C. David Belt's Blog, page 23

I am a survivor of sexual assault.

This is not some ���courageous admission��� on my part.�� Although I���ve never talked about it here before, I have spoken of it to some family members and a few close friends.�� Please don���t tell me how sorry you feel for me or how brave I am. I���m definitely not looking for pity or sympathy or support, because I am not a victim.�� ����I���m a survivor.

The attack happened decades ago when I was a teenager.�� I���m not going to provide details of the assault here.�� I don���t need to relive the details, and you don���t need to hear them.�� I did report the attack at the time, but for whatever reason, the authorities never acted on the report.�� Yes, there are scars that I live with���scars that have never quite healed and probably will never fully heal in this life.�� And yes, I still have nightmares on occasion.

My attacker blamed me for the assault, spread lies to cover his tracks, never took responsibility for his actions, and never apologized.�� I ran into him a few years later in a public setting.�� He pretended like we were old friends.�� I, of course, did not.�� However, I didn���t yell at him or curse him or run away.�� All I can distinctly remember from that encounter is that I said that I hoped he had gotten some help.

In the years since the assault, I have striven to let go of my anger and my hatred.�� I refuse to let anger and hatred rule me.�� I refuse to let my attacker have any more power over me.�� I refuse to be a victim.�� In short, I have survived.�� I have lived my life.�� And it���s been a good life so far, with my share of sorrows and joys, tragedies and triumphs, friends, family, love, faith, and miracles.�� I have done more than survive���I have grown and flourished and thrived.

So, why am I telling you this?�� I���m telling you all of this because I had an epiphany yesterday morning (during the Music and the Spoken Word broadcast, of course).�� It came to me quite suddenly and out of the blue that I no longer hate that man at all.�� I don���t know if he has repented.�� I don���t know if he has sought forgiveness and healing.�� I don���t know if he has tried to atone.

But I hope he has.

I hope someday, under very different circumstances and in a very different place, to meet him again���not to have him beg my forgiveness or to see him punished, but to see that a lost and wayward child of God has found his way back. ��My Savior said, ���I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men.��� (D&C 64:10)�� Today, I realized that I have finally forgiven that man.�� Today, a burden that I have carried for almost four decades has finally been lifted from me.

I hope someday to return to the presence of my Heavenly Father, to be enfolded in His arms and welcomed home.�� I hope someday to fall to my knees at my Savior���s feet and thank Him for redeeming me, for making my own repentance possible, for lifting me from physical and spiritual corruption and imperfection to celestial glory and perfection, to dwell forever with my beloved wife and children, my parents and siblings, my ancestors and progeny, from Adam and Eve to generations without end.

And in that Celestial Kingdom, there will also be many that have wronged me to one degree or another and many whom I have wronged.�� We don���t get out of this life without causing harm to others, intentional or otherwise.�� However, because of the joyous principle of repentance and the unlimited power of the atonement of Jesus Christ, I can be forgiven and exalted, and so can they.

His love and grace are sufficient.

There is no suggestion box at the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.�� In fact, there is no mechanism at all for Choir members to submit complaints or suggestions.�� For example, there is no way for a singer to suggest or ask:

Why can���t the Choir sing music from Sweeney Todd?
Can we please get rid of that hideous tie or dress?
I think the Choir needs to be more relevant to modern audiences.�� Don���t you think we should do some hip-hop?
The men of the Choir should wear kilts when we sing ���Amazing Grace���.
That song is just terrible and beneath the dignity of the Choir.

There is, of course, a procedure for the asking of honest questions.�� For example, one might ask:

Is the first note in measure 137 supposed to be an F# instead of an F-natural?
Are the baritones supposed to sing with the tenors on this part?
Are we supposed to have memorized for Sunday?

These are all honest, legitimate questions.�� And the procedure for such questions is simple: ask your section leader.�� If he or she knows the answer, you���re all set.�� If not, the section leader will ask Brother Wilberg or Brother Murphy (as appropriate).�� And if the answer is ���No, that note is indeed an F-natural as written, and the dissonance is intentional,��� or ���Yes, the baritones sing with the tenors at that spot, even though it���s really, really, REALLY high,��� or ���Yes, needs to be memorized by Sunday,��� then once again, you���re all set.�� You know just what to do.

So, why are no suggestions allowed?�� Isn���t this America?�� Isn���t this a democracy?�� Are the leaders of the Choir so arrogant that they think nobody else could possibly have a good idea?

Well, yes, of course this is America.�� No, this isn���t a democracy; we live in a republic (and the difference is huge, but that���s a subject for another time).�� No, the leaders of the Choir are some of the most humble (and musically brilliant) men I have ever known.

As for why no suggestions are allowed���

Brother Wilberg has been director or associate director of the Choir for much longer than I���ve been a member.�� He���ll probably be the director long after I am forced to retire.�� I doubt very much that he and Brother Murphy haven���t considered any and all of the potential suggestions before.�� And they often possess information that the Choir members do not.�� For example, music is selected for a multiplicity of reasons that I am not privy to: e.g. copyrights, royalties, content.�� The Choir does in fact perform a song from Sweeny Todd.�� Suits, ties, and dress colors and fabrics are selected because they look good on camera, if not to the natural eye.�� Hip-hop is, for the most part, vile and disgusting, although we occasionally do speak lyrics.�� I DO like the idea of wearing kilts during ���Amazing Grace,��� but I���ll happily settle for bagpipes.�� And the Choir could not possibly perform at the level we do if everyone were constantly suggesting or demanding changes.

The fact is that I am blessed to be a member Choir.�� I had to work very hard to get into the Choir and I volunteered.�� I knew what the rules were going in.�� I knew that I must wear what I���m told to wear, sing what I���m told to sing, sing how I���m told to sing, be where I���m told to be when I���m told to be there, stand when I���m told to stand, and sit when I���m told to sit.�� I knew that any songs or lyrics that I might have written will probably never be used, so I don���t bother submitting them.�� (If the directors are looking for some of my music, they will contact me, not the other way around.)�� I knew that I would probably never sing a solo with the Choir (unless it���s an unintentional solo, but let���s not go there).

I knew all that going in, and yet I still CHOSE to audition and join.�� Nobody forced me or pressured me to be in the Choir.�� In fact, life would be much SIMPLER if I were not in the Choir.�� But the truth is, I AM blessed.�� I love being in the Choir.

And if it were REALLY IMPORTANT to me to, for example, be in a musical group that did hip-hop or dressed in kilts, I could go join such a choir or organize one myself.�� In other words, if I really want to create a group of rapping Scotsmen who chant morally questionable Stephen Sondheim lyrics, I am free to do so.�� ��(Whether I could find anyone else to join my hypothetical group is another matter.)

However, I���d rather be in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and enjoy all the blessings and privileges such membership provides.�� When I was privileged to serve as an officer and pilot in the USAF and later the Air National Guard, I did so of my own free will, and I thoroughly enjoyed the honor and thrill of serving my country, even though I had to comply with orders and regulations regarding virtually every aspect of my life including, but not limited to how I cut my hair, what I wore, what I was allowed to say while wearing the uniform of my country, how often I had to cut my lawn, where I lived, and what I ate.

I have to trust that Brother Wilberg and Brother Murphy are listening to the Holy Spirit.�� I have seen plenty of evidence on numerous occasions that proves to me that they are indeed guided by the Spirit.�� I don���t need to go up to Brother Wilberg and suggest that he pray about his approach to a particular piece of music, because I trust that the Lord does and will guide him.�� Such a suggestion would not be honest, because it is based on a false premise���it is based on the idea that the Lord is NOT in charge.�� And I testify that He is in charge.�� Honest questions are about how I can better contribute to the Choir.�� Dishonest questions are about trying to change the Choir so suit me.

I have known two individuals who have resigned from the Choir because they didn’t agree with the Choir leadership.�� Eventually, both auditioned again to rejoin the Choir (under the same leaders).�� One made it back in.�� One did not.

In the past several months, two very vocal members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints chose to make the proceedings of their church disciplinary hearings and subsequent excommunications public.�� Usually church discipline (including excommunication) is a private matter designed to help individuals in the process of repentance and reconciliation with God.�� However, these two people chose to ���go public��� for their own reasons.�� They and their supporters claimed that they were excommunicated for ���asking honest questions.����� This, however, was disingenuous.�� The supposed ���honest questions��� were in fact demands that the prophet of God change the word of God.�� In short, they don���t like the doctrines of the faith, so they demanded the doctrines be changed to suit them.�� How is this ���honest questioning?����� If you believe that a man can change mind of God, you don���t believe that God leads the Church; you think that men lead the Church.

So here���s an honest question: if you think the Church is not led by God, why not leave the church you despise and then join or create one more to your liking���one more in keeping with your enlightened worldview?�� After all, if you believe you are in the right, why not lead by example rather than demand that others change?�� I can tell you this, if you choose to leave, you will be missed.

When many of the Savior���s disciples became offended at the truth He spoke, they left Him.�� The Savior asked His apostles, ���Will ye also go away?��� John 6:67

Peter answered, ���Lord, to whom shall we go?�� Thou hast the words of eternal life.��� John 6:68

Now there���s an honest question.

���Congratulations to the priests��� basketball team,��� the bishop said from the pulpit.�� ���They won the stake championship game yesterday.����� It was a beautiful Sunday morning in the early 1970���s in Lexington, Kentucky.�� The announcement was greeted by the usual mixture of nods, grins, surreptitious (or not-so-surreptitious) backslaps, blank faces, and bored expressions.�� Basketball (at least when I was growing up) was a HUGE deal in Lexington, home of the University of Kentucky Wildcats and the Kentucky Invitational Tournament.�� And while the announcement of tournament victory was perhaps more remarkable than a reminder of a ward fireside, stake priesthood meeting, Relief Society social, or stake service project, announcing a church basketball victory (or ���participation,��� a.k.a. ���loss���) from the pulpit was a casual and routine occurrence.�� For my part, I was one of those with a blank or bored expression.�� I didn���t enjoy basketball, despite the best and nigh-heroic efforts of my dad to teach me how to play the game, and I was never very good at it (putting it mildly).�� My participation on the deacons��� basketball team was sporadic and often humiliating and nothing I would ever think of as ���fun.����� But the priests had won the stake championship, and that was cool with me (as long as I didn���t have to play).

But it wasn���t cool with everybody.�� My family had been giving an older lady a ride to church for some weeks at that point.�� Let���s call her Sister Jones (as I���m reasonably certain that was not her name��� and I don���t remember it anyway).�� Sister Jones didn���t think the announcement of the priests��� quorum basketball championship was appropriate for church���no, sir, not appropriate at all.�� In fact, it was downright offensive!�� In fact, Sister Jones was SO offended, she rose to her feet and walked out of the chapel in an indignant huff worthy of a French waiter asked to serve well-done beef.�� Sister Jones stormed out of the meeting and stomped to our car, where she promptly lit a cigarette and smoked to pacify her pious pique.�� (Note to non-Mormons:�� smoking is��� Well, I don���t really need to explain that one, now do I?)

A few weeks ago, on another bright and glorious Sunday morning, I was singing in the choir loft of the Tabernacle with 360 of my best friends.�� During the rehearsal that morning, Brother Wilberg had repeatedly emphasized how a specific vowel in a specific syllable of a specific word was to be pronounced.�� (Getting 360 singers���not all of whom were born and raised in the Wasatch Front or even in the USA���to pronounce vowels precisely the same is, shall we say, a bit of a challenge.)�� Becoming somewhat exasperated with the Choir, Brother Wilberg, emphasized for perhaps the 617th time how the offending vowel was to be pronounced, said, ���How many times do I need to say this?���

During the run-through rehearsal before the actual broadcast, a baritone standing near me pronounced the vowel wrong���not only wrong, but spectacularly wrong���yet again.�� I smugly answered the director���s rhetorical question in my mind, ���Obviously, at least one more time.��� ����And then I promptly���and perhaps both poetically and ironically���botched the next note (which the other baritone sang perfectly).

One of my dear friends in the Choir, Eric Huntsman, frequently sits next to me in the loft.�� (Our seating is assigned, not a matter of choice or preference.)�� Both Eric and I have different strengths that complement the other.�� If one of us makes a mistake, especially if that mistake is repeated���never point out a first mistake���we both are comfortable in the knowledge that either of us can point to the missed word or note in the music, and the other will nod, be grateful for the correction, and try to fix it the next time.�� In a way, this is pointing out each other���s musical ���sins,��� if you will, but it���s done in a manner that is mutually beneficial and loving, and it���s done without the slightest hint of malice, self-righteousness, or sense of superiority. ����(Heaven knows I have nothing to feel superior about; I���m just grateful to have the blessing of being in the Choir in spite of my weaknesses.)�� I know that I am grateful for Eric���s help, and I���m sure the feeling is reciprocated (because he���s told me so repeatedly).�� It���s genuinely a pleasure to sit next to Eric, because we help each other in striving toward musical perfection.�� And we are both the better for it.�� Like the Choir as a whole, we are better than the sum of our parts.

And by the way, there are many, many other men in the Choir with whom I gratefully share the same mutual trust, respect, Christian fellowship, and sincere desire for perfection and unity.�� (So please don���t be offended that I didn���t mention you by name!)�� And while there are others with whom I have yet to establish the same level of trust, that number is ever shrinking.�� Because, after all, aren���t we all there for the same reason?�� We aren���t trying to show one another up, not trying to win a race or competition.�� It���s not like there is any advantage to finishing a note, phrase, or song before the other guy.�� In fact, that would be a BAD thing.�� On the other hand, if a note is too long to be held out for the entire duration, I can sneak a breath, and the man standing next to me will sing through my breath and take his own while I am covering for him.�� Each of us is imperfect, but we sustain and help each other along.�� Together, working as one, under the direction of the conductor, and with the Lord���s help, we achieve something miraculous.

“Mathematics is the language with which God wrote the Universe.”

                                                                                                 Galileo Galilei

Money ��� Love
Love = Service


Threats ��� Love
Love = Sacrifice


Demands ��� Love
Love = Listening


Enabling ��� Love
Love = Charity


Lust ��� Love
Love = Enduring


Wrong ��� Right
Right = Right


Might ��� Right
Right ��� Might


Revenge ��� Closure
Mercy = Love


Revenge ��� Justice
Justice + Mercy = Atonement


Wickedness ��� Happiness
Happiness = Repentance + Atonement


Lying ��� Truth
Truth = Truth


�� Truth ��� Truth
Truth = Truth ��� Nothing


Ignorance ��� Bliss
Knowledge = Power


Forgiving + Grudge ��� Forgiving
Forgiving = Forgiving ��� 70 ��� 7 ��� ���


Sorry ��� Change ��� Repentance
Repentance = Recognition + Remorse + Confession + Restitution + Change


Words ��� Deeds ��� Faith
Faith = Trust + Obedience


Taxation ��� Charity
Charity = Love


Fetus ��� Biowaste
Fetus = Baby = Person


Baby ��� Incovenience
Baby = Blessing


Baby ��� Mistake
Baby = Child of God


You ��� Worthless
You = Priceless

Whoever you are, however you came into this world, no matter what you have done for good or ill, you are a child of God and precious in His sight.

Please check out my teaser page for Time’s Plague!

http://www.unwillingchild.com/times_plague.html

The cover art is just a placeholder I put together, but I think it looks cool.

Sunday, Michael Moore–the hit-and-run “documentarian” who has the freedom to spew whatever garbage��he likes only because of the courage, blood, and sacrifice of American soldiers, sailors, Marines, airmen, and coast guard–called Chris Kyle a coward.�� I wonder if Mr. Moore would have the courage to look Taya Kyle, Chris’s��widow,��in the eye and repeat that to her face?

I’ll let Mr. Moore’s cowardice speak for itself.

���How are you?����� Such an innocuous and innocent question.

And one so fraught with peril.

I have learned that, in many cases, this is a question that should not be answered truthfully.�� It is a question that is the equivalent of saying, ���Howdy!����� (Actually, ���Howdy,��� is short for ���How do you do?���)�� And although once upon a time in a bygone age of civility, this might have been meant as a sincere inquiry after one���s health and well-being, it has evolved into a polite nothing.�� It is not meant to be answered truthfully.�� You are expected to say, ���I���m doing great!�� How ���bout yourself?������or something to that effect, regardless of the many cares and problems that we all have to bear.�� It���s not meant as a conversation starter; it���s just a greeting to be said with a smile and a nod, and without even a passing thought.

So last spring, as I was walking through the tunnels under Temple Square on my way to the dress rehearsal for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir���s concert of ���The Messiah���, I found myself walking next to a soprano whom I did not know.�� She was a pleasant, sweet-looking lady, much shorter than myself, with white hair and a bright smile.�� Although I had seen her many times from across the choir loft, I had never spoken to her.�� So when she asked, ���How are you?��� I should have been smart enough to engage in nothing more than the pat, meaningless exchange.

But no, not on that day.�� On that day, I decided to be an idiot.�� I decided to answer truthfully.

���I���m tired and sore,��� I said, ���but I���m glad to be here.�� How are you?���

Her face took on a look of genuine concern.�� ���Why are you tired and sore?���

I laughed softly.�� ���I���ve been on my feet all day at Comic Con, selling my books.���

���Your books?�� You write books?���

���Yep.���

���What kind of books do you write?���

���LDS horror.����� I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out a bookmark for The Children of Lilith.

As I extended my hand to her, offering the bookmark, her eyes widened in horror (horror at the very thought of LDS horror), and she raised her hands defensively as if to ward off a blow.�� (One might say, she crossed her forearms as if to form a crucifix to ward off a literary vampire.)�� ���LDS horror?��� she cried.�� ���Why would you do such a thing?���

I smiled.�� ���It���s not what you think.�� You can have the bookmark.���

She waved her hands emphatically.�� ���I don���t want it!�� I wouldn���t touch it.�� Why on earth would you do such a thing?��� she reiterated.

I cocked my head, replaced the bookmark in my pocket, and gave her a wry smile.�� ���I���m guessing you���ll never be a fan.���

And that was the end of our conversation.�� We continued down the tunnel in silence.�� She walked faster, increasing the distance between us.

So, why would I do such a thing?�� Why LDS horror?�� Why LDS science-fiction?�� Why fictional stories at all, especially where matters of faith are concerned?

It���s a fair question, actually.�� I have a friend who writes great non-fiction books dealing with the scriptures, dealing with matters of faith.�� As a matter of fact, so have I.�� I have written a non-fiction manuscript which I hope to have published, dealing with a matter of scripture and faith.�� But I also write faith-related fiction.�� Specifically, LDS horror and sci-fi.

Why?�� (I mean, why, beyond the desire to simply tell a good story?)

Years ago, I was listening to a talk in church.�� The speaker began telling a story about a little boy who agreed to a blood transfusion to save his little sister.�� He gave his blood, in spite of the fact that he believed he would die as a result.�� He thought he was sacrificing his life for his sister.�� It���s a great story, and I���ve heard it many times.�� It always brings a tear to my eye.

But as soon as I recognized the story, I smiled, got a bit misty-eyed, and settled back in the pew, only half-listening.�� I knew the story, so perhaps the impact of hearing it for the umpteenth time was lessened somewhat.�� I was ready for the speaker to get on to the next point.

President Dieter F. Uchtdorf is a great speaker, one of my favorites.�� I love listening to him.�� And one of the reasons he is so effective is that he tells stories I have not heard before.

But his stories are all true.�� They describe actual events and actual people.�� So why not stick to factual, true stories?�� Why fiction?

It���s quite simple, really.�� Fiction is another name for a parable.�� Jesus, the Greatest of all Teachers, taught in parables.�� And parables are fictional stories.

I hope this doesn���t come as a shock to anyone and doesn���t shake any testimonies, but ���The Good Samaritan��� is fiction.�� Jesus made it up.�� It never happened, at least not exactly that way.�� But in another sense���a very important sense���it has happened many, many times.�� So has ���The Prodigal Son���.�� Jesus told stories to illustrate a point.

And these stories have become archetypical, part of our consciousness, our culture.�� They say, ���Be kind.�� Be loving.�� Don���t judge.�� Be penitent.�� Forgive.����� And they say it in a way that we remember.

So, why LDS horror?�� Why LDS sci-fi?�� Why LDS fiction at all?�� Because I (and other authors like me) want to tell good stories���stories that move people to honest tears, stories that people will remember, because they are different, because they are honest, and because, in spite of being fiction, they are also true.�� If the imagery or setting is fantastic or horrifying, it is imagery or a setting that is (hopefully) memorable.�� But the imagery and setting don���t change the truthfulness of the story (or perhaps the underlying message).

In my stories, the heroes must have my values.�� They must be motivated by the things that motivate me.�� After all, the heroes come out of my head and my experience.�� They are extensions of myself or of people whom I know and admire.�� (What about the villains?�� Well, I HOPE they are extensions of my experience and NOT projections of my deepest, darkest, vilest thoughts.�� But that���s a subject for another time���)

I write LDS horror, because I love stories about selfless courage, especially courage in the face of true evil or great peril.�� Like the story about the little boy who believes he is giving his life for his little sister���

Christmas was going to suck.

There was no doubt about that.  Christmas, 1979 was going to be the worst of my young life.

I was a young missionary serving in Seoul, South Korea during a very cold winter.  I was away from my family.  I was struggling to learn the language.  My companion hated my guts.  (OK, maybe hated is too strong a word—let’s just say he despised me.)  Most of the time, he barely spoke to me.  The other pair of missionaries in the apartment didn’t care for me much either.  They barely gave me the time of day.

And did I mention that it was bitter cold?  As was typical in those days in Korea, most houses were “heated” (and I use that term very loosely) by pipes under the floor.  Every six hours, we had to add a circular charcoal brick—called a yon-tahn—to a small stove outside.  The stove was built into the foundation of the house.  Hot air from the stove would move through pipes under the floor and out a chimney.  (Yes, carbon-monoxide poisoning was a real danger.)  The floor itself had hot-spots, but the air in the apartment was frigid.  I had to sit on a hot-spot with an electric blanket wrapped around me during my morning scripture and language study.

Each morning at 5 AM, one of the four of us would arise early—we took turns, you see—to go outside and change the yon-tahn.  (If you let the yon-tahn stove go out, it was a bear to restart.) Then the unlucky elder would come inside and put a very large kettle on the stove to boil.  Then the missionary would go into the bathroom and break the ice in the bathtub, exposing the icy water beneath.

At 5:30, the other three missionaries would arise, and the four of us would begin our day.  And we began our day by bathing.  (Communal bathing was the necessity.)  This involved scooping frigid water from the tub using small, square plastic bowls, adding some boiling water from the kettle, and scrubbing down and rinsing off as fast as possible in the cold air of the bathroom.  Steam would condense on the ceiling in thousands of frigid drops, poised to fall on us at any moment.  One particular missionary—we’ll call him Elder P—always managed to finish washing first.  He would run out the bathroom door, slamming it behind himself.  This would cause ice-cold droplets to fall from the ceiling onto our bare skin, eliciting cackles of impish laughter from Elder P and howls of protest from the rest of us.

Then after shivering under our blankets for a couple hours as we studied and prayed, we would venture out into the coldest winter I had ever known.  The wind howled like a Korean banshee possessing the breath of Norse frost giant.  My coat, scarf, and hat were never thick enough to keep it out.  My feet were never warm, and my legs felt like frozen tree trunks.  Only my hands managed to stay relatively warm in a pair of gloves my parents had given me.

I was lonely and I was miserable.  I felt like I didn’t have a friend in the hemisphere.

And I was dreading Christmas.

And to top it all off, I hadn’t received a letter from home or my fiancé for a couple of weeks.  And we wouldn’t be going to the mission headquarters to get our mail before Christmas.

Christmas wasn’t a particularly big deal in Korea, at least at the time.  It was just another workday, even for most Christians.  The “night butterflies” (a.k.a. prostitutes) in the marketplace would dress in their finest and offer free service to ministers—including us.  (We refused, of course, but for the most part, the other ministers did not.)  The Koreans didn’t even have their own version of a Christmas greeting.  They had “Meh-ri Kuh-ri-suh-mah-suh,” and hardly anybody knew what that meant anyway.  The ward did have a Christmas social—I got to put on the Santa Haraboji (“Grandfather Santa”) suit for the party and give away some candy, and that was fun, of course—but there wasn’t much else.

In our missionary apartment, the plan for Christmas was to cook a turkey (which we got watch being slaughtered in the marketplace, right next the row of night butterfly booths), make some lumpy mashed potatoes, and have some bread with black market butter (a real indulgence).  I was going to attempt to make some gravy from the turkey drippings, using rice flour (not one of my better ideas).

One morning, as I was shivering under my electric blanket, feeling very sorry for myself, I prayed for some comfort, for some vestige of Christmas in that cold and lonely place.  And as I was praying, I remembered a story my mother and father had put in a small, homemade Christmas book several years earlier.  The story told of General William Booth, founder of the Salvation Army.  In 1910, he wanted to send a Christmas telegram to his troops.  The cost was prohibitive and the funds were sacred, so General Booth tried to come up with a message that could be expressed in as few words as possible.  He was inspired with the perfect message for Christmas.  It was one word: Others.

I realized at that moment that if I wanted to invoke the true Christmas spirit, I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and focus on others, specifically my companion (who despised me) and the other two missionaries (who were indifferent at best toward me).  Over the two days leading up to Christmas, I surreptitiously purchased small gifts and other surprises for my fellow missionaries.  I didn’t sneak out or do anything against the rules; I simply took advantage of the fact that my companion did his best to ignore me.  Every time we were in a shop in the marketplace, I purchased my Christmas goodies whenever my companion turned his back.  His antipathy became my blessing.

I was actually having fun!

On Christmas Eve, I lay on my futon (a foam pad on the floor) under my electric blanket and pretended to sleep.  When my companion began to snore, I snuck out of my bed and turned off his alarm clock.  (It was his turn to get up early and change the yon-ton, boil the water, and break the ice in the bathtub.)  Then I crept quietly into the central room.

I set up a paper Christmas tree I had found in the marketplace.  It was no more than a foot high.  I cut out a few paper ornaments and hung them on the tree.  I put a small paper star on the top.  Then I placed the tiny, precious gifts I’d purchased under the tree.  They were wrapped in stationary, using glue instead of tape (which I hadn’t been able to find on my sneaky shopping forays).  Each was labeled, “To Elder _______, from Santa.”

I snuck back into bed, covering my head and placing my own alarm clock under my pillow.  I was so excited that I thought I might never get to sleep.

When the alarm went off at 4:45 AM, I quickly silenced it.  Then I laid still waiting to see if my companion would keep on snoring.

He was silent.  I was undone!

Then he snorted and commenced sawing logs again like Paul Bunyan.

I waited a few moments longer to be sure he was safely asleep, then I snuck out of bed.  From my suitcase, I dug out a paper-wrapped bundle of smoked pork and a bag of eggs I had smuggled from the marketplace inside my briefcase.  I went outside and changed the yon-tahn in the charcoal stove, then came back inside, set the kettle on, and broke the ice in the bathtub.

I cut the pork into strips and fried them.  (This was as close as I could come to bacon.)  I scrambled and fried the eggs.  Then I covered the pans and set the table for breakfast.   I turned on my cassette tape player.  Bing Crosby sang “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen”.

Then I snuck back into bed and pretended to go to back to sleep.

I soon heard the stirrings of the other elders, including my companion.  I continued to feign sleep.

At 5:45, my companion nudged me with his foot.  “Get up, Elder.  You overslept.”

I yawned and stretched and did my best to act as if I’d slumbered through the night.  “It’s Christmas,” I said in my best whine.  “Do we have to get up early on Christmas?”

My companion shook his head in disgust.  He opened his mouth to say something, possibly unpleasant, when he suddenly froze, his eyes wide in panic.  “Crud!  I didn’t change the yon-tahn!”  He went racing outside in his pajamas, stopping only to slip his feet into his shoes.

I smiled as I heard him clamber down the stairs.

A few minutes later, when I shambled out into the central room, wrapped up in my blanket, I glanced at my tiny paper Christmas tree.  I noticed that, rather than three small gifts, there were four.  The fourth item was unwrapped, but under it was a small strip of paper that said, “To Elder Belt.”  It was a small statue of a pair of owls.  I recognized it as having once belonged to Elder P.

Breakfast was cheery and fun.  (It sure beat rice pancakes, I can tell you!)  Bathing?  Well, Elder P still beat us out the door, and the rest of us still got drenched with an icy rain, but we all managed to laugh about it.  We cooked our turkey and ate the lumpy mashed potatoes with the pathetic rice-flour gravy, ate our bread with real butter, and we all stuffed ourselves and “made merry”.  We told stories and played a few games.  We read the Christmas story from the scriptures.  And we prayed together.  It was the first time the four of us had ever prayed together.

And I made three friends that day.

And you know what else?  Christmas didn’t suck at all.

 

I love rabbis!  (How’s that for a Christmas message?)

I have learned many great truths and received extraordinary insights from rabbis on several occasions during my life.  I think everyone needs a rabbi sometimes.  God uses the language of symbolism, and the rabbis have been pondering over the meanings of these symbols for millennia.  I don’t agree with everything that the rabbis teach—they don’t even agree with each other a lot of the time—but I am always enriched by looking at symbols the way they do.

Years ago, while living in the Spokane, WA area, I had the great honor of playing “Tevye” in a production of “Fiddler on the Roof.”  Our director contacted the rabbi at Temple Beth Shalom and asked if he would be willing to meet with us and help us to more accurately portray the characters in the play.  He graciously consented.  He taught us many things, and over the course of the production, continued to help us.  We were loaned prayer shawls and even a decommissioned but still beautiful Torah scroll to use in the play.  But the rabbi’s greatest contribution was the gift of knowledge and wisdom.

I learned how a Jew prays, for example.  He never prays on his knees, except on high holy days.  He prays while standing up, because God is his Father.  You don’t kneel to your Father.  You stand and talk to Him.  A Jew knows the nature of his relationship to his Father.

Today, while listening to a rabbi on the radio—I love that way that rolls off the tongue: “rabbi on the radio”—I learned another bit of Jewish wisdom.  I learned their understanding of circumcision, or at least one aspect of it that I had not considered before.  I learned that circumcision not only represents the covenant that Jehovah made with Abraham, but that the Jews believe that circumcision is “man’s contribution to creation.”  Man comes into this world “unfinished,” and circumcision symbolically completes that process—or at least starts man on his journey toward perfection.

Consider the implication: man is unfinished, imperfect, and God requires that he be perfected or finished.  And isn’t that the purpose of life?  To become completed, perfected?  The Savior said, “Be ye therefore perfect.”

When I heard the rabbi say that today, it resonated in my soul with a profound, Liberty-Bell-sized ring of truth.  I thought, “That’s really cool.”  (I know that sounds trite, but that’s what went through my mind at the time.)

Then I was shaken to my very core as I realized the full import of that symbolism, the unspoken truth.

Man comes into this world imperfect, and must be perfected.  However, woman requires no such perfection!  She comes into life already perfect.  She is whole.  She is God’s greatest and most perfect creation.

Christ was born of a virgin.  Mary was untouched by imperfect man.  Consider for a moment the symbolism in that.

I do not have words to adequately express my gratitude for the women in my life, but I am profoundly grateful.

Men, cherish the women in your lives.  Protect them.  Honor them.  Revere them.  They are queens and princesses.

In short, they are daughters of God.

Now, I just wait for the feedback…