I'm Back . . . . From Scout Camp!

So five days after having stents removed from my nasal cavity (and with stitches still in my wrist) I decided (or rather was begged into believing by my new, desperate Bishop) that the perfect way to convalesce was to spend 3 days with several hundred 12 to 16 year old boys shedding excess testosterone -- i.e. attending scout camp at Marin Sierra. And you know, there is nothing like fine Sierra dust on recently scraped and still raw sinuses. Unless, of course, that dust is accompanied by fumes that can only emanate from a pit toilet. I'm afraid I may have done permanent damage. Oh well. As you can see from the following, little Chubb lake is a beauty.



This is the location of Scout Camp, below Donner Pass, which is up and to the right, and very near Lake Spaulding, which is the dam in the center foreground.


Our first day began with a six a.m. swim test. Why six a.m., you ask? My thought exactly . . . (still haven't received a satisfactory response, other than the testosterone thing.)


Franco wouldn't let me post the great shot I have of everyone but him jumping in on the first command . . . but I did get one of him finally jumping after everyone else had taken the plunge.




After the swim it was breakfast with all the other troops.


Our fearless patrol leader looking the part as we wait for the morning assembly.

Adam waiting for assembly.

Nate waiting for assembly. . . .

After assembly, it was off to classes.

Franco headed straight for the rifle range, where the master of the range, our own Larry Salarpi, helped him hone his skills. Then he headed to archery. I'm sensing a theme here. . . taking the role of family protector very, very seriously, I guess.


Others decided to head to the water front right away.

Adam canoeing through Chubb Lake without drowning or fighting with his canoe partner.


Jason learning the fine art of securing a rowboat with a sturdy knot.

Nate started with environmental science.


"This is First Aid, scout, and you will be injured!" Our very own Charles, just doing his usually thorough job as a staff member at camp!

All in all it was great fun. There are worse places to spend time . . . though I hope my nose actually survives and can still smell. The jury is definitely out on that.

OW!

4 and 1/2 hours of surgery. Nasal cavity packed to the brim with gauze and "stents", which are due to be yanked out on wednesday. ("Take a vicodin before you come--I've had people faint." Actual quote--at least he warned me.) Blood oozing down my throat in gobs. And a useless right hand that must be held "above the level of my heart" for 5-7 days due to carpal tunnel surgery. I may be out of commission for a few days. Ouch.

A Sunset in Our Life

I was released as Bishop of our Ward today, and a foggy sunset over Mount Tam from our bike trail seemed like an appropriate picture.

It was both a wonderful and a wistful day. Being Bishop was, without exception, the sweetest, most profound spiritual experience of my life, and so a very hard thing to leave behind. It was also 4 years of very hard work, that required so much sacrifice from my family, and particularly from my sweetheart. How I love her for letting me have that experience. I can never repay her or the Lord for that opportunity. I have come away with such a deep and abiding testimony that there is more than just this life, that there is a God, that he lives, and cares for us in His way. Sometimes it is hard to explain how it all works or why things happen the way they do, particularly through the tragedies that impact so many truly good people. But I know that there is a light shining through the darkness, if we just look for it and are humble enough to accept God's will in all things.

Our thoughts and prayers will always be with the special people from our Ward. We love you all. Thank you for all you do and have done to support us and serve the Lord. We are also excited for Bishop Johnson, and the new experience that comes his way. We love him dearly, and pray for him in his new responsibility. God Bless.

Just Because . . .

They are so dang cute!

Greater Love

I promised more photos of sacred places in San Francisco. I know of no place more sacred than the Presidio Cemetery, which is where my 4th of July began this year. It was early morning and I was alone but for robins and stone.



I always cry in these places. I've tried not to. Can't. Too many fathers and mothers, daughters and sons and spouses facing the day they prayed would never come. It compels reverence like nothing else I know: immediate, profound, absolute. My heart even seems to beat more quietly, as if thumping in its normal rhythm is out of place, disrespectful. I feel pedestrian. What can I possibly do in the face of this sacrifice?



Today, two thoughts seem to help. The first: I will never take my freedoms for granted. Ever. And I will use them as responsibly as I am able. It does not seem like much of an offering, I know, but it is what I can do.

The second comes from scripture:

"Therefore doth my Father love me, because I lay down my life . . . . Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." (John 10:13, 15:13)

And so today I began in the presence of those loved by God. I know that on some levels that can seem so ironic. But the spirit of this place commands otherwise: what a hallowed, humbling, giving place it is.



The evening was much less contemplative but also very wonderful. Our dear Johnsons (plus Emma Cole!) came over to barbeque, and then we headed up Old St. Hillary's preserve, from whence we watched the fireworks in Martinez, Richmond, Oakland, Emeryville, San Francisco and Sausalito. A few pics of a great night below.

Bridges and Fog

Change and I are among the most uncomfortable of companions, and yet, it appears that change is upon us. As many of you know, we have determined to move to Utah. It likely took an act of God to get us there, and I am very grateful for that. But how does one say goodbye to our life here in this unbelievable place? I can't begin to answer, except to say that my mind thinks much on bridges and fog.

I thought it was a little too quiet!

It should come as a surprise to no one that Alden does anything he can to keep from going to bed. Usually, this means a request for Apple Jacks right as his head is about to hit the pillow. For some reason (probably my own exhaustion) tonight I gave in to his request, and went into another room to import some photos while he ate. It got really quiet after a few minutes . . .

At least he didn't face plant in the bowl. Or maybe he did, and just slid off--hard to tell with the mess he left behind.
Kate is just as bad, but her weapon of choice is to read children's biographies of Chagall and Cezanne late into the night. How is a guy supposed to resist that? So she is sitting by my side as I write, and reading about Cezanne ('Dad, did you know he was 67 when he died in 1906?'). At this hour, even she is having to work hard to keep her eyes open. . . .
She didn't fall asleep mid-sentence, as her poor tired mom did, but she has finally given in.

By the way, Keegan, aka Dream Baby, went to sleep at about 8:00 p.m., with out so much as a peep.

Fountains and Churches

It would not surprise anyone to learn that the Bay area is blessed with amazing public art and space. Exhibit A: the Town fountain, a new landmark which is perfect for a small sailing town. (The sails actually rotate around, pointing to different directions of a compass marked in the surrounding pavement, and giving a slightly different view every few minutes.)



What some may not know is that the Bay area is home to a surprising number of really beautiful churches. Yes, the need for God and spirituality is alive and thriving even in the very heart of secularism. I plan to take more pictures of these anomalous (if you believe Fox News) spiritual centers over the coming weeks. I begin with one of the smallest: Old St. Hillary's. If there is a more picturesque church, I'd sure like to see it. What a great place to contemplate the meaning of it all.

Dancing with Shrek, part Deux

As I may have mentioned earlier, Alden's favorite sport these days is "Dancing with Shrek," and now you see why. It involves:

pulling out the hide-a-bed while watching a great video

jumping like a madman (or woman, as the case may be)

and finishing with the finest John Travolta flourish.

What could possibly be more fun?

Consumer Excess or Happy Refuge?

Though it may reflect consumer excess of the most excessive kind, at least for a 7-year old, this picture may soon remind me of simpler times.

Two Saturdays ago Kate and I went to Safeway for some groceries. There was music on the radio as we began the drive. From the back, I heard Kate say, "Dad, could you turn off the radio so we can talk?" I had to clear my ears. Usually, meaning every time until now, this request goes the other way. ('Dad, can you turn on some music?' 'What about just talking?' 'Oh, no thanks.')

We engaged in a truly delightful conversation, the kind I always envisioned having with my children, about friends, school, what they thought on certain issues, etc. This continued during our grocery shopping, and I began to be a little excited and quite happy. It seemed this was not just a one-time event, but that things really had changed somehow. In the midst of this ongoing discussion, we arrived at the checkout line which, as is usual on a Saturday, was packed with people. Every checking isle had 3 or 4 carts in it, and they all curved to the right, in order to make room for carts passing along the central walkway. This meant we were closely surrounded, on all sides, by people standing with their grocery carts.

Then it happened.

In a strange, vortex-like event, everything became inexplicably quiet just as Kate asked, out of the blue and in a loud, high voice: "Dad, do boys have uteruses?"

Not wanting her to think this was a bad or silly thing to ask, I determined that a non-chalant, "no dear," in my regular, conversational voice, was the proper response.

"Well, what do they have?"

Heads turned. On the back of my neck I could feel the grins growing behind me. Abandoning any hope of being a confident, in-control parent, I answered, VERY sotto voce, with the correct anatomical terminology. To which Kate responded (without any change in volume or tone):

"Oh, well, whatever it is, could you and mom hurry and snuggle together in that special way again? I really want a sister."

A quick, hushed promise to talk to mom about it managed to extract me from further attention by our quietly chuckling neighbors. Suddenly, I was the one wanting car music, and found myself missing the days when all that mattered was Barbie's hair.