Doris Mae Hartman

The blessings of service to others are not always obvious, sometimes not what we hope for or expect. Such was the case on a sunny Sunday afternoon when church let out.  I was hungry, tired of a three-hour block, eager to get home.  Then the question came, “Brother Fuller, could you drive the young men to administer the sacrament to shut-ins?” On the inside I groaned.  On the outside, I smiled and said, “Sure.” Three years later, I give thanks for that opportunity and the “tender mercy of the Lord” that it was. 

I drove the young men to several homes that day. I only remember one, the one where I met Doris Hartman.  She was elderly, 89 years old, the caregiver of her dear husband who suffered from dementia. After the sacrament, we sat and talked. I was privileged to learn about this dear sister, a devout follower of Christ, a wife, a mother of four wonderful children, grandmother and great grandmother. In the months that followed, I returned with the young men to Doris’ house  and got to know her a little better each time.

When Doris’ husband passed, she was able attend church more often.  When I would pass her in the chapel, she always greeted me with a handshake and the greeting, “Hello Brother Fuller.” She more than smiled.  She glowed.  She radiated. She warmed my soul.

My wife and I were blessed during the Christmas season when Doris presented us with a gift. We used it to enjoy an evening out together to a good restaurant. We were very appreciative. We enjoyed the meal, but the real blessing was knowing that Doris counted us as friends. We were honored!

When I visited Doris a few weeks ago in a convalescent home, she was struggling with health issues brought on by 92 years of life. It was the last time I would see her in mortality.  When I got word that she passed, it was cause for a lump in my throat and reflection.

I thank God that life’s path crossed that of Doris Hartman. The world has lost an exceptional soul.  The world’s loss is Heaven’s gain.

..

Global Trek

We the Parents

My wife and I unintentionally raised a wanderer, a risk taker, an adventurous knucklehead. Not a knucklehead in the boneheaded-nitwit sense.  Quite the contrary.  But a knucklehead in way of being a nonconformist, one bold enough to do what most only dream of. That is our son Jace.

Pennsylvania Goodbye

On a May morning we stood in front of our Pennsylvania home. There was no indication that this was more than a hope-to-see-you-soon goodbye, no indication except a mountain bike strapped to the back of Jace’s car and his mother crying like a baby.

This wasn’t a new experience. Three years earlier, our knucklehead made an east-to-west-coast bicycle crossing of the United States.  The year before that it was an attempted cross-country hitch-hiking trip. Those adventures stressed us, but nothing compared to our angst over his upcoming two-continent international journey.  

Prudhoe Bay Alaska lies nearly 300 miles north of the Arctic Circle.  Ushuaia, Argentina might be the most southern tip of civilization.  The land route between the two will send shivers up the spines of any loving parent who hopes to see their offspring experience a 24^th birthday. South of the US border, Mexican poverty might make a bike-peddling gringo a prime target. Columbia conjures up visions of gun-toting drug lords. Nicaragua? Honduras?  Yikes!

What if you’re mugged in a Central American jungle?  What are you going to do without a bike, no cash, no bank card and no passport?  His flippant response hardly soothed our nerves.  We grasped what comfort we could from knowing he had studied the routes and read blogs of other cyclists who made the trip.  He understood the risks.

In the Beginning, Prudhoe Bay, Alaska

Two weeks after we said our Pennsylvania goodbye, Jace flew to Prudhoe Bay.  June 9^th might be associated with the beginning of summer, but the wind and snow of the arctic circle gave no indication.  Anxious to get underway, he left town almost immediately. A bitter head wind and snails-pace progress forced him back a few hours later.  The next day he left again.  This began one of many stretches of radio silence. Over the months that followed, when he had cellphone service, he filled us in on his adventures.

Five-Star Outhouse Resort

“Highway” is an exaggeration for the Alaskan Dalton Highway. More commonly referred to as the “Haul Road”, this 400-mile stretch of gravel and potholes is possibly the most isolated road in the United States.  Other than an occasional truck or car, there is no civilization, no cell service, no gas stations.  There are arctic winds and plenty of misery for an unfortunate soul out in elements.  Sleeping on the smelly floor of a roadside outhouse is hardly appealing, unless the alternative is a night outside in a cold howling wind.  Jace never appreciated the kindness of strangers more when he flagged down a passing car.  The plastic bags they provided made a makeshift windscreen for his shoes, and who knows, maybe saved his numb feet from frost bite.

A long-distant cyclist understands the term, roughing it. Stealth camping is finding an inconspicuous place where one won’t be noticed or bothered by locals.  A change of clothes, regardless of how dirty and smelly, is a luxury. Light-weight gear for backpacking offers survival essentials for bike-packers too. A small gas burner can cook a warm meal that might prompt a gag reflex in one’s kitchen but taste delicious after an 80-mile day in the saddle.

There was no need to be stealthy in the uninhabited region north of Fairbanks, Alaska.  Stopped for the day, Jace set up camp.  From inside his tent, he took note of the “pitter patter” of rain, but then realized it wasn’t rain, but huge blood-sucking Alaskan mosquitoes making kamikaze attacks on the tent fabric.

Perhaps more than the location and scenery, a bike packer’s journey is marked by people they meet, strangers one minute and friends the next.  Such was the case with Shane and Ian, two like-minded bike packers.  Jace rode with them for a day or two and then met them again in Fairbanks.  The trio bonded over all-you-can-eat buffets and tales of the road.

  

Welcome to Canada

Partially-healed Canadian Road Rash

Canada seemed like a fairly safe haven.  But it was here that a phone call from an unknown number sent my wife into a worried frenzy.  It seems a canyon near Lillooet, Canada offered the thrill of victory on one down-hill stretch and the agony of defeat on the next.  When the asphalt road turned to gravel, when wind-in-your-face exhilaration overshadowed braking, life turned into a bloody mess.  A short time later Jace showed up at Brad and Bobbi’s front door. These two kind-hearted strangers tended to his wounds and gave him a ride to a medical clinic for stitches.   Afterward they fed him and let him stay a couple of nights to convalesce.  Brad was even kind enough to fix his trusted ukulele, which suffered a broken tuning peg in the crash.  In today’s world, there truly are good Samaritans! 

Warm Showers  is an awesome program which connects long-distant cyclists with kindhearted hosts.  They offer a place to sleep, a warm shower and sometimes a home-cooked meal. Felicity and Gordan regularly host in Vanderhoof, BC, Canada.  Jace stayed with them for nearly a week, helping out on their farm in exchange for room and board.  Milking a cow might not have been the high point, but a jazz musical jam session with Gordan on guitar and Jace on ukulele was.

Eric was a Warm Showers host in Prince George, BC.  He had been hosting for years and entertained Jace with tales of others he’s hosted, including a Spanish couple who have been cycle-touring for the past ten years.

The Cassiar highway in British Columbia brought Kathrin, Hally, and Hauna, three young ladies from Bellingham, WA.  They offered Jace a place to stay when he passed through their neck of the woods.  A few weeks later at their home, one of their friends, a complete stranger with no medical training, removed stitches from Jace’s arm. Thankfully they had the wits to disinfectant before pulling them out. (sigh of relief)

Andre Kajlich

A stretch of “rails to trails” in picturesque Washington state, brought a chance encounter with a celebrity of sorts. Encountering a fellow cyclist was not uncommon, but one without legs riding a hand-cranked “trike” was.  It was a double surprise when the gentleman caught up to Jace and engaged in conversation. 

Andre Kajlich lost both legs in a train accident in 2004.  It didn’t slow him down much. In 2018, only a few months before encountering Jace, he completed the Race Across America (RAAM).  Many able-bodied cyclists fail to complete this 3000-mile marathon in the 12-day limit to be recognized as official finishers. Andre became the first to do it on a hand-cranked bike.  The feat didn’t go to his head.  “Dude was super cool. There can be some real attitude in the cycling world and he was just a really nice, humble guy.”

Yosemite

California brought the Sierra Nevada mountains. Nico was a memorable individual in Yosemite National Park, “a dude was kind enough to let me pitch my tent at his campsite.” The alternative was to hide from the Nazi-like rangers who were quick to fine unauthorized campers.  Beyond Yosemite, Jace crossed the east-west divide four times.  The Tioga pass at 9,943 feet was no easy feat, but it paled in comparison to the Coyote Flat Traverse. This gut-busting ascent up a jeep trail to 10,200 feet was worth the fantastic views offered of North Palaside. 

On October 17^th, Jace pedaled into San Diego, California and arrived at his brother’s home.  Through an act of God, his parents arrived three days later.  Some might call his dad’s business trip to the area coincidence. Others recognize it as one of God’s tender mercies.  We were blessed to spend a few days with Jace, his brother, his wonderful sister-in-law and his niece and nephew. We took note of his months-old beard, his lean physique, and sculpted iron-man legs. When the visit was over, not knowing when we would see him again, it was difficult to say goodbye.

Farewell to USA and Nephew & Niece.  Hello Mexico

Two weeks later, with more than 5,000 miles under his belt and more than 10,000 to go, Jace crossed into Tecate, Mexico.  We would have felt better if he was Spanish speaking.   With him south of the border, our worries began in earnest. At the same time, we were proud of our son.  Not many dreamed of doing what he dared to do.

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Third Generation

Thirty years ago while serving a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, we taught seven discussions which introduced individuals to our faith. The last included a section about the importance of a good example. The sited scripture, the one used in almost any conversation about example, was Alma, Chapter 39.

 

Corianton had righteous parents. He was taught the gospel of Jesus Christ from childhood and attended church as a youth.  He knew the Lord. And yet, as a young man, he succumbed to the temptations of the world.

 

Isabel was a “harlot”, or a prostitute. She was no common whore, for she had a large following and did “steel away the hearts of many”.  Corianton was one of them.

 

Sex immorality was a grievous enough sin, but in Corianton’s case, it was made worse because he was serving a mission at the time. So tempting was Isabel, he forsook his labors to pursue her. This left his father heartbroken, enough that he spent an entire chapter reproving his wayward son. Now more than two thousand years later, millions have read of Corianton’s misdeeds. He is the classical bad example, a screw up, every bit deserving his father’s righteous indignation. And yet, was he really any different than his father?

 

Alma was raised in the church, taught the gospel, but fell away as a young man and became “the very vilest of sinners”. The Book of Mormon reader loves Alma, not because of his sins, but because of individual he became.  His is a touching story, not unlike his father’s, Alma the “elder”.

 

As a young man, the senior Alma was the understudy of the wicked King Noah, who was no stranger to strong drink and a horde of women. We don’t know details of Alma’s transgressions, but it is no stretch to assume they were serious.  Again, the Book of Mormon reader overlooks his sins, and delights in the righteous man he became. His grandson, Corianton, isn’t given the same courtesy.

 

Ten chapters after being berated by his father, a repentant Corianton emerges, one dedicated to preaching the gospel and bringing souls to Christ. His transformation is subtle, most often missed. Chapter 49 reads, “… because of their heed and diligence which they gave unto the word of God, which was declared unto them by Helaman, and Shiblon, and Corianton,,..” Corianton obviously returned to the ministry.

 

Like his father, and his father before him, Corianton was a sinner turned righteous. I’m left to wonder why Mormon chose to spotlight the repentance of the father and son, but the sins of the grandson. May every Book of Mormon reader come to know the complete story of Corianton, that of a sinner made whole through the miracle of Christ.

All About Charly

It was a beautiful spring morning. The blossoming trees offered hope that a dismal winter was over. New life was evident in budding flowers and grassy fields. It was Easter Sunday and the scene was befitting a celebration of the resurrection, of life eternal which Christ offers all. It was also befitting the celebration of a life yet to come, of a seed which will spring forth in the coming months.

Charly’s birth will be a miracle, as all births are, just as much so as the first resurrection which occurred nearly two thousand years ago. I pray that she will enjoy the best life has to offer, including love, happiness, and health. I pray that she might come to know and love Him, the creator of the world and savior of us all. May she be upheld by His love and His Spirit and know that Easter is more than eggs and candy. May she know the comfort of repentance and the joy of forgiveness. May she understand a cause far greater than self, one worth giving of her time, money and means. As a youngster may she enjoy singing Popcorn Popping.  As a young lady, may the concept of a forever-family have meaning. May she understand and appreciate the sacrifice of ancestors who went before, who were willing to give all.  May she appreciate Grandpa Isaac and others like him, who sacrificed self-interests, who loved their fellowmen more than self, who traveled the world to bless the lives of others. May she understand the Spirit which moved forbearers to tears at the hands of patriarchs. May she be taught and blessed with baptism and membership in His Kingdom. I pray sincerely that she will know the one book and its stories which can draw her closer to Him than any other in the world.

To you Charly, and to all my grandchildren, I pledge my love and devotion. For you I pray; may the very best in life come your way.



Farewell to a Friend

Dread welled up in our chests when the veterinarian pulled into the driveway. At my side was my wife and two of our sons. We all had heavy hearts as we stood and watched the doctor get out of the car and join us in the garage. At our feet was our furry friend.

Sixteen years earlier we talked of getting a dog. It was a sunny California afternoon when Donna and the kids arrived home from the animal shelter and herded a bouncing medium-sized mutt into the back yard. I admit to some initial disappointment. This German shepherd/sheltie mix wasn’t the golden retriever I had hoped for. The rest of the family pacified me by saying, “Let’s keep her for a day or two and see how we like her.” Sixteen years later, she stood wobbly at my feet, hardly able to see or hear the veterinarian approach.

Before the good fortune of adoption by our family, she had been abused. It took several years before she trusted me enough to let me rub her behind the ears with my bare foot.  She had a few bad habits when she joined us, so we sent her to obedience school.  We should have saved our money.

She was named after Star War’s Yoda, based on the resemblance of her perky upright ears. But more often than not, she got called something else, including Babe babe, Bushy Butt, Yodster, Muttkin, Pooch, and twenty other monikers.

She came close to leaving us on several occasions, the first when she was over protective of our two-year old son, and took a bite out of a family friend’s leg. The second occurred when she was hit by a car and severely broke her pelvis. She was pieced back together by Dr. Gary White, who was an exceptional veterinarian and even better friend. The patch job lasted for more than fifteen years. In that span, Yodie moved with us from West Coast to East Coast and back again, with two airplane rides across the continent.

She was a funny mutt.  One memorable Fourth of July  firework celebration sent the crazy pooch eating through the laundry room door.  Easter morning will forever bring memories of her feasting on a dozen eggs hidden in the backyard before the kids got outside to begin their hunt.  Snow will always be a comical reminder of this California-raised dog wincing when flakes fell from the sky and landed on her snout the first time.

When we moved to Portland we thought the end was near, but nearly five years later she was still fighting. In the end, we struggled with the thought of putting her down. Seventeen and a half years is 122 in dog years. Her sight went. Her hearing went. Her legs were going, but her tail still wagged happy. When her tail stopped wagging, we knew it was time. The veterinarian was a compassionate woman and had an excellent bed-side manner, but she couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down our faces as our trusted friend passed to a better place.

Thank you, Lord, for all creatures small and great, especially for a goofy dog who graced our lives.

Thank you, Yodie for your unconditional love. Tomorrow when I arrive home and open the garage door, I’ll miss your happy-tail greeting. So long, old friend. May you rest in peace.

Memories of a Chapel and the People Therein



Mormon Chapel, 1001 Ruth Street, Prescott, Arizona



Today in church, our good bishop called a 14-year old young man to the stand and presented him to the congregation for advancement in the priesthood. That simple act opened up a cache of memories of my own youth, of the chapel that was once so familiar, and associated names and faces. To this day the chapel still stands, a sentinel to my youth and upbringing in a very different time and place. As I listened to heart-felt testimonies during today’s meeting, images and voices whispered from the shadows of my past, including:

• Being introduced to our newly constructed chapel at the age of four (circa 1960) and watching from inside the building as construction workers graded the parking lot before paving.

• My mother’s horror during a rather dry sacrament meeting when she turned to find her five-year old son whittling on a pew, and a tearful forced march to the bishop’s office after the meeting to confess my sin and ask for forgiveness.

• A twilight evening after sacrament meeting when I "cracked my head open" on the patio after a head-on collision with another kid, which resultied in lots of blood and a river of tears, but insignificant damage.

• A unique children’s nursery with a large window adjacent to the choir seats, which allowed mothers to enjoy church meetings while tending to their toddlers, but provided quite a distraction to congregants trying to enjoy the meeting. (The nursery was demolished in a subsequent building remodel.)

• Getting baptized at the age of eight by my older brother in a beautiful font with a large mural of John the Baptist baptizing Jesus behind it.

• Of shooting baskets in the cultural hall on Wednesday nights with a volleyball, the one my mother got me for Christmas because she couldn’t afford a basketball.

• Standing in front of the congregation passing the sacrament, and biting the inside of my cheeks until they nearly bled to keep from laughing at some silly occurrence that us deacons found hilarious.

• A ring of grey smoke slowly rising  in front of the chapel while a sacrament speaker rambled and the congregation looked on curiously. This was the result of one of six deacons on the front row inadvertently lighting a match he was fiddling with. (Names omitted to protect the guilty, but you know who you are Don Davis.)

• Having my scout master (Brother Blair) scream in my face and threaten to stuff my puny 12-year old body through a small window in the scout room after one of my youthful indiscretions set him off.

• Brother Ervin Davis throwing a lesson manual across the room when pushed to the limit by a room full of ill-speaking inattentive deacons.

• Smoke filling the edifice on a Sunday morning between meetings, after a young man tossed an old hat onto a high light fixture in the foyer and it began to smolder. (For the guilty party, revisit the burning match incident above)

• Brother Clark, very old and stubborn, determined to fast regardless of his doctor’s orders, resulting in him repeatedly passing out in the middle of Fast and Testimony meetings and having to be stretched out on a pew until he regained consciousness.

• Disc-jockeying Saturday night youth dances with my older brother’s state-of-the-art stereo system, and repeatedly inching the volume higher while Brother Turley insisted it be turned down.

• Sitting in the chapel with my teenage buddies during a Sunday meeting, improvising words to a popular hymn. “And should we die, before our journeys through, what the hell, all is well.”

• Playing dodge ball on mutual nights in the “cultural hall” and vying for position on the stage-side of the gym where the curtains dampened impact and prevented balls from bouncing back to the opposing team.

• The furious shouts of Brother Burris from his doorway across the street and the squeal of burning rubber while I spun doughnuts in the church parking lot in my ’57 T-bird in the late hours of the night.

• Early morning seminary at the church before walking up Ruth Street to start each day of high school.

• And finally, of a farewell talk in sacrament meeting before leaving on a full-time mission, in which the main speaker (me) was timed in a not-so-lengthy address of two minutes, thirty five seconds.

For the city of Prescott, Arizona, and in particular to the friends and members of my Mormon congregation, some who loved me and others that merrily endured, for the rich cultural soil which proved to be so fertile to a young man’s roots, I give sincere thanks.

Writing a book is a grind. Maybe JK Rowlings can kick out a fat once every year. I’m not so lucky. I’ve got 253 pages to show for a year’s worth of effort, with about a hundred pages to go.

Writing fiction is hard work. It’s emotionally taxing. It’s all consuming. And now that I’m at mile 22 of this marathon, I wonder why I’m bothering. What’s to be gained? Occasionally I get a warm fuzzy feeling that it will ultimately be a good read. But then reality sets in. I flip-flop and chide myself for such a sophomoric attempt.

Perhaps most frustrating is that I'm writing because I have something to say. But conveying the message is more difficult than I imagined. I’ll keep plugging away. I’m determined to cross the finish line, if for no other reason than to say I did it.