My Centurion

It's not really a centurion. It's not mine, either. But, each time I drive into the valley to the city there it stands on the north side of the road. In the Spring it sprouts beautiful green buds. In the Summer it holds a gorgeous green canopy aloft for any cow or horse who might happen beneath it. In the Fall it gracefully changes into outfits of orange, gold, and red. Finally, as Winter approaches it releases all of its leaves in elegant acceptance of storms to come. It never bows and it never bends. It's too tall, too strong, and too old. Some of its branches have given their all, but remain erect, empty and connected to those of health and hope all around them. It's the contrast of the two - the bountiful and the barren - that speaks profound eloquence. My Centurion reminds me of the same within me, within all of us. The bountiful and the barren live together in celebration of the present with arms reaching skyward towards the Creator of All.

THAT question

In my 20's and 30's THAT question always bothered me and I did everything I could to avoid it. My "no" answer frequently created an uncomfortable silence between the person asking and myself. Neither one of us knew what to say or do next. Now, in my, ahem -well, not in my 20's, 30's, or even my 40's (heavy sigh), THAT question has taken a new shape. This is how it happened today ---- I was sitting cross-legged on the livingroom floor of the family I was visiting for my job. My icky shoes and snowy coat were on the floor behind me. The 12-month-old was trying to hold the spoon and the cube at the same time, but it wasn't as much fun as dropping one for the other. While I was playing with him with the secret intent of evaluating his fine motor skills his mom asked, "And how many grandchildren do you have?" My reply of , "None right now," put an end to her questioning, but only served to raise my shock. Are you kidding me? My grandmas never sat on the floor cross-legged. They never sat on the floor at all! Mind you, I am here in Utah where the average age of the first-time grandmother is around 43, but still, it was frankly shocking to hear that my not-so-flat stomach, my getting-more-wrinkly neck, and my hair color didn't convince her that I'm really just 32. Like I said, THAT question used to really hurt when I was younger, but now it just shocks me. Later in the day Rod and I were checking in over the phone when he asked, "How's your day going?" "Oh, fine. Did anyone ask you today how many grandchildren you have?" "WHAT?" That's exactly what I thought "WHAT?"

"Susan is better this evening."

Five generations ago, one hundred and fifty-nine years ago a journal was kept by pioneers headed west across the American south. The entry on April 21, 1852 was short: "Came 10 miles. Susan was sick today, taken unwell yesterday. Camped on an open prairie - 4 wagons together. Harris Rowland sold his odd steer to Benjamin Wills. He run off from the drove today and is lost, and no hope of regaining him." The next day the journal reads, "Came 15 miles. Camped on the Dry Fork of Elm Creek, a beautiful stream. Three miles back we passed the last house in Texas where whites live. We are past the lower Cross Timbers and near the upper ones. The part of Texas we have passed is very beautiful farming country, well calculated to be a rich country some time. We are now 47 miles from Ft. Preston. Susan is feeling better this evening." What made Susan ill? How did she manage being sick and riding in the back of the wagon for 25 miles? How did she feel when the last house was passed and hostile territory was ahead? She was only 16 years old and had already been married for almost two years to Harris Rowland, 24 years old. Earlier in the journal, on April 9th the writer noted: "The Indians on the route are generally poor and have nothing to sell. H. Rowland bought a cow from an Indian. She is quite wild and unruly, I hardly think he will get her there." Harris Rowland was part of a much larger wagon train heading west, but the writer of this journal used valuable space and ink to note Mr. Rowland's poor cattle choices between unruly cows and odd steers. Why did the writer care so much about this young man's cattle choices? That's an easy question to answer. Mr. Rowland was the son-in-law of John Boyd Hammond, the writer of the journal and my great-great-great grandfather. Susan was one of his children and he obviously was concerned for her welfare. Susan and Harris were only married 21 years before his death in California in 1871. They had five sons and three daughters. Their oldest son, Lloyd Hammond Rowland was my great-grandfather. Lloyd and Katharine (Morrissey) had two sons and three daughters. Their oldest son was was my grandfather, James Morrissey Rowland. Grandpa had three sons and one daughter. His oldest son was my Dad, George. This is where I stop tonight with our family tree. I'm just glad that 16 year old Susan, Mrs. Harris Rowland, recovered her health on the Texas prairie during the six-month wagon train from Arkansas to California. If she hadn't gotten better, well, I wouldn't be writing tonight in the spirit of my great-great-great grandfather, the wagon train scribe.

"What is Truth?"

Coming from a long line of farmers and ranchers I frequently do my best interior thinking when I'm digging in the dirt, pulling weeds, or, like an hour ago -- engaging in hazmat clean-up in the backyard. Hazmat is an important service to render to the yard when two really big dogs do their thing many times a day, day in and day out. So, in the middle of collecting all of their bio gifts to the rocks, bark, and grass Tahoe kept dropping one or two tennis balls right in the middle of all the, well, bio stuff. I got into the rhythm of alternating throwing balls and picking up his stuff. Shasta sat in her regal pose observing the mayhem and claimed no involvement in any of the activity. I was only out there today because it's going to rain later and some of my neighbors were also out doing their fast yard work. They can only come out between 12 and 2 today because their church's general annual conference is being televised from Salt Lake and they all need to be front and center at their TVs most of this weekend. I think this is the only time of year when they can watch TV on a Sunday, as they will tomorrow. In any case, I wanted to join the neighborhood energy surge so I went out there. And, having not done said hazmat control recently I was out there for a long time! So, believe it or not, the concept/definition/understanding/meaning of truth started filling my head. Yes, I had the truth of the crap I was picking up and I also had the truth of Tahoe insisting I pay more attention to having fun with him. We have the truth this weekend of millions of people around the world, not just my neighbors, watching the LDS conference to receive instruction from their leaders. We have the truth about the disaster in Japan and war in Libya. But, sometimes thinking we have the truth really just means we know a little something about something. We might know about the tsunami in Japan, but we don't really know the truth of what the workers inside the reactors are trying to achieve. We know people are being shot and killed in Libya, but we don't know the full truth of what will really help those in such dire straights. A man in his eighties in our weekly Sunday morning class frequently asks this question, "How can we know for sure that Christianity is true?" Several people are always quick to provide their answers, but he's obviously not satisfied because he keeps asking the same question. As we approach Passion Week later this month the quote from Pilate in two of the Gospels is important. He asks Jesus, "What is truth?" The Gospel writers don't record an answer from Jesus, but that doesn't mean the question shouldn't be asked. Today Tahoe's truth was chasing tennis balls. Mine was picking up solid waste. My neighbors are listening to their leaders with the goal of perfection so God will take them back when they die. The truth of the outcomes in Japan and Libya are still to be revealed. Maybe that's the key -- the truth, in any circumstance, will always make itself known. Truth is a life force that might be held down for a brief period, but it will, I've found, always find it's way to the light, to the air, out into the open. A line from a recent U-2 song re-works Pilate's ancient question into "How can you stand next to the truth and not see it?" Good question. We frequently stand next to things, people, truths, beliefs, lies, stories, and atrocities that we don't see. It takes courage to open our eyes to see the truth standing right next to us. Maybe that's why Jesus didn't answer Pilate - he already knew Pilate didn't have the courage to open his eyes. Do we?

Comments?

Greetings from Salt Lake City where I'm attending a two day conference for my job. This morning is a quick and short post with just one request --- if you read my blog and have questions or comments, please go to the comment section, you can sign in as 'anonymous', and leave your questions/comments for me directly. I recently learned that someone out there has been contacting other people I know asking questions about what I write about and who I never seem to mention. I'd greatly appreciate it if such questions came to me directly. Also, I intentionally change names and/or simply don't address certain topics for a whole host of really good privacy reasons. Thank you for reading and I look forward to hearing from you. Thanks! Salt Lake Sher

Vacation in a Theocracy?

My hunch is that the majority of local media across the U.S., over the past few days, have covered the horrible events in Japan. At times like this our collective eye and heart go to the place of greatest need. American society has always been this way. We want to help everyone everywhere all the time and at the same time. This isn't always easy, but our media, left right or center, keep us informed and give us opportunities to express our concerns. As a child I was raised on the evening news as we had dinner during the Vietnam war with Huntley & Brinkley's grim casualty board almost every night. News and politics are part of my DNA and I want to be kept up to the minute on all things big and important.

Hence, the events in Japan qualify as "big and important" so last night I expected the latest info on the local TV news from the CBS affiliate in Salt Lake City. Quickly, my disappointment changed to absolute disgust when the lead story wasn't about the fires and melting fuel rods in the nuclear reactors or the number of people still missing or the risk of radiation poisoning to the local people. No, the lead story on this major network affiliate was, "All LDS missionaries in Japan are safe." The story included footage of one of the leaders from the quorum of the twelve expressing his relief that all 600 Mormon missionaries were located by Saturday morning last weekend and none of them were even hurt. He then went on to discuss how they really don't know yet what kind of relief support the LDS church can provide at this time. The next story on the newscast was about the two immigration bills the Governor signed and how much support the LDS church had for said bills.

I'm glad the young men and women missionaries are alright. I want everyone to be alright. I don't think, though, that the lead story on the news in Louisville, Kentucky last night was about the Presbyterian missionaries in Japan. The Presbyterian Church (USA) headquarters are in Kentucky, but the difference is that Kentucky isn't a theocracy. The LDS world headquarters are in Salt Lake City and Utah is a theocracy. Absolutely.

If you're looking for a theocracy to visit on vacation this year, no need to go the the Middle East. Just come to Utah -- we're so much closer.

Dental Plan

The goat on the porch, the five plates of very old fried chicken on the counter, the overflowing litter boxes, the grandpa answering the front door in his boxers at 2:30 in the afternoon, the mom who couldn't stay awake during our meeting because of her prescription drug addiction, the suspected drug deals behind the closed bedroom door, the cockroaches crawling across her foot, and the dirty/neglected adopted children are just some of the situations I've dealt with over the years. I've seen lots of good stuff and lots of bad stuff providing educational and social services in private homes in Washington and now in Utah. Today, though, I heard of something new. Something new after 20 years in this kind of work is a rare thing.

Almost 80% of the children and families I work are on Medicaid. Our county has the highest drug use in the whole state of Utah. We have syndromes and genetic disorders some doctors have never heard of and don't know how to treat. It would take two hands for me to count all the sad little families I see who aren't working with full decks. It's not their fault -- the genetics are fairly messed up around here.

This morning a member of our team went to a home, actually a crappy apartment in town that no one should be allowed to rent out and much less allowed to live in, and waited a few minutes for the young 20-something single mom to come back. She had been at the dentist, the note on the door said, and would be right back. Huffing and puffing she came to the door having walked across town from the dentist. Her minimum wage job at Wendy's doesn't allow for a car. The mom said it was fine for our team member to come in to work with her and her autistic two year old son, but one look at her changed the plan. She was the one who had the dentist appointment, as evidenced by her huge left cheek. Explaining through her swollen and throbbing mouth she said a tooth had been removed. She went onto explain how her dental plan works: when she gets a cavity she lets it go -- when it turns into a situation where a root canal would be helpful she lets it go -- when the tooth is so painful and rotting at the core then she goes to the dentist for it to be pulled. She can't afford to do preventive dental care and Wendy's doesn't provide insurance. So, she just waits until the tooth has to come out as that's all she can pay for.

This young mom is not even 25 yet. I've seen, smelled, held and heard a tremendous amount of poverty in my work experience, but I've never known of someone making the economic choice to let their teeth rot. This woman lives in Utah, lives in the United States, and lives just a few blocks from the construction site of the new multi-million dollar LDS temple.

As the argument goes - she probably made some bad choices, didn't do well in school, and comes from a huge family with little opportunity. I'm sure she could have done better, but maybe not here and maybe not now.

I just thought more people should know about her tonight.

When Life Tells Us What Time It Is

As I walked out of our room the other morning I took note of a strange object on the floor. "Hum, do the dogs have a new toy?" I picked it up, then put on my glasses (it's best advised to put on the glasses first) to find my watch, without it's band, in my hand. The watch face was just fine, no scratches or bite marks, and the clasp was a few feet away. But, where was the band itself? "In my tummy, Mom," woofed Tahoe, our way-to-big-overweight-2 year old Black Lab. Ah, I see, it really was leather from China after all! OK, well that just meant I cut back on his morning chow seeing as how he already ingested so many calories. I thanked him profusely for not wrecking the watch itself. For the next several days I kept the watch, all by its lonesome, in my pocket until today when I finally got to a store to replace the band. Instead of putting a new band on the old watch I picked up a new cheap watch for $12.00. Who knows how long it'll last, but at least my left wrist is no longer naked. My new watch says it's 4pm, my computer says it's 5pm (ok, this creeps me out -- who already changed my laptop to Daylight Savings Time?), and my soul says it's time to take note of significant events the past few days.

In Utah state politics we became not only the first state to have an official "State Gun", but now we're the first state with a law excluding text messages, emails, tweets, and any e-communication between lawmakers from the Federal Freedom of Information Act. Yes, nothing like Wisconsin will ever happen here because now we'll never know what our newly un-ethical(yes, they disbanded the new Ethics law, too) lawmakers are saying to each other in communications that most people consider completely normal and acceptable now. Of course, that'll make it easier to enforce the our new Arizona-style immigration law, too, because they can say whatever they want about anyone, target anyone, etc., without the public ever knowing.

The earthquake and tsunami in Japan prompted this question from a good, older friend of mine in our grief support group this morning; "Sher, why do you think God let this happen?" We talked about how a loving God certainly doesn't inflict pain and misery, but that is often the condition of our world. There's no explaining why one part of the world suffers so terribly and another part doesn't. Such suffering, though, gives those of us who claim the label of 'human' ample opportunities to give ourselves, our money, or prayers on the behalf of those suffering so terribly. It's time for us to step up to the plate again.

When I called my Mom's new doctor this week to discuss an issue with him I was very unprepared to hear, "Her release doesn't include you. We can't talk to you." So, the lifelong era of trying to support, trying to help, trying to ease her way came to an abrupt end. Those are difficult words to hear without any warning whatsoever. I know all about HIPPA, right to privacy, etc., but I didn't expect my own family to make this choice. The time came, though, for unknown reasons, for her to make this choice for herself.

All of these unexpected, inexplicable events and times prompt me to remember the last thing my Dad ever said to me in a private conversation. Looking off into the morning light in the vineyard he said, "You just have to keep going. You just have to keep going." Indeed. Indeed.

"Really? You need another mountain rescue? Really??"

The title of this piece is my guess at God's reaction to our latest predicament around 5pm tonight in the snowy mountains above our house overlooking a reservoir named Mantua (pronounced man-away) Today's bright sun and warmer temperature beckoned Rod to his favorite place way up the mountain. The woman at the bank told him, "Be careful - I hear people are getting stuck up there with the melting snow." To which he confidently replied, "Well, I have a Jeep," which was meant to convey that absolutely nothing could ever get in his way and he'd be just fine, thank you very much! But, I'm getting ahead of the story because I can't explain this event without first explaining the other two that occurred in the very same area, with the very same Jeep within the past six months.

First, there was the late summer evening when Rod was up there target shooting and three gang-like dudes approached him, "Hey old man, nice Jeep, got the keys?" Well, they seemed to completely miss the fact that he was target shooting which includes a firearm and upon his action of merely holding it up in the air they were heard screeching away in their old beat up Vega. Whew - that was a close one.

Second, there was the early fall evening up in the same area with the regular characters of Rod and the Jeep plus our two dogs, Shasta and Tahoe. We had brought Shasta into our home from the streets of Tacoma ten years ago and she was quite a runner at that time. Nothing like having your dog lick you through the backyard fence and a mere second later darting across the front yard on her way across Proctor Street to Jefferson Park. Ah, then there was the time she got out of the backyard at 11pm to chase an opossum across the street in the dark. Fun times on the streets of Tacoma. In any case, we thought her running days were over until that fateful night in the mountains. She gave that old telling look to Rod and flew out of the Jeep towards the underbrush. Rod searched and called for her for up to an hour as darkness fell. We went back later that night yelling for her under the full moon and bright sky. We went back the next day, too, and walked the trails calling for her stopping to listen for her bark or whimper. Nothing. Absolute silence. We figured a mountain lion, a bear, or a pack of coyotes had gotten her. The third day we really gave up hope. Then my cell phone range - a call from the local vet, "We have Shasta here." What? Earlier that morning a group of people had driven up Willard Peak Road to see the view because the road had been inaccessible for years due to potholes, ditches, etc. Thanks to the stimulus funding it'd been repaired and when the carload drove up the mountain they saw Shasta sitting by the side of the road. When they started down the mountain two hours later she was still there - waiting for her ride. They scooped her up and took her into the vet. A conservative estimate is that she travelled around 10 miles up hill over those two nights. No one ate her, no one took a chunk out of her, and she survived. Unbelievable miracle. And one of the men in the car happened to be a member of our church, but didn't know she was our dog.

Now back to the event, the third one, of this evening. Rod drove up that road like he always does, leaving the pavement where it ends and entering the dirt/snow road to go further up. Everything was great and he was having a good time until, whoops, what was that? Oh, just a little slippage, he thought. Remember, Jeeps can go anywhere! However, not today and he was good and stuck in the snow. (What did our friend say at the bank?) Anyway, removing snow from the around the tires with his bare hands wasn't going so well when another Jeep came down the road, "Are you stuck?" "Yea - don't get too close to this area." Well, the nice rocket engineer in the other Jeep only went a few more feet and was stuck, too. Great. That's when Rod called me - one of those calls husbands never, ever want to make to their wives - and I started his direction from my meetings in Logan. When I arrived, at the end of the pavement in the mud, he and the engineer were still working on the situation. I sat there waiting and waiting when suddenly a big pick-up was in my rear-view mirror with a puzzled driver. He wanted to turn onto the long muddy road to our right, but I was in his way. I got out to talk to him and amazingly enough I discovered this was someone we know! They were trying to get to his mom's house down the muddy road - the very last house on the way up the mountain. I explained the situation and he said he'd be back with his chain, if needed. In the meantime, the nice engineer drove out and said Rod was on his way. I walked down the sloppy road a piece and got in the Jeep with him as he continued to slowly move backwards, Whoops - what was that? Another slip, another deep slushy snowbank and we were stuck again. Kyle came back, helped Rod try to dig it out, but there was no success. This time was more precarious, too, because of that really big cliff on the left. These mountains are close to 9000', after all ,and cliffs have been thrown in for good measure. Kyle finally hooked his chain around the rear Jeep axle and very slowly pulled Rod and the Jeep to safety.

These three crazy, unpredictable, scary events in the mountains above Mantua in the past six months all had good endings. On the one hand I'm not too sure about Rod and the Jeep pairing up for anymore adventures, but on the other hand I'm so grateful for the graces that saved him and our little family three different times. It's very good to have him home tonight, the wayward Jeep in the garage, and the meandering/senile dog in her bed. Thank you, Lord.

"It just leaves me cold."

He had listened intently through the first portion of this morning's class. He hadn't yet made any comments and when he finally spoke it made sense to me, "I don't have the understanding all of you people seem to have. I guess I don't get it. This chapter, well, it just leaves me cold." The ten other people around the table listened and a few sturdy souls offered to help him out. "What Joe is really saying is that he doesn't know what he would have thought in that day and time about this chapter, " Bud offered. "Honey, it doesn't matter that it bothers you because we know how it all turns out in the end and you'll be OK," Lucy's soothing voice said. "Joe, try to tell us more about why this chapter leaves you cold," I prompted. He went on and the group went with him as they gently searched for a deeper understanding of his theological struggle.

All and all it was quite an interactive and energized class with many points of view along with different faith experiences. However, the really amazing thing about it was Joe's age and station in life, if you will. He's been widowed for over a year, he wears hearing aides and sometimes uses a walker, and he's 92 years old. Imagine, 92 years old and still interested in learning, still able to ask deep and searching questions, and still longing to understand the faith he's practiced most of his life. I find this amazing -- it's not very often people of his age are willing to admit they don't have all the answers, they still have questions, and they still want to learn. I hope I can be like him at 92. I only have 39 years to get it together.

Pink Sunset in the East

The mountains outside our house are totally white with snow which really looks like whipped cream. The bright blue sky will shortly host our evening sunset ~ in the east, not the west. When the sun begins to dip below the horizon in the west desert north of the salt flats it shoots brilliant rays back towards the mountains. As the horizon changes colors, the snowy mountains take on the most amazing hues. For several minutes we literally have pink mountains until the sun completely sets. This doesn't happen all the time as the conditions have to be just right. It's as if God takes a ride in his Jeep to check out his desert and says, "And for an encore to the day, let's change things up with pink mountains!" Amen!

"...like the burning of a library."

National Public Radio is my connection to the world outside Utah. This is important because the world inside Utah is frequently one I struggle to understand and to find commonality with on a regular basis. When I dash about on Saturdays I listen to everything from "Car Talk" to "A Prairie Home Companion". One of the programs today was about death and how we deal with grief, loss, etc. This is a particular field of interest for me as grief and loss are tightly woven and dismissed themes throughout my family's emotional history. The author speaking today said something I'd never heard before, "You know the old African saying 'The death of an old person is like the burning of a library." It certainly is - it certainly is, but I'd never thought of it in this way. Such crucial and valuable family history is forever lost with the death of grandparents and parents. Sudden deaths make it particularly hard to retrieve what we need in order to go forward because there wasn't time to ask and, truth be told, we never thought to ask when there was time. Those long silent meals over the years never prompted the questions, "What was it like growing up in that orphanage?" "How did it feel when no one came your graduation from USC?" "How have you lived without him?" Never did these questions ever pass my lips during the forty-three years I had the chance. Since the library burned almost ten years ago now these questions and so many others ring out in my mind over and over and over. Ashes and partial volumes waft and scatter through my soul memory. Which ones to let go in the wind? Which ones can be restored to their original truth? Why more questions now? Will I know when I've spent enough time amongst the ashes? Will I know the most important essays, books, and volumes to keep in my heart? Will I know when it's time to leave this library to itself and move on? I hope so.

...and 454 days later she gets back to her Blog...

Wow - that's really a long time to be away! To quickly recount -- worked for six months as a hospice chaplain, celebrated 30 years of marriage, still live in Utah, Fred is doing well, I've gained some pounds, make bread a few times a week (could that be where the pounds have come from??), love my new little pretend car dressed like a Toyota Yaris, Shasta was lost for 2 nights in the mountains and then miraculously found due to a road being fixed by stimulus funds, and we've started to build a dream called the Greenside Development Foundation to help people in poor countries make their own way. Could it be I won't be stuck sitting in a chair when I'm 85 wondering what exactly I did with my life? Ah - that's fabulous prospect. Bye for now - but not for another 454 days! Sher