I’m not talking about our collective fascination with who’s in or who’s out on American Idol.  I get that.  That’s just fun.

Nor am I critical of the attention paid to the minutia of our athletes’ or political figures’ lives.  They have worked hard, dedicating years of practice or knowledge acquisition to get to the highest echelon of their craft. Good for them.  We disregard their privacy in a quest for feeling connected to them, or  “in the know” about them, as if we’re one of their closest friends.  Silly. Delusional, really.  But for most of us, most of time, harmless curiosity, harmless adulation.

They are not who I’m talking about. You know who it is.  The people who show up on the cover of magazines and late night talk shows. They seem to come out-of-nowhere; overnight sensations, they get quoted as experts and regarded as authorities for no understandable reason other than their questionable skill to speak while on camera. Will you please join me in ignoring them?

My tolerance for them has evaporated, especially these days.

These days, I am surrounded by everyday American heroes.

People who are caring for their sick and dying loved ones, and still show up at work when they can, with a smile on their face. Persevering.

People who have lost their homes to fire or flood damage, and are thankful that all they really lost was “stuff”; they are THANKFUL that no one really got hurt.

I’m blessed to work among such people.  I’m humbled by their resilience.

Last night, we went to a funeral, a common activity these days.

This one was different.  Britta Grace Johnson was exactly twenty-one days old when she died. Her mom and dad, Kelly and Tyler, knew her time of grace on earth would be short.  They lived her life to the fullest, holding her and finding pure joy in every moment they spent with her, inspite of the heartache.  They were surrounded by hundreds of friends and family last night, celebrating with them the joy of sweet Britta and her triumphant arrival in Heaven.

Kelly and Tyler are not in the glitterati class, they aren’t wealthy, or athletes, so their story won’t be told anywhere but here.

But it should be.

The faith and strength of this young couple to hold each other together, and pray their way through this journey should be exalted and applauded.

And I bet, now that you know about it, you’ll join me in uplifting them with your own prayers. That’s what everyday American Heroes do.

It’s a new month. And now it’s over two months since Elemndorf AFB lost Capt Jeffrey Hill and three other beloved airmen in the crash of Sitka 43 on July 28th. My son was in Capt Hill’s Squadron, the 517th Firebirds.  They were friends. Capt Hill was the second of my son’s friends to die in less than a year.

This past week, Gary Sinese, the very pro-military actor,  unveiled a model C-17 as a memorial to the four airmen who died in the crash.

I didn’t hear about this on any news media. Not one word. It’s no longer newsworthy in the lower 48: we’ve moved on.

Tragedy strikes, four young lives are suddenly ended, and we’re shocked. We grieve. We try to find the right words to say to our loved ones, to get them through the process of death. From a distance, our hearts ache, knowing all too well, that it could have been our son. Our husband. Our brother. There is no human explanation for why one, and not the other.  It just is.

The days tumble by, in a blur, and all of a sudden a month has gone by, and then two.

We’re back to leading our normal, routine, predictable lives. We get up in the morning. Get ready. Go to work.  Work all day. Come home. Eat. Take care of our families. Read. Work a little more. Repeat.

We don’t face the lockers that used to house their gear.  We don’t have to delete that number we used to call from our cell phone’s directory. We don’t pass by the memorial, designed to makes us remember.

We continue. Just as we were before the tragedy, completely oblivious of all those risking their lives so we can routinely live ours. Moving on, we live.

It’s kind of strange.

You say “Cancer” and every one freezes.

I call it “Junior Varsity” cancer (JVC).  Or cancer lite.

It’s one of the most treatable, cure-able cancers one can be lucky enough to have.

They yank most, if not all, of your thyroid out.

You take a little pill that has the hormones to replace your thyroid’s hormone output (this may take some monkeying around, but there is no pain, cutting or blood involved).

And, should your lymph nodes be contaminated with JVC, in six to twelve weeks, you swallow another radioactive pill, and it wipes out all traces of the evil nasty enemy combatant.

Life goes on with very little disruption, with one exception:  its recommended that when planning air travel, you carry a note from your doctor.  The radiation remaining in your body will probably set off TSA monitors while going through security, at which point, six or eight TSA guards will jump you, nailing you to the ground.  But apart from that, the health risks of JVC, the surgery, or the after-surgery daily process, are minimal.

Seems pretty straightforward to me.

My only beef is that I’d like them to yank it out of me sooner, rather than later.

I’ve been told to be thankful they’ll get me in to yank it out in less than three weeks.  The surgeon normally books out six weeks or more.  This means I’m waiting less than half the time most of his patients wait.  Patience, as my kids will testify, has never been my strong suit. Patience in being a patient is definitely not my cup of tea.

Anyway, apart from this little development, 2010 is off to a great start.

Corrie and Jeff’s wedding was fabulous.

We got to know Brent’s fiance, Lacy, and she’s adorable.  We all understand why he’s completely smitten.  We are, too.

We remember, every day, to count our blessings.

Even the blessing of JVC.

We’ve heard of alleged rapists, alleged attackers, alleged terrorists and alleged murders.  And now we hear of the atrosity at Ft. Hood being refered to as an  “alleged” shooting.  Even  the venerable and conservative The Wall Street Journal has come to use the word “alleged” incorrectly (Page A6, Column B, Paragraph Two, Line 3, for those of you WSJ hard copy readers.) The offensive, but “politically correct” copy reads,  ”The Pentagon wasn’t infomed about the emails until after Maj. Hasan’s alleged shootings”.

Really?  “Alleged”?

 Think about it a minute.

The shootings were not “ asserted to be true or to exist”.  It is a fact they existed.  This is truth.  
The shootings were not ” questionably true or of a specified kind.”  There is no question about it. Innocent people, service men and women and civilians alike,  were hurt and killed.

And the shootings were not ”accused but not proven or convicted”.  It is not questioned to be true or not true that he was the shooter. It is a given. 

These three definitions of “alleged” do not apply to these shootings.

 The word alleged is used in the wrong context in this sentence. And someone, somewhere on the staff of the Wall Street Journal, should have noticed it.

They were shootings that killed 13 adults and one unborn child.

They were shootings that wounded an additional 43 people.

They were shootings, witnessed by dozens.

They were real.

They happened.

Enough already. It’s gone too far.  It’s our moment to regain some sanity, in the midst of insanity and terrorism. If we can’t stop being politically correct, can we please, in the least,  stop being politically correct incorrectly?

One of the exceptional “tweeters” was ArmyMom101 – a woman by the name of Virginia Rice who lives in Illinois.

She is a prodigious tweeter.  Her “MilitaryMon” (military Monday) and “FF” (Follow Friday) lists of other pro-military tweeters were unsurpassed by any other Military tweeter out there.  The time she spent honoring our troops and our vets, in this 21st century virtual way,  was simply amazing. Her last tweet for the day would frequently be, “I’m leaving for work”, or “I’m going to pick up my youngest from work.”  Occasionally  she would  send me private direct messages with encouraging and uplifting words that seemed to be exactly what I needed to specifically hear that day.

A few weeks ago, after my son got home, she tweeted that she wasn’t going to be online for the next few weeks, because her deployed son was coming home.  Instead of spending time online, she was rightly going to spend this precious time with him.

And then, we saw a tweet that said her son was in a motorcycle accident, with a traumatic brain injury (TBI).

And then, he was in a medically induced coma.

And then, her son, her youngest, died.

Wendel Rice was 28.  He was not Virginia’s deployed son, he was the son that she picked up from work.  The son that was home. The one she wasn’t as worried about. The one that didn’t seem to be in harms’ way.

When we least expect it, our lives change.  Those of us over 50, think we’re aware of the fragility of life. We think we remember to treasure each moment, count our blessings, be present to each other.  But we don’t remember. We take our blessings for granted.  And we aren’t present for one another – not like we should be.

Most days, we rush through a litany of urgent to-do’s, that really aren’t all that important.We have the best of intentions, but then we have one more report that needs to be generated, one more basket of laundry that needs to be folded.

We forget to tell one another how much they mean to us.

We forget to squeeze extra hard when we hug each other good bye.

We forget to smile when our loved ones walk through the door.

My heart is heavy for the Rice family.  We are all diminished by the tragic, sudden loss of her youngest son, Wendel.

As we remember him, we vow that tomorrow, we won’t forget.

He’s home.

He’s good.

Sure, there are lots of adjustments.   He’s been changed deeply by this experience, there’s no question or doubt about that.  In no way should these words  seem to diminish what he’s gone through, the enormity of what he’s seen and participated in. We’ll get to that later.

Right now, that doesn’t matter.

Right now what matters is the look on his face as he teaches his baby nephew how to scoot along the floor, pushing off his hands.

Right now what matters is the strength in his hug as he greets all his sisters coming through the door.

Right now what matters is the connection between two veterans, Grandfather and Grandson, as they lay eyes on one another, after enduring the uncertainty of whether this day would ever come.

Right now what matters is the hooting and hollering watching the Twins beat Detroit for the American League Central Division Title.

Right now what matters is how natural it is to have him go up and check on the roof, and report why we’re seeing moisture in the family room walls.

Getting back to normal, getting back to routine, getting back.

The prayers of multitudes have been answered: I thank each of you who have shared this effort over these months.

He’s physically in one piece, and by all interactions, seems to be handling the various stresses of this counter-insurgency, this deployment, reasonably well.

Having seen brothers in arms succumb to IEDs, a different type of insidious destruction has wracked havoc on a very dear friend of his back home.

The wife of his cousin, a woman whose entire adult life has been spent ministering to her family and to our military around the world, has been diagnosed with a brain tumor – a wicked, cancerous saboteur. This cancer is a cowardly enemy, growing, unseen, in the safety of the cranium like the Taliban continues to grow and train in the mountains of Afghanistan.

Last week-end after the surgery removed much of the tumor,  her struggle was touch and go.  This week, she’s made progress and is relatively stable.  The swelling is down, she’s now awake, taking nourishment, and talking a little with her husband and her kids. Her brain isn’t quite firing on all the right synapses, though. She doesn’t always know where she is. Her words don’t match the situation or conversation.  They don’t know if clarity will come back, or if the disconnections will persist.   The ultimate prognosis is that this wicked cancer will cut short her life.  The doctors don’t know when that will be.  They point to statistics that are quite convincing her time of grace will come to an end in the next year or two, if not before.

My son loves this woman. She’s fed him many meals; shared her family, her home and even her dog with him while he was getting settled at his assignment at Elmendorf Air Force base, in Alaska.

If you want to know the details, many are provided here: http://bit.ly/12JC4Z Dan is “tweeting” each day. So those of you who twitter, follow him @danbarbevans .

I’m asking yet again for your prayers, trusting that you’ll implore our Father to ease the pain and suffering and give this family joy filled moments and days, amidst the many days to come filled with doctors and hospitals and treatments.

Should you be moved to help bear their financial burden, you can find ways to donate here: http://bit.ly/Qfe0s

Some of you reading this know my brother died very suddenly of a brain tumor when he was 39.  “Home Free” by Wayne Watson became our grieving song, and our prayer.

I’m trying hard not to think you unkind
But Heavenly Father If you know my heart
Surely you can read my mind
Good people underneath the sea of grief
Some get up and walk away
Some will find ultimate relief

Home Free, eventually
At the ultimate healing we will be
Home Free

Home Free, oh I’ve got a feeling
At the ultimate healing
We will be Home Free

Out in the corridors we pray for life
A mother for her baby, A husband for his wife
Sometimes the good die young
It’s sad but true
And while we pray for one more heartbeat
The real comfort is with you

You know pain has little mercy
And suffering’s no respecter of age, of race or position
I know every prayer gets answered
But the hardest one to pray is slow to come

Oh Lord, not mine, but Your will be done.

I’ve been told the USAF sticks to the schedule pretty rigidly. I’ve been told we can count on this happening plus or minus a few days, depending on transportation, logistics and the weather. We don’t know exactly when or where we’ll meet up.  But we will meet up.  Sometime soon.

This time of year, when you say the word “homecoming” most everyone thinks of football games, kings and queens, parades, chaperones and dances.

But “homecoming” has now taken on the meaning of “After Deployment” for our family.  Having been in the middle of a strange country, our son will have another strange world to navigate. He’ll need to get beyond the experiences of war and  learn how to integrate those experiences into the next phase of  his life, without letting those lessons and experience consume him. I’m just starting to fully appreciate what this homecoming may mean.

Our military leaders are paying attention to the effects participating in these wars has on our soldiers. They are making significant efforts to educate our troops and their families on how to assimilate back into a society that really doesn’t understand, and doesn’t seem to pay attention to anything beyond the borders of our 50 states.

Sadly, military suicide rates are increasing, in spite of the attention paid to address the silent, but significant impact of Post Traumatic Stress Disorders. We’re just starting to understand all the different types of pain our soldiers endure; physical, emotional and mental pain, each wrecking havoc on the strongest of our men and women.

My dad’s generation rarely spoke of what they went through. On the 50th anniversary of D-Day, one of my dad’s best friends shared how he stumbled into one of Hitler’s concentration camps as he was running telephone lines through Germany, ahead of Patton’s 3rd army. He had been silent those 50 years, never mentioning this horror to anyone, never telling a soul, not even his wife or his own children of this experience. It was an unspeakable event in his life, so secret that, even now, it feels as though I’m betraying a confidence writing about it. It must have been painful holding it inside all those years.

During the late 60s and 70s when my brothers served during the unpopular Vietnam era, no one paid attention to anyone’s homecoming.  Our servicemen were in the jungles in Southeast Asia one day, and plunked down in jungles of our urban centers the next.  There were no formal out processes, no assessments, no counseling.  Almost 60,000 American men and women died in that war. Tens of thousands more struggle to this day, and no wonder.

As a society, we’re getting better.  We’re learning to at least acknowledge their service when our troops return. We’ve set up chat rooms and webinars, online support groups and transitional assistance advisors in each state. Help is there, if we need it. If.

In the meantime, today I cut some fresh sweet corn off the cob and froze it, knowing the season will be past by the time he’s home. It’s the first thing I’ve allowed myself to do, in preparation for his homecoming.

The homecoming we joyfully await, with no expectations of anything other than the blessed relief of being physically present with him.

In about a month.

This young woman grew up in the south, the youngest in a large family.  She’s now in Afghanistan, keeping the rest of us updated on major news stories – nation building, counter-insurgency efforts, drug busts, and IED explosions, the stuff you don’t hear much about unless you really try to keep track of what’s actually going on there.  It’s a big job and she’s up to every second of it. Her work is terrific.

You’d never know her dad passed away a little over two months ago.

Her mother is now a widow, with her youngest daughter half a world away in Kabul/Bagram.  Can you imagine how tough that is?

But here’s the important part.  This same Sr. Airman is writing to all her friends and family back home, asking them to send school supplies for all the new schools that are being built in Afghanistan.  She’s working on her “off” hours, sourcing things, connecting with folks and friends to scour up the stuff we all have cluttering up our junk drawers, in our filing cabinets, and  in our closets:

note pads

pens

pencils

color crayons

paper

markers

glue

sequins

glitter

construction paper

3-ring binders

scissors

scotch tape

The back to school stuff that many girls and boys in Afghanistan will get to use for the first time, as students, in their new schools, thanks to the efforts of the United States Armed Forces.

It’s stuff most of us don’t use much anymore;  stuff we really don’t need. We’ve moved on to a digital world.  But it’s stuff badly needed in Afghanistan.

If you feel so inclined to pack up your stuff and ship it off, let me know. I’ll send you her address.

“Why are we here? Who cares about the Taliban?  Al Qaeda is gone.  http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/19/opinion/19friedman.html .”

The article focuses on Mr. Friedman’s recent trip to Pushghar, Afghanistan, to witness the opening of a public school for girls. The school was built thanks to the United States Forces – Afghanistan’s effort, the International Coalition forces and the Afghan National Army.  For the most part, our Military built this school with US Taxpayers’ money.

The NY Times article that went along with this tweet was entitled: “Teacher, can we leave now?  No.”  and went on to applaud the productive and important nation building effort that is going on, as part of the long war on terror.

I enjoy reading Tom Friedman’s books and his editorials. I’ve learned a lot from his perspectives. While I don’t always agree with his specific conclusions and recommendations, there’s something to be gained in exploring his suggestions. In and of itself, this most recent article was fine, even helpful. Clearly, the major media outlets, what’s left of them, aren’t highlighting the good our servicemen and women are doing.  Getting the likes of celebrity author, acclaimed geopolitical authority Tom Friedman to acknowledge our Military’s contribution, is, in the least, a first step.

But the ”tweet,” this sensational, misleading tweet has me all riled up.

For too many people on “Twitter,” the “tweet” IS the substance – it’s all they read.  They never click on the linked content.  They don’t bother with the “meat” of the issue. I know. I’m one of them.

When did it become acceptable in journalism for titillation to trump substance? Why couldn’t Mr. Friedman have just used his article’s title to get his Twitter followers to read his article?  It’s a great title – and provides a snippet of truthful insight to the content to follow.

I understand Twitter’s need for 140-character brevity.  But shouldn’t the brevity also be accurate? The tweet implied that the Taliban is no longer a threat, that they’re not worth caring about. Yet the article clearly shows this is not the case at all. Quite the contrary, Mr. Friedman’s editorial acknowledges the Taliban goes to extreme measures to ensure girls DON’T  get educated. His article sited the statistics:

• 640 schools in Afghanistan.
• 350 schools in Pakistan
• 80% of them schools for girls.

Burned. Bombed. Shut down.

His words, not mine.

How did it happen that we allow ourselves to be deceived by journalist and the media? When did we stop paying attention to details? Why do we put up with misinformation?

Many of Mr Friedman’s followers re-tweeted Mr. Friedman’s tweets – a few indicated they read the substance, and agreed that we’ll build new thinking in the next generation of Afghani people, village by village, through nation building efforts such as those going on by the thousands across Afghanistan.

Others responded to his “tweet” with calls for pulling out of Afghanistan – completely and profoundly missing the point of his article; certainly, they never read it.

Why does the drive to be a “trending topic” outweigh authenticity and integrity as a writer, as a journalist, and as an expert?

Last week, Walter Cronkite passed away.  During the days surrounding his passing, many, many reporters and journalists in the “mainstream” media, pointed to Mr. Cronkite’s character, his gravitas, his journalistic integrity.

Perhaps Mr. Friedman was having too much “fun”, (his word, not mine) being faried in his Chinook helicopter, to notice the men and women on the ground coming under attack, in this, the deadliest month of the war since our US fighting troops have been in Afghanistan.

Perhaps Mr. Friedman, escorted through Afghanistan under the watchful protection of our sons and daughters, our husbands and wives, our friends, our loved ones, our fellow Americans, forgot for a few minutes that the very real Taliban wants the world to be under the rule of Sharia law, where authors and journalists such as he, have no right to free speech, or the freedom of the press.

Perhaps, just perhaps, this blog may remind him to take his tweets more seriously.

I hope so.