Book Review - The Hundred Secret Senses by Amy Tan

I really enjoy Amy Tan's books.  They are fresh and interesting.  I enjoy the contrast in American and Chinese cultures she addresses so well.  This one was better in most respects that either The Joy Luck Club or The Bonesetter's Daughter, both of which, I also enjoyed.

This one is quite mystical and philosophical, perhaps more so than any of Tan's novels, which gave it the appeal I prefer.  I want to learn something about myself in a book, even if it's about China.  I felt I learned a lot this time.  Here's a quote about one great lesson for me:

"Anyway, yin people talk about life already gone, like banquet, many-many flavors, 'Oh,' they say, 'now I remember.  This part I enjoy, this I not enjoy enough.  This I eat up too fast.  Why I don't taste that one?  Why I let this piece of my life gone spoiled, complete wasted?'"

You'll surely note the pidgin English, in the statement.  This is so true of me.  I pursue this pleasure, obtain that instrument, acquire that tool or those friends, only to get distracted and neglect some, while consuming others, not necessarily by priority, but based on the expedience of the moment.  Who wants to wind up with a pile of regret at the end.

The story moves from San Francisco to a small village outside Guilin, China.  Tan is a master of description and I loved my visit to China through her words.  The tastes, smells, traffic, shops all come to life in the pages of the book.

Much of the story takes place in the turmoil of the nineteenth century where we learn of Christian missionaries and political waves of oppression and war.  The main story is modern.  In fact too modern for my taste.  A bit crass, drifting in the winds of an unanchored culture of academia, hedonism, and agnostic futility.

The story, philosophy, discovery all could have, should have taught great lessons to the protagonist upon whom it all seems to have no conclusion, no effect.  It looks like, Tan wants to be realistic in the end, for after taking her character through opportunity after opportunity to learn and grow; after making the reader aware that the woman can make astute observations about the meaning of her experience; she lets us see, that ultimately she is neither changed nor blessed by the struggle she experiences.  It's as if she is saying life, experience, education, discovery offer no real gifts to those who endure them.

I'd characterize the book as magnificently entertaining, and largely pointless.

Three Stars

The Evil Person Assumption

I've spent a lot of years providing spiritual hope in jails and detention centers.  In the process I've become intimately acquainted with a lot of inmates.  I suppose I have met a few evil people behind bars, but the vast majority are not evil.  All have done evil things.  But that is not unique to prisoners.  All have done evil things.

Most prisoners are there for doing desperate, foolish, and dangerous things out of fear.  Most are coping with horrible circumstances, often beyond their control.  Most have poor coping skills.  Most are utterly uninformed about the means by which they might live more wholesome, healthy lives.  Many, and this will be the focus of this entry, are misinformed about why they behave as they do and what can be done about it.

Most prisoners believe they are evil.  This is the first big lie.  They've been taught to believe this about themselves by people and institutions, most, if not all of their lives.  Usually, it began with parents.  Parents who were also misinformed.  Parents who impatiently wanted convenient kids who didn't interrupt Mom and Dad's comfort and pleasure.  Any violation of which, presented punishment of some sort, and which spawned dishonesty and rebellion.  Shame was used on them as a weapon; not to develop their character, but to further their superior's convenience.  Schools, churches and other institutions then reinforced what they already believed about themselves.

Most prisoners believe they have no options.  They have been taught continually, to believe that their behavior is their problem.  They have no idea that beneath that behavior lie causes and conditions that they are inappropriately trying to cope with by their behavior.  In most cases these people have been "pierced with deep wounds" that have not been treated.  Coping with those wounds consumes them.  They turn to addictive behavior most commonly.  Something to numb the pain.  This leads to inability to remain employed, but demands feeding, leading to crime, homelessness, frustration, violence, and all the things that tend to land them in jail.

Most prisoners are living with despair.  Having tried and failed so many times in their lives.  They have given up hope of any viable alternative to the desperate, agonizing choices they feel compelled to make and repeat.

Many, many prisoners, find incarceration their best option.  Being locked up has it's perks.  They no longer have to cope with life.  At least the parameters and problems are confined to a smaller set of circumstances, with more defined boundaries, fewer opportunities to make mistakes, less danger of failure, and no need to provide shelter, food and companionship for themselves.

These are not evil people.  Confused, unprepared, uninformed, poorly nurtured, frustrated, angry, afraid?  Yes.  But not evil.

We all have contributed to this to the degree that we have hacked at the branches of their problems instead of at the roots.  We have caused this by standing upon our bully pulpits, having condemned them instead of their behavior.  We have created this by preaching the law and punishing it's violation, instead of preaching love and seeking to heal wounded hearts.

We have heaped guilt and shame upon them from our pulpits until we have driven them from our churches, when we should have been treating their wounds by binding up their broken hearts.  We've turned our religious institutions into good old boy clubs where we praise the "righteous" and condemn the sinners.  I assume because we couldn't be bothered and would rather not associate with their ilk anyway.  We are subtle masters at this.

In my own church it see it most Sundays.  We stand before our congregations and preach about the lofty lives we each ought to be living.  We cast judgement upon those who fail to meet our standards.  When do we ever consider that sitting within those congregations are suffering souls, who came to healed, not to have salt rubbed in their already agonizing wounds.  We are instructed to teach nothing but the Gospel.  Which is that Christ has come to Atone for our sins that He might heal our wounded souls.

Last Sunday for instance, we experienced a lengthy discussion on the keeping of covenants.  Apparently, it had never occurred to us that those who keep their covenants are those whose lives have been healed by the Master's touch.  And, that those who are not keeping their covenants, most of whom would love to, are so distracted by their pain and confusion that they cannot even think of doing so.  This while, we continue to fail to teach them, how to allow the Savior to help them with their problems, how to rely upon His grace, how to give their troubles, pains and problems to He who suffered all things that He might succor them.  Do you not suppose that they will make and keep sacred covenants, once they've been healed by the Master and are no longer distracted and crippled by their pain?  How does heaping upon them obligation and expectation, they cannot conceive of accomplishing, help them recover from the agony they are experiencing?

There is no sin in ignorance and confusion, but there is sin in keeping the simple truth from those who so desperately need it.  Institutionally, we do it for the same reason, poor parents do it.  For the convenience.  We want the problems to go away, so we do the most heinous, evil thing of all, we drive them away, rather than deal with them.  We shame them instead of loving them.  We treat symptoms instead of causes and conditions.  We label and judge and count ourselves righteous for having "better behavior."

My biggest fear is that we have among us, hurting, suffering individuals, who are adept at pretending they have it all together.  Who are so accomplished at this that they are elevated to positions of trust and praise.  Who could expect these to teach of healing they know nothing of, or to understand hurting souls, who are, unlike them, unable to fake it.  I was one such and it agonizes me to think of all the salt in rubbed into tender wounds, while pretending to have none of my own.

If we are to build Zion, if we are to emulate the Savior, if we are to fulfill our callings, we have need to quit measuring people and start lovingly leading them to the Healer.  The rest will take care of itself.  Lets stop assuming they are evil and start assuming they are hurt.  Let us stop applying condemnation and shame and begin applying the Balm of Gilead.  Please.

In the church we often preach of accountability.  While this is a correct principle in its proper context, too often we use it as triage to eliminate the "hopeless causes" so we can move on with our success.  If they never make into the hospital, they don't count against our progress.  It is God's intention to save all of His children.  Triage is utterly inappropriate in the Plan of Salvation.

Banging on an Empty Barrel

I suffer a bit of distress since returning to my home ward.  For more than six years I met for church at the local juvenile detention center.  There,

 "... we talk(ed) of Christ, we rejoice(ed) in Christ, we preach(ed) of Christ, we prophesy(ed) of Christ, and we wr(o)te according to our prophecies, that (we and those) children (might) know to what source (we might) look for a remission of (our) sins."  (See 2 Nephi 25:26)

There we centered all of our teaching around that one central theme.  If we spoke of the pioneers, it was an opportunity to show them how the Savior and His Atonement enabled them to deal with and overcome great hardship.  If we spoke of captivity, bondage and addiction, it was to show them how Christ and His Infinite Sacrifice made it possible for us to obtain freedom.  If we spoke about our personal relationships with others, we were able to show them how our Perfect Brother stands between us and our offender, having already paid the price of his transgression, asking us to forgive and quit seeking revenge.  If we spoke of joy it was underlaid with rejoicing that Christ is the giver of joy.  If we spoke of choices we spoke of He who provided that liberty to us, and He who allows us to recover from the poor choices we inevitably will make.  If we spoke of love, we spoke of the Source and Epitome of love.  If we spoke of fear, we comforted the fearful by testifying of the One they could always trust.  If we spoke of sorrow, we spoke of He who suffered each of our sorrows.  If we spoke of pain, we spoke of He who suffered each of our pains.  If we spoke of prayer, we spoke of He who bears our pleas and expressions of gratitude to the throne of God.  If we spoke of food, or volleyball, or music, or rain, we spoke of He who provides all good gifts in this wonderful world and who gives us the strength and light to enjoy them. 


In our ward we don't seem to do that, much.  My heart longs to hear of Christ, to rejoice in the Atonement that has set me free.  Most of the time, instead I hear nice talks and lessons that are dressed up like pretty barrels.  Barrels that speak wonderful words on topics of leadership, commitment, covenants, honesty, work for our kindred dead, charity, food storage and on and on.  If these subjects are addressed without the application of the Atonement of Christ, to me, they sound like someone banging on an empty barrel.  Every barrel (or subject) we present to the Latter-day Saints, ought to be filled with the Atonement of Christ.  Otherwise, to me, the treatment seems empty, hollow, echoing of the conspicuous absence of He, upon whom all our obligations, possibilities, opportunities, abilities, hopes, dreams and promises lie. 

There is no topic, in Heaven or Earth that ought to be addressed absent that most magnificent, universal, infinite Gift, or the majestic, sweet Giver.  Doing otherwise, to me, seems to presume to take too much credit and expectation upon ourselves, who too often forget our own nothingness before Him.  If we ever amount to anything, it will only be because of Him.

Sheep Herding or Shepherding?

Though things have come a long long way since I was a child; if I were to make an overall assessment of the state of things at the local level in the Church, I'd still have to say that we are maintaining a culture of Sheep Herding.

Sheep Herding is distinguished by the method used to move the sheep from one destination to another.  The Sheep Herder drives the sheep from behind, commonly using dogs to bark and nip at their heels.  The Shepherd leads from the front inviting the trusting sheep to follow where he leads.

I do not doubt the sincerity of the Sheep Herders among us.  Their intent is to take us to the same destination as the Shepherds.  I just question the method.  During the past week I have had conversations with three individuals who are balking at the prospect of full participation in Church activity.  Each of them cited circumstances that make activity awkward, if not down right repulsive.  In short they have sore heels.  Their natural inclination is to avoid the Sheep Herder and his dogs and take their chances in the wilderness.  I also had a conversation with a Sheep Herder, who, observing a Sheep willing to chance the wilderness, said, "Let him!  I haven't got time to go chasing after him in his foolishness.  I've informed him of his duty; my duty is discharged!"

To my mind, this is a bit of Babylon creeping around in the culture of Zion.  Most of us in the work-a-day world are exposed to employers to ply tactics of Management By Objective.  Most of them misapply MBO as it was intended.  So, most of us are over exposed to a failed Leadership technique, which we despise, but having seen nothing better, continue to use.

The scenario is this:  Management establishes and assigns the objectives.  Labor is expected to produce the objectives and is judged, rewarded, punished or praised based upon the level to which the objectives are met.  If and when the objectives are met, Management ups the ante by extending the objectives to a higher, and then higher standards.  The temptation, as money is the object, is to create the objectives around productivity.  Management wants the Golden Egg.  Trouble is, most commonly, they want ever more eggs, while having no regard, or appropriate objectives, that apply to the proper care and feeding of the Goose.  (See Stephen R. Covey, 7 Habit of Highly Effective People.)

Too often we bring MBO to church with us and apply it to our callings.  We set attendance objectives, Home and Visiting Teaching objectives, service objectives, Temple attendance, and on and on.  Doing so, we seem to know no other means of achieving them than barking, threatening, scolding, and demanding.  The numbers become the Golden Egg and we have forgotten the Goose.  We are seeking our own Salvation instead of the Salvation of the Sheep.  We are quick to justify our positions with examples and scriptures.  I mean was Enos not using the Sheep Herding technique when he said:

23 And there was nothing save it was exceeding harshness, preaching and prophesying of wars, and contentions, and destructions, and continually reminding them of death, and the duration of eternity, and the judgments and the power of God, and all these things—stirring them up continually to keep them in the fear of the Lord. I say there was nothing short of these things, and exceedingly great plainness of speech, would keep them from going down speedily to destruction. And after this manner do I write concerning them.

Sounds fun doesn't it?  I remember as a boy this was the primary method of keeping us on the straight and narrow.  Seems like every six months they trotted out Brother T. to scare the Dickens out of us with his hell-fire and damnation, end of the world, doom and gloom gospel.  Hardly sounds like good news to me.  When we were in Primary we loved Jesus, but by the time we finished High School we were scared to death of Him.

Sheep Herders, then and now, cannot conceive of a people who might, of their own volition, choose to follow the voice of The Shepherd.  In their subtle self-righteousness they assume that they are the few, chosen to save the rest.  They dare not turn and lead, for fear no one will follow.  Now, perhaps the Nephites, who were still laboring under the Law of Moses, needed such an approach; but these are days when God has entrusted the fullness of His Gospel to us.  Days in which the Melchizedek Priesthood is entrusted to every worthy man.  Days populated with the valiant who were saved to come forth at such a time.  They will follow, it is in them.  If you don't believe it conduct an experiment upon my words, turn and lead in patience, meekness, gentleness, kindness, long-suffering, persuasion, love and faith.  See if it is not true.  It took that very experiment to persuade me, and I was amazed at the results.  I have yet to be moved upon by the Holy Ghost to reprove with sharpness and suppose that to be a rare moment in the life of a Shepherd.

The numbers are not the objective.  Or they should not be.  Numbers are nice for measuring progress and accounting for our efforts, but they must never be the objective.  We are about caring for the sheep, that is the objective.  If one of the sheep is balking, or lagging behind are we too blind to see that it is hurting in some way?  Are we unwilling to see to its needs?  Are we so set on accomplishing our goals that we see that sheep as an hindrance, annoyance, or obstacle?  Are we unwilling to fetch it from the brambles and carry it upon our shoulders for a while?

Now, fussing over this during the night I spoke with my daughter.  She pointed out that I was, in my frustration, turning into a Sheep Herder, ready to nip at the heels of my fellow Shepherds.  It was quite a splash of cold water.  It is a tendency that lies in all of us.  Foolishly, in defense of the Sheep I had allowed myself to forget the fact that the Shepherds/Sheep Herders are also Sheep.  Sheep in need of nurturing and love, in need of being led by the voice of the Shepherd.  It is a cultural change we all must make.  It is one we will make, for we have been promised Zion.  Let us each turn and lead.  Let us each return and nurture.  When they trust that we only wish to love and care for them, when they stop fearing and avoiding us, soon enough, they will follow.

Father's Day

My youngest sent this to me for Father's Day.  It made my day.  It needed a little help too.  I got up for Church and developed a nose bleed.  An hour later it still hadn't stopped.  So I sit here in the recliner, feeling sorry for myself and this little video appears on Facebook.  Now my eyes and nose are running.

Thank you darlin', I love you too!

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!

Book Review - The Dead Town by Dean Koontz

The last of Dean Koontz's Frankenstein series was very much the best!  I have looked forward to it for a long while and was not disappointed.  He culminated the story with brilliance and finesse.

I say this all the time, but must repeat it here.  Dean speaks to me like no other writer.  Each book is as though we are having a private, familiar and friendly conversation.  His distinctive voice is apparent on every page.  It warms my heart as I sit down for a visit with my good old friend.

A couple of quotations are in order and speak of the clarity of Koontz's thought and the depth of his wisdom:

"So putting ourselves through the what-if wringer until we're all wrung out--well, that's just a hellacious waste of time and energy."

"The world needed a little Evil, so Good had something to compare itself to, but you couldn't let it think it had the right-of-way on the road and an invitation to dinner."

This was one of those books you can't put down, but dread it's coming to an end.  Sigh.

There are five books in the series; all first printed in paperback.  Don't let that throw you.  These are some of Koontz's best work.  You don't have to have read Shelley's Frankenstein first, but it helps.

I love how Koontz shows evil for what it is and clearly demonstrates why evil is always bound to fail.  Of course he shows good accurately as well and contrasts the two with brilliance, truth, clarity, humor and certainty.

As for characters?  This series has some of my all time favorites, like Jocko the tumor.  Jocko is one of the most endearing monsters in all of literature.  Each character has purpose in the theme of Koontz's books and as they develop and grow in integrity, or evil, we learn so much about ourselves.

Five Stars

Barking Dogs

30 years ago I bought a house in a quiet neighborhood in town. One neighbor had a house dog, a poodle, which she kept indoors. Another had a dog that upended my trash can every time we tossed bones from KFC. Eventually, I took the chicken bones directly over to him. That solved the problem.


Now-a-days my neighborhood has filled up with dogs. Most of them are pathetic creatures locked or chained in backyards. Fed and watered and neglected. These bark night and day and since we've begun spending our time in the backyard, we are forced to endure a continuous cacophony of woofs, barks, howls, yelps, wines, and whimpers. One pathetic creature is an absolute drama queen moaning, groaning, whining even crying for attention.


One neighbor has two kids and a dog. Neither the parents, nor the kids, have any meaningful association with this dog. The kids have to play in the front yard because the dog poop covers the backyard and wafts unpleasantly around the neighborhood. That and because the kids don't want to be pestered by the love starved mutt. I cannot for the life of me, come up with a notion as to what motivates people to own a dog they want nothing to do with. Dog food is not cheap.


At this very moment I can hear not less than eight different dogs barking around the hood. My understanding is that the city has an ordinance allowing for fines to folks whose dogs bark between the hours of 10:00 PM and 6:00 AM. It doesn't seem to be helping much. When I am awakened by a dog I have tried to avoid troubling the owners as I'd like to be considered a good neighbor.


It became so problematic night before last that I called Central Dispatch who sent an officer around to the primary culprit's home and thankfully, the problem was resolved. I settled down after a couple of hours and got back to sleep.


I hate to characterize my neighbors, but considering that my neighbors have ears much like mine, I can't help but wonder what is going on in their heads. Is this commotion somehow music to their ears? Has our inner city been infiltrated by Red Necks? If I confront them about their inconsiderate intrusion into my quiet life, will I be challenged with fists or a shot gun?


I'd call for them to consider their rude, thoughtless intrusion into the lives of those around them, but I suspect they don't read the paper, as I can't imagine that thinking, informed citizens would be so obnoxious.


I think the police will help me manage the night-time problem; but what can I do about the more problematic day-time annoyance?


In the day-time hours people are typically gone and make no attempt to silence their noisy critters.


As a child I was taught in civics that one person's right to swing his fist ends shy of the other person's nose. Does this not apply to noise, stench and allowing their dog to trot over to crap on my lawn instead of their own?


I suggest that dealing with this problem would be in the Vernal City's best interest. Charging fines for day-time, as well as night-time barking, could help pay for the palace they've built for themselves when most of us can ill afford to pay for it. Additionally, how about a sin tax on dog food. Children are starving in this country in the millions while dog food is a billion dollar industry. Since the city lives on sales tax a special tax on dog food might cause people to consider the value of feeding a mutt they make no good use of. There could be exemptions for service dogs, and dogs actually used for companionship instead of background noise, fertilizer and aroma therapy.


Quite often I find people yelling at their dogs. Rarely, do I find a dog that listens. Usually, it appears the dog thinks the yelling means he is not barking loud enough. I don't think a dog is fairly treated if he becomes the scapegoat for all of his owner's pent up emotions. Though, I'd rather the dog "get it" than the kids. Of course those who yell at their dogs yell at their kids too, who don't listen either.


I have a friend who is currently in trouble for taking noisy dog matters into his own hands. I think I'll not be doing that. But Central Dispatch is going to know me by name before the next few weeks are over.

Now Let Us Rejoice!

I was a bit amused while sitting in Sacrament Meeting yesterday.  We were singing the opening hymn.  It was Now Let Us Rejoice!  The chorister had a pleasant, happy smile, but the Bishopric and a member of the Stake Presidency each had a somber, resolute, and heavy browed expression on his face as we sang those thrilling words.  They did not appear to be rejoicing.  They looked as if the weight of the world lay upon their shoulders.

Several weeks ago we were singing There Is Sunshine In My Soul Today when I noticed the same phenomena and a Counselor in the Bishopric happened to notice my amused smile.  He misinterpreted it to mean that I had sunshine in my soul.  Actually, I was just tickled at the huge contrast between their expressions and the words we were singing.  When he stood to conduct the meeting he drew attention my countenance as it related to the bright and cheerful song and I was a bit embarrassed that I had been smiling for the wrong reason.

Since that day, I have tried to be in the moment as we sing the hymns and to think more directly about what we are singing.  Often the songs we sing in our worship services are positive, bright, happy, rejoicing songs.  They should be sung in a positive, bright, happy, rejoicing sort of way.  They are much more fun to sing in that manner.  The key, I suspect, lies in being in the moment.  Who knows where the thoughts of these fine brethren were as that song was being sung.  Perhaps the Bishop was concerned about someone he saw, or didn't see, in the congregation.  Perhaps the First Counselor was concerned about getting the tithing counted quickly so he could get home to spend time with his visiting relatives.  Clearly, they were bearing burdens that weighed heavily upon them.  Or at least they were so accustomed to doing so, that such expressions had cast, that most common countenance, as the default expression on their faces.  Happiness, rejoicing can only be experienced in the present.  It is likely that while their mouths were singing the words, their minds were far away, actually carrying the burdens of their callings and concerns.  My heart goes out to them.

After yesterday's meeting I spoke with another fellow and commented on the dark circles under his eyes.  "I haven't been sleeping lately," was his reply.  When I asked if he wasn't feeling well he answered, "Dealing with a lot of stress lately."  He too appears to be carrying the weight of the world.

In John 16:33 Jesus said:

These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have  overcome the world.

Here in this verse the Savior gives us a commandment we seem reluctant to obey, "Be of good cheer."  Jesus carried the weight of the world so we don't have to.  That is why there is sunshine in my soul today.

I don't wish to pick on the leaders in my Ward.  They are wonderful people.  There is no question about their sincerity, integrity, courage or faith.  I just think they are taking a bit too much upon themselves in their earnest desire to serve the Lord by serving us.  It is time to be of good cheer!   Come on Latter-day Saints, now let us rejoice!  When Jesus shows His smiling face there is sunshine in my soul.  How about yours?

My Father's 89th Birthday

My father wasn't perfect, but he was ideal.  Ideal for me that is.  For a long time I didn't understand this truth.  Certainly, he could have handled things better; but there is not a father in the world, including myself, who hasn't made myriad mistakes raising his children.

I have judged him pretty harshly over the years, holding him to a pretty tough standard.  Doing so has only hurt me.

There was no owners manual that came with my model.  He had no specific reference he could look up when I ran sluggishly, broke down, had sticky brakes, or a stuck accelerator.  Neither was there a warranty on my failed paint job.  Further, he only knew how to parent from his own, limited, experience.  That method seemed to work very well when raising him; so it must work similarly with his kids.  So he used horse and buggy experience for tuning up a '56 Chev, so to speak.  In truth, each generation's experience is out of date.  Which, I believe is how God intended things to be.

Ether 12:27 explains that God gives men weakness.  I believe His number one conduit for delivering that great gift to His children is through their mortal parents.  Weakness is vital to the Plan of Happiness.  Against what will we become strong?  Against our weakness.  Today, I feel a special debt of gratitude to my imperfect father, who endowed me with weakness of my own.  And to my kind wise Heavenly Father for turning many of those weaknesses of character and prowess into vital, blessed strengths.  For me, it is not so much that I am pleased with the strengths I've been given as consequence of God's goodness, rather, I joy in the process of growth and discovery.  Central to that process has been the discovery of my utter and complete need for a Savior.  My father, in his own weakness, gave me the best possible chance to discover my need for God's Grace in my life.  Thank you Dad.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

It's Raining

While we hear and discuss a lot about the weather and, while there is cause for concern as the mountains are loaded with snow and the threat of flooding increases with the rain and delayed warm-up and, while rain dampens various plans and cancels baseball games and picnics and, while there is something to be said for sunny days; I live in the desert and I love the rain.

I'll gladly take it when I can get it.

Last night I went for a walk in it.  I like that thought.  I am not in the rain drops, or the clouds.  The rain is not just the rain drops or the clouds.  The rain is everything including the rain drops and clouds.  It is the wet pavement, the drowning worms, the smell of ozone, the smell of mud.  It is expanding rings it makes in puddles and the thankful croaking of frogs.  It is the burbling brook.  It is the overflowing river.  It is the green grass and the blossoming trees, and their perfume.  It is free and is a gift and always comes from above.  It is fresh and clean and cleansing.  It is life and renewal and full of hope and promise.... And I...I am IN IT!

I will not refuse it on the wettest days nor demand it on the driest.  As I said I live in the desert and those dry days, make these wet ones all the more precious.  The Navajo say that THIS is good weather and right they are!  Sunshine is also a gift from God, and I love it.  But this, more rare gift, is more priceless to me because it is rare.

God is in the gift and right now, I'm headed back out so I can be in it too!

Thank God for sending rain and for making me waterproof!

Sucking Hind Teat

The process of recovery from addiction and other weakness was once described to me as "peeling off  the layers of an onion."  As soon as I get some semblance of recovery from one character weakness and peel it away, I become exposed to another.  The deeper I go the more fundamental the problem.  As in onions this process usually brings a few tears.

I am grateful for this awareness, because I'm finally learning what to do as the next layer of weakness gets exposed.  I am finally able to believe that even this new problem is surmountable.

Ether 12:27 states:   

And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.

Thank Heaven I can discover my weakness one layer at a time!  The current layer is overwhelming enough by it's self.  I'd hate to have to deal with it and all the others at the same time.

The current layer seems pretty complex and very deeply rooted in my personality and nature.  I'm just beginning to discover what it is.  I discovered it last week when, while speaking in Sacrament Meeting on the Atonement, I felt my message was being rejected by the audience.  Perhaps not all of them, but a large number.  When I speak in Church I always prepare my remarks so I can look into the eyes of the congregation rather than at a paper lying upon the pulpit.  It enables me to interact with the audience and to gage their reception of my message.  Normally, I get good interaction from a goodly number of attentive participants.  This time was different.  Few would make eye contact with me.  Those who did, seemed wearied by my words.  I came away feeling rejected and dejected.  I had been pleased with my message and with the preparation I had done.  I had gone into the meeting with the confidence of having received the assurance of the Spirit that my message had the approbation of the Lord.  So I was very troubled by the reception the message received.  Though I felt my message was correct and approved of the Lord, I felt an overwhelming urge to apologize for it.

Later in the week, I attended my Grandson's Pinewood Derby contest at Cub Scout Pack Meeting.  He lost and was miserable.  I was miserable too.  It was my first Pinewood Derby since my own Cub Scout days.  Back then, my Dad, being a traveling salesman, was unable to help me with my car.  I lost and added another failure to what was already becoming a long list of failures.  I could see the same dejection through my grandson's tears.  I stood there feeling helpless and wondered if it was just our family's lot to (please pardon the expression) suck hind teat.  I was already certain that it was my lot and I grieved that yet another generation might be relegated to the same status.

For you who didn't grow up on a farm, may I explain the expression.  Hogs have large liters of pigs.  Each sow has two long rows of teats from which the piglets suckle.  The the fore teats are larger, easier to use and yield more volume and nutrition.  The piglets vie for the best positions and the weaker are pushed and driven to settle for what they can get at the hind teat.

That seemed to always be where I found myself in life's pecking order.  I was chosen last for the ball games we played and never seemed to be victorious or fully successful at anything.  I may have mentioned this before.  In fact I thought I had dealt with this before.  There is however an aspect that never occurred to me until this week.

My father had an older brother who went off to California and became a millionaire.  His younger brother did much the same.  Those two families seemed to have everything we did not.  We did without, while they enjoyed a great abundance.  Dad never dissed on the younger brother for reasons I can only guess.  Quite often though, he would point out that the the older brother had lots of family problems that ended in divorce from his wife and estrangement from his children.  Dad would always say, referring to his present and embraced family, "I am far richer than Gerry will ever be."  I believed him then, and I believe him now.

Trouble is, I began to see settling for less of what the world has to offer as being more righteous.  I didn't envy those who had more abundance and success than I; rather, I felt sorry for them.  Further, every time I approached my own success, I subconsciously sabotaged it.  None, of this was ever consciously analysed, or deliberately accomplished, but subconsciously I have persuaded myself that I must not succeed.  The apparent consequence in my life is that I seldom finish anything.  I dropped out of college after three and a half years.  I quit job after job just as I was making head way.  My one attempt at business failed miserably.  I have written several books to near completion.  But I have never finished a single one.  I even quit trying on the last one feeling myself to be unworthy if I did.

I was now just consoling myself by saying, "You finished Sweetie's sewing room."  But I didn't.  It still needs paint on the door and a door knob.  "Okay, but you finished her study."  Nope there's a cupboard that needs paint on the frame and a door.  "How about your study?"  No again.  There's one whole shelf that is left undone.  I think I would feel guilty if I finished it, or the greater project that is the rest of our unfinished house.  After all success is wickedness and failure is righteousness, or as Katie just put it, "Being a Weirdo, is good."

Over all these years as I processed sucking on the hind teat; I first concluded that I was getting by just fine on the hind teat of life. Additionally, I promised I would never be the ignorant pig who would shove someone weaker than myself to the back of the line.  Pretty soon, that led to voluntarily giving up my place in line to someone weaker in addition to the "pathetic" strong ones.  That led to a sense of self-righteousness; which made me feel good about my lot in life.  I was proud to be sucking the hind teat!  I not only pitied those who got more, I rejected more when it was offered to me.  I still do.

Now, while I have a long way to go in overcoming this nature, this weakness; I thank God that I am mature and experienced enough to understand a few things.  First, life is not a competition!  There is abundance in the world even now.  My success doesn't have to preclude someone else's.  Second, not everyone who has succeeded in life has done it by shoving me or anyone else down to a lower station.  Third, Lehi promised that keeping the commandments would lead to prosperity.  There is no sin in success and....there is no righteousness in settling for less than the abundant prosperity the Lord has offered to those who love Him; be that success physical or spiritual.

Understanding this and being aware of the false beliefs that have informed my life is a great first step.  Awareness is a big key to making changes.  Still, I am certain that I am going to need the Lord's help.  Steps six and seven of the 12 Steps as listed in the LDS Addiction Recovery Manual are as follows:

Step 6 - Become entirely ready to have the Lord remove all your character weaknesses.
Step 7 - Humbly ask Heavenly Father to remove your shortcomings.

I believe in these principles.  As Moroni explained in Ether 12:27, God has shown me some more of my character weaknesses.  I am becoming willing and ready to have them removed.  It is God who removes them.  It is remarkable to me that the word here is shortcomings.  I have come up short all of my life and not known that it has been a result of my own erroneous belief systems.  This kind of thinking is certainly a shortcoming and coming short is the result.

So, Osama Bin Laden is Dead

Ten years, thousands of lives, billions of dollars later, was it worth it?  Have we really accomplished anything?  Is the world a better place than it would have been had we left the vengeance to the Lord (to whom it belongs, by the way)?  Does any one think Osama's demise leaves an unfilled vacuum?  How many additional enemies have we made?  How many more kids go to bed at night mourning the loss of a father?  Did defending ourselves from terrorists require all this?  Does anyone feel safer?  Satisfied?  In what way is YOUR life better because Osama Bin Laden is dead?

Book Review - A Cold Train Coming by Larry Barkdull

I have often read and enjoyed Larry Barkdull's articles in Meridian Magazine.  His thoughts on rescuing wayward children seem correct and are very inspirational.

Because of my interest in his articles, I was tickled to discover a book he wrote had somehow made it's way on to our book shelf.  (Booklogged obtains books from everywhere.  No telling where this one came from).

I finished it today, while waiting for drywall mud to dry.  It was wet and stormy outside and cozying up with a good book seemed just the ticket.

It is Fall in Ft. Benton, Montana, 1942.  The war is raging and 14 year old Ben Colby is in love.  He is also in turmoil.  His father has depression.  His mother is overwhelmed.  His brother is ill.  Money is tight.  Tensions are high.  And a cold train is approaching through mounds of isolating snow.  Trying to make sense of it all, Ben writes letters to God.  He gets no answers...Or does he?  That pretty much encapsulates the story, but really, the story is about a dog named Shep...Or is it?

I enjoyed this novel very much.

Four Stars  ****

I Have an Ancestor Who Came Over on the Mayflower

This evening, Sweetie and I were watching Who Do You Think You Are.  In this episode Ashley Judd is researching her ancestors.  She follows her family into New England and eventually traces them to the Plymouth Colony and to one William Brewster who came over on the Mayflower.  It was pretty exciting because she learned a lot about William's story, the religious persecution he suffered and his imprisonment in England before being able to leave for America.

I began to wonder if any of my fairly recently discovered New England lines might trace back to the same voyage.  Statistically it is not that much of stretch to be among the descendants of those few.  Each generation is currently adding thousands to their descendants.  I remember taking a genealogy class at BYU where the professor explained that it is a statistical impossibility, for example, that anyone out of Europe was not a descendant of Charlemagne.  Each generation results in myriad more families marrying into his lines.  With that notion in mind, I suspected that such might also be the case with the Plymouth Colony.

I went to http://new.familysearch.org and clicked on my own family tree.  Knowing which lines go into New England I began to examine each seeking those that lead, first, into Massachusetts.  In moments I found some and not only did a line lead back to the Plymouth Colony but actually lead to the very same William Brewster!
What a thrill to be sitting here watching my very distant cousin Ashley Judd walk into the very jail cell in which Brewster and William Bradford had been incarcerated.

It is one thing to know their names, but to see their places and hear their stories, is my favorite part of Family History.

For those of you who are related to me, here's how it goes:

      William Brewster came to Plymouth, Massachusetts on the Mayflower in 1620.  His son
      Jonathan Brewster, 1593-1659, presumably came with him.  He is buried in New London, CT (that's
                                                        info for you Steve).  His daughter
      Mary Brewster, 1627-1645, died in Plymouth, MA.  Her son
      Ezekiel Turner, 1650-1703, died in New London, CT.  His daughter
      Lucretia Turner, 1698-1756, also died in New London , CT.  Her son
      William Calkins, 1724-1762, died in New London, CT.  His daughter
      Temperence Calkins, 1758-1785, died in Brome, Quebec (I think).  her son
      Stephen Scoville, 1783-1869, died in Scugog, Ontario.  His son
      Oliver T. H. Scoville, 1824-1894, is buried in Unionville, MI.  He was a Civil War Vet.  His daughter
      Amaressa Scoville, 1844-1872, she is buried next to her parents in Unionville, MI.  Her daughter
      Mary Elizabeth Beattie, 1875-1904, she is buried in Afton, WY.  Her daughter
      Hazel Beattie Brown Dabel, 1897-1968, she is buried in Freedom, WY.  Her son
      Winslow B. Weber, 1922-1999 is also buried in Freedom, WY.  His son is
      ME!

Now, as I traced this back to me I found a few date mistakes and find myself a bit skeptical the Ezekiel Scoville, husband of Temperence Calkins is actually Stephen Scoville's father.  I've been trying to decide a family to work on for the Family History Class I'm currently taking and think I now have my answer.  I need to be sure of the parentage of Stephen Scoville.  Pretty fun project.  I've been to Stephen's grave on Scugog Island in Ontario and am very anxious to confirm that the pedigree in Family Search is correct.

I don't mean to single out this particular ancestor.  I'm sure William Brewster is someone to be pleased to have in my family tree.  But there are thousands, some famous, most not, who mean just as much to me.  I love them and love discovering their stories, leaning of their courage, faith, faults and trials.  It's such a wonderful time to be alive.  A time when I can sit in front of the TV and watch such inspiring stories come alive, while holding my computer on my lap and searching records from the past, right here in the comfort of my own home.  Contrasting that with my stroll down the street in the recreated Plymouth Colony, and my visit aboard the tiny ship that carried my ancestors across a raging sea, I count myself truly blessed that they sacrificed so much so I could enjoy this - in complete freedom!
    

That's Gross!

The toilet tank began leaking the other day.  It appeared to be coming from where the water supply attached to the tank valve.  I tried tightening it and only made it worse.

Seven year old Megan was over and I asked if she'd like to join me on a trip to Lowe's for some toilet guts.  "Gross!  Papa, that's gross!  Still, she accepted the offer and off the store we went.  We sang along with our co-favorite song from Great Big Sea, called Here's to Charlie Horse, a song about rallying together and solving problems and other things that matter like that.  It's a zippy, rousing tune and we belted it out at the top of our lungs.  Newfoundland music always elevates my mood.  I wanted to link arms and do the grapevine across the parking lot, but already Megs is starting show some prudent inhibition.

We headed for the plumbing department and were accosted by a helpful associate who asked what we were looking for.  "Toilet guts," Megan volunteered with a clear hint of disgust in her tone.  Amused, our guide ushered us right to the spot.  They don't make toilet guts like the used to - thank goodness.  We got out of the store without too much damage, though I did find a new color for our African Violet collection.  Cheap too.  I've been thinking about propagating some of Betty's but that takes nine months from leaf to blossom.  Holding out my hands palms up I weighed nine months against $2.00 and succumbed.  But I digress...

Back at home we tore the tank off the toilet and began disassembling the old guts.  Megan noticed quite a collection of silt in the bottom of the tank.  "Gross Papa!  Is that poop?"

"No this water gets in line before the poop.  The poop all goes down the drain when this water gets dumped into the bowl."

"So what is it then," she asked.  Not convinced.

"It's silt."

"How's it get in there?"

I explained that this is a very old house (by her standards) and that in the old days the spring runoff caused the tap water to get roiled.

"What's roiled?"  she wanted to know.

"Muddy," I said.

"Gro-oss!  Did you drink it?"

"Of course!  One gets thirsty you know."

"Gross!"

"Anyway the silt or mud would settle out of the water and obviously collected on the bottom of the toilet tank."  I explained.   I thought about cleaning it out, but it hasn't hurt anything so far, and who knows who'll be helping me and what questions will be asked the next time I have to replace the guts.

"Papa?"

"Yes dear?"

"Did everybody drink the muddy water?"

"Yes dear."

"Why didn't you just buy bottled water?"

"Wasn't invented yet."

About this time I gave myself a blood blister when the pliers slipped off a nut.  Megan thought it was a good time to let me be alone.

"Grandma?"

"Yes dear."

Did you drink the muddy water in the spring time too?"

"Yes dear."

"Gross!"

"Did anything happen?"

"Well, our skin turned brown when we bathed and the cows started giving chocolate milk for a few weeks."

"Gross!"

Allergies

My allergies have been working me over the past couple of days (mostly nights).  They're normally not bad enough to justify the expense of medicine, especially since they allowed it to be sold over the counter so my health insurance won't help pay for it any more.  But this week hasn't been quite normal.

Two nights ago I took some sinus headache medicine and that kept me awake most of the night, then last night, thinking I'd better not do that again, I cleaned my head out with a rinse with the Neti Pot which lasted long enough to get to sleep but not for long enough to get me through the night.  I was up at 3:00 and didn't get back to sleep until six.  I managed to sleep until the phone rang at eleven and have been lying around nursing a headache ever since.

I really don't know what I'm allergic to.  It usually begins around the end of February so it is probably the elms which begin to bloom so early.  Then it is usually done by the time the Purple Mustard (Chorispora Tinella) quits covering the desert meadows with their Eastery carpet.  In about another week I'm going to have to head South and East, maybe out on the Old Bonanza Highway so I can enjoy that pastel delight.  Acres and acres will be blanketed with mustard.  It stinks, but I think it's one of the prettiest Springtime delights.  I'll suffer for it.  But most nice things come at a price.  Purple mustard has a tiny little flower.

And would hardly be noticed if there weren't billions of them.  I love that notion - strength in numbers.  I guess the same is true of pollen.  Cough, cough.

 I get another little allergy spell in the Fall and that's about it.

As allergies go.  Mine aren't so bad.  I have acquaintance who suffers horribly for months and months.  Another friend claims to be allergic to alcohol.  "Every time I drink, I break out in handcuffs," he complains.  A nephew is allergic to peanuts, dangerously so.  What's a lost night's sleep compared with anaphylactic shock!

So, I'll ache and wheeze a little, enjoy the return of spring and flora and then celebrate the day when my swollen membranes shrink, relax and inhale the breath of life quite freely again.

95 Years and Counting. Or Living a Life that Counts.

I stopped in to see Brother Len in the hospital this morning.  He's in the ICU after having had his gall bladder removed on Monday.  The ICU is mostly a precaution on account of his advanced age.  "That gall bladder served me well for 95 years." he tells me.  "Can't very well complain."

He's not on any pain medication and was sitting up smiling and giving the doctor a hard time for not releasing him to go home.  He's not too happy spending his days in the hospital, something he's had very little experience with in his long life.  He's got everybody laughing and wondering how someone so old can still be so well.

His daughters are here.  His son came over the week end.  No spring chickens themselves.  They are fussing over him and giving me contradictory asides as he explains that he's good as new.  My money is on Len's opinion, not theirs.

I'm sure Len is anxious to get home and back to the Temple.  He rarely misses a day, faithfully serving in the House of Lord day, after week, after month, after year.  He's an institution around here.  He was Principal of the old Naples Elementary before it was torn down in 1966 or so.  Later he moved to Ashley Elementary, where he was Principal during all the years my daughters attended.  He seemed very old back then.  He still claims that Sweetie was the best PTA President they ever had.  He probably says that to all the girls, but the sincerity in his eye tells me he's right.

Like yours and mine, Len's days are numbered and shall not be counted fewer than God intends.  I'm thankful that today, God intends to leave him here a while longer.  I'm also thankful that He let me stick around long enough to enjoy Len's joyful, wise countenance, one more time.  Makes me want to hang in there, like Len.