Saturday marked the first time in my life in which I have been completely unable to respond to something someone said to me in a conversation.
Those of you who know me well know that I can usually talk to anyone about anything, and come up with pretty quick responses. Such was the case Saturday, when I volunteered at the Centralia Outreach Center’s monthly food pantry ministry, in which members of Destiny Christian Center, Bethel Church and other churches including mine team up to give food boxes to the underserved and needy in our community.
By 9 a.m., a line of more than 40 people formed around the Destiny building on North Tower Avenue in Centralia. Men, women, kids, teens, you name it — they showed up and waited their turn, and one of my responsibilities was to serve coffee to them with my friend Megan.
We chatted them up and I got to know a few of their names. Some didn’t want to talk, but most of them enjoyed a laugh or two. I was glad to help provide a moment of relief for people that were very obviously down on their luck.
After handing out coffee, I went and helped people carry food boxes to people’s cars in the Destiny parking lot. It was a chance for more conversation: one woman talked about car troubles and what she was doing to fix them, another man talked sports — then came the moment.
I began to carry a box full of food for a young man in a Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt. Couldn’t have been any older than his early 20’s. He had a cigarette in his hand and was generally friendly.
We walked down the sidewalk from the outreach center as I asked him in an upbeat voice, “Where are we going with this?”
I chose to spend my Independence Day evening in a town a short way off the beaten path. Pe Ell, Washington is not big by any means, and most people just pass through it on their way to the coast from Chehalis.
But tonight, the town banded together to put on a fireworks show that would rival those of larger cities. A friend and colleague of mine was part of the pyrotechnics team that put on the show — and I must say they did a tremendous job.
Thanks to the good folks at New Harvest Assembly, and all those who donated to make the show possible.
On a late November day in 2011, I took a phone call from a man in Springfield, Missouri, working as the digital content (read: web, mobile, etc.) manager for a television station there.
It was a call that would change my immediate future. You see, just a month or two earlier, I had felt the need to leave my job at The Chronicle, a newspaper in Centralia, Washington, and do something bigger and better that could enhance my career.
I answered the call. Two hours later, I wrote a resignation letter and told my friends and family I would soon be off to Missouri where I was going to work for a television station.
Maybe it was a need for validation. Maybe I sought effusive adulation. I don’t know, but at any rate, I was convinced a job at the #1 TV station in a city 10 times that of Centralia would validate my career and be a springboard for me to work in a similar capacity in Portland someday.
I moved to Springfield, and things were great…
…for six months.
My parents, whom I was close geographically to in Springfield, decided to move to Louisiana, where Dad got a job. My supervisor left, and even though I applied for his position, I was passed over for it (and to be frank, I never forgave the powers-that-be for doing so…again, read the need for validation above). Over the coming months, I felt relegated to a lesser role than I had known when I first arrived to the TV station.
The glass case that held my dreams shattered under the weight of something known as reality. It crashed loudly, shattered into pieces that could not be repaired, and left a mess in its wake.
I could never come to terms with the fact my job kept me behind a desk, in a building, doing something I increasingly did not want to do. I began to wonder why I moved in the first place.
I left my church in search of a new one, although the reason for that was not connected to my job at all — rather, that was a matter of personal need. But for most of 2013, I began to put my faith in Christ on a shelf of sorts, knowing that I believed in God and communicating with him at will, which became increasingly less.
An opportunity arose in mid-August (I think) of last year to go visit my parents in Louisiana. They had just bought a new house and were attending a small Assembly of God church in a town just off Interstate 20. Life for the most part was decent for them.
I visited my parents’ church and was instantly struck by the contrast between it and a megachurch across the freeway. Not even half the pews were full, the pastor himself led worship, and the building was aging. Yet I noticed something when an elderly man walked up to the stage and led those present in three hymns, one of which was “Revive Us Again.”
We began to sing.
Hallelujah, Thine the glory
Hallelujah, Thine the glory
Revive us again
The music wasn’t great, the singing may have been a bit off key, and there wasn’t anyone raising their hands — but this man stood up front vigorously leading the worship. I sang along, and in the middle of the song, I felt a sort of calm in my heart that I had not felt in awhile.
It wasn’t some major earth-shattering spiritual moment in which I started crying and fell to my knees, overcome with emotion. Rather, it was as if a bell resonated in my heart and I listened to its clear tone ring out above all the noise in my life. From that point forward, my faith in Christ was revived as I sang a hymn that in my mind had been tucked away for years.
I probed inside my mind and I realized the mess the dream that had shattered left was cleaned up, just as if nothing had ever been there.
Over the coming months, I began to foster an intense desire to move to the Northwest, a region I knew in my heart I was inexorably tied to. I knew I wanted to return home to the people and territory I felt dear.
A job ad appeared for a business and education reporter at The Chronicle — my former position before I left for Missouri. I applied.
And on a late November day in 2013, I took a phone call from a man in Centralia, Washington, working as the editor for the newspaper there.
That too was a call that would change my immediate future. But it wouldn’t change just that — my response to it meant a permanent change in one important facet of life.
By accepting the job, I acknowledged I would start over again in Centralia — and that I would forever forgo that dream of enhancing a career with the goal of climbing up the ladder. I knew I would instead have to focus on a rather rural area that I had a big love in my heart for.
In the months that I have been back, the Lord has been at work. I have returned to the church I attended before I left, I have made new friends in addition to connecting with old ones I love dearly, and God is opening doors to impact the small community in which I live through teamwork and vision.
Connecting with people in this community has been easier and more impactful than I could have ever imagined, and I have surrounded myself with people who share a similar passion for the people of the Lewis County area. They serve to encourage and invigorate me.
I saw the movie The Fault in Our Stars on Saturday, and it brought forth a salient point. Without giving too much away, one of the main characters reveals that they are scared of oblivion, stating that when one dies, they are largely forgotten, and that they wanted to make a big impact on people when they are alive and be remembered in a big way, by many people.
My desire had always been to do just that: to be a person who showcases his intelligence to many and solves some sort of grand problem in the world or invents some sort of product that changes people’s lives for the better. I had always wanted to make a grand impact on society somehow and deluded myself for many years into thinking I was going to do so.
But as in the movie, when the person’s love interest tells them that the person has their love and that should be enough, the perspective I used to have has similarly shifted.
The lights and busy streets in my visions have faded to a point in which they no longer exist. They have been replaced by rural roads snaking through farmland, forests, mountains and serene areas, with people interspersed throughout who just want to offer a friendly word or share about life as it is.
My desire today is to somehow benefit the community in which I am a part, and I don’t even need to play a grand role in doing so. I have realized that I can impact one person, who can in turn impact another and the result can be exponential because of many people working together.
And that’s the real reason I have come back to Centralia — not just because I love the area and I wanted my old job back, but to bless this area as part of a team that can change things for the better. I truly believe it is going to happen.
I am a blessed man, and I am given a tremendous gift in which I enjoy this life day by day with a renewed sense of purpose and faith.
I took a test shot of sorts using the HDR feature on my Moto X phone today. Some people love the camera, others hate it — but I found it to work rather decently for what I wanted to do, and that was to see if I could get a usable shot of a building that was in essence blocking the sun.
Everything looks better in black and white, I think.
During my time as a reporter at The Chronicle in Centralia, Wash., I covered several beats, but the most complex certainly dealt with business and nonprofits. My reporting would reach its climax in November 2011 as it was discovered $465,000 was gone from the Lewis County Historical Museum’s endowment fund.
Half a million dollars missing from a fund that people contributed to — and several donated to upon their death — is a big deal. I received a tip on this November 1, 2011 and went hard to work to get to the bottom of the issue.
It was alleged that the museum’s executive director, Debbie Knapp, made personal transactions using at least $137,000 of that money (“$137,000 Traced to Transactions Allegedly Made by Debbie Knapp From Museum Accounts,” by Christopher Brewer, The Chronicle, Dec. 30, 2011). It was money that should not have been touched by anyone, but also should have been overseen by a board of directors that by all indications did not do their jobs. Knapp has since confessed in court to theft charges and will reportedly spend a year in the Lewis County Jail.
In my reporting, I obtained documents that showed the financial state of the museum. These were difficult to access at first. A financial committee that had been organized to look into the finances had been assembled, and only after museum members voted in all new board members after my first report on the drawdown became public (“Museum Endowment Fund Loses More Than $450,000; Independent Audit Forthcoming,” by Brewer, The Chronicle, Nov. 1, 2011) did there begin any significant movement on figuring out how the money disappeared.
Some of you asked if you could see my farewell column I wrote for The Chronicle (it was published today). Seeing as their website has a paywall and I am a generous human being, here you go.
Its title is “How To Succeed Without Really Trying.”
There’s a good chance that as your eyes are scanning this column right now that I’ll probably be pointed eastward in my car, somewhere along Interstate 84 in eastern Oregon.
Here’s why: I was escorted out of my cubicle at The Chronicle by our editorial board at noon Wednesday and banished from the city of Centralia by order of the mayor’s office, apparently due to mental anguish suffered by my print colleagues upon learning I would be “crossing over” to a television job in Missouri.
I can’t remember who necessarily said it, but while I was being tied down to my chair and subjected to a blanket party in which every employee of every department of The Chronicle beat me soundly, someone muttered “I can’t believe you transferred to the dark side, you jerk.”
Okay, okay. In all seriousness, I made a decision roughly a month ago to pursue a career opportunity with a television station in Springfield, Mo. As I grew up in Rainier, Ore., 50 miles south of here — and incidentally, the town in which our esteemed columnist Gordon Aadland received his first teaching job outside South Dakota — I consider this entire area home, and it’s never easy to uproot from a place you know best.
It’s tough to go, especially considering I’ll be moving from one of the most majestic areas of the United States to an area that knows no mountains. But it’s something I have to do, although I’ll be leaving behind scores of good people, most of whom have influenced my life for the better.
To those whom I have come to know in a professional capacity: It’s been great working with each of you and I wish you well. I pray our businesses in Lewis County become prosperous, and that our educational system gets the support it needs to continue functioning well.
To the young people of our area: I know a good 96.2 percent of you feel like you’re stuck in Lewis County, but I’d like to challenge you to step out of your social circle or your comfort zone and spend some time helping the less fortunate. You’ll come away with a drastically different view of our area once you get to know some great people who have sadly fallen on hard times.
To everyone else in our area: Take care of the young people and give them something to be proud of in our community. If you’re of the entrepreneurial type, now’s your time to make something happen; my mantra is that if you fail, at least you steered your own ship and gave it your best effort.
To my brothers and sisters in the faith community: Thank you for the support and prayers throughout a trying 2011, and thank you for the prayers going forward. Lewis County’s faith community is full of excellent people.
My parents always tried to instill three core values in me. They taught me to love God, treat others with that same love and respect regardless of what they think of or do to you, and conduct yourself in a respectable manner at all times.
That’s how you succeed without really trying, and I hope I’ve been able to do so here.
Thanks for everything, and I’ll catch you all down the road — that is, if I don’t get kicked out of town again upon reentry.
Whenever May 18 rolls around, it’s always appropriate to take pause and remember one of the greatest natural disasters in U.S. history — one that took numerous lives and changed a landscape for years to come.
Thirty-one years later, the mountain still brews and sends messages that it is by no means sleeping. Though the entire north face of the mountain was blown away by the 1980 eruption in what was the largest recorded landslide in our nation, the mountain is slowly but surely rebuilding itself.
I had the opportunity to hike Mount St. Helens last year with my Uncle Bobby, and it was amazing to scale a peak that just three decades, a year and a day ago towered majestically over southwest Washington. The signs of life under what you can see are nothing short of amazing.
Take a look inside the crater rim of Mount St. Helens in the photo above and click on it for higher resolution. Note Spirit Lake off in the distance, and a bit closer to the picture, all the steam vents coming off the mountain. (Photo credit: Me, but property of The Chronicle.)