It’s a Long Time Till Wednesday

Wednesday

Dear Will:

I’m not getting any better at this stuff.

When my daughter Bryn was barely 19, she boarded a plane for New Zealand where she lived and worked for the next two years. Putting her on that Air New Zealand flight was traumatizing, especially as we faced hours and hours of radio silence awaiting word of her arrival. As fatherhood memories go, it is not one I treasure. (Fortunately, it all worked out.) Nevertheless, a year later I found myself once again standing in an airport about to send my daughter halfway round the world. And once again, it was tearful and traumatizing.

So you’d think that I might be building up a tolerance for such things. Alas, it is not so.

Last week my wife Dana and I drove to Utah to deliver Seth (our youngest) to the Missionary Training Center (MTC) in Provo. On Wednesday, July 26, he began his formal preparations to serve full-time in the Argentina Posadas Mission, which straddles the Paraná River as it runs between Argentina and Paraguay. He will be gone for about two years, during which time we will communicate with him principally through once-a-week emails. No big deal, I thought. I’ve known this day was coming his entire life. We can do this.

But on Wednesday at 2:15 pm, he disappeared into the MTC with his two ginormous suitcases filled with white shirts and other missionary essentials. And at 2:16 pm it really hit me: Wait a second. I have to wait till next Wednesday for word from Seth? But I want to know what’s happening RIGHT NOW. That thought has come back to me again and again every day since we said our good-byes. I’m not worried about his welfare (not yet, anyway—he’s in Provo, Utah, after all), but I hate being out of the loop. How does he like his teachers? What about the other missionaries he will be training with for six weeks before they fly to South America? How’s the food? What’s the routine? Has he thought about his over-invested and hyper-agitated father even once since we dropped him off? HOW IS HE DOING?!!?

We will get over it, I suppose; parents always do. But for us first-timers, our previous experiences with Bryn have proved wholly inadequate. Anxious doesn’t even begin to describe our state of distress. Our plight is exacerbated by the fact that Seth’s departure leaves us as empty-nesters for the first time, with no one but Barnum, the Moron Dog, to comfort us. So far it isn’t working.

What does comfort me is this: I know Seth’s cause and I know his heart. And I see firsthand the impact that the gospel of Jesus Christ has on the lives of those who embrace it. Faithless cynics might assert that the Church should keep its beliefs to itself, that traveling the world in search of new members is somehow inappropriate. But I see these things from a very different perspective. As bishop, I have the unique privilege of seeing the lives of new (and longtime) members of the LDS Church from behind the scenes. I see darkness dissipate as people accept the teachings of Jesus and allow His Atonement to lift their spirits and heal their broken hearts. And when that darkness lifts, I see their lives transformed by light as hope, faith and truth inform their choices and fill their beings. It’s glorious.

Seth will offer all of that to the people of Paraguay and Argentina. Most will have no interest. But those who listen earnestly and embrace his message will bless his name forever. If my wife and I have to suffer a little separation anxiety in the interim, it’s a small price to pay.

But do we really have to wait till Wednesday?

PW

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Wag Like You Mean It

Dear Will:

On Saturday morning I groaned out of bed, splashed some water on my face, and stumbled down the stairs. Bleary-eyed, I filled a couple of CamelBaks in preparation for a morning hike with my son Luke. After downing a banana, I headed to the garage to toss the daypacks into my Mazda6.

As I opened the door of the car, however, Barnum, the Moron Dog, leapt into the backseat, panting and wagging in a state of frenzied anticipation. For the second week in a row, he unilaterally determined that my preparation for an early-morning adventure was actually an invitation for him to join me. And he was stoked!

What was I to do? His tail slapped at the upholstery with metronomic intensity, his tongue flopping madly as if the hike were already underway. Plus, he was staring at me expectantly with those (what’s the phrase?) puppy dog eyes—big and brown and plaintive. Luke looked at me and shrugged. How could we say no?

Barnum, the Moron Dog
Barnum, the Moron Dog

This should give you a little bit of a sense of what it’s like to live with Barnum. Mostly he just naps and poops, but in between there are these manic bursts of energy and exuberance that you have to admire. He crashes up against the door anytime he thinks you’re heading outside with him and spins in circles whenever he sees you preparing to light the barbecue (who knows why?). He gets so overanxious about his evening snack that when he tries to go for the bowl he simply skitters and slides and runs in place trying to get traction on our hardwood floors—like a cartoon brought to life. After a bath he runs figure eights between our dining room and family room . . . just like our toddlers, come to think of it, when they were turned loose from their baths.

As we pulled out of the garage on Saturday morning, Barnum’s delirium intensified. En route to the trailhead, he paced the backseat, dashing from this window to that because, it seemed, it was all so wonderful and he was afraid he was going to miss something. Up on the seat, down on the floor, back on the seat, paws on the windowsill, nose on the armrest, over to the other windowsill, pant pant pant pant pant. No kid on the way to Disneyland ever showed such nervous excitement.

That energy didn’t last, of course. As we climbed and descended and serpentined along the trails of Weir Canyon and Santiago Oaks, the hills and heat gradually took their toll, and before long Barnum was spent. Lagging, but still wagging. Happy. No mutt within miles was happier.

That’s how it is with Barnum. He displays full-body, all-in enthusiasm for even the smallest things. His positive energy is sometimes annoying, I’ll admit, but at the same time there is something infectious about it. He projects the kind of charge-out-the-door eagerness that I imagine God would like to see out of us. We often talk of consecrating all that we have to bless the lives of others, of losing ourselves in order to find ourselves, of loving and serving God with all our hearts, might, minds, and strength. The underlying theme of all of these familiar principles is the idea of holding nothing back, throwing ourselves at every opportunity with (as the scriptures often say) “full purpose of heart.”

Full purpose of heart . . . and a wagging tail.

PW

Who’s the Moron?

Dear Will:

From where I sit in my upstairs office, I look out of a large window onto our backyard. I get a fairly clear view of the overgrown trees and the patch of now-bare turf Seth uses for home plate when he plays his imaginary baseball games. And on a day such as this one, which started out chilly but has since turned sunny, I can also see Barnum, The Moron Dog, relaxing in the midday sun.

Although he normally lives as if to embrace his Moron Dog moniker, today he looks up at me as if to say: “Who’s the moron?” He knows—because he hangs around here—that I am not likely to move from this chair for several hours as I pound furiously on my laptop, alternately working, emailing, and writing a letter to you. Barnum, meanwhile, will spend the time until the kids return from school moving from one patch of sun to the other, carefully shifting his nap in order to follow the warmth.

If you have stayed up too late working (as I did last night) and have too much to do (as I do today), it’s easy to think that the dog’s life is a good one. Let’s review Barnum’s daily routine:

  • 6:20 a.m. – Take a walk with Bryn. Relieve yourself with enthusiasm.
  • 6:40 a.m. – Hang out briefly near the kitchen hoping for a handout while the humans eat breakfast and make lunches.
  • 6:50 a.m. – Give up on the snack and go back to bed.
  • 6:52 a.m. – Nap until bedtime.

There may be a little more to it than that—including an occasional growling, come-play-fetch-with-me frenzy—but that is the essence of it. As the saying goes, it’s nice work if you can get it.

In truth, I wouldn’t last a day on Barnum’s schedule. There is just too much to do. As an alternative, however, I have come to revel in the divine mandate to set aside one day a week as the Lord’s Sabbath. In Exodus 20 we read:

8 Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.
9 Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work:
10 But the seventh day is the sabbath of the LORD thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates:
11 For in six days the LORD made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day: wherefore the LORD blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it.

I admit that when I was younger, I found the practice of “keeping the Sabbath day holy” both annoying and restrictive. However, when I started college I decided that if it qualified as one of the Ten Commandments it might be worth a try. The short version of this story is that I discovered, even as a UCLA freshman, the sweet, restorative benefits of giving myself permission to take it easy on Sundays. Now these many years later, I look forward to Sundays because I have come to rely on the chance to not do, and I find that as a direct consequence I am actually much more effective at the doing during the other six days of the week.

In our increasingly hectic existence, it has become somewhat uncommon for people to indulge in a day of rest. No doubt the practice seems somewhat decadent, not too different from a dog lolling in the sun on a glorious afternoon. Which, when you think of it, sounds pretty good indeed.

PW