Book Review - The Map Thief by Heather Terrell

Sweetie read this book some time ago and recommended it to me.  I'm glad she did.  I love historical fiction.  This one may be a bit of a stretch, because Terrell's premise is not entirely accepted as history.  As a postulation, though, it is intriguing, possible and amazing.

Heather Terrell tells the story from three primary perspectives.  Each of them is informative, thrilling and credible.  The perspective of  Zhi, the Chinese Enuch who serves as navigator and cartographer for Admiral Zheng He (early 1400's),  is one of honor, sacrifice, discovery and courage.  The story as seen through the experience of Antonio, navigator for Vasco da Gama (late 1400's), is one of bewilderment, dismay, integrity and adventure.  And, finally, the perspective of Mara, a modern recoverer of stolen artifacts, is one of principle, intrigue, determination and romance.  Blend them together and you have a picture of cross cultural synchronicity that spans the centuries and which, despite political posturing, brings a sense of meaning and purpose to history.

I think the story could have been fattened a bit with more detail and imagination, but I loved it all the same.  The concept and possibilities it explores were more exciting and credible to me than anything Dan Brown has cooked up.  Kudos to Heather Terrell on a fine second book.  I think I'll look up her first and take it for a spin.

Pets?

They say that pets are wonderfully therapeutic.  On what planet?  In my world, they provide nothing but stress.

When the kids were little I tried all kinds of pets.  In those days I believed some good might come of them.  Every attempt was a disaster.  We tried Cats, most of which drove Sweetie nuts for countless reasons.  One wouldn't shut up, another barfed on the rug, repeatedly, another had mange or something.  Eventually, she, who brought them home, made me find another home for them.  We tried Dogs, Sweetie hated the way they mournfully looked at her when she wouldn't give them her full attention.  We tried Hedgehogs; not warm and fuzzy enough.  We tried Chinchillas, which were warm and fuzzy, but didn't like to be cuddled.  We tried an Iguana, whose only redeeming quality was that finally I was more handsome than somebody.  We tried parakeets who taught us all about death and loss.  We thought Zebra Finches were cute and at first their little beeps were charming.  We found out you can only take so many beeps.  We tried rabbits and I shudder to even describe the disaster that was, poor things.  One of our many Easter Bunnies, gave birth on Easter.  She came to us in a family way.  And we thought we could avoid that by getting only one. I have a couple of rabbits now, but I don't see them as pets, but rather as food storage.

Then there were the turtles.  We started with three little dime store Sliders.  I couldn't imagine they were happy in that little dish with the palm tree sticking out.  I made an elaborate aquarium/terrarium, stocked it with frog's eggs and installed the turtles.  The eggs hatched.  The turtles dined voraciously on polliwogs, got spoiled, refused to eat anything else and died.  Furious, I became an expert on turtles.  Eventually, I had five species and up to a dozen, thriving, healthy turtles.  The local Vet sent all sick turtles to me.  I was a good Turtle Doctor.  Once recovered, most owners didn't want them back.  For a long time, I thought Turtles were the perfect pet.  They weren't much trouble, kept quiet, were fascinating to watch, didn't mind being ignored, didn't eat much, didn't shed, and stayed where I put them.  Eventually, I tired of them though and closed up shop on that project too. I closed that episode, convinced that owning nature was criminal, unsatisfying and no longer for me.

Then our little Caboose came along.  She begged for a pet and eventually we got her a Cat which we neutered and tagged and all the legal, ethical and expensive nonsense which that entails.  He was handsome and well behaved.  He was quiet.  I was tempted to love him, but he sheds 24/7/365.  I can't stand to be near him.  Everyone else steers clear too.  Cat fur everywhere.  Gag.  To keep him company the gals brought home a female kitten, which we also eventually neutered and tagged.  That one has a great coat and hardly sheds at all, but she's looney and won't hold still to be petted or to just sit in your lap.  Instead of keeping Nolly, the male, company, she teases and pesters him to distraction.  Itty Bitty, the female, came crazy, Nolly grew that way.

So now I live with two neurotic cats.  They wake me in the night to let them out.  They can't decide if they're coming or going.  I shudder to think of the hours of sleep they've cost me over the years.  Everybody protests when I suggest we get rid of them.  Go figure, nobody even notices they exist.  I wouldn't either if I could sleep through their caterwauling.

I grew up in a day when you drowned unwanted creatures like these, or you hauled them off somewhere and dropped them off, or you clubbed them with a shovel and buried them some place.  Now-a-days, people get arrested for such things.  I know, I see those, scary TV shows where armed police arrest people for such things.  Who wants to go to jail for animal cruelty.  Why can't there be laws that prosecute cats for human cruelty for crying out loud!  After all, in a human/feline relationship, who really owns who?  Who is really in charge?

And so I suffer, and wait, and hope.  I see dead cats in the road all the time.  Hope rises within me, but they're never mine.

Growing Up In Himni, Utah - Episode 7

The Golden Emerods

Brother Goodwin’s Seminary Class was always a delight. Released time Seminary, for Latter-day Saint kids was held across the street from the High School in the Seminary Building. One period a day we spent over there ostensibly learning about the gospel. Brother Goodwin made that pretty likely. He loved the Lord. It showed. He loved us too. That also showed. Who can forget the day he stood upon his desk and delivered the Rameumptom Prayer. Or who can forget the day the phone call came to inform him that he had become the father of two adopted twins.
At the beginning of the year Brother Goodwin informed us that we’d be studying the Old Testament. He handed out our new Bibles. Next he divided us into Scripture Chase teams. He instructed us to organize our teams and to use the Bible in selecting names for our teams.

We huddled together and started brainstorming our way through the concordance. After some giggling, negotiating and mayhem the four teams came up with their names. Many of my best buddies were in that class and two of my closest, Mitch and Lew, were on my team! We called ourselves Noah’s Ark-angels. For a short time about then I had been nicknamed Noah on account of my having become proficient at reciting Bill Cosby’s “Noah” routine which we had on a long-play album.
Another good friend, Rob Hanke, lead up a team that called themselves Solomon's Wise Guys. (I’m sorry about that and I’m sure Brother Goodwin is too.)
The other two teams came in with Daniel’s Lions and, the envy of all of us The Golden Emerods. We had no idea what an emerod was but it sounded cool to us and cool was everything. If emerods were cool, golden ones had to be fantastic. The Golden Emerods included all girls and was headed up by a prissy little chick named Marci Merrywether. They were pretty good scripture chasers too and became our main rivals throughout the year. In fact later in the year, in a charitable ploy to even the odds, Brother Goodwin cheated in their behalf and spauned the Wet Topcoat Incident, but that is another story.
So the year labored on and we found ourselves studying in the book of First Samuel, whereupon we read:
1 Sam 5:9
9 And it was [so], that, after they had carried it about, the hand of the LORD was against the city with a very great destruction: and he smote the men of the city, both small and great, and they had emerods in their secret parts.
This was the story of the Philistines stealing the Arc of the Covenant from the Israelites, which sorely displeased the Lord. Naturally, we asked Brother Goodwin, again, what an emerod might be. He said he didn’t know, but something in his eye made me think otherwise. The Bible Dictionary didn’t offer a clue. Niether did the big dictionary over at the Library. I didn’t spend a lot of time fussing over it, but there was this little nagging itch in the back of my brain that really flared up when Marci got particularly snotty.
And so it was, that I found myself at BYU for a debate tournament with a little free time to visit the Library there. On a lovely wooden stand stood the largest dictionary I’d ever seen, Funk and Wagnal’s Unabashed Dictionary of the English Language or something like that. I looked up emerods and check out what I found:
emerod
‘ophel {o’-fel}
Hebrew: noun masculine
Possible Definitions:
1) hill, mound, fort, stronghold, Ophel
2) tumor, hemorrhoid
You can imagine which definition I favored. You can imagine Brother Goodwin’s dismay at my revelation to the class. You can imagine Marci Merrywether’s reaction to belonging to a scripture chase team named the Golden Hemorrhoids. (Might as well have been Gomer's Piles.)  And, I’m sure, you can imagine my thoughts upon the occasion of my own first encounter with those unpleasant little companions.

The Road To Emmaus

A few years ago I took my Son-In-Law and Grandson to the Fathers and Sons Outing. The ground was sloped and hard and I didn't sleep very well. At about four AM, I'd had enough and crawled out of my sleeping bag. I didn't want to awaken anyone, so I decided to go for a walk. It was a lovely starlit night on the mountain so I grabbed my binoculars and walked away from camp along a lonely dirt road. Jupiter was just setting in the west and I got a marvelous view of her majesty, being able to see three of her moons as I watched.

As I walked along the road I felt the companionship of my Savior. We walked and conversed for almost three hours. I thought I was on my own road to Emmaus. My heart swelled within me as we walked in the way. I returned rejoicing at my precious moments of love and clarity as I quietly walked with God.

For Christmas that year my daughters gave me this lovely painting.



I see here, the two disciples who had met and conversed with the Risen Lord on the Road to Emmaus. Here they are hastening back to Jerusalem to tell the others what they had seen.  It seems that in despair and discouragement they'd been retreating to their old lives, not knowing what else to do in the absence of their Master. He met with them and taught them as the walked, but their "eyes were holden" and the didn't recognize him. They'd heard that he'd been resurrected, but apparently found it difficult to believe. Then as they sat with Him at supper their eyes were opened and in one precious moment realized it was true and recognized, through His teaching and by the Spirit, that scripture had been fulfilled. Thus fortified, they changed their course and headed back to Jerusalem, to the Apostles and to their duty. The painting so beautifully depicts their humble awe, and determination, and repentance and clarity of purpose.

And so it is with me. Too often I retreat from my duty for lack of faith, humility and understanding. Too often, when things don't go as I intended or thought they should, I turn in despair and discouragement and wander off on my own Road to Emmaus. Today as I listened to Conference and sat at the feet of prophets, He came again and walked with me and I, like those two disciples, felt my heart burn within me as the scriptures were opened unto me. Thankfully, though I wasn't worthy, He caught up with me on my errant road and turned me and my heart around.

Like those two, earnest faces, in the painting, I have some repenting to do. I need to return to my duty with renewed determination and humility, gently reminded of who I am and what I've been given and that, I too, must be about my Father's business.

Oh, blessed Conference, I must never miss it!

Anticipating General Conference

I've been finishing The Book of Mormon this morning. While pondering, I found myself eagerly anticipating General Conference this weekend. I don't see it the same way I used to.

I often grew so jealous watching conference that I had to go do something else. I envied the General Authorities. I wanted to sit in their counsels. I wanted to be occupied full time in the service of the Lord. It looked so appealing to me to be continually associated with only the finest, the best. To be steeped in truth and service, rubbing shoulders with only the finest of Saints seemed so appealing, such a wonderful way to spend your days.

Instead I was consigned to spend my days with foul-mouthed people who thought more of beer than bearing testimony, focused their attentions on hunting elk and fishing for trout, rather finding folks with whom to share the gospel. I had a ministry all right it was all giving and no getting. There was no one there to lift and inspire me, it seemed like all the lifting was left for me to do.

Then one day I went to the Salt Lake Airport to see Sweetie off on a business trip. I bade her good-bye as she passed through the security gates. Watching her disappear down the long concourse I noticed Elder Neal A Maxwell of the Quorum of the Twelve coming the opposite direction. I thought I might like to shake his hand. As he and his companions approached, and I could see more clearly, it was obvious that Elder Maxwell was not well. He looked so utterly exhausted. Who knows where he'd been, for how long, under what weight of responsibility. Who knows what burdensome problems he'd dealt with, what long meetings and uncomfortable beds he'd had to endure. It was near the end of his life. He was suffering from Cancer - again. Still, he carried on, doggedly determined to give the full measure of his capacity to the service to which he'd been called.

My heart broke for this sweet, wonderful servant of the Lord. Watching, my mind raced back to the last time I'd seen him in person. We were in the Vernal Temple for it's Dedication. Sweetie and I were sitting in the Bride's Room, with her mother and our 8 year old daughter, watching the proceedings on closed circuit TV. As the meeting closed we could see on the monitor that President Hinckley and Elder Maxwell were leaving the temple via the hallway along which our room was situated. We urged our daughter to go stand by the door so she could see our Prophet pass by. President Hinckley was occupied in conversation and didn't notice little Katie standing there, but Elder Maxwell did. He approached her and then got down on his knees and gave her a great big bear hug, which she enthusiastically returned. There wasn't a dry eye in the room. The precious love and kindness that was felt in that brief moment, none of us, especially Katie, have ever forgotten.

As a much more weary Elder Maxwell passed by in the airport that day, I'd have liked to have thanked him for our precious moment in the Temple. I'd like to have shaken his hand and expressed my love and gratitude for his teachings and courageous example - but I didn't. I just stepped back against the wall and standing in awe, respect, concern and dismay, watched him struggle desperately for home and hopefully, rest. They had just gone around the corner, when Elder Ben B. Banks came quickly back. He took my hand and with tears in his eyes, thanked me for letting Elder Maxwell proceed without interruption. Another sweet servant of the Lord had noticed my respectful concern and had returned to acknowledge my gift.

As I drove three hours home I spent the time imagining the realities of being away from home weekend after weekend reorganizing Stakes, speaking in conferences, meeting with government officials, suffering jet lag, eating strange meals, meeting after meeting after meeting, always expected to speak, always bearing the burden of responsibility. I thought of all the birthday parties for grand kids, the ball games and school plays they missed. I thought of Elder Packer's statement, when asked of all the places he'd visited all over the globe, where would he rather go, to which he answered, "I would go home." Suddenly, the glamor of their most wonderful calling was balanced with an understanding of its attendant sacrifice. It clearly is not all roses and while there are things I'd love to enjoy, I'm not so envious anymore of the enormously difficult lives they lead.

I just, happily, received two new Councilors to serve with me in the Branch Presidency at the Detention Center. As we gathered for our first meeting, I heard them comparing notes about this missionary who's preparing to leave and that one, who's about to come home, and another who recently reported his first baptism. I was a bit startling. After serving exclusively at the Detention Center for the past five and a half years. I don't know kids who go on missions. I know kids who go to Rehab. I don't associate with many people who have burning testimonies. I don't go to Gospel Doctrine Class or High Priest's Quorum Meetings. I don't rub shoulders much with folks who are mature in the Gospel or who even understand much about it. Additionally, I attend a few 12 Steps meetings a week and while a few bear faith filled testimonies most are struggling with depression, addiction and despair. My employment is more of the same. The living waters Jesus offered run through the desert of my life and I partake freely and I am not complaining. But I am looking forward, with profound eagerness, to the next couple of days of spiritual feasting. I am anxious to sit at the feet of these wonderful men and receive the wisdom of their experience, the inspiration of their worthiness, the strength of their devotion and the insight of their companionship. They are not stingy with those things so laboriously obtained; and I am grateful.

And - part of me wonders - do they sit in those elevated seats and look down from the podium at us and also wish - that they could teach a little Primary class of bright-eyed Sunbeams; or hoe a widow's garden; or sing in a Ward Choir; or sleep under the stars with a handful of excited Boy Scouts; or watch a granddaughter blow out six candles? Does each of them quietly wish he could sit obscurely in a quiet down-home Sacrament Meeting, next to his wife, behind his best friend and in front of the recently reactivated family he Home Teaches? Surely, they get to do some of that, but mostly, they are counting on us to do that portion of the work.

Tomorrow and Sunday, I want to soak up their words and inspiration, ponder their meaning and bask in the Spirit the Lord will send to accompany them. Then, I want to carry those words and feelings to the little pregnant girl, locked up for joy-riding; and the bitter boy, whose father abandoned him and whose step father beats him; and the bewildered kid, whose parents are both locked up for drug dealing; and all the rest of those sweet kids, who've hardly known love and joy and who will most certainly miss out on Conference.