On Thanksgiving

The First Thanksgiving. Do not @ me!

Is it just me, or did Thanksgiving come a lot earlier than usual this year? I'm struggling, if I'm honest, with the fact that this day where we pause to give thanks, is already here.

In spite of my apparent struggle with calendar management, I am grateful that this day is here. It's been a quiet Thanksgiving here in the Den as we've embraced our status as empty nesters. Since we were with our children last month and we are all together again next month, the thought of dropping a grand or so to head back to the Zion Curtain for turkey just didn't appeal. So they are having their own festivities, just as we are. We'll be having dinner with a group of good friends tonight and that's going to be a lot of fun. Blessings will be counted and gratitude will no doubt be on display. What will not be on display, at least this year, will be a state-mandated moment of gratitude to Dear Leader Trump (methinks if our Despot Wannabe gets his way, that will be a requirement going forward).

So, count your blessings today and every day. Be grateful. There's enormous goodness in showing gratitude. As one of America's most prolific writers of inspirational maxims, William Arthur Ward, said:

Gratitude can transform common days into thanksgivings,

turn routine jobs into joy, and change ordinary opportunities into blessings.

Happy Thanksgiving!

A Farewell

My father and my Aunt Robin during World War II

One week ago, an insidious disease that our family is all too familiar with, claimed our Aunt Robin. As my cousin Leigh wrote so beautifully of her mother's long fight against Alzheimer's, Robin's fight was dignified.

Dignified. Classy. Kind. Loving. Those are just some of the words that describe my father's sister. Loving is the one that frames my memories most of Robin.

From my earliest days, I can recall my father speaking in the most glowing of terms about his sister. He called her "Pud," (rhymes with 'good'), and to this day, I wish I knew the origin story of that name, but to him, that's who she was. Because we lived in Arizona and Robin's family was in North Carolina, we didn't see each other frequently. I do know, though, that when we did get together in their Durham home, we were never strangers. We were family and even in my peek dork years - 13 years of age - when we all gathered for Thanksgiving, that feeling of family that my aunt worked so hard to create was ever present. As I got a little older, I had the opportunity to visit North Carolina several times as my late grandmother, Grandmommy, was in Robin's care. I have fond memories of attending church with Robin on those trips. She loved music and she was in her element, singing in that stately choir loft in that Presbyterian church in Durham. I was unfamiliar with some of the Presbyterian traditions and she always so kind in explaining how it all worked. Kind, welcoming, warm. Shortly after the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and I married, I was thrilled that we were able to travel to North Carolina to see our family there. Again, Robin welcomed my sweet wife into the family, as if she'd always been a part of it. I have never forgotten that.

When my father died almost eight years ago, Robin was already fighting the monster that would one day take her life but she was able to travel to Phoenix for his funeral. I will never forget seeing her and my mom, sitting on the couch, holding each other by the hand and reliving memories of my father. The bond my aunt shared with my dad, even though he was now gone, was evident and clearly unbreakable. Family chains don't break and now they are celebrating their reunion, along with their parents who had gone on before them. Their family is together again.

In the coming weeks, we will gather to celebrate her life and to honor the legacy Robin has left in my cousins and their children. We will love, honor, and celebrate a woman who left a positive impact on every person she met.

I'm forever grateful for my Aunt Robin and the life she led. Would that we could all live in such a way that every one you met felt better for it. That's an incredible way to live.

Our family - the last time we were all together. Sweet memories.

Alzheimer's is a horrendous disease. If you'd like to donate to the fight to find a cure, go here.

Woke and thankful

Thankful for my family. And the Cubs.

The stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and I are now home after a week of Thanksgiving celebrations with our family in Arizona. It was, in a word or two, a great week.

Due to The RM's missionary service, this was the first time in more than two years that we were all together for a holiday celebration. It was particularly appropriate that our first celebration would be Thanksgiving. By Wednesday morning of this past week, we had our children, our son-in-law and our two grandchildren together. As I surveyed the scene, ensconced in my sister-in-law's beautiful home, I was keenly aware of all that I had to be grateful for. The following quote came to mind:

Keep your eyes open to your mercies. The man who forgets to be thankful has fallen asleep in life. - Robert Louis Stevenson

At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be wide awake and keenly aware of the mercies, or blessings, that have come my way. As we saw extended family throughout the week as well as friends (including a random run-in along the Salt River ((don't ask)) with a kid, who is no longer a kid and a a parent of teenagers himself, I haven't seen in 30+ years), I found myself counting my blessings. This Thanksgiving was one where I found myself full of gratitude, perhaps more so than in years past. I was grateful as I watched my children laugh riotously as they played a ridiculous game. I was grateful as everyone pitched in in some way to bring a fantastic Thanksgiving meal together. I was grateful as my wife and I held our grandchildren as much as we could while we were together. I was more than grateful that my family indulged me as we went to Sloan Park to pay homage to the Chicago Cubs. That made me grateful for the role baseball has played in our family memories. 

I'm glad I had the chance to be wide awake to all this during the week of Thanksgiving. Now that we are back into our normal routine, the challenge is to stay awake. 

The challenge is to stay grateful each and every day. 

Homecoming

2014 / 2016

Two pictures.
Two years.
Two countries served.

One farewell hug.
One awesome homecoming embrace.
One mission served.

One missionary home.

This past Wednesday, TMFKATB returned home. I know this comes as a surprise to all of you because there's been nary a mention of it here. I've really downplayed it. Oops! Sorry for that #KatrinaPiersonHistory moment! It's been the complete opposite and thank you for indulging our family as we've documented the lead up to his return. I'll wrap it up today with a few highlights from his homecoming.

Wednesday morning started as it normally does - early, with me ensconced at my desk in my home office. About an hour into my day, my email alert chimed and there it was. An email from Delta announcing that TMFKATB's flight was delayed by four hours and no alternate flights were available.  Suffice to say, it was not welcome news. Ironically I'd joked the week before with one of Delta's most senior leaders by all that was holy that he was making sure all went well on 8/17. Guess who got my first email after getting the delay notice? Long story short, within about 90 minutes and through the miracle of playing "Let's Switch Airplanes!", the original flight was restored and all was on time again and all was well in the world.

I worked until noon and then jumped into help the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML with the last few things she wanted to do to prepare for his arrival. This included mowing the lawn, which I could have held off doing so that TMFKATB could do it for me since he hadn't had the opportunity in the last two years. But I mowed the lawn because #fatheroftheyear. We got his 'Welcome Home' sign hung and the flags of Mexico and Utah secured in the lawn. Once that was done, it was time to head to BDL.

@universe.byu.edu

This was NOT the scene at his BDL homecoming. No hordes of screaming relatives. No Haka rituals. No professional videographers calling for the returning missionary to come back down the escalator because the lighting was just a little off. Ours was far more subdued. Here it is:

It was, and is, a moment we will never forget. Watching the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML sweep our boy into arms was priceless. Embracing him again was as good as it gets. I hardly wanted to let him go. There were tears, laughter, and a whole lot of joy.

That joy has not dissipated. There have been some very tender moments that are best kept private. There have been very funny moments as we continue to watch him adjust to 'civilian' life. On his first night home, he fell onto his bed as if it was the greatest thing ever created. He keeps grabbing his chest where his name tag sat for two solid years. It's clear he feels exposed without it (There's something to that - taking off my tag was toughest part of my coming home). He has called me to repentance on multiple occasions as well (which is probably deserved, if I'm being honest). It's been funny to see what he's missed. I suspect that will keep happening...

We are overjoyed to have our boy home and grateful for his service. We are grateful to all of you for your support these past two years. We are beyond blessed.

Joy is the simplest form of gratitude. ~ Karl Barth

And he's home

She held him first

Sometimes a paucity of words is the best way to let a story tell itself. The events of the last few hours lend themselves to letting pictures tell the story.

I'll no doubt write a little more about today's joyous homecoming but for now, the pictures speak for themselves.

My boy!

Assessing who's taller

BDL is no SLC Missionary Arrival
Boondoggle but our signs and balloons
worked very nicely

Holding him tight again (there's been a lot
of that in the ensuing hours)

He's home. He's really home.

We won't be forgetting this day any time soon. We are overjoyed.

Thank You

Sometime tomorrow, as has been my custom for the last two years, I will post an update sent by TMFKATB from the mission field. While the content may be pretty routine, the significance of tomorrow's post will be anything but routine. It is his last.letter.home. For those of you who have lost count, not to worry, I've been counting for you, and I can assure you, this it it. He will be home this Wednesday (as in just three more days). Suffice to say, we are more than a little excited.

When The Boy opted to serve a mission for our church and become The Missionary Formerly Known As The Boy (TMFKATB), I decided I would share a bit of his experiences here in the Den on a weekly basis. From the moment he opened his call, which contained his assignment to the Mexico Tuxtla Gutierrez Mission, to his illness, to his reassignment behind the Zion Curtain in the Utah Salt Lake City South Mission as a Spanish speaking missionary, you've been a part of it, and for that I say thank you.

Thank you for the comments over these last two years.
Thank you for the questions about what he was doing.
Thank you for the prayers, particularly when he was ill.
Thank you for indulging this Dad as I shared my son's experiences.

For those of you who are not Mormon and were unfamiliar with the mission experience, I hope this has been interesting, even helpful. If nothing else, if I've taken down the "Mormons are really weird" perception a couple of notches, then my work here is done.

It has been an honor to share these last two years with you. I'm going to miss his letters. I'm going to miss the anticipation of what each Monday would bring. I'm going to miss sharing that with you. But,  man, is it ever going to be good to take my son up in my arms again and say "Welcome home!" in just three more days (but who's counting, right?).

So check this space tomorrow for the last letter.

Thank you again for being a part of these last two years.

O Pioneers! (No, not the book)

Crossing the Sweetwater River
@lds.org

For the good residents ensconced behind the Zion Curtain, tomorrow is a day off. It's the official observance of the 24th of July state holiday. The state shuts down to celebrate that fateful day when Brother Brigham lifted himself from his sick bed in the back of wagon, looked over the uber-inviting barren desert wasteland splayed out before him that would one day become the Salt Lake Valley and declared, "This is the place!"

All along the Wasatch Front tomorrow there will be parades and massive consumption of fried foods. No doubt someone who is simply not right has figured out how to make "Deep Fried Funeral Potatoes" and served up they shall be. Because what better way to celebrate the sacrifice of thousands of people than gorging on foods that will hasten your death.

The legacy of the Mormon Pioneers looms large even today, nearly 170 years after their arrival into the Salt Lake Valley. Many of us can trace our heritage back to people who were in some of those original companies. The stories of those who died along that arduous trail are part of the fabric and ethos of many families today. They are stories that cannot, nor should not, be forgotten.

As I hear those stories, I know that there is no way I could have survived a trek across the continental United States, dragging a handcart or riding atop a wagon or simply walking, as many did. None. Consider my life: I have carried on active Twitter wars with our national rail provider over less than expected service. I have actively booked bizarre flight routings between two city pairs just to insure my First Class upgrade would clear. I was once more upset that I couldn't finish my chicken jeerza on a flight out of London because the flight attendants were preparing the cabin for an emergency landing than I was about the fact that our airplane was, wait for it, in mortal danger. When I was 18 years old and preparing to serve a mission, I was invited by some full-time missionaries to go out with them to get a feel for the work and I said no because I was afraid my new shoes would wind up looking like theirs (I was 18, remember, and it was the mid80s, so be kind).

So I am more than confident what I say that this whole pioneer thing would not have worked out for me. Also, had I survived and made it to the Great Salt Lake Valley, I'm afraid I would have taken one look at it and said, "Nope. I did not come all this way for this. I'm out. Seriously. I'm out. I've heard good things about that California place. Who's with me? Let's go." Of course, I would have promptly died somewhere in the desert but that's neither here nor there. I am able to honor my pioneer heritage today from the comfort of my home. I am humbled by what they did and what their sacrifice means.

But I'm just grateful it wasn't me.

On Mothers Day

In the run up to Mothers Day, I've been thinking a bit about this quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson. I've been asking my middle-aged self if I am the man my mother wants me to be. In spite of the fact that I am thisclose to turning 50, Mom is still mothering me, trying to mold me into being a better man.

Since my father died seven years ago (side note - how has it been seven years already?), there is much in the dynamic between my mom and I that has changed. As that shift has led to myriad discussions about her life and her experiences, I have learned so much more about her and the reservoirs of strength that she possesses that I often didn't see as I was growing up. I see it so much more clearly now. She will be a mother forever. As far as I can tell, she will never stop reminding me to drive carefully, to remember who I am, or that I married up (significantly). She will never stop panicking when she hears about bad weather wherever it is we are living. She will never stop worrying that every flight I board is going to be the target of the next terrorist event. And can I just say no thanks to Fox News for endlessly feeding those fears....

Conversations with my mom - even the ones that don't always end well (ladies and gentlemen, I give you our last discussion about the U.S. Presidential campaign) - are ones that I cherish. In each of them, I am reminded that I still need to be the man my mother raised me to be. I know that I am lucky  to still have those conversations. I don't take that for granted.

I get to hear the conversations my wife, the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML, has with our children. We live so far away from our children and she doesn't take her conversations with our children for granted either. She talks frequently with our daughters and I see her mothering them in each of those conversations. Although her conversations with TMFKATB right now are limited to weekly emails (except today - Skype's taking a beating today as missionaries from around the world get to call their moms!), she mothers him in each of those exchanges as well. She loves each of our children fiercely and yet has given each of them the self-confidence to live their lives to the fullest. My children are who they are because of their amazing mother.

I am indebted to the women, as mothers or mothers-to-be, who have made my life what it is and there are not enough words to express my gratitude.

To my mother-in-law for raising an amazing daughter who decided it might be fun to take me on as a husband and partner
To my daughter, Our Lady of Awesome, for blazing your own trail as you mother our two grandchildren
To my daughter, CAL, for incorporating what you learned from your mother as you embark on a career making the lives of terribly ill children better
To my wife for, well, everything. It rare that words fail me but I find it most difficult to express what you've done as a mother to our children. You amaze me every day.
To my mother for still raising me, even to this day. I'm a better man for it. And I can't thank you enough for conversations like this:



Mothers. They rule.

Happy Mothers Day

Thank You

Thank you.

Two simple words, when spoken simply and offered sincerely, are an expression of gratitude that can be balm to the soul. It is an expression that can launch so much good. Think about how you feel when someone offers a sincere 'thank you' for something that you've done. You're spurned on to do more of the same. Doing more good is never a bad thing.

Today, the United States celebrates Thanksgiving. Now a day more celebrated for its excess (food, pre-Christmas sales, drunken family fights that can only be solved by the power of She Who Must Be Obeyed, Adele - click here for the proof), at its arguably forgotten core, this is a day of gratitude. It is a day to pause, reflect (go ahead, count your blessings!), and to give thanks for what we have. Even if you think the things for which you can be grateful are meager, the fact is that you are so much better off than so many others in this world.

When you consider the meaning of gratitude, it is not only being thankful, but it also embodies being ready to return a kindness shown to you. Demonstrating that gratitude can be as simple as those two little words: thank you. It is an act of kindness. Those acts need not be grandiose. A smile at the elderly woman in the grocery store who is writing a check (rather than a sneer and the burning urge to display a middle finger). Declaring a ceasefire in your Twitter war with our nation's long-suffering national passenger rail provider. Offering to help the lady who has somehow managed to lug 34 carry-on bags onto the plane find places for her crap in the overhead bin, instead of wishing a pox on her. So those examples may be things I need to work on, allegedly, but you get my drift.

Be ready to return a kindness. On those opportunities, Ralph Waldo Emerson said,

You cannot do a kindness too soon,

for you never know how soon it will be too late.

Say thank you today. Say it every day. May your Thanksgiving table be surrounded in gratitude. Even if it winds up looking something like this, there is still much for which to be grateful:

Happy Thanksgiving!

Hand in Hand

A few nights ago, the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML returned from her week-plus long stint behind the Zion Curtain. After a long day of flying, made longer by everyone's favorite She Hag, Mother Nature, and her latest havoc wreaking playmate, Tropical Depression Bill, SML was famished, so we made a beeline to Bear's Smokehouse to enjoy an inappropriate amount of meat. I can't say enough good about their burnt ends, but I digress, as this is not meant to be a gushing ode to their fine barbecue.

We got home and went about the normal things that are the hallmarks of a couple that have been married for nearly twenty seven years. We puttered around, got unpacked, debated as to whether we should start a load of laundry, and noted again how much TV sucks, because it does. Sleep sounded like the best option.

As I started to fall asleep, I did something unusual, at least for me. I reached over and took my wife's hand and held it. I'd missed her and I wanted to hold her hand. As I held her hand and as I began drifting off to sleep, I thought about the past few days wherein I watched my wife interacting with her adult daughters and saw her grandmothering (PS - not a word, right?) the heck out of her grandson. I reflected on holding her hand as we saw her cousin married a few days earlier. With these images in my mind lulling me to sleep, I squeezed her hand and fell asleep, hand in hand. All was right in the world.

Hand in hand. I do not take that for granted, not for a second. Circumstances are different for each of us. Our time hand in hand with someone may have been limited for whatever reason. There's always a hand to hold, be it an aging parent, a friend in need, or even if it's just a memory for now.

I know that I am ridiculously lucky to have the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML to march through this life hand in hand. So as we go about the most mundane of tasks today, like go to the nightmare that is Costco on Saturday, I will happily hold her hand.

That Escalated Quickly

Proof! He made it.

Yesterday was an unusually good day in the City, aside from losing my brand-new Metro card (if I hear the MTA lament their budget woes one more time...they are sitting on a gold mine o'cash from all the unused balances on those stupid cards...but I digress). In spite of the rain, my train back to Connecticutistan, the one that is usually an hour plus late, was on time. That set off a little alarm bell in the back of my head. The other shoe was going to drop. Soon.

It dropped as I started down the escalator to my train. A text from the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML came in, asking 'Can you call me?' Something was up. I lose all phone service in the bowel of Penn Station so I couldn't call her. As I texted her back that I would call her as soon as we were out of the tunnel in Queens, I got an email but only the title would download (thanks again for the CRAPTASTIC wireless, Amtrak #firstworldproblems). The title read as follows: ITINERARY ELDER PARKER T LYONS

Wait?! What?! He only got his formal assignment Friday. Suffice to say, that escalated quickly.

Thanks to the aforementioned wireless (less being the operative word), I could not download the email until we got to Queens. Never has any one been so delighted to be in Queens than I was at that moment. At a little after 6PM, I read that The Boy would once again be called The Missionary Formerly Known As The Boy (TMFKATB) because he was leaving the next day at 830AM for his new assignment in the Utah Salt Lake City South Mission. I immediately called the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and upon hearing her calm voice, I was reminded why I am married to the most amazing woman in the world. At this point, she'd known for about 30 minutes that her son would be out the door in twelve hours. She'd already outlined what needed to be done and was heading out the door with The Boy to pick up what was needed. Her voice betrayed not a hint of panic. She, as she always does, had it under control.

So I spent the next couple of hours trying to figure out if there was any way I could weasel out of the two conference calls I was hosting the next morning. They were starting at 6AM and would go to 930AM and The Boy needed to be to the airport early as he had no seat assignment for the first leg. I resigned myself to the fact that I wasn't going to be taking him to the airport.

When I got home, we spent a few hours together, packing and doing last minute things. The Boy called family and then he was set apart (religious ordnance) once again as a full-time missionary, so it was lights out at 1030PM for him. Suffice to say, it was not lights out for his mother and me.

This morning dawned early. We had a last family prayer and I dashed into my downstairs office as TMFKATB and his mother left for the airport. It was a flurry of emotions - pride, sadness (because I'm going to miss him), melancholy (stupid, stupid conference calls), love, gratitude - for me as they drove away.

Having him home for three short weeks was an amazing experience. We saw a young man exercise faith in such a powerful way. Several times while he was home, I could see him kneeling in prayer at his bedside. We prayed for his quick recovery and that he could serve again as he so deeply desired to do. Once he got his new assignment, he prayed that he wouldn't have to wait long before he could leave. His prayers were answered.

And so were ours this afternoon when an e-mail arrived from his new mission president. It included the picture you see above, I'll share the first paragraph of the letter:

What a pleasure it is to welcome Elder Parker Lyons into the Utah Salt Lake City

South Mission. I am impressed by his desire to serve. He is well and in high spirits as he 

anticipates the challenges and opportunities that lie ahead. Please be assured

that we will be watching over him while he is here.

So all is well in our world. So starting next week, it will be back to regular weekly updates from the field here and in his mission blog. I'm glad will be able to share those things again. Thank you all for being a part of this experience.

Progress

Kind of home (baggage claim doesn't really count)

It was funny how time seemed to sail by in between our weekly communications as TMFKATB served in Mexico. When we learned about ten days ago that he would be returning home for medical reasons, time all but came to a standstill.

Since his return this past Monday night, time marches on, albeit slowly. His return was an understated affair. None of the over-the-top shenanigans any of you who have passed through the Salt Lake City International Airport have most certainly seen. No videographer, no posters or balloons, no play-in music, no throngs of acolytes. Just two mildly anxious parents waiting to see their son walk through the Curtain of Incompetence (aka airport security). He walked through alone and into  our arms. Given the amount of weight he'd lost, it was easy to wrap him up in our collective embrace. His belt was doing the same, given that it could nearly wrap around him twice. Tears freely flowed from all of us.

We knew he didn't want to be here. His heart is with the people he was serving. As he walked around our kitchen when he got home, he marveled that our kitchen floor was not made of dirt. He opened our refrigerator and said, "We have so much." Ironically, we'd barely filled it in advance of his return as we did not know if he was going to be on a normal diet or throwing back Ensure like a 78 year old geriatric patient. The emotional adjustment was looking tougher than the physical at that point.

Five days later, I can report progress is being made. TMFKATB has seen multiple doctors and has had multiple tests. For whatever reason, I've decided to exercise a modicum of restraint and NOT describe a few of them. I can tell you that after his GI doctor reviewed the notes from the doctor in Mexico, confirming that it was a good thing that he came home when he did,  as well as after his initial exam, we are cautiously optimistic. The test results, expected early next week, will confirm that optimism. It looks like this is entirely manageable. This means a new assignment to serve will not be too far off.

In the meantime, the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and I are working to get a little more meat on him. He wears a hoodie everywhere to stay warm. May I remind you that it's spring here? Everyone else is in shorts and he is freezing. Nothing a couple of extra sandwiches can't fix, right?

Yes, this week which went a little bit slower can be summed up in one word: progress. Our son is making progress in getting back to full health. He is making progress on his goals to stay focused on missionary service. We, as his parents, are progressing, too. This has been a time of learning for us. It's been a time of learning to become more willing to accept the kindness of others. The outpouring of support from all of you has been awe-inspiring. Your words, offers of assistance, your prayers have been felt and appreciated. For many of you who spend time here in the Den, this LDS mission experience is completely foreign and perhaps a tad peculiar, but you have been so kind in your expressions of concern and offer of prayer. We are grateful for all of that and can tell you, those prayers have been felt and heard. We thank you and are in your debt.

So. progress. Here's to more of it this upcoming week! We recognize this is a unique opportunity to have our son home, but we know he'd rather be back out, serving in the mission field. We'll do our best to get him there.