Flying The Silver Lining

The bad news: grandparents learn that their daughter's live-in boyfriend has allegedly murdered their three-year old grandson. The brain-dead child is soon to be taken off life-support, and the grandfather is booked on a flight to be at his daughter's side, to help her shoulder the tragedy of her son's final moments.

The worse news: The grandfather is racing against the clock to make his flight from Los Angeles to Denver. TSA and airline employees in both the security and bag check lines at Los Angeles airport are indifferent to his pleas for sympathetic (and speedy) treatment through the long lines; they offer him no help whatsover in speeding up the process. Despite arriving at the airport two hours before his flight, he ends up ten minutes late for his plane; the desperate grandfather makes a final scramble without shoes, and fleeting hope, down to the terminal.

The surprising good news waiting for him there, as told by his grateful wife:

When he got [to the terminal], the pilot of his plane and the ticketing agent both said, “Are you Mark? We held the plane for you and we’re so sorry about the loss of your grandson.”
The pilot held the plane that was supposed to take off at 11:50 until 12:02 when my husband got there.
As my husband walked down the Jetway with the pilot, he said, “I can’t thank you enough for this.”
The pilot responded with, “They can’t go anywhere without me and I wasn’t going anywhere without you. Now relax. We’ll get you there. And again, I’m so sorry.”

My husband was able to take his first deep breath of the day.

Consumer advocate and journalist Christopher Elliot, an acquaintance of the grandmother, contacted Southwest Airlines to get a comment on their staff's decision to break the rules for the sake of a grieving passenger:

[A] representative said the airline was “proud” of the way the pilot had held the flight. Again, most airlines would punish an employee who holds up the line for any reason.

ABC News has a video report on the story, with the last word given to the grandfather:

Dickinson says he never got the pilot's name and couldn't find him after the flight to thank him properly, and now just wants to shake his hand.
"I can't tell him how grateful I am that he did that for me," he said.

In this post-compassionate age of rampant cynicism and crass opportunism, it's refreshing to read this story of corporate compassion; if anything can be of solace to grieving families at a time like that in their lives, and to renew their faith in the potential for human goodness, surely it's the sterling example offered by Southwest Airlines, a company that dares to care.

Giving Thanks On Remembrance Day

I was pleasantly surprised that of all the young people I work with at my new job, it was the most rebellious one who ventured out in acceptance of my invitation to spend part of our holiday attending the Remembrance Day ceremony at Victory Square in downtown Vancouver.

The idea of paying respect was new to them, they said as we chatted while we watched the gathering crowd. They had heard of this event before, but admitted they had never really paid much attention to it. As the ceremony unfolded I would occasionally glance in their direction to see a face staring in rapt attention at the ongoing ritual, eyes darting to the program in order to dutifully follow along when we would we welcomed to join the choir in song.

"What happens now", I was asked when the ceremony seemed to conclude. "Now we have the third parade", I said. "We saw the 'parade' of officials laying their wreaths and paying their respects, we're seeing the bands and branches of service parading past us now, and when they finish we all go down to the Cenotaph, to walk past and pay our individual respects. One of the ways we do this is to lay our red poppies on one of the wreaths that has personal meaning to us."

We watched parents reading aloud to their young children, in answer to curious little fingers pointing at one wreath or another; we watched teenage couples, men and women old and young circle around, then stop, and think, before depositing their poppies and moving on. One younger gentleman got down on bended knee, shut his eyes for a long moment before adding a red poppy to the growing number gathering around a particular memorial wreath in honor of recent sacrifice in Afghanistan. Almost on signal, the clouds let loose a brief sizzle of rain they had kept in abeyance throughout the morning, to mix with our tears.

What do you think of all this, I asked my young charge on our way out.

"Thanks for inviting me", came an uncharacteristically soft-spoken answer, and as I write this it occurs to me to add that this was the first time I had ever heard them say thank you for anything. The eyes looked into mine, then drifted up and away to someplace else, someplace within. "This was important for me to see. I'm gonna remember it."

And so should we all.

They shall grow not old,
as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them,
nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun
and in the morning
We will remember them.

We Will Remember Them.

Big Lessons From Small Voices

Small gestures can make a big difference.

Brooke and Keith Desserich have written a book about their daughter, Elena. At the age of six, Elena was diagnosed with pediatric brain cancer, and the family was told that she had only 135 days left to live.

While they struggled to find a way to cope with the news, and to help their other daughter, Gracie, learn about her big sister, Elena did some teaching of her own, for her family's sake.

During her final days, the girl began writing letters to her family and hid them all over their home.

“She would tuck them into bookcases, tuck them into dishes, china you don't touch every year and you'd lift it up and there'd be a note in it,” Keith Desserich, Elena’s father, said.

The cancer soon took away her voice, but did not deny the perceptive young soul the ability to still express her gratitude for the great treasure that filled her life: a loving family.

"We started to collect them and they would all say 'I love you Mom, Dad and Grace.' We kept finding them, and still to this day, we keep finding them," Keith Desserich said. "Literally, there are hundreds of notes that we found."

Elena’s parents each hold onto a sealed note they've never opened.
"We always want to know that there’s one more note that we haven't read yet," Keith Desserich said.

The Desserich family initially didn’t want the story published, but in the end, they decided they would if all the money went to their cancer foundation, The Cure Starts Now, dedicated to finding "home run" cures for all cancers.

Notes Left Behind went on sale yesterday, serving as an inspiring example of the renewal of love that springs from Gratitude, and the great things that can come from the humble act of giving thanks for all the good, big and small, that may come our way.

The Third Family

“I think of you as if you were my own brother”, we say as the highest compliment we can offer a friend. There’s no greater accolade than to compare a close friendship to that of the stronger bonds of family: “You’re like a son to me…”

We get to choose our friends, and not our family, yet… I wonder if we tolerate the offensive faults and sins of friends with the same forbearance we often extend towards our family. Sibling accepts the bad with the good when they embrace sibling, to a degree that probably escapes them when it comes to the same sinful fallibility we may find in our friends. A parent’s forgiveness of their children’s faults is often only outmatched by a child’s acceptance of the imperfection of their parents, and the consequences of that fallibility on their lives… again, a mutual respect often eluding the mutual attraction of friendship.

Friendships are wonderful, but ultimately it’s a different, separate kind of strengthening bond than the one offered by family. A second, chosen, family, to raise us in ways that birth families do not.

This weekend I had occasion to experience the blessings, yet again, of a third family, the one that takes the best of each and adds something new of its own: one’s church family.

A “church family” consists of those who worship alongside us, at church. Different than the friendships developed at work, or at school, where colleagues become “chums”, attracted as they may be by mutual interest. The collegiality of the support at church touches a part of us far deeper than that, because the shared sense of mission surely goes much, much deeper than at any job.

It touched me deeply this weekend, that’s for sure, as I tried in vain to find the right words to say to someone I know through church, an older gentleman whose ailing wife passed away recently, after a lengthy and painful illness. We got to know each other in the casual way one meets people through church: the same faces in the same places at the same times every week, familiarity leading to a feeling of family. A church family.

Each week’s quick greetings after church might have been short in duration but they nevertheless cast long shadows from their repetition, especially towards the end as the news would grow worse each time.

This week there was only one to greet, the worst having finally happened. Not for the first time, the worst being the best that could happen, given the grim circumstances.

I didn’t know quite what to say as we each approached for our usual greetings. I had often prayed for them both, keeping the example of his quiet strength in memory throughout the tough times I myself repeatedly went through during this past summer from hell. I owed him a lot, and I held these thoughts in mind as I took his hand in mine, placed my other hand on his shoulder, and smiled.

It was as if he heard what I was thinking, and from behind his eyes I saw a sign of someone being genuinely helped from hand after gentle hand touching him that day, as each caring gesture gave him that much more renewed courage to smile in his turn. In his voice I heard someone seemingly able to hear prayer after silent prayer said on his behalf every week for a year. “Thank you”, he said to me through the kindest of smiles, the only words that ended up being needed in our brief time together this week.

Even though a lifelong love had come to an end, his loss was less than it could have been, thanks to the shared presence of his children, his family of friends, and his third family:

his church family.

Friday Reactions

It can be said that our actions are really reactions, to circumstances, situations and people. Here are a handful of reactions noticed in the margins of the news on a brisk Friday morning.

Integrity: Last Friday we blogged about a poor single mom's reaction when she discovered that her banks' clerical error made her rich. She admitted to the temptation to steal the money but nevertheless contacted the bank about their mistake and returned the full amount.

Today, a different reaction to similar circumstances in New Zealand, where a bank error added extra zeroes to a line of credit, turning a gas station owner into an instant millionaire.

His response: take the money and run.

A businessman and his girlfriend, whose bank accidentally handed them a $6.1 million credit line, have managed to flee the country with more than a third of the cash, the bank said Friday.
An international search is under way for the couple, who are believed to have gone on the run, possibly to Hong Kong or China, to avoid having to give the money back.

Heroism: In Nebraska, a remarkable six-year old son is sitting in the back seat next to his 3-year old brother when he suddenly notices his dad had fainted while he was driving them. Realizing the danger, he leaps into the front seat in order to safely take over the wheel of their family car:

Police say a 6-year-old boy grabbed the wheel of their pickup after his dad passed out from low blood sugar and kept them from crashing until a North Platte police officer could bring the truck to a halt.
...
Tustin [Mains] hopped up from the back seat to his father’s lap so he could steer and see out the windshield.
His dad’s foot had slipped off the accelerator, but even at idle the Chevrolet Avalanche was going an estimated 10-15 mph.
...
Tustin remained at the wheel for several blocks, even turning around when he got into a neighborhood he didn’t recognize.

The young son was not the only one with quick-thinking initiative on the scene...:

Other drivers noticed the boy driving the truck. Some maneuvered their vehicles in front or behind the pickup and turned on their emergency blinkers.

When officer Roger Freeze noticed the child behind the wheel, he quickly sprang into action as well, managing to catch up to the truck on foot without getting run over, reaching in through the window and stopping the vehicle by grabbing the gearshift. Later, the father expressed his gratitude:

“To chase down a moving vehicle and get it stopped the way he did took a lot of nerve, and if it weren’t for him, things could have turned out much worse.”

Battle: Headline of the day: "Hero cruise ship Britons fight off armed Somali pirates with deckchairs and tables".

British pensioners on a cruise ship bravely fought off machine gun-armed Somali pirates by hurling deckchairs and tables at them.
The holidaymakers were enjoying a midnight Mozart concert onboard MSC Melody when pirates armed with Kalashnikovs attempted to board it using grappling hooks and ladders.
But passengers forced them back to their boats by throwing chairs and tables over the stern of the ship as Israeli security guards onboard the cruise liner fired warning shots.

The Sound Of Hope

A tale of two emails.

The first message is from a beloved friend who shares in confidence news of a tragic personal development. Terrible, terrible, terrible. Not for the first time, I close my eyes in despair as to how cruel life can be to the nicest of people.

Then, after a shocked moment spent coming to grips with the implications of her bad news, the next email in cue leads me to this video, providentially sent by a friend who thought I’d enjoy it.

"Enjoy" it? What an understatement..!

It’s medicine for the grieving soul. Maybe it's the timely circumstances, and coincidences, surrounding it's arrival, but I can’t help but hear within the video the very sound of Hope.

I hear the sound of faith fulfilled, the fruit of love directed outwards as well as inwards, the further reward that may come when we express our gratitude for the many blessings that fill our daily lives.

My faith teaches me that it’s by seeking the good that we may find happiness, and eventual peace. Most of the time this seems a false promise, an impossible burden, for the world is filled with such evil, and from it springs such eternal misery. Is there truly sufficient goodness out there, somewhere, that would make it worthwhile to remain positive in our thinking, optimistic in our attitude? Is there really a reason to believe that, ultimately, it’s rational to live in hope?

I watch the video and hear a reminder, just when I needed it the most, of how the search for good continues to be a habit worth cultivating. Indeed, all the more so: it renews my understanding of how our individual searches for inner peace may strengthen others, looking to us for encouragement in their time of deepest trouble, in their moments of gravest doubt.

And so I hope that through this video you can hear what I hear, a gentle re-affirmation of hope; that despite a life filled with despair, suffering, and injustice, alongside it can be found joy, wonder, and mercy. Watching the video, we pause to ask: is it really so impossible to find good in the world..?

Beautiful But Deadly... Again

Since my plans were to spend the first half of yesterday's Victoria Day holiday hiking through the mountain trails around Lynn Valley, I had to skip my daily morning habit of browsing through online newspapers over breakfast and coffee. If I had followed my usual routine, I would have learned of the park's tragic news from the day before:

A six-year-old boy has died after falling into North Vancouver's Lynn Creek, near the popular Lynn Valley Suspension Bridge. Corporal Marlene Morton of the North Vancouver RCMP said the boy fell in around 2 p.m. yesterday.
Cpl. Morton said it's not yet known exactly how the boy ended up in the water. By the time rescuers pulled him out, the boy had been in the creek for about an hour.
Cpl. Morton said the child was airlifted to BC Children's Hospital with his stepmother by his side. He was in cardiac arrest when taken to hospital.
He was only wearing beige pants when he was swept downstream toward the suspension bridge. North Shore Search and Rescue scoured the area by helicopter.

And so that rugged park claims another life; it seems like only yesterday, but it was last year that we blogged about another death at that river, further north from where this weekend's fatal accident occured. Every such death is a tragedy, but given the young age of this latest victim, and his being just a few weeks short of his next birthday... this news is grim indeed. I can't imagine the mother's pain right now, seeing her young son off for an awe-inspiring holiday adventure that morning, only to get a phone call later in the afternoon, explaining why the son would not be coming home.

There are a few memorials already at the park, tucked here and there, small tributes to many other young lives taken throughout the years by the unforgiving waters of Lynn Creek. They all break your heart to read, with their eloquent mixture of grief, regret and gratitude; gratitude for having had the blessing of their dearly missed loved ones in their family's lives, even if for so shortened a time. Their messages leave you in awe of the power of the terrain around you, and even more respectful of the power of the human heart; its capacity to grow strong enough in time to dare to continue its loving connection with those around it... despite the risk.

Godspeed to this young man's family, may they one day again come to know peace.

Wednesday's World

Some days we just feel small. Then we're consoled with the reminder that, after all, it's a small world. Here are a few of its stories lurking in the margins of a wet Wednesday morning.

Alchemy: Here's a new documentary for Disney fans like me, as well as students of human nature, to be on the lookout for. It's "The Boys: the Sherman Brothers Story", covering the famous songwriting duo whose delightful tunes enhance so many later Disney films, like Mary Poppins and The Jungle Book, as well as musical compositions for Disney projects like the "It's A Small World (After All)" theme park ride. As it often seems to be, the story-behind-the-story of their collaboration is far more melodramatic than anything on-screen in the films they worked on. Apparently Robert and Richard Sherman were creative partners for six long decades despite hating each other with a passion:

[T]he friction that drove them apart fueled their creativity. It was a case of can't stand him/can't have a career without him. But what a career. Starting out as starving artists, they wound up under long-term contract at Disney.

Produced and directed by the songwriters' sons, Gregory V. Sherman and Jeffrey C. Sherman, as both a tribute to their fathers and a vehicle for possible detente, the film skirts the edges of psychological inquiry but doesn't probe too deeply. The origin of the estrangement is hinted at but remains a mystery.

The families, who grew up without knowing each other, are in the dark, and neither elder Sherman sheds much light on the subject. Although the rift is a source of pain and bafflement for both of them, their lack of insight is a product of a generation allergic to insight and their partnership a testament to the unknowable nature of creative chemistry.

Remarkably, a young 19-year old Robert Sherman was among the first US troops to liberate the Dachau concentration camp in the last days of the European chapter of World War II. Despite seeing what he saw there -- or maybe because of seeing what he saw at such a young age -- the man went on to co-create such life-affirming music, touching the lives of God knows how many people.

Honesty: A sudden gust of wind blew a landlord's $10,300 out of his bag and all over the street. As he scrambled to collect his money, he shouted for help... and got it:

"There were women in dresses and everything. They were down underneath vehicles picking up the money. Young people were picking up the money and they were just saying, 'Whose money is this?' and bringing it to me and handing it to me. So it was just amazing that they were able to do that. I'm very happy and very grateful."

When Walker got to the bank he had $10,300, meaning all of the money was returned.

Gratitude: In March, two young brothers were saved from their burning North Carolina home through the courage and tenacity of four volunteer firefighters. This week the heroes are being honored for their bravery in the line of duty, coinciding with the rescued 7 and 11-year olds being able to return home from the hospital... amazing, since when they were first brought in, initial fears were that they would not live through the night. A local news station offers a touching video account:

"One of the firefighters vividly recalls the frightening scene.
'You can't see two inches in front of your face. If you ain’t scared, something is wrong with you,' said James Cannette, a volunteer who was the first to go in.
'It's unreal, like somebody was pulling me to them. I walked straight to them, straight to the kids.'
...
Cannette says the heroism was a group effort.
'I appreciate them honoring me, it's nice, but everybody needs to realize it was the whole department that saved them two kids’ lives.'

The grateful mother gets the last word, revealing that sometimes sincere gratitude is sufficient reward for good deeds done:

'I probably can't thank them enough but I'm going to thank them all I can for saving my kids.'

UK's Ingratitude To Gurkha Veterans: "It's Absolutely Shocking"

Another example of the UK's growing ingratitude towards its veterans. In February we blogged on Once-Great Britain's unwillingness to sponsor a group of surviving D-Day veterans in their hope to return to France one more time -- for many maybe the last time -- to the 65th anniversary of their great act of courage in participating in the liberation of Europe.

Last week, it was the turn of the loyal Gurkhas to see the current value placed on their service:

Thousands of Gurkhas were yesterday shut out of the UK in what was described as 'shameful betrayal' by the Government.

Immigration Minister Phil Woolas claimed changes in the rules would allow 4,300 more former Gurkhas to settle here out of the 36,000 who served in the British Army before July 1997.

But lawyers battling for the Gurkhas said they believed only around 100 would benefit. Hundreds of former rank-and-file soldiers will face deportation while thousands more will be barred from entering the country.

Under the new rules, former Gurkhas must prove they have either served more than 20 years or have won one of the top four medals for gallantry: the Victoria Cross; the Distinguished Service Order; the Distinguished Conduct Medal; or the Military Cross.
...
Campaigners said it was virtually impossible for ordinary Gurkhas to meet those conditions.

The vast majority - 98 per cent - are rank-and-file soldiers who are permitted to serve for only 15 years. Only officers are allowed to serve for longer.

Top-level gallantry awards are given to a tiny minority of soldiers. Only one living Gurkha would qualify for entry on the basis of his medal alone.

Lawyer Martin Howe said that of more than 2,000 Gurkha veterans refused entry to Britain, only Military Cross-holder Lalit Bahadur Gurung would be eligible.

Mr Gurung, 81, who was awarded the cross in 1964, was refused entry to Britain for medical treatment last year.

Most Gurkhas who retired before 1997 were based in Hong Kong, so they will be unable to prove they have lived in Britain for three years, or that they have family settled here.

And for the oldest veterans living in poverty in Nepal - the fourth-poorest country in the world - it will be difficult to prove that their injuries and illnesses were caused by their Army service.

British actress Joanna Lumley , whose father fought alongside the Gurkhas in Burma during World War II, has taken a strong stand in support of the Gurkhas' cause, becoming the public face of the Gurkha Justice Campaign. Her disgust with the guidelines is palpable:

[1:30] "I'm sick of the insulting size of this ghastly little document. Most of the second page is just 'if you need more help or contacts...' This has taken them four months to come up with this, they've answered none of our letters, they've allowed us into no briefings. [pause] It's absolutely shocking."

The BBC offers the government's side of the story:

Immigration Minister Phil Woolas denied he had betrayed the Gurkhas, adding: "This improves the situation."

He said: "It has never been the case that all Gurkhas pre-1997 were to be allowed to stay in the country. With their dependants you could be looking at 100,000 people."
...
[P]rime Minister Gordon Brown insisted the new rules were fair and took into account "the responsibilities we have accepted" towards the Gurkhas.

"To go back 20 years from 1997 is something that's a major change in policy and will help a large number of Gurkhas if they wish to make the decision to come to Britain," he said.

"And remember that there are costs involved in that decision that we have got to meet."

It's too bad that the one cost referenced by Judge Justice Blake in his ruling last September, does not seem to weigh heavily on Gordon Brown's conscience:

The Home Office will doubtless wish to consult with the MOD [Ministry Of Defence], but if Home Office policy to discharged veterans does not impede military effectiveness, and there are no international law or foreign policy constraints, it is difficult to see why the MOD should not itself welcome clarity and the honouring of a historic debt. The court is conscious that at the heart of military life and the sacrifices that soldiers make in the discharge of their duties is the Military Covenant. This reads:

"Soldiers will be called upon to make personal sacrifices – including the ultimate sacrifice – in the service of the Nation. In putting the needs of the Nation and the Army before their own, they forego some of the rights enjoyed by those outside the Armed Forces. In return, British Soldiers must be able to always expect fair treatment, to be valued and respected as individuals, and that they (and their families) will be sustained and rewarded by commensurate terms and conditions of service".

Rewarding long and distinguished service by the grant of residence in the country for which the service was performed would, in my judgment, be a vindication and an enhancement of this covenant.

Gratitude: The Science Of Seeing Positive Information?

Well, here comes a personal anecdote I never expected to have relevance to any blog post I would ever write..!

I was walking back to the office with two co-workers a few weeks ago, returning from a small-scale industry function. A few glitches but overall a very rewarding afternoon, I thought. One of the co-workers is a friend of mine, and I was curious to ask my friend what he thought about a couple of the fun incidents that had spontaneously taken place; from where he was stationed maybe he had even noticed some that I missed. I had also met a lot of wonderful people, made a few good connections, as well as accomplishing the business at hand, so I was smiling wistfully as I organized my memories, preparing to start chatting with my friend.

Suddenly the pleasant experience was abruptly shattered by the other co-worker walking with us. He started going on a rant of complaints about all the petty things that had gone wrong, things that we knew were not right but that no one else would have noticed. He carefully itemized the stupid mistakes that the company and our fellow co-workers had made, and made negative and snarky remarks in general for several blocks, to the point where I was hard-pressed to get a word in edge-wise with my friend. I never did get to compare my fun memories with his; that had to wait for a later time.

As silly an experience as it was, it nevertheless stayed with me as yet another cautionary example of how negative people tend to only see the negative in their lives, and how positive people might remain positive by seeing not just the negative, but to stretch their point of view so that it can encompass the good, the positive, as well.

Is a person positive-minded from having suddenly seen the positive in their lives, or were they already positive anyway, making it easier for them to see it? If someone wasn't positive-minded, how could they become so? How can they suddenly start seeing these formerly unseen images surrounding them? I've often wondered about this chicken-and-egg question about optimism.

I thought I had the answer with my belief in the value of gratitude. Whether in prayer, or in person with friends and family, and especially with customers, I try to always show my appreciation for the blessings that come my way. By hearing myself say "Thank You" it reminds me that there is something to be thankful for, which helps me to overcome my depression, and remain positive.

Therefore I was particularly interested in this new study out of Ohio State University, which claims that positive people are positive despite seeing negative information, whereas negative people remain negative because they fail to see positive information. In other words, optimism is related to perception skills:

While depression is often linked to negative thoughts and emotions, a new study suggests the real problem may be a failure to appreciate positive experiences.

Researchers at Ohio State University found that depressed and non-depressed people were about equal in their ability to learn negative information that was presented to them.

But depressed people weren't nearly as successful at learning positive information as were their non-depressed counterparts.

"Since depression is characterized by negative thinking, it is easy to assume that depressed people learn the negative lessons of life better than non-depressed people - but that's not true," said Laren Conklin, co-author of the study and a graduate student in psychology at Ohio State.
...
This study is one of the first to be able to link clinical levels of depression to how people form attitudes when they encounter new events or information, said Daniel Strunk, co-author of the study and assistant professor of psychology at Ohio State.
...
"Depressed people may have a tendency to remember the negative experiences
in a situation, but not remember the good things that happened," Conklin said. "Therapists need to be aware of that."
For example, a depressed person who is trying out a new exercise program may mention how it makes him feel sore and tired - but not consider the weight he has lost as a result of the exercise.
"Therapists might focus more on helping their depressed clients recognize and remember the positive aspects of their new experiences," Strunk said.

The lesson I learn here is an affirmation of the old saying, The Key To Finding Happiness Is To Search For The Good In Life. To which I add: "...and the key to staying happy is to feel grateful for finding it."

(Hat Tip to Henry at Why Homeschool)

Grateful For Vancouver Weather

The other day I looked up and saw another grey sky; being human I began to grumble but I was quick enough to catch myself in mid-breath and strangle my ingratitude it in its lair.

Reading about the storms and awful winters that so many other cities have had this season, seeing all the awful pictures of other people's blizzards and snow drifts on television since last November, makes me all too aware that we really don't have much to complain about here in Vancouver, when it comes to the weather.

It's no wonder that so many residents simply go outside and stand around. I can hardly believe our luck myself...

Gratitude Builds A Home For A Hero

I was reflecting earlier today on how powerful a force gratitude can be; spending a moment to sincerely show how thankful you are is a double blessing, elevating the spirit of both the "giver" and the "getter". A simple "Thank You" goes such a long way towards making the pain of a sore back seem to disappear, when the recipient of your back-breaking labor humbles themselves to show their appreciation for your efforts.

Here's an inspiring example of the renewing power of gratitude, courtesy of New Jersey's Courier Post. It follows the story of U.S. Marine staff sergeant Andrew Robinson, who was paralyzed from the chest down by an IED in Iraq in 2006, and the wonder to behold when someone says, "Thank You":

In his new, specially adapted home courtesy of Homes for Our Troops, Robinson can maneuver his wheelchair through wide hallways, travel up and down from the basement via an elevator, wash dishes and more. An automated hydraulic system allows him to press one button to open the door.
...
It was during a series of hot days last July that volunteers pitched in for a "build brigade" to bring up the frame of the house. Robinson and his wife, Sara, were handed the keys to their new home on Veterans Day.

"I was just crying," she said. "The builder gave us everything we wanted."

The couple, married for four years, previously resided in California, where they rented a regular four-bedroom home, but it was difficult for Robinson to move his wheelchair through narrow hallways or over the thick carpet. The new 2,200-square-foot home has wood flooring, wide doorways and a lift to assist Robinson in getting out of bed and going to the bathroom.
...
Since moving into the home, Robinson has been learning to do various tasks, but he still is limited by a lack of finger dexterity.

"I used to clean a lot, do laundry, iron and clean the kitchen," he said. "I just learned how to make a sandwich. Next, I want to cook an egg."
...
Robinson hopes to go to college in the fall and volunteer with organizations that help other veterans.

UK: Not Even A Penny For British D-Day Veterans

From the "what-have-you-done-for-us-lately" school of gratitude, the UK government finds something better to do than honor its few remaining D-Day veterans' hopes to attend the upcoming 65th anniversary of the beginning of the Liberation of Europe:

Second World War veterans have criticised as "disgusting" the Government's refusal to help them travel to France to attend the 65th anniversary of the D-Day landings.

While America and Canada are paying for their veterans to travel to the event, British war heroes are having to stump up the cash themselves.

Thousands of them are hoping to travel to Normandy for the commemoration in June, which for many will be their last.

But the Ministry of Defence has told them that the next time public money will be used for a commemoration will be the 100th anniversary in 2044, when they will all be dead.

Bob Conway, 83, chairman of the Wiltshire branch of the Normandy Veterans' Association (NVA), said: "I think it's disgusting. Surely they can do something to help us old boys go over? We are pretty upset about it. We're all over 80 now and for many this will be the last time."

He and his comrades have taken to fund-raising in the cold in the middle of Trowbridge, where he lives.

He added: "It's a struggle to raise all the money we need but it's just a few thousand pounds. All our comrades from the US and Canada get their expenses paid for by their Governments but ours won't give us a penny."

When Gratitude Is Music To Our Ears

A violinist may have almost lost his arm but he never lost his love for the blessing that music brings to our lives; now the music animated by that love graces the hospital that saved his arm:

The melodic strains of a violin that emanated Friday from a lobby at Barnes-Jewish Hospital carried the gratitude of a former patient who nearly lost the ability to play the instrument.
"I suppose it's a way of saying `thank you' to the hospital, but it's a lot of things." Ken Wollberg said. "It's a way to share a beautiful thing."
...
Although he enjoyed playing professionally, his real passion was teaching viola and violin. He performed with music groups and symphonies, but it was hard to make a living off his music.
So he and his wife, Peggy, decided to launch careers as truck drivers and in 2002 began hauling rigs cross-country. Eventually, they bought a truck and leased their services.
Wollberg and his wife were hauling three flatbeds, stacked on the back of their truck on Dec. 27, 2007, when it hit a patch of ice in Montana and slid the length of about four football fields before toppling to its side.
Peggy Wollberg and the couple's Yorkshire terrier puppy, also in the cab, were not injured. But the driver's side window had shattered, and Wollberg's left elbow took a beating. His triceps muscle detached, and bone scraped away from his elbow.
"I told him from the get-go that it was uncertain if he'd be able to play again, depending on the amount of nerve damage, weakness and stiffness," said orthopedic surgeon Dr. Jay Keener.
Keener reattached Wollberg's triceps muscle to the bone. Plastic surgeon Dr. Ida Fox performed a skin graft to cover the outside of the wound. A second operation last July released scar tissue and stretched the elbow.
After months of exercises and therapy visits, Wollberg returned to teaching music.
"That whole time, I didn't realize how serious it was. My hand worked," he said, but it was a struggle to play again. "It took a month, maybe, to reach the bottom string."
...
When Wollberg returned to Barnes-Jewish Hospital recently for a checkup, he brought along his violin.
"I wanted to show I had my violin-playing back. I wanted them to see the work they'd done was successful," he said.
The doctors were impressed and the hospital asked the patient to schedule another appointment _ but as a performer this time. Wollberg and his friend, guitarist Jim Stieren, appeared Friday at the hospital's Center for Advanced Medicine in St. Louis. Peggy Wollberg joined them and sang a few songs, including "Amazing Grace."

If we concentrate we can almost hear the echo of their performance from here, can't we; just imagine the gratitude, then the peace of mind that comes from it, and the music will begin, faintly, to envelop us. How sweet the sound......

Seeing The Unseen On Remembrance Day

Today we make the effort to remember, to honor and to show our gratitude for the sacrifices made by others, on our behalf.

As I write this I hear the rain falling outside the window, I see my wife getting her affairs in order for the day ahead, I touch the extra red poppy that gets propped beside the computer work station, and I remember all those who can no longer listen or see or touch the world they left behind.

It may be said that there will be two parades at the ceremony we're going to attend downtown. The city's memorial tribute ends with a proud procession of people of all ages, from aged veterans in wheelchairs at the front to young cadets marching under flags at the rear. This march spreads over a few city blocks, and it's a grand sight to see. But first will come another parade, as an ever-increasing number of representatives walk the short distance to the Cenotaph in order to place wreaths on behalf of their groups of fallen comrades.

They are there in place of thousands of others who can no longer be there themselves, and as they mount their wreaths at the base of the Cenotaph I always strain to imagine a picture of who they are representing, to try and see them, hear them, touch them in my mind's eye. We may be seeing the single steps of solitary veterans, reverently placing wreath after wreath, but with each passing year it becomes even more important to keep seeing those who never walk again, so that we all may stand here, today, at this ceremony. On this day their unseen steps echo far louder in my memory than even those of the brave souls marching alongside bands and banners at ceremony's end.


The true climax of Vancouver's Remembrance Day ceremony, however, doesn't conclude with the veterans parade; there's a final, humble and unofficial ritual that many of us stay to perform. We circle the Cenotaph, some with more personal purpose than others. They are searching for the individual wreath that serves to remind the world of their lost loved one, and when they see it, they pull the red poppy formerly carried in their collar and pin it to the memorial wreath, an annual embrace of commitment that their sacrifice has not been forgotten. I usually wait a few moments before making my own personal rounds to make my own personal tribute with my own red poppy; I've come to appreciate observing the appreciations expressed by my fellow Canadians, as their example keeps making it easier for me to see the unseen, to imagine the thousands present in spirit, their shadow made as real and palpable as that of the Cenotaph at the center of our attention on this day.


Thank You for your sacrifice, Godspeed to your families and may God Keep Canada, True Strong and Free.

"Political Differences Cut Only So Deep..."

"Gratitude" is a dirty word in today's What-Have-You-Done-For-Me-Lately culture.

"Civility" is also a disappearing virtue as our undisciplined, self-centered and short-sighted society no longer values the effort involved in, or sees the long-term benefit of, Agreeing To Disagree.

No matter which candidate wins in today's US Presidential election, no matter what political party emerges on top or on the bottom, I will live in the hope that we have not fallen so far that we can't still learn to act as this fellow did, back in 1997. If one person can change for the better, I always take it as a sign that we all can..:

... By 7:30 we were on the road, and [John McCain] was reminiscing about his early political career. When he was elected to the House in 1982, he said, he was "a freshman right-wing Nazi." But his visceral hostility toward Democrats generally was quickly tempered by his tendency to see people as individuals and judge them that way.

He was taken in hand by Morris Udall, the Arizona congressman who was the liberal conscience of the Congress and a leading voice for reform. ...

"Mo reached out to me in 50 different ways," McCain recalled. "Right from the start, he'd say: 'I'm going to hold a press conference out in Phoenix. Why don't you join me?' All these journalists would show up to hear what Mo had to say. In the middle of it all, Mo would point to me and say, 'I'd like to hear John's views.' Well, hell, I didn't have any views. But I got up and learned and was introduced to the state."

Four years later, when McCain ran for and won Barry Goldwater's Senate seat, he said he felt his greatest debt of gratitude not to Goldwater—who had shunned him—but to Udall. "There's no way Mo could have been more wonderful," he says, "and there was no reason for him to be that way."

For the past few years, Udall has lain ill with Parkinson's disease in a veterans hospital in Northeast Washington, which is where we were heading. Every few weeks, McCain drives over to pay his respects. These days the trip is a ceremony, like going to church, only less pleasant. Udall is seldom conscious, and even then he shows no sign of recognition. ...

One wall of Udall's hospital room was cluttered with photos of his family back in Arizona; another bore a single photograph of Udall during his season with the Denver Nuggets, dribbling a basketball. Aside from a congressional seal glued to a door jamb, there was no indication what the man in the bed had done for his living. Beneath a torn gray blanket on a narrow hospital cot, Udall lay twisted and disfigured. No matter how many times McCain tapped him on the shoulder and called his name, his eyes remained shut.

A nurse entered and seemed surprised to find anyone there, and it wasn't long before I found out why: Almost no one visits anymore. In his time, which was not very long ago, Mo Udall was one of the most-sought-after men in the Democratic Party. Yet as he dies in a veterans hospital a few miles from the Capitol, he is visited regularly only by a single old political friend, John McCain. "He's not going to wake up this time," McCain said.

On the way out of the parking lot, McCain recalled what it was like to be a nobody called upon by a somebody. As he did, his voice acquired the same warmth that colored Russell Feingold's speech when he described the first call from John McCain. "When you called Feingold … " I started to ask him. But before I could, he interrupted. "Yeah," he says, "I thought of Mo." And then, for maybe the third time that morning, McCain spoke of how it affected him when Udall took him in hand. It was a simple act of affection and admiration, and for that reason it meant all the more to McCain. It was one man saying to another, We disagree in politics but not in life. It was one man saying to another, party political differences cut only so deep. Having made that step, they found much to agree upon and many useful ways to work together. This is the reason McCain keeps coming to see Udall even after Udall has lost his last shred of political influence.

The politics were never all that important.

Looking For Reasons To Keep Faith In The UK

In Charles Dickens' classic story A Christmas Carol, Ebenezer Scrooge is visited by three Spirits in order to give him a more three-dimensional view of his life: the values of the past he had forsaken, the choices that remained available to him and the likely consequences of those choices.

Reading the news in the European press reminds me ever so much of being visited by the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, and being offered a glimpse into my, our, potential future... a world empty of hope, compassion and reason.

The stories out of the UK speak of a decaying nation, and it's increasingly challenging to believe that the institutions designed to serve as a candle's light in the darkness will remain untouched by the fog of despair blanketing today's not-so-Great Britain, like a shroud.

Every small flicker of light suggesting that the system still works seems offset by larger shadows promising that the system may be beyond salvation. It's hard to keep faith in the hope that, down the road, the story of these islands and their people will have a happy ending.

From reading the history of the British Isles I learned a lesson from a good teacher that, I believe, holds the key to turning things around: the most assured path to defeat would be to live without hope. Never give up, never surrender, so when people look at you for reassurance, you can honestly show them a sign that affirms, with sincerity, that you are still in the fight, committed to victory. A commitment fueled by that most powerful of secret weapons: hope.

Once we abandon this source of strength, what resources remain within ourselves to renew the amount of energy and commitment required to keep one's hand at the wheel, come what may? The hole left within us by a lack of hope soon causes much else to fall away, as well; when we stop believing in a better tomorrow, what reasons remain to live well today?

Why be civil, why be polite, why listen, why see, why learn, if there's to be no solution to our present-day problems?

Having accepted one loss, we leave ourselves open to allowing another, and another, until we live as empty shells, prisoners of the present, refusing to rise, preferring to fall, perhaps even welcoming a nihilist embrace of the nullity of death... for it seems a future not so different from our present, empty existence.

At a micro level, you can see such behavior exhibited through the UK commentors who come here and at other North American blogs, anonymously leaving their unrelated links in comment threads no matter the subject of the posts, links to doom and despair. I always wonder what the purpose of these actions are... what goal does it serve, except maybe to get me to lose my faith in order for them to continue justifying having lost theirs. Their comments are not even cries for help, since they never seem to return to see what aid might be forthcoming. Maybe they simply believe that we've already given up, as they have. They've given up so much they've even given up their very identity, not even bothering to call themselves "jack" or "tom"... whether it's their real name or not, it would at least create a sense of a person at the other end of the comment. A person to be helped. A person worth helping.

Or maybe they don't return because they think they're talking to an imbecile, since they're talking to a person straining to keep his faith in the UK, despite his following the same news that they are reading.

To live with faith is not to live as an imbecile. It does not involve steadfastly ignoring unpleasant truths and unwelcome news. To live in hope is not to live blindly, it's in fact the act of seeing as much as possible. It's looking at the world three-dimensionally, remembering the past, examining the present in order to imagine the future. As with Scrooge, it's a hard balancing act to sustain without the help of gifted teachers, maybe each with a particular specialty, dividing the challenge into smaller, bite-sized morsels so that the lesson may be more easily digested.

To live with faith is to somehow co-exist with doubts. For me, it's not really the macro stories that challenge my faith in the UK so much as it is the micro stories; somehow, in their simplicity, in their small scale, they seem to speak volumes about how much has been lost, how far the great have fallen...:

A painter and decorator and his wife have both received a £30 fines for smoking in their own van.

Gordon Williams, of Llanafan, near Aberystwyth, west Wales, and his wife Sue were on the way to buy tea bags when they were slapped with the fixed penalty fines under anti-smoking laws.
...
The married grandfather had just lit up when a council official approached him and dished out the on-the-spot fine. Mr Williams said it was justified to him by the accusation that his van was classed as a workplace.
He claims that he had, in fact, been working in the nearby village of Talybont that day and only ever used his van as transport.
"I was actually driving to Llanbadarn Fawr to get some tea bags from the garage, so how was I going to my place of work?" he said.
"I appreciate that a driver of a coach or a bus can't smoke at the wheel because, obviously, that is the law of the land.
"But this is insured as a private vehicle and I only use it to drive to wherever I will be working on any given day.
"Of course, there are tools and things in the van but a barrister would carry about documents in a briefcase in his own car, this is no different to my mind."

Have the people who used to send their Prime Minister box after box of free cigars, for him to smoke at ten Downing Street while he kept faith in the fight to preserve Great Britain, have they really come down to this..? Have they so quickly forgotten who, and where, they are?

Remember your past, be grateful for it, so that in that gratitude you can find a bounty of resources sufficient to light a new candle in your dark room, in order to see your way through to a future worth living in, on your precious stone, your "blessed plot". It's not living there that is supposed to ennoble you, it is by how you act that you ennoble where you live.

It's not called an act of faith, for nothing.

Remembering To Be Grateful On Canada Day

I don't think there can be much sincere celebration, of anything, without a sincere affirmation of gratitude.

Today is July 1st, Canada Day. As I do every day, I thank God I was born here, in Canada, next door to the great United States of America, a brother nation I have come to love as much as I do my own home.

We in Canada are lucky countless times over to have such a good friend as our neighbor. If only more of us up here could see that, remember it, and acknowledge it as the truth that helps keeps us free.


We in Canada are also lucky to live in a part of the world that is positively breathtaking in its beauty. From coast to coast, north to south, far and wide, it is easy to fall in love with our natural scenery


We're especially lucky if we've been taught to be grateful for all this bounty. Fortunately, there are no lack of teachers for this lesson... though increasingly there does seem to be fewer and fewer capable pupils.


In our small corner of the country there is a custom that sometimes even reaches today's jaded youth with the clarity of its lesson. You see, when a family has suffered the loss of a loved one, that family will sometimes donate a public park bench to one of our many scenic parks, in memory of their dearly departed. A small plaque paying tribute to the love that animates that memory is affixed to the benches, so that a weary traveler may reflect on the treasured blessings that may still fill their lives, the donated benches serving as helpful reminders of the wisdom to not take the good in our lives too much for granted.

One unforgettable day I happened to be sitting on one such park bench, when, as coincidence would have it, the parents of the son memorialized through that gift came along to pay their respects to the boy taken from them. At their gentle request I scooted away in order to give them their space, and their moment. I had just lost someone dear to me, not so long before, so I couldn't help but notice that for these parents there were no tears, just smiles... They shared their happy memories for a short while, first with each other then with me when I took this opportunity to thank them for their gift, mentioning how often I used it, and how far I come to do so. It was jarring to hear that my favorite place to sit and look at the mountains, was facing the very mountain that claimed their son's life, in a climbing accident. Despite their tragic loss, they seemed appreciative of their good fortune, to have been blessed with such a good man for a son, choosing to see the positive instead of the negative.

There's just something about that encounter, and the circumstances surrounding it, that sum up for me what it means to be Canadian.


I've taken endless photos of our park trails, and the donated park benches that fill them. Last year I put some of them to music, in a little video I made to renew my own appreciation for the wonderful blessings that have filled my life, come what may. It wasn't made for Canada Day, but I thought nonetheless that repeating it here would make a fitting show of appreciation for my country, on its birthday, as the video humbly tries to give shape to the peace that may come to any life, through the renewal of gratitude.

May God continue to bless Canada, and may God keep our land, glorious and free.

Remembering The Battle Of The Somme

In addition to being Canada Day, July 1st is also the anniversary of the first day of the bloody Battle of the Somme, in World War I.

I've been watching a dvd collection of the 2003 documentary series, World War In Color, so the infamous story is on my mind.

This impressive documentary meticulously colorizes hours of black and white film footage taken during the grinding conflict that so shaped the start of our modern age. The colorized footage tends not to have the "muddy" look that used to belabor this technology; it makes you see the old films from an old world with fresh eyes, and renewed interest. For all its gruesomeness it remains a riveting show: chapter by chapter the documentary chronicles various aspects of the war, with precious interviews of surviving veterans intercut along the way, to humanize history.

That men could emerge from the carnage of The Great War, and the suicidal Battle of the Somme in particular, to go on to start families, study for a career, and choose to remain decent people, is an overwhelming fact to contemplate. I stare at those soft-spoken veterans in awe. Let those who whine and complain about their lot in life today, reflect on what people in the not-so-distant past lived through, and despite their experiences (maybe because of those experiences..?) they still felt compelled to do the Right Thing... they had the courage to try to live Good lives. Given the plain butchery of the Somme, I wonder which act can be proven the more valorous...

Canada, as well as Europe, has reason to remember the horror of that first day of the Battle of the Somme, especially those not yet part of Canada at the time, the troops from Newfoundland:

The Battle of the Somme began early on the morning of July 1, 1916, near the towns of Beaumont and Hamel. Thousands of soldiers from Britain and Newfoundland climbed out of their trenches to walk through a hail of machine gun fire, toward the German line.

In less than half an hour, the fighting was over.

57,470 British soldiers were killed or wounded on what remains the bloodiest day in the history of the British Army. Newfoundlanders suffered especially heavy losses on that day: of the 801 who had gone into battle, only 68 were able to respond at roll call the following morning.

There's more than one Europe, no matter what our maps might tell us. There's the Europe of the unaccountable EU elites, sitting at their remote tables making their daft calculations like modern-day General Haigs and Joffres, discovering only too late that their golden dreams are built of mud and broken bones.

Then there's the Europe that gathers on anniversaries like tomorrow, to honor the memory of the good that died in places like the Somme, so that, through memory, that good may live on:

SCOTTISH war heroes who fought and died at the Somme... will be honoured at a ceremony in France tomorrow.
... The Royal Scots Guards lost 20,000 men with a further 40,000 wounded while attacking heavily fortified German trenches close to the village of Contalmaison.
...
Despite huge losses, the 16th Battalion – known as [Sir George] McRae's Own – was credited with achieving the deepest penetration of the enemy line anywhere on the battlefront. [Communities Minister Stewart] Maxwell will lay a wreath on behalf of the Scottish nation at the Contalmaison Cairn, the largest memorial of its kind to be built on the Western Front since the 1920s.

Mr Maxwell said: "Their sacrifice in defence of their nation has helped preserve Scotland's way of life and our democracy.

"It is very important that their courage, valour and sacrifice are recognised and never forgotten."

There was so much waste, so much senseless death throughout that awful nightmare that is The Great War, it is terribly easy to conclude that it was all for nothing. After all, there was a Second World War that followed soon enough the "war to end all wars". Today, with barely a handful of WWI veterans left alive, the war seems as remote to us as the Napoleonic campaigns would have been to these veterans when they enlisted. That remoteness makes it tempting to just sweep the whole messy memory under the rug... or into its grave.

Towards the end of one of the episodes of the forementioned colorized documentary series, a veteran looks away from the camera as he admits that he feels his generation's sacrifices have been "condemned to be forgotten", and that when this happens their sacrifices will have truly been for nothing. The expression on his face, of looking at nothing... yet seeing everything... is a haunting one.

That elderly gentleman lived through the shadow of the evil brought upon him, and yet can still look back on much to be grateful for. As we should look back, and be grateful for the good examples that have come before us; especially the remarkable generation that outran the four horsemen when they went "over the top". These gentlemen returned still feeling the human duty to renew their humanity, and choose to be gentle men.

Tim Russert R.I.P.

Very shocking to hear about the passing of NBC's Tim Russert.

I haven't watched Meet the Press for years, but I used to, every single week. When I heard the sad news on Friday, one memory of the show bubbled up right away. The moment didn't feature an interview of a politician, or any guest for that matter. It was about his family.

As I recall it the moment happened on a Father's Day broadcast, probably from 1997 or '98. Right before the final sign-off, Tim Russert reached into his buttoned up suit, pulled out his tie and faced the camera. He beamed a smile a mile wide as he pointed to the tie and said:

"I want to point out that I am wearing the tie my boy gave me this morning. I said I would, and I am. I win the bet I had with my son about it. You owe me a hug, buddy, and I'm coming home to collect!"

That brought a big smile to me then, and it does again this morning, as introspection pulls it out of the shadows of memory.

One of the best things that can be said about a man, is that he tried to be a good father. I'm pleased to hear from the many personal remembrances filling the news this weekend, that Tim Russert seems to have been a good father.

Whenever faced with great loss, I try and turn my mind towards the great gains that preceeded it, so that gratitude can help mitigate grief. (I was lucky to have a good role model for this behavior: my Dad.) I hope Tim Russert's family can do that with the unexpected grief they face on this Father's Day; there will be no more hugs, so treasure the ones you did get.

In the memory born of that gratitude you'll find the comfort of a perpetual embrace.