North Star: Choosing Happiness

"Love is like the Polar Star. In a changing world, it is a constant. It is of the very essence of the gospel. . . . Great beyond comprehension is the love of God."
 -Gordon B. Hinckley

A good friend, also one of my home teachers from my YSA ward days, invited me to attend a fireside last night for the North Star International group. I'm so glad I went.

As described on its Facebook page, North Star is "a place of community for Latter-day Saints dealing with issues surrounding homosexual attraction who desire to live in harmony with the teachings of Jesus Christ and the doctrines and values of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints." Another stated purpose is "to empower individuals to help educate themselves, their family, friends, and Church leaders as they strive to become integrated more fully and lovingly into the Church community."

I'm grateful to be one of those friends, and I proudly stand as one of their supporters. Also, as one of their admirers.

This fireside featured possibly the greatest display of congregational singing I have ever witnessed. They sang loudly, but they also sang with the voices of angels. As they sang, "So long thy pow'r hath blest me, sure it still will lead me on o'er moor and fen, o'er crag, and torrent, till the night is gone," and then, later, "O Savior, if thou wilt be my guide, tho dark and rugged the way, my voice shall echo the message sweet: I'll say what you want me to say," the words were not just words on a page but also a testimony of their very lives.

In addition, I was impressed by the number of hugs I saw people giving each other throughout the evening. I don't think I've seen that much hugging take place since the last time I was at sacrament meeting in Peru. Hugs are very much a part of their culture, too.

Truth be told, it's one of the things I miss most about that place and those people.

"There's so much love in this room," I overheard one person say. There was indeed.

Oh yeah. There were actual speakers at this fireside, too. The husband and wife (the husband has lived with same-gender attraction, though they've been married 9+ years now) who spoke talked of the most important commandment being that of loving God, and, in turn, He will love us back. It is the whole purpose for existing in the first place. All that seems unfair in life can be made right through the Atonement. We don't really know what we believe until we are tested. What you truly value and what you want out of life is far more important than seeking gratification. Purpose can be found in the service of others.

The wife spoke of an important lesson Eustace learns about being cleansed of his dragon scales by Aslan (i.e. the Lord) in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, which gave her an extra gold star in my book. (The Narnia series remains my favorite.) The husband also spoke extensively on Victor Frankl's book Man's Search for Meaning and reminded everyone of an important lesson: The last and most important of humanity's freedoms is the freedom to choose what our attitudes will be in any given set of circumstances. Whatever trial or challenge any of us faces, we always have a choice.

Frankl knew something about that because, well, he survived Auschwitz concentration camp.

Speaking of dealing with difficult circumstances, the world would tell the members of North Star that there's no possible way they could be happy following this path that they have chosen.

Well, it ain't necessarily so, folks. It's bubkes, actually.

Last night, I met some of the pleasantest, happiest, and friendliest new people I have met in a long time. There wasn't a frowny face in the bunch. They are proud to be disciples of Jesus Christ, and it is a choice that brings them true joy and gives them hope and purpose. It shows in the way they act, and it radiates in their countenances. They choose to love God by keeping His commandments (see John 14:15) and loving their fellow man—in that order—and that is what makes all of the difference.

They know it, they live it, and they love it.

The Best Two Years, and Beyond

I spent a good deal of the weekend listening to two old cassette tapes, which I dug up the other day. Cassette tapes, in case you were wondering, came along way before MP3s and iPods and also preceded CDs, which are sadly becoming more and more passé these days.

These tapes had spent a few years collecting dust and basically just lying around. One tape was a recording of the sacrament meeting in which I gave my "farewell" address before heading off to the MTC and then the mission field at age 19, and the second recording was of my "homecoming" talk upon returning from Peru two years later at age 21.

I can sum up the experience in one word: Wow.

It all brought back so many memories to listen to myself speak on both occasions, and I don't like to listen to my own voice all that much, so it took some patience and self-consciousness, too. It was interesting to listen to my young and eager but not-so-wise-in-the-ways-of-the-world self speak before departing and then my heavily Spanish-accented self (much more than I recall being at the time) speak somewhat extemporaneously and much more fluidly upon returning.

Reflecting back on those times and on the perspective I've gained since then, it's interesting to me to hear now, from many different sources, that the mission is "the best two years" in your life. Certainly, it was an amazing, unforgettable, growing, and educational experience that I'll never, ever forget, I saw some very beautiful and also some very ugly places, and I made many friendships that I hope to carry with me into the eternities.

But "best two years"? Well, if my life has already reached its greatest point at age 21, then I've been living through years of disappointment, with additional years of disappointment still ahead.

Another school of thought, and the one that I agree with, is that the mission is "the best two years" of your life up to that point of your life. You then return home, go back to school, work, marry (well, two out of three isn't bad), etc. and then make the next year the best year, then the year after that, and so on.

Have the years since my return home been disappointing? Has it been nothing but a downward slope? In some ways, these years have not turned out at all like I expected they would. I've had my share of disappointment, trials, grief, thorns in the flesh, and unfortunately also consequences when I've not done some of the things I should have done or I've let opportunities slip away. To quote John Lennon, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

Nevertheless, I've also been richly blessed at the same time. I've been given opportunities to work, to play, to study, to learn, to develop talents, to grow, to date, to meet new people, to travel, to give, to receive, and to take uncertain steps into the dark future, one day at a time—some of which have paid off, and others have not. And I wouldn't have missed nearly all of it.

Except for January 2008. That was a tough month that I never want to repeat, ever again.

Orange Tap Water and Gratitude

The XXII Winter Olympic Games in Sochi, Russia, are now over. And the morning-after blues came today, as they always do following the close of another Olympics. For the first night in more than two weeks, I didn't have any curling, snowboarding, hockey, bobsledding, or skiing to watch nor any medal counts to check up on in the news.

Beyond the actual sporting events, a lot of fuss was made about these Games because of the reportedly deplorable conditions many American and other Western athletes and media encountered in their Russian dwellings while in Sochi. Supposedly, toilets were sometimes constructed side by side, the tap water resembled peach iced tea, closets were built on ceilings, and dogs were super-glued to doors (maybe), along with many other horror stories.

One school of thought is that this was Russia's way of saying "nuts to you" to the rest of the world. Another belief is that a record $50 billion investment in the Games was completely mismanaged and then, when they realized they were running out of cash, these makeshift accommodations were the unfortunate result.

Whatever the reasons behind it all may be, there's one thing I know for sure: We have things pretty darn good here in the United States.

I've known that for a fact since the first time I traveled to a foreign country, and the idea was even more apparent to me as a missionary in Peru, where living conditions are downright awful in many places—I daresay even Third World. It wasn't uncommon to visit people in shantytowns, in homes literally standing on cinderblocks and loose bricks, with tin roofs and dirt floors. I twice contracted a bad case of fleas on my lower calves and ankles because of the dust everywhere that became stuck in my socks. In some areas, we carried flashlights with us, because there was no electrical power, and in other places, there was no running water. There were no litter laws like there are in our country—at least none that were enforced—and, as a result, we often walked past mounds of garbage. I found myself watching in bewilderment as people would casually throw wrappers or other pieces of trash on the ground, out of their car windows and everywhere else.

When I arrived at my and my companion's apartment for the first time, I was in disbelief at how dumpy and pathetic it was. Something I didn't realize for a long time is that my Peruvian companion absolutely loved the place and loved being a missionary, because, along with the obvious blessings of serving, he'd never had it so good with his living arrangements, either. I soon learned that, to the people I was serving, this was their way of life, and they weren't about to complain about it.

I can't do justice to it all with just a couple of paragraphs of description. But I think you get the idea.

I felt even more gratitude for the land I live in when, just a couple of days ago, I read a Facebook post by a missionary I served with who is now a stake president in Venezuela. (Yep, I'm either old enough to have served with someone who is now a stake president, or Venezuela is desperate for good leaders—or both.)

Venezuela, as you may have heard, is not a great place to live in right now. There is government oppression and rioting and protesting and people being killed. From what I know, it's not a pretty sight. My friend's post, as stake president, was a series instructions to members of his stake to help keep them safe and free from harm. He counseled them to suspend all extracurricular church activities but sacrament meetings until things quell down; to use phone calls and social media to keep in touch with each other and make sure all are accounted for; reminded them of the importance of having a supply of food, water, and emergency supplies; and moreover to be smart and stay away from danger, obeying suggested curfew times. Most importantly, he counseled them to pray. I told my friend that I would pray for the people of his stake, too.

It made me very grateful for the land in which I live, not to mention for the organization of the Church, to boot. I'm amazed at how, time and again, it is very much an institution interested in the well-being of the individual as well as the whole.

It's a big wide world, and very few people out there have things as good as we do. I may forget that fact occasionally, such as on April 15 and whenever the Kardashians are on TV. But it is a fact nonetheless.

Daily Gratitude: Two-ply Toilet Paper

'Tis the season for being grateful and for the giving of thanks. In fact, I am pretty sure there is a holiday right around the corner, one for which we are supposed to be grateful and to give thanks for all the things for which we are grateful and thankful. If memory serves right.

It's not uncommon to scroll through my news feed on Facebook these days and to read what others call their daily gratitude posts—the simple and the most important things in life for which they are appreciative.

As for the Angry White Loner, when it comes to gratitude, he thinks of two-ply toilet paper. Yes, really.

That's a pretty lame thing to be thankful for, some of you may think. And you would be right, assuming all of the world out there had things as good as we do here in the United States of America.

In case you haven't been to the Third World, I will let you in on a little secret: They don't have things as good as we do. Not even close.

Sure, France has its Eiffel Tower—in fact, two of the AWL's brothers and their spouses were there just a few days ago (not that I am bitter!)—Australia has its kangaroos and dingoes, and Japan has karaoke bars on pretty much every block. Beautiful things, all of them. But we truly live in a unique and a blessed land. There is no other place like it on Earth.

Why? Because of two-ply toilet paper.

Years ago, when I opened my mission call and read that I had been called to serve in the Peru Lima Central Mission, I knew exactly three things about Peru: The ruins of Machu Picchu were there, and it also had South America's highest concentration of Native Americans (Lamanites) and llamas. If you had asked me back then, I would have ventured a guess that they all rode llamas everywhere and had llamas for pets instead of dogs and cats and they all ate frequently at llama burger joints instead of McDonald's or Wendy's.

Granted, many of those preconceived notions turned out to be true. Llama tastes like chicken. And I did, in fact, make it to Machu Picchu—twice.

Nevertheless, the luster and the wonder soon vanished when I had my first glimpse of one of Lima's many shantytowns—Third World-like dumps where squatters live in homes literally made out of tin roofs and adobe bricks and plastic sheets and not much else, with dirt floors and no electricity in many places and unpaved roads with so much dust to kick up that I contracted conjunctivitis my first week there, along with several other bugs, and my ankles and feet became infested with fleas not once but twice. There are also frequent earthquakes and a destructive weather phenomenon, coined by Peruvian fisherman, called "El Niño."

Don't even get me started on Atahualpa's Revenge. You either know about it, or you don't.

This is where the issue of toilet paper comes in. Peruvians use toilet paper for every possible, conceivable reason. It's as valuable a commodity as towels are in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series of books. Not only do they use it for its already well-known properties, but they also use it as napkins and for taking notes and about 1,000 other things. One of the first things I learned in my first few days in the country is that you carry several sheets of toilet paper in your pockets at all times, because you never know when you will need some. If you run out, you restock. This is, in addition, because many toilets in Peru (1) don't have actual toilet seats to sit on and (2) are not stocked with any toilet paper at all.

The problem with Peruvian toilet paper? In two years, I never saw a single sheet of two-ply paper. One-hundred percent of it is single ply. I missed two-ply toilet paper. A lot. I also missed peanut butter, root beer, Dr Pepper, and hot showers.

And so, this Thanksgiving, that's what I'm feeling grateful for. Among many other things.

Man vs. Car

Now that the smoke has cleared and we can—hopefully—forget about the bit BYU/Utah football rivalry game for another three years, I'd like to talk tonight about the time when I was hit by a car. As a pedestrian crossing the street. In Chile.

A few years ago, I went on a visit back to Peru, where I served my LDS mission a few years before that. Part of my itinerary included a brief stay in Tacna, in southern Peru, to visit one of my old companions and his family.

Tacna is so far south in Peru that it's within an hour's drive of the Chilean border. Since we were so close to another foreign country, I suggested taking a short trip there. My companion agreed, since we both spoke the language and all, and we spent three or four hours that afternoon in Arica, a city in northern Chile.

Standing atop El Cerro de Arica, I learned from a historical marker posted there that Arica actually once belonged to Peru, but it and a other cities were taken over by Chile after a 19th-century war fought between the two nations. Also, there is a rather breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean from atop that hill.

It was on our way down from El Cerro de Arica that the aforementioned incident occurred. I will put the story in context by mentioning that although there are laws, there is no real understanding among drivers to yield to pedestrians trying to cross the street—at least, there isn't in the two South American countries I have been to. Also, this is the part of the world where old cars go to die.

A VW bug—a common mode of transportation for taxi drivers—hit me at a speed of somewhere (I can only estimate) 30 or 35 miles per hour. Its driver's-side mirror hit me in the elbow, and, as a result, became dislodged from the car and bounced around on the street.

Naturally, the driver did not stop to see if I was OK nor to retrieve his side-view mirror. He was probably late for his defensive driving class, near as I can tell.

Fortunately, I was not hurt too badly, though I did bring home a honey of a bruise as my souvenir from Chile.

Most importantly, though, there was that stamp on my passport.

Shuffling Off the Mortal Coil

For those who have followed my blogging through my older blog, Disconcertingly Choppy - and, let's face it, that may be as many as a dozen people - as well as those who know my family and extended family personally, then you may remember that my nine-year-old niece McKenna got a hamster, which she named Hammy, for Christmas. She was very excited about getting Hammy as a pet and has taken good care of him in the four months since that time. Around the house, it was not unusual to see Hammy rolling around in his hamster ball or just being held and cared for in McKenna's hands.

Well, a couple of days ago, Hammy left us. Someone, and I won't say whom, squeezed Hammy a little too tightly, and in an instant he became Peruvian food. (I've tried hamster twice - both times in Peru, in those "when in Rome" situations - and, incidentally, and it tastes like chicken. I don't recommend it.) McKenna, surprisingly, wasn't upset at the person who did this (accidentally, I might add), but was she was rather grief stricken by it and was somewhat inconsolable throughout the day.

Rather than have the traditional family home evening that night, we instead held a graveside service for Hammy, who was laid to rest in the backyard. McKenna talked about what a great pet Hammy had been, and we all bowed our heads in a moment of silence. As you may recall, this was on the same day as the explosions at the Boston marathon, and feelings were tender all around.

A wise person once said something along the lines of: "Death is an important tool. It teaches us to tell each other that we love each other."

I'm paraphrasing here, but I appreciate the sentiment. When tragedy strikes, and it will affect us all to one degree or another, it's often the only thing we can do. I believe it applies to all instances when we're affected by death - be it terrorism that takes human lives untimely, or unintentionally enthusiastic hugs, or everything else between and beyond.

And so, my friends, let me take advantage of this opportunity to tell you that I love you, collectively and individually. I realize that a blog is not the ideal means for doing this, so take it for whatever you may think it's worth. I'm not great at expressing it vocally, as my "love language" tends to be either spending quality time or performing acts of service, but please know that I am truly grateful for the relationships I feel the Lord has blessed me with in my life, be they family, friends, co-workers, or even acquaintances who may yet become lifelong friends.

Hammy would want it that way.