Embattled Christian

Las Vegas is loud. Everywhere you go there is music blaring over the intercom: in the airport, in restaurants, casinos, hotel lobbies, buffets, and stores. You just can’t get away from it. On our recent trip to Las Vegas to escape the cold and snow of Alaska and recharge our batteries with sunshine, I heard forgotten tunes that I don’t even hear on the oldies stations. It’s probably cheaper to play “Wichita Lineman” than it is to pay royalties to ASCAP for “Billie Jean.” Las Vegas exists to make you drop as much money as possible and for investors to spend as little as possible.

I have a long history with Las Vegas. I don’t gamble, I don’t drink alcoholic beverages, and I don’t seek out opportunities to do in Vegas what will stay in Vegas. But from the time I was five-years-old until I left my parent’s home as a newlywed, I made almost yearly pilgrimages to the city of neon lights. My parents were both from Utah. We migrated to southern California and took up residence in Rancho Palos Verdes, an L.A. suburb on a picturesque peninsula overlooking the ocean. Every year my family made the pilgrimage back to Utah to visit family. The shortest route from L.A. to Salt Lake City was through Las Vegas.

Our voyages across the desert spanned the history of I15 which streamlined the stop and go two-lane highway 191 that linked desert communities from Victorville to Mesquite. When we moved from Massachusetts to California my parents had just purchased a shiny new pink and white Mercury station wagon. It was as sleek and modern as Sputnik. I was particularly fascinated by the push-button transmission control. My dad built a trailer from a basic metal frame and plywood boards to tow some of our belongings. I remember it being spray painted silver.

Somewhere outside of Las Vegas a passing car with a fiery flat spun off a piece of tread that hit and destroyed one of our trailer wheels leaving us stranded. It was late at night and the sky was filled with stars. Daddy hitched a ride into the nearest town and scrounged up a replacement tire. By the time he returned it was light and I was bored silly. We pressed on to our brand new home in Palos Verdes where the wood floors echoed our relief that the long cross country odyssey was over.

Preparations for our return visits to Utah always included my Mom making a fresh batch of fried chicken which she would pack in a wax paper lined shoe box for one meal on the road. She would also make a huge bag of celery and carrot sticks for snacking on which were useful for keeping the driver awake as we always drove all night to escape the heat. Our slick new car didn’t have air-conditioning. There were no bags of chips, no Cheetos, no junk food. There were no wet wipes. Mama always packed a wet wash cloth in a plastic bag. There were no McDonald’s only greasy spoons along the way and we rarely stopped to eat at a restaurant or diner. Sometimes there were Triscuits and Wheat Thins. There was always a container of water and sometimes an old fashioned burlap bag of water hanging somewhere on the outside of the car to keep it cool. I remember the scent of petrol filling the tank and the hunt for a respectable restroom.

We’d leave Palos Verdes late in the evening and weave our way along an assortment of freeways under various of stages of construction until we reached San Bernardino and the long climb up El Cajon pass between the San Gabriel and San Bernardino Mountain. To my small frame an impressive rise in elevation from the valley to the high desert where Victorville was an important pit stop.

During the Korean War, my Dad was activated and stationed at George Air Force Base in Victorville where we lived from my birth until I was two years old. On our yearly trips we sometimes stopped to visit old friends there. I remember many conversations about how close my Dad came to being shipped out to Korea but somehow, miraculously, things didn’t end up that way and my parents were spared that separation. Instead they went from Victorville to Sioux City, Iowa; then Granby, Massachusetts; and then Palos Verdes, California.

After gassing up in Victorville and maybe having a meal with friends, the next big diversion on the long journey to Utah was Las Vegas. We’d slow down as we pulled into the south end of the strip and gape at the impressive display of lights at the Hacienda, Aladdin, Dunes, Sands, Desert Inn, and Stardust. The Stardust with its blinking stars and planet display was my favorite. But that was just the appetizer as exciting as these iconic casino hotels were; the big feast for the eye was Fremont Street downtown. On rare occasions we drove down Fremont street to soak in the daylight at midnight but usually we would just slow down as we approached Fremont from Las Vegas Boulevard and peak down the corridor of dizzying neon and swirling light bulbs and wave at the beckoning, giant, neon Cowboy.

After we left Las Vegas we drove along desolate stretches of highway 191 where there seemed to be little life and nothing of interest. As we turned north at Littlefield and headed toward the mountain pass through the Shivwits Indian Reservation, Dad would point off to the right at a puff of dust in the distance where Interstate 15 would eventually blast through the Virgin River Gorge on its journey toward becoming one of the most important travel and commerce corridors in the United States. The old pass through the mountains was narrow and winding with signs warning to watch for rocks on the road. For years I fell for Dad’s pun about keeping an eye out for Chief Rocks on Road who was wandering in the night trying to hitch a ride. Once we descended into Santa Clara if the hour of the day was right we’d stop at a fruit stand a load up on peaches and apricots or whatever else was in season before pressing on to St. George, a resplendent green gem nestled among red rock formations.

As a six, seven, eight year-old I had hyper anticipation for our yearly trips to visit family. California was my home but I looked forward to visiting the farm fields and peaceful mountains of Utah and getting away from the frantic suburban crush of Los Angeles. I don’t remember ever stopping overnight in Las Vegas on our family trips. It was only a brief diversion in the beeline back to Utah and family.For several years we participated in the building of an extended family cabin in Lamb’s Canyon above Salt Lake City. For me it was the ultimate peaceful retreat from the stress of California.

Las Vegas isn’t exactly a serene retreat but this year the winter in Alaska has been particularly brutal and thanks to Groupon Vegas offered a good escape. Ralph and I secured a peaceful studio condo off the strip with a lovely view of the city. We thought we might go golfing in Mesquite but rather than embarrass ourselves on the course with our very rusty golf swings, we struck out across the desert to visit Grand Canyon West on the Hualapai Indian Reservation. It’s a two hour drive past Hoover Dam along rural desert roads. This is the location of the Skywalk adventure which soars out over the rim of the Grand Canyon giving a jolt of vertigo and a spectacular view of the colorful mesas and river below. This attraction is owned and operated by the Hualapia Indians. Employees at the site commute up to two hours to work at this extraordinary venue. The viewpoints of Eagle Point (location of the Skywalk) and Guano Point are accessible only by buses which require a ticket purchase and can include a meal at either location.

Back in Las Vegas the next day, we enjoyed meals on the sophisticated side at our hotel restaurant. I reluctantly tried a raw tuna sushi that turned out to be amazingly yummy: hot crispy sesame rice cake topped with cold raw tuna spread, a tiny slice of avocado, with a dab of hot mustard on a bed of sweet soy sauce. After dinner we ventured out into the noise and lights of the strip. We went to Phantom of The Opera at the Venetian. Wonderful! The next night we took a chance on a new show by an Australian group, “Human Nature.” High energy Motown tunes with action packed movements, great vocal harmonies. More than a nostalgic journey another era it was a whole new take on Motown. Next we saw David Copperfield perform his amazing magic at the MGM Grand. Wow! How did he do that?! Stunning!

The Alaska snow moved south and pummeled Seattle with an ice storm so our flight out of Las Vegas on Friday was cancelled and we couldn’t get a flight out until Sunday so we had to scramble to figure out what to do with ourselves for a couple more days. We wrangled an extra couple of days of car use and checked into the Tuscany on Flamingo a few blocks east of Las Vegas Blvd. The Tuscany has nicely landscaped grounds, is tastefully decorated, clean, and a great deal. The room was beautiful although the bathroom was a bit Spartan after the luxury bath in the condo at Palms Place. But the price was right. We set out to make the best of being stuck in Vegas.

By now we had learned the ropes for scrounging up discounted tickets for events. I’ve always wanted to see Cirque du Soleil “O” at the Bellagio. We weren’t disappointed. Although, there were a few weird random aspects to the show the spectacular water set and the grand scale of this Cirque Du Soleil event was thoroughly entertaining.

We filled in the blanks with shopping at Town Square Centre and Premium Outlet Malls North and South. We checked out Whole Foods. To deprived Alaskans this specialty grocery giant is pretty overwhelming. We loved the prodigious salad bar. However, in the end, no cheaper than picking up lunch at a restaurant.

This trip was a far cry from our Spartan voyages from L. A. to Salt Lake City when I was a kid. But I harbor such great nostalgia for the simple pleasures of those family journeys that I pestered Ralph until he finally drove me downtown to see Fremont Street, now billed as The Fremont Street Experience. The street is closed to traffic for several blocks and a canopy has been erected over this outdoor mall-like setting. We were reluctant to be down there after dark and the weather wasn’t good for strolling, so we did the slow drive by glimpse of the old dazzling marquees.

Much is familiar but the scale has lost its grandeur. The once sparkling light extravaganza is a little seedy and lacks the glamour it once had to my little girl eyes. But I can still taste the fried chicken and feel the warm night breeze through the windows of the slick Mercury station wagon as it glided through Las Vegas and to the empty desert beyond.

“What can I do? What can I do?” At five-years-old this was my mantra. I nearly drove my mother crazy. We lived in a little white clapboard colonial on a dead end street near a pond. I had two older sisters who were fifteen and twelve: not exactly eager playmates for me. My baby sister was two, no entertainment value there. I remember the pond being endlessly fascinating but clearly dangerous and unavailable unless I was accompanied by an adult. My mother opened the front door and said, “Go outside and play!” I sat glumly on the front porch for awhile and then wandered along the sidewalk about a block up the street.

Suddenly a yapping little terrier came streaking out of a neighbor’s yard and made a beeline right for my heels. I turned and ran back down the street as fast as I could. The dog, encouraged by the flight of its prey, gave chase and danced around my legs threatening to tangle my feet and send me sprawling on the cement. I was terrified. I scrambled up the porch stairs and pounded on the front door. By the time my mother opened the door the dog had lost interest and disappeared into the woods. I poured out my sad story of nearly being eaten alive by a girl-eating monster. My mother heartlessly said, “That dog is more scared of you than you are of him. If you run it makes the dog want to chase you. Next time don’t run just calmly walk away. He won’t hurt you.”

Having faith that my mother knew what she was talking about and loved me, I believed her and took her advice to heart. Not being smart enough to stop bugging her about “what to do” I was again, a few days later, sent out to play. Again, I wandered up the street. Again, the dog came out to toy with me but this time I mustered every ounce of courage and self-control my little five-year-old frame possessed and slowly turned around and sauntered casually back toward my home. To this day I can hardly believe that I had the fortitude to not panic. Certain that my mother’s advice would work, I suppressed my natural instinct to run, and calmly walked home. The dog, robbed of his fun, turned around and went home too.

This was an important moment. I made a hard choice. I made a conscious effort to exert control over my situation and my quite natural instinct to run.

I did my Yoga routine this morning. This is one of my goals for 2012: incorporate calming, deep breathing, stretching yoga into my daily life. I have recorded about eight routines on the DVR. This particular Yoga series is very mild and relaxing and I have found that it significantly improves my health. I could have used its healing power a long time ago.

When I was eleven my mother and father sat me down and said, “Which would you rather do, take dance or take piano lessons?” My older sisters both took piano lessons and were accomplished singers and musicians. It was discovered that my younger sister could benefit from dance lessons as physical therapy for short tendons in her legs. My mother found a dance teacher who gave lessons in her home. So there I was with the option of one or the other. I chose dance.

I very much wish that I could play piano but if I could only do one, dance was by far the best choice for me. I was a middle child sandwiched between two talented older sisters, an adorable younger sister whose needs required extra attention, and a long awaited baby brother. It seems silly now but I was plagued by feelings of being awkward and unlovely and dance was great therapy.

My teacher was a blonde statuesque beauty by the name of Jean Enright. Her garage was fitted with mirrors and a ballet barre. I was one of her older students. I took lessons from her for about five years. My last performance at one of her recitals was when I was sixteen. Because of those lessons I was in Choreodancers at Rolling Hills High School, I danced in high school dance concerts and musicals, I danced in church plays and talent shows, and I danced for a short time at Brigham Young University in Ballet Theater and Modern Dance Club.

My mother encouraged me to get a degree in dance and do as my teacher had done, teach dance. My mother was probably right but I resisted. I think I resisted because although dance was a joy, it was also a heartache. It was very hard for me. All dancers must work hard and be disciplined but I felt like I was fighting my body’s basic nature. I am not naturally limber or flexible. I struggled to be confident on stage. Although I am slender, I don’t have the curveless figure of the ideal ballet dancer, and I felt like I was too tall. Knowing what I know now about the varieties of dance styles and opportunities, I realize I was too self-conscious and too pessimistic. In spite of that, dance was a great blessing in my life. I acquired poise and grace and confidence that my awkward young self very much needed. I love to dance. I had wonderful experiences performing and making friends through dance.

After I had my second child, while I was at the doctor being treated for strep throat, I learned something about my body that shed more light on why dance was hard for me. I have an obscure malady with the weird name, “Essential Tremors.” http://essentialtremor.org/ I realized that the trembling in my legs and arms was not just because of exertion during a difficult work out. I learned that being still and steady on stage wasn’t just because I had stage fright. I love performing. I am not afraid of performing. I am afraid of the unexpected trembling of my body that I cannot control. I sing and that same malady had consequences during vocal performance. I once toyed with becoming a nurse, but tremors in my hands made me give up that as a possibility because I could not imagine being able to give shots and place IV needles in patients with my trembling hands.

The worst part is that people often express concern that I am anxious or nervous because they notice the trembling. Truthfully, I am at times anxious and nervous, and I am sometimes a bit frenetic. I think I’m a productivity junkie. I bustle around at high speed getting as much done as possible. Which isn’t actually all that productive sometimes. All this does not help calm my essential tremors.
These days I take beta-blockers to control my tremors. Beta blockers are also useful for performance anxiety and shakiness. Yoga with its stretching, deep breathing, Zen quality is probably the best thing I am doing to get my tremors under control.

To get the most out of my Yoga sessions both physically and mentally, I must slow down, still my mind, and create a zone of existence where nothing matters but the present NOW: the body breathing in health, light, and peace; breathing out stress and discomfiture of all kinds. It was very hard at first. Hard like dance was hard. I’m not limber. Some poses are difficult. But it gets easier every day. My muscles are more flexible every day. I feel more youthful and more productive as I take this time to slow down.

Aches and pains and stress are eased in that timeless space where I am at peace with myself and my maker and the challenges he as blessed me with. Be still and breathe.

“Be still and know that I am God.” Psalms 46:10

One of my earliest memories is of hiking on Cadillac Mountain in Maine which for roughly five months each year is the first place in the United States to view the sunset. My family was living in Granby, Massachusetts and took the opportunity to visit places of interest around New England. I was a fidgety four-year-old with a short attention span. Likely my energy started out strong and waned quickly as the hike dragged on. My clever parents came up with a way to engage me and keep me moving. They made me the leader. I was given the job of spotting rock cairns that marked the trail. This focused my skittish energy with something important to do. I became useful to my family’s expedition. As useful as a four-year-old can be. In my memory I see myself leading the way up the mountain, reaching the top, and with a flourish pointing to a rock cairn marking the summit. My sister tells me we were just traipsing through the forest gathering fire wood. But from that small expedition to the present, rock cairns have been meaningful to me: markers that give a sense of direction, a sense of perspective, a way to mark progress toward a goal. We may not actually have hiked to the top of Cadillac Mountain that day but from my four-year-old point-of-view, whatever our destination; it might as well have been Everest.

Everest: a metaphor for the ultimate personal challenge, obsession, and achievement. A cliché too often used considering the awful price people pay in pain and treasure for the Everest experience. A year ago I read “Into Thin Air” by Jon Krakauer about his tragic experience on Everest. He reached the summit but found himself caught up in one of the worst Everest disasters on record. Five of his climbing companions, including two experienced guides, died in a freak storm. Everything on Everest is freakish and unpredictable. In the death zone even the most seasoned mountaineers crumble suddenly and fatally. Climbers are at the limits of human endurance and there is little energy, time, or resources left to come to the aid of faltering companions. I am just finishing Michael Kodas’ book “High Crimes” about corruption, greed, and criminal behavior in the rush to cash in on the Everest experience. It is shocking what humans are willing to do to summit Everest and then peddle that experience to fame and fortune. My reading sparked an Everest movie night at home. We watched a video about the first blind climber to summit Everest. Erik Weihenmayer’s achievements which include climbing the “Seven Summits” got me thinking about my own resolutions and hopes for what I would like to achieve in 2012.

Like many of the difficult challenges in my life, a number of my 2011 experiences were not of my own choosing. The way I see it our most character revealing and defining experiences come not from events we plan for and choose to bring into our lives, but the ones that are thrust upon us. Suddenly, no matter what else we were planning; we are required to summon enough grit, and gumption, and positive attitude to face and overcome opportunities we would rather not. It is one thing to scrape together $65,000 and a good guide to fulfill a long-held aspiration to get to the top of Everest. It is quite another to find out that you must fight cancer, or suffer alongside a child who is critically ill, or endure the sudden death of a loved one and not let it destroy you. Actually, these kinds of experiences will destroy you. The secret is not to just survive but be born again from the ashes to a new life. Crushing challenges demand that we humbly accept that we are being formed by forces beyond our control and not be bitter about it.

This year I’ve chosen Denali as my symbol. It is the mountain of my adopted home, Alaska. It looms large in the Alaskan mind and heart and can be seen on a clear day from Anchorage to Fairbanks. I will never climb Denali and that doesn’t bother me an ounce. I realize that the idea of conquering Denali’s slopes is sufficient. Denali symbolizes the confidence that I can do hard things, I will do hard things, and I will in the process, become a better person.

For some of us the smallest steps forward can be extraordinarily difficult. But as long as we insist on pressing forward to a better version of ourselves and never stop that forward motion, we have conquered the mountain. Every person’s life journey can be a sacred journey to sacred knowledge and sacred space.

My goals are simple this year:
1. Take good care of my body. I need all the energy I can muster to do all the wonderful things that are ahead for me. Being a cancer survivor gives me additional impetus because I have already beaten the odds and should gratefully nurture the precious gift of extra years that I have been given. I will gently take care of my health.
2. Yoga. I discovered that yoga is as much about my peace of mind as it is about having a healthy body. I am a person that moves fast and crams every day with more than I should. Yoga slows me down and helps me to clear my mind. It works hand in hand with meditation and prayer.
3. Write every day. The need to write is like a spring coiling up inside of me tighter and tighter. The tension must be sprung regularly or I start turning blue. 2011 was a sparse year for writing. Blue is not a good color on me. 2012 will be a year of disciplined effort in the writing department.
4. Take lots of pictures and learn how to you use my fabulous new Canon 60D DSLR camera. Photography snuck up on me. Before the advent of digital photography, I never supposed that I would come to enjoy it so much. It is too close to the physics department and I have little confidence when it comes to math and physics. However, I discovered that I do have a talent, small as it may be, for creating a nice photograph now and then.

I’ve climbed Cadillac Mountain (at least in my imagination), a mountain in Lambs Canyon above Salt Lake City, Timpanogas peak in the Wasatch Mountains, Rendezvous Peak and Wolverine Peak in the Chugach mountains above Anchorage, Alaska. But these were all just cairns along the trail of my life, not the actual summits that allowed me larger views of where I’ve been, what I am becoming, and what I want to be. The summits and the views they give are brief. It is the climb that matters most. And so I will climb.

It started with Baklava, that delicious middle-eastern nut stuffed pastry dripping with honey syrup. A Greek foreign exchange student brought baklava to a cast party for a high school musical I was dancing in. It was the most exotic thing I had ever tasted and the experience burned in my memory though I didn’t eat Baklava again for more than a decade. That time came when one Christmas a friend brought us homemade baklava and then invited me to her house to learn to make it. Making baklava with my own hands was a watershed event.

Then came falafel. We had just arrived in Tel Aviv, Isarael from Cairo, Egypt. We had spent the previous several days in Egypt where our tour group abstained from all fresh fruits and vegetables as we were warned over and over that this was the surest way to ruin an inspiring trip through lands of the Bible by picking-up uninspiring parasites that would make us sick. (We learned later that we may have been overly fastidious on this point but better safe than sorry.) One of the first things we did in Tel Aviv after checking into our hotel, was walk to the beach where we bought falafel at a nearby kiosk. By this time on the tour this middle-eastern sandwich was legendary. Nowadays even here in Anchorage, Alaska you can get a decent freshly made falafel, but in the early eighties when we visited Israel we had yet to run across this now common street food. The fragrance of freshly fried falafel balls made from ground chickpeas and spices, stuffed into pita bread, and garnished with a generous handful of fresh lettuce, cucumbers, and tahina sauce was deeply satisfying to our salad hungry souls.

In Jerusalem we experienced Israeli breakfast in which bacon is conspicuously absent but cucumbers, salad, boiled eggs, pickles, humus, cheeses, and breads are abundant. In the old city marketplace we found baklava made from pistachios and walnuts in a dozen different shapes and sizes. Here we also grabbed a hot round loaf of sesame sprinkled bread to fuel our hike through the city where among other monuments of antiquity we visited the Church of the Nativity and the grotto where Christ was born.

One year I dreamed up a new Christmas tradition for our family. I wanted to create an experience that would transport us in time and space to the world where Jesus was born and lived. It started out humbly: cheese, olives, dried fruit, pita bread and grape juice. We took an imaginary journey to Bethlehem and ate foods that Mary and Joseph might have eaten in some form. We read the Christmas story from the Bible.

But as is my habit my imagination runs wild. I thought of so many wonderful possibilities for “Holy Land” foods. I discovered that my sister, who spent years living in the Middle East, established a similar tradition and is a fountain of ideas and recipes. I’m getting hungry writing this. I try something new each year to add to the dozens of dishes which burden my table. All this makes for a delicious meal and a great deal of cooking. Lentils made pottage for Esau but they also make a terrific soup. Olives are nice but tapenade on homemade flat bread with goat cheese is much better. And though I can buy ready made humus, homemade is the only way to go. There’s also tabouleh, baba ganoush, okra stew, stuffed dates and . . . That brings us back to bakalava, homemade baklava. There were no Christmas cookies this year but I did make the best baklava ever.

This Holy Land Feast is a central tradition of our family’s Christmas. The smell of frying falafel balls, the flatbread on the counter top grill manned by an unsuspecting guest, carols playing in the background. At Christmas our family comes together around a meal that has been created because a baby was born, a baby celebrated, and this baby brought love transcendent to the family of man: love which is constantly yearned for, little understood, and earnestly sought by all people of goodwill.

Our Holy Land Feast binds us together with memories of a far away place and time made present with food for our bodies and our souls. Merry Christmas.

All summer long I’ve been dodging bears, real ones: bears on the golf course, bears on the trail while hiking in Denali National Park, bears in my backyard. And figurative ones: renovating our deck (a bear of a job that I’ve dreaded for ten years), procrastinating onerous tasks, or postponing long desired goals because I fear failure. Bears are everywhere.

I live on the edge of the Chugach State Park where it borders a greenbelt along the Eagle River. We humans are intruders here where salmon spawn and bears roam in search of food unfazed by fences and neighborhood streets. But we humans, stumbling upon a black bear in our garage pawing through our garbage or a grizzly strolling through our backyard, have the imagination to visualize Timothy Treadwell’s fate, or other scarred unfortunates who barely escaped with their lives. 

When it comes to creativity a vivid imagination is a good thing but when it comes to anxiety,our human capacity to imagine the worst is the fount of all ulcers and panic attacks.

Yes, I read that in a book. Ok, so I paraphrase, or rather augmented upon. I’ve yet to read most of the book but the brief snippet I read from “Why Zebras Don’t Get Ulcers” pointed out that to survive danger our bodies  are designed to get us either ready for a fight or ready to run. Which is all well and good if there really is imminent need. However, we can fake our bodies out by vividly imagining a crisis when there is none which sends our fight or flight response into an unhealthy feedback loop that literally eats us alive.

Thus, we get eaten by that imaginary bear (or threats of all kinds) over and over again without ever releasing the anxiety through a real fight or a burst of physical speed to save our skin. We are mauled daily by self-inflicted anxiety. The result: real pain and real wounds with nothing to show for it.

I’m not yet sure how to resolve this conundrum fully but I do know we suffer needless pain over threats that never fully or even partially materialize. I’ve given that anxious imaginary bear scores of premature meals. But no more. I’m closing down that not-so-free lunch.

And so I repeat advice given me many years ago: “don’t get eaten by a bear”. 

Oh yeah, the deck. It wasn’t hard. It’s beautiful. What was I afraid of!

I stepped up to the red tee of the 12th hole at Palmer Golf Course. I was quick about it. People were beginning to gather and if I hurried up I might be able to get my first drive of the tournament off before anyone was paying attention. My husband was with me but the other two men on our team (“Survivor”) had not arrived at the tee for this our first hole of the game. The team to follow us was parking their golf carts and pulling out their clubs.

I stepped into my “thinking box” picked out a weed in the grass just a few yards from the tee through which to aim and hopefully hit the ball in a straight line and onto the left side of the fairway. The wide fairway tilted to the right into a cart path beyond which is thick grass and a long corridor of trees and brush. To the left is a long line of trees and the bluff above the river. In the distance I could see that the regular green was being rehabilitated and our target would be a flag on a temporary green just over a small hill by the cart path.

I stepped into my “playing box” and gripped the men’s driver my husband had given me to help boost my distance. I took a wide assertive stance with my left toe pointed at my target. Its a slightly eccentric stance but it gives my strokes off the tee extra oomph. I’ve been told that my posture is good. If I stay calm, keep my head down, and swing back slow and easy I get exactly what I got on this my first drive, of my first ever golf tournament (a fund raiser for the American Cancer Society). “The Bob” as it is called, is a best-ball event that I didn’t expect I would contribute much to my more experienced team mates. Yet here I was on the first drive with THE best ball. The next three drives from our team landed in the woods — one towards the river and two off into the trees by the cart path. My drive lay exactly where I aimed — straight ahead on the left side of the fairway on Palmer’s best groomed lawn. We have been golfing at Palmer golf course since end of May, now here it is nearly the end of the Alaska golf season, and the grass is finally getting lush enough to really qualify as fairway instead of hard-pan. But we love the spectacular mountain and glacier views with holes bordered by river and farm fields that are cheerfully guarded by an antique red barn and bush plane airport.

As it turned out I had a great game. The last three months of golfing one, two and sometimes three times in a week had given me a good grasp of the fundamentals. Much to my surprise I had the best ball many more times during the tournament. And even more to my surprise I am becoming an ambitious and enthusiastic golfer.

I have worked hard for a life-time to be good: to be a good daughter, a good student, a good cook, a good homemaker, a good wife and mother, to be a good disciple of Christ. Standards for these goals are demanding and it is only human to try to excel. Excellence is good yet excelling is really not the goal. The most important outcome isn’t reaching some definitive destination (magna cum laude). The effort is never ending and dropping the heavy burdens of pride and ego becomes essential if one is to endure. In fact, measuring my success against some other person’s is essentially irrelevant and even self-defeating. There is no destination the point IS the constant effort. I’ve heard this before, I’ve believed it, I’ve professed it and yet only now is it beginning to seep into the marrow of my bones and deep into my brain cells (I hope).

After some very intense and humbling years, I find the pursuit of excellence in golf very relaxing, clean, and simple. I watch LPGA tournaments on television and absorb new techniques and skills. I go out and try all the new things I learn and the only person it matters to is me. I have fun, I am getting better at something that gets me outside, walking, stretching, using my mind in new ways. OK, there is some slight bit of ego, but its all playful and happy. My husband is having fun watching me get better and better and gets a kick out me actually being able to play a decent game of golf. The stakes have been very high in my life over these last challenging years since I was diagnosed with, treated for, and freed from cancer. And it has finally sunk in that life will never ever be normal. Not ever! But it should be fun. Golf is pure fun: challenge without terrible or even significant consequence.

But there be bears! You’ve seen those shows about survival in the wild. Well, if you are going to golf in Alaska it would be wise to pay attention. I’ve tried to live a safe and conservative life, to steer clear of dangers and pitfalls that complicate life and lead to physical and spiritual injury. Guess what? It didn’t work. Be safe, but danger and wild things will find you.

We golf sometimes at Moose Run Creek Course in Arctic Valley between Anchorage and Eagle River. This is a beautiful area where the grass is more lush and the woods mossy and damp. I love golfing there. However, the last time we were there, as we strolled the half-mile along the cart path between the 16th and 17th holes, two cubs and a mother black bear dashed across the path in front of us. My husband hissed, “Bears!” as mom hustled the two cubs up a birch tree alongside the path. We froze. This is worst case scenario, surprising a mother bear with her cubs. My mind kept reviewing the instructions for encounters with bears. The strategies are different for grizzlies and black bears. I was trying to quickly sort out which was which — make yourself big and stand your ground or roll up in a ball and cover your head. None of it seemed to matter. We just naturally took the most recent advice we had heard “don’t run,” and very calmly backed up retracing our steps pulling our hand carts with us. The cubs scurried back down the tree and mom and babies disappeared into the underbrush. Surely these bears being of the golf-course habitat are used to humans and weren’t much of a threat but still I felt empowered and buoyed-up by the cool headed way we managed the situation. After some time passed, we were confident that the bears were no longer a threat and continued on to the 17th hole. It was one of our more exhilarating golf games. Those threatening, lumbering creatures, so graceful and natural, suddenly made everything seem more alive, sharp, clear, and beautiful.

It may be passe to use golf as a metaphor for life. Golf is not my metaphor it is my fun. My life is mine to enjoy in spite of and because of the surprises both welcome and unwelcome. Life is dead serious but it also should be more fun and not always so consequential even if there are bears along the way. Live with a sense of fun, live with a sense of wonder, take care to avoid danger, but DANGER WILL FIND YOU. When it does, don’t freak out. Observe in awe as you find resilience and wisdom and love that you never had supposed were available to you. And that is the most fun of all.

As my favorite author, Orson Scott Card, autographed in one of his books for me: “Don’t get eaten by a bear.”

Late one night a couple of months ago, I lay in bed unable to fall asleep. I turned on the television. A news alert scrolled across the bottom of the screen reporting that there had been an earthquake off the coast of Japan with a resulting massive tsunami. I sat up and generically thought, “Oh that’s terrible!” Then the realization hit me, “Wait a minute, Heather’s in Japan!” My daughter and her three children and her husband have lived there for three-and-a-half eventful years and they have loved the experience. I was blessed to be able to visit them twice. Once with my husband just for fun, and once to help Heather after she gave birth to her third child.

No longer sleepy, I did a quick inventory of my knowledge of the geography of Japan and realized that I didn’t know anything about the area of Sendai Province. I had been to Hiroshima, Sasebo, Iwakuni, and as far as Tokyo and locations in between. I became less and less concerned for my loved one’s safety as I recalled that Heather lives on Japan’s Inland Sea, which would likely be sheltered from any tsunami and her home is located on a hill top high above the town of Iwakuni. My daughter and her family would definitely be safe even from the effects of the terrible meltdown of the nuclear plant. Nonetheless, my relief for her safety did not lessen the depth of my sorrow for the people in the stricken area of Japan. I had seen much of Japan from trains speeding across the countryside through villages, tidy farms, past parks, and soccer fields and towns filled with picturesque tile roofed homes. I had encounters with Japanese people, total strangers, who were very kind and helpful to me in my travels. I especially loved staying at Heather for two weeks, living for a short time in a foreign land, and feeling right at home.

And there I was, propped up safely in my bed, in my home, in Alaska, watching the television screen with horror as the Japanese countryside was inundated by raw, merciless, relentless destruction. This was not an “act of God” but an act of the blind process: natural, earthly processes which both bless humans and devastate them. As I viewed the media coverage of this gargantuan human suffering, I reflected on the unexpected “tsunamis” in our personal lives. These metaphorical tsunamis also overtake us suddenly, inundating our comfortable lives, leaving us crushed and suffering.

One such event for me involved Heather. Heather is something of a miracle girl. After six healthy and happy years of normal growth, Heather began to have headaches. Eventually the headaches were combined with nausea and vomiting. We researched all the reasons we could think of, why a child of six would have migraine headaches. We had her checked out by our family doctor. We watched for further symptoms that might give us clues that would lead to the right diagnosis. It took awhile. A child’s brain is incredibly resilient.

What was happening to Heather was serious and severe, but her brain kept adjusting to this crisis, masking a life threatening condition. After many months, a move to a new home in another state, and other changes for the family, alarming neurological symptoms appeared. Finally, an MRI revealed that Heather had hydrocephalus (water on the brain). For unknown reasons, the aqueduct draining fluid from Heather’s brain narrowed and restricted the flow causing spinal fluid to build up inside her brain. Her brain was inflating like a water balloon gradually pushing up against her skull. Headaches, nausea, balance problems, confusion ensued. We had to act fast or the result would be unconsciousness and death.

At the time of Heather’s diagnosis I was still reeling from the sudden death of my parents in a car accident the previous year. One heart wrenching disaster after another: earthquake, tsunami, aftershocks. No time to recover before another wave hit. Heather’s diagnosis brought another year of waves and aftershocks as she endured twelve surgeries to implant a succession of shunts (drains) in her brain which were rejected. We nearly lost her when an infection raged through her body and her temperature soared to 106.

I was engulfed by depression. The people I had leaned on for support most of my life, were gone. My husband was grappling with the challenges of a new job. We migrated from home to hospital. Maintaining any semblance of normalcy for our other children was impossible. We were flattened by the natural processes of life; the confusion and human suffering that follows.

The day that we received Heather’s diagnosis, I called a therapist I was seeing to get some much needed encouragement. I was experiencing waves of grief over all the things I feared Heather would never be or do. I envisioned her promising life burned and crumbling into ashes right before my eyes. I blamed myself for it taking so long to get the proper diagnosis. How could I live with myself? I, her mother, should have prevented this.

My counselor’s inspired response began my healing process: “You did the best you could with what you knew. You love her, you take care of her, and you do the best you can with what you know. You can’t do anymore than that. This is not your fault. Forgive yourself and keep going. You will be surprised. Heather will surprise you.” As he spoke, I could feel my spirit rally. Truth heals. I knew it was true.

I hadn’t done all the right things all the time but I had done the best I could with what I knew. Deep inside where my mind and heart connect I felt a comforting voice say, “Heather will be a miracle girl.” The burden was still there but it was bearable, my spirit lightened, I could visualize a hopeful future. I knew Heather, she and I would rise from the ashes.

Heather isn’t a miracle because she suddenly, without effort or pain, became well. Heather is a miracle because of the great experiences of faith, hope, and endurance she has brought into our lives. She has chosen the journey of discovering her limits, her strengths, and her marvelous faith. She has chosen hope. She has chosen victory. Heather had to work tremendously hard to get well, then to get through school, to attend college on scholarship, to stay healthy, to marry and bear children.

Heather moves into the future with courage and resilience. She supports her husband in work that takes him away from home. She manages the chaos of raising three little boys with these marching orders: “Cheerfulness and love, let’s persevere!”

Strangely enough my “tsunami Heather” will soon be moving to tornado country! And I will watch with awe as my miracle girl creates a world of beauty from the ashes that inevitably come in the processes of life.

In spite of any and all gloomy events in the world, everyday the sun rises. Everyday my body wakes and moves in the direction of survival. And even more determinedly, my mind and heart move in the direction of hope, goodness, and productivity. Things never turn out exactly as we plan. At any moment it could all be swept away by unexpected disaster. But in the face of earthquakes, tsunamis, and tornadoes (of all kinds) there is our choice.

I thank God for faith, hope, and love in the face of disaster. That is the frontier where miracles are made and we are partners with God in the making of them.

The New Year came and went and I refused to participate in my normal yearly rituals. I was too overwhelmed by the intensity of my life at the end of 2010 to make resolutions and plans for 2011. It seemed that 2011 was already absorbed and nearly gone by preparations for the more watershed year of 2012. 2011 would only be an appendix for the unfinished business of 2010 and preparations for 2012. Too fleeting to flesh out with its own set of aspirations.

Thanks to unusually brilliant forethought back in 2008, a great cure for this inertia was already booked and ready to go. Instead of starting a new exercise routine, writing out goals, making promises to myself that I just can’t keep right now; we left the outer darkness and cold of Alaska and jetted ourselves to paradise. My husband and I went to the Big Island of Hawaii, and we loved it. Our rental car was a Mustang convertible, a dead giveway marking us as tourists. We put the top down whenever it wasn’t raining and drove all over the island: from Waikoloa to Hilo, from Hilo to Kona, and from Kona to Hawi. We got a pretty good grasp of everything the island has to offer.

It was the best way to start the New Year. Shed the coats, boots, gloves, scarves, and woolen hats. Don swims suits, flip-flops and a bit of sunscreen. On the Big Island our world ended at the ocean and we could cross that world from end to end in any direction in less than four hours. The deep-freeze across that ocean melted away like the buttery sunshine that drains from the sky into the sea nightly off Hapuna Beach. Cabin fever receded from mind and nervous system. We drank in those sunsets and felt deliciously shocked by the combination of warmth and darkness, the scent of flowers under a full moon. In Alaska, if it’s dark it’s cold; if it’s dark, nothing is blossoming. In Hawaii, warmth and light brought relaxation and adventure. In Hawaii, while boogie boarding I reclaimed some courage and strength of will to face the New Year.

After being turned away because of parking space shortage one day then beach closures for rough surf another, we were finally able to spend an afternoon at one of the best beaches on the island, Mauna Kea (Kauna’oa Beach). We set up chairs and an umbrella, and spread our mats on the sand. Then I did what I always do: procrastinate getting into the water. I’m from southern California. I’ve been swimming in the ocean since I was five. I’m a pretty decent body surfer. But every time I go to the beach, I procrastinate getting into the water until it’s almost time to leave. It’s down-right embarrassing.

This day on a spectacular beach in Hawaii was typical. The sparkling blue water beckoned. I read a book. The sun and sand were hot but a stiff breeze blew off the water. I bemoaned the breeze on wet skin and shunned the water. The sound of the surf awakened childhood memories of diving under the curl or throwing my body against the waves. I ate a sandwich washed down with a can of POG. I strolled down to the foaming water’s edge and waded ankle deep. The first dip in the surf even in these warm Hawaiian waters would be a shock on hot skin and the breeze would create an unpleasant chill. I stretched out on my grass mat to bake in the sun a little longer so I would crave a swift jog into the waves. I dozed.

This procrastination ritual probably stems from one of the first times I went to a California beach with my family after we moved there in 1958. Friends who lived in El Segundo invited us for a picnic at Playa Del Rey. To me it sounded like “a place to play.” While the adults set out the picnic, I wandered down to the water. With a bucket and shovel I molded turrets for a sandcastle, dug a moat, and watched it fill with seawater. I coated my legs and arms with grime. Splashing and kicking to wash myself, I slowly waded further and further into the water. I followed the angle of the tide and it drew me several yards south of the picnic area. As I turned toward the shore to locate my family, a breaker hit me from behind, knocking me to my knees. The ocean-bound water sucked me further out. Undertow. Riptide. I saw my father running down the beach into the water. I stretched my arms toward him, my skinny legs too weak to escape the siphon pulling me down the slope into the mouth of the sea. Before my father could reach me, another breaker rolled me over and over like a pebble in a rock polisher. I couldn’t tell where up was through the turbulent sand and water. Where was air? My lungs were desperate for breath when Daddy finally yanked me out of the surf and carried me to the nearest shower. Swimsuit, hair, and skin were gritty with sand. I received a stinging scrub and an stinging lecture about never turning my back on the waves.

Back on Mauna Kea beach, I awoke from my nap, not at all rested, but anxious to make up for lost time. I gathered my scant gumption, raced into the water and dove in. After the initial cold shock, I was completely comfortable in the water. I strapped a boogie board to my wrist and paddled out to where the bigger waves were breaking. I felt energized and empowered. And I remembered in my mind and body. I reclaimed my instinct for body surfing. I know when to ride over the floaters and when to turn and paddle like crazy to catch a curling wave at just the right moment for a great ride. Most importantly, I know when to dive under a crashing wave to avoid being yanked and pounded by turbulence and unnecessarily wasting energy. I sense the power of the waves and instinctively understand how to harness it. Close to shore, people were settling for short rides on miniscule surf, but I was able to swim further out and have long rides on bigger waves. “Yeehaw!!!!” I hollered as I rode wave after wave. I also sense when my energy is dangerously low it’s time to quit battling the surf and get some rest.

I came back from Hawaii with renewed courage and gumption for the year 2011. My encounter with the water and waves at Mauna Kea, reminded me that I have far more courage and resources than I give myself credit for. I can tackle the way ahead with strength and optimism. Contrary to my youthful misconceptions, life does not get easier as you become more mature. The challenges expand, the people I love and watch over grow in number. Life requires more courage and more energy not less. Distracting myself from the anxieties at hand or closing my eyes to them will not make life easier.

Enthusiastically getting on the boogie board and riding the waves with faith, hope and courage will.

“The righteous also shall hold on his way, and he that hath clean hands shall be stronger and stronger.” Job 17:9

“and he that is faithful shall be made strong in every place; and I, the Lord, will go with you.” Doctrine and Covenants 66:8

I wrote this story and have given it as a Christmas gift from time to time. It is based on an experience of a friend I have since lost track of. Maybe she will see it here and remember.

Sharon grabbed the glass of milk just in time to keep it from toppling over.

“Mark, quit playing ‘Jingle Bells’ on the glasses! This is probably the last meal you’ll have for quite awhile so you better make sure you don’t spill it all over.”

Mark dropped his spoon. It clanged to the floor and he dove under the table to retrieve it. Their waitress, her name tag said “Jen”, refilled their water as she passed by. She set a paper cup full of crayons and three kiddie placemats on the table. Jen stroked the baby’s white-blond hair and cooed,

“Oh, she’s such a doll, what’s her name?”

“Actually, his name is Michael. We just can’t bring ourselves to cut off his beautiful curls.” Sharon slid the high chair closer to the table to get it out of the way of the restaurant traffic. “Wouldn’t you know, “she thought. “They would seat us right by the kitchen.”

Sharon fingered the five ten-dollar bills and hand-full of change in her coat pocket. It was the last of their money. One more big meal and then they’d have to wait until they were paid for hauling the load that Steve was picking up. Between now and then it would be crackers and cheese and the last few cans of juice and formula they had in the truck.

They had spent the last week living out of the cab of their semi-truck. Three kids and two adults traveling across country looking for better trucking jobs. Steve heard that there was plenty of work out of Denver. They sold everything they could, packed the rest in the truck, and headed west just in time to leave family, friends, and everything homey and familiar behind right at Christmas time. They had engine trouble outside Oklahoma City. Nothing on a big rig can be fixed without spending gobs of cash. Now, at last, they had been able to land a job just outside Denver.

Andy’s Freeway Diner was draped in shiny green and red garlands. Tiny artificial trees lined the booth walls and silver snowflakes glistened on the branches. Christmas carols played just above the din of clattering dishes. Outside a thin dusting of snow was beginning to fall.

“Well, at least we’ll have a white Christmas,” grumbled Sharon under her breath.

“I want Daddy!” wailed Rachael.

And then all Sharon’s efforts to rescue it failed as Rachael’s three-year-old fist crashed down on her glass of milk. White liquid spread across the paper placemats, under the silverware, and dripped down the edge of the table. Sharon grabbed a handful of napkins and threw them on the growing puddle. She felt as if the whole diner full of people was staring at her unruly brood. She was dead tired and famished. “Where was their food?”

As if she had heard Sharon’s mental scream, Jen came out of the kitchen carrying a huge tray of platters. She balanced the tray on the edge of the table while Sharon finished mopping up the milk. The delicious smells started her stomach growling: crisp, savory bacon, steaming hash browns, scrambled eggs, and piles of fragrant pancakes with syrup. Jen emptied the tray while Sharon quickly arranged the food in front of the children. Pacified by a mouthful of pancake soaked in syrup, Rachael ceased wailing. Mark tried to commandeer every strip of bacon. Sharon felt short two pairs of arms, as she tried to serve, feed and keep disaster at bay. Finally, with everyone satisfied and quietly stuffing their mouths, Sharon turned her attention to her own plate. After she had savored a couple of heavenly bites, Steve burst through the restaurant door and crossed the room with hurried, deliberate strides.

“Daddy!” cried Rachael, reaching her arms up to greet him.

“Give me the fifty dollars.” His tone left no doubt that he was dead serious.

Sharon reached into her pocket and grasped the moist bills protectively. “You have got to be kidding! We’re eating already. How will I pay for all this?”

Steve’s tone softened slightly, “Look, they won’t load the truck until I pay for some kind of loading permit. The permit costs fifty dollars. They won’t wait for the money until I get paid at the other end. No permit, no job, no income. There’s nothing I can do about it. As soon as I get the truck is loaded, I’ll come back here and we’ll figure out something. I don’t see that I have any other choice and I’ve got to hurry back or we’ll lose the contract.”

Sharon slowly drew the fifty dollars out of her pocket and handed it to Steve. Then he was gone. She could hear the roar of the truck’s engine as he pulled the oversized beast out of the parking lot. She had planned to take the children to across the street to the mall after they finished eating. They were going to window shop to kill time until Steve met them at Santa’s Village near the main entrance. Now she would have to keep the children entertained right here at the table for a couple of hours. And how would they pay? Could you really was dishes to pay for a meal? They had been through lean times before but never this close to the edge. She felt thoroughly humiliated: noisy children, spilled milk, and now completely broke. She tried to eat but her once ravishing appetite was gone.

“Here, Mark, you can have my bacon.” Sharon slid her plate over.

“Mommy, what’s going to happen?” Mark looked pale and worried. It hadn’t occurred to Sharon that he might understand what was going on, that her five-year-old son tuned into the conversation. Suddenly her distress about paying for the meal fled. It was the anxiety in Marks sweet face that upset her most.

“Mark, help me get the baby and Rachael fed. I’ll have Jen bring us some new placemats and we’ll keep busy coloring and eating until Daddy gets back. And Mark, maybe you could say a little prayer in your heart to help us stay calm. Everything will be all right, I promise.”

“Just great, now I’ve made this a test of my son’s faith,” she thought, bitterly. She was playing a game with God. “Hey, if I’m not good enough for your help, my little son’s faith is on the line here.”

She suddenly felt too tired to worry anymore. “Just take a deep breath,” she thought. “We’ll take this one minute at a time.”
She looked over at the baby. Scrambled eggs covered his face. His eyes drooped and his head nodded. Sharon spread a baby quilt on the booth seat. She gently cleaned Michael’s face then wrapped him in the quilt.“One blessing already, he will nap for at least an hour.”

Mark and Rachael continued eating quietly. Sharon decided she may as well enjoy some hash browns and orange juice after all. It cheered her immensely to have the baby asleep and the other two children settled down. Thankfully, no one seemed to be paying any attention to them now that their noise had subsided.

“Look, Mommy,” Mark nudged her harm. “I drew a picture of Grandma and Grandpa’s house. See here’s Grandpa sitting by the fire and there’s Grandma decorating the Christmas tree.” Sharon nodded absently. Her mind was now caught up in memories of Christmas back home. Whatever had possessed them to take off like this? It had seemed like a great opportunity to get trucking business going better. But now it seemed more like a disaster. Back and forth her thoughts flew.

“Stop!” she thought. “What’s done is done. I’ll go crazy rehashing what can’t be changed.”

She took a deep breath and blew it out. Their plates were just about empty. Rachael stuffed the last of her pancake in her mouth then stretched out on the seat and put her head in Sharon’s lap. Sharon covered her with a coat. She glanced out the window. The snow had changed to large soft flakes. The breakfast rush was over and the diner was quieting down.

“Another blessing, they won’t be unhappy with us for taking up valuable space.”

Just then, Margie swept out of the kitchen and up to their table with another tray. She began setting out three large mugs of hot chocolate topped with tall swirls of whipped cream.

“Wait, I didn’t order these. I really can’t pay for them . . . “ Sharon protested. “Or any of it.” She thought.
“No problem, don’t worry about it.” Jen broke in. “Look outside, right out front. See the white-haired couple getting into that red pick-up. When they paid for their breakfast, they paid for yours and threw in the hot chocolate, some sandwiches and a dozen donuts to go. They said to tell you it’s an early Christmas present.”

Sharon watched as the red pick-up truck pulled out onto the snow-covered highway and disappeared into the storm. She hadn’t wished for or expected anything like this. A miracle for her little family so complete and faith restoring had been beyond her energy to imagine. Perhaps all the more miraculous because of that. She felt a surge of relief and gratitude wash over her. “Thank you,” she whispered out loud.

“Mommy,” said Mark. Can I drink my hot chocolate? I already said a thank-you prayer.”

“Yes,” said Sharon, still gazing out at the falling snow. “Yes, Mark, you can drink your hot chocolate now.”

THE END

By L. Jean Snow VanOrden
Copyright 2005