Route 66: New Mexico and Arizona

I’ve lived in or near the Southwest most of my life. Over the years we have crossed Route 66 numerous times. Not as much in New Mexico, but frequently in Arizona. What we found while traversing these two states is that I-40 closely parallels the old road. Much of the time, we were only a few yards away from the interstate, usually separated by a shallow ditch and sometimes a barbed wire fence. If you didn’t know otherwise, you would think there was a long frontage road passing through the desert along the interstate. The major difference is where the interstate bypassed small towns for the sake of efficiency. At these stretches, Route 66 usually veered away to eventually become the main street through town. Some towns managed to hang on over the years, while others died away. The main variation between the Midwest Route 66 and the Southwest Route 66 are that the stretches between communities become longer. In the Midwest, it wasn’t uncommon to pass through a community every 6-8 miles. Across New Mexico and Arizona, the intervals stretch from 20-30 miles.

Walnut Creek National Monument, near Flagstaff, Arizona

We learned that the earliest roads across the country usually followed the railways. Towns were built to provide support for steam engines that needed to resupply water every ten miles. Some train stops evolved and thrived while others faded away. Life in the desert region has always been tenuous. When I read Grapes of Wrath several months ago, I learned that crossing the desert was by far the hardest and longest part of the journey. Vehicles in those days were not equipped to manage the heat. Even today, parts of the old road are in disrepair, blown over by wind drifted sand, or subject to washout in the rainy season. There were parts of the road not well maintained, and we were advised to bypass them by taking the interstate.

The power of the earth to reclaim what man imposes on the land.

Even when we were directly side-by-side with the freeway only yards away, I enjoyed the slower pace of Route 66. Freeway speeds were usually 70-80 mph, while I only go a maximum speed of 60mph pulling our trailer. I had the road to myself for as far ahead as I could see, no one passing me and no one to slow me down. I didn’t feel obligated to focus on drivers around me and I could scan the landscape to the side. It was nice.

Wigwam Motel, Holbrook, Arizona

Our first overnight stop was in Tucumcari, New Mexico. Downtown Tucumcari continues to maintain a strong flavor of the old life. There are lots of motels, diners, and service stations, many still adorned with colorful neon signs. My favorite was the Blue Swallow Motel. We stayed over the weekend so we could do laundry and attend church on Sunday. While in town we visited two museums; one that had an awesome collection of dinosaur bones, and another that displayed a collection representing frontier life. It was rare for us to stay in one place two nights, and Tucumcari was a great town to have a break from the road.

Blue Swallow Motel, Tucumcari, New Mexico

We loved attending church each Sunday in a new town. The faces were different, but the doctrine remained the same. We always felt welcomed, that we were among our brothers and sisters. In Tucumcari that Sunday, the ward leadership was going through a reorganization. It was fun to watch a small ward adapt to the changes this brought about. The members were excited, and we witnessed how they pulled together to support a new bishopric.

Neon nightlife in Tucumcari, New Mexico

From Tucumcari we drove to Albuquerque by way of Santa Fe. Santa Fe had a short life span as part of Route 66, about ten years. After that, a shorter, more direct route was found to Albuquerque. We visited Pecos National Historic Park and walked among the ruins left behind by the ancient Sinagua culture. Once again, we had heavy rains as we descended into Albuquerque. We were late finding a place to stay that night and ended up at a Flying J truck stop. Thunderstorms passed by throughout the night.

Pecos National Historic Park

The next morning, we were off early and drove to Winslow, Arizona stopping at Petrified Forest National Park. In the earliest alignments of Route 66, the road passed through property now inside the park boundary. That road is no longer maintained, and little is left to see of it but a line of telephone poles across the desert. We enjoyed a few hikes in the park, and I photographed a lot of petrified wood from a forest now long gone.

Petrified Forest National Park

In Winslow, we stayed in the parking lot behind the visitors’ center. We were only a few blocks from the famous and iconic spot the Eagles sang of, “Standing on the corner in Winslow, Arizona”. We took a few obligatory tourist photos, and then I went back later in the evening to get a timed exposure when the streetlights came on. Once again, more rain.

I'm a-standin' on a corner in Winslow, Arizona. Such a fine sight to see.

From Winslow, we drove to Kingman where we had our second night in a hotel on this 2,500-mile adventure. It was time once again for a hot shower. One of my favorite passages on this long trek was the piece of road between Kingman and the small town of Oatman. I had read that it wasn’t recommended to take RV rigs over this stretch of road because of the steep grades and hairpin turns. Our trailer is small enough that I figured it was worth a try. It was a fantastic drive with little trouble. With all the rain, wildflowers were blooming in profusion. Even the Ocotillo was in full bloom. On the pass, we caught sight of the wild donkeys that inhabit this range. Oatman itself is a bit overly touristy, but the drive was breathtaking. Once over the Oatman Highway, it was a short drive to Needles, California, but that is the subject of the next blog post.

The Oatman Pass

Friends we met near Oatman, Arizona

Ocotillo in bloom near Oatman, Arizona

Route 66: Oklahoma and Texas

If Route 66 was a necklace, the stretch of road across Oklahoma and Texas would be defined by a set of small beads punctuated with three large gemstones. The three large gems being Tulsa, Oklahoma City, and Amarillo. Between those gems are a hundred small communities that contribute a bit of spice that defines the flavor of the Mother Road. Actually, the term Mother Road was coined by John Steinbeck when he wrote the Grapes of Wrath, a story about the plight of farmers driven out of Oklahoma by the combination of the Great Depression and the dustbowl drought of the 1930’s. So, technically, The Mother Road in this case begins in east central Oklahoma and doesn’t join Route 66 until somewhere around Tulsa. The feeling I got is that the title “Mother Road” has been adopted for the entire length of the road from Chicago to Santa Monica. I read Grapes of Wrath several months ago in preparation for this journey, and I know for a fact that the Joad family never went to the beach in Santa Monica. Had they done so, it might have ended a different story.

The Leaning Tower of Texas

The small towns through these two states each attempted to define themselves in unique and quirky ways. There seemed to be a great marketing attempt even back in the day, to lure travelers to motels, diners, or gas stations, making them stand out from all the other beads along the strand.

The Blue Whale of Catoosa, Oklahoma

One of my favorite stops was at the Blue Whale of Catoosa. I was drawn as much by the town’s name as by the blue whale itself. Catoosa just sounds like a place where one would want to stay for the night. However, we didn’t stay the night in Catoosa. We drove another five miles or so down the road and spent the night in the parking lot of the Hard Rock Casino outside of Tulsa. Over half our nights on the road were spent in free areas. We slept at rest stops, casino parking lots, outlet malls, and even a boondock location or two. It was hard for me to pay $50.00 for a patch of ground just to sleep. It would have been a different story if we stayed a while to play. However, the premise of traveling Route 66 involves constantly moving forward, and we usually drove until 5:00 or 6:00 at night. We had a few stays at RV resorts and two nights we splurged for a motel room. There came a time when we needed a shower and a sit-down meal at a restaurant.

Silos are a common sight along the Route. Note the dark sky in the background.

The three large cities I mentioned, the ones I referred to as gemstones, were near disasters to navigate. In each case, we attempted to keep to the old road through the heart of the city, for the only reason being to experience the full flavor of the road. The Route was tricky to find. Guidebooks were not all that helpful, and road signs were unreliable. Both Tulsa and Oklahoma City were undergoing road construction in the downtown areas that forced us onto detours that got us hopelessly lost in congestion. It was stressful pulling the trailer through these cities, and our GPS devices were no help. The easiest solution was always to find an Interstate headed west to bail us out.

I love the juxtaposition of 19th Century wind power vs 21st Century.

Throughout this stretch, we were still dogged by severe thunderstorms that threatened us off the roads every now and then. I remember stopping at a service station in Amarillo and using the restroom. As I came out and turned to exit the store, I noticed a large indoor mural that welcomed me to the Southwest. I remember thinking with great relief, thank goodness, I’m back in the desert and we can leave these storms behind. We actually were not free of severe weather until about midway through New Mexico.

Vega and Adrian Texas are considered the center of Route 66. There is a friendly rivalry between the two towns 11 miles apart.

Speaking of murals, one of the highlights of this trip was enjoying the murals painted on the sides of buildings, barns, water towers, fences, and almost any other vertical service one can imagine. The artwork was fun to see. It almost felt that each town was attempting to outdo the next in welcoming travelers to town. I think these murals constitute an artform unto itself and Route 66 is a continuous gallery that stretches for nearly 2,500 miles.

Murals in Vega, Texas

The last town of this section is Glenrio, about one mile inside the Texas border from New Mexico. Glenrio is all but a ghost town today. The only sign of life we saw was at a cannabis dispensary. What I loved about this small town was the explosive bloom of prairie wildflowers that sparkled among the ruins of an old service station and diner. No doubt the wildflowers were the result of the heavy rains washing over. In so many instances, we witnessed that only a few years were needed for nature to reclaim the marks of human presence.

Glenrio, Texas

Route 66: Missouri and Kansas

As much as I would like to say that Route 66 in Missouri was every bit as fun and exciting as Illinois, I can’t. Not because there is anything wrong with Route 66 in Missouri, it’s just that we deviated from the plan and took a major detour, and then the weather threw us an additional distraction, which I will come back to later.

We loved our time in St. Louis. The Arch was fun to see and the ride to the top was spectacular. I enjoy history, and so our trip to the Ulysses Grant National Historic Park was fascinating. Many years ago, I designed the set and lighting for the play Meet Me in St. Louis. I remember studying the history of the 1904 World’s Fair and seeing the pictures. I’ve wanted to visit Forest Park and imagine what it must have been like for visitors in that day. There is little that remains of the fair architecture, but there is an imprint, nonetheless. We visited a museum in the park that had a wonderful exhibit about the fair. I didn’t realize there was a dark side to the fair wherein people of different world cultures were showcased in a zoo-like setting.

St. Louis, Missouri Temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

There is no question that my favorite time in St. Louis was spent at the Botanical Gardens. What a beautiful and rich display of plants from around the country and world. The Japanese gardens were stunning with vibrant displays of azaleas in full bloom. We spent the entire afternoon wandering through the gardens enjoying the sights and smells.

Japanese Garden, St. Louis Botanical Garden

When our time in St. Louis was done, and we were ready to move on, we departed from Route 66. We have family living in Marshall, Missouri, about an hour east of Kansas City. Seeing our children and grandchildren was more important than staying faithful to the old road. Our kids live on a farm surrounded by fields of corn and other crops. It is still early spring, and with the heavy rains, not a lot was growing yet. It was beautiful notwithstanding. Even though we were not on 66, we still took advantage to see much of what Missouri has to offer.

We traveled to Independence with the kids to visit church history sites and learn about the story of the LDS people in the early years of our history. We went to the Visitors’ Center, the temple lot, and Liberty Jail, where Joseph Smith and others were kept imprisoned the winter of 1839. Then we drove north to the St. Joseph area. My mother is buried in St. Joe, and I wanted to visit her gravesite and pay my respects. Neither Virginia or any of my children met my mother, and so it was fun to sit by her headstone in the cemetery, and share stories about my mother with her great grandchildren. My son cut away the grass that had overgrown the headstone, we took some pictures and then continued on our journey. On our way back to Marshall, we stopped at Adam-Ondi-Ahman, a place that the prophet Joseph Smith revealed was the setting for the Garden of Eden. It is a beautiful and sacred valley, and the spirit that rests over that area is heavenly. I chuckled when I saw a sign warning guests to stay on the trail, that snakes may be present. It’s a subtle bit of humor that one might find snakes at the Garden of Eden.

Whenever we stray from the Covenant Path, we may find ourselves vulnerable to unseen snakes lurking in the grass.

After 4 days on the farm with kids and grandkids, we continued on our way, intending to intersect Route 66 in Springfield, Missouri, near the Ozark Mountains. The closer we got to Springfield, the worse the weather became. We planned to stop at Costco to refuel and stock up on a few treats. About 12 miles out, Virginia needed to use a restroom, so we pulled off at a gas station. There were already a few truckers seeking shelter there and we should have picked up a clue from them, as they were all listening to severe weather alerts on the radio. When we got back on the road, the conditions deteriorated rapidly. I knew we should have stayed back at the truck stop. The rain engulfed us in sheets of water, and wind whipped the trailer from side to side. The very next exit we saw another service station. At the same time our phones set off emergency weather alerts advising us to seek shelter immediately. I took the off-ramp, as the visibility dropped to almost zero. We pulled into the station, ran for the door, being drenched in rainwater as tornado sirens blared around us. The door was locked, but an employee opened for us and instructed us to proceed to the women’s restroom in the back. There were 40-60 other people huddled in the small bathroom with children crouched into the toilet stalls. We were in the town of Fair Grove. While we were waiting, the following message from the National Weather Service appeared on my phone: At 9:51 am CDT, a confirmed tornado was located over Fair Grove, or near Stafford, moving east at 50 mph.

Victorian Garden, St. Louis Botanical Garden

20 minutes later, the danger passed, and we were released. I was relieved to find our Scamp still standing. It was still raining and much debris covered the roadway. We continued on our way to Springfield without further incident.

Wilson’s Creek National Battlefield

In Springfield, we visited Wilson’s Creek National Battlefield, the site of the second major battle of the Civil War. Much like a cemetery, the land beneath a battlefield is hallowed by the lives that are given upon its surface. It was beautiful and peaceful.

Onto Kansas: Route 66 only clocks about 13-20 miles in Kansas as it clips the southeast corner of the state. Unfortunately, we were not even able to pass along those few miles. My ancestors, the early Handley pioneers, came to Kansas and settled into a small town named Oswego. My grandparents, great uncles and aunts, great grandparents, distant cousins, all are buried in the Oswego Cemetery. Paying my respects to those forefathers was more important than pounding the tread of my 4Runner along a highway for the sake of putting in the proper miles. I visited Oswego in my youth, but paid little attention to its setting. The Ozark mountains, which are really just hills, were incredibly beautiful in spring. The forests were in full blush of new leaves; soft, velvety green, and the hills were bursting with young grasses running down the hillsides. Only 13 miles of pavement define Route 66 in Kansas, but from what we saw, they are 13 stunning miles through hills, forests, and farmlands. We had rain the entire way.

Final resting place for Grandma and Grandpa, Oswego City Cemetery

Perhaps the show house where my father went to a Saturday matinee

Route 66: Illinois

Our objective on this trip is to navigate the old way, using an Atlas. It isn’t practical to use our GPS devices anyway. The GPS will map us on the fastest and most direct route, which will take us down interstates, bypassing the old Route 66. We are relying on several guidebooks we purchased along with the 10-year-old National Geographic atlas that has been sliding around the back of our car since its purchase. What we have learned already is that following a map the old way isn’t terribly difficult. It wasn’t too long ago in our lives when that was the only way to find our way. I will say that anyone one wants to attempt this will benefit from having a good navigator. Virginia is great at keeping me on the right road. The only trouble we have is passing through big cities. Sticking to the old road is time consuming and challenging pulling a trailer through heavy traffic and lots of stoplights. Route 66 doesn’t follow a single road, so I have to watch for the “66” shield to indicate turns to navigate through the city. We’ve discovered that many signs are missing, were never placed, or due to road construction, we miss, and so we get lost. I learned on our way out on Route 6 that I didn’t have the patience to follow the old road through Denver, Lincoln, Omaha, Des Moines, and Chicago. It was in the big, congested cities that I felt justified jumping onto the interstates to avoid the nasty surface street traffic.

There are lots of quirky roadside attractions like this one in Joliet Illinois, standing atop a Dairy Queen ice cream stand. Much of the Blues Brothers was set in Joliet.

We parked the trailer at a casino RV park in Joliet, Illinois and drove the 4Runner into downtown Chicago to get a photo for the start of our journey on South Michigan Avenue and East Adams Street. It took several hours making our way back to Joliet following the historic road signs through the city. It wasn’t until Joliet that we started seeing interesting landmarks.

At the starting point on Adams Street in downtown Chicago.

Route 66 has far more character than Route 6. Our guidebooks alert us to the historic, cultural, quirky, and fun things to do along the way. It takes hours to see and visit all the sites. Our first day of driving took us most of the day to go 160 miles from Joliet to Springfield, Illinois. There is so much to see in Springfield that we spent two nights, camping at the fairgrounds. The Lincoln Museum is fabulous. We also visited the Lincoln Home National Historic Park and the Lincoln tomb. Springfield Illinois is all about Lincoln.

The Lincoln tomb in Springfield Illinois.

We live in troubled times, and this trip has allowed me to pull away from social media and most of my news feeds. It’s relaxing to see that life around me continues without weighing all the problems and crises of our world. Several days ago, it occurred to me that while I visited the Herbert Hoover National Historic Park, The Lincoln Museum, the Ulysses Grant National Historic Park, that we’ve been through hard times before. In fact, we’ve been through much worse times before. We are a resilient people. We are smart and resourceful. We’ll get through this and much more. The more I study history, I’m reminded of the incredible good we are all capable of. I suppose, once again, that it is through adversity that we grow. In some ways, I feel more confident moving forward knowing that we’ve already been through tough times. Great men and women have always risen at the time of greatest need. No doubt that will yet play out in our future.

There are patches where the old road still exists. Some stretches are concrete and go clunkety clunk as we pass by, and other pieces of the road are paved in brick. The brick really rattled our car and trailer as we drove over.

It was a shorter drive from Springfield to St. Louis, but it still took us most of the day because there were so many small sections of the road we had to locate and explore. We’ve decided to follow the original route that is marked as the 1926-1930 alignment. After 1930, the road was already being moved around towns and cities by using cutoffs. It’s the old storefronts and establishments that are interesting to us, and that requires us to pass through the heartbeat of Main Street USA.

The county courthouse in Carlinville Illinois

Fun sights around St. Louis included the Cahokia Mounds State Historic Park, where we walked among the largest and oldest Pre-Columbian archeological sites north of Mexico, The Gateway Arch National Park, The Ulysses S. Grant National Historic Park, Forest Park (site of the 1904 World’s Fair), and the Missouri Botanical Garden. We happened to visit the botanical garden at the height of the azalea bloom. The gardens were fabulous.

Cahokia Mounds State Park, Illinois

The Gemini Giant in Willmington Illinois. I wish I had a picture of me with him to give you a sense of scale. I’m over 6’ tall and I come up to about his knee.

The Gateway Arch is actually in Missouri, but we camped on the Illinois side of the river and that is where I captured this image.

Lots of vintage service stations can be found along the Route

A Journey to Discover 6,66

Many people may approach the number 666 with a bit of trepidation. Some may feel it has an evil connotation. Why would we embark on a journey to discover the meaning of 666? If you look closely at the title, you will see a small comma between the first and second 6. No, we are not trying to track down the devil. We are on a bucket list journey across America. It started in Bishop, California at the terminus of US Route 6, the longest road in America that stretches from the Atlantic Coast in Maine and runs for over 3,000 miles to end in California. Several years ago, I was introduced to On the Road by Jack Kerouac and learned a bit about the history of Route 6. I sometimes feel that I discovered Kerouac to late in life. I’ve wanted to spend some time on Route 6 and see if I can find remnants of that old Americana vibe he wrote about. We traveled east as far as Chicago where we intercepted Route 66, the great mother road of America. We started yesterday on Lake Shore Drive in downtown Chicago, and we will spend the next four weeks making our way towards Santa Monica, California. We hope to find plenty of odd and quirky artifacts, dated motels and service stations, endless miles of farmland and desert, and visit some national park properties along the way. I brought my camera with me, and I’ll be including photos of the trip. Hope you enjoy it.

Sinclair station at the south end of Utah Lake

We’ve found that Route 6 doesn’t have the same tourist attraction of Route 66. You have to know what you are looking for, and much of the time, the attraction is simply the view outside the window. I love the Eastern Sierras, the Owens Valley, and that long lonely road across Nevada. We bought a guidebook to learn more about the regions we were passing through. We were disappointed that the author, (who is from the east coast), describes this desert area as an endless wasteland. I love the solitude and the rugged beauty.

The creepy Clown Motel in Tonopah, Nevada

We crossed the Rockies on Loveland Pass, the highest mountain pass in Colorado at nearly 12,000 feet in elevation. It was a long hard slog to pull our little trailer up that grade. It was a different season up there, still full-on winter. Then we descended the eastern slope and drove across the farmlands of Nebraska, Iowa, and Illinois.

Laws Railroad Museum in Bishop, California

We camped at Rifle Falls, Colorado on our way to Chicago

Loveland Pass, Colorado

Pioneer cemetery at Winter Quarters and temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

Herbert Hoover National Historic Park. The home he was born in. West Branch, Iowa

A Week in Quartzsite Arizona

We drove down to the desert of Arizona to escape the arrival of a polar vortex in Utah. We staked our camp on BLM property outside the town of Quartzsite. It’s a dry and dusty place to spend a few weeks, but while it was in the teens and twenties at home, we were in the mid 60’s in camp, except for when a howling wind beat upon us. There is no pleasure being out in a dust storm no matter how warm it is. Even with 60° temperature, the wind brings the chill factor down to the 50’s or even the 40’s. We were comfortable in our Scamp. I hiked into the desert every evening around 5:00 for an hour of photography. The low-angle sun was beautiful as it raked across the rugged landscape. In mid-afternoon light, the scenery was harsh and dry, but for an hour in late afternoon, the desert comes to life and is revealed in both color and texture.

All of these images were made within a 5-minute walk of our campsite.

Saguaro cactus detail

Training for a Mission

Our mission has come to an end and we have returned home. For both Virginia and I, our time passed as though it were a dream. As we look back on our time in Hawaii, it is hard imagining where it all went. We certainly had our challenges, but mostly it was a beautiful and sacred experience. Upon returning home, we were asked to speak to our local church congregation, which happened this last Sunday. I am sharing my talk in this blog post. With these words and a handful of images, we leave our mission behind, though it will never be far away in our minds and hearts. Going forward I will change the blog from the Handley Mission Blog back to HandleyCraft Photography as I continue sharing our travels and photography.

How does one prepare to serve a full-time senior mission? Or more importantly, how does the Lord prepare one for a mission? And how long does that take?

Sunday morning August 15, 2022, we met with our stake president and were set apart as missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and blessed for the work we were embarking on for the coming 2 years. We had answered a call to serve in a specific capacity at the Polynesian Cultural Center that would leverage the professional skills I practiced for 40 years. President Smith knew the parameters of our assignment, yet under the influence of the Spirit, he stated clearly that my talents and experience in the theatre were secondary to the real reason I was called to the Hawaii, Laie Mission, and that I would have an influence along the North Shore of Oahu and beyond. I thought it an odd pronouncement, and it stuck with me throughout. Nothing has testified more clearly the sensitivity of my stake president and his ability to vocalize as the mouthpiece of God a mission that continued to influence my activities for nearly 700 days from sunup to sundown.

The mission did not unfold as I expected, but with that blessing and my faith in the restored gospel and my Savior Jesus Christ, I witnessed the remarkable plan God had for me the last two years.

But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.

Before any of this happened, the Lord was preparing our minds and hearts to serve as missionaries. My lifetime career ended amid the pandemic. It was good timing, I suppose. I had the required time to receive a full pension, and Virginia and I had other dreams to chase. We purchased a small travel trailer and set out to visit all the National Parks. After 18 months of off and on travel, I turned to Virginia one day and asked, “So, is this it for the rest of our lives?” We were in the temple about this time, and while pondering my purpose in life, I felt a distinct prompting from the Spirit informing me that we had other work to do, service to give. Upon exiting the temple, I asked Virginia what she thought of serving a mission. Well, of course she received that impression, also from the Spirit, long before me. She needed me to be properly motivated. Not only did the Spirit prompt me that our time had come to serve, but I was told of a specific assignment calling to us. We hurried home and logged into the senior missionary webpage. After scrolling through nearly 1,500 requests, mostly flagged as high need, we found the one we felt was our fit; the Polynesian Cultural Center was looking for a Theatre and Lighting Specialist. I seemed to have the proper qualifications, and then some.

But again, I’m ahead of myself

That incident was preceded by perhaps the most intense period of preparation, a course of study that took years, in fact, the bulk of my adult life. For nearly 35 years, I learned to juggle fatherhood, a career, church service, and gospel study. If mortality is to teach us to be like God, I can’t imagine a better laboratory exercise than thrusting someone into fatherhood and making him responsible for additional fragile lives. We all know that parenthood comes without a handbook, and sadly, isn’t a funded program either, which is where the career enters the equation. If that isn’t complicated enough, we are further asked to contribute our “free” time in service to others. Of course, the key to surviving all this is regular and consistent gospel study. Whew! I’m exhausted thinking about it. Nothing, and I mean nothing was a better preparation for this mission than time spent helping six beautiful souls through to adulthood. Of course I had Virginia’s help, and together we sought guidance from a loving Heavenly Father.

My career was in theatre arts. It goes without saying that any level of artistic expression I achieved was a gift of God. I learned to draw on the influence of the Spirit in my most simple or complicated projects. I learned that trusting the Spirit allowed me to make quick, gut-reaction decisions that were always right. In fact, the only mistakes I made were when I ignored a prompting of the Spirit or acted from an ego centric perspective. I can truthfully report that the Spirit never led me astray.

In church service, I never offered a moment that wasn’t compensated many times over. Most of those years were spent working with young men. Seven years as Scoutmaster. No doubt these activities cross-blessed one another. The more time spent in service seemed to enhance my abilities of fatherhood. Parenting gave me countless experiences to draw on for creative projects. And my study of art taught me to express the purpose of the human experience.

Lest any of you think God didn’t prepare me for all this, here’s a bit more:

Only God could have known decades ago what I was heading into and that I couldn’t pull it off by myself. He prepared a help meet. Back in 1985, while Virginia was still serving a proselyting mission in Mexico, almost ready to wrap things up and return home, I was back for a summer job in the California hometown where we grew up. We are 4 years apart. In a teenage span of time, four years placed us in entirely different orbits. Though we may have known who each other was, we shared nothing in common that either knew of. I casually heard through the grapevine that she would be home in a week. From that moment forward, she was in my head. I could not get her off my mind. There had been no communication between us, and no association before her mission. I thought it odd to think constantly about someone I didn’t know and was barely an acquaintance. Taking the matter before the Lord one evening, I knelt by my bed and asked, “So, what’s up with Tina Keele, and why is she in my head all day?”

In a flicker of an instant, a flame ignited within my breast, and I felt a consuming fire that didn’t burn me. For the second time in my life, I received a sure witness from God, a direct manifestation through the operation of the Holy Ghost with the following answer, “Because she is to be your companion for the rest of eternity”.

What does one do with information like that? I certainly didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. We’ve all heard stories of young men attempting to manipulate a young woman into marriage by saying he had received revelation they were to wed. That wasn’t me. I saved that little bombshell until after we were married. I was an awkward, shy, and insecure young man. The Lord saw fit to shove me in the right direction. Virginia received her own confirmation because we were engaged on our second date and married two months later. Think of that, barely an acquaintance to marriage in two months, pulled off by a dorky 26-year-old kid who barely had the courage to hold her hand. It almost seems like an arranged marriage. Perhaps it was.

But how did I get to that? What was the Lord’s plan in my behalf before marriage? The Lord knew my path long before me. He knew the family I would have and the career I would enjoy. He also knew I would use art to affect the faith of others. Before marriage, I needed the skills that allowed a way of feeding eight mouths. As much as I wanted to study hard science and be a geologist, the theatre always held an open door. Upon my third and final attempt at Chemistry 101, I realized I was bucking my natural talent. My heart was always in theatre, and as often as I fought it, that is where I consistently found peace, success, and inspiration. Once engaged in the right course, the Lord opened door after door after door. My undergraduate degree was a difficult journey taking nearly 8 years to complete, minus the two years of mission service.

Speaking of mission service, there is no way I would have survived college without my two-year stint as a full-time missionary in Italy. I simply wasn’t mature enough. But aside from maturity, the Lord saw need to prepare me for other critical life lessons. I received my testimony of the restored gospel and joined the church when I was 16. I had a witness of the Book of Mormon, but I didn’t understand the doctrine. Most of the time on that first mission, I was only ½ step ahead of people I was teaching. I was memorizing doctrine in Italian one day and teaching it on the street the next. I was gifted a copy of Marvelous Work and a Wonder, which I took to Italy with me. It’s a beginners’ guide to church doctrine. I read and studied it daily even though it wasn’t approved reading material in our mission library. After reading one day, I wrote in my journal, “There’s a lot more to this religion stuff than I ever thought”. One has to wonder about the Lord’s plan to place the proselyting of His gospel in the hands of 19-year-old knucklehead boys. He knew I needed that training ground and the foundation it would give me for the rest of my life.

As I continue moving backwards through this timeline, I notice the Lord’s influence appears broad and simple. God has been wise and gentle. My growth was slow but steady. Prior to a mission came my conversion to the gospel of Jesus Christ. This conversion came about through an association with a unique group of youth, and one young man in particular. Everyone deserves a best friend, and in my case, I had the best of the best. Though years and circumstances have separated us, there will always be a special place in my heart for Michael Grayson. He and his family opened their home and hearts to a stray young man. They loved me and he shared with me the Book of Mormon.

I desperately wanted to know more, so I showed up one day at early morning seminary. The course of study that year was the Book of Mormon, how fortunate for me. With time, I learned about a passage of scripture called Moroni’s Promise, with an invitation to learn for myself by asking God for a witness through prayer. It seemed simple enough, so I took up the challenge. A moment ago, I shared a personal witness I received with respect to my relationship with Virginia. I said that was the second witness. Well, this was the first. Between that early morning seminary class and my first period high school class, I asked God to reveal to me the validity of the Book of Mormon. Again, but this time, for the first time, my breast burned with fire that didn’t consume. That witness has stuck with me for nearly 50 years and counting. I cannot explain it away, I cannot ignore it, nor deny it happened. It was real, and it is real. It is the rock-solid base upon which all my faith and testimony rests.

But, alas, there is one story more to demonstrate how God prepared me to serve a mission in Hawaii. When I was 9 my parents moved us into a new home. It would be the first time to have my own bedroom. The day we moved was stormy and we needed to put light bulbs in all the fixtures. It was late, and we only got the necessary lights working. When I went to bed, all alone, there was fierce thunder and lightning passing by. I was scared. It didn’t occur to me to run to Mom and Dad. Instead, I knelt by my bed and prayed to God. Somehow, I always knew I could find comfort through prayer. I didn’t learn that from my parents, they didn’t pray. I don’t know where I learned to pray. It’s something I always knew how to do. It’s as if I came into mortality with that knowledge, and therefore it wasn’t a stretch when it came to an inquiry into the Book of Mormon.

I hope what I have shared illustrates that the Lord has been preparing me for this mission for nearly 60 years. It’s been a journey. But I don’t feel this mission is the culminating event in my life. I suspect the experiences we’ve had these last two years have been preparation for something yet to unfold. The trials we passed through have refined us. It’s easy to write off a mission to Hawaii as an extended vacation. I assure you it wasn’t. Missions are not defined by local climate. It was a sacred space for Virginia and I, for it was in Hawaii that we came to better know our Savior. One doesn’t approach the Savior without a measure of sacrifice. There was a price we paid for the privilege. A mission is a lot like a crucible. A crucible is a ceramic container in which materials are placed and subjected to very high temperatures. Under the proper amount of heat, a reaction occurs. One must be careful however so as not to apply too much heat too quickly. The Master watches carefully so as not to damage the material inside. Some crucibles may be prettier than others, some may have a finer finish on the outside. It doesn’t really matter. What takes place inside is all the same. The Master applies heat until the desired outcome is reached. A senior mission isn’t mandatory. Those who go, willingly place themselves in the crucible. In some ways it’s a relief to have it over. On the other hand, I tend to like it hot.

Our final sunrise in Hawaii, Pounders Beach, Oahu

Aloha

Our two year assignment on the island of Oʻahu is rapidly coming to a close and we will soon be returning to our home in Utah. I have never liked saying goodbye. I easily become emotional. I’ve grown to love the people, the missionaries we work with, the students we serve, and the guests we teach in the park. Laie has become our home. We’ve adapted to the climate. I love walking on the beach across the highway from our apartment. It’s a simple life in which we don’t have big decisions to make. Our days are uncomplicated, there is little drama, and we enjoy a tranquility that permeates every aspect of our time and space.

Wandering Tattler

While here, we have come to appreciate the Hawaiian greeting of Aloha, which is more than a casual hello or goodbye. I hear the word used a lot, especially at the Polynesian Cultural Center where the students are constantly greeting guests. It was a difficult word to include in my vocabulary regularly. It wasn’t a part of my culture and I felt awkward calling it out to others in passing. With time however, I have developed a love for the people here and I better understand the meaning of the expression. It’s true that Aloha can be shared casually in passing, but it can also represent a much deeper and richer expression. Aloha can mean that you recognize and respect another individual, that you show compassion and love for them. A literal translation of the word into English is alo, meaning in the presence of, and ha, the divine breath. Ha is not the breath that comes from the lungs, but is the breath that emanates from the soul, or from the spirit. In a very traditional way, the greeting was expressed by pressing foreheads together, and nose to nose, breathing in deeply. You inhale the divine breath of the other person. It is a beautiful expression.

Frozen tongues of molten lava, builders of an island

I feel the spirit of aloha at this time not just in the sense of parting with island acquaintances, although I’ve made many dear friends while we have been here. I’m able to recognize that I have changed in my time in Hawaii. I’m going home different than when I arrived. I can say “aloha” to that old self. I had hoped that I would find closure to my lifetime career while serving at the PCC. I did not find closure, and I am okay with that. I can bid aloha to that dimension of my life and walk away with compassion and respect and no ill feelings. Aloha is also used as a greeting of coming. We look forward to once again reuniting with family and friends. It is not likely that we go back and pick up where we left off in life before the mission. If we have changed, then it would be a shame to simply revert to an old life or old self. We plan to move on. We are not sure what we will do next. We’ve talked about many options. We are confident the Lord has further plans in store for us, and we will see what unfolds upon our return.

While walking on the beach earlier this week I came upon a Japanese glass fishing float. This is the second one I’ve found here. They are significant because they were in use from the 1920’s until the 1940’s, and then replaced by wood or cork, and then eventually plastic. This glass float has been riding the currents of the vast Pacific Ocean for over 80 years, going round and round and around before finally washing up on the beach where I would find it. This float has been on its journey perhaps 20 years longer than I’ve been on my mortal walk. No doubt it has bumped into objects along the way and weathered many a storm without breaking. That is something I can truly appreciate and admire. I’ll take it home with me and it will have a place of honor on a shelf in my living room. My favorite souvenirs of our time in Hawaii are the things the island and the sea gifted us. In addition to the glass floats, I have a beautiful piece of coral, also found on the beach, a random piece of driftwood, a handful of Kukui nuts, and of course many, many photographs.

So, with both happy and sad hearts, we bid aloha to the people, things, and life we leave behind and greet with aloha the people, things and life that lie in our path as we move forward. A final expression of our hearts is: God be with you till we meet again, Alohaʻoe.

Nā ʻŌlelo (words)

I teach four topics in the Mission Settlement at the Polynesian Cultural Center: The History of Migration, The Story of Early Christian Missionaries in Hawaiʻi, The Hawaiian Alphabet, and The Importance of the Printing Press in Hawaiʻi. Before coming to the Mission Settlement, I knew little of these topics. The more I study and read, the more I understand the interconnectedness of all four, and the impact they had on the people here.

In the ancient culture, words had power, they had spirit. In the absence of a written language, all knowledge was conveyed through spoken word. Those words, and the knowledge they represented determined class and rank in society. If you had knowledge, you were likely a kahuna, a teacher or healer. One would protect rank and status by preserving that knowledge, it wasn’t freely shared. The kahuna would draw power from the spirit (or mana) of those words. After Cook’s arrival in 1778, life of the native islanders would be forever changed. In the forty years following first contact, the Hawaiians became aware that outsiders had greater mana than them. Once the coordinates to the islands were published, explorers, whalers, and traders began frequenting Hawaiʻi. The islanders were smart and observant. They learned that these outsiders had bigger and better ships, better clothing, weapons that fired, and they had metal.

Kahunas, chiefs, and others of noble class observed that the mana of these foreigners was strong. If they could capture the spirit of the foreigners’ words and access their knowledge, they too would have that power. It didn’t take long to see and understand that Europeans, and later the Americans, didn’t hold their words forever in their heads. The mana of the foreigners could be placed in written language and stored in books. They also observed that the sailors were not stingy with knowledge. Anyone who could read could tap into that mana. The key to knowledge and power was the ability to read.

In 1820, the first Christian missionaries arrived from the Congregational Church in Connecticut. Of those seven missionaries, two were teachers, two were preachers, one a farmer, a doctor, and a printer. It wouldn’t be hard to guess which professions would be most valuable on the islands. Of course, a doctor or a farmer would be invaluable. Upon arrival, the missionaries petitioned the king for permission to stay. The king, Liholiho (Kamehameha II) was tentative about their request. He wasn’t sure he wanted missionaries in his islands. He wasn’t sure he wanted Christianity. When he learned however that one of the missionaries was a printer, he quickly changed his mind. Of the many talents these missionaries brought, the printer alone had power to manage language and craft books.

The king agreed to let the missionaries stay if they would create an alphabet for the Hawaiian language and use their printing press to print materials that would develop literacy. The reason the missionaries brought a printing press and a printer was a desire to translate the Bible into Hawaiian and print it there. They now had two directives; to promote literacy and to promote Christianity. It took several years for these missionaries to master the language enough to create the alphabet and begin printing a primer. The Hawaiians quickly grasped the concept of reading, and literacy rapidly spread among the people.

Another group of missionaries, this time from the Catholic Church, arrived in the 1830’s. Their work included the building of churches and schools. Notable among the Catholics was Father Damien who performed a great work among the people who suffered from Hansen’s disease (leprosy). He cared for those infected and isolated on the island of Molokaiʻi. He built a church, a school, and a hospital, and used his words to heal those who suffered.

In the 1850’s, the first missionaries arrived from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They too began building congregations in cities and villages across the islands. But this church was looking for a place to gather the members, and that is where the story of Lāʻie comes into the picture. The church purchased 6000 acres on the windward side of Oʻahu. This is where members would build a temple, the first one outside the United States, and later establish a college that would one day grow into a fully accredited liberal arts university, BYU-Hawaii. Words are indeed powerful. Words convey knowledge, and they have spirit, or mana. There is a belief among the Native Americans on the mainland that education is the ladder to success. Nowhere was that more clearly expressed than among an ancient culture in Hawaiʻi that radically changed within the course of two generations.

In a recent address at General Conference held by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints titled “Words Matter”, Elder Ronald A. Rasband of the Council of the Twelve Apostles, said: The “word of God” surpasses all other expressions. It has been so since the Creation of the earth. We “hear [God]” in personal revelation and promptings from the Holy Ghost, in answers to prayer, and in those moments when only Jesus Christ, through the power of His Atonement, can lift our burdens, grant us forgiveness and peace, and embrace us “in the arms of his love.”

He quoted the following scripture from the Book of Mormon during a time of conflict: “And now, as the preaching of the word had a great tendency to lead the people to do that which was just—yea, it had had more powerful effect upon the minds of the people than the sword, or anything else, which had happened unto them—therefore Alma thought it was expedient that they should try the virtue of the word of God.” Alma 31:5

And also, these passages from the New Testament and again from the Book of Mormon:
“If a man love me, he will keep my words: and my Father will love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him.” John 14:23
“The words of Christ will tell you all things what ye should do.” 2 Nephi 32:3

Haleakalā Silversword

In my time working and teaching in the Mission Settlement, I have learned what the ancient Hawaiians already knew; that words have power, and perhaps even more importantly, that words have spirit. Choose your words carefully and use your words wisely, and with Aloha.

'Ōlelo Mikanele...... (missionary language)

When I served my first mission as a young man, 45 years ago, I was introduced to many slang words used by other missionaries of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Many of those words are/were unique to church culture. At times, missionaries can carry entire conversations using phrases that would never be understood outside the demographic. I work with a lot of the young missionaries on this mission, and I’ve learned that the vocabulary has grown even further. There is a lot I don’t understand from these young elders and sisters, but there are also the old tried and true words and phrases that still remain. As we wrap up our time in Hawaii and begin thinking of what happens next in life, I realize I am falling victim to the adjective- Trunky. Being trunky occurs when a missionary begins thinking of home. It has direct application to thinking about that suitcase that has been sitting in the closet collecting dust for almost two years and will soon be laid open on the bed waiting to get packed. To be fair, this thought doesn’t weigh heavily upon me now, but we do talk about what comes next, what remains to be completed here, and how we prepare for reintegrating to normal civilian life.

I hated PE in junior high. Everyone called me bird-legs. Yeah, thatʻs pretty much what I looked like.

Serving a mission is by no means a typical life experience. Our days follow a pattern of living in which we constantly attempt to act as disciples of Jesus Christ. Notice I used the word “attempt”. I’m constantly working on it though I often feel I fail miserably. The choices we make in our day would not likely be the same choices we would make at home. Our activities and routines are constantly focused on honing our missionary skills. Aside from our daily shift at the Polynesian Cultural Center, we spend 1-2 hours in scripture study, attend meetings, and help in the community. We try to stay healthy and exercise, stay in contact with family, prepare lesson material, etc. We are given one day a week as a preparation day to do weekly chores like shopping and laundry. Shopping alone however can take half the day since it involves driving to the other side of the island on a busy two-lane highway with a speed limit of 35 mph. We sometimes will take advantage of the tourist attractions on the island. We’re not really beach people, so sitting in the sun doesn’t appeal to us. I am anxious for the winds to die back because that means calmer seas, which makes it good for snorkeling.

Pretty much the state bird of Hawaiʻi

Serving as missionaries has been life changing. For 25 years we worked at raising six children, which meant 32 years in a career, mountains of laundry, and countless meals passing from kitchen to the dining table. We attended school activities, church programs, scouting events, paper routes, and a thousand city sports games and piano recitals. By the time pandemic hit, our kids were all married, and we found ourselves at a crossroads. No one seemed to need us. We no longer were in charge of the circus. It was a bit unnerving to face the reality that we weren’t needed in the daily lives of those six children. We had to reinvent ourselves. Separating ourselves for two years has served several useful purposes. Contributing our time, talents, and resources to charity is always a worthwhile use of time. We are 3000 miles away from home, meaning that our children are on their own and we can watch them from a distance. It has been a remarkable experience to see them go through hard things and solve their own problems. They are all beautiful, capable, and resourceful individuals (by the way, we include our in-law children along with our own six natural offspring). This mission has been hard, much harder than I ever imagined it would be. Most of our acquaintances back home deny that we are serving a real mission. Somehow, they think that two years in a vacation destination doesn’t allow for hardships, that we don’t have room or reason to complain. We don’t even try to explain it anymore, and I won’t get into that here. I only mention it because it relates to perhaps the richest benefit of serving this mission, which is strengthening our marriage relationship. What we’ve been through, we’ve been through together. We’ve learned to lean on one another, rely on one another, and solve difficult and challenging problems together. For those first 25-30 years, all our attention was centered on raising those children. It seemed there was precious little time to ourselves. We’ve now had two years with just she and I, Virginia and Michael, and that has been wonderful.

Pacific Golden Plover. The Hawaiianʻs called it Kōlea. In their ancient stories and legends, Kōlea pointed the ancient voyagers to these remote and isolated islands.

But now with the end in sight, we’ll soon be returning home and once again be in close proximity to family and old friends. We wonder what that life looks like, and how we’ll apply the lessons we’ve learned here to the next phase of this mortal journey. I like to think that we will continue moving forward. Returning home doesn’t mean going back to old habits, problems, and routines. We have new hills to climb, roads to travel, family gatherings, and time with grandkids. Mission life in some ways is easy. Our days are planned and the distractions are few. It’s time to start thinking about going back to the real world.

Red-crested Cardinal

Being “trunky” can manifest itself as anxiety; it’s not for us. We’re excited for the future, and I am hopeful to continue sharing through the HandleyCraft Photography Blog. We’re not done yet, but the end is within sight. Aloha ohana!

A Place of Refuge

In the ancient Hawaiian culture, societies were governed by what was referred to as a “kapu” system. Kapu would translate to us as taboo. Kapu was central to their religion and government. The ancient Hawaiians believed in multiple deities. Between the pantheon of gods and the ruling class, every aspect of community living was regulated by strict rules. Breaking kapu made a person subject to punishment that often resulted in death. Examples of common kapu included separation of eating between men and women. Foods such as pork, coconut, and bananas were kapu (forbidden) to women. Commoners were prohibited to interact with members of the ruling class, to step on their shadow, etc. Personal ownership of just about anything was forbidden as all property was considered communal; you broke kapu if you took an unfair share. When a person broke kapu, punishment could be instantaneous and without mercy. The exception was if a person could escape to a place of refuge. Places of refuge, known as puʻuhonua’s were considered sacred sites and were administered under the direction of a priest. A puʻuhonua was often a tract of land that might contain a village and usually with a temple structure (heiau). A person guilty of breaking kapu could find refuge by entering a puʻuhonua as if it were a safe or free zone. Once in a puʻuhonua, he/she could not be captured and punished. At the place of refuge, one was expected to contribute to the community life and it was the priests’ duty to allow an opportunity for the individual to rehabilitate. Eventually, a person could reenter society and participate in regular activities. Places of refuge were found on all the islands.

Puʻu O Mahuka Heiau State Historic Site, North Shore, Oahu

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints sent its first missionaries to the islands in the 1850’s. These missionaries, along with others who followed, formed congregations of converts to Christianity throughout the villages on the different islands. It always was, and still is an important concept within the church, to gather the Latter-day Saints, although today it is viewed more as a metaphorical idea. Today we gather as a community of Christ within our individual wards and stakes. But back in the 1860’s, the church was looking for an actual gathering place as a home for the Latter-day Saints. Through the help of its church agents in the islands, a 6,000-acre tract of land was identified, a former ranch on the northeast coast of Oahu. The church purchased the property in 1865 and began building a community. The area was known among the people of Oahu as Laʻie, and it happened to be the site of an ancient puʻuhonua, a place of refuge.

There is a simple beauty in the idea that the Latter-day Saints of God would gather to a site already consecrated as a place of refuge. What greater place of refuge can we find than where Christ would be among us.

For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.
Matthew 18:20

Laʻie Hawaiʻi Temple, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

In 1915, then president of the church, Joseph F. Smith announced that a temple would be built in Laʻie, the first temple constructed outside the United States. Temples are special places to members of the Church of Jesus Christ, for it is inside a temple that we form a special relationship with God by entering into covenants. These covenants establish a sacred bond. We promise to keep His commandments and in return He blesses us with knowledge and power. Temples are inherently peaceful places. When we enter the temple, we leave behind the cares and worries of our modern world. It’s a place where we can focus on the things of heaven. It quite literally is a place of refuge. The Laʻie Temple sits on a hill overlooking town. When we arrived here, we were given an apartment near the beach, probably not more than 30’ above sea level. We were told that in the event of a tsunami, we were to seek refuge on higher ground, go to the temple. The temple is literally and figuratively our place of refuge while we are on a mission in Hawaiʻi. We look to it as a place of safety, security, and peace.

Unfortunately, as powerful a symbol as it is, that beautiful edifice on the hill, it ultimately isn’t always available in the dark corners of our lives. The temple operates on a daily schedule and isn’t necessarily accessible when I need it. I can’t sleep at the temple, nor can I pick up a meal there. So how can I take advantage of the temple when I face a crisis during the off hours? I’ve come to learn that it’s not the building that offers the refuge, but our relationship with the Savior, which is forged in the temple. Ultimately, it’s the covenants themselves that provide the refuge from the world. Wherever I go, and whatever I do, I have my covenant relationship with God.

The temple is also a place of refuge, thanksgiving, instruction, and understanding, “that [we] may be perfected … in all things pertaining to the kingdom of God on the earth.” Throughout my life it has been a place of tranquility and peace in a world that is literally in commotion. It is wonderful to leave the cares of the world behind in that sacred setting.
Quentin L. Cook, April 2016

In the 1½ years we’ve been serving in this mission, I’ve truly come to appreciate the places I can find that provide a refuge from the world. I keep in touch with headlines, but I’m not a news junky. The world is in commotion. There is far too much anger and contention in daily living. It seems to grow worse each day, week, and month. This mission has provided us opportunity to seek inwards for peace, and not allow outside pressure and influences to cloud our judgement. When we return in five more months, I hope always to seek and find refuge in my own personal puʻuhonua, within my relationship to the Savior provided by sacred covenants established in the temple.

Late afternoon sun rays along the North Shore, Oahu

Migration

The English word migration derives from the Latin verb migrare, meaning “to move from one place to another.” By the broadest definition, human migration refers to any movement of people, either temporary or permanent, from one place to another. Usually, however, the term is used only for the permanent change of residence by an individual or group-- From Kids Britanica

An old Japanese cemetery on the North Shore of Oahu

When I came to Hawaii to serve at the Polynesian Cultural Center, my initial assignment was to work in the Pacific Theatre and the production Ha, Breath of Life. After a while, I realized that the theatre administration didn’t have anything for me to do. Not wanting to waste my time on the mission, I picked up work in the mission office doing various chores for our mission president, helping with a fleet of cars, and keeping 32 beach cruiser bicycles running for the junior missionaries on the streets of La’ie. That change in responsibilities can’t be considered a true migration because I did drift back to the theatre to help with several projects (remember, human migration generally means a permanent change).

Japanese cemetery, North Shore, Oahu

After a year of plodding along, our mission president felt it was time for a change. Virginia and I rarely saw each other. I would go to the office at 8:00am and work until 4:00pm. She would go to her assignment at 3:00pm and work until 9:30pm. We rarely saw each other except maybe for a quick lunch. Senior couples generally serve together when/where possible, but rarely are they asked to be on completely opposite schedules for over 12 hours. He therefore requested a transfer (a migration?). We were both moved to the Mission Settlement in the Villages of Polynesia to teach ukulele. I’ve already written about the ukulele experience, except to put it in context of migration. From that point on I have never assumed I was going back to the theatre.

Waimea Valley Botanical Garden, North Shore, Oahu

After two months teaching ukulele, I was asked to make an additional shift, albeit a minor adjustment. There are three buildings that make up the Mission Settlement. I should probably explain that the Mission Settlement is the area of the park that explains the introduction of Christianity into the Hawaiian Islands. The three buildings are 1) the mission home with a replica of the missionary living quarters and includes a gift shop that sells Hawaiian quilting art, and with a large lanai where the ukulele lessons are taught 2) a chapel where the history of Christianity is taught beginning with the Congregational missionaries that arrived from Connecticut in 1820 3) the school house where the migration story is told and guests can see a model of a printing press that revolutionized the language story.

Kualoa Ranch, the backdrop to many motion pictures like Jurassic Park

About a month ago, I was moved from teaching ukulele to the chapel to teach history, both the story of the various missionary groups that came to the islands, and the migration story. And so, my personal migration journey continues. I’m not expecting to return to teaching ukulele. I’ve read a lot of history while we’ve been on the island, not knowing I was on this trajectory. It has obviously come in useful. The first book I read was James Michener’s Hawaii. Though Michener changed the names and a bit of the timeline, the book was well researched and is genuinely an example of historical fiction. Our presentations are brief. We are teaching tourists, after all. No one is coming to hear a university course on the subject. We teach a general overview in about 15 minutes on our assigned topics. But we have to be prepared to answer questions. I need to study more in my personal time because it helps me understand the context for the stories we tell. The missionary story is easy to tell in 15 minutes, the migration is much more difficult.

The chapel in the Mission Settlement, Polynesian Cultural Center

I begin my migration presentation with a brief explanation of the word “migration” with respect to human movement. That is followed by a question designed to trick my audience. I explain that I was raised with a typical Western education much like all of them. I ask them who, based on a general course of world history, is credited with discovering Hawaii. I almost always get an excited guest who shouts out Captain James Cook. I then follow up with the question, “What is wrong with that answer?” When Cook arrived, there were hundreds of Hawaiians on the beach waiting for him. Where did they come from? That is the story of migration. Cook isn’t part of the migration story because he always intended to return home. These Polynesians on the beach came from distant places and they now called Hawaii home. It’s fun to take the guests on a three-thousand-year journey that begins in Taiwan, and moves south through the Philippines, eastward across New Guinea, and out into the South Pacific Ocean. It took about 1,500 years to reach Tahiti, and another 500-800 hundred years to travel north across the equator and eventually reach the Hawaiian Islands. It was a journey that required skill, courage, strength, and a thirst for adventure.

Another day begins in paradise

In our brief 15 minutes we must squeeze in the Polynesian’s skill of ship building, navigation, survival, and beginning life in a new land. The Hawaiian Islands did not have the plants and animals that would sustain life, and therefore they had to travel with the banana, coconut, taro, pig, chicken, etc.

Pounders Beach, Oahu

Like the ancient Hawaiians, I’ve been on my own migration journey. With seven months yet ahead of us there will perhaps be additional experiences that will continue my migration story through the park and through the mission. Without a written record, no one knows the reason for the Great Migration. It could have resulted from war, famine, draught, natural disaster, or simply a desire to explore. I don’t know the reason I’m not in the theatre. I don’t know why I’m moved from one assignment to another. I don’t think I’m a problem missionary. The Lord has a reason. Perhaps I’ve needed the growing experience. I don’t really question it anymore. I’m learning to trust Him and move, or migrate, where He wishes me to be.

Waves break on the North Shore at sunset

The Mission Journey Continues: Ukulele Land

18 months ago, when we submitted our papers to serve a 2-year mission for our church, we answered a posting for a theatre and lighting specialist at the Polynesian Cultural Center in Hawaii. I worked in theatre all my life. I started down this theatre path my freshman year in high school, about 1972. Several times during my undergraduate studies in college, I attempted other fields of interest, but always seemed to drift back to the stage. Upon completing my graduate degree in stage lighting design, I found employment back at Brigham Young University where I worked in theatre production for 32 years. So, my time spent in various applications of theatre craft spans almost 50 years. Continuing my work at the PCC seemed like a natural progression of my talents and skills.

For reasons I don’t fully understand, my offering was never accepted by the PCC, and I didn’t find fulfilment in the early days of my time in Hawaii. I don’t cast blame or harbor ill feelings towards any one or any thing with regards to my situation. I simply accept that the Center didn’t need what I had to offer at that time. With still a desire to serve the Lord and my church, I sought other opportunities in our mission community centered in the town of La’ie, Hawaii. My primary responsibilities became the repair and service of 32 beach cruiser bicycles that the young sister missionaries use in town. Given the hostile weather here, the salt sea air and high humidity, it has been a never-ending battle to keep these bikes in working order. And not just working order, but looking good while the sisters are about their business as emissaries of our Savior, Jesus Christ. I go through lots of chain lube and dozens of cans of spray paint. I’ve learned to tear the pedal crank apart to grease the bearings, replace rusted screws, clean salt corrosion, and I currently have three sisters with flat tires to repair in the morning. I believe there will always be job security as long as the mission provides bicycles for our young missionaries.

Mokoli’i at sunrise, Oahu

When our mission president learned that Virginia and I saw very little of each other in the course of our day (I began my work at 8am and worked until 4pm, she began work at 3:00pm and didn’t finish until 9:30pm), he felt a change was in order. Virginia was moved out of the wardrobe area at the theatre and into the Mission Settlement in the PCC villages teaching ukulele lessons to the guests that visit the PCC. That change alone gave us our evenings together once again, which we hadn’t enjoyed for over a year of our service. Having our evenings together restored an enormous sense of peace to our lives and we have been very happy.

Laie Hawaii Temple

However, that is not the end to this journey. Virginia expected from the beginning that we would actually serve and work together on this mission. This past week I began transitioning to a daily shift in the Mission Settlement alongside her. And yes, I too am teaching ukulele lessons to visitors of the Polynesian Cultural Center. I still service the bicycles in the early morning before going to the Mission Settlement.

Sunrise at Temple Beach

It sounds like a heavy workload for a retired old man, now 65. But I’m pretty sure that staying active and engaged in life will keep me going a few more years. And to be honest, teaching guests to play the ukulele is a blast. The lessons only last 10-15 minutes. We teach four basic chords and then teach them to strum and sing through, You Are My Sunshine. Even guests from foreign lands know this song. At first, I was nervous to sit before strangers playing a musical instrument and singing, I am a severe introvert after all. But with time, I’ve begun to relax. I get through the ukulele part fine, it’s the singing that I struggle with. I’ve never had a strong singing voice. In my years raising children, I used to sing to them at night. I’m pretty sure that they would roll over and force their sleep just to get me to stop. They were my only audience through my 30’s and 40’s. Now I sing all day-long to people from all over the world. We have fun. I tell them at the beginning that this will be a better experience for all of us if they help me sing. They laugh and sing along with me, and I’ve learned that I’m not the worst in the crowd.

One of many ukulele lessons taught each day

Lately, I’ve been feeling that playing and teaching the ukulele isn’t what this experience is really about. I’m a missionary, and while we don’t openly proselyte at the Center, I still can share the light of Christ in my rapport with our guests. I get to know who I’m teaching, where they are from, and what brings them to Hawaii. In a very short time, we share connections and experiences that we have in common. Many of the visitors are not in a hurry and enjoy a chance to sit and talk for a few minutes, or even 30. Last week I visited with a navy vet from the Vietnam War. He seemed happy to have someone listen to him. I’ve taught newlyweds, children, and families of various configurations. I’ve learned so much that I wonder if my purpose here is more for my benefit than theirs. I hope that overall, our guests go away with a sense of joy in their hearts, a bit of rest, and the ability to strum through, You Are My Sunshine. At the end of the day, I can’t help but feel that they have brought sunshine into my life as I strive to brighten their day.

Our dear friend Pinky sharing her talents with us

It's possible that we will complete the remaining 9 months of our mission in the Mission Settlement teaching ukulele. And if that be the case, we couldn’t be in a happier place. The setting is a bit idyllic. We teach on a lanai overlooking the central canal through the park. In the late afternoon when the sun falls low in the sky, and the heat begins to drop, a breeze blows through the palm trees that grow in the park, while guests paddle by in canoes and outriggers. The lessons are not continuous. We have time to sit and watch, to relax, to enjoy the spirit of Aloha in this beautiful land.

The central canal of the Polynesian Cultural Center

 For Virginia:

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You’ll never know dear how much I love you
Please don’t take my sunshine away

If I could see through time...

• All images in this post were created through the use of long exposure, which hopefully demonstrates the effect I am trying to communicate, and the smoothness of texture that results when we “see through time”.

I’ve been thinking about trials. It seems to be a common theme these days. I’m not sure why my mind goes there so much, so often. Perhaps it’s because I have the time and space to wonder and wander in that mindscape. I’m not dwelling on any particular negative emotion or situation, just random thoughts about the trials and struggles of life. I go to the beach every morning and walk for almost 2 hours- (got to get my 10,000+ steps in). Walking barefoot on the beach is a “mindful” way to start my day. I read a quote the other day by Rebecca Solnit in Wanderlust, The History of Walking: “Exploring the world is one of the best ways of exploring the mind… and walking travels both terrains.” I begin well before sunrise when the sky is still dark, with only a sliver of approaching dawn above the horizon. For 50 minutes, the sky evolves through fiery shades of amber, deep coral, and vibrant orange. And then the flaming disk of the sun emerges from the ocean and reflects and refracts its light across the surface of the water. In the moment as I watch this celestial lightshow, the ocean surface is choppy and turbulent, some days rougher than others. Often there are rain squalls off the shore that give additional texture to the sky and sea. In an attempt to graphically represent my feelings of inner turmoil, it occurred to me that through a simple photographic trick of manipulating time, I could remove the rough surface of the sea, and capture a tranquil and beautiful sunrise image. That trick is to drag out the shutter for a longer period of time.

I went back several days later with the intent to articulate these feelings in a photographic image. I set my camera upon a tripod at Pounders Beach and waited through the early iridescence of sunrise. I stacked 10 stops of neutral-density filters in front of my lens, which allowed me to achieve a 40-second exposure. In those 40 seconds, all the waves and turbulence smoothed and settled into an abstract blur. Even the clouds in the sky softened. When that image was finished, I quickly removed all the filters and adjusted the settings on my camera to shoot a much quicker image to represent “my” real time view. Studying those images side by side allowed me to consider my relationship to the turbulences in my life. I all too often feel stress moment by moment. I almost always react to the current world around me and all it has to throw my way. We talk of perspective in context of changing our vantage point, of raising or lowering our point of view with respect to the horizon. What if perspective could also be altered through the lens of time? What if one could comprehend the beginning from the end and understand all the energy that passes between those two markers on a watch dial, or even between the pages of a calendar, or even over the course of a lifetime? My still image represents 40 seconds of power and turbulence, but over time, the hard edges disappear.

First image- with 10 stops of neutral density, giving me 40 seconds of exposure

Second image- with no neutral density, allowing a 1/20 second exposure

I believe that is how God sees human life, how He sees me. He understands the turbulence of the moments of my life. He knows I bob my head from one wave to another, pushed and pulled by currents, tides, and other pulses of energy. But He also sees my beginning from my end. In order to achieve the polish I require, turbulence is a necessary element of the refining process. When time is included in the equation, there is grace and beauty in growth and development. The perspective of life is more painterly, more elegant, richer, and full of grace.

“As wave is driven by wave
And each, pursued, pursues the wave ahead,
So time flies on and follows, flies, and follows,
Always, for ever and new. What was before
Is left behind; what never was is now;
And every passing moment is renewed.”
Ovid, Metamorphoses

60-second exposure

Suffering Long in Long-suffering part 2

I suppose it’s time I finish this topic. It’s been a difficult one because of its personal nature. The lesson I’ve learned from this experience is to be careful with what I present and share on a public forum. I put it on the backburner and was content to leave it there until a friend reminded me recently that it was left unwritten. And so, I will attempt to finish it here. I think my reluctance to publishing my thoughts is that I don’t wish to presume my suffering surpasses that of others. I actually feel very blessed in life. I’m generally a happy person. Still, there are trials to endure, and those trials, by nature, involve suffering.

Ruins of a sugar factory at Kualoa Ranch

Many years ago, I read a book by the Rabbi Harold Kushner called, When Bad Things Happen to Good People. It was the first time I remember thinking about life’s trials and challenges not necessarily being the result of where we find ourselves on the scale of bad to good; that we live in a fallen world where random chaos can be found around any given corner. He writes about our agency, and what a priceless gift of God it is, even when one chooses to use it in a hurtful manner, and sometimes at the expense of another individual. Because we find ourselves in a world where bad things can, may, and do happen, it doesn’t suggest we are punished or are bad ourselves. We are placed in an environment that allows growth, choice, faith, and forgiveness. He writes:

 One of the ways in which people have tried to make sense of the world’s suffering in every generation has been by assuming that we deserve what we get, that somehow our misfortunes come as punishment for our sins.

I was studying the Book of John in the New Testament a few weeks back and came across the story of Jesus healing the blind man. His disciples posed the question, “Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him” It would seem that this passage acknowledges that misfortune may occur, and it is not necessarily the result of sin on a person’s part. I cross referenced this scripture with one found in the Book of Mormon. In 2 Nephi 2:2, Father Lehi teaches his son, Nevertheless, Jacob, my firstborn in the wilderness, thou knowest the greatness of God; and he shall consecrate thine afflictions for they gain. In other words, Lehi teaches that our suffering is consecrated to us for our benefit and growth.

An almost Dr. Seuss-like flower at the botanical garden

Unfortunately, anything “uncomfortable” almost always transfers to our consciousness as suffering. Either we are happy and content with the status quo, or we suffer when life doesn’t go the way we would choose. Suffering isn’t necessarily bad in and of itself. Perhaps it is simply an indication that external forces are bearing down upon us. When we don’t address the nature of our suffering, acknowledge possible purposes from a divine perspective, or consider the impact of change within us, then suffering can seem endless, or worse, a punishment.

Sometimes, our suffering is caused by the trial of someone dear to us, so it is a secondary suffering. I’ve known individuals who are victims of abuse, and I suffer that along with them. I grew up in an alcoholic home, and I suffer for that. Someone very dear to me suffers PTSD from overseas wars. I don’t understand that suffering, but I feel deep compassion for anyone who endures that kind of trial. So, sometimes the purpose in the suffering is to teach others charity, love, and compassion.

Diamond Head Lighthouse

If we never identify the purpose to our suffering, then we simply hurt, and hurt, and hurt. From that pain, we can become a victim. But with a purpose, we transcend suffering long, and enter what the scriptures refer to as long-suffering. What is the biblical meaning of longsuffering? Dictionary.com gives the following as a description of long-suffering:

Long-suffering is most commonly used as an adjective to describe someone who patiently endures negative situations for long periods of time without complaining.

It’s often used in situations in which someone has endured pain, injury, illness, hardship, tragedy, or difficulty in accomplishing something. It’s also often used to describe a person who has stood by or supported someone during a difficult time.

Importantly, though, long-suffering doesn’t simply indicate that someone has endured bad things for a long time—it implies that they have endured such things without complaint.

In religious contexts, long-suffering is discussed as a virtue, especially one involving being patient and slow to get angry. A close synonym is forbearance.

The term longsuffering is revealed as one of the fruits of the Spirit in Galatians 5:22, a translation of the Greek makrothumia, literally meaning “long of mind or soul,” or patient and tolerant.

Longsuffering suggests that we recognize a purpose to our suffering, and with that, we can have hope as we exercise patience. We accept that the pain will lead to change and/or growth. Someday it will end. Someday we’ll look back and perhaps remember who we were before the suffering began and we can see that like a caterpillar, we too have grown a beautiful set of wings.

I enjoy reading the works of the great stoic philosophers. Here are a few simple quotes I’ve come across in preparing to write this essay:

To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering- Friedrich Nietzsche

Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved- Helen Keller

Wisdom comes alone through suffering- Aeschylus

God had one son on earth without sin, but never one without suffering- Saint Augustine

The reward of suffering is experience- Harry S Truman

True, I am in love with suffering, but I do not know if I deserve the honor- Saint Ignatius

We forget our pleasures, we remember our sufferings- Marcus Tullius Cicero

Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional- Buddhist saying

Lastly, a quote by a largely unknown individual,

Though I would never choose to walk this path again, I wouldn’t trade the knowledge and experience for anything in the world- Michael Guy Handley

Sea turtle at Shark’s Cove

Suffering Long in Long-SufferinG part 1

I haven’t written in a while. I’ve resisted jumping into this topic. For months it seems, I’ve been pondering the topic of suffering and wanting to write about it. I’ve delayed because I couldn’t tell where it was going. I don’t think I have it all together now, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get to the bottom of it. I can tell however, that it eats at my subconscious day in and day out. Perhaps by spilling it in this post, I’ll find relief. It’s funny because I haven’t even written about this in my journal. Until I get passed this, I won’t be exploring other topics in the journal that need my attention. I’ve got to work through this mental block.

In complete fairness, I recognize that any suffering I feel is probably a 2 or 3 on a scale of 10. It’s pretty minimal when I consider the truly difficult trials others struggle with. I see real suffering in those around me, weights that I can’t begin to fathom such as addictions, abuse, crises of faith, unfulfilled dreams, financial setbacks, health challenges, PTSDs, and endless lists of other mental health disorders. So, I don’t compare my suffering to others, but I look at suffering as a necessary consequence of mortality, and I try to understand how to control it without it controlling me.

My trials tend to ebb and flow through days, weeks and even years. And not surprisingly, my trials never fall upon me in orderly sequence one at a time. More often than not, they gang up. They often overlap, and one additional trial may be all it takes to exceed my ability to manage carefully and rationally. There are times when I’ve seen a trial heading at me and known only “moments” in advance that suffering was soon to follow. In those instances, I’ve only had enough time it seems to take a deep breath, offer a silent prayer, and figuratively prepare my stance.

I can remember preparing for this mission last summer and recognizing we were embarking on a life altering journey. I knew it would change me. In fact, I remember praying and hoping I would be different, that I would be molded into a newer and more refined individual. Why should I be surprised that the process isn’t easy? Refining often involves heat and pressure administered under the watchful eye of the silversmith over a long period of time. Growth is change, and change is hard, it always has been for me. The trick is trusting in a process I can’t control, for an outcome I can’t foresee. I suppose that is a good definition of faith:

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Hebrews 11:1

I realize I’ve already written myself into a corner now. It would be easy to ask if it really is suffering if one brings the situation on oneself, clearly as an individual choice (like choosing to serve a mission). How can I compare trials that result from choices I make, to another who had no choice in his or her difficulty. I can’t address that here. I’m not prepared to go down that detour.

This post serves as an introductory argument and sets a context for what I really want to write about, which is how to take our suffering, no matter from where it comes, and regardless of any choice of our own to bring about the conditions that caused the suffering. How can I find meaning and value in my suffering? How can I have hope that the suffering will serve a useful purpose, that it will be for a greater good. I will attempt to use my words carefully. I am intimately aware of loved ones whom I have observed suffering for years and perhaps most of their lives. What I say in this post isn’t intended to minimize the hurt or be condescending. It’s simply that my philosophy of life is that our existence favors the good. When the whole of our lives is placed on a grand cosmic scale, every ounce of suffering will be counterbalanced with an enormous overabundance of good, heaping good, so much good that the tray of the scale can’t contain its fullness. The good will spill off and pool about the base of the scale and all suffering will literally be swallowed up and cancelled.

And so, I’ll end it here for now. In the coming days, I’ll proceed with what has been on my mind, and how I hope to understand the nature of my suffering.

How to Measure a Life

While I have been in Hawaii the last six months, I’ve spent a lot of time looking at waves. We don’t spend our time lounging on the beach, soaking in the rays of the sun, we’re far too busy for that. But when one lives on an island it’s hard not to think of the constant energy pounding away at the shoreline. We live across the Kamehameha Highway from the ocean. When I lay in bed at night, I can hear the pounding of the surf throughout the night. I often start my day with a walk on the beach. I go out about ½-hour before sunrise, and while I walk along the surf line, I watch the sun rise above the horizon. It’s beautiful and a peaceful way to begin my day. Now that it is winter, large swells strike the island, especially along the North Shore, about five miles away. This is surfing season. I suppose it’s always surfing season in Hawaii, but in winter there is a greater emphasis because the winter swell is higher. We’ve had a lot of surfing competitions the last several weeks or month.

At first, I would hear reports of waves reaching 20’-30’ in height, and that was exciting. Surfers rushed to the beach, threw down their boards, jumped on, and paddled out beyond the break line. Later, as the competitions increased, so did the wave heights. Soon we were hearing reports of 40’, 50’, and even bigger waves hitting. It made me wonder how wave height is determined, and if the surfing industry had an actual method of determining said height.

Using the internet, I googled “Ocean Wave Height”, and learned that not only is it non-scientific, but largely variable, and often given to exaggeration, as in “you should have seen the one that got away”. I also learned that the Hawaiians have their own method of determining wave height. In general, wave height is the vertical distance between the crest (peak) and the trough of a wave. That means ½ the wave height is below the still-water line and potentially out of sight.

https://www.weather.gov/dlh/WaveHeightExplanation

Surfer Magazine explained their method of measuring wave height as follows: using an oversized image of the wave, and the known height of each surfer, they estimate the surfer’s crouching height in the moment the photo was taken, creating a scale that they can then use to determine the overall height of the wave, from trough to lip.

In Hawaii, wave height is measured differently: When surfers first braved the waters of Waimea Bay, they did so without spectators just for the thrill of the ride. They measured the waves they surfed from the back, not the face, out of necessity, and the system stuck. Depending on the wave, the face may be more than twice the height of the back. So, the Hawaiian system essentially splits the Surfable Wave Face measurement in half to derive the height of any given wave.

https://www.alohasurfguide.com/know-the-waves/

From all this deep and heavily researched exercise in determining ocean wave height, I’ve learned that one cannot fully comprehend the magnitude of an ocean wave without understanding the lowest point of the trough that precedes the surfable face and the magnificent curl that folds over as the wave rushes up the beach surface.

As I’ve strolled up and down the beach, it has occurred to me that a person’s life has much in common with a wave. All too often, we tend to rate the magnitude and beauty of the wave by how high it towers over a surfer sliding down its face or the magnificence and beauty of the curl, or the color of the water and how luminous it appears as light passes through the curtain of water. Or perhaps we witness a massive wall of water crash upon the rocks, sending a spray of water a hundred feet into the air. I can’t imagine anyone expressing awe in the magnitude of the trough, even when the trough is an integral part of the wave. The trough gets little attention and mostly passes by unnoticed.

In life, it seems much the same. We tend to view another’s life by the stellar achievements one has made, the soaring beauty above our heads, the great accomplishments, and the success. The troughs of life go mostly unnoticed. We don’t comprehend the low points a person has sunk, the trials and challenges, the unfortunate and often times devastating hardships that occur in life. It seems that to fully comprehend a person’s life, we must take in the complete evaluation of all that makes up life, something none of us have the capacity to do, save only God.

When our kids were young, we read To Kill a Mockingbird together. One of the great ideas of English language literature was expressed in the concept that to understand another individual, we must be willing to wear their shoes and walk around in them. I can’t think of another person I would trade shoes with. My shoes, my life seem uniquely suited to me. I’ve grown accustomed to the feel of my shoes, and I am confident that my trials of life are necessarily suited for me.

I’m nearly 65-years old and I have experienced deep troughs of despair. I suppose that those trials, those troughs are the basis or foundation upon which I have built my life. Looking back over the years I’ve often said, though I would never choose that trial again (or that trough), I wouldn’t trade it away for anything in the world. Those troughs did more to shape me, strengthen me, and sustain me than anything else I’ve experienced in my mortal journey. The face of the wave, the crest, and the curl are the showy and spectacular outward appearance. It’s what makes one ooh and aah. I am grateful for my troughs, for my trials. I don’t want to spend my time down there and I don’t want to return and rerun my trials, but I do enjoy the foundation and perspective they have provided me.

There must be balance to all things. Too much focus on the trough is not a healthy situation either. No, the wave must be taken in its full measurement, a complete entity. We are not defined by our troughs any more than we are defined by the curl. It’s all part of the whole wave. All this leads me to my conclusion; we must be kind and compassionate to one another. None of us sees the full picture.

Upon the Shores of Eternity

I wasn’t feeling well when I went to bed Tuesday night last week. Knowing that Wednesday was our day off, our preparation day (or P-day), I decided I would sleep in and then spend a lazy day at home. A storm blew in during the night and Wednesday was wet, a good day to stay in. I rested until mid-afternoon and then became restless. I’m not a good patient. I got an itch to be out and enjoy the last few hours of free time. Sunset Beach on the North Shore is only ten miles away. We got in the car and headed north in a light drizzle. We lucked out and found a parking space at the beach known as “The Pipeline”, famous for its surfing. Getting out of the car, we could sense a buzz among the beach goers. We crossed a small park and looked out over the sand, and what a glorious sight. Waves. Big waves. And lots of surfers too. I thought it was just photographers who liked bad weather. It seems suffers also like that kind of condition. I had my camera with me, so we set off down the beach to find a place to set the tripod. It’s the first time I’ve shot a sport like this. I have the right equipment, but not a lot of practice using it for moving action. I have a lens and camera system that gives me the equivalent of 1,200mm. I set my shutter to high-speed release, cranked up the ISO because it was a little dark under the stormy skies, and fired away. What I lacked most was experience in focus tracking, as in, I didn’t know how to turn it on. So, my major weakness was having sharp images. But I know now how to manage it, and today, as I release this, more big waves are forecast. I’ll be out trying again. These were not monster waves that I still hope to see while we are here, but it was obvious that everyone was having a good time, even in a light drizzle.

Good waves come in sets, and most surfers wait out the intermediate waves for the bigger ones to appear on the horizon. Then there is a mad scramble to get into place so as to position oneself to catch the peak energy and ride down the face.

During my career at BYU some years back, I produced an annual show for the university called Homecoming Spectacular. Various ensembles from the touring program performed and we would honor a founder of the university. One year we celebrated the life and contributions of a teacher and administrator named Edwin S. Hinckley. While addressing the student body at commencement one time, back in the early part of the 20th Century, maybe about 1910, he said to the graduates, “Some of you here have it in you to do things that will set waves in motion that will not stop until they break upon the shores of eternity”. I love that quote. I love the vision he had of the students, and their potential to leave an impact on the world that would ripple through future generations. We work with students here in Hawaii. It isn’t hard to imagine the same level of success in their eyes and in their efforts. I know there is tremendous potential in my own children. They will change the world. In fact, everything I hold dear will one day be in the hands of a newer generation. I hope I’ve made a few ripples, and only time will tell where they will break. Hopefully upon some future shores, and maybe into the eternities.

The waves keep coming, they pound upon this island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. They beat upon the shoreline reshaping the hard lava rock. The waves also provide a means for recreation and enjoyment. Surfing was born among these islands, and the skills are practiced year-round. Equally important though are the efforts of these young people who are only beginning to set their waves in motion. The interesting thing about waves is that they are usually barely noticeable in open water, but when they come upon the land and their energy pushes up the sandy slope, their full magnitude is visibly apparent. Never underestimate the hidden potential and the deep and powerful energy that rolls beneath the surface of young minds and hearts that are poised to soon take on the management of world affairs, the families, the churches, the arts and medicines of tomorrow, and the dreams of their parents, your dreams and mine.

Lastly, waves symbolize the trials of life that wash over us. Our difficulties seem always to come in waves. Some are fierce and mighty, and more rarely, they are gentle. Sometimes they pound upon us and roll us over in their turbulence, but always they eventually pass by and wash upon the sandy beach. May we always have the courage and fortitude to survive that fierce tumble, and then regain our footing, stand tall, and see that all the energy carried past us is dissipated upon the shore.

 Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me

 Jesus, Savior, pilot me
Over life’s tempestuous sea;
Unknown waves before me roll,
Hiding rock and treach’rous shoal.
Chart and compass came from thee;
Jesus, Savior, pilot me.

As a mother stills her child,
Thou canst hush the ocean wild;
Boist’rous waves obey thy will
When thou say’st to them, “Be still!”
Wondrous Sov’reign of the sea,
Jesus, Savior, pilot me.

When at last I near the shore,
And the fearful breakers roar
’Twixt me and the peaceful rest,
Then, while leaning on thy breast,
May I hear thee say to me,
“Fear not; I will pilot thee.”

Lyrics by Edward Hopper

Endure to the End

Several weeks ago, our mission president asked the office staff to prepare a Christmas day devotional for the junior missionaries (the young missionaries called to proselyting assignments in our area). As our topic, we were given the Doctrine of Christ as found in the Book of Mormon. The Doctrine of Christ contains the basic tenets of conversion for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. These five principles include Faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, Repentance, Baptism by immersion for the remission of sins, the Gift of the Holy Ghost, and Enduring to the End. There were five sets of office staff members who were each given one of these topics and asked to prepare a 15-minute presentation. The junior missionaries were divided into their five zones, and we taught five rotations of our given subject. This devotional took place in the visitor center of the Laie Temple on Christmas day afternoon. Virginia and I were assigned to teach on Enduring to the end.

Akaka Falls on the big island of Hawaii

It was a humbling assignment to teach young people on the topic of endurance. It required me to consider the numerable challenges, trials, and tribulations I’ve waded through in the years since I was their age, perhaps 45 years ago to be sure. No doubt many of them have already faced difficult times in their young lives and would have a thing or two to teach me about patience and fortitude. Nevertheless, this was our assignment. Going into my lesson preparation I had several feelings about the presentation:

1. it was Christmas day, a day of celebration and not a day to listen to an old man ramble on about stories of his past

2. this generation is much more tech savvy, and a lecture format probably wouldn’t have been the best way to engage them

3. I wanted them to be taught more by the Spirit than by me

I spent nearly a week creating a PowerPoint slide show, first to share images of individuals facing challenging times in their lives, and then followed by a set of images of the Savior accompanied with scriptures, mostly from the New Testament that testified of the divine promises of endurance.

Drone shot of the coast near our home

In the process of my research and building the slide show, important truths arose in my consciousness and inspired my understanding of the beauty and simplicity of our Father’s plan for each of us. My first impression was that this doctrine is plain, easy, and clear enough for a child of 8-years old to understand, the age at which young people are baptized in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The second spiritual prompting I had was much more profound, and applicable even in my life, that the first four principles are the tools we need to overcome the trials we face in the many decades that follow as we continue our own “enduring to the end”.

Liliʻuokalani Gardens, Hilo, Hawaii

Though faith is required to begin one’s journey as a disciple of Christ, there isn’t a quantifiable amount or limit to reach in any given life. Our faith is variable; stronger at some times and lacking at others. In general, I know my faith has increased steadily over many years with only minor lapses, or periods of near stagnant growth. There isn’t a one of us that has completed all the repentance necessary to qualify us to stand before our Savior without a measure of guilt. Repentance is an ongoing activity throughout our lives. In fact, President Nelson, prophet and president of the church teaches us to discover the joy of daily repentance. When we are baptized, we covenant to keep God’s commandments, take his name upon us, and remember him always. That covenant is renewed weekly as we partake of the sacrament and recommit ourselves to do better. By the choices we make and our personal worthiness, we place ourselves in a condition that strengthens and fortifies the influence of the Holy Ghost in our lives. With these four principles, the first four of the five components of the Doctrine of Christ, we are then able to find the resiliency, the stamina, and the capacity to face the challenges of life that are on our path for the remainder of our mortal journey.

Puʻuhonua o Hōnaunau National Monument on Hawaii, an ancient place of refuge and protection

And lest anyone feel that adversity is an unfair principle or a harsh taskmaster, I know from my own experience that metal is only refined through heat, that rocks are polished by abrasion, and character is formed by personal integrity in the face of difficult times. We grow by exercise. Growth is inherently painful. And growth leads to change.

Puʻuhonua o Hōnaunau National Monument

I think the most important lesson I learned by preparing for this devotional is that my trials are a gift from God. He wants me to be the best version of myself, and that requires that I change, that I change my heart. Having said that, I now know that I still have yet a long journey ahead and more trials await me.

Romans 5:3-4
And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; And patience, experience; and experience, hope

Deuteronomy 31:8
And the Lord, he it is that doth go before thee; he will be with thee, he will not fail thee, neither forsake thee: fear not, neither be dismayed.

2 Corinthians 4:17
For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory

James 1:2-4
My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations;
Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience.
But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.

James 1:12
Blessed is the man that endureth temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to them that love him.

2 Nephi 31:15
And I heard a voice from the Father, saying: Yea, the words of my Beloved are true and faithful. He that endureth to the end, the same shall be saved. 

Kilauea Crater post eruption in Hawaii Volcano National Park, Hawaii

Role Reversal

Virginia has been my companion for over 37 years. She’s stood beside me through thick and thin, through all my struggles in life. She supported me through a demanding education that took nearly every waking minute, an education that allowed for very little sleep. She sustained me in a 32-year career that robbed us of weekends, evenings, and lost sleep on too many nights to count. She allowed me to serve in church callings and Boy Scouting. As a confirmed introvert, she gave me space to recharge, hike in mountains, make a million photographs, and nurture a few other minor hobbies. She asked very little of me over the years. One thing she asked for was a finished house, and maybe one day, I’ll get around to finishing that laundry room in the basement. Through it all, we (but mostly she), raised six children to adulthood. We lived a happy life, and we’re still living a happy life.

There’s an old saying that no two snowflakes are ever alike. I’m beginning to believe that no two waves hitting the shore are exactly alike either

We accepted a mission assignment to serve in the Pacific Theatre at the Polynesian Cultural Center where we thought I would be continuing my labors as a stage lighting designer. After four months, I haven’t made a single adjustment. I’m supposed to spend every night watching the show, finding ways to improve, yet doors aren’t open for me to make changes. It’s a strange relationship. Lately, I’ve felt that most of my time is spent waiting for Virginia, supporting her in her assignment. That’s a role reversal, me waiting for her to finish her responsibilities in the theatre. Virginia works in wardrobe, preparing the hundreds of clothing pieces the cast of students go through every night. She is feverishly busy, and she has loved these students like only a mother could. They have come to respect her and love her back. She has made a terrific difference in the lives of many students, perhaps to the entire cast of 60+. She tells me she feels guilty that I wait through the show each night for her to finish her assignment. How can I make up for my entire education and a 32-year career by waiting 1½ hours each night while she dresses young dancers in quick changes between songs? It takes a lot of 1½ hour blocks to make up for an entire life labor, more than I have available in our two years here in Hawaii. I’m not unhappy with my situation. My life is full, and my mission is full. I keep busy doing other things and I remain hopeful that one day the PCC will actually need a resident lighting designer. In the meantime, I don’t regret a minute I spend supporting Virginia in this mission we are serving together.

21 newly refurbished beach cruisers ready to be given to students next semester

Bicycle update- Since I last wrote, we repaired 21 old mission bicycles that I thought had zero life remaining in them. I was convinced by a young student named Buyahnbot from Mongolia, that there was plenty of use yet remaining in our old inventory. We worked all Saturday morning one day restoring this ancient collection or rolling and rusted metal. They will be donated to the Women’s Center on campus and given to needy students next semester. Buyahnbot taught me a lot of tricks to maintaining these cruiser bikes. I have a fleet of 26 new bicycles to keep running for the next two years. My life was blessed by Buyahnbot, students will be blessed next semester with free bikes, and the sister missionaries are blessed with their new bikes. As far as I can tell, it’s a win all the way around.

A good indication why this is called Pounders Beach

IMOS- (Internet Mission Office System) is the church-wide data base used to manage the entire set of missionaries in the mission. This week, I rebuilt our database and cleaned up missing and incorrect data. The junior (18-22ish age) missionaries have transfers this week and as they receive assignments in new areas, I will once again keep the records up to date. I never considered myself a data entry type person, but I’m learning to enjoy even this aspect of my mission. There must needs be order in all things.

The Hawaii Laie Mission photo from Thanksgiving Day

Lastly, here is a photo from Thanksgiving of all the missionaries in the Hawaii Laie Mission. Most missions throughout the world are primarily composed of junior (young) missionaries. This mission is an anomaly in that there is a large contingent of senior missionaries recruited to work at the Polynesian Cultural Center, BYU Hawaii, the Laie Hawaii Temple visitor center, and the mission office support staff. We staged this photo in the Pacific Theatre where our night show takes place. This time, I was actually able to easily photoshop myself into the crowd. I took two photos, one without me, and one with. Then layered them in Photoshop, created a mask, and painted myself in. Easy-peasy.

How did I acquire this awesome photograph of the Hawaii Laie Temple? It almost looks like an aerial photo. Perhaps it was taken with a drone...