On Ranches and Shadows and Creeks

The year was 1998. Clorinda and I had one child and were expecting, any moment, our second. I was self-employed and on what I call my “sabbatical” from college. Yeah, I know those are generally reserved for professors, but I was in my twenties, so I knew everything already. Being self-employed is great except for on payday. Everyone else gets paid first, which means that sometimes you have to tell your wife that there’s no money that week. Clorinda had taken a really early retirement from the school district to stay home and raise our kids, which is how we wanted it.

Looking around, I realized I was not on a trajectory headed for great things. Or even one that would allow me to provide for a wife and two kids. I decided I needed to go back to school before the kids were old enough to know we were poor.

I applied to BYU as a transfer student and this time they decided to let me in. (Let’s just say that hadn’t been so generous when I applied as a B- student out of high school.) We sold our house MUCH quicker than we’d anticipated (clearly underpriced it) and we moved out in February 1999.

As I drove out of town for the last time, I thought it would be a cold day in, well, in Las Vegas before I ever came back to Las Vegas. There really wasn’t much I liked about Vegas. It was hot. Really hot. Africa hot. As a fat guy, I don’t do heat. As a skinny guy I didn’t do heat, either. I have never been a partier, so the Vegas lifestyle didn’t hold much for me. I figured I had come to Vegas solely to meet Clorinda and get married, and having done that, I was free to leave for good.

Sometimes, God has other plans.

I pushed really hard in school to get done. I did my junior and senior years of college in about 14 months. I majored in sociology, which I loved but which also meant I was qualified to either (a) go to graduate school or (b) get a job at the GAP. Since the GAP wouldn’t have me, I decided to go to law school. I did law school in two and one-half years, and graduated in December 2002. While graduating early had its perks, one of those was not employment. The legal industry tends to hire on an academic year, so most places were looking to hire in April and for employees to start in July or August. BYU was fully prepared to kick me to the curb (how’s that for gratitude for all those tuition dollars?) and I needed a job.

Through a series of events, I learned that five new judges had been elected in Clark County in November 2002, all of whom would presumably be looking for law clerks. I applied with all five, was interviewed by three, and was ultimately won in a game of chance by Judge Valerie Adair. On the Monday morning after Thanksgiving, I arrived at school and opened my laptop where I was greeted with an email offering me a job as a judicial law clerk.

Somewhere, God was laughing at me. Well, probably not, but he was letting me know that, for whatever reason, I needed to be in Las Vegas.

Clorinda didn’t (and doesn’t) have the same issues that I had with Las Vegas, and she had already picked out a house for us to buy (go back and re-read my entry about marrying her. There’s a pattern here…). I started work mid December, closed on the house about December 18, and we moved in on Christmas Day, 2002.

Our first day of church was in the Craig Ranch Ward. Steve Hitchcock was the Bishop, Danny York was his First Counselor and Dave Gunnell was his Second Counselor. There was a guy named Mike Montandon in the ward, and Bishop Hitchcock called me Brother Fontandon for about six months. But that’s OK, there are few people I’d rather be confused with than Mike Montandon. Craig Ranch was a whole new experience for us. We had just come from BYU, where our ward consisted of a small section of a large married-student apartment complex. Everyone was about the same age and were either newly married or had been married for a few years and had a kid or two or three. Everyone was active in church, everyone was in school (at least one of the spouses was), and nobody had any money because we were all starving students. It was a pretty homogenous group.

Craig Ranch was different. Craig Ranch had young couples with no kids and old empty-nester couples. It had large families, blended families, and single-parent families. It had life-long members of the Church and recent converts. It had professionals and blue collared workers and students and retirees. It had active members and partially active and less-active and inactive members of the Church. But, like the BYU 102nd Ward, it had wonderful people. We came to love it very quickly.

Almost as soon as we had started to recognize people and learn their names and who was married to whom, the Stake Presidency determined that some changes needed to be made in Ward boundaries in the Stake. (For those of you not LDS, Mormons organize congregations a little differently from many other churches. It is done geographically, approved by the First Presidency of the Church (the President of the Church and his two counselors). An individual congregation is a “ward.” A “stake” is a group of wards, usually 8-10, and is presided over by a Stake Presidency (again, a President and two counselors).)

In May, 2003, we (and our neighbors) were moved from the Craig Ranch Ward to the Shadow Creek Ward. The Stake moved another chunk of people from the Hidden Canyon Ward into Craig Ranch.

The change was abrupt, but it was not terribly hard for us. We had only been in Craig Ranch for 5 months at that point and hadn’t made many strong friendships. Most of those we had made lived in our neighborhood, so they were moving with us. Dave Gunnell became the new Bishop of the Shadow Creek Ward, with Nolan McClain as his First Counselor and Adam Murray as his Second Counselor. About a year later, the Murrays moved to Idaho and Bishop Gunnell called Chris Adams to be his new Second Counselor.

I was asked to teach Sunday School (which I loved) and early morning seminary (which I also loved). (Another aside: seminary is also different in the LDS church. It is a religion class for high-school aged students held each day before school. The course of study rotates between Old Testament, New Testament, Book of Mormon, and Church History. I was teaching Old Testament. [Real wrath-of-God type stuff! Fire and brimstone coming down from the skies! Rivers and seas boiling! Forty years of darkness! Earthquakes, volcanoes! The dead rising from the grave! Human sacrifice! Dogs and cats living together! Mass hysteria!] I took the same classes 25+ years ago at the Hawaii Kai chapel right down Lunalilo Home Road from Kaiser High School.)

My sociology degree proved helpful in this new ward. Shadow Creek was demographically different from Craig Ranch. Although there was still a diversity of ages, etc., the Shadow Creek demographic was definitely a younger married crowd. Most of the people were close in age to us, or a little younger, and there were kids everywhere. There were more white collar workers and students in Shadow Creek than there had been in Craig Ranch, but not as many older, established families. It was fun for us and for our kids.

I did the seminary thing for one year, and was still teaching Sunday School about two years later. North Las Vegas had experienced a huge real estate boom, and what had been a ward of about 400 people two years earlier had grown to over 1000 members. We filled the chapel, the entire cultural hall (Mormon-speak for gymnasium), and out into the foyers. Bishop Gunnell could not keep track of all of the members, and the Stake President determined it was time to split Shadow Creek and create a new ward, the Sierra Ranch Ward.

Because Bishop Gunnell resided in the boundaries of the new Sierra Ranch Ward, he was called to be the Bishop there. Shadow Creek got a new bishop, Ed Blackham. He called Phil Christensen as his First Counselor and Paul Braithwaite as the Second Counselor. He also called Cody Noble to be the Elders Quorum President (and another aside: the Elders Quorum, together with the High Priest Group, is the men’s organization in the church.) Cody, probably not thinking straight, asked for me to be his First Counselor, and Cody Hughes to be the Second Counselor.

I didn’t really know Cody Noble. I knew Cody Hughes—he was a dental student at UNLV and we had enjoyed a long adversarial relationship as to which profession was the higher calling, lawyers or dentists. I guess I’m an anti-dentite. Anyway, Cody Noble was also an attorney, but he had moved in during the boom and was just one of the masses that I had not yet gotten to know. He became one of my dearest friends and remains so today. As for Cody Hughes, well, he helped me to soften my stance a bit on dentists (I’ll actually go to a dentist now and then). I love that guy, too, although I don’t see him nearly enough.

I served with the Codys for about twenty months. We were sitting in Stake Conference in February 2007 and the Stake Presidency announced that Paul Braithwaite had been called to a Stake calling. Immediately I knew that I would be called to replace Paul in the Bishopric, and that prompting proved correct. Brother Christensen was also released, and Lance Bohne was called to be Bishop Blackham’s First Counselor at the same time.

Three short months later, while sitting in a training meeting for Bishoprics, the Stake President announced that more changes were coming to the Stake. Some wards had continued to grow, while others were shrinking. He announced that a special meeting would be held about ten days later for four wards, including the Shadow Creek and Craig Ranch Wards. Driving home that night I had a lot of questions, not the least of which was why? Why had I been called to be in the bishopric for only 3 months? It did not make any sense to me. It soon would.

At the meeting, my neighborhood, which had previously been cut-out and moved to Shadow Creek, was moved back to Craig Ranch. Craig Ranch also received an entirely new Bishopric. Mark Brown was called to be the Bishop. Mike Avance was the First Counselor. And some bum named Fontandon Fontano was called to be the Second Counselor. All of us were from the “new” part of the ward.

Much of Craig Ranch had changed since I’d attended there four years earlier. Demographically, it still looked the same, but a lot of the familiar faces had moved out and new ones had taken their place. It was odd to sit up on the stand at church and look out over a congregation where I only knew a few of the people.

There was a lot of excitement, mingled with frustration and maybe a little resentment, with the changes to Craig Ranch. I think some people were hurt that nobody in the new Bishopric was from the “old” part of Craig Ranch, but the vast majority of the people were warm and welcoming. My kids quickly made new friends, and our little family soon felt right at home in Craig Ranch.

I loved the new calling. I got to work with the Primary and with the Young Men and Young Women. We had secret handshakes and special greetings and goofy nicknames for each other. (It was there that I was nicknamed “Gibby” by some thoughtful young women. “That’s Brother Gibby to you,” I would respond. I had no idea what “Gibby” meant until one day that my girls were watching iCarly on TV and some fat dorky kid was named Gibby. Thanks a bunch Sidney, Shelby, and Nicole!) There were Young Women’s recognition nights and Eagle Scout courts of honor. There were youth conferences in Panaca and service projects at retirement homes. There were ward talent shows and Christmas parties.

It wasn’t all fun and games. There was a lot of ministering. Many nights spent in members’ homes, offering simple words of encouragement, giving blessings, or simply listening and sharing comfort. There were talks and lessons and testimonies. Craig Ranch had become our home.

In 2010, Bishop Brown was transferred to San Antonio and the bishopric was released. My old name-nemesis Mike Montandon was called to be the bishop, and he called Nolan McClain and Whitney Te’o to be his counselors. Mike is a big man (about 6’5”) with an even bigger personality. He loves to tell stories and has one for seemingly every situation. He has a great capacity to love and lead people and was a great choice to succeed Bishop Brown as the Bishop.

I was called to serve in the Young Men, which was a great change. I loved those boys, one of which was Clayton. But that change lasted only a short while. In February 2011 I was called to serve in the Stake Young Men's organization, meaning that much of my time was spent with Young Men leaders from other wards. I served with Andrew Webb, who was the president, and Boyd Nelson, the First Counselor. I learned much from these two great men, and had some remarkable opportunities to serve. In September 2012, Andrew was transferred to New Mexico and Boyd was called to the Bishopric of his ward, and I was left without a calling.

That lasted only a short time. I was soon teaching Sunday School in the Gospel Principles class (a class for new and returning members and those investigating the Church). I absolutely loved the class. Teaching simple truths and watching as people grasp them and accept them was such a source of joy for me. I was also teaching in High Priest Group, working with the young men as a Scout Committee Chair, and working at the Temple. I was plenty busy.

In June 2013, Brother McClain grabbed me and asked me to serve as the Ward Mission Leader. I would work directly with the full time missionaries (you’ve seen them—the ones with white shirts, conservative ties, and black name tags that ride around on bikes and talk to everyone they see). I readily accepted the call and immersed myself in the work. I was blessed to work with 17 missionaries over about 28 months. More than that, I was able to work with incredible individuals and families that were being taught by the missionaries. I loved it. I loved everything about it. It was the best calling I had had since I had worn the name tag 23-25 years ago (Oklahoma, O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A!).

In September I was released and received a new calling on the Stake High Council. Clorinda had been called in the end of July to serve as the Relief Society President (yet another aside: the Relief Society is the women’s group in the Church.) We were both really busy in our new callings.

All the while the ward continued to be our family. New members moved in and others moved out. The new ones became fast friends and the old ones would come back for special occasions. So many eternal friendships. And then everything changed.

On Sunday we had a regional broadcast from Salt Lake. After the broadcast concluded, President Turner from the Stake Presidency read a letter inviting all members of the Stake to attend a meeting at the Stake Center that evening at 6:00 where all ward boundaries in the Stake would be realigned. High Councilors and Bishops were asked to come at 4:00 for an early meeting.

At about 4:10, President Stewart began sharing the new boundaries with the High Council and Bishops. The first thing from his mouth was that the Shadow Creek and Craig Ranch wards would be dissolved and would cease to exist.

Wait. What?

I don’t think I heard that right.

Be dissolved?

Cease to exist?

What?

I’m not sure who snuck that 2x4 into the room, but I felt it crushing my face. Proverbially, of course. I didn’t follow much more in the meeting. My mind was somewhere else. I was sitting directly behind Bishop Montandon, who had received the news only minutes before in a separate meeting with President Stewart. I think he and I were lost in very similar emotions as we learned that the ward in which we had each invested so much was no more. It was a blur.

The 6:00 meeting was more of the same. I had responsibilities associated with my calling, so I just kind of blocked the emotions and did what I needed to do. Kathryn and Clorinda were hit really hard by the news, and Marien (who learned about it via text message) was distraught. We had grown up in Craig Ranch and Shadow Creek, and they no longer existed. We had given our all in both wards, but increasingly so in Craig Ranch, and now both wards were gone. It felt like all of our efforts were for naught. We were being separated from the lion’s share of the ward and being moved to the Civic Center Ward. The others were moved into Hidden Canyon. There were a lot of questions.

Yesterday I read a talk from Elder M. Russell Ballard given at October’s General Conference entitled “God is at the Helm”. He spoke of holding fast to the “old ship Zion”, stealing a phrase from Brigham Young. Elder Ballard talked about how we can deal with difficult questions or circumstances in our lives:

“Looking for human weakness in others is rather easy. However, we make a serious mistake by noticing only the human nature of one another and then failing to see God’s hand working through those He has called. 

“Focusing on how the Lord inspires His chosen leaders and how He moves the Saints to do remarkable and extraordinary things despite their humanity is one way that we hold on to the gospel of Jesus Christ and stay safely aboard the Old Ship Zion.”

Later, describing the heartache he and his family endured when three of his grandchildren passed, he taught that we must “[hold] on to the gospel truths with both hands.” When we do, “[o]ur questions [will be] answered with comfort and assurance through the Atonement of the Savior.”

Then, last night at High Council, we had a missionary report from Megan Knowles, who just returned from New Mexico. She talked for a bit about working in Winslow Arizona [such a fine sight to see] and how she and her companion had really built up the area and had several people preparing for baptism, when she was suddenly transferred. She said initially she resented the change, but she came to know that it was not about her or her efforts, it was the work of the Lord and it was his kingdom.

And then I really understood. Craig Ranch and Shadow Creek were my homes, but they were just divisions of the greater whole. The Kingdom of God on Earth is my home. My efforts were not all for naught. But I am going to miss Craig Ranch. A lot.

I’m going to miss the Woodin boys shaking my hand each week and sitting behind me in Sacrament meeting, I’ll especially miss Jefferson’s random, unintentionally hilarious comments (“Mom, did you throw away my massive collection of cups?!”). I will miss watching the Harms act like newlyweds, only 50+ years too late. I will miss the hugs from Victoria and the singing-hellos from Dani. I won’t miss Josh’s fish handshakes. I’ll miss the Rosses and their three crazy-cute-cookie-cutter daughters. I’ll miss chicken-on-the-hill and pig-in-the-park. I’ll miss Breakfast-for-Christmas parties and YM/YW service dinners. I will miss Relief Society service auctions. I’ll miss Cherien Fontandon. I’ll miss the awesome discussions in High Priest Group. I’ll miss occasionally butting heads with, well, you know. I’ll miss Steve Heath’s rockstar image and Darlene being his groupie. I’ll miss the Halls and the Endsleys (but I expect an invitation to the Temple for both of your families!). I’ll miss new families like the Jacksons and the Blacks, and old timers like the Brooks and the Brooks. I’ll miss my hair-twin John Moore and his Ute-wife Janie. I won’t miss Wade Blake constantly telling me I’m the next bishop (‘cause I’m not!), but I will miss his sweet wife and family. I’ll miss Josh and Sabrina and Mitzi, although I suspect I won’t miss Sabrina that much since she’s always at my house. I’ll miss learning from Jim Olive and I’ll miss Mike Montandon’s “I was doing something stupid when” stories. I’ll miss checking off each week that someone makes a comment about me over the pulpit.

I didn’t list you, please know that I will miss you too. You are my family and I love you. I've just gone on too long... Happy Trails Craig Ranch and Shadow Creek. See you in the funny papers.

At Farmers Only Dot Com

Do you ever watch those commercials for dating sites and wonder what if? When the guy from eHarmony gets talking about the 29 different dimensions of compatibiliity, I wonder if Clorinda and I were to sign up would we match on even 1 or 2 of them. More than one person has questioned what she is doing with a bum like me, which is understandable. She's smart and beautiful and nice and human. It's her fault, though.

So in 1995, I moved to Las Vegas to go to UNLV (don't worry--I've since repented). I'd never been to Las Vegas, but it was a good chance to try something new. I attended the University Ward (congregation) on campus and started to make some friends. Well, I started to follow people that I recognized around and hoped that they would acknowledge my existence, with varying degrees of success.

My big night came in mid-February. The ward was going to the Las Vegas Temple to participate in baptisms, and since I didn't have anything going on (heck, I still couldn't get people to talk to me), I signed up to go along. I was asked to perform confirmations, so there I was sitting in the room when this tall, slender beauty walked in and took a seat. She handed me a slip of paper with the name GATRELL, so that I'd get it right. "Is it guh-TRELL?" I asked.

"It's GA-trell" came the reply. And those were the first words I ever heard Clorinda speak.

I was fascinated by this tall brunette. She was certainly not caught up in herself, which was refreshing. She shunned the typical accoutrements of 20-something life. She was a math teacher (1st eHarmony fail) who favored Europe over Hawaii (second eFail).

But I was slightly obsessed by her.

As luck would have it, I had found a friend (thanks Wendell for taking pity on me) who happened to run with the same group that Clorinda did, so I started hanging out with her. Except that she didn't hang out with us. She was filled with excuses for not going to get Thai food ("I have to go to bed because I have to teach in the morning") (never mind that we went at 6:00) or the movie ("I have to go to bed because I have to teach in the morning") (but it's Friday) or to make late night prime-rib-runs ("I have to go to bed because I have to teach in the morning") (what does that have to do with getting prime rib at 11:30 at night?). I was starting to think that she like math more than any normal person should.

And then I saw the light--I knew just what I had to do. I had a math class at UNLV that was--how do I say this delicately--a disaster. The teacher was from India or Pakistan or some neighboring country. His mastery of the English language was considerably better than my Hindi, but it was certainly a far cry from the Queen's English. Add to that the fact that he lectured for the entire class period while facing a white board and writing out math problems. I was in serious danger of turning my college experience into something like my high school experience, which was not a good thing. I asked Clorinda for some help.

She said yes.

And then, just a few days before I was supposed to go to her apartment for the help, it clicked. All of the math made sense. So I did what any good, honest, red-blooded American college male would do in that circumstance. I played dumb.

Clorinda did an amazing job teaching me finite math. I think she caught on that I didn't really need the help, probably because I watched her a lot more than I watched the math problems she was working out on the paper. But it was good--she confirmed what I already knew--I had figured out the math! Woohoo!

That was our first date, and like all good first dates, it led no where. Clorinda had to get to bed early  because she had to teach in the morning. (Swear words).

Having figured out finite math, I now understood that the school year was finite, meaning it would end at some point and take with it Clorinda's (really lame) excuse for not going out with me. On Memorial Day 1995, the ward had an activity where we learned to country-swing dance (I am amazing, by the way, but I've retired, so you'll just have to take my word for it). The last day of school that year was going to be that Friday, and knowing that Clorinda really wanted to see King Arthur's Tournament at the Excalibur (you know, I could do a whole blog entry or seven about how tacky this town is. Whatever), I asked her to go. Having lost her excuse (thank you Clark County School District) and being presented with the opportunity to go to a show she really wanted to see on someone else's dime, she was forced to accept.

When Friday came around we went over to the show. It was great fun, and we got to eat like midieval peasants. Apparently, midieval peasants did not use silverware. Or napkins. They just ate large portions of chicken with their hands. I tried to hold Clorinda's hand, but it slipped right through from all the grease.

After the show we walked around and talked. We sat by the pool at the Tropicana and dipped our feet in the water. About 11:00, a couple who had clearly been knocking back the adult beverages that night came to join us. I say join us, but really they were soliciting us to join them in a little skinny dipping. This preceded the "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" days, so we were less than inclined to join in the festivities. (eFail no. 3.) (Just kidding.)

That was Friday. On Saturday we went to Lake Mead with a bunch of people from the ward. Sunday was church and related activities. Monday I worked, but we had FHE that night and then went to Sam's Town with some friends. On Tuesday, Clorinda boarded a plane for Germany (an obvious eFail no. 4). She came by my apartment before she left to say good-bye, but that was it. For nine (9!) weeks she was in Europe and elsewhere. And I was in Las Vegas, still chasing the cheap-prime-rib dream.

I did a little dating, though not much, while she was gone. We certainly were not an item, let alone an exclusive item. She came home for ten days in the end of July/beginning of August. I stayed at home on Friday night awaiting her arrival. When she finally showed up, she dropped by the apartment but wouldn't even come inside. It was a "hi, I'm back" visit that lasted all of about two minutes.

I wasted a Friday night in Vegas for that? (eFail 5.)

Saturday morning I drove my butt over to her apartment to ask her to go out that night. We did. And we went out just about every day the rest of the time she was in town. But that was only a week and a half. And then she was gone again.

Her dad was a career man in the Army and had been in Germany for 5 years. He had been transferred to Carlisle Pennsylvania, and Clorinda's brother was returning home from his mission to Bulgaria, so Clorinda was headed East to see him.

Fast forward to the end of September. On a Saturday morning, we went to Zion National Park in Utah to do some hiking with some friends. They stayed out in Logandale, but Clorinda and I headed back to Las Vegas for a friend's wedding reception that night. After the reception ended, we headed to Clorinda's apartment to watch movie. I don't remember the movie at all, because we never got around to watching it.

Clorinda was in the mood to talk.

And talk she did. For about two hours, she explained to me the five (5) things (this was pre-eHarmony, so there were only five) she was looking for in the perfect man. Devilish good looks (obviously), highly intelligent (duh), more money that Bill Gates (wait, what?), really great shoes (?), and NOT from Idaho (whew). I had barely passed!

OK, so those weren't the five things. It was five completely different things. She was looking for someone who loved his family, loved the Lord, was sophisticated (?), had a sense of humor, and was intelligent. Thankfully, the finite math class had not convinced Clorinda that I did not qualify under two or more of her qualifications. She finished (for real, it took like two hours) and then turned and looked me straight in the eyes and said, "You have all five." And then she stared.

After a few seconds, I realized I'd forgotten my line. I looked to the wings, but there was nobody there to prompt me, so I said the only thing I could think of.

"I guess this means we're getting married."

That was late Saturday night. It may have been Sunday morning by that time. That is an important fact.

We attended church Sunday morning, and then we were driving out to my parents' house for dinner. Realizing what we had just committed to do, I realized we would have to tell our parents and suggested that we should maybe decide on a date for a wedding.

"Well," said Clorinda, "my family is coming to Las Vegas in December for the wedding."

Wait, what? But we JUST DECIDED THIS LAST NIGHT! LIKE AT MIDNIGHT!

"Back in August, when I was in Pennsylvania, I made plane reservations for the family to come to Las Vegas in December for our wedding."

Let's talk about August. We'd had fewer dates than I have fingers. We certainly had not discussed the "L" word ("love", if you're confused). But she made plane reservations? Mind you, plane reservations in 1995 were far different than they are today. You couldn't just log on to Travelocity and compare ticket prices across a bunch of airlines. No, you had to physically call the airline, or use a travel agent, or go to the airport and stand in line. LIFE WAS HARD IN THE 90s! But she had done it.

I had been engaged for six weeks and I had no idea. Best six weeks of the entire engagement.

Come December, her family all arrived for her wedding. She, of course, looked radiant. I was devilishly handsome and wasn't from Idaho, so I did my part. We were, in reality, a couple of really naive, young kids, but it's been almost twenty years and we're still going strong.

Today is Clorinda's birthday. She's older than me again, just like she is for two months every year. Happy birthday Clorinda. I don't think that eHarmony would put us together, but maybe they don't have it all figured out over there. I love you.

Hawai'i Nei

A few nights ago I was invited to attend a missionary fireside. For the non-Mormon crowd, a fireside has nothing to do with fires. Or sides. In fact, this particular fireside was in an air-conditioned, brick church building that doesn't permit open flame. I think firesides evolved from FDR's "fireside chats" back in the '30s and '40s, a series of radio broadcasts hosted by the President on Sunday evenings. The Mormons took the concept and ran with it, even though FDR was a Democrat. (That part is a little Mormon humor. A very little.) Now Mormons have little meetings where they get together and listen to someone talk about something. On this occasion, it was a missionary fireside--the speaker was asked to talk about his conversion to Mormonism, and it was for people that were new converts or investigating the church themselves.

The fireside itself wasn't anything remarkable, just a guy telling his story, but his story really brought some memories back to the forefront of my mind. Tom (that was his name (I think it still is his name)) started out by saying that his first introduction to the Church came in Hawaii when he was working in the General Counsel's office at UH. His conversion process took some seven years, beginning in the early '70s, and it involved a handful of people that were dear to me. (NOTE: I didn't know Tom prior to this meeting. I was at the fireside in connection with a new calling I received in church, and the congregation hosting the fireside is not my own.)

My Hawaii story doesn't start in the early '70s. It started in the fall of 1984, when I first attended Albion Middle School. It was seventh grade, and I was moving up in the world. I had accomplished just about everything an elementary student could accomplish at Silver Mesa Elementary (GO EAGLES!). And by that I mean I had offended just about every teacher I had, including the one time that I got in trouble because my teacher thought I was flipping her off when I was, in reality, pretending to pick my nose so as to make a kid named Billy laugh in the middle of math class. I was a misunderstood youth.

Anyway, back to seventh grade. The transition from elementary school thug to middle school nobody was a difficult one for me. Despite my incredible good looks, charming personality, and dry sense of humor, my reality was much closer to Diary of a Wimpy Kid than Alex Rider. OK, so nobody's as cool as Alex Rider, but really, middle school was the worst two years of my life. And seventh grade was the worst. THE. WORST.

Within a few months, I decided that I just needed to not go to school anymore. I made myself sick and basically skipped school for almost two weeks. My anti-social behavior had the unintended, yet predictable consequence of pushing my friends away. My mom eventually caught on to my fake illness and sent me back to school. You know, thirty years later and being a parent myself, I can't imagine how confusing my behavior must have been to my mom and dad. Man, I can't believe I was even allowed to have kids after that. Good thing they didn't administer that test in seventh grade, or I'd still be wishing I could figure out where kids came from.

Although I returned to school, I was not particularly motivated to do two weeks' worth of make-up work. I did a little here and there, including an invention project for one of my classes--a skateboard that had a foot-belt attached to it. Yeah, that didn't help my image.

My mother decided to let me in on a secret, though, in an effort to get me motivated. She and my dad had gotten tickets to Hawaii and they were going to take me and my brother with them. (Now that is a noble cause--give me the sixty-five, I'm on the job.) I was very excited, but very worried, too. Oh, not about school. Forget that stuff. I was very concerned about shorts. What I really needed to know was whether everyone wore OP (Ocean Pacific) corduroy shorts, because that was the stuff right there. Can you say stylish?

Notwithstanding my fashion concerns, we managed to get to Hawaii. I loved it. I loved everything about it. We hit the beach on Oahu, rode a helicopter above Kauai, and watched stingrays swimming in the lagoon below our balcony in Kona. We spent the last day in Waikiki doing more touristy things, and then headed to the airport for a red-eye home. And then the surprise. Our tickets were on PanAm, and PanAm had declared bankruptcy while we were off island and not paying attention to the news. My dad scrambled to get us tickets on another airline and home we went.

I had picked a really nice aloha shirt for myself that I wore to school with my white OP shorts. I was Magnum PI, minus the mustache and Ferrari. And the chest hair. I didn't have chest hair. Yet. I still can't figure out why seventh grade was so difficult for me.

Anyway, about a year later, my folks announced that we were moving the whole family to Hawaii. Moving. To Hawaii. Oddly, I was not happy about that move. I had worked through most of the awkwardness and had made-up with my friends and things were FINALLY looking up, and now my folks wanted to RIP ME AWAY from everything good in my life and move me somewhere 2,995 miles away to an ISLAND in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. WHAT WERE THEY THINKING?! Did I mention I was a confused little 14 year old?

In July 1986 we packed up everything we owned and it all got loaded on a big truck that was going to drive it to Hawaii for us. OK, so that's not true. It was loaded on a truck, but it was going to LA (I assume) to get loaded on a ship and slow-boated to Hawaii, where we could pick it up after we got there. We went the Northern California route so that we could visit my grandparents before flying out.

Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, and unbeknownst to any of us, my dad's business partners declared bankruptcy. That put us in a real bind. My parents were not wealthy, and the company was supposed to be paying for our move. They didn't. Suddenly we were in Hawaii with no place to live, no job, no furniture, and only the clothes in our luggage. My parents scrambled and rented a house for us in Hawaii Kai, down at the Southeast end of Oahu. It was not big, but it worked. The lack of furniture worked, too. My brothers would sneak onto the nearby golf course and collect lost golf balls (you wouldn't believe how many people lost golf balls on the short grass right by the hole), and we concocted all sorts of games to play in the sunken family room. Some members of the ward donated a few items of furniture, and we managed to put together something like a presentable wardrobe by hitting the Aloha Stadium swap meet.

All of this, and four more years, came rushing back to my memory while Tom talked about his conversion in Hawaii. (NOTE: I could go on for a long time about Hawaii, but I've spent too much time talking about seventh grade. You know, I don't map these things out--I just kind of type what comes to my mind and see where it takes me. I will revisit Hawaii, as a topic and (hopefully) a vacation destination, but for now let me say that Hawaii changed my life. Some of my dearest friends are from the four years that I spent there. When people ask me where I'm from, I say I grew up in Hawaii, because I did.)

Tom said that his wife had worked with the Stake President (a leader of + ten congregations in a geographic area) and his two sons. I immediately suspected he was talking about James Hallstrom and his sons Donald and James, so I approached Tom after the meeting and asked. Yep, it was the Hallstroms. I asked Tom when he had left, and then mentioned that I had moved to Hawaii in '86, and that Donald Hallstrom had been my Stake President. His father, James, who had been Tom's Stake President, was the Stake Patriarch who gave me a Patriarchal Blessing some 17 years after Tom first started investigating the Church.

We got to talking, and he asked whether I knew Steve Molale. Well, of course I know Steve. His son Kevin was a good friend of mine, and we'd graduated together from Kaiser High School 25 years ago. Tom got excited and expressed his love for Steve, who was the Bishop of the Hawaii Kai 2nd Ward when Tom and his wife were baptized. He explained how Steve had come to give him a blessing and how his (Tom's) decision to be baptized was a direct result of Steve's leadership and counsel. He was taken aback when I shared the news that Steve had passed away earlier this year. Notwithstanding the sad news, the conversation was a fun trip down memory lane.

When my family visited Hawaii last December we took opportunity to attend church out in Hawaii Kai. Steve was teaching the Gospel Principles class, a Sunday School class designed for those investigating the church or returning to activity after an extended absence. It was vintage Steve Molale. He had great stories, probably embellished but certainly entertaining. We chatted about my family and his family, about his wife Pat, who had passed away herself only a short while before. It was a joy to see Steve again, and I was surprised only a few weeks later when a dear friend emailed to let me know that Steve had suffered a stroke, and then a few days later had passed away.

Some people say it's a small world. Others say it's an even smaller Mormon world. I suppose that's true--it doesn't take long to find people who have crossed paths when you're talking to other LDSers. I'm sure glad that I went on a Friday night to listen to Tom Wood talk about his conversion. It gave me a chance to reflect on three great men that had an eternal impact on my life, and on Tom's life, too.

It also gave me a chance to pull out the old OP shorts, put on the vintage aloha shirt, fluff up the chest hair a bit, and take the Ferrari out for a spin. Mahalo Tom.

Virginia is for Lovers

One week ago today I was driving home from Cedar City. At 1:30 in the morning I'd received a text message from my mother indicating that the paramedics were at their house and that my dad was headed to the hospital. He'd been throwing up blood. The fact that I'd awoken to the text message was unusual, but once I'd read the text I laid awake thinking about my dad.

One of my earliest childhood memories also involves my dad and paramedics. The setting was a softball diamond in Yerington, Nevada. I was two. My dad was playing softball and as he was sliding into base, his foot slipped under the bag and jammed into the buckle that anchored the base to the ground. His leg was shattered. Being two, I had no concept of what had happened, but I remember the flashing lights of the ambulance.

After he had recovered, my dad moved into new lines of work. He worked as a mechanic for a while, and then was employed by a heavy-equipment rental company. One of my favorite memories is riding up in a scissor lift and a boom lift. I'm sure it wasn't any higher than 20 feet up, but it seemed like a mile to me as a little boy.

Our family continued to grow, and my dad was always looking for ways to better provide for the family. He took a job doing seminars around the country. For two weeks every month he flew around the country speaking to groups of people. The BEST part of the job, though, at least from my perspective, was the souvenirs. T-shirts and key-chains and candy. I learned what a razorback pig was after he returned from Arkansas with a mug emblazened with a wild boar. I also found out that Virginia was for lovers.

LOVERS? WHAT?! I was probably about 7 years old. YOU CAN'T USE THAT WORD AROUND A 7 YEAR OLD! You certainly can't expect him to wear the t-shirt! Scarred for life.

By the way, I've been to Virginia since then. I was there with my wife. It was nice enough, but I didn't get the sense that we were any more attracted to each other than we were previously. Maybe we're doing the lovers (WHAT?!) thing wrong.

My dad always put his kids first. He grew up playing baseball and football, but my brothers and I found more interest on the soccer pitch. So my dad learned all about soccer. He learned about offenses and defenses (the WW holds a fond place in my heart even today) and became our coach. In Salt Lake, we played three of the four seasons. Rec and competitive soccer was played spring and fall and were relegated to the Salt Lake valley, but summer meant traveling team soccer. We went all over the state, seemingly every weekend. He never complained to us about the time commitment, he just did it.

My dad is a practical joker. One night he walked into the house holding his finger, writhing in pain. I looked over and saw a nail had gone THROUGH HIS FINGER! "Call the ambulance," he grunted. "WHAT? WHAT'S THEIR NUMBER?" I was in FULL PANIC MODE and he started laughing at me. How could he laugh? He had a nail (like a real nail--8 penny, I believe) through his finger. But there he was, laughing at me because I didn't know the number for 9-1-1. Finally, he revealed the secret--a little half-ring contraption that fit around his finger and made it look like there was a nail through his hand, but alas, it was just a CRUEL TRICK on an overly-sensitive young son.

As I became a teenager, my dad and I kind of grew apart. I blame myself. So does he. But really, teenagerhood seems to insist that you don't get along with your parents, and I certainly fell prey to that mandate. It didn't help that my brother just younger than me was a lot more like my dad and was probably just easier to like.

That sounds like I blame my brother. I don't. He really is a better man than me and always has been. I think I like him more than myself, so I can't really blame others for doing the same thing. And being a father, I understand that sometimes some of your kids are just plain easier to get along with at times than others are. I was definitely not easy to get along with.

Whatever the reason, I retreated, but my dad never pressed the issue. He didn't let me get away with crap, though. One night I was really mad at my mother and said some things that I had no business saying to my mom (or probably anyone else). Well, he was not going to tolerate me speaking to his wife like that and he punched me square in the chest. Hard. I just stood there and stared at him, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me in pain, but that pride left as soon as I was out of sight and sound.

Things weren't bad between us, and I don't mean to give the impression that they were. We just weren't best friends like some fathers and sons. I actually worry that I still don't understand a healthy father and son relationship because I struggle in many of the same ways with my own son. But that's a story for another day.

After serving a mission in Oklahoma, I returned home to Carson City, Nevada, where I lived for a couple of years before moving to Las Vegas. After getting fired from a job (hmm, that's another post topic), I took a job working with my dad. It was only then that I learned he wasn't perfect.

Yes, despite the animosity that sometimes defined our relationship, I still held to the ideal that my dad was perfect. Not perfect in the walk-on-water sense, but in the father hero-worship sense. It didn't matter the question, I could take it to him and he would have the answer. I thought he was the best teacher, best salesman, best businessman that there was. He was what I consider the consummate entrepreneur. He would get a new idea and run with it. Sometimes it would work and he'd be very successful and get bored and sell the business. Other times his ideas would bust, but he'd keep reincarnating them until he found some way to make it work. Despite having eight kids, six of whom were boys, he always found a way to put food on the table and have a roof overhead.

Eventually Clorinda and I were married and my nuclear family went from my mom and dad and siblings to my wife and I and our children. I've taken my kids to work (sitting in a law office is SO MUCH more exciting than riding in a boom lift, I promise kids), coached their soccer teams, played practical jokes on them (sorry about the hair, Marien), struggled to communicate with them as moody teenagers, stayed up at night wondering where they were and when they'd be home. And I've come to understand that despite his imperfections, my dad really is perfect. Not in the walk-on-water sense, and not in the father hero-worship sense, either. Perfect in the sense that he never stopped being a dad. He never stopped doing everything in his power to set an example for his kids of how they should treat their mother, how they should work to provide for their families, how they should study the Gospel and incorporate it into their lives, how they should recognize people in need and do whatever possible to help, and how they should be a friend to even the most unlovable and unlikable because they too were children of God.

Last Monday I spent in a hospital room in Cedar City. My dad teased the nurses who were struggling to find a vein from which they could draw blood. He chatted with a nurse he'd remembered from a prior visit. He asked me to call my mother (who had gone home to get some sleep) and check on her. We talked about my work and about his new calling in church. He would doze off and snore and then be awakened by the beeping of the machines right above his head. He didn't complain. My brother and I were able to give him a blessing before we both had to leave.

I'm not sure why I felt so strongly that I needed to go up to Cedar City last week, but I'm glad I did. My dad was in the hospital for the better part of the week before he was released to go home. I wish I could say it was all better, but just last night I heard again from my mother that he'd been admitted again. More internal bleeding.

Being the dad is hard. Don't give up, Padre. You can do this.

O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A, Oklahoma, OK!

I've known Ariel since she was ten. She and her family live around the corner from us, and they honestly may be the nicest people I know. Her mother has a remarkable ability to make you feel as if you are the most important person in the world--she showers compliments freely and is always happy.

This week Ariel received a mission call to Kennewick Washington, where she'll go and serve the Lord and the people of Washington for the next year and a half of her life. Because of various conflicts, there wasn't a Sacrament Meeting available for her to speak in church, so she talked today, first about obedience but then about how she ended up submitting papers to serve a mission.

A lot of memories came back to me.

Twenty-five years ago next month I was working at my dad's cousin's house. She and her husband had just bought the house, and the prior owner had (1) carpeted the garage and (2) operated it as a hostel for un-housebroken dogs. There is nothing quite as aromatically charming as scraping old, urine-stained carpet from a garage floor. And THIS old, urine-stained carpet was particularly well soiled.

I'd been living with my grandma since right after I'd graduated from high school, and she called to let me know that my mission call had arrived. Now, for those of you who haven't experienced the phenomenon of a Mormon mission call, it's kind of like the Masters--an experience unlike any other. Friends and family gather together and wager on where in the world the new missionary will be sent. With great anticipation the new missionary tears open the envelope and begins to read:

Dear Elder Fontano,

You are hereby called to serve as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the Oklahoma Oklahoma City mission....

at which point the crowd erupts in excitement, the missionary's mother starts crying (which naturally leads to a mascara emergency), and someone says "where's a map?!"

When I read those words, I was surrounded by my grandma (who had served missions in Switzerland, New Zealand, and Australia), my aunt and cousins, and my dad's cousin and her family. Two of my cousins had preceded me in serving missions--one had gone to Australia, and the other was then-serving in Spain. Two of my best friends had just left on their missions, to Brazil and Seattle, respectively. My parents were 500 miles away in Carson City, Nevada, but were on the telephone.

When I uttered the words "Oklahoma Oklahoma City mission", I couldn't hear anything. I was IN THE ZONE and the GAME HAD SLOWED DOWN, to steal a couple of football cliches, and it was like the crowd wasn't even there. The silence was broken when someone (OK, it was the little voice in my head) said, "wow, that sucks."

I had only two thoughts: (1) "people live in Oklahoma?" and (2) "We have the Church in Oklahoma?"

It wasn't Switzerland or Australia or Brazil. It wasn't even Seattle, which is a remarkably cool American city. No, it was Oklahoma. Middle-of-nowhere Oklahoma. Later my dad told me that he was afraid I was a little disappointed by my reaction. I'm not sure what gave him that idea, other than the complete lack of excitement in my voice.

After the requisite pats-on-the-back and feigned "well, that will be, um, great!" votes-of-confidence, I decided that I needed a little break and jumped in my truck and went for a ride. (I can only imagine that moment for people called to REALLY boring places. "You are assigned to labor in the Utah Wendover mission." Can the crowd even fake those congratulations? But I digress.) As I headed north on 1300 East in Sandy, Utah, sulking a bit that I didn't have some exotic or exciting world city to go serve in, my heart was filled with a calm assurance that Oklahoma was EXACTLY where the Lord needed me to be. My soul was immediatly at peace with the call, and I even felt excited.

I entered the Provo Utah MTC (that's "Missionary Training Center" for the uninitiated) in January 1991. The US had just invaded Iraq (the first time). I left at home five brothers and two sistsers, ranging in age from 17 years to 21 months. The MTC was a spiritual boot camp, with lessons interrupted only by eating. Being the health-conscious 19 year old male that I was, I didn't attempt to survive SOLELY on Captain Crunch and chocolate milk, but a high percentage of my caloric intake could be traced to those two culinary miracles. After about three weeks, I was on a plane headed to Oklahoma.

Walking through the airport toward baggage claim, I was surprised by all of the singing and dancing going on among the locals. They seemed compelled to let every visitor to their state know that their state was not something to scoff at. No, it was a place where the wind swept down the plain. In very fact, it was OK!

Confession. That last paragraph ^^ was not true. I'm sorry.

I spent two (count 'em--TWO) years in Oklahoma. My first several months were in Lawton, a small city at the southern end of the State, home of the Ft. Sill army base. Fun story, my first morning I was awakened to the sound of explosions and rattling windows. I thought Iraq had decided to fight back and had decided on a military installation in southern Oklahoma. It turns out that Ft. Sill was (and probably still is) an artillery base, and it was just a training exercise. Good thing. From Lawton I went to Oklahoma City, where I served in the worst part of Oklahoma City (I'm about 98% certain that Kevin Durrant does not hang out in NE OKC, ever), and then I was assigned to Shawnee. That place was amazing. It was small-town Oklahoma and home to a Baptist university. After Shawnee I was moved to Del City, which is a suburb of OKC and home to Tinker AFB. I spent my last six months back in Lawton.

One Saturday morning, my companion and I were knocking doors in Del City. A kind gentleman answered the door and, although he was not interested at all in our message, he took a few moments to chat with us. He looked directly at me and said, "you should be proud of yourself. Your church can't send just anyone here. It has to send the very best young men to a place like Oklahoma, because there is so much working against you here."

I kind of laughed him off, but he said it again, "No, I mean it."

I cannot claim to be the type of person he thought I was, but somehow, 19 or 20 months after those first thoughts of discouragement, the Lord reminded me that I was right where he needed me.

We said our good-byes, and continued down the street, but this time I was singing with the rest of them, "O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A, Oklahoma, OK!"

Does anyone know a song about Kennewick Washington?

A Dime's Worth of Difference

It's a Friday afternoon and I really should be working, but today it's not happening. This is.

I grew up listening to some great music. My dad made sure I was indoctrinated to the sounds of the 60's and 70's. Clorinda and I celebrated my completion of the bar exam by going to see the Eagles at the MGM Grand--to this day, my favorite concert of all time. After that concert, I told my wife that if Simon and Garfunkel would just get back together and go on tour, I could die a happy man. Within weeks, lo and behold, they announced an "Old Friends" tour that would include a stop in Las Vegas. We took my parents, but I'm pretty sure that Clorinda and I were the youngest people there by 20 years.

At one point, Paul Simon was talking about his guitar and Art Garfunkel commented about his own instrument--his voice. The comment struck me as odd, I mean, Simon did a lot of singing, too, and had enjoyed a much more successful solo career than had Garfunkel. But Garfunkel has one song that I really love, and his voice is a primary reason I like the song. A Heart in New York is a simple, somewhat melancholy tune, but Garfunkel's voice is perfect in it. Here, listen for yourself:

I've only actually been to New York one time, at Christmas in 2013. But about this time every year I think a lot about New York, as do a whole lot of people in this country.

On September 11, 2001, we were all up early in my house getting ready for school and work. The TV was on while the kids ate breakfast (as I'm writing this I'm realizing that my college freshman was in pre-school, and my high school freshman was 4 months old--that's incredible). The national news was reporting that a plane had hit the World Trade Center in New York City. They were speculating that there was something seriously wrong with the air traffic control that resulted in the plane accidentally hitting the tower. As they were reporting, with video playing of the smoke arising from the first tower, I watched as a second plane hit the other tower. I watched in disbelief.

Moments later, as we were heading out the door to drop the kids at my brother's house before going to school, the news reported that a helicopter had crashed into the Pentagon in Washington DC. (Obviously, that was not correct information.) I turned to Clorinda and asked if we were under attack. It was just surreal.

I had an early class, and we only briefly touched on the planes and the tower. The professor was only aware of the first tower having been hit at that point. After the hour was up, I left class to head to my carrel in the law library. A large group had gathered around one of the TVs mounted in the hall, and I watched with them as the first tower came crashing to the ground. And then the second as well.

The University canceled classes for that day. Law students were assigned carrels, or desks, and mine was in the basement of the law library. All of us had our laptops glued to CNN and other news outlets and stared in disbelief at the destruction we were witnessing on American soil. I imagine that you were much the same. We watched in shock as people leapt from the buildings, and with awe as firefighters, police officers, and emergency medical responders ran in to those same buildings from the bottom. We combed through dozens and hundreds of pictures that people had posted online, each one adding to the weight of the situation.

That night I held my children closely and wept. I cried for the parents who would never get to hug their children again, and for those children that would not feel the safe embrace of their mom or dad. I wept for the families of the first responders that so bravely ran into the danger to help those not in a position to help themselves. As Clorinda and I knelt by our bedside to pray, I sobbed for hundreds and thousands of people I didn't know.

In 2013, Clorinda's brother took us to ground zero. The new Freedom Tower was nearing completion, but the block was still surrounded in protective plywood fencing. We stood in line at dusk in freezing temperatures and waited our turn to walk into the campus and to visit the memorial. It was a somber experience to walk around the reflecting pools and to consider the events from all those years prior.

I know my story is not unique, and it does not compare with those who lost family members and friends that day. I was there only because of modern technology sending me sights and sounds over the internet. But that experience impacted me. With apologies to Art Garfunkel, my words won't make a dime's worth of difference, but here's to you New York (and Washington DC and Pennsylvania).

But Wait, There's More!

A little over 18 years ago, I had one of those life-changing moments. No, it wasn't the first time I ate Chunky Monkey, although that was one of those life-changing moments (and waistline changing moments, for that matter). No, this moment occurred on a Tuesday afternoon, and I'm pretty sure Chunky Monkey first occurred on a Saturday evening. Have you had that stuff, by the way? It's incredible. Banana ice cream and chunks of dark chocolate and walnuts. It's amazing. But I digress.

No, on this Tuesday all those years ago, a nurse handed me a little baby girl. Clorinda and I had tried negotiating the gender of the baby. I had learned somewhere (9th grade biology at Kaiser High School, probably) that the FATHER determined the sex of a baby, and since I was the father, I had determined that our first child would be a boy. What dad doesn't want a boy? I had visions of fishing and camping and tossing a baseball in the backyard, and those father-and-son-bonding moments like teaching him how to pee outside and the proper way to spit. Apparently the cross between the English language and 9th grade biology created some confusion in me, because I didn't determine that baby's gender at all. Then again, maybe that's why I didn't do so hot in biology. Despite my determination, that baby was a little girl.

When the nurse handed her to me, I was overcome by a flood of emotion. I didn't understand it, and I'm still not sure I understand it all these years later. I had heard about love all my life. I was pretty sure I finally had it figured out the summer before my fourth grade year. My family, which consisted of my parents and five (yes, 5) boys, yours truly being the oldest, moved in next door to household of five (yes, 5) really pretty girls, all of whom seemed to line up perfectly age wise. I'll tell you, I was smitten and it was a good thing I had really fast shoes so I could show off my manly prowess.

For some reason, that love never blossomed the way I had expected it to. But that was OK, because by 7th grade, I had started middle school and found not just one but TWO (2!) girls I really loved. The first I'd known for a few years, and we decided to be boyfriend and girlfriend. Because I was a really cool guy, I knew that what girls wanted was to be ignored (it makes them like you more), so after we became an "item" I stopped talking to her altogether. I'll let you take a stab at how well that worked out.

Not to be deterred, I became infatuated with a girl in my English class. I say girl, but that's not right, she was a twelve-year-old WOMAN. I was sure she was the one I would be spending the rest of my life with, so I passed her a note. Little did I realize that passing notes to declare your affection was SO elementary school. I think that typing this paragraph took longer than my entire relationship lasted with that girl. Alas.

I finally started to understand love sometime about my junior year of high school. By that time I had an actual, honest-to-goodness real girlfriend. We talked to each other, went on dates, held hands, and even (don't tell my kids, or my wife) kissed on occasion. I WAS FINALLY IN LOVE! It was fun and exciting and heartbreaking at times, too. We made plans for a future that wasn't to be. Like my previous forays into love, it too came to an end.

Fast forward about five years. I had grown up. The hairline had started creeping back (but I was usually able to hide it with little hats and bonnets). I had met this woman (and unlike my seventh-grade infatuation, this was an actual, bona-fide WOMAN) and had really come to love her. For some unknown reason, she loved me too. It was probably the ice cream. (Note to self: write a post about the engagement story...) This love was a much more mature love, although as I write this now, some 20 years later, I realize that it was more mature only relative to my adolescent flings. There's something to be said for growing old together. Regardless, it was mature enough that Clorinda determined that we should get married and she told me the date and time to be there. Since I was in love, I showed up. This was clearly NOT 9th grade biology determination.

Clorinda and I are both the oldest of really big families (8 kids each), and we decided, or rather she decided and let me in on the secret, that we wanted to have lots of kids as well. As many couples do, we experienced some heartache along the way, but after nine months of trying, we found out we were expecting.

So that brings me back to the nurse handing me that little girl, and to love. I loved my neighbor in 4th grade. I loved my girlfriend in 7th grade and the girl that sat behind me in English. I really loved my high school girlfriend, and I LOVED my wife (I still do), but until that nurse handed me my daughter, I did not understand what love was. I didn't know that I could care more about someone in an instant than I did about myself. I hadn't understood that I would want everything good for someone, that I would want to protect and teach and help and nurture and care for for that little person at the expense of all else. That I would ache more than she did when she was sick or hurt, and that if there was ANY way possible, I would have taken that pain away. In that moment, I was overwhelmed with the love that I felt. I thought, in some small degree, I understood God's love for me, because he had blessed me to feel for that little girl the same type of love.

Two weeks ago I helped that little girl pack up her car to head off to college. Seemingly all of her earthly possessions were stuffed into boxes and loaded up, ready to make the trip off to new adventures and a new life. Suddenly I recognized all of my failures as a father. There was SO MUCH I hadn't taught her, SO MUCH MORE I needed to tell her and to do to prepare her for life. I felt a little like Ron Popeil--BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE! Here's how to check your oil, oh, and let me teach you how to drive in snow (yeah, there wasn't much opportunity to teach that skill in Las Vegas), and make sure you turn this off so the battery doesn't drain when your car is parked, and if you act now, I'll throw in this set of steak knives ABSOLUTELY FREE!

I've never felt more inadequate as a father than I did watching her drive away with her mother, but I've never felt more proud, either. I was a real mess. I knew that she would do great in school, but I wasn't going to be there anymore when she got hurt. It's hard to protect your little girl when she's 500 miles away.

And so Heavenly Father taught me something else about His love. He lets us go so that we can learn and grow on our own, and we can have those experiences that will help us to become more like Him. I'm grateful for this added dimension of love that I hadn't understood before.

THM

BUT WAIT, THERE's MORE. I got this series of text messages from her tonight:

today I almost caught the microwave on fire
my roommates love me so much
*   *   *
But then I redeemed myself bc the spinach artichoke dip was Delilah
*delish
Hahaha AUTOCORRECT
dad we're having such a fancy dinner tonight like it doesn't feel like college
A roast with potatoes, carrots and onions, homemade rolls, broccoli, homemade apple pie
Also salad and my spinach dip.
Also vanilla ice cream with the pie [ed. note: apparently Chunky Monkey was not available]
And I made a really yummy streusel topping for the pie

She's doing fine without me. But wait, M, there's so much more I need you to know. Most of all, I need you to know that I love you. For real.