C. David Belt's Blog, page 16

When Does Romance End?

Recently, I did the unthinkable—I submitted a short story for a romance anthology.  You can stop laughing now.  Seriously.  Listen, if you develop a hernia, don’t blame me.

Of course, my story had a horror twist (which shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone familiar with my work).  And although the story has been accepted and will be published, I was told that I had “broken the rules.”  I was told, “It made me cry,” and “It’s a beautiful epic love story,” but I was also informed, “It’s not romance.”  Apparently, “romance” ends when two people finally come together after some obstacle is overcome.  It ends at the first kiss, the proposal, or the altar.  After that, it’s not “romance.”

I beg to differ.

Last week, we (my wife, my parents, my aunt, and I) watched Walt Disney’s Bon Voyage.  It’s a cute comedy from 1962, starring Fred MacMurray and Jane Wyman (yes, Spock’s original mother, and if you don’t get that reference, you are definitely geek-challenged, you poor, ignorant soul).  The premise of the movie is that after twenty years of marriage, raising three children, Harry and Katie Willard finally get to take a luxury cruise to France.  They had planned to do the cruise early in their marriage, but “life got in the way” (as it so often does).  There are typical (and perhaps predictable) misadventures along the way.  (My favorite concerns Harry, the dad, getting lost in the sewers under Paris while his young son gets to tour the Louvre, which is where Harry wanted to go in the first place, but never gets to go…)  There is also the potential for teen romance for each of the two older children, but ultimately, the story isn’t about the teenagers.  The story is focused on how Harry and Katie (the dad and mom) are still in love.  After twenty years and three kids.  That’s the point of the movie.  It’s about how this middle-aged couple still love each other and are true to each other after all that… life.  In short, it’s about romance.

I love Disney’s The Little Mermaid, and although the direct-to-video sequel, The Little Mermaid 2: Return to the Sea, is largely forgettable, there is a moment at the end that just made the movie for me—the enthusiastic kiss between Ariel and Eric.  A husband and wife who have a teenage daughter, have been married for a decade and a half and still love each other!  What a concept!

Maybe one of the reasons divorce rates are so high is that we expect love, true love, to involve only rushing pulse rates, rapid breathing, and sweaty palms.  (Or to quote one interpretation of Merlin in a fairly terrible movie, “all this hair-pulling and jumping about.”)  But that’s not true love.  True love requires hard work and devotion.  It requires selflessness, not a selfish obsession with how someone else makes you feel.

My parents live with us now, and we are delighted to have them with us.  My father is very active.  He does more physical work around our home than the rest of us combined.  But he is fighting progressive memory loss.  Sometimes, he struggles to remember names and words.  I remember one evening as he lamented how he might soon not be able to remember how to perform a once-simple task.  Tenderly, my mother said, “We’re not there yet, but when that time comes, we’ll figure it out together.”  Now THAT is true love.  Maybe it’s not “romance,” but it is true love.

And in my not-so-humble opinion, true love trumps romance any day of the millennium.

Now having said that, my wife still makes my heart pound, my breath quicken, and my skin tingle.  I miss her when we are apart, and can’t wait to be reunited with her.  And she is still the most beautiful and the sexiest woman to ever grace this Earth.  She’s my lover, my confidant, and my best and truest friend.

And for some unfathomable reason, she likes me too.

Then Again, Sometimes, They are Just Windmills

A couple of years ago, I reported an encounter with a soprano of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and… it didn’t go so well.  It started innocently enough, with her asking me “How are you?”  And I answered innocently enough.  A quick conversation ensued that included me mentioning that I had been selling my LDS horror novels at ComicCon.  Her reaction to the very idea that any good latter-day saint would write horror was… interesting.  Let’s just say, she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

Now fast-forward to last year. I was walking through the underground parking below the Church Headquarters Building and… there she was again.  This sweet soprano was standing in front of a heating grate.  She had her purse sitting on a ledge above the grate and was rummaging around in it.  (Aside note: As a fond and interested observer of the fairer sex, it seems to me that ladies will often spend time rummaging in their purses, searching for some small item or other—searching with the absolute conviction that the elusive mathom MUST be in there.  I, on the other hand, know better than to attempt to find ANYTHING in my wife’s purse.  If the love of my life asks me to get her something from her purse—for example, her keys—I seem to be incapable of finding it.  I have learned it is best to simply hand her purse to her.  You see, I’m terrified that I’ll rearrange something or lose something—like my sanity—in the perplexing kaleidoscopic labyrinth that is my wife’s purse.  Now, after that lengthy non-sequitur, I shall return to my narrative.  But did you notice the cool Tolkienism I worked in there?)  As I approached this charming lady, I did so with both trepidation and amusement. I’m going to ask, “How are you?” I thought.  And hopefully, she won’t snatch up her purse and run away. After all, I’m an LDS horror writer.  That’s as bad as a purse-snatcher, right?  Probably worse. But anyway, here goes…

“Hi,” I said. “How are you?”

She looked up from her purse-questing, turned her head toward me, and did something completely (at least to me) unexpected—she smiled. “I’m fine.  I just love standing here.”

I stopped walking. Not only was she not treating me like a diabolical purse-snatcher, but she was initiating casual conversation.  But as unexpected as that was, I have to admit that I was intrigued by her words.  “You love standing there?  In front of the heating grate?  Because it’s warm?”

She nodded, still smiling pleasantly. “And it smells so good!”

What smells so good? The air coming out of the grate?  That must be it.  “Huh.  I wonder what they’re putting in it?”

She rolled her eyes and let out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, now you’ve gone and ruined it.”  Then she chuckled.

I laughed along with her. “Sorry, but I’m a horror novelist.  It’s part of my job to imagine the sinister in the mundane.  It could make for a good story.”

Her rummagings apparently completed, she turned and walked with me toward the tunnel that leads to the Tabernacle. “A horror novelist?  How very interesting.”

And just like that, I stepped into the Twilight Zone. Don’t you remember the last time we talked? “Actually, I write LDS horror.”

“LDS horror? Wow.  How does that work?”

And we had a very pleasant chat on our way through the mists of the Twilight Zone on our way to rehearsal. And that time, she didn’t run away…

Now, I didn’t actually think there was something sinister coming from the heating grate, not for one second. But my horror-writer’s brain immediately began IMAGINING scenarios.  But that’s all they were.  I didn’t really think there was a terrorist injecting deadly gas into the ventilation system, or that some nefarious, disgruntled church employee was drugging us all with mind-control gas so he could force the leaders of the Church to change the doctrines.  It was just imagination, not reality.  But imagining is a big part of what I do.

Now are there terrorists out there who want to murder people?  Yes, of course.  But I don’t suspect every stranger I meet of being a terrorist.  In fact, unless they DO something or ANNOUNCE their plans to commit mass murder, I don’t suspect anyone of being a terrorist.  Even if they don’t look like me.  I mean, if I were to be afraid of every person with red hair or brown eyes or freckles or pierced ears, I would live in constant fear of imminent, horrifying, and painful death.  But I don’t.

Are there people who would gladly use mind-control gas to force others to their will? Absofraggin’lutely.  But just because I don’t agree with someone or someone believes differently than I do, doesn’t mean I think that person is evil.  I mean, seriously:  I have a beloved son-in-law who thinks Disney World is better than Disney Land, Star Wars is better than Star Trek, and chicken in Mexican food is delicious!  He is so messed up in his head!  Deluded!  And yet, I still love him.  He’s a great guy, and I’m very happy he’s sealed to my daughter.  (Even if he is dead wrong on certain critical, vital issues.)

In Cervantes’ classic novel, Don Quixote tilted at windmills, because they might be giants.  That didn’t mean that the windmills actually were giants.  In fact, as far as can be determined, they were just windmills.  So, other than some slight damage to the windmills and Don Quixote’s own bruises, no damage was done.  (Perhaps the owners of the windmills might take exception to that.)  On the one hand, I applaud Don Quixote’s courage to do what he believed was right, no matter the cost, no matter the ridicule.  “To dream the impossible dream…”  On the other, consider if, instead of windmills, our noble knight of La Mancha had slaughtered human beings, because they might be sorcerers or demons.  Then his noble, glorious quest, no matter his motivations or delusions, would have been evil.  Now, if all he had done was to voice his strong opposition to wizardry and demonic powers, there would have been nothing wrong with that.  People might find it annoying, they might disagree with him, they might argue back—especially if they were innocent of witchcraft and consorting with devils—but Don Quixote’s voicing of his deeply held convictions would not make him evil.  Only an act of evil would do that.

I, like many people, have deeply held convictions.  I am unabashedly LDS.  I oppose gay-marriage, abortion, and the normalization of that which the Lord Himself has condemned.  (I also think that chicken in Mexican food is disgusting, but you’ll have to read “The Sweet Sister” to understand my reasoning on that vital topic.)  I realize that puts me at odds with some people.  However, I have never carried a sign in front of a pro-gay-marriage church, stormed a gay wedding, or stood in front of a Planned Parenthood clinic and shouted, cursed, or thrown blood at the terrified women entering or leaving.  I have boycotted products and companies, but although I may have announced my intentions, I have never attempted to force or shame others into joining me.

In short, all I have done is to express my convictions and tried to live by them.

And in return, I get some variation of the following—often from members of my own faith:

“It’s obvious that you hate gays.”
“Every time you cringe when a gay person touches you, you show your hatred.”
“You hate women.”
“You want women to die.”
“You hate people of color.”

These charges are beyond ludicrous. People who know me see how I treat my friends and loved ones (some of whom are gay and some of whom are—and I know this is going to shock some folks—women) with the utmost love, respect, and affection.  And since when does the color of a person’s skin, the color or shape of their eyes, the texture of their hair, or any other “racial” distinction make any difference at all?  It certainly doesn’t to me.  After all, my dear wife is of English-extraction, and I don’t hold that against her.  She’s perfect the way she is.  (Besides, she’s part Irish, and that’s almost like Scottish, isn’t it?)

The tactic of equating a difference of opinion with hatred is as despicable and as it is cowardly. And it is all too common.  “You disagree with me, therefore you hate me/gays/Tongans/women/polar bears/trees/clean air and water/puppies/kittens/baby sloths.”

Seriously?

It seems this new gospel of tolerance-above-all only applies to people who agree with the popular dogmas of the day. As Jesus said, “But in vain they do worship me, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.” (Matthew 15:9)

And then there’s this chestnut: “I have friends and family members who are gay/Chinese/fans-of-chicken-in-Mexican-food. Don’t you see how hurtful your words are?”  This may also come as a shock…  Perhaps, you should sit down before you proceed further.  Are you sitting down?  Okay, here goes…

So do I.

And guess what? I LOVE them!  And, hopefully, they love me back!

For me, one of the coolest parts of Don Quixote is the idea that he treats a whore like a lady. He loves her (chastely), even if he doesn’t agree with (or even acknowledge) her lifestyle.  He doesn’t—and never would—condone her lifestyle, but he loves her anyway.  And his love is pure.  And his love eventually makes her want to change.  His love and his unswerving devotion to his principles help to redeem her.

Having an opinion or an idea or a deeply held (and hopefully, abided by) belief doesn’t make someone evil. Only an act of evil does that.

If you pre-judge someone, assuming hatred when none exists, isn’t that—dare I say it—prejudicial? Isn’t that the definition of bigotry?

After all, sometimes a windmill is just a windmill.

But, having said all that, Star Trek is still better than Star Wars, and Babylon 5 is better than both!!!

I Sang!

Let’s get right to the elephant in the room: I sang at the inauguration of the 45th president of the United States of America, and there are people who want to murder me and my fellow Choir members because of it.  In a somewhat less extreme response, there are also people who have vowed to never listen to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir even again—even going so far as to say that when they listen to or watch General Conference, they will mute the sound when the Choir sings.  Seriously?  You’re going to listen to the prophet who told us to go, but not to us?  Good luck explaining that one.

Now to put this all into perspective, during the Music and the Spoken Word broadcast this morning, I sat next to a friend of mine, and my friend’s mother had passed away earlier this week.  Needless to say (but I’m gonna say it anyway), this was an emotional broadcast for him (and to a far lesser degree, for me as well).  But he was there, singing Be Still, My Soul.  And my friend was also there with me in Washington, D.C., just days after losing his mother, singing America the Beautiful.  Why?  It’s very simple—because that is what he was asked to do.

You see, when the Choir president says to go and sing, you go and sing.  And just for the record, the First Presidency of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints approved the trip.  That’s right, the prophet of the Lord said to go and sing.  For me, there was no debate, no wringing of hands, no drama.  God asked me to go, and I joyfully, enthusiastically answered the call.

Now, singing at the inauguration was voluntary.  That’s right, nobody was forced to go.  And there are many people, myself included, who have very strong feelings about this past election, the candidates, etc.  I didn’t vote for President Trump (and I didn’t vote for Secretary Clinton either).  I voted for someone else.  But I was one of the first to sign up to go.  Why?  Because God asked me to.  Because I love my country.  Because I revere the principles of the Constitution and the peaceful transition of power.  And because, I love singing in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

However, the Inaugural Committee asked us to limit the number of Choir members to 215, so a lot of folks who signed up to go did not get to participate.  Selection was random.  (They literally pulled our numbers out of a hat.)  I was very grateful when I was informed that my number had been selected.

Many of those who went (myself included) had to take two days off work (i.e., “vacation”) to go.  Many of us (myself included) went in spite of health issues.  Many of us (like my friend) went in spite of family crises.  It was a great privilege to go, but it was also a sacrifice.

We didn’t sing, Hail to the Chief.  We didn’t praise a man.  We sang, America the Beautiful.  We sang to America.  We sang in praise of the American Dream.  We sang, “America!  America!  God shed His grace on thee.”  We sang, “America!  America!  God mend thine every flaw.”  The American Dream is not the American reality.  We are a flawed nation and a flawed people.  But the dream, the ideal, is what we are fighting (and singing) for.  And we must never cease fighting (and singing) for it.

Okay, the elephant in the room has been acknowledged.  (More like it’s been beaten half to death.  Poor elephant.)

As I alluded to above, threats to the Choir were serious and credible.  My poor wife was so worried, she asked me to find all the life insurance documents.  (Not kidding.)  So we were all asked to say nothing about where, when, or how… or even what we were going to sing.  In fact, we were told virtually nothing.  We were told what to pack and when to show up at the airport.  We didn’t know where we were going to stay.  We were asked to turn off the GPS in our phones and not text or post anything to anyone.  We weren’t even allowed to tell our spouses where we were.

However, now that the cloak of secrecy has been removed…

My carpool left for the airport at 3:00 AM on Thursday.  We boarded a charter flight at 6:00 AM.  I must say that Delta flight attendants are the absolute best!  We were treated like first-class (regardless of where we sat).  The food was excellent.  The service was excellent.  (And the movies were free!)  I watched “Batman: The Killing Joke”.  Not bad!  Then I slept (because I hadn’t slept the night before).

Once we arrived and the airport, we boarded one of five buses and were whisked off to the Capitol.  When I say, “whisked,” I mean to say that we left directly from the airport.  I do not mean to imply that we traveled quickly.  Due to traffic, protests, and threats, we took a somewhat roundabout route.  When we arrived, we unloaded from the buses, lined up, and climbed the risers for rehearsal.  We were allowed to take a few pictures during this time.  And we also got to listen to Senator Chuck Schumer rehearse his speech SEVERAL times.

Then we rehearsed.  We were accompanied by the President’s Own Marine Corps Band.  We’ve performed with them before, and they are amazing!  The big problem was that they were BELOW us.  We couldn’t see them, and they couldn’t see us.  It was a challenge to stay together.  But we worked it out.

The weather was a little chilly, but I was very comfortable in just a long-sleeved shirt.  (Yes, I wore pants too.  That should be implied, for crying out loud.  So get your mind out of the gutter before you make yourself sick.)  Others wore jackets.  And hats.  And scarves.  And gloves.  (Come on, folks, it wasn’t that cold.  As my 8th grade English teacher used to say, “On a day like today, the little school children in Siberia go out to play without their sweaters…”)

Then we boarded our buses and were “whisked” off to one the Marriott hotels in the area.  We were served a delicious buffet dinner.  As we ate, we learned about all the logistical miracles that had occurred to get us there less than 4 weeks after receiving the invitation.  One of those miracles was finding hotel rooms for 225 people (215 Choir members, plus directors and staff) in a city where the hotel rooms have been booked for months.  I can testify that many miracles were performed in our behalf.  (Let the doubters and detractors chew on that.)  40 of us (including yours truly) had to stay at a different Marriott.  So after dinner, the few, the proud, the weary were “whisked” off to our hotel.

After about 4 hours of sleep, I arose at 4:00 AM (after waking at 3:00 AM and not being able to get back to sleep).  We boarded our bus at 5:15.  Then it was breakfast at the other Marriott, announcements, and a bus ride through the dark to the Russell Senate Office Building (next to the Capitol).  We dressed in our nifty white coats, and were processed through security.  We had been told that we would not have access to bathrooms for 4 hours, so we needed to avoid drinking anything prior to going to the Capitol.  Almost immediately after we were reminded to avoid consuming liquids, we were provided with juice and water.

And we waited and waffled between hydration and cautionary bathroom trips.

Then we marched over to the Capitol and took our places on the bleachers.  (We were informed that it took a month to assemble said bleachers.)  And we waited some more.  I was very comfortable in my coat and scarf.  Others wore jackets AND sweaters under the coat.  I guess I’m just hot.  (I didn’t mean it that way!  Try not to barf on your keyboard.)

We had to stand for a very long time while everyone and their escorts (and their dogs) were introduced.  That wasn’t fun, but the members of the President’s Own Marine Corp Band who played trumpets and drums, acting as heralds, stood at attention for hours.  It made my knees ache (well, ache more) just to look at them.

I saw the great men and women of our government as they filed in and sat below us.  I saw Bill and Hillary Clinton.  (Well, I saw their hair, mostly, from up above.)  I saw the justices of the Supreme Court.  I saw the senators and congressmen and congresswomen.  I saw President and First Lady Obama.  And of course, I saw President and First Lady Trump.  And the thing that impressed me the most was how small and ordinary they all looked.  I mean, when it began to rain a little, the men and women of the House and Senate pulled out plastic rain ponchos and put them on.  Just like ordinary folks.  (I bet they even put their pants on one leg at a time just like me.)

They wield great power, but that power comes from us.  They and we need to remember that, and we need to hold them accountable.

To tell the truth, the people who impressed me the most were the two apostles of the Lord Jesus Christ who were in attendance.

During the actual ceremony, we got to hear Senator Schumer’s talk once more.  I was shocked when the crowd booed him.  I realize that the crowd was mostly a Trump crowd and that this is America and we have the right to protest.  I didn’t like parts of the senator’s speech, but it never occurred to me to jeer at him.  To be perfectly honest, this was the low point of the trip for me.  I actually liked parts of what he said and I was saddened to hear my fellow countrymen be, well, rude.

Then the Vice President took the oath of office.  I was impressed with how similar this oath was to the oath which I took when I was commissioned as an officer in the United States Air Force.

Then we sang.  I think we sang well.  I was told by many people that we sang beautifully.  I am humbled and grateful for that experience and opportunity.  We sang in praise of the American Dream and we begged God to shed His grace on us, to mend us, to refine us, and crown us with brotherhood.  I sang not for my glory.  We sang not for our glory.  We sang not for President Trump.  We sang for the glory of God.

And then we listened to the new President as he addressed the nation and the world.  I agreed with many parts of his speech, with the caveat that I sincerely hoped he meant what he said.  There were parts I didn’t agree with.  It never occurred to me to boo.

In the crowd, I observed about eight people who held up a banner saying, “RESIST.”  Resist what?  Constitutional government?

And as far as the size of the crowd, from where I sat, the crowd went all the way back to the Washington Monument.

We didn’t see the violent protests taking place elsewhere in the city.  Protesters broke windows and looted businesses.  Way to make a statement, folks.  You hurt ordinary people.

However, I didn’t see any of that.  I had a great experience, and while we sang, I felt the Spirit of God.  I know that somewhere, someone watching their television wondered, “What is that?  Why does this feel different?”  We sang for them too.

After the ceremony, once the important people (who looked just like ordinary folks from my vantage point) were safely away, we were allowed to descend from the scaffolding and walk back to the Senate Office building.  Shortly after that, we were “whisked” away to the airport.  And once again, we were treated to the fantastic service of Delta flight attendants and pilots.  I watched “Florence Foster Jenkins” on the way home.  I highly recommend the movie.  I arrived home shortly after 10:00 PM.

It was a quick and exhausting trip, and I’m so grateful I was able to take part in it.  And I am very grateful to be home with my lovely Cindy and my mom and dad and my aunt.

America isn’t perfect.  But the American Dream is worth fighting for.  It’s also worth living for.  It’s worth voting for.  I wish our new president well.  I will support him where I can and oppose him where I must, just like I did with the last president.  I will pray for him and for our great, imperfect nation.  I thank my Heavenly Father for the liberty He gives us.  May we cherish that liberty and exercise it wisely.  May we faithfully serve the God of this land, even Jesus Christ.

And may God bless America the beautiful.

Medieval Weapons 101 – ONLINE!!!

My weapons class which I call “Swords and Spears and Axes, Oh My!” or “Medieval Weapons 101” is now available online!  You can’t actually handle the weapons online, but… you can take the class for free!  Go to my unwillingchild.com website and click on the “About the Author” link. (Notice my fiendish plan to get you to visit the website first? Heh-heh-heh!  Actually, don’t notice that.  Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!) Then click on “History of Weapons” to enroll.

Did I mention it’s free?

Enjoy!  (But don’t enjoy so much that you don’t come to my classes at renaissance fairs and writers conferences…  At least there you’ll get to handle the weapons and ask questions.  However, you could always ask questions via email, my blog, and facebook.  Stop that!  You’re telling them too much!)

My Offering and “Carol of the Drum”

It’s a ridiculous scenario, really—Mary has just given birth to her first Child and some little twerp wants to beat a drum and wake her sleeping Baby.  I mean, seriously?  Even as a dad (well, foster/stepdad in Joseph’s case), I can’t imagine saying, “Yeah, sure, kid.  Give us a drum solo.”

But I love this song.  In fact, I can’t quite get through it due to all the emotions it stirs in me.

Come, they told me, pa-rum pum pum pum,

Our newborn King to see, pa-rum pum pum pum.

Our finest gifts we bring, pa-rum pum pum pum,

To lay before the King, pa-rum pum pum pum,

Rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.

So to honor Him, pa-rum pum pum pum,

When we come.

 

Little Jesu, pa-rum pum pum pum,

I am a poor boy too, pa-rum pum pum pum.

I have no gift to bring, pa-rum pum pum pum,

That’s fit to give our King, pa-rum pum pum pum,

Rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.

Shall I play for you, pa-rum pum pum pum,

On my drum?

 

Mary nodded, pa-rum pum pum pum.

The ox and ass kept time, pa-rum pum pum pum.

I played my drum for Him, pa-rum pum pum pum.

I played my best for Him, pa-rum pum pum pum,

Rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.

Then He smiled at me, pa-rum pum pum pum,

Me and my drum.

 

But let’s be fair, shall we?  This never really happened.  There was no boy with a drum at the stable, playing at the manger-bed of the newborn King.  The magi or “wise men” from the east didn’t arrive for some time (months to years after the birth of the Son of God) and they didn’t go to the stable; they visited the Child in a “house.”  And so, contrary to what the song says, no “ox and ass” kept time.  And anyone who has held a newborn baby can tell you that the odds of him smiling are astronomically remote.

So, it never really happened.

Or perhaps it has happened countless times.

As a young missionary in South Korea, we had worked with a particular man for several weeks.  We had gone through all the discussions.  He believed, he’d been to church, but he had a weakness for the “night butterflies” (a.k.a. prostitutes).  We realized that he either was going to repent and move forward, or he wasn’t (at least at that time).  So one morning, as my companion and I prayed before we went to see him, we felt the warm assurance of the Spirit.  We hurried over to meet our appointment, feeling great joy that another brother would join us at last.

But when we arrived, our investigator was not at home.  His wife informed us that he was “at the market.”  Since men did not do the shopping, this could only mean one thing.  And his wife knew exactly what that was, and so did we.  Sadly, out friend had made his choice.

My companion and I went about the rest of our day feeling very dejected.  What about the answer we’d received that morning?  The warm assurance of the Spirit?  How could it have turned out that way?

That night, as we knelt in prayer, the answer came.  The words were as clear as if we’d both heard them with our physical ears, though we had not.

“Your offering is accepted.”

Our efforts had been imperfect, and the results were not what we had hoped for.  But as is so often the case in mortal life, what we had placed on the altar was acceptable to the Lord.

That is why I love “Carol of the Drum” and why I can’t quite get through it.  I can imagine myself as a boy, poor, unkempt, dressed in rags, and without a proper gift for the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, even the Son of God.  So I offer Him all that I have—my best, imperfect drum solo—devoid of words, harmony, or even a tune—just an imperfect rhythm—the most inappropriate gift imaginable for a newborn Child.

But then… He smiles at me… me and my drum.

Another Fantastic Review of The Sweet Sister!

Here is a review by Kayla: http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1732589743

Forgetting Who We Are

I love Disneyland.  I also love Disney World.  But of the two resorts, I think Disneyland by far delivers the better “bang for the buck.”  I have a whole host of reasons for my preference, and if you ask me, I’ll be happy to inundate you with them.  I have a son-in-law who prefers Disney World to Disneyland.  I think the world of him (no pun intended—not really), but I don’t agree with him.  In fact, I strongly disagree with him.  But even though we differ STRONGLY on this extremely VITAL issue, we can discuss it without coming to blows.  (Shooting NERF darts at each other is still perfectly acceptable.  Take that, you silly Disney World preferrer/English kuh-nig-get!)

While on one of my MANY pilgrimages to Disneyland, we rode on the Silly Symphony Swings (ne Orange Zinger) at Disney’s California Adventure.  It’s not a popular attraction.  In fact, on that occasion, we were the ONLY riders.  As soon as we were securely in our swings, a cast member approached me.  I thought he was coming to check on my safety bar—and perhaps that was one of his purposes—but the most important reason surprised me.

“Who is the best captain?”

Now, I am a pretty perceptive guy—stop laughing, Cindy—seriously, quit it—you’ll strain something—but I stared at the cast member as if I were Donald Duck in Mathemagic Land and he were a quadratic equation.  Apparently sensing my incomprehension, he pointed to my t-shirt.  The shirt in question had an image of Mr. Spock making Vulcan salutes with both hands and a caption which read, “Trek yourself before you wreck yourself.”

And understanding unfolded in my mind like Chernobog awaking on Bald Mountain.  (Okay, that image is a little dark, but I’m a horror writer after all, and I’m trying to stick to Disney references… for the moment…)  So I responded, “Kirk.  Although, lately, I am leaning a bit toward Archer.”  (Remember, this was a Star Trek question, not a Disney question.)

He smiled.  “Good answer.”  Then he handed me a fistful of Fastpasses for any ride in either park.

As the ride started up, I thought to myself, Good thing he wasn’t a Picard fan.

However, even if he had been a fan of Captain Jean-Luc Picard from Star Trek: The Next Generation, and I had known him to be so pathetically deluded, I would not have changed my answer—not even for Fastpasses.

Captain James T. Kirk is FAR superior to Picard—for a host of reasons that I won’t go into right now.  And perhaps, Jonathan Archer may be superior to both.  (Benjamin Lafayette Sisko and Kathryn Janeway don’t even RATE in this particular discussion, and if you don’t get those references, you are most definitely geek-challenged, and I pity you.)  Let it suffice to say that I have my reasons, my own deeply held beliefs on this matter.  And if you are of a different (i.e., WRONG) persuasion on this essential point, I will enthusiastically debate with you if you like.  I doubt I will convince you, and you will NOT convince me, but I’m certain there are good points to be made on either side.

Now, if you want to debate on Kirk vs. Archer, there is a possibility of me changing my mind, because my views on this life-altering topic have matured over the decades.  (But you will never turn me to the Picard-side.  Ooh, that almost sounds like a Star Wars reference…) Now, if you want to compare Kirk or Archer to Captain John J. Sheridan, well that is a debate for another time (and Sheridan wins hands-down).

And if we were to get into such a debate, I would not resort to name-calling or accusations of lying or spreading false or misleading information.  I would not call you a traitor or an immoral person.  I wouldn’t call you hateful or bigoted.  I would not accuse you of aiding or even unintentionally abetting the destruction of the universe.  I would recognize that you simply have a different opinion (however delusional it might be), and we can and should still be friends.  Why then, when it comes to politics, do otherwise loving, Christian people, resort to name-calling and nasty accusations?  I have been accused of ALL the above and worse.

Why? Because I have a different opinion?  Please.  If you don’t know my character, who are you to sit in judgement on me?  If you DO know my character, why am I suddenly such an odious villain?  Why do you accuse me of things that should get me kicked out of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and have me tried for my membership in the Church?  (Think I’m being dramatic?  I’m not.  Not all such accusations are made in public.)

Oh, but the question of best starship captain pales in comparison to the future of our country.  I get it.  You have your reasons for supporting your candidate.  SO DO I.  You are passionate about your reasons for supporting your chosen candidate.  SO AM I.  And my reasons are probably very similar to yours in many, many ways.  However, I see a different path to saving our beloved country.

I laid my life on the line many, many times to protect this nation that I love so dearly.  I would die to save her and to protect the Constitutional principles I so passionately espouse.  I believe we stand on a very dangerous precipice and I refuse to go over that cliff with anyone else.   But that is my dearly, strongly, zealously held opinion.  I am as much entitled to my opinion as you are to yours.  I will fight and die for your right to vehemently disagree with me.

So, please, stop with the very personal attacks on my character and on the character of those who disagree with you.  It seems as if some people put on a digital mask of semi-anonymity and allow their personal Mr. Hyde to emerge when they are online, saying things they would never say in church or to my face.  And if you are of the same persuasion as I, be doubly sure you do not return in kind.  Don’t return railing for railing.  Turn the other cheek.  Go with him twain.  Stand firm in your principles, but don’t resort to the very tactics you despise.  As Pogo said, “We have met the enemy, and he is us.”

So just for the record, I am not a liar, a gossip-monger, a traitor, or an immoral person.  I am not hateful.  I am not bigoted.  I seek the preservation of the Constitution and our beloved country as much as you do.  And YOU probably KNOW that already.  Election season (or any debate about any issue) is not an excuse to forget who we are and He whom we are all striving to emulate, each in our own imperfect way.

So even if I disagree with you, I still love you and respect you.

Even if you have gone over to the Picard-side.

And so I say, God bless America, because He is not done with us yet.

Notoriously Nasty Terrible Trinity Knot

There is a great (or at least memorable… well, at least funny… well, maybe you had to have been there…) line from “Monty Python and the Holy Grail”—“And there was much rejoicing.”  (And if you get that reference, I’m happy for you!  If you do not get that reference, you really need to go back and study the classics…)

Well, yesterday morning at 6:35-ish a.m., we had a somewhat parallel scenario unfolding in the men’s wardrobe room of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  Only instead of “much rejoicing,” there was “much lamenting.”  On top of learning (and in many cases, memorizing) more than twenty pieces of music for General Conference weekend, we had to show up extra, extra early on Sunday morning so that we could tie the dreaded “Trinity Knot.”

I am reasonably certain that there is an extremely cold place in Outer Darkness reserved for the inventor of this sordidly sickening and sadistic malevolent malfeasance of masculine fashion.  I’m certain it was a nefarious part of some dastardly plot to ensure that every single bass and tenor in the Choir arrived extra, extra, extra (did I mention that it was extra, extra?) early on an already extra early Sunday morning, only to then arrive late or almost late to the Conference Center Choir loft because we had to spend extra, extra, extra, extra time tying or repeatedly attempting to tie the terrible trinity knot.

I, however, was wiser than most of the other men.  Yes, I took the tie home with me, so I could tie the fiendishly foul knot while riding to Salt Lake City in our carpool.  That way, I could arrive at Choir ready to simply don the required suit and head over to the loft for a lovely conference experience.  I congratulated myself on my foresight and intelligence.  Ha-ha, suckers! I thought to myself.  Look at how smart I am!  And armed with a sheet of printed, pernicious perfidy, detailing how to tie the treacherous trinity, I sat in the passenger seat of the carpool and tied the knot.  And tied.  And tied.  And retied.

After about four attempts, I at last succeeded.  Victory was mine!  I closed my eyes and happily slept the remainder of the ride to Temple Square.

Then we arrived and I got out of the car.  And I realized, to my horror, that the tie was too long!  And I mean, we’re not talking about a few inches too long.  This was not something that could be covered up with a buttoned coat or by tucking the end of the tie into my trousers.  No, the tie was too long by nearly a foot.

Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch, Batman!  Wisdom wasted!

So, after all my approximately perfect preparations, I tromped off to the wardrobe room and spent the next twenty-five minutes tying and retying the nasty knot.  Sometimes it was too long, sometimes it was too short.  But it took at least fifteen attempts to get it reasonably right.

Other men (although not all—and I suspect most of them were tenors…) were also quietly (or not so quietly) cursing (in a very MORMON way) the ridiculously recalcitrant knot.  “Why, oh, why?” we moaned. “Today of all days?”

Ah, well, after “much whining” and “much moaning,” Robin’s minstrels were finally— Well, you either get the reference or you don’t.  (And if you don’t, I pity you for a culturally unprivileged clod.)

But after conquering the terrible trinity (no theological reference there, please), we sat in the loft.  And we had a glorious conference experience (in spite of the trinity knot).

And if the notorious knot is the price I have to pay to be there, to be a part of that magnificent choir, singing at the feet of the prophet and apostles of the Lord Jesus Christ, I will gladly pay it.  I will pay it every single time.  Maybe someday, it will get easier, but even if it does not, I will still gladly tie terrible trinities to sing in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  I know there are many—so many—who would be humbly grateful to have the opportunity to take my place.

So I’m grateful for the chance to tackle the trinity.

Perhaps, there is a parallel to being a part of the Church.  I may not understand everything I’m asked to do, I may even find it difficult and painful, but I will pay that price.  No price is too great to be enfolded in my Savior’s grace.  He paid the price for me.  He didn’t want to pay it.  He asked the Father to take away His cup of suffering.  But He paid that price.  For me.  Personally.

That’s worth tying a Gordian knot or two.  Or twenty.  And if you don’t get that reference…

Lies, Red Herrings, and the Honest Weaving of Tales

How’s this for a real-life horror story:

Long ago—sometime after dinosaurs roamed the earth, but not THAT long after—I wanted very badly to watch Rudolf the Red-Nose Reindeer.  Okay, that’s not the scary part.  Here it comes… wait for it… there were no such things as Netflix, on-demand cable, YouTube, Blu-Rays, DVDs, or even… VCRs!!!  Are you scared yet?  Wait.  It gets even scarier.  Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the stop-motion animated classic (which many of your children or even perhaps you, yourself, have never seen) was only broadcast once a year!  And if you didn’t watch it when it was broadcast, you missed it.  There was no DVR, no instant rewind, no way to watch Rudolph once the moment had passed!

Imagine if Star Wars, Episode 7, The Force Awakens were only shown once EVER (or at least only once that year) and if you didn’t see it that very night, you would never see it (at least not that year).

Oh, the horror!

Well, when I was eleven, missing Rudolph was a terrifying prospect.  And one December evening, on the very night when Rudolph, Hermey (the elf who would be a dentist), Yukon Cornelius, and the Abominable Snowman (a.k.a. “Bumble”) were to sing and dance and otherwise cavort on television, my parents had devised the heinous plot to… wait for it… do our laundry!  That’s right, children—instead of listening to the voice talents of (among others) Burl Ives as Sam the Snowman, I had to go to the laundromat with my family and sort and fold clothes.  (Yes, dear readers, it’s true.  Once upon a time, people—or most people, at least—didn’t have washers and dryers in their homes.  Terrifying, but true.)  How could my mom and dad do such a thing?  What a nefarious plot!  What a negligent oversight!  What a crime against children everywhere!  I had, of course, seen Rudolph every year since 1964, but what about—dare I ask—1971?  How could they even dream of depriving me of the Red-Nosed One in 1971???

I was involved in a Christmas play that year (as I recall, I was portraying Balthazar), and I had been to play practice that evening.  But even the play director had the good sense to end practice early so we could get home to watch Rudolph.  (Not kidding.)  So as I walked home, that evening, I realized to my horror that I would arrive home BEFORE my family left for the laundromat.  In other words, I would have to go with them and miss Rudolph!  What was I to do?

Well, there was, of course, only one thing to do.  Being the clever child I was, I concocted a brilliant, foolproof, and devious scheme… As far as my mom and dad knew, I wasn’t going to be home in time for laundry.  So, I decided to hide in the bushes outside our apartment and wait until the family had departed on their Bataan Death March to the Rudolph-less Dread Dungeon of Dryers.  Then I would sneak upstairs, plant myself in front of our twelve-inch, portable, black-and-white television, and revel in the musical splendor of “Silver and Gold” and “The Island of Misfit Toys.”

The only problem with brilliant, foolproof, and devious scheme—well, perhaps not the ONLY problem—was that I was discovered skulking in the bushes.  And needless to say, my parents were very disappointed—not because I had shirked my family duties, but because I had been deceptive.  You see, being one person short while slaving over laundry would have unfairly increased the workload on everyone else, but that was nothing compared to my dishonestly.  Whether I spoke a lie out loud or not, I was lying.

I believe in the Atonement.  I know I have been forgiven for this youthful act of treachery and deception, but (obviously) I still remember it.  I doubt my parents remember it, but I certainly do.  I take great pains to be clear, concise, and honest with everyone.

So perhaps that is why I think there is a special place in Hell for those who unrepentantly “practice to deceive.”

When I receive a phone call from someone (speaking in a barely decipherable accent) claiming to be from Microsoft support or the IRS, I feel like screaming into the phone.  (I did laugh at one woman claiming to be from the IRS, and she promptly hung up the phone.  Imagine that!)  There must be somebody who is taken in by these vultures, otherwise they wouldn’t bother to frighten people into allowing them access to a computer or a bank account.  In fact, it must quite lucrative for some of these cretins.

Then there are the emails.  I receive more than fifty emails per day from vermin claiming to represent MetLife, Burger King, Finger Hut, etc.  I’m not even going to mention the emails that advertise women and other products aimed to ensnare lonely, desperate men and boys.   The effort that goes into bypassing spam and porn filters is mind-boggling.  No, scratch that.  I DO understand it.  There is so much money to be made in bilking the gullible, the fearful, the lonely, and the desperate.

And you can’t really opt out.  Once the rats discover that your email address is viable (because you clicked on an “unsubscribe” link) your email address will be sold and distributed to the thousands of other digital vipers.

A particularly nasty place in Hell…

So, how does this relate to writing?

Have you ever read a novel, get to the end, and realize that the author cheated?  I’m not talking about red herrings—real life is full of red herrings and distractions.  I’m talking deliberate deception, when the author does NOT give you enough clues to solve the mystery—when you, as the reader, get to the “big reveal” and say, “No way.  That can’t be right.  What about the scene where…”  And you, as the reader, turn back and reread the scene in question, and you say, “Nope.  It says right here that…”  And the end result?  The author has broken your trust.  You probably won’t read anything else by that author.

Now, if you say, “No way,” and you go back and reread the scene in question and you recognize the clues the author gave you… Now that is a really cool reading experience.  You’ll finish the book and determine to reread it so you can spot all the clues.

My wife and I recently enjoyed watching all three seasons of “Granite Flats.”  Now that we’ve experienced the “big reveal,” we’re anxious to re-watch it with my parents so we can revel in spotting the clues while my hapless folks miss seeing them.  “Ha-ha!  Isn’t it obvious?” we’ll think, enjoying the same story from a new perspective.

One of the most important pieces of advice that I give to prospective authors is, “Be honest.  And never cheat.”  Your work (and the reader’s experience) will be the richer for it.

An extremely gratifying compliment I received from an anonymous Amazon reviewer for my latest release, “The Sweet Sister,” said, “The twists in the story also gave me food for thought for a few days after I finished it. I probably thought about the book for longer than it took me to read it.”

So, bottom line?  Be honest, and never, never cheat.  Let there be mystery.  Let there be magic and wonder.  But never cheat.  You might sell one book, but you won’t sell two to the same reader.

 

The Sweet Sister – Official Whitney Award Nominee!

The Sweet Sister has received enough nominations to be named an official nominee for a Whitney Award for 2016!  Thank you to all who sent in nominations!

We do the dance of joy!

And then… we wait.

Finalists will be announced in February.