Growing Up in Eden

Shangri-la.

Paradise. 

Camelot.

Somewhere better than here. That's what each of these mythical places represents. A place where the cares of the world are swallowed up in the peace and prosperity of living on a higher plane. At a higher level. A place where all that is wrong is made right.

Neverland.

Xanadu.

Oz.

A fantasy world, where everything happens just as you hope it would. A place of fulfilled dreams, and sunset skies, and cotton candy clouds, where wonders never cease, and children never age.

Sandy, Utah wasn't exactly Camelot, and it really wasn't Neverland. There were no streets paved with chocolate, or perfect people doing perfect things, perfectly. It was a different kind of place.

It was Eden.

A place of innocence. A nurturing home. A womb. A place you can only see from the inside. A place with no latitude or longitude. A beautiful garden where, once you leave, you never can return.

Sandy City still exists. You can walk the streets that I grew up on. You can see the schools I attended, and the homes where my friends and I played. If you look closely enough, you may even see a fossil from our epoch -- a tree that once held a playhouse, a fence with the scars of a thousand thrown Chinese stars, a Big Rock in a river, where we saluted love and rock 'n roll, in elegant graffiti. Dusty Star Wars toys and broken Atari consoles, in the corner of some attic.

But, make no mistake, our Eden is gone.

It raised us. It taught us. It gave us a reference for happiness and joy, sorrow and pain, in a safe harbor -- something to judge the rest of our lives by. And then one day, it gently released us into the world. It shattered like a broken stained glass window, and placed a piece of itself in each of our hearts, and whispered softly in our ears, to go -- to leave innocence behind, and to take what we knew and share it with those who were unlucky enough to grow up somewhere else.

And, as we looked back, Eden faded from view. Like a mirage. Like a dream.

 All that remains of the Sandy that I knew, are memories -- my memories. My friends' memories. And the collective memories that we all share of a time and place that existed, like Camelot, for one brief shining moment; like Neverland, with an adventure around every corner; and, like Eden, where we lived, for a time, innocently.

It's time to tell this story.

Sex and Praying Manitses

A frank discussion about sex. And praying mantises.

Do you know what the female praying mantis does after mating with the male praying mantis?

She bites his head off, and eats him! I guess you can't say she sacrifices a virgin, but it's pretty darn close!

Which begs two questions?

Does he realize what's about to happen to him? 

And is it worth it?

The answer to both of those questions is: He's a guy.

Have you ever noticed that males think about sex constantly?

This is not a stereotype. We really do. It's not always in the forefront of our minds (contrary to popular belief), but it's always lurking somewhere just off stage. The problem is, although intellectually we know the truth, biologically we believe that each time we have sex may just be our last. And that's pretty hard to bear. So we think that if we just hint and remind and constantly bring it up, then you (the female) will not forget about sex.


We're pretty sure you will otherwise.

It's rather humiliating, but the alternative is unthinkable.

As a sexually driven male (is there another kind?) our Praying Mantis friend is likely pretty stupid. This is what happens when the limited amount of blood in your body spends it's time some place other than your brain. But he has to wonder what ever happened to some of his buddies.

"You know, I haven't seen Frank around much, since he hooked up with Wilma. And Jerry hasn't come by since he met that hot little Tenodera Aridifolia Sinensis number. And Bobby...hey, wait a minute...something's going on here..."

But, before he can figure it out, She walks by. And his fate is sealed.

And even if he knew what she would do to him, he would still make his move. I would bet my last dollar on it.

Why you ask?

Because it's going to be the BEST.SEX.OF.HIS.LIFE!!

Yep. It's late. And I'm tired.

(But, I'm never too tired for sex. Let me be clear about that)

Fluttering the Cape

2014

The year of the Fluttering Cape

I know I'm a few days late, but it's time for some New Year's resolutions.

I love the idea of the New Year.

Of a fresh start.

A blank sheet.

I love the idea of looking back on what you've done, and haven't done -- the things you accomplished,  the experiences you've had, the areas where you came up short, and the lessons that were learned. I also love the notion of looking forward to new experiences, and to trying again.

New Year's resolutions are about possibilities, so first and foremost, let's set aside the things that are not going to change:

In 2014, politics will still be a stupid enterprise, populated with stupid people, saying and doing stupid things for stupid reasons.

There will still be strife and conflict in the world.

Reality television isn't going anywhere.

A lot of things that suck about the world we live in are still going to suck.

And there will be nothing you and I can do about a lot of it...but...

That doesn't mean we can't do anything.

And that's where the fluttering cape comes in.

In the world of superheroes, there is an iconic image. At the end of a great struggle, the image that we are left with is of (insert your favorite superhero's name here) standing majestic and triumphant...lit in horizontal light, sun on the face...jaw firm...chin high...shoulders straight...eyes confident and satisfied...

And the best of them are wearing capes.

And those capes are fluttering.

This is the sign of accomplishment, of overcoming, of excelling, of beating the odds, of keeping a promise.

From the time I was a very small boy, with the possible exception of Luke Skywalker, there is no one I've fantasized about being more than Superman.

Time has not dimmed my admiration of the Man of Steel, but it has changed my perspective on him. When I was a boy, it was the flight and the super speed, and the invulnerability that appealed to me, but now it's something else.

Something more.

Superman is the embodiment of the idea of doing the right thing, because it is the right thing to do. A being with the ability to impose his will on any situation always uses his abilities to make that situation better. Whether it's saving the earth from destruction or helping a kitten out of a tree, he makes the best choice every time.

Every time.

That's why his cape is fluttering.

That's a hard ideal to live up to. Maybe it's even impossible. But it's not impossible to try.

As I imagine myself, standing in the sun, cape billowing out behind me, I find myself wondering what makes my cape flutter?

And there are a lot of things -- some of them are fun, like learning to ride a unicycle, or taking a picture that makes someone look twice, or making my kids laugh. Some of them are highly satisfying -- like spending more time with my family than I do at work, or serving others, or deeply touching -- like seeing my children succeed, and learn to stand on their own.

Some of them are very personal, and I'm not going to tell you about those.

But the point is there are many opportunities, in the course of our lives -- every year, every day -- to stand in the sun, back straight, shoulders squared, chin up, eyes confident....and cape fluttering behind...and I intend to make 2014 the year that I acknowledge those moments.

And I don't intend to do it alone.

And that's where you come in.

I want to know what has inspired you, and what does inspire you, to be better tomorrow than you were yesterday.

I want to know what moves you to action.

I want to know what makes you stand in the sun.

What makes you proud? What keeps you in the game? What are you hoping for, and what are you going to do about it?

I want to know what makes you fly.

I want to know what flutters your cape.

Merry Christmas, One and All

The shopping is done. The food has been eaten. The goodies all delivered.

The snow has fallen, and the night sky is now bright with stars. Somewhere in that night sky flies a jolly man -- a saint, the embodiment of generosity -- and his small team of reindeer and a sleigh full of dreams.

Good will descends upon the world like a gentle dusting of pure, white snow.

Ralphie has his Red Ryder, two-hundred shot, range model air rifle. Clark Griswold has his Christmas bonus. It snowed in Vermont. Ebenezer Scrooge has been redeemed, and I have an appointment, presently, in Bedford Falls, with the George Bailey Family.

One by one, exhausted by the anticipation, the children fade away -- for a few brief hours, at least.

The wassail is simmering. The leg lamp is lit. Bing Crosby sings quietly in the background.

In a manger; in the churches; in the cities and the countries; in the fields and the hills; from ocean to ocean, and peak to peak; in the warmest of homes and the darkest of streets, shines an Everlasting Light.

Merry Christmas to all of you.

If I Cannot Bring You Comfort, then at least I bring You Hope

Sometimes in life, something comes along that just stops you in your tracks, and makes you step back, and take a long look at your life. It can be a victory or a tragedy, a triumph or a loss.

And then sometimes, it just comes out of nowhere.

This weekend, I was hired to take Santa Claus pictures, at my company's children's Christmas party. For four hours I sat in front of a wonderful Santa and Mrs. Claus, snapping pictures, as a line of children (some eager, some...not so much) filed past, to tell the Jolly Old Elf how good they've been this year, and to whisper into his ear their greatest hopes and desires.

And then Alicia tapped me on the shoulder.

Alicia was a sixty year old Mexican woman, and an employee of the hotel where our party was being held. She was one of the workers attending to our needs. She told me she had always wanted to get a picture with Santa, and she asked me how much I would charge to take a picture of her with Santa and Mrs. Claus. Not being one of our employees, she wouldn't have access to the photos that I was taking. I asked for an email address, and told her I would just send it to her -- no charge.

Alicia stood quietly to the side, as the rest of the children passed by.  And then it was her turn. She climbed up on the stage, and stood next to Santa Claus, pointing to his giant "Santa" belt buckle, and smiling big.

I snapped the picture.

And then things got profound...

She looked at Mr. and Mrs. Claus, and said "Now my dream has finally come true."

And then she began to cry.

And I haven't stopped thinking about that moment since.

The thing about hopes and dreams is that they're a bit different for each of us. Every child that spoke to Santa Claus that day, was full of hope, and each hope was a little different from the child who went before. The other thing about hopes and dreams is that we all have them. Hope is what pushes us forward. Hope changes us. Hope makes us better.

Our hopes and dreams are the things we treasure the most, and sometimes there's no understanding them, but that doesn't make them less real, or less important. Each of the kids, who sat on Santa Claus' lap that afternoon hoped for an abundant reward for a year of good behavior. My greatest hopes are for my family -- that they'll be happy, that they'll be successful, that they will love their life, as I have loved my own.

And Alicia hoped, for sixty years, to take a picture with Santa Claus.

I don't know why that dream went unfulfilled for so long, or why it mattered so much, but I know it did. I saw that in her eyes and her tears, and I was deeply touched to be a part of helping that hope become fulfilled.

Hope is powerful.

And now, twenty-four hours later, as I sit in the darkness of my home, lit only by the soft light of the Christmas tree, with quiet carols playing in the back ground, it occurs to me that Christmas is about a lot of things. It's about joy. It's about peace on earth. It's about new life and it's about redemption. But really, it's about hope for each of those things.

And it was hope -- the greatest hope of all -- that was born, in that stable, under that star in the desert sky, on that silent night, long ago.

Photostory Friday: The Light Which Pierces the Darkness

Hosted by Cecily and Lolli

It's one of my favorite moments of the Christmas Season: we turn off all of the other lights in the house, and light up the Christmas tree, for the first time. The house is bathed in reds and greens and golds. 

The lights of Christmas are soft and subtle. Candles and stars. They are different from other lights. They seem to illuminate only what is important. They are not exposing, they are revealing. Everything looks prettier, lit by Christmas lights. 

In the early morning hours of December 13, she dons the simple white robe and red sash. Upon her head is placed a crown of candles. She leads a procession of younger children through the darkened homes, bearing light and nourishment, to those within.

She is Santa Lucia. The Queen of Light. 

In Sweden, December 13 is St Lucia's Day. Legend says that Lucia was a Christian martyr of the fourth century. How this beautiful, Sicilian Saint (and in predominantly Lutheran Sweden too) came to be associated with the far, northern lands of Scandinavia, is something of a mystery. But there may be a clue in her name -- Lucia. It is derived from the Latin word Lux, which means Light. 

In the ancient Julian calendar, December 13 was the night of the winter solstice -- the end of the long journey into darkness. The return of the light. Today, in the those northern latitudes, darkness comes in the very early afternoon. 

Light is precious. 

My family is of Swedish decent, and we began keeping the tradition of Santa Lucia when Jordan, my oldest (and inheritor of all the Scandinavian genes) was very small. We modify it slightly. Traditionally, Lucia carries coffee and saffron buns, but we're not coffee drinkers, and have you seen the price of saffron?!? So, it's usually hot chocolate or wassail, and cinnamon rolls or cookies, at our house. 

We also like to tie it in to the larger celebration of Christmas, as well. After all, isn't that really what Christmas is all about:

The Light, which pierces the darkness. 

Ave Maria

Behold, the Handmaid of the Lord

Mary. A very common name. 

Scholars tell us that in ancient Judea, one in three Jewish women was named Mary, or Miriam in Hebrew. They also tell us that she was young, likely very young. Jewish girls were often married by the age of fourteen. A common woman, with a most uncommon calling. 

I think about Mary a lot this time of year. Though she is a constant presence at Christmas time, our focus is often -- and understandably -- on the Savior. But, what of this most uncommon of ordinary women? In the two millenia since the birth of Jesus, Mary has become the object of much veneration. She is Ave Maria, the Blessed Virgin. She has been a saint and a strength to, literally, billions of people. And rightly so, she was the vessel, the most worthy of women, chosen to play the most important role, in the most important birth in history. What a woman she must have been! But, I think, sometimes, in the adulation of Mary, we lose sight of her humanity. And Mary's humanity is, after all, her most important contribution to the life and mission of Jesus Christ.

What was it like to be pregnant with a Holy Child? What was it like to give birth to the Son of God? What was it like to be the mother, and to raise -- for she did more than simply give birth to -- the Savior of all mankind? Only one woman can answer these questions, but I'll tell you what I think...

I think carrying the Child of God in her womb was hard. I think her back hurt, from carrying the weight of a child inside of her. I believe she was anxious and nervous, this being her first pregnancy. I think Mary was probably ready to have the baby, long before the baby was ready to be born. Mary was the mother of at least seven children, and I believe that the birth of Jesus was as painful, and difficult, perhaps more so, as the births of her other children. She was highly blessed of the Lord, but that never means the path will be easy. 

I wonder how aware she was of the shepherds' visit that first night. Was she there to receive them and hear their miraculous story, or was she so overwhelmed and exhausted, that some of those things were a little blurry? I wonder if she ever saw the star, or if being up, often, during the night, to feed her new baby, made those hours of sleep precious, and left little time for stargazing? I think she checked on Jesus constantly as he slept. I believe that the baby Jesus cried. I think he cried when he was hungry. He cried when he was wet, he cried when he was hurting. I think, sometimes, like all other newborn babies, he cried for no apparent reason at all. And, through it all, Mary did what all mothers do -- she fed him, she changed him, she burped and bathed him, she cuddled and sang to him. As Jesus grew older, it was his mother who nurtured him, who cared for his bumps and bruises, who wiped away his tears and kissed his skinned knees. 

Mary knew what few others knew then, that this was the Only Begotten Son of God. His father was divine, but half of his inheritance was mortality. He could suffer. He could die. And, to fulfill his destiny, one day he would. But, from his mother, Jesus would learn of strength and compassion, and of unconditional love. Those are the gifts of a mother. 

When she was told by the angel, of the honor that was to be hers, Mary's response was humble and unequivocal -- "Behold, the handmaid of the Lord, be it unto me according to thy word."

 

I believe, because of the responsibility that she was asked to bear, that Mary must have had some foreknowledge of the mission of her son. But, I wonder if she imagined that she would live to see Jesus heal the sick and raise the dead? Did she know that he would be hated, that he would be betrayed by his friends, that all manner of indignity would be heaped upon him? Did she know that she would live to see the fulfillment of the Atonement? Could she have imagined, as she held her tiny boy that first night in Bethlehem, that three decades from then, she would watch the life spill from her son, upon a cross; and then see him reborn, as a glorified and perfect being? 

God, our Father, gave his Only Begotten Son, as a sacrifice, so that each of us would have the opportunity to return to His presence. Jesus Christ suffered greater than anyone in history, so that through his blood, and by his atonement, we might all be cleansed of sin. 

But, I hope that we never forget that Mary, the mother of the Son of God,  also gave her firstborn son, for the blessing of all mankind.