Rough Stone Rolling

All right, I know it’s been a ‘coon’s age since I last dropped by. Too many distractions have kept me away and when night comes my brain’s just been too fried to compose (resulting in five unfinished entries in the queue). But since we’re going away for a week on a camping trip, I thought I’d sneak one in.

History has always been my favorite subject and History Detectives on PBS is one of my few absolutely-can’t-miss shows. Every week a team of historians pick three mysteries to solve with just one or a couple of meager clues to get them started. This week’s episode was a particular treat– A woman had a first edition 1856 copy of an anti-Mormon book entitled “Female Life Among the Mormons” and her questions were, who is the woman who wrote the book and was it really a factual account. The assigned historian Tukufu Zuberi, as is usually the case, met with subject authorities, this time being Terryl Givens and Sarah Barringer Gordon (who, for me, beats out Jessica Biel and, yes, even Eva Mendes as Whom I’d Most Like to be Stuck on a Desert Island With– although I’m sure she’d take issue with the honor since it ends with a preposition). Anyway, I won’t ruin the outcome for you. Check your local listing to see if it’s airing in your area, or download the transcript from the page I linked to. The segment offers a pretty good backdrop of the political climate, etc., that contributed to the book’s popularity.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the beach for a week of boogie-boarding, roasting marshmallows and singing ”I Would Walk 500 Miles” over and over again around the fire.

I know, I did say I was over the subject of gays and the Church. However as an LDS member in California– a state that today legalized same-sex marriage– I’m forced to confront another issue involving these two head-butting entities. Recently a Catholic adoption service closed its doors because it didn’t want to place children in gay homes, and it knew if the issue went to court, they would lose. A wedding photographer was taken to court because he refused services to a homosexual couple on the grounds that his product is a “message-maker” and he did not believe in their message. And so it goes, the clash of two great American institutions: Freedom of religion vs. equal rights. As a pro-straight-marriage Christian, I am, of course, on the side of freedom of religion. It should stand to reason– “our club, our rules.” But the courts may not see it that way in every arena.

Take the Catholic adoption agency. Because it accepted money from the government to keep its services going, it opened itself up to being subject to government rulings. Should LDS videographers (and there are a bunch of them) be legally bound to shoot gay weddings despite their personal religious beliefs? Is that the price of being in the business they’re in? Should a denomination-sponsored youth camp that accepts the voluntary services of parents have to allow married male partners to participate even though the church’s doctrine vocally condemns homosexuality?

I think it goes without saying (but I’ll say it anyway) that whatever goes on within the walls of a church– be it denial of gay marriage or the fervent practice of gay-bashing sermons, the Constitution still protects that church from legal confrontation. Where it gets messy is when church members who harbor their faiths’ beliefs make a living offering public services to legally married– or marrying– couples, their personal rights of religious beliefs and observance are now under fire by the courts– because, what is the difference between denying a homosexual couple a wedding reception and denying a black man service in a restaurant?

As the church can say “our club, our rules,” the gay couple can say because the marriage-related business owner offers services to the public, they are obligated to serve any legally-recognized spouse, couple, what-have-you. It’s either that, or get out of the business.

Letting a gay couple enforce their right to use a good Baptist’s reception hall may not bother you. You might even support such “forward” thinking. The idea of it doesn’t bother me much, either, tell you the truth. What concerns me is how far the line of equal rights will plow over the rights of an individual’s religious beliefs. I’ve already heard about a few random incidents. I’m just bracing for whatever’s next.

It’s not talked about much, but I think it’s safe to say we assume we look much like we did in the pre-existence– except we looked more like action figures back then, and aspire to go back to looking like that when we cross the veil again.

Besides the expected glorified bodies of flesh & bone, I wonder how else we’ll anatomically change in the next life. I mean, there are certain things we just won’t need any more. Take eye lids. As glorified beings we’ll no longer need to systematically quench the eyes with moisture, so there’ll be no need to blink (on the other hand the inability to blink was a by-product of hell in Sartre’s No Exit). The posterior will no longer have any use—every celestial account has the subjects standing. It’s not like we’re going to need to take a load off. The belly button should be going the way of the dodo, too. And the Adam’s apple—do we go back to calling it the Michael’s apple? Or do we get more specific and call it the Michael’s Fruit of the Knowledge of Good and Evil? If there’s no more need for blood, it stands to reason that there’ll be no more need for saliva, sweat or mucous. As temporal discomforts become things of the past, idle pleasures such as boogers, belches and flatulence will be left to archival footage. That said, what would constitute as waves of relief when all is already perfect? It suddenly doesn’t sound that much fun anymore, does it?

Come to think of it, are we even going to have clothes? Adam and Eve were buck naked until they fell. Maybe celestial beings only grab togas for their appearances on earth so we won’t get distracted while they’re delivering their messages. And since both message-bearers and receivers are always both male, the perfection would only make us feel inadequate.

So, good call.

I guess the only real downer about how cool we’re going to look in the next life is, when we get there, that sort of stuff won’t impress us anymore. Whatever. I’m still putting in for a cleft chin.

Our ward’s Annual Taquito Dinner & Talent Show last night proved, once again, to be an evening of wows and wonders. We were entertained by a 3 and 5-year old duet singing “A, You are Adorable” as the older sibling kept scratching himself “down there” the entire time; the bishop’s 13-year old daughter did her best angst-dripping Kurt Cobain performing acoustic guitar and singing Nirvana’s “Dumb”:

My heart is broke but I have some glue

Help me inhale and mend it with you

We’ll float around and hang out on clouds

Then we’ll come down and I have a hangover, have a hangover

Have a hangover, have a hangover…

That one stuck in our heads for the rest of the night, I can tell you.

The wife, L, wasn’t able to make it to the extravaganza this year, having had to represent the T. family at a niece’s wedding in Utah. So it was with no small trepidation that she surrendered to my judgment of Miss D.’s dance number and outfit being suitable– and not too scandalous– for the event. This may have turned out to be a mistake. D. decided to do a jazz dance routine, involving a chair, to the tune of Chicago’s “Roxie.” Her outfit included a leotard-tight tuxedo-style top with a little black skort, faux shirt cuffs, a bowler hat and fishnet stockings (no, no stiletto heels), and the number involved strutting around the stage, sitting on the chair and swinging, and crossing, her legs a lot. I never noticed before how long my daughter’s legs have become, and never had I seen her use them to such…um…professional lengths. Also, apparently I hadn’t really listened to the lyrics before she was up there performing in front of the bishop and ward:

I’m gonna be a celebrity

That means somebody everyone knows

They’re gonna recognize my eyes

My hair, my teeth, my boobs, my nose

I sheepishly glanced around, saw the “boobs” line hadn’t escaped some of the members, and was grateful that the cultural hall was dark. Finally, she ended on the chair, legs crossed high and bowler pulled down over her eyes. It was a classic Little Miss Sunshine moment, and I was a very proud papa.

After the show I was prepared to get some good-natured joshing and perhaps friendly reproof over letting Miss D.’s performance hit the church stage. As it turned out, I didn’t hear a peep of negativity. A lot of people came up and gushed at what a good job she did, and D. continued to get praise today in between meetings. More importantly, my usually self-critical and second-guessing daughter came out of it saying she had a great time and was really happy with her performance.

And that, for me, was the hit of the evening.

I made the mistake of paying too much attention to the Springsteen song, “Girls in Their Summer Clothes” while in the car with Miss D. last night, coming home from YW. After listening a while she asked, “What’s it about?” I tried to explain how, as we get older we find ourselves looking back on the sweet, youthful things that were once part of our lives; and now we can only watch them, removed, with bittersweet admiration, knowing they’re forever in our past. “So,” she said, “It’s an older guy looking at girls in skimpy clothes.” “I guess, but–” “Ew.” Since then she’s been going around the house, singing in a pathetically maudlin faux-deep voice, And the girls in their summer clothes pass me byyyyy…, and then cracking up.

There’s been so much commentary on the subject of gays in the Church, it’s gotten stale and repetitive. Having known a few over the years, I don’t find it a particularly novel topic. I just think it’s an impossible situation to be in– like being a Jew in the PLO. A subject that does interest me, however, is the voice we really haven’t heard from much yet (except for Carol Lynn Pearson), the “beard”– the woman who loves and marries the homosexual man. Many didn’t know their husbands’ preferences when they knelt across the altar from them. Some– like Pearson– were aware of it from the get-go. Some, I suspect, believed their men either repented of those tendencies or felt their love and faith could cure them. And I can’t help but wonder if some got married– even though they knew they would fall into the category of Beard– because they were really close, loving friends and because they wanted to be married. I would very much like to hear their perspective; A documentary or essay should be made. ‘Nuff said.

Names have always been powerful and necessary symbols: We name our boats & cars, our pets (real & stuffed), consumer products (Captain Crunch, Mrs. Butterworth, et. al.), our baseball bats and hunting rifles. We give affectionate names to hurricanes and extinct animals and cavemen and planet-killing asteroids. Even bank robbers and serial killers get clever monikers to make them more attractive, ominous and/or cool.

Nicknames are also given and taken when the real ones just won’t do: “Lucky Lindy,” “Magic Johnson,” “The Chairman of the Board,” “The Boss.” Some are embraced so completely, we don’t even know their real names anymore– “Babe Ruth,” “Lady Bird,” “Buffalo Bill,” “Cher,” “Mark Twain.” I tried to get a nickname myself a couple of times over the years, like “Mr. Epitome” (it never caught on), and was given a couple more against my will, like “Peanut Head”– the result of wearing a hard hat with an afro.

Throughout history and to this day, names have been powerful resumes. For good or bad, they bring with them a lot of weight; the reputation of the bearer– the credit rating, if you will, of the person’s integrity, honesty, responsibility and behavior. A son could even gain passage at the mention of his father, such was the respect for names. It’s a currency we cannot afford to devalue.

In Othello, Shakespeare poetically illustrates the value of a name:

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing;
‘Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him
And makes me poor indeed.

Naming kids is a whole other bunch of bananas, but it still traces back to honor and/or symbolism. Many fathers are fond of naming their boys– and even some of their girls– after themselves (I’m not one of them), like it’s a legacy. My dad wanted me to have his name, John, so I was christened John David. As soon as I could spit out the Binky and talk I said, “Call me David.” A friend told me last night how she changed one of her daughters’ names three times because whenever she and her husband arrived at a name they liked, someone in the family objected– it reminded them of someone they didn’t like. Finally, on the last night they could legally change the baby’s name without paying a fee, they got out the list of the Top 20 Most Popular Names that year, and the husband closed his eyes and pointed. Today Brittany’s about to graduate high school, and my friend confessed, “I never liked that name.”

There’s also the Mormon legend about how a family patriarch blessed his granddaughter and gave her the name “Lynn Oleum —.” I’m torn here. It’s the kind of thing I can’t believe, but at the same time, knowing how some saints can be, I can’t totally discount it, either.

Then, of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t include the story of George Albert Smith. He once dreamed he had passed away and was in the spirit world walking through a forest. Suddenly, he saw his grandfather coming toward him. He was so happy to see him! His grandfather stopped him and said, “I would like to know what you have done with my name.” President Smith, who was named after his grandfather, paused to think and then answered, “I have never done anything with your name of which you need be ashamed.”

As you’ve probably suspected, I’m leading up to the point that we’re all taking upon us the name of Christ. More important than any of the aforementioned, taking Christ’s name is the primary and ultimate responsibility. I say we “are taking” instead of “have taken” because being baptized and receiving the sacrament are only expressions of a willingness to do so– as Brother Oaks calls it, “an expression of our candidacy.” The actual taking part is a perpetual process of faith and works. If any are to believe that baptism and confirmation, and the weekly bread and water, are the actual name-taken moments, they might as well join the ranks of the born agains (”I’ve been saved and I don’t need nothin’ else”). We take upon us the Lord’s name when we go to the temple and make covenants, when we proactively look for ways to serve, when we strive every day to be like Him– a becoming that doesn’t stop even after we’ve drawn our last mortal breath. Our goal is to keep taking His name until the day we have the same encounter with Him that George Albert Smith had with his grandfather. When my beloved Savior looks upon me and says, “I would like to know what you have done with my name,” I hope I can squarely look back at Him with a grateful smile and say something that pleases Him. For me, there will be no sweeter words than, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.” Oh, how I pray this to be so.

Switching gears:

The banana we eat today is not the one your grandparents ate. That one — known as the Gros Michel — was, by all accounts, bigger, tastier and hardier than the variety we know and love, which is called the Cavendish. The unavailability of the Gros Michel is easily explained: it is virtually extinct. Introduced to our hemisphere in the late 19th century, the Gros Michel was almost immediately hit by a blight that wiped it out by 1960. The Cavendish was adopted at the last minute by the big banana companies— Chiquita and Dole— because it was resistant to that blight, a fungus known as Panama disease… Now Panama disease is back, and the Cavendish does not appear to be safe from this new strain, which appeared two decades ago in Malaysia, spread slowly at first, but is now moving at a geometrically quicker pace. There is no cure, and nearly every banana scientist (If I had a nickel every time I heard a kid say, “I want to be a banana scientist…”) says that though Panama disease has yet to hit the banana crops of Latin America– which feed our hemisphere– the question is not if this will happen, but when. Even worse, the malady has the potential to spread to dozens of other banana varieties, including African bananas, the primary source of nutrition for millions.

The problem is that all banana plants around today are sterile (Chris, insert joke here). The only way to cultivate new plants is by cuttings (taking a small section of an existing plant and growing it into a big plant). Consequently, there is no way to introduce new variations. If all the varieties around today become susceptible to disease then that’s it– they’re gone. For those of us in the West that’s just one less choice in the supermarket, but there are vast swathes of the world where the banana is the staple carbohydrate source for millions of people. It’d be like the West no longer having anything to make flour for bread, and having no alternative. Anyone who thinks this isn’t a huge problem is wrong.

For over a half-century we’ve enjoyed television– some quality, some not. I come from a huge television-watching family. Growing up, I always had my favorites– some are still in syndication and some most of you probably never heard of: It Takes a Thief, Lost in Space, Combat!, The Name of the Game, The FBI, It’s About Time, Maya, Gomer Pyle, Laugh-In and Mannix are just a few shows in whose blue glow we basked. My parents enjoyed news programs like 60 Minutes, The Huntley-Brinkley Report and Meet the Press, and I watched a religious puppet show called Davey & Goliath (”The sign says ‘Danger’, Davey!”).

Television has morphed a lot over the years, mostly for the worse. It’s yet another signpost that tells me the world’s passing me by. Society treats the old wholesome fare such as the The Andy Griffith Show like they treat codes of morality– that is, cute naive’ novelties. Today’s viewer requires “edge” (Heck, I’m as guilty as the next guy, but I still watch Andy Griffith), with plenty of graphic violence, sexual content, adult subject matter and shock value. And “reality.”

Reality TV is the banana gombu of the family television. And anyone who thinks it isn’t a huge problem is wrong.

I thought I was jaded enough to chuckle and shake my head at just about anything… Hell’s Kitchen, Trading Spouses, The Hills, Cheaters, that show on Bravo about stage moms…(I’m not going to include Ice Road Truckers here. That’s just good, wholesome family fun)… but The Moment of Truth blindsided me– full-scale blew me away. Here we’re being entertained by spouses admitting to each other how they lied to them, want to cheat on them, have no respect for them… kids revealing to parents how they blame them for their unhappiness, parents letting kids know how they gambled away their college funds…in front of 14.7 million viewers… in the hopes they get that cool half-mil. I have to change the channel even when the damn commercial comes on! And how ironic is the title of the show? How poorly we attend our names when we let our guards down.

I wince when I think of the stupid things I do, how immature and unrefined I am. I reflect on how far I’ve gone in life and how little I seem to have learned from it. It’s in these moments I pray, “Please Lord, don’t take me anytime soon. I’ve so much I still need to fix. I know I can do it. Just, please, some more time.”

And the girls in their summer clothes pass me by.

We woke up this morning to an overcast sky, the smell of smoke and our cars covered with chunks of ash. Universal Studios was burning. The town square and clock tower from Back to the Future (also Clint Eastood’s Hang ‘Em High)– gone. The New York street, used in countless films, gone. The King Kong attraction, gone. At this writing, the fire’s still spending its last flames but is securely contained. I know it’s wrong, but on a certain level this bums me out more than the recent global disasters.

Although at bottom mysterious– like so much of human behavior, especially in the tidal matter of moods– it seems road rage is my soul’s last great colossus of corruption that needs to be overtaken. To be sure, I’ve a healthy bounty of other predators swimming my soul’s ocean, but this one’s the great white eating the Amity vacationers. This was no boating accident!!

Then it is with great joy I shout praises to the heavens: Prepare ye, the Rapture comes July 1st!

Well, almost.

I guess it’s age, but I’m becoming less and less tolerant with others on the road– or they’ve become less and less considerate– or both. Lately it seems the turn signal’s become an option rather than a law, and now cars either sort of meander or suddenly bolt from lane to lane without warning as their whims direct them. Vehicles in the adjacent lane speed up to close the gap when you signal to squeeze in. And as you’re waiting to make that left turn when the yellow light turns red, third and fourth oncoming cars sneak through the stoplight so they don’t have to wait that 60 seconds for the next one… leaving you to deal with the oncoming cars from the sides. And there are so many other me-first scenarios.

My biggest peeve, though, the one that turns me into the fist-shaking fogey I swore I’d never become, is the self-absorbed cell phone driver. I can always tell when someone in front of me is on the phone by the way they drive. They’re slower to react to the traffic dynamic around them, stunted in their road responses, semi-oblivious to neighbors’ attempts that require their full attention. The very worst are the ones on the cell while looking for a street or address. In short, they’re holy hazards, Batman.

Our beloved Governor “It Is Not a Tumor” Arnold, aware of these dillweeds, signed a bill stating that in California drivers cannot travel with hand held cell phones– They have to either use a bluetooth or car-installed hands-free device. And that law, my friends, goes into effect July 1st.

My only disappointment in the new law is its mild penalties: First offenders pay $20. Subsequent violators have to dole out $50 a pop. Chump change for the Beemer bozos. And yet, what vindication in the streets there’ll be as we faithful ones witness perps being pulled over and protesting with their pathetic feigned ignorance (yet another reason why I’m not ready for heaven– still getting pleasure from other people’s spankings). I suspect, though, it’s not going to change traffic behavior too dramatically.

Only a spike in fist-shaking fogeys yelling “You’re breaking the law!” and lots of responding fingers.

It’s evident that my faith is far from what it should be.

Saw Million Dollar Baby again last night (that final half-hour is brutal) and my reaction was the same as the before: I saw myself doing for Hillary Swank exactly what Clint did at the end. Turn off the machine, give her the injection. Send her on her journey. Put in the same position, I would have begged her not to ask it of me. I would have prayed, talked to my bishop, pleaded with my Lord. I would have given the woman a blessing– a battery of blessings. Then, when put to the test– when all efforts resulted in no results and it was apparent my beloved was destined to a long, drawn-out existence of paralysis, machine-assisted breathing, pustulent sores, persistent reminders of amputed limbs and endless days of misery– I’d drop the curtain on her.

I think I interpret the Church’s position correctly, that it agrees with me. But for those who’d immediately respond with “You’ll be held accountable for her murder,” I would fire back, “How’s the view from the cheap seats, bud? Seriously.” I’m not entirely convinced that, in such situations, the Lord expects us to sit by and wait for Him to do His will, and I think if those who disagree with me found themselves in precisely that same scenario, more than a few of would change their minds. “But there’s a reason the Lord is allowing them to linger in their pain. It’s a test for them, and their loved ones.” I agree, but what’s the test? Is it for them to learn patience in their afflictions, or is it for us to learn mercy by relieving them from their perpetual and inescapable hell? What more could they possibly gain from their mortal journey?

In truth, I’m torn. I would not fare well with this test. Either decision would haunt me, even if I almost convinced myself it was the right thing to do.

And now for a little Johnny Cash. See how many faces you recognize.

In 1974 my parents bought a three-story 3B/2Ba house in the 8400 South 1500 East area of Sandy, UT for $33,000. Perspective: Today you can get a new Toyota FJ Cruiser with GPS and a full-size spare for around that.

As Memorial Day weekend draws to a close, it marks the second straight week we’ve officially been house hunting. The experience has been interesting (if not frustrating) as we’ve watched house, condo and development owners struggle to sustain the idea that their properties are really worth those inflated prices they’re posting… well, maybe a little less… well okay, you’re killing us, but we’ll whack off another $100K just to save time. Indeed, new condo developments 30 miles from Los Angeles– that haven’t even been built yet– are hawking 1,300 sq. ft. “luxury units” for $700,000 without cracking a smile. We’re talking the ‘burbs, people– an hour from the beach– not Malibu, from where thousands will have to commute for up to an hour at $5 a gallon. And these sellers are acting like there’s a demand to meet that supply…like every other house on the block doesn’t already have a ‘For Sale’ sign choking with overgrown weeds.

We’re actually shopping in those suburbs, partly because we can still get more house for the price and mostly because of the quality of life these removed areas offer. The crime is low, the areas groomed and family-oriented, the people largely “normal.” The commute is bruising, but a sacrifice we feel is worth making. And despite the doggedness of those trying to get back what they paid for during those bullish market days 3 years ago, there are some relatively reasonable deals… well, less ridiculous, anyway. We have our eye on a fixer-upper– and when I say “fixer-upper,” I’m not tossing the term out lightly. This place needs a full-blown holy-water-by-Rain-Bird exorcism. On the plus side, it’s larger than the average home in its price range, and it’s funky. My wife calls it a “Brady Bunch home,” and thank goodness for her. A professional designer, she looks beyond the cottage cheese ceilings and moldy carpet, and sees what the place really could be (now you know why she married me). So we’re probably going to make an offer, which only heightens our anxiety. Investing all that money and labor into something we hope is the right choice. Thousands take this step every day, but that doesn’t lighten our hearts any. This is a time where we really need to be in tune with the Lord and pray we recognize the promptings. Tune in…

The fourth Sunday lesson was based on Cheryl Lant’s conference talk, “Righteous Traditions” and yours truly got to teach it in HP yesterday. I love to teach, but hate looking like the quorum stage hog (there’s already one in the room) and I try to hire from within whenever I can. I mean, as the GL I’m supposed to spread the love, let others dance. But calling these guys, asking them to teach, feels sometimes like I’m going down the phone book asking girls to the prom. Come on, dude, I know you’re there, I saw your car in the driveway. As luck would have it I didn’t have the time to work the digits this week, so once again I surrendered to sweet destiny (I am my density). Thank the stars it wasn’t a big, hairy subject because I had no time to prepare. Traditions– we all have them. Our parents’ families had theirs, we have ours, lots of material to work with and conjure from the audience. The lesson actually went well.

I didn’t think the family I grew up in was very big on traditions. We were dull that way. But then pondering the subject, I came up with a laundry list of them. Weird traditions. For example, when I was a kid in NY, on school half-days, if it rained we went out for a slice of pizza for lunch. It was a rock-solid rule. All other celebrations– birthdays, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, report cards, Bastille Day– were held at the Sun Ming Chinese restaurant in Long Island. Some of our happiest hours were spent there and it wouldn’t surprise me if the edifice had been delivered up to Enoch like Chinese take-out. Another tradition: When visiting my mom’s parents, my grandpa– “Pop”– would always take me to the Hudson River to look at the boats, then he’d pick up a bottle of schnapps on the way home. In this ritual he was as reliable as Mussolini’s trains. Another: When I was sick– and it didn’t matter if it was an upset stomach, the Hong Kong flu or blunt force trauma– I was given ginger ale. Next time I talk to Mom, I’ll have to ask her if we had health insurance.

Some traditions were less weird, like celebrating our dachshund’s birthday, or Pop always cooking the Thanksgiving turkey, or the family eating dinner on TV trays during Wild, Wild West and the Movie of the Week. One year Dad tried to start a new tradition by building a small sailboat with a nautically-savvy buddy, and that summer I learned the rudiments of sailing. It was going to be a family ritual of bonding and life lessons. Instead, Dad left the boat tied to the dock over the winter, the rudder was stolen and the boat sank. I’m sure there was a life lesson there somewhere.

My own family’s traditions are less weird, and I mostly credit my wise and conventional wife– and her enthusiastic protege, Miss D.– for this. If it were up to me, traditions might have included going to see Burning Man, jaunts to Alcatraz, dead Hollywood celebrity tours and Festivus (Wikipedia it if you’re not familiar). As it stands, the T. family traditions include beach camping every summer, giving Miss D. a blessing when she starts a new school year, and having Gruyere cheese and chocolate fondue on New Year’s Eve (not in the same pot). We hide the pickle in the Christmas tree and sprinkle reindeer food on the driveway, and Dad always cooks the steaks.

What struck me about this week’s lesson was how our family traditions make strong impacts on the kids (like pizza slices on rainy Thursdays) and help root their values. So whatever traditions we choose we ought to do it thoughtfully, almost prayerfully– at the very least, ponderously. And it’s never too late to start a new tradition, even if the kids are in high school, or even if the parents are once again alone. It’s astounding what seemingly benign ritual can solidify a family’s strength and values.

The Church brings with it all kinds of good traditions, such as blessing the food, Family Home Evening and taking the sacrament. All wards have their own traditions, too. Ours has an annual Talent Show & Taquito Dinner, we do the Trunk or Treat thing for Halloween, and we have an annual Movie Night where members in “the Industry” share some of their lesser know “underground” stuff. These traditions have bound our congregation and have made it feel more like a family.

I used to good-naturedly endure the traditions the two women in my home constantly tried to adopt into our lives. Now I realize they’re only fortifying the eternal integrity of our family.

And I’ll be damned if I don’t hunt for a pickle in the Christmas tree for that.

I try to be careful about who I recommend The Passion of the Christ to. It’s a heavy, brutal, unsettling film and loiters around an area that can be construed as either exploitive or inspiring. I happen to be a fan of Mel Gibson (Apocalypto brought the Lamanites to life) and felt Passion was an insightful, disturbingly accurate portrayal of the Lord’s trial, torture and execution. I accepted it as a gift because it gave me the opportunity to more fully appreciate the extreme suffering He received on my behalf– more than prose could offer, perhaps more than anything short of a vision could give. It portrayed the high priests as mob instigators to such a convincing length, I believed this must be how it played out. I also liked Mel’s portrayal of the adversary, an homage to the Death character in The Seventh Seal, that stirred monstrous rage wherever he lurked.

Because the movie had such an impact on me, it’s not surprising that I was reminded of it when I read this article:

I Was Tortured to Confess, Pervez Tells Appeal Court

By Kim Sengupta

Monday, 19 May 2008

Pervez Kambaksh, the Afghan student sentenced to death after being accused of downloading internet reports on women’s rights, yesterday pleaded innocent to charges of blasphemy. He told an appeal court in Kabul that he had been tortured into confessing.

Mr Kambaksh, 24, vehemently denied that he had been responsible for producing anti-Islamic literature. He insisted the prosecution had been motivated by personal malice of two members of staff and their student supporters at the university in Balkh, where he was studying journalism. He was convicted in proceedings behind closed doors in a trial which he said had lasted just four minutes and where he had been denied legal representation.

Yesterday, in the first public hearing of the case, the prosecution claimed that Mr Kambaksh had disrupted classes at the university by asking questions about women’s rights under Islam. It also said he distributed an article on the subject after writing an additional three paragraphs including the phrase “This is the real face of Islam … The prophet Mohamad wrote verses of the holy Koran just for his own benefit.”

In a highly emotional statement, Mr Kambaksh said: “I’m Muslim and I would never let myself write such an article. These accusations are nonsense, [they] come from two professors and other students because of private hostilities against me. I was tortured by the intelligence service in Balkh province and they made me confess that I wrote three paragraphs in this article.”

Mr Kambaksh represented himself because his family are having difficulties finding a lawyer to represent him after threats by fundamentalist groups that anyone taking on the job would be killed. The head of the panel of three judges at Kabul, Abdul Salaam Qazizada, adjourned the trial until next Sunday to allow Mr Kambaksh further attempts to find a lawyer. As of last night they had not succeeded.

The original trial took place in January. Mr Kambaksh’s appeal was moved to Kabul at his own request, amid fears for his safety in Mazar after international outrage at the sentence. A petition by The Independent to secure justice for him has attracted more than 100,000 signatures.

Prosecutor Ahmad Khan Ayar told the appeals court that the primary provincial court sentence to hang him was “the right decision” according to Islamic law and the Afghan constitution. “Kambaksh has insulted Islam by writing these paragraphs, and he has insulted the Prophet Mohamed. I ask the appeals court to uphold the decision of the primary court of Balkh and sentence him to death.” Under Islamic law, stipulated in Afghanistan’s constitution, blasphemy is punishable by death.

Two other Afghan journalists, accused of blasphemy and sentenced to death, escaped prison and have been given asylum in the West. Mr Kambaksh’s case has been raised with President Hamid Karzai by Foreign Secretary David Miliband and the US secretary of state Condoleezza Rice.

Of course I’m not saying Mr. Kambaksh is like the Savior, but rather that the Deceiver– our fallen brother– can still be seen peeking through the curtains of another ridiculous road show.

Speaking of ridiculous road shows, I’m not going to go into what I think about the Idol results.

The stake blood drive was held again yesterday. Our ward’s representative is an 80-something sister who used to be something of a crooner back in the day, and more recently can be spotted in films like Princess Diaries. I get giddy when I see her name on the sacrament program as giving the invocation because she reads them from 3 x 5 cards (once she even stopped in the middle of the prayer, rapped on the mike and asked, “Is this thing on?”), she always delivers her lines with Oscar-performance passion, and by the time she’s done asking blessings for everyone from President Bush to Britney and K-Fed, a quarter of the meeting’s already over. But when the blood drive is back in town, she’s relentless in getting sign-ups, and kind of creeps me out when she begins each plea with “I want your blood.” That glint in her eye– I believe she really does. I arrived at the stake center at 7pm and started checking off the little squares on the clipboard. A few of us were quipping as we checked: “No, I haven’t accepted money for sex since 1977″ … “Yes, I have HIV, but I love the free cranberry juice and Lorna Doones.” One sister– totally serious– asked out loud, “Do you think they care if you’re menstruating?” I remained deeply engrossed in my questionnaire and moved over another seat.

Saw the high councilman in charge of the drive today when I walked into his sandwich shop. Turns out our ward easily had the highest turnout as we delivered over half the donors. The Red Cross really do have our number, though. Bring cookies and punch, and they come in droves.

Isn’t this picture of McCain and Mitt warm & fuzzy? Two amigos hitting the trail. The blogs are abuzz with musings of Romney being Brother John’s running mate. I dare not dream it, but it makes perfect sense. Mitt’s got the love of the RNC and too many power player buddies to list. Plus he’s already demonstrating he knows how to play the role of wingman (anyone see that episode of How I Met Your Mother? Miss D. and I are die-hard viewers). I read yesterday that if Hillary lost the DNC, up to 36% of her voters would retreat to McCain. On the other hand, if Obama lost 18% would turn into “Mac is Back” chanters. So… Go Obama! Heh-heh.

Since I last brought up the subject, I decided to come back home to the GOP. The Dems make me too nervous and Ron Paul doesn’t have a prayer. Now, Mitt Romney & Ron Paul– there’s a Dream Team. Yeah, and monkeys might fly out of my butt (as Miss D. likes to say). But John McCain up against Barack Obama… there’s a lot of pepper in that buckshot. I think America would ultimately go for the old warrior. But then again, what does America know? The older I get the less sure-footed I am to answer that question.

Damn you, David Cook fans! (Charlton Heston voice) Damn you all to hell!

Oops– did I say that out loud?

One of the curses of my lineage is that, like my father, I got gray early. At age 48 my hair is now completely white– just like Steve Martin’s. My face is still youthful, my demeanor downright sophomoric, but the noggin’s thoroughly Ancient of Days. I went to the local IHOP for lunch today for an egg white-veggie omelet and my waitress– a pretty, petite Latina– was so cheerful, she actually sang when she asked if I wanted coffee or juice. She then glided from table to table, a big smile and a hello for everyone, and I thought, wait–she’s a waitress! She makes little over minimum wage and she deals with throes of deadbeats every day. Why is she so happy? When my change came from my bill I saw she gave me too much back, and I pointed this out. 

“For the Senior’s Special,” she beamed. 

“What?? Wait–” I stammered. 

“No, it’s okay,” she said with her hand on my shoulder, almost conspiratorially. “You look good.” 

Not sure what she meant by that. Was she saying she gave me the discount ’cause I could get away with it? Or that it was all right because I qualified? Either way, I left her a bigger tip than usual. Not because she gave me the discount, but because she didn’t have to. And because she was so happy. Because she blessed my visit. 

As most other kids growing up in Salt Lake, whenever I wanted to get somewhere, I usually rode my bike. A favorite place for me to visit was the Cottonwood Mall, and I’d ride down 33rd South from East Milcreek and through Holladay to get there. I remember I knew I was getting close when I passed a little square building called the Kolob Credit Union. Even at age 12 I felt the name was tacky beyond words, and I’d shake my head and sneer at it with all the contempt my tween face could muster as I rode by. 

There are times when I’m very homesick for Utah. I don’t get back there as often as I used to– life’s just gotten too darn hectic– and I NEVER do the 10-hour drive between LA and SLC anymore like I used to. It’s hard to believe that, while Utah will always remain *HOME*, I’ve lived in Los Angeles eight years longer. 

Something I don’t miss about my beloved Beehive State, though, is the merchandising of anything Church. I used to joke that I’d make a million if I came out with a line of kids underwear called Garmeroos (”I’m a Gadianton Robber!” “I’m an Anti-Nephi-Lehite!”) I internally cringe whenever I venture into a Deseret Book and see all the Mormon games and novels and tchotchke displayed as point-of-purchase items (Joseph Smith eraser heads make excellent stocking stuffers!) While much of it isn’t in bad taste, and might even be beneficial in instructing kids, there’s still a lot that’s iffy and makes me question the motivation of their creation. Take, for example, a “couples” game entitled The Celestial Companions Game– (Box description: “Newlyweds, couples with children, and even those celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary will enjoy this lighthearted lurch into eternal marriage!”) “Brethren, where will your help meets say is the strangest place you ever “made cookies?” “That would be in the cold room, Bob!” 

Some of the names are enough to make you want to put your arm to the square: Search, Ponder and PLAY!; It Came to Pass (a game where you discard cards); Hold to the Rod (”mind-boggling fun” where your team advances to the Tree of Life); and my personal favorite, Split the Ward (Object: “You and your friends and family have been called to help rearrange a cast of zany characters into new leadership positions as quickly as possible!”) Sound training for future stake leaders. 

Even more offensive is when businesses include silhouettes of a temple or Moroni in their logos– or have names like “Kolob” or “Liahona”, though their companies have nothing to do with anything remotely Church-related. Just a wink and a nudge to other members who want to “keep it in the family.” But David, it’s what makes us so special! Sorry, I have a court order which says that word can’t come within a hundred feet of me. 

Of course, I would never go through with the kids underwear project… 

But I’ve got this great idea for Angel Moroni bottle stoppers.

I love the moments when I bond with another brother after doing a Church service.

I was driving home from Stake Temple Night Friday, along with a brother who’s a month short of turning 80. It was a particularly good session and we went home with a little more wind in our sails. The brother, a sweet man who still teaches karate to families, has a tendency of either staying real quiet or running his sentences in a steady stream, disregarding punctuation or breathing in his delivery. And since he joined the Church late in his life, he tends to have at his disposal more colorful stories than a high councilman or, say, your garden variety longshoreman.

“Yeah, boy, I love the Church, but I really miss women. I need a woman. You know before I joined, I was having an affair with a married woman. Yeah, she was swell– Connie’s her name, man she had this wild red hair, y’know– and one day she says to me, ‘My husband’s being relocated to Vegas, so we’re buying a house over there. How about if you buy a house over there?’ And I said ‘Well sure why not,’ and so we’re living in the same neighborhood and just continuing like we always have. But then, you know, I’m visiting my brother in LA, and the missionaries knock on the door and I answer it and I’m thinking what they say’s pretty good so I get the lessons. And then I tell them I want to get baptized and they say I’ll have to stop drinking and sleeping with married women. And I’m thinkin’ to myself, that’s okay, I’ll just sleep with unmarried women. But then, you know, when I’m being interviewed they tell me I can’t sleep with any women except my wife, and I’m thinkin’ wait a minute do I really want this? But yeah I go ahead and do it and now I haven’t been with a woman for something like 20 years. I don’t want a woman my own age, y’know, she’s gotta be younger. Like when I moved into the ward I saw this one woman and I’m askin’ Mike, ‘Hey, who’s that? She’s pretty good-lookin'’ and he says, ‘Hey man, that’s the bishop’s wife’ and I’m all, Oh shoot, just my luck, y’know? I miss bourbon, too. Wild Turkey…”

I’m just grateful no one else was in the car trying to change the subject. Temple cab confessions, man, pearls o’ wisdom. And I’m just driving the car, going, “Uh-huh. Yeah. Uh-huh…”

Then he says, “How about you?” Playing like I don’t know what he means, I volunteer that I used to like Jack Daniels. “Another bourbon man! I didn’t know that about you, Dave, put ‘er there. Gee, yeah, you like Wild Turkey too? How about women?” “Um… I joined the church too young. I was a virgin when I got married.” “Aw, that’s great, I mean it, I’m jealous. ‘Cause I just slept around way too much y’know, I mean what was to stop me?”

Indeed, what was to stop him. Certainly not me. So as the lights of the temple continued to shrink in my rear view mirror, I was going home with Willie Nelson and all the girls he loved before. Should I have stopped his debauchery discourse? I didn’t think so, not at the time. Afterward I second-guessed myself, of course, but while driving down the freeway that night, listening to this seasoned, lonely brother who gave up all his favorite pleasures for the Lord, I felt it was fine for him to share it– albeit enthusiastically– as a way to let me know how much he loved the Lord.

Since I’ve been LDS I’ve come across those who would have me believe because I’ve abandoned certain pleasures when I converted, I shouldn’t like them anymore. Well, liking and being afflicted with temptations of them are two different things in my book. As far as I know I still like bourbon and I still like coffee. I just don’t partake of them anymore because I’ve covenanted not to. In fact, since it is just casual fondness for these things and not wholesale allurement, I count it as a credit to me to hold fast to my convictions. If it was planted in my heart to despise these things, that wouldn’t be much of an exercise in faith.

In the meantime, I’m not sure what impresses me the most: That this guy would tell me of his wild escapades, that he easily dropped all for the Church or that he bought a house in Vegas just to keep dating Connie the Wild Married Redhead.

The touchy-feely sock puppets of the self-help posse will tell you that before you can love anyone else, you have to love yourself (there’s actually a web site called loveyourselffirst.com). My experience, however, leans me more toward the notion that I can’t love myself until I love others. To love me, I have to do something for someone else first. During those occasional fugues of egocentricity, I get underlying moods of self-loathing and a sense of worthlessness, and its not until I force myself to serve that I’m wild about me again. I’m not saying my camp is the right one. The Lord’s second greatest commandment is to love thy neighbor as thyself (Mark 12:31), suggesting that love for self comes first. Maybe I’m confusing “love” for “like”, but i don’t think so.

True love (or as Miracle Max in “Princess Bride” called it, “to blaav“) is something projected outward towards someone else, no? Am I my own true love? (Not hardly.) Again, the Lord pointed out, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13) Therefore, love of self is not true love– or pure love. On the other hand, love of self doesn’t encompass narcissism, either, regardless of what Wikipedia wouid have you believe. That’s true lust, which is fun, too, I agree.

Getting back to true love… What is that, exactly? If you had asked me 34 years ago, I’d of told you it was the blonde roller girl at the A&W with the really tight butt. My opinion’s sort of evolved over time (I suspect so has her butt). Rita Rudner once said, “I never fell in love… I stepped in it a few times.” Is true love the “can’t breathe, can’t think until I see them again” feeling we had in the beginning of our relationships (prank calling them at 3am, singing “On the Street Where You Live”), or the unmurmuring willingness to clean dirty bums when it isn’t our turn, or watching Merchant Ivory when Clint Eastwood is on another channel, or still holding hands and opening car doors at age 90? Is true love our relationship, or is it us– our frames of mind? And is it right to think of true love as a condition only involving couples? We seem to keep the term within those parameters. Is true love real? Is it something we fell into, or did it come later? Or, is it like a religious love, accompanied by soft-filtered lenses and “ooo-ooooo’s” in the background?

I guess I love myself, but not like I used to. Back in the day I had a mad crush on me, wild infatuation. These days it’s more like routine, habit. Running around, doing for others, every once in a while I’ll look in the mirror and go “There, there.” I do still open the door for me when I think about it. *sigh*… What can I say? The romance is dead.

“They shouldn’t do that,” said Miss D, as we got ready to step into the Haunted Mansion’s tomb buggy.

“What’s that?” I asked. I really didn’t feel like being at Disneyland that day, but we were hooking up with D’s cousins. The place was packed, of course. It was a Saturday and spring breaks were still in season.

“They use this really spooky voice to tell you how much danger you’re gonna be in– and then they say it in Spanish! It ruins the whole thing!”

As the tomb buggies lead us into the dark chasm of horror, the menacing voice flows through the speakers, and then repeats its monition with Cuidado! Espiritus pidiendo aventon!. The ride presses forward as we all crack up, being swallowed by the awful black gloom.

Testimony meeting can be like that. Every once in a while you enjoy a powerful run of testimonies and the Spirit’s strong, and the air in the room is thick. Then someone with an agenda or need to be paid attention to jumps up and throws something out that’s thoroughly cringe-worthy. In industry-speak, it tears down the third wall and we’re left in the benches to say, “Oh shoot… it’s gone” (”It” being that suspension of imagery that took us to a special place). I know, I know… everyone’s got the right to get up and bear their testimony. But seriously, must the podium be used as a forum for such ham-handed, thinly-veiled self-gratification? Are blessings in store for these bozos? I especially get frustrated when the perpetrator forces their rumination into the meeting when it clearly goes against the grain. One suspects they, too, feel the unnaturalness of it, but are so hell-bent on getting it out there, they either don’t care or panic and push it through anyway. Either way, the result remains espiritus pidiendo avento!

Hard to believe I haven’t written since April 18th. Too much stuff going on. We have a new bishop– MM, the soon-to-be-ex ward mission leader. They did something strange this time, and I’d be very interested to learn the motivation behind it: When the new bishop’s counselors were called to their positions, they weren’t told who the bishop was going to be– they only found out when it was announced to the congregation. One of the counselors later came up to me and said, “That was so weird, extending the callings and not telling us who the bishop was. Don’t you think that’s weird? I’ve never heard of that.” A high councilman later said with a grin, “The stake presidency’s playing their cards close to the vest.”

The mood in the bishop’s office has noticeably changed. The former bishop was a rock star, smooth and funny, well-seasoned, comfortable with Church politics and administration, having sat down with general authorities and world dignitaries regarding the Church’s relationship with the Middle East. He has such a keen perspective of the big picture and I wholeheartedly look upon him as a mentor. The new bishop still needs to get his sea legs but already conveys a strong spirit of love and purposeful maneuverability. Definitely impressive. I do, however, suspect things are more black & white with him. Okay, let me take a step back for a moment and just say I count this man to be my friend, and will utterly and completely throw in my support to his guidance and wishes. I already know him as a tremendous servant of the Lord, visiting and blessing so many of the invisible members we don’t hang out with at church. He is always eager to say yes when asked for help and has been there for me more times than I can count. And of course, he sits in an office I’ve covenanted to obey. It’s just the pragmatism that makes me nervous.

Which is a waste of energy since we’re currently shopping for homes in a town about 30 miles away. House hunting is dizzying. I have no fondness for people who find their dream home on the second or third visit. I want to take a golden retriever over there and let it have its way with their lawn after feeding it a can of Hormel chili. Still, it is a wonderful time to buy: For Sale signs on every block, prices dropping 20% from a year ago, banks flush with foreclosures, eager to clear inventory. Best of all, it’s so burb up there, something I sorely miss. I want to walk the paseos at dusk with my trusty, relieved golden retriever.

Something else I miss– but will be considerably more difficult to get– a gun. I want a handgun. It’s so un-PC– so carburetors & Coors– but it’s a very real attraction. Growing up in Utah you couldn’t help but get caught up in the rite of passage of gun ownership. Heck, our ward’s scout troop went to the Holladay Gun Club to learn gun safety and how to get our NRA memberships. The smell of gunpowder to a 12-year old boy had the same aphrodisiac effect as opening a fresh, new jar of peanut butter. I didn’t want to go hunting, I just wanted the firepower. Ka-BOOM! As a scout I had an old .410, and a .22/.20 gauge over-under, both which I took to the desert whenever I could to “shoot stuff.” When I was first married, in a moment of weakness I gave them away to my punk brother-in-law, and I’ve looked back ever since. The gun I now have in mind for this 12-year old in a 48-year old body: The Desert Eagle .50. Manufactured in Israel, this formidable weapon is impractical for both self-defense and hunting–but it’s SOOOO awesome for shooting stuff! It’s like missing your old Schwinn banana seat 2-speed and buying a Harley 1200cc chopper. BUT (as I try to point out to my lovely & opposing help meet), it’s also a lot cheaper than the chopper– and a lot of middle-aged guys go out and get those. Mormon men (at least the non-metrosexual ones) love their guns, and who am I to be denied? To be continued…

Something I learned about the Church today that I had never heard before: According to the Church manual, wards are discouraged from having spouses do the Sacrament meeting invocation and benediction on the same Sunday. Why? To keep the singles from feeling bad.

I suspect this rule wasn’t implemented in the 20th century.

We don’t hear Matthew Cowley stories much anymore. Brother Cowley, as some of you may remember, was an early 20th century apostle who noteworthily raised souls from the dead– or more accurately, was instrument in the Lord’s hand raising them from the dead. Brother Cowley was also a brilliant writer and speaker, and if you have the time to peruse any of his talks, absolutely do it. Here’s an excerpt from a talk dated 1957 that he gave regarding miracles:

I was called to a home in a little village in New Zealand one day. There the Relief Society sisters were preparing the body of one of our Saints. They had placed his body in front of the Big House as they call it, the house where the people came to wail and weep and mourn over the dead, when in rushed the dead man’s brother.

He said, “Administer to him”

And the young natives said, “Why, you shouldn’t do that; he’s dead.”

“You do it!”

This same old man that I had with me when his niece was so ill was there. The younger native got down on his knees, and he anointed the dead man. Then this great old sage got down and blessed him and commanded him to rise. You should have seen the Relief Society sisters scatter. And he sat up, and he said, “Send for the elders; I don’t feel very well.” Now, of course, all of that was just psychological effect on that dead man. Wonderful, isn’t it–this psychological effect business? Well, we told him he had just been administered to, and he said: “Oh, that was it.” He said, “I was dead. I could feel life coming back into me just like a blanket unrolling.” Now, he outlived the brother that came in and told us to administer to him.

One of the pinnacle moments in the New Testament for me is when Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead. It was certainly one of His more dramatic miracles, and I appreciate the cinematic opportunity of the scene, which is not completely without humor:

Jesus said, “Take ye away the stone!”

Martha, the sister of him that was dead, saith unto him, “Lord, by this time he stinketh– for he hath been dead four days!”

Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid.

Jesus cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus come forth!”

And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes, and his face was bound about with a napkin.”

That would have been something to see: “Hey, Shlomo! Check it out, man!”

Everything is all so close together, the good and evil around us. It pulls our attention every day from the miracles that happen within our peripherals. I never participated in raising someone from the dead (I did kill a sister with a blessing once), but I came close this past winter. An older brother went to the hospital with an ailment and after he got there, as is often the case, one disoirder after another took turns threatening his life. At one point, the 80-something man was emaciated, drugged and weak to immobility. We visited him, prayed with him, gave him blessings. He wasn’t ready to go– he knew his sick wife wouldn’t be able to handle things without him, and his affairs weren’t in the order he wanted them to be. Then something clicked. His body rallied back its strength and conquered every malady one at a time. Not only did he recover, he came out of retirement soon thereafter and is now a partner in an accounting technology firm. I’ve said it before: I can’t make this stuff up.

In an article simply entitled Miracles, Dallin Oaks wrote that miracles are not available for the asking. I’d like to amend that just a tad by saying I believe they are not always for the asking– that is, miracles are provided when help is requested in faith, however, such as is the case with the gravely ill, the miracle asked for might be contrary to the Lord’s plan. So then, one miracle might be replaced with another (such as healing hearts and strengthening faith). Speaking of miracles that do come for the asking, when I experience something as trivial (though they don’t feel trivial at the time) as losing my wallet or a needful document, and when I feel I’ve exhausted my options, I’ll turn to the Lord and I can’t recall once when He hadn’t brought me to them in a timely manner. Or if my wife and I pray for a beneficial outcome to a particular situation, and it happens, whether or not it was a miracle is beyond debate. The thought alone that all things are possible to him that believeth is a declaration that miracles buoy us throughout our lives whether we always acknowledge them or not. Despite some of the bonehead choices I’ve made in my life, because of my faith in God, I’ve been over-compensated in blessings. Could it be the over-compensation of blessings we receive are bestowed as a means to feed our humility, and therefore strengthen our faith? I know my feelings of unworthiness humble the heck out of me.

Here’s another great Matthew Cowley excerpt:

A few weeks ago I was called to the County Hospital in Salt lake City by a mother. I didn’t know her. She said her boy was dying from polio and asked if I would come down and give that boy a blessing. So I picked up a young bishop [Glen Rudd] whom I generally take with me, for I think his faith is greater than mine, and I always like him along. We went down there, and here was this young lad in an iron lung, unconscious, his face rather a blackish color, with a tube in his throat, and they said he had a tube lower down in his abdomen. he had been flown in from an outlying community. The mother said to me, “This is an unusual boy. Not because he’s my child, but he is an unusual boy.” I think he was eight or nine years of age. After they put the usual coverings on us, we went in, and we blessed that boy. It was one of those occasions when I knew as I laid my hands upon that lad that he was unusual boy, and he had faith. Having faith in his faith, I blessed him to get well and promised him he would. I never heard any more about him until last Sunday. I was on my way to Murray to conference; I dropped in the County Hospital, and I asked if I might see the lad. The nurse said, “Certainly. Walk right down the hall.” as I walked down the hall, out came the boy running to meet me. He ran up and asked, “Are you Brother Cowley?”

And I said, “Yes.”

He said, “I want to thank you for that prayer.” He added, “I was unconscious then wasn’t I?”

I replied, “You certainly were.”

He said, “That’s the reason I don’t recognize you.” Then he asked, “Come in my room; I want to talk to you.” He was an unusual boy. Well, we went in the room. He still had a tube in his throat. I said, “How long are you going to have that tube there?”

He said, “Oh, two weeks, two more weeks, and then I’m all well. How about another blessing?”

So I said, “Certainly.” I blessed him again. I was in a hurry. I wanted to get out to my conference. But he stopped me and asked, “Hey, how about my partner in the next bed?” There was a young fellow about sixteen or seventeen.

I said, “What do you mean?”

He said, “Don’t go without blessing him. He’s my partner.”

I said, “Sure.” Then I asked the boy, “Would you like a blessing?”

He said, “Yes, sir. I’m a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood in my ward.” I blessed him, and then my little friend went and brought another fellow in. Here was another partner. And I blessed him.

Now, except ye believe as a child, you can’t receive these blessings. We have to have the faith of a child in order to believe in these things, especially when you reach college age, and your minds are so full of skepticism and doubt. I guess there are some things you should doubt. But you can become as little children in these things. Miracles are commonplace, brothers and sisters.

The greatest miracles, of course, come about when we reach out to others, especially when they don’t ask for it. It’s such an uncomfortable endeavor for our natural selves to perform, and when we try we sometimes “pull our punches,” delivering almost-apologetic gestures instead of the full-hearted acts we were inspired to do. We second-guess ourselves, asking, “Is it better to extend myself, or to respect their privacy and spare them any undue embarrassment?” The answer of course is always the former, and is only a mistake if we lose heart in the middle of the effort.

The other thing to consider is recognizing the miracles for what they are. We’re bombarded daily with a white noise of positive and negative stimuli, and it requires the faithful and thoughtful heart to perceive the blessings from heaven. As Claire said when confronted with remarkable events in her family’s life, in the movie Grand Canyon: “What if these are miracles, Mack? Maybe we don’t have any experience with miracles, so we’re slow to recognize them.” I’m not a fan of the hymn Count Your Blessings, but it’s message is true– if only it didn’t have that corny delivery and cadence.

The Reverend Robert Schuller, Sr. used to say, “Expect a miracle.”

It’s too bad he wasn’t expecting the Church.

I believe I mentioned some entries back about the part-member couple I met at the Fast Sunday Post-Fast Evening Mingle– our ward’s response to the stake president’s tyrannical abolishment of Break the Fast (it takes place 4 hours later, thus technically being well out of the range of a punishable Break the Fast)– last month. We really hit it off, and the wife (the non), told me how touched she was by my conversion story sacrament talk. Well, I got really psyched last week when her husband called and asked if I’d give the same talk at her baptism! The woman had gone through missionaries like breakfast cereal, claiming she had already belonged to two other churches and wasn’t about to just haphazardly jump into another until she KNEW (I guess that proverbial KNOWING moment happened) and not a second before. A thought flitted by, like a moth bumping into a light bulb, that baptismal programs were supposed to be standard 2-talk affairs– Baptism and The Holy Ghost– but I gladly accepted the invite and proceeded to dust off and abridge my talk.

Then I got the call from my friend MM, the ward mission leader, along with the missionaries: There was a concern about my talk. My clumsy moth was right– there’s a standard to the program that needed to be adhered to, and since the mission president and mission mother were supposedly coming, we really, really had to keep to the protocol. So after some sparring and derisive defiance on my part (something about being slaves to convention and white shirts on deacons) I suggested I incorporate the conversion story into the baptismal talk. Much rejoicing ensued on the other end of the line, and if there was a fatted calf I’m sure the elders would have biblically had their way with it.

Anyway, the program was a private affair with selected invitees, I gave the talk, a sweet sister gave the talk on the Holy Ghost that went something like, “I never did receive a witness from the Holy Ghost myself, but it’s a wonderful companion to have…”, the baptism was spiritual and the glowing new sister was confirmed the following Sunday. And the mission president & wife did not show up, thank you very much.

Anyone who’s had an administrative position in the ward is familiar with the Church MLS system. Not my favorite software to navigate, by a far piece (someone needs to tract out Bill Gates), but it’s handy for looking up and/or assigning home teachers & visiting teachers, and family info such as birthdays and phone numbers (if they’re not already on the ward website). Everything in the MLS is considered gospel, as it’s piped in directly from Church headquarters. That isn’t to say it’s always accurate. For example, one of our members’ records recently moved to another ward across the country, even though the member herself hadn’t budged an inch. But I’ve said it before– No matter how wrong they are they’re always right. Perhaps if the sister were more in-tune, she would have divined that the Lord had a purpose for her in that other ward.

So the other night I was perusing a list I hadn’t used before: An A-Z directory of the ward membership showing who is assigned home teachers and who isn’t. The stake presidency recently challenged all wards to get every member assigned a home teacher by April 20, so I wanted to see what little holes in my quorum I could spackle. Scrolling down the list, my spirit shrunk like a sad balloon (I swear I heard feeble, wet squeaking as the air escaped) by the number of names that fell under my jurisdiction– people I’ve never heard of, who were not assigned. Who are these people?? I passed my findings on to the bishop, hoping he’d offer a bright, sunny explanation that would absolve me from this fubar predicament. Not likely– he smiled sympathetically and said, “Welcome to my world.” Again with ‘Welcome to my world?’ Honestly, Bishop needs to come up with new material for the downtrodden, suicidal and manic depressive.

Every week names pour into our ward boundaries, and in every PEC and ward council 3-6 families are added to our membership. In almost every sacrament meeting we raise hands to welcome the newbies and 24 times out of 25 no one stands when their names are called. They remain in auxiliary limbo until assigned home teachers and we learn they’re either a) inactive, b) attend a singles ward or c) moved away a long time ago. So much time that could be devoted to giving service to established members is blown on locating and “reaching out” to these vaporous bogeymen.

So here’s my plan on how to satisfy the stake president’s challenge by the due date: Assign every non-assigned name to the home teacher most geographically adjacent to their address. Then instruct said HT to treat them like their own personal blitz– that is, take a few minutes to knock on their door and invite them to church, or at least verify their existence. Nothing would make me happier than if they had moved on to someone else’s backyard. The cruel reality, however, is that they will remain in our system until they eventually resurface wherever it is they went. Sometimes that doesn’t happen for years. If Jimmy Hoffa were a Mormon we’d still have him.

Meanwhile, Temple Prep came to a satisfying close on Sunday, and none too soon. The back-to-back classes were kicking my butt, and I sorely missed Sunday afternoons with my family. The fruits of the labor, however, resulted in two couples, a gung-ho new member that just crossed his year mark, and a young woman about to be married, all getting their recommends. But it’s the couple who held back that I think about the most. Their knowing that they need to take the step, but not wanting to stifle the husband’s imagined rock music career leaves a part of me feeling that I failed to get the message across. How can anyone with presence of mind– who had been baptized and countlessly renewed their covenants in sacrament, who sat through powerful testimonies and talks, conferences and lessons– suddenly go fish eye when the greatest of eternal blessings are laid before them? During my final testimony to the class, I turned my attention to them and urged them to visit with the bishop about their issues. In my opinion, if he couldn’t allay their reservations, then they don’t want them to be allayed. Spirits in the material world.

Ever notice how much “Lord Dismiss Us with Thy Blessing” sounds like “Deutschland, Deutschland Uber Alles”? Or maybe I’m just tired.

Last night I read President Monson’s message in the Ensign entitled “Treasure of Eternal Value.” In it, he quoted a portion of the Savior’s Sermon on the Mount:

“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:

“But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:

“For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” Matthew 6:19-21

It reminded me of a scene from that giddy movie, Pirates of the Caribbean. It opens with the one-and-only Jack Sparrow leading Will Turner through a cave, to where Will isn’t yet aware:

Jack : You know, for having such a bleak outlook on pirates you’re well on your way to becoming one. Sprung a man from jail, commandeered a ship of the Fleet, sailed with a buccaneer crew out of Tortuga [they both look at the gold on the bottom of the little river] and you’re completely obsessed with treasure.

Will : That’s not true. I am not obsessed with treasure.

Jack : [looks in on the gathering] Not all treasure is silver and gold, mate.

Barbossa: Gentlemen, the time has come! Our salvation is nigh! Our torment is near at end.

Will: Elizabeth.

Barbossa: For ten years we’ve been tested and tried, and each man jack of you here has proved his mettle a hundred times over and a hundred times again! [the men cheer]

Ragetti: Suffered, I have.

Barbossa: Punished, we were. The lot of us - disproportionate to our crimes! Here it is [throws off the chest’s lid] the cursed treasure of Cortés himself. Every last piece that went astray, we have returned, save for this. [points to the medallion on Elizabeth’s neck]

Will : [scrambles up, upsetting some of the treasure] Jack !

Jack : [pulls him down] Not yet. We wait for the opportune moment.

Barbossa: 881 we found but despaired of ever finding the last.

Will : When’s that? When it’s of greatest profit to you?

Jack : May I ask you something? Have I ever given you reason not to trust me? Do us a favor? I know it’s difficult for you, but please stay here and try not to do anything stupid.

Barbossa: And who among us has paid the blood sacrifice owed to the heathen gods?

Pirates: Us!

Barbossa: And whose blood must yet be paid?

Pirates: Hers!

Barbossa: You know the first thing I’m goin? to do after the curse is lifted? Eat a whole bushel of apples. [takes up the knife] Begun by blood, by blood undone.

You don’t have to look very hard to find the relevant messages. Barbossa’s my favorite character in the Pirates trilogy. After all, he had the all-time best line (again, one I interpret as relevant to our time on earth): “Ye best start believing in ghost stories, Miss Turner… yer in one!”

Despite our best efforts to follow the Savior, we all pick up our pieces of Aztec gold along the way– be they vanity or possessions or pet resentments. Our pockets jangle heavily with the loot, slowing us as we urge forward. If you’ve read a few of my entries, by now you probably noticed I like to talk about the past a lot. I won’t pretend it’s not a big deal to me. There are a lot of great stories behind me (some I shall never put to print), and somewhere out there walk many Daves to whom I owe my present– for good and evil (and why is it we secretly hold dear the scoundrel within?).

In his message, President Monson offers up a treasure map in three pieces:

1. Learn from the Past.

2. Live in the Present

3. Prepare for the Future

Regarding those who dwell too much in the past or constantly say, “I can’t wait for the day when…”, he said:

“Daydreaming of the past and longing for the future may provide comfort but will not take the place of living in the present. This is the day of our opportunity, and we must grasp it.”

I don’t live in the past nearly as much as I did when I first moved to Los Angeles and hated it. I guess I’ve grown up a little in that regard. There’s been so much of the present consuming my life and I’m happier for it. But then an old song will play that I haven’t heard in a while, and then I get a little wistful, remember something I was doing 30 years ago when I listened to it before, and wonder where the time has gone.

It’s too damn delightful, laying claim to treasures that have nothing to do with eternal things. Another Aztec coin in my pocket is my joy of books and the hours they eat up. Not church-related material, mind you (dullsville!), but really dark stuff like noirish mysteries or Cormac McCarthy. It’s a sobering moment when you acknowledge that excessive time wasted on frivilous reading can earn stripes just as easily as looking at porn or gambling away the food money.

As with the nostalgic reflections, my reading time has seriously dried up lately, too. And TV, movies… And it wasn’t until I was in the middle of this entry that I realized my vice time is quietly being displaced by Church, family and a new uber sense of responsibility. I’m being assimilated. It’s only a matter of time before this blog shuts down, my last hobby.

So in case I don’t come back, let me leave with this last thought: When you’re in a particularly honest mood, dig in your pockets and see what kind of coin you got stashed on your person. Then ask yourself, is this the treasure I really came for?

Drink up me ‘earties, yo ho!

Question: If you TiVo conference and play back the solemn assembly hours later, do you still stand and sustain even though everyone else have moved on to their nachos and naps?  Last week was difficult for my wife and me, regarding different trials we were each experiencing. For the sake of privacy (especially my sweetheart’s) I won’t offer the particulars. I’ll only say we were both in situations that weighed heavily on our souls (typical bonehead me, I kept mine to myself and only shared it with LL after the fact). Despite increasing prayers and service for others, I was consumed by feelings of inadequacy, particularly because of harsh challenges at work. I felt my efforts for the Lord were unconvincing and rejected sacrifices on the altar, and that I fell short of the strong, genuine faith He required at hand. On Tuesday night, while my family was mercifully away, I slumped low in my chair, heavy with dark despondency. Finally the sobs broke loose and I fell to my knees. “Father, I need you,” I said. “I’ve tried to do Your will and serve where I could.” In an effort to state my case, I started listing all the things I’d recently done and the ways I’ve tried to improve. “Please– just throw me a bone here,” I said, and my cries became wordless as my thoughts continued to reach out to Him. After a while, I calmed down and knelt a little while longer, feeling spent, if not a little lighter from the act of sharing my pain. The following day my mood was positive and strong, and the office atmosphere changed dramatically. In retrospect, I tried to divine whether it was solely because my attitude shifted that things got better, but after careful replay I decided, no, things definitely changed there, too. 

My wife, meanwhile, wasn’t going to find her relief until Thursday. Her tribulation came down to one meeting, and its outcome would profoundly affect her spirit and our family’s course. The night before, I gave her a blessing and she immediately felt a sense of calm. The anxiety was still there, but comfort had considerably ebbed it. The following day after the meeting, she called and filled me in on what happened. The conference ended exactly as she had hoped and she was high on gratitude. Right or wrong, I concluded that, while Heavenly Father might have agreed that I had been making a bit of an effort in my duties, He wanted to hear me come to Him and plead my case. He permitted the heat to turn up around us to give us the opportunity to come to Him—prove Him. I can’t take credit for knowing that going in, of course. It was a lesson to take with me after the fact, and I’m just glad I stumbled onto it. I was wiped out last weekend, partly because we helped friends move and partly because I stayed up late Friday night watching the movie Independence Day. Yes, that cheesy alien film where mankind ultimately beat the superior-forced extraterrestrials because the mothership happened to have Mac technology. I can’t explain– It’s there, I watch it. But this time it struck me when Jeff Goldblum’s dad, Judd Hirsch, got all the kids around to pray during the last standoff between the volunteer fighter pilots and the ETs on anabolic steroids. Why did Heavenly Father allow the aliens to go exterminate half the galaxy before Earth, anyway? How does this fall into The Plan? And what tribe were the aliens from? 

The first script I ever wrote that got made into a movie was a cheesy horror flick full of rock music, hot evil babes and a real voodoo woman that scared the snot out of me and Mark, the director. The film’s star was a Biblically scandalous 1980’s actress who, of course, played the virginal ingenue. I never did get to meet her, ’cause in the middle of the shoot– the day after I shot my own classic scene (survivalist store clerk)– I ran off to Salt Lake to get married in the temple. Most of the rest of the cast were Hollywood wannabes and a couple of sad stars from the old days that still just wanted to work. There was one particular actress who we snagged, though, that I did meet and was glad to have on board. Her name is Karen Russell and she was one of the legendary “scream queens” of her time. You had to have grown up in the 70’s, or at least the 80’s– or have a passion for cheesy horror films– to follow the salad days of the scream queen. While there were many good screamers throughout Hollywood history (Janet Leigh in Psycho comes to mind), it wasn’t until Jamie Lee Curtis (her daughter– ironic, no?) met her screen brother, Michael Myers, in Halloween that the true scream queen was born. After Ms. Curtis, the floodgate burst open to a deluge of pretenders to the throne, from Brian de Palma’s favorite, Nancy Allen, to the “Scream Queen of the B’s,” Miss Linnea Quigley. Karen Russell was a contemporary of Linnea’s and they often played in the same films, usually as buddies getting into trouble (you know, like Hayley Mills and, well, Hayley Mills). She was numbered among the last of the drive-in B-movie stars, not anyone you’d find on TCM or American Movie Classics. By today’s standards she’d be strictly direct-to-DVD or direct-to-cable. The scream queens were dime store beauties who worked very hard at looking pretty, looking clueless, looking terrified, running in skimpy clothes, tripping and falling on apparently nothing, getting outrun by awful creatures that moved at the speed of lazy automatic pool cleaners and, of course, screaming. They flew low under the radar of Hollywood magazines and entertainment shows even though they churned out five or six movies a year. Their spotlight came at horror trade shows where thousands of bully-fodder geeks came around for autographs, photos and getting smiled at. 

I bring Karen up because she reminds me of the ward members who conscientiously labor in their un-sexy callings, while staying away from the podium and under the radar. They never have reason to make announcements or call anyone, and they usually don’t “work the room” like so many other regulars. If it weren’t for the occasional observation in PEC, these people would go largely unnoticed, plugging away in anonymity and keeping the callings for years. I once had such a calling— I was the guy who made the sacrament programs. Late Saturday night I’d run into the other guys in the stake with that calling and we’d chew the fat as the programs were being run, like hobos waiting for the library to open. At the time I thought it was a pretty unflattering calling, but seeing how much is heaped on my plate these days, I now realize how good I had it. I mean, theoretically, magnifying my calling making programs should reap the same rewards as magnifying my calling as an HPGL, no? That is, if I’m interpreting the scriptures correctly. 

I’d run, scream and trip at this point, but I don’t think it would do any good.

I wish someone would start a project of taking members aside individually and asking them to describe their thoughts of what the next life will be like, then write an essay with the findings. A favorite LDS cartoon of mine (by Bagley or Grondahl, I can’t remember which) shows a husband and wife in the clouds of the celestial kingdom; the man with his feet up in a La-Z-Boy reading the newspaper, the woman ironing white robes. She says, “I dunno… I thought it was going to be, you know, different.”

While most Saints would probably admit they have no idea what it’s going to be like (although a few will give you an unsettling big smile and say, without a hint of thorazine, “It will be glorious!”), that doesn’t stop some of us from taking stabs at pet ideas. I’d like to think there’ll be amazing colors– I have difficulty grasping onto the idea that all will be bright white, like an Oxy-Clean commercial. And those robes. Will distinguishing garb suddenly not mean anything? Can we at least salvage our humor and get together Friday nights to chant, “To-ga! To-ga! To-ga!”? What kind of music will we listen to? Can I sneak in my Jethro Tull and Pink Floyd tapes? If we’re perfected bodies of flesh and bone does that mean there won’t be a thing left in the mansion to snack on?

When I think of heaven, rather than a holy homogenized environment, I think of a place full of personalized joys and sensual pleasures and heart-aching love demonstrated by a plethora of tokens. Then I step back and look at my perceptions, and an old hillbilly version of “Big Rock Candy Mountain” plays in my head. And I inexplicably sigh a sob, and then laugh at myself.

I did double-duty Temple Prep last Sunday, teaching one couple Lessons 1-3 at 4pm, and then just Lesson 3 to the regular class at 6pm. The first couple is so eager and excited to get their recommends, I could have told them the celestial kingdom is like a Fellini film and they would have happily nodded along. On the other hand, there’s a couple in the second group who agreed to take the class on the condition that it didn’t mean they had to have their recommend interviews afterward. The wife had a problem with sharing her husband after a helpful class visitor (and temple worker) volunteered that there would be more righteous women than men in the highest kingdom, and since everyone there would be married… She was like, “Wait a minute!” This sort of situation is annoying to me (even beyond the fact that I wouldn’t have shared that golden nugget of thought). The woman knows the Church is true, goes every week, pays the tithing, yadda yadda yadda– and she objects to some quasi-doctrinal blurb like it’s a stipulation in a timeshare contract. I was like, “Hello! This is heaven! We have no idea what it’s going to be like, but we do know we’ll be happy beyond our wildest imaginations, and consider this– this earth life is a blip in our overall existence. Our priorities and values have been shaped and formed by a corrupt world, and they will be so adjusted, so different when we get back, the things we find important now will become utterly silly and insignificant (as I shot daggers at said helpful member).

What is heaven going to be like?

Does it matter?

I guess everyone’s character is too complicated to be summed up in one or two adjectives. In my case, I’ve learned I have a respect for authority that’s offset by an impish streak of rebelliousness and irreverence. I want to be good, but I don’t like being told what to do.

One of my favorite LDS scriptures is D&C 58:26:

For behold, it is not meet that I should command in all things; for he that is compelled in all things, the same is a slothful and not a wise servant; wherefore he receiveth no reward.

It flies in the face of all my early parochial upbringing. ‘Cause even though my parents were very permissive for their day, the school they sent me to was not. St. Philip Neri in the Bronx was an antediluvian bastion of barbarous nuns, a secret combination of ruler-wielding, pleasure-divesting windigos– and they commanded in all things. In case you thought such manifestations were Hollywoodian inventions created to magnify s