The Trouble With Should

The trouble with should is sometimes we shouldn't.  We have a tendency in LDS Culture to list for each other the things we should be doing.  Most Sacrament Meeting talks and Gospel Doctrine lessons develop into lists of things we should do and often even into litanies of where, when and how often.

Recently in Priesthood meeting we were all apprised of how often we each should attend the Temple.  As if each of our lives was the same and that no excuse would do for not meeting the requirement.  Now, this zealous advocate of temple attendance did not cite his source for such a schedule, but presented it as though our very Eternal Salvation depended upon compliance.  You must realize that we old High Priests are about worn out when it comes to such demands.  I could see it run off our backs like water off a duck.  This only increased the pitch and intensity of our fellow's demand, for he too could see our reaction.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I too am an advocate of Temple attendance.  I too believe that most of us fail to attend as often as the Lord would like.  But, I also realize that a few of us attend too often, driven there by guilt and shame, rather than drawn there by love and devotion.  Can you see how different Temple worship might be if you were attracted there by love rather than driven there by guilt?  Couple that with the very real possibility that you or I might occasionally have something more important to attend to than even the Temple.

I am not about setting us up for excuses to neglect our duty.  No, I am actually advocating for doing our duty. I just hope we will learn to discern between the manipulative demands of a fellow Saint and the kindly invitation of a loving Father.  Sometimes the gulf between the two is alarmingly broad.  Our duty is to God, not to folks who presume to know what God wants for us individually.  These are folks who assume that the prescription for their glasses will also allow everyone else to see with equal clarity.  For some reason, these seem to be the most zealous.  They seem to say, "You obviously don't read as well as I.  I'm sure it is because you're not wearing my glasses."  When we tell them we see just fine, or that their glasses blur our vision, or that their glasses give us migraines, they seem to say, "Nonsense!  They work just fine for me, how could they not work for you as well!"

Trouble is, I see many in the Kingdom, who are going about wearing someone else's glasses much of the time.  They seem exhausted, burned out, and of course some have just taken the glasses off and gone home having abandoned hope that they can get it right.  Had they been taught to seek the optometrist who could prescribe lenses especially for them and their particular needs, many, if not all might be joyfully serving with light and hopeful hearts instead of trudging along with a strain much more devastating than eye strain.

We believe in revelation in the Church.  We believe that God will guide our steps and direct our paths.  But we, all too often, go about treating one another like we're the only one who gets revelation and that we are somehow authorized to receive revelation for one another.  True testimony, true trust in our Father in Heaven is an individual thing.  How dare we presume to know what is best for another.  That is, speaking of fellow Saints.  It is one thing to follow the Prophet, who is authorized to receive revelation for us.  It is quite another to follow Brother So-and-So, who is not.

When Saints write Salt Lake City and ask for specific direction in their lives, the Brethren always refer us to our local leaders or directly to the Lord.  Why is it that so many ordinary members presume to give specific direction that even the prophets and apostles are loath to provide.

I once had a spiritual emergency transpire at home.  It occurred just prior to our Quarterly Stake Priesthood meeting.  It had been my intention to attend the meeting.  In fact I was so set upon attendance that I quite curtly put the problem aside, dressed for the meeting and headed out the door.  The Spirit whispered a number of times that I must stay at home and attend to a priority the Lord had set for me.  I, however, was insistent upon compliance with a priority someone else had set for me.  The Spirit persisted and half way out the driveway, I shifted gears, parked the car and went back into my home.  Later, I was approached by a rather unhappy leader, who, pointing out my absence at the meeting exclaimed with disdain that I, "should have been there."  Not wanting to seem rebellious, I quietly pointed out that, "No, I shouldn't have been, the Lord had another, more pressing errand for me."  My answer was inconceivable to him.  He considered it his duty to make me feel guilty for my transgression and still, after many years, seeks to ride herd on my behavior.

I love that man.  I know his intentions are good.  I admire his service in the Kingdom.  But, I also have observed that he seems increasingly frustrated at the response he gets from his fellow Saints and how isolated he has become in his sense of righteousness.

When we are called upon to "stand a little taller," to "lengthen our stride," by prophets we love, we are also expected to take the implied latitude and personal initiative those statements allow and seek personal, spiritual direction in how to do that.

When you have 4.85 children and your husband has been out of town all week on business and the fridge is empty and the Relief Society calls for a pan of funeral potatoes, maybe the Spirit will whisper, "You should."  But please don't feel guilty if He whispers, "You shouldn't."

Breather

I've been over-wound like a clock spring lately.  It has made me less productive, instead of energetic.  Thankfully, Sweetie remedied that by taking me out of town for a couple of days.  We had an errand, but mostly it was a chance to decompress.  Getting out of town actually wound things up a couple of pops and driving tired (not sleepy) didn't help, especially in city traffic.  I don't think the relief began to reveal itself until we found ourselves sitting in the shade outside Panda Express, with full stomachs and a little time on our hands.

From the patio we could see the still snow covered Wasatch in all it's glory.  The air was cool, clear and gentle.  We were far enough south in Salt Lake Valley that we could see Lady Timpanogos lying peacefully off by herself.  Somehow her majesty comforts me from every angle.  She speaks of independence, solitude, peace, and assurance.

We had already stopped by Barnes and Noble and selected a couple of books.  From there we'd headed up Mill Creek to find a shady spot to read while the stream burbled by.  Instead we found congestion, distraction and the creek roaring in fury.  The biggest distraction was a man who'd taken his five year old down the water to play.  This after four children have already drown in the heavy spring runoff.  Too tired, too distracted to read we gave up quite earlier than we'd expected.  Funny how sitting beside a busy street with stomachs full of plump shrimp and luscious chicken we found what we'd sought in the "wilderness."

At Mark's we were primed to kick back in his overstuffed recliners, and mutter our contentment around an episode of Blue Bloods.  A rerun we hadn't seen, amazingly!

Then, it was early to bed, exhausted, in his cool basement, where I slept through the night for the first time in months.  (It's 2:43 AM right now.  Yup, I'm back home and up in the night.  Bad dream about self torture.  Not in the mood to make interpretations.  So I thought I go back a day to decompress some more while the memories are still fresh.)

We slept in much of the morning.  Sweetie longer than I.  Long enough for me to get hooked on Amy Tan's wonderful The Hundred Secret Senses; making me wonder if I'm carrying the load of generations, not just my own.

We grabbed a quick bite at Wendy's which miraculously was near a fabric store with good prices on fat quarters.  Sweetie only selected four.  She's so much more moderate than I.

I have quite recently discovered that my great great grandmother Maria Weber came to the States from Switzerland along with my great grand parents.  I had always supposed she'd stayed in the old country as her husband did.  After traveling to Michigan, Ontario and Quebec seeking the graves of my predecessors I have thought it silly not to have visited Maria's.  We drove to the Salt Lake Cemetery, which I had not seen before as it lies up in the Avenues, off the beaten track.  A lovely place it is.  The clerk in the Sexton's office was wonderfully helpful and set me promptly on a course to discover her headstone.  A simple little marker calls her Mary and indicates she lived from 1822 until 1903.  She appears to be buried next to her daughter Eliza.  More on that it a separate post.  Give me a couple of days.  I've got to get some sleep and a funeral taken care of.

On the way to cemetery we stopped at Les Madeline's for some Kouey Amans and as usual, they were sold out.  We did grab a couple of raspberry buttons and two rosemary cookies for the road though.  Without much more ado we headed up the canyon for home intending to stop in Heber for lunch.  Steve had informed us that some world traveler and so "qualified," connoisseur had recommended The Side Track Cafe as the place to eat in the area.  He was not wrong.  We stopped in and enjoyed Janine's J9 Garlic Burger with Cry Sauce (as it is hotter (and better) than Fry Sauce).  We also enjoyed Janine.  A rustic little character in cut offs and a T-shirt.  Enough to cover most of her tats.  Janeen learned to cook from her Italian Grandmother and her Filipina Mother.  But her culinary style is all her own.  We struck up a conversation and wound up with her full attention for well over half an hour.  She taught Sweetie the ins and outs of Ceviche and coached me on the finer elements of great black beans.  She told us stories of  her mother's captivation by the Japanese in WWII and her heroics while nine months pregnant.  She pointed out a photo of her mom in which she actually does look like a Filipina Annette Funicello.  I could see neither Filipina, nor Annette in J9.  She also has a photo of four gangster uncles hanging on the wall.  They looked like quintessential Mafioso and like you'd like to eat where they ate (if you could breathe the air.)  Again, when there's time, I'll devote a little more time to The Side Track Cafe and it's unique proprietor.  I expect she'll still know our names six months from now when we stop in again.  That is if we can wait that long.

I had to get home to a Meeting at seven, but that afforded time to divert from Highway 40 at the Tabby turn off and to drive down the Duchesne River canyon and observe the flooding.  Lots of fields are underwater, but so far no homes or buildings seem too threatened.  The "Goldy Locks" weather is just right for easing the snow pack down slowly.  Hope it lasts or Duchesne City will most certainly get wet.

I made my Meeting, which also relieves a lot of stress and while sitting there had a bit of an epiphany.  When you're immersed in stress, you can't dry off until you get out of the water.  Thanks Sweetie for pulling my out of the water and for tossing me a towel.

P.S.  The Raspberry Buttons were heavenly and the Rosemary Cookies, unbelievably good!

Something Good

In the popular television series The Middle is a character I adore.  His name is Brick, played by Atticus Shaffer.  Brick is the cutest little kid, with a brilliant mind and a quirky little habit I love.  When Brick makes an observation, he often bows his head and repeats his declaration in a whisper.  It is rather like Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer, when they are singing:  "Somewhere in my youthful childhood, I must have done something good.  Something good."  Another great character is Squid, from Larry Barkdull's Cold Train Coming.  Squid also has Brick's habit of repeating himself, to himself.

I doubt if the creators of these two characters are even aware of their coincidental similarities.  This makes me wonder if the behavior depicted is a common tic or quirk.  Probably some psychologist, somewhere has described the phenomena and named it some syndrome or other.  If it hasn't been named yet, it will probably become known as Brick Syndrome.  Personally, I'd rather not know about any of that.  I like the quirk because it seems so pleasantly self affirming.  Comforting.  Brick and Squid and Maria need assurance that they understand something correctly.  So do I.

I had such an affirmation yesterday.  I was in a conversation with a dear friend of an other religious persuasion than my own.  She is not affiliated with a church, but is deeply spiritual.  She has a well founded aversion to organized religion.  Organized religion, in general, has not made much of a name for itself.  Today, she zeroed in on a particular problem in the LDS Church, with which, if her observations are correct, I could only agree.  She was exasperated that a young woman, presently in her care, had been sexually abused by her father, a prominent member of the church.  She claims that the girl had sought help from her Bishop, who instead sided with the Father, and never reported even the possibility of the abuse to the authorities.  While that is unacceptable on the part of the Bishop, I also realize I am only hearing one side of the story.  Still, taking the story at face value, my friend has a legitimate beef with the Church, especially since her experience has persuaded her that such problems are endemic; a further conclusion with which I whole-heartedly disagree.

We most certainly are going to experience calumny as Joseph Smith predicted, since we are a church operated by flawed and imperfect individuals who, when all is said and done, still have our agency.  Never-the-less, it is my conviction that the Latter-day Saints are no less than outstanding in their remarkable devotion and determination to love and lift and brighten the world around them.  Typically, Latter-day Saints seek to do the right thing!

Shortly after the aforementioned conversation, Dora phoned to tell me Rex had passed away.  His devastating illness had come on quite suddenly and had taken his life in just a month.  During that month, their home has been graced with repeated visits from their Bishop, their Home Teachers, Visiting Teachers, High Priests Group Leadership, fellow Sisters from the Relief Society and brothers from the High Priests Quorum and, of course the Spirit of the Lord.  They have been given blessings, loaves of bread, meals, even assistance and instruction in Rex's bedside care.  They've been given phone numbers to call, day or night, listening ears, affirming testimonies and enduring, timely love.

Perhaps we have our wicked moments,
Our times when things aren't going so good;
But somehow in the fabric of all we're about
There's mainly just a pattern of good.

Something good!

A Sunday Stroll

Sweetie has left me home alone while she goes out of town to a funeral.  I don't like being away from her, or vice versa.  As she drove away, feeling a bit melancholy, I sat down to the computer to play a little solitaire.  I didn't make it through one game before I knew I'd better get up and do something, or I might go mad.

I decided to go for a walk around the neighborhood.  I had no agenda.  I wanted an adventure.  A neighborhood adventure.  G. K. Chesterton once wrote:

"By asking for pleasure, we lose the chief pleasure, for the chief pleasure is surprise."

I wanted surprise.  I wanted to just go for a walk and be surprised by what came of it.  What a pleasure!
What a surprise!

As I walked past Virginia's house, I had a notion that I might stop and see if she'd made it home from the Care Center, where I saw her last.  Sure enough!  She's still spending most of her time in a wheel chair but is practicing with the walker a little more each day.  Beau is taking such good care of her.  I've not met Beau before.  Virginia and Beau have created some kind of symbiotic relationship that is a mystery to me, but seems to work wonderfully for them.  She's probably 20 years his senior.  Beau grew up on the Crow Creek Reservation in South Dakota.  Having spent some time on the Rose Bud Reservation myself we had a jumping off place for a wonderful conversation and chance to get acquainted.  The Sioux are such a noble people.  Beau was surprised to learn that I had helped carve the Crazy Horse monument.  (I paid $10.00 to push the plunger on a preset dynamite charge, which I watched from the Visitor's Center.)  That was 40 years ago, when there was nothing recognizable emerging from that mountain of stone.  I was surprised to see Virginia so well and to find such a great new friend in Beau.  Virginia was surprised to learn how sick Rex is.

I bade them farewell intending to check on Rex next.  On the sidewalk I encountered Ann and Rachael walking little Landyn around the block.  Turns out they were headed for Rex and Dora's too.  We went together.  Landyn is getting so talkative!  What a cute little fellow.  Arriving together I had a chance to introduce the sisters to Darrin, who I chatted with as the gals commiserated with Dora.  Rex is failing and getting in two visits for the stress of one was probably a good thing.  We didn't stay long, but were comforted to find Dora feeling better and Darrin so ably easing her burden.

Parting ways again, I moseyed on down the street until I was startled by a rather formidable, "Woof!"  A Bull Mastiff was saying hello over a fence ridiculously shorter than he was.  His owner was smoking on the front porch and tried to set my nerves at ease.  We introduced ourselves.  His name was Scott.  We quickly made connections to relatives of his in Tridell and struck up an immediate friendship.  Single and young, Scott is a bit of an anomaly on his street where most of the residents are in their eighties or nineties.  I was surprised at how protective he was of those old folks that surround him.  He let me know that he was proud to have played a part in putting the druggies in the house across the street into jail, away from these sweet old folks who "need their peace and quiet

On down the street I encountered Tanner giving his little sisters a ride in a trailer behind his bike.  They stopped for a visit and those precious little sweet hearts were so polite and dignified in their delight.  Tanner, seasoned beyond his years, is one of my favorites.  Fellow flautists (amateur at best) there seems to be an age old bond between us.  Such a surprise,  because we've only known one another a few months.  We didn't talk long, rickshaws are only fun if they're moving.

The other night I watched The King's Speech on television and decided I'd better go compare notes with John.  I asked if he'd seen the movie yet.  "Don't need to!" was his reply, "I was there!"  Of course I already knew that and John knew I did.  But when you've been witness to one of the greatest moments in history, you've got to glory in it every chance you get.  We had fun bantering about the significance of that moment and of all the wonderful things God had done to bring it about.  Some people might believe in coincidences, but John and I don't.  An hour's conversation flashed by in what seemed like ten minutes.  I had been mildly rebuked in Priesthood Meeting by Billy and I decided I'd better get on over there and take my licks, so I excused myself from John's pleasant company and headed around the corner.

Billy was out watching a sprinkler cycle, having just got back from gathering the Bishop's Store House orders for tomorrow's grocery run.  What a fine, fine man.  He didn't beat me up at all.  Just wanted to emphasize mine and everyone else's need to try just a bit harder to build the Kingdom.  Push me, Billy, push me, I need all the help I can get.

And so it went, my little walk full of unexpected blessings.  No more melancholy.  I guess I'll be just fine.  The chief pleasure is surprise!

Thank you Arnie, Thank You!

Arnie Anthon is about the nicest guy you'll ever meet.  He's our local Frito-Lay distributor.  I hardly ever go to the grocery store without seeing Arnie busily stocking the chip aisle.

About five years ago at my favorite little lunch spot in Jensen, Utah, Arnie surprised us with a display of Lay's Dill Pickle chips.  I tried them and fell in love.  Anything dill is alright with me.  I love my wife's dilly bread.  One of my favorite memories is delivering packages to Split Mountain Green House in the fall when their dill patch leaned over the sidewalk.  As I walked to and fro past the dill weed the aroma of dill brushed off the plants on my pant-legs.  It was an olfactory delight I looked forward to every year.

As suddenly as Dill Pickle chips arrived on the scene, they also vanished.  I was devastated.  I no longer enjoyed the Roast Beef sandwich Monica made fresh for me every day, quite so much.  The next time I saw Arnie I let him have it, and the next and the next, in fact until this very day.

Now, I don't suppose Arnie had anything to do with the disappearance of Dill Pickle chips, but hey, somebody had to hear about it.  And Arnie did.  Patiently, week after week he has endured my complaints.  He was given a reprieve during the six weeks I was gone to Newfoundland.  Not me.  In the Maritimes they had every flavor of potato chips imaginable.  They had Fries and Gravy, Ketchup, Wasabi, Pizza, Salsa, and another favorite, Poutine.  But no Dill Pickle!  You wouldn't believe the variety of chips they have up north.  Those I mentioned plus all the regulars.  One of the big draws Canada holds for me is the food.  Up there food is celebrated in a way we here in the US can only dream about.  We must trudge along with three or four flavors of chips for example, when in Canada even the smallest store carries a dozen flavors of just potato chips.  Arnie has heard about this too.  You can imagine how utterly disappointed I was that Dill Pickle was not a favorite of the Canucks.

Well, today, walking down the chip aisle, still hopeful as ever, my wondering eyes beheld Dill Pickle chips!  I STOCKED UP!  Hurrying home I ran right to the phone and called Arnie.  You see, I am a whiner, but I am not an ingrate.  I want Arnie to know that he has made my day, week, month, year and possibly even my decade!  Thank you, Arnie, Thank you, from the bottom of the bag!