C. David Belt's Blog, page 27

No Petty Evils

“You a Mormon, boy?”  The high school history teacher, gray-haired and plump, sat at her desk, staring at me with intent, predatory eyes. 

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.  My formal choice of words belied the outrage roiling in my gut. 

She smiled, showing a mouthful of false teeth.  “Oh, you get an F in my class”—her smile widened—“for the entire year.”  She waived dismissively at me.  “Now sit down and shut up.” 

I gathered my books and left the classroom. 

My family had just moved to the small southeastern Missouri town, and it was my first day of school.  It was not an auspicious beginning for my junior year. 

After leaving the classroom, I went straight to the principal’s office.  He wasn’t in, but the vice-principal agreed to speak with me.  I related what had happened. 

“Mrs. [name-redacted] was telling the class about all the contributions her ancestors have made to the history of America.  One of them fought in the Revolution.  Another fought in the War of 1812.  Then she boasted…boasted about how her great-grandpappy shot four Mormons at the Battle of Haun’s Mill.  The ‘Battle!’  She’s talking about the Haun’s Mill Massacre!”

Brief historical note: On October 30th, 1838, a mob of 250 Missourians attacked the small Mormon settlement of Haun’s Mill which consisted of about 30 families.  Alerted to the approach of the mob, many of the women and children fled to the woods.  One of the Mormon men, seventy-eight-year-old Thomas McBride (a Revolutionary War veteran), surrendered.  He was then shot and hacked apart.  The other Mormon men and some of the boys sought refuge in the blacksmith’s shop.  The mobbers pushed the barrels of their rifles and muskets between logs of the walls and fired about a hundred rounds into the shop.  They then dragged the dead and wounded out and shot the survivors.  One of the mobbers, William Reynolds, dragged ten-year-old Sardius Smith from the shop and then shot him in the head, killing the boy.  Reynolds later justified this murder by saying, “Nits will make lice, and if he had lived he would have become a Mormon.”  The mobbers then mutilated the bodies of the slain and threw them down a well.  They urinated on the corpses of their victims.  In all, 17 Mormons were killed, 13 were wounded, several women and girls were raped, and the houses were robbed, wagons were stolen, and the livestock was driven off, leaving the surviving women and children to starve.  Not a single member of the mob was ever prosecuted.  Some are still remembered as heroes of the “Mormon War” or the “Trouble Up North”. 

I’m not kidding. 

This is what the history teacher was proud of. 

“So,” I continued to the vice-principal, “I asked her if she was talking about the Haun’s Mill Massacre, and she asked, ‘You a Mormon, boy?  Oh, you get an F in my class for the entire year.’”

“Well,” said the vice-principal, “let’s get you transferred to another class, shall we?” 

Transferred? I thought.  Is he kidding?  I was indignant.  “No!  I want her fired!  It’s not right!  I want you to do something!” 

The vice-principal smiled and said, “Listen, son.  Last year, she could’ve had you expelled, just for being Mormon.  Heck, technically, it was still legal to shoot you boys.  So,”—he patted me on the back as if he were my best friend in the world, and not someone enabling evil—“we’re gonna go ahead and transfer you to another class, and that’s the best you’re gonna get.  Understand?” 

Brief historical note: The vice-principal was making a reference to Missouri Executive Order #44, otherwise known as the “Extermination Order”, issued by Governor Lilburn Boggs in 1838.  The infamous order, which called for the Mormons to be driven from the state or exterminated, was rescinded by Missouri Governor Kitt Bond in the summer of 1976.  Gov. Bond declared that the order was unconstitutional.  Really?  Legalized slaughter of a group of citizens of the United States simply because of their religion?  Unconstitutional?  Imagine that. 

And it only took 138 years.    

My run-in with the history teacher was in the fall of 1976, and even today it boggles my mind.  I can’t understand how anyone can twist their thinking enough to glorify murder and rape. 

And both the teacher and the vice-principle were regular church-going folk who claimed to be Christian.  Certainly more Christian than the Mormons. 

Last year I was asked to resign from my Missouri high school alumni facebook page when I linked to my blog post about my involvement in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and a heart-warming incident involving a young man with special needs.  Here’s a link to the offending post: http://unwillingchild.wordpress.com/2013/04/08/something-very-cool/  I could see nothing offensive about the story, but I nevertheless deleted the link and resigned.  I did ask the page moderator if I the problem was due to the fact that I was a member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. 

I have received no response.  Perhaps old hatreds die hard.  Or perhaps, having achieved his goal, he saw no further need to waste electrons on me.

Several years ago, we lived next door to a wonderful lady in Mead, WA.  Bonnie was a widow who had some health problems.  It was a joy to shovel her walk and driveway, cut up and remove a fallen tree on her property, fix items her home, and help her in any way that we could.  It was also a great opportunity to teach my son about the joy of service.  Bonnie was a faithful member of the Episcopal Church.  One Sunday, her priest was teaching a Sunday school lesson about “the Mormons”.  Some the things the priest said were blatantly false and defamatory.  I wasn’t there, but I was told that Bonnie stood up and said, “I live next door to a Mormon family, and they are nothing like that.  They are Christians.”  Bonnie’s involvement in her church was very important to her.  I’m sure it took great courage to stand up to her priest, especially on that particular issue.  We would never have known about the incident if she had simply remained silent. 

Thank you, Bonnie, for your courage. 

President Barack Obama is not very popular here in Utah.  When he was running for president years ago, many tried to say he wasn’t born a citizen of the United States of America and was therefore ineligible to be president.  They conveniently ignored the fact that his mother was a citizen and the state of Hawaii confirmed that he was born in the U.S.A.  I’m not a fan of the current president by any stretch of the imagination (in fact, quite the opposite), but I am deeply offended when someone spreads lies and innuendo just to make political hay, especially if they are members of my faith.  So to all the “birthers” out there, how do you sleep at night?  The same thing goes to those who try to claim that he’s a Muslim.  I may not agree with his Liberation Theology, but his brand of “Christianity” is definitely not Islam.  If the only way you can win on the “Battlefield of Ideas” is to be dishonest or to spread unfounded rumor, you undermine the credibility of your legitimate arguments and you simply don’t deserve to win.

How do any of us justify gossiping or telling half-truths and outright lies to advance an agenda or make a point?  It doesn’t matter if we are talking about religion or politics or Hollywood celebrities or your annoying neighbor or coworker.   You may not consider me a Christian because I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, but how can you justify lying to prove your own “Christian” superiority.  How can any member of my faith justify saying anything other than the whole truth, regardless of the circumstance?  How in the world could that make you morally superior? 

The Savior said, “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”  How can any Christian, LDS or otherwise, justify petty evil?  Do you flip off another driver who is discourteous, or do you use profanity in the privacy of your car to express your displeasure?  How do you justify that?  Would you like your children or parents to see you do that?  Do you see someone who is suffering, even if that suffering is possibly self-inflicted, and then turn aside like the Levite and the priest in the parable of the Good Samaritan?  Do you pass judgment without all the facts?

In short, do the ends ever justify the means? 

Ask yourself, what would the Savior do?  Would He lie or allow unfounded gossip to stand?  Did He allow guilty men to stone the woman taken in adultery?  No, He said, “Go and sin no more.”  Would He flip off a driver who cut Him off, or would He say, “Father, forgive him.”  Remember, that Jesus healed the ear of the man who came to arrest Him. 

There are no petty evils.  There is only good and evil.  And I’m sorry, but there are no true “gray areas.” 

And we are never justified in doing evil in the name of good. 

Even If You’re Not a Seahawks Fan…

I am and will always be a Seahawks fan.  And it has nothing to do with the fact that the Seahawks won their very first Super Bowl yesterday.  And even if you’re not a football fan, please keep reading. 

In late 1985, my family and I arrived at Fairchild AFB for my first duty assignment as a new B-52 pilot.  At that time the tails of the aircraft of the 325th Bombardment Wing sported the Hallmark crown logo and the motto, “When you care to send the very best”.  I thought at the time that it was an exceptionally lame logo to display on a combat aircraft as magnificent as the B-52.  However, that was the logo we had, and I was as proud as an eagle among chickens to be flying that awesome aircraft in the defense of liberty at the height of the Cold War.  

Within a few months of my arrival, however, the Hallmark Corporation decided it was no longer cool to support the military.  They sued the Air Force and demanded that we remove their beloved, girly logo and motto from our aircraft.  You see, they no longer wanted the free advertising and good will that comes with the display of their precious crown, especially if it meant that someone might think of them as patriotic or somehow associated with the brave men and women who risk their lives daily to defend our freedoms.  (Shortly before I arrived, Fairchild AFB lost a B-52 and two members of her crew in a crash during a low-level—meaning “low altitude”—training mission in mountainous terrain at night.)  So the tails of our aircraft were all painted over so we would no longer sully the good name of Hallmark. 

At the time, I remember thinking, “Good riddance.  Don’t let the door hit you in the tail fins on the way out.” 

Then someone at the Nordstrom family—the owners of the Seattle Seahawks at the time—said (and although I wasn’t a witness to the actual conversation, I’m absolutely certain I’ve got the EXACT WORDING), “Well, gee, would you like to use the SEAHAWKS logo?  You can have it for free and we’ll put it writing so you can use it in perpetuity.”  (Sidebar, your honor?  I get it: enlightened self-interest, free advertising, yada, yada, yada.  It was still a cool thing to do.)  And officials at FAFB said (and once again, I’m sure that this was the EXACT WORDING), “Um… we don’t know.  Let us do a focus group and commission a multi-million dollar study…  I mean, we used to have a tiara and… Are you kidding?  HECK, YEAH!!!!” 

And you have to admit, it is an awesome logo.  And it looked great on the tails of our B-52s!

So even if Salt Lake City were to get its own NFL team—unless, of course, it’s the Seahawks—the Seahawks will ALWAYS be my team.  And it has NOTHING to do with football. 

And yes, it was a GLORIOUS day in the Belt household yesterday.  BEST SUPER BOWL OF ALL TIME!!! 

Failure is Not an Option

Shortly before I began USAF Undergraduate Pilot Training at Columbus AFB in Columbus, MS, that base experienced one of the greatest tragedies in the history of that pilot training squadron: a four-ship collision between four T-38 jet trainers performing formation maneuvers.  Of the six men onboard the four aircraft, five were killed instantly.  Only one man, a student pilot, managed to eject. 

After ejection, his parachute was supposed to open automatically.  It did not. 

He pulled the D-ring to manually deploy the chute.  Although the chute deployed, it became tangled in its own lines.  The parachute didn’t fully inflate.  It formed what is termed a “Mae West”.  (If you don’t understand the reference, let’s just say that Mae West was a rather buxom movie star in the early era of talking motion pictures.)  In other words, the chute wasn’t going to slow the pilot’s descent enough to save his life. 

As USAF aviators, we were trained that, in this situation, we were to use the hook knife in our G-suit to cut up to four of our parachute lines in an attempt to untangle a parachute.  The student pilot did so.  One at a time, he cut the maximum of four parachute cords.  However, this didn’t solve the problem.  The chute didn’t inflate and he was still dropping toward a fatal collision with the ground. 

He tugged and pulled at the remaining parachute lines, trying desperately to untangle the chute.  Still, he had no luck. 

But he continued to fight. 

He looked down at the ground and thought to himself, “Those trees are getting really big.”  He knew he had mere seconds remaining. 

He tugged and kicked with all his might. 

The chute inflated.  He swung once as the parachute slowed his fall. 

Then he hit the ground. 

The trees he had seen were actually bushes. 

If he had not continued to fight until the very last second, if he had given up, he would not have survived. 

After today’s broadcast of “Music and the Spoken Word,” the associate musical director of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Ryan Murphy, suddenly paused rehearsing to tell us a story.  I don’t remember why he did it, but the story itself really stuck with me.  He reminded us that President David O. McKay was often quoted as saying, “No other success can compensate for failure in the home.”  [General Conference, April, 1935, repeated in April, 1964.]  (Although many people assume that the quote originated with the prophet, President McKay was actually quoting James Edward McCulloh’s “Home: The Savior of Civilization” [1924, The Southern Co-operative League].)  Brother Murphy then told us that, about two weeks after that famous conference address, President McKay was speaking at a meeting for seminary teachers.  He was asked, “What constitutes ‘failure in the home’?”  The prophet immediately replied, “Failure in the home only occurs when the parents give up.”  I can’t find a source for this quote, but President Harold B. Lee (who was President McKay’s first counselor) said something very similar (and I have the source for that): “Remember, paraphrasing what President McKay said, ‘No success will compensate for failure in the home.’ Remember also that no home is a failure as long as that home doesn’t give up.”  [Ensign, February, 1972]

Well, that gives me hope.  You see, when it comes to my family, I am as stubborn as they come. 

I will never give up. 

Sharing: We Made It

This is worth a look:  http://vimeo.com/52231459

Get Thee Behind Me, Cheese Enchiladas!

My family is having cheese enchiladas for dinner tonight.  I love cheese enchiladas!

But I’m not going to have any.

You see, I’m on a diet.  I’m trying to lose weight.  I’ve lost 50 lbs. already, but I still have a long way to go.

So tonight, I will watch as my family eats them.  I will smell them.  I will desire them.  I may even lust after them.  And if I eye those cheese enchiladas too closely, my wife, because she loves me, will remind me that I can’t have them.

And I will have to content myself with eating food that is approved for my diet—basically the same thing I eat every night.  And that’s good food, but it’s not cheese enchiladas.

You see, my dear wife loves me.  She’s not going to tell me it’s OK for me to have tasty, Mexican, cheesy goodness that will “add to the luxury of my waistline.”  She’s not going to say, “Go ahead, Dave.  Have some cheese enchiladas, because you should do what makes you happy.”

Cheese enchiladas are not conducive to my ultimate happiness.  And indulging in them now would bring me pleasure for the moment, but it would not make me happy.  In fact, indulging would send me back down the path of transforming myself into a human beach ball.

No, a beach ball is light and airy and fun.

Make that a human medicine ball.  You remember medicine balls, don’t you?  Those huge, heavy, slightly soft, leathery things we used to have to throw at each other in gym class?  No fun.  Personally, I think it is entirely possible, even highly likely, that medicine balls were invented by sadistic PE teachers who hated non-athletic kids (like me).

Now, don’t get me wrong: Nobody is forcing me to be on my diet.  Those who truly love me are encouraging me to eat healthy, but I chose this.  I know what is required for the diet, and I know the consequences of indulging in that which is forbidden.

In 2 Samuel, Chapter 13, we read of Amnon, the eldest son and heir of David, King of Israel.  Amnon lusted after his half-sister, Tamar.  He desired her so much that he became ill, because a sexual relationship with a half-sister was forbidden.  In other words, he wanted her so much, in spite of the fact that he could not have her, that he fell into a deep depression.  To put it simply, Amnon coveted something he could not have.

Jonadab, Amnon’s cousin, enquired as to why Prince Amnon was so miserable.  When Amnon informed Jonadab that he was in love with his half-sister, Jonadab devised a plan whereby Amnon could be alone with Tamar.  And when Amnon got Tamar alone, he tried to seduce her, and failing that, he raped his sister.

There is much more to this story, of course: how Amnon, after he got what he wanted, threw Tamar out; how Absalom (her brother) took Tamar in, but used the rape as an excuse to murder his brother; how a morally bankrupt King David failed to punish Amnon for his heinous act; how Tamar’s mortal life was utterly destroyed.   I don’t want to downplay any of that, but I want to focus for a moment on Amnon and his enablers.

You would think that no one in his or her right mind would condone or even sympathize with Amnon’s obsession, and yet we have at least three men who enabled Amnon’s aberrant behavior or used it for their own purposes.

Perhaps Jonadab didn’t think Amnon would force Tamar; perhaps he only intended for Amnon to have a chance to declare his “love” for Tamar.  (I don’t believe that for a second, but let’s give Jonadab the benefit of the doubt.)  Jonadab had to know that no good could come of such a thing.  So why did he do it?  At the very least, Jonadab hoped to curry favor with the royal heir.

Absalom told Tamar to keep the matter quiet.  He wasn’t concealing Tamar’s disgrace to protect Tamar: news of the rape was going to come out anyway.  If Absalom had pressed the King for justice, surely David would’ve had to act.  However, Absalom tried to de-emphasize the crime, at least in public.  Absalom planned to murder Amnon and get revenge for Tamar, but he wanted to draw suspicion away from himself.  With Amnon out of the way (dead, not imprisoned or simply out-of-favor), Absalom would have a shot at the throne.  And Absalom had regal ambitions.

And King David, Tamar’s father?  He was angry, but he loved Amnon and didn’t punish him.  (Didn’t David love Tamar?)  After David’s own sin of adultery with Bathsheba and David’s murder of Uriah, the King had no moral authority anyway.  Now when Absalom killed Amnon, David acted.  Boy, howdy, did he act!  He was so angry with Absalom that he didn’t talk to his son for three years.  That showed ol’ Absalom!  The poor guy had to live in exile!  And after the three years, David brought Absalom back.  It took him a bit (and a little manipulation by Joab), but eventually, Absalom was right where he wanted to be: back in town and in line for the throne.

And Tamar simply drops out of the story.  Once again, the victim is no more than a footnote.  Why do we always forget the victim?

Focusing back on Amnon, the big question (at least in my mind) is, why in the world did those three men—Jonadab, Absalom, and David—condone and/or enable Amnon’s perversion?  Did they think it would somehow make Amnon happy to indulge in his forbidden lustful fantasy?  Did they say to themselves, “I choose not to indulge in such behavior, but who am I to judge?”  Did they imagine that God put those thoughts into Amnon’s heart, that Amnon couldn’t help himself, that Amnon shouldn’t have to suppress this urge, that it was beyond his ability to repent?  How could anyone who really cared about Amnon (or Tamar—lets’ not forget the victim here) not want Amnon to find his way back?

Jonadab didn’t care.  Absalom used the rape of his own sister for his own selfish ends.  David “loved” his son so much that he tacitly condoned the brutal violation of his own daughter.

Why have self-control and repentance become such socially unacceptable concepts in our society?  Do we show love to the sinner by condoning or ignoring the sin?  To the woman taken in adultery, Jesus said, “Go thy way and sin no more.”  Even the Master told her to stop indulging in that which was forbidden.

Self-control and repentance are the path to true happiness—self-control and repentance and the recognition that God is there, guiding us, gently urging us down the only path that will lead to true happiness.

None of us is perfect.  I’m certainly not.  I spent years becoming the magnificent specimen of human medicine ballery that I am today.  I didn’t set out to become a huge, rotund, implement of physical education torture, but my choices and/or my genes (maybe I was born this way) have led to this.  Now I have to choose to be healthy or eat cheese enchiladas.

And I’m not going to blame or resent the people who love me and remind me of what I have to do to be healthy.

Dracula: Heroic Eco-Warrior?

We own a cat named Simon.  (Rather we “own” Simon as much anyone ”owns” any cat.  Nobody truly owns a cat.)  And he’s a very stupid cat.  (We adopted him from a shelter, and I am convinced that Simon suffered brain damage before we adopted him.  That or he’s simply learning-disabled.)  He is also very fat.  (My daughter claims that he’s “just big-boned.”  Sorry, sweetie.  He’s fat.)  Every night, at least once, Simon heaves his corpulent bulk from the floor to the kitchen counter.  How his tiny (and probably damaged) cat-brain is able to generate sufficient electricity to send the impulses to his muscles to accomplish this Herculean task is beyond me.  But make the leap he does.  Simon is fond of butter, you see. (He’s also fond of earwax, but he’s a cat and he’s stupid, which is a dangerous combination.  And no, I’m not the one letting him lick earwax off my fingertip.  The person who does that will remain unnamed.)  Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your point of view) for Simon, we have a covered butter dish. This does not deter Simon.  No, sir.  He still makes the gravity-defying leap onto the counter. He frequently does this when I’m in the room with my back turned.  It’s hard to miss the unmistakable sound of an enormous tabby alighting (ironic choice of words in this case, as there is nothing at all “light” about Simon) onto the counter. If I am present, I yell his name, and he immediately makes a death-defying leap to the floor and flees for his life.  He’ll wait a short while and try again (even though I may still be in the room).  And yet, he persists.  He keeps heaving his body onto the counter night after night in a fruitless search for the elusive butter.  He is absolutely convinced that, all evidence and experience to the contrary, someday the butter will be available.

As my regular readers should be well aware, “Dracula” by Bram Stoker is one of my favorite books of all time.  I first read it when I was nine years old, and it both fired my imagination and scared me out of my wits.  I’ve reread the book several times, the latest being this year.

That said, I have never seen a great film adaptation of “Dracula”.  Some have come close to being good—I personally think the best performance was by Jack Palance—but in spite of some good (and less than good) performances,  no film adaptation has been great.  This may be due in part to the fact that no film adaptation can rival the images conjured up in my nine year-old brain by the literary sorcery of Mr. Stoker’s magical prose.

But like Simon the Simple, I keep watching new adaptations of “Dracula” in the elusive and likely impossible hope that someday, somehow someone will produce a good version Bram Stoker’s magnum opus.  It’s such an iconic story; I’m certain that, despite all evidence and experience, the next version will capture the essence of the story.

So it was with dogged hope and great trepidation that I watched the first episode of NBC’s new series, “Dracula”.  The tagline used in the promos was, “This isn’t your grandfather’s Dracula.”

That is definitely a frontrunner for Understatement of the Year.

From the tagline and the imagery used in the promos, I assumed one of two things would be true about the series:

It would be highly sexualized (unfortunately an all too common theme in most modern vampire tales).
It would be a re-interpretation, taking significant liberties with the story and characters.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the sexuality had been greatly exaggerated in the promos, at least in the first episode.

While I was prepared for a re-interpretation, NBC’s “Dracula” can only be classified in my mind as an abomination.

SPOILERS FOLLOW:

Let’s start with a few of the “minor” deviations:

Anachronisms abound, from blatant use of modern language to ladies’ dresses that would’ve been deemed scanalous in Victorian London to woman wearing pants.  (Not that I have a problem with women wearing pants, it just wouldn’t happen in that historical context.)
Lucy Westenra isn’t a sweet naif forced to choose between four suitors with four marriage proposals on the same day; she is world-weary and cynical and she disapproves of Johnathan Harker as Mina Murray’s suitor (because he’s “boring”).  She also finds Dracula attractive and thinks Mina Murray should dump Johnathan and pursue Dracula.
Johnathan Harker isn’t a solicitor, he’s a young, impoverished reporter.
Mina Murray is not studying shorthand so that she can assist her fiancé Johnathan in his work; no, she is a medical student (who struggles keeping her hands steady during surgery).
Renfield isn’t a lunatic, obsessed with consuming lives, and enthralled to Dracula; he’s Dracula’s intelligent, well-spoken butler and attaché.
Professor Abraham Van Helsing isn’t the wise and courageous old doctor and scientist who leads the others in a desperate fight to destroy the vampire and save Mina; no, he is a murderer in league with Dracula.  He’s the one who deliberately revives Dracula.

I might have been able to deal with everything above (except the characterization of Van Helsing), but these bizarre deviations pale in comparison to Dracula himself.

You see, Dracula is the HERO of the show!  Oh, he’s still a murderous vampire, more than willing to kill anyone and everyone.  In the first scene, it is established that he is indeed Vlad Tepesh Dracula, a.k.a. Vlad the Impaler, the Wallachian prince who murdered thousands of his own countrymen by impaling them on spikes.  He liked to eat his dinner surrounded by a hundred people dying slowly on spikes.  Once, when his mistress told him she was pregnant, Vlad sliced open her belly to see if she was lying or not, then left her to bleed out.  He was one very evil monster (without being a vampire).

But we’re supposed to ignore all of that and root for Dracula, because he’s there to save mankind (and get revenge along the way).  He is fighting an ancient secret society called “The Order of the Dragon”.  (Let’s forget for a moment that the name “Dracula” translates to “Son of the Dragon”.)  The Order of the Dragon USED to employ religion to control the world.  (They controlled the Catholic Church centuries ago, after all.)  But now (meaning in 1896), how are they going to control the world?  By controlling all the world’s oil, of course!  They are “Big Oil” and they want to keep the planet enslaved and addicted to the use of petroleum.  But Dracula, you see, has invented a new technology that provides clean, non-polluting, and totally FREE electricity by harnessing the earth’s electromagnetic field.

FREE ENERGY FOR EVERYONE!!!

Of course, the technology isn’t perfected yet, but Dracula will work it all out eventually.  And forget the fact that he WILL make a millions on the patents.  Innocents will be killed and many suffer as a result of his efforts, but it’s all for the GREATER GOOD!  Hey, but as Stalin and Mao used to say, “If you’re making an omelet, you have to break a few eggs.”  In fact, Van Helsing murders a man so he can harvest his blood and bring Dracula back to life, just so the two of them can defeat “Big Oil”.

NBC, please give me a break.  I want to be entertained, not be force-fed propaganda disguised as entertainment.

It seems I jumped up on the counter for nothing once again.

Rodney and Rex

Several weeks ago, I met a man named Rodney.  He was standing with his dog, Rex, at the edge of the Wal-Mart parking lot.  On the ground next to them sat a backpack containing all of Rodney’s worldly possessions.  Dressed in well-worn and very grubby clothes, Rodney was holding a cardboard sign which read, “Homeless.  Would love to work.  Anything helps.  God bless you.”  I rolled down the window of my car and gave Rodney some money.  I then offered him a couple of hours work helping me install my sprinkler system in my yet-to-be yard.  Rodney accepted the offer gratefully, and he and Rex climbed into the car.  (I found out later that Rodney thought that the money I had given him was an advance on the labor, not a gift in addition to the wages he would earn.)

For the next two hours, Rodney and I labored together in the hot sun while Rex sheltered in the shade of my porch.  As it turned out, Rodney suffers from epileptic seizures which make holding down a regular job difficult.  Rex is trained to watch over Rodney when he is gripped by a seizure and allow only a person in uniform to approach.  Rodney had years of experience installing sprinklers and was able to offer me helpful advice, which I very much appreciated.  So, whereas I was able to provide some help to Rodney, he was also able to help me.  We mutually benefited from our brief acquaintance. 

During this time, I learned that Rodney and Rex were spending the summer living in a nearby cornfield.  When it rains, they roll up in a tarp to keep out of the weather.  Rodney told me that he didn’t like going to the “shelter”, because, as he said, “the druggies and the drunks mess with my dog.” 

(Non-sequitur:  Rex was quite obviously a pit-bull.  He was also a very friendly, gentle, and well-behaved dog.  Rodney did NOT keep him on a leash, and Rex was not aggressive in the slightest.  Any dog can be trained to be vicious.  I have it on good authority that pit-bulls are not by nature aggressive.)

It was my great privilege to share lunch with Rodney and Rex.  My wife packed up a large supply of canned food (some of it suitable for Rex) which we were able to send with them.  When the two hours were finished, I drove Rodney and Rex back to the vicinity of the local Wal-Mart.  I paid him the agreed-upon amount (for which he was very grateful), wished Rodney and Rex well, and watched as they disappeared into the cornfield. 

I have not seen them since, though I keep an eye out for them.  I often wonder where they will spend the winter once the cornfield has been harvested.

In spite of his obviously difficult circumstances, never at any time during our brief association, did Rodney complain about his life.  In fact, he was very positive in his attitude and expressed gratitude to God.  

 (Sidebar, your honor?  Lest you think me a complete fool—not that I am NOT a complete fool, but I was cautious in this instance, at least— permit me to tell you that, since my wife was home at the time and my youngest daughter was spending the afternoon with us, I did not invite Rodney into my home.  Years ago, we invited a homeless man into our home for a few hours so he could wash his clothes and take a shower.  To my great surprise, the police surrounded our home and arrested the man.  You see, the homeless man (whose name I remember but will not divulge here), I later discovered, was a wanted rapist.  Having learned from that experience, I limited my association with Rodney and Rex to the expanse of rocks and dirt that I euphemistically call “my front yard”.)

I tell you this story (the story about Rodney and Rex, that is), not to aggrandize myself or my own actions (as I said, the arrangement benefited both Rodney and me), but to illustrate a point:  Rodney had very little compared to me.  In fact, by comparison, as to worldly things, I am a very rich man (though compared to others, not so much).  When it comes to things that are beyond the measure of worldly wealth, I am most richly blessed.  I consider myself a very wealthy man when it comes to the things that matter most.  And yet, despite all his abject poverty, Rodney was still grateful. 

This month, in General Conference, Elder David A. Bednar spoke eloquently on the subject of tithing.  He related the story of “The Widow’s Mites”.  As Jesus observed the widow casting “all her living” into the temple treasury, the Master took the opportunity to teach His apostles a lesson.  However, I was struck by what the Savior did NOT do:  He did not jump up and give the impoverished widow a bag of money.  He did not instantly make life fair by improving the woman’s worldly circumstances.  He did not forcibly take money from those who had plenty and then give that money to her who had none, nor did He stand up and rebuke the rich in order to shame them into being charitable. 

I work very hard for what I receive.  However, I recognize God’s hand in all things.  I am grateful to the Lord for the opportunities that He gives me so that I may earn what I receive.   I am also grateful for the many, many blessings that I have received at His hand that I have NOT earned. 

The other night, a Facebook friend shared a video that depicted the “shocking” distribution of wealth in the USA.  I watched the video, however, I was not shocked.  I am well aware that 1% of the population of the United States controls the vast majority of the nation’s wealth.  I am well aware that the CEO of the company where I am employed receives a salary that is many, many times what I make.  I am also well aware that (unless my books were to become national bestsellers) I am unlikely ever to be a millionaire.  In fact, I will probably spend the rest of my life with very little of what might be termed “surplus” in the bank. 

I surmise that I was supposed to become alarmed and outraged by this video, to demand that something be done.  However, I was neither alarmed nor outraged.  Neither I nor anyone is entitled to a single penny that belongs to any other person, regardless of how that person came by his or her wealth.  He may have inherited it.  He may have worked very hard.  He may come up with a great idea or intellectual property or invention.  He may have reaped a jackpot from the tax on the stupid and the desperate (a.k.a. the lottery).  Regardless of how he obtained his worldly wealth, his riches are not mine.  To lust after that which belongs to another is to covet.  That would be a violation of the last of the Ten Commandments.  I don’t think “Thou shalt not covet” is the last because it is the “least important”.  Rather, I think perhaps it is the Lord’s “exclamation point”, indicating the root cause of so many violations of the other nine. 

Covetousness and envy are not the answer.  Forcing the “rich” to be charitable via taxation or other form of “legal” confiscation is tantamount to theft. 

Gratitude and true charity are the answer.  Personally reaching out to the one is the answer. 

I hope and pray that Rodney and Rex are OK.  I will watch for them. 

I know that God is watching over them.

No Small Parts

A couple of years ago, my daughter Rachel played the title role in her high school’s production of Aida.  It was a magnificent show with high production values, a fantastic set, fabulous costumes, and a lot of very talented kids.  Bonneville’s theatre program is exceptional and the musical theatre productions are an order of magnitude better than those of any high school in the area, and many college and university productions as well.  And Aida was exceptional, even for Bonneville. 

And Rachel was incredible as Aida. 

(Sidebar?  Cindy and Rachel and I were at Disneyland the summer after Aida.  A stranger we met there who does not attend Bonneville HS recognized Rachel as Aida and raved about her performance.)

Now Rachel attends a major university with a very large theatre program.  BYU has an enormous talent pool to draw from, and the program is extremely competitive.  So she is now a very small fish in a very big pond.  She has performed in a couple of plays in her first year, and only one of those in a speaking role.  And though she starts only her second year at BYU in the fall, because of advanced placement scores and very hard work, she will be a junior this year.  So opportunities to perform on a BYU stage are limited. 

So when Rachel learned about auditions for a community theatre production of Aida in a town sixteen miles away, she was very excited.  She auditioned and she was cast, but only as a member of the ensemble.  She has two lines in the play.  I know that she was disappointed.  She should have been a shoe-in for the lead role, but for whatever reason, someone else was cast as Aida. 

Rachel works at night, so she had to make special arrangements to start early at her job, leave in time to get to rehearsals, and then return to her place of employment and work late into the night.  She’s an adult now, so she has to pay for her own gas, and driving to and from rehearsals was expensive.  The late hours were exhausting.  She has terrible bruises on her knees from the dancing and from being thrown to the floor frequently (as a slave).  A large piece of the set has repeatedly slammed into her leg causing more bruising and bleeding. 

And all of that for a bit part in show she knows well and could have starred in. 

But Rachel humbled herself and threw herself into the production, heart and soul.  During the two-week run of the show, with my Choir obligations, I was only able to see the production three times.  Tonight was closing night and we were there to see Rachel perform. 

As I watched the show each time, I was impressed that my daughter was always in character, performing her role well, all while not drawing attention to herself.  She gave that production and that bit part all she had. 

Rachel, you inspire me.

My Bonnie Bride

I’m a fan of the Highlander TV series.  I know it’s flawed and hokey at times and that the main character has the sexual mores of a goat, but I fell in love with the series because of one scene in the first movie (which did not include the main character of the TV series).  That particular scene is not well-acted (Christopher Lambert didn’t even speak English when he filmed the first movie) and the old-age makeup is laughable, but this part of the story touched something deep in my soul.  It resonated within me as very few cinematic moments do.

The setting is a remote stone farmhouse in the Scottish highlands during the late 16th century.  Connor MacLeod (played by Christopher Lambert) is an immortal, although at this point in the movie he doesn’t understand why he does not age.  Heather MacLeod (played by Beatie Edney—and to be fair, she played her part well enough) is his very mortal bride.  They have been married for decades.  Heather is dying of old age as Connor, her ageless husband, holds her during her last moments on earth.

Heather: My beautiful man.  My husband.

Connor: I am that, my love.

Heather: I’ve never really known…

Connor: What?

Heather: …why you stayed.

Connor: Because I love you as much now as the first day we met.

Heather: And I love you.  I don’t want to die.  I want to stay with you forever.

Connor:  I want that too.

Heather:  Will you do something for me, Connor?

Connor:  What, lass?

Heather:  In the years to come, will you light a candle…and remember me on my birthday?

Connor:  Aye, love. I will.

Heather:  I wanted to have your children.

Connor:  They would have been strong and fine.

Heather:  Don’t see me, Connor.  Let me die in peace.  Where are we?

Connor:  We’re in the highlands.

Heather:  Where else?

Connor:  Running down a mountainside.  The sun is shining.  It’s not cold.  You’ve got your sheepskins on…

[Heather stops breathing.]

Connor:  …and the boots I made for you.

[Heather dies quietly in Connor’s arms.]

Connor:  Good night, my bonny Heather.

What makes that moment so poignant to me is that Connor LOVED Heather and he stayed with her and cherished her to the very end.  To him, it didn’t matter if she was twenty or eighty.  He loved HER as she was, at whatever age she was.

Wednesday was my 32nd wedding anniversary.  Cindy and I went out for a very nice dinner.  During a moment of quiet on the nearly hour-long drive to the restaurant, my bride of thirty-two years, the love of my life said, “I’m sorry I got so old.”

But I’m not sorry.

Unlike Connor MacLeod, I’m subject to the effects of the passing years.  I’m growing old, but I want to grow old with my beloved.  Of course, I don’t enjoy the pains and the difficulties that come with age, but I cherish being with my bride at whatever age she is.  She plucks out her gray hairs.  I beg her not to.  I love them.  (Heaven knows she’s earned them living with me for more than three decades!)  And unlike Connor MacLeod, I do NOT love my wife as much as when we first met.  I love her more.  My passion for this woman has not diminished with time, it has grown and multiplied far beyond what I could conceive at the tender age of twenty-one.  The fire hasn’t mellowed.  It burns brighter.  I have come to know her better, so much better than I did when we were newlyweds.  And the more I learn, the more I love her.

And with all that knowledge and familiarity, she still manages to surprise and delight me.

When I met her, she was a sexy college senior.  Now she qualifies for a senior discount at IHOP.  And you know what?  She’s still a sexy senior!

In the resurrection, our youth will be restored, but the maturity will not be taken away.  I thank God for that.  I would not trade maturity for youth, not if it cost me a single moment of my life with Cindy.

In the words of Robert Browning:

Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be

The last of life, for which the first was made…

Happy anniversary, Cindy.  I pray for many more anniversaries together.  And when at last this mortal life is over, we will meet beyond the veil and we will never be parted again.

I Am Not Superman!

I am not, nor have I ever been, Superman. 

And though I may don a red cape and a blue union-suit with a big red “S” over my chest, I will never be Superman.  (OK, please find a safe place to vomit as you contemplate the mental image of me in blue tights.) 

I finally got to see “Man of Steel” last weekend, and while the slugfest at the end was too long and the wanton destruction a bit gratuitous, I do recommend the movie.  Highly.  But more about that later.

To be honest, however, when I was a child, I didn’t really want to be Superman.  It was BATMAN I wanted to grow up to be!  Faithfully, twice each week, I sat, glued to the black-and-white TV, watching the old Batman TV series (starring Adam West and Bruce Ward as the Caped Crusaders).  “Same Bat-Time!  Same Bat-Channel!”  (And if you don’t get that 60’s pop-cultural reference, all I can say is that I pity the rising generation.)  I had all the Batman toys known to mankind (or at least all those that my parents could obtain at through the Clark AFB PX in the Philippines).  I read comicbooks—yes, I know that is not the correct spelling, but Stan Lee begs to differ—with an avaricious appetite ravenously rivalling that of a swarming school of peckish piranhas.  I could not get enough of Batman.  And no, I didn’t want to be Robin.  Robin was annoying, and frankly, kind of useless, at least on TV.  It was Batman, Batman, Batman!  I had all the masks and capes and costumes that my long-suffering and saintly mother could make or get for me. 

You see, even as I child, I realized that I could never be Superman, no matter how hard I might wish for it.  Superman was from Krypton.  He was an ALIEN from outer-space, for crying out loud!  He could fly.  (And, no, at least to my recollection, I never tucked a red towel into the neck of my t-shirt, only to climb up on a roof in an attempt to jump off and fly.  Although, there was that time I tied the corners of a white bed sheet to my wrists and ankles and stood outdoors in an ACTUAL typhoon in a—thankfully—failed attempt to fly on the wind like Buster Crabbe playing Flash Gordon soaring through the skies of the distant planet Mongo.  Though the winds knocked me about and down, I did not fly on that occasion, luckily.  But I digress, as I so often do.)  So growing up to be Superman?  Not gonna happen.  And even as a child, I understood why. 

Batman, though?  He was HUMAN.  He was MORTAL.  He was just a guy like me in a mask, cape, and suit with whole bunch of really cool gadgets in his Utility Belt.  He had a really cool car, a plane, a helicopter, a jetpack, a boat, and a submarine.  There was even a Bat-Rocket.  (Don’t believe me?  Google it.)  He got to hang out in this really cool cave with a giant computer and (for some unfathomable reason) a nuclear reactor.  And he got to beat up the bad guys and save people.  So I could BE Batman (even if I did have to put up with that annoying and useless Robin).  And eventually Batgirl would come and hang out with you and help you beat up the bad guys, kicking villains in the chops while wearing yellow, high-heeled boots, but there wouldn’t be any of that mushy stuff.  No, sir!  She would just hang around with you and look pretty, but you wouldn’t have to kiss her or any sissy stuff like that!  And best part was that all of it was POSSIBLE, man!  ANY boy could grow up to be Batman! 

And all of that made sense to my seven-year-old brain. 

Then I grew up (a little) and I found out that in order to be Batman, I had to be a millionaire.  No, make that a gazillionaire.  Most of that Bat-hardware was not only technologically implausible (if not downright impossible), but extremely expensive to develop and maintain.  And I was not, nor had I ever been, wealthy, and though I might work really hard, I was unlikely to be a multi-gazillionaire by the time I was twenty. 

Another impediment to my becoming Batman was the physical stuff.  You see, I was never very athletic (putting it mildly).  Despite the fact that my father and brothers were star athletes, I have almost no arches in my feet.  (I’m not exactly flat-footed—I did pass a military physical—but running was never, shall we say, my forte.)  I was never very good, much to my father’s chagrin, at catching a ball or shooting a basket.  And I noticed that professional athletes were unable to play in their chosen sport for very long.  They were old and washed-up in their 30’s!  Even with the best medical care, the human body, I came to understand, just can’t take that kind punishment forever.  Batman’s body took a pounding night after night after night, and he just kept going.  Alfred may have been trained as a military medic in the Special Air Service during WWII, but I realized that even had he been an extremely gifted orthopedic surgeon working with the latest medical equipment and techniques (rather than an acerbic British butler with some battlefield medical experience), the odds of Bruce Wayne being permanently crippled were ridiculously high.  At the very least, he would be in constant pain.  (This is exactly how he was portrayed in “The Dark Knight Rises”, a man crippled by just a few years of serving as the Batman.  A nice touch of realism, that.)

And then there was the fighting.  I’ve never been very good at fighting.  As a child, whenever I got into fights, I usually got my butt kicked.  And on those rare occasions where I came out the victor, I still cried.  (Picture Ralphie in “A Christmas Story”, finally giving the bully the beating he—the bully—so richly deserved.)  Even as a parent, spanking a child left me physically sick to my stomach. 

The bottom line is, no matter how much I might fantasize about becoming Batman, I am not, nor have I ever been, nor shall I ever be, Batman. 

I could put on the suit.  (Stop laughing, please.  In my younger days, it didn’t look so ridiculous.)  In fact, I did dress up as Batman for my son’s birthday party.  (I’m sorry, son.  I know this comes as a shock, but Batman didn’t really come to your house for that birthday party, and I wasn’t stuck at work.  At least now you know I didn’t skip your party!)  I rented the official Batman costume from a costume shop.  (It was the Tim Burton version that Michael Keaton wore.)  When I put on the mask, I realized that I couldn’t turn my head.  How practical is that, may I ask? 

Recently, I saw pictures on the news of a woman who was so obsessed with the doll Barbie (yes, the fantastical icon of unrealistic female form and “beauty” that inspires young girls to be anorexic, bulimic, and preoccupied with fashion), that she had multiple surgeries so that she could become Barbie.  The headline read, “The Human Barbie Doll”, or something like that.  To my eye, she looked grotesque.  I was profoundly saddened to see this human being, this precious daughter of God with the celestial potential inherent in all of us and a divine heritage, so miserable, so unhappy with her physical appearance that she would suffer untold physical pain and suffering (not to mention spending enormous sums of money) to become something she could never actually become.  Perhaps she succeeded changing her body cosmetically to achieve a semblance of her ideal, but what is her life going to be like when she ages and her stretched neck causes her crippling pain, and her sculpted features, and tattooed-on makeup become a pitiful mask?  Barbie’s plastic face will not change, but the woman’s face will.  No matter how hard she tries, no matter how much money she spends or how many times she goes under the knife, eventually she will no longer have the look that she sacrificed so much to achieve. 

Over the years, I watched as Michael Jackson went from a good-looking and very talented kid, to a young man who wanted to look and sing like Diana Ross, to a hideous, and abjectly pitiful figure with a prosthetic nose.  I remember being on tour, backstage with the Tabernacle Choir just prior to a concert, when we saw on the news that Michael Jackson had died of a drug overdose.  We were saddened, not because the world had lost the self-styled “King of Pop”, but because we were witnessing the tragic death of a tortured soul (and we were only hearing about his death because he was famous).  I understand that he was in constant physical pain.  We’re going to put his doctor in prison for murdering him by providing him with too many pain-killers, but in the end, it was Michael Jackson’s emotional agony, his spiritual emptiness that killed him.  No matter how much he wished to be something other than what he was, no matter how much he changed the outside, he seemed unable to be find joy in who he was.  That’s a tragedy.  His children don’t look anything like him, because he did not sire them himself.  If he had sired them with his own DNA, they would have looked like the handsome young man—the idol of millions—that Michael had once been before he began mutilating his face and bleaching his skin. 

I am profoundly saddened see people so unhappy with who they are, with the divine potential that God has given them as His beloved sons and daughters, that they mutilate their bodies to become something they are not and can never be: a member of the opposite sex.  No matter how much they change the outside, no matter what hormones they inject, they will not resequence their DNA, they will not be someone other than who they are, the person they were before they gained the divine gift of a physical body, the person they have always been and always will be.  In the resurrection, they will be restored to their perfect frame—the one God gave them—with all imperfections, all blemishes and defects removed, not the altered form of their elective, self-inflicted mutilation.

Now back to Superman.  SPOILER ALERT: IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN “MAN OF STEEL”, YOU MAY WANT TO SKIP THIS PARAGRAPH.  The aspect of the “Man of Steel” movie that I enjoyed the most was the fact that it wasn’t all about Superman.  Superman was NOT the only hero or heroine of the movie.  The best part of the movie was when Perry White stayed behind, facing almost certain death, to try to free a woman from the rubble callously created by the fight between Superman and General Zod.  Perry knew he was most likely going to die if he stayed and that the woman would probably die as well.  But he stayed.  Then there was the army colonel, played by Christopher Meloni, who knew he stood no chance against a warrior from Krypton, but he still faced her, armed only with a knife, a weapon he knew could not harm his opponent.  Then later, he sacrificed his own life so Superman could save the planet.  For me, this made the movie about ordinary people like me who didn’t want to be Superman, who didn’t covet his powers.  They simply stood and did the best with who they were and what they had. 

I’m never going to be Batman, but I have lived a remarkable life, even if it’s not the life I originally envisioned.  I hope to continue to live a remarkable life, even as it changes.  I have dreamed dreams and fantasized of things that will never be.  I will never be an astronaut, for example, though at one point in my life, I was convinced that only by walking on Mars could I ever be truly happy.  As my air force pilot career progressed, it became apparent that all my efforts would not make that particular dream a reality.  For one thing, nobody was going to Mars during the years of my serviceable flying career, and all the wishful thinking in the world would not make it otherwise.  And when my first precious daughter was born (my last child to be born in a military hospital), as I held her in my arms, watched her squirm, felt her new breath, looked into her squinched-up little face—so beautiful in my eyes, I realized that I would never want to leave my precious Jenny for the YEARS such a journey would take.  I would NOT abandon the precious little soul whom God had entrusted to me for the world, and not for ANOTHER world, either.  I wouldn’t be flying to Mars.  But like the Robin Williams character of Peter in “Hook”, I had found another happy thought, a better one.  

And with that thought I could fly.