Anchorage Daily News

Perhaps because of too many years in this business, I've been comfortable with seeing myself as a cynic, a guy who easily can believe the worst about human beings as a whole, a guy who believes we all do what we do for selfish reasons. It's easy armor to wear.

At times, the human species seems a waste of air. In political philosophy, I believe Thomas Hobbes had it right when he posited that we all joined together in a vast social contract in the mists of history, not to spread peace and light and sing kumbaya -- John Locke not withstanding -- but because without one, without a government with the power to stop us, we would all kill each other. Quickly. Horribly. For little to no reason.

In dark, fitful moments, I've even questioned whether there is a God and, if so, whether he is insane or asleep at the switch or just has a devilish sense of humor.

There are moments of clarity, to be sure, when I understand I could be wrong about it all. Maybe there is a God, I think to myself. Maybe people are not all that bad; maybe I'm just too hard on them, as a friend likes to point out. The hard-boiled thing can get a little squishy around the edges when it rubs up against reality.

In truth, there have been too many gifts from God to count, I suppose, for me to doubt his existence. Being shot at without effect. When my heart went haywire. When my wife's heart went haywire. When my kids were born. When I met my wife. When friends were spared. There have been prayers. There have been answers. There have been kindnesses. Too many to count. Even from strangers. And there have been miracles.

The latest, in the middle of the night a few days ago in a Reno, Nev., hospital, is what got me thinking about the cosmos and the meaning of it all. That's when I first met my brand new, wiggly granddaughter and got to watch my burly son hold her so gingerly, so tentatively, to his chest. His exhausted wife, looking on, was as beautiful at that moment as a woman can be. I stood there with tears welling in my eyes remembering the first time I held my son those short, short years ago, remembering how scared I was. How are we going to do this? I wondered. What in the world do we do now? With tears and laughter, we figured it out; so will they.

The young lady's name is Haydyn Casey Jenkins. Casey was my mother's name; Haydyn is the latest in cool appellations. In the interest of full disclosure, mind you, I lobbied long and hard that she be named Jesse Rose, after a friend's very impressive Chesapeake, but got absolutely nowhere.

"It's too beautiful a name to use only on a dog," I'd argue. "Even if she was a great dog." My theory was that we would not tell her about the name's origin until she was at least 21 and she'd laugh and be OK with it.

I'm lucky to be alive.

I now exist to spoil this little girl. I'm already in the market for a rifle for her. A friend says he'll checker the stock. Maybe she'll need a pistol. Then a fly rod. There will be bicycles and all the accoutrements of growing up. Maybe teach her poker and shooting pool and how to spit. Her mother will love it. With luck, I'll be around to terrorize her first boyfriend. "I don't think I like you, boy, don't give me cause to shoot you. By the way, you ever heard of Thomas Hobbes? He wouldn't like you, either."

I have other grandchildren, but I did not get to see them grow up. One of them is a heck of a baseball player, it turns out. It is going to be different with Haydyn Casey. I'm banking on it.

There will be plenty of time down the road for the recession, the Palin chronicles, Obama turning this nation into a socialist nightmare, the gas line, the state's finances and the myriad other things that all at once seemed so unimportant in that hospital room. There will be plenty of time for cynicism and politics and seeing the worst in people. None of that will go out of style.

Right now, I have a kid to spoil.

Paul Jenkins is editor of the Anchorage Daily Planet.

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