A good and perfect gift

My previous blog post was about my firstborn son, Caleb. When I linked it to Facebook I'd thought the "teaser" photo would be the first one I'd put in, of Caleb a few days old. However, it ended up being the second one, of Caleb and my second born son, Harrison. I'd said that Caleb was a child of promise from the beginning, but didn't mention Harrison. Well, here's the rest of the story. . .

I had a miscarriage when Caleb was about 10 months old. Shortly after, I got pregnant again. We were excited, but nervous. In May, at eight weeks pregnant I lost some amniotic fluid. The doctor said, "take it easy" and "no lifting." Still, it was a 50-50 chance that the baby would survive.

Right after this diagnosis we went to Arizona on vacation as planned, and Dave lifted our suitcases and carried Caleb the entire time. And I had no more trouble during the pregnancy. On Dec. 6 we attended Winterfest downtown and saw the fireworks. After, we camped out in the Seneca St. McDonald's play place so Caleb could run off steam and we could count my contractions.

We dropped Caleb off at Grandmother's then headed to the hospital. During the night I narrowly missed having a C-section, but Harrison was born naturally on Sunday morning, 7:44 a.m. on December 7, 1997. 

When the doctors had left and the and nurses had finished cleaning him up, I was alone in the hospital room with my baby. (Was Dave off getting breakfast somewhere? I don't remember). I could see him sleeping so peacefully under the heat lamp. I wanted a photo of this moment. 

 

A good and perfect gift- Harrison, hours old in the hospital

So, I got out of my hospital bed, grabbed my camera, and took it. James 1:17 filled my mind, "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows."

He was perfect. Despite the pregnancy scare early on, despite them not finding his heartbeat while I was in labor during the night (I'm pretty sure it was an equipment malfunction and nothing to do with him), he was healthy. My gift from God.

Harrison was a good baby, and grew into a happy, thoughtful boy. When I had to tell him "no," he stopped what he was doing. I wasn't used to that!

From the beginning, Harrison liked to cuddle. Soon, I realized Harrison was a good hugger. He would hug with just the right amount of pressure, for just the right amount of time. Later, he would even offer hugs at just the right times.

One winter evening Harrison asked me how he could know he would go to Heaven. I told him he could ask Jesus into his heart right then. He wanted to, and we prayed together. Then we told Caleb that Harrison was a Christian now. Caleb wanted to become one too! Caleb made a sign to commemorate the occasion, I snapped some photos, and then we went to Braum's for ice cream.

Caleb Harrison CHRISTIANS January 22, 2002

Harrison liked playing with Rescue Heroes, and his favorite Halloween costume was Batman, and he loved his Superman summer jammies that we couldn't resist buying for him when we went to buy Caleb some new pajamas to wear to McLean's end-of-year pajama party.

Superhero- Harrison's favorite Superman pajamas

Harrison also liked animals. He would try to catch the barn cats when we visited the farm. He liked the succession of kittens we attempted raise and was the one to name them:  Rosie, Raja, and Princess. Unfortunately, each met an early demise.

Caleb and Harrison with Grandpa and Grandma Epp's farm dog, Ebony.

Harrison loved his stuffed animals and gave them all really good names. One white, fluffy dog was Happy. A teddy bear was Growl. 

On visits to Osco (where my Aldi is now) we would make sure to go down the aisle with the stuffed animals. His favorite was a large German shepherd that he would hug and pet. I would always pet a little black-and-white tuxedo kitty because it reminded me of my favorite childhood cat, Oscar. Since the German shepherd was a more expensive item and his birthday and Christmas were a long way off, he would put it back and say "goodbye" until next time.

Then Harrison came into some cash. (Birthday money? I don't remember). He decided he wanted to buy the German shepherd, so we went to Osco. Excitedly, he pulled the stuffed dog out of the cubby and gave it a hug. (What was his name?) Then he also picked up the tuxedo kitty and asked if he had enough money to buy it for me. He did.

With tears in my eyes, I nearly told Harrison he didn't need to buy me the kitty. But I sensed that this was something important he wanted to do, and I let him. And I thanked him. And I have kept Oscar in a little basket on my dresser ever since, and I think about Harrison's sacrificial love, and his sweet, giving spirit.

Oscar, the stuffed kitty that reminded me of my favorite cat growing up, Oscar Meyer Weiner Schnitzel.

At the beginning of his sophomore year in high school, Harrison suffered a severe concussion at football practice which ended his football and wrestling careers. He didn't seem to mind the loss, but I wondered what he would end up doing with his life.

Harrison Franklin as a high school senior

His compassion for others and desire to help led him to become a real, live Rescue Hero and join the Coast Guard. He was sad when his ultimate goal to be a rescue diver wasn't to be (turns out he's colorblind. We never knew!). I, however, was grateful I didn't have to wonder if he was jumping into stormy seas at any given moment to assist shipwreck victims.  

Cape May, NJ- Harrison at his Coast Guard graduation.

Still, he was on a ship, the "Sherman," and contact with him was limited. I had to trust that he was in God's hands. One day I was shopping at Kirkland's and God gave me a little reminder of his gift to me.

I saw this when I was shopping in December of 2016. Harrison was stationed in Hawaii and on a ship somewhere on the Pacific Coast. He went as far south as Panama and as far north as Alaska.

When Harrison received his assignment to go Astoria, Oregon, he married Olivia Thomas, whom he'd met in Wichita two months before shipping out with the Coast Guard. With his sensitive and compassionate nature, I'd always thought Harrison would make someone an excellent husband. With her creativity and sense of adventure, Olivia has been good wife for him.

Engaged- Olivia and Harrison, December 2017

Harrison and Olivia loved living in Oregon and took advantage of the many hiking opportunities. I was thankful that when they couldn't come back to Kansas, they often spent holidays with Dave's brother Eric in Washington, about three hours from their place. It helped to know they were with family.

When Harrison finished his Coast Guard assignment, they moved back to Wichita. Since he'd had considerable fire training, he pursued a career with the Wichita Fire Department and was hired in September of 2022. I'd always thought Harrison's compassionate nature would make him a good person to comfort someone in distress. I also know he has the guts to do daring things. Now he's putting that to use in crisis, sharing his gift with people in need.

 

Down at the station- Kathy and Eric Franklin joined Dave and me on a firehouse visit last year. Harrison showed us around until he had to leave on a call. The place was vacated within a minute!

Promises Kept

 The Children of Israel would always point to the parting of the Red Sea as the unmistakable display of God's power and protection. I have a time in my life that I point to as God speaking directly to me.

It occurred when Dave and I had been married for over four years and were wanting to start a family. We'd been trying for a few months with no luck, and the difficulties my mom had getting pregnant made me concerned I might have trouble as well.

Dave and I had been mentoring a boy through Youth Horizons, and he was in the process of getting out of foster care and becoming available for adoption. Was it God's plan for us to adopt him?

I had started reading through the Bible that year and came to Abraham's story in Genesis. Childless, he was asking God if his servant Eliezer would be the one to inherit his estate. God's answer to him came straight to me:
"This man will not be your heir, but a son coming from your own body will be your heir." Gen. 15:4.
I copied the verse on the dated page in my planner.

The boy was adopted by another family.

A couple of months later I'd worked my way to the book of Numbers. Moses sent 12 spies to check out Canaan, the promised land. When they returned, only two, Joshua and Caleb, expressed confidence that God would fight for them and give them the land. The Lord's anger burned against the 10 spies who were afraid, and He declared that none of them would ever see the promised land. 

Numbers 14:24 leaped out at me. "But because my servant Caleb has a different spirit and follows me wholeheartedly, I will bring him into the land he went to, and his descendants will inherit it."

When I went to Colombia in 1988, one of the missionary couples had a cute little baby named Caleb. I'd liked the name ever since. "Wouldn't it be wonderful to have a boy named Caleb who follows God wholeheartedly?" I thought with longing.

A few weeks later I learned I was pregnant, and already had been when I'd read the verse. We named him Caleb. My prayer has always been that he would follow God wholeheartedly. 

And I also prayed to be the kind of mom who had the wisdom, patience, and love to direct a child on that journey. And I prayed that I could follow wholeheartedly as well. 

Caleb, four days old

I used my PageMaker computer program to print out Numbers 14:24 and framed it for his room.

As a six-year-old Caleb made a decision to ask Jesus into his heart the same night his four-year-old brother Harrison did. 

It's a sign- Caleb Harrison CHRISTIANS January 22, 2002

But as the years went by it seemed Caleb was making more and more choices on his own, and I began to despair that he would ever follow God wholeheartedly. With 20/20 hindsight, I saw mistakes I'd made as a mom. I even began to wonder if I'd heard correctly all those years ago. 

On December 7, 2017 (when Caleb was 21) I was reading the beautiful Christmas story of Mary and Elizabeth meeting while both were pregnant and Luke 1:45 jumped out at me. Elizabeth says of Mary's faith, "Blessed is she who has believed that what the Lord has said to her will be accomplished."  

I remembered the promise I'd felt God made to me while I was pregnant with my firstborn son. I wrote in my prayer journal, "I am believing that the rest will be accomplished. Help my unbelief."

A few months later Caleb and his new girlfriend, June, stopped by after they'd eaten at Carriage Crossing by Yoder. In the little gift shop, he'd bought a sign that somehow had made him think of me. "God Keeps His Promises." 

Caleb Franklin and June Baldessari after hunting Easter eggs and saying "goodbye" to Grandpa Epp for the last time. 2018. 

I looked at Caleb and the sign, wondering exactly what it meant to him. The cynical side of me thought that maybe Caleb could help God out a little bit by making better choices. The spiritual side of me sensed that whether Caleb was conscious of it or not, he was hand-delivering to me confirmation from God that He indeed would keep His promise.

Caleb and June got married and had Rose (not in that order). Little brother Wesley soon followed. I've seen Caleb choose his wife and family over himself. I've seen him working hard to support his family. I've seen him making increasingly good choices. 

Caleb and Rose on her first day of kindergarten

But serving God wholeheartedly? Not yet. 

To be fair, I don't serve God wholeheartedly either. I want to. That is the desire of my heart, most days. That is the direction I would love for my life to point.

Last year, I was reading through the Old Testament again and thinking about how the Children of Israel had to wait 40 years to enter the Promised Land. At 4:30 a.m. on May 2, 2023, I felt like God said 40 years for Caleb. I almost didn't want to commit that to the paper in my prayer journal. "I want it now," I thought. "He's only 27. I don't want to wait 13 more years!"

A dozen years doesn't seem as long as it used to though. Even when I hear the stories of waiting 40 years, it doesn't have the interminable quality that it had when I was in Sunday School. I am reminded of one of my favorite songs that our friend Earnest Alexander sings, "You Can't Hurry God."

The chorus says:

"You can't hurry my God, no, no, no, you just have to wait. You gotta trust the Lord and give Him time, No matter how long it may take. He's a God you can't hurry, He'll be there, you don't have to worry. Oh He may not come when you want Him, But He's right on time." 

So, I am trusting in God's promises and praying that I can serve Him wholeheartedly as I wait.

From Farm to Town

One of the biggest ways I saw God work in my parents' lives was in 2004 when they moved into town. I think I'd always thought it would take an act of God to get my dad off the farm. For four dizzying months we saw Him do just that.

"I think you guys should check out the house that's for sale on the south end of Floral Street," my brother, David, told my parents.

I remember that moment clearly. It was Thanksgiving weekend, 2003. My family (the Epps) had all gathered in Omaha where my sister Lois and her husband, Craig, were living at the time. After a Saturday morning of shopping and letting the little cousins loose in a fun play area in the mall, we'd ended up at a big Godfather's Pizza for lunch and were sitting in its second-story dining area amid pizza crusts and empty pizza pans.

I was interested in the house my brother was talking about, and I am sure my mom and Lois were too. And once David continued, my dad was hooked. Because David at that moment said these magic words:  "It has a Morton building."

A house with a Morton building, inside Hillsboro's city limits! With a steel shed like that, Dad would be able to store his roofing truck, scaffolding, saws and tools and continue his roofing business. Suddenly, we were gripped with visions of possibilities.

But would Dad ever leave the farm without a descendant to carry on the family tradition? How could they sell it? Who would buy it? And even if it sold, how in the world could they ever pack up and clear out all of the stuff accumulated by generations of Friesens and Epps in the numerous barns and outbuildings over the past 100 years?

Riding ATVs on the farm in July, 2002- L to R:  Grandma and Grandpa Epp, Caleb (reclining on the Honda 3-wheeler), Harrison, Dave and Laurel Franklin on the 4-wheeler. The next year, when Caleb learned that not only would Grandpa and Grandma move off the farm, but Great-grandma Franklin was moving off her five acres near Andover into a duplex he sorrowfully exclaimed, "We're losing all of our country!" He now lives on five acres of his own.

My dad had grown up on this farm eight miles northwest of Hillsboro. Although he'd wanted to attend Bethel College in Newton about half an hour away, he'd attended Tabor College in Hillsboro, because it was closer, and he'd be living and working on the farm while attending. The good thing for my dad is he became friends with Walter Ediger, a Nebraska farm boy who invited Norman to his home area for Tabor Workdays. There Norman met Walt's shy younger sister Rosella. The next year she graduated high school and came to Tabor, and Norman asked her out. They both were studying to be teachers, and for the first dozen years of their marriage, that's what my dad did. Mom taught and subbed, then stayed home with Lois and then me. We were living in Wichita (and spending most Saturdays on the farm so my dad could help Grandpa) when Grandpa decided he and Grandma were ready to move into town. 

So, my dad resigned as a Junior High History teacher, and we moved to the family farm. I was in first grade and Lois was in fourth. Because it was a small farm, my dad (being an optimist) got a loan for 80 more acres to increase his acreage and profits. This was in 1975, which we now know was the beginning of the farm crisis. In hindsight, this was probably the worst time to be buying high-priced farmland. He had to work full-time at a construction job to make the land payments. 

Our three-bedroom house in Wichita had been about ten years old when my parents bought it. Now my mom found herself in a drafty 100-year-old farmhouse that had been added on to numerous times due to necessity. We had no extra money to fix it up. It was hard to heat in winter and had a single window AC unit that we used only on the hottest nights of summer.

There were some good things about going to Hillsboro schools and living in the Hillsboro community, and we were all thrilled a few years later (in 1977) when David was born. Still, life on the farm was hard and the three miles of rock road that had to be traveled on each trip to and from town were either dusty or muddy, but always wearying. 

Fast forward a decade: Lois went to college (Tabor, of course). I soon followed and never lived on the farm again. Then David left for Tabor as well. I felt sorry for my mom, who was stuck living in the old farmhouse and constantly having to traverse the rough roads to get to her job at the Tabor Library.

So, when David broached the subject of mom and dad moving to town, we hardly dared to hope. We didn't know if our dad would ever consider selling the family farm, his small herd of cattle (many had names), and his tractors (all named Allis-Chalmers). But three years earlier, in 2001, Dad had undergone colon surgery and had completed six months of chemotherapy for colon cancer. He had made a complete recovery, but the whole ordeal might have got him thinking.

Dad and Mom contacted a friend and local realtor, Marlene Fast. They looked at the house on Floral, which was just two blocks down from David's house. They liked it. In fact, Mom realized it was the very house she had noticed was for sale three years earlier and thought, "That's the kind of house I would like to get if we could ever move to town. But when we are ready to move it won't be for sale again, and anyway, we probably couldn't afford it."

They decided the Morton building would work nicely for Dad's business, and even have room for a shop area. They looked at a few other houses that were for sale in Hillsboro, but none that Mom liked as well, and none had extra buildings or sheds. They put a contract down.

To sell the farm, Marlene made the inspired suggestion to sell the house and farmland separately. And the land sold. And then a month or two later, the farmhouse!

My folks scheduled a farm sale for April 3, and almost every Saturday leading to it Dave and I drove with our kids to help sort, haul off, and otherwise dispose of relics collected by my dad, my grandpa, and his parents. Neighbors and relatives helped too. Dad invited his siblings to come back to the homeplace one last time to reminisce, say goodbye, and pre-shop the farm sale. 

Epp Siblings- l to r, youngest to oldest: Alvin Epp, Rosalie Mays, Evelyn Peterson, LaVerna Quiring, and Norman Epp in front of the old farmhouse in 2004.

The weather on April 3 was beautiful. Lots of folks showed up for the farm sale. Stuff sold (although there was always more to be had).

The highlight of the farm sale was selling the Allis-Chalmers tractors. 

Mom's brothers Jake and Bob Ediger, along with their wives Esther and Evelyn, came from Topeka for the farm sale.

 In the evening we moved the rest of Mom and Dad's stuff into the house in Hillsboro. What a day! What a crazy four months! 

After years of living under a cloud of debt, they were able to buy their new place--with the Morton building--free and clear. After years of living in a 100-year-old farmhouse, Mom and Dad could now enjoy a modern house with central heating and AC. After years of driving into town on rock roads in various unfavorable conditions, Mom could now drive only a few paved blocks to her work, or even walk in nice weather. After years of juggling farm work with construction work, Dad could now concentrate on one job. After years of being tied to the daily farm chores of feeding livestock, my parents were now free to travel, and they took a handful of bus trips and crossed Alaska and Yellowstone off their bucket lists.

House in town- Mom and Dad the first evening in their new home.

Our heads were spinning when we thought of David's first suggestion that they look at the house, and how everything had fallen into place perfectly. Almost like God had orchestrated the whole thing.

The Story I'll Tell

In the fall of 2005, our three kids were in school for the first time, and I was trying to launch a writing career.  I’d been hoping an established journalist would be able to mentor me, but I’d recently learned that was not to be.

In the meantime, I’d been editing our church newsletter, and lately had added in feature-style narratives among the calendar updates. These were the kind of stories I longed to tell—testimonies of God changing lives, tales of circumstances so specific that it made your spine tingle and you just knew it had to be God showing up.

I’d recently run into one of my former teachers who had since retired, so I took a copy of the latest newsletter and on a visit approached her about helping me. Her initial rejection sent me spiraling into a frustrated depression.

The heavy cloud oppressed me as I went through the motions during the rest of the day.

When I got home from helping out at my kids’ elementary school roller skating party, I had a phone message on the answering machine (these were the days of land lines). It was from my latest interview subject. He said he'd had a rough day, then arrived home to find the church newsletter in his mailbox. He had been so encouraged to read his story, and to remember again how God had worked in his life. He affirmed my gift of writing and thanked me for telling his story well.

After I'd replayed the message for the fourth time, my kindergartener Laurel put her hand on my leg, looked up into my face and asked, "Mommy, why are you crying?"

Through my tears, I told her that God had left me a phone message.

The next Sunday, I thanked my interviewee for the phone message.

He told me he had felt really funny making the call, and even more foolish leaving the message, but he'd had a strong sense that the Holy Spirit was directing him to do it. I wasn’t surprised.

"I know," I told him.

The verse I first claimed for my writing at that time was Psalm 66:16 “Come and listen, all you who fear God, and I will tell you what he did for me.”

At Westridge we have been talking and singing about “The Story I’ll Tell.” One night recently I awoke with a timeline of stories impressed on my mind. Some I have written about before, some I haven’t, but all of them will be an attempt to capture those moments that I never want to forget. 

Like the Children of Israel who would always point to the parting of the Red Sea as the unmistakable display of God's power and protection, I want to remember and celebrate the moments where God showed up. Sharing stories like these encourage me to keep walking in the faith and looking for God shots. I pray they will for you, too. 

God Shots from Heidi

 I'm currently listening my way through the Bible with Tara Leigh Cobble, who is the host of the daily podcast, "The Bible Recap." Each day she encourages us to find our "God shot," where we saw God show up in our daily reading, so I am used to looking for evidence of God's activity in the Bible, but the other day I found it in Heidi.

I love the story Heidi; it was my favorite in our Little Golden Book record collection and I listened to it many times (I can still recite bits and pieces). I know I read a longer version of the story for older children in later years, but I suspect that one too was abridged.

So I was happy to download a free unabridged audiobook from my Audible account, and not the least daunted by the 7hr and 20 min. listening time, since I listen through my headset while working on the lawns.

Much of the story was familiar. I remembered Heidi loved growing up on the mountain with her grandfather and the goats and Peter the goatherd, but then was sent to Frankfurt to be a playmate and companion to Clara, who was an invalid. 

I remember that Heidi became desperately homesick for her beloved Swiss Alps, but I didn't remember Clara's grandmother trying to comfort Heidi. When Heidi wouldn't tell the grandmother what was troubling her (Heidi didn't want to appear ungrateful to Clara's family), Clara's grandmother encouraged her to pray to God and pour out her troubles to him. 

Heidi took Clara's grandmother's advice and prayed to God that somehow she would be able to return to her grandfather and the Alps. In the meantime, she and Clara became good friends, and Heidi learned to read.

When Heidi eventually grows so ill that the family is forced to send her home, Heidi is thankful for the answered prayer, but she also grows to realize the delay was also God's timing. She now is able to read hymns to Peter's blind grandmother who lives on their mountain and be an even greater blessing to the old woman. Because of the two girls' friendship, at great cost Clara the invalid is allowed to visit Heidi in the Alps where she eventually finds healing and learns to walk.

Heidi gives God the credit for her friend's miraculous healing, and she tells Clara how what she had thought was unanswered prayer was God working out things for the best. Looking back over the events of her life, Heidi has her "God Shot" and her young faith is strengthened.

Heidi was written in 1880 and 1881. According to Wikipedia, it is one of the best-selling books ever written, and is among the best-known works of Swiss literature.

What amazed me was the natural portrayal of Clara's grandmother's faith, and the caring way she shared it with Heidi, who adopted it as her own and used it to bless everyone in her life.

I hadn't been expecting a God Shot while listening to a children's classic, so it was nice surprise. These are the kinds of stories I love--love to hear, love to tell, and love to write. I plan to be doing more of it.

News to Me

Karen Epp, 6th grade, Mrs. Friesen's class in Hillsboro Middle School

I became aware of current events in 6th grade. Mrs. Friesen would spend a good portion of every morning listening to our class report and discuss the news of the day. We could share something we heard on the radio for three points, or clip a newspaper article to bring in for five points. Since my family didn't subscribe to a daily newspaper, I would listen closely to Paul Harvey's newscast on the radio as we were quickly eating breakfast before rushing out the door to meet the bus. I would usually come away with a headline and a few supporting facts that I could contribute.

I have a feeling I'm not the only one in my class who remembers the events of 1980-81 more clearly than any other year. We followed the Iran Hostage Crisis daily, and were ecstatic when the 52 hostages were finally freed after 444 days in captivity. I remember the morning we talked about John Lennon being shot. I also remember other students telling me and a friend about the assassination attempt on  President Reagan when we came back into the classroom.

I don't know how many students had access to daily newspapers, but I remember feeling like I was in the minority. I suppose some might have brought articles from news magazines, or took notes during "World News Tonight," but it seemed like lots of people in lil' ol' Hillsboro received The Wichita Eagle.

Since I liked writing, I planned on being on the newspaper staff in high school, and was disappointed when Hillsboro High School cancelled The Oracle right before my freshman year. I wrote a lot of copy for the yearbook instead. 

Bob Woelk interviewed me for an article in the Hillsboro Star-Journal when I was named valedictorian of the class of 1987, so that gave me an early perspective of my name being in the article and not at the top in the byline. Getting to know Bob at that time and talking about my plans to attend Tabor also gave me a jump start on being on the staff of The Tabor College View, of which he was the sponsor. 

In the news- Being interviewed for the Hillsboro Star-Journal in 1987 confirmed to me that I wanted to pursue journalism

I traveled to Eastern Europe with the Tabor College Choir in January 1989. One of my strongest memories, which I wrote about later in journalism class (taught by Bob Woelk), was a Polish girl about my age telling me, "My country is a prison!" She explained how she and her friends wanted desparately to travel but weren't allowed to leave.

I remember Clarence Hiebert, a Tabor professor who was a guide on our trip, explaining that the Polish government (or one of the Eastern European countries we visited, I am not sure) printed newspapers that were filled with propaganda. Lies. I remember thinking, "Why would they bother printing things that aren't true?" and "Why would people even read those newspapers?" Maybe if the government said something, you would automatically believe the opposite. Innocently, I believed it would be fairly simple to figure out the truth.

Towards the end of my college career, I remember another journalism professor, Kent Gaston, saying that even though as journalists we were supposed to present all sides and not include our opinion in any story, in general, mainstream newspapers were slanted toward the left, or liberal, viewpoints. I honestly think this was the first time I had ever heard that, and at the time I wasn't even sure I believed it.

I know when I interviewed for an internship at The Wichita Eagle, the thought that they might be less than impressed with my brand-new undergraduate English degree from a small conservative Christian liberal arts college never occurred to me. 

I think it was during that internship interview (which I didn't get), that Fran Kentling from the Eagle suggested I take classes from Les Anderson, a well-respected journalism instructor at WSU and editor of the Ark Valley News. 

I landed in Les' journalism class in the fall of 1991, on the heels of the Summer of Mercy when Operation Rescue put abortion protests and Wichita, Kansas in the national spotlight. So Les had a great assignment for the class:  cover the protests over the coming weekend, and whatever position you personally take--whether pro-choice or pro-life--report the opposite.

I went to the Planned Parenthood headquarters on Central and interviewed a student outside holding a pro-choice sign and dutifully asked her a few questions and recorded her responses. I think there was a Catholic student in our class who also turned in a pro-choice article, but the remaining dozen or so journalism students had been "forced" to write from the pro-life perspective.

Les Anderson died in 2011 at the age of 62. I wonder if current journalism teachers are as careful to teach their students to leave personal bias out of their reporting.

In another class with Les (I think I took two) there was a pretty girl who always came to class with perfect makeup, styled hair, and business attire. She was interested in broadcast media. I remember Les having to give her separate instructions, because she would need to take a cameraman (or camera person) with her on location to film her final. 

We all knew (because it probably had been explained to us) that television and broadcast media were limited, and best for quick highlights. To really get in-depth stories that explored all angles, you needed print. And opinion was ONLY for page 2.

I was working a day job, but still tried to get my foot in the door at the Eagle. I free-lanced a few pieces for an advertising section that they published. A reporting position opened up, so I expressed interest. I remember the Eagle calling me back and me having to take the call in the warehouse where I was working. I mentioned to the woman that I had done several articles for the Eagle's advertising section. That gave her pause. She said she was concerned that readers would be used to seeing my name in the advertising section, where truth is sometimes sacrificed for marketing purposes. News reporters were held to higher standards, so I would need to choose which area I wanted to work in. I never wrote for the advertising section again. But I didn't write for the newspaper either. I don't remember what happened on that one. I had a hard time hearing her in the noisy warehouse.

Eventually Dave and I started our family so I quit my job. Over the next few years I submitted a few human interest pieces, and was happy that they chose to place one in the Thanksgiving issue.

Thanksgiving 1996- Published!

 I was thrilled to have a piece I'd written about memories of my Grandma Epp baking bread published in the Wichita Eagle's Thanksgiving edition. I was less thrilled that they said they couldn't pay anything (not an account for it, or something like that). I titled it "The bread of life," but they needed a longer title so they added "A thread to the bread of life." THREAD? That made me think of my grandma telling me to wear a ponytail so my long hair wouldn't get in the dough and wrap around Grandpa's tongue. Why in the world didn't "A SLICE of the bread of life" occur to them? Oh well.

 Even though money was tight, we always subscribed to the newspaper. I loved reading it in the mornings with my coffee, and I kept up with local issues, feeling it was my civic duty to at least glance at what the city council was up to. I loved the "Wichitalk" special section, and even got to be on the cover once. 

Wichitalk- The special magazine section in the newspaper that I had volunteered to model for. They called me one day, I had an hour to get to the Panera by Wesley Medical Center for a section they said was to be about healthy restaurant eating. I cringed when the issue showed up on my doorstep with my face next to "Dining out on a diet." Oh well. I got to take home the Panera soup and salad used for the photo shoot. It was delicious.

But newspapers across the country were in hard times. Budgets shrank, reporters were fired, and the Eagle became an eaglet. We kept subscribing, mainly because I'd taught our dog, Odie, to fetch the newspaper, and he looked forward to this ritual (and getting a treat). Except for Sunday. The Sunday edition with its extra advertising was still large enough that Odie would take one look at it, decide it was above his pay grade, and walk off.

Odie bringing me the newspaper, a chore he enjoyed as long as it wasn't the big Sunday edition.

But newspaper delivery kept getting worse and worse, and once Dave and I both had smart phones, we considered stopping service. When Dave was in surgery early one morning in December 2015, I settled in to my seat in the waiting room and opened the newspaper I'd grabbed as I ran out the door, then looked around the room. Every single person was on their phones. I posted a comment on Facebook about feeling retro. Soon after that, I cancelled service.

I've tried to get into the habit of reading the newspaper digitally, but haven't been successful.

So I have relied more on radio and television news. While working on our lawn business, I'll sometimes have my headset on National Public Radio to catch up on current events. Then when we are finished with the lawn and I get in the truck (where my husband, Dave, controls the dial) KNSS will say something completely different. "They can't BOTH be right!" I would think, and this would bother me quite a bit. Then, I realized, that although they couldn't both be right, they could very easily both be WRONG. This actually bothers me even more, but I feel less compulsion to listen to either.

As all Americans know, the election of 2020 caused the two sides to diverge even farther. I remember talking to my friend (who also dabbled in journalism and worked for the Wichita Eagle advertising section around the time that I did) about how we honestly had no clue what was truth. 

After January 6, I talked to a friend who had been in the crowd listening to President Trump in Washington D.C. that day, and she said what actually happened wasn't reported correctly by any news source. What's more, some things were reported hours before they occurred. I believe her, and it scares me.

The information about Covid-19 and the vaccines have varied widely, and opinion is rarely left out. A "rogue" scientist in a video sent to me explained how big pharmaceutical companies control which research projects are funded, so independent scientists and researchers are at a huge disadvantage. Ones who disagree with the "mainstream" line of thinking are afraid to speak up, for fear of losing funding.

Last year NPR did a whole segment on the difference between "misinformation" and "disinformation" that left me more confused than ever. 

The whole Afghanistan debacle is exposing lies of the current administration. "No we haven't hear of anyone having trouble getting to the airport," he said, as both right and left-leaning medias showed hours of footage to the contrary.

Having a free press is important to our democratic republic. With media conglomerates owned by only a few super-wealthy, influential individuals, "truth" seems to become what they say it is.

Then Jesus said to those Jews who believed Him, “If you abide in My word, you are My disciples indeed. And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” John 18:31-32.

Danger is my middle name

 I promised you all that I would blog about what I really think of my new grandson Wesley's middle name, "Danger." Well, here it is!

For starters, I bought this onesie for little Wesley Danger and put it on him right before his parents picked him up to surprise them. I think the whole thing is pretty funny. (I also now know you can find just about anything on Amazon!)

Now don't get me wrong. I think "Daniel" would have been an awesome middle name, after the brave Old Testament prophet (remember him in the lions' den?). "Mark" would have been a great middle name too, after his dad, Caleb Mark, and Grandpa, David Mark. Mark is also my favorite gospel, because it is action-packed. "Wesley Dean" would have sounded cool, almost as cool as James Dean.

"Danger is my middle name" became a pop culture phrase after the 1997 hilarious movie "Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery." That movie was one of Aunt Jenny Doty's favorites, and my kids remember watching it when they had sleepovers at her house. So maybe it was that, or something else, that gave Caleb the idea to give his son the middle name "Danger." 

Unlike Blake Shelton, who sings "You name the babies, I name the dogs," Caleb and June had a different arrangement. June named their first child, a girl, Rose Elizabeth, after her favorite saint and her own middle name. (Caleb completely agreed, because serendipitiously Great-grandma Epp is also Rose, and my middle name is also Elizabeth). But June had named her dog, Lily, before she ever met Caleb. So Caleb was given the lead on the task of naming the coming man child. And he thought actually giving his kid the middle name "Danger" would be fun. 

June, as you might imagine, was a little reluctant. However, she did something that I think was quite prescient. She told me she thought about when Wesley was older, maybe six or so. Maybe he and his daddy would go fishing, or something. And at some point, the conversation would inevitably happen. "You know, son, I wanted 'Danger' to be your middle name. But your Mama said 'NO'." And little Wesley would go running to his mama and demand why she refused the coolest middle name EVER. So she let Caleb have his way. 

My husband, who we call "Silly Grandpa," is pretty sure Wesley will become a wrestler like his Daddy and go by the name Danger Franklin. And that may be true, because he already calls him Danger more than Wesley. 

Caleb said he just wanted to have a little fun with his son's name. I am glad he and June are making decisions together, and I imagine Wesley Danger will have something to talk about for the rest of his life!