Constructive Thoughts: Loneliness

It has been four years since my father passed away. About six months before that happened, I began suffering from what I now know to be depression. It has waxed and waned during that time, never getting to a point I would call “crippling.”

Until three years ago. At that time I went through a period of unbelievable stress and trials, both personally and professionally, as I started up my own small law firm. At about the same time, I began suffering from some medical issues that, among other things, enhanced my depression and affected my thinking processes, making it take longer--and be more physically exhausting--to make decisions. Coincidentally, a close friend of mine bought out his senior partner about 20 months ago and he learned nothing from my plight: he burned out his adrenal system and has been going through a living hell.

The depression has been growing steadily worse. Some days it is nearly crippling, to the point where it is difficult to get out of bed, shower, get to the office--everything that is temporally important in life.

Constructive Thoughts: Dad, Part 2

I wish today to celebrate with my family and friends the life of my father: our brother, granddad, and friend. I tried desperately to find a quotation from Dad’s favorite author, Louis L’Amour, but nothing seemed to fit–everything was filled with flying lead and oats. So I went to one of his other favorite authors, Victor Hugo, who wrote that “There are times that no matter the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees.” The past few weeks have been full of those times for me and my family. On behalf of my mother and all of our family let me again express our gratitude for the love you had for our father and for the outpouring of love and respect we have seen.

Father’s Day was difficult for me, my brothers, and my mother this year. But what better time to be able to remember what Dad meant to us? What a fitting time to celebrate his life and memory? And what a great time to consider the fact that he has gone ahead to prepare the way for us, and the fact that we will see him again? That our separation will be, in the grand scheme of things, only a little while. How wonderful is the thought that my children can embrace him once again, that we can sit at his feet and listen to his stories? That we can be together, forever, as a famliy?

And this is possible because nearly a millennium ago, an individual knelt in a garden and prayed to his Father. He was known as the “Carpenter’s son,” yet he was the Son of God. It was there, in that garden, that he took upon himself the sins of all mankind, the sins of all the world, both past, present, and future. It was an event that had been foretold by prophets throughout history.

It was there in that garden that night, as he bled from every pore, that Christ, “The Son of Man . . . descended below . . . all.” [D&C 122:8]
This was “the blood that maketh an atonement for the soul.” [Leviticus 17:11]
“Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.” [John 1:29]
“Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows . . . he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities . . . and with his stripes we are healed.” [Isaiah 53:4-5]
“He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.” [Isaiah 53:3]
“God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” [John 3:16]

The agony he suffered in that garden is unfathomable to us, both in intensity and in cause. But the gift that he gave us through that suffering is also marvelous, magnificent. On that night, Jesus shouldered the burdens of all of our transgressions -— my transgressions and your transgressions. I added to his anguish that night, as did each one of us. But he picked up that burden and took it upon himself so that a price would be paid. That price was paid so that I might escape, and so that you might escape, the required punishments that correspond to our sins. The scriptures tell us that the gift is ours if we but believe in him, accept his gift, repent and be baptized, receive the gift of the holy ghost, and to continue faithfully to observe and keep the commandments all the days of our lives. Christ gifted us with salvation from spiritual death, which grants us eternal life with our heavenly father.

Many years ago, a newspaper writer was asked, “What would be the most important news story the world could receive?” Think about how you would answer that question: would it be the development of the atomic bomb? Man walking on the moon? The death of a (fill in the blank) celebrity? The assassination of a president? After some thought the reporter finally answered that the most important story he could report would be that a man that had lived and died had come back to life; and specifically that Jesus Christ was truly resurrected and lives today.

No event in all history compares to the importance of the resurrection of Christ. Because of this gift all mankind will come forth, each in his own order. We will live eternally. We will be resurrected and overcome physical death.

Isn’t this a joyous, glorious message? It means that we will one day be reunited with Dad. I bear you my testimony that this Gospel principle is true; the Atonement is real — Christ has given us gifts that will liberate our spirit and our body from the bonds of death and allow us to live in God’s presence forever.

We are understandably sad. We have lost a loved one. I should restate that; I do not like that phrase. We have not “lost” Dad —- We know exactly where he is. He is with his loving parents, grandparents, and in-laws, his brothers and his close friends that preceded him from this earth. The list goes on and on. To paraphrase David O. McKay, a former President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints: “[Our father] closed [his] eyes in peaceful slumber, and awakened with loved ones.” While no one mortal was with him when he passed from this life, the speed with which the event happened, and how he looked afterwards attests to the fact that his last minutes were indeed peaceful; it was indeed as if he was only sleeping when his spirit left this world. His pain and suffering were removed from him.

It has been written that “Death is the liberator of him whom freedom cannot release; the physician of him whom medicine cannot cure; the comforter of him whom time cannot console.” [Charles Caleb Colton] Dad has been liberated. He is happy. He is youthful, and joyful once again, just as he was before the travails of mortal life began to take him away from us. We know where he is and we rejoice in who he is once more.

Yet we are filled with sorrow. Our sorrow is understandable, it is human: it is sorrow for us, not for him. Speaking for myself, as I have elsewhere here, it is a sorrow born of selfishness. In spite of knowing where he is and who he is with, I still want him back as a part of my everyday life. Dad is no longer physically present to talk to, to listen to our stories and concerns. We can no longer hear his stories, get his advice, or see or hear, except in our hearts and minds, his smile and his laugh. We can no longer go to him for advice and we can no longer learn from him skills such as woodworking. I cannot call him during a college football game and complain about a referee’s call or rave about an amazing play. These are the things that I am sorrowful for — the things that I have lost.

When I consider this, and think about the precepts of Christ’s gospel and turn my thoughts from an inward focus to an outward focus, when I consider these things and think about where dad is and who he is with, not to mention the fact that we will see him again in time, then my sorrow is lessened and the pain eases. He has graduated from the test of mortality to an institution of higher learning.

It is a change of attitude that is required. Anyone that knew Dad well knew that attitude was an important concept to him. It was something that he tried with his sons at an early age to instill: “ATTITUDE MAKES THE DIFFERENCE.” He was forever reminding us of this principle. Growing up, one of the most oft-heard phrases in the home was my father telling one us to “CHECK YOUR ATTITUDE!” It was his way of telling us to shape up. Eventually it got to just simply “CHECK IT!” That was one of those times you knew you were in trouble.

In my scriptures I still carry a laminated card that I made on my mission that reads “AMTD” — an acronym that Dad used when even “Check it!” didn’t work. “Attitude makes the difference.” My friends, to all who knew Dad: “Check your attitude.” Do not dwell on the sorrow, do not dwell on the pain. Negative attitudes are of the Adversary. Remember instead a man who very patiently, hour after hour, threw a baseball to his youngest son in the front yard -— a son who was somehow completely incompetent and inept in the handling of a baseball glove. Remember a man who learned to fly a plane, who flew around the world, while sitting with his brother on a log in a meadow in Southern Idaho. Remember a man who never failed to bring home from a business trip some treat for his youngest son, whether it be a Matchbox car or a bag of airline peanuts, even though that son fairly quickly realized that -— more than likely -— most of those treats were sent with him by my mother. Remember a man who always came home. Remember a man who did all he could to find work to support his family, while not allowing his family to suffer or, at least in my case, to even know that the family was struggling. Remember a man who grabbed every task set before him and performed it to the utmost of his ability, whether it was working, woodworking, whether it was supporting the University, or whether it was teaching the Gospel and sharing his testimony of the Lord. Remember a man who labored faithfully in the Temple of the Lord each week, even when his own physical health was declining, who begged to be allowed to serve the Lord, even when he physically could no longer do it. Remember a man who freely shared his testimony of the Savior to anyone that would hear it. Remember a man who walked ready and unafraid to the veil which separates this world from the next.

Most importantly, remember a man that is now free from pain and free forever from the specter of Death. The poet John Donne penned these fitting words, “One short sleep past, we wake eternally, and Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!” Because of our Savior’s gifts to us, our beloved father, brother, granddad, and friend yet lives, in a higher place. Because of our Savior’s gifts, we can be assured of seeing him again one day; we can embrace him as he one day meets us on the other side of mortality.

I want to leave you today with the words of Norman Macleod:

We picture death as coming to destroy; let us rather picture Christ as coming to save.
We think of death as ending; let us rather think of life as beginning, and that more abundantly.
We think of losing; let us think of gaining.
We think of parting, let us think of meeting.
We think of going away; let us think of arriving.
As the voice of Death whispers “You must go from Earth,” let us hear the voice of Christ saying, “You are but coming to me!”

“Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.” [John 8:12] “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” [John 14:27]

Dad still lives and we shall see him once again, in a better place. I know this for a fact. May we, each one of us, feel within us the peace that the Savior promised, and may our attitudes reflect joy and peace. This is my prayer for all of us who knew Dad. I leave this with all of you -- whether you knew Dad or not -- along with my testimony of these things, in the name of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Constructive Thoughts: Fatherhood, Pt. 2

I think I am a hero to my boys today.

I cannot quite get them to articulate it, but I'm getting the feeling of increased adoration.

You see, I took them camping this weekend. Just the Boys. None of those icky girl-folk around. Just Men, both aging and pre-pubescent.

I am still suffering for it, but it was definitely worth it to see the sparkle in their eyes.

I was doing some more thinking last week about my father. There will be some regrets when he passes, unfortunately. Hopefully not as many as there could have been, because I am trying to rectify some of the lost time. There are some things, however, that time has effectively stolen from me.

I will look back and see times when I was too "busy" or too "proud" (or too "bored") to do things with my father. I will also look back and see a few times when he was too "busy" to do something. Not many, but a few.

Camping is one of those things.

I never got to do a lot of real tent-camping with my father. Most of what I learned about tent-camping was as a Boy Scout. The sad thing is that my father has a lot he could have shared with me. He underwent rigorous survival training when he was in the Service. He grew up around some of the best Scouts I've ever known in my Grandfather and uncles.

I have never really benefitted from any of that knowledge.

You'll remember as I wrote last week that the one time he went to Scout Camp with me I was embarrassed by how he lectured us all on the finer points of something-or-other. Yeah, as I said, not one of my prouder moments.

Anyway, as I was sitting and thinking all these wonderfully depressing thoughts last week, I remembered a Church magazine article I read just before I graduated from high school. It may have been the Ensign or the New Era, I cannot remember exactly. I wish I could remember the author. What I remember is the image: the author said something to the effect of "picture a man and his sons as they walk to their tents, sharing feelings and memories." I remember the gist of it, because I remember being a senior in high school and thinking: That's something I've never experienced with Father.

Even "Fathers and Sons" outings were missed, as they were always held "too far away." I've never been to one. Not one.

Don't get me wrong: I clearly own a good portion of the blame, maybe even most of the blame. When I was younger, I was an ungrateful snot at times. I lacked the vision I have now and didn't realize what I would miss when he was gone. I am not proud of any of it and I will reap the whirlwind some day.

All that being said, I decided last week that I was going to surprise my boys. I used that surprise as leverage to buy their good attitudes and behavior for their poor mother all week long. When Friday's lunchtime rolled around, there was some doubt as to whether my oldest son would be joining us. Let's just say he wasn't honoring his mother or siblings to the level that I would expect him to do.

I overruled his mother, however, and raced home from the office to throw the bare necessities into the van. The small tent went in. Duffel bags for the boys. A few books for bedtime reading for Dad. The Coleman lantern and a couple flashlights. The food I took was already prepared and wouldn't take much time to get ready to eat.

That was it.

My LW and the rest of the Horde were jealous, but it was Just The Boys. I loaded them up and we headed to a nearby park that allows camping along some backwoods jogging trails.

And my boys got to experience what I never did. Walking at sunset from the restrooms the quarter-mile or so back to our tents, all of us with our arms around each other. We talked about the sunset, the burgeoning dark and slowly-appearing stars. As we sat in the small tent on the slowly leaking queen-size mattress we spoke of the day's experiences and ended with a prayer to our Heavenly Father.

Of course, Dad couldn't sleep: I tried to do some writing, but from the lantern-light my youngest inferred that it was now playtime. Reading was out for the same reason. So there I lay, playing a stupid game on my cell-phone in the dark, listening to my boys snoring. Laying in an over-crowded tent on an unseasonably warm summer night with my boys' random limbs draped over my legs, back, and head. There was no breeze to relieve and all the day's heat was trapped in the tent. I was miserable.

But I was happy.

And so were they.

In the August 2008 Ensign President Thomas S. Monson prays, "May we live so that when that final summons is heard, we may have no serious regrets, no unfinished business...." As I read the Ensign on Sunday that line jumped out at me. Good, timely counsel from the Prophet.

Ours wasn't a long camping trip. We weren't even that far from home. We did some walking, but otherwise just killed some time sitting and talking. It wasn't anything fancy.

I am afraid that I will have some regrets. But after this weekend, I am hoping there will be fewer regrets than there could have been.

It wasn't a long camping trip. But it was a good one, a special one.

Just the kind I wish I could share with my Father.

Just once more.

Constructive Thoughts: Dad

I've had a difficult weekend.

I learned my father has cancer.

He has been fighting benign bladder tumors for several years, but they've not been serious.

Now he has cancer. Prostate cancer.

They're not going to operate, because the physicians figure it would only buy fifteen years, and my father is old enough that they don't expect he has fifteen years anyway.

That's a nice bedside manner, eh?

It has not metastasized, so that's a bit of good news.

As good as it can be, I suppose. Needless to say, it's been tough to concentrate on anything else this weekend. Watching him hold my six-month-old in his arms just minutes after reassuring me of his mortality was nearly more than I could take. The question popped into my mind: would she ever know him, remember him?

I don't know how even to begin putting into words my memories of the stories of and experiences with my father.

Some of my fondest memories of Dad center around the little black-and-white television that stood in Mother and Dad's bedroom for so long, perched precariously upon the little, rickety television stand. The tear-streaked, red, laughing face that always appeared following Barbra Streisand and Ryan O'Neal's race through the streets of San Francisco. Michael Douglas and bulbous-nosed Karl Malden racing through the Streets of San Francisco. There was F.B.I. and Hawaii Five-O. And of course, M*A*S*H*. Nothing (other than What's Up Doc?) would make Dad roar with laughter like Hawkeye's antics or Frank Burns' buffoonery. I didn't always understand the joke, or what was going on in the show, but just to see that twinkle in Dad's eyes was something special.

Dad would get that same twinkle in his eye when he had the opportunity to tease. He loved to tell stories in front of my grandmother about her and my grandfather. I'll never forget how he would tease my siblings' dates and spouses. It was never mean or hurtful; he always knew how far to go and how to do it with love. Dad could also take it well as he could dish it out.

There were the years and years of University of Utah football--Dad's alma mater--that just seemed to end in misery, with Dad frustrated, yelling, and pounding his open hand on the bedspread, and the inevitable gloating telephone call from his brother after every BYU win.(Aside: Of course, now when I do the same thing watching the Utes or the Utah Jazz, it has somehow become "just a game" and I'm told to settle down and just enjoy.) Dad eventually got his fair share of gloating telephone calls in . . . but Dad's brother wasn't nearly as good a sport about getting the calls as he was about making them! Then there were the late nights at the local college watching basketball, while eating smuggled-in popcorn and sodas out of Mother's big white purse--that Dad inevitably ended up carrying into the building.

Dad would also be the one to carry the purse into movies--it was a giant purse, usually filled with home-popped popcorn in supermarket produce sacks and illicit canned sodas. The movies? They were movies such as the interminable Gandhi, Chariots of Fire, and King David experiences. Dad was always trying to broaden my horizons like that--we never seemed to go to the good "fun" movies that I wanted to see, or do the "fun" things that I wanted to do. Instead, it was hours and hours of boredom while we went around on odd jobs while he was unemployed. I can still remember the heat and the boredom--I was never allowed to take a book or any toys, except for a large, plastic, yellow model of a Honda Civic. There were also the (seeming) hours of travel to visit family, or to after-hours business meetings. Traveling to and from anywhere seemed like forever when reading in the car was forbidden.

But Dad made up for those times by introducing me to the dean of science fiction, Robert Heinlein, and to Martin Caidin, and to David Morrell--authors whose names my classmates seldom, if ever, recognized. It was Dad to whom I could turn to discuss books, although it will forever baffle me how his taste in books could be so broad, from Burroughs to Heinlein, from Clancy to L'Amour, but he could never stomach for a moment anything fantasy-related. "Why should I read about something that never happened and never could happen?" he would ask me. "It's just fantasy." The argument would frustrate me and I would simply let it die. Someday I hope to find a fantasy novel that he will read and enjoy . . . Someday.

Dad was forever trying to bring my head out of the clouds. Somehow, it was always he who would assist me with my math homework. He would get so livid at my inability to retain the quadratic formula or simple mathematic definitions, while being able to recite trivia ad nauseam. Sometimes I wonder whether, subconsciously, I did it on purpose, just to harass him. Years later, when I first read David Copperfield, I felt that I could relate in some small way to the terror and anguish young David felt when reciting his lessons (or attempting to) to his step-father. While Dad was never that harsh or brutal, the circumstances were similar--I could never keep the figures in my mind, but would soon find myself thinking about the crack in the wall, or the book I was reading, or anything but my homework. Dad would just get more and more upset. He would pound the table and drill me until I cried, but somehow the numbers would slip away; the more he pounded, the faster the numbers would fly. Inevitably, there would come a point where the futility was apparent and one (or both) of us would flee the table to find sanctuary elsewhere.

I know Dad tried so hard because he loved me. I can see that now; with the benefit of time and the aid of fatherhood, I can see many things more clearly, and I'm grateful for the patience that he showed in trying to teach me. I am grateful for the love he showed in trying to teach me, and for the quiet pride--and the sometimes not-so-quiet pride--he would show at my accomplishments: the first time I ever directed the music in Priesthood Meeting; the first time I ever water-skied; the first time I trailered the boat by myself; the first time I ever backed the trailer down the ramp, or parked the van and trailer; high school, college, and law school graduations; the look--and tears--in his eyes as I boarded the plane for my mission.

However, the feelings of pride are not one-sided. Dad likely does not know the pride I have for him, and the esteem in which I hold him. For example: the years as a Gospel Doctrine teacher, the dedication, knowledge, and spirit he could bring to bear on a given Sunday; the feeling of seeing him lead the congregation in song for many years; the dedication to the service, and the endurance that the many hours of long flights and lonely vigils that flying involved; the firm, quiet testimony he would sometimes stand and bear; hearing my voice blend with his on Sunday, singing hymns; the strength and knowledge in his hands as he would perform some simple chore or repair; and the love with which he has always looked at Mother.

As time goes by, I regret more and more the years I have wasted when I could have been learning from Dad. All those years, complaining about yard work, or helping Dad with the car, plumbing, or other odd jobs; I could have learned so much. Instead, I did as little work as possible--always excusing it with schoolwork, or reading, or any available excuse. When I did help, it was grudgingly, never thinking for a moment that any of what I was being asked to do, or what I could have done, would ever benefit me in my life in any way. Putting it in print even now embarrasses me beyond belief. I remember Dad spending his time to come to summer camp with the Scout troop one year. I am mortified now to think of how embarrassed I was to have my Dad there, lecturing to my buddies and taking them to task. Or at family reunions when I was too concerned about my own activities and pleasure to listen to and learn from Dad the stories of my heritage. Or the plethora of times I was too annoyed to listen to the lectures and the lessons he was trying to teach me.

I see now that I spent too long blinded by my youth to recognize the storehouse of knowledge that is Dad. If I was ever to tell him that I consider him such, he would pass it off as vain praise, but to me it is a statement of truth. Dad worked so hard with me as a Scout to learn knot-tying; to this day, I have to struggle to remember a simple square knot--anything more complex is beyond my abilities. He struggled to get me to achieve my Citizenship merit badges; how much that knowledge could have helped me in school classes if I had bothered to learn it! (Aside: "Learn it" rather than "know it long enough to pass off the merit badge.") There is so much I could have learned from him as a child that would have enriched my life and helped me to grow. Instead, I was too "busy" and just didn't care--there would always be another time, after all. In retrospect, I wonder just how much my inattention and my uncaring attitude hurt Dad. I know that it did, and hope that I can make up for that injury someday, somehow.

As I look back, I am amazed at how Dad's work troubles never seemed to impact the family, at least not that I ever saw. He was able to separate his professional and family lives, and not let the stress of daily life interfere with his time with his wife and children. He was always able to provide a wonderful Christmas or birthday for us, and he always had a little something--usually a Matchbox car (in the old cardboard box) and a packet of airline peanuts--tucked away in his suitcase every time he came home from a trip. Those little gifts always made me feel so special, showing me that he had he had thought about me and missed me while he was away.

More recently, it has been a joy to grow closer to Dad as an adult friend. The rapport I feel and the snippets of telephone conversations we have back and forth while watching Everybody Loves Raymond or a particularly gritty NBA game ("Where was the foul?!") are priceless and important to me. So is being able to discuss the gospel with one another and to be taught by his example, or having someone there to whom I can turn for advice. Most importantly, as one who was not able to fully experience the joys of vital and vigorous grandparents, it is touching beyond words to see the expressions of love and the level of devotion that Dad shows my children. In some ways, I am able to imagine what it would have been like for me to have the opportunity to truly know my grandparents, and can vicariously enjoy the thrills, joys, and love that my children feel for their grandfather.

I can only hope that, one day, I can be as good a grandfather as he has been to the Horde. I only hope that I can be as good a father-in-law to my children's future spouses as he has been to his. I can only hope that I can be as good a father to my children as he has been to his.

I'm going to jealously guard every moment I have with him. Hoard every snippet of family lore I can gather. Glean every bit of life-knowledge from him that I can. Ask for his advice while I can get it.

Make him proud of me.

And love him while I can.

I love you, Dad.