I Was Not Here

It's a troubling trend in newspaper journalism, if one I've seen coming for a while: a recent article spelled out that many newspapers have eliminated the copy editors as an act of financial survival. Copy editing seems so integral to journalism that  I'm hard-pressed to imagine the one without the other.

It was weird enough when I learned that a newspaper at which I had been a copy editor was farming the work out - that all the copy produced locally would be edited remotely at the larger flagship newspaper in the group, in a city some three hours north. I had left newspaper work for divinity school by then but watched former colleagues make bitter jokes about how those on the copy desk would miss local nuances. "Someone will have to tell them that [Street Name] is two words."

Inevitably, over the last decade, newspapers have moved from remote, central copy editing to none at all. That is: Reporters have to edit their own copy. And, I suppose, write their own headlines. And caption the photos. Not that they are incapable. But the cardinal rule is that you don't edit your own copy, because it's too easy to miss something. It's always good to have another pair of eyes. Another person looking at the material, someone who hasn't already crafted the story, brings a perspective that allows for what editing does.

Which is: to look appreciatively over the crafted material, fixing goofs, questioning incongruities, fact-checking (is that how you spell DiSalvo? Does crumple-horned snorcack get capitalized?). Occasionally moving a paragraph higher in a story to improve the flow. And crafting a headline so that in the few seconds a reader will take, he or she will be interested enough to read the article that follows. It's an art, a craft, a vocation. A calling, even. Not as an antagonist to the reporter, but working side by side, like a pair of headlights.

I used to joke that I had the best job in the world and also the most anonymous: If I did my work properly, no one reading the paper would have any idea of my existence. The average newspaper reader might not be aware that there is such a creature as a copy editor and is often surprised to learn that reporters don't write their own headlines. "If I've done my job, I leave no trace," I'd say.

To a degree, that's what ministry feels like sometimes, particularly the nursing-home chaplaincy that has been my calling for six years. To be sure, I'm much more consciously present in the lives of residents and their families. I leave a trace. But it's ephemeral. When their loved ones have died, and that chapter comes to an end, daughters and sons-in-law, grandsons and nieces - their memories of the last days will include a comforting presence. A quiet and calm listener. Words of comfort. Praying with them, sometimes conducting a graveside service.

Typically, there's no tangible reminder that I walked with them through this part of the family journey. And that's how it's meant to be. My role is not obtrusive. I work at not shifting the spotlight onto me. I'm here to provide an objective, yet loving and respectful perspective. To do what I can to make the moments a little better. And to invite attention to the presence of God.

Just as, with editing stories, I would bring in a response that was objective and respectful; to polish a little where needed; and to cap the story with a headline that would invite attention. And if I'd done my job properly, you'd scarcely know I'd been there. Only that things were as they ought to be.