Shades of the '60s. Lots of angry, discontented young people, occupying public places, trying to call attention to their cause. I think we've seen this before.

The '60s demonstrations were about a war, and they turned more violent. The 2011 crowds are occupying high-profile public areas - like Wall Street, for example - around the world. And with a different cause. They claim they're protesting about jobs, corporate greed, concentrated wealth and economic injustice. Only time will tell whether this will be a game-changer or a loud blip on the screen.

So I felt a little rejected when they chose teams for softball. Yup. Last one chosen. Poor me. And how about the time when I was the only one on the hayride without a date.

I feel a little ashamed of some of those "poor me" flashbacks when I read about those girls in India. Hundreds of them whose actual names mean "unwanted" in Hindi. Every day of their lives they've answered to the name "unwanted." Some of them got the name simply because they were a disappointment when they were born. Whatever the reason, "unwanted" is a horrible way to be branded for life.

The image of a burning candle on an iPad. That's the kind of memorial some folks have come with to honor Steve Jobs after his death this week. How appropriate. He was the inventive genius and innovator marketer who brought the communications revolution from the "geekosphere" to something you could hold in your hand.

Bill Gates has described Steve Jobs' impact as "profound." News anchors are quick to say he "changed the world." Yes, he did. He was always a newsmaker when he walked on the Apple stage to introduce technology's "what's next?".

But now with Steve Jobs' passing, I find myself asking "what's next?" on a much deeper level. What's next on the other side of our last heartbeat, when the obituaries and tributes are for us?

Sometimes I find the news disturbing. Occasionally, it's enlightening. And once in a very great while, it's moving. Today was one of those days.

It was hard to not be moved when 24-year-old Amanda Knox learned her fate in an Italian courtroom. While she's been in prison for the past four years, convicted of the murder of her roommate, the credibility of much of the evidence has unraveled. Her appeal reached its crescendo as that black-robed judge announced the jury's decision. Because she's learned a lot of Italian during her incarceration, she understood his words. Especially the one word she was desperate to hear.

"If people who don't know Jesus want to know the difference Jesus makes, let them come to our funerals."

A friend told me that years ago. I thought of it again this week as I joined one of our dear friends in mourning the loss of his precious wife. They've poured out their lives for others in one of this world's very troubled places. Because of the violence around them, one of their little daughter's first words was "rocket." But a year ago the bomb that changed everything was one word in a doctor's office - "cancer." Last week, after a brave fight against that killer, Nancy breathed her last. And that little daughter, now a beautiful young woman who so mirrors her mother, sang at Nancy's memorial service - with a glow that defied the grief...

I've got a grandson who loves to play "hide and seek." I haven't told him that I'm pretty much onto his favorite places to hide in our house. But he's figured out the best places to become totally invisible when I'm looking for him.

But being invisible isn't always fun. There are people - including someone who told me just this week - who have basically felt invisible their whole lives. You can feel invisible in your family...at school...where you work...even in your marriage. It's awful feeling like no one seems to know - or care - that you're there.

Prozac. Maybe that's what I need before I watch the news again. Because I know I'm going to be hit with stories and numbers that just quantify a lot of hurt in a lot of lives right now...jobs lost...homes lost...loved ones lost...record numbers living in poverty...struggling families...devastating disasters...and always, always, people dying.

No living Marine has received the Congressional Medal of Honor for actions in the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Until last week. Dakota Meyer's only 23, but he has been awarded this nation's highest military honor. For saving 36 lives during a vicious, six-hour firefight in the mountains of Afghanistan.

It started with an enemy ambush that quickly pinned down much of Meyer's unit. Amazingly, this Kentucky farmboy made a total of five trips into the kill zone to rescue his comrades. And he had to disobey orders to do it. His superiors told him he couldn't go in. He went in anyway. Because people would die if he didn't.

A friend called that morning and said, "You should turn on the TV. An airplane just hit one of the World Trade Center towers." There was no file folder in my heart for what I was about to see. I quickly found a news channel. From that moment on, I didn't turn it off.

My wife and I - recently relocated after years in the New York area, friends with so many who work in Manhattan, occasional visitors to the observation deck atop the Trade Center - watched one horrific event after another unfold before our eyes. And when the towers collapsed in that killer cloud of dust, we couldn't contain the tears. Neither could the TV reporters who, for those gut-wrenching moments, lost their journalist's detachment and melted with all of us into stunned shock and disbelief.

As Hurricane Irene took aim on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, I flashed back to an old white frame building there. And to the story I heard there that has followed me ever since.

Our family vacation took us to those beautiful Hatteras beaches - and to the Chicamacomico Life-Saving Station. That's where I heard about - and saw demonstrated by re-enactors - the heroism of the United States Life-Saving Service.