Weekly Column

The Fruitcake Chronicles

Sun, 13 Dec 2009 09:04:26 -0800

The Fruitcake Chronicles: An Old-Fashioned Christmas
(Part one of six installments)
“Sir, I’m not going to ask you again. Put the fruitcake down and step away from the Santa.” The officer’s voice was measured and deliberate, unaffected by the disconcerting visual before him.
“I can’t do that officer! If I put it down, no one will eat it. I can’t let that happen.” Steve Forester’s left arm tired under the weight of the five pound fruit laden cake. Unwilling to relent, he waved the loaf defiantly before the growing crowd of officers and bewildered holiday shoppers. Steve’s fruit baton gesticulations increased as his frustration intensified.
“This fruitcake’s tired. It’s tired of being passed around. . . person to person. . . season to season. . . never eaten!” The officers slowly inched forward. “This isn’t a decoration. It’s food!” Steve’s voice rose to angry prophet proportions, “Food is meant to be eaten! And I’m not leaving here until someone takes a bite of this. . . this. . . deliciously fruity cake.”
A young boy moved forward to accept the invitation. His mother quickly pulled him back under her wing.
Steve began to cradle the loaf and whisper words of reassurance. “They don’t understand us. They think we’re crazy. But, we’re not crazy. We’re what Christmas is all about. They just need to taste it. . . that’s all. . . they just need to taste it. . . For the love of GOD! Someone please taste this cake!”
Steve’s reverberating plea silenced the mall. Only the faint, distant scream of an over tired toddler could be heard.
Even Steve was caught off guard by the silence. “Fine. . . Fine. . . If no one wants it, I’ll eat it myself.” With one large bite, Steve’s teeth tore into the homemade fruitcake, plastic wrapping and all. With this bite, the police rushed the platform, shoved Santa to the side and tackled Steve to the ground.
Under the weight of a dozen officers, Steve’s assessment was muffled but audible, “This tastes like crap.”
Every breakdown has a beginning. For Steve the beginning started five days before Halloween. His eldest daughter Lystra wanted to be a fork for Halloween. After a few concerted attempts to dissuade her from her cutlery costume, Steve assented to facilitating his 10-year-old daughter’s artistic vision. He was usually unable to resist her gentle but persistent persuasion. Like her mother, Lystra could change Steve’s plans with a prolonged, strategic smile.
Consequently, Steve found himself alone on a Thursday night, wandering the aisles of Home Depot, unsuccessfully searching for fork costume inspiration. As the minutes and aisles passed by, Steve began to lament his inability to open Lystra to the possibility of being a spoon.
For the most part, Steve tried to go with the flow when it came to life’s little hiccups. However, mild anxiety would eventually surface if going with the flow turned into going down the drain. Steve’s “don’t worry” demeanor could quickly turn into a “ship sinking” panic. As he turned the final corner of the well scoured store, Steve confronted the official start of his breakdown.
Rather than finding an aisle of fork costume options, Steve discovered a long row of Christmas decorations. Before him stood a dizzying array of giant blow up Santas, snowmen, and penguins. These oversized inflatable statues were surrounded by an expansive plastic tree forest, replete with numerous, automated white wicker woodland creatures.
As Steve slowly walked through the forest of faux firs, automated reindeer, and air blown holiday mascots, he soon realized everything was either moving or making noise. A life sized, Santa suit wearing, animatronic bear repeatedly waved his paw while whistling, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” A six foot nutcracker chattered holiday wishes across the aisle towards a row of pint size Rock and Roll Santas. The miniature dancing Santas responded to the nutcracker’s good tidings with syncopated pelvic gyrations.
Model trains aplenty chugged and choo-chooed through the polyurethane snow as a myriad of light displays blinked, flashed, and strobed within the trees and along the walls. Steve’s ability to see distinctive parts blurred into a collective whole. Before him was one big fuzzy glow of holiday excess.
When he reached the aisle’s end, a blindingly intense luminescence confronted Steve. His eyes strained to determine the form of the radiance before him. When the glowing spectacle came into focus, Steve realized he was staring at a front yard manger scene. Although half size in stature, the plastic manger figurines radiated such fierce light that Steve was tempted to kneel in honor of the strange glory.
As his pupils adjusted, Steve tried his best to discern the visage of the beaming baby Jesus. When the baby finally came into view, Steve had a clear and simple revelation. “Whatever this is. . . I don’t want it anymore.”
With this simple thought, Steve turned left and headed out the door. Surely, a solution for Lystra’s fork would avail itself on the ride home. However, now was not the time for costume concerns. Rather, Steve’s thoughts turned to a very different quest. From this point on, he would give his best effort to making this the best Christmas ever. No more flash, no more gaudy glare, no more over the top, pre-Halloween excess. This year would be different. This year Steve was determined to celebrate a simple, old-fashioned Christmas. Unfortunately, even the purest of intentions can go terribly wrong.

The Fruitcake Chronicles: An Unexpected Gift
(Part 2 of 6 installments)
Mildred Lurvy was known for her fruitcake in the same way the Mob is known for organized crime. Unlike the Mob, “grandma” Lurvy’s activity was not yet under FBI surveillance. Consequently, each Christmas Mildred’s neighbors were forced to fend for themselves. This year Mrs. Lurvy and her fruitcake arrived at Steve Forester’s doorstep a week before Thanksgiving. This created a moral dilemma for Mr. Forester.
About a month previous, Steve had realized Christmas in its current cultural form had become nothing short of intolerable. The excess was beyond rational. Someone needed to do something to turn the tide against the progressive corruption of the holiday. For Steve, this meant re-envisioning the entire celebration. Like many revolutionaries, Steve began his revolution by trying to write a treatise full of resolutions. Like many male revolutionaries, he did this without any input from his family.
Instead, he went away to a solitary place and began to contemplate the right way to celebrate the Savior’s birth. Two hours later, Steve emerged from the bathroom with his first Christmas edict. The commandment was straightforward: “Thou shall not do anything related to Christmas until the first of December!”
As a good disciple of his own revelation, Steve placed a Christmas moratorium on his entire household. Nothing Christmas related was allowed within the Forester homestead. In relation to holiday merriment, November was to remain undefiled. Steve’s wife and two daughters greeted this Christmas directive with a fair amount of wait and see skepticism. The integrity of his resolve would certainly be called into question. This came mid-November in the form of a 76-year-old widow and wheelbarrow full of fruitcakes.
“Well, hello Steven!” Mrs. Lurvy did not have the habit of pausing for conversational reciprocity. She had a small frame but a strong diaphragm. “I hope I didn’t bother you, but tomorrow I’m heading out to see my sister in Tempe. I just couldn’t leave town without spreading a little holiday cheer.” Behind Mildred, two steps down from the porch, rested a green wheelbarrow, piled high with brick stacked fruitcakes. Mildred’s feeble arm lunged a fruitcake in Steve’s direction. The weight of the pastry barbell magnified grandma Lurvy’s hand tremor. Even so, Steve’s arms remained at his side, momentarily unwilling to reach out and receive the first fruits of Christmas.
To the casual observer, this may seem like a rather crass reflex. However, this action must be viewed in a larger fruitcake context. The history of fruitcake reaches back as far as Cain and Abel. The Bible says Cain brought God an offering consisting of the “fruit of the ground.” This displeased God, which has led some theologians to suspect Cain’s offering came in the form of a fruitcake. This may also shed light on the weapon Cain may have used to kill his brother.
Evidence suggests fruitcakes were placed in the burial chambers of the Pharaohs. Some archeologists believe this was done to provide sustenance for the afterlife, while others believe fruitcakes were used as part of the mummification process. Either way, grave robbers left these treats untouched.
During the Middle Ages crusaders traveled with fruitcakes to ward off hunger and to throw at the infidels. In the modern era, fruitcake seems to have entered Christmas lore in the late 1700’s. The English would pass out slices of fruitcake to poor Christmas caroling women. This did little to dissuade the practice of caroling.
The fruitcake made its way to the Americas as immigrant families tried to recapture the misery of their homeland. As of yet, no migrant group has been willing to accept full responsibility for the fruit loaf’s migration. Oddly enough it is difficult to find reliable numbers concerning modern fruitcake production. This is primarily due to the perpetual recycling of old loaves and to the unregulated prolific productivity of independent fruitcake producers. However, it remains clear that production has always exceeded consumption. Unfortunately, Mildred Lurvy’s fruitcake output was only exacerbating the problem.
With this in mind, Steve was faced with a moral dilemma. If he took the loaf from Mrs. Lurvy’s trembling hand, he would break his first Christmas edict and perpetuate a cycle of excessive fruitcake fabrication. If he refused the loaf, public perception would most likely place him somewhere between the Grinch and Ebenezer Scrooge.
Fortunately for Steve’s slowly fraying conscience, grandma Lurvy kept speaking. “Go ahead and take it, Steve. It really is my joy to give these away. You know every time I make a batch, I remember how much Chet loved these things. Every year he’d say ‘Mildred, I don’t think you realize how much people appreciate your fruitcake.’” Mildred’s eyes began to well up.
“It just makes my heart glad to know I can carry a little bit of Chet’s memory with me through these silly old fruitcakes.” Mildred’s departed husband sealed the deal. Steve reached out, grabbed the fruitcake, listened a while longer, waved goodbye, and firmly shut the door. As he headed towards the garbage, the fruitcake weighed particularly heavy in his hand and on his conscience.
The Fruitcake Chronicles: A Rebellious Trash Can
(Part 3 of 6 installments)
As Steve walked toward the kitchen garbage, the fruitcake weighed particularly heavy in his hand and on his conscience. Unable to resist a gracious gift from a persuasive widow, Steve had been forced to break his first Christmas resolution. Weeks before he had determined not to allow Christmas to intrude upon his November. Sadly, he found himself a week before Thanksgiving, about to throw away his first Christmas present: a fruitcake from “grandma” Lurvy.
Divine intervention comes in all forms; for Steve Forester it arrived in the form of a uncooperative garbage can. As a public school teacher, Mr. Forester’s acquisition power was limited. Consequently, the Forester’s house was less than state of the art. This created some minor hardships for Steve. For instance, Steve was forced to watch his favorite football team in low definition. The burden of this low-tech life was far reaching.
To compensate for his dearth of expensive technological gadgetry, Steve would, on occasion, purchase a low cost, high-tech gizmo. These bottom drawer purchases included such items as an automatic apple peeling parer, an electric pasta maker, and a fully automated Mini-sausage Factory. Most of these items lasted for many years due to their infrequent use and limited usefulness. Even so, Steve was still perpetually attracted to low cost, high-tech solutions. This led to his most recent purchase, a motion sensor kitchen garbage can.
The idea was simple enough. Instead of being forced to manually lift the garbage lid, one had only to wave their hand in front of the motion sensor and watch the lid magically rise. No more awkward grasping and unnecessary bending. More importantly, there was no way this techno-can would ever be placed in the bottom drawer.
From its inaugural use, Steve’s motion sensor garbage can appeared to be a great success. Each family member took his or her turn effortlessly disposing garbage in the all too eager contraption. Steve’s youngest daughter Cynthia spent the evening feeding the receptacle as if it were a trained seal.
With her six-year-old imagination in full form, Cynthia commanded the can, “Now sit! . . . Good boy! . . . Now catch! . . . Good job. Who’s a good trash can, who’s a good trash can.” Each time the seal opened its mouth, Cynthia’s would reward it with a crumpled up piece of paper. Steve began to question the necessity of ever owning a dog. By week’s end, Steve questioned the wisdom of ever buying the garbage can.
Unbeknownst to Mr. Forester, his contemporary canister had been equipped with NASA strength sensors. As a result, the trash can had a habit of opening its lid whenever anyone walked near the kitchen or even near the house. Even when all seemed still, the lid would suddenly pop up as if haunted by an extremely tidy ghost. Soon the family began to avoid the kitchen for fear of causing the can to unnecessarily flip its top. Consequently, like a neglected pet, the oversensitive waste bucket languished in the corner of the kitchen, continually begging to be fed.
To this over zealous trash can, Steve Forester brought Mrs. Lurvy’s fruitcake offering. As Steve reached the garbage can, something rather unexpected happened, or more accurately, did not happen. The garbage lid refused to open. Steve waved the fruitcake in front of the sensor as if it were a lure to be swallowed. The trash can would not take the bait. Instead, it sat quietly, defiantly, closed lipped.
“Come on! Open up, you stupid can.” The can would not step down. Steve waved both hands in front of the stubborn can like a frantic mime, hailing a cab. His efforts came to no avail, the lid remained shut. Steve was about to manhandle the hand sensor when suddenly the word “intervention” popped into his head. Like a divine whisper, “intervention” interrupted Mr. Forester’s quest to trash the first fruits of his premature Christmas.
Steve’s thoughts immediately responded to the word. “Intervention . . . That’s what this is. . . it’s an intervention. This garbage can is trying to tell me something. This fruitcake. . . this fruitcake is what Christmas is all about. Something handmade, from the heart, genuine.” His rapid fire cogitation continued. “This is a sign! We don’t need less fruitcake, we need more fruitcake. . . . Well maybe not fruitcake, but more of this!” Steve paused in his mental soliloquy, stood up straight, and raised the fruitcake to eye level. “This is Christmas! This is what we need. More of this!”
The line between inspiration and madness has much to do with who writes the biography. From Steve’s autobiographical perspective, he had stumbled upon the best path to redeem Christmas. Those around him were less certain. Regardless, Steve resolved to pursue a dual course of action. First, he would make it his quest to find someone who actually liked fruitcake. Second, he would prevent his family from succumbing to the commercialization of Christmas. This year, instead of buying presents for his family, he would make them handcrafted gifts.
In theory the idea had merit. In reality it verged on disastrous.

The Fruitcake Chronicles: A Terrible Misunderstanding
(Part 4 of 6 installments)
“So what do you guys think?” Steve’s loud tone and exaggerated gestures conveyed his lack of faith in his audience’s receptivity. “Let’s do this thing! Instead of wasting a bunch of money on a bunch a useless stuff, let’s make this Christmas memorable. This year. . . let’s make our own Christmas presents!”
Steve Forester’s fourth grade daughter Lystra burst into tears, ran up the stairs, and slammed her bedroom door. On the way out, Lystra had the last word, “I hate this stupid idea! You’re killing Christmas!”
Cynthia, Steve’s remaining progeny, sat quietly on the living room rug, legs crossed, head in hands. Steve hoped his youngest daughter might forget this memory; however, he was certain someday a therapist would help her remember.
Steve was reluctant to look towards his wife. Even so, he could feel her disapproval. When conflict greeted the Forester household, it was almost always three to one. Finally he looked in her direction. “What do you think, Jenny?”
Jennifer was a minimalist at heart. Her measured response said enough, “You really want to go through with this?” Steve bobbled a nod as Jenny continued. “Well. . . at least it will be memorable. I certainly will not forget it.” With oh well certitude she rose from the couch and reached down for Cynthia’s hand. “Come on little miss. Let’s go rescue your sister.”
In the initial stages, there is little difference between a true visionary and a bull-headed moron. Unfortunately for the Forester family, Steve saw himself as a visionary. His passion to rescue Christmas from its commercial crassness was too great to be thwarted by a temporary family rebellion.
As Christmas drew near, Steve began to question his visionary status. This was primarily due to his inability to make at least one viable Christmas present. With a week left until Christmas, Steve’s hand-craftiness had produced three wooden dolls with eerily misshaped torsos; a dozen smog hewed, lopsided votive candles; a pile of oddly variegated pot-holders; and two immobile, asymmetrical fiberglass wagons.
Steve knew he was in trouble when the craft store ladies started greeting him by name. Not only were his crafts poorly executed, they were also extremely impractical. The phrase, “it’s the thought that counts” was formed under such conditions. Shaken but still undeterred, Steve finally settled on a craft that appeared doable in the remaining time frame. He decided to make homemade perfume. This too was a terrible idea.
The internet site where Steve found his perfume recipe, purported the fragrance would evoke the essence of Chanel. Steve’s stove top implementation of the recipe produced a smell akin to Meth Lab. The oder was so pungent, he closed all the windows of his house for fear of raising suspicion. It was at this moment, Steve received a knock on the door from Sandra Lock, the Superintendent of schools.
Superintendent Lock’s wide smile turned slightly towards concern as she gazed upon Mr. Forester’s attire. Due to the caustic, splattering nature of his aroma alchemy, he was wearing protective gear in the form of a shower cap, safety glasses, chemist’s gloves, waist high wadders, and a plastic apron. As Steve removed his glasses and opened the screen door, Sandra Lock turned her head to the side to temper the impact of the pungent wall of fumes.
“Well, hello Steven. I hope I didn’t interrupt you.” Mrs. Lock inhaled with a slight gasp. Her thoughts raced back to the drug awareness seminar she had attended in the fall. This, however, was not the reason for her visit. After some awkward small talk, Mrs. Lock diplomatically introduced the purpose of her house call.
“Steve, there’s no easy way to say this. So I’m asking that you just hear me out before you respond.” She paused and entered into more rehearsed remarks. “A few weeks back, your daughter Cynthia started crying in class. She told her teacher how you guys were making each other presents because you couldn’t afford to buy gifts. When we heard the news, we just felt we needed to do something. So a bunch of us got together and bought you and your family some Christmas gifts.” Mrs. Lock turned and pointed to the large bag of presents sitting directly behind her.
“You did what?”
Steve’s confused question turned to lament as he leaned out the door and caught a glimpse of the extensive pile of donated gifts. The confusion left him at a loss for words. Before he could bring reality into the equation, Superintendent Lock quickly closed the conversation and headed for the car. She had mistaken Mr. Forester’s shocked silence to be an expression of profound gratitude.
When the dust settled, Steve Forester and the entire Forester family found themselves confronting an issue that went far beyond the Forester homestead. Steve Forester’s desire to implement a homemade, non-commercial Christmas had not been motivated by a lack of money. Unfortunately, he failed to properly convey this reality to his six-year-old daughter Cynthia. She suspected the family to be destitute.
Accordingly, Cynthia had taken it upon herself to communicated the plight of the Forester family to numerous charitable organizations. After a fair amount of gentle interrogation, Steve discovered that she had contacted at least 20 social service agencies as well as numerous holiday wish contests. As Cynthia was finishing her confession, the local Christian radio station called.
“Is this Mr. Forester?”

The Fruitcake Chronicles: An Unfortunate Headline
(Part 5 of 6 installments)
Steve Forester despised his floral patterned, living room glider rocker as well as its accompanying gliding ottoman. It was a gift from his mother-in-law, but no one sat in the awkward contraption but the family cat. Even the cat would have preferred a recliner. Still, the rocker was the first piece of furniture to greet visitors as they entered the Forester household. It sat near the front door as a memorial to his mother-in-law, to be removed unceremoniously at her death.
On the day of Steve’s holiday breakdown, he chose to sit in this unpopular oscillating rocker to gain a clearer perspective of the crises at hand. Mr. Forester had entered the Christmas season with high hopes and grandiose plans. From the get go, he had resolved not to succumb to the prevailing commercial corruption of Christmas.
This resolve was strengthened when Steve received a homemade fruitcake from an elderly, widowed neighbor. Even though Steve hated fruitcake, Mildred Lurvy’s handmade potent pastry had inspired him to create his own homespun Christmas. Consequently, he spent the larger part of December making gifts for his family as well as trying to find someone who actually liked the taste of grandma Lurvy’s fruitcake.
Up to this point, two days before Christmas, nothing had gone as planned. First, Steve had been entirely unsuccessful at pawning off Mrs. Lurvy’s fruitcake. For the most part individuals treated the offer for fruitcake similar to a contagion. Like a bad flu they either had already been infected by a fruitcake or had no desire to catch one.
Occasionally, someone would politely bluff and fain interest in the pastry. When these cases arrived, Steve made it clear that he was going to stick around to actually see the individual consume the well-preserved loaf. The excuses would soon follow. “You know I better not take it; I’m sure someone else would enjoy this more than I would.” Translation: “Why don’t you find your own garbage can!”
Along with his fruitcake woes, Steve’s handmade gift idea had taken a drastic turn for the worse. Steve’s youngest daughter interpreted the mandate to make Christmas gifts as a sign the family had reached financial ruin. Consequently, without Steve’s foreknowledge, she had contacted numerous holiday help agencies throughout the community. By the time Cynthia’s requisition plan was discovered, the Forester family was being inundated with holiday goodwill.
This came in the form of a pile of donated presents and a $1,000 gift card from the local Christian radio station. Unable to find the necessary words to explain such a misunderstanding, Steve received the gifts with stunned silence.
While gliding rhythmically to and fro in his cat’s glider rocker, Steve tried to find an answer to the problems that were literally pilling up before him. In the opposite corner of the room stood a large mound of unopened Christmas presents. Equi-distant between Steve and the mound, sat a lone fruitcake upon a barren coffee table.
Steve fixed his eyes intently on the neatly wrapped cake. As Steve narrowed his vision and anger towards the pastry, the rest of the room began to blur. Unable to find a solution that would leave his pride intact, Steve began to focus his rage on the all too resilient fruitcake.
“You’ve had it out for me from the beginning,” Steve spoke to the defiant fruit bread in spaghetti Western tones. “You think your so, so clever.” The fruitcake remained silent, “But, I got you figured out. You’re not going to break me. . . Every problem has a solution. This one just requires a fair amount of cre-a-tiv-it-ty.” Steve enunciated each syllable to drive home his point.
“That’s the difference between you and me. I’m the creative one. . . You’re just a pastry pawn.” Before Steve could continue the doorbell rang. This time it was the paperboy.
“Mr. Forester. I think you might want to read this.” Steve murmured the front page headline aloud: “Local Man Feigns Poverty for Christmas Loot: Bah Humbug Mr. Forester!” Steve read on while shutting the door on the somewhat perplexed paperboy. The front page article was full of flattering fare such as, “Mr. Forester used his youngest child to prey upon the sympathies of generous holiday well wishers.” The expose continued with an unsubstantiated inference that “the Forester home may also be a make-shift meth lab.”
Steve read the article within earshot of the fruitcake. As he reached the end of the allegations, Steve was overcome with an eerie calm. He paused, looked towards the still stoic fruitcake and finished his previous conversation.
“We’re going to fix this. And you’re coming with me.” Five minutes later Steve was driving his Accord towards the Village Mall. His recently acquired stack of presents was crammed in the back seat, while Mrs. Lurvy’s fruitcake road shotgun. Steve looked over at the fruitcake securely buckled in the passenger seat.
“Are you excited! We’re going to see Santa!”

The Fruitcake Chronicles: A Visit with Santa
(Part 6 of 6 installments)
Portions of the police report read as follows: “Mr. Forester gave many fruitcake related reasons for accosting the Village Mall Santa. It appears Mr. Forester attempted to give Santa three garbage bags full of wrapped presents. Mr. Forester stated that the presents had been mistakenly given to his family because of a ‘rather crazy mix-up.’”
“When Santa rejected the gifts, Mr. Forester became agitated. This agitation increased when Santa ‘refused to take just one bite’ of the assailants fruitcake. Following the refusal, a heated argument between Santa and Mr. Forester ensued. During this dispute, Mr. Forester called Santa’s pedigree and beard into question.”
“Santa stated that Mr. Forester made many ‘wild and threatening movements’ with the fruitcake. One of these wild gestures struck santa “in the belly.” Mr. Forester accused Santa of having a ‘potty mouth’ and of exaggerating the impact of the fruitcake on his belly.”
“Fortunately, for Santa and the mall patrons, Mr. Forester was unsuccessful in persuading individuals to take a bite of the item purported to be ‘fruitcake.’ After several tense minutes, officers were able to subdue Mr. Forester and disarm him of the suspicious loaf. For precautionary reasons, the loaf was detonated.”
For Steve Forester it was truly fortunate that the Village Mall santa was indeed a “potty mouth.” Otherwise, mall management would have pressed charges. However, the negative press that would have accompanied the less than saintly reactions of Saint Nick was enough to limit punitive damages to a lifelong ban from the Village Mall and its subsidiaries. All criminal charges were dropped as the police determined that waving a fruitcake wildly in a crowded mall was certainly disconcerting behavior but currently not a crime.
As far as the undeserved donated gifts, collective community embarrassment would eventually sweep that mess under the rug. Until then, Steve promised to do his best to return each gift to its original donor. Every gift except for the detonated fruitcake.
By the time Steve left the police station, he had engendered a fair amount of sympathy among the ranks. Steve Forester was not a criminal, just a very disheartened, disillusioned man. The discharging officer gave him a pat on the back and an admonition to “be good now.” Steve smiled and returned a “thanks.” Unfortunately, it had been his failed attempt to be good that had precipitated this mess.
Too embarrassed to call his wife, Steve chose to venture home on foot. The journey was five or so miles, and he was in no hurry to stand before his traumatized family.
The sun had set about two hours previous. During the day the temperature had been playfully hovering just above freezing. This led to an occasional, brief snow flurry in the foothills. Moisture was heading into the region. However, as the cloud cover increased, the temperature would most likely rise just enough to produce sloshy rain intermixed with the occasional ice crystal.
As Steve slowly trudged home, light, frozen rain began to fall. Most of the slushy ice pellets melted on impact. Occasionally, a thicker, more resilient crystal would land on Steve’s jacket, pause, and melt into rain. The effect was the same as rain, just colder and slightly delayed. By the time Steve reached his front door, he was soaked.
Steve paused before entering the Forester homestead. As he hesitated, the front door opened from the inside. Before him stood his three reasons for most everything: his lovely bride Jenny, and his two, resiliently vibrant girls.
His youngest daughter Cynthia spoke first, “Daddy, we’ve got a gift for you” Her freckled smile revealed the pleasure of anticipation. Lystra, the older daughter, took charge from here. She grabbed her father’s hand and led him to the glider rocker.
“Sit down! We’ll be right back.” The two girls ran down the hall while Steve plopped down in his least favorite chair. He looked up at Jennifer as her eyes followed the girls down the hall. When she turned back in his direction, he caught her unfiltered grace. Jennifer reached out and caressed Steve’s shoulder. Before he could respond, the girls entered into the room at full force. Lystra was carrying a carefully wrapped, frame thin, rectangle. At first perusal, Steve suspected an eight by ten to be enclosed. The girls stood by both sides of the rocker, while Jennifer perched on the ottoman.
“Well, open it up! We made it just for you.” Lystra’s command required an immediate response. Beneath the wrapping was an elaborate configuration of popsicle sticks and emory boards formed into the shape of a manger scene. Cynthia immediately chirped in, “I ate five popsicles today, just so we could finish it!” The red markings around the corner of her lips should have been a dead giveaway.
Steve looked down with amazement at the simple, creative gift. His obviously gifted girls had turned fabric scraps, magic markers, and popsicle sticks into an elaborate nativity replete with the prerequisite cast of characters.
The next twenty minutes or so, Steve gave detailed praise for the various nuances of the gift. When he reached the kneeling wise man, he had a question. “What’s he holding in his hands?”
Cynthia responded first, “Oh, that’s a fruitcake!” With those words, the temperature dipped just enough to transition the falling slush into a gentle flurry. Steve paid little notice as he gazed intently at the tiny popsicle baby Jesus.
Merry Christmas. Peace on Earth, goodwill to all!

What Would Jesus Heckle?

Sat, 29 Aug 2009 20:54:42 -0700

by Doug Bursch

I wanted to write today’s column about angry town hall hecklers, spurious email forwards, and the morally bankrupt dialogue permeating so much of our political discourse. I wanted to address some of the inexcusable name calling and derogatory labeling, the reckless use of words such as socialist and Nazi, and the fear mongering and base demagoguery motivating much of our political debate.

In fact, I was going to use today’s essay to point out that the word “debate” does not aptly describe the current condition of our democracy. Instead, the mode of national discourse has become an ugly shouting match fueled by internet inaccuracies, corporate greed, political pandering, and a ratings driven media.

I was going to challenge my Christian contemporaries to stand up and speak out against the vile tone that has become commonplace among the political punditry. I was going to ask my brothers and sisters in Christ to stand up for a truth that is rooted in love, a truth that uses reconciling words, a truth that seeks the lost, a truth that shines the light of Christ!

I wanted to point out the importance of our words, our demeanor, our attitude, and our spirit. All of it matters. If Christianity means anything at all, it must contrast the world. The fruit of the Spirit must guide our very breath. When a Christian enters the debate, love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control should permeate the dialogue.

I thought of using today’s column to point out the importance of reading Christ’s words before championing his cause. I was going to point out how Christ repeatedly challenges us to love our enemies, to do good to those who persecute us, to serve those in authority, to submit to one another out of love for God!

Christ calls us to a righteousness that is rooted in the grace of God and centered in our willingness to seek first God’s kingdom and God’s justice. God’s justice calls us to look first at our sins, our failings, and our need for grace. Heavenly justice commands us to humble ourselves in the eyes of God! Christians are to have the same attitude as Christ Jesus, who being in very nature God, humbled himself and became the servant of all.

Christians aren’t hecklers, we are healers. It is through the power of the cross of Christ that we stand. Our righteousness is not our own, it is a gift from God! Therefore. I have no right to judge, condemn, or tear down. I am bound to a kingdom of truth and love. In God’s goodness and beauty I make my stand.

I wanted to address these ideas and truths in today’s column. However, I decided against such a tact. There just seems to be so much angry noise; even if I had written these words down, I doubt anyone would have listened.

What would Jesus heckle? And this is what has become of my beautiful Savior. . .

Talking to Myself

Sat, 8 Aug 2009 11:22:35 -0700

by Doug Bursch

I spend a lot of my life in my head. Some of my longest conversation occur when I’m alone. When no one is present or in need of my attention I talk to God, I talk to myself, I talk to unreachable friends and foes. I question, plead, lament, and interject. I rehearse what I should have said, could have said, or will say if the opportunity arises. I follow thoughts to their profound or foolish conclusions.

In the courtyard of my mind, I argue with talk show hosts, radio pundits, and every other irrational purveyor of cultural wisdom. I speak to my peers, my denomination, my city, and my world. I practice acceptance speeches for awards I will never win. I work on sermons I will never be asked to preach. I communicate to the masses, to those in power, to the unreachable influencers.

I imagine conversations with Grandpa Bursch, Uncle Steve, and all those who have entered their eternal rest. I wonder what Carol, my sister in Christ, would say to me if she had the chance. Would she tell me to “go for it!”

When I’m alone and sad, I listen for Carol Hund’s encouragement, Wendy Hendrick’s laugh, and pastor Mike McIntosh’s prophetic insight. I look to the stars and ask my Lord, “Why did you take my prophets away from me?” God understands the question. He understands why I need to ask it from time to time.

My mind has a habit of racing. Sometimes I enjoy the ride, other times I just want to stop thinking. When I see a homeless man talking to himself I think, to myself, I can relate. Seems as though the biggest difference between my marginalized friend and me is my mouth refuses to cooperate with my brain’s need to talk.

What an odd time to be living. The divide between a crazy man and a business man is a cell phone earpiece. All it takes is for the earpiece to fall out and the man to keep talking.

It seems blogging, Facebooking, and Twittering have become socially acceptable ways to talk to one’s self without being committed. If I wander down the street speaking to no one, I’m crazy. If I post a daily blog that no one reads, I’m relevant! Those of you able to follow the logic can see the danger of being a columnist.

I think this is why I enjoy writing this column. I don’t do it for the money, it doesn’t grow my church, it takes far too much time, and I get little recognition or fame. However, it does fulfill my need to communicate. Every once and a while I get to write down a conversation that has been swirling around my head. If I write it down, it makes me less crazy. Or maybe it makes you less crazy. Or maybe there are far more crazy people out there than we first realized.

Either way, I’m going to keep writing these thoughts down. They look better on the page than they sound wandering the streets.

Let’s Go Camping?

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 20:26:28 -0700

“Let’s go camping!” is a phrase in need of qualifiers. One man’s fun family excursion can be another man’s wilderness death march. The difference rests in seemingly minor details such tent size, mattress thickness, hike distance, and mosquito density.

When someone asks you to go camping, make sure you listen carefully to the words they use to describe pertinent details. If they use words such as elevation, snow level, carabiners and REI then you might as well forget the firewood. By day’s end you’ll be huddled in the dark around a micro stove, trying to warm your hands as you wait for a tiny container of water to boil so you can rehydrate a packet of dried lentils. Don’t worry, there will be plenty of time to set up your half-a-man tent and roll out your subzero synthetic polyester mummy bag. Anyway, you’ll need to get to sleep quickly so you can summit before the sun rises. Don’t worry, the nausea is part of the experience. “Isn’t this fun. . . all of us going camping together.”

On the other hand, if your soon to be camping buddy uses words like RV, blue tarp, bonfire, and portable satellite dish, well, you are in for an altogether different experience. Let’s just say there is a good chance you are going to end the day eating Doritos while playing a game of well lit pinochle as you listen to the steadily interrupted hum of a high powered bug zapper. If you’re not a beer drinker, by night’s end you’re going to wonder why not. Particularly because your travel cruiser is parked so conveniently close to the full service bathrooms.

Most of our ideas of camping fall somewhere between a mountaineer expedition and a recreational vehicle encampment. Even so, we load up the family van and head for the nearest state park. Regardless of the projected length of our trip, we do our best to overload our minivan with every possible recreational probability. “Make sure you bring the fishing poles, and the horse shoes, and the extra cooler, and the raft, and the skewers, and whatever else we can smash with the trunk.”

Regardless of how thorough our list, it is inevitable we will forget a key item. “Did anyone remember to pack your brother? Really. . . well I guess we better put him on the list the next time. Fine! I’ll turn back, but it’s going to add another half hour to our drive. And we’re going to have to throw out the trampoline to make room!”

Once we reach base camp we spend hours carefully unloading our tightly packed transport. Mom organizes the food and Dad once again reeducates himself on how to set up the tent.

In recent years, tent sizes have begun to surpass the size of camping sites. Costco is primarily at fault in the proliferation of dome tent square footage. As a general rule, don’t buy a tent that needs a permit to be erected. If it has more than one entrance and more than one level, then it should not accompany you into the wilderness. Unless you want to hold some sort of tent revival or outdoor music festival.

Once camp is settled and Dad has apologized for his tent building outburst, it’s time to build a fire. A pile of wood, a propane driven flame, and voila we have a reason to exist. As we look into the flames we are reminded that very little separates us from our primitive ancestors.
The rest of the night is spent finding things to roast and eat. Corn, hot dogs, marshmallows, and anything else we can impale with a stick. Once the stomach has turned against the notion of consumption, it’s time for bed.

What follows has been nuanced by a million different variables. Some see shooting stars, some hear bears, some get sick and run for the nearest tree. Babies cry through the night and grown men sleep like babies. . . or more like bears; snoring and growling through the night as their children try to sleep during apnea induced intervals.

Regardless of the story, we make it to morning and use all our strength to validate the worthiness of our excursion. We are camping! And that’s a good thing. . . whether or not anyone is enjoying themselves. We are having fun! At least enough fun to do it again next year. Happy camping everyone!

God’s Word Verses God’s People

Wed, 8 Jul 2009 12:21:57 -0700

Things I know to be true. . . as much as I can know such things.

1. God is the only just judge! I am not a good judge of you or me. I don’t know, but God knows. I will not judge my God. He is the good judge, He is justice, and I will follow His lead. I’m sure this will lead many to judge me. But I am not under man’s judgement.

2. God wants me to love more! My job is to grow in love. To love God and to love you more. To love my wife, to love my kids, to love my friends, and to love my enemies. To love my enemies. It is my job to love my enemies and do good to them, to forgive them, to bless them, to contend for their beauty.

3. God is grace! I am not grace. . . I am not love. . . I daily judge and withhold the goodness of God from others. Even so, God is grace and I stand because of His grace. I will bring grace into the room, for grace is why I stand.

4. A bitter spirit will not advance God’s Kingdom. An angry religious spirit brings death. I will not take part in any campaign, initiative, protest, or movement that curses people who are made in the likeness of God. I will not curse Obama, I will not curse Palin. I will not bless my heavenly Father and then curse His creation.

5. Jesus Christ is my Savior. No politician, political party, or just law has the power to save me. Only Christ! Christ is my Savior. I will not contend for anything but Jesus Christ and him crucified. I know Christ to be truth! As I walk in the Truth, I am free.

Whenever I spend a prolonged amount of time reading the Bible, I am struck by the divide between God’s word and God’s people. So much of “Christian culture” has nothing to do with Christ. The Bible simply does not defend many aspects of our Christian witness.

True Christianity is not a knee jerk reaction to the political whims of country and culture. My gospel is rooted in timeless truth, mighty grace, and irrevocable joy!

With this in mind, I encourage all my readers to put me down this week (not that way). Put this article down and then pick up a Bible. Why? Because I’m pleading and begging you to seek a better witness.

For those willing to follow my lead, I ask that you read chapter three of the book of James. For those of you who refuse to follow anything I say, then I ask you not to read the third chapter of the book of James. In fact, I forbid you. . . whatever you do. . . don’t read the third chapter of the book of James.

I’m convinced that even if you hate God and hate Christians, you will like chapter three. Chapter three says it better than I could ever express. Frankly, even if you hate James chapter three, then at least I know you hate the Gospel, not a poor substitute.

It is my prayer that our nation enters a better season. A season where we simply refuse to feed the beast of bitterness. A season where Christians are known for their love. For I know this to be true: God’s wants me to love more. For by my love, the world will know that I am a Christian.

Taco Tuesdays at Disneyland

Sun, 7 Jun 2009 20:22:44 -0700

by Doug Bursch

My family and I are at Disneyland this week and you’d think the environment would be good fodder for a column. And you’d be right in your thinking, but my mind has drifted outside the happiest place on earth into the surrounding southern California streets.

For those of you not familiar with southern California, there are many Mexican restaurants and taco stands. A common denominator that unites these fiesta feederies is the observance of “Taco Tuesdays.” Each and every week, tacos are discounted to honor the importance of Tuesdays.

As I drove past yet another “Taco Tuesday” sign, I began to question the implications of this alliteration driven mexican meal price reduction. What if tacos were named. . . macos? Would we celebrate “Maco Mondays?” Or what about “Fraco Fridays.” By the way, I really hope maco and fraco don’t mean something vulgar in Spanish. I’d look it up, but who really has the time to google these days. So don’t you look it up either.

Regardless, it bothers me that all this “Taco Tuesday” savings rests upon the whimsy of alliteration. In fact, this “Taco Tuesday” trend is truly troubling. Just because a word duplet pleases the ears doesn’t mean we should change the course of culture.

Can you imagine the ensuing health crisis that would occur if we changed Wednesday to a more pizza friendly noun. “Well kids, I don’t quite know why we eat pizza every week, it just seems like the right thing to do on Puesdays. Now how about another slice of Fraco pizza.”

Alright, now I’m just getting silly. But you get the point. I’ve been at Disneyland all week and the long lines have provided my mind opportunity to wander. Serpentining through an endless labyrinth of creatively queued entrances gives a man time to ponder the more pedestrian annoyances of existence.

For example, why do so many songs contain the words mountain and fountain. There is no logical reason for this word pairing other than the fact that they rhyme. As a northwest native I have been known to partially climb a mountain or two. However, during these alpine hikes I have not once desired to associate the mountain splendor with anything related to, or associated with, a fountain.

Even so, there is an abundance of mountain/fountain lyrics. From hymnals, to musicals, to love ballads, mountains and fountains will forever be paired. Even if there is no rhyme nor reason for their mutual inclusion. . . oh wait. . . I guess rhyme is the reason.

At least I’m thankful mountain doesn’t rhyme with words like prostate or vomit. Otherwise, The Sound of Music would have a whole different vibe.

I guess everything doesn’t always need profound meaning to exist. Some things purely inhabit the realm of whim and whimsy. Consequently, tacos cost less on Tuesdays. In reality, we enjoy many words, ideas, or even concepts for meaningless reasons. The words just sound right when strung together. Therefore, fountain drinkers and mountain hikers happily coexist in our songs.

Sometimes I try really hard to say learned or meaningful words. I attempt to wow people with important spiritual ideas by flexing my mental acuity and theological prowess. Other times I just write and say what comes to mind. A thought appears and I try my best to catch and play with it before I let it run free.

Too often we try to defend our worth by doing and saying important things. Fortunately, God loves our playfulness as much as our attempts at wisdom. I’m convinced God is the creator of silliness! Well, at least He’s the creator of you and me. . . which seems to imply that God enjoys ridiculous, illogical, childish stories. At least that’s my perspective from Disneyland.

Random Musings

Sun, 17 May 2009 20:14:58 -0700

by Doug Bursch

Left brain, linear, analytical people are destroying the world. I’d like to clearly articulate three distinct observations that prove this well thought out assertion. However, I’m not going to do that, because I refuse to let the overly organized and anal retentive masses dictate my rebellion.

Right brainers unite! Well at least let’s hang out and make a viscerally engaging craft. Let’s cast off the cold, hard shackles of oppressive form and functionality. Let’s abandon the well worn path of vetted guidelines and predictable structures. Let’s not just think outside the box, let’s tear the box down. We might not even recycle it. That’s right. . . we might just let the box sit there all flat and unproductive.

Alright, eventually we’ll recycle it. But we’ll turn it into something really useless, like a butterfly mobile or a lawn gnome.

Who says one idea has to follow another. . . Hey how about those Mariners! Sure wish someone would visit my church. . . I wonder if Mayor Lewis ever watches The Simpsons. . . Why do I love the idea of fishing but hate the reality. . . And I said to the man, “I don’t care if it is a free range chicken, I’m not letting it sleep in my garage.”

The world needs more lazy poets. The kind of guys who say one provocative, emotive thing and just walk away, leaving us undone. Even our philosophers and theologians suck the life out of mystery. They turn love into a math equation and beauty into a science experiment.

There are so many words written by overachieving type A prophets. They tell us that our church should be this, and we should be that, and everyone should do such and such. But maybe they don’t know the half of it. Maybe they are just really good at finishing things. Finishing their thoughts, their ideas, and their books. Our society has a habit of limiting truth to deadline honoring soothsayers.

Does God limit his truth to the well organized, to the complete sentence saints? Or is truth found in the lazy corners of humanity, in the random musings of random men and women? Does God limit the progression of his kingdom to sacred systematicians, or does his voice advance through the babbles of a joyful child or the lyrics of a heartbroken teen.

It all floats around us. So much beauty, unencumbered by the tyranny of conformity. So much truth, not yet packaged for mass consumption. God is speaking. . . my quest, question, and endless assertion. Speaking through the chaotic miracle that is your life and mine.

You say, “speak for yourself pastor. My life is in order.”

I say, “Sorry to put words in your mouth. But they were just floating there, ready to take form.”

Thankfully, I cannot order your life or limit my God. At best I can testify. I can share my song, dance my dance, and let God create something in and through me.

I don’t know if you’ll enjoy any of it. But I know that my heavenly Father loves me and He loves my incomplete, never quite finished, somewhat linear, occasionally analytical type “whatever’ personality.

I’m sure there are at least three reasons God loves me, but I’m not going to list even one! God loves me. . . I’ll let someone else prove the theorem.

Dealing with Sad Days

Mon, 4 May 2009 10:05:28 -0700

by Doug Bursch

Today I’ve been feeling sad, heart heavy, soul weary. I presume I
could find a reason for the feeling, but it seems the feeling arrived
before I could ascribe to it cause.

Some people cast out sadness like a demon. They pray against sadness
as if it were an attack against God’s purpose for the day. This may
be true on occasion.

But today my sadness feels less like an attack and more like a
familiar song. A song that gives me permission. Permission to stop,
rest, and listen. Permission to weep, permission to wonder,
permission to sit bewildered, unsure, and unable.

Unable to fix it, unable to figure it out, unable to make my offering
worthy.

Sad days are notoriously unproductive. They sidetrack me from the
tasks at hand. You have this day Doug. And this day has things to be
done. And if you don’t do these things. . . Well, you’ve wasted the
day! If you waste the day, you can’t get it back. Something will
suffer, something will simply not get done. You’ll fail yourself,
you’ll fail your friends, you’ll fail the vision that was supposed to
motivate this week.

Sadness is not a demonic attack. But sadness will take you through
some dangerous alleys. Sadness is my synonym for weak. I’m just weak
today. I can’t carry this thing, I’m staggering, stumbling, trying to
find another clever word to defend me. Don’t say thing. . . describe
it. . . don’t use it. . . say something clear. . . evocative. I’m too
tired to look up evocative, too lazy to replace “thing” and “it” with
beautiful words.

To be honest, I feel like I’m being carried today. My body draped in
my Savior’s arms. I do not see his face, my eyes are tired. I do not
look up, because I know he is there. This street, this alley, it’s
dirty and dangerous.

But you carry me. . . You hold me, you labor in my defense. I want
you to drag me to safety. I feel as if I might be worthy of
dragging. But you carry me, you lift me higher than my dragging arm,
dragging hand. Not even a knuckle touches the ground.

I am your burden to be carried. Worthy enough to be rescued.
Sometimes I wonder what the others must think. The sins they ascribe
to my name, the foolishness they ponder. How could he get to this
place; what must he have done? Why is he sad; why is God rescuing
him? Is this really a worthy rescue or the foolish love of a foolish
father? A pursuing father, a relentless father, a relentless love.

So I shouldn’t be tired, but I am! And I shouldn’t be sad, but that
is the song I hear. And some want to fix me, but they can’t. So I’m
going to choose this foolish plan. The plan where I’m held, where I’m
carried, where I’m lifted higher than myself.

These are my humble days. What a feeble humility. My humility is
such a suspect virtue. But he lifts me up. . . my God. . . You lift
me up. And I am safe in your embrace. Eyes closed as I hear your
breath. I am present with you. You are with me and that is enough to
carry me through this life and into the life to come.

Easter is a familiar tune

Fri, 10 Apr 2009 17:10:49 -0700

by Doug Bursch

Easter is a love song: a sacred tune to woo the beloved. It is a persistent melody that beckons an eternal dance. For those who say yes to the dance, Easter becomes “our song.” Yet to those who resist, the song is tiresome, overly sentimental, a foolish distraction to the realities of living.

Easter is a rescue mission: a way of escape. We were bound. We were trapped by the fruit of our own reckless sensuality. As we sought meaning, we acquired. As we acquired, the meaninglessness grew. We were buried beneath the pursuits of our flesh. We were entombed in that which rusts, corrodes, and fades away.

Easter speaks to this grave. Easter says come forth, come out, and come into the light. For those of us who have said yes to Easter, it is freedom’s anniversary. For those who have yet to say yes, Easter is a false hope, a looking glass mythology, a crutch for the naive. Or maybe Easter has just become someone else or somewhere else or sometime other than now.

Sometimes when I preach the Easter story, I feel like an old man telling far too familiar stories to wearisome dinner guests. I speak and I am tolerated. However, their gaze says it all. We’ve heard this story a thousand times grandpa. There is nothing new in this, nothing to be gained. We will tolerate your telling, we will honor the story’s sentimental value. We will once again feign attention, but we will not listen. There are better stories in the room, new stories, ones we have not yet heard.

Every Easter service I am filled with mixed emotions. The room is full of so many stories. As I scan the congregation I see an awkward mix of joy and apathy, contentment and restlessness, smiles and cold blank stares. The diversity of the room is staggering. The reasons for entering the room are as nuanced as the people who occupy the seats.

Some arrive in church through the power of obligation, others are motivated by a spirit of appreciation. Some shine bright and glorious, others look as if their sorrow has a measurable weight. Regardless, they are all beautiful and it is my right to say this. . . every one of them is beautiful.

But you would expect this from the old man. Here he goes again talking about love, beauty, and favor. The old story of death and resurrection. Once again he’ll tell us that God loved us so much that he gave us his only begotten son, that whoever believes in Christ Jesus will not perish but have eternal life.

And of course he’ll also tell us that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. That no one is righteous, not even one. Except for Jesus Christ. For Christ has become our righteousness. And yes, the pastor will once again tell us the old man story. This Easter. . . this perpetual Easter Sunday, he will once again offer us the gift of life.

I believe in Easter. The beautiful love song, the glorious rescue plan. The precious gift of love and life. This is my story and I shall tell it all the days of my life. And I will search the crowd intently and I will look for someone willing to be rescued. For there is nothing I’d rather do than serve my savior on Easter. For Easter is the day of salvation!

The Demise of Old Media

Sat, 21 Mar 2009 20:52:40 -0700

by Doug Bursch

I write a newspaper column, host a radio program, and pastor a church. In the United States, all these areas are in decline. To mitigate my uncertain future, I’ve become a Fuller Brush salesman. Let’s just say I have a knack for spotting growth industries.

Personally, I think recent proclamations concerning the church’s demise have been exaggerated. As long as God still exists, He’s going to find a way to let us in on the secret. As far as the issue of identification, I’m glad fewer people are comfortable claiming the “cultural Christian” tag.

Christianity is not a religion, it’s a relationship with religious tendencies. The Bible is a worthless book to follow if you don’t have a personal relationship with Jesus. So regardless of the shuffling of Christians from church to church or fad to fad, I think my beautiful Savior will still exist when it’s all said and done.

The permanence of the radio and newspaper industry is less certain. Our current economic regression has transitioned the radio and newspaper industry from a slow decline to a quick free fall. In the vernacular of human development, newspapers are heading toward the retirement home and radio is suffering from a sever case of empty nest syndrome. The kids moved away and the house feels rather empty.

This week the Seattle Post Intelligencer became another casualty of our ever transitioning media. The P.I. simply couldn’t escape its intelligencer roots. Now the newspaper has become as obsolete as its name. Some would be quick to point out that the P.I. will maintain an online presence. I would be quick to remind you that I have an online presence as well. And so does almost everyone else on the planet.

The sad truth is the mighty P.I. has become another scrawl on the internet’s bathroom wall.

Some ulta-conservatives see the demise of the P.I. as some sort of victory against the “liberal agenda.” If the Seattle Times folds, local conservative talk show hosts will be able to hold victory rallies in the street. We can all cheer about the dawn of a new age where instead of being inconvenienced by attempted journalism, we can fully embrace the era and error of unsubstantiated opinion.

Why even attempt to present a story in an unbiased manner? Forget about giving both sides of the issue. We’ve got thousands upon thousands of blogs to bring us the truth. And if our internet is down, we’ve got television and radio pundits to make sense of it all. They read the newspaper, so we don’t have to. . .

Wait a second, if the newspapers close, where will the pundits and bloggers get their brilliant ideas? How will they rant against a news establishment that no longer exists? Who will bring them their reporting to ridicule, their statistics to refute, and their observations to belittle? When the media elite finally pass away, who are we going to blame for this mess?

Well certainly not the pundits, the bloggers, or the talking heads. We’re not part of the problem, we just call it like we see it. We just give our honest opinion, even if we have no idea what we’re talking about.

I’m probably biased on this issue, but I still think we need the local newspaper, radio, and church. There are some discussions we must have as a community. There are many issues we must try to understand from all sides. We still need individuals who are willing to follow a story to its conclusion. Even when they are not comfortable with the reality they uncover.

With this in mind, I want to thank each and every reporter at the Seattle Post Intelligencer. I might not have always agreed with your point of view, but I appreciated your willingness to pursue the real story.

And a shout out to the Auburn Reporter. . . because hey, we’re still ticking!