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?