Sharon Fuller Cox

Sharon Fuller Cox

Eulogy delivered at Sharon’s memorial service, Janaury 25^th, 2020 in Camp Verde, Arizona by Darrel Fuller

“And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.” 

(1^st Corinthians 13:13)

 

I am truly honored today to pay tribute to one of my favorite people. I pray for strength to get through this.

While November 5th, 1943 might be a reasonable beginning to my remarks, bear with me as I make a slight detour.  About an hour’s drive from here, up on the rim, lies Pine, Arizona.  As you come into town, if you take a left onto Pine Creek Road, about a quarter mile down on the right, you’ll see a modest home. If you pull into the gravel driveway, you’ll see a bronze plaque that pays tribute to Alma Moroni Hunt.  It was faith in God that brought Alma to Pine in 1891. He was one of the founders of the community.  He was a man’s man. In today’s vernacular, he was a stud. How else do you describe a man who caught and killed a deer with his bare hands?

Of similar ilk, was Revilo Fuller. He had an unusual name, Oliver spelled backwards. Like Alma, Revilo was a pioneer, one of the first settlers of Pine and a man of faith.   These two men and their wives,  cleared the land, planted crops, built homes, tamed a harsh wilderness, and raised large families. The couples lived long enough to see grandchildren. One of those was Loran, born to Harry and Etta Fuller in 1915.  Two years later Lois was born to Isaac and Florence Hunt. As children, Lois and Loran attended church and school together. I’m not sure when the spark of romance began to burn, but it was a veritable blaze when they eloped to Flagstaff in 1935.

Fast forward eight years to 1943, when these two loving parents were blessed with their first daughter.  They named her Virginia after an aunt, but always called her by her middle name, Sharon. Sharon was the first of their children that was born in a hospital. When Sharon came into the world, she already had two older brothers, seven year old Leon and four year old Loran Dennis.  Over the next thirteen years, at the pace of every two or three years, she gained another sibling, beginning with Jerry, then Linda, Doug, Jeanette, and last of all, when she was thirteen, her littlest brother, Darrel. If you’ve lost track, that’s eight children.

When she was a child, Sharon’s dad worked in the timber industry in some very remote areas.  Most notable was the small community of Pleasant Valley. There were few modern conveniences. Electric power lines wouldn’t reach this valley for another generation. In the evenings, butane lamps provided light. Water came from a hand pumped well out back. Her mother was thrilled to get a butane-powered refrigerator, and a gasoline-powered wash machine.

Lack of television was indeed a blessing. Sharon’s mother was an exceptional storyteller. Sharon would gather with her brothers and sisters to hear Goldilocks or The Three Billy Goats Gruff.  Her mother also read them Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, and other classics.

Sharon’s dad owned a sawmill. Years later she recalled two work horses that were used to move and handle logs.  Sharon loved those horses so much she just wanted to kiss them.  One day she was startled when standing close to one, it took a long drink from the trough, turned its head and gave her a big wet-tongue kiss right across the face. She didn’t wish for that again.

Before she turned five, she was eager to be like her older brothers and go to school. The reality of school didn’t mesh with her dreams. She thought her teacher, Mrs. Stockett, was one of the meanest teachers ever. Her practice was to crack her student’s knuckles with a ruler if they weren’t doing their work or if they were talking.  Sharon’s best friend was Laverne.  They loved playing jacks, jumping rope, swinging, and spinning in circles until they both fell down.  When they got a little older, they played red rover and baseball.

When Sharon was in fourth grade, her dad leased his sawmill to a third party. The family moved to Phoenix. It was quite a change from the rustic setting of Pleasant Valley. They lived comfortably in a nice home. It had electricity and indoor plumbing. But then the individual defaulted on the sawmill lease. Money became scarce.  The family moved from a nice home to one not quite as nice, and then another a tier below that.  When utility bills couldn’t be paid, Sharon and her brothers would walk to a neighborhood gas station to fill up water jugs.  Life had gotten hard.

Sharon’s Aunt Virginia lived in Prescott.  When Sharon was in the 5th or 6th grade, Aunt Virginia talked Sharon into living with her for a time.  This aunt loved her niece and promised her some new dresses if she came.  Aunt Virginia had some fabric, actually used flour sacks with printed flowers.  She hired a seamstress to make Sharon dresses. Sharon was grateful. Despite her aunt’s love, she was unbearably homesick. She missed her mom.  She missed her brothers and sisters.

During this time, tragedy struck her family back in Phoenix. Three of the kids waited in the car for their mom.  When the family dog jumped out of the widow, Jerry got out to retrieve him.   When he had trouble, five-year-old Linda got out to help, leaving strict instructions to her three-year-old brother Doug to stay put. Three-year-olds don’t always listen. Doug followed his sister, got into traffic and was hit by a car. Linda heard the screech of brakes and turned to see her little brother’s limp body come to rest and lay motionless in the street, tire tracks evident across his body.

While Doug lay in a coma, on the brink of death for ten days, eleven year old Sharon blamed herself. If she had only been home, she would have been there, she would have been in the car with him. She wouldn’t have let him get out and get into traffic. For those of you who don’t know the happy ending, Doug is with us today, sitting in the fifth row.

In telling the story of Sharon’s life, to understand her strength, her resolve, her work ethic and her faith, one must know her parents.  Her mother was a proud woman, independent, sometimes a little gruff.  She dedicated her life to her family. She was a woman of faith and did her best to instill the same in her children. Sharon remained very close to her mom throughout her life and shared many of her qualities.

Sharon’s dad was a good man, but one who became entangled in the tentacles of addiction. Early in life he was a successful businessman, the owner of a sawmill. His alcoholism eventually cost him his business, wreaked untold pain on his family, and inflicted mental illness on himself. In the end, his addiction cost him his life. I think Sharon would agree, that we were not thankful for the hardships that our dad caused our family, but we are so grateful for the life-long bonds it forged between us kids.

From Phoenix, Sharon’s family moved back to Pleasant Valley for a short time, and then moved for the last time to Prescott.  Here, Sharon lived her teenage years. Out of necessity, her mother was forced to go to work. As result, big responsibility was heaped on this 13-year-old young lady.

Soon after I was born, Mom worked the 3-in-the-afternoon-to-11-at-night shift at a local plastic factory. Who would watch her kids? Sixteen-year-old Dennis would race home from high school and watch the younger ones until Sharon got home from school. Dennis would then leave for his job at the A&W Root Beer stand, leaving Sharon to watch her younger siblings through the evening. She fed us, helped with homework, “bossed” us and got us in bed. I was a baby and Jeanette was only three years old. For us, Sharon was almost like a second mom.

She could be a prankster. The “grasshopper” gravy she made for dinner one evening may have been hamburger gravy, but she was convincing enough to cause concern.  When I was a little older, she convinced me that everyone was born with a tail. “You can feel your tailbone where your tail used to connect. The doctor cut it off at the hospital before you came home.” I believed her.

The late 50’s/early 60’s were the Elvis Presley era.  Sharon loved Elvis and his movies. In the afternoons, she watched American Bandstand. (The younger crowd will need to Google that).  While watching, she would practice dancing the jitterbug and other dances. Sometimes her partner was a friend, sometimes the bedroom door.

Let me share one experience from the darker side of life. Sometime during her teen years Sharon started experiencing severe stomach pain.  Later she was diagnosed with appendicitis and had surgery, but at the time didn’t know the cause. This unfortunately coincided with a drinking binge by our dad. When under the influence, he could be downright crazy. On this occasion he chased Sharon and her mother around the yard with a butcher knife. Sharon would run until she was doubled over in pain, mom would distract the drunk mad man, then Sharon would run some more.  There were other ugly instances that might be devastating to a teenage girl, but Sharon never let them get in the way of life.

She learned to drive when she was 16, taught by her brother Dennis in his 1950 Ford.  It had a flat-head V8, the preferred choice of most hot rodders of the day.  Sharon loved to drag race.

Her love for one of her little brothers was severely tested when he sold her diary to a neighbor kid. Another time, a boy came to the house to pick her up for a date.  She really didn’t want to go out with him. Seeing his car outside, Sharon told Doug, “Tell him I’m not home.”  So Doug opened the front door and did just that.  The boy obviously was skeptical since he offered money and asked, “Where is she really?”  Doug was quick to grab the cash and rat out his sister. “She’s hiding in the closet.”

In the believe-it-or-not category, is the occasion that Sharron broke her dad out of jail. He was in for some minor infraction, almost certainly alcohol related. The low-risk prisoners were allowed outside the jail for work detail at the city dump. Dad snuck away. Sharon was the get-away driver. Inside the car was her accomplice, her brother Jerry.  Anyone that knew our mother will be absolutely dumbfounded to know it was done at her urging. Sharon drove dad to Williams, outside the Yavapai county line. All these years later, I find it hard to get my head around this incident, but it’s absolutely true!

Our mother eventually went to work at a rest home, the Pioneer’s Home in Prescott. She worked the midnight shift.  Sharon didn’t have a car of her own.  One night, I’m not sure who she was with, either a brother or some friends. They went to the Pioneer’s Home and hot-wired mom’s car.  She and her cohorts did what teenage kids did back in the day, drove around, cruised Gurley (the main street). When Sharon drove back to the Pioneer’s Home to return the car, her stomach sank when another car was parked in the parking space.  When Mom found her car in a different place, Sharon was busted.

She attended Prescott High School, and subsequently went to beauty school. Whether termed a hair stylist, a beautician, or a cosmetologist, she was a natural.  Later in life she was the co-owner of her own shop.  For 37 years she was hairdresser, confidant, therapist, and friend to countless patrons of the Hair Escape salon in Cottonwood.

In March of 1961, at the tender age of 17, Sharon became a mother. She named her baby Lynette.  I was one happy kid, only four years old at the time. Technically I was an uncle, but in practice, Jeanette and I sort of gained the little sister that we never had.

In 1964, Sharon’s soul mate entered the picture.  She was on a date with another guy when she met William Charles Cox, known to all simply as Bill. Sharon later exclaimed that he was, “The most handsome man I had ever seen.” She ran into him again at a dance.  The two started dating.  They eloped and were Married in Las Vegas in May,1964.

I feel safe in saying that our mother initially had reservations about Sharon’s choice of a husband, but Bill was quick to change her mind. He loved his mother-in-law like his own mother. He helped her financially and was generous in so many ways.  Bill had similar interests to many of Sharon’s brothers. He fit in well with the family and was a great addition.

On November 16th, 1964, while still living in Prescott, the couple welcomed their son Mike into the world. Not long after, Bill joined the Union of Operating Engineers and became a heavy equipment operator.  Road construction took the family around the state. The eleven places they lived included Black Canyon City, Flagstaff, Page, Holbrook, and St. George Utah.

It was during their stay in Flagstaff that their family was completed.  Anna was born, November 16, 1967.

After bouncing around the state, Sharon and Bill bought land here in Camp Verde and built the house that they would both call home for the rest of their lives. When I say, “they built it”, I mean that literally. There was no contractor. It was a family affair, which included Sharon’s brother Jerry.  With shovel in hand, Sharon helped dig the footings. Lynette was allowed to ditch school to help with the effort. Mortar was mixed, blocks laid and walls framed. They did it all.

Sharon enjoyed the outdoors.  When she was younger, she loved to hunt with her brothers. When Sharon and Bill bought a motor home, there were plenty of weekend trips to Lake Roosevelt. She loved to read, mostly cheesy romance novels. Her entire life, she loved to play cards with family and friends. And of course, she was a homemaker. She canned vegetables out of the garden and fruit from her trees. But above all, she was a mom.  She loved her kids.  In more general terms, she loved all kids, including her nieces and nephews.   When grandkids arrived, she loved them too, and then great grandkids.

I can’t tell Sharon’s story, without including an extraordinary experience that occurred almost 21 years ago. It was life changing. I mentioned earlier that she was very close to her mother, even to the extent of being called a “mama’s baby”. When her mother was diagnosed with a rare virus and was pronounced terminal, Sharon was devastated.  In fact, our entire family was devastated. The weeks that followed leading up to our mother’s death were filled with sorrow and anguish, but also brought an eternal perspective.  The Spirit of the Lord rested upon our family, as strong as I’ve ever felt. Many hearts were touched, but perhaps none more so than Sharon’s.  It sparked a desire and determination to be more like her mother, to live closer to our Father in Heaven, to have a better relationship with our Savior.   Our mother passed away, but Sharon’s resolve lived. She never wavered.  She made changes. She went to the temple.  From that point on, a very good woman became even better. We can all learn from her example.

Now, if I were to summarize my closing remarks in one word, it would be STRENGTH.  She was in her thirties when first diagnosed with cancer. She beat it. For a long time, she suffered from stomach ulcers.  She was diagnosed with Lupus and suffered for years with this very painful immune system disorder. She had bladder cancer. The diagnoses of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma resulted in an initial round of strong chemotherapy, followed by another round after that. During the second round, after four doses, she put the brakes on.  She had had enough. Only then did the doctors tell her that most people could only handle two. At the time, a nurse practitioner only expected her to last a few weeks. That was more than six years ago. I call those bonus years. They might be attributed to a change in diet or simply the grace of a loving Father-in-Heaven. Regardless, they most certainly wouldn't have happened without Sharon's strong will, her resolve, and uncommon strength.  

My heart is full.  I thank God that my life has been graced by this good woman. Like many of you, I have been so blessed by her unconditional love.  I take comfort in the resurrection, for I know that I will walk and talk with my dear sister again.

My Big Sis

“You don’t mind if my little brother comes, do you?” That was not a question any teenage boy wanted to hear, especially when picking up a beautiful girl for a drive-in movie date. Not in 1960, not in decades since. There was only one polite response, probably spoken with a disappointing stammer.  “Uh.., well…, no, of course not.” 

I don’t remember what movie we saw but do recall one or two trips to the snack bar. Sharon’s date was either generous with his hard-earned cash or assumed the way to a girl’s heart was through her little brother.

Stocked with popcorn, candy and soda, we made our way back to his car. I was one happy four-year-old. This was kid paradise. I had the backseat to myself while I peered through the windshield at the movie screen and overdosed on sugary treats.

Bringing a little brother along on a date might have been a simple act of kindness.  If viewed cynically, it may have been a teenage girl dealing with a boy she didn’t like. In my eyes, it was neither.  It was my big sister showing uncommon love - love I’ve enjoyed my entire life.

                                                         

I was the caboose, the last of eight kids. Before poverty level was even a phrase, our family defined it. By the time I arrived in the world, dad was an alcoholic, unable to hold a job for long. By necessity, our mother became the breadwinner and worked outside the home. Sharon was at the difficult age of 13 when her after-school responsibility was watching her baby brother.  We bonded. Sometimes she spoiled me.

As a kindergartner, I attended school in the afternoon. I was playing with the neighbor kid one morning when my big sis called me to get ready for school.  I didn’t want to go.  Sharon shrugged.  With a simple, “Okay,” she let me stay home. Whooohooo!  Later when our mother found out, we both caught her wrath. But as the responsible older sibling, Sharon took most of the heat.  Ha ha! My big sister rocked!

Even when I did her wrong, Sharon loved me without reservation. I was about seven when she asked to take the family station wagon to go meet a friend. In the darkness of evening, I stowed away in the back seat without her knowing.  While Sharon and her girlfriend drove around town and engaged in girl-talk, l laid low.  Finally, I tired and sat up in the back seat. Sharon’s friend was shocked. “I didn’t know your brother was in the car.”  Sharon wasn’t happy and threatened trouble when we got home. I worried, but nothing became of her threats. She let me off the hook.

After marriage, my dear sister continued to dote on her little brother.  Bill Cox was very tolerant of his wife’s deep affection for me.  As a youngster, we were too poor for Disneyland vacations.  Sharon offered something better, summer-time visits to her house. Some of my fondest memories are hanging out with my big sister and her family.  Since Bill was a move-around construction worker, the location varied across the state of Arizona, from Camp Verde to Black Canyon City to Flagstaff, to Page, to Holbrook.  I loved them all.

In the movie, A Christmas Story, nine-year-old Ralphie  desperately wanted an “official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle.”  As a nine-year-old, I too dreamed of a BB gun for Christmas. Given my mother’s finances, it probably wouldn’t happen.  But thanks to a big sister and her supporting husband, there was one under the tree Christmas morning. I loved that BB gun.  I may have unintentionally plinked a few windows with it but didn’t shoot my eye out.

Aside from spoiling me, Sharon always made me feel special, expressed confidence in me and made me believe in myself. This was never more obvious when I was a college freshman.  I was a long way from home, a bit homesick, and too broke to buy all of my textbooks. How grateful I was when $200 came in the mail. Sharon and Bill were not rich. It was a sizeable sum.  But it was also a sure indication that my sister loved me and was willing to invest in my future.

A year later when I left on a two-year mission to share my faith with others, Sharon joined other family members who generously offered financial support. This experience was life changing and provided a foundation for my entire adult life.

In a few years I’ll retire from a successful career.  I’ve made a name for myself in my industry niche. I feel respected by my peers.  It’s been a career that has enabled my wife and I to provide a stable home to five wonderful kids. They’re all grown now, most with families of their own.  Without knowing it, they’re indirectly indebted to their Aunt Sharon.  She nurtured their dad, loved him, invested in him, was there for him from infant to adult,

As I look back on life, my heart is full.  How blessed I have been. Thank you, Sharon Fuller Cox for your unconditional love.  Thank you for so many contributions to my life.  Thank you for being the best biggest sister a little brother could hope for.

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.