Be of Good Cheer

I thought since my last post was about "good cheer," I thought I should post a poem about good cheer that I wrote after reading President Monson's talk about "Be of Good Cheer."

Be of Good Cheer
(from President Thomas S. Monson’s conference talk, Ensign, May 2009, pp. 89-92)

For us to be truly cheerful,
we must lift our heads high,
shun the notions

of misfortunes and utterlessness,
and sing Hosannas
even during the most difficult times.

We must rise from our beds of affliction,
having faith that God is with us—
For He has said time and time again,

“Be of good cheer, and I will lead you along.”
With a promise of that magnitude,
why we do still sit idly by, often wrapped

in tattered blankets, slumped in armchairs
or buried deep in our beds, singing
“Woe is me, woe is me?”

Cannot we not be like the German widow
of whom President Monson spoke—
When her children died,

she dug graves with only a tablespoon.
“Her despair was all consuming….”
Yet

the spirit prompted her to get on her knees.
With a fervent “Dear Heavenly Father”
and with more despairing words

and a heavy, heavy heart,
she knew that she must trudge forward,
ever forward, ever faithful, even on moonless nights,

knowing, finally, some day, some day
that she would be reunited
with those whom she loved

and “return— together—“to her Heavenly Father.
For the Lord has said to her and to us,
“They who have endured the crosses of the world,

and despised the shame of it,
they shall inherit the kingdom of God….
and their joy shall be full forever.”

Be of Good Cheer

Much to our chagrin and our mothers’ anguish, all of us were born as obscure creatures, mostly hairless, helpless, and hapless and of “no consequence in the world” (Joseph Smith–History 1:22-23). Since that time, many of you have grown hair, some more than your parents have wanted; become helpful in positive ways; and have received some fortuitous wisdom along the way. Others of you have remained in a quasi hapless state, mostly by your own choices. What will matter most from now until the day you die is how you have risen from your initial obscurity to your status in the world–whatever that might be.

What I have personally discovered is my yearbook did not, thankfully, define my ultimate destiny. It may define the ephemeral and the now but not the future and the eternal. My discovery—and rediscovery over the years—is this: With the help of my Heavenly Father and good leaders, I define my way; I create my own happiness.

“To be of good cheer” is a phrase that many of you have heard before and one that we all need to adopt to see life in the way we need to. Before moving to Miles City, my family and I read Dr. Spencer Johnson’s (1999) book Who Moved My Cheese. It was a delightful, thought-provoking book, that helped us transition from Idaho to Montana—new schools and friends for the girls and Joanne and a new college presidency for me—definitely changes for all of us. While we knew that change was self-induced, one thing we learned, though, was that no matter what happened or what choices we made, our happiness hinged solely on our ability to adapt to change. Oliver Wendell Holmes sums up nicely what we should do with change: “We must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it,—but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor.”

Not one of us will escape this life without some sort of challenge or challenges. According to Elder Maxwell, “There is no way that we can be a part of the last days and have it otherwise (Ensign, November 1982, p. 66). That’s why we have come—to gain experiences that we may return to our Heavenly Father, stronger, more faithful, and understanding whose we are—for we are God’s—and ready to create kingdoms of our own.

Many of us will face challenges that are beyond the scope of the rest of us. As we contemplate our own challenges, we must lift up our heads and look around us. For what we will see, if you truly look closely, is that others’ burdens are more likely than not to be heavier than our own. We must believe we are the ones in control of what we do—only with the Lord’s help. We are the ones who create our own happiness, our own cheer. We must adhere to Virgil’s philosophy of old: “They can because they think they can.” Therefore, think away and be successful!

From the holy scriptures we read, “But, behold, the righteous, the saints of the Holy One of Israel, they who have believed in the Holy One of Israel, they who have endured the crosses of the world, and despised the shame of it, they shall inherit the kingdom of God, which was prepared for them from the foundation of the world, and their joy shall be full forever” (2 Nephi 9:18, bold mine).

Can you imagine having our joy forever? That means that you will be eternally happy, primarily because you have inherited the Kingdom of God and will dwell with Him forever and ever, and you know and feel that Heavenly Father loves you. There will never be a doubtful thought. You will not feel depressed or melancholy ever again.

The Lord tells the Prophet Joseph “But learn that he who doeth the works of righteousness shall receive his reward, even peace in this world and eternal life in the world to come” (Doctrine and Covenants 59:23). But the key phrase to have this “peace in the world and eternal life in the world to come” hinges on those who “doeth the works of righteousness.” And yes, the reward is great, even eternal.

Our role in this life is to re-discover that joy, that cheer, that feeling of knowing, that someday we again will shout with joy and cheer because we returned valiant to our Father-in-Heaven. Won’t that be like Alma when he said to his son: “And oh, what joy, and what marvelous light I did behold; yea, my soul was filled with joy as exceeding as was my pain!” (Alma 36:20).

Thankfully, the Lord will be there to help us—as He always does: “Wherefore, be of good cheer, and do not fear, for I the Lord am with you, and will stand by you” (Doctrine and Covenants 68:6)…..

I'm Back: My Blog is Now Open....

I apologize to all of you who have been faithful viewers and readers of my blog. Last fall, I basically withdrew the reading of my Hammon blog from the general public because certain individuals used bits and pieces of my content, took them way out of context, and then wrote disparaging comments in their own pathetic writings.

While I am a believer in the free press, it would be nice--actually, professional--to see people actually do real research before writing. Taking snippets here and there and bits and pieces from uninformed people and then attempting to write factual material is not real reporting or writing. It is just plain creative fibbing with trappings of truthfulness. In fact, if people really want to know about me and what I think or what I do or what I have done or the choices I have made, they probably ought to visit with me personally, face-to-face, cara a cara.

Taking things out of context, twisting them for their own pleasure, visiting with people who really don't have a clue or don't see the truth if it is placed before them on a beautiful piece of china, and surmising what might be or what might have been without ever really getting to the facts create challenges all around. Literally, that type of writing lacks authenticity and truth and hovers on the abyss of very bad, even convoluted, writing. With a mere shove--or even a flick of one single finger--it should fall into that evil abyss, clinging to its morass of shoddy writing and shoddy research while crying forlornly until it crashes to the bottom, never to raise its ugly, vicious head again.

If you read something about me, and I did not write it, and if it doesn't sound like something I did or might have said or done, chances are that the writer did not ask me any questions before writing the essay or the article. Some people have a tendency to go off half cocked and not really have any of the facts straight.

Unfortunately, in our media-driven society, we sometimes want to believe those people and what they write when, in fact, they have no facts at all. Thus, beware of those wayward souls who feel inclined to write about things they know nothing about and then attempt to conjure up stuff to "enlighten" or "inform" their readers. Unfortunately, most of the time, what they write is mean and vicious and contains not one shred of truth.

I personally adhere to the LDS Church's 13th Article of Faith: "We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men; indeed, we may say that we follow the admonition of Paul—We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things. If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things" (Articles of Faith 1:13, Bold mine).

I will be posting writings, poems, reminiscences, essays, talks that I have recently given in various Sacrament meetings (these may be a bit long although I will insert snippets), thoughts on a variety of items, photos, etc. Many of my photos are on my Facebook page.

I truly appreciate your willingness to slog through a few of these writings. I think it is important to let people know who I am, how I am, why I am about, what I am about, and how I think. My writings are not to persuade you to do anything; rather, they are to inform.

So, I apologize for being off line. Now, read away. I do have one favor of those who read my posts: If you have a question about them or don't quite understand what I am saying or thinking, please do not hesitate to contact me. The only way to get to the bottom of a particular writing or posting is to contact the source. I am the source; so, please contact me.

Homesteading in the Pershimeri

Out in the Pershimeri, near Little Lost River,
flows a quaint creek, just warm enough
for Black Mollies, Swordtails, Goldfish, Guppies,
swimming in and out of tangled moss
and creek stuff.How they all got there
is still a mystery.Someone said that people
who got tired of feeding them, cleaning the tank,
clandestinely sneaked up the dirt road,
dumped fish and all into the warm creek,
thinking their problems solved,and disappeared
among the sagebrush and home. For them,
their problems just hid among the greenery
of the creek, too scared to sense
they were now orphans
somewhere in the Pershimeri.

Somehow, my dad found out about the fish,
drove us there in the old white station wagon,
for miles, it seemed, on a tired dirt road.
At last, we arrived, the car too dusty to tell.
And there they were, swimming pretty
in the warm water, thinking perhaps
that we were their saviors.
We yanked out our sieves and cheese cloth
from the back of the wagon
and headed to the creek.

These fish were tricky.
They knew the intricacies
of the moss and stuff.
My mother was the best netter of the day.
We just watched as she ran pell mell
down the creek bank, yelling something
like, “I see a Black Mollie…ah, she’s beautiful!”
Laughing, we trotted downstream with our gallon pickle jars,
long since cleaned and modified for fish.
She scooped up a few of each species,
placed them gently in the jars, now full of creek water.

Tiring of the netting, we donned swimming togs,
swam in the pond, enclosed in what used to be a log cabin,
now sunken with no roof or two of the sides.
The water was warm, almost too warm, like a bath.
Soon, the dust washed off, we trudged back
to the car, climbed in, tired and then slept until home.
Once home, we stowed our new catch
into their new home, a gorgeous fish tank,
complete with filters and rocks and fish things.
As they swam, we pressed our noses to the tank,
wondered if they knew they were
no longer in the desert, now
just sitting our the wood table
in the kitchen; wondered if any of them
remembered their beginnings
before they homesteaded in the Pershimeri.

Let It HowL

Let It Howl

Summer escapes sometimes unscathed.
Perhaps, it is the wind that pronounces
its blessing or curse upon all of us, shouts at us
from the west, north, and then the northwest, sometimes

simultaneously from all three.
Early morning usually dawns quiet with just a whisper
but by nine, the wind abruptly climbs
from its lethargic bed like some giant lizard

that hasn’t eaten in days, perhaps weeks.
As summer matures and ripens into fall,
the winds clamor for winter and snows and blasts
from the direct north, hoping to catch one of us unawares

at the post box to snatch the paper and fling it south
where it will melt when the sun bores down on Wyoming.
But we are too cautious, perhaps arrogant,
that we will beat this nasty wind.

Let it howl like wolves at night,
just meters from the sheep in Uncle Milt’s pens.
We shall prevail and capture mail before
the winds know we are there to fetch it.

Let it howl as we dig and chisel dirt
around for the 20’ x 30’ garden. We will prevail
in growing daisies, raspberries, strawberries,
mums, grape hyacinths, petunias, and even peonies.

Let it howl that we may see its ferociousness,
its lagging red tongue of strength.
Perhaps, it can show how it shifts tumbleweeds
from fence to fence, from farm to farm.

Let it howl that we may howl back,
with thick voices, choked with pride,
shake our fists, stamp our thick boots
on the hard ground, frozen tundra of the high plains.

Greatness: The Common Lot of Man and Woman

Greatness: The Common Lot
of Man and Woman

Some are afraid of knowing
too much, perhaps too little.
Some shrink away, afraid
of what others might think
about them.
Others do nothing, hoping
that life will not touch them.
Many shine in school,
on the playing field, in the bright lights
of the world, think
that greatness has enveloped,
allowed them to become someone.

What we don’t know
Because, perhaps,
We do not want to know
is others shine, too—
In the confines of their own rooms,
laden with microscopes,
computers, shelves of used books,
and brothers or sisters.
They help the poor, the needy,
read to neighbors,
take food to shut ins, write letters
to those who need words of comfort.
We read in the scriptures
about lights under a bushel basket,
talents hidden low in the dirt,
withdrawing within ourselves.

We can fill ourselves with knowledge
of what we really can become,
of who we need to be
in this life to prepare for another life,
of whose we really are,
for we are truly His….

Once we know who we really are,
no longer will our talents be hidden.
We will reach out to others.
Our lights will shine forth.
Then we shall see afar off,
knowing what He knows,
seeing what He sees,
feeling what He feels,
being what He is.
Truly then, and only then,
We will be great.

Empty Nest

Empty Nest

Others have proclaimed the wonderfulness
of empty nesting, the final leaving of the young birds,
the children who made messes in the backyard,
left clothes lying everywhere because they couldn’t decide
which skirt or which blouse or which pair of pants
they needed to wear on a particular Wednesday;
children who talked incessantly on the telephone or texted
everyone they knew, even at the dinner table,
ignoring the rest of us while we ate casseroles and fresh bread;
children who often failed to call when they weren’t coming home
when they said they were, failed to sense the feelings
of anxious parents who paced back and forth to the window,
staring out into the darkness, or standing sentinel over the phone,
hoping, just hoping the phone would ring or at least something
would jar the black night, the quietness of the living room.
Only when they did leave, we wished they were back,
laughing at the craziest things, singing songs from musicals,
or repeating dialog from movies like Napoleon Dynamite, Mean Girls.
Only when you receive that call from one of them, casually
mentioning that a car hit her while she was riding a bike.
Only when your other daughter plays the role of surrogate parent,
rushes to the scene, takes charge like you would have done, visits
with the doctors and nurses, lovingly maneuvers the injured
to dinner and then home to bed and hopefully blissful sleep.
Only when the two daughters grow closer, best friends,
forgetting the shouting matches when they were teenagers,
forgetting the hogging of the bathroom and being late together,
forgetting the cold shoulders, the no talk times,
forgetting the clandestine sharing of clothes and shoes.
Perhaps, it is just me, the soft father who tears up at the mention
of his children and their goodness and their closeness,
who aches for the little ones to return, the daddy-daughter dates,
times in Mexico teaching negotiation skills, prom nights,
mowing lawns and planting garden flowers and vegetables together,
even a few clothes—just a few—on the floor to remind me
that they are still my babies, still huddled in the nest, waiting
for Dad to return with pizza and half gallons of ice cream.