Friday, February 21
Wednesday, February 19
The Resplendent Dr. King
I wanted to read a biography of Martin Luther King, Jr., so I asked Shannon to pick me up one from the library. I didn't have a specific one in mind, and I knew there would be several to choose from. "Get one that isn't too big," I said. "I'll give up a little detail for one that captures the essentials of his life and is more interesting." So, she picked up the biography written by Marshall Frady. Mr. Frady is, according to the back flap, a "critically acclaimed biographer and veteran journalist," and the book comes in at a slim 214 pages. Every thing looks great.
From the build-up, you've no doubt already guessed that the book stinks. I only made it 25 pages, and I could have plucked examples of the over-the-top writing from practically any paragraph. But let's look at a single paragraph, which describes the first meeting between Dr. King and Coretta Scott (who I believe he ends up marrying, but I clearly didn't get that far in the book).
So, I guess I'm in the market for another biography of Martin Luther King. If you know of any that weren't written by a pompous-sounding thesaurus, I suppose I'll take suggestions this time.
From the build-up, you've no doubt already guessed that the book stinks. I only made it 25 pages, and I could have plucked examples of the over-the-top writing from practically any paragraph. But let's look at a single paragraph, which describes the first meeting between Dr. King and Coretta Scott (who I believe he ends up marrying, but I clearly didn't get that far in the book).
"But when she took his phone call, King startled her by promptly announcing sight unseen, in his pipe organ intonations, "Every Napoleon has his Waterloo, and I'm like Napoleon -- I'm at my Waterloo, and I'm on my knees." Coretta was diverted enough to agree at least to have lunch with him."I'll break in here to say that King seems to have been prone to some rather elegant locutions himself, and Mr. Frady seems predisposed to show him up. But anyway, let's get back to those "pipe organ intonations" and see what else the paragraph has in store for us . . .
"But when he appeared to pick her up the next day, she was disconcerted to find the source of such grandiloquence so squat and prosaic a figure. He transported her in his Power Glide Chevrolet to a cafeteria, where he proceeded to effuse over her looks, then declaimed on everything from Southern-fried soul food to comparative philosophy, until to Coretta, as to the congregation at Ebenezer during his trial sermon, he seemed somehow through the sheer symphonics of his rhetoric to actually grow larger in stature before her eyes. Delivering her back to the conservatory, . . . . "And that's about when I gave up on the book. The paragraph isn't quite over, but for me, the book was officially over at this point. Here are a few specific comments. First off, I'm shocked that Opera recognizes "grandiloquence" as a word. I admit that I did not. Second, he "transported her in his Power Glide Chevrolet"? Clearly, he couldn't have just written, "He picked her up in his Chevy". Third, "back to the conservatory"? What is this, Clue?
So, I guess I'm in the market for another biography of Martin Luther King. If you know of any that weren't written by a pompous-sounding thesaurus, I suppose I'll take suggestions this time.
Monday, February 17
Let Sleeping Girls Lie
All of us probably have a few somewhat irrational fears, particularly when it comes to parenting. Generally, parents are much too afraid of strangers kidnapping their children, which only happens a handful of times each year in a country with tens of millions of children. [citation needed] For me, I have always been the cut-food-into-tiny-pieces freak at our house. No matter how many teeth our girls had, there I was cutting hot dogs into 10,000 tiny little pieces. An average sized grape should be diced into, in my opinion, no fewer than 20 pieces before any child under the age of 7 can eat it. If I had my way, grapes could just be a controlled substance along with alcohol and tobacco. "Grape juice only after you've earned your Eagle, son."
Shannon has her own irrational fear, which was that the girls would stop breathing in their sleep. So, once the girls had gone to bed (when they were smaller), she'd be in multiple times to check on them, just to make sure they're breathing. (I, of course, was still down in the kitchen, dicing food.) I was never quite sure why she would go check, because it's pretty unlikely that the girls had stopped breathing, and even in the event that they had, it would have needed to have happened very recently, and then, even if your timing was perfect, what could you even do? (At least we knew they wouldn't be choking on anything!)
Well, we moved to Illinois, and the girls share a room now, which happens to be the least temperature controlled one in the house. Our room is always the right temperature. The girls are right across the hall way, and their room was too hot in September, and by November, it's always too cold. No amount of vent adjusting seems to help; their room just wants to be the same temperature as it is outside - I blame the windows. Anyway, suddenly there was a much more legitimate reason to check on the girls before we tottered off to bed - what if they get too cold? So we'd start checking on them to make sure they hadn't kicked their blankets off (or taken off their PJs, for reasons that they can never seem to explain in the morning). I often climb into bed after Shannon does, so I'd make one last check - at least if they were cold, I knew what to do about it.
And that is when I learned what I suspect is the real reason that Shannon has been going in all these years: to watch our girls sleep. I think I could do it for hours. Julia will kick off half her covers, or slide around on her bed. Occasionally her butt will be sticking up in the air, and often she snores. Ella, on the other hand, sleeps on her back and is generally neatly covered by her blankets. Sometimes her arms are flopped out to either side and on occasion, she'll even have them tucked back behind her head, as if she is relaxing in a hammock on a warm summer day. So I go in each night now, not so much worrying about keeping them warm but just to see my girls sleeping. (In truth, some vent balancing and leaving their door open a bit has helped.) They won't be little forever, and in just a few more years, this sort of late night lurking will be considered a massive invasion of privacy, but for now, they don't know, and they don't mind, so I go enjoy my daughters while they're quite for once, peacefully snuggled in their beds. It's a little nightly reminder of how lucky I am to be their dad.
Shannon has her own irrational fear, which was that the girls would stop breathing in their sleep. So, once the girls had gone to bed (when they were smaller), she'd be in multiple times to check on them, just to make sure they're breathing. (I, of course, was still down in the kitchen, dicing food.) I was never quite sure why she would go check, because it's pretty unlikely that the girls had stopped breathing, and even in the event that they had, it would have needed to have happened very recently, and then, even if your timing was perfect, what could you even do? (At least we knew they wouldn't be choking on anything!)
Well, we moved to Illinois, and the girls share a room now, which happens to be the least temperature controlled one in the house. Our room is always the right temperature. The girls are right across the hall way, and their room was too hot in September, and by November, it's always too cold. No amount of vent adjusting seems to help; their room just wants to be the same temperature as it is outside - I blame the windows. Anyway, suddenly there was a much more legitimate reason to check on the girls before we tottered off to bed - what if they get too cold? So we'd start checking on them to make sure they hadn't kicked their blankets off (or taken off their PJs, for reasons that they can never seem to explain in the morning). I often climb into bed after Shannon does, so I'd make one last check - at least if they were cold, I knew what to do about it.
And that is when I learned what I suspect is the real reason that Shannon has been going in all these years: to watch our girls sleep. I think I could do it for hours. Julia will kick off half her covers, or slide around on her bed. Occasionally her butt will be sticking up in the air, and often she snores. Ella, on the other hand, sleeps on her back and is generally neatly covered by her blankets. Sometimes her arms are flopped out to either side and on occasion, she'll even have them tucked back behind her head, as if she is relaxing in a hammock on a warm summer day. So I go in each night now, not so much worrying about keeping them warm but just to see my girls sleeping. (In truth, some vent balancing and leaving their door open a bit has helped.) They won't be little forever, and in just a few more years, this sort of late night lurking will be considered a massive invasion of privacy, but for now, they don't know, and they don't mind, so I go enjoy my daughters while they're quite for once, peacefully snuggled in their beds. It's a little nightly reminder of how lucky I am to be their dad.
Wednesday, February 12
Be Rude to your Friends
At work I sit next to a guy from Sri Lanka, so I finally have an outlet for all of these Sri Lankan questions I've been building up for the last 32 years. (There's actually a surprising number of them.) Last week, he told me something fascinating: in Sri Lanka, you don't say "thank you" to your friends and family, because it's considered rude. (Well, I guess his actual phrasing was that saying 'thank you' implies a lack of closeness, but you get the idea.)
The more I've thought about this, the more I kinda like it. (And not for the obvious reason that I'm lazy, and at time ungrateful.) Their logic is that it is completely unnecessary for your friends to thank you for things, because you're not doing it in order to earn their thanks. Think of it as the definition of good friends - people who do things for you because they love you and they know you'd do the same for them. There's a bit of a friendship-contract there. I help you move, and I know that when I need help moving, you'll be there for me. No thanks necessary. Now, if a stranger helps me pick up the pile of books and papers I've just dropped, I should thank them, because they have no expectation of the favor ever being reciprocated; all I have to offer in return is my thanks.
When my friend first moved to the US, it took him a little while to figure out why people who he thought were his friends were so rude as to write him thank you notes when he helped them with things. (They were also probably wondering why their friend who is generally a very polite person would never thank them for anything.) Obviously, we all need to live within the social fabric that our society has defined for us, so it's not like I can really put this in to practice very well. But, I thought it was fascinating, and I wanted to pass the knowledge along.
Also, if I ever forget to thank you for something, you should assume it's because I consider you a really good friend.
The more I've thought about this, the more I kinda like it. (And not for the obvious reason that I'm lazy, and at time ungrateful.) Their logic is that it is completely unnecessary for your friends to thank you for things, because you're not doing it in order to earn their thanks. Think of it as the definition of good friends - people who do things for you because they love you and they know you'd do the same for them. There's a bit of a friendship-contract there. I help you move, and I know that when I need help moving, you'll be there for me. No thanks necessary. Now, if a stranger helps me pick up the pile of books and papers I've just dropped, I should thank them, because they have no expectation of the favor ever being reciprocated; all I have to offer in return is my thanks.
When my friend first moved to the US, it took him a little while to figure out why people who he thought were his friends were so rude as to write him thank you notes when he helped them with things. (They were also probably wondering why their friend who is generally a very polite person would never thank them for anything.) Obviously, we all need to live within the social fabric that our society has defined for us, so it's not like I can really put this in to practice very well. But, I thought it was fascinating, and I wanted to pass the knowledge along.
Also, if I ever forget to thank you for something, you should assume it's because I consider you a really good friend.
Tuesday, February 11
It's my 20th* birthday!
Hey, look at that! I'm 20 years old, in hexadecimal. Or, if you prefer, I'm 100000 years old, in binary. For those of you still living in the past and stuck in the decimal system, I'm 32 years old.
I just checked the archive to see what I've blogged on previous birthdays. The answer is: not much. There are a couple of posts detailing a gift I got, or what the birthday festivities were, but nothing really about my birthday itself.
There's a reason for that. I don't think much about birthdays. I think this is partly due to having a birthday in the middle of a cold month in the middle of the school year. I went to school on most of my birthdays, and learned to accept that it's just another day, which is as likely as not to have a test scheduled on it. Until a couple of days ago, there was a chance that I would be working an 8th consecutive 12 hour shift on my birthday. Luckily, I avoided that one. instead, I'll spend the work day at Northwestern, which really means that I'll spend half the day driving, so, if you're wondering what you can do for me on my birthday it's this: pray for no traffic.
One interesting quirk about living in the central time zone, is that when I was born in Utah at 11:08pm on February 11th, it was already February 12th in Illinois. So, when am I supposed to celebrate my birthday then? Do I celebrate my birthday on the 11th, but my birth-moment on the 12th? See, it's stuff like this that is giving me all these grey hairs!!!
But here I am 32-years-old. This trip around the sun was pretty good. I think I'll do another one.
I just checked the archive to see what I've blogged on previous birthdays. The answer is: not much. There are a couple of posts detailing a gift I got, or what the birthday festivities were, but nothing really about my birthday itself.
There's a reason for that. I don't think much about birthdays. I think this is partly due to having a birthday in the middle of a cold month in the middle of the school year. I went to school on most of my birthdays, and learned to accept that it's just another day, which is as likely as not to have a test scheduled on it. Until a couple of days ago, there was a chance that I would be working an 8th consecutive 12 hour shift on my birthday. Luckily, I avoided that one. instead, I'll spend the work day at Northwestern, which really means that I'll spend half the day driving, so, if you're wondering what you can do for me on my birthday it's this: pray for no traffic.
One interesting quirk about living in the central time zone, is that when I was born in Utah at 11:08pm on February 11th, it was already February 12th in Illinois. So, when am I supposed to celebrate my birthday then? Do I celebrate my birthday on the 11th, but my birth-moment on the 12th? See, it's stuff like this that is giving me all these grey hairs!!!
But here I am 32-years-old. This trip around the sun was pretty good. I think I'll do another one.
Saturday, February 8
Pro or Con?
So, this is my own personal form of insanity. I can't really rationally defend it as good or fun or anything. I'd love if I did have some company on long runs, but with the weather lately, I don't know how I'd even suggest it with a straight face. Do any of you do things that you like, which you also recognize are a little crazy?
(Or have a spouse or friend that you'd like to rat out?)
Wednesday, February 5
Who's got the Button?
Don't worry. No scripture, philosophy or social conscience today. (Hey, I just figured out that conscience is spelled con-science. I've never been able to reliably spell that word. Now I have to take a minute to consider the idea that conscience = con-science, as if the two are somehow opposites.)
Last Saturday, while making a futile search for Guaraná in the Chicago area, the whole family was driving around in the car. As parents know, once you've strapped your kids into their car seats, a few strange physiological changes are likely to happen. Horrible fighting is a common one, but on this day the girls were manifesting another common strapped-in symptom: butter fingers. Whatever they're playing with ends up on the floor every minute or two, followed by wails of "Oh no! Mom! I dropped my puppy!" Of course, it is urgent that they get it right back, so they can drop it on the floor again in a minute or two. Somehow, they can sleep all night without ever letting a toy escape from their clutches, but 3 minutes awake in a car seat is too much to ask. So they wail in the back seat, while we try to explain to the, for the 14th time that day, that we don't have super elastic limbs that can reach into every nook and cranny of the back seat to retrieve lost toys. Also, we can't even see what we're trying to reach.
So, as we're driving through strange parts of town (in strange places with strange names like Streamwood and Schaumburg) Ella has once again dropped whatever the toy of the day was. To stop the whining in the back seat, Shannon gropes helplessly on the floor looking for the beloved possession, and in her search comes across something else that might keep the tyke happy: a button. I never saw the button (foreshadowing), but it was described to me as plastic, very smooth, and perhaps slightly larger than a dime.
A few minutes later, we had a different wail from the back seat. "My button! It went down my swoat!" At first, we thought she had dropped her button down her coat, but clearly, such an event does not get a whole blog post of it's own. Nope. She swallowed it. We've never had huge problems with either of our girls putting things in their mouths (well, other than Ella biting Julia on occasion), and they've certainly never eaten any non-foodstuffs before. So there we are, in a car, wondering what to do, imagining intestinal blockages and scolding Ella for putting things in her mouth that aren't food. Ella meanwhile is very sad that she can't have her button back.
Once we got home, made a few phone calls (Grandma and the Dr's office), checked out webMD, and of course, consulted with the many experts that are always there to offer advice on Facebook, we determined that there was nothing to do but wait it out. We explained to Ella that the button went in one end, and would just have to come out the other. This also means that her parents (mostly her mom) got the delightful job of searching for the offending button.
On Tuesday it finally came out. Ella was, of course, thrilled. Now she could have her button back! Sorry kid, once it's been where the sun don't shine, it's never going to see the light of day again. Flush.
Last Saturday, while making a futile search for Guaraná in the Chicago area, the whole family was driving around in the car. As parents know, once you've strapped your kids into their car seats, a few strange physiological changes are likely to happen. Horrible fighting is a common one, but on this day the girls were manifesting another common strapped-in symptom: butter fingers. Whatever they're playing with ends up on the floor every minute or two, followed by wails of "Oh no! Mom! I dropped my puppy!" Of course, it is urgent that they get it right back, so they can drop it on the floor again in a minute or two. Somehow, they can sleep all night without ever letting a toy escape from their clutches, but 3 minutes awake in a car seat is too much to ask. So they wail in the back seat, while we try to explain to the, for the 14th time that day, that we don't have super elastic limbs that can reach into every nook and cranny of the back seat to retrieve lost toys. Also, we can't even see what we're trying to reach.
So, as we're driving through strange parts of town (in strange places with strange names like Streamwood and Schaumburg) Ella has once again dropped whatever the toy of the day was. To stop the whining in the back seat, Shannon gropes helplessly on the floor looking for the beloved possession, and in her search comes across something else that might keep the tyke happy: a button. I never saw the button (foreshadowing), but it was described to me as plastic, very smooth, and perhaps slightly larger than a dime.
A few minutes later, we had a different wail from the back seat. "My button! It went down my swoat!" At first, we thought she had dropped her button down her coat, but clearly, such an event does not get a whole blog post of it's own. Nope. She swallowed it. We've never had huge problems with either of our girls putting things in their mouths (well, other than Ella biting Julia on occasion), and they've certainly never eaten any non-foodstuffs before. So there we are, in a car, wondering what to do, imagining intestinal blockages and scolding Ella for putting things in her mouth that aren't food. Ella meanwhile is very sad that she can't have her button back.
Once we got home, made a few phone calls (Grandma and the Dr's office), checked out webMD, and of course, consulted with the many experts that are always there to offer advice on Facebook, we determined that there was nothing to do but wait it out. We explained to Ella that the button went in one end, and would just have to come out the other. This also means that her parents (mostly her mom) got the delightful job of searching for the offending button.
On Tuesday it finally came out. Ella was, of course, thrilled. Now she could have her button back! Sorry kid, once it's been where the sun don't shine, it's never going to see the light of day again. Flush.
Tuesday, February 4
How to treat People
Today is Rosa Park's 101st birthday. As we all know, it was her refusal to give up her seat on a bus back in 1955 that sparked the Montgomery Bus Boycott. Something I didn't realize until today is that the boycott went on for 381 days. Wow. The boycott also was the countries first introduction to a 26-year-old preacher named Martin Luther King, Jr. So, I suppose today is as good a day as any to think a bit about how we treat people. (Really, every day is a good day to think on this.)
It is obvious how we ought to treat others. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. We call it the Golden Rule, and it included in just about every religious or moral ethics system that I'm aware of.
Lately, I've been wondering why so many people seem to struggle with it. Last I read it (which was about 10 seconds ago) - "whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to the" (Matthew 7:12) there, you've read it too, now - Christ's directive didn't make any exceptions for, well, anything. If it is obvious to us that we should not treat people differently because of their skin color, nationality or gender . . . wait, let's stop and discuss.
Skin color, nationality and gender: We're all on board here, right? I'm going to say that you, the reader are with me so far. My question for you is: why? Would you recoil if I said something like, "Some new people moved in next door, and I'm not sure if I should go introduce myself, because, you know, they're black."? You're eyes would get all weird and you'd look at me like I'm crazy, right? How about, "My cousin invited me to a party, but I'm not going to go because her husband is Italian, and they probably invited all their Italian relatives." I'm a pig if I say something like that. Why? I think you should have your own answer in mind before I tell you mine. And just so you know, I'm perfectly ok if your answer is different than mine. Take a minute and think through your answer before continuing on to the next paragraph.
Ok, here's my answer: I don't say things like that (or act like that) because the noun is what's important, not the adjective. Those people, be they black or Italian, are defined by the noun - people - not the adjective. And as long as they fall in the 'people' category, I consider them a child of God, and thereby a heavenly sibling. If you're not religious, the child of God aspect of my reasoning probably doesn't do much for you, but I have plenty of faith that you're still able to be a decent human being. ;) Ok, we're ready to finish that sentence that I cut off 3 paragraphs ago.
If it is obvious to us that we should not treat people differently because of their skin color, nationality or gender, why would we think that we should treat them differently based on their sexual preferences? I'm generally not a confrontational person, but I've recently been exposed to another rash of people who seem level headed but who can't seem to get this one through their skulls. Those people out there that are homosexual, or gay, or lesbian . . . they're also still people. Humans are deeply social creatures, and they deserve to not be mistreated, ignored, shunned or avoided.
So when the two gay guys move in next door, go introduce yourself, take them cookies and let them know that you have a shovel they can borrow any time they need it. And when your lesbian cousin invites you to a party you don't avoid it because it's somehow tainted with lesbian-ness - regardless of how many lesbians she might invite. This rule holds even if - get ready, because here's where I start stepping on people's toes - even if, nay, especially if that party is a wedding. Whoever that homosexual person is that has invited you to their wedding, be it a co-worker, neighbor, friend or relative, if you value that person as a person you'd better be there, unless you have a reason that you would use if it were a heterosexual wedding.
What about not supporting their sinful lifestyle? Baloney. First off, they probably already know what you think of it. Second, your purpose in life isn't to let other people know what you think of their choices. You are not the morality police. Don't define people by the worst trait you can see in them. Define them by the best.
What about the influence that such an event will have on my kids? Rubbish. 18 years raising a kid, and 2 hours at a wedding is going to somehow be the deciding factor in how they turn out? Time spent at that wedding is fifty three thousand times as influential as the rest of their upbringing?
It pains me that I even have to write all this down, because it ought to be so obvious. I don't like interrupting people and telling them that they're ridiculous, but I've heard some of these things for just about the last time. We should be kinder to each other. We should reach out to each other. We should value every single person for their limitless potential and their many wonderful attributes. We should think of how our actions will effect others. We should love people more, and judge people less.
Ok, rant off. You can think of me what you will, but just know that whatever you do think, I won't think any less of you.
It is obvious how we ought to treat others. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. We call it the Golden Rule, and it included in just about every religious or moral ethics system that I'm aware of.
Lately, I've been wondering why so many people seem to struggle with it. Last I read it (which was about 10 seconds ago) - "whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to the" (Matthew 7:12) there, you've read it too, now - Christ's directive didn't make any exceptions for, well, anything. If it is obvious to us that we should not treat people differently because of their skin color, nationality or gender . . . wait, let's stop and discuss.
Skin color, nationality and gender: We're all on board here, right? I'm going to say that you, the reader are with me so far. My question for you is: why? Would you recoil if I said something like, "Some new people moved in next door, and I'm not sure if I should go introduce myself, because, you know, they're black."? You're eyes would get all weird and you'd look at me like I'm crazy, right? How about, "My cousin invited me to a party, but I'm not going to go because her husband is Italian, and they probably invited all their Italian relatives." I'm a pig if I say something like that. Why? I think you should have your own answer in mind before I tell you mine. And just so you know, I'm perfectly ok if your answer is different than mine. Take a minute and think through your answer before continuing on to the next paragraph.
Ok, here's my answer: I don't say things like that (or act like that) because the noun is what's important, not the adjective. Those people, be they black or Italian, are defined by the noun - people - not the adjective. And as long as they fall in the 'people' category, I consider them a child of God, and thereby a heavenly sibling. If you're not religious, the child of God aspect of my reasoning probably doesn't do much for you, but I have plenty of faith that you're still able to be a decent human being. ;) Ok, we're ready to finish that sentence that I cut off 3 paragraphs ago.
If it is obvious to us that we should not treat people differently because of their skin color, nationality or gender, why would we think that we should treat them differently based on their sexual preferences? I'm generally not a confrontational person, but I've recently been exposed to another rash of people who seem level headed but who can't seem to get this one through their skulls. Those people out there that are homosexual, or gay, or lesbian . . . they're also still people. Humans are deeply social creatures, and they deserve to not be mistreated, ignored, shunned or avoided.
So when the two gay guys move in next door, go introduce yourself, take them cookies and let them know that you have a shovel they can borrow any time they need it. And when your lesbian cousin invites you to a party you don't avoid it because it's somehow tainted with lesbian-ness - regardless of how many lesbians she might invite. This rule holds even if - get ready, because here's where I start stepping on people's toes - even if, nay, especially if that party is a wedding. Whoever that homosexual person is that has invited you to their wedding, be it a co-worker, neighbor, friend or relative, if you value that person as a person you'd better be there, unless you have a reason that you would use if it were a heterosexual wedding.
What about not supporting their sinful lifestyle? Baloney. First off, they probably already know what you think of it. Second, your purpose in life isn't to let other people know what you think of their choices. You are not the morality police. Don't define people by the worst trait you can see in them. Define them by the best.
What about the influence that such an event will have on my kids? Rubbish. 18 years raising a kid, and 2 hours at a wedding is going to somehow be the deciding factor in how they turn out? Time spent at that wedding is fifty three thousand times as influential as the rest of their upbringing?
It pains me that I even have to write all this down, because it ought to be so obvious. I don't like interrupting people and telling them that they're ridiculous, but I've heard some of these things for just about the last time. We should be kinder to each other. We should reach out to each other. We should value every single person for their limitless potential and their many wonderful attributes. We should think of how our actions will effect others. We should love people more, and judge people less.
Ok, rant off. You can think of me what you will, but just know that whatever you do think, I won't think any less of you.
Monday, February 3
Peace
The Gospel of Jesus Christ is certainly a broad subject. There are many side streets to wander down in discussing prayer, sabbath observance, stories of prophets, and of course, the role and nature of Jesus. There are also a great many practical applications - fasting, honoring your parents, honesty, etc. - that are every day sort of things, and which allow for very straight-forward discussion. But I've been thinking about something that I think is a little under-discussed in the LDS church. Peace.
Now, it's entirely possible, that I've been sick, or out of town for all the applicable Sundays and have just missed out. Or, that I've just been in the wrong wards. Or I slept through all three of the talks on peace in the last general conference (I repeat: this is entirely possible). But clearly, I'm hinting that I find this explanation less likely. So, today, I present some thoughts on peace.
peace, with a little 'p'
"Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God." (Matthew 5:9) When we/I do think about peace, I think it is often what I'm calling peace (with a little 'p'). (This distinction will hopefully be a little more clear when we get to Peace (big 'p') in a moment.) We seek peace in our homes. We try and get little kids to not fight (difficult), and parents not to loose their tempers with those little kids (more difficult). We seek peace in time of trial and doubt ("Come unto me . . . and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:30). This is right, and I don't want to take away from this peace that, hopefully, we can all find in our lives. But I wanted to really touch on the topic of . . .
Peace! (big 'p')
Maybe we're too jaded to want to talk about Peace, after decades of praying for World Peace. Maybe we've gone hoarse from saying "give peace a chance". Maybe we've just accepted that we are to live in a time of "wars and rumors of wars". The sooner Armageddon can get here, the sooner it is over and we can get to the Second Coming, right? I don't like that way of thinking, primarily because it gives me nothing to do but sit back and watch the world burn. But often, I think we look at references to the Savior as the "Prince of Peace" as something that can't happen until the millennium, when the lamb and the lion shall lie down together without any ire.
Instead of all that, I like to remember some other verses of scripture. We should have our "feet shot with the . . . gospel of peace" (Eph. 6:15) And if you need more feet scriptures, you can remember Roman 10:15: "How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things!" The gospel that Paul and his buddies spent all their time spreading was - and is - a gospel of peace. The 4th-Nephites had "no contention in the land, because of the love of God which did dwell in the hearts of the people . . . and surely there could not be a happier people who had been created by the hand of God" (4 Ne 1: 15,16)
I guess the problem with World Peace is that it seems to be too large for anyone to affect much on their own. But maybe if everyone thought a little bit more on peace, some of the bigger conflicts would take care of themselves. I wish we lived in a world where we felt it was a tragedy that we even needed a standing army. Instead, combat video games are some of the best selling titles. I wish camouflage was put on with the same reluctance as a hazmat suit. Perhaps with more focus on peace, we wouldn't send athletes into sports centered around inflicting pain, and brutally defeating opponents (boxing, and MMA, I'm looking at you).
All the best scriptures about peace seem to come from Isaiah, and I've got just two more for you. From Chapter 52, verse 7: "How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him the bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace; that bringeth good tidings of good, that publisheth salvation; that sayeth unto Zion, Thy God reigneth." We are part of wards that form Stakes of Zion on the earth.
And finally, one of my favorite scriptures from Isaiah. While I know these last two are pretty specifically "last days" verses, I think the ideas expressed are beautiful, and I anxiously await their arrival. From Isaiah 2:4:
Now, it's entirely possible, that I've been sick, or out of town for all the applicable Sundays and have just missed out. Or, that I've just been in the wrong wards. Or I slept through all three of the talks on peace in the last general conference (I repeat: this is entirely possible). But clearly, I'm hinting that I find this explanation less likely. So, today, I present some thoughts on peace.
peace, with a little 'p'
"Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God." (Matthew 5:9) When we/I do think about peace, I think it is often what I'm calling peace (with a little 'p'). (This distinction will hopefully be a little more clear when we get to Peace (big 'p') in a moment.) We seek peace in our homes. We try and get little kids to not fight (difficult), and parents not to loose their tempers with those little kids (more difficult). We seek peace in time of trial and doubt ("Come unto me . . . and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:30). This is right, and I don't want to take away from this peace that, hopefully, we can all find in our lives. But I wanted to really touch on the topic of . . .
Peace! (big 'p')
Maybe we're too jaded to want to talk about Peace, after decades of praying for World Peace. Maybe we've gone hoarse from saying "give peace a chance". Maybe we've just accepted that we are to live in a time of "wars and rumors of wars". The sooner Armageddon can get here, the sooner it is over and we can get to the Second Coming, right? I don't like that way of thinking, primarily because it gives me nothing to do but sit back and watch the world burn. But often, I think we look at references to the Savior as the "Prince of Peace" as something that can't happen until the millennium, when the lamb and the lion shall lie down together without any ire.
Instead of all that, I like to remember some other verses of scripture. We should have our "feet shot with the . . . gospel of peace" (Eph. 6:15) And if you need more feet scriptures, you can remember Roman 10:15: "How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things!" The gospel that Paul and his buddies spent all their time spreading was - and is - a gospel of peace. The 4th-Nephites had "no contention in the land, because of the love of God which did dwell in the hearts of the people . . . and surely there could not be a happier people who had been created by the hand of God" (4 Ne 1: 15,16)
I guess the problem with World Peace is that it seems to be too large for anyone to affect much on their own. But maybe if everyone thought a little bit more on peace, some of the bigger conflicts would take care of themselves. I wish we lived in a world where we felt it was a tragedy that we even needed a standing army. Instead, combat video games are some of the best selling titles. I wish camouflage was put on with the same reluctance as a hazmat suit. Perhaps with more focus on peace, we wouldn't send athletes into sports centered around inflicting pain, and brutally defeating opponents (boxing, and MMA, I'm looking at you).
All the best scriptures about peace seem to come from Isaiah, and I've got just two more for you. From Chapter 52, verse 7: "How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him the bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace; that bringeth good tidings of good, that publisheth salvation; that sayeth unto Zion, Thy God reigneth." We are part of wards that form Stakes of Zion on the earth.
And finally, one of my favorite scriptures from Isaiah. While I know these last two are pretty specifically "last days" verses, I think the ideas expressed are beautiful, and I anxiously await their arrival. From Isaiah 2:4:
"And they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more."
Saturday, February 1
Monthly Numbers
Deep down, I'm against the arbitrary importance that a base 10 numbering system imposes on certain values. The only real reason that we think 30th birthdays and 10th anniversaries are important is because we have 10 fingers. The base 10 system isn't the only arbitrary designation we follow, either. Birthdays are the completion of another trip around the sun, but what practical meaning does that have in life? And we even more arbitrarily divide that trip up into 12 months, because of the moon's orbit.
But, it's the end of January, so lets check in on a few goals. If you missed when I introduced these goals at the beginning of the year, it's because I didn't.
[Here's my disclaimer. Sometimes I worry about blathering on and on about stuff like this on my blog. I don't want to come across as too "look how cool I am, I can read a million books." But you know what, you came here on your own. No one's making you read this. This isn't facebook where I'm spamming your feed with pictures of my lunch and buzzfeed's 17 best pictures of beans, and this certainly isn't real life where I've trapped you in a corner at a social event and won't shut up about the wear patterns on the bottom of my running shoes and then I try to show you my blackened toe nails. (I don't actually have blackened toe nails, and if I did, wouldn't show them off at parties . . . probably.)]
Running
It's been the coldest winter in a few decades here at my house. Probably something similar at your house, too. That's not so good for running. With work, much of my running has to happen early in the morning, which is when it's the coldest. 20 of the 31 days this month had mornings where the temperature was below 10 °F. So, yeah, I don't run when it's that cold. I want to get to 750 miles this year and figured I needed about 42 miles this month. I'm just short of 30. (29.56 to be precise.) So, that's disappointing, but at the same time, it's the most I've ever run in January.
Pushups
As I told Brett the other day "it's not exercise unless you've got a spreadsheet". So I figured, I'd do 10,000 pushups this year. (Yeah, I know, I've fallen into the base-10 trap.) Never mind that I've only done 3,400 in the last 3 years combined. I want Malcolm Gladwell to appoint me a pushup expert, so I guess I've got to do ten thousand. I've got 1,408 in so far, which puts me on pace for over 16,000. Maybe I can be a double expert!
Reading
In January I finished 5 books. 3 were by Brandon Sanderson: "The Well of Ascension" (Mistborn #2), "Hero of Ages" (Mistborn #3), and "Alloy of Law" (Mistborn #4, I guess). The books were great, though I think "Alloy of Law" is a terrible title. Sadly, now I'll be waiting years and years for him to write more Mistborn books. I think 5 more are tentatively scheduled. I also re-read "The Killer Angels" by Michael Shaara (spelled that right without looking it up!) and read "Dad is Fat" by Jim Gaffigan (I'm on a spelling roll!). Gaffigan is very funny, but I felt like 274 pages all on being a parent was a bit much. Generally though, I can recommend all those books as worth-while.
For the year, that brings me to 1752 pages. Shannon has over 1100 pages entered into the log (spreadsheets or it doesn't count!), but combined, we're still getting creamed by Julia who is at 2986 pages. I'm sure she read a book yesterday to put her over 3000 for the month. It's pretty ridiculous. Junie B Jones accounts for 11 of her 32 books, but less than a quarter of the pages. The Boxcar Children and Cam Jansen make up pretty sizable chunks of her reading, too.
But, it's the end of January, so lets check in on a few goals. If you missed when I introduced these goals at the beginning of the year, it's because I didn't.
[Here's my disclaimer. Sometimes I worry about blathering on and on about stuff like this on my blog. I don't want to come across as too "look how cool I am, I can read a million books." But you know what, you came here on your own. No one's making you read this. This isn't facebook where I'm spamming your feed with pictures of my lunch and buzzfeed's 17 best pictures of beans, and this certainly isn't real life where I've trapped you in a corner at a social event and won't shut up about the wear patterns on the bottom of my running shoes and then I try to show you my blackened toe nails. (I don't actually have blackened toe nails, and if I did, wouldn't show them off at parties . . . probably.)]
Running
It's been the coldest winter in a few decades here at my house. Probably something similar at your house, too. That's not so good for running. With work, much of my running has to happen early in the morning, which is when it's the coldest. 20 of the 31 days this month had mornings where the temperature was below 10 °F. So, yeah, I don't run when it's that cold. I want to get to 750 miles this year and figured I needed about 42 miles this month. I'm just short of 30. (29.56 to be precise.) So, that's disappointing, but at the same time, it's the most I've ever run in January.
Pushups
As I told Brett the other day "it's not exercise unless you've got a spreadsheet". So I figured, I'd do 10,000 pushups this year. (Yeah, I know, I've fallen into the base-10 trap.) Never mind that I've only done 3,400 in the last 3 years combined. I want Malcolm Gladwell to appoint me a pushup expert, so I guess I've got to do ten thousand. I've got 1,408 in so far, which puts me on pace for over 16,000. Maybe I can be a double expert!
Reading
In January I finished 5 books. 3 were by Brandon Sanderson: "The Well of Ascension" (Mistborn #2), "Hero of Ages" (Mistborn #3), and "Alloy of Law" (Mistborn #4, I guess). The books were great, though I think "Alloy of Law" is a terrible title. Sadly, now I'll be waiting years and years for him to write more Mistborn books. I think 5 more are tentatively scheduled. I also re-read "The Killer Angels" by Michael Shaara (spelled that right without looking it up!) and read "Dad is Fat" by Jim Gaffigan (I'm on a spelling roll!). Gaffigan is very funny, but I felt like 274 pages all on being a parent was a bit much. Generally though, I can recommend all those books as worth-while.
For the year, that brings me to 1752 pages. Shannon has over 1100 pages entered into the log (spreadsheets or it doesn't count!), but combined, we're still getting creamed by Julia who is at 2986 pages. I'm sure she read a book yesterday to put her over 3000 for the month. It's pretty ridiculous. Junie B Jones accounts for 11 of her 32 books, but less than a quarter of the pages. The Boxcar Children and Cam Jansen make up pretty sizable chunks of her reading, too.
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