Word Nova

A Christmas Message

2011-12-22T22:44:00.001-08:00

The day is nearly upon us and I have had a very introspective year. Hence the lack of blog posts, although that has become the norm for me it would appear. This is a more informal post, but one of significance I believe: It is Christmas time, that time of year when we hope that our hearts come closer to those divine tendencies that we wish to have and that the world is in so desperate need of. This year my message is found in Alma, chapter 38, which is a particularly favorite chapter of mine because when I was younger, my mother left me some very strong advice from out of this chapter and even marked which parts she wanted me to pay closer attention.

I loved my mother, and her words still ring true today, even though they be borrowed from Alma, they are still relevant to us today. My focus is drawn to verse 10 of this chapter, in particular the line that reads: “I would that you would be diligent and temperate in all things.” We all understand the word diligence, or at least we think we do. However, many times it seems that we seem to mistake diligence for fanaticism. Diligence is defined as “having or showing care and conscientiousness in one's work or duties” meaning that we care about what is going on around us and we are drawn to do those things that are right. Diligence is a trait that is cultivated and bought through laborious years of finding the right balance, which is shown in the other word used in Alma's exhortations to his son: temperate.

Temperate is defined as “showing moderation or self-restraint”. This extends to the Gospel as well. Part of having diligence is knowing the proper application of time, place, and loyalties. Too often I think we find ourselves feeling that we aren't doing enough, or that Heavenly Father must be displeased with us because of his comparative silence in our lives as to what we perceive his guidance in the lives of others. Such is not the issue. The Lord is constantly warning us through his modern day prophets to avoid comparison, that is a very deadly form of pride, and at this time of year it can be an even easier trap to fall into if we are not careful.

This is a season of love, in particular the love that God has shown us in the gift of his son, “for God so loved the world...” such an iconic scripture that it would be quaint if its message weren't so true. God loves us, and in this time of year when we are so focused on giving and others, sometimes that action of looking to others can have a negative rebound when we see others who have more of one virtue or thing that we ourselves wish we had more. Hard economic times have forced many of us to situations that we wouldn't have thought of just a few short years prior. Yet it seems that in his infinite love for us, it is still possible to feel the love of the season, if we but put our minds to it. Apply that diligence and temperance in those things that are needed to be controlled, and do not fret when our fears or worries overwhelm us, this storm is over us and yet there is nothing to fear. Elder Ballard remarked to the youth “Remember, you can be exalted, young people, you can be exalted without having a college degree, without a successful career. You can be exalted without being rich, so focus the best you can on those things in life that will lead you back to the presence of God, keep all proper things in balance.” Again we are lead to another definition of temperance, keeping all things in balance.

Perhaps this would be a good goal for the upcoming year: balance, temperance, and diligence. The Gospel of Christ is such that, as Elder Maxwell pointed out, every detail has been forseen to by Him. The star of Bethlehem had to placed in that precise spot thousands of years before Mary was visited by Gabriel and the life of our Saviour was begun. God knows the details, we simply must focus on finding that balance in our own lives. Thankfully, we have our whole lives to figure that out. Unfortunately, it'll probably take at least that long. In the meantime, let us forget our troubles for a few days and focus on the important things that this season has to offer: Love, family, friends, good food and good memories. For those of us so blessed, I say God bless and here's to a new year. For those who are struggling, know that it will all “work together for thy good”. God has not abandoned any of us, and he will not leave you bereft of comfort. He is mindful, and He loves you, “so focus the best you can on those things in life that will lead you back to the presence of God, keep all proper things in balance.”

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Waldo's Dirty Little Secret

2011-11-07T00:04:00.000-08:00

Where’s Waldo? is a childhood classic dating back several decades, with its intricate drawings of crowded scenes, and the ongoing pursuit of a man who wears the same, red-striped outfit regardless of temperature or climate of his current location. Yet evidently, lurking beneath this innocent demeanor is a somewhat smutty secret. In the search for Waldo, you may be surprised to find in the original publishing of the book that there is indeed a topless lady sunbathing while lying on her stomach. I know! I know! The scandal, right!? The miniscule indiscretion depicts a small boy pouring water on the back of a topless sunbather, who is in the process of yelping in surprise and arching backwards as the cold liquid makes contact with her skin. This involuntary movement exposes her chest to an on looking man who, judging from his expression, is evidently enjoying the view. The reader’s vantage shows a profile shot of the offending woman and turns the search for Waldo into a twisted game of eye-spy the nipple!

Now, the debate continues as to whether or not this is inappropriate for our children in public schools. Some critics argue that the indecent exposure is unforgivable and should thusly be removed from the average child’s reach, at least in public schools. Other critics shake their head in exasperation. Anna Quindlen, an author and columnist for the New York Times, replies, “Winnie the Pooh does not wear pants. Just a warning.”

The question behind the banning remains, though; with all the racy material found in other books today, and the sensual overtones of some of the greatest literature of the past, is it truly consistent to ban a children’s book simply because it hints at the presence of female anatomy? In fact, the only way to find the practically hidden picture is either completely by accident, or if one is looking for it and knows where to find it. That sound like anything else that children are forced to interact with almost on a daily standard? Say the Internet, maybe? At the same time, the idea of censorship is to protect our children from the perceived evils of the world, and pornography is definitely to be included in that group. But would this indiscretion truly warrant the label of pornography? Where’s Waldo does not contain sexual themes, but the indiscretion of the artist begs the question: what was he thinking? What purpose would putting that minor detail in the book accomplish? It’s obviously unnecessary, and it isn’t like the checklist of items to search for at the top of the page includes: “a female sunbather indecently exposing herself in public.” So why does the artist include it?

Thankfully, no matter what side of the debate that you happen to fall on, the new anniversary edition of the beloved childhood classic is updated with a now clothed sunbather. This time she is appropriately garbed for her UV bath, although it is likely to give her an uneven tan.

Confessions of a Gamer

2011-08-07T20:10:00.000-07:00

Everyone is a nerd if you look close enough. The sports nut during his Sunday ritual of turning on the big game will usually involve some form of superstitious formula for turning the TV on, or which snacks he eats. The beauty queen has a precise idea of how she has to keep up on the latest trends and decides the ways of going about keeping up on those said trends. Some forms of nerdiness are somewhat more tangible. I am a gamer. Not just any gamer, either, I am a tabletop gamer, which is one of the more despicable and unforgivable kind in society it would seem. It would be a lie to say that I am not a little bit resentful of the disdain the community that I live in shows towards the hobby that I participate in, yet still I continue to play. There are a number of reasons why, but the thing that constantly amazes me is that how humanity is so pre-disposed to judging something like gaming as a condemning sin when in reality it can be something wonderful.

My earliest memories of gaming come at a time in my life that everyone looks back on with a sense of dread, and perhaps a little bit of nausea: Junior High. I met a friend during that awkward stage of my life, the transition from childhood to post-childhood-pre-teenager-I-don’t-know-what-the-heck-I’m-supposed-to-be stage. In our conversation of constantly cracking voices that ranged from basement deep drops to window shattering spikes, he first told me about the game Dungeons and Dragons. Here was something that made sense to me in those tumultuous years, I could play as one of the heroes that I had read about in my books, seen in my favorite movies. I was accepted in this world, unlike the harsh social setting of the cruelty that only children are pre-disposed to showing one another in such a fearful time of growth. Dungeons and Dragons became a playground for my imagination from that day on, and this carried me throughout my adolescent years. The adventures that I experienced as a mighty warrior delving into caves, slaying dragons, saving villages, towns, and even the world on several occasions, these defined my personality in the real world as well. I became a paladin in the real world, striving to be that hero that I was in the game. While, thankfully, I was able to separate the events of the game from those in real life, my choices in the game were reflected in my real life situations. My character was a defender of all things good and lovely, so I strove to be worthy of that character in many instances, I wanted to actually be that hero. People began to know me as an honest, integral, and generally good person, and I reveled in the fact that I was a modern-day equivalent of the hero that I wanted to be. Yet oddly enough, when people would learn of my hobby, their noses would unconsciously wrinkle and they would talk to me in short, quick sentences so that they could quickly run off, as the idea of being around someone so nerdy would usually fill them with discomfort. So it was that I learned to hide my hobby from the world.

Since then, I have been what you call a closet nerd. Someone who plays the game in quiet locations, with a close-knit set of friends. People never learn of my hobby until they reach a rather high level of trust. It seems that we as a people are afraid of anything that even remotely requires us to use our imaginations. We call hobbies like this frivolous, tiresome, childish, and even a little bit scary, perhaps because we don’t understand them. People like to stay with things that are comfortable, which is perhaps what drove me to hide my hobby, telling people about it made me uncomfortable because of the reactions that it invoked. I have loved gaming, and over the years my characters and roles that I have taken on as a nerd in my hobby have come to reflect the person that I am. My incorruptible, paragon of good character has become a much more jaded and complicated person. The twists of my life are mirrored in my character’s views on his world and how he deals with the problems that are facing it. It is interesting to look at the evolution of my characters over the years and see where I have come. I still have all the character sheets and story outlines from all of my campaigns, and I can show you which characters I was playing at different times of my life, the types of characters can really show you the emotions and difficulties I was experiencing at those moments. People are afraid of anything that requires that deep of an emotional connection with anything, which is perhaps why they feel this deep worry whenever I tell them that I am a “DnDer”. Who knows, but it isn’t stopping me from my hobby.

As I look over even these past few years, I’ve seen the way my characters have changed. My current character is a dark, brooding figure that has lost a lot of faith in humanity. He struggles to have faith in the grand design of the world and holds out for something better, but he’s been jaded by his experiences. He is a far-cry from the knight in shining armor that I played during my high-school years that had a firm faith in humanity and that the world had meaning to it, that he was destined for great things. Perhaps someday I’ll return to playing that character, but for now, I keep my hobby secret, and continue on waiting for the next level, the next encounter, and hoping that my faith in humanity will someday be restored just a little bit more.

A Broken Requiem

2011-07-25T05:07:00.001-07:00

I am actually submitting this article to be published in a couple literary magazines, let me know what you think of it, and wish me luck!

Near my childhood home in Saint Anthony, Idaho, there is an unremarkable path that we locals affectionately refer to as “the Dirt Road”. There’s nothing special about this old road, no plaque sits at its head declaring its history, it doesn’t connect any two locations, in fact it’s only about two miles long from one end to the other. Nobody knows its origins, it was probably made by Mormon settlers trying to cut through their fields and maintained more out of tradition than any type of formal declaration or law. Some locals use it for exercise, some have even built small homes along its dusty course, but the majority of its length is dedicated to a potato field and an irrigation ditch. Nobody would think anything of this remarkably unremarkable place.

The furthest back I can remember about this place was back before my brain had figured out how to capture memories in a way that’s logical for an older mind to make sense of, but I do recall the sound of the irrigation sprinkler with its rhythmic thumping as it watered the dirt in preparation of the coming harvest. My mother picked some wild raspberries and a couple of farmers drove by in their old beat up trucks, probably giving us the two finger salute from their steering wheels as they passed us by, leaving a dusty trail in their wake. I don’t remember a great deal about the very first time, but this type of place wasn’t about specific memories.

A stone bridge sits in the middle of this stalwart old road, a strong base for the sandy extensions of this officially non-existent highway. There have been endless nights that I spent on that bridge, staring up into the stars that shined all the brighter without the competition of man-made lights around them. The bridge sits over an irrigation ditch as it winds itself around the various patchwork fields that make up the quilted countryside of my childhood. My dad used to take our dogs for walks down to this very bridge and then lure them to the edge before throwing them in. “It’s their bath for the week!” he would say. The dogs would quickly swim to the bank and squirm with joy as they shook the water out of their coats and come pounding back up to the road with their tongues lolling out of their mouths in simple contentment. This point is where the potato field stops and the houses begin. Just beyond the bridge, however, and right before the houses begin, there lies a pasture framed by willow trees that catches an autumn sunset capable of turning any man religious. Even the mosquitoes and flies seem to understand the sacred nature of this place and pay it the reverence due by avoiding it altogether. A couple farmers place a select few horses and cattle in the field, just enough to give it a perfect picturesque setting like something pulled from the dreams of an idealistic painter.

One particular memory of this road was as I walked the down its familiar stretch on my eighteenth birthday, my mind reeling from the news of my mother’s recent diagnosis: Cancer. The hard reality couldn’t find me here as the kindly old trees reached out to me in silent hugs as I walked with my troubles down this old sentinel of a road. I puzzled through the reasons behind why my mom was dying. My young brain pressed to figure out what I had done to deserve this. What my mother had done to deserve this. I felt sick inside. My mother couldn’t die! She was supposed to see me married. Approve my future wife and tell me how wonderful she is. She was supposed to help me with my own kids. She had to rock them to sleep with the lullabies that had carried me off to dreams so often in her arms! I choked on the injustice. The road tried desperately to give me solace, drawing me into its dusty comforts and displaying the brilliant sky before me in an attempt to distract me from my troubles. For a time it worked, and I sat a long time on that bridge fighting my way through understanding and acceptance.

I revisited the road the night of her last conversation with her children. Her pale face seared into my memory, accompanied by a hated cacophony of hissing tubes and staggered breathing. The quiet sobs of my stern-faced brother as he held Mom’s head close to his and cried out “Mama!” in whispered gasps. A steady plunge of the monitor as the doctor calmly declared time of death. These were the memories of that day. The quiet inhabitants of the road’s sandy lengths seemed silent as if in mourning itself. Tired feet fell on treacherous and shifting dirt that had at one time seemed soft and playful, the echoes of my footfalls muted in the sandy foundations. My familiar trees twisted into strange faces that loomed around me with shallow tears in their eyes. Looking around my sanctuary I began to see cracks emerging. The road wept in forlorn silence. The night sky held no wonders for me that evening, the stars glistened mutely in their stationary places in the sky. The betrayal cut all the deeper when I arrived at the blessed pasture and found only darkness there to welcome me. Stillness wrapped around me like water on a drowning victim.

Life continued marching, the passage of years pounded by like the old trucks of the farmers on that tired dusty road. I pushed through my grief with my mother the only way I could think of: dogged determination. That’s the way of us country folk, or at least that’s how I saw it. I didn’t know anything else that I could do, and neither did anyone else for that matter. I found a beautiful young woman and fell in love; such is how the story is supposed to go, right? I thought so. I remember taking her to my sky view pasture that I loved. We sighed contentedly as we watched the dying light slowly diminish in the growing calm of a summer evening. I kissed her there. Not our first, but one of our more important kisses. I showed her the point where my dad would always throw the dogs in the ditch, and where to find the raspberries when they were ripe. I let her use my leather jacket, swelling in pride at my chivalry as she warmed to me on those cool Idaho nights. We would stare out across the potatoes and talk about our future together. She was beautiful.

I remember kneeling in that hallowed dirt and holding out my mother’s ring to her, asking her to abandon reason and trust that I could be her companion forever. She smiled in her radiant way and hugged me close, whispering silent “yes”s in my ear. The ring fit perfectly, without having to be re-sized or anything. The trees along the ditch bank creaked in quiet applause. My sanctuary gleamed in wonderful glory, restored from its grief and forlorn abandonment. If this were a fairytale I would stop now: having slain the dragon of grief and found the beautiful princess, I should ride off into the proverbial sunset and live out the rest of my days in relative bliss, right?

She left me. She gave me the ring back and said that I wasn’t the man that she wanted after all. She said in no uncertain terms that she never wanted to see me, talk to me, or have anything to do with me ever again. The woman of my dreams, whom I had pledged myself to, had decided that I wasn’t worthy of her and left me holding a ring and a broken will. I ran to my safe haven.

I staggered down the road, the trees were silent as I passed. No comforting sounds echoed through their branches or rebounded off of the normally talkative irrigation ditch. The dirt yielded to my passing without any salutations. I longed for some respite to the aching of my circumstances. I was given visions of her, instead. I saw the post that I had been resting against when she had leaned close to me and kissed me in the fiery light of a sunset much like the one that mocked me even now in my pain. It felt as though God was mocking me. I thought I could hear his laughter at my pain echo through the stillness of that dark sunset. I felt the piercing gaze on my shoulders and I staggered under the weight. The floodgates opened and my sanctuary washed away in a flood of bitter tears.

That dark night stretched into days, then months, then the better part of a year and still there was no end in sight. Dragons I had long thought slain reared their heads and bore down on me. I felt the passage of time slow to a crawl. The sunlight seemed something forgotten. Sunless days crept over the horizon with their lecherous beams appearing only to break resolve rather than encourage. The broken bulwark of my confidence was open as the wracking contaminant of fear spread through me. And I was sick with it. The infection filled my brain with a fever of silent demons. In the few times I walked the road, the trees pointed their fingers in disgust at me, and the wind shook the leaves in disapproving swishes. The shame of disappointment is a bitter disease. Only someone who has been through a dark night like that can understand how the morning finds its way through, and to those that have yet to experience it, I can only describe it as a subtle thing. For me the turn upwards was so gradual and quiet that I almost didn’t notice it.

It happened one day as I was driving in to work. The quiet solidity of my car mixed with the comforting surroundings and the reassuring feeling of movement and control created an environment that had echoes of my old dirt road. I felt a surge of something I had almost forgotten: excitement. I felt something akin to a marathon runner crossing the finish line. These difficulties that I had faced would not end me. I was not helpless, nor was my failure permanent. There had been reassurances of my revelation before this moment, but that afternoon I actually found the strength to believe them. There would once again be moments of excitement. I found myself thinking back to a conversation I had had with a friend once. She had been suffering with a divorce and the demons of defeat were snapping at her heels. I told her one simple thing: there is always one more good day. We all have those days in our memories when the sun was just the perfect amount of brightness, the food was the tastiest we could remember, and the laughter of friends and family echoed in a picturesque setting that is etched into our minds. Remembering those days is part of the promise that I had told my friend: there is always one more good day to look forward to, and that should give us hope. In the meantime, we just have to keep pushing on. Dogged determination, we country folk really don’t know any other way of doing things. Eventually determination becomes conviction as hopes become experience.

I have since re-visited my old friend the dirt road. While it is a beautiful walk, this place is no longer the home that it was before now. I walked its length, stopping every so often to look for wild raspberries even though I knew they were out of season. The trees and water seemed indifferent to my passing; the stone bridge was silent at my approach, no signs of recognitions shouted out to me from the now inanimate dirt that had once been my friend. I sat awhile on the bridge and stared out across the magical pasture and was overwhelmed by the cool apathy of the surrounding countryside at my return. After a sufficient amount of time had passed I got up and walked back the way I had come. On my way I passed a mother with her child. The toddler was giggling in the curious fashion of infants as he threw rocks into the irrigation ditch and the mother watched over him protectively while trying to hide a smile. I almost laughed at the ironic poetry of the moment.

This Is The Christ

2010-12-03T22:53:00.001-08:00

One of my favorite Hymns. This is the Christ, a deep, meditative melody that reaches into some of the deepest recesses of all this earthly turmoil and whispers the sweet assurances that everything is in hand. During this Christmas time, with all of its fast paced commercialism and heartfelt gift-giving and shopping, it is so easy to lose sight of the wonderful blessing that is ours, and indeed the very reason that we celebrate this time of year when the days are shorter and the nights colder.

The Babe of Bethlehem, the Son of Man, the Child of Mary, it is at this time of year that we celebrate the life, and more specifically the birth, of the most powerful and wonderful being to walk this earth. “He who ransoms us with love divine” sings the sacred strains of the holy music. At this time of year, may we be lead to exclaim as this song does: “I feel his love, the price he paid…” for it is at this time of year, more than any other, that we should stop and look at the wonderful blessings that currently surround us. At this time of year when our families draw closer to us, our hearts tend to open wider, and our faith in humanity is restored somewhat as we see the charity and hope extended to those downtrodden throughout the rest of the year. Eyes darkened with sadness lighten as unspoken acts of kindness bring the bright rays of excitement to an otherwise dark and despondent world.

I believe that Christmas is a time of year that Satan’s host truly despises, and indeed, works harder to thwart the Great plan than any other time of the year. Such can be seen in the lack of spirituality and a focus on Santa Clause and gifts. Children’s eyes are generally cast down to the base of the tree in anticipation of presents wrapped in jolly blues, and greens, and very little red, rather than lifting up to fixate on the star adorning the top of the tree. Parents focus on giving their children and friends more than they received, in a generous but misguided feeling of charity. Perhaps the Christmases that have meant the most, or been the most beneficial have been those that have had little under the tree. In those seasons of trial we are forced to learn the true reason for our celebrations.

While I may not be considered a wise man, I’m still following His star, and it has brought me peace, stability, and hope throughout my tumultuous trials. I love this time of year, when nostalgia and a child-like excitement awakens within me, and carols ring out in the cold winter air. I urge you that beneath the silver bells and choruses of Rudolph to make room for the Christ Child in your celebrations. If you are struggling with questions of faith, matters of a more physical nature, or weaknesses of carnal or spiritual nature, remember the gift of this Holy Birth and find peace and hope in its implications. It is at this time of year that we are bidden to forget our burdens, open our hearts and do as the shepherds were bidden to come and see the Christ Child.

Heavenly Father has given us so much in this life, our family, our friends, our homes, and most importantly, our agency through the ultimate gift of His son, Jesus Christ. All of our celebrations, our joys, even our very existences would be nullified without that first Christmas. Without the birth of the Christ child, our lives would have been rendered meaningless, for no matter what one achieves in this life, if there were no sacrifice made, no Ultimate Gift given, then when our lives had finished our achievements would linger on past our lives and then they too would dwindle and die. Now, with the blessings of the Atonement upon our lives we are made eternal creatures of Celestial worth, and all those things in our lives that are truly of worth have been made to endure forever as well. We have so much more for us to celebrate this time of year than the blinking lights and wrapped packages! While we hear this so often that it has become somewhat cliché, it is one of the greatest presents that we have ever received or will ever receive. A Christmas without Christ will always be hollow and cheapened, whereas the presence of our Savior’s memory in our homes will always keep alive the true spirit of the season.

I love all who read these words, and wish you a Merry Christmas filled with the loving Spirit of our Heavenly Father to bless your homes with peace and happiness throughout the coming year. I urge all who are struggling to feel the sacred nature of this time of year to seek diligently, so that you too can testify “This is the Christ” that He may be the Healer of your soul as He has been, and still is of mine. I give you a promise that as you seek to truly feel the real spirit of Christmas, that quiet glow that accompanied this festive season in your childhood will again return, indeed it will be magnified as you see the reflection of the joy and the warmth of our Savior’s love spilling over and reflecting in the eyes of those around you who will be uplifted by your presence. Celebrate His birth at this time and look forward to that time when He shall come again, and the Angels shall sing as they did before:

“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” Let us begin our pilgrimage to find the babe in the manger anew for the coming year. Let us seek our “wonderful counselor, the mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace” and receive the blessings inherent to serving such a being. This is my humble Christmas prayer, Merry Christmas everyone.

The Atonement of Hope

2010-11-17T22:16:00.000-08:00

The Atonement is the most singularly amazing event that has ever occurred in the history of mankind. All other accomplishments that came before or would follow after would be meaningless in its absence. Christ’s sufferings in the Garden, his perfect sacrifice of his life, are so grand in scope that we sometimes lose sight on how personal the Atonement truly is, and we forget one of the greatest gifts that the Atonement has ever given us: Hope.

The Lord’s sacrifice opened up the way for us to return to His presence, gave way to the realization of eternal families, and made our very existences relevant and purposeful. He unlocked the way for us to become like him. There is no measurement in our comprehension that can define all the different ways that He has saved us. It is because of Him that we even have reason to hope. However, just like any other good gift, there is an opposition that we must overcome in order to fully enjoy its blessings. President Faust teaches, “The evil influence of Satan would destroy any hope we have in overcoming our mistakes. He would have us feel that we are lost and that there is no hope.”

Perhaps one of the greatest lies that the Great Deceiver has ever convinced us to believe is that hope is for others, and not for ourselves, or that we are unworthy of that hope. During a hard point in my life, when everything seemed to be going wrong, and I felt as if I had been tossed to the sea without hope of rescue. I felt to cry as the disciples of old “Master, carest thou not that [I] perish?” I received my answer to that question in a most welcome manner. I later recorded my thoughts in a short journal entry, which I shared with you in the previous entry that I posted.

Isaiah cried, “Surely he hath born our griefs, and carried our sorrows.” Elder Holland expounded further by stating, “Brothers and sisters, one of the great consolations of this Easter season is that because Jesus walked such a long, lonely path utterly alone, we do not have to do so”. Christ loved us so much that he “tread the winepress alone” with no other help. He offered up himself as a sacrifice, and took upon us all of our sins, pains, and anguishes, in which he fulfilled the teachings of Alma “that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities”(Alma 7:11) He has suffered everything that we have ever gone through or will go through in order to give us hope of more beautiful days and loving embraces.

When we stumble, and when we fall, Christ is there to pick us back up. I am firmly convinced that the greater sin is not in falling down, but rather in not getting back up once fallen. As Lucy Maud Montgomery penned “isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?” I know that I am not the only one who has suffered, in reality I count myself blessed for the amount of support and patience I have been shown with my trials. Everyone will be confronted with such times when our hope seems too heavy to carry, and we will be tempted to throw it aside. In such times, let us remember the words of Ether: “Wherefore, whoso believeth in God might with surety hope for a better world, yea, even a place on the right hand of God, which hope cometh of faith, maketh an anchor to the souls of men, which would make them sure and steadfast, always abounding in good works, being led to glorify God.” (Ether 12:4)

Remember the Lord’s promise that “if [we] humble ourselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.” (Ether 12:27, emphasis added) My emphasis in that sentence was intentional to draw to our attention where the action of transforming weak things into strong ones originates. Our duty is to have faith in the Lord, which faith is a principle of action that guides us to better ourselves. If our hearts are in the right place, the Lord will work a mighty miracle in us.

A poem that I have posted earlier in my blog describes the beautiful hope that the Atonement brings:

The wind speaks softly through the trees
A quiet prayer for me to hear
Beneath the emerald canopy of trees
The voice grows quiet as it draws near

It speaks to me of Love’s soft hand
That beckons from a distant land
It whispers silent assurances sweet
Given by one with pierced hands and feet

To feel the raw emotion of passion sinned
And the weight of worthiness thinned
The pain of discouragement and lost hope
When dreams and loves vanish in smoke

One is there who helps to raise up fallen arms
An eternal hope to sustain us through harsh storms
A beacon that guides us with light to come
Over rocks and stones, to bring us safely home.

This is the greatest hope of all, that after all the trials and tribulations, the frivolous mistakes and constant, ongoing repentance, we will be allowed to come back home and be enveloped in that loving embrace that we all yearn for. We have the hope that this life is not the end. John Donne wrote of the end of this life, describing it as “one short sleep past, we wake eternally, and death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.” How closely this mirrors Paul’s exclamation: “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” What blessings we have in this Gospel to know of the Hope brought to us by the glad tidings of our Lord’s sacrifice! May we allow that knowledge to draw us closer to our Savior in His love. As Elder Holland said: “This Easter week and always, may we stand by Jesus Christ “at all times and in all things, and in all places that [we] may be in, even until death,” for surely that is how He stood by us when it was unto death and when He had to stand entirely and utterly alone”

That Frail Thing Called Hope...

2010-11-12T10:00:00.001-08:00

I know that I've already posted this one on my facebook, but I thought it was good enough to deserve a re-post here, where it can reach a wider audience. I wrote this about a two years ago, so the events in it area little dated, but I think that it's applicable to a lot in life.

Now then, before I begin this writing, I'll let you all know that I'm feeling particularly verbose, so be prepared. Some of this rests on cliche's but I want to send a message out to everyone who's ever felt that the night is too long, or that the road is too rocky.

Sometimes in this life we have a tendency to see the dark pit that is our life as we see it and despair. We fear that we aren't good enough for the trials that we face and we feel as though there is no hope for the future and what it holds. We see tomorrow as only a prolonged painful experience that we will never fully conquer. We see the happiness of those around us and wonder why we are so lost and what we are doing wrong. I am talking about those nights where an evil presence is our closest companion and it seems that we can't seem to get out of the black stupor that has come upon us. I've been there, many many times.

Over the course of this last year I've been met with a lot, my whole family has, in fact these past few years have been something close to disastrous. First we have the situation of that angelic presence known as Whitney and her disabling disease. That sweet little girl that did nothing to deserve such a lot in this life. The disease caught everyone in the family off guard. We couldn't believe that such a thing could happen, not in this perfect life. I remember worrying about my brother and his wife and family. How would they deal with such a burden as this sickness would be?

Then we faced the loss of two loved family members, that of our Uncle Don, and Grandpa McBride. Two giants that had been staples in our lives while we had been growing up. Both of their deaths were surprises and we weren't expecting either of them to be taken so quickly from us. We faced our first real moments of staring into the eternities and the first moments of having something truly beyond our control. Something final that caused us to shake and brought that darkness even closer to our doorsteps it would seem. Something that really brought the reality of death into at the very least my life. I can't speak for my siblings in this regard, for I don't know their experiences. But I do know that it was a tough and trying time.

Our Mom passed away almost a year ago now. Those were dark days, despair seemed to settle over my life. It was at a very crucial point in my life, too. I had just set out into the academic world and was first experiencing my own independance outside of the mission. I remember the days following this sad event, the dark nights of wondering, the outright denials on my part, and the absolute bewilderment I felt as to my lack of happiness. I seemed miserable all the time. I sat in my dank prison cel of self-pity, wondering where the daylight that had graced me throughout my life had gone. We had lost an angel from amongst us, and I felt that loss. It was heart breaking. I remember at the funeral as I watched my brothers and sisters with their families, their loved ones, and I felt so utterly alone. I saw my two best friends, each with their beautiful wives (or soon to be wives in that case) and how happy they seemed to be, and I felt isolated and utterly alone in those moments. Alone like I'd never felt before in my life... What had I done wrong? What had I done to deserve such a punishment?

All at once, that picturesque setting that had defined my family's life crumbled and died. Suddenly those things that we hear about in Ensign articles and in the movies was happening to us. Our lives had suddenly lost that stable enviorenment that we had grown so accustomed to. Our entire perspective on things was forced to change and we were forced to adapt to confront these new challenges. There was so much in that small amount of time, all of this ocurring within the last three years. So little time compared to the rest of our lives, even in my relatively short experience here on life, this seemed like an awful lot in one round to take. So what is it that keeps us going?

An answer was given to me by a friend as we talked one night, which turned out to be a shaft of light that penetrated the dark that had encompassed me in my grief. She asked me a simple question that has changed my perspective: "Have you given up hope?" I realized in that moment that I had discarded it, fearing in to hold on to it lest I be disappointed yet again. All my hope had been destroyed in the past wave of pain that had hit me. I realized that I was afraid to protect my hope, I was afraid that it would "betray" me again. What that question made me realize was that my hope hadn't been betrayed, only tested, and I had been found wanting.

That moment of clarity burst through those clouds of misery and gloom that had gathered on my horizon. I saw the pit that I had dug for myself. For just a minute I could see the way out. Since then I've been struggling to make my way out. I have been met with many disappointments as I've done so, but I see now that each day truly is something special. I have hope that death is not the end, that Mom is still there waiting for me, coaxing me to do better. She stands as a beacon for all of us to move forward. I see the wonderful being that my niece is, that all of the little ones in our family are. I see how wonderful and blessed our family is. Each little giggle from them is a gift, and a preview to what is ahead. Beyond the mountains that loom in the distance, and over the rivers and woods we have yet to traverse there is a beautiful place waiting for us. Mom is here to help us, she stands to give us a hand up and she's there to cheer us on, just as she's always been. She still loves us and she's still aware of us.

Our families are a wonderful blessing, and are a prelude, not a finale, to what this life has to offer. Everyone has had those moments of clarity where the clouds part and we're allowed to see, really see what lies ahead. We're given a glimpse into the eternities and we know that this is not the end. The problem is that the clouds roll back into place and the gloom comes back as the wear and tear of climbing over obstacles and mountains. We grow fatigued and lose sight of what we have seen and felt. The rain falls on us and we grow cold, and wet, and weary. We don't care about what lies ahead.

As for me, there are days when I want to throw my hope aside again. Sometimes it just feels too heavy to keep carrying. I want to give up and crawl in some cave and take refuge and stop worrying about it. But then there are those days when the sun shines, and the birds sing and I'm reminded of those beautiful days that I sat on the deck and just talked with Mom as she pointed out the beauties around me. The same way she did for all of us. There's days when I have my friends and family around me to bear me up, like angels that they are. Each of us helping the other, the way it should be. It's those days that I know Mom is watching us and smiling, her eyes filled with those happy tears that we all know the feel of. I love those days, and they make the dark days bearable. Because in the end, those gray storms and overcast days are the temporary settings. Some day in the not too distant future we'll be able to bask in the eternal sunshine that we came to enjoy through Mom's instruction and we will be glad that we didn't discard our hope along the way. We just have to keep pushing along for now....

Horror Story

2010-09-30T17:59:00.000-07:00

The rain fell in heavy sheets against the window pain, casting the city in a darker hue of blue as the failing light of the receding sun backed away from the overcast sky. I sat looking out over the azure cityscape spread out before me, it almost felt as if a saxophone should be playing some strange, lilting melody somewhere in the background. The water washed down the window of my second story flat, obscuring the crowded array of buildings behind the pane of glass. The lights were off in my small living room, a half drunk bottle of self pity lying near my outstretched hand. From somewhere upstairs came the sounds of laughter and playful running as the newlywed couple above me acted out their unsynchronized happiness that struck so discordantly with my own melancholy.

How does one pick up the broken pieces of a shattered confidence? The thought slid darkly across my thoughts, enveloping my conscious like a dark blanket of worry. The sound of the rain was my single comfort as I sat quietly watching the day die out through my small window. The isolation of the small room was punctuated by the sounds of the couple upstairs. They weren’t giggling and laughing anymore. Their happiness glared at me, a candle disturbing the otherwise welcome gloom of my own despondency. My inadequacies stared at me in the darkness, glowing eyes far more terrifying than any other childhood monster that had crept from under my bed or taken refuge in the solace of my closet. The sounds of small children playing in the alleyway rang up the walls, giggles and screams of delight again throwing me off of the dark stupor I had settled myself into.

I had failed. Happiness is a thing reserved for the successful, the triumphant, and the penitent, at this point I was none of those three. I was a failure. At this point the golden gates of the contentment I had once felt were closed off to me, and I had been cast into a black gulf of despair. I say cast when I should use a more voluntary verb. I had jumped into this ravine that I found myself. Something about my nature reveled in self-destruction.

I allowed my gaze to fall to the leather bound book lying close to the window, bathed in the dying blue light. A set of pages stitched together and glued inside the green-skinned cover. Words that I had built my life around seemed now to stare at me with mixed disappointment and grief. The azure light by now had begun to cast dark shadows of doubt across the room. I had tried and still failed. Perhaps my faith hadn’t been enough, perhaps I hadn’t tried hard enough, maybe I had misread what answers I had been given, perhaps the unthinkable had occurred and I had been shown the frailty of my belief and the reality of present circumstances had crushed my former idealistic dreams. The fact that I was a fool was not in dispute; only what kind was up for debate.

The candle of my faith wavered like the fading light that even now lay almost extinguished with the setting sun. I lit a match to try and rebuff the darkness, but it only seemed to punctuate it. How could this have happened? How could it have been allowed to go this far? I had done everything in my power to stop the failure that had eventually ended up being my own. The phone rang out in the twilight, I didn’t even stir, too tired to make the effort. A knock at the door came, and I remained seated despite my rising urge to rush to the portal and throw back the door, hungry for the companionship on the other side. Yet I stayed where I was, too afraid of the monsters lurking in the growing shadows to stray too far from my bubble of light brought on by the sputtering match. I lit another. The brief flare of the phosphate pushed back the encroaching shadows and caused the monsters to flinch away in startled fear.

The knocking on the door grew louder. The creatures snarled and crept closer to my seat. By now the only light was my single flame. The sounds of the couple upstairs had silenced, they had settled down to a night of whispering sweet nothings to each other until they fell asleep. The children outside having long been called back inside to warm homes with warm beds. The only sound was the brief pops from the little match I held and the incessant pounding on the door. The desire to open the door grew more persistent. I longed for the relief that my guest could provide. I lit another match and during its flare I leapt to my feet and ran to the door, flinging it wide open. No one was there. I looked down the hallway that stretched away into blackness, there was nothing but other doors that had remained as firmly shut as my own had been, some doors I recognized. A single paper lay folded on my doormat, with the words “Have faith, the light will come,” written across in an elegant hand. I stooped down and picked up the fragile lifeline and made my way quickly back to the refuge of my worn out recliner.

I stared out the window at the darkness that had enveloped the crowded metropolis around me. The creatures began their tireless circling as my match again began to die away. I lit another. Again the sudden brightness of the fresh flame caused the predators to pull away momentarily before again resuming their restless patrol, a feral hunger reflecting in their eyes, the only visible thing in the darkness. I continued my watching of the darkness outside of my window. At first there was only the ink of the newly risen night, then slowly as my eyes adjusted, I began to notice little spots of white, a bright cancer on the otherwise perfect blight of darkness. Stars. Little pinpoints of hope and promise stared back at me, penetrating the gloom of this, my darkest night. Memories of brighter mornings and evenings when I too had lain in the warm arms of happiness. A small determination welled up inside of me. A single hope that I clung to was all that I could find to grasp to. The hope that there was still hope to be had. That a sunrise was coming, I just had to last out the night.

The light from my small match finally reflected in my eyes. I took the paper that had the words of hope scrawled across it. I realized abruptly that it wasn’t just a piece of paper, but that it was an envelope. I opened it and looked anxiously inside it, there were three matches inside, I placed them with the rest and stared out in the darkness, a quiet resolution forming in my gut. I lit another match and settled in to wait. There would be no rest this evening. The monsters were too daring tonight and any lack of care would result in my destruction. I turned my recliner to face the eastern window and held my sacred matches even closer. The night promised to be a revealing one, and I sat back. I only hoped that my matches would be enough. I stared out again at the stars and clung to the extra strength that they gave me. Something whispered to me that it was enough. My comfort was complete as I entreated to my patience. In the darkness the snarling beasts were still circling…

On the Threshold

2009-10-26T01:30:00.000-07:00

I originally wrote this piece for a creative writing class, but it is definitely one of my better works as far as short narratives are concerned. I wrote it after my mission and it is loosely based on my last night at home before leaving for my mission. I wrote it from the perspective of all the changes that have occurred to me over these past few years, and I think it is very poetic in the ways that it describes those feelings that I had on my last night home. I call it "On the Threshold"

A cool breeze whispers through the long stalks of grain, the wheat sighs and waves under the light of the freshly risen moon, raising silent hymns up to the skies. Far off in the distance the great Teton Mountains look out over the valley where the patchwork farmland spreads out before them like some great quilt that seems to move and breathe. Tiny houses dot the landscape, equally bathed in the pale moonlight and each seems to glow in the divine radiance.

The evening stars look down with their sparkling countenances on one of those small homes, built on two stories and lined with trees that sway and dance with the gentle wind as it passes from oak to willow as one would exchange partners at a ball, sighing as the wind imparts one last caress before moving on. They waltz to a symphony played by a single cricket playing his soul to the world on his solitary violin. On the steps to this humble home sits a young man, about the age where innocence and maturity wage war to lay claim on every soul that enters such territory. His short brown hair moves as the wind quietly runs her fingers through his hair and down his face. His eyelids are closed in silent reverie as he takes in the earthy smell carried by the gentle breeze, a slight smile hints at his lips and he breathes steadily of the intoxicating perfume, basking in the simple and yet elegant beauty around him. A tentative peace settles over the uncertainty inside him that comes from just being alive, the gentle lover kisses his features softly and then departs, leaving him to his thoughts.

Slowly rising from his meditative position, the young man begins to walk softly across the grass, breathing steadily and looking into the jeweled sky. His thoughts guide him to look out over the familiar surroundings of the homestead, trying desperately to soak in every detail and permanently record everything before him. It would be a long time before he would see this place again, he knows this and is preparing for the worst. The door to the house opens and a motherly woman steps outside, her breathing comes in ragged gasps through a tube in her throat, her short hair is like the young man’s only curly instead of straight. Her plump figure shuffles out to meet her son, a worried expression on her loving face. She covers the tube in her throat in order to speak in a raspy voice.

“Can’t get any sleep, I take it?”

“Nope, Dad’s snoring kept waking me up, besides, my nerves are shot anyways,” the young man smiles as he responds.

“What’s going through your head?”

“Nothing, I’m just nervous is all. Two years is a long time.”

“Not too long, it will go faster than you think.”

“So they say anyways, I don’t know as I believe them. But we’ll definitely see for sure. Anyways, what are you doing up this late?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m fine, go ahead and go back inside, I’ll come in just a few minutes, I just want to sit and think for a bit.” The young man smiles as reassuringly as he can, his mother had a worried look on her face but she quietly nods and turns to shuffle back towards the house.

What the young man didn’t mention to his mother, what he doesn’t really need to tell her, was how his insides are churning right now. He is leaving the next day and would not be returning for two years. That is the reason he can’t sleep, he sits on the threshold of a whole new world that he has never known. That is the reason that he looks around trying to memorize his surroundings, the feeling of the cool night air, the smell of the growing wheat and the earthy scent of the wind coming in across the fields. Where he is going such things will only be fond memories of the past, the harsh realities won’t offer any such comforts. Tomorrow he leaves for Mexico City, one of the biggest cities on earth, to him this is the other side of the world and across several galaxies. Glancing back at the small home where he has lived his whole life he sighs and starts walking towards the door to try and sleep away the few remaining hours before his journey begins. He lies down in the cold comfort of his familiar bed, and then the war begins in earnest.

His fears and doubts as to what he is leaving behind simmer behind his poorly composed mask that barely contains his emotions. He asks himself what will become of his home? His mother? All these things and more press in on him, threatening to overwhelm him. He knows that change is just around the corner, hiding behind the first beams of morning’s sunlight, something unknown whispers in the shadows of the star-lit evening telling him that nothing will be the same. Telling him that his life is about to change drastically and that it will never return to the normal state he has become accustomed to. He brushes such things away from his mind, pushing them into the dark recesses of his consciousness trying ever so hard to ignore them, but they break free and again begin to torment him as he lays in his bed struggling in vain to catch the elusive bliss of sleep.

Little does he know that the voices are correct, those murmurings speak truth far greater than even they are aware. The whispers grow in ferocity and intensity as the night progresses, gradually growing to shouting, and finally a dull roar that fills every corner with a deafening silence that can only be heard within one’s head. A steady rhythm chanting “change, change, change, change, change, change!”

His blankets seek to drown him as he struggles into his bed, wrapping themselves around him, smothering him. He can’t breathe. He can’t focus. His eyes dart back and forth searching for the source of his assailants and tormentors. Closing his eyes he lays back and can see them that speak to him, telling him of the horrors that await him, a group of ugly men with bulbous noses and large lips. Yet, behind the loud-mouthed crowd inside his head sits a single person, calmly watching the progression. He is clothed in white and looks steadfastly at the young man, his confident gaze reassuring him. Somehow he isn’t surprised to be looking at himself.

The young man is forced to make a decision, to continue on this path chosen for him by his faith and his desire to do that which is right, or to stay safely concealed in the security of the known and comfortable and throw his responsibilities to the wind. Thus the war wages throughout the whole night, the loud horde screaming for attention, and the white clad figure demanding it.

Then, with startling speed, the darkness flies and the first rays of morning stab through the accusing mob and dispelling the awful gloom brought on by their fierce tirade. The dark night is over, the battle is won, and our hero emerges from his room, the purifying fire of the previous night’s ordeal burning brightly behind his eyes. He dresses for the day, knowing that it will be a difficult one. He opens the door to his house and receives one final caress from the gentle wind, and then takes one last look at his surroundings, knowing that it is the last time he will look on them the way he does now. Setting his jaw resolutely he takes a step forward, crossing over the threshold of the doorway.

Home At Last

2009-08-01T21:35:00.000-07:00

Here's another writing, and yes it does involve my mom, but you'll have to forgive me as it is one of the more pivotal events in my life and I have written quite a bit on it. But I think that this writing takes a different approach to the matter, I called it "Home At Last"

Have you ever wondered what kind of reception angels receive in heaven when they finally get to come home? I imagine that it’s a lot like someone coming home from a long trip, with lots of happy tears and warm hugs, there’s probably some balloons in the background and a few songs sung as the triumphant returning one enters through the swirling veil of this world and is greeted by familiar faces beaming at them. I’ve had cause to think about this scene a lot because I’ve known a couple angels in my time, all sorts of them actually. Some of them didn’t realize that they were angels, some did and were all the more radiant because of that knowledge, while still others were only partially aware of the divinity within them.
The first time I recognized the angels that are amongst us, I was actually very far away from the angel. I remember as I stared at the pale glass of the computer monitor as I read the words that seemed to strike me in the face. It was early July, and I was sitting in a small Internet café in one of the scummier parts of Mexico City with a sweltering heat beating down on us through the glass doors that opened up into a dirty street. I sat there in an uncomfortable chair in front of an aging computer and read the correspondence that I had received from my family.
I learned that day that a giant had fallen; a struggle with an old enemy had finally taken its toll and had carried him away. My uncle Don had passed away the previous week, having lost the fight against thyroid cancer and finally succumbing to the effects of the disease. It was at this moment that I first knew an angel had been summoned home. It took the knowledge of his death to make me realize this. It’s interesting to me that for some people, it requires a heavy shock to their system in order for them to begin seeing angels, for others it comes naturally and they can see them anywhere. Still for other people they just ignore the presence of angels in their lives, and when something frightening or difficult occurs they tend only to recognize the devils. At this moment, and from then on, I saw angels.
Another celestial creature that I have happened upon in my sojourns in life is my niece, a wide-eyed, loving creature that has yet to form complete sentences. What she cannot convey in words she more than makes up for in affection and simple brightness, her gaze carries with it such a look of absolute innocence and complete trust that it could melt the hardest of hearts. Her blue eyes and smiling mouth, mixed with her light, sun-kissed hair that seems to glow with the rest of her countenance, brings happiness wherever she is. She is the one that made me begin to wonder about how angels are received in heaven, for you see, she suffers from a rare genetic disease known as Spinal Muscular Atrophy, or SMA for short, and who knows how long God has loaned us this heavenly creature, for we know that she is sorely missed in those high courts.
My niece Whitnee is a beautiful little girl, even though she will never walk, the crippling disease that ravages her body forbids such, but the jealous affliction cannot conquer that angelic spirit that is within her. I feel that her gaze sees far more angels than I can ever imagine, and I like to believe that she can see the inner angel that all of us tend to miss in ourselves. She sits in her wheelchair and babbles on in her happy made-up language and occasionally allows us a chance to be a part of it when she looks at you and smiles as she chatters and says your name and then continues talking to the invisible companionship around her. I prefer to think that she is conversing with her saintly entourage and so when she mentions your name, be forewarned for you are being spoken of to a heavenly host. The precious time that she is here is one of glowing moments and glimpses of what heaven must be like. I know that the reception she will receive is one far more radiant than the most decorated war hero, or celebrated superstar could ever hope for.
Then there is one of the greatest angels I have ever met, my mother. This being was a great source of heavenly inspiration that touched so many lives. I recall many late nights spent talking about hard classes, difficult assignments, failed attempts at love, and good books. Many a tear was wiped away by her loving hands, so many wounds, both physical as well as spiritual, were calmed and robbed of their painful swellings before they became infected. In 2004, she went in for a fateful operation that would steal away forever her the voice that I had known my whole life, and replaced it with a raspy wheezing caused by a horrid tube sticking out of her throat like some white-headed serpent that hissed and sputtered with each intake of breath.
The awful surgery revealed a hideous infiltrator within her body; cancer. The same cruel beast that took my uncle now was encroaching on my beloved mother and personal saint. This tore at everyone in the family. My mother was devastated at the loss of her voice and of the impending battle she was facing. She could no longer sing to her precious grandchildren, midnight conversations with her children now seemed to be an impossibility. Life as she, and we, knew it had changed entirely. But even the destructive force let loose in her body did not deter the sacred spirit that she carried within her. She could still speak, even if it cost her to do so, and she worked puzzles with her grandchildren instead of singing, she learned to communicate in other ways beside speaking, now her conversations with her family were more animated and her happy excitement and good disposition made her an inspiration to many. She was never one to mince words and always made the most out of every situation. I still remember the words she spoke to my sister right before entering under the surgeon’s knife, the simple phrase that only angels are comfortable using. The words “I love you.”
Those three words sum up the entirety of this angel’s life, even in the following years after that fateful operation when her disease proceeded to consume the flesh that held captive the mighty spirit within, she never allowed her enthusiasm for life to drop. The last hours of her journey as a stranger here on this earth found her in a hospital bed, wires and tubes snaking into her body, providing the necessary sustenance that it required to survive just a few more minutes or hours. Her family was gathered around her, we each approached and she hugged each of us individually, rasping out a strained expression of love before moving on to the next child. Finally she arrived at her beloved husband, giving him one final embrace, she kissed him and pushed the words she so desperately wanted to say out of her mouth. “I love you.” She could only mouth the words, but the feeling behind them was so great and without bounds. I watched this scene unfold, telling my mother that I loved her as well, along with the rest of my siblings.
After these last loving embraces everyone departed but two of my brothers and my grandmother, as well as myself. I sat by my failing mother’s side she looked at me and tried to say something, but her breath was too shallow. My brothers had left the room and so I walked out to bring them in. When I returned, I knelt by her side and took her hand. As I watched the monitors that were checking her vitals, they suddenly gave a sharp drop as the sweet spirit that had inhabited that tabernacle slowly slipped away. Lowering my head, I began to weep as another angel was summoned home at last. I knew that the celebrations had begun somewhere else, a big parade with balloons and fellow angels welcoming their sister and daughter back.

More Poetry!

2009-07-15T19:57:00.000-07:00

A bit more poetry for ya'll... I thought I'd switch the moods and talk about something a bit more hopeful with this post, and instead focus a bit more on hopeful things. These are still some works in progress, but if you like them, then let me know!

Quiet Mercy
-Ben Stoddard

The wind speaks softly through the trees
A quiet prayer for me to hear
Beneath the emerald canopy of trees
The voice grows quiet as it draws near

It speaks to me of Love’s soft hand
That beckons from a distant land
It whispers silent assurances sweet
Given by one with pierced hands and feet

To feel the raw emotion of passion sinned
And the weight of worthiness thinned
The pain of discouragement and lost hope
When dreams and loves vanish in smoke

One is there who helps to raise up fallen arms
An eternal hope to sustain us through harsh storms
A beacon that guides us with light to come
Over rocks and stones, to bring us safely home.

My Dad
-Ben Stoddard

Glass that ripples and breathes
Sending shiny waves upon the rocky shore
Pebbles worn smooth by constant friction
Branches from nature’s bridges floating

A quiet island sits in the middle
A place for thought and work
Too many things to do, no time for fun
Worn hands and old backs have no excuse

Fierce storms have ravaged the surface
But rich soil still lies beneath
Sun kissed grass and sturdy growth
The island stands alone.

Blue Eyed Angel
-Ben Stoddard

This angel has a wheelchair instead of wings
Blue eyes and golden hair
Loving countenance and giggling voice
A smile that can melt even the hardest of hearts
And a capacity to suffer what others could not
She giggles and laughs and calls out your name
Then teasingly reverts to her own language again
She smiles and beams at you, radiant beams of light
A sure sign of pride, she has claimed you as her own
Till the day she leaves, she will love you still.

This is NOT a cry for help!

2009-07-01T01:40:00.000-07:00

I tried to get this done before June was out, but I just barely missed it, sorry everyone! I hope this one is good enough to sate you over until the next one comes out (I promise it will be sooner, school is almost out and I'm going to do better at writing for this, I promise!)

Okay, I'm a bit hesitant to post this one because I know I'm going to get some emails or calls asking me if I'm okay or telling me not to do anything rash. I promise you that I have no intention of doing anything drastic and am actually quite happy with life at the present moment. What inspired this story is this girl that I met the other day, we began talking and found out that we both enjoy writing, so we decided to write about a topic. Well we had been discussing the idea of what would you do if you knew that this was your last day to live, and we decided to write something on that topic, this is what I wrote. I call it, "The Agreement"

The Agreement…

A man is only as good as his word, as the saying goes. The setting sun of in the distance holds an ominous glow as it spread its golden arms across the deepening landscape. The mountains, the great and mighty Tetons, stand as silent testaments to these final minutes of the dying light. This had been a special day for me, and I want to savor these last few minutes, made all the sweeter by the agreement that I had made.

It was a heavy decision that I had been required to make, but I didn’t regret it, and even now I wouldn’t have changed my final choice. It’s strange how such heavy changes in our lives can put things into such perspective, and in reality it almost seems as though our decisions are made before the crucial moments actually come, and our characters are the real things that are shown to be the result of our choices when the moment of truth comes. Cliché? Most definitely, but as with most clichés this one has been around for such a long time because it makes a valid point. My decision was a private one, and I hope that my character passed the test, if not then it doesn’t matter.

My day had started early, which is strange for me as I’m usually a late riser. The morning light, a strange reversal of the beautiful sunset that now lies before me, crept in through my window like soft fingers gently willing me to wake up. I crept out of bed in order to enjoy the quiet stillness that accompanies the sun’s quiet awakening. I boiled some water for some hot cider and took my cup outside to listen to the sounds of a waking world. The steam from my cup curled lazily above the rim before dissipating in a series of intricate swirls and twists, catching the sleepy orange light of the morning in the steam before curling away into the brisk air of the young day.

Everything seemed so much more vivid in comparison to my previous mornings of rushed exits in order to make it to class or work on time. Today, there would be no rushing; I wanted to savor these moments like some superb dish that is rapidly diminishing. Colors were more vibrant in this light. In my head a silent melody seemed to accompany the quiet stillness of the early hour. Strangely enough, I was forced into a quiet awe as to the overwhelming calm I felt at my decision. Another strange phenomenon of this thing we call life: once a decision is made and committed to, the worry and stress that plagues the process of making a choice dissipate like the steam from my cider, as though the pressure of responsibility has been removed.

In life, often times what we see as the end is only a link into another beginning. Another cliché, but also a true one. This morning signaled the end of another night, a time of quiet contemplation and wearied worrying, and also the beginning of another day. When our perspectives expand someday, perhaps we will see that the concept of beginning and end are one of the many fallacies that our human minds have conjured up, along with our warped perceptions of what is fair. This day was an embodiment of that statement, with the morning being a final testament to confirm that truth to me.

I visited a cemetery, a rather morbid choice for such a day, but I considered it an investment in the future. I went to visit someone very dear to me, or at least the last physical representation of her that was left to me. This is not one of those dismal graveyards that are so eerily described in horror books. This was a resting place of many good people, and in a morose way of thinking I would almost label it as a happy cemetery. This was a testament to lives well led, and loved ones left behind to finish their own journeys. I stopped at the address that I already knew by heart, the residence was marked with a large pine tree hanging over it to give shade in the hot summer and shelter in the cold winter. The place was on the downward slope of the hill and held a good vantage point over the surrounding farmland. On several sides one could see small little farmsteads with happy lawns and if one arrived at the right time, the sounds of children playing can be heard drifting over from the small red brick schoolyard less than a block away.

In reality, cemeteries are meant for the living. We use them as reminders, bookmarks in the book of life’s story where the narration trades hands from one author to the next. The dead have far more important things to do than lie around, but it gives us a strange sense of peace to be able to give them a place that, should they want, they could come and rest in peace. I looked at the name on the headstone as I drew close to it. I called out the dear person’s name, or at least the name I know her as, in order to get her attention and have her come to the window so I can talk to her. “Mom,” I cried.

Of course she doesn’t answer, she’s not at this address anymore. We all know the forwarding address where she can be reached, but the phone systems are a bit tricky there so we just make token visits to the last place we left her, hoping that she’ll check her messages there sometime and know that we are thinking of her. I carried on a one sided conversation with the tombstone, smiling the whole time at the irony of the situation. I explained about the agreement that I had made and why I had made it. It felt good to be able to tell somebody about it.

In all honesty, the circumstances of the agreement are very personal, I hadn’t wished for this situation and honestly would have avoided it had there been any other way. However, in retrospect, I can think of far worse reasons for making the choice that I did, although, I would have preferred to have avoided the result for a bit longer. Such is life, I suppose, it’s more about making do with what time we’re given, and not trying to exceed what we shouldn’t. Time is a tricky substance to understand, which is why I’m glad that its only application is for mortals, it’s like a cup of tea: the first taste can be powerful and intriguing, but as we drink we become accustomed to the taste and lose interest. Yet when we reach the dregs of our cups, the power of the flavor is intensified and we experience a type of euphoria at the renewal of the taste, and perhaps that’s what makes time so vital to the wonderful plan of this life.

After the cemetery, I spent the day visiting friends and family. Of course none of them knew about the agreement because I didn’t want them to act differently around me, and waste the moments of happiness that were left to us. This act might seem selfish of me, and it probably is; yet still I wouldn’t have changed my decision. I watched a movie with one of my brothers and his family. A wasted choice, one might say, but I wasn’t watching the movie for entertainment, I was watching it for the sake of company. It felt good to be in comfortable surroundings with people who loved me. I hung out with my friends and did the things that we love to do, laughing at stories that we shared and drinking cold drinks that accompanied the sweet taste of barbeque as we enjoyed the warm afternoon. All of these things may seem trivial, but they have meaning to me, and that is what is important on this day.

The sun is just about gone, dipping close to the ends of the horizon. I look around me at the calm and peaceful surroundings. The smell of moist earth from the fields beside the house, the metallic rhythm from the watering spigots off in those same fields as they fed the thirsty soil, this sound is accompanied by the subdued chirruping of several crickets in their hidden concert halls. I sigh as I look back on my life, the friends and family, the memories, and the achievements that had been given to me. The only regret I carry with me at this point is not having anyone singular to share my experiences thus far with, and again I sigh as I sadly realize the implications the agreement will have on that regret.

The sun finally bids its final farewell in a last flash of color and is gone. Then he is standing next to me, wearing a black, long sleeved shirt and comfortable jeans. He has slightly longer hair that goes below his jaw line and brushes his shoulders and a well-trimmed goatee. He smiles and asks if I’m ready. I return the smile and nod. He laughs and slaps me on the shoulder, his touch isn’t as cold as most people think, it’s actually quite warm. Of all the characters in all of history, this one is the most poorly portrayed in my eyes. He tells me how much work it was to file the papers necessary to have someone switch places. He also informs me how rare it is to have such a submission accepted. There are millions of submissions every day, but all of them are usually denied. I continue smiling as I listen to him and we start walking off in the direction the sun took when it went to bed…

Quick bit of poetry....

2009-05-08T11:10:00.000-07:00

Seeing as how it's been awhile, I figure that I would update my blog, at least with a little something.... so I wrote a small poem that I would like to share with you all who are still checking on this, interpret it how you will....

All the people in all the world
have dancing partners dear
but as for me,
unfortunately
I dance
alone

So there you have it, a quick little note, I know it's not much, but I promise that I will get something new up here in the near future. Feel free to comment on anything you like or that you don't like!

The D-word

2009-04-04T20:41:00.000-07:00

Okay this note goes out to everyone. Consider it a memo for an upcoming meeting or something. I welcome all of your thoughts and concerns on this matter. This is an attempt to bridge that horrible chasm that is a mass of confusion and utter terror to most men; the female mind! The longer I live here the more I understand that girls are some of the happiest misery you will ever suffer during your sojourn here on earth. I mean this in a loving way and this note is not to be slanderous in any respect. I fully respect the female society, and mean no disrespect at all to anyone with my remarks. If I make a comment that offends you in some way, let me know and I'll rectify it with you. That being said, this is meant to be a humorous debate with anyone that is willing to venture into the realm of my scathing wit and bitterness on this subject.

I am one of the many men that at some time or other has sworn off dating. Most of the times the members of this club make that vow several times. Of course we always rescind our declaration upon crossing paths with the next set of batting eyelashes that catches our eye. However, like any other long time member of this club might tell you, we're still trying to figure this whole game out. We don't get the whole stop-n-go kind of theory that seems to accompany that all elusive status of "relationship". We struggle to see what there is that attracts you females to give in to some guys. It feels like we're playing a game of Clue, and we're trying desperately to find out what the missing piece of the puzzle is. Yet when we declare that it was Col. Mustard in the Library with the candlestick, if we're wrong all we get for a response is "no". That's it! No new clues are given to us to help us figure this out! Do you have any idea how maddening this is!? There's no reasoning at all! We're left shooting in the dark at targets of variable sizes and we're not even sure we're getting close to the mark.

Girls, let me give you a hint. We guys are not nearly so smart as you may think, you feel like that if you like one of us then we should be man enough to figure it out! Girls drop all of these elaborate hints that when added up form one decent sized hint, but it's like looking for change in your Uncle's couch! You find all sorts of stuff besides coins; lint, old plastic utensils, TV remotes, TV guides, and other odd assortments of strange articles some of them too horrific to mention. But we guys aren't that smart in that area, so we'll sit and stew over a piece of newspaper trimmings and wonder if it's really a quarter in disguise. This sounds ridiculous, but what seems rather obvious to you girls is really something that we often times wouldn't even consider as a hint.

Here it is simply put for you: If a guy likes you, and really likes you, he'll want to spend time with you and he'll seek you out to do it. Please don't discourage us in this regards. Nothing is more frustrating than when we finally work up the gumption to ask you to do something and have you give us one of those ambiguous responses that lead us to wonder if you were just trying to let us down easy, or if you really did want to do something with us. If you do want us to keep trying give us something to work with! Laugh on the phone when we call, we're just as terrified of you as you are of us! Probably more so! Give us encouragement, and don't feel that it is too forward to give us a call if you kinda like us, too! The rules of engagement in this parley have changed considerably in the last few decades, it's okay to let us know if you like us! Heck it makes it a lot easier for us to know if we should make a move or not!

Guys need neon signs pointing them in the right direction, bright ones with blinking lights and pretty colors. What we don't even notice is some obscure smoke signal off in the distance. We also need those signs to let us know when we're doing good. It's hard to know when we're just getting to know you if we do something that you like. Let us know! Communication is key in this world, and it starts in the courtship! Men, as you should know are the last ones to be possessed with the ability to read minds! We're pretty dense sometimes, I don't know how to say it any clearer. We need your help to know when we're on the right track. I know some girls have this idea of a guy that can tell by the light of your smile what he's supposed to do next, and even if you don't have him in your head then we guys think that you do and he intimidates us as much as anything!

As much as we want to be your knights in shining armor, we're just as scared that we're going to mess up when we talk to you as you are when we talk to you. We have this image of the ultimate man already dreamed up that is some Brad Pitt kind of character that is charming and witty and smells good. We feel a lot of time that we don't measure up to that.

Of course, I make it sound like guys are these analyzing machines and we think a lot into what we're going to do. Here's a tip: we don't think these things through nearly that much. The guy's thought process goes something like this: That girl's kinda cute! She's really nice, kinda quiet. Maybe I'll ask her on a date? Yeah, sure! To be honest it comes down to this, when a guy asks you out he's saying "I like you thus far, I kinda want to see where this can go." There is never any guy that doesn't ask a girl out that he doesn't have it in mind that he wants to see where things can go, especially up here at BYU-Idaho.

Now, that doesn't mean we plan on asking anyone to marry us if they say yes to a second date, but you know what? With all the drilling we get on getting married up here, and with all of our friends and family being or getting married around us, we see that happiness and of course we want to jump on the bandwagon. But that doesn't mean that we're all fanatics about it. Or that we aren't going to think out such an astronomical leap without much fasting, prayer, temple going, and several months of dating before we even begin to seriously consider asking you that all important question?

All things considered, dating is a sticky situation and can be seen as some sweet poison, a rose with thorns gilded in nightshade if you will. Everyone has a different experience with it. I wouldn't trade my experiences for anything, but I won't say that I wouldn't like different experiences and new perspectives on this area. Girls, please help us to bridge this gap. We enjoy the wonderful things that you have to offer, but our callous hands sometimes do not handle gently that which we aught to. If that has happened, give us another chance, remember that we also have fragile parts of us that your indifference can damage just as surely.

We are looking for something special, and while friendship in itself is wonderful, and a good building block to move forward with, we are looking for something more meaningful. All of us, whether man or woman are looking for that, for though friends are essential to this life, they are actors in a play that is constantly changing its role call. Exits and entrances are frequent, and even with good friends there comes a time when we want something more long lasting and stable in our lives. We aren't fanatics for wanting this, nor are we blind zombies that are bent only on marriage, don't misunderstand me. We want only the happiness that comes from having someone special in our life. The exhilaration of receiving that special place in someone's life is something that all of humanity seeks after in one form or another, the love of another is a precious thing and we all have need of it. So don't misinterpret our intentions.

Death, Thou Shalt Die

2009-04-01T22:24:00.000-07:00

Death is a companion that seems to want to accompany us all throughout life; some of us just have closer experiences with it than others. I myself am becoming quite familiar with him. He can be a cold creature at times, and at other times a sweet release to those who suffer. I have been a witness to both types, and also many other varying degrees in between. He’s very misunderstood, I think. He comes with his raven wings and glides away just as quietly. I’ve seen him several times, and the more exposure that I’ve had with him, the less frightening he is. He comes for his clients with a cool professionalism that is undeniable, and sweeps them away, leaving only husks in their place. But where he takes them depends on how much currency they have, and he only deals in virtuous and worthy lives.
I remember the first time that I really began to know Death was while serving as a missionary in the Mexico City South Mission. It was a dark day, even though the sun was shining brightly. A recent convert to the Church, who I will call Marcos, had found his son’s dead body hanging from the support beam in his own room. We had been at Marcos’s house all the previous day offering consolation and advising those bereaved by grief. It was exactly two years ago from tonight on April 1, 2007 that it happened. I wrote home the following words in reference to this horrible event:
“On Sunday, we went to the burial, this was one of the most horrible experiences I have ever had in my mission. I have never seen so much absolute wailing and gnashing of teeth as the scriptures describe it. There were so many people screaming and pulling at their hair, and fainting and so many things, it was an unorganized array. The burial team was callous and un-professional in the way they handled the actual burying, carelessly dropping the casket into a crudely cut out hole in the ground and then brutally threw shovel-fulls of dirt onto the remains of what was my friend's son. It was too much for him, he made as if to go over to the graveside, and some of his family grabbed him, restraining him. One of the old ladies, probably an aunt, began telling him ''Tell God to give you back your son! It's because you changed religions, God is punishing you for that! Tell Him you want your son back! It doesn't matter if God takes you, but tell him how you feel!'' The father threw them off of him and said as he ran to the side of where they were burying his son
“Don't even talk to me!'' When he got to the grave, it was an emotional burden too strong for him, and he turned to the nearest person, which as God would have it, was the bishop. He turned and began weeping on his shoulder as the clods of dirt accompanied the tortured cries of the mother and her family.
This was a very difficult thing to see, we sang a few hymns to try and make it somewhat easier, the contention of the family against us was enough to destroy any chance of the spirit taking part in this cold ceremony. This was a cold reminder of what this life is, this wasn't like any other funeral I had ever been too, where the tears shed were done so in celebration of a life well-lived, and at times, a life that had been cut short by an accident, but all had been with the sweet reassurances of the gospel, the resurrection, and the promises of covenants made in the holy temples of the Lord. These people screamed their hopeless protests against a seemingly invincible foe: Death. They knew nothing, or very little, of the hope that comes through our Savior, in these moments. Christ was a forgotten figure, something more resembling Santa Claus, not someone that could actually have the power to take away the pains of losing a loved one.
In the faith of our Lord, the sting of death is taken away, we know that it is only a temporary phase that must happen as surely as birth is a part of this plan that we all are part of. Needless to say, I am so very grateful for the Plan of Salvation that we have, that takes away the needless fear of what lies beyond this life. I hope we all realize what a priceless jewel we have in our lives to have such a knowledge.
This funeral was a blunt reminder of what we all must pass through, the great and small, rich and poor, learned and un, all must die, and many times the only ones to share our grief in this world are a few family members, and they are suffering the same and are not too great a comfort. With the Lord in our lives, we have a great comfort, that some day we will rise. Death will have no power over us, and we will be free forever. I am grateful for the opportunity I had to be able to offer some small measure of comfort to this brother by sharing somewhat with him the Plan of Salvation. I am grateful for worthy priesthood bearers such as the bishop of this ward, who were there when this brother needed him most. Mostly, I am grateful for the Comforter, which comes from our Heavenly Father that is able to help us in these difficult times. The brother is still struggling with the loss of his son, but his ward is uniting to help him, and I am sure that the Lord will not leave him alone. I feel a calm sense of assurance in saying that with time, he will be fine, through the cleansing power of the Atonement, he still has some time left in this ''Friday'' of his life, as Elder Wirthlin said in the October conference, but Sunday is well on its' way.”
John Donne, in a later portion of his life, penned the poem “Death Be Not Proud”. Its words are a stirring reminder for us to be grateful for the wonderful blessings that we possess in this Gospel, the answers to the knowledge that death is not the end. He writes: “Death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so, for, those whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow, die not, poor Death…” Remember that this life is not the end, and we do not have all the answers in this life as to the outcome of every single individual, we do know this: “One short sleep past, we wake eternally, and death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.” So it shall be, and we will be forever left to consider the outcomes of our decisions, whether for our eternal happiness or not is the decision that we face today. Let all our choices be those that direct us to the hope of an eternity with those we love, and let us not pawn off the difficulties of today for a moment’s sinful respite. Let us continue moving forward towards the victory. That we might be able to truly rest and be able to come forth in that great day, when all is finished and death, that sad creature, takes its final victim: itself.

By Popular Demand

2009-03-26T00:05:00.000-07:00

Here it is by popular demand, I figured I might as well put it down in writing for the masses:

The Kilt:

I have always been a bit of a strange person, as my brothers will be quick to attest to. I’ve always been different even from my family, which is a strange one in its own league, but it’s the good kind of strange, that inexplicable feeling of being different that everyone seems to be trying to get a piece of and uses all sorts of counterfeit methods to try and imitate it.

As it was, when I was in the early portion of my high school years, I was involved in a bit of medieval reenactment and was still in the process of choosing my persona that I wanted to be. I thought about what I enjoyed about medieval history and thought about where my family had come from. I thought to the origins of my mom’s maiden name of McBride and just like that it was decided: I was a Scotsman! So I rummaged around in our prop closet from the accumulated costumes from various and sundry plays and musicals that Mom had been a part of. Due to her extensive participation in such activities, I had quite a selection to sort through. Finally I emerged triumphant with a baggy white shirt, a fur mantle, and a blue kilt made out of polyester. Now the materials that composed the kilt are important to note, and I’ll explain why a little later on…

So thus it was, my friend Ben Seare and I set out to explore his grandfather’s field. It was a nice little patch of land with some peaceful trees that had a tendency to hide away the rest of the world and gave the approved effect of transporting us back into a quasi-medieval setting, so we set up camp and began our romp through the dark ages. Things went great for the first couple of days, lots of sword fighting and apple-beer drinking and other such manly medieval activities, although I can’t imagine how girls wear skirts, that kilt was terribly drafty and uncomfortable, not to mention awkward to sit around a campfire in. No wonder you have to cross your legs the way you do… but I digress.

It was on the third day that we ventured back into town to restock our rapidly diminishing supply of cheese, potato rolls, and apple-beer. Upon arriving at the grocery store, we made our purchases (still dressed in our garb, of course) and as we left the market I asked Ben if we really wanted to go back out to the campsite or if we would rather just head back to his grandparent’s house and be able to sleep in beds rather than on the rocky ground for the last night of our trip. He agreed that it would be better to just call off the last night of camping and go home, but we had left his dog Jerry up at the site so we had to return to get that blasted dog. Once there we just decided that it wasn’t worth it to pack up that night and since we had already purchased supplies for the last night, we might as well tough it out, so Ben built a fire and I got dinner ready.

After the fire was going, Ben went off to gather a bit more wood while I stood by the fire and just contemplated with all the depth a teenage boy can muster… which is about the depth of a puddle, but I fancied myself different. As I sat there looking into the fire, a strong gust of wind came up and blew the smoke into my face. I coughed and sputtered and looked away as my eyes began to water. I looked back at the fire and wiped my eyes a bit from the wood smoke and as I did so I saw a little tongue of flame caught my attention from the bottom of my vision, one that was entirely too close to be a part of the fire… I looked down and gave a yelp of surprise. This is where it is important to note the main difference between my kilt, and that of an authentic Scotsman’s kilt, an authentic kilt would have been constructed from wool, not polyester. The former material, though less comfortable, would be far more durable, warmer, and most importantly in this circumstance: fire resistant. As I looked down at the base of my kilt, a knot of flames leapt up to greet me. I instantly jumped back away from the fire and started running around yelling. Ben walked over rather confused at my actions, until he saw my flaming kilt and then he too joined in the yelling. I looked at him with panic in my eyes.

“What do I do!?” I yelled.

“Stop, drop, and roll!” Came the response. So I obediently dropped to the ground and subsequently my yells grew louder as I tried to smother the fire with my legs, with very little effect. I jumped back up and looked at my friend, who was assuredly terrified thinking that he was going to watch his buddy burn to a cinder in front of him. Not willing to give up just yet, I reached down to my belt buckle to undo the kilt and take it off of me. Unfortunately, the fire had heated the buckle and so it, too was impossible to touch, but this didn’t stop me until after sever unsuccessful attempts and even more curses and burnt fingers. Finally in a last moment of despair, I reached down and grabbed the almost completely melted and burned remnants of my kilt and wrenched it off of me belt and all. Ben grabbed it from me and took off running into the wilderness to smother the fire, screaming all the way there.

So there I stood, I had been wearing a pair of cheap nylon gym shorts underneath my kilt to help with the awkward sitting positions. Those shorts had melted into my skin and were hanging at strange angles, the crisped and melted edges giving off a faint smell of burning ozone. Ben came running back after extinguishing the fire and declared that we were leaving. I grunted my agreement; we got the dog and jumped in the car, as blisters were already starting to form on my leg.

Once back at his grandparent’s house, his grandma took one smell of us and ordered us to different bathrooms to shower due to our acrid smoke odor that accompanied us. I got the master bath, complete with a small, standing shower that was roughly the size of a coffin. I pulled as much of the melted plastic shorts out of my skin as I could without passing out and dragged myself into the shower. I turned on the lukewarm water and watched as it began to spray out, at which time pain exploded throughout my body as the tepid water made contact with the various burns all over my body. Screaming I pounded against the walls, lost in a sense of vertigo from the pain, until finally I managed to stagger out of the shower itself. After regaining a bit of my senses I heard a faint knocking at the door as Ben’s scared voice came from the other side:

“Dude, are you okay?” He asked. I managed to mutter something that was evidently satisfactory and he walked off again. After regaining some of my composure I somehow managed to struggle through a cold shower and emerged some time later. By this time a huge blister about the size of a small ping-pong ball had formed on my left inner thigh and so I was firmly against wearing pants, and therefore spent the remainder of the weekend waddling around my friend’s grandparent’s house in my boxers due to the pain.

It turns out that the large blister was a sign of a second-degree burn and that I had also received a third-degree on my right upper-thigh that was from where the nylon had fused with my skin. My friend’s grandparents decided to call my parents to have them come and get me. As I sat there miserably staring at a TV I heard my mom snickering as she came down the stairs to get me. As she spotted me, her snickers turned into a full out laugh and between bursts of mirth she managed to gasp out:

“You burnt your skirt!” Such was the tender love of a concerned parent. To this day, my family holds this story in the Stoddard hall of infamy. I think it may sadly be part of the legacy that I hand down to my posterity…..

Family History...

2009-03-23T22:27:00.000-07:00

It seems as though the mere mention of the words "Family History" is enough to send most people packing. But I have a firm testimony of the importance of preserving a record for our future generations. This blog is almost going to be a journal about myself and my family, both present and future. So with all the stories that we have, this is going to be a very entertaining blog. So get ready, here come the Stoddards!