Believing the Best

When you hear a rumor about a friend or colleague, do you assume the best or worst about them?

I believe it’s human nature to believe the worst, but could be swayed to believe the opposite.

Recently a rumor went through my family that placed me in a situation far from the truth. The person who spread the rumor needed me to fit their narrative.

The rumor stung but what hurt the most was the realization that people close to me chose to believe the rumor before speaking to me.

I want to fight the urge to believe the worst next time I hear a rumor about a friend. I will give them the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise.

Saying Goodbye to my Mom

I rolled over in bed, grabbed my phone and made my way through a dozen messages that had arrived earlier that morning.

None of the messages were very long, but it was clear something was wrong. Each one was a puzzle piece that taken individually didn’t make a lot of sense.

Mom wasn’t feeling well. 
My dad was taking her to the hospital. 
Should the kids gather at the hospital? 
My dad needs help. 

I leaned over to see if Kim was awake. She wasn’t and I decided to let her sleep. I sat back in bed and thought about my mom. We’d driven up the week before to celebrate her birthday. She was frail but alert. Her spirits were high as they always are when she’s around her children and grandchildren.

Maybe 20 minutes had passed, and I decided to wake Kim. “My mom isn’t doing well. I don’t know what to do.” As I contemplated making the 5-hour trip from St. George to North Ogden, a message from my sister arrived:

“Mom is gone.”

It seems fitting to hear of my mom’s passing by text message. I’ve lived a state or two away from my parents and siblings for the past 20+ years, and I’m accustomed to hearing news about the family via text, email, and phone.

I stayed in bed for another hour trying to make sense of the fact that I will not see my mother again. She lived 69 years which is about 30 years longer than doctors figured she’d live once they diagnosed her with Lupus and a host of other ailments. The Prednisone that gave her energy to raise five children made her bones weak. I would have needed an Excel spreadsheet to keep track of all her medications. Of course, each promised to fix a condition, but at the cost of nasty side-effects.

As I’ve reached middle age, I’ve accepted that family relationships are complicated, sometimes messy, but usually worth the effort. The relationship with my mom was no different. But most of the challenges we’ve had over the years have faded leaving mostly good memories firmly in my mind.

As I wrote her obituary, I reflected on the many times my mom was there to provide advice or encouragement. But mostly my mom was present. She didn’t work outside the home so she was able to attend hundreds of my baseball, basketball and football games. I recall playing a spring baseball game in Bear River in near-freezing temperatures. When I came up to bat, I turned around to see my mom sitting on the aluminum benches behind home plate wrapped in a wool blanket. She was the lone fan in the stands on that frigid day.

When I’d return home from dates, I’d find my mom kicking back on the couch reading the Ensign or her Book of Mormon that had seen better days. She’d ask how my evening went, and we’d talk well into the morning. She was always there without being a helicopter parent. My dad bought her a Kindle a few years ago, and we’d send her books on occasion, and then discuss them during visits to her home. My oldest son inherited her Kindle this past week. Before I reset it, I noticed she’d made it 86% through the last book (Educated) we sent her before she passed away.

I inherited a love of listening to music from my mom. When I broke my arm in 7th grade, she was going through a Neil Diamond phase, and I quickly learned every lyric to the Jazz Singer soundtrack. She didn’t like a lot of the music I listened to in high school, especially groups like Ratt, Motley Crue, and Whitesnake. But I did get her into George Winston and attended one of his piano concerts at Abravanel Hall in Salt Lake with her while I was attending the University of Utah.

The morning after we’d celebrated her birthday, we had breakfast with my mom and dad before heading back to St. George. As the hostess seated the 9 of us around a table near the back of the Black Bear Diner, my kids scrambled to sit closest to their grandma and grandpa. Kim and I sat at the opposite end of the table. During breakfast, I wondered why I’d let the kids take the seats closest to my parents.

I’ve thought back to that breakfast many times over the past month. That was the last day I’d see my mom, but I didn’t know it at the time. Why didn’t I take a seat down at the end of the table next to her? Later that morning, I’d say goodbye to her while she sat in a wheelchair at her home. I leaned down and put my arm around her. She kissed my cheek like she has for many years.

This evening, I put some books on my son’s Kindle he inherited from my mom. He loves to read Harry Potter and the Fablehaven series. I noticed the black canvas cover on his Kindle was well-worn and asked if he’d like me to order a new one.

His answer let me know I’d made the right decision at breakfast: “Nope. This one smells like grandma and will remind me of her each time I read.”

Goodbye, mom. I love you.

Is Truth Optional?

A number of events over the past couple of weeks has me contemplating the importance of truth. Specifically, how important is truth when it comes to storytelling, history or religion.


A few weeks ago, Kim and I attended an event where Carol Lynn Pearson discussed her book, Ghost of Eternal Polygamy. I haven’t read the book but was interested in the topic because polygamy was one of the first major issues I had with my church.

I knew Brigham Young married a lot of women, but I was shocked when the church admitted that Joseph Smith married at least 30 women, some as young as 14 and about 10 who were already married.

The bigger question I’ve considered is this: Is it worth investing my time and resources in a church that plays so loose with the truth?

I wish the LDS church had come clean with all the unsavory parts of their history before the internet came along and forced their hand. Put it all out there. And then allow each person to decide if it’s worth the investment the church asks of them.

One of my frustrations since leaving the church is that some friends and family assume I was looking for any reason to leave the church. They assume I lost my testimony or could not resist that Starbucks iced mocha.

But I didn’t lose anything. I gained knowledge and can speak to the history of the church in much greater detail than I could as a young missionary. I was willing to go wherever the truth took me, even if that meant out of the church. I didn’t select my desired destination and then search only for evidence that supported my decision.

That’s what I’d like my friends and family to understand. Truth matters more than feelings. Every member of every religion feels their church is the true one. Good feelings can come from reading a book, watching a movie or listening to music. How some religions tell their followers that feelings substantiate truth is absurd to me.

Especially when you say you are the only church on earth that has all the truth.

Be willing to demand the truth. And let it take you wherever it leads. In the long run you’ll be better for it.

On Children by Kahlil Gibran

A good friend from high school sent me this poem. I love it.

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Standing Outside the Temple

My grandparents on both sides of my family lived in Bountiful, or about 30 minutes from our home in Ogden, Utah. We visited them often. My grandpa Tingey was the first person I knew who owned an Atari 2600, and I spent many hours sitting on my knees at a wobbly card table playing Asteroids, Combat and Blackjack.

While the Tingeys were Mormon, my father’s parents were not, and I understood this at an early age, because they committed a major sin: they drank coffee! I loved to smell the coffee as I entered their home, but was reminded how breaking God’s health law could have a lasting impact on my body and soul.

Tingeys would attend special church milestones such as baptisms and confirmations. When I turned 12-years old and was ordained a deacon, the Tingeys gave me a leather-bound bible for my birthday and a matching Book of Mormon for Christmas. My grandmother took the time to write a note on the first page of each book stating how much she loved me and how she hoped I’d get closer to Christ by reading each book. She was a loving grandmother who made me feel like I was the most important person in the world when we sat around her dining table eating Snelgrove’s ice cream.

While we spent more time at Tingeys, we also visited my other set of grandparents; the Nordquists. They lived in a humble brick home not far from Bountiful High School that had a steep driveway to the side of their home. When my father would park the car, I’d open the door and race up the stairs to ring the doorbell. My grandma would always open the door, and then call to my grandfather, who was often watching 60 Minutes or All in the Family in their dark basement. My grandma Nordquist was an amazing cook, and if we were lucky, she’d make roast beef with mashed potatoes with gravy. They also kept Coke in bottles in the basement. That might not seem like a big deal to most, but some Mormons in the 70s and 80s believed that beverages with caffeine were against the Word of Wisdom. My parents didn’t purchase Coke and neither did the Tingeys so getting a cold bottle of Coke was a real treat!

My grandparents have passed away, but I think of them often. And lately I’ve been thinking about how I treated my grandpa and grandma Nordquist.

I loved them very much, but I also felt sorry for them because they were not members of my church. At times I felt superior to them, although I wouldn’t have admitted it at the time. While I was attending the University of Utah, I often visited them. One time I stopped by after school and we talked about religion for a couple of hours. They both expressed to me how they felt excluded from activities and discussions because they were not Mormon. I went home that evening bothered by what I’d heard because I felt I’d talked to them openly about my mission to Germany and other aspects of my life. I wish I had opened up to them about my questions surrounding polygamy and some aspects of LDS church history that bothered me. I wish I had found the CESLetter in my 20s instead of in my 40s.

Looking back to that time, I can understand how they would feel excluded. My three sisters and brother were all married in LDS temples which means the Tingeys were able to witness and experience each marriage as it took place inside the temple. But the Nordquists could not and were left to stand outside the temple and wait for the ceremony to end before joining up for family pictures.

At the time I was married, I didn’t think about it. I felt superior and blamed my grandparents for not putting themselves in a position to witness our marriage in person. I’m embarrassed to admit I used to think this way.

Now that I no longer believe in the primary truth claims of the Mormon church, I wish I could apologize to my grandparents. I left the church after they passed away, and I wish I could speak to them today and tell them how much I admire them for standing by their convictions while raising children in Utah where the pressure to convert can be immense.

For so many years, I felt I had found the truth and was better off for it. I had been raised in a church that teaches its members they belong to the only true church in the world. Other churches might possess bits and piece of truth, but Mormons believe they have ALL THE TRUTH. That doesn’t leave a lot of room for alternative ideas about religion.

Today I realize my grandparents were many years ahead of me in recognizing no one church holds all the truth or recipe for happiness.

I take some solace knowing I carry on a part of them as I raise my children to be critical thinkers and be leery of anyone who claims to speak for God.

Working Through Beliefs Together

I enjoyed this article written by a women coming to terms with her husband’s change in beliefs.

But I wanted to understand him. This was Sean, the man who stood by me during years of clinical depression. The man who pretended to be a dinosaur while he chased our shrieking sons around the room. He wasn’t some heathen. I couldn’t believe that. I wouldn’t believe it. He’d always been a skeptic, and even though I didn’t agree with him, I knew intellectually that he’d never make this decision without careful consideration of the fact

I’ve been lucky because my spouse has tried to understand my change in beliefs. It’s not a given so embrace your spouse who cares enough to make the effort. Support them, love them, and have patience. What doesn’t work? Expecting them to follow your path. If they do come along it will be at their pace and when they are ready.

My tears stopped. Her questions were so off-base that they seemed absurd. She was sincere, and trying to help, but she believed what the Church teaches — that a man would only leave because he’s disobeying the commandments. She couldn’t understand this was a rational inquiry. She saw everything as the result of sin.

It’s a lot easier to write off unbelievers as sinners than taking an honest look at what bothers them by actually asking them. I think a lot of people are scared that what they hear might resonate with them so it’s easier to keep them at bay. Truth will stand up to scrutiny.

The High Road

You will be misunderstood.

Your point will be lost.

The other person will not be ready to hear what you have to say.

Never assume a full understanding. You’ll be disappointed.

Do prepare for the backlash.

Don’t take it personally.

Don’t lash out in anger.

Do take a break. Go for a walk. Listen to music.

And when you’re ready, take the high road.

I’ve never regretted taking the high road. It says, “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

They may never come around, but you’ve given the relationship a chance to breath, a chance to mend.

A chance to survive another day.

Mother’s Day Talk

This is a talk I gave on Mother’s Day last year.

On this mother’s day, I thought about what I could share with you that would provide meaning and proper respect for the day. As mother’s day approached, I began to think of the many lessons and skills I’ve learned from women and mother’s in my life, and that’s what I’ve decided to share with you today.

Gandhi said, “My imperfections and failures are as much a blessing from God as my successes and my talents and I lay them both at his feet.”

My skill at finding my own mother’s imperfections peaked right around the time I got my driver’s license. I loved my mother, but I felt she relied a little too much on Oprah for guidance on how to raise her five children.

I recall one evening when my mother called me upstairs to sit at the kitchen table. Every serious discussion in our family began and ended at the kitchen table. If all the kids were in trouble, my parents called it a “Family Council”. But this time it was just me and mom. She sat across the table from me and stared at me for what felt like 10 minutes.

Finally, she explain that a guest on Oprah had counseled parents to take any and all measures to make sure their children were not taking part in any illicit activities. Being this took place during mid-1980’s I knew exactly what she was referring to. I felt confident I was in the clear until she explained one measure this guest recommended was reading your child’s journal.

As you might imagine, this set off a heated discussion because I’d been keeping a journal about four years and felt anyone reading it without my permission was invading my privacy. As luck would have it, the worst bit of information my mother had gleaned from my journal was that I’d gone to see the movie, Rambo, without her permission.

Years later I sat next to my mother at the computer. She’d been given a new MP3 player but had no idea how to get music on it. So we began the painstaking process of going through folder after folder searching for her favorite songs when my mother took my hand and said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made so many mistakes as your mother. You are my oldest and I often had no idea what I was doing.”

It would be a number of years later, when I had children of my own, that I’d begin to understand the importance of those words my mother spoke. She didn’t have to apologize to me, but she did and it made an impression on me. Seldom does a week go by where I don’t think, “I have no idea what I’m doing” while trying to help raise five children of my own. 

At the time, my mother was doing the best she could, with the knowledge and resources at her disposal. My father was a teacher at the local high school and he often shared stories with her about what students had gotten themselves into, some of which were life-changing.

As a 16 year old, I didn’t fully understand that, but as a father I do. When I hear that a friend of family member has acted in a manner contrary to what I would have done, I try to remind myself that person is doing the best they can and it’s likely I don’t have all the details. It’s not always easy.

Yet those two words, “I’m sorry” are two of the most powerful words in the English language. They calm, they diffuse. They redirect the conversation towards resolution instead of feeding the conflict. If my children learn to use these words regularly, I will have succeeded at least in one area of fatherhood.

This past week, I was upset with my oldest daughter over something trivial. I’d taken a minor issue and extended throughout the morning until she was ready to leave for school. We headed outside to the car and my daughter opened the door behind me. For a moment I considered asking her to join me in the front seat, but then realized if I’d been treated by my father how I’d treated her that morning, I’d take the seat right behind him so I didn’t have to speak or look at him while he drove me to school. But the short drive through the neighborhood gave me time to put the issue into perspective and, more importantly, calm down. As my daughter opened the door, I rolled down the window and used the same words my mother said to me as a young man: “I’m sorry”.

The ability to not only know I was wrong, but to verbally express that to my children and spouse is a skill I learned from my mother.

I learned another lesson in an unusual manner shortly after I had been ordained to the office of a deacon. My mother had recently taken me to Sears where I picked out a light-blue suit to go with my first non clip-on style tie. My father was in the bishopric at the time and seldom home before church. Each Sunday morning I’d get frustrated attempting to make the tie knot look presentable without choking myself.

One Sunday I had miraculously managed to twist a knot into place that I felt gave my dad’s knots a run for their money. I couldn’t wait to show my father as we pulled into the church parking lot. I ran from the car into the church and up the unusually wide staircase leading to the chapel.

As I got to to the top of the stairs, taking them 2 or 3 at a time, I came face to stomach with Sister Jacobson. She was the wife of the bishop and a no-nonsense woman who always wore a bright red dress and intimidated me.

As I slowly took a few steps back, I expected Sister Jacobson to commence with a lecture about my lack of respect for the Lord’s house. I looked up at her and flashed a grin hoping to lessen the blow.

But it never came. Instead she put her hand on my shoulder, bent down to my eye level and said, “Your smile makes my day.”

That day I was excited to show my tie to my father,  but those kind words from Sister Jacobson brought even more joy to a young man going through an awkward stage of life. I learned that a few kind words could go a long way towards bringing joy to others.

The last mother I want to share with you is someone who lived her entire life in Utah but would only step inside a church to see her grandson’s mission farewells. She spent her career teaching third grade, but was incredibly uncomfortable around groups of people. She was well educated, but not entirely well-spoken. Her tone could be considered blunt if not entirely misunderstood.

This woman is my grandmother.

Summer days were often spent doing yard work and chores for my grandparents. I wasn’t an expert math student but I was wise enough to realize that grandparents paid significantly more than minimum wage so I spent as many days in their service as possible. My father would put me on a bus in downtown Ogden and I’d listen to my Walkman on the hour long ride up through Farmington, around Lagoon and eventually set down in Bountiful where my grandparents lived.

The bus would drop me off near this amazing candy shop in town, where I’d then run the remaining two miles to their house. My grandfather would have the lawn mower oiled and gassed and sitting in the driveway by the time I arrived. I’d mow their lawn, trim the bushes and sweep away the clippings before taking a break in the shade under their plum trees in their backyard.

That’s when my grandma would emerge from the house with a cold bottle of Coca-Cola in her hands just for me. It was the best tasting beverage on the planet made even more special because it was not allowed in our home back in Ogden. But this was grandma’s house and we’d play by her rules and that included the real thing instead of that cheap knock-off Shasta stuff my parents loved. 

My grandfather would often retreat into the home at this time in order to cool off by the air conditioner. This allowed me time to chat with my grandmother. Although she was shy around large groups of people, she opened up to me on the back porch and would ask how I was doing in school.

I couldn’t just dismiss her questions with a “I’m doing fine”. No, my grandmother would go through each of my classes and demand to know what grade I was earning. I recall one afternoon I told her I was looking at a “C” grade in keyboarding and she nearly fell off her chair. “You’ve got to do better than that” she’d tell me in her loving but firm voice.

Education was paramount to success in her mind and she wasn’t afraid to share that opinion with her grandchildren.

When I finished my Coke and was about ready to tackle mowing the the back yard, my grandmother would say, “You can be anything you want to be.”

That stuck with me on the bus ride home each day. You can be anything you want to be. Maybe that was important to my grandmother because she joined the workforce at a time when women filling full time jobs wasn’t looked upon favorably.  Whatever the reason, her words have stuck with me over the years and I’ve given thought to them recently when we decided to leave Seattle and move closer to family here in Utah.

I’ve spend the bulk of my career working for some of the largest technology companies that have helped me provide for my family. But that’s not what I wanted to be, and I often wasn’t happy in that line of work that required travel and a lot of time away from my family. For the past two years I’ve worked to find a job I could do from home. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I’d already found the job. All I had to do was ask.

There have been many women who have influenced my life for the better. I could tell you more stories about each of them before naming another dozen that had as profound an influence on my life.

Finding Home

“Doesn’t this feel just like Seattle?”

Those were Kim’s words last night as we stood on our front porch and watch the wind whip leaves down our street. For the first times in months, the temperatures dipped into the high 60’s.

And yes, it did feel like Seattle minus the $1000 worth electrical bills we rang up over the past two months. In Seattle, we stayed inside due to rain whereas here we remain in an air-conditioned home due to the heat.

With most the of 100+ degree days behind us for the year, I look forward to getting back into biking. The heat plus the higher elevation (620 vs. 3031 feet) has resulted in a lot fewer rides than I was used to.

Our children are back in school and have transitioned well to their new surroundings. They miss old friends but have made a number of new ones. They love living close to cousins and their grandparents. When I ask them today if they want to move back to Seattle they at least hesitate now instead of making a mad dash to the car.

It takes time, and we knew that going into this. We’ve found it best to talk through their concerns, and help them understand that it may take a while before it starts to feel like home. What we didn’t plan on was that those talks being more beneficial to the adults than the kids.

Seattle still feels like home. And I imagine it will feel like home for a long time.

The Disease of More

I once knew a man who decided he wanted a dog. So he spent months researching various breeds until he finally decided on one. He then found a breeder and paid $400 cash for the dog.

Over the next few weeks he bought food, treats, dishes, collars, leashes, toys, grooming tools and lotions to keep the critters away from the new family member. Of course, he didn’t want his dog reproducing with the neighbor’s mutt so off to the vet he went, only to return a few days later with a lighter wallet and a few pats on the back from the vet for making the reasonable decision.

It wasn’t long before he realized the dog needed crate for his home to assist in puppy training. The dog liked to tag along so another crate was purchased and installed in the car.

But the crate took up most of the luggage space so he began researching new SUVs that would give him and the dog more room. It only made sense. And why stop there when a storage carrier could be purchased providing even more space for longer trips.

Of course, the new SUV didn’t come with decent floor mats so he ordered special heavy duty mats that could handle anything he dog could do to them.

Within a few months a $400 pet had turned in to a $40,000 pursuit.

You’ve probably figured out by now that I’m the person in the story.

I’ve often thought back to this experience because it explains a theory I call the Disease of More.  What started out as an honest desire to own a dog quickly turned into a much larger and unplanned expense. Taken individually (outside the purchase of the new SUV), none of the purchases were excessive. But each item built upon the one before it and left a void filled only by purchasing another item.

The Disease of More is a cycle that feeds off itself. It often starts small, such as the purchase of a new phone. The phone works and looks great, until you see some cool new cases at Amazon and add them to your cart. But wait, Amazon says that people who bought this case also bought this car charger, and before you know it, you’ve dropped $300 on a Bluetooth speaker you’ve convinced yourself will be perfect at the beach.

I’ve been down this road before and can tell you it’s a dead end. More stuff doesn’t bring happiness, it only encourages acquiring more stuff. Before long, you’ve got a garage full of crap, most of which you’ve forgotten about.

The good news is the the Disease of More can be eradicated by replacing it with the Cure of Less.

As I’ve mentioned before I took up cycling two years ago. The bike I ride today is 13 years old, and a week doesn’t go by where someone cruises past me on a newer, fancier bike. For a moment I think, “Man, I wish I had a new bike” and then my mind springs into action trying to justify such a purchase.

But, as I learned with the dog, purchasing a new bike doesn’t stop with the bike. I’ll need lots of new gear, and equipment and clothing. Before long I’ll have dropped five grand on a $1500 bike. And I can’t afford that right now.

So I’m learning to celebrate how much I save by riding my old bike. My bike runs fine because I’ve taken care of it. All my gear is fine too. I won’t be competing in the Tour de France, and my bike and gear don’t need to reflect that level of performance.

When you live with less you’re able to focus your attention on those things that matter most in your life. Last month I sold my iPad assuming I’d purchase the new smaller version this fall. But I’ve found that having one less gadget to babysit feels fantastic. I’ve proven to myself that I can live better without a device I deemed necessary not long ago, which has me searching for other time-sucking items I can remove from my day.

Last night Kim and I went for a bike ride. We didn’t go far because the temperatures were in the mid 90s and, frankly, we are in the process of getting back in shape. We biked through neighborhoods taking our time and chatting along the way. When it began to get dark we headed for home.

As much as I’d love a new Cervélo or Specialized bike, I don’t like the idea of working longer hours to pay for such a purchase. The time spent with Kim on my old bike is worth far more to me.