Corny Reminiscence and Cornier Fondness

Yesterday my wife and I received a wedding invitation in the mail.  I recognized the family name on the return address, but didn't make the connection (it was the parents' name with the surname, after all, and I know relatively few grownups) until we opened it and saw the photograph.  A former student of mine is getting married next week.  Big deal, right?  I mean aside from the whole fact that weddings are wonderful and happy--among the happiest--things, why would I be at all surprised?  I've had thousands of students, and odds are a few of them will get married once in while; why should I be particularly surprised or elated?  I'm not a young teacher anymore (remember: it's not the years, but the mileage), and, just like me, my past kids--as with everyone else in world, mortal or immortal--are getting older.  This particular young lady was a seventh grader when I taught her in one of my first classes down in little Payson, Utah.  I remember her clearly: a bright and vivacious young lady, sociable and eager.  She worked hard, did relatively well, and said goodbye at the end of the year with a sigh of mild regret, but marked enthusiasm for the coming summer and the subsequent advancement to eighth grade and the junior high school up the street.  In other words, she, just like almost everyone else in her class, would surely forget me and move on.  No big deal.

Of course, it doesn't hurt that this young lady is the daughter of one of my wife's cousins, whom my wife happened to see at a family reunion a couple weeks ago.  And of course I have to keep this in consideration (seeing someone at a family reunion can build up certain levels of internal, familial guilt for lack of communication over the years or whatever else) and not be too flattered that she maybe fondly thought of me after nine or ten years.  When Angie returned from the reunion, which I was unable to attend for a conflict of schedule, she had lots of items to report, indeed among them her seeing this former student of mine, who, apparently, was quite upset that I hadn't shown up.  After all, she was engaged and really wanted me to meet him.

In Mormon culture--at least Utah-Mormon culture--you invite friends and extended family (depending on the volume of the extended family of course, which, as you might guess, can get quite sizable) to the reception.  Immediate family and a very few of the best friends, get invited to the temple ceremony, where the actual marriage, or sealing, takes place, "For Time and All Eternity" --a truly amazing, reverent, awing, and sacred ceremony, at which there is terribly limited physical space for onlookers.  This young lady, whom I haven't seen in nine or ten years, and whom my wife just spotted at a family reunion, has invited the two of us to her temple sealing.

Now I don't think it's any great mystery that (1) I love being a teacher.  Also, (2) I happen to love--again, no great mystery--my subject, English (in lieu of my own classroom, I'm currently dedicating two blogs to it, after all).  Finally (3), I love kids and am a fair natural at getting along with them, relating to them, "getting" them, and so on.  If I've experienced any success (which I measure objectively and qualitatively by the making-a-difference marker) as a teacher, I think it's for these three traits, and not for any particular skill of instructional strategy or classroom management or any of the other things that otherwise qualify teachers, of which I know many, as good or great.  Along these lines, I also work hard at my job.  I want to do it well, and everyone likes to hear that their efforts are appreciated.  Lately--scattered throughout this past school year--I've received several messages from former students thanking me for having been their teacher, which messages flatter and humble me, and often bring a tear or two or a flood to my eyes.  Combine this with the fact that I really feel--deeply and to the corny little core of my heart--that my students are my kids.  Now imagine what this wedding invite did to me!

(If you are a former student of mine, please do not take this as a subversive message meant to incite guilt for failure to invite me to your wedding.  Really.  I probably won't be able to make it anyway; travel's expensive, after all, and I'm only a frickin' teacher for crying out loud!)

More than anything else, this whole thing reminds me of how important people and relationships and kindness and hard work are and all the other crap that goes with them.  I've been reminded similarly of how important my former teachers were and are to me.  I've even followed the example of some of these former students and written to a few of my old teachers (thank Goodness for Facebook, right?).

And now, well, this message is clearly petering out, losing its momentum (if it ever had any), and I've got no great or elegant/-oquent conclusion.  I just feel good, which is a good thing to feel, especially as this is my last year teaching.

*sigh*

THE DAILY DRUDGE MADE LESS DREARY

From my dad, who, together with my mom, has been called recently to serve in the presidency of the LDS temple in Columbus, Ohio:

from Luke 2:36-38

My wife and I had received new callings in the Church which were quite exciting and humbling and resulted in some anxiety as we approached them hoping that we would be able to fulfill such assignments.

As we began our work we were surprised that much of it was rather plain, mundane work.  We were happy to do the work, but it wasn’t altogether what we had expected.

In the middle of this I read in Luke 2 the story of Anna.

This wonderful sister, well over 100 years old apparently, had been quietly serving in the temple for 84 years as a widow.  While Luke says that she “served God with fastings and prayers night and day” (King James Version), those words describe how she served, not what she actually did day by day.

So what would she, as a sister living under the Law of Moses, have done?  She would have cleaned the temple, washed those vessels that the enemies of Israel were always carrying away, done the laundry and kept things straightened up.  I see her as one who would have been easy to overlook and pass by without notice.

But the Lord was noticing.  He preserved her life until she could be one of the first to bear testimony of the Son of God and speak “of him to all them that looked for redemption in Jerusalem.”  And what wonderful things had she done to deserve such a blessing?  She swept the floors, did the laundry and dusted the furniture.

The Pioneers Had It Rough

My family and I left for church Sunday morning earlier than usual.  It was regional conference, which meant that pretty much no matter which of the bajillion LDS churches we chose to attend from anywhere across the entire county, we would see the same broadcast as anyone else as relayed from the Marriott Center at BYU.  So we joined my father- and sister-in-law (which I’m always in favor of, because it generally means that I’ll actually get to pay attention to the meeting rather than spend all my faculties keeping the kids occupied and quiet—and they’re quality company, besides), and went to their building. 

It was an excellent meeting, of course (and I’m not just saying so because it was church and Apostles and whatnot), and I particularly enjoyed the comments from Julie Beck, General Relief Society President for the Church, and from Elder Holland of the Twelve.  But I didn’t take notes.  I never do, and I can’t say that any of their words are still hanging out with me.  Elder Packer, however, whom I don’t usually find particularly compelling (sorry), said something that gave me pause—something like this:  Should the pioneers look down and comment on the difficulty of living in the modern age, they would confess how much harder we’ve got it than they had.  So, simplifying: my life is harder than the life of a pioneer—one of those poor people who trekked across the Great Plains from Ohio, Missouri, Illinois all the way to Utah and beyond in the name of religious freedom, and did so under some of the most harrowing circumstances you might ever come across.  If you doubt me, find a Mormon church and attend Sunday services anywhere around the 24^th of July.  And if you are a Mormon, you know exactly the crazy, amazing, and inspiring experiences these people underwent.  Holy cow, and here’s an apostle of the Lord claiming my life’s tougher!?  Sure, he’s drawing a metaphor to living as a “spiritual pioneer” in the Last Days, and is trying to build us up that, hey, our challenges are BIGGER, REALLY, but come on....

Again, I’m not the kind to just take their word for it.  This is what I think and the process I took to get there (nowhere definitive, I’m afraid), and it starts with that modifier, “spiritual,” against that big noun above, “pioneer.”

So, “In the beginning,” we understand that God created all things spiritually before he created them physically.  That makes sense.  He did/does have a plan, after all.  We see a bigger version of this, turned cyclic, in the advent and absolution of the Law of Moses.  Before Moses, there was the higher law, which the children of Israel were deemed too slow to cope with; so the higher law from before was replaced with the Law of Sacrifice, which, of course—for Christians—means that those couple thousand years or so were preparatory, particularly metaphorically, for the ultimate and final sacrifice of Jesus Christ.  So spiritual versus physical, right?  The higher law is a spiritual law; the law of Moses very physical, and now, we’re back to the higher law.  So what’s this got to do with the Mormon pioneers?

I see it that the pioneers’ trials—and I think this should be pretty clear—underwent ostensibly and dominantly physical trials.  I’m sure that they had their spiritual trials too, but as far as the collective generations of the pioneers are concerned, theirs were physical—and they were freaking tremendous.  On the other hand, physically speaking, we’ve got it pretty easy.  (And what Elder Packer is talking about when he says our trials will make the pioneers happy they didn’t have our lot—what exactly the modern TRIALS are, generally, for an entire population—well, I think they’re abundant, but feel free to comment!)

But is our situation really harder?  Really?

When I gauge the distance across the epochs of humanity (ugh, that sounds ridiculous!) and note how far we’ve come—in whatever sense, though we can probably add, “or how low we’ve sunk” —I can’t say that I think anyone’s got it any harder than anyone else, ever.  We’ve all heard the stereotypical fatherly or grandfatherly when-I-was-your-age boloney (bologna?).  No.  They didn’t have it harder.  No.  I don’t think we’ve got it harder.  Here’s why:

Christ’s temptations.  Let’s look at those first (Matthew 4, Mark 1, Luke 4).  (I’m going to try and keep this concise.)  So the Bible uses the word “tempt” for what Satan does—not tries to do, but does—to Jesus out in the wilderness among the beasts.  And, yes, I know we have to take the actual wording of the Bible (thank you, Bart Ehrman) with a grain of salt, or several handfuls.  And if you think you can take this literally, which you can’t (though, in this case, literal interpretation works just as well, as it turns out), you’re firstly warded off not by any potential misquotation (which, actually, Bart, isn’t an issue as we Mormons—who believe—got the JST) but by the etymology of the word itself.  (I confess, I was disappointed; I wanted it to be literal and say, “Yes, see, Satan didn’t attempt to tempt Jesus—he DID tempt him!”)  The word “tempt” means to “attempt to influence,” not “to influence.”  Sorry.  Regardless, could any of these little trivialities really be anything for Jesus as are the temptations wily adversary puts before me—us?

Yes.

Now before you call lightning down upon me, think about it (and really, the difference between Jesus and us is perfect here (and, yes, I’m speaking for all of us—and you), that is Jesus didn’t give in!):  Satan knows us.  He knows us well enough that he picks (or maybe it’s just process of elimination and he doesn’t know anything, but I don’t think so—he’s got no veil over his eyes depriving him of the knowledge of all our time and development in the preexistence) only the most likely-to-make-us-fall temptations he can find.  Now, as Jesus is so much greater a potential prize for him than any one or even all of us, wouldn’t he have been all the more careful to most meticulously select the Master’s temptations.  (And besides—and this is just speculation—if Jesus has to really know/understand everything about our experience in order to truly advocate for us, wouldn’t he have to truly know/understand temptation?)  Anyway, I trust it wasn’t so simple as, “Hey, little brother, turning that rock to bread is pretty stupid, so just go away.”  I think he felt tempted.

And it makes sense, doesn’t it?  After all, I can look at all kinds of people—alcoholics, for an extreme example—and scoff, “What the heck’s wrong with them; I’d never do that.”  And I probably won’t.  I can’t say that I’ve got a problem with gossip, or with dishonoring my parents.  Are there people who do?  Well, duh, or there wouldn’t have been commandments set forth to countermand the actions pursuant of such weaknesses in the first place!  I’ve got problems of my own.  And, really, if I’d been fasting for weeks in the wilderness and I had the power to turn a freaking rock into a loaf of bread, well....

Take a step beyond temptations.  Trials.  There are all kinds.  For example, there are trials that we bring upon ourselves, because we’ve succumbed to temptation or made a stupid decision or whatever else. There are also the trials that God simply puts before us, not because we’re weak, but because he wants to make us stronger.  With trials, similar to temptations—but without the examples, as this is going on forever—something that is an obstacle for me would not necessarily be an obstacle for another.

And why not?  Didn’t God create us equal?

Again, here’s how I see it:  We’re all different—little snowflakes, right?  Infinite possibilities.  But for each of us God has the same mission, that is to return to Him.  That’s what he wants.  And for us to be happy.  He wants us back!  He didn’t put us here to fail, no matter how much it might at time seem otherwise and so often.  But he also wants us to be the best we can be.  That’s another thing entirely, and what would make the pioneers the best they could be is not necessarily the same stuff that will make me or you or anyone else of our generations the best we can be.  How do I know?  Well, how many of us are pushing a handcart across the Rocky-freaking-Mountains?

When Elder Packer says the pioneers will look on us and say, “Holy crap, I’m glad that’s not us,” all it tells me is that the pioneers were different people, perfectly suited—eternally speaking—for the trials they were given; and holy crap, I’m glad I don’t have to do what they did.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t make my life any easier.  Interestingly enough, despite the difference in trial types—physical versus spiritual—God provided exactly the same means for overcoming them.  To be happy in the face of trials, to overcome the trials and gain what the Maker wants us to gain from them, what do we need? 

Faith, man.  That’s the answer.  And it’s the bleeding answer for every problem we’re confronted with, self-induced, Godly, or otherwise. Faith.  In Jesus Christ.  He, who underwent everything—condescended, to use the King James scribblers’ vernacular—so that he could pull us through or carry us over anything.

So back to the beginning: So, did the pioneers REALLY NOT get it as rough as we got it?  Nope.  It’s true.  Low and behold, old Packer is right.  It’s harder for us, because it is us, not them.  And knowing—or hearing from one of God’s mouthpieces on Earth—that my life, at least for me, is harder than anything the pioneers went through, well, it helps me remember to really put my best foot forward and remember that if it’s what the Lord’s given me, it must also be what’s best for me, and that (as well as being another clause in a ridiculous run-on sentence) is really comforting right now.

Amen.

Doubt

I watched a movie last night. Woo-hoo, right? Well, typically, upon finishing a book or movie—and I can’t say this is the case for just any book or movie, but one that HITS me—I like to write about it. I don’t like the word “review,” but I probably ought to call a spade a ... well, not a SPADE, because that’s simply not enough, and it’s so cliché. (the Greeks, from what I understand, call figs figs, but I think the OED sites the most appropriate for the day:) So I will call a spade a “bloody shovel,” because this is likely to be significantly more than a movie review.

In the past (and still), upon a great book/movie experience, I’ve emailed a fellow literary conspirator with my thoughts, or simply given expansion to a recommendation (I rarely “review” that which I don’t care for, mostly, because I rarely finish that which I don’t care for, and I’m not going to recommend a movie that I don’t— sorry, I’ll move on). When the show or book’s really good—or impacting, at least—I frequently wish I were back with my old kids at the Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy and that we might watch, appreciate, tear to pieces, and get it. Well, I don’t have SASA. Heck, I don’t have a school at all. OR students, for that matter. I do, however, have fellow literary conspirators, and that’s whom this is seeking.

Back to the lack of a school:

Every review or critique—mine, anyway—needs a context, else there’s no understanding for the nature of the impression, or, in this particular case, the CRATER. So, I’m couching this movie review in unemployment—and not because that’s the title of my freaking BLOG and that I’m particularly interested in maintaining a theme, but because my COUCH—the very one from which I watched the movie (or at least it’s pillows which supported my view from the floor, because my back was hurting) —IS unemployment. Or my glasses are, at least.

So I watched John Patrick Shanley’s Doubt. I loved it. Period. (DISCLAIMER: if you have any thoughts that my review might be anything more than totally subjective and if you might be offended thereby, then, please, stop reading.) So, yeah, it was great. Here’s what I think (excuse the general generic-ness of the beginnings):

The performances are wonderful. I’m a big fan of the accents, for one thing. And Philip Seymour Hoffman—man! —really dug into his Father Flynn sermons. When it comes to it, and despite how great the interactions between him and his co-stars might be, these sermons were the highlight. I particularly enjoyed how each (four, I think, altogether, and two significantly better than the others) seemed to usher in the next act, which, of course, makes sense, as it was adapted from Shanley’s own stage play. (I’d love to see that.) More on the sermons later.

I appreciated Shanley’s selection for historical context. It would have been easy, and a copout, to put it all up in a more modern time, what with the Catholic church’s bad press with priests and scandals and stuff. What’s great about putting it so much earlier is he firmly points out that the movie’s not about the potential scandal (and this reinforced by the enacted, non-lexical iteration/rendering of the title in the abrupt and perfectly-placed End), but the swirls of leaves and feathers that surround it.

That being the case, I’m brought up to probably my biggest point of the movie (and thereby explain my general inability to write of the movie concisely and fluidly). But first, a word on art and poetry (please refrain from groaning):

For me—and I’ve tried to instill this in my students—art is, and should be, personal. Who cares how great a work or event or person is if it/he/she doesn’t mean something to you (case in indirect point: while I was amazed by Yann Martel’s most recent book, Beatrice and Virgil, I couldn’t understand why he—so not-a-Jew—should write such an evidently personal account of the Holocaust, and in such a way as to make it appear that the book was no more than a writing exercise designed to determine his ability at conveying a significant piece of history—it could have even been randomly selected, but I guess he was looking for audience—as artistic metaphor!)? It’s difficult for me to say exactly why any of my very favorite works are favorite. I can point out what I think makes them great or impressive, but the personal connection is the clincher. The emotional connection is what elevates the work to—another cliché—more than the sum of its constituent parts. That’s what’s happened with Doubt. Cinematography. Location. Season. Cast. Delivery. Pacing. Metaphor. Motif. Blah. Blah. Blah. Just pieces. Take the blinding old nun, for example, and her relationship with Sister Beauvier (Streep) Maybe it was just a tool, but were she not there, Beauvier would look like the dragon Hoffman’s Flynn labels her as from the beginning. But she’s not! She’s human! Though we very nearly in fact and indeed see her in no more human capacity than a great fire-breathing lizard. And her relationship with Amy Adam’s character, Sister James. This woman—Streep’s—is a good person, trying to do what’s right, but she screws up. She points the finger (echoing, conversely, the great God-finger from the gossip sermon) at Flynn.

So back to the sermons. The two strongest are the first, regarding the general issue of doubt, and later—the second? —about gossip (this one because it was just amazingly-well presented by Hoffman—yes, AMAZING). Obviously, that first sermon sets up the premise for the whole movie, and how it permeates so much of everything—like those scattered feathers of gossip do—throughout every little nook and cranny of the plot, its characters, and into the very fabric of the whole construct. Really, it’s a very small movie, technically speaking. A Hulme or Pound compared to the epoch operatics of a Tolkein or Steinbeck. But, and just like “Town Sky-Line” or “The Garrett,” it’s SO * MUCH * MORE.

So what?

(This isn’t changing the subject. Really.)

While I served my LDS mission in Italy, many of the other missionaries and I collected quotations and anecdotes from and about big members of the church, generally and particularly regarding Joseph Smith. My favorite of these, likely apocryphal, and not about Smith, regarded a current member of the Church’s Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Dallin H Oaks:

Oaks had just been called to the Quorum of the Twelve and, as such, delivered his first General Conference talk. He stepped into an elevator soon thereafter and was joined by President Kimball, who congratulated him on Oaks’ address. Oaks was gratified and smiled. “Thank you very much,” he said. President Kimball then said, rather abruptly, “Therefore what?” “Pardon me?” Oaks asked. “Therefore what?” Kimball repeated. “It was a wonderful talk, but therefore what?”

The point, which I took when I heard the story and hold still is this: it doesn’t matter how eloquent or scholarly or humorous or whatever a presentation or work may be if it doesn’t ask anything of the audience (sort of takes down to nothing—if we apply this to the act of creating art—making art for the sake of making art and doing it for self (though I’ve got opinions there, too—another time)). So, the movie, Doubt. Therefore what? Well, here it is. Doubt. That’s the answer—the therefore-what: DOUBT. Duh—which is nearly as universally applicable as is my blog title, only less generic, as it turns out.

So why “doubt,” if this is such a personal work for me? And that first sermon of Father Flynn’s nails the big question. Is IT—doubt—a good thing, an endowment from our Maker—forcing us into care and caution? Is it the divining force toward humility, wariness, gratitude? The problem with this is that, from my understanding, caution is the opposite of impetuousness, and shouldn’t we, as testifying Christians (I speak of me, here), heedlessly/impetuously do whatever is right—black and white—and right now?

Sheesh. What does that even mean?

If I were impetuously GOOD, would I have stayed with Bud or left anyway? ...I have my doubts.... (ha!) (And, I swear, I will only permit myself two more entries that even mention the man; I’ve had other jobs, after all.)

Let’s look at it—Stay versus Go Anyway. And it really only amounts to a bunch of questions—all ultimately pointless, because I’ve already resigned! 

• WAS HE A BAD DUDE?
• WAS HE A GOOD DUDE?
• DOES HIS GOOD OR BAD DUDE-NESS EVEN MATTER (IT WAS A GOOD ENDEAVOR, REGARDLESS)?
• SHOULD I HAVE FOLLOWED MY MOTHER-IN-LAW’S ADVICE ALL ALONG AND BEEN SHOT OF IT TWO YEARS AGO?  

Further: doubt regarding—

• how I discipline my children,
• working for Bud,
• joining Facebook,
• leaving public education,
• leaving Michigan?
• Is Father Flynn’s “wind” blowing at my back as well? And if so, is it destiny or suggestion? 

So I finished the movie. I already mentioned this, but here it is again: The ENDING is perfect in timing and significance—perfect. Perhaps less so because of itself and its location on the spectrum of PERFECTION, than for the subjectivity of my viewing, and it hit me, less perhaps because it was a great movie than because it was so stinking applicable. Unemployment lends doubt, man!

*

So this was not an unbiased or objective critique. I apologize. I warned you. But watch the movie. We’ve all got our doubts.