See John write

There is an art to creating comfortable shade on the beach. My father is a shade artist. And like most art, it’s a little engineering, a little science, and a whole lot of instinct.

When gas crossed the $3/gallon mark, something snapped inside my brain. I have always happily poured gasoline into my boat—never really giving it more than a passing thought. But at $3/gallon, I suddenly am cringing at the pump. Yuck.

I read a speech the other day. It was given by John Cotton over 200 years ago. It was about the protestant idea of “calling.” The idea was that any work that served society at large was noble and good. And that with diligence and faith, men should seek out God’s will for their calling in life. It is a fascinating concept. I sometimes wonder if I’ve found my calling.

Lake Powell is one of the most beautiful places on the planet. Period.

The question, “Where are you from?” is interesting. I spent most of my growing up years in Sandy. But with each passing year, my roots grow deeper in this little town of Farmington. Certainly my kids will answer the question with “Farmington, Utah!” I like that. I am a Farmingtonite. A Farmingtonian. A Farmingtahn.

My kids are still young enough that they still want to play with me. But my kids are old enough that I can see the day lurking in the distance when they will no longer want to play with me. Some days that makes me sad. Some days it makes me happy.

The older I get and the more experience I gain, the more I’m convinced that the whole trick to life is learning to change. Old Mr. Newton had it right. An object in motion will remain in motion. An object at rest will remain at rest. The natural man likes the status quo. The spiritual man has to learn how to kick the butt of the status quo.

I love my family. A LOT!

I’m tired. I’m going to bed now.

It will be a few days again before I’m back here. Another youth water skiing trip. Ahhhh.

I rounded the corner of the building to head for the gap in the fence. But after only a few steps I saw six more leather jackets seemingly coming from every direction. I sprinted ahead, hoping to bowl them over. As I crashed into one of them, the others easily caught hold of me. Quickly, they had both my hands twisted behind my back and I was helpless.

The white-haired man soon emerged from the alley. He kept his calm, lanky pace and friendly smile as he approached me.

It was in that moment that I remembered. My friend who had joined the Society and then left. The thing that had frightened her. The reason she left. It was mind drugs. She had accidently discovered a stash of … what did she call them? Psychotic drugs.

“Alexander,” the white-haired man said, “I’m disappointed. In the Society, we always choose non-violence. And we had such great hopes for you. In the car in the middle of the night, you refused the gun. But now this. I’m afraid you’ll need to learn to be more submissive.”

He stepped closer, the bandage was still in his hand. I twisted my head away and tried to wriggle free. He raised the bandage toward my neck.

“You’ll feel much better in only a moment,” he said in his warmest voice as he pressed the bandage onto my neck.

I felt an immediate burning sensation on my skin. I began to feel dizzy. My eyes couldn’t seem to stay focused. The men released my arms and I nearly fell to the ground. Just before I lost consciousness, I turned and looked toward the rail yard. I saw my father hiding behind a huge support column. His eyes caught mine and then all went black.

######

The dream that came to me was an old dream. When I was younger, it came to me almost every night. As the years had passed, the dream had become a distant memory.

I was only a boy. It was winter. The sky was low and heavy.

The wetness of the mud made my small feet ache. I could feel the tears in my eyes. I couldn’t hold still, I kept pacing. Rubbing my hands on the thin shirt on my shoulders, I tried to restore feeling to my fingers.

Then there it was. Right there in the mud at my feet. A small box of matches.

My young heart seemed to stop. I glanced around. No one was watching. I picked up the box and slipped it in my pocket.

Two matches wasted. The breeze just blew them out. I had to find some place out of the wind.

The old metal door squeaked on its hinges. I only needed it open a couple of inches. I slipped inside the dark building. I was shaking.

I found a corner. I made a pile of torn cardboard and a few pieces of wood. My numb fingers could barely hold the match as I pulled it down the side of the matchbox.

It started so small, barely even glowing. I had seen my dad blow on a fire before. I blew and the flame got bigger. I blew again. More fire. I blew harder. Then I felt it. The heat on my face. I was so happy.

I scrambled around the inside of the old building. Any scrap I could find, I dragged it to my fire. I was warm. So warm. It felt so good. I decided to lay down, just for a minute.

For the next several days, I’ll be falling to sleep to the gentle sounds of the waves lapping at the edge of Lake Powell. My muscles will ache from skiing too much. I’ll be exhausted because I simply cannot resist the call of the early morning water. And hopefully I’ll be well fed, as I’m in charge of the food for 9 boy scouts and the leaders.

I hope you have sweet dreams too. Perhaps you could dream up what happens to poor old Alexander Feldman next. What could be around the next corner? What on earth was that bandage thing the old guy pulled out? Who is Sterling Brown? And what’s the deal with Pervis?

I’ll talk to you soon.

The speaker in sacrament meeting yesterday wasn’t even talking about fathers. Or grandfathers. I can’t even put my finger on what he said that got things turning in my mind. But suddenly, right there on the next to last row sitting between Elizabeth and Nate, I found a new legacy that has been given to me. A legacy that was completely new to me. A legacy that was a lifetime in the making.

I loved my Grandfather Crowley. He was an amazing man. He was strong but knew how to be gentle. He was wise but knew how to keep things simple. He had accomplished a great many things in his life but was never full of himself.

I had some choice moments in my teenage years working side-by-side with Grandfather. He was more than 60 years my senior, yet I don’t think I could ever have outworked him.

Now what I discovered in sacrament meeting weren’t any of the good things about Grandfather. I already knew all that. I had loved him all my life. But the new part of the relationship came as I realized that I also knew so many of his faults, of his struggles, of his imperfections.
The new legacy that came to me didn’t come from Grandfather. It came from my Dad. I realized that the seeds of my respect and love for Grandfather were planted throughout my childhood. Dad always honored his dad. He could have been critical. He could have tried to shield us from some “unhealthy” influences that came from a less than perfect grandparent. But never in my life did I sense any hesitancy. Dad loved his dad. And so I loved him too.

I’m certain there were conversations here and there about some of Grandfather’s bad habits. And had my Dad been embarassed by or ashamed of his Dad, I would have been embarassed or ashamed too. But instead there was always understanding and acceptance. I think I learned that we are all less than perfect but that shouldn’t stop us in any way from loving and respecting each other.

So in honor of Father’s Day weekend, I say thanks to my father for teaching me to love without condition, to accept without judgement, and to honor my parents always.

Instinctively, I raised my hands up. And then I surprised myself. I smiled at them. Just smiled.

“Are you guys everywhere?” I said with a bit of a chuckle.

They didn’t respond. Slowly, they closed in on me. Not really in an aggressive way. They were calm. Stepping carefully down the alley, cutting off any retreat.

Then they stopped, like they were waiting.

In a moment, the black compact car appeared on the street at the end of the alley. Instantly, I felt a rage rising up inside my chest. I tried to think of what I should say to her. She had sucked me into this mess and I had only been trying to help. But as I searched for the words, the driver’s door opened. Instead of seeing her wild curls, I saw the perfectly white hair of an older gentleman. He stood up and towered over the car. He was lean, his jaw sharply angled. He turned and looked down the alley way. His eyes were large and seemed … kind. It was as if I sensed compassion from him.

He moved with a flowing grace. Buttoning his neatly tailored suit, he stepped around the car and headed toward me. He made a subtle gesture with his hand and the men in the leather jackets took a step away from me.

Then he nodded at me and smiled. “Are you Alexander Feldman?” he asked as he extended his hand.

I hesitated, then took his hand which completely eveloped my own. “I am.”

“I must appologize if we frightened you,” he said. His deep voice was warm and genuine.

“Yeah,” I answered with a little sarcasm.

“You are a clever man,” he said. “You outwitted these guys.” He motioned at the two still wearing their dark glasses.

My eyes studied his. My mind struggled to make sense of it all. “Who are you?” I finally asked.

“A man who cuts to the quick—I like that.” He smiled at me again.

I put my hands on my hips and waited.

“Then I’ll cut to the quick as well,” he said as the smile left his face. “We know who you are. And it’s time for the truth.”

He reached his enormous hand into his pocket and pulled out a wrapper. It looked like a bandage of some kind. Quickly, he peeled the backing off and stepped toward me. I took a step backward.

“What are you doing with that?” I demanded.

I heard the man behind me move toward me and I raised my hand as if I were going to surrender. But as I felt him come right behind me, I spun and smashed my elbow into his face with all my might.

In one movement, I spun past him and sprinted back toward the fence.

His eyes opened slowly. He wasn’t alarmed or surprised. At first, I wasn’t even sure if he recognized me. But as he sat up, he nodded his head knowingly at me.

“Dad,” I said.

He held his hand up to stop me. “My son is dead,” he said in his unsteady voice.

“No, Dad,” I said firmly, “I think someone knows. Someone found out.”

He looked at me—stared right through me. His bony hand rubbed his beard, then ran up through his matted hair. His eyes went from me down to the bottle on the ground. As he reached for it, I quickly grabbed the bottle and pulled it away from him.

“You said this could never happen. That it was impossible,” I said trying to stay calm.

His eyes were still on the bottle. He grunted and gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

“Dad, I need your help.” I leaned down to meet his eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”

He paused for a long time. “You are who you are,” he finally said.

“But I’m telling you …” I began.

“It worked!” he interrupted. “Just like I told you. … You, you got a chance, a life.”

My head was spinning. Being back beside the tracks was too real. The dreams of the mud and the crying and the fear and the desperation and the cold had haunted me for so long. Now here I was in the middle of it again.

“But I did just what you said,” I said accusingly.

“Did what?”

“Help people,” I answered. “You promised me. You said that what happened wouldn’t matter—there would never be no trouble. If I just helped them that needed help.”

“And now after all these years, you’re gonna say it’s all my fault.” He pointed a bony finger at the middle of my chest.

“There are people out there—this group. It’s messed up and it’s like they’re everywhere. They know, Dad, they know.”

His eyes were emotionless. He motioned for me to come closer. Then he leaned forward until his face was next to my ear.

“Sterling Brown,” he whispered. “Charlington Place.”

I leaned back and looked at his gaunt face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He nodded. “You have to go now.”

I wanted to leave. I wanted to get out of that place. But I sat frozen. I am homeless again. I have no where to go.

He reached out and pulled the bottle from my hand. He twisted off the cap and swallowed deeply.

“Go,” he said. “You have to go.”

I stood up and stepped out of his shanty. I felt like there was something else to be said, but I had no words. Slowly I shook my head.

A few heavy clouds filtered the early sunlight giving a misty air to the morning. I looked all around. All was quiet. In the far distance, I could hear a train whistle.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and headed down the tracks. Sterling Brown? What did he mean?

As I picked my steps carefully, trying to stay on the rail ties and avoid the sloppiest mud, I happened to glance up ahead. I caught a glimpse of a black car going over the tracks on the cross street about 100 yards in front of me. I paused for a moment and I saw the car pause too. Then it sped off.

I looked all around me. I remembered a small footpath that squeezed between two curving off ramps and then lead into an alley between the buildings on Jensen Street. I glanced over my shoulder and then made a quick dash around a large support pillar.

The mud sloshed over my shoes making me feel like I was running in slow motion. My heart was pounding as I entered the shadows between the two off ramps. The ground was drier and I ran harder. I cut underneath the elevated road and squeezed through a gap in the chainlink fence. I was behind a large brick building with huge industrial fans all along the back wall.

I glanced over my shoulder again and saw no one. Quietly I made my way to the corner of the building. I turned down the alley that lead out to the street. Suddenly, right there in the early morning light coming from the street into the alley was a man with dark glasses and a leather jacket. He calmly came towards me.

I turned to run only to find another man following right behind me. I was trapped.

It was still cold outside. But the rain had become very light. I continued to walk through the dark streets for two and a half hours. I never saw a sign of the black car or anyone following. I worried what they might be doing in my home.

But what could I do? Go to the cops?

Under the twisted freeway bridges in the heart of downtown was an old railroad yard. Long-abandoned rail cars and scrap metal made it a refuge for the homeless. Shanty huts built of rusted scraps and soggy cardboard were tucked around every corner. It was a place that outsiders never visited. Except for an occasional cop. Dirty faces. Rotted teeth. Ragged clothes. And mud, mud everywhere.

It had been years since I had been there. Yet I knew he’d still be there. Huddled in the same place. The same bottle in his bony, filthy fingers.

The sky was beginning to show the first signs of dawn. I stepped into the thick, muddy slop and my stomach turned over. I caught the unmistakable, rancid scent in the air. Memories flooded over me and I had to fight the urge to turn and run.

He had added a few more scraps to his “home” in the years since I’d left. It seemed to almost have some substance to it. A rusted Chevy hood with blotches of 1970s green paint still formed the front wall. A thin blanket hung in the makeshift doorway.

I took a deep breath and pulled the thin blanket aside. His frail frame was curled up on a stack of cardboard that served as his mattress. A black jacket lay over his shoulders in a feeble attempt to protect him from the cold. His right hand hung out from under the jacket and clung to the neck of a brown bottle.

I cleared my throat. He didn’t flinch.

I looked down at my hands and they were shaking nervously. Maybe this is a bad idea.

Just then the sun broke through the clouds, casting barely enough light for me to see the outline of his face. There were more wrinkles now in his leathered skin. His scraggy beard was still trimmed short but it was now almost completely gray.
I cleared my throat again, louder than at first.

He stirred and let out a mournful groan.

I knew that I had to talk to him. Even though he had told me to never come back. Even though he told me that to him I was dead. I knew. Because he knew.

I stepped into the dark hut. I reached out hesitantly toward his shoulder. I nudged him gently.

I tried to talk but the words caught in my throat. I swallowed hard and then whispered quietly, “Dad … Dad, wake up.”

Where did the last week go? Does life ever do that to you? It’s kind of like the first time you go swimming as a youth leader. The kids come flying at you one after the other. Like some unwritten initiation ceremony, dunking the new guy is the quest of one and all. You stand bravely tossing aside deacons left and right. But soon enough, three priests have you by both legs and your neck.

My appologies to those who enjoy visiting here. I will try to get something worth reading up here as soon as possible.

In the mean time, perhaps we could all share what’s keeping you busy this summer. Or better yet, what do you wish you were busy with this summer.

I woke to find my hair and pillow soaked with sweat. I was trembling and my heart thumped heavily in my chest.

Pervis’ face was eerily vivid in my mind’s eye. It was so real. So haunting. Unlike the glassy look of everyone else in my dream, his eyes were pleading … frightened … desperate.

It’s just a dream, I told myself. Just a dream.

Yet somehow I knew. I knew that they knew.

Then my mind began to turn. Slowly, the full weight of the situation pressed down on me. I felt a tightness in my chest and for a moment it seemed I couldn’t catch my breath.

What if … what if they know everyone’s secrets?

I thought of the cop who had me in hand cuffs—who shoved his gun in my face. What kind of secret must he be hiding? Could they really have ordered him to do those things?

The boot prints on my porch. The stranger on the bus. Are these people everywhere?

And who else do they control? Business leaders? Politicians? Clergy?

“You don’t even know who to trust,” I said aloud, repeating the cop’s words. “Was he warning me? … Or setting me up?”

I knew that sleep would not return. I rubbed my eyes and looked at my clock, 4:12 a.m. I pulled a pillow over my face and let out a long groan. Then I slowly sat up. I scratched my head and stretched my stiff neck.

“There must be someone I can talk to. But who?” I said under my breath.

Finally, I stood up, thinking that perhaps some mindless TV might help me fall asleep. I walked down the dark hallway toward my front room. I reached for the light switch. Just before my finger flipped the switch, I heard it. It sounded like someone breathing. I hesitated for a second. Adrenaline flooded my body causing the hairs on my neck to stand up. I hit the switch and as the room flooded with light, I yelled, “HEY!”

She was standing against the wall and she didn’t flinch. Her pale blue eyes didn’t blink or seem to adjust to the light. Her wild curls cast a freakish shadow on the wall. She just stared at me and took one step forward.

I stumbled backward and then scrambled to my room, slamming the door. Quickly I locked the knob. I didn’t understand how she could be inside my house. But now I was certain of one thing: I had to get away from her.

As I pulled on my shoes, I heard her walking down the hall. Then I thought I heard other voices. I made my way to the front window and glanced out. The black car was back in my driveway. I hurried to the back window. Carefully, I pulled the curtains back. It was hard to see anything in the darkness, but I knew it was my best chance.

Making as little noise as possible, I slid the window open. I pulled out the screen and dropped it into the back yard. I put one foot on the ledge and then jumped down onto the lawn. Crouching in the darkness, I glanced around. All seemed still. Carefully, I stood up and pulled the window shut. Just then, I heard a loud bang on the bedroom door inside the house.

Quickly, I pulled myself over the back fence and landed softly in my neighbor’s yard. I slipped silently through their gate and out onto the street. Doing my best to stay in the shadows, I hurried down the block and around the corner.

Where can I go? Who can I trust?

In the back of my mind, I already knew it. But when the thought became conscious, I stopped dead in my tracks.

“I have to go to someone who already knows my secret.”