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.

Dawn Comes Early…

This poem just won first place in the recent 2010 BYU-Idaho Spirit Week poetry contest.


Dawn Comes Early…

Dawn comes early in the west.
Often, the sun gathers large at first
and then shrinks behind huge purple,
gray clouds until it succumbs while the clouds pass,
and it rises further than the clouds.
Streaming rays, oranges and reds
on the horizon, speak softness
to the new day, always moving in one steady,
upward course, somewhere around the world.

With some trepidation, I walk out
into the dark morning, notice
the oranges and the reds in the east,
trying desperately to show themselves,
maybe even heave themselves
toward the west, where later in the day,
they again succumb to the night
and slip away further into the west.

Yet, I walk on, speculating why the sun creeps
along so tenuously at first, then boldly
during the day. It is like I am—
tenuous at first, and then boldly
although not overbearingly.

Perhaps, I should walk early, try to catch
the sun, learn from its steadiness and how it works
to make the world brighter, happier, consistent.

Perhaps, I should sit on the hill
and just watch the sun, just watch
it grow big and round and bright.

Perhaps, I should just close my eyes,
think of those mornings when I walk
boldly out into the rain, the snow,
the heavy winds, head down, not thinking
of anything in particular—just the mere thought
of trudging forward, into the early morning,
thinking of home, a hot bath, and Cheerios—
all one steady upward course, now and forever.

Having Dogs Can Be a True Learning Experience for Children and Adults

I wrote this some years ago, but I read through it again today and thought I ought to post it. I liked it then, and I like it now.

What do you do when one of your children likes domestic animals more than you do? Or an eight-year old who wants a dog and you are not ready to buy her one?
My youngest daughter loves animals. When I rock her at night, she has to have her animal blanket with her. One time I covered her with her blanket, but she quickly looked at me and said, “Dad, the bears have to breathe.”

For a moment I was a bit fogged in. My hesitation caused her some anxiety. She repeated, “Dad, the bears have to breathe.” She then reached down and flipped her blanket over. I had failed to put the top side up. Of course, the bears couldn’t breathe. They were suffocating on the underneath side of the blanket.

Lately, though, she has been hounding me for a dog. She doesn’t want just any dog. She wants the kind of dog that is on the PBS show “Wishbone.” I asked her not long ago why she wants a dog. Her reply, “Because they play with you.” She even has a name already picked out for her dog, whenever she gets one. She wants to call it Dodger. Sometimes, as she looks at me with those big, beautiful blue eyes, I almost succumb to her wishes. Then, I wonder if she is really ready for the experience.

I have had several dogs in my life. Actually, they haven’t been mine alone. They belonged to our family. We had a golden lab and golden retriever stolen from us. My brothers and I were in the process of training them to be hunting dogs. Another dog, a Chihuahua, became my mother’s favorite and stayed close to her. Probably two of the most noteworthy I remember were Lady and Tippy.

Lady was truly a lady. Of cocker spaniel decent, Lady was pure black and lovable. When we moved from Idaho Falls to Menan to our new house, Lady had some room to run. Our house sat on the edge of some farm ground that led to a slough and then to Hunting’s, several acres of Russian Olives, Cottonwoods, brush, and Spring Creek.

But she didn’t last long in Menan. Our neighbors up by the railroad tracks had a huge dog. I don’t remember what kind it was, but to a six-year old, it was huge, monstrous. One evening, our neighbors were out walking with their dogs. Somehow, Lady became entangled with their monster dog. Within seconds, Lady lay in the road. We ran to her, gently picked her up, and brought her home where we carefully placed her in a box full of blankets and tried to soothe her pain.

The only thing Lady could do was look up at us with those pleading dark eyes. We shed many tears before the night was over. The next morning when we woke, Lady was gone. Dad said she had wandered off in the night and didn’t come back. My brothers and I looked everywhere for her.

We scrounged the neighborhood, even walked through Hunting’s to Spring Creek. No Lady. We figured she just wandered off, knowing the pain it would cause us to watch her die.

It wasn’t too many years ago that I realized that Lady probably died during the night, and my father took her somewhere and buried her. He has never fessed up to doing something like that, but it was natural that he would try to protect us from the pain of death. Lady had become a part of our family, and Dad didn’t want to hurt us.

Probably my most favorite dog we ever had was Tippy, a wonderful collie dog that loved to play with us. I don’t remember how Tippy came to our house or what happened to him. And I don’t want to. We thought of Tippy as our Lassie. He did not have the distinct markings of Lassie, but to us, he was the best.

Tippy went everywhere with us. One of our favorite things to do was to roam Hunting’s property, pretending we were soldiers in a grand army. Tippy followed us, wondering what in the world these boys were doing. He probably came along to protect us from ourselves. Often, he joined the frolicking and fun.

As Tippy grew older, he did not exhibit the vig and vem of old. He mostly stayed around the house and soaked in the sun. He still loved to be petted. When we came home from school, he was there to greet us. When we walked to the barn to do chores, Tippy followed us and then lay out of sight of Bossy, our cow. He knew Bossy became agitated when she saw him. So he stayed out her way.

Sometimes, when I am at my parents’ house in the summer, looking out across the garden, listening carefully to the past, I can still hear his bark. Sometimes, I turn to see if he is there beside me or following me down the beaten path to the barn. But he isn’t.

Maybe it is the death of these two dogs that keep me from buying one for my daughters. Like my father, I do not want them to feel anxiety, pain, or even death. But then again, maybe having a dog would help them understand some of the trials of life, maybe help them learn more about responsibility by taking care of an animal.

Maybe having a dog could be part of their contextual learning. Maybe having a dog would be good for them. And I need to remember: Children and dogs need to be on top. I wouldn’t want to suffocate them.

Significance

The following is the graduation speech that I gave on Saturday to the 2010 graduates from Laramie County Community College.

Creating Significance

Not long ago, I sat in a meeting and listened to a retired Air Force Colonel discuss the importance of significance. I was intrigued by his insight and his use of the word in a spiritual context. Tonight, I would like to extend the meaning to five areas: education, family, community, world, and self.

The simplest definition of significance is the “state or quality of having meaning or importance.”

In order to make the connection to the five areas, I have a few questions to ask you—

Question 1: What significance are you making in education? What you are doing today creates significance. What you have been doing for the past several semesters is significance. The other evening, Joanne and I were sitting with a young single mother who said, “I earned my GED, and now I am enrolled in the College.” I will make sure my daughters do not drop out of school. Her oldest daughter, now 16, is an honor student. Do you think she has created significance by returning to school? I do. And she has much to more to do. Investment in education will be the best investment you will ever make. I promise.

Question 2: What significance are you being as a member of your family? I believe families are important. For most of us, our families created significance in our lives by pushing us forward, motivating us to do better, and creating opportunities to succeed. With mother’s day just last Sunday, we celebrated Mother’s Day and remembered our mothers, no matter where they were. In another month, we will celebrate Father’s Day, another significant day. If you are a mother, what kind of mother are you? If you are a father, what kind of father are you? If you are a son or daughter, what kind of son or daughter are you being? If you are a brother or sister, what kind of brother or sister are you? You can create significance in your family.

Question 3: What significance are you making or will you make in your community? I believe many of you through service learning projects in our community have created significance. People are appreciative of what you have done. Now, what will you do as you graduate? Will you continue creating significance in the community you live in?

Question 4: What significance will you make in the world? Some of you will go out and do grandiose things by the world’s standards. Others will do things that will ultimately create significance that will reverberate throughout history—and often we may not know what significance we have done. And that’s the beauty and the power of significance.

Question 5: And, perhaps, most importantly, what significance will you create by being you? Your example, good or bad, will create significance in whatever you do. No matter whether your job is small or great, your significance, your importance, will create an aura that will touch people in small and great ways. Your mere smile will encourage others to smile. Your kind acts will motivate others to reciprocate. Your reaching out to help others will encourage them to do the same. Everything you do creates significance, and it is up to you what level of significance it will be.

Finally, I extend to you an invitation to create significance knowingly: Write a note to someone who has made a significant impact on/in your life. My preference would not be an e-mail, not a text message, not a tweet, not a Facebook or MySpace message—unless, of course, you do not know this person’s address. An actual letter or card written by your hand in real ink would be preferable. Let them know specifically why they are significant and how they created significance in your lives. When you do this, I sincerely believe you will experience “significance” in your life and in your being. Thanking those who have “created significance” for you and in your life need to know why they have and how they have. You may be the first person who has ever done this, and your mere act will create significance in their lives.

Often, many people just do what they do, not realizing what significance they might create or have created in the lives of those with whom they work and serve. It is when they receive a message from you and me, thanking them, that they finally realize, perhaps, what they might have done. In many cases, they will pass it off as being some trivial thing that they remember vaguely. But to us—you and me—what they did truly turned our lives around. I believe that is truly the meaning of significance: when we do something because that’s just what we do to better the world around us. That enthusiasm for doing what needs to be done seeps into the lives of others and somehow changes them, turns their views, helps them contemplate a new way or a more effective way of living their lives or doing something. They change because we provided them with “significance.”

Thus, my challenge, each and every day is create significance, be significant, and do significant things because you are significant.

Thank you.

Eyes Peeled

This is a poem that I recently published in the High Plain Register.

Eyes Peeled

I cannot see it, really,
from my view atop the spud truck.
Just beyond Mercer’s Corner

and the ancient cottonwoods.
The panel truck shifts slowly like some fish net,
scooping cod from the sea.

Instead of fish, this net scoops up los hermanos
from the spud cellars, trucks, bunkhouses, unfit even for chinchillas.
Dust rises inevitably from the truck’s slow loathing

of those sin papeles—yet those important to the harvest.
Sometimes it is hard to get the gringos, those young dudes,
to heft the 33’ sprinkler pipe, often full

of silt water and carry it forty feet
through knee-high alfalfa, wet potato lines,
mosquitoes and horse flies licking blood,

and sweat oozing over day-old bites.
At night, Instead of returning home to Nintendo,
HBO, and a hot shower, the pulsating kind,

they saunter to the plywood shacks, tortillas de harina,
and another night of yearning for their casas, sus familias,
instead of sitting idly on their own veranda,

their queridas in the crook of their arms.
Now their eyes stay peeled for the panel truck,
picking up speed through the alfalfa field.

Contemplations about Orbs

I drafted this some time ago and haven't returned to it. But I thought I would post it to contemplate its sense of being. Take a look and let me know what you think.

The Orbs

The lights in the distance
somehow stifle the darkness,
treat it indifferently,

try to lighten up its grueling mess
that overshadows even
the most miniscule light.

Our lives are like that, sometimes.
We take on more than we can do.
Sometimes, we burden ourselves

with other’s burdens.
Sometimes, we even cross ourselves,
hoping for some redemption

when none is available, even for them,
our so-called friends, the ones
we hide from others.

Why we do such thing remains
a mystery to me.
Why we extend ourselves, often,

more viscerally than we truly should,
more viciously at times than truly needed.
But the fact of the matter is this:

the lights in our horizon are dimming,
slowly fading into the orbs of nothingness,
only because we have failed to pay the bill.