If I put off sharing some follow up thoughts on rescues another day or two, I am sure to forget what I was planning to share. No, I don't think this is due to Senior Cognitive Impairment (getting old and forgetful), but I can't be sure.
Now, where was I? (kidding)
Last time, I told you about two rescued dogs. And I saw several spelling, grammatical errors as I quickly read through it the day after. Not mistakes with the dogs. Errors in the writing. Too bad for those of you who are picky about such things...
Both Hairy (and I shall refrain, if I remember, from the annoying habit of inserting "BDE" after this dog's name) and Scooter (current, and probably last name. Not Scooter's last name, but the last name he will have. He only has one name. Currently. He has had four. But no last names-just his only names) experienced rescues.
I wrote about those because I wanted to talk about the fact that we all need rescuing at times, that there are different kinds of rescues and rescuers, and that our experiences in being involved in rescues can be instructive. Hmm-that sounds like a lot. And it is late (for me). So I will write some and see how it goes.
First-we all need rescuing. The obvious is that, as mortals in this world, we need the rescuing that comes from the Infinite Atonement. More thoughts about that another time.
But there are other times in life when we need rescuing. Some are matters of life and death, others just seem like matters of life and death, but aren't really. Sometimes we don't know that we are being rescued, but the act changes our direction enough to drastically change our lives in the long term.
Scooter probably didn't know he needed to be rescued-and we are still working on it. I'm not sure how his life was pre-Nat, but I'm sure it was different from how it is now. Scoot acts as if he was either beaten and abused or that he grew up in a wild environment. It is taking him a long time to adapt to a new, and, we hope, better life. And his life was spared from the fate that awaits many "unwanted" dogs. Nat's action to adopt this hound has changed his life, but Scooter is still trying to figure it out and build trust with these kind people with whom he lives.
Hairy (notice, if you will, that I did not add the annoying "BDE") didn't have a clue that he needed rescuing. He was just enjoying a nice doggy-paddle across the canal on a fine summer day. Then the bottom fell out and he was in the rolling waters under the small drop off in the canal. He was working as hard as he could to get out of the back-flowing current that kept rolling him under the falls, but was not strong enough on his own to get out of the vicious cycle. He needed someone to rescue him from drowning in the murky canal water.
Let's talk about Hairy (tempting, but I won't do it...) first. There are times in our lives when we need rescuing, and it is obvious that we do. Sometimes we are clueless, then, suddenly, we realize we are in over our heads. Example from the scriptures-The Savior and his closest disciples had just met with a multitude and fed them spiritually and physically. He wanted time alone to commune with His Father, and the twelve got on a boat to cross to the other side of Galilee. When they were about four miles out from shore, they were caught in a violent storm. It was in the darkest time of the night-around three in the morning-the "fourth watch"-and they were struggling for their very lives. I don't know if the Savior had been watching their struggles from a hill on the shore, but I know that He was aware of their predicament and their desperate need. You remember the story. He came to them, walking on the sea, in their greatest hour of need, to calm the storm and save them. I would imagine that they thought they needed saving sometime before the fourth watch, but that is when He came. Peter had an adventure when he saw the Lord, but that is another tale.
There are times in our lives when we are rolling around in murky canal water, struggling with all of our strength, but we can't get out. Or when we are out in the dark stormy night that has seemed to go on forever and we just know we will perish. We are crying for help but none seems to be coming-until it arrives to save us just as we are going down, we are sure, for the last time. Even the rescue may not be the most wonderful experience (we think). We may have enough faith to take a few steps on the the rolling swells of the sea, but then start to sink and need to be rescued again. Maybe our rescuer pulls our ear until it feels like it is going to come off, then we are in the water again. And when we are finally pulled out, we are tossed onto the hard ground and thumped on. "...All these things shall be for (your) good".
OK-late enough. I just have a few things to say about Scooter, then make a couple of more points, and be done with this. That's how it goes tonight...
'Night.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
Rescues and Rescue(d) Dogs
Several weeks ago, Natalie "rescued" a dog. A dog named Homer. Then Watson. Then ResDog (my favorite). And finally, Scooter. No-don't get confused now. She didn't rescue four dogs-just one dog that had four names. Now he has one-Scooter.
Nat was excited and very happy to have a dog. Then her eyes started to water and her nose began to run. No, it wasn't Tears and Snot of Joy from having her own pooch-even though she was quite happy to have a hound-it was allergies. To her new doggie.
Then she went back to real-life work, leaving home early in the morning and coming home late in the evening. Scooter (Watson then, or was it RD?) spent the day chewing his bed and "collecting" Nat's clothing to make a bed he wanted.
Phone call from Natalie: "What was I thinking?! I am gone almost all day and Watson (now Scooter-don't get confused) spends the day either eating my apartment or locked in his kennel. Maybe I need to take (insert name of dog here) back to Rover Rescue."
I thought that might not be a bad idea, but Mom thought it would be nice to have a dog around. She likes dogs. So, we now have Scooter (correct current name) at our house.
"Scooter" stuck as this hound's moniker (I'll wait while you ask your parents what that means) because it fits. You know how most dogs will come up and slobber all over you if you offer them anything remotely resembling people food? Or even road kill? Well, Scooter stays away from you in the house. He will come no closer than 5.37 feet to you. You can call, coax, lie on your back and whine, or even offer BACON! And he will keep his distance. If you try to walk up to him to pet him, he scoots away. He is really good at it. He scoots and scoots. The only time he acts doggy-like is when you go to the front door, put on shoes and rattle the leash. Then he is your best friend, sitting on your feet and wagging his tail.
Mom and I have, for the past few weeks, housed, fed, made nice noises and tried everything-including offering pig parts to eat-to try to get Scooter to be our friend. We have taken this hound on walks-long walks along the canal and in the hills-every stinkin' day. I even passed up a bike ride yesterday on a sunny afternoon to take this stand-offish canine for a walk since Mom was working and he hadn't had one all day. He is your best friend on walks, but, once home, he reverts to Scooter. The exception is Natalie. Now, we have had this dog for the past few weeks at our house. Daily feeding, walking, poop gathering, trying to play with, rolling on the floor and whining like a puppy has been done. Do you think this dog would begin to act like he likes being around us? No way! Other than walks, he maintains his 5.37 ft distance.
But-when Nat's car gets within our zip code, Scoot picks up his ears, gets a doggy smile on his chops and starts wagging his tail! And when he hears the door, he Scoots-to the door! To jump and wag and be all excited that his Rescuer is here!
You need to remember that Nat sees this dog once or twice a week-she is allowing us to do the daily feeding, walking, clean-up, etc with this hound. But it is obvious that Scooter knows that, without Nat, he may well not be rescued yet. And he is quick and generous in showing his gratitude to her.
And it is obvious that Nat likes this Scooter dog as well.
OK-stay in there. This won't be long, but I need to tell you about another dog rescue.
Hairy (Best Dog Ever) came to us as a puppy. Buffy (whoever came up with THAT name?) help raise him. He wasn't a rescue dog-we actually got him through my brother Steve, who belonged to Max, who deserves his own stories. Maybe another time.
Where was I-Oh-Hairy (named for obvious reasons. I think you may still find some of his follicles in our home) was the BDE. I will tell you about some of his adventures another time.
Today, I am going to share just one short Hairy tale. Hairy himself only had a short tail. But I digress.
When Hairy (BDE) was a few months old, Natalie, her friend and I took Hairy for a walk along the canal. It was a nice summer day, and the canal was running fairly high. Hairy (BDE) decided to see how the water was. He had not been in the water before, but I was not concerned because I grew up knowing that all animals, except monkeys and humans can swim from birth. Now, don't you believe this-ask aunt Em if you want to know this is true, but that is what my Dad told us when I was young, and it stuck with me. Anyway-I knew Hairy (BDE) would be just fine swimming in the canal. Well, he swam across the canal, then decided he needed to swim back to be with his pack (that would be us) again. He hopped back into the water and started paddling. Dog paddling. Well, what kind of paddling would you think he would do? Anyway, he got in the flowing canal just a little ways above a two-foot high fall under a bridge over the canal.
I could see it would be questionable if Hairy (BDE) would make it across the canal before the flow took him over the little falls. And I could see, in the backwash of the falls, flotsam and jetsam (ask your folks!) rolling around, caught in the reverse flow under the falls. Hairy (BDE) was not very big yet, and I could imagine him being caught in the rolling current himself.
We were cheering him on, but, as he got most of the way across it was clear that he wasn't going to make it.
The flow took him over the falls. We held our breath-hoping Hairy (BDE) would do the same-waiting to see his soggy self pop up out of the water.
We didn't see him. And he had been in there too long.
I told Nat and her buddy to stay on the canal road, and I hustled down under the bridge and reached into the water where I saw a black and white fur ball cycle around.
I reached in as far as I could, felt a furry ear and pulled as hard as I could. I got Hairy (BDE) close to the surface, but the combination of canal current, my grip not strong enough and the ear not being a convenient handle, caused me to loose hold of that ear. I thought Hairy (BDE) was soon to be the late Hairy (BDE).
I knew I had one more chance. I saw him cycling around again, thrust my arm into the churning water (sounding pretty exciting, don't you think?) and caught hold of his collar! A nice, firm, reliable handle.
I pulled the sopping lump of fur out of the current and threw him up on the road. You need to know that I had one leg in the canal, one hand braced on the underworks of the bridge and the other fishing for dogs, so I didn't have the option to gently cradle him in my arms and gently lay him on the bank.
So he got dog-tossed.
Hairy (BDE) had glazed-over eyes (not a good thing) and wasn't moving much. The Toss, however, had forced him to expel canal water out of his snout (a good thing. One should avoid getting canal water in one's snout and lungs), and he move some. I still was not convinced that the Dog was not Gone. He did not look good. We thumped on him a bit and got more water out.
Then Hairy (BDE) took in a breath, did a doggy gag-cough (you know what I mean). Got more nasty canal water out, shook his head, got up, and took a few shaky steps. Then he did something wonderful. Hairy (BDE) did the Dog Shake! What a wonderful thing to see! Especially since we thought he was probably Doggone! Don't you wish you could shake water off like a dog? From your nose to the end of your tail-if you had a tail?
Anyway, Hairy (BDE) did a decent Dog Shake, then smiled, got his bright eyes back and wagged his stubby tail! And we were all happy, relieved, blessed that Hairy (BDE) was back!
OK-my intent with this entry was to tell a couple of rescue stories, then pontificate (that one is worth looking up-not the Pope-related definition) on rescuing. Since I have gone way too long , I will share some thoughts on rescuing and rescues next time. So you have time to consider these stories. There may well be a quiz. With grades. But no prizes. Maybe bacon.
Nat was excited and very happy to have a dog. Then her eyes started to water and her nose began to run. No, it wasn't Tears and Snot of Joy from having her own pooch-even though she was quite happy to have a hound-it was allergies. To her new doggie.
Then she went back to real-life work, leaving home early in the morning and coming home late in the evening. Scooter (Watson then, or was it RD?) spent the day chewing his bed and "collecting" Nat's clothing to make a bed he wanted.
Phone call from Natalie: "What was I thinking?! I am gone almost all day and Watson (now Scooter-don't get confused) spends the day either eating my apartment or locked in his kennel. Maybe I need to take (insert name of dog here) back to Rover Rescue."
I thought that might not be a bad idea, but Mom thought it would be nice to have a dog around. She likes dogs. So, we now have Scooter (correct current name) at our house.
"Scooter" stuck as this hound's moniker (I'll wait while you ask your parents what that means) because it fits. You know how most dogs will come up and slobber all over you if you offer them anything remotely resembling people food? Or even road kill? Well, Scooter stays away from you in the house. He will come no closer than 5.37 feet to you. You can call, coax, lie on your back and whine, or even offer BACON! And he will keep his distance. If you try to walk up to him to pet him, he scoots away. He is really good at it. He scoots and scoots. The only time he acts doggy-like is when you go to the front door, put on shoes and rattle the leash. Then he is your best friend, sitting on your feet and wagging his tail.
Mom and I have, for the past few weeks, housed, fed, made nice noises and tried everything-including offering pig parts to eat-to try to get Scooter to be our friend. We have taken this hound on walks-long walks along the canal and in the hills-every stinkin' day. I even passed up a bike ride yesterday on a sunny afternoon to take this stand-offish canine for a walk since Mom was working and he hadn't had one all day. He is your best friend on walks, but, once home, he reverts to Scooter. The exception is Natalie. Now, we have had this dog for the past few weeks at our house. Daily feeding, walking, poop gathering, trying to play with, rolling on the floor and whining like a puppy has been done. Do you think this dog would begin to act like he likes being around us? No way! Other than walks, he maintains his 5.37 ft distance.
But-when Nat's car gets within our zip code, Scoot picks up his ears, gets a doggy smile on his chops and starts wagging his tail! And when he hears the door, he Scoots-to the door! To jump and wag and be all excited that his Rescuer is here!
You need to remember that Nat sees this dog once or twice a week-she is allowing us to do the daily feeding, walking, clean-up, etc with this hound. But it is obvious that Scooter knows that, without Nat, he may well not be rescued yet. And he is quick and generous in showing his gratitude to her.
And it is obvious that Nat likes this Scooter dog as well.
OK-stay in there. This won't be long, but I need to tell you about another dog rescue.
Hairy (Best Dog Ever) came to us as a puppy. Buffy (whoever came up with THAT name?) help raise him. He wasn't a rescue dog-we actually got him through my brother Steve, who belonged to Max, who deserves his own stories. Maybe another time.
Where was I-Oh-Hairy (named for obvious reasons. I think you may still find some of his follicles in our home) was the BDE. I will tell you about some of his adventures another time.
Today, I am going to share just one short Hairy tale. Hairy himself only had a short tail. But I digress.
When Hairy (BDE) was a few months old, Natalie, her friend and I took Hairy for a walk along the canal. It was a nice summer day, and the canal was running fairly high. Hairy (BDE) decided to see how the water was. He had not been in the water before, but I was not concerned because I grew up knowing that all animals, except monkeys and humans can swim from birth. Now, don't you believe this-ask aunt Em if you want to know this is true, but that is what my Dad told us when I was young, and it stuck with me. Anyway-I knew Hairy (BDE) would be just fine swimming in the canal. Well, he swam across the canal, then decided he needed to swim back to be with his pack (that would be us) again. He hopped back into the water and started paddling. Dog paddling. Well, what kind of paddling would you think he would do? Anyway, he got in the flowing canal just a little ways above a two-foot high fall under a bridge over the canal.
I could see it would be questionable if Hairy (BDE) would make it across the canal before the flow took him over the little falls. And I could see, in the backwash of the falls, flotsam and jetsam (ask your folks!) rolling around, caught in the reverse flow under the falls. Hairy (BDE) was not very big yet, and I could imagine him being caught in the rolling current himself.
We were cheering him on, but, as he got most of the way across it was clear that he wasn't going to make it.
The flow took him over the falls. We held our breath-hoping Hairy (BDE) would do the same-waiting to see his soggy self pop up out of the water.
We didn't see him. And he had been in there too long.
I told Nat and her buddy to stay on the canal road, and I hustled down under the bridge and reached into the water where I saw a black and white fur ball cycle around.
I reached in as far as I could, felt a furry ear and pulled as hard as I could. I got Hairy (BDE) close to the surface, but the combination of canal current, my grip not strong enough and the ear not being a convenient handle, caused me to loose hold of that ear. I thought Hairy (BDE) was soon to be the late Hairy (BDE).
I knew I had one more chance. I saw him cycling around again, thrust my arm into the churning water (sounding pretty exciting, don't you think?) and caught hold of his collar! A nice, firm, reliable handle.
I pulled the sopping lump of fur out of the current and threw him up on the road. You need to know that I had one leg in the canal, one hand braced on the underworks of the bridge and the other fishing for dogs, so I didn't have the option to gently cradle him in my arms and gently lay him on the bank.
So he got dog-tossed.
Hairy (BDE) had glazed-over eyes (not a good thing) and wasn't moving much. The Toss, however, had forced him to expel canal water out of his snout (a good thing. One should avoid getting canal water in one's snout and lungs), and he move some. I still was not convinced that the Dog was not Gone. He did not look good. We thumped on him a bit and got more water out.
Then Hairy (BDE) took in a breath, did a doggy gag-cough (you know what I mean). Got more nasty canal water out, shook his head, got up, and took a few shaky steps. Then he did something wonderful. Hairy (BDE) did the Dog Shake! What a wonderful thing to see! Especially since we thought he was probably Doggone! Don't you wish you could shake water off like a dog? From your nose to the end of your tail-if you had a tail?
Anyway, Hairy (BDE) did a decent Dog Shake, then smiled, got his bright eyes back and wagged his stubby tail! And we were all happy, relieved, blessed that Hairy (BDE) was back!
OK-my intent with this entry was to tell a couple of rescue stories, then pontificate (that one is worth looking up-not the Pope-related definition) on rescuing. Since I have gone way too long , I will share some thoughts on rescuing and rescues next time. So you have time to consider these stories. There may well be a quiz. With grades. But no prizes. Maybe bacon.
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Did I Tell You About My....
It is a few days past New Year's Day. The Holiday season is about done. We still have a trip to Pullman the end of this week to visit with family there and have a late Christmas with them.
I don't think I made any resolutions again this year.
Not that I don't need any. But I don't know about setting goals with the turn of the calendar. Why not decide to make changes when you see changes need to be made? Why not another calendar-related occasion? Your birthday, or in the fall when the school season begins.
Or, again, why not when you do some introspection and come to realize that there are some things you can do to help you be a better person.
Oh, I think this time of year is often a time of reflection and introspection. Good thing, as long as we remember that the view forward through the proverbial windshield is much larger and more important than the minimized view we get from the rear view mirror. We sometimes spend too much energy on fretting about what has gone before (objects in mirror are larger than they appear-at least in our minds sometimes).
Maybe we need to spend a bit more time and energy on creating what we can as we go forward.
A couple of thoughts from the past few days-
I read that Benjamin Franklin would ask himself two questions every day.
In the morning-"What Good shall I do today?
In the evening- "What Good have I done today?
I think this is a good place to start-to have some daily introspection about if we have done "Good".
And if you need definition of "Good", just sing to yourself some of the lines to "Have I Done Any Good in the World Today?" "Good" has to do with serving others, being uplifting, sharing burdens, etc. If you want a chuckle, find the "old" lyrics to this hymn...
OK-I will let you in on one thing I have been trying to do better in the past few weeks. It seems, whenever I am conversing, that it is easy to act like Topper--the guy who sometimes makes appearances in Dilbert. Whatever you have done, achieved, accomplished, -I have done better. A patient tells me about his bike riding, and I feel the need to tell him about the miles I put in (in a most humble way, of course!). Brag on your grandkids, well, just wait as I tell you how amazingly marvelous mine are. When we were new grandparents, I even resorted to bragging about how well our grandbabies could fill their diapers in response to other new grandparents letting me know how their two year old grandbabies were reading Shakespeare and playing Mozart. You get the idea. I know when I am doing this because the person I am talking with starts to get the glazed look in his eyes.
I know that we all benefit from others listening to and hearing us and helping build us up. But-that is our job to do for others. So, I have been really trying to not "Topper" others, but to listen and compliment others on their conquests and achievements.
I have noticed, as I have made an effort to do this, that-now don't be surprised-I am not at all diminished when I let others feel good about themselves! And I actually feel great when I help them recognize what they have accomplished, how they have grown, what good they have done!
I read once that Mark Twain said he could live a whole month on a good compliment. My experience is that this is about right. I am learning that it is grand to be the source of those compliments for others-even if I just acknowledge their bragging about themselves. I don't need to outdo them to have a sense of self worth, and I can be supportive of them.
Of course, this has to be done sincerely, and that is tough sometimes.
OK-enough rambling for now.
If you make resolutions for the New Year, good for you! I hope we all take the opportunity to check in daily and think about the Good we can do and the Good we have done.
And, when you have a minute, ask me about my grandkids, kids, cabin, most recent home repair, bike ride, hike or, especially, my wife!
I don't think I made any resolutions again this year.
Not that I don't need any. But I don't know about setting goals with the turn of the calendar. Why not decide to make changes when you see changes need to be made? Why not another calendar-related occasion? Your birthday, or in the fall when the school season begins.
Or, again, why not when you do some introspection and come to realize that there are some things you can do to help you be a better person.
Oh, I think this time of year is often a time of reflection and introspection. Good thing, as long as we remember that the view forward through the proverbial windshield is much larger and more important than the minimized view we get from the rear view mirror. We sometimes spend too much energy on fretting about what has gone before (objects in mirror are larger than they appear-at least in our minds sometimes).
Maybe we need to spend a bit more time and energy on creating what we can as we go forward.
A couple of thoughts from the past few days-
I read that Benjamin Franklin would ask himself two questions every day.
In the morning-"What Good shall I do today?
In the evening- "What Good have I done today?
I think this is a good place to start-to have some daily introspection about if we have done "Good".
And if you need definition of "Good", just sing to yourself some of the lines to "Have I Done Any Good in the World Today?" "Good" has to do with serving others, being uplifting, sharing burdens, etc. If you want a chuckle, find the "old" lyrics to this hymn...
OK-I will let you in on one thing I have been trying to do better in the past few weeks. It seems, whenever I am conversing, that it is easy to act like Topper--the guy who sometimes makes appearances in Dilbert. Whatever you have done, achieved, accomplished, -I have done better. A patient tells me about his bike riding, and I feel the need to tell him about the miles I put in (in a most humble way, of course!). Brag on your grandkids, well, just wait as I tell you how amazingly marvelous mine are. When we were new grandparents, I even resorted to bragging about how well our grandbabies could fill their diapers in response to other new grandparents letting me know how their two year old grandbabies were reading Shakespeare and playing Mozart. You get the idea. I know when I am doing this because the person I am talking with starts to get the glazed look in his eyes.
I know that we all benefit from others listening to and hearing us and helping build us up. But-that is our job to do for others. So, I have been really trying to not "Topper" others, but to listen and compliment others on their conquests and achievements.
I have noticed, as I have made an effort to do this, that-now don't be surprised-I am not at all diminished when I let others feel good about themselves! And I actually feel great when I help them recognize what they have accomplished, how they have grown, what good they have done!
I read once that Mark Twain said he could live a whole month on a good compliment. My experience is that this is about right. I am learning that it is grand to be the source of those compliments for others-even if I just acknowledge their bragging about themselves. I don't need to outdo them to have a sense of self worth, and I can be supportive of them.
Of course, this has to be done sincerely, and that is tough sometimes.
OK-enough rambling for now.
If you make resolutions for the New Year, good for you! I hope we all take the opportunity to check in daily and think about the Good we can do and the Good we have done.
And, when you have a minute, ask me about my grandkids, kids, cabin, most recent home repair, bike ride, hike or, especially, my wife!
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Joy to the World!
I have shared some thoughts of past Christmases-from when I was a youngster and a brief mention of a Christmas far from home. I haven't yet shared memories of early Christmases with our own little family. There are also tales to tell of Christmas times of disappointments, and others of times of great hope.
But, for today, on this Christmas morning, I want to let you all know of my love for that Child whose birth we celebrate today. Yes, I love him because He is our Savior. His atonement gives me a foundation on which I can build a life. But His mortality gives me hope. Not hope that I can live free of sin, as He did, but hope that, because he came as One of Us, He understands me. He has Empathy because He lived a mortal life. When I suffer the normal mortal experiences of temptation, illness, grief, or anguish, I know that He understands, because He experienced this things as well. And He experienced them to a much greater degree than I ever will. He also know how I feel when I want to shout for joy or when I feel contentment in having served someone or created some small thing.
Because He was born and lived as One of Us, He knows perfectly well what we need and when and how He needs to succor us (rush to our aid). And that gives me hope. Every day.
So-give glory because this King and Son of God was born and we celebrate His birth. But also give glory because He is One of Us-our Brother, both spiritually and in the flesh. I believe that His experiences as he lived and experienced what we all do are integral to His infinite atonement. He is able to provide a way for us to become "at one" with Him and our Father because He became One of Us.
(Orson Scott Card recently wrote an article about Christ being On of Us on http://www.mormoninterpreter.com/-- it is worth a read)
But, for today, on this Christmas morning, I want to let you all know of my love for that Child whose birth we celebrate today. Yes, I love him because He is our Savior. His atonement gives me a foundation on which I can build a life. But His mortality gives me hope. Not hope that I can live free of sin, as He did, but hope that, because he came as One of Us, He understands me. He has Empathy because He lived a mortal life. When I suffer the normal mortal experiences of temptation, illness, grief, or anguish, I know that He understands, because He experienced this things as well. And He experienced them to a much greater degree than I ever will. He also know how I feel when I want to shout for joy or when I feel contentment in having served someone or created some small thing.
Because He was born and lived as One of Us, He knows perfectly well what we need and when and how He needs to succor us (rush to our aid). And that gives me hope. Every day.
So-give glory because this King and Son of God was born and we celebrate His birth. But also give glory because He is One of Us-our Brother, both spiritually and in the flesh. I believe that His experiences as he lived and experienced what we all do are integral to His infinite atonement. He is able to provide a way for us to become "at one" with Him and our Father because He became One of Us.
(Orson Scott Card recently wrote an article about Christ being On of Us on http://www.mormoninterpreter.com/-- it is worth a read)
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
Ready, Aim, Go!
Despite the title of this post, it is not about me getting a Daisy BB gun and shooting my eye out. Not to say that I haven't felt the sting of a few BBs in my life. I did grow up in the middle of 3 brothers, and we did have several BB guns around, and...well, another time. And I don't want my grandchildren engaging in some of the dumber activities my brothers and I did on occasion.
This is about a change of trajectory (ask your parents to point you in the right direction to find out what this big word means) and my first Christmas away from home. So it isn't from my early childhood, more from my middle childhood.
When I was 19 years old, I was a sophomore (good word to look up, parents) at the University of Utah. I went to the U to study, play football and not get too far away from home. My first year, as a freshman, went really well. My freshman class was not allowed to play varsity ball, so we were the "Papooses", not the "Utes". We only got to play four games, traveling as far a Mesa, Colorado! We won all of the games, including the last one against BYU. I was a team captain, one of the leading tacklers, and had a grand old time. I played linebacker, was about 6'2 and 220 lbs. I mention this, not to impress anyone with my physical prowess, but to try to pain a picture of a young man in, what he considered at the time, a very good fit with great potential. I was going to end up playing in the NFL. For the Green Bay Packers. And make tons of money-linebackers made 30 or 40K back then. A Wonderful Life ahead (not the movie-mine!).
After a very rigorous off season of sweat box, re-teaching us how to run, weights, weights, and more weight training, psycho intense handball and basketball games-oh, yes, and school, the defensive coordinator called me in to tell me that I would be switched from linebacker to defensive line for the next year. I had put on a whopping 10 pounds or so of muscle, scored 2nd on the team in overall strength in the weight room, and had worked very hard. Very hard.
My response was typical for me (middle child-pleaser of authority types). I said, "sure coach, whatever I can do to help the team". Inside, however, my response was "Stink!". I love playing linebacker. I get to run around, fill holes, stunt, defend passes and let the defensive linesmen take care of the heavy lifting up front. My second thought was "Stink!" Now I was going to be doing the heavy lifting up front. I didn't mention that my position was going to be nose tackle. No, that is not what you grandkids do with your fingers and your schnoz several times a day. It meant that I would now be lined up in the middle of the line every down. And-I would have at least 2 Big Uglies (offensive linsemen) hitting me in the head every stinkin play. Oh joy! Also, I would have to learn a new position. I thought, no big deal, I can bulk up, learn the job and do it.
Well, I did work hard in spring ball and over the summer. Bulked up clear to 232 pounds! Whoo-hoo! But then I realized the gentlemen I would be playing against were all going to out size me by about 40-60 pounds (think a couple sacks of flour worth of muscle and meanness). All was good-I would do fine.
And I did. I won the starting job from a senior. I started the first 4 or 5 games of the season. But it wasn't nearly as fun for me as my freshman year. And I was not as good in this new position as I was as a linebacker. I ended up second string mid season. That meant that I played a lot on special teams, and I would play about a third of the game as nose tackle (get that finger out of there!) as well. I was on the field for the second half of the Arizona game-in which we (the Utes) made the biggest comeback in NCAA history at the time (another story). But, as I said, I had to learn a new position, practice playing it, work to get bigger, faster, stronger, and so on.
At this time, I had several good friends on missions for the LDS church. We had not yet had the instruction that "every worthy young man should serve a mission", my parents were not members/active in the church, and I had all but promised my freshman coach that I would not be going on a mission. My mission was to finish school and play football. For the Green Bay Packers.
Imagine my confusion when my brand-new home-ward bishop asked me to come in and talk. He asked me when I was going on a mission. Didn't he know that I had Other Plans?! Of course he did. the whole ward knew that I indeed played Division 1 football (first athlete from Brighton High to do so) for the University of Utah.
My best friend, Ken R, also was asking in his regular letters to me about my mission plans. I knew that Ken knew better! No mission in this boy's plans. Even though it sounded like Ken was working hard, growing and even having some fun. Well, Ken always finds a way to be amused.
I had no family push, encouragement, instruction, or expectation that I would serve a mission. My 20th year (when I was 19-ask your parents to explain this to you-again-and listen this time) was quickly waning. Then I thought about it. And asked about it. And decided that I should go.
I called bishop Stan, met with him, and got the process in motion. I will relate another time, perhaps, of the the discussions with parents, friends and coaches about leaving my schooling and football to serve a mission. Suffice it to know for now that I did get a call and left in May of my sophomore year to the Sweden mission.
My first months in the mission field were Difficult. It was good that I was as far away as as was, because I was still in pretty good shape and thought about playing again as fall came around.
When December came, I was transferred to an area in Goteborg. I didn't know anyone, having been up North most of my first 5 months, had no member relationships, and was a newly assigned Senior Companion (yes, I had worked hard-I knew how to do that) with a Junior Companion who needed a bit of work. And it was dark almost all of the time (Sweden, remember?-way up north).
I had not been away from home ever at Christmas time. Some Christmases were good, some not so much, but there was always family and comfort foods and home. I was a bit lonely, and we worked very hard so we could not think about Christmases past (no spooky ghost visits for us).
Then we got invited to Christmas Eve at some members' home a 45 minute train ride outside the city.
Once we got on the train, the magic began. We traveled through picture-postcard scenes of snow and small farms and woods until we got to a small train station. We were met by Brother W, who put us in his car and drove us to their large rustic home. It was filled with wonderful aromas, laughter, light and love. And there were a bunch of kids there! Christmas!
I think this was the turning point for my mission, as I felt the warmth and love that comes from good people being together celebrating the birth of the Savior. I had worked very hard up to this time, but now I think I started to smile much more as I continued to serve.
Now, the trajectory. Sometimes things that we don't understand or agree with happen to us. Sometimes we get put in positions that we think aren't the best for us. That happened when I was told that my football position was changing. I think, at the size I was and with my work ethic, that could/would have continued playing through my 4 years at the U, at least, had this change not happened. I may not have considered serving a mission. My mission still serves as a significant piece of my life's foundation. I may well have had a wonderful life. But I don't know that it would have been a Wonderful Life (again, mine, not the movie). Also, I played ball at a time when the U (and BYU, as well) did not know how to handle players leaving on missions. When I got home, I got a call the first week from the new coach at the U asking if I planned to return and play. I told him that I was going to get married and work on school. Yes, that was a quick decision, and it merits its own story another time.
I know that the things that "happened" during that time in my life helped push me in a direction that I should continue to travel. And I have been greatly blessed for it. No, no Packer's jersey in my past, but a life and blessings for which I am very grateful.
The "Christmas" part of this post? Well, it was that first Christmas on my mission when my heart softened and I knew I was were I was supposed to be, doing the work I was supposed to do.
And-I did get to eat Lutefisk for the first time!
This is about a change of trajectory (ask your parents to point you in the right direction to find out what this big word means) and my first Christmas away from home. So it isn't from my early childhood, more from my middle childhood.
When I was 19 years old, I was a sophomore (good word to look up, parents) at the University of Utah. I went to the U to study, play football and not get too far away from home. My first year, as a freshman, went really well. My freshman class was not allowed to play varsity ball, so we were the "Papooses", not the "Utes". We only got to play four games, traveling as far a Mesa, Colorado! We won all of the games, including the last one against BYU. I was a team captain, one of the leading tacklers, and had a grand old time. I played linebacker, was about 6'2 and 220 lbs. I mention this, not to impress anyone with my physical prowess, but to try to pain a picture of a young man in, what he considered at the time, a very good fit with great potential. I was going to end up playing in the NFL. For the Green Bay Packers. And make tons of money-linebackers made 30 or 40K back then. A Wonderful Life ahead (not the movie-mine!).
After a very rigorous off season of sweat box, re-teaching us how to run, weights, weights, and more weight training, psycho intense handball and basketball games-oh, yes, and school, the defensive coordinator called me in to tell me that I would be switched from linebacker to defensive line for the next year. I had put on a whopping 10 pounds or so of muscle, scored 2nd on the team in overall strength in the weight room, and had worked very hard. Very hard.
My response was typical for me (middle child-pleaser of authority types). I said, "sure coach, whatever I can do to help the team". Inside, however, my response was "Stink!". I love playing linebacker. I get to run around, fill holes, stunt, defend passes and let the defensive linesmen take care of the heavy lifting up front. My second thought was "Stink!" Now I was going to be doing the heavy lifting up front. I didn't mention that my position was going to be nose tackle. No, that is not what you grandkids do with your fingers and your schnoz several times a day. It meant that I would now be lined up in the middle of the line every down. And-I would have at least 2 Big Uglies (offensive linsemen) hitting me in the head every stinkin play. Oh joy! Also, I would have to learn a new position. I thought, no big deal, I can bulk up, learn the job and do it.
Well, I did work hard in spring ball and over the summer. Bulked up clear to 232 pounds! Whoo-hoo! But then I realized the gentlemen I would be playing against were all going to out size me by about 40-60 pounds (think a couple sacks of flour worth of muscle and meanness). All was good-I would do fine.
And I did. I won the starting job from a senior. I started the first 4 or 5 games of the season. But it wasn't nearly as fun for me as my freshman year. And I was not as good in this new position as I was as a linebacker. I ended up second string mid season. That meant that I played a lot on special teams, and I would play about a third of the game as nose tackle (get that finger out of there!) as well. I was on the field for the second half of the Arizona game-in which we (the Utes) made the biggest comeback in NCAA history at the time (another story). But, as I said, I had to learn a new position, practice playing it, work to get bigger, faster, stronger, and so on.
At this time, I had several good friends on missions for the LDS church. We had not yet had the instruction that "every worthy young man should serve a mission", my parents were not members/active in the church, and I had all but promised my freshman coach that I would not be going on a mission. My mission was to finish school and play football. For the Green Bay Packers.
Imagine my confusion when my brand-new home-ward bishop asked me to come in and talk. He asked me when I was going on a mission. Didn't he know that I had Other Plans?! Of course he did. the whole ward knew that I indeed played Division 1 football (first athlete from Brighton High to do so) for the University of Utah.
My best friend, Ken R, also was asking in his regular letters to me about my mission plans. I knew that Ken knew better! No mission in this boy's plans. Even though it sounded like Ken was working hard, growing and even having some fun. Well, Ken always finds a way to be amused.
I had no family push, encouragement, instruction, or expectation that I would serve a mission. My 20th year (when I was 19-ask your parents to explain this to you-again-and listen this time) was quickly waning. Then I thought about it. And asked about it. And decided that I should go.
I called bishop Stan, met with him, and got the process in motion. I will relate another time, perhaps, of the the discussions with parents, friends and coaches about leaving my schooling and football to serve a mission. Suffice it to know for now that I did get a call and left in May of my sophomore year to the Sweden mission.
My first months in the mission field were Difficult. It was good that I was as far away as as was, because I was still in pretty good shape and thought about playing again as fall came around.
When December came, I was transferred to an area in Goteborg. I didn't know anyone, having been up North most of my first 5 months, had no member relationships, and was a newly assigned Senior Companion (yes, I had worked hard-I knew how to do that) with a Junior Companion who needed a bit of work. And it was dark almost all of the time (Sweden, remember?-way up north).
I had not been away from home ever at Christmas time. Some Christmases were good, some not so much, but there was always family and comfort foods and home. I was a bit lonely, and we worked very hard so we could not think about Christmases past (no spooky ghost visits for us).
Then we got invited to Christmas Eve at some members' home a 45 minute train ride outside the city.
Once we got on the train, the magic began. We traveled through picture-postcard scenes of snow and small farms and woods until we got to a small train station. We were met by Brother W, who put us in his car and drove us to their large rustic home. It was filled with wonderful aromas, laughter, light and love. And there were a bunch of kids there! Christmas!
I think this was the turning point for my mission, as I felt the warmth and love that comes from good people being together celebrating the birth of the Savior. I had worked very hard up to this time, but now I think I started to smile much more as I continued to serve.
Now, the trajectory. Sometimes things that we don't understand or agree with happen to us. Sometimes we get put in positions that we think aren't the best for us. That happened when I was told that my football position was changing. I think, at the size I was and with my work ethic, that could/would have continued playing through my 4 years at the U, at least, had this change not happened. I may not have considered serving a mission. My mission still serves as a significant piece of my life's foundation. I may well have had a wonderful life. But I don't know that it would have been a Wonderful Life (again, mine, not the movie). Also, I played ball at a time when the U (and BYU, as well) did not know how to handle players leaving on missions. When I got home, I got a call the first week from the new coach at the U asking if I planned to return and play. I told him that I was going to get married and work on school. Yes, that was a quick decision, and it merits its own story another time.
I know that the things that "happened" during that time in my life helped push me in a direction that I should continue to travel. And I have been greatly blessed for it. No, no Packer's jersey in my past, but a life and blessings for which I am very grateful.
The "Christmas" part of this post? Well, it was that first Christmas on my mission when my heart softened and I knew I was were I was supposed to be, doing the work I was supposed to do.
And-I did get to eat Lutefisk for the first time!
Sunday, December 21, 2014
A New Bike! and a broken heart...
OK--So I haven't written another old Christmas tale for a few days. It has been a bit hectic. Grandma and I went up to the cabin Friday after work. One family was thinking about coming up on Saturday after a wrestling tournament. It snowed more than comfortable (but we love the snow-need the H2O and to refresh the sledding hill), and we ended up coming home Saturday afternoon. The aforementioned family came to our home instead of the cabin, and we have had some Cousin Time for the past couple of days. As the grandchildren get older and larger, it seems like our little home gets smaller. Those youngsters can also eat! It is wonderful having them here. But I did not get any old-man reminiscing done.
But now I am!
I always loved having a bike to ride. One of my earliest memories is taking my neighbor's granddaughter for rides on my old, giant tricycle. She would stand on the platform between the rear wheels-the old tricycles were actually designed to allow you to give rides to your friends-and around the block, up and down the sidewalk we would go. Ah, the freedom of the open road. Or, at least of the sidewalk. I wasn't allowed to cross the road. But-it was still the feeling of wind in my hair and drool down my chin! (Come on! I was on a tricycle. I must have been, what, 2 or 3? I bet you did a bit of drooling yourself when you were that age!)
Later, I acquired a blue Schwinn two wheeler. The Blue Bomber. That bike was my freedom, my friend, my escape for several years. It had "husky" balloon tires that could go over and through anything! Mud, dirt, grass (but not on the Bourne's yard, unless I wanted an angry phone call to my mother because I "ruined" their perfect lawn), ditches, wet concrete,....well, maybe not the concrete. At least not on purpose. I don't think anyone saw, so you can't prove anything. Those tracks could have been made by any bike.
It also did a good job of knocking out my younger brother, Steven, one time. Or was it a couple of times. Don't worry, there was not significant brain damage. That we know of. He was only unconscious for a little while. Another story for another time.
Anyway-I loved my bike. But, as I got older and bigger, and my friends got bigger, cooler bikes, and my younger brother was eyeing my Blue Bomber (looking for revenge?), I started to hope and dream about a newer, faster bike. I never thought that I would actually get one, however. New bikes were for the rich kids. Like my cousin, Danny. He had a new Stingray with a banana seat and high rise handle bars. It was pretty cool, but I wanted a full-sized, fast bike with Speeds. Danny's older brother had a Racing Bike. It had a cool lever on the right handle with a lever that let you shift through 3 speeds! Can you imagine?! You could make the pedaling easier to go up hills,and shift to a higher gear when racing down Vidas Avenue with your friends.
Alas, I knew I would never, ever get a bike with Speeds (gears to you all).
It was with wide-eyed wonder when I got up on Christmas morning in my 11th year (meaning I was 10 1/2), and there, in our little living room, next to the tree, were not 1, but 2, brand-spankin' new bicycles. A blue one and (obviously for me, since my favorite color was red) a red one! They hadn't ever been ridden by any other kids. We were the first owners-unheard of! Oh, the blue one was for my older brother Randy, which meant that Steve could now start plotting his revenge using my old Blue Bomber, that he would now inherit.
Now, bicycles were not Christmas-time presents. First, we couldn't afford them. Second, it was typically winter-meaning snow and ice and not a lot of bike riding. Also, my birthday is the 19th of May. (Yes, you may want to remember this for future reference). And the 19th of May is a much more reasonable day for bicycle receiving. Nonetheless, I was happier than a 10 year old boy in a burping contest after a quart of root beer! A New Bike! Red! And-best of all-it had Speeds! 2 of them, to be exact. It had a magic rear hub, so, when you pedaled backwards slightly, it would shift to either High Speed or Low Speed. Now, this was a bit of a bother, because it would shift every time I hit the brakes, but shifting again, if needed, was easy to do. I put a lot of miles on that bike that winter. But I never rode it to Madison Elementary. It was easy to walk to school. I could stomp the ice over the puddles on the sides of the roads with my logger boots. And-most importantly-my bike would not be stolen from the bike rack at the school.
I Loved That Bike (maybe not as much as the Blue Bomber, but the Bomber and I had had much more time to bond). And it was fast. I don't recall loosing any races down Vidas Avenue (except to Barbara B, who was a few years older, and was the toughest kid on the block...) on my new steed.
Then, in early summer-so around my birthday, my older brother and his friend (the bishop's son) wanted to ride bikes to Grand Central. Grand Central was a big store way down on State Street.
Now, my brother's friend did not have a cool 2 speed bike, and my brother wanted me to let his friend ride mine. I had a bad feeling about this, but, being the good younger brother I was, agreed. I told them to be careful and not wreck, lose, abuse my mostly new bike. I am sure what they heard was "Blah, blah, blah".
Down 3rd East toward 27th South they rode. And, as they turned the corner at Farrer's Market, I had the last look I would ever have of my beloved new bike.
Yes, you guessed correctly. Some slime ball stole my bike from in front of Grand Central. Low life bike lifter! Randy and his friend came home pushing Randy's bike and without mine.
I did shed some tears. My dad and I drove around the area over and over for the next couple of weeks, looking for a shiny, red 2 speed Schwinn. Alas, we never did find it. We called and went down to the Police station, looking at bicycles they had picked up and giving them the description and serial number of my bike. But it was never found.
Now, I know the loss of my bike was not at Christmas time. But I connect my bike to Christmas because that is when I got it. It did hurt my heart when I lost my bike, but did it make Christmas any less of a time of happiness and joy and excitement? Maybe it did for awhile, I don't recall.
Christmas was and is a time for family and giving (and getting) and eating and feeling good that Heavenly Father gave us His Son. Even if I didn't know what that meant. I felt it was important. And it is more important than a new, 2 speed, red bicycle. Much more important.
Many things we get at Christmas will break, be lost somehow, or lose their luster.
The things that don't are those things given from the heart and those things our loved ones sacrifice to share with us.
We will share presents with others that come from the heart, involve a degree (sometimes great) of sacrifice, are given with the hope that the recipient will have some idea of the love and care the gift represents, and are the Best we can do.
When we give the Best we can, even if it is small and unimpressive by the world's measurements, we share our love. My Mom and Dad sacrificed and thought and cared to get us our bicycles. Even if my bike was stolen and gone, I know my parents had given me their love and a part of themselves in what they had to do to get me that bike.
Heavenly Father gave us the Very Best. His Son. That is what we celebrate-and this is great cause to celebrate-at Christmas time. And, in return, He asks us for our Very Best. For our kindness, caring, love and service to our brothers and sisters. And our hearts. He gave us His and continues to do so.
(Yes-I did return to the blue bomber, but I did not run over my little brother any more (that I remember). Actually, I think we shared the grand old bike and had an understanding that we would not do each other bodily harm with the old beast. Talk about your brotherly love!)
But now I am!
I always loved having a bike to ride. One of my earliest memories is taking my neighbor's granddaughter for rides on my old, giant tricycle. She would stand on the platform between the rear wheels-the old tricycles were actually designed to allow you to give rides to your friends-and around the block, up and down the sidewalk we would go. Ah, the freedom of the open road. Or, at least of the sidewalk. I wasn't allowed to cross the road. But-it was still the feeling of wind in my hair and drool down my chin! (Come on! I was on a tricycle. I must have been, what, 2 or 3? I bet you did a bit of drooling yourself when you were that age!)
Later, I acquired a blue Schwinn two wheeler. The Blue Bomber. That bike was my freedom, my friend, my escape for several years. It had "husky" balloon tires that could go over and through anything! Mud, dirt, grass (but not on the Bourne's yard, unless I wanted an angry phone call to my mother because I "ruined" their perfect lawn), ditches, wet concrete,....well, maybe not the concrete. At least not on purpose. I don't think anyone saw, so you can't prove anything. Those tracks could have been made by any bike.
It also did a good job of knocking out my younger brother, Steven, one time. Or was it a couple of times. Don't worry, there was not significant brain damage. That we know of. He was only unconscious for a little while. Another story for another time.
Anyway-I loved my bike. But, as I got older and bigger, and my friends got bigger, cooler bikes, and my younger brother was eyeing my Blue Bomber (looking for revenge?), I started to hope and dream about a newer, faster bike. I never thought that I would actually get one, however. New bikes were for the rich kids. Like my cousin, Danny. He had a new Stingray with a banana seat and high rise handle bars. It was pretty cool, but I wanted a full-sized, fast bike with Speeds. Danny's older brother had a Racing Bike. It had a cool lever on the right handle with a lever that let you shift through 3 speeds! Can you imagine?! You could make the pedaling easier to go up hills,and shift to a higher gear when racing down Vidas Avenue with your friends.
Alas, I knew I would never, ever get a bike with Speeds (gears to you all).
It was with wide-eyed wonder when I got up on Christmas morning in my 11th year (meaning I was 10 1/2), and there, in our little living room, next to the tree, were not 1, but 2, brand-spankin' new bicycles. A blue one and (obviously for me, since my favorite color was red) a red one! They hadn't ever been ridden by any other kids. We were the first owners-unheard of! Oh, the blue one was for my older brother Randy, which meant that Steve could now start plotting his revenge using my old Blue Bomber, that he would now inherit.
Now, bicycles were not Christmas-time presents. First, we couldn't afford them. Second, it was typically winter-meaning snow and ice and not a lot of bike riding. Also, my birthday is the 19th of May. (Yes, you may want to remember this for future reference). And the 19th of May is a much more reasonable day for bicycle receiving. Nonetheless, I was happier than a 10 year old boy in a burping contest after a quart of root beer! A New Bike! Red! And-best of all-it had Speeds! 2 of them, to be exact. It had a magic rear hub, so, when you pedaled backwards slightly, it would shift to either High Speed or Low Speed. Now, this was a bit of a bother, because it would shift every time I hit the brakes, but shifting again, if needed, was easy to do. I put a lot of miles on that bike that winter. But I never rode it to Madison Elementary. It was easy to walk to school. I could stomp the ice over the puddles on the sides of the roads with my logger boots. And-most importantly-my bike would not be stolen from the bike rack at the school.
I Loved That Bike (maybe not as much as the Blue Bomber, but the Bomber and I had had much more time to bond). And it was fast. I don't recall loosing any races down Vidas Avenue (except to Barbara B, who was a few years older, and was the toughest kid on the block...) on my new steed.
Then, in early summer-so around my birthday, my older brother and his friend (the bishop's son) wanted to ride bikes to Grand Central. Grand Central was a big store way down on State Street.
Now, my brother's friend did not have a cool 2 speed bike, and my brother wanted me to let his friend ride mine. I had a bad feeling about this, but, being the good younger brother I was, agreed. I told them to be careful and not wreck, lose, abuse my mostly new bike. I am sure what they heard was "Blah, blah, blah".
Down 3rd East toward 27th South they rode. And, as they turned the corner at Farrer's Market, I had the last look I would ever have of my beloved new bike.
Yes, you guessed correctly. Some slime ball stole my bike from in front of Grand Central. Low life bike lifter! Randy and his friend came home pushing Randy's bike and without mine.
I did shed some tears. My dad and I drove around the area over and over for the next couple of weeks, looking for a shiny, red 2 speed Schwinn. Alas, we never did find it. We called and went down to the Police station, looking at bicycles they had picked up and giving them the description and serial number of my bike. But it was never found.
Now, I know the loss of my bike was not at Christmas time. But I connect my bike to Christmas because that is when I got it. It did hurt my heart when I lost my bike, but did it make Christmas any less of a time of happiness and joy and excitement? Maybe it did for awhile, I don't recall.
Christmas was and is a time for family and giving (and getting) and eating and feeling good that Heavenly Father gave us His Son. Even if I didn't know what that meant. I felt it was important. And it is more important than a new, 2 speed, red bicycle. Much more important.
Many things we get at Christmas will break, be lost somehow, or lose their luster.
The things that don't are those things given from the heart and those things our loved ones sacrifice to share with us.
We will share presents with others that come from the heart, involve a degree (sometimes great) of sacrifice, are given with the hope that the recipient will have some idea of the love and care the gift represents, and are the Best we can do.
When we give the Best we can, even if it is small and unimpressive by the world's measurements, we share our love. My Mom and Dad sacrificed and thought and cared to get us our bicycles. Even if my bike was stolen and gone, I know my parents had given me their love and a part of themselves in what they had to do to get me that bike.
Heavenly Father gave us the Very Best. His Son. That is what we celebrate-and this is great cause to celebrate-at Christmas time. And, in return, He asks us for our Very Best. For our kindness, caring, love and service to our brothers and sisters. And our hearts. He gave us His and continues to do so.
(Yes-I did return to the blue bomber, but I did not run over my little brother any more (that I remember). Actually, I think we shared the grand old bike and had an understanding that we would not do each other bodily harm with the old beast. Talk about your brotherly love!)
Thursday, December 18, 2014
As I have whined about in previous posts, we did not expect or get much by way of extravagant Christmas presents when we were young. A new pair of leather logger boots was a wonderful gift. We did get some small toys every year as well. My older brother got a big Erector Set one year. He made cool things with it. We got a large leather working kit one year to share between the kids. Mom was working part time at Tandy Leather at the time, and I assume she got a good discount.
And sometimes I was surprised.
When I was 9, I awoke to find a real, flying model airplane under the tree. With "Ricky" on the tag! How cool was that! It was a WWII fighter of some sort-I did not know all the WW II planes and models-even though my generation was still greatly influenced by WWII when we were in elementary school. It had only been a decade or so before, after all.
My plane was made of fairly sturdy plastic and had a real gas engine that ran! On real model airplane hobby fuel! And-it had a duel-line control attached to it. That meant you could really fly it.
Now, it was not a cool RC model plane like they have now. This had an engine that you would have someone start while you stood 20 feet away holding onto the control handle with the lines from the handle to the plane.
When the engine got up to speed, you would start turning in a circle holding your arm outstretched to the plane, keeping up with the plane's speed. As it got to take off speed, you would tilt the control handle back slightly and the plane would nose up and become airborne!
It was wonderfully cool. We would go (with the biggest kid-Dad-of course) to Madison Elementary playground-a large expanse of asphalt-to fly the plane. While the plane was in wondrous flight-going around in circles at the end of the line in my hand, I could make it climb and dive by changing the angle of the control handle.
One thing to be careful of-you always wanted to land before you ran out of fuel, so you could control the descent. An uncontrolled descent into the asphalt surface of Madison Elementary would not be a good thing for the airplane.
Of course, my brothers wanted to fly my plane as well. Having Steve, my younger brother, fly it was totally out of the question. He was a whole 1 year, 364 days younger than I. No way would I let such a youngster fly my plane. Steve was also the most accident-prone of us, and I didn't him to inflict this disorder on my wonderful flying airplane.
Now, Randy, my 2 1/2 year older brother, was a different story. He was the natural mechanic in the family-could build and fix things. So it was assumed that he was always good with mechanical contraptions. But I knew better. I knew he could be a bit unfocused at times. Except when watching our old TV. Another story for another time.
Randy convinced me to let him fly my plane one day. I cautioned him, as much as a younger brother can try to caution an older one-so not much-to be careful with his climbs and dives, because it was easy to overdo either one, and to be sure to land before he ran out of fuel. He assured me that he knew what he was doing. He was, after all, the oldest brother.
I got the plane filled with fuel and started the little engine, then watched as my older brother started slowly turning in circles until he got the plane off the ground.
It was a wonderful sense to have that plane tugging at the end of the line, knowing you were flying it up and down, in control. Almost as good as the feeling of a fish on the end of your fishing line.
I watched as Randy flew my months-old plane up and down, his face a picture of enjoyment as the little airplane engine whined and the plane soared.
Then he started climbing a little higher than I was comfortable with-and diving a little too steeply for my stomach. I believe I hollered at him (we did a bit of hollering back then) to be careful. Just as he took it into a too-steep dive.
I don't recall if the little engine ran out of fuel, or if the dive was just too steep, but the end result was a smoking pile of plane rubbish on Madison Elementary's playground between the monkey bars and the four-square grids. OK-maybe it wasn't smoking and flaming, but it was.....broken. Beyond repair. And we did not have the luxury of being able to replace such an extravagant gift from Santa.
As I have aged (sounds like fancy cheese), I have grown to realize that all the "things" we get for Christmas-even the best, most wonderful "things" won't last forever. Or we won't be awed by them forever. Some will be broken-beyond repair.
But those things that matter most, like kindness and caring, can last forever and not be broken. And can "awe" us (I know that is not a verb...) (I think) all of our lives.
And, when we have parts of us that we think our broken beyond repair, when we are discouraged or disappointed, or lonely, or left out, or feel forgotten--when our hearts seem broken-and there seems to be times in life for all of us when these things happen-we can be repaired! And we can be repaired to be Better Than New!
Because of the Gift we all have access to. Him who Father gave to us, and we celebrate at this time of year. What a wonderful arrangement. We give Him our heart, He fixes it, better than new, and then we are able to help Him serve and bless those around us. And it doesn't take "things". Time, caring, effort, reaching out, empathy and love will do.
I hope we can remember, at those times when we crash into the asphalt, to look with Hope to Him whose work and life it is to heal us. Especially this time of year.
And sometimes I was surprised.
When I was 9, I awoke to find a real, flying model airplane under the tree. With "Ricky" on the tag! How cool was that! It was a WWII fighter of some sort-I did not know all the WW II planes and models-even though my generation was still greatly influenced by WWII when we were in elementary school. It had only been a decade or so before, after all.
My plane was made of fairly sturdy plastic and had a real gas engine that ran! On real model airplane hobby fuel! And-it had a duel-line control attached to it. That meant you could really fly it.
Now, it was not a cool RC model plane like they have now. This had an engine that you would have someone start while you stood 20 feet away holding onto the control handle with the lines from the handle to the plane.
When the engine got up to speed, you would start turning in a circle holding your arm outstretched to the plane, keeping up with the plane's speed. As it got to take off speed, you would tilt the control handle back slightly and the plane would nose up and become airborne!
It was wonderfully cool. We would go (with the biggest kid-Dad-of course) to Madison Elementary playground-a large expanse of asphalt-to fly the plane. While the plane was in wondrous flight-going around in circles at the end of the line in my hand, I could make it climb and dive by changing the angle of the control handle.
One thing to be careful of-you always wanted to land before you ran out of fuel, so you could control the descent. An uncontrolled descent into the asphalt surface of Madison Elementary would not be a good thing for the airplane.
Of course, my brothers wanted to fly my plane as well. Having Steve, my younger brother, fly it was totally out of the question. He was a whole 1 year, 364 days younger than I. No way would I let such a youngster fly my plane. Steve was also the most accident-prone of us, and I didn't him to inflict this disorder on my wonderful flying airplane.
Now, Randy, my 2 1/2 year older brother, was a different story. He was the natural mechanic in the family-could build and fix things. So it was assumed that he was always good with mechanical contraptions. But I knew better. I knew he could be a bit unfocused at times. Except when watching our old TV. Another story for another time.
Randy convinced me to let him fly my plane one day. I cautioned him, as much as a younger brother can try to caution an older one-so not much-to be careful with his climbs and dives, because it was easy to overdo either one, and to be sure to land before he ran out of fuel. He assured me that he knew what he was doing. He was, after all, the oldest brother.
I got the plane filled with fuel and started the little engine, then watched as my older brother started slowly turning in circles until he got the plane off the ground.
It was a wonderful sense to have that plane tugging at the end of the line, knowing you were flying it up and down, in control. Almost as good as the feeling of a fish on the end of your fishing line.
I watched as Randy flew my months-old plane up and down, his face a picture of enjoyment as the little airplane engine whined and the plane soared.
Then he started climbing a little higher than I was comfortable with-and diving a little too steeply for my stomach. I believe I hollered at him (we did a bit of hollering back then) to be careful. Just as he took it into a too-steep dive.
I don't recall if the little engine ran out of fuel, or if the dive was just too steep, but the end result was a smoking pile of plane rubbish on Madison Elementary's playground between the monkey bars and the four-square grids. OK-maybe it wasn't smoking and flaming, but it was.....broken. Beyond repair. And we did not have the luxury of being able to replace such an extravagant gift from Santa.
As I have aged (sounds like fancy cheese), I have grown to realize that all the "things" we get for Christmas-even the best, most wonderful "things" won't last forever. Or we won't be awed by them forever. Some will be broken-beyond repair.
But those things that matter most, like kindness and caring, can last forever and not be broken. And can "awe" us (I know that is not a verb...) (I think) all of our lives.
And, when we have parts of us that we think our broken beyond repair, when we are discouraged or disappointed, or lonely, or left out, or feel forgotten--when our hearts seem broken-and there seems to be times in life for all of us when these things happen-we can be repaired! And we can be repaired to be Better Than New!
Because of the Gift we all have access to. Him who Father gave to us, and we celebrate at this time of year. What a wonderful arrangement. We give Him our heart, He fixes it, better than new, and then we are able to help Him serve and bless those around us. And it doesn't take "things". Time, caring, effort, reaching out, empathy and love will do.
I hope we can remember, at those times when we crash into the asphalt, to look with Hope to Him whose work and life it is to heal us. Especially this time of year.
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