We Should be Happy About Recent Stock Market Increases, Right?

"So, the stock market is at record highs, and you say that's bad?" asked a co-worker. I had just given a dour response to his exuberance about recent stock market gains.

I replied that it could be either good or bad, depending on one's position in the market. But I noted that the underlying assumption seemed to be that the recent gains meant that the economy was dramatically improving and that life would be getting better. Oh, it will get better for a few people that have a good sense of what is happening in the market, but ....

My friend was mystified by my pessimism. I asked if it seemed reasonable to think that the underlying value of the firms that make up the DOW or the S&P 500 actually increased so much over such a short period of time. Or was it that these highly watched firms were carefully hiding value that has only now come to light? No, none of that seems right. Value gains like that would have rippled throughout the economy driving massive employment gains, and real unemployment is still extremely high.

Then maybe one should consider the possibility that a bubble lacking real value is forming in the stock market. If so, that bubble will burst at some point, leaving many decrying their losses. For long-term stockholders this will mean losses of imaginary gains that never really existed. For recent buyers that bought stocks at inflated prices, the losses will be very real.

An economist that goes by the pseudonym Adam Smith does a fine job of explaining the impending stock bubble collapse in this article.

The Federal Reserve Bank and the U.S. Government have colluded to keep long-term bond rates very low (effectively 0%) for many months in an attempt to stimulate the flagging economy and fund government debt at artificially low prices. Those that used to rely on long-term bond yields for income (i.e. retirees) have had to move to the stock market to get any kind of income.

Smith doesn't mention this, but many people that got out of the stock market when it crashed in 2008 are just now feeling comfortable enough to get back in. The average stock market investor is a very emotional being that exits the market when confidence drops and re-enters the market when confidence is high. The result, however, is that they sell when stocks get cheap and buy when stocks get expensive; the precise opposite of a wealth producing strategy.

With no "great underlying fundamental driving real growth," the supply of business equity (i.e. stock) value is no higher today than it was a few months ago. When supply remains constant while demand increases, price must also increase. People are paying more for stock without getting additional value.

Smith explains that this is actually being done by design "to make people feel richer and hence spend more money and expand the economy." One can debate the ability of fake wealth to foster real wealth, but the Fed can't keep this up forever. At some point "the Fed is going to change policy and increase interest rates."

Trading professionals are keenly watching for this moment and will engage in a huge stock sell-off when it arrives, locking in their gains. Seniors, however, that have moved their savings from bonds to stocks will end up reaping the whirlwind as the value they thought they had purchased will evaporate. After the bubble bursts, emotional based investors will jump out of the market again, thereby, permanently locking in their losses.

The stock market isn't the bad guy here. It is just a tool that is being manipulated by big government actors, whose efforts will end up contributing to the impending retirement crisis.

As I noted in this post from a year ago, we cannot avoid the fact that retirees rely on existing workers to support them. This would be true even if Social Security did not exist and retirees were completely self funded. Retiree investments only have as much value as is imbued in them by current worker productivity. Also unavoidable is the fact that the ratio of productive workers to retirees is rapidly declining.

Some say that this isn't so bad, because per-worker productivity continues to increase. While this is true, it would require a highly skewed view of economics to believe that productivity increases can adequately compensate for decreases in human capital. The best measures we have of productivity do not appear to support such a conclusion.

To top it off, the Wall Street Journal reports that workers aren't adequately saving for retirement. A significant number quit saving when the economy went south in 2008 and many have less saved today than they did in 2007. Besides the current dismal economy, increasing life expectancy, expanding expectations of post-retirement lifestyle, the relative size of the Baby Boomer generation that is now entering retirement, the diminishing worker-to-retiree ratio, and the impending stock market bubble collapse lend to the forecast of a looming retirement crisis.

When the crisis hits, watch for large swaths of the populace—especially those that are retired or close to retiring—to clamor for more government mandated wealth transfers. They will cry for those that have been most productive and most prudent to be punished, along with the young and unborn future workers that cannot yet speak for themselves. One problem of moving from a republic to a democracy is that a majority or even a highly motivated minority can succeed in gaining benefits funded by those that are less politically connected. Even this game can only be played temporarily.

Last summer I posted about the dismal view taken by Mark Steyn of the future we can expect. He asserts that "we will work till we’re older and we will start younger — and we will despise those who thought they could defy not just the rules of economic gravity but the basic human life cycle."

If Steyn is right, the coming retirement crisis may be more than just a temporary dip that lasts a few years. It could be the start of longer careers, less prosperity, less leisure, and shorter retirements for almost everybody.

So, go ahead and celebrate the recent stock market increases, if that's what you want to do. But don't be surprised when the bubble bursts, deflating Americans' dreams of long, luxurious retirements.

We have spent ourselves into the position of necessarily thrashing from economic crisis to economic crisis. The solutions offered by politicians and their business cronies at this point are designed to create temporary bubbles of inflated well being in an effort to gain power and put off for as long as possible taking the medicine we know must take. People buy these ideas because being truly fiscally responsible sells poorly.

In other words, when the stock market bubble crashes, it won't be the last economic bubble we will experience. Taking steps to get your own economic house in order can help, but it may be inadequate to fully protect you from the coming series of crises.

Of Dogs and Missionaries

A dog may be man's best friend, but such is not always the case when it comes to missionaries. I encountered many dogs on my mission. To be honest, most were either friendly or apathetic. But even the best dogs had this annoying habit of transferring doggy hair and doggy scents onto a missionary's suit and tote bag.

All Mormon missionaries nowadays carry their teaching supplies in backpacks. Nobody did that back in my day. It was common for those of us serving in Norway to use a 'veske.' That's a type of carrying bag that looks a lot like a big purse. Although men in Norway commonly carried these things back then, we would try to find the manliest looking purses possible.

I acquired a particularly durable veske that was the envy of many an elder in my mission. It had the unusual properties of being able to repel dog hair and taking no damage when sliding along the pavement after accidentally being dropped from a fast moving bike.

As the the conclusion of my mission approached, I asked one elder if he was interested in taking over my veske. He looked at me with wide eyes and asked why I wasn't taking it home with me. I looked at him like he was an idiot and said, "I think you've been in Norway too long, elder. Think about it. What would a guy in America with one of these things slung over his shoulder look like?" "Oh, yeah," he replied.

Man purses aside, not all dogs were friendly to us missionaries. Once when I was chased by a dog that seemed intent on taking a chunk out of me, my hillbilly companion (who was confused as to the number of siblings he had but could tell you the remotest detail of every hunting trip he'd ever been on) yelled at the dog to stop and return. The cowering dog obeyed him, even though, Elder hillbilly was yelling in English.

On another occasion a large German shepherd came toward us out of the darkness exhibiting the usual threatening body language: menacing growl, teeth bared, head lowered, eyes looking a bit wild, etc. I froze and contemplated whether my bladder and bowels were about to involuntarily empty their contents into my Swedish double-knit pants.

My companion, on the other hand, (a different companion) calmly dropped into a stance that clearly conveyed to everyone and everything that he was ready to take care of business. I'm not even sure that his pulse rate went up.

It turns out that Elder W.'s parents owned a martial arts studio and that Elder W. held various black belt ranks in four different disciplines. He was reported to have used his martial arts skills only once while serving as a missionary when a group of drunk punks tried to assault him and his companion. One swift kick to the side of the ring leader's head had brought the matter to a quick close.

As soon as Elder W. dropped into his stance, the dog's body language changed completely. It became fully submissive. It backed up, gave us a wide berth, and wandered off into the darkness. I asked Elder W. what that was all about. He casually replied that he had been ready to rip the dog's throat out if necessary, and that the dog knew it.

I walked confidently off into the dark at Elder W's side. The armor of God is a wonderful thing. But never underestimate the value of extreme martial arts training.

How I Almost Drowned or Don't Swim on the Sabbath

Reading Pete Codella's post at Modern Mormon Men reminded me of a time when I nearly drowned. I was with a group of male friends, mostly returned missionaries. We had gone to a cabin in Island Park that was owned by the family of a member of our group. We had agreed to do the work of opening up the cabin for the season in exchange for food and lodging for the Memorial Day weekend.

After driving up on Friday night, we split our time on Saturday between working and recreating. In the evening some of my friends started expressing doubts about trying to make it to church meetings in West Yellowstone the following morning. In the end, the matter was decided by the friend that had the vehicle. To my disappointment, he decided that we would sleep in. Most of the others concurred.

On Sunday morning I held my own worship service as my friends slept. After a late breakfast, my friends decided to drive into Yellowstone National Park. Someone mentioned that we should bring our swimsuits and towels in case we wanted to take a dip in the Firehole River, which is warmed by geothermal waters. Recalling the many times I had enjoyed the 80°+ currents of the Firehole River, I packed my gear.

It was cloudy and cool when we pulled up to the swimming hole. I was surprised to see no other cars. Many cars and swimmers had been present each time I had previously visited. I changed into my swimsuit in the car, the whole time thinking that something was not right. I knew I shouldn't be recreating on the Sabbath, but something more than that was wrong. I brashly brushed aside those thoughts and was soon headed toward the river.

Since I was familiar with the area, I directed the group to the point where people usually swim across the river and then walk up a rocky underwater shelf for a distance. A common practice is to jump directly into the current from the end of the shelf and be carried around the bend to where the river turns shallow.

The river seemed higher and faster than what I was used to. It was also quite a bit colder. This was runoff season. I had previously always visited in the latter half of the summer when the current was more sedate and the water was warmer. The conditions warranted serious caution. But I reasoned that I was a strong swimmer, while ignoring the feeling that I shouldn't be doing this.

I soon jumped in and started swimming. The force of the runoff surprised me as it pushed me further downstream than I expected. When I realized I could not reach the rocky shelf, I relaxed and allowed the current to carry me around the bend, something I had done many times. But I was again surprised as the river held me under much longer than usual. I finally emerged and made my way to the shallows panting hard.

I slowly clambered over the rocky outcropping that separated the entry and exit points. Two of my friends had decided against trying to swim. Two others had donned wet suits for the attempt. (We had no wet suits that fit me.) I stood in the water and watched each of those with wet suits barely manage to cross the strong current. Two other friends stayed dry on the rocky outcropping.

For a long time I stood in the shallows contemplating another attempt at crossing the river. I had expended quite a bit of strength in my previous battle with the ferocious current. But my other friends had made it, and neither of them was as good at swimming as I was. They beckoned me from the other side of the river.

After several anxious minutes I again lunged into the current and began employing my strongest freestyle stroke. I made it about halfway across and then my progress slowed. I crept forward until I was about three quarters of the way across. And then I stalled. The rocky shelf got no closer. It must have been only a portion of a minute, but it seemed like I held steady forever.

All kinds of warning bells were going off in my head, but I finally doubled down and exerted all my capacity to try to reach the shelf that was so close and yet so far away. I immediately knew that I should have turned and swam for the other side while I still had strength. Despite my exertion, the shelf got no closer.

Finally I was spent. I turned and tried to swim for the shore from which I had jumped, yelling for help as I did so. I knew I was in serious trouble. But somehow I couldn't bring myself to pray. How could I ask God for help when I was deliberately disobeying his commandments? As Huckleberry Finn discovered, "You can't pray a lie." Still, with weak faith that God would answer my sinner's call, I cried out to him within my soul for help.

The current was too strong for me to make it back to the shore. Instead, I was pushed downstream toward the rocky outcropping, which had been worn smooth by thousands of years of streaming water. As soon as it came close I tried grasping for anything that could keep my body from being pushed around the bend; a process that would have plunged me underwater for more time than I had breath to spare. In my mind's eye I could see myself being pushed, twisted, and turned underwater by the current until blackness overtook me.

In my reaching and grabbing at the outcropping, my hands grasped a mossy bump that allowed me to barely hold on. But it was too rounded and slippery. As my claw-like fingers slid over the surface of the bump, I suddenly saw my friend's arm and hand before my face. Just as my feet, legs, and hips were being pulled toward the bend, I managed to grasp my friend's hand. He held on with all his strength.

My friend had only realized the seriousness of my plight when I cried out for help. He had sprung down the outcropping to a tiny ledge where he had little leverage and had sprawled downward in one mighty lunge just in time to grab my hand. He couldn't pull me up on his own, so he held me there until another friend maneuvered into place and grabbed my other arm, which allowed the two of them to hoist me from the water and then onto somewhat level ground.

I collapsed onto a log feeling nauseous. I put my head between my legs and concentrated on breathing slowly and deeply. I was actually nearly hyperventilating. I felt like I was either going to retch, pass out, or both. My friends got my towel and jacket to help calm my uncontrollable shivering. In my soul I expressed sorrow for my disobedience and gratitude to God for being saved.

After about five or six minutes my breathing had calmed and I slowly started to feel like I wasn't necessarily going to faint. A few minutes later I was able to raise my head up. After awhile I was able to stand. We made our way back to the car. I almost immediately fell asleep as we drove toward Old Faithful.

I was pretty quiet the rest of the day. Not only was I keenly aware of how close I had come to departing this life, I was disappointed with myself for my rebellious choice and my willingness to give into peer pressure.

But the experience was not without some valuable lessons for me (although, you might draw other conclusions):

• You can always pray.
• God is merciful and is willing to help as much as he can, even when you do something stupid.
• Don't ignore promptings of warning.
• Don't ignore signs of danger. There was a good reason that there were no other swimmers at the river that day.
• Don't let friends entice you into doing something you sense is not right for you.
• While the old saying about getting right back on a horse after it has bucked you off can be valid advice, it is sometimes better to wait until conditions improve a bit before getting back in the saddle. You might need to recuperate and you might need to let the horse—or river—calm down for a few weeks.

And finally:

• DON'T go swimming on the Sabbath.

The Flashlight

In response to my post about funerals, some have asked me about my reference to "the flashlight poem." As it happens, I occasionally dabble in poetry. Some of my more memorable compositions are bits of doggerel of the cowboy poetry genre. I write other types of poetry as well, but I'm the first to admit that I'm no great poet. I mostly do write for my own entertainment and sometimes for campfire fun.

I rather like cowboy poetry because it's kind of rough around the edges. As such, it's rather flexible and forgiving. Much like the whimsical styles of Lewis Carroll and Dr. Seuss, words can be twisted to rhyme (or words can even be made up), meter can be varied, and other liberties can be taken. This particular poem sounds best if you say it out loud with somewhat of a cowboy twang.

My best cowboy poems relate true stories—actual events. Such is the case with the flashlight poem. This really happened to a boy in our troop at camp a few years ago. Every word is absolutely accurate.

Dyed-in-the-wool scouters will appreciate the poem without any introduction. But for others it is helpful to know that the word "kybo" is a Boy Scout euphemism for a latrine or an outhouse, usually of the pit variety. (There are a number of theories about the origin of this word, but that's not important for this post.)

Without further ado, my poem, The Flashlight.

It was dark that night in the kybo
As he stood there trying to aim steady,
But needing both paws he held clenched in his jaws
A flashlight from EverReady.

But the weight of D batteries is tough on a jaw
And his saliva started to flow.
Then from his wet lip that light made a slip
And tumbled right through that oval hole.

Now, as luck would have it, that light light on a ledge
Just above that deep pool of waste,
So he reached down in there with the greatest of care
And retrieved it with all due haste.

He rinsed it, then coated it with hand sanitizer
From its north end down to its south.
But one thing's for sure
It'll be a long time before
He puts that thing back in his mouth.

Planning Your Own Funeral

I was recently seated next to my wife at the funeral of a longtime and well venerated member of our ward. This hard working, dedicated family man had lived a long life. His wife and sweetheart of 6½ decades appeared to be close to following him across the veil. Wonderful memories were expressed. Fine musical numbers were presented. It was all very dignified and proper.

Then one son rose to sing a song that he said the children had been told for years had to be sung at their father's funeral. He said that the children had never been told how or why their parents came to love the song Somewhere, My Love. Somewhat in jest, he proposed a "rumor" that his parents danced to it on the night they first met.

I wasn't sure that could have happened. I seemed to recall that the song was related to the movie Dr. Zhivago. I remembered watching the movie on TV with my family as a child. I was ignorant of the political and interpersonal dimensions portrayed. All I knew was that the movie lasted for-stinking-ever.

As the number began, I whipped out my handy-dandy smartphone and quickly discovered that the song was released some 20 years after the decedent and his wife had married. I smirked and showed this find to my wife. The singer could easily have discovered the same information with a minute of research. A little too arrogant and cynical, no? Does modern mobile technology render this kind of peevishness too easy? I probably should just have kept the phone in my pocket.

As I sat through the meeting, I reflected on my father's funeral. We had plied him for his thoughts on the program prior to his death, but he simply refused to say anything about it. He finally told me that the funeral was not for his benefit, but for the benefit of the survivors. His only wishes were that his sons plan everything and that our mother be completely relieved from worrying about even the remotest detail. That ended up working out great.

When my father-in-law was preparing to pass on, his only desires as far as his funeral went were that it be only a graveside service and that it last for less than an hour. He hated long meetings. That worked out fine too.

Years ago I thought I would develop very detailed plans for my own funeral. Maybe something like the scene portrayed in the song Forest Lawn that was popularized by John Denver. Although I hope that this event is yet in the distant future, I now think I like my father's approach better. Unlike my father, however, I have a handful of minor requests for my children. (All of which are subject to my changing whims.)

• Testify of the Savior's Atonement.
• Get the cheapest casket you can. You will honor me best by saving the money for more valuable matters than a box that is going to be buried under six feet of dirt following a few hours of display.
• May there be both weeping and laughter, but hopefully more of the latter than the former.
• Have some kind of (spiritually appropriate) music that reminds you of me. (Probably no progressive rock.)
• Read something that I have written. (Maybe not the flashlight poem.)

OK, so it's a little macabre to discuss your own funeral. As it happens, my wife and I have already purchased our funeral plots (so as to reduce burdens when that time arrives). As the plots are not far from my parents' plots, I often take the opportunity to lie down on my plot when we visit Dad's grave. That creeps my kids out, but it doesn't bother me one bit. Death is a natural part of life. It need not be approached with fear.

Ward Choir Woes

Our ward choir is pathetic. I've seen a broad spectrum of ward choirs over my lifetime, just within the wards of which I have been a member.

During my teen and young adult years, the ward in which I grew up had a fine choir directed by a professional music teacher. They practiced for an hour every Sunday prior to Sacrament meeting (back in the old split schedule days). At age 14 my mom nagged me into joining the choir, although, I had no vocal training.

I have tried to sing in ward choirs ever since those days. My vocal talents have developed over time, but I am still no grand singer. We had a decent sized choir when we moved into our current ward many years ago. My wife did a seven-year stint as the choir director as we were starting our family. She was thankfully released from that calling as our young family expanded.

Choir practice used to be on Sunday mornings. As our family expanded, I hit a point where I rarely sang with the choir for a few years, opting instead to stay home and get the kids ready for church while my wife attended practices. This provided her a needed respite before spending three hours wrangling young children while trying to worship.

One of the biggest challenges our choir faces is finding a convenient time to practice. There just isn't one. People generally don't come to weeknight or Saturday practices. It is horrendously difficult to get people to the church before the block meetings start nowadays. Many that would do so are busy with morning leadership meetings anyway. It's easier to get people to stay after the three-hour block. It's much more difficult to get them to return to the church later on.

The trouble with practicing after meetings is that every room in the church with a piano is generally busy except for the chapel, where we get about 30-35 minutes before the next ward comes in. Depending on how promptly meetings end and choir members make their way to practice, we are lucky to get 20-25 minutes of decent practice time on any given Sunday.

Every ward has its own culture. The choir in my old home ward regularly practiced and performed demanding numbers. When we moved into our current ward I could tell that the choir, while fairly well attended, wasn't nearly as loyal or willing to prepare such numbers. It has remained that way ever since. Directors have occasionally tried to get members to practice more or to sing more challenging numbers, but that has never worked out. People just vote with their feet.

Over the years I have watched our ward choir slowly dwindle in membership. Practicing after block meetings takes its toll because every other organization in the ward wants to catch people at that same time for 'brief' meetings. Some people with young families feel that they need to go home with their kids, who need to be fed, etc. But if we try to hold practices at another time, even fewer people come.

Right now our regular practices fail to draw even a mixed double quartet. (That would be eight people: 2xSATB.) We once had young adults sing with us, but they now mostly attend a young adult ward. I am now the lone tenor, although, I am really a baritone. My wife is often the lone soprano. We sometimes get a couple of the several bass section members out to practice. One of them is usually my high school son (who is a basso profundo and can sing as low as the lowest note on the piano keyboard). We have three or four altos that show up consistently.

We actually have a number of musically talented people in our ward, including many piano players. Some that used to sing with the choir feel that their voice is no longer capable of choir quality singing. Few younger people—even among those that can sing well—are willing to fill those vacancies.

Our choir director occasionally has a 'flash choir' sing in Sacrament meeting. She invites anyone who is willing to come up to the stand to sing a slightly modified version of a well known hymn. This has worked to a certain extent, even if musical execution isn't the best. At least we get a few more people on the stand to bolster our flagging numbers.

Although the church handbook calls for the ward choir to perform at least monthly in Sacrament meeting, our director has the choir take each summer off. It's a relief to have one less meeting to attend each Sunday throughout the summer. I'm not sure that anyone really misses our singing.

I can't nail down all of the reasons that our ward choir is dying. I've seen other ward choirs in our stake that seem to be thriving; although, they deal with the same issues as our ward. It is disheartening to be one of a tiny number of people that show up to choir practice. It is even more depressing to feel more like a member of a quartet than a ward choir when performing in Sacrament meeting, especially given the size of the congregation.

I am not presently serving in a leadership responsibility that could do something about our choir. But when I was, the choir wasn't a top priority. We had so many other things on our plate. So I can't blame current leadership for the situation.

I enjoy singing praises to the Lord. But doing so as a member of our ward choir is kind of a grim experience at present.

A Five-Inch Needle to the Eye and a Pirate Patch

"Don't look at the needle," the doctor said as a slim syringe with a needle that looked to be about four to five inches long passed directly across my field of vision. Realizing that he needed an instrument from the neighboring room, the doctor promptly left the room, leaving the syringe on the counter in plain view.

Knowing that the doctor was about to somehow stick that needle into the optic nerve behind my eyeball, I might have gone into full panic mode at that moment. Except for the fact that I had the good fortune a number of years ago of spending a week and a half as a patient in a hospital, during which time I became as familiar as is a well used pincushion with being poked by needles—at all times of the day and night. By the time I left that hospital, it was no big deal to be poked by a needle; although, I still don't care to watch the procedure.

Actually, I was quite happy to see the long needled syringe. I had been a total baby the last time the ophthalmologist had cauterized a retinal tear with a laser. I tried to keep my eye steady—a necessity for the operation—but my eyes seemed to move of their own accord as they filled with huge tears that spilled down my face. I felt sorry for the poor doctor. To prevent such problems this time around the doctor had offered to temporarily immobilize my eye.

The pinprick sensation on my lower eyelid wasn't too bad. I've had worse. It was only a flesh wound. "That's an odd sensation," I remarked as I felt something pushing my eyeball from behind. "Um, how long will the injection take?" I mumbled. "We're done," he refreshingly replied.

After several brief instances of weirdly shaped lights flashing in my eye over the past year, I had searched the internet and had figured that I was experiencing eye flashes that are not uncommon in middle aged eyes. But then I had a longer episode that lasted nearly half an hour. Some of the material I read said to get the eye examined by a professional right away or else risk retinal detachment, which can result in blindness. Yikes! So off to the doctor I went.

"What can you see out of that eye?" the doctor asked as he waved his hand in front of my face. I could see only gray outlines. "That's good," he said. He proceeded to place a lens directly on my eyeball. That didn't bother me like I thought it would. He looked through the other end of the instrument. I soon began seeing a small green point of light flash as the doctor activated the laser by foot pedal. My eye didn't move at all. It couldn't.

This was a vast improvement over the previous treatment when my eye was assaulted with blinding flashes of light, something to which I have always been extra sensitive. The 100-120 flashes of a tiny unremarkable green light took maybe five minutes. Probably less. That was considerably better than the 25 minutes the 40-45 flashes of blinding light had taken the time before when I couldn't keep my teary eyes still.

As the doctor bandaged my eye he said that normal eye movement would return "in a few hours" and that I could remove the dressing anytime I wanted. About an hour and a half later, it felt like I could move my eye and my eyelid normally, so I removed the bandage.

Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. My wife asked why I had immediately grabbed the wall. "To keep from falling over," I replied. Even then I wasn't sure that the wall would keep me upright. I could see clearly, but everything was slanted like a fun house room. But only out of the affected eye. In attempting to make sense of the two different views offered by my two eyes, my brain almost succeeded in making me seriously nauseous.

Unable to find an eye patch around the house, my wife drove me to a nearby pharmacy, where I bought what looked very much like a pirate costume patch. My son said that I looked more like a James Bond villain than a pirate. The vague "few hours" recovery time mentioned by the doctor ended up lasting at least 12 hours until I retired. I'm not actually sure when the anesthetic wore off because I awoke with my eye tracking normally.

In the interim, I spent the day with my Bond villain look. I was somewhat self conscious when I accompanied my daughter to a children's museum. Happily, no one seemed to care. Even the young kids (of which there were many) seemed unbothered by my appearance. It was a bit more problematic to attend a wedding reception, where my eye adornment brought unwanted attention from friends and acquaintances. But at least I was able to stay upright.

The vitreous gel inside our eyes hardens with age and pulls away from the retina and outside of the eye. It's usually no big deal. But some of us are blessed with 'sticky' gel that tugs hard enough on the retina to tear that delicate membrane during this process. As mentioned above, it's important to get this treated promptly. You know, impending blindness and all.

The good news (at least for the ophthalmologist) is that once you've had a retinal tear, you are a good candidate for more. So I am getting comfortable with the idea of seeing the eye doctor more often. I guess that as long as I can continue to see him, it will be worth it.

I'm not particularly looking forward to the next time I will need laser therapy on my eyes. But I will definitely go for the eye immobilization the next time around. For me, a five-inch needle and a pirate patch beat seeing bright laser light shot in my eye any day.

It's Easier to Say, "I Can't"

I am quite certain that health professionals would say that I have an eating disorder. In this November 2011 post I discussed how my low carb diet was going. I am still doing the low carb thing, but I'm thinking about doing another round of the Rosedale diet, which I have found remarkably effective in managing cholesterol; although, not nearly as satisfying as my low carb regimen.

This interchange recently took place between my youngest son and me:

Him: "Dad, are you always on some kind of diet?"

Me: "Well, everyone that eats is always on some kind of diet." (being evasive)

Him: "I know. I meant are you always on some kind of ... uh, you know ... medical diet?"

Me: "You are asking whether I am always doing some kind of restrictive diet for health purposes?"

Him: "Yeah, that's it."

Me: "Yeah, I'm pretty much always on some kind of healthy diet."

Him: "Oh." (sounding rather non-plussed)

I have been fighting the battle of the bulge since I was 16 years old. I dropped 60 lbs a couple of decades ago and have pretty much managed to keep it off since then. Although I was never obese as a kid, I was somewhat chubby from the time I exited the womb. This feature was the preferred vehicle for much of the childhood ridicule that came my way. 

For all the paeans to the wonders of being child-like, children can be phenomenally brutal to their peers. I probably dished out as least as much as I got, but only the pain of being on the receiving end remains deeply etched in my psyche.

My wife reminds me on occasion that my obsession with maintaining a healthy weight is at least in part a response to the ghosts of childhood insults that were hurled by immature kids that have long since grown into mature, caring, responsible adults. (The petty part of me would add to that last sentence, "... that often are fatter than me nowadays.")

OK, so I've got some issues left over from childhood. Who doesn't?

The reason my son sounded joyless about my response is that dietary discipline simply doesn't sound like it's any fun. Here's a news flash: IT ISN'T! I have tried a number of different diets over the years. The ones that have actually been effective have all shared several features:

• A: They are restrictive.
• B: They require serious self-discipline.
• C: Item A above means that unless you are into spending hours daily doing food preparation or can afford a personal chef, these diets tend to devolve into fairly narrow meal options, which means dietary monotony.
• D: A + B + C = No Fun

Most diets are promoted as being pleasurable and offering a wide variety of dining options. The reality is that unless you are a foodie, pleasure and diversity are opposites of what you will find in any diet that really works.

I recently saw an article about a lady that was a hot starlet back when I was a teenager. She had subsequently added significant heft to her corpus but had recently slimmed down. She was quoted as saying that comfort foods are grand, as long as you only take a bite or two.

Maybe that works for her, but it doesn't work for me. It's far easier for me to simply tell myself that a given food is completely out of bounds. Unlike some, if I give myself permission to eat some delightful treat, I simply can't stop at a couple of bites. It's like giving a recovering alcoholic a bottle of whiskey and telling him to stop after one shot. Better not to touch the stuff at all. That's why I often tell myself and others, "Sorry, I can't."

But sometimes I tell myself, "I can." Yeah, I occasionally take dietary vacations. I don't go crazy with this. It is relatively rare and usually only lasts one or two meals. I may overeat a little on these occasions, but not a lot. It's pretty measured. I don't devolve into uncontrollable eating that is the marker of binge eating.

While diet experts warn against emotional eating, the fact is that everything we eat involves our emotions, often on a very deep level. It's inescapable. People aren't joking when they say things like, "I love donuts" or "I hate spinach" when talking about food. It is my opinion that even for those that opt for dietary austerity, eating should occasionally be a joyful experience (although it may cost some minor indigestion afterward).

When I do take a dietary vacation, I like to do so only in the company of my closest family members. This definitely smacks of covering sins and attempting to satisfy vain desires (D&C 121:37). I can dietarily vacation in public, as long as I'm anonymous. I don't like to be seen by neighbors, friends, and associates eating the less healthy fare that others regularly eat. Psychologists would say that this kind of secrecy is unhealthy and indicates a disorder. They're probably right.

Thinking back to my conversation with my son, I have to wonder what I am teaching my children by my example. No wonder my son views my dietary discipline with distaste. I wouldn't mind if my children learned the kind of self-discipline I have developed. But frankly, I wouldn't wish on them the same level of food frustration that I regularly deal with.

The fact is that I want to eat what I enjoy eating, but I don't want the consequences of eating what I enjoy eating. Most people would probably say the same thing. The difference is that I actually do something about it. And, no, it really isn't much fun. But I do like the health benefits. One of life's harsh truths is that you can't eat your cake and not wear it too.

Tired of Winter

Before heading up to our workout room in the wee hours this morning, I peered through the blinds and noticed snow accumulating on the driveway and walks yet again. I sighed. By the time I was leaving for work about an inch of the white stuff had accumulated.

Let me state for the official record that I am tired of winter. Yeah, I know. I have often told others complaining about winter that their choice of where they live sure is odd, given that northern Utah tends to regularly experience real winters. That "greatest snow on earth" slogan isn't all marketing fluff.

We had a few snowstorms in November this season. But that snow had pretty much melted away by the time mid December rolled around. And then—cold. Cold and haze due to incessant inversion. Our kids kept wishing for a white Christmas. Alas, no new snowfall graced our area in time for the blessed yuletide.

But snow fell the day after Christmas, giving us a brief respite from the inversion and unseasonably frigid temperatures. (The mean temperature this winter has been quite a bit colder than is "normal.") We haven't seen much of our lawn since December 26. We have had fairly long spells of inversion where the snow didn't melt much, interspersed with occasional snowstorms that required more rounds of snow removal.

The snow removal took its toll on me this year. I can tell that I am aging. After breaking up resilient sheets of two-inch thick ice that painted all surfaces following an unusual ice storm, my left hip began hurting. The pain increased over the next several days until it was excruciating. (I even took ibuprofen, which I rarely do.)

I have great respect for what a good chiropractor can do with respect to muscular-skeletal problems. But I frankly hate the standard chiropractic business model that sucks you into 20 visits when one or two would suffice. At least, if the chiropractor was any good at his trade. Besides, I have learned enough about how my own joints work to make certain adjustments on my own.

Having effected the adjustment that relieved the pressure on the affected nerve, I needed to give the nerve time to heal. But the regular storm pattern over recent weeks has made that difficult, as I have had to repeatedly do snow removal. Finally, however, my back and hip are approaching normalcy, no thanks to the shoveling and snow blowing. Still, I have had to stay away from the ski slopes.

Despite all of the snow removal and driving in slippery conditions (and paying for an auto repair thanks to those conditions), water managers tell us that we have below average water in the mountains and that we are likely headed into a second consecutive drought year. Now, that just doesn't seem fair to me. We have snow and ice with little sunshine for weeks on end, we keep doing snow removal, and yet we're in a drought. (They tell us that the long inversion periods kept storms away and that when storms did come they dumped their moisture in the valleys before floating unladen over the mountains, so that there isn't much snow up there.)

The media seems to take great delight in rubbing our faces in the fact that we're headed into a drought. There is a whole class of professional hand-wringers that spend a great portion of each year whining about northern Utah's water conditions. There's often too little water. Sometimes there's too much. Or it's melting too fast. Etc. There's always something to keep the worrywart/whining class busy.

Saturday night a wheel and related mechanical parts were damaged on one of our cars when one of the drivers in our household hit a patch of solid ice and slid into a curb going about 10 mph. You'd be surprised how much it costs to repair something like that. Not enough to make an insurance claim, but an unexpected hit to the family budget anyway.

The storm had passed and the skies were clear when Sunday morning dawned. For the first time during this winter that I could remember we gazed out on deep blue sky and dazzling morning sunlight reflecting off the fresh snow. We usually have many days like this during an average winter, but the inversion haze kept it from happening much this season. As I looked out at the mountains and across the valley, my consternation of the previous evening melted away. I remembered some of the things that I love about northern Utah winters.

The snow clouds of early this morning vanished by mid morning and glorious sunlight again graced our valley, making the mountains look beautiful. I'm still tired of this winter. It has kind of worn me down. But there are things that I adore about northern Utah winters. We won't be moving anytime soon.

The Missionary Library Then and Now

Just before I left to serve as a missionary I was given a boxed set of paperback books that included James E. Talmage's masterpieces Jesus The Christ and The Articles of Faith, LeGrand Richards' fundamental work A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, and the LDS Church's Gospel Principles manual.

I read through Elder Richards' book easily enough. Talmage's books, although magnificent, were written in the grammar of a true scholar at a time when the average person's vocabulary was much larger and included words like pulchritude, abrogation, and annunciation. (See John Branyan's comical take on modern vs. historical vocabulary and grammar.) While I learned much in reading Talmage's works, the chore was a tough slog for my callow, simply educated brain.

Also included in the boxed set was a slender fifth book. To this day I still don't understand how or why this book was included in the set. Perhaps one of the authors was related to a general authority. The book read more like the findings of a doctorate thesis or a university research project. It was all about how a child's placement in the family permanently sets the child's personality. The authors prescribed methods for interacting with others based on their birth order among their siblings. While birth order no doubt affects each person, I still think the book smacked of pop culture mumbo jumbo and had little relevance for a missionary.

Another book I received was Spencer W. Kimball's The Miracle of Forgiveness. This was much easier for me to read than the books by Talmage or even Richards. Mind you, I studied all of these books while I also studiously delved into the scriptures and resources for learning Norwegian.

In the MTC we were also given a book titled Tools for Missionaries. It was commonly referred to by those in my mission as "Tull for Misjonærer." The Norwegian word "tull" does not mean "tools;" it means "nonsense" (at least in politically correct English).

It wasn't that the book contained no useful information. It did, however, seem heavily slanted toward missionaries serving in Latin American cultures. That probably made sense, since that is where the church was experiencing high growth. But many of the suggestions in the book were wholly unsuited to northern Europe, rendering many parts of the book irrelevant to us. (I still dutifully studied the book.)

I regularly read these various books while riding buses, streetcars, or trains, in addition to reading them in my apartment. If I had been a better missionary I probably would have looked for contacting opportunities while using mass transit instead of hiding behind my books.

Being somewhat of an introvert, I frankly hated cold contacting people in public. I had little problem talking to people if they initiated the discussion. I could (and often did) knock on doors all day long. I think this didn't bother me much because gaining admittance was rare enough to render it less threatening.

I spent a significant portion of my mission working in the mission office in various positions. Administration seemed to come naturally to me, so my skills were well used. Although we did traditional missionary work in the evenings, the hours I spent daily working in the office minimized the need to engage in salesmanship tactics, something I still avoid. (I very much appreciate Orson Scott Card's recent article on introverts in an extrovert church.)

My missionary son today uses Preach My Gospel, correlated manuals, and the scriptures for his main reference materials. In my opinion this compendium represents a vast improvement over the resources I used back in my day. The extrascriptural elements are written in straightforward language. They are generally relevant to missionary work and are flexible enough to be individually and situationally relevant.

Works like those by Talmage that I studied as a missionary can be wonderful supplements for those that wish to stretch their linguistic as well as their scriptural understanding. Each of us needs a better comprehension of what and whom we worship. But I am glad that today's core missionary library focuses on simplicity. The universe is a complex place. But many solid truths are rooted in simplicity.

The Rewards of Relationship Rituals

A friend of mine that is a respected business owner and church leader occasionally relates a story of which he is not proud. When he was still fairly newly married, he and his wife attended a large family gathering. At the gathering he told a joke at his wife's expense. His grandfather looked at him and very publicly dressed him down for disrespecting his spouse.

"She is your sweetheart and bride," my friend's grandfather said. "You are to treat her with the utmost respect at all times." Grandpa demanded that the young groom apologize to his wife. My friend admits that his grandfather had done a fine job of modeling the behavior he was advocating and is grateful to have learned this lesson early in his marriage. He and his wife today provide a fine example for their own expanding brood of grandchildren.

I am not fond of pranks or jokes made at the expense of others. Ever since I was young it has always hurt inside when I have seen someone else hurt through this kind of thing. My wife might correct me, but I do not believe that I have ever turned a joke on her.

My Mom had only sons. She taught us about cooking and domestic chores, but Mom had no daughters to dress up. As she had my brothers before me, Mom carefully educated me about dating rituals and how to properly respect women when the time came.

Although I didn't often see Dad open the car door for Mom, doing so has become a ritual for my wife and me. It follows the pattern Mom taught me. With few exceptions, I open the car door for my wife when we are traveling in the same vehicle. I open doors to buildings and rooms for her.

I don't do this because my wife is incapable of opening the doors herself; I do it to show my respect and love for her. It's not a matter of necessity. It's a matter of enhancing our relationship. Although it would sometimes be easier for my wife just to open the doors herself, she usually graciously allows me to do so. We find it a mutually joyful ritual.

Growing up in a houseful of boys, I didn't develop many tender touching skills. Boys often show their affection by punching, wrestling, and tussling. Tenderness didn't come into the picture much. Although it still doesn't come completely naturally to me, my wonderful wife often draws me into tender touching rituals. Despite our many years of marriage, we often hold hands or engage in other minor displays of affection.

I would be lying if I said that I never got frustrated with my wife. While I still have a long way to go in learning not to be critical, I try very hard not to badmouth my wife to others. It seems to me that those that do so tend to have rocky marriages. I'm not sure whether the complaints precede the relationship problems or vice versa; or maybe it's just a self defeating cycle. But certainly removing the griping can go a long way toward preventing or repairing problems.

The longer I am married, the more I am convinced that Mom was right about the little things. Seemingly minor positive relationship rituals make a major difference. Although it may appear that these things come naturally to some couples, these exercises require continual thoughtful effort. But the reward is sweet.

Happy Birthday, Van

Last weekend we had a birthday party for Van, who reached the ripe old age of 20 years. We celebrated with a decorated cake topped with candles. We took pictures and enjoyed ice cream. But Van, who didn't have any treats and didn't blow out the candles, didn't have anything to say about the occasion.

I still recall Van's advent into our family. 20 years ago we picked up Van brand spanking new from a Ford dealership; the only vehicle we have ever bought that was built to our specifications. (It is also the last brand new vehicle we have bought, to date.)

The opportunity to acquire a sleek new 1993 Mercury Villager at an affordable price came to us thanks to the Ford Z-Plan—an employee discount incentive available through my wife's grandfather, who had retired from working in a Ford factory.

Weeks earlier when we presented the dealer with the Z-Plan paperwork, he immediately dumped all of the games that car dealerships usually play. He cut right to the chase, showed us exactly how much the vehicle and options we wanted cost, and got us on our way. He explained that he received a set percentage of the vehicle invoice returned to him in vouchers for parts. Since he was prohibited from making any extra on the sale, the sooner he could finish with us and get to another customer, the sooner he could make more money.

Having for a number of years driven a van that was built on a light truck frame, I was impressed the Van's luxury sedan-like ride and handling. In those days, Mercury Villagers were the alter ego of the Nissan Quest. They were built in the same factory using a Maxima chassis and engine. They had only cosmetic differences. The package we bought came with this ur-cool digital dashboard, that I still really like.

The only real complaint we had about Van was that its Maxima engine was designed for a sedan, rather than a van, which was built with 600 lbs more material and could haul 400 lbs more in people and gear, plus trailering. So Van lacked power when climbing hills. Still, we got a towing package and occasionally used Van to pull light loads.

During the ensuing 20 years, Van has seen a long parade of children, scouts, road trips, spilled drinks, crumbs, vomit, mud, occasional fender benders, teens learning to drive, and trips to the auto mechanic. When the trips to the auto shop became frequent and severe enough that Van's reliability was in question, we purchased a newer SUV. Van was relegated to being the vehicle driven by the teenagers. (Who call our light brown minivan "The Turdmobile" and constantly complain that the vehicle is unsafe; although, it recently passed safety inspection.)

It has been several years since we have trusted Van enough to take it more than towing distance from home. Van has mostly been used for trips to and from school and around town. We haven't bothered to repair most of the dents sustained by our teenagers. The heater and the A/C only sort of work. One power seat belt barely functions. Passengers must climb under the other one, which doesn't move at all. Anytime a power window is opened it seems questionable whether it will manage to close again. The sound of air whistling through window and door seals gets pretty loud if you get going more than 40 mph. The brakes work, although, they feel kind of iffy when the pedal is pressed.

Despite Van's age related drawbacks, we keep it around—mainly because we can't currently afford to replace it. Each family member still has many fond memories of Van. Each of our children except the first rode home from the hospital in Van two days after birth. We have shared many family trips in Van and I have taken Van on countless scouting trips.

But it is questionable how long we will be able to keep Van. The kids actually do have a point about the vehicle's safety. It's a far cry from what it once was. Van's reliability has also deteriorated noticeably in the past two years. The ownership of aging vehicles is suited to people that are mechanically inclined—a trait I did not inherit from my MacGyver-like Dad. When the day comes that Van leaves our family, I will be happy. And a little sad.

Scouting: "We're Doing It Wrong"

Dave Rich was a talented and accomplished man who served as the volunteer president of our Boy Scout council a few years ago and subsequently volunteered at higher levels in the scouting organization. An amazingly energetic man, he dedicated his life to helping and serving others until overtaken by disease. In his later years he insatiably consumed  and analyzed volumes of books and resources about all things related to youth and devised methods for helping youth become happy and productive members of society.

Although he was a highly decorated and staunch supporter of the Boy Scouts, Dave was also a thoughtful critic of the organization. He held bachelor, master, and doctorate degrees, but he felt that the BSA had moved too far into the brainy end of things, particularly when it came to scouting advancement requirements.

On more than one occasion I watched and listened as Dave discussed a raft of books and research showing that many of the problems modern youth experience can be successfully addressed by getting youth in contact with real nature more often. He noted that our scout council boasted nine camp facilities set in some of the most marvelous outdoor settings in the country. Residents of our council also have ready access to millions of acres of back country trails and expanses, some of which are accessible minutes from our homes.

All of these resources provide ample opportunity to frequently get youth out into nature. Yet Dave said he was dismayed by how we used these resources. We take boys to wonderful rustic scout camps and set them down in classroom settings to teach them merit badges that could just as easily be taught in an urban building. The boys lose out on the benefit of actually interacting with nature and discovering how it really works.

Too many of the requirements for the merit badges required for the Eagle Scout rank have nothing to do with outdoors or adventure—the elements most missing for many modern youth—and everything to do with more of the same classroom and homework regimens that already consume much of their time with generally lackluster results. Even the adventure and outdoors based requirements are often administered in a left brain fashion, unfortunately drawing attention away from the surrounding natural world.

Dave had specific criticisms for the way the scouting program works in Utah. He noted that we have become very good at getting youth to advance. Youth progress through scouting requirements, ranks, and merit badges at a much faster clip in Utah than anywhere else in the world. Many are very proud of this fact.

The problem, Dave noted, is that scouting is not primarily about ranks and awards; it is about getting youth to learn and internalize the scouting method. Scouting is about helping youth become scouts—infusing the moral and character aims taught by scouting into the essence of their very being. Scouts can achieve ranks and awards without ever internalizing these ideals if the adult volunteers fail to firmly keep these ideals the main focus of the program.

On one occasion after discussing poor application of nature in working with youth and failure to adequately teach the scouting method, Dave bluntly said, "What I am saying is that we're doing it wrong." We have everything we need to do it right, but we are too often focused on the wrong things. Internalization of scouting ideals can occur as a result of pursuing advancement, but Dave felt that it works better the other way around—when advancement is simply a symptom of the pursuit of scouting ideals.

To implement Dave Rich's vision of how scouting should work, some changes would need to occur at the national level. Some merit badges would need to be restructured and the badges required for the Eagle rank would need to be changed up. Unfortunately I don't really see this happening. Each requirement in each merit badge has a constituency that supports that requirement. The left brain designers of these requirements aren't about to lie down and let the woodsy folks ride roughshod over their beloved designs.

Local leaders can do much to get youth into nature more and to re-emphasize the scouting method. It is true, however, that they will face pressure from parents to do more advancement, because that is what Utah culture dictates. It's what parents see the kids of their friends and relatives doing. LDS Scouting in Utah following Cub Scouts is like a blitz through ages 11, 12, and 13 to get as much advancement as possible, followed by a rite of passage to age 14 when the boy never again dons a scout uniform or even thinks of himself as a member of the BSA.

All of this marshals against more outdoors oriented implementation of the scouting method. Frankly, it's a lot easier to plop the youth down in a church building classroom for an hour on a Wednesday night or to let them toss a basketball around than it is to take them on a hike to a rocky vista or a quiet pond, or to do what it takes to let them actually lead their units

It takes a lot of work and dedication to put adventure and real youth leadership into a unit's scouting program. I tried to do this during the years that I served as scoutmaster. Although I often fell short I did feel like I saw some successes. Some of those successes only showed up with the passage of time.

A few years ago I saw a man in his early 30s that looked familiar. When he turned and smiled at me I recognized him as one of my senior patrol leaders from my first year as scoutmaster. I didn't remember him as a particularly good scout or senior patrol leader. But he came over, gave me hug and thanked me for teaching him scouting principles that he said had deeply impacted his life.

We can do scouting right, and in doing so, we can help youth develop high moral character as well as a proper appreciation for nature. But for most scouting units in Utah, that means making important changes, many of which would require an even higher degree of dedication than the average scout leader now demonstrates. When Dave Rich passed away we lost one of the few champions for making these kinds of positive changes.

No Gay Scoutmasters for Now; What's Next?

Last week I wrote a post positing whether Boy Scout units sponsored by the LDS Church would soon be able to have gay scout leaders. I asked the question in light of last week's news that the 77-member BSA executive board would consider dropping the BSA's long held ban on homosexual members at its meeting this week.

The Associated Press now reports that the executive board has backed away from making the decision itself. Rather, the board will prepare a proposal to be voted on at the national council meeting in May. The national council has some 1,400 voting members, including "volunteers who are elected National Officers and Executive Board members, regional presidents, the local council representatives, members at large, and honorary members."

Frankly, the proposal to change the current policy is going to be a hard sell for this broad group. The best chance of changing the policy anytime soon would have been at the executive board meeting, many of whose members operate in social circles where gay rights are accepted and championed. A rapidly organized grass roots movement to get the board to postpone its vote appears to have been effective.

While there will be strong support for changing the current policy among some members of the national council, the size of the voting group ensures that voters will more closely reflect the ideals of the base membership of the BSA. Some councils in more liberal enclaves currently do little to enforce the ban on homosexual members and would like the ban dropped. Other councils in more conservative areas where membership tends to be stronger see maintaining the ban as a matter of principle.

In an organization as large as the BSA, it seems best to allow the greatest input possible on a change of this nature, which many feel would fundamentally alter the organization. So a vote by the national council would seem more appropriate than a vote by the executive board, which makes up only about 5½ percent of the national council membership.

It is difficult for me to see how a proposal to change the current policy could pass a vote of the national council at present. Over the next three months voting members will undoubtedly be lobbied heavily by motivated people from both sides of the issue. But I would be surprised if the national council ended up voting in favor of the change this year.

As I noted in my previous post, the proposal would move decisions about membership from the national level to the local unit level, or more accurately, to the sponsoring organizations. The national BSA organization would discontinue its ban on homosexual members, but it would allow local units to maintain the ban.

This proposal is a compromise that has inherent weaknesses. As the AP notes, neither side felt that the proposal was acceptable. Gay rights activists are unwilling to countenance any ban on homosexual members at any level of the BSA, seeing it as akin to permitting racial discrimination. Traditionalists are unwilling to accept any weakening of the current national policy, seeing it as disloyalty to a moral imperative and forecasting mass defections of rank-and-file members if the policy is changed.

Opponents of dropping the national organization's ban feel that kicking the ban down to the local level is a cop out on centrally vital principles. Dropping the ban after standing so firm for so long would obviously invite pressure to compromise on other foundational principles that do not comport with secularist ideals.

Supporters of the compromise policy suggest that it would allow enough diversity among local units that parents could find a unit suited their ideals for their sons to attend. That argument appears to be insufficiently persuasive to appeal to many.

Blogger Jeff Westover thinks that it would be best for the BSA to stand firm on its principles and for those that disagree with those principles to establish their own competing organizations instead of attempting to overtake existing organizations. "Throw it out into the free marketplace," he writes. "Give people a choice. That would be the only fair way to see how society really feels about this issue."

I like this idea, but I doubt it would in any way satisfy gay activists. The most effective way to accomplish their agenda is to take down organizations that they believe stop them from achieving full social acceptance. Building your own organization is more work, takes much longer, and is unlikely to attract anywhere near the numbers of members that the BSA has.

Maintaining the BSA's ban on homosexual members is already having real financial consequences, as some corporate sponsors have withheld donations. It takes money to run the business side of the BSA. As long as the ban remains in place you can expect gay activists to lobby BSA institutional sponsors to quit donating. Increasing numbers of donors will no doubt oblige as the ban becomes increasingly controversial.

This will provide a good test for supporters of the ban. Will they be able to find ways to make up for lost contributions? If not, the BSA will either necessarily reduce its business footprint or else face financial default.

In the meantime, BSA membership continues its long-term decline. It is difficult for me to believe that dropping the ban would stop this decline, as some activists have suggested, since broader social factors that affect all civic organizations are at play: more technology that allows youth to socially advance without engagement in civic groups, far more options vying for the the discretionary time of youth, declining birth rates, etc.

It is also difficult to know what impact dropping the ban would have on BSA membership. It is possible that ban supporters are correct in forecasting mass defections. Only large institutional sponsors could say, and some of these are staying mum. There are likely enough experienced and dedicated scouters to form competing organizations.

The experience of the American Heritage Girls provides an interesting case study. Religious moms disgusted with the secularization of the Girl Scouts of the USA formed the AHG in 1995, using a lot of old Girl Scout program materials and adding in a healthy dose of evangelical Christian principles. While the organization has grown and has units in 48 states, its total membership is less than 1 percent of that of the GSUSA.

Perhaps the battle about the BSA ban on homosexual members—which many on both sides see as merely a surrogate for a much broader battle over social values—could ultimately create enough of a schism among BSA members that some large institutional sponsors might split off and form their own scouting movement that could immediately have hundreds of thousands of members, but none of the BSA's physical facilities and staff.

Right now it looks like the BSA is in a difficult position, sandwiched between social and financial pressure on one side and the principles of sponsoring organizations and rank-and-file members on the other side. Any move the BSA makes—even making no move at all—could end up leaving it crushed.

Friends of mine have suggested that it would be better for the BSA to die financially while standing on its principles than to sacrifice its principles to sustain financial funding. Those forecasting large membership defections suggest that appeasing donors enough to win the desired funding would end up being a Pyrrhic victory anyway.

Maybe these alternatives are too dire and reality will be far more benign. But that doesn't mean that it will necessarily be pleasant. The BSA might just slowly and quietly dissolve as moral decay advances. In his post, Jeff Westover foresees the day when we will nostalgically look back at scouting the same way we look longingly back at simpler times when men wore hats, people sat in the parlor, and front yards sported white picket fences.

What's a Parent to do When a Child Struggles?

At age 28 I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis following the onset of a fairly serious episode. (I am grateful that it didn't take years to reach this diagnosis, as is often the case with MS.) As difficult as it was for my wife and me to handle the reality of my condition, I felt at the time that it seemed to be even more difficult for my parents, especially my dad.

I am now getting a taste of what my parents experienced back then as I watch my own kids grapple with problems. The past couple of years have brought some serious challenges as one son has experienced a number of behavioral issues. As I explained in this post, our son has now been diagnosed with Asperger Syndrome and we are working through the process of understanding his condition and how best to help him. Thankfully, there is help available. But this process has taken, is taking, and will take its toll on our family for a long time to come.

In November I wrote about two of my sons leaving to serve as full-time LDS missionaries. One of these young men has grappled with a mystifying chronic pain condition for about five years, but he is serving valiantly.

My other missionary son embarked on his mission after his chronic dizziness problems cleared up enough for doctors, church leaders, and the missionary department to feel that he could handle the rigors of missionary life. Alas, it was not to be. After beginning his service, our son experienced debilitating episodes of dizziness and nausea.

Our son's earlier dizziness problems had been thought to be directly related to a longstanding ear and throat problem. However, a specialist in this field certified that those problems had cleared up. Feeling that the issue appeared to be of a neurological nature, he advised that our son come home to address the matter with neurology specialists.

The succeeding weeks have brought many medical tests and meetings with various doctors, the first of whom basically told us he was uninterested in our son's case. A more competent doctor arrived at a diagnosis of a permanent neurological anomaly that causes many negative physical manifestations.

We have been told that there is no satisfactory medical treatment for our son's condition. Therapists can work to help him 'rewire' his brain, but this takes time. And it's not necessarily a linear process. Until our son achieves some level of stability he finds himself unable to be very productive. He can't work, serve a mission, or go to school. He feels physically and mentally awful most days.

Even before a child is born, parents tend to start taking responsibility for resolving problems related to the child. This continues in various forms throughout childhood, adolescence, and even into adulthood. Sometimes a parent can intervene to solve a problem. Sometimes parents hold back because they feel that a problem will resolve itself in time. But it is particularly difficult for a parent when they feel powerless to do much in the face of a child's challenge.

I suppose that pretty much all parents that remain involved in the lives of their children eventually watch their children face challenges that the parent is incapable of resolving. Some boo-boos will never go away, no matter how many band-aids and kisses are applied. This realization requires an adjustment to the parent's standard operational pattern. That can be hard, especially when the parent yearns to do more.

This needed parental adjustment usually can't happen in rapid fashion. We have no way, for example, to develop much of a long-term plan for either of our sons dealing with disabilities. We simply don't know what tomorrow, or next year, or the next decade will bring. We are constantly trying to figure out what we need to do and how much assistance is appropriate. How do you know for sure when your efforts are going to end up being inadequate or when they go so far as to create detrimental dependency?

The fact is that we signed up for this when we decided to have children. Despite the challenges, I don't regret even the tiniest bit having any of our children in our family. I love each one dearly. I fully anticipate a bright future for our family, regardless of the challenges our children face.

Will LDS Scout Units Soon Be Able to Have Gay Scoutmasters?

In very interesting news, the Boy Scouts of America has announced that it is considering dropping its long held policy against the admission of homosexuals to its ranks (see AP article). The policy change could come as early as next week when the BSA's national board meets on February 6.

I can think of only three possible reasons that the BSA would venture to make a pre-meeting announcement of the potential policy change: 1) they are certain that the policy will change and they want to get people used to the idea, 2) to pressure some of the undecided board members to scrap the controversial policy, or 3) some of both 1 and 2. At any rate, it seems that maintaining the current policy after announcing that it might be changed would produce a much worse result than just keeping mum on the topic.

To be clear, the new policy would not automatically allow homosexuals admission to any BSA unit. Rather, membership acceptance criteria would be determined at the unit level (except for those the BSA considers potential child abuse risks). This would allow parents to place their sons in BSA units that fit the parents' ideals.

While the change will certainly please many homosexual rights advocates, it is unlikely that these advocates will see the change as sufficient, given that the BSA will not prohibit units from excluding homosexuals. Rather, sponsoring institutions will be permitted to establish BSA membership policies "consistent with each organization’s mission, principles, or religious beliefs." If the BSA is seen as bowing to the pressures of secular society, you can be certain that the policy change will only invite more pressure to adopt more secularist values in the future.

An interesting question is how the various religious groups that sponsor the bulk of BSA membership will respond to the policy change.

The LDS Church, which is the largest sponsor of BSA units (47%) and membership (23%), has said that it is aware of the potential policy change, but that "it would be inappropriate for the church to comment" on the matter until it is formally notified that the BSA has changed the policy.

The article omits any mention of United Methodist Church, the second largest institutional sponsor of the BSA (14% of units and 20% of members). But a statement from the General Commission on United Methodist Men comes across as very supportive of the policy change.

The BSA's third largest institutional sponsor, the Catholic Church (which sponsors 11% of units and 15% of members) also refused to comment on the matter for now. The U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops merely said that it hopes that the BSA "will continue to work under the Judeo-Christian principles upon which they were founded." That could either mean that it opposes or welcomes the change, depending on what is meant by the broad term, "Judeo-Christian principles."

Other religious groups not mentioned in the article include the Presbyterians (BSA's #5 sponsor behind the PTA), and Lutherans (BSA's #6 sponsor). But the article makes it clear that at least some Baptists (BSA's #8 sponsor with 5% of units and 6% of members) are definitely unhappy with the proposed change. Some Southern Baptist leaders have said that they might encourage congregations to consider switching from the BSA to other youth groups if the change is adopted.

Presumably the BSA has sounded out the feelings of sponsoring organizations regarding the proposed policy change. At least some of the statements made by religious groups seem to bear this out. If so, it would seem that the largest sponsors are comfortable with the change and that the BSA is willing to risk the loss of some smaller sponsors.

Some LDS Church members have opined that the church designed its Duty to God program to replace scouting when BSA becomes too secular. As discussed in this LDS Scouter blog post, however, church leaders have repeatedly affirmed the church's intention to continue to strongly sponsor scouting.

I can't help but wonder if the LDS Church is not only prepared to accept the BSA's proposed policy change, but is advocating for it. In light of the church's recent affirmations that it is completely acceptable for church members to have same-sex attraction (see church's mormonsandgays.org website) as long as they are chaste, and LDS apostle Elder Dallin H. Oaks' recent general conference statement that it is wrong to ostracize those dealing with same-sex attraction, it seems that the church is now interested in including homosexuals in all of its programs, including scouting.

After all, how does a bishop say to a worthy young man with same-sex attraction that it is acceptable for him to join his peers in an Aaronic Priesthood quorum on Sunday, but not to join them in scouting—"the activity arm of the Aaronic Priesthood"—during the week? Is a faithful LDS husband and father that happens also to be gay to be excluded from ever serving as a cubmaster, a scouting advancement chair, or a Varsity coach?

I discussed this matter with a friend at a meeting last night. My friend saw my point on the inappropriateness of excluding youth dealing with same-sex attraction. But he could not imagine that the LDS Church would countenance self identified gay men serving as scouting leaders. While this will seem bigoted according to secular principles, in my friend's mind, same-sex attraction is a disability of sorts. He opined that same-sex attraction ought to prevent men from serving as scouting leaders just as some other men are unable to serve in such positions due to physical or mental impairment.

It seems certain that the BSA will soon be announcing the policy change. It will be interesting to see how the BSA's major religious sponsors respond. Being Mormon, I am particularly interested to see how the LDS Church responds to the policy change.

Unlike some, I can definitely see the potential for a lot of good to come out of the BSA's policy change. However, I can also see the potential for secularists to see the change as a green light for them to pressure the BSA to make greater concessions that I doubt would be welcomed by the BSA's largest religious sponsors.

And We Sing As We Go

My sons sometimes aren't sure what to make of their little sister. Our daughter brought up the tail end of our brood following four boys. She inherited all of the toy weapons, hero action figures, cars, and balls that any child could want.

And she actually did like playing with those things. But dolls and princess clothing were new to my sons. And to me. Having had no sisters, I had to learn about girl toys, clothes, likes and dislikes. How was I to know that some blouses button up in the back? Although I must admit it did look like it fit a little odd when I buttoned it up in the front.

Music has always played a significant role in our household. My wife demands that each child take piano lessons long enough to learn how to read music and play rudimentary hymns. Two sons have become quite excellent pianists. Two have found talents in other areas. Our daughter is learning piano. She seems quite capable, but sometimes I think she could apply herself better. (I'm sure my mom said the same thing about me when I was a kid.)

One son has always loved to make noise. He likes to sing. It is not uncommon for his baritone voice to burst out in a loud operatic solo. Or to grunt out some metalcore vocals. Or jazz riffs. Etc.

Our daughter likes to sing too. Ever since she was very young she has been found singing around the house under almost any condition. Her singing is decidedly different than that of her various brothers. It's usually sweet and lilting and is carried on almost absentmindedly, as if it is just a part of her. She particularly seems to enjoy singing LDS children's songs.

Our sons regularly complain about their sister's incessant singing. But honestly, it's like she sometimes doesn't even realize she's doing it. As stated above, she will sing under just about any condition. That includes when using the ... ahem ... necessity facility.

One day we could hear our daughter's lovely voicing ringing from the privy. The tones of When We're Helping We're Happy clearly echoed from behind the closed door. Most of the rest of us were gathered in the nearby family room. I turned to my wife and flatly said, "And we sing as we go."

That brought gales of laughter from the family. I may never again be able to hear or sing that song with a straight face.

Three Summers That Changed My Life

The summers that followed my junior and senior years of high school and my freshman year of college forever changed my life. I learned to do things I had never done before. As I learned how to work and to deal with being a long way from home, I developed many characteristics and relationships that have served me well throughout my life.

The summer after my ninth grade year my two older brothers went away to Hawaii to work in the pineapple fields. The tales of their exploits made me want to follow in their footsteps. By the following summer my oldest brother was serving as a missionary. I wanted to accompany my next older brother to Hawaii, but I didn't turn 16 until a month after the summer ended.

I finally got my wish to work in the pineapple fields of Hawaii following my junior year of high school. As I explained in this 2009 post, it turned out to be a difficult but memorable summer for me. I continually struggled to meet the 6,000 plant-per-day standard required of each pineapple planter. I grappled with homesickness and depression. I lost weight while gaining character and bleach blonde hair. One of the many valuable things I learned was that, unlike my brothers, there was no way I was going to spend more than one summer working in the pineapple fields.

I was approached by a scout executive the following spring with an offer to spend summer working at a Boy Scout camp in the remote wilderness between the Tetons and Yellowstone. The pay would be meager and I would have little free time. But I accepted the offer after some encouragement from friends that had worked on scout camp staffs.

It took me awhile to agree to work at scout camp because I remembered the three summers I had attended scout camp. Overall, each of these weeks had been a good and memorable experience. But I remembered being a lousy hiker, being one of the less popular kids in the troop, struggling with scoutcraft and camping skills, and being homesick. I also thought of the guys that worked on staff in heroic terms. I felt inadequate and wasn't sure that I was camp staff caliber.

Living in a tent deep in the woods many miles from civilization for a whole summer was a new experience for me. Learning to be a proper staffer was somewhat challenging. For example, I was tasked with teaching the Pioneering merit badge. Knots and lashings I could do. But splices completely befuddled me. When some scouts came to me for help with splices I sent them to another staffer that had previously taught the badge. He soon sought me out and patiently taught me splicing techniques. I was intrigued. I soon found myself trying out my newfound skill whenever I could. To this day I am still quite proficient at splicing rope.

Despite the low pay, endless hours of work with very little free time, vicious mosquitoes and horseflies, nasty weather with little shelter, cold nights, and being away from civilization, I grew to love working at camp. The camaraderie with other staffers and the joy of serving scouts and their leaders far outstripped the negatives.

I returned to camp as a staffer the following summer as well. Some of my scouting buddies (including my younger brother) came along and ended up becoming great camp staffers that served for a number of years. My second summer on staff was even better than my first. I still occasionally run into people that remember me from when they came to camp as scouts all those years ago.

It is difficult to describe the qualities gained from working on a Boy Scout camp staff. I gained a great deal of self confidence from being entrusted with many duties. Even today I am amazed at the duties that can easily be turned over to boys that have worked on scout camp staffs. They are better at many things than even trained adults. You give them a job to do and they do it, usually very well, and often with an innovative flair.

Since those days of working on camp staff I have been to scout camp many times as an adult leader. I have interacted with many young camp staffers, including my own sons. I can see why camp staffers seem heroic to the boys that they serve. Heck, they seem heroic to the adult leaders. Over the years I have often worked on service projects at scout camps, partially in gratitude for all that I have gained from my experiences attending and working at camps.

I have been to many wonderful scout camps. But Camp Loll, where I served on staff, occupies a special place in my soul. The camp is situated on the shore of an icy cold lake called Lake of the Woods. A few years ago I penned a poem about my staff experience that I titled, 'Round the Lake of the Woods.

Those glorious days 'round the lake of the Woods
We frolicked, we toiled, and sang.
The woods nearby heard the loon's cry
And with the echo of young voices rang.

The clear summer night and the thunderstorm
Are things of beauty that I've loved,
With the deer's casual canter, the chipmunk's fierce banter
And the eagle's flight above.

Ah, the games that we played, the songs that we sang,
And the service with steadfast friend
Will glow in my soul as the campfire's last coal
When we joined hands and sang at the end.

But summer's now past; I'm back in the city,
And life goes on as it should.
Yet my heart often wanders to those glorious days
'Round the Lake of the Woods.

Taken together, the experiences I had during the summers I was 16, 17, and 18 formed a sturdy framework that has strongly influenced the rest of my life for the better. I wish for today's youth similar strong foundational experiences that will guide them into a purposeful and happy future.

It's Asperger's Not Bipolar

Several months ago I wrote about my son's suicidal thoughts. Specialists thought he probably had bipolar disorder. Over the intervening months my son has received intensive treatment at a center that specializes in behavioral problems and related conditions.

While it was obvious that our son had issues, specialists at the center were not comfortable with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. It turns out that his regular psychologist and psychiatrist weren't either. Their documentation said merely that he exhibited some symptoms consistent with such a diagnosis.

Our son's case was referred to a group known as the leading experts in the state on behavioral issues. They gathered a huge amount of data from us as parents, our son's teachers, and the various specialists that have been involved in our son's treatment. They conducted an intensive parental interview. And finally they spent an entire day putting our son through a variety of tests and exercises.

We recently met with the specialist in charge of our son's case after they had taken time to consider all of the information. He explained to us that our son has Asperger Syndrome (which will soon be classified as an Autism Spectrum Disorder rather than being classed s a separate condition). While it is not uncommon for people with AS to have other coexisting conditions, it was felt that our son's anxiety, depression, and mood swings fit best within the context of AS. Diagnosing problems of this nature is rather complex and is not as straightforward as some might think.

At first we were a little surprised by the diagnosis. We know people with AS and we had developed a stereotypical idea of what people with AS are like. But as the specialist went through the findings in some detail, my wife and I frequently found ourselves looking at each other and nodding our heads.

It turns out that cases of AS can vary quite a bit. A common symptom of AS is difficulty developing and engaging in normal human relations. But such challenges are not always present in AS or may be rather mild. Our son, for example, seems to do generally well in this arena. He has always demonstrated a high degree of compassion and empathy for others.

Among our son's challenges are significant diminished abilities to plan and to contextualize (which means fitting details into the bigger picture). It's not that he hasn't had enough training in these areas. Despite his level of intelligence, he will never be able to do these things naturally. He can, however, learn coping skills that may allow him to somewhat compensate for these deficiencies.

Since our son can't engage in normal levels of internal planning and has difficulty fitting details into context, he tends to use external planning methods and to focus intently on details. I have long criticized him for refusing to consider alternatives. If his Plan A doesn't work out, he will melt down or lash out rather than consider Plan B. I now understand that this is because, for him, there is only Plan A. Plans B, C, etc simply do not exist. He can talk about alternatives academically. But he can't really consider or manage them in the regular flow of daily life.

Our son's diminished ability to fit details into context means that if a detail (even a minor detail) of his Plan A doesn't work out as he has anticipated, the whole plan is ruined. His anxiety levels skyrocket because he feels that he has run out of options, leading him to engage in antisocial behavior.

This explains our son's suicidal thoughts. The diagnosing specialist explained to us that a common misconception is that suicidal people are ultra-sad. Rather, people that are suicidal feel as if they are have no other remaining options. Thus, it is important to deal with our son's planning and context deficiencies rapidly and as well as possible. He has learned some hard and fast rules for what to do when he has a suicidal thought. Having sure-fire instructions to follow reduces the need for developing new plans on the fly.

Our son's focus on details frequently leads him to engage in long-winded, extremely detailed monologues on subjects that are of interest to him. He can go on and on (enthusiastically) without making any particular point. I'm not sure whether he doesn't perceive others' social cues telling him to curtail his speech or if he grasps these but still feels compelled to complete what he has to say anyway.

Depression and low self esteem are pretty serious issues for our son right now. This is fairly common for kids with behavioral issues because they tend to get an overwhelming number of negative (or corrective) messages from those around them, mainly based on others' unrealistic expectations. Right now our son feels as if he can't do anything right. He wants more than anything just to be normal.

Fortunately many resources now exist for helping people with AS. Many people with AS live rich and fulfilling lives. Successful technologist, businessman, and author John Elder Robison, who has AS, provides a lot of hope for kids with AS in this recent blog post about developing compensating skills. Our son's diagnosis provides us direction in getting him the help he needs.