4th of July

I've been thinking about someone I never got to meet...can't help but think about him around the 4th of July. 

...The newsroom burst to life with the frantic buzz that means one thing: breaking news. 

"Double team it!" shouted our news director. "Go live at 5:00!"

Speeding out of the station, we raced to the scene where several National Guard soldiers were missing - swept away in a creek.

We had only a few facts: a training drill. turbulent waters. a capsized boat. divers searching. 

My job was to get details to feed our more seasoned reporter who would give viewers live updates throughout the broadcast.

With air time about to hit, the lead reporter shoved the mic into my hand. 

"You take it," she said, "You're better at this."  

Even though I didn't have as much live shot experience, I think growing up as a military brat helped wire me for the intensity of breaking news - calm, clear-headed in chaos - stuff they can't teach you in journalism school.

"Divers search for four National Guard soldiers after their boat capsized..."

I don't remember my exact words to open the newscast but I still see the vivid contrasts of that summer day: brilliant sun rays piercing murky water. lush trees casting shadows over brittle grass. life/death. colliding.

"Guardsman who drowned was Sioux City sergeant," read the headlines. 

Divers had been able to save all but one of the soldiers. I still think of him around the 4th of July.  I'm sorry I didn't pray for you that day. Thank you for your sacrifice.

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Climb Again

You taught me how to climb, to swing, to kick a football when I was a child. In a way those are the greatest gifts anyone's given me.

I seemed born with an instinct to climb. As a baby, I'd try to escape over the confines of my crib. Eventually you decided to teach me a way to scale the bars safely so I wouldn't fall on my head.

Soon I wanted to climb trees, especially a three-story giant in our yard. We were content swinging from the lower branches but you knew it was only a matter of time before we'd try to go higher. 

"Stay close to the trunk," you warned, "The branches are stronger there." 

As a struggling teen, that towering tree became my refuge.

I was about 11 the first time you let me go rock climbing and rappelling with the Army recruits. I loved going with you on those ROTC trips. 

We'd never had an accident until Starved Rock. falling. slamming into the rocks. You tried to hide your fear but I saw it in the way your eyes never left me whenever I put on a harness after that.

I've lost my footing a little over the years...fear. falls. failures. But I'm ready to climb again, Dad. Thank you for teaching me. Happy Father's Day.

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The Tunnel's End

Another one of my photos is running in the LA Times! I recently shot this picture under the Santa Monica pier.

I was trying to get a photo of the pier's iconic ferris wheel at sunset but the angle wasn't working so I decided to take a shortcut to the other side before the sun slipped away. There's a path that runs under the dock but I've always avoided going that way; it's dark, wet and smells like urine.

I was determined to get a photo for a photography project though so I entered the tunnel. Near the end, I saw light streaming through the pillars. At first I kept walking toward the beach but I was drawn to turn back and take in the message: Though shadows linger, there is light at the end of the tunnel.

In that moment, the light piercing the dark passage, it didn't seem like a cliché.

The photo above, "Where the sun never shines," can be seen in the LA Times Southern California Moments photo gallery

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Even in the Storm

Available for hire: one experienced storm chaser and live shot reporter.

I woke up thinking about a 15-month old baby missing after the Midwest tornadoes. News reports say the father had used his own body to shield his son and wife but the tornado ripped the child away. Reports said the hospitalized parents were too injured to know their baby is gone.

So here I am again, ready to head back if I get an assignment. Why? Why give up comfort and security for a story? Why face danger for potentially no reward?

I grew up in tornado alley and went to work at a rural TV station after grad school. Racing down dirt roads, chasing funnel clouds, tracking a path of twisted trees and flattened corn stalks...just another day's work.

"Please don't go," said my friend Esther when I told her about my plan. 

"It's not the risk or the adrenaline," I struggled to explain. "I know the child's probably dead but there's something about that family's story..."

After reflecting a minute, Esther began to speak. "It's because the father covering his child with his body - it points to God," she said. "Even in tragedy, the father was there. The tragedy doesn't discredit the father's love. That is the true character of God."

A father's love - that is the story worth telling.  A love that cannot be quenched...even in the storm.

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The End of the World, Again?

May marks my 11-year anniversary in California. 

The world didn't end as predicted in 2000 (remember Y2K?) so that spring I'd packed the few things that fit into my two-seater, headed south on I-5 and showed up on a friend's doorstep in the Bay Area.

Fast forward seven years. 

Spring again. Packed again. Back on the I-5. This time bound for LA. 

"God has released you to pursue the adventure of His calling," said my pastor and friend.

Even though I didn't clearly see the reasons for change, it felt like time. I was happy when the move fell into place so quickly; my roommate and I took the first place we found on the Internet that would rent to us sight unseen.  Seemed to confirm it was time to go.

"I feel like LA holds part of God's redemptive plan for me," I'd told friends. Yet I have a lingering sense of delayed destiny. 

Blinded my ambition when I was a young reporter, I'd wasted the platforms I could have used to help others. 

Regrets? Certainly. 

Redemption? Absolutely.

Spring again. A fresh start. 

But why do my moves always seem to coincide with the end of the world? In 2000, it was Y2K.  This time it's supposedly Judgment Day.  Starting right here in the Pacific Rim on May 21st (read the prophecy here). 

Guess I'll be happy either way with a front row seat to either the sunset...or the Rapture.

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He said. She said. the iPad said.

They say dog lovers choose pets that look like them. And that after a while, even couples start to resemble eachother. 

If only communication worked the same way.  Instead it seems many couples barely speak over time.

The breakdown starts when we're singles seeking love. 

He texts. We should hang out. 

Does he mean I think you're hot or The guys are busy hang out?  

We make it just as confusing for guys. 

You ask us for a date and we say: "Find me on Facebook." Which means, You're not my type, or Leave me alone, stalker.

The Millennial generation - they consider texting and sexting a quality relationship - often gets blamed for the death of dating but maybe they're not the culprit.

I wrote on Facebook: "Saw the sweetest proposal! Guy takes his girlfriend to look at iPads. When she turns it on the message on the screen asks, 'Will you marry me?'"

He needed to man up and not do it via technology.

He needs to stop hiding behind technology.

I am not a fan of men trying to get at women via technology.

Quelle backlash, ma cherie!  And from my 20-something friends!

I saw how much effort the guy put in to surprising his girlfriend so I defended the digital proposal. "I don't like guys using FB or texting to ask for a date, calling's better, but he'd obviously spent time to make the proposal memorable."

My 20-something friends won't budge. They say people hide behind technology. So maybe dating's demise can't be blamed on Millennials but instead on the enduring fear of rejection...or that we'll wind up looking like a pug.

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You Are Beautiful

Photo: Maria Peterson Photography

An elderly woman approached me in the store. "You have a cute nose," she said. "Is it yours?"

"She asked because you live in Hollywood," a friend said. Maybe. Or have we become so used to images of injected, tucked, implanted women that the real thing surprises us?

Friends said my feelings about cosmetic surgery would change as I got older. They haven't. I still think women often look less attractive after their procedures.

One friend's lips are so plump she reminds me of the Joker. I'm not being mean; I just thought her mouth was the right size and shape for her thin face before the fillers.

I used to dread representing my station at public events; viewers often slammed my natural hair, full lips, curvy (size six) hips. 

So my TV bosses would hire a stylist, hair and makeup artists to mold me into the perfect talking head. 

"I don't care if you make me a blonde," I told them, "It's your money."

I've learned to accept the ugly side of show business but I still don't want to try to look like Beyoncé. Of course, she's gorgeous but no amount of nipping, Botoxing or augmenting will make me Beyoncé.

Thankfully the mirror doesn't have to remain our enemy. Accepting our natural beauty is worth far more than any perpetually perky boobs or flawlessly sculpted abs will ever be.

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