daughter yesterday is likely to say, “Isn’t it nice that fathers think that.” Well, let’s be clear about something. Those fathers, bless their hearts, are simply saying what they’re expected to say. I have no doubt that their daughters do fall somewhere on the spectrum from pretty to beautiful. But, when it comes to applying the “most” designation, I speak the truth. Sorry, but that’s what this blog is all about – the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; I swear.

When I saw my future son-in-law during the picture taking session before the ceremony I was very impressed with how sharp he looked. His mom thought that he was the most handsome groom she’d ever seen. I told him, “You look good enough to marry my daughter.” Then, I saw my daughter. After pacing around for about an hour, trying to figure out how to speak the truth to this young man, I finally decided to just be straight forward and tell him, “I’m not sure that you look good enough to marry my daughter.” I think his mom may have agreed. I think he may have agreed. It’s a huge undertaking to marry the most beautiful bride that anyone has ever seen.

Finally, the moment arrived. The music began; family members were escorted to their seats; the bridal party procession commenced. After 11 bride’s maids and seven groomsmen had made their way to the front of the ceremony, only my daughter and I remained. I froze that moment into permanent memory.

I’m very good at walking a bride “down the aisle” and have enjoyed that privilege with all three of my daughters. Coincidentally, my two older daughters previously held the title of the Most Beautiful Bride that Anyone Has Ever Seen. What are the odds of one family landing that designation three times! That’s probably difficult for other, less fortunate, families to accept; but, the truth can be hard to hear.

That walk is one of the most poignant moments in the life of a father. It is filled with more emotion than I can adequately describe, including profound love, pride, wonder, yearning, anxiety, melancholy, and a touch of loss. This walk is made slowly, so it can be savored. If I’m going to cry at a wedding, any wedding, the odds are overwhelming that it’s going to be during “the walk”.

Yesterday’s ceremony was held in a multi-tiered, sloping back yard of a beautiful home built along the Kern River. My daughter and I literally descended to the 200 people waiting below. We paused at the upper tier to allow a few pictures to be taken and, more importantly, to allow the two of us to soak in the view. All eyes were on the most beautiful bride that any of those incredibly lucky people had ever seen. The old guy walking next to her was a prop – literally and figuratively. But, he was a proud prop. At that moment a small tributary of the Kern River opened up in me and my daughter. Fortunately, we were able to dam it up before it got out of control.

I had the honor of officiating at the ceremony. After walking the most beautiful bride that anyone has ever seen to the waiting and incredibly lucky groom, I then “gave her away” when asked the traditional question, “Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” At that point, instead of taking my seat next to my wife, I stepped to the front and said, “Please be seated.”

I have performed a number of wedding ceremonies before, during my tenure as a bishop in the LDS Church. But, doing so for your own son or daughter is entirely another thing. It adds just a touch of stress to the occasion. I’m told it went well, but I won’t know for sure until the movie is released. My grandson filmed it all.

I was under a small archway and the position of the speakers for the sound system created an odd sensation – I couldn’t really hear my own voice. It was something akin to an out-of-body experience. But, what mattered is that I could see the smiles on the faces of the two people in front of me. They listened; they responded; they repeated their vows; and they each appropriately answered the only important question asked of them. I held myself together until it came time to say, “By virtue of the authority vested in me….” At that moment the tenuous grip I had on my emotions slipped. The river surged; but, the dam held.

Later, after dinner, I had the honor of dancing with my daughter. Something had changed. She was still my daughter, of course; but now she was also another man’s wife. Another man could lay claim to loving her as much as I do; perhaps more. She had elected to follow the traditional path and change her last name. She had, as enjoined by Saint Matthew, begun the process of leaving her father and mother and cleaving unto her spouse. It was as it should be. Even this change was unfolding on cue, as planned. Again, the river surged; but, again, the dam held.

It was a wonderful occasion on a perfect evening at a great location. Today, one very lucky man will get on a plane to fly to Cozumel for his honeymoon. Next to him will be the most beautiful bride that anyone has ever seen. The people on that plane will be talking about her for a long time. As will the old guy who slowly walked through rose pedals with her yesterday.

That damn dam just broke.

Johnny, We Hardly Knew Ye

I’ve liked John McCain. Maybe that’s because I’m an Arizona native; maybe it’s because he’s a graduate of the Naval Academy, where I served for two years; maybe it’s because he’s a genuine war hero who endured more in almost six years in the Hanoi Hilton than most of us will endure in a lifetime; maybe it’s because I was related to his wife’s family by marriage and spent time at her home as a child; maybe it’s because, to this point, I’ve liked his politics.

For example, I liked that he was bold enough to designate Jerry Falwell as an “agent of intolerance” in the 2000 presidential election. “Neither party should be defined by pandering to the outer reaches of American politics and the agents of intolerance, whether they be Louis Farrakhan or Al Sharpton on the left or Pat Robertson or Jerry Falwell on the right,” McCain declared, way back then.

In an appearance on Hardball on March 1, 2000, he was asked if he stood by that description. He said, “I must not and will not retract anything that I said in that speech at Virginia Beach. It was carefully crafted, it was carefully thought out.” That declaration has a certain “read my lips” ring to it.

In an appearance on Meet the Press on March 5, 2000, he explained further, “Governor Bush swung far to the right and sought out the base support of Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell. Those aren’t the ideas that I think are good for the Republican Party.” Amen, Brother John.

Now, I learn that John McCain is going to stand beside Falwell and speak at the graduation ceremony for Liberty University on May 13. Apparently McCain has visited the Falwellian confessional and done penance sufficient to receive a blessing from Brother Jerry. “I was in Washington with him about three months ago,” Falwell said in late March of this year. “We dealt with every difference we have. There are no deal breakers now. But I told him, ‘You have a lot of fence mending to do.’” (Jerry can’t ever resist scolding his wayward children.) “He’s in the process of healing the breach with evangelical groups,” Falwell added.

McCain is also in the process of entering the 2008 campaign through the political equivalent of a breach birth – i.e., he’s presenting a butt-first view to all Republicans who dwell left of the right-hand margin, not to mention the Independents and conservative Dims that he will need to get elected. It’s not a pretty sight to see. He may be hoping that May 13, 2006, will be long forgotten by the time the 2008 primaries arrive, but I’m fairly certain that photo op of him and Jerry behind the Liberty U. podium will have a long shelf life.

When asked to explain the flip-flop on Meet the Press recently, McCain said, “I believe that the ‘Christian Right’ has a major role to play in the Republican Party. One reason is because they’re so active and their followers are.”

Well, he may not get any style points for the triple Salchow jump he just landed, but you have to give him points for being straight forward about it. He’s running again, and he thinks he needs the Religious Right to get the Reb nomination, so he’s embracing whoever necessary to survive the southern primaries, especially in Virginia and South Carolina where the lug nuts fell off the wheels of his 2000 campaign. It’s called “practical politics” in campaign headquarters, which is where the phrase “they’re so active” gets translated into “endorsements and contributions”. As McCain himself said in 2000, it’s called “pandering” outside those headquarters, which is where the phrase “they’re so active” also gets translated into “endorsement and contributions”.

What happened in the last six years? Did Falwell change his stripes? Did he move from the “outer reaches” of American politics? Did he file for divorce from Pat Robertson, the whacko extraordinaire? How did Falwell’s ideas morph and suddenly become good for the Republican Party? More importantly, is McCain now saying that his campaign comments in 2000 were neither carefully thought out nor carefully crafted?

I say “more importantly” because the issue isn’t Falwell or his fourth-tier institution, and the issue isn’t the influence of the Religious Right on American politics. The issue is McCain – who is he; which McCain is the real McCain; the 2000 edition or the revised translation of 2006? What will he look and sound like in 2008? On the day after the election in November 2008, will he revert to his 2000 form; or has he truly been born again, politically speaking? The Religious Right would do well to ask exactly the same questions.

We’re seeing another politician who will simply say or do anything to get votes and money. McCain was right about Falwell in 2000; he’s wrong about Falwell in 2006. But that’s beside the point. It’s more important to figure out who’s the imposter? It’s not Jerry Falwell. It’s one of the two John McCains. We need John Daley from the old “What’s My Line?” TV show to say, “Will the real John McCain please stand up!”

John McCain ran for president in 2000; and he lost in 2000. John McCain is running again in 2008. He’d better be careful, lest he lose that race in 2006.

Oh Say, Can You See

The ability of the American political machine to make up issues, to claim to see an issue where no issue exits, or to focus on the wrong issue, is truly amazing. The politicians in this country are addicted to controversy and a day without one is empty and unfulfilling for these people. Controversy is the pulse that tells them they’re still alive. It also sends the false signal that their opinions matter.

For example, we’re currently a little bogged down in a so-called controversy about immigrants singing the National Anthem in Spanish. That, mi amigos, is not a real issue. At least the issue being discussed is not the real issue.

First, let me say that if I’m singing the National Anthem before the start of a Dodger game, and the guy next to me is standing up beside me with his hat off, and he’s singing the National Anthem in Spanish, I’m going to say “Muy bien, hermano!” I’d say he’s more than meeting the spirit of the occasion. I simply don’t care that he’s more comfortable singing it in Spanish. I’m just glad he’s singing it, unlike the bozo down the row who’s already gnawing into his mustard-slathered Dodger Dog and doesn’t have a hand free to remove his Bud Light hat.

“Nuestro Himno”, the so-called national anthem being sung in Spanish, is not our National Anthem at all. It consists of the following lyrics, which bear very little resemblance to the “Star-Spangled Banner”:

Do you see it arising, by the light of the dawn,
That which we hailed so much when the night fell?
Its stars, its stripes were streaming yesterday
In the fierce combat, as a sign of victory,
The brilliance of battle, in step with freedom,
Throughout the night they said: "It will be defended!"
Oh say you! Does it still wave, its starred beauty,
Over the land of the free, the sacred flag?

Its stars, its stripes, liberty, we are equal.
We are brothers, it is our anthem.
In the fierce combat, as a sign of victory,
The brilliance of battle... (My people, keep fighting!)
...in step with freedom, (Now is the time to break the chains!)
Throughout the night they said: "It will be defended!"
Oh say you! Does it still wave, its starred beauty,
Over the land of the free, the sacred flag?

It’s an okay song; it has a couple of protest elements in it; it has some lines I like; it has some lines I don’t particularly care for. But, without regard to my opinion, it meets the definition of free speech under the First Amendment. And, besides, what difference does it make? If the words aren’t even close to those in the National Anthem, then what’s the issue? Someone has written a song called “Our Anthem”, to be sung in Spanish – okay, so what?

Are people upset because it uses the same music as our anthem? We can’t get too teed off about that. After all, we had no problem with lifting the music from the British national anthem, “God Save the Queen,” and converting it into “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” (aka “America”). Not only is it the national anthem of the UK, it’s the same melody as the national anthem of Liechtenstein and has served as an anthem for Denmark, Germany, Russia, Sweden and Switzerland! This song, with its purloined music, was our de facto national anthem for most of the 19th century. We still regard it as a highly patriotic song without regard to having pilfered the music from more than a half dozen other countries. So, why can’t someone else borrow our music for a different anthem?

How much room do we have to complain about someone not learning to sing in a second language? America has far fewer multi-lingual citizens than other countries In the industrialized world, including France, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, Belgium, Luxemburg, Austria, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Finland, the Czech Republic, Japan, Korea, India, Israel, South Africa, etc, etc, etc. My first wife’s grandmother, who was born and raised in Switzerland and had the equivalent of an American high school education, spoke three languages fluently, a fourth one conversationally, and dabbled with a fifth one. I knew more bilingual people driving Jeepneys in the Philippines than I know in the good, old U.S. of A. Most of our bilingual citizens are … you guessed it … immigrants!

Someone might counter by saying that we’re talking about people who live and work in America; that they should speak, and sing, in English. Maybe. But, there are many American business people who spend significant time working in Europe and Asia who speak little, if any, of the language of their host country. They pretty much expect everyone to speak English there, too. At least we’re consistent.

It’s probably not terribly significant that the “Star-Spangled Banner” didn’t become the National Anthem until 1931. But, it’s somewhat relevant to remember that it hasn’t been our anthem since the shot heard around the world. Perhaps more relevant is ask how many of the Americans who are protesting the so-called Spanish version of the anthem know all four stanzas in our anthem; how many even know there are four stanzas? Shouldn’t that be a requirement before someone has standing to complain about this issue? I suspect that there are only about 10 Americans who know the words in all four stanzas of our National Anthem.

This gnarly little problem is so widespread that in March 2005 our government launched a program to help our English-speaking population learn the lyrics to just the first stanza of the National Anthem. This program, cleverly called The National Anthem Project (www.nationalanthemproject.org), was created after a Harris Poll showed that two-thirds of the adults in the U.S. don’t know either the lyrics or the history of the "Star-Spangled Banner". In fact, this poll found that many Americans don’t even know which song is our National Anthem! Perhaps we should get our English-speaking house in order with regard to appreciating the National Anthem and then we can help our Spanish-speaking compatriots.

Remember the old joke about the Mexican immigrant who attended a baseball game and was overwhelmed by the gracious welcome he got from the other fans, when they all stood up and sang, “Jose, can you see?” Maybe it’s time for a little more graciousness. Maybe it’s time for all of us fans of the National Anthem to stand up and say, “Jose, you can sing with us any way you choose.” After all, this is America – where the freedom of choice and the freedom of speech are as big as a mustard-slathered Dodger Dog.

And, if Jose does learn English, then he can teach the rest of us the words to the anthem we love so dearly.

The Arrogance of Power & Presumed Truth

The last item on my recent list of most disliked things is the arrogance of power or presumed truth. It didn’t take long after becoming a political science major in 1971 to encounter the concept of the arrogance of power. In the late 60s and early 70s there were few, if any, college campuses in America that didn’t have an ongoing discussion about The Arrogance of Power, a 1966 book written by Senator J. William Fulbright. It’s eerie how its words, written two years after America entered the war in Vietnam, echo 40 years later. A couple of quotes will catch the theme:

§ "[The arrogance of power is defined as] the tendency of great nations to equate power with virtue and major responsibilities with a universal mission. The dilemmas involved are pre-eminently American dilemmas, not because America has weaknesses that others do not have but because America is powerful as no nation has ever been before, and the discrepancy between her power and the power of others appears to be increasing."

§ “There are two Americas. One is the America of Lincoln and Adlai Stevenson; the other is the America of Teddy Roosevelt and the modern superpatriots. One is generous and humane, the other narrowly egotistical; one is self-critical, the other self-righteous; one is sensible, the other romantic; one is good-humored, the other solemn; one is inquiring, the other pontificating; one is moderate, the other filled with passionate intensity; one is judicious and the other arrogant in the use of great power.”

§ "[P]ower tends to confuse itself with virtue and a great nation is particularly susceptible to the idea that its power is a sign of God's favor, conferring upon it a special responsibility for other nations - to make them richer and happier and wiser, to remake them, that is, in its own shining image. Power confuses itself with virtue and tends also to take itself for omnipotence. Once imbued with the idea of a mission, a great nation easily assumes that it has the means as well as the duty to do God's work."

The purpose of this posting is not to draw parallels to Iraq or to compare Lyndon Johnson and George Bush. My focus is on the arrogance that can, and so often does, accompany power of any kind. People in power have one hell of a time avoiding the tendency to manifest their presumed superior virtue in an overbearing manner. Too often, like Jake and Elwood Blues, they’re on a mission for God.

In American politics we’ve seen it at home and abroad. How far back in American history do we have to go to find an administration, be it Republican or Democrat, that didn’t bring us some scandal involving the abuse of power within its ranks? Richard Nixon is probably the poster child for the arrogance of power in domestic politics. He was so sure of his superior virtue that obeying the law meant little to him. There’s no question that American power is substantial and that it can be put to beneficial use in world affairs, but the potential for harmful use is equally present. The only way to avoid the latter is to continually guard against arrogance.

Once again, I’m struck by the similarity between political and religious powerbrokers. Any religion that claims to be superior to others in terms of knowing the absolute truth about God, creation, salvation and heaven is likely to manifest arrogance in some manner. For over 20 years I was an active leader in the LDS Church, a denomination that still proudly proclaims itself to be “the one and only true and living church” on the face of the earth. Anyone who can utter those words had better guard against the character-warping arrogance that can’t be far behind. When I left that church I merged into another one with precisely the same claim – evangelical Christianity. Their mantra is perfectly linear: if you’re not one of us, then you’re not right with God, and that means you’re not saved, and that means you’re damned. Admittedly, there are evangelicals and Latter-day Saints who carry their message to the world with compassion and without arrogance. But, trying to keep arrogance out of any message of exclusive rightness is like trying to keep spilled red wine from staining the carpet. You can do it, but you’d better keep an abundant supply of stain remover close at hand and you must act quickly and decisively at the first drop.

Tying back to the last post, I’m struck by the observation that most arrogant people tend to be mean-spirited; they’re not pleasant people to be around. As with the mean-spirited, the arrogant are inwardly weak and insecure people who are trying to protect themselves from the things they fear. Arrogance and mean-spiritedness are almost always abusive. If either happens to avoid abuse, they’re still wearisome, at best. Who would dispute that humility is one of the most admired character traits? If you had to choose to spend a lifetime with either a humble person or an arrogant person, who would you choose? I dare say, only the arrogant would choose the arrogant.

But, when arrogance is wedded with power, whether it’s economic, military, political or religious power, the stakes go way up. Abuse is almost always the progeny of such a marriage. The arrogance of power, presumed truth or claimed superior virtue is dangerous. The only question is how dangerous; how extensive and how damaging will these people and their institutions of power be. History has given us the answer to that question countless times, and history continues to be written today.

Power and presumed truth aren’t inherently evil by necessity. They just come equipped with huge potential for arrogance and its attendant abuses. Just as sunlight and moisture will promote the growth of healthy plants, they also promote the growth of fungus; and there’s a lot of fungus among us.