It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve put up a new post.  But Jamie left a comment on the “My Story” page, and my response got so long and involved, I thought it deserved its own post.  So Jamie, here are my thoughts:

Hi Jamie. First of all, thanks for dropping by and leaving a comment.

Having GID/being transgender really, really, really sucks. I’ve seen dark days in my life. Can you imagine how awkward, uncomfortable, dreadful, and awful it would be to have been born with genitalia of the other sex? To cross your legs or use a washcloth to cover up what you don’t want to see while in the shower/bath? To feel sick to your stomach while/after being intimate with your spouse? Etc. It’s hard!

Yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes.

I can choose my actions but I can’t choose to not be transgender.

You’re right. You can’t just “choose” the feelings away. It’s part of who you are.

I can’t change nor do I want to change my female wiring.

Nor do I. It would be like taking a knife to myself. It would be to destroy who and what I am. It has been the source of some of the deepest and most intense personal spiritual experiences I have had. But only after years of struggling. I have had those intense spiritual experiences only because I have struggled so long and so hard that I have had to strip myself of all sense of personal identity and cast myself before the Lord in abject humility, utterly naked in a sense, and tell Him that I would do and be what He wanted me to do and be rather than what I wanted. And after I had done so, He began to teach me what this all means to me and how it fits into my eternal identity and purpose—how the deepest yearnings of my heart could be fulfilled in a very literal and real sense, not by rejecting my role as a male, but by embracing it and fulfilling my entire mortal purpose.

I hope the same happens for you. And I hope it doesn’t take as long for you. I hope that you are wiser than I was, and that you commit yourself fully to the Lord with less fuss than I did. But I know that because He loves me, He permitted me to suffer as long as I needed to until I was ready to truly consecrate myself to Him.

Is it wrong for me to have strong, internal longings to be a loving mother, and a wife, and to nurture, and to care for others in a gentle, feminine way? Is it wrong to want to be a sister? To be a daughter of God?

No, no, no, and no. In fact, I think it means that you are tapping into your sense of eternal identity in a particular way that most people never do. That doesn’t make you better than them. It just happens to be the path to discipleship that the Lord would have you take. Remember, we all must travel the same strait and narrow path and enter in at the gate. But the Lord knows each of us well enough to know just what prick of pain we need to wrench us away from Babylon and drive us to our knees.

Am/Was I supposed to be able to go more than 12 consecutive months wanting hormones and a path toward sex change without doing so?

I have gone my whole life feeling an intense desire to change myself hormonally and physically. But I and many others have chosen not to transition. It can be done. And we have found our own places in the Kingdom and ways of dealing with it. I’m an Elders Quorum President. The fact that I shave my legs and often wear nylon stockings under my pants doesn’t make me unworthy of that calling. It’s just a coping mechanism. I have a friend who has found that an androgynous look works well for him. He is a counselor in his Elders Quorum, and is worthy of the post. I have another friend who is lovingly supporting his son through a transition, because he would rather see his son at Church in a dress than not in Church at all. He is a counselor in the Bishopric, and has the support of his Stake President.

Why do some people think I can’t or shouldn’t contribute to the world, serve in the church, and/or praise God as a woman?

I think no such thing, and nobody else should. The official position in the Church Handbook is that a post-operative may be baptized if otherwise worthy, but may not receive the Priesthood or Temple ordinances. So if, theoretically, you transitioned but continued to support the Church and those whom the Lord has chosen to be His servants, I personally see no reason you could not be baptized, take the Sacrament, attend Relief Society, and serve. But at what cost would you do it? You have been endowed, so you have already received higher ordinances than baptism. Did you marry in the Temple? If so, you have already received all the ordinances necessary for your exaltation. I can’t tell from your post if your wife actually has left you, or if you’re just going through a rocky period, but either way, the ordinance wouldn’t be dissolved unless and until she remarries. So that means that all that is left for you to do is endure to the end, that your ordinances may be sealed by the Holy Spirit of Promise, and if you do, your exaltation is guaranteed. There is no fuzziness about that. The Lord has told us what we must do to receive those blessings in very clear terms.

Are you prepared to sacrifice those covenants for the sake of transitioning, even if you can still hold to a lesser law and covenant? Are you prepared to concede that the least of the three heavens is “good enough” for you? Particularly because I believe that there is a way for those very feminine parts of you to be freed, so to speak, and receive expression and embodiment themselves, but only if you are faithful and enter into your exaltation. I hesitate to say to much on that point, because it is revelation that is personal in nature. But I will say that what the Lord has revealed to me on the point is very comforting to me, because it means that internal feminine expression will not be eternally trapped if I am faithful. And what I have felt is absolutely consistent with what the Lord has revealed through His prophets. I have tested my theories against scripture both ancient and modern, and where any speculation has veered from revealed truth, I have revised it to fit with revealed truth. What I personally believe on the point does not require me to reject the Prophets or their teachings, nor does it make me a “special exception.” Indeed, it requires me to embrace the Gospel and its covenants and ordinances in their fullness, and requires me to endure faithful to the end that all of my covenants may be sealed up unto my exaltation.

And if what the Lord has revealed to me on this point is true, He can reveal it to you. But it must come by the Spirit. I cannot give it to you. If you want, I will tell you what led me to it, and you can try it yourself to see if the Lord teaches you.

Bottom line: Despite my continued yearnings, I have no intention of making myself into a poor facsimile of a woman now, in mortality, because it would be at the cost of a better, holier feminine expression later.

So… as a result of paying Uncle Sam too much in taxes this year, I received an artificial windfall this month (see, it’s artificial because it was my money all along, and if I’d figured my taxes more precisely, I could have stuck the same amount in the bank and earned interest myself instead of donating it to government pork; whether I actually would have done so is a topic we will leave for another day).   Anyway, we got some extra money, and I’d been wanting to get one of these little Eee PCs for months.  So Mrs. Sweet relented, and I ordered it.

With the exception of the funky right shift key, I am extremely pleased with this ultra-portable little wonder.  It’s just the right size to pull out and use on the short bus ride to work (the ride is short, not the bus).  Does that mean I will be posting more frequently, since now I can type up my posts while I pontificate on the bus?  Well, theoretically it does.  Even with the annoying right shift key, it’s certainly easier to use than the Blackberry.  Of course, even the two or three regular readers I had seem to have dropped off as my blogging became very irregular.  So I don’t know that anybody will read this.  But I’m fairly certain I still have some things to say.  In any case, I know that I still struggle with  gender issues, so my “journey” is not over yet.  So here we go…

I made my first post on Jan. 11, 2008, exactly one year ago yesterday.  And now, exactly 1 year, 1 week, and 2 days after my first post, we will be inaugurating our first black president.  Coincidence?  I think not, and here’s why.  For something to be a “coincidence,” there has to be at least some apparent connection.  In this case, there is nothing that even has the least hint of a connection.  So I cannot take (blame/credit) for the election of Barack Obama, or really any other important event of the past year, such as the invention (finally) of the memristor.

And while I’m speaking of random things, am I the only person in North America who isn’t obsessed with 24?  All I’m saying is, Bishop, honest to goodness, you’re the awesomest bishop on the face of the planet, and I’m not criticizing you or anything, but I did have a couple of matters of actual Church-related business to discuss in PEC yesterday morning.  See, one of the counselors asked the Bishop, “Now that your boys are at college/on a mission, do you have anybody to watch 24 with?”  Innocent enough question.  But it turns out that Bishop’s wife, who is the quintessential conservative homemaker, is obsessed with 24, as is his daughter, whom Mrs. Sweet commented was a “really, really conservative dresser” (this from Mrs. Sweet, who just this year decided it wouldn’t be totally scandalous if she skipped wearing pantyhose to church in the summer despite the fact that she HATES wearing pantyhose).  This led to the Bishop discussing how his wife was obsessively checking and double-checking the VCR to make sure they got everything, and then we had a very deep discussion about the relative merits of a VCR vs. Tivo, and how some people present had no means of recording the 24 premier.  The ward mission leader commented that if you miss an episode, you can actually watch it online.  Then the other counselor commented that he watched the first season on DVD, and he and his wife were sleep deprived because they kept compulsively popping in the next episode because they had to see what happened.  The executive secretary said that he watched it on DVD too, but he started fast forwarding parts because the pacing was too slow for him (this is the guy who had a Ph.D. at 22 AFTER serving a mission).   The ward clerk commented that he did have a bit of a problem with the fact that Jack Bauer kills so many people (seems like a reasonable complaint to me).  And somehow Hooters got mixed in (with a couple of advocates of the “they have great wings” theory, and one dissenter who says his family used to get Hooters wings as takeout all the time when he was a kid, and they’re not that great).  Weirdest.  PEC.  Ever.   I did manage to slip in a comment about the less active sister who talked to my wife this week and wanted to know where the chapel was so she could start coming again, and asked if she could have the missionaries teach her and her son in our home because she would like for her son to get baptized.

Then people were buzzing about the big 4 hour 24 premier before Sacrament meeting.

Seriously, have I missed something?  I’ve seen 24 before, twice.   Both times were while I was in law school.  I was hanging out in the Law Review office, which had a TV, and somebody had it on 24.  My options were:
1.  Watch 24.
2.  Study and/or work on Law Review stuff.

Now, maybe I should have taken option 2. Maybe my grades would have been just a little better (but then, who cares—I got a job).  But I went ahead and watched 24.  There was a lot of shouting and shooting, and the son(?) of some lady that Jack Bauer was shackin’ up with(?) somehow got mixed up in it when he shouldn’t have, and there was a helicopter(?), and something about the President(?) on a plane that was going to crash(?) or something.  I just dont’ get it.  It’s a loud melodrama.  What’s’ the big deal? Though I have to admit, if there were an award for “Most Screaming and Firearms,” 24 would win hands down.

Now I know what you Manly Men are thinking.  “You don’t count, girlyboy!  You’re the guy who blogs about wanting to be a woman.  Of course you don’t watch 24!  You wouldn’t understand.  Now go play with a Barbie.”  I counter that (1) The BISHOP’S WIFE is obsessed with this show.  She’s about the most girly person I know, my own very non-butch wife not excepted.  Manliness is clearly orthogonal to the liking of 24.  (2) I don’t shy away from action.  I love Indiana Jones and Star Wars and Lord of the Rings.  24 just doesn’t do it for me.  And (3), no thanks.  I have two daughters, so I’m up to my ears in Barbies.

Maybe I’ll just read a good book.

Elder David A. Bednar was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in October Conference of 2004, filling one of the two places vacated when Elders Neal A. Maxwell and David B. Haight passed away. Elder Bednar’s powerful and eloquent speaking style made him a favorite among Church members. And at the April 2005 Conference, Elder Bednar gave a talk titled “The Tender Mercies of the Lord,” that became an instant classic.

Elder Bednar related how, in the midst of the great uncertainties and self doubts that flooded his mind as he prepared to address the Church for the first time, his troubled heart was calmed when the congregation sung his personal favorite hymn, “Redeemer of Israel,” just before he rose to speak.  Elder Bednar related:

Now, the music for the various conference sessions had been determined many weeks before—and obviously long before my new call to serve. If, however, I had been invited to suggest an intermediate hymn for that particular session of the conference—a hymn that would have been both edifying and spiritually soothing for me and for the congregation before my first address in this Conference Center—I would have selected my favorite hymn, “Redeemer of Israel.” Tears filled my eyes as I stood with you to sing that stirring hymn of the Restoration.

Elder Bednar then went on to testify that “the tender mercies of the Lord are real and that they do not occur randomly or merely by coincidence. Often, the Lord’s timing of His tender mercies helps us to both discern and acknowledge them.”  (Emphasis added).

I thought of this talk today because I had a really lousy day today.   It was one of those days my brain was just spiraling out of control.  I spent 10 hours at work and I don’t think I got 6 hours of useful work done.  I was seized by what I can only describe as a paralyzing panic attack related to my GID.  I spent two hours basically staring at a document and accomplishing absolutely nothing useful with it.  I did a sudoku puzzle to try to just unwind my brain, but when I turned back to my document, I couldn’t do anything with it.  I was useless.

I managed to scrape through to the end of the day, and while I was waiting for the bus, my mind was running wild with self-destructive thoughts I won’t describe here.

Did I mention I was scheduled for exchanges with the missionaries that evening?  I did not exactly feel up to it.  But I went.  And it was a wonderful experience.  After spending an hour and a half visiting with some less active friends, I felt so much better.  And then, just as we were wrapping up, my wife called and said that my parents had just stopped by.

I had no idea why my parents had stopped by, but I immediately thought, “Wow, I sure could use a blessing tonight.”  I figured my Dad would just be in street clothes, and normally he prefers to wear a tie to give a blessing, but this was an emergency.

Well, as it turns out, my parents had just been to a viewing for an old friend.  So my Dad was wearing a suit.  And I was wearing a suit, so it worked out nicely when my wife also requested that we give my daughter, who has recently been diagnosed with precocious puberty, a blessing.

When my father gave me a blessing, the words he spoke weren’t earth shattering.  He reminded me that I have been given many gifts and blessings, but as the Lord tells us in Ether 12:27, He also gives unto men weakness that they may be humble.  Apparently, I still need to learn how to rely on the Lord more.

So I’d like to quote a verse from Elder Bednar’s favorite hymn.  It’s the fifth verse, and unfortunately, it doesn’t get sung much because we tend to ignore the later verses dangling at the bottom of the page of our hymnbook (this made for some interesting problems when verses 4-5 of “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” were at the bottom in the old hymn books).   But it’s my favorite verse in this hymn.

5. Restore, my dear Savior,
The light of thy face;
Thy soul-cheering comfort impart;
And let the sweet longing
For thy holy place
Bring hope to my desolate heart.

I testify that today I witnessed a tender mercy of the Lord.  My father’s unplanned visit to my house was not random or merely by coincidence.  The Lord knew that I was faltering and drowning.  As He did for His drowning disciple Peter, He reached out and, showing His tender mercy, saved me from the tumultuous storm.

So sometimes I have to go into work on Saturday to try to keep up with my hours. This is always a bummer, because I would much rather spend my Saturday with my family. But today was one of those Saturdays. And I was kind of down when I finally got off the bus at about 5:30 this afternoon. But in the approximately 5 minutes it takes me to drive from the bus stop to home, I was listening to NPR (yes, I actually have NPR as a preset on my radio—you have to know what the other side is thinking) and “A Prairie Home Companion” was on.

There was some skit about James Joyce (off-topic aside: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is absolutely the worst “novel” ever written in the English language) and then their musical guest chimed in. It’s was a folksy group of women, and they sang one of the cutest, most delightful, cheerful, upbeat songs I have ever heard. It was “Crayola Doesn’t Make a Color for Your Eyes,” by Kristin Andreassen. And they’re doing a little pat-a-cake thing the whole time! How awesome is that?

Now, normally, I am a big advocate of letting people have their agency and not telling people what to do and all that good stuff. But YOU MUST CLICK THIS LINK AND DOWNLOAD THIS SONG IMMEDIATELY! Also, watch this YouTube video. It will make you smile

These are the lyrics:

Lyrics:
Crayola Doesn’t Make a Color For Your Eyes
by Kristin Andreasssen & Megan Downes / Yellowcar Music, ASCAP

I went to see the doctor. I’d come down with the blues.
She said “No, I can’t cure you, but I know something you can do.
Take out a piece of paper, and sit down for a while,
and draw a pretty picture of something that makes you smile.”
Well, I know what makes me happy. Didn’t have to think for long.
But when I tried to draw it, it always came out wrong.
I had a box of 12, 48 and 64,
but nowhere could I find that one shade I was looking for.
I guess I realized shoulda come as no surprise
Crayola doesn’t make a color for your eyes.
There is no way that I could possibly describe you.
Crayola doesn’t make a color to draw my love.
At first I thought of Green Blue, but then I saw Blue Green.
And then sometimes in bright light, they look Aquamarine.
I think at night they’re darker. I looked again for you.
Saw Grey and Black and went out walkin’ after Midnight Blue
But the hues of the deepest skies would be a compromise…
Chorus
Spring Green is much too yellow, Sea Green is far too pale.
Cornflower’s way too mellow, so I’ll try again and fail.
There’s no way I can capture the way you make me feel.
One look from you is rapture, whether Blue or Green or Teal.
No color qualifies. That crayon’s telling lies…
Crayola doesn’t make a color…
Hey look, it’s Periwinkle. So sure I got it now.
But you wink and there’s a twinkle in your eye and still, somehow,
I just can’t get that sparkle. Those glitter crayons won’t.
Maybe Glow-In-The-Dark’ll get it right. Aw, no they don’t.
Mr. Crayola tries, but I’m left to fantasize…
Crayola doesn’t make a color…
For your eyes, something darker let’s see what I can find.
Melted mahogany and got the depth not the shine.
Just about gave up and then I peeled the paper off a little end of…
Really thought it coulda been… ahh, not even Burnt Sienna!
Your passport says they’re brown, but I’m gonna keep lookin’ round…

This is a new feature on my blog I call “Proof that despite gender issues, and despite knowing, for example, a wedge from a pump, Sweetisthepeace is not, in fact, a woman.” I expect this to be a regular feature (meaning as likely as not, this is the only time you’ll see it).

1. Sweetisthepeace cannot wrap Christmas presents. At least not prettily.

I have seen many tributes to Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin in the last day and a half. I don’t know that I have a lot to add, but I’ll share my few thoughts. I see around me a world filled with hate. We have on the one hand certain right-wing groups that call themselves “Christians” but seem to hate everybody who does not look, think, act, and believe exactly as they do. On the other hand we have the left-wing groups who are vandalizing churches to protest intolerance (intolerance being defined as “anybody who does not share my world view”).

When Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin died, the world lost a much-needed voice of love and compassion. I would like to quote from his penultimate General Conference address:

Some are lost because they are different. They feel as though they don’t belong. Perhaps because they are different, they find themselves slipping away from the flock. They may look, act, think, and speak differently than those around them and that sometimes causes them to assume they don’t fit in. They conclude that they are not needed.

Tied to this misconception is the erroneous belief that all members of the Church should look, talk, and be alike. The Lord did not people the earth with a vibrant orchestra of personalities only to value the piccolos of the world. Every instrument is precious and adds to the complex beauty of the symphony. All of Heavenly Father’s children are different in some degree, yet each has his own beautiful sound that adds depth and richness to the whole.

This variety of creation itself is a testament of how the Lord values all His children. He does not esteem one flesh above another, but He “inviteth them all to come unto him and partake of his goodness; and he denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male and female; . . . all are alike unto God.”³

. . .Brothers and sisters, if only we had more compassion for those who are different from us, it would lighten many of the problems and sorrows in the world today. It would certainly make our families and the Church a more hallowed and heavenly place.

(emphasis added)

How different might have been the vitriolic debate over California’s Proposition 8 if both sides had lived this counsel? For myself, those were words of encouragement for one who feels very different in many respects from the majority of my fellow Latter-Day Saints. I recently came across the group North Star, which is a Gospel-centered LDS support group for same-gender attraction (they’re thinking of opening a section for TG/GID—if you’re interested, please contact them and show your support!) I found something on there very interesting. They invite community-contributed articles, and they encourage authors to use their real names as much as possible. The comment was, “ours is not a condition of shame.”

That made me think a little about my own situation. Though I’m not at all attracted to men, gender confusion suffers from many of the same stigmas as same-gender attraction, both in and out of the Church. I wondered, have I chosen to remain anonymous here because I’m ashamed? Honestly, I don’t know. There are some very practical reasons not to use my real name. I work in a conservative profession (liberal lawyers are plaintiffs’ attorneys, and I don’t do torts), and I know that it is very common now for employers to google prospective employees. Frankly, if I apply for a job, I don’t need the baggage. Is it right for employers to judge me on what I write here? Not at all.   It has no bearing on my ability to write a patent.  But it happens.

Even in the Church, however, I don’t go announcing that I have gender issues. Most of my FAMILY doesn’t know, much less my ward. And I think for now, I prefer to keep it that way. Again, it may not be right for people to judge me, after all, I didn’t ask for this trial.  But I don’t need the extra difficulties either.  My Church calling is challenging enough without adding artificial complications.  So I’m staying anonymous for now.

One thing I’m sure of though—if I had ever been privileged to meet Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin, he would have loved me unconditionally.  Even if I am a violin instead of a piccolo, and one a little out of tune at that, Elder Wirthlin would have been my friend.

For the past ten years, Christmas trees have been an ongoing source of friction between my wife and me. I always had a real tree growing up, and I love the smell, and the full, irregular look of real trees. She always had a fake tree, and since she’s about one step short of Adrian Monk, she REALLY likes that they don’t drop needles. Our first two Christmases, we had a little fake tree because we were just in a little apartment. But after we bought our first house, she consented to get a real tree since we had more room. And since then, I’ve managed to convince her to get a real tree. Every year, she says, “This is the last year I’m going to do this.” Fortunately, our kids have grown up with the real trees, so they like them, which gave me a little leverage to keep the tradition alive. The girls feel like regular connoisseurs as we poke through the trees, looking for just the right size, smell, and color.

This is the moment I finally and probably permanently lost the battle:

The Moment I Lost the Tree Wars

My 1-year-old son is not visible in this picture. That’s because he was UNDER the tree (okay, we actually pulled him out before we went and got the camera, but one minute earlier, he was under the tree). He had climbed up the step stool I had used to put the angel on top. He sat and looked admiringly at the tree for a moment, then he LEAPED right into the tree, and brought the whole thing down on top of himself (he’s an adventurous little guy, if you haven’t deduced). This was a big, heavy 9-foot douglas fir. Fortunately, he was fine except for a few more scratches to add to the already substantial collection on his face (other contributors: a bush, the carpet, a pen, and the driveway; this was all within 3 days), and most of the ornaments even survived. So in the end, it was more funny than scary.

We tried to right the thing, but it was off balance now. I finally relented and pulled the thing outside, and we went out and bought a smaller, lighter artificial tree. And we put the step step stool away.

This is a story I first wrote in high school.  It has evolved since then, and has sat for a long time.  Recently, I was thinking about it, so I dusted it off, revised it, and decided to go ahead and publish it here.  I’m also including it as a PDF because I think it looks nicer that way.  So open it up and view it, or just read it below:  Butterfly Crossing (PDF)

Butterfly Crossing
It was inevitable that my grandchildren should hear the story, or rather
some corruption thereof, for the ignorant are most enamored of prolix, and
romanticized speculation will serve for the fires of experience in the ears of
those eager to be associated with “Great Events.” But they could not feel
the same knowing shiver that touched my spine at the mere sight of that
fertile, verdant hollow, for it was not their blood that had stained it red,
though theirs was derivative thereof. And those who told them knew not
whereof they spoke.
The valley was called by some of the locals—before they fled—the Butterfly
Crossing. I had run there myself as a boy, having been enlisted by a
friend who had heard of the glorious sight. We had arrived exhausted and
cast ourselves panting upon the grass. The autumnal colors had just begun
to kiss the tips of the leaves, and I sat for several minutes in dumb awe at
the majesty of nature.
Presently I heard a light rumble; hardly a thunderclap, but distracting
nonetheless. I glanced at my friend, who was now snoring. He had curled
up on his side and promptly fallen asleep. I let him be. He was sure to be
scolded for running off while there were fires to tend, and in any case, his
rest was well-deserved.
I turned my attention back to the sky and watched until finally I was
rewarded with a chorus of wispy flutters. Then a great wave of monarchs
crested the tree line, filling the sky with bursting color and my youthful
heart with grand visions. For a moment, I felt utterly transformed, as if
I no longer belonged to the world; for I beheld what was no product of
this fallen sphere. It was then that I saw them in vision, not as they were,
but as they had been. Mere days before, these glorious creatures had been
vile, ugly pests, groveling along the decaying leaves they would devour,
worshiping no god but their carnal yearnings for food, entertaining no other
scheme than of gorging themselves. But then they had woven for themselves
those strange sarcophagi of their own hardened flesh. And now they had
cast it off, emerged, been reborn, changed both in form and function. Now
they were unified in purpose, migrating as a great body, drawn inexorably
by hidden wells of knowledge toward an ancestral home of safety from the
deathly cold.
But those boyhood musings were long in the past as I sat again contemplating
the same valley. I sat in cold, damp soil, surrounded by dampened
spirits. An oppressive mist enshrouded us and whispered dark forebodings.
The valley of the Butterfly Crossing was now infested with vermin of a
whole other breed. They had swarmed around our homes like locusts, and
had barely left defiling our women before they had defiled our sanctuaries.
Our Captain—they called him the Hammer of God—had defied them and
had slain them with his own hands by the score. They despised him with
the fear and loathing of the damned when pierced by the light of righteous
indignation. And he was, after all, mortal. They had resolved to prove the
point. There was no bounty pledged for him in shackles and fetters. He was
to be killed, surely and swiftly, and his uprising with him, to serve as an
example to any others who might think of defying the heathens and their
dumb gods.
* * * * * * * * * *
The spy’s horse bolted into camp like lightning, barely pausing to answer
the sentry’s challenge, and the thunder soon rumbled in our eager ears. They
had encamped in the valley. They had been reinforced and now they totaled
on the order of 20,000, including 2,000 mounted officers. Our little band of
patriots, in contrast, we enumerated at less than 1,000. The odds were none
at all. If we met them, death was certain.
But the Hammer rallied us in a body and spoke with a fire that kindled
in many of our own hearts. “We will not cower in our camp like children,
waiting for them to beg favors of their abominations. We will assault them
in their own camp like men and we will overthrow their idols! We will strike
in the confusion of dusk. Many in that camp have seen their burning god
dance across the sky for the last time!”
Some cheered vigorously. But a quiet murmur of dissent arose from
others. Emboldened by their numbers, they became more vocal. Finally,
the Hammer pointed his sword accusingly at a murmurer. “You will speak
for your fellows,” he said coldly.
The man shrunk beneath the glance of that still sword, but he spoke his
mind. “This is madness. It may be that some in that camp have beheld
their last rising sun, but if we attack, it is certain that we have—to the last
man.”
“But not you,” the Hammer replied venomously. Then he addressed us
with vigor. “Up! Arise!” he called. “Prepare yourselves. Take food and
drink. Write despairing letters to your wives if you will.” He again pierced
the murmurer with his coal-black eyes. “There will be plenty of hands to
deliver them.”
I wrote to my wife, to be sure. I hardly need recount what I said
to her, for I suspect that all men so situated—with a fate so surely sealed—
would speak the same tender words of love and affection laced with platitudes
about duty and honor. Indeed, I suspect my letter to my wife was
interchangeable with many of my fellows’. As for property, there was no
need to dispose of it. Real property I had none, and what chattels I had
had already been delivered to my wife.
My son, though, I had hardly seen, for he had been born only shortly
before I had joined with the patriots. I addressed a few lines to him, commending
his mother to his care, speaking of duty and liberty and the Greater
Good, and utterly failing to explain to him why I must pursue this charge
he would surely, I thought, resent in coming years. Then, as he toiled to
sustain his widowed mother, he would speak of things like freedom only in
the abstract.
By the time the sun lowered with his red fury in the east, we numbered
only 324. The Hammer gave not a thought to numbers; indeed, I hardly
think he counted. He mustered us, commended us to God, and then set
off on his march at our head. We moved quietly, for surprise was the sole
advantage we had, and a tenuous one at that. There would be guards at the
crest of the hill, and we must cut them down swiftly and silently. We would
not engage the rabble directly; we would fall on the heart—the mounted
officers. Those who could would cast down the idols of stone. Beyond that,
the only strategy was to catch them at their dinners, and strike while they
were in confusion.
But lo! Heaven was with us! For as we approached the valley, great
black storm clouds gathered, and a deluge reigned on the earth. We were
within sight of the valley by then, and we saw a thousand fires snuffed out
in an instant. At that moment, the Hammer gave his signal and we fell
immediately on the guards, now invisible to their fellows. Then we rushed
headlong, with a great cry, into their camp.
I struck furiously, crying alternately the name of my wife, my son, my
God, and my country with each stroke. Their plumed helms, still occupied,
were cast at our feet. We were awash in blood and water. The angry torrent
beat the earth furiously, drowning all cries, so that we could not hear each
other. But I could see my brethren, plowing their swords manfully, smiting
the foe. And falling. All around me, one by one, I saw them fall at the hand
of the heathens.
Did our courage waver? Could we have been mortals and answer nay?
For the officers alone outnumbered us some six or seven times, and already
our blood flowed and ran cold in the valley. But in a glorious moment, I
caught sight of the Hammer. He had plunged through to the very core,
and had found their captain. In that great moment, lost to our historians
but never to us, terrible fires lit the sky. Behold! Their broken idols lay
scattered at his feet! Then his mighty stroke fell, cleaving the helm of the
heathen captain. A great cry, audible over even the din of the torrent, rang
out from our desperate hearts. With renewed vigor, we smote, felling them
on the right and on the left. Truly, this was a moment for the ages!
But the end was, after all, written from the beginning. All tallied, we
prevailed by as many as five to one, and worked particular mischief on their
officers’ corps. But eventually the rabble rallied, saw their commanders’
peril, and managed a confused counter-strike. The response, though uninspired,
was so numerically superior as to inevitably overcome the flesh, if
not the spirit. Finally, the vermin, satisfied with their victory as they supposed,
withdrew to the slopes as the river swelled, consumed her banks and
flooded the valley. Throughout the night, the fires lit the skies, paying tribute
to the small band of patriots who with valor had daunted the heathens,
spilling blood that the Earth now cleansed from herself with the flood. The
Hammer, not sparing himself the fate of his brethren, cut a valiant and fearful
figure, even in death. Let it not be said, though, that he and his band
sacrificed in vain. For the vile heathens were daunted indeed; frustrated
and leaderless. They cast about foolishly, awaiting new direction, and the
rabble fought among themselves for primacy. In the meantime, a new band
of patriots rallied beneath our fallen banners, and when they joined battle,
their cry was “Remember,” until the heathens quailed in fear at even the
ghost of the fallen Hammer.
The morning after, the vermin would have lit their fires again, but their
wood was soaked and useless, and the carnage in the valley chilled their
blood. The river had strewn bodies throughout the muddy dell, crafting a
ghastly down of rough barrows. The heathens were struck with terror and
abandoned the valley.
Soon after, the butterflies crossed again, canvassing the sky with their
brilliant colors, taking no account of the change.

(c)2008 Sweetisthepeace.
http://sweetisthepeace.wordpress.com
sweetisthepeace@gmail.com

This past Saturday was one of those moments that defines your life as a parent.  I was privileged to baptize my oldest daughter, who had just turned eight the day before.  What a glorious experience!  Here was my own child, entering into the Church and Kingdom of God.  I felt for a moment how pleased the Father must be when we keep His commandments and strive to be like Him.

These are the moments that remind me that even when I struggle, it is well for me to hold fast to the Gospel of Jesus Christ.  Though there are moments I despair, I must remember that my life no longer belongs only to me.  I have chosen to share that life with a beautiful wife, and she has brought me three beautiful children.  My life belongs to them also now.  The choices I make affect, and it is incumbent on me to use my agency for their benefit.

Then I am reminded that my life never truly belonged to me.  I have been purchased at a price too dear to measure.  The Savior taught many parables while on the Earth, but the one I think I like the best was one He taught nearly 2,000 years later (D&C 101:43 — 62):

43 And now, I will show unto you a parable, that you may know my will concerning the ^aredemption of Zion.

There are a lot of lessons to be gleaned from this parable.  But the part that touches my spirit every time is the Master’s poignant rebuke, “It is mine; I have bought it with money.”  I spoke once about what that purchase price was.  My testimony on that point is unchanged.  My life is not my own.  I have given it over wholly to others, and the Savior is first among them.