Some faces beg for an explanation. Some, like my younger brother’s, just seem to yell “slap me.” Well, I was a young teen, but you know what I mean. Some faces, like my 99-year-old great grandma Kaufman’s, are mysteriously historic. Grand Canyon crevices, leathery feel, random bumps and hairs, and as bold as Bucephalus. Some, like Pat Boone’s in the 80’s, seemed plastic-ly happy. And then some are porcelain perfect. And others, confident beyond comparison.

I once stood across the grill from Jamie Escalente and couldn’t help but notice that even at his backyard cookout his face exuded a deep confidence. Our brains are wired to process stories and biographies on one side, and names on the other. They also contain a place that seems only to have one function—to react to facial expressions. Indeed, faces are open books and we read them all day.

But, on occasion, there are those that beg for an explanation—like the woman at the Marathon Station outside York, England. I looked up from the counter and there greeting me was a facial growth the size of split garden hose. It reminded me a bit of a firework snake that you light and watch grow. It was so appalling that in trying to be polite I was overly impolite. My knees weakened and I stared more than at any other person (this includes a woman at a Hong Kong hotel with eyeballs painted on her lids and forehead, and then she talked through painted lips on her palms. I realized that I had walked into the wrong conference room.) But the lady with the growth was even more stunning. Gaspingly so. She had coiled the dark thick spongy growth and taped it to her face.

Then I experienced something more shocking – a gentleness, a confidence, an understanding and a forgiveness. I stood, swallowed her soft look and talked for quite awhile. I had met a successful woman, likely straddled with the realities of socialized healthcare that didn’t cover cosmetic surgeries. But there she was, not in the back room, but at the counter. She was special, and I’m the better person for meeting her.

What faces have you met that beg for a comment?

Some stories beg for an ear, like the electric guitar I saw sticking out of a doghouse, and on top was a shiny thick-chained Doberman. I drove for many miles, in fact, to this very day, occasionally wondering about that bizarre image. "How did an electric guitar get there?" "Did the owner turn down the wrong aisle while buying dog treats?" "Was it a Fender?" "Was the owner hiding, laughing at all the brake lights on the highway?" Or, "Was he trapped inside the doghouse trying to get our attention?"

Well, suppose I'll never know. Have you had such experiences? What images come to mind that prompt your curiosity?

I often wonder what folks think when they pass through my home town of Marion, Indiana. I've taken notes on other towns ranging from Bucksnort, Tennessee, Vancouver and Cairo, to Hereford, England, Carmel, Israel, Bangkok, Isthmia, Greece and oh yeah, Buck Creek, Indiana. Perhaps my favorite place stateside is Liepers Fork, just a bit west of Franklin, Tennessee, an out-of-the way knoll like the town in Wild Hogs. All said, my family and I have been very happy here in Marion--but what do visitors think as they pass through? Perhaps:

"Those boulders around the city building are attractive but unique. Hmmm, wonder what they're for?" "That old jail looks like a castle, but are those apartments?" "Why is the Affordable Housing building so close to the street, right next to a gorgeous historic home? And why does Myers overshadow the National Quilters Hall of Fame?" "Where was the zoning commission a few decades ago?" "Where is James Dean's birthplace?" "I thought Garfield had a head. . . " "I heard the nation's largest Christian university is in Marion -- where are the signs?" "How did this town get such a great bike path [Cardinal Greenway]?" "Too bad more tourists don't know about The Mill, Icehouse, Ninth Street Cafe, Tree of Life, and Payne's." "Is there something missing from atop the courthouse?" What do you think they think?

(BTW--Myers and Affordable Housing may be classic cases of miss-zoned buildings, but they both house gems. I recently spoke at the University of Houston, located in a city I'm told has no zoning--but among the more successful plans. There's a message here somewhere. As for the boulders--they were placed there after 9/11 to prevent terrorist attacks--a controversial decision that made national news, but one which did give us some beautiful landscaping. Our stunning Quilters Hall Of Fame is in the original Webb home, which (like the nearby stately homes) was made from the wood of a massive hotel built during the gas boom, but only in use a few years. The Garfield statue is one of many that presents a great tourist attraction, and the head is now returned. Indiana Wesleyan University not only has over 14,000 students, but its main campus in Marion was voted "best facilities" in a national magazine. And Taylor, only 15 minutes away, is likewise attractive with a serene feel. The great thing about passing through Marion, much of the city is wireless and tech-savvy millennials can pull out their smart phones, PDAs and laptops and Google for information.)

Some barns are large enough to house Mama Cass impersonation conventions, such as a couple just east of Millersville University in Lancaster County, PA.. Some barns are wooden-peg art masterpieces, such as those near Byrne, Indiana. Near George Mason and Eastern Mennonite universities are several quaint homesteads with stone and wood barns--ones that survived the Sherman March era (Civil War). Across from where my Buck Creek school once stood remains a plebeian barn, but outclassing many of the surviving buildings in my Indiana birthplace. From Nappa Valley to Presque Isle, I've paused to admire barns, from the stawlart to the sinking. From the simple to the megastructure. While the Pennsylvania Dutch barns represent my favorite style, perhaps one of the most picturesque barns, partly because of its setting, is the Marcus Winslow farm. This is where James Dean stayed with his aunt and uncle after his mother's death when he was nine. Along Jonesboro road just north of Fairmount, Indiana stands this bleachwhite barn next to a vintage columnated white farmhouse Both of these buildings peer over a rare Indiana bluff to a scenic elongated pond and watering hole. In a sense, like the magnetic larger-than-life personality of Mama Cass, the Winslow farm also has such a draw. While barns don't have personalities, this one's association with the mystique of Dean's peronality elevates it among many. It's charm and uniform appearance present a memory. Adding to its character is that it remains a working farm.Yeah, I suppose this is my favorite barn. Like we say in archaeology, it's "in situ," which means it's in the situation where it historically resided. And, it's in tact. It has value for its history, and for its aesthetics. It's a barn and a farm worth a drive. Can you recommend a site worth such a trip? JP (BTW -- Mama Cass is worth a look -- she accomplished a lot in her 32 years. Like many of our old barns, however, her large presence faded too quickly.)

The only thing more shocking than seeing a woman pulling a plow was that she was still wearing her apron. Behind her was an old single blade plow with her husband following--dressed in the standard clothes of their religious tradition. Just before our friends, Rick and Sylvia, noticed this couple they had been commenting on a technologically advanced monster tractor on the other side of route 18. Just outside Wawpecong, Indiana a teenager was driving a four-wheel drive Tool-Time serious rig pulling a plow that seemed to cover a few acres. Before they could digest this mega farm vignette they noticed the stout moman plowing against both technology advances and gender equity gains.

They witnessed a striking contrast, two worlds separated by more than a road, but existing side by side. Contrasts exist in many arenas. Have you noticed one?

Now that's unusual. . . My eyes could barely register the silhouette of the empty wheel chair in the blinding Florida sun near the Biltmore's pool. Against the backdrop of the expansive white historic hotel here in the Belleview resort sat a chair that moments earlier carried a classy woman escorted by her two daughters, both in their fifties and all three in black swimsuits, robes and upper-class fun Italian bling bling. I jolted to attention thinking she had fallen in, and then a slice of life's meaning opened before my wife and me. Her daughters were helping her into the pool where she would once again find her youthful smile. She stood and found anew a freedom to walk and dance and play. It was, indeed, one of those memories to freeze for a later day, perhaps not too distant, when the wheelchair would not be needed except to carry such memories. But, for the moment, for that precious sun-soaked moment yesterday, she found joy in her journey, perhaps as much through the company of her daughters as in the aquatic stroll. Later today I speak to the faculty of the University of South Florida. I doubt that anything I share in my two hours will be as rich as the glimpse of life's seasons that occurred poolside. The key for all of us, however, is to try to build on such experiences as we attempt to teach and to facilitate learning--at whatever level. Have you ever witnessed one of those special moments that provice a glimpse of life's seasons? BTW, we ran into the mother and daughters in the hotel. It was of little surprise to learn that one of their mother's real joys in life was dancing--but it was decades earlier. They bragged that she still has a magnificent voice, and for many years (into her late 60s) would sing ballroom songs in nursing homes. On many occasions the residents would close their eyes and cry. They, too, connected with seasons in life. JP

In the most unlikely of places, the sheik Hilton lounge in Old Pasadena, I held the answer to one of life's pressing questions while everyone around me anxiously waited. The American Idol finale was about to start, and my wife was on the phone from Indiana sharing that Jordin Sparks finished first. There I was, sitting in California where the show was filmed and broadcast "live" and yet the residents weren't aware that it had aired already for our great Hoosier state. The lively Hispanic waitress and the Indian businessman were deeply engaged over the differences between finalists Blake and Jordin, the contrast between the b-boxer and the mega voice. The greasy-hair Brazilian shouted his predictions over his third or fourth peanut bowl. The tall white guy at the bar with the posture of a question mark was more interested in the fact that more people were voting for Idol than for the presidency. The funny Latino waiter found the whole thing amusing, but was also interested in the winner. An African American couple had a theory about Blake’s crossover appeal to different ethnic groups in addition to middle school kids. When my waitress took her break and stated "I must go for now, Idol is on," I asked the Sanjya-smiling waiter if he wanted the results. “You bet man!” I whispered and immediately he did a Stevie Wonder swagger. For an hour we smiled, knowing that his colleague had joined a group in the basement break room. While they were biting their nails we were slap happy, and had fully debriefed the phenomenon by the time the others’ break was over. I sipped my tea, looked out across the expansive uniform lounge with bright hunks of orange and pastel glass, and realized I was for that hour a pseudo prophet. I knew something that they didn't. I could have saved them all an hour break. But, in reality, they wouldn’t have wanted to know. Have you ever had information that others sought? Or they had information you wanted? What happened?

I gazed at an officer who was not dead though shot in the back of the head.

While the tape in court room played, chills covered me.

“Officer Joe Martin . . .” was under oath. Tears swelling. Visibly shaken. Obviously troubled. The scene pierced my soul. An obvious innocence. A manly-scarred cry for justice.

The drama riveted us jurors into the reality of ugly crimes, of a fallen world in which noble people are treated ignobly. Joe’s eyes cried out in hope—beaconing for someone, perhaps our jury, to reach in and rip the horrible memories away. His maimed assailant sat in a wheelchair directly in front of the witness stand. Police were everywhere, in the back, the doorways, the halls, the streets. Even the famed Sheriff Archey slipped in. We were unaware that one mistrial had already been called due to alleged threats. Tension. Pressure. Silence. Sadness. More quiet. Emotion. Tears. Lawyers whispering. A crackling in the tape . . .

“Step it up!” came from the police recording. The officer had stopped the defendant because he matched that night’s APB for armed robbery, even including his “grey sweat suit.” After numerous requests to stop reaching into his pockets, and while another siren was approaching, the defendant began to run. Officer Joe, with his gun still holstered, followed.

In the dark of a railroad neighborhood with deserted factories, Officer Joe began to tackle the defendant when he felt a sharp pain accompanied by a gunshot. Blood flowed. The officer’s life was in peril — with a second policeman witnessing much of the conflict.

Wounded Officer Joe Martin unholstered his gun for the first time, shot half his rounds into the defendant, then fell.

“Code One! Code One! . . . [badge] 9810 is down . . . “-- a throng of officers were en route.

They found the defendant with his finger still in the trigger, groaning, yet still alive. He was losing blood, and as the crafty defense attorney passionately reminded us, he had lost much more -- his privates were “shot off!”

Officer Joe was still on the stand, reliving this nightmarish bloodbath before one of the best young prosecutors in the land. Gory pictures were being passed.

I had an unwanted and unenviable front row seat in the jury box. A few hours later I found myself elected jury foreman of a complicated but straightforward case. The defendant, a 33-year old black male, had shot Joe Martin, a white officer, at point blank range. Powder burns as proof. I spent a year in the deliberation room that week. “Officer Joe Martin” still rings through my head. In a sense, his name runs through my veins.

The jury quickly found the defendant guilty of the first two charges, but after 12 hours, we returned a 10-2 hung jury on “attempted murder.” Ten guilty. Two not guilty. Ten white jurors. Two black jurors. One of the latter had voted both ways during the several straw votes. The other made it plain that the defendant was “just a young man trying to go home!” And after all, “he had suffered enough.”

During the final moments of deliberation, and after nearly ten hours of her repeated rejection of logical engagement—she exploded, “I should have said this yesterday. Is this about who he is or what he did?” At that point, the rest of the jury realized that racism had once again clouded logic in Marion, Indiana, this time in a jury room, but now against a white man. In the same city where two black men were hanged in 1930 without a trial, she sat in a room on the same northeast courthouse corner as that heinous crime attempting to do a noble thing. However, in the face of compelling evidence and testimony, color once again clouded coherence.

The gifted public defender had spent nearly two hours discussing racism and racial profiling. His argument was compelling—but not for this case. In a sense, goes such logic, there’s a documented history of racial profiling—unless you have a confession or a film, the percentages call for a not-guilty vote.

Logic was lost. The person in the wheelchair had pled not guilty to resisting arrest—even though his attorney admitted he had fled. He had plead not guilty to assault with a deadly weapon—even though his attorney admitted he had been carrying the [loaded and cocked] gun that matched the damage to the officer’s skull and shoulder.. He pled not guilty to shooting the officer—even though his gun’s bullet was taken from Joe’s body, and his gun failed to discharge accidentally when professionally tested (hit 105 times with a rubber hammer). He was caught with the smoking gun, literally, with finger in the trigger – but the weapon of racism came to his defense. At 1:15 AM, carrying over $200, gambling dice, an illegal gun, and though a near perfect match for an APB, and on drugs, “he was just another young black man” goes the faulty logic, singled out while “just trying to go home.”

After the judge read the verdicts, he then jolted us jurors with news that the trial wasn’t over – the defendant was a convicted felon. Within minutes, our jury found him guilty of this class B felony of having a gun. The noble-vote juror had become angered – had felt mislead, not given the important information for the other charges. She was as forceful as any juror in this “final” guilty vote. We returned, only to find we had one more charge to try – our defendant was a convicted violent felon on three different occasions! Habitual criminal? Guilty. Quickly and emphatically, 12-0.

I walked away from the trial/s, understanding the reluctance of an African American to send “yet another young black man” away for life. The context of the juror’s conscience had, for her, given logical reason for “reasonable doubt” in the face of overwhelming evidence. The collective ill-will towards African Americans somehow justified the defendant’s actions. A life riddled with racism sees some things rather clearly, providing racism is really at work. But here, the facts got in the way. Officer Joe Martin was simply at work, and nearly died trying not to profile.

I find myself silently saluting the Officer Joe Martins of my town and county—regardless of their color. I’ve driven by the bloodstained field and prayed for Officer Joe, for all Officer Joes, and, for young men in grey sweat suits who really are just trying to go home.

It’s sad to hear that any man loses his privates, but it would be more disturbing to hear of any person separated from justice. From a well-studied public defender to a brilliant State’s prosecution and a stately judge, the case of Officer Joe Martin gives little doubt that “reasonable doubt,” “right to an attorney,” and “trial by peers” work. In case you’re wondering, Officer Joe is back on the street with a scar of courage behind his right ear. And, the defendant was sentenced to 61 years—ironically, not for taking a shot at justice but running from it.

What do you think? BTW--an anonymous donor established an "Officer Joe Martin Account" at Indiana Wesleyan University's McConn cafe. Any local policeman or policewoman, or sheriff's deputy, can have free drinks, in tribute to Officer Joe.

When I heard the bullet pass beneath my window, I finally understood the fear of terrorists. That long sudden sound from Jerusalem, just beneath the King David hotel, reaches through the thirty years to my present farm windows here in Hoosier cornfields. It’s gripping. Sweat-inducing. The next week I also watched as a team of Israelis dismantled an antiquated dynamite bomb in the valley bridge by the King David Gate—intended for Anwar Sadat about to pass in Henry Kissinger’s car. His own people, Egyptians, were behind the plot. The year was 1977, I was 19 and both intrigued and scared. Sleeplessly so.

This morning I received reflections from Bryan Crossman from the frontlines in Iraq. He’s a West Point grad, brilliant, and former athletic phenom from the Marion community from which I write. I’m especially reminded of Bryan each morning I pass my neighbor’s flag which honors his son, among the first Hoosier’s to die in Iraq. As a father of four sons, sometimes I cry early mornings en route to work. Sometimes I salute. Sometimes I’m very quite. And, at times I simply pray that God is with the parents. That flag, like our national veteran’s cemetery, is a stark reminder of the price of freedom. Listen in to Bryan’s special thoughts. And, at the least, pause and be thankful for his sacrifice. His parents are Rod and Mary Crossman. You might be aware that Rod is a world renowned wildlife painter. The irony is almost oxymoronish: brilliant inviting canvases of serenity by one so unsettled about his son’s safety. But, so proud for his sacrifice.

Bryan shares: We got the word ... killed or captured by the enemy - I've seen the pictures and the lessons learned from the chain of command..... "what not to do"...

For two weeks leading up to this event..... I was dreaming of being captured on a nightly basis... sometimes I was by myself... sometimes I was with the soldiers I go outside the wire with... sometimes ....I was with soldiers I have never seen. Every night without fail ... it was different. Sometimes I would escape ...sometimes I wouldn't...I won't go into details..but.. needless to say they weren't "fun" dreams.... now that the soldiers were captured from the unit that our Alpha Company had just left weeks before.. I haven't had a dream similar since.

I don't know what that means.... I'm not going to read into it anymore than need be......I'm too busy too. . .

I know that some dreams have meaning ...and some don't. . . . So I revert to my faith. I'm going to believe ....that someday those soldiers pain will be tenfold on our enemies here....that God will bring the justice that our weapons systems, security operations, civil projects, government rebuilding, and deaths couldn't bring in 18 months....

"We saw him with our eyes... we heard the voice of God with our ears. We were with him on the mountain." 2 Peter 1:16

So, what are your thoughts? And, remember, Bryan, and the Bryans past and future will be able to pull your comments.