A mom, a gate attendant, and a man

The tired and disheveled mother sat in the airport terminal that had been her home for the past twelve hours and thirteen minutes. Not that she was counting.  Her eyes were open, but just barely enough to allow her to watch the terminal monitor for the arrival of the next plane.  The mother looked down. At her feet lay her nine month old son, sleeping angelically in his car seat.

I need to clean that seat once we get home, she thought.

Dried pureed yams, green beans, roasted salmon, and, what was that brownish yellowish stuff, oh yeah, bananas, spotted the seat like the bottom of a birdcage spotted with the unmentionables.  Then there were the contents of the twelve ounce box of Cheerios that must be in there somewhere, because he certainly hadn't eaten those very successfully either.

“Ma’am. Ma’am?” said a southerly female voice.

The mother looked up and saw the gate attendant she had spoken with earlier.  “Yes?” the mother replied.

“I’m sorry.” The attendant paused just for a moment, “but we are unable to transfer your ticket.  You will have to pay for a new ticket to get on the next available flight.”

The mother’s eyes grew wide while she suppressed the tears that were building up.

No, no tears, she thought.  

“But I did pay for a ticket.  The one I gave you earlier.  It hasn’t been used. What about the money I used to pay for that ticket?” The last line she said more to herself than to the attendant.

“I’m sorry, but your current ticket is non-refundable and non-transferable.  If it was our fault you missed your flight I may be able to do something, but...”

The mother stopped listening. There was no more money.  The last of what was available on her credit cards was used for this hopeful trip.  She had already borrowed so much from her friends. No one was at home to call. No one.

“Now boarding area A for flight 707 to Phoenix,” the gate attendant said over the loudspeaker.  When had she left?

The mother couldn’t help it; a tear, maybe two, made it out and she sniffled and batted her eyes to prevent them from turning into more.  Still the baby slept angelically at her feet. 

Turning her head so the gate attendant wouldn’t see her tears, she saw a man sitting a little ways off. He had his head down, and he was rubbing his empty hands.  He seemed to be so anxious to get on the flight.  The flight she needed so desperately to get on to get home, to end this whole trip and to clean this stupid car seat!

“Now boarding areas A and B for flight 707 to Phoenix.”

The man got up at this announcement and walked toward the gate.  At least he has something to be anxious about, thought the mother.  She noticed though that instead of entering the gate he went to the desk and spoke with the same gate attendant she had spoken with earlier.  Curious, she watched intently as he handed the attendant some papers, then took some papers from the attendant and walked away.  As he left, he put his left hand in his pocket and pulled out an object.  A coin?  A marble?  What would a grown man be doing with a marble?  No, it looked most like a ring. But before she could be certain he was gone.

The mother turned her head toward the gate again and she saw the gate attendant coming toward her. When she got to the mother she said, “We have a ticket you can use for you and your baby.”

“But,” responded the mother.  “I have no money.”

With a smile the gate attendant replied, “You won’t need money for this ticket.  The man that was sitting just over there transferred his ticket to you.”

She opened her mouth to explain that she had never seen that man before in her life, but, but nothing came out.

 

****

The mother was now seated in the plane with the baby in her arms still sleeping angelically.  Her mind pondered the miracle that had just happened and she allowed more than one, maybe two tears to fall down her cheeks.

Trapped

Celia felt trapped. She didn’t want to be here! These people were smelly, awkward, and in need of so much care.  Their speech was slow, and often you couldn’t tell what they were trying to say. Celia knew she should change the negative view she kept of the residents of Hartley’s Home for the Disabled, but why did it matter what she thought as long as she smiled and appeared to be helpful? Her job paid well, and she cared more about that then how uncomfortable and boring it was here.

“Mskljdoij!” shouted the wheel chair ridden woman she was helping, whose crossed eyes looked accusingly at her, as though she knew Celia’s thoughts. Celia looked straight into the crossed eyes with a smug expression and thought You’re stuck with me just like I’m stuck with you. But at least I look normal and don’t drool all over myself. And I get to leave whenever I want.

“Would you like another crayon to draw with, Anna?” asked Celia, her tone dripping with insincerity.

A man entered the room as Anna took the crayon. He looked like he could be one of the doctors at Hartley. He seemed vaguely familiar.

“It’s time to go, Celia.” He said gently.

“Excuse me?” asked Celia.

“We thought maybe you could handle it in here.  Unfortunately we were too optimistic. You’re getting worse. This isn’t the place for you.” When she looked at him in confusion, he stepped closer to where she was sitting.

 “What are you talking about? Who are you- who let you in here?” Celia stood up. The man stood between her and the door. He was watching her.

“Please come now, we don’t want any trouble,” He took a deep breath, ”We're here to help you.” She felt he wanted her to choose to come, and yet she felt strangely like she didn’t have a choice.

Celia tried to get to the door by slipping around him. He quickly captured one of her arms and brought out a syringe from one of his long white coat pockets.

“What is this- get away from me! Help! Someone help!”

The world swirled into darkness.

 *  *  *  *

Celia woke up groggy. The room around her had four plain white walls and she had a bed stand with a lamp. Where am I? She thought. A woman dressed in a uniform came in with a tray.

“How are you feeling today, Celia?” The woman seemed sincere, which comforted Celia.

“Where am I? Did I have a break down or something?” Celia asked.

“No. You’re in a place where you can get help.”

“Why would I need help? What are you talking about?”

“You're different than others, Celia.” The woman’s tone was patient.

“How am I different?” Celia asked anxiously. She unconsciously checked to see if all her toes were still there.  

“You are almost completely blind. We have brought you here to see if we can teach you to use what you have left of your sight. You may one day be independent if you work hard.”

Celia didn’t know what to say. She looked around the room, positive that she saw everything like she always had. “I’ve always had good vision. I can still see everything. What are you talking about?”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but there are things you can’t see. It’s such a hard thing to accept. I know this is a shock. Rest now and we will talk more about it later.” The woman left the room. Celia heard a lock slide into place after the door closed.

The days that followed were full of frustration for Celia. The man with the long white pockets came into her room each day and talked to her about what she couldn’t see. He said there were big paintings on the walls, and a big dresser on the other side of her bed. He also claimed there was a big window that showed a great view of the grounds. Celia couldn’t see any of it. The woman that had brought her food confirmed what the man said. They allowed Celia to use the bathroom, which was next door to her room. Whenever she had to go she was instructed to use a small buzzer they placed on her lamp stand. The hall outside her room was long and white with a lot of doors.

Days turned into weeks. They allowed Celia to sit in other rooms, and color or write if she wanted to. They always talked about other things in the room that they said she couldn’t see. None of the rooms had any windows. She never saw anyone else. She tried to escape a few times, but they were always quicker and once they had to give her a shot like before.

On a day in the beginning of her third week there, she was on her way to the bathroom when she suddenly saw a figure in a wheel chair slide out of one of the doors down the hall. It was Anna! Celia almost cried at the sight of the cross-eyed woman.

“Dear, didn’t you say you had to go to the bathroom?” the woman who brought food suddenly came closer behind her. She didn’t seem to notice Anna.

“I want to go to the next room please. I’d like to color.” Celia’s mind raced. Anna was smiling at her, waving. Celia suddenly broke into a run. The woman yelled at her to stop, but Celia reached Anna before the woman could catch up to her.

“Anna! Anna! Please help me! They won’t let me go!” Celia said in her few precious moments before the woman reached her.

Anna looked at her sadly. “You feel trapped too? We all feel like that sometimes. But think about it, at least they take care of you and try to teach you how to cope with your disability. You’ll get used to it. You’ll find yourself happier the more you are here.” She wheeled back into the room she came from.

Celia became hysterical as the woman grabbed her arms and led her back to her room. “I want to be free!” she yelled to anyone who could hear, “I don’t care if I’m different!”

Wonderful Documentary

Not to upstage Uncle Ron's story... still thinking about it, Uncle Ron. I want to write something, but I'm still thinking about it. :) But if you get a chance, please watch this WONDERFUL documentary. It's available for free on nova's website right now:

Click on this link.

Warning... keep kleenex nearby. :) Happy Kleenex, not sad Kleenex.

Reality

The most important day of the year has arrived. The state-wide SPLT fill-in-the-bubble test is today. This is what school is for.

Mr. Hernandez, the principal of Gelton Elementary, is nervous. If his scores don’t improve by 16% he will be replaced, along with all of the teachers. Last year the scores rose a meager 3%. They must do much better this year. This is their last chance before the State comes in and fires everybody and takes over and with its magic fixes it all.

It is 8:30 and the testing begins. “Do not open your test booklet until you are told to do so. Do not make any stray marks on the answer sheet. If you need to change an answer, completely erase the wrong answer. You will have 3 hours and 55 minutes to finish this test. Open your test booklet to page one. You may begin.” Mrs. Johnson lays down her script and walks around the classroom, monitoring the students. Everything is in order. She sits at her desk and grades some papers, watching the clock. The time pases.

Alex and Haley and Mari and all the others are working very hard, reading each question twice, filling in each bubble completely with their number two pencils, trying to spit all the things back out of their heads that were carefully packed in. Mrs. Johnson is pleased with how hard her class is trying, but is afraid it will not be enough. Then she spots something in the back she finds more troubling. “It’s that strange kid Pete,” she says to herself. “I knew he would do something. That kid’s in a totally different world than everybody else. What has he done to his answer sheet?” She walks over to his desk to get a closer look. The answers on his sheet are bubbled to make a pattern from the dots, a picture. It looks like a crude rendition of a dragon.

Mrs. Johnson feverishly whispers to Pete, “This will not do! You've must take the test! We expect you to try your best! You must answer the questions, not make pictures!” Pete does not respond. “You’ve got to help save our school!" No response. "Pete, if you don’t try your best you will not get the ice cream treat!!!”

Pete does not look up at her. “This is my best dragon,” he says softly.
. . .

“Should we throw it out?” Mrs. Johnson asks Mr. Hernandez. “We can say that Pete was absent.”

“No, that would never work,” replies Mr. Hernandez. “The computer has Pete registered as here today. And also they count all of the answer sheets they give to us. And we can’t even get to them anyway—they’re in the library, guarded by that state testing guy. He never leaves any of the testing materials unattended, he’s always watching them.” Mr. Hernandez paces around his office.

“Look, we’re all going to lose our jobs!” Mrs. Johnson says, on the verge of tears.

“I know, I know,” Mr. Hernandez says. “Let me think about this. There has to be a way.”

“Hey, what if someone pulls the fire alarm?" Mrs. Johnson asks. "Everyone will have to vacate campus, including that state guy, and while the library is empty I can sneak in and make some changes on Pete’s answer sheet.”

“Hmmm, you are very sneaky,” says Mr. Hernandez. “And I think it just might work. Let’s see . . . at 2:00 I’ll go out by room 41 where it's isolated and pull the alarm. You be ready then to sneak into the library.”
. . .

Mrs. Johnson is in her classroom with her kids when at 2:00 the fire alarm goes off. Children begin to methodically file out of each of the classrooms in single file. “Follow Mr. Phelps's class,” she tells her own students as she slips away over to the library. She peeps in the window and sees the state testing guy sitting in there, as if there were no fire alarm at all. She opens the door and pokes her head in. “It’s the fire alarm! Everyone must evacuate the campus!” The man does not move or even respond. “It’s the state law!”she adds. “Everyone must leave!”

The state testing guy finally turns and replies, “I am not subject to your site-laws--I am State Mandated for the SPLT test. I am the ultimate authority here."

Mrs. Johnson is getting desperate. “But there may really be a fire!”

“Oh, there is never a fire, it’s always just a drill or a false alarm,” he answers flatly. "Go have your fire drill."

Just then Mrs. Johnson smells smoke. It’s coming from inside the library. The state guy jumps up and runs over to the testing materials. They have erupted into flame. “Hey, there’s a fire!” he shouts. “The testing materials—we’ve got to save them!” The fire seems to be especially hot and the testing materials seem to burn especially quickly. He runs and grabs a fire extinguisher off the wall and sprays foam into the fire. He puts the fire out.

“Thank goodness you acted so quickly,” Mrs. Johnson says. “Thanks to you, the fire didn't have a chance to spread. Thank goodness no books were harmed.”

“Except the testing materials are burned up!” the state guy cries.
. . .

In the principal’s office there is a little conference being held, consisting of Mr. Hernandez, Mrs. Johnson, and Pete. “Okay, Pete,” says Mr. Hernandez, what do you know about the fire? I know you're involved somehow. This fire could have burned the school down.”

“Why would I try to burn the school down?” Pete asks softly. “I like our school.”

Mrs. Johnson breaks in: “I'm not sure you like our school, Pete. When you were taking the test you didn’t even try to get a good score. You don’t care if our school fails. ”

“I’m the one who saved our school,” Pete says, looking down.

“We need to talk about your connection with this fire,” Mr. Hernandez says. “We have discovered something very strange, and this is why we have called you in to talk to you. In the fire all of the test materials burned up completely, except for just one page--the answer sheet with your dragon on it. It was not touched at all by the fire. Why did it not burn?”

Pete hesitates. Finally he speaks. "A dragon doesn't burn; everything else around it does. That's why it can stay alive. How else could could a fire-breathing dragon keep from burning itself up?"
. . .

It is two weeks later and the SPLT fill-in-the-bubble test is starting one more time at Gelton Elementary. The State has fired their original guy and sent two more in his place who are worse. With them in control no accidents are possible this time. But Mr. Hernandez is not so nervous today. "Open your test booklet to page one," says Mrs. Johnson to her class. "You may begin." She walks around the classroom, monitoring her students. As she gets back near Pete's desk he smiles up at her and she winks back at him.

the journey to Musicianship

I have always done music. I'm sure that everyone in this family would relate if I described our family's long road trips where the kids in the back made up song after song, singing "alto" and "soprano" and rounds and enjoying the drama of creating various experimental sounds; trying out "vibrato" by shaking the voice, trying out the pop-scoops and other stylized techniques used in popular singing, making up silly songs, making up sad songs, making up songs that have stories.

I have always been a singer.

When I say that I don't mean I've always been a good singer, I just mean that, in my deepest essential desires and pleasures, singing has ranked number one, always.

When I started the music program at Ricks, I realized two things: 1) I didn't have the typical voice for a vocal performance major, and even not really the sort of technique I needed if I wanted to be a music edcuation major and 2) I wasn't sure I wanted that.

I quit the music program and went on to major in Psychology, which I also found I loved. I decided to put singing aside for a while, as it was a source of stress and pain for me, sort of a traumatic reminder of what I thought I had "given up on." It took me about two years to realize that I wasn't happy, not singing. I looked around and tried a few different voice teachers before I found the people I sing with now.

My current teacher wrote his thesis on "beautiful singing" and exactly what that means. He worked with Clayne Robison, a notable voice professor at BYU, who has done lots of research on the subject. Because my teacher's take on what made a performance worthwhile and what makes singing enjoyable helped me to understand my own voice, I thought it might be interesting (in the wake of other discussion about what is good music, etc) to present the ideas here.

According to my teacher's philosophy, there are two types of performance, two points on a continuum. They are "OOOPS" at one end and "UBU" at the other.

OOOPS stands for "The One and Only Opulent Sound." Pear shaped, legato, round, with a pleasant, not-too-wide-not-too-narrow vibrato, this sound is the one that tends to be favored by those who have been educated, or those who are trying to make a career as a classical singer. A good example of this is Placido Domingo. You listen to him and just can't help be in awe of what he can do with his voice (or at least, I can't. I realize that others would hold someone else up as their favorite example).

UBU stands for, "Ugly but Useful." Ugly in this case is a relative term; bascially just a sort of counter to the previous classification. In no way are these voices unpleasant to listen to; they can be stimulating and fun and enjoyable. Think Carol Bernette; not unpleasant, just not the standard. She couldn't be an opera singer, singing the way she does. The magic for her is in the way she is able to shape her voice into a character, and the overall performance can be comedic or pathetic or lovely and powerful.

Almost everyone falls somewhere in the middle. In my case, there is more UBU to my voice than OOOPS. In learning to understand what my purpose was, vocally, I had to understand that yes, people did love to hear me sing! And yes, my voice teacher at Ricks had a problem with my voice. It was confusing to me before, a source of real difficulty and some pain. How could I be a bad singer if people loved to listen to me? And how could I be a good singer if my voice teacher at Ricks told me I wasn't?

It's all about where someone comes from. IN trying to shape my voice into the "standard" so that I could pass juries full of professors who had learned OOOPS as the appropriate measuring stick, I failed miserably. But that is not the only way to sing, the only purpose of singing, the only standard of beauty.

The funny thing is, I have been with this other teacher for five years now. I have improved by leaps and bounds (though there is still leagues of room for improvement) and just now, have I started to feel like I'm capable. I'm a good singer. (I follow that in my mind with an angsty, dang it! See, that's very revealing. I still feel defensive of my voice.) Anyway, just recently, I have come back around, full circle... I'm starting to try to learn how to sing classically. In my heart of hearts, I want so badly to be able to perform classical pieces, to have the lovely pear-shaped tone, to have the fluid, gorgeous vibrato that is neither too loose nor too tight. I want it for myself, and am just beginning to be able to admit this, because I can rest on the truth that I have something good to offer when I sing.

I am curious about all of your musical journeys. I can't believe that this isn't a common experience among musicians... self doubt, frustration, sadness and even a little bit of despair at times as you hone your instruments, whatever they may be, and find your own niche and talents as a performer. I have shared this experience with you because I want to find out if this is a universal experience, and I want to know what all of you had to do to become the musicians that you are.

My Choice

The projector screen went black. We all breathed a sigh of relief that it was finally over. Joseph turned to me and asked, “Are you all right?”

I nodded. But I didn’t say anything because at that moment Phineas was addressing all of us.

“You saw the images, you heard the screams. I do not intend to lie to you, like some would. I refuse to cover up the truth, or to hide the worst from you. Did you see the children starving to death? Did you see the slaves being whipped and beaten? Did you see the women being raped? Did you see the brothers killing each other? Did you see the cruelty, the betrayal? I love you, and I want to protect you. I cannot stand by idly and let you go into that without trying my very utmost to save you from it. That, my friends, my brothers, my sisters, is what you are walking into.”

Then Phineas walked off the stage and left us alone. I turned to Joseph.

“Is that all true, what he said? Would those things really happen?” I asked anxiously. He looked somber and pondered a minute.

“I think it probably is true,” he said at last.

I heaved another great sigh and tried my hardest to block out the gruesome images that kept flashing before me even though the movie had ended. Those images stayed with me and stayed with me, and I could not rid myself of them. The most disturbing part of it all was that I knew those people. Every one of them. Every last one.

***

Joseph and I cried together on a grassy hill. We just held each other and cried. There was nothing else to do. We knew we, along with every other person, would have to make our decision. And we would have to make it soon because time was running out.

I knew that Joseph was strong, and that he would be brave. But what about me?

The image of the child Leah, sobbing weakly, lying in the mud with her skin hanging from her bones, the flies buzzing around her—it haunted me.

But even more than sadness because of the suffering, another feeling overwhelmed me. I was ashamed that it should be so, but it was.

Fear.

Fear.

Fear.

How could I do it? I knew which side I wanted to be on, but I was so frightened.

It was all uncertain, and yet all clear at the same time. And I had the power to choose it or not to choose it. The choice and the responsibility were my own.

***

The day had come. Joseph took me by both hands and stared into my eyes.

“Are you ready?” he asked me.

The fear surged over me, more powerful than it had ever been. It enveloped me, thrashed around inside me.

So many unknowns. So many risks. So many so many so many.

But I had already made the decision in my heart. I had made it long ago, and although I was afraid-- I would do it.

I would do it!

Joseph took me by the hand and we went to join the ranks.

***

When the first battle was over, it was over. There had never been any question about who would win and who would lose it. We had all known that Phineas would lose. It wasn’t because he was outnumbered, although he was. It was because he was Wrong.

***

I was afraid, but joyful too. Two opposing emotions that were not so different, after all.

I waved goodbye to Joseph and stepped off the edge.

Why Do We Do Music?

Some years ago I when was taking a music history class, I had to write a paper, and it caused me to think about my experience with music throughout my life. I compared how music was approached by various people--from professors to old band buddies to family members. Trying to come clear in my mind, I wrote the following:

Why do we do music? Every person, whether consciously aware of it or not, has somewhere in his or her thinking an archetype upon which music is based, independent from rational thinking and conscious purpose. It might be a Game, or a Mathematical Formula, or a perceptual Trick; it might be the dangerous Persuasion of sirens, or magic of a Pied Piper, or doleful sound of a Harp made from a dead sister's breastbone strung with her golden hair; or it might be a Hymn sung in praise to God, or the Song of a mother singing to her child. Music really means something at this level.

It was no accident that I placed as the final item in my list of archetypes, a lullaby. For me, the lullaby is fundamental, and has governed much of my musical thinking and interests over the years--whether overtly or subtly, or part of a contrast. I recently found this analysis of lullabies (which partly gets at the idea for me):

Lullabies are a distinctive kind of song with features shared across cultures--simple repetitive structures, falling pitch contours, repeated syllables. Their performance styles are also distinct, not only for lullabies but for all songs directed to children. These distinctive features--higher pitch, slower tempo, a distinctive timbre, and others--seem to increase the song's emotional expressiveness. . .The children's repertoire is generally simpler than the adult repertoire, often using short phrases repeated time after time with little or no variation, and using three or four pitches within a narrow range. . . children's music in many cultures . . . often seems left over from old rituals that are no longer performed. (William Benzon, Beethoven's Anvil, 2001, 204-205)

On this blog we have had discussions about music before. Now I am wondering what you might think about this idea of a fundamental archetype of music for you individually, whether it be a lullaby, or something from my list above, or something else like a Dance or a Celebration, or some other thing you can identify. Or maybe no dominant thing at all. If this makes any sense to you at all, and you do have something, what is it? If it makes no sense, is there something that does?

Weeds

The little boy sat disconsolately on the ground. It was a hot day. The small rocks underneath him dug into the soft flesh of his legs and behind, through the thin material of his shorts. He sat cross-legged with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.

I’ll never finish it all. Dad’s so mean. I wish I was at Troy’s house playing Xbox.

He sighed and lifted his head to look over the backyard. It was a rather large backyard, as backyards go. A large stretch of grass spread in a circular shape from the middle of the yard and filled two-thirds of the space. Bordering the grass in all directions were little purple rocks neatly enclosed by the outer perimeters of the big stone wall. From where the little boy was sitting, the rocks seemed to stretch on forever in endless purpleness. And springing up everywhere amidst the purple sea were little green tufts. Weeds. It reminded the boy of his family’s trip to the lake the year before. In the shallow places, skinny reeds had stuck up through the water, poking their heads out to wag to and fro with the undulating water. That had been a fun trip. The little boy’s head sank back down into his open palms and he sighed.

Dumb Dad. Why doesn’t he come out here and do it himself if he cares so much about it.

The boy couldn’t see any good reason to waste his time pulling up weeds. They would only grow back. And then he would have to pull them up all over again. It really wasn’t fair. He could just hear his dad’s voice droning the same words over and over again. ‘You’ll never finish if you never start.’ ‘The weeds aren’t just going to pull themselves up.’ ‘I don’t care if it takes you all day, these rocks will be weed-free before you go anywhere today.’

The little boy knew it was true; he wasn’t going anywhere until every last weed was lying in a pile on the ground, roots splayed out limply like a heap of dead squid. He sighed again and stared at the ground.

Fine. I’ll do it. But it’s so unfair. I won’t even do a good job. Dad is so stupid.

He reached for the first one, a tiny little sprout near his right knee that was just barely cresting the top if the rocks surrounding it. His thumb and pointer finger pinched the weed’s tiny stem and pulled it easily from the ground. He brought the weed to his face, squinted at it, and then tossed it aside. Slowly, the boy cleared the small area in front of him.

Scooting into the spot he had just cleared, the boy looked up again over the endless rocks and glared. There were just so many weeds. Again he could hear his dad’s voice in his head. ‘If you did a little every day during the week it wouldn’t be so bad come Saturday.’ ‘A little work every day goes a long way.’

Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

The boy reached for the next section and began again to slowly pick the weeds from the ground. He scooted and picked, scooted and picked. After about ten minutes he looked up again to see if he was almost done, but if anything it seemed like he hadn’t started at all. He looked at his fingers which were starting to get hard and slightly brown. He felt a trickle of sweat make its way slowly down the side of his neck. His back was already starting to ache a little. He looked over at his feeble little pile of discarded weeds and groaned. He really didn’t know how he’d ever finish. To pick this many weeds would probably take until next Tuesday- at the soonest. He started again. Scoot and pick, scoot and pick.

About a half hour passed and the boy determined not to look up, hoping that would make the time go faster. When his fingers ached in protest and his back felt ready to snap in half he finally looked up to take a break. He gave a little scream of surprise. Surely there hadn’t been that many weeds before. The ground in front of him seemed so much thicker with weeds than he had thought there were. It must be a trick of being closer up, he reasoned to himself grumpily. Absently, he picked a weed growing next to his hand and threw it behind him towards the growing pile. As he watched, the weeds in front of him seemed to grow slightly, a little taller and a little denser. He blinked twice and squinted at the ground in front of him.

What the…?

He picked another weed, quickly, his gaze fixed in front of him still. Were his eyes playing tricks on him or did the rocks seem to disappear a little more; was there just a little more green in front of him than there was a second ago? He stood up.

Slowly he walked to the center of the worst part of the weeds. Here he could barely see any rocks at all. Squatting down, he closed each hand, on either side of his body, on a clump of weeds and yanked them up, scattering dirt and rocks as he stood up.

There was no question about it. As he watched, the weeds in front of him grew a couple of inches and hundreds more grew in the crowded places between them. He dropped the uprooted weeds in horror and turned around. The small path he had made in the last forty minutes was already almost completely grown over by even bigger and uglier weeds. It couldn’t be possible.

In a frenzy the boy set upon the jungle of weeds and began ripping them out in desperation, not paying attention to where he was weeding, just intent on ripping every last ugly green monster from its place. When he was panting from the effort, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath and stood gasping looking around him. For a moment it seemed he had gotten the better of them. Limp, dead weeds lay in scattered heaps everywhere and the ground could be seen again in some spots. The boy grimaced in triumph and wiped his hands against the material of his shorts at his sides.

Stupid weeds.

That was when he noticed something odd about his house. From where he stood it looked like moss was growing on the outside of the back of the house. He ran to get a closer look.

Weeds. Weeds were now growing thickly across the stucco wall. Growing before his very eyes, moving quickly to cover every empty space. He heard a noise and jerked his head in time to see weeds push open the sliding glass door and enter the house.

He could just hear his dad’s voice as he stared in shock at the ever-greener world around him. ‘I told you, a few weeds a day keeps the hard work away.’ ‘There’s no way you’re going to your friend’s house today young man.’

conference notes... April 4 AM session

I thought it might be fun to have a good conference discussion. I'm taking notes this year. It's been a long time since I've been able to actually sit down and ponder during conference, throughout the whole thing. I'll post about Saturday Morning session... maybe someone else would like to post their thoughts for Saturday Afternoon, and then someone could post for sunday morning, sunday afternoon, etc?

These are just the notes I took, of statements that stood out to me from each talk on Saturday morning.

Conference April 2009

Saturday Morning Session

President Thomas S. Monson:

Elder Neal M Andersen sustained as member of the quorum of the 12.

Perpetual Education fund: 18,900 finished training. On average, increasing income by 3-4 times.

Those who are addressing us have sought heaven's help and direction as they have prepared their messages.

Hymn: Israel, Israel, God is Calling.

Elder Robert D. Hales:

Elder Thomas S. Monson's Service. J Reuben Clark advised, be kind to the poor and look after the widows.

Times of economic uncertainty-- what we learn now can bless us and our posterity for generations to come.

Excessive debt and addictions, choices which have led to lessened freedom of choice.

Turn to the Lord and follow his commandments, want more than anything else to change our lives, to become free of excessive debt and addictions.

Our challenges, including the ones we create with our poor decisions, are a part of our test in mortality. Each test is to strengthen us, not to destroy us. Adversary knows when, where, and how to temtp us. With the help of the Holy Ghost, we can recognize temptation. We can resolve to say, get the behind me Satan, when temptation comes, instead of yielding.

Obtaining this assistance helps us to become provident providers for ourselves and others.

To provide providently we need to follow the principles of provident living.

keep the most basic commandment- thou shalt not covet. Our society is frought with feelings of entitlement. It leads us to buy things we do not really need, and cannot afford. Money we could have use to care for others must now be used to pay for debts.
The four most caring words for those we care for are, we cannot afford it.
When faced with the choice to buy consume or engage in worldy actvities, we need to say to one another-- we cannot afford to buy it, even though we want it. Or we can say, we can afford it, but we don't need it, and we don't really want it.
The foundation of the law of provident living is the law of the tithe. To willingly make sacrifices for others. The good, equitable law-- we pay ten percent no matter rich or poor. The cost of two consecutive meals-- fast offering.
Establish a family budget. Discuss it in family counsel meetings. Make goals to save for, help each other to reach that goal. By not satisfying our most immediate want, we obtain family memories that are unforgettable.
The addiction is the craving of the natural man, and it can never be satisfied. It is insatiable, an unfulfillable appetite.

We have to promise: I will do whatever it takes, in order to become free of these cravings and addictions.

The hunger of addiction can only be replaced by our love for Him.

Become provident providers for ourselves and others, both temporally and spiritually.


Margaret S. Lifferth.

We must cultivate in our homes and classrooms to cultivate respect and reverence. Respect for each other and reverence for God.

Our ability to have reverence for God, is cultivated in our showing respect for one another.

am I an example of respect in my home, by the way I teach others?
Do I show respect for the property of others as well as I take care of my own.

Reverence is profound respect, mingled with love.
Harshness in our training begets resentment, not reverence. Be kind, reasonable in our expectations. We are not only teaching our child his first lessons in reverence, but the child is exercising his own first efforts in self-discipline.
exemplify reverence as we pray reverently
hand scriptures reverently
show proper respect for general authorities and local priesthood leaders.
Reverence in chapels
Often the child that is most disruptive needs love the most. Explain lovingly, show discipline that is consistent and respectful to the child. President Packer: a quiet change will take place if we apply principles of reverence.

Michael A. Nieder: Young Men general second counselor.

We should become dedicated students. Of revealed principles and topics. Priesthood leaders must do their homework.

Allan F. Packer.

We can have full and satisfying lives even as we face challenges. Prophecies are being fulfilled, time to prepare for the Savior's return. Time to work out our own salvation.

WE must know how to receive spiritual revelation. We must know, and know that we know.

Understanding God the Father is the father of all our spirits, and loves us.
Jesus Christ is the savior.
The Holy Ghost communicates with us through promptings.

Practice until the skills of receiving revelation and recognizing promptings becomes automatic.

Become acquainted with the voice of the spirit, the promptings, so that we hear them and can pick them out in a crowd. These promptings become the foundation of our testimonies, which can keep ups happy
and safe during troubled times.

First we must have the desire. The desire is the seed.

And if it is right, I shall cause that your bosom shall burn within you, and ye shall know that it is right.

Revelation: when you feel pure intelligence flowing to you. Give you sudden strokes of ideas. By learning and understanding the spirit of God, you may grow in the spirit of revelation.

Sometimes people feel they need to have an experience like Joseph Smith's vision... if we feel we need something, we miss answers that are quiet, reassuring feelings and thoughts, most often come after our prayers while we are doing something else. Be ready at all times to receive revelations.

Asking for a testimony of truth opens the window of revelation. Ask and it shall be given you, seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you.

By the power of the Holy Ghost we may know the truth of all things which are right, and expedient for us.

This is a great time to be alive. The Lord needs each one of us. Our Heaveny Father is the father of our spirits, Jesus Christ of our redeemer and Savior, and the Holy Ghost is the means through which we receive inspiration and guidance.

D. Todd Christofferson. (quorum of 12).

We have all we need-- temple blessings and the gospel. With the Lord's help, we can build again.

If we are faithful to our temple covenants, we become inherriters not only of our blessings promised there, and the celestial kindgom.

The new and everlasting covenant: doctrines and covenants of the gospel. “For God So Loved the World that He Gave His Only Begotten Son, That Whosoever Will Believe in Him Shall Not Die, But Have Everlasting Life.”

Making and keeping covenants gives us the power to smile through hardships, convert tribulation into triumph. Bring to pass much righteousness.

we enjoy a continual flow of blessings.
Those blessings provide the resources we need to act, rather than simply being acted upon.
Our participation in ordinances demonstrates our commitment to become...
endowed with power from on high
A message of Grace.

When we've entered into divine covenants the Holy Ghost becomes our comforter and our guide.

The Lord's promise: You shall not be confounded before men.
The Holy Spirit of Promise: seals God's promises upon you.
Divine covenants make strong Christians.

Seal all orrdinances you can, then faithfully fulfill your promises by covenant.

God will sustain you as you work and watch.

God will reveal himself in your life, “Here am I.”

God will bless you in good measure, pressed down, running over, and shaken together.

Hymn: Consider the Lilies.

Henry B. Eyering.

I've had a witness that he's called of God.
We have one challenge in common: we will all deal with adversity. The arrival of suffering can bring fear and sometimes, even anger, when long periods of comfort come to an end. Good health, financial security, etc.

“How could this happen?” Especially painful when the struggling are those whom we love. The distress can shake faith. Some of us have seen such doubt come to infect a whole generation of people, in times of war or famine. Until some may turn away from God, whom they charge with being “indifferent” or “cruel.”

My purpose is to assure you that the Savior and our Heavenly Father live and love all of us.
To walk as God walks and to think as He thinks. For us to have that gift and to be given that trust, we must be transformed by making righteous choices, for that is hard to do.

He knows from experience how to heal and help us. The Book of Mormon gives us the certain reassurance that He knows how to comfort.

Alma: And He shall go forth suffering pain and afflictions and temptations of every kind, that the word may be fulfilled:

that he will take upon them their infirmities that His bowels may be filled with mercy... that he may know how to succor his people according to their infirmities.

Even knowing this, your trials may still test your faith and ability to endure. Joseph Smith in Liberty Jail.

“Things will work out.” Tragedy did not erode their faith; it tested it, and strengthened it.

One of the great trials of life: losing to death a husband or wife. Most of us know widows who need attention.

After ye have done all these things, and turn away the needy, and the sick, and impart not of your substance, your prayers are in vain. Ye are as hypocrites. Help anyone who has less, even if your own resources are scanty.

Comfort others in the midst of your own trials.

“I'm going to make it.”

Hymn: I know that my Reedeemer Lives.

Waterfall

Yosemite. One of the tourist stops along the valley floor is beautiful Bridalveil Falls. Jim and I finally managed to find a parking space amid the throngs of cars and people, and we hiked up the little walkway an eighth of a mile to the railed-in area designated for observation and taking pictures of the falls. We could feel the mist from where we were standing, but we were still pretty far from the actual base of the falls. Jim said he wanted to experience the real thing, up close. So being young and still invulnerable, we ignored the warning signs that were posted all around (someone said just that morning a kid had slipped and had to be taken out by ambulance), and headed for the real place of action--where the 620 foot fall actually hits bottom.

The closer we got, the thicker the spray, until it seemed almost like we were swimming--the air itself was full of water, though somehow we could still breathe. There were no people around us now, and we further picked our way very carefully among the slick rocks. We could now see up close where the massive torrent of water was hitting, and we discovered there was a little pool around it. We stepped into the pool and were surprised that, while the spray all around was turbulent and even painful on our skin, the little pool itself turned out to be calm below the surface; so we huddled down into the water as a refuge from the spray.

We looked straight up and watched the huge mass of falling water for a few minutes, and then suddenly Jim jumped up and said, "I'm going to go to see what it's like under where the water's hitting."

It was hard because the roaring water was so loud, but I had heard what he said. "You're crazy," I shouted.

"It's okay, I just want to go under there where the water's actually hitting."

"Don't do it!" I shouted. "There's a strong current there--you'll get sucked under! You may never get out!"

"Here, take hold of my hand." He stretched his hand out towards me. "If I have any problem, I'll let you know by a couple of tugs on your arm, and you can pull me out."

Such trust, I thought. If he trusts me that much, I'm up to it. He grabbed my hand and then we waded up to our necks toward the point of contact. Then Jim was gone into that turbulent water, and his only lifeline to the world was the clasping of our two hands.
. . . .

The aged man was dressed in long, dark robes. "Welcome to the portal of the Universal Archive," he said.

"Portal? Universal Archive? I don't understand." Jim said.

"This is the gateway to the Greatest of all Libraries," the man said. "Every great thinker throughout time has longed to find this archive. Herein you can learn everything there is to know. You can know everything True. And everything False if you desire that as well. Herein you will find the key of Progress. You will learn the Secret of the Universe!"

"Why are you offering this to me?" Jim asked.

"Because you are here," the man said. "Come, the opportunity is before you now, but it will soon pass. All you need to do is let go of your friend's hand, and you shall enter to learn the Great Secret of the Universe."

Jim looked through the Portal and he could see a cavernous room with shelves stretching far back into the mountain. Millions, probably billions of books. Scrolls and tablets of all shapes and sizes. Unlimited knowledge. All hidden things revealed.

Jim hesitated, not sure, wondering.

Do I really want all of this knowledge? Do I deserve all of this knowledge? Would I be happy with it? Is there not a good reason why I, as a weak mortal, must be kept in ignorance? Is my character strong enough to handle knowing all things? Would I lust for power, for wealth? Would I swell in pride, to know more than anyone else?

On the other hand, what good might I do for the human race if I were to receive this knowledge? How can I possibly deny this opportunity to serve my fellow beings? With the acquisition of knowledge, would not my judgment and character be enabled to correspondingly grow as well? How can I become my best self if I am unwilling to take a risk? Might I be the only hope for humanity in these perilous times of nuclear weapons and biological warfare? How could any person not desire to know the Secret of the Universe? Why would I not . . .

It had been long enough, Jim should have come out by now. With all of my strength, and grasping his hand as tight as I possibly could, I pulled Jim towards me out of that turbulent water, back into the safe part of the little pool. Jim said nothing, and just stared back into the waterfall.

At that moment, there was a piercing voice through a loudspeaker: "Hey, you kids get away from that waterfall! You are not authorized to be in this area! Move! Now!" I immediately climbed out of the pool, but Jim just stood there in the water, staring longingly into the massive spray. "I said move, you dumb kid!" A ranger plunged into the water and grabbed Jim by the shoulders and pulled him out. Jim did not struggle--he seemed to have lost his will. As we made our way back he kept turning around to gaze at the waterfall, as if by staring into it he might discern some great secret.