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 2:13

I 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 2:14

The 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 1:18

I 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. Wirthlin

Check out this Mormon Message

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.

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.