Being old and retired, I have too much time on my hands to think about the past. One morning recently I was lying in bed and thinking about some of the experiences I have had as a quadriplegic on life support. As I did so, for some reason (maybe because it was about this same time of year when it happened), one of my most bizarre episodes came into my mind.
It went down at Bolsa Chica beach, part of Huntington Beach, California. In the spring of that year I had spoken to the Interfaith Council of Orange County at their yearly breakfast. Afterwards I was approached by a young high school teacher from San Clemente who asked if I would be interested in speaking at the annual Walk for Hope that he organized each year as a fundraiser for a variety of charities throughout the world.
He said their goal was to help people in India, Afghanistan, and other countries in the Middle East, as well as the needy in Southern California. It sounded good to me -- I have always been sort of gullible -- so I said I would be willing to participate.
He took my e-mail address, we communicated during the ensuing months, and finally the fateful day arrived, as it always does when you commit yourself well in advance to do something. He assured me that there would be 1000 people at the beach with a stage and a special ramp for me to get onto the stage area. He said there would be music, a variety of speakers, and would I take 10 minutes?
I felt I should give it my best effort and so I prepared a 10 minute talk around the theme of service. I went so far as to have Jo Anne read it, which resulted in a major revision -- all for the better I hate to admit. I have often felt that if Abraham Lincoln or Thomas Jefferson could have passed their writings by Jo Anne they would have been so much better. Seriously though, Jo Anne has the finest sense of what is good and bad in a talk than anyone I have ever met. I felt good about the final product.
We invited some family members to come with us, which included Jo Anne's 85-year-old mother who was still alive at the time, as well as her Filipino caregiver.
We pulled into the designated parking lot and saw numerous strange looking people milling about. My contact, the young high school teacher from San Clemente, was nowhere to be seen. The parking lot was surrounded by wall to wall booths and as we walked and rolled the perimeter we became aware that every liberal, left-wing organization in most of the world was represented. I went to the ACLU booth to report some quad abuse by Jo Anne, but they didn't seem interested in my case. The Church of Scientology, Dianetics, the Orange County Weekly -- the most liberal newspaper in Orange County, Animal-rights, and a number of legitimate religions were also represented. There were Buddhists, Muslims, Sikhs, Baha'i, and a sprinkling of Protestant and born-again groups assembled on the beach as well. I didn't notice any Catholics or Jews (or Mormons).
Grandma Stuart, at age 85, was asleep about 90% of the time in those days, but as she was pushed in her wheelchair around this parking lot her eyes were wide open. Jo Anne jokingly said to her "Mom, what are you doing here?" She looked Jo Anne in the eyes and said "What are You doing here?" Having grown up as a part of an older generation, she was not very ecumenically minded nor accepting of the left-wing liberal element represented at the beach that day. I did not hold it against her!
About this time a hippie rock band mounted the flimsy platform that was the stage. This group was right out of San Francisco and the sixties, except they had a modern state-of-the-art sound system. They cranked that thing up to the point that it was blowing the waves out to sea. Our contact was still not to be seen. We got behind the band in order for Jo Anne to hear me, and I told her that we ought to just get in the van and go home and leave well enough alone. Jo Anne is tougher than that and encouraged me to stay and see what would happen. That was the problem- I was afraid of what might happen!
Just as the band was concluding their half-hour of "music", my contact drove up in a beat up Volkswagen bus and proceeded to pull out the ramp he had just finished building. It was sagging in the middle and I doubted that it would hold my 400 plus lbs. of wheelchair with me in it, but closing my eyes I shifted my chair into four-wheel-drive and raced up the ramp and onto the platform. I almost shot off the back end but stopped with three wheels still on the platform. I was able to do a 180 and faced the crowd of 10 or 15 who had gathered to see the guy in the wheelchair wearing the BYU hat.
The hippie band agreed to let me use their sound system and with double microphones in front of my face I started to speak and was heard, I am sure, all the way to Malibu. The hippie band members seemed to be pleased and stayed to hear me speak.
I determined that I was going to give this group my best effort. I started out with some paralyzed humor and a few more people walked over to see what was going on. Finally I launched into the body of my talk and quoted a great religious leader who once said "When we are in the service of our fellow beings we are only in the service of our God." They perked up upon hearing that and by the end of the talk I felt that I had connected with at least a few in the audience. I successfully descended from the platform and when I had all four wheels finally on solid ground I breathed a sigh of relief.
Nobody patted me on the back or told me what a great job I had done and we went to the van and drove home as quickly as we could.
Is there a point to all of this? Probably not, except you need to be careful what you commit to do, but once committed, do it with all of your heart. It was also another testimony to the truthfulness of what the Lord has told us in Doctrine & Covenants 38:30 "... but if you are prepared ye shall not fear." How true that was that day at the beach.
Was anybody touched by my message? I will never know, but I knew in my heart that the Lord was pleased that I had prepared well and had given it my best effort. I felt good inside and my loved ones felt that it was well done and meaningful. Maybe after all, this is all that ever counts.
I also learned -- beware of hippie bands from the sixties.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
We Was Robbed!
"We was robbed!"
I think I first heard it as a young boy when I became a dyed in the wool, true blue, through and through, Dodgers fan. They were then the Brooklyn Dodgers and had the uncanny habit of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory on a regular basis. However, they never owned up to the fact that it was their own fault and ineptitude that the Yankees always beat them in the World Series, or the Giants, coming from 13 games behind, snatched the pennant from them on a sad September afternoon many years ago. Oh why couldn't I have been a Yankee fan? Life would have been so much more pleasant over the years, but I got stuck with the Dodgers.
Especially in those Brooklyn days after blowing yet another game or series, the Dodgers inevitably would excuse themselves by saying, "We was robbed!" In other words, the umpires were against us, there were too many bad hops, the baseballs were doctored up, the Yankees have all the money, or the pitcher was throwing up spitballs, etc.
One of the most blatant scriptural examples of the "we was robbed" mentality is found in Mosiah 10. Mormon quotes Zeniff in describing why the hatred the Lamanites had for the Nephites was so intense and never ending.
"They were a wild, and ferocious, and a blood-thirsty people, believing in the tradition of their fathers, which is this—Believing that they were driven out of the land of Jerusalem because of the iniquities of their fathers, and that they were wronged ["we was robbed"] in the wilderness by their brethren, and they were also wronged ["we was robbed"] while crossing the sea; And again, that they were wronged ["we was robbed"] while in the land of their first inheritance, after they had crossed the sea..." [Mosiah 10:12-13] [emphasis added]
And so, generations of Lamanites had bought into the "we was robbed" way of looking at life, which resulted in hatred, war, misery and suffering. They simply would not admit the truth of the matter which was "... that Nephi was more faithful in keeping the commandments of the Lord—therefore he was favored of the Lord..." [Mosiah 10:14]
The "we was robbed" mentality weakens us and keeps us from achieving our true potential. Sometimes as parents, without realizing it, we promote this kind of thinking in our children. It's the coach's fault that my athletically gifted child is not starting and sits on the bench. It is the teacher's fault that my intelligent child is not getting straight A's. It is the piano teacher's fault that my child prodigy is having difficulty playing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."
One of the greatest gifts we can give our children and ourselves is to completely eliminate from our approach to life the "we was robbed" mentality and take ownership for what we are doing or not doing with our lives.
My son, Rich, is an avid Dodgers, Lakers, and UCLA basketball fan. I couldn't have had any influence on him in that regard when he was just a little kid could I? John R. Wooden, the great former UCLA basketball coach, and arguably the greatest basketball coach of all time, is one of our all-time favorite heroes. Rich sent me an e-mail that contained a quote made by John Wooden that he thought was very important and that I would enjoy. The quote is found in a book Coach Wooden wrote entitled, "Wooden: A Lifetime of Observations and Reflections On and Off the Court."
In the book, he shared some advise his father gave to him as a young boy that influenced his life forever, both as a basketball coach and as a human being. It was simply this: "Don't whine, don't complain, and don't make excuses."
Of course, this philosophy is the antithesis of "we was robbed!" I can't help but think Coach Wooden's philosophy of not complaining, whining, or making excuses will take us a lot further in life than thinking "we was robbed."
Many years ago, in fact it was in the late 60s, I taught seminary at the Utah State Industrial School in Ogden, Utah for three years. This school was actually a coed prison/Reform School for juvenile delinquents. They were incarcerated for a variety of reasons -- none of them good! They were some of the unhappiest and depressed young people I had ever encountered. They had totally brought in to the "we was robbed" way of looking at life. It is true that, for the most part, they had less than wonderful parents and came from very dysfunctional homes. Using this, and many other negative things in their lives as excuses for their lawless and dangerous behavior, and the inevitable misery that followed, very few of them would ever take ownership for their unhappy lives. They all had the same goal, which was to get out of the Utah State Industrial School so they could be free and happy! The facility was not very high-security and these kids were extremely creative in escaping, and running to "freedom and joy." Within a week, or at most a month or so, they would be returned to the school, worse off and more miserable than when they ran. They constantly whined, complained, and made excuses for their bad behavior and resulting misery, because they felt, "they was robbed."
We tried desperately to teach them the following significant truth about life: "The Way out Is the Way through! They wanted out of misery, and out of the reform school, so they could have freedom and joy. Hardly any of them ever got the message that they couldn't run from their problems but had to face them head on, deal with them, and that the only way to the freedom they desired was to internalize and implement the truth that ultimately, "The Way out Is the Way through!"
It is so much easier to teach a great truth than to live it. After I had my accident many years ago, I found myself slipping into the "we was robbed" mentality. I felt I had been robbed of my body, my vocation as a teacher, my service as a stake president, and how could I ever be an effective husband, father, or grandfather again given my physical limitations.
Eventually, the principle I had taught my juvenile delinquents so many years before came into my mind and heart -- "Jack, the only way out is the way through!"
Immediately after the accident the neurosurgeons had told me I had suffered a "complete" injury to my spinal cord. That means it had been severed and there was absolutely no possibility that I would ever get anything back. It took months and even years to accept this truth. I tried to run and escape from the prison that had become my body even as my reform school kids had done from theirs. I eventually was able to empathize more fully with their challenge.
Finally, the day came that I could say to myself, "Jack, you are paralyzed from the neck down and are on life support and that is the way you will be the rest of this day, tomorrow, next week, next month, and for as long as you live." When I was able in my heart to make that admission I began to work my way out of misery and unhappiness to the freedom and joy I longed to have.
The "we was robbed" way of looking at life, coupled with whining, complaining, and finding excuses for our inadequacies, failures and unhappiness is a one way street to nowhere.
To face life head on with no whining, complaining, or making excuses, and working through our problems, will enable us to truly be free, productive, and fulfilled.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
I think I first heard it as a young boy when I became a dyed in the wool, true blue, through and through, Dodgers fan. They were then the Brooklyn Dodgers and had the uncanny habit of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory on a regular basis. However, they never owned up to the fact that it was their own fault and ineptitude that the Yankees always beat them in the World Series, or the Giants, coming from 13 games behind, snatched the pennant from them on a sad September afternoon many years ago. Oh why couldn't I have been a Yankee fan? Life would have been so much more pleasant over the years, but I got stuck with the Dodgers.
Especially in those Brooklyn days after blowing yet another game or series, the Dodgers inevitably would excuse themselves by saying, "We was robbed!" In other words, the umpires were against us, there were too many bad hops, the baseballs were doctored up, the Yankees have all the money, or the pitcher was throwing up spitballs, etc.
One of the most blatant scriptural examples of the "we was robbed" mentality is found in Mosiah 10. Mormon quotes Zeniff in describing why the hatred the Lamanites had for the Nephites was so intense and never ending.
"They were a wild, and ferocious, and a blood-thirsty people, believing in the tradition of their fathers, which is this—Believing that they were driven out of the land of Jerusalem because of the iniquities of their fathers, and that they were wronged ["we was robbed"] in the wilderness by their brethren, and they were also wronged ["we was robbed"] while crossing the sea; And again, that they were wronged ["we was robbed"] while in the land of their first inheritance, after they had crossed the sea..." [Mosiah 10:12-13] [emphasis added]
And so, generations of Lamanites had bought into the "we was robbed" way of looking at life, which resulted in hatred, war, misery and suffering. They simply would not admit the truth of the matter which was "... that Nephi was more faithful in keeping the commandments of the Lord—therefore he was favored of the Lord..." [Mosiah 10:14]
The "we was robbed" mentality weakens us and keeps us from achieving our true potential. Sometimes as parents, without realizing it, we promote this kind of thinking in our children. It's the coach's fault that my athletically gifted child is not starting and sits on the bench. It is the teacher's fault that my intelligent child is not getting straight A's. It is the piano teacher's fault that my child prodigy is having difficulty playing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."
One of the greatest gifts we can give our children and ourselves is to completely eliminate from our approach to life the "we was robbed" mentality and take ownership for what we are doing or not doing with our lives.
My son, Rich, is an avid Dodgers, Lakers, and UCLA basketball fan. I couldn't have had any influence on him in that regard when he was just a little kid could I? John R. Wooden, the great former UCLA basketball coach, and arguably the greatest basketball coach of all time, is one of our all-time favorite heroes. Rich sent me an e-mail that contained a quote made by John Wooden that he thought was very important and that I would enjoy. The quote is found in a book Coach Wooden wrote entitled, "Wooden: A Lifetime of Observations and Reflections On and Off the Court."
In the book, he shared some advise his father gave to him as a young boy that influenced his life forever, both as a basketball coach and as a human being. It was simply this: "Don't whine, don't complain, and don't make excuses."
Of course, this philosophy is the antithesis of "we was robbed!" I can't help but think Coach Wooden's philosophy of not complaining, whining, or making excuses will take us a lot further in life than thinking "we was robbed."
Many years ago, in fact it was in the late 60s, I taught seminary at the Utah State Industrial School in Ogden, Utah for three years. This school was actually a coed prison/Reform School for juvenile delinquents. They were incarcerated for a variety of reasons -- none of them good! They were some of the unhappiest and depressed young people I had ever encountered. They had totally brought in to the "we was robbed" way of looking at life. It is true that, for the most part, they had less than wonderful parents and came from very dysfunctional homes. Using this, and many other negative things in their lives as excuses for their lawless and dangerous behavior, and the inevitable misery that followed, very few of them would ever take ownership for their unhappy lives. They all had the same goal, which was to get out of the Utah State Industrial School so they could be free and happy! The facility was not very high-security and these kids were extremely creative in escaping, and running to "freedom and joy." Within a week, or at most a month or so, they would be returned to the school, worse off and more miserable than when they ran. They constantly whined, complained, and made excuses for their bad behavior and resulting misery, because they felt, "they was robbed."
We tried desperately to teach them the following significant truth about life: "The Way out Is the Way through! They wanted out of misery, and out of the reform school, so they could have freedom and joy. Hardly any of them ever got the message that they couldn't run from their problems but had to face them head on, deal with them, and that the only way to the freedom they desired was to internalize and implement the truth that ultimately, "The Way out Is the Way through!"
It is so much easier to teach a great truth than to live it. After I had my accident many years ago, I found myself slipping into the "we was robbed" mentality. I felt I had been robbed of my body, my vocation as a teacher, my service as a stake president, and how could I ever be an effective husband, father, or grandfather again given my physical limitations.
Eventually, the principle I had taught my juvenile delinquents so many years before came into my mind and heart -- "Jack, the only way out is the way through!"
Immediately after the accident the neurosurgeons had told me I had suffered a "complete" injury to my spinal cord. That means it had been severed and there was absolutely no possibility that I would ever get anything back. It took months and even years to accept this truth. I tried to run and escape from the prison that had become my body even as my reform school kids had done from theirs. I eventually was able to empathize more fully with their challenge.
Finally, the day came that I could say to myself, "Jack, you are paralyzed from the neck down and are on life support and that is the way you will be the rest of this day, tomorrow, next week, next month, and for as long as you live." When I was able in my heart to make that admission I began to work my way out of misery and unhappiness to the freedom and joy I longed to have.
The "we was robbed" way of looking at life, coupled with whining, complaining, and finding excuses for our inadequacies, failures and unhappiness is a one way street to nowhere.
To face life head on with no whining, complaining, or making excuses, and working through our problems, will enable us to truly be free, productive, and fulfilled.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Wearing the uniform
It was midnight. I heard a scuffling noise outside my bedroom door and thought I was about to be murdered or burglarized. I was relieved when I discovered it was only Jo Anne, but looking a little bleary-eyed and disheveled. She groaned out the words, "Jack, can I please turn off the game so I can go to sleep?" The Dodgers and the Arizona Diamondbacks were in the 12th inning of a tie game. Jo Anne is very kind to me and patient, but the words that try her soul are, "Sorry dear, but the game is going into extra innings!" Because of the lateness of the hour I gave into her pleadings and didn't learn until the next morning that the Dodgers had defeated the hated Diamondbacks in the bottom of the 13th inning when Andre Ethier of the Dodgers swatted a walkoff home run to end the game.
One of the upsides of being paralyzed is that Jo Anne, most of the time, allows me to pursue and satisfy my passion for baseball without making me feel guilty or that I should be doing something more productive. Let's face it, what can I do? Please do not reply to that question.
Why do I love baseball so much? I was born in the little mining town of Ruth, Nevada, in 1938. Unlike growing up on a farm where there were chickens to feed, cows to milk and care for, hay to be cut and bailed, fields to be plowed, weeds to be pulled, etc., as sons of miners we had none of those character building opportunities. We lived among dirt, rocks, and mountains. Our dads worked in the mines all day or night, but thankfully, our mothers -- at least my mother -- were very creative in working us. We scrubbed the floors on our hands and knees and waxed them the same way. We chopped kindling, and carried in buckets of coal and kindling from the wood/coal shed that was a fixture behind every home. We washed and dried the dishes. We worked overtime every Monday because that was wash day -- it was a family effort and it took all day!
My friends and I lived for summer. Living high in the mountains, we really only had two seasons; a long winter and a short summer. Most of us neighborhood boys could finish our chores by 10 a.m. and then we were free for the rest of the day. What did we do? We played baseball!
There were some old abandoned leaching ponds across the street where we lived. They were surrounded by high banks; the surface was a coppery sandy substance peppered with rocks of all sizes and shapes. We were always lucky to have just one legitimate baseball. After a week or so it would be a copper color, the cover pitted and scarred, and soon one good solid hit would knock the cover off. We would then wrap black electrician tape around the ball and continue to tape it during the ensuing days until we were blessed somehow with a semi-new, semi-white, baseball.
There really was no organized baseball for young boys. When you were 14, if you were good enough, you could play American Legion baseball that was for boys age 14-18. If you made the team and were good enough to play, you played. If not, you sat. There were no rules that every kid had to play so many innings; and because of that, many of us probably developed inferiority complexes and our self-esteem suffered mightily.
As a 14-year-old, I was chosen on an all-star team to represent our county at the state championship tournament in Reno, Nevada -- the year was 1952. We won the championship, beating teams from Reno, and Las Vegas and other communities much larger than ours. I modestly, but truthfully, admit that I played a meager role in our winning the tournament. I was a backup third baseman and didn't see much playing time.
Before the Regional tournament between the champions of Arizona, Utah, California, and Nevada we had a two-week layoff. Our coaches, wanting to keep us sharp, scheduled a doubleheader with a team from Utah. We took them lightly, played horrible baseball, and lost both ends of the doubleheader. We laughed it off because we were the champions and were headed for the Regional Tournament in Lodi, California.
I came home after the game and my dad was waiting for me outside at the back gate. He put his arm around me and said something to me I have never forgotten. It is so trite I am embarrassed to tell you what he said. However, if you knew my dad and the relationship we had, then his words would have been anything but trite. He simply said, "Jake, when you put that baseball uniform on you are supposed to be a baseball player. If you are not going to play as hard as you can, and play to win, then don't put on the uniform!" That's all he said, but coming from him that was all he had to say.
Since then I have worn a variety of uniforms and have always remembered my dad's words. I have worn the uniform of a missionary, a student, a husband, a father, a teacher, and many others as well. Whenever tempted to do less than my best, I have remembered my dad's words.
As I have been writing these words I have had come to mind the well-known experience David O. McKay had as a young missionary in Scotland in 1898. "I saw an unfinished building standing back from the sidewalk several yards. Over the front door was a stone arch. There was an inscription chiseled in that arch. When I approached near enough, this message came to me, not only in stone, but as if it came from One in whose service we were engaged: ‘What E’er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part.’ ”
“That was a message to me that morning,” he later said, “to act my part well as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
As to the stone which young Elder McKay had seen in 1898 with its inspiring message, through the efforts of alert missionaries at Stirling, Scotland, the archway stone was acquired by the church in 1965 when the building was being torn down.
Today it is preserved in the Church Museum of History and Art, and a replica is in the lobby of the Missionary Training Center at Provo, Utah, where thousands of young Mormon missionaries continue to view its timeless message as they depart to serve all over the world. (Alfred Gunn -- great-grandson of David O. McKay)
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
One of the upsides of being paralyzed is that Jo Anne, most of the time, allows me to pursue and satisfy my passion for baseball without making me feel guilty or that I should be doing something more productive. Let's face it, what can I do? Please do not reply to that question.
Why do I love baseball so much? I was born in the little mining town of Ruth, Nevada, in 1938. Unlike growing up on a farm where there were chickens to feed, cows to milk and care for, hay to be cut and bailed, fields to be plowed, weeds to be pulled, etc., as sons of miners we had none of those character building opportunities. We lived among dirt, rocks, and mountains. Our dads worked in the mines all day or night, but thankfully, our mothers -- at least my mother -- were very creative in working us. We scrubbed the floors on our hands and knees and waxed them the same way. We chopped kindling, and carried in buckets of coal and kindling from the wood/coal shed that was a fixture behind every home. We washed and dried the dishes. We worked overtime every Monday because that was wash day -- it was a family effort and it took all day!
My friends and I lived for summer. Living high in the mountains, we really only had two seasons; a long winter and a short summer. Most of us neighborhood boys could finish our chores by 10 a.m. and then we were free for the rest of the day. What did we do? We played baseball!
There were some old abandoned leaching ponds across the street where we lived. They were surrounded by high banks; the surface was a coppery sandy substance peppered with rocks of all sizes and shapes. We were always lucky to have just one legitimate baseball. After a week or so it would be a copper color, the cover pitted and scarred, and soon one good solid hit would knock the cover off. We would then wrap black electrician tape around the ball and continue to tape it during the ensuing days until we were blessed somehow with a semi-new, semi-white, baseball.
There really was no organized baseball for young boys. When you were 14, if you were good enough, you could play American Legion baseball that was for boys age 14-18. If you made the team and were good enough to play, you played. If not, you sat. There were no rules that every kid had to play so many innings; and because of that, many of us probably developed inferiority complexes and our self-esteem suffered mightily.
As a 14-year-old, I was chosen on an all-star team to represent our county at the state championship tournament in Reno, Nevada -- the year was 1952. We won the championship, beating teams from Reno, and Las Vegas and other communities much larger than ours. I modestly, but truthfully, admit that I played a meager role in our winning the tournament. I was a backup third baseman and didn't see much playing time.
Before the Regional tournament between the champions of Arizona, Utah, California, and Nevada we had a two-week layoff. Our coaches, wanting to keep us sharp, scheduled a doubleheader with a team from Utah. We took them lightly, played horrible baseball, and lost both ends of the doubleheader. We laughed it off because we were the champions and were headed for the Regional Tournament in Lodi, California.
I came home after the game and my dad was waiting for me outside at the back gate. He put his arm around me and said something to me I have never forgotten. It is so trite I am embarrassed to tell you what he said. However, if you knew my dad and the relationship we had, then his words would have been anything but trite. He simply said, "Jake, when you put that baseball uniform on you are supposed to be a baseball player. If you are not going to play as hard as you can, and play to win, then don't put on the uniform!" That's all he said, but coming from him that was all he had to say.
Since then I have worn a variety of uniforms and have always remembered my dad's words. I have worn the uniform of a missionary, a student, a husband, a father, a teacher, and many others as well. Whenever tempted to do less than my best, I have remembered my dad's words.
As I have been writing these words I have had come to mind the well-known experience David O. McKay had as a young missionary in Scotland in 1898. "I saw an unfinished building standing back from the sidewalk several yards. Over the front door was a stone arch. There was an inscription chiseled in that arch. When I approached near enough, this message came to me, not only in stone, but as if it came from One in whose service we were engaged: ‘What E’er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part.’ ”
“That was a message to me that morning,” he later said, “to act my part well as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
As to the stone which young Elder McKay had seen in 1898 with its inspiring message, through the efforts of alert missionaries at Stirling, Scotland, the archway stone was acquired by the church in 1965 when the building was being torn down.
Today it is preserved in the Church Museum of History and Art, and a replica is in the lobby of the Missionary Training Center at Provo, Utah, where thousands of young Mormon missionaries continue to view its timeless message as they depart to serve all over the world. (Alfred Gunn -- great-grandson of David O. McKay)
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Showing Up
President Hinckley, on the occasion of speaking at a BYU student body devotional said that he was going to share some memories from the past with them. Then he said, "Old men speak of the past because they have no future, and young men speak of the future because they have no past."
I hate to admit it but I am beginning to become kind of an old man so let me share some memories from the past that have impacted my life in a significant way.
A few years ago I had the great opportunity of speaking at Chapman University in the city of Orange, California. Once each semester the Interfaith Council at the University invites someone to come and speak to the students regarding some faith promoting topic. I was feeling the pressure of wanting to do the best I possibly could in that special setting.
As I was sitting on the stand waiting for the meeting to begin, I noticed coming in the door five people who looked a little bit older than the average student. They were members from my ward. I was astonished because I didn't think anyone but me knew about this gathering. One of the men quietly approached the stand and simply said "We're here to support you." I must admit my heart was touched and comforted by this simple expression of love and support.
It reminded me of the time when my Dad died in April, 1970. Jo Anne and I had been married six years, had three little children, and were living in Ogden, Utah. I had served as Elder's Quorum President in the Washington Terrace Sixth Ward for about three years. My Dad's death was just devastating to me. We were very close and I could not imagine how life would be without him. He passed away in a hospital in Salt Lake City and the next day Jo Anne and I and other family members drove immediately to Ely, Nevada to make arrangements for the funeral. I really didn't know if anyone in Ogden or our ward knew that he had passed away. The morning of the funeral I happened to turn around and saw coming in the door, Bob Ellis, and Jack Pugmire. Bob Ellis was one of the elders in our ward and the editor and printer of the ward newspaper. Jack Pugmire, was a counselor in the bishopric and a good friend.
I was caught totally off guard when I saw them. Ogden is over 300 miles from Ely and that made Ely hard to get to. They had to have arisen extremely early that morning to have made it to the funeral on time. I had been in pretty good control of my emotions up to that time, but when I saw these two friends come into the Stake Center I could not hold back the tears. I don't know that we ever even got to talk. I believe they both embraced me as they left the building and got back into their car for the long drive back to Ogden. Many years later, their unexpected visit is still a vivid and wonderful memory from the past.
There are events in life that are never repeated. A wedding, a wedding reception, a funeral, a graduation, a sealing in the temple, and etc. only happen once in a person's life. We may be tempted to not acknowledge an invitation because, let's face it, life is busy and hectic. However, in that family's life this event will only happen once and if we withhold our support by our absence it is something that can never be reclaimed. Conflicts are unavoidable at times but even the worst of us can write a special letter of congratulation and apology for not attending. We really don't have to do anything special -- just show up; that in and of its self speaks volumes.
I spent the first two weeks after my accident in the ICU of our regional trauma center. It is impossible to express how I felt, having been told by the neurosurgeons that I would never be able to move any part of my body ever again, breathe on my own again, speak again, eat or drink again, and never be able to live outside of a care facility. I felt very vulnerable and somehow very much alone, and could not stand the thought of being left alone without family and friends around. I was able to communicate this thought, and family members stayed with me during the day. About 6 p.m. in the evening members of our High Council and High Priest group would take turns sitting with me all through the night until morning. Through an ingenious chart invented and produced by a good friend, by blinking my eyes, once for "yes," and twice for "no," I was able to communicate my needs and even the chapters and verses of the Scriptures I wanted read to me. They would sit by my bedside and read, and if I dozed off into a fitful sleep, when I woke up it was so comforting to see them there and feel of their love and concern. One young brother would sing to me the hymns I loved, which brought great peace into my heart at a most difficult time. Their presence, without them saying anything, spoke volumes of love, friendship, and caring.
Since then, I have often thought of the Savior in the Garden of Gethsemane asking his beloved friends and apostles to simply wait at a short distance while he went to suffer the greatest agony anyone has ever suffered on this earth. Yes, he had to do this alone, but even he, the greatest of all, I believe wanted to have the comforting presence of his closest friends about him in this, his greatest hour of need. "And he cometh, and findeth them sleeping, and saith unto Peter, Simon, sleepest thou? couldest not thou watch one ahour? And again he went away, and prayed, and spake the same words. And when he returned, he found them asleep again, (for their eyes were heavy,) neither wist they what to answer him. And he cometh the third time, and saith unto them, Sleep on now, and take your rest: it is enough, the hour is come..." [Mark 14: 37 -41]
I believe those apostles always felt badly that they couldn't stay awake while their beloved Master experienced what he did. They couldn't do anything to assist him really, but how he must have longed for their support. Nobody could do anything to change my circumstances after my accident, but what strength and comfort it was to just have so many friends show up at my bedside.
I don't know that we ever need to do more than just show up, but we really ought to work at doing that.
A blind, and almost completely deaf elderly gentlemen, moved into a new ward. Every Sunday he was there sitting on the front row during sacrament meeting. One Sunday after the meeting was over, one of the ward members took him aside and shouting into his ear so that the old man could hear he said "Why do you keep coming when you can't see or hear anything?" The old man responded, "I come just to show whose side I'm on!" Not a bad philosophy of life.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
I hate to admit it but I am beginning to become kind of an old man so let me share some memories from the past that have impacted my life in a significant way.
A few years ago I had the great opportunity of speaking at Chapman University in the city of Orange, California. Once each semester the Interfaith Council at the University invites someone to come and speak to the students regarding some faith promoting topic. I was feeling the pressure of wanting to do the best I possibly could in that special setting.
As I was sitting on the stand waiting for the meeting to begin, I noticed coming in the door five people who looked a little bit older than the average student. They were members from my ward. I was astonished because I didn't think anyone but me knew about this gathering. One of the men quietly approached the stand and simply said "We're here to support you." I must admit my heart was touched and comforted by this simple expression of love and support.
It reminded me of the time when my Dad died in April, 1970. Jo Anne and I had been married six years, had three little children, and were living in Ogden, Utah. I had served as Elder's Quorum President in the Washington Terrace Sixth Ward for about three years. My Dad's death was just devastating to me. We were very close and I could not imagine how life would be without him. He passed away in a hospital in Salt Lake City and the next day Jo Anne and I and other family members drove immediately to Ely, Nevada to make arrangements for the funeral. I really didn't know if anyone in Ogden or our ward knew that he had passed away. The morning of the funeral I happened to turn around and saw coming in the door, Bob Ellis, and Jack Pugmire. Bob Ellis was one of the elders in our ward and the editor and printer of the ward newspaper. Jack Pugmire, was a counselor in the bishopric and a good friend.
I was caught totally off guard when I saw them. Ogden is over 300 miles from Ely and that made Ely hard to get to. They had to have arisen extremely early that morning to have made it to the funeral on time. I had been in pretty good control of my emotions up to that time, but when I saw these two friends come into the Stake Center I could not hold back the tears. I don't know that we ever even got to talk. I believe they both embraced me as they left the building and got back into their car for the long drive back to Ogden. Many years later, their unexpected visit is still a vivid and wonderful memory from the past.
There are events in life that are never repeated. A wedding, a wedding reception, a funeral, a graduation, a sealing in the temple, and etc. only happen once in a person's life. We may be tempted to not acknowledge an invitation because, let's face it, life is busy and hectic. However, in that family's life this event will only happen once and if we withhold our support by our absence it is something that can never be reclaimed. Conflicts are unavoidable at times but even the worst of us can write a special letter of congratulation and apology for not attending. We really don't have to do anything special -- just show up; that in and of its self speaks volumes.
I spent the first two weeks after my accident in the ICU of our regional trauma center. It is impossible to express how I felt, having been told by the neurosurgeons that I would never be able to move any part of my body ever again, breathe on my own again, speak again, eat or drink again, and never be able to live outside of a care facility. I felt very vulnerable and somehow very much alone, and could not stand the thought of being left alone without family and friends around. I was able to communicate this thought, and family members stayed with me during the day. About 6 p.m. in the evening members of our High Council and High Priest group would take turns sitting with me all through the night until morning. Through an ingenious chart invented and produced by a good friend, by blinking my eyes, once for "yes," and twice for "no," I was able to communicate my needs and even the chapters and verses of the Scriptures I wanted read to me. They would sit by my bedside and read, and if I dozed off into a fitful sleep, when I woke up it was so comforting to see them there and feel of their love and concern. One young brother would sing to me the hymns I loved, which brought great peace into my heart at a most difficult time. Their presence, without them saying anything, spoke volumes of love, friendship, and caring.
Since then, I have often thought of the Savior in the Garden of Gethsemane asking his beloved friends and apostles to simply wait at a short distance while he went to suffer the greatest agony anyone has ever suffered on this earth. Yes, he had to do this alone, but even he, the greatest of all, I believe wanted to have the comforting presence of his closest friends about him in this, his greatest hour of need. "And he cometh, and findeth them sleeping, and saith unto Peter, Simon, sleepest thou? couldest not thou watch one ahour? And again he went away, and prayed, and spake the same words. And when he returned, he found them asleep again, (for their eyes were heavy,) neither wist they what to answer him. And he cometh the third time, and saith unto them, Sleep on now, and take your rest: it is enough, the hour is come..." [Mark 14: 37 -41]
I believe those apostles always felt badly that they couldn't stay awake while their beloved Master experienced what he did. They couldn't do anything to assist him really, but how he must have longed for their support. Nobody could do anything to change my circumstances after my accident, but what strength and comfort it was to just have so many friends show up at my bedside.
I don't know that we ever need to do more than just show up, but we really ought to work at doing that.
A blind, and almost completely deaf elderly gentlemen, moved into a new ward. Every Sunday he was there sitting on the front row during sacrament meeting. One Sunday after the meeting was over, one of the ward members took him aside and shouting into his ear so that the old man could hear he said "Why do you keep coming when you can't see or hear anything?" The old man responded, "I come just to show whose side I'm on!" Not a bad philosophy of life.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Monday, September 14, 2009
Spiritual Paralysis
Jo Anne loaded me up in the van and took me to the doctor's office a while back. Some tests had been run previously and the doctor announced to us that I had a kidney stone that was too large to pass. He scheduled me to have it blasted which didn't sound too pleasant, but in my unfeeling, paralyzed state I thought I could probably handle it. I wondered at the time how they would choose to anesthetize me.
It is very interesting being paralyzed. In my situation I have no feeling from my neck on down which is both an asset and a liability. Let me explain. On the one hand, having no feeling is really quite wonderful when I have kidney stones, ingrown toe nails, and minor surgeries performed on my lower anatomy. I have chatted with doctors as they have cut away at me, which is always a bit distracting and uncomfortable for them. I think they would rather operate on someone who is comatose. They do always remind me to be sure and not move however. I faithfully comply!
I really do believe though that being physically paralyzed and not being able to experience pain is much more of a liability than an asset. The reason I feel this way is that since I have no feeling, I don't know when I am being hurt and therefore I can't protect myself or know when I am being badly injured.
One of my daughters had a boyfriend who, on one occasion, was helping to get me into our modified van. The front passenger seat has been removed so that I can be locked into place by the side of the driver. Trying to impress my daughter, he got me into the van quickly which was impressive to us all, and started pushing me vigorously into place. However, in doing so he got me too close to the driver's seat causing the ring finger on my left hand to get caught on the seat. As he continued to push me rapidly forward I watched my finger being bent all the way back to my wrist and I said to myself, "Boy, I'll bet that hurts!" I went to the doctor who x-rayed the finger and then announced to me that it was fractured and that he was afraid he was going to have to immobilize it. I wondered where he had gone to medical school!
Our bodies, as created by Heavenly Father, were designed to experience pain to let us know that something is wrong. Although pain is not pleasant, it can be a blessing in helping us to seek immediate help to discover the source of the pain, take the necessary measures to alleviate it, and thus avoid more serious damage.
I believe that our spirit functions in much the same manner. However, if we do not heed the promptings that come to our spirits from the Holy Ghost, it is also possible for our spirits to become paralyzed -- "past feeling."
When an individual is spiritually paralyzed he cannot "feel" the still small voice and is not aware that he is in great spiritual pain.
Most people I know that are physically paralyzed were brought into that state usually as a result of one traumatic experience. Spiritual paralysis is very different in that it creeps up on us little by little until, without even realizing it, we are no longer able to "feel" the still small voice of the spirit and of our conscience.
I think it is important that we understand some of the causes and cures of spiritual paralysis so that we might take the necessary steps to protect ourselves from it, and be cured if already infected.
There are some obvious causes, or rather manifestations of the disease, like violating the law of chastity and becoming addicted to pornography or drugs for example, but I personally believe we usually only do these kinds of things after we have already been infected with the beginnings of what can turn into a serious case of full-blown spiritual paralysis.
And so what might be some of the things that bring on the early stages of this disease? I believe they can include such simple things as not having our personal private prayers each day, or not reading the scriptures consistently, or just being mentally lazy and not reading good books, or watching too much TV or playing too many video games.
Each day my caregiver exercises my body for me. It's called range of motion. By stretching my muscles and tendons my body stays flexible and looks fairly normal. If I did not receive this daily exercise my limbs would begin to be frozen in place and become distorted and twisted. I believe the same thing can happen to our minds and spirits if they are not regularly exercised.
President Hinckley told the youth of the Church in the Priesthood Session of a General Conference just prior to his death to: "... Please, please ... not fritter away your time or your talents in an aimless pursuit. If you do so, it will lessen your capacity to do worthwhile things. I believe it will dull your sensitivity.... and as you look back, you will be disappointed with yourselves." [Gordon B. Hinckley, May 2005, Ensign.]
Within days following my accident I realized that whatever quality of life I would have from that time on would be centered in the mind and in the spirit.
Thankfully I had a great love for reading that was instilled in me by my mother when I was a young boy that proved to be a priceless gift upon becoming physically paralyzed in helping me to not become spiritually paralyzed as well.
A while back, a good friend of mine shared an important thought with me that I found to be very meaningful. He said, "If it is true, it never gets old!" I feel that way about great writing -- literature, biographies, and history. This philosophy also applies to truly great music, and especially to the Scriptures. They never grow old -- they have stood the test of time -- because they are true!
Thankfully because of wonderful computer technology and voice recognition software, I am still able to search the Scriptures in my condition.
Elder Carlos E. Asay, a former general authority, once said that "Reading the Scriptures is like having a conversation with deity." Along with prayer, it is the most important activity I engage in on a daily basis. Surely I would have become spiritually paralyzed as well as physically paralyzed had it not been for my love for reading and the self-discipline required to do it.
I have often thought if I had not searched the scriptures for so many years of my life, beginning in the mission field, where would I be now? But because of my love of reading good books ,as well as the scriptures, my days are filled with happiness and fulfillment.
Thankfully, we never need to be the victims of spiritual paralysis; we can immunize ourselves against it through prayer, hard work, self-discipline, keeping the commandments, searching the Scriptures, and exercising our minds through reading good books.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
It is very interesting being paralyzed. In my situation I have no feeling from my neck on down which is both an asset and a liability. Let me explain. On the one hand, having no feeling is really quite wonderful when I have kidney stones, ingrown toe nails, and minor surgeries performed on my lower anatomy. I have chatted with doctors as they have cut away at me, which is always a bit distracting and uncomfortable for them. I think they would rather operate on someone who is comatose. They do always remind me to be sure and not move however. I faithfully comply!
I really do believe though that being physically paralyzed and not being able to experience pain is much more of a liability than an asset. The reason I feel this way is that since I have no feeling, I don't know when I am being hurt and therefore I can't protect myself or know when I am being badly injured.
One of my daughters had a boyfriend who, on one occasion, was helping to get me into our modified van. The front passenger seat has been removed so that I can be locked into place by the side of the driver. Trying to impress my daughter, he got me into the van quickly which was impressive to us all, and started pushing me vigorously into place. However, in doing so he got me too close to the driver's seat causing the ring finger on my left hand to get caught on the seat. As he continued to push me rapidly forward I watched my finger being bent all the way back to my wrist and I said to myself, "Boy, I'll bet that hurts!" I went to the doctor who x-rayed the finger and then announced to me that it was fractured and that he was afraid he was going to have to immobilize it. I wondered where he had gone to medical school!
Our bodies, as created by Heavenly Father, were designed to experience pain to let us know that something is wrong. Although pain is not pleasant, it can be a blessing in helping us to seek immediate help to discover the source of the pain, take the necessary measures to alleviate it, and thus avoid more serious damage.
I believe that our spirit functions in much the same manner. However, if we do not heed the promptings that come to our spirits from the Holy Ghost, it is also possible for our spirits to become paralyzed -- "past feeling."
When an individual is spiritually paralyzed he cannot "feel" the still small voice and is not aware that he is in great spiritual pain.
Most people I know that are physically paralyzed were brought into that state usually as a result of one traumatic experience. Spiritual paralysis is very different in that it creeps up on us little by little until, without even realizing it, we are no longer able to "feel" the still small voice of the spirit and of our conscience.
I think it is important that we understand some of the causes and cures of spiritual paralysis so that we might take the necessary steps to protect ourselves from it, and be cured if already infected.
There are some obvious causes, or rather manifestations of the disease, like violating the law of chastity and becoming addicted to pornography or drugs for example, but I personally believe we usually only do these kinds of things after we have already been infected with the beginnings of what can turn into a serious case of full-blown spiritual paralysis.
And so what might be some of the things that bring on the early stages of this disease? I believe they can include such simple things as not having our personal private prayers each day, or not reading the scriptures consistently, or just being mentally lazy and not reading good books, or watching too much TV or playing too many video games.
Each day my caregiver exercises my body for me. It's called range of motion. By stretching my muscles and tendons my body stays flexible and looks fairly normal. If I did not receive this daily exercise my limbs would begin to be frozen in place and become distorted and twisted. I believe the same thing can happen to our minds and spirits if they are not regularly exercised.
President Hinckley told the youth of the Church in the Priesthood Session of a General Conference just prior to his death to: "... Please, please ... not fritter away your time or your talents in an aimless pursuit. If you do so, it will lessen your capacity to do worthwhile things. I believe it will dull your sensitivity.... and as you look back, you will be disappointed with yourselves." [Gordon B. Hinckley, May 2005, Ensign.]
Within days following my accident I realized that whatever quality of life I would have from that time on would be centered in the mind and in the spirit.
Thankfully I had a great love for reading that was instilled in me by my mother when I was a young boy that proved to be a priceless gift upon becoming physically paralyzed in helping me to not become spiritually paralyzed as well.
A while back, a good friend of mine shared an important thought with me that I found to be very meaningful. He said, "If it is true, it never gets old!" I feel that way about great writing -- literature, biographies, and history. This philosophy also applies to truly great music, and especially to the Scriptures. They never grow old -- they have stood the test of time -- because they are true!
Thankfully because of wonderful computer technology and voice recognition software, I am still able to search the Scriptures in my condition.
Elder Carlos E. Asay, a former general authority, once said that "Reading the Scriptures is like having a conversation with deity." Along with prayer, it is the most important activity I engage in on a daily basis. Surely I would have become spiritually paralyzed as well as physically paralyzed had it not been for my love for reading and the self-discipline required to do it.
I have often thought if I had not searched the scriptures for so many years of my life, beginning in the mission field, where would I be now? But because of my love of reading good books ,as well as the scriptures, my days are filled with happiness and fulfillment.
Thankfully, we never need to be the victims of spiritual paralysis; we can immunize ourselves against it through prayer, hard work, self-discipline, keeping the commandments, searching the Scriptures, and exercising our minds through reading good books.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
20th Second Birthday
August 11, 2009 Observation:
August 1 I celebrated my 20th birthday. You may find that strange inasmuch as I have a 44-year-old son. However, it was just 20 years ago August 1 that I had my accident at Laguna Beach and was born into a new way of life. For that reason I will always feel I have been privileged to celebrate two birthdays.
It is truly a miracle that I have lived 20 years, paralyzed and on life support. It is only because of the tender mercies of the Lord and Jo Anne's never-ending tender and loving care that I am still here and able to enjoy life in this state.
Recently I was visiting a good friend of mine who has been in the hospital and on life support for the past 2 1/2 months. As we were visiting, he needed a procedure performed on him by a respiratory therapist. When the respiratory therapist saw me, he was intrigued by my wheelchair and life support system. When he discovered I had been on life support for 20 years he was truly amazed. He told me that for many years he had worked with a number of young men on life support and that most of them had not lived more than a couple of years. He was astonished at my quality of life, that I could move about so well in my breath control wheelchair, that we could travel about in our modified van, and that I looked so happy and healthy. Of course we both attributed it to the incredible care Jo Anne has given me these many years.
Talking to this respiratory therapist and his reaction to me, made me realize how fortunate I am to still be here. Too often I am afraid I take life, the many miraculous times it has been saved, and my many blessings too much for granted. I don't spend a great deal of time thinking about my circumstances and very infrequently ever look at myself in the mirror. When I do, the thought always comes to me, "Jack, you are in pretty bad shape aren't you?" That kind of thinking, I have discovered, is a one-way road to nowhere.
My visit with the respiratory therapist and reaching the milestone of having lived 20 years on a ventilator, have caused me to do some serious reflecting.
Feelings of gratitude have welled up in my heart for the love I have felt from our Heavenly Father and from my family and friends. Family and friends have said things to me that are usually reserved for one's funeral service. I am grateful to have heard them while still alive though, because I do believe it is better to be seen and spoken to than to be "viewed" and talked about. I have never felt pitied by those who know me the best, which has been a great blessing for someone in my condition.
The other day my daughter in law, Kim, was helping Jo Anne get me dressed while we were on vacation in St. George. Recently called as a Relief Society President in her Ward, she was thanking me for letting her practice dressing the "dead." She had already been called upon to perform this service at her local funeral parlor and getting to help dress me was an unexpected blessing in helping her to become more expert in this aspect of her calling. It really made me feel as though I were still good for something!
Without the spiritual strength I have received from Scripture searching, prayer, and Jo Anne helping me with such "unwearyingness" I know the quality of my life would not nearly be what it is. However, I have discovered something else that has been a great blessing to me through these 20 years.
When I was first injured, I just felt that I wouldn't be able to do anything of any value for myself or others in my limited physical condition. Jo Anne made me believe that I still had something to offer to our family as well as to others. She prodded me, treated me as a "whole" person and challenged me to do things I initially would never have attempted without her encouragement.
With the advent of wonderful personal computers and superior voice recognition software I found I could still be creative, productive, and serve others in my own unique way. Jo Anne helped kindle a fire that still continues to burn within me to work hard each day and to be as productive as I can be.
Every morning when I awaken I can hardly wait to begin working on my computer. I always have something I am trying to accomplish and it gives great meaning and fulfillment to my life.
There are times I have felt, and been tempted to just vegetate, take it easy, (who could blame a poor paralyzed man on life support for doing that) and coast along, but thankfully have realized that coasting requires little effort and is usually down hill.
I think what I am trying to say was beautifully expressed by Robert Frost in his wonderful poem, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." He was driving his buggy home one evening and in doing so had to pass by a stand of tall trees. It began to snow big beautiful flakes and all was quiet and peaceful. He was tempted to stop and just stay there -- maybe forever. And then he wrote, "The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep."
I believe we are all tempted at times by our own version of "lovely, dark, and deep" woods that invite us to put our lives into neutral and just coast along. Fortunate is the person however, who realizes he has promises to keep and miles to go before he sleeps. It is in the keeping of those promises and struggling forward day by day and mile after mile that joy, peace, and fulfillment are ours.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
August 1 I celebrated my 20th birthday. You may find that strange inasmuch as I have a 44-year-old son. However, it was just 20 years ago August 1 that I had my accident at Laguna Beach and was born into a new way of life. For that reason I will always feel I have been privileged to celebrate two birthdays.
It is truly a miracle that I have lived 20 years, paralyzed and on life support. It is only because of the tender mercies of the Lord and Jo Anne's never-ending tender and loving care that I am still here and able to enjoy life in this state.
Recently I was visiting a good friend of mine who has been in the hospital and on life support for the past 2 1/2 months. As we were visiting, he needed a procedure performed on him by a respiratory therapist. When the respiratory therapist saw me, he was intrigued by my wheelchair and life support system. When he discovered I had been on life support for 20 years he was truly amazed. He told me that for many years he had worked with a number of young men on life support and that most of them had not lived more than a couple of years. He was astonished at my quality of life, that I could move about so well in my breath control wheelchair, that we could travel about in our modified van, and that I looked so happy and healthy. Of course we both attributed it to the incredible care Jo Anne has given me these many years.
Talking to this respiratory therapist and his reaction to me, made me realize how fortunate I am to still be here. Too often I am afraid I take life, the many miraculous times it has been saved, and my many blessings too much for granted. I don't spend a great deal of time thinking about my circumstances and very infrequently ever look at myself in the mirror. When I do, the thought always comes to me, "Jack, you are in pretty bad shape aren't you?" That kind of thinking, I have discovered, is a one-way road to nowhere.
My visit with the respiratory therapist and reaching the milestone of having lived 20 years on a ventilator, have caused me to do some serious reflecting.
Feelings of gratitude have welled up in my heart for the love I have felt from our Heavenly Father and from my family and friends. Family and friends have said things to me that are usually reserved for one's funeral service. I am grateful to have heard them while still alive though, because I do believe it is better to be seen and spoken to than to be "viewed" and talked about. I have never felt pitied by those who know me the best, which has been a great blessing for someone in my condition.
The other day my daughter in law, Kim, was helping Jo Anne get me dressed while we were on vacation in St. George. Recently called as a Relief Society President in her Ward, she was thanking me for letting her practice dressing the "dead." She had already been called upon to perform this service at her local funeral parlor and getting to help dress me was an unexpected blessing in helping her to become more expert in this aspect of her calling. It really made me feel as though I were still good for something!
Without the spiritual strength I have received from Scripture searching, prayer, and Jo Anne helping me with such "unwearyingness" I know the quality of my life would not nearly be what it is. However, I have discovered something else that has been a great blessing to me through these 20 years.
When I was first injured, I just felt that I wouldn't be able to do anything of any value for myself or others in my limited physical condition. Jo Anne made me believe that I still had something to offer to our family as well as to others. She prodded me, treated me as a "whole" person and challenged me to do things I initially would never have attempted without her encouragement.
With the advent of wonderful personal computers and superior voice recognition software I found I could still be creative, productive, and serve others in my own unique way. Jo Anne helped kindle a fire that still continues to burn within me to work hard each day and to be as productive as I can be.
Every morning when I awaken I can hardly wait to begin working on my computer. I always have something I am trying to accomplish and it gives great meaning and fulfillment to my life.
There are times I have felt, and been tempted to just vegetate, take it easy, (who could blame a poor paralyzed man on life support for doing that) and coast along, but thankfully have realized that coasting requires little effort and is usually down hill.
I think what I am trying to say was beautifully expressed by Robert Frost in his wonderful poem, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." He was driving his buggy home one evening and in doing so had to pass by a stand of tall trees. It began to snow big beautiful flakes and all was quiet and peaceful. He was tempted to stop and just stay there -- maybe forever. And then he wrote, "The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep."
I believe we are all tempted at times by our own version of "lovely, dark, and deep" woods that invite us to put our lives into neutral and just coast along. Fortunate is the person however, who realizes he has promises to keep and miles to go before he sleeps. It is in the keeping of those promises and struggling forward day by day and mile after mile that joy, peace, and fulfillment are ours.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
"If Rushton Can Do It -- Anyone Can Do It!"
Our son John recently returned from Germany where he finished a six-month deployment at a large air base and hospital complex. Wounded troops are flown there from Afghanistan and Iraq and after they are stabilized they are flown to Walter Reed Hospital in Washington, DC for specialized treatment.
As an ER doctor he was the head of a team consisting of him, a respiratory therapist, and an ER/trauma nurse. Almost every week they would be flown from Germany to Washington, DC with severely wounded young men. Their mission was to keep alive the wounded troops during the flight to Walter Reed Hospital.
He told me of two young men -- one barely 20 and the other in his late 20s who were blown up by an IED (improvised explosive device) in Afghanistan. The youngest of the two lost all four of his limbs, and the older man lost his two legs. The older soldier was grateful that he had just lost his legs as he compared himself to his friend. This is just the tip of the iceberg of what John has witnessed during his three years in the Air Force as an ER doctor.
As I contemplate his experience with these wounded troops I realize what a heavy price some individuals and their families are paying in their fight for freedom against these frenzied and misguided fundamentalist terrorists. I hope we can appreciate what they are doing for us as we go about our comfortable daily lives. We must never forget them or their predecessors who have fought so valiantly during the 20th century and on into the 21st century defending our freedom and wonderful way of life. May their sacrifices not now or ever have been offered up in vain.
As I have contemplated what John has been through and seen, it has embarrassingly called to mind my own puny contribution to the defense of our nation many years ago.
I was released from my mission to Central America in May of 1961. I immediately joined the Nevada Army National Guard to avoid the draft. I was sent to do my basic training at Fort Ord, California in January of 1962. When I went to Fort Ord I was a physical wreck. I had recently recovered from infectious hepatitis, which put me in a hospital in Guatemala City for 43 days. When I got up out of bed and out of the hospital I was so weak I could barely walk. In that weakened condition I finished out the last few months of my mission and when I arrived home I barely weighed 150 pounds, if that. I was pale and unable to do more than two or three push-ups at a time. I don't think I could do a sit up, and pull ups, hanging from a bar, were impossible. In that kind of shape I flew to San Francisco and was bused to Fort Ord to begin my basic training.
It was just my luck to be assigned to Co. B. 2-1. The company commander was a young man by the name of Lieutenant Squatriglia. The Army was his life. As my son Mike would say, he was an Army "Nazi." He was in great shape and even had muscles on his head. His uniform was spotless and so starched that you could have cut your hand by rubbing the creases on his pants. Even his underwear was khaki colored. He was an expert in jungle warfare and hand to hand combat.
The first day he met me, we were all standing in line waiting to go into the mess hall to eat lunch. He was standing at the door and as we approached him one by one, he would have us do as many push-ups as we could before entering and eating. I assumed the correct position and cranked out three great push-ups. To say the least, Lieutenant Squatriglia was less than impressed. He just knew that I could do more than I was doing and couldn't believe there could be anybody as weak as I appeared to be. From that day until the end of basic training he made sure that I was the last person to enter the mess hall to eat. He intensely disliked me! He didn't like anything about me. I wasn't "regular army" and he knew it. He knew that I was what they called a "six-month wonder." He took it upon himself to make my life as miserable as he could.
I, in turn, did everything I could do to get him upset. I don't know what it was inside of me but I just secretly enjoyed infuriating Lieutenant Squatriglia. When we marched, on purpose I marched a half step slower than everybody else with lieutenant Squatriglia right at my side counting the Cadence loudly into my ear.
When we had bayonet training he would stand in front of us and holler "What is the spirit of the bayonet?" We were supposed to holler back enthusiastically, "To kill, to kill!" Then he would scream at us, "What two kinds of bayonet fighters are there?" We were supposed to scream back, "The quick and the dead!" He would then scream back, "What kind are you?" We were to holler back, "The quick!" And then he would shout at us, "What kind are they?" We were to shout back, "The dead!" Then we were supposed to growl like tigers. Well, I just couldn't get into the spirit of the bayonet and would always be found at the back of the group not really shouting or growling. Lieutenant Squatriglia was well aware of this. It just killed him.
Lieutenant Squatriglia's greatest desire was for his company to do better than any other company at Fort Ord in the graded test that culminated our basic training. It was a series of 10 events with a possible 10 points on each event. I determined in my heart that I was going to get 100 percent on the graded test. Without Lieutenant Squatriglia realizing it I was beginning to put on weight and was also getting stronger through all the physical exertion and good food. I maintained a low profile however, and just tried to stay out of his way as best I could.
The day of the graded test came. My group's first event was at the rifle range. We had practiced shooting on a number of different days but now we were shooting to qualify in different categories, the highest being "Expert." You had to shoot Expert to receive the maximum 10 points in that particular event. The old M1 rifle we were using had a peep sight on it similar to the one on the rifle in "Quigly Down Under". For some reason it was just made for me. We were standing in foxholes with our rifles resting on a sandbag. Silhouette targets of men would pop up at different distances and I would squeeze the trigger and they would fall down almost every single time. It was just incredible. It was one of the most enjoyable activities in which I had ever participated. When the results came in, I was one of the few men in the company who had qualified as "Expert" on the rifle range.
I went from event to event earning the maximum number of points each time. One of the events, for example, was throwing a dummy hand grenade through a swinging tire -- 10 times. I put it through every single time. Another was crawling on your belly while cradling your rifle in your arms under a barb wire obstacle course in a specified amount of time.
Well, by the end of the day I knew that I had received 100% on every event. It took until evening for all of the results to be tabulated. When Lieutenant Squatriglia saw what I had done, he thought for sure that I had somehow cheated and had the scorekeepers double check all of my scores. When he finally realized that everything was in proper order he called the entire company of over 200 men out onto the parade ground in front of our barracks. In all of Fort Ord, in that particular cycle of basic training, there were only two men out of the several thousand that were there that had earned 100% on the graded test. Lieutenant Squatriglia called out my name and had me come and stand in front of the entire company. He told them that I had received 100% on the graded test and then said, "This just goes to show, men, that if Rushton can do it, anybody can do it!"
I have shared these experiences with you for a couple of reasons. I believe the Lord knew I wouldn't do so well in Korea, Vietnam, or the Middle East. He let me do my duty to my country at Fort Ord and then at the Presidio of San Francisco. Also, based on my experience at Fort Ord, I learned to be careful in judging others by their outward appearance. You can never be sure what an individual has done, can do, or especially what they have in their heart.
And then, truer words were never spoken than, "If Rushton can do it, anybody can do it!"
A number of people over the many years since my accident have said to me that there is no way they could do what I have done and endured. That is so false! We never know what we are capable of doing until put to the test. And believe me, "If Rushton can do it, anybody can do it!"
Dad/Grandpa/Dad
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