A few years ago Jo Anne had surgery on both of her feet. The first couple of days she experienced severe pain and I told her she was a bit wimpy, and that I would have been able to endure the same procedure without even any anesthesia. Well, given the circumstances she didn't respond very well to my paralyzed humor. She recovered quite quickly thankfully, but for a few days she had to roll around in a wheelchair and we looked like a very interesting couple to say the least.
She actually had the same surgery about 10 years before this latest and new procedure, but the doctor didn't do it correctly and so she had to have it redone. Fortunately for the public with feet problems this doctor quit the medical profession, under some duress I believe. His former partner however, agreed to do the new surgery at no charge and it seems as though he did as good a job as he possibly could given the circumstances. You don't find that kind of a person around much anymore.
Don't you just love people who have paid the price to gain knowledge and training in their special fields and then who have the integrity to do it "... with [their] might....?" I suspect if we were suing kinds of people, we could have sued the first foot doctor for malpractice.
A couple of days before the surgery, we drove out to Riverside County to watch our son, Mike, give his opening argument in a death penalty, serial killing case. Mike was a deputy district attorney at the time. This case involved a particularly heinous crime committed by two extremely evil and wicked individuals. Mike had been preparing for this trial for several years. Although he is our son and we are very prejudiced, he did a masterful job in a 2 1/2 hour opening statement to put the case in proper perspective in the eyes of the jury. He seldom glanced at any notes and everyone in the courtroom was riveted on every word he spoke. We went back two days later and observed him skillfully question witness after witness as he began to build his case. I was very impressed with his intense preparation and desire to see justice done for the victim -- a young 14-year-old girl -- and her family and young friends. The young friends who, at the time of the trial, were now in their late teens and early twenties were absolutely overwhelmed that anybody would care enough about this one, little, seemingly insignificant girl, to invest so much time and effort into bringing her murderers to justice. The trial went on for over six months. The jury finally came back with a death penalty verdict which was unprecedented because one of the serial killers was a young woman. Based on what I observed in that courtroom, I don't think Mike could ever be accused of malpractice. If so, it wouldn't ever be because of a lack of effort on his part, as he works with all his "might" to see justice done.
The contrast between the first foot doctor, the second foot doctor, and Mike has caused me to reflect on the fact that almost anybody in any walk of life is susceptible of being guilty of malpractice. I believe malpractice is more a question of motive than knowledge and training most of the time. A respiratory therapist, a caregiver, (I am especially concerned that these vital people in my life are never guilty of malpractice) a painter, a wallpaper hanger, a carpenter, an auto mechanic, a wedding coordinator and caterer, and even spouses and parents, etc., could all be guilty of malpractice if they don't do with all their "might" what they have promised and are supposed to be doing.
What about teachers? I am quite sensitive about this, having been a teacher for most of my life. I still am always asking myself if I have prepared sufficiently and pondered deeply and long enough to teach an adequate lesson regarding significant gospel topics. I hope I am never guilty of malpractice because of a lack of preparation or effort and that I could only be blamed for stupidity. I am sure there have been a few students over the years that perhaps would have been justified in suing me for malpractice. I have always tried hard ;however, to never be guilty, as a teacher, of slaying my students, as Samson did the Philistines. "And Samson said, With the jawbone of an ass...have I slain a thousand men." [Judges 15:16]
I suspect the quotation from Ecclesiastes at the top of this Observation cuts across every aspect of our lives --"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might..." [Ecclesiastes 9:10]
In our professions, as students, in our church callings, as spouses and parents, and citizens of this great nation, we must never be so negligent and sloppy in what we do that we could ever be rightfully sued for malpractice.
Perhaps an important thought in all of this was given by the transcendentalist author (1817-1862) Henry David Thoreau: "Do not hire a man who does your work for money, but him who does it for love of it."
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
March Madness III
I have been an avid follower of "March Madness" for many years – the men’s basketball NCAA tournament. I hate to admit it, but I am a basketball junkie. Even at my age, I must confess there is still a fire burning inside me regarding this sport. My love for basketball is irrefutable evidence of a misspent youth playing basketball anywhere and everywhere I could and as often as I could. In fact, up to the time I was hurt, I played basketball with co-workers, on church teams, with my kids, neighbors and relatives at family gatherings.
Jo Anne, who could not understand my passion for this sport in the early years of our marriage, is now as grateful as I am for the entertainment it has provided me following my injury. Since being paralyzed, it has brought me hours of enjoyment that, had I not been a fan, would perhaps of been filled with self pity and boredom. While involved in a game, I actually lose my sense of self and become fully involved in what I am watching. For a short time, my body becomes irrelevant and there is no distinction between me and the other fans that are also caught up in the moment. My love for this sport has only intensified through the years.
I must tell you about the time that "March Madness" almost cost me my life. My wife, Jo Anne, and my youngest daughter, Jackie, and I had gone to St. George to visit some of Jo Anne's family. It was toward the end of March and I was a little nervous that I would not be able to see the NCAA championship game. My whole trip brightened considerably, however, when Jo Anne's brother, Danny, who lives in Mesquite, Nevada, invited me to come over because he was going to be watching the championship game between the University of Arizona and the University of Kansas on his big screen TV. I eagerly accepted his invitation, but wouldn’t you know the day before the great event the battery to the ventilator on the back of my wheelchair died. Jo Anne tried to locate a new one, but the right battery could not be found in all of St. George. The medical supply store found a garage who said they could order one, but that it might take a few days to get it.
The ventilator worked just fine as long as it was plugged into an outlet in the wall. I figured since breathing is better than not breathing, I really had no choice but to stay put. Not much fun for a vacation. Then a light went on in my head -- pure revelation. My ventilator is equipped with an internal battery. It is a safety feature in case the main battery dies and one is not close to an outlet. If fully charged, it is supposed to last about one hour – something we had never yet put to the test. Well, I knew that it was less than an hour from St. George to Mesquite, and the way Jo Anne drives, it would even be a shorter time period than that.
I finally convinced Jo Anne to take me and promised her that it would be okay. So late in the afternoon of the game, she and her youngest daughter, Jackie, loaded me into the van and off we went. However, I did not calculate in my plan the unexpected.
Just as we were about to get on the freeway, Jo Anne realized we needed gas. As if that wasn’t enough, we took the wrong off-ramp to get to Danny's home and got lost. We were still some distance from our destination when the internal battery ran out of juice. At that moment we discovered that when the ventilator dies, it gives a big, sickening gasp - its last breath and mine – and completely shuts down. The next sound is another safety feature – an alarm begins ringing. It is quite a gut wrenching sound to the person who is depending on the ventilator for his air. With Jo Anne at the wheel, we had prepared Jackie in advance if the worst case scenario should happen. Standing, ready and able to help her Dad, she pulled out the trusty ambubag (a hand operated air pump) and began pumping air into my lungs via my trach attached to my neck. As Jackie, not quite 12 years old at the time (we train them young at our house) began pumping air into my lungs, she realized that she had me in a very compromising situation – to her advantage. While pumping like a good daughter, the questions started coming - “Dad, could I have a new bicycle?" "Yes,” I gasped out. “Yes, anything, just keep pumping!" "Dad, how about a year's pass to Disneyland?" "Yes,” I agreed again. “Just keep squeezing that bag!"
We finally screeched to a stop in front of Danny's home and he came running out into the driveway with a long extension cord. Soon the ventilator was happy once again as it took over the job of pumping air into my lungs to the relief of us all – especially Jackie who had done such a good job. In fact, she had this incredible smile on her face. I could just picture visions of bicycles and Disneyland dancing in her head.
Plugged into the wall, munching on chips and dip, drinking root beer, and watching Arizona beat Kansas on the big screen TV, I was truly in heaven. I temporarily put out of my mind the fact that later that night -- it turned out to be midnight -- we would have to make the mad dash back up the gorge to St. George to the safety of another extension cord and wall socket. Jo Anne, giving a great imitation of an Indy 500 driver, got us home safely.
Well, am I crazy or what? Was it really worth risking my life to be able to watch that game on the big screen TV? Any normal rational person would say of course not! But for somebody infected with the "March Madness" disease - yes, it was worth the risk.
It is so hard to get basketball out of your blood. I think I am in pretty good company though. I love this passage from President Spencer W. Kimball's Journal which he wrote as a young man: "It is a great occasion. Many people came tonight who have never been before. Some of the townsmen say basketball is a girl’s game but they came in large numbers tonight. Our court is not quite regulation. We are used to it, our opponents not. I have special luck with my shots tonight and the ball goes through the hoop again and again and the game ends with our High School team the victors against the college team. I am the smallest one and the youngest on the team. I have piled up the most points through the efforts of the whole team protecting me and feeding the ball to me. I am on the shoulders of the big fellows of the Academy. They are parading me around the hall to my consternation and embarrassment. I like basketball. I would rather play this game than eat." (Edward L. Kimball and Andrew E. Kimball Jr., Spencer W. Kimball (Salt Lake City Bookcraft, 1977), 65)
I can totally identify with President Kimball's sentiments regarding basketball. From President Ezra Taft Benson's biography comes the following incident: “Ezra remembers his father swearing only once. The Oneida Stake Academy was playing Brigham Young College in Logan, and late in the game Oneida trailed by a point after failing to convert on several attempts. Ezra suddenly got the ball and an exasperated George yelled. ‘Hell, T. put it in!’ It was shocking to the local citizens coming from George Benson, but apparently they understood his enthusiasm and anxiety.” Ezra continued, “When we finished with a one-point victory, Father was overjoyed.” (Sheri L. Dew, Ezra Taft Benson: A Biography (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1987), 39)
Have I ever been tempted to utter a cuss word during a Lakers or BYU basketball game? Well, hopefully those of you with sound minds will have mercy on those of us who are smitten by "March Madness." If you unfortunately happen to be married to someone with this affliction, let me give you the following counsel. As you offer your prayers for your loved one, use as a pattern the words of the distraught father who brought his son to Jesus to be healed. "Lord, have mercy on my son [husband]: for he is [a] lunatic..." [Matthew 17: 15] And then we must never forget Paul's counsel to the Thessalonian Saints: "... comfort the feebleminded..." [1 Thessalonians 5: 14]
On the bright side, "March Madness" comes only once every 12 months!
Dad/Grandpa/Rushton
Jo Anne, who could not understand my passion for this sport in the early years of our marriage, is now as grateful as I am for the entertainment it has provided me following my injury. Since being paralyzed, it has brought me hours of enjoyment that, had I not been a fan, would perhaps of been filled with self pity and boredom. While involved in a game, I actually lose my sense of self and become fully involved in what I am watching. For a short time, my body becomes irrelevant and there is no distinction between me and the other fans that are also caught up in the moment. My love for this sport has only intensified through the years.
I must tell you about the time that "March Madness" almost cost me my life. My wife, Jo Anne, and my youngest daughter, Jackie, and I had gone to St. George to visit some of Jo Anne's family. It was toward the end of March and I was a little nervous that I would not be able to see the NCAA championship game. My whole trip brightened considerably, however, when Jo Anne's brother, Danny, who lives in Mesquite, Nevada, invited me to come over because he was going to be watching the championship game between the University of Arizona and the University of Kansas on his big screen TV. I eagerly accepted his invitation, but wouldn’t you know the day before the great event the battery to the ventilator on the back of my wheelchair died. Jo Anne tried to locate a new one, but the right battery could not be found in all of St. George. The medical supply store found a garage who said they could order one, but that it might take a few days to get it.
The ventilator worked just fine as long as it was plugged into an outlet in the wall. I figured since breathing is better than not breathing, I really had no choice but to stay put. Not much fun for a vacation. Then a light went on in my head -- pure revelation. My ventilator is equipped with an internal battery. It is a safety feature in case the main battery dies and one is not close to an outlet. If fully charged, it is supposed to last about one hour – something we had never yet put to the test. Well, I knew that it was less than an hour from St. George to Mesquite, and the way Jo Anne drives, it would even be a shorter time period than that.
I finally convinced Jo Anne to take me and promised her that it would be okay. So late in the afternoon of the game, she and her youngest daughter, Jackie, loaded me into the van and off we went. However, I did not calculate in my plan the unexpected.
Just as we were about to get on the freeway, Jo Anne realized we needed gas. As if that wasn’t enough, we took the wrong off-ramp to get to Danny's home and got lost. We were still some distance from our destination when the internal battery ran out of juice. At that moment we discovered that when the ventilator dies, it gives a big, sickening gasp - its last breath and mine – and completely shuts down. The next sound is another safety feature – an alarm begins ringing. It is quite a gut wrenching sound to the person who is depending on the ventilator for his air. With Jo Anne at the wheel, we had prepared Jackie in advance if the worst case scenario should happen. Standing, ready and able to help her Dad, she pulled out the trusty ambubag (a hand operated air pump) and began pumping air into my lungs via my trach attached to my neck. As Jackie, not quite 12 years old at the time (we train them young at our house) began pumping air into my lungs, she realized that she had me in a very compromising situation – to her advantage. While pumping like a good daughter, the questions started coming - “Dad, could I have a new bicycle?" "Yes,” I gasped out. “Yes, anything, just keep pumping!" "Dad, how about a year's pass to Disneyland?" "Yes,” I agreed again. “Just keep squeezing that bag!"
We finally screeched to a stop in front of Danny's home and he came running out into the driveway with a long extension cord. Soon the ventilator was happy once again as it took over the job of pumping air into my lungs to the relief of us all – especially Jackie who had done such a good job. In fact, she had this incredible smile on her face. I could just picture visions of bicycles and Disneyland dancing in her head.
Plugged into the wall, munching on chips and dip, drinking root beer, and watching Arizona beat Kansas on the big screen TV, I was truly in heaven. I temporarily put out of my mind the fact that later that night -- it turned out to be midnight -- we would have to make the mad dash back up the gorge to St. George to the safety of another extension cord and wall socket. Jo Anne, giving a great imitation of an Indy 500 driver, got us home safely.
Well, am I crazy or what? Was it really worth risking my life to be able to watch that game on the big screen TV? Any normal rational person would say of course not! But for somebody infected with the "March Madness" disease - yes, it was worth the risk.
It is so hard to get basketball out of your blood. I think I am in pretty good company though. I love this passage from President Spencer W. Kimball's Journal which he wrote as a young man: "It is a great occasion. Many people came tonight who have never been before. Some of the townsmen say basketball is a girl’s game but they came in large numbers tonight. Our court is not quite regulation. We are used to it, our opponents not. I have special luck with my shots tonight and the ball goes through the hoop again and again and the game ends with our High School team the victors against the college team. I am the smallest one and the youngest on the team. I have piled up the most points through the efforts of the whole team protecting me and feeding the ball to me. I am on the shoulders of the big fellows of the Academy. They are parading me around the hall to my consternation and embarrassment. I like basketball. I would rather play this game than eat." (Edward L. Kimball and Andrew E. Kimball Jr., Spencer W. Kimball (Salt Lake City Bookcraft, 1977), 65)
I can totally identify with President Kimball's sentiments regarding basketball. From President Ezra Taft Benson's biography comes the following incident: “Ezra remembers his father swearing only once. The Oneida Stake Academy was playing Brigham Young College in Logan, and late in the game Oneida trailed by a point after failing to convert on several attempts. Ezra suddenly got the ball and an exasperated George yelled. ‘Hell, T. put it in!’ It was shocking to the local citizens coming from George Benson, but apparently they understood his enthusiasm and anxiety.” Ezra continued, “When we finished with a one-point victory, Father was overjoyed.” (Sheri L. Dew, Ezra Taft Benson: A Biography (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1987), 39)
Have I ever been tempted to utter a cuss word during a Lakers or BYU basketball game? Well, hopefully those of you with sound minds will have mercy on those of us who are smitten by "March Madness." If you unfortunately happen to be married to someone with this affliction, let me give you the following counsel. As you offer your prayers for your loved one, use as a pattern the words of the distraught father who brought his son to Jesus to be healed. "Lord, have mercy on my son [husband]: for he is [a] lunatic..." [Matthew 17: 15] And then we must never forget Paul's counsel to the Thessalonian Saints: "... comfort the feebleminded..." [1 Thessalonians 5: 14]
On the bright side, "March Madness" comes only once every 12 months!
Dad/Grandpa/Rushton
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Duty
A while back, after a particularly difficult day, Jo Anne said to me, "Jack, we really ought to write a book about our experiences together since your accident." I agreed that it would make for some interesting reading. She then said, "And if we write that book I have the perfect title for it. We will call it "The Work and the Glory!" I looked at her in amazement and told her that really was a good title but a very famous author (Gerald N. Lund) had pretty well used it up. She responded, "I know that, but it would still be the perfect title for our book because for some reason I seem to do all the work and you manage to get all the glory."
For the past 20 years I have been unable to do one thing for myself physically. All my physical needs have had to be met by family and friends. Primarily the responsibility has fallen upon Jo Anne who has worked tirelessly in my behalf. I believe she has done it out of love but also out of a sense of duty.
Although I really can't do anything of a physical nature to repay her for all she has done and continues to do for me, I have felt I have a "duty" with regard to her as great as she has to me. And so you might ask, what is my "duty" toward her as my wife in this unusual situation? I believe it is, among other things, to be as pleasant as I can be, totally open in my communication with her, complementary, filled with gratitude for every act of service she performs on my behalf, and never being critical of her in any way. I believe this is my "duty."
The dictionary says of duty: "Duty: Synonym -- respect...
Obligatory tasks, conduct, service, functions that arise from one's position... a moral or legal obligation ... the force of moral obligation." [Merriam Webster Dictionary]
I have gained a great appreciation for the importance of duty in our lives by reading a most interesting book entitled, Nelson's Trafalgar, written by Roy Adkins. Reading this book has been a sobering, but at the same time, an inspiring experience. The author has quoted extensively from the journals of the captains and seamen. There were 17,000 British sailors who fought in this bloody and horrific sea battle -- the last major sea battle fought by wooden ships with sails. The blood and carnage is a bit difficult to read about, but at the same time it heightens one's appreciation of sea life and war in the early 1800s and the courage of those involved.
Of the many things I could share with you from this book I will confine myself to the importance of "duty" that enabled Admiral Lord Nelson and his captains and seamen to win the important battle of Trafalgar.
The Battle of Trafalgar was fought on October 21, 1805, off the coast of Spain near the large Spanish city of Cadiz, and at a point near the coast called Trafalgar. Napoleon had his French army poised on the coast of France ready to cross the English Channel and invade England. He couldn't do this however, unless he knew that he had destroyed the British Navy and could cross the Channel unmolested. The French and Spanish were allies and had a vast combined fleet of French and Spanish warships that was much larger than anything that Great Britain could put together at the time. France and Spain had the ships and the manpower but they didn't have Admiral Lord Nelson.
The British Navy had been blockading the harbor at Cadiz for months, but finally the combined French and Spanish fleet was able to escape which led to the showdown at Trafalgar. The leaders of the British Empire knew that if the British fleet was defeated by the French and Spanish that a French invasion would be inevitable. Admiral Lord Nelson, the Admiral of the British fleet, was given the assignment by his government and King to destroy the French and Spanish Armada. Nelson was a brilliant tactician and had gained vast knowledge of how to successfully conduct a sea battle between wooden ships with sails. He had been wounded in a previous engagement, losing one of his arms and an eye, and never again experienced robust health. Much of his life was spent at sea where he had also suffered from scurvy and other diseases incident to sea life in those days. He was only 5'4" tall but seemed so much bigger in the eyes of those he led.
Just before the English engaged the combined fleet, Nelson signaled from the flagship Victory the one and only message his captains and seamen would receive from him before and during the battle, "England expects that every man will do his duty." When this message was received it had an electrifying effect among the men on the ships. Seemingly, the desire in the heart of most of the British sailors that day was to do his duty come what may. Severely wounded men and officers remained at their posts doing their duty until victory had been gained and their beloved England saved.
In fact, Nelson's final famous words (as related by Victory's Surgeon, William Beatty, who was with Nelson when he died) were "Thank God I have done my duty." According to Beatty, he repeated these words several times until he became unable to speak. To do their "duty" seems to have been at the heart of all that was important to Admiral Lord Nelson and his men. Doing their duty they saved England from Napoleon's armies and ultimate domination of the Western world as we now know it by the Dictator-Emperor.
I believe that "Heavenly Father expects each one of us to do his/her duty." To be able to say at the end of one's life, "Thank God I have done my duty!" would undoubtedly be the crowning achievement of a life well lived. Or as the Apostle Paul said, "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith!" (2 Timothy 4:8)
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
For the past 20 years I have been unable to do one thing for myself physically. All my physical needs have had to be met by family and friends. Primarily the responsibility has fallen upon Jo Anne who has worked tirelessly in my behalf. I believe she has done it out of love but also out of a sense of duty.
Although I really can't do anything of a physical nature to repay her for all she has done and continues to do for me, I have felt I have a "duty" with regard to her as great as she has to me. And so you might ask, what is my "duty" toward her as my wife in this unusual situation? I believe it is, among other things, to be as pleasant as I can be, totally open in my communication with her, complementary, filled with gratitude for every act of service she performs on my behalf, and never being critical of her in any way. I believe this is my "duty."
The dictionary says of duty: "Duty: Synonym -- respect...
Obligatory tasks, conduct, service, functions that arise from one's position... a moral or legal obligation ... the force of moral obligation." [Merriam Webster Dictionary]
I have gained a great appreciation for the importance of duty in our lives by reading a most interesting book entitled, Nelson's Trafalgar, written by Roy Adkins. Reading this book has been a sobering, but at the same time, an inspiring experience. The author has quoted extensively from the journals of the captains and seamen. There were 17,000 British sailors who fought in this bloody and horrific sea battle -- the last major sea battle fought by wooden ships with sails. The blood and carnage is a bit difficult to read about, but at the same time it heightens one's appreciation of sea life and war in the early 1800s and the courage of those involved.
Of the many things I could share with you from this book I will confine myself to the importance of "duty" that enabled Admiral Lord Nelson and his captains and seamen to win the important battle of Trafalgar.
The Battle of Trafalgar was fought on October 21, 1805, off the coast of Spain near the large Spanish city of Cadiz, and at a point near the coast called Trafalgar. Napoleon had his French army poised on the coast of France ready to cross the English Channel and invade England. He couldn't do this however, unless he knew that he had destroyed the British Navy and could cross the Channel unmolested. The French and Spanish were allies and had a vast combined fleet of French and Spanish warships that was much larger than anything that Great Britain could put together at the time. France and Spain had the ships and the manpower but they didn't have Admiral Lord Nelson.
The British Navy had been blockading the harbor at Cadiz for months, but finally the combined French and Spanish fleet was able to escape which led to the showdown at Trafalgar. The leaders of the British Empire knew that if the British fleet was defeated by the French and Spanish that a French invasion would be inevitable. Admiral Lord Nelson, the Admiral of the British fleet, was given the assignment by his government and King to destroy the French and Spanish Armada. Nelson was a brilliant tactician and had gained vast knowledge of how to successfully conduct a sea battle between wooden ships with sails. He had been wounded in a previous engagement, losing one of his arms and an eye, and never again experienced robust health. Much of his life was spent at sea where he had also suffered from scurvy and other diseases incident to sea life in those days. He was only 5'4" tall but seemed so much bigger in the eyes of those he led.
Just before the English engaged the combined fleet, Nelson signaled from the flagship Victory the one and only message his captains and seamen would receive from him before and during the battle, "England expects that every man will do his duty." When this message was received it had an electrifying effect among the men on the ships. Seemingly, the desire in the heart of most of the British sailors that day was to do his duty come what may. Severely wounded men and officers remained at their posts doing their duty until victory had been gained and their beloved England saved.
In fact, Nelson's final famous words (as related by Victory's Surgeon, William Beatty, who was with Nelson when he died) were "Thank God I have done my duty." According to Beatty, he repeated these words several times until he became unable to speak. To do their "duty" seems to have been at the heart of all that was important to Admiral Lord Nelson and his men. Doing their duty they saved England from Napoleon's armies and ultimate domination of the Western world as we now know it by the Dictator-Emperor.
I believe that "Heavenly Father expects each one of us to do his/her duty." To be able to say at the end of one's life, "Thank God I have done my duty!" would undoubtedly be the crowning achievement of a life well lived. Or as the Apostle Paul said, "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith!" (2 Timothy 4:8)
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Friday, February 26, 2010
Nonverbal Communication
A couple of weeks ago I agreed to speak at a ward youth conference to about 40 young people. The speaker they really wanted canceled out at the last moment and they asked me to pinch-hit for him. I had some misgivings about accepting the assignment on that basis, but feel an obligation to speak when asked, if it is at all possible.
To add to my misgivings I was scheduled to speak at 2 PM on an unusually warm Saturday afternoon. I didn't know at the time that the young people had spent all morning in a "bounce house" jumping their hearts out, then had eaten a large lunch, attended three workshops, and then staggered into the chapel for me to entertain and inspire for another 45 minutes.
I am unable to turn my head and my eyesight is not very good. Because of these two problems, I basically can only see the people sitting directly in front of me when I speak or teach. I probably am the most laid-back teacher and speaker in the world.
As luck would have it, a little 12-year-old boy was sitting directly in front of me not two feet away and I could see him very well. He looked like he was dead. His face was pale, his eyes were glazed over and it didn't look like he was breathing. He was a 12-year-old zombie. No matter how funny the story or how wonderful the point I was making (in my own mind) his expression, or lack thereof, never changed. This was extremely disconcerting to me and began to destroy my confidence in what I was saying and doing there. The sad fact is that the 39 other kids were responding to me about the same way. Behind the zombie was a chubby little 12-year-old who was very much alive. Every funny story I told he would yawn, turn his head and look at the clock at the back of the chapel.
The highlight of my presentation was that a 16-year-old girl sitting by the chubby 12-year-old, actually smiled at the conclusion of my remarks. In retrospect she was probably relieved that the ordeal was finally over. I wonder if they will ever ask me to come back for a return engagement?
Without saying a word, these young people had communicated loud and clear that this had not been a motivating or life-changing experience in their lives. This they had communicated by their body language and the power of nonverbal communication.
"Body language is a form of non-verbal communication, consisting of body pose, gestures, and eye movements. Humans send and interpret such signals subconsciously... Body language may provide cues as to the attitude, or state of mind of a person. besides many other cues." [Wikipedia]
I think I first discovered the power of nonverbal communication as a young teacher when I taught religious education and counseled disturbed teenagers at a reform school/coed prison.
I had a student by the name of Ralph -- not his real name. He made my life miserable for almost an entire school year before I learned from him a great lesson about life and love. Ralph was against everything I was for. He was grossly overweight, took a shower infrequently based on the aroma that permeated the space his body occupied. His fingernails were dirty, his clothing was dirty, and so was his mouth. If I would use any religious word like "heaven" or "salvation" he would pretend that he was throwing up. At the beginning of class he would invariably say, "Are we going to have another of your blankety-blank lessons?" Because of Ralph, I changed my teaching strategy in that class. I would say something like "Before we have our lesson today, let me tell you what happened to me last night." Then I would proceed to teach the lesson without them ever knowing it.
He would smoke a cigarette right up to the door of our building each day and then throw the butt at my feet in a most defiant and belligerent manner. Each day I would stand at the door and shake the hand of each of my students as they entered, but when I extended my hand to Ralph, he ignored me, turned away, and in a state of hostility stomped into the classroom. Though I hate to admit it, I had developed a great dislike for Ralph. Let's be honest; I didn't like anything about him and without me saying a word he knew it. Each day I would pray that Ralph would be sick and not come to class, but he was 100% in his attendance.
Finally, I think it was toward the end of February; I knew I couldn't go on this way. I felt in my heart that Ralph was never going to change, so it was up to me to somehow change my feelings toward him. But how could I possibly do this? He was so unlovable!
Each day as the kids would approach our building I began to pray that the Lord would soften my heart toward Ralph, and that I might find something about him I could admire and respect.
Nothing happened for many weeks, but I persisted in my prayer about Ralph, and then one day a miracle occurred. As I watched him lumbering up to the building, smoking a cigarette, and probably telling a dirty joke to a fellow inmate, I realized that he was probably the most honest and forthright person I had ever known. He certainly wasn't trying to curry favor with me and kind of told it the way it was -- especially about my lessons. All of a sudden a feeling of warmth toward Ralph came into my heart. As he got close to me, trying to enter the classroom, instead of extending my hand to shake his, I hit him as hard as I could on the arm and almost knocked him down. He looked at me in amazement and he knew in that instant that something had changed in our relationship. He sensed that I was accepting him and wanted to befriend him -- not through anything I had said or would say -- just a feeling -- a true feeling!
I never once ever said to him, "Ralph, I really like you." He would have thrown up at that kind of a verbal statement. But he knew that things were different between us, and they were.
My greatest accomplishment as a teacher of teenagers came the last day of class that semester. As the class came to an end, Ralph stood up and said "I want to give the closing prayer." Looks of amazement appeared on the faces of the 11 other kids in class. Ralph stared at them and said, "Close your eyes and bow your heads!" Every student obeyed his command while he prayed somewhat as follows: "This class hasn't been so bad after all. And these teachers are not so bad either. In fact it has been good to be here."
I would like to say that Ralph went on to be a model citizen, but I don't think that is the case. However, he knew, and would know for the rest of his life, that a "religious dude" -- which we as teachers were called -- actually liked him and was his friend.
Don't get me wrong. It is important to verbally express love and appreciation to others. However, no matter how we may profess our love through words, what matters most is what we do and what we truly feel in our hearts. These feelings will most likely be best communicated in a nonverbal manner. If there is any chasm between what we feel and what we say it will be readily apparent and felt by others.
The Lord's most frequent manner of communicating with us is in a powerful, nonverbal and feeling way. "... if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right." [D&C 9:8] [Emphasis added]
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
To add to my misgivings I was scheduled to speak at 2 PM on an unusually warm Saturday afternoon. I didn't know at the time that the young people had spent all morning in a "bounce house" jumping their hearts out, then had eaten a large lunch, attended three workshops, and then staggered into the chapel for me to entertain and inspire for another 45 minutes.
I am unable to turn my head and my eyesight is not very good. Because of these two problems, I basically can only see the people sitting directly in front of me when I speak or teach. I probably am the most laid-back teacher and speaker in the world.
As luck would have it, a little 12-year-old boy was sitting directly in front of me not two feet away and I could see him very well. He looked like he was dead. His face was pale, his eyes were glazed over and it didn't look like he was breathing. He was a 12-year-old zombie. No matter how funny the story or how wonderful the point I was making (in my own mind) his expression, or lack thereof, never changed. This was extremely disconcerting to me and began to destroy my confidence in what I was saying and doing there. The sad fact is that the 39 other kids were responding to me about the same way. Behind the zombie was a chubby little 12-year-old who was very much alive. Every funny story I told he would yawn, turn his head and look at the clock at the back of the chapel.
The highlight of my presentation was that a 16-year-old girl sitting by the chubby 12-year-old, actually smiled at the conclusion of my remarks. In retrospect she was probably relieved that the ordeal was finally over. I wonder if they will ever ask me to come back for a return engagement?
Without saying a word, these young people had communicated loud and clear that this had not been a motivating or life-changing experience in their lives. This they had communicated by their body language and the power of nonverbal communication.
"Body language is a form of non-verbal communication, consisting of body pose, gestures, and eye movements. Humans send and interpret such signals subconsciously... Body language may provide cues as to the attitude, or state of mind of a person. besides many other cues." [Wikipedia]
I think I first discovered the power of nonverbal communication as a young teacher when I taught religious education and counseled disturbed teenagers at a reform school/coed prison.
I had a student by the name of Ralph -- not his real name. He made my life miserable for almost an entire school year before I learned from him a great lesson about life and love. Ralph was against everything I was for. He was grossly overweight, took a shower infrequently based on the aroma that permeated the space his body occupied. His fingernails were dirty, his clothing was dirty, and so was his mouth. If I would use any religious word like "heaven" or "salvation" he would pretend that he was throwing up. At the beginning of class he would invariably say, "Are we going to have another of your blankety-blank lessons?" Because of Ralph, I changed my teaching strategy in that class. I would say something like "Before we have our lesson today, let me tell you what happened to me last night." Then I would proceed to teach the lesson without them ever knowing it.
He would smoke a cigarette right up to the door of our building each day and then throw the butt at my feet in a most defiant and belligerent manner. Each day I would stand at the door and shake the hand of each of my students as they entered, but when I extended my hand to Ralph, he ignored me, turned away, and in a state of hostility stomped into the classroom. Though I hate to admit it, I had developed a great dislike for Ralph. Let's be honest; I didn't like anything about him and without me saying a word he knew it. Each day I would pray that Ralph would be sick and not come to class, but he was 100% in his attendance.
Finally, I think it was toward the end of February; I knew I couldn't go on this way. I felt in my heart that Ralph was never going to change, so it was up to me to somehow change my feelings toward him. But how could I possibly do this? He was so unlovable!
Each day as the kids would approach our building I began to pray that the Lord would soften my heart toward Ralph, and that I might find something about him I could admire and respect.
Nothing happened for many weeks, but I persisted in my prayer about Ralph, and then one day a miracle occurred. As I watched him lumbering up to the building, smoking a cigarette, and probably telling a dirty joke to a fellow inmate, I realized that he was probably the most honest and forthright person I had ever known. He certainly wasn't trying to curry favor with me and kind of told it the way it was -- especially about my lessons. All of a sudden a feeling of warmth toward Ralph came into my heart. As he got close to me, trying to enter the classroom, instead of extending my hand to shake his, I hit him as hard as I could on the arm and almost knocked him down. He looked at me in amazement and he knew in that instant that something had changed in our relationship. He sensed that I was accepting him and wanted to befriend him -- not through anything I had said or would say -- just a feeling -- a true feeling!
I never once ever said to him, "Ralph, I really like you." He would have thrown up at that kind of a verbal statement. But he knew that things were different between us, and they were.
My greatest accomplishment as a teacher of teenagers came the last day of class that semester. As the class came to an end, Ralph stood up and said "I want to give the closing prayer." Looks of amazement appeared on the faces of the 11 other kids in class. Ralph stared at them and said, "Close your eyes and bow your heads!" Every student obeyed his command while he prayed somewhat as follows: "This class hasn't been so bad after all. And these teachers are not so bad either. In fact it has been good to be here."
I would like to say that Ralph went on to be a model citizen, but I don't think that is the case. However, he knew, and would know for the rest of his life, that a "religious dude" -- which we as teachers were called -- actually liked him and was his friend.
Don't get me wrong. It is important to verbally express love and appreciation to others. However, no matter how we may profess our love through words, what matters most is what we do and what we truly feel in our hearts. These feelings will most likely be best communicated in a nonverbal manner. If there is any chasm between what we feel and what we say it will be readily apparent and felt by others.
The Lord's most frequent manner of communicating with us is in a powerful, nonverbal and feeling way. "... if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right." [D&C 9:8] [Emphasis added]
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Are You Listening?
Jo Anne took me to Costco a while back to see if I needed Hearing Aids or was just tired of listening to her and tuning her out on purpose. Thankfully, the Costco Hearing Aid technician saved me. After an extensive test, he revealed to us that indeed I had lost 25 to 30% of my ability to hear in both ears. He recommended a pair of $1000 Hearing Aids, but when I tried them out all I could hear was the swooshing noise my ventilator makes as I breathe. I pretty much had to choose either breathing or hearing better, so I immediately opted for breathing. Much to my chagrin Jo Anne hesitated for some time weighing the options, but also finally agreed that maybe breathing was just a little bit more important than hearing well. I was very relieved!
However, I believe hearing well and especially listening carefully to others is almost as important as breathing. When I think of the people I enjoy visiting with the most it is invariably with those who really listen to me and seem genuinely interested in what I have to say. When I am in a crowded place like Costco for example, most people don't pay much attention to me but on occasion a random individual will approach me and say, "Wow, what an incredible wheelchair you have. How does it work?" And then they really listen and ask even more questions like "What happened to you anyway?" Whenever I have these experiences with strangers my life is enriched because they are validating me as a human being and a person of worth through their desire to hear and listen and understand.
Jo Anne is a good listener. She hears everything I say and many times things I don't say or didn't think I said. On occasion since my accident, we have had some heated conversations about various topics and just as I am about to make a winning argument she will reach over and pull my air hose off my throat -- end of conversation, end of empathetic listening -- end of life?
Many years ago I learned a great lesson about the importance of listening. I was teaching seminary at the Utah State Industrial School in Ogden, Utah, which in reality was a prison for juvenile delinquents who had run awry of the law.
One year while I was teaching there I would go to the maximum security unit once each day to teach a class to the boys incarcerated there because they were considered to be dangerous or a security risk. They wore blue jeans, white T-shirts, tennis shoes with no laces, and were extremely depressed and unhappy. Several guards watched them 24 hours a day from a glass booth strategically positioned so that the kids were never out of earshot or sight.
Almost all the boys attended my class, not because I was a great teacher, but because I didn't work for the state and therefore had no power over them. It was a diversion for them, to have someone like me visit them while they were doing their time in maximum security.
After a very simple lesson regarding fundamental principles of life like working instead of stealing, being honest instead of lying, respecting the sanctity of life, etc., I would stay another hour to do some individual counseling. The boys would frantically gather around me at the conclusion of our formal class saying "Brother Rushton, talk to me today, please talk to me!" I would try to give everyone a fair chance from day to day. I quickly learned however that what they were really saying, instead of "Talk to me, talk to me," was "Listen to me, please listen to me!" I would say very little during those counseling sessions but I would give them my undivided attention. It seemed to help. Their problems were so overwhelming I doubt that even Solomon could have had the wisdom to help solve them. In maximum security I learned how important it was and is to be truly listened to. I got the feeling that many of these disturbed young men had never truly been listened to by a significant adult in their lives. Sad to say, many of these young men died violent and premature deaths or ended up in the state penitentiary. No, they didn't live happily ever after because I listened to them, I hate to report, but at least for a few hours of their lives in maximum security, somebody truly listened to them and it was a soothing balm for their harrowed up souls if only for a brief period of time.
I think perhaps the greatest gift we can give to our spouses, children, and our friends, is to truly listen to them, giving them our undivided attention. Turning off the TV, looking away from our computer screen, closing the book or leaving an important unfinished task to listen to a loved one will convey love like few other things can.
In a wonderful talk that strikes a chord with me (Ensign, May 1991) about the importance of listening, Elder Russell M. Nelson, among other things counseled:
"A wise father once said, “I do a greater amount of good when I listen to my children than when I talk to them...The time to listen is when someone needs to be heard...Parents with teenage youth may find that time for listening is often less convenient but more important when young people feel lonely or troubled. And when they seem to deserve favor least, they may need it most...some couples seem not to listen to one another... If marriage is a prime relationship in life, it deserves prime time! Yet less important appointments are often given priority, leaving only leftover moments for listening to precious partners..."
Breathing or listening is a hard call. But just as breathing gives life to the body, so does listening give life to all the precious relationships we have in mortality.
Many years ago as I was lying in a hospital bed in the ICU of our local regional trauma center and learned that I had lost forever, in mortality anyway, the use of my physical body, I realized that the only thing that meant anything to me in that moment was the relationships I had with my family, my friends, and the Lord. Nothing else I had accomplished in my life, no worldly possession, no degrees or honors of men meant anything to me. If learning to listen better can strengthen all those relationships, how we ought to work at it! Are you listening?
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
However, I believe hearing well and especially listening carefully to others is almost as important as breathing. When I think of the people I enjoy visiting with the most it is invariably with those who really listen to me and seem genuinely interested in what I have to say. When I am in a crowded place like Costco for example, most people don't pay much attention to me but on occasion a random individual will approach me and say, "Wow, what an incredible wheelchair you have. How does it work?" And then they really listen and ask even more questions like "What happened to you anyway?" Whenever I have these experiences with strangers my life is enriched because they are validating me as a human being and a person of worth through their desire to hear and listen and understand.
Jo Anne is a good listener. She hears everything I say and many times things I don't say or didn't think I said. On occasion since my accident, we have had some heated conversations about various topics and just as I am about to make a winning argument she will reach over and pull my air hose off my throat -- end of conversation, end of empathetic listening -- end of life?
Many years ago I learned a great lesson about the importance of listening. I was teaching seminary at the Utah State Industrial School in Ogden, Utah, which in reality was a prison for juvenile delinquents who had run awry of the law.
One year while I was teaching there I would go to the maximum security unit once each day to teach a class to the boys incarcerated there because they were considered to be dangerous or a security risk. They wore blue jeans, white T-shirts, tennis shoes with no laces, and were extremely depressed and unhappy. Several guards watched them 24 hours a day from a glass booth strategically positioned so that the kids were never out of earshot or sight.
Almost all the boys attended my class, not because I was a great teacher, but because I didn't work for the state and therefore had no power over them. It was a diversion for them, to have someone like me visit them while they were doing their time in maximum security.
After a very simple lesson regarding fundamental principles of life like working instead of stealing, being honest instead of lying, respecting the sanctity of life, etc., I would stay another hour to do some individual counseling. The boys would frantically gather around me at the conclusion of our formal class saying "Brother Rushton, talk to me today, please talk to me!" I would try to give everyone a fair chance from day to day. I quickly learned however that what they were really saying, instead of "Talk to me, talk to me," was "Listen to me, please listen to me!" I would say very little during those counseling sessions but I would give them my undivided attention. It seemed to help. Their problems were so overwhelming I doubt that even Solomon could have had the wisdom to help solve them. In maximum security I learned how important it was and is to be truly listened to. I got the feeling that many of these disturbed young men had never truly been listened to by a significant adult in their lives. Sad to say, many of these young men died violent and premature deaths or ended up in the state penitentiary. No, they didn't live happily ever after because I listened to them, I hate to report, but at least for a few hours of their lives in maximum security, somebody truly listened to them and it was a soothing balm for their harrowed up souls if only for a brief period of time.
I think perhaps the greatest gift we can give to our spouses, children, and our friends, is to truly listen to them, giving them our undivided attention. Turning off the TV, looking away from our computer screen, closing the book or leaving an important unfinished task to listen to a loved one will convey love like few other things can.
In a wonderful talk that strikes a chord with me (Ensign, May 1991) about the importance of listening, Elder Russell M. Nelson, among other things counseled:
"A wise father once said, “I do a greater amount of good when I listen to my children than when I talk to them...The time to listen is when someone needs to be heard...Parents with teenage youth may find that time for listening is often less convenient but more important when young people feel lonely or troubled. And when they seem to deserve favor least, they may need it most...some couples seem not to listen to one another... If marriage is a prime relationship in life, it deserves prime time! Yet less important appointments are often given priority, leaving only leftover moments for listening to precious partners..."
Breathing or listening is a hard call. But just as breathing gives life to the body, so does listening give life to all the precious relationships we have in mortality.
Many years ago as I was lying in a hospital bed in the ICU of our local regional trauma center and learned that I had lost forever, in mortality anyway, the use of my physical body, I realized that the only thing that meant anything to me in that moment was the relationships I had with my family, my friends, and the Lord. Nothing else I had accomplished in my life, no worldly possession, no degrees or honors of men meant anything to me. If learning to listen better can strengthen all those relationships, how we ought to work at it! Are you listening?
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
The Importance of Knowing Who We Are
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Jo Anne and I were out driving one afternoon and pulled up behind a big black pickup truck with huge oversized tires and a sign in the back window that said "Quad for Sale
Lest you think badly of Jo Anne; however, I heard her talking to one of her friends on the telephone the other day and she said to her, "I have a model husband." I was elated with her description of me and felt it was right on target, until I looked in my online dictionary and found that one of the definitions for "model" is "A cheap imitation."
I have been called lots of things since my injury such as "handicapped," "physically challenged," "mobility impaired," "quadriplegic," "Quad," and a few others I can't mention, or at least don't want to. Before my accident I felt I had a pretty good idea of who I was, but after the accident I was a little shaky for some time regarding that subject. Quite frankly, for an extended period, I really didn't know who or what I was. It was devastating!
In some ways I felt like I had left the human race that I had been part of all my life. Something inside me however, rebelled against the idea of being labeled as something that I then perceived as being inferior compared to a normal person.
Adding to my feelings of inadequacy and uncertainty about who I was after my accident, just a couple of months after I was injured I experienced one of the most humiliating and demeaning experiences I have had in my life. It took place at Rancho Los Amigos Hospital
Thankfully, having studied the Scriptures many of the years of my life, beginning in the mission field in Central America , I was reminded of it, and began to internalize some eternal truths regarding who I was. It began to make all the difference in the world.
A number of Scriptures began to mean a great deal to me. When the Lord appeared to Moses as recorded in Moses 1 he called him "my son" three times in verses 4-7 and in verse 6 he said to Moses "... and thou art in the similitude of mine Only Begotten Son and mine Only Begotten is the Savior..."
I believe He wanted Moses to know who he really was because of the great work Moses had been called upon to do in leading the Children of Israel out of Egypt
After this vision closed, Satan immediately appeared to Moses tempting him and saying "... Moses, son of man...worship me..." [Moses 1:11] [Emphasis added]
Moses was able to withstand this assault from Satan because he knew he was a son of God. By calling Moses son of man Lucifer hoped to deceive and weaken Moses and even entice him to be one of his followers.
When Satan came to tempt Jesus after he had fasted and prayed for 40 days and nights, he devilishly introduced two of the three temptations with the challenge "... if thou be the son of God..." Satan knew that if he could place doubt in Jesus' mind regarding who he was that he could destroy him and the work he was sent here to do.
So it is with each one of us. Knowing who we really are strengthens us and empowers us to be able to fulfill our foreordained missions in mortality.
Gaining strength to overcome adversity and the Adversary by knowing who we really are, reminded me of an experience Joseph Smith had as a young man. Elizabeth Ann Whitney, the wife of Newel K. Whitney, wrote in her journal: "Joseph Smith, with his wife, Emma, and a servant girl, came to Kirtland in a sleigh early in 1831; they drove up in front of my husband's store. Joseph jumped out and went in; he reached his hand across the counter to my husband and called him by name. My husband spoke, saying: "I could not call you by name as you have me." He answered, "I am Joseph the Prophet; you have prayed me here, now what do you want of me?" [Helen Mae Andrus, Hyrum L. Andrus, They Knew the Prophet, 39.] [Emphasis added]
That winter day in 1831 when Joseph met Newel K. Whitney and his wife in their store in Kirtland , Ohio
Thankfully, I came to understand that I was not just a "handicapped" person, "mobility impaired," or a "Quad." Oh, I am all of that of course, but so much more -- a son of God created in the similitude off His Only Begotten Son.
Having internalized that truth I need never give in to the depression, despair, and blackness that accompanies the temptations that the Adversary places in my path.
Dad/Grandpa/Dad
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Dressing for Respect
As many of you know, I regrettably wear "outfits" now, since Jo Anne took charge of my wardrobe and started dressing me each morning. I used to have two or three suits, some nice white shirts, a few ties, some Levis and T-shirts and that pretty much constituted my wardrobe. Life was so simple then, and deciding what to wear each day was not really very difficult for me.
I would be embarrassed to have anybody look into the closets in my bedroom where my outfits hang. There are so many matching outfits -- pants and shirts -- I get dizzy just looking at this dazzling array of finery. What is in my closets is just the tip of the iceberg, I hate to admit. Stored in boxes somewhere in the dark recesses of our home reside my summer outfits, fall outfits, spring outfits -- you get the picture. It would be unthinkable for me to wear the same outfit twice in a row or even twice in a two-week period.
My Filipino caregiver, Rey, and I would never dare to choose the "outfit" for the day. It is totally beyond our capacity to make such a momentous decision. When Jo Anne goes on a trip from time to time without me, which I encourage her to do -- she really needs the break -- if she is gone 14 days she will hang 14 different outfits from left to right in my closet. Every seventh outfit is a special "Sunday Outfit." Would Rey and I ever deviate from the foreordained outfits during her absence? I don't think so! We are both smarter than that, knowing that somehow she would find us out.
Please don't think badly of Jo Anne, or think she is practicing some form of malicious psychological "quad abuse" on me. She truly believes the way I look is a reflection of her as my wife, and also her role as my primary caregiver. In me, she doesn't have much quality raw material to work with, so she makes a valiant effort to dress what is available to her in the best possible outfits on the market. I, of course, can do nothing about this situation, and make a valiant effort to be pleasant and full of gratitude that I look so "handsome." I try my best to keep Jo Anne happy. Can you imagine what she could do to me if I got her angry, which I have inadvertently done on occasion?
I must admit that I feel badly I can't wear a suit and a white shirt and tie to Church on Sunday. Because of my life support system this is impossible. I do feel a little underdressed on Sundays in spite of Jo Anne's valiant efforts. I have always felt it was a show of respect and reverence to dress up in my best -- not to show off -- on Sundays. I think I got that feeling from observing my dad as I was growing up.
My dad was a miner. As a newly married 17-year-old he started working for Kennecott Copper Corp. in Ruth, Nevada in the old Star Pointer Mine. The Star Pointer was an underground operation. On his 34th birthday, as he was walking home from work, he realized that he had spent half of his life working underground. He applied for a position with Kennecott that didn't require him to work as a miner any longer, and ended up working in a very responsible position in the large warehouse in Ruth that serviced the mining operation until he died at the young age of 61.
Dad wore khaki colored work clothes and boots five days a week, and often on Saturdays as well. However, Sunday was a different matter. My most vivid memories of him are when I was a teenager and he was in the bishopric of the little Ruth Ward. As I recall, and I could be wrong after so many years, he owned only one suit. It was a beautiful and quite expensive blue suit purchased at Goodman-Tidball Mercantile. The only other store in town that sold suits was JCPenney. Goodman-Tidball was definitely a step up. He may have had more than one white shirt but I don't think so. The white shirt I remember him wearing had French cuffs which he wore with beautiful cufflinks. He had a couple of nice ties and a pair of expensive dress shoes which were always carefully polished and shined. When he went to Church on Sunday to fulfill his priesthood responsibilities, even Jo Anne would have been proud of the way he looked.
Dad didn't ever preach to me about reverence or respect, but demonstrated it to me by the way he dressed on Sundays and in so many other ways as well.
I think because of him, I really do wish I could still wear suits, starched white shirts, beautiful ties and wonderful shoes to Church on Sunday. I do have some okay shoes that are 15 years old and look like new. I wonder why?
In my lifetime I have observed an evolution from "dressing up" to "dressing down" in society at large. Sad to say it has affected the way some of us dress as we attend our Church meetings on Sunday. I don't think this can be pleasing to the Lord.
Elder Robert D. Hales said it this way: "When we attend a Church meeting, our purpose is to worship our Father in Heaven and His Son, Jesus Christ. Our clothing should show our reverence for Them... Mothers and fathers can teach their children by taking special care to dress in such a way as to show modesty and reverence in their own appearance and behavior....".
"Honoring our covenants, starting with baptism, affects who we are and what we do, including the kinds of things we say, the music we listen to, and the clothing we wear. When we make and keep covenants, we are coming out of the world and into the kingdom of God. Our appearance should reflect that." [Liahona, August, 2008]
Truthfully, I am very grateful to be married to somebody who cares so very much about how I look -- especially on Sundays. However, I still wish I had a blue suit I could wear on Sundays like my dad.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
I would be embarrassed to have anybody look into the closets in my bedroom where my outfits hang. There are so many matching outfits -- pants and shirts -- I get dizzy just looking at this dazzling array of finery. What is in my closets is just the tip of the iceberg, I hate to admit. Stored in boxes somewhere in the dark recesses of our home reside my summer outfits, fall outfits, spring outfits -- you get the picture. It would be unthinkable for me to wear the same outfit twice in a row or even twice in a two-week period.
My Filipino caregiver, Rey, and I would never dare to choose the "outfit" for the day. It is totally beyond our capacity to make such a momentous decision. When Jo Anne goes on a trip from time to time without me, which I encourage her to do -- she really needs the break -- if she is gone 14 days she will hang 14 different outfits from left to right in my closet. Every seventh outfit is a special "Sunday Outfit." Would Rey and I ever deviate from the foreordained outfits during her absence? I don't think so! We are both smarter than that, knowing that somehow she would find us out.
Please don't think badly of Jo Anne, or think she is practicing some form of malicious psychological "quad abuse" on me. She truly believes the way I look is a reflection of her as my wife, and also her role as my primary caregiver. In me, she doesn't have much quality raw material to work with, so she makes a valiant effort to dress what is available to her in the best possible outfits on the market. I, of course, can do nothing about this situation, and make a valiant effort to be pleasant and full of gratitude that I look so "handsome." I try my best to keep Jo Anne happy. Can you imagine what she could do to me if I got her angry, which I have inadvertently done on occasion?
I must admit that I feel badly I can't wear a suit and a white shirt and tie to Church on Sunday. Because of my life support system this is impossible. I do feel a little underdressed on Sundays in spite of Jo Anne's valiant efforts. I have always felt it was a show of respect and reverence to dress up in my best -- not to show off -- on Sundays. I think I got that feeling from observing my dad as I was growing up.
My dad was a miner. As a newly married 17-year-old he started working for Kennecott Copper Corp. in Ruth, Nevada in the old Star Pointer Mine. The Star Pointer was an underground operation. On his 34th birthday, as he was walking home from work, he realized that he had spent half of his life working underground. He applied for a position with Kennecott that didn't require him to work as a miner any longer, and ended up working in a very responsible position in the large warehouse in Ruth that serviced the mining operation until he died at the young age of 61.
Dad wore khaki colored work clothes and boots five days a week, and often on Saturdays as well. However, Sunday was a different matter. My most vivid memories of him are when I was a teenager and he was in the bishopric of the little Ruth Ward. As I recall, and I could be wrong after so many years, he owned only one suit. It was a beautiful and quite expensive blue suit purchased at Goodman-Tidball Mercantile. The only other store in town that sold suits was JCPenney. Goodman-Tidball was definitely a step up. He may have had more than one white shirt but I don't think so. The white shirt I remember him wearing had French cuffs which he wore with beautiful cufflinks. He had a couple of nice ties and a pair of expensive dress shoes which were always carefully polished and shined. When he went to Church on Sunday to fulfill his priesthood responsibilities, even Jo Anne would have been proud of the way he looked.
Dad didn't ever preach to me about reverence or respect, but demonstrated it to me by the way he dressed on Sundays and in so many other ways as well.
I think because of him, I really do wish I could still wear suits, starched white shirts, beautiful ties and wonderful shoes to Church on Sunday. I do have some okay shoes that are 15 years old and look like new. I wonder why?
In my lifetime I have observed an evolution from "dressing up" to "dressing down" in society at large. Sad to say it has affected the way some of us dress as we attend our Church meetings on Sunday. I don't think this can be pleasing to the Lord.
Elder Robert D. Hales said it this way: "When we attend a Church meeting, our purpose is to worship our Father in Heaven and His Son, Jesus Christ. Our clothing should show our reverence for Them... Mothers and fathers can teach their children by taking special care to dress in such a way as to show modesty and reverence in their own appearance and behavior....".
"Honoring our covenants, starting with baptism, affects who we are and what we do, including the kinds of things we say, the music we listen to, and the clothing we wear. When we make and keep covenants, we are coming out of the world and into the kingdom of God. Our appearance should reflect that." [Liahona, August, 2008]
Truthfully, I am very grateful to be married to somebody who cares so very much about how I look -- especially on Sundays. However, I still wish I had a blue suit I could wear on Sundays like my dad.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
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