Granddaddy

Many of my family members have been writing about memories of Grandaddy.  It’s not surprising, given that Grandaddy loved writing so much and he passed that love along to his children, grandchildren and many others.  It’s been both beautiful and sometimes difficult to read all these memories (only difficult because it makes me miss him more).  I feel unusually blessed though.  I’m the oldest grandchild and had the privilege of knowing him for 35.5 years.  I also lived with him and Mima for the last 18 months, a deep and wonderful blessing I will thank heaven for the rest of my life.

Inspired by the memories shared by other family members and because I find writing cathartic, I want to “put pen to paper” (or the modern digital equivalent) and share some of my most poignant memories.  Perhaps these are moments in time that would seem unimportant to the outside observer.  Nothing that will ever be recorded in the history books or glamorized on the silver screen.  In some cases, they may not even be remembered by anyone besides myself.  However insignificant they might appear to others, they are times that come readily to mind.  They are times experienced and moments shared that cemented into my consciousness, my very being, that I had a Grandaddy — and a Mima — who loved me very much. 

***

I recall a time Lance and I went to the grocery store with Grandaddy.  I don’t remember which store, but I do remember that unlike today’s grocery stores which keep milk and dairy products refrigerated behind glass doors, this store had a refrigerated room that you had to walk into in order to find a gallon of milk, a cup of yogurt, or whatever.  I always hated that room.  Adults never seemed fazed by the temperature and took an inexplicably long time to find things.  Were the store employees always moving the milk around every day so that each label had to be read in detail before  feeling confident you were buying Grade-A pasteurized milk?  I’m sure that adults were not idling in this room but as a skinny little kid with no insulation on my bones, it felt like it took forever.  

On the visit in question, we survived the milk room and were out in the adequately heated part of the store — specifically the candy isle.  Maybe because of the longing looks on our face (or more likely, because he understood the things little boys care about), Grandaddy bought us each a pound bag of Skittles.  A pound!  Lance and I were, of course, elated but perhaps a little shocked too.  We got it into our heads that we needed to repay this extravagance so we left a few dollars and a "Thank You" note in his bedroom.  The next time we were in Orem Granddaddy pulled us aside, lovingly returned the money and told us in no uncertain terms that sometimes a Granddaddy gets to spoil his grandchildren.

***

Another sweet memory was the few hours I spent with Granddaddy in Mesa, Arizona.  I had made the drive to Arizona with Mima and Granddaddy and were staying with Karen and her family.  One afternoon Grandaddy asked me if I wanted to get out of the house and take a drive.  We spent the next several hours driving to sites around the Mesa area.  Grandaddy showed me an old barn where he had visited as a boy.  He showed me several other sites that are still in existence that were part of his boyhood and part of our families' history.  As a capstone to this trip down memory lane, he took me to the house, within a stone-throw of the Mesa temple, where he had been born — not just the house where his family was living when he was born, but the actual house he had been born in (they didn’t go to the hospital for some reason…or maybe there was wasn’t a hospital at that time…I don’t know).  

***

Granddaddy was a scholar.  Not just of the Spanish language (though he was certainly a scholar of that) but of many things.  On another drive to and from Mesa (or maybe the same one...I can’t remember) we talked about literature and his favorite poems and finally of Shakespeare.  I asked him about Macbeth, The Taming of the Shrew, The Comedy of Errors, The Merchant of Venice, Othello, Titus Andronicus, Twelfth Night…and so on.  He spoke with clarity and his characteristic articulateness.  He conversed about the plots and themes.  He quoted from them from memory (in his “quoting” voice…you know the one).  Sorry other English teachers, the best Shakespeare scholar on campus had his office in the Spanish department.  

***

I remember mom telling me that it was horrible playing Scrabble or the Vocabulary Game with Granddaddy.  He knew every word there was!  He was also a good editor.  For years, I sent every major school paper I wrote though the gauntlet of Granddaddy.  It would come back with red pencil all over it!  The most important paper I probably ever wrote (the personal essay for medical school application) came back so marked up that I scrapped the whole thing and started over.  I’m assuming the re-write was better because I got in.  Thanks Granddaddy — I love my job!

***

Granddaddy once told me that he wrote some of his best poetry while in Sacrament meeting.  Either because the speaker was inspiring and the spirit strong or because he was deathly board and seeking mental escape — either would do.  He would often share his poetry.  And only Granddaddy could read those poems exactly the right way.  He had a poetry voice (quite similar to his “quoting voice”).  The two poems that stick in my mind were the one about the sliver and the pocket knife and the one that mentioned Moses and the burning bush (he had to explain that one to me after reading it.  The explanation was beautiful).

***

Others have already touched on other endearing memories which I shared as well — his affection for opera music and his tendency to sing it often (strangely his opera voice was similar to both his quoting voice and his poetry voice), his “scrapbook” enchilada sauce made from anything he found in the fridge, his dislike of “Put Your Shoulder to the Wheel”.  I loved all these and so much more.  

My sweet wife hit the nail on the head and I’ll finish this by quoting her.

"Sometimes, very rarely, you meet someone who's influence and goodness changes every person who is fortunate enough to come in contact with him.  A life done right.  Generations to come will continue to be blessed by his example.  I will be eternally greatful for him.  I can only imagine his homecoming in Heaven...We love and miss you Granddaddy.  Well done, and most of all, thank you”.

Until we meet again, Granddaddy...

Three Levels of Christmas

I posted this last year, but thought I'd do it again this Christmas.  Who knows...this may become an annual tradition.  This really expresses how I feel about this most special of seasons.

THREE LEVELS OF CHRISTMAS 

Christmas is a beautiful time of the year. We love the excitement, the giving spirit, the special awareness of and appreciation for family and friends, the feelings of love and brotherhood that bless our gatherings at Christmastime.

In all of the joyousness, it is well to reflect that Christmas comes at three levels.

Let's call the first the Santa Claus level. It's the level of Christmas trees and holly, of whispered secrets and colorful packages, of candlelight and rich food and warm open houses. It's carolers in the shopping malls, excited children, and weary but loving parents. It's a lovely time of special warmth and caring and giving. It's the level at which we eat too much and spend too much and do too much—and enjoy every minute of it. We love the Santa Claus level of Christmas.

But there's a higher, more beautiful level. Let's call it the Silent Night level. It's the level of all our glorious Christmas carols, of that beloved, familiar story: "Now in those days there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus. . . . " It's the level of the crowded inn and the silent, holy moment in a dark stable when the Son of Man came to earth. It's shepherds on steep, bare hills near Bethlehem, angels with their glad tidings, a new star in the East, wise men traveling far in search of the Holy One. How beautiful and meaningful it is; how infinitely poorer we would be without this sacred second level of Christmas.

The trouble is, these two levels don't last. They can't.

Twelve days of Christmas, at the first level, is about all most of us can stand. It's too intense, too extravagant. The tree dries out and the needles fall. The candles burn down. The beautiful wrappings go out with the trash, the carolers are up on the ski slopes, the toys break, and the biggest day in the stores in the entire year is exchange day, December 26. The feast is over and the dieting begins. But the lonely and the hungry are with us still, perhaps lonelier and hungrier than before.

Lovely and joyous as the first level of Christmas is, there will come a day, very soon, when Mother will put away the decorations and vacuum the living room and think, "Thank goodness that's over for another year."

Even the second level, the level of the Baby Jesus, can't last. How many times this season can you sing "Silent Night"? The angels and the star and the shepherd, even the silent, sacred mystery of that holy night itself, can't long satisfy humanity's basic need. The man who keeps Christ in the manger will, in the end, be disappointed and empty.

No, for Christmas to last all year long, for it to grow in beauty and meaning and purpose, for it to have the power to change lives, we must celebrate it at the third level, that of the adult Christ. It is at this level—not as an infant—that our Savior brings His gifts of lasting joy, lasting peace, lasting hope. It was the adult Christ who reached out and touched the untouchable, who loved the unlovable, who so loved us all that even in His agony on the cross He prayed forgiveness for His enemies.

This is the Christ, creator of worlds without number, who wept, Enoch tells us, because so many of us lack affection and hate each other—and then who willingly gave His life for all of us, including those for whom He wept. This is the Christ, the adult Christ, who gave us the perfect example, and asked us to follow Him.

Accepting that invitation is the way—the only way—to celebrate Christmas all year and all life long.

William B. Smart, from his book "Messages for a Happier Life" (Deseret Book Company). 

Goodbyes (and Hellos)

The post below was one I wrote before leaving San Antonio, but never got around to posting.  I’m not sure why.  I’ve now been gone for about 1.5 months but figured I’d put it up because, well, it’s already written and doesn’t take too much effort at this point!  :)

 

Goodbyes are inevitable.  Some are purely painful.  Some are truly welcome.  Most are a mixture.  I’m saying goodbye to another city.  I’ve been in this boat before.  I had to say goodbye to West Jordan and Melbourne and Logan and….

The part of goodbyes that hurt are the people.  I cried until I hiccuped when I said goodbye to my Milwaukee friends.  I got misty eyed when I said goodbye to friends last year who moved on to the next stage of their medical training.  I now say goodbye to this place that has been my home for the last 4 years.  4 years of concentrated life, work, living and learning.  I think that these are 4 years that changed me more like 24 years.  I say goodbye to the places, people, sites, sounds (and temperature) that are my new “comfort zone” and start again in a place where I don’t know most people.  Where I’m learning the work styles of new bosses and coworkers.  A new ward.  A new group of peers...

 There are some constants.  There will be those from San Antonio that I remain in contact with.  But it will be different.  It always is.  

 Perhaps these times are essential for progression.  I’d bet I felt something similar (on a much larger scale) when I left that first estate to begin in this second one.  There is a knowledge of the importance of the transition, excitement of the unknown (and some fear of it as well).  A healthy amount of uncertainty about my ability to adapt and perform.  And an optimism for the future.

 In some ways goodbyes come too soon, and in other ways not soon enough.

Music & Memories

I tend to get nostalgic when I know that soon I’ll be undergoing some major life changes.  It happened when I left for the mission field.  It happened when I was about to come home.  It happened when I finished college and moved to Wisconsin, and it happened when I was leaving Wisconsin for Texas.  I’m now a short month away from another major change — leaving Texas and moving back home to Utah.  Who knows what this change will bring...  Will I stay in Utah or will it be a brief interlude before yet another major change?  Which old friendships will rekindle and which new friendships will be formed?  What other high points and low points will I encounter in this next phase of my mortal story?  I don’t dare speculate right now...  All that, however, does not change the fact that right now I’m feeling nostalgic.  These last 4 years have changed me every bit as much as the 4 years before that (Wisconsin), the 5 years before that (college), the 2 before that (mission) and so on… Each of these phases have associated memories, feelings, people, experiences, joys, sorrows...  I think that is how this “second estate” is supposed to work.  We are not meant to be static.  Rather, we are supposed to be changed by our experiences.  I’ve made a few good choices along the way and more than my fair share of dumb choices.  Mostly, however, I made choices that I’m not sure if they were “right” or “wrong”.  They changed me, that is certain.  They have helped shape who I am today.  And for the most part I’m at peace with how it has all gone, so perhaps that is the litmus test I should use.  But at nostalgic times like this, my mind is less interested in speculating about what the future holds and more interested in remembering — remembering the people, places, events, feelings and what those things taught me and how they shaped my current self — warts and all.  And perhaps this stroll down memory lane can spur me to move forward into the future with just a little more faith.  A little more peace.  A little more confidence that God has a plan and that while I’m far from perfect, he has provided me with the essentials and more to become what He wants me to become...

I was recently inspired by something written by an old college acquaintance.  Everyone should read it — seriously, this is gifted writing.  <http://katierosebastian.blogspot.com/2014/05/happiness-and-messes.html>  Reading her reflections has spurred me to a similar reminiscence.  I’ve had my recollection antenna on as I’ve listened to my iPod over the last few days and it has transported my thoughts to some of the most defining times of my life — both the sweet times and the bitter ones — and helped me to remember.  

My iPod’s shuffle feature mixed several of my playlists together, including songs from my “Sunday” playlist.  The list of approved music on my mission was pretty short.  This naturally led to us listening to the same few approved songs over and over.  Among the approved albums were those by the BYU Concert Choirs which my parents kindly sent me on my first Australian Christmas.  My favorite song — one that I listened to many many times, not only for its beauty, but also its power — was “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing”.  I didn’t know at the time, but have learned since, that this is a popular one among many different faiths, including the LDS community.  It has remained a favorite for me.  I recall a night in my second area after I’d been in Australia about 7 or 8 months that we had been at a late dinner appointment.  We rode our bikes home after dinner in the dark.  It was a clear and warm night and the stars were as bright as I’d ever seen.  This was also a time in my mission when I was feeling pretty discouraged.  I recall going into the “backyard” (really just a small strip of grass with a clothes line overhead), laying down and gazing at the southern cross among the other stars.  As I often do, I had a little conversation with Heaven in my head.  I explained my desires to be of service and of my discouragement with how things were going.  I laid it out that I had no intention of quitting but that I felt very inadequate to the task at hand.  The words of “Come Thou Fount” came to my head —

“Here I raise mine Ebenezer; hither by thy help I’m come; and I hope, by thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home…here’s my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above.”

I felt some calm and comfort after this and I went back inside to get ready for bed.  That was it.  One of countless little tender mercies during those two years that changed me and helped me remember what I was doing and why I was doing it.

The shuffle function later switched to music from my “80’s Hair Rock” playlist.  There is a version of the Scorpions “Rock You Like a Hurricane” that they preformed with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra in the background.  It’s a great version of the song.  In retrospect I can see that perhaps the message of the song was not super wholesome, but it was nevertheless a big pump-up song I’d listen to in the midst of long grueling study sessions.  There were lots of those study sessions in college.  Some sessions were productive…some less so…  My memory flashed to a big microbiology test I was studying for.  It was another moment where I was not sure I was up to the task at hand.  But despite my lack of total self confidence, I was blessed to do well.  Another tender mercy.  It helped me remember that I have a Father in Heaven who cares about all the aspects of my life.  Not just the missionary and church-on-Sunday parts, but the academic and secular parts also.

My iPod later shuffled to my “Easy Listening” playlist and I heard Dallyn Vail Bayles sing “Better Than I”.  I can’t help but pause, close my eyes for a second, and suck a breath in whenever I hear this one.  Whenever I hear it, I get a wistful desire to be able to carry a tune in a bucket because despite how awesome I’m convinced I sound when singing with the radio alone in my car, singing is not one of the talents I was born with.  If I did have a worthy voice, this is perhaps the first song I’d want to learn.  It represents one of the biggest challenges I’ve ever faced, and all of the unexpected yet necessary downstream consequences.  This song was introduced to my by a dear friend who was “in the loop” during the most difficult part of this experience as his way of trying to help me learn that all was not lost.  The details here are not important but I again felt small compared to the demands of the situation.  

“If this has been a test I cannot see the reason, but maybe knowing I don’t know is part of getting through…For You know better than I, You know the way.  I’ve let go the need to know why, for You know better than I.”

I often find it difficult to accept life’s challenges and end up playing the “why did this happen to me” card.  It took some time for me to accept that this particular challenge was not just important, but necessary for me to experience.  I can now look at the consequences of this situation and see that this needed to happen — that it was all a gigantic tender mercy all along — even though I didn’t believe it at the time.  It helped me remember that the bitter is needed as well as the sweet to help us meet our potential.

One of my favorite playlists is “Intern Year”.  It has all the songs that we would have playing in the workroom during my months on Internal Medicine.  Intern year has a reputation of being brutal.  The learning curve is steep, the hours are long, overnight call is terrifying, and all the worst stuff happens at around 2 am when no one else is around.  Also, the attending are sometimes grouchy, the pager never stops going off, and the patients want answers that you don’t yet have an answer to.  It is pretty easy to get overwhelmed.  My intern year was all of these things – everyone’s is.  As a way of coping we would have music playing in the workroom as we typed notes, wrote orders, looked up information and organized the reams of papers, printouts, binders, folders, and EKG prints.  The people you are on service with as an intern generally become very close friends.  It’s hard to be “in the trenches” with these people and not get connected.  It’s impossible to be a fake during these times and so you end up learning a lot about your coworkers as well as yourself.  I learned that I kind of like rap music.  My co-intern is one of my favorite people in the world.  She would bring her speakers and iPhone every day and stream her favorite rap and hip-hop Pandora stations.  After a few weeks we had heard all the songs several times and we could start to sing along.  We all gave each other rapper names and would refer to each other by these names.  Sometimes in a careless moment, we would call each other these names when the attending was in the room or in front of a patient.  Perhaps not the most professional thing to do, but no one seemed to mind too much.  My iPod played Chris Brown’s “This Christmas” (my co-intern’s favorite song during the December we worked together).  This song is fine.  Not my favorite in a strictly musical sense, but one with a lot of attached memories — memories of a difficult time and the people I was fortunate to be around who helped.  It helps me remember how many times, before and after my intern year, that I’ve had the tender mercy of good people around me able and willing to help.

Shuffle then brought up Sara Bareilles’ "Gavity” and then Jon McLaughlin’s “Indiana” and I was transported back to that car ride and I can remember the physically painful heartache.  I can’t help but sing along because these songs convey what I’m not eloquent enough to convey.  I’m frankly still working through this one, but its getting better and I remember that part of what Christ taught he would do is “heal the broken-hearted”.  I’ve felt that before and I know I’ll continue to feel it.

Spencer Kimball once stated that

“When you look in the dictionary for the most important word, do you know what it is?  It could be ‘remember.’  Because all of [us] have made covenants…our greatest need is to remember.  That is why everyone goes to sacrament meeting every Sabbath day — to take the sacrament and listen to the priests pray that [we] ‘…may always remember him and keep his commandments which he has given [us].’… ‘Remember is the word” (Circles of Exaltation, BYU, June 28 1968)

It’s good to remember.  

Elder Bednar taught

“Faith as the evidence of things not seen typically looks to the past. Truly, our confidence and trust in God are strengthened by examples and evidence of His influence in the past. This element of faith provides proof and confirmation that things unseen indeed are real. For example, many of our pioneer forefathers were protected, preserved, and strengthened in the most difficult and demanding of circumstances. The legacy of faith and testimony they left for us provides powerful evidence of things not seen. Similarly, a young missionary called to serve in a remote part of the world, and who may be understandably anxious about his or her service, is fortified by the faith-promoting experiences of family and friends who already have served as full-time missionaries in various parts of the world.” (According to Thy Faith, Ricks College Devotional, Aug 29, 2000)

Finally my iPod shuffles me back to my “Sunday” playlist and Christina England is singing “How Can I Keep From Singing”.  My heart fills and I catch a small glimpse of what God wants me to be and what he has done to make it possible to reach that potential.  It’s the perfect expression of how I’m feeling.

Perhaps I don’t feel so silly for being nostalgic from time to time...

The Real Christmas

I came across this for the first time many years ago.  It has crossed my mind every Christmas since then and for all the intervening years I have meant to find it and read it again.  This year, for some reason, the thought came with more force than usual, and thanks to the wonders of Google, I found it.  

I must give credit where credit is due.  William B. Smart wrote this, along with many other thoughtful essays, which have been published in his book “Messages for a Happier Life”.  And while I was not the first to "put pen to paper" with these words, it so perfectly captures what I have long felt about my favorite holiday that in some small way I feel like I have a claim on these words — they are exactly what I would say if I had the eloquence and thoughtfulness of the true author.

Regardless, it is a powerful thought and I hope others may enjoy this as much as I do.

THREE LEVELS OF CHRISTMAS

Christmas is a beautiful time of the year. We love the excitement, the giving spirit, the special awareness of and appreciation for family and friends, the feelings of love and brotherhood that bless our gatherings at Christmastime.

In all of the joyousness, it is well to reflect that Christmas comes at three levels.
Let's call the first the Santa Claus level. It's the level of Christmas trees and holly, of whispered secrets and colorful packages, of candlelight and rich food and warm open houses. It's carolers in the shopping malls, excited children, and weary but loving parents. It's a lovely time of special warmth and caring and giving. It's the level at which we eat too much and spend too much and do too much—and enjoy every minute of it. We love the Santa Claus level of Christmas.

But there's a higher, more beautiful level. Let's call it the Silent Night level. It's the level of all our glorious Christmas carols, of that beloved, familiar story: "Now in those days there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus. . . . " It's the level of the crowded inn and the silent, holy moment in a dark stable when the Son of Man came to earth. It's shepherds on steep, bare hills near Bethlehem, angels with their glad tidings, a new star in the East, wise men traveling far in search of the Holy One. How beautiful and meaningful it is; how infinitely poorer we would be without this sacred second level of Christmas.

The trouble is, these two levels don't last. They can't.

Twelve days of Christmas, at the first level, is about all most of us can stand. It's too intense, too extravagant. The tree dries out and the needles fall. The candles burn down. The beautiful wrappings go out with the trash, the carolers are up on the ski slopes, the toys break, and the biggest day in the stores in the entire year is exchange day, December 26. The feast is over and the dieting begins. But the lonely and the hungry are with us still, perhaps lonelier and hungrier than before.

Lovely and joyous as the first level of Christmas is, there will come a day, very soon, when Mother will put away the decorations and vacuum the living room and think, "Thank goodness that's over for another year."

Even the second level, the level of the Baby Jesus, can't last. How many times this season can you sing "Silent Night"? The angels and the star and the shepherd, even the silent, sacred mystery of that holy night itself, can't long satisfy humanity's basic need. The man who keeps Christ in the manger will, in the end, be disappointed and empty.

No, for Christmas to last all year long, for it to grow in beauty and meaning and purpose, for it to have the power to change lives, we must celebrate it at the third level, that of the adult Christ. It is at this level—not as an infant—that our Savior brings His gifts of lasting joy, lasting peace, lasting hope. It was the adult Christ who reached out and touched the untouchable, who loved the unlovable, who so loved us all that even in His agony on the cross He prayed forgiveness for His enemies.

This is the Christ, creator of worlds without number, who wept, Enoch tells us, because so many of us lack affection and hate each other—and then who willingly gave His life for all of us, including those for whom He wept. This is the Christ, the adult Christ, who gave us the perfect example, and asked us to follow Him.

Accepting that invitation is the way—the only way—to celebrate Christmas all year and all life long.