THREE DAYS TO SEE


What would you look at if you had just three days of sight? Helen Keller, blind and deaf from infancy, gives her answer in this remarkable essay.

I have often thought it would be a blessing if each human being were stricken blind and deaf for a few days at some time during his early adult life. Darkness would make him more appreciative of sight, silence would teach him the joys of sound.
Now and then I have tested my seeing friends to discover what they see. Recently I asked a friend, who had just returned from a long walk in the woods, what she had observed. “Nothing in particular,” she replied.

How was it possible, I asked myself, to walk for an hour through the woods and see nothing worthy of note? I who cannot see find hundreds of things to interest me through mere touch. I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I pass my hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver birch, or the rough, shaggy bark of a pine. In spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in search of a bud, the first sign of awakening Nature after the winter’s sleep. Occasionally, if I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently on a small tree and feel the happy quiver of a bird in full song.
At time my heart cries out with longing to see all these things. If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by sight. And I have imagined what I should most like to see if I were given the use of my eyes, say for just three days.

On the first day, I should want to see the people whose kindness and companionship have made my life worth living. I do not know what it is to see into the heart of a friend through that “window of the soul,” the eye. I can only “see” through my fingertips the outline of a face. I can detect laughter, sorrow, and many other obvious emotions. I know my friends from the feel of their faces.

For instance, can you describe accurately the faces of five different friends? As an experiment, I have questioned husbands about the colour of their wives’ eyes, and often they express embarrassed confusion and admit that they do not know. I should like to see the books which have been read to me, and which have revealed to me the deepest channels of human life. In the afternoon I should take a long walk in the woods and intoxicate my eyes on the beauties of the world of Nature. And I should pray for the glory of a colorful sunset. That night, I should not be able to sleep.
On my second day, I should like to see the pageant of man’s progress, and I should go to the museums. I should try to probe into the soul of man through his art. The things I knew through touch I should now see. The evening of my second day I should spend at a theatre or at the movies.

The following morning, I should again greet the dawn, anxious to discover new delights, new revelations of beauty. Today this third day, I shall spend in the workaday world, amid the haunts of men going about the business of life.
At midnight permanent night would close on me again. Only when darkness had again descended upon me should I realize how much I had left unseen.
I am sure that if you faced the fate of blindness you would use your eyes as never before. Everything you saw will become dear to you. Your eyes will touch and embrace every object that came within your range of vision. Then, at least, you would really see, and a new world of beauty would open itself before you.
I who am blind can give one hint to those who see: Use your eyes as if tomorrow you would be stricken blind. And the same method can be applied to the other senses. Hear the music of voices, the song of a bird, the mighty strains of an orchestra, as if you would be stricken deaf tomorrow. Touch each object as if tomorrow your tactile sense would fail. Smell the perfume of flowers, taste with relish each morsel, as if tomorrow you could never smell and taste again. Make the most of every sense; glory in all the facets of pleasure and beauty, which the world reveals to you through the several means of contact which nature provides. But of all the senses, I am sure that sight must be the most delightful.

By Helen Keller

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helen_Keller

Sports- "Only an Equipment Manger"

My favorite team the BYU Cougars just lost a close game to their biggest rival. After the game, there was a lot of bitterness and bad behavior exhibited

by fans of both teams.

I prefer to look at the better side of sports, the "rest of the story" as Paul Harvey used to say. In this light, I would like to share one of my favorite stories about Floyd Johnson, former equipment manager of BYU sports teams.

This is a post of an article written by Dick Harmon, sportswriter for the Deseret News shortly after Floyd Johnson passed away in 2002.



Floyd Johnson remembered

Contributed by Dick Harmon on Saturday February 16, @ 10:43PM

BYU lost its Lord of the Rings.
This special Hobbit, the candle that lit so many ways for good, is gone at 83, his golden rings of legend remain.

Floyd Johnson, the equipment manager at BYU for half of a century, died last Thursday, Valentines Day. The funeral is Wednesday.


Upon learning of Johnson’s passing, Philadelphia NBC affiliate sports anchor Vai Sikahema, on assignment in Utah for the Olympics, called to find when services would be. Sikahema, a former NFL all-pro and Cougar punt returner, could hardly talk. “I’m telling my station, my producers that whenever it is, whereever I have to be, I’m taking that day off from the Olympics. I’ve got to be there.”


Johnson’s life and death carries that kind of weight on so many lives. “Our institution just lost an institution,” said former athletic director Glen Tuckett.
“He impacted on the lives of more BYU athletes than any coach, any player or administrator,” said former forward Mark Durrant.


“If anyone epitomized what BYU stands for, it was Floyd Johnson,” Tuckett said, who nicknamed him Brother J.


Johnson was more than an equipment manager, dishing out uniforms, fixing cleats, mending jerseys, repairing facemasks and doing laundry. He dished out self respect, fixed souls, mended feelings, repaired spirits and while mending human beings.


You see, Johnson was a chaplain before the school hired and named one. He was never a coach, never was a player. But, as former basketball guard Nathan Call put it, Johnson was a man in the background who watched, took note and never missed anything with how coaches and players dealt with life on and off the court. Then, he made a difference to help fix it. He’d affectionately call freshmen “doe heads” and he immediately became a father/grandfather away from home.


The God “Brother J” worshiped must have grabbed him upon birth and stamped him with an imprint licensing him to radiate energy and enduring love. It oozed from him, leaked from him like light from a creaky barn door. He was a man without guile, a person who could look right into your soul without squinting.
He was a man of faith, who believed in unseen powers and preached mountains do move, seas do part and things that die can live once more.


As thousands of BYU athletes came through the locker rooms over the years, Johnson impacted their lives far from lights and headlines. He’d get people one-on-one and say things people aren’t supposed to just say in a few sentences carrying the impact delivered.


BYU never knew what it had in the back rooms. The sponsoring church sent mission presidents all over the world, many of them corporate CEOs, lawyers, doctors to train and look over young people. In the equipment room, they had a humble master of made men. He was offended when Cougar coaches would counsel young men to choose athletic careers over LDS missions. To him, balls that dribble would fade in and out, but the work in God’s Army was tattoo a mark of service and devotion on life that would never fade away.


They never paid him much money. His house, his car were simple. But his work was priceless. Johnson was like a sponge. He soaked in love and put it out for others to squeeze. He led the campus in hugs given and received and is the career leader in life assists. He knew your name. He never forgot it. He managed the department’s player speaker bureau, spreading out athletes at podiums and classrooms throughout the state.


“He was very perceptive,” Call said. “You didn’t think he knew how you were feeling, but he did. One time I was down and discouraged at practice and he put his arm around me and offered encouragement and he knew exactly what I was experiencing. He reminded me of my grandparents -- somebody who’s there for you.”
Former KBYU broadcaster Jay Monsen calls Johnson the greatest missionary he’d ever known.


Johnson was never ashamed to talk of things people are ashamed of having surface -- things that run deep, that are emotional and hidden in the heart. He brought them out like a surgeon, worked them, then tucked them back away.


Victor Hugo, author of the classic “Les Miserables” must have had Brother J in mind when he wrote the scene of the priest who winked at the candlesticks stolen by the prisoner Jean Valjean, turning his life around.


One day Brother J caught one of his student managers with a handful of T-shirts. The scene was obvious. He called the young man over and told him he’d been wanting to talk to him for some time. He had some T-shirts he wanted him to have. He knew he’d like them and he knew he had friends who’d enjoy them and it would make him feel good to give them away to those friends.
“I’d like you to have these. Take them now. Boy, it wouldn’t be a good thing to ever feel like you coveted them enough and you were tempted to just take them,” Johnson said.


The young man went his way with the shirts and a lesson he never forgot.
“He was a great read of people,” BYU basketball coach Steve Cleveland said. Players from the men and women’s basketball teams will sing at Wednesday’s funeral.


Cleveland remembers his first face-to-face with Johnson when BYU hired him to coach basketball. “When I first got here, he put his arm around me and set an example for me. I never understood fully how important the ecclesiastical part of this job was until I talked to him and he gave me advice and comfort about what to do. It changed my job, my outlook, my approach and my work.
“Floyd had a way to know you. He could then sit with you and speak to you about things other men just don’t.”


Yes, BYU’s Lord of the Rings, has gone to another kingdom. One where he’s loosed from the pain of cancer and the tears of this world.
“His passing isn’t a sad thing,” Durrant said, “because if anyone is with God in heaven and happy, it’s Brother J.”

the Bridgekeeper

The Bridge Keeper There was once a bridge which spanned a large river. During most of the day the bridge sat with its length running up and down the river paralleled with the banks, allowing ships to pass thru freely on both sides of the bridge. But at certain times each day, a train would come along and the bridge would be turned sideways across the river, allowing a train to cross it.


A switchman sat in a small shack on one side of the river where he operated the controls to turn the bridge and lock it into place as the train crossed. One evening as the switchman was waiting for the last train of the day to come, he looked off into the distance thru the dimming twilight and caught sight of the trainlights. He stepped to the control and waited until the train was within a prescribed distance when he was to turn the bridge. He turned the bridge into position, but, to his horror, he found the locking control did not work. If the bridge was not securely in position it would wobble back and forth at the ends when the train came onto it, causing the train to jump the track and go crashing into the river.

This would be a passenger train with many people aboard. He left the bridge turned across the river, and hurried across the bridge to the other side of the river where there was a lever switch he could hold to operate the lock manually. He would have to hold the lever back firmly as the train crossed. He could hear the rumble of the train now, and he took hold of the lever and leaned backward to apply his weight to it, locking the bridge. He kept applying the pressure to keep the mechanism locked. Many lives depended on this man’s strength.

Then, coming across the bridge from the direction of his control shack, he heard a sound that made his blood run cold. “Daddy, where are you?” His four-year-old son was crossing the bridge to look for him. His first impulse was to cry out to the child, “Run! Run!” But the train was too close; the tiny legs would never make it across the bridge in time. The man almost left his lever to run and snatch up his son and carry him to safety. But he realized that he could not get back to the lever. Either the people on the train or his little son must die. He took a moment to make his decision. The train sped safely and swiftly on its way, and no one aboard was even aware of the tiny broken body thrown mercilessly into the river by the onrushing train. Nor were they aware of the pitiful figure of the sobbing man, still clinging tightly to the locking lever long after the train had passed.

They did not see him walking home more slowly than he had ever walked: to tell his wife how their son had brutally died. Now if you comprehend the emotions which went this man’s heart, you can begin to understand the feelings of our Father in Heaven when He sacrificed His Son to bridge the gap between us and eternal life. Can there be any wonder that He caused the earth to tremble and the skies to darken when His Son died? How does He feel when we speed along thru life without giving a thought to what was done for us thru Jesus Christ?


This story was made into a foreign film and broken up into 3 parts with english subtitles; most part 1 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tnq1FvnKc-k&feature=relmfu

most part 2 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KpJNkzT-wjc&feature=relmfu

most part 3 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=blD6rKv0JKs&feature=related

abbreviated version http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhkpxpjHIRg

Abou Ben Adhem

Abou Ben Adhem BY LEIGH HUNT Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold:— Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," Replied the angel.

Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blest, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

This is an excerpt from A Place of Knowing by Emma Lou Thayne


When I was a little girl, my father took me to hear Helen Keller in
the Tabernacle (in the 1930’s). I must have been about eight or nine
and I’d read about Helen Keller in school, and my mother had told me
her story.

I remember sitting in the balcony at the back of that huge domed
building that was supposed to have the best acoustics in the world.
Helen—everybody called her that—walked in from behind a curtain under
the choir seats with her teacher, Annie Sullivan. Helen spoke at the
pulpit—without a microphone—but we could hear perfectly, her guttural,
slow, heavily pronounced speech. She spoke about her life and her
beliefs. Her eyes were closed and when it came time for questions from
the audience, she put her fingers on her teacher’s lips and then
repeated for us what the question had been. She answered questions
about being deaf and blind and learning to read and to type and, of
course, to talk. Hearing that voice making words was like hearing
words for the first time, as if language had only come into being—into
my being at least—that moment.
Someone asked her, “Do you feel colors?”


I’ll never forget her answer, the exact sound of it—“Some-times
. .. . I feel . . . blue.” Her voice went up slightly at the end, which
meant she was smiling. The audience didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.


After quite a lot of questions, she said, “I would . . .. like to ask
. . . a fa-vor of you.” Of course, the audience was all alert. “Is
your Mormon prophet here?” she asked. There was a flurry of getting up
from the front row, and President Grant walked up the stairs to the
stand. She reached out her hand and he took it. All I could think was,
“Oh, I wish I were taking pictures of that.”


“I .. . . would like . . . ,” she said, “to hear your organ . . . play
.. . your fa-mous song—about your pio-neers. I . . . would like . . .
to re-mem-ber hear-ing it here.” All the time she was speaking she was
holding his hand he had given her to shake. I liked them together,
very much.


I remember thinking, “I am only a little girl (probably others know)
but how in the world will she hear the organ?” But she turned toward
President Grant and he motioned to Alexander Schreiner, the Tabernacle
organist who was sitting near the loft. At the same time, President
Grant led her up a few steps to the back of the enormous organ—with
its five manuals and eight thousand pipes. We were all spellbound. He
placed her hand on the grained oak of the console, and she stood all
alone facing us in her long, black velvet dress with her right arm
extended, leaning slightly forward and touching the organ, with her
head bowed.


Brother Schreiner played “Come, Come, Ye Saints,” each verse a
different arrangement, the organ pealing and throbbing—the bass pedals
like foghorns—as only he could make happen. Helen Keller stood
there—hearing through her hand and sobbing.

'
Probably a lot more than just me—probably lots of us in the audience
were mouthing the words to ourselves—
“Gird up your loins; fresh courage take. / Our God will never us
forsake; / And soon we’ll have this tale to tell— / All is well! / All
is well!” I could see my great-grandparents, converts from England,
Wales, France, and Denmark, in that circle of their covered wagons,
singing over their fires in the cold nights crossing the plains. Three
of them had babies die; my great-grandmother was buried in Wyoming.
“And should we die before our journey’s through, / Happy day! / All is
well! / We then are free from toil and sorrow, too; / With the just we
shall dwell! / But if our lives are spared again / To see the Saints
their rest obtain, / Oh, how we’ll make this chorus swell— / All is
well! / All is well!”


So then—that tabernacle, that singing, my ancestors welling in me, my
father beside me, that magnificent woman, all combined with the organ
and the man who played it and the man who had led her to it—whatever
passed between the organ and her passed on to me.


I believed. I believed it all—the seeing without seeing, the hearing
without hearing, the going by feel toward something holy, something
that could make her cry, something that could move me, alter me,
something as unexplainable as a vision or a mystic connection,
something entering the pulse of a little girl, something that no
matter what would never go away —all I know to this day is that I
believe.

Two Seas in Palestine

Here is one of my favorite stories: Two Seas in Palestine There are two seas in Palestine—one is fresh and fish are in it. Splashes of green adorn its banks. Trees spread their branches over it, and stretch out their thirsty roots to sip of its healing water. Along its shores the children play as children played when He was there. He loved it. He could look across its silver surface when He spoke His parables, and on a rolling plain not far away He fed five thousand people.

The River Jordan makes this sea with sparkling water from the hills so it laughs in the sunshine, and men build their houses near to it, and the birds build their nests. Every kind of life is happier because it is there. The River Jordan flows on south into another sea. Here is no splash of fish, no fluttering leaf, no songs of birds, no children’s laughter. Travelers choose another route, unless on urgent business. The air hangs heavy above its waters, and neither man nor beast nor fowl will drink.


What makes this mighty difference in these neighbor seas? Not the River Jordan. It empties the same good water into both. Not the soil in which they lie. Not the country roundabout. This is the difference. The Sea of Galilee receives, but does not keep the Jordan; for every drop that flows into it, another drop flows out. The giving and receiving go on in equal measure. The other sea is shrewder, hoarding its income jealously. It will not be tempted into generous impulse. Every drop it gets it keeps. The Sea of Galilee gives and lives. The other sea gives nothing; it is named “The Dead Sea”. There are two kinds of people in the world. There are two seas in Palestine. From Especially for Mormons, 1:334-35.

Painting of Lehi

I ran into this youtube video quite by accident but really like it.

It's bout a native american artist painting his version of Lehi's vision of the tree of life (1NeCh8)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qlC26szIKac&feature=related
(copy and past to your browser)


The program that he referred to that his father became a part of is the Anasazi Program for troubled youth. When I was at BYU back in the day I had friends flunk out of school, and they were offered this program as a way to get back in school. If they got thru it they could come back.
Google "anasazi foundation" for more information.

Loss of a child

There is nothing that could compensate for the loss of a child. I've shared this story with others who have lost children, and it is called "The Great Shepherd" There is a story of Sweetness and beauty, which enlightens the heart of every parent who has lost a child.

It concerns a custom among the shepherd folk of the Alps. In the summer time when the grass in the lower valleys withers and dries up, the shepherds seek to lead their sheep up a winding, thorny, and stony pathway to the high grazing lands. The sheep, reluctant to take the difficult pathway, infested with dangers and hardships, turn back and will not follow. Finally a shepherd reaches into the flock and takes a little lamb and places it under his arm. Then he starts up the precipitous pathway. Soon the mother sheep starts to follow and afterward, the entire flock. They ascend the tortuous pathway to the saving green pasture above.


The Great Shepherd of the sheep, the Lord Jesus Christ, or savior, has reached into the flock and he has picked up your little lamb. He did not do it to rob you, but to lead you out and upward. He has richer and greener pastures for all of us and he wants you to follow. Will you follow him? You will if you catch a glimpse…. “Of the good Shepherd on the height Or climbing up the starry way Holding our little lamb asleep While the murmur of the sea Soundeth that voice along the deep Saying “Arise and follow me”

Parable of the divers

This goes with my previous post of today:

(Stephen E. Robinson, Following Christ: The Parable of the Divers and More Good News [Salt Lake city: Deseret Book, 1995], 34-38.)


Parable of the Divers


“Many years ago, when I was somewhere between nine and eleven, I participated in a community summer recreation program in the town where I grew up. I remember in particular a diving competition for the different age groups held at the community swimming pool. Some of the wealthier kids in our area had their own pools with diving boards, and they were pretty good amateur divers. But there was one kid my age from the less affluent part of town who didn’t have his own pool. What he had was raw courage. While the rest of us did our crisp little swan dives, back dives, and jackknives, being every so careful to arch our backs and point our toes, this young man attempted back flips, one-and-a-halfs, doubles, and so on. But, oh, he was sloppy. He seldom kept his feet together, he never pointed his toes, and he usually missed his vertical entry.


The rest of us observed with smug satisfaction as the judges held up their scorecards that he consistently got lower marks than we did with our safe and simple dives, and we congratulated ourselves that we were actually the better divers. “He is all heart and no finesse,” we told ourselves. “After all, we keep our feet together and point our toes.” “The announcement of the winners was a great shock to us, for the brave young lad with the flips had apparently beaten us all.


However, I had kept rough track of the scores in my head, and I knew with the arrogance of limited information that the math didn’t add up. I had consistently outscored the boy with the flips. And so, certain that an injustice was being perpetrated, I stormed the scorer’s table and demanded and explanation. “Degree of difficulty,” the scorer replied matter-of-factly as he looked me in the eye. “Sure, you had better form, but he did harder dives. When you factor in the degree of difficulty, he beat you hands down, kid.” Until that moment I hadn’t know that some dives were awarded “extra credit” because of their greater difficulty. . . . .


“Whenever I am tempted to feel superior to other Saints, the parable of the divers comes to my mid, and I repent. At least at a swim meet, we can usually tell which dives are the most difficult. But here in mortality, we cannot always tell who is carrying what burdens: limited intelligence, chemical depression, compulsive behaviors, learning disabilities, dysfunctional or abusive family background, poor health, physical or psychological handicaps—no one chooses these things. So I must not judge my brothers and sisters.


I am thankful for my blessings but not smug about them, for I never want to hear the Scorer say to me, “Sure, you had better form, but she had a harder life. When you factor in degree of difficulty, she beat you hands down.” “So, enduring to the end doesn’t have much to do with suffering in silence, overcoming all life’s obstacles, or even achieving the LDS ideal (“pointing our toes” and “keeping our feet together”). It just means not giving up. It means keeping—to the best of our abilities—the commitments we made to Christ when we entered into the marriage of the gospel. It means not divorcing the Savior or cheating on him by letting some other love become more important in our lives. It means not rejecting the blessings of the atonement that he showered upon us when we entered his church and kingdom.

I'm Christian unless you're gay- the personal side of this story

It has taken me several weeks to get the courage to post his to my blog- not the article itself, because I posted a link to it on my Facebook page several weeks ago, but because I will be making some comments at the end of the article that are extremely personal to me.


I’m Christian, unless you’re gay.

BY DAN PEARCE ON MONDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 2011 • Today I want to write about something that has bothered me for the better part of a decade. I’ve carved out no fewer than a dozen drafts of this post, all strangely unalike, all ultimately failing to accomplish the job I’ve set out to do. Truth is, I’ve been trying to write it off and on for more than a year now, and the right words have been seemingly impossible to come by.


In the end, and in order to post it, I guess I had to care more about the message than I do about potential backlash. I’m not being facetious when I say that I hope I can get this message across without offending… well… everybody. What I really hope is that this post will spark and encourage poignant and worthwhile discussion that will lead to some poignant and worthwhile changes in the lives of at least a few people who are hurting. That being said, I believe some strong words need to be said today. “God hates fags.” We’ve all seen the signs being waved high in the air by members of the Westboro Baptist church. On TV. In real life. It’s hard not to take notice.


Over the years, I’ve watched seemingly never-ending disgustingness and hatred spill across the media airwaves from those who belong to the organization. For those who don’t know much about that “church,” they have made a seedy name for themselves by doing drastic things like picketing beneath atrocious signs and hosting flagrant anti-gay protests at military funerals. Almost every person of nearly every religion has no problem loathing and condemning the Westboro Baptist Church and its members, and perhaps with reason. They take freedom of speech far beyond what our founding fathers intended when they fought to give us that right, and they laugh at the rest of the world while they do.

But today I don’t want to talk about those idiots. I want to talk about you. And me. And my friend who I’ll call Jacob. Jacob is 27 years old, and guess what… he’s gay. Not a lot of people know. He lives in a community where being gay is still very “frowned upon.” I was talking to him on the phone a few weeks ago, telling him about my failed attempts to write this post. He was trying to hold his emotions in, but he eventually became tearful as we deliberated the very problem that this post attempts to discuss. Before I go on, I feel I must say something one time. Today’s post is not about homosexuality. It’s not about Christians. It’s not about religion. It’s not about politics. It’s about something else altogether. Something greater. Something simpler. It’s about love. It’s about kindness. It’s about friendship And love, kindness, and friendship are three things that Jacob hasn’t felt in a long time. I’m thankful he gave me permission to share our conversation with you.

It went something like this. “Jacob, I honestly don’t know how to write it,” I said. “I know what I want to get across, but I can never find the right words.” “Dan, you need to write it. Don’t give up. I’m telling you, it needs to be said.” I paused. “You don’t understand. It’s too heated a subject. It’s something people are very emotional and touchy about. I’d be lynched.” My friend hesitated. “Dan, you are the only friend I have that knows I’m gay. The only freaking one,” he said. “What do you mean? I know you’ve told other friends.” That’s when his voice cracked.

He began crying. “Every single person I’ve told has ditched me. They just disappear. They stop calling. They remove me on Facebook. They’re just gone,” he said. “They can’t handle knowing and being friends with a gay person.” I didn’t know what to say. So I didn’t say anything. “You don’t know what it’s like, man. You don’t know what it’s like to live here and be gay. You don’t know what it’s like to have freaking nobody. You don’t know what it’s like to have your own parents hate you and try and cover up your existence. I didn’t choose this. I didn’t want this. And I’m so tired of people hating me for it. I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t.” How do you respond to that? I wanted to tell him it was all in his head. I knew it wasn’t.


I wanted to tell him it would get better and easier. The words would have been hollow and without conviction, and I knew it. You see, I live in this community too. And I’ve heard the hate. I’ve heard the disgust. I’ve heard the disdain. I’ve heard the gossip. I’ve heard the distrust. I’ve heard the anger. I’ve heard it all, and I’ve heard it tucked and disguised neatly beneath a wrapper of self-righteousness and a blanket of “caring” or “religious” words. I’ve heard it more times than I care to number. About gay people. About people who dress differently. About people who act differently. About fat people. About people with drug addictions. About people who smoke. About people with addictions to alcohol. About people with eating disorders. About people who fall away from their faiths. About people who aren’t members of the dominant local religion. About people who have non-traditional piercings. About people who just look at you or me the wrong way.

I’ve heard it, and I’ve heard it over, and over, and over again. Hell, in the past (and to some degree in the present) I participated in it. I propagated it. I smugly took part in it. I’ll admit that. And I did so under the blanketing term “Christian.” I did so believing that my actions were somehow justified because of my beliefs at the time. I did so, actually believing that such appointments were done out of… love. This isn’t just a Utah phenomenon. I’ve lived outside of this place. I’ve worked outside of this place. It was just as bad in Denver.

It was just as bad in California. I see it on blogs. I hear it on television shows and radio programs. I hear it around my own family’s dinner table from time to time. Usually said so passively, so sneakily, and so “righteously.” From Christians. From Buddhists. From Hindus. From Muslims. From Jews. “God hates fags.” “God hates addicts.” “God hates people who shop at Salvation Army.” “God hates people that aren’t just like me.” People may not be holding up picket signs and marching around in front of television cameras but… come on.


Why is it that so many incredible people who have certain struggles, problems, or their own beliefs of what is right and wrong feel so hated? Why do they feel so judged? Why do they feel so… loathed? What undeniable truth must we all eventually admit to ourselves when such is the case? Now, I’m not religious. I’m also not gay. But I’ll tell you right now that I’ve sought out religion. I’ve looked for what I believe truth to be. For years I studied, trying to find “it”. Every major religion had good selling points. Every major religion, if I rewound far enough, had some pretty incredible base teachings from some pretty incredible individuals.


Check this out, and feel free to correct me if I get this wrong… According to Christians, Jesus taught a couple of interesting things. First, “love one another.” Second, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.” (“Her” being a woman who cheated on her man.)

According to Buddhists, Buddha taught a couple of thought-provoking things. First, “Hatred does not cease by hatred, but only by love; this is the eternal rule.” Second, “Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.”

According to Hindus, a couple of fascinating teachings come to mind. First, “Do not get angry or harm any living creature, but be compassionate and gentle; show good will to all.” (Krishna) Second, “Love means giving selflessly, excluding none and including all.” (Rama)

According to Muslims, Muhammad taught a couple interesting things as well. First, “A true Muslim is the one who does not defame or abuse others; but the truly righteous becomes a refuge for humankind, their lives and their properties.” Second, “Do you love your creator? Love your fellow-beings first.”

According to Judaism, their scriptures teach a couple remarkable things. First, “Love your neighbor like yourself.” Second, “Examine the contents, not the bottle.” The greatest spiritual leaders in history have all preached love for others as the basis for all happiness, and never did they accompany such mandates with a list of unlovable actions or deeds. They never said, love everybody except for the gays. Love everybody except for the homeless. Love everybody except for the drug users. Love everybody except for the gang members, or those covered in ink, or the spouse abusers. They didn’t tell us it was okay to love everybody with the exception of the “trailer trash,” those living in poverty, or the illegal immigrants. They didn’t tell us it was okay to love everybody except for our ex-lovers, our lovers’ ex lovers, or our ex-lovers’ lovers.

The mandate was pretty damn clear, wasn’t it? Love others. Period. So if this is the founding directive of all the major religions… why is it that sometimes the most “Christlike” people are they who have no religion at all? Let me repeat that. Why is it that sometimes the most Christlike people are they who have no religion at all? I have known a lot of people in my life, and I can tell you this… Some of the ones who understood love better than anyone else were those who the rest of the world had long before measured as lost or gone. Some of the people who were able to look at the dirtiest, the poorest, the gays, the straights, the drug users, those in recovery, the basest of sinners, and those who were just… plain… different… They were able to look at them all and only see strength. Beauty. Potential. Hope. And if we boil it down, isn’t that what love actually is? Don’t get me wrong.


I know a lot of incredible Christians, too. I know some incredible Buddhists and Muslims and Hindus and Jews. I know a lot of amazing people, devout in their various religions, who truly love the people around them. I also know some atheist, agnostic, or religion less people who are absolutely hateful of believers. They loathe their religious counterparts. They love only those who believe (or don’t believe) the same things they do. In truth, having a religion doesn’t make a person love or not love others. It doesn’t make a person accept or not accept others. It doesn’t make a person befriend or not befriend others. Being without a religion doesn’t make somebody do or be any of that either.


No, what makes somebody love, accept, and befriend their fellow man is letting go of a need to be better than others. Nothing else. I know there are many here who believe that living a homosexual life is a sin. Okay. But, what does that have to do with love? I repeat… what does that have to do with love? Come on. Don’t we understand? Don’t we get it? To put our arm around someone who is gay, someone who has an addiction, somebody who lives a different lifestyle, someone who is not what we think they should be… doing that has nothing to do with enabling them or accepting what they do as okay by us. It has nothing to do with encouraging them in their practice of what you or I might feel or believe is wrong vs. right. It has everything to do with being a good human being, a good person, a good friend. That’s all. To put our arm around somebody who is different. Why is that so hard? I’m not here to say homosexuality is a sin or isn’t a sin. To be honest, I don’t give a rip. I don’t care. I’m not here to debate whether or not it’s natural or genetic. Again, I… don’t… care. Those debates hold no encumbrance for me.


What I care about is the need so many of us have to shun and loathe others. The need so many of us have to feel better or superior to others. The need some of us have to declare ourselves right and “perfect” all the freaking time and any chance we have. And for some of us, these are very real needs. But I will tell you this. All it really is… All any of it really is… is bullying. Sneaky, hurtful, duplicitous, bullying. Well, guess what. There are things we all do or believe that other people consider “sinful.” There are things we all do or believe that other people consider “wrong.” There are things we all do or believe that other people would be disgusted or angered by. “Yes, but I have the truth!” most people will adamantly declare. Okay. Whether you do or not… I promise you it doesn’t matter what you believe, how strongly you live your beliefs, or how true your beliefs are. Somebody else, somewhere, thinks you are in the wrong. Somebody else, somewhere, thinks your beliefs are senseless or illogical. Somebody else, somewhere, thinks you have it all wrong. In fact, there are a lot of people in this world who do. We each understand that. We already know that. It’s the world we live in and we’re not naïve. We’re not stupid. We get it. Yet, we expect and want love anyway. We expect and want understanding. We expect and want tolerance. We expect and want humanity. We expect and want respect for our beliefs, even from those who don’t believe the same things we do. Even from those who think we’re wrong, unwise, or incorrect. We expect all of that from the people who disagree with us and who disagree with our lifestyles and beliefs because, let’s be honest, nothing we do is actually bad enough to be worthy of disgust, anger, hatred, or cold-shouldering. Right? None of the ways in which we live our lives would warrant such behavior. Right?


None of our beliefs are worthy of ugly disdain from others. Right? No, we’re all… perfect. Freaking, amazingly, impossibly… perfect. But the gays… well, shoot. [sigh] You know what I think? Let this sink in for a minute… I think it doesn’t matter if you or I or anybody else thinks homosexuality is a sin. It doesn’t matter if you or I think anything is a sin. It doesn’t matter if homosexuality is a sin or not. In fact, it doesn’t matter if anything anybody else does is a sin or not. Because sin is a very personal thing! It always has been and it always will be! And it has nothing to do with love. Absolutely nothing. Disparity and difference have nothing to do with love. We shouldn’t choose who we will love and who we won’t.


“I’m Christian, unless you’re gay.” That’s the message we’re sending, you know. “I’m Christian, unless I’m hotter than you.” “I’m Christian, unless I’m uglier than you.” “I’m Christian, unless I found out you cheated on your income taxes.” “I’m Christian, unless you cut me off in traffic.” “I’m Christian, unless you fall in love with the person I once fell in love with.” “I’m Christian, unless you’re that guy who smells like crap on the subway.” “I’m Christian, unless you’re of a different religion.” “Oh, but you’re not gay? You’re clean, and well dressed, and you have a job? You look the way I think you should look? You act the way I think you should act? You believe the things I think you should believe? Then I’m definitely a Christian. To you, today, I’m a Christian. You’ve earned it.” I bet you’ve heard that message coming from others. Maybe you’ve given that message to others. Either way, I hope we all can agree that we mustn’t live that message. We just shouldn’t. But many of us do. And we do it all the time. For some of us, it might as well be tattooed across our necks and foreheads.

Maybe not in those words, but the message is clear to those who hear and are listening. It’s clear to those who are watching and seeing. The message has been very clear to my friend Jacob. “Every single person I’ve told has ditched me. They just disappear. They stop calling. They remove me on Facebook. They’re just gone. They can’t handle knowing and being friends with a gay person.” “You don’t know what it’s like, man. You don’t know what it’s like to live here and be gay. You don’t know what it’s like to have freaking nobody. You don’t know what it’s like to have your own parents hate you and try and cover up your existence. I didn’t choose this. I didn’t want this. And I’m so tired of people hating me for it. I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t.” Jacob is a dear friend. He’s my brother. He’s a damn good human being. He’s absolutely incredible. He’s also gay.


But why does that make any difference at all? It doesn’t. Not to me. And I wish with everything inside of me that it didn’t make any difference to others. I wish we didn’t all have to find ways that we’re better than others or more holy and saintly than others in order to feel better about our own messy selves. I wish people wouldn’t cluster entire groups of people together and declare the whole lot unworthy of any love and respect. But that is the point of such thinking and action, isn’t it? I mean, it’s simpler that way. It makes it easier for us to justify our thoughts, words, and prejudices that way.

All these people become clumped together. And in the process, they all somehow become less than human. They become unworthy of our love. And what a great thing it is when that happens, right? I mean, it helps us to free ourselves from the very directives that have been passed down for millennia from the greatest teachers and philosophers in history. It makes our rationalization for hatred, bigotry, and abhorrence so easily justifiable; so maskable. So right. It gives us the golden chance to look at ourselves and not be disgusted by what the glass reflects back at us.

Then, sadly and ultimately, it pushes us to that point where we no longer have any sort of arm to put around others at all. We no longer have a hand to offer our fellow human beings. We no longer have a need to. And why would we? Why the hell should we? Unless, of course, we actually want to live what we all so often claim that we “believe.” My dear friends… This has to stop. We have to put our ugly picket signs down. We have to be the examples that help make it happen in our own lives and in the lives of the people that surround us. We have to be that voice. We each must be that voice. We must tell others that we will not accept or listen to such hurtful and hateful sentiments. We must show love where love right now doesn’t exist.

Will you please join me? My request today is simple. Today. Tomorrow. Next week. Find somebody, anybody, that’s different than you. Somebody that has made you feel ill-will or even [gulp...] hateful. Somebody whose life decisions have made you uncomfortable. Somebody who practices a different religion than you do. Somebody who has been lost to addiction. Somebody with a criminal past. Somebody who dresses “below” you. Somebody with disabilities. Somebody who lives an alternative lifestyle. Somebody without a home. Somebody that you, until now, would always avoid, always look down on, and always be disgusted by. Reach your arm out and put it around them. And then, tell them they’re all right. Tell them they have a friend. Tell them you love them. If you or I wanna make a change in this world, that’s where we’re gonna be able to do it. That’s where we’ll start. Every. Single. Time. Because what you’ll find, and I promise you this, is that the more you put your arm around those that you might naturally look down on, the more you will love yourself. And the more you love yourself, the less need you’ll ever have to find fault or be better than others.


And the less we all find fault or have a need to be better than others, the quicker this world becomes a far better place to live. And don’t we all want to live in a better world? Don’t we all want our kids to grow up in a better, less hateful, more beautiful world? I know I do. So let’s be that voice. Let’s offer that arm to others. Because, the honest truth is… there’s gonna come a day when you or I are going to need that same courtesy. There’s going to come a day that we are desperate for that same arm to be put around us. We’ll be desperate for that same friendship. We’ll be desperate for that same love. Life will make sure of it. For you. For me. For everyone. It always does because… as it turns out… there’s not a damn person on earth who’s perfect.

Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing

PS. I would love your comments and thoughts today. More than anything, I’d really like to hear people’s individual struggles. I’d like to hear your struggles. I believe that everybody will benefit as we all share that which hurts us and haunts us. When have you seen or experienced this? What effects has it had in your life or the lives of others that are close to you? Have you ever seen positive results as people become more loving toward those who are different? How have you felt along the way? There are those who have struggled because they have been on the receiving end of it. And there are those who have struggled as they work to overcome it. I’ve grappled on both sides.


This message is so important to me; among the most important that this faulted blogger has ever written and because of that I have no hesitation asking you to share it. If it’s important to you, too, please share it. If you believe its message needs to be spread, please share it. Use your voice for that which it was meant. Use your voice to embolden the world. Use your voice to say, “enough is enough.” Use your voice to stand up and declare that there is no other way besides love. With all my heart. Please


Steve Taff: Now my personal comments; The reason this article struck such a chord with me is that my son Zachary is gay. Zach told us he was gay about 12 years ago, or when he was 15 or so. I was horrified and didn't know what to think. He was worried we were going to kick him out of the house. We lived in Gig Harbor Washington then, and soon after this announcement our house and cars began to get “egged” at night. Zach would be out there in the middle of the night by himself trying to wash the eggs off the cars and our home because he knew the reason it happened.

How could my kind loving son be gay? How could a kind, loving Heavenly Father allow this to happen to someone like him. Zach is always been a people person, with empathy and insights into others that the rest of us don't have.

To illustrate this point I would like to share a couple of stories about Zach I have taken from my personal history: Zach has been our child with the most interpersonal awareness. He has always had the ability to make friends with a variety of people of various ages. He has the ability to empathize with others, and has helped a number of people thru difficulties in their lives.

There was one particular example of this that sticks out in my memory. We were living in Fairfield, CA, and had a family outing at Laurel Creek Park near our home. Zach must have been about 7 or 8 years old at the time (1992). There was a little girl at the park that was lost. She was probably 5 or 6, and looked so forlorn and tearful, as she wandered about looking for her parents, or whoever had dropped her off at the park. Zach put his arm around her and wouldn’t leave her side until her parents eventually came back for her.

May 24, 2002- was “performance week” at the Gymnastics 4U club in Longview, WA. Zach had been employed there as a teacher for about three months. Zach, his brother Greg and sister Jenni all performed on the uneven parallel bars, beam (Jen), rings (Greg and Zach) and the floor exercise (all 3). Greg and Zach were, by far, the most athletic of the performers, and their dual floor exercise routine was the showcase of the performance each night.


Zach had almost lost his job at the gym several weeks prior when his SSA article came out in the local newspaper (more on that later). Pam, the owner of the gymnastics business, had lost a customer because one of the parents wouldn’t allow their child to associate with a gay person. Pam explained to Zach that if she were to lose more clients, she would have no choice, but to terminate his employment to preserve her business. Thankfully that didn’t happen.

This night was the last performance of the week. The stands were fill with parents, families and friends of the performers. The kids all did well, and spirits were high. Gymnastic students were cheering and shouting support for one another as they performed. One of the tensest moments of the evening occurred when a group of six to eight young girls (age 4 or 5 years), along with their instructor, were performing a floor exercise routine to music. One of the little ones got “stage fright” and just stood there “frozen” as the rest of her class continued away from her through the routine.

The little girl got more and more embarrassed as all eyes focused on her, and she covered her face in shame. No one knew what to do, not the instructor who was on the floor with her class, not the other adult instructors, or even the owner/manager of the business. The tension in the room grew.

Suddenly, Zach jumped up from the sidelines and ran out onto the floor to her side. He whispered something in her ear and slowly coaxed her back into the flow of the routine, little by little, continuing to move with her across the floor toward the rest of the class, and actually doing the routine with them himself, so the scared little one would follow. Then, as she got her confidence back, Zach melted back into the crowd on the sidelines so she could finish the routine on her own with the rest of her class.

This was by far the best moment of performance week, and I have never been prouder as a parent. Speaking about being proud of my son, let's go back several months to where an article came out in the Longview Daily News that involved him. Unbeknownst to me, Zach had been working to try to get a GLBTSA club approved for Mark Morris high school. (That's gay, lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender, Straight Alliance for those of you who don't know, and I did not at the time). He had appeared before the school board to make his case for such a club to have the right to meet on campus, and the local newspaper picked this up in their article. I can't remember for sure, but I think they even had his picture in the paper.

You can imagine the conflict of feelings that I had when this happened. I was horrified! Everyone in town now knew that I had a gay child! I was proud! I couldn't believe that my son would have the courage to stand before a group of adults and try to change their minds about a sensitive topic. And no, they did not grant the club sanction to meet on campus at that time, nor do they list it as a club today.

Now back to my original question as to why God would allow my son, or any of his children to have same-sex attraction? Bridgette Night, a friend of mine who also has a gay son, shared this idea with me. She referred to a Scripture in the New Testament found in John 9:2 that goes like this: “ And as Jesus passed by, he saw a man which was blind from his birth. And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him”.

Now, many “Christians” will call me a blasphemer for comparing blindness to same-sex attraction, but the more and more I have thought about this, the more sense it makes. In my belief system, we are all sent to earth to be tested and tried. There's no question that people with same-sex attraction are put to a big test with all the hate and discrimination they have to endure on a daily basis, but I think the larger test is for those of us who do not have same-sex attraction.

How do we treat others that are different from us? I can tell you from personal experience that having a gay son has helped me grow spiritually in ways I never imagined. I'm sorry to say that I carried very bigoted feelings toward gay people before Zach came out. That has changed. Jesus taught that we should “be a light and not a judge”, and “let he who is without sin cast the first stone”. So when I hear so-called Christians condemn people with same-sex attraction to hell, I wonder what they are thinking. They cite Scripture from the Old Testament, but then the Old Testament also talks about an eye for an eye, and other laws that were changed when the Savior served his ministry.

I believe we will all be judged on how well we have done in our lives, given our particular unique circumstances. Stephen Robinson expressed this idea well in his story “parable of the divers”, which will be the subject of my next post.

Reprint of Sports Illustrated article about Jabari Parker, a remarkable young man for more than just his basketball skills

Jabari Parker Is... THE BEST HIGH SCHOOL BASKETBALL PLAYER SINCE LEBRON JAMES, BUT THERE'S SOMETHING MORE IMPORTANT TO HIM THAN INSTANT NBA STARDOM: HIS FAITH JEFF BENEDICT http://cnnsi.printthis.clickability.com/pt/cpt?expire=&title=THE+BEST+HIGH+SCHOOL+BASKETBALL+PLAYER+SINCE+LEBRON+JAMES,+-+05.21.12+-+SI+Vault&urlID=479016631&action=cpt&partnerID=289881&fb=Y&url=http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1198498/index.htm Jake Flannigan filmed every in-state basketball game played by Chicago's Simeon Career Academy during the 2011--12 season. He saw Simeon's star forward, Jabari Parker, score 40 points one day and block 12 shots another. But his lasting impression of Jabari was formed when the camera was off. After a home game in which Jabari barely missed a triple double, Flannigan, a producer at Comcast SportsNet Chicago, waited outside the locker room for an interview. Jabari never appeared. He had used another exit to return to the court for the jayvee game and was behind the bench passing out water. "The other varsity players were out in the hallway, talking to girls by the snack stand," says Flannigan. "The best player in the city was being the water boy for the jayvee. It's hard to root against a kid like that. He's on top of the world, but he's incredibly humble."

Humble isn't usually the first word that comes to mind when describing a star athlete, but it's the one most often used by people who have been around Jabari: the high school janitor, the hall monitors, the cheerleaders, even hard-bitten sports reporters and Chicago's famously combative mayor. What makes this all the more surprising is that Jabari, 17, is not just the best high school player in the state. He's the best high school player since LeBron James.

Last season the 6'9", 220-pound junior led Simeon to a 33--1 record and a third straight Class 4A state championship. In April he was chosen the Gatorade National Player of the Year, becoming only the fourth nonsenior to win the award (after James, Greg Oden and Brandon Knight). Three months earlier USA Basketball had named Jabari its male athlete of the year for 2011, succeeding 2010 winner Kevin Durant, an NBA All-Star. Jabari got that nod after leading the U.S. to the gold medal and being named MVP of the FIBA Americas U16 championship in Cancún, Mexico, last summer. Jabari handles the ball like a point guard and has a crossover that makes defenders stumble. His first step has been compared to Oscar Robertson's.

He can drain threes, yet he goes to the rim with power and uses his 6'11½" wingspan to block shots and snatch rebounds. (Last season he averaged 19 points, 9 rebounds, 4 assists and 3 blocks.) One NBA executive told SI that if Jabari were eligible for the draft, he would be a lottery pick in June. Instead, Jabari is being pursued by all the top college programs—Duke, Kansas, Kentucky, Michigan State, North Carolina. Though he is a serious student with a 3.7 GPA, he is almost certain to leave college after his freshman season.


But his fast track to the pros includes a potential detour. A life-altering decision awaits Jabari that few other athletes of his caliber have had to face. The backpack that Jabari Parker takes everywhere contains all the expected items: a pair of Nikes, socks with the NBA logo, basketball shorts, T-shirts, Icy Hot gel, a couple of rolls of athletic prewrap, and an iPod loaded with rap and R&B. But there's also a paperback copy of The Book of Mormon. Jabari belongs to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. "Basketball is what I do," he says. "It's not who I am."


Jabari's father, Sonny, who played for the Warriors from 1976 to '82, is not a Mormon, but his wife, Lola, is a lifelong member of the church, and their four children have been raised as Mormons. Jabari's religion makes him a minority on two fronts. Mormons make up just 1.7% of the U.S. population. And of the 6.2 million Mormons in the U.S., only about 186,000, or 3%, are black. At Simeon, Jabari is one of only two Mormons out of 1,588 students. "I used to have to explain to a lot of my friends that not all Mormons are from Utah, and not all Mormons are white," Sonny says. "There are a lot of misunderstandings about the Mormon faith." Says Flannigan, "When people around Chicago first find out Jabari's a Mormon, they are shocked. But whatever doubt there is about who he is or what he represents is quickly brushed away by his character."


Rahm Emanuel agrees. "Jabari is unique," says Chicago's mayor, who met the Parkers while he was running for office last year and attends most of Simeon's home games. "His family has great values. Jabari has earned the right to be a role model for kids in Chicago. His character and seriousness of purpose are exceptional." Jabari admits that he feels "a big responsibility to be a good example. I know there are a lot of eyes on me." Eyes might be on him most of all at the end of his freshman year in college, when he has to decide whether he will declare for the NBA draft or—like thousands of other Mormon men who turn 19—embark on a two-year mission to spread the faith in the U.S. or a foreign country (page 67).


In 2010 the president of the church, Thomas S. Monson, called missionary service "a priesthood duty—an obligation the Lord expects of us who have been given so very much." Missionaries do not return home for two years. They aren't allowed to have a job, attend college classes or pursue other personal interests. In Jabari's case, that would mean a two-year hiatus from basketball and conditioning, possibly jeopardizing a brilliant NBA career.


Jabari wakes up each morning at five and says a simple prayer, thanking God for another day. By 5:30 three days a week he's off to church for Bible study. Jabari's bio on his Twitter page features a favorite maxim from his basketball idol John Wooden: You can't let praise or criticism get to you. It's a weakness to get caught up in either one. "I realize why I'm in the position I'm in right now," says Jabari. "It's not because of me. It's because of God."


The Parker family likes to say that Jabari, whose name is Swahili for valiant, got his basketball genes from his father and his religion from his mother. In 1981, while in Salt Lake City for a Warriors game against the Jazz, 6'7" Sonny Parker visited a mall in search of dress shirts and ran into Lola Finau, whom he asked for help. Lola, a student at Utah, escorted him to a tall men's clothing store. To thank her, Sonny gave Lola tickets to that night's game. The two exchanged phone numbers, and the next time Sonny was in town they went to lunch. That's when he popped the question. "So, are you a Mormon?" "Yes," she said, bracing for an inquiry about polygamy. "That's really cool." Lola was surprised. Sonny had no questions—or criticisms. He just thought it was interesting to meet a black Mormon. Lola explained that she was Polynesian and that her grandfather had been the second person ever baptized by Mormon missionaries on the island of Tonga.


Six years later, after Sonny retired from the NBA and Lola completed an 18-month mission for the church in Tonga, they married and settled in a blue-collar section on Chicago's South Side. There, for more than 20 years, Sonny has run a nonprofit that puts on basketball camps and sponsors teams for underprivileged kids. Although he never converted, he and his family have attended the Mormon church in Hyde Park for years. Jabari, like his three older siblings, was baptized there. But he learned more than religion at the church. He learned to play basketball. "That's where Jabari became Jabari," says his brother, Christian, 24. "His first dunk was in that building." Like most Mormon churches, the one in Hyde Park has a small indoor basketball court.


When Jabari was in grammar school, Christian started taking him there to play one-on-one. The Parkers lived in a neighborhood where gunfire and street crime were not unusual. "We couldn't play at our local playground," Jabari says. Recognizing how much the Parker brothers loved basketball, the bishop slipped Christian a key to the church. At night, if there was no school the next day, Christian and Jabari would wait till their parents were asleep before going to the gym. "We'd play for three hours straight," Jabari says. "We were very competitive." So competitive that the brothers occasionally would bump and bang each other until Christian was too tired to drive home. Then they slept on couches in the lobby.


Once, when the cleaning lady showed up at 6 a.m., the boys woke up and played a little more before going home. "Jabari never wanted to leave the gym," says Christian. "I'd beat him game after game, because I was older and stronger. But he'd keep coming back." The first time Lola discovered that her boys hadn't come home, she placed frantic unanswered calls to Christian's cellphone. Then she called a friend who lives across the street from the church, who told her that Christian's car was parked outside. From then on, whenever the boys went missing at night, she knew they were safe. One night when Jabari was in middle school, he dunked for the first time. One of the rims in the church gym is still bent from the ensuing years of Jabari's dunks. The other rim is straight: That's where he honed his jump shot. "The church was our safe haven," says Christian. But the gym had another significance for Jabari. "There were images of Christ everywhere," he says. "There was a special spirit there, because we were at a church. So we didn't do things there that we might do outside a church."


Today one of those paintings that hung from the church's walls—one of Christ telling a rich man that in order to obtain eternal life he must sell all that he has and give to the poor—hangs in the Parkers' home. In 2007, Simeon coach Robert Smith had the best team in Illinois. He also had the best player: senior point guard Derrick Rose. One afternoon Sonny Parker walked into the Simeon gym and introduced Jabari, then a 6'2" 11-year-old, to Smith. At Sonny's request Smith invited the boy to run with Rose and the rest of the varsity. "I let Jabari see what he would eventually be up against," Smith says. "He was very skilled and handled the ball extremely well. He did stuff that normal sixth-graders just don't do."


When it came time for Jabari to choose a high school, Smith got another visit from Sonny, informing him that Jabari was coming to Simeon. "I didn't recruit Jabari," says Smith. "The Parkers recruited me." Then Smith got an unexpected visit from Lola. "Jabari is a student-athlete," she said. "That means he's a student first. Second, this young man is into his church. He's a devoted Mormon. I don't want any special privileges for my son. But he will go to church every Sunday." Smith, who runs his team like a Division I program and routinely holds practices on Sunday, was floored. "I had never had a mother come in like that," he says. "I had never had a father come in like that either. But this has been the best relationship with a family I've ever had." Jabari is the first player in the four-decade history of Simeon's program to start as a freshman. In the past three seasons he has led the Wolverines to a combined record of 87--12, including those three state titles. Yet coach and star are a bit of an odd couple.


Jabari uses phrases from the Bible for motivation and avoids curse words. Smith drops f-bombs regularly in practice and during games. When asked about Smith's salty language, Jabari laughs. "It doesn't faze me," he says. "I love Coach Smith. He's someone I can talk to and trust. My previous coaches would say things they thought I wanted to hear. He tells it like it is and pushes me past my limit." Smith's Sunday practices presented another potential conflict for Jabari. "On the Sabbath, I'm supposed to focus on Jesus and the resurrection," he says. "But if I don't practice, I let the team down. I don't want my teammates to think that I think I'm special. I want to be treated like everyone else. It would break bonds with my teammates if I took Sundays off."


So Smith schedules Sunday practices in the afternoon, allowing Jabari to attend morning services. And when the team is on the road—Simeon plays a national schedule, with games in five states last season—Smith makes sure there is time on Sunday for Jabari to attend church. "Jabari makes my job a lot easier as a coach," says Smith. "The best player sets the tone for the team. He's clean-cut. He prefers to remain out of the limelight. And he's the ultimate team player." One of Smith's assistants, Marlo Finner, texts an inspirational message to Jabari every morning. "I grew up around gangs and crime, but I went to church with my mom," says Finner, a 6'6", 290-pound Chicagoan who played at Missouri and in Europe. "Jabari and I have a lot in common. He knows that if you want to be successful you have to look for guidance from above. I tell kids you can follow God and still be tough-minded. Look at Jabari."


After Simeon won the state title in 2011, Smith kept his team overnight in a Peoria hotel. The plan was to celebrate and then make the three-hour drive back to Chicago in the morning, which was a Sunday. Lola informed Smith that Jabari would leave before that because he had a church commitment in Chicago. Smith and the other players understood. "Our relationship is why we are so good on the court," Jabari says of his teammates. "Our bond doesn't break. So I wanted to stay the night and celebrate. But I knew I had to do what was important." What Jabari didn't tell the others was that the following morning he was scheduled to become a priest.


Mormon boys become priests at 16, and his 16th birthday had coincided with the state tournament. One of the primary responsibilities of a Mormon priest is to handle the sacrament every Sunday. Priests also perform baptisms. Jabari has done both, but he has spent most of his time as a priest accompanying Bishop Joe Cannon on monthly visits to the sick, the poor and the elderly—an assignment designed to teach young men the importance of service and self-sacrifice. Mormons don't have a professional clergy, and Cannon, a 39-year-old Chicago Law School graduate who owns a specialty lumber company in Idaho, Indiana and Utah, has been Jabari's bishop for most of his teen years.


In December 2010, Jabari went with Cannon to the Waterfront Terrace nursing home on Lake Michigan. An elderly woman from Arkansas was living there. Lonely and dying, she asked Parker and Cannon to sing her some Christmas carols. "I knew it would make her day," Jabari says. "Her family wasn't around." As Jabari sang Silent Night, it was all Cannon could do to hold back tears. Sonny gets anxious watching his son in high-pressure games, so he didn't go to Peoria to see Jabari win state championships as a freshman and sophomore. But when Simeon played for its third straight title in March, against Chicago's Proviso East, ranked No. 2 in Illinois with a 32--0 record, Sonny was in the stands.


Fans sat on the edges of their seats as Simeon clung to a two-point lead with 3:05 remaining. Then an official lost a shoe as he ran to signal a blocking foul. With the ref at the scorer's table, Jabari jogged to center court, knelt and picked up the shoe and some notes that had fallen from the ref's pocket. When the official turned from the scorer's table to return to the floor, Jabari handed him his shoe. The next three minutes belonged to Simeon. And with 15 seconds remaining and Simeon up by five, Jabari threw down a two-handed dunk to seal the game. Fans stormed the court, and Jabari found Sonny. The two tallest men in the arena embraced. "I'm so proud of you, son," Sonny said. A couple of weeks later, after Kentucky beat Kansas for the NCAA championship, Sonny called John Calipari to congratulate him. Before hanging up, Calipari said, "I want to coach Jabari."


Anthony Davis and Derrick Rose are the two biggest talents to come out of Chicago in the past five years. Each spent one year under Calipari before going pro. "Jabari Parker is a once-in-a-generation player," says Daniel Poneman, a talent evaluator for the website Five-Star Basketball. "His basketball IQ right now might be better than LeBron James's [at 17]. He's figured out how to dominate a game without scoring. He doesn't care if he scores two points or 50 as long as his team wins. And I've never seen anyone who wants to win as bad as this kid."


This fall Jabari will probably announce which college he will attend. But an even bigger decision awaits in the spring of 2014: whether to declare for the NBA draft and become the first African-American Mormon in the league or to serve as a missionary and walk away from basketball for two years. O


nly one other Mormon athlete aroused anything close to the expectations Parker has elicited at such a young age. Danny Ainge chose not to serve a mission at 19. He went on to become the nation's top basketball player at BYU, a baseball star who would play 221 games for the Blue Jays, and a two-time NBA champion with the Celtics. "I don't believe a mission is for everybody," says Ainge, now president of the Celtics (with whom he won a third title as an executive) and a Mormon bishop in Boston. "I believe every young man should prepare for a mission, but I don't believe every young man should serve a mission." Jabari has great respect for Ainge, but he also admires his brother Christian, who served a mission in Atlanta after playing basketball at BYU-Hawaii. Christian says going on a mission was the best decision he ever made. "I told Jabari that if you have a desire to serve God, there is nothing that can replace a mission," he says. "When he came home from his mission, we talked a lot about it," Jabari says. "I want to go. But I have doubts. The NBA is the biggest dream of basketball players, and I'm no different."

Easter Story

It was a beautiful Easter Sunday morning, and the 8 year old primary children were fidgeting in their seats. The teacher had prepared an Easter lesson, that included something very different
One of the children in her class, Bobby was born with special needs. He looked different from the other children and it took him longer to learn some of the concepts in the lessons. The teacher told the class that, since it was such a bright sunny day, they were going to go outside in a few minutes and enjoy what nature had to offer. First, she took a few short minutes to tell them the story of resurrection morning, and what had occurred around Jerusalem so many years ago. They talked about the three days before the resurrection, being careful to omit the more gruesome details of what occurred at Gethsemane and at Golgotha, and centered most of her remarks on the glorious event where the women returned to find Jesus missing from the tomb.

She then gave each of the eight year olds a brightly covered plastic egg, and explained that they were going outside for a short nature walk. Each child was to find something to put inside their egg that reminded them of Easter, just as she had just related to them. Then they would come back into their classroom, and each child would open their egg, and tell what they found, and lastly, why it reminded them of the Easter story

The children spread out over the grassy area that surrounded the church building. One by one, they ran excitedly back to the teacher to let her know that they had selected the perfect item to tell about, except for Bobby who did finally return to the group. When they all finished, they went back to the classroom for what the teacher believed would be a “guided discovery” lesson the children would not soon forget about Easter.

One by one, they opened their eggs. One had a newly opened leaf inside, and said it was about newly formed life. One had parts of a broken robin’s egg and said the baby robin went away just like Jesus did. Each child had a different item and related quite good reasons as to why their item was a representation of what happened on resurrection day. As each child made their short presentation, the teacher beamed with pride. Her sudden inspiration had produced the exact effect she had hoped for. The children had internalized the concept of Easter, at least as much as an eight year old could.

Bobby was the last child to open his egg, as he was used to being last at almost everything else. He opened his egg with a big grin. The teacher gasped when she saw that there was nothing at all in the plastic egg. She thought to herself: “Why hadn’t I just given the lesson I had prepared from the lesson manual”. At least, she should have made sure Bobby found something to put in his egg. What was she thinking?

The other children began to giggle and snicker. Bobby watched this go on for a minute or so, and then he spoke up with a loud voice, as he sometimes would do. He said: “Teacher, teacher”. He paused for a moment, and as the children heard his loud voice; they stopped their arguing, and turned to look at him. Bobby then smiled again, held up his empty plastic egg, and continued, this time in a much softer voice: “Teacher, the tomb was empty”.

The old Cracked Pot

An elderly Chinese woman had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which she carried across her neck. One of the pots had a crack in it while the other pot was
perfect and always delivered a full portion of water.

At the end of the long walk from the stream to the house,
the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the woman
bringing home only one and a half pots of water. Of course,
the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments. But the
poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection and
miserable that it could only do half of what it had been
made to do.

After 2 years of what it perceived to be bitter failure, it
spoke to the woman one day by the stream. "I am ashamed
of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to
leak out all the way back to your house." The old woman
smiled, "Did you notice that there are flowers on your side
of the path, but not on the other pot's side? That's
because I have always known about your flaw, so I planted
flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while
we walk back, you water them. For two years I have been
able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table.
Without you being just the way you are, there would not be
this beauty to grace my house."


Each of us has our own unique flaw. But it's the cracks and
flaws we each have that make our lives together so very
interesting and rewarding. You've just got to take each
person for what they are and; look for the good in them.

So, to all of my crackpot friends, thank you for watering
the flowers in my life.

here is a version of the story on youtube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NEl4KW1DwP8&feature=related

Addictions by Vai Sikahema

No one is immune from the dangers of drug addiction
By Vai Sikahema , For the Deseret News
Published: Friday, Feb. 17 2012 2:11 p.m. MST

My wife and I were at a girls camp fundraiser dinner for the young women in our LDS ward Saturday night when one of my daughter's friends blurted out, "Oh my gosh, Whitney Houston died!" She got the news on her smartphone.
Houston's passing over the weekend, with bottles of prescription drugs allegedly found in her hotel room, was followed by news Wednesday of a drug bust at Texas Christian University that involved 17 students, including four members of the football team.

For most of my life, I've been around addiction.
My grandfather, after whom I'm named and was very close, was an alcoholic.
I had BYU and NFL teammates who were drug addicts. I'll use their names because their addiction is a matter of public record.

After I gave LaVell Edwards a verbal commitment that I'd accept a scholarship to BYU, he asked me to use my influence on a number of fellow Arizonans whom BYU was recruiting who had yet to make a commitment but whom BYU wanted badly. Among them was a speedy wide receiver from Tempe High named Scott Norberg, who ultimately signed with Nebraska. The other was a tall, skinny and very athletic linebacker from Mountain View High named Todd Shell, who became one of BYU's best defensive players in the Edwards era. Norberg would leave Nebraska after his freshman year to serve a mission in Argentina, before transferring to BYU upon his return.
I don't know when and how they developed their drug problems, but they did and it ultimately cost Norberg his life and Shell a promising coaching career. Norberg died in a Phoenix jail in 1996 at the hands of 14 guards — a case Phoenix authorities had to settle out of court for more than $8 million in 1999. Shell resigned as head coach of the Arena Football League's Arizona Rattlers in 2005 after his arrest on a drug charge.


When I was drafted by the NFL's St. Louis Cardinals in 1986, I had no idea the team had one of the worst drug problems in the NFL and, according to some experts, was one reason they were perennial underachievers. The year before I arrived two players, linebacker EJ Junior and fullback Earl Ferrell, were suspended for failing the league's substance abuse program.


Oblivious to any of this, I was assigned to be Ferrell's roommate my rookie year and through my first four years with the Cardinals. I later learned the team had done an extensive search of my background and determined since I was a teetotaling Mormon and conveniently a fellow running back, I was a safe bet to be Ferrell's roommate.


Earl Ferrell and I became extremely close and he tried to teach me of his addiction in ways I might understand. One night as we lay in our beds staring at the ceiling unable to sleep, I asked him what it was like to be addicted to cocaine. I'll never forget his answer. "Vai," he said. "If you put me in a room with two tables, one had an ounce of coke and the other was stacked with $100 dollar bills to the ceiling, I'd never see the money."


Ferrell's vivid description of his drug habit became a self-fulfilling prophecy. The following season Ferrell failed his third and final drug test, was summarily dismissed from the team and given a lifetime ban from the NFL. It happened mere weeks after he signed a multiyear, multimillion-dollar deal. He was right. He never saw the money.


Most people in Arizona are familiar with the story of another close Cardinals teammate named Luis Sharpe. Born in Cuba, Sharpe's parents immigrated to the States just before the Castro regime took power and moved to Detroit where they worked in General Motors' factories. Luis went to UCLA, where he not only played but studied — graduating in political science. He was the Cardinals' first pick in 1982.
He was just reaching his peak four years later when I arrived and we went to a couple of Pro Bowls together. He was our union rep, über-smart and was so thoughtful and articulate that the media flocked to him. His wife, Kathy, and my wife, Keala, were close and our children had play dates together.


But beneath the facade was a cocaine habit that destroyed his marriage, his family and his life. Luis was shot twice while on drug binges, his daughter was murdered while he was in prison, Kathy divorced him, he lost his fortune, and on and on. His downward spiral would, in my opinion, rival the great tragedies in modern sports including O.J. Simpson and Lawrence Taylor.


As his life was unraveling, several teammates devised a plan to intervene and get him help. They literally "jumped" him, handcuffed him, put him in a van and drove to Palm Springs and admitted him to the Betty Ford Clinic. Obviously, it wasn't a sophisticated or well thought-out plan but it was done out of their love and concern for him.


The next day, Luis checked himself out, hailed a taxi and paid the cabbie nearly $600 to drive him back to Phoenix. It's crazy, I know, but that's what drug addicts do.


As a former NFL player, I've been privy to some of the league's ongoing substance abuse programs and have lectured teams on behalf of the NFL on managing the transition from player to civilian life.


As a bishop in the LDS Church, I dealt with addicts of all kinds: pornography, alcohol, tobacco, food, sex, illicit and prescription drugs.
In my experience, the Church's 12-step addiction recovery program sponsored by LDS Family Services is the best program that exists — better than the NFL's, NBA's, MLB's, NHL's, even than the more renowned Alcoholics Anonymous, though AA has done and is doing tremendous work.


One reason is it's based on President Boyd K. Packer's oft-quoted statement: "The study of the doctrines of the gospel will improve behavior quicker than talking about behavior will improve behavior." The Church's addiction recovery program incorporates the principles of honesty, faith, humility, trust in God, love for self and others and draws participants to Christ and His infinite Atonement. It is powerful and miraculous.
If you have a loved one who suffers from addiction, please seek it out.
It's never too late.

Copyright 2012, Deseret News Publishing Company

Three Red Marbles

During the waning years of the depression in a small southeastern Idaho community, I used to stop by Mr. Miller's roadside stand for farm-fresh produce as the season made it available. Food and money were still extremely scarce and bartering was used, extensively.


One particular day Mr. Miller was bagging some early potatoes for me. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily appraising a basket of freshly picked green peas. I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes.

Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller and the ragged boy next to me.


"Hello Barry, how are you today?"

"H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas ... sure look good."

"They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"

"Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time."

"Good. Anything I can help you with?"

"No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas."

"Would you like to take some home?"

"No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with."

Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?"

"All I got's my prize marble here."

"Is that right? Let me see it."

"Here 'tis. She's a dandy."

"I can see that. Hmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?"

"Not 'zackley .....But, almost."

"Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble."

"Sure will. Thanks, Mr. Miller."


Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile she said: "There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, perhaps."


I left the stand, smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to Colorado but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys and their bartering.

Several years went by each more rapid than the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died. They were having his viewing that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go I agreed to accompany them. Upon our arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could. Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts ... very professional looking. They approached Mrs. Miller, standing smiling and composed, by her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket. Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary, awkwardly, wiping his eyes.



Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and mentioned the story she had told me about the marbles. Eyes glistening she took my hand and led me to the casket. "Those three young men, who just left, were the boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim "traded" them. Now, at last when Jim could not change his mind about color or size... they came to pay their debt. "We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world," she confided, "but, right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho."



With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three, exquisitely shined, red marbles.

God and the Spider

God and the Spider


During World War II, a US marine was separated from his unit on a
Pacific island. The fighting had been intense, and in the smoke and the crossfire he had lost touch with his comrades.



Alone in the jungle, he could hear enemy soldiers coming in his direction. Scrambling for cover, he found his way up a high ridge to
several small caves in the rock. Quickly he crawled inside one of
the caves. Although safe for the moment, he realized that once the
enemy soldiers looking for him swept up the ridge, they would
quickly search all the caves and he would be killed.



As he waited, he prayed, Lord, if it be your will, please protect me.
Whatever your will though, I love you and trust you. Amen.



After praying, he lay quietly listening to the enemy begin to draw
close. He thought, Well, I guess the Lord is not going to help me
out of this one. Then he saw a spider begin to build a web over the
front of his cave.



As he watched, listening to the enemy searching for him all the
while, the spider layered strand after strand of web across the opening of the cave.



He thought what I need is a brick wall and what the Lord has sent
me is a spider web. God does have a sense of humor. As the enemy drew closer he watched from the darkness of his hideout and could see them searching one cave after another. As they came to his, he got ready to make his last stand. To his amazement, however, after glancing in the direction of his cave, they moved on.



Suddenly, he realized that with the spider web over the entrance,
his cave looked as if no one had entered for quite a while. Lord,
forgive me, prayed the young man. I had forgotten that in you a
spider's web is stronger than a brick wall.



We all face times of great trouble. When we do, it is so easy to forget the victories that God would work in our lives, sometimes in the most surprising ways. As the great leader, Nehemiah, reminded the people of Israel when they faced the task of rebuilding Jerusalem, In God we will have success! [Nehemiah 2:20]



Remember: Whatever is happening in your life, with God, a mere spiders web can become a brick wall of protection. Believe He iswith you always. Just speak His name through Jesus His son, and youwill see His great power and love for you.