"Look in thy heart, and write."

To Count the Cost

2012-02-01T00:37:00.000-08:00

Here's an old one that I am resurrecting. I can't sleep tonight, so I thought I'd give this one some edits and try it out.

Jack turned the key toward him and let out a sigh that came from the depth of his work anxiety. The engine of his '98 Ford Escort squealed to a halt again. The squealing had been intermittent for the past month and consistent for a week.

Jack popped the hood and stared into the greasy, black abyss of the engine, trying to discern what he could try to fix on his own. A good deal online, right, Jack? He knew Sierra had too much class to rub it in his face, but neither of them could forget the conversation.

"Buying from a dealer is crazy," Jack had told his wife. "The prices are outrageous, and you're lucky to get one that has been vacuumed, much less repaired." While not altogether the rule, Jack had an abiding mistrust of salesmen.

"I know, babe, but having someone to take it back to if it has issues early on is a big deal," Sierra reminded him yet again.

It was unusual for her to be the one to pay more money. Jack always sided on buying big and buying once, but the recent cuts at work had him worried.

"I'll fix it up myself, and if there's a major issue, then Brian can do it cheap," Jack had said confidently. Sierra knew he was trying to convince himself more than her, and so she had conceded.

And that's what you get. Years of marriage, and you still haven't learned to listen, Jack berated himself as he stared at the engine. "Please tell me these aren't your death throes, Bernice. You can't die on me yet." Jack said aloud to the car with the resignation of a depleted bank account and no way out.

"Well, thanks for getting me to work and back today. I guess we'll flip the coin tomorrow morning to see if you'll actually start, eh, Bernice?" He said as he closed the hood.

As the hood clanged shut, he winced as the jolt of realization sapped what little strength he had left in his bones. He'd have to use the car again before tomorrow morning, but that was not the reason for his pain. It was Wednesday, which meant that his new calling as Elders Quorum president required more meetings. More meetings. More time. Less family.

"It's great that you two are on a first name basis," Sierra said with a grin from the door.

Jack popped his head up, surprised he hadn't heard the door open and sheepish at having been caught talking to his car. He looked at his wife and smiled. The muscles felt stiff in his face, just as his legs felt last week after running for the first time in two and a half years. It was the first time he had smiled all day.

He walked up to her and, pulling her close, smelled the skin of her neck and said in her ear, "Oh, it's good to be home."

"Yes...yes, it is," she said.

"What?" Jack had heard that catch before. It usually involved their son, and it was never good.

"What do you mean?" She attempted.

"Yeah right. What happened?"

Sierra looked away from Jack in defeat. "He ended up in the principal's office again."

"Again? Did he take something again?" His wife simply nodded. "That little klepto. He'll have a criminal record by the time he's supposed to be a deacon, you know."

"That's not funny, Jack."

"You're telling me!"

The couple stood at the door where she met him, lost in their own thoughts.

"Hmm. Well, at least they don't charge rent," he said.

"Where?"

"And I hear the cable service is excellent."

"Wha...what are you talking about?"

"Prison," Jack said, failing to unhitch the smile tugging at his mouth.

Sierra hit him in the arm. "Jack!"

"Oh, come on, you were standing there so seriously that I thought you were at a funeral," Jack said as he poked her ribs.

Caught between laughing at her husband and being frustrated with her son, Sierra managed to say, "Just go up and talk to Sam, OK?"

The car. Work stress. His calling. His fatigue. His aching fatigue. And now trouble with his son. They all seemed to combine and punch Jack in the stomach as he said, "Yeah, ok," and turned and went into the house.

Jack stepped on the first stair.

Their first child. Sam was the name Sierra picked out. She loved Sam. Nephi was amazing, but Sam had all the faith in the world. He stood by Nephi when no one else would. She wanted a little Sam, and Jack wanted everything she did.

Two steps.

Two miscarriages. Two miscarriages and a judgmental mother-in-law. Sam was three when the doctor told them that Sam might be their only one. Jack didn't make enough money to adopt. They never told her mom about the miscarriages or the money.

Three steps.

How much money does it cost to post bail?

Four steps.

Money. The mechanic said it would cost at least $400 to fix the belts and radiator fans.

Five.

How many families did he have to visit tonight during his meetings? Other families. Not his own.

Six.

Seven.

Sam sure was fun at every age. They always wanted more, and perhaps that made them more grateful for Sam. Perhaps too protective. Or maybe not protective enough.

Eight.

Jack found himself at the top of the steps in a few short seconds. How did it come so quickly? He's eight now. It has been a hard year for the boy. He was so excited to be baptized, and then all hell broke loose.

Jack pushed open the door to find Sam on his stomach on the floor with his feet in the air. The floor was strewn with Tonka trucks and plastic army men. Sam waved two trucks in front of him as they jumped an imaginary who-knows-what and collided. "Pffffgh! Aaaaaaah!" The police car came racing to the scene with a dramatic "woo-woo-wooo! Put your hands in the air!"

Out came the army men, and in the heat of the fire-fight, Jack interrupted, "Soldiers and police fighting, eh?"

"No, Dad," Sam said without looking up. "This bad guy is just pretending to be a police man. All army guys know that."

Jack lay down on his stomach and put his feet up behind him, mirroring his son.

"You wanna tell me why you went to the principal again?"

"No," came the gruff little reply trying to end the conversation cold.

Jack got up, went behind his son, and sat with his back against the bed. Reaching over, Jack picked his son up and set the boy beside him. "Sam, did you take something you weren't supposed to again?" Sam didn't respond. "Devan Lucy dared you again, didn't he?" This time Sam nodded. "Sam, that's enough. You're not spending time with him again."

"Why not?"

"It's not good for you. Doing those things is bad."

"Why is it so bad? I gave it back!"

"Because, Sam. This kind of thing, it kills you. It kills your spirit."

Confusion was Sam's only response.

"Sam, there are things in this world we want," Jack said as he looked straight ahead, oblivious to the four walls surrounding him. "But there are things in this world that are out of our reach, and we will never be able to have them until we work really hard for them." Jack's breathing came faster as his sentences became shorter. "And then when you can finally hold him, you know that everything you went through--all the sacrifices, pain, and heartache--it was worth it, son. There was just no other way."

Jack's eyes burned, and his son's face was oddly blurry as he finally looked down at Sam's wide, brown eyes. All the cares of the day melted away as Jack blinked away the tears and looked at what he and his wife valued most.

"Do you understand, Sam?"

Sam nodded slowly. No, he didn't understand. Not fully. Not yet.

Jack futilely wiped away the tears, knowing he could never hide them from his wife.

"I'm starving. You want some dinner?"

Sam nodded and, standing with his dad, gave him a hug. "I love you, Dad."

"I know, son. I know."

Do I Belong to a Cult?

2011-11-04T14:13:00.000-07:00

To the best of my knowledge, this letter is represented in its entirety. I did not write it, but I endorse it wholeheartedly:

Dear Staff Members at First Baptist Dallas, October 14, 2011

I’ve tried unsuccessfully to find an email address for Dr. Robert Jeffress, so I’m sending this to all of the members on the First Baptist Dallas staff that I found listed on your website. I hope that at least one of you will forward this on to Pastor Jeffress because I feel it’s important that he have the opportunity to read and understand it.

= = =

Dear Pastor Jeffress,

I’m just one of the millions of people who saw and heard on TV news shows your statements that “Mormonism is a cult” and “not a part of orthodox Christianity”. As a faithful lifelong member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints I felt a strong reaction to those statements, as you might imagine. My remarks here are only my personal thoughts, but I assure you they are heartfelt.

My reaction was twofold. First, I saw your remarks as an unfortunate “below-the-belt” swipe at Mitt Romney in the hopes of advancing your own favorite political candidate. While you certainly have the right to do that, I think many Americans join me in feeling that such a move was beneath a prominent religious leader such as yourself.

Second, as a devoted believer and follower of Jesus Christ I was saddened that you felt the need to speak out against my faith and beliefs. I’m sure there are those who think it was done with malice, but I’ll try to do the Christ-like thing and give you the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps you’ve just been misinformed about “Mormonism” as many others have been.

But it might surprise you to learn that I actually agree with part of what you said, although perhaps for different reasons than you might imagine.

You said that Mitt Romney is “not a Christian” (and by association myself and the other six million-plus Americans who are Latter-day Saints). But I believe you need to be more specific. There are many different kinds or “flavors” of Christians. I agree that the LDS people are not Baptist Christians or Evangelical Christians or Catholic Christians, etc. I will even agree that we’re not part of “orthodox” or “traditional” flavor of Christianity, if by that you mean the post-Nicene church that became the “universal” or “catholic” version of Christendom.

I believe my faith to be the original church of the Corinthians, the Ephesians, and yes, those who were first called Christians in Antioch, - that same church now restored in these latter days. So I call myself a “latter-day Christian", with theological roots that precede the “historical” or “orthodox” version that was the product of the various councils and creeds. That “orthodoxy” eventually became so corrupt and so apostate that the Reformers broke away from it in protest of its having “fallen away” from Biblical truths (2 Thess. 2) and “changed the ordinances” (Isa. 24:5) so that the “faith once delivered to the saints” (Jude 1:3) was no longer recognizable as the church that Jesus organized.

There were many enlightened Christian thinkers and theologians in history who, like Joseph Smith, believed that Christianity had become apostate and that a restoration of the New Testament church of Christ was necessary. John Wesley the founder of Methodism wrote:

It does not appear that these extraordinary gifts of the Holy Ghost were common in the Church for more than two or three centuries. We seldom hear of them after that fatal period when the Emperor Constantine called himself a Christian; . . . From this time they almost totally ceased; . . . The Christians had no more of the Spirit of Christ than the other Heathens . . . . This was the real cause why the extraordinary gifts of the Holy Ghost were no longer to be found in the Christian Church; because the Christians were turned Heathens again, and had only a dead form left.

The Works of John Wesley, vol. 7, pp.26-27

As I’m sure you well know, John Smythe the founder of the Baptists first left his position as a Church of England minister and joined the Separatists, but then dissolved his congregation to re-form it as the first General Baptist church among English expatriates in Amsterdam in 1609. He felt that the “historic” or “orthodox” Christianity of his time had wandered astray, especially with regard to the apostate doctrine of infant baptism. Those first Baptists were considered a “cult” by many Protestants in the “traditional” Christian denominations that persecuted them unmercifully.

Around 1640, Roger Williams of Providence, Rhode Island, founder of the first Baptist church in America refused to continue as pastor on the grounds that there was:

… no regularly‑constituted church on earth, nor any person authorized to administer any Church ordinance: nor could there be until new apostles are sent by the great Head of the Church, for whose coming, I am seeking.

(Picturesque America, or the Land We Live In, ed. William Cullen Bryant, New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1872, vol. 1, p. 502.)

If I understand your words correctly your definition of a Christian (and that of most Evangelicals) is a pretty narrow one, far different from the standard meaning found in most dictionaries. Personally I think anyone who accepts Jesus Christ as the Only Begotten Son of God and as his/her personal Savior who died for our sins and was bodily resurrected on the third day is a Christian. C.S. Lewis described such people as “mere” Christians.

But your narrow definition would exclude anyone who:

1. Does not believe in a closed canon of the 66 books of the Protestant Bible.

2. Does not accept the Nicene Creed as an accurate description of the nature of God the Father, His Son Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost.

3. Believes in living prophets and apostles as the “foundation” of Christ’s earthly church.

4. Believes in continuing revelation from God to man.

I could go on. I’m very familiar with the standard arguments against “Mormonism”.

But the Bible says that believers in Christ were first called Christians at Antioch (Acts 11:26). I would respectfully submit that those Christians:

1. Did not believe in a closed canon of scripture. (some of the New Testament had not yet been written.)

2. Did not accept the Nicene Creed as an accurate description of the nature of God the Father, His Son Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost. (it would not be written for 300 years)

3. Believed in living apostles and prophets as the “foundation” of Christ’s earthly church.

4. Believed in continuing revelation from God to man.

So if you’re going to say that Mitt and I are not Christians based on those reasons, you’ll have to say that the believers in Antioch were not Christians either according to your definition.

You said in your Hardball interview that “Mormonism” is a “cult” because:

1. “Mormonism came 1800 years after Jesus Christ”

2. “Mormonism has its own human leader, Joseph Smith”

3. “it has its own set of doctrines”

4. “it has its own religious book, The Book of Mormon, in addition to the Bible”

Your exact following words were: “and so by that definition it is a theological cult”. You made a weak distinction between a theological cult and a sociological one, but most people will not even notice that fine differentiation. It was obvious to any sophisticated viewer that your main goal was to keep repeating the word “cult”. It’s such an inflammatory buzz word that I’m sure your goal is to use it as often as you can to scare people away from “Mormonism” without seriously considering our theology and our beliefs. It’s a word used to end or avoid discussion, not to foster it. As a Latter-day Saint I welcome the opportunity to “stand ready to give a reason for the faith that is in me”, but those who sling around the word “cult” with respect to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints seek to cut off debate rather than to encourage dialog. It’s as though they are afraid of an open and honest discussion.

But following your own definition of “cult” for a moment, I’d like to respectfully submit that:

1. Roman Catholicism came 300 years after Jesus Christ.

2. Roman Catholicism has its own human leader, the Pope (or Peter if you accept the Catholic claims that he was the first Pope)

3. Roman Catholicism has its own set of doctrines (Mariology, transubstantiation, priestly celibacy, veneration of “saints”, indulgences, etc.)

4. Roman Catholicism has its own religious books (9 deuterocanonical more than those found in the Protestant Bible – also used in Eastern Orthodox churches)

And even your own Baptist flavor of Christianity in some ways fits your definition of what makes a cult;

1. “Baptistism” came 1609 years after Jesus Christ

2. “Baptistism” had its own human leader John Smythe – a Church of England minister (see footnote below from the website of the Baptist History and Heritage Society)

3. “Baptistism” had its own unique doctrines, including the “believer’s baptism” of adults.

4. “Baptistism” was considered a cult by the “orthodox” or “traditional” or “historic” Christian denominations of the time. In fact Baptists suffered severe persecution from other Christians who believed in the “mainline” doctrine of infant baptism prevalent in that era. Thousands of Baptists were martyred for baptizing adults.

One of the dictionary definitions of a cult is that is a small isolated group that is out of the mainstream. That certainly does not apply to my church. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the fourth largest religion in America, and the second largest Christian church in Washington, Oregon, and California (after Catholicism). You mentioned that there are 15 million Southern Baptists. By 2012 at the present rate of growth there will be more Latter-day Saints than that.

Pastor Jeffress, in order to be consistent and truthful you would have to admit that the same definition you’ve used to brand “Mormonism” a cult applies at least in part to Roman Catholicism and “Baptistism” as well. Are you willing to say that on national television? I would hope so. I would hope that you’d want to be totally consistent and truthful.

Thank you for your time. I’m attaching a summary I wrote of what I believe happened to “the faith once delivered to the saints”. There was a great apostacy that fundamentally changed the New Testament church of Jesus Christ into something so different that those Christians at Antioch or Peter or Paul would not have recognized it in the Dark Ages that came upon the earth. (Amos 8:12) That apostacy required the “restitution of all things” prophesied in Acts 3:21 to occur before Christ’s return. That restitution or restoration of original Biblical Christianity was what was looked forward to by Roger Williams.

I testify to you that that restoration has come, and the original Christianity is back on the earth in its fullness as The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If you would like to investigate these claims I’ll be happy to “bring forth my strong reasons” for “the faith that is in me.” I would welcome a thoughtful dialog.

Cordially yours,

Robert Starling

A Latter-day Christian

(footnote to above reference to John Smyth)

BHHS -- Baptist Beginnings http://www.baptisthistory.org/baptistbeginnings.htm

The first General Baptist church, led by John Smyth, was founded in Amsterdam, Holland, in 1608/09. Its members were English refugees who had fled England to escape religious persecution. John Smyth was a minister in the Church of England. As a student and later as a pastor and teacher. … By 1608/09, Smyth was convinced his Separatist church was not valid. Most of the members had only infant baptism, and the church was formed on the basis of a "covenant," rather than a confession of faith in Christ. Smyth therefore led the church to

disband in 1608/09 and re-form on a new basis–a personal confession of faith in Christ, followed by believer’s baptism. Since none of the members had been baptized as believers, Smyth had to make a new beginning. He baptized himself and then baptized the others. His baptism was by sprinkling or pouring, but it was for believers only.

A Safe Trip Back

2011-09-13T22:08:00.000-07:00

I was afraid that another gust of wind would freeze my joints passed the point where I could move them. Going hiking alone isn’t smart; going hiking alone in an Alaskan January is suicidal. I pulled the hood down against the wind as I plowed on through knee-deep snow. I knew if I didn’t find shelter soon, they’d find my body in the spring.

“God, get me through this one,” found myself saying. And it was all I could say. Over and over. I didn’t try to make deals. I didn’t know what to offer. “God, get me through this” was all I muster. I couldn’t even tell you the last time I prayed or the last time I cared to, but if there was a God, I figured it was better late than never. “God, get me through this,” I said for the hundredth time.

It started to snow again, and I plodded on. If God was there, he must be on a coffee break, I told myself.

I had gone fifteen miles off the trail. Fifteen miles in five hours. I mapped it out afterward. As I crossed a frozen over river, I mumbled aloud through half frozen lips, “All right. One more mile. One more mile, and that’s all I’ve got. You hear? That’s all I got.”

I climbed an embankment on my hands and knees, determined to crest one last hill before I gave in. My face was so cold. I couldn’t move my mouth anymore. Shivering took too much energy. As I crested the hill, I saw a light. Not like the after-life kind of light; it was a porch light or something. If I had feeling in my face, I would have grinned and said thanks. To whom, I still didn’t know.

I would have taken it for a small office building if it weren’t for the steeple. There was no cross or sign that I could see through the snow, but if it had a steeple, I figured it had to be a church. As I approached it, I knew I couldn’t take my gloves off to knock on the glass door. More concerned about how many minutes I had before going into a coma than about the glass, I grabbed a chunk of ice and knocked on the door.

No one answered. It must have been nine or ten at night. I couldn’t remember the day of the week. Tuesday, maybe? I pounded again, and the block shattered in my hands. I must have collapsed, because as my eyes started to close, I found myself lying on the ground as the snow piled on top of me like a blanket. A pure, white blanket. I even started to feel warm. I wouldn’t sleep too long, just . . . just enough. . . .

* * * *

“Did you hear that?” One young man said to the other. His companion waved him off and continued to speak on the phone.

Elder Austin slumped to the hall floor again and stretched his legs in front of him. He bent his toes in his wool socks as he enjoyed the warmth of the building. Elder Austin and Elder Paulson had been playing basketball with a few members and investigators, so the heat in the building had been turned on. It was the first time all day the young missionary had felt warm—even the apartment only reached forty degrees on good days. His Georgia summers never felt so far away.

Elder Austin heard two more low thuds. “Paulson, did you hear that?”

“I dunno,” he said, still searching through his planner. “Hey, it’s your turn on the phones. I can’t seem to get any appointments.”

“Keep at it. I’m going to check out that noise.”

“C’mon, I’m tired of the phone!” Elder Paulson said.

“So come with me,” Austin replied.

Paulson wrinkled his nose at his companion for the umpteenth time that day. “We have nothing on the schedule for tomorrow, and I don’t want to go tracting. We’ve got to make these calls.”

Unwilling to argue, Elder Austin simply shrugged and said, “Practice makes perfect, Elder. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“You’re not supposed to—”

“Elder. It’s Alaska. It’s Eagle, Alaska. I’m just going to the front door. Keep your shirt on, and keep up with the numbers,” Elder Austin said before he turned and walked down the hall.

Elder Paulson fumed at his companion’s blatant disregard for the rules that he tried to follow so well at the MTC. He picked up the receiver and started to dial when he heard from down the hall, “Elder Paulson! Get over here, now!”

* * * *

“Thanks, boys,” I said, not sure what to make of the cup of hot water they gave me. The warmth seeped slowly through my base layer gloves, bring life back into my hands. I sipped it carefully, trying not to screw up my face at the flavor and needing something more to bring my body back from the grave. I asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have some joe around, would you?”

“Some what?” said the one who stood back.

“No, sorry,” the slightly older one said to me. “We actually don’t drink coffee, but I can see if there are any hot chocolate packets around.”

Well how else are you supposed to stay warm up here? I thought. Speaking of here, “Where am I? And if you don’t mind me asking, who are you?”

“Eagle, Alaska. We’re missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and you’re in one of our churches. You’re a lucky man. People aren’t usually here this time of night,” The more congenial kid continued.

Well, I guess I was asking for it. I finally pray to God, and he sends me to two missionaries in a church. He asked, “What’s your name?”

“Ryan,” I said, seeing no harm in giving them my real name. They could have left me for dead and searched me. “I’m Ryan Newman from Anchorage. And you are?”

“I’m Elder Paulson,” the one in the back piped up. “I’m from Idaho.”

Elder? I thought. Sure, if you think so, kid.

“And I’m Elder Austin from Georgia. Well, Ryan Newman from Anchorage, let’s find you a place to sleep, OK?”

****

They didn’t preach to me. Not at first, anyway. They just wanted to make sure I was fine. Healthy. On my own. A man the two boys kept calling “president” let me spend the night on his couch. I could see a gun safe, two sets of keys, and a kitchen with some pretty decent appliances from my spot in his living room. And all he could do was apologize for not giving me a proper bed. I don’t think I even said “thanks.” I couldn’t figure out how to make it sound the way I meant it. I hope he understood.

His name was Grant. Grant Reynolds? Roberts? Sometimes I find myself just thinking about Grant and our two-and-a-half hour ride back to my vehicle. He said he was going that way, anyway. He said a lot of things. He talked about his wife, their seven kids even though three were miscarriages they still considered them part of the family, how he met his wife and married her only a year later because it was time after the mission, you know?, because missions can change a man, can change a lot of people but no one as much as the elder or sister, that’s what they call the missionaries even if they’re young, and no we’re not catholic, we’re different, different from a lot of folks, and well sure I’ll tell you why.

We sat in his truck for another hour. The more he talked, the more I listened. I asked my own questions and questioned many of his answers, but I still listened. Maybe it was payment to whoever heard my incessant mumblings about getting me out of the mountains. Maybe it was payment for the kindness they had shown me. But I don’t think that’s true.

I managed to slip a fifty into the ashtray for gas when we got there. Something tells me he didn’t keep it. Something inside of me hoped it would end up at that run-down church building that saved my life.

But I later found out that on that January night, I was only saved from death. My life—well, that still needed help. All the way back to Anchorage, I felt the book inside my jacket. I convinced myself beyond all reason that it couldn’t be real, and I knew without a doubt that it had to be true. It was the longest car ride of my life.

****

I got baptized. It took a while, but I did it. And perhaps more importantly, I became part of it all. Even the coffee thing and the tithing didn’t seem so hard, because it was truth. Plain and simple. And yet not. Not always plain. Not always simple. But true no matter what.

I never forgot Elders Paulson and Austin. Elder Austin came knocking on my door three months after I had met him. He spent six months up there, but he was only around Anchorage for three. Elder Austin baptized me and went home a few months later. I never forgot his Georgian drawl, because he never left me alone. We were in touch for the next 38 years until a drunk driver hit Allen Austin’s car and killed him. His wife followed six months later. The funeral was in Washington.

I saw Elder Paulson on the last day of his life as a missionary. The missionaries used to talk about “dying” at the end of it all. Elder Paulson was more excited than I had ever seen him that day. I guess I don’t blame him. I didn’t hear from Elder Paulson again for 38 years.

****

After Allen’s funeral, his wife, Sheryl, let me go through his mission things. A few pictures caught my eye, all of them marked with “Jim Paulson.”

“Sheryl,” I said. “Do you know where Paulson is these days?”

“Allen always tried to keep in touch, but Jim isn’t the kind to write or call. You could try his last number. I think he’s in Oregon now.”

And he was. He didn’t answer his phone, but a two-hour drive along the coast was too alluring. That’s how, 38 years later, I came to stand on Jim Paulson’s front door again.

“Yeah?” said the man on the other side of the door. He was holding a coffee cup, and I smiled despite myself as I remembered first meeting the friend I was looking for. Frozen to the core, I had been gripping a cup of hot water wishing more than anything to have some coffee.

Returning to the present, I said, “I’m looking for an old friend. Jim Paulson. Does he still live here?”

“Yes, I do. Sorry, but I've got no idea who you are. Where did we meet, old friend?” He said the last part with ill-concealed doubt.

“Jim, you and a friend of ours, Allen Austin, saved my life in Eagle, Alaska. The name’s Ryan Newman, if you don’t remember.”

Jim gripped his coffee mug tightly and his lips were steadily becoming a thin line.

“Jim, Austin died three days ago. I’ve just come from the funeral. I found your information in his belongings.”

"He still . . . ? Wow. Well I guess he . . . . Hmm. Never gave up, that one . . .” he muttered.

I looked at him and saw for the first time the man I was looking at. The indentation around his ring finger was still there, but the wedding ring was gone. His wife beater hung loosely around a body that hadn’t known great health. I could smell cigarettes. But the worst of it was the emptiness in his eyes.

“No, Allen wasn’t the type to quit,” I said.

Jim snorted sardonically and, fishing out a cigarette from his pocket to place in his lips, said, “Yeah, neither am I, I guess.”

“You saved my life that day, Jim. You didn’t have to give up.”

“You know what kind of a difference I made up there, Ryan?” He said, pulling the cigarette roughly from his mouth. “Not a thing. I knocked every door in every town in every kind of weather. And you know what good it did? Nothing. Talking about some lousy book to people too busy shivering to listen. Wasted my life up there while college and scholarships slipped through my fingers. A president who never trusted me. A bishop when I get home who wouldn’t listen. And I figured, you know what, maybe it really was too good to be true. Because I didn’t change nothing.”

He stood there with his lip quivering too much to replace the cigarette.

“You changed me, Jim.”

“So you came here to bring me back, huh? You came here to make me repent and have a calling again, is that it?”

“No,” I said simply. “I came to say thank you. You’ll never know what you did for me.”

We stood there. I looked at him, and his gaze met the trees behind me, the tie at my neck, and floor between our feet. But I never saw his eyes again. “I’m still standing here on the porch. Can I come in and catch up with you?”

Shaking his head and staring at the porch beneath our feet, he said, “It was good to see you, Ryan. Have a safe trip back.”

“You, too,” I said.

v2.0: Friday at 5:30

2011-08-15T19:25:00.001-07:00

"How ya doing, Mike?" Tyler said as handed his license through the window.

The guard looked at the young man a second time, scanned his license, and passed it back.

"Thanks." Tyler shifted the car into first gear and pulled through the barb-wired gate.

Empty his pockets. Take off his shoes, belt, jacket. Walk slowly through the white arch. Tyler couldn’t decide if prisons felt like airports or if airports felt like prisons. Maybe they were the same. Every time he went to one, he got to see family on the other side. Tyler picked up his name badge and waited for the guard to open the door.

There were thirty three tiles between the door and the cubicle where he would usually sit. Sometimes he only went twenty-six tiles, but last week he went all the way to forty-two. One, two, three, he started counting as he took his first step down the hall.

“I talked to the lawyer yesterday.” A middle-aged woman sat with a phone pressed to her ear, the cord going through the wall the only connection she had with the orange jumpsuited person on the other side of the glass.

Eight, nine, ten. Tyler focused.

“I’m tired of this, Sean. You’ll never get out of here until you man up.” One man raised his voice as he stared through the glass.

SIXTEEN, SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, Tyler continued.

He couldn’t hear the man in the orange, but Tyler could see him sobbing. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing more we can do,” the woman on Tyler’s side of the glass said.

“Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three,” Tyler counted aloud. Pulling back the metal-and-plastic chair, he yanked the phone off the lever and pressed it to his ear.

Tyler waited. He didn't know how long. He decided long ago that the wait was never long enough. It could never be long enough. Because eventually, his wait was over.

And then Tyler watched through the glass as a face that could have passed as his own scowled as the guard replaced his handcuffs. The young man on the other side of the glass turned and looked at his twin. Chad picked up the receiver.

"Hey,” Tyler said. Chad met his gaze with the receiver to his ear, one arm folded across his chest and an expression as mute as his mouth. "How's the week going?" Tyler continued. "The new job is going well. I mean, it's only been a week, but at least I don't have to deal with that tool of a boss anymore. And who knew I could make this much being a writer? I mean, I don't want to stay a writer; maybe I'll work my way up to marketing manager and then eventually to...well, who knows what.”

Chad still hadn’t blinked.

"Anyway, I've been working out again,” Tyler continued. “That new place I work, ya know, it's got a gym right in the office, so I can save forty bucks every month from those pirates at Gold's. Those morons can't even answer a phone the right way. So I work with a guy who wants to get back into shape, so he spots me on the bench, and I give him pointers on what to do for his arms and what not to eat for his stomach.” Tyler paused. “I could keep going, you know.”

"You come here every week," Chad said slowly. "Every Friday. 5:30. It's clock work. No date. No hanging out with the guys—”

“Oh geez, Chad, sing a different tune, would ya?”

“Why are you here?”

“Same question. Same answer. You’re my brother.”

“Right. Right. And you’re gonna turn me around, huh? What, you’re gonna convert me or somethin’ like you did those morons on your mission, right?”

Tyler breathed in until he couldn’t fill his lungs any more. Letting it out, he said, “So look, I’ve been talking to Myler, and he said there’s a chance at you getting out earlier than we thought.”

“Course he did. He knows that you’ll keep paying him to feed you crap like that. He’s a lawyer, Tyler. What do you expect?”

“I’m just saying there’s hope.”

Chad chuckled a mirthless laugh. “Oh, bro, you’re full of it, aren’t you?”

"What's so wrong with having a little hope?"

“This isn’t hope, dude. This is psychotic.”

“Dude, I’m done with your self-pity. There’s more out there than this.”

"Ha! Pity. Yeah. You wouldn't last a day in here, and none of your hope, faith, or that book of yours could save you from what I see every day." Chad sat back and sized his brother up. Chad’s mouth twitched, but it was far from a smile that pulled at his lips. No. Pleasure was an emotion he hadn't felt since coming here. Since before coming here. "You know, there's more to life than just living and breathing, church boy," Chad jabbed.

"Yeah, and there's more to death than dying," Tyler launched back before he could think to restrain himself.

"Is that what they teach in elders quorum these days?"

Tyler shook his head. "Forget it. Tell me about your workout, bro. You're getting big."

Chad sat forward, resting his arms on the desk.

"Come on, dude, how much are you benching?" Tyler tried again.

Chad looked at the desk.

"You know I'm coming every week, Chad, and you always come down here. I know you can't hate me this much. Why can't we just talk like it used to be?"

"Dude, just because you’re my twin don’t make you my brother. And as much as I want to hate you sometimes…I…man, it’s just this…”

“I get it,” Tyler said. “You hate yourself so much, no one else seems worth hating anymore.”

"Man, I made my choices, you know? I'm my own person! I aint led around every Sunday by some high-and-mighty bishop who don't know nothing. I'm free to make my own decisions, understand?"

Tyler looked at his brother's eyes. The eyes he'd known from birth. He didn't know them anymore. "Yeah, Chad, I get it. You’re free. You’re your own man. Anyone can see that." Tyler pushed his chair back and stood. "It's like you said--there's more to life than breathing. And there's more to death than dying. Enjoy the orange pajamas, bro. I love you, bro, whether you like it or not."

"Don't gimme that! Tyler, don't leave like that!" Chad yelled through the glass at the retreating back of his brother. "This is so unfair," Chad said to the guard as he adjusted Chad's chains. "This is so unfair."

Visiting Hours

2011-07-05T19:10:00.000-07:00

I can't even hear the potassium drip. All around me is near perfect silence. I shift in my bed just to know that I'm not deaf. Not dead. I kink my IV tube to hear the alarm. Kink. Alarm. Loose. Kink. Alarm. Loose. The noise grates on my nerves and boils my blood. I love to feel t.

Someone brought me flowers. A girlfriend of mine from high school. We always talked about which boys we wanted to go out with, where we wanted to go to college, how many kids we wanted. She wanted two. I wanted six. Now she's pregnant with her third, and I'm here. She didn't bring a vase, so she fished a Gatorade bottle out of the hall trash.

She stood there. She just stood there. I watched as her eyes surveyed my own plastic encasement and the plastic tubes protruding from so many orifices. How are you doing? She dared ask. I don't blame her. I willed against my will a smile to appear on my lips. One side of my face got the message while the other sagged. You have always been so pretty, she tried again. You're even radiant without your hair. Oh no, I told her. That's just the chemo you see. Turn off the light, and I'll glow.

She laughed, and she laughed. I laughed, too, in my own way, weezing out in discord to the melody of her youth. Her eyes were wet with laughter. She wiped her tears with her finger, then her palm, then her handkerchief. The laughing stopped, but she kept wiping them. I didn't blame her. Three months ago I would have envied her, almost hated her, for her still-moist tear ducts. But I know now that she doesn't understand the gift of tears, and so I appreciate her tears since I know she cannot.

I fell asleep holding her hand. I don't know for how long. I remember waking up to warm lips on my scalp and the sound of a door softly closing. I looked over at the roses forgotten since her entry.

That was two days ago.

The roses are beautiful. Their subtle curves and full color draw the eye right into the center, making me want to pull them closer and, with half closed eyes, breathe in the perfume. And in a few days, the color will turn from vibrant red, brilliant yellow, and soft white to brown. The curves will disappear as everything sags toward the ground, until the brown has crept with cancer-like subtlety and determination into every visible part of the once-living rose. And then, knowing the flowers are good for nothing, I will ask the nurse to dispose of the dead bodies.

I knew the minute those flowers came in this room that they'd never make it out alive.

I was glad for the company.

Thoughts on the 4th

2011-07-04T22:24:00.000-07:00

The economy is down. Politicians are not to be trusted. The free market economy is being lost to flimsy disputes and shady intentions on Capitol Hill. And our foreign policy is all but lost. These days, it hasn't felt so great to be in America.

But the wonderful, inspiring part of the American Dream is that it doesn't have to be a dream that Americans have. It's the dream that is America--it's as American as the wide plains and the rocky mountains. It's as American as the idea that all men are created equal.

The thing that people hate the most about America is our greatest quality, and it's that our country is built on a dream, and so we are dreamers. Idealists. Optimists. And though there are many points in our history where we don't get things right, don't treat everyone as equals, and fail our own people, we are still pushing towards a far greater day tomorrow than we had yesterday. And today, we have mountains to climb until we get there.

Politicians have forgotten that they are American first and Republican or Democrat second, and it's hard to blame them. What happens to a nation that is united under God that removes God from its children's education? What happens to a nation whose symbol is the flag to which we no longer pledge allegiance? What happens to a nation whose president apologizes abroad for the things we have to be proud of? When these days are upon us, the dream is either lost, or it is a nightmare.

But not today. Not this weekend. This is the 4th of July. This is Independence Day. This is the day where we eat far too much barbecued meat and fire off toy rockets while we enjoy a day off work and let the kids play. Maybe that means that we have lost the meaning of our Independence Day. And though some take it for just another bank holiday, I think there are more of us who take a minute to reflect on the rockets' red glare and the bombs bursting in air. We remember our family and friends who have died in the deserts of the Middle East because they believed in something. This isn't American imperialism. It's the price of liberty, and it's the worth of a soul. Today, we remember. Independence Day is a sacrament to the American Dream--a day that reminds us who we are and that we believe in something great, too.

There are some things worth fighting for, worth living for, and worth dying for. We believe in sacred truths like our nation, our families, and our religion. We know that it's not perfect today, but we know that a more perfect Union requires continual progress. I think when Jacob Shallus penned those words, he and Congress understood that "more perfect" is the idea of constant progress. They knew then as we dream now that we don't know what will happen tomorrow, but it can be brighter than today if we so choose. If we so choose. That is why we are Americans and together we dream the great American Dream.

Happy Independence Day.

Friday at 5:30

2011-07-01T22:04:00.000-07:00

"How ya doing, Mike?" Tyler said as handed his license through the window.
The guard looked at the young man a second time, scanned his license, and passed it back.
"Thanks." Tyler shifted the car into first gear and pulled through the gate.

His new work shoes clopped on the tile floor. Tyler fixed his eyes on his feet. No matter how intently he stared, he couldn't possibly make his reflection appear in the scuffed tile. Not that it would stop him from hearing. He could always hear. Hearing them made him feel naked. An old man sobbed softly in his cubicle.
Two women, each in her own cubicle, stared silently. The silence was the worst. It was filled with everything he didn't know and was afraid of. A teenage girl spoke as if she were talking to her high school girlfriend instead of...well, whoever she was. Tyler choked on the disappointment and resignation stagnating in the air.
He pulled out the plastic-and-metal chair, picked up the receiver, and waited for the door on the other side of the glass to open.

Tyler waited. He didn't know how long. He decided long ago--too long ago--that the wait was never long enough. It could never be long enough. Because eventually, his wait was over.

The man came down the same hallway Tyler had just marched. But the man was on the other side of the glass. He sat down, waited for the guard to replace his handcuffs, and picked up the phone.

"Hey, Chad." Tyler looked at Chad. Chad met his gaze with the receiver to his ear, one arm folded across his chest, and an expression as mute as his mouth. "How's the week going?" Tyler continued. The silence began to grab Tyler's throat, threatening to stifle his words along with his hope. It was the silence that scared him the most. "The new job is going well. I mean, it's only been a week, but at least I don't have to deal with that tool of a boss anymore. And who knew I could make fifty-four grand being a writer? I mean, I don't want to stay a writer; maybe I'll work my way up to marketing manager and then eventually to...

"Anyway, I've been working out again. That new place I work, ya know, it's got a gym right in the office, so I can save forty bucks every month from those pirates at Gold's. Those morons can't even answer a phone the right way. So I work with a guy who wants to get back into shape, so he spots me on the bench, and I give him pointers on what to do for his arms and what not to eat for his stomach."

Tyler tried to move his mouth, to keep talking, to hang on. His lips slowed as no sound escaped.

"You come here every week," Chad said slowly. "Every Friday. 5:30. It's clock work. No date. No hanging out with the guys. Just your brother-turned-felon who would spit on you as soon as talk to you--yes, I would, don't give me that attitude. That 'you can make it' attitude, acting as if you believe in me."

"What's so wrong with having a little hope?"

"Hope? Is that what you call it? Man, don't give me your self-righteous sh--"

"Get off it, Chad, and quit pitying yourself."

"Ha! Pity. Yeah. You wouldn't last a day in here, and none of your hope, faith, or that book of yours could save you from what I see every day." Chad sat back, waiting for his adversary to swing. His mouth twitched, but it was far from a smile that pulled at his lips. No. Pleasure was an emotion he hadn't felt since coming here. Since before coming here. "You know, there's more to life than just living and breathing, church boy," Chad jabbed.

"Yeah, and there's more to death than dying," Tyler launched back before he could think to restrain himself.

"Is that what they teach in elders quorum these days?"

Tyler shook his head. "Forget it. Tell me about your workout, bro. You're getting big."

Chad sat forward, resting his arms on the desk.

"Come on, dude, how much are you benching?"

He looked at the desk.

"You know I'm coming every week, Chad, and you always come down here. I know you can't hate me this much. Why can't we just talk like it used to be?"

"Tyler. Your my brother. My twin. And believe me when I tell you I hate you. But I could never hate you more than I--" Chad knew the next words, felt the next words, but didn't know how to say it. "Man, I made my choices, you know? I'm my own person! I aint led around every Sunday by some high-and-mighty bishop who doesn't know nothing. I'm free to make my own decisions, understand?"

Tyler looked at his brother's eyes. The eyes he'd known from birth. He didn't know them anymore. "Yeah, Chad, I get it. You really are free. Anyone can see that." Tyler pushed his chair back and stood. "It's like you said--there's more to life than breathing. And there's more to death than dying. Enjoy the orange pajamas, bro. I love you."

"Don't gimme that! Tyler, don't leave like that!" Chad yelled through the glass at the retreating back of his brother. "This is so unfair," Chad said to the guard as he adjusted Chad's chains. "This is so unfair."

What does it take to be a great writer?

2011-06-15T08:48:00.000-07:00

Copyblogger is one of my favorite sites.

Read this article on Five Ways to Write Magnificent Copy.

If you don't like, go to the doctor. Something is wrong with you.

Or maybe you just don't love writing like I do.

Maybe.

A Writer's Vow

2011-06-10T20:55:00.000-07:00

"Industry leader"

"...is bound to..."

"...is sure to..."

"...premier..."

"...cutting-edge (whateverness)..."

"...most innovative..."

Though I eat but bread crumbs and drink a bitter brine, yet I shall not write so poorly.

This is my vow.

Jared Franklin Heath

Expectations

2011-06-06T09:50:00.000-07:00

Write something. Say something. Do something.

And when you've lead everyone to believe they know the next step, go in a completely different direction.

A great way to bore the daylights out of everyone is to be predictable. Give them expectations in your movie, book, speech, or actions, and then live up to them. We all see it coming, so we don't watch anymore.

Have you ever seen an infant watching TV? They're glued. They've never seen images flash like that. They're not supposed to jump around like that, but they do!

Writing something worth reading is the same as telling a joke. But whether you make someone laugh, cry, or feel amazing, you did it because the outcome wasn't what was supposed to happen.

I guess it gives us hope that things can change. No one wants to believe that this recession will keep heading in the same direction (maybe the change Obama promised will come by kicking him out of office). We don't read books and watch movies because it's reality. We do it because it's the way we believe reality can be.

It's why chick flicks are so popular but so lame. It's how girls wish reality could be, but the plot is always the same. Always. And if you don't believe me, please watch Letters to Juliet and Leap Year back to back and tell me if there is any fundamental difference (there's not).

Learn Wisdom in Thy Youth

2011-06-01T17:37:00.000-07:00

"We're sorry. The funds in this account will not support your call. Have a great day!" Click.

Elder Hawkins stared at the pay phone. He had to walk down three gates from his departure gate to find a free phone. Though most of the nineteen elders and sisters in his transfer had just called home a few hours before from the terminal in Salt Lake, almost every missionary made a B-line to the nearest pay phone while waiting for their connection in Atlanta.

Elder Hawkins dialed again. "We're sorry. The funds in this--." I did the math; I didn't talk that long. I should have enough! Hawkins turned the calling card over - toll-free customer service.

"Hi, I only made one call with this card, and I should have enough to make another call. What's going on?"

"Well, sir, the automatic three-dollar connection fee from your last card actually only left you with $2.13. That doesn't leave you with enough to complete your--" Click.

Hawkins immediately turned to look for Elder Anderson. A very muscular figure in a suit was getting progressively smaller as Elder Hawkins's companion wandered down the terminal with other missionaries. "Fine. Whatever. It's not worth it," Hawkins said to everyone and no one in particular. Without a companion, Hawkins meandered over to the other missionaries waiting for their flight to Canada. Sitting down next to Elder Taylor, Hawkins pulled out his French copy of the scriptures and started reading.

"Hey, guys...I mean, elders...I...need to go to the restroom, and I don't know where Sister Williams and Sister Peters went," Sister Trent said. Hawkins and Taylor looked at each other and then looked back with blank faces at Sister Trent.

Sister Trent then explained as if to children, "So I need you two to escort me since I don't have a companion!"

"Oh!" Hawkins and Taylor said as they jumped up and walked with the sister missionary down the terminal.

Standing outside the women's restroom, Elder Taylor said to Elder Hawkins, "I feel like a guard at a club or something. No woman passing this bathroom is going to want to walk in with us standing out here like this."

"I dunno, Elder. We're possibly the most awkward-looking guards ever. For all they know, we're waiting for our mom. We call ourselves 'elder,' but that's about as far as it goes getting out of our teenage skins," Hawkins admitted. Taylor nodded, and they passed another moment in silence. The two missionaries watched scenes down the terminal with envy as pairs of dark suits stopping the shuffling t-shirts and the quick-paced blazers alike. The strolling carry-ons walking past the bathrooms could see the purple in the young men's faces, wondering if the two missionaries were on the verge of saying something or just waiting to use the bathroom. But these were the Mormons, and rather than waiting around to find out, each would-be convert seemed to quicken the pace in their already considerable gait as they passed.

"You nervous?" Hawkins asked honestly.

"Yup."

"You wanna...?"

"Yes...and no."

"I hear ya." Hawkins grabbed a copy of the Book of Mormon he had bought at the MTC bookstore. "Come on, let's do this."

"Are you serious?"

"It's what we're here for, isn't it?"

"Well yeah, but if security comes...."

"Then we'll dive into the bathroom or just hope Sister Trent gets out soon." Just then a young man only a year or two older than the two nervous elders passed. His boots clomped loudly on the tile floor, but his camo was clean and his hair recently buzzed. One chevron. An Army PFC.

"Hey, soldier," Elder Hawkins called. The military. Dad was military. If this guy has been trained to get shot at, he won't mind a little religious conversation. Forgetting the day's frustrations and waving to the young private, Hawkins continued, "You on R&R or deploying?"

Without a flinch at being addressed so personally, the private spoke as much warmth and as a Georgian accent and Southern hospitality could convey. "Just headin' back out from a six-week furlough."

"Afghanistan?" Hawkins continued.

"Iraq, actually."

"And I thought we had it hard..." Taylor spoke loud enough for Hawkins to hear, though neither missionary could tell if the soldier heard Taylor's response.

"Wow...how do you do it, soldier?" Hawkins asked.

"Only my faith in God, man! I accepted Jesus as my Lord, and I figure He'll keep me safe long as I need it."

"What's your name?" Hawkins asked as he extended his hand.

"PFC Jason Sharp," came the response with a firm handshake. "It looks like y'all are missionaries, aintcha?"

"Well, I guess you could say we fight a war of a different kind, but one thing that's the same between you and me is Christ. Elder Taylor and I, we want to help people find faith in Christ. Have you ever heard of the Book of Mormon?"

"Nah, not really. I mean, I seen y'all around and stuff, but that's 'bout it." Sharp said.

"Well this book testifies that Jesus is our Lord and Savior," Hawkins explained. As he said it, the young man felt so small and yet so strong. His chest didn't burn. But he felt it all the same. Hawkins looked directly at the soldier and said, "And I don't care what other people may tell you about it, I promise you...I promise you, this is true. It's all true."

"I...I also know that this book is the word of God. It really helps people. It helps me, too," Elder Taylor said.

"We want to give you this book, but only if you'll read it. Will you do that for me?" Hawkins asked.

"Yeah...yes, I will," Sharp said.

"You've got a lot of faith. I promise it will get stronger if you read this and pray to God about it." Elder Hawkins smiled at him.

"Good luck out there," Taylor said. "Thanks for everything you do."

"Thank you, boys! I surely will read this," Sharp said, thumbing through the pictures at the front.

"Ahem!" Sister Trent made her presence known.

"Well, maybe I'll see y'all around."

"Maybe. God bless!"

"God bless!"

"Well," Sister Trent said, "That sounded pretty cool. Wanna see if we can find our companions?"

Hawkins sat down in his seat and picked up the French copy of the scriptures again. He didn't know how long it had been until someone suggested they get lunch. Hawkins reluctantly placed the scriptures in his bag and walked to the food court.

"Hey, Hawkins! Hawkins, check it out!" Taylor pushed Hawkins' shoulder and pointed across the food court. PFC Jason Sharp sat with a box of fries and an unwrapped burger on his left with the Book of Mormon open in his right hand. How long he had been there, Hawkins didn't know. "That's why we're here, Hawkins," Taylor said.

Hawkins' smile could not have expressed the feeling in his heart. "Yeah, dude. That's why we're here."

"Industry Leader"

2011-05-25T15:08:00.000-07:00

I hate those words. Passionately. Do you remember the last time you read the words "industry leader"? "We're the industry leaders in search engine marketing." "We offer premier products." "We." "Us." Me." "Buy." "Now." Grand. You think you're great. So go be great in your own (un-indexed) corner of the internet while the rest of humanity looks for a product that focuses on the consumer instead of the company.

If you ever read "industry leader," "premier," or other similar marketing BS, you can bet your bottom dollar (or more likely your credit card debt, since that's all any of us have these days) that whatever business dared utter those ineffable words is a half-rate start-up one-man-band who hired his techie neighbor to build the site and asked his wife to write about his business that she hates. "Industry leader" is the easy way to say, "I have no budget, and I really can't compete, but I hope you're too stupid to research my product." Well I got news for ya, pal--it's the internet. There's nothing we can't figure out about your rinky-dink operation or your weak attempt at competition.

Industry leader. Have you ever seen Apple.com claim that they're the "industry leaders"? How about Google? No? That's because if you really are the leader, then everyone knows it. If you really are the industry leader, you can afford a half-decent copywriter who knows not to write words that don't say anything. At all. And if you really are the industry leader, your product or service speaks for itself. Speaking of decent products, I don't remember Adidas or Nike getting into yes-huh/nuh-uh wars over "industry leadership." They shut their mouths and come out with a better shoe (or a better commercial...some budgets can handle that).

Boy, I feel a lot better. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.

You have to see this

2011-05-19T06:52:00.000-07:00

Sereen sent me these analogies. I got it from this website, though I think the blog may be shutdown now. Be that as it may, these are 25 analogies written by real high school students, and frankly, I think they're brilliant (intentionally ambiguous use of "they"--let's say that both the students and the analogies are brilliant). :) I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

The 25 Funniest Analogies (Collected by High School English Teachers)

UPDATE: Tens of thousands of readers have found this post and hundreds of you have commented. A few have said that these analogies were actually taken from other sources and were not written by high school kids at all. Now, we have a link that ends the debate. These analogies are the winning entries in a 1999 Washington Post humor contest, and there are more than 25. Please look at the comments sent August 3, 2008 by “Jiffer” to get to the complete list and the names of the authors.
ORIGINAL POST: I have to share these “funniest analogies” with you. They came in an e-mail from my sister. She got them from a cousin, who got them from a friend, who got them from… so they are circulating around. My apologies if you have already seen them.
The e-mail says they are taken from actual high school essays and collected by English teachers across the country for their own amusement. Some of these kids may have bright futures as humor writers. What do you think?
1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a ThighMaster.
2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.
3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. Coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.
5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
7. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.
8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.
9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.
10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.
11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.
12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.
13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.
14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.
15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.
16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River.
18. Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.
19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.
22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.
23. The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.
25. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

What if?

2011-04-11T12:17:00.000-07:00

Lots of people ask, "What if it's not?" And so what if it's not? If she doesn't like you, if he doesn't call you back, if you don't get that job, so what? Nothing changes. Your course stays the same. And it's easier that way.

But what if it is? What if you can believe, just for a second, that God really is there, that he appeared to a fourteen-year-old boy, and that maybe, just maybe, He can whisper to your heart and tell you, "It's true. All of it."

I mean, think about it: angels, hidden records, eternal families, a prophet on the earth--sure, it's easy to scoff at. But if it's true, any one part of it, any bit of it, then it's all true. And it's easy to say it's not and go your way. But if it is, you'll never be the same again.

What if?

On Intellect

2011-03-28T12:27:00.000-07:00

Eugene England was a scholar, a moderate, and a Latter-day Saint. I have spent the past semester working on a project to produce his biography in a digital format. Some people have said that England struggled with his faith and tried to marry intellect with religion. These people missed the point. England realized decades ago what the faithful and the intellectual alike have completely ignored--faith and intellect were never divorced. If England struggled, his wrestle was with bringing people, not himself, to the realizations that seemed so evident to him.

Here is my own realization and my connection with the essence of Gene's work.

People are looking for something perfect. We want to perfect our government. We want to perfect our economy. We want better things, but all we can say is "it's not perfect, but it's all we've got." Democracy. Capitalism. Marriage. Family. We're doing our best.

Society says that religion is for the ignorant. That intellect and religion cannot be compatible. But for imperfect creatures so obsessed with perfection, we must be smart enough to follow the intuition whispering to us that there is something more. We must be smart enough to know that we aren't smart enough to understand. We are constantly reaching for something out of reach, so why would we not be willing to say that there is more to this world and our life than our intellect can capture?

The truth is that faith and pride are incompatible. The faithful who declare that the intellectual must repent of their star-searching and the savants who disdain those who see more than burning hydrogen when they look to the skies both must reconcile their personal, quotidian concerns with what they do not know.

The truth is that truth exists. Absolutely truth exists. And if a truth is absolute, then it is eternal. That means that we sense eternal things in the finite things about us, and we search them. There is no one point where scholarship ends and priesthood begins. The two are intertwined, and both must be respected.

That He May Know

2011-03-26T21:43:00.000-07:00

Again, folks, this is all first draft stuff. Let me know what you think, and don't judge too harshly. :) Enjoy!

"You're such a goof," she had said with a smile in her voice. She's the only person I've ever know who could smile with her words. Sixty-two years of marriage hadn't changed anything--I would do anything to make her laugh, make her happy, make her love me, and she always called me a goof for it. Somehow it meant as much to hear "You're a goof" as "I love you." We were standing side by side at the sink, washing the dishes together from the dinner we had made together. She paused, leaned on the sink, and said with a sigh,"Oh, I'm tired. I think I'm going to lay down."

"Go on, pretty lady. I can handle these dishes on my own!"

"Jack, you can't tie your tie without my help."

"That's not true." I grumbled out in my 84-year-old, gravel voice. "I just like any excuse for you to stand close to me."

The corners of her mouth pulled a tired smile as she reached up to trace the lines around my mouth and face. I could see the fatigue in her eyes.

"Go lay down, babe." Sixty-two years of marriage never let calling her "babe" die out.

Slowly she moved herself over to the couch, sighing again as she placed her hand over her forehead. She slipped onto the couch, and despite her fatigue let out a laugh and a sleepy, "I love you."

Ten minutes. That's all. I finished the dishes and walked over to look at her as she slept. I laughed at my youthful worry so many years ago of getting used to each other, and then I laughed at my softness as my vision blurred. Well, blurred more than usual. I walked over and, with cracking knees and an less-than-sturdy back, slowly knelt with beside the couch, looking across the makeshift altar at her. She lay there on the couch, her white hair framing her once-smooth face like a cloud framing a dream. Her lips were smiling, and her eyes were half closed. I almost went to bed. Almost let her stay there so peacefully. I touched her arm softly, so softly. I leaned in to kiss her, pausing to feel her breathe from her nose and mouth.

None came.

"Babe?" Nothing.

"Sweetheart." I lightly shook her shoulders.

I call her name. Louder.

"Honey, please...! Please! Please!" I began to sob.

Nothing.

I tried improvised CPR, all the while praying that if her heart would not start, then my mine would stop. But my arms were too weak and my heart was too strong for my prayer to be answered.

The plan of salvation. Happiness. I've taught it. I've learned it. I've testified of it. But all I knew was that she was gone.

I held her close, and I wept.

Read this.

2011-03-23T10:09:00.000-07:00

Who would like to see some morals reappear in our society? This mother printed an incredible article in the Wall Street Journal. No matter your creed or religion, you need to read this:

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748703899704576204580623018562.html?mod=WSJ_hp_mostpop_read

On Your Right Hand and On Your Left

2011-03-19T01:07:00.000-07:00

Hey, folks! I've been sitting on this one for a while, so I had to get it out. I'm still working on it, but I thought you deserved a post. Enjoy!

1542 Rue Bourbonnière. The pass-off seemed promising, and Elder Hawkins was grateful for something to put on the agenda for today. Days turned into weeks of passing by cold media referrals, trying to visit inactive members, and finding yet another road to tract, and Hawkins was desperate to get his greenie into a real lesson. He hadn't yet been able to classify "real," but it had to be more than this, he reasoned.

"Your turn," Hawkins said to Elder Yoast as they stood at the door with their arms crossed. "And don't forget--we're both getting at least ten contacts on the way."

"You said five after lunch!"

Hawkins closed his eyes, hoping Yoast didn't see them roll. "Yoast, 'ten plus' means ten--not five, not one, and definitely not zero. You stood on the metro and stared at the empty seat in front of you from Berri-UQAM to Henri-Bourrassa. You're contacting ten people today, and I don't want to hear why you can't."

Yoast's face went white with indignation and then red from the breath he couldn't release. Hawkins had seen the process so many times before that he could predict the next step. Hawkins knew he was pushing Yoast's buttons, but he justified it in the name of progress. He headed off the argument before his companion could get too worked up.

"Come on, it's time to go. Your turn." Hawkins closed his eyes and bowed his head. Yoast had no idea what to do in the face of Hawkins's directness, so he followed suit and then began to pray.

"Dear Heavenly--"

"En français, Elder."

Yoast grumbled and began again.

Rue La Jeunesse to Rue Sauriol. Twelve people walked by. Hawkins stopped a woman to talk. Yoast guessed she must have been in her late twenties. She gave him her number, and they went their separate ways. Hawkins had only gone a few more steps before trying to speak to someone else. Spanish. Hawkins bravely if not brokenly stumbled through a contact in Spanish. Hawkins demonstrated a Spanish copy of the Book of Mormon.

"No comprendo. No Comprendo," the man said to Hawkins, and passed on.

"I lose more of them like that every day. I've really got to learn Spanish!" Hawkins said to no one in particular.

Shaking his head and appearing to be too preoccupied with his daily planner to notice three people walk past him, Yoast wondered yet again how Hawkins did it day in and day out.

"Just walk up to them and say hello!" Hawkins had said. Yoast heard this pep talk no fewer than three times a week. Sometimes he got it three times a day.

"You...you...you just don't underst-st-stand!" Yoast tried to defend himself with it, stuttering as he did when his emotions began to rise. Yoast could see in his mind his brother walking down the roads of Taipei at night talking to strangers. Talking to anyone. That's how it happened. That's how it happened. Yoast replayed the scene he had created in his mind over and over and over.

Hawkins closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He thought of his brother just returned from the Ukraine. He had a smile and a personality that no one could resist. Hawkins would have given anything to be able to make people listen to him like his brother could. "Don't tell me what I don't understand, Elder." Good heaven, he thinks of me like I think of my brother. And he hates me for it. At least my brother came home from the mission. At least my brother's not dead. He never voiced his thoughts. Hawkins tried to respect at least this part of Yoast's psyche. Yoast had a right to grieve.

Hawkins looked up from writing another phone number in his planner and saw Yoast staring very earnestly at what appeared to be a blank page in his planner. Judging better than to reprimand him this time, Hawkins simply called out, "C'mon, Elder."

Six more contacts and seven missed opportunities brought the two to Sauvé metro. Down the orange line to Berri-UQAM and then switch lines to go down the green line. Hawkins was on fire; he contacted the entire metro car as Yoast stood clutching the pole near the door. Yoast watched his reflection as he moved from person to person and then stood there after everyone on the train had rejected him. Yoast could feel their judging stares weighing him down. It was almost more than he could stand.

Hawkins stood in the middle of the train, not willing to look at his companion and not willing to give heed to his disappointment. Hawkins could feel the fire within him, but this fire was different. This fire was burning him out. He looked in the mirror to see a receding hairline and shadows under his eyes. The shadows wouldn't go away anymore. He wondered how far his hair would creep back and how deep his eyes would sink before he felt that he had done enough. Before his work would be acceptable. Father, can I ever be enough? Can I ever help these people learn? Can I ever help Elder Yoast? I need to do it. But I can't. I can't. I can't. He drifted between thought and prayer as the dark glass became lit by another metro stop.

Station Joliette. Hawkins always felt that he was fighting a losing battle against his thoughts. Not able to free himself of them, he could only repress them and try to smile at Yoast as they climbed the stairs to the surface.

Yoast felt a surge of relief as he stepped out of the metro: not a soul in sight all the way down Rue Hochelaga. The sky was darkening, and the wind was beginning to blow. As they turned the corner onto Bourbonnière, Hawkins turned to his companion.

"This one's yours, Elder."

Yoast looked down the street. One man was walking toward them on the opposite side. Setting his jaw, Yoast marched resolutely toward the lone stranger.

"Hello. How. . .how are you?" Despite his growing anxiety, Yoast planted his full six-foot-five figure in front of the man. The stranger's skin was dark, and he looked up with full, black eyes. Stopping, he looked from Hawkins to Yoast and could only shake his head and smile.

Yoast looked at Hawkins, expecting to leave the man alone and keep walking. His companion smiled back at him, though whether it was a look of confidence or amusement on his face, Yoast could not discern. Turning back to the stranger, he said, ""Umm, well, parlez-vous français?"

Another shake of the head. He began to step around the two.

"Hablas Espanol?" Hawkins chimed in with his broken Spanish.

Elder Yoast stepped aside and waited. This won't take long now, Elder Yoast said thinking of the contact outside the apartment.

"Somos los missionaros de l'eglisia de Jesu-Cristo . . ." Hawkins continued in his French-accented Spanish.

"Los Mormones?" The stranger said.

"Si!"

"Esta el Libro de Mormon?" The stranger asked in Spanish unintelligible to Elder Yoast's ears as Yoast pulled his planner out again.

"Si! Estoy...er, esta el Libro de Mormon," Hawkins replied.

The man went on in Spanish, and so did Elder Hawkins. Elder Yoast looked at his watch. Elder Hawkins had been speaking Spanish with the man for at least three minutes. Yoast's only clue to the conversation was the open copy of the book he had come to teach people about. Yoast even forgot to stare at his planner as his companion was, apparently, speaking a language he had never really learned.

Miracles happen, Elder, Yoast told himself, trying to believe what he was seeing. He thought of his brother and how good he had been at Mandarin. He thought of the kind of missionary his mission president said he was at his funeral. Yes, his brother had opened his mouth. His brother hadn't been afraid. Not like him. Not like this. But where was Kyle's miracle? Where was God to stop my brother from dying?

"Of course you'll serve a mission," his parents told him in confidence after the funeral. But confidence was not what he saw in their eyes as he walked into the MTC. Confidence was not what he felt when he thought of his brother lying in a gutter shot through the neck and his brother's companion bleeding from a wound in his side. And fear of losing his life and breaking his parents' hearts wrapped its cold, heavy fingers around his tongue at the thought of these strangers.

Yoast stared at Hawkins as the stranger walked away carrying the book. He just spoke Spanish. He just had a conversation in Spanish. Elder Yoast kept repeating it to himself, not feeling like Hawkins deserved it but not denying what he just saw. "Elder Hawkins, you just. . .I mean, did you. . .did he. . .?"

Elder Hawkins slowly replaced his planner and then his pen in his shirt pocket and stared after the man. "No, Elder Yoast, I didn't. Not me." Then he turned to Elder Yoast with the profoundest look in his eyes. "But the Lord. . . ." Hawkins tried to swallow away the emotion rising in his eyes. "But the Lord loves his children, Elder. C'mon. We've got a media referral to get to."

Some time after the referral swore he didn't order the DVD, swore he didn't know anything about it, and then swore profusely at the two young missionaries, Yoast found himself standing in a metro car again. In front of him sat two elderly women facing an empty seat. Confidence, Elder, he said. Miracles can . . . miracles happen. Chasing away the scene in Taipei, Yoast sat down.

Hawkins looked up from a brief conversation and, seeing his companion incline his head to hear two women speak in a noisy metro, could not hold back one solitary tear from sliding down his cheek. He turned back to the conversation and said in as steady a voice as he could, "And I know it's true. I know it's true."

I am not a writer.

2011-03-05T20:06:00.000-08:00

She said it as she always did, closing her eyes halfway as she looked at me. I looked up at her from my head's place in her lap.

"But when all my pretty words are gone, do I still deserve it?" I asked. It was silly to ask. Silly to want to know. Foolish to need to hear it.

But she didn't speak. Closing her eyes halfway again, she nodded. That peaceful smile dared the corners of her mouth to lift, pushing her dimples into view. "It's not your pretty words that I love."

"Good. Because I'm not much of a storyteller. Or a writer." Her eyebrows arched in incredulity. I could tell stories to make her laugh, make her blush, make her happy, make her anything I wanted her to be, which was always eventually in love. She and I both knew that I could take a word and spin it into a spider's web and then turn the web into silk and then trim it with ermine and drape the cloak around her like the queen I always tell her she is. The queen I know she is. "Oh?" is all I get for a response.

But I meant it. "No, I'm not much of a storyteller at all. I'm just good at being honest. At saying what it's like to feel something from the inside or to think of something until there's nothing left to think about. I'm not scared of feeling or thinking something at all. Some people are. Some people are scared to feel anything, and most people are scared to say what it feels like. I'm not. I'm not much of a storyteller, because it doesn't always flow the way it should. But when have you and I ever known anything to just 'flow'?" She nods her head and smiles to herself as I actively disprove my point simply by proving it. "Like I said, I'm not a storyteller or a writer. I'm just honest."

And I am.

(Or at least I try to be.)

Sacraments and Symbols

2011-02-28T09:44:00.000-08:00

So I'm stuck here in Denver, and instead of working or doing homework like I should, I decided to write a short story. I'm thinking of rewriting this one to place it in Afghanistan or Iraq, but this is what came out of my pen while I was sitting here. It's amazing to see the things waiting to come out in that black ink. Please, feel free to comment. I hope y'all enjoy!

My hands had gone from red to a purple-blue in my finger tips. I picked up my tin cup from my mini fire and held it close to me. These Germans even used their winters to fight us Arizona boys.

“Coffee, sir?” a replacement asked, trying to lose his nerves with small talk. I didn’t voice my response as the veterans of the company chuckled. I shook my head and smiled away the chat.

No coffee. I’m in hell with frostbite. Maybe hell would be nice; this cold could make a polar bear wish for the inferno of an Arizona summer. And I say no to coffee. I killed a few more yesterday. Germans. At least I think I did. It’s convenient, firing my M-2. I had machine guns ripping both the air and German bodies to pieces, running interference for me and my boys. I raised my gun. Fire. One, two, three. Down. Head up. Down. Bullets flew by. People are dying, but I don't have to take the blame for anyone's death in this mêlée. Someone started screaming; I don’t recognize the voice. German? A replacement? Who knows.

No coffee. The “Battered Bastards of Bastogne” they will call us if we survive. “Dead” is all they’ll call us no matter where, when, or how if we don’t. It used to be easier to think of the guys firing at us as bastards. It used to be easier to hate them. I came out for God, religion, freedom, my wife. My bride. Married three years ago, and still no kids. The doctors don’t know why. Germans are Lamanites. I’ll kill the Lamanites. They attacked us. I’ll protect you. Just like Helaman. Moroni. No coffee. I won’t drink coffee, beer, or French wine, but I’ll kill a man.

“Sir, there’s a skirmish on the left flank.”

Damn it. It’s Sunday. Can’t they give it a rest for one day? We can kill each other six other days of the week. We’ll mangle each other tomorrow, but leave me to my repentance today. Muttering to myself and wondering when I had begun swearing, I picked up my M-2 and went to the line.

Onetwothree. Down.

How will they remember me?

Branches above my head rained down as bark exploded all around. Up. Onetwothree. A muffled cry. Down.

Am I the good soldier who hated war?

An explosion. Shots. The man beside me went limp and rolled over. I saw the hole where his eye had been, his helmet holding his shattered skull together. Poppoppop!

Am I the company member that put his hands on Corporal Jensen’s head and helped him survive a shot to the right lung? Am I the praying soldier?

The earth began to vomit violently as mortars turned our world and our foxholes upside down.

Or am I just the crazy guy who wouldn't drink coffee on a day as bitter as today?

An explosion.

Silence.

Stuck

2011-02-28T09:40:00.000-08:00

I'm in Denver. That's an interesting place to be, especially on a Monday morning halfway through what should have been my Engl 495 New Negro Literature class. I'm on myway to an undisclosed place for an undisclosed reason (Jason Borne, I am he), and my flight got canceled.

Disappointed? You have no idea. I think they were going to take me to a pretty nice dinner, too. Now I'm sitting here munching my bag of granola, peanuts, cranberries, oatmeal squares, and mango. At least I have mango. Mango makes the world better.

I decided to find out what was going on and if I could possibly make it to dinner. I got here at 8 am. Make Madison by 5? I'm not asking for a miracle here. But first, what happened on the other end to cancel my flight?

"Mechanical errors," they said.

"Meaning what exactly?" I queried. Raised shoulders and raised hackles were all I got in response. Airport customer service is as warm as . . . something really, really cold.

"Right. So that's their go-to code when they just don't want to tell anyone what's going on, right?" I said, grinning at the CSRs as if I knew them. I saw a shadow of a smile, and a few raised eyebrows that said what their voices would not: You're not kidding. We take the brunt, and we don't know anything.

So after a series of events here in good ol' Denver, I finally got connected to Detroit, and I'm praying to make the flight to get me to said undisclosed location (for an undisclosed reason) before 6:00. I'm on standby. If I make it, I'll get in at 5:56. I guess it was a miracle I was asking for.

What are the chances of me making it out of an airport and to a dinner appointment in 4 minutes?

Don't hold your breath.

Room 3144

2011-02-23T18:24:00.000-08:00

No. He couldn't have heard right. Jack snapped out of his reverie and looked straight into the concierge's eyes with a plastic expression that came right out of the training box plastered on her visage.

"I'm sorry, how much did you say?"

"Three hundred twenty-eight dollars and thirty-nine cents, sir," she repeated with a confident tone as if she expected a tip for being able to read the screen correctly. Jack's eyes narrowed as his lips tightened, but her expression was unflinching. "Chelsea" was written in black on her gold embossed name tag. Jack considered ripping off the name tag and handing it to her as payment.

"I booked this room a month ago. I booked this room at seventy-nine dollars and thirty-two cents per night," Jack said confidently. He couldn't remember the exact amount, but any number in the vicinity would do. He just had to sound official. Important. Uncontestable. That smile--that immutable, irrefutable smile--would not budge. I just need one flinch. Just falter a little bit, and I'll know I'm making headway, Jack told himself. "I only booked the room for two nights; considering taxes, that should come out to somewhere around one-seventy or one-eighty." Move, you infernal lips! Jack willed.

"Yes sir," she said in the same bright voice. "But my computer shows that you arrived a day early and ordered room service."

"I did no such thing," Jack said.

"My computer shows these actions attributed to room 3144."

"I didn't ask your computer. I'm telling you I did no such thing."

Plastic remained as concrete as ever. Time to change strategy.

"Chelsea, listen. I'm sure that's what your computer says. But what are the chances that your computer has the wrong month pulled up?"

Plastic patronized him with a small pull at the corner of the mouth. "Not likely, sir. You see it says right here . . ." Still the grin remained, but the flash of anger in the eyes showed disappointment in her human error. Plastic extinguished the flare as quickly as it had sparked. "Your total, sir, is not one hundred seventy nine dollars and thirty-two cents. It is one hundred eighty-one dollars and seventeen cents."

Jack suppressed the victory from his lips, nodded gravely at Plastic, said in a purely business tone, "My mistake," and walked out the door.

My Smokin' Hot Wife

2011-02-15T14:03:00.000-08:00

Now, I'm sure everyone loves their wife, but here's why Sereen is stellar-er than anyone else.

How many of you have a wife that did this for the first time in her life . . .

And did this on the very first shot?

I'm one proud husband. :)

Here are the fine folks that took us shooting. We were using Chad's Hungarian Makarov, 9mm

The Front Door

2010-12-09T09:21:00.001-08:00

I came home today. It’s a funny phrase, that one. I came home today. Is the speaker glad to be home today? Was she absent yesterday and the week before and the year before, or is it just her lunch break? I came home today. Home means a lot of things to a lot of people. Some people get those warm fuzzy feelin’s (I don’t know why they call the feelin’s “fuzzy” [and who are “they,” anyway?]; I’d think if feelin’s were fuzzy then they’d itch). Some people think of home and get jealous of the kids that had a roof with a Christmas tree under it with presents under it, because some kids, you know, they only have a cafeteria with platitudes on the walls like “Today is a gift: that’s why we call it a present” to depress them in the holiday season. I came home today. Maybe she (I guess it’s a she; “I” doesn’t really tell you much, now does it?) is glad to be able to come. She came home because that’s where you go, you know? Birds come back after winter; fish go back to lay eggs; and college kids come back for groceries. I came home today. Maybe the rest of the sentence, you know, it doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t matter when, doesn’t matter what “home” means, doesn’t matter that she says “came” instead of “drove” or “walked” or “flew.” It doesn’t matter, because “I,” whoever she is, is standin’ right there in front of that piece-of-wood-you-call-a-door waitin’ for you to say, “Welcome back.”

Harold B.

2010-12-07T20:48:00.001-08:00

Hey, guys! I haven't posted in a while, so I thought I'd put this one up. Enjoy!

Jack looked at watch and groaned. The keyboards all around him ticked away, little metronomes reminding him that he was cutting it too close this time. It was 8:17, and he was running out of time. His paper was too short—somehow he’d have to make three pages into five before 9:00. Why write five pages when I only have 2.248 pages to say on the topic? Do they want me to just make it up? That’s the most ridiculous thing; if I just use a bunch of filler, I’m not learning anything but how to use a whole lot of words to say a whole lot of nothing. His head ached with the pressure of blood rushing to his brain. That’s something they taught me, Jack thought. How to get a headache. I know how to spend five pages and $.35 saying nothing, and I know how to get a headache. A $5,000-a-year headache and a $5,000-a-year, five-page report on nothing. Well, nothing severely important. I have 2.248 pages of important and another 2.752 pages of fluff. $5000-a-year fluff—now that’s one expensive pillow. Wow, I could use a pillow now. The keyboard started shaking as Jack brought himself back from his reverie. “Hey, could you quit bouncing your leg? I’m trying to work here,” he said to no one in particular. Five confused stares responded to his random assertion. Why’d I say that? That was rude. That was curt and uncalled for. I never bark at people. I don’t bark at my roommates, I don’t bark at my landlord, I don’t even bark at my dog. Just breathe, J. Just breathe. Looking down as he breathed in and out, Jack stared at his bouncing leg and forced it to stop moving. The keyboard stopped shaking.

It was going to be a long Monday.

Doctrines, Principles, and Applications

2010-11-16T10:16:00.000-08:00

I volunteer at the Provo Missionary Training Center as an interpreter. I'm sure that Elder David Bednar, Elder Whitney Clayton, and Sister Sheri Dew are nice people, but they don't always treat us lowly interpreters so well. Considering how fast they speak, I'm pretty sure that they are oblivious to our very existence.

That's OK. I'm thrilled just to have the chance to hear what they have to say.

Going back to the MTC every other Sunday and Tuesday helps me relive a little of that missionary spirit. I don't remember the talks being this good when I was at the MTC; maybe the Lord needs to give me everything that I missed when I wore the black name tag. :)

But back to the topic: Elder Bednar is amazing. He gave a talk in the MTC about doctrine, principles, and applications. This is all going to be more or less paraphrased, but it's still very accurate. Here's what I learned:

"The man who does not get his home teaching done," Elder Bednar explained in his amazing, university professor and president fashion, "is not a lazy home teacher. He has simply not understood the doctrine of home teaching. We use these terms--doctrine and principle--in the church on a regular basis, but do we actually know what the terms mean?

To demonstrate his point, Elder Bednar pointed at a frightened, 19-year-old boy. "You, Elder. Yes, you. What is a doctrine?"

A blank stare and a pregnant pause filled with all the anxiety of not wanting to answer an apostle yet being afraid to answer incorrectly ensued. Elder Bednar smiled.

"It's fine, don't worry, Elder. A doctrine is not something bizarre or rarely spoken of. A doctrine is a simple, revealed truth from our Heavenly Father concerning our salvation. Doctrines answer the why questions of the soul.

"A principle," he continued,"is based on a doctrine and answers the what questions. A doctrine, then, is the Atonement. It answers why we need a Savior. A principle based on the Atonement is repentance--it is what we need to do because of the Atonement.

"Understanding both the doctrine and the principle leads to application. Application is the how. An application of the principle of repentance are those 5 R's we all learned in seminary. Now, is it possible to observe the application without following the doctrine? Yes. When I was president of BYU-I, there was a student who committed a grievous, heinous sexual sin on Friday night. On Sunday morning, he went to the bishop and said, 'Bishop, you're the last thing on my list. I've done all the other steps, and now I feel great. Thanks.' This young man had no understanding of the doctrine of the Atonement or the principle of repentance."

Elder Bednar went on to explain that we are far too caught up in the application and we lose the doctrine, the entire reason, behind why we do what we do. If someone does not do his home teaching, he has not been taught the doctrine behind it, and no amount of gimmicks or promises of pizza will change his behavior.

"The study of the gospel," according to Elder Ballard, "will change behavior faster than the study of behavior will change behavior." (That's in Preach My Gospel.) The gospel is the core of doctrines which our Heavenly Father has revealed to us--why we are here, who we are, and what He wants for us. When we understand the doctrines, we change because we want to change.

It was an amazing talk. Elder Bednar speaks to my soul.

Capitalism, current financial trends, and their relation to consolidation

2010-11-08T09:00:00.000-08:00

[EDITOR'S NOTE: Hey, guys! This is a guest post coming from Sara James, a financial blogger who thought you would be interested in what she has to say. Feel free to comment!]

Capitalism is where people as individuals have the right to own wealth and earn their own income. It is the economic system that allows open competition in a free market. Thus, capitalism gave birth to individual investors. Now, according to the current financial and market trends most of the people are investing in stock. However, stock is a risky investment and if you lose money in this, you may have to take out a debt consolidation loans in order to pay off your debts.

Current financial trend for investment

Stock has always been the best and most attractive investment option for the investors as it brings more money. With the industrial revolution, more shares were introduced in the market and with it the stock market became all the more popular. Still now it is the best way to make money for those without jobs and also for those who are working full time. It doesn’t take much time to do this business. However, stocks have always been a risky investment too and you can lose thousands and Lakhs of money to this. If you had borrowed money from creditor or any lender to invest in stocks you may be left shattered and in that case you may have to take out a debt consolidation loan to pay off your debt. But there are ways in which you can avoid this.

Ways to avoid incurring debt in stock trading

If you had invested in stock and have lost money, you can take out a debt consolidation loan to pay off the dues if you had borrowed in order to invest in stock market. However, you should know ways to avoid losing money to stock investment and fall in debt.

Gain knowledge on stocks – You should gain knowledge on stocks and stock market basics. Know the type of stocks in the market, the stock prices and what affects the price and also follow the stock market trend.
If possible invest in something safe – Though investing in stock is most profitable as it give you highest returns, you can invest in government bonds or may be the real estate to avoid falling in debt.
Don’t be overconfident – It is good to be confident but not overconfident. So, avoid getting overconfident. Stock market can change anytime and that too drastically.
Check with the company history – Before buying stocks of any particular company, check the history of the company and if the company has any kind of debts. Avoid buying stocks of those companies having debt. Don’t directly go only for the well known companies. It is really important to check with the history of all the companies.
Update your investment portfolio – It is also important to update your investment portfolio from time to time. Education does not have an end to it. So go on updating knowledge from time to time.

Though investing in stock is risky, you can use the profit from investments to pay off your debts if you had incurred those before investing in stock.

On Government

2010-10-29T23:25:00.000-07:00

Remember sitting in the cafeteria with the same group of kids in high school? Being conservative Mormons on the high school speech and debate team with liberal Baptists in Tennessee made for...lively...cafeteria discussions for my brother and me. One day JD said that two things a group of people should never discuss were religion and politics. We used her comment to launch right into a discussion on both.

Friends, I'm gonna go there and throw down some thoughts on government. Stick with me.

My wife and I had succeeded in accomplishing 15 whole minutes of homework one night before we turned to each other yet again to discuss socialism versus capitalism. Capitalism came first in history, so let's talk about it.

Capitalism requires social stratification. It simply does not survive without a lower class. The lower class is the gang of folks we get to do all the blue-collar work so that the white-collar guys can buy each other out in billion-dollar contracts. Sad, but true.

Then came along these two guys named Engels and Marx. They saw the slums of England during the Industrial Revolution and decided something had to be done. Their philosophies amounted to saying, "Why have a lower class? Why not have the gov't redistribute everything and make everyone upper class?" Because in the words of our favorite archnemesis, Syndrome, "Then everyone will be special, everyone will be upper class! Because when everyone is upper class (menacing chuckle), no one will be!" Well, it went something like that, anyway.

And he was right.

When was the last time you saw a Communist government that worked? Russia? Cuba? East Germany? How about China? It doesn't work out, folks. How about a step down from Communism--Socialism? Yeah, France and England aren't doing so hot, either. And the way our government is going right now, no one will be upper class--we're just becoming a nation full of lower class people dependent on a government that can't even run a car incentive program.

Capitalism has its faults, that's for sure, but Capitalism succeeds in putting more money in more people's pockets than government regulations ever did. I'm pretty sure that all those other governments have gone bankrupt, and the citizens rose up in civil war at one point or another. Yes, even China's economy isn't looking super hot (how could it? They gave all their money to us, and we managed all of it plus money that doesn't even exist!).

So I tip my hat to good ol' Capitalism. It has had its share of issues, but don't we all? Vive "laissez faire" (hey, Obama--that means LEAVE IT ALONE!) economy!

Are you still reading?

2010-10-09T20:51:00.000-07:00

Good heaven. Who here is sick of seeing Iron Man when you come to my blog? That's what I thought. There have been a few things happening in my life that family, friends, acquaintances, and even bums on the street (ok, fine, so there aren't that many who read this) have been begging, pleading, prodding, and pestering for me to post.

First event:

May 19 - I got a girlfriend!

Second event:

June 14 - I got engaged!

Third event:

August 16 - I got a new job!

Fourth event:

August 18 - I got married!

Oh dear readers, if only I had the time (or had taken the time) to tell you the entire story. Yes, you read that timeline correctly: officially dating May 14 and married August 18. I don't want to hear any of you invoke the name of BYU as a way to excuse the speed of our relationship--it's much longer than it appears. I happen to use this blog for professional purposes as well as a means of obloviating (prepare yourselves for some political rants), so forgive me for not expounding on my relationship here.

Dear readers, I do miss you. I had supposed that with all the writing I do as a publicity writer for BYU in the performing arts management office, my classes, and my freelance work, I couldn't possibly take the time to write here. Now I have realized, as I must realize from time to time, how relieving, even cathartic, writing here can be. I hope to enter a new period of unspecified duration of therap...i mean, writing.

Some other events in the life of Jared:

-I severely sprained my ankle (severe: it's the word the doctor used--that means it's legit) only four days before my wedding, and I'm still healing from it two months later

-A stellar honeymoon with my "breath-takingly perfect" bride (shout out to Elder Jeffrey R. Holland)

-A new semester...and boy do I lack motivation....

-We have a new nephew! Logan James Manuele was born a few weeks after our wedding, and his cuteness is nearly criminal

-We have our own apartment, and my roommate is amazing--she even cleans the bathroom

And with that, I bid you all a very fond "welcome back."

Iron Man 2...meh

2010-05-07T02:04:00.000-07:00

A relatively entertaining 2 hours and some-odd minutes was ultimately disappointing compared to the first installment. Things exploded, people got punched, and Iron Man--along with his trusty sidekick War Machine--saved the day. Too bad we've seen that every summer. All summer. For the last 10 years. Maybe 20.

After we got done saying "oooh" and "aaah" over James Cameron's Avatar, we began to realize that we're done with masking weak stories with more and more special effects. Instead of getting lost in all the explosions, we need a cohesive story line. You don't even have to make it realistic--just make it believable. A flying supersuit? Really? Yes. And we believed every second of it in the first Iron Man. The bad guy was real. We believed that Obadiah Stain really was that conniving. No loose ends were left dangling. We loved it, and not because it pleased our fast-dulling sensitivity to things that go "boom." We loved it because we believed it. Maybe I'm biased, but it comes down to good writing, and Iron Man was good writing.

Justin Hammer was distractingly obnoxious. He was apparently Tony Stark's industry rival, but I didn't believe for a second that he knew anything more about robotics than a five-year old with his first R/C racer. Ivan Vanko had potential, but his character was woefully undeveloped. Pepper Pots could have totally handled everything she had going on; I just didn't buy her "stressed out" mode. Where did the good writers go?

Let's give the actors some credit. Robert Downey, Jr. and Gwyneth Paltrow are great actors, but they didn't have much to work with. My hat's off to Don Cheadle for the arduous task he performed in taking Terrence Howard's place. Sam Rockwell, not your best performance. It may have honestly been your worst. Let's take the gloves off: I hated you. Not your character. Just you.

One final note: when a guy with a supersuit is fighting a guy without a supersuit (no matter how cool his whips may be), Mr. Non Supersuit can't win out in a muscle contest. Oh yeah, and getting smashed against a wall by a speeding car equals paralyzation. Paralyzed, guys. At least.

Iron Man 2, I give you a B. Oh why not, I loved the first one so much, I'll give you a B+ for good measure.

PS. Yes, I'm posting this at 3:00 AM. I just had to let you guys know.

Tuesday

2010-05-04T11:35:00.000-07:00

Tuesdays are pretty cool. Why?

5 Buck Pizza (which I avoid as a matter of principle) has a 1-topping medium pizza for $3. When there's no Domino's hot-and-ready around, that's a pretty great deal.

Rubio's has fish tacos for $1.25 after 2:30. It's a funny time to start their happy hour (who knew fish tacos were so popular as a breakfast item?), but they're good. Really good.

Is there mass starvation on Tuesdays? What is it about the third day of the week that inspires deals amongst the Masters of Mastication?

Whatever it is, I would just like to say on behalf of all college students with low budgets everywhere, "Thank you."

Relaxing Reminiscence -- I dare you to try this

2010-04-21T14:07:00.000-07:00

I'd like to take a moment and pay tribute to the comic book days of yore. (When was the last time you used "yore" in a sentence? It gives you a slight tingling right around your bronchial tubes...or maybe I just have heartburn.)

You know those comics and (premature laugh) those silly TV shows? I'm thinking of Batman and Robin. Robin always had the best lines and the worst costume. Well, they both looked ridiculous, but this is the only time I've enjoyed watching a man walk around in his underwear. (It's absolutely hilarious. Watch it. Ignore the French at the beginning, it's what he does that's important)

Back to Robin: I love his lines, so I've come up with a few on my own to honor his alliterate aptitude and adroitness. Robin, here's to you:

Gallivanting gargantuans, Batman!

Vehement Velociraptors, Batman!

Nefarious Nargles, Batman! (shout-out to Luna Lovegood)

Ballistic Blarney Bombs, Batman! (I imagine Robin got a little more excited than usual some days)

Antediluvian androids, Batman!

Longitudinal linguini, Batman!

and finally...

Ostentatious origami, Batman!

What are some of your best Robin expletives?

Personal Statement

2010-04-10T10:49:00.000-07:00

Here's a little something about me: I like to do things. It doesn't really matter what it is. I've already been, seen, and done quite a bit. I've been a paralegal, a landscaper, a muralist, a weed-eater, an office guy, a teacher, a missionary. I've done hard labor and I've pushed paper. I've been an evangelist and a recluse. But after all I've been, one thing I've always done is write.

Somehow I convinced a company to let me be one of their writers. That's right, now I get a paycheck for it. Sometimes I spend so long thinking and writing, tightening and examining, editing and rewriting that I can't take it anymore. I need a break. So I open my blog, my email, or a word document, and...I write.

But when I'm writing as a break from writing, I write what I want to write. No more search engine optimization, no more titles for company awards or new products, and no more sales proposals or product packs. I don't have to worry about making it the right voice, because I get to use my voice. I'm writing this post because I'm taking a break from a couple of papers that I just can't look at anymore.

This is a personal statement I wrote for my portfolio. It's fun. It's different. It's a button-up plaid shirt with the top two buttons undone. It does the job well without choking at the collar screaming for air.

Maybe I'm crazy, but at least I loved writing it.

-------

Well hi.

You’re about to find out quite a bit about what I love to do. Instead of spoiling the adventure in my own intro, I’ll just let you know some of that fun “extra” stuff about me.

If it involves a mountain, I love it. I’ve backpacked the length of several national parks. Rock climbing is like singing - I do it, but I'm not particularly good at it. Snowboarding is nearly a religion (even if I'm inactive in my worship).

If family were an organ, I’d place them in three categories:

1) My left lung – I keep it healthy with lots of laughing, and it protects my heart

2) My kidney – necessary, but sometimes painful

3) The right atrium in my heart – Going home is sometimes the only thing that gives me what it takes to keep going

I’m not married, so for the moment my financial dreams involve staying stable and irking my siblings by spoiling my nieces and nephews.

I served as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for two years. I regard those two years as the most rewarding and most formative of my life. I am an active member in my church.

I dream of visiting Europe and France.

But I can’t give everything away—that would take the fun out of getting to know me. Don’t worry, I’ve learned to develop friends pretty quickly.

Just one last thing: I love questions. Pose them.

Warm regards,

2010-04-08T16:04:00.000-07:00

Meet my nephews.

First off, we have Isaac Jeffrey.

This is Isaac the Stud at a whopping 7 months old!

One day, he'll know how cool he is.

Now meet Derek. Derek is 3 months old.

Derek and I were chillin' together on conference weekend.

That's one handsome kid.

I can totally see it: his parents are going to put this up right before he has parties, and he's going to fight to hide (or destroy) this picture. It will be epic, and his parents will crush his adolescent pride.

This is my sister and her husband:

Now I know what you're thinking: they definitely aren't a cute little boy.

But on or around 7 Sept 2010, they're going to have one.

I love my family.

Haiku

2010-04-06T12:09:00.000-07:00

It's Poetry Month. I love poetry. I wish I could take credit for this haiku, but alas, I saw it on some guy's shirt in the gym a few months ago.

Haikus are really cool

but don't always make sense.

Refigerator.

Isn't poetry amazing?

Harold and me.

2010-04-05T00:04:00.000-07:00

I have a problem: I have the ability to make a trip to the library an extremely social event.

I'm not just talking about seeing one or two people who I wave to as I walk into the Harold B. Lee Library's glass atrium. I mean a full-on, secret-handshake-followed-by-a-15-minute-conversation-slash-mini-mission-reunion with several people. I've been there over an hour by the time I find a place to sit down if I make it to the library at all. Here's the schedule:

1. Leave my apartment
2. Drop by to see Stephanie et al. on my way to campus
3. (30 minutes later, if at all) leave Stephanie & Co.'s apartment
4. Walk to campus, wave hi and exchange pleasantries with James Pao from the mission
5. Run into Hess, Leland, Dallas, or Kern coming out of the library as I go in; expect anywhere between 10 seconds and 10 minutes with each of them
6. Decide whether to head to the 2nd floor periodicals or 4th floor LRC
7. Run into a former classmate, stage a conversation while trying to give the appearance that I know exactly who they are and exactly how I know them. 15-minute conversation, minimum.
8. Study.
9. Fall asleep.
10. Wake up, change positions
11. Resume studying
12. Wake up (didn't realize I fell asleep again), and decide that coming to the library at 10:00pm was just as bad an idea tonight as it was last night (and the night before)
13. Exit the building at 11:55pm to the melodious sounds of really loud music playing over the PA to wake up and drive out all dormant, would-be studious individuals
14. Sing on the way home while watching for people's reactions around me
15. Wave to Stephanie and Laurel's apartment as I walk by
16. Walk in my apartment.

Study session status: success.

What Dreams May Come: A Latter-day Saint's View

2010-04-03T15:36:00.000-07:00

[I posted this a few days ago, but i removed the post in order to give it to you in a story. As I sat down to type this out in story form, I realized that I don't need to write a blog post so much as an addendum to CS Lewis's The Great Divorce. I decided to give you what I had previously posted--a gmail conversation in its raw form. Don't be surprised if you see a book someday :).]

So I was talking to one of my best friends and muses (Miss Amber Henry), and our conversation turned to Easter and death. I'm quite frankly fascinated with the idea of dying. I don't watch a bunch of war movies or creepy horror/slasher movies--that's not the kind of fascination I'm talking about.

The interest I show in death is rooted in the gospel of Jesus Christ. I don't know how many of you are Christian; google analytics tells me there are more people reading this than I had thought, so I realize that you may not share the beliefs that I do, but that doesn't matter. No matter who you are, where you come from, or where you think you're going, everyone really should learn about death the way the Latter-day Saints teach it.

So here's a clip of our conversation. To give you some background, Amber and I both sang in concerts this past Sunday. As we talk about it, I toyed with words (as usual) which brought about the following commentary:

[EDITOR'S NOTE: My gmail account is in French, so "moi" is where I'm speaking.]

moi: what was the theme of your concert?

Amber: Easter

moi: i can't believe that's next sunday

Amber: I know! Time is going by way too fast. I'm gonna be dead before I know it!

moi: i'm kind of excited for that, to be honest

15:42

Amber: Your Easter or your death?

moi: oh, my death, for sure

Amber: pray tell sir, why?

moi: i've never felt death before

it's going to be exciting!

think of all the things we'll see, know, and understand

all the people there waiting for us

death is going to be the biggest party!...if you did things right on this side

and there is the sobering fact:

all the people who won't be there

the people we love who we won't get to see

it hurts just to think about it sometimes

for you and i, amber, death will be a sweet repose from a lifetime of hard work and heart ache

but it won't be without a work and ache of its own

but the joy of doing the work of the Lord will be unimpeded

and maybe even knowing the end of those who aren't with us will give us some small bit of joy because it reminds us that our Father gave us our agency

and we each used it

so even though they can't be with us, they had and still have a gift from our Father that won't ever really be taken away

the consequences won't go

but Heavenly Father loves us that much

Amber, death will be an awfully big adventure.

15:53

Amber: Well, NOW I can't wait for it!

;)

moi: :)

And that's the way I see it. Part of it, anyway.

Do you get excited thinking about it sometimes, just sometimes, or is it just me?

Something...New

2010-04-02T15:00:00.000-07:00

So there were some hirings lately at work. My boss called me into his office, and my anxiety level went from .063 up to about 9.86 (approximately).

"You've got to read this cover letter," he says chuckling.

Cover letter? You called me in to read a cover letter? I thought.

It was brilliant, actually, so I found a job listing and wrote up a cover letter of my own. Yes, I did send it, so maybe I'll let you know if it yields an interview! It's worth a shot, right? If nothing comes of it, I guess it's a really good thing I'm happy where I am now.

Enjoy.

___________________________

Kaitlyn,

I heard about the position for KBYU and BYUTV today, and it made me think of an experience I had last night deep in the heart of the Glenwood.

If you don't already know, the Glenwood has one of the darkest reps in Provo, second only perhaps to Roman Gardens. I knew I was on dangerous ground just walking to my apartment. After I braved the halls and pungent odors wafting in clouds of smoke from male apartments, I opened my door to a startling scene: two roommates and one girl were laying prone on the couches and on the floor. Their eyes stared wide, unblinking, and their bodies lacked the rise and fall of normal breathing. I looked at the stove; charred, over-cooked rice sat in a pot, and a frying pan filled with blackened grease lay smoking on the stove top. KC had been cooking again. Thinking they were asphyxiating from the fumes, my rescue instincts kicked in.

I ran to check their pulses, and they began crying out in unison, "No, stop!"

Perplexed, I stood there as stunned as I thought they had been.

"Jared, move!"

I turned on the spot, looking for what danger stalked me. Then I saw it.

"Jared, we can't see, quit standing there."

Blood rushed to my face, and I muttered, "Stupid TV. There's nothing on that thing worth watching, anyway."

So out of a desire to promote the finer things of life and education, I thought I'd shoot you an email and participate in KBYU and BYUTV. I think you'll like what you see in my resume; as a copywriter and editor for a marketing firm and English major, you'll find that my qualifications and experience are all there. This cover letter probably isn't quite what you're used to seeing, but maybe it will give you a little more incentive to read my resume and give me a call. That is, after all, the purpose of the cover letter, unless I am much mistaken.

Happy interviewing!

Warm regards,

Jared Heath

Objection on the Grounds of Analogy

2010-04-01T16:06:00.000-07:00

People say opinions are like butts (because everyone has one). I must respectfully disagree.

First of all, someone dear to me only has half of a butt. True story. He was in a car accident and was ejected from the vehicle as it barrel-rolled. He landed on his right buttocks and (not lying here) "deflated," or killed, the tissue.No one has only half an opinion.

I submit myself as a case study. My opinion status and my butt status are not alike. I personally have many opinions, but I only have one butt. I stand by and protect my opinions, but my butt has always got my back. My opinions are often well-formed, strong ("muscled," even), and are sometimes in your face. My butt, well....

Of course, I could be wrong. I haven't turned my torso 180 degrees in the past couple of decades to find out what's back there.

So all you skinny white guys out there with preponderous opinions and unsatisfactory gluteus maximi, I salute you.

The Incomparable Johnny Rodriguez

2010-03-31T12:05:00.000-07:00

I served in Montreal with this guy. He has unbelievable talent, this is only a fun thing he took a few minutes to do. Watch it. Rate it. Love it. I get the feeling we're going to be seeing a lot more of Johnny in the years to come.

Guitars Unplugged

2010-03-29T09:00:00.000-07:00

Impressive. Honestly.

Guitars Unplugged, as a BYU event, was never meant to be a professional concert. There were a few guys coming out of their Music 117: Beginner Guitar classes, but we also had some astonishingly high quality performers at auditions. Despite even the heavy hitters, I must say that my expectations for this year’s concert weren’t quite as high as what I hope to see at the Lifehouse/Daughtry concert in April.

I’m not always pleased to be proven wrong. Tonight was an exception.

17 bands. 17 songs. I would give this concert a solid 15/17. Guitars Unplugged totally showed up BYUSA’s other band event, Battle of the Bands.

Tonight’s only disappointment is that BYUSA will not produce a CD of the concert. Instead you can download the mp3 at byusa.byu.edu/gu. Check it out. Love it. A few of my favorites are MayDay, Mike Christiansen, Emerald City, and Goodnight, Annabelle.

Well done, BYUSA.

PS. Major shout-out to Ryan Greenburg who was handed the project, doesn’t even belong to BYUSA, and pulled off a phenomenal night.

As You May or May Not Like It

2010-03-28T00:21:00.000-07:00

As You Like It is the Shakespearean comedy about a duke and his court banished to the forest by his usurping brother. The main action focuses on the trial of love that Rosalind, portraying herself as a young man, forces on Orlando to prove his love for her. The play finishes as all Shakespearean comedies: with a marriage where all the games come to an end and the truth of everything finally comes out.

Shakespeare always seemed to appreciate something a little out of the ordinary. Something new. Something that breaks the mold simply by asking, "Who made the mold?" That is, after all, the spirit of Shakespeare, isn't it? Breaking the mold is a risk many of us must eventually take, and the success that comes from it is sweet—when it succeeds.

There are times, however, when we experience such an utter failure that we are forced to ask, "Where's the superglue? I need to put this mold back together, stat." The BYU Department of Theatre and Media Arts broke the mold in William Shakespeare's "As You Like It." Would somebody like to pass the superglue?

Director Kymberly Mellen chose to not only focus on the prolific music in Shakespeare text but to present the play as one step short of a musical. The additional music sometimes worked with the scene but became a distraction more often than not. Mellen writes on page 20 of the program, "As You Like It has the most songs of any of Shakespeare's plays. Some scholars have said that these songs do little to drive the action. Do the contemporary songs in this version help move the action?" My date and I agreed upon an emphatic "no."

Rather than allowing everything to come out in the end, Mellen also decided to reveal the characters to each other well before the marriage (which is, as a general rule, the point of discovery for this and several Shakespeare plays). It was a brave move that unfortunately requires a little more of that “superglue."

Despite disappointing changes in the plot, there were many highlights to the show. Kris Paries brilliantly plays Amiens the Bard. The quality of his few short lines leaves the audience hoping for his next scene. Gabriel Spencer’s Silvius is both over-the-top and likeable. Spencer pushes his character to the edge of his capacity without pushing him over, and he knows how to draw in his audience.

One of the biggest highlights of the matinee was Mellen's use of a few children between the ages of 9 months and 4 years in the cast. The children play their role with an exquisite innocence and cuteness that is overwhelming and yet acceptable. Only these budding thespians could have pulled off their roles with such believability! To you, my young friends, I give a standing ovation and declare, "Bravo!"

On Health Reform: My Letter to America

2010-03-23T12:59:00.000-07:00

I was reading this Newsweek article about the health bill. It definitely clarified parts of the bill that I didn't understand. The readers' commentary at the bottom inspired this response. You should read it and find out what people are saying about the latest push for this seemingly epic political fail.

The bill sounds great on paper. It always has. But I stop and stare at the last paragraph in the article:

"Until now, our health care system has had few internal cost controls and the comforting knowledge that Congress doesn't have the gumption to pass any. No longer. If the bill passes, it's change the health-care industry will have no choice but to believe in."

It's fun to say, "Demonize the insurance companies! They make too much money!" But that's easy when you aren't the one making the money. When you guys finally put down your pitchforks and torches, I'd like you to consider the following:

There's something magical about a laissez faire economy that the health bill wants to remove: it's the "laissez faire" part. That means "let it do" or "let it alone." Do you remember the last time we had an entirely government-controlled economy in America? I seem to remember news of a tea party in Boston, and then we sent that government to their side of the pond. Look at England now. They have no money. None. Hey, that sounds kind of familiar, doesn't it? A lot like the United States.

I know you're awfully busy with your George W. Bush hate-mongering, but if you can spare a moment or two, look at what Obama is proposing here: he wants to control the market. Why? Money. There are sick people. I understand that. Costs should be lower. I would love that. It's the government's responsibility to lower them! Since when? If companies are charging it, it's because people are paying it.

You see, once you take control of one market, it doesn't stop there. The government already has its hand in too many economic pools and is frankly messing everything up. What's going to happen when the government takes complete control of the oil industry, then complete control of the auto industry, then what? Where does it end? The government already tried Cash for Clunkers, and we all remember what a bang-up job they did with that. How about public education? Yikes. Maybe I need to pay better attention in church, but I don't think I have enough faith in the powers that be to control my health after what I went through with my education.

So, would you like to send Obama his crown, or shall I?

What we need, my dear friends, is change to come from within. That is change we can believe in.

I don't consider myself Republican. I'm not a Democrat. I'm an American. This letter is not to one party or another. I'm sick of splitting our loyalties and our country between two self-absorbed groups. This letter is to you, Dear Reader, be you conservative, liberal, moderate, or apathetic. This is my letter to America.

A gift from co-workers

2010-03-16T23:05:00.001-07:00

Love.

"It's not slime, it's mucus!"

2010-03-13T00:37:00.000-08:00

The Princess and the Frog has changed my life. It all started late one Friday night, much like tonight. Ok, so maybe it really was tonight.

There must have been 25 people at my brother's birthday party: ten couples, four babies, and me. For some mysterious reason, I wasn't really feeling the whole "after party" watching a movie at his place afterwards, so I headed back to the good ol' (can't wait to leave this dump) Glenwood.

"Just one kiss?" / Unless you beg for more...!"

A man in need of entertainment has only as far to look as #162. Ya see, you never really know what you're going to find when the door opens. There's usually a party of some sort going on, and this time Bethany and Kelsie were standing there with an absurd amount of make-up on wearing clothes I didn't even know you could buy anymore. My first impression was, "Do you buy that color eye-shadow on purpose or jut for special occasions like these?" And somehow, they still looked as gorgeous as ever. I'm pretty sure that if I ever put that much make-up on, I'd look terrible. It's OK, I'm man enough to accept this defeat.

Sereen, Sam, Elise, and Kelli, on the other hand, were studiously working at their laptops. Ok, not really, three out of the four were probably just facebooking, but they sure looked smart about whatever comment they were typing on it-doesn't-even-matter-whose wall.

"So are we still getting a group together to see Blind Side?" I asked Sereen.

Sereen and I are in somewhat-similar situations. We've both got some...thing...on the mind, and we're desperate for distraction. As much as we love each other, we understand that we also serve as each other's escape. Mission: Singles' Awareness Movie Night was planned but had a hard time getting off the ground.

"I don't know. Sam, are you coming?"

Sam looked up from her faceboo...I mean, homework. "Yeah, I'm still planning on it. What time is the movie?"

"Oh," Sereen said as she typed on her computer. I came around to see the movie time schedule.

Don't you love the word "Oh?" You can express so much in two short letters. Not even a few four-letter words that I know can get quite as much impact as "Oh." We had an "Oh" on our hands, and we hadn't even gotten out the door.

"Well, Blind Side is sold out. How do you feel about Leap Year, Jared?"

I tried to hide my expression as bile rose in my throat, but it was all too apparent. Trying to redeem my sudden loss of face, I swallowed and said, "How about Princess and the Frog?"

"Sam?"

"Never seen it. I'd like to."

"It's at 10:10; that's in 45 minutes."

A Disney movie or the gym. I just got my Gold's Gym pass, and I was anxious to use it. Somehow (I still don't know how), the movie won.

"So are we getting into the Jared-mobile?" I asked.

"Well, I can drive," Sereen offered, "But if it makes you feel more like a man, I don't mind using your gas!"

I like it when women are honest. I just don't like it all the time, I guess. We all jumped in.

Have you ever tried picking out what bags of candy to sneak into a movie theatre with two women? More things happened in that candy isle than I had ever dreamed, including:

A feud over the merits of Jelly Bellies
Complete rejection of my dark chocolate addiction
A mild offer to be a comfort make-out partner
Nostalgic discussion of sneaking candy into the theatre as kids
A mild acceptance of previously-stated offer
A hard-core rejection of said mild acceptance of previously-stated offer
Laughing. Lots of it. (Breathe, Sereen!)
Another rejection of my black licorice fetish

By this point I think I had taken about as much as a man could be expected to endure. We ended up with peanut M&Ms and Sour Patch somethings, and the movie was to start in 5 minutes. Next time you go down that sucrose-laden isle with any of the testosterone-challenged sex, my brethren, just understand one thing: you may not come out the same man as you were when you went in, if you come out at all.

The movie: incredible. Sam had one candy bag and I had the other at one point; so as not to distract her, I had to make a switch worthy of Indiana Jones and the Lost Ark. Don't deny, Sam. Don't deny.

Consensus: best night of my life.

A Day in the Life

2010-03-11T23:16:00.000-08:00

I don't know why I didn't post this one earlier. Here's something I wrote back in January, and it's still pretty true. Enjoy!

Let me tell you how I spend my day.

Classes in the morning. American lit, American Usage, Visual Rhetoric, Marriage and Family (no plans here, folks), and Shakespeare. I get out of class and head straight to my internship.

I get to go to the office and write. I don't just write papers and reports and throw pretentious words on a page. I take ordinary, technical things and make people want to read about it.

And I call it "work."

Sometimes the words won't come and I can't touch the keyboard anymore. That's ok. I just eat some dark chocolate, watch YouTube, and joke around with people in the cubicles around me for fifteen minutes, then it's back to play. I mean work.

I get off "work" and I go straight to another "job." I teach a class of 30 adults how to speak English for two hours a night three nights a week. They are incredible people.

I come home and do my homework two days in advance. I have to keep ahead of schedule, otherwise there's no way I can take a break when I need one. Trust me, I need one here and there, though i probably take them a little too often.

I work about 35+ hours per week and I have 14 credit hours. I never thought I'd be able to get it all done, but when you love what you do with your days, you don't have a reason not to do it all. I even have time to go to the gym 3-4 times per week and I exercise in my apartment when I'm not in the gym. Every once in a while I'll go hang out with some friends, but I'm not too worried about a social life. I've devoted so much time to social pursuits in 2009 that I'm making more time in 2010 for the things I've been neglecting. Yes, I talk to my mom more than the obligatory Sunday afternoon call now. Whoda thought?

I guess if life seems like it's too much, you're probably right. It's too much of the wrong stuff and not enough of the right stuff. Am I happy? There's room for improvement, but I've got a good direction.

That's all I can ask for.

Never Thought of It That Way

2010-03-09T10:55:00.000-08:00

Funny. Choosing your own path

Still seems to bring you places

You never thought you would go.

In looking for what you want

You may just find in looking

You want what you didn't know.

Has it ever occurred to you

In your mind or in your life

That you find it? Your something?

And in finding what you want

Did you ever find that it

turns out, it doesn't want you?

Blue Men, Part II

2010-03-07T09:28:00.000-08:00

My kitchen was a mess. But I was blue.

Blue and white paint were all over the table and the floor. We were pretty sure this stuff would wipe off; it was non-toxic posterboard paint for kids. Have you ever covered yourself in posterboard paint before? There's a reason why it's meant for posterboards, not bare chests. Only five people showed up, and only 3 of us were willing to go shirtless. I ended up with a 4 on my chest instead. Our skin started tightening as soon as it started drying, but we were determined.

"Taking a car would probably be a bad idea, right?"

I'm not really sure who said it, but they must have the soul of wisdom.

5 guys started walking from the Glenwood at University Ave and University Parkway down to the soccer field and tennis courts, 3 of whom were shirtless. I would have been flattered by all the stares we got, but the possibility of causing an accident was greater than I had expected. You see, for this backwoods Tennessee hick, seeing a bunch of guys without their shirts on is perfectly normal. Provo aint Tennessee, apparently. You'd think that turning your head all the way around to stare at blue people wouldn't be such a grand idea when you're driving. University Ave travelers must have had different ideas.

Car horns were blaring, people would shout at us, and we loved it. Even if they were mad at us, what are they going to say in Provo?

Standing in a long ticket line got us lots of looks. It's a good thing we're all in our 20s and (more or less) in shape, otherwise the looks may not have been so appreciative. Then Fresh said, "Man, they'd better let us in."

The Honor Code. Dangit.

Thankfully the people manning the booths were students who just grinned and told us to have a great time. We intended to.

Have you ever tried to get the attention of a guy so completely focused? I guess that's how he got to be where he was on the team. I almost thought he wouldn't notice us at all, even though there's no way he couldn't hear us yelling. Then finally he glanced over, quickly, and just shook his head, telling his teammates to stay in the game.

We had no idea what was going on. We eventually figured out how to move the ball down the field; we couldn't tell you to save our lives what the scrum was all about or why they kept kicking the ball out of bounds (and consequently into the stands); we still have no clue why Utah suddenly scored 5 points at one point in the game. But whatever was going on, we found a reason to yell about it.

Then Laurel called.

"Hey, how are you?" She asked.

"Good. Cold. At a game. and I may or may not be wearing all my clothes."

Silence.

"Excuse me?"

"You see, I'm blue right now."

"Of course you are. So you're not going to stake conference? And where are your clothes?"

That was the debate. I looked at my phone which read 1:35. Conference was at 2.

"I'll be there, I'll just be a little late."

"Look, I'm not calling to guilt you into it, I'm just asking--"

"Don't worry about it, I'm not going for you. I'll see you there." That may have come off a little colder than I meant, but when your nipples are in the condition mine were in at the time, cold is about all you can muster.

Half-time at 1:45. "Hey, guys, I've gotta split."

"What? You can't ditch us like that!"

"I've got stake conference, man."

"Where are your priorities?" Pause. "Ok, you're right."

I love BYU.

Stake conference: incredible. Harassed by the first counselor in the bishopric as he was a witness to my shirtless escapades ("But you gotta admit, Brother Phillips, I make going shirtless look goooood." "Yes, Jared. Yes, you do.") Dinner: I can't even remember anymore, but it wasn't with anyone. Rest of my night: homework while sitting, waiting, wishing.

It was a good day.

New Posts and Blue Men

2010-03-06T21:37:00.001-08:00

I hate going so long without posting. It's like going so long without sneezing. I rarely ever look forward to sneezing in the moment; more often than not, I try to stop it. But after a while, I think, "Dang, wouldn't it be nice to just have a great big, loud, excruciating sneeze right now?" Then one day, I do. I screw up my face the whole time, hold it back, ah!, maybe, then, kaBLAM! Ah. That was ridiculously satisfying.

So here I am, screwing up my face, thinking of all the content I'd love to shoot out my...fingers. The problem with taking so long to post is that you either have to develop a massive entry with everything in your life for the past two months, or you have to pretend like it didn't exist.

In the spirit of forward thinking, let's not dwell too long on the past. Today was a great day. Today, I painted myself blue.

In the middle of a text to Laurel, my phone started buzzing in my hand. "Rackham, Tyler" posted himself on my caller ID and piqued my curiosity.

"Heath, what's goin' on, man?"

You've gotta love mission appellations. They just never die.

"Rackham, hey dude, I'm just getting my morning figured out, what are you up to?"

"Allred has a game today, and we're going. You can be the R."

"The R in what?"

"Well, you, me, and [enter several names that you wouldn't care about even if I listed them] are painting ourselves blue and writing Allred's name on our chests. It's gonna be tight!"

Did I sign up for this on purpose, or is this just Rackham letting me know that I am now volunteering? It's Rackham, so probably the latter. I asked, "When is all this supposed to go down?"

"Well, the game's at 1:00, so we gotta be there by noon. Can we meet at your place at 11:30?"

I had a paper and new content for a brochure to write plus two other classes to do homework for. I had stake conference today at 2:00 and maybe dinner with Laurel afterward. The game was at 1:00.

"Yeah, for sure, man. Be here at 11:30. Bring the paint."

Mac vs. PC: The Epic Battle Rages On

2010-01-07T10:31:00.000-08:00

No one who owns a Mac ever said a bad word about it. I couldn't be sure if it's stubborn ignorance or enlightened liberty until I owned one myself. When H.H. stood up at ward prayer to say that she was selling her Mac for only $300, I decided that there could be no better opportunity to solve this mystery once and for all. Stomaching the fact that I would have to leave off paying a sizable amount on my credit card, I made the investment.

H.H. had to take her computer back to Spokane to put her files where they would be safe for the next 18 months and sent it back to me through her sister who made the drive from Washington to Provo. I payed for the computer around the 19th of December and waited patiently, ever so patiently, for J.H. to return. After several trip delays and unending miles of snow-crowded roads, J.H. came into Provo at 11:00 at night on Sunday the 3rd. I couldn't wait. I drove over to her apartment as soon as I got the text saying she was back and recuperated my debt-incurring investment. Opening the lid and turning on the power, I began my new status as a Mac-user.

Now as with so many deals, you are either getting a steal, or you waste $300. My first roadblock was when I realized that all 6.5 gigs of music on my mp3 player were WMA formatted, and Mac spares no vehemence for all things Microsoft. This was beyond my capacity to figure out. It was time to call in the experts. I walked to my old apartment and found David.

How many times do you go to have something simple done, like get your spark plugs changed or add a pantry to your kitchen, only to find that your transmission is nearly shot or your plumbing is one shower short of bursting? How many of you have had your friend try to load your music only to end up having to wipe your entire hard drive? I'm considering starting a support group. David took my computer to his work where he gets paid to do what I was bumming off of him for a mere half gallon of ice cream (I threw in some hardshell topping as a peace offering) and loaded the latest operating system and tricks that go along with it. Now how many of you have ever had a mechanic see your ruined transmission and give you a brand new engine? Thanks, Dave.

After three nights and two trips to David's work, I finally got my computer back. It ran so well. The hard drive wasn't full of ghost files from H.H. I even loaded a trial version of Microsoft Word. But my music was only half present, and we had tried loaded it no fewer than 3 times since the Great Wipe of the Hard Drive. Hooking my Samsung P2 up to the usb drive, I started.

As my computer performed the laborious, hours-long project of getting all my music, I went hunting to find out more about my computer. I noticed some files labelled "311," "Rascal Flatts," "Lifehouse," and more in a very unexpected place. I thought the music had been transferring to my Music folder, but each artist had a folder of its own on my homepage! I immediately began transferring the files to iTunes, but there were thousands of songs. I only have around 900, so why were there over 2700? Reader, 900 times 3 equals 2700, and I was loading my music now for the 4th time.

So, Mac or PC? I'll admit, Mac took a hit with my library fiasco, but at least I belong to the cool group in the library right now. Is social status worth $300? Probably not.

But I already paid.

Bon Anniversaire

2009-12-31T10:25:00.000-08:00

One year ago today, I got on a plane and left a life that seemed a life-time long and passed as if it were only a dream. Two of the best and worst years of my life were over, and now it was time to start anew. I thought it poetic and appropriate to end the mission with the year; when the ball dropped on 2008 to introduce 2009, I had no idea what lay in store for me.

My family was there to greet me as I descended the escalator. I don't often cry, but at that moment, there was no holding back.

They thought I was happy to see them.

"Jared, it's so good to see you!" They all declared.

My name is Jared. My name is Jared. I'm not Elder anymore. I'm Jared. Jared. Jared. It just didn't sound right. The tears kept coming.

"Oh my word, Jeff, look at how skinny he is--" Mom said to Dad. When I left two years ago, I was 6'2" and weighed roughly 175 pounds. Two years later I hadn't grown an inch but now weighed 140 pounds.

"I'm so glad to meet you!" Two girls, one a brunette and the other severely blonde, said to me from Mitchell and Austin's sides. I guess these are my sisters-in-law. Sorry about the runny nose, girls, I thought as I gave them the French "bises."

"He has changed so much," Lanae said to the guy with his arm around her. So this is the reason my little sister stopped writing me, I thought. I wasn't sure whether to hug him or interrogate him. Barely capable of seeing through my blurring eyes, I separated him from my sister to welcome him, or let him welcome me, or whatever a hug was supposed to mean.

"Hi, Jared." Colton stated with what I thought was a severe head-cold. I found out later he had simply been infected with puberty in my absence.

It was over. What I would have given to get on the plane and go back! But there is no going back. Time doesn't reverse and it doesn't stand still. The culminating point of my youth had now passed, and though I felt some small measure of failure in it, I knew I had thrown everything I am into those two years. I finally began to restrain the tears as I turned from one life to another unknown future.

I love an adventure, and 2009 held more adventures than I could have bargained for. I haven't loved the outcome of all the "peripeties" these past 365 days have shown me, but the process has been incredible. I've had to grow in more ways than I have been entirely comfortable with. In 2009, I've known joy and sadness, love and loss, companionship and loneliness, great success and disappointing failure. More concisely said, in 2009 I've known life. I can't say that I would go back and change any of it; there is no point in wanting to go backwards when forward is the only direction time will allow us. I can say that I would go forward and do things differently, and that, Reader, is the whole point of life's adventure--to keep going forward.

I don't wonder what 2010 has in store for me, but I do wonder if 2010 will be able to handle what I'm going do with it.

There's only one way to find out.

Dear Santa Claus

2009-12-25T10:00:00.000-08:00

Dear Santa,

Thanks for wanting to drop by this year, but I just thought I'd write and let you know that there is no need. I think you'd be a little surprised, anyway--I don't have a Christmas tree in my apartment, and there is certainly no chimney for you. Sorry about the tree, I'm not trying to be a Scrooge, but I had finals and, well, you know the drill.

You don't need to come to my apartment this Christmas because my Father gave me everything and more that I could ask for this year. He gave me an apartment to live in and not only one but TWO jobs to work so that I can stay here. He gave me food to eat every single day, too, and a car and a computer so that I can get around and do the work that I need for school. He also gave me family that always stands behind me and friends that always stand beside me. My Father gave me direction from the prophet and the apostles several times this year, and He also gave me guidance from the Holy Spirit (even when I didn't want it). It's true, some of His gifts this year were repeat gifts, but I don't mind.

Today I remember that He also gave me a Savior. I try to remember every day, not just the days where I mess up a lot. Even if I'm not as grateful as I should be, my Father and my Brother never seem to mind if I try to do better the next day.

So you see, Santa, I'm sure that there are lots of families out there who need your help, and you don't need to spend your time on me. Life isn't perfect, but I sure got a lot for Christmas this year.

Don't worry, I still believe in you.

Warm regards,

Jared

Not As Bad As I Thought

2009-12-23T08:41:00.000-08:00

I have friends that absolutely love shopping. Somehow roaming from store to store, looking at endless articles of clothing/fabric/does-it-really-matter-what?, and trying to find the best deal gives them a bigger thrill than even dark chocolate.

I'm not like my friends. This is not a story about shopping. This is a story about success, overcoming the odds, and above all, perseverance.

Everyone enjoys getting new stuff, I just hate looking for it. I will invariably buy something at a great price and only find later on that if I had waited 24 hours, I could have had a ridiculously amazing deal. That happened to me this weekend, but this time, I beat the system.

Dec 16th: M.A. was taking me out for my birthday the next day. She always looks incredible when we go out, and I wanted to not feel sub-par when standing next to her. Weird as it may sound, I have a thing for blazers, so I thought I'd try the GAP to see what they may have on sale (when you're a college student, it's all about the sales; in fact, I'm beginning to think that it will still be all about the sales for years to come). I found a great moleskin blazer on sale for $75 after tax. I didn't really have the money, but hey, it's my birthday and I don't remember the last time I actually bought something for myself. I bought it and impressed the girl (I hope).

Dec. 21st: I really need new jeans. Really. I saw some good-looking jeans at GAP the week before, so I gave it a shot on my lunch break. 1:37 hit and I was 7 minutes past time to take my lunch break, so I headed straight to my car, ham sandwich in hand, and drove to the mall. As I walked toward the store, the advertisements screamed, "40% OFF STOREWIDE!Only select sales items." As I pondered how "storewide" and "select" actually fit in the same advertisement, I walked in to see my fantastic blazer included in the 40% off. I decided right then and there not to get mad. I was going to get even.

The jeans were $60. I've never spent that much on jeans. Thankfully, in the end I will have only spent $8.50. Here's how: GAP was offering $20 in-store credit for each pair of jeans that you bought. Rather than running home to get my jacket price-checked, I bought the jeans and headed back to the apartment. After grabbing the jacket and checking to see if the cologne that I wore was still evident (it wasn't...too much), I headed straight back to the mall. Returning my jacket, I bought the exact same jacket for $43.50 instead of $75, and then I used that amazing in-store credit to only pay $23.50. In the end I walked out of GAP with a great blazer and probably the best pair of jeans I've ever owned, all for $83.50. A $75 jacket the week before could now accompany a pair of jeans that I only added an additional $8.50 to the original cost.

In the end, I saved about $60. I still hate the headache of shopping. Do I feel victorious for having beaten the sale? Mildly.

I'm just glad the jeans fit.

A semester in the rearview

2009-12-14T19:13:00.000-08:00

Yes, I have gone almost the whole semester without posting, and I'm wondering how much it may have affected my sanity. Allow me to explain: I began this blog over the summer, not really thinking anyone would read it, in the hopes that I could keep up my writing when I didn't have pressing deadlines and dry books from which to squeeze Marxist and Feminist thoughts. I think that blogging became something of a medicine for me as I went through the arduous task of summer sales (what was I thinking?). If blogging was my medicine, I think it's time to get back on the pills. Let's look back at a semester's worth of missed posts.

What you missed this semester:

-"The World and Philosophy According to Jared" posts

-"Let me tell you about the latest proof of my profound idiocy" posts

-"Can I just take a second and whine to the world?" posts

-"Wow, Jared, this happens everyday, but somehow you found a way to write about it" posts

and finally...

-"Is anyone reading this?" posts

In retrospect, maybe you really didn't miss very much. That's ok. I'll try to give you a whole lot more that you wouldn't miss anyway in the coming semester.

I make no promises.

When All of A Sudden

2009-09-27T14:01:00.000-07:00

Oh, my dear readers. I am sorry for having abandoned you. Let me tell you about something fantastic and incredible that happened this past week. It's fantastic because it seems to only happen in fantasies, and it's incredible because, well, I have a hard time believing it myself.

No, I am not about to tell you about a girlfriend. This is about a job.

On Wednesday morning, I decided to check my email. I don't know why I chose this morning in particular, because I usually don't check my email until I get to work. This morning was different enough in some way, I suppose, that I was willing to open my laptop.

About a month ago, I was on Facebook late one night while I was looking for work. I was surprised by an instant message from K.T., a girl I had met through another friend. She told me that she works as an ESL teacher in the evening, and thinking that they could use more teachers, she gave me her directors information. I emailed my resume and letter of intent and followed up with a phone call.

"If we need you, we'll call."

That was a month ago.

Opening my email that morning, I saw a message from K.T. which read, "Classes start on Tuesday and we're three teachers short. Call Teresa and you'll have a job!"

I had a break between 10:15 and 11:00. As soon as I got out of class, I dialed her number. I gave her my name and said, "I sent you resume a few weeks ago and I --."

Before I could finish the sentence, she said, "Oh, yes. We need you. Can you come in for an interview before Monday?" I was to prepare a lesson for an intermediate English learner. My interview was set for 6:00 at Dixon Middle School on 200 N 800 W.

There is a big difference between 200 N 800 W in Orem and 200 N and 800 W in Provo. I arrived in Orem five to ten minutes early for my appointment, only to find that 200 N didn't quite meet up with 800 W and there certainly wasn't a middle school to be seen. I called K. T. to let her know that Dixon Middle School didn't exist at that address in Orem. Grateful for the information, she kindly informed me that I was a whole city away.

I arrived at Dixon at 6:10, thoroughly grateful that either no cops saw me, or no cops could catch me. I spent another five to ten minutes trying to get into the building and finally find Teresa, who was swamped with registering students.

The students were almost entirely adults. Those who could would greet me with, "Alo. 'Ow are yoo?", but for the most part, I practiced what little I knew of, "Hola, como estas? Muy bien, gracias, eusted?" Yes, I had a horrible French accent when I tried. They are all immigrants from the community; I would be amazed to find someone who wasn't Latino/Latina on any of the roles.

Tearing herself away, Teresa led me to an office where I sat for the interview. There was no whiteboard, so giving the lesson was going to be a challenge.

"Tell me about yourself, Jared," she said as she began to extract papers from a file folder she brought with her.

"Well, I grew up in Tennessee, my parents now live in Texas. I served a mission in Montreal where I learned French and Chinese and I taught English to the French, French to the Chinese, Chinese to the French, and English to the Chinese. I even picked up a little Spanish. I love to teach, so I gave you a call."

"Ok, that pretty much takes care of your experience and qualifications. You'll teach 6 hours per week, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday night, we need you to attend a one-hour staff meeting on Mondays, is that ok?, so it's 7 hours per week at $12.50 per hour, is that ok with you? ok, sign here."

Throwing my lesson plan out a proverbial window, I signed and became an employee of the Provo School District. Tomorrow's training meeting will be my first day as a Level 3 English Teacher in Provo.

Time to go to work on my Spanish, I guess!

Time Marches On

2009-08-20T22:09:00.000-07:00

In the last 2 weeks...

My little sister got married.

And I became an uncle.

Dad and Son

One very proud uncle

Austin, Liz, and son with Jared (Austin's brother) and Jessica (Liz's sister).

Life can be kinda crazy, don't you think?

The Pest Control Journals, Entry 010809 - Apocalypse

2009-08-01T23:28:00.000-07:00

Do you hear that? That is the sound of a fat lady singing.

My friends, it is finished.

My last day as a door-to-door salesman could not have been more unpredictable. It started at 8:23AM when I woke up (53 minutes after my alarm had gone off) and realized that Dad and I were to change the spark plugs on my Jimmy. I could pay $30 for spark plugs and do it myself or shell out $650 to the guys at the shop. I have changed many a spark plug in my time, but I knew that this time was going to be different. I think the engineer of the 2000 GMC Jimmy was sadistic; after an hour and a half of a lot of frustration, I understood why $30 became $650 for the other guys. I don't know if you could pay me $650 to work on this engine block again. We leave in three days from the time my dad and I were changing the spark plugs, so there wasn't time to mess something up.

That's about the time that Dad noticed something broken and hanging off the block. Don't you love that word? "Something." "Something" broke. "Something" doesn't work. "Something" can turn into a whole lot of dinero for a college guy. Maybe it won't be so bad, I thought.I voiced the hope aloud to Dad and wondered what terrible jinx I may have just put on both of us.

The vehicle started just fine in the garage, but the dreaded "SERVICE ENGINE SOON" light came on. No time for that. As I was on my way to work after a distended tune-up session, my vehicle began to jerk. Much as I wished to blame it on the roads still en chantier, I knew better but chose ignorance.

"Please don't let that be those darned spark plugs," I thought. There's no way Dad messed his up, so the gaff would be all on me, and our Estimated Time of Departure never seemed nearer.

After a few minutes of knocking doors in one area, it was time to move on to a more promising neighborhood. Getting into the truck, I turned the key only to hear a very sincere starter going to work and getting nothing out of its efforts. I gave the engine a little gas and it fired up after giving me a puff of smoke out of the tail pipe. For those of you who aren't auto-savvy, that's a bad thing. FYI.

Forget the neighborhood; I drove to NAPA. My temperature gage was going haywire and I prayed that the sensor was all I needed to replace. They didn't carry the part. I puttered over to AutoZone with Dad in his truck, me in mine, and a box of tools for some repairs sur le tas. We bought the part and replaced the sensor, though I lost all my radiator fluid in the process. A part, a jug of radiator fluid, and $25.98 later, I was back on the road.

The jerk in the engine? What I was afraid might be some poorly-installed spark plugs from me turned out to be a loose air-intake system that Dad forgot to tighten. The combustion engine wasn't getting enough air with which to combust, so the miss-firing wasn't me at all. A few miles later, that damning service engine light clicked off. Now it was back to the doors.

I gave it another hour. It was already 1:58 by the time I got out of the car with my clipboard in hand, and once-full driveways were now woefully vacant. The Saturday rush had begun and my luck had just run out.

Sixty minutes, a few dozen doors, and a phone number later, I realized that it was done. I had been waiting for this moment for so long and now it was here. Should I dance? Should I sing? Should I grab the nearest girl and give her a kiss just for the heck of it? Looking around, I saw a couple of fourteen year-old kids in a driveway and dismissed the last thought. How about a little cake instead?

I spent the next four hours delivering wedding cakes with my mom, and it was worth it all.

The Great Pursuit

2009-07-18T15:47:00.001-07:00

Life, liberty, and property - we can possess these things. For example, we are definitely alive; as American citizens we are free from many of the oppressions that other nations face; and we have ownership over the land and materials in our possession. What that ownership is and how it is defined is certainly another argument, but it is one that John Locke successfully explains in terms far clearer than what I am capable of.

Thomas Jefferson didn't include property, though. In writing the Declaration of Independence, he changed "property" to "the pursuit of happiness." Some may say that it was Jefferson's way of being able to claim that he did at least have some original thought going into the Declaration, but I'm sure that it's something deeper. It is the pursuit itself that defines us; it is the pursuit of all things that are true and good and worthy of effort that is the American dream. That includes property as well as other intangible things such as relationships, the chance to dream, that feeling or essence of liberty - in short, happiness.

Will Smith portrays a man in the movie "The Pursuit of Happyness" who has so many obstacles between him and his goal that he really deserves an olympic gold medal for all that he overcame. Instead of a medal, he made himself a millionaire in the end, and I suppose that's a decent trade-off. Getting back to the point, the man reflects on the *pursuit* of happiness and says that we have the right to pursue happiness if not achieve it.

"It was right then that I started thinking about Thomas Jefferson, the Declaration of Independence and the part about our right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. And I remember thinking: How did he know to put the pursuit part in there? That maybe happiness is something that we can only pursue. And maybe we can actually never have it, no matter what. How did he know that?"

To a point, I agree with that. However, we have moments in our lives where we are truly, purely happy. You know that feeling that you get when you hold a baby? Ok, not the warm feeling after the kid has thrown up, I mean that feel that goes a little deeper than your once-favorite, now-stained shirt. You know, the one that tells you that this child is pure. This child had to come from somewhere better than this world for it to be so much better than us. Those moments are far too infrequent, in my opinion, but it is a condition of mortality.

If happiness is a pursuit, I wonder if love must be the same way. We are all in the pursuit of love; perhaps love and happiness are interchangeable. I have thought of how it is something we search for, and when we find it, we must work to keep it. When we love someone, it is with that person that we have felt that pureness and that truth, if you will. Though we don't always have it burning, we know it is there, and when we love someone, we want to pursue that love forever.

And maybe that's really it - it's a pursuit that we never want to end. Can you imagine actually achieving that goal? "Ok. I'm happy. I love. Now what?" As long as we're in this life, anyway, I don't think we'd know what to do once we got there because happiness and love necessitate continued action. You can't act on being happy without becoming happier. You cannot love someone without learning more about what love is. A friend of mine has one of those anonymous quotes that says, "When in the pursuit of happiness, one should stop, and just be happy." I'm not sure that we can stop, but I would agree that we should at least enjoy the ride.

Are we unified as a nation because we pursue happiness together? Does our disunity come from losing sight of that goal? I hope that when I find someone with whom I learn what love is, we can join together in the pursuit of something greater. It isn't something different, it's just better as you go. I want that. Sometimes I imagine relationships and marriage as a man and a woman who want to make that pursuit together. I want to be with a girl with whom I can chase love forever, and the more we find, the more we'll chase. Maybe one day I'll know what that's like.

Sorry, Will Smith. It turns out that the pursuit of happiness isn't the pursuit that ends in happiness - the pursuit is happiness.

Just a thought.

Worth More Than a Penny

2009-07-09T23:25:00.000-07:00

What are YOU thinking

DREAMING

HOPING

FEELING

right now?

I dare you to tell me.

jheath3@gmail.com, if needs be. :)

Creatures of High Thought

2009-07-07T10:51:00.000-07:00

Do you ever get those moments where you just feel the need to write? Maybe for you the need isn't to write; writing can't be everyone's forte, much the same way that not everyone can play soccer like Ronaldino or compose music like John Williams. It's a pity, but it's a fact of life. Maybe for you it's dreaming up a business scheme, or you just want to turn a pirrouet, or maybe it's even going to the mall and testing your visa card (it may be accepted everywhere you go, but the real question is, can you go everywhere that it is accepted?). Dear reader, I have the urge.

I am thousands of feet above the ground as I write this. Yes, I am on a Frontier flight sitting next to a 275 lb man who just ordered trail mix from the stewardess. I have already read in two of the four books I brought along for company (an action-thriller that some novice is trying to pass off as a Bourne adventure, and the Book of Mormon, 3rd Nephi chapters four and five). I listened to the fifteen minutes of music my mp3 battery could afford me. Sleep is impossible in this position and condition, and so my only alternative is one of the only other things I love to do: write.

I suppose it is something like those music majors you see walking across campus, humming idly to themselves and directing the non-existant orchestra in front of them with their pencil-turned-baton. Perhaps this is what it is like to be a vocalist who finds that every other word in a conversation is the beginning of a phrase in the musical of their mind.

Writing is the musical of my mind. Even as I write about writing, I find it to be a creative challenge, and the greatest thing, I suppose, is that in writing will never fail you. Pick a topic, feel its worth, and go. Even to write about the very act and passion of writing, as I am touching on with a sacreligious brevity here, presents the same difficulties as trying to describe that feeling you get when you look at small child. Maybe that's because those feelings come from the same place. Though this post may seem like so many incongruous thoughts hacked together, I see it as that song we always want to sing yet can never quite find the right tune. Sometimes we just need to sing it out loud to discover the melody. Are you singing yet?

This one's for you, my dear reader, my dear friend. You may not be my orchestra, led to and fro according to my whim, but you are my audience. If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, did it make a sound? Thank you for hearing me.

Now go. Look into thy heart, and...do.

Through the Lens of a Blackberry

2009-06-28T11:34:00.000-07:00

Windy day on the golf course

Yeah, I made that.

When I thought I had a tanline (notice the watch line on my wrist down below).

The house that happens to be associated with the word "home."

I ate it all and loved it.

Ze Germanz are ztarting to zell our homez!

Sometimes you need to unwind. Blacklight bowling anyone? Thanks, Dax and Mel.

A *large* part of the work I do when I'm on a break from work. It's in the back of my mom's shop.

What I dream about when the thermometer looks like this->

Each and every day.

A discreet mailman hiding a package under the doormat.

That is my selling partner, and yes, he is wearing socks on that man's doorstep.

We found this guy parked behind us. We weren't sure, but we thought that maybe a car with Idaho plates and a BYU parking sticker just might belong to another summer sales guy. The Competition.

I saw it on the map, and I had to take a picture.

When I knew I had a tanline.

Wisdom I receive every Sunday on the way home from church

This is the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in Norman Oklahoma. They gave the most amazing concert,

and we heard it all.

On Raising Children, revisited

2009-06-28T11:24:00.000-07:00

I suppose that in the end, all I'm trying to say is this.

On Raising Children

2009-06-07T19:01:00.001-07:00

Discovering the way your parents raised you after the job is through is immensely enlightening. This post is a realization I came to after talking to my mom about how she raised us. Consider the following:

"Mom, can I go to Brian's house?" Derek called out from his room.

Miriam was in the kitchen putting away the groceries when she heard her son. As she placed the cereal in the cupboard, she shouted back to him. All that reached Derek's ears was Miriam's muffled cry.

"Mom! You're talking into the cupboard again!"

"Yes, just be back before - " Unable to finish her sentence before he darted down the hall to the door, Miriam saw her six-year old son streaking through the house wearing nothing but a pair of shoes.

"DEREK JONAS!" His mother cried out to him. The intensity of her cry halted the boy a full five feet from the door. "You put some pants on young man!"

"No!" Derek shot back.

"Derek." Her mom warned.

"No!"

"Well...I would really rather you not go out like...that. I want you to put some clothes on, son, but I realize it's your choice."

Pause. Really? C'mon, lady, he's your son. "It's your choice"? Is that the best you can come up with? If you give a little kid the choice of going with or without clothes, what do you think he's going to do, especially if you never enforced the rule? The kid has no idea.

Fast forward ten years.

"I don't know what to do, Jack, I want him to wear clothes, but he just doesn't!" Miriam said to her husband one night. Derek had been staying out late with his friends again. She and her husband finally got him to wear clothes when they were around, but when he came home, everything was mismatched. Sometimes he wasn't even wearing the same shirt.

"Well, hun, he has his decisions. We told him what he should do, but I guess he just has to learn," Jack said.

Pause again. Does this come as a surprise? If so, it's been ten - no, sixteen - years in the making. What is supposed to have changed from the time he was six to the time he was sixteen if the rules were never clearly defined?

The truth is, no one ever lets their kid go streaking around the neighborhood. They just don't do it. Sometimes the child doesn't want to wear clothes; sometimes adults don't want to, either! When the kid kicks and screams and puts up a tantrum about wearing clothes, parents (usually) never have any problem with making them dress. The parent knows what is best. Why should the child make that decision?

Maybe clothing sounds ridiculous, so let's switch around the situation a little. What about issues that kids face today? How many parents "told" their kids not to drink or smoke, "told" their kids that they needed to go to church, or "told" them not to do so many other things? Parents wonder where they went wrong in so many areas, but EVERYONE wears clothes. Parents and kids don't always agree about what kinds of clothes to wear, but it's only a select few who really try to get "skinny" for the whole world to see. Even in the clothing world (literally speaking), there is a standard to be set. Now who sounds ridiculous?

I know that people really do have their own choices to make at one point or another. Sometimes we receive instruction that we don't like because we don't understand it, and therefore we don't heed it. We don't heed it because we perceive another option: not doing it (going to school, church, doing homework, etc). What would the world be like if NOT going to church was never presented as an option to kids? What would it be like if having alcohol wasn't even something considered to be a possibility? There will still be some who rebel, I know, and it probably isn't the fault of the parents. For example, there are still people who go crazy at a soccer game and run nude across the field, and I highly doubt that his parents ever told him that clothing was somehow optional.

Considering the extremely high success rate of people wearing clothing, I submit that we should start teaching other important principles at the same time that we start teaching the imperative principle of pants. Is there any doubt that it's important? Why should other equally important principles suddenly be optional? "Wearing clothes" is a no-brainer. It's simply what we do.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.

Thoughts on Faith

2009-06-06T21:19:00.000-07:00

I love music. When I am alone in my car, I push the speakers to their limits and I jazz with Leon Jackson or Jamie Cullum, rage a little with Finger Eleven, or feel my heart lifted with various choirs. Most of the time I turn the music down with others in the car, but not with Colton. My little brother and I crank the music so that we can't hear each other or ourselves, and we rock out.

In between songs, he began to tell me about his AP Government teacher. He is brilliant, Colton avows, and paradoxically listens to death metal. Annoyed by the typical high school morning announcements, this teacher will turn off the PA system and plug in his ipod to serenade his class with his style of "music."

"And he treats himself horribly," Colton said. "There is an English teacher there who used to date him. She said he would go home and eat nothing but junk food - ice cream, pizza, straight SPAM - and live a horrible life. But he is a genius at the guitar. You should see her eyes when she talks about him playing the guitar. You know she's still listening to it in her mind. He's a genius at everything, but he hates himself."

I have been reading Angels and Demons by Dan Brown which has brought to my mind the constant war between "religion and science," as is the typical appellation. In the end, however, I think it boils down to faith versus knowledge, though I may simply be playing with the lexicon. The stereotypes are that people of faith blame erudites for being closed-minded, and the scholars hold faith in derision as the province of the simple-minded.

As both a university student and a person of faith, I have often wondered at this constant struggle and my place in it. I thought of this teacher at Colton's school - a man so brilliant, perhaps, that he lost hope when he killed his faith, and his charity slowly died. It was a connection that I did not consciously form; rather, it was a realization to me of the interconnection of these three principles. Could it be that all people of such capacity lose themselves in their own achievements? I can't believe that. Instruction is imperative to our very purpose of existence. What, then, is the center of the matter?

I submit that the matter centers on humility. Faith is not the province of the weak-minded, but it is a gift to the meek. I do not know the teacher personally, but by experience I imagine that he believed himself too intelligent to admit the existence of God. Equations explain everything, and he knows equations, therefore he knows what they bring - everything.

"What do you believe in?" I have asked people so many times.

"I believe in myself," they reply.

It is a small wonder, then, that they are so unhappy. Because I am infallible, I cannot rely entirely on myself. I am not strong enough to support myself in all things because I am wrong so often. I need something or someone more stable. If I base my actions based on my own opinion and wisdom, my base will soon fall from beneath me. In other words, I need a rock to stand on rather than my shifting experience - experience which is brought on by failure almost more often than success.

With nothing to stand on, one loses hope in the future and hope for humanity. If I build my life on my own faulty wisdom, then I live from moment to moment wondering if the life I have built will fall today or stand to see another day. Without a faith based on something more firm, someone outside of myself, I have no hope and no trust in others. When I see my world come tumbling down, I don't trust myself, either. I feel betrayed and I have only myself to blame. So, I blame myself.

Guilty by my own judge and jury, I punish myself. I hate who I am because I have failed myself. All the brilliance and instruction have not brought me what they were supposed to. Something must have gone wrong; I had all the equations. I had everything. How can I love others for who they are if I cannot love myself? I don't really think that I could.

But it doesn't have to be this way. For many people that I love, it isn't. Perhaps I have a simpler mind than many people, but no one can know Jeffrey Holland, David Bednar, Neal Maxwell, Russell Nelson and so many others and say that faith is for the weak or simple-minded. Faith is for the meek in heart. Faith is for he who is weakened by adversity, and faith gives him strength. Faith is necessarily accompanied by hope and charity such that they are inseparably linked.

The faithful will embrace science and the knowledge it brings. The savant will cherish faith for the light it sheds on the truths he discovers. Truth, my dear friends, is truth and cannot contradict itself nor will it repulse itself. No one can take half of the truth - either half - and be completely happy; if we only have half truths, what is the other half made of? All who are searching for what is true will find it.

I suppose that in the end, we always find what we are looking for.

Isn't music great?

The Pest Control Journals, Entry 020609 - I Remember

2009-06-02T09:08:00.000-07:00

I spend all day knocking on doors.

It makes me think about all the hours, days, months, and years that I spent my time doing something very similar. I would approach people when they weren't expecting it, and I tried to help them desire what I desired and see what I see. People turn me away now, and I don't mind so much. There was a time when I shared something much more important than pest control.

Last night I had a stop-by around 8 o'clock. I had met the wife of house number 1317 Glyndon Drive once or twice and she asked that I return in the evening to speak with her husband. En route that evening, I saw two bicycles chained to a light post. I paused a moment to examine them as a hunter would examine bent leaves and twigs. They were here. A quick scan of the street brought them into view: two men, early twenties, slightly overweight - typical Dallas missionaries. I was standing at house 1328; counting down the house numbers, I realized that the elders had beat me to my own pass-by.

They were teaching about the Restoration and speaking very slowly and audibly. The man had darker skin - Latino? Vietnamese? Familiar phrases and words floated down the street to my ears. "Jesus Christ." "Priesthood." "Apostasy." "Truth." "Restored." "Joseph Smith." "Prayer." "Faith." "Book of Mormon." I replayed that scenario in my head, the thousands of times I had done the same thing in metro cars, on buses, doorsteps, and the side of the street in whatever language I could muster. I used to be numbered with them.

Je me souviens. The French had it emblazoned on their license plates as a call to memory of their heritage: I remember. Je me souviens. Montreal. Chicoutimi. Ottawa. Now Dallas. I remember who I am. Who I used to be.

Torn between walking by and knocking on more doors and going to join the elders and give them a lesson in the presence of a member, I wrote a small note and dropped it in a helmet attached to the bikes:

"It looks like you guys beat me to my pass-by. I couldn't be happier to find you standing on that man's doorstep instead of me. I spoke a little Chinese on the mission, I know there's a lot of it around here. I have a crazy schedule, but if I can help, give me a call."

Leaving it on the front of a pest control card, I walked away and knocked on someone else's door on a different street.

"Hi, what can I do for you?"

Listen to those two guys just a street up, I thought. "Well, I'm the route coordinator, and we're going to be in the area...," I said.

He does his own pest control, but I talked him into at least showing interest for a few days down the road. I wonder if I looked profoundly disappointed in my work at that moment. I wonder if he pitied me because he thought I hated my job. I wonder if he will ever understand what he may or may not have read on my face that evening.

I have approached people in countless situations to talk about what I do more times than I care to number. Introducing pest control, they wave me off much the same as I had been waved off countless times in Montreal. It doesn't matter this time. This time I can be waved off. This time I wish they would listen so that I could have another sale, but my desires are purely selfish. There was a time when it mattered so much more. I now represent pest control to Dallas. I once represented Jesus Christ to the world.

I went back to 1317 Glyndon Drive half an hour later.

"Do you have a card?" He asked me.

Please, is that really all you can come up with? If you don't want it, say it.

"Yeah, just give me a call." I'll never see you again.

As he retreated into his home, I couldn't stop myself from calling out to him one last time.

"Hey, you remember those two guys that were here a few minutes ago? The missionaries? You need to know something. What they were saying. It's true. It really is."

And so we stood there and talked. The same misconceptions came up. I tried to explain, and I kicked myself for not studying Spanish. Where is Chad Turner when you need him? Or David Manuele? Someone! It doesn't matter how many languages you speak if you don't speak the right one. I don't know if he opened up any more to me than he did to the missionaries. I hope it caused him to think. I hope it causes him to pray. I want him to want to know, but that isn't up to me.

I spend my days trying to get people to desire what I desire and to see what I see. The majority aren't very interested, and it doesn't matter. I remember when it did.

Je me souviens.

The Pest Control Journals, Entry 280509 - Dogs

2009-05-28T20:06:00.000-07:00

I hate dogs.

Let me clarify: I don't hate my dog. I don't hate my friends' dogs. But when I knock on a door or ring the door bell and I can't even hear the bell ring, only a cacophony of barks, I really start to hate dogs.

This is getting to be serious. Cats don't even bother me as much at this point. I'm beginning to wonder how many thousands (really) of dollars noisy dogs may cost me by the end of the summer. It goes something like this:

I approach the door and reach for the door bell.
(ringLOTS OF BARKING)
(Shadowy form of a person in the glass comes closer)
"HI!" I shout to half of the face staring out through the barely-opened door.
"Get back. GET BACK! Hi, how are you?"
"Great, I'm Jared, the route coordinator with - "
(Cue the dog)
"What?"
"Jared! Pest control!"
"Pest control?!"
"Working on homes in neighborhood! Less money!"
"What?!"
"I -"
"Not interested, thanks! GET BACK! STOP BARKING!"

Next door.

I love good dogs. Though I'm sure that I could probably have a good dog, I find myself vowing very solemnly that I will never own an inside dog.

In all fairness, the poor dog only wants to get outside. Dogs were never meant to be inside creatures. Hamsters, sure. I can't really see them existing outside, anyway. Where the heck do hamsters come from? That's beside the point.

I suppose it's all in the a day's work - tackling pest issues of all sizes one doorstep at a time.

The Pest Control Journals, Entry 160509 - The Genesis

2009-05-16T08:26:00.001-07:00

A week had passed since I had arrived in Texas. The sky was strangely overcast, though the air was continually warm and humid. After days of playing with my family, including my soon-to-be brother-in-law, I considered calling my new boss to see when i should come to work. The thought had crossed my mind on the first day and I put it aside each following day until I could justify my procrastination no longer.

I was to go to an apartment in some town between Dallas and Fort Worth to meet my manager and sales team. On Monday, the sales were to begin.

Building 20. Building 18 and 19 led straight to buildings 22 and 23, but building 20 remained elusive. Where the deuce could they have hidden a whole building? Wait - that truck has a BYU sticker on it. I had to be close. Door 12. Perfect.

"Hey, Jared, come on in," Seth, my manager, greeted me and welcomed me inside.

Dax and Brad came in from the back room. It didn't take us too long to find out we were all returned missionaries - who else would willingly knock on thousands of doors only to get one or two hundred people to buy into this? Brad spoke Argentine Spanish. Seth was our typical Brazil-boy speaking Portuguese. A knock at the door brought in Matt. Matt spoke English. Dax had Malagasi covered, and I had French.

"Tu parles français?" Dax asked me.

Surprised, I looked at him and responded, "Tiens, t'as aussi parlé français au Madagascar?"

"Non, j'ai habité en France pour trois ans."

And we were off. Spanish and Portuguese tried to speak together, but it was no use. Matt sat in the corner.

No one knew anything about bugs, and in an hour we were to stand on people's doorstep and sell pest control to them. I thought that meant we'd have to know something about it. The training broke down after 15 minutes and became another 15 minutes of hanging out until we headed out the door. We were going to take different neighborhoods in teams. The two french guys went in one car; Argentina, Brazil, and San Diego got into the other. They gave us a binder with some papers in it. It's amazing how a $1.38 piece of plastic, cardboard, and metal can make you look official. I knew nothing more about pest control than the people I was talking to. Probably less.

Dax had started knocking doors on Thursday; as he had been at it a full three days longer than I had, I watched the pro take a few doors and then tried one of my own.

"Hi, I'm...Jared.... I'm with the...Berrett Pest Control." The urge to introduce myself as Elder hadn't been so strong in months, and being from Berrett Pest Control rather than l'Église de Jésus-Christ des Saints des Derniers Jours almost sent me into a depressive downward spiral. Almost. I had to hold it together for the guy standing in front of me, wondering what I was yammering about.

Not interested. Next.

And so the games began. Dax and I began to tackle neighborhoods from one side of Fort Worth to the other side of Dallas in only two weeks. I began to pick up a bit more knowledge about what I was doing, but in sales, I guess there's always a fair bit of bluffing.

Independence

2009-05-13T22:00:00.000-07:00

My hair was getting too long. I could have started combing it over to one side, like a businessman or a twelve year-old, but I decided to stick with the shorter, gel look. Standing at the sink with clippers and mirror in hand, I was buzzing right along and thinking about how I hadn't missed a spot and even the line on my neck was wonderfully straight.

"Ha. Brooklyn didn't think I could do it." I thought, not at all displeased with the haircut.

My hairline is a fickle one. It chooses to recede on top, as the entire world is aware, yet it descends right to the ear.

"Thank heaven the hair hasn't figured out how to grow on my ears," I said to myself.

"Is it weird that I talk to myself?" I asked myself.

"Oh, well," I responded, and decided to attack that pesky lower hairline.

With thoughts of my friends' lack of faith in my haircutting abilities, my thoughts reverted to the mission, as usual. Standing in the bathroom of an apartment that smelled like garlic, burned butter, and heaven knows what else from our multi-cultural and multi-national neighbors, I was faced with the Predicament of the Ears. My greenie asked if he could cut that hair because it was such an awkward angle.

"Please," I thought, once again, to myself. "I've done this dozens of times."

I said Elder Young more audibly, "Nah, no worries. I've got this," and I proceeded to cut a line much too high directly behind my ear.

Dangit.

Perhaps it was chance. Perhaps it was some psychological principle that I'd love to reference but I have no idea what it is. One way or another, I found myself in the present, standing with my back to the large mirror, body twisted to catch the reflection in the hand-mirror, and cut the hair with my arm twisted around my head. Then as my hand descended out of sight behind my ear, I felt it. The vision of that smelly apartment suddenly became more tangible as I turned slowly to see what had happened. I had officially gone too far.

Dangit.

"Dangit" is fine when you are golfing. You just grab your ball when no one is looking and put it where it was supposed to land. "Dangit" is still fine when you are cooking. It may not come out exactly as planned, but it will still taste fine, and you'll eat it within an hour anyway, so the evidence is destroyed. Maybe you have to throw it away, but the evidence is still destroyed. How do you hide "Dangit" when it is on your face or head? Answer: you can't.

I stood there surveying the damage, and the counter didn't care how much I abused its surface with my bare knuckles. And I was going to attend my new singles' ward in a matter of hours. I considered the hair in the sink as a million possibilities ran through my head, many of which included glue in some form or manner. Dismissing them all with a reluctant grin that didn't even merit a sigh, I chose to dress with my greatest tommy hilfiger tie. Maybe, just maybe, people will be more enraptured by the soft blue paisley than they will be amused by my more-than-uneven hairline.

I think God is punishing me for not cutting my hair on Saturday night.

Once again, my friends were right.

Dangit.

"Look in thy heart, and write."

To Count the Cost

Do I Belong to a Cult?

A Safe Trip Back

v2.0: Friday at 5:30

Visiting Hours

Thoughts on the 4th

Friday at 5:30

What does it take to be a great writer?

A Writer's Vow

Expectations

Learn Wisdom in Thy Youth

"Industry Leader"

You have to see this

Writing English

The International Language of Business

The 25 Funniest Analogies (Collected by High School English Teachers)

What if?

On Intellect

That He May Know

Read this.

On Your Right Hand and On Your Left

I am not a writer.

Sacraments and Symbols

Stuck

Room 3144

My Smokin' Hot Wife

The Front Door

Harold B.

Doctrines, Principles, and Applications

Capitalism, current financial trends, and their relation to consolidation

On Government

Are you still reading?

Iron Man 2...meh

Tuesday

Relaxing Reminiscence -- I dare you to try this

Personal Statement

Haiku

Harold and me.

What Dreams May Come: A Latter-day Saint's View

Something...New

Objection on the Grounds of Analogy

The Incomparable Johnny Rodriguez

Guitars Unplugged

As You May or May Not Like It

On Health Reform: My Letter to America

A gift from co-workers

"It's not slime, it's mucus!"

A Day in the Life

Never Thought of It That Way

Blue Men, Part II

New Posts and Blue Men

Mac vs. PC: The Epic Battle Rages On

Bon Anniversaire

Dear Santa Claus

Not As Bad As I Thought

A semester in the rearview

When All of A Sudden

Time Marches On

The Pest Control Journals, Entry 010809 - Apocalypse

The Great Pursuit

Worth More Than a Penny

Creatures of *High* Thought

Through the Lens of a Blackberry

On Raising Children, revisited

On Raising Children

Thoughts on Faith

The Pest Control Journals, Entry 020609 - I Remember

The Pest Control Journals, Entry 280509 - Dogs

The Pest Control Journals, Entry 160509 - The Genesis

Independence

Creatures of High Thought