snapshotjones

Elder James E. Faust once noted: “Complete trust in each other is one of the greatest enriching factors in marriage." Trust is crucial in a marriage because it allows couples to build a strong, intimate, and secure relationship. Without trust, the marital relationship may struggle.

Now if you’ll just sit right back, I'll tell you a tale, a tale of a broken trust.

One dark and stormy winter night I became deathly ill. All the food I had eaten that day was exiting my body in the most unpleasant of ways, leaving me very weak. To deny all personal responsibility for what happened later, I’m going to say that because of this illness I was delirious, and most certainly not of a sound mind.

After an exhausting night of “losing weight” in the bathroom, I finally fell asleep or passed out in my bed from sheer exhaustion. I slept well—for a little while. However, at some point in the dark of the night, I woke up because something was wrong. Really wrong. It seemed to my delirious mind that I had awakened in a puddle of strange warm liquid. My delirious mind couldn’t make sense of this.

To determine the nature of the puddle, I put my hand into it. It was wet and didn’t smell right. Now this is where our marital trust was irreparably broken. For some strange reason, I awakened Heather and regrettably said to her: “Hey, feel this.”

Only one of us was delirious. Me. Now half awake, Heather trusted her husband and placed her hand into the warm puddle. Suddenly she was wide awake. Really wide awake. She had placed her hand into something that it should never have touched. Ever.

I’ll spare you all the gross details, but I think there was some yelling, bright lights, hand washing, hand sanitizing, bed sheet washing, scrubbing, bathing, cloroxing, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I think she also asked me; “Why would you ask me to touch that?” Delirium. That was my answer then and it remains my answer today.

The trust that is essential in a marriage had been violated. Dr. Internet tells me that rebuilding trust takes time and patience and to be prepared for setbacks and not to rush the process. Since the regrettable incident was decades ago, I recently decided to test her level of trust. I said: “Hey, feel this.” Not a chance.

Heather will still not “feel” anything that I suggest. Puppies? Silk? Stuffed animals? Marshmallows? All “no.” Unless she can carefully inspect the item beforehand, she’s still not touching anything I suggest.

Gautama Buddha once said; “Our sorrows and wounds are healed only when we touch them with compassion.” This wound will only be healed when my spouse trusts me to never again ask her to touch warm puddles in the middle of the night. She’s not there yet, but I think we're making progress. In the meantime, just to be safe, when we hold hands, I always hold the "clean" hand.

Wednesday, March 8, 2023

Music in the Church--Part Duex

I can be an inpatient man. I'm not a fan of slow walkers, slow talkers, red lights, waiting for packages, escalator riders who don't keep to the side, people who walk side-by-side on busy sidewalks, shoppers with more than 10 items in the express lane, drivers who think that "yield" means "stop and wait", waiting for the elevator, slow wi-fi, people who wait until they get to the counter before looking at the menu, and slow hymn players.

Slow hymn players? Yes, just like slow driving in the fast lane leads to road rage, slow hymn playing may cause "hymn rage." Hymn rage is manifested by excessive finger tapping (at the appropriate tempo), "speed it up" hand gestures, and "here we go again" eye rolling. Even worse, some afflicted Saints go ahead and loudly sing at the correct tempo.

During a recent Sunday worship service, the congregation very slowly sang the opening hymn while the music director robotically waved his arms about as if he were chopping meat with a dull cleaver. I carefully watched the organist to see if she was keeping up. She never even glanced at the music director--her eyes never strayed from the notes on the page. The music director could have set himself on fire and she would not have noticed. She was setting the pace and she knew it.

Theoretically, the ward music director controls the pacing of the music and leads those who are trying to sing. In reality, the music director does neither of these things. It seems the main function of the music director is to encourage the congregation to sing by aiming disappointed glances at those who aren’t singing. Remember how your mother used to look at you when you disappointed her? Kind of sad and hurt at the same time. That's the look.

A long time ago in a congregation far, far away, I once saw the music director become so frustrated that the organist was ignoring his direction that he sat down in a huff, in the middle of the hymn. Few noticed. We just kept singing.

On one occasion, our organist played an entirely different hymn than the one that had been announced. I don't know if she didn't like the announced hymn or just had one in mind that she liked better. Regardless, everyone opened their hymnal to the announced page and began singing. One-by-one, we recognized that the words we were singing did not match the music and searched for the correct hymn. The discordant singing reminded me of a service I once attended where a third of the congregation sang in English, a third in Spanish and a third in Dutch. We sounded like that. Everyone singing their own tune. By the last measure, we all found the correct hymn. Not very melodious.

Each hymn lists mood and metronomic markings. Mood markings such as "energetically", "brightly", “vigorously”, or “solemnly” suggest the general feeling or spirit of the hymn. Metronomic markings indicate a tempo range (Google says this is “beats per minute”). Mellower hymns are played at 40-50 beats per minute, “bright” or “joyful” hymns are played at around 100 beats per minute. The mood for the vast majority of hymns is “brightly”, “energetically” or “joyfully.”

Since there are 10 times more “energetic” or “joyful” hymns than there are “solemn” hymns, why are so many hymns played “solemnly” or even “mournfully”? The hymn "We Are All Enlisted" notes that we are “joyfully marching to our home”. The hymn should be sung as if we're actually excited about it, not as if we're trudging off to the office. After all, the word "gospel" means good news, not "your pet just died." Just sayin.

Have you ever been cruising along in the fast lane at above the posted speed limit and run up against someone who is driving below the speed limit? Drives me crazy. Drives everyone crazy. Singing songs slowly is like that. When you finally swerve out of the lane and zoom past the offending driver, who do you see? Your ward organist—maintaining their own pace. As you careen past, instead of giving them a speed it up "gesture", you give them the "I'm disappointed in you look."

Now to be fair, many organists were born before the invention of the Hula Hoop and Mr. Potato Head and may not realize that the phrase “Today while the Sun Shines” is to be taken literally. According to a study published in the journal "Age and Ageing", the average reaction time for an 80-year-old is approximately twice as slow as a 20-year-old. What does that mean for our organists? No idea, but it’s possible that an octogenarian playing a hymn at less than the recommended metronomic range feels that they are actually playing so fast that they might spin right off the bench.

What to do? I've come up with a few ideas. First, maybe we can have an electronic device rigged up to the organist’s bench. When the playing falls below the recommended tempo, a small electric shock would notify the organist that they need to “put their shoulder to the wheel.” We'll call it the "PACEkeeper 2.0." Sadly, the Church's Risk Management team has forbidden this option.

Second, we could spike the organist's sacramental water with "pep pills." The downside of this is that "pep pills" could cause the partakers to experience agitation, anxiety, delusions, depression, nervousness, and rapidly changing moods. Not ideal for organists, or anyone else. Plus it's illegal, and in this case we do really believe "obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law.”

Third, we train the "I can text 200 words-per-minute with just my thumbs" generation to play the organ. Speed will no longer be a problem. With Gen Z at the keyboard, we’ll again be “Marching On to Glory!” In the 1890s we called missionaries to travel to Paris to study art. Today we could call young members as organ missionaries who would learn to play the organ at the appropriate tempo.

My final suggestion is to endure it well. After all, if we can tolerate slow internet speeds, spam callers, forgotten passwords, dying phone batteries and running out of closet space, we can patiently endure melancholy hymns.

Monday, January 9, 2023

Church Hymns--Part One

Ye Simple Souls Who Stray

As you read the following, please keep in mind that my credentials to comment on anything music related include the ability to accurately locate "Middle C" on the piano. That’s it. That’s my singular qualification.

In my musical opinion (detailed above), our Congregational Music Leader has determined that we, the congregation, need to learn more of the obscure hymns in the hymnbook. My thought is that these hymns are lesser known and unsung because they are peculiar, uninviting, hard to sing, and out-of-date.

Regardless, our music leader perseveres and each week the result is the same. We open the hymnbook to the number noted on the hymn board and attempt (without much success) to match the words in the book to the sounds emanating from the organ. The outcome of our valiant efforts is a jarring, discordant mix of sounds that have no business being heard in church. Most of us congregants waive the white flag after the first verse. By the last verse it’s just the organist, chorister, and a couple of tone-deaf octogenarians who “endure to the end”.

In my expert opinion, here are a few examples of hymns that should forever remain unsung.

First up is a hymn titled “Nay, Speak no Ill”. It is to be sung “thoughtfully” (how fast is thoughtfully?). As near as I can tell, this hymn seems to be a lecture against evil speaking. The Hymn notes: “Give me the heart that fain would hide, would fain another’s faults efface.” Translated into English I think it says: ““Come, thou monarch of the vine, Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne!” When properly performed, it sounds like a slow-starting engine—just when you think it’s not going to make it, there is one more verse.

The Hymn I’m a Pilgrim, I’m a Stranger is also to be performed “thoughtfully”. The title alone qualifies this one for exclusion. The final verse ends on this cheery note: “With the many that are now the vulture’s prey.” I don’t know about you, but when I attend church, I don’t want to be reminded that I might be “vulture’s prey.” The tune is also very dirgey.

Now the Day is Over qualifies mainly to prevent rogue music directors from sneaking this onto the program. We once sang this at 10:00 a.m. The final line reads thus: “With thy tend’rest blessing, may our eyelids close.” Imagine you’re teaching during the second hour to students who have just been encouraged to close their eyelids. Plus, at only 33 words, it’s too short to be considered a proper hymn. By the time most congregants find page #159, the hymn and benediction have concluded.

Here are a few more hymns that should never be sung:

Father, This Hour Has Been One of Joy. At a mere 27 words (the title/first line contains 30% of the total song). To compensate for so few words, the song is played “reflectively” meaning that you sing it so slowly that the 27 words seem like 270. Pass

Come, All Whose Souls Are Lighted. The title is just too strange. I can’t decide if I want my soul “lighted” or not.

Ye Simple Souls Who Stray. With my expert taste in musical lyrics, this one seems to say; with pity, we righteous few look down from heaven on you simple souls who stray and “throng the downward road.”

Here is my rule for congregational hymns in church. Sing only the chart toppers and leave the obscure hymns for trained musicians performing “special musical numbers.” There are easily 100 great hymns you can’t wear out by singing them once every few weeks or months. Singing How Great Thou Art, All Creatures of Our God and King, Redeemer of Israel, How Firm a Foundation, Nearer, My God to Thee, Christ the Lord Is Risen Today, Lead, Kindly Light, (insert your favorite here), never gets old and will never leave the chorister singing by himself. That’s my expert musical opinion. You may have a different (i.e., incorrect) opinion but that’s your right. Other than me, no one will look down on ye who “throng the downward road.”

Thursday, February 8, 2018

Coincidental Parisians

This was written in 2015 but I'm just now posting it. Sorry about that.

Facebook has turned me into a big fat liar . Let me explain. According to the dictionary, a lie is an intentionally false statement. If you don't know me well and only follow me on FB, it appears I just took my wife to Paris for a romantic weekend and to watch the Tour de France. Here's the rest of the story. The "truth" if you will.

Heather is working towards her B.S. in theatre arts at UVU. To graduate more quickly she decided to participate in their study abroad program in London. Sounds extravagant, right? To pay for the opportunity she worked long hours at a job she doesn't enjoy, applied for grants and scholarships, sold baked goods, and even tried to sell her first-born (the market for 19-year-olds isn't what it used to be and I wouldn't let her). She's enjoying the opportunity of a lifetime.

Me? I'm at home working to pay the bills in her absence. On occasion, work takes me to India. By the grace of God, my semiannual trip coincided with her single free weekend. Taking advantage of my layover in Paris, we decided to meet up.

Here's where it gets messy. There are bad bugs in Delhi and one lodged in my intestinal tract. In a 24-hour period, I lost 8 pounds (approximately 42 million micrograms for those who prefer the metric system), wasn't even sure I'd be able to make my flight. Luckily, on Friday I had 6 kilometers of dry toast and felt well enough to fly. I made it to Paris where my sweetheart was shocked at how much weight I'd lost in the two weeks we'd been apart.

On a previous trip, our penchant for cramming as many sights and activities into the trip as possible earned us the moniker "turbo tourists". On this trip my "turbo" was not working normally--at all really. Heather patiently towed me along to see Paris. We saw the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Napoleon's tomb, strolled along the Seine, never straying far from a bathroom, "just in case".

There are no photos on FB of our room at the Hotel des Mildew which was only 65 Euro per night (about eight kilograms in dollars). The accommodations were adequate, and if you kept the bathroom door shut, the smell was tolerable. Our lock broke so the staff had to trudge up five flights of stairs to open the door each time we returned. Each day they said they'd fix the lock "tomorrow". On the plus side, Hotel deu Mildew is affordable, in a great location, and with an inoperable door, safe from thieves.

Romantic? Let's say that if you're afraid the Teton Dam will break, you don't fish downstream. Get the picture? I was thrilled she agreed to share the same room with me.

Sunday at church someone asked where we had been before arriving in Paris. I said "Delhi", Heather said "London". Then they asked; "How do you know each other?" We laughed and told them we've been married for more than 20 years. After church, we walked 200 micrometers (still keeping an eye out for a restroom "just in case"). We saw the grounds of the Louvre and tried to find a good vantage point to see a bunch of guys on bikes whiz by at 40 kilograms per second (still trying to figure out the metric thing).

Eventually, it started to really rain on our "romantic weekend". Wet cold rain. By this time I'd secured the perfect spot to photograph the bikers--at the foot of the Arch de Triumph, only an urgent need to use the restroom could have uprooted me. Fortunately, I was not uprooted. Blessed with more sanity and lacking my irrational need for the perfect picture, Sweetheart retreated to the hotel for some warm dry clothes.

Heather returned with warm clothes and I eventually stopped shivering. After 200 hours, the racers did come (eight times in fact) and I did get the "perfect picture" of the peloton rounding the Arch de Triumph. We took the subway home and had a delightfully delicious Greek dinner.

Today as I tried to find the perfect souvenir (stores in France don't open till long after it's convenient) I was a bit grumpy, Heather was her usual kind self. We parted at the train station, me back to Utah, her to London.

We had a great time together in Paris, saw and did amazing things (just not that thing), had dinner at a sidewalk cafe, held hands, listened to the bells at Notre Dame. Really had a nice time together, but in a cheap, coincidental way, not like it might appear on Facebook. That's the real story of how average Joe and Jane of average means ended up in Paris. Because God loves us and sometimes arranges for people to meet in spectacular places at wonderful times.

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Latter-day Saints March Madness

Over the last 20-plus years we’ve lived in six different wards and two U.S. States. During that time I’ve had many church callings including “Stake Physical Activities Director,” “Regional Athletic Director” “Region Officials Coordinator,” and “Assistant Stake Physical Activities Director.” The titles sound much more prestigious than they actually are. The names are all just euphemisms for “church basketball referee.” Based on my many years of high school and church officiating experience, most objective observers feel this is the one calling for which I’m well qualified.

Sometimes, like Single Adults to a Church dance, I show up on Saturday morning and volunteer to help referee because I can’t help myself. On other occasions, someone finds out I own my own referee shirts and whistles and tells the Stake President. Once they find out about my striped secret, a calling to referee comes faster than primary kids to the refreshment table.

Normally I don’t mind refereeing for a bunch of guys reliving their glory days, but there are times when even my patience wears thin (like when I called 9-1-1 to have Brother “I-pay-tithing-and-you-can’t-make-me-leave” ---leave. Or the chair thrower, he also had to leave). Back in the old days you could get paid for officiating church basketball but now it’s a calling–-same work, only "spiritual" pay. Some guys without an official calling get to referee by being asked to stay and officiate the game after theirs. Players quickly learn that coming to the game with an excuse to leave as soon as the game is over is as important as bringing a ball or basketball shoes.

Regardless of how you got duped refereeing a bunch of guys who just woke up on a Saturday morning, refereeing is still an unpaid position in an athletic program that works because of its volunteers. According to Mormonnewsroom.org; “The Church functions in large measure because of the unpaid volunteer ministry of its members. In fact, this lay ministry is one of the Church’s most defining characteristics. . . members voluntarily participate in “callings” or assignments that provide meaningful opportunities to serve one another.”

The problem is, not every player realizes that when the referee calls a foul on him, he’s actually “serving” him. Normally, members are grateful for the service of others (free meals anyone?) but for some reason that gratitude doesn’t always extend to the referees. In fact, a few people feel it’s OK to yell at referees for the service they’re providing. To my knowledge, no one feels it’s necessary to scream at members serving in other callings.

But let’s pretend. . .

Imagine standing up and yelling out at a Sacrament meeting sustaining (after all, it’s in the same building) “Bishop, that’s a terrible call!” Or, at the Ward Dinner; “Sister Smith, this casserole stinks.” Or in a Recommend interview; “You clearly don’t have any idea what the rules are do you?”

There are apocryphal accounts of members behaving poorly in other settings, but it happens more frequently on Saturday morning in the gym. In basketball, even those who don’t yell at the refs can’t stop themselves from offering unsolicited advice. “That was a foul ref.” Or; “Ref, he’s over my back.” (No, he’s just taller, and can still jump.) I don’t offer advice to players, (“bend your knees, face the basket, stop yelling at the referee, and roll the ball off your fingertips towards the basket”). I tell players who want to help me to please wait until I specifically ask for their help. . . I don’t.

When the Earth receives its paradisiacal glory, referees will get 100% of their calls right (will there be a need for referees in a Celestial world?). Until then we do the best we can. Today’s best NBA team misses 53% of their shots. I guarantee referees do better than that. Any Ward team making 50% their shots would win every game. They never do, but that doesn’t make losing the referees fault. We get most of our calls right.

After referring thousands of basketball games I’ve discovered the secret to winning basketball games—make more baskets than the other team. It’s really that simple. The referee can’t do this for you, nor can he prevent you from doing so. If you score more than the other team you win. 100% of the time.

Based on years of observation, I’ve come to the conclusion that yelling at the referee has no effect on the scoreboard. Players keep trying but those darn numbers never go up.

I’m as competitive as the next guy but I’m also old enough to realize that IF you win all your games you get crowned champion of your “Coordinating Council” basketball tournament. What does this prestigious title get you? A bigger mansion in the Celestial kingdom? A nursery calling? A “Get out of Home Teaching Free” card?

Nope. For all that effort you get nothing. No trophy, no T-Shirt, no calling to serve in the library, only a Facebook selfie announcing your triumph.

In conclusion, I propose the church either bless the practice of yelling at every member who fails to magnify their calling—or universally abolish the practice. I think we referees will vote for abolishment.

snapshotjones

Monday, April 17, 2023

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