Beginning ... Again.

In the 20 years my husband and I have been together, we have moved from Colorado, to Texas to Missouri, and multiple times within each. But when you move, you get a chance to start fresh. That's what I like. 

Growing up with a military dad, we moved a lot. It was to my advantage, though. I got to reinvent myself in every new town and school. There is something to be said for having the 7 year, biblical redo. They erased all debts and returned property every 7 years. That could explain bankruptcy and credit rules today. 

Anyway, we are starting over--and I like it. I get a chance at a new job, new show, new audience. And so does the hubs. 

We shall see what happens next. I'll keep you updated. 

Audra Caine

Censorship. Control. Safety?

We ran across an issue this weekend with a possible FCC regulations violation, simply stated "you are not allowed advertise/entice with hard liquor samples on the radio."  The station's marketing person knew it, but the client's guest vendor had not yet been instructed in the legal ramifications on our end. While the FCC requires we control what is aired on our stations, regulations are still far more liberal than in the past.  No big deal. 

This morning, though, I ran across a story on twitter:

This event marked the beginning of the end of a freedom for the Chinese that we hold dear to us in these United States: freedom of speech. Yes, I am aware that in the immediate sense of 1989, they were assembling, something we all should cherish, but open communication in China has virtually been halted since then. 

BEIJING (AP) — Remember June 4, Shi Shusi asked the 1.5 million readers of his popular microblog last year. Moments later, his postings were erased. A note from the microblog operator said they were "inappropriate publicity." The Tiananmen crackdown "is absolutely crucial to understanding the way press censorship works today," said David Bandurski, editor of the China Media Project at Hong Kong University. "The notion was that you have to control public opinion through media control to maintain social and political stability." Commentators who hoped the rise of satellite TV, the Internet and social media would loosen the party's monopoly on power were disappointed. As millions of Chinese went online and acquired smartphones, Beijing spent heavily to develop high-tech filters.

While I sat thinking about my own freedom to "blog", I noticed another story:  

This time, freedom of speech comes back to bite the internet's newest golden boy, and it turns out he might not be so "golden".  He sent some very masogynistic emails back in college. Of course, he has since apologized. He is 23 now, and says he has matured since then. Umm, yeah. But still, we're talking about it...we can talk about it. 

And yet, this was by far the most profound and America-positive story of the morning: 

No, the topic is not positive, but the discussion is the most positive thing we do in this country. You may not agree with those talking heads on TV or crazy man in the box, but by golly, they are free to yammer on all they want. 

In China, as well as many other countries, they do not speak of these types of historical oppression. The genocide of the Native American people would have been "erased", the slavery of Africans brought to this country would be censored, were it not for freedom of speech. Censorship=Amnesia

Yes, we do allow a great deal out of Pandora's Box with the internet. But what about all the good? What about those who share their joy? Children and their deployed parents communicating via the web, old high school friends who stay in touch via Facebook, and the learning! The children's, high school and college education available through our free and open internet is amazing!

Last, but never least, we share the love of God through the freedom of speech in this country every day. Whether you are a follower of Christ, God, Buddha, Allah, Mohammed or otherwise sacred power, you are free to express it in America. 

We host a great many international students at our church, and I will never forget one young Chinese businessman who came to Southeast Missouri State for one semester only, to learn English. As we hung out in the college classroom in the Family Life Center, he asked me "Why do you do this?" After some interpretation, and further explanation of what he really was asking, I told him that sharing our space and being kind and welcoming is what Christ calls us to do. "Love the Lord God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength, and love your neighbor as yourself." (Matthew 22: 37-39)  

It was not until this morning that I realized how important my words could have been in the life of this man from China.  I could have preached against the communist way of living. I could have droned on about how great America is for everyone.  I am relieved to look back now and know that I was more of a follower of Christ than I ever tried to be at any point in my life...and it wasn't all that hard to do. I didn't have to fight a government that oppresses me, or hack a network to get past a filter, or most importantly, stand down a tank. 

I have seen it quoted a great deal lately that "history is written by the victors".  Yes, that is often the case, but not so much as it was prior to film, tv, radio, and the internet. 

Please remember Tiananmen. The future generations of China may need us as their witnesses to write their history.

May the Lord of all free those who are oppressed, confined, enslaved, and censored in the name of 'their own safety'. Amen

Lonesome Whistle

I woke this morning to a lonesome train whistle at 5:45am. How do I know it was lonesome? Well, it sounded sad in the silence. But I'll admit, I was a little sad.

 

It's Mother's Day. And even though I am lying in bed listening to my husband softly snoring, (softly, I swear) I feel a bit like the train whistle.  

I won't see my mother or grandmother today, as I would like. My mother is in Texas, and my grandmother is definitely with The Lord. I say definitely because, if she was locked out of Heaven, she would talk to St. Peter until he agreed to let her in. But I digress. 

The train whistle. I used to live close to a train in Waco, Texas. When I say close, I mean that the windows rattled. It was a roller coaster time in my personal life, but I loved my radio family during that time. The train became my alarm, as I worked mornings with Flash. I often considered the train my lifesaver, until it blocked my path across the road. 

When we lived in Austin, the train ran through the center of town, down Mopac between the traffic lanes. It always fascinated me that they built the highway straddling the train. It moved away by the river, and we rarely heard the whistle in our home. 

The train that rolls in the Hill Country near my parents' home in South Texas has become more audible since developers have come in and cleared the land. I wonder sometimes if the train I heard in Waco or saw in Austin was the same one that rolled through the hills. 

My parents have my grandmother's antique bedroom suite. I used to sleep with my husband and the twins in that bedroom on the train side of the house, and listen for the whistle, waking to the feeling of my grandmother touching my arm the way she always did.  It used to aggravate me when I was young, but that bedroom was a haven for her spirit for a time. 

When I awoke this Mother's Day, it was the loneliness in my heart that the train's whistle called to, for my mother and my grandmother. I wondered how to assuage it, as it threatened to overtake me. So, I turned to the Upperroom: 

As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you.  - Isaiah 66:13 (NIV)

The author's prayer today? 'Help us to depend on you, dear God, as children depend on their mother. Amen.'

It occurs to me now that when I was furthest from God, the train was closest to me-the whistle loud and overwhelming. When my faith has been strongest, the train and it's whistle have been soft and sometimes distant. This is the way he shows His love, rattling the windows and then moving away as we are close to the river, the water of life. 

This Mother's Day, I take comfort in God's word, and His presence in my daily living. 

Yes, Lord, I hear you...softly blowing the whistle for me.  

Can you hear me now?

Occasionally, you hear yourself--and think "that's not me"!  But it is. And you realize, the person you are in your head might actually be the real you. 

I was out of radio for too long. I was never really okay with it, I pretended I was, but I was lying to myself. I would hear women on the radio and be aware of their every misstep, squeak, and error. I told myself I could do it better. Or so I thought. 

But what of those years absent from the air? Well, I like to think I invested in my listening skills. Hearing myself from the outside is easier now, as I can record--voice track--a shift in order to multitask. But listening to it gives me the ability to rate my own work, and hear what was inside my head from the listeners' point of reflection. (I made a lot of sound level errors yesterday, btw.)

It's the engagement that I am seeking. How can I keep them interested? Tell a story that will delight and engage...this is my journey now. Take the me inside my head, the witty, kind, thoughtful me, and hand it over to the person on the other side of the radio. 

What do I have to offer? I am, and have always been a radio listener--it just so happens that I am the DJ too. 

Want to listen? K103FM.com. 

M-F 2-7pm

I'm the one with the smile in my voice. 

Cape Central Tiger Jungle

An open letter to the CT Jungle:

This year we have ushered in the Class of 2014, a little bittersweet for me.

The year we moved to Cape was 2009, & our kids began 7th grade, and I subbed for a while--a lot at the junior high for the 8th graders who are now seniors. 

I had a great time, and watched stayed connected when I could, even after I departed to attend college at Southeast. 

This group of *Bo-Eric-Travis* kids has often acknowledged me for having been the fun sub, and asked me to come back over the years, and don't think I wasn't tempted. But radio is a career, and substitute teaching was never meant to be one.  But I digress, and this was meant to be a letter to The Jungle. 

Tigers, you made us proud tonight. You have shown great school spirit this first part of the football season, filling the stands--even tonight in the rain. We have been to games with better weather and far less Jungle present.  Even when we were down 40-7 at the half, y'all stayed. And cheered. And chanted. Mind you, this was all without the band to egg you on...

To sum up: keep it going. I want to see you finish strong. Making the grades, skipping the drunken parties, and proving that your generation has just as much to offer as the ones who have come before. 

What? Too deep? Fine. Whatever. 

GO TIGERS! 

*Bo-Eric-Travis? Yeah. Bo Wilferth, Eric Craiglow and Travis Simmons thought it was cute to switch names in class. I figured it out. Eric's a bad liar and Duncan McKinley and Jacob Boerboom kept laughing. Dead giveaway. Class of 2014, enjoy your senior year. 

Possessions

Possessions.  Life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.-Luke 12:15

Haha. I thought I wanted to tackle this. Psych. 😝

Help Me

As the summer draws to a close, the twins scramble to squeeze everything in, including the summer reading books: The Catcher in the Rye and The Help. I do not envy them the aggravating tale of Holden Caulfield. I never enjoyed a book less than that one. The Help, however, was a painful look at a part of America's past that hit far too close to home for my comfort.  I see the connection between the two, though. 

Anissa and I watched the movie version of The Help with Emma Stone just a few months ago. It was a strong retelling of the 1960s segregated south. While the pain of black Americans during this period was deep and unmistakeable, the story focused on the narrater Skeeter's pain. She was robbed of a relationship with a black woman caregiver by her fearful white mother-a woman driven by other people's prejudices. Skeeter is a journalist, and decides to tell the story of the painful truth of the black maids in the south. She almost comes unravelled in the process. 

As we watched, Anissa grew more distraught with the concept and every hate filled act of ignorance. She wept, and I wept for her. It was not something she had truly seen in her life. We often laugh and say "you do go to public school"--but her school is integrated. Our kids have many friends who are black, or biracial, or hispanic, or whatever. We have worked hard to create an environment of love and acceptance for all. We have even brought international college students into our lives for them to know the world. 

But the book, it is bringing it all back for her. Every painful detail. And her love for her friends, it clouds her comprehension of who could think that way. I remember. I remember many who did. Including me. 

I remember being in 4th grade. It was 1976.  (10 years after my father's high school-my future school-was integrated.) We had moved to Germany, and knew no one. My father was Air Force, and we went to school on base. The first friend I made was Dorothy. She was so beautiful. Caramel skin, curly hair, and funny!  She was nice to me, and I wanted to be her friend. But, I lived in a house that didn't allow it. I knew that, or at least I thought I knew. My parents were much like Skeeter's, it was just how they were raised. They never knew that I had turned down Dorothy's request to have a sleep over because her father was black. I was afraid of what my daddy would say, but I never gave him a chance to say anything.  I allowed our friendship to disintegrate. (I never noticed the origins of that word until just now.) I have regretted it ever since. There were moments in high school that I had opportunities to fight the color barrier, but I was too scared of fighting that battle. I didn't push. (Sorry, Reggie, you deserved a chance.)

While I was in high school, my father went back to college. I remember being so proud to attend his graduation. A degree in industrial management. But it was the psychology classes of his minor that helped him the most. He finally understood the why of how he was raised, and moved forward. My father is a Democrat, and I wasn't sure what he would do in 2008. He called me the first time he voted for Obama. I cried when I got off the phone. I cried for Dorothy. I cried for me. My tears were for a victory that wasn't about an election. It was about my childhood, and all those lost relationships. All those I could have loved, but allowed society to tell me I shouldn't. 

Anissa texted me yesterday-she and Dave were driving to a conference youth meeting in Springfield. She said the book was upsetting her so much that she had to put it down for a while. I reassured her as best I could, but it brought back so many painful memories of chances missed, bravery denied. I still was haunted last night by the president's words: "It could have been me." Yes, Sir, it could have. But if its up to Anissa and Austin's generation, it won't always have to be that way. 

My children don't have to feel afraid, like I did, they just need to feel. My words to you: don't allow yours to grow up in a color cocoon, it will break their hearts later when they realize what they have missed out on. 

Dorothy and I, we weren't meant to be.  But my new friend Tamara? Yes, she and I have a chance. 

Sorry, I couldn't resist including the DYAC moment. Oh, and don't worry, she'll finish the book, she's too much like her mother and grandfather to not finish what she starts.