Dallin Malmgren's Blog, page 23

Family Ties

Owen and Renee’s wedding

Loving one another in the time of corona presents some unique challenges. I know my operating instructions: love God and love one another. The loving God part demands its own essay—except for this reminder…He is with us always, and we express love by enjoying Someone’s company and responding to Him. But let’s focus on loving one another.

This is way more difficult in the time of corona. In fact, we are being told that the loving thing to do is to stay away from each other. The common thread that humanity shares right now is we are all in danger of becoming infected and infecting others. Preventing that is a new expression of love.

So, do we all just look inward and wrap up around ourselves, like a roly poly? Using the operating instructions above, I don’t think that’s going to work. Obviously, there are charitable things we can do for those less fortunate, things which don’t demand much human contact, and I hope we are all being attentive to that. But love demands interaction, and that’s where it gets trickier.

I love my brother and four sisters and am confident they love me. But we were raised to be independent, we have full and robust lives, and we are scattered across the globe. Consequently, we have gone six months, maybe even a year, with almost no contact with each other. Weddings and other family reunion-type events have been the highlight of our relationships. This from six people who grew up in the same house!

When the virus appeared and I realized I was going to be mostly stuck in my house with my wife (poor her!), I made a resolution to try to re-establish better contact with my siblings. I even set the goal of trying to stay in touch every week or so. This has worked out better than I could have expected, probably because they are also stuck at home with limited social interaction.

The results have been wonderful. The bond that we knew was there, but had seemingly become frayed or even invisible, has re-blossomed and flourished. I’ve learned more about my siblings’ lives (and shared more about mine) in the past four months than I have in the prior ten years. My sister in Spain has shown me how much wiser they’ve been about the virus than we have here. My sister in Bend is an encyclopedia of advice about getting a dog. My brother in New Orleans and I have shared stories from high school and college that we never even knew about each other. I have realized the bonds we shared are not damaged—they were just rusty.

That is just an example. Karen and I still zoom with our children and their spouses on Saturday nights. Karen zooms with her sisters every week, and boy, can they talk! I enjoy being in the next room. I even had a great talk with one of my nephews a few weeks ago.

I’ve been giving the impression all these talks are joy and laughter and fellowship—of course, that’s wrong. It’s the real world we’re dealing with out there, and times have never been tougher. But whatever the circumstances, we can offer our love and encouragement and support. And our ear. Sometimes that can be the deciding factor for someone’s day.

I frequently think that loving your neighbor is about being kind and doing good for strangers (and it certainly is). Remember that Jesus’s brother was one of His disciples. The key word is love. In this time of corona, the people I have the most frequent and safest contact with are members of my family….my most accessible neighbors. I’m going to take advantage of that.

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RoomSJ

(Recent observations on my Spiritual Journey)

The movie thing was fun, but I’ve been thinking more about the previous post regarding all of us being on a Spiritual Journey. Isn’t it cool that they all begin in the same way—with a first breath somewhere on the space/time continuum of planet Earth and with a final breath the same? We come in with nothing and we go out with nothing. Doesn’t that prove the primacy of the spiritual sides of our lives?

I avow to be on my Spiritual Journey and to know it. Doesn’t that imply that I should be learning something? If I were in culinary school, shouldn’t you expect at least a few recipes? Of course, the Spirit doesn’t process like food does, so you can only draw the analogy so far.

These are the latest sign posts/ flash cards/ illuminations that are cropping up on my pathway:

1) Trust is more important that effort. When I operate from the effort place, I am usually striving to please God. When I operate from the trust place, I am responding to the knowledge that God is already pleased with me. One brings chains and the other brings freedom. The motivation for effort stems from self. The motivation for trust comes from love. James said, “Faith without works is dead.” True enough. But, out of context, that ignores the horse to worry about the cart. If the works do not spring forth from faith, the effort is fruitless. If I am trusting in God, He will not keep me inactive. If I am inactive, I need to examine examine my faith.

2) My heart is more important than my doctrine. Mahatma Gandhi did not profess to a faith in Jesus Christ. Yet, I would bet (well, shouldn’t bet) he was nearer to God than many professed Christians. You can make a proclamation of faith without having any—we humans are wonderful liars. A real interaction with God will always have the same result—a turning of our hearts toward love. I suspect that Mahatma and Jesus are enjoying a loving eternal relationship right now. (I must confess that I have no knowledge of the condition of Mahatma’s heart, but I’m counting more on Jesus than him.)

3) The Triune God—impossible for us to comprehend—is good news for every person on the planet. Separate. Equal. One. How can we possibly grasp that? We don’t have enough love in our hearts (yet) to understand. Still, the essence of our being is the manifestation of that love. We say Father, Son and Holy Ghost, but I’ve learned enough to know that our gender roles mean nothing to Them. The really cool part is that on our Spiritual Journeys, they have that same characteristic—separate, equal, one—in their relationships with us. The fun we can have, the joy we can share, the love we can experience. That love which proceeds from Them is meant to pass through us and reach out to others. What a plan!

Boy, writing about it is pretty exciting—I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.

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My Best Movies Ever

I have a long history with movies, but a terrible memory for them. Realizing this, I have for many years written down every movie I watched and given it a grade. I can tell anyone if I saw a movie and how much I liked it. For one span of my writing career, I gave screenwriting a try, so I watched tons of movies, considering it a form of studying. Recently my friend Chip Brookes invited me to pick my top ten movies and post it on Facebook. Having my movie list made the project a lot easier. Here is what I came up with:

King of Hearts (1966) – My alltime favorite foreign film and the most entertaining anti-war movie ever. And what a concept: an insane asylum as the sanest people on the planet! Working six years in a mental hospital taught me there’s some truth to that. This movie also taught me the word lyricism.

Nashville (1975) – My favorite Robert Altman movie, and he deserves an essay of his own. This movie demonstrated to me that a human being and a country both have a soul—and they can both be lost. The complexity and interweaving of relationships (a precursor to Crash, another movie I liked) fascinated me. I think the ending is totally redemptive (when the girl picks up the mic), but that might be my own optimism. I’d love to know what someone else thinks.

Ben Hur (1959) – No movie touched me spiritually like this one. Jesus is in the movie three times—you never see Him—you just see the effect He has on the people in front of Him. So powerful. Ben Hur is also an epic story—saw it on Christmas Day when I was ten years old. God had His finger on me even back then.

Ordinary People (1980) – This movie made me realize you can love someone and not be able to show it, and how tragic that can be. I loved the dad…he had the kind of heart I wanted to have. I fell in love with Pachebel’s Canon in D Major in the opening scene. This is also one of those rare movies that captured a great book.

Dazed and Confused (1993) – I taught teenagers for 33 years and wrote several books about them, but Richard Linklater got them way better than I did. O how shallow, and how alive! I had every one of those characters in my classroom at one time or another. Also loved how adults and especially parents were almost aliens to us back then.

Lone Star (1996) – Sticking with my Texas love affair…this movie is sooo Texas, the good and the bad. It’s also about the complex and rocky relationship between a father and a son, which is right up my alley. John Sayles is the most underappreciated director I know. (I gave A’s to five straight films that he made—list available if you want it.) I need to go back to him.

Coming Home (1978) – I missed the Vietnam War by the flick of a policeman’s flashlight (another story), but this movie brought home to me the damage it could do to the American soldier. Also had an amazing soundtrack. Jon Voight’s speech to a high school assembly is one of the most powerful warnings I’ve ever heard. (I have to mention that this film barely edged out The Deer Hunter as the most impactful Vietnam War movie I saw. By some twist of fate, I saw The Deer Hunter alone in a theater. I drove home, didn’t turn on a single light, laid down on my bed and just thought. I was blown away.)

The Last of the Mohicans (1992) – I confess to a personal bias on this one—the only Thanksgiving my wife and three children ate at a restaurant (we were moving), and then we went to the movies. All five of us loved it! This is the most heroic movie ever. When people ask—“…if you could have been born into a different era…”—this is the time/place I would choose.

For Whom the Bell Tolls (1943) – Another great book = great movie miracle. A perfect cast—Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman are stunning, but it’s Pilar and Pablo that raise it to a whole other level. I would bet you that Hemingway himself loved this movie.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969) – Absolutely the coolest movie ever! Sundance and Butch nailed the entire spectrum of cool—from quiet but deadly to gregarious and loveable. Katherine Ross was even prettier than she was in The Graduate. I would be hard-pressed to find a movie that had more wonderful lines of dialogue.

Sorry, could not stop at ten.

The Lord of the Rings trilogy (2001, 2002, 2003) – When I was a young man, I read these books—and immediately re-read them. Two years later read ‘em again. Then I swore I wouldn’t pick them up for 20 years. When I heard of Peter Jackson’s project, I read each book before each movie came out—dang if he didn’t nail it! The spectacle, the grandeur, the awesomeness. I could quibble about a few plot omissions, but the man gave us over nine hours of pure entertainment!

The first thing evident from my list is that I am an old fogey. My most recent movie is 2003 and the oldest is 1943! But I have to be honest…I just can’t handle the superhero, special effects multiplex stuff that Hollywood has been handing out for so long. I like movies that make me think and feel, not just anesthetize me. It has become harder and harder for me to sit through a movie. Is that me or is that Hollywood? Some of both, no doubt. (By the way, I only left The Graduate off my list because I have already written an essay about it.) What this list has done for me is encourage me to go back and watch some of the true classics. I don’t have that many movies left.

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A letter to my fans (haha)

Dear fans (haha):

Yes, I realize the ridiculousness of it. As if there are people out there thinking Go, Dallin—write away, big guy—knock one out of the park! And yet, I find it almost impossible to write without thinking of an audience (usually God or Bethany), so this one is for you, the reader.

As I have mentioned, I recently completed a writing goal: two essays a week for one year. I did this as a vow to God. Yes, I realize the ridiculousness of that also…God as a contractor…I made an agreement…He expects (or even worse) needs this done??? I know enough of my bible to realize my yes is to be yes and my no is to be no, and leave the long-term stuff to Him.

But this was my dilemma one year ago—I still felt a (you pick the word) calling, urge, summons, desire to write, but I didn’t know what to write. I didn’t want to write to try to get money. I didn’t want to write about teenagers anymore. My big retirement plan had been to write, and I had already spent five years piddling around.

That was my second biggest retirement plan. My first was to concentrate on my relationship with God. I knew I had just skated through a 33 year teaching career acknowledging Him when convenient, calling on Him when necessary. Now I had no excuses—I wanted to give Him my attention.

I have been trying to do that. It became evident what I wanted to write about—my Spiritual Journey. Why not? Everyone has one—though most of us (like me teaching) are only vaguely aware that we are on one. Jesus spent most of His ministry informing us that this journey far outweighs in importance any of the others (career, family, individual accomplishments) that we take.

I told my sister Miriam the other day that I was writing because I wanted my children (someday) to know what I thought about. She said, “Why? Do you wonder what our dad thought about? I don’t.” She had me for a second—until I realized it’s not about me, it’s about their own Spiritual Journeys. My hope and prayer is that their own awareness that they are on one will increase. I know theirs will be different than mine (they all are), but if I can encourage them in that direction, it will do more for them than any material inheritance I can leave.

If you have read this far, that makes you a fan (I know my wife will, and maybe a few others), and I hope and pray the same for you. I have journeyed far enough to know that God makes our lives adventurous and meaningful and fun-filled and glorious. His operating instructions are so simple: love Him and love one another. If I can encourage you or help you in any way on your Spiritual Journey, that fills me with joy.

Love,

Dallin

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Puzzling

my favorite jigsaw puzzle ever!

Let’s face it, we’re battening down the hatches for Covid-19 again. That means more time at home—and probably more time for puzzling. I read somewhere that jigsaw puzzle companies are enjoying a greater economic boon than grocery stores! And crossword puzzles are blowing up too. Even Doonesbury (my favorite comic) had a crossword puzzle for its strip this past Sunday. At least three of my siblings are working on puzzles, and it’s even come up with a few golfers. Stuck at home, we need to keep our minds occupied, and even television wears thin after awhile.

I confess to a bit of a regimen. I keep a jigsaw going most of the time. I’ll work at it 2–3 times a day. I think everyone works jigsaws the same: the edges, the predominant stuff, and finally the laborious sky or mountain or landscape. That’s why I love the puzzle in the photo—ah, the busy-ness! (Plus, it’s candy—can’t wait to show the granddaughters). I do the New York Times Sunday crossword, but I give myself all week to do it. For a diversion, I’ll do the crossword on the last page of The Week (our favorite news source)—much easier.

I have tried to figure out the attraction of jigsaws—it seems so mindless. There is just something gratifying about finding the right piece to go into the right space. I saw a movie called Sleuth—a guy (Laurence Olivier) has a puzzle on his cocktail table of a snowstorm (all white). He and this other guy (Michael Caine) get into a brawl one night, and the puzzle is trashed. The next morning when Caine gets up, the puzzle is back together! I loved that, but it is complete bs. I hate the hard part of the puzzle. I recently quit a Spiderman one, because all I had left was reds and blues and black, all the same shape.

It’s easier for me to justify crosswords. They involve words, and I am a writer. Also, I believe there is a mental awareness factor that is important for us, especially as we age. The two people I know who have done crosswords forever are my brother and Aunt Faith. Aunt Faith was the sharpest 87 y.o. person I ever met, and my brother is pretty sharp too. Crosswords have been adulterated. You can find most answers on your phone. I try to put that off, but there is also something gratifying about putting a letter in a square.

So this is my question (and the main reason for this essay): Is all this just a waste of time? A way to make the days go by? The bible says: “Make the most of your time , for the days are evil…”—and I take the bible seriously. It’s easy to say “I’m retired”, but that is a rationalization. This is my flash of inspiration: God wants us to enjoy ourselves. I don’t mean hedonism (not very enjoyable anyway). I used to think Jesus left and it was our job to promote Him. Totally wrong. We just need to join Him. The operating instructions are simple: love God and love your neighbor.

This is a crazy illustration, but it’s a true story. I have finished two puzzles in this time of corona (the first I did, and this last—photo). Both times there was one piece missing! (Fellow puzzlers know how upsetting this is.) I searched high and low—and the next day Karen did too (she doesn’t like things unfinished, and she is sympathetic to me). Both times the piece appeared (miraculously, in a visible place) in the next 24 hours. I know the obvious: two old doddering idiots couldn’t see what was right in front of them—yeah, maybe. But we know for sure that when we found the piece, God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit laughed.

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My anxiety provokers

photo by karen

These are anxious times, no doubt about it. The world is in trouble. On the national level, the news is almost never good. On the local level, dissension and fear seem to dominate our consciousness. On the personal level, even a phone call can instill dread—is it bad news? A stiff upper lip can only carry you so far. But facing your fears is better than ignoring them, so I’ve been wondering what makes me anxious.

Near the top of the list has to be health. It is so hard to do any good for anyone, or even myself, when I am sick. Two years ago we went to Toronto to be with Bethany and her family when Nessa was born. Two days later, I got sick as a dog, the worst I can remember in years. I remained so for three days, and then I flew home. In desperate need, I couldn’t pray or chant or breathe. I lay there in misery. I know the testing of my faith produces endurance, but I didn’t relish it. And yet: …those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. (Isaiah 40:31)

It has lost some of its power, but a long-time provoker of my anxiety was money. Having experienced what poor felt like, I became attracted to money. I was never greedy—I just wanted to have enough. It was negotiating that line of what is enough that made me worry. It can still flare up in my brain on occasions. And yet: Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said, “Never will I leave you, never will I forsake you.” (Hebrews 13:5)

My relationships can be a huge source of stress. I know that our bond is love, but I see a lot of loose strands flying around mine. You have to be alert to moods and time and sharing. (O, how He is still trying to teach me to listen!) If I’m at odds with someone I care about, I carry it around like a weight. And yet: Anxiety weighs down the heart, but a kind word cheers it up. (Proverbs 12:25)

Like everybody, my conscience can provoke my anxiety. I have a relational agreement with my conscience: it can’t expect me to be perfect, and I will try to do better. Every other negotiation will be with me and God. One thing I like about my conscience is I can’t fool it. And yet: For whenever our heart condemns us, God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything. (1 John 3:20)

My wife mentioned one that I haven’t covered: the health and well-being of family and of children in general. Akin to two of mine, it still deserves its own category. In fact, it probably generates more stress with her than all the others. The anxieties that you can’t do anything about are the heaviest. Prayer is my best prescription, but prayer can seem empty when someone you love is suffering. And yet: There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves torment. But he who fears has not been made perfect in love. We love because He first loved us. (I John 4: 18–19)

The chartbuster on my list is Covid-19, hanging over our lives like a dark cloud. Though well-isolated and fairly safe, there is an unease that broods around and within me. Covid has such force because its entrance into our lives can have huge impacts on the stressor list above. And this is one fear we don’t have experience dealing with. Or a timetable for. It’s a good thing we’re all in this together. It’s going to take a miracle to get out from under it. And yet: Even though I walk through the darkest valley , I will fear no evil for You are with me… (Psalm 23:4)

Bible verses are not bandaids—they don’t cover up the hurt. These hard times are going to make us stronger, and no one was promised an easy ride. Anxieties aside, I am seeing reasons for optimism. Change is always an opportunity for improvement. Have faith. Because: “Let not your heart be troubled; you believe in God, believe also in Me.” (John 14:1)

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“…all I have to do is believe?”

After two straight posts revolving around my misspent youth, I thought I’d try for something more redemptive…

Although I probably would have denied it, I wasn’t in very good shape in the spring of 1976: living alone in a small apartment…separated from my first wife for over a year…smoking pot every day, usually several times…in and out of short romantic entanglements (the last a one-night stand with a woman I met in a bar—I don’t think I ever did that before)…smoking cigarettes regularly, drinking some times (I preferred pot)…cracked my helmet (would have been my head) in a motorcycle accident. The only stability in my life was my job as a psychiatric aide at Mid-Mo, a mental health center.

This is not to say I was completely spiritually blind. I knew there was a spiritual side to life that most of mainstream society ignores or compartmentalizes into some safe little corner. And I believed that this aspect of life is what gave everything else its deepest meaning. I read a lot, especially Eastern religion and hippie mysticism stuff. But I also realized I lacked the inner strength to practice any spiritual discipline with enough fervor to give it a flying chance.

There was a girl named Mary who worked at Mid-Mo who had as big a reputation for being a recreational (not hardcore) druggie as I did. Then I heard that she had changed—she didn’t do that anymore. She was very pretty. After running into her once or twice, I asked her out. She said, “I won’t go out with you, but I will go to church with you.”

It was a house church, probably 20–30 people when I started going. We were young, and we didn’t know what we were doing, and we did embrace a brand of fundamentalism. (I have come to believe that fundamentalism will suck the spiritual life out of any religion.) But there was also enthusiasm and kindness and generosity and this wonderful shared sense that we had started a new relationship—with God! I was impressed. Their lives seemed cleaner and healthier than mine.

But that wasn’t the chief motivator (not even Mary). That was just another peer group. I will tell you what got me. I was at my apartment and smoked a joint and read First Corinthians 13. Never have words so filled my soul (and I love words!). There was light streaming in the window and clouds breaking in the sky and nothing more than that, but I knew I wanted that more than any other thing I had experienced in my life. I just didn’t think I could get it.

You see, I thought I would have to give up smoking—and drinking—and running around—I would have to become a different person. And I knew I would fail—because I know myself.

So I went to see my friend Ross at the fellowship. I tried to explain my dilemma—I wanted in but I didn’t think I had the credentials. Of course, he led me through the verses—there’s a plethora of them—until it burst upon my poor downtrodden head: “…all I have to do is believe?”

There is a decision to be made. Yes, Lord, I believe.

O, the freedom! Of course I am going to change. Of course I am going to grow. It’s not my job anymore. My job is to believe and trust and follow. And enjoy! It is one decision I have never looked back on.

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Carl

My father, Carl Eilertz Malmgren

For most of my life I had a rocky relationship with my father. My brother was a paragon of virtue (that’s how I learned the word paragon–having it ascribed to my brother). I floundered in his wake academically, and I never could find another channel that would win my dad’s approval. In fairness, I probably withheld mine too.

Carl Eilertz Malmgren was a mining engineer who worked 35 plus years for the Gardner Denver Company. For most of my youth (maybe all of it), he was a traveling man. He’d get on an airplane at the Philadelphia International Airport on Monday morning and get off one on Friday afternoon. My father was the strict one and my mom was a pushover. I was one of those rare kids who liked the school week better than the weekend, due totally to my father’s absence. My mother’s mantra for dealing with me was: “Wait until your father gets home.” Horrible words for a young son to hear.

The situation got worse in my adolescence. I started sneaking out of the house on school nights. Most nights I couldn’t get anyone to join me, so I’d wander the streets alone, enjoying the freedom. I went through a phase stealing hood ornaments, and another taking cigarette packs left on the dashboards of unlocked cars. Eventually, my mom found my hood ornament stash–my dad tightened the screws on the weekend.

At the end of ninth grade I wanted to go to Ocean City, New Jersey for Memorial Day weekend to be with my girlfriend, Patti Pellegrini, whose parents had a summer house down there. Every Memorial Day weekend, the students of Upper Darby High School made a mass exodus to Ocean City for three days of carousing to celebrate the advent of summer. Only ninth grade was still junior high–no freshmen at UDHS. So while my brother, a junior, would be heading for the coast, I was not allowed. Then I found out my father would be making one of his rare two week trips over Memorial Day. As soon as he left town, I lied to my mother, saying I’d been invited to a Poconos Mountains cabin with Danny Daugherty’s family. On Friday afternoon I walked out of my school and stuck out my thumb.

More on Ocean City later. (It was truly a Lost Weekend.) When I walked into my house on Monday afternoon, my mother was sitting at the kitchen table with a half empty bottle of sherry in front of her. “How was your weekend in the Poconos?” she asked.

I dove into a litany about foot long fishes caught, hikes taken, campfires lit–when my brother Carl appeared behind her waving cautionary arms. “She knows,” he mouthed to me. “She knows.”

My face fell flat. “Aw, Mom, you know that I went to Ocean City.”

She picked up the sherry bottle and threw it at me. I ducked and it crashed on the wall beside me. “Get out!” she commanded.

I spent the night in the car in our driveway. About 6 a.m., I snuck into the house. Dowanee (my grandmother) was already up. “Oooo, you are in big trouble,” she told me. “She called him last night. He is coming home today, cutting short his trip. He is going to kill you.” (Dowanee lived for this kind of intercession.)

I’m not sure what possessed me at that moment. Fear and dread, certainly, but even more so, the overwhelming certainty that I did not want to be there when he got home. I grabbed my bag, walked to the highway and stuck out my thumb. I think I heard Dowanee cackle as I went out the door.

I went back to Ocean City (the only route my thumb knew). Patti Pellegrini’s parents had already banned me from seeing her, but I had a cute friend named B.J. Struble, whose parents had a summer house in Ocean City. I was on the beach with her when her mom came out to tell me that my dad was on the way to get me.

There is a scene from the movie The End where Burt Reynolds, thinking he has cancer, decides to kill himself by swimming out in the sea. When he gets way out there, he changes his mind and begins negotiating with God to get him back to the shore, making promises of future goodness. They stole that scene from my life.

My father picked me up and we drove home from Ocean City in utter profound silence. I knew I was doomed when we got to the house and no one was there. Not even Dowanee. He directed me downstairs to the recreation room and told me to pull down my pants and kneel against the sofa. He took out a willow switch he had prepared (from my beloved tree!) and he proceeded to beat me, literally raising welts on my ass. He would have lost me forever in that moment, except that when he finished, I turned and saw that he was crying harder than I was.

It didn’t end there. My father only got two weeks’ vacation time a year, so it was precious to him. The plan had been for all of us to take a week long car vacation down the eastern coast when he got back from his Memorial Day trip. My Ocean City fiasco deep-sixed that. My father decided that the rest of the family would take the planned trip while he and I stayed home and painted the house. The whole exterior! I wish I could say that we came to some sort of reconciliation during my week in basic, but the opposite is true. My dad was so pissed off about my reckless behavior, and about having to miss the family vacation, that he barely spoke to me the whole week other than assigning me grunt work.

Our relationship went south after that. In the tenth grade I made the final cut and was on the varsity basketball team. My father pulled me from the team when I made C’s on my report card. I began smoking and drinking. In the summer after tenth grade, I had a car wreck on the fourth of July. There were eight people in the car, and everyone was hurt except me! He banned me from driving for the next year. After my junior year of high school, we moved from Philadelphia to St. Louis. My father refused to let me live with my best friend’s family and finish high school at Upper Darby–he transplanted me to a huge school in Florissant, Missouri.

After I dropped out of the University of Missouri when I was nineteen, I got arrested for possession of marijuana–twice. The second time they put me in a St. Louis prison for two and a half months. That was the last straw for my father. He never came to visit me in jail, and I doubt if he spoke a hundred words to me in the next five years.

I became a Christian when I was twenty-six years old. As evident from above, I was in need of reformation, so my conversion involved a radical transformation for me. I soon realized that I needed to try to repair my relationship with my father.

They had retired to the West Coast by then, and I was living in Columbia, Missouri. So I wrote him a five page letter detailing all the things he had done wrong in raising me. He shouldn’t have kicked me off the basketball team, he should have bonded with me when we painted the house, he should have visited me in prison, blah blah blah. I ended the letter by telling him I forgave him for all these offenses and wanted us to be close. While I still believe my motivation for writing the letter was good, it took hindsight to reveal to me just how arrogant and pious my letter sounded.

I mailed the letter and waited. No response. Almost a year later, my wife and I went out to visit my parents in California. Karen was pregnant with Bethany at the time. After a fabulous crab leg dinner and numerous glasses of wine, I got up the nerve to ask my dad about the letter.

“You know, Dallin, I opened your letter and read it…then I read it again. Then I got up and went to my desk and wrote you a letter telling you all the things you did wrong as a son. And believe me, it was a very long letter. But when I finished the letter I decided I would wait three days–and if I still wanted to mail the letter, I would. After three days I no longer felt the need, and so you never got the letter. And you never will.”

At this point my father looked at me like he never had before. “I will tell you my biggest regret as a father, and it doesn’t apply just to you, but to all of my children. I didn’t hold you, I didn’t put you on my lap, I didn’t hug and kiss–I never expressed all the love that I have for you. And the only excuse I can give is that I didn’t know how–because nobody had ever done it with me.”

At this point my dad was crying and I was crying, and I’m happy to report that we had a vibrant, vital relationship for the last fifteen years of his life.

I always tried to convert my dad to Christianity. I would send him books, like C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity, and we would have discussions. But finally he told me, “Dallin, if you want to convert me, it’s really very simple. All you have to do is convince your mother.”

I never could.

Addendum: I wrote this about ten years ago, for my brother and sisters. The only thing I would add now is that I love my three children with all my heart—and they know it—and I know they love me. I have my dad to thank for that.

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Those were the days…

Back in those days…

Did you have that period in your life when you were on your own and you didn’t have a plan? While it might not be the norm, the norm being college—job—marriage—stability—get your adventure where you can find it, it must be fairly common. Those Days where you were still figuring out where you were going with your life, and not necessarily in a hurry to find out. I have a lot of fond memories from that period—and a lot of regrets…and some shame. I’ll bet that’s a common summation.

I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like had I bypassed those unshackled years? It seems likely I would have accomplished more, helped more—been a better citizen of the planet. But I got something from those years that I desperately needed. While I regret many actions, I don’t regret living through them. What did I get?

That’s when I developed a sense of self. You have to take responsibility for your life. You can’t fall back on family or background or status or any externals. My parents did a good job of teaching us that—I’m not sure how they did it. Even in and out of relationships, I knew I was still learning who I was. Of course, I knew nothing about love back then.

It’s not a cliché—experience is a wonderful teacher. If you have a Those Days period in your life, I bet it was adventurous. (I hitchhiked 50,000 miles in two years—I was having a contest with a fellow adventurer.) One of my favorite Bob Dylan lines: “When you ain’t got nothing’, you got nothin’ to lose.” Without strong attachments, we are more prone to experiment, to venture out, to take chances. That can go either way, but you learn from both directions.

When talking about Those Days, one of my own favorite lines is: “I learned ten times more doing two years on the road than I did during one year of college.” It was like a crash course in people. If you’re not pursuing your life goals, you’re probably pursuing fun or spiritual growth, and both of those involve people. And the road gave me diversity—you encounter all manner of walks of life. I learned that whatever I ended up doing in my life, it needed to involve interacting with people. It takes all kinds to make up a world—I don’t know if there’s a better way to learn that than on the randomness of the road. And then I got to go work in a mental hospital—it was like moving into the honors class.

When reminiscing, it’s hard to avoid the question of sin. If you go by commandments and laws, certainly I sinned more in that period. If you go by choosing what you want instead of what God wants, I did that long after I defected. Alas, I am still fighting that battle. Self-indulgence is a side effect of Those Days—but it’s not the lesson you learn.

I don’t want to glamorize Those Days either. If not for them, I would not have hurt a number of people who deserved better from me. Those Days might have taken a few years off my dad’s life. I would probably not have had to wait until I was 65 to retire. There are consequences for your actions.

Tiptoeing through these memories, I come around full circle. I’m the product of every single one of my experiences. No regrets or puffing up—just grateful that the hand of God has been upon me.

This is a poem I wrote about Those Days:

Hitchhike

I left the university

to pursue my education

on the interstate.

I learned to wait

and be alone.

I began to understand the nature of man.

The gay guy in the Cadillac put his hand on my knee.

The drunk endangered my life.

The southern man barreled down the shoulder until I jumped.

The police chased me off the road.

And I never got a ride with a pretty girl.

But I remember the stars in the desert,

and the whoosh of the semis that staggered me on,

and the mystical messages etched on the signposts.

I could go anywhere

willing to wait.

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Breathe, Part II

Breathing is the clearest channel on which we can apprehend God. Breathe (part I) was on December 6, 2017—it was reassuring to find I am on the same path. Breathing is the most elemental thing we do—even more so than eat or drink or anything else. We take breathing for granted, just like we take God for granted.

George Floyd and Covid-19 have made us starkly aware of the terror of not breathing. All of us have felt the tremor of it at times in our lives. I remember being caught in the undertow of a falls. I could see the sky, and the water was pulling me into darkness, and all I wanted was air and light. That was a brief moment, and it was awful. It’s not even a speck compared to… We all have to take a final breath, but we should make it as easy as we can for one another.

That’s one of the reasons I’m extolling the virtues of breathing. Are you enjoying it? Do you pay any attention? Are you realizing its benefits? Of course, mystics of various stripes have realized this for ages. It’s free. You can do it anywhere in privacy (unless man or mortality takes that away from you). It is healthful—your lungs appreciate the attention. It is calming. No matter the form of anxiety, stop and breathe—it will help. Not cure, just help. I’m not a scientist, but I also believe it clears your thinking. You kind of step back and see a bigger picture. It’s almost indispensable in situations of anger and frustration and hopelessness. The hard part is remembering to do it and sticking with it.

I also think it heightens your spiritual awareness. After all, God breathed in us to get us going. I’ve been doing a breathing exercise to get more in touch. In my Zen youth, I heard of a mantra/koan called the Jesus Prayer. (breathe in) Lord Jesus Christ; (breathe out) have mercy on me. I have no idea who started it—I got it from Franny and Zooey by J D Salinger. I don’t drone on with the prayer…that would be mindless. I go for ten times and then just concentrate on the breathing—then I fall asleep (no joke!) It also works if you’re bored or antsy or uncertain—not the sleep part.

I go back to my first statement: Breathing is the clearest channel on which we can apprehend God. My phone tells me that apprehend means: to understand or perceive. Obviously, understand is out of the question when it comes to God (see Job). But perceive…to me (not using my phone) that means: to get a glimpse of, to see on a deeper level. When I slow down, when I am still, when I check my breathing, my perception increases. I’ll never apprehend God, but I’d like to easier to catch.

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