Remarkable, Wonderful Children

My only two grandchildren live right through my back gate. No grandfather could possibly be more blessed than I - for that very reason. Grandmother feels the same way.

Yesterday, as I was eating breakfast Megan, who is five, ran over to see if I was ready to start work on the rabbit hutch. Since I was eating, she busied herself putting away items from last night's games we played with the family. When I finished eating, she cleared my dish from the table, while I played Farkel on line. Outside, she kept me supplied with screws, whenever I needed them. All of this was done, without me asking. She loves to help. I've asked teenagers to hold a flashlight for me, only to find it shining where they wanted to look instead of at the task at hand. Not so with Megan. She is a most remarkable child in that regard. She has a keen sense of what needs to be done and a vast store of personal initiative. It boggles my mind that a five year old is capable of anticipating, let alone meeting others' needs to such a refined degree.

Meanwhile, Jeff who is seven, is chatting with me on line and reminding me that he trounced me at Farkel last week. The idea that a seven year old's mind can be strategic enough to roll 11,800 points in Farkel seems absurd to me, but he did it! It takes wisdom and maturity to determine when to take risks and when to stop. Plus there are many combinations of die that are valuable, but difficult to notice, requiring a fairly high degree of sophistication. Much of the day, Jeff spent building his own projects as we worked. He figures things out, like how to reverse a power screw driver. He uses his imagination and creates the neatest aircraft and other gear. He loves to anticipate what my next move on the construction project will be and is often correct.

Mine are remarkable grandchildren. They are not the only ones. Truly Heavenly Father has saved the best for last and I eagerly look forward to seeing what this bright new generation will do for us.

The kids at the Detention Center were once like this. I can see it in them. What have we done to tarnish their beauty, dampen their enthusiasm, quell their imaginations and clutter their lives.

Megan and Jeff will face difficulty too, no doubt. I hope we can help them face it with their talents, sweetness, initiative, imaginations, intellect, innosence and enthusiasm in tact.

Book Review - The Story of Forgetting

Stefan Merrill Block has written a masterpiece! Given the fact that this is his is first novel, coupled with his youth (he's 27), I am astounded at the maturity and quality of his work.

The Story of Forgetting is a story of Alzheimer's disease told from two different places by two very different characters. One, an old worn out humpbacked bachelor, the other a teenaged nerd. Both deal with loved ones with Alzheimer's. Both deal with loneliness. Both deal with obsession.

The story is interwoven with a metaphorical third element about the mythical land of Isidora. We hear from Seth. We hear from Abel. We learn of Isidora. And in the end they three, merge into a magnificent view of tragedy, triumph, meaning and understanding.

While a bit crude in a few places, this story is wonderful. Wonderful in it's ordinary, so-much-like-me characters. Wonderful in it's so-much-like-mine experience. It could be me. It may yet. It is that real, that poignant.

Alzheimer's is a terrible disease which takes a awful toll on victims and families alike. This is clearly portrayed. Yet I'd be loathe to characterize Block's work as either dreary or dreadful. It is thoughtful, hopeful and most magnificent! I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

I had a neighbor with Alzheimer's. Shortly after my retirement, I was blessed with the opportunity to assist his dear wife with his care, on many occasions. I wish I had read this book before I had that experience because Block has given a quality of transcendence to what appeared, from the outside to be a long, numbing ordeal. His wife clearly didn't see it that way, which inspired me. But then, see, I was merely inspired by her and her courageous fight. The Story of Forgetting, would have showed me how to see majesty in the meaning of their relationship. It would have shown me the clarity of contrast and the preciousness of memory. Had I read it back then, I might have understood why I saw triumph where I expected to have seen despair.

Kindle or Dwindle

This morning at the Detention Center one of the Youth, Bobby, gave the lesson at Church. We hold worship services with the kids down there every Sunday. They choose whether or not to attend. Most choose to participate. Lately, three different young men have volunteered to teach the lesson. Each time, they've done marvelously. Their lessons have been heartfelt, insightful, correct and inspiring.

When we read about these "hoodlums" in the paper, we automatically think the worst. Consequently, I try to avoid reading about them in the paper. At the Center, I just see kids, good kids. I rarely have a clue what they've done. Going by the severity of their punishments, I'm not blind to the fact that they've committed, some of them, horrendous crimes. I would just rather deal with them without tainting my view with details.

My calling is to love them not to change them. I am not able to change them and would be foolish to try. This is a new experience for most of them though. Most of them have lived their entire lives with someone on their case; someone trying to change them; someone disapprovingly yelling at them. I get to love them just the way they are and I tell them so. The irony is, they change. Why is this? It's simple. When someone tries to change them they resist. They rebel. From there they decline into despair, bitterness, feelings of unworthiness. In contrast, when someone loves and accepts them just as they are, warts and all, they thrive. They feel hope and begin to see possibilities, opportunities and they change. They change themselves.

Who among us needs to be told what we're doing wrong? Don't we already know? Who among us wouldn't rather do better? Wouldn't we rather be helped to do better than punished for not?

So look at Bobby and Don and Chase. Kids in prison for serious crimes for which they are suffering the consequences - appropriately. Look at them again. Kids who delight in teaching the gospel and lifting the lives and hearts of their fellow men and women. What precipitated their bad behavior? What stimulated the good?

The Nephites often dwindled in unbelief. When I think of dwindle I think of a campfire at the end of the evening. Once roaring, hot, bright and delightful, it dwindles to nothing and we fade away to sleep in our bags. In the morning, a few sparks remain, a little tinder is added, fuel supplied, a few puffs and walla! Fire again blazes to our warmth and delight. People dwindle like fires. Deprived of fuel like love, inspiration and possibilities they dwindle and die. Instead of throwing the cold water of chastisement on such dwindling souls, why don't we kindle them back to life with the breath of love, the tinder of kindness and the fuel of opportunity and encouragement.

We, in our effort to help are often too quick to chastise the wayward. Recently, I attended the Baptist Church of my good friend Pastor Jim. In his sermon he taught a wonderful lesson that I shall always be grateful for. He was discoursing on Hebrews chapter 10 verse 25. He said that one of the values of meeting together was the need for good old fashioned exhortation. Now, before we go on, all my life I equated the term exhortation with chastisement. Chastise means to censure severely or castigate. Now, listen to what Pastor Jim taught. From the Greek, exhort, in this context, means to call near, or call alongside. In other words it means, "Come, join me, walk with me, feel of my love, put your arm around me and let me put mine around you. Let's do this together." Will we throw the cold water of chastisement or will we breathe the warm breath of exhortation.

The fire is in them, every one. Be they prisoners, or students, or neighbor kids or our own sons and daughters, they will dwindle if we don't kindle.

Babylon is Falling - Let Her Go

Yesterday a cherished friend stopped by. My friend is a man of great faith. But....he's been Hannitized, and so every time I see him, he is griping about the state of things in America. The result is constant, unproductive complaining, fault finding and criticism. My friend has become a pessimist.

I've spent some time since that meeting contemplating how to encourage my poor pessimistic friend. As I pondered a strong impression set my mind on an interesting course. Babylon is falling!

Babylon is falling. Do we want to prevent that? The "great and spacious building" is teetering. Are we trying to prop it up? Is our anxiousness, about the state of things, a corollary to our connection to Babylon? When it falls, which it surely will, will that hurt us? What is Babylon? Is the United States Babylon? Is not the US and her constitution worth saving? Worth fighting for? Is Wall Street Babylon? Is China? Hamas? Israel?

My morning walk was filled with such questions.

I think I have a few answers. First, Babylon is not a place. Babylon is a state of mind. A quality of character. Babylon is composed of her citizens and the way in which those citizens see the world. Babylon is not confined to America, Wall Street, China, Baghdad or any place else. Babylon is those who subscribe to her values. I recently reviewed a book on this blog called The Three Deceivers, by Richard Eyre. I think he hit the nail right on the head - Babylon is a paradigm of Control, Ownership and Independence. Those who subscribe to and put their trust in that paradigm are Babylon. Don't forget Babylon is falling.

Second, Babylon, as a paradigm, is not worth saving. Babylon cannot be saved. It is on a collision course with destiny and it will fall. The only course of action for her citizens is to cancel their subscription and flee to Zion. Remember, we are not speaking of a geographical place here. Fleeing to Zion can be done without taking a physical step. Fleeing to Zion can and should be done right where we are.

Third, there is no point in trying to destroy Babylon. It will destroy itself. The "large and spacious" building is condemned, abandon it. It will collapse of it's own accord.

Fourth, any pain we feel as a result of the fall of Babylon will be because of some grasp we still hold on the place (paradigm.) That and mourning for the souls who remain trapped in the rubble.

So, what is to be done? Flee to Zion! Abandon Babylon completely, if you are not there, it's fall will not hurt you. How is this done? Adopt a new paradigm. Hopefully, you'll soon read Eyre's book. I'll be spilling the beans a bit here. Give up the notions represented by Control, Ownership and Independence and choose to see the world through the lens of Serendipity, Stewardship and Synergicity. (You'll have to read the book to fully understand what that means.) For now, suffice it to say that this Zion paradigm is one in which God is in charge, possessions are gifts, and people are vital partners and fellow travelers in the journey of life. Zion is the pure in heart. Zion is full of faith. Zion doesn't cling to the material things of this world. Zion trusts in God rather than the arm of the flesh. Zion is redeemed through the Atonement of Jesus Christ.

If you find yourself fearing or even mourning the demise of Babylon, it is because to some degree you are still there. Babylon is falling, let her go. Come to Zion and rejoice in Babylon's prophesied destruction. Does this mean the end of the United States? Heavens no. Does this mean we quit standing up for correct principles and the Constitution, absolutely not. We don't have to be wreckers though, let's be builders. As we build Zion, we build, defend and protect all that is good around us. Every person who has adopted the Zion paradigm is one less person of the Babylon mind set. People are crossing the border all the time. Sadly, many, even in the church, remain in Babylon. You can hear the terror in their voices. Zion is not the church. Zion is the pure in heart. Come to Zion.

Sean Hannity is a nice man. I think much of what he is about is good. I often hear him say, "Let not your heart be troubled." He probably means it, but every one I talk to, who listens to his programs, seems to have a troubled heart, to be pessimistic. I think that's because they've got the wrong paradigm. They're trying to save Babylon and they're barking up the wrong tree. There is only one way to keep Christ's commandment to "let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid" and that's to come to Zion. Which is to be in the world but not of it; to stop clinging to what we think we deserve and start viewing life as a gift and a stewardship; to stop condemning those still in Babylon, but rather, inviting them to Zion, rejoicing. Babylon is about fear, fear of loss. Zion is about love and abundance.

Babylon is falling, let her go.

It's How You Play the Game

Last night I was enjoying a re-run of Northern Exposure. Holling Vincoeur got fed up with everyone's obsession with baseball on TV and declared it to be, "piddly, inconsequential goings on!"

I cheered!

I have been cross threaded with sports for most of my life. As a young man all we did at Mutual was play basketball and I sat the bench, even in practice. I was slight, uncoordinated, and just didn't get sports. I couldn't throw a baseball. I was afraid to catch one. The concept of risking and experiencing pain for the fun of sport was totally mystifying to me. The humiliation of my inevitably poor performance was as repulsive to me as crying in public might have been to my father, but he was totally blind to it.

I couldn't even stand to be a fan of sports. It boggled my mind that we who couldn't make the team were expected to show up and worship and encourage those who did. To me it was just "piddly, inconsequential goings on." I remember reminding a friend who was grieving a big BYU loss that, "a billion Chinese don't even care." And neither did I. It was absolutely no consolation to him.

My friend Bobby mellowed my disdain for sports a good deal. He called me one day and invited me to come watch his kids play ball at the Fort Duchesne gym. I took Aly with me and we drove over to spend a Saturday morning. I felt like Adrian Monk at a 49er's game. A fish flopping on the bank. I found Bobby and a seat right behind him. He shook my hand and I asked him who we were cheering for. He looked at me with the most puzzled look and answered, "Why, everyone, of course."

I have never enjoyed such basketball! Those Native American kids were having a blast! Their skills, enthusiasm, comaraderie, were awesome. I'd watched the occasional Jazz game. Those pro players looked jaded, even bored. Rarely, did they play with what I'd call joy and vivacity. They played more like machines. Their play seemed more like work. They played like they were chasing carrots.

Not so in Fort Duchesne. These kids played for the love of playing. Fouls were practically none existent. Deliberate fouls were unthinkable. It had nothing to do with winning or losing. Everything to do with having a good time. I still can't quite put my finger on the way they competed without being competetive.

I play volleyball most Wednesday nights with the next generation of those kids. It is still the same way. There is even room and fun for an old klutz like me. Perhaps it is a cultural thing with the indigenous Americans, who seem to intrinsically get that it is not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game. Perhaps it is for this reason we seldom see their talent on High School or College courts where it is no longer play and no longer a game. Perhaps it is for this reason that the best basketball I've ever watched is still I big secret kept tucked away in a little reservation town.

Another paradigm shift came when I became associated with Curg. Curg played strong safety for BYU and the Washington Redskins. I have no idea what a strong safety is. He remains a loyal BYU fan. Yet somehow, he is different. At first I thought it came of the confidence that having been an All American and a Pro afforded; he has nothing to prove. But I later could see that for Curg, sports was not the end all, be all of his life. He is humbly grateful for the experience. He sees sports as an opportunity, not a pedestal. He is not the rabid fan who cajoles and insults those who wear red. Nor is he that fan who rails against a player who stumbles on the field. His disappointments sigh over players who stumble in life.

For Bobby and Curg sports are hardly piddly or inconsequential; though they might be if they were only about superiority and final scores and money and arrogance and pride. It turns out that they are not merely about those things but can also be about fellowship and brotherhood and courage and commitment and development and motivation and opportunity and joy.