I've been suffering from a serious case of Writer's Block over the past 5 or 6 weeks. Even now I'm wondering exactly what to say and how to say it. What I'm realizing ever so slowly is that I'm actually not much of a writer. In fact, I'm the Matt Holliday of writing. Matt, for the non-baseball fan, is an ox of a man who plays left field for the Cardinals and swings the bat hard enough to knock over a wall. He's averaged about 25 home runs a year throughout his career...nothing to smirk at, especially given the fact that he's actually not a home run hitter at all. Matt is a line drive hitter who happens to hit the ball so hard that it occasionally clears that fences. It's actually rare to see him hit a traditional, fly-ball home run. Most of his homers never go more than 25 feet off the ground and the usually make it over the fence in about 3 seconds. So, he's a great hitter who occasionally "runs into one" and hits it out of the park. That's me, in a writing sense. I'm a good thinker - constantly processing, formulating, analyzing, and debating in my mind. Occasionally I'll sit down to write and something decent will come out. More often than not, I sit down and stare at the screen for some time, thinking and overthinking situations and circumstances and often struggling to find the best way to word them so that others might understand. I don't read enough to have much of a vocabulary beyond what it takes me to communicate with four kids and a bunch of docs. I always admire those who expand their utilization of the English language beyond traditional reach, but in general that's just not me. Here's to pragmatism!
The original purpose of this blog was to talk about the things that happen on a routine basis in life that might otherwise go unnoticed but that illustrate the Hand of God and His goodness and mercy. Looking back now, I'm not sure how I even made it 2 or 3 posts without covering today's topic. As I type now, I'm sitting on a plane, traveling across the country to spend a few days with Mike. Mike and I have known each other for about 14 years now, having met while we were serving our missions in Germany. Interestingly, we weren't necessarily close friends while we were there, having not served together or near each other until near the ends of our missions. Even when we were paired together, it was always about the work. We actually worked very well together and gained great respect for each other, but most of our time and effort was spent on the work and our responsibilities as opposed to on developing our friendship. Mike went home from his mission in March of 1999 and I followed a couple months later in May. From there, I don't even think we communicated until we found each other in Provo later that fall. Actually, that's really where the story begins. It's actually amazing and somewhat scary to think of all that happened in the 18 months following my return from Germany, and most of that is a topic for a different day. Suffice it to say that not many have fallen harder or faster than I did. The months immediately following my mission were some of the hardest I've ever gone through. I didn't know it at the time, and although some around me might have noticed or realized it, I wouldn't have admitted it even if they told me. I don't remember much about that time, especially about what I felt or was thinking - I think I've been blessed to be able to forget about much of that period of my life - but I do vividly remember coming home from my mission and feeling very empty and alone. Life was so full and busy in Germany. My schedule was packed, everything I was doing was meaningful and impactful, and I was surrounded by people I cared about who also cared for me. I was fulfilled and happy.
I've written and spoken before about my trip home from Germany. Mom and Dad picked me up and we traveled around for a few days before venturing back home through Philadelphia. As the plane began to descend into the Philly area, I was hit with the worst pressure headache I've ever experienced, one that literally brought me to tears. What hit me even harder than the pain, though, was the realization that I had spent the last two years of my life as a set apart representative of the Lord, on His errand, and that He had protected and watched over me every step of the way. I had never been sick in spite of the ever-changing weather. I never struggled to wake up at 6:30 regardless of the long days of walking, biking, and knocking doors. I never lacked for something to do, something meaningful and worthwhile, even though I was a 20-year-old kid in a foreign country who spoke to my family 2 times a year. I was constantly surrounded by friends who shared the same values, hopes, aspirations, and dreams that I had, though we came from different backgrounds and locations. It's not to say that there weren't hard days, both emotionally and physically; there certainly were. But I was constantly watched over and protected, and now that I was at the end of my full-time service and preparing to touch down on US soil for the first time in two years, the realization was clear to me that those days were over. I should have known I wasn't alone, but it didn't feel that way. I had changed so much during those two years and I came home to the reality that not much around me had changed at all. And I struggled mightily. When I finally made it to Provo in early September, I wasn't in a good place, and the decisions that followed the next few months were some I would pay dearly for over the coming years.
The first time I remember spending much time with Mike after my mission was our mission reunion in October of 1999. He was dating Lindsey at the time and the four of us went to the reunion together. It's actually amazing to think about what's happened since that evening in our lives, and I can't help but to feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the friendship we've formed. The circumstances of our lives lead us to choices that invite us to decide where we stand and what we will stand for, but they don't dictate our fates. Similarly, our lives are touched by thousands of people but we choose whom we call friends. For whatever reason, I've been blessed in my life to call a few truly amazing people my friends, and my life is as full and sweet as it is now in great part because of the impact they have had on me. These relationships haven't been perfect because the people in them are far from perfect. We go too long without connecting. We miss birthdays, life events, and celebrations. We get caught up in our busy lives and miss a phone call that we should have made. But real friendship isn't about wishing Happy Birthday on Facebook or sending a holiday card every year when the calendar reminder shows up. My friends are the guys I can call even after missing them for months or even years at a time and it's like we never stopped talking. My friends are the ones who, behind their imperfections and flaws, share a deep desire to do the right thing, to treat people well, to be good husbands and fathers, and to balance their lives according to their priorities. Interestingly, they're not necessarily guys who share a bunch of interests and hobbies with me. Just common beliefs and principles. And they care about me in spite of my shortcomings and mistakes because they see the person I'm trying to become. There is no need to list them here because the list is short and they know who they are.
My trip to Washington DC is now complete and I've safely returned to my family. I just spent my Saturday going to my kids' soccer games, preparing a lesson for Elders Quorum on Sacrifice and Submission (thanks Elder Maxwell!), and reflecting on the few days I spent with Mike. I'm more grateful than ever for our friendship and the chance we had to spend a few days wandering the streets of DC. Here's to life and good friends.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Follow Me!
Victoria. The Roman Goddess of Victory. I'm not sure exactly what events or matches our little Victoria will ever win in her life, but I know she quickly wins the heart of just about everyone she meets. Lately, Victoria will run up and grab my hand and start pulling and tugging, saying "Follow me! Follow me!" As we're walking or jogging or hopping up the stairs, she continues to repeat the phrase, over and over again, until we reach our destination. Could be her room for bedtime. Might be a riotous mess she has made that she wants me to see and appreciate. Often it's a pile of books she has prepared for me to read to her. Usually when she grabs my hand and wants me to follow, I'm in the middle of something else and I'm not ready to be hauled away. But look at that face! The crazy hair! The teethy grin! The squinty eyes! Impossible not to follow and even to join her in the "Follow Me!" chorus. And as I find myself sprinting up the stairs to find whatever it is she wants me to see, I see something different. This is a brushstroke. One of the thousands and millions of brushstrokes that will someday cover the canvas of her life. And I'm one of the artists on this combined work. From Elder Bednar:
In my office is a beautiful painting of a wheat field. The painting is a vast collection of individual brushstrokes—none of which in isolation is very interesting or impressive. In fact, if you stand close to the canvas, all you can see is a mass of seemingly unrelated and unattractive streaks of yellow and gold and brown paint. However, as you gradually move away from the canvas, all of the individual brushstrokes combine together and produce a magnificent landscape of a wheat field. Many ordinary, individual brushstrokes work together to create a captivating and beautiful painting.
Each family prayer, each episode of family scripture study, and each family home evening is a brushstroke on the canvas of our souls. No one event may appear to be very impressive or memorable. But just as the yellow and gold and brown strokes of paint complement each other and produce an impressive masterpiece, so our consistency in doing seemingly small things can lead to significant spiritual results. “Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great” (D&C 64:33).The truth is, there aren't many who can make me smile wider and laugh harder, and in the same breath yell louder and anger quicker, than Victoria. She draws every emotion in its purest form, often leaving me in awe and amazement that someone so small and innocent could tug so mightily at the deepest strings of my normally consistent and earnest soul. Jeri and I often joke that if she had been our first, there may not have been three others behind her! She demands every ounce of patience and tolerance I can muster, yet her genuinely sweet demeanor and her angelic heart give so much more than her craziness and antics take.
Everyone whose life intersects with ours has a canvas. Some are covered with brushstrokes and are nearing completion; others have just a few light strokes and a future to create. Some canvases are small, needing only a touch of paint to become beautiful and complete. Others are larger, with room to illustrate the wisdom of generations. Each picture is unique, and each is a joint work of a lifetime of artists. When Victoria asks me to follow her, I could say no. I could follow begrudgingly and get mad at her when the end destination is a smeared mess of ChapStick and lotion (recent!). I could even ignore her, choosing to keep my brush to myself and letting other artists work. Or I could paint a masterpiece. I won't know it's a masterpiece while I'm painting it. I'll need a ton of help to complete it. Most days it won't feel special or unique, and when I look at other artists and their impressive brushes and amazing skills, I might feel inadequate. I'll probably get tired, often painting deep into the night or early in the morning with brief rest and few breaks. Other artists may have a different vision of the final work than I do and I might have to work overtime to minimize their impact. I'll need to balance my time spent on her canvas with my responsibilities to the other works of art in my life. And in the end, I'll have to have faith that along the way, as my artwork gradually gives way to her own, she will have learned how to paint and will use her own artistic style to turn our early brushstrokes in to an impressive work of art. But today, it's back to mixing paints. Back to my young collection of canvases and art classes. Back to preparing brushes and painting. Maybe I'll find the time to step back and look at the works of art in their infancy. Perhaps I'll even see a glimpse of the final masterpieces. Back to work.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Waiting
A couple weeks ago, I found myself sitting in this room, waiting for the doctor to come in and begin the series of pokes and prods in an effort to figure out what was keeping me under the weather for weeks on end. I've spent plenty of time in doctors' offices through the years, but most of it has been in a suit and tie with a sales aid in my hand. The last time I saw a physician on account of my own health was about four years ago, and I count myself blessed and lucky to be in that minority. Nonetheless, on this particular Friday afternoon, I rolled in to the office 15 minutes early (as requested by the staff), checked in, filled out the bevy of forms, and then proceeded to wait...and wait...and wait...and WAIT. 10 minutes. 20 minutes. 35 minutes. Nothing. Now, I've spent plenty of time waiting on docs when I'm on company time, but now that I was on MY time, I was becoming a bit less forgiving. Finally, I decided I'd had enough and I opened the door and starting wandering down the hallway, looking for someone to complain to. When I found the medical assistant who checked me in and monitored my blood pressure (slightly elevated - I'm sure the caffeine has nothing to do with that), I asked her in my most polite voice if it was still going to be awhile. Her stunned, somewhat confused look indicated that she didn't realize I had been waiting this long, and so began her series of apologies and an effort to locate the doc. We walked back toward the room I had been in and stopped just across the hall, where the doctor was sitting in her chair, dictating chart notes in to her digital recorder. The MA informed her that she had a patient waiting, and yet again, a look of sheer bewilderment. "I do? I didn't realize anyone was waiting." Nice. Glad these guys are communicating so well. We wandered back to the treatment room, and 15 minutes later I was out of there and on my way home.
Waiting is hard. Sometimes really hard. I occasionally find myself looking around at the chaos and insanity that surrounds me with 4 kids and a busy life and I think back to the days that became months and then years of waiting to have children join our family. Such a struggle to understand why something so good that we both wanted was being held from us for what felt like centuries. There was the waiting for college to be complete, jobs to be offered, and children to arrive. Waiting for a house to call home, loans to be paid, and burdens to be lifted. And yet, as I sit here today in the midst of it all, I'm comforted by the fact that there is happiness to be found in waiting. Active waiting. The kind of waiting that couples patience with action. The kind of waiting that sends us out to the hallway to make things happen, instead of sitting on our hands, cursing our fate and wondering at the world's ineptitude.
In his talk entitled "Waiting on the Road to Damascus," President Uchtdorf artistically described active waiting:
One dear sister had been a faithful member of the Church all her life. But she carried a personal sorrow. Years before, her daughter had died after a short illness, and the wounds from this tragedy still haunted her. She agonized over the profound questions that accompany an event such as this. She frankly admitted that her testimony wasn’t what it used to be. She felt that unless the heavens parted for her, she would never be able to believe again.
So she found herself waiting.
There are many others who, for different reasons, find themselves waiting on the road to Damascus. They delay becoming fully engaged as disciples. They hope to receive the priesthood but hesitate to live worthy of that privilege. They desire to enter the temple but delay the final act of faith to qualify. They remain waiting for the Christ to be given to them like a magnificent Carl Bloch painting—to remove once and for all their doubts and fears.
The truth is, those who diligently seek to learn of Christ eventually will come to know Him. They will personally receive a divine portrait of the Master, although it most often comes in the form of a puzzle—one piece at a time. Each individual piece may not be easily recognizable by itself; it may not be clear how it relates to the whole. Each piece helps us to see the big picture a little more clearly. Eventually, after enough pieces have been put together, we recognize the grand beauty of it all. Then, looking back on our experience, we see that the Savior had indeed come to be with us—not all at once but quietly, gently, almost unnoticed.It's hard to think of waiting as anything resembling active. The mere mention of the word sends shivers down spines, as it represents the antithesis to today's instant gratification mindset. Everything is available soon if we want it and presently if we're willing to pay the "Download Now" fee. The trick, it seems, is to lengthen our perspective and quicken our feet. Wait yet keep moving. See the beauty of the developing mural even as we find ourselves toiling away mixing colors and working in the most remote corner of the room. Perhaps it's in enjoying ordinary that we find the extraordinary.
For every Paul, for every Enos, and for every King Lamoni, there are hundreds and thousands of people who find the process of repentance much more subtle, much more imperceptible. Day by day they move closer to the Lord, little realizing they are building a godlike life. They live quiet lives of goodness, service, and commitment. They are like the Lamanites, who the Lord said "were baptized with fire and with the Holy Ghost, and they knew it not" (Benson, "A Mighty Change of Heart," Ensign, October 1989).
Monday, August 13, 2012
True to the Faith
I remember through the years hearing my Mom talk about the Prophet whom she felt the closest to personally as being the one who was in his calling during her formative adult years. For me, that was President Hinckley. He became the President of the Church when I was 17 and he was in this role until his death in 2008, the year I turned 30. I don't believe I can think of a person for whom I've had more respect and admiration than President Hinckley. His demeanor, his sense of humor, his dedication to the work, and his love for the Gospel and all the Saints were incredible to behold. I can't think of anyone who better exemplified the meaning of the phrase "True to the Faith" than President Hinckley.
Jeri and I were asked to speak in church this past Sunday, and my assigned topic was none other than True to the Faith. Here's what I came up with (I took out the introduction since it didn't fit here so well...).
This
year, as in years past, NBC has come under some scrutiny for the tape-delayed
coverage of the Olympics, as opposed to showing events live. One of the reasons for this tape-delay, beyond the obvious
financial implications of prime time advertising, is to give the NBC team the
chance to string together their athlete vignettes and tell some of the stories
behind the athletes. As cheesy and
over-the-top as some of these vignettes are, we always enjoy hearing the
stories of sacrifice and self-denial of these unique and gifted athletes as
they work toward their Olympic dreams.
While there were many great stories that came out of this year’s
Olympics in London, including Michael Phelps adding 8 more Olympic swimming
medals to bring his Olympic total to 22, I’d like to turn back the hands of
time and share the story of Eric Liddell.
Some of you may have heard of Eric if you’ve seen the film Chariots of
Fire.
Eric
was a Scotsman who was born in China while his parents were serving as
Christian missionaries. He was
sent home at age 6 to attend a boarding school for the children of missionaries,
and he spent the early years of his life honing his athletic skills and sharing
his Christian beliefs. He became
the captain of both the cricket and the rugby teams, but his athletic success
never overtook him, as his school headmaster described him as “entirely without
vanity.” In spite of his rugby and
cricket success though, it was the 100-meter sprint where he truly
excelled. Liddell enrolled at the
University of Edinburgh and quickly became known as the fastest person in
Scotland, with many believing him to be a possible winner at the upcoming 1924
Olympics in Paris. He was able to
qualify for the British Olympic team, but when it was announced that the
preliminary heats for the 100 would be run on a Sunday, Liddell declined – in
spite of pressure from the Prince of Wales and the British Olympic Committee –
due to his deep Christian convictions.
He trained instead for the 400-meter race, and while he was not
considered a favorite due to his training as a sprinter, he was still given a
spot on the British team. When the
day of the race came, a member of the American team slipped him a note that
quoted 1 Samuel 2:30: “For them that honor me, I will honor.” Inspired by the Biblical verse and the
music he heard as he walked in to the stadium that day, Liddell not only
competed, but he won the 400 meter race and set both Olympic and world
records.
In
the glow of his success and with a future sure to include fame and fortune,
Liddell remained humble and true to his faith. He ran in only a few more competitive races after the
Olympics and at age 23, he returned to China to embark on his missionary
service. Liddell spent the next 18
years of his life building schools, teaching young people, and sharing his
faith. On one occasion he was
asked if he ever regretted his decision to leave behind the fame and glory of
athletics. Liddell responded,
"It's natural for a chap to think over all that sometimes, but I'm glad
I'm at the work I'm engaged in now. A fellow's life counts for far more at this
than the other."
After
16 years as a missionary, life in China became very dangerous due to the
tensions between Japan and China, and Eric sent his wife and three children to
Canada to stay with her family.
He, however, remained behind to support a rural mission station where
his brother was a physician. In
1943, after 2 years at the mission station, Liddell and his fellow missionaries
were detained at a Japanese internment camp, and he spent the last two years of
his life being a leader and an organizer in the camp, teaching Bible classes,
arranging games, and supporting the youth. In a book written about members of the camp by a fellow
prisoner, the following was said about Liddell:
Often
in an evening I would see him bent over a chessboard or a model boat, or
directing some sort of square dance – absorbed, weary and interested, pouring
all of himself into this effort to capture the imagination of these penned-up
youth. He was overflowing with good humour and love for life, and with
enthusiasm and charm. It is rare indeed that a person has the good fortune to
meet a saint, but he came as close to it as anyone I have ever known.
Liddell passed away in February of 1945 due to an
inoperable brain tumor, just 5 months prior to the liberation of the entire
internment camp. In 2008, the
Chinese government revealed that Liddell had passed up an opportunity to be
released from the camp and gave his place to a pregnant woman. (Material found
on Wikipedia).
Liddell’s life can be summed up in the words of a
familiar hymn:
True to the faith that our parents have
cherished.
True to the truth for which martyrs have
perished.
To God’s command, soul, heart, and hand,
Faithful and true we will ever stand.
What is the faith that our parents have cherished? How can we be true to the truth for
which martyrs have perished? In an
April 2006 General Conference address, President Thomas S. Monson expounded on
the meaning of the phrase, “True to the Faith” by relating an experience he had
while on an assignment in Tonga.
He said:
Many years ago, on an assignment to the beautiful islands of Tonga, I was
privileged to visit our Church school, the Liahona High School, where our youth
are taught by teachers with a common bond of faith—providing training for the
mind and preparation for life. On that occasion, entering one classroom, I
noticed the rapt attention the children gave their native instructor. His
textbook and theirs lay closed upon the desks. In his hand he held a
strange-appearing fishing lure fashioned from a round stone and large
seashells. This, I learned, was a maka-feke, an octopus lure. In Tonga, octopus
meat is a delicacy.
The
teacher explained that Tongan fishermen glide over a reef, paddling their
outrigger canoes with one hand and dangling the maka-feke over the side with
the other. An octopus dashes out from its rocky lair and seizes the lure,
mistaking it for a much-desired meal. So tenacious is the grasp of the octopus
and so firm is its instinct not to relinquish the precious prize that fishermen
can flip it right into the canoe.
It
was an easy transition for the teacher to point out to the eager and wide-eyed
youth that the evil one—even Satan—has fashioned so-called maka-fekes with
which to ensnare unsuspecting persons and take possession of their destinies.
Today
we are surrounded by the maka-fekes which the evil one dangles before us and
with which he attempts to entice us and then to ensnare us. Once grasped, such
maka-fekes are ever so difficult—and sometimes nearly impossible—to relinquish.
To be safe, we must recognize them for what they are and then be unwavering in
our determination to avoid them. (Monson, “True to the Faith,”
April 2006 General Conference.)
Through the remainder of his talk, President Monson
goes on to list a number of the maka-fekes we face in our time, including
immorality, pornography, drugs, alchohol, and others. Surely one aspect of being True to the Faith is avoiding the
blatant sins of commission that can so easily lead to pain, regret, broken
relationships, and addiction. Our
leaders have warned us throughout the latter days to avoid these sins as we
would avoid the plague. President
Hinckley used another analogy to help us understand the dangerous and caustic
effects these sins of commission can have on our lives:
Years ago I had responsibility for our work in Asia. I visited Okinawa many
times when there were American servicemen stationed there in large numbers.
Some of them had cars, and I noted that most of those cars were badly rusted.
There were holes in the fenders. There were holes in the side panels. Whatever
paint was left was dull. All of this was the result of corrosive ocean salt
which was carried by the wind and which ate through the metal.
[Sin]
is much like this corrosive salt. It will eat through your armor if you expose
yourselves to it. (Hinckley, “True to the Faith,” Ensign, June 1996.)
I love that analogy. Corrosion, for those of us who aren’t so scientifically gifted, is a process by which a material, usually metal, is gradually destroyed through chemical interactions with the environment. Listen to the following explanation of corrosion:
Because
corrosion is a diffusion-controlled process, it occurs on exposed surfaces.
Corrosion degrades the useful properties of materials and structures including
strength, appearance and permeability to liquids and gases. Some metals are more intrinsically
resistant to corrosion than others, and there are various ways of protecting
metals from corrosion, including painting, hot dip galvanizing, and combinations of these. (Wikipedia,
“Corrosion”)
Like corrosion, sins of commission often occur when
we expose ourselves to dangerous elements. Sin degrades our strength and appearance and makes our minds
and souls less permeable to the influence of the Holy Ghost. But, like protecting metal from
corrosion, there are ways to protect ourselves and our families from the vices
of sin. One key form of protection
from sins of commission is found in avoiding sins of omission and keeping
ourselves anxiously engaged in good causes. I’d like to spend the remaining few minutes I have
discussing three of these good causes we should anxiously engage ourselves in –
“The Three Ps” – and how each can keep us and our families true to our faith. These Three Ps were originally directed
toward Priesthood holders but they are applicable to us all throughout various
stages of our lives.
1. Provide: Regardless of where we are
in life, we should ask ourselves the question: “What type of home do I want to
provide for my family?” President Eyring
asked himself this question at an early age.
When I was eleven, my parents dropped me off at the Salt Lake City home of my great
uncle Gaskell Romney. He was a patriarch and, because he was my father’s uncle,
he could give me, a boy from the mission field, a patriarchal blessing. I don’t
think he even sat down to visit with me. He didn’t know me except as my
father’s son. He just led me through the house to a room where a recording
device was on a table. He sat me down facing a fireplace, put his hands on my
head, and began to give first my lineage and then a blessing.
He
began to tell me about the home in which I would someday be the father. That’s
when I opened my eyes. I know the stones in the fireplace were there because I
began to stare at them. I wondered, “How can this man know what is only in my
heart?” He described in concrete detail what had been only a yearning; but I
could recognize it. It was the desire of my heart, that future home and family
that I thought was secret. But it was not secret, because God knew. (Eyring, “Come Unto Christ”, BYU Devotional, 1989.)
Does God know what type of home we want to provide
for our families? When we hear the
term provide, our thoughts often turn to things financial and material. Other necessities in a gospel-centered
home could include teaching our children the importance of tithing, showing
them the value of service, demonstrating patience, modeling a strong work
ethic, and teaching how to keep and live within a budget. Possibly most important among the items
we might provide is our dedicated, undivided time. President Uchtdorf noted the importance of focusing our time
on the most important priorities in life:
My dear brothers and sisters, we would do well to slow down a
little, proceed at the optimum speed for our circumstances, focus on the
significant, lift up our eyes, and truly see the things that matter most. Let
us be mindful of the foundational precepts our Heavenly Father has given to His
children that will establish the basis of a rich and fruitful mortal life with
promises of eternal happiness. Since “no other success can compensate for
failure” here, we must place high priority on our families. We build deep and
loving family relationships by doing simple things together, like
family dinner and family home evening and by just having fun together. In
family relationships love is really spelled t-i-m-e, time. Taking time for each
other is the key for harmony at home. (Uchtdorf, “Of Things That
Matter Most.,” October 2012 General Conference.)
Protect: The second of the Three Ps
is Protect. President Monson
relates the following story:
Early in my service as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, I
was attending a conference in the Monument Park West Stake in Salt Lake City.
My companion for the conference was a member of the General Church Welfare
Committee, Paul C. Child.
When it was his opportunity to participate, President Child took the Doctrine and Covenants and left the pulpit to
stand among the priesthood to whom he was directing his message. He turned to
section 18 and began to read: “Remember the worth of souls is great in the
sight of God. … And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying
repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great
shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!”
President Child then raised his eyes from the scriptures and asked the
question of the priesthood brethren: “What is the worth of a human soul?” He
avoided calling on a bishop, stake president, or high councilor for a response.
Instead, he selected the president of an Elders Quorum—a brother who had been a
bit drowsy and had missed the significance of the question.
The startled man responded: “Brother Child, could you please repeat the
question?” The question was repeated: “What is the worth of a human soul?” I
knew President Child’s style. I prayed fervently for that quorum president. He
remained silent for what seemed like an eternity and then declared, “Brother
Child, the worth of a human soul is its capacity to become as God.” (Monson, “Tears, Trial, Trust, Testimony,” Ensign,
September 1997.)
As parents, grandparents, or members of any family,
ours is the responsibility to protect these precious souls and the sanctity and
safety of our homes – and just as providing isn’t solely monetary, protecting
isn’t strictly about ensuring physical safety from harm or accident. Of far greater importance is protection
from outside influences that seek to destroy the family and all that we hold
dear. During my mission, Elder
Gene R. Cook, a member of the Western Europe Area Presidency at the time,
shared his testimony of the importance of protecting our families from these
influences and of just how hard Satan is working to spread his deadly
influence. Elder Cook was on a
flight to Mexico and soon realized that he was seated next to Mick Jagger, the
lead singer of the Rolling Stones.
In Elder Cook’s words:
After we visited back and forth a minute or two about what we
were doing and all, I finally said something like, "You know, Mick, I have
a question for you that I'd like you to answer for me."
He said, "Well, I'll be glad to try."
Then I said to him, "I have opportunity to be with young people in
many different places around the world, and some of them have told me that the
kind of music you and others like you sing has no effect on them, that it's
okay, and that it doesn't affect them adversely in any way. Then other young
people have told me very honestly that your kind of music has a real effect on
them for evil and that it affects them in a very bad way. You've been in this
business a long time, Mick. I'd like to know your opinion. What do you think is
the impact of your music on the young people?"
[He turned to me and] said, "Our music is calculated to drive the
kids to sex."
He quickly added, "Well, it's not my fault what they do. That's up
to them. I'm just making a lot of money." Then he told me he'd been in
Mexico making a video because he could make it for about one third of what it
would cost in the United States. He told me this was a great day for them
because now instead of just having audio where they could portray some of what
they wanted to, they now had videos and could have the people both hear it and
see it portrayed. He said this would have much more impact on the youth, that
his music was selling much more, and thus he was making much more money.
He told me that it didn't matter what you did in life, that you could
take whatever you wanted, and you could do whatever you wanted. He said there
were no commandments, there was no God, and nothing really mattered. He
indicated there was no judgment day and you could just do whatever you felt
like doing. (Cook, “Morality,” Ricks College Devotional, 1989.)
Brothers and Sisters, the need to protect ourselves
and our families is real and the dangers are imminent. There has never been a time nor a day
when the need to conduct regular Family Home Evenings, family prayer, and
scripture study has been greater.
Preside: Finally, the third of the
Three Ps is Preside. While fathers
play a unique and important role in presiding as patriarchs over their
families, each of us has a responsibility to preside over our own lives, to own
and be responsible for our thoughts, our words, and our deeds. Are we living up to this
responsibility? Do the mirrors of
our lives reflect behavior worthy of our divine nature and privilege? In his April 2011 General Conference
address, President Uchtdorf illustrated this point beautifully:
There once was a man whose lifelong dream was to board a cruise
ship and sail the Mediterranean Sea. He dreamed of walking the streets of Rome,
Athens, and Istanbul. He saved every penny until he had enough for his passage.
Since money was tight, he brought an extra suitcase filled with cans of beans,
boxes of crackers, and bags of powdered lemonade, and that is what he lived on
every day.
He would have loved to take part in the many activities offered on the
ship—working out in the gym, playing miniature golf, and swimming in the pool.
He envied those who went to movies, shows, and cultural presentations. And, oh,
how he yearned for only a taste of the amazing food he saw on the ship—every
meal appeared to be a feast! But the man wanted to spend so very little money
that he didn’t participate in any of these. He was able to see the cities he
had longed to visit, but for the most part of the journey, he stayed in his
cabin and ate only his humble food.
On the last day of the cruise, a crew member asked him which of the
farewell parties he would be attending. It was then that the man learned that
not only the farewell party but almost everything on board the cruise ship—the
food, the entertainment, all the activities—had been included in the price of
his ticket. Too late the man realized that he had been living far beneath his
privileges. (Uchtdorf, “Your Potential, Your Privilege,” April 2011
General Conference.”)
When we proactively preside over our own lives and the lives of those
we love, we will likely face challenges and trials that seem
insurmountable. Often it may feel
like we are carrying the weight of the world on our shoulders. Perhaps it is in carrying this weight,
however, that we are crafted and sculpted into the divine beings our Savior has
created us to become. An old story
is told of a Hindu convert to Christianity, Sadhu Sundar Singh, who became a
missionary to his people in India.
Late one afternoon Sadhu was traveling on foot through the Himalayas
with a Buddhist monk. It was bitterly cold and the wind felt like sharp blades
slicing into their skins. Night was fast approaching when the monk warned Sadhu
that they were in danger of freezing to death if they did not reach the
monastery before darkness fell.
Suddenly, on a narrow path above a steep precipice, they heard a cry
for help. At the foot of the cliff lay a man, fallen and badly hurt. The monk
looked at Sadhu and said, "Do not stop. God has brought this man to his
fate. He must work it out for himself. Let us hurry on before we, too, perish."
But Sadhu replied, "God has sent me here to help my brother. I
cannot abandon him."
The monk continued trudging off through the whirling snow, while the
missionary clambered down the steep embankment. The injured man's leg was
broken and he could not walk, so Sadhu made a sling of his blanket and tied the
man on his back. With great difficulty he climbed back up the cliff, drenched
by now in perspiration.
Doggedly, Sadhu made his way through the deepening snow and darkness.
It was all he could do to follow the path. But he persevered, though faint with
fatigue and overheated from exertion. Finally, he saw ahead the lights of the
monastery.
Then, for the first time, Sadhu stumbled and nearly fell. But not from
weakness. He had stumbled over an object lying in the snow-covered road. Slowly
he bent down on one knee and brushed the snow off the object. It was the body
of the monk, frozen to death.
Years later a disciple of Sadhu's asked him, "What is life's most
difficult task?"
Without hesitation Sadhu replied: "To have no burden to
carry."
(http://www.sermonillustrator.org/illustrator/sermon2a/having_no_burden_to_carry.htm)
Brothers and Sisters, we do have burdens to
carry, and thanks be to God for it.
Ours are the burdens to provide for ourselves and our families, to
protect them from the adversary, and to preside in righteousness over our
lives. How grateful we should be for
these burdens and the opportunities they give us to show the Lord where we
stand. In closing, I share a final
story that was told by Elder Spencer J. Condie of the Quorum of the
Seventy. Brother Taniela Wakolo
was a Stake President at the time and Elder Condie was assigned to fly to Fiji
and call Brother Wakolo as a new Area Authority. Here's the rest of the
story, which was published in the Ensign magazine:
After discussing with him the nature and duties of his new calling, I
observed the tattoo on Brother Wakolo’s large right hand. Now, tattoos
are very common throughout the South Pacific, and long before he joined the
Church, Taniela Wakolo had the back of his hand tattooed with a large, garish
design. I said: "Brother Wakolo, in your new calling as an Area
Seventy, you are going to be speaking to the youth on many occasions. I
would suggest before such meetings that you put a large Band-Aid on the back of
your hand to cover your tattoo. It’s hard to discourage our youth from
getting tattoos when the speaker has one himself." He smiled a broad
smile, and with a radiant expression he said, "I’ll take care of it. I
want to be a good example." A few weeks passed, and the next time we
met, his hand was heavily bandaged as if he were preparing for a boxing
match. I asked, "What in the world happened to you?" He
smiled with glistening eyes and said, "I followed your counsel and had the
tattoo removed." "Was it laser surgery?" I asked.
"No," he replied with a big smile, "they don’t remove tattoos
with lasers in Fiji. I had it surgically cut out." A month later Elder
Wakolo and I were assigned together to reorganize a stake presidency in
American Samoa. As we met at the airport, I immediately noticed an
unsightly scar on the back of his hand where the surgeon had removed several
square inches of skin and then very crudely sutured the gaping wound
closed. This had not been performed by a plastic surgeon. I
apologized for having been the cause of the large scar on the back of his hand.
He responded with a radiant Christlike countenance: "Not to worry,
President Condie; this is my CTR ring. Now the Lord knows where I stand! I’ll
do anything the Lord asks of me."
True to the faith that our parents have cherished. True to the truth for which martyrs
have perished. To God’s command,
soul, heart, and hand, faithful and true we will ever stand. May we remain true to the faith and
show the Lord where we stand in all we do.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Just Show Up
Jim Rome and I have become good friends over the past 10 years. Of course, I've never met the guy, but I've heard enough of his rants, takes, burns, and guest interviews over the years to feel a connection with him that I'm sure he only shares with a few million other people. I appreciate his candor, his uncanny wittiness, his fresh takes on the world of sports and entertainment, and mostly his phenomenal preparation for and execution of interviews. He really is a master at conducting thorough, thoughtful, insightful interviews with a great variety of guests, some at the top of their popularity and others who just have great stories that deserve to be told. I'm actually not sure how I would make it through the hours I spend on the road without the company of The Jim Rome Show. I've been a card-carrying Jungle Insider ("That's why there's Jungle Insider") for 8 years and I thank A.D. Davis, my sales partner with Lilly in Albuquerque back in 2002, for introducing me to the show.
This week, one of the guests was Jacob Tamme, a former Colts tight end from Lexington, KY who recently re-joined Peyton Manning in signing with the Denver Broncos. Tamme has always been a good player, never a star, but a solid tight end who, like Austin Collie, Dallas Clark, and a host of others, has been the beneficiary of catching passes from one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time. Rome asked him the requisite questions about football, his time with the Colts, what it's like to play with Peyton Manning, how the Broncos will fare this year, etc. He then switched gears to ask Tamme about his recent visit to the hospital in Aurora, CO, where many of the victims of the recent movie theater shooting are being treated. Jacob and a number of his teammates recently visited some of the victims and Jim asked him to relate this experience to the audience. He shared some of the heroic stories he heard, told about a few of the courageous people he met, and talked about how inspirational it was for him to speak with people who had risked their lives to save others in the midst of the chaos that ensued that night. Jim then asked him what, if any, message he shared with the victims and their families. His response to this question was insightful and was a great truism. It went something like, "In a situation like that, you don't really know what to say. But sometimes, just showing up is what matters." What a powerful lesson. We don't always know what to say in times of tragedy or challenge, and words can seem trite and lacking. I remember when President Pace, our great Stake President in Newbury Park, lost his wife at far too young an age. I was sitting with him in a PPI not long after the funeral and in the middle of the discussion, he broke down in tears. What do you say in a situation like that? I knew that no words I could muster would lighten the burden he bore, so I just sat and listened to him share some of the things that had been on his mind in the few weeks since his wife's passing. When he was done and we had wrapped up the interview, he hugged me and thanked me for listening and being supportive...and I really hadn't said anything. I just showed up where I was supposed to be and that was enough.
So many of the best things in life are within our grasp if we just show up. Some of the greatest views, such as the one in the picture from Haleakala on Maui, are only seen if we rise early and make the trek to the top of the mountain. The blessings that stem from service, church attendance, exercise, education, and gainful employment are within our grasp if we just show up. I can only speculate, but I'm sure President Monson didn't always have something new or insightful to share each time he visited the 83 widows in his East Salt Lake Ward as a young Bishop. He just showed up consistently and provided friendship and a listening ear.
This year has already been full of opportunities where just showing up is enough. How am I doing?
Friday, July 27, 2012
Truth
Last night I was sitting in a hotel room in Walnut Creek (Marriott, of course) working on a Mid-year Review for one of the reps on my team when Jeri called with some disturbing news via the source of all disturbing news in 2012, Facebook. Based on some status updates and 15 "Likes" that were posted on Jeri's wall, it appeared that a dear friend and mentor of mine was going through a divorce. I immediately logged on to Jeri's account (since I deleted mine a few months ago...long story) to confirm what she had read and was sad to see that this was indeed the case. I had the feeling that I should send him a quick text to offer my friendship and see if there was anything I could do for him. Within 30 seconds of clicking Send on my iPhone 4 (black with Cardinals cover), the same phone was ringing and his name was on the Caller ID. I picked up the call and for the next 30 minutes, I found myself in the midst of a very sad yet uplifting discussion with him as he related the events of the last 15 years of his life and the travails and trials that led to his divorce. It seems that his wife had cheated on him many years ago and that she had made it clear to him that she wasn't happy in their marriage. They had seen counselors, talked with their Bishop, and made many efforts to keep their marriage together and they were successful for quite some time. Unfortunately, about a year ago, she came to him and re-affirmed the fact that she wasn't happy in the marriage and wanted out. Since then, she made the decision to leave the church, move in with her boyfriend, and alienate most of her family, including her three grown children and her grandchildren. As I listened to him relate this story, my thoughts turned to a license plate rim I recently came across that said "Nothing is True. Everything is Permitted." When I first saw this message, I thought about the many conversations I have had through the years with people about the church and the gospel. I thought specifically about how many times I've heard a version of the phrase, "You have to find what's true for you." This message, the thought that nothing is true and that everything is permitted, might as well include the standard election disclaimer, "My name is Satan, and I approve of this message." Find what's true for you? 3 + 3 isn't 6 for me and 7 for someone else. Either my computer monitor is sitting in front of me or it's not, and in the end, either God exists or He doesn't, just like The Book of Mormon says.
And if ye shall say there is no law, ye shall also say there is no sin. If ye shall say there is no sin, ye shall also say there is no righteousness. And if there be no righteousness there be no happiness. And if there be no righteousness nor happiness there be no punishment nor misery. And if these things are not there is no God. And if there is no God we are not, neither the earth; for there could have been no creation of things, neither to act nor to be acted upon; wherefore all things must have vanished away. - 2 Nephi 2:13I must admit that the thought has crossed my mind before. What if there were no rules? What if there was no truth, if everything was permitted, if there was no God? There have certainly been times in my life when it would have been much easier to give in to this belief and let my conscience off the hook. My friend's wife left the church, her husband to whom she was sealed for 30 years, her family, and everything she once believed. Did she decide that nothing is true? Did she start to believe that everything is permitted?
During those hardest of hard times when it would have been easier to move to New Orleans and become a street jazz player, the reality that kept me going is that TRUTH is TRUTH. I know that God lives. I know that the Gospel is true, and I know that God knows that I know it is true.
And now, my sons, I speak unto you these things for your profit and learning; for there is a God, and he hath created al things, both the heavens and the earth, and all things that in them are, both things to act and things to be acted upon. - 2 Nephi 2:14The truth is that God lives, and whether we choose to accept that truth or not doesn't change the fact that it is the truth. My friend's wife made a choice and the hard truth is that her choice, like all significant choices in life, will have lasting consequences for her.
The truth is that I need to go to bed, and the fact that I'm sitting here blogging at 2:15 am on a work night will have dire consequences. Good night!
Check out this Mormon Message
The Wall
This section of the kitchen wall in our Western Way house used to be covered in red marker. Thanks to the amazing Magic Eraser, it's now perfectly clean with no sign of Victoria's artwork anywhere. I remember calling Jeri a few days ago when I was traveling to pick up the older kids from Grandma and Grandpa Metheny's house, hearing the standard chaos in the background, and listening to Jeri tell me that Victoria had just unleashed her inner Salvador Dali on the kitchen wall with her bright red Crayola marker. "Par for the course," I thought to myself. Anyone who has spent any time around this little girl understands that she is the literal denotation of Terrible Twos. They don't put her picture next to the definition of Terrible Two, they insert her mugshot and don't bother with the definition. Jeri and I often joke that she's lucky she was born with a smile that would light up the darkest of rooms because if she wasn't so darn cute, she might actually never emerge from Time Out. Anyway, Jeri and I finished our conversation and I hung up the phone, only to think to myself within a few seconds that I needed Jeri to take a picture of the red marker on the wall so that I could add Victoria's masterpiece to my blog and write about my "sweet" little terror and her artistic antics. Of course, by the time I called back a mere 30 seconds later, Jeri had already turned to her beloved Magic Eraser and returned the wall to its previous state. 30 seconds! Had I been home with the kids instead of Jeri, I would have likely spent the first few minutes having a "discussion" with Victoria about the difference between the wall and paper, then followed that up by drinking a Mountain Dew, putting the kids to bed, making some cookies, and then (possibly) trying to find some paint to cover up the red marker. Don't know that Magic Eraser would have even crossed my mind. At first I was disappointed that I didn't get my picture...would have been a perfect way to describe Victoria to the 3 people who read this Blog. As I thought a little more about the story, it hit me that the clean wall would be an even better picture. This perfectly clean wall has a great deal of meaning to me. It was covered in red marker at one point, which means that I have 4 insane but wonderful kids who have a home where they feel safe, loved, and happy, and where they know they can make messes and still be loved and accepted (and perhaps slightly reprimanded from time to time). It's now clean, which means that I'm blessed with an amazing wife who has made every house, apartment, and other building we've lived in (just moved in to #8 in 10.5 years of marriage) in to a terrific home full of love and support, and who has never in the history of our married life let a mess go more than 10 seconds without being addressed. Perhaps the greatest principle the wall illustrates, though, is that of repentance. Whose life isn't covered in red marker from time to time? Who doesn't need the Magic Eraser of Repentance to clean up the mess we make every day. As I look back on my life and the marks I've made, I'm reminded that without the sacrifice Christ made for me, my walls would be covered in red.
Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord; though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. - Isaiah 1:18I was talking with a good friend recently and during our conversation, my mind was taken back to the time in life when my walls were as red as they have ever been. I thought of the despair I felt, of the loneliness of sitting in the corner with the marker in my hand, feeling like everyone was looking at me, laughing at me, yelling at me for coloring on the walls and making such a mess. As quickly as these thoughts ran through my mind, they turned to the sweet day nearly 4 years later when I sat with my Jeri in the mission home in Albuquerque and watched/listened as the last shades of red were wiped clean with the Magic Eraser. As hard as I might try, I'll never be able to fully explain the amazement and joy I felt that day. How grateful I was and am for the friends and family who carried me through the lowest of lows and who celebrated with me during the highest of highs. How thankful I am for a loving Heavenly Father who sent his Son to turn our red to pure white.
We see ourselves in terms of yesterday and today. Our Heavenly Father sees us in terms of forever. - Joseph B. WirthlinCheck out this Mormon Message
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Extra Mile
In northern California, many of the Chevron gas stations are attached to a convenience store called Extra Mile. Over the past 18 months, Extra Mile and I have developed a serious love/hate relationship. You see, Extra Mile received its name as recognition for going the "Extra Mile" on my behalf by actually carrying Diet Mountain Dew in the fountain machine. Honestly I'm not sure how or why the name was bestowed but I've certainly made my share of U-turns, double-backs, triple lane changes, and occasional cut-offs to pay a quick visit to the Extra Mile and fill up a cup with some Diet Dew, aka the Dirty Yellow Poison. For years now, I've rationalized this ridiculous addiction by convincing myself that "it's all good, there are worse habits I could have" and "at least it's not regular Mt Dew". I mean, how could a store with such a benevolent name actually provide me with something so detrimental to my health? I've tried giving up the Diet Dew. Everyone tells me to drink water - "it tastes so good and is so refreshing!" Sure it is...so is air, but it doesn't do much for that little pleasure center somewhere in my noggin! Trust me, I've tried the switch to water. It's kind of like rooting for the Cardinals your entire life, then being told that they are no longer available and you have to root for the Cubs. I've tried flavored water, sports drinks, even iced tea (sorry Mom and Jeri!)...nothing does it for me like the Diet Dew, which leads me to today. I was on the way home from Fremont to Rocklin, driving along Interstate 80, and I decided to pull up my mental database of the nearest Extra Mile locations to score some Poison. As I pulled up to the station and parked the car, I looked up and realized that the Extra Mile sign was right in front of me. I thought of all the times I've been driving along through life, feeling a little weak or down, needing to fill up my cup, and I looked up and saw the Extra Mile right in front of me. Often it came in the form of a listening ear. Other times it appeared as a gift of time. Most often I've seen the Extra Mile in the effort of my wife, my parents, and my friends as they cheer for my successes, carry me through my failures, and support me loyally through it all. We often think of the Extra Mile as going above and beyond, doing a little bit more than is expected, and exceeding what is asked of us. In the end, it's really about just going and doing. One of my favorite General Conference talks in recent years is the one that was given by Elder Ronald Rasband in April of this year when he related the story of his young Grandson Paxton who was born with a rare chromosomal disorder. He spoke of the challenges Paxton and his parents have endured, the sleepless nights, the hospital visits, and the overwhelming medical bills. He also spoke of the tender mercies of the Lord that have accompanied his family through it all, and he offered a thought that to me, defines the Extra Mile.
Paxton’s family has learned they are surrounded by countless heavenly and earthly ministering angels. Some have quietly slipped in when needed and silently slipped out. Others have been at the door with food, doing the laundry, picking up the siblings, calling with encouragement, and especially praying for Paxton. Thus another special lesson learned: If you come upon a person who is drowning, would you ask if they need help—or would it be better to just jump in and save them from the deepening waters? The offer, while well meaning and often given, “Let me know if I can help” is really no help at all.How many times have I said that?!? "Let me know if I can help you with your move." "Give me a call if you need some help with that." The Extra Mile is always there, ready to fill up your cup and send you on your way.
Speed Limit 10
Can anyone drive 10 miles per hour? I challenge you to try to drive 10 miles per hour for one minute today and then look me in the eye and tell me it doesn't render you mentally incapacitated and emotionally wrecked. Speed limits and I have a troubled relationship with a rocky history and what appears to be a bleak future. I take my fair share of flack from those who matter most with regard to my (completely safe) aggressive driving habits. Let's just say I've historically viewed these signs as good recommendations that apply mostly to the average defensive driver and not so much to me. Funny how life happens. Had I seen this sign 10 years ago, I would have blown past it at 50 mph and laughed to myself. When I saw it today, I still laughed to myself, but I got out of the car and took a picture. As I was walking back to the car, many of the Speed Limit 10 signs I've seen in my life went through my mind...except they didn't say "Speed Limit 10." Instead, some read "Be kind to your children." "Adore your wife." "Put in an honest day's work." "Hold Family Home Evening regularly." "Honor your Priesthood." "Keep a journal." And I was forced, thanks to that lovely introspective gene I share with President Eyring, to ask myself how often I've blown past those Speed Limit 10 signs - and many others like them - at 50 mph. The reality is that most of us can drive a little faster and we'll be fine. We can ignore the Speed Limit 10 signs and drive 15, 20, even 25, and nothing terrible will happen. The reality is that it's up to us to decide. No one is there to force me to follow the speed limit every mile I drive (much to Jeri's chagrin), just like no one is there to force me to keep a journal or honor my covenants. It's up to each of us to decide who we want to be and to show the Lord where we stand.
When he was visiting our Stake in Newbury Park, Elder Spencer J. Condie of the Quorum of the Seventy shared an amazing story of a member of the church from Fiji, Taniela Wakolo. Brother Wakolo was Stake President at the time and Elder Condie was assigned to fly to Fiji and call Brother Wakolo as a new Area Authority. Here's the rest of the story, which was also published in the Ensign magazine:
After discussing with him the nature and duties of his new calling, I observed the tattoo on Brother Wakolo’s large right hand. Now, tattoos are very common throughout the South Pacific, and long before he joined the Church, Taniela Wakolo had the back of his hand tattooed with a large, garish design. I said: "Brother Wakolo, in your new calling as an Area Seventy, you are going to be speaking to the youth on many occasions. I would suggest before such meetings that you put a large Band-Aid on the back of your hand to cover your tattoo. It’s hard to discourage our youth from getting tattoos when the speaker has one himself." He smiled a broad smile, and with a radiant expression he said, "I’ll take care of it. I want to be a good example." A few weeks passed, and the next time we met, his hand was heavily bandaged as if he were preparing for a boxing match. I asked, "What in the world happened to you?" He smiled with glistening eyes and said, "I followed your counsel and had the tattoo removed." "Was it laser surgery?" I asked. "No," he replied with a big smile, "they don’t remove tattoos with lasers in Fiji. I had it surgically cut out." A month later Elder Wakolo and I were assigned together to reorganize a stake presidency in American Samoa. As we met at the airport, I immediately noticed an unsightly scar on the back of his hand where the surgeon had removed several square inches of skin and then very crudely sutured the gaping wound closed. This had not been performed by a plastic surgeon. I apologized for having been the cause of the large scar on the back of his hand. He responded with a radiant Christlike countenance: "Not to worry, President Condie; this is my CTR ring. Now the Lord knows where I stand! I’ll do anything the Lord asks of me."Speed Limit 10.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Better Late Than Never
I'm a bit late to the blog party - well beyond fashionably - but I'm glad to join yet another of the trends I swore off for the longest time. I remember leaving on my mission from a world of typewriters and stone age PCs and coming home two years later to cell phones, email, and a host of other useless, time wasting gadgets that I promised I would never get. I mean, I made it 21 years without a cell phone and my life had been pretty good up to that point...why change? It's actually funny to think how things have changed since those days, as I sit here in my hotel room reading a book on my iPad, listening to music on my iPhone, creating a blog on my laptop. My 21-year-old self wouldn't believe it. Nonetheless, here I am, a few lines in to my first blog post, a twinge of guilt less on my shoulders as I've finally begun what I've felt compelled to do for quite some time now. I was speaking with a friend recently who shared a story his Mission President related to him some time ago about the "Hand of God" journal he updated on a regular basis. The purpose, of course, was to keep a record of the many times he saw the Hand of God throughout his life and be able to pass this record to his posterity to teach and inspire them. This blog will likely take on a slightly broader spectrum of events, but I'm starting it with the hope that it will inspire at least one person - the writer himself - to take a slightly extroverted approach to an otherwise introspective life, and to share some of the beauty and blessings I see with the people I care about most.
That said, let's get on to Day 1, the first day of my blogging life. Well, kind of Day 0, since I'm actually starting with yesterday. One of the things I was "inspired" to do with this blog is to take a picture each day of something that impresses or impacts me in some way and share a few thoughts about how the image relates to life. Yesterday, I was driving through the middle of nowhere - I make a habit of that in my job - and heading to one of the only parts of California I haven't visited before, San Luis Obispo. As I drove across the hilly, stunning terrain, my thoughts turned to a few recent conversations I had with members of my family. I took Gwen and Zach to visit my parents a couple weekends ago and then left them there for a week, returning Friday to pick them up. One of the main topics of conversation throughout the weekend was the potential move Emily and Pooch and their family are considering to the San Jose area, and how that move might impact Mom and Dad's retirement plans. Now, let me first caveat what I'm about to say: I used to swear up and down that I would NEVER move to California. In fact, the first few years I was married to Jeri, I really had nothing positive to say about the place! I've now lived here for 4 years and I don't ever want to leave. The irony. Anyway, back to the story. I've had many discussions over the past few years with my parents about California and why I like it so much, but I always come away feeling like a centerfielder for the Cardinals who took less money to go play for the Cubs. As I was enumerating the Top 10 Reasons to Move to California, Rebecca commented that she could never live there because of the image associated with the state. As soon as she said the word "IMAGE," my thoughts turned to all of the "images" I have seen on my travels through California over the past few years. I know the real California. I've driven the desert terrain from El Centro to San Diego. I've made the trek down Highway 99 from Sacramento to Bakersfield to LA. I've driven every mile of Interstate 5 from Tijuana to Oregon and I've braved the traffic during rush hour to visit the beautiful temple in Santa Monica. I've seen Carrie Underwood at the Hollywood Bowl, watched the US Open in San Francisco, even teed it up at Pebble Beach. I've admired the grandeur of the Redwoods, snowboarded (well, mostly fell down) at Big Bear, dined on the coast in Malibu, and marveled at Lake Tahoe. I've meandered through the tiniest of ghost towns, filled up my gas tank where I never saw a single solitary person, and sweated through the hottest of drives from Las Vegas to Baker to Barstow and beyond. I've seen the desolate deserts, the crystal blue lakes, the snow-covered mountains, the perfect rows of vineyards, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the cold Pacific Ocean. And yes, I've seen the plastic faces, the fake tans, the bleached hair, and all the accoutrements that go along with them :) But back to my drive through the middle of nowhere...as I drove along, I decided that my first picture would be for Rebecca. This is the California I know. The beautiful hills. Miles of open roads. Heavenly weather. A strong Gospel presence. A place for me to raise my unique and amazing children and to grow old with my beautiful - Californian - wife.
I was listening to various songs from my phone today in the car and One Republic's song "Good Life" came on. "When you're happy like a fool, let it take you over, when everything is out, you gotta take it in." This is The Good Life.
That said, let's get on to Day 1, the first day of my blogging life. Well, kind of Day 0, since I'm actually starting with yesterday. One of the things I was "inspired" to do with this blog is to take a picture each day of something that impresses or impacts me in some way and share a few thoughts about how the image relates to life. Yesterday, I was driving through the middle of nowhere - I make a habit of that in my job - and heading to one of the only parts of California I haven't visited before, San Luis Obispo. As I drove across the hilly, stunning terrain, my thoughts turned to a few recent conversations I had with members of my family. I took Gwen and Zach to visit my parents a couple weekends ago and then left them there for a week, returning Friday to pick them up. One of the main topics of conversation throughout the weekend was the potential move Emily and Pooch and their family are considering to the San Jose area, and how that move might impact Mom and Dad's retirement plans. Now, let me first caveat what I'm about to say: I used to swear up and down that I would NEVER move to California. In fact, the first few years I was married to Jeri, I really had nothing positive to say about the place! I've now lived here for 4 years and I don't ever want to leave. The irony. Anyway, back to the story. I've had many discussions over the past few years with my parents about California and why I like it so much, but I always come away feeling like a centerfielder for the Cardinals who took less money to go play for the Cubs. As I was enumerating the Top 10 Reasons to Move to California, Rebecca commented that she could never live there because of the image associated with the state. As soon as she said the word "IMAGE," my thoughts turned to all of the "images" I have seen on my travels through California over the past few years. I know the real California. I've driven the desert terrain from El Centro to San Diego. I've made the trek down Highway 99 from Sacramento to Bakersfield to LA. I've driven every mile of Interstate 5 from Tijuana to Oregon and I've braved the traffic during rush hour to visit the beautiful temple in Santa Monica. I've seen Carrie Underwood at the Hollywood Bowl, watched the US Open in San Francisco, even teed it up at Pebble Beach. I've admired the grandeur of the Redwoods, snowboarded (well, mostly fell down) at Big Bear, dined on the coast in Malibu, and marveled at Lake Tahoe. I've meandered through the tiniest of ghost towns, filled up my gas tank where I never saw a single solitary person, and sweated through the hottest of drives from Las Vegas to Baker to Barstow and beyond. I've seen the desolate deserts, the crystal blue lakes, the snow-covered mountains, the perfect rows of vineyards, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the cold Pacific Ocean. And yes, I've seen the plastic faces, the fake tans, the bleached hair, and all the accoutrements that go along with them :) But back to my drive through the middle of nowhere...as I drove along, I decided that my first picture would be for Rebecca. This is the California I know. The beautiful hills. Miles of open roads. Heavenly weather. A strong Gospel presence. A place for me to raise my unique and amazing children and to grow old with my beautiful - Californian - wife.
I was listening to various songs from my phone today in the car and One Republic's song "Good Life" came on. "When you're happy like a fool, let it take you over, when everything is out, you gotta take it in." This is The Good Life.
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