Calling children by their full names

 We spent Thanksgiving this year with the family of one of our daughters. After dinner one night, one of her sons had a question for me.

He had noticed that all of the adults who know her address her by her first name, Kellie, except for me. I call her Kellie Jo, using both her first name and her middle name. He wanted to know why.

Hmm.

I think I gave him an adequate answer that night, but I have pondered on it ever since. I have often - not always, but often - called my children by their first and middle names. And I, myself, started to wonder why.

I got it figured out.

This week, my brother ran into a family friend from long ago - so long ago that they probably used to ride tricycles together. The boy's name was Greg. I have distinct memories of his mother yelling at him when he was in trouble, using his first and middle names: "Gregory Grant!" I heard it more than once. Sorry, Greg, I really didn't think you were that bad as a kid.

That reminded me of my own mother.  My mother was a great lady, but let's face it, she had anger-management issues. And when she yelled at us using our full names, we knew that she was really mad at us, or we were in deep trouble, or both. (And she didn't just use first and middle name, it was the whole enchilada.)

This next part of the story all happened in my subconscious. I admit that I have never given it any conscious thought. In fact, I didn't realize all of this until this week, when I put two and two (that is, "Kellie Jo" and "Gregory Grant!") together.

Subconsciously, I decided that I didn't want my own children to associate their names with an angry father, or with trouble. And besides, I was proud of the names we had given them.

So from the very start, I would address them using both their first and middle names. Not always, but often enough that it wasn't unusual.

Jason Daniel. Kellie Jo. Lori Dawn. Sandra Michelle. Christopher Michael (or "Chris Mike" for short).

 Whether it was a simple call to come to dinner, or a loving way to get their attention, or in the midst of playing a game or having fun, I would use both names. Over time (I hoped, subconsciously), they learned to associate their full names with love. And fun. And respect, and pride.

This many years later, when they hear their full name, I hope that it reminds them how much their father loves them.

A New Quilt

 Twelve years ago, I wrote about how an old quilt made me cry as our full and busy home became an empty nest. That quilt was powerfully symbolic. It spoke of my love for the mountains, and of how I shared that love with my children and passed it on to them.

Around that time, my sweet wife started making another quilt for me -- another quilt covered with images of mountains and trees and lakes and sky. Life got in the way, and it took her until today to finish it. This quilt also carries powerful symbolism, but it's not just symbolic of my love for the mountains. It's symbolic of a woman's love and devotion in the face of all obstacles.

I'm a very lucky man, and I know it.

AND THEN, AND THEN:

She had leftover fabric, so she made two pillowcases to match the blanket!

Story: The Christmas Ornaments Robin Hood

 SHORT INTRODUCTION: I ran across this story on Reddit. It's a different kind of Christmas story. I hope it touches you as deeply as it touched me. Written by u/selectivelycrazy, and reprinted here with her permission.

It is 2020, unfortunately. It’s the day after my two younger sisters and I flew out to Pennsylvania to see my dad, who lives there after getting divorced by my mom for fifteen years of not being a good husband or dad. He lives with his mom, Cranky Grandma, and her devil cat, as well as my amazing aunt and her angel kitten.

Dad gets home from work. “Where’s Emi?” he asks my Cranky Grandma.

“She’s in the basement,” Cranky Grandma says, probably throwing in a snide comment or two about the newly-dyed purple hair adorning my head or the leather fingerless gloves that have joined my black wardrobe. “Lookin’ for some Christmas ornaments.”

Dad goes down the basement stairs and finds me rummaging through cardboard boxes. “What are you looking for?” he says.

“Hi, Dad,” I say. “Well, I noticed that you decorated for Christmas, but you’re missing a few things! Where are The Mooses?”

The Mooses are a pair of stuffed mooses that have been put up every Christmas since I can remember. They’re brown, about two feet tall, and soft as a marshmallow. There’s Mama Moose, who is named Merry, holding Baby Moose, who is named Christmas and is in a red velvet sack reading “Merry Christmas” on it in gold embroidery. The Mooses always go on the couch to watch over the living room and all the decorations and presents in it while we’re asleep.

The problem with The Mooses is that when my mom divorced Dad, she was so scared of him that she let him have almost everything. This included The Mooses and quite a few more of her treasured ornaments. And since I’ve always been the one to set The Mooses on the couch, that first Christmas with a divorced dad just didn’t feel right without them.

Dad helps me look for The Mooses for awhile. “Sorry, sweetie, they must have gotten lost in the move,” he says.

I smile and don’t tell him that I hate being called sweetie. “It’s okay,” I say, and pull out a cardboard box. “Hey, look! It’s your What God Wants For Christmas box! I love that tradition!”

We go set up What God Wants For Christmas in the living room. I say, “I think I’m going to go take a nap.”

Dad says, “Okay.”

I go upstairs and into my room and shut the door. I walk over to the window seat/storage chest under the window. I open it.

“Hello, Mooses,” I say.

The Mooses lay on top of my stuffed animal collection, looking dusty. Several other ornaments I recognize as Mom’s are keeping them company. I grin and shut the chest.

It is the day we fly back to my home state. I have The Mooses packed away in my suitcase, and the other ornaments tucked beside them, wrapped in my fluffiest (but still black) hoodie to protect them.

I roll my suitcase out to the hallway. Dad is weighing Youngest Sister’s bag to make sure it’s under fifty pounds. “Okay, now I need to check it to make sure you’re not stealing any of my stuff!” he tells her.

My mind says, Oh no.

My brain gives me uncomfortable memories of how Dad raged when he thought one of us had stolen his coffee mug.

My voice says, “Privacy invaded in three...two…” in a joking tone. Dad and Youngest Sister laugh. Dad does not check anyone’s suitcase.

We are at the airport. Younger Sister’s suitcase is somehow three pounds over the weight limit.

Dad says, “Emi, grab one of the suitcases that already went through and open it up. We’ll put some of Younger Sister’s stuff in there.” He gestures to my suitcase.

My mind makes an earsplitting screeching noise that sounds like someone slammed their brakes to avoid hitting a pterodactyl and hit the pterodactyl anyway.

My brain imagines Dad opening the suitcase and going into a rage at the sight of The Mooses.

My voice says, “Sure, Dad.” My hands grab Youngest Sister’s suitcase instead of mine and pass it over. Dad opens it. Her suitcase contains no smuggled goods. We transfer the stuff and the very nice airport lady sends all the bags down the conveyor belt. Dad asks me why I wave to mine. I shrug. “Just being weird,” I say. Good luck, Mooses, my mind says.

We are back home. My family- my Older Sister, who didn’t go with us, Mom, my other grandma, who we call Maga, and my Boppa, or grandpa, are all sitting in the living room catching up.

I say, “I’m disappointed you took the tree down already.”

Older Sister laughs. “It’s past New Year’s!”

“I know,” I say, “but I brought some stuff to put on it.”

I open my suitcase. I show around the ornaments I smuggled back- three tiny stuffed snowmen, our cat’s catnip-stuffed cat ornament, a white clay angel, a wooden rocking horse, a wooden mouse king, a clay snowman, my older sister’s stuffed dog. When I unveil the rocking horse, Maga gasps. “I bought that for your mother when she was little!” she exclaims. “How did your dad get it?”

“That’s not everything,” I say. I unzip the flap hiding The Mooses from view.

I pull out The Mooses.

Older Sister and Boppa clap. “How did you get those back here right under Dad’s nose?” Older Sister asks. Maga laughs so hard she has tears in her eyes.

The tears in Mom’s eyes are not from laughter.

Slowly, she reaches out and takes The Mooses, hugging them to her chest. Over their antlers, she mouths “Thank you.”

And then, she gets up, and she sets The Mooses down. On the couch.

Right where they belong.

A gratuitous picture of a Christmas moose, from an online store

A Lunchtime Conversation With My Niece

I had a lunchtime conversation with one of my many beloved nieces. I reprint it here, for your viewing enjoyment.

I hope it's clear to you how much fun we have together.

This Church is All About Love

The Mormon church found itself under the harsh spotlight of national scrutiny during the 2012 presidential campaign. Most of the scrutiny involved people who were curious and, for the first time in their lives, wanted to know what Mormons believed, why they believed, how they lived, and so on.

Some of the scrutiny came from people who had already made up their minds about the Mormons, and were looking for evidence to support their preconceptions. One of these false notions is the idea that Mormon men hold onto power in the church by keeping the priesthood for themselves and by maintaining a strict hierarchy.

Because the church doesn't have a paid clergy, members serve voluntarily and without pay in leadership positions. Members do not campaign or lobby for positions; rather, they are asked, or "called," to serve in these positions after considerable prayer and meditation by their leaders. They are expected to serve for only a few months or a few years in any given position.

I have served for three years in the leadership councils of our local stake - a collection of congregations, similar to a Catholic diocese. In all the stake councils and meetings that I have attended, I have been constantly impressed at how the focus is always on the individuals in the stake, how the leaders of the stake know them all by name, and how much they love them.

They love these people with the pure love that Christ had for the Samaritan woman at the well, for the woman taken in adultery, for the woman who touched the hem of his robe as he walked by, and for his beloved friends, Mary, Martha and Lazarus. The leaders of the Mormon church, all these men in their business suits, white shirts and ties, wielding the priesthood of God, are motivated by only one thing: love.

Power has nothing to do with it. Here is an illustration of the love that motivates these men.

In a recent meeting of the local stake, over 1200 people gathered to see a new stake president installed. The night before the meeting, a woman in the stake had her feelings deeply hurt by some other women in the stake.

I'm certain that the offenders did not mean to offend. In fact, I'm certain that they didn't even know that they had hurt this woman. Nobody is to blame; they did not know her situation, and had they known, I'm sure that they would have held their tongues. There is no need to confront them or hold them accountable.

However it happened, this poor sister went home on Saturday night so hurt that she could not bring herself to attend the meeting the next day. She had wanted to participate in the program, to show her honor and love for the outgoing stake president; but instead, she stayed home.

She did not make a big deal out of it. But her absence was noted, a friend made inquiries, and word of her hurt made its way quietly - and confidentially - and swiftly - to the very top of  the stake. The leaders made arrangements to quietly visit this woman in her home, and to make sure that she knew firsthand of their love for her.

Do you remember what Jesus said to the woman who touched the hem of Jesus' robe as he walked by? "Daughter, be of good comfort." And do you remember what Jesus said about giving alms to the poor? "Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth." Without fanfare or publicity, these leaders simply "[go] about doing good," following the example of their Master, Him for whom the church is named.

You see, "Mormon" is just a nickname. The true name of the Mormon church is "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints."

Stay tuned.

Circles

In his book Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, Steven R. Covey speaks about circles. Specifically, he talks about Circles of Concern, which include all the things that we worry about, and Circles of Influence, which include all the things that we can affect.

In my mind, there is a third kind of circle. This is the Circle of Things That Matter. This is a much smaller circle than the other two. Part of acquiring wisdom is learning to shrink the other two circles so they approach this one in size.

Actually, my life is full of a fourth kind of circle, multiple instances of it. These are Circles of People That Matter. In my life, most of these are BIG circles. The smallest and tightest of these circles includes used to include just my wife and our natural children. What's funny about this circle, called "family," is that we keep widening it and adding other people to it — not just children-in-law and grandchildren, but others whom we come to love so much that they become part of our family.

It's fun at Christmas time, to host an open house for the people in all of these different circles, then to sit back and observe the collisions and the intersections between the circles. Some sparkling gems are found in those intersections.

For example, my circle of former mathematics students consists of roughly 200 people. My circle of LDS young single adults currently living in our town or nearby is of about the same size. I was delighted to find three of my former math students in this YSA circle. I'm sure it doesn't mean as much to them as it does to me, and I try desperately not to make an outward show of things, but I get all, um, gleeful inside every time I see one of them.

Keys to having a good life

I had occasion this winter to write an answer to the question, "What is the key to having a good life?" Life is so complicated that it doesn't have a simple answer. What should be a short sentence is really a list of what I've learned in my first 54 years on earth. Excerpts from the litany on the last line can be found, like a benediction, at the end of every letter I write to my children.

Live within your means, stay out of debt, save for a rainy day.
Love your wife and children without reservations or conditions, and without judgment.
Always look for the fun and the humor in things.
Play with your children while they're young and while they grow up.
Treat your wife like a newlywed bride.
Keep God's commandments as strictly as you can.
Listen to your conscience.
Seek for eternal truth, and when you find it, hold onto it and treasure it.
Don't do anything that will cause you pain or regret down the road.
Care about somebody else more than yourself.
Get a hug from somebody every day.
Remember that you are a child of God, that He loves you and that He wants you to succeed.
And treat your children that same way.
Don't be afraid to love everyone.
Don't talk too much. Listen a lot more than you talk.
Eat candy, but don't get carried away with it.
Milk goes best with cookies.
Salt and pepper taste best when carefully applied to steak, medium rare.
Have fun, be safe, be good, buy low, sell high, work hard, play hard, pray hard, play guitar, kiss with your eyes closed, hug like it really matters, kiss like you really mean it.

Family matters most

Zyzmog Galactic Headquarters is an eclectic blog. There's a bit of everything in here. Here's something that hasn't shown up in this blog yet: an intensely personal note.

This is what matters most to me. (Click here for a bigger picture)

I treasure the knowledge I've acquired over the years. I like knowing stuff, not for its own sake, but to use it to do something. (My kids say I should use it to win at "Jeopardy.") Like the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, I have two impressive diplomas, but most of the knowledge I've acquired comes from way beyond those diplomas. I'd like to think that somewhere in the middle of that knowledge, I also acquired some wisdom. I'd like to think that, but some days I'm not so sure.

More important to me than my knowledge, are all the experiences I've had over the years: where I've gone, what I've done, and what I've seen. I got to work for HP back when it was a good company. I've written video games. I've written a book. I've been on TV. I've written music, played music, and directed a choir. I've watched a ballet in La Scala, and an opera in the Bolshoi. I've stood on the top of St. Peter's Basilica in the Vatican City, and the Duomo in Milan. I've gone water skiing on the South China Sea. I've climbed the Green Mountains, the Applachian Mountains, the Rocky Mountains and the Alps. I've stood on a top of a mountain illuminated by nothing but starlight, and looked at the Milky Way against the night sky. I've seen the Northern Lights dance across the Canadian night skies, and I've been to St. Petersburg during White Nights.

More important than my experiences and accomplishments, are all the great people I've gotten to meet in my life, and the hundreds — no, thousands — of people I count as my friends. These friendships stretch along a continuum from the mutual respect and camaraderie that springs from a single meeting, to the kind that take up a good chunk of a lifetime, deepened and enriched by the quiet, unspoken love that true friends share. My life is especially rich because of the friends I have known.

I'm especially fortunate because those friendships include hundreds of former students and at least a dozen sort-of-adopted children.

Most important of all, even more important than friends, is family. When it comes to family, I am a very lucky man. Define family however you want, and I'm still a lucky man.  [Edit Edit Edit Give up] I have rewritten this paragraph three times, trying to put it into words, and the words don't work. But when I think of the love that we share, the things we have done for each other, and the things that we would do for each other, my heart fills up to overflowing. In my religious tradition, we believe that families last forever. I look at my family, and it makes me excited about forever.

At the center of it all stands my sweet wife. I have been in love with this girl for almost 40 years. She is the real reason for everything I do. All I have ever wanted to do is make her happy and successful, and to see her smile and laugh, and to feel her love and approval in return. So far, I think I'm doing okay: she hasn't kicked me out of the house yet.

The two of us, at 18 years old (Click here for a bigger picture)

The two of us, today (Click here for a bigger picture)

There's a lot in this world that you can chose from, to define yourself and to give meaning to your life. But when you strip away all of the nonessential stuff, the one thing that remains is family. Family lasts forever. And family matters most.

"Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them"

Can I just say how much I love my children?

This morning, as my youngest child headed out the door for school, I stood at the open window and barked goodbye to him. Yes, really. It's a family tradition, which started when our dog was just a puppy and would bark like crazy whenever anybody entered, exited, or walked past our home. It's a way of saying "Goodbye, I love you, have a good day, I'll miss you, come home safe."

As he opened the car door, my son looked up, grinned, and barked back at me. We kept it going for a good 30 seconds. In those 30 seconds, my mind flashed back 12 years, to when I had a similar conversation with my oldest son, and then in an instant I remembered all the fun morning rituals I have shared with my daughters as well.

I've been especially blessed in this life to be a father, not only to my five biological offspring, but also to their friends, their classmates and teammates, and now their spouses; to my nieces and nephews; and to many of my Boy Scouts and my students over the years. I treasure these relationships more than any Italian villa or stock portfolio. And the ones I treasure the most are the ones I share with my own sons and daughters.

The psalmist said, "Children are an heritage of the Lord ... happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them." If that's the measure of happiness, then I'm happy.

For my Niece: Why I Love You, Part 2

She said she'd love some more. So here's some more.


I love you because of your goodness. I love you because of your example, the beacon you are for those around you. I love you because of your purity, and your desire to do what's right.

I love you because of your sense of humor. Sometimes it's rather highbrow humor (well, your version of highbrow), and sometimes it's little-kid silly fun, and you're comfortable with both.

I love you because you're no stick-in-the-mud. You like to have fun, and you're tenacious and dedicated in everything you set out to do. You are excited about life, and that excitement shines in your face and through your eyes.

I love you because of your love for (and your loyalty to) your family. I know that sometimes you get on each other's nerves, but I've seen the gentle way you treat your little sisters, and I know it's not just an act.

I love you because of your sincerity and your honesty -- no, wait, I admire you because of your sincerity and your honesty, and over time that admiration grows into love.

I love you because of your grace -- no, not the "grace of God" kind of grace, but that innate feminine quality that you possess. I can't describe it. I'll let Lord Byron take a shot at it:

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

That comes close to what I was trying to say. Thanks, Lord Byron.

--
Even more love
Uncle Ray

For my Niece: Why I Love You

One of my teenage nieces is having a rough time right now. She wrote me, needing a confidence boost, and asked, "Why do you love me? I know it's silly, but it would just help me out a lot right now if you could answer it."

So I thought about it for a while, and here's what I came up with.

Why I Love You

Pick one or all of the following. I vote for all of them.

I love you because you're a blood relative and it's a family obligation.

(Don't worry, they get better.)

I love you because I love your mom, she's one of my favorite people, and you're her daughter so you must be rather lovable by association.

Or heredity. Or something.

I love you because you like me just the way I am, and although you make fun of me for it sometimes, you really don't want me to change. You accept me for who I am.

I love you because you have ALWAYS, from your youngest years, attacked me and hung around me and teased me and stuff -- even though we would go two or three years between seeing each other. And when we get back together, it's like we were never apart.

I love you because you love me. But even if you didn't love me, I would love you anyway.

I love you because, um, what's the word? Because I admire you. You are smart (thanks to your mom and dad and the Man Upstairs), you are talented in so many ways, you are clever, you are witty, you are personable (that means you're a lot of fun to be around), and ... nope. That's it. There's more, but it all relates to your brain and your personality.

If looks mattered, and if I were 35 years younger and not related to you, I could fall in love with you very quickly because you're pretty. Easy on the eyes, as they say. You have a cute smile, a cute nose, and VERY expressive eyes, and nice hair even though I get it wrong every time I try to tell you what color it is. You have nice-looking legs, I'm sure as a result of your years of dancing. And I'm going to end this paragraph now.

Did I mention your voice? No? Okay. I love your voice.

I love you because you're NOT a girly-girl. You like camping and backpacking and doing stuff in the mountains. You're not afraid to get dirty and a little bit stinky.

I love you because you have an independent mind. You want to figure things out for yourself and do things your own way. And yet, having said that, I also love you because you are trying so hard to choose the right, to be righteous, and to be obedient to a Higher Power. I love you for the force of your testimony, and for the spirituality which hangs around you like a perfume -- sweet, delicate, and lingering . I love you for choosing the right and for expecting others to do the same.

I get amused by your tough-girl act, and yet I see you opening your heart and trying so hard to reach out to your peers when they're in trouble, and I love you for your charity and your empathy.

And when your tough-girl act breaks down and you come to me for reassurance and comfort like this, I love you for giving me a chance to see who you are on the inside.

I love you for the sassy little girl you were, the young woman you are, and the woman you are becoming. And I love you because you can be all three at once.

Want more? I can give you more.

--
All my love
Uncle Ray
XOXOXO