How's That For A Saturday

Yesterday, I was up early to help Betty with Whitey.  He was pretty stiff and uncomfortable and each time we turned him today, he seemed pretty sore.  It sure hurts Betty to see him suffer so.

Then it was down to Mom's to sit with her for the morning.  Steve had spent the night and was up photographing flowers when I arrived.  He'd been out to get the paper and found a great shot of his long shadow across the drive that turned out great.  Note to self:  Don't ever go any where without the camera.  Steve's eye is attuned to the photographic opportunity of every moment.  He has trained his eye to see beauty and interest in the smallest of things.

Steve had no sooner gone home to bed when Mom began to stir.  Determined to remain as strong and active as possible, she opted for the walker over the wheel chair.  She takes her time and is careful, but oh, how weak she's become.  I fixed her a little oat meal, but she only managed to eat a couple of spoons full.  I wrote and we chatted here and there.  She kept insisting that I go spend time with my family.  I kept insisting that I'd hear nothing of it.  Her cancer is taking it's toll and none of us want to be far from her side.

Wayne and Susan had been here for a week and left yesterday.  The previous weekend, Mark and Susan had attended to Mom's needs.  Before that two granddaughters and a grandson were here helping as well.  We locals enjoyed a bit of rest and some good company, but are happy to be back to taking our turns.  We cherish these inspiring moments by her side.

Alyson arrived in the night from Vegas.  She's here to spend a few days with family and to be near her grandmother.  She and Katie came to Mom's around ten.  After a chat, they announced they were headed to Jeff's volleyball games.  Mom insisted I go with them.  He played two and scored a few points.  His coach is my long time friend Raedean.  I was impressed with the number of volleys these 8 and 9 year olds could get going in a row!  Darn good little players.  Jeff's family had spent the morning at a 5K Fun Run in celebration of Josh Graham's Birthday.  Josh's widow, and our good friend Toni had organized it in his memory.  John and Jen had helped with the logistics and Jeff had walked and run the entire distance with Cooper and Josh's daughter, Celestia.  Keaton, Toni's oldest, honored his father by winning the race in 21 minutes!  I'd like to have participated as well, but had other priorities this morning.  Jeff's team won one and lost one.  Good times.

On the way back to Mom's riding in Aly's new Maxima we decided to swing by the Cemetery and see the newly placed headstones.  Annie's has been there a few weeks but none of us had seen it yet.  It is lovely and certainly represents Eric's great love for her.  Mom and Dad's arrived just a day or so ago.  Steve and Cheya took Mom up to see it yesterday.  She was pleased and remarked how nice it was to get out of the house for a bit.  We were pleased too.  I love how they listed their children on the back of the stone.  Dad's military plaque remains there as well.

Cheya had arrived at Mom's just before we arrived.  She'll have the afternoon and evening shift.  Mom is most comfortable with her.  Tired from a morning sitting up doing crosswords and trying to eat, she went back to bed.  We're all thankful for lap tops as our computers go back and forth with every trip.  I had done my morning's writing while there.  Cheya will continue her quest to scan family photos and identify the people and record the dates.

I headed for home and spotted Lynn selling melons on Main Street.  He does this every year.  He runs to Green River and brings back a trailer load of the best ripe melons around.  I got a nice one for $4.00.  He's trying to move them fast so he can get home to watch BYU play Air Force.

Back at home, I found John and Ronnie digging up John's backyard to replace the sewer line.  We did mine three years ago.  Thankfully, Ronnie is a master at operating a backhoe and makes that difficult task look like child's play.  I'm so glad to finally have sons and love rubbing shoulders and working along side them.  We have the rented hoe for the weekend.  Gratefully they only charge for the time that's recorded on it's hour meter.  Ronnie's skill cut that time way down.  We started digging last night by hand but our lots are over an ancient riverbed of cobble rocks making shovels nearly useless.  There still remained some shoveling at the ends of the trench.  I was grateful to the periodic breaks to run over and help Betty care for her ill husband.

The old Orangeburg pipe was in horrible shape.  It was completely plugged with roots and debris.  It had been installed at way too steep a grade and its a wonder it made it this long.  The pipe was brittle and about to disintegrate.  After cleaning things up and assessing the needs, we found a couple of sticky problems.  I walked down to Kirk's for some advice.  He did his the year after I did mine.  He came down and we deliberated over solutions for a while.  He had an idea and he and I went back to his place to make a special tool for the job.  How glad I am for good neighbors and friends.  That problem solved, John and I went to Lowe's for materials while Jen and Megan went for Pizza.  She took some down to Cheya too.  The rest of us, including Ronnie and Kristi, Aly, Katie, John, Jen, Megan and Jeff ate at our picnic table.  How nice to have our homes back to back.  Every grandfather's dream and I'm living it.  Ronnie and Kristi brought some tomatoes from their garden, so be began planning for BLT's for dinner tomorrow.  How good to have all our children together for the weekend.  Aly and Kristi have been to the store to buy matching T-shirts for everyone so we can take a family photo tomorrow.

Jen headed for the store for groceries while John and I got the pipe all hooked up with two new clean-out locations added.  We all celebrated with a flush!  Everything worked great and soon the washing machine and dish washer were catching up and John was in a much deserved hot shower.  We still have the trench to back fill, but at least the plumbing is back in service.

When I went over to Betty's to help settle Whitey in for the night, she announced that she'd made arrangements to cover my afternoon tomorrow so I could spend some uninterrupted time with the family.  What a sweet thoughtful friend she is.

You know?  I guess you'd look on a day like that and think, "What's so great about a life where loved ones are dying and sewers go bad and money runs out and daughters live far away and headstones are needed and muscles are aching and widows are mourning and the ground is full of rocks?"  "People, that's what's so great about it!"  "Neighbors and friends, teammates and coaches, daughters and sons, mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers, grandsons and granddaughters, runners and walkers, workers and players; not to mention computers and adjustable beds and wheel chairs and backhoes and back rubs, and fancy new cars and toilets that flush!  That's what's so great about life!"

A Little 9-11 Perspective

This day will long be etched in our minds, not only in America, but across the world.  It is right that we pause a moment and remember those who are fallen.  It is appropriate to place a wreath at a grave, to shed a tear and to mourn a loss such as this.  It is appropriate for those, whose business it is, to be about he business of preventing it from happening again.  It is also appropriate for the rest us, to put our hats back on, to roll up our sleeves and get back to the business of living.

Here is a quote from President Boyd K. Packer that illustrates what I mean:

I recall not too many years ago riding to the office one morning and turning on the radio as they were excitedly announcing that someone had placed a bomb at the temple. The front doors of the temple had been blown off. Remember that? Most of you don't because it is just not that important it isn't worth remembering. We were then using the parking lot north of the Relief Society building; and as I went to the office, I glanced across the street. There was a lot of action around the temple people, police cars, fire trucks, and everything. But I was late to a meeting; so I had to resist the temptation to go over and see what was going on. I was in meetings with combination of the Brethren all day. As I went back that night about 6:30 or 7:00, there was no one at the temple; but there were some big sheets of plywood over the place where the doors had been. Then it struck me. All day long in meeting with the Brethren, not once, for one second, was that thing ever brought up. It wasn't even mentioned. And why? Because there was work to do, you know. Why be concerned about that?

Samuel Johnson wrote something that I think has an application here that we ought to remember. A fly can sting a stately horse and make it wince, but one is still a stately horse and the other, well. There is the temptation always to get excited and, like the old Indian, jump on your horse and ride away in all directions. Don't, don't do that. Just stand steady. If there is anything that the youth of the Church need in perilous times like these, it is somebody who can stand secure and steady and serene, even when it's raining, and even if the lightning begins to strike right close. So my second suggestion is to stand steady; don't be in a panic; be secure. 

This came from a talk Elder Packer gave to Church Education System teachers in the Summer of 1970.  I encourage you to read the entire talk.

We live in troubled times but there isn't time to be distracted by the trouble.  There are people and systems in place to deal with the trouble.  Most of us however, have other tasks to do.  Let us be about those opportunities.  Let us be about carrying on with our lives.  Let us be about building the Kingdom of God.  Let's, you and I, resolve on this day, not to run off in every direction, flailing our arms in alarm and despair.  There is work to do.  Worthwhile things to be accomplished.  Things to build.  The best thing you and I could do to disarm the wreckers in the world is to ignore them and keep on building.

Just When I Thought There Was Nothing Left To Write About... Along Comes Bobby McFerrin

I have a number of instruments made on the Pentatonic Scale.  Without going into too much detail; most of us are familiar with the Chromatic Scale.  The Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do Scale.  Most songs are written in that scale because of it's broad versatility.

The Pentatonic Scale, while in some ways more restrictive, is, in another very important way more liberating.  You see, in the Pentatonic scale, there are no sour notes.  Every note is in complete harmony with every other note on the scale.  I have a simple xylophone built on the Pentatonic Scale which I love to play.  It is called a Wing and can be found on line.  I love to finish a day playing it.  I make up the music as I go because, remember there are no sour notes.  It is so soothing and meditative to quietly make music with no conscious thought.  I've even been known to sleep while I'm still striking the keys.  There are two mallets, so you may also strike two keys at a time, guaranteed that any two keys on the instrument will harmonize beautifully.

Most Native American Flutes are also built to be played on the Pentatonic Scale.  I have several in a number of keys.  These are my favorite for meditation and winding down after a busy day.  A well made Indian Flute is easy to play and well worth owning.  Even a novice can play on the first day.  Again, because there are no sour notes.  Obviously, the sky is the limit on how well and beautifully they can be played.  You need to remember that you can't play Yankee Doodle Dandy or She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain in the Pentatonic Scale.  Almost all popular music is written in the Chromatic Scale.  Still, music of your own, random creation can lift and inspire you and can be unique as you are.

So, what has all this to do with Bobby McFerrin?  Watch this little video and see for yourself!


World Science Festival 2009: Bobby McFerrin Demonstrates the Power of the Pentatonic Scale from World Science Festival on Vimeo.

A Case Against Elitism

Robert Fulghum once wrote of speaking to a Kindergarten Class during which he asked the students how many could draw.  All of them raised their hands enthusiastically.  "How many of you can dance?"  Same response. "Who here can sing?"  Again everyone excitedly volunteered that they could!  Some time later Fulghum found himself before a University audience.  He asked the same questions,  "Who here can draw?"  Only a few hands went up.  "Sing?"  Very few.  "Dance?"  Hardly any.  Then this favorite writer of mine, posed the same question I am interested in asking, "Why?"  What has happened between Kindergarten and College to rob these students of their enthusiastic confidence?  I suppose the primary reasons are criticism and ridicule.  Does that tell us anything?  It should.

Another cause, in my view is opportunity.  In Kindergarten, everyone is issued a box of crayons.  Everyone is expected to sing and to dance.  Everyone is expected to want to.  No one is criticized for less than stellar performance.  Gradually, though, our schools and other cultural systems take license to criticize and ridicule and slowly but surely we weed out all but the finest.  Why do we do this?  Why do we insist on competition and comparison?   I think the fundamental emotion driving this phenomenon is greed.

Last night I watched the results of America's Got Talent.  It is thrilling to see the best of the best, doing their very best.  The whole concept of the show is to find the finest talent in the land.  I think they do pretty well at it.  There are some inherent problems in the format however.  It is not necessarily the act that has the best talent or who has worked the hardest that moves forward.  I don't think anyone would argue that Fighting Gravity had anywhere near the talent, depth of preparation or longevity of determination displayed by Studio One Beast Society; yet Fighting Gravity won.  Why?  Because they had a more unusual, entertaining, idea.  Level of talent, strength of preparation, magnitude of difficulty are all, in the end, trumped by what is most crowd pleasing.  They are also trumped then, by what will draw the most attendance and make the most money.  Greed.

It happens locally as well.  We begin with enormous numbers of children playing soccer, baseball, basketball, wrestling and playing football.  We begin with large numbers of children taking dance and other music lessons.  Then we promptly weed them out and eliminate opportunities to continue participation for all but the very best, or at least the most crowd pleasing.  I asked the kids at the Detention Center one day, "What could our community have done that might have kept you out of trouble."  More than half of the kids said, "They might have continued to make sports available to us."  Several said that they had lived for sports as children.  They'd played little league and soccer, but when they got older those opportunities were offered only to the All Stars, so to speak.  This, at the most critical time in their young lives.  The time when they are trying to develop their own personal identities, part of what they've always identified as - an athlete, gets jerked out from under them.

I think it is time we remodeled High School sports.  We hear, all the time, complaints about the expense of busing our teams all around the state to games.  We hear complaints that the process takes players out of the classroom an inordinate amount of time.  Still we don't do a thing about it.  Why?  Greed.  Sports, even at the High School level equates to revenue.  Couple that with the motivating dream of ascending to the College level and then on to the Pros and everyone, player, coach, parent has had their motivation tainted by greed.  The greed to money,  The greed of bragging rights.  The greed of superiority.  Elitism.

May is suggest an alternative model, that might actually satisfy all, even those who seek elite status?

How about building High School sports around an intramural program.  Anyone who wishes to play may be on one of the teams.  Coaches and parents will take a vested interest in broad participation.  The intramural activities could culminate in a tournament to give each team something to shoot for, something to motivate excellence.  Then at the end of the season an All Star team would be chosen from the best in all the teams.  The All Star Team would then participate in Regional and then Statewide tournaments where the best from each school could still have their day in the sun before recruiters and glory hungry parents and coaches.  There are problems with the model.  But they're surmountable ones.  They are also less surmountable than the problems with the current model.

An Intramural model would save considerable funds in busing teams all season.  It would involve significantly more children in sports with all the developmental advantages that has to offer.  And it would still provide advancement opportunities for the most gifted participants.  I will guarantee that there are children today who are not currently participating who are potential stars.  They would be much more likely to be discovered under an intramural based program than the are in the current scheme of things.

When I was in High School a group of us, who'd not qualified for the basketball team and who were weary of being expected to go the gym and worship those who had; decided to create and organize an new game.  We called it Szhungaelzee.  It involved kicking a roll of masking tape around a gym floor, like a hockey puck.  Instead of using sticks we used our feet.  We chose a night that didn't conflict with High School or Church activities and held a tournament.  Eight teams formed up and entered.  We arranged a location and adult supervision.  Still, the sports establishment in our community felt threatened and after three weeks of good clean fun, they pulled the plug on us.  We were shut out of every venue in town.  I bring this up to illustrate how clearly anxious we were to be participants instead of onlookers.  Why did they stop us?  Greed.  They feared that gate revenues at the High School games would plummet.

I've seen the same thing happen in Church sports.  Our Ward had enough interested young men who wanted to play basketball to field three teams.  Rather than distribute the talent equally among the three teams, or even to have an older, younger and youngest team; it was determined to put the best talent on the first team, the second best on the second team and the poorest players on the third team.  Greed.  Winning was more important than participation.  The result?  The second and third teams languished into non-existence, while the elite team went on the trounce all comers.

We need to reconsider what it is we hope to accomplish here folks.  We will probably always have the elite among us.  Does than mean everyone else must be relegated to the audience?  When Sweetie and I were in Newfoundland and Cape Breton we found a society where everyone participates.  What a refreshing culture to enjoy.  They have no spectators in their society.  Up until recently, they've had no television or radio.  They gather to sing and everyone sings!  Everyone dances!  Young, old, talented or not, beautiful or not, everyone is a participant, there are no spectators!  All who run may win the prize!

About Love

In yesterday's post I made a comment that I haven't got off my mind ever since.

 Since I can't change him, I might as well love him.  The only way I can love him is just the way he is.  Otherwise I'm loving the figment of my imagination, which is ridiculous.

That's how it works when we write.  We make discoveries of thought that hadn't even occurred to us before.  Having made the discovery, and having it predominantly featured in my mind for the day; other observations began to emerge.  Other examples began to present themselves.  I began to examine all of my relationships.  Are there conditions I've placed that might interfere with the genuine quality of any of them?

I've mentioned before that I spend some time assisting a sweet neighbor lady in the care of her Alzheimer's patient husband.  As we moved him to a different position in bed yesterday it was obvious that he hurt.  I noticed that she began to cry.  It hurt her to hurt him.  She asked, "How long must he suffer so?"  The conversation stopped as we went about the business of caring for him.  Then, after several long moments, she looked at me, her eyes shining with conviction and said, "The more I serve him, the more deeply I love him."

That is the kind of unconditional love I was speaking of yesterday.  Her husband is incapable of responding to her love in any kind of meaningful way.  She cannot change him.  She cannot change that.  She cannot apply any conditions to which he might respond in order to qualify for her love.  Yet she loves him.

That is the crux of the matter.  She loves him.  She doesn't love the idea of him.  She doesn't love some fantasy of how he might be.  She doesn't love some future him.  Or some past him.  She loves him!

I once wrote an article called The Secret To Happiness.  It was on another forum. ( I'll have to look it up and post it here one of these days.)  In that article I concluded that happiness can only be experienced in the moment.  My catch phrase was that, "To be happy you have to get your heart, and your head and your butt in the same place at the same time!"  I still strongly subscribe to that notion.

Yesterday I discovered that the same is true of love.  It can only be experienced in the moment.  My dear friend's love for her husband cannot abide in the memories of the past.  The past has evaporated and while there are loving memories, they cannot fully sustain her present.  Neither can she draw sustenance from imaginations of her association with him in some conjured future.  While I and she fully expect that she will indeed have a wonderful future with him, and while we all expect that future to be glorious, free from Alzheimer's and other afflictions; today it is only in our imagination.  I contend that the only time she can truly love him is right here, right now, just as he his.  The verity of that notion lies in the evidence.  For that is exactly what she is doing.  Love is a verb, after all.

Were it not for that love.  I don't know if she could maintain the stress and drudgery of her care-giving task.  With that love, each duty is a pleasure.  I know this because I love him too.  Some of our duties are not all that pleasant, but love supersedes the mundane and unpleasant.

We do this for babies all the time.  They are adorable, but they are also difficult, time consuming, inconvenient and yet most of us find these duties easy and delightful - for love.  Gradually, though, some parents begin to imagine a more lovable child in some future arrangement; when he's potty trained, or can communicate with reason, or can keep up with me on a hike or can deliver himself to school.  If they are not careful they begin to love the one they've imagined instead of the one they have, in the moment.  Then the temptation comes to recreate the child into the imaginary one and the manipulation begins.

Often, I have sat in the Detention Center and realized that just years previous these were sweet, precious, untainted, unspoiled children.  In some cases it may have been just weeks or days previous.  Then I would ask myself, "What changed?"  Dixon says, "Its puberty!"  He may be right.  But, I'm beginning to think that the biggest factor, perhaps the only factor, was that someone had attempted to re-manufacture them in some other image than the one in which they were created.  Someone was trying to make them be something they were not and to some degree, had fallen out of love with who they were in favor of who they were supposed to be.  Or should we say imposed to be.

I believe that the moment we stop loving someone in the present and start loving our imagination of them in some future state; is the moment we lose them.

Betty has not lost Whitey, even in his sad and restricted state, because she loves him, even in his imperfection. Her love is not the idea of him in some imaginary, perfect, future state; hers is in the here and now.  The very fact that she does this, to me, ensures that she will one day enjoy a time with him beyond her wildest imaginations.

Dixon often says, "The past is history, the future a mystery.  Today is a gift. That's why they call it the present."

Let's give ourselves the greatest gift of all.  Let's give ourselves love. Let's gift ourselves the children and friends and neighbors we might have by loving them now!  Just the way they are.

It All Started With A Lie

I was awakened in the wee hours by a ringing cell phone.  With death approaching on two fronts these days, I can't ignore a phone call.  Bleary eyed and not yet fully awake, I had trouble first finding the phone and then getting it open to answer it.  By the time I did, the caller had hung up.  I pulled up the number, which was unfamiliar, and returned the call.  I got an answering machine.  I left a message indicating that I was returning the call and closed the phone.  Seconds later my phone rang again.

"Mike, this is Alan," a voice said in a jocular tone.  My brother got _______ __ and took a shotgun and blew his head off!  Me and Josh and Jan are headed out to Salt Lake.  We're going to find some shit and get wasted."  That was a lie.

Not that Alan wasn't telling the truth, at least in his words.  The lie was in his tone and attitude.  Alan was grief stricken but had no clue how to show it to Mike.  Their lives have been devil-may-care of late and Alan knows no other way to be, with Mike.  You see, I am Myke, not Mike, but Alan doesn't know this, yet.  He wants to know if I want to come along?  When I ask who he is, he sounds incredulous.  He can't imagine that Mike doesn't know who's talking.  I have to explain that I am not Mike.  Still unbelieving Alan seeks clarification, "You're not Mike Walsh?"

"No I am not."  Alan hangs up without apology.  Now, I know Josh Walsh and I happen to know he has a brother named Mike.  It isn't hard to put together that Alan is borrowing Josh's phone and has made a simple error in the directory, having chosen to dial the wrong Mike.

Unsettled and not quite ready to go back to bed I get on line.  On face book I find a message from Josh.  

Lost a friend I've taken Alan and Randy out to the desert

No mention is made of Jan.  Still, the message confirms the death of Alan's brother.  I saw Josh and Jan just a week and a half ago.  We had a great visit.  They seemed so happy together.  Josh's career is progressing nicely and his future seems bright.  Now I am not naive enough to think that Josh is out of the woods.  I see the photos on his Facebook page and it's pretty easy to see that his ways haven't changed all that much.  He still likes to party and get rowdy now and then.   Josh has made a career out of helping troubled youth.  Most are drying out from serious drug abuse.  He is compassionate and effective and a hypocrite.  On his off time, he's doing the same thing he's helping them overcome.  He assuages his conscience in that regard by avoiding the topic in his work.  His job, after all, is only to hold them accountable.  It has little to do with the details which are, under the circumstances of place, irrelevant.  Jan works with him.

Now, there is a possibility that Josh and Jan are going along to be Alan's designated drivers; to administer safely, Alan's means of escape.  I doubt it.  They've all lost a friend and they're headed out where they won't get caught and plan to deal with their overwhelming grief in the only way they know how.  At once, this behavior is going to soothe, for a moment, their sorrow, while allowing them to express their defiance.  They will curse the world and curse God and unavoidably exacerbate their common lot.

I have their number.  I thought of calling back.  Could I talk some sense into them?  I longed to do it but felt constrained by the strength of my experience.  Already they're in open rebellion.  All I will do, in an attempt to intervene, is fan the conflagration that is already raging out of control.  So I wait.  And I pray.  "Keep them safe for a saner moment when we can talk this over; please, dear Father?"  "Keep them safe."

I lie awake for hours wondering what has damaged these precious souls to the extent that they would react in such a destructive, inappropriate manner.  Alan's voice haunts me.  He sounded so much like he didn't care.  Like he'd given up on caring.  Probably didn't dare care.  Yet his actions are screaming the torture he's so desperately trying to hide.  They will get wasted.  What a waste.  And then they'll laugh and rage and curse and finally weep in exhaustion for their lost one, knowing they are just as lost as he.  They'll battle with confusion, anger, envy, blame, guilt and they'll come home weary, numb and empty.

All of this behavior is a clear manifestation of rebellion.  I can't help but wonder from what?  I have a notion that we never, naturally rebel from goodness.  We rebel as a coping mechanism in the presence of manipulation.  Someone, somewhere applied conditions to these young lives.  Conditions under which they were kept in servitude or bondage.  It all started with a lie.  The first lie came from the person applying the conditions.  "You are not acceptable unless you....."  "You don't deserve my love or approbation if you don't...."  You can fill in the blanks.  I guarantee that these are the kinds of messages that so repulsed, disillusioned, dismayed these young adults, when the were children, that they began their rebellious bitter course.  Now, you may say it can't be that manipulation is that universal a catalyst.  You might suggest that people rebel against God all the time and He is most certainly no manipulator.  And you'd be right on both counts.  The trouble is that in between God and man are people.  Children especially, cannot avoid projecting human attributes onto God.  If a child lives with manipulative adults he will, by default, surmise that God too, is a manipulator.  How do I know?  Because that was the view I took of God based on the evidence I was immersed in.  How do I know?   Because my number was on Josh's cell phone.

Josh and I are friends, not because we have a single thing in common.  We are friends because there are NO conditions in our friendship.  He was, is and will be, completely acceptable to me, just the way he is.   He's quite unfamiliar with this phenomena and is unavoidably attracted to it.  He manipulates and is manipulated by virtually all in his circle of acquaintances.  His parents manipulate him.  Law enforcement manipulates him.  His friends manipulate him.  So do his enemies.  And he manipulates them in return.

He hangs around me because for quite possibly the first time in his life, he's found someone who doesn't manipulate him.  It's not that I'm not tempted.  I almost called back, remember.  It's just that I've finally got it through my own thick skull that I can't change Josh or anyone else for that matter.  Since I can't change him, I might as well love him.  The only way I can love him is just the way he is.  Otherwise I'm loving the figment of my imagination which is ridiculous.

The rebellious already know that their course of action is a downward slide to destruction.  I don't need to point that out.  They do it because the alternative, a life of conditions and rejection is even more unthinkable.

I believe that their only hope is in the discovery that there are indeed those, who love them for who they are.  I want to be one who will show them that kind of love.  Not so they'll love me back, but so they might begin to superimpose that truth over their previously held false notions about the nature of God.

The lie is that their value is based on conditions.  The truth is their value is intrinsic and has nothing to do with their performance according to anyone's standards.  Accepting that truth, they'll find no further need to rebel or mistrust and will begin to correct their own course while growing in the warm, sustaining environment of love.  This is not rocket science folks.  Lehi said, "Wo be unto the liar for he shall be trust down to hell."  It is so because the purpose of the lie is to manipulate and the end result of manipulation is rebellion and a misbegotten concept of God.

It all started with a lie.

Book Review - Bury Your Dead by Louise Penny

Bury Your Dead is a masterpiece!  You know I have loved the Chief Inspector Gamache series.  This latest installment is far and away her best work yet!  Building upon characters and cultures and plots from the past Louise Penny takes us on a most marvelous journey.

How thankful I am to have been to the Townships along the Vermont border.  How wonderful that I've spent time walking the narrow streets within the old walled Quebec City.  For me this was a nostalgic, enriching, enlightening refresher on our wonderful experiences there.   While for you, should it be that you've not been to those places, it will be a fine primer in preparation for what ought to be a foremost destination on your bucket list.

So much history.  So much tragedy.  So much triumph.  So much culture.  Quebec is rich, inviting, enchanting and Louise Penny has captured it all.  Add to that the elaborate, credible, triple plot and you have, to my mind, one of the best books of fiction ever written.  I expect it to stand as a favorite for the balance of my life.  I am in awe of the author's elaborate, deep, heartfelt understanding of human nature and motive.  I cannot read her work without understanding myself more fully.  I cannot spend time with her without wanting to be better, kinder, more settled and confident.  She teaches and inspires me on every page.  She strips away the veneer of her complex characters and finds something to love in even the coarsest.  She shows me how I might do that with those with whom I rub shoulders.

Great fiction is not only entertaining, it is cathartic.  That is a gross understatement when considering not only this book but this series of books.  I am better and more at peace for having experienced the thought and emotion generated in such well developed fiction.

 I recommend you read the series in order.  Not that they can't stand alone.  They can.  But the deep rich theme and texture of Louise Penny's work is best enjoyed like a long delightful meal with good friends, not to be rushed, but to be savored and relished.  Clearly she began with the end in mind and the depth of her preparation in character development and plot detail and intricacy are rivaled by only a few masterworks like Les Miserables and A Tale of Two Cities.

Thankfully, we are anticipating more from my new favorite author.  I have every reason to expect it to be even better than this.  Louise Penny does not disappoint.

Of Inheritance and Mansions

I'll never forget the impact of a couple of questions asked by Stephen E. Robinson in his book Believing Christ.  Here are the questions:  When you stand before the judgement bar of God, do you want a fair trial?  (Most people will answer, Yes!)  So, you're telling me that you want to get what you deserve?  (Oh, most certainly not!)  It is fun to watch the sudden and startling paradigm shift that always takes place when I pull the same trick.

I'm fascinated by that word, deserve.  I think it fits perfectly when it comes to punishment.  We do something wrong; we commit sin.  Justice demands that we get the punishment.  It is after all what we deserve.  Gloriously, the Atonement of Jesus Christ can absorb what we deserve enabling Him to offer us mercy, to let us off the hook.  What He expects in return is faith and repentance, a willingly maintained covenant and continued submission to His will and desire for us.  Small price to pay in order the avoid what we deserve.

In our logical and hyper-sensitivity to justice with regard to others, however, we've developed a sense that we also deserve something on the positive side of the spectrum.  If we do good we feel we deserve a reward.  We take it as a right.  If we put in a fair day's work we feel we deserve a fair day's pay.  If we spend a dollar's worth of our hard earned cash we darn well better get a dollar's worth of goods and or services.  We deserve it.  This mortal method of exchange works pretty well for us in general and is an utter disaster in specifics.  Who can honestly suppose that an NBA star deserves his millions while the soldier sweating behind a pile of sandbags in Afghanistan does not?  Who can fairly claim that the movie star deserves her millions and the Kindergarten teacher does not?  In an economy as afoul as ours, those imbalances prevail.  And those who benefit most from the imbalance often feel fully justified on the grounds that they deserve what they're getting; even more!  Meanwhile, many of those who's benefit from their contribution to society is rewarded poorly seem to think that since the imbalance is clearly unfair, it is completely fair to correct it by force.  More and more, we are gravitating toward even competition that rectifies the imbalance by the application of force, often violent force.  "If I can dominate you on the football field or in the board room," we tell ourselves, "I deserve a bigger piece of the pie than you do."

No one is grateful when they obtain something they feel they deserve.  No one is their benefactor but themselves.  We are not inclined to thank our boss for a paycheck we feel we deserve.  Now there are those who are very thankful for their pay checks.  These are grateful for an employer who was gracious enough to offer them a job and are pleased to do their best for the benefit of their employer.  While is fair to expect compensation for their efforts, those who feel they deserve it tend to be dissatisfied with what they're getting and harbor resentments toward rather than appreciation for their benefactor.

This is also true of our relationship with God.  Many of us feel that we can earn our way to Heaven.  Therefore we demonstrate no appreciation toward God for something we are accomplishing quite handily on our own, thank you very much!  Others of us realize that we don't deserve to go to Heaven and acknowledge that neither can we deserve such a privilege.  If, acknowledging the gift of Redemption, we are granted assurance of such joy, it is because it is clear that it comes because of the merits of Christ and not any merit of our own.  Too often we grossly underestimate the strength and extent of His merits.  Without them we would have no air to breathe, no health, no freedom, no capacity and no resources with which to do anything, let alone making progress toward returning to the presence of God.  So, on the positive side of the spectrum the notion of me personally deserving anything is a complete fallacy.  I am entitled to only one thing in this life and that is my free will.  All, and I do mean all, else is a gift for which we can claim no credit with which to purchase or deserve anything. This is a hard concept to buy into in a carrot-and-stick world such as ours.  Nevertheless, it is true and the sooner we ingrain this truth into our consciousness the happier we'll be.  Elder Neal A. Maxwell made this observation:

"Jesus, who accomplished the most by far, was also the most glad to give all the glory to the Father. Alas, even when you and I do place something on the altar, we sometimes hang around as if waiting for a receipt."  (General Conference, October 1997)

In other words, we think our effort deservs a reward and we are sticking around to make sure we're fairly remunerated for our contribution.

We are currently considering the settlement of a parent's estate.  Suppose there are those who think their mere relationship to the departing one entitles them to certain things.  What if others think their presence at an item's acquisition lends strength to its sentimental value and so makes them more deserving than others to be that item's ultimate custodian.  Consider if someone feels that they've given more in service and devotion and so deserve a more significant portion of the booty.  None of these approaches seem very grateful to me.  They all smack of a sense of deserving, a sense of entitlement, a sense that, "If I get the biggest prize I was somehow the most loved or most deserving."  There will be some who'll want no more than a simple memento like a red Texas Tumbler from the kitchen table or a tree from the back yard.  These only want something simple by which they might stimulate memories and feelings of precious moments together, never to be forgotten.  Now, our family are all good people and in the end, I think things will be done equitably and fairly and that no one will have cause to complain that they were unfairly treated.  But that is not my point.

Would it not be better if, rewards and remuneration, accolades and back pats; bigger shares of the pie, had nothing to do with it.  Wouldn't it be better if the services rendered to this marvelous benefactor were done for nothing more than the privilege of doing so?  Without the sniveling hope that one day, there'd be a big, well deserved prize at the end?  Would it not be better that our expressions of love, devotion, loyalty, service, sacrifice and attention were for the benefit of our loved one, with absolutely no thought for ourselves?  Of course it would.

Does it not apply to our Father in Heaven as well?  Are we serving Him for what we might gain?  Or are we doing it for sheer love of Him and His worthy Son?  Talk of Mansions in Heaven is carrot-and-stick talk and may get us started in the right direction.  But ultimately, those who inherit all that Our Father has are those who took no thought of themselves and served Him for the blessed privilege of doing so.  Why?  Because they love Him.  It is clear that those who feel they deserve a mansion on high, won't.

There's a Chill in the Air

I'm still in my shirt sleeves on my morning walk; but it feels like it won't be long before jacket weather.  We're coming up on my favorite season.  I have always loved the fall.  September especially.  The food is always best this time of year.  Fresh tomatoes, peaches, corn on the cob, pears, apples, air, abound.  It all tastes so good and inviting.  It tastes like success.  It tastes like God is good.  It tastes like pay day.  The fruit of our labors offering satisfaction and yet so full of humility because we're utterly dependent upon God for the harvest.  It is the time I'm most reminded of his love for us.  He didn't have to make the first frost tip the balance of sugar in a Golden Delicious apple to make it so luscious and sweet; but He did.  He didn't have to make the flavor of a fresh peach blend so well with the sweet smooth quality of cream.  He did have to, but it seems clear that He wanted to make our sojourn here a pleasant one.

I live in a desert.  Here we don't take rain for granted.  We manage the water carefully and count it an enormous blessing.  We've been through drought years and we've seem miraculous crops, when we expected none.  We grow wonderful hay in the most awful looking soil and bow in gratitude that something grows in this harsh and barren landscape.  We have sufficient for our needs; not only thanks to generous Providence but also to the foresight and industry of our fore-bearers.  Men and women who scraped out the canals, built the dams and developed the systems that enable us to have water for the entire growing season in a land that is lucky to get 10 inches of rainfall in a year.  This is a land of hopes and dreams and most of all faith.  Faith that for yet another year there will be crops to sustain us.  We never take that for granted.  We can't.  It's like standing on the ridge of a steep roof.  So much depends on balance.

I love September too because school begins again.  I always reset my calendar and my goals and dreams at this time of year rather than the first of January.  This time of year I am excited that I truly had a clean slate and so much to look forward to.  January was always so dreary and bogged down beneath snow and darkness and unfulfilled dreams from September.  This was the time of year that we received the bounty of last year's efforts and it seemed to be the right time to commence the challenges of next year.  It was the time of new clothes, empty notebooks, new ideas, new friends, and ever present bounty.  This is the time of results.  What better time to anticipate the next round of them.

Another important transition begins for me in September.  This is the end of the survival mode of living.  We've about got things tucked away for the winter.  Food in the pantry, so to speak.  Now commences   the more contemplative, restorative portion of the year.  The time to sit and read by the fire.  The time to mend the equipment and the bruises and bumps of a tough year.  Time to let the horses go unshod and fatten up on what's popping up in the hay field after the last cutting.  Time to learn, to plan, to dream, to relax, to indulge and to appreciate.

I think it is no wonder that the more prosperous societies have long been in the northern climes where the seasons change.  Perhaps it is because we had to be industrious to survive.  Likely so.  Don't think though, that the refreshing changes the seasons bring have a lot to do with keeping us motivated and looking forward. I've noticed that I'm seldom looking back as the seasons change.  This time of year I'm looking forward to cooler weather.  Toward the end of Fall I'm looking forward to long quiet evenings to enjoy reading and conversation.  By the end of Winter I can barely wait for flowers and greenery.  As summer approaches I'm longing for less wind and more steady weather and a chance to get outside and sweat a little.  Never am I looking back wishing for more of what I've just had.

When we lived in Southern California, I never had such sensations.  The weather didn't seem to change.  The sky was always the color of dirty dish water and temperature hardly varied.  It was so boring to have nothing startlingly different to look forward to.  I'll take a nasty bitter cold blizzard or a sultry hot swelter, or a week of tree bending wind, or an unexpected cold snap in early September over monotony any day.

I've been known to walk into the Bureau of Indian Affairs and ask for the weather chief.  When asked, "why," to explain that I just needed to thank someone for another wonderfully long and beautiful Indian Summer.  We get those quite regularly around here and I just want to thank the BIA for doing such a tremendous job!  Still, at the end of Indian Summer there is nothing quite so thrilling as that first snow fall.  You know, the one with the great big flakes that drift so slowly down you can ask them about the wife and kids before they melt on your tongue.  But I digress.  No point in missing fall for looking on to winter.

I'm going out to crunch some walnuts on the road and hit a fruit stand or two.  That'll do for today.  Tomorrow it will be corn on the cob from Brad's.  In a couple of weeks it'll be the smell of walnut leaves as I rake.  So much to enjoy.  So much to look forward to.

Utah Book Bloggers' Summer Social

I had a great time at the Utah Book Bloggers' Summer Social.  It was held along the Jordan River in Sandy on Saturday evening.  More details can be found at It's All About Books!.

I had intended to go with Booklogged, my Sweetie, but her mother is awfully ill and she elected to say by her side.  Sweetie insisted that I go though and I'm all about pleasing Sweetie.  I owe her big time and any progress toward paying the enormous debt I owe her, is a privilege.

I'm new to this scene and arrived totally unacquainted with the group.  That didn't last long.  Everyone was so kind and friendly.  I quickly relaxed and had a great time.  It helps to have a common interest, though ordinarily, the books I read were utterly un-heard-of in this crowd.  The gender and generation gaps are very obvious.  Thankfully, a few husbands turned up or I'd have felt like a fox in a hen house.  It was good for me to meet some very fine authors, who surprisingly, are ordinary folks like you and me!

Thanks Suey and Natasha for a great time!  I hope to be there again next time!

Book Review - Pelagie, The Return to Acadie by Antonine Maillet

Three years ago Sweetie and I found ourselves in Cheticamp, Nova Scotia at dinner time.  We stopped at Restaurant Acadien for dinner.  Cheticamp claims to be the heart of L'Acadie or in English, Acadia.  The food had a home cooked, family style nature to it and was wholesome and simple.  Attached to the restaurant was a cute gift shop with lots of locally created crafts and trinkets.  We like to learn more about the local culture through books and found Pelagie on a shelf there.  The idea is to enhance the enjoyment of our trip by returning there in local literature upon our arrival home.

L'Acadie covered much of the Maritime Provinces of Canada and some of New England.  The French first sent settlers to the area in 1604.  England and France skirmished and negotiated over the area several times.  In the summer of 1755 at the out break of the French and Indian war, an American extension of the Seven Years War between France and England, the British claimed control of Acadia and violently uprooted and deported the Acadians who refused to swear an oath of allegiance to the King of England.  They were scattered abroad from Boston to Louisiana and around the Caribbean basin.  Those who gathered in the bayous of Louisiana became what are now known as the Cajuns, a corrupted form of the word Acadians.

Widow of the Great Disruption (what they called the time of deportation) Pelagie LeBlanc and her children, who'd wound up in Georgia, scratched up a cart and six oxen and after 15 years in exile; determined to go home.  They set out in 1770 and crossed the continent South to North over the course of the next ten years.  You will surely notice that it was the same ten years as the American Revolution.  This little marvel chronicles the hardship, travail, joy and triumph of that epic journey.  The journey became more than a long trip home, it became about the preservation of a people, a history and a culture.

Pelagie, The Return to Acadie was originally written in French and was the first foreign novel to receive France's highest literary honor, the Prix Goncourt.  I would love to have been able to read it in French.  The English translation by Philip Stratford is masterful, though and did wonderful justice to the original.

The Acadians were mostly illiterate at the time and so many of the stories of the Great Disruption have been passed down in legend and tale.  The book was written in that style.  Written as though an old storyteller was sharing it with company around the hearth.  As the story is told, the audience, interjects their vocalized comments, contrary versions and exclamations.  The book is written as the collective voice of modern Acadie as if gathered to recite again the wonderful story of the woman who climbed the continent gathering Acadians as she went.  Pelagie-the-cart she is called, accompanied by Belonie the chinwagging centenarian storyteller.  The voice in the book is Louis-a-Belonie-a-Belonie-a-Thaddee-a-Belonie-le-Vieus Mailett, great grandson of the old chinwagger himself, whose mission was to follow the footsteps of his storytelling predecessors.  Also in attendance is Pelagie-the-Grouch, daughter of Pelagie-a-Madeleine-a-Pelagie-the-Cart.  Each has something to say about the ancestor whose name they bear.  Actually, a little more than something.  And of course the audience consists of descendants of other characters who have their own traditional two bits to toss in.

At first I didn't understand the style and found it difficult to read.  I persisted though, 'on account of because' it was such a captivating story.  Well before the half-way point though, I had caught on and really enjoyed being part of the group, often interjecting an exclamation of my own!

Read this book!  It is an absolute delight.  My heart is warmed toward L'Acadie and I can barely wait to go spend more time with her unique and beautiful people.  Merci'!

Five enthusiastic stars!

Missing the Fountain at the Rexall Drug

As a young High School student I worked at Ashton's Department Store.  I took my breaks on the corner at the Uintah Rexall Drug.  Oh how I wish I could still stop in there for a bit to eat.  Marion Swain operated the fountain and fixed the finest food.  If I stopped by for a morning break I almost always had a sweet roll and a glass of milk.  This was not just any sweet roll.  They were made in Ashton's bakery by Twila and Dolly and were wonderful.  Marion took those and made them out of this world!  She'd take the bonnet off a nice sticky stack of them, select the biggest one for me and toss it on the grill.  Then with a Wooster paint brush she'd slather it with melted butter and let it warm and get crispy and caramelized around the edges.  She'd place it on a plate with a fork and serve it with tall glass of whole milk.  I'd probably weight 400 pounds if she were still there serving up that delicacy.

For lunch I always had her salad plate.  A dinner plate loaded with equal portions of cottage cheese, tuna-macaroni salad, the best* potato salad in the world, and green salad with a few cello-wrapped saltines.  Oh my goodness was it good stuff.  This evening I finished off a batch of tuna macaroni salad with some cottage cheese and wished I had the rest to round out my meal.  It was homemade, wholesome and just plain good food.  I had it every lunch there for two years.

My afternoon break was just as consistent.  I had a root-beer float with scooped, real ice-cream.  You can't make a good root-beer float with soft ice-cream.  It just doesn't melt right, nor seem as creamy and delicious.

Marion was like a grandmother to me.  I ate at her table more often than I did at home.  I loved to visit with her.  While she cooked or did the dishes.  She had dish pan hands, her hair tied up in a net and a resolute determination to do her job well.  I always sat there by myself, usually during off hours when the crowds weren't there.  People came and went I'm sure but all I remember was Marion.  That is until one fateful day.

I was in this very marching band.  It had a little more class in those days.  The Drum Major is my good friend Keith.  You can see both Ashton's and the Uintah Rexall Drug in this photo.  Also Bobbie's Dress Shop where Sweetie worked.

I had quit Ashton's and was working as a surveyor.  One day I happened to be in town in the early afternoon and, for old time's sake, stopped in to see Marion.  The place was hopping and the only stool was right next to a pretty girl I was remotely acquainted with.  We had a good visit over our meals.  I have no idea what she had, but of course I had the salad plate.  Marion gave me a wink of approval as I sat beside someone she obviously approved of.  As we parted I paid for the young lady's meal, which she graciously accepted as she has thousands of times since.  She became my sweetheart, my wife and the love of my life.  And *her mother's potato salad is even better than Marion Swain's.

Welcome Home Whitey!

Today I'm re-embarking on a wonderful adventure that began three years ago.  My neighbor and friend Whitey has Alzheimer's.  Shortly after I retired from UPS and upon our return from Newfoundland, Betty began calling occasionally to have me help with Whitey.  He'd slip out of his recliner and onto the floor and she'd need help getting him back up - things like that.  By December, I was over there four or five times a day.  He was losing his ability to walk and poor Betty was beside herself trying to give him the loving care she hoped to.

Any wife would have a hard time deciding his care was beyond her capacity; and so it was with Betty.  We shed a lot of tears and Betty struggled with such a conflicting decision.  Most Alzheimer's patients don't last as long as Whitey has.  The 2 1/2 years he was in the Care Center were fraught with seizures and other difficulties, but those have ceased and his care has become simpler as he is not at risk of injury as he's utterly unable to change positions, even in bed.  A couple of months ago, another woman in a similar situation suggested that Betty might now be able to bring her husband home.  She resisted.  But the notion began to grow and blossom into a possibility.  Betty was certain that she couldn't do it alone.

As we've compared notes; on the day that I felt inspired to quit seeking employment and stay home to write, Betty felt impressed to ask me to assist her with bringing her husband home and in his daily care.  She didn't feel she could ask me though, not knowing what I was up to.  A few days later, Betty and I bumped into one another at the Walking Park and walked a few loops together.  As we conversed I told her of my plans and of the huge leap of faith I was making as I knew it could be many months before I realized any revenue from writing.  Her own issues suddenly clarified and she dared ask.  Having already assisted with Whitey a lot and being blessed with such a disposition as I have; it was easy to say, "Yes!"  Betty will help me with a little income, though I won't be accepting nearly what she offered.  I don't consider this a job, but an opportunity to serve.  So, I calculated what would be just sufficient for my needs and intend to accept nothing more.  I couldn't bear to profit from Betty's misfortune.  Of course she will save a large amount of money as the Care Center is very expensive.

Anyway, we brought Whitey home today.  Several of his Priesthood brethren turned out for the occasion.  Betty had asked for a couple of guys to help me lift him up the steps and into the house.  Eight men showed up!  It was a quiet celebration of sorts as we welcomed him home.  A couple of sweet ladies from the Care Center, who'd accompanied him home were also there to bid him goodbye.  You could tell they loved him and would indeed miss him.  Thank Heaven for the Care Center and the good people who love and care for so many who need to be there.  Thank Heaven for the Care Center Branch who serve their spiritual needs during their stay.

Now to the task at hand.  I'll still be writing most of the time.  But every few hours I'll run over and help where I'm needed.  Periodically, I'll be spelling Betty while she goes to the Temple, to a bridal shower or out to lunch with friends.  I'm thrilled to be able to help.  These are wonderful people for whom I have great love and respect.  If I can play a tiny part in improving the quality of their lives together, it will be the joy of a lifetime.

Sweetie and I will be doing our share of commiserating as she's currently the primary caregiver for her own ailing mother.  We both have remarked that these days of service and love are priceless beyond measure.

The other night Betty took a son and his family to dinner with Whitey and the Rest Home.  They ate pizza while he had his pureed dinner.  As they were leaving, Betty gave him a kiss and Whitey, who has only spoken gibberish for years said, "You're a wonderful woman."  What a blessed, tender mercy.  I believe that Whitey's spirit is still conscious, even though his mind is completely confused.  I believe that one day we will know, that his spirit was able to use that poor decrepit body to convey his love to his devoted wife.

I am certain that I will count myself fortunate to have witnessed the eternal bond of love and friendship that persists through deepening trials in the lives of these fine Saints.

Repenting

Yesterday I spoke in Church on the topic of Trusting God.  The Spirit attended in abundance and we rejoiced at a marvelous opportunity to learn.  Our attention was focused on the fact that God will direct our lives if we will seek His guidance and be willing to obey His instructions.

I have been impressed with the Alcoholics Anonymous 11th Step Prayer, "Lord, what would Thou have me do today?  Please give me the strength to do it?"  These words are the focus of my prayers.  Of course I spend a lot of time in gratitude in my prayers as well.  There are other requests.  Requests for things I have no direct influence over.  Still these words are the most productive words in any prayer.  I have found that my prayers get answered a lot more quickly and effectively if I ask Father what I should be doing, rather than if I spend my prayers telling Him what He should be doing.

If it troubles you that my prayer comes from AA, then you might be more at ease with this:

Paul, en route to Damascus to persecute the Saints, saw a light from heaven and heard the voice of the Lord. Then Paul asked a simple eight-word question--and the persistent asking of the same question changed his life. "Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?" (Acts 9:6). The persistent asking of that same question can also change your life. There is no greater question that you can ask in this world. "Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?" I challenge you to make that the uppermost question in your life.  (Ezra Taft Benson)

The more completely I focus my attention on that great quest, the happier and more productive I become.  The other neat thing I've discovered as I attempted to implement President Benson's advice is that God never asks me to give anything I haven't got.  He most certainly stretches me.  Certainly, he pushes me out of my comfort zone on occasion.  Never, though, doesn't He make requests of things I am not prepared to deliver.

Best of all, I've learned, like Nephi, that God always provides a way for us to keep His commandments.  Even the little daily ones.

So, why is this bit about repenting?  Because, yesterday when I got home from Church and Sweetie had gone to her Mother's and Katie had gone off to her Singles Ward.  I asked that question. "What would Thou have me do today Lord?  I got my answer; I was to take some extra peaches around to the ladies I home teach and to a couple of friends.  I didn't do it though.  Instead I went and took a nap.  I could have done both, but I napped too long and by the end of the day felt quite hollow and unfulfilled.  I asked forgiveness as I closed the day in prayer and committed to do better today.

I had the best morning going around to see Paul and Phylis, Billie, Lynne and Norma.  Each blessed my life with good cheer and sweet conversation.  To think I might have enjoyed that yesterday and had today to do something else.  It is a good reminder to keep on my toes.  Essentially, God told me yesterday to go out and have a pleasant, uplifting, fulfilling Sabbath afternoon, but I was too lazy to be so blessed.  What a lesson.  What a life!

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.