of Setting Apart, Sacrifice, and Entering the Crucible

It is common in the LDS faith when a missionary completes his or her mission, to address their home congregation. Virginia and I were asked to speak in church today. This is the text of my talk.

I’ve titled this talk, Of Setting Apart, Sanctification, and Entering the Crucible. While the thoughts and experiences I share will pertain directly to my mission, I believe they are applicable to anyone who accepts the call to serve in the Lord’s vineyard and kingdom. Perhaps the only difference is that one chooses to serve a mission while a calling in the ward or stake may come unexpectedly. But fulfilling that call either way in the end is likely an identical experience.

Setting Apart
I’ve heard the expression “set apart” for all of my adult life without giving it much thought. What am I set apart from and for what purpose? When I am released, do I return immediately to the state I was prior to the call to serve? In other words, is the setting apart a temporary status even though the duration of the call may be counted in years?

In a religious context, setting apart means dedicating a person, object, place, or time for a sacred purpose. It implies separation from ordinary use and devotion to God or spiritual service. People may be set apart for holiness, ministry, or covenant living.

Anciently priests were set apart for temple service. The Sabbath was set apart as holy time. Believers are sometimes described as set apart from worldly values.

Objects like altars, temples, and anointing oil are set apart for sacred use.

The core idea is something ordinary becomes dedicated to a higher, sacred, or divine purpose. In Christianity specifically, many traditions teach that believers are called to live set apart lives—morally and spiritually distinct because of devotion to God. These definitions seem to imply to me that though we may be set apart for a calling, when that service is complete and we are released, the release may pertain to the calling but not necessarily to the setting apart. The setting apart therefore may be viewed as a forward step and perhaps we carry that commitment and dedication to the next calling or assignment. I need to ponder and study on that further.

Sanctification
Sanctification is a term that means being made holy or purified, for a sacred purpose. It refers to the process by which a person becomes more like God in character and behavior. It’s not usually seen as a one-time event, but as a gradual spiritual growth.

From the topical guide in our scriptures, we find that sanctification is the process of becoming free from sin, pure, clean, and holy through the Atonement of Jesus Christ.

With those two definitions out of the way, lets now turn to an application of our experience of going on missions.

I Hope They Call Me on a Mission
Going on a mission is a phenomenal experience, and I love it. I’ve done it three times, and we have every hope we will do it again, and again. One might ask, “What is it about a mission that is so desirable? Is it fun?” Sometimes there is an element of fun. To be truthful, missionary work is hard. Sometimes harder than my work in the theatre. As I get older, I don’t have the same energy I had before. Many days, we arrive home after our shifts and we are exhausted. That doesn’t sound like much fun. So why go?

While returning from our previous mission, I wrote, “We're sitting on an airplane, about 35,000' above the surface of the ocean. What a truly remarkable experience. I'm not referring to anything in particular that happened in the last few days, but instead, what has taken place the last two years. I prayed before the mission for two things, that I would be changed and that I would make friends. This has been one of the richest experiences of my life. I have a gratitude for my Heavenly Father that I am simply unable to express. I know how God changed me, but will others see it too? I don't know how to manifest the reverence I feel that others might know how I've come to love the Savior. I suspect life will just unfold in front of us and we'll get caught up in the needs of the children. We had to tread a thorny path. Virginia's feet bled as deeply as mine. In the end however, God revealed insights, he refined us, and we became resilient. I remember thinking after my mission to Italy nearly 50 years ago that I went out a ragged teenager, and God made a missionary of me. It was nothing I did of myself. It was of miraculous craftsmanship. He has a way of doing that if we will avail ourselves of the crucible he offers. When I returned home from Italy, I didn't want to stop being a missionary. But I had other things to do in life. I'm not sure I have other things to do upon returning home this time.”

And so, after 10 months, we left home once again, although not so very far away and served a year in the Salt Lake City Headquarters Mission. How difficult could a 1-year mission to Salt Lake City be? The answer to that question is both simple and complex. It simply doesn’t matter where one serves, how long one serves, nor what one does. The person called is both set apart and sanctified. I learned many years ago that whenever I entered into an assignment through work or a church calling; anything that engaged my talents in the service of the Lord, a price had to be paid, a sanctification, which required an element of purification. If I didn’t submit to the will and guidance of the Lord through the Spirit, the inspiration, motivation, and stamina didn’t come. But in every incident, of which I could name dozens, I received a compensation that cannot be calculated in dollars.

After a particularly difficult design project for the Church, in which I came through beaten and bruised, Virginia asked when it was over, “Was it worth it?” My reply was, “Absolutely 100%. I could never be paid enough in money to compensate me for the pain and sorrow I have felt, yet I have been blessed and comforted by the Spirit of God through this entire process. I may not earn a fee calculated in dollars, but I have been richly rewarded in the rubies, emeralds, and diamonds that have come through the gifts of the Spirit. I have gained a testimony like almost no other time in my life.  I have read my Book of Mormon faithfully every day and prayed and maintained a positive attitude in one of the largest onslaughts of adversity I have ever felt. I have learned about the operations of the Spirit. I have learned about where my gift to create comes from. I have been blessed and comforted by the Spirit and sustained through long nights that ended as the sun rose in the morning.

”When I leave this theatre, I’ll go home a new and different person. I hope and pray with all my heart that these impressions may leave a permanent impression upon me. So, as I said, I may not be paid my value in dollars, yet my compensation has been deep and profound.”

So, Into the Crucible I Go
How does it all work? What is the economy of God? This simple instrument is a crucible. Its purpose is to contain a reaction under intense heat. The definition of crucible from Middle English, is a melting pot or vessel for heating metals. Originally, a crucible was literally a heat-resistant container used in metalworking and alchemy. Over time, the meaning became metaphorical: a severe test or trial that transforms someone or something. The metaphor works because a crucible subjects material to extreme heat, changing it into something new.

Our missions were sacred spaces for Virginia and me, for it is in missionary service that we come to better know our Savior. One doesn’t approach the Savior without a measure of sacrifice. There is a price to pay for the privilege. A mission is a lot like a crucible. Under the proper amount of heat, a reaction occurs. One must be careful however so as not to apply too much heat too quickly. The Master watches carefully so as not to damage the material inside. The Master applies heat until the desired outcome is reached.

After completing yet another mission, I realize I am still undone. There is still much refining yet to take place. No doubt I will be taking another trip or two through the crucible. I am weak by nature; the natural man is still too prevalent in my thoughts and actions. I hope and pray that one day God will finally burn the remaining impurities out of my spirit, my soul, and my personality. I need further practice at setting myself apart from the world. I need to more perfectly sanctify my deeds and actions to align more closely with the Savior. Just like the master who looks into the crucible and sees his liquid silver; he knows the reaction is complete when he can see his reflection looking back at him. One day I hope to look the Savior in the eye, and He will see His image gazing back at him. It seems impossible to me, yet I have hope and faith that it may one day come to pass. I bear my testimony that God loves each of us perfectly. His eye is upon us, each in our own unique crucibles.

The Jumping-off Point

There are moments in life when we find ourselves at the edge of a precipice; a point of no return. The next decision, the very next step will start us on our way. With hearts pounding in our breast, palms sweaty, and adrenaline flowing, the excitement is ever heightened. There is nothing to do but hold on tight and enjoy the ride.

When Spencer was 5, we took a family vacation to Disneyland. He begged me to take him on Thunder Mountain, the run-away mining train. I warned him that it would be scary, but that only encouraged him more. We got in line and waited in anticipation for nearly ½ hour before we reached the front. The next train was ours. We settled into our seats, secured the safety device, and began our ascent up the first mountain. Spencer turned to me and said, “Dad, I don’t think I want to do this”. We had reached that point of no return. We had passed the jumping off point. I wrapped my arm around him tightly, told him to close his eyes, and quite simply, “enjoy the ride”.

One of my favorite flower gardens to visit anywhere, is on the slopes of Mt. Timpanogos

When I was 18, I decided to hike to the top of Mount Timpanogos. I arose at 5:00am, drove to Aspen Groves and started along the trail during the early dawn hours on a crisp and cool September morning. The hike was spectacular and the view from the top breathtaking. Our plan was to slide down the glacier at the top instead of hiking back down the trail. Sounds easy enough at first. But at the top of the glacier on the ridgeline of the mountain was a cornice of snow that formed by the gusting winds as they blew over the mountaintop. A notch was cut through the cornice allowing access to a track worn into the surface of the glacier by the rear-ends of countless hikers before us. Several concerns immediately came to mind as I gazed down at this groove of terror: a vertical drop of about 6 feet, no way of getting out of the track and stopping should I desire to do so, and obvious rocks along the track that could not be avoided. If I indeed pushed off out of the gap in the cornice and dropped 6 feet, the speed I would begin with added to the slope of the glacier and the well-worn and polished ice—I would be travelling at a rapid clip. If I used my hands to slow myself, I was sure they would be cut by the snow and ice on the glacier surface. I was at a great jumping off point. My heart pounded within my chest. It was a point of no return decision. The ride was not smooth and painless. I hurt when it was over, but oh the exhilaration of reaching Emerald Lake at the bottom. It was truly one of the most exciting moments of my life.

The glacier is mostly extinct these days, but back in the 1970s it looked like this. This is an image taken during that epic ride in 1976. Just right of center at the top of the ice field, one can see the break in the cornice where we dropped into the slide.

I contemplate what it must have been like 68 years ago, as I looked down from the realm of spirits and gazed upon the earth as I prepared to come into this world. Did I marvel at the beauty of this rich and diverse garden Heavenly Father had prepared? Was I given instructions on how to survive? Did I watch great spirits depart before me and begin their adventure? Did I see my track carved in the passage of time, and did it have bumps and rocks along the way that I would have to navigate? As I stepped up to the jumping off point did my spirit heart race within my spirit breast? Did I turn and look back upon the lovely spirit form of Virginia and the spirits of our children? Did I wish them good luck, and did they whisper, “Don’t blow it Dad, we’ll be right behind you”. What was it like, that great moment at the point of no return? I said my last goodbye, turned and faced my challenge, and came screaming through the birth canal. And here I am, sliding along the path we call life. Is it a smooth and painless ride? Most certainly not.

Jumping off point? I’m ain’t afraid of no jumping off point!

It’s hard to evaluate the course my life has taken from my current vantage point racing along at breakneck speed. I’m almost afraid to look back along the course for fear that in so doing I’ll miss a curve or hit a bump unprepared. Lately I have reflected on what has transpired over the past 68 years. I’m amazed that I’m still moving. Some of my biggest and most painful encounters have come upon me totally unexpected. When I was young, my mother began having trouble in her track. She collided head-on with the rock of depression, quickly followed by a boulder-strewn path of alcoholism, drug abuse, and suicide attempts. Unfortunately, in the collision, debris was scattered across the paths me and my siblings would take. And then came the wickedest crag of all. Both parents collided upon the escarpment of divorce, and once again more debris was thrown onto my track. For years, I struggled as I picked my way slowly across the wasteland before me, but as I neared the further side of that episodic period I refer to as my adolescence, I picked up hope and energy as I once more gained momentum and hurried along my way.

The tail end of the glacier where it drops into Emerald Lake. This image is from 2010.

In the years that have passed since those rough and turbulent days of youth, I have encountered further obstacles. As I consider the days I’ve toiled and sweat; days filled with self-pity, loneliness, and fear, I realize that I did not walk alone. I know that there was a presence watching over me; someone who had watched me take that leap from the jumping off point and was aware of my journey through this mortal ride called life.

One of the disadvantages we face in our mortal journey is that we cannot see what lies ahead. Whether it is because a mist obscures our vision, a sudden turn, a dip in the track or simply that we become distracted and forget to watch ahead, we are not shown the obstacles with which we may collide. We can find comfort in knowing that there is a promise given that there will never be a pile of rubble placed before us that we cannot overcome.

A view from the top of the mountain looking down on Emerald Lake. The ice field is to the right. Talk about a jumping off point…

One may ask, “Why must I endure challenges and obstacles? And must I suffer through them alone?” The Lord promised Joseph Smith, a man no stranger to adversity:

Be patient in afflictions, for thou shalt have many; but endure them, for, lo, I am with thee, even unto the end of thy days. Doctrine and Covenants 24:8

The ice field is in the back center as seen in 2009.

My closing thought comes from Elder Dieter Uchtdorf, President of the Quorum of Twelve Apostles:

My dear brothers and sisters, my dear young friends, when the captain of a long-range jet passes the point of safe return, and the headwinds are too strong or the cruising altitudes too low, he might be forced to divert to an airport other than his planned destination. This is not so in our journey through life back to our heavenly home. Wherever you find yourselves on this journey through life, whatever trials you may face, there is always a point of safe return; there is always hope. You are the captain of your life, and God has prepared a plan to bring you safely back to Him, to your divine destination.

And so we find ourselves on the brink of another jumping off point. It is not a point of no return. It will be a long and leisurely journey to a land far away. I’ll be writing about it in the weeks and months ahead. Safe travels everyone this summer.

Oahu Wahoo, Images of the Island

It’s been a while since my last blog post. It shouldn’t be surprising since winter is usually my slowest time to photograph. I fill my time as a missionary in the church office building in downtown Salt Lake City. With our mission schedule, we don’t have a lot of opportunities to get away and travel anyway. That will all change in another month when our missionary assignment comes to an end. We are planning a big trip in June, and I will write more about that in a later blog post.

I mostly want to share a project I have been working on for the last two years. While we were in Hawaii, I took a lot of photos—in the thousands. Other than seeing them on my computer screen as a screen saver and one I printed very large in my living room; those images go unseen. I decided to put together a collection of my favorite photographs from Oahu into a book. Ever since my retirement, I have yearned for a creative outlet. I don’t have much desire to return to the theatre, but I do still want to create. I’m finding quite a bit of joy in producing books. After our Route 66 journey, I made a book of my photographs and prose. Because of the style of writing and the personal memories, it was never intended for public consumption. It makes a nice coffee table book for us to enjoy at home.

Book printing fills the gap of creativity I’ve needed. I don’t actually print the books—I use an online vendor for that. I use my talents and time to write the text, process images, and do the layout in Adobe InDesign. It was a bit of a learning curve jumping into InDesign, but I enjoy it. I’m currently printing the journals I’ve kept since the 1970s. I’ve finished the 70s, the 80s, and now I’m working on the 90s. Each volume is about 200 pages. I’m printing 7 copies of each journal volume; one for each of our 6 kids, and one for ourselves. I hope the kids will enjoy it one day when I am gone and hopefully pass it on to their kids.

So, back to my book about Hawaii. It’s called Oahu Wahoo. While we were in Hawaii, “Oahu Wahoo” was the tag line I used whenever I posted an image on Instagram. I’ve long since left Instagram, but I enjoyed using that phrase, and so I titled my book Oahu Wahoo.

I first printed 15 copies of it for a few friends as a Christmas gift. Soon after, others caught wind of it and began asking for copies. I decided to do another printing and sell it at a modest price, not intending to make a profit. I figured however, that if people were paying for a book, I wanted it to be a little more polished. The English language has never been my strength, and I knew I had a lot of grammar problems with that first printing. I decided to hire an editor. Lucky for me, my niece Stephanie is an English major and cut me a sweet deal. I sent her a pdf of the file for her to review. To be honest, I was rather embarrassed when I saw all the errors, syntax problems, typos, etc. I cringe when I think of the friends I gifted a copy to. Stephanie was kind, helpful, and brilliant. I am much happier with the current version of the book.

The second printing was for 100 books which brought the cost down per copy. I’ve sold over half, but I am still about $500.00 from the break-even point. And so, I shamelessly promote it here in the blog if anyone is interested in obtaining a copy. I’m selling them for $32.00 each, and I even include the postage. If you are local to the Utah or Salt Lake Valleys, I’ll even deliver it to your door. I cover the transactions through Venmo. If you are interested in having one, let me know and I’ll send you my Venmo link. Then, of course, I will need your address.

Best wishes to you all. I promise to write more in the coming months as we begin traveling again.

Cheers!

Let the lower lights be burning

I’ve had a fascination with lighthouses almost as far back as I can remember. I think they are beautiful structures and I love the history they hold. Whenever I am on the coast, I seek out nearby lighthouses to photograph. Early in my studies, I connected the function of a lighthouse to a powerful spiritual metaphor. Just like that light gave hope to brave seamen aboard ship in stormy weather, we also look for a guiding light when confronted with upheavals in our lives. Finding the proper light to follow can keep us safe from otherwise wrecking upon the rocky shores of mortality.

Makapuu Lighthouse, Hawaii

Several years ago, Virginia and I hiked along the rugged northwest shore of the island of Oahu to a distant and remote location called Kaena Point. A small lighthouse once stood proudly on a low cliff overlooking the sea. It was built in 1920 and served navigational purposes for many years. It has since been replaced by a solar-powered beacon on higher ground. The concrete structure was eventually toppled by beach erosion or by vandalism. Either way, the saddest site to me is a lighthouse that has lost its light; a beacon that no longer shines into the darkness and mists; no longer an aid to helpless souls tossing upon rolling waves and battered by winds.

Kaena Lighthouse, Hawaii

There is a song in our hymn book titled, Brightly Beams our Father’s Mercy. Written in 1871 by Phillip Paul Bliss who was inspired by a sermon of Dwight L. Moody. It tells a story of a ship heaving upon the waves attempting to make harbor. The captain could see the lighthouse on the shore but lacked the ability to see the lower lights that would guide the ship through the treacherous and rocky channel. Though the primary source of light is critical to finding our way to shore, we also rely on the thousands of lower lights, those good and faithful souls along the shore that shine individual rays of light to aid the wandering voyager.

Haceta Head Lighthouse, Oregon

Brightly Beams Our Father’s Mercy

Brightly beams our Father’s mercy
From his lighthouse evermore,
But to us he gives the keeping
Of the lights along the shore. 

Chorus
Let the lower lights be burning;
Send a gleam across the wave.
Some poor fainting, struggling seaman
You may rescue, you may save.

Dark the night of sin has settled;
Loud the angry billows roar.
Eager eyes are watching, longing,
For the lights along the shore. 

Chorus 

Trim your feeble lamp, my brother;
Some poor sailor, tempest-tossed,
Trying now to make the harbor,
In the darkness may be lost.

 Chorus

In the context of the hymn’s lyrics, the Master will shine His light out across the waves, a beacon that will draw any lost soul to shore, but it is the responsibility of the lower lights to reach out the hand and guide the wanderer into safe harbor.

In his sermon, D. L. Moody taught, "Brethren, the Master will take care of the great lighthouse; let us keep the lower lights burning."

Piedras Blancas Lighthouse, California

Many years ago, I had the opportunity to teach our youth group about the power of the Light of Christ. To help them understand the power of a single flickering flame, I took them into a room where I could black out all light. When I turned off the light switch the room was plunged in complete blackness and we were unable to see our hands in front of our faces. I lit a candle to demonstrate that a single flickering flame has the power to push back all the darkness in the room. We learned that darkness has no power of its own. There is no “darkness” adjustment that increases or decreases the darkness level. The only control is with the light. But darkness is not static. The moment the light is extinguished, darkness, without hesitation, immediately rushes in. The lesson for these young people is that we all have a light within us. We call that the Light of Christ. Only we have the power to diminish that light by the choices we make. If we allow our light to fade, darkness will rush in immediately; surround every corner of our lives and smother us with fear and hopelessness.

Just like the lighthouses of old needed a fuel source to keep the lantern shining, and stalwart keepers to clean and tune the equipment, so our individual light must be maintained. What are our fuel sources? They are the tiny habits we practice every day: studying scripture, praying, helping others, keeping the sabbath day holy, and many more practices that nurture Christ-like attributes. How are we like the stalwart keepers of the light? We practice daily repentance and constantly keep our thoughts and actions focused on the Savior. We all need the great lighthouse that shines high above us, casting long rays of light towards distant horizons. May we all take care of the lower lights, the lights that help guide those seeking safety into the warm and safe harbor.

Yaquina Lighthouse, Oregon

Editing a Life

I began writing a journal in 1976. It has been 50 years and still going. I love writing. I used to think I was writing it for my kids, but I feel now that they are not the target audience. I’ve come to realize that the journal is primarily for me, and then later for future generations. In the church, we have what are called the standard works of scripture that we read and study regularly: the Bible, both Old and New Testaments, The Book of Mormon, The Doctrine and Covenants (revelations mostly given to Joseph Smith), and the Pearl of Great Price (consisting of translations from the writings of Moses and Abraham). I’ve begun thinking of my journal as a 5th set of scripture that I should include with my other studies. I don’t consider my writings as valuable as the canonized and sacred writings of apostles and prophets, but on the other hand, my journal contains an accounting of God’s hand in my life from late adolescence through adulthood. I need to be reminded of God’s blessings to me, and I need to relive the pains and stresses of life so I can appreciate the healing that has resulted from an application of the Atonement of our Savior, Jesus Christ. In this context, my journal is deeply personal and mainly for me. One day when I am gone, perhaps others will learn through the lessons I experienced.

About 25 years ago, I transcribed all my writings onto the computer, and since then I have done several editing passes. This last year, I have done a major reformat of the collection. I standardized a lot of the conventions, how images are inserted, and the layout. I’ve also been on my guard to correct grammar, spelling, etc. Using Microsoft Word, I turn on every grammar check possible. As of today, the journal stands at 2,140 pages single spaced in 10-point font. I noticed the word count today was 1,888,508. Not bad for a kid that failed high school English. I was at a thrift store this week and came across a book titled Eats, Shoots and Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation. That is a book for me, and so I bought it.

This last week, I sent off my first volume to be printed, 1953-1979. Subsequent volumes will be the 1980’s, 1990’s, etc. It has been a major feat to arrive at this stage. I hope to print at least two more volumes this year. Maybe I’ll get the hang of comma use by the later editions.

So, why did I title this post, Editing a Life? I’ve studied a lot lately about repentance. As a church, in the last few years, we have received deeply insightful teaching on the operation of repentance and a truer understanding of its application and value. For most of my life, I’ve been of the belief that repentance is what you did after you broke one of the Ten Commandments, slipped up on the Word of Wisdom, or suffered a moral transgression, which I suppose is covered in the Ten Commandments. Repentance was for murderers, thieves, fornicators, and the like. Under those conditions, I didn’t have a lot of experience with practicing repentance. President Nelson taught us to find joy in daily repentance. Under that counsel, there is obviously more I need to learn about the divine gift of repentance. And truly what a gift it is. Repentance is turning away from the natural man and following Jesus Christ. Anytime we make a change that draws us closer to Jesus, we are repenting, and it is indeed joyful.

Editing 50 years of my journal has clearly illustrated the path of repentance I have been on. About a year ago, I decided that the journal didn’t need to be as accurate as it needed to be inspiring, both for myself and for others. I admit that I was an arrogant cuss in my teens and twenties, and probably 30’s and 40’s, maybe even a little (or a lot) still today. I’ve taken a higher road as I edit. The core feeling remains the same. I don’t change the experiences or the outcomes, but I have softened my point of view. I don’t want the generations after me thinking I was a whiner. I’m looking for three primary expressions of writing that I am making subtle adjustments to. I don’t want disparaging remarks committed to print forever. I want my thoughts and words to be uplifting. And the really big one I’m looking out for is to refrain from expressing judgement.

The curious thing happening is that as I edit my past life, I’m changing my behavior going forward. I believe I am experiencing a true manifestation of daily repentance. As I strive to not disparage, seek to uplift, and refrain from judgement, I feel a natural consequence of drawing closer to the Savior. It has been relatively easy to edit the journal. Anyone can push a backspace key, change a word or two, or delete something that should never have been written in the first place. I’m thinking that repentance today is a lot the same way. We can all strive to correct one little attribute a day, a week, or a month, maybe in a year. I have to practice it constantly. When I make a mistake, it isn’t so much a sin as a chance for course correction back onto the covenant path to draw unto Christ. Yes, repentance serves the fornicator, but it also has tremendous impact on the humble followers of Jesus Christ in our daily walk through mortality.

Ice flowers. An ephemeral crystal structure formed by moisture coming into contact with freezing air. The crystals grow as more moisture wicks up from below. These “flowers” were in bloom at South Fork Park near Provo Canyon.

Methane bubbles occur from decomposing plant matter under the ice. As the gas rises, it freezes before reaching the surface. I’ve looked for these bubbles in the past, but never found them in this abundance until now. Also at South Fork Park near Provo Canyon.

Check Your Speed!

My missionary assignment in Fleet Management is far different than anything else I have done in life. As a designer in the theatre, my days were flexible and varied. I enjoyed the creativity. I had a comfortable office and daily interaction with other creative individuals. True, I mostly lived out my career in the basement of the Fine Arts Center close to stage without a window to the outside world, but life as a lighting designer involved artificial illumination anyway. As a missionary, I’m confined to a cubicle in the furthest reaches of the office. There are windows in the office and a dozen lucky employees can gaze out from the 14th floor overlooking Temple Square in downtown Salt Lake City. My space, my cubicle called the corral, is isolated and alone.

I support the GPS device that is placed in junior missionary vehicles throughout North America, an inventory of about 10,000 vehicles. The purpose of the device is to save lives and protect church property. In today’s world, we’re all familiar with the benefits of using GPS mapping to find our destination by the quickest route. I can remember when first learning to drive in the 1970’s and navigating across the country with an atlas balanced on my knee. The atlas gave me general instructions to my destination, but not a lot of information about the time of my arrival, road conditions, and mileage saving shortcuts. There are certainly advantages to today’s technology, but I also miss the simplicity of that handy old atlas.

Winter evening in Utah Valley

I learned a valuable lesson in parenting from my GPS mapping program backed by the helpful voice of Siri a few years ago. I was in Idaho Falls, Idaho at a Costco, and I wanted to return to my family in Rigby. I usually enjoy backroads more than a more direct highway route, and so I used Siri to help me find my way across the farmlands of central Idaho. I tapped the instructions into my iPhone and trusted Siri to get me home. Along the way, I missed a turn and immediately noticed Siri going to work rerouting my path and finding an alternate route with a different turn several miles down the road. Before long I was pulling into the driveway, and all was well. What did Siri teach me about parenting from this experience? When I sat down to write in my journal that night, I commented that I want to learn to parent like Siri. When I made a mistake and missed a turn, she didn’t jump on my back and call me an idiot. I wasn’t mocked, belittled, or punished. She simply found an alternate route. The destination remained the same, the road to get there was all that was different. With just that one piece of parenting advice, I probably would have been a much better father. Far too often in my parental role of raising children, I thought I knew the only way to arrive at the destination, and I wasn’t open to the possibility of an alternate route. Kids make mistakes in the teenage years, and so do dads. How much better I could have helped my children by taking a pause while my internal gears spun in circles calculating an alternate route and helping the kids find the next best turn. It probably would have been a more joyful experience.

These devices in the missionary cars give additional audible instructions while they drive. They’re a bit like having Mom in the passenger seat. It’s not Siri’s voice, but another womanly utterance saying, “check your speed”, or reminding the driver of, “aggressive driving”. There are great life lessons here as well. Perhaps the most obvious is the advantage of that still small voice that whispers in our ear instructions that keep us from harm’s way. In church parlance that is the voice of the Holy Ghost. When our lives are in order, we benefit greatly from those nonverbal prompts to beware and be careful.

The prompt to check my speed is one I need constant reminding of. Not that I drive fast. I usually obey the speed limit and rely on adaptive cruise control (ah, what an ingenious invention is adaptive cruise control). Too often my speed through life is far too quick, and I need the reminder to slow down. Now that I no longer have work related deadlines there really isn’t reason to go fast and furious. Life unfolds slowly and sometimes even imperceptibly. And I don’t just need to move slower, but also with intention. I want to be deliberate with life and focus more on those around me, that which is most important.

I have to laugh when I’m reminded of aggressive driving. The prompt from the GPS that reminds missionaries they are driving a little too aggressively is perhaps one of the greatest nuances of life that they could learn from at this early stage. The worst damage, the cause of the most pain I’ve felt on my journey through mortality has come about by reckless, thoughtless, insensitive, and selfish behavior. If I were granted any do-over, it would be for the sole purpose of reliving the moments that I was simply practicing “aggressive driving” in my interactions with others. Apply the brakes more gently, avoid hard swerves, don’t spin the wheels at takeoff, and most importantly, watch out for bumps along the way. Am I writing about driving a car or navigating through life? In many ways it’s all the same.

Evening glow on the foothills of Mt. Timpanogos. Utah Lake in the background.

November

On our current mission assignment, we work Monday through Friday from 8:00-4:00. With shorter daylight hours, I don’t have time to go out shooting when we’re done. The only time I get to be out with my camera is for an hour or two on Saturday mornings. Slowly, the last of the leaves have now fallen. Since my last post a month ago, I’ve been out a few times and found a bit of color.

I follow a few British photographers on YouTube. There are many old-growth forests across their island. I love seeing the images they compose in a chaotic forest setting. Forests are hard to shoot because one must control the many random elements in an attempt to compose order. I particularly enjoy seeing their old and gnarly oak trees that have such interesting structure and texture. Some of their specimens are 900+ years old. By contrast, I live in the desert Southwest, and I have no such forests to roam through and shoot photos of. The oaks in my neighborhood, on the foothill slopes of Mt. Timpanogos are scraggly in comparison. Our oaks are called scrub oaks, and it seems to be a fitting name next to the forest giants of old Great Britain. Mine are not forests stands I can wander through. The best I can do is find a grouping on the hillside and shoot into the thicket. There is no wandering within.

On the backside of the Wasatch Front from our area is the Heber Valley. The Provo River meanders along a wide flood plain on the edge of the valley. There is an area where the state is attempting to restore the river to its natural flow and vegetation. That area and project is called the Provo Restoration Trail. I like to visit there early in the morning, before the sun rises, and watch the first rays of light strike the peaks of Mt. Timpanogos. At this time of year when the air is cool, mist is often found rising from the water surface.

Provo River and Mt. Timpanogos

Provo River Restoration Project

I’m now shooting with the Olympus Systems OM1 Mii camera body and I am quite enjoying its functionality. There is a lot to learn still, but I’ve been attempting to use the computational modes that allow me to shoot timed exposures without using a tripod. The in-body image stabilization is amazing.

Upper Falls in Provo Canyon. This image is a timed exposure, but shot handheld, demonstrating the image stabilization and computational functionality of the OM1 Mii.

Fall Passes

Fall is rapidly coming to a close in the mountains and the colors are now changing in the valleys. It is still possible to see pops of color here and there among the aspens. We’ve had a lot of storms for October, and that has sped up the falling leaves. It’s sad that fall is such a brief season, but perhaps that is what makes it so special. Here are a few of my favorite images from the last few weeks.

Lothlorien of the Wasatch

I first read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings when I was a young teenager back in the early 1970’s. That’s over 50 years ago now. Back then, there were only a few artist representations of what the backdrop was for the stories. The most common ones that I remember were by fantasy artists the Hildebrandt brothers. Most of the landscapes for the stories developed in my own mind, shaped by the words of J.R.R. Tolkien.

Later in the 1970’s, I moved to Utah to begin college at BYU. I immediately fell in love with the mountains, and in my little sports car, I would drive through the canyons across the Wasatch Front winter, spring, summer, and fall. Once, while cruising down American Fork Canyon with the top down in early October, I passed under a canopy of box elders and maples in brilliant tones of yellow, orange, and red. I was driving west, and the sun was setting, backlighting the foliage canopy. All at once, I recognized my location, as if I had been there a thousand times. I was in Lothlorien.

Legolas describes his motherland thus:

“There lie the woods of Lothlorien! That is the fairest of all the dwellings of my people. There are no trees like the trees of that land. For in autumn their leaves fall not, but turn to gold. Not till the spring comes and the new green opens do they fall, and then the boughs are laden with yellow flowers; and the floor of the wood is golden, and golden is the roof, and its pillars are of silver, and the bark of the trees is smooth and grey. So still our songs of Mirkwood say. My heart would be glad if we were beneath the eaves of that wood, and it were springtime!
JRR Tolkien- The Fellowship of the Ring

I have two favorite seasons and two favorite subjects to photograph. I love the wildflowers of early summer (mid-summer in the higher elevations) and I love the deciduous forests in autumn.

We live in Orem, UT, but for this mission, we have taken an apartment 40 miles to the north in downtown Salt Lake City. The commute down I-15 is horrible. It can take 90 minutes to make the trip during rush hour. Rush “hour” is a misnomer. The rush actually begins about 3:00 in the afternoon and can last well past 7:00 in the evening. Wrecks, stalled vehicles, flat tires, or just general congestion make for a painful trip to and from our mission, thus our desire to take an apartment in SLC. The home and the yard must be taken care of, so several times a week we travel back and forth.

Our stretch of I-15 through Orem, Utah

A few weeks ago, we took a mountain road out of town to the east, up Big Cottonwood Canyon. The traffic was light, it added to our milage, but the sights were magnificent. It takes about two hours to drive that route, over Guardsman Pass, down through Wasatch Mountain State Park, through the town of Midway, and approach Orem from the east, down Provo Canyon. It’s a much better drive, less stressful. Most of these photos were made through Wasatch Mountain State Park because the colors change there first. Once the change begins, it sweeps over the hills and mountains as a surge, from the lower elevation maples, oaks, and box elders, up through the aspen forests at 7,000- 9,000 feet in elevation. Aspen forests grow by clonal shoots, and the trees share common DNA. Once the aspens begin turning yellow, they mostly change together in sync.

The quaking aspen is the state tree of Utah. The Latin name is Populus Tremuloides, so named because the leaves quake and tremble in the slightest breeze. As the leaves quake and rub on one another it sounds as though a light rain is falling in the forest.

When the air is clear and the aspens shimmer, tremble and quake, the light takes on a magical quality. The light vibrates and the leaves glow. Even today, nearly 50 years later, I can still imagine the elves of Lothlorien living among the forests of the Wasatch Mountains of Utah.

How Do You Mend a Broken Heart

Aside from the haunting lyrics of the old 1970’s Bee Gee’s tune, the question still remains, how do you really mend a broken heart? I found out last week. But let me share a little background before I dive into my experience. For several years my heart has been giving me a bit of trouble. It probably goes back even decades. I’ve known that my heart has been sensitive to certain medications that made my heart race and pound. Occasionally over the years, my heart would begin racing on its own, without the aid of drugs. While we were on our mission in Hawaii, I began having more frequent episodes that were then accompanied with dizziness and lightheadedness. I figured it was just part of getting older and I ignored it because it eventually went away. In the last year, the episodes became more frequent, more intense, and lasted for longer periods. The dizzy spells intensified as well. I decided it was time to see a doctor.

He put me on a heart monitor that I wore for three weeks, night and day. I received a report one day that I was clocked at 205 beats/minute for over 2 ½ hours, and that the doctor felt it was serious. He put me on drugs to calm the arrhythmia and strongly recommended I see a specialist. The only problem was that side effects of the drugs included dizziness and lightheadedness. Remember I just wrote that those were my symptoms too. I seemed to be always dizzy, and I didn’t know if I was experiencing symptoms or side-effects.

It took a long time to get an appointment with an electrophysiologist, a specialized branch of cardiology. He offered me several options. One was to continue with the drugs for the rest of my life, which I flat out declined right then and there. His next option was a cardiac ablation for SVT (Supra Ventricular Tachycardia). He ran down the list of risks associated with this procedure, the last being death. It wasn’t a difficult choice. I didn’t want to be on the drugs any longer than necessary. Two weeks later, I had a date in the catheter OR at Utah Valley Medical Center.

The surgery did not unfold at all like I was expecting. My morning started with registration, a blood draw, and then I was taken to my chamber which served as both pre-op and recovery room. The first instruction from the nice lady nurse was to take off all my clothes so she could shave me. I was shaved from the neck to the knees, front and back. I now look like a 12-year-old boy. Fun times!

I lived in Italy for two years in the 1970’s as a missionary. We visited a lot of churches and viewed many artworks representing the catholic faith. While I was being wheeled down the halls of the surgical unit to the operating room on my transport bed, and watching the fluorescent lights pass by overhead, an image from my early years in Italy came back to mind. I suppose it represents the anxiety I felt about a doctor digging into my heart to repair an arrhythmia. This is the image that came to mind:

Entering the operating room, I was greeted with grunge rock-n-roll music by Nirvana. One of the attendants asked what kind of music I liked, and if this would do. Before I could reply that I would prefer a little Choir at Temple Square, he said, “We prefer music that would agitate you, would this work?” I confirmed to him that this would indeed agitate me.

I’ve been through surgical procedures in the past, a rather significant one in November. In these previous surgeries, I was placed in a deep sleep once in the operating room and then woken up in a recovery room when it was all over. I was grateful I was unconscious for the gory stuff. I fully expected a similar experience for this procedure. Imagine my surprise when the doctor informed me that he wanted me awake and alert throughout the entire operation (thus the grunge rock-n-roll music to agitate me). Not only did I have the image of my heart full of daggers and knives, but I would be awake for all of it, which now reminded me of Heironimus Bosch’s painting of the Garden of Earthly Delights.

He explained that my type of arrhythmia was tricky to track down. If they sedated me too much, he might not be able to induce the palpitation and locate its site of origin. He wanted me to be as comfortable as necessary without losing consciousness.  I could hear them talking and see all their movements through my peripheral vision. There was enough equipment in the way, and I was laying on my back, so I couldn’t really observe the placement of all the daggers.

I was given local anesthesia where they entered an artery in my right groin, although not nearly enough in my opinion. There were four points of insertion in that artery. Of the entire process, that was by far the site of the most pain and discomfort I felt during the two-hour procedure.

The doctor was in my heart before I ever knew it. It was an odd sensation feeling his tools bumping around inside my heart, but there was no pain. He stimulated various areas where he suspected the arrhythmia was coming from. The stimulus felt like he was trying to jump start an engine that was already running. Every once in a while, I felt additional heartbeats happening, and then a rush when the arrhythmia began. Once the area was mapped and he understood where the faulty electrical signals were coming from, he inserted more tools through my groin (more pain and discomfort) and began cauterizing nerves to break the signal path. It was tricky because my arrhythmia was coming from the normal induction site where the signal is supposed to come from. If he burned too far, he would interrupt the good path, and I would be placed on a pacemaker for the rest of my life. I didn’t understand any of this until after the operation.

Once he felt good about his work, he instructed a nurse to give me a dose of a drug that mimicked adrenalin and push my heart into high gear and attempt to induce another arrhythmia, which he was able to do. Therefore, he had to return with his soldering iron and do a little touchup burning. Then back to the adrenalin rush to see if he could reignite the burners, which he couldn’t do the second time. His work was done and he left. All that remained was for the junior staff to clean up afterwards, remove all the equipment from my groin artery (more pain and discomfort), and wheel me back to recovery.

I somehow feel gypped, not a wink of sleep the entire time. Recovery went well and quick, probably because we didn’t have to wait for the anesthesia to wear off. The doctor feels confident that I am cured. Other than a follow up visit in two months, he says I’ll probably never see him again.

I have to take it easy for the next few days so as not to blow out the plugs in my groin and start a major bleed. From what I can tell, my heart feels fine. I’m off all my medications, hopefully for good.

Also the Lindon Utah Temple, about 30 minutes later than the 1st image.

I Stand at the Door and Knock

Virginia and I have accepted another assignment to serve as fulltime missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Being gone to Hawaii for two years was hard, and several of our children felt abandoned. Though we wanted to serve again, we didn’t want to be as far away as we have been. We especially want to be available for special occasions like holidays and birthdays. The kids are all independent and don’t really need us. There are times when we wish they would need us. But the truth is that they don’t. Still wanting to fill our lives with useful service, we submitted an application for missionary assignments in the Salt Lake City Headquarters Mission downtown. Other than grad school in Madison, Wisconsin during the 1980’s, we’ve never spent much time in a big city.

I work in Fleet Management supporting the GPS devises placed in the young missionaries’ cars, and Virginia works in the Family Search Library scanning books.

Along with our work assignment during the week, we have been asked to attend and support an inner-city ward on Sunday’s. We are assigned to the Salt Lake City Tenth ward. We love our ward, and that is what I most want to write about.

Our congregation meets in an old pioneer chapel on the corner of 800 East and 400 South. When I say “old pioneer chapel” one may conjure in mind’s eye a log structure with wooden benches to sit on. It has been modernized and improved, properly cooled by air-conditioning, and is a very comfortable building. But it was obviously built of another era with beautiful and rich woodworking, stained glass windows, and an authentic 700-pipe organ with forced air bellows in the basement.

The view from the pulpit of the 10th ward looking east to the stain glass window depicting, He stands at the door and knocks.

The sound the organ makes is heavenly. Our closing hymn Sunday was Amazing Grace. Doug, our organist (a concert pianist, currently homeless and living on the street), played that hymn indeed with amazing grace.

Most pipe structures that one sees in church are decorative. The actual pipes are hidden in architecture. This is the front piece of the 700-pipe instrument in the Salt Lake City 10th ward.

We come from a culture that Sunday best dress implies white shirt and tie for the men and usually a dress for the women. Many of our ward members, however, have fallen on harder times. There is no dress code as far as I know to enter the kingdom of heaven and no similar expectation is set for Sunday worship here. It is probably the most relaxed standard I’ve been exposed to in my experience.

Some years back, a member of the 10th ward congregation entered this painting in a world church art exhibition. She titled it, “He, too, hath not where to lay His head”, from Luke 9:58. Artist: Renon Klossner Hulet

On our first Sunday in attendance, the bishop invited us to his office where he shared with us his observations of the people of this congregation. He likened them to the Island of Misfit Toys in the old cartoon of Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. He explained that all these members are broken in one way or another. All are aware of the others’ fractures and flaws but work to see beyond the outward hardships and commune with one another as brothers and sisters of Jesus Christ’s church. As I pondered what he said, I realized that there isn’t a member of any congregation of any church denomination on this planet that isn’t broken in one way or another. The ability of these members to openly embrace one another is a model for how we each should behave regardless of outward circumstances.

Architecturally, the building faces to the east, meaning that in the chapel, the pulpit on the west side faces east while the congregation faces west. In the upper balcony to the back is a large stained-glass window depicting our Savior standing at a door and knocking. When we gather in the morning at 10:00 for worship, the sun has risen over the mountains and bathes the neighborhood in warm, bright light. It passes through this magnificent window and illuminates the faces of whoever stands at the pulpit. I was aware of this light the first Sunday we attended, and the thought that struck me is that we all walk by the light of our Savior. But in this instance, it was plainly manifest that the gospel itself is presented in the very light of Jesus Christ. If all the lights in the building were turned off, the light of Christ would still fill that room.

Detail from the stain-glass window, Behold, I stand at the door and knock.

I was reading a passage from Isaiah earlier that day that seemed to reflect exactly what I was feeling in church:The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light; they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined. Isaiah 9:2 In our dark and lonely passage of mortality, we can find our way by virtue of the light of Christ showing us the way. In worshipping with these humble children of our Father in Heaven, where I have come to minister, they have taught me.

Route 66: California

It’s time I finished the accounting of our journey along Route 66. To be truthful, our trip along the Mother Road was anticlimactic after we left the Mojave Desert. Once we began our decent into the Los Angeles Basin, we quickly lost signs of the old road. For the most part, Route 66 disappears under the urban sprawl, concrete, and murky air of Southern California.

Elmer’s Bottle Tree Ranch in San Bernardino County, California

We chose to stay on the freeways and just make a beeline to Santa Monica and grab our selfie at the pier, the traditional ending to a 2,600-mile odyssey. Things didn’t unfold in the way we hoped. In the first place, it took hours of heavy traffic, bumper to bumper across the LA metro area. It was no fun pulling the trailer in a stop and go crawl. The worst part of our morning, however, was getting to the coast and finding a place to park the car and trailer while we ran to take our selfie. The only parking lot that would allow us to leave the trailer wanted $60.00. $60.00 to leave a trailer for a 15-minute walk to the pier!!!!!!! It was more than I was willing to suffer. I didn’t need a photograph of a sign to prove that we had made the trip. We took a picture on the beach, got back into our car, and drove up the coast to visit a dear friend in Arroyo Grande.

A flock of pelicans cruising along the surf at Refugio Beach State Park

On our way north, we stopped for the night at Refugio Beach State Park for the night. When I was a kid, our family camped here, and it was a fun memory to revisit. It was nice to sit in camp and think back at what we had just accomplished. Virginia wanted us to do this trip now because I’ll be turning 67 in a few months. She thought it would be fun to complete this bucket list item while I was still 66.

Sunset over Pismo Beach, California

Since I don’t have a lot to say about the California stretch of the road, I’ll share a few of my feelings and what’s been on my mind for 2,600 miles. Virginia and I have been through a lot, and the last few months have been chaotic. We haven’t had time to ourselves in all the bustle that followed our return from Hawaii. That mission was an intense two years, and we needed a rest. Unfortunately, a rest wasn’t an item on our to-do list. When we got home after stepping off the plane and carried our bags into the house, we quickly realized our home wasn’t going to suit us to settle into. There wasn’t any one thing wrong, the house was just worn out. We raised six children over the course of about 30 years. The house took a lot of abuse. My career was exhausting, and church work kept us occupied during that same 30-year stretch. In the ten months since Hawaii, we installed wood floors in the upstairs bedrooms, tore down dated window coverings, and put in plantation shutters. Virginia cleaned, patched, textured, and painted every wall and ceiling in the house. I repaired all the broken pieces along the way, finished the laundry room that was long overdue for completion, and replaced cheap hollow-core doors. As spring emerged, the yard beckoned for my attention with gardens to restore, trees to remove, and general cleanup. They were ten exhausting months of restoration as we blew through tens of thousands of dollars. We also were under pressure to make adjustments to the house to accommodate Virginia’s mother and aunt, who have moved in with us and taken the downstairs. Sadly, there was no recovery period from our labors in Hawaii.

Pismo Beach from the end of the pier at dusk.

We love our Scamp trailer. It is home away from home. In some ways, the Scamp is homier than the house. I love being out on the road, and Virginia is my soulmate and life-long travel companion. One would think that after 40 years of marriage there wouldn’t me much left to talk about. Somehow, we filled hours upon hours of chit chat and deep, intellectual discussions. Our time flew past as our wheels spun and bumped along an historic and picturesque Route 66. The trailer is small, only about 75sq feet. How can two adults survive in a space that small? Easy. When you love the one you’re with, no space is too small or too large. It was just right.

Hawaii is long behind us, and we are off on new adventures. All that remains of our time in Hawaii is to prepare a few photographs to decorate our walls. Why is that taking so long? These will be very large photographs, big enough to cover entire walls. It will be a deep investment, and I’ll need a few more months before we make that transaction. So, Route 66 is behind us and in our memories, like my view in the rearview mirror of the Toyota. It was a grand adventure, but that has ended. There is plenty more that is still on our horizon.

Our last night of actually being on Route 66, Barstow, California

Refugio Beach State Park at journey’s end

Route 66: New Mexico and Arizona

I’ve lived in or near the Southwest most of my life. Over the years we have crossed Route 66 numerous times. Not as much in New Mexico, but frequently in Arizona. What we found while traversing these two states is that I-40 closely parallels the old road. Much of the time, we were only a few yards away from the interstate, usually separated by a shallow ditch and sometimes a barbed wire fence. If you didn’t know otherwise, you would think there was a long frontage road passing through the desert along the interstate. The major difference is where the interstate bypassed small towns for the sake of efficiency. At these stretches, Route 66 usually veered away to eventually become the main street through town. Some towns managed to hang on over the years, while others died away. The main variation between the Midwest Route 66 and the Southwest Route 66 are that the stretches between communities become longer. In the Midwest, it wasn’t uncommon to pass through a community every 6-8 miles. Across New Mexico and Arizona, the intervals stretch from 20-30 miles.

Walnut Creek National Monument, near Flagstaff, Arizona

We learned that the earliest roads across the country usually followed the railways. Towns were built to provide support for steam engines that needed to resupply water every ten miles. Some train stops evolved and thrived while others faded away. Life in the desert region has always been tenuous. When I read Grapes of Wrath several months ago, I learned that crossing the desert was by far the hardest and longest part of the journey. Vehicles in those days were not equipped to manage the heat. Even today, parts of the old road are in disrepair, blown over by wind drifted sand, or subject to washout in the rainy season. There were parts of the road not well maintained, and we were advised to bypass them by taking the interstate.

The power of the earth to reclaim what man imposes on the land.

Even when we were directly side-by-side with the freeway only yards away, I enjoyed the slower pace of Route 66. Freeway speeds were usually 70-80 mph, while I only go a maximum speed of 60mph pulling our trailer. I had the road to myself for as far ahead as I could see, no one passing me and no one to slow me down. I didn’t feel obligated to focus on drivers around me and I could scan the landscape to the side. It was nice.

Wigwam Motel, Holbrook, Arizona

Our first overnight stop was in Tucumcari, New Mexico. Downtown Tucumcari continues to maintain a strong flavor of the old life. There are lots of motels, diners, and service stations, many still adorned with colorful neon signs. My favorite was the Blue Swallow Motel. We stayed over the weekend so we could do laundry and attend church on Sunday. While in town we visited two museums; one that had an awesome collection of dinosaur bones, and another that displayed a collection representing frontier life. It was rare for us to stay in one place two nights, and Tucumcari was a great town to have a break from the road.

Blue Swallow Motel, Tucumcari, New Mexico

We loved attending church each Sunday in a new town. The faces were different, but the doctrine remained the same. We always felt welcomed, that we were among our brothers and sisters. In Tucumcari that Sunday, the ward leadership was going through a reorganization. It was fun to watch a small ward adapt to the changes this brought about. The members were excited, and we witnessed how they pulled together to support a new bishopric.

Neon nightlife in Tucumcari, New Mexico

From Tucumcari we drove to Albuquerque by way of Santa Fe. Santa Fe had a short life span as part of Route 66, about ten years. After that, a shorter, more direct route was found to Albuquerque. We visited Pecos National Historic Park and walked among the ruins left behind by the ancient Sinagua culture. Once again, we had heavy rains as we descended into Albuquerque. We were late finding a place to stay that night and ended up at a Flying J truck stop. Thunderstorms passed by throughout the night.

Pecos National Historic Park

The next morning, we were off early and drove to Winslow, Arizona stopping at Petrified Forest National Park. In the earliest alignments of Route 66, the road passed through property now inside the park boundary. That road is no longer maintained, and little is left to see of it but a line of telephone poles across the desert. We enjoyed a few hikes in the park, and I photographed a lot of petrified wood from a forest now long gone.

Petrified Forest National Park

In Winslow, we stayed in the parking lot behind the visitors’ center. We were only a few blocks from the famous and iconic spot the Eagles sang of, “Standing on the corner in Winslow, Arizona”. We took a few obligatory tourist photos, and then I went back later in the evening to get a timed exposure when the streetlights came on. Once again, more rain.

I'm a-standin' on a corner in Winslow, Arizona. Such a fine sight to see.

From Winslow, we drove to Kingman where we had our second night in a hotel on this 2,500-mile adventure. It was time once again for a hot shower. One of my favorite passages on this long trek was the piece of road between Kingman and the small town of Oatman. I had read that it wasn’t recommended to take RV rigs over this stretch of road because of the steep grades and hairpin turns. Our trailer is small enough that I figured it was worth a try. It was a fantastic drive with little trouble. With all the rain, wildflowers were blooming in profusion. Even the Ocotillo was in full bloom. On the pass, we caught sight of the wild donkeys that inhabit this range. Oatman itself is a bit overly touristy, but the drive was breathtaking. Once over the Oatman Highway, it was a short drive to Needles, California, but that is the subject of the next blog post.

The Oatman Pass

Friends we met near Oatman, Arizona

Ocotillo in bloom near Oatman, Arizona

Route 66: Oklahoma and Texas

If Route 66 was a necklace, the stretch of road across Oklahoma and Texas would be defined by a set of small beads punctuated with three large gemstones. The three large gems being Tulsa, Oklahoma City, and Amarillo. Between those gems are a hundred small communities that contribute a bit of spice that defines the flavor of the Mother Road. Actually, the term Mother Road was coined by John Steinbeck when he wrote the Grapes of Wrath, a story about the plight of farmers driven out of Oklahoma by the combination of the Great Depression and the dustbowl drought of the 1930’s. So, technically, The Mother Road in this case begins in east central Oklahoma and doesn’t join Route 66 until somewhere around Tulsa. The feeling I got is that the title “Mother Road” has been adopted for the entire length of the road from Chicago to Santa Monica. I read Grapes of Wrath several months ago in preparation for this journey, and I know for a fact that the Joad family never went to the beach in Santa Monica. Had they done so, it might have ended a different story.

The Leaning Tower of Texas

The small towns through these two states each attempted to define themselves in unique and quirky ways. There seemed to be a great marketing attempt even back in the day, to lure travelers to motels, diners, or gas stations, making them stand out from all the other beads along the strand.

The Blue Whale of Catoosa, Oklahoma

One of my favorite stops was at the Blue Whale of Catoosa. I was drawn as much by the town’s name as by the blue whale itself. Catoosa just sounds like a place where one would want to stay for the night. However, we didn’t stay the night in Catoosa. We drove another five miles or so down the road and spent the night in the parking lot of the Hard Rock Casino outside of Tulsa. Over half our nights on the road were spent in free areas. We slept at rest stops, casino parking lots, outlet malls, and even a boondock location or two. It was hard for me to pay $50.00 for a patch of ground just to sleep. It would have been a different story if we stayed a while to play. However, the premise of traveling Route 66 involves constantly moving forward, and we usually drove until 5:00 or 6:00 at night. We had a few stays at RV resorts and two nights we splurged for a motel room. There came a time when we needed a shower and a sit-down meal at a restaurant.

Silos are a common sight along the Route. Note the dark sky in the background.

The three large cities I mentioned, the ones I referred to as gemstones, were near disasters to navigate. In each case, we attempted to keep to the old road through the heart of the city, for the only reason being to experience the full flavor of the road. The Route was tricky to find. Guidebooks were not all that helpful, and road signs were unreliable. Both Tulsa and Oklahoma City were undergoing road construction in the downtown areas that forced us onto detours that got us hopelessly lost in congestion. It was stressful pulling the trailer through these cities, and our GPS devices were no help. The easiest solution was always to find an Interstate headed west to bail us out.

I love the juxtaposition of 19th Century wind power vs 21st Century.

Throughout this stretch, we were still dogged by severe thunderstorms that threatened us off the roads every now and then. I remember stopping at a service station in Amarillo and using the restroom. As I came out and turned to exit the store, I noticed a large indoor mural that welcomed me to the Southwest. I remember thinking with great relief, thank goodness, I’m back in the desert and we can leave these storms behind. We actually were not free of severe weather until about midway through New Mexico.

Vega and Adrian Texas are considered the center of Route 66. There is a friendly rivalry between the two towns 11 miles apart.

Speaking of murals, one of the highlights of this trip was enjoying the murals painted on the sides of buildings, barns, water towers, fences, and almost any other vertical service one can imagine. The artwork was fun to see. It almost felt that each town was attempting to outdo the next in welcoming travelers to town. I think these murals constitute an artform unto itself and Route 66 is a continuous gallery that stretches for nearly 2,500 miles.

Murals in Vega, Texas

The last town of this section is Glenrio, about one mile inside the Texas border from New Mexico. Glenrio is all but a ghost town today. The only sign of life we saw was at a cannabis dispensary. What I loved about this small town was the explosive bloom of prairie wildflowers that sparkled among the ruins of an old service station and diner. No doubt the wildflowers were the result of the heavy rains washing over. In so many instances, we witnessed that only a few years were needed for nature to reclaim the marks of human presence.

Glenrio, Texas

Route 66: Missouri and Kansas

As much as I would like to say that Route 66 in Missouri was every bit as fun and exciting as Illinois, I can’t. Not because there is anything wrong with Route 66 in Missouri, it’s just that we deviated from the plan and took a major detour, and then the weather threw us an additional distraction, which I will come back to later.

We loved our time in St. Louis. The Arch was fun to see and the ride to the top was spectacular. I enjoy history, and so our trip to the Ulysses Grant National Historic Park was fascinating. Many years ago, I designed the set and lighting for the play Meet Me in St. Louis. I remember studying the history of the 1904 World’s Fair and seeing the pictures. I’ve wanted to visit Forest Park and imagine what it must have been like for visitors in that day. There is little that remains of the fair architecture, but there is an imprint, nonetheless. We visited a museum in the park that had a wonderful exhibit about the fair. I didn’t realize there was a dark side to the fair wherein people of different world cultures were showcased in a zoo-like setting.

St. Louis, Missouri Temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

There is no question that my favorite time in St. Louis was spent at the Botanical Gardens. What a beautiful and rich display of plants from around the country and world. The Japanese gardens were stunning with vibrant displays of azaleas in full bloom. We spent the entire afternoon wandering through the gardens enjoying the sights and smells.

Japanese Garden, St. Louis Botanical Garden

When our time in St. Louis was done, and we were ready to move on, we departed from Route 66. We have family living in Marshall, Missouri, about an hour east of Kansas City. Seeing our children and grandchildren was more important than staying faithful to the old road. Our kids live on a farm surrounded by fields of corn and other crops. It is still early spring, and with the heavy rains, not a lot was growing yet. It was beautiful notwithstanding. Even though we were not on 66, we still took advantage to see much of what Missouri has to offer.

We traveled to Independence with the kids to visit church history sites and learn about the story of the LDS people in the early years of our history. We went to the Visitors’ Center, the temple lot, and Liberty Jail, where Joseph Smith and others were kept imprisoned the winter of 1839. Then we drove north to the St. Joseph area. My mother is buried in St. Joe, and I wanted to visit her gravesite and pay my respects. Neither Virginia or any of my children met my mother, and so it was fun to sit by her headstone in the cemetery, and share stories about my mother with her great grandchildren. My son cut away the grass that had overgrown the headstone, we took some pictures and then continued on our journey. On our way back to Marshall, we stopped at Adam-Ondi-Ahman, a place that the prophet Joseph Smith revealed was the setting for the Garden of Eden. It is a beautiful and sacred valley, and the spirit that rests over that area is heavenly. I chuckled when I saw a sign warning guests to stay on the trail, that snakes may be present. It’s a subtle bit of humor that one might find snakes at the Garden of Eden.

Whenever we stray from the Covenant Path, we may find ourselves vulnerable to unseen snakes lurking in the grass.

After 4 days on the farm with kids and grandkids, we continued on our way, intending to intersect Route 66 in Springfield, Missouri, near the Ozark Mountains. The closer we got to Springfield, the worse the weather became. We planned to stop at Costco to refuel and stock up on a few treats. About 12 miles out, Virginia needed to use a restroom, so we pulled off at a gas station. There were already a few truckers seeking shelter there and we should have picked up a clue from them, as they were all listening to severe weather alerts on the radio. When we got back on the road, the conditions deteriorated rapidly. I knew we should have stayed back at the truck stop. The rain engulfed us in sheets of water, and wind whipped the trailer from side to side. The very next exit we saw another service station. At the same time our phones set off emergency weather alerts advising us to seek shelter immediately. I took the off-ramp, as the visibility dropped to almost zero. We pulled into the station, ran for the door, being drenched in rainwater as tornado sirens blared around us. The door was locked, but an employee opened for us and instructed us to proceed to the women’s restroom in the back. There were 40-60 other people huddled in the small bathroom with children crouched into the toilet stalls. We were in the town of Fair Grove. While we were waiting, the following message from the National Weather Service appeared on my phone: At 9:51 am CDT, a confirmed tornado was located over Fair Grove, or near Stafford, moving east at 50 mph.

Victorian Garden, St. Louis Botanical Garden

20 minutes later, the danger passed, and we were released. I was relieved to find our Scamp still standing. It was still raining and much debris covered the roadway. We continued on our way to Springfield without further incident.

Wilson’s Creek National Battlefield

In Springfield, we visited Wilson’s Creek National Battlefield, the site of the second major battle of the Civil War. Much like a cemetery, the land beneath a battlefield is hallowed by the lives that are given upon its surface. It was beautiful and peaceful.

Onto Kansas: Route 66 only clocks about 13-20 miles in Kansas as it clips the southeast corner of the state. Unfortunately, we were not even able to pass along those few miles. My ancestors, the early Handley pioneers, came to Kansas and settled into a small town named Oswego. My grandparents, great uncles and aunts, great grandparents, distant cousins, all are buried in the Oswego Cemetery. Paying my respects to those forefathers was more important than pounding the tread of my 4Runner along a highway for the sake of putting in the proper miles. I visited Oswego in my youth, but paid little attention to its setting. The Ozark mountains, which are really just hills, were incredibly beautiful in spring. The forests were in full blush of new leaves; soft, velvety green, and the hills were bursting with young grasses running down the hillsides. Only 13 miles of pavement define Route 66 in Kansas, but from what we saw, they are 13 stunning miles through hills, forests, and farmlands. We had rain the entire way.

Final resting place for Grandma and Grandpa, Oswego City Cemetery

Perhaps the show house where my father went to a Saturday matinee

Route 66: Illinois

Our objective on this trip is to navigate the old way, using an Atlas. It isn’t practical to use our GPS devices anyway. The GPS will map us on the fastest and most direct route, which will take us down interstates, bypassing the old Route 66. We are relying on several guidebooks we purchased along with the 10-year-old National Geographic atlas that has been sliding around the back of our car since its purchase. What we have learned already is that following a map the old way isn’t terribly difficult. It wasn’t too long ago in our lives when that was the only way to find our way. I will say that anyone one wants to attempt this will benefit from having a good navigator. Virginia is great at keeping me on the right road. The only trouble we have is passing through big cities. Sticking to the old road is time consuming and challenging pulling a trailer through heavy traffic and lots of stoplights. Route 66 doesn’t follow a single road, so I have to watch for the “66” shield to indicate turns to navigate through the city. We’ve discovered that many signs are missing, were never placed, or due to road construction, we miss, and so we get lost. I learned on our way out on Route 6 that I didn’t have the patience to follow the old road through Denver, Lincoln, Omaha, Des Moines, and Chicago. It was in the big, congested cities that I felt justified jumping onto the interstates to avoid the nasty surface street traffic.

There are lots of quirky roadside attractions like this one in Joliet Illinois, standing atop a Dairy Queen ice cream stand. Much of the Blues Brothers was set in Joliet.

We parked the trailer at a casino RV park in Joliet, Illinois and drove the 4Runner into downtown Chicago to get a photo for the start of our journey on South Michigan Avenue and East Adams Street. It took several hours making our way back to Joliet following the historic road signs through the city. It wasn’t until Joliet that we started seeing interesting landmarks.

At the starting point on Adams Street in downtown Chicago.

Route 66 has far more character than Route 6. Our guidebooks alert us to the historic, cultural, quirky, and fun things to do along the way. It takes hours to see and visit all the sites. Our first day of driving took us most of the day to go 160 miles from Joliet to Springfield, Illinois. There is so much to see in Springfield that we spent two nights, camping at the fairgrounds. The Lincoln Museum is fabulous. We also visited the Lincoln Home National Historic Park and the Lincoln tomb. Springfield Illinois is all about Lincoln.

The Lincoln tomb in Springfield Illinois.

We live in troubled times, and this trip has allowed me to pull away from social media and most of my news feeds. It’s relaxing to see that life around me continues without weighing all the problems and crises of our world. Several days ago, it occurred to me that while I visited the Herbert Hoover National Historic Park, The Lincoln Museum, the Ulysses Grant National Historic Park, that we’ve been through hard times before. In fact, we’ve been through much worse times before. We are a resilient people. We are smart and resourceful. We’ll get through this and much more. The more I study history, I’m reminded of the incredible good we are all capable of. I suppose, once again, that it is through adversity that we grow. In some ways, I feel more confident moving forward knowing that we’ve already been through tough times. Great men and women have always risen at the time of greatest need. No doubt that will yet play out in our future.

There are patches where the old road still exists. Some stretches are concrete and go clunkety clunk as we pass by, and other pieces of the road are paved in brick. The brick really rattled our car and trailer as we drove over.

It was a shorter drive from Springfield to St. Louis, but it still took us most of the day because there were so many small sections of the road we had to locate and explore. We’ve decided to follow the original route that is marked as the 1926-1930 alignment. After 1930, the road was already being moved around towns and cities by using cutoffs. It’s the old storefronts and establishments that are interesting to us, and that requires us to pass through the heartbeat of Main Street USA.

The county courthouse in Carlinville Illinois

Fun sights around St. Louis included the Cahokia Mounds State Historic Park, where we walked among the largest and oldest Pre-Columbian archeological sites north of Mexico, The Gateway Arch National Park, The Ulysses S. Grant National Historic Park, Forest Park (site of the 1904 World’s Fair), and the Missouri Botanical Garden. We happened to visit the botanical garden at the height of the azalea bloom. The gardens were fabulous.

Cahokia Mounds State Park, Illinois

The Gemini Giant in Willmington Illinois. I wish I had a picture of me with him to give you a sense of scale. I’m over 6’ tall and I come up to about his knee.

The Gateway Arch is actually in Missouri, but we camped on the Illinois side of the river and that is where I captured this image.

Lots of vintage service stations can be found along the Route

A Journey to Discover 6,66

Many people may approach the number 666 with a bit of trepidation. Some may feel it has an evil connotation. Why would we embark on a journey to discover the meaning of 666? If you look closely at the title, you will see a small comma between the first and second 6. No, we are not trying to track down the devil. We are on a bucket list journey across America. It started in Bishop, California at the terminus of US Route 6, the longest road in America that stretches from the Atlantic Coast in Maine and runs for over 3,000 miles to end in California. Several years ago, I was introduced to On the Road by Jack Kerouac and learned a bit about the history of Route 6. I sometimes feel that I discovered Kerouac to late in life. I’ve wanted to spend some time on Route 6 and see if I can find remnants of that old Americana vibe he wrote about. We traveled east as far as Chicago where we intercepted Route 66, the great mother road of America. We started yesterday on Lake Shore Drive in downtown Chicago, and we will spend the next four weeks making our way towards Santa Monica, California. We hope to find plenty of odd and quirky artifacts, dated motels and service stations, endless miles of farmland and desert, and visit some national park properties along the way. I brought my camera with me, and I’ll be including photos of the trip. Hope you enjoy it.

Sinclair station at the south end of Utah Lake

We’ve found that Route 6 doesn’t have the same tourist attraction of Route 66. You have to know what you are looking for, and much of the time, the attraction is simply the view outside the window. I love the Eastern Sierras, the Owens Valley, and that long lonely road across Nevada. We bought a guidebook to learn more about the regions we were passing through. We were disappointed that the author, (who is from the east coast), describes this desert area as an endless wasteland. I love the solitude and the rugged beauty.

The creepy Clown Motel in Tonopah, Nevada

We crossed the Rockies on Loveland Pass, the highest mountain pass in Colorado at nearly 12,000 feet in elevation. It was a long hard slog to pull our little trailer up that grade. It was a different season up there, still full-on winter. Then we descended the eastern slope and drove across the farmlands of Nebraska, Iowa, and Illinois.

Laws Railroad Museum in Bishop, California

We camped at Rifle Falls, Colorado on our way to Chicago

Loveland Pass, Colorado

Pioneer cemetery at Winter Quarters and temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

Herbert Hoover National Historic Park. The home he was born in. West Branch, Iowa

A Week in Quartzsite Arizona

We drove down to the desert of Arizona to escape the arrival of a polar vortex in Utah. We staked our camp on BLM property outside the town of Quartzsite. It’s a dry and dusty place to spend a few weeks, but while it was in the teens and twenties at home, we were in the mid 60’s in camp, except for when a howling wind beat upon us. There is no pleasure being out in a dust storm no matter how warm it is. Even with 60° temperature, the wind brings the chill factor down to the 50’s or even the 40’s. We were comfortable in our Scamp. I hiked into the desert every evening around 5:00 for an hour of photography. The low-angle sun was beautiful as it raked across the rugged landscape. In mid-afternoon light, the scenery was harsh and dry, but for an hour in late afternoon, the desert comes to life and is revealed in both color and texture.

All of these images were made within a 5-minute walk of our campsite.

Saguaro cactus detail

Training for a Mission

Our mission has come to an end and we have returned home. For both Virginia and I, our time passed as though it were a dream. As we look back on our time in Hawaii, it is hard imagining where it all went. We certainly had our challenges, but mostly it was a beautiful and sacred experience. Upon returning home, we were asked to speak to our local church congregation, which happened this last Sunday. I am sharing my talk in this blog post. With these words and a handful of images, we leave our mission behind, though it will never be far away in our minds and hearts. Going forward I will change the blog from the Handley Mission Blog back to HandleyCraft Photography as I continue sharing our travels and photography.

How does one prepare to serve a full-time senior mission? Or more importantly, how does the Lord prepare one for a mission? And how long does that take?

Sunday morning August 15, 2022, we met with our stake president and were set apart as missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and blessed for the work we were embarking on for the coming 2 years. We had answered a call to serve in a specific capacity at the Polynesian Cultural Center that would leverage the professional skills I practiced for 40 years. President Smith knew the parameters of our assignment, yet under the influence of the Spirit, he stated clearly that my talents and experience in the theatre were secondary to the real reason I was called to the Hawaii, Laie Mission, and that I would have an influence along the North Shore of Oahu and beyond. I thought it an odd pronouncement, and it stuck with me throughout. Nothing has testified more clearly the sensitivity of my stake president and his ability to vocalize as the mouthpiece of God a mission that continued to influence my activities for nearly 700 days from sunup to sundown.

The mission did not unfold as I expected, but with that blessing and my faith in the restored gospel and my Savior Jesus Christ, I witnessed the remarkable plan God had for me the last two years.

But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.

Before any of this happened, the Lord was preparing our minds and hearts to serve as missionaries. My lifetime career ended amid the pandemic. It was good timing, I suppose. I had the required time to receive a full pension, and Virginia and I had other dreams to chase. We purchased a small travel trailer and set out to visit all the National Parks. After 18 months of off and on travel, I turned to Virginia one day and asked, “So, is this it for the rest of our lives?” We were in the temple about this time, and while pondering my purpose in life, I felt a distinct prompting from the Spirit informing me that we had other work to do, service to give. Upon exiting the temple, I asked Virginia what she thought of serving a mission. Well, of course she received that impression, also from the Spirit, long before me. She needed me to be properly motivated. Not only did the Spirit prompt me that our time had come to serve, but I was told of a specific assignment calling to us. We hurried home and logged into the senior missionary webpage. After scrolling through nearly 1,500 requests, mostly flagged as high need, we found the one we felt was our fit; the Polynesian Cultural Center was looking for a Theatre and Lighting Specialist. I seemed to have the proper qualifications, and then some.

But again, I’m ahead of myself

That incident was preceded by perhaps the most intense period of preparation, a course of study that took years, in fact, the bulk of my adult life. For nearly 35 years, I learned to juggle fatherhood, a career, church service, and gospel study. If mortality is to teach us to be like God, I can’t imagine a better laboratory exercise than thrusting someone into fatherhood and making him responsible for additional fragile lives. We all know that parenthood comes without a handbook, and sadly, isn’t a funded program either, which is where the career enters the equation. If that isn’t complicated enough, we are further asked to contribute our “free” time in service to others. Of course, the key to surviving all this is regular and consistent gospel study. Whew! I’m exhausted thinking about it. Nothing, and I mean nothing was a better preparation for this mission than time spent helping six beautiful souls through to adulthood. Of course I had Virginia’s help, and together we sought guidance from a loving Heavenly Father.

My career was in theatre arts. It goes without saying that any level of artistic expression I achieved was a gift of God. I learned to draw on the influence of the Spirit in my most simple or complicated projects. I learned that trusting the Spirit allowed me to make quick, gut-reaction decisions that were always right. In fact, the only mistakes I made were when I ignored a prompting of the Spirit or acted from an ego centric perspective. I can truthfully report that the Spirit never led me astray.

In church service, I never offered a moment that wasn’t compensated many times over. Most of those years were spent working with young men. Seven years as Scoutmaster. No doubt these activities cross-blessed one another. The more time spent in service seemed to enhance my abilities of fatherhood. Parenting gave me countless experiences to draw on for creative projects. And my study of art taught me to express the purpose of the human experience.

Lest any of you think God didn’t prepare me for all this, here’s a bit more:

Only God could have known decades ago what I was heading into and that I couldn’t pull it off by myself. He prepared a help meet. Back in 1985, while Virginia was still serving a proselyting mission in Mexico, almost ready to wrap things up and return home, I was back for a summer job in the California hometown where we grew up. We are 4 years apart. In a teenage span of time, four years placed us in entirely different orbits. Though we may have known who each other was, we shared nothing in common that either knew of. I casually heard through the grapevine that she would be home in a week. From that moment forward, she was in my head. I could not get her off my mind. There had been no communication between us, and no association before her mission. I thought it odd to think constantly about someone I didn’t know and was barely an acquaintance. Taking the matter before the Lord one evening, I knelt by my bed and asked, “So, what’s up with Tina Keele, and why is she in my head all day?”

In a flicker of an instant, a flame ignited within my breast, and I felt a consuming fire that didn’t burn me. For the second time in my life, I received a sure witness from God, a direct manifestation through the operation of the Holy Ghost with the following answer, “Because she is to be your companion for the rest of eternity”.

What does one do with information like that? I certainly didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. We’ve all heard stories of young men attempting to manipulate a young woman into marriage by saying he had received revelation they were to wed. That wasn’t me. I saved that little bombshell until after we were married. I was an awkward, shy, and insecure young man. The Lord saw fit to shove me in the right direction. Virginia received her own confirmation because we were engaged on our second date and married two months later. Think of that, barely an acquaintance to marriage in two months, pulled off by a dorky 26-year-old kid who barely had the courage to hold her hand. It almost seems like an arranged marriage. Perhaps it was.

But how did I get to that? What was the Lord’s plan in my behalf before marriage? The Lord knew my path long before me. He knew the family I would have and the career I would enjoy. He also knew I would use art to affect the faith of others. Before marriage, I needed the skills that allowed a way of feeding eight mouths. As much as I wanted to study hard science and be a geologist, the theatre always held an open door. Upon my third and final attempt at Chemistry 101, I realized I was bucking my natural talent. My heart was always in theatre, and as often as I fought it, that is where I consistently found peace, success, and inspiration. Once engaged in the right course, the Lord opened door after door after door. My undergraduate degree was a difficult journey taking nearly 8 years to complete, minus the two years of mission service.

Speaking of mission service, there is no way I would have survived college without my two-year stint as a full-time missionary in Italy. I simply wasn’t mature enough. But aside from maturity, the Lord saw need to prepare me for other critical life lessons. I received my testimony of the restored gospel and joined the church when I was 16. I had a witness of the Book of Mormon, but I didn’t understand the doctrine. Most of the time on that first mission, I was only ½ step ahead of people I was teaching. I was memorizing doctrine in Italian one day and teaching it on the street the next. I was gifted a copy of Marvelous Work and a Wonder, which I took to Italy with me. It’s a beginners’ guide to church doctrine. I read and studied it daily even though it wasn’t approved reading material in our mission library. After reading one day, I wrote in my journal, “There’s a lot more to this religion stuff than I ever thought”. One has to wonder about the Lord’s plan to place the proselyting of His gospel in the hands of 19-year-old knucklehead boys. He knew I needed that training ground and the foundation it would give me for the rest of my life.

As I continue moving backwards through this timeline, I notice the Lord’s influence appears broad and simple. God has been wise and gentle. My growth was slow but steady. Prior to a mission came my conversion to the gospel of Jesus Christ. This conversion came about through an association with a unique group of youth, and one young man in particular. Everyone deserves a best friend, and in my case, I had the best of the best. Though years and circumstances have separated us, there will always be a special place in my heart for Michael Grayson. He and his family opened their home and hearts to a stray young man. They loved me and he shared with me the Book of Mormon.

I desperately wanted to know more, so I showed up one day at early morning seminary. The course of study that year was the Book of Mormon, how fortunate for me. With time, I learned about a passage of scripture called Moroni’s Promise, with an invitation to learn for myself by asking God for a witness through prayer. It seemed simple enough, so I took up the challenge. A moment ago, I shared a personal witness I received with respect to my relationship with Virginia. I said that was the second witness. Well, this was the first. Between that early morning seminary class and my first period high school class, I asked God to reveal to me the validity of the Book of Mormon. Again, but this time, for the first time, my breast burned with fire that didn’t consume. That witness has stuck with me for nearly 50 years and counting. I cannot explain it away, I cannot ignore it, nor deny it happened. It was real, and it is real. It is the rock-solid base upon which all my faith and testimony rests.

But, alas, there is one story more to demonstrate how God prepared me to serve a mission in Hawaii. When I was 9 my parents moved us into a new home. It would be the first time to have my own bedroom. The day we moved was stormy and we needed to put light bulbs in all the fixtures. It was late, and we only got the necessary lights working. When I went to bed, all alone, there was fierce thunder and lightning passing by. I was scared. It didn’t occur to me to run to Mom and Dad. Instead, I knelt by my bed and prayed to God. Somehow, I always knew I could find comfort through prayer. I didn’t learn that from my parents, they didn’t pray. I don’t know where I learned to pray. It’s something I always knew how to do. It’s as if I came into mortality with that knowledge, and therefore it wasn’t a stretch when it came to an inquiry into the Book of Mormon.

I hope what I have shared illustrates that the Lord has been preparing me for this mission for nearly 60 years. It’s been a journey. But I don’t feel this mission is the culminating event in my life. I suspect the experiences we’ve had these last two years have been preparation for something yet to unfold. The trials we passed through have refined us. It’s easy to write off a mission to Hawaii as an extended vacation. I assure you it wasn’t. Missions are not defined by local climate. It was a sacred space for Virginia and I, for it was in Hawaii that we came to better know our Savior. One doesn’t approach the Savior without a measure of sacrifice. There was a price we paid for the privilege. A mission is a lot like a crucible. A crucible is a ceramic container in which materials are placed and subjected to very high temperatures. Under the proper amount of heat, a reaction occurs. One must be careful however so as not to apply too much heat too quickly. The Master watches carefully so as not to damage the material inside. Some crucibles may be prettier than others, some may have a finer finish on the outside. It doesn’t really matter. What takes place inside is all the same. The Master applies heat until the desired outcome is reached. A senior mission isn’t mandatory. Those who go, willingly place themselves in the crucible. In some ways it’s a relief to have it over. On the other hand, I tend to like it hot.

Our final sunrise in Hawaii, Pounders Beach, Oahu

Aloha

Our two year assignment on the island of Oʻahu is rapidly coming to a close and we will soon be returning to our home in Utah. I have never liked saying goodbye. I easily become emotional. I’ve grown to love the people, the missionaries we work with, the students we serve, and the guests we teach in the park. Laie has become our home. We’ve adapted to the climate. I love walking on the beach across the highway from our apartment. It’s a simple life in which we don’t have big decisions to make. Our days are uncomplicated, there is little drama, and we enjoy a tranquility that permeates every aspect of our time and space.

Wandering Tattler

While here, we have come to appreciate the Hawaiian greeting of Aloha, which is more than a casual hello or goodbye. I hear the word used a lot, especially at the Polynesian Cultural Center where the students are constantly greeting guests. It was a difficult word to include in my vocabulary regularly. It wasn’t a part of my culture and I felt awkward calling it out to others in passing. With time however, I have developed a love for the people here and I better understand the meaning of the expression. It’s true that Aloha can be shared casually in passing, but it can also represent a much deeper and richer expression. Aloha can mean that you recognize and respect another individual, that you show compassion and love for them. A literal translation of the word into English is alo, meaning in the presence of, and ha, the divine breath. Ha is not the breath that comes from the lungs, but is the breath that emanates from the soul, or from the spirit. In a very traditional way, the greeting was expressed by pressing foreheads together, and nose to nose, breathing in deeply. You inhale the divine breath of the other person. It is a beautiful expression.

Frozen tongues of molten lava, builders of an island

I feel the spirit of aloha at this time not just in the sense of parting with island acquaintances, although I’ve made many dear friends while we have been here. I’m able to recognize that I have changed in my time in Hawaii. I’m going home different than when I arrived. I can say “aloha” to that old self. I had hoped that I would find closure to my lifetime career while serving at the PCC. I did not find closure, and I am okay with that. I can bid aloha to that dimension of my life and walk away with compassion and respect and no ill feelings. Aloha is also used as a greeting of coming. We look forward to once again reuniting with family and friends. It is not likely that we go back and pick up where we left off in life before the mission. If we have changed, then it would be a shame to simply revert to an old life or old self. We plan to move on. We are not sure what we will do next. We’ve talked about many options. We are confident the Lord has further plans in store for us, and we will see what unfolds upon our return.

While walking on the beach earlier this week I came upon a Japanese glass fishing float. This is the second one I’ve found here. They are significant because they were in use from the 1920’s until the 1940’s, and then replaced by wood or cork, and then eventually plastic. This glass float has been riding the currents of the vast Pacific Ocean for over 80 years, going round and round and around before finally washing up on the beach where I would find it. This float has been on its journey perhaps 20 years longer than I’ve been on my mortal walk. No doubt it has bumped into objects along the way and weathered many a storm without breaking. That is something I can truly appreciate and admire. I’ll take it home with me and it will have a place of honor on a shelf in my living room. My favorite souvenirs of our time in Hawaii are the things the island and the sea gifted us. In addition to the glass floats, I have a beautiful piece of coral, also found on the beach, a random piece of driftwood, a handful of Kukui nuts, and of course many, many photographs.

So, with both happy and sad hearts, we bid aloha to the people, things, and life we leave behind and greet with aloha the people, things and life that lie in our path as we move forward. A final expression of our hearts is: God be with you till we meet again, Alohaʻoe.