I Love A Parade! Really?

I actually think I do love a parade.  I watch and enjoy just about every one that happens around here.  But if you ask my regular companions you'll quickly learn that I often ask, "Why do we do this?"  I mean we fight crowds, bake in the sun, wait and wait; all to be deafened by sirens and jet engines.  We watch a bunch of half baked floats and every politician from here to Heber.  The vendors who drag their coaster wagons behind four-wheelers don't ever vend anything that appeals to me.  I always bring money just in case, but the last time I bought anything was 1994.  I quite often get angry when people don't stand for the flag or show respect for the Veterans. And then I worry about the American Legion.  They're all getting way old and no body my age, AKA Vietnam Vets, seems to be picking up the baton. Who will present flags from a grateful nation to these guy's widows?

I was in a parade once.  Sweetie and I were headed for Blanding and found ourselves driving down Main Street in Moab.  We hadn't gone far when we discovered the street lined with spectators, even some crowded bleachers.  Then we began to notice a number of hot rods in the traffic.  At a stop light we found ourselves next to a particularly obnoxious rod with a giant air scoop on the hood and flames painted on it side.  He was lettin' her rumble.  There was a baby asleep in his back seat.  How'd he do that?  We couldn't even run the dishwasher without waking ours up.  Sweetie rolled down the window, risking permanent ear damage and asked the fellow what was going on.

"You're in a parade lady." was his answer.

We found out later that there'd been a big car show in town and at it's conclusion everyone would drag main in their show cars for one last hoorah!  It had become such a tradition that the whole town showed up for the spectacle.

Sweetie began to enjoy the parade from this perspective and got out the video camera to record the crowd as we passed by.  Back home when we were viewing the video the scene passed a fellow standing on the back row of a grand stand holding a sign which read, "Show us your boobs."  Sweetie gasped and asked why I hadn't warned her about it.

"Well, why would I?  I didn't want you to show him your boobs?"  Fortunately, I was out of swat range for that one.

We both remarked that being in the parade was every bit as fascinating as watching one.  There's the whole town on display, sitting in lawn chairs, marinating in their own sweat and reacting in various ways to the spectacle parading by.

So it was today, as I pulled the Ward float in the Pioneer Day Parade.  They'd asked for a volunteer driver during Priesthood Meeting on Sunday and I had gladly raised my hand.  Had I known how pathetic our float was, I'd have realized why the Bishop, a truck driver, had opted to delegate this one to someone else.  Our float's theme, of provident living, featured a huge pink piggy bank.  It so scarcely resembled a pig though, that it's creators had put a sign on it's side indicating what it was supposed to be.  At it's best it couldn't have been too impressive, but shortly after its creation it suffered a cloud burst in the church parking lot that did something to the crepe paper that resembling a Mary Kay Cosmetics factory after a hurricane.

My son-in-law, whose daughter rode on the float, refused to accompany me.  He has a reputation to uphold I guess.  Hey, aside from the pig and scribbled poster paper signs along the edge, with nothing else to doll it up, the float was adorned with gorgeous children and a beautiful newly-wed couple and it turned out to be a masterpiece in a barn wood frame.  It definitely looked like it was built on a shoe string.  Even the trailer was homemade and rusty.  We should have posted a sign to read the old adage of thrift:   Use it up. Wear it out.  Make it do.  Or do without.  In that light we nailed it.

This year marks 100 years of Scouting in America.  The Scouts turned out en mass to march in their uniforms.  My grandson, a Cub Scout rode his bike.  He circled our rig the whole length of the parade.  What a kick to see him showing of his newly developed tricks.

Once again I loved watching the crowd as we made our leisurely way down Main Street.  Still, I missed the Drill Team on unicycles, the Model T carrying the Grand Marshall and the herds of little red faced dancers following Miss Barbara's Dance Class' promo float.  I missed standing for the Stars and Stripes and I missed applauding those resolute old Veterans who defeated Germany and Japan.  I missed the candy tossers and the squirt gun squirters.  Though, there was a new feature this year.  Someone had wheeled a huge trash can full of water to their viewing location and, with their own squirt guns, fought back.

On the way, it dawned on me why I love this business so much.  Our main street is also US Highway 40.  It is busy with lots of truck and tourist travel this time of year.  I relish the fact that five or six times a year we claim Main Street as our own.  Traffic is diverted somewhere else for a moment and we get our little piece of Heaven to ourselves.  And then we take a little time to celebrate who we are.  To show appreciation for the cops, firemen, National Guard, Vets, Representatives and distinguished citizens.  We take a little time to celebrate our children, their talents and beauty.  We pause in the middle of life's rat race and declare.  "This is us, such as we are!  And it tickles us to death to flaunt it in broad day light!

A Kind, Thoughtful and Able God

I've heard some remarkable stories this week that have made me pause to be grateful.

Herbert Klopfer and his parents escaped East Germany when he was fourteen.  Later as a young man he was called on a proselyting Mission to Switzerland.  Out of the blue he was called for a season to labor at the Swiss Temple, not as a proselyting Elder but to do administrative work.  During that short stint his three remaining Grandparents were granted permission to leave East Germany for a visit to the Temple.  Herbert was able to spend some precious time with them.  It was the only time he ever saw them again in mortality.

I spoke with a young man this week who I will not name.  During a time of struggle, rejection and loneliness, he changed schools and struck up a acquaintance with someone who freely gave him the new and blessed gift of friendship.  Some time later they discovered that they were full brothers; one having been given up for adoption when their shared parents were young and unwed.

During High Priest's Group Meeting on Sunday we were talking about the duties of a Teacher.  To quote from the 20th Section of the Doctrine and Covenants:

53  The teacher's duty is to watch over the church always, and be with and strengthen them;  54  And see that there is no iniquity in the church, neither hardness with each other, neither lying, backbiting, nor evil speaking;  55  And see that the church meet together often, and also see that the members do their duty.  56  And he is to take the lead of meetings in the absense of the elder or priest.

There was some angst expressed about such heavy responsibility being placed upon 14 and 15 year old boys.  I expressed opposing concern that we lacked significant faith if we failed to entrust such, Heaven decreed responsibilities upon them.  My comment spawned some agreement and some dismay.  One fellow declared that even High Priests don't shine in those prescribed areas, how could we expect boys to do so.

The time was late and I didn't want to further annoy some obviously agitated brethren, so I let the matter drop.  I will, however, respond here.

In my opinion, we tend to shoulder too much of the burden and to take too much of the credit in matters as here described.  I will give first a negative example, followed by a positive one.

Example A:  I have a couple of friends who have been cohabitating for some time.  They have a faithful Home Teacher whose visits they dread.  He's a nice enough man, but he feels it his duty to censure them each time he visits their home.  He clearly takes the admonition of Section 20 very seriously.  During their most recent visit this couple mentioned that they are moving to separate apartments while they decide if they should get married or not.  They took a pretty uncomfortable lecture on marriage and morals replete with unwelcome advice about how they should proceed with their lives.  This couple grows less and less amenable to the church and it's representative with every encounter.

Example B:  I once taught a wonderful widow lady who refused to come to church.  She hadn't been for over 50 years.  I like the home teacher in example A, did my best to persuade her to repent and come partake of the blessings church activity affords.  Always she resisted.  Always she showed signs of the discomfort my friends from the other example expressed.  I had a 14 year old companion and one month I decided it was his turn to teach the lesson.  He accepted and showed up prepared to teach our little less-active sister.  My young companion began his lesson by telling us that he hadn't known what to do for the lesson and that his mother had found a poem for him to share.  I don't remember the poem, or that it had any special meaning.  I most certainly did not have anything to do with whether the sister ought to be attending church or not.  I do remember though, that the young man was moved by the message of the poetry.  When he finished, his eyes misted up and looking directly at the little lady and said, "I sure love my mother."

The next Sunday Sister Wilson showed up to church.  She spoke with the Bishop.  Eventually, she received a Temple Recommend and spent the balance of her life active in the church and serving in the Temple.  Later, she told a mutual friend that she never needed to be told what to do, in her heart she already knew that.  "What I needed," she said, "was to feel the Spirit of the Lord and when that young man helped me feel it, I knew in an instant that I must have more."

Now, you can't tell me that my junior companion didn't fulfill, completely, the duties of a Teacher.  Whereas, I most assuredly had not.  The primary duty of any Priesthood holder is to bring the Spirit of the Lord into the meetings as associations he's involved in.  And here are two examples of High Priests failing to do that and one of a Teacher succeeding.

What does this have to do with the earlier two stories?  Everything.  God is good and kind and deliberately involved in our lives.  He is able to do His own work.  We take too much upon ourselves when we undertake to do God's work for Him.  Our assignment is to help those we serve to make their own connection with God, not to presume to be that connection.  Hence, "if ye receive not the Spirit, ye shall not teach!"  (D&C 42:14).

Precious Rain

I love the rain.  I love it in the Northwest where it falls so gently and so frequently that everything is green and verdant.  I love it in the Philippines where it drenches in an instant but is so warm and friendly.  I love it in the Midwest, where it is so dangerous and rowdy.  But, most of all I love it here in the desert where it is so rare.

Yesterday's rain was so long coming.  It fell in torrents that sounded like applause and then returned a couple of hours later for an encore.  All over town the audience rejoiced.  The reviews were rave.

"Wasn't that a wonderful rain!"

"Look how fresh and clean everything looks!"

"That rain sure cooled things off nicely."

"My lawn and garden sure needed that!"

"Wasn't that thunder thrilling!"

Gutters and hearts overflowed.  Smiles all around.  Even farmers with their hay down couldn't help but stand under the porch and watch with pleasure.  Desert rain puts a grin in chagrin.  The Indians used to say that this was good weather and so it is.  A reminder that God still loves us.  All of us.  And from the windows of His heaven blessings still flow, in abundance.

The timing was perfect.  The coolness shut off air conditioners and opened closed doors and windows as we reached from our confinement into the freshness.  Then at gloaming, the freshened world wafted upon us like the breath of Heaven.  Celestial aroma to bless our sleep and fertilize our dreams.

Stepping Off Cliffs

I've got friend coming out of addiction.  I was up way into the night helping with it.  He clearly wants my help.  But he also struggles with fear and often resists that help.  It is a terrifying thing to consider giving up the things that have, however falsely, comforted you for all these years.

I think he believes there will be other, more healthy, ways to deal with the pain and that eventually, Christ will actually heal the wound.  But it's still a little intimidating.

I remember the first time I rappelled off a cliff.  I saw others do it successfully.  I'd been trained in the technique.  I was on belay and promised that if anything went wrong my belayer would catch me.  I was armored with helmet, gloves and adequate clothing.  I knew that all I had to do is pull my braking arm, the one holding the slack side of the rope, across my chest and my slide down the rope would stop.  This is because the friction on the rope would increase to a point at which it would no longer slide through the apparatus that attached me to the rope. It all made sense and I'd seen it work.  What I lacked was experience.  I had no idea how hard it would be to pull my arm across my chest.

I think my friend is experiencing something similar.  He's seen others go into recovery and it looks real good.  He's learned the methods of doing so and is a rigged for success.  I promise him that God has him on belay and will catch him if he faints or gets hung up.  Still he doesn't know how it feels and how hard it will be so actually backing off the cliff is quite a challenge.  He's gone to the edge before and chickened out.  I encourage him all I can.  I try to get him to make a commitment to just do it this time, but he chokes.  He thinks I'm bullying him when he's not ready.

It's hard to be patient.  On this side of addiction its hard to imagine what he's going through, even though I once stood right where he is.  The memory of that fear is fading and I stop a second and smile, gratefully, at the realization.  It's hard to see him missing out on all the fun.  Its hard to see him suffering so; wanting it so bad, but afraid to take it.

This morning I pray he'll just do it.  If not, maybe next time.  I know he wants it.  I can see it in his eyes.  One day he'll want it bad enough to trust the means and methods and step over the edge.  As in rappelling, it's all down hill from there.  That is in easiness.  The first step back's the hardest, because it's all about choice.  Once he decides he's going to do it, no matter what, I'll breathe a heavy sigh of relief.  And once he has faith enough and steps over the edge and then senses what is transpiring in his new exhilarating life, so will he.

Note:  Technology and methods have greatly changed since the rappelling method I described.

The Kid's Canal

Less than a mile from our home, practically right in town, is an irrigation canal that flows along a moderately busy street.  It is affectionately known as The Kid's Canal.  I suppose it's the oldest canal in the valley.  It is lined with trees, with grassy banks here and there.  Some years ago the City developed a nice paved walkway along much of it.  There are three bridges to funnel walking traffic back to the street side where private homes occupy the bank.  There is no side walk along the street side.  Hardly room for one as the bank plunges steeply into the stream from the curb.  So, its nice to have the walkway, for safety's sake.

My grandkids, Jeff, 8 and Megan 6, live right through my back gate and are getting old enough for some high adventure.  They both are accomplished swimmers and, with a membership, spend a lot of time at the Recreation Center.  It is a nice indoor facility with state of the art pools, exercise equipment and even a rock climbing wall.  This summer though, we've been spending our time at the Kid's canal.

One day they asked where I went swimming when I was a boy.  "In the canal," I told them.  That captured their imaginations, so we grabbed a couple of inner tubes and headed down there.  The stream averages two and half feet deep and is about 12 feet wide.  They loved sailing down the stream, sometimes capsizing and screaming as they surfaced from the cold, exhilarating water.  Well, kind of screaming, in that breathless sort of way you do, when the shock of cold hasn't quite relinquished it's grip on you.  Funny how it's not quite so bad the next time around and pretty quick you're in there for good, letting the cool refreshing liquid cancel the effects of a long hot summer day.

Last week while floating the canal we stumbled upon one of their five year old cousins fishing there with his grandpa.  Jaren had caught a nice one and was so proud to show it to us.  He was also fascinated with the prospect of sailing down the canal so Megan offered him a ride in exchange for a good look at his fish.  We two grandfathers exchanged contented glances, for it doesn't get any better than this.

Last year Megan's kindergarten class was visited by a representative of the Fish and Game department.  He brought some trout eggs and set them up in a tank in their room.  They watched the eggs hatch, become tiny fish and grow to about an inch in length.  They loved learning about Rainbow Trout.  At the end of the year they walked the quarter mile from the school to the canal and released them into the stream.  This captured their imaginations too.  Part of the charm of the Kids Canal is that it has long been reserved for the fishing pleasure of children.  They can fish there without a license, with a limit of one fish each per trip.  Jeff and Megan's Dad bought them a couple of nice, small, manageable poles and for a few of weeks now we've gone to the canal to just to fish.  The first time we got skunked.  My favorite lure in for fishing Jones Hole didn't get a single bite.
Then one day while swimming there we noticed a young fellow using a different lure.  He was quite successful.    So the next time we used that and Jeff caught two!  Megs, the competitive one, hasn't rested since.  So last night we went down after supper to fish.  She thought, though, that we should take a tube just in case the fish weren't biting.  I guess she wanted to make sure there was some consolation fun built into the excursion.

This time it was Megan's turn and she caught her first Rainbow Trout.  I'd like to capture her excitement and enthusiasm in a bottle.  It'd make me a fortune!  We floated and fished and floated some more.  When Jeff caught his fish last week he was content to Catch and Release; having no interest in eating such a thing and raising hopes of catching them again when they're bigger.  Not so with his sister.  She was intent on casting, tempting, hooking, landing, keeping, examining, adoring, surprising, showing off, photographing, cleaning, dissecting, filleting, seasoning, frying, eating and sharing hers!  Which she did with gusto!  She wanted the complete experience and relished every step of the process.  I couldn't help admiring her.  For her, her first fish must have the quintessential celebration, nothing less would do.  Do I enjoy life at that level?  Not normally.  But today I did.  Thanks to a six year old child whose sense of wonder and joy knows no bounds!

As I sit here remembering a sweet evening I can't express enough, my gratitude for a simple little canal so convenient and close, and for a community that loves its children and grandpas enough to make it safe and shady and stock it with fish and memories, summer after precious summer.