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INDIANAPOLIS — A part-time trainer at Lutheran High School in Indianapolis says she was told she is no longer welcome there because she is gay.Krystal Brazel had worked at Lutheran High School as a game-only athletic trainer for the past five years. But in February, Brazel was told she would no longer be allowed to work, coach, or volunteer at the school because of her sexual orientation."I think they really decided to make an example of me," Brazel said. "It breaks my heart. I know what I poured into that school."When Brazel started as the athletic trainer at Lutheran High School she was diagnosing injuries on a folding table in the hallway. She started collecting donations because she said the student-athletes deserved more. Eventually, she helped create an athletic training room."I remember going to school thinking I don't ever want to be a high school athletic trainer. That's why I got my masters," Brazel said. "Life happened. And I started at Lutheran just helping out and I realized this is really God's calling for me is to have an impact on these people's lives and maybe be their first real gay Christian that they had an interaction with."In February, Brazel was called into a meeting with the athletic director and head of school and asked to read a handbook that she said stated homosexuality is a sin. She was then asked to sign saying she could follow it, which she couldn't.Brazel is engaged to be married on July 18 to her fiance, Samantha. She was ultimately told she could no longer coach the softball team she just helped lead to a state title in 2019.In June, Franciscan Health and Lutheran High School could not come to an agreement allowing her to continue as the athletic trainer either. Brazel is now sharing her story, pushing for change for the future."I still love them," Brazel said. "I want them to find love and acceptance in their heart and I don't need a sorry from them, I don't need an apology from them, I just want them to change the culture at Lutheran so that it is that love and inviting place that I thought it was for five years before this happened."Lutheran High School is affiliated with "The Lutheran Church Missouri Synod," which is conservative on social issues.Lutheran High School Head of School Michael Brandt released the following statement: 2315

INDIANAPOLIS — A video of a student taunting a player with epilepsy at an Indiana high school basketball game Friday night has gone viral on social media.During the match between Center Grove High School and Cathedral High School, James Franklin Jr. was taking a free throw shot when a kid fell on the floor and started shaking like he was having a seizure, James Franklin Jr.'s mom, Tamieka Franklin, said. "To see that last night [Friday] was totally disgusting," Tamieka Franklin said. "Very hurtful." 532

In many rural communities, entire cities often rely on one business to support the economy, and when those businesses leave, it leaves the community devastated.For the town of Luke, Maryland, its paper mill went out of business last summer, and the deep financial impact is being felt by families and businesses throughout the region.“I could hear that mill day and night, sitting right here. You knew everything was alright. Listen up there now,” said former mill worker Paul Coleman, while looking out the window towards what used to be the noisy mill. “Pretty quiet, isn’t it? Pretty quiet. That’s eerie."Yet, it’s the silence that now haunts Coleman every day. “I had no sights, no goals on retiring. I would’ve kept on working as long as I could,” said the father of four daughters.For nearly 30 years, he worked alongside hundreds of people inside the Luke Paper Mill. He did several jobs over the years, but much of his time was spent as an electrician.“All my family has worked in there,” said Coleman. “The mill was the lifeblood of the community."The mill is nestled into the hills on the Maryland-West Virginia border. For the small towns around it, this big business was really the only business.“Everything was centered around that paper mill,” said Coleman.But last summer, this electrician got the news he couldn’t believe.“He said, ‘The mill’s closing.’ I thought he was kidding,” Coleman recalled. The closure was real, and almost immediately, his unemployment benefits fell short, and eventually, they stopped.“I thank God I had my 401K, which I had to dip into, so we’ve had to live off of that,” he said.Still, the bills piled up, especially the health insurance bills. “Reality is what it is. I know no one is going to want to hire a 62-year-old electrician,” said Coleman.On his fridge are several magnets from the Caribbean islands the family vacationed to over the years. We asked him about those trips, to which he replied, “Anything like that—it’s out of the question. You have to live within your means."The most painful adjustment to Coleman is not having what he needs for his daughter, who is disabled.The family was just able to fix their handicapped van, so they could bring his 21-year-old daughter home from weeks in the hospital. But now, more problems for this dedicated father.“My chairlift is broken down,” said Coleman. "That’s the chair lift we use to get her up and down the steps. I called the guy today and it’ll be ,000 to put a new one in. Where am I gonna get that?”So, each day, he gets to work, fixing what he can.“I don’t claim to be the best of anything,” said Coleman. “I’m not the best electrician, but you don’t have to be, you just have to keep moving regardless of what you’re dealt.”At the height of its operation, the mill employed more than 2,000 people. As technology increased and production decreased, fewer people were needed inside the mill, but even still, when the mill shut its doors, 700 people were left without jobs. That loss extended far past the mill—the entire community felt the pain of this closure.“It went from seven days a week to not really knowing what you’re doing tomorrow,” said Richard Moran, a man born and raised in Allegany County and who supplied coal to the mill for decades. “Lucky to get a 40 hour week now."Moran was forced to lay off dozens of workers when the mill shut down. Months later, his family’s legacy is hanging on by a thread.“Right now, we’re doing odd jobs basically, whatever we can pick up on the side,” he said.He’s not only lost income, he’s lost the future he dreamed of. “I know my kids won’t stick around here," he said. "There’s nothing for them here.”Coleman is worried for the future, too. “I think there’s just an attitude of hopelessness and helplessness that’s here,” he said.Both men agree that attitude is easily fueled by no new jobs and no way to relocate for most living in this rural community.“That’s not an option for me. This is my home, my entire family’s here,” said Coleman, as his granddaughter and two of his daughters all sat in the next room over.The United Steel Workers Local Union President Gregory Harvey said these struggles are only the beginning.“Unemployment ran out, insurance ran out, so now it impacts the area," he said. "Now, there’s people not spending money like they were spending money before."He’s working to get as many of his members and neighbors employed as he can, but the jobs in town are low-paying.“These guys were used to making ,000 a year, and now they’re making ,000. That’s a hit,” said Harvey, a third-generation paper maker himself.Still, the community holds onto hope that this closure isn’t the end. “My hope is that somebody buys this mill and reopens it back up, and if I get the opportunity to go back and work in a heartbeat, do I have to be an electrician? No. I’d go back and shovel a ditch or anything, whatever it took,” said Coleman about wanting to continue providing for his family.His plea like so many of his neighbors: a call to someone—to anyone—to rescue this town and these families.“You’re not investing in concrete. You’re not investing in these buildings. You’re investing in a workforce like no other,” said Harvey. 5223

It is the silence that John Christian Phifer loves the most as he walks around the 120 acres of a nature preserve in Gallatin, Tennessee. He considers himself a caretaker of the land.But in these rolling Tennessee hills, if you look close enough, you can see that it's not just the land Phifer is caring for.There are 50 people buried throughout Taylor Hollow, all of which are natural burials. Their graves are marked by simple stones, and there are no expensive caskets. Many of the people buried here were wrapped in quilts or buried in beds of wildflowers.It’s a simpler way to say goodbye, and in recent months, this type of burial is gaining popularity."I think with COVID, one of the things everyone has done is they’ve started thinking about making a plan," Phifer said as he walked through one of the wooded paths.Phifer works for Larkspur Conservation, a nonprofit that describes itself as Tennessee's first nature preserve for natural burials. On this hallowed ground, only green burials are allowed to take place.The pandemic has led to an increase in the number of people looking at natural burial options. Natural burials are also giving families a way to grieve and mourn safely outside during the COVID-19 pandemic."I think COVID has heightened folks’ awareness of how important it is to make a plan. Families can still have a burial, families can still have a gathering, they can come together with their loved one," Phifer said.There is also a cost aspect that's driving the increased rise in natural burials. As many American families struggle financially, natural burial offers an end-of-life option that's around ,000. It’s much less than a traditional burial, which usually runs around ,000.There’s also an environmental draw to all of this. Every year, American bury about 73,000 kilometers of hardwood boards, along with 58,000 tons of steel and 1.5 million tons of concrete. Natural burials are often much safer for the environment"It’s not going to be for everyone, and that’s OK,” explained Phifer. “We’re just another tool in working through the end of life.”And while planning for the end is never easy, Phifer sees this as one place people can start. 2193

INDIANAPOLIS -- The widow of an Uber driver who was killed in an Indiana crash earlier this month is calling out a politician who is using her husband's death to promote his campaign in a commercial. Republican Candidate for US Senate Mike Braun is using the deaths of Colts' player Edwin Jackson and his Uber driver, Jeffrey Monroe, in his new radio and TV ads. "You don't have a right to take other people's misery and use it for your own political gain," said Deborah Monroe. "That's just wrong - that's just downright wrong."READ | Wife of Uber driver killed in crash w/Colts player says she's 'not surprised' at husband's actionsManuel Orrego-Savala, an undocumented immigrant, is accused of driving drunk and killing Jeffrey and Edwin. Braun uses their images and deaths and Orrego-Savala's immigration status to promote building the wall and ending chain migration. READ MORE | Docs: Suspect in drunk driving crash that killed Colts player, Uber driver showed ‘no remorse’ | Suspect in crash that killed Colts player was in U.S. illegally, had been deported twice"His immigration status didn't kill my husband," said Deborah. Mike Braun's campaign issued the following statement about the ad.Mike Braun believes that Washington needs to stop illegal immigration, build the wall, and keep criminal illegals like the one that killed Jeffrey Monroe and Edwin Jackson out of Indiana. Mike and his family are praying for the families of the victims." 1510

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