Let Us Now Praise Famous Men

                      "Who sabotaged my towel?!" my dad cried out in frustrated anger. "Someone hid some pins in my towel and they scratched me all up."

                I froze in my 8-year-old tracks, hiding in silence.

                I had a rocky relationship with my dad between the ages of 8 and 18. I was a perfectionist and often felt that I did not measure up in his eyes.  I was jealous of my sisters who seemed to effortlessly win his approval.  He could be gruff at times and my super-sensitive-self would wither under a disapproving gaze.  I won't deny I could be a brat towards him. I refused to sit next to him in church, to name one example.

                And I planted the pins in his hand towel.

                I didn't do it maliciously.  They were decorative pins and I thought they looked nice there, not thinking of the possibility they could do any harm.  It took me over 40 years but I finally owned up to it, though everyone else in my family had long since forgotten the incident.   

                When I left home, I made a choice to let go of any negative feelings I had towards my dad and hang on to all of the positive ones.  It was a good choice. I grew to appreciate my dad more and more over the years.  Few people have done as much as he has to make me recognize my own worth. 

                During my dad's last months of mortality, he grew very weak.  The once-simple effort of talking grew comparable to struggling against a tidal force.  He needed help but had a hard time expressing his needs.  As I took my turn serving as his caretaker, sometimes I'd get things wrong and he'd seem a bit impatient in letting me know.  In a flash, my childhood insecurities resurfaced and I saw myself as the disfavored child.  I told myself not to take it personally, that my dad's frustration wasn't about me, but rather the exertions that were wearing him down.

                Then came his final week.  One by one, his daughters visited to tell him goodbye.   The date of March Fourth came, which my Dad always liked to say was the only day of the year that could be issued as a command.  He thought it a fitting day to March Forth to the next life, but he held on a little longer in order to say goodbye to the rest of his children. I was one of the holdouts. I couldn't believe he was really going.  On March 6, 2014, Just a few hours before he died, I was at his bedside.  I did all the talking, telling him how much I love him, how his many letters will be such a comfort, how I learned valuable lessons from him.  I promised to take care of my mom and their cats.  He seemed grateful.  His eyes took on the look of the ancients--windows into an eternal soul.  I told him when I'd seen that look before in my daughter's eyes as she was sealed to us in the temple.  He seemed amazed by that.  I told him about the walk with the Savior two of my close friends had shared with me, recalling their Near Death Experiences.  "You're about to take that walk, Dad," I cried.  Though it was beyond his strength and ability, he reached up his arm to hug me and his head to kiss me.  Finally with all the strength he could muster, he grunted his last words, "I love you." To me.  His last words were to tell the daughter who unreasonably considered herself the cast-off, "I love you."  No balm of Gilead could ever be more healing. Suddenly, there was nothing left of the feeling that my dad didn't appreciate me. Absolutely nothing.  All those decades I'd lived thinking it was healed until he was on his deathbed when it resurfaced. And then nothing but complete, heartfelt love.

                His memorial service was a year ago today.  The day after that I felt like I was trying to hold onto life over the edge of a cliff.  I prayed for comfort and received the inspiration just to let go.  So I let go of the strain and the angst and found myself floating in love.  Many times over the last year, I've had a thought to share or a question to ask him.  Then it hits me in the gut that I can't talk to him anymore, so I move my thoughts heavenward.  I miss him and I hope I never finish my conversation with him.

Leslie Warren Williams

(1922 - 2014)

He was born to a farmer and teacher, John and Elsie Williams, the youngest of four sons. He nearly drowned in a watering trough as a toddler, but his life was saved by his twin brother, who caught their father's attention by circling the trough in alarm. 

In high school he ran the mile in 4:36 which was only 10 seconds more than the California state record and 30 seconds more than the world record at the time.

                He served in the US Navy during World War II as a radar technician because of his knowledge of Ohm's Law. (This despite the fact his technical abilities were such that, years later, operating a tape recorder took considerable coaching from his teenage daughter.)

He became intrigued by how differently sandy versus clay soils behaved, so he studied soil science at Brigham Young University.  This is where he met his lifelong love, Arlene Nelson.  The power happened to go out at a dance, but not before a lovely nurse caught his eye.  When her fluorescent watch glowed in the dark, he suavely approached her and asked if they could dance by the light of her watch.  A couple of months later, he asked her out.  She wondered what took him so long and then realized he had to buy a pink car for their courtship (she still laughs about this nearly 65 years later). They were married in 1951 and became the parents of six daughters.

                He mapped three million acres of land in California and Colorado for the US Soil Conservation Service (when mapping a mere million earned a life-time recognition award).

                He delighted in teaching Sunday School, loved writing and sharing poetry, took pleasure in gardening, and enjoyed reading about numerous topics, particularly Bible studies.  He loved folk songs of all heritages. He was a lifelong learner. He had some skill as an orator which he practiced in Toastmasters and on the stage of Springville's Villa Playhouse Theatre. He had a keen intellect, crunching numbers like a calculator, rattling off World Series stats and batting line-ups. He had the reputation that whatever he said, "you could take to the bank." One of his daughters quipped, "He was PC before it was PC to be PC," due to his genuine regard for human rights.

                My dad lived by the motto, "Do the duty that lies nearest to thee, and already the rest will be clear." He followed Langston Hughes' poem "Hold fast to dreams . . ." as a life theme.  He was extremely thoughtful of others. For example, when he drove past clotheslines with wash hanging out to dry, he would always slow down so as not to kick up dust.  He had impeccable integrity and inspired others with his poet's soul.  In his final months, it was a joy to serve him as he tenderly expressed gratitude for the smallest acts of caring.

My dad loved the sentiment from a verse in the apocrypha stating, "Let us now praise famous men," because it defines "famous" as those who have done good works and have posterity, for their glory will never fade. (Ecclesiasticus 44:1 - 14)

Here's to one of  the "famousest" of men.

For more, see lessons from Dad (and Mom) in Celebrating Sixty Years

Stars in the Jaws of the Clouds

I got stuck in the sewer.  I finally gave up trying to plow through the muck and so I  set my book aside.  For months.  Which meant I was stuck in the sewer for months.

If you've read the unabridged version of Victor Hugo's Les Miserables, you'll remember the frequent tangential historical backgrounds.  Although the story line gets put on hold while Hugo expounds upon Waterloo, convents, revolutionaries and the like, you appreciate a better understanding of the role they played in the history of France in general and the book's characters in specific. But the value of the sewers eluded me. 

So I avoided facing the ugly reality.

Jean Valjean and Marius, frozen in time, patiently awaited my return.  It's not like their situation became more dire, but I definitely lost all my momentum and so we all were stuck . . . until I finally resolved to get through it. 

It is ironic but all the threads of the story of Les Mis came together in the sewer.  And the sewer was the source from whence sprang the beautiful seeds of resolution, which made for such a sweet ending to the novel.  Maybe it's not so ironic when you think about the source of  fertilizer.

I love the story of Les Mis and recently barely succeeded in holding back sobs at the theater.  My streaming tears were healing when I saw myself in Jean Valjean.  It was so easy to see in him the tragedy of failing to forgive yourself.  The law, personified by Javert, had no power over Valjean because no one held him to a more stringent judgment than he himself.  In his judgment, despite the Bishop's healing gift, he believed he had never earned his way back from his role of convict. But in the end, when none were left to accuse him but himself, Jean Valjean's relationships healed him.  The angels in his life were sent to him by the only One who could rightly judge him, and He found him worthy of the tenderest loving care.

We can be okay with making mistakes by knowing we're here to learn from our experience--even if our experiences take us through the sewer.

 

Victor Hugo's Les Miserables

 Portrait of "Cosette" by Emile Bayard, 1862 

History is written by the victors, but Victor Hugo offers a view of life as experienced by "les miserables."  He puts before us the cause of the sufferers.  Through the words of the good Bishop of Digne, Hugo counsels, "My brethren, be compassionate; see how much suffering there is around you."   In Les Mis, we see the humanity of society's outcasts.  We find nobility of character, often where it is least expected.

Jean Valjean epitomizes all that is hardest and best in humanity.  The sewer scene exemplifies both of these aspects of his nature in their extreme. He descended below all to save another.  At the risk of losing his own life, he trudged through the mire of human waste, weighed down by the burden of the man he knew would give him his greatest grief.

Marius would take his Cosette away.  With his duty to her completed, Jean Valjean would slip back into his private horror, refusing to be the cause of his loved one needlessly associating with a convict who broke his parole. 

There was Another who descended below all to save not one soul, but all souls who would believe on Him. That One answered Jean Valjean's plea, and sent Cosette to his deathbed.  In that moment, his life was reconciled.  He recognized God's hand and understood that it meant he was forgiven. He groaned,

              "God said . . . Come, here is a poor man who has need of an angel.  And the angel comes; and I   see my Cosette again! . . .  Oh! It is good to die like this! . . .  Such are the distributions of God . . .  He knows what He does in the midst of His great stars."

From the lower realms of earth, we can gaze heavenward.  Above are the stars which appear to  be swallowed by the storm clouds rolling in. Is there no escape from life's storms? Hugo puts it into perspective:

               "Should we continue to look upwards? Is the light we can see in the sky one of those which will presently be extinguished? . . . brilliant but threatened on all sides by the dark forces that surround it; nevertheless, no more in danger than a star in the jaws of the clouds."

While keeping our eyes towards heaven under God's watchful care, our souls are as distant from the realm of our troubles as "a star in the jaws of the clouds."

Waiting in the Wings

My high school chemistry teacher stepped out of the lab for only a few minutes.  That was all it took.  He returned to an exuberant bunch of juniors spraying water on each other in grand style.  Mr. Caesar (yes, that was his name) yelled at us and quickly regained control of his lab.

“Who started this water fight?!” Mr. Caesar demanded.

Knowing that he’d never believe it, my friends pointed to me.  I had the reputation of being the model kid in the school.  I was both studious and well-mannered.  Not only that, I was downright shy and seldom called attention to myself.

My classmates were right; Mr. Caesar didn’t believe them.  It was a safe bet.  No one got in trouble for the water fight.

Oh, and there was one other reason why they all pointed to me.  I was, in fact, the one who started the water fight.

While all the fingers pointed at me, I neither denied nor admitted anything.   I didn’t need to.  I just smiled angelically at my teacher and my reputation spoke for itself.

In this incident, my reputation worked in my favor.  But most of the time, I didn’t like being type-cast as the shy, studious type.  I wanted to step outside the role I’d created for myself and be a greater person.

I heard about a school where the culture is to keep an open mind about fellow classmates.  In a school like that, I couldn’t have gotten away with starting a water fight.  But maybe in a school like that, it wouldn’t have taken me so long to live up to my potential of not only studying well, but living well.  Every day great things are expected from each other, despite any evidence of “low achievements” in the past.  Every day is a new opportunity to take that monumental step to being the person we were born to become. 

Ten years ago today, Todd Beamer made that monumental step when he said, “Let’s roll” and prevented hijackers from flying Flight 93 into their intended target, thus saving countless lives. This post is dedicated to him and other heroes, who while “waiting in the wings” walk/ed among us as ordinary people.

Hero Aboard the Oryoku Maru

December 1944

The survivors of the Bataan Death March were desperately hoping they would be liberated from their POW camp in the Philippines.  They could see more and more American planes flying overhead and they believed that meant the Allies were winning World War II.  Their greatest fear was that their captors would carry them off before they could be rescued.  For 1600 men—roughly three-fourths of the group—that fear was realized.  The Japanese squeezed as many men as was physically possible inside the cargo hold of the cruise liner, Oryoku Maru. 

Let me introduce a few of the POW passengers:  Chaplain Robert Taylor, who had the reputation for being the only man in the starving camp who could be trusted to deliver food untouched to a dying soldier; Henry Lee, an amiable poet; “Manny” Lawton, a well-regarded captain; and Frank Bridget, who was described as “nervous, intense, over-eager and often rubbed people the wrong way.”

Inside the cargo hold of the ship, it was dark and hellishly hot. The little air that vented through the open hatch provided next to no circulation.  This caused more than a deficiency in comfort; it was a matter of survival.  The men in the corners of the hold were already beginning to pass-out from suffocation when the ship set sail.  The hope that ventilation would increase when the vessel began to move was dashed when they were overcome by nausea instead of air.

The prisoners cried out for help.  Their guard’s response was to threaten, "Shut up or I'll close the hatch.  You're disturbing the passengers!"  (There were 1,900 Japanese passengers.)  The POWs answered him with more pleading and he made good his threat.  As the hatch door slammed shut, pandemonium erupted.  The panicking men shrieked in terror.

Above the hysteria, a man climbed up the ladder to the hatch and spoke in a commanding voice, “We are all going to calm down, every one of us, and work together!”  The voice belonged to Frank Bridget, the man least expected to remain calm in an emergency.  Immediately, the prisoners silenced themselves as Bridget explained how panic only uses more precious oxygen.  He instructed the men to take off their shirts and fan the air towards the men in the corners.  This improved the stifling heat and air circulation immensely.  Bridget didn’t stop at that.  He braved confronting the guard and persuaded him to allow the men who had passed out to be carried out of the hold and revived.  He also insisted the hatch door stay open and that water be brought to the POWs.

Two days after they set sail, US pilots bombed the Oryoku Maru, not knowing American POWs were onboard.  It says a lot of the prisoners to mention they were cheering for the Allies to hit their mark, even though they knew it could mean their own deaths. 

Only 400 of the 1600 POWs survived long enough to be rescued.  Frank Bridget was not one of them.  (Chaplain Taylor lived, and though poet Henry Lee died, his poetry lives on.)  Manny Lawton credited his survival in large part to Bridget.  Lawton admittedly despised Frank Bridget before this event, but he said, “Sometimes people rise to greatness and you never can predict who will . . . Bridget was waiting in the wings and he took responsibility.  I don’t know where he found the calmness.  He saved us with his voice.”

Sources:

Ghost Soldiers by Hampton Sides.

Oryoku Maru Roster

Cycle of Life

I woke up yesterday rejoicing in my open agenda.  It was the first day all summer that my schedule wasn’t maxed-out to the last minute.  For weeks I’ve been longing to have some time to exercise my creative muscle.  I planned to accomplish this with a long-anticipated writing session—just as soon as I started a load of laundry.

Armed with my laundry basket, my senses were assaulted as I stepped into my basement.  A strong, musty odor about knocked me over.  It seemingly bellowed, You’ve got unwanted water on the premises!

Upon exploration, I quickly discovered I no longer had an open agenda.  I had to deal with rescuing my carpet—and teaching my kids how to feel the burden of responsibility.  I wasn’t in the mood to make things fun for them, so I was just one whip short of being a regular slave-driver.

“Can’t you guys see we’ve got a crisis in the basement?” I hollered.  “Dad is away so I really need your help!” 

My creative juices were simmering while I hauled storage boxes out of the flooded room.  I reflected upon the topic I’ve been wanting to write about, along with how it had a lot to do with the disaster at hand.  My topic: the universal cycle of

“Creation à Fall à Restoration.”    

This cycle began with the dawn of time and has continued on down to the present moment.  I woke up to the middle stroke of the cycle and spent all day dealing with the third.

Creation is the art of crafting something with your resources, made even more joyful when aided by inspiration.  The Fall is the natural deterioration that comes with the mortal experience.  The Restoration has everything to do with God’s power to make things right.  Even with my carpet, I may have cleared the room, but the Lord helped me fix my family relations that went sour when I lost my cool.

My crazy, hectic summer felt like a “Fall” because, with my gazillion responsibilities, I had so many opportunities to mess things up.  I had a painful stretch of time when every single thing I did went wrong.  What, I wondered, am I supposed to learn from all this?

The answer came to me a few weeks ago as I listened to a commentary on Dante’s Divine Comedy.  That’s when I remembered the “Creation, Fall, Restoration” cycle.  This flash of inspiration put my difficulties into perspective and gave me the answer I needed to set things right:  allow the Lord to help me restore my sense of purpose and begin anew to create.

Dante Alighieri

(1265 – 1321)

Dante was a member of Florence, Italy’s “People’s Council” and then was elevated to the office of magistrate in 1300.  It was not a good time to stand at the head of his political party.  In 1302, the opposing party came to power and banished Dante from Florence, with a decree that he would be executed by fire if he should ever return.  So Dante lived the last twenty years of his life in exile.  During these years, he wrote his Divine Comedy, finishing it the year of his death.

He created drama and conflict at the opening of the Inferno, which builds as he descends into the depths of the devil’s domain.  It is a guided tour in which he learns how the seven deadly sins cause despair.

Dante’s tour of the after-life continues as he moves on to Purgatory.  Here he learns that Prudence, Temperance, Fortitude and Justice are the highest ideals mankind can attain without divine revelation.  To move beyond this point into Paradise, he must accept correction and purification through God’s messengers.  By means of his trials and submission to God’s will, Dante grows to become one with God and learns that, ultimately, God is a God of Love.  This lesson was the point of his long and arduous journey.

Dante’s rich poetry and symbolism make it arguably one of the best creative works of all time.  It deserves a closer study which I'll look forward to doing on another post.

Post-Script:  I made that promised post of a closer study on May 28, 2012.

Renewal

After tucking my daughter into bed, I turned around and saw a note taped to the wall saying, “Mad at Mom.”

I asked her, “What is this about?”

She replied, “Every time I go to bed mad at you, when I wake up the next morning I forget about it.  So I’m leaving myself a reminder.”

I laughed and shared with her how one of my favorite things about morning is the fresh start it gives you in life.  It is a gift to have the troubles of the previous night no longer pressing on your mind.

We took the “mad” sign off the wall.  The next morning she hugged me and said in effect that she was glad to dump her anger from the night before and not feel like she needed to pick it back up again the next day.

Another day, my daughter and I were working together and she wasn't happy with the way things were going.  She exclaimed, "My whole day is ruined now!"

I told her, "Flush."

"What for?"

I explained, "Just because you're having a yucky moment doesn't mean you have to carry the yuck around with you all day.  Just flush and be done with it."

She laughed at the idea of carrying garbage around all day instead of discarding it at the first possible moment.  She agreed to "flush" and was amazed at the power that gave her to choose how she responded to life's misadventures.

Since that day some four years ago, whenever we get upset about something, we remind each other to flush.  Since most of the time what we're upset about is not having our way with the other, this has helped our relationship IMMENSELY. 

I had these conversations with my daughter because her emotions are right on the surface, making it very apparent that they need to be dealt with.  Others I deeply love are of a milder disposition.  I'm learning the exterior calm can sometimes hide inner turmoil, giving the illusion that all is well.  Years later, the power of packed-away-anger resurfaces in all its angst. 

It's hard just to say "flush" at that point.  But there is help and hope through love and forgiveness.


 

The Garden

There is a Garden.  It is a very beautiful and healing place.  I love to go there in my mind as I begin each day.  Though I reflect upon it mentally, it is as real and timeless as anything can be.  The grounds are Eden-like with trees and blossoms and meadows with flowing brooks.

 At the heart of the Garden is a Fountain of Living Water.  Dip under the flow and note how it creates a refreshing cleansing that heals from the inside out. 

The Fountain flows into a pool of liquid Light.  You are invited to step into the pool.  Immerse yourself.  If you come prepared to release your burdens, they will either be lifted or you will be made strong enough to bear them.  . . .

. . . Because there was another Garden.  

In Gethsemane, the Savior of the World took upon Himself the iniquities and inequities of all mankind. 

We can confidently cast our cares upon the Lord because, through the agonizing events of Gethsemane and Calvary, atoning Jesus is already familiar with our sins, sicknesses, and sorrows. He can carry them now because He has successfully carried them before!  (Neal A. Maxwell, “‘Yet Thou Art There’,” Ensign, Nov 1987, p. 30)

He reaches out and beckons, “Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me;” (Matthew 11:29)  Which means He is willing to pull the lion’s share of our burdens with all His Power and Perspective.

The Savior’s atonement in the garden and on the cross is intimate as well as infinite. Infinite in that it spans the eternities. Intimate in that the Savior felt each person’s pains, sufferings, and sicknesses. Consequently, . . . we might be healed from within.  (Merrill J. Bateman, “The Power to Heal from Within,” Ensign, May 1995, p. 14)

 There is no truer Friend.  He sees our anguish, whether outwardly expressed or privately packed inside.  He invites us to forgive, whether it be ourselves or another.  He has already paid the price; our task is simply to accept.

Click here to see a 3 1/2 minute video called "Lifting Burdens" 

Act As If

I was dismayed to find my (then) four-year-old daughter’s lovely dresses piled in a heap on the floor of her closet.  This was not the result of carelessness but a pointed demonstration of where her priorities lay. Just a few feet above the dresses, she had carefully hung her assortment of swimming suits, evenly spaced to fully occupy the prime real estate of her closet. 

Had she been left to her own resources, I can guess how she would have preferred to spend her Sunday afternoons.  Down came the swimsuits and back went the dresses. Thanks to our family culture of weekly church attendance and the welcoming friends and teachers we meet there, now there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.  My daughter came to love going to church so much that when she happens to feel sick on Saturday nights, she prays hard to feel well enough to go to church the next day.  It seems her prayers are always answered.

Our relationships and environment have a huge influence on how we live our lives.  Our success in reaching our goals has everything to do with how effectively we arrange our environment and recruit people to support us in our efforts.

I am very inspired by a woman I learned about while reading Influencer:  The Power to Change Anything by Kerry Patterson et al.  Her story follows:

Mimi Silbert

(1942 –      )

“My job is to be the chief believer, to believe in them when they don’t believe in themselves,” says Mimi Silbert about the 1,500 ex-convicts who currently reside at one of her Delancey Street communities.  Over the past forty years, she has transformed 18,000 felons into upstanding contributors to society.

There are only two requirements for becoming a resident (slash-employee-in-training) of Mimi’s Delancey Street Foundation: to have hit bottom and to be willing to change. 

Mimi sees the people (commonly labeled as thieves, addicts, even murderers) she brings to her Delancey Street Foundation not as a “menace to society” but people who only need an opportunity to learn how to care about something besides themselves.  She teaches them to care by giving them real responsibilities, not only for themselves but for the success of other people.

Mimi creates a highly structured environment that holds people accountable for their actions.  As soon as her residents learn personal accountability, they are given responsibility to train someone else.  They become “team players” and build something bigger than themselves.

Delancey Street accepts no government funding and seeks no philanthropic aid.  Mimi has no staff other than her residents.   Though almost none of them had previously held a skilled job for longer than three months, they learn to be self-supporting and live off the profits of the businesses operated by the Delancey Street Foundation.

Half the people who dine at the Delancey Street Restaurant don’t realize it is fully staffed by ex-convicts until they read the back of their menu.  By then they’ve been so favorably impressed by the dignified maitre d’ and their gracious waiter, that they are sure their servers are exceptions. 

They aren’t. 

Mimi’s environment and the coaching relationships it fosters create a place where people who have been labeled “human garbage” can find their talents and soul.

We’re lucky in the fact that our people have hit bottom.

We ‘act as if’ we are all the things we want to become.

We ‘act as if’ we’re decent and caring and bright and talented.

And we eventually become those thing.

Mimi Silbert

Her story can influence everyone’s story when we learn to ‘act as if’ and build environments and relationships that help us find the “Gem in the Geode” of our lives.

Sources:

"The Mimi Silbert Story:  Re-cycling ex-cons, addicts and prostitutes,"  by Jerr Boschee & Syl Jones (http://www.socialent.org/pdfs/MimiSilbertStory.pdf)
See also http://www.delanceystreetfoundation.org/president.php to find several more links to televised spotlights and articles about Mimi Silbert.