To My Friend, Alyn Beck

On Sunday, June 8th, my good friend Alyn Beck was killed in the line of duty. Our families had been friends for 12 years. In fact, Alyn taught my son, Garren, to waterski. He also taught my daughter, Abbie, how to shoot. He taught me that you can be strong enough to bench press a school bus and still be a gentle soul.

Alyn’s death garnered national attention, and the story is very public and widely known. You can look up the details on the Interwebs, if you aren’t familiar with the tragedy. But if you want to know the thoughts of his family - if you want to feel compassionate, sad, wounded, uplifted, hopeful, heartbroken, and pulled upwards - Alyn’s wife, Nicole, started a blog where she has chronicled her experience. You can find it here: Trying To Be AlynStrong.

I love Nicole. She is one of the strongest individuals I’ve ever known. She has immense faith. She is genuine. She is a loyal cheerleader to her friends and family. She is so very conscious of others. The decision for her to share her story was not something she was naturally planning to do. She is private and protective. But her experience is so much in the public domain, she felt impressed to do so. (I think she still goes back and forth on this; so if you are interested in reading, you may want to take that opportunity sooner rather than later.)

This is the Beck’s experience, and I am careful not to discuss anything above and beyond what Nicole shares. But I do have just a few personal memories I wanted to write down, to pay tribute to my friend and to the Beck family.

First, the day it happened. I started getting texts from a number of friends in Las Vegas that Sunday afternoon. Like anybody else who loved the Becks, I just wanted to be in their living room and somehow ... do ...  something. I felt helpless. I just paced around my house.  Having moved to Utah and being a state away made me feel even more useless. I was restless that night, prayerful for Nicole and her family. Still in denial, really. Being physically separated by miles made everything more surreal and easier to not process or face.

It was Monday evening when I got a phone call from a dear friend of mine, Nicki, who also happened to be a close friend to the Becks. She told me that she’d just come from Nicole’s house and Nicole asked if I would write Alyn’s eulogy.

And that’s what broke me.

I just started crying. It was more than the reality of what was happening. It was this response to an unuttered prayer. I was unsure of how to do something for the Becks that would demonstrate I was thinking of them, that I cared about them, that I loved them, that I wanted to be there…and it was as if Nicole simply said, “Here. Here is a way.” I was humbled and honored and overwhelmed and grateful. What a sacred privilege.

I won’t post the entire eulogy, but here are the last few paragraphs.

Alyn took great pride in his commitment to public service. He was brave and dedicated; a courageous soul who loved freedom and liberty. He was a man who worked diligently for the welfare, safety, and interest of others. He was a protector and defender of our homes, our property, our neighborhoods, and our lives.

Of even greater consequence, Alyn was a keeper of an oath he made as a disciple of the Lord Jesus Christ. Alyn had a profound faith in the Savior, and as such, his character elevated those around him, inspiring them to choose a better way. He was an example of someone who lived by his spiritual convictions and knew what mattered most in life. As observed by many, Alyn was fiercely loyal to his greatest friend and cheerleader – his wife, Nicole. He was an attentive and devoted father to his son, Daxton, and daughters Avenlee and Katriann – who at nine months old, held her dad in the palm of her hand.  

He touched many lives. He saved many lives. His dedication was unshakeable. His course was unswerving. And his compassion was unending. Alyn was true to the cause of creating a better, safer and more secure life for everyone. He never wavered. He always went the extra mile. He will be remembered lovingly for his many kindnesses, his wonderful sense of humor, his extraordinary intelligence, his deep spirituality, and his profound testimony of and devout love for his Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

I also wanted to quickly share two experiences I had with Alyn, which happened in the presence of nobody else, and I’ve kind of held them close. They aren’t especially unique, if you know Alyn, but they are mine. I mostly wanted to share them with Nicole.

So, our stake was doing a community-wide service project one Saturday. Alyn and his son Daxton were working with me and my son, Garren, to make some updates to the high school’s baseball field. The next day, at church, I texted Alyn.

Me: Alyn, it was great working alongside you yesterday. You're a good man. I appreciate your friendship. Also your wit and work ethic. And thanks for having a son who is a good friend to Garren. I really appreciate your family. Thanks for all you do.

See, I’m a bit of a gusher. Alyn is not. Alyn’s response?


Alyn: You probably shouldn’t text during church.

HA! That made me L right OL. He texted right back again, with some warm and kind words. But I loved that he saw the opportunity to make the funny, and that he knew I’d get it. I love that part of Alyn.

My other favorite memory of Alyn was also at church. It was my privilege to be Alyn’s bishop for a time. I once asked him if I could meet with him after church, to ask him to serve our ward in a new capacity. He had been serving in the Sunday School Presidency, and he really enjoyed it. He wasn’t eager for a change. He reluctantly came into the bishop’s office and, because we were also friends, he very informally said, “Ah, man - I don’t want a new calling.” Sensing he wasn’t thrilled, and wanting to play along, I responded, “Well, Alyn - I was just hoping to call you as the Ward Ninja.”  He gave me this very faux-stoic game face and answered, “I accept. And we shall never speak of it again.”

And we never did. Which means nobody else ever knew about it. Which means even after I moved, Alyn was not released from his calling. Which means that now, next year, and forever more, Alyn will be the Elk Ridge Ward’s Ward Ninja.

That seems like a perfect assignment for him. There was something so comforting and reassuring knowing Alyn Beck was on your side. I never called him for help but that he didn’t come running. That’s how you knew he loved you. A good man, who I was privileged to love like a brother. I will miss him until I see him again. And I know I will.

For those who haven’t seen it, Alyn’s funeral services were publicly broadcast. Here are a few of those moments that left lasting impressions on me.

1) One of the men I admire most in this world, President Tracy Truman, paying tribute to Alyn and teaching the doctrine of the resurrection.

2) Elder Terry Wade, an area seventy in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, teaching of a Heavenly Father's love, the Plan of Salvation and sharing a letter written to Alyn, by his beautiful daughter. I recommend watching it, but if you just want to read one of the most powerful testimonies I've ever heard - here are the words from the letter written by Alyn's 11-year old daughter, Avi, the night her dad passed away.

Dear Daddy,
I love you. I’m going to miss you a whole bunch. I can feel you here with me though. I know that I will see you again though because you were married in the temple. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of Mommy for you. I know you always say that. I wish that I could have said goodbye to you. I will always be thinking of you. I’ll see you in heaven! I think that this is just one of those trials for our family to get stronger. 
Love, 
Avi
P.S. I love you so much. 

And to Nicole, I share a quote that has probably already been shared by everyone you know:

In the gospel of Jesus Christ you have help from both sides of the veil, and you must never forget that. When disappointment and discouragement strike--and they will--you remember and never forget that if our eyes could be opened we would see horses and chariots of fire as far as the eye can see riding at reckless speed to come to our protection. They will always be there, these armies of heaven, in defense of Abraham's seed.” ― Jeffrey R. Holland, Created for Greater Things

I Love You. Close Quote.

It's the Monday after General Conference, and you know what that means. That's right, it means Deseret Book and Pinterest are overwhelmed with the task of sifting out the best sound bytes from the weekend to see what works appropriately as a cross-stitch or vinyl wall lettering and what could be fleshed out into a cute booklet in time for Christmas.

I don't envy them this task, because, par for the course, Conference was pretty incredible. I generally come away from Conference weekend feeling inspired, edified, and chastised so lovingly that I manage to still feel good about myself while simultaneously realizing I need to change almost everything about me.

We come away from these weekends with this abundance of rich, profound counsel; it can be like spiritually drinking from a fire hose. I am still processing this weekend, but when I think on past counsel or advice that has stuck with me, one that stands out is President Monson's directive to "Say 'I love you' more. Never let a problem to be solved become more important than a person to be loved."

The whole statement was actually something (re: exactly) like this:

Stresses in our lives come regardless of our circumstances. We must deal with them the best we can. But we should not let them get in the way of what is most important—and what is most important almost always involves the people around us. Often we assume that they must know how much we love them. But we should never assume; we should let them know. 

Send that note to the friend you’ve been neglecting; give your child a hug; give your parents a hug; say “I love you” more; always express your thanks. Never let a problem to be solved become more important than a person to be loved. Friends move away, children grow up, loved ones pass on. It’s so easy to take others for granted...”  

(Close Quote)

I have felt a profound appreciation the last 12 months for the people in my life; from my family to my friends to acquaintances to people I don’t know who read this blog! You are all wonderful! There have been moments when family and friends and new neighbors have showed up, often un-summoned, at the precise moment they were needed with words of encouragement, acts of kindness, written sentiments, sanity-saving service, and the words “I love you.”

Perhaps there are those that feel the phrase “I love you” should be used sparingly. Or only for family or maybe those we love romantically.  Maybe some feel that to hear it used often makes it sound phony. Or that it’s uncomfortable. I don’t know. For me, I love to say it. It stirs up feelings of gratitude and comfort, of appreciation and compassion. It helps me be mindful that my actions, even my life, will provide the evidence to back up what I am saying. And I’m grateful for that.

I did not grow up watching It’s a Wonderful Life. I was actually in college the first time I saw it. I watch it every year now, and each time, without fail, I have a lump in my throat the entire movie. From the opening scene when George Bailey’s friends and family are fervently praying on his behalf, to the end when loved ones are pouring into the Bailey home, freely pledging their love, friendship, and trust to save the life of their dear friend.

I love the way George instinctively sacrifices for the benefit of those he loves.
I love the way he stands by his convictions.
I love the way he is affectionate with his children and friends.
I love the way Mary reminds me of Katie; the way she assumes the best about George in spite of his occasional grumpiness, the way she works to make their lives wonderful.
I love the themes of our lives being sources of good and light, for each other.
I love the oft-quoted lines, “Each man’s life touches so many other lives. When he isn’t around, he leaves an awful hole,” and “Remember no man is a failure who has friends."

I never watch this movie without thinking of the individuals in my life who have affected me and influenced me for good. My conviction is that I have been blessed throughout my life with knowing some of the finest people on the planet. Beginning with my parents, the first people to hold me, and certainly including my favorite, the one who of her own free will decided that spending eternity with me would be a good idea. And of course the 7 additional souls living in my home. (8 next month!)

Siblings, in-laws, neighbors, loved ones, and friends. I am richly blessed, beyond anything I deserve, with friends who invite me in and share their lives with me, and likewise are interested in my own.

I love everyone! I am so grateful for everybody! I so greatly appreciate President Monson's reminder to let others know how much I love them. So I apologize if it makes you feel awkward to hear it, but the next time I see you, I'm telling you that I love you. Because I do.

General Conference Recap

I remember watching a movie once where a man who had been in prison for most of his life was well into his twilight years when he was finally paroled. I’m guessing it was the late 1940s. He wrote a letter to his friends back in prison about how he was struggling in this new environment, and he noted, “The world went and got itself in a big hurry.” I remember it struck me that he considered the era of the 1940s to be “in a big hurry.”

The world is noisy, isn't it? It’s noisy and in a hurry and a lot of the time it seems like the noise is primarily distractions from what matters the most. Sometimes those distractions are fun--I’ll admit I’m distracted pretty easily. Sometimes I’m annoyed by the distractions; or I’m annoyed with myself for getting distracted and giving my devotion to "lesser things."  

Anyway, I've recently felt weary of the world. Do you ever get that sensation? It’s clearly my own fault. I think I have probably given excess time and attention to noisy things that really aren't worth such focus.  Somehow, maybe because the noise was so loud, I figured it must need my attention; and  it was getting it. And it exhausted me.

I almost felt like I was holding my breath for this General Conference. I don’t know if I've ever approached a Conference Weekend with a more prayerful heart. I was anxious to inhale it all, and I felt like what I was seeking came fast and powerful; like taking a drink of water from a fire hose.

As soon as Conference started, I felt it. I continued to feel reassurance throughout the entire weekend of who I am, what truth is, what is important, what nourishes me, where my happiness comes from, where safety is, and why divinity makes all the difference. I felt gratitude for leaders who love and sacrifice and know the Lord and never fear. I felt still. I thought it was a really great weekend. I hope you enjoyed it too!

The Slump

Five months ago I moved my family from Las Vegas, Nevada to Orem, Utah. (There we are, in Utah.) There were several reasons we did this. Some of those reasons were super clear to me, and some were not. Some were public, and some were personal. Some I’m still not sure of yet. But the path was illuminated and we felt an internal nudge to walk that path. So we did.  

This move included the process of finding a new job. And...everybody relax...I finally found The One. In fact, I start today, and I am really, really excited!

If you've never been out of work for longer than two weeks, please allow me to share a just a few personal observations:

1.  It is the easiest thing in the world to “feel busy.” You will sometimes wonder how you ever found time to have a full-time career and do everything else. Your wife will ask you to go to the grocery store, and your response will be, “WHAT? That’s, like, my entire afternoon!” And then when she asks you what you’re so busy with…the only thing you’ll be able to think of is that all five seasons of Alias are now on Netflix, and those episodes aren't going to watch themselves!

2. Up to now, you have been unable to fully fathom both the glory and hazard that is Netflix Streaming.

3. There will come a day when you are standing in front of the bathroom mirror, and you have the razor in your hand, and the thought will come to you, “Who am I shaving for? Seriously, WHO cares if I’m clean shaven?” And with a smirk on your face, you’ll put the razor away. Then you’ll be surprised to notice that you’re wearing jeans…the same pair of jeans you've been wearing for four days. And they do nothing for your figure. And you’ll be disgusted with yourself. So you’ll throw those jeans in a dirty clothes pile, and you’ll go the entire morning pants-less. There will be whispered concerns between family members, but nobody will actually confront you; because clearly, you have only one marble left rolling around in that noggin of yours.

4. There will be moments where you absolutely do not feel like talking to anyone. Because even when they are genuinely concerned about your well being, you have to give them a lame update. And you start to feel that, in addition to being a disappointment to yourself, now you’re letting them down as well.  

5. You will appreciate the vulnerability of others like never before. 

6. You'll develop a deepened repugnance for Know-It-Alls. 

7. You will have conversations with your spouse that goes a little something like this:

Or something like this:

You: I’m sorry.

Spouse: For what?

You: For failing.

Spouse: Failing at what?

You: You name it.

Or maybe even something like this:

You: “The problem is I’m not qualified to do anything.”

Spouse: “You are qualified to do everything!”

You: “I've never done anything great.”

Spouse: “Everything you do is great!”

You: “Just saying the opposite of what I’m saying doesn't build confidence in me.”

Spouse: “So you want me to stop?”

You: “…Not really.”

8. You will watch clips like this, and you’ll wish that in all this "down time" you could have dinner with Elder Holland.

9.  People will ask you if you are enjoying some “down time” to do whatever it is you have always wanted to do. Write, sculpt, paint, lose weight, master the art of kung fu, create an app, become a stunt driver, start your midwifery practice…whatever. (They mean well, so don’t punch them in the throat.)  You have to remember that when you’re in the World of the Employed, having “free time” seems like the ultimate gift. But when you are in the World of the Unemployed, that “free time” and "energy to be creative" and "desire to develop new passions" and "need to wear pants" is completely choked out by the daily anxiety that despite no money coming through your door, it continues to fly out your windows.

10.  If you are blessed to be married to Katie then you will take profound comfort in her unparalleled level of confidence that all things will work together for your good, that you will be blessed to come off the conqueror and that somehow you have the abilities to provide for your family. And that she will be crazy about you, come what may.

11. You will read scriptures and your Patriarchal Blessing and remember other priesthood blessings and counsel you've received and you will be reassured and have fresh hope and courage fill your soul. Then it will be after lunch that same day, and your surroundings aren't any different than they've been for days. And you will conclude, “I know that if I am worthy of these blessings then the Lord will make good on all His promises. So…since the Lord cannot lie, and these blessings are eluding me…I must not be worthy of them. What am I doing wrong?” And so you’ll take it to the Lord over and over, and ask Him what you’re doing wrong. And the only clear answer will be, “We’re not working on your timetable. Have faith. Carry on.” And you’re kind of comforted by that, even though things are not working out when you think they should.

12. There are generous people everywhere; and sometimes even the smallest gestures of love or kindness will make you weep. It can truly be overwhelming. Whether you receive of somebody’s money or time or words of confidence, you feel known. And you wish you could adequately express your love and gratitude to these individuals, who have fast become your favorite people ever.

13. When you least expect it, you will receive clarity. For example, maybe you’re in the temple. And maybe there’s a man in front of you who has cerebral palsy and it takes his every painstaking effort to move ever so slowly, with the help of a walker. And you notice the grimace in his face, and the slowness of his breath. And it surprises you to see he’s younger than you. And a temple worker looks to you, wondering if you have come with this man to the temple today in order to assist him. And you haven’t, but you find yourself placing your hand on this stranger’s back and asking if he needs any help. And his grimace turns into a wide and warm smile, and he chuckles and responds, “Oh…I need every kind of help.” And as you are drawn into his disarming laughter, you marvel at his disposition and his faith and optimism. And you are embarrassed at how whiny you've been about your own temporary struggles. And you feel a voice patiently whispering to you, gently reminding you, “Your trial is a moment. Endure it well.”

An Ode to Friendship

So, the Craig Family just picked up and, after 14 years of living in Las Vegas, Nevada, we moved to Utah.

Fourteen years is a long time. I was in my 20s when we moved to Las Vegas. Katie and I had this discussion when we moved there in 1998: “We’ll stay two years, and then head somewhere else.” “Agreed.”

We arrived on August 10^th, Katie’s birthday. We had Abbie, our Civic hatchback, and a small moving truck. Everything we owned fit into our little two-bedroom apartment, with  space to spare. Two and a half years later, when we were supposed to leave Las Vegas, we had Garren, our first house, a new job, wonderful friends, and Connor on the way. We decided to stay. Five years after, that we had also had Roxanna, Tanner, a mini-van, a new job, a new house, and even more wonderful friends. We decided to stay. Six years after that we had Becca and Lucy, a 12-passenger van, the same house, a new job, a calling as bishop…and even more wonderful friends. We decided to stay.  

Then, change was in the air. We felt tugging and nudging and we knew that it was time to leave. And we knew we would miss our home and the familiarity of the life we created in Las Vegas. And most of all, we knew we would miss those we loved.

We attended Stake Conference on Sunday, September 23, the day before we loaded a much larger truck.  Bruce Ballard, president of the Las Vegas Temple, and his wife were speaking. Fourteen years ago, he happened to be serving as the ward mission leader in Desert Shores Ward, and I was a ward missionary, serving with him.

Katie and I visited with the Ballards after the conference. I love President Ballard. He has an earnest, quirky nature, and a brilliant mind. He quotes scripture randomly and from memory, he is fascinating, and he is a thoughtful and pondering soul. I’m proud to know him. When I told him we were moving, he said something that comforted me and settled on my heart so easily, I felt confident it was true.

He essentially said, “We’ll miss seeing you; but I know we’re eternal friends. Doesn’t that seem to be part of the Plan? Just looking at it in terms of celestial economics, why would the Lord let the relationships we make in life go to waste? Why wouldn’t He put all those relationships to use in building His kingdom and working together? It just makes sense.”

It does make sense. Father is not a wasteful Being. He is all-knowing, all-powerful…and He has commanded us to love each other. Why would He want us to love each other if these relationships were not for enduring and eternal good? Why would something as wonderful as our friendships not be eternal?

Many of my friendships have changed my life. They have been productive and worthwhile. They have comforted and sustained and inspired me to be better. They have magnified and swelled and filled me. They have uplifted and edified me. From my immediate family to friendships in college, my mission, my career, my neighbors, and my wards.

I know things will be different now that we have moved away from our Vegas Family of Friends. I know we won’t know all the daily or weekly details –and I will miss that – but for me, there will be no weakening of the foundation of my relationships with friends, family, and loved ones. Not in those friendships where it matters not one iota how long it’s been since our last conversation – a day, a month, a year – and our familiarity and love and history, our eternal friendship, makes it as if no time has passed.

The Former Bishop

2 Timothy 4:6-7 For … the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.

Yesterday I was released as bishop of the Elk Ridge Ward, in the Elkhorn Springs Stake in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

I had served for 5 years and about three months. Which sounds like a long time, and it is; but mulling over countless memories, June 2007 just doesn’t seem that long ago. My hair color says different.

This was me in 2007.

And this is me in 2012.

Just kidding. 

This is me and Katie, yesterday. August 26, 2012. And yes, that may be more salt than pepper. 

In those five years I turned 40 (last year), had two children (technically, Katie had them, in the verb sense of things), dabbled in three different careers, traveled to China, Brazil, and all over the U.S. of A., contributed as an author to a book I’m proud of, started a business, bought a 12-passenger van, and lost 10 lbs.

I also had the honor of having a front-row seat to thousands of miracles and tender mercies. But those aren’t my stories to tell. It was just a privilege to be invited and trusted to be there.

It seems understood and accepted among members of the Church that a bishop sacrifices many hours a week, giving up time with family, work, hobbies, or rest, in order to serve. And yes, there are moments of profound heartache and sadness and wishing you could instantly make things better for somebody.  

But…but… there are moments when heaven is touching earth, and you are standing on hallowed ground as you sit with somebody in their home or in a room at the church building or the temple or at a campsite or traveling in a car – and you feel the divinity of that person, and how loved they are by an Eternal Father. And you promise yourself in that moment that you will never forget that feeling. And you feel bonded to that person in a way that you hope makes you friends forever.

I am grateful for those moments. They have changed me and I will miss them.

Coming Back to Bite Me

It’s summer, and if you are a young man between the ages of 12 and 16, you are probably getting pretty amped for Scout Camp! Also, if you are a young man between the ages 12 and 16, you are probably not reading this blog. Also, if you are a young man between the ages of 12 and16, there’s a pretty good chance you are not amped for Scout Camp. Let’s keep it real.

Like Chris, I regularly attended Scout Camp in my youth, and, as you might have guessed, there is an unending supply of stories I could share from those impressionable years. Like the time my friend Derek was inside a port-a-potty changing into his swimsuit and knocked his OP shorts – OP! – into the seemingly bottomless pit that was the toilet. Then, terrified of facing his mother without said OP shorts, Derek allowed our Scoutmaster to lower him in – head first, with his feet firmly held by Brother White – to retrieve his shorts. Brothers and sisters, there is nobody on this or any planet I trust enough to do such a thing. Nobody. Not my dad, not Thor, not Mitt Romney, not you. (No offense, everyone I know who thinks I should trust them to do this.)

But for today, kids, I want to talk about an incident when this guy with two thumbs (insert image of me doing the thing where I have my fists up in front of me, pointing my thumbs back at myself) consciously decided to not be an example of the Scout Law. I was neither trustworthy nor loyal, nor courteous nor kind. (In my defense, I was at least brave and clean.)
It was 1987 and my standard camping companion, Steve, and I went to camp as kind of “Mentor Scouts” for the younger boys. We were 16 and not thrilled with going, but truthfully didn’t hate it either. Mostly we were excited about the candy we had purchased at Costco and how we were going to take advantage of the younger scouts by selling it to them at a significant price increase.

On Day 1 of camp our Scout leader came up to Steve and I and asked a favor. “You know I brought my 12-year old nephew, Brandon, with me to our Scout Camp because he missed his own camp earlier this summer,” he started.

“No, we didn’t know that,” we said, “because we are 16 and unless whatever you’re doing directly affects us, we really don’t notice it.” (That’s not what we said, but that’s what was always implied in my mind from around 1985 to 1988.)

“Well,” he started again, “he’s already feeling pretty homesick, and I think if two ‘older Scouts’ took him under their wings, he would really feel pretty cool and it would help take his mind off his family.”

“Sounds ok,” we responded. “Can we interest you in some overpriced Watermelon Blow-Pops?”

So, Brandon moved into our tent. And that was fine. For a while. He didn't make a lot of noise, he fed himself, and we didn't have to clean up after him. As far as homesick 12-year old Scouts went, he was fairly run of the mill.

Then on Thursday we caught wind that little Matthew, another 12-year old Scout, was struggling with a bout of homesickness. As I noted earlier, my radar would not normally have picked up on such a thing, except that Matthew had an older sister, Amy, who was…(hold on, let my get my Thesaurus out)… ‘smokin’ hot.’ I took a poll of everyone my age in my tent, and Steve and I both agreed that Amy was cuter than any sister Brandon could possibly have.  It was time for a change. We approached our Scout Master.

“Thing is,” we began, “your nephew seems completely rehabilitated. I don’t think he’s homesick at all, and maybe he never was. So…it’s time for him to graduate from our tent, so we can make room for Matthew, who is truly suffering.”

Did I feel badly for giving the boot to Brandon so I could hopefully interrogate little Matthew to the point where he would tell me all the many detailed things his sister was looking for in a 16 year old “man”?  I guess the answer would be, “Yes…but only after I realized that little Matthew knew shockingly very little about his sister.”

I actually did recognize that I was acting a bit selfishly, moving around 12-year old boys like chess pieces to benefit only myself. And I felt badly long enough to offer a free bag of M&Ms to Brandon, which for a 16-year old is the equivalent of “throwing money at a situation so it goes away;” technically not against the Scout Law. But what did Old Lady Karma think about this?

Fast forward to 2011. I was chatting on the phone with a friend of mine from my youth. I told her how I’d hunted down my old Scout Master and we’d emailed a few times. “He just finished writing a book!” I told her.

“Oh, yeah. That’s probably because he’s got connections. You know his nephew is Brandon Mull.”

“Brandon Mull? The author of the famous Fablehaven books? THAT’S Brother Davis’ nephew?”

“Right.”

“Ah, crap.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. Well. It’s just that I’ve always wanted to be a published author.”

“Well maybe you could talk to Brandon.”

“I doubt it. When he was 12, I threw him out of my tent at Scout Camp.”

Touche, Karma.

Fast forward another couple of months, my friend DeNae was doing and interview on the Mormon Channel…with Lady Karma.  No. With Brandon Mull! I told her my sad story, and she shared it with Brandon. Then she texted me a photo of them together, along with a note. “Ken, I forgive you. Brandon.”

Isn't he nice? A gentleman and a published author. I think we all learned a very valuable lesson. It just makes your heart…wait…waaaait a second. I’m having a thought, here.  What if that very night I kicked Brandon out of my tent, he consoled himself in his new sleeping quarters by beginning to write Fablehaven? Correct me if I’m wrong…but couldn't I have some royalties coming to me? I mean, if his story has risen from the ashes of a fire that I started… shouldn't I be seeing some of that cash? Could it be that Brandon Mull was holding out on me?

No. Instead, I get a second backhand from Karma. This time it came in the form of an email from my good friend, Eric D. Snider, who unbeknownst to me, is friends with Brandon Mull. Knowing that my son, Garren, is a Fablehaven fan, Eric surprised him with this photo for his birthday.  

I hope that one day Brandon and I can be friends. Then maybe Karma will leave me alone. 

Originally posted at Part Time Authors.

The Men In Black of 2005

In honor of the recent release of Men In Black III (and boy, I think we can all agree that MIB 2 left far too many unanswered questions; and we, as a country, have been INSANE WITH IMPATIENCE, waiting to see how they tie up all those loose ends), I would like to present this blast from the past.

The year was 2005, and I was a counselor in this, our ward bishopric: Tracy Truman, Ricky Monroe, Micah Richins, Pete Toolson...and myself.

What you might notice:

1. Bishop TJT, one of the finest men I've ever known, flaunts his only weakness: Lip Syncing.
2. I don't have a single grey hair.
3. Scientifically speaking, not one of us has rhythm.

The Stake Dance: A Metaphor for Life

Without permission, my daughter Abbie turned 14 last week. And I have no one to blame but myself, as it even happened on my watch, and I did absolutely nothing to stop it. In my defense, I was distracted by my life-changing AppleTV and being able to watch YouTube videos on my television! Ah, technology. I kind of fear you, sometimes.

The thing about being 14 in the LDS Church is that you now get to experience that rite of passage known as … The Stake Dance. And Abbie will be attending her first on Saturday.

(For you non-LDS’ers, a standard congregation in the LDS Church is called a “ward.” Several wards combine to make up a “stake.” And once a month a dance is held in one of the ward buildings for all the youth, ages 14 to 18 in the entire stake. It’s a marvelous social opportunity for the young people in today’s world to come be together so they can bask in the overpowering odiferous combination of cologne and body order, circumvent actual conversations by texting each other from opposite ends of the gym, and at all costs – including death first – avoid any actual dancing.)

My gosh, what an emotional rollercoaster a Saturday night stake dance used to be for me. It was like experiencing puberty in a microwave. In one single evening you were terrified, elated, awkward, euphoric … you loved everyone, you hated everyone, wished you were younger, wished you were older, you had the sweats, and by night’s end…your voice had changed, and you were four inches taller.

The energy was palpable. Circles of friends assembled in assorted areas throughout the low-lit gym; half-dancing already, gossiping, hoping that “certain somebody” would be showing up that night, making lists of what songs you were going to request from Mr. DJ, and deciding what to do after the dance – going to Bob’s Big Boy for shakes, or going to toilet paper some poor soul’s house.

I remember my very first stake dance. My parents dropped me off outside the church, with a pep talk from my dad on how I should just grab the first girl I saw and use some pick-up line like, “Hey Sweetheart, teach me to dance.” Apparently my dad hadn’t been 14 in many, many years. And “sweetheart” must have been a warmer salutation at that time, or on that planet.

I walked into that gym alone, the youngest guy in the room, and immediately scanned the place for any sign of safety or reassurance. I suddenly found it in the face of Sherri Rosquist, a friend from my Sunday school class. I hadn’t been in the room two minutes and she came up to me.

“Hey, let’s dance!” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me with her.

“I don’t know how,” I answered, as I walked out onto the floor with her. I really didn’t feel timid about having never publicly danced before, as much as I felt I should legitimately warn her that things could get unsightly, if not physically and socially precarious for the both of us.

“I’ll teach you,” she kindly responded, with a big smile and all the confidence in the world.

Bless you, Sherri Rosquist. Bless you for saving me from a night of discomfiture and an entire adolescence of shame. Bless you for knowing how to dance. Bless you for your forwardness. And bless you for calling me back to the dance floor when, during the humming part near the end of Modern English’s “I Melt with You,” I assumed the song was over and started to exit from said dance floor.

As the song finally did end, I thanked Sherri and began walking away when a tall brunette stepped right in front of me and blocked my exit.

“Wanna dance?!” she beamed.

Oh, hold me. It was the spectacular Danielle Martin! She had been my regular babysitter when I was 8 and she was 12. 

Unless my memory is playing tricks on me, this is precisely what 

Danielle Martin looked like when she asked me to dance. 

I remembered her well, as she had occupied a starring role in my dreams lo those (many) six years.  I’d had my suspicions when I was 8 that Danielle may have had what scientists termed as “the hots” for me. After all, when the other kids were sent to bed, I was allowed to stay up and watch TV with her until we heard my parents pull into the driveway. At 8 years old, that spelled out love to me! But our forbidden love had to be kept a secret.

But not anymore!  Now I was 14 and she was a bombshell of an 18 year old, and we were on a dance floor! The scene was set, and all that we needed was the perfect soundtrack to celebrate the moment. So you’re probably thinking what I’m thinking. Yep. Cue the Hall & Oates.

The night continued down this magnificent path, enchanting moment after enchanting moment. I got jiggy wit it, I socialized with the “older” crowd, I delighted in the array of refreshments. It could not have been better.

And that’s when I saw her.

She was beautiful; this nameless lady in a red dress, with dark hair and blue eyes. Of course I can only assume you’re thinking the same thing I’m thinking. Yep. Romance was in the air. Cue the Wham!

She was standing in the midst of several other attractive and significantly older women. 18 year olds. Well, thanks to a sensational experience earlier with Danielle Martin, plus an evening of flawless socializing…I was really overloaded with a false sense of confidence. I could not be shaken. I walked boldly up to Red Dress, completely convinced we would one day tell our grandchildren about this night.

“Wanna dance?” my voice warbled, surprising even myself.

It was the last song of the evening, and heaven bless her, she actually nodded her head. Wow. Really, the only thing that would have made the moment even better would have been if she’d instead just said, “Not a chance.”

See, it quickly became evident that she hadn’t done either of us any favors by agreeing to dance with me. She clearly didn’t want to be there, and I clearly wanted her to be there so badly that my palms were sweating as if this dance were being judged by Church leaders themselves and my life hung in the balance.

Who was I to think an attractive 18 year old woman was desperately waiting for a junior high kid to come make her evening by pulling her away from her ostentatious friends and out onto the dance floor in front of a condemnatory crowd to enjoy what had to have been the single longest love song ever recorded in the history of ever?

Not a word. Not a single word spoken between us. I blamed myself, of course. But I blamed her, too. Sure, I obviously put her in the difficult situation of not wanting to crush the spirit of an overly-zealous pubescent boy while also not wanting to dance with him…but once we found ourselves in this horrific predicament, she did absolutely nothing to save me. She didn’t compliment me on my “Deacon Two-Step” (the quintessential dance move of all stake dance first-timers), she didn’t ask if that was Drakkar Noir or Old Spice that I was wearing (it was both, I wanted to smell really special), and she didn’t ask me what I thought of the intricate subtleties and underlying meanings behind Wham!’s “Careless Whisper,” which was underscoring our unending dance. Nothing. Just complete, painful silence.

It felt like days had passed.

Finally the song ended, our hands dropped to our side, and we both did an about-face and marched away from each other, equally embarrassed and ashamed.

And that’s life in a nutshell, my friends. Ups and downs. Peaks and valleys. Unstoppable, then humbled. Cloud Nine, then Cell Block Nine. But what a journey. And what a soundtrack! You’re probably thinking what I’m thinking, right? Yep. Cue the Howard Jones. 

Placing My Dignity on the Conveyor Belt

Just a heads up, I am featured today over at Modern Mormon Men. It is evidently the "Manly Mommy Blog."

Click here to head on over and take a gander at my horrifying personal experience in line at the grocery store.

A Testimony of Facebook

Over breakfast this morning my family and I were hosting a What Are Your Favorite Memories of 2010 discussion. Mine included a family from the island of Terceira, in the Azores. A story 20 years in the making…

It was the summer of 1990. Ghost ruled the box office, MC Hammer was taunting that “we couldn’t touch this,” and my LDS mission call took me to Lisbon, Portugal. Though the boundaries might appear strange on a map, the Lisbon North mission included the Azores, a group of islands off Western Europe, about a third of the way back towards the United States. These islands are beautiful, with rolling green hills and farmland, and the occasional small European-style village, complete with cobblestone streets and neighborhood bakery and butcher shops.

When my plane landed on the island of Terceira (one of the Azore Islands) I walked out into the wet, cool air, and I felt a literal, physical stirring in my soul. I had the distinct impression (not uncommon for missionaries) that I was specifically called by the Lord to serve in this area. That sensation was spiritually comforting and emotionally exciting to me. I couldn’t wait to get to work.

That first morning, while eating breakfast, my companion informed me that we were going to visit a family that was not actively attending church. He had met with them a couple of times, and they were warm towards visits from the missionaries. It was the mother of this family who was primarily struggling. She had been hurt by some harsh words of another member, and hadn’t been to church in some time.

We knocked on their door that morning, and when the mother answered she covered her face with her hands and wept. Though I was still new to the country and my Portuguese was not wonderful, I understood her explanation that the week prior she had dreamed that missionaries approached her and told her it was time to go back to church. And I was one of those missionaries in her dream. So when she saw my face that morning at her door, she knew it was time to go back to church. This was by far the easiest missionary work I had done my entire mission. And faithful to the impression she received, she and the entire family returned to full activity in the little Branch. 

I served on Terceira for six months, spending many hours teaching, visiting, and eating dinner with this wonderful family, the Alves’. They became a highlight of my mission, and some of my favorite people in my life. They were my family away from my family. The parents, Luis and Nair, were generous with all that they had, and freely gave to the missionaries. The children, Herberto (at the time, 15 years old), Paulo (13) and Nisa (6) were always excited to see us. And Madalena, Nair’s mother, was so grandmotherly, she refused to let us ever leave without eating something. Which worked out well, because her cooking was so good, I usually refused to leave until I had eaten something as well. Their home was one of warmth and love.

My mission ended in the summer of 1992 and this serendipitously coincided with a large temple excursion that many Members in Portugal and the Azores were making to the Frankfurt, Germany Temple. My parents picked me up at the end of my mission with the intent of doing some touring, and we arranged that part of that touring include Germany, at the same time that the Alves family would be there.

I believe there are moments in this life so overwhelming powerful, that earthly words fail to convey the emotions we feel. And sitting in the witness chair that afternoon, in a sealing room inside the Frankfurt temple, watching the Alves family, dressed all in white be sealed for all eternity…well, that was one of them for me. It was a treasured tender mercy from the Lord, and one that I would never have dreamed of asking for. Sitting in that room, I realized that if I had been told beforehand that I would serve my entire mission and have no other success but this, I would have done it in a heartbeat.

The first couple of years I was home from my mission included frequent letters between the Alves family and me. But as time went on and life got busier, we unfortunately fell out of touch. I could not find their address, and even such newfangled contraptions as the Internet and PeopleSearch failed me. But then…Facebook.

Just a few months ago the thought came to me to try Facebook. I searched for Luis and Nair. Nothing. I searched for Herberto and Paulo. Nothing. Then I used my brain and realized that Nisa, who would be about 25, was the exact demographic to be a Facebook aficionado. I searched for Nisa Alves.

Up popped a profile photo of a beautiful dark-haired young lady, a baby in her arms, next to a young man in a white shirt and tie. They were standing atop a grassy hill that overlooked the city of Angra, Terceira, with the quiet bay off to the side. I immediately recognized this as the site where every missionary who served on that island had his photo taken. And this lovely young woman looked exactly like Nisa.

In broken, rusty Portuguese, I penned the following message: Nisa, I don’t know if you remember me, but I am Elder Craig. Almost 20 years ago I went with your family to the temple. This photo sure looks like you. If it is you, and you remember me, please write back.

The next morning I received the following message (in Portugese, of course).  I’ll translate: Elder Craig. Of course I remember you. We have searched and searched for you over the years. I have much to tell you. My mom and dad are serving a mission for the Church on the island of Madeira. I am married to a man named Paulo, who served a mission for the Church in New Jersey, and speaks perfect English. He is the District President for all the Azores. We were married in the Madrid, Spain Temple, and we have a beautiful daughter, Madelena – named after my grandmother, who has passed away. My brother Paulo was also married in the Madrid temple, and he and his wife are expecting their first baby. My brother Herberto is married also and has two children.

For days I could think of nothing else but the Alves family. What was once a family on the brink of falling away from the Gospel was now three generations blessed by the crowning sealing ordinance of the Temple. I had never felt more of a kinship with Ammon, who was so overwhelmed in glorifying the Lord that he said, in Alma 26:16, “Behold…I cannot say the smallest part which I feel.” 

We are regularly in contact now and I am giddy every time I hear an update from this marvelous family. Including this Christmas card I got from Nisa just last week. This has been a highlight for me this year. 

Sock Hoppin'

Our family recently attended a church activity that was affectionately referred to as a “Sock Hop.” A “sock hop” was a cultural phenomenon associated with the 1950 and early rock n’ roll. I like to think the name was derived from a common ritual that took place in most American high schools during that era, wherein when a young man asked a young lady to dance; if she said ‘no,’ he promptly took her shoes and went running into the night. Thus leaving her to have to “sock hop” all the way home. (It just makes sense.  Of course, I’ve checked zero resources to verify this. But I have to imagine it’s true.)

Not wanting to be unprepared, I thought I’d better do my homework before attending the dance. I began a rigorous study of early rock n’ roll. If a song came on, I wanted to know the moves, the attitude, and the lyrics – so I could belt it out for all the world to hear, while I ran out of the church carrying Katie’s shoes.

I am going to freely admit that I love early rock n’ roll. The simplicity, the playfulness, the contagious toe-tapping. However, in my studies, I came across two songs I simply do not consider boss (to coin a phrase, Daddy-O).

The first song, penned by Gerry Goffin and Carole King, is the 1962 hit from The Crystals, He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss).

What the WHAT?! What kind of complete bull pucky is that? Are those lyrics autobiographical, because that should cause alarm. Let me tell you what some possible song titles would be if my daughter wrote it:

He Hit Me (And My Dad Punched Him in the Throat)

He Hit Me (And His Funeral Services Are This Saturday)

He Hit Me (And He’ll No Longer Be Able to Have Children)

He Hit Me (And Now He Can Only Eat Things Like Jell-O)

He Hit Me (And the Police Still Haven’t Located His Body)

Or at the very, very minimum… He Hit Me (And We Broke Up)

The second song is The Cookies’ Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad (About My Baby). Written by – surprise, surprise – Gerry Goffin and Carole King – the same relationship-savvy duo that wrote He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss). In this lyrical sonnet, our delicate ingénue pleads with us to not say nothin’ bad about her hapless, insipid boyfriend. It’s bad enough this young man is clearly a horse’s patoot, but then, listen to her defense of him. Pitiful.

Everybody says he's lazy

But not when he's kissing me

Everybody says he's crazy

Sure he's crazy, crazy about me (Oh, yeah)

So…what you’re saying is that although it’s common consent that this boy is a useless, unmotivated sap, he’s pretty aggressive and “un-lazy” when he’s trying to eat your face and pushing the boundaries of moral decency. Hmmm…I hear what you’re saying…and while “assertiveness” may be a commendable trait, I’m just not sure that’s a ringing endorsement of his character. Not really the kind of integrity we’re looking for. And then there’s the issue of his sanity, to which you drolly respond “Oh, yes, he’s absolutely insane in the membrane – insane over ME!” (as you throw flowers in the air and twirl). Meanwhile, this “crazy for you” kind of guy is taking a baseball bat to the car of that friendly, upstanding sane boy that he saw you talking to at school. Ah. That’s sweet. Now, why would we say anything bad about your baby?

But aside from these two songs, I have to state for the record that in general, early rock n’ roll songs were delightfully lighthearted, fun tunes. I say we need more sock hops! I miss the simple days of yesteryear – when little ditties made you smile, when youth shared a single soda with two straws, and when Gerry Goffin and Carole King were evidently in a highly dysfunctional, complex relationship that led to financial success and abusive kissing.

***

Here’s a clip of our festive night. Let me just answer your questions right now:

1. Yes, Katie made those poodle skirts for Abbie, Roxanna, and Becca.
2. Yes, it was the most fun night of Connor’s life.
3. No, they did not play He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss) or Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad (About My Baby)