So… I haven’t done a lot of posting this week. Basically none.
Oh, there were a few posts in the beginning of the week, but I usually write longer posts a day or two in advance, so most of those were actually written before Sunday night. Sunday night… death visited my family. Well, OK, not death. But a horrific case of everyone being awake at 4:45am and throwing up that made me sort of wish for death. A little bit.
But to make things really fun, Monday was also my first day at my new job. So yeah… failboat time.
Looking through his older posts, Russ Hill doesn’t blog very much. Only a couple of times a year. But when he gets to posting he doesn’t mess around. In this most recent entry, Confessions of a Mormon Bishop, he gathers the most important lessons he’s learned from his service:
I have learned that we believe it is a strength to conceal weakness.
I have learned that most of us bare scars from the failure, disappointment, and fear in our lives. And, we prefer to wear long sleeves.
I have learned that the strongest among us are those with the cleanest mirrors.
He also explains, along the way, what being a Mormon bishop is about to folks who might not be familiar with the Mormon Church:
I did not ask for this opportunity. I never considered I might someday have an office in a church. I have no professional training for this position. I am not a scriptural scholar. I have not walked through vineyards with robe-wearing monks. And, if you’re wondering about vows of celibacy let me introduce you to my four kids. All I did was answer a phone call. Show up for a meeting. And nod when asked if I would serve.
Unlike Russ, I have considered that I might someday be a bishop. I sort of assume that I will for one simple reason: when you’ve got a lay clergy everyone who sticks around for a long enough time gets picked eventually. I plan on sticking around, so I’ll probably get picked. I’m a little apprehensive about that, but only a little. Some things are so far out of your league that worrying doesn’t seem appropriate to the scale of the problem. I’ve known bishops, my dad was a bishop, and it’s the hardest job in the world. So, when and if it comes, I hope God helps me out for the sake of anyone who might come to me looking for wisdom, like they go to Russ and like I’ve gone to my bishops over the years.
There’s no way I could ever do it on my own. I don’t think anyone could.
For the last 8 months I’ve been leaving my family every Sunday evening to drive 3 hours away (more, if there’s traffic) for work. Then, on Friday afternoon, I’d turn around and come home. If traffic was good, I’d get to see my kids on Friday evening before they went to sleep. If not, I’d only have 2 days every week with my kids, and just a couple hours more with my wife.
I recently accepted a new job, one that is only about an hour from home and where I’ll even be able to work from home a couple of days a week, and I’m understandably thrilled.
That’s right: an all-in-one breakfast sandwich maker.
In case you’re wondering why I’d ruin a perfectly sentimental piece about how much I love my family with an advertisement for small kitchen appliances, I’ll just point this out: I would have no interest in buying this for myself while I’m living alone during the week. I could never enjoy the delicious morning goodness which it proffers alone. I’ll be making assorted breakfast sandwiches for my wife because I’m a morning person and she is not. (I think she views delicious breakfast as a consolation prize for getting out of bed.) I’ll be trying to make them for the kids (although we’ll see how that goes over). And yeah, I’ll be making them for myself, but they will only be delicious because I’m eating them with my family.
One of the things that has kept me from my usual blogging schedule this week is the passing of my wife’s grandfather, Charles H. Eades, Sr.
It seems like everyone in my wife’s family is named “Charlie” in honor of this man (including at least one girl), and it’s not hard to see why. He had an infectious smile, gentle love for everyone, and he was a war hero to boot. Of course I knew that Charlie served in World War II, and I asked him to tell me about it one day, a few years ago. I quickly regretted doing so, however. Although I was respectful, it was immediately obvious that what I saw as history was still living, breathing reality to Charlie. All I learned from that discussion was that he had landed on Omaha Beach on D-Day, that he lost a lot of close friends, and that the pain was still fresh, more than six decades later.
Today, at the viewing held in his honor, there was an article from the Southside Sentinnel for Veteran’s Day, 2010. I learned a little bit more about Charlie. I learned that he joined the Army National Guard before Pearl Harbor, that his landing boat was sunk before it reached the beach on D-Day, that “some men” made it to shore, and that out of the 12 howitzers in his battalion, only one got on to the beach. It was assigned to another unit, and Charlie became an infantryman. I also learned that in addition to Omaha Beach, Charlie (this time back in the artillery) took part in action during the Battle of the Bulge. The article quotes his perspective on the extremely violent opening to the movie “Saving Private Ryan”. Charlie said simply: “It was exactly like that.”
I only knew him for the last 8 years of life, but I loved the man I knew. He had so much love for his kids, his grandkids, and his great grandkids. When my wife and I got married, he walked her down the aisle. For that alone, I would have thought he was a great man. Learning how much pain and sorrow he had to face and overcome in his life only deepens my admiration for him. He lived a great life, and I’m honored that I was able to see even a small part of it.
I’ve never met Tucker, but I worked with his mom, Page, at my first real job. She was always amazingly kind not only to me, but also to my kids. Sometimes my wife would swing by with my two little ones, and we’d say hello to my coworkers and especially Page. They loved her so much that even after I moved on to other things we still came back sometimes to see my old friends, and especially Page.
I always knew that Page’s son, Tucker, had cystic fibrosis. It’s been a big part–and a painful part–of Page’s life. Since I never met him, I always pictured him as a little kid, but he’s actually 24 now. He looks really happy and healthy in a lot of the photos up at his IndieGoGo crowdfunding project, but he just got home from a 42-day hospital stay and he needs expensive medications to be able to keep fighting to stay with his family.
Tucker: Cystic Fibrosis Fighter and Friend to Babies
Years ago, children with CF commonly did not live to start kindergarten. These days, the average life expectancy has risen to 37 years, but it’s still “very difficult to manage” (read more on Wikipedia). There is currently no cure for CF, just a battery of drugs and a lifetime struggle to live with the disease.
The campaigns has already reached the initial goal, but that doesn’t mean they have everything they need. Sites like Kickstarter and Indiegogo only collect the contributions if the campaign hits the goal, so you have to set it lower than you’d like to try and make sure you hit it. With copays of $1,400 a month and long battles with insurance and Medicaid ahead, Tucker still needs help. There are 66 hours left to donate, and someone has pledged to match the next $1,000 dollar-for-dollar. There are a lot of good causes out there, but this isn’t a cause. It’s my friend’s son. Please, give if you can.
