I am often reminded that the Lord is conscious of, and cares about, even the small things in our lives.  Today, I was given another of those reminders.

Before I left to come to DC, I felt impressed to tell Liz that she would be working with the youth of our church.  Given the fact that she would be managing the household alone, coupled with other long-standing challenges, this sounded and felt like a rather unusual piece of counsel.  She has never worked extensively with the youth, and telling her she would be involved with them while I was gone seemed unnatural. However, within a month or so of my leaving, she was asked to put together a youth choir to perform at the stake conference (a regional meeting of multiple congregations).

While Liz has been extraordinarily musical her whole life, and has had vast experience participating in choirs and other performance groups, she has never been in a position to lead one.  Being asked to put together a group of mostly involuntary or unexcited youth to perform in front of a large audience seemed kind of daunting.  However, Liz remembered what I had felt inspired to tell her and decided to trust that this was the Lord’s hand in motion.  She set aside her reservations and agreed to take on the task.

To say the least, many of the youth weren’t particularly thrilled about participating, and Liz was unsure she would have a choir to perform in the first place.  After utterly failing to get anywhere near enough participation to make it work for the first several rehearsals, Liz let the Stake President know that things weren’t  working, and that he probably ought to plan on an alternative musical program.  However, a few pleading phone calls from the Stake President to the various youth leaders garnered enough support for the last rehearsal, and things were a go for performing at the meeting.

Last night, however, our dog decided to get sick.  He was in and out all night with loose bowels, and Liz was afraid someone would have to stay home with him or else she would come home to a poop explosion all over the house.  Sydney and Isaac were both supposed to be singing, and Michael was too young by far to stay home by himself and take care of the sick dog.  Liz was at a loss for what to do, so she said a short prayer…  The answer was rather quick and simple — Isaac and Sydney both needed to be to stake conference, and the Lord would take care of the dog.

Letting the dog out for one last urgent pit-stop before she left, she trusted the situation to the Lord, believing that things would work out.  She bundled the kids into the car to head to the church hoping that her return in a little after two hours wouldn’t find her cleaning up a putrid mess.

The choir performance, by all accounts, went very well.  The kids performed well, and Liz was quite happy with the result.  It was quite validating, I think.   She had succeeded in doing what the Lord had asked of her, in spite of the limitations and roadblocks that had sprung up along the way.  However, the final and potentially most significant tender mercy came when she opened the door to the house.  There was no stinky dog mess to clean up.

Now, having a dog hold his bowels for two hours might not seem like an earth-shattering experience.  Many might argue that the Lord doesn’t care at all about small things like that, but in this case he made it clear that he cared, that he would take care of it, and that Liz and the kids would be able to have the experience they needed at stake conference.   There are many cases where the hand of the Lord is evident in big things, and we are all to willing to accept and even expect it in those cases.  However, I think it is in these kind of small tender mercies that I best get an appreciation for the infinite power, love, and condescension of God.  He cares enough about the little things in my life to heal an old dog with a stomach bug so my wife and kids can perform a musical number.  To me, that is a powerful reminder of the majesty and power of a personal relationship with God.

It’s amazing to me how much confidence can be contained in a young, inexperienced male. I was once afflicted by this malady (okay… maybe I still am). In general, that confidence has enabled me to take on large projects I was probably unqualified for and manage to grow and learn enough in the process to succeed while building new skills and converting what was once unwarranted confidence into surety justified by knowledge. Occasionally, however, that confidence has a way of getting the practitioner of it into trouble.

As long as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by machinery and vehicles.  Anything that was capable of moving under its own power was a source of fascination.  This fascination over time grew from lawnmower-powered mini-bikes and go-karts to motorcycles and automobiles.  The confidence of youth convinced me I could buy old motorcycles and get them running again.  It also convinced me that I could ride them through the wilderness and all through creation without any dangerous consequences.  It convinced me that I could find my way back home from wherever the trails led me without extensive study of the land, maps, or terrain.  In these regards, I was lucky.  Luck favors the prepared, but in these cases, luck favored the bold and stupid.

Looking back, I wonder how I made it through the things I did as a teenager.  The fact that I never had a real accident on my motorcycles, never got lost in the desert on my rides and drives, and managed to get my way free from whatever I got tangled in is more a testament to divine providence intervening than it is to my preparation and skill.   As I take a mental inventory of the various stories I tell, there is a common thread through them where I get committed to something I could or should have avoided and the story turns around what it took to wriggle my way free of whatever it was that caught me in the first place.

Two short stories from my late teens are illustrative…  One of the things I often did to get away and unwind was to climb in my small Chevrolet Luv equipped with noting more than street tires and with no more ground clearance than the average sedan, and make my way to the mountains or deserts to tackle an old mining trail or survey road.  I rarely ever thought hard about the isolation of the area I was in, difficulty of obtaining help in the event of an emergency, or mechanical frailty of the truck that was nearly as old as I and not particularly well suited for what I was doing,  None of these things prevented me from jumping at the chance to do something that should rightly be considered stupid.

One particular trip out of town my brother Tolon and I decided to drive up Butterfield canyon on the west side of the Salt Lake Valley and take an old mining trail up the side of the canyon looking for a good overlook to view the enormous copper mine that filled the next canyon over.  As I wound my way up the canyon looking for likely trails, I found one I had never attempted before and turned off the beaten path, starting the climb up the side of the canyon.  Neither Tolon nor I had told anyone where we had planned to go, nor had we any idea what the conditions were like further up the trail.  To make it worse, we hadn’t really planned on taking rough trails, expecting only to ride up moderately rough dirt roads.    As a result, we didn’t bring the come-along and other tools I usually carried when I thought there were good odds of getting stuck.

As we headed up the trail, things got progressively worse.  The trail went from dirt to slate, with loose chunks piled deep over bedrock.  The slate was slipping under my tires as I climbed, making it difficult to get enough traction to maintain control. In spite of the worsening conditions, I continued to climb, figuring gravity would make climbing traction a non-issue.  If I could climb up, I could certainly come back down.  As I crested a ridge, the trail turned to follow it, jogging abruptly downward before rising again and continuing to the top where I expected to find the overlook.  No sooner had we started down the trail than I realized I would have almost no traction trying to come back up that particular section.  Even a slight tap on the brakes would result in a slide of several feet.  There was no apparent way I was going to be able to get enough traction to make it back to the top.

Undeterred, and believing that going forward wouldn’t materially decrease my odds of getting back up that section of trail, I continued up the trail until we ran into a snowbank that hadn’t melted yet.  I wasn’t equipped for snow, seeing as how both Tolon and I were wearing nothing more than shorts and sandals.  However, there was a set of tracks through the snow that looked like they’d been made by a truck neither wider nor taller than mine, so I got a good run at it and plowed into the snow.  Unfortunately, my estimate of the depth was off by at least three inches, and I found myself stuck fast with hard-pack snow holding up every square inch of my truck, one wheel in the front spinning freely, and one in the back doing the same.

Tolon and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and got to work.  The only tool I had available was a small folding entrenching-tool, and if memory serves, Tolon had the use of it.  I had my hands.  Using those two limited tools, we spent well over an hour scraping, digging, and pushing snow; completely soaking ourselves and thoroughly freezing every part of our bodies.  By the time we got free of the snow bank, we were cold and exhausted.

As we made our way back down the hill, we reached the place where it turned back uphill and was covered in loose slate.  One attempt to get a run at the hill was enough to prove that I wouldn’t be able to use momentum and traction to cover that ground.  I was at a loss.  After a quick look around for things that might help, I saw there was dirt and grass covering the slate on either side of the trail that might provide enough traction if I could get on it.  However, there was a problem… both sides of the trail were blocked with saplings and young trees that were squarely in the middle of the area I would have to climb.

I had nothing with which to cut those saplings down, and using my bumper to slowly push them over was hopeless given the slope and poor traction conditions.  I decided the only chance I really had was to get a run at it, and try to just knock them over and drag them with me up the hill in one shot.  The truck I owned already had a bent bumper from a previous incident with an instructor at my university, and was rusted clear through in several places.  The prospect of adding a few new dents didn’t bother me particularly.  I backed up the opposite hill as far as I could go, and made a run for the dirt-covered side of the trail.   By miracle or mercy, the trees in front of me didn’t have particularly deep roots, and fell over on contact with my bumper.  I was able to claw my way to the top of the hill with saplings dragging along under my truck.  The new dents and dings were barely noticeable.

Were I wise, I would have learned from this experience and done a better job preparing before jumping into a situation like that.  I can’t say I did… at least not at first.  It wasn’t until years later that I stocked the toolbox of my truck with things like an ax, shovel, rope, come-along and machete.  In addition, the odds of somebody finding me in the place where I got stuck were pretty bad.  You’d think I would have learned, but I still have issues with telling folks where I am headed and when I plan on being back because the truth is that when I’m headed for some solitude and exploring, I rarely know the answers to either of those questions.

Another example where overconfidence and underpreparedness nearly cost me dearly was on Stansbury Island.  Not too long after the Butterfield canyon episode, I was with my other brother Bryce out on Stansbury Island in the Great Salt Lake.  We had been shooting, and decided to explore some of the trails in the area.  Unlike the previous episode in the canyon, I had told my parents where I was headed.  However, this was before the days when everyone had cell phones, and even had I owned one, the odds of it working that far from civilized society were slim to none.  If something went wrong, getting help would mean an 18 mile drive or hike along a deserted dirt road to the small town of Grantsville.

Something to note about Stansbury Island is that it is very much a desert.  While it’s surrounded by water, none of it is potable. In fact, the only place I’m aware of with saltier year-round standing water is the Dead Sea.  As you drive down the causeway to the island, you pass large evaporation ponds where the Morton Salt Company dries out the lake water to harvest salt.  If you want something to drink out there, you have to bring it with you.  I hadn’t planned on being there for more than an hour or so, and consequently hadn’t brought much by way of hydration fluids.  I might have had a Coke in the cab.

As we tooled along the trails, we found one climbing up the face of a steep hill that looked like an interesting challenge, so I pointed the front bumper that way and started to climb.  About the time I lost traction and had to start turning around, I felt the clutch pedal kick back at me.  I thought it was unusual, but was more concerned with getting back down the hill without rolling the truck than troubleshooting something I was only partly sure had happened.  However, as I rolled to the base of the hill and went to shift gears, it became clear something was wrong.  While the shifter switched cleanly between gears, the truck wouldn’t move when I went to let the clutch out.

I got out of the truck and crawled under it, looking into a small inspection port in the bell housing.  There were pieces of friction plate everywhere except for where it belonged.  The part of the clutch that actually connected the engine to the transmission had disintegrated.  I was stuck with no means of connecting power between the engine and the wheels 18 miles from help on an island that was unpopulated and infrequently visited.  To make matters worse, Bryce was quite young (I think he was about 10 or 11 at the time) and was starting to panic. With no other options, we started the walk towards Grantsville.

As we walked, Bryce was highly unhappy, claiming that he was sure we were going to die out there and our dead bodies eaten by the millions of sea gulls that called the lake home.  It was all I could do to keep him walking.  Luckily, only a few miles into the trek we ran across someone who was headed out to the northern tip of the island to shoot off illegal fireworks.  They seemed highly irritated when I flagged them down to ask for a ride into Grantsville, from which place I planned to call my dad to come get us and help me tow my truck home.  The offer of $20 for gas (all the cash I had at the time) only slightly improved their disposition, but they ultimately agreed.  Within two or three hours, my dad had arrived with his van and a tow-strap, we were on our way home, and I was about to start another enterprise I was unprepared for… fixing the clutch on my now broken truck.  But… that’s a story for another time.

A while ago I decided to cash in a few of my hotel rewards points, secure a room somewhere near Gettysburg, PA, and make the sort drive north to go see the battlefield.

Now, I’m no civil war historian, so I’ll not bore anyone with a detailed description of the battle.  However, for those who need a quick refresher, with the strong caveat that anything I write is subject to fact-checking and errors…  The battle of Gettysburg was fought when the Army of Northern Virginia ventured north out of confederate territory.  Virginia was suffering from the effects of the previous fighting and needed a break to rebuild and resupply.  Moving the battle into Union territory would provide much needed breathing space and also enable rich foraging as the poorly supplied confederate army moved through previously untouched farmland.

Another factor in the decision to head north was the Union siege at Richmond that was taking a strong toll.  Some thought/hoped that a campaign in union territory would relieve that pressure as troops were pulled back to protect Washington and deal with the incursion.  Anti-war sentiment in the North was building, and General Lee believed taking the war to the doorsteps of the union civilians would strengthen that sentiment. General Lee had also been highly successful against frightening odds, and was confident his army could break down the Union army and threaten Washington sufficiently to put the Union in a position to sue for peace.

On the union side, leadership was aware that public perception of the war was turning as the Union suffered a string of embarrassing defeats at the hands of Lee.  Lincoln had struggled to get Army leadership to take the initiative, and the result had been turmoil in the top Union ranks as one general was relieved after another.  Other nations like Great Britain might become more willing to join on the Confederate side if the Union continued to flounder.  The Union desperately needed a win.

Spent a cold night wandering the national mall with a camera and tripod.  A brisk night, brisk walk, and some pretty cool pictures.

My wife will tell you I have issues — one of which is keeping a hold on my wedding ring.  In some marriages, this could be a sign of infidelity or weak commitment, but thankfully for me, Liz understands me well enough to know that rings and I just don’t get along.  One ring disappeared while I was riding my motorcycle and the cold air caused my fingers to shrink enough that the ring fell off while I was waiving at a biker in the oncoming lane.  It disappeared along the freeway.   Another disappeared when I shook cold water off of my hands while I was camping.  In spite of an extensive search, it never surfaced again.  I lost one while wake-boarding because it got caught on the tow-rope and almost took my finger with it as it fell to the bottom of the Banana River in Florida.  Another got stolen from a locker where I had left it so it wouldn’t get torn up while I was in the gym.   I don’t have a great track record with jewelry.

In addition to losing rings, during the intervals between losses where I possessed and wore one, I had a bad habit of getting them caught in machinery, scratched up on rocks, tools, equipment, or engines, or inadvertently shorting out electronics I was working on.  As a result of my work habits, absent mindedness, and rough hobbies, I quit wearing a wedding band all together almost eight years ago.   Liz has accepted this fact and gave up on me wearing any form of jewelry long ago.  The heart of the reason she is so accepting is because of who I am…  If you know me at all, you know I’m married.  It’s so central to who I am.  She knows that, and so isn’t concerned that I don’t have a visible wedding ring.

However, the dynamic in my current environment is substantially different from what I’m accustomed to.   This area is rich with single people.  In fact, the church building nearest my hotel has three separate congregations of single adults, something I’ve never seen before.  In addition to the dedicated singles wards, the family ward I attend is populated with something between thirty and fifty percent single adults.  It isn’t enough, however, to say there are a lot of singles around here.  That would be a serious mischaracterization by way of omission.  As an example, consider a recent experience at stake conference:

A few weeks ago, the stake where I am attending held a stake conference.  None of the buildings in the area are capable of handling everyone, so conference was broadcast to all the buildings throughout the stake.  Given that the building where the singles met was substantially closer than where the family ward my cohorts and I attend, and that there wouldn’t be any other activities that day, we decided to walk over to the closer chapel.  As the four of us (Brent, Nate, Nate’s visiting sister, and I) walked into the building, we were immediately under close scrutiny.  Nate had his sister with him and a visible wedding band, and was therefore immediately written off as being spoken for.  Brent and I weren’t so lucky.  As fate would have it, neither Brent nor I wear a wedding band, and we were both subjects of intense curiosity.

As we took seats towards the back of the chapel, Brent and I left an empty seat between us without really thinking about it.  “Man spacing” is pretty standard, and the fact that it would cause controversy didn’t cross our minds.  However, within a few seconds, there was a queue of women headed our way to occupy the open seat.  They all looked very disappointed when Brent slid over when the first of them asked to sit there and filled the gap himself.  As we sat watching conference some of the reasons for disappointment became more clear.  Two full rows of pews in front of us were completely occupied by single women.  Beyond that, almost every male in the room was either visibly “spoken for” by the presence of a female neighbor, or had visible characteristics that indicated they were likely single for good reason.  Many of the other pews also contained a large imbalance in the sex ratio.  Brent and I were fresh meat, and they were obviously disappointed when we were not to be found in the market.

After the broadcast, the four of us laughed it off as we walked back to the hotel for the night.   We were happy that we didn’t need to go back to the singles building.  However,  this most recent Sunday in the family ward I was caught off guard.  Both Brent and Nate had their families visiting, which left me by myself on a short pew towards the back of the chapel.  As I sat there oblivious to what was going on around me,  two sisters took up position on the next pew back and made it a point to introduce themselves to me immediately after the meeting and begin chatting me up.

As we talked casually, I mentioned something about my wife and kids back in New Mexico.  Almost immediately one of the two got up and left, and at the same time, the demeanor of the other shifted perceptibly.  Within a minute of the “revelation,” the remaining sister informed me I was a “false advertiser” by virtue of the fact I wasn’t wearing a ring, and thanked me for not waiting to bring my family up in the conversation before she got her hopes up too high.  I didn’t get the feeling she was really all that grateful.  It wasn’t until this point that I understood what was going on.

I’ve got to say… if you’re a single, male, worthy member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints who doesn’t mind big cities and is looking to improve your odds of matrimony, you might consider moving to the DC area.  The unfortunate reality is that the sisters are more likely to remain faithful than the brothers, and that there just aren’t enough worthy men to meet the demands of all the women… especially around here.  I imagine it’s about like it would have been to be a single man in gold-mining boom towns back in the 19th century.

It’s quite sad, actually, to see so many fine women compete for even the prospect of meeting a potential candidate for matrimonial bliss.  I feel for them.  It’s almost enough to begin to understand how polygamy could be a desirable solution.  But, as for me…  I just bought a silicone band that doesn’t cost much, won’t tear my finger off if it gets caught on equipment, won’t get scratched up or bent, won’t short out electronics, and will help me avoid those kind of awkward situations where someone is flirting with and feeling me out in the hope that I’m available.  No more “false advertising” for me thank you!

Updated with captions/commentary

One of the consequences of my career choice is that I tend to spend a lot of time away from  home.  Many of my co-workers who suffer from the same condition like to spend their free time and money while they are on the road on alcohol and public buffoonery.  There is an all too common mentality among them that holds the rules don’t apply when away from home, and that it’s okay to indulge as long as word doesn’t get back home.  I’ve never subscribed to this form of thinking, and as a result I tend to spend my extra time alone hiking trails, visiting parks, and generally trying to get the most out of whatever opportunities the local environment has to offer without burning my bank account and being able to look my wife and kids in the eye when I get home.   In Hawaii, I drove the coast and hiked up the ridge that divides the northern and southern halves of Oahu while the others watched bikinis in Waikiki through the lens of a half-empty cocktail.  In Germany, I drove through the countryside in Bavaria to visit Dachau and other WWII sites while others got so drunk in the beer halls that they weren’t likely to remember much about the evening when they sobered up.  It always seems that, regardless of where I go, there is plenty to do that is interesting and entertaining.

At present, I’m stuck in DC for an extended stay.  If there is anywhere in the world with a rich array of interesting and mostly free stuff to see and do, DC is it.  I think I could spend a full day at each of the Smithsonian museums without even beginning to lose interest.  Then there’s the monuments, other museums, civil war battlefields, architecture, Mount Vernon, Monticello, and numerous other places…  As many times as I’ve been here, I’ve never run short of things to go and do (with the exception of snowmageddon when EVERYTHING was shut down and I had no choice but to sit in my hotel room and do nothing).   While I generally detest working here, and have great issues with the general pace of life, high cost, and types of behaviors considered “normal” here, I do appreciate the area for it’s historical and other tourist attractions.

One thing I’ve found is that the best time to visit any of the outdoor attractions is early in the morning before the museums open.  The sun isn’t as hot, and you’re much more likely to get a good look and time to ponder without having to push through crowds.   Each of the following photographs were taken yesterday morning as I wandered the National Mall waiting for the museums to open.  Each has meaning that would require explanation, and at the moment, I haven’t time to do justice to my thoughts.  So, for now, I offer them up for your enjoyment without sharing my probably unwanted observations…

Earlier this week I had the misfortune to have a meeting in the Washington D.C. area that required me to be physically present.  There was a blizzard in the forecast, but travel arrangements were made that should have allowed our small party to escape the region before the storm hit.  Unfortunately, our return flights connected through a city that was affected by the storm almost a full day before the D.C. area, and our morning flight was canceled.  Attempts to re-route my travel through another city before the storm arrived were only partially successful.  My travel companions got out before noon, but the only flight available by the time I got through to the travel agent was scheduled to take off two to three hours after the snow was to start.  The airline sounded optimistic, but I was suspicious.

When I woke yesterday morning, I checked the flight board in the hotel lobby and found that almost all of the flights in or out of the airport had been canceled.  There was one cluster, all on the same airline, that still showed as departing on-time.  My flight was among them, and it was the last flight of the day that hadn’t already been canceled.  I was ultimately doubtful I would make it home as scheduled.  However, in an effort not to be hyper-cynical I checked out of my room and headed over to the airport.  The hopefulness didn’t last long, however.  When I got to the gate there wasn’t an airplane waiting, and conditions were rapidly getting to the point that landing a plane would be quite dangerous.  In the two hours I stood there waiting for them to cancel the flight, I don’t think I saw more than two planes land, and neither taxied to my gate.  Forty-five minutes prior to the scheduled departure time the airline announced the landing of the last plane of the day — much to the relief of a bunch of passengers headed to Phoenix.  Those of us on my flight were left to weather the storm and fend for ourselves for at least the next two days while the airline cleared both the snow and the backlog.

To make matters worse, I have another meeting scheduled for D.C. next week.  Were I to take the earliest available flight home, I would have been home for only one day before I would have had to get on a plane and come back here.  The solution… I make the clothes I packed for a three-day trip last for a week and a half and stay here.  Normally, I don’t mind extra time in D.C. because I can spend it wandering the national mall, museums, etc…  Unfortunately, EVERYTHING here is shut down, including the restaurants that would provide any alternative to the expensive and crappy hotel restaurant.   The METRO, Smithsonian, National Monuments, and just about everything else is closed, and everyone who lives here is holed up in their apartments waiting for the storm to pass and the snow-removal crews to clear their path.   For today and tomorrow, at least, I get to kill time in a hotel room with nothing but an Internet connection and 77 channels of nothing to watch on TV.