Brock Booher's Blog, page 3

Cookies From Home

I had a small container of chocolate chip cookies tucked in my briefcase. They had survived the flight from Phoenix to San Antonio, but I wasn’t sure we would be allowed through the gates of Fort Sam Houston to deliver them to my son. It was July 4, and our son Carson was in the middle of combat medic training. Independence Day takes on a special feeling when you celebrate it on a military installation.
We parked in the visitor’s center parking lot and went inside to fill out the paperwork. The sign on the door instructed us to sign in and wait. I listened to the conversations at the counter about lost IDs and visitor access, and I wondered if all our paperwork was in order. After a few minutes, a man behind the counter called our name. With a few keystrokes he found our information, took my picture, and printed a day pass for us. Security was tighter than when I was in the Air Force twenty years ago, but then again we hadn’t heard of Al Queda or ISIS. We were fighting the communists and socialists. How the world has changed…
Maybe we would be able to deliver the homemade cookies after all.
As we approached the barracks, formations of soldiers in PT gear (matching exercise shorts and t-shirts) ran by singing cadence. “Hey, hey Captain Jack Jack…” Each formation was a mix of men, women, dark skin, and light skin. Even in the same uniform, their differences were noticeable, but the differences didn’t impress me. The uniformity and unity did. No matter where they were before or what their background, all of those soldiers had one thing in common—an oath to support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America against all enemies foreign and domestic.  The sun beat down on us and threatened to melt the chocolate chips in the cookies as we walked over to the barracks. Each building had a covered area outside for formations and some of them had soldiers in training lined up and waiting for something. All the soldiers that walked by had a “battle buddy” with them and a reflective colored belt around their waist or slung over their soldier. My battle buddy was my wife dressed in red, white, and blue.
As we approached the front door of the barracks, out walked our son in his field uniform and a colored reflective belt slung over his shoulder. He moved with purpose and bearing, not like the lackluster teenager gait he would have displayed just a few years ago. My wife squealed and gave him a big hug. I kept my military bearing and made my embrace short and professional, but inside I wanted to wrap him up and jump up and down.
He told us about his training as we walked to the mini-mall across the street. I still held the cookies, waiting for the right moment to share them. The mini-mall was a slice of the outside world—Taco Bell, Burger King, Subway, Dominoes Pizza. The Army really does travel, and train, on its stomach. We took a seat at one of the tables surrounded by soldiers in training and ordered lunch from Taco Bell. Nothing says “America” on the 4th of July like fast food.
We talked of home, and of training. We ate fast food and filled him in on the latest family news. CNN Headline News was playing on the big-screen TV above us. The commentators and guests argued about Donald Trump’s tweet with a six-pointed star, Hilary Clinton’s FBI probe, and how to fight terrorists. We asked about his teammates and his Sergeants. The news turned to attacks in Iraq by ISIS and the two hundred people killed during a terrorist bombing. I looked around the room at the young men and women eating fast food and wondered. Do they have any idea what is in store for them? Do we understand the cost they may have to pay for us?
One of the Sergeants told them during training, “ISIS has your picture up on their wall. They want nothing more than to kill you.” I watched the newsreel of mangled bodies and destruction from the ISIS attack and realized that some of the men and women in the room with me that day could be injured or killed at the hands of our enemies. I recognized that my son might pay a steep price to keep me free.
We fight an enemy that is ideologically opposed to our freedoms. I wonder if they understand what they are fighting against. After all, a Muslim has more freedom to practice his or her religion under the Constitution of the United States than anywhere else in the world. And yet, ISIS (radicalized Islamists) wants to destroy the freedoms the Constitution protects. Irony is always an integral element of war.
Celebrating Independence Day on a military installation transforms the experience. We civilians celebrate with barbecues, watermelons, and parades, and think little of the cost of our independence. But for the men and women who put on a uniform and take an oath, the cost of our independence is measured in pints of blood, months away from family, and white headstones.
I smiled and handed him the container of chocolate chip cookies.
 

Brande Jo Booher-Brock—A Song, A Poem, A Laugh, A Story, A Listening Ear

Brande Jo Booher was born in Bowling Green, Kentucky, on August 18, 1959, the second child to Eddie and Jeanetta Booher. Eisenhower was president. Elvis had a new song that was rising on the charts. It was a Saturday, and as predicted in the old nursery rhyme, “Saturday’s child works hard for it’s living,” her life would be full of toil.
She grew up in Simpson County, Kentucky, except for a short stay in Southern California, and eventually welcomed eight more siblings into her parent’s home. Indeed, living on a farm in Kentucky as one of ten children certainly brought its share of hard work, but the work did not define Brande. She had a constant twinkle in her eye and a quick smile. She lightened the load with song. She eased the burden with laughter.
She grew into a woman and got married to a man who already had two boys. She became an instant mother by treating Scott and Shane as her own children from day one. She added to their family by bringing three more children into this world—Anna, Daira, and Zack. Each child added to the work and worry of life. Yes, life did force her to work hard for a living. Her life was full of heartache, heartbreak, and eventually her heart stopped. But it isn’t the toil or heartache of life that we remember about Brande. We remember her as a song, a poem, a laugh, a story, and a listening ear.
Brande lived her life with song. Growing up on the farm, she spent hours snapping green beans, cutting strawberries, picking blackberries, or helping with a variety of tedious tasks that carried a sense of drudgery. Brande would often sing to lighten the load. We figure she must have always had a song playing in her head. In addition to working beside her, we spent hours squished into an old station wagon or the old VW van watching the scenery pass by wondering if we were there yet. She would sing to us, and her favorite song to sing was “Country Roads” by John Denver. After a while we would often join in. Imagine a station wagon full of kids hurtling down the backroads of Kentucky belting out “Country roads, take me home! To the place, I belong!” She continued the tradition with her children and grandchildren by singing them to sleep or singing to them on their birthday. She always had a song in her heart. She carried some heavy loads in her life, but we all remember how she would sing to lighten her load and the load of everyone around her. Brande was a song.
Along with carrying a song with her wherever she went, Brande carried along a verse of poetry. She would quote a poem or rhyme to teach a lesson. She would share a verse to make us smile. Her children and grandchildren remember her favorite way of showing affection and love was to quote the popular Robert Munsch verse -
“I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
as long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.”
(Incidentally he wrote that verse after he and his wife had two babies born dead.) I think that verse helped carry Brande through the dirty diapers, the crying babies with colic, and the late-night hospital visits. She loved to write poetry herself and in one verse explained –
Poets write in verse and rhymeAuthors tell a story.But the words a woman lives and writesWill be her personal glory.
Chock awoke the other night (it was a full moon after all) and wrote down this poem about Brande –
My Sister’s Eyes
My sister’s eyesBlueBrightBoldIntensePassionateCompassionateSeldom angryMostly gentleGenuineLovingKind
Now closed in peaceful slumberWhile she awaitsThe resurrectionTo open themOnce more
Yet she is hereA presence feltA vision seenIn the eyes Of her family BrownGreenHazelOr blue
No matter the colorNo matter the hueHere is a message true
In the eyes of her childrenGrand and great grand children tooShe lives onIn each of you.
Brande was a poem.
Brande lived her life with laughter. She had an inviting smile and was quick to laugh at life. When the work piled up and it seemed like the list of chores was endless, she would make things fun. She was quick-witted, especially when someone complained, and would smile and say, “Well…” before finding something lighthearted or optimistic about the situation. One time while shopping at Wal-Mart she found an item without a tag. After haggling with the clerk they offered the item for one dollar. Without missing a beat she said, “In that case I’ll take five.”
Her laughter kept her childlike. She played with children not because she had to, but because she wanted to. On Christmas morning she would wake up her children because she was more excited than them to open presents and play with toys. Her laughter wasn’t the loud guffaw or annoying knee-slapping mocking laughter. Hers was a jolly belly laugh, and her eyes practically twinkled as her laughter built. She looked for the joy in every situation. Brande was laughter.
Brande could often be found telling or reading a story. Like her mother, she was an avid reader. She devoured books for her own personal pleasure. She read bedtime stories to her children and grandchildren and told them stories that inspired their imagination and sense of wonder. Daira says she always brought home books for them to read hoping that her enthusiasm for reading would rub off on her children. She would use stories to teach life lessons and after watching the news and seeing that people who lost homes to tornados were always barefoot, she made her children go to bed with shoes on when thunderstorms were around.
In addition to making reading such an integral part of her life, she also worked with children’s reading programs teaching children to read and encouraging the love of books. She loved to listen to, and tell, family history stories that made us laugh, and cry. Because of her love for reading she made a donation to charity and won the chance to have her name as a character in a published novel. You can find her immortalized in the pages of the romance novel The Matchup by Laura Walker as the character Brande Levington. She always told her children, “You are the author of your own book of life. When one chapter ends, a new one begins. But you determine the final ending.” Yes, Brande was a story.
Brande was a good listener. Friends, family members, and total strangers found it easy to share their life story with her. Mom used to wonder if Brande had some sort of subconscious sign that said, “I care. Tell me all your problems.” Her children and grandchildren described her as their emotional rock, their shoulder to cry on, and their personal cheerleader and counselor. Something about her made you open up and share what was troubling you. She would listen intently and sift through your troubles without judging, and when you were finished your burden was lighter because of her empathetic ear. She was a crackling fire, cushy chair, homemade quilt, and hot blackberry cobbler with ice cream you could visit on any cold dark night. It was so easy to be there and she appreciated the visit. Brande was a listening ear.
Brande Jo has gone home, but as the John Denver song exclaims, “I hear her voice. In the morning hours she calls me,” we still feel her with us. We still hear her songs. We still hear her poetry. We still hear her laughter. We still hear her stories. I hope she is still lending a listening ear. Brande Jo Booher-Brock—a song, a poem, a laugh, a story, and a listening ear.

Eddie Bramlet Booher—Thunder, Lightning, and Rain

Eulogy for my Dad

Eddie Bramlet Booher was born on July 14, 1938 in Cumberland County, Kentucky, to Ruth McCoy and Eddie Creed Booher. He was their first child, a small baby who appeared to be stillborn at first. They wrapped him in a blanket and put him in a shoebox because they thought he was dead, but then his grandmother noticed that he was moving. No one in the room would have guessed who that timid baby would become.
The short life sketch captured the basic facts of his life, but in no way does justice to his hard work, sacrifice, and friendship. How do you convey the essence of Eddie Booher’s life in a sketch or even a fifteen-minute eulogy? You do what he would do—use a metaphor or story to help explain his character, both virtues and faults.
Eddie Booher was a Kentucky summer thunderstorm. If you’re from Kentucky you’ve experienced one of those afternoon thundershowers that builds in the morning, crashes down on you in the afternoon, and refreshes the evening with a cool rain. You hear the thunder, see the flashes of lightning, and feel the rain on your skin. You smell the moisture moving through the air. You hear the wind whistling through the trees. You’re a bit frightened as it approaches, and yet excited at the prospect of rain to save you from the oppressive humidity and heat that summer can bring. Eddie Booher was like that summer thunderstorm.
First comes the rolling thunder. It builds and rumbles until you can feel it shake you. You know the thunder isn’t going to hurt you, but it alarms you.
Everyone who knew Eddie Booher knew he was loud like thunder. He boomed at will and no one could ever claim they didn’t hear him. It was a convenient form of communication in wide-open spaces. Amory remembers being able to hear him yell over the sound of the tractor while wearing earplugs. Visiting friends were unable to distinguish a “holler” from a “yell” and assumed he was angry all the time. Those of you who really knew him recognized that he struggled with his temper, and like the booming thunder its sudden onset and teeth-rattling nature surprised you. It took most of us years to get used to it, but when we did, we could see through the blustering noise like the child that is no longer afraid of the sound of thunder. We learned to walk calmly in the storm, and in later years tried not to laugh at his blustering. One night Chock and Brock came home later than they should have, but at the time they were both twenty something and had served missions in South America. Dad came out of the bedroom and began to work up his usual thunder until Chock grinned at him and said, “Why don’t you go back to bed before we decide to whoop you?” Dad looked at them both, shook his head, and went back to bed.
Yes Eddie Booher was loud, but that wasn’t always a negative thing. He was never afraid to take a stance and speak up about important things. He was loud about his opinion on abortion and stood up for unborn children and the right to life in 1973 when the Supreme Court ruled in favor of abortion. He and Mom volunteered at the County Fair and tried to persuade people that abortion was morally wrong.
He was loud about his opinion on race. As he matured he recognized that the society around him had it wrong and worked to liberate himself from that conditioning. Over the years he befriended coworkers and neighbors of color and broke the chain of narrow thinking in his home, and in his community.
He was loud in his patriotism and love of country. He often quoted the Van Dyke poem "America for Me"Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me!My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be, In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars, 
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars!” He loved his country and the freedoms it afforded him.
He was also loud about his religious beliefs bearing his testimony of Christ and the restored gospel to many people over the years. When his parents told him to renounce his testimony of the Church or move out, he began to pack the car. His parents relented once they saw that he was serious about his beliefs. He never backed down from his testimony.
Yes, like the rolling thunder that shakes your bones, Eddie Booher was loud.
As the storm approaches and builds, the sky lights up with bolts of lightning that blind you and make the hair on your arms stand up with static electricity. Each bolt of lightning is powerful, bright, and bold. Eddie was often like those bolts of lightning.
He was powerful like a bolt of lightning in his work ethic. When discussing their father, one trait that all ten of his children mentioned was his work ethic. He worked because he loved to work. He worked because he loved Mom. He worked because he loved his kids. Most poets excel in talking about love. He excelled at talking about work. He showed us that his work was love and his love was work. When other children might get to know their father while playing baseball, or during a beach vacation, we all got to know our father by working beside him, because he was always working on something. He worked at the factory and came home to work on the farm, and we all helped. It was sometimes sad to visit him in his later years because he wasn’t able to work, and working together was all we had ever known.
Like the flash of lightning, Eddie was bright. I don’t mean to say that he was some sort of genius, but he was a voracious reader and assimilated information better than most people. Even better than remembering information, he knew how to put that information to work. Like those flashes of lightning, he had flashes of genius that made him a bit of a visionary. As the Production Manager at the local copper tubing factory, he had a vision of what computers could do to make production more efficient. He almost singlehandedly implemented that vision and put a system in place that would enhance the production for many years to come. When they finally replaced his system just a few years ago, it took a group of consultants over six months and thousands of dollars to get the job done. The impact of his flashes of lightning at work caused people to ask, “What would Eddie Booher do?” long after he had retired.
He was especially bright when he married, and listened to, Jeanetta his wife. They got married when he was seventeen and she was sixteen, and as you would expect it was tough. They grew up together as they started their family. You can only imagine the difficulties they faced as the bills piled up and the hardships of raising a large family began to pile on top of them like an avalanche of toil and trouble. Where he was loud, she was quiet, but over the years he learned to take inspiration from her like energy from flashes of lightning.
He loved to quote a variety of inspirational (and sometimes humorous) sayings he picked up over the years. “Work will win when wishy-washy wishing won’t.” “If you fail to plan, you plan to fail.” “They told me, ‘Cheer up things could get worse.’ So I cheered up and sure enough things got worse.” “Proper prior planning prevents poor performance.” “I was doing okay but I got over it.” “When the time for action has arrived, the time for preparation has passed.” “Put your shoulder to the wheel, nose to the grindstone, butt in the wind, and try to get some work done in that position.” And of course his favorite, “Make hay while the sun shines.” Like those flashes of lightning he had a good quip for a variety of situations.
Eddie Booher, like those flashes of lightning, had moments of energy, inspiration, and bold genius.
After the booming thunder and the violent lightning, the rain begins to fall. The sound of rain falling on a tin roof soothes your nerves. The smell of moisture in the air puts a smile on your face. The raindrops bring life-giving moisture. Eddie could storm, but he always brought the rain.
After yelling at you and maybe even punishing you for misbehaving, Dad would always offer love in the form of a hug and or a kiss on the cheek. He never stayed mad or upset at you for very long, and apologized when he was wrong. Like the passing storm, his wrath passed quickly. After the wrath came the nourishing and life-giving rain of love.
Rain meant that the crops would grow, and his favorite crop was alfalfa hay. The expression, “Make hay while the sun shines,” could be considered his life’s motto. He loved working in the hay more than almost everything else. He told stories of working in the hay with his father. All of us worked in the hay—mowing it, raking it, baling it, and hauling it. More than once we found ourselves racing against a coming thunderstorm to get the hay into the barn. Sometimes we lost, but when we won it was the best feeling in the world to be walking back from the barn as the rain began to fall. Amory recalls how one time Dad was so giddy to get the hay into the barn before the rain came that he stayed outside in the rain and tossed a rubber ball onto the tin roof of the house laughing like a kid as he got soaking wet. The rain made the hay grow, and making hay was the cycle of his life. Truly the chatter of a sickle bar mower, the scraping teeth of the rake, and the rhythmic pounding of the square baler were the soundtrack of Eddie Booher’s life.
The rain had a big impact on his childhood. He grew up on the banks of the Cumberland River before they had dams along the river to control flooding. He spoke of getting rescued from the second story of his Brownwood home in a rowboat when the swollen river threatened to swallow up his childhood home. He told us stories about going around the square in Burkesville in a motorboat. One time he drove a Volkswagen Beetle to get across a swollen creek by getting a running start and floating across the last few feet before his tires touched pavement again. Those traumatic events left an indelible impression that always made him leery of heavy rain and flooding.
Eddie Booher could be loud, but he was also very tender, like a great big teddy bear. He could shower love down on you at the most unexpected time and in a measure unexpected by a man so focused on keeping a household of ten children in line. As a disciplinarian he was quick to mete out justice followed promptly by mercy and love. Brock remembers most the whipping he didn’t get when he almost burned down the barn. He could never stay mad at you, and after the thunder and lightning of his displeasure quickly passed, he would shower you with the rain of his affection.
He also showered others with generosity when he had nothing to give, particularly in his later years. He would give money to help a child or grandchild in need. He would offer money or resources to a friend in a tough spot. He was liberal with his monetary reward to anyone that worked for him and made sure they were well compensated.
A man of deep feelings of compassion he had a knack of consoling during a time of grief or loss. Cameo remembers how Dad laid down beside her on the bed and hugged her when she was inconsolable with grief after Mom’s miscarriage. Then later in life he offered the same love and support at the loss of a baby. He would shower you with love and empathy as he stepped into the gap and took care of whatever needed to be done while you coped with the loss and grief.
His life was full of rain. He showered his life with work. He showered his friends with service. He showered his family with affection.
Yes, Eddie Booher entered this world a timid and almost lifeless baby. But he lived his life like a Kentucky afternoon thunderstorm with booming thunder, flashes of bold lightning, and the life-giving rain of love and affection. Remember him because he was loud. Remember him because he was inspired. Remember him because he loved and cared for so many of us. The next time you hear the rolling thunder, see the flashes of lightning, and feel the rain on your skin, think of our Dad, Eddie Booher, and be grateful that you knew the loud, bold, and compassionate man that he was. 

The Motorcycle or The Easy Chair

In the past month I purchased a motorcycle and an easy chair. Both can be deadly.
I traded my older motorcycle for a slightly newer one with less mileage. It’s also more nimble at slow speed and easier to handle, but in reality it’s not any safer than the one I sold. Riding a motorcycle is risky and dangerous, but also cathartic, enjoyable, and a singularly rewarding travel experience. However, it’s safe to say that the singular travel experience can become a singular life-ending event as well. Riding a motorcycle is a risky venture.
I bought the easy chair to put in my office. (Enough of my children left home for me to regain some space for my own office.) The easy chair isn’t anything fancy but it is comfortable, and with a pull on a lever I can put myself into an almost horizontal position that supports my back and legs. It’s great for reading, typing on my computer, or taking a catnap. However, too much time in the easy chair can sap the energy from life and make a person lethargic and sedentary with one foot in the grave. The easy chair requires no risk.
If I could chose how to die, I would like to pass from this world to the next sitting in an easy chair at home surrounded by loving family and friends wishing me well on the next phase of my journey. It seems like the most comforting way to exit this mortal existence. That perfect ending to a fulfilling life isn’t possible without risk. Unless I “ride the motorcycle” I will never get to that easy chair.
Life is a paradox. If we choose the easy path without risk we are not really living. If we choose the easy chair our life is wasted in ease. Without the dangerous journey there is no satisfying destination. Without the difficulty of the task there is no pride in accomplishment. Without the hardship of trial there is no personal growth. Life is inherently risky. If we wish to truly live we must accept risk, but if we choose too much risk we place little value on life. Life is a balancing act of risk, a balance between the motorcycle and the easy chair.
Nothing is riskier than raising a family. When you decide to become a parent (biologically or otherwise) you shout to the world, “I will be responsible for this life! I will feed, clothe, and teach this infant. I will protect and serve this child. I will tolerate, love and correct this adolescent. I will mentor and guide this young adult.”
What greater risk can you take on than choosing parental responsibility? So much can go wrong. So much is out of your control. So much can end badly. Choosing to be a parent is choosing the motorcycle instead of the easy chair of life. You suit up with helmet, boots, and jacket to mitigate the risk, but no matter how many safety protections you put in place, parenting is still a dangerous journey. Parenting is the ultimate risk, but it delivers the ultimate reward.
My father is nearing the end of his mortal journey and is confined to the hospital bed, the wheelchair, and the dreaded easy chair. He eats puree of chicken and drinks through a straw. The strong man who once provided and cared for his family, is now unable to care for himself. Pictures of family and friends adorn the walls of his room. Visitors frequent his bedside to comfort and care for him.
He arrived at his health-induced confinement by wearing his body out in the service of his family, combined with some dereliction of maintenance. As a younger man he ignored the pain of injury in order to be a good provider. Feeling duty bound, he worked when he should have rested. Committed to his role as a parent, he pushed himself when his body needed to heal. Accepting the risk of parenthood, he kept moving when his health required a moment in the easy chair. He risked it all to raise ten children, and is now rewarded with the easy chair surrounded by loving family, even if they aren’t always present. He chose the risky path of parenthood. He chose the motorcycle over the easy chair.
This past month I purchased two deadly instruments—the motorcycle and the easy chair. Both can be deadly. 

The Truth About Happiness

Why do we suffer from unhappiness and depression when we are doing our best to be obedient to God’s commandments? Aren’t we supposed to be happy? Isn’t it called “the great plan of happiness?” (Alma 42:8) If “wickedness never was happiness,” (Alma 41:10) then does that mean unhappy people are wicked? Is disobedience and wickedness the source of our unhappiness?
We sometimes confuse what is TRUE and what makes us happy.
We know that eventually we will understand all truth, and that truth is independent of opinion, or emotion. In other words truth can stand alone, regardless of how we feel. We do not understand all truth in this mortal existence. We seek the truth and welcome any revealed truth, but in reality the circle of truth we understand is quite small.
The emotions we feel (although very real) do not always represent, nor are they in line with, the truth, especially in this mortal life. We are intended to feel a variety of emotions in this lifetime, some of them very acute at times. We are designed to be happy. We are intended to have joy. However, we are not guaranteed a life without unhappiness. We are not promised some utopian existence where we live in constant harmony and never feel the wide range of emotion attached to our mortal journey. We will feel negative emotions, but those emotions do not change the truth. Truth stands alone, independent, and unaffected by emotion. It does not feel. It simply exists. Knowing and applying truth can bring us happiness, but unhappiness in this life does not mean that we have failed to understand or apply the truth properly. God makes the rain fall on the just and the unjust. Unhappiness comes to the righteous and the wicked, at least for now.
If we follow the PLAN of happiness, eventually we will be happy. (That’s why it’s called a plan.) If we align ourselves with the revealed truth and follow the plan, we will eventually achieve a state of happiness that is unchanging. Just as our bodies will be resurrected and glorified, our spirits will be free from guilt, shame, and all the other impediments to eternal happiness. We will have a fullness of joy. But for many that will not be achieved in this lifetime because of the mortal limitations of our existence.
So what do we tell someone who is suffering from depression and unhappiness? How do we console them and reassure them when they can no longer be happy in spite of their best efforts to live a righteous life? What do we say to someone who cannot seem to find happiness for the moment?
First, testify of truth. The truth doesn’t change with our emotions. It is constant. People suffering from depression and anxiety often describe it as a state of uneasiness or instability where they can’t seem to find their footing. They are looking for something—anything—they can hold onto. Depression and anxiety can rob a person of hope, and hope is the seedbed of faith. Without hope it is difficult to wait on the Lord and difficult to believe in anything we cannot physically experience. Revelation becomes difficult. Truth is the ultimate anchor in this situation. When we testify of truth it gives a reference and an anchor point in the sea of emotion. Truth provides stability in an unstable moment.
Love. We must fill our bowels with charity and serve those who are suffering. We are instructed to “lift up the hands which hang down.” (Hebrews 12:12) No one’s hands are hanging lower than someone suffering from depression or anxiety. Depression often robs an individual’s ability to feel joy and love. It makes it difficult to give and receive love. Because of this, it is often difficult to love someone suffering from depression because they cannot reciprocate or appreciate the love that is offered. “Charity suffereth long.” (1 Corinthians 13:4) We must love, and continue to love in a variety of ways, all those suffering from depression and anxiety. Love will see them through the darkest days.
The truth about happiness is that in this life we may not always be happy, even when we are trying to be obedient to God’s eternal laws. “In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33) Life is a journey full of tribulation and emotion, but if we follow the plan of happiness we will eventually overcome all the mortal impediments to happiness.
Truth stands independent of our emotions.

Hopes for My Grandchildren

I’m going to be a grandpa!
How did this happen? How did I suddenly become the old guy in the room? I don’t feel old (at least most days). I certainly don’t think of myself as the sage voice of wisdom that grandparents are supposed to be. I don’t act like a grandpa (except maybe when it comes to my taste in music). I don’t think like a grandpa, but then again I’m not sure how grandpas think. What kind of grandpa will I be?
I don’t remember much of my paternal grandfather other than he was a mountain of a man that died way too young. My maternal grandfather, Grampy, survived into my adulthood.  I remember him vividly, and revered him as great man of knowledge, wisdom, and experience. Because of my experiences with him, I have always deemed grandfathers as this repository of life experience and sage advice. I’m not sure I’m ready for that role.
What do I hope to offer my grandchildren? I hope I can impart the same things that my Grampy tried to impart to me—experience, knowledge, and wisdom.
Imagine if you could give a grandchild the gift of experience. You could save a grandson a great deal of heartache and trouble because he could learn from your experience and not have to suffer through his own mistakes. You could give a granddaughter just learning to drive your years of driving experience, and help her avoid accidents. You could give a new married couple the gift of experience at raising children, managing a household, or learning to get along. If you could simply bequeath your life experience to your grandchildren, imagine the pitfalls and regrets they could avoid.
History repeats itself because we cannot pass on the experience of history to the next generation. It is true that I can teach my grandchildren and tell them stories that they can learn from, but if I could somehow transfer my experience to my grandchildren, they would be years ahead.
But life doesn’t work that way. The next generation must always learn some things from their own experience, not from the experience of those who have come before them. We cannot magically pass on our experience.  Every generation must experience life for themselves.
Modern technology has allowed us to download and transfer information from one electronic repository to another at an incredible rate. Yet in spite of all of the information available at our fingertips, the human brain still garners knowledge bit-by-bit and piece-by-piece through the study and practice. Imagine if we could simply plug our brain into a source of knowledge and download knowledge from a computer. What if I could transfer all the knowledge I have gained through the diligent effort of a lifetime to my grandchildren with the click of a mouse?
Having more information at our fingertips does not make us more knowledgeable. Information is not the same as knowledge. Facts don’t automatically make us smarter. Knowing the science behind hitting a home run does not make us a superstar in the major leagues any more than knowing the lines of all of Shakespeare’s plays will win us an academy award. The availability of information can accelerate learning, but each generation must gain knowledge through study and practice.
And what about the gift of wisdom? Think of the regret you could save a grandson or daughter if you could somehow transfer your hard-earned wisdom to them while they are still young. Your grandson would be wise enough to save a little money each week. Your granddaughter would be wise enough to avoid drugs without any anti-drug campaigns. Imagine that like a bank account we could transfer the wisdom we have garnered over the years to our grandchildren’s account. They could avoid a multitude of dead-end pathways, fruitless endeavors, and painful regrets.
But wisdom is gained at the cost of failure. Wisdom is paid for with a price. We can be wise and learn from the mistakes of previous generations, but we must also personally experience the heartbreak of some failures in order to gain personal wisdom.
Perhaps instead of wishing to pass on any knowledge, experience, or wisdom I may have collected over the years, I should help my grandchildren understand how to gain those precious gems for themselves. I can help them experience the sunrise of a winter day and the sunset of a stormy summer evening. I can teach them that trying and failing is better than not trying at all. I can show them that learning is the one activity that never grows stale. I can testify that knowledge is worth the effort, and that wisdom gained too easily can be just as easily lost.

I will do my best to impart any experience, knowledge, or wisdom that I have collected throughout my life to my posterity, but in the end I hope I can instill in them the courage to live and learn.

Love vs Trust

I got hustled at a convenience store the other day. A middle-aged man hit me up for gas money with a sob story about trying to get his painting business off the ground. He told me how much he loved God and how he was a hard worker, he even flattered me with a compliment. Awkward. I didn’t believe his story, his compliment, or even his commitment to God, but I gave him some gas money and sent him on his way. When I paid for the gas, he hurried out to the pump without so much as a thank you.
I shook my head and laughed. It felt good to help someone in need, even when they probably didn’t deserve it and didn’t appear to be grateful for it.
Scottish author and Christian minister George MacDonald said, “To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.” How true! I didn’t trust the man in need, but I loved him enough to give him gas money. I didn’t believe his story, but I loved him enough to offer up a small token of my charity. Love is very different than trust. Love, or charity, will conquer all, eventually. But in the meantime, I must be careful with my trust. Love I must offer freely. Trust I must value more than gold.
We are facing a similar crisis of trust, or question of confidence. Do we follow our Judeo-Christian values to help our fellow man and allow Syrian refugees into our country and communities, or do we listen to the centuries-old intuition of self-preservation and keep them at a distance? Which counsel do we trust? The fate of our entire Western Civilization may very well be determined by how we answer this internal question.
One must take risks to win wars. Generals and Sergeants do not become famous without bold action laden with great risk. Risk is inherent in conflict, and to win a conflict, one must be willing to risk it all, both individually, and as group. We will not win the war against Al Queda, ISIS, or radical Islam without risk.
One must lead, or be led, to win battles, and wars. The greatest army in the world will sit inert and ineffective without competent leadership. Victory in conflict is impossible without leadership. We will not defeat radical Islamists without leadership.
Like almost every war, this war is a war of ideologies. It is a war for the hearts and minds of people. It is a war of thought, speech, and belief more than a war of tanks, airplanes, and bullets. Because we value the freedom of thought, speech, and belief, it feels strange having to fight an enemy that wants to restrict thought, speech, and belief. We deem the entire conflict to be unnecessary because those freedoms are so entrenched in our law and society that we cannot fathom someone trying to eliminate them. We trust, like our founding fathers, that these truths are “self evident” and are baffled that we must defend them or protect them. But defend and protect them we must, or we will soon find that they are no longer ours.
The Syrian refugee question has provided us with an opportunity to make a bold move in the field of battle. We have an opportunity to see thousands of potential combatants in this ideological fight converted to our way of thinking, but like most opportunities, it is fraught with enormous risk. If we choose to bring the refugees into our borders we have tremendous power to change the hearts and minds of thousands of potential, and perhaps actual, combatants. We also run the risk of bringing terrorists, who will flatly refuse to be converted to our way of thinking no matter how well we treat them, into our communities.
If we choose not to give haven to the refugees we may be playing into the ideology of the jihadists. The radical Islamists can then use our lack of willingness to help those in need against us. In the name of self-preservation we may be creating the next generation of enemy combatants that once radicalized will stop at nothing to see us, and our way of thinking, conquered.
We are damned if we do, and damned if we don’t.
What makes the decision more difficult is the lack of leadership in the White House and the political hypocrisy in the media. The same people urging, practically insisting, that we bring the refugees into our borders in the name of Christian values, are the very same people that make fun of us for clinging to God and guns. The same shills that try to shame us into opening our hearts to the refugees in the name of human decency demand that we ignore the human indecency of abortion. The voices that clamor for charity and tolerance for the refugees, offer neither to believers who wish to express their faith in the public square. Like the panhandler in the convenience store, I love but I don’t trust.
How can we trust a leader who already ignores our immigration laws to handle the influx of thousands of potentially dangerous refugees? How can we trust a president that scolds us like little children when we disagree or question his judgment? Can we trust a leader who mocks opposing views and ignores anything that doesn’t agree with his narrow view of the world? We don’t trust leaders who don’t listen. We don’t trust leaders that ignore the rule of law and even try to subvert it. We don’t trust leaders that won’t take bold action in the name of safety, freedom, or even order, to keep us safe.
So where does that leave us? Sitting in our ideological foxhole waiting for someone to give us marching orders? Waiting for the next attack to be broadcast across the twenty-four hour news cycle? Hunkering down in fear and ignorance?
We are at war. We will not win without risk. We may not have leadership we trust, but we can trust in the principles of charity, kindness, and self-preservation at the same time. We must figure out a way to aid this wave of refugees, even though we know it is fraught with risk, or our children will be fighting their children for generations to come. We must trust that the principle of freedom will change the hearts and minds (of some) of our current enemies, and that the actions of self-preservation and self-defense will eliminate those who refuse to change.

Like my interaction with the man in the convenience store, whose story I didn’t believe, we must find a way to help, not because political shills demand it, but because we love our fellow man. At the same time, we must protect ourselves from wolves in sheep’s clothing. We must love, but we do not have to trust.
Love, or charity, will conquer all, eventually. But in the meantime, I must be careful with my trust.

Definition of a Man

Recent headline —Houston transgender bathroom bill debate centers on differing definitions of ‘men’
It used to be a simple question. When the doctor delivered a newborn baby everyone asked, “Is it a boy or a girl?” There typically wasn’t a lot of arguing about it and the answer was obvious almost all of the time. (Gender ambiguity only occurs in 1 out of 4500 births. www.childrenshospital.org/conditions-...) Biology hasn’t changed over the years, and with today’s science and DNA tests, the sex of the baby can be determined, even in the rare cases of gender ambiguity. What has changed is how people identify themselves. The definition of a ‘man’ has certainly changed, but I would argue that behavior does more to define manhood than DNA.
When I was kid you could identify a man by the way he carried himself. A man walked a certain way, talked a certain way, and had an air about him that let you know he was a man. A man walked into a room with confidence, even if he wasn’t the smartest or most qualified person in the room. He held his head high, looked people in the eye, and gave a firm handshake. If you had to tell someone you were a man it was a sure sign that you weren’t. Real men carried themselves like men.
You could tell a man by the way he talked. A man used words like, “Ma’am” and “Sir.” A man watched his language in polite company and avoided vulgarity. A man’s word was his bond and he would rather die before dishonoring his good name with a lie. A man didn’t waste time whining or complaining unless he also offered a solution to the problem. A man avoided talking behind someone’s back and preferred to tell you his opinion to your face where it could be disputed in manly style. Real men talked like men.
You could tell a man by the way he dealt with pain. A man kept his pain to himself. If he was hurt, sick, or injured he didn’t complain about it or announce it to the world. He understood that when you complain half of the people don’t care about your problems, and the other half are glad you’ve got them. A man stoically pressed forward enduring the pain until it subsided, or maybe killed him. Real men dealt with pain quietly and without fanfare.
You could tell a man by the way he shouldered responsibility. A man didn’t ask for quarter, he asked for opportunity. When a man made a mistake, he fessed up and made it right. He didn’t avoid the difficult task, but rolled up his sleeves and got busy. He didn’t look for the government, his neighbor, or heaven forbid his wife, to do his work for him. If a man had a job to do, he did it. Real men squared their shoulders and bore responsibility with pride.
You could tell a man by the way he treated duty. A man viewed his duty as an obligation that he must fulfill. A man didn’t look for loopholes or excuses to shirk his duty. When duty called, such as serving your country, taking care of your neighbor, speaking out against injustice, he answered that call without fanfare and did what duty required. Real men treated duty as an obligation of manhood.
You could tell a man by the way he behaved around women, and children. A man opened doors for women, or offered a woman his seat on a crowded bus. A man deferred to a woman in a crowd and allowed her to go first. He offered up his coat, umbrella, or whatever else he could offer to ease a woman’s burden or make her more comfortable. He protected children from harm, bounced them on his knee, and told them stories. A man provided for his children and loathed a handout, considering it an insult to his manhood. Real men took care of women and children.
Have real men become so rare that we need a committee to define manhood nowadays? Men have we done such a poor job of being real men that even the very definition of a man is under debate? I’m not talking about ego-driven, chest-thumping, juvenile behavior. I’m referring to the all the strengths that ennoble man and make him worthy of emulation. If manhood has become so rare that it needs a council of politicians to define it, then maybe it’s time we put down the bite-size quiche and started being men again.

Yes, politicians and society may debate about the differing definitions of men, but a real man is still easy to pick out of the crowd. He’s the one behaving like a man.

Candy For a Funeral

I arrived at Sweeties, a candy store, dressed for a funeral. Most people bring flowers to a funeral. I was bringing candy.
My friend Dave had died.
Dave and I met years ago. He was intelligent, caring, and intensely curious about the world. We began a friendship, but not the casual friendship. He was not the type of friend that discussed casual things. He moved past superficial conversation like a supersonic aircraft. We talked about politics, religion, and economics. We didn’t always agree, but the conversation was never dull.
As a lawyer, Dave practiced the ugliest and most contentious kind of law—family law. He was always embroiled in some divorce, custody dispute, or visitation battle. He would often see people at their worst, but he never lost faith in humanity. He never complained about the bitterness and heartache he witnessed every day. Somehow he managed to keep his faith in humanity even when he could see that humanity didn’t merit any faith.
I often felt humbled by my friend’s praise. Dave would gush with effervescent praise about his family and his friends, but not in front of everyone. He did it in private so that you knew he was sincere about his feelings. He wasn’t looking to butter you up with flattery so he could ask for a favor later. He genuinely expressed himself. Sometimes I felt awkward because I didn’t feel I deserved his praise, but I also knew he wasn’t one to offer feigned compliments.
I loved the way Dave defended the underdog and fought for justice, even at his own expense sometimes. If he felt a wrong had been committed, he would use his communication skills like a battering ram in an effort to break down the door of injustice and take the castle by storm.
Then a few years ago, we all noticed a change in Dave. His conversations became a bit more pointed. His demeanor became slightly more caustic. He withdrew from social interaction more than usual as his mood darkened. Being his friend became more difficult. We all wondered what had caused the change in his personality.
I didn’t know exactly what to do, but I tried not to let this shift in personality change our friendship. I didn’t see him as much, but when we did have interaction, I tried to make him feel like a friend. In spite of the changes he had experienced, he never stopped being my friend.
A few months ago, doctors discovered a tumor in Dave’s brain.
Now it all made sense. The tumor had affected him in invisible ways that were then manifested in his behavior. He was literally dealing with a demon in his brain, but didn’t know about it. Unfortunately that demon could not be exorcised and eventually it took Dave’s life.
I’m glad I gave my friend the benefit of the doubt when his behavior changed. I’m glad I didn’t judge him too harshly when he withdrew from social interaction. I’m glad I continued to treat him as a friend, even though we didn’t interact as much as before. I tried to accept him where he was and be his friend.
We never know what demons are battling in the minds and souls of the people we meet. We often cannot see or understand the internal conflict that is raging in the hearts of those around us. It’s okay to set up boundaries when dealing with difficult people, but we must exercise kindness, tolerance, and patience if we hope for others to proffer us the same virtues when our inner demons have taken us captive and are wreaking havoc with our emotional world.
Like most of you, I know something about battling an inner demon. Perhaps that is why I am most grateful to those who showed me courtesy when I deserved no courtesy; who tolerated my bad behavior when I deserved no tolerance; who showed me mercy when in reality, I deserved swift justice.
I went to see Dave in hospice before he died. We talked for a while, and the conversation was anything but casual. After a while his eyelids drooped and he told me he needed to take a nap. I asked if I could bring him any special food, and at first he declined, but then he asked for this special candy—a gummy candy that looked like a raspberry. He explained that I could only find it at Sweeties. I went and bought him five pounds of that candy. A dying man shouldn’t have to worry about his diet. He ate some of that candy every day until he finally passed.

I took candy to the funeral of a friend. It was sweet sorrow.

A (Modern) Modest Proposal

Please apply the following definition to the blogpost that follows the definition.

satire |ˈsaˌtīr| nounthe use of humor, irony, exaggeration, or ridicule to expose and criticize people's stupidity or vices, particularly in the context of contemporary politics and other topical issues.• a play, novel, film, or other work that uses satire: a stinging satire onAmerican politics.• a genre of literature characterized by the use of satire.• (in Latin literature) a literary miscellany, especially a poem ridiculing prevalent vices or follies.


A Modest ProposalA modern homage to Jonathan Swift’s original satire
It is lamentable that we live in a time of so much prosperity and yet we as a nation cannot seem to control our debt. It is estimated that by the end of 2015 the national debt will have surpassed eighteen trillion dollars, a staggering sum that seems almost impossible to pay back.
I have often found myself pondering upon a solution for eliminating this onerous burden from the current generation, and from future generations, if at all possible. After much consideration and inward deliberation, I have a proposal to combat the tide of red ink and save future generations from this overwhelming financial burden.
I propose that we legalize murder.
Now I don’t mean that we should legalize the brutal crime of passion or even the premeditated form of eliminating an enemy without warning. We are an advanced society that is capable of a much more sophisticated approach. I propose that we legalize murder in a fashion that fills the public coffers, and provides ample governmental control and regulation to ensure proper decorum and fair treatment of all.
Allow me use an example to explain how we can capitalize on legalized murder.
Let’s say that your boss is making your life miserable and you feel like you would be doing the world a favor by dispatching him or her from this life to the next. First, you must file a motion with the government-run exchange advertising your intent to murder your boss. This of course would require a filing fee set by the legislature and adjusted for inflation from time to time. Once the motion to murder is filed, the potential murder victim will be properly notified of the motion. They in turn have twenty-four hours to file a counter motion, provided they have sufficient funds to pay the appropriate fees. The government-sanctioned motion and counter motion will start the clock towards an amicable murder.
Once the motions are properly filed and annotated with government regulators, a scrip is created in the murder marketplace (similar to crowd sourcing sites) and capitalism takes over from there. You use your influence among family, friends, and coworkers and advise them of your intent to murder your boss. They in turn participate in the exchange by buying shares of your scrip for this legal, and civilized, murder. On the opposite end, your boss likewise solicits support from people within his or her sphere of influence and they in turn buy shares of the scrip supporting the counter motion. The scrip and counter scrip will remain in play for a specified time prescribed by government regulators (appointed of course by honestly elected officials).
At the end of the prescribed time the scrip worth the most money in the exchange wins. If you have solicited more monetary support in the marketplace than your boss, then you have seventy-two hours to carry out the legal and amicable murder of your boss. If your boss manages to rally more monetary support for his or her scrip, then he or she is protected by law, and you cannot legally carry out the murder.
Of course, a person sentenced to murder by the exchange does not have to willfully submit to the event. He or she has the right to evade the exchange-endorsed murder, if he or she can successfully keep from getting murdered during the legally-dictated window of opportunity. No matter what the outcome, all monies remain in the public coffers to pay off the national debt.
Imagine the possibilities and benefits of such a program! First and foremost it would most likely bring in millions of dollars each year that could be used to eliminate the national debt. Over ten thousand people are murdered illegally in the US each year. Under my proposal the exchange would most likely raise an average of one hundred thousand dollars per murder. (I admit that I have no concrete evidence for this number but my presumption is that most people know at least one hundred people that would pay one thousand dollars to keep them alive.) Likewise, since most people want to continue living and avoid being murdered, another hundred thousand could presumably be raised by those opposing the murder.
If my math is correct, that would raise approximately two billion dollars per year to eliminate the national debt! Of course I envision that once the exchange begins the number of legal murders would outpace the current number of illegal murders at least ten to one. Again I have no empirical evidence to support this except for the current number of legal abortions in the US (over one million per year) and my personal experience with raging drivers in rush hour traffic, but I think my calculations are not an over exaggeration.
Second, this would also allow us to unburden society with those too weak to contribute to it. Imagine the resources that could be reallocated if families were allowed to amicably murder disabled children, comatose adults, parents with dementia, family members with chronic addiction, etc. Since these weaker members of society would most likely not be able raise any money for an opposing scrip in the murder marketplace, they could be dispatched with even the most limited of funds by family members seeking personal freedom from the overtasking and heavy burden of caring for someone that can never contribute to the productivity of society. Likewise, government resources currently allocated to care for this burdensome segment of society could then be freed and applied to reducing the national debt. It would be a win-win.
Third, it would provide voters relief from corrupt and inefficient politicians without waiting for the next election cycle. If a politician is not properly performing his or her duties, a concerned voter, preferably trained in the art of murder, can go to the exchange and file a motion to murder said politician on behalf of the constituency. The process could play out as it would for any other citizen, except that politicians are often very good at raising money, particularly when it involves their own safety and well being. This skill at raising money would bring billions into the public coffers and keep the politicians more beholden to their voters, especially those voters with means, motive, and opportunity.
Lastly, a beneficial program of legalized murder would reduce the need for so many homicide detectives and policemen. Granted, some of them would have to be retrained to handle the paperwork, but that clerical job would require much less skill and intelligence than the job of a skilled detective and would not require the same compensation. No doubt many of the former detectives could become freelance advisors helping those who win a bid for murder see it through to a successful end. The overall cost for law enforcement would be greatly reduced.
One other possibility that I am cautious about mentioning because of my limited knowledge with parimutuel gambling, is the revenue that might also be captured by allowing people to bet on winners and losers in the murder marketplace. I think it also has the potential of dramatically increasing revenue, but I leave that subject to someone more versed in the field of gambling and keep my suggestions strictly to those surrounding legalized murder.
So you can clearly see the benefits of legal murder for our society. Imagine the revenue we could bring in to eliminate the national debt! Imagine the Darwin-like effect of trimming our society of those not fit to survive! Imagine the lawlessness it could eliminate from our everyday lives!
You may say that my proposal is preposterous and has no legal precedent since we have never allowed for legal murder, but in the eyes of the law, multiple precedents are available for legalizing murder. The government has a history of legalizing things previously illegal, provided that said government gains control of the activity and benefits monetarily from all future activity in the process. I would refer the reader to previous illegal (or at least controlled) items such as abortion, gambling, lotteries, prostitution, alcohol, and marijuana. These have all become mainstays of governmental involvement and have provided a great deal of revenue for the local, state, and the federal governments directly, not to mention the indirect gains for enterprising politicians or private contractors. My proposal only strives to follow this same precedent and make murder another form of revenue and control for our burgeoning federal government.
When you consider the logic we have used to legalize a number of other behaviors that were previously illegal all in the name of revenue, it is easy to make the same argument for legalizing murder.
For the sake of future generations, it’s time to legalize murder.


For more information about the original work of Jonathan Swift visit  -https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Modes...