Family Christmas Letter 2009

As we look back over the past year, and as I look to release my inner PR agent, I can only be glad that although this year was a good year, and I say that with all the flexibility that can be used with the word ‘good’. We can only hope that every year that follows this one can only be followed by better ones. With everything that has happened this past year it shouldn’t be hard, frankly just an extra scoop of ice cream would be a great improvement.

I of course exaggerate; this is of course the family Christmas letter and it could hardly be called a family Christmas letter unless an extreme amount of exaggeration were used, or, as most would like to say, creativity.

First, as most hadn’t wondered, we didn’t include a family Christmas letter last year. This was due to budget cuts. Sure, blame the economy, blame Barak Obama, I blame the leaky gas line in our furnace that caused our furnace to die thereby costing us a new furnace and heck, while your at it might as well replace the water heater. And our dog got ran over.

The big event this year was that Millie’s sister called her up saying that she was going to get married and since she was going to get married Millie was going to have to come down to Peru for a month. We booked all the flights, made the plans, we decided that I was going to stay behind since both kids were going to have to pay airfare and that my money had spent enough time in Peru that I don’t need to go and visit it. It’s too bad that things didn’t work out with Millie’s sister and her fiancé like they had planned, err… until this upcoming February. We will save that until next year’s letter.

Being on my own was great, I was able to do all the things guys like to do when they don’t have a family around to bother them. Like; clean the house, play video games, take really long bike rides, go on hikes and cry themselves to sleep.

But, after a month of lonely bliss, they came back. And like Job, after his time of suffering, his blessings were doubled, but unlike Job, they didn’t feel like blessings. For our daughter’s birthday we had conned a neighbor into letting us have one of her Chihuahua mix pups, but when my wife went to go pick her up she brought back two. If you have told your wife that she can only keep one pup of two when the pups are sleeping in your lap, then you are a much better man then I.

As if the duplicity of blessings of dogs was not enough, then God thought that I should be blessed with the blessing of in-laws. Not just “close-by-in-laws”, but “come-and-live-with-you in-laws,” and don’t forget the kids. My wife’s aunt just immigrated to the US with her two sons (5-years-old, 6-years-old). The father had to stay behind due to some curious anomaly brought to you by the US government. He should be here in the next couple of months once we sign some documents with our blood and wave good-by to our eternal

Anyway, no Christmas letter would be complete until I proved that my kids were better than anyone else’s.

This year our little girl entered into first grade, since kids these days have it too easy, we had to walk to school uphill both ways, in ten feet of snow, barefoot. We decided that she was going to get involved in the French Immersion Program, in other words, she speaks English the first part of her school day, French the second half and Spanish when she gets home. We have finally gotten her to sleep in her own room through the ancient art of bribery. She now reads and can use the computer. Daddy now has to have a special password to use the computer.

Our son was attending a special pre-prechool program in Provo until he aced their test and they said he couldn’t go anymore. I never thought I would have to teach him the art of dumbing it down when he was three.

Silver Lining My Eye!

The water main broke just outside of my house last week. I got home from work to find a gaping hole in my yard where the water had pushed it's way up through the yard and the remains of a bush that had gotten in the way. My wife ran to a neighbor's house and got them to shut off the main valve, but I already could imagine how much water had already ran through that pipe before it was shut off.

Now, my first reaction is usually me throwing my hands in the air and screaming, very dramatically, "Why me?" But, I've been working on that. So, despite my stress I did my very best to just let the situation flow. My wife is so very good at it, honestly, she is, people should pay her to give them classes. She says it's because she has a bad memory that everything just flows past her, but I think she just has everything in the correct perspective.

Anyway, so first thing was first. Assess the damage. I dug a hole, following the hole the water had created. After about an hour, maybe two I found the pipe. I guess at this point calling it a pipe is using the word loosely. At this point the "pipe" was more an example of rust collection. The neighbor (a Non-member by-the-way) that rushed over to shut the water off when my wife needed him told me that he could patch it, but, by the way it looked I would be lucky if it didn't just break in a couple of days someplace else. So we started calling plumbers and excavators to get bids. Thankfully the kids were in school still and we have a limited supply of bottled water in our food storage. Bids ranged from $1,500 to $2,400. I really wasn't surprised, I went with the guy that gave us the bid for $1,500, more because he used words like "That's my cost" and "I won't make a dime on labor" and so forth. He was the local ward member the people in the ward went to for things like this so I did the same. My neighbor came over a little later and asked how it was going and what the bids were. When I told him, he said that I was being taken for a ride, and that he could recommend a guy that could do it for $700, and he did.

The new guy isn't even in the yellow pages but as promised he gave me a bid of $700 and I took it. The next day he showed up as promised and began his work. Along the way he discovered that some of the pipe had already been replaced with copper and that he thought that we should just replace the bad pipe. He also discovered the old septic tank and an old sess pit, but he said that we could just continue to ignore those. Suffice it to say at the end of the day we only paid $500 for the whole job. I was very pleased.

Now for the moral of the story. First, I am a pessimist, I still don't like the idea that at the end of the day we had to pay $500. But, it certainly was a lot better then what the other guys told me and I would bet that any of the others would have had me pull out or fill the old septic tank and sess pit. This simple excavator was straight forward and didn't want to have me pay any more than I wanted to, no pressure, no fluff, just get the water back on. It's times like this that makes it hard to even see the black cloud past the silver lining.

Oh yeah, just because the guy is in your ward doesn't mean he's giving you the best price. He is first and foremost a business man.

Random Missionary Memories

More Random Missionary Moments. I am going to warn you ahead of time, they aren't funny or uplifting. Unless of course human suffering uplifts you, under which of course, you should probably see a doctor.

Within the first couple of months in the mission, my trainer and I went to see a family. Now if you know anything about the Latin culture you know that they will almost always offer you some kind of food or drink. Sure the mission rules were that we shouldn't eat or drink anything down there that we weren't sure of, but I honestly believe that the church makes those rules just to pacify parents that we aren't going to get sick. In other words, we would eat or drink almost anything put in front of us and prayed that Lord would bless us not to get sick. Most of the time he did bless us, I often wished he would turn the cow stomach into something I could stomach, but alas, those prayers remained unanswered.

When we went to see this family they served us a drink. A slightly orange hot water. I drank it and thanked the mother, she was a single mother of four kids. She replied to me, but since my Spanish could only be described as pre-pre-preschool level I didn't understand. My companion was a Peruvian and didn't speak English so he couldn't explain it to me right then. After we left I asked him what it was we drank, being the green missionary I was I was slightly afraid that it was tea. He explained to me that it was sugar water. Just water with a bit of sugar? Yep. That was all they could offer, but they offered it anyway. The mother had a small loom that she would make rugs with and that's how she would pay for food, but that was all she could do. I didn't realize it at first, but the room we sat in when we talked with her was the only room in what can only be described as a hovel.

Some months in the mission field, and with considerable improvement to my Spanish. I was stuck with a companion that was nearing the end of his mission and was already thinking of home, we call that Trunky. One day we were out looking for contacts, in my mind we were, in his mind we were strolling through the park. There were a group of kids playing soccer, for whatever reason one of the kids tripped and ran straight into my leg, then fell to the ground. He didn't really make an effort to get up. My companion knelt beside the kid and picked him up. I was just a dumb kid and my mind was conjuring up lessons of CPR. My companion sat the kid down on a bench and told the kid to sit there while we looked for his mother. No sooner did my companion release the child did he fall straight forward, flat on his face without making any movement to stop his fall, to the concrete. My companion was quick and picked the kid up immediately. I looked at the kid's face, it had the expected scratches, but what I didn't expect was a non-mucus white liquid coming out of his nose. Within seconds did his mother and a neighbor run up to us. The mother was freaking out, cursing at us she ripped her child from my companion's arms. My companion told her that she needed take him to a doctor, she cried and muttered that she couldn't afford it and that she'd take him home. The neighbor stepped in and said that it wasn't like it used to be, and that she could take her son to the doctor and that they didn't charge for children. I will always remember her face, the hopelessness disappearing and hope peaking through. She didn't believe it at first, but the neighbor insisted and flagged down a taxi. I never did hear what happened.

I feel ill when people say that they "understand" poverty. Or when they say that poor people just need to get a job. There are times I can't sleep at night thinking about some of the people I've seen. I sit here with a computer in front of me with high-speed internet, while I know that there is a family that has had their livelihood taken away from them and there is no one that will plead their case. I get to decide what I eat, while some have to wonder if they are going to be able to. The worst part is, I have seen their faces, I know their voices and they are my friends.

Smaller Moments that change you.

Growing up in Utah was great and at the same time bad. Great because I never felt threatened, except for that time a car pulled up next to me and a guy asked me to come over and give him directions to some place; of course I told him to buzz off, thanks McGruff! Bad because I never really got to see a world that I didn't even know existed. Okay, I am probably generalizing, and it happens to every kid, but I like to think I am special and it only happened to me.

Anywho, my mission was a big wake up call on a lot of things. Most of which I won't talk about right now, but in the future. Even then I didn't really get it. It wasn't until a few months after I got home off my mission did I realize some things.

For some reason I didn't like the idea of donating blood. Upon reflection I think to myself that I didn't really want a person sticking needles in me and so I searched for rationalizations to not donate. My rationalization was that we donate blood for free and the Red Cross and others turn around and sell it for buko bucks. No way am I going to contribute to a system where they sell something that they get for free. Not once during my whole life did I find anyone that would say I was wrong. Sure there was a person or to that said they would do it anyway, but on the whole I was never challenged. One day while I was working a friend of mine and I got onto that discussion. I spewed out my very well practiced speech of being a moral human being and not supporting a greedy system. After which he responded, "well, I think it's a karma thing. I did my part, what they do has nothing to do with me."

That stuck with me. For some reason it had never occurred to me that I should do the right thing no matter what others did about it. Salvation is personal after all. I don't think God will throw me down to hell because I gave money to a charity that was corrupt, but we will be very disappointed if I didn't give money to charity at all. I gave blood at the very next opportunity, although it lead to a lot of laughs and incriminating pictures. I now look for more opportunities to give blood, I don't go as out of my way as I should, but then again there are a lot of things I don't do as well as I should. At least the intention is there, let's see if I can do anything with it.

More Moments that Change you

Like many Utah born Mormons. I've have very little exposure to widespread sin. Or what we consider sin. Alcohol, Porn (although Utah is the biggest subscriber to online porn), Coffee and the like. It's easy to grow up with an idea that people that do these things are depraved, or like I thought some time ago, were just plain evil.

When I was courting my wife I went down to Peru for a time so we could actually spend some real time together. She is related to half of the town were she lives. It's a small town. One night her "Brother-in-law" came to meet her new boyfriend. (I put 'brother-in-law' in quotes because he's old enough to be her father, did I mention that my mother-in-law and my father-in-law are separated by almost 40 years?) Anyway, he had a beer bottle in his hand and had just started drinking. So, he had a buzz but wasn't drunk. I didn't want to talk to him, I just looked at him as if he offended me. My soon-to-be wife pulled me aside and told me, "Why aren't you talking to him?" I responded, "He's drinking" as if that was all that needed to be said. "Yea, and?" was her rebuttal. I was dumbfounded, I didn't understand. Shouldn't she try and hold people up to her standards, shouldn't she let people know that it's no okay to drink?

Being the intuitive person she is she explained, "Look, he's not Mormon. Drinking doesn't make him a bad person. He is very nice and has never hurt anyone. People drink, it's part of the culture, it's something they do. I could isolate them or myself from them, or I could accept them for who they are, just like they accept me for who I am. Please, just talk to him." and I did.

As I look back, I can't even realize why it never occurred to me before. People are people. Just because you don't hold the same ideals, principles, religion or anything else, doesn't make you a bad person. I can have fun with a person who drinks, just like a person that drinks can have fun with someone who doesn't.

I really don't know how to put it into words properly, but I will try. Jesus went among the poor and downtrodden inviting them to repentance and offering solace. He chided those that should have known better. He made people feel at home, he made them want to be like him. He didn't go around calling people sinners.

Well, I really don't know if I got my point across, but there you go.

Moments that change you.

Throughout my life I have had only a couple of moments that have really changed me. All of the ones I can remember are the ones that have changed me for the good. Just for simplicity I will leave it to be understood that Marriage/Kids and similar experiences go without saying. I'm talking about the ones that change your view of the world.

While I was in the MTC and trying to become the best missionary I could be despite my groups efforts to the contrary. One night all the missionaries when to the auditorium for some talk of some kind, (come on, it's been ten years, you can't expect me to remember). It's understood as a rule that all the missionaries wear their suit jackets. It was winter at the time and overall there really wasn't a problem. Well, this particular day I sat next to a guy who didn't have is jacket on and was wiping his head every little once and a while with a handkerchief. I asked his if he was sick, because it looked like he was hot. He said that he wasn't hot, and in fact he couldn't tell. 'Why?' was the question that came out of my mouth uninvited. He then explained to me that he was recovering from brain cancer, and that when they operated they took out the part of your brain that controls your body temperature, in other words, he was cold-blooded. I asked him if they got it all and if he was going to be okay, he didn't know.

"Then why come out on a mission if you don't even know how long you are going to live?" I asked.

"Because there are more important things..."

Those words must have turned to fire and burned themselves in my brain, because to this day I can hear him say it. I never learned his name, because his words effected me so much I just sat there dumbfounded.

My whole life I have tried to make sense of those words and apply them. What are things that are more important then living? And as I pondered that question I never seem to run out of answers.

A Never-ending List of Firsts

As I get older, and as I watch my kids get older. I begin to think about all the firsts that my kids are going through and all the firsts I went through. My daughter's first tooth. My nephew-in-law's first snow storm. My son's first interest in a superhero, although he seems to really be attached to Spiderman despite all my efforts to get him interested in Superman (But, let's be honest, the Spiderman movie was just a lot cooler then Superman Returns.)

I think of all the firsts I've gone through. First kiss, first and only wife, first really bad haircut, first public humiliation. It gives me chills to think about all the things that my kids still get to go out and do. It's times like this that suddenly the old-man's adage about how youth is wasted on the young suddenly rings true. I guess I could just take that I am now old and uncool, all I need now is for one of my kids to roll their eyes at me for something. Then it will be official.

Nevertheless, in my old age I still find myself in a situation where there are still firsts out there. The latest one is that my best friend had his first kid. "How in the world does that relate to being a first for you, you selfish pig?" You ask? Well, as I was sitting with my friend in sacrament meeting I saw him struggling to try and calm his son down. He looked nervous, self-conscious and insecure. I wanted to say something to him to make him feel that it's normal. I am a two-time father so I know that every parent out there just smiles and understands when they hear a child going meltdown in the middle of sacrament meeting. Nevertheless, how do you communicate that to a new parent? Let's be honest, before we had kids we all thought about how rude those parents are that can't keep control of their children, but once we have kids we suddenly realize that keeping children quiet is like juggling chainsaws. I told him that it's all part of being a father, and I felt like a goon spouting off platitudes. I really want to be a good friend, but I really don't know how to go about it. Then again, sometimes all you can do is be there and be yourself. Although I really don't like the second answer because I do a lot of that. It really is times like these when you really need to keep the line of communication between you and the Lord open. That way if he can send a some inspiration he can.

Doing the right thing.

There never seems to be a clear way to right thing. Okay, maybe I am exaggerating. I haven't been on my most spiritual best behavior lately. Which would probably explain the reason why I am not quite so sure about how to make the right decision. I suppose that God had his reasons when he said hold fast to the rod. If you're not holding fast, then things get a little fuzzy.

Anyway, I find myself on the fuzzy end of spiritual guidance. Unfortunately, I can't postpone all my decisions until I get my spiritual feet back on the ground, so here is to being taught by goodly parents.

One of the problems that comes with being married is in-laws, and the problem with having foreign in-laws is that you are the hotel when they come into the country. Picking up on what I'm about to reveal? You'd be right, I've got some of my wife's family living with us. Oh, sure, I could have told them to stay with some other family here in the US, on the other side of the country. The situation would have been better for me, I like my space, but I couldn't ignore my wife. She didn't really push the idea. Okay, maybe she did, but she sure made it feel like she didn't. Nevertheless, she has always wanted family to live a little closer and her family that is currently living with us aren't freeloaders. In fact my house has never been so clean, and since they've moved in they've already applied for several jobs and a mountain of other stuff that my wife knows about. I've been taking Pres. Hinckley's approach to dealing with the affairs of women, ie. stand back and marvel.

With more people at the house it is of course adding a bit more of a financial drain on out current strapped budget. I decided, or at least my wife let me think I decided, that we should help these people out and do the best we could. I usually don't take risks like this but sometimes you just have to do the right thing. Although I still am not sure how right it was.

What I did during my summer vacation

Okay, it's been a while since I've written. For the most part all of my posts over the summer were pre-written and just scheduled to post themselves during the summer months. So in my own way I took the summer off to pursue other endeavors. And, although my pre-scheduled posts stopped over a month ago I've been facing a kind of writer's block. Okay, it's not been so much that I haven't had anything to say but more that I didn't feel confident enough to say it. Now, I have enough confidence or at the very least have suspended my feelings of insecurity long enough to sit down and write.

Geocaching.

A new hobby that I copied from my brother. Well, it's a new hobby to me. Pretty much it's treasure hunting but without all the trial and error and most of it being error. With Geocaching you are pretty much given the spot and have to do a little searching around. I have no idea why I really enjoy this, I do it almost every day with my keys. Although with geocaching you get to see places you never knew existed and you are also able to show others your favorite places. Our kids love it because it's a little adventure and for the most part they will always walk away with a toy of some kind. Look into it if you are an outdoorish kind of person or just want a reasonably cheap hobby. I love the idea of buying one piece of equipment then not having to buy anything after that. Although the website does want you to pay $30 a year for a subscription so you can get extra search features, but compared to the crap you have to buy for cycling, it's chump change.

Alone Time

The big thing that happened this summer was that my family went to Perú, without me. As I have stated previously it was mainly about the money and secondly about the time. My wife wanted to spend a month down there and I couldn't get the time off. So, I thought I would be a supportive husband and tough out the month alone.

Bad idea, oh, I'm sure every husband dreams of having so much time to himself. I can't think of anything worse. Well, at least now. The first couple of days were kinda fun, but, as soon as the novelty of it wears off then it's like living my own private hell. Suddenly, I realized that the only reason why I was getting up in the morning was to go to work. Not a good realization. My wife didn't communicate with me as often as I would have liked, after all she was now surrounded by family that she hadn't seen in years, therefore was easily distracted. To be perfectly honest, my wife is easily distracted by anything that has the hint of being shiny. So that added to my already weakened emotional state.

Suffice it to say, it was not fun.

Ay Chihuahua!

Last year we had a wonderful dog named Shelby. We had him for about four months and he was the best dog a family could ever ask for. Since I am not a dog person that says a lot. Ever since poor Shelby got ran over my family has been wanting to get a new dog. There is something that a pet brings into a home that you can't really describe. Before my wife and kids ran off to Peru for a month a neighbor of ours had a litter that she needed to get rid of. She has like 15 dogs, 8 of which are chihuahuas. She usually breeds the chihuahuas but a terrier got with one of the females and she didn't really want to sell those so she offered one to us when they got old enough to leave the mother. After my family got back my wife went over to our neighbor's house to see about the puppy, and as my wife is always surprising me, she came back with two.

My wife told me that our neighbor wasn't planning on giving us both of them, in fact my wife didn't even know about the second one. When my wife went over to check on the puppy that we were going to get the neighbor couldn't bear separating the brother and sister pair. So she offered my wife both. So my wife brought both of them over to me and asked me if we could keep both. I think only a statue could have said no. There is my beautiful wife holding two cute, baby chihuahuas. I had to say okay, I really didn't have a choice.

So here I am, trying to recover from my summer and get back in the swing of things. I have so much more to say. But I think the fact that I lost the habit has really been dragging on getting it written down. So I think I will post this as-is in an attempt to get back into the rhythm.

My little latin love story, Part 14 of ...

We began to plan the wedding; actually it was my mom who began to plan the wedding. My mom always wanted to be either an interior decorator or a wedding planner, but because my father is the kind of person that likes steady paychecks and doesn’t like the idea of trying to start a business, she gave up the dream. On the other hand when a moment came along to plan a wedding or decorate a room, my mom would show up without being asked. I was very grateful that my parents offered to pay for the wedding because there was no way Mili’s parent’s were going to be able to or be able to come to it for that matter. Mili arrived on the 28^th of November and we were going to be married on the 19^th of December. I remember clearly that day because my best man left early so he could catch opening night of Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. He said, “This is a once in a lifetime thing.” I didn’t want to badger him by saying “same here”, so I let him go, and because of that movie Mili and I were among the last to leave.

From the time Mili came to the US we spent every moment I wasn’t at work together. It was fun taking her around town and showing her what life was like in the US. Mili marveled at all the things we had that helped us be even lazier than we already were. One button washing machines, a garbage truck with a mechanical arm that would come out and pick up the trash can and dump it, and an enormous array of computers and computer parts.

Well, for now I am going to call this a wrap. Of course there is so much more, but for now I think it's time to get back to business.

My little latin love story, Part 13 of ...

The first problem we encountered was the fact the Mili didn’t heed my warnings (something she does to this day, a trait that jumps back-and-forth between endearing and irritating) of how cold Utah gets. I had told her that she should concentrate on sweaters, wool and alpaca (a member of the llama family who’s fleece is a very good insulator, even better than sheep’s wool).

She said, “I thought this jacket would do,” referring to the long sudo-leather jacket. I laughed.

First we hounded my sisters for spare winter clothing. My older sister despite her middle class upbringing, her middle class parents and her perfectly comfortable middle class siblings liked to live the high life. Or at least look like it. I wanted my girlfriend to look and feel like a million dollars so we went to her first. She only had a jacket, but it was a place to start. My younger sister unfortunately had very little as far as clothing that would fit Mili. Mili is a small, petite Latin woman and my younger sister a very strong and intimidating white woman.

Next stop was the best thing to come out of the Mormon Church since the gospel, the DI. My parents were always willing to help out by buying things for Mili, but I wanted that almost married feeling of being able to do things without my parents help. I was surprised to see exactly how far I could stretch $8.50 an hour. Nevertheless, my parents on more than one occasion took her shopping for clothes. Sure, I have my pride, but I like to think I am humble enough to know when I could use a little financial help.

My little latin love story, Part 12 of ...

I had more or less of a plan. According to the INS we had 90 days to get married, after we got married we had to fill out a whole new set of forms, pay $200 and she would get her conditional permanent resident status for two years. After that we would pay a whole new fee and fill out a whole new set of forms and that would be the last hurdle for the next ten years or was that two? Then it would be something completely different if she decided to get her US citizenship. That was my plan as far as the INS.

Reality was different, as is usally the case. In preparation for Mili’s arrival, I had moved out of my parents home and rented a one-bedroom apartment. I didn’t make very much money so I took on a roommate. He had a futon so his room was the living room. I had checked with the INS and they said with the kind of Visa Mili was coming in on she would be able to work, little did I know that the work visa she was getting was a mini-work visa that only lasted ninety days and didn't just renew itself when we got married. I like to think this is one of the many jokes the INS plays on immigrants, 'Hey, we're going to give you this visa that lasts 90-days! Gook luck finding an employer that is going to hire you for only 90-days and oh, yeah. To get a work visa that lasts a year you are going to have to pay $250' Ha ha, I'm sure they laughed themselves to sleep every night over that one.

I had made arrangements with a girl from Argentina that I worked with so that Mili could stay with her until we could get married. I think she had the hots for me and was still betting on the fact that things wouldn’t work out when she made the arrangement but when things worked out I called her on it. My original plan was to have her live with my parents but Mili and my parents didn’t want to work around the language barrier. I could understand that because my very first companion on my mission didn’t speak a lick of English and it was very difficult, I mean drag a man to tears difficult.

My little latin love story, Part 11 of ...

It was November and it was the first time I had been to the airport since 9/11 and the new excuse for violating human dignity (and civil liberties) came into play, they called these excuses 'increased security'. At least people didn't have to take their shoes off at the security point yet, that was still a couple of months away. I was nervous, worried and filled with a scary new hope. Her plane was delayed in Denver for over an hour and I didn’t have a cell phone, so I just had to hang around and wait. I wanted to sit down and rest, but I guess chairs were only good enough for people beyond the gate and the lucky 10 who got to the chairs between the escalators. My mom wanted to come but I told her that I really wanted to be the only one there. As always, my mom understood.

Before, a person could walk all the way to the door that connected the plane to the airport and only have to see the people on the same flight as the person you were waiting for. I really hated this new everybody-come-though-the-same-gate thing. I mean planes are coming off all the time so there is a constant flow of people, you never know when the people from the plane you are waiting for are getting off. I felt a little like a gumba, in my semi-formal shirt, my very clean and ironed jeans, my mostly clean winter coat and holding a bouquet of flowers asking people “Are you coming off the flight from Denver?” Weird looks were abound from the groups of families that were awaiting returning missionaries. I just tried to blend into the background while still being close enough to see who was coming off and not being part of any grouping of people. There were mixed results.

She was wearing the same long black sudo-leather jacket that she had on the first time I met her in Perú outside of the mission, which for me was the first time I really met her. She said good-bye to the sister missionary (who's family had been looking at me the whole time wondering if they should say something to this lonely and obviously nervious/anxious person) that just so happened to be coming home from Peru that she had been traveling with and we embraced.

Emotions raced around my body like a Nascar race being shook up in a snow globe. Happyness, love, exaltation, relief and all other complex emotions smashed into each other or along the walls of my being. She seemed so relaxed. Her hair, as she usally wore it, was hanging loose and falling about her shoulders. She had on a grey shirt that pressed the limits of temple worthy low cut, a pair of blue jeans and a pair of black boots that added at least an inch to her height. Her wonderfully white teeth spread out in a heart-melting smile in contrast to her dark moca skin.

“I missed you so much, heaven.” She whispered as we continued our embrace.

“I missed you too.” I was still a little unsure about the whole new list of pet names available to me and didn't know which one to use. So, my brain ran around the emotional and mental chaos and handed me silence.

When we tore apart I gave her the flowers that I had brought with me and we hugged again, this time with a long, drawn out kiss. In hindsight I get the image and feeling that you get when watching a movie and suddenly the whole world speeds up while the couple in the middle remain, slow and in real time. At that moment, the world felt like it had left the sun like a bad lover and began to orbit around us. Fireworks exploded, angelic choirs sang and God probably took his attention from something important to look at us for a moment and give an approving nod. Sure, I'm exaggerating but it sure felt that way.

My little latin love story, Part 10 of ...

At that time Xbox had come out and I was studying whether to buy an Xbox or a Playstation 2. I really liked Halo on Xbox, but my sister said I should come to her house in Salt Lake and try out her Playstation 2. With what I was going through I thought it was a good idea to get a distraction in my life. While I was there I called Mili. At long last she answered.

I was so happy just to speak to her, but she was more reserved. A more ‘I-want-to-tell-you-something-but-I-probably-shouldn't-tell-you’ kind of mood.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I didn’t go in.”

“Did they not let you go in?”

“No, I just didn’t go in.”

“WHY!” I screamed into the phone. This was the first time I had really become agitated with Mili. I was usually the one that kept his cool.

“I’m not ready to marry you.” This wasn’t happening. I had paid so much, suffered so much and fought so much. I wasn’t even going let Mili stop me at this point.

Eventually, I pried the information out of her and she told a tale of how she just didn’t feel like she was a good person. Mili felt bad about some things that she had done in the past. Things that had long since past, things she had long since left behind her, things she had long since repented of. I could see that she was a completely different person now then the person in her past. But she couldn’t. I listened as she laid the whole story before me, and when she was done I broke into the ‘you-shall-be-as-white-as-snow’ speech. Sure, it's a little overdone, a little cliché, but things don't get cliché because they arn't true or useful. I didn’t care about what she had done or how she felt about things she had done in the past, and at that moment I felt like an old friend had walked up to me to say 'hello', I remembered the true reason I was fighting so hard and tolerating so much. Something that had gotten lost in the fighting, the straining and the overall mess of government. I loved her, and I wanted to spend eternity with her.

The next day Mili called the embassy and they told her she couldn’t get another appointment until next year. Although the government was taking their time, with regard to 9/11, I feared that they might just get their act together and look at the INS instead of just promoting patriotism. First, I called the US embassy in Peru and tried to convince them that just because I was a tax-paying US citizen I had some say in what went on in government, I refused to speak or acknowledge that I spoke Spanish in a foolish attempt to intimidate them like I would a Wal-Mart customer service employee into accepting the return of an item that I had bought without the receipt. It didn’t work; they probably don't get paid enough to care. Next I called my representative in Washington, my voice in federal law, my congressman, Chris Cannon. I figured that he could call the embassy, throw some proverbial (and probably literal) weight around and tell them to make an appointment for Mili and that would be that. I got passed off to some underling who gave me the excuse that because of Sept. 11 the INS told them that they couldn’t pull strings like that any more and I never voted for Chris "Jowels" Cannon again.

I wish I could take back every tantrum I ever had. I wish I could take back every tear I had ever made my mom cry, every sleepless night that she had for my sake. My Mom, seeing my suffering, called Orin Hatch’s (our senior senator) office and told them of my plight. Orin Hatch or at least one of his powerful secretaries (because, let's be honest, it's the secretaries that get things done) waved the stick of senatorial power and with a call, a fax and within 24 hours Mili had an appointment for the very next week and I had a smile on my face once again.

My little latin love story, Part 9 of ...

September 11, 2001 at about 7:30am MST. I turned on the television for the morning news as I did every morning before I went to work. I liked to listen to the strange crimes that go on and make fun of the TV anchors that tried to be funny and all they had to report on was a sale at some store in Salt Lake. Some might say I’m a little psychotic, but I was happy that something interesting was happening in the world. I was fascinated by the reactions of the news media. Astounded by the footage. I marveled at the story of a couple that clasped their hands before jumping from the tower. I wasn’t really hurt or saddened until that night when my mother mentioned that the hijackers were immigrants and that it would probably have an affect on Mili’s case. That is when I became worried and angry.

I like it when companies put radio stations on their hold music. You get a variety to listen to. The INS doesn’t. After two hours on hold to the INS, I learned that they repeated the same music and message every fifteen minutes. I even began to say the message with the machine when it came on. I don’t even know why I called the INS. I had called them a few times throughout the process and I always came to the same conclusion; that conclusion was that the people working in the call center probably don’t even know whom they work for or what they are suppose to do. This time I wanted to know how September 11 was going to affect my case. As usual, they didn’t know.

Luckily the government has a speed all it’s own. They passed the US PARTIOT ACT (it seems like the only thing they are quick about is taking away our civil liberties) quickly enough but then they really didn’t know what to do with themselves, other than collect their paychecks. So no major changes happened until after Mili came to the US.

After all her paperwork and exams were done the US embassy gave Mili an appointment for an interview for the last week in October. We were delighted. I happily spent forty dollars just to talk about how this whole nightmare might be coming to an end.

I anxiously waited the day of her interview at work watching my e-mail for the news on when she was going to be able to come. All I got was “I’m not going to be able to come.” I called, I wrote and no answer. Two days later I was a basket case. I didn’t know what had happened. I didn’t know what to do. I even called in sick to work. So I did what I always do to escape reality, I played video games.

My little latin love story, Part 8 of ...

Our relationship began to suffer. Mili was becoming impatient. “Why are they doing this to us? Why don’t we get married here?” (She knew that she didn’t want her children to grow up the same way she did, but she said it anyway. Although I believe that she knew that no matter what they would have a better life no matter where.). The idea was appealing but I had learned that we would have to go though the same process for her to come to the US whether we were married or not, and I felt that I would miss her a lot more if we were already married. She also began to very agitated with little things. For example, if I didn’t write one day she would have a fit and I would spend close to forty dollars on phone cards so that we could talk out our frustrations and be ready to carry on. More than once she had been willing to call off the whole thing, but I would talk her out of it.

Not only was the strain weighing on Mili and me. It was also weighing on those who had to deal with me. My brother sat me down and asked, “are you sure you want to go through this? I mean this really seems like a lot more work than it’s worth. And with all the problems that you’re running into, it might even be God telling you that it isn’t right.”

“I’m sure about this.” That was a lie, at this point I was doubting too. I believe that God has a plan and is always more than willing to give hints on what one should do. My patience was wearing thin and I was looking at all that was going on and asking myself if maybe God didn’t want it to work out. But I was sick of being out of control. I was sick of putting my heart and soul into something and then for some reason or another watching it crash and burn. I had watched my last girlfriend dump me for some stupid reason. I came back from my mission and saw someone completely different inside of the body of the woman that I had loved so dearly. I wasn’t going to allow the government to destroy my hopes. I wasn’t going to allow even God from keeping me from doing everything in my power to make our relationship work. So I put my doubts aside and marched on knowing that more than likely I was going in alone.

The first week of September Mili received a package filled with forms and a list of documents they needed copies of, oh yea and $100. She had to have a complete medical exam done by a doctor at the US embassy in Peru (another $100). I wired her $300 because I had become used to the idea that when working with the government there is always another fee.

My little latin love story, Part 7 of ...

Now the hard part...

The only difficult part about making a big decision, like marriage is all the paperwork that goes along with it. As soon as I got home I began to research exactly what it was going to take to bring Mili to the US. The following week; I sent a form, a set of pictures, and a copy of my birth certificate with $95.00 to Nebraska. We continued to chat and write letters. The overall tone of the letters had become more romantic and we constantly spoke about being together again.

A month later I received a letter from the Department of Immigration and Naturalization (INS). The letter said that they had received my petition to bring my fiancé to the US and that it would be about two months to find out if my petition had been approved or not.

The idea of being without Mili for two more months was heartbreaking. I missed her, and my coworkers and parents were getting real tired of hearing about it. I broke the news and we mourned together. The next day I took my computer to a friend’s house to have a LAN party, when I brought my computer home that night and plugged it in to write Mili, it began to smoke. For reasons that I was unable to understand God smote my computer, frying the Motherboard, the hard drive, the video card, the network card, and the sound card. I was surprised because I had a surge protector and when I told the techs at the computer store, they said, “Wow, really? I never heard of that happening before.” $400, the help of my computer savvy brother and a week later we were able to communicate again on a more regular basis.

In August I received another letter from the INS. They said that they needed more forms, copies of every financial document I ever had, proof that we were engaged, proof that we had spent time together, a letter from a third party saying the we weren’t getting married just so Mili could get a Visa and $145. It took me a week to gather everything up, get it all notarized and sent off.

Dun dun duuuuunnnnn....

My little latin love story. Part 6 of who knows how many.

I'm not going to keep doing this, you guys can just scroll down. Fine, we were in Perú and getting to know Mili, her family and her culture.

I don’t know how long I slept. It was probably only an hour, but when I opened my eyes I was looking right into Mili’s eyes.

“How long have you been awake?” I asked.

“Only a moment.”

“All right,” I rolled onto my back and tried to go back to sleep.

“What are you thinking about?” as it turns out this question is a universal question asked by all women trying to get inside the male mind, little do they know that there really isn’t anything to get into.

“How I wish I could have slept better on the plane.”

“I mean we’ve been together for almost twelve hours and we haven’t really even spoken to each other. You’re only going to be here a week.”

“And you would really like to start to get to know me.” She was right, I wanted to get to know her to. I pushed mute on my body’s whining and we begun to talk.

It was a little hard at first; Mili even suggested that we go to the Internet café so maybe would feel a little more comfortable. I was definitely nervous. We were lying in the same bed and talking. My mom always said that the first step to fall off the chastity wagon was to be lying on the same bed, there was no other place to sit in the room and Mili’s family would want to talk to me if I was out in the open. I decided to start the conversation. An hour or two later during a seven-minute pause, we kissed. It was a quick, soft, tongueless kiss. As far as first kisses go, that was the best one I had ever had.

Later that afternoon we flew out to a little province on the Ecuadorian border called Tumbes. Her mom, step-dad, younger brothers and sisters live there and she wasn’t going to let her potential fiancé go home without meeting her parents.

Tumbes is a small town where everybody knows one another. It was surprising to hear that they had an international airport, at the time it didn’t occur to me that if Utah was it’s own country Provo airport would be international. I would often laugh, as Mili would take me around her hometown, because she would always point to someone and say ‘that’s my uncle/cousin/aunt/2nd cousin/etc’ I was reminded of my mom’s hometown. Almost every summer growing up we would go see my grandma and an assortment of cousins. Often on these trips my mom would take us around town and tell us who lived in each house and how we were related to them.

Mili’s parents were somewhat better off than most. They lived in an apartment that was about 100+ years old downtown. They owned the two-story building but rented out the lower half to a chicken restaurant. The floors were well-kept wood and they had plaster walls, except they had movable partitions dividing the large one room apartment into a three-bedroom apartment.

Her mom was very warm and loving the way only a Latin-mother could be and she would shove food down your throat the way most moms do. Her skin was a lighter color than Mili’s and she had red streaks in her light black hair. I thought that the streaks were dyed but Mili swears that that they are natural and have been there her whole life. I’d heard that some Latin women from the jungle have different colored hair, so I didn’t argue. I also heard that on hot days they walked around with their tops off, but I couldn’t prove that either.

Mili’s step-dad was a great deal older than her mom, about forty. But for a man about eighty he sure didn’t act like it. I’m not saying that he was child-like, more like he wasn’t old-like. Most men in their eighties take lots of pills, shake and ask you to repeat everything. He was very lucid, clear and loud. He was easy to get along with and very patient with the holes in my Spanish Vocabulary.

The week went by too quickly and we couldn't stand to be apart for even a second. It was appearant that we got along very well, too well in in fact.

I asked her hand in marriage the day before I went back to the US. We stayed up late walking on the beach that was only twenty-minutes from her house. We kissed constantly until I left.

Same blog time, same blog channel...

My little latin love story. Part 5 of who knows how many.

We had confessed our love for each other and decided that I had to go to Peru in order to find out if we were compatible.

I flew down to Peru the first week in May and I was going to spend a week. We would spend twenty-four hours a day together (except for the sleeping in the same bed or house) it was going to get a little weird, or so I thought on the way down. When I emerged from customs she was waiting for me. She was much more beautiful than I had envisioned her. She was wearing a long black sudo-leather jacket, a tight pair of camouflage jeans and gray t-shirt. When I approached her I had to stop myself from kissing her and I skillfully dodged to the right and allowed my lips to slip safely past her ear and we embraced. We held each other for what felt like not enough. Her older sister Jessica was there and as we hugged she quietly took my luggage so when I turned around I briefly panicked thinking that my suitcases had been stolen. Jessica didn’t look much older than Mili, the overall body structure was the same; about five foot six thin with long black hair. Jessica’s hair had more of a wave and ran down only to her shoulders while Mili’s hair was as straight as hair could be and ran down to between her shoulder blades. We loaded up a cab and drove home. It was three in the morning and I hadn’t slept all night. Mili’s sister was a chit-chatty kind of person so she continually tried to start a conversation; she never really got the point that I didn’t want to talk.

I had forgotten how humid and polluted Lima was. It felt like a sauna but you have all your clothes on and you just ran a five-minute mile in the gym. When we got to her grandparent’s house I crashed on the couch and Mili crashed right next to me. Jessica went to her room to put on something a little more comfortable. Suffice it to say but in Spanish this phrase has no sexual meaning whatsoever. She went and put on some sweats. I feel asleep with Mili on my shoulder. When I woke up it was about 8:00am. My body had built up enough energy to be uncomfortable and made it known with a crick in my neck and certain body parts that were entering the painful wake-up stage after falling asleep. Mili awoke when I began to stir.

“How are you, heaven?” Heaven? Where did that come from? I stared at her for a moment and thought rapidly about what she could mean by heaven. After a two-year mission I learned that the tone of voice and facial expression would give you a push in the direction of the meaning of the word. Her face had the same expression that my mom would use when she spoke to my father in an endearing way. I concluded that heaven was a pet name, like dear. It made a lot more sense to call someone heaven than dear, after all, dear can easily be replaced with deer. English is stupid that way.

“Still a little tired, but more or less ready to start the day. I just want to shower first.” I had showered every morning since I could remember; I just couldn’t stand facing people wondering what I smelt like. After her aunt Roxana got out of the bathroom, I went in.

For some reason I felt quite at home in this third world bathroom. The plywood door with a latch that Gringos usually used on outside gates, the cheap tile covering the floor and four feet of the walls. The walls and ceiling were made out of concrete, which was normal for Peru in general. They said that it was the best material to make houses out of, and whenever I would mention that houses in the US were made out of wood and a chalk–like substance they would laugh at me. But the highlight of almost every Peruvian bathroom was the one faucet for the shower. This was going to be a cold shower.

We went to the LDS temple later that morning. It was the first time I had ever attended a session in Spanish. When we arrived back home my body was being ever more intolerant about my insistence of keeping it awake and moving. So as soon as we got inside we crashed on her bed, we couldn’t sleep on the couch again because her sister, nieces, aunts and uncles were all moving about the house. I tried to make it as uncompromising as possible but I was just too tired to sin even if I wanted to.

My little latin love story. Part 4 of who knows how many.

Let's see, now I'm going to have to figure out were I left off. Okay, I just brought my own computer and Mili and I had started chatting online.

A month or two of letter writing and chatting and the whole course of our relationship changed. One night we were chatting, it was about eleven p.m. in Utah and one a.m. over there. We were in that state of Mormon drunkenness that people get into when you’re really tired, your speech slurs, you start laughing at the stupidest of things and you sentence structure goes to pot. Out of the blue she says, “I want to be your wife.”

“Sure, when do you want to get married?”

“As soon as possible. Because you are the best man I have ever met.”

“Let me find out how we could do that and I’ll get back to you tomorrow.” Even in my tired state I felt that this was just to weird to be talking about right now.

I thought about what Mili said all the next day. It scared me spitless. I wondered if I really wanted to marry her. And the thing about being on different continents was sort of an issue. I began to make a small list of pros and cons. Pros: We understood each other, we felt comfortable talking about everything, and it couldn’t be lust because we had never spent any real physical time together. Cons: I’d have to give up flirting. Spanish was my second language and she didn’t speak English, she lived on another continent and her culture and background were very different from mine.

The last note on the con list was the one that worried me the most. I had read an article from one of the Counsel of the Twelve that stated in effect that the Church does not recommend that that people from different cultures/races intermarry. I understood their reasoning. Being married by itself is hard enough without adding the friction of different holidays, ways to celebrate birthdays, how to morn and cultural differences in general would only make things harder. After a few days of deep thought, prayer and the avoidance of the subject with Mili, I came to the conclusion that I wanted her to be my wife. It was the first time I had openly gone against a recommendation of the church.

Still, I wasn’t going to become engaged to her over the Internet. Besides, what if we got together and couldn’t stand to be in the same room? What if she had ballooned since the mission? And what if she wasn’t a good kisser? All these things had to be considered. So I made arrangements to go back to Peru so that we could spend some time together. That way we both could come to the conclusion whether we should get married or not. Once the decision was made that we loved each other and that I was going to go back down to Peru we began to size each other up, seeing if we both measured up to what we both wanted from a spouse. Mili even asked for a letter of recommendation from my bishop.

To me continued...

My little latin love story. Part 3 of who knows how many.

Do I really have to do this introduction thing every time? You could just scroll down. Okay, anyway, last time we had just exchanged e-mail addresses...

The next day I thought about writing her. The talk we had was very enlightening and felt nice. I’m not one to believe in love at first sight but some that have heard this story would say otherwise. I wanted to continue that kind of dialogue. But I couldn’t call her the very next day. I would appear desperate, and we couldn’t have that especially with the male code and all. Half way through the workday I was looking up some customer information on the computer and suddenly my e-mail showed one new message. It was from her. I almost clapped in excitement but my masculinity stopped me. She wrote only to confirm that the e-mail I had sent was the correct one and that she had sent a copy of her e-mail to confirm for me that I had hers. I responded saying that she had the right e-mail and that she should reply to confirm that she had received my message. She responded the next day.

I began to write her daily. She would write every time she had enough money to go to an Internet café, usually she wrote every day and was probably spending money she shouldn’t have spent. Periodically we would meet in a chat room and chat until her money ran out. We talked about missionaries that we had come across after the mission. We complained about how some ex-missionaries had formed clicks in post-mission life and how high schoolish it was. She would tell me about how some missionaries gunning to get married would show up at her house to take her out. She would always think, “I knew what a piece of trash you were during the mission, what makes you think I would want to go out with you?”

We also talked about missionaries that were very nice at first but when they attained a certain position they became egotistical jerks. We spoke to each other like we had known each other for years. We tried just for the heck of it to see if Mili could come to the wedding of my sister. We felt that we were compatible and that maybe we could have a relationship together but we both knew that we needed to spend some real time together.

So we submitted the proper forms so she could get a three-month visa. The embassy denied our request for her to be able to attend the wedding so we just continued to write each other.

I was beginning to spend a lot of time on the computer and the phone line. My Mom and Dad didn’t say anything about how I was occupying the computer all the time, but it had become a habit of mine to try and foretell what they wanted me to do and then do it. I learned this mainly because my father has never been one to praise, complain or even to say ‘I love you’. So instead I would try and do things where he would have to voice his approval. For me getting him to say thanks was just as good as a hug and an ‘I love you’. In this case I wanted to purchase my own computer so he would notice that I didn’t want to be an inconvenience for him. My little sister was in living in Salt Lake and was selling her computer so I bought it and set it up in my room. At the time I thought that $500 for a computer was a really good deal.

To be continued...

My little latin love story. Part 2 of who knows how many.

When we last left our hero... -where was I? Oh yeah- I was calling my a sister missionary that I knew.


"I’m looking for Milagros. Is she at home at the moment?”

“That’s me”

“Hi, I don’t know if you remember me but I’m Elder Breakdown or at least I used to be.” Her voice dropped a little. If I remembered right she didn’t care much for my companion or myself very much. It didn’t help that my companion didn’t care much for her either. My companion, Elder Segura (We called him Elder Sure), was a native Peruvian and was very proud of the way he spoke Spanish. It really irritated him the way this particular sister missionary spoke fluently the Spanish form of Jive/Hibonics and she spoke it often. I never really cared either way. I just supported my companion in his rants of how we were representatives of the Lord and that we needed to speak as such. She would always retort with “I’m just speaking in a way that makes people feel comfortable and doesn’t make them think I am better than them.” They had these types of fights all the time and I was almost sure that my companion would start them out of spite. Most of these fights would end the way parents would end fights with their kids. “I’m the Zone Leader and this is the way things are.” Once she added a military salute at the end before walking away with her companion. I had to stop myself from laughing out loud.

“Elder Breakdown, yes I remember you. How are you?”

“I’m good just trying to make it though post-mission life.” And so went our conversation. Her talking about all her failed relationships, mainly the guy she just broke up with was just a lazy bum and she wasn’t going to marry one of those. And me whining about how every time I began to really care about a girl she would dump me for some silly reason. She was very sympathetic but she didn’t pity me, and in fact spoke more of trying again anyway despite the bad experiences. I was pleasantly surprised by her point of view and was glad that I had called her. She made me feel good and I felt that I was talking to somebody who understood my point of view. I had to end the call, my job was only a little better than minimum wage; it’s ten-cents a minute to call Peru and we had already been talking for an hour. We exchanged our e-mail addresses and said good-bye.

To be continued...

My little latin love story. Part 1 of who knows how many.

This is going to be an ongoing segment. I wrote this story some time ago but since it's a little long I am going to break it up into bits. Anyway, here we go.

It was just after Christmas and before New Years. It was that special time of year where you just spent a whole day with your family and you are gearing up to spend a whole night with your friends. It’s that transition time where you are not quite sure where you stand or quite what to do between parties. It was really bad this year because of the fact the only days before Christmas my girlfriend dumped me for a guy that she had been writing to. She had never met him physically but she choose him over me. It wasn’t really a surprise to me to find out later that things didn’t work out between the both of them.

I needed somebody to talk to, preferably a woman. Only a woman can give you the sympathy that you need that you would never get from your friends. Male friends would either make fun of you or ignore you. Often the male approach worked but I needed somebody who I could whine to and who would give me the pity I so dearly wanted. I couldn’t talk to my mom. I needed to feel like somebody pitied me without obligation.

I thought through all my female friends, Sarah? No, I lost contact with her before I left on my mission. Diana? No, she got married while I was on my mission and it just wouldn’t be right to whine to a married woman. I wasn’t all that surprised that that was the whole list. Most girls I knew I dated and if I dated them they broke up with me and I wasn’t very good at doing the ‘just friends’ bit. I tried it once, but you can only allow your heart to go through the grinder so many times listening to your old girlfriend talk about how so-and-so uses too much tongue. There are just things ex-boyfriends shouldn’t know despite what the all-knowing TV says. I remembered that October of last year, while I was still on my mission, a native Peruvian sister missionary gave me a birthday card that included her name, address and phone number.

I thought that if anyone would understand it would be a female that is or at least had recently gone though the pains of post mission life. I had fond memories of her; on the other hand it was more like entertaining memories about her. She wasn’t like other sister missionaries in the way she did things. She wasn’t a conformist so she stood out in my mind. So I found the card in my mission memory papers and gave her a call.

To be continued...

How to screw-up a perfectly good missionary opportunity

Now having grown up in mormonville my whole life I don't have a lot of experience talking to people of other faiths, well about faith anyway, I talk to them all the time. Since most everyone I know are of the LDS faith we have a lingo and sometimes we take it for granted. Nevertheless, I had an experience this past week that reminded me what a weak willed fool I am when it comes to openly talking about my faith with others.

First, as part of my own justification, therefore meaningless, I have to say that I am a passive person. I don't like confrontation and I always seem to have a problem expressing my point of view in a persuasive manner. I did serve a mission, that helps, but let's be honest, like marriage your companion takes the slack for your weaknesses as you help him with his. Self-justification done? Now on with the story.

So my family and I went camping again this past week. We stayed a little longer this time and it was more fun because of it, and we were a little better prepared, even with the rain. Late the second day a family of three pulled up and set up camp on the campsite across from us. They had a little boy that was the same age as my little girl, so of course my wife wanted to introduce them so they could play together. She invited the mother and the son over to roast marshmallows, the father was otherwise occupied. So the woman was chatting up my wife, if you haven't chatted with my wife you certainly should, she has never had an English class but her English is good and she learned it chatting. Anyway, the woman asked how we met and my wife responded that we met on our mission. This is were Mormon lingo comes in, in Utah when you say "My mission" people understand that you are talking about a two-year period that you spent for the LDS church spreading the Gospel. Outside of Utah people think of some military operation, at least from my understanding, please note that once again my knowledge of what others think outside of Utah is very limited. So the woman is of course confused and asks "A christen mission?" Suddenly my wife has to take care of something for one of the kids and I am left to answer. My mind starts racing, 'how in the world do I explain a mission in a sentence?', 'some people don't think we are christens. how do I explain that?', 'I also don't want to give the impression that an LDS mission is some kind of place to fall in love (I will explain the whole thing later this summer, it's not what you think)', 'didn't the ruling for the same-sex marriage just come down in California? Is she going to want to talk about that?'. 'I really don't want to get into a religious debate while I'm on vacation.' I think the last one was by far the biggest stumbling block of my train of thought. So I answered, "Yes, we served a christen mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints" I didn't add "The Mormons" because I was already running for metaphorical cover from a religious debate. At that point my wife came back and the issue wasn't raised again.

Moral of the story? I'm a coward when it comes to really opening up about my faith. Sure, I hide behind the story that I am just trying to be a good example, but let's be honest, your example is going to leave a good impression on people but it sure isn't going to inspire faith. My suggestion to myself and to anyone that cares is that we shouldn't be afraid, and should just dive right in no matter what. Why? Because the gospel brings happiness that they might otherwise never know on this Earth.

Well, there you go.

Body Modification

Now my wife and I consider ourselves to be Liberal Mormons. I could go over all the things that we believe that go against the grain but then you could read all the wonderful things I've written, and I wouldn't want to do that.

Anyway, one problem that my wife and I can't seem to come to any real conclusion is the one about body modification, primarily breast enhancement. I am pretty sure that the church's stand is that you shouldn't violate the temple of your body. Well, then again what about all the things that we do to our bodies that are okay.

I had braces growing up. Although for me it wasn't really a simple question about just cosmetics, my teeth were REALLY bad. It was healthy for me to get my teeth straightened. Then again I could just be justifying my position. Even if it was simply cosmetic I think it's important for a persons self-confidence and how the world perceives that person. Let's be honest, a smile is important for first impressions.

The Church puts a big no on tattoos but doesn't seem to have anything to say about lasik surgery. We are modifying our eyes when for the most part a person could just use glasses. It's cosmetic, I think. In the future I hope to one day have a cornea transplant, I have a genetic eye defect. Is this kind of body modification bad? I don't think so.

What about hair removal systems? Hair transplants? Is God's position just a matter of how invasive the procedure is? Or would he not care if the modification wasn't for simple selfish reasons?

I don't know. My gut says breast augmentation is bad, but then again, I'm a guy and don't understand the self-confidence issues that go along with it.

The Honest Truth

I've always tried to be honest with my kids. If I say I am going to do something I, for the most part, am willing to go all the way with it. This goes along with plans for family activities, games and punishments. Of course I will be the first to admit that I probably hand out more second chances then my kids deserve but for the most part I believe that they learn the lessons and that is what is most important.

I grew up with this idea in my head that I could do anything I wanted, or at very least be what I wanted to be. I guess in theory it's still true, but I tend to let my pessimist side speak up on this issue and say that it isn't true. I believe that sooner or later a person has to come to the conclusion that there are just more people that are better than you at certain things then you will ever be. Sure you can work your heart out and get really good at whatever you set your mind to, but like it or not, there are people out there that just have a talent for it.

I am brought back to an episode of my life when I was in middle school and in the concert band. I was second chair, out of three, and I really wanted the number one spot. In order to move up in the "chair rankings" you had to challenge others to a "play-off" with a song of your choosing. Every week I challenged the number-one guy, and every week I lost. I practiced my heart out at home, and he freely gloated how he didn't practice at all. So I tried, and tried and I never won. Well, he eventually moved away so then I won by default and the number-three guy dropped out. So I was the only one left by high school. I learned, or at least began to learn, that sometimes you just aren't going to be good enough and perhaps you should keep searching for your Talent. I capitalize Talent because I still hold the belief that God gives everyone something they do really well and it's just our job to find out.

Anyway, my daughter doesn't like to lose. She gets a bit pouty about it. I've explained to her about being a good sport but the other day I felt that it was time to explain the situation to her. Of course I am not so callous as to tell her how cruel the world is and such. I just explained that sometimes you don't win, often times in the case of some people. She explained that she did her best. I explained that she should practice, but even then, you will not always win. "Enjoy the game" I told her and be happy for the winners. You will win sometimes, but you will also lose.

Perhaps it was a little too harsh a lesson to expound on a five-year-old. I don't know. I didn't realize so much of parenting came down to just making it up as you go along, no matter what all the parenting books say.

Gone campin'

First of all I would like to thank the people out there leaving their trash in the wilderness. This picture was taken with my cell phone and has a wonderful view, except for the trash. Please if you are going out to enjoy nature please remember that this mother isn't going to pick up after you.

Anyway, I've never been a camping kind of guy. I did the whole scouting thing, but it didn't hold. My wife loves the idea of camping. She never did it as a child but she did it once when she was older and loved it. Nevertheless as I write this my wife is enjoying toasting some marshmallows, and to give you some idea of how much she likes them, she just turned to me after eating one and said "I don't need you anymore." She likes them that much. Anyway, it's nice to be camping and it looks like for the first time I'm enjoying it. I guess it is what happens to you when you become a father.

Thoughts on a Mother

Okay it's Mother's Day so of course I wish all the mothers out there a Happy Mother's Day.

Now I just want to talk a little about the closest mother in my life at the very moment. My wife and the mother of my children. My wife as I have stated plenty of times is Latina and her first language is Spanish. She grew up in a third-world country (although she takes offence when I call her country a third-world country. She asks 'who gave you guys the right to say we aren't the ones that are doing it right?') and her mother wasn't the best of mothers at the time she was born.

The fact of the matter is that my wife grew up with her grandparents for the most part. They were really her parents. Just as a side note, my wife doesn't know who her biological father is; her mom knows but has never gone out of her way to fill her daughter in.

My wife's childhood was hard and she has the scars to prove it. She doesn't consider that her childhood was hard, but when I compare the way I grew up with the way she grew up it scares me.

So despite all the things that happened to my wife and all the things that could have swayed her to do any number of horrible things. She stayed the course and I am very proud to have her as my wife and very proud that she is the mother of my children. I couldn't ask for anyone better.

Happy Mother's Day, mi morena codiciable.

Another Random Missionary Moment

Ah, the good old days. If only I could make the screen go fuzzy and make a sound like glass tinkling then the mood would be set to flash back to my mission.

I was serving in a little town in the middle of nowhere. A friend of mine called it the butt-crack of the world, we just called it Aplao. Anyway, one day we had to bus in all the way to Arequipa, a three hour trip. We had some regional missionary conference that we had to go to. I don't remember a lot about the conference, except we had to sleep in the office, and while we were there we found a VHS tape of the last general conference. None of us had seen conference since before our missions so it was a real treat.

Anyway, when the conference was over I purchased the Book of Mormon on tape. We got on the bus to make our way back home and as it would happen this bus didn't have a TV or radio; All it had was a cassette player, and nobody had a cassette. Well, except a single missionary, me.

That was the time I had a bus-load of passengers listen to the Book of Mormon from the beginning to 1 Nephi 17. My companion and I debated for a while whether or not we could have counted all the people on the bus as contacts when we put together our report for the week. In the end we counted them all.

The Past...

One of these days I will have to sit down and explain the complex system that is my in-laws. Suffice it to say that Days of our Lives, could be pulling out story lines out of my in-laws for another couple of decades. I wish I was exaggerating.

Anyway since I'm on the topic of family. My in-laws recently invited me to join a website that is one half social network and one half genealogy with a pinch of 'Huh?' thrown in for good measure. The website is www.genoom.com and I've been goofing around with it for a day or so. It's really kinda cool. My Dad was/and is a big genealogy freek. He has traced at least 4 lines back to Adam -you think I'm kidding but I'm not-. Anyway as it turns out this little website is a lot more fun and visual than that old PAF program. I used the PAF program but what PAF really needed was something like Facebook were you just get the itching to add to it, and this program seems to have that kind of feel to it. My only complaint so far is that it doesn't have a Facebook add-on.

So I guess in a way I am finally doing a little more with my Family History, looks like I am due some blessings or at least some forgiveness. I would like the forgiveness.

Every time I start looking into my family history I am always surprised with how little I know about the family on my Dad's side. Every little once and a while someone lets something out at is always surprises me. The fact of the matter is that my Dad really didn't like his family, I could go into it but it would take me as long or longer to explain my in-laws. Since my Dad doesn't like his family he's been very, very reluctant to expound on it. I think I've heard him mention that he will take his secrets to the grave. Last year when my aunt put together a book on the subject of the family he refused to have anything to do with it. He said he glaceed though the book and stated the it doesn't tell the story of my Dad or my grandfather right. I told him to correct it so that at least in the copy I have it tells the right story, but he refuses. As I go though this book I am surprised to find cousins that I never knew I had. Sometimes I feel like I am trampling on a history that my father would rather I not look into until he's passed on, but it is my past too.

Well, at least maybe I'll get some family history done.

Mixed Messages

One of the worst parts of being a Mormon is that God doesn't feel the need to tell you everything. In the Doctrine and Covenants it says as much. I don't mean as far as reveling how everything works, but more along the lines of how you should live you life right down to the letter. Often times you just have to play it by ear and make your best judgement. Sometimes you find out later that it wasn't the best decision, sometimes it's just a learning experience, sometimes I thing it makes no difference whatsoever.

The big problem is that while God knows when to keep his mouth shut, others don't. There is an innumerable amount of members that have no problem pitching in their two-cents whether or not you are asking for it. The problem that I see more than anywhere else is at the University.

Okay, okay I know these profs are our teachers and they do deserve an amount of respect and they are supposedly the intellectual elite. The problem is when they don't seem to be all on the same page as far as the suggestions they are giving out about life lessons. Just the other day I had one prof say as much as you shouldn't have kids until you finish your schooling while I had another one say that kids are the most important thing you will ever do.

Now, I really don't have room to talk about giving advice. I try not to hand it out on this blog, or in general, but often times I don't remember the stuff I spew out. Usually I just try to share my thoughts and experiences with those that ask for it or come to this blog.

I just don't think that as teachers and profs your should expound on anything outside the class. Feels like an abuse of authority because most of these guys that I go to school with are still trying to figure out what they are going to do in life and if it's one of those choices that you just have to figure out for yourself then teachers should butt out, or at least state that it is a matter of opinion.

I love General Conference

I am not a stalwart Mormon. I commit more sins then I care to admit, and more that I have just gotten used to. Nevertheless when Conference time comes around it feels like my eyes have been opened.

I mean sometimes when you are going on with your life from day to day your morals get a little withered away. Well that's how I feel. I mean you feel a little less bad about skipping you scripture study, you don't think twice about just rolling into bed at the end of a long day. Sure you felt bad when you began down this path of iniquity, but over time you think less and less about it. Sure, you have the Sunday meetings; it's just you can't seem to get past how the Gospel Doctrine teacher is practically reading from the manual and doesn't even bother following along when someone is called on the read the scripture.

Don't get me started on Elders Quorum. Well, since you asked; every time the Elders Quorum teacher for the week gets up there you know he picked the manual up for the first time this morning, looked it over, though about reading it, then gave up. If it just so happens that you get a guy that has prepared you start counting the seconds before some tangent it skewered the whole lesson.

I know, I know, I shouldn't be so hard on these guys. Most of them are trying their best but from a sinner's point of view like mine; it's very distracting.

But, when Conference come around, it's suddenly light outside. You come to the realization that Oh, yeah I really should be working a little harder on that. I can do it! I can be a better person! Sure, I'm a slacker that can't seem to keep his head on straight and who's sin list is longer than most Nascar race tracks. Now, suddenly the Spirit that you've slowly let slip away comes back with a vengeance that only a woman scorned can muster.

Simplicity

It's not often that I come across something that really inspires me, but these past couple of weeks I've found something that really made an impression on me. Although I do feel a little silly admitting it, because it isn't scripture or anything all that religious. I could of course fall on the idea that anything that inspires a person to do good is from God, but I've always been a bit hesitant to look for justifications, well, at least that's what I tell people.

Anyway anyone that knows me knows that I am a bit of a superman fan. Not so much a fan of the comic books, or the movies or anything like that. I am a fan of the idea of superman. A man that has the ability to do good and is driven to help people for no other reason then because he believes that is what he is suppose to do, or for love. Oh yeah, he can fly, has super strength and heat vision; But those are beside the point, other than just being really cool.

So I've come across these books that I really like, Odd Thomas. It's about a fry cook that can see the dead and for no other reason then to do the right thing he goes out of his way to help them pass on or get justice. He doesn't tell anyone because he's afraid of becoming a spectacle and well, the stress of seeing the dead is a bit stressful. For that same reason he remains a fry cook and he just likes it better.

And that got me thinking about my life and the kind of life I lead. I have a pretty simple life and I kind of like it that way. I don't have new cars. I would like a new car just because I wouldn't need to worry about it breaking down, but then again I probably would have to have the stress of keeping it new. It's also not like new cars don't break down. More than likely we don't place enough stress on the follies of the sin of envy. Once I start looking at how far behind I am in, well, everything I get a little anxious. Once I sit back like the way this book did I realize that I don't think I really want to clutter up my life all that much more. Sure I would like to buy some new stuff from time to time, I will have the money from time to time, but I shouldn't let it bother me.

Simplicity, maybe it's not all it's cracked up to be; then again maybe it is.