Lackeous Foodiferous

Suddenly everything was dark. It was as if I was fainting—only I didn't faint. The colors drained out of the scene and I felt unsure of my balance. I stopped moving to let it pass, but it did not pass.

I stumbled up to my Scoutmaster. "I feel dizzy," I mumbled.

It was the morning of my first Klondike Derby: February 1983. I had joined in the laborious construction of a snow cave the previous night—piling up snow, packing it down, hollowing out the cave one small shovelful at a time—but I wouldn't sleep in it because I felt claustrophobic in the little hole. Instead, I crawled into a tent, but I left my boots out in the snow and the rain. Now it was morning, and I was miserable. Cold. Wet. Wearing borrowed shoes. Standing by the fire.

My Scoutmaster—Ole Smith, a kind, funny man with mustache that always suggested he was up to mischief—offered me a sweet roll, but I munched on a piece of bacon instead.

My vision is what I remember most clearly now, 30 years later. The scene in front of my eyes took on the style of an Andy Warhol print—the colors exaggerated and blown out and posterized. A lot of bright yellow and white. I felt terrible. I was sure I had hypothermia. Later, others told me I had become as pale as the snow.

"I feel like I'm going to die," I moaned to Scoutmaster Smith. "Could you take me home?"

My Scoutmaster led me down the trail to the camp medic's lodge at the bottom of the hill. There, in the warm interior, they laid me on a cot and gave me hot chocolate and food. I slowly started to feel better, and soon the medic very solemnly gave his scientific diagnosis: I had Lackeous Foodiferous.

I think of that experience often during the bitter cold of winter, especially when camping with Scouts. In the dark, long, oh-so-cold evening of a winter camp, our instinct is to retreat into our coats and huddle up by the fire. We go into survival mode and avoid doing anything we don't deem absolutely necessary. We just want to outlast the cold, gloomy night, and we stare into the flames, longing for the rising sun and its promise of warmth. We don't want to move, we don't want to take off our gloves to open a granola bar wrapper, we don't want to eat.

The best way to stay warm is to generate your own heat.

This instinct to hunker down against the cold can be counter-productive. As I learned in that medic's lodge three decades ago, the most important source of heat on a winter camp is neither a fire nor a coat. It is our own metabolism. We speak of a nice warm coat, but the coat itself is not warm, of course; the coat is merely helping to retain the heat our body is producing. But to produce heat, our bodies need fuel.

A related principle is that movement—using energy from all that food you ate—generates heat. Sitting still by the fire means your muscles aren't producing heat and your heart isn't pumping warm blood quickly to your extremities. And when it is cold enough, the warmth from the fire simply cannot compensate for the lack of warmth inside your fingers or feet.

As an adult leader on winter camps with Scouts, I have often thought my most important job is being a cheerleader. I am the pep squad, the conditioning coach, the energizer. I try to get the boys eating, to get them moving. Get away from the fire, do jumping jacks, run around, play a game, drink water, eat food. It may not sound pleasant when you are miserable and cold and huddled by the fire, but it's the surest and quickest way to get warm.

The principle carries over into matters of faith as well. The most potent spiritual fire comes from within. In our figurative winters—during challenges and hard times—it is tempting to retreat from faith-building activity or religious effort. We want to hunker down and stop moving and stop eating and wait for everything to get better. But doing so only makes us get colder.

We can survive—we can thrive—in difficult times. But we must continue to feed our souls with prayer and the word of God. We must keep moving, keep active in our religious endeavors, including service to others. Doing so will feed our fire of faith and fan the flames ever larger, keeping us warm and helping us emerge stronger from the dark, cold night of adversity.

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And Be Ye Thankful

A couple of decades ago, I sat one evening in a large assembly hall listening to a speaker I found somewhat annoying. He was the second or third speaker of the night, and the next speaker on the agenda was the headliner of the event. The previous speakers had been brief, engaging, and inspiring; more than 20 years later I still remember one of those speakers and what he said. But this speaker, coming just before the last one, was droning on and on and on about a subject that didn't really fit the theme of the evening and that I found less than exciting. "Doesn't he know we aren't here to hear him?" I thought. "Doesn't he know we don't care about this topic?"

I squirmed in my hard chair, looked frequently at the clock, and tried to endure the talk that got longer and longer. Feeling increasingly irritated, I looked at the stand and saw the man who would be the main speaker of the evening—the man whose time was being used up by this other speaker. As it turns out, that man was Thomas S. Monson, now the president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I looked at President Monson, smiling and sitting calmly behind the speaker who was continuing his unwelcome diatribe, and I wondered, "How does someone like President Monson—a spiritual leader who needs to exemplify Christian living—listen to a talk like this—so obviously off target and so obviously too long—and retain a charitable attitude? How does he not get irritated and frustrated?" And, perhaps more important, I wondered, How can I learn to be more patient and Christlike in similar situations?

President Thomas S. Monson [PHOTO BY BRIAN TIBBETS]

A few minutes later, and much to my relief, the speaker finally concluded and President Monson rose to give his long-awaited address. As if in answer to my unspoken question, he began his remarks by expressing the deep gratitude he had felt for the previous speaker as he listened to his speech.

I remember sitting there in that vast room and feeling somewhat stunned. First, while I had been building up a year's supply of impatience and complaint and criticism for the previous speaker, President Monson had been reflecting, with gratitude, on the speaker's strengths and contributions; my irritation had made me blind to the good in this speaker. And second, I had thought a question and almost immediately got an answer. The answer, of course, was this: If you are tempted to impatience or irritation or annoyance with an individual, think instead of the gratitude you feel for the person and his or her qualities.

Recently I decided to focus on developing greater patience, and I selected a passage of scripture about patience to memorize as part of my effort. The scripture, found in Paul's letter to the Colossians, presents the need for forbearance and forgiveness and charity and urges us to "let the peace of God rule in [our] hearts"—great advice for one striving to be patient. Then the passage concludes with three words that I don't often think of as being associated with patience: "Be ye thankful" (Col. 3:15).

Maybe Paul didn't intend to link gratitude and patience. But maybe he did. Perhaps Paul knew what President Monson knew and what I should know but so often forget: Gratitude trumps impatience. As the perfect antidote for negativity, gratitude can turn irritation, criticism, anger, resentment, and frustration into forgiveness, patience, meekness, and love.

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The Prisoners Shall Go Free

I once had a conversation with a member of another faith, who was troubled that her church taught that you must be a baptized member of her church in order to be saved. She worried about all the people through the history of the world who never had a chance to be taught her faith and be baptized. Although she believed strongly in her church, this one doctrine seemed so unfair because it condemned millions of people to hell, through no fault of their own.

She wondered what my church—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—taught about this matter. I was grateful to be able to explain to her that although our doctrine is similar (all must be baptized by the true authority of God, which exists only in our Church), we also have a beautiful doctrine about the redemption of the dead.

We believe that after this life there is a waiting period before the resurrection and final judgment. All who have died go into this state of waiting (called the spirit world), where those who know the truth are busily preaching the gospel to those who do not. In this way, all people who have ever lived on the earth—in any place and at any time—will have an opportunity to learn the truth and to either accept or reject it.

Those who accept the truth then require baptism, but as spirits (who have not yet been resurrected and received an immortal, physical body) they cannot participate in a physical ordinance. And this is why we are baptized for the dead (by proxy, in their behalf) in our temples.

Peter referred of this doctrine when he wrote, "For this cause was the gospel preached also to them that are dead, that they might be judged according to men in the flesh, but live according to God in the spirit" (1 Peter 4:6).

To me, this is one of the most beautiful and wonderful doctrines of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It is one of the greatest evidences that the Lord is both merciful and just and that the reach of his Atoning grace is, indeed, infinite and eternal.

Joseph Smith reflected the wonder and joy and praise for God I feel regarding this doctrine when he, after discussing baptism for the dead, wrote, "Let your hearts rejoice, and be exceedingly glad. Let the earth break forth into singing. Let the dead speak forth anthems of eternal praise to the King Immanuel, who hath ordained, before the world was, that which would enable us to redeem them out of their prison; for the prisoners shall go free. Let the mountains shout for joy, and all ye valleys cry aloud; and all ye seas and dry lands tell the wonders of your Eternal King!" (D&C 128:22-23)

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A Gift of Grace for Caroline's Birthday

I awoke at 5:15 this morning. Not to my alarm, but to Caroline. She was in her room loudly telling the world that she was awake and ready for the day. These are her happy noises. She opens her mouth wide, she says "aaaa," and she throws her whole heart into it.

Sleepily, I got up and turned on the white noise CD we keep in the bathroom to try to drown out Caroline's early morning noises so the rest of the house can sleep. Then I returned to bed. But Caroline was louder than the CD. So I got up and went to her room to tell her good morning--and happy birthday.

Today Caroline can be as loud as she wants. It is her day, after all, so I guess she can be happy and celebrate in her own way. Even at 5 a.m.

Eight years ago, Caroline came to earth and changed our lives. There have been a lot of hard times in those eight years--hospital trips, doctor visits, late nights, early mornings, middle-of-the-nights, sad times, puzzled times, worried times, crying times, sick times, and endless messy diapers (fondly referred to around here as doozies--or, in code, as messages Caroline leaves for us). But there have also been a lot of wonderful times in those eight years--giggling fits, cute smiles when we come to her after a 3 a.m. waking, cuddling in a chair, smiling and laughing when we sing "We're so Glad When Daddy Comes Home."

Caroline is a wonderfully sweet girl who, in the last few years, especially, is remarkably happy most of the time. She smiles and makes her loud talking noises. She laughs when a strong cold wind blows her hair or a sudden silly noise startles her. She lays on her bed and gleefully hits jingle bells hanging above her head. She smiles at her stuffed dog or her disco light. She delights to hear our voices singing or talking to her. She giggles when we play kung fu with her. She kicks with excitement and smiles wide when we pick her up. She stretches out her arms and sticks out her tongue and looks around with eager anticipation when she hears the sound of the van lift. She really is a beautiful, sweet, fun girl who brings a lot of joy and love to our family.

As her birthday has been approaching, I have thought a bit more than usual about her condition. She is--insofar as we can tell--physically and mentally at about a three-month-old level in her development. She shows few signs of understanding us or mentally processing things she experiences or communicating her needs; it appears that her cognitive abilities are severely limited. So as her eighth birthday has loomed ahead, I have thought about baptism. Caroline will not be baptized. She is not capable of choosing good or bad, of sinning, and is not, therefore, accountable for sin or able to choose repentance and baptism.

In a way, this thought makes me a bit sad. Baptism is such a huge milestone in our church and culture. It is something we talk about with children for years before and something we remember and discuss for the rest of our lives. I understand, of course, that baptism is not necessary for Caroline, but her lack of baptism is a reminder of the many other milestones she has missed--and will miss throughout her life. It is a reminder that as sweet and wonderful as she is, she has a pretty hard existence. And sometimes when I think about her condition, I am sad. I am sad for the conversations we will not have and the things we will not do together in this life. I am sad for the experiences she will not have and the earthly potential she will not reach. I am sad for the joys of this life that she will not experience.

But as I write this, Caroline is laying next to me on her bed, and she is not sad. She is, on the contrary, extremely happy. A big wide smile stretches most of the way across her face, she giggles, she makes her loud happy noises as she looks around the room. I pat her side and she laughs a big hearty laugh. Her eyes squint into a smile, and she talks to me. She says, "Aaaaaaaaaa!" and she tightens up her stomach muscles, lifting her head and shoulders and feet and legs off the bed, as she likes to do (often when we change her diapers, which makes diaper changing difficult).

Caroline does not appear sad about her condition. She seems perfectly happy with her existence. So why should I be sad? And I am not sad. I love Caroline and I rejoice in her sweetness, her smiles, her laughs, and her loud noises at 5 a.m. And as I think of her eighth birthday and the baptism that will not be, there is a twinge of wistful longing for what could have been, but mostly there is gratitude--deep and everlasting gratitude that she is "alive in Christ." Of people like her, Mormon wrote to his son Moroni:

Behold I say unto you that this thing shall ye teach—repentance and baptism unto those who are accountable and capable of committing sin; yea, teach parents that they must repent and be baptized, and humble themselves as their little children, and they shall all be saved with their little children.

And their little children need no repentance, neither baptism. Behold, baptism is unto repentance to the fulfilling the commandments unto the remission of sins....

For behold that all little children are alive in Christ, and also all they that are without the law. For the power of redemption cometh on all them that have no law; wherefore, he that is not condemned, or he that is under no condemnation, cannot repent; and unto such baptism availeth nothing. [Moroni 8:10-11,22]

Caroline is "alive in Christ." Though she will not be baptized, the Savior took care of her. She is saved--clean, pure, and worthy of a heavenly home. The Lord's suffering in Gethsemane and resurrection from the tomb has redeemed Caroline from the fall and granted her a future resurrection--unconditionally. She will live with Him again. Of this I am sure, and this certainty brings me joy and gratitude--and a desire to be worthy to be with her.

This morning I sang "I Believe in Christ" as part of my scripture study. I waved Caroline's arm to direct the music as I sang, and afterward, I held her in my lap and reviewed the words and message of that powerful hymn. A few stanzas, especially, were particularly meaningful to me on Caroline's special day as I pondered these words from her perspective, as if she were singing them. Forgive me if I take some license in reordering these stanzas a bit and leaving out others:

I believe in Christ; he stands supreme!
From him I'll gain my fondest dream;
And while I strive through grief and pain,
His voice is heard: "Ye shall obtain."

I believe in Christ; he ransoms me.
From Satan's grasp he sets me free,
And I shall live with joy and love
In his eternal courts above.

I believe in Christ; so come what may,
With him I'll stand in that great day
When on this earth he comes again
To rule among the sons of men.

I believe in Christ; he is my King!
With all my heart to him I'll sing;
I'll raise my voice in praise and joy,
In grand amens my tongue employ.

I have often, in my life, been deeply grateful and profoundly moved by the mercy of Jesus Christ's Atonement and its impact in my life. Today, as an earthly father entrusted with one of God's choicest children, I am deeply grateful and profoundly moved by the Savior's mercy to Caroline, by the infinite reach of His supreme grace in her behalf.

I do believe in Christ. He is, indeed, my King. And with all my heart I'll sing praises of joy and grand amens to His holy name. And so, someday, will Caroline.

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Look for the Sunlight Through the Clouds

I have been reading lately the book Standing for Something, by President Gordon B. Hinckley. This morning as part of my scripture study, I read a chapter about optimism: "Optimism in the Face of Cynicism." This was a good one for me to read; I find myself easily falling into the trap of being overly critical. Here are several quotes from President Hinckley about the culture of cynicism and the value of optimism:

We live in an intriguing age, a curious age in many respects, an age in which the ability and power to communicate, and therefore to influence and persuade, reign supreme.

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We are constantly fed a steady and sour diet of pessimism, faultfinding, second-guessing, and evil speaking one of another. The pathetic fact is: Negativism sells.

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If we took such pundits seriously, we might think the whole nation and indeed the whole world was going down the drain.

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Criticism is the forerunner of divorce, the cultivator of rebellion, the catalyst that accelerates to failure.

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It will do us no good to be naive about the challenges we face in this country. We do have problems, and they are not few. There are issues that demand our earnest, inspired attention. But there is too much fruitless carping and criticism of America.

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I am asking that we look a liitle deeper for the good, that we still our voices of insult and sarcasm, that we more generously compliment and endorse virtue and effort.

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When I was a young man and was prone to speak critically, my wise father would say: "Cynics do not contribute, skeptics do not create, doubters do not achieve."

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We are creatures of our thinking. We can talk ourselves into defeat, or we can talk ourselves into victory.

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We all tend to worry about the future. And yes, there may be lean days ahead for many of us. There will doubtless be challenges of all varieties. No one can avoid them all. But we must not despair or give up. We must look for the sunlight through the clouds.

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We must not be ensnared by or lean on the words of those clever ones whose self-appointed mission is to demean that which is sacred, to emphasize human weakness rather than inspired strength, and to undermine faith.

We must walk with hope and faith. We must speak affirmatively and cultivate an attitude of confidence.

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With gratitude in our hearts, let us stop dwelling on the problems we have, other than in a spirit of contribution to solutions. Let us rather count our blessings and determine to do all we can to make this world a better place.

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Rather than making cutting remarks one to another, could we not cultivate the art of complimenting, of strengthening, of encouraging?

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To highlight the mistakes of a person and gloss over the greater good is to draw a caricature. Caricatures are amusing, but they are often ugly and dishonest. A man may have a wart on his cheek and still have a face of beauty and strength, but if the wart ins emphasized unduly in relation to his other features, the portrait is lacking in integrity.

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Criticism and pessimism destroy families, undermine institutions of all kinds, defeat nearly everyone, and spread a shroud gloom over entire nations. We must resist partaking of the spirit of our times. We need rather to look for the good all about us. There is so much that is sweet and decent and good upon which to build. Above and beyond the negative, the critical, the cynical, and the doubtful, we can and must learn to look to the positive and the affirmative.