What a World!

The little kids and I were up early this morning to go to the Farmer's Market.  My tomatoes haven't done well this year and I've a hankering for BLT's this evening.  Apparently nobody's tomatoes have done very well.  Booth after booth had squash that looked wonderful.  Only one had a few pretty puny tomatoes.  The seller affirmed that it had been a very tough summer for tomatoes.  I bought her out of her ripest ones.

Megan stopped by a booth where a fellow was selling hand carved walking sticks.  He also had a couple of little wooden outhouses on display.  He handed Megs a quarter and suggested she put it in the slot at the top of the outhouse.  I assumed it was meant to be a bank.  When she dropped the quarter there was aloud pop and the outhouse fell to pieces.  Jeff was pretty sure she'd ruined it, but Megan wasn't fooled.  She knew it was a prank and she got a pretty big kick out of it.

My friend Lee had a booth of Artisan Bread.  I bought a yummy looking loaf of Parmesan encrusted goodness.  I love this means of free expression.  Anyone can show up there and peddle their wares.  It interests me to see who's good at what.

One fellow was selling eggs and freshly slaughtered chickens.  I wished I had fewer eggs in the fridge.  Fresh eggs are so good.  Megan wants to raise chickens.  Jeff thinks the rabbits are enough.  I agree with Jeff.

There were a few booths of hand crafted trinkets and jewelery.

A young couple were selling Grand Junction peaches that were wonderful and fresh.  I bought a box.  While I'm seriously trying to lose weight, once a year I have to binge on peaches and cream for a couple of days.  I'll get my fill this evening and maybe tomorrow and then I'll look forward to August for another full year.  I like the notion of restraint.  If I had peaches and cream often they wouldn't mean nearly so much to me.  Plus the gluttony would not only dull my senses but destroy my health.  One precious indulgence in peaches and cream a year makes them seem like heaven.  The same goes for bacon.  Though, even at it's best bacon seems more terrestrial than celestial.  But hey, I like earth a lot!  I just expect to like heaven better.

So, a pleasant morning staking our claim to a quieter simpler, more down to earth way of exchanging things gives way to the computer and another note.  As I sit down to write though, I'm interrupted by an alert that my friend and cousin Steve is on line.  I open Oovoo and up he pops, live on my screen.  Steve's living in Connecticut, two time zones away; but for now we're sitting in the same room.  Both of us have books for a back drop.  How fitting.  What a miracle!  We sit in our own quiet homes and visit face to face as if we were across the desk from one another.  He's just got back from a long bike ride and as we share our mornings we get as sense of why the prophets longed to live in our day.  We joke and laugh, update our histories, and move along, knowing we're not that far apart after all.

It's been a rather startling morning.  So simple, yet so grand.  So ordinary, while being so miraculous.  How is it that we could be so very blessed.

Doctor, Doctor

I took Mom to the hospital this morning for a scheduled procedure.  She's become so tiny and frail.  At eighty-eight she's still an amazingly resilient and resolute person.  I am clearly just her ride.  She's fully in charge of everything else.

I leave her in the lobby while I run over to her doctor's office for some papers.  Arriving there too early I sit down next to Max.  I haven't seen him for years.  He's grown older and slower.  We've both grown past the old religious confrontations that don't seem to matter so much any more.  We chat for a few minutes about growing up in Jensen and him losing his dad at age eight.  The nurse calls him in to the examination room and he looks pretty old as his eighty year old frame, still large, but stooped marches resolutely through the door.

My papers in hand I head back down the hall to the hospital proper.  There I encounter Leonard and Nell. Leonard is just learning to maneuver a wheel chair.  Nell hasn't changed much, but Leonard looks much older and drawn.  His robust good cheer hasn't changed a bit though.  A more engaged, encouraging, delightful man, I've never known.  I'm clearly a peripheral friend.  We belong to different churches, circles, age groups, everything; yet Leonard always makes me feel like I'm his best friend.  He wants to know what I'm doing these days and I tell him I'm writing a book.  He encourages me on that too, but we're both in a hurry to appointments and so we have to move on.

In the radiology lobby and while Mom has her treatment, I find Cindy and her mother-in-law.  I saw them on a visit to another doctor yesterday.  Cindy's husband Jim and I are good friends.  We sold camp trailers together.  He's a baptist preacher and I've attended his tiny congregation.  Yesterday, when I met Jim's mother I made some smart remark about tough women who could put up with a character like Jim.  His mom seemed pretty offended that I would say anything disparaging about her perfectly darling son.  (Jim's 60 years old.)  Today I decide I'd better make it up to her so I mention that Jim is a good friend for whom I bear deep respect.  She replies, "You can't pull the wool over my eyes.  I raised him and believe me, he's no angel."  She got me both times.  Something I'd expect from Jim.

Then Cindy pipes up with a open raucous laugh.  "You know," she says, "I was supposed to be picking him up right now from a Colonectomy."  She obviously meant Colonoscopy.  "But he got here all prepped this morning, only to discover that his appointment was for next week!"  She laughs and laughs.  "You know how well he listens - with his mouth."  I'm thinking poor Jim, now he has to go through all that prep and nasty gut cleansing treatment - all over again.  Cindy says, "He's had a good practice run."  "More like practice runs,"  I amend.  Now I'm laughing, holding my ribs.

Jim's mother gets back from her x-ray.  Jim is clearly her son.  Both of them full of spit and vinegar.  As they leave I tell Cindy to tell Jim I said, "Drink your barium like a man!"

I wonder if I'm due for my next Colonoscopy.  I think I'll wait until I'm having a period of severe sleep deprivation.

As mom and I emerge into the hall.  Joanne and her mom appear, coming the other way.  Two sweet little ladies pause to commiserate about how and where they are and why.  Both are near 90 and considerably smaller and slower than they once were.  The genuine good cheer they exchange is so pleasant and uplifting.  I don't know how well the two of them know each other.  They've lived in opposite ends of town.   Still they belong to a pretty exclusive sisterhood by now; and just a glance or two exchanges tokens of membership that affirm they're still here and get each other.

Leonard is waiting by the front door.  He wants an autographed copy of my book.  I explain that its a long way from completion.  "What's it about?" he asks.  "Growing up around here," I tell him.  "I've changed the names to protect the guilty."  "Thanks!" he sighs.  "I couldn't find any innocents," I explain as we shake hands.

"Now be sure I get an autographed copy!" Leonard insists with a smile.

He'll probably be gone before I ever go to press, but who can argue with optimism.

How we're going to miss these octogenarians when they've moved on.  We miss their predecessors too;  those who died in their sixties and or seventies.  But these, these enduring few are such beacons, such talismans of an era of more certitude; such anchors to life's ship.  I fear we'll go adrift without them.

The Worth of a Soul

Bishop Deets, from 5th Ward stopped by today to ask if I'd speak in their Sacrament Meeting on Sunday.  I was delighted to say, "Yes."  He wants me to address the topic "The Worth of a Soul."  He, being aware that I'd just been released from the Detention Center Branch, thought I might relate the subject to my recent experience. How easy and sweet is that!

Last night I went to the Center to conduct a couple of 12 Step groups.  It was so gratifying to hear the kids rejoice that, though I would no longer be coming to church, I'd still be doing Addiction Recovery with them.  It doesn't seem logical that a bunch of problem teens would have any affinity for an old duffer like me.  Most of the time they don't seem very intent on working the steps, or even quitting their substance abuse, for that matter.

I do think I know why they come to the meetings though.  I think they feel the love of their Savior when they're there.  I think it feels good and while most of the time they don't have a clue as to why it feels good they keep coming back for that feeling.  I wouldn't mind if they felt my love too, but I need to work harder at pointing out that its the love of the Savior that so satisfies and fulfills there effort to attend.

Sunday at 5th Ward, I think the main thing I want to express is that the Savior truly does love even the wicked ones and that their souls are indeed precious to Him.

Another thing that the kids respond warmly to is acceptance.  They live in a world in which there is little about them that appears acceptable.  No body accepts them as they are.  Everyone wants to change them in some way.  They feel that everyone with whom they associate wants to change them.  Parents want them to get good grades and do their chores.  Teachers want them to behave and do their homework.  Police want them to conform to society's rules.  Peers want them to take risks, dress like the group and break rules.  Detention staff want them to present honor and respect.  No where do they find anyone who accepts them just as they are.  That is until they come to 12 Steps.  Everything I do there is to help them make changes, but never to I hold change up as a measure of their worth and desirability as my friends.  I love them right where they are, doing exactly what they're presently doing.

While it is true that nothing would make be happier than to see them happy and productive and forgiven; I am completely patient with the process.  God will confound them without my help.  Life and its circumstances will beat up on them plenty.  I don't need to do any of that.  This is no secret to them.  I give them complete liberty to make mistakes and poor choices.  I let them know that those choices make no difference to me, except that I'll shed some tears for their pain.  I also let them know that poor choices and unacceptable behavior always lead to misery and then I remind them that when they finally get tired of being miserable, I'll still be around willing to help them find their way to happiness.  I put the burden and responsibility on their shoulders, where it belongs.

I believe that this approach cultivates and softens their hearts and prepares their soil for the seeds I may plant.  If on the other hand I try to manipulate, shame, scold or pressure them, the soil of their hearts will be hardened and nothing fruitful will grow.  We understand this when we think about ourselves, but tend to operate differently when dealing with others.  Who wouldn't rather grow in an atmosphere of freedom, love and acceptance instead of one fraught with conditions and disapproval.  I'm talking about teenagers here.  Obviously, we need to exercise some control over little children.  But, by the time they hit the teen years we ought to have taught them to make their own appropriate choices and prepared them to make them on their own.  Prepared or not, the will be making their own choices.  Universally, the kids at the Detention Center have not been given that kind of guidance and preparation. Most are being raised by parents who haven't learned how to choose happiness themselves, is it any wonder they've failed to so teach their children.

With or without appropriate guidance, God loves them.  He will let them make their choices and he will afflict and chasten them until they're tired of their misery.  Then, if they seek to change, He will facilitate that blessing in their lives.

Now, some will die before this happens.  Occasionally, a youth in detention will ask, "But what if I die before I manage to change?"  I always tell them, "You'll probably land in hell, but I'll be right beside you and we'll work the steps together over there."  Dr. John Lund says, "Hell is just God's Alternative High School."  I believe that.  Hide and watch.  We're going to lead these kids to their Savior sooner or later and I intend to be available to them every step of the way.  Once I am doing this work in Spirit Prison, if I am permitted to tarry, I want to accompany the last person in hell into paradise.  Their souls are that precious to me.

Serving Cheerfully

Yesterday was first day back in my home Ward after attending church at the Detention Center every week for the past six years.  I was really looking forward to worshiping with old friends and my own family.  Somehow, there was more disappointment than pleasure.

I have said over the past six years that I loved worshiping in the more intimate setting of the youth correctional facility to which I had been assigned.  "It's the gospel without the culture," I'd explain.  Nobody seemed to understand what I was talking about.  Behind those locked doors there was little that resembled the typical church meetings and traditions that I'd spent a lifetime growing familiar with.  There was no chapel or cultural hall.  Prayers didn't have the same wrote, repetitive familiarity that we've all come to expect.  Nobody got reminded to do their Home Teaching, or scolded for not behaving in class.  There was no talk of the most recent Scout camp or the scores in the Church ball tournament over the weekend.  Instead of asking about this boy who'd just gone on a mission or that one who was just leaving; we spoke of this one who'd just gone to rehab and that one who'd just come back.

There was talk of Jesus Christ and faith and forgiveness.  There was talk of love and understanding and compassion for one another.  There was talk of sin and confusion.  There was candid confession and deep humility.  The gospel was there in rich abundance and it, rather than the cultural appendages that have become attached to the gospel, was the focus of every meeting.  Questions in class applied to real life, ever present problems instead of the hypotheticals we skirt around in Gospel Doctrine Class.  In Gospel Doctrine principles are treated in 3rd Person so often.  Like, "I have a friend who...."  Or, "what would happen if...?"  That is if we even dare to get that deep into real, actually problems with living.

Not so in Detention.  Where questions are like, "I have done this horrible thing for which I am very sorry.  Is there any possibility of forgiveness for me?"  Or, "What must I do to become free of this tendency I have to get angry, or seek revenge, or use drugs..."  It was so disappointing to sit in class in my home ward and pretend we were perfect and that the lesson had no practical application to our lives.  No one would dare say, "I have a problem understanding how to control my thoughts."  Or, "I've tried and tried to do what's right and I still can't quit sinning.  How will I ever make it to Heaven?"  And if they did, no one else would likely dare come out and say, "When I was lost and trying to fix myself, my frustration grew until I finally turned my problem over to the Savior."  That is a degree of candor and honesty that is not only refreshing, but productive; and which seems to be seriously lacking.

The culture of the church seems to have set us all up to be pretending to be better than we are.  I think that is destructive.  I personally, through all of my sinful addictive ways took the notion from everyone's "good example" that I was somehow inferior, in that I could not muster the self control and perfection that seemed second nature to most other active members.  I'm old and experienced enough now to realize that everyone has weakness, a God given gift, but most are going to great lengths to conceal it.  Looking back I realize I did the same thing.  Would it not be more productive and helpful to others to confess our weakness and describe how the Savior, applied His redeeming blood to help us recover from the damaging bonds of sin?  Growing up, I never once heard anyone except Alma the Younger make such a claim.  Surely there are others who could have given me a more contemporary example of how to apply the Atonement to my life.  He just wasn't willing to do it.

Another distressing thing I noticed at church yesterday was a startling lack of apparent joy.  Most of those to whom I was exposed seemed to be going through the motions like a bunch of Zombies.  We who served at the Detention Center did so with exuberance and good cheer.  Serving in the Kingdom is fun!  Yet it appears that so many see it as a necessary drudgery with must be endured to the bitter end.  Holy Cow!  What a shock to come back to such a dreary, dutiful, drag.  I wonder if I was ever like that.  I think I must have been.  Back when I thought I had to achieve heaven on my own merits, it was burdensome and hard.  And since I knew I wasn't living righteously, I carried the added burden of doubt.  Doubt that despite my dutiful, reliable efforts, I wasn't going to make it anyway.

What joy it is to discover that Jesus is the way, that I will make it on His merits not my own, if I will but trust Him, have faith in Him, repent of my sins and serve Him with all my heart.  Understanding that, having experienced that, knowing He is assisting me with the stewardship He's given; I can do nothing but rejoice at the opportunity to share what I've been given!  In that light, His burden is indeed light and full of joy and good cheer.  It is fun to serve Him.  I is fun to see the Spirit work in the hearts and minds of good people who so desperately know their need for a Savior.  It is fun to spread the fun!

I remember when Paul Justice came home from his mission.  He was exuberant and cheerful all the time.  I want to be like Paul and rejoice in the blessings and opportunities of the gospel.  I hope its contagious!  And that I can spread it like wildfire among my fellow Saints.  It breaks my heart to see them so drearily burdened with the very thing that could bring them the greatest joy and satisfaction.

Part of the problem may be our tendency toward piety.  We think the gospel is a somber, serious thing.  Did President Hinckley make it look like that?  The gospel is good news, after all, why don't we celebrate it with joy.  I took my nephew Ryan through the Provo Temple for his endowments.  He was so excited he was giving high fives to the Temple workers.  Sensing his unrestrained joy and receiving those marvelous blessings, many seemed to take Ryan's good cheer and pass it on.  There was no call for irreverence and there was none, but it was a time to experience fully embraced joy!

Now, I don't want anyone faking it.  Artificial smiles will not conceal pretended joy.  If you're in my ward and you're not happily serving, I'd like to know it, so we can deal with it.  Let's all quit faking it at church and start lifting each other out the morass of despair and discouragement.  Lets start treating the gospel like the GOOD NEWS that it truly is!

Dogs and Cats

You can see that scheming, diabolical look in their eyes.
At least this way Kristi can see that I haven't killed them yet.

We're sitting our daughter's dogs for four days. (Wish they would sit, or obey any other command for that matter.)  We do this because we love our daughter.  They are a pair of Dachshunds.  They've taken over our lives.  It is a takeover of the hostile variety.

We're fortunate that it is cool weather and that Mosquito Abatement has the bugs under control.  For the sake of the rugs we've been able to leave the patio door ajar so they can come and go as they please.  "As they please" being the operative phrase.  So far they've been pleased to go outside.  Remind me to wear shoes on the lawn for a few days.  We've placed pads around the house just in case, but past experience has shown that the dogs think the pads indicate where not to go.

Weenie dog's would only qualify for remedial obedience school as they are most certainly learning impaired.  Essentially, they're cats that bark.  You probably already know that I harbor no affection for cats either.  We love our other daughter and so we are the proud owners to two creatures of that ilk.  The only good thing about the dogs is that it's been three days since we laid eyes on the cats.  I don't know how they're faring in exile, but then I don't really care either.  I couldn't possibly be so fortunate as to have cats that would consider this sufficient an insult as to warrant moving out.

Have you ever noticed that pet owners think their pets are their children, until they have children.  Then reality sets in and their pets lose their anthropomorphic status and become just ordinary dogs and cats.  This must be quite a shock to a pet.  They must miss their former status.  Whereas before they were honored guests at Petsmart whose employees referred to their owners as their parents; where their food was gourmet; now they get generic chow from IFA, get fat, neglected and for once, actually need the pet shrink that was once their second best friend.  No more play dates with the poodle down the street.  No more grooming at the beauty parlor.  Goodbye to manicured claws, hello to dingle-berries.  No more pampering kennels when the folks are out of town; just extra big bowls of chow and water and abandonment in the back yard.

I, for one never kept pets before the kids arrived.  That was duty the kids pressed me into as they grew.  "I'll feed him, I promise!" we heard to the accompaniment of batted eye-lids and a pouty "pleeeeease."  The feeding lasted a day and any interest in the actual pet faded in a week.  Pets, with the noted exception gerbils last a lot longer than a week.  Gerbils have babies in about a week and then begin cannibalistic rituals that quickly render the $60.00 Habitrail you bought into yard sale fodder.

We have a cat that has looked to be at death's door for years now.  He's really let himself go.  He doesn't groom himself any more.  His fur is a mess.  He seems depressed all the time.  I can't understand why he doesn't spend more time in traffic.  We've had him for 15 years!  He looks insulted all the time.  He probably hasn't forgiven us for the last time the dogs took over the house.  At one time I thought I'd let him into my lap for what some TV show billed as some soothing companionship.  I'd never felt soothed by a pet in my life.  Thinking perhaps I hadn't done my part I gave it a try.  When I finished I had to go take a shower to get rid of the little puffs of stray fur that kept following me around, clinging to eyebrows, tickling in ears, getting suddenly drawn up a nostril or something.  I couldn't quit sneezing and have steered clear ever since.

The other cat insists on weaving through my legs.  This has resulted in a kick every couple of hours for the past six years.  I can only conclude that cats love to get kicked and have learned that leg weaving is the way to bring that about.  Works every time.

As I sit here listening to little claws clattering over the Pergo, I wonder who in their right mind would do this to themselves?  Is there a diabolical Alpha Dog somewhere who really is anthropomorphic?  Has he taken over the media and spread the propaganda that pet ownership is somehow soothing, somehow therapeutic?  Has he brainwashed us into thinking that having your big toe mistaken for a squeaky toy is somehow appealing?

Humans of the world, rise up.  Put a stop to this madness!  Stop spending billions on pet food, meds and accessories!  Stop replacing shredded furniture and stinky rugs.  Stop, just for a minute, and think how soothing it would be to sleep an entire night without barking dogs or bellyaching cats wanting to come in or go out or both.  Put a stop to the indignity of having your crotch sniffed by every dog you encounter or having the butt of every cat flounced in your face.  How have we let these self serving creatures gain such hold on us.  Rise up and put them in their place, back in the barn.  Where is the SPCH when we need them!