Tag: Dana

Arms, Legs, Attitude, and Divinity

On By Peter WatkinsIn 2002Leave a comment

Dear Will:

Greetings from around the corner. I hope all is well with you and that your summer is shaping up to be full of fun, adventure, and prosperity. Failing that, then at least I hope you find a good book or two to read. I have several—I just don’t have time to read them.

But enough whining about petty things—here’s something really worth whining about: Today my oldest son Luke turned twelve. It didn’t exactly come upon me unawares, but it is a jolt nonetheless.

Feeling just a tad nostalgic, tonight my wife Dana and I leafed through photo albums, reminiscing about when he was little and cute. He’s still cute, of course, but in a completely different way. Now he’s all arms and legs and attitude, with a squeaky voice which reminds me that my little dude is quickly becoming (gulp!) a man.

The wondrous thing about watching a child grow is witnessing the discovery of interests and talents that seem to predate this mortal existence. Luke, we are finding out, is a reluctant pianist but gifted with the clarinet. He dislikes math yet won the Math Olympiad at his school. He is a fledgling artist (a genetic mutation if ever there was one) and, to my complete delight, a rather remarkable writer. I know that around twelve years ago I lost all ability to look at him objectively, but I do see in him a divine potential that I can only hope not to screw up.

Nevertheless, there is much that Luke still needs to learn, much that is far more important than the ability to paint a picture or compose an elegant phrase. I speak, of course, of the divine attributes which are the true sign of maturity. In that regard, Luke would do well to remember the words of our Prophet, Gordon B. Hinckley:

There is something of divinity in you. You have such tremendous potential because of your inherited nature. Every one of you was endowed by your Father in Heaven with a tremendous capacity to do good in the world. Cultivate the art of being kind, of being thoughtful, of being helpful. Refine within you the quality of mercy which comes as a part of the divine attributes you inherited.  (Stand a Little Taller, p. 185)

That’s good advice for all of us, even people like me who don’t possess even a fraction of Luke’s talent and potential. Wouldn’t it be great if we all could cultivate a bit more of our divinity and in the process maybe make a difference in the lives of those around us? I know that my family would sure like it if I did.

PW

Ascending Together Toward the Light

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20012 Comments

Dear Will:

Pinnacles National Monument is what now remains of an ancient volcano—a funky outcropping of jagged rocks in the middle of farm country, no doubt set in there by a mischievous Creation Committee to confound the farmers while also giving geologists something to do on weekends. From what we could tell it seemed like the perfect stop for a little adventure after a long, first day of vacation driving north on the 101.

Pinnacles’ Balconies Trail meanders through the chaparral beside a dry creek bed, skirting massive boulders on its way to the jagged outcropping that forms the Monument’s centerpiece. For those with trail maps, numbered markers identify points of particular interest along the trail. Those of us who had neglected to obtain a trail map, however, were forced to make up explanations of our own:

Luke: “No. 4: The oil from the leaves of this wild bulova bush was used by the Chumash Indians to wax the floors of their hogans.” Dana: “No. 7: This is the burial site of a Chumash warrior who slipped and fell on the over-waxed floor of his hogan.” Bryn: “No. 10: The root of this plant was once used to make chumashed potatoes.”

We snapped pictures on the bridges, dodged the poison oak, and before long found ourselves at the entrance to the Balconies Cave. About all we knew of the cave was that we were supposed to bring a flashlight. We had three, and as many cameras, plus a half-gallon of drinking water and just enough naïveté to make the endeavor seem like an outing fit for a family with a two-year-old. We headed in.

Initially, the cave seemed innocuous enough. Hill-sized boulders had tumbled in on each other to form a narrow passageway through which we passed one at a time. Sunlight peeked through all along, rendering the flashlights unnecessary. The ground was flat and firm. Eventually, however, we came to a narrow opening which led to an inner chamber. The rocks that formed the base of this passageway provided a natural staircase which one could descend quite naturally—provided, that is, that one had the torso of a dwarf and the legs of Wilt Chamberlain.

I went first while Luke and Bryn brandished the flashlights and Dana held onto Seth. Dana then handed Seth down to me, then a flashlight, and then the others followed. Thus we played a sort of leapfrog fire brigade as we traversed the cavern, pausing every few feet to get our bearings and try to figure out which way to go next. Each step took us deeper into blackness. It was cool and a little damp inside the cave, very dark and somewhat precarious.

“Where dat cave, Daddy?” “We’re in it, Seth.” “I don’t wike dis cave. Pwease can I have some water, pwease?”

More than once we were pushed well beyond our comfort zones. “Bryn, stay there with Seth and don’t let go of him.” “You’re just going to have to slide down on your bottom.” “Seth, hold on tight to Mommy. I’ve got you.” “Luke, help your sister.” At one point we even found ourselves (gulp) instructing Seth to put both hands on the side of the cave and not move until someone could get to him. When at last we saw sunlight signaling the exit from the cave, we emerged tired, a bit unnerved, and glad to be done with our “little adventure.”

We rested in the open air and drained most of our supply of water. Without the benefit of a map, we asked a fellow spelunker how far we would have to hike to get back to our car. When he informed us that it was another 2.5 miles to the east entrance of the park, our hearts sank. Alas, we were parked at the west entrance.

“Guess what, kids?” we offered with strained enthusiasm. “We get to do all that again, only backwards.” We reentered the cave, only this time we were not exploring; we were attempting an escape. As we now found ourselves climbing up through the cave, Seth had to be carried much of the way (boy in one arm, feet on jagged rock, one hand for balance, seven-year-old pointing the flashlight in the wrong direction). But even with the increased difficulty, we fell into our roles: lifting, steadying, comforting, bracing, offering light, pointing the way. Plunged though we were into darkness, we were calmly determined, ascending together toward the light.

We felt a sense of grand accomplishment when we found ourselves once again on solid, sunlit ground. As we walked out of the canyon, we paused at a special spot in which the sound of the wind-rustled leaves reverberated off of the canyon walls, creating an ethereal, directionless whisper. The resonance there took on a heavenly quality that transcended the physical space and provided the perfect punctuation for the afternoon.

It would be easy to overstate the significance of our trip through Balconies Cave. The metaphors we lived there are perhaps too obvious to be powerful to anyone but us. Still, just two weeks hence, as we watched in horror the events surrounding the September 11 attacks, we were grateful to have had our own small experience with sudden darkness, an experience which required us to link hands and help each other move cautiously but resolutely toward the light. My prayer is that as God’s Family we may continue to press forward—together—until the darkness is behind us and we can feel again the transcendent peace that can only come from loving and helping one another.

PW

That They Shall Not Have Died in Vain

On By Peter WatkinsIn 2001Leave a comment

Dear Will:

It’s Memorial Day weekend, but it hasn’t felt much like a holiday around here.  We recently installed some cabinets in our garage, which meant that first I had to spend several evenings culling through our “stuff” and piling everything that was worth keeping into a heap in the middle of the garage.  It then took me two full days to assign the various heap units to their new homes.  The garage looks great (it won’t last, I know; but for a few days we’re indulging the fantasy).  Still, I can’t wait to get back to the office so that I can relax.

As I pulled out my flag to commemorate the holiday, I found myself thinking about patriots.  The great patriots of the world have demonstrated a clear sense that the collective is more important than the individual.  They understood that in the fight to establish or preserve freedom for a nation, the focus cannot be on “me” or “mine,” but rather has to be on “us” and “ours.” Consider the words of Moroni, the great Book of Mormon patriot, which he hastily scrawled but carefully chose as he placed them on the Title of Liberty.  “In memory of our God, our religion, and freedom, and our peace, our wives, and our children,” it read (Alma 46:12).  That banner became a rallying point for a nation, its message a rallying cry for a people.  It reminded the Nephites that they had something worth fighting for.

Moroni’s selfless leadership also reflected an understanding that in order to achieve great things it would be necessary to give up, or at least place at risk, some good things.  That’s why often, when we speak of glorious patriots, we also speak of tragic death.  Because, as Emerson said, they “[dared] to die, and leave their children free.” A couple of years ago, my wife Dana and I enjoyed one of the most moving Sabbaths of our lives.  After attending church in downtown Washington D.C., we set out for an afternoon of quiet reflection at the various memorials in and around the capital, each one paying homage to patriots, both famous and obscure.  We watched visitors take rubbings from that great wall of the Vietnam Memorial.  We were moved by the drama of the Korean War Memorial.  But nothing was so moving as our trek through Arlington National Cemetery, with its rows upon rows of nondescript gravestones, each paying tribute to a life given up for country.  We witnessed the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and watched reverently as the honor guard marched 21 steps up, 21 steps back, 21 steps up, 21 steps back—each step honoring the many unnamed men and women who have died defending our country.

Patriots such as these have knowingly faced the ironic truth that in order to preserve our lives and families, we may have to temporarily or permanently forsake them.  It’s a truth that Jesus himself taught.  “For whosoever shall save his life shall lose it,” He said, “and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it”  (Matthew 16:25).  Jesus also said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13).  It’s what Abraham Lincoln called “the last full measure of devotion.”  It is the ultimate sacrifice, an act of selflessness that cannot be matched: sacrifice made often in the face of staggering odds; selflessness that defies reason.

What of us then?  Perhaps as we reflect on the great lives and deaths of patriots, we can once again find inspiration in the words of Lincoln, pronounced just months after the bloody battle at Gettysburg: “The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say. . . , but it can never forget what they did. . . .  It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated . . . to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we . . . highly resolve that the dead shall not have died in vain. . . .”

PW