I worry that America is dying

July 3, 2015trishmercer 2 Comments

This is my father’s coffin, July 2, 2015. These are the soldiers folding the flag that covered him.

And while I watched the ceremony yesterday, I was struck that not only had my father died, but my country is dying, too.

I worry deeply about America. I agree with so many others who have written more eloquently, and angrily, that America is no longer the greatest country in the world.

And that would have broken my father’s heart. It’s odd to put it this way, but I’m grateful that Alzheimer’s took away his mind these past few years so that he couldn’t understand what was happening to the country he proudly became a citizen of 60 years ago. He loved America, but he wouldn’t recognize it today, and I worry about what it will be like in another 60, or even 6, years.

I worry because we are not united.
I’m not naïve; I doubt that this country has ever truly been “united,” aside from a couple of occasions. Once would have been during WWII when outside enemies provided us something to fight against instead of each other.
The second would have been a brief second honeymoon after 9/11 when we realized that our land was under no special protection, that we could be attacked like any old place, and that scared us.
But only for a time.

I worry because we all want to be victims.
The notion of “freedom” has expanded and contracted in bizarre ways, granting to one segment of society the ability to act and demand anything they wish, while another segment is berated and demonized for nearly anything they express.
The fascinating thing is that every segment of society will claim to have been the one persecuted against. We scramble to cry foul and demand vindication and, hopefully, a huge payoff from a lawsuit.
No one wants to be independent anymore.

I worry because we want revenge.
In the past, in any quest for rights, the group feeling oppression marched and protested and demanded equality. And when they achieved it, they rejoiced.
But not anymore.
Many now want to punish those who they believed oppressed them (whether real or imagined), and drag up old wounds to make new ones. We don’t seem to believe in cooperation, or friendship, or forgiveness, or anything else we should have picked up from Sesame Street (I hesitate to say “church” because that may be deemed “offensive”.) We want to hurt those we believe have–or may in the future–hurt us.
None of us seem to want to break the vengeance cycle that could truly unite and free us.

I worry because we really aren’t free anymore.
Not free in choice of health care, school lunch, minimum wage, or even soda consumption.
Some of us aren’t free to choose to do a job, or to reject that job.
Some of us aren’t allowed to speak our conscience without being labeled or libeled. Many of us worry that our liberties will soon be our liabilities, especially if we express what we believe concerning God and His laws.
Soon what passes as “free speech” may be so tightly constrained that there will be nothing free in any speech anywhere.

I worry because we have become a country of selfish children.
Read stories of our ancestors during the Great Depression, or either of the World Wars. They sacrificed for their families and their neighbors. They knew true poverty. Millions of families–not just a few thousand, but literally millions–sent off husbands and sons to WWII, and over a million were wounded or killed. Food was rationed, as was clothing and shoes and gasoline, and Americans labored willingly to help their country succeed.
Today “sacrifice” is an ugly word, and we whine if we lose wi-fi. Even those who the government has deemed impoverished live with luxuries our grandparents didn’t dare dream of. We insist on being indulged, and “I’m entitled” is the phrase that pays. We’ve become soft and wimpy, and I think our ancestors would be ashamed.

Are we becoming only a reflection of what we used to be?

As I watched the flag suspended over my father’s coffin, the silhouette of it reflecting on the stainless steel (my mother chose their coffins; she loved the glint of silver), I felt that shiver of worry that not only had my father passed from this world, but so also had much of this country which he had loved.

He had emigrated from Germany at the end of WWII. He knew an oppressive society where the leadership demanded complete obedience, where freedoms were restricted, where children were forced into a near worship of the government, and where anyone who spoke against it was carted away to a “work camp” never to be heard from again.

I worry that as the so-called Greatest Generation passes away, so too will our memory of what they endured in totalitarian regimes, and why they fought so hard against them.

And mostly I worry that we’re running headlong into repeating the history we no longer remember.

Don’t be afraid of my opinion, because I’m not afraid of yours

June 24, 2015trishmercer 2 Comments

I’m fascinated by how many people are terrified to allow someone else an opinion contrary to their own.

If someone says/writes/believes something differently than we do, we’re struck with an almost primal need to purge that difference.
For some reason which I can’t figure out yet, we’re terrified by differences.

The obvious examples are terrorists and racists and any other form of negative “–ist”.
But I’m not talking about the obvious bullies who are acting out of what they believe is “righteous condemnation,” disguising their cowardice.
No, I’m talking about you and me, our neighbors, families, coworkers, students who, when presented with an attitude different than our own, shrink back in worry.

Perhaps we strike out fearful that maybe we’re the ones in the wrong, but we don’t want to change, so we better smack down the opposition. (But that’s only my opinion.)

But here’s a radical notion: What if there’s room for all of us to have our own opinions, and we don’t have to fight every different idea, but simply . . . let them be?

Aristotle said thousands of years ago that the mark of an educated mind is to entertain an idea without accepting it.

Are we yet evolved enough to follow the Ancient Greek’s advice?
Recent evidence would suggest no.

Think about how many articles you’ve read where an opinion is stated, and commenters rage that the authors are wrong. I’ve frequently published letters to the editor (opinions) and recently published a longer piece expressing my reasons (opinion) why I don’t cry when I send an adult child away on a mission for two years. I was explaining my experiences, yet some commenters said they felt “judged.”

Judged? By MY experience?
What an odd way to think.
(Uh-oh—someone’s going to judge my opinion on that, I just know it . . .)

But here’s the thing: we all express OPINIONS, and we should. These are not statements of fact, not insistences for policies, not movements to obliterate all other opinions.

Opinions are merely interpretations of life based on one’s experience.

And they are all different. And that’s ok. (In my opinion, that is.)

Yet I’ve seen people squirm in discomfort, scowl in surprise, and even rage in fury when someone else’s experience runs counter to theirs, as if their lives have been suddenly invalidated.

But every person feels and interprets differently, and here’s the marvelous truth: the world IS big enough for all of us to have different opinions.
Here are some opinions I’ve heard recently which turned into actual—and unnecessary—arguments:
–Taking trip to Disneyland/Yellowstone/New York City is stupid/dull/overrated and a waste of time and money.
–Home schooling/public schooling/private schooling shows you don’t have any faith in the system/yourself/the world in general.
–Going to college/not going to college is the biggest mistake you’ll ever make.
–Having one/three/ten children is an excellent/irresponsible decision.
–Letting your kids play/not play on the computer/watch TV/not watch TV is a sure way to ruin/help your children.
–Starting a business/working for someone else is the only way to be sure of your future security.

And, fascinatingly, all of these opinions are ACCURATE.

Because these opinions are based upon individual’s circumstances, and if that circumstance is evaluated honestly, then that opinion is correct, even if it runs counter to what someone else believes.
(But that’s my opinion.)

I think vacationing at the beach is dreadfully dull. My in-laws think it’s ultimately relaxing. We’re both correct.

When I taught critical writing, I’d spend weeks trying to explain that various opinions can all be correct, but even by the end of the semester many college students still struggled with that idea.

I had an excellent test of this early in my teaching career. Before Salt Lake City hosted the Winter Olympics in 2002, there was controversy among Utahns about the impact of the games. I had a student who absolutely opposed the Olympics, while I thought their coming was the greatest thing ever. The assignment for the semester was to write an extensive research paper supporting an opinion, and guess what this guy chose for his subject?
The Damaging Effects of the Winter Olympics.
I didn’t like his topic, as you might imagine. While I am a conservationist at heart, living in a host city of the Olympics had been a dream of mine since I was a little kid. (Ironically, we were living in Virginia in 2002, and I confess I went to my bedroom during the Opening Ceremonies and wept because I wasn’t there.)

Anyway, Olympics-Hating-Student was smart. Each day he’d ask me my opinion about an aspect of the Olympics—traffic, recontouring of ski slopes, building of ice rinks, etc.—and then he’d take careful notes of what I said. He’d smile gratefully, smugly even, and would leave me stewing as to what he was up to.
It turns out his research paper became a carefully orchestrated opinion argument to prove my opinion wrong in every paragraph.

It was absolutely brilliant.

Oh, I didn’t agree with a word of it, but I gave him the highest grade I ever awarded: a 198/200 (he had a few comma issues). While I didn’t agree with his opinions, I had to agree that his ideas had merit and value, and while there were not ideas I wanted to embrace, I would allow him to embrace his opinions.

When he got back his paper, I watched as he nervously opened to the last page of evaluation. The grin which broke out across his face was priceless.
His peers, who knew I opposed all of his arguments, glanced at his grade and were astonished.
“We thought you’d hate his paper!” one of them exclaimed.
“I disagree with his ideas,” I told them, “but he’s entitled to his opinions, especially when he’s so carefully researched them and presented them. He did an excellent job. Who said I have to agree with his premise and conclusions?”

Sheldon Big Bang Theory | You watch your mouth, Shelly. Everyone's entitled to their opinion. But Mom, evolution is not opinion, it's a fact. And that, Shelly, that i | image tagged in sheldon big bang theory | made w/ Imgflip meme maker May I submit the following: We balk at others’ opinions because we’re afraid they may be right.
We feel the need to fight back because we aren’t entirely secure in our own opinions.

May I also submit this: We don’t have to.

If you don’t like what you’re reading, stop reading.
If you don’t agree with someone else, agree to disagree and LEAVE IT ALONE.
Stop fighting. Nothing good comes from a fight. Ever.

I believe that God gave us our agency—our ability to choose—to allow us a full range of experiences in this life. When we, for any reason, try to shut down or deny another person of their opinions, we are essentially taking away their agency. That’s a devilish attitude, and one we need to avoid at all costs, or we become devilish—controlling, angry, and overbearing—ourselves.

HOWEVER . . .
There’s a time to push against another’s opinion, and that’s when YOUR opinion intends to change MY way of:

Living
Eating
Dressing
Worshipping
Teaching my children
Living according to the dictates of MY conscience

Then I will fight back.

There are many obvious examples of this in the world, but let me give you a more local one: A friend of mine recently took her daughter to a musical camp where kids could be trained by professional musicians. The camp fell on my friend’s daughter’s 12^th birthday, and to celebrate my friend splurged and bought a store-made cake. She placed it on the food table where other parents had brought snacks, intent upon letting everyone share in her daughter’s birthday celebration.

Except one mother didn’t agree. Putting herself in charge of the table (no one’s sure if she was asked to, but she set herself there anyway), she announced to the children that sugar would make them hyper, and she wouldn’t allow anyone to have any cake, since she didn’t allow it for her own children.

This woman decided—based on her opinion and rather poor science (sugar does NOT cause hyperactivity in children–read this)—that no one should have the opportunity to choose for themselves if they wanted cake.
One person’s mere opinion overruled everyone else’s choices.
That’s wrong. (In my opinion, that is.)

In our homes we have the right (for now) to impose standards as to what will be allowed and what won’t. In my house I won’t allow abuse, or vulgarity, or pornography, or music and/or entertainment that promote anything like that. In your house, those rules may be different.

But it is NOT my prerogative to barge into your house and force my standards—be they more relaxed or more stringent—upon your family. However, if you come to my house, I expect you to respect how we do things, as I will respect how you do things in your home.

As long as your opinions don’t threaten to take away my freedoms, I’ll keep my mouth shut, and I’ll even be your friend.
But if that line is crossed, if someone’s opinions try to change the way my family lives, then I will push back.

You can live and think and worship and behave differently than me—I have no problem with that, really. We should afford a level of respect to everyone we love. I don’t agree with every opinion of my husband’s, but I won’t detail those differences here right now because we’ve made it 27 years by agreeing to disagree, and I’m not about to disrupt that cart.

We make these kinds of “opinion accommodations” with many people we love.
So why do we not always do so with strangers? With other nationalities, religions, cultures, genders? Why do we feel the urge—even the sanctimonious right—to blast online the opinions and experiences of people we don’t know simply because we can?

Here’s a radical thought (and this is just my opinion): if you don’t like what you’re reading, stop reading it and move on.

Don’t attack, don’t claim to be judged, don’t cry foul, don’t do anything. Just step away and do something constructive and useful instead.

I tend to clean the kitchen now instead of lashing out with unexplained venom, crying, “What an idiot! Who does he think he is, writing that?!”
“He” probably thinks he’s a person—just like yourself—who feels the desire to share his opinion to help others of like minds realize their experiences are valid. He’s not forcing his way of life upon you, so calm down already and go scrub something!

But then again, that’s only MY opinion, and I’m frankly, I’m entitled to it, as you are entitled to your own.

“What’s wrong with having opinions?” Mahrree said, her voice rising to the pitch of a trapped cat. “What’s more frightening are people with no opinions at all. ‘Oh, that sounds nice, let’s do it! It just feels good!’ What’s wrong with thinking?”
~Book 3, The Mansions of Idumea

4 reasons to purge the phrase “I’m so busy!”

June 20, 2015trishmercer Leave a comment

It’s the battle cry of our generation: “Oh, I am sooo busy!”

Find someone who isn’t busy. I dare you.
Everyone is.
And I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s a terrible line.

We pull out this phrase for a variety of reasons–maybe proudly or in an attempt to garner sympathy. Maybe as an excuse for some failure, or maybe even as a proclamation of our worth.
But all of these reasons are, to be brutally honest, quite lame.
We wear our busyness as a crown of self-imposed honor, and it’s time to chuck that crown.

We’re not as busy as we think we are.

“Too busy” is a relative term, just like “a great bargain” and “delicious tofu.” What one person claims as “busy” may be another person’s “slow” day.

Our lives, while often very cluttered, are actually simpler than we realize once we get some perspective. For example, watch an episode of “Call the Midwife” to see just how labor-intensive—and even terrifying—life used to be in the “idyllic” 1950s, or read this account of a pioneer woman in the 1840s:

“Drusilla Hendricks had most of the responsibility for taking care of the family, including her husband who was left an invalid after being wounded in the Battle at Crooked River. ‘I had to lift [my husband] at least fifty times a day, and in doing so I had to strain every nerve,’ she recalled. With five children under the age of ten, this young mother tried to survive . . . by taking in boarders, tending a garden, milking cows, feeding livestock, maintaining her home, and preparing the family’s daily need for food and clothing.”
(Women of Nauvoo, Holzapfel and Holzapfel: Bookcraft, 1992; pg. 35)

(I read that passage while sitting on my cozy bed nibbling on a chocolate gluten-free cupcake which I had been “busy” baking earlier.)

Drusilla wasn’t an exception. Read this about “typical” frontier life:

“In the frontier community of Nauvoo, women made soap and candles, both long and tiring chores. They spun thread and weaved cloth to make clothing and even worked at shoe making. A wringer and a washboard always stood nearby. For clothing to be very clean, the white things were boiled with homemade soap, making wash day a day-long affair. Care of animals often fell to women; they built fences, took care of the ‘kitchen garden,’ and helped in the fields, all this while pregnant about thirty percent of the time.” (Ibid. pg. 36)

(After reading this, I guiltily tossed in another load of laundry, dropped in some store-bought detergent, turned a few buttons, and walked away.)

No one likes a martyr.

Sorry, but whining about busyness is terribly uncomfortable to listen to. Claiming to be “too busy” sets you squarely in martyr territory, and while friends and family may croon and say, “Oh, you really are!” inside they’re anxious for the conversation to be over so they can get away from you.

Or so they can ruminate internally that their lives are so much busier than yours, you little sissy.

Think about this uncomfortable question: why do we feel the need to brag /complain about our busyness? What are hoping to get out of it?

These words, spoken by a dear old man back in 2002, have haunted me for over a decade:

Sometimes we feel that the busier we are, the more important we are—as though our busyness defines our worth.
We can spend a lifetime whirling about at a feverish pace, checking off list after list of things that in the end really don’t matter.
~Joseph B. Wirthlin

Are we claiming “busyness” because we’re desperate to prove our worth? Maybe.

Consider these words:

Isn’t it true that we often get so busy? And, sad to say, we even wear our busyness as a badge of honor, as though being busy, by itself, was an accomplishment or sign of a superior life.
Is it?
I think of our Lord and Exemplar, Jesus Christ, and His short life among the people of Galilee and Jerusalem. I have tried to imagine Him bustling between meetings or multitasking to get a list of urgent things accomplished.
I can’t see it.
Instead I see the compassionate and caring Son of God purposefully living each day.
~Dieter F. Uchtdorf

Ouch.

If even Jesus Christ was never “too busy,” I shouldn’t be either.

“Too busy” is a lame excuse.

Yes, this suggestion is even more uncomfortable than accusing one of playing the martyr, but claiming that we’re “just too busy” may be a way of rationalizing away why we didn’t do something we knew we should.

I confess I’m guilty of this, because it’s just so darn easy to get away with it. I’m frequently “too busy” to drive an hour and a half to visit my parents in their assisted living center more than a few times a year. (They both have dementia and Alzheimer’s so what was the point, anyway?) Yet when my mother suffered a series of strokes last year, and was slowly dying, somehow I found the time to drive down and sit by her side every day and/or night for five days until she finally passed.

I wasn’t too busy to watch her die, and that week alone made me re-analyze my every claim of “too busy.”

“Too busy” suggests we have lost control of our lives.

Being too busy—if we really are (seriously, watch “Call the Midwife”!)—means that we’ve let too many activities, or obligations, or hobbies, or distractions clutter our days.
It may mean that we can’t prioritize what’s most important each day.
It may mean we don’t have the bravery or honesty to say, “I am unable or I don’t want to do x, y, or z.”
It may mean we don’t have the discipline to shut off whatever electronic gadget is sucking away our time.

What we think is a reasonable, viable excuse may actually be a confession of immaturity.

Now, I’m not saying that we don’t have a lot to do in our lives—we do. There are constant demands on our attention. Why, even as I’m typing this up I’ve stopped twice to change my 3-year-old’s clothes (mysteriously, he keeps getting wet by his 11-year-old brother innocently holding a hose, and is now wearing his fourth set of clothes since this morning), chatted half a dozen times with my kids, discussed weekend plans with my husband three times, gave permission to a teenager to make popcorn, filled my 3-year-old’s cuppy, and that was in the space of maybe an hour.

However, I’m trying to strike from my vocabulary the phrase, “I’m so busy,” although I likely let it slip once or twice as in, “Sweety, I’m a bit busy right now . . .”

Instead, I’m trying this, (at least on everyone else): “My life is so full! Awesomely full!”

Notice the shift in tone and attitude?

Fullness is completeness.

Being full is usually a good thing (except in the water balloon that my three-year-old brought in the house. Clothing change #5. Another load of laundry which will take me all of five minutes to run.).

Having a full life suggests that nearly every element in my life is there because of my choice. I have CHOSEN this life.

All of us, unless we’re slaves (and I’m not being flippant here: I mean true, cruel slavery, and not something you claim you are to your preteens’ many activities) have chosen our lives to be as they are. Even in the most difficult of circumstances, we still have choices. Rarely are we ever forced into one course of action, and while the options before us may not be ideal, we still have a choice.

For example, at one point last year I was busy working two part-time jobs and running a small Etsy shop. I could have quit one of the jobs, but that would have meant finding another way to pay the power bill which would have meant . . . getting yet another job.

I was tempted to grumble at how hard my husband and I were both working for what felt like only a couple of bucks an hour, but we were working, and slowly improving our circumstances. Instead of complaining that my life was “too busy” to do what I really wanted to do—edit my books or get maybe six hours of sleep—I chose instead to be grateful that I wasn’t just sitting on the couch reading movie descriptions on Netflix (and wondering when the next season of “Call the Midwife” will finally arrive).

I had things to do, obligations to fulfill, people who needed me, and I realized how much I appreciated being needed.

However, I’m not advocating taking on more than we can reasonably handle. That’s where we need to be mature enough to objectively evaluate our lives and say, when necessary, “No, I’m sorry. I can’t organize the Little League luncheon or make party favors for fifty people.” Otherwise we still become martyrs who have taken on too much and eventually have a total breakdown.

Additionally, we frequently have several good things we need to do at the same time, and that’s where prioritizing comes in. Deciding which to do can be difficult, and who to tell “I just can’t do that for you.” But someone once told me that “Other people’s needs should always come first.”

I knew a man who told his son that he had to skip watching him play ball that evening because their neighbor’s sprinkler system was geysering into the neighbor’s basement, and the dad wanted to go help. He said, “It was good for my son to see that I was putting aside something that I thought was important–watching him play ball–for something which really was.” While his son was initially disappointed that his dad was “too busy,” when he saw the flooding mess he offered to skip his game and help as well. Suddenly he was “too busy” to play ball, because he was doing something better.

Living a “busy” life is frequently drudgery. But living a “full” life is marvelous. The sense of I’ve accomplished something good for my family and others is, I think, the purpose of life. What would be worse than no one wanting my help, my advice, or my labor?

So don’t complain/brag about being “too busy.” It’s an awesomely full life!

And really, what would be worse than an awesomely full life?
An awfully empty life.

“Being offended” is not as admirable a trait as you may think it is

June 1, 2015trishmercer 2 Comments

Taking offense and being insulted have elevated into national pastimes. Find any article posted online anywhere and read (if you dare) the comments. You’ll find a flurry of, “I’m so offended at . . .” or “I can’t believe someone would write . . .” or “Once again, another insulting article has been published by . . .”

Everyone, it seems, has reason to complain about their feelings being hurt.
Either we’ve become a nation of martyrs, or we’ve never matured beyond 7^th grade.

I’m inclined to believe the latter. Even if no offense is intended, someone’s bound to twist another’s words and intents like a pipe cleaner into some hurtful shape, then complain loudly that they’ve been hurt.

This weekend I read about a high school which sent home a funny-yet-instructive letter explaining how graduates should dress for graduation (sadly, such direction is necessary because many people don’t understand the word “appropriate”) and naturally there were many students and parents who found it “offensive,” “insulting,” and “shocking.”

Clearly the attempt at humor—written by a teacher who had since retired, suggesting that this letter had been sent out many times before and was never met with such anger—was meant to lighten the mood of what could be an awkward explanation as to why boys should keep their pants pulled up and girls should keep their “girls” contained at the graduation ceremonies. Why people should choose to be offended at reminders to be appropriately dressed truly baffles me.

I also read a post by a man who was overwhelmed by the effort some moms put into craftiness, and how other women feel they have to compete with often over-the-top productions. “Just. Stop. It.” wrote Scott Dannemiller, because he had observed his wife struggling with her assignment for the treat bags of the 1^st graders. (Since when do 1^st graders need elaborate and decorated end-of-school treat bags?)

And what did women write in response? Oh, I’m sure you can guess: “He’s openly sneering crafty moms . . .” and “Why is it acceptable to openly mock people?” and “What an ungrateful, hateful rant!”

Personally, I thought the article was hilarious. Yes, some women believe everything they see on Pinterest and feel obliged to conform. And yes, I’m a “crafty person,” but the author made excellent points—

Ah, there’s the rub, I think: We simply can’t abide another person’s point of view, especially if it may border on pricking our conscience.

The idea that maybe we might be wrong about something is . . . hurtful?

Or are we too prideful?

The opposite of pride is humility, and while people give that a negative connotation, what “humble” really means is “teachable”: recognizing that we don’t know everything yet, that we aren’t perfect yet, and that we’re WILLING to be open to correction and suggestions on how to improve.

Oh yes—that’s not ANYTHING our society wants inflicted on it: humility? Blech!

Instead we throw a fit when someone suggests we (or our children) are dressing, acting, or saying anything inappropriate.

Instead of checking ourselves to see if we need to improve, we whine and whimper that someone’s being “judgmental” and “offensive” and “hurtful.”

Instead of allowing someone their own points-of-view, on any matter (we are a free-speech society, in theory anyway), we cry foul and proclaim “They hate us!” and in turn become bullies to those whose opinions we refuse to allow.

Aristotle once wrote, “It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.”

What he means is, let people have their opinions; you don’t have to affected by them at all.
But instead we choose to take offense at ideas that we fear threaten ours.
We don’t have to.

Look at that phrase: “Choose to take offense.”

First, it is a choice to be offended. I’ve known a few people who can manipulate the most innocuous statement to insinuate offense.

“She complimented me on my shirt today. Does that mean she thinks my shirt yesterday was hideous?”

“He said I could borrow his new lawnmower. Clearly he thinks my yard isn’t as good as his and I need his help.”

“She said I looked tired. What did she mean by that?!”

Probably nothing!

No one thinks as much about us as we think they do. Many of us learn that back in junior high when our natural narcissism makes us believe everything in the world really is only all about us. And unfortunately a lot of people get stuck at that phase, even as adults.

That’s the problem with “taking” offense; when we actively take (an action on our part) offense, we get stuck. All forward progress in our day, our week, our lives comes to a grinding halt because we stop and decide to fight what we choose to see as a personal attack on something we love to do or believe. Quite often that “attack” is nothing more than a weak perception on our parts that we overinflate to gargantuan sizes, and we lose traction and time pouting that someone hurt our feelings when 99% of the time no such thing actually occurred.

But occasionally a very personal, very sharp attack does come at us, fully intending to wound or even destroy us.

There are times when offense is clearly meant, and the aggressor stands there waiting for us to fight back.

Still, we can choose to take offense, or not.

Years ago I heard someone say, “Go ahead. Try to offend me. You can’t, because I simply won’t accept offense.”

The idea was astonishing to me, and one that I’ve tried to adopt myself. I’ve lived around people who chose to take offense at every little thing, and their lives were needlessly exhausting as they perceived attacks on every side.

However, not taking offense at anything—letting people say and do and imply whatever they want, and letting that mud fling past me instead of stepping into its path—has made my life abundantly easier.

On many occasions people have nervously said to me, “I hope I’m not offending you, but . . .” and what followed was nothing anywhere near offensive. (Usually they’re offering me and my large family their hand-me-down clothes. As a woman who hates shopping and spending money, it’s Christmas Day when those garbage bags are deposited at my front door!)

I smile and say, “I’ve chosen to never be offended by anything, so you’ve got to try a lot harder than that.”

But back to the deliberate offenses, the calculated attacks: Even then, we do NOT need to take offense.

The best example of this to me is that demonstrated by the musical “The Book of Mormon.” Yes, it’s won numerous awards, has grossed millions of dollars, has been received worldwide, and yes—it’s a deliberate attack on the beliefs and ideals of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS). We’re also known by the name “Mormons,” the name of the ancient author of the compiled book which is lampooned and mocked in the musical. The whole notion of missionaries and morality is parodied by writers who openly hate the Church and brazenly stole copyright names to turn all which we hold sacred into the profane.

Yet the Church has chosen not to be offended.
They’ve chosen not to fight.

They’ve chosen to step away from the mud flinging and simply go on with doing what they believe is right.

There are no lawsuits over the copyright infringements. There are no organized protests. There is no money or time or effort expended in wrestling in this muddy bath. Mormons have been persecuted before, to the point of theft and rape and murder. Compared to the horrors early members faced in the 19^th century, a blasphemous little musical is nothing.

There are too many far more important tasks at hand, so the Church continues to focus on building its humanitarian efforts, churches, temples, and going about business as usual. I see the attitude of, “We’ll leave the judgments to God, and be about doing His work in the meantime.”

Well, I confess that wasn’t my initial reaction to the musical. When I first read about the production, I was furious. As a mother of missionaries, future missionaries, and married to a returned missionary, I panicked that such an outright mockery would damage the efforts of tens of thousands of sincere people.

That hasn’t happened. In fact, I’ve read of several accounts of people who attended the musical, decided to contact missionaries to make fun of them, but ended up joining the Church instead. In every major market there have been critical reviews commenting that the musical is abrasive, offensive, and vulgar, and if it were directed toward Muslims instead of Mormons, jihad would have been declared on all fronts.

But all the Church said about the musical was this:

The production may attempt to entertain audiences for an evening, but the Book of Mormon as a volume of scripture will change people’s lives forever by bringing them closer to Christ.

And that was it.
The producers of the musical state the Church is being a “good sport” about it, and blah, blah, blah, because what more can they do about someone who refuses to fight?

Frankly, I still hate the idea that the musical exists, and that people willingly pay ridiculous amounts to see Mormons and missionaries mocked. But I refuse to take offense.

In a fight, the one with the most power is the one who walks away from it.

“No one’s ever successfully insulted Rector Yung, because he refuses to be insulted. People do their best, but Yung won’t even acknowledge the attempt of an affront.”

–The Falcon in the Barn, Book 4

Why Jeremy Clarkson should be reinstated: he saved my life (and my van’s life)

March 12, 2015May 27, 2015trishmercer 1 Comment

Dear BBC:

I’m writing to ask you to reinstate Jeremy Clarkson and “Top Gear” because, believe it or not, both saved my life last year.

I’m not writing to defend Clarkson’s behavior—heaven knows I’d never want him as a husband, and he’d be the brother-in-law I’d “forget” to invite over—but this middle-aged mother of nine (yes, really–nine kids) and grandmother of one owes her life, and the life of our beloved 15-passenger 2001 Ford Econoline van, to Jeremy.

(I swear I heard Big Blue scream when it happened.)

Last May, in 2014, I was driving Big Blue to work at 7:30am along a four-lane highway in rural Utah at 50 mph. Next to me was a school bus, and trying to make a turn across the highway was a high school student in a Lexus SUV. Seeing the school bus—but not me (first time in my 11 years of driving Big Blue someone did NOT see me coming)—the SUV darted out just as the bus passed, and clipped me on the back right.

As my van careened 180 degrees so that I was skidding sideways then backwards down the road, the very first thought that came into my mind was, “What would Jeremy do?!”

Now, I’m a very religious Christian (LDS—yes, I’m a Mormon), but honestly, I wasn’t praying: I was channeling Jeremy Clarkson. Instantly his voice, in a high-pitched squeal, came into my head, “Hold it! Hold it! Hold it!”

So I did—I held it! Firming my grip on the steering wheel and slamming on my brakes, I maintained control of Big Blue. It smacked into the curb then, according to witnesses, the police report, and the evidence of the clumps of turf embedded in the tow bar, my van did a pirouette of sorts on the grass bank, turning once again another 180 degrees,

Yes, follow those tire tracks and explain to me what exactly happened there. All I knew was, “Hold it! Hold it! Hold it!”

tearing a gouge in the turf, popping off my back tire,

Another clump of turf on the wheel rim. I know the van pitched sharply at one point, but that’s a little ridiculous.

and landing me at a gas station, just a few feet (that’s a couple of meters to the rest of the world) from eight gas pumps. Safely.

I had the presence of mind to shut off my van, then staggered out to see a couple of men running up to me, astonished.
“That was some ‘Top Gear’ driving, wasn’t it?” I exclaimed proudly.

I’m particularly proud of the mess I made on the road, curb, and sidewalks. I’ve left my mark in the world, literally.

Unfortunately, my would-be rescuers were rural rednecks who had never watched “Top Gear,” and for a few moments people thought that maybe I was drunk or on drugs that early in the morning.

Still trying to understand what my tires were doing to leave such skid marks.

But soon that was sorted out (the police and the father of the teenage girl who hit me are also “Top Gear” fans).

In the distance, next to the red fire hydrant, is the car that hit me, and where we crashed. On the left is Big Blue, exactly where she landed.

Everyone who saw the distance I traveled, the spinning I did, and the way I brought the van to a stop without damaging myself or the gas station (the owners were the most panicked) all agreed that the accident was miraculous.

The pumps are just a few yards (meters) to the right, but I didn’t hit them. If the back tire wasn’t off, I could have driven away (and my tow hitch wouldn’t have left that lovely gouge in the asphalt).

I think it also nothing short of a miracle that Jeremy Clarkson was in my head.
That God would stick him there?
Shocking and amazing.

My van was “totaled,” as was the Lexus.

But 10 months later I’m still driving Big Blue (the shop fixed her up enough to keep her running). We just hit 200,000 miles, and I’m hoping for at least 50,000 more.

In honor of all thing great and British, it was raining this morning in the desert when we took this picture.

I’ll be the first to admit the Jeremy Clarkson is an idiot, obnoxious, and frequently inappropriate. But “Top Gear” is first and foremost entertainment, and it is very entertaining. And I must admit that it did save me and my van.

Please reinstate Jeremy Clarkson and “Top Gear.” My older kids learn driving tips (seriously), and we watch the specials to teach our kids about geography (seriously, again). For the sake of this forty-five-year-old mom and grandma, give us back Clarkson!

Sincerely,

Trish Mercer

(And my apologies to the BBC for the email I sent previously, where I accidentally spelled Clarkson’s last name with a “t”. I honestly thought there was one in there. See, I love England so much, I believe there’s “t” [tea] in everything.)

The $8/hour job

March 7, 2015May 27, 2015trishmercer Leave a comment

“I can’t believe he’s paying her only $8/hour. She’s a college student!”

I wasn’t entirely sure what the speaker meant by this, so I swallowed down my pride at his comment because I’ve taken several $8/hour jobs. Not only was I highly (overly) qualified for the work, but I also had two college degrees.

Yet I’m not ashamed of those $8/hour jobs. In fact, I wouldn’t trade those experiences for anything.

Nearly eight years ago we had just moved to a new and unfamiliar town for my husband’s job, but the company that hired him was bought out, and the new owners fired everyone. Abruptly we found ourselves with eight children and zero income. Immediately both of us started searching. My husband quickly got a job answering phones for $8/hour, and since it was a month and a half before Christmas, I applied at a clothing store as seasonal help.

Within two hours of starting that job, I remembered why I hated retail. I don’t like clothes, and I don’t like spending money. I kept watching the job ads and noticed one: “Student editor wanted to review graduate papers. Must be English major, at least a junior. $8/hour.”

I ignored it, thinking I was overqualified. At my retail job, no one knew I was “educated” or had been a college instructor for a dozen years.

But two weeks later that ad ran again, and while I wondered why no students jumped at the chance to fill their resumes, I sent mine in.

The next day I got a call; the day after I got an interview.

The professor in charge of the department sighed apologetically when he saw me. “You should be paid twice-and-a-half this rate, but $8/hour is all the university will grant me. My graduate students are mostly international and need help with their English to get published. Want to give it a shot? I think you might be the only applicant with enough experience to make sense of their writing.”

No other professional opportunities had come up, I could do some of the work at home where my 5-month-old nursing baby was, and I really, really hated trying to peddle clothes. I took the job, even though I initially thought it beneath me.

But I learned, oh–so much!

I had to discover what Bayesian networks were, and ArcGIS, and a bunch of other terms and acronyms used in geosciences that I’ve never again encountered. I met men from Turkey and India and Malaysia. A middle-eastern colleague of my boss also sent his papers asking if “the girl” would edit his submissions to a conference.

But mostly I learned how to edit and write.
From a geosciences department, of all places.
I learned more there, I’m embarrassed to say, than I ever did studying and teaching English. Because when these men were trying to get their research ready for publication, they went over their writing again and again and again—dozens of times–just to get it right.

I’d always written against an artificial deadline of, “This is due in two weeks, so I can assign another meaningless essay.” Never before had I worked on several projects all due in “maybe by next year.” It was a fascinating collaborative experience, and I felt much more like an apprentice being graced with $8/hour than a so-called professional editor.

Sometimes I think the only reason we lived in Idaho Falls—and it was only for nine months—was so that I could finally learn how to edit and write, and edit and write.

I got much more than $8/hour.

A couple of years later, and in another city, I took a temporary job helping a lawyer promote a BYU alumni event. He needed someone to take it over for the four weeks leading up to it, and our family needed a few extra bucks. When he interviewed me, he looked at my resume, sighed, and said, “You deserve a lot more than $8/hour, but that’s all I can budget for now. Will it be enough?”

Sure, why not? I might learn a few things, who knows.

Oh I learned–so much!

I learned to plan, to budget, to make arrangements for performers, to feed a crew of 125, and to get people in the seats. The event was successful, and the lawyer decided he wanted to keep me on for the next one in six months. In between events he had me doing public relations work, which really wasn’t a good fit for me, but I tried. He also handed me his daughter’s manuscript which she’d written during college but was afraid to continue.

“She doesn’t know I printed this out, but I want you to edit it and convince her to keep working on it. I think it’s terrific, but I’m only her dad.” So for $8/hour I edited her book, fascinated that a “regular” young woman had written such a full fantasy novel. I did try to convince her to keep going, and gave her a list of websites full of advice and strategies, a copy of which I also took home with me.

When the law firm’s business slowed some months later, I volunteered to quit (I’d been there much longer than I’d expected anyway) and left to start writing my own novels.

Sometimes I think I worked there just to realize that I was capable of writing a book, too.

Now this past summer financial constraints required that I find steady work again. In the interim since the law firm, I’d acquired another teaching job (only one class a semester, and only if the need arose), had edited for an online company (until they ran out of work), and edited a couple of locally-written novels here, and a few doctoral dissertations there. But it wasn’t enough to keep our family afloat while my husband tried again to find better work.

So, once again, I started looking for a job and, finding nothing in my professional field, looked yet again “beneath” me. I was offered a manufacturing job where the boss hoped my professionalism might bring the other women in line. Realizing he was actually hiring me as a babysitter for gangster chicks, I kept looking and eventually was offered a job . . .

. . . doing laundry.

For $9/hour. (Hey, the economy’s improving, right?)

The supervisor who interviewed me looked at my resume, sighed, and said, “English instructor to laundry lady? Are you sure about this?”

The fact that my utility bill wouldn’t be paid the next month if I didn’t get a job that day made me very sure about it.

Besides, I might learn something.

And I’ve learned–so, so much!

I’ve learned that one person’s definition of clean isn’t the same as another’s. I’ve learned to prioritize, to be detail-oriented, and to deal with some occasionally unpleasant surprises. More interestingly, however, I’ve learned a lot about people, and what makes them tick.

And I’ve learned that a younger coworker, also a college graduate and also earning only $9/hour, is trying to write her first trilogy. We work together on Saturday afternoons and I’ve discovered that nearly every writing bump and roadblock she’s encountering, I’ve already dealt with. I’ve been able to give her advice, ideas, and strategies for drafting her books, and later this month she’ll give me her first manuscript to review.

Sometimes I think the main reason I’m working as a laundry lady (that’s seriously the job title) for $9/hour is so that I can help someone else have a shot at her dream of becoming an author.

I’m not going to charge her, either (unlike the older man whose book I edited for $20/hour for a dozen hours, the payment of which will cover my car insurance and cell phone bills this month). I’m giving my coworker my time for free because so many friends and family are giving me their time for free as well, reading my drafts and returning book 4 this month with their comments and questions. The only payment I can offer them is the mention of their names at the end of my books. Without their help, I could never do this.

As for the person who bemoaned that his college student daughter was making “only $8/hour,” I submit this:
No, it’s not great money. It’s hard-earned, sweaty money, and still not enough to support a person, not to mention a family.
But in no other work have I ever learned as much as I did in jobs I worked for $8 or $9/hour.

And sometimes—no, quite often—that’s far more important than the cash.

Fifty Shades of Blech

February 14, 2015May 27, 2015trishmercer Leave a comment

A couple of days ago I wrote about commitment, and the need to sometimes walk away.

Then I read all the hoopla about “Fifty Shades of Grey” and how even the actors were uncomfortable with their parts, and I thought, “Then QUIT!”

Just quit already!

Interviews with the actors describe how uncomfortable shooting the movie made them. Jamie Dornan said that “There were times when Dakota was not wearing much, and I had to do stuff to her that I’d never choose to do to a woman,” and “If I was about to be doing something particularly heinous to Dakota, I would apologise in advance.”

Another article cites Dornan saying, “The first day [of filming] was kind of an out-of-body experience. I got there and they said, ‘Action!’ I’m like, ‘What the **** is happening? I’m a dad. What?'” He also said that sometimes he’d come home and take a long shower before even touching his wife and daughter.

Then WHY DO THIS MOVIE? Because of a contract? A commitment? Break it! Walk away!

Dakota Johnson, playing the female character, is the daughter of Don Johnson and Melanie Griffith. Her mom said, “She would be very uncomfortable if I saw [the movie], and I would be very uncomfortable if I saw it. So we would never be able to talk about it, so why would I see it?”

But Dakota Johnson said that her parents are “maybe” allowed to see the film.

WHY IN THE WORLD would you do a job that you’d be worried about letting your parents see?

If you feel so awkward and worried, then DON’T DO IT! There were many other actors who shied away from the movie, for obvious reasons. I read an account some time ago of two women who were trying out for the female role. They stated that they felt overwhelmingly embarrassed, yet still they tried out for the part!

I’m absolutely baffled.

If something affects you deeply and anxiously then do NOT do it! Your soul is trying to communicate something to you.

Forget the commitment! Forget the contracts! Forget the money–

Oh. I think I get it.

The money. The fame. The name in lights. For that, some people will do just about anything, it seems. That’s the only reason I can think of selling one’s soul and peace of mind: for enough fame and fortune.

Still, I’m absolutely baffled.

A few months ago I wrote a blog “Just how murky does the water have to be,” wondering just how bad something has to be before we decide to abandon it. For some, just a little bit of tainted water is enough to not touch it. But others see nothing wrong in wading through filth and sludge, as long as a shiny dollar is dangling at the other side.

While we can eventually scrape off the slime and filth from our flesh, no amount of money will ever wipe clear the sludge from our souls.

I find it fitting that sewer muck, mud, slime, scum and everything else filthy, toxic, and even poisonous are usually . . . grey.

Blech.

You should be committed!

February 11, 2015May 27, 2015trishmercer 2 Comments

I knew an older man who declared one should stick to one’s commitments, no matter what. Always one to be suspicious of such blanket statements, I hit him with, “What if you discover you made a bad choice to begin with?”

“Doesn’t matter! You made a commitment, you stick with it. You take a job, you don’t quit it.”

“Ah,” I said, “but what if that job is sucking the lifeblood out of you?”

“Stick with it!”

“Even if it’s hurting your marriage or your family?”

He wavered a bit before repeating dogmatically, “Stick to your commitments!”

Sensing he was losing heart, I, being the snot that I am, pressed on with, “What if you discover what your committed to is involved in, say, human trafficking? Or porn production? Or steals money from little old ladies over the phone?”

He suddenly became interested in a table of desserts.

Knowing when to shift one’s commitment is a tricky thing. Sometimes we make a decision that we think is the best, and for the time being it is.

But then situations change, and we need to change with it. Commitment to a job, or a cause, or a group is important, but it isn’t always the end-all, be-all.

I have several friends, late thirties to mid forties, all making career changes and going to back to school. They’ve ended previous careers that spanned twenty years, and are hoping to engage in new ones—business, nursing, education—for the next twenty.

This behavior of changing one’s commitments is, contrary to what your grandmother may say, not flaky.

Our parents and grandparents came from generations where you chose one job and stuck to it for the rest of your life.

Never mind that it caused you stress or hardship.

Never mind that the hours were bad for raising a family.

Never mind that you felt your soul shrinking a little more each day.

You made a commitment, you stick to it! So what if the business is failing, fail with it! (I actually heard someone say that once about a faltering family business. Instead of closing it, the business tragically and unnecessarily took down the entire family instead.)

Some years ago I edited a dissertation written by a doctoral candidate evaluating why people change jobs. He interviewed dozens of “long-timers” in a factory who were frustrated with the disloyalty of younger employees. In their eyes, anyone on the job for less than ten years was still a new kid. They were shocked that many employees were there for maybe only two years, then “up and decided to get an education! The nerve! Thinking he was better than us, to go back to college?” Another complaint was, “Every time her baby gets a fever or an earache, she takes a sick day. Just give the baby some medicine, drop her off at daycare, and get back to work!”

I was as astonished at their utter devotion to their workplace above personal growth or family; they believed the employees owed all loyalty and allegiance to the company, first and foremost.

What they failed to realize was that you can always be replaced in a job, no matter how important you think you are. But no one can replace you as a spouse or parent.

The highest commitment has to be to one’s family and one’s principles, and those need to be the principles that ring truest to you.

Commitment is certainly a noble trait, but there’s something to be said for knowing when to “give up.” Each of my friends on new career paths gave up a job which has been filled by someone else eager for it, leaving everyone happier and re-committed to something better.

Last weekend my coworker’s daughter, in her 40s, graduated from a vocational nursing program with highest honors. She said to her mother, “I should have done this sooner, but I didn’t realize that I could.”

“True,” her mom said, “You should have. But so what? You did it now.”

I’ve thought of this change of commitment as I’ve reevaluated some aspects of my life. After twenty-two years, I’m quitting teaching part-time because I’m burned out. It’s time to give the opportunity to someone else with fresher ideas and less cynicism.

I’ve also evaluated my commitment to my website and book covers, and have realized that they all need overhauls. Like the nursing student, I wished I’d improved them sooner, but I really didn’t know what to do.

But now I do. Or rather, now I’m consulting with and employing those who do know what to do, and in a few months I hope my website will be cleaner, and my book covers will be intriguing. (I was about to write “dazzling,” but I don’t know how to put glitter on the screen.)

I also wished I started writing earlier in life, but similar to many of my friends who are now pursuing second careers, I didn’t know writing was something I really wanted to do. (Yes, despite being an English teacher . . .)

But so what? We’re all doing it now! And it’s never too late to make that course correction.

Last week I spoke with a man in his 70s who said he always drove his mother crazy because he was never “committed.” His father had been a railroad man since he was a teenager, but his son started one business after another, which his mother thought was irresponsible.

But as I looked around his well-appointed and spacious home on a hill overlooking a lake, I decided he hadn’t really done so poorly for himself.

Yet he said, “I still don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing, still haven’t figured out what to be when I grow up!”

Often we commit to something and really don’t know what we’re in for. Ask anyone who’s ever been married. *Let me state right here that I’m all for commitment in marriage!* Just indulge me for a moment: Even in very best of happy marriages, people find themselves surprised by what they’ve committed to. This doesn’t mean that we abandon it, but re-commit to it, over and over.

But sometimes we outgrow a commitment; for example, faithfully following a favorite sports team which, as we mature, we realize takes too much of our very limited time.

There’s nothing wrong with stopping midstream and deciding to head in another direction, or taking a closer look to see what can be improved with something that we previously thought was just fine, or bailing out altogether. Commitment to the wrong thing at the wrong time does no one any good.

But re-committing to something better can make all the difference in everyone’s world.

Perrin mentally added ‘farmer’ to the list of alternatives to being High General. The list he began two and half years ago in Idumea had never been erased from his mind. Periodically he pulled it out, reminding himself that his future wasn’t set in stone . . .

It was the unknown variables that troubled him. He often felt his life was a complicated math problem where he’d been given only a few numbers, with the rest to follow at a later date. He’d stare at the equation, anticipating what the missing digits may be, wondering when the final solution would reveal itself.

—

“Just comes a time, boys,” Shem answered breezily. “Colonel Shin’s been at it for over twenty-five years. Gets a little boring, doing the same work for so long. Maybe he’ll become a builder.” ~Book 4, Falcon in the Barn (coming spring 2015)

Teachers shouldn’t ask questions to get answers

January 11, 2015May 27, 2015trishmercer 1 Comment

It doesn’t matter what kind of teacher: public, private, or church Sunday School, the purpose of asking questions isn’t to get answers.

(Not my actual Sunday School class, but roughly the same amount of kids.)

If only adults could understand that.

While I’ve taught college freshmen for over twenty years, I’ve also taught classes in my church. Right now I’m responsible to teach Sunday School to 15-16 year-olds, and because there was some kind of baby boom back in 1999, I have a class of 19 teenagers right now. The leaders in my LDS ward think I need “Help,” and today was a classic example of Question Anxiety.

That’s the best way I can put it: when I ask a question, the “Help” jumps in to answer it. Remember, the “Help” is a well-intentioned adult; but this class is for the teenagers, and when I pose a question they sit for a few seconds, thinking.

And that’s exactly what I want: I do not want answers; I want thought.

The older gentleman helping today obviously wasn’t comfortable with the silence, and tried to fill it each time it manifest itself.

But I love the silence! Wonderful things happen during it.

First, there’s the first five uncomfortable seconds when teens give each other the sidelong glance to see if anyone has an immediate answer.

That’s when the adults get nervous, and want to supply something—anything.

Because adults often work with A Plan. No matter what the task or chore or goal, most adults want A Plan, and getting quickly from point B to task H is imperative. Give answers, get moving along.

It’s because most of us were raised in the public school system which, even worse now than ever, has A Plan that must completed, no matter the needs of the children, no matter the level of interest—The Plan (quite often linked to Common Core) must be accomplished.

My son’s 11-year-old friend encountered this the other day. A substitute teacher set up four stuffed animals: a whale, a tiger, a dolphin, and an octopus. She asked the 5^th graders which animal didn’t belong in the group.

Before you read further, what would your answer be?

Nice meme. Would read easier if the last two lines were, “to ask questions that EVEN YOU can’t answer.” But you get the idea . . .

My son’s friend said, “The octopus. Because all the other animals are mammals.”

That wasn’t the “right” answer, and the substitute, for whatever reason, came down a bit hard on him for not giving her answer. Instead of acknowledging that his answer was correct as well, and instead of stepping back and thinking, “Hey, clever. I hadn’t considered that,” she instead snapped at him that the tiger didn’t fit, because the rest of the animals were aquatic animals.

Stick to The Plan. Move along. The point isn’t education. The point is completing the task.

How tragic. This 11-year-old was thinking. He was right!

And that’s what teachers should want when they ask questions: the questions should make students THINK!

That’s what happens in my Sunday School class after those first five uncomfortable seconds. In the next five, kids start to muse to themselves, No one else is saying anything . . . maybe I should come up with something?

Another five seconds, and then a hand tentatively goes up with a comment I grin at and write on the board.

Then another hand. And another.

Yes! They’ll get there, without someone stepping in and supplying the answer too quickly for them.

But there’s still one more thing I want to have happen when I ask a question. Thinking is first, their responses is second, and then . . .

Well, let me tell you what happened today. The topic was The Nature of God, and I opened with asking the students, “What do you know about God?”

That was when the Helper, after five seconds, jumped in with several statements of what he, a sixty-year-old man, knew. Frankly, I didn’t care what he knew. I wanted to know what my 15-year-olds knew.

Eventually, they began to offer bits and pieces which I put on the board.

When I wrote, “Jesus has a body of flesh and bones, and not blood,” that’s when the magic happened.

One girl raised her hand. “Wait, Jesus doesn’t have blood anymore?”

“Nope,” I told her. “Resurrected beings don’t. He can’t die anymore, or even be injured.”

A couple of other teens weren’t aware of that either, and then came more questions. “So he could go skydiving and nothing bad would happen to him?”

“You got it. And here’s the awsome part—all of us will someday be resurrected too, with a perfect body of flesh and bone.”

Here’s where the discussion shifted into a little bit of silliness, but I let it.

“So when I’m resurrected, I can do extreme sports and not worry about getting hurt?”

“That’s right!”

Do you see what happened there?

The kids started asking the questions!

THAT should be the goal of every teacher’s lesson: not getting answers to our questions, but getting questions from our students. That means they’re interested. They’re thinking. They’re engaged!

And it doesn’t happen too often, unfortunately. I’ve heard of too many kids asking a question in school, and being told, after an awkward pause, “I’m not really sure, and since it’s not on the test, let’s not worry about that right now.”

Talk about killing the desire to learn. Kids have it naturally. It’s mostly gone by middle school. Can you see how it died?

I’ve also seen this a lot in my freshmen college students. After 12 years in the system, they rarely ask questions more compelling than, “Does the Works Cited page count as part of the six page requirement?”

Oh, I try. I bring in articles about issues directly affecting them, I show them entertaining video clips, and I purposely throw out nuggets such as, “Your high school teacher probably told you to never use the word ‘I’ in your papers, but we all know that’s total rubbish, along with never beginning a sentence with, ‘Because.’”

It’ll take a moment, but always a student will raise a hand and say, “Wait—we can begin a sentence with ‘Because’? What about ‘But’?” And for five minutes we have an interesting discussion, because a student wanted to know that answer, not because the teacher was looking for a programmed response.

Think back to any lectures you remember from college or high school. Do you remember any of them? At all? I remember a handful, and every one of them began with a question a student wanted answered, and ended with a teacher involving all of us in the discussion.

That is education. That is learning.

And it’s rarely happening anymore.

Click here to see the curriculum for all of the youth in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Go ahead–we don’t bite. At least not that hard.

As for my Sunday School class today, Helper began to realize the kids were capable of answering the questions, and to his credit he backed off a bit, especially after I refused to make eye contact with him, but focused solely on the kids. They came through for me again, as they always do, with even a few more interesting questions that filled our 40 minutes quite easily. The LDS Church has purposely changed its curriculum for teenagers 12-18 so that they can run the pace of the lesson, and not the teachers.

If only school systems could do that as well: respect the child as a person wanting to learn, instead of part of a group that needs processing.

Not only would our children be smarter with that kind of child-focused education, but they’d be happier too, which should always be our foremost goal in education: happiness.

This was one of the things Mahrree loved about teaching: the rare moments when a student dares to wonder. The best learning happened when the students asked the questions, not the teachers.

It was also at these moments that she panicked, because sometimes the questions were so unexpected that she was caught by surprise. But it was the good kind of panic that lets you remember you’re alive, like being chased by a dog you know you can outrun, but it terrifies you just the same. It feels great when you finally reach home, or see the dog yanked back suddenly by its leash and you gloat at it triumphantly.

But first you have to run.

She always had a ready answer. “Chommy, what do you think?”

~Book 4, Falcon in the Barn (coming spring 2015)

My Year of Living Deliberately

January 4, 2015May 27, 2015trishmercer Leave a comment

I don’t have enough time. Or money. Or control of my life.
And I’ve realized that’s all my fault.

For quite some time I’ve been living in survival mode. I think we all hit that sometimes, when we’re just holding on, trying to keep lives and spouses and children together, barely squeaking by month-to-month, existing with an underlying anxiousness that at any moment, something may fly off and send the precarious balance of our lives in a tailspin.

I’ve also realized that’s a stupid way to live, and I can actually do something about it.

I’ve realized I can live Deliberately. (Yes, with a capital D.)

Some weeks ago I read these words by Quentin L. Cook, and apostle in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints:

We need to recognize that there is a seriousness of purpose that must undergird our approach to life and all our choices. Distractions and rationalizations limit our progress.

This has become my mantra for 2015.

My life is more than halfway over.
At age 45, I suppose I’ve hit some kind of midlife crisis.
Where I work I see many people in their 60s, 70s, and 80s, and I’ve noticed two different groups.

One group is always in survival mode, and rationalizing that way of life. “I can’t lose weight. I can’t be better. I’ve always had bad genes. I’m going back to the doctor for another prescription. I need more help. ” They whine, they complain, and they age rapidly.

The second group—and I work directly with several in this group—are living Deliberately. “I’ve given up sugar and soda, and I feel so much better. I’m exercising more now than ever. Yes, I have some aches and pains, but that’s not going to stop me from working today. I’ve got babysitting my great-grandkids today after work.” They smile, they tackle their challenges, and they’re aging hardly at all.

In Falcon in the Barn (yes, it’s still on track to come out in early spring!) Perrin is thrown into a level of depression he’s never before encountered. He no longer acts, but is acted upon. Not too give too much away, he becomes a shadow of the man he used to be, and he hates it.

At some point in editing those chapters, I realized I had fallen into the same slump as Perrin, frustrated with my feeble attempts to reduce our debt, to improve our home, to make some progress in my life. Nothing was happening as I wished, because I was letting our circumstances work on me, instead of the other way around.

I’ve observed that successful people have Deliberateness in their lives, a seriousness of purpose, an attitude of I refuse to be the victim. As Cook said,

My concern is not only about the big tipping-point decisions but also the middle ground—the workaday world and seemingly ordinary decisions where we spend most of our time. In these areas, we need to emphasize moderation, balance, and especially wisdom. It is important to rise above rationalizations and make the best choices.

So, tired of limping along, I have decided 2015 will be my year of Deliberateness—my year of making every choice one of careful examination, and wasting nothing. I’ve distinctly felt God nudging me in this direction for the past few weeks, and I’ve learned that it’s never a good idea to ignore the promptings from the Almighty. And to hold myself accountable (because accountability is the essence of life) I’m proclaiming my goals here.

First, I’m Deliberately trying to write neater, which may not sound like much, but I haven’t been able to decipher my own penmanship for a decade now. I pulled out a leather journal given to me eight years ago which I never before dared to use, bought myself a mechanical pencil, and have already filled three pages with completely legible writing.
I had no idea I was capable of that.

Second, I’m Deliberately eating better. I have issues with gluten, and at Thanksgiving realized I needed to limit my diet again. It was either my brain, or my bread. Since I’m a bit on the zombie side, I decided BRAINS! I Deliberately chose better foods, tried some vegan dishes, and limited my intake of sweets, all in an effort to improve my health.

Something shocking happened. From Thanksgiving to New Year’s I LOST 8 pounds! The last time I lost weight over the holidays, I had to give birth to a baby. Eating healthier was SO much easier. I’ve discovered that I like cilantro, brown rice, and quinoa. (I even know how to pronounce quinoa properly, too.) At this rate, I might actually become the weight I’m supposed to be by the end of summer.
I had no idea I could do that.

Third, I’m Deliberately reducing my time in frivolousness. That means that although I’m a reading junking, I’m refusing to read every little post, link, or meme on Facebook, and I will no longer waste time on silly quizzes that tell me the color of my wind (I’m suspecting it’s brown).
Before I started writing my book series, I gave up watching TV (never miss it), gave up my magazine subscriptions (never miss those, either) and deleted Scrabble and Free Cell from my computer (the only games I ever played). Suddenly, I had enough time to pursue my real goals. I Deliberately follow only two blogs, and when I go to Pinterest, I’ve vowed it will now be ONLY to find a new vegan recipe.

I’m also now writing a tongue-in-cheek pregnancy and baby care book, and reducing my dawdling on Facebook and Pinterest gives me the time to do that as well.
I didn’t realize such a small change could make such a big difference.

I love how Cook puts this:

Sometimes it feels like we are drowning in frivolous foolishness, nonsensical noise, and continuous contention. When we turn down the volume and examine the substance, there is very little that will assist us in our eternal quest toward righteous goals. One father wisely responds to his children with their numerous requests to participate in these distractions. He simply asks them, “Will this make you a better person?”

I desperately want to be a better person.

So I’m also Deliberately going to bed earlier and Deliberately getting up the first time my alarm blares.

I’m Deliberately scheduling time to write and study, and I’m Deliberately watching my bank account every day. I will Deliberately pay an extra $5 here and there to chip away at the debt that plagues us, and will keep track to prove to myself that every little bit really does help. I may be chipping away at an iceberg with a butter knife, but it’s better than pretending that iceberg isn’t about to engulf me.

Yeah, that’s a big list. I’m going to fail at all of those points at some time or another, but so what? I’ll Deliberately begin again. And again. And again. Because at some point when I was writing about Perrin’s struggles (don’t worry—no spoilers here) I realized that if he could make some changes, certainly I could as well.

Because I’m running out of life.
I’ve got less than half of it left, and I want to be healthy enough to play with my three-year-old’s children when he eventually has them.
I want to be mentally, physically, and spiritually strong enough to help all of my nine children when they need it.
I want to write another dozen books.
I want to work long enough to drag us completely out of debt.
I want to be the one pushing that friend’s wheelchair in thirty-five years, not the one riding in it.
I want to look back on my life with few regrets, and I want to feel that I took charge of my circumstances, and lived a Deliberately full life.

When Perrin woke up, he wanted that morning to be significant, to be the day he was truly a new man. He could no longer allow himself to be consumed by himself. There were too many other people needing him, and he could no longer remain indulgently weak. . . .
What was his goal today? Not to be the kind of man the world wanted, but to be the kind of leader the Creator wanted him to be.

~Falcon in the Barn