When I opened the door one Saturday morn, the shock wasn’t that Ryan Dobson was there, but why—a tiff with his parents. A Woody Allen subscript would have read “Unbelievable. Oh my! The Dobsons aren’t perfect” Then another one would have read, “Oh my. I’m clueless! My four boys are all under ten and he’s a post-puberty teen. Hit me with a wet LA phone book.”

Here stood the thin sandy-haired son of the Focus on the Family founders and I was supposed to help. Me, the boy from a broken home in Buck Creek, Indiana.

That Saturday passed rather uneventfully. Ryan lounged at our 990 square-foot Azusa home. He played with our boys, chatted a bit, played some more with our boys, chatted some more. His parents called just to see if he had arrived safely, and rather impressed me with their approach to the whole matter.

Oftentimes we venerate celebrities from afar then later hear of their shortcomings—also from a distance. However, on that scorching California day the parental side of the Dobsons showed its cool. What Cindy and I had read in their books was being played out in practice.

I recall the sincere tears Dr. Dobson had shared at “Paz Naz” when talking about Ryan’s doctor’s visit years earlier. He had to hold young Ryan while they treated his pain—though his son screamed for his father to stop them. His point was clear that at times we must have tough love, to focus on their needs instead of wants, on the long-term results.

At an outdoor party at his elegant but modest Pasadena home a mutual friend shared that “Jim gives more than people know—he just gave millions this week from his royalties to Focus on the Family.”

I saw Dr. Dobson again this morning, like I do on most days. He doesn’t talk to me, only smiles—the same as he does every other day. His bronze bust is mounted in the Society of World Changers in the rotunda not far from my university office.

Like all of us, I’m sure the Dobsons have their faults, and obviously many disagree with their conservative views. But from my plebeian view the Dobsons walk their talk.

At a time when celebrities want TV time while privately killing dogs in their own yard, when a married politician is brash enough to flirt with another man under a bathroom stall, when countless CEO’s fail to count correctly and when the Smithsonian director bilks the system, it’s refreshing to know that people like the Dobsons, Tony Dungy’s and Charlie Weis’s persist in their goodness.

And by the way, it appears that the Dobson kids turned out just fine. Danae keeps busy as an author and helps our mutual friend "Saint Willis" visit shut-ins when she's in Pasadena. And Ryan, well, take a peek: www.ryandobson.com .

Have you caught a glimpse of a celebrity (whether local or national) that sheds positive light on their character?

Bob Jones University looks like Calvin College with a facelift—but like Joslyn Wildenstein and plastic celebs, planned appearances draw mixed reviews. I thought I was driving through the Truman Show. The polished, massive, yellow-brick buildings look like they dropped simultaneously from heaven--last week! The campus is accented with an expansive, geometrically exact iron fence with pronounced matching brick posts. Bob Jones makes some Ivy League campuses look like poster ads for deferred maintenance. Everything is symmetrically perfect on a grand scale. It’s as if someone ironed the lawns, pressed the buildings and manicured the flower beds—and each with identical strokes.

My bias had not prepared me for such stunning streets. In college we once sat in the lobby laughing while a colleague read from a pilfered Bob Jones student handbook. That was 30 years ago, and it appears a lot remains the same (http://www.bju.edu/prospective/expect/general.html). The students must commit to chaperones while in “mixed company,” and abide by a litany of other requirements:
• Students may work in town until 10:25 pm on weekdays and midnight on weekends. Freshmen must have a prayer captain, assistant prayer captain, or upperclassman with them. Sophomores and upperclassmen may work alone.
• Freshmen and sophomores may not use their vehicles to go to and from work.
• Students may not serve alcoholic beverages when waiting tables at restaurants.
• Students may not do house-to-house sales anywhere in the Greenville area. Students offering services to the community must have a retail license or have clearance from the Dean of Students to do door-to-door solicitation for their services.
• Students may not miss nightly prayer meetings on weekdays.
The dress codes are equally as ordered. Men cannot wear sandals on campus, and ties are required in the mornings and Sundays. “Abercrombie & Fitch and its subsidiary Hollister have shown an unusual degree of antagonism to the name of Christ and an unusual display of wickedness in their promotions. In protest, we will not allow articles displaying their logos to be worn, carried, or displayed (even if covered or masked in some way).” And men have some other grooming requirements:
• Hair must be cut in a traditional, conservative style–not shaved, spiked, tangled, or shelved. It may not be colored or highlighted.
• Sideburns should not extend past the middle of the ear. Men are expected to remain clean-shaven.
• Necklaces, earrings, and bracelets are not permitted.
• Hats may not be worn indoors except in the gym.
• Men are not permitted to get tattoos or wear body piercings.

Sounds like a recipe for enrollment disaster—but it’s quite the opposite. The place is thriving. And the dress codes are equally as stringent for the women—students from across the nation, from your neighborhood and mine, are lining up for the Bob Jones’ experience.
The women always wear dresses or skirts “outside the residential halls” unless in “some recreational activities” where jeans are allowed. A few of the many rules include:
• Tops must be long enough that the midriff is never exposed.
• Sleeves are required. (Sleeveless tops and dresses may be worn with a sleeved blouse, jacket or sweater underneath or over top.)
• Necklines may come no lower than four fingers below the collarbone.
• Hemlines and slits [in skirts] or other openings should never come higher than the bottom of the knee.
• Denim skirts may be worn for casual dress (not to class or other professional-type events).
• Loose-fitting pants may be worn between women’s residence halls, for athletic events, and to homes in the area.
• Loose-fitting jeans may be worn in and between women’s residence halls and when participating in activities where the durability of the fabric is important, such as skiing and ice-skating.
• Low-riders are not permitted.
• Shorts may be worn only inside the residence halls and fitness center.
• All dresses, skirts, pants, and shirts must be loose-fitting, having a minimum of three inches of ease at bust and hips.
• An informal way to measure ease is to stand up straight and pinch the loose fabric on both sides of the hips or at the bust line. Without stretching the fabric, there should be at least a 3/4-inch fold of fabric on both sides.
• Hose must be worn whenever men students are required to wear a coat and tie (including Sunday morning worship services, recitals and productions after 6 p.m., Bible Conference and commencement activities).
• Combat boots, hiking boots or shoes that give this appearance are not permitted. Leather sandals, including those with a strap between the toes, will be permitted at times when women are not required to wear hose. Flip flops made of rubber, plastic, etc., are not permitted in public.
• Hairstyles should be neat, orderly, and feminine. Avoid cutting-edge fads and cuts so short that they take on a masculine look.
• Excessive makeup is not permitted. Earrings may be worn only in the lobe of the ear (maximum of two matched sets).
As a collegian in the 1970s, I joined others laughing at such requirements. “Who would ever go to such a place?” The truth is that a few thousand more than at most private colleges! The place is mammoth. I gawked at the magnitude of structured beauty before me—a gorgeously planned community never referenced in a single discussion about the school in thirty years. I only heard of the social taboos. Even during my flight from Cincy a local engineer referenced it as “Oh, there’s also that little Bible college” in Greenville. After seeing the striking campus I had to wonder if only a few non-imbibers have ever visited. There is indeed a sense of substance manifest in a substantial campus—whether correct or not, it reflects stability.

The stunning brick entrance dwarfs the highlights of many campuses, including the grand marble masterpiece of Houston Baptist, the impressive redbrick entrance to Clemson’s stadium, the aging classic pillars of Pomona and the Ivy archway off Princeton’s Nassau Street. Bob Jones’ fine arts museum matches any within the hundreds of CIC (independent) universities, and the tiered-circular fountain before the stalwart field house accents the immaculate central drive. It’s breathtaking—it’ll leave any objective observer speechless. The whole campus is like a utopian estate planned by a Robert Owen-ish visionary with a Type A, 1000-bold-font, personality. Perhaps that’s indeed the case—but even so, what a beauty to behold.

Near the campus exit I paused to admire a little bronze statue entitled “School’s In,” nestled by a J. Paul Getty type-pool. Indeed, school is in and students are flocking to this Independent Baptist haven (not to be confused with the much larger Baptist tradition). About as many attend there as Indiana State, yet all are residential and every dorm is full. Space it at a premium. Until one visits Bob Jones, one is far removed from the magnitude and magnetism of the mission.

But there’s a flipside. We need never to substitute fine buildings for academic foundations or acceptable beliefs. I still remain leery of organizations named for their living leaders, such as Bob Jones or Oral Roberts. It smacks of the dreaded tag of hubris that has plagued humankind from the ancients through today. And polished brick doesn’t mask the stark realities of the ugly segregation history at Bob Jones—though the current president admits the unfortunate positions of his predecessors and things seem to be changing. Likewise, the staggering art collection, from Rembrandt to Van Dyke, is a tangible disconnect between espoused non-worldliness and some rather spectacular secular trophies. Overall, it’s rather difficult to separate the totalitarian feel of the physical campus from the orderly student expectations.

All said, this I do know—some real nice folks attend there, once I could find them. This past Sunday afternoon I rolled into a completely empty campus—a bizarre sight for any academic community. I finally found a stray near the mesmerizing Last Supper mosaic, then a sprinkling of others—noticeably walking in all-women or all-men clusters. Around 7:00 pm (perhaps some sort of gate curfew) a mad rush of vehicles came through the entrance—each stopping for some campus access code. Lexus and Mercedes SUVs, rusted Chryslers, new VW Jettas, a slew of late-model parents’ Buicks, hand-me down Volvos and the like—this was indeed a happy but diverse economic group. Though not diverse otherwise—conspicuously all-white. A bit later several rather tattered buses from Baptist churches joined the lineup—all painted in un-inviting pastel hues.

The mélange of students were all in great spirits and seemed as happy as collegians anywhere. I discovered at Bob Jones University a pervasive niceness—and students that will likely become active members of communities worldwide. And in the wake of the growing number of campus tragedies like at Virginia Tech, I suppose their parents are a bit less reluctant to send tuition payments.

I toured this picturesque South Carolina campus en route to Clemson. Though Bob Jones is usually cited for its ultra-conservative positions and controversial approach to student life, its campus and courteousness sure seem slighted. The campus shames even the Claremont campuses with its cleanliness. Its ponds and fountains set new standards for places like Millersville State and Purdue—and even the picturesque water plaza at the University of Houston. The courtyards of Harvard and Bryn Mawr look drab and forlorn in such company. While I still find my alma maters more attractive campuses overall (Miami of Ohio, Wheaton [IL] and Indiana Wesleyan University), I’d recommend all campus planners to tour Greenville’s yellow institution for perspective. I couldn’t help but make the last night while on the otherwise quaint yellow-brick campus of Lourde’s College (OH).

And while it might be a facelift from other campuses, Bob Jones still pales in the academic face of places like Calvin College—at least by measures familiar to the academy at large. The comparison likely stops at the color yellow. In other words, facilities are not synonymous with faculty, and Bob Jones only joined the accrediting world in 2005—and then at a second-tier. But different missions bespeak of different outcomes, and I imagine Bob Jones does rather well in graduating ministers for its constituents, in its King James mindset and views many of us wouldn’t accept. But before distancing one’s self too far from the conservative social side of the Yellow-brick city, keep in mind that Mother Theresa, Martin Luther, Erasmus, Jonathan Edwards, John Wesley, John Calvin and a host of other notables endorsed even stricter codes.

Two hours after my Bob Jones tour I noticed crowds of Clemson students outside of the few local pubs en route to nearby Central, SC. A grungy crowd of half-cognizant man-children were drinking the night away in front of a sea of large tiger paws. A couple miles up Rte. 93 a crowd of Southern Wesleyan University students filed from a campus chapel service. Well dressed but independent, they were fanning out through a quaint but, like Clemson, a rather non-uniform campus.

The beauty is that students from all three colleges will likely get along fine in this world. Though some will flounder, whether in a starched white shirt and tie or in a soiled Def Leopard shirt, many will excel, and the vast majority will survive with the ability to smile. Clemson will excel in its admirable research model, SWU will continue to explode into the liberal arts market, and Bob Jones will likely persist in its mandated uniformity. Only in America. And the reality is that a graduate from any one of these schools might one day be your child’s teacher, your neighbor, or your pastor.

What is your view of a campus like Bob Jones? What’s your favorite campus facility—and does it influence your overall view of the college?

In some ways, it almost feels un-Cubbish to be a winner.

This past week I sat in Milwaukee surrounded by Brewers’ fans in the airport’s Brewery café. They were a bit slaphappy as the hapless Cubs were on another infamous slide. I had passed the ballpark earlier where the Brewers had just scored 13 runs. It was fun to see the unbridled laughter, entire families in jerseys, “Fielder for President” signs, and a community elated with their boys of summer. And, they were elated at another Cubs’ vintage losing streak.

Well, “Cubs win! Cubs win!” has sure stymied the Brewery bunch. I’m a Cubs fan from the Banks era, and one who remembers Bill Buckner for the fewest strikeouts, not for one ground ball in ‘86.

In one of our rare moments, Cubs’ fans can stand on their office chairs and hoop and holler. I can recall the countless droning days of Jack Brickhouse as he always tried to put a positive spin on losing. I recall meeting Harry Carey before a Cubs game, and he appeared rather inebriated—but at least he gave us something to cheer for, other than seeing no. 14 ("Mr. Cub") walk across the field. Or, for many women fans during the Sandberg era, just to see his face.

One of my toughest nights as a Cub fan was on that fateful day in 1984 in which Rick Sutcliffe lost the lead in the seventh inning. Our ace was on the mound and suddenly our brilliant pitcher began to usher beach balls to the batters. I had an engagement in Chicago and was staying in the same hotel with the visiting Padres. I chatted with Tony Gwynn at length about being down to the Cubs. Besides being amazed at Gwynn’s thickness, I was also impressed with his calm demeanor while most of his teammates had scuff marks on the bottoms of their chins. The Padres were such a dejected looking lot. But it sure changed in one inning. Later that day I ran to my Marriott room and sat glued to TV for about two innings. Two decades of hope seemed headed to a happy ending—then that fateful seventh. I was half numb as I rejoined my meetings, and had “Loser” written on my countenance. Of course, all Cub fans felt a similar sting more recently with one postseason foul ball—then the infield error, then the game, and then . . . well, back to being Cubs.

Last night, I sat alone with a little TV in a back room of our house and savored the moment—wishing I were there when the Reds’ scoreboard showed the Milwaukee score change as the Cubs were winning big. These are fun moments in life, not that in the face of eternity they mean anything, that serve as parts of our journeys. They’re eference points.

The game is reality TV about both the human condition and strategic planning. It’s reality TV that captures communities’ interest in character flaws and attributes. It’s reality TV with a century of benchmarks that mean something, not ephemeral manufactured storylines of other reality shows that will soon pass.

Last night I the cameras caught Roberto Clemente’s name on the stadium wall, and thoughts of his wonderful life blessed my evening, and memories of that fateful day, Dec. 31, 1972. Mention of Eric Davis’ reminded me of being in the Reds’ park when he made that famous leap over the fence to snag a ball. And Daryl Strawberry’s name conjured flashes of an amazing graceful swing that covered two zip codes, but a life’s contributions marred by bad decisions. I was touched by the hundreds of Cincy fans with signs of support for their broadcaster undergoing cancer treatment. And as the announcers mentioned Orel Herchiser I recalled following each of his 59 scoreless innings. Mention of Swinging Sammy reminds me of how displaced he looks without of a Cubs jersey.

These are real stories with characters’ lives we usually share from a distance, and whose steps provide a storyline shared by millions. I can recall watching the hundreds of replays of Dave Drevecky’s arm snapping, and then to hear his amazing testimony of surviving cancer. I once hugged him backstage in LA after we prayed, forgetting that his arm was missing. He kindly responded with “Yeah, sometimes I forget as well.” Moments later he mesmerized thousands with his humble story of survival and success. More importantly, he caused teens to think through their life choices.

Years ago I met Steve Stone en route to a meeting in Cleveland—he had recently retired from pitching and was in the Cubs media booth. I was curious about why he ended his career so soon after going 25-1, and learned about his daily grind and massive amounts of pain killers. He shared a very human side, accented by his trip to a family funeral.

Yes, life is no respecter of persons, as we’ve learned even more recently with our beloved Ron Santo. We remember to respect life through respected persons—we could all benefit from a “Ron Santo Day.”. And that’s where I’ll leave you, for it this shared storyline that make rooting for any team a healthy thing. We can rally around the game itself, or around wonderful people who have shared their lives with us. We call them friends, though we may never meet them—but they’ve met us. Hour after hour, and we’ve chosen to invite them in. At first it’s because of our shared team, then it’s a personal thing. We cheer for them deep in our soul, whether it’s for Zambrano’s return to form or Santo’s life with diabetes.

This summer Cal Ripken, Jr’s book made the New York Times Best Seller List. It isn’t about his Hall of Fame career, but his Longest Season. It is about lessons learned from losing. Captured by the brilliant artist, Ron Mazellan, and in Cal’s own words, it’s a lesson the Cubs have lived for decades. These aren’t just the boys of summer, but the men of memories. Cal states: “. . . the 0-21 losing streak would be the one thing I wouldn’t mind forgetting, were it not for what I learned. Winning is easy on a person, but you learn more from losing. You learn to keep trying, each day a little harder than the day before. You learn how to be a better teammate, and how much you need one another to play well as a team. You even learn how to win.” Given this reflection, we Cubs fans are the best educated. Ernie Banks is perhpas the smartest of us all, holding the record for most games without a post-season appearance (2528).

And like Banks' attittude ("Mr. Sunshine"), baseball helps us to learn how to win in life where rounding the bases is for keeps—regardless if anyone is watching. And perhaps on a rare occasion all goes well and we pause and think “Holy Cow!” or “It could be. It might be. It is! A homerun!”

What do you think? Cubs fan? Memories?