What's the Harm?

Ah, the lessons we learn about ourselves when we are in pain. Hundreds of thousands of “no on 8-ers” are puzzled and hurting, struck by what they perceive as a resounding slap. In utter sincerity, they ask, “Where is the harm in it?” They cannot see the pitfalls, and because they can’t, they shrink in revulsion and swallow the proffered lie that a “yes on 8” vote means a “no” vote for gays as people. Their painful question resounds: “Where’s the harm?”

Yet less than 48 hours since Proposition 8 passed in California, the answers to that plaintive question begin to emerge. A people who’ve longed to be seen as harmless and peaceable came forth en masse and disturbed the peace of those who also voted from their hearts, just as passionately, and with just the same desire to promote right. With the first angrily-scrawled picket sign, ugly seeds were strewn; and they’re quickly taking root.

Heedless of the needs of innocent drivers and their schedules and worries, people swarmed into the street, effectively proclaiming, “My needs trump yours”. That was a small selfishness, but it was a beginning. It grew. Police resources were siphoned away from averting existing dangers, and who can catalog the pain that ensued when cries for help went unanswered, or when help was delayed?

Some protestors marched on the short access road to private property: a holy place for millions, some of whom chose to vote no on 8. The crowd spat. They profaned. They shouted and raged, but no matter, because the people they bullied disagree with them. And so it became acceptable to mock and malign.

They came back the next day, emboldened and angry, although there had been no retaliation, no rebuttal in kind. (In fact, the opposing campaign was markedly void of contention, derision, or hate.) Shrieking and hurling obscenities, even making a mockery of things sacred to others, they flung their vitriol at peaceable people who spoke no ugliness but who simply stood up for their beliefs and voted their consciences.

Watching the news, we could quickly see the harm; and nothing in their behavior demonstrated anything else but the intent to force into our lives their “rights’, even if those rights infringe on children’s rights to innocence, parents’ rights to teach the things they embrace as sacred, or workers’ rights to refuse to perform actions and speak words that are in violation of their beliefs. It speaks volumes when someone, even in rage and pain, is capable of viciousness, of force. In the moment that they turned their anger into active, undulating hatred, their true colors emerged. If within hours of an election people use brute force and intimidation to further their agenda, then what else will they do? What else will they demand? Who else will they terrorize into compliance? The forecast is tragedy.

If people are so quick to denigrate, deride, and blame an entire ethnicity that was but a tiny part of a vote, then what hypocrisy! The insistence on silencing those of opposing views borders on fascism. I stand stunned, because this mob mentality is in stark contrast to the gentleness I thought I’d felt from the gay community. So, to those who sincerely ask, “Where’s the harm?” I answer sadly, “It’s in the headlines”.

Points of (Un)view

How differently people can see things! Sometimes that makes for thought-provoking debate, affording glimpses into nuances that expose a spectrum of hues encased in the thoughts of another. That enriches us as we welcome diversity. After I learn about another way of “being”, I turn it over and over in my head as if it were an unusual seashell. Thoroughly enjoying the exposure to something new, I feel improved somehow, enriched, stretched. It’s a delightful form of sightseeing, art appreciation, “study abroad”. I know others who love to delve like that, respecting that which differs from our own little cosmos.

I believe I’m in the minority, though. Pride is so entrenched in some hearts that growth is stunted and progression ends. And everyone exposed to them is smeared with something filthy. I’m brought up short by evidence of a rigid and condescending mind, bolted shut and impervious to light or air. Enslaved by rigid, self-serving interpersonal bigotry, some folks reek of that implied “how dare you”, making them laughable if they weren’t capable of such carnage. Narrow minds refuse to see another possibility, another point of view. The result can be deadly to those who foolishly trust them.

As sad as it is, there are people who squirm at the very idea of another “take” on a situation. Logic and even irrefutable evidence will not unbend a twisted mindset. It’s far too comfortable to bask in complacency; far too entertaining to posture and snort. Compelled by the need to punish those who disagree, they degrade and discredit, even when their argument exposes the breadth of their ignorance. Taken to the extreme, their hapless victims die in collapsing towers, or are hijacked or tortured in prisons. The difference in intolerance is only a matter of degree. Because I’ve seen how far a personal vendetta can go, I avoid those who cannot abide that they could be wrong. Infected with psychological anthrax, they’re capable of emotional slaughter—-even eager to inflict it! These extremists are past feeling.(Shudder.)

When people coldly declare their irrational wars, considering a refusal to kowtow as justification for jihad, their “superior” views get wielded as weapons: verbal bashing to one’s face or, more frequently, behind one’s back. Ick. I relegate the latter to the level of seventh grade. When exposed to it, I feel vaguely embarrassed and repulsed, as though I’ve caught the speaker nose-picking and then eating the result. When a difference of opinion degrades to the “unh-UHN”, “uh-HUH” stage, I’m reminded of my jump rope days, and not in a good way.

What lures a person into flat intolerance? What causes them to so easily set aside ethics and speak (or even think!) in direct opposition to the teachings of the One they profess to follow? It baffles me. I was raised to offer the benefit of the doubt, to open my mind and heart to those who aren’t my clones. I’ve learned to listen, to consider, to mull over ideas—-not abandoning my morals, but living tolerance. I’m the richer for it.

Counting Blessings

One day I found myself with time to think as I drove home from Los Angeles. This no phone/no interruptions/no pressing chores day was a delightful rarity, and I savored it like a bowl of tin roof ice cream. Yum.

My mind went wherever it would, and it was quite a journey. I started out grousing about traffic, gas prices, and those various irritations that plague our lives. I had a good cry over my trials and tragedies, and finally ended up counting my blessings. I mean that literally; I spent hours thinking about them and mentioning them to the Lord in gratitude. (I’m sure I looked insane, driving along, talking out loud!) It was an illuminating, humbling, and productive experience.

I remember hearing a talk by President Gordon B. Hinckley in which he asked how many of us had ever thanked the Lord for the simple blessing of our hands. His words stopped me cold; I was one who had never explored that form of gratitude. I stopped and looked at my hands—stubby and small, like a ten-year-old child’s, now encased in crepe-y flesh that reveals my age. I saw my thin nails and a network of tiny scars whose origins are long forgotten. They are not graceful, beautiful hands, but they are a blessing.

Despite the quirks and flaws in my hands, I was in awe of the miraculous wonder of miniscule muscles all working in concert with each other and with my brain, performing countless tasks each day without my even taking notice. I flexed and fisted them, turning them palm-up and palm-down, and wondered why I had always taken them for granted. I was ashamed, and I’ve tried since to notice and appreciate the small gifts I enjoy. I realize that the loss of these gifts would not be so small, and I am grateful.

As I contemplate that remarkable day of gratitude in my car, and the endlessly long list of things for which I am grateful, I realize that the majority of my blessings are the people in my life. By American standards I don’t have worldly wealth, but I am rich because of the “treasures in heaven” that surround me in the form of amazing human beings. So many of my blessings stem from my great fortune in knowing such fine people, and by benefiting from their examples.

People are not, as a rule, particularly comfortable with direct expressions of gratitude. I sometimes have the urge to walk up to people and say, “Let me tell you why I like you so much,” or “Have I ever told you what you mean in my life?” I’ve often wondered if people would be put off, suspicious, or annoyed if I were to express to them my gratitude for the blessing that they are in my life. Since salesmen and con men and politicians have adopted a faux version of those expressions, we’ve become a bit leery: “OK, what do you want?”

So I hesitate to gush, although my appreciation is deep enough that it can’t help but gush! One day I resolved to take the chance, and speak gratitude anyway. I remembered how good it feels to hear the words, “thank you”. They are healing words that lift and edify and give us the strength to keep moving along. They remind us that we do have something to give. They assure us that we can make a difference. They remind us that we matter.

If I could wish something for the special people who have blessed my life, I would wish that their generous and charitable Father would shower them with blessings so richly that they could spend hours counting them out loud, and still not list them all. That would begin to compensate them for all they have done for me.

Three-year-old Anna looked up dreamily from a movie she was watching and gushed, “That guy on TV is just bein’ a hero!” She obviously understands the concept. It amazes me that even at her tender age, she can recognize a hero. It’s too bad that so many adults have lost that insight. Too many of us look in the wrong places to find someone to emulate.

Far too often, the world chooses its heroes from among those in possession of ethereal mammon: fame, phenomenal income, or merely the audacity to do something that puts them on the evening news. We’ve confused celebrity with courage, and we’ve lost something in the process. I’d rather take my cues from Anna. I prefer to embrace the examples of those quiet heroes who, with unassuming dignity, brought peace and ease to those around them.

Within a year, my circle of friends buried two of its heroes. Both of them were taken suddenly, the victims of violent, self-serving disdain for the sanctity of life. As we reel in shock, we also stand in awe of the legacy each of them left behind. Both of them lived (as Mark Twain recommended) so that when they died, even the undertaker was sorry. That’s the true hallmark of a hero.

Sometimes we tend to glorify a person in death, remembering them as far finer people than they really were; not so with these two extraordinary people. They didn’t become great only after their deaths. They lived great—quietly, humbly, and unceasingly. We didn’t have to stretch to find things to praise about them; just the mention of either one sparked tender memories—vignettes in time of moments when we’d “caught” them in acts of kindness and caring.

In my mind’s dictionary, next to the word “generosity” there is a picture of Norma Barto. How many crises did she avert by offering her help and her prayers? How many tears were wiped away by her kind and giving hands? We’ll never know for certain. When I think of the Fourth of July, I will always see a sand-covered Scott Snider at the beach, hair mussed by the wind, smilingly beckoning passers-by to get something (more) to eat. His enthusiasm was contagious, as was his laughter and his joy. How many children cherish holidays and reading and pansies and playing because Scott made all those things special?

That’s my kind of hero: the kind that nobody outside our circle knew about until we lost the privilege of such good company. When the community spoke posthumously of their goodness and grace, we wanted to say, “Oh, if you only knew the true magnitude of their goodness!’’ As we contemplated their quiet acts of heroism, we all changed a little. We wanted to be more like them; we resolved to carry on the work they did so freely while they walked among us.

As hard as it is to lose special “someones”, how wonderful it was that we were able to know them at all! That’s the aspect that makes it possible to absorb the shock of their loss. The world is peppered with that kind of hero; and thank goodness there are enough of them around that most of us get to know at least one hero during our lifetimes. Losing them is awful. The grief can be overwhelming; but oh, how they enriched lives!

I hope that as our anguish eases, we’ll retain that firm desire to choose as our own heroes did: to lose ourselves in attitudes of service; to find ourselves in acts of love. And when a hero leaves behind a young family accustomed to his particularly tender care, I hope that we will each remember to honor that lost hero by stepping in-- not trying to fill his shoes, because we never can—but by cherishing his children.

As for you, Norma and Scott, I am certain that as you settle in beyond the veil, you will soon get down to the business of doing what you’ve always done best: just bein’ a hero.

The Exchange Principle

Emile Locard was a French criminologist. In the early 1900’s he developed the theory that any person passing through a room will unknowingly leave something there and take something away. Duh. Of course they will. Any mother with small children could have formulated that theory in a heartbeat, if she’d had the time. All the mothers were too busy wiping up what the kids left on the floor and scolding them for the snack or the coin or the toy they filched on the way through. So that left Emile Locard to write the theory down.

Locard’s bit of wisdom became notable in the world of forensics¸ but it applies to human interaction more. When a woman walks into a church meeting, something changes. Four other women in the room notice her hair. It’s different; it’s flattering; maybe they’ll try something similar with their own hair. Someone across the room notes her arrival and sighs with relief because now she knows she won’t be handling those rowdy 2-year-olds alone. Yes! The reinforcements have arrived!

A small row of children turn around and grin; Mommy’s here. She said she’d be along soon. She’d said, Just get in the car with Dad and go! She kept her promise; another rivet in the armor of their security under her care. A quiet figure at the back of the chapel watches the woman walk in, looks down at her lap and smiles. A flood of warmth oozes from her heart as she remembers their little secret: she needed comfort, help and an ear; the woman was there for her—and she kept her confidence just as she promised she would.

We cannot walk among people without affecting them somehow. We cannot leave without being changed somewhat by them, either. Just as we unwittingly leave behind a piece of hair, a dab of dried mud, or a flake of skin, we leave a particle of our attitude, our expression, and our acts. Walking through the chapel, the foyer, or the parking lot, we pick up a bit of carpet fiber, a scrap of paper that adheres to our shoe, or a tiny helicopter seed blown our way on the wind. Just so, we pick up and take home small bits of where we were.

These exchanges are not conscious. We might not realize until later that we noticed the absence of a smile where we’d found one unfailingly before, or a sheen of tears, or a limp that had become more pronounced. A curt remark aimed at a friend might not register at the time, but it waits in our subconscious until that friend calls, voice choked with tears, needing reassurance. The subconscious mind is always recording, always taking note. What we do does affect others, and what they do does affect us. There is no escaping it.

What responsibility do we have, then? Jesus Christ said it in three tiny words that hold the answer to so much in our lives: “Feed my sheep”. Christ didn’t tell us what to feed His lambs, but it’s obvious that He didn’t want us feeding them poisons, or things they couldn’t digest, or amounts too tiny to sustain life. Surely the Master wouldn’t want us to give His sheep food, all the while belittling them for their need. Surely He would not want us to serve to His lambs a meal spiced with bitters.

Everywhere we go, in everything we do, we should leave the situation better than it was. This does not require an enormous outlay of time or thought or money. It simply requires the determination to make the change for good. A smile, a hello, a touch on the elbow as you pass—all these things transmit the warmth of an unspoken message: I saw you. I’m glad I did. I care.

As you pass through that room, you unwittingly leave your sweetness or your sour; and you pick up something as you go. If what you leave behind is pleasant and palatable, chances are that what you take away will be of the same ilk. The Ripple Effect of your actions and attitude will move across the lake of your world, so be certain that what you leave behind is worthy to bear your name!

Caring is contagious. Love spills out across a room, vaporizing, traveling, infecting all whom it touches. With all the toxins and the blather that float in our atmosphere, isn’t it worth the effort to leave behind something that will inoculate us against the World?

President Hinckley's Passing

Today I sobbed through the funeral of Gordon B. Hinckley, one of my heroes. I've been surprised at the depth of my pain over his passing. I'd thought I was prepared for it, since he was 97 years old; but it hurts. As President Eyring said, his passing leaves a hole in every heart. I'll be reviewing those services, taking notes and gathering to my heart those tidbits that healed me. It was an amazing experience! Despite my tear-swollen eyes, I'm glad I watched.

Auto-Tude

It’s odd. A car can represent so many things to different people. For some reason, we attach a great deal of meaning to the machine in which a person gets around town. Of course, looking at a person’s vehicle can give clues to their personalities, their lifestyles, and their priorities. We have to be careful, though; those leaps to conclusions can put us in the wrong place entirely! For some, The Car is the outward symbol of financial success. (That la-di-da logo on the back says, “I can afford this”—but maybe the engine specs or safety rating sold him on the car.) To others, the car’s condition demonstrates the determination to keep things neat and orderly. (Not a fast food wrapper or a tissue in sight!) An antique or a classic car suggests a love of bygone days, an investment in nostalgia, or a cherished hobby. (Or maybe it used to belong to Grandpa!)

Four-wheel drive suggests a love of outdoor life (unless you live in snow country or hills) and mud in the wheel wells tends to confirm it. Racks on top indicate an affinity for a sport or hobby. Car seats galore point to a young family, and dust on the tailgate suggests a rural home or workplace. Flags and stickers and things dangling from the rear view mirror give clues as to the politics, the subcultures, and the philosophical bents of the owners—or perhaps their teenage children.

Even the state of upkeep (or lack thereof) says something about the driver, but the clues can easily be misread as well. A spit-polish shine suggests that the car is a high priority, but perhaps that the owner simply has too much time on his hands. A crumpled fender can mean a lack of good insurance, or it could just as easily indicate that the owner hasn’t the time to spare to even get an estimate for repairs. The effluvia radiating from the interior could indicate indifference, but it could just as easily mean that the owner is overwhelmed, ill, or far too busy doing for others to bother doing for himself.

I don’t get too involved in judging a person by the vehicle of choice. Ever since my BYU days, when my roommates got all gooey because my date drove a Corvette, I’ve been amazed by the extrapolation from vehicle type to personality characteristics. Their “Hang onto that one, Honey; he’ll treat you right!” always left me puzzled and a bit unnerved. As it turned out, Mr. Corvette didn’t (treat me right), but another young man with an expensive car did—as did the guy with the well-worn VW Bug. Funny how the guy with the Bug is the one who’s still on my mind in my dotage.

For me, a car is something I climb into to get where I need to go and back. I want it to be reliable, fuel-efficient, and reasonably comfortable. I want the tires to stay inflated and I hope one doesn’t explode a sidewall on the freeway. I don’t want anything sticky adhering to my shirt when I get out of the car. Other than that, I don’t care. Oh, I’ll notice a pretty new vehicle zipping down the freeway, and the shiny newness is pleasant; but I don’t envy the owner the high tag fees, the killer insurance, or the payments. Still, I think, “Hurray for you!” and drive on with a smile.

My “auto-tude” frees me from a lot of unnecessary worry. Since a car is just transportation for me, I don’t get upset at a ding in the door. I might not even notice it, nestled as it is among friends. Having no emotional connection with the car’s make or model, I’m comfortable lending it out when someone needs a car, and I don’t worry if they happen to spill their Big Gulp on the seat. All I ask is that it be returned on time, in one piece, with gaskets un-blown and with fuel replaced in the tank.

I’ll always notice what you’re driving, but chances are, it will mostly be so that I can honk and wave at you as you pass me on the highway; and I’ll feel happy, not because I saw your car, but because I saw you.

This is Journal-keeping!

It occurred to me this morning that blogging is really journal-keeping, and that is a very cool thing! I've been awful about it throughout my life, and the times that I have written, I either destroyed as a teenager because I was embarrassed by myself, or I can't find them. Sigh. Soooo... perhaps now there will be some record of my life, for what it's worth. I think it's really interesting to read others' thoughts and experiences, but mine seem either depressing or dull (or both).

It All Came Back!

Recently, someone close to me painfully related the details of a false accusation against her. It wasn’t a huge deal compared with some bogus allegations, but it was to her what all false accusation is: hideous, corrosive nastiness. My reaction to her tale was instant and visceral: “How ugly! False accusation is filth!” That last word was hissed with all the vehemence of my soul, because it brought back to my mind the terror and anguish of the times I’ve been assaulted (yes, assaulted) by false accusation. Long before I experienced it myself, my whole soul groaned with the need to fight this pestilence. I resent and despise every incidence of this nightmare-producing evil, wherever and to whomever it occurs. If you haven’t experienced it, you cannot imagine how devastating, humiliating, and ugly it is, a lethal time-release arsenic, slowly poisoning, poisoning. And its victims writhe.

To my great disgust, I’ve been thus victimized several times. In every case, there was no bit of truth to the nonsense spewed by sick, vindictive minds. One of my mantras is that “unhappy people make other people unhappy”. Truth. Usually, the accuser’s own poor choices led to whatever distress they chose to blame on others, who often gave them aid when no one else would, and in craven dishonesty, in cowardice, they blame anyone but themselves: The woman who brought her sleeping child into my home, laying her down to nap in a dirty diaper without mentioning the mess, and then blaming the child’s poor burned bum on me. The paranoid drug addict whose neglect of her children caused them emotional problems as well as exposure to countless uncontrolled situations, but who later blamed their family’s serious troubles on me and mine after we’d offered months of refuge and succor. (What sick, disgusting, foul, unspeakable ROT.) Once, someone hiding long-ago emotional trauma that had nothing to do with us, allowed filthy images into her disturbed head and then projected that execrable soul-slime into our lives. Each of these finger-pointers was clearly troubled; but still (or perhaps because of that), the filth they smeared stung and burned, leaving scabs and scars and causing inexpressible pain. Their psycho ranting and sick tales maligned and destroyed; but their only concern was for their own pain if their own bullets ricocheted, causing other innocents to bleed, too. That they believe their own nonsense does little to alleviate the suffering of their victims, who are quite often people who deserve to be basking in the delight of humble gratitude, rather than enduring the emotional leprosy inflicted on them by tainted hearts and diseased minds.

The nightmares I’ve occasionally endured have caused me to ponder long and often. False witness is centuries old, but just as volatile and destructive today. When God dealt with a people so stiff-necked and stubborn that He chose to give them only ten commandments to obey, one of those edicts forbade falsely accusing. Interesting: theft, adultery, murder, false witness, all on the same tablet; all carved in stone. And no wonder! All four acts are vicious, selfish crimes. Murder takes a life; but false accusation can do the same. Betrayal of either sort stabs, its resultant arterial bleeding draining life. Robbed of reputation and peace, the accused can wither away, never recovering what was lost. At least a murder victim can stop feeling the pain; for the calumny victim, the torment goes on and on. And in agony, they scream and scream; and no one hears.

False accusation is, of course, repugnant in its innate injustice. It mocks the very foundations of a country fueled by the blood of patriots and heroes. As Martin Luther King said, “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere”. But calumny is also a specialized form of torture, physically excruciating as income, health and freedom erode, yes; but also psychologically destructive. To be accused of what one did not do is humiliating! Paralyzing! Isolating! Robbed of security and self-esteem, victims often dread even speaking about the horror they endure, because the retelling burns like vomiting Dran-O after being forced to drink it. Deep down, the false accuser likely knows the depth of the sin, the breadth of the wrong, and that’s why they justify their actions by upholding the lie and passing it on as fact. But a lie is not true because someone believes it to be true; nor does a lie become truth through repetition!

On top of that agony, there hovers the fear that somehow one’s listener might believe the nonsense, because the adversary is very clever, and so very eager to spread insidious, infectious lies like biological warfare, decimating innocents across a fathomless abyss of gossip-mongering. And so those scalded suffer alone. Meanwhile, nasty suspicions float free in the air, infecting even those with testimonies and brains, as nonsense comes dressed in clever costume, deceiving, enticing, and conscripting the unwary into an army that steamrolls and stabs, heedless of the carnage.

For me, the only consolation is the knowledge that one day the truth will out. One day, a loving Father will gather His wounded legions in His arms and pour out solace on all of us who have groaned under this especially heinous burden. In the meantime, I’ll bury myself in the presence of the Comforter, drinking in the life-giving water of His assurances that the nonsense spewed on me and mine is just that: nonsense; and that He knows the truth. He knows, and He weeps with me. That has to be enough, because for now, that’s all there is.

After a night's "sleep"

So, I lay awake thinking about writing. When I did manage to sleep, I woke four times because ideas kept nudging me awake. I've been listening to Amanda Dickson's "Wake Up To A Happier Life" and loving it. She asks, "What makes you lose track of time?" Writing is definitely IT. I feel more alive while spouting ideas onto paper than at any other time. "Misfit Me" feels actually human-- surprisingly a part of the race-- when I'm doing that. Yesterday I got a card from a sweet lady, Lucille. She complimented my writing style, and thanked me for my words. WOW. What a much-needed and well-timed boost!

My first blog ever!

Whoa. I'm now officially a citizen of Planet Blog. It's a weird feeling. When I began writing, my choices were notebook paper, legal pads, or the ever-exotic airmail paper. This is so trippy!