RECENT MUSINGS

SOMETIMES IT'S HARD TO LOVE (Posted March 10)
I know I preach love and peace, but I have to admit that it's very hard to love some people. All I can often do is wonder what happened to their humanity and to their souls.
Not necessarily in any order, these are some of the people that I almost detest: Any adult who sexually, physically or verbally abuses any youngster under the age of 18 (and sometimes I put that age at 21); any man who sexually, physically or verbally abuses a woman, no matter what the age; any woman who sexually, physically or verbally abuses a man, no matter what the age; any man or woman who believes that issues can only be resolved by violence; any man, woman or child who would injure or kill another, except in the circumstance of self-defense; any human being who maliciously harms defenseless animals; and anyone who would steal from anyone else.
We seem to be living in a time frame where consciences are disappearing. People beat up on other people without caring about the consequences. Sometimes, they even kill without apparent remorse. Law-abiding citizens are no longer safe in their home or cars. The days of leaving doors and windows unlocked are in the past.
Men beat their wives and vice versa. The institution of marriage is disintegrating, and the major victims are usually the children of that marriage, who must grow up without either a mother or father. Many children, through no fault of their own, are brought into an already crowded world as the result of a casual sexual relationship outside marriage, and they have to grow up wondering who and why they really are.
Do I believe in loveless marriages, even if there are children? No, because everyone, including the kids, may end up being hurt in some form or fashion. (I speak from personal experience here.)
Instead of kind words in society, too many times we hear rude, obscene and hateful language. Road rage has become part of our vocabulary in this hurried, impatient and violent society -- and the end result can be injury and death.
Where is the love? Where is the peace? I choose those principles, and I hope many, many others agree. Good may never conquer evil until time, as we know it, ends, but that doesn't mean that we who care about the positive principals of life can lay down our values and quit the fight, if only for our own personal accomplishment.
Hate, violence and disrespect of others accomplish nothing in this world. I suppose we only pray for the souls of those who believe in those things and pray that our families and friends will not become victims of those sad, sick people.
Which choice will we ultimately make?
-- Toney Atkins
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USING GOD'S NAME IN VAIN (Rough draft, posted March 9, 2006)
By now you've probably heard of that profanely obscene and insanely-acting independent Baptist group that dishonors God, Jesus and any aspect of Christianity in staging protests at military funerals.
A news service reported that Fred Phelps, the Topeka, Kan., pastor who has been protesting at the funerals of U.S. troops slain in Iraq, engages in “hate-filled activities” and is not a Southern Baptist, according to SBC President Bobby Welch.
The published report, along with reports on CNN, say Phelps and his followers from Westboro Baptist Church -- notorious for their “God hates fags” posters -- have staged protests at soldiers’ funerals in several states. The group reasons that roadside bombs killing American troops in Iraq are God’s retribution against America for a small bomb that caused approximately $1,800 damage outside the Topeka home of one of Phelps’ daughters in 1995. The group also emphasizes that it opposes the U.S. military for allowing homosexuals to serve. The military's "don't ask, don't tell" policy prevents homosexuals from serving openly but also prohibits the military from asking soldiers about their sexual preference.
Some news coverage has shown members carrying handmade signs that accuse all soldiers of being "faggots" and indications that they praise God every time they learn of the death of a member of the armed forces in Iraq or Afghanistan.
Westboro Baptist is an independent church not affiliated with the Southern Baptist Convention -- and what real Christian would lower himself or herself to support the group?
If you've seen any of the TV coverage, you've witnessed the pastor, with glaring, almost demonic eyes, spouting his beliefs, none of them truly supported by the Bible, and calling anyone who disagrees with him "perverted." One of the church women is a frightening example of hate, hatefully spouting venom into a microphone that they were going to force the "cup of God to their mouths and make them drink" (that's slightly paraphrased).
To insult and hurt survivors of troops who have died in Iraq and Afghanistan in this dreadful manner is so distasteful that even Satan might spit it out. All the protests are doing is hatefully disrupting services in which families are having to deal with their suffering and grief at the loss of young men and women who probably met their deaths performing a duty that the group's members wouldn't have the courage to dirty their hands to do.
Thankfully, a wonderful group of flag-waving motorcyclists has mobilized, and they go to the scene of the protests, get between the protesters and the grieving families, and rev their bikes to drown out the vicious taunts from the questionably self-proclaimed Christians.
Sadly, this is an example of a hate group operating under what they say is the banner of God. We don't stop to remember that while we fight enemies abroad that there are organizations of hate across the good old USA who go even farther than the Phelps and commit acts of violence and rage against those Americans with whom they disagree. Some of them would overthrow the government if they could and proclaim this to be a "white man's land" (forgetting, perhaps, that today's U.S. exists only because the white man invaded the land of the native, darker-skinned Indians, slaughtering them, taking away their lands and eventually cramming the country's remaining original inhabitants onto reservations). Some of the current hate groups claim superiority over blacks, Jews and others. They're still among us; they're just so secret that few know about their presence and their actions -- except, perhaps for the law enforcement agencies that try to keep track of them in this Age of Terrorism.
The creepy thing is that Phelps' group is small now, but how many other uninformed, even ignorant, folks might join them in trying to completely devastate the funerals and homegoing services for our brave men and women who gave their lives so that such people could have their vindictive and misinformed freedom of speech.
The Phelps have a ministry of hate. We can only pray that other genuinely Christian groups don't fall into their anti-Christian movement trap. (Someone hand them a copy of the New Testament and ask them to study the red words of Jesus. Of course, be prepared to have it thrown back in your face by these gospel hypocrites.) -- Toney Atkins
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REPUTATION AND BROKEN GLASS (Posted March 9, 2006)

I heard a good line in a movie the other night. Unfortunately, I don't remember the film's title, and I'll have to paraphrase the line. It went something like: "A reputation is like a glass. Once it's broken, it can't be repaired."
To a great extent, that's true. We can try to mend the glass, but Super Glue notwithstanding, the cracks will still be seen.
Sometimes we break our own glass, and sadly, many times, others do it for us.
Speaking only for myself, I can think of times in my life that I actually did nothing wrong, but malicious gossipers (who probably couldn't even face themselves in a mirror) delighted in playing on unsubstantiated suspicions and spreading false rumors. Those were cracks in the glass over which I had no control.
I have always tried to treat others as I would like to be treated, but admittedly, I could not always live up to the expectations of those others. Therefore, cracks appeared in my reputation.
Being human, I have done things for which I have had regrets, and if I could go back in time, they wouldn't have happened and the reputation in my own mind wouldn't have been cracked.
I could have stared at the broken glass if I had chosen to do so, living a life of despondency and depression.
However, I chose to trash the broken glass and get a new one. It's up to me to wipe off the spots every now and then and, especially, avoid cracking or breaking it.
As long as I can look at that new glass and know within myself that I am doing my best to take good care of it, I don't really care if others who might have narrow minds see only the discarded broken glass. The new one may never remain spotless, but that will be up to me and no one else.
Lies and misconceptions on the part of those others will crack my glass only if I allow it to happen, and why should I worry about those in this life who only look for invisible blemishes and breaks? -- Toney Atkins
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'CRASH' AND 'BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN' -- CONTROVERSIAL STORIES THAT NEEDED TO BE TOLD (Posted March 8, 2006)

With all the hoopla surrounding multi-award-winner "Brokeback Mountain," it came as a surprise to many that "Crash," a violent, often profane exploration of today's human condition, won the Academy Award for "Best Picture."
Being no expert and having seen only three of the nominees for the honor, I was torn between "Crash" and "Brokeback Mountain" as to what would be my favorite. Both tackle social issues in different ways. One is sometimes hard-to-watch non-stop action, while the other leisurely and dramatically examines an issue that most Americans don't really like to talk about, even though it's honestly real and a secret part of life for many people -- particularly men.
Examining the concept that people today rarely know one another because of fear, mistrust and even hate, "Crash" takes a superb all-star cast through about 36 hours of "crashing" into one another in surviving their everyday lives and the tragedies we all can face at one time or another.
The film examines racism, sexism, police brutality, corruption (political and otherwise) and antisocial behavior in general. The theatrical version has been re-released because of its new award status, but the impact is still very strong in the small screen DVD version. It's not for the kids because of the violence, sexual situations and language. In a way, it's a sad commentary about how far apart our society has grown despite perceived knowledge and "advancements" of the past half-century. I've seen it twice, and I likely will view it again in the future.
"Brokeback Mountain," although flawed and certainly not the first of its kind to examine a still almost taboo theme in America, is groundbreaking in that it tells a heartbreaking love story without resorting to sensationalism. While many have referred to the two central macho, Marboro man type characters as "gay cowboys," that reference is a bit much. Starting in the 1960s, the cowboys (actually watching over a sheep herd) develop a strong friendship in which there is a sexual encounter. Their friendship and fondness for one another lasts even after they go their separate ways, marry women and have children. They meet again at Brokeback Mountain over the years where they can express their socially-forbidden feedings for one another.
Why, then, do I say they are not "gay" cowboys? I would say they are bisexual or just plain sexual, with one having more of a capacity to want love and commitment than the other. What may be upsetting to many men (straight and "otherwise") is the underlying revelation that many, many men (macho straight and otherwise) have had same sex sex contact in some form or fashion at one time or another in their lives. Does that make them gay? No. Society has a way of categorizing and ostracizing people without even attempting to understand them and without even knowing the truth.
"Brokeback Mountain" prompted many jokes and at least some dialogue, based on what I heard outside the theater. Will it change perceptions? I doubt it, but the adult story is good in its exploration of the joys and pain that come with love, no matter what kind of love it is. An excellent cast (the men and the women) helps make this film work as fine storytelling.
Perhaps all of the nominated films for this year's Oscars, all made outside the Hollywood mainstream, will inspire the movie industry to bring us more thought-provoking films that don't rely on a deluge of special effects to ensure financial success. (How about an updated "All the President's Men," with an exploration of the real-life corruption and misleadership in today's political system? I'd pay to see it.) -- Toney Atkins
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RETURN (Posted March 3, 2006)
A great writer once said, "You can't go home again."
I don't know how much truth there really is in that -- although, admittedly, there's some. I'm back. It's home. But it's not the same. I guess it never is, so the writer was correct to some extent.
I left northwest Georgia for a new career in Florida more than 30 years ago. There were several reasons for severing the ties with the place I was born and where I had always lived, but I won't write about those until a later entry.
It began with a vacation to the so-called Sunshine State. I felt exhilaration, a sense of freedom that I had not felt for most of my childhood or young adult life. I was raised to be a "good" boy, and the "don'ts" and "do's" often found themselves on a collision course. A lot of people had put me on a pedestal -- one that I hadn't truly earned -- and heights always made me dizzy and feeling that I was on the verge of falling.
Leaving a small, mill-village town for a resort city was a dramatic change and challenge for me, especially after an unexpected job offer to do something I had always wanted to do made me decide to stay in Florida and make the dream come true. The grass may not have been greener, but the sands of the beach certainly seemed a lot brighter. Odd now, when I think about it, that even while living near the ocean in later years, I rarely stepped onto the sand or into the surf.
Journalism was a thrill for me. The early days of my experience were a few years before computers and cell phones, when you had to do literal footwork to get a story. On my first night, I saw bodies, young and old, lying on roadways after several horrific auto accidents and and talked with weeping survivors and investigators. You had to go to the scenes of fires eating homes and businesses and try to keep composure and be compassionate as you talked to those who had lost everything. You had to go to murder scenes and the places where drug raids had been conducted. You had to muddy your feet, running through a muddy, snake infested swamp when gunshots signaled that missing little girls had been found after an all-night search by authorities and many concerned citizens had been conducted. Meanwhile, you had to be considerate of the heroes of the law enforcement officers and firefighters who had to deal with these tragedies and victories and know when they could and would talk to you.
You had to prove integrity so that the common man and people in governmental positions would talk to you, knowing that if something was off the record, it was something that no one else would ever know. You knew that a phone call could set off a string of phone calls that could turn into a major story. You learned to feel the adrenaline when the driver of the car behind you on a lonely stretch of road in the middle of the night pulled beside you, motioning for you to stop, and giving you just enough information to make you turn around and go back to a town council meeting that had resumed after you left. You had to report a scandal, despite threats, that could have sent people to jail -- and be able to breathe a sigh of relief when they pleaded no contest in court and escaped imprisonment.
You had to be able to sit comfortably in the company of people from all walks of life and lifestyles, hear their points of view, their complaints, their hates, their loves.
The "good news" stories were my favorites, but they didn't always sell papers. In-depth research into racism, hate groups and killer diseases could be draining, psychologically and physically, but the reward came when there was a sense of accomplishment in the realization that I had been able to expose some truths that readers needed to know.
Life wasn't a beach, I was to learn quickly. Life was people, good and bad, and realization that each person was unique, as was each situation.
My job was my mistress, keeping my life exciting and my brain alive with its own orgasms.
I was to meet and interview governors, other officials who had power, politicians who wanted that power, civil rights leaders, singing stars, movie stars, TV stars and want-to-be celebrities. Sometimes, and I still don't know how it happened, I caught a glimpse of the real soul, the real person beneath the personalities -- some glimpses I could write about, many I couldn't. I got to share the joys of the successes of average men and women, as well as fight tears when I talked to a devastated mother whose small child had been found dead in a locked school bus on an extremely hot afternoon.
The only physical prize I ever won during my career was an achievement award for a story in the early days -- and that was good. The best prizes were in my heart whenever I believed I did something right. My writings were sometimes controversial and I found myself in hot water more times than once, but I masochistically loved the heat.
Being an only child, my parents always wanted me to come "home," but I had two homes. Was I happy in the Florida home? Sometimes. Was I happy when I visited the Georgia home? Sometimes. Happiness anywhere was sometimes as elusive as a fly. Real friends were few, but I am grateful for the few. Acqaintances, good and not-so-good were plenty, especially if they wanted something from you.
My return to my home in Georgia was anticipated but not planned. It was precipitated by my father's unexpected hospitalization and ultimate passing. Mother had died more than 10 years before.
My successes and failures in life have all required massive readjustments, and going -- or coming -- home again has been no exception. But I thank God I'm here.
Yes, over the past few years I've gotten more eccentric than ever, more reclusive, more of a hermit -- and my moments of happiness come when I talk to my favorite cousin and my dad's favorite friend or feel the warmth and the legendary Southern hospitality of the wonderful folks at the Country Cafe off the beaten path in Rossville and at the Golden Corral in Fort Oglethorpe. I can stop by the Home Depot and shake hands with a new friend whose adventures in life are really just beginning and who is going to have a positive impact on the world, whether or not he knows it yet. Then, I can send an email or two to people about whom I think and care, catch the news, watch a movie and do a little bit of writing on my future book.
Who said, "Home is where the heart is"? All I can say -- when I feel a grateful smile come to my face as my head hits the pillow when the sun begins to rise and Lookout Mountain looks down in its magnificence -- is, "Yep, I'm here and I'm glad. Home at last!"
Life's new beginnings, with tears and joy together -- I can't help but love them!
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