Sorry to disappoint, but there is still such a thing as right and wrong | Really Random Writings

Ever had your father tell you he would be more than happy to come visit you in jail? I doubt most millennials have. But I can remember clear as day when my dad sat me down and talked about his oldest son (that's me) becoming a jailbird. And considering how my father was raised, one probably shouldn't be too surprised.

My father was raised by one of the most hard-nosed men still alive. At the height of his career, my grandfather was the second-highest ranking naval intelligence officer in the United States of America. Let's just say that one doesn't rise to that position by being Mr. Lackadaisical.

When my dad was young, he heard about some of the teens his age "borrowing" their parent's car in the middle of the night, thinking it would be fun to go joyriding. And it was for them. So it was easy to brag to their peers at school how they got away with swiping the car and dragging main without permission. Seeing other having fun getting away with these kinds of shenanigans but also aware of the strict nature of the man that he called "father," Dad asked Grandpa what the consequences would be if he took the car out for a spin in the middle of the night.

Without missing a beat, my grandfather said "I'd call the police."

"Really?"

Grandpa leaned in close, raised his hand, and snapped his fingers. "That fast."

Now, part of the reason that Grandpa got as far as he did in life was because of the support of a strong woman at his side. Like Grandpa, Grandma wasn't much for putting up with any monkeyshines either. At her funeral a few years ago, my dad said something while delivering the eulogy that really stuck with me. He said "My mother didn't defend her children's behavior; she defended what was right. Therefore, her children had better be doing what is right."

Between Grandma and Grandpa's example, I think my dad learned this lesson pretty well. I lived under what most these days would consider to be some pretty strict, even harsh, rules while living in my parent's household. All of that changed when I was 18. I can still remember when Dad sat me down and took the leash off. He said something along the following lines: "Son, you are 18 now. Mom and I have spent that many years trying to teach you what is right, trying to make you into a man. And we've had a lot of rules for you to follow. I will be the first to admit that we have been very strict with you. But that ends now. The leash is off. Welcome to being an adult."

He then leaned in close and said "So if you go out, screw up your life and wind up in jail, I'll be more than happy to come and visit you."

It was what he didn't say there that was important. He didn't have to say that he wouldn't bail me out. I already knew that. If I did something to end up in jail, it was my fault and there would be no one to bail me out because of something I did. 

My parents raised me in such a way that I knew what was right, and if I suffered the consequences of my poor choices, I had no one to blame except myself. Because I knew better. I am responsible for accepting the consequences of my own decisions. My parents could protect me from a lot of things in this world; but they cannot protect me from myself. I guess my parent's philosophy may be a little different from the world's current train of thought. Their mindset was (and still is) that it wasn't their job to protect us kids from the world; it was their job to teach us to protect ourselves. They realized that someday mommy and daddy wouldn't be there to make choices for me. So they prepared me for that by expecting me to live according to what I knew to be right before they took the leash off. That does not mean my folks were uncaring, or threw us out into the world unprepared. On the contrary. In teaching us right from wrong, my parents gave us the best possible preparation to function out in the "real world." That's not to say I didn't make a few good-sized mistakes here and there, but still managed to make it to this point in life without any jail time. 

Now, switching gears just a little, I kind of like the Transformers movie. Giant alien robots coming to earth creating an epic struggle for mankind is a pretty cool plot. There is, however, something that seriously bugs me about that film. For those not familiar with the movie, I'll give you a quick synopsis.

The main character, Sam, is in possession of an artifact, something belonging to his great-grandfather, detailing the location of a powerful tool used by an alien robots race. These robots (both the good ones and the bad ones) find out that the artifact and the tool are on earth and come to find both. The good robots befriend Sam, who joins up in the fight to save humanity against the bad robots that want to destroy the earth with the powerful alien tool. An ultra-super-secret US government agency tasked with monitoring the alien situation gets involved in the fiasco as well. The movie ends after an epic battle stretching from the Hoover Dam to L.A., with the good guys saving humanity. As a side issue, a gorgeous girl from Sam's high school who wouldn't give him the time of the day finally notices him when she finds out that he is involved in cool alien robots.

At one part where Sam and the girl get caught with the robots by the secret agent government dude that nobody is supposed to like, said agent mentions that the girl has a juvenile record. She admits to Sam that the cars that she used to help her dad fix weren't exactly their own cars, if you catch her drift. If you don't, that means that her dad stole the cars. And you can tell that Sam is a little shocked at this revelation. Here in his mind was the perfect girl, and whoops; she had a record. (It does cause one to wonder how some secret government agent responsible for alien robot management for the most powerful country on earth knows off the top of his head that the sort-of girlfriend of a teenage boy they caught with the robots has a juvie record, but that is beside the point.)

A little bit later she calls Sam out, presumably for judging her (though he didn't even mention anything about the incident) while he lives a "perfect little life." With the lights bursting behind her, the camera down low pointing up at her, the background music/sounds just right, everything cinematographically necessary to make her look every bit the brave and rugged heroine, she says "Sam...I have a record because I wouldn't turn my dad in."

Cut. Print. Wrap. It's perfect.

And it bugs the living daylights out of me. The director turned her character into a hero for being willing to set aside such things as morals and defend her father's behavior, while simultaneously turning Sam into a jerk-face meanie for having the audacity to have the thought cross his mind that it is wrong to steal cars. By golly, if he is willing to think it is wrong to steal cars, he probably tortured kittens as a child!! If my mom hadn't taught me otherwise, I would probably be cussing him up one side and down the other for having the audacity to have morals!! And boy she sure showed him by then asking him what he had ever had to sacrifice in his "perfect little life." Gosh, it is a good thing she put him in his place.

Oh what a tangled web we weave. It is now good and glamorous and heroic and sacrificial and selfless and probably other virtuous-sounding words to defend someone else's behavior, whether or not said behavior is wrong. I mean, don't get me wrong; I was impressed she was willing to do that. Presumably because of love...? And only a judgmental, discriminatory, racist, sexist, self-righteous zealot and bigot who tortured kittens as a child who would dare even question covering up for someone else's misdeeds.

Hollywood remains unmatched in their ability to manipulate the masses into extolling behavior that is deplorable. Though, in all fairness, today's mainstream media seems to have picked up a few pointers.

I guess what I'm trying to say is when did it become okay to defend someone else's wrongful behavior? It would seem that it is now not only appropriate, but wildly acceptable in our culture to hold everyone but the individual (more often called the victim nowadays) accountable for the individual's actions. It seems to be widely accepable to put what is right in the backseat in order to excuse an individual's behavior.

When did it become okay for the masses to remove responsibility from the individual? How did we get to the point in society where one standing up for what they believe to be right is portrayed as a self-righteous bigot? That is not to say that bigotry and the self-righteousness don't exist; I'd be lying if I said it didn't. However, we tear down virtue to uphold atrocities if the "victim's" political, sexual, racial, personal or any other such characteristics and creeds are aligned with our own. I think this point is well illustrated by the following image:

I am legitimately concerned that in today's day and age, this mentality extends far beyond the classroom. 

When you teach someone that they are above what is right, that the rules don't apply to them, that someone else will bail them out of any sticky situation they get themselves in, you are not helping them. You are lying to them. 

Parents, loving your children involves much more than telling them yes every time they make a request. Or demand. Or throw a temper tantrum. It also means not defending their behavior when they do something wrong. When a parent excuses their child's wrongful behavior because they "love" their child, the parents are not only fooling themselves, but severely damaging their child. Truly loving your children requires, at times, that you say no. Truly loving your children requires that they be punished for doing wrong. They may look at you as the big, bad, meanie parent in the moment. Have the courage to stand up for what is right rather than what is easy, and shallowly presents itself as "love."

Let me be absolutely clear; I'm not advocating child abuse here. That is, and always will be, wrong. But letting your child off scot-free can be just as damaging in the long run. If you don't teach them, the world will. And getting a spanking or a time-out is much more gentle than watching them end up behind bars. Or suffering the consequences of choices that you can't get them out of. Take the recent "affluenza" case that popped up when a parent took it too far in trying to remove the consequences from the teen responsible. 

I recently heard a story for the first time involving my brother, one of his "friends," and my father. Though I wasn't present for the event, I think it appropriately demonstrates what I am trying to say here. In a nutshell, Dad told Brother that he was not allowed to go to a certain party. Brother wasn't too happy, and neither was Friend. So, Friend took it upon himself to go up to Dad and pompously and presumptuously tell Dad off for saying no, insinuating that Dad was abusing his authority as a father figure in saying no.

As I listened to Brother and Dad recall the event from years previous, I was so proud of my brother when he said that he now not only realized why Dad had told him no, but appreciated that Dad cared enough to say no. He, and I, now realize that our parents loved us enough to say no when necessary.

There are those that will say that is a harsh viewpoint. But, as a wise man once told me, "It is not my job to protect my children from the world. It is my job to teach them to protect themselves." If you stand for what is right, your children will stand for what is right. If you stand for your child, your child will do whatever they want, regardless of what is right.

Our culture is currently engaged in the greatest cultural experiment of putting individuals above principles ever known to mankind. I personally believe it starts in the home. And we are suffering for it. While many decrying injustice in this day and age look to government for solutions to remedy the symptoms of such outrages, the very people viewing themselves as social heroes are indeed the very catalysts fueling and escalating these occurrences. Every time they make excuses for such an individual, hundreds of young, impressionable children receive the message that it is possible for them too to live above the rules. They learn that someone will step in and make excuses for them if they do something reprehensible. The snake-oil solutions provided by these perceived social warriors will never work because they are more interested in defending the behavior of those who wind up in trouble as the consequences of their own poor choices than they are in defending what is right. Is it any wonder that nearly 1 in 3 young people will be arrested by the age of 23?

Why then was Martin Luther King Jr. so effective? Because he was interested in what was right. And he didn't sink down to the level of wrongdoers in order to "right" that wrong. It was wrong to segregate the African-American population from society. It is wrong to judge or treat a person differently based on their skin color.  He recognized that was wrong, and he did something about it. And something tells me that he understood the old adage "two wrongs don't make a right." He also realized it also wasn't right to go around destroying property and beating people when something you don't like occurs. And that is the difference between him and today's rabble-rousers. He didn't make excuses for the behavior of others. He didn't care about how the media portrayed him. He wasn't interested in money. He wasn't caught up in trying to be perceived as politically correct, and cared not for finding every possible offense imaginable and then whining, wailing, and gnashing his teeth at the world, demanding the situation be remedied. He was more interested in what was right than in possibly damaging someone's fragile mentality or frail ego. 

Our nation is not suffering from intolerance; it is suffering because of a collective willingness to excessively tolerate that which is wrong. Our culture is suffering because, in general, we refuse to stand up and say something is good or bad. Or rather, it is our willingness to elevate people and their behaviors above the rules that is causing our culture to crumble in our midst. Political correctness has pushed truth right out of a second story window and spat on it to boot. We grab picket signs (physical or digital) and call the perpetrator (a.k.a someone who stands up and calls it what it is, and no, that was NOT a Donald Trump reference) horrible names way before we would even dare to question if the alleged victim shouldn't have been doing what they were doing.  In a day and age when political correctness dictates we never tell someone that what they are doing is wrong (unless of course they don't agree with us), it is more important than ever to put what is right ahead of what is politically correct. 

I believe that, like during the 60's and 70's culture of drugs and sex, our culture is in a serious dilemma. This time, the danger is much more subtle. Rather than a chemical or blatant moral threat, this new attitude of perceived morality, of defending people's behaviors no matter the reason will indeed lead America to a brave, new future.

Dear People Who Think You Love Science | Really Random Writings

I love science. And when I say I love science, I'm not just talking about re-posting memes from an expletive-laden Facebook page. My dear mother says that the first three words I learned growing up were “Mom,” “Dad,” and “Paleontology.” I have wanted to be a scientist for pretty much my entire life. From the time I was young, paleontology, archaeology, marine biology, astronomy, anthropology, geology, botany, chemistry, and yes, even physics to a certain degree has fascinated me. I just graduated with a bachelor's degree in geology, and I've come to find over the years that the natural world is a never-ending wonder of continual discovery. So, let me make it perfectly clear before I get accused of being a hater; I think science is awesome.

So I hope I will be forgiven in saying that I am quite tired of science being hoisted up on every other person's petard as today's Holy Grail, the Final Say, the Unquestionable Absolute, the End of Any and All Arguments, a Slam-Dunk Finish. Possibly my least favorite sentences in English involve the following sentiments:

        #1 - "The Science is Settled," indicating that some scientist said this, so shut up and go away you uncivilized buffoon and/or science denier. If we held to the "Science is Settled" idea, Aether Theories, Spontaneous Generation, the Expanding Earth, and even Einstein's Static Universe may be today's norm.

        And #2 - "Well this study says..." indicating that since this study you found on the internet says using the fungus scraped from underneath your toenails in your breakfast smoothie on the full moon of every other odd month naturally reduces cooties, it must be the gospel truth. EUREKA!! Sweet, post it to Facebook, tell your friends, change their lives.

It isn't the science I'm going after. It is the perversion of science through the manner in which it is used, by scientists, politicians, and the general public. And I think it safe to say that all have misused science at some point. I'll admit, I myself am far from above reproach. Not too long ago, I posted a "science" meme online that made what I thought was a good point (I think it still is a good point, or at least a good laugh). I then realized that it used a biased one-liner that didn't fully explain anything to show how everyone who agreed with the opposing viewpoint was clueless. So I took it back down. Because that is not science. Oops.

Science is the human way of organizing the knowledge we have of the universe in which we live. Science is extraordinarily useful in explaining the universe in which we exist, and in making predictions. Science is the process by which we pursue knowledge, and is a constantly evolving body of ideas.

An extraordinarily important point to remember about science is that science is not out to prove an idea to be true. When testing a hypothesis, said hypothesis is attacked from all angles to prove it false. If scientists fail to falsify a hypothesis after rigorous testing, then the credibility of the proposition is elevated. So, let me repeat; science is not a tool used to prove something true. Those that use it as such do not understand the basic premise of science. Bias is so easily introduced into the equation when one is trying to prove something true. Science is used to determine what is not true, and over time, the range of possible truths is narrowed. Theoretical physicist Richard Feynman once said "I have approximate answers and possible beliefs and different degrees of uncertainty about different things, but I am not absolutely sure of anything." I'm not positive I agree 100% with everything he says there, but I like the sentiment he is trying to get across. 

However, science has "proven" over the years that violent video games don't cause aggression. Science has also "proven" that violent video games cause aggression. Science has recently "proven" cell phone radiation is killing bees, but it has also said that pesticides are the culprit. Studies have been used to show that homosexuality is genetic, while other studies say people are not born gay. Climate change has been proven, and proven to be a hoax. GMOs have been proven safe, and to be a health hazard. And these days, something doesn't even have to be "proven" before a bunch of word-toting pictures with snappy one-liners start flooding the internet.

Climate Change

        GMOs

 






Why is this?

The problem often isn't science. The problem is likely that we come to the discussion with preconceived notions and are unwilling to yield to one the values of a group that disagrees with the values of the group that we belong to. I think it best explained on a site I found while researching GMOs for a genetics class I was taking. The author states:

"The perception of risk is inescapably subjective, a matter of not just the facts, but how we feel about those facts. As pioneering risk perception psychologist Paul Slovic has said, “risk is a feeling.” So societal arguments over risk issues like Golden Rice and GMOs, or guns or climate change or vaccines, are not mostly about the evidence, though we wield the facts as our weapons. They are mostly about how we feel, and our values, and which group’s values win, not what will objectively do the most people the most good. That’s a dumb and dangerous way to make public risk management decisions."

(The full article can be found here. Incidentally, the author, as near as I can tell, is advocating for holding those who disagree with science responsible for their disagreements. While I like what he said in the aforementioned paragraph, I am slightly uncomfortable with his proposition. First off, there is no law against being stupid. More importantly though, I tried to establish earlier that science is a constantly changing body of knowledge. What is "true" today may not be so true tomorrow.)

Lets be honest here; I think it safe to say that most people who accept anthropogenic climate change do so in part because it is one of the values of the Democrat party here in America. Most of those that are labeled as climate change "deniers" fall within the realm of the Republican Party. Because we associate ourselves with groups espousing those values, we hesitate to relinquish our grip on our views on certain issue because it is a value of the "enemy." HEAVEN FORBID WE ACTUALLY AGREE WITH THEM ON ANYTHING!!! So what do we do?

We zealously cherry-pick scientific facts (or we just ignore the science altogether, which at that point makes our opinion worse than useless) that support our arguments (ignoring the ones that we don't like) and attempt to bludgeon people who disagree with us into submission by using said "facts." Which gives the recipient of our facts the feeling that they are being clubbed. And rather than help them to see where they are wrong, that approach only makes them feel like you are attempting to bludgeon them, which you are, and under which circumstances they will fight, which gets everyone involved exactly nowhere. Except maybe a trip for blood-pressure medication. Focusing on the science, however, (hopefully) removes some of the heated emotions from the discussion, drawing our attention to the problem at hand.
And on those occasions when we actually do remember the science, we've taken to equating research with the gospel truth, and anyone who questions it obviously is a science-denying ignoramus blockhead that somehow miraculously retained the function to walk and breathe at the same time. 

Why?

My father is quite fond of saying, "There is a lot of junk research out there. I know, I've written some of it." When academia dictates that a professor publish research to make the university look good and bring in tons of money or get booted, I imagine the professor (not entirely their fault) will publish whatever needed to keep their job. It doesn't matter what is published; it just has to be published. I don't think I need to spell out the implications of this dangerous practice. 

Like science, I think research is great. How it is used, however, occasionally gives me pause. I hold many of the scientists I've been privileged to work with in the highest regard. The same can be said of their research. I am sure that not all who publish do so just for the sake of publishing. But I'd be lying if I said I never think it happens. What I am trying to communicate is the idea that research does not necessarily mean correct, true, honest, legitimate, or accurate. It means someone with a piece of paper qualifying them as educated studied and then wrote about something. Hopefully, proper procedures were followed to give an unbiased and correct conclusion at the end of said research. I find myself, however, increasingly wary of trusting "research" simply because it is labeled as research. 

One of my favorite TV shows of all time is Hogan's Heroes. The German Commandant, Colonel Klink, in an attempt to "prove" that German pilots were superior to American pilots, set up a test that heavily favored the German pilots (Season 2, Episode 1). After Colonel Hogan pointed out this small detail, Klink said "The aim of a research project, my dear Hogan, is not to discover new facts. We already know the Luftwaffe personnel are superior. Here we are merely furnishing scientific proof!" Starting out with a conclusion and then finding data to fit the circumstances isn't simply putting the cart before the donkey; its running the donkey over with the cart, and then arranging to blame it on your little brother. (Note: if you have run over a donkey and don't have a little brother to blame, let me know; I have three. I'll rent one out to you.)

Perhaps the most profound sentence I ever heard uttered concerning the outcome of scientific analysis was by a man who got his bachelors degree in geology, and then went to practice environmental law (Yes, he was a lawyer, and no, don't hold that against him. He was one of the most sensible of persons that I have ever met.) He said, and I quote, "You can always find a scientific opinion if you have enough money." He later went on to say "You can buy science." And to be brutally honest, it is true. Take today's Justice System. If one side has an "expert witness," implying that said witness has a special knowledge or proficiency in an area concerning the case, all the other side has to do is hire an "expert witness" with an opposing view. And for every expert witness there is an equal and opposite expert witness. The case is no longer about the facts, but about the appearance of credibility. It has become a grotesque intellectual "fashion" show. When that point is reached, concern for the truth has long since been chucked out the window.

I was discussing this topic with a colleague of mine from last summer. Heading up through Southeast Alaska on his way to retirement, this older co-worker of mine had spent his career working with ballistic missile computer systems for the US government. You might say he's a sort of rocket scientist. I was very intrigued when he brought up taking statistics in college. From the sound of it, he struggled mightily in this class until he came to this realization; he could make the numbers say whatever he wanted them to. He might have had to tweak how he was looking at problem or change the information around the numbers to lead the audience to a certain conclusion, he might have to use different numbers or methods of arriving to better numbers, or even evaluate the questions he did or didn't answer. But he learned to fit quantifiable data into any scenario. He was able to back up almost anything one way or another by engineering the data to fit the narrative. Sounds like it did wonders for his Stats grade too. Learn the scenario, and then get the "data" necessary to back up the situation. After that class, he came to the same realization that I have come to: You can make numbers say anything you want them to. 

And just to cover my own backside, I'm not going after math either. Math, if used properly, is undoubtedly one of the most important of skills most people will ever learn, and certainly one of the studies with the most influence on humanity.

So when academia comes out with the results of a study, and the possible examples are too numerous to list, there is something an intelligent person should consider before posting an article arguing their viewpoint to someone's post to show the idiot they are bludgeoning how terribly wrong they are. One should always ask "Where is the funding for this study coming from?" If the video game industry is funding studies about benefits of violent video games, they aren't giving researchers the money in the hopes of hearing that violent video games lead to aggressive behaviors. They are paying to hear that violent video games lead to improved grades, college graduates, a good job, stronger marriages, a pay raise, running for President, world peace, and...increased spatial skills...(Call me old-fashioned, but I hear playing outside is a great way to increase spatial skills.) Anyway, should a scientist/researcher even get in the same hemisphere that makes violent video games appear the slightest bit negative, they'd lose their funding faster than you could disconnect a game console.

Or, when the government is funding your studies on the effects of man's carbon production on global cooling whoops I mean global warming whoops I mean climate change whoops I mean global climate disruption whoops I mean whatever it is called today, they aren't paying to hear that the climate does it's own thing. The narrative is already decided. What they are paying (funding research) to hear that there is an immediate crisis on hand that requires their personal and immediate attention and needs hundreds of millions of taxpayer dollars to fund global warming mitigation measures (whatever in blue blazes that is supposed to mean), as well as pass a slew of legislation and new laws in order to combat plant food.

And guess who would lose their funding and credibility (and its anyone's guess as to which of those is more important to researchers) should they say climate change isn't the biggest and most immediate problem humanity has ever faced? Those funding these studies are paying to hear that there is an immediate crisis. And they'll not only keep paying, but pay more if they hear that "THE WORLD IS COMING TO AN END NEXT YEAR *(see "Al Gore") SO WE HAD BETTER RAISE MILLIONS OF DOLLARS RIGHT NOW TO DO SOMETHING!!!" What that something is, not even they know, and what happens with the money raised is anybody's guess. (Guess you now know how I feel about this issue.)

One should also ask what bias the person doing the research, writing the report, or repeating the research, holds. I don't mean to be beating a dead horse, but I recently read a pro-video game article by a mom/writer. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I enjoy video games. My roommates in college taught me to play Super Smash Bros, as well as Wii-U Mario Kart. And I loved it! I would play a couple of hours a week and it was a great de-stresser.

But when I read "As I write this post, my own 15-year-old is playing a 'Call of Duty' warfare game, while waiting for the latest version to arrive by mail," I am forced to wonder what bias this mother has. And in all fairness, she did state that she'd rather see her son riding his bike or playing basketball with his friends as opposed to chatting on his headset.
However, does she not have an emotional stake in this? Can her view of video games be affected by her love for her son, and by logical extension, his love for video games? I imagine it would be much less difficult to be proud of your son's accomplishments if you perceived that benefits such as enhanced creativity, increased ability to solve problems, and promoted social connectedness were coming out of his sitting down in front of a console wiggling his fingers. 

So when someone uses the phrase "Well, research says..." to show me why the buffoon to which they are speaking (that's me) has the mental capacity of a peanut, I immediately become interested in the research said person starts spouting. I want to know who did the research. I want to know the methodology behind research. I want to see the numbers backing up their claim, and how they arrived at those numbers. I want to know what questions they did and didn't answer and why. I want to know who funded the research. I want to see if the author mixed interpretations with data. I want to know the researcher's political leanings, as well as a whole slew of other things.

Most of all, I want to talk about the science itself. Incidentally, I find it fascinating when I get myself into an online debate by leaving a comment on a scientifically hot topic, that people whose only method of recourse in debating science is insulting someone they disagree with come out of the woodwork. I guess it is easier to have a spine online. However, as soon as I start discussing the science, I never hear back from them. Without fail. Over a dozen individuals once slammed me as an idiot, intellectual whiner, political sheep, and science denier over a questioning comment I made. As soon as I explained my concerns with the science, everyone, and all their insults, mysteriously vanished. 

So...to get to the point of this whole thing:

Please stop using "science" only as a weapon to advance your agenda. To do so is outrageously inappropriate, diluting the incredible process of gathering and examining knowledge to the point of throwing something--which may be fact, conjecture, straight up falsehoods, who knows--around on some online pseudo-scientific bludgeon-people-who-don't-agree-with-you cesspool. To do so, you haven't proven that you are right and someone else is wrong. You have only succeeded in proving you really know nothing of science, research or statistical analysis. 

The Refiner's Fire: Part 3 - The Blessings | Really Random Writings

I vaguely remember waking up in a cramped, dark area with the distinct feeling that I had just been run over by a Japanese commuter train. I had never before realized just how connected the abdominal muscles are to the rest of the body. But then again, said muscles had been recently lacerated in three places. I found myself literally unable to move anything from the neck down. Soon after my memory re-engaged, Elder Hicks informed me that the Japanese nurse needed me to turn onto my side. After failing twice to roll over on my side, I found it necessary to enlist Elder Hicks's help. I was, for all intents and purposes, temporarily paralyzed. It was a most disconcerting sensation. I didn't have to worry about it for long, as I didn't wake up till the next afternoon.

An elderly gentleman sat on a chair near the end of my hospital bed, sunlight filtering in through the windows at his back. He concentrated on his laptop until I began to stir. He broke out in a smile that radiated throughout the room, and I'll admit, I was pleased to realize someone was glad that I was alive. Because at this point, I still didn't know if I should be glad to be conscious. The feeling that my abdominal muscles wanted nothing more than to escape through my recently stitched up stomach gave me good reason to not move.

This gentleman, wearing a missionary tag labeling him as Elder Prisbrey, enthusiastically greeted me and introduced himself. I had seen him previously with my trainer, Elder Heywood, at the church my first night in Kumamoto, but had yet to introduce myself. I gave a feeble attempt at a smile and must have somehow reassured him that I wouldn't die on him. He whipped out a small digital camera and told me to make myself look alive, this picture was going to my parents. I was able to raise my arm by this point and like a good missionary in Japan, flashed a peace sign at the camera and tried to smile. It almost worked, too. He informed me that he had been in contact with my parents, and said they were concerned but not overly worried, for which I was glad. Sending out their first missionary and having him wind up in a foreign hospital was, I'm sure, not part of my parent's plan.

He started telling me about the Outreach Center project that he was heading in Kumamoto, providing a place for youth to congregate and participate in all sorts of wholesome activities. I can't recall much else of the conversation, I was just glad to have a cheerful face around. He put me on his laptop and insisted that I e-mail my parents personally. I had a few messages, one that my mom had sent me between me leaving the Salt Lake airport and my arriving in Kumamoto. She admitted that it was harder knowing I was now in Japan and that if something happened, "like your appendix bursting," she wouldn't be there to drive me to the doctor. I tried really hard not to laugh because of how tender my abdominal muscles were, but I couldn't help it. I think Elder Prisbrey was slightly concerned when the sick missionary under his care suddenly started wheezing in his hospital bed, but chuckled when I showed him the e-mail. To this day I still tease my mother about jinxing me.

Over the next few days, I received several visitors. Elder Chung, a jolly Hawaiian elder, was going to be my temporary companion while I recovered. The sister missionaries came to visit and gave me a small pink teddy bear with a name tag to be my hospital companion (yes, I still have it and no, I am not ashamed of it) and a fun-sized Twix bar. To this day, that Twix bar is still the best thing I have ever eaten. Pretty sure it was what kept me in Japan.

When visitors came to check on me, or when the nurses were bustling about, I was upbeat. I had wondered several times over the years how I would act in a situation like this, and I was determined to be a good patient. I did have about four times the attention that the other patients in the recovery ward had, and the nurses appeared to be having the time of their lives taking care of this little foreigner. When they said a word I didn't know, which was over ninety five percent of what I heard, I would slowly reach for my pocketbook dictionary, and look a word up. It was a rather laborious process. Pretty soon the nurses figured out to take my dictionary and look up the most important word in the sentence, and I could figure usually out what they were trying to say.

On about day three, a nice lady in a more administrative outfit came up and started slowly speaking to me. One word stuck out, and I once again reached for my dictionary. After finally finding the word for insurance, I realized they wanted to know how they were going to get paid for this. My mind was blank. She gave me a kind of "sorry, but I have to ask this" look. I thought for a minute, and finally said in halting Japanese "I...am...a...missionary........My...church...can...pay." I hadn't the foggiest as to how the hospital would get their money, but I was sure that somehow it would be worked out. I don't know how satisfactory my answer was, but I think she could see that I had strained my mental capacity to the max trying to come up with an answer and had mercy on me.

When traffic to and from my hospital bed died down, however, feelings of loneliness engulfed me. I was thousands of miles away from family and friends. I had been sick for the last two months, and was now taking an hour to get out of bed and walk 15 feet to use the bathroom. I had endured incredible amounts of pain, and no small amount of humiliation at the fact that a nurse had to help me preform the most basic of bodily functions. I was in a foreign country, and I had long since realized that I didn't speak a lick of Japanese. The food was quite different, I was surrounded by people I didn't know (even if they were nice), and to be honest, was quite scared of something that I couldn't really pinpoint.

When I was 12 years old, my father was diagnosed with cancer. At 12 years old, I thought my dad was going to die. I assumed that I had learned pretty well just how fragile life can be. However, even though this was not nearly as serious or intense as cancer, going under the knife myself was a whole 'nother ball of wax. I was scared. Five days in a Japanese hospital, even with all the hustle-and-bustle around me, gave me a lot of time to think about life.

In those times of difficulty in the hospital, I prayed, like my parents had taught me. And then I turned to the scriptures. I had been told for as long as I can remember that they provided answers and comfort to the challenges this life provides us with. One day in the hospital, I was reading the Book of Mormon, in the Book of Mosiah, Chapter 24. It describes a people in bondage, suffering as slaves with heavy burdens. They poured out their hearts to God, who told them (vs 13) to:

"...Lift up your heads and be of good comfort, for I know of the covenant which ye have made unto me; and I will covenant with my people and deliver them out of bondage."


And then I read the next verse, verse 14, which has forever changed my life.

"And I will also ease the burdens which are put upon your shoulders, that even you cannot feel them upon your backs, even while you are in bondage; and this will I do that ye may stand as witnesses for me hereafter, and that ye may know of a surety that I, the Lord God, do visit my people in their afflictions."


Time seemed to stand still as I tried to wrap my head around what I had just read.

And for a moment, I felt the truth of those words in my own life. While I was a missionary laying in a hospital bed, I'd been in Japan less than a week, hadn't changed my clothes in days and had bits of food all over me, hadn't showered in days (and smelled like it), was unshaven, and physically and emotionally a wreck, I sincerely felt that the Savior of the world took a moment to stand by that hospital bed in Kumamoto, Japan, and check to see if I was okay. 

I know He already knew of my condition. The important part was He was letting me know that He cared for me. That an obscure 21 year old missionary of no importance to the world was valued by his Creator. In my hour of greatest need, I found I was important enough to Him that He made a personal visit to let me know that He cared. More powerfully than I will ever be able to describe in words, I felt, not only the reality of Deity, but was privileged to feel just a small portion of the magnitude of the love that our Savior has for God's children.

While I was blessed with countless miracles, large and small throughout that experience, the greatest and most powerful took place in my heart as I began to understand the power that comes with knowing that the Savior of the world does deeply care for each individual, and atoned on our behalf so "that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities" (Alma 7:12).  


This world can appear to be a cruel and heartless place. Sickness, war, hunger, abuse, neglect, natural disasters and other catastrophes run rampant. Everything from the greatest of nations down to the smallest of families and individuals are affected by these calamities in one way or another. When we see cancer in a child, families ripped apart by divorce, nations torn by war, millions affected by starvation, or any other such scourges and atrocities, it is easy to see how one might shake their fist at the heavens and ask how God could allow this to happen. How could a caring God allow His children to suffer? Or, it might be simpler to say that there is no God because He would not allow such things to happen. 

This life was designed to be a small, but important part of eternity. The Lord knew that in order for His spirit children to progress, we needed to have the chance to obtain a body, and to learn and grow. We would need to be separated from Him in order to see if we would follow Him in faith or not. He gave every human that has come to this earth a most precious gift, the ability to choose how they would live their lives. He gave us this knowing that there would be those of His children that would abuse this gift of agency. Does He have the power to stop some of these things? I'm sure He does. But I think He has the wisdom and the foresight to allow them for this short time. It was so important to Him (and to our eternal progression) that we personally choose to use our agency to follow Him or not, that He steps back and lets people use their agency for better or worse. 

And He allows other trials to refine us as well. Those that choose to follow Him in faith are not free from the burdens of this life. He gave unto men weaknesses, that we would be humble. We are subject to and endless parade of strife in this life. But, we are also given the chance to have joy in this lifetime. And if we choose to follow Him for this short journey through mortality, He has promised us that He will not leave us alone. Though the struggles may be great, and this mortal experience may be unfair, He has promised us all the blessings eternity has to offer if we but follow Him. 

To this day, I am absolutely convinced that the Lord does care for us. And I am even more convinced that when we are suffering, when we feel alone, when our hearts is broken, and we are experiencing the deepest and darkest recesses of the human experience, the Lord draws near unto us. With His arms outstretched, He is constantly inviting us to come unto Him. No matter how many times we fall, no matter how often we have rejected Him in the past, no matter our importance to the world, He cares for each and every member of the human race that has lived, is living, or ever will live. 

This I know. 


Part 1 and part 2 of this series can be found by clicking on the links. 

The Refiner's Fire: Part 2 - The Appendix | Really Random Writings

In order to understand my position on this subject, a little background information about myself may be useful for the reader.

I am a Mormon.

Or, as I prefer to think, I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I firmly believe in a Heavenly Father who loves us unconditionally, and that Jesus Christ suffered for our sins so that we could repent, as well as learn and grow from our mistakes. I also believe that there is a purpose in our trials, and that they are necessary part of life in order for us to reach our full potential as we make our way through this mortal probation. I’d like to share the story of the trial that has perhaps shaped who I am today more than any other experience.

           
In March of 2008, at the tender age of nineteen, I was called to serve a full-time two-year mission as a representative of Jesus Christ and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I received my assignment to serve in the Fukuoka, Japan mission, and could not wait to start teaching the Japanese people the Restored Gospel of Christ. I entered the Missionary Training Center (MTC) on June 4^th, 2008. Though I was very nervous, I simultaneously tried to contain my excitement to start an adventure that I had been looking forward to for as long as I could remember. The first two weeks were a whirlwind of activity as I got to know my MTC companion, Elder Bodily (as a missionary, you are always with another missionary), oriented myself to the new surroundings, the 9 missionaries I took classes with, and the both the teachers and the classes themselves. I worked as hard as I knew how to, knowing that the more I learned in the MTC, the better prepared I would be when I arrived in Japan.

Elder Bodily (right) and I in the MTC

It was about two weeks into my MTC experience when I started having problems. It started on a Sunday morning at breakfast when I started throwing up. I skipped some of my church meetings to rest, and felt better by the afternoon. The next Tuesday, the same thing happened right after breakfast. Elder Bodily, insisted that I visit the doctor. Because I had never handled stress well as a teen, I assumed that I was just stressed and told the doctor just that. I received some pills to combat nausea and lower the acid levels in my stomach, and went back to class.

For the remaining two months in the MTC, I tried to hide my sickness from everyone, especially Elder Bodily, so that I could keep attending classes and not be a disruption. I felt like I was falling behind as it was, and didn’t need anything else to keep me missing the lessons. It became a more difficult task as time progressed. I kept throwing up, experienced constant bowel problems, and the pain in my stomach became so sharp so as to feel as if a knife had been unceremoniously plunged into my side.

At night, I would lay awake for hours before exhaustion finally overcame the pain, and I could drift into unconsciousness. Almost every morning, I would wake up well before Elder Bodily’s 6:30 alarm went off. I would stare at the ceiling and wonder how on earth I was going to function normally throughout the day, or even if I would make it through the day. At breakfast, I was reduced to eating a few cubes of melon or half a bagel. I felt every morning that if I ate, I would immediately throw up, but if I didn’t eat, the hunger would become unbearable. I started losing weight. My stomach usually allowed for a few more bites of lunch, and occasionally I was able to get all of dinner down. 

On the 4^th of July, one of my MTC buddies received a package from his mom containing giant cinnamon rolls for all 10 of us in the class. I remember that day clearly, as I felt like writhing in pain during morning classes due to abdominal torment, and that delicious cinnamon roll sat in my desk for two days before I felt I could force it down. On another occasion, I dragged Elder Bodily back to our room before breakfast so I could grab my medications, knowing I would not be able to keep breakfast down that day without them. I took the pills with a mouth-full of water, and two minutes later was vomiting in the bushes on the way to the dining hall.

For two straight months, I lived in that condition. I was physically exhausted by the end of the MTC, but spiritually enriched. I felt I had progressed as far as the confines of the MTC could take me. Now, only arriving in Japan would keep me learning the language and advancing as a missionary. I tried to keep that attitude as I threw up in the gutter at the Salt Lake airport before boarding. Luckily, on the flight to Los Angeles and from there to Tokyo, my stomach decided to take a break from irritating me.

At the international airport in Narita, however, and on the flight to Fukuoka, the pain returned with a vengeance. When I first met my Mission President, the caretaker of all the missionaries in the Fukuoka mission, I was sicker than a dead dog. The good first impression that I had hoped to give him didn’t even matter in lieu of trying to not pass out.  I was once again sick at the mission home, and took care to ensure that no one knew. After a couple of days at the mission home, my fellow missionaries and I were assigned to our first areas. I was assigned to the city of Kumamoto along with Elder Bodily, although we were sent to different areas of the city.

My trainer, Elder Heywood

I arrived to be greeted by my trainer (first companion), Elder Heywood, who enthusiastically informed me that we had a full schedule for that day. I think I was too scared to notice the pain, which had subsided a little. We met several people at the church building that afternoon, and made it home just in time for curfew. The following day was full of errands as we attempted to get me set up for my time in Kumamoto. After the errands of the day, we once again taught lessons to people that had recently joined the church. Once again, while we were teaching, the pain once again reared its ugly head and the little Japanese I knew remained unused as my entire abdomen cried for relief. By the time we got home at the end of the evening, I had reached my breaking point; I could take this no longer. I could not live this way for two more days, let alone two more years. The pain threatened to engulf me with a wave of unconsciousness. 

 It was at this point I asked Elder Heywood for a Priesthood blessing. As in Biblical times, our Heavenly Father has once again given the power to man to act in his name, and use His power for the benefit of His children. Elder Heywood laid his hands on my head, and in the name of Jesus Christ, gave me a blessing to help my physical condition. It was the most calming feeling that began to course through me, and all I remember after the blessing was that I went straight to my futon, curled up, and for the first time in months, fell straight asleep. In retrospect, I now firmly believe that the blessing that Elder Heywood gave me kept me here on this earth. The man saved my life by worthily using his Priesthood on my behalf, and I will be eternally indebted to him.

The next morning, Elder Heywood and another senior missionary went to Fukuoka for a leadership training meeting, leaving me with a missionary that had been out for just six weeks. I woke up just as they headed out the door. All the shooting pains that plagued my stomach the night before had disappeared. The agony that had become a normal was almost gone. And the strangest sensation accompanied my lower right side. All that remained was a spot on my lower right side about the size of a quarter that, interestingly enough, felt cold. It was at that moment I finally realized that I was having an abnormal physical experience that would probably require medical attention. 

After much hesitation, I timidly alerted my companion-for-the-day that something was wrong. He made a phone call to the mission president, and an hour or so later, an 18 year old Japanese kid with sunglasses and a most impressive fohawk showed up with a car. I was still thinking that we were going to go to a doctor, so I was nothing short of flabbergasted to find myself a short while later parked in the Emergency Entrance of a Red Cross hospital. I still thought that severe stress had caused this, not something that presented an immediate threat to my life. I tried not to panic upon finding myself in the ER. I was even more surprised when Elder Bodily and his trainer, Elder Hicks, arrived a few minutes later. I had never before been so glad to see a familiar face. After navigating a maze of Japanese paperwork, I found myself with nothing to do for over an hour before a doctor became available. That much time left to contemplate the "how on earth did I get myself in this mess" question left little to the imagination.

After a cordial greeting from the doctor, I was introduced for the first time to a hospital bed on wheels. Elder Hicks informed me that an ultrasound was in order. The doctor didn't say a word as he stared for fifteen minutes into the gray/white screen that provided a view into my internal organs. After what seemed like an eternity, he rolled up the camera cord and started babbling to Elder Hicks. Elder Hicks listened intently, and turned to me to pass along the message. 

"They're going to need to take you in the back. The doctor is not quite sure whats going on, but they need to take another look."

At that moment, I realized that less than four days after arriving in Japan to begin my mission, I was going to be hospitalized. For the first time I could remember. In a foreign country. With minimal command of the language. And the only person I had known for more than two days was a nineteen year-old who knew as much Japanese as I did. Up to that point in my life, I cannot remember a time when I had felt so alone.

I asked if I could use the restroom, and shuffled over through the door. I stood in front of the mirror, and for the next five minutes just stared at my reflection. My thoughts flew in a thousand different directions at once, causing no shortage of wild speculation that accomplished absolutely nothing other than cause me to try fight the panic building inside of me. Eventually, I splashed some water on my face and shuffled back out to greet whatever the fates had in store for me. 

Elder Hicks and I in the hospital

I climbed back on the wheely-bed and was carted off to some back room. The pain had started to return and reached a point that tears started leaking out of the corners of my eyes. Elder Hicks said that he would see if they could get me some sort of painkiller to ease the agony in my side. After what seemed like days, I was given an IV with some sort of drug to help with the pain. I don't remember a whole lot after that, I was higher than a kite for the rest of the day.

I remember a few flashes from the remainder of that day. I remember another ultrasound, had some blood drawn, was given x-rays and woke up in the middle of a CAT scan. Later in the day, I was pulled off the bed to sit while a doctor explained what they thought was going on. I remember looking at a little drawing, and hearing that they were 99% sure that there were calcified stones in my *appendix. I had never heard of such a thing, and wondered briefly if the drugs I knew I was on simply messed with either my hearing or my thinking. I had never heard of appendix stones before, what on earth were these doctors thinking!?

The last thing I remember before going under the knife was once again emptying my stomach. They were wheeling me in towards surgery, Elder Hicks dutifully at my side, and I knew it was coming. I notified Elder Hicks, who hurriedly alerted the nurses. Despite the large amounts of drugs I had coursing through my system, the pain from my stomach as I once more threw up was unbelievable. It was hands-down the most intense pain I have ever suffered from. The only way I know how to describe it is equating it to a volcano erupting in my stomach. Mount St. Helens may be an appropriate comparison. It is something that I sincerely hope that I never have to experience again. 

As soon as I settled back down, they continued prepping me for surgery. As doctors and nurses bustled around, I once more got Elder Hicks's attention. I did not know how this little dilemma was going to end, but I knew that busted appendixes were nothing if not potentially fatal. If this was going to be my last few moments, I wanted Elder Hicks to tell my parents something. The MTC gave me ample opportunity to recognize all the my parents had done for me. I asked him to tell my parents that I loved them. And, that I knew that the Gospel, which my parents had taught me from the time I was young, as well as my reason for coming to Japan, was true.

He assured me that he would pass that message along. He then said that they were going to start the surgery here soon, and that he would be right by me when I woke up. I looked up as a masked Japanese doctor stepped into view with a large amount of milky-white liquid in a syringe. Elder Hicks said that my arm might feel very warm as they put me out. He was correct. The warmth started spreading, and that was the last sensation I remember as my consciousness slipped into a blackened abyss. 



 
*The appendix is thought to contain bacteria that is useful for digestion. When sickness flushes out those bacteria (via vomiting or diarrhea), the necessary bacterias are preserved. However, when the appendix becomes inflamed, or in my case, calcified stones wore two small holes in the appendix, it can cause severe stomach pains, lead to inflammation of the abdomen, and if not treated, to shock and death.


Part 1 and part 3 of the series can be found by clicking on the links.  

The Refiner’s Fire: Part 1 | Really Random Writings

I recently worked as a U.S. Forest Service intern in Juneau, Alaska with the Lands and Minerals groups. Part of my duties with the Minerals group involved visiting the Kensington Gold Mine and the Hecla Greens Creek Silver Mine operating on public lands. A joint Forest Service and Alaska Department of Natural Resources inspection team traveled monthly to the mines to ensure that they remained in compliance with the permits issued to mine on Forest System lands. Because I was a young geology student hoping to someday work in the mining industry, the mines consented to show me most of their operations.

         I was amazed at the laborious process of extracting and refining the ore down to a precious metal. Ore bodies in and around Juneau are well known for having large amounts of ore. The concentration of gold (or other minerals) is generally so low as to be invisible to the naked eye. At the former historic AJ mine in downtown Juneau, early miners would remove and process on average 22 tons of ore to retrieve a single ounce of gold.

         At both the Kensington and Greens Creek mines, similar processes were used to extract gold, silver, and other metals from the raw ore taken from the lode. Once geologists determine the location of mineral-rich ores, teams blast and drill unrefined rock deep underground, then truck it up to the surface. It was dumped by the mill and fed into a crusher that breaks solid rock down into small pieces that are transported via conveyer belt into the mill.

         Inside the mill, the ore enters a large rotating cylindrical machine that spins quite rapidly. Aside from the rock in the cylinder, there are large iron balls inside as well. The rock is ground down into a very fine-grained sand, perhaps more comparable to dust. From there the ore dust enters large, bubbling vats of chemicals. For some reason, the chemical, when in the form of a bubble, has the unique ability to bond with small metalliferous particles. Air is pumped into the vats of chemicals, and the tiny specs of gold, silver, and other metals are actually floated to the surface on the bubbles, where it can then be gathered. This flotation process consolidates the metals into a concentrated dust. The chemical dust mixture enters a machine similar to an accordion, where most of the moisture is pressed out, and a concentrated dust remains.

         That is the final product coming out of the mines. This dust gets shipped all over the world to go through the smelting process elsewhere. The smelting process involves using heat and chemical reducing agents to decompose the ore, eliminating gases and slag, until just the metal is left behind. Finally, after a process involving blasting, crushing, grinding, chemical extraction and heat, the unrefined ore becomes something of incredible value.

         Is life so different?

         We come into this life unrefined, with years of struggle ahead of us just to get to the point where we can walk and talk. As we grow older, we mature in our capabilities, and with those abilities come the responsibilities to shoulder the burdens that life places on our shoulders. As we struggle in the trenches of life, this mortal probation becomes a testing ground, and a refining process.

         We get bruised and battered by the experiences that life hurls at us. I suspect we have all been affected by heartbreak, death, sickness and struggle. Most know the feelings of despair and agony when life’s curve-balls deal us a blow. Like the unrefined ore, we go through a process that breaks us down. However, a professional metallurgist knows that only through this process can the full value of the ore be reached.

         Our trials, should we allow them, can weed out selfishness and hate. They can purge our soul of bitterness and anger. We can become humble and compassionate when we go through the experiences that allow us to empathize with those struggling around us. We can then realize that our inner strength comes from the ability to overcome, and that we are stronger than previously thought. We can do hard things. The proper perspective of life can be understood as we learn to submit our will to a Higher Power. Only through weeding out the unnecessary rock and tailings can gold and silver reach its true value. Only through the removal of undesirable traits can we reach our full potential.

         It is up to us to determine our final value. Ultimately the choice is ours to accept or reject the lessons taught by our trials. It is not the accumulation of our trials that determines what we become; how we allow the lessons to mold, shape, and refine us will be the decisive factor in establishing our full potential. Life’s trials bring out the best in many, or compound the negative in those that refuse to humble themselves. When we decide to rebel against anything that makes us uncomfortable, or, as the phrase goes, to “kick against the pricks,” we are essentially refusing to take advantage of the opportunity to overcome the negative qualities that we possess, refusing to take a hand in our own refining. On the other hand, should we decided to accept the heat of the refiners fire, we are transformed into something else entirely, something of eternal value.

Part 2 and part 3 of this series can be found by clicking on the links.