Showing posts with label Church. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Church. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Missionary Curve
The most recent phone call from the ward missionaries concluded my study on the subject. I can explain it using the graph below:
Sunday, March 27, 2011
The Sounds of Sunday
In a vain effort to bring the Sabbath to our Sundays, Michelle used to turn on the radio on Sunday mornings to "The Sounds of Sunday" on KLCE 97. Well, that was in Idaho. We no longer have that option, except via the Internet.
It only produced marginal results, at best. Most of the time, all it did was add to the noise. My opinion, of course.
However, we may need to return to this or something similar in order to restore order to our Sunday experiences. I think soft music isn't effective enough, however. I'm going to propose a brick or a club of some kind. We need something. Take today for example...
We all were awake at roughly the same hour this morning. Like all Sundays before, Michelle begins early-- she prods them all to get dressed and ready for church. Immediately, Ethan walks in to our room crying because his pants are too small (apparently), and he has them cuddled around his ankles while wearing his inside shirt on the outside of his outside shirt. We try to calm him down, persuade him to rearrange his shirts, and get a belt for his pants.
The prodding on Preston isn't usually very effective, so as Michelle or I remind him about getting dressed, the crescendo in our voice's rise as well. We start at 8AM with normal decibel levels, then this steadily increases until we are screaming by 9:30.
Chrissa, who needed to shower, is still unshowered at 8:45AM, to which we remind her of this need. After a 10 minutes argument on why a person must shower more than every 3 or 4 days, she finally caves and gets into the shower.
Amberlee had been crying this entire time for some breakfast. Once done, she then starts to cry and kick and protest while Michelle tried to get on her dress and tights. After a few minutes of wrestling her, Michelle gives up, leaving her with a dress on over a full diaper.
Preston and Ethan are finally dressed by 9:15AM; however, Ethan's desire for fasting today meant that he was also very grumpy, telling us things like, "Hello? Are you all deaf? I said I want...", or "You and mom are impossible!"
Amberlee's protest reaches new heights at 9:30AM, and in an attempt to get Michelle's attention, she inadvertently grabs her hot curling iron. It didn't burn her hand, but she screamed like it did, and as we tried to grab her to check for wounds, she turns to run-- directly into the wall.
At 9:55AM, 5 minutes before church starts, we leave. Our drive, assuming we get all green lights, is 10 minutes minimum. Fashionably late, as usual. Because we are late, we are forced to cram all 6 of us into 4 open chairs. As if on cue, Amberlee starts whining for her drink, Ethan starts complaining of stomach pains, and Preston complains for reasons known only to him.
Ten minutes into church services, I take the little cup-o'-cereal that we readied for Amberlee and hand it to her. Preston really gets ticked off at that and begins to not only cry, but starts hitting me as well. Right there, right in the middle of church services, I have a 4 year old swinging punches at me with a real look of evil on his face. I try to laugh at it a bit, downplay the tantrum, grabbing his arms with inconspicuous force, but that only fuels his rage and soon I find myself literally dragging him out backwards by his arms.
This, of course, sets off Amberlee and she begins to cry because she wanted to sit on my lap to eat her cereal, so out comes Michelle with Amberlee in her arms. Thus, I'm dragging Preston down the hallway with Michelle and Amberlee in tow, both kids crying.
Preston's temper reaches new heights about 5 minutes later, and as he kicks and screams, I'm forced to pick him up in order to take him outside to cool off. I lay him down in the grass while his temper subsides.
Roughly 10 minutes later, as we make our way back to the chapel, we peek in the door to find a new family had taken over our seats. Ethan had moved to sit with Chrissa, who had moved to sit with a friend.
I'm not sure where the point is when a parents gives up and says, "You know what? That's enough... I'm going home and locking myself in my bedroom." I had suggested this to Michelle at least 3 times-- I guess my threshold is much lower than hers.
Nevertheless, we are failing on Sundays. I'm open to any ideas... drugs, forced labor, incarceration, straight jackets, duct tape... anything.
It only produced marginal results, at best. Most of the time, all it did was add to the noise. My opinion, of course.
However, we may need to return to this or something similar in order to restore order to our Sunday experiences. I think soft music isn't effective enough, however. I'm going to propose a brick or a club of some kind. We need something. Take today for example...
We all were awake at roughly the same hour this morning. Like all Sundays before, Michelle begins early-- she prods them all to get dressed and ready for church. Immediately, Ethan walks in to our room crying because his pants are too small (apparently), and he has them cuddled around his ankles while wearing his inside shirt on the outside of his outside shirt. We try to calm him down, persuade him to rearrange his shirts, and get a belt for his pants.
The prodding on Preston isn't usually very effective, so as Michelle or I remind him about getting dressed, the crescendo in our voice's rise as well. We start at 8AM with normal decibel levels, then this steadily increases until we are screaming by 9:30.
Chrissa, who needed to shower, is still unshowered at 8:45AM, to which we remind her of this need. After a 10 minutes argument on why a person must shower more than every 3 or 4 days, she finally caves and gets into the shower.
Amberlee had been crying this entire time for some breakfast. Once done, she then starts to cry and kick and protest while Michelle tried to get on her dress and tights. After a few minutes of wrestling her, Michelle gives up, leaving her with a dress on over a full diaper.
Preston and Ethan are finally dressed by 9:15AM; however, Ethan's desire for fasting today meant that he was also very grumpy, telling us things like, "Hello? Are you all deaf? I said I want...", or "You and mom are impossible!"
Amberlee's protest reaches new heights at 9:30AM, and in an attempt to get Michelle's attention, she inadvertently grabs her hot curling iron. It didn't burn her hand, but she screamed like it did, and as we tried to grab her to check for wounds, she turns to run-- directly into the wall.
At 9:55AM, 5 minutes before church starts, we leave. Our drive, assuming we get all green lights, is 10 minutes minimum. Fashionably late, as usual. Because we are late, we are forced to cram all 6 of us into 4 open chairs. As if on cue, Amberlee starts whining for her drink, Ethan starts complaining of stomach pains, and Preston complains for reasons known only to him.
Ten minutes into church services, I take the little cup-o'-cereal that we readied for Amberlee and hand it to her. Preston really gets ticked off at that and begins to not only cry, but starts hitting me as well. Right there, right in the middle of church services, I have a 4 year old swinging punches at me with a real look of evil on his face. I try to laugh at it a bit, downplay the tantrum, grabbing his arms with inconspicuous force, but that only fuels his rage and soon I find myself literally dragging him out backwards by his arms.
This, of course, sets off Amberlee and she begins to cry because she wanted to sit on my lap to eat her cereal, so out comes Michelle with Amberlee in her arms. Thus, I'm dragging Preston down the hallway with Michelle and Amberlee in tow, both kids crying.
Preston's temper reaches new heights about 5 minutes later, and as he kicks and screams, I'm forced to pick him up in order to take him outside to cool off. I lay him down in the grass while his temper subsides.
Roughly 10 minutes later, as we make our way back to the chapel, we peek in the door to find a new family had taken over our seats. Ethan had moved to sit with Chrissa, who had moved to sit with a friend.
I'm not sure where the point is when a parents gives up and says, "You know what? That's enough... I'm going home and locking myself in my bedroom." I had suggested this to Michelle at least 3 times-- I guess my threshold is much lower than hers.
Nevertheless, we are failing on Sundays. I'm open to any ideas... drugs, forced labor, incarceration, straight jackets, duct tape... anything.
Monday, February 21, 2011
David v Goliath
I think the Bible is the only place where some little pip-squeak takes on a person about 10 times his own size and lives to tell about it.
Okay, the Bible-- and the Primary class I taught last Sunday. However, since they are both in the realms of religion, I do not think this kind of behavior exists elsewhere. Why? Because Natural Selection removes these people (or animals) foolish enough to try it. In the wild, they are chased out of the herd or, in worse cases, torn limb-from-limb. In civilization, they are given Swirlies. In both cases, the offender is ostracized. Don’t believe me? Walk in to your local Hell’s Angels hangout and call the first guy you meet a greasy long-haired hippy, then count how many seconds it takes before you are either dismembered or hog-tied and left in your underwear in the parking lot.
I have often stated in this blog how I was never meant to be a teacher of children younger than about 14. I haven’t taught children older than 14, but I believe this applies to them as well. You have read about my experiences teaching adults, too. In both cases, the outcomes are often the same—total disaster. I’m beginning to think that all of these experiences are trying to tell me that if I ever consider a job in academia, I should stick to that of the janitor as opposed to an instructor.
This past Sunday, I had the “pleasure” (read: “unfortunate assignment”) of teaching the 9-10 year-olds in church. The lesson: Respect. In hindsight, I should have perceived the clash of ideals long before I stepped foot into the classroom. Here I had 9 year-olds, most of which I presume have very little understanding or appreciation of the word “respect”, and me trying to teach them this fundamental principle of survival while not “doing them in” before class was over. Anyhow, I get to work trying to teach this lesson to 4 little kids who can barely keep themselves settled long enough to breathe. We get done in record time—20 minutes left on the clock.
They ask if they can play “Hangman” on the chalkboard. Sure… what harm can there be with that? Again, I should have seen the red flag… I just finished a lesson on “respect” for four 9-year-old kids, and they want to close the lesson by hanging some poor guy on account of him not choosing the correct letters?
We start—actually, I start—the game. Being the teacher, I get the privilege of being the first “executioner”. My phrase: “I Should Be Respectful”. So I put the appropriate number of spaces on the board and ready the gallows. The kids start their turn at guessing letters.
Soon, it comes to Child #3, whom I shall call Ferdinand. Ferdinand guesses the letter “L” and I proceed to put in the “L” at the end of the word “Respectful”. However, in my haste to get out of the classroom, I overlooked the “L” in the word “Should”. Ferdinand is given the chance to guess the phrase, then “passes” to the next kid after failing to correctly guess the phrase in 10 seconds.
Before doing so, however, Ferdinand asks, “Is the last work ‘disrespectful’?” and I say, “No”. We move on.
After a few additional letters being placed in the phrase, another Child (Child #1, whom I shall call Clarabelle), correctly answers the phrase, at which point Ferdinand goes bizerke, telling me that I said “no” when asked if the last word was “disrespectful”. True, I said, it wasn’t… it was “respectful”, to which Ferdinand said, “Yeah, but ‘respectful’ IS part of the word ‘disrespectful’… and, you even forgot the “L” in the world ‘Should’. You really ARE dumb.”
Here is the David and Goliath moment. A kid, weighing in at 60 lbs soaking wet, calling me—weighing in at 240 lbs completely dry—“dumb”, without so much as a smirk of “unseriousness” on the kid’s face. Ferdinand sat there, staring at me with arms crossed, after dropping the “D” bomb on me-- someone that could theoretically pound him into the floor like a railroad spike.
Clearly, due to the environment and the guilt that would undoubtedly follow, I couldn’t do the Swirlie idea that first came to mind. I considered the hog-tying. But, in the end, I had no choice: I had to outwit the kid.
My response: “Yeah, but you forget that our lesson was on RESPECT, something you clearly LACK, so who really is the dumb one here?”
Ferdinand: “Just so you know, I won the last FOUR Hangmans in a row, and some of them only had a few letters.”
Me: “Did your teacher give you a big star sticker to put on your chest so you can walk around church showing everyone what a smart-alic you really are?”
Next up: Child #4, whom I shall call Ernest. Ernest had the idea of outwitting all of us. This child opens the Bible to some unknown verse and proceeds to put marks on the board for the entire thing… all 44 or 45 of them! Ferdinand goes back to the “L” letter of prior controversy (all in an attempt to drive home the point to me that I clearly failed the Primary IQ test), to which Ernest puts down the letter in the appropriate spaces. Clarabelle was next—and this child says, “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain”, which was the correct answer. Two spaces filled out of 45, and she wins. No one could have foreseen the ensuing events.
Like the Philistines, Ernest throws a temper tantrum. The chalk goes flying. The erasers go flying. Both bounce off the walls, table, and chairs. Ernest runs out of the classroom, crying at the top of his lungs, as the rest of us sit there with a dazed look of disbelief on our eyes (except for Ferdinand, who was still giving me the Stink Eye). About 10 seconds later, in runs Ernest, crying, tears falling all over the place. Ernest finds a place in the corner, sits down, and with head in arms, cries and cries and accuses the rest of us as conspirators (he used the word “cheaters”).
Me: “Whoa. Are you serious? There are no cry-babies allowed here! It’s just a game, ‘Ernest’!”
Ernest: “It’s not fair! You cheated!”
Me: “You are falling below the ‘respect’ line, Ernest. Okay, Clarabelle, it’s now your turn.”
Ernest: “NO!! I want another chance!” Waaa-waaa…
Me: “Okay, stop crying! Pick something original then, and keep it simple!”
Ernest picks up the chalk and eraser, walks up to the chalkboard while wiping tears, and proceeds to use a single word for the next gig. Before the gallows are even drawn, Ferdinand says, “That’s too easy! Its your last name!”
Ernest quickly wipes the board and starts over with something that is a bit longer, but altogether, even easier than before… it’s the classic Hangman default phrase. Clarabelle says, “I already know it!”, but Ernest says that he isn’t going to call on me or Clarabelle for this game, leaving it to Child #2 (I didn’t know her name) and Ferdinand to solve. Finally, Child #2 solves it, after which I looked at Ferdinand and said, “Yeah, that was the easiest Hangman ever… who again did you say was the dumb one in the class?” I got the Death Look from Ferdinand who rolled his eyes and sat in defiance till it was time to let them leave.
Okay, so I took it too far with Ferdinand and Ernest, but am I not doing them a favor? Is it a good idea to allow a child to grow up thinking that he/she is so clearly superior to everyone else that nothing they say or do will ever be punished by someone that is so obviously bigger and unwilling to take their crap? Had I had my current temperament but been transformed into a 10 year old at that moment, it would have been a WWE Cage Match inside that classroom, me winning the bout after a Suicidal Pile Driver to the floor.
The lesson on “Respect” came to a close.
I’m not sure how this will get reported, but my hope is that I’m blacklisted from the Primary Substitute Teacher list.
Okay, the Bible-- and the Primary class I taught last Sunday. However, since they are both in the realms of religion, I do not think this kind of behavior exists elsewhere. Why? Because Natural Selection removes these people (or animals) foolish enough to try it. In the wild, they are chased out of the herd or, in worse cases, torn limb-from-limb. In civilization, they are given Swirlies. In both cases, the offender is ostracized. Don’t believe me? Walk in to your local Hell’s Angels hangout and call the first guy you meet a greasy long-haired hippy, then count how many seconds it takes before you are either dismembered or hog-tied and left in your underwear in the parking lot.
This past Sunday, I had the “pleasure” (read: “unfortunate assignment”) of teaching the 9-10 year-olds in church. The lesson: Respect. In hindsight, I should have perceived the clash of ideals long before I stepped foot into the classroom. Here I had 9 year-olds, most of which I presume have very little understanding or appreciation of the word “respect”, and me trying to teach them this fundamental principle of survival while not “doing them in” before class was over. Anyhow, I get to work trying to teach this lesson to 4 little kids who can barely keep themselves settled long enough to breathe. We get done in record time—20 minutes left on the clock.
They ask if they can play “Hangman” on the chalkboard. Sure… what harm can there be with that? Again, I should have seen the red flag… I just finished a lesson on “respect” for four 9-year-old kids, and they want to close the lesson by hanging some poor guy on account of him not choosing the correct letters?
We start—actually, I start—the game. Being the teacher, I get the privilege of being the first “executioner”. My phrase: “I Should Be Respectful”. So I put the appropriate number of spaces on the board and ready the gallows. The kids start their turn at guessing letters.
Soon, it comes to Child #3, whom I shall call Ferdinand. Ferdinand guesses the letter “L” and I proceed to put in the “L” at the end of the word “Respectful”. However, in my haste to get out of the classroom, I overlooked the “L” in the word “Should”. Ferdinand is given the chance to guess the phrase, then “passes” to the next kid after failing to correctly guess the phrase in 10 seconds.
Before doing so, however, Ferdinand asks, “Is the last work ‘disrespectful’?” and I say, “No”. We move on.
After a few additional letters being placed in the phrase, another Child (Child #1, whom I shall call Clarabelle), correctly answers the phrase, at which point Ferdinand goes bizerke, telling me that I said “no” when asked if the last word was “disrespectful”. True, I said, it wasn’t… it was “respectful”, to which Ferdinand said, “Yeah, but ‘respectful’ IS part of the word ‘disrespectful’… and, you even forgot the “L” in the world ‘Should’. You really ARE dumb.”
Clearly, due to the environment and the guilt that would undoubtedly follow, I couldn’t do the Swirlie idea that first came to mind. I considered the hog-tying. But, in the end, I had no choice: I had to outwit the kid.
My response: “Yeah, but you forget that our lesson was on RESPECT, something you clearly LACK, so who really is the dumb one here?”
Ferdinand: “Just so you know, I won the last FOUR Hangmans in a row, and some of them only had a few letters.”
Me: “Did your teacher give you a big star sticker to put on your chest so you can walk around church showing everyone what a smart-alic you really are?”
Goliath: 1. David: 0.
Next up: Child #4, whom I shall call Ernest. Ernest had the idea of outwitting all of us. This child opens the Bible to some unknown verse and proceeds to put marks on the board for the entire thing… all 44 or 45 of them! Ferdinand goes back to the “L” letter of prior controversy (all in an attempt to drive home the point to me that I clearly failed the Primary IQ test), to which Ernest puts down the letter in the appropriate spaces. Clarabelle was next—and this child says, “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain”, which was the correct answer. Two spaces filled out of 45, and she wins. No one could have foreseen the ensuing events.
Like the Philistines, Ernest throws a temper tantrum. The chalk goes flying. The erasers go flying. Both bounce off the walls, table, and chairs. Ernest runs out of the classroom, crying at the top of his lungs, as the rest of us sit there with a dazed look of disbelief on our eyes (except for Ferdinand, who was still giving me the Stink Eye). About 10 seconds later, in runs Ernest, crying, tears falling all over the place. Ernest finds a place in the corner, sits down, and with head in arms, cries and cries and accuses the rest of us as conspirators (he used the word “cheaters”).
Me: “Whoa. Are you serious? There are no cry-babies allowed here! It’s just a game, ‘Ernest’!”
Ernest: “It’s not fair! You cheated!”
Me: “You are falling below the ‘respect’ line, Ernest. Okay, Clarabelle, it’s now your turn.”
Ernest: “NO!! I want another chance!” Waaa-waaa…
Me: “Okay, stop crying! Pick something original then, and keep it simple!”
Ernest picks up the chalk and eraser, walks up to the chalkboard while wiping tears, and proceeds to use a single word for the next gig. Before the gallows are even drawn, Ferdinand says, “That’s too easy! Its your last name!”
Ernest quickly wipes the board and starts over with something that is a bit longer, but altogether, even easier than before… it’s the classic Hangman default phrase. Clarabelle says, “I already know it!”, but Ernest says that he isn’t going to call on me or Clarabelle for this game, leaving it to Child #2 (I didn’t know her name) and Ferdinand to solve. Finally, Child #2 solves it, after which I looked at Ferdinand and said, “Yeah, that was the easiest Hangman ever… who again did you say was the dumb one in the class?” I got the Death Look from Ferdinand who rolled his eyes and sat in defiance till it was time to let them leave.
Okay, so I took it too far with Ferdinand and Ernest, but am I not doing them a favor? Is it a good idea to allow a child to grow up thinking that he/she is so clearly superior to everyone else that nothing they say or do will ever be punished by someone that is so obviously bigger and unwilling to take their crap? Had I had my current temperament but been transformed into a 10 year old at that moment, it would have been a WWE Cage Match inside that classroom, me winning the bout after a Suicidal Pile Driver to the floor.
The lesson on “Respect” came to a close.
I’m not sure how this will get reported, but my hope is that I’m blacklisted from the Primary Substitute Teacher list.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Another Pool Experience
What I am about to tell you could get me disfellowshipped from the church. And, it could be dreadfully embarrassing. But, it is a story that has to be told. The little shoulder devil that speaks to me is urging me, "Go on! Go on!" Since my shoulder angel is silent on the subject, I feel compelled to tell. Here goes nothing...
Yesterday, we had a temple trip for our ward. Columbus Ohio. Prior to this, I had been asked, if needed, if I would be willing to help with baptisms. I said I was fine with that-- I had never done them before, so what the heck?
I never heard anything more until we arrived at the temple, 9AM, after a slippery 3.5 hour drive from Pittsburgh. I took Chrissa into the temple to meet up with our group and I was asked if I was still OK to help. Sure, I said.
Then, I was asked if I would perform the baptisms. "Uh, sure," I said. I sensed a conspiracy, raising my senses to high alert.
There were 22 kids that were participating. I was one of 2 guys doing the baptisms. The line-up of kids was a mixed bag... some big, some small, but odds were that the other guy and I would get a pretty equal share of "proportions", both in age and in size.
I was second to get to work, after the first guy did 10 baptisms per kid for half the group for a total of 110, give or take.
However, prior to the start of the work, I had noticed that the font wasn't really up to par. Clearly, it had been used by a sufficient number of people prior to our arrival. Evidence had been left by some. You all know my thoughts and feelings on public pools-- I avoid them like the bubonic plague. Knowing that this font was probably more "public" than private really forced me to do a thorough visual examination of the font structure and the condition of the water's surface, clarity, and overall quality. Sure enough, there they were... hair balls, gleefully floating on the water's surface and in full contrast to the overall whiteness of the font.
I leaned over to the guy next to me and said, "Look at those... they look like dead cats floating in the font. I think I just barfed in my mouth." I was serious. A single hair of unknown origins can send me over the edge. He got to laughing and then made the comment to the temple workers that they needed to skim the water before we started. When a guy has to ask for something to be cleaned, you KNOW there is a good reason for it. Not sure what happened, other than this request didn't produce any results.
So, I see floaties and wonder, "What is under the water's surface that I can't see?" All something has to be is lighter than water and it'll float. I can think of thousands of nasty things that are more dense than water that could surely exist quite comfortably below the water line or, worse, on the bottom out of sight. Considering the use of the font by, generally, youth between the ages of 12 and 17-ish, it wasn't entirely out of the question.
My predecessor finishes his half, and it became my turn to get wet. So I slowly get down into the water, splashing those floaties away from me as I go, and prepare for my 11 kids at 10 "reps" each.
Uh, no. The temple guy said that they had more work to do than they had anticipated, so I was needed to do 10 reps for the young men, and FIFTEEN for the young women.
That was issue #2, actually.
Issue #1 came down to the members of my "team". You see, not to sound judgemental or rude, but one player in particular is... well.. how do I say it? This kid possesses significant circumferential qualities resulting in an uncommonly large mass. Fair enough? I had secretly been praying that this person wouldn't be on my "team" because, to be honest, I didn't have the strength. Furthermore, I had suffered an injury to my shoulder years ago and it still acts up on me from time to time. Nor does the church carry workman's compensation insurance, so any injury that resulted would be on my dime and on my time.
My prayers went unanswered. Sure enough, the group split happened before this kid had the chance to participate, leaving this person in my line-up. This kid wasn't on deck, but did come "to bat" at spot #3.
It became to this kid's turn and slowly the kid decended the short steps into the font. Now, again, I do not mean to be rude here, but I found myself in a very awkward position. Here I am, waist deep in water and up against a concrete structure surrounded in paned glass, and decending upon me from a higher position is a person that was clearly uneasy about decending the stairs, could slip and... well, you get the picture.
Immediately, I wondered what safety equipment should have been provided to me. A life preserver? A harnass attached to a firm structure of some kind or a high speed winch to pull me to safety? Any kind of automated defibrillator? Unfortunately, I had no such equipment, as anyone who has done this work can attest to.
This person thankfully made it into the water without incident and, after a short silent prayer for strength, I get to work on the baptisms. Fifteeen. However, after one, I knew this was going to be a real chore. You see... again, I'll try to be professional about this... when one gets to a certain size, being able to bend at the waist becomes more difficult and then, ultimately, impossible. The knees provide little relief as they simply lack the leverage needed to do their job. Once a person is "tilted" past a certain angle, gravity pretty well takes over... and, in a natural effort to slow the effects of gravity, the person tries to shuffle their feet to compensate.
In this case, the feet did more harm than good. At that critical angle, the feet lost their grip on the bottom, and out they came... and down this person went. And, I had to pull this person back up to the surface.
Fifteen.
And, in probably 75% of the "reps", the footing was lost and, once again, I had to haul this person up to the surface.
All while trying to keep the floaties at bay.
After 15, I was beat. Literally.
Today, my arm and shoulder is virtually numb. I may have torn a muscle, ligament, tendon, or all three, trying to do this job. Ironically, I learned later that the guy before me had asked that he be spared this particular person because in times past, he had to do the work and his back had never recovered... or so the rumor goes. Not sure how much truth there is to that.
Anyhow, we finish, and I finish up the other kids and pull myself out of the font when the temple lady gave me a towel and said, "Uh-uh... you need to wipe the water off the glass to clean things up a bit before you get out." Huh? Okay, whatever, I thought. But the water had done some pretty excessive splashing during my short stint, and the water drips were everywhere. Clearly, there had been some pretty hefty waves. Splashing the floaties out of the way, I made my rounds and got the glass clean.
The floaties... no mention to clean those up.
To add insult to injury, upon leaving the temple, this particular person was being asked by someone else how the experience was, and this person said, "IT WAS HORRIBLE!" Yeah. How do you think I felt??
The moral of this story is-- be aware of your surroundings and know your personal risk. Stay out of the line of fire. And, have an escape plan in mind, just in case. And, stay out of public pools.
Yesterday, we had a temple trip for our ward. Columbus Ohio. Prior to this, I had been asked, if needed, if I would be willing to help with baptisms. I said I was fine with that-- I had never done them before, so what the heck?
I never heard anything more until we arrived at the temple, 9AM, after a slippery 3.5 hour drive from Pittsburgh. I took Chrissa into the temple to meet up with our group and I was asked if I was still OK to help. Sure, I said.
Then, I was asked if I would perform the baptisms. "Uh, sure," I said. I sensed a conspiracy, raising my senses to high alert.
There were 22 kids that were participating. I was one of 2 guys doing the baptisms. The line-up of kids was a mixed bag... some big, some small, but odds were that the other guy and I would get a pretty equal share of "proportions", both in age and in size.
I was second to get to work, after the first guy did 10 baptisms per kid for half the group for a total of 110, give or take.
However, prior to the start of the work, I had noticed that the font wasn't really up to par. Clearly, it had been used by a sufficient number of people prior to our arrival. Evidence had been left by some. You all know my thoughts and feelings on public pools-- I avoid them like the bubonic plague. Knowing that this font was probably more "public" than private really forced me to do a thorough visual examination of the font structure and the condition of the water's surface, clarity, and overall quality. Sure enough, there they were... hair balls, gleefully floating on the water's surface and in full contrast to the overall whiteness of the font.
I leaned over to the guy next to me and said, "Look at those... they look like dead cats floating in the font. I think I just barfed in my mouth." I was serious. A single hair of unknown origins can send me over the edge. He got to laughing and then made the comment to the temple workers that they needed to skim the water before we started. When a guy has to ask for something to be cleaned, you KNOW there is a good reason for it. Not sure what happened, other than this request didn't produce any results.
So, I see floaties and wonder, "What is under the water's surface that I can't see?" All something has to be is lighter than water and it'll float. I can think of thousands of nasty things that are more dense than water that could surely exist quite comfortably below the water line or, worse, on the bottom out of sight. Considering the use of the font by, generally, youth between the ages of 12 and 17-ish, it wasn't entirely out of the question.
My predecessor finishes his half, and it became my turn to get wet. So I slowly get down into the water, splashing those floaties away from me as I go, and prepare for my 11 kids at 10 "reps" each.
Uh, no. The temple guy said that they had more work to do than they had anticipated, so I was needed to do 10 reps for the young men, and FIFTEEN for the young women.
That was issue #2, actually.
Issue #1 came down to the members of my "team". You see, not to sound judgemental or rude, but one player in particular is... well.. how do I say it? This kid possesses significant circumferential qualities resulting in an uncommonly large mass. Fair enough? I had secretly been praying that this person wouldn't be on my "team" because, to be honest, I didn't have the strength. Furthermore, I had suffered an injury to my shoulder years ago and it still acts up on me from time to time. Nor does the church carry workman's compensation insurance, so any injury that resulted would be on my dime and on my time.
My prayers went unanswered. Sure enough, the group split happened before this kid had the chance to participate, leaving this person in my line-up. This kid wasn't on deck, but did come "to bat" at spot #3.
It became to this kid's turn and slowly the kid decended the short steps into the font. Now, again, I do not mean to be rude here, but I found myself in a very awkward position. Here I am, waist deep in water and up against a concrete structure surrounded in paned glass, and decending upon me from a higher position is a person that was clearly uneasy about decending the stairs, could slip and... well, you get the picture.
Immediately, I wondered what safety equipment should have been provided to me. A life preserver? A harnass attached to a firm structure of some kind or a high speed winch to pull me to safety? Any kind of automated defibrillator? Unfortunately, I had no such equipment, as anyone who has done this work can attest to.
This person thankfully made it into the water without incident and, after a short silent prayer for strength, I get to work on the baptisms. Fifteeen. However, after one, I knew this was going to be a real chore. You see... again, I'll try to be professional about this... when one gets to a certain size, being able to bend at the waist becomes more difficult and then, ultimately, impossible. The knees provide little relief as they simply lack the leverage needed to do their job. Once a person is "tilted" past a certain angle, gravity pretty well takes over... and, in a natural effort to slow the effects of gravity, the person tries to shuffle their feet to compensate.
In this case, the feet did more harm than good. At that critical angle, the feet lost their grip on the bottom, and out they came... and down this person went. And, I had to pull this person back up to the surface.
Fifteen.
And, in probably 75% of the "reps", the footing was lost and, once again, I had to haul this person up to the surface.
All while trying to keep the floaties at bay.
After 15, I was beat. Literally.
Today, my arm and shoulder is virtually numb. I may have torn a muscle, ligament, tendon, or all three, trying to do this job. Ironically, I learned later that the guy before me had asked that he be spared this particular person because in times past, he had to do the work and his back had never recovered... or so the rumor goes. Not sure how much truth there is to that.
Anyhow, we finish, and I finish up the other kids and pull myself out of the font when the temple lady gave me a towel and said, "Uh-uh... you need to wipe the water off the glass to clean things up a bit before you get out." Huh? Okay, whatever, I thought. But the water had done some pretty excessive splashing during my short stint, and the water drips were everywhere. Clearly, there had been some pretty hefty waves. Splashing the floaties out of the way, I made my rounds and got the glass clean.
The floaties... no mention to clean those up.
To add insult to injury, upon leaving the temple, this particular person was being asked by someone else how the experience was, and this person said, "IT WAS HORRIBLE!" Yeah. How do you think I felt??
The moral of this story is-- be aware of your surroundings and know your personal risk. Stay out of the line of fire. And, have an escape plan in mind, just in case. And, stay out of public pools.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Baptize and Demise
Ethan is scheduled for baptism in less than 2 months. For normal kids, this probably wouldn't be a "big deal", but for Ethan, its akin to being scheduled for the electric chair. Mention of this big day sends him into a panic. We are already planning for his last meal, and the clergy is scheduled to meet with him prior to the event to make sure his soul is prepared.
Why, you ask? He still cannot get a drop of water in his eyes without going ballistic.
So, here are some predictions for that day:
Nevertheless, I recommend attendees bring the following personal protective equipment to the event, should you choose to participate:
Why, you ask? He still cannot get a drop of water in his eyes without going ballistic.
So, here are some predictions for that day:
- I'll have to enter the water first and spend the next 5 minutes convincing Ethan that the water isn't as cold as it looks;
- After getting him into the water, I'll then have to spend 5 minutes convincing him that I will not let him drop to the bottom of the tank;
- Once he gets convinced of that, I'll then have to show him how the baptism will go, using an invisible "victim" to show him the minute details of the ritual while he looks on and asks questions about my technique;
- After the prayer, I'll have to spend another 5 minutes helping him properly and completely plug his nose and close his eyes;
- After pulling him out of the water, I'll then have to spend 10 minutes trying to calm him down, wipe the water out of his face, and talk him out of the high-pitched screaming that typically follows.
Nevertheless, I recommend attendees bring the following personal protective equipment to the event, should you choose to participate:
- Raincoat, umbrella, and/or poncho. I plan to layout a "Splash Zone", such as the one you'd find at Sea World, in anticipation of his frenzied Shamu-like exit from the water;
- Ear plugs or ear muffs. Ethan's screaming is higher and louder than what you might be used to or what you might expect from an 8-year-old boy. I've made plans to plywood up the windows, but I make no guarantee for your own ears;
- Video cameras. This could be your opportunity to video tape an "America's Funniest Home Videos" grand prize, but in doing so, I claim 50%.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
A Series of Unfortunate Events
It was one of the strangest weeks I've had in a long time.
Slowly, it began to dawn on us that this guy was not faking it, so a medical student in the class began asking all the right questions, and slowly and carefully others started standing up to help and escort him out of the classroom. With only 10 minutes left of class, and after half of the class had left with this guy, I sat there, notes in hand, without a thing to say.
Never in my teaching experiences have I bored a person into strange behavioral peculiarities, until this past Sunday.
So, believing the worst of the week was behind me, I head to work. All goes well until Wednesday, when a police officer knocks on our door at the convenient time of 10PM. Perhaps he was there to arrest me for disorderly conduct in the churchouse? I wasn't certain. Luckily, I sent Michelle to answer the door, just to be safe. He was looking for someone named Randy or Russell or Robert... can't remember the name, but whomever it was gave our address as his. Sorry, Michelle said... no one here by that name.
Then again on Friday, the missionaries show up saying that someone by the name of Douglas had requested them via lds.org to pay him a visit. Again, our address was given. A quick search of the white pages showed Doug living around the corner from us, up the street a little way. Why give our address?
Then, Friday evening. For three months I had been planning a men's vacation out on Lake Erie for a day-long walleye fishing trip. Three months. We finally got settled on a weekend (Saturday), got our stuff, and were ready to go when the guide called me to say that "we have a problem. The boat crashed." Really? CRASHED? The day before we were supposed to go? Surely, I must be doomed with bad luck this week. All that time, all the wait... gone. No fishing.
And so, with my head hung low, I wave the white flag. I surrender. My teaching experiences are done. As further proof, a couple of guys from the class said to me afterwards, "Next time you are asked to teach, I'm staying home!" They, of course, remembered the middle eastern guy (another strange church episode of months ago-- again, when I was teaching), and combined with the current situation, see the light on the wall as well: I shouldn't be teaching at all. Given the events of the rest of the week, I shouldn't have gotten out of bed, either.
It all started last Sunday... and with it, the most bizarre display I have yet witnessed in church. Prior to the start of priesthood class, a friend pointed out to me the presence of another guy whom I had never seen before. "AJ" was his name, and in the week or two prior, he had shown up at the weekly basketball games the priesthood men hold Tuesday or Wednesday nights. This guy, obviously out of his mind (drugs, diabetes, whatever), was basically unresponsive and delirious and ended up barfing on the gym floor. Yeah. My bet, and the bet of those I know, believe he was on some serious recreational pharmaceuticals of questionable and somewhat dubious legality.
This same guy came to priesthood class-- with me giving the lesson, of course. And, as if on cue, and no more than 10 minutes into the lesson, AJ stands up, takes off his shoes, puts the shoes behind his chair, and starts walking in tight circles. The group sits in a large circle, so all of this was going on in the center of the ring, kinda like a clown display at a Ringling Brothers circus. He then started laughing at himself, pulling at his hair, rubbing his face, pretent punching some of the guys, and shaking. We all just froze. I'm certain part of us were unsure if he was having a medical episode (either legal or illegal drug-induced) or trying to get attention. I, too, just sat there bug-eyed, not believing that, again, my attempt to teach was being met with some strange influence. Great luck, eh?
Never in my teaching experiences have I bored a person into strange behavioral peculiarities, until this past Sunday.
So, believing the worst of the week was behind me, I head to work. All goes well until Wednesday, when a police officer knocks on our door at the convenient time of 10PM. Perhaps he was there to arrest me for disorderly conduct in the churchouse? I wasn't certain. Luckily, I sent Michelle to answer the door, just to be safe. He was looking for someone named Randy or Russell or Robert... can't remember the name, but whomever it was gave our address as his. Sorry, Michelle said... no one here by that name.
Then again on Friday, the missionaries show up saying that someone by the name of Douglas had requested them via lds.org to pay him a visit. Again, our address was given. A quick search of the white pages showed Doug living around the corner from us, up the street a little way. Why give our address?
Then, Friday evening. For three months I had been planning a men's vacation out on Lake Erie for a day-long walleye fishing trip. Three months. We finally got settled on a weekend (Saturday), got our stuff, and were ready to go when the guide called me to say that "we have a problem. The boat crashed." Really? CRASHED? The day before we were supposed to go? Surely, I must be doomed with bad luck this week. All that time, all the wait... gone. No fishing.
And so, with my head hung low, I wave the white flag. I surrender. My teaching experiences are done. As further proof, a couple of guys from the class said to me afterwards, "Next time you are asked to teach, I'm staying home!" They, of course, remembered the middle eastern guy (another strange church episode of months ago-- again, when I was teaching), and combined with the current situation, see the light on the wall as well: I shouldn't be teaching at all. Given the events of the rest of the week, I shouldn't have gotten out of bed, either.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Girls Camp
Call me "old fashioned". I don't care. But, I can no longer sit idly aside and let another year go by without commenting on Girl's Camp.
Does anyone realize what is going on down there? Is it the heat? The humidity? Has the sun somehow affected those involved causing them to act like they do?
Girl's Camp. The only comparison I have is Boy's Camp. And, there is a HUGE difference between the two. If you don't believe me, just Google "LDS Girl's Camp" and "LDS Boy's Camp" and see which gets the most hits (my last count was 198,000 to 80,400, respectively).
Last weekend, I travelled the 1 hour and 45 minutes to Donegal PA to pick up Chrissa and 2 other girls for their return trip home. I needed that 1:45 to psych myself up for the return trip, but I also realized that despite this time, it was not going to be enough to prepare me physically and mentally from the teenager onslaught that was about to come my way.
I knew, just by the nature of huge masses of teenage girls in one area, that I was in for it. Add to that the spiritual principles of eternal significance that is attached to every breath and footstep made during the entire ordeal. And, as I entered the campground, I knew I was right. I had, once again, stepped into Pennsylvania's equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle.
Girls slowly came out of the cabins that they had been put up in for the prior 4 days. They looked like liberated concentration campers. Out some of them came in dirty clothes, ragged hair, etc. My truck was like the approaching Allied army.
Before I could say anything, girls started throwing bags and crap into my truck bed, asking me if I would be willing to drive them to the upper camp ground. They didn't want to drag all their belongings to the meeting point. Little choice did I have since the stuff was already loaded up by that point. So, I took the camping gear to the top and waited, and was awarded the title, "Calvary Cade" for arriving in the nick-of-time (calvary meaning the army unit, and nick-of-time meaning that the girls were ready to start a mutiny at any given second prior to my arrival).
There were dozens of girls, and the aire of estrogen was heavy. I KNEW that there had been hours of back-biting and accusations, cold shoulders and silent treatments, harassments and scandalizing, gossipping and scoffing, rumormongoring and insinuating. The battle wounds on their faces told a week-long story of an experience only teenaged girls can have when held up in leaky cabins for 4 days without cell phone coverage.
As if on cue, as we started our journey back home, a recanting of the weeks events ensued. First up: who was the most stuck-up girl there. After a short debate, a girl had been chosen. Second, a listing of the girls who HAD to have make-up while at camp, and how ridiculous those girls were. Third, the drama (they called it "togetherness") that resulted from the testimony meeting-- the only point in the week where you can catch all girls crying at the same time, but probably would not find the same group of girls even looking at each other at any other point during the camping trip. Fourth, which hair conditioner at camp was actually better for your facial pores. And fifth, which girl was missing her boyfriend's text messages the most (little to no cell phone coverage in the area) and how 4 days of crying as a result would affect their relationship.
There were the ants-- they happened to find their way into the food bags, sleeping bags, and hair of sleeping girls throughout the night. Then there were the mice-- same thing (not in the hair, of course, but I'm not totally convinced this didn't happen after seeing the girls emerge from their cabin coccoons when I arrived). And the bats and racoons. Sadly, the prayers to "subdue" the creatures didn't get answered, at least not in the way they had all hoped for.
How does this all compare to my experiences at boys camp? Well, for starters, ants had 3 functions-- they sizzled when thrown into the campfire; they helped you pass the "Wilderness Survival" merit badge by giving you an easy and convenient way to "eat off the land" (i.e., putting them in your pancake batter); or 3) they made good practical joke props by putting them in someone else's pancake batter. Mice-- they were fun to catch and put on a hot dog stick OR encouraging them to get inside other guy's tents when they weren't there. Interpersonal conflicts? We just found one person to vent on, sparing the rest of the group. That one person received the brunt of it all, sparing the rest of the team from a weeklong battle of hormones (we called it "natural selection"). No accusations, no insinuations, no backbiting. We didn't shower, either, so we could have cared less what hair conditioner was better for our pores.
In the end, all the boys were great friends when we left, aside from the scapegoat.
So, for future reference, if you are ever caught being asked to help out in some way at an LDS girls camp, you have been forewarned. Be careful!
Does anyone realize what is going on down there? Is it the heat? The humidity? Has the sun somehow affected those involved causing them to act like they do?
Girl's Camp. The only comparison I have is Boy's Camp. And, there is a HUGE difference between the two. If you don't believe me, just Google "LDS Girl's Camp" and "LDS Boy's Camp" and see which gets the most hits (my last count was 198,000 to 80,400, respectively).
Last weekend, I travelled the 1 hour and 45 minutes to Donegal PA to pick up Chrissa and 2 other girls for their return trip home. I needed that 1:45 to psych myself up for the return trip, but I also realized that despite this time, it was not going to be enough to prepare me physically and mentally from the teenager onslaught that was about to come my way.
I knew, just by the nature of huge masses of teenage girls in one area, that I was in for it. Add to that the spiritual principles of eternal significance that is attached to every breath and footstep made during the entire ordeal. And, as I entered the campground, I knew I was right. I had, once again, stepped into Pennsylvania's equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle.
Girls slowly came out of the cabins that they had been put up in for the prior 4 days. They looked like liberated concentration campers. Out some of them came in dirty clothes, ragged hair, etc. My truck was like the approaching Allied army.
Before I could say anything, girls started throwing bags and crap into my truck bed, asking me if I would be willing to drive them to the upper camp ground. They didn't want to drag all their belongings to the meeting point. Little choice did I have since the stuff was already loaded up by that point. So, I took the camping gear to the top and waited, and was awarded the title, "Calvary Cade" for arriving in the nick-of-time (calvary meaning the army unit, and nick-of-time meaning that the girls were ready to start a mutiny at any given second prior to my arrival).
There were dozens of girls, and the aire of estrogen was heavy. I KNEW that there had been hours of back-biting and accusations, cold shoulders and silent treatments, harassments and scandalizing, gossipping and scoffing, rumormongoring and insinuating. The battle wounds on their faces told a week-long story of an experience only teenaged girls can have when held up in leaky cabins for 4 days without cell phone coverage.
As if on cue, as we started our journey back home, a recanting of the weeks events ensued. First up: who was the most stuck-up girl there. After a short debate, a girl had been chosen. Second, a listing of the girls who HAD to have make-up while at camp, and how ridiculous those girls were. Third, the drama (they called it "togetherness") that resulted from the testimony meeting-- the only point in the week where you can catch all girls crying at the same time, but probably would not find the same group of girls even looking at each other at any other point during the camping trip. Fourth, which hair conditioner at camp was actually better for your facial pores. And fifth, which girl was missing her boyfriend's text messages the most (little to no cell phone coverage in the area) and how 4 days of crying as a result would affect their relationship.
There were the ants-- they happened to find their way into the food bags, sleeping bags, and hair of sleeping girls throughout the night. Then there were the mice-- same thing (not in the hair, of course, but I'm not totally convinced this didn't happen after seeing the girls emerge from their cabin coccoons when I arrived). And the bats and racoons. Sadly, the prayers to "subdue" the creatures didn't get answered, at least not in the way they had all hoped for.
How does this all compare to my experiences at boys camp? Well, for starters, ants had 3 functions-- they sizzled when thrown into the campfire; they helped you pass the "Wilderness Survival" merit badge by giving you an easy and convenient way to "eat off the land" (i.e., putting them in your pancake batter); or 3) they made good practical joke props by putting them in someone else's pancake batter. Mice-- they were fun to catch and put on a hot dog stick OR encouraging them to get inside other guy's tents when they weren't there. Interpersonal conflicts? We just found one person to vent on, sparing the rest of the group. That one person received the brunt of it all, sparing the rest of the team from a weeklong battle of hormones (we called it "natural selection"). No accusations, no insinuations, no backbiting. We didn't shower, either, so we could have cared less what hair conditioner was better for our pores.
In the end, all the boys were great friends when we left, aside from the scapegoat.
So, for future reference, if you are ever caught being asked to help out in some way at an LDS girls camp, you have been forewarned. Be careful!
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