tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76845186575591297342024-03-13T05:51:31.760-06:00The Bubka<p align="center">The semi-coherent ramblings of a proud husband and father.</p>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684518657559129734.post-45185216167302365422012-07-12T16:42:00.000-06:002012-07-27T17:09:19.294-06:00The Battle of Raccoon Hill<br />
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So, I’ve been trying to get caught up on some work things
lately, since I have been taking time off for Youth Conference, holidays, scout
camp, etc. This has required me to stay up rather late. Late nights have always appealed to me – I guess
you could say that I love the night life (I've got to boogie – QUICK! NAME THE
SINGER!). Last night, I looked at the clock, which showed 2:30, and decided it
was time to quit.</div>
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There is something tranquil and wonderful about a sleeping
house. Almost every light is off; there is no noise from televisions,
computers, or video games; you know the phone or doorbell isn’t about to ring –
everything is quiet and predictable.</div>
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Part of my nightly routine involves touring the slumbering
house to turn off lights, check doors, and enjoy a few seconds of watching my
beautiful children sleep. Boris the angry Bulldog invariably accompanies me on
this trip, and I invariably am touched by his loyalty to me. Truly, I relish
this experience at night – definitely one of my favorite times of the day. And
did I mention, it’s predictable? There are never surprises.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vrLFaGn2g9s/T_9JfabUEZI/AAAAAAAAACc/q7NZXfP4Z8c/s1600/Peaceful.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vrLFaGn2g9s/T_9JfabUEZI/AAAAAAAAACc/q7NZXfP4Z8c/s320/Peaceful.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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This peaceful lamb enjoying an undoubtedly peaceful evening</div>
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is a perfect metaphor for how I feel during this process.</div>
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So, you can imagine what a shock it was to my system when I
opened the garage entryway door, and literally stepped in a CIRCLE of EIGHT CLEARLY-RABID,
DEMONIC RACCOONS!</div>
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Did you see what I said there? THEY WERE MURDEROUS RACCOONS!
AND THERE WERE EIGHT OF THEM! AND THEY WERE POSSESSED OF THE DEVIL! In the
blink of an eye, my peaceful, nightly stroll had TURNED INTO ARMAGEDDON!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4x1CL4ZjaT4/T_9LZPQVlcI/AAAAAAAAACk/bNivyLq8V4g/s1600/Angry-Mob.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4x1CL4ZjaT4/T_9LZPQVlcI/AAAAAAAAACk/bNivyLq8V4g/s320/Angry-Mob.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dramatic Reenactment!</td></tr>
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Some quick back-detail on the story. We have a feral cat
that has adopted us. He is a sweet little guy who follows Pax and Goose around
the neighborhood when they are out playing or riding bikes, and proudly brings
us an occasional decapitated mouse – he’s very protective of the family.
Because he is still, by definition, a wild animal, we let him come and go as he
pleases. He has a bed and food in the garage, and we leave one of the garage
doors open about eight inches, for his convenience. It was through that
slightly-open garage door that the DEMONIC, MURDEROUS RACCOONS (THERE WERE
EIGHT!) entered the garage.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So, back to my tranquil night. I needed something from the
garage before I could climb into my soft, warm, peaceful bed. So, I opened the
door from our home into the garage; and as I’ve done thousands of times before,
I stepped into the dark garage while I was turning on the light. However, unlike
the previous thousands of times I have followed this process, my foot didn’t
land predictably on the wooden platform in the garage. No – instead, what my
bare leg felt as I stepped into the dark was a vast movement of fur, claws, and
whipping, wiry tales. When the light filled the room, Boris – ever present –
must have thought that I had arranged a play date with a group of funny-looking
new dogs in the neighborhood. Hence, he immediately moved past me into
the chaos (and then quickly turned around, when a few of his new friends tried
to scratch his eyes out). Completely
caught off guard and freaked out, I exclaimed an array of expletives that made
me glad my kids were sound asleep.</div>
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The food we keep for the cat is on the top of the steps
leading into our house from the garage, so that’s where these angry little
demons were – perched in a circle around the bowl like spokes on a wheel. What was
absolutely crazy about the situation (and a little off-putting and creepy, even
now) is how they had no fear of me. One or two of them scrambled at least to
the bottom step into the garage, but none of them actually ran. They all just
stopped, stared Boris and me down, bared their teeth, and started growling and
hissing. It was almost as if we had stumbled upon them with their kill, and
they weren’t intending on sharing it.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-91aMXLVmOVo/T_9niwV50NI/AAAAAAAAADg/QBbZAGTXz8Y/s1600/eating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-91aMXLVmOVo/T_9niwV50NI/AAAAAAAAADg/QBbZAGTXz8Y/s320/eating.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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Another dramatic reenactment. A poor one, really – </div>
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because in reality, THERE WERE EIGHT OF THEM!</div>
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And so there we stood for fifteen seconds, or so. Boris had
now realized that if this was a play date, it must be with dogs from the doggie
juvenile detention center – so he had backed off to stand behind my legs. And,
I guess I was just trying to figure out what to do. But Chloe, our nine-pound
Yorkie, didn’t need any time to decide; for out of the dark house behind me,
she came tearing through my legs, launching herself at two of the growling raccoons.<br />
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And that’s when all hell broke proverbially loose. The two
raccoons Chloe had attacked took, oh, about three seconds to have her on her
back, and about one more second to get their sharp little teeth at her throat. So,
Chloe starts screeching like she is dying (which, in fairness, was where her
little exchange was heading); the raccoons were growling and screeching; Boris
starts doing his concerned bark (which is downright sad and funny, if you ever
get a chance to hear it); and I am trying to find something to throw at the ones
on Chloe, to break them up. The only thing I could get my hands on was Lucy’s
bucket of driveway chalk, so I launched that at the pile of raccoons/Chloe. Unfortunately,
that didn’t seem to even temper their now full-bodied bloodlust – they just kept
at Chloe’s throat. So, without really thinking, I reached down and grabbed the one
on top of the pile by the nape, and threw him across the garage; and then I
sort of kicked at what was left of the combined pile of one raccoon, Chloe, and
little broken bits of driveway chalk. That dislodged the raccoon from Chloe,
and Chloe wasted no time to screechingly scamper back into the safety of the house
(thanks for your help there, Chloe – you really handled that well). </div>
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Right, Chloe – I’m sure they were terrified of you.</div>
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With Chloe’s
exit, there was chaos. The one I had kicked off Chloe was trying to claw and
bite my foot, as I kept kicking at him. A couple still perched on the garage
steps literally launched themselves at me (and Boris, who was still by my side – love that
dumb dog), smacking into my arm and back - I sort of flailed them away, as best
I could. The others quickly scampered over and through the porch railing, into
the garage. And keep in mind that all of this was now happening with Lucy’s driveway
chalk rolling and crunching under our feet – it was like a zany kid’s movie,
where the kids throw down marbles to keep the bad guys from being able to catch
them. </div>
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<br /></div>
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From that point, I lost track of most of the evil, little
incubi – other than a cacophony of their deep, creepy, guttural belly growls. And
that’s what was absolutely surreal. They had an open garage door they could
have used to escape off into the dark of night. I don’t know if in their panic,
they didn’t realize it; if they were still hungry and desirous of finishing
their meal; or if they were just sizing me up, talking to each other through
their brains (they can do that, you know – they’re the devil) about the best
way to collectively attack and murder me. But for whatever reason (although
probably the last one I mentioned), they all stayed in various hiding places in
the garage.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The logical thing, at this point, would have been to go back
inside, turn off the lights, and let them all leave at their leisure. But it
was 2:30 AM, and I was feeling startled, protective (even of stupid Chloe, who
seems to think she’s about 200 pounds of attack dog), and quite irrational. So,
with Boris still by my side, I grabbed an umbrella and a steel garden rake, and
I prepared to go full vigilante.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1xRG3v0D_wI/T_9O2ss8hvI/AAAAAAAAADM/W4bfOqgX-Nk/s1600/rabid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1xRG3v0D_wI/T_9O2ss8hvI/AAAAAAAAADM/W4bfOqgX-Nk/s1600/rabid.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
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This was the only one I was able to photograph.</div>
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Now, I love animals – really, all animals. I hate to see
them hungry or suffering. But in my irrational mind, these demons had turned in
their animal cards, and had become vicious killers. I found one in the corner,
behind the outdoor Christmas tree light bins. BAM! I hit him with the business
end of the rake. I found one under Susan’s car. BAM! (You can’t get a good
swing under the car, so I had to use the rake more like a pool cue.) I found
one hiding in an old Tupperware container we once used for bird seed. BAM! I found two hiding underneath the wooden steps/porch going into the house. BAM! BAM! Each one of them first got the rake; and if they made the mistake of
moving closer to me after getting the rake, they got the umbrella. I walked
around the car, and saw a striped tail sticking out from underneath the lawn
mower. I smacked the tail with the rake, and then smacked the tail’s owner with
the umbrella when he came out. BAM! POW! He made the mistake of defiantly turning around,
looking me in the eyes, and hissing at me. I’m quite satisfied to say that the
little rodent vastly underestimated how fast I could move with the rake. BAM!</div>
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<br /></div>
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And it was working. I was bravely fighting off the evil
attackers. With each swing of the rake, I was sending another one cowardly into
the night. I like to imagine them today, regrouping in a sort of triage area they’ve carved out
in some scrub oak – bruised and beaten enough to know that they messed with the
wrong rake owner. Talking among themselves, they collectively decide to stay
clear of my house, the next time they decide to participate in their raccoon
gang activity.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Anyway, back to the battlefield. By now, I had made enough
noise to have awoken Susan, who came into the garage with wide eyes. I can only
imagine how I must have looked – wild, crazy eyes; a rake in one hand, a
now-broken umbrella in the other; loudly saying, with interjections of
profanity, things like, “You want to go to war? I’ll go to war with you!” Or, “You
want some more? I gotta lotta more! Bring it on, baby!” All the while, Boris the angry Bulldog
(who by now has decided his master has come up with a REALLY FUN GAME) is bouncing up
and down at my feet, barking these excited little yelps, and chasing each new
demon raccoon as it retreats into the night.</div>
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Finally, the only one that appeared to remain had jumped
back into the Tupperware bird seed container. He stared me down – hissing,
growling, and spitting – murder in his eyes. With Susan and Boris watching, silently in awe of my courage, I
slowly approached, rake drawn – the final battle! But instead of using the rake
as a weapon, I used it to flip closed the hinged door on the container. The
container became alive with motion, flopping around with the movement of the
highly panicked (and fully trapped) raccoon. Holding the door shut with all my
strength (lest I lose a finger), I carried the entire container around the side
of the house; thumped it with my fist a few times, for good measure; and opened
the door. And with that, the last of the army of raccoons retreated onto the golf
course.</div>
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Not today, murderer!</div>
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Not in my town!</div>
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Eventually, I went back into the house, restarted the
process of locking/shutting everything down, snuggled with Boris the angry
Bulldog to reward his loyalty (LOVE that big knucklehead), and climbed into bed
– where I lay for a few hours, unable to sleep. This morning, in my tired
state, the whole thing seemed almost like a bad dream (although the messy
condition of the garage confirms that it wasn’t). Meanwhile, I think I might
invest in a BB gun. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LNsSvFA0lnk/T_9O2KIkT4I/AAAAAAAAADE/v-_bh0DV_8c/s1600/call-me-maybe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LNsSvFA0lnk/T_9O2KIkT4I/AAAAAAAAADE/v-_bh0DV_8c/s320/call-me-maybe.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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I half expect to find this on a postcard in my mail soon,</div>
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Well played, raccoons! Well played!</div>
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Lastly, I leave you with this dramatic scene from the movie "Elf." Evil, little rodents!</div>
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<br /></div>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684518657559129734.post-51379895785907229702012-04-15T00:53:00.000-06:002012-04-27T14:06:27.415-06:00Porter Thorkelson - a GREAT KID Needs Your Prayers!<br />
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For those of you who are so inclined…</div>
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We have a wonderful young man in our ward named Porter
Thorkelson. The Thorkelson family moved in a few years ago, and I met Porter
while driving him to a scout jamboree, down at the U. To say that the day was
awful would be unnecessarily kind. The event was disorganized, poorly designed,
and over-attended. I felt bad for myself, having to be there all day. But I
felt even worse for the boys – for many, this was their first experience with
Scouts.</div>
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Throughout the day, we would regroup as a scout troop, and
try to figure out where everyone was supposed to be. Porter brought comic
relief to each of these “get-togethers.” Finally, when we mercifully decided to
leave early, Porter entertained me and the kids in my car, during the entire
trip back to our homes. I was struck by how deep and subtly sarcastic his humor
was. (Everyone who knows me knows that I love sarcasm. Subtle sarcasm is the
best – where you and maybe only one or two other people get it) I remember
telling his father that I had really enjoyed Porter, in part, because he has “an
adult’s sense of humor.” His dad’s face told me that I probably needed to
explain that better, which I did. (No dirty jokes, Dad. Just comments and the
occasional barb that showed a refined intelligence.) <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Porter messing around. He's always messing around; and if there is a new kid that needs to be welcomed, Porter is there!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Porter with one of his wonderful sisters.</td></tr>
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About two weeks ago, Porter hurt his leg playing rugby. It
didn’t seem like a big deal, at the time – it was just something that would
require a little time to rest. When the swelling wasn’t receding after a few
days, Porter’s parents took him back to the doctor, and the doctor ran some
tests. You can imagine the family’s dismay when the doctor said, “We need to
get Porter in right away to do a biopsy on the area where his leg is swelling."
And by “right away,” they weren’t talking about the next available appointment,
next week sometime. They were talking about going to the hospital right then,
and staying until the biopsy was successfully taken. Several excruciating hours
later, the doctors took Jared and Mary Ann (Porter’s wonderful father and
mother) into a small conference room in the hospital to give them the bad news:
Porter had bone cancer, and it was serious. Their recommendation was to place a
port into Porter’s chest while they had him in the hospital, and start using it
for aggressive chemotherapy treatments as soon as they could be scheduled. They
were hopeful about saving him. Their plan is to go aggressive with the
chemotherapy for about three weeks. Then, they will do surgery, I assume to
remove any trace of the tumor they can find. If the tumor has spread, or if it
is just bigger than they anticipated, they will remove the leg. Following
surgery, they will start the chemotherapy again for at least another month.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One tough kid. Porter told his family that if anyone in the family had to get cancer, he was glad it was him.</td></tr>
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Since we heard this news last weekend, I have been walking
around in a bit of a funk. Of course, I love Porter. The world needs a boy like Porter! He
has way too much to offer for his mission here to be finished. What put me
in more of a funk, though, was the horrifying thought of what Jared and Mary
Ann are going through. I’ve hugged my kids more this week than I had in a long
time. Porter is a healthy kid. You would have never known something like this
could be lurking in his body. The unpredictability of it just really gets me.</div>
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So, back to what I was alluding to in the opening line of
this post. Our entire ward held a special fast for Porter on April
15. Even if you don’t know Porter, fasting for Porter would be so appreciated. If fasting is not your thing, we would welcome
your prayers. And this definitely isn’t an exclusively Mormon invite. We welcome
folks of all races, genders, and religions to join us in raising up our voices
to our Heavenly Father (or whatever presence you pray to, when you do such things).<br />
<br />
Also, Porter's family and friends will be wearing blue on April 27th, and posting pictures to the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/405382332816969/408475575840978/?notif_t=plan_mall_activity" target="_blank">Support Porter Facebook page</a>.</div>
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(On a side note, I just reread the talk given by Elder Neal L Andersen during the Sunday afternoon session of General Conference. If you haven't read it, you should. It's here: <a href="http://www.lds.org/general-conference/2012/04/what-thinks-christ-of-me?lang=eng" target="_blank">What Thinks Christ of Me?</a> It's pertinent to this situation with Porter.)</div>
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Porter’s father has put up a Facebook page, to provide
updates on his condition. If you would be interested in joining, drop me an
email through Facebook, and I will get you an invite.</div>
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Thanks in advance for your participation, friends!</div>
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Paul </div>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684518657559129734.post-79016119874758741672012-02-14T12:15:00.000-07:002012-02-14T12:22:26.474-07:00Motivating for Grades - Opinions Wanted!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, I haven’t written anything in a while. Sometimes, I
think of things that might make interesting subjects; but I hold back,
thinking, “No, that’s stupid. Who would care about the minutia of my boring
life?” Then, IT HITS ME! Writing about the minutia of my boring life is the
very reason I started a blog to begin with!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, I’m all like, “BAM! THAT EPIHANY ALMOST JUST HIT
ME IN THE HEAD!”</div>
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<br /></div>
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-------------------------------------------</div>
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</div>
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<br /></div>
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So, here’s an important topic! If you read this, I would
love your opinion – be it in the comments below the blog post, or on the
Facebook post that brought you here.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pax’s first year in middle school brought its typical
challenges. He’s a smart kid (if I may say so myself); but he’s not so terribly
organized. Consequently, he’d miss assignments, and struggle with the timing of
studying adequately for tests. As the year went on, we experimented with
different ways to incentivize him, so that he would take ownership of his
grades. By the last quarter of 7<sup>th</sup> grade, we had found a system that
seemed to work. More than anything in life, Pax loves his electronics
(hereafter referred to as his “stuff”) – his Nintendo Wii, Nintendo DS, iPhone,
etc. Using his “stuff” as the carrot, we set up a sliding scale for his grades.
As long as he had an A-Minus or higher in all of his classes, he could have his
“stuff” as much as he wanted – after, of course, he did his chores and
homework. At B-Minus and higher, he could have his “stuff” for one hour on
weeknights, and up to three hours on each weekend day. If even one class got below
B-Minus, our house became a “stuff-free zone.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Each day, the first thing Pax does when he gets home from
school is to traipse up the stairs to my office. Together, he and I log onto
the school’s website, and check his grades. For each quarter after we
implemented this program, his grades climbed higher. Finally, for the first
quarter of this year – 8<sup>th</sup> grade, for Pax – the quarter ended with
one A-Minus (Science), and six A’s. Susan and I were thrilled! This could be a
system we use until he graduated from high school!</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XCSB-lOitWg/TzqvwcXRZwI/AAAAAAAAACU/l-AaAy8lKHY/s1600/111111+121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XCSB-lOitWg/TzqvwcXRZwI/AAAAAAAAACU/l-AaAy8lKHY/s320/111111+121.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pax - 8th Grade - One Handsome Dawg!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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So, Parent-Teacher conferences roll around for the first
quarter, and we proudly go from teacher to teacher – excited to hear the
glowing things they have to say about our clever son. And most of it <i>was</i>
glowing! The common thread among all of the teachers was that Pax was a student
who was actively engaged. Literally every teacher, independent of the others,
mentioned how a day never passed without Pax waiting at the teacher’s desk,
wanting to discuss a test result, an assignment score, an opportunity for extra
credit, etc.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I almost got the feeling that Pax’s aggressive, proactive
approach to his grades was an irritant for one or two of his teachers. They
didn’t say anything directly, mind you – it was just my perception. Overall,
Pax’s teachers seemed to sincerely enjoy him. I felt so proud of him that
evening. It wasn’t just that he had achieved good grades – of course, learning
how to be a good student will be one of the most valuable lessons he can learn
in life. <i>No, what pleased me even more was his persistence.</i> I probably didn’t
have the wherewithal in 8<sup>th</sup> grade to be that gritty with my teachers
– to be that direct with any adults, for that matter. And I know that in the
real world, that quality of dogged determination will be incredibly vital to Pax’s
success – probably even more important than his ability to memorize facts for a
test.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, while still basking in the afterglow of an
extraordinarily-positive parent-teacher conference, I was surprised when Pax
came home the next week and told us about something that had happened to him at
school that day. Apparently, one of Pax’s teacher’s assistants had pulled him
aside, and said, “Mr. XYZ asked me to tell you to stop obsessing over your
grade in his class. You’re doing yourself no favors by bugging him about it every
day.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At first, I was defensive – ready to have an angry
discussion with the teacher, and the principal. But ultimately, I held back.
Maybe the conversation had been exaggerated. Maybe it was taken out of context.
Maybe there was just something I was missing. I had, after all, gotten the
sense at parent-teacher conferences that a couple of his teachers had felt this
way. So, I decided to investigate the situation a little deeper. I sent an email to each of his teachers,
explaining the incentive plan we had in place – and I asked them for additional
feedback on Pax.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The response I received was almost entirely positive.
Indeed, most of Pax’s teachers <i>really did</i> seem to genuinely enjoy him. Some
said that they got a kick out of how on top of his grades he was – they found
it refreshing. One said that she had originally worried that we might be “Nazi
parents” – but that she felt a lot more comfortable after meeting us, and
getting a little insight into why Pax was so “grade-motivated.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were two exceptions to this positive feedback. The
first was the teacher that had allegedly been the source for the “stop bugging
me about your grades” comment. He didn’t even bother responding to my email.
Now THAT really DID raise my ire – let’s just say that I’m probably not this
teacher’s biggest fan, at this point. The second exception was what has really
gotten me perplexed – something into which I have really put a lot of thought,
over the past several weeks. The comment was, “I wish Paxton would spend more
time obsessing about learning the subject matter than he does about getting an
‘A’ in the class.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to have an open mind about this. I sincerely approached this whole thing with
a desire to be a better parent for my student. In other words, I am not just
looking for validation regarding my opinion. <i>I want to understand!</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why would those two things (“getting an ‘A’ in the class”
versus “learning the subject matter”) be mutually exclusive items? Wouldn’t you
suppose that “getting an ‘A’ in the class” would <i>automatically</i> entail “learning
the subject matter?” Outside of cheating, how could you possibly get an A in a
class and NOT have learned?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Are there any teachers reading this who would be willing to
speculate – to offer some insight into this? Maybe I’m over-analyzing it? I
would truly value your input – both on the comment itself; and on anything you
might have done as a parent to motivate your child to take ownership of his or
her academic performance. I hate the thought of trying to motivate my kids by
simply hounding them until they accomplish something. What’s worked for you?</div>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684518657559129734.post-74880615618976400292012-01-24T14:30:00.000-07:002012-02-14T12:26:37.107-07:00An Important Life Lesson: When Faith Isn't Enough!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">When I was about ten, during a
Sunday night church service at the First Baptist Church of Englewood, Colorado,
I asked a simple question that started me down a road to spiritual discovery.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We had missionaries from Africa
as guests that night. For my many Mormon friends, being an LDS missionary is
different than being a missionary in just about any other church. In other
churches, missionaries are adults – oftentimes, completely established with
families. For them, serving a mission is a lifetime task. But they have to have
funding. So, every so often, they fly back home and do a tour of churches. Usually
during a Sunday Night service, they relate experiences from their mission, show
pictures, and ask for donations.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">It was on one such night that I
had my question. While showing pictures of some of the people they had come
across in Africa, these missionaries mentioned that many of the people there
had never even heard of Jesus Christ. I don’t think I heard much else of what
was said that night. My mind was troubled. It was a warm summer night, and our
church was less than a mile from our house – so we had walked. On the walk
home, I posed my question:</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">“Dad, how is it that those people
in Africa haven’t heard about Jesus?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">“It’s just different there,” he
responded. “They don’t have churches like we do. That’s why it’s important that
we support missionaries.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">That led to a new question: “But
what about the people who never hear about Jesus – what happens to <i>them</i>?”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">My dad was quiet for a moment. “Well,
they go to hell.”</span></div>
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<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Now it was my turn to be quiet,
as I tried to wrap my ten-year-old brain around this concept.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">“But how is that fair?” I asked.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Normally, questioning like this
made my dad frustrated. For whatever reason, he was acting patient that night.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">“God is fair, Pauly (my nickname
until I was almost an adult). That’s all we know. If they want to find God,
their hearts will lead them to a place where they can find him.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">This didn’t satisfy me – at all. “But
what if they <i>don’t</i> find him? That must happen, right? What if they die, and
they <i>never </i>find them? What happens to <i>those</i> people?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Now my dad was getting
frustrated. “Well, they go to hell. That’s the way it has to work. Accepting
Jesus is easy. But everyone does have to accept him, or they will be damned.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">“But Dad, why would God send them
to hell? It’s not <i>their fault </i>they were born in Africa!”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Then, my father used one of his
favorite sayings – one that always indicated the conversation was close to
being over:</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">“Paul, ours is not to understand
the mysterious ways of God!”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">I didn’t have a response to that.
I never did. How could you argue with such logic? But I wasn’t satisfied. I
still thought it sounded wrong. I had spent the last two hours looking into the
smiling faces of hundreds of men, women, and children – the faces on the slides
of our missionary guests. And from the time I was old enough to talk, I had a
healthy fear of hell, “where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.” To be
honest, hell terrified me. It gave me nightmares. Growing up, I didn’t worry about
the boogeyman. I didn’t look under beds and behind doors for scary monsters.
No, my fears were kept busy with my imagination’s vision of hell. And these innocent people - they were going to die and go there. <i>They never had a chance!</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">I felt angry at God that night – the first time I
could ever remember being such. God supposedly loved us. How could he send some
of us to hell without ever even hearing about the way to avoid it?</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">My dad sensed my troubled thoughts, I think. But he
didn’t address them in a way that satisfied me.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">“Little Pauly, we know this because the Bible says
it. And whose word is the Bible?”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">It was good it was a dark night, so my dad couldn’t
see the way I rolled my eyes in exasperation. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">“God’s word, Dad.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">That’s right. It’s God’s word. And that’s all I
need. I have a saying that I live by: ‘God said it! I believe it! And that
settles it!’”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">I don’t know how many
hundreds of times I heard that saying when I was growing up. Each time, Dad
said it as if it was a pebble of truth he had just stumbled upon that morning. But it always
meant the same thing. The discussion wasn’t <i>close</i> to being over. It <i>was</i> over.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HdAFdBLeTqM/Tx8f4vMarjI/AAAAAAAAACE/xrQWRb9nD-U/s1600/Brick_Wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="233" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HdAFdBLeTqM/Tx8f4vMarjI/AAAAAAAAACE/xrQWRb9nD-U/s320/Brick_Wall.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"God said it! I believe it! And that settles it!</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>AKA: "Stop askin' questions, kid! Yer botherin' me!"</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="color: black;">I never found an acceptable
answer to that question. I kept asking it, and I kept getting variations of the
same answer my dad had provided that night.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">As I grew older, I developed a
list of such questions. Some of those questions had no answers. Some had
answers, but they couldn’t stand up to even simple critical analysis.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">The answer, of course, is faith.
Hebrews describes faith as <i>“the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of
things not seen.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">But should faith ever confound
logic? Is <i>that</i> really what faith is for? Don’t we have a responsibility to
think, prior to playing the faith card?</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">As humans, we were given
intellect. Shouldn’t we be required to use it? As a person of faith, it is a
wonderful comfort to know that God is there for me. If I get into a bind – if I
find I’m in a place where the answers to my questions don’t seem clear – it’s
comforting to know that I can pray, and know my prayers will be answered by he
who has the perspective to see further up the road. But don’t I have the
responsibility to go as far as I can, before I start asking?</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">As Pax gets older, I find him
frequently bringing me homework problems for help. I love to be able to help
him with his problems – something I won’t be able to do much longer, as his
homework becomes more complex. But Pax knows that my sunny willingness to help
will turn to a storm of anger if I see that he hasn’t even made an attempt at
doing the work himself, prior to bringing it to me for assistance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Don’t you suppose that Heavenly
Father is the same with us?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">In that way, blind faith seems as
if it can become a crutch. Faith should <i>never</i> be used as an acceptable replacement
for logic. If God had wanted us to be exclusive faith-seekers, he would have
given us walnut-sized brains.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_h990F9PEFI/Tx9UrLbNfOI/AAAAAAAAACM/-YHPt8YrCMY/s1600/brainvWalnut.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_h990F9PEFI/Tx9UrLbNfOI/AAAAAAAAACM/-YHPt8YrCMY/s320/brainvWalnut.gif" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Statement Analysis</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: black;"> My purpose for writing this blog
post is this. Over the years, I have often been asked why I so dramatically
altered my spiritual course early in my adult life. I’ve tried numerous ways to
explain it – oftentimes, with little success. But I think I have discovered a
way to verbalize it now. It has to do with faith. I’ll close this post with an
analogy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Imagine I come to a deep canyon
that needs to be crossed. I find a bridge that seems sturdy, and start to carefully
walk across it. Two-thirds of the way across the bridge, I come across a patch
of thick fog. I literally can’t see my feet, the fog is so thick. But just a
few steps ahead, I can hear people talking calmly as they cross the last part
of the bridge. I may not be able to see any further, but I can use logic to
determine 1) the bridge has been sound, to this point; and 2) the people ahead
seem to be crossing the bridge without incident. From there, faith can allow me
to put one foot in front of the other, and finish my journey across the canyon.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Now imagine coming to the deep
canyon, seeing the sheer cliffs that lead into the abyss, and having someone
say, “Go back about a hundred yards, and start running towards the canyon as
fast as you can. Once you get to the edge of the canyon – running at full speed
– <i>jump!</i> I promise you that you’ll be able to fly to the other side!” Logic
tells me that this is a bad idea. If I allow faith to trump my logic in this
situation, then I suppose I deserve the end result. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Blind faith can lead me to harm.
Remember, faith is <i>"the evidence of things not seen!”</i> Doesn’t “evidence” imply
some basis to form an educated assumption? Could faith really mean that sometimes,
we aren’t allowed to understand basic, important truths? Is it really evidence,
if all you have to run with is some stranger telling you it’s okay to jump into
the abyss? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">At some point, I decided that
wasn’t enough.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">And that is why I changed my
spiritual course. I still need faith; but my faith and my logic don’t ever have
to divert into different directions. </span></div>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684518657559129734.post-41118839838274585852012-01-23T16:55:00.000-07:002012-01-23T22:12:47.811-07:00The Lady PooperLucy comes into my office this morning: "Daddy, Mom needs you to get some Tylenol. It's on the Lady Pooper in the bathroom!'<br />
<br />
I give her a blank look. "The what, Goose?"<br />
<br />
"The Lady Pooper!" She gives me an exasperated sigh. "Come on! I'll show you!"<br />
<br />
I follow her down into the bathroom. She opens the bathroom cabinet door, and points to the round double-shelf that turns on a swivel. "It's on there!"<br />
<br />
"Lucy, tell me what that is, again?" I ask.<br />
<br />
She giggles a little, in response: "I don't want to!"<br />
<br />
"Come on, Goosey," I say, smiling, "Tell me what it's called!"<br />
<br />
"Um, I think it's the 'Lady Pooper?'" She mumbles the second half of the sentence, as her face turns bright red.<br />
<br />
I can't contain my laughter. "Oh sweet Lucy! That's called a 'Lazy Susan!'"<br />
<br />
"Whatever, Dad! Mom wants the Tylenol!"<br />
<br />
A few minutes later, she comes back into my office, gives me a big, unsolicited hug, and says sweetly: "Daddy, you won't tell anyone about what I called that, will you?" <br />
<br />
"Of course not, sweetie."<br />
<br />
Chalk one up for the Anderson family lore! <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S_ZqWZ80jAQ/Tx3yZA4HoTI/AAAAAAAAAB8/JkfGgNrx5Yg/s1600/The+Lady+Pooper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S_ZqWZ80jAQ/Tx3yZA4HoTI/AAAAAAAAAB8/JkfGgNrx5Yg/s1600/The+Lady+Pooper.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684518657559129734.post-8372974452243020402012-01-10T11:08:00.000-07:002012-01-23T17:17:08.546-07:00Lucy and the Family's Butts<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, the other day, I needed to edit a video on my iPad. This
isn’t a task I perform regularly, so I had to get some instruction from an
Apple-obsessed nephew (thanks, Alex) on the process. When I start importing my
video, I notice that my Camera Roll – the folder the iPad uses to store
pictures and videos – is full of pictures. This is strange. I don’t remember
having ever used my iPad to snap pictures.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I start going through the pictures, and I see a trend.
They seem to have been taken from a perspective of about three-and-a-half feet
off the ground. There are pictures of the dogs. There are pictures of Barbies,
going about their daily Barbie business (eating, lounging, looking fabulous,
etc). There are pictures of various household items. There are lots of pictures
of my lovely Lucy, like this one. </div>
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Some of these have been edited, like this one (I have no
idea where she learned to do this – my then four-year-old little girl said she
just figured it out herself).</div>
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And then, there are pictures of butts: Paxton’s butt; Sue’s
butt; my butt; the dogs’ butts (including one particularly-nauseating close-up of
Boris the angry Bulldog’s butt) – just butts! The only person whose butt is
missing from the collage is Lucy’s.</div>
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So, this makes me curious. Who wouldn’t be curious to find a
picture of their butt on their iPad? You would be curious, too. I promise, you
would.</div>
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“Lucy,” I say, “have you been using my iPad to take
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“Yes, Daddy.”</div>
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“What do you like to take pictures of?” I ask.</div>
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“Stuff.”</div>
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“What kind of stuff, sweetheart?”</div>
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“Just stuff.”</div>
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I pull up a picture of Pax’s butt, taken while he was
walking down a hallway in our home. “Goose, how come you took this one?”</div>
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Giggling. “I don’t know, Dad.”</div>
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I pull up a picture of Boris the angry Bulldog’s butt, taken
while he was standing in the sun room. “And what about this one?”</div>
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More giggling. “His butt is funny, Dad!”</div>
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With each successive butt picture, Lucy giggles harder – to the
point where she can’t get out her words. Our butts, it would seem, have been
the “butts” of a long-running joke with Lucy - one that Lucy has enjoyed entirely by herself.</div>
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I see a number of fairly disturbing aspects to this. First,
what four/five-year-old thinks to carry something like this out? I mean, it’s
one thing for a kid to think butts are funny. When you think about it, the
logic is sound. What could be funnier than two mounds of flesh, through which
waste is excreted? God clearly showed his sense of humor when he made the butt.
But Lucy actually thought to covertly document the butts of each member of the
family - that seems to take a child's normal fascination with the butt to a new, somewhat-disquieting level. Was she thinking of maybe submitting it to the New England Journal of
Medicine: “Butts of the Bubka Family: A Study in Comparisons and Contrasts?” And
second, what kid that age can keep a secret like this? I could see her taking a
picture, and then taunting, “Mommy, I just took a picture of your butt!” No,
not Lucy. She takes the picture, puts the iPad away, and waits for the chance
to move in on her next victim.</div>
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It’s Lucy’s world, and we’re living in it.</div>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684518657559129734.post-90777369168384739772012-01-03T14:49:00.002-07:002012-01-10T11:38:30.010-07:00Drugged-Up Dinosaurs – Road Trip to Colorado!<div class="MsoNormal">
So, we just got back from our annual New Year’s trip to Colorado. Since we’ve been married, I think we’ve only missed this trip one year. The drive is a little over 500 miles – about 8 ½ hours, if you stay reasonably close to the speed limit. I estimated this to be my 75<sup>th</sup> round trip, Salt Lake City to Denver. I love the drive! Susan and Lucy usually drive one way, and then fly back. I would much rather drive – even at 11,000 feet, in the middle of winter. We’ll typically stay in a hotel on the way out – it breaks the monotony; and the kids love staying in hotels. Then, Pax and I will drive straight through on the way back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This year’s highlights:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">·</span></b><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Arriving at the hotel, and watching Pax and Lucy act punch-drunk with the energy they’d accumulated, being in the car for four hours. One minute, they loved each other. The next, they – um – didn’t. At one point, Lucy said they were running around like “drugged-up dinosaurs.” (No idea where she got that!)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">·</span></b><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Listening to the cacophony of Lucy singing along loudly with fairly horrible pop tunes (e.g. Party in the USA), while Pax loudly expresses his dissatisfaction with Lucy’s choice of music. (“AND THE JAY-Z SONG WAS ON!” “This song SUCKS! Dad, tell her to turn it off!” “AND THE BRITNEY SONG WAS ON!” “OH MY GOSH! THIS SONG SOUNDS LIKE IT WAS WRITTEN ON THE SHORT BUS!” “MOVIN’ MY HIPS LIKE ‘YEAH!’” “DAD! I hope you know that this is making us all DUMBER!”) <o:p></o:p></div>
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Good times! Not bad times!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>·</b></span><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Watching our two dogs (Boris the angry Bulldog and Chloe) with similar accrued energy, at the hotel. When Boris becomes excited, he seems to get – let’s call it “amorous.” I posted on Facebook that he was running around, humping anything in sight. Sue was horrified. She said the word “humping” sounded “earthy,” and was unbecoming. I don’t know. If you see Boris the angry Bulldog in action, I don’t know what else you could call it. When he does it, he arches his short, stubby body until his front and hind legs are almost together, and he moves in - well, he moves in a humping motion! He humps everything – Paxton’s leg; pillows; furniture; Chloe; the air – you name it! And the poor, little guy doesn’t have testicles; so I have no idea what he’s trying to accomplish.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A funny aside – when we moved into our current home, about a year-and-a-half ago, we had heard some scary stories about one of our neighbors – an older man, who is a bit of a recluse. They were mostly legends from neighborhood kids – stuff about him being crotchety, and calling the police a lot. So, about three months after we move in, Boris the angry Bulldog gets out the front door, looks over to that side of the yard, and runs his fat, stubby, little legs over there as fast as they will carry him (which is surprisingly fast – he’s like an obese cockroach) – going right into the man’s open garage. Now, Boris is a sweet knucklehead (the “angry” part is strictly for irony); but he can bowl people over, if they don’t have good balance. So, I think, “Crap, this isn’t how I wanted to be introduced to this guy,” and I head over to retrieve my imbecilic dog. When I get in the garage, I see Boris is enthusiastically greeting my neighbor – practically knocking the old guy over, in said enthusiasm. I call Boris off – as much as Boris can be called off – apologize, and introduce myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The old guy says, “Hey, nothing to apologize for! My gosh, this guy’s so darn ugly, he’s kind of charming!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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And so, that is how I was introduced to my new neighbor – a guy who, as far as I can tell, is about as nice as can be. We chat for about twenty minutes. The whole time, I am fighting with Boris, trying to keep him from using his freakishly long tongue (he can lick between where his eyebrows would be, if he actually had eyebrows) to destroy this nice man’s shoes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Partway into the conversation, I look down and am horrified by what I see. As I have mentioned, Boris the angry Bulldog turns into Boris the humping Bulldog (Boris the earthy Bulldog?) when he’s excited. In this case, he’s just frantically going around in circles, humping the air. If there was a soundtrack for said activity, I always thought the first minute of 70’s one-hit-wonder, Rose Royce’s Car Wash would be apropos.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Is there a protocol for what you say in this situation? I couldn’t think of any.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m so sorry,” I say. “If it means anything to you, he means this as a compliment.” The whole time, I am trying to nonchalantly nudge Boris with my foot, in hopes of distracting him from his reverie. But Boris will not be distracted – not this close to his afterglow!<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Aw, hell, son,” the old guy says, “He ain’t doin’ nothin’ I wouldn’t do, if I was about twenty years younger!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ah, well! What was I talking about again? I’ve completely forgotten! Oh, yes – the holiday trip! (When Susan Bubka reads this, she will undoubtedly think, “I am Susan Bubka, and I totally don’t approve of this earthy message!”)</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">·</span></b><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Watching how unique Pax and Lucy’s personalities are becoming. They are both funny, personable, dynamic kids! I’m biased, of course – but I get such a kick out of seeing them interact with people. Pax jumps right into conversations; and he has a mature, somewhat self-deprecating wit. Lucy is sassy and full of life. She seems to have a knack for poking light-hearted fun at people; while, at the same time, leaving them happier than she found them. I couldn’t be prouder of these two blessings in my life!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">·</span></b><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Every time I spend extended time with Sue, I am reminded why I am blessed to have her as my companion and friend. She’s kind-hearted, patient, and fun to be around. My family likes her more than they like me, I think.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">·</span></b><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Spending alone time with Pax is always enjoyable. We’ve done lots of road trips together, over the years. Even during the times I am listening to something on the radio, and he’s playing video games, I thoroughly enjoy being with him. I am so grateful for the friendship I have with him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I could write more; but this is already embarrassingly-long. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Here’s to a happy and healthy 2012!<o:p></o:p></div>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684518657559129734.post-87116068906846540932011-12-27T12:33:00.002-07:002012-01-03T15:18:00.296-07:00Christmas, Part One!I could hardly have one of these newfound blogs, and not blog about Christmas. Am I right?<br />
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So, Christmas! Christmas was a dark holiday in the Bubka home growing up. I wish there was a bright side to that, but it really is what it is. As we approached my seventh Christmas – not surprisingly, one of the first Christmases that I can really remember – my mother died in a car accident. We had a little, red Volkswagen Bug at the time – honestly, it was probably a horrible car for the harsh winters in Denver, where I grew up. One Saturday evening, a couple weeks before Christmas, my mom had to drive up into the mountains west of Denver on an errand. On the icy roads on the way home, she drove off the road, into a fairly deep ravine, and died from her injuries.<br />
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There was a bit of a pall over Christmas in our home from that time forward. We still celebrated, of course. But as the Christmas tree went up each year, I always remembered the Christmas that Mom died. I never articulated it, but I kind of thought of Christmas as a yearly memorial to my mother. And my Dad, God bless him, wouldn’t have been great at Christmas, under the best of circumstances.<br />
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My Dad was a lot of things – most of them very positive. He was a great provider. He was as honest as the day is long. He was a hard worker. He was a good, Bible-believing, God-fearing, Christian man! One of the things that really shaped his character was living in Manhattan during the Great Depression. He learned to conserve, and to live a frugal life. Frugality is not a bad philosophy to have, in a lot of ways; but Christmastime as the son of a frugal father left a little something to be desired.<br />
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Typically, I would have three or four presents under the tree. There would be lots riding on those three or four presents; so you hoped that on Christmas morning, each one would pack some proverbial punch. What I learned was that there was a pattern to the presents. One would be something a kid would find useful. The rest would be practical, but disappointing. The underwear and socks I wore growing up were all Christmas presents. A couple of the blankets I used on my bed had been Christmas presents. Slippers were staples as Christmas presents. (You NEVER wore your socks around the house. If you put holes in them, it was a long wait until the next Christmas, when you would get some more!)<br />
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But Dad was an enigma – simple in some ways; complicated in others. He nearly always came through with one gift that I loved, and I loved him for his effort. One year’s memorable gift was a Mattel Football II handheld electronic game – I eventually wore it out.<br />
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Another one was Electronic Football. (I always thought the makers of this game must have sold their souls to the devil. Nothing this stupid should have ever been as popular as this was.)<br />
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Another year, he bought me Pong.<br />
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My all-time greatest gift was actually given to me by my older brothers. One year, they combined their funds and bought me an Atari 2600. I remember being breathless when I opened it, and then playing it on a 13-inch, black and white television I had in my room - for every waking hour, until Christmas break was over. I remember sensing that year that I had hurt my dad’s feelings, by not being more excited by whatever he had given me.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://img861.imageshack.us/img861/6065/atari2600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://img861.imageshack.us/img861/6065/atari2600.jpg" /></a></div>I’ll admit that we go a little overboard with spoiling Pax and Lucy at Christmas. We only have two kids, and I’ve always wanted them to experience the Christmastime magic that had been missing from my childhood. Obviously, there is more to that than just what they receive in gifts. But I want them to have the whole experience!<br />
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More than anything, I want them to remember Christmastime as a time they were loved and appreciated by their parents. I want them to think of Christmas as their absolute favorite time of the year. I hope that by the time they start their own families, we have been able to cement Christmas traditions that come so naturally, they won’t think of not continuing them on their own. And I hope that the sights, sounds, and smells of those traditions will take them back to a time of immense happiness.<br />
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I had a few thoughts of specific memorable Christmas experiences over the years – both growing up, and as an adult – but I thought I would save them for another day. (They won't be depressing, I promise. Still, there's something <i>a little</i> funny about underwear for Christmas, right?) Clearly, I am not good at being brief in these blog posts.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684518657559129734.post-54702900843983216432011-12-21T16:09:00.001-07:002012-01-23T17:17:35.459-07:00Goose's Dance Recital - WITH INSULTS!Ah, there is truly nothing like a dance recital - sincerely! I so look forward to Lucy's dance recitals. Most of this is because I am obviously quite fond of Lucy. But even beyond that, I think it's cute how proud, nervous, and excited these girls get. And up until about Lucy's age, they don't have experience with buffering their thoughts and emotions. You get what they are - in all of its raw, unfiltered glory.<br />
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We still laugh about the tiny three-year-old girls who got into a shoving match last year when they both felt their personal space was being breached by the other girl. For them, the dance was over, just seconds after it started. While their peers were going about their performances on the stage all around them, these two little balls of fury traded shoves - neither was willing to give in. Even when the music ended and they walked off the stage, they were staring daggers into each other.<br />
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This year, a little girl walked onto the stage, just as excited and happy as she could be - at least until she turned and saw the big, scary crowd. Then she froze, stuck out her bottom lip, and started to wail. The other girls awkwardly tried to ignore her - to dance around her; but she was front and center - literally and figuratively. Finally, one of her instructors mercifully came out and carried her off.<br />
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Then, there is our sweet, little five-year-old. You can see the video of her performance below. It's just a normal dance recital video, for the most part - the kind of video that makes a parent or grandparent's heart swell with pride, no matter how many times they see it. For everyone else, it's something to which you politely smile and compliment: "What a BEAUTIFUL little girl - WHOA! Look at that time! I've gotta run!"<br />
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The funny thing that makes watching this a worthwhile investment happens at about the 2:20 mark of the video. I won't ruin the suspense, other than to give a brief background.There were about 300 - 400 people in the audience. And since the lights were off in the auditorium, you could only see the first row or two from the stage. As the dance progresses, Lucy moves to the right side of the stage, and the video zooms in for a closer shot. From there, you can see the moment she looks down and notices her beloved big brother, Pax. (He had moved to the front row with Gabby Handley, who was doing the filming.) Lucy's reaction is natural and spontaneous - a quick acknowledgement for Pax, and she's back to focusing on her performance. The natural bond between a girl and her brother can't help but warm your heart!<br />
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Eyewitnesses said that Pax was actually innocent in the exchange (I say "actually," because this is rarely the case). The "L" Lucy makes with her fingers does not stand for "Lucy," unfortunately. Instead, it's Lucy's way of telling Pax that she considers him to be the antithesis of a winner.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684518657559129734.post-56627888141499477002011-12-20T15:33:00.002-07:002011-12-22T16:46:07.748-07:00A Life Lesson: Sympathy vs. CompassionI’ve recently had what I might consider an epiphany about what I think is an eternal principle: the difference between sympathy and compassion.<br />
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It wasn’t that long ago that I would have told you there was no difference. They were different words to describe the same human feeling. To that, now, I proclaim “FALSE!” (That’s a Paxism – and an annoying one, at that! If you make a statement to Pax and he disagrees with your statement, instead of calmly saying, “See, I think you might be mistaken there,” he loudly proclaims, “FALSE!” So, I might say, “Pax, you can’t get on your iPad – your homework isn’t finished.” He will pop up and point dramatically at me. “FALSE!” I am working on a comeback that has to do with the back of my hand. But I digress.)<br />
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Anybody can feel sympathy. I think most girls experience it early in life. They see another girl trip and spill her lunch tray, for example, and they feel sympathy for her. Being around lots and lots of teenage boys lately, I’ve realized that <i>most</i> boys don’t experience a lot of sympathy until later in life – it’s something that comes with early maturity – maybe about the time they start getting ready to go on missions. But other than the rare sociopath or true narcissist, all of us develop feelings of sympathy eventually. And it’s an important quality. It’s one of the characteristics that makes us human. Let’s face it – the world can be a cruel place. You can’t watch a single newscast without feeling pangs of sympathy for people who lose their houses to fire, lose loved ones to accidents, suffer catastrophes, and so on.<br />
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So, for purposes of comparison, I’ll define sympathy, in my own words. Sympathy can be summarized with a phrase: <i>“I feel sorry for…”</i> There is nothing wrong with sympathy. I’m a fan of sympathy – I really am. But sympathy is <i>not</i> compassion.<br />
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I think compassion is a true, Christ-like attribute. Compassion is a cousin to charity, or “the true love of Christ.” For more reasons than I could explain here, my favorite chapter in all of the scriptures is 1 Corinthians 13 (the charity chapter). You could take almost the whole chapter, substitute the word “compassion” for the word “charity,” and it would mostly work. Compassion is a precious attribute; because I don’t think there is any way to know compassion without having experienced the difficult parts of life. You could say that in our lives, every tear we shed; every drop of blood we bleed; and every ounce of sweat we exude – <i>all</i> of it is traded for a priceless reservoir of compassion.<br />
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Back to definitions – if sympathy can be summarized with “I feel sorry for,” then compassion has a defining phrase, as well. For me, it is, <i>“There but for the grace of God, go I!”</i><br />
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The first time I remember noticing the distinction between sympathy and compassion happened several years ago. My Elders Quorum was called one weekend to help a family in the ward move out of their house. Now, over the years, I’ve been involved with more Elders Quorum-assisted moves than I can count. You can tell, as soon as you arrive, how smooth and easy the move is going to go. Ideally, everything is neatly put in boxes and waiting for you. Your job is simply to move the boxes from the house to the moving truck. On this occasion, things were – well, they were messier than that. When I arrived early on Saturday morning, I was greeted by ten kind, decent women from the relief society. They were frantically packing household items into boxes, trying to get enough ready to be able to keep the arriving Elders busy. But despite their efforts, nothing was actually ready to be moved. We started grabbing furniture, wherever we could – oftentimes moving dressers with full drawers. We had to be careful, because nothing – even valuable furniture and antiques – was really prepared to be shoved into trucks. It looked as if the family had decided that morning, almost on a whim, to start the process. And it was honestly a little frustrating. On several occasions throughout the day, there was grumbling and rolled eyes from those of us giving up what we thought was going to be a few hours on our Saturday morning.<br />
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But as the day went on, I started to learn of the back story behind this family’s situation. I learned that the home was in foreclosure; and the family was moving into a small condominium owned by some relatives. The father in the home was a real estate agent. He had three property sales scheduled to close earlier that week; and any of the three would have allowed him to pay funds to the bank sufficient to avoid foreclosure. All three closings had fallen through. The Saturday we were there was two days before they absolutely <i>had</i> to be out of the home. They hadn’t started packing because they hadn’t imagined a scenario where they would really have to move.<br />
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To make matters worse, the father in this situation was in poor health. He couldn’t do much to help move anything even remotely heavy. How sad and helpless he must have felt! With his story in my mind, I approached the day’s task with a new perspective. A few years prior, I had what had been a successful business fail. It had been devastating to me – both personally and financially. While we struggled to get our financial house back in order, I had a recurring nightmare. In the quiet stretches of the dead of night – those contemplative hours where an insomniac’s molehills become mountains – I pictured, over and over again, having to tell my young son that he was losing the security of his childhood home, and moving to a place where he had to make all new friends. How could I possibly do that? How could I live with knowing how much it was going to hurt him? I am ashamed now to admit that there were times I would have gladly ended my own life, if I knew it would spare him of that hurt. On this Saturday, as I helped carry all the worldly possessions of this man, his wife, and his two young sons, it occurred to me. Hadn’t my recurring nightmare during those dark times been the very scene I was now witnessing?<br />
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<i>“There but for the grace of God, go I!”</i> I had been blessed with such wonderful fortune! We had come horrifyingly close to losing our home during that earlier time; but we never actually lost it. I thought I had a pretty good idea of what this man was feeling that day. Every time one of his sons made eye contact with me, I felt at least a small amount of their father’s pain. So, with the simple perspective of the family’s circumstances – the back story, if you will – my attitude had gone from general sympathy to deep compassion. Sympathy had been enough to get me there that day; but not enough to keep me from feeling resentment as my Saturday morning of service ran into Saturday afternoon. Newfound compassion buoyed me through the afternoon, and sustained me as the project stretched well into the evening. Sympathy is weak, and fleeting. Compassion is powerful; and it sustains as it teaches.<br />
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You often hear people in church talk about how we should be grateful for our trials. I always thought that was a nice, albeit unrealistic, platitude. Who could ever <i>honestly</i> feel blessed by hardship? But my feelings have changed. I now feel that it is an irrevocable truth – we <i>are</i> blessed by our trials (although I, personally, am not mature or evolved enough to feel any amount of gratitude until after the trial is over). Many of the eternal lessons we are here to learn – <i>most of them</i>, probably – can only be learned under the bright light of perspective. And the “switches” that turn on that light are the most difficult times in our lives – the times when we are at our lowest. How can the Savior love us, even when we constantly add to the pain he suffered on our behalf in Gethsemane? He can because he has compassion for us. Who, after all, could better know the damaging, erosive effects of sin, than he that suffered for<i> all</i> sin? How can our Heavenly Father patiently watch as we make what must seem, in his perfect state, to be repeated, simple, ignorant gaffes? “As man is, God once was.” What he feels is not impatience. He feels the compassionate resolve of a father who knows from experience how painful even simple lessons can be.<br />
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I wish I could say that I had mastered this concept. Of course, I have a long way to go before I get there. But just understanding it, even at a simple level, has helped me immensely. It helps with perspective when I struggle. But even more, it helps as I try to be compassionate when those around me struggle. I can’t help but believe that the latter of those scenarios is the important one, in the eternal scheme of things.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684518657559129734.post-51466150988696887282011-12-19T13:40:00.001-07:002012-01-23T17:18:00.002-07:00Oompa loompa doompadee doo!Pax is very small for his age. When he has his yearly physical, he just barely gets on the chart – usually, at about the 5% mark in height. I haven’t been too worried about this characteristic, because it’s exactly how I was. And while I was never a threat to play power forward in the NBA, I at least ended up almost exactly average (5’ 10” – give or take). My growth spurt really started in 9th grade; which is about a year away for Pax. But just to be safe, our pediatrician ordered a bone density scan over the summer. Sure enough, everything looked fine. Based on whatever they look at with his growth plates, it’s projected that he’ll end up (surprise, surprise) about 5’ 10”.<br />
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Being small is terrible for an 8th Grade boy. It’s such a competitive (and mean) age. Everything is compared – both consciously, and subconsciously. And people are constantly making comments. I talked with Pax about this a few years ago, and many times since. My advice has been to try and take something of a self-deprecating approach to it. Laugh with people, and they will find you endearing. Your perceived weakness will actually become your strength. I think it’s good advice, and it mostly works. But sometimes, it’s hard.<br />
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Friday, we went to the mall to get our family’s yearly picture taken with Santa. Before the picture, Lucy excitedly jumps on Santa’s lap, and breathlessly tells him all the things she feels she earned through her philanthropic activities for the year. When she’s done, Santa looks at Pax and tells him it’s his turn. Pax awkwardly walks over, and Santa pulls him down on his lap. Susan and I couldn’t help but chuckle at Pax’s body language. He wanted it to be over before it started – I don’t think he had any intention of even doing it this year. What made it even funnier was what Santa said. “Let me see, young man. I am usually pretty good at guessing what people want. I bet that this year, you would like a nice set of Legos!” Pax’s face turned flush with embarrassment – he hasn’t been interested in Legos in at least five years. He forced a chuckle, and kindly said, “Um, sure. That would be cool.”<br />
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Ah, that’s my boy!<br />
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A few similar incidents over the years have become the kind of stories every family has – family folklore that gets tossed around on a regular basis. A few years ago, a woman came up to Susan and Pax in a store, and commented on how handsome and well-mannered Pax was. (“Nice job, buddy – it’s good she didn’t see you five minutes earlier!”) She told Susan that her oldest son was about the same age, and then she said the words that will live in infamy in our family lore: “Can I ask you? Is he able to bathe himself?” It turns out that her son that was “about the same age” as Pax was actually about five years younger. Pax was eleven. He had entered the brave, scary world of self-bathing several years earlier. Pax was a great sport about it, though – he made me proud. Now, it’s an inside joke. When people ask us, in Pax’s presence, how old he is, we say, “He’s thirteen! He totally bathes himself, too!”Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684518657559129734.post-37917415436142497382011-12-16T11:11:00.001-07:002011-12-22T16:49:22.510-07:00On Sports and BondingI love sports. There was once a time when I loved playing them. My body doesn’t really allow that anymore – at least, on a sustained basis. Fortunately, I love watching them, too. My body has no issues with watching sports. I’m pretty certain my body thinks watching sports is swell.<br />
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When Susan was pregnant for the first time, and we found out we were having a boy, one of the first things that went through my head was how fun it was going to be to share my love of sports with my son. My dad never minced words about how he thought sports were a colossal waste of time. So, there was not even one occasion in my childhood where I sat down and watched a game of any kind with my father. This always made me a little sad. A mutual interest in sports between a father and son would provide a great excuse to spend time together; countless hours of potential conversation; and a unifying, single-minded bond that would hold strong through any boundaries. <br />
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So, when Pax was barely big enough to walk, I started introducing him to sports. As soon as he reached the minimum age, he was signed up for soccer; and I signed on to coach his soccer team. Other sports followed: baseball, football, golf – even indoor soccer. And with each sport, I volunteered for the privilege of coaching his teams. And when he wasn’t playing, we were watching. I have wonderful memories of little four-year-old Paxton, sitting on our big couch with his legs curled beneath him, snuggled up to me with my arm around him as we watched whatever game was on the television. This was what fatherhood was all about! I would have the experiences with him that I never had with my father.<br />
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But as he started getting bigger, I started to see signs that my love for sports didn’t seem to be in his DNA. By the time he was nine or ten, he stopped talking about wanting to sign up to play the sports he had played when he was younger. For awhile, he seemed to almost defiantly reject my invitations to watch sports on television, or in person. I felt sad about this. But I knew that pushing him to do something he didn’t want to do would cause more harm than good. One of my favorite truths is that life is long; and it’s filled with its ebbs and flows. I hoped that some experience might someday light a fire under him – that he’d one day feel at least some of the passion I felt.<br />
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As a sports fan, one of the most magical experiences I’ve had was the shocking run of baseball’s Colorado Rockies in the late summer and autumn of 2007. All but left for dead with only a month left in the season, the team had a run of success that was unprecedented in baseball’s long, illustrious history. National baseball writers took to calling them “the team that didn’t know how to lose” – an apt description for a team that won 21 out of 22 games, snuck into the playoffs on the season’s last day, then swept through two playoff series to get into the World Series. Every game that September and October was a must-see event, and Pax apparently found my excitement to be irresistibly contagious. For the first time ever, I started seeing him genuinely hooked on the drama of a game. I was thrilled. To add fuel to his fire, I even started to check him out of school when the Rockies had afternoon games. I figured that a few missed afternoons in elementary school was a small price to pay for the memory of the autumn he spent with his dad, watching the Rockies make their magical run. I would put an out-of-office responder on my work email, and Pax and I would hole up in our man cave – hoping against hope that the Rockies could keep the magic flowing.<br />
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The season ended with the Rockies in a tie for the last playoff spot – setting up a one-game, winner-take-all playoff with the San Diego Padres. The game itself was a microcosm of the Rockies season – one of the most exciting things I have ever experienced. The Rockies kept falling behind, and then battling back – finally winning in the bottom of the 14th inning, with Matt Holliday sliding under the catcher’s tag at home plate. Pax and I were jumping around and screaming – embracing each other. In my elation, I said, “Buddy, if they get into the World Series, we’re going!” Fast forward three weeks later, and Pax and I were sitting behind home plate at Coors Field on a brisk Colorado night – watching as the evil Boston Red Sox put an end to the magic. While the Red Sox were jumping around in the infield, celebrating their world championship, I looked down at Paxton and saw tears running down his face. It was bittersweet. I was sad that he was sad; but I was thrilled that he was so invested.<br />
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It felt like one of those cheesy credit card commercials. Tickets to the deciding game of the World Series: $2,600. Colorado Rockies World Series garb: $320. Watching as your son falls in love with baseball: Priceless.<br />
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But as much as I love the Rockies, it pales in comparison to my passion about the Broncos. I had always looked forward to sharing that love with my son - dreaming of getting together with him every Sunday to watch them, for years and years to come. But football seemed to genuinely bore him. He’s only thirteen; so I had always hoped that he might develop an interest. But then again, by thirteen, I was a fairly rabid Broncos fan. Pax hasn’t shown any real interest.<br />
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On a typical Sunday, he'll sit in the living room/theater room with me, playing either on his iPad or Nintendo DS. Then came the first San Diego game, in week five of this season. The Broncos, as they had all season, looked horrible. And when they took the field to start the second half, Tim Tebow was warming up – set to get the first meaningful playing time of his NFL career. You could see the energy it brought to the team, and in the stadium. And I think Pax could feel the change of energy that I had. At about the start of the 4th Quarter, I looked over and noticed that he had put his iPad down, and was watching the game. And as Tebow continued to play in the weeks that followed, the season became interesting – the Broncos dialed up improbable win after improbable win. As the streak has progressed, I've seen Pax paying less attention to his electronic stuff, and focusing more on the game. He’s also started asking me questions about the subtleties of the game – things that would normally get on my last nerve; but that I gladly take the time to explain with Pax. Finally, at the end of the last two games (Vikings and Bears), he's been all in. Specifically, when the Bears game ended, he had his arm around me; and when I looked down at him, he was beaming - he even had watery eyes. He just kept saying, "I can't believe that, Dad! That's the most incredible thing I've ever seen! I can wait until they play the Patriots! I wish it was next Sunday already!"<br />
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And so, it begins! I believe that moment might be called "The Point of No Return!" Once it gets in your blood, there is no antidote.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684518657559129734.post-4922275197029085482011-03-01T13:34:00.001-07:002011-12-22T16:50:03.664-07:00The BubkaI honestly put no thought into the name of my newfound blog. If I put thought into it, then failed to maintain it, my failure would be magnified. Then, someday, I would go and look at my paltry post or two, see that I had actually put some thought into the title of the blog, and I would feel my face flush with embarrassment. Whether or not there are witnesses, that feeling of flushness is unpleasant.<br />
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So, to combat this scenario, I put the first thing that came to my mind: Bubka. I put the word "The" in front of it because it's a fun opportunity to refer to myself in the third person - this has always appealed to me.<br />
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As for the meaning of Bubka...<br />
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When I was growing up, the crazy religious people around me treated Satan as the Boogeyman. He was both omnipresent and subtle - if you weren't constantly on guard, he would overtake you. And if he overtook you - well, I'm not sure what would happen, but it would be really bad.<br />
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I'm not making light of Satan. Satan is bad. Who doesn't think Satan is bad? Of course, Satan is bad.<br />
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But this was different. What was scary about Satan was that you could invite him to possess you by doing seemingly-innocuous things. Listen to a certain song, and BAM! You're overtaken. Watch certain shows, and BAM! Overtaken! Think certain thoughts - BAM! Discuss certain topics - BAM! It was horrifying.<br />
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But boys become rebellious. Rebelliousness is how most boys roll, at a certain point. Music was how it started with me. Rock music was one of the easiest ways to get possessed by Satan. By listening to rock music, you were basically telling Satan a convenient date and time when he could enter your soul. Once he entered your soul, you were on the direct path to becoming a serial murderer - or at least a deviant, of some sort.<br />
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It helped to know which songs were bad. In fairness, all of them were bad. But it was good and helpful to know <span style="font-style: italic;">how</span> they were bad, on a song-by-song basis. Led Zeppelin liked to record messages backwards. The Beatles did that, too. If you listened to Stairway to Heaven, you were encouraged to worship Satan. If you listened to certain Beatles songs, you were encouraged towards things like necrophilia and bestiality. These are just a few examples.<br />
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About once every few months, my church leaders would get us together to go through the songs that were bad - including listening to some of them backwards. You can't be too careful about things like this. The Boogeyman was everywhere. After a session of talking about these songs, I didn't want anything to do with the Robert Plants and Paul McCartneys of the world - thank you very much.<br />
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One of the best examples of how all rock music eventually leads to Satan is the song Hotel California, by the Eagles. Apparently, the Hotel California is the biggest Satanic Church in the world. It's bad, and it's scary. Listen to Hotel California, and you will for sure be possessed. The Eagles say that the song is about something else. But, of course, they lie. The song is about that Satanic Church. What else would it be about? It only makes sense.<br />
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So, long story short, when I started getting rebellious, I listened to songs like Hotel California. It's the song I remember most, because it's kind of catchy. One of Satan's tools is that he makes the most evil songs with catchy beats. That's what I would do, if I was Satan. So it makes sense.<br />
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Listening to Hotel California led to worse things. To bug some of my friends, I would write things like NATAS on their notebooks (NATAS is SATAN spelled backwards). I would use my finger to write the number 666 into the dirt of their cars (666 is the Satan's number - it's a really bad number, and it's evil). And I would sign some of my notes "Beelzebub" ("The Prince of Demons" - one of the names referring to Satan in the Bible). This was all very silly. It was my way of defying the Boogeyman - a silly teenage thing. Honestly, all that stuff caused me nightmares through my early teens. Mocking it was a direct way to combat the irrational fear I had of it, growing up.<br />
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Then, when Al Gore started developing the Internets, I found myself posting on various social boards. In almost every case, I was asked to choose a moniker for myself. Even back then, using something based on your real name seemed like a bad idea. So, I decided - funny guy that I am - to use a knock-off on the name of The Evil One. I took "Beelzebub," and I made it "BeezleBubka." Friends on the boards shortened it to Bubka - BeezleBubka was, apparently, too much to type.<br />
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So, there you have it. I am Bubka - The Bubka, if I am going to do the third person thing.<br />
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PaulPaulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684518657559129734.post-87798495596128327542011-03-01T13:26:00.000-07:002011-12-19T16:23:28.995-07:00Hmmm.Susan has asked me for years to keep a blog. So here it is: A Blog.<br /><br />I'm not sure if it will stick, to be honest. I like the concept. But I also know that the last thing I need is another something-I-should-be-doing-but-I'm-not-doing.<br /><br />So, if I write a few things, maybe I'll start linking to my Facebook. If I don't, then this will hang in the abyss, a silent reminder of something that didn't stick.<br /><br />PaulPaulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12971849965703470955noreply@blogger.com1