Jana Riess: Feel Good About Tithing, and Here's Why

Jana Riess: Feel Good About Tithing, and Here's Why

I know you have a lot of concerns about how the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints practices its policies and administers its funds and duties, but let me inform you about a few things that might help you feel reassured that the money is in good Christian hands. And that your dollars and donations and good intentions through your charitable efforts are doing great things, both for you and God. And your fellow man, and woman and child.

Every local bishop and by default Relief Society President has access to fast offering funds to help most anyone that they meet to receive immediate food and other aid. This happens all the time.

This happens in your ward, your stake, your region and area, your country. This happens in well over a hundred nations around the earth and is growing every day, substantially.

Members of your faith do not, will not go hungry. Others receive of Latter-day Saint sustenance as well. Apart from government to government and other humanitarian aid groups roving the planet, which are arbitrary and often fleeting in their abilities, our Church is a tremendous resource across the globe.

This is a blessing, real and tangible. You, we, I, the community of faithful and willing make this happen, through appointed officers of the Church. Thanks for fasting and sharing those funds.

This is the beginning, or end, of the work of the Lord. The here and now.

But there's more!

Tithing goes to a multitude of the parts of the building of the  Kingdom of God, what believing members of the Church of Jesus Christ understand as chapels for refuge and worship and consecration and wholesome activities, temples for the holiest of holy ceremonies and the actions of covenants to redeem and link us to our kindred dead. The whole human race. Do tithing funds go into ancestral libraries? Do these have a benefit for peoples across the earth?

Is this not a worthy endeavor to invest in, to donate to?

If you do not believe in these acts through holy temples, redeeming billions upon billions of our ancestors, then maybe tithing does seem a bit more onerous.

Weddings, sealings, baptisms for the dead... Donations and charitable contributions for those who cannot afford these buildings, in lands where the economy of scale is not as fortuitous as in the United States or first world economies...

Temples are dotting the earth in places like Sierra Leone, Papua New Guinea, Cambodia, where people rarely drink clean water or have nice silver ware or toilet paper.

Do you believe the blessings offered from the holy temple can elevate these peoples, or should it all be converted to goods for their material wealth in the immediate temporal day?

Could one beget the other?

Food for thought...

But wait! There's more!

Latter-Day Saint charities directly donates to those who are hungry or suffering people around the world. The more members, the more offerings, the more relief.

Would you, Jana, Dr. Riess, feel better to know that your personal check went to a village of people, probably members of our faith, to a missionary that they are supporting, in Peru or Cambodia or Mozambique? A young man or lady who is able to serve as a full time representative of the faith?

Well, without you knowing it specifically, you are.

The chapel that they use? From your check. In many countries the church you helped build with those funds is the best building in town. Again, in place where their membership does not go hungry.

Too good to be true?

It isn't.

But it is too private to know that that is precisely what your tithing settlements are helping in.

In the United States, in Canada, Mexico, and much far beyond.

You do not have to believe me or feel good about it.

But you should.

And finally, you do receive U.S. tax breaks for much of the charitable donations that you proffer yearly, individually up to about 14,000 USD and as a married couple 24 thousand or so. We have a great government that allows us these privileges and freedoms.

If you are collectively making as a family 240,000 US dollars per year, then please do not be penurious with your mites. Please soak in the blessings of giving to a cause and many sub-causes so much bigger than ourselves.

I thank you, the Lord thanks you, your bishop thanks you, and thousands upon thousands around the world receive the direct benefits because of you and the millions of others like you.

I hope that you can feel better about your tithing and other donations! I realize that this message may not have all the facts that you require or desire, and a lot of it is by faith.

Faith, as Paul explained, requires a lot of believing of that which is not directly seen.

But the evidence is everywhere.

Prayer at the Armory for Soldiers in the Holidays

Prayer at the Armory for Soldiers in the Holidays

Given 8 December 2019 in northern Virginia

Dear Lord,

As U.S. soldiers and citizens of all backgrounds, beliefs, creeds, and denominations, we give thanks for: 

Our country and freedoms and safety 

Our families, loved ones, friends, fellow soldiers 

This time of holidays to freely celebrate our beliefs, traditions, and customs 

Thank thee for:

Soldiers and other military and first responders who sacrifice and have sacrificed all for its country and its citizens

Those who love and support us while serving in our duties 

The bounty of food and health , specifically sustenance that we are about to partake of today, and those that prepared it

Continued safety and health of our unit and associated friends and loved ones

We say these thoughts and prayers in token of our thanks and gratefulness with respect for all beliefs and creeds, and we do so as soldiers in the Virginia National Guard

By virtue of the power or authorities in which we respectively believe,

Amen.

Real Life Vampires, Blood Suckers

Real Life Vampires, Blood Suckers

Insurance companies.

Sure, they provide services that we all depend on...

So they are not completely sucking us dry all the time. Because they provide relief and sustenance when we need it; I guess they spend a lot on fraudulent investigations and claims. 

So our public collective lack of integrity, as consumers, forces the insurance companies to spend more, thus charging us customers more. And in that sense are we sucking up our own blood? By blood I mean money.

But, these insurance companies are mostly administrating our monies, paid monthly and yearly, or semi-annually or quarterly, for things that we already own or are paying on.

For the threat of loss or theft, destruction or failing health...

Millions of people making livings, billions of dollars interacting between the customers and those paid by insurance, like doctors and mechanics, and monies additionally paid to those administrating these funds.

Insurance salespeople.

I took my family to a nice little tourist spot in northern Virginia, and we ate at a restaurant outdoors, and inside the restaurant there were piles of magazines from the 1960s, like Life, primarily dedicated to photographs. They were interesting to peruse, even the advertisements.

One whole page or two were dedicated to the insurance salesmen of a certain company in the Illinois area, or central mid-west of the United States. Pictures of guy after guy (usually men), making their living for being insurance brokers, gaining their livelihoods on the working classes, I can imagine thousands of corn and soy growers of the central U.S. There had to be everybody else in there: bankers, milkmen, police, lawyers.

Again, we need insurance. It is part of our regularly paid dues in order to function properly. It is a non-government tax, usually, that helps us survive or thrive. Other taxes help insure those who cannot otherwise afford health and protective insurance, like Medicare and Medicaid. We take care of those who cannot take care of themselves.

Those who are most protected by insurance are the wealthiest, because they stand to lose the most when stolen, lost, or destroyed items and properties. And, they are probably paying the least of their expendable incomes in order to be insured.

In certain ways the money that we earn is all being siphoned off each other, it is cynical or jaded to think that one type of worker or industry like insurance is the one sucking the blood of the rest of us.

We all provide services to each other; some earn more than others and some work more than others and some do less to make more and vice versa.

The extreme poor have little insurance, especially in poorer nations. Some neighborhoods in "rich" countries suffer the same.

We could argue that the more we pay in insurance monies, generally the better off we are as individuals and as societies.

The blood and money being sucked in by insurance agencies keep us better oiled, freer, and more prone to succeed.

Sure, that is what we can say as we write those monthly checks to keep afloat the insurance industry.

Keep working, keep paying.

Keep breathing, keep up on your insurance payments.

Build your wealth as life goes by, accrue the fortunes of your desires.

And: stay away from the vampires, who are probably not those insurance people, but a dozen other types we could name...

Sometimes it Takes 50 Years. Or More.

Sometimes it Takes 50 Years. Or More.

*If you have never loved, or observed even casually, a baseball team struggle and toil through seasons of futility and some success but never achieve the ultimate goal of victory at the end of the season, you may not get this.

But I hope you can understand some of what this means.

 

 

The Nationals did something for the first time last week. It felt good to me for a few reasons. It made a few other million people feel good, too.

It took the franchise, the former Montreal Expos and the current Washington Nationals, 50 years, yea, a half century to bring a title, this title championship, home. One World Series victory, in the books, with its Curly "W" to Washington D.C. and the Delmarva Region. It meant something to Montreal fans, too.

I started writing this post around November 3rd, now it is December 12.

The Nats have re-signed their ace Stephen Strasburg (for a huge deal across 7 years) and lost the clutch 3rd baseman Anthony Rendon (similar seven year deal) to the Angels.

Time moves on.

Again, now on Saturday the 14th, I write to chronicle the 50 years of summation with the "Curly W" of D.C. in the books.

Champions of 2019.

They were talented enough back in 2012, and off and on have been picked to win it all ever since.

They faced 5 elimination games and won them all this fall in the playoffs, getting the 7 year-come-50 year monkey off their backs. And a great run to finish off this group of old and young, Zimmerman and Kendrick and Rodney, and Scherzer.

Way to go, Nationals! I watched your franchise struggle and pay their dues since 1981. I only waited some 38 years, not like the diehards at the end of the 1960s.

50 years is not bad; better than some. (See Mariners? Padres?)

I hope it does not take another fifty to achieve the same.

That would put me at age 98, and there are no guarantees at age 50, 90, or at any age.

Live long, and prosper.

Thanks Nats, for putting this together.

We enjoy the feeling of winning, after 49 other years of coming up short.

Really talented players and teams, but no dice till now.

Juan Soto, you and young Robles and journeymen Suzuki and Gomes and yes, the Baby Shark Parra did it for all the great Expos and a few Nats of the past. And us few million fans.

Play on, brave Nationals. We remember the good and bad, and we savor it all.

Harold Bloom: Critic and Orphic Reader

Harold Bloom: Critic and Orphic Reader

He died at 89 not too long ago. He describes himself and the proclaimed poet Hart Crane as "orphic".

Orpheus was a hero of Greek mythology who was supposed to possess superhuman musical skills. With his legendary lyre, he was said to be able to make even the rocks and trees dance around. In fact, when his wife Eurydice died, he was nearly able to use his lyre to secure her return from the underworld. Later on, according to legend, he was killed at the bidding of Dionysus, and an oracle of Orpheus was established that came to rival the oracle of Apollo at Delphi. Because of the oracle of Orpheus, orphic can mean "oracular." Because of Orpheus' musical powers, orphic can mean "entrancing."

https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/orphic

He loved poetry, he loved literature, which some of which he considered great.

Not too happy with J.K. Rowling and Stephen King.

Shakespeare, Cervantes, Melville, Hawthorne? And many others.

or·​phic | \ ˈȯr-fik

\

Definition of orphic

1 capitalized : of or relating to Orpheus or the rites or doctrines ascribed to him

2 : mystic, oracular

3 : fascinating, entrancing

I guess so, this Yalie.

Regular Seasons End and Field Goals

Regular Seasons End, and Field Goals

If you have ever liked a college football program, you may share some of the feelings and thoughts that I am experiencing, or at least contemplating now. The day after the regular season has ended. Another year in the bag, time marches on. What does any of it mean? I don't know those deeper answers... I can analyze some of the superficial things, and this causes me some satisfaction.

The regular season has ended, mostly by the end of November, and either a bowl awaits next month or so, or not.

We reflect on the good and the bad.

Both my cherished teams have qualified for a bowl. Hurrah! 2019 finished better than normal.

In Indiana's case, it is their 12th bowl ever. I am 49 years old. They once went to the Rose Bowl (and lost) before I was born, the first year that my p. That makes 11 in my lifetime, where the Hoosiers are 3-7 so far.

Can Indiana get a 4th ever bowl win? We shall see around Christmas.

BYU, the vaunted school of Church affiliated fame, has qualified for a second year in a row, about 40 over all as far as bowls in its existence.

Things have generally been bowl-worthy since the late 1970s.

Brigham Young football is expected to go to a bowl every year. BYU is an expected winner. 2017 was an anomaly, and awful (4-9, worst results since the 1950s). Last year got better; this year better still, slightly, but we are questioning things with a lopsided 7-5 finish, and a stinker to San Diego St. last night.

Hopefully a Hawai'i Bowl can cure those ills.

Indiana has 8 wins, after squeaking by a weaker Purdue, in double overtimes, and may face a big or traditionally tough opponent. Beating Purdue, even after so many mistakes self-committed and the Boilers having a weakened team, feels really good.

I saw BYU play in person last week and it was really fun. UMass stood no chance, unlike when they upset the Cougars two years ago in Provo.

Both m schools missed multiple makeable field goals. IU lost 9 potential points and BYU 6. BYU also turned it over poorly, while Indiana took advantage of those turnovers.

Both schools are mid-ling powers, but I will take it.

My Hoosiers and Cougars will play in the post season.

No complaints. Happy holidays,

Bryce Breaks the Top 300 All-time

Bryce Breaks the Top 300 All-time

He's a Phillie, and I am waiting for Soto to come up higher...

For now Harper has reached the elite top 300 all time homer list.

Not bad. Still waiting for Juan La Verdad (the Truth) Soto to get in the Top 1,000 and watch him surpass Bryce...

299  Best Home Run Hitters of All-Time: Jim Bottomley+ (16) 219 L HR Log

Josh Donaldson (9, 33)

219

R

HR Log

Bryce Harper (8, 26)

219

L

HR Log

Al Oliver (18)

219

L

HR Log

Joe Pepitone (12)

219

L

HR Log

Bottomley, born in 1900, had a pretty long decent career with one MVP crown in 1928 when he got his career best 31 homers. He played mostly with St. Louis and a bit with Cincinnati.

Donaldson is a current powerful hitter that many people (youth coaches I know) emulate to get that power, but at age 33 maybe he only has 2-3 years left of good numbers?

Al Oliver had his great years with the Expos of yesteryear.

Pepitone? Great name. Played  lot with the Yankees in the 1960s before finishing with various National League teams. He topped off with a best year of 31 in 1966.

The Heart of Campus

The Heart of Campus

Beck Chapel, built by the Methodists in the 1800s, I presume it was; a small yet noble church among the trees left there by the custodians of this reverential space, at this close to two hundred year-old university. (Founded in 1820, as printed on shirts that my children wear.) The first state school was run by religious ministers of the wide-spread Protestant faith, founded by John Wesley.

It is not Oxford, nor Harvard, nor William and Mary, nor Al-Azhar, nor Salamanca. It is not ancient or among the firsts of the United States, but it is old for where I am from.

Beck Chapel is its heart, we give it tribute and note.

It is located in the central part of the main state school campus of Indiana. And Indiana is America at it's height and breadth.

A small church within a small mid-west state.

It is, as said, a small, mostly underused chapel, now probably non-affiliated or even a secular house of worship, where I consider it the heart of the Indiana University campus, in my home town of Bloomington.

Indiana. Our Indiana. Indiana, we're all for you!

Bigger venues and settings surround it for miles on this major campus.

On the campus of this flagship school within the state of Indiana, a state began in 1816, drawn up from the Midwest Compromise of the first forefathers of the land, like Jefferson and Madison. The heart of the nation? It is the heart of mine, at least, in many ways. The campus was started in 1820 by Methodist priests or ministers. Rectors? Over the decades the state school became less overtly religious, from what I have read. My parents moved there in 1967, and then my parents married into Hoosiers from southern Indiana.

I first remember Beck Chapel when being babysat by my adopted grandmother, when maybe age 4, in the summer time when little trickles of water flowed in the adjoining Jordan River, a very modest creek that flows through the august campus of IU. I liked looking at the flows of water and maybe I played with some rocks. Ruby was in her seventies by then; old to me, but very spry.

I am sure that she imparted some sage advice about nature, as she was wont to do. She always watched nature shows on PBS. That was around 1975.

Fast forward to 1988, when I was half way through junior year in high school. My dad was re-married there, in that humble yet central chapel, with a small group attending. Bishop Petersen, of my home Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saint Bloomington 1st Ward, located across the street from Binford Middle School, and his wife as a witness, conducted the ceremony. No children or grandchildren, just them as young 50 year-olds.

Life changes, but many of the places stay the same.

Fast forward to 2019, and a lifetime or so later, I find out that a former classmate, Paulo Fratianni, was also married there six years ago at age 43, presumably.

Unfortunately, prior to learning of that event in that chapel in 2013, I learned that Paul took his own life at the end of last month, October 28th. That was a normal day for us, most of the rest of the world... It was a Monday.

I don't know a lot of the details.

Another Bloomington South classmate Stacey, notified me. She had learned about him through our 30th class reunion last June when he seemed to be doing well, it seems. Her twin sister attended and they took pictures, of which she shared one with me of Paul, Linda, her sister Kelly, and Curt. All '89 grads from our old alma mater high school.

They looked pretty happy.

Paul is survived by his wife and two daughters. Stacey is sending me the program of the funeral.

Which was held at Beck Chapel.

The heart of the campus.

I imagine that Paul did most of his education at Indiana, in Bloomington. I am not sure.

I did some searches of his name in the local Hoosier Times. He had written to them, our main local paper, with letters and Op-Eds in the late 2000 teens; I saw him in Bloomington in 1998 when I was attending IU back then, too.

I am not sure how far he ever went from B-town, to live. I left multiple times, as I have left now. 1989, 1992, 1999. But my heart, in a sense, is still there. I have family there, still. I go there for holidays, still. I watch the sports teams from there, still. I probably always will. I go back to this heart of campus, go to the Memorial Student Union, at one time at least the largest student union building in the United States. I am not sure how it stacks up now. The east side is a multi-story hotel, that overlooks the chapel by the stream. There is a small graveyard by it, with old tombs, some of which it is hard to make out who was really attributed.

Go! IU! Fight! Fight! Fight!

My emotional heart belongs more with the family and spiritual roots of the Second Street chapel, the one with us Mormons, closer to the College Mall; certainly I have had my heart strings weaved through the buildings, streets, lawns, meadows, and creeks of the Indiana University campus.

I grew up playing in those streets and byways, in the shadows of the Schools of Math, Music, Law, and other university structures with classrooms ensconced therein.  Massive Ballantine Hall, the extensive physical activity HPER Building, the ubiquitous Auditorium and picturesqu Showalter Fountain, the IU Library and the track Stadium, before it was torn down in the 1980s and made into an outdoor arboretum. There are, of course, the dozens of student dormitories draped across the campus, where my high school friend Robert would take me to find music, rock tunes played live or boomed at parties from stereo systems. Eigemann,  the fourteen story international dorm near Crosstown, where I would find international talent to compete in table tennis. A talent that I happened to have developed, better than most Americans. My parents had a copy and typing business at Crosstown for 10 years.

This stately campus: the myriad pathways of worn asphalt trails winding through the west side of the of it, bordering Indiana Avenue along downtown...

The bronze statues of Adam and Eve among the trees, the stone gazeebo by the stately campus buildings east of there, immortalized in the 1979 Bloomington classic film, "Breaking Away". I think in this scene the main character gets slapped there under its roof, when the girl he has been pretending to be a Romantic Italian foreign connection to finds out that he is just a local townie from Bloomington, a "Cutter", as the movie creates. He was an imposter, and shammed her, a sorority girl beauty, into a fake love.

Local boy done wrong, not amounting to much academically, done good at bike racing. The story won an academy award, and brought a lot of attention to the Little 500 bike race every spring.

North of Beck Chapel is the Jordan River (creek), then the parking lot for the hotel of the Student Union, beyond that the old HPER (pronounced Hyper) building with its dozens of basketball courts and other sports rooms, passed that the soccer fields connected to the Library Aboretum and gardens, then 10th Street and the Schools of Business, of Kelley School and other business fame. Then the sororities and fraternities, sprinkled among regular student apartments and houses, until you reach the fields and alumni buildings next to the football stadium and basketball arena, aligned with 17th street. Beyond that, churches and houses and country...

West of Beck Chapel is the aforementioned massive student union building. You can enter it from a few doors around the corner from the chapel, by the hotel entrance, or the other side by the Greek myth statue (Dedaelus?) and the movie theater. Walking through one of the two floors going west, one passes artwork and photographs, shops and stores, barbershops and restaurants, cafeterias, student lounges with couches and chairs (I took a few naps there in yesteryear, especially while getting my education degree), administrative offices, and eventually technology rooms and computer lounges, a bowling alley, pool table lounge, and television lounges and study hall rooms or conference salons.

It is a very large, long building that is like many buildings mashed together. Longer east to west, but substantially wide as well. Going west of the the Student Union are a few more university buildings, some having math and other science classes, then the Indiana Avenue and downtown, separated by Kirkwood Avenue. Kirkwood leads to the main strip of the city (B-town a modest urban locale), the bars, restaurants, banks, churches, the library and a bookstore or two, to the courthouse paralleled by the main north and south junctures of Walnut and College, past them to the legal buildings and more bars and restaurants, the railroad tracks, and out past the large cemetery and more commercial and residential sites, leading to the eventual now-turned freeway 69, formerly the highway 37 leading up to Indianapolis. West of that major vehicle thoroughfare are the wiles of western Monroe County, towards the rural Green and Owen Counties...

South of Beck Chapel is the leviathan Ballantine Hall, once the largest classroom structure in the country, followed by other limestone (big product of southern Indiana) edifices that contain mathematics, music, and other higher learning places, bordered by Third Street, sororities, apartments, houses, and the neighborhood where I grew up with my elementary school-cum-alternative school (built 1926, a two story brick affair, with limestone trimming) and eventually Bryan Park, my dead end road of childhood surrounded by the parking lot and trees, the factory to the south alighted on a hill, and on and on into southern residential Bloomington. Go south from there and you will reach the largest reservoir in the state, named for the county and former Constitutional framer James Monroe, Lake Monroe...

East of Beck Chapel, the heart of this large campus (has some 40,000 students now? (2019)) the aforementioned Biblical stream traces east, which is straddles by stately edifices, one that seems newer, to the northeast across some small walking bridges, then the historic Dewey Library, the IU Auditorium, and across the creek to the south the massive Musical Arts Center. The amount of talent and art that has been displayed between those two venues to me is incredible: Broadway plays (I saw Annie, Evita, Cats, Les Miserables, among others there), musical artists, (I saw Ray Charles, but many others came and went), comedians (Bill Cosby is his hay day--he was big, before the ignominious fall), dance troupes and scholars and world leaders, (Mikhail Gorbachev, the Dalai Lama)...

While being small as a city, the town has attracted much of the country's and world's hoi polloi, if that definition in and of itself is not contradictory. The endless amounts of people populating our T.V.s and news: hoi polloi. They make it to Bloomington. But maybe not to Beck Chapel.

Past the Jordan Avenue going east of these places of entertainment and performance, neighbored by the Latin-American House or the Center for African-American Studies, not to mention the wooded and gardened house of the university president, are more school buildings, large student dormitories, the School of Education, more dorms, tall and medium sized, apartments and residences with the tennis courts and other fields leading to the Bypass. Cross the bypass and there is the Methodist Church of my step-mother, the one who married my father in 1988 (see connections to Beck Chapel), a restaurant or so aligning the shopping centers leading to the College Mall, more apartments and condominiums and shops and tennis courts, including the apartments where I happened upon my first girl friend way back in 1992...

Which leads to the expanses of more residential neighborhoods, roads leading to the country and Brown County, a bucolic respite of southern Indiana.

Southern Indiana, or Indiana in general, or the Greater Midwest, does have its farms, barns, cows and tractors. But we of the south enjoy a cornucopia of woods, trees upon trees, alighting the hills and dales, with the creeks and rivers that rush through them in all seasons.

And thus, we see that Beck Chapel is at the heart of this campus, this college, this university of splendorous schools of science, art, technology, sports, and research.

Beck Chapel, sits by itself largely unused, unnoticed. Surrounded by hubbub and peaceful nature, by much larger buildings more drawn to and frequented; at times lively and at other times melancholic in its solitude. Probably most times alone to itself and its empty airs of only breezes and shadows.

Like many of us, individually or collectively, there will be times where we sit together in groups, perhaps singing along at a concert, cheering along at a game, dancing around in circles or, observing a wedding or a funeral, worshiping along with the other church or synagogue or mosque dwellers.

At other times we walk alone, ambulatory across the foot bridges of leaf-strewn paths leading to other places, caught in the betwixt and between of duties, jobs, missions, thoughts, feelings, memories. Sports games. Student meets. Fun night outs. Classes. Pay checks. Grades.

I have had those moments walking through and past those stream beds of Beck Chapel. Most of those times, when walking by as a teenager on the way to a concert, or a student between classes or the job at the IU library, or going there with friends to play pool or bowl or other mischief, biking round the paths to reach downtown, the land did not belong to the solitary Beck Chapel. It was the campus of the Sample Gates, of the Law School, the Planetarium or the the other bulky buildings rising up three, four, five or more stories.

But at the heart of the campus, the lonely church sat, taking in the sun and rain, snow and wind, moon and icy hails, for going on 200 years (the church must be younger than the actual institutional founding). The creek may freeze over, or overflow with flood waters in heavy rains. Kids would laugh and play, students with their backpacks and totes traipse and strive on, from class to class and party to party, from book to book and the papers followed. Those with instruments plied their crafts, wielding their horns or the occasional Stradivarius across the meadows and lawns, past the abandoned tomb stones of the small chapel.

People would stop and sometimes meditate, others would smoke, thinking about their next chemical fix. Or the legendary Mad Max, the fiery crazed Evangelical preacher and his detractors yelling back at him, that were easy shouting distance away. Thousands would pass, at times in droves, other times only one in a very empty hour of the weekend, or during school breaks, when most students were traveling and reveling away from this scholastic domain.

A realm of college studies, sports, and activities. And later a place of respite and quiet.

You can go with me there now, you can picture this place, if you have been there or not.

Back in the 1970s, currently in the 2000s, all the way back to the humble beginnings of the 1800s.

Paul left the earth just two weeks ago; it was a Monday. Today is Monday, in November, a Veteran's Day when we celebrate them, the best of the military and their lives and deaths. Those that sacrificed for us in uniform.

I guess Paul was never an official military guy. But he was a soldier for a few things. Like Beck Chapel, I would argue. I do not want his presence or place to go unnoticed.

His heart has stopped for now, mine still beats some 670 some miles away, farther to the east.

By choice or by happenstance, all our hearts will stop beating.

Beck Chapel will be removed someday, I would predict. Unless fantastically reconverted to some greater iteration of itself. Like the Christian hope of our own souls and bodies.

Paul will resurrect someday, according to believers, like you and me. His body, all his organs, we presume, will be reunited with his soul.

We will reconvene somewhere, perhaps in a grandiose plain, in a vast expanse where the Lord reigns triumphantly with angels glorifying, trumpets blaring, drums pounding and the choirs raising sacred strains to the highest heavens. And harps, and French horns and all types of strings.

Or maybe this reconstitution might take place simply in a quiet, modest place like Beck Chapel, at the heart of campus.

This little abode of gathering, with one or two souls to witness the marvel of its beauty.

Taken to the River

Taken to the River

I could not take you to the river

That snake of flow where we once trod,

I could not force upon your ears,

All the music that I had heard.

I had gone on in that river,

With my sisters and my friends,

When a youth, I, like when I knew you later,

Years before you came to earth.

I was small and parents-guided,

They took me camping in the West.

We set assail on rubber raft plodding,

In Wyoming as a test. 

I could not take you down that spill way,

Past the ospreys and the nests

I could not be the same father to you,

As you, a child, would not rest.

My parents yes, they went to parks,

the same one where I felt the steam,

Of geysers ancient, often bubbling,

the waters forming up in streams

I loved the heat of water flowing

Across my skin and in my dreams

I could not force upon you,

The music that in my heart would beat.

 Yellowstone. Tetons. Mountain streams...

We went to that same park, when,

You were youthful a bit like me.

We saw the mountains from a distance,

Another place we shall not see.

I was taken there, by mine,

My parents who took their summer time,

A camper trailer bedded vehicle,

A trip where I could climb up high

We went as family across the midlands,

Of our nation warm and dry.

I took the ways that I could, 

with time and money best afforded,

We hoped to take you to our rivers

Where life and limb were first recorded.

I was able to feel the surges,

Of the rafting and the wake,

A big mountain river in Wyoming,

to Idaho flows the mighty Snake.

But: I could not take you to that river,

A time and place that I have lost,

Time is nigh, there is still daylight,

For a chance to flow that way.

I might take you and yours some time,

Down the river of my heart,

I could take you on a voyage,

Where my feelings I would impart.

Be like them, my parents, like me.

You don't have to love the same.

Be like them and me and different,

But be like what was meant for we.

For us.

You are with me on that river,

though you might not see the same

Visages of birds and creatures,

Which I came to know, not game.

All Creatures of our God and King,

The books my mother used to read,

All Creatures of Him living,

The hymns of majesty we sing.

I cannot force upon you, 

All the yearnings of my heart.

I cannot take you on that river,

Where my feelings have special part.

I might take you to that river,

the mighty Snake, the Tetons, too.

I will remember you and Wyoming,

I will not forget that is who

Went down that river way back when,

 Is me and you and my parents, friends.

We have taken that great river, from the mountains

Way up high, in teeming heights.

We have flowed down to the pastures,

Where the eagles sore and fly.

The high ones become low while the humble grow tall,

The summer merges into the august and the Fall.

Winter comes, the river freezes,

On the surface, cracks and kreegs,

Water moves, beneath the hardness,

The river will not be completely stopped.

I will take you to that river,

go with me and we will shop

Purchase things of greater value

Time and sunlight and the moon

We will alight upon the waters

In the basking and the swoon

Of memories and time lost, time gone

Time to move and a place to come home.

And yet, I have not forced upon you,

All the music I have known.

I cannot bequeath upon you,

All the beauty I have been shown.

But, I will take you to that river,

I will live to do that thing,

I will love you on forever,

Through this winter into spring.

 

What would the pioneers think?

What would the pioneers think?

Some say if you cannot write about sports you cannot write about anything. Hmm. I don't know if that is at all true. But this will be about sports. I am writing about something, by default. Whether it is "good" writing, that always remains to be seen.

 

Last night I watched the BYU football team put the smack down on the recently more powerful Utah State Aggies of Logan, Utah, final score 42-14. I was happy to see my private religious Utah college alma mater on the grid iron regain some respectability there, as compared to losses to the new state rival up north in 2017 and 2018. BYU desperately needs some wins in November that were fleeting in September and October, namely to weaker opponents South Florida and Toledo. We have a chance now to improve on last year's underwhelming 7-6 record. Better than 2017; everything has to be. (2017 saw second year coach Kilani Sitake lead them to a 4-9 record, the worst for the team since the 1950s!)

Their team in 2019 so far, these 4 quarter back-lead independent Cougar squad, is better than their record on paper: 4-4 with four games left, but it will do. They blew some late game leads to lesser teams, but they also had some luck in wins against vaunted names of Tennessee and USC.

The trophy of the game against Utah St. is the Old Wagon Wheel, a tribute and reminder of the pioneer heritage that Utah shares for these two schools.

For those that don't know, or simply for a few of us legacy church members and fellow Utahns to consider and contemplate, the pioneers of Utah, maybe known as Utah territory or even Mexican territory back then to the rest of the world, in the 1840s until around 1860 were tens of thousands of people (maybe 6?) from across the globe who became converted to the message of Joseph Smith and later Brigham Young of the new founded Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. 

Today there are hundreds of thousands, (harder to quantify the millions, precisely), who hail from the heritage and ancestry of those 1800 intrepid pioneers.

And we remember them, in one way, with this football game trophy.

Between 1847 and 1860, some 60,000 converts made their way to the Salt Lake Valley, which when began was an area legally owned by Mexico, which quickly changed during the U.S. Mexican-American War. Many came from England, some were Scottish, Swedish, Norwegian, Icelandic (see Spanish Fork, Utah).  

Most were poor and cast off from their old lives. Many left their homes under protest of those that knew them, yet they came with hopes in a modern Church restored by men and women of God. They believed this was the newly restored and long hoped for Kingdom of God on Earth, ushered in by prophets and apostles of God with His very priesthood and authority, and "new" ancient scripture called the Book of Mormon.

What would they think of us in 2019 today?

Guys like me who attend church and regard their legacy and hope, in Jesus and His appointed leaders, yet spell bound by the bounces of a rubber pig-skin oblong ball surrounded by warriors of face-masked helmets and bulging shoulder pads, cleeted feet and rubber mouth pieces and hanging chin straps?

Have we lost our way, our vision, our purpose?

What are we doing?

These of the past were ones who sang and danced together on the plains of Nebraska and Wyoming after long, arduous days of travel on beasts, or wagons, or on foot, and eventually handcart. For the poorest and most desperate among them.

Are we spoiled today?

Have we forgotten true dedication and sacrifice?

Maybe I have.

Maybe I need to re-calibrate such hopes and visions of the inherited Kingdom of God.

The Wagon Wheel is not everything, but it bespeaks many things.

I must listen to the Spirit and spirits of those that have wielded it.

And push my own wagon wheel across the plains and mountains to the Promised Land.

Zion awaits, Zion is here.

Win the Wagon Wheel with Honor.

Top 12 Chilean Cities

Top 12 Chilean Cities

I may not be the best gringo to share a list like this, but then again I am not the worst.

By the way, the word gringo can and is used very affectionately by those who utter it and refer to others, non-chilenos, or non-Latinos, or white or fair-skinned people among their own kind, as such. But like many words, it can be used used and misused pejoratively, and I do not wish to perpetuate those vibes and stereotypes. So, I will not try to refer to myself as a gringo too much anymore, even though I am.

Some people love to travel; I put myself in that category. Unfortunately, I have not been able to travel as much as I would like. I read about travels and trips more than I do them. And I write about a few of those trips, too.

Many Americans choose Europe as a first rate place to visit. Others choose Asia, the more intrepid make it to Africa. Australia seems awfully nice. A lot of foreign places do seem cool, huh?

Then there is Latin America, and below the northern regions of Mexico and Central America and the Caribbean lies South America. A big enough place.

One corner of it is Chile; within that especially long strip of land there are some cities that populate the deserts and valleys and fjords of "esta franja de tierra bendita".

I felt like describing a few of them, so here goes.

1. Santiago.

Massive in most ways, but the downtown is not too big. You can walk around the major buildings, hills, and parks that make up its most popular tourist sites. I visited there briefly at the end of my mission in 1991, then stayed for a few days during my study abroad in 1994, and then toured it with my wife, two small daughters, and mother-in-law in 2005.

It is big; it is the central hub and heart of the country. Millions have moved there from the rest of the land in order to find education, work, opportunity, progress. There are some really nice suburbs, like Providencia, Las Condes, Vitacura, that are situated east and north of downtown. There are some crowded slummy neighborhoods, but nothing like the other South American mega-cities that you see pictures of, like the favelas of Brazil. Most people live in between, with a small house or apartment, and relative safety. The metro is pretty good (and functional until recent riot destruction).

Six to seven million people live in the capital Santiago, over a third of the overall population.

Two hour drive from the ocean, maybe an hour's drive to the mountains, depending on how you go, this place is a bit like Los Angeles, California. Smog can be atrocious, the occasional heavy rains of winter can fill up the gutters and the ever occasional snow will surprise all, with a sprinkling of earthquakes every decade or so.

2. Concepcion. (accent over the "o")

Not too big for number two, it has a modest downtown and central city parks. Not many tall buildings, but I have not been there since 2005. It is next to the major river Bio Bio, which carves its way out to sea and separates major boroughs like Chiguayante and San Pedro, and the sister city to the north, Talcahuano, which is abutted by the major ocean bay. Maybe one and half million residents with all the spread?

I lived on the south side, close to the aforementioned river, where there were some poor streets, rather, poor homes adjoining those streets and dead ends, that were later razed. I am not sure where all the poor folks, many of them my friends, moved. Hopefully better homes, but none so closely located by the majestic river, I would imagine.

3. Vina del Mar. (tilde over the "n")

It is pretty, a bit like San Diego, California,  but not as formidable or rich, or with as many bays. It has nice beaches and neighborhoods, and I think of it as newer money and more modern than most Chilean towns. 

Nice tourist destination, especially in the warm summers from November to February.

4. Valparaiso. (accent over the "i")

Older and has steeper hills. It is a sister city of Vina, (above), which some people combine in population when counting, thus sometimes seems to have more than Concepcion and its agglomeration of cities and towns 500 or so kilometers to the south. The Poet's museum is here, of which I have missed out twice because it is closed on Mondays! I think in both 1994 and 2005 I went there when so shut down. It sits on the ocean, like Vina de Mar, but most people live among its steep and steeper climes, serros and lomas and colinas.

5.  Chillan. (accent over the "a")

I am biased. I studied there in 1994; it is known as the "cuna de poetas", the cradle of poets. Gonzalo Rojas was from there, where he taught me and others. I think other historical poets hailed from there, too. The downtown has a modern cathedral that is unique, it is not too big, but it is a part of Chile that everyone recognizes as truly their heartland. Far from ocean and mountain, perhaps far is relative, like Santiago, it is a typical city and has nothing too extraordinary to remark on. It is normal, it is nice. It is Chile.

6. Temuco.

Pretty big city in the farther south. I have stayed there by day briefly. Closer located to the native Mapuche reservations and their indigenous influences. I think it is nice, the crime does not seem to be too bad, as most places in the country.

7. Valdivia. 

Picturesque city further south, with a strong German architectural and cultural influence since the 1800s. Lies close to the ocean, and has a pretty river called Calle Calle that runs by it. A great place to visit when vacationing in the warm summers. Pretty rainy in the winters from April to August.

10. Puerto Montt.

Southern ocean bay town, close to everything wild and wonderful. German colonies and mountain trips, ferries alighting to the magical island of Chiloe (accent sobre la "e"), and an ocean vibe like parts of Oregon or Seattle, or perhaps Victoria, British Colombia. Not the cleanest, but definitely quaint and sea-sidy.

11. Antofagasta.

Never been there. Way up north, a world away from the rest of Chile. Dry and arid, like few cities in the world. Seems to have nice beaches, not sure of the downtown or buildings. Need to go to it someday. I think they get ocean liners docking off their bays. I know great people from there and everyone who lived there liked it.

12. Punta Arenas.

Southern most city in the world. Not too many people. Gets very cold in the winter, maybe like Juneau, Alaska? Might make my way down there someday, not sure. Iceland seems more likely for me at this point, which may be a bit like Tierra del Fuego.

13. Angol.

Whoops, that's one extra. I lived there as a missionary, and later as a young father. This city has my heart and memories for many reasons, most them good.

In sum, it was the Goldilocks syndrome: not too big, not too small, and all loving to me. There were poor, and wealthy, and most in between. When I was last there, two Pakistanis, one Indian, one Chinese man, one Slovak woman, a French lady... And us funny gringos.

They loved us and we loved them.

Chile, a place that has cities and a lot of land and bounteous life.

They are all top in my book, and dozens of pueblitos and byways in between. When I get rich I will take you back there; I know some people that will treat you right. They can be better than us, but are normal like us; they will show us what hospitality really is. Some have changed over time for the worse, but deep down they are extremely kind and generous. They loved this gringo. And I loved them, still do.

It seems kind of dreamy, in a way not real. 

But it is, and I believe it always will be.

Indiana Goes to a 12th Bowl: So What?

Indiana Goes to a 12th Bowl: So What?

It's a big deal for a few die hard, stalwart fans. The 12th bowl in over a hundred seasons. To go to a football bowl game during the holidays. It has been hard on us I.U. fans over the years. How many followers are there? (I will try to make a real estimate later).

I don't know how many we are. I am one. I live over 650 miles away from the campus, and I know of at least one other big supporter at my children's local elementary school. We do not have as big a following and tradition as many others, college football fans that watch the century old winners, like Michigan, Notre Dame, Alabama, or closer by Virginia Tech:

Nebraska, the heralded historically strong team we beat last Saturday in Lincoln, has had a sell out at its stadium every game since 1962. Before my parents met! And they are old! (One passed away five years ago at age 73, the other is 82 as of this fall.) This venue in the plains, the middle of our great nation, seats about 89,000 fans. They play there even in late November. Have you been outside in Nebraska in late November? Didn't think so. Yet they attend, snow, wind, and, agony, and crowded parking lots.

Do you know of a place in the world that does an event 6 to 7 times per year and gathers 89,000 people, every time? Since nineteen sixty-two?

Yeah, that's love, or devotion, or insanity.

And it is still not the SEC. The vaunted Southeastern Conference, that has expanded in number to 14 teams and wins most of the championships in the 21st century. They attend their games wholeheartedly and with gusto, from Florida to Texas and Missouri, of course Alabama and Louisiana, across the width and breadth of the south. They tend to be the most elite championship programs. They think it means more there. Maybe it does.

But the Big Ten is important to us. We have schools close by like Notre Dame.

While the SEC is very dominant in championships the last few decades, except for a couple of exceptions there is recent Clemson U. in the ACC (Atlantic Coast Conference), that has been good enough to beat Alabama and other great SEC teams lately.

And, I did not mention yet the formidable and majestic PAC-12 conference, or the rest of the Big-10, which is really 14 teams. Which has its elite in Ohio State, and behind them the U. of Michigan. And Wisconsin, and Penn St. ...

Between those four conferences, there are a lot of devoted fans. Four conferences with its 54 teams, most of whom go to bowls every year. Oh, and there is another 10 big teams in the Big 12. Where Nebraska used to be... Among the storied perennial bowl winners, decade in and decade out. Texas, Oklahoma, and on down the row. But not Indiana. We go a decade or so without so much reward, justification for watching these helmeted chess pieces march across the grassy gridirons under sun and rains, snow flurries and howling winds. They say, when we normally lose in perfidy "At least I.U. has basketball". I'm sorry, but December hard court contests do not make the heart warm like a nice sunny bowl around New Year's. Such a bowl treat provides a reason to think about visiting Miami or Dallas, Pasadena or even Hawai'i... Why would you go to such tropic climes in the heart of the winter? The football team earned it!

Indiana has a few long suffering fans, but not as much as the others due to reasons of lack of historical presence and pride. A bit more like Kansas, not far from Nebraska, or Vanderbilt, not too far from Indiana. We, the fewer than Purdue and their faithful, mostly likely, are truly long suffering. We have awful paucity of success, we are relegated to the failures of seasons past.

IU went to the Rose Bowl once, their first bowl game ever in the days when there were so few bowl games, the year my parents moved to Bloomington, 1967. The Indiana football squad has not returned to Pasadena since, which usually means winning the conference crown. That one time IU made it they lost in a defensive battle to the fabulous, illustrious, USC Trojans and none other than O.J. Simpson. Yeah, that guy. And of course, in stately southern California, down the road from where my wife enjoyed the Parade of the Roses.

12 years later, in 1979, the Hurry'n plucky Hoosiers made it to the Holiday Bowl against the newcomer power in the West, the Brigham Young Coungars under Lavell Edwards. I.U. Coach Lee Corso got the win on a few fluke plays; he would go on to bigger fame as a personality on ESPN, nore renown as a talking head than a coach of the sidelines. Which is precisely where he is now, 2019. Meanwhile, Edwards would go on to greater football glory, becoming one of the best college football coaches of all time. He retired in the year 2000 and passed away about two years ago (2017).

That win of the Hoosiers in the late 1970s over my other future alma mater BYU whetted my appetite for more gridiron success in southern Indiana, but instead I.U. saturated me in futility. We beat Purdue in Bloomington one freezing Saturday in late November a couple years later, when I was maybe 11; we finished 3-8. We celebrated the victory, and Hoosier nutty fans tore down the goal posts, but the bitter hateful Boilermaker fans yelled in their wrath: "So what? You guys are 3-8, you are still going to the toilet bowl!!!"

Ahh, Purdue fans. Possibly more on them later.

I.U. struck fortune in 1983 by hiring an up and coming coach named Sam Wyche; a short year later he took the professional position of the Cincinnati Bengals. Oh well. IU was not good enough to hold on to him. C'est la vie. This is IU football.

Then they got the famed Bill Mallory in the auspicious Orwellian year 1984, who despite losing all his games his first season, led my teenage and early twenty year-old Hoosier teams to six bowls in eight years. The glory days. They won two of those six bowl games, but one year notably (when I was a missionary in the Provo training center) went 5-6 and had their juggernaut running back Anthony Thompson come in a close second in the Heisman trophy voting. One last second run failed against Kentucky at the goal line meant the one missing victory for a bowl invitation, and very possibly the Heisman honor, and possible future recruiting success and other momentum that never materialized.

I witnessed that epic, fateful charge in person in Lexington, with my good friend Jess Hurlbut, surrounded by thousands of blue-clad Wildcat fans in the heart of Kentuckydom.  Tough game. Tough season. Tough luck program. IU could mean frustration, near misses, failure and ignominy.

"At least we have basketball." But that is not enough, us football fans know. One year under Mallory we beat Michigan and Ohio State.

Mallory bottomed out in the mid-90s and was dismissed a few good and then some bad years later.

And then came more futility as the turn of the century came and went. I.U. had some entertaining NFL caliber talent, but did not win enough, all everything Antwaan Randle El came and left with no bowls, under a pretty good pro coach and former football and basketball Hoosier Cam Cameron.

Coach Terry Hoeppner was the right fit for the school and improved everything, but he contracted brain cancer and died. His immediate successor took those survivors the following year to a long sought-after bowl in 2007, to eventually lose in 2007, and then the bowl drought continued. IU seemed snake bit, one of the all time perpetual losers.

Kevin Wilson brought a prolific offense; his teams went to two losing bowls after finally solving the last game curse of Purdue, but not solving the curse of bowls ten and eleven.

And now there will be bowl number twelve under his successor, Tom Allen.

Allen has four regular season games to go in November, thus there are the two winnable Northwestern and Purdue games, and the intimidating Penn State and Michigan games.

Allen has earned respect in his fourth total year, third as head coach (he took over for the bowl game against Utah when Wilson was dismissed early in 2016). He has recruited well, and asks for fans to attend.

The last two seasons the Hoosiers would have been bowl bound as well as long as IU had gotten one more win, solved by Purdue last game losses both times, or a Maryland game I attended at College Park two years ago that escaped us on turnovers.

IU has played well over one hundred years. 130 seasons to be exact. Rutgers celebrates 150 seasons this year, and they are in much worse shape.

Indiana could realistically finish 8-4 this year, and go to a bowl, small or not, needing a chance to improve on its 3-8 record overall.

It could, it should.

Stay tuned, and get ready for more to come in the future. Bowl thirteen, you are looking pretty good.

So what, I pose to you and me? What does winning for IU, or anyone mean?

Beyond school spirit and entertainment, beyond bruises and possible broken bones, it is a chance to commemorate what we as humans want to do:

Defend the home turf, strike out against the neighbors in a fair and competitive fashion, and jump up and down for glory. And maybe, just maybe, take a trip to the Roses around the New Year.

For me, the one who watched the gridiron Hoosiers battle my future Cougars on T.V. in the basement of the Wankier's home as a eight year-old, and then attended the freezing Purdue game in the knot hole (end zone bleachers) with Paul Lowengrub, whose father was an I.U. administrator, maybe as a fifth grader, and then later games with Seth Berry and Jason Vincz and multiple games working concessions while in middle and high school, and later taking exchange student Ricardo Salvador to see IU play Navy, and even later going in at half time during a rainy afternoon and watch IU upset Michigan with Robert Calder and his dad, and then later going to see IU after my mission with my dad in Iowa and Columbus Ohio, and after that going to the Purdue game with Michael Ho, and returning five years later after Utah and seeing Randle El with Barbara Watson and others, and still later taking my nephew Mile to see the Purdue game while visiting from South America, and later watching IU come to Virginia and D.C. and Wake Forest while living on the East Coast, and at least three games in Maryland, the memories of home and friends, the radio personalities and sports journalists and parents who recall the Cardiac Kids of '67, and my open restless hopes of our Davids beating the eternal Goliaths every fall Sunday, it means I am still alive, I am still me, I am a proud but not beaten though often humbled Hoosier fan.

Go I.U.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

How many IU football fans are there? At least a million. Maybe you could be a million and one.

Hoosiers, going to a bowl near you. Happy fall and early winter. May it grow and continue.

So that's what.

Namib to Zambia (Story Number 4)

Namib to Zambia (Story Number 4)

Combinations of 240 : Endless Stories (Started in 2018...)

There are 240 countries and nations in the world, plus or minus some islands and remote places that contain their own sub-cultures.It occurred to me that it would be interesting to capture an encounter or story about two people, respectively, from every place on the planet.

This would add up to 57,600 stories. An Indian and a Nepalese. A Bhutanian and a Falkland Islander (Malvino, I guess, in Spanish). And: another fifty-seven thousand, five hundred and ninety eight encounters more. Like an American and a Welsh. Er ... Welshman... Welsh lady? On and on it will go. What would your match ups be?

___________________________________________________________

(Begun in July or August, 2019)

Equezi thought that if he could drive, he would thrive. 

There were parts of his vast land where he knew would make money if he learned how to drive. And own a car. Opportunity was rife of he could figure out his place.

The ever growing  number of tourists and foreign residents, especially Chinese, meant more money. Few people in his neighborhood made enough money to really live well. No one knew vacations, no one knew what it was like to take a real break like he saw the Chinese and wealthy of Windhoek receive.

He would join them. He would have vacations, or holidays, as the British called them.

Getting the passengers from the central Damaraland to the southern Great Namaland was the key.

Chinese settlements.Foreign tourists. Big money.

Mosunda was a smart driver from Zambia; he seemed to have figured this all out. He had lived in Namibia only four years.

Equezi went to the house of Mosunda, late one night. 

"Mister Mosunda, I am grateful to know you and I wish to do what you do. Can you help me?"

"Sir Equezi, I am of a thought that I can help those who wish to help themselves, and when I accomplish this help, I myself will be blessed and prosper more. What specific thing do you wish to do?"

"I want to drive and make money like you. But I am very poor." (It sounded like the way an American would say POE-AH. Although he could also pronounce it POOH-AH).

"Yes, I understand, Sir. That is precisely why I left my native Zambia: I was poor and I had nothing to offer anyone, least of all myself." 

"Now you have a wife and children, and you have bought many things, and you rent homes and do so much."

"Yes, life is good."

"What do I need to do?"

"Well, sir, if you trust me that much, I do think that you must do three things. Learn to drive a car and have that license, learn proper English to help the travelers, and learn Chinese, enough to help them, too."

"Chinese! It is too hard! How can I do this?"

"No, brother, it can be done, at least as much is helpful to gain them as clients and earn their respect. Most of them will know English in order to conduct business, but their native language is the ice breaker. And, there are multiple dialects, so you speak the Chinese to those from Shanghai differently than the ones from Hong Kong, and on and on."

"Yes, I see. Can you teach me?" 

"I can help a little, sure," replied Mosunda, the rich Zambian in Windhoek. "But first things first: you must learn to drive and have a license."

"Yes, yes. What is the best way?"

"I think you can learn with me, and qualify with a car that I lend you. I will make money from this, we will agree to share. With that increased income we will together purchase another car that you will pay off."

"Ahh, this seems so simple!"

"It sounds simple in theory, but it will take time and devotion, perhaps a few years. But both of us will benefit, that is for sure.

They spoke excitedly for another two hours, how they could both benefit each other.

You can imagine their earnest determination to succeed.

 Would they?

 

 

Peace Between War Times

Peace Between War Times

     I am finishing up another book by Jeff Shaara, an under-appreciated prolific and well-researched author who depicts and chronicles the wars of the United States.  Previously I have read some of his books about the Mexican-American War (1847-48), the American Civil War (1861-1865), and World War II (1941-1945). I know that he has written other tomes about the U.S. War of Independence (1775-83), World War I (1917-18), and the Korean conflict (1950-53). I am confident that I should read all of them. Maybe he will write about the Vietnam conflict or more recent U.S. wars?

Hard to say how many Americans alone have written books about our wars, other foreign wars, even fictitious  wars. We make these stories into movies and we fictionalize them, lionize the characters and the events. They deserve our attention. Some of the actions and events are made spectacular, the people involved heroicized, embellished, painted tragic and poignant. Lives are dramatically and inalterably changed by wars and their consequences. Soldiers, marines, sailors, airmen, doctors, nurses, contractors, transportation specialists, the leaders, families, and civilians populations left behind... Or those that come into conflict. The injured, prisoners, dead: a great mass of parts and passions woven up in attacking or defending from the enemy in places foreign and domestic.

Right now (October 2019) Turks are attacking Kurds in Syria, both Americans and Russians figuring out where to move in between. Chaotic times, in a chaotic country that has millions of displaced people. Many victims, many others have fled to near and far parts of the world.

War is not raging in too many other places in our globe. Yemen has a constant conflict, which perhaps now is less deadly than in other months or years of the complicated power struggle there. Ethnic populaces and ideologically driven groups striving to take power from another, in a country without much natural resource wealth, like some of its Arab neighbors.

Somalia always has issues, and mini-wars pop up across the African continent. Libya has a power conflict that has been going on for many years now since Khadafy's demise.

Wars, wars, wars. And much peace for most of us.

The Arabs are the foremost purveyors of war this year.

The Kurds have been caught in the cross-fire, literally as of late.

No thanks to our current commander-in-chief. He seems to be treating a large nation of stateless people like he did the upstart USFL back in the 1980s.

It's a mistake, buddy. We all make mistakes. Hopefully they do not cost a bunch of people their lives for no reason.

Peace is a tricky conundrum.

Be we so lucky and blessed to have it and wage it, as the pin in the 1980s would say.

"Wage peace, not war."

Those in power must do what they can to work for peace and stave off the unnecessary wars.

That implies that there are wars that we cannot avoid.

We need to increase the peace quotient, which takes time and money.

Sort of like the war on global warming.