Supersonic

I have always been fascinated by things that fly.  Since I was a boy I have gazed in wonder at airplanes streaking across the sky, jumbo jets taking off and seemingly standing still in the air - and I will never forget my first air show.  Any time I think of an air show I can smell kerosene, hear the whine of the turbofans winding up, and my favorite part - the thunderous, ground-shaking roar of the afterburners that threatens to rattle the fillings from my teeth and I absolutely love it!
Before Chuck Yeager became the first human being to fly faster than the speed of sound there were varying theories about what would happen to the air craft and the pilot the instant the sound barrier was broken.  Some experts believed that it could cause the airframe to break apart and kill the pilot.  Others said it didn't matter because they were skeptical that it was even possible to achieve the speed of sound.  You see, when an object moves through the air it pushes it out of the way, much the same way a boat does water.  If you could see the air around an airplane it would look similar to the triangular wake of a boat.  When a certain speed is approached the waves begin to bend around the aircraft and can no longer get out of the way of each other - they pile up like an accordian and make an invisible wall.  Early airplanes couldn't get through this 'barrier' which kept them from going any faster - all of this took place near the speed of sound.  The quest for supersonic flight led to the design of more powerful engines and sleeker, more aerodynamic airplanes and required brave men to fly them.
The Bell X-1 (which we saw at the National Air and Space Museum but I forgot to photograph) was designed specifically for this purpose and she was given the name 'Glamorous Glennis' -  named after Yeager's wife.  It was basically a rocket motor with wings and a seat and she was built for one thing - speed. Yeager said he had to be a contortionist to get inside the cockpit - which he somehow did the day of the historic flight despite 2 broken ribs  - the result of being thrown from a horse.  He didn't tell the Army doctors about the injury for fear they wouldn't let him fly the mission.  That is the reason for the broken broom handle handed to Yeager in the video below - so he could secure the hatch with his good arm.  Test pilots have always been the ''best of the best" and to me about 2 parts very brave and 1 part pure crazy.  Rather than try to explain his experience, I have included footage here from the movie The Right Stuff - part of which is about Yeager's first supersonic flight.  My understanding is that it is slightly embellished (it's a Hollywood movie...) but I think it tells the story pretty well and it gives me goose bumps no matter how many times I watch it.  Sorry, it is kind of long, but if you have the time, worth watching...

What does this have to do with anything?  For some people, maybe nothing.  For me, it is a metaphor for the last several months.
Sometimes we reach a threshold after enduring many attempts at something or just plain enduring something for a long time - where like Chuck Yeager in his X-1 we are being 'buffeted', or we get 'wobbly' and 'rattled', or things have been 'hectic' and we just aren't sure if we can make it through - and even if we do make it through, there is still the uncertainty of what is waiting for us beyond.  The reward for hanging in there when at last you punch through a seemingly unbreakable (or unbearable) boundary into the unknown can be to discover that you are still accelerating and climbing and you feel like laughing.
That's what I love about Yeager's story.  There were many attempts at the sound barrier - with many set backs - even some serious ones. What is inspiring about it is that he never quit trying. 

This is one of my favorite poems - to me it is a masterpeice that captures the joy of flying - and other things.  The first time I ever heard it was when President Ronald Reagan quoted it after the space shuttle Challenger exploded in 1986.  It was written by John Gillespie Magee Jr, who was a pilot during WWII and tragically (and ironically) died in an airplane crash at the young age of 19.  I share it here in its entirety.

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

— John Gillespie Magee, Jr

For about 3 hours Thursday night I 'slipped the surly bonds of Earth' and I did 'dance the skies on laughter-silvered wings' - and it was the best 3 hours I've had for a very long time.  I understand a little better now what Mr. Yeager felt as he passed that threshold after a long period of trial and perseverance to the exhilaration and satin sensation of going supersonic.

Bummer of a Birthmark

I take the time to mention this here because as I look back at it was something that changed my perspective on life and I have never really recorded what happened. I forget I have an 8 inch scar in the center of my chest until I get stares at the pool - and because I have no chest hair it still stands out pretty good. I also think that my siblings never got the full story. I am the second oldest of seven kids so all of my younger siblings were pretty young when it happened and weren't allowed (I don't recall why) to come see me in the hospital for the week that I was there. So, for their sake, and anyone else interested, here is what happened.

When I was a junior in high school I was diagnosed with a heart problem that required open-heart surgery to correct. For a couple of years leading up to that point I would occasionally have episodes where my heart rate would accelerate to the point where I would have 'brown-outs' - I never completely lost consciousness during any of these episodes but I would have to lay down to keep from blacking out until my heart would slow down on it's own. I found out later, when my arrhythmia was recreated in the hospital, that my heart was beating at 280 beats per minute - so fast that it was essentially not pumping any blood. One episode, after basketball practice when I was a sophomore, lasted for about an hour. My mom came home to me laying on the kitchen floor. When she asked me what I was doing I just said I was relaxing after a long b-ball practice. I didn't think anything serious was wrong. I was 16 years old and in very good physical condition - I though it was heat stroke. Well, I had one nasty episode during soccer practice and luckily Hans was there, as he had been helping coach the team, and he was worried. I tried to dismiss it but he, and the other coaches insisted that I get it checked out so I did. I went to Alta View hospital and had an EKG which showed an irregular heartbeat. The diagnosis was Wolf-Parkinson-White Syndrome. WPW is an irregularity in the Atrio-Ventricular node which creates extra electrical pathways between the upper and lower chambers of the heart and can cause irregular heartbeats. The prognosis? I was going to most likely need surgery and I was forbidden to do anything strenuous until then because apparently WPW can, in some instances, cause cardiac arrest. I was not happy about the diagnosis or the fact that, for the first time in 10 years, I would not be able to play soccer. The first time I met with the medical team at the U they told me I had basically 4 optionss: 1) take medication religiously for the rest of my life with only a small chance of regualting the problem, 2) attempt catheter ablation which may or may not work , 3) get a pacemaker which was no guarantee and 4) full on open heart surgery which was pretty much guaranteed to work -but unforutnately would be the most painful and risky.  It was decided that we would try the ablation and then, if that didn't work, the surgery.  I wanted no part of the other two options.  I will admit that I felt a little sorry for myself and was mad at the whole situation. I was a pretty good kid and had always treated my body well. I had tasted beer once and was completely repulsed by it. The only thing I ever smoked was the home made toilet paper cigarettes that the older kids sold to us at scout camp - I know that must sound like the stupidest thing in the world but we did it - once. Once was enough - my smoking career was over pretty much before it started. So for a while I was a little bit of a martyr. I was mad at the world and slacked off in school, failed math (which was taught by Mr. Cottle, my soccer coach!) and my attitude about life became pretty sour. I was required to wear a medical alert bracelet in the event that I collapsed somewhere, the EMT's would know why. I would go and watch our soccer games in the stands and I hated not being out there. Soccer had been so much a part of everything I did for ten years that it really left a big hole. It was decided that we would wait until school was out before having the surgery. I watched our team make it to the State Tournament only to lose early on.

As the day of the surgery approached I became increasingly anxious about it. I think I played the part of nonchalant, care free teenager pretty well but deep down inside I was terrified. I had gone with my parents to meet with the surgeons to get the rundown.   Dr. Karwandi (I will never forget his name) was (and I believe still is) a world renowned heart surgeon and just a very nice person.  I instantly liked him.  I think even Max Hall would like him!  It was Dr. K that really explained the nature of WPW and why it was causing me problems.  He had a great sense of humor and explained that it was just bad luck to be born with this condition.  He drew my attention to this Far Side cartoon:

 

My mom and dad bought me a T-shirt with this on it and it became a favorite.
The night before I was admitted to the hospital my dad surprised me by inviting several of my friends from school and the ward to our house so he could give me a blessing. I was overwhelmed by their presence and I think it was the first time any of them ever saw me shed tears. I can only remember a few things he said to me (I see now why journals are a good thing) but I can vividly recall how I felt. It was the first time in my life I had felt the power of the Priesthood of God wash over me. I do remember that he blessed me that, if the catheterization failed and the surgery was necessary, that it would go well and that I would recover quickly and fully and that I would not have this problem again. When the blessing concluded I was no longer afraid. The fear was replaced by a quiet assurance that all would be well - that even though it would be a difficult thing - I would be alright.
The first day in the hospital was full of tests - checking to make sure I was OK to proceed with the procedures. The nurses were wonderful. I'll always have a soft spot for nurses - they were, without exception, kind and reassuring. I don't know how they do what they do day after day and still act so pleasant. It is remarkable to me. That is why when I met an old friend at my reunion this summer and we discussed nursing (she is a nurse), I may have gushed a little on the subject.

Part of the preparation for the catheter ablation was to put in a Foley Catheter.  If you don't know what a Foley Catheter is then consider yourself lucky. When the nurse showed up with it I wanted to know what her intentions were. I don't remember how the conversation went but it was something like this:

Me: What is THAT? (It looked like a ball point pen with a long tube attached to it).
Nurse: It's a Foley catheter.
Me: And what, pray tell, is it's purpose?
Nurse: It will drain your bladder during the procedure so that, while you are sedated, you don't have to pee.
Me: Oh. And where does it go? (as she was lifting up my hospital gown)
Nurse: It goes in your bladder (dummy)
Me: And how does it get in there?
Nurse: Just take a deep breath....
When it was over I and I looked at the blood on her gloves I thought I was ruined forever. When they were prepping me, 4 days later, for the open-heart procedure I made sure to request that they put the catheter in after I was under...

If my recollection is correct, the next day, I walked into the catheterization room under my own power.  That goes against normal hospital procedures but for some reason I remember walking in there.  I can recall a large stainless steel table that was actually an x-ray machine. Above it were several TV monitors. I would lay on the table, receive a heavy sedative, and watch the monitors. Incisions were made in my groin and neck where small catheters were inserted. The natural blood flow would carry them back to my heart. Apparently I was lucid for most of the procedure and distinctly recall the doctors reproducing my irregular rhythm (which was when they clocked it at 280 beats per minute) several times. I can also remember looking up at the image of my heart on the monitor above me. I could see all 4 chambers with what looked like little tadpoles swimming in them. I was also apparently talking most of the time. I think I told them my entire life story. Because of this, they were able to continue for such a long time. I was on that table for close to 11 hours (I was told at the time that was a record for this procedure). They would periodically update me on what they were doing and ask if I felt OK to continue. When it was over, I was exhausted - they told me that my heart had just done the equivalent of running a marathon. That, coupled with the fact that I had been literally strapped to the table for so long, made it so that I could not move my arms or legs - they were too stiff. That was why when they told me it didn't work that I was so disappointed. I broke down and sobbed. Apparently the problem was not in the location they had originally anticipated and, despite their best efforts, they could not reach it with the catheters. I had pinned a lot of hope on that the procedure would work and that I wouldn't need to go 'under the knife' but it just didn't work out that way. Sometimes life sucks - what do you do? The poor petite nurses needed to move me from the gurney to my hospital bed but I couldn't help them - and I was just too big for them. That's when this huge male nurse (and by that I mean body-builder huge) came in, picked me up like a rag doll and moved me to my bed. He looked like Lou Ferrigno (the guy who played the original incredible hulk). My opinion of male nurses was changed forever.
The catheterization was so taxing on my body that they gave me 2 full days to recover from it before proceeding with the surgery.
The dreaded day of the surgery came and I remember very little but here is what I can recall.  They got me doped up on Valium in the pre-op room and proceeded to shave me COMPLETELY from the neck down.  It didn't take very long because I am not a hairy person.  I remember feeling that I should be embarrassed that a woman (other than my mother) was looking at me completely naked for the first time in my life but I wasn't.  I think I even laughed out loud - I understand why some people get hooked on drugs - Valium is good stuff.
I sobered up a little when I was wheeled into the OR and saw the operating table and the 'instruments' they were going to use on me.  Once I was on the table the anaesthesiologist put a mask over my face, lied to me by telling me he was giving me pure oxygen, and told me to take a deep breath.  It was the last thing I remembered until I woke up after the surgery.
I was warned before hand that coming out of the anaesthesia can be unpleasant and that the worst part is the breathing tube.  I was given instructions not to panic and try to take the tube out myself.  It is very uncomfortable and some patients actually tear their own tubes out before they are awake enough to breathe on their own.  I got the message.  When I came out of it I felt hot and bloated, was in a lot of pain and I HATED the breathing tube because it makes it so you can't speak.  Once I was sufficiently lucid they came and told me the doc was on his way to take it out.  It seemed like forever.  They had given me a pencil and paper to write on so I wouldn't have to try and speak.  The only thing I wrote was "tell the doc to hurry".  I think my mom still has that paper with my scribbled words on it.  I can remember seeing the worried look on my mom's face and my first thought was: "Shit, something went wrong" but then I realized I was still alive and when she saw me looking at her she came over and told me that everything went perfectly - just like my dad said it would.
The night in the ICU was a long and very painful one.  They came in in the middle of the night and actually made me stand up which was difficult because I couldn't move my arms and I had what seemed like 20 different tubes and wires sticking out of me.  But I was able to stand and when I laid back down immediately hit the button for the morphine drip.  Morphine is also good stuff.  I've never felt that sensation before or since - where you are in a lot of pain, you hit a button, and you are instantly warm and the pain is gone.  Powerful stuff - another reason I have never messed with drugs but why I understand how some people can get addicted.
The next couple of days were a blur.  I was pretty hopped up on pain killers and very groggy.  I do remember lots of people with clip boards coming in and out (University Hospital is a teaching hospital).  I also remember being used as a guinea pig to train new nurses on how to put IV's in.  One poor girl was so bad at it she used every vein in both arms before she got it right.  She felt badly but what did I care - I really couldn't feel it - and she was pretty cute.
The other annoying thing was the chest drainage tube.  The gross thing about it was that occasionally I could actually hear the suction in my own chest - it was weird.  The worst part about the tube was getting it out.  One of the ladies from the surgical team came in and took it out.  She cut the suture holding it in place, put her big hand on my chest and told me to take a big breath and then yanked it out.  I swear there was 3 feet of tube in there.  She just kept pulling and pulling until it popped out.  It was really painful but after that I felt like I was really making progress.  The nurses would come in and get me up several times per day and make me walk around the 4th floor.  They were, without fail, kind and patient.  Because of my physical condition before surgery I was able to recover pretty quickly to the point where I could go home.  On the 4th day after the open-heart procedure, I was released from the hospital.  It was a happy day.  I spent a total of 8 days there and while I appreciate everything that was done for me by the staff - I don't ever want to be a patient in a hospital again.  I don't like going to hospitals even now.  I don't have a phobia - I just don't like them.
When I got home I had to do a lot of things differently.  The most annoying thing for me was I had to have help bathing and dressing myself because I couldn't raise my arms above my head and I wasn't supposed to get my incision wet.  I would lay in the half-full bath tub with a towel covering my goodies and my mom would come in and help me.  To get dressed I would lean forward and put my arms out like superman so she could slip my shirt on.  Fortunately it was early summer so most of the time I just went shirtless.  Two things happened at this point that stand out in my mind.  The first day or two that I was home I got nauseous - probably form the Percocet - and I threw up.  That is the single worst physical pain I have ever felt in my life.  Throwing up with your sternum in two pieces hurts and I don't recommend it.  I think I slept for 16 hours after that happened.  The other thing is that I started to develop pain in my lower abdomen - near where your appendix is but it only happened when I laid flat on my back (which was the only way I cold lay down).  So for a couple of nights I slept upstairs sitting up in my sister's bed (my room was downstairs at the time and it was hard to get up and down the stairs).  When the pain didn't subside I began to worry that my appendix was going to need to come out and I dreaded the possibility of more surgery.  We went back up to the hospital where it was determined that I did not have appendicitis and that their best guess was that sometimes interconnected nerve groups can be affected far from where things hurt and that it would probably just go away on its own - which it did.
Once I could sleep normally at night I began to get better pretty rapidly.  I was given exercises to do and a thing I called the 'breathalyzer' which had a ball in a tube that I was required to alternately blow and suck on so many times per day to keep my lungs clear - both of which I did faithfully. 
My friends had had a Lake Powell trip planned for that summer and I desperately wanted to go.  My parents weren't excited about letting me do it but they did.  Those trips to Lake Powell with Brady, Kirk, Jon, the Brandons (Walsh and Lingwall) were so much fun.  Walsh's mom and step-dad Johnny had a house boat and we had the best time down there.  I wasn't supposed to but I went water skiing - just 5 or 6 weeks after having heart surgery.  I also wasn't supposed to get my scar sunburned but I did.
Though I recovered quickly and completely I changed.  I lost my sense of invincibility - especially on the soccer field.  I found my self protecting my chest a lot more than I normally would have - which is silly considering that my sternum was now permanently steel-reinforced.  My temperament become more subdued and, if anything, I became a little more shy.  I can't explain it.  I have over the years contemplated the whole ordeal and searched for the reasoning behind it.
This is what I have come up with so far:  we live in a fallen world where crappy things are the norm.  Part of it I think is just that - bad things can happen to us when we don't deserve them.  It's life.  On the other hand, because this life is so important in an eternal perspective, and we only get one shot at it, I can't help but think that some of these things are specifically designed for us.  What did I get from my surgical experience?  Greater appreciation for life, health, family and friends.  Greater compassion for human suffering and a vivid understanding of human frailty.  These lessons didn't come all at once - I'm still learning them but occasionally something will happen in my life that causes me to reflect back on that period of my life - and on the surgery itself and realize that our time here is limited and there is nothing we can do about it when it's 'our time' to go.  I also learned, though I did feel sorry for myself at first, that someone always has it worse and that remembering that can save a lot of useless worry and fuss and that we can be happy, if we choose to be, no matter what happens to us.  The most important thing I learned is that God in Heaven is real, that he hears and answers prayers, and that His Priesthood is on the earth in all its power and authority.
I hope that these last two posts haven't been too indulgent or self-glorifying but I think they are a big part of my story and wanted to put them out there for anyone interested in them.
Thanks for reading it!

My love affair with the Beautiful Game

It is hard to believe but the blog has reached 1,000 page views now.  Thank you to everyone who has shown interest in my story.  I honestly never thought I would post more than the very first one about my trip to DC with Haley.  Then I thought that once I had told the story of my divorce that I wouldn't have anything else to say.  Well, it has turned into a great outlet for me and also a way to let my family and friends get to know me better - and along the way I have rediscovered my love for writing.  Last week I went with my brother, his son and a friend from my ward to the RSL game.  It was a great game and reminded me of why I love the sport of soccer - which is sometimes referred to as 'The Beautiful Game'.
Another reason for continuing the blog is that it has kind of become the beginnings of a personal history.  It is always better to write about things while you can still remember them!  I am going to start copying these things to another file so that, after the blog has served its purpose, I will be able to keep going and won't have to start over.

Understanding One Another

April's grandmother, Lucille Cannon, remains one of my favorite people - even though she has been gone for several years now.  She was such an interesting person.  Grandma Cannon was a fairly renowned water color artist and spent some time (if I'm not mistaken) as president of the Utah Water Color Society.  The most intriguing part of her story, to me, is that she didn't really start painting until she was a senior citizen.  She went back to school at the U while in her early 60's and earned a BA in fine arts - and she did it backwards.  She convinced the school counselor to let her take the classes in reverse order - from the hardest to the easiest.  I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that conversation!  Grandma Cannon was one of the most Christ-like people I have ever met.  I felt like one of her grand children from the beginning even though she hardly knew me.  That was the thing about her - she could make you feel like you were the only person on earth when you were talking with her.  She listened to and heard every word you said and always had relevant questions to ask about the subject of the conversation.  I loved her for that.  One of the most enjoyable experiences I had was sitting next to her on a flight when the whole Long family went to Hawaii 14 years ago.
Grandma Cannon could talk about everything - from sports to art to making castings.  I don't know how we got onto the subject but we started talking about Pablo Picasso.  I made some remark about how crazy I thought he was and that I didn't really get his art.  Well let me tell you of the education I received during what has to be the shortest 5 hours of my life!  She told me how at a very young age little Pablo could very quickly draw precise likenesses of people and animals and that he was so good he got bored with drawing normal stuff.  His IQ was in the genius range.  He had to find more complex and 'interesting' ways to express himself.  That is how he sort of invented his own style - the depth of which takes time to appreciate.  Grandma Cannon taught me two things on that trip: 1) sometimes the best way to learn is to keep your eyes and your ears open and your mouth shut.  2)  If you want people to understand you then you have to be willing to let them in.  If April ever reads this she will probably say "well then what happened to you?".  It is true that I stopped communicating with her on some levels.  In my defense I will only say this - you can only have your opinions and feelings scrutinized and rejected so many times before you no longer want to go through what for me was the painful process of always having to justify everything I said and thought.  At times it felt like she was never impressed with anything I ever did.  Maybe I'm not that impressive, I don't know.  But once upon a time I was a pretty good soccer player.  Maybe it's just that the older I get the better I was...

The Early Years

I first started playing organized soccer when I was 7.  I had played baseball for a couple of years but was not very good at it.  I think the last year I played I only got one hit the whole season.  My parents could tell I wasn't enthusiastic about our national past time and to their credit never pressured me to keep playing.  That is why when my best friend, Steve Smith, introduced me to soccer and got me to sign up I fell instantly in love with the most popular sport in the world.  For me and soccer it really was love at first sight.  Instead of sitting and watching for half of the game I could run the whole time!  From the beginning I showed aptitude at the game.  I was smaller, but also faster than, most of the other kids and I loved to chase the ball.   I can still remember the blue, reversible, mesh jerseys with the vinyl numbers that would stick to my back as I got sweaty.  I have tried to find some of my old soccer photos but have not been able to.  My mom probably has them stashed away somewhere.
For a quiet, shy and reserved kid the soccer field was a great refuge.   In some ways I became a different person out on 'the pitch'.  I was aggressive and loved to win.  I never hurt anyone intentionally - when I was little.  As I got older and began playing defense there was a certain element of intimidation that accompanied being the 'last line of defense' but for the most part, as a young boy, I just loved to play.  In my second season I scored a lot of goals which prompted my dad to lower the $5 per goal reward to 1 dollar - which did not deter me one bit - it actually made me want it more.  As I got older I spent increasingly more time with a soccer ball between my feet.  I have sometimes wondered if I had OCD as I would often sit on the couch, watch TV, and juggle my soccer ball with my feet.  For you non-soccer types juggling involves kicking the ball from foot to foot without letting it touch the ground.  It is a great way to develop a feel for how the different surfaces of your feet react with the ball.

The Teenage Years

As time progressed I spent more and more time playing the game itself.  I would juggle for hours in the back yard.  I would kick the ball against the back wall of our garage in the back yard until my parents would say "enough!  It sounds like your trying to kick a hole in the wall'.  Funny thing is I kind of was.  I would kick the ball against that wall as hard and as low to the ground as I could and then try to recover fast enough to stop it as it came back at me.  That was how I developed the power in my shot and my ball handling skills.  I ruined the soffet above that back wall but my dad never really got that mad at me for it.  I think he felt that there were worse things I could be doing and that if I stayed away from drugs, alcohol, and girls then it was a small price to pay.  I also had one of those little net thingies with an elastic tether that you could stake to the ground.  I would spend hours kicking the ball trying to break that tether - until I finally did.  Had to go knock on the neighbor's door to ask for my ball back.  In my early teen years I was introduced to the world of competition soccer.  The difference with competition teams is that you had to try out, you practiced more, and the other kids were better - and almost always for me - bigger.  Bigger but not faster.  Somewhere along the way I developed very good foot speed, which for some reason got me moved from offense to defense.  I was frustrated at first because I loved to score goals.  I would have been unhappy with the move were it not for the best soccer coach I have ever known - Hans Knubel (the correct pronunciation is, actually, Kuh-nuble).  Hans explained to me that some of the best players in the world were defenders and the reason was they had to have all of the same skills as the other players but that it took a special kind of smarts to play defense.  He also reassured me that I would still get opportunities to score goals - and he was right about that part.  Maybe I'm just a sucker but I swallowed it hook line and sinker and played defense for the rest of my soccer career.  This photo was taken earlier this year at an RSL game.  Hans was there celebrating 70th birthday.  He looks pretty good for 70, don't you think?

Hans, Inga, and me (about 20 lbs ago).

The Knubel's have season tickets so whenever I go to a game I always try to stop by and say hello.  Hans Knubel was a great coach and mentor and his accent made him sound legit!  He was very patient with us.  He had that gift of relating to younger people but was still able to get your attention and communicate important information.  He had this saying where he would call us 'Pre-Maradonnas' - a sublte play on words that combined Prima Donna and the name of the legendary diminutive Argentine striker Diego Maradonna.  If he called you a Pre-Maradonna, you knew he wasn't happy with whatever stunt you had just pulled which usually involved getting away from the basics skills he was tring to teach you.  I learned so much about the game, and life, from him and he, really more than anyone else, helped me to develop my skills.  He is the one responsible for teaching me the shot that his son, Stephan (our goal keeper and a great friend) hated so much.  One of the great things about Hans was that not only could he tell us what to do, he would demonstrate it.  The first time I saw him kick one of those low, knuckle-ballish, laserbeam shots I was envious.  He taught us how to do it then left it up to us to work on it - and work on it i did!  I loved the feeling of striking the ball that hard and watching it glide, with no rotation (like a knuckle ball in baseball) into the back of the net.  That and the pursuit. I loved having the ball go 'over the top' at midfield when the fastest player on the other team would take off running after it. (This, by the way, is the most over-used and inefficient play in American soccer - also known as the long ball - and it pains me to see MLS teams, and the national team, still try to use it so much, but I digress). Anyway, while I loved the pursuit, my favorite part was catching up to him, taking the ball while upending him and then seeing the 'where-the-crap-did-you-come-from' look on his face.  The funny thing is that I hated to run for any other reason.  I hated jogging, wind sprints or any other exercise related form of running.  But kick a ball and pit me against another kid chasing it and I loved it.  I loved to be the spoiler and I became a slide tackle artist.  Brandon Lingwall was also every bit as good, if not better at it, than I was.  Some seasons I would slide tackle so much that I would get a nasty raspberry on my left butt cheek and would have to wear a bandage the entire season.  I also would have to sleep on my right side because it was too painful to lay on my sore spot.  I also had the dubious record of 14 yellow cards in one season but, somehow, that never deterred me from sliding.  We had so much fun playing together - Brandon, Stephan and I.  Brandon and I became the enforcers.  We had some smaller kids on our team who occasionally would get bullied by the bigger kids on the other team.  If one of our smaller buddies got hurt Brandon and I would make eye contact and we knew it was on.  It was sometimes a silent competition to see who would be the first to hand out the retribution.  We never really hurt anyone (badly) but we were pretty good at sending the message to the other team. - leave the little kids alone.  If you want to play rough - bring it over here.  Playing with Brandon and Stephan are some of my fondest childhood memories.  In ninth grade I tried out for the high school team and actually made the team but I chose not to play.  Part of it was that I wanted to stay on my comp team to play with my friends and part of it, if I'm honest, was that I didn't have the confidence to do it.  Looking back that seems kind of silly to me because I tried out again the next year and made the varsity team as a sophomore and started every game - duh.

The Beautiful Game

There are many reasons why soccer is the most popular sport in the world. One is that it can be played just about anywhere.  All you need is an open field (or a street), something with which to mark the goals and something round to kick.  In some of the poorer countries around the world an old stuffed sock or shirt becomes the ball.  Another reason is that it resonates with so many different people across many social, economic and political backgrounds.  I once read an interesting article in National Geographic about soccer.  It was fascinating and one of the most eye-opening articles I have ever read about any sport.  In fact, it's here if you are inclined to read it:

http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2006/06/soccer/soccer-text

Here is one of the best parts - which puts it way better than I can:

Brazil
Ballet With the Ball: A Love Story
By John Lanchester
Why do we fall in love with soccer? What happens? At some deep level the reason soccer snags us is that good soccer is beautiful, and it's difficult, and the two are related. A team kicking the ball to each other, passing into empty space that is suddenly filled by a player who wasn't there two seconds ago and who is running at full pelt and who without looking or breaking stride knocks the ball back to a third player who he surely can't have seen, who, also at full pelt and without breaking stride, then passes the ball, at say 60 miles an hour, to land on the head of a fourth player who has run 75 yards to get there and who, again all in stride, jumps and heads the ball with, once you realize how hard this is, unbelievable power and accuracy toward a corner of the goal just exactly where the goalkeeper, executing some complex physics entirely without conscious thought and through muscle-memory, has expected it to be, so that all this grace and speed and muscle and athleticism and attention to detail and power and precision will never appear on a score sheet and will be forgotten by everybody a day later—this is the strange fragility, the evanescence of soccer. It's hard to describe and it is even harder to do, but it does have a deep beauty, a beauty hard to talk about and that everyone watching a game discovers for themselves, a secret thing, and this is the reason why soccer, which has so much ugliness around it and attached to it, still sinks so deeply into us: Because it is, it can be, so beautiful...
 

I love the way that guy writes!  Americans, for the most part, don't get soccer.  I don't know if we aren't patient enough or we are just suspicious of things that weren't invented here.  I realize some things about the game itself are out of place in American sports.  Things like 'diving', faking an injury, or my biggest pet peeve - overreacting to an injury and acting like you are dying until the trainer comes out and sprays his magic mist on you and you get up and play the rest of the game at full speed.  Americans don't buy into that because we watch American football where you can see a player suffer a real, painful injury and keep playing - even without the magic spray.
Last week I was reminded of the beauty of the game when I went to the RSL playoff game and saw this goal by Alvoro Saborio.

Sabo's goal is even better in this video than when I saw it live - it was beautiful.  One of those rare moment where everything went right.  For me soccer is a great metaphor for life.  It can be so frustrating and sloppy at times and then suddenly, it can become gratifying and elegant - it can be beautiful.  Sometimes there is a great play that completely turns the tide - a play in which one player exerts himself and takes a chance, stops a pass or a shot and the momentum does a 180 and the team that was on its heels is suddenly on the attack.  The whole mood of the stadium is transformed from boredom or even disdain - to anticipation and excitement. It can be electric.
Like life, soccer can be mundane (though it is never boring to me).  It can also be frustrating and even irritating when, as a fan, you can see from the cheap seats that the team isn't playing as well as they can or that it's just going to be a long night because you can feel it's going to be.  But every once in a while - if you know what to look for, the game can be truly beautiful and when it is - all seems to be right with the world.

So, like Grandma Cannon did when I revealed my ignorance of Pablo Picasso, I try to be patient with people who show the same contempt for the beautiful game - my game.  If they have a moment and are inclined to listen - I will try to share my appreciation for it - and if I'm half as good as Grandma was, they will understand a little better.  And maybe next time they have a chance, they will sit down and watch a game.  And if they are lucky - they will witness greatness - and it will be beautiful to them too...

Worth a thousand words

I was thinking of how to sum up the last few months of frustration and disappointment - and not being able to see my daughter on Halloween - when I came across a photo I took of her a few months ago.  She had grown tired of being the focus of my camera and let me know without uttering a single word...I feel the same way about the way things have gone.

The old axiom is true - photos can say so much.  That's all I have to say about that...

Front Sight

I am about to take the mystery out of my trips to the Nevada desert. For the past couple of years now I have been a lifetime member of Front Sight FirearmsTtraining Institute near Pahrump, Nevada. Pahrump, or 'Pahrumpistan', as we refer to it, is a heaven-forsaken town about 45 minutes west of Las Vegas. This is what the area around the facility looks like - a terrorist training camp right out of some middle-eastern country:

It is a barren waste land in the middle of nowhere.  Pahrump's claim to fame is that at one time it was the brothel capital of America and still boasts the world's only brothel museum (though I don't know why anyone would be proud of that and I cringe at the thought of what would be in it).  It is a sad little town with 3 small hotel/casinos - none of which are in any way appealing.  We stayed in one of them on one of our trips and found it more desirable to sleep out in the desert in a tent than to ingest all of the cigarette smoke.  The area surrounding the shooting ranges is all BLM land so we just find a nice flat spot and set up camp.  For some reason the terrain reminds me of the movie Tremors, with Kevin Bacon.  That movie still makes me laugh - I love it.

The Courses

Front Sight offers a pretty good selection of firearms and martial arts classes - though we have only taken the gun classes.  We have taken the handgun, shotgun and rifle courses - some of them more than once.  We took the 4-day practical rifle class this past weekend and we took a few photos so I'll use them to explain what the class entails.
The rifle class takes place on the 200 yard rifle range which is shown below. 

It's not much to look at and it always seems to be hot and dusty but it really is a pretty good facility.  The weather is almost always warm - last weekend the highs were in the mid 80's and the lows in the mid 50's - perfect (except for when the wind blows too much or not enough).  The 4-day 'practical' rifle class is basically an assault rifle class, as you can tell from the assortment of AR-15's in the gun rack.  The AR-15 is a great little gun.  It is the civilian version of the M-16 which you have probably seen in every movie that has anything to do with Vietnam - or any American military conflict since.

Like all gun courses at Front Sight the rifle class starts with 'this is the butt stock, the trigger, the muzzle, etc' and is followed by a thorough safety rundown.  It is always a little surprising to me that every time we go down there we hear a new story of someone who accidentally shot himself and it's always on the pistol range.  Oddly enough the only fatality at Front Sight in its 14 years of operation was from an accident on the zipline on the rope/rappel course and had nothing to do with guns.  The last guy that accidentally shot himself during a handgun class was apparently back on the range the next day - and he shot himself through the thigh with a .45.  Hand gun wounds are not as serious as rifle wounds.  There is a reason why the military fights with rifles - the bullets generally travel faster than half a mile per second,  have much greater range than hand guns, and do a lot of damage when they hit the target.  For that reason, the rifle and shotgun ranges are run as 'cold' ranges, meaning that anytime you leave the firing line, your weapon is verified to be unloaded.  There is also, including the range master, 4-5 people watching everyone on the firing line to make sure they don't do anything stupid - and they do a commendable job.
In the rifle class, one of the first things you do is 'zero', or sight in, your rifle.  This involves taking three series of 3 shots at a target to verify that your sights (or your scope) are lined up correctly so that you are shooting accurately during the course.  This is done by laying prone behind your rifle while propping it up on two sand bags - one under the barrel and one under the stock as shown in this photo.

 

The only part of the gun you are touching is the grip and trigger (with your firing side hand) and the stock (with your cheek).  You lay as comfortably as possible until your heart rate slows down to its resting rate.  Then you focus on the 3 keys to accurate shooting - sight alignment, sight picture, and trigger control.  Sight alignment - with a scope it means looking through the scope so that it is bright and clear and their are no shadows around any of the edges.  If you look through a scope at the wrong angle, black shadows appear around the edges and indicate that you have bad sight alignment.  Sight picture - you have the intersection of the cross hairs right where you want the bullet to go.  Trigger control - you slowly build pressure on the trigger until you get a surprise 'break'.  You literally want to be surprised when the gun goes off because if you anticipate it, you tend to jerk and it messes up the sight alignment and picture.  With your heart rate slowed down you wait for the natural respiratory pause that comes after an exhale.  If you have good sight alignment and sight picture you slowly build pressure on the trigger until the gun goes off.  You never force it.  If you do it right it looks like this - three nicely grouped holes that tell you how far you have to adjust your scope turrets so that where you are looking matches where the bullets are going.

With your gun zeroed, you're now ready for the fun part of the class - the shooting.  We went through about 500 rounds of ammo which, in the shot gun class is painful, but the rifle class isn't so bad.  The AR-15 is designed to have very little recoil or 'kick' and can be fired one handed if you are strong enough to hold the gun up - but it still packs a very good punch.  AR's shoot .223 caliber rounds and do so at about 3000 feet per second - which is smoking fast -and contributes to it's flat trajectory.  At 400 yards a .223 bullet will only drop about 22 inches or so - very good ballistics.  (Sorry, I got a little nerdy there - I couldn't help it).

As I was saying, the shooting part is the fun part.  The instructors run you through several scenarios from quick reaction/short range shots from a standing position to 200-yard take-your-time prone shots.  Just for fun, on the third day, they take you out to 400 yards and spot for you while you shoot at a 24 in. square steel plate.  The first time I took the rifle class I hit that target with open sights (no scope) - the credit goes to the instructors and the rifle.  It's no wonder that the M16 has been the main battle rifle for the military for so long - I love the 'Little Black Gun' (as it is sometimes called).

The exercises they take you through are designed to prepare you for the skills assessment on the last day of the class.  It's a timed test and includes the following:

1 - shots, while standing, to the cranio-ocular cavity (or the snot box as we call it) and thoracic cavity (chest) at 15 yards in under 3 seconds

2- shots, while standing, to the cranio-ocular cavity and thoracic cavity at 25 yards in under 4 seconds.

Nate taking a 25 yard head shot.

3-then they back you up to 50 yards and give you less than 5 seconds to get a shot in the thoracic but they let you sit, kneel or stand - whichever you prefer.

4- after that it's back to 100 yards wehre you have 5 seconds to go from standing to prone and get a shot on the target.  It's hard but doable.

5- the last distance shot is at 200 yards.  6.5 seconds is all the time you have to go off your feet and onto your belly and get a shot off.  It's not as hard as it sounds.

Kirkus and me getting ready for a 200 yard shot.

With the long range portion of the test over it's time for the hostage shot.  The hostage shot is a 7-yard, untimed shot on a target that looks like the one below. The hostage is in white - the hostage takers have their cranio-ocular cavities designated by a box.   The message?  Get it right the first time and never, ever shoot the hostage.  In the handgun class they actually have you write the name of a loved one on the hostage before you take the shots.  In this exercise, it is a point of pride, that I have never shot the hostage.  A perfect score is one bullet hole in each hostage takers snot box - and none in the hostage or off the target.

They also teach you to clear malfunctions (often incorrectly referred to as jams) and include them on the test.  The three malfunction types are 1) hearing a click instead of a bang, 2) getting brass stuck in the ejection port, or 3) having your gun try to chamber two rounds at once.  They are also timed and have spoiled the hopes of many aspiring Distinguished Graduates...

DG

The prize at the end of each course is the coveted 'DG' - or qualifying as a 'Distinguished Graduate'.  Besides bragging rights it allows you to take the more advanced courses at Front Sight.  I am sad to say that I did not DG the rifle course this time.  I did on the practice test but not the real one - but you gotta bring your A-game every time - practice doesn't count.  I was hoping to DG this time so I could take the Precision Rifle (or sniper) course with Nate and Brady but, alas, I will just have to make another trip back in the spring to try again :)

I DG'd the handgun class but that's easier than the rifle class.  To give you an idea of how hard it is - of the 42 people in the class last weekend, only one DG'd this time around - Nate.  Look at him bask in his DG glory.  I personally think it was the T-shirt.  If you look closely, that's Burt from the movie Tremors.

We will never hear the end of it!

It is unlikely that any of us will ever need to use the skills we have acquired at Front Sight but I haven't needed my seat belt yet and I still wear it every time I get behind the wheel.  You just never know...

The Real Point of Front Sight

The real reason we go to Front Sight is the comraderie.  The first time we went it was just Brady and me.  Then we got more of the fellas to sign up and it has the beginings of a great tradition.  Here we are at lunch solving the world's problems.

The Sports Mobile in all its glory

The Sports Mobile (that is its real name) is one of the coolest things I have ever seen.  I won't say whose it is because I know he doesn't seek the recognition that comes with having stuff like this.  He doesn't really care that much about 'stuff' but I could write a whole post geeking out about it.

Here we all are on the last day of the class.

Nate, Brady, Jeff, Me, Kirk.  Though I own camo pants, I refuse to wear them.  Mostly because it's so freaking hot!

It is sad to leave when a class is over but 4 days in the Nevada desert is more than enough.  That's why the best part of these trips is what we do at night...

Nevada Night Life

I have said before that Front Sight is the most fun a bunch of Mormon guys can have in Nevada.  We go into nearby Pahrump at night to eat, shower, and buy supplies - and by that I mean explosives.

We usually eat at a place called Terrible's casino - and the name fits.  It is a smoke-filled cavernous casino that has cheap food and it's actually pretty good.  I recommend the blackened salmon or the T-bone steak - both of which may be had for $9.99.  It's funny because every time we go there they tell us it's at least a 20 minute wait - even with a bunch of open tables.  We figured out that they are probably trained to tell everyone that get you to spend some time in the casino while you are waiting for your table.  When we just stand their waiting they usually will just seat us.  I hate casinos but we eat there almost every night because Brady and I both have to be careful what we eat and somehow Terribles sits well with both of us - everyone else in the group is kind enough to just humor us.

Casinos, to me, are very sad places.  It is remarkable how many people in there are in wheel chairs and need oxygen tanks to help them breathe.  There is a heavy feeling in such places.  The blank stares of the gamblers hoping against hope that the next one will be 'the big one' is depressing to see.  Brady and I have seen this car with the wheel chari lift on the back, no kidding, every time we have gone to Terrible's.

If the whole real estate thing doesn't work out - Brady always has pole-dancing to fall back on (not that I have ever seen a pole dancer....)

Once dinner is over and we have showered off the casino smell - it's off to Walmart for propane and to the fireworks store - and Nevada has great fireworks - especially the improvised ones. 

What you are about to see is a bunch of old friends reliving parts of their childhood.  Yes, it is juvenile - but it's also good clean fun.  All of the supplies purchased for these activities were done so legallly. 

A brief explanation of Tannerite is required.  Tannerite is an inert binary explosive compound - which by the way, may purchased at most local sporting goods stores (Cabela's and Sportsman's Warehouse to name a couple) under the label 'reactive target'.  It is a mixture of amonium nitrate (fertilizer) and aluminum powder.  It is not flammable or explosive in its unmixed state and even when mixed and ready to go it can only be detonated by hitting it with something traveling faster than (I think) 2500 feet per second - or a bullet from a rifle.  I can neither confirm nor deny that I have any knowledge of the orgins of the following video.  The dwellings seen therein were long-abandoned and the one you see in the video is one of the few remaining with more than one wall.  I realize that the following may dissuade certain people from associating with me - but be that as it may - here it is - bringing it home with a little help from Katy Perry...

Perspective

Perspective - It’s good to get a healthy dose of it from time to time. I got one last night. I had planned to write a fun post about what I was doing last weekend because I know my family and some of my friends wonder what it is that I really do when I go out into the Nevada desert to shoot guns. I have pictures and videos I was going to post to prove that we aren't as crazy as some fear. Deep down inside I think some of my siblings and friends are waiting to see if my shooting buddies and I end up on the 6 o'clock news.


Anyway, I was feeling kind of crappy about myself yesterday. I'm trying to sell the house, find a new job closer to Haley, and get my divorce finalized and none of it is working out the way I would like it to. Dang it, I have stuff I want to do! I found out yesterday afternoon that the judge signed the motion to waive the mandatory 90 day waiting period but didn't sign the divorce decree which would have made me officially divorced. Today, right now, I would have been a free man. What's up with that? Is he part of a judicial union that only let's him sign his name so many times per day? Seriously, man, help a brother out!

It's funny how our problems seem so big to us and can cause us so much unhappiness. Well, I got a nice reminder last night that my problems are really not that serious.

Two weeks ago a friend of mine and his wife went to the hospital for the birth of their second child - a boy - named Weston. Weston was born via C-section like his brother Bridger was. There was a small complication during the delivery. After that first C-section my friend's wife's bladder healed so that it was fused to her abdomen and during Weston’s delivery it tore and the OB couldn't sew it back together because he said the walls of her bladder were so thin it was 'like sewing tissue paper'. He had to call in a specialist to repair her bladder, which he was able to do. That, in and of itself, would not have been that bad. What is bad is that it was just the beginning of their troubles.
Weston was fine for the first couple of days but then he started to have difficulty breathing. His symptoms indicated that he might have just been dehydrated so the nurses gave him a bottle, which he gulped down - and it appeared to help. Unfortunately, it didn’t last and he began to have a difficult time breathing again so he was moved to the NICU for observation wherein his condition worsened to the point where the Neo-natal doc was at a loss as far as an explanation for the cause. Weston’s skin started to turn a purple/grayish hue and his little body started to shut down. He guessed that he might have some sort of metabolic disorder but he, to his credit, admitted he didn't know how to diagnose him so he got on the phone with a doctor at Primary Children's Medical Center at the U, the end result of which was a hasty middle-of-the-night helicopter ride to Salt Lake.
Fortunately, a pair of world-renowned geneticists work at the U and had little Weston diagnosed within only a few hours. It turns out that he has a metabolic disorder (the Dr. in Ogden was right) which I cannot pronounce that affects only one in 80,000 kids and prevents him from metabolizing certain proteins. He is still in the NICU at PMC and has a long road ahead of him. Even when he is well enough to come home, which may not be for another month or two, he will be on a special diet for the foreseeable future and probably for the rest of his life.
Because he had so much trouble breathing and also had seizures, it is believed that he suffered some brain damage, though, at this point, it is not clear to what extent. Needless to say, he and his parents, have a tough row to hoe.
You’re probably wondering why I would burden you with such a depressing story. Yes, it is a hard story, and one that could be depressing but as I sat and listened to my friend tell his story I didn’t get the impression that he was depressed. A little sad and pretty worn out from basically living at the hospital for two weeks – but not depressed or feeling sorry for himself – and don’t you think he would be justified in indulging in a little self-pity? I do. I don’t know how he isn’t a complete basket case. But I think he understands the principle of becoming “as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon him, even as a child doth submit to his father (Mosiah 3:19). Instead of being bitter or angry he acknowledged the hand of the Lord in everything that happened in diagnosing and treating his tiny son. Crappy things happen to good people all the time. So much of happiness depends on how we react to it all. I am amazed at the ability of some people to endure trials.
I once heard someone say (wish I could remember who) that if we could pile all of our troubles together into a big heap and then were given the opportunity to go choose which ones we wanted that we would probably just find our own and be glad to take them back. Makes sense to me. Someone always has it worse. We expect things to go a certain way and sometimes they just don’t. It’s life.

My sister-in-law told me that her daughter asked her if she was happy with my brother. The conversation went something like this:
Niece: Mom, are you happy with dad?
Sis-in-law: Yes, why do you ask?
N: You’re always reading books about relationships. I just thought that meant you were unhappy.
SIL: You know the happily-ever-after in fairy tales and Disney movies?
N: Yes.
SIL: That’s not real. Edward Cullen does not and never will exist (OK, so I added the jab at Twilight).
N: (audible sound of bubble bursting) What!
SIL: Relationships take work and reading about them is one way to help figure out how to make them better…

I don’t remember how the conversation ended but my young niece learned a tough lesson – one that I hope will help her in her adult life. We never know what will happen to us. Marriages fail, health deteriorates - bad things happen – even to the best people. Life is a perpetual struggle. Our individual story is made up of such things. The challenge is to keep pressing forward - even when it means crawling or clawing your way up. Everyone has a story and I’d love to meet the person whose story has gone exactly according to plan. Even when we think other people’s stories seem ‘happily ever after’ we don’t really know what they have already been through or are about endure. The good thing is that all of our stories will have a happy ending if we can hang in there until the end and we can ‘sit down with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob to go no more out’.
I hope these posts don’t seem self-righteous because they help motivate me to keep going. I would much rather have someone to just tell them to but I can’t yet. I try to take my own advice but I’m not great at that sometimes. So thank you for reading my story. Even though it’s a one way conversation it is good to know there are still people reading it. I think my next one will be a little more on the fun side – and not so serious. Have to keep a good balance…

Why I still believe - in the church

I figured after my last post that I should chase it with a more normal one.

The biggest reason I still believe in the church is that it has saved my butt - literally. The great friends I have, my calling, and mostly, the way I feel when I am there. There have been many Sundays where I have thought: "I've been really good at going to church every week, I don't really feel like facing the world today, so I can skip this week and pick up next week". I'm glad to say that I have gone every Sunday anyway. If one can drag one's self kicking and screaming anywhere, then I have done it on my way to church. I'm such an idiot. If I could always just remember the peace I feel and the strength I get from just being there, then I wouldn't ever doubt the need to go. I have, without fail, always felt better (and by that I mean stronger and more at peace) after having been there than when I reluctantly arrived 3 hours earlier.  All of this in spite of being shunned by some people.  I have sometimes wondered if I have a scarlet letter tattooed on my forehead - not sure if it's 'D' for Divorcee or 'P' for Poophead but I'm not upset by it.  We don't always know what to say to people who are suffering publicly.  I hold no grudges.  What has helped me is some advice I once heard that has really stuck with me.  It goes like this: "be where you are supposed to be - when you are supposed to be there."  Sounds a lot like 'Just Do It' to me.  The church, and the great members of my ward have been a tremendous blessing to me.
That is why I don't get people like the latest zealot, (why does it seem like they are always from Texas?) a Dr. Robert Jeffress, to claim, in his infinite wisdom and expertise that I am not a Christian. And how does he know this? Because he has a PhD from a 'seminary'. Didn't you know? All the apostles and prophets from the Bible went to 'seminary', got a PhD, preached at a mega church for hours about how Oprah Winfrey is the devil and judged other people who didn't share their beliefs with impunity and authority. Or was that the Pharisees? Sorry, us dumb Mormons don't know our bible 'that good.' After all, we are a cult. Just like all the other cults that have millions of members and have been around for almost 200 years. Last time I checked most cults were of the 'flash-in-the-pan' variety like the ones led by Jim Jones and David Koresh. They have far more questionable beginnings than the church, much shorter life spans, and the worst part about them is their endings -which are never good and almost always involve the FBI. Unfortunately for Mr. Jeffress, and others who share his opinion, the Mormon 'cult' has no end in sight. It will be a thorn in his side until he can either decisively prove it is an illegitimate cult or accept it for the only real alternative to that - the true and living restored church of Christ. To the honest casual observer it has to look more like the stone, seen by Daniel, cut out of the mountain without hands that is rolling forward to fill the earth and much less like a group of deranged people whose faith is built on a sandy foundation. Many storms have descended on the church in the last 180 years which would have washed it away if it was built upon anything besides solid bedrock. If Joseph Smith was the fraud some claim him to be then he is by far the most successful charlatan in modern history. He must have been a gifted liar to perpetuate his lies for such a long time after his death. That is an amazing feat.

Another of the great reasons I still have faith is one of my friends here in our ward. I share part of  his story here (we all have a story, don't we?) and I do so with his permission:  Kenny is in his mid-twenties, is married, has two really cute kids and is one of a handful of men I regularly put my arm around and say “I love you, man”. Every time I see him, which is usually Wednesday nights (when we do our elders quorum visits) and Sundays, I tell him that he renews my faith in humanity. And I sincerely mean it. When I first met him about two years ago he was just starting to come back to church after years of what I will only describe as 'riotous living'. He was shy and unsure of himself but he wanted to make a change in his life and had begun the process. It is a process that involves more than just praising Jesus and 'accepting' him as your Savior. It is hard work and it can be painful. I don't know all of the details of Kenny's journey back to the straight and narrow but I know some of them and I admire him for his dedication. He is now a secretary in our elder’s quorum presidency and in his words "lives for Wednesday nights".  He likes that he can go out and tell his story and encourage others who are struggling and promise them that if the Lord could help him then He would surely help them. I love it when I get paired with Kenny for visits. When it's his turn to talk I just sit back, watch and listen. Kenny is not a scriptorian or a doctrinal expert like many consider Mr. Jeffress to be. He is just a humble, peaceable follower of Christ doing his best to serve God and others and I love him for it.  When Kenny speaks he does so from his own well of personal experience. He speaks simply and openly about his faith and testimony and he makes a difference.
No one can tell him he is not a Christian. Kenny knows the Savior and the power and personal nature of his atonement from his own upward journey. He doesn't have a PhD that gives him authority to tell his story - he has lived it.  How can you tell someone their experience is wrong?  I don't get it.
In my opinion that is what Mr. Jeffress is up against - and I don't think he has any idea of the depth of his problem. There are millions of Mormon 'Kennys' out there with similar stories and the number will continue to increase. So to Mr. Jeffress I would ask this: how could an illegitmiate, fraudulent cult produce so much good in the world? Until you can answer that I don't think you have any business calling the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints a cult.
Some would argue that Mormons are guilty of the same rhetoric when discussing other religions. And, yes, at times, we are. When we call others names and act like we know everything then we are not acting Christlike at all. Shame on us when we treat others like that.  LDS missionaries don't do it and are taught not to do it - it's counter-productive anyway!  All they do is seek out anyone who will listen who may be looking for something more.
One night after our visits Kenny and I sat in my car and talked for a long time about life, our personal struggles, and our shared hope for the future. He told of some of his mistakes (I assured him he was not the only one who ever made any) and his struggles to get back to where he is. We talked about the atonement - its 'infinite and eternal' nature and the reality that it can help us with all of our problems - not just our sins. Infinite and Eternal. To me that means it covers everything and that it does so forever. At times during that discussion it felt like the Lord was very close to two of his sons who had suffered through some tough times - both from their own mistakes (believe me I’ve made my share) and the actions of others. We both felt an assurance that we were loved by God and that He would help us with our troubles. How can Mr. Jeffress tell me that I am not a Christian when I profess faith in him, back it up with trying to help others to know Him, and then feel so close to Him when I do it?
I have had the privelage of watching Kenny's transformation and it has been really fun to see.  His story gives me hope that better things are ahead for me too.
Kenny texted me a few nights ago when I was on my way home from work and asked if he could borrow some sugar - don't worry, I didn't text him back while I was driving:). He was making cookies for his kids for family home evening and was a cup short. He came over to get it and then wanted to pay me for the sugar. I told him that I would not accept his money. Instead I told him: “you just keep being you and we’ll call it even”.  He said he could handle that.

Worth Dying For

I meant to post this sooner but have been delayed for two reasons: 1) I spent a delightful weekend with Haley at my brother-in-law's house and did not have time and 2) I'm still not sure of the best way to say it without sounding like a zealot. Let me say up front that the following has nothing to do with the fact that I found out today that my divorce case has been sitting on a judge's desk, unsigned, for 11 days now. Initially I was led to believe that it would be only a matter of a couple of days to get it signed and mailed out. Now the story has changed to "sometimes it takes 1 day, sometimes it takes weeks". Very frustrating. I will err on the side of caution and assume that the judge's 90 year old grandmother is on her death bed and that it has nothing to do with golfing in this beautiful fall weather.

You're probably wondering what the title of this post is all about .Well, this is just fair warning that I have no future with a woman who does not allow guns in the house. She doesn't have to touch them or even like them but they are coming with me. I have always had guns, except for the short period of time when my daughter was a toddler up until 2007 when Suleman Tulovic walked into Trolley Square with a shotgun and killed 5 people and wounded 4 others (who would also be dead if he had been using heavier loads). The only reason I got rid of them was because I didn't have a safe place to keep them. Mr. Tulovic convinced me it was time to get them back – that and 9/11. September 11th changed a lot of things. Some of our innocence was lost. Until that point; wars, death, and carnage were something that happened in other people’s countries – not ours. But on that day the fragile nature of civilization was revealed as was the astonishing destruction that can be wrought by only a hand full of people who are blinded by hate. Articles I read about hurricane Katrina contributed as well. It was a little surprising to me that a hurricane could cause so many gunshot and stab wounds! What was not surprising was that the majority of them happened to people who had no way to defend themselves. All of these instances reminded me of when Lehi and his family arrived in this hemisphere and Nephi came to the (I assume reluctant) conclusion that he would need to provide a way for his people to defend themselves:

And I, Nephi, did take the sword of Laban, and after the manner of it did make many swords, lest by any means the people who were now called Lamanites should come upon us and destroy us; for I knew their hatred towards me and my children and those who were called my people. 2 Nephi 5:14

Hate and desperation are illogical and cannot be reasoned with. It is unfortunate that some folks only understand the language of violence and that good people throughout history have at times been forced to become fluent in it (Captain Moroni and George Washington are two examples).

Some would say: "why not let the police do their job?"   I think the police, in general, do a very good job of keeping the peace. One thing they do not do well, and only because it is impossible to do so, is prevent crimes from happening. They have gotten increasingly better at investigating them but the investigations always involve victims (the ones who survive) of something that has already happened. Yes, the presence of a police force is, most of the time, an adequate deterrent. Sometimes, however, it is not.  It is worth noting that a great deal of damage was abated at Trolley Square that night because an off duty police officer, Ken Hammond, was in the mall having dinner with his wife.  He was armed and was successful at distracting the shooter until the SWAT team could arrive. Had he not been there surely more people would have been injured or killed during the 6 or so minutes it took the police to arrive - and six minutes is a pretty darned good response time.
Surprisingly, my desire to have guns in the house again was met with little resistance so I began to rebuild my collection. I am not a violent person. In fact, there are two things that surprise others about me when they discover them: that I'm (almost) divorced and that I have guns - and not just that I have them but that I know how to use them.
About the guns: I have always enjoyed shooting as a sport though I have never been a hunter. I like shooting clay pigeons and 'plinking' - but what I have really enjoyed learning is long range shooting. I like the challenge of it. It's tough to control your breathing, to slow your heart rate down, control the trigger and focus so intently on the target that not even the guy shooting the elephant gun in the lane next to you is a distraction. At long distances, even the smallest unintentional movement, like a heartbeat, can throw your shot off. I liken it to shooting free throws – only a little more dangerous and the target is farther away.
At this point I should clarify that I am not a violent person. Some have asked me, “why would you ever want to shoot someone?” The fact is I NEVER want to shoot anyone. I never want to hurt another living soul. I think that by now the general consensus is that I’m a nice person. Unfortunately, the reality of the matter is that there are people in this increasingly dangerous world who don’t feel the same way.  The only thing I want to do less than hurt someone else is to be powerless as someone harms or kills me or one of my family members. In my opinion there has to be good people willing to stand up and say, “I’m not going to sit idly by while this is going on”. In that sense I am like Captain Steve Rogers (from this summer’s Captain America movie) who was asked by Dr. Erskine “so you want to go kill Nazis, do you?” His response reflects how I feel: “I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t like bullies; I don’t care where they’re from.” A man who walks into a crowded mall and starts shooting defenseless people with a shotgun, no matter his state of mind, is a bully - as is anyone who tries to come into your house in the middle of the night, or morons who fly airplanes into skyscrapers.
There is an old saying in the marine corpse that goes like this:  Be be polite, be professional, have a plan to kill everyone you meet.  Sounds like a close cousin to 'walk softly and carry a big stick'.  So do I have a plan to kill everyone I meet? Of course not. That is just one of the things the old retired Marines say (only half-jokingly) at Front Sight Firearms Training Institute where I am a lifetime member (thanks to my brother-in-law). I have taken several classes at FS in the last 2 years and have learned a great deal about what I did not know before I went there. What I love about FS is that it is very comprehensive training – from classroom lectures about decision making and the consequences of using a firearm in self-defense to range instruction that begins with identifying the parts of a gun and ends with even the old ladies (and yes they are there) becoming very competent shooters. Plus, it’s just plain fun to shoot 500 rounds of ammo in a weekend at different targets and in different scenarios. For me it is the most fun a bunch of Mormon guys can have in Nevada! I highly recommend FS to anyone who has guns but isn’t sure (like I was for a long time) if they are ‘doing it right' and for people who are unfamiliar with guns or are a little afraid of them, the training at FS is perfect. They totally take the mystery out of guns and how to safely handle them. FS also claims to train the average Joe to a level that exceeds the majority of military and law enforcement personnel.  And after having taken classes with cops and soldiers - I believe them.  I am returning this weekend with some old high school buddies and am really looking forward to it.
When I first expressed a desire to get my guns back, the worry, and I’m not saying it wasn’t a legitimate one, was that I would want to be some vigilante/hero with an itchy trigger finger a la John Rambo. Not so. The lasting impression you get from FS, concerning the use of a firearm, is this: When you consider the use of a gun in any situation where you could harm another person be prepared to answer the following question: Is whatever has gotten you to the point where you are considering inflicting harm on another person worth dying for? In other words: If you press that trigger and harm or, heaven forbid, kill another human being will it have been worth all of the heartache that will follow? Would you shoot someone for cutting you off on the freeway, or if they want your wallet, or your car keys? Some people might (and if you watch the news you know they have) but I never would. If you are threatening me with a knife or a gun for my car keys or my wallet you will get them without a fight – in fact I will smile at you as I hand them over. I would even help you empty my house of all my possessions and pack up the truck if all you want is my ‘stuff’. Who cares about ‘stuff’? On the other hand, if you threaten a loved one, especially a female one, with bodily harm and a verbal warning does not deter you - that is where the line is crossed into the 'stopping you is worth dying for so I will shoot you' realm.  Sound harsh?  Consider this:

And again, the Lord has said that: Ye shall defend your families even unto bloodshed. Alma 43:47

Some have asked, “why not use pepper spray, a taser, or a baseball bat?” That’s fine for some people and if it works for you, great - but the bad guys will most likely have a gun.  I’m not advocating that everyone have and carry guns.  Some people should NOT have guns. Like the guy in Utah County last year who dropped his pistol in the bathroom at Chili’s (I think). It discharged a round and shattered the toilet. Not only is that a great way to ruin your date and get yourself arrested - it’s stupid. That person should not be carrying a gun. Baseball bat? If you want to allow a threat to get that close then be my guest. By the time they are that close to me they will already have been looking at the business end of my Glock long enough to rethink their intentions.

One case is worth noting.  I don't remember how long ago it was but there was a shooting in Bluffdale, in my parents' neighborhood, actually.  A teenage girl was walking home after dark one night when she claimed to have been harassed by some members of the local neighborhood watch about being out late.  There had been some car burglaries in the area and they were out patrolling.  Nothing wrong with that.  My understanding of what happened next was that the young lady went home and told her father what had happened.  She was upset - which naturally upset her dad.  Being the father of a young girl I can understand the protective instinct.  In my opinion, the thing to do at that point would be to call the police and report the incident.  Stay home and enjoy the evening with your family.  Or you could do what this guy did and grab your .45 and go looking for the dirt bag who upset your daughter.  He was able, from the description of the vehicle, to find the men in question.  What happened next is a little fuzzy but the result was that 4 grown men ended up in the street pointing guns at each other.  Shots were fired and one man was severely injured and is now in a wheel chair.  The man who shot him is in prison - and from conversations my mom has had with his wife - it appears that he would do it again if given the choice.  I don't get it but I wasn't there.  I would rather still be free and living with my family.  If my daughter came home and told me some men were harassing her I would sit down with her and get the story so that I can repeat it to police dispatch.  If they pull up in front of my house and are cat-calling her from the curb - I call the police again and tell them that what is going on.  At this point I am thinking through at what point this becomes worth dying for.  If they approach the house they get a distinct and unmistakable verbal warning.  If they start acting like they want to come in the house then they are crossing the line and I am defending what is precious to me - things that are worth dying for.  Hopefully you get the idea.

Unlikely scenario?  Extremely unlikely.  As would any other scenario be where a law abiding citizen would be forced to use lethal force.  I am banking on the fact that I will most likely never be put in a situation where I need to use my skills to defend myself or my family. 
I earnestly hope that we will never be required, as we sing  in the last verse of the Star Spangled Banner, to stand 'between (our) loved homes and the war's desolation' and fight 'like dragons' as the people of Limhi did to protect our loved ones (Mosiah 20:11).  But if it ever does come to that, I will be more prepared than most to do it. 

I also hope I didn't lose any friends by posting this, but it is part of who I am.