c'est l'heure de partir

I used to think that when it will be time to leave Logan, I would cry and cry. I have really enjoyed it here. I didn't take to high school that much, so I think I'm using up my school spirit on the university here. I really have enjoyed my time. For the past 4 years I've moved through the program with roughly the same set of kids, roughly the same set of professors, and roughly the same story day in day out. I like routine.

I had become so acquainted with life as an Aggie that I was not worried about starting school for the first time ever this year. I even have a relatively easy school load. Only one engineering class, one math class, a creative arts class, and a family finance class. I also snooze through a seminar class, but there's so little required of me except attendance I'm hesitant to call it a class.

Here I am, three days into the semester. Most of the group that moved along with me is gone. I don't have the same set of professors because I'm not taking as many engineering classes. I've switched jobs, so that's new. To add to this feeling of emptiness, the only engineering class I am in only has 5 kids in it. Only five.

So I feel like I'm at a party where I thoroughly enjoyed myself, but everyone else has gone home, the band is starting to put away their instruments, and now I have to leave too. Except I'm not leaving. I still have (see previous post) three more semesters including this one to complete my MS.

This has made me re-emphasize in my own mind just how I feel on a few topics. Number one, above all and foremost, I am glad I am married. The person who means the most to me will never 'move on' and leave. I'm not talking about tragic loss of a spouse, I'm talking about how our lives are intertwined eternally. That's reassuring for someone who doesn't like change. Secondly, the things that bring me joy and security need to be centered on me what I have stewardship over. Lastly, this has made me a bit wiser. I don't know why, but I feel a bit older. I feel a step or two closer to a mortgage, kids, baseball practice, a dog, and a mini-van. It's sobering, and it re-awakens in me the desire to prepare myself to be a good father.

Interesting experience, all in all.

back to school

Three more semesters... just three more semesters... just three more semesters...

hackneyed and trite

I hate saying things that have been said a million times by people a million times more eloquent than I.

For example, I'm one of the ones who ALWAYS gets up on fast and testimony Sunday. I know, I know, I should share the pulpit, and I do try to skip once or twice a year, but I really enjoy bearing testimony. I just hate saying the most important parts that need to be said because I sound like a parrot. I'm not parroting what I hear, I just don't know how else to say what's been said so many times before. Joseph Smith is a prophet of God. He saw God. He didn't have a vision, he didn't dream it, it wasn't a trance, it wasn't symbolic, it wasn't a spiritual sight. God and Jesus Christ physically came down and stood in the air above him and he saw them. It's hard to say that with the kind of force that it deserves.

Far above that is a testimony of the Savior. How do you say what's been said so many times? I'm afraid to bear testimony of the Savior sometimes because I don't want it to come out weak. This is a horrible excuse, and believe me, I have never shirked an opportunity to testify of the Lord. I just don't want the other guy to go 'Yeah whatever you religious nut.' That's insulting to me and to the One I testify of.

I've a sinking suspicion that I should just let it go; i.e. let go and let God. It's hard, though. Bearing testimony of the Savior is an important thing. If the Spirit is there, it can change someone's life. If it's not, especially because of something *I* did, then... man I just don't want to face that.

I guess part of it is my pride, too. I read about Paul, Alma, Amulek, and Peter, and all these other great men who bear testimony and people go "Holy smokes, mate. We'd better repent and get baptized." I wish I could do that-- not because I want look in the mirror and go "Wow I'm awesome." but rather because there are people out there who need the Gospel. Bringing that joy to them brings me joy as well, and that's the only selfish part about it. I'd really just like to see everyone accept the truth. Alas, it is not to be.

my competitive side

As a rule, I don't get competitive.

I just don't see the point in a lot of things that your average person competes in. Board games? I'd rather keep Mrs. Sixline happy during the game. Pick up sports games? Really, in the span of the cosmos, the outcome of a lousy basketball game and whether or not that was a foul don't matter one iota.

It's not like nothing matters to me... I just don't know how to define my sorting algorithm. Some things I just end up not caring about. The things I do care about have nothing to do with whether or not the next guy is good at it too. Logic, wisdom, learning, and personal improvement don't really involve who's in line before you and behind you, although where you stand relative to the rest of the world always plays at least a small part, I suppose.

I wish I were more competitive. I was thinking earlier today about how discipline and flair for living are sometimes a mutually exclusive pair. I know tons of very disciplined students that I think are incapable of relaxing and having fun. They probably think I'm very indolent and lazy. Many of my more diligent acquaintances seem to be competitive as well as disciplined. It happens often enough to make me opine that the two are part and partial.

Most of this stuff is just my thoughts on the subject, not a treatise spelling out a thoroughly reviewed human sociological condition. I guess what I'm getting at, is that I very often feel like a lazy slob and I wish I had the get-up-and-go to be able to get things done.

feminists

When women tell me they’re a feminist, my response is always the same: “Oh, totally. I hate men too. Those mongrels.”

My sarcasm is usually very apparent, but it always adequately sends the message that I think that feminists hate men-- all men, to be exact. Obviously this is my own prejudice against feminists, but for right now, it's the way I feel. In fact, to take it a step further, I always think they hate me. Pretty big ego of mine, eh? What could I have done to possibly elicit such strong feelings from women I’ve only just met? I try to treat women with kindness, and regardless of my penchant for teasing my wife about being horrible because she won’t satisfy my laziness and get me a sandwich (she usually makes me get it myself, can you believe that?!) I think very highly of women, and I definitely don't hate them.

The woman I know best is Mrs. Sixline. She’s fantastic. We have our differences and I don’t want to say our marriage is looked at with starry eyes or through rose colored glasses. Despite our imperfections, we get along more often than not. When we are getting along we’re laughing and playing and talking and having fun. I see her as an equal, and I never ‘lay down the law,’ as it were. I don’t tell her how it is, and I don’t boss her around. When decisions come for whether or not I continue education, or whether or not we move, or where we go, she’s involved and I need her input so we can do what's best. My desires to do what I want in the quotidian are governed by simple selfish impulses to do things my way, not an overbearing pressure to be the man and show the helpless little wifey how to get things done. It's a part of learning to be one.

I respect her. I respect what she does. She has worked very hard throughout the whole of our marriage, taking on the role of primary breadwinner and housewife because I’m so often at school. When we have children, she will have the God-given task of being primary care-giver. She will be there in a way I can't. She will be Mom. There are few honors that are as esteemed as that of mother. She is so nurturing; I have relied on her time and time again to hold me in her loving arms and encourage me when I’ve been down because of depression. She’s held me up during times of stress when I need to make sure I do well on finals. She has been patient with me far more than I have had to be patient with her. She’s beautiful, she’s wonderful, she’s pleasing, and without her I wouldn’t be whole.

Why make an enemy of my greatest ally?

I think this is what unnerves me most upset about feminists. I recognize that men make mistakes, and some men have committed acts of unthinkable malice and selfishness towards women. But regardless of all my mistakes, I haven’t committed gross acts against women. If I’m grouped up in that category, then that means that I am guilty of wronging my wife and I don’t like that one bit. Just the thought of being guilty of wrongdoing against wracks me with horror. I ask her, very often, if she feels oppressed in anyway because of my attitudes, or if she feels slighted because she isn’t getting an education, or if she feels trapped by being a housewife. I want to make sure she’s happy and feels fulfilled in our marriage. I take full responsibility for my role in her well being. What more can I do for her?

I have no goals other than that. I have no career aspirations. I have no desire to flash my degree around in social circles and feel good about myself. My one and only goal in life is to do whatever I can to be a good husband and father. I expect the same from my wife; that she be a good wife and mother. This is not to say that we can’t take hobbies, or that she can’t go off with the girls while I baby-sit. Of course we need and want friends and family. I love my wife. I’m no poet, and everything I say sounds so trite and hackneyed. I wish that men would walk up to their responsibilities. I wish that men would treat women the way they deserve to be treated. Lots of us guys feel that way. So if you’re a feminist, try to remember that the next time the door is held for you. It’s not an insult; it’s an honor.

blogger's block

I bet I'm not the first to have this problem.

I have no idea what to blog about. Lots of stuff is going on in life, but I don't really know how to feel important about it. I also hate it when I think something is REALLY important, but when it comes out in writing, it sounds so ridiculous and trivial.

Oh well.

I'll figure out what to post on later.

Story time

I recently finished Cal Ripken Jr's autobiography, The Only Way I Know. At first, the literary style (if I'm even qualified to make an accurate analysis of such) kinda bugged me. It was written the way he spoke, almost as if all I was reading was a monologue. I had never read an autobiogrpahy before, so I didn't know if that was the style of autobiographies or not. Since it's my first, I still don't know. By the end, though, I had realized that it felt like Cal Ripken Jr was sitting next to me telling me the details of his life. After it was over, I felt sad. It was weird, but I had almost pictured him sitting with me just telling me his story. I can only read it once and have it feel that way.

Heroes are funny things. Somehow, we always think they'll be taller. Somehow we're always too disappointed to find out they're only human. Many of us have been disillusioned in one way or another when it came to heroes. Thomas Jefferson owned slaves. Barry Bonds took steroids. (Or did he?!) George Washington took candy from babies. One particularly pleasing part of Cal's story was the fact that I agreed with him on so many points. I believe him when he says that although athelete's are role models. I believe him when he says that the craft of the game of baseball is suffering because of (my words here) selfish players who don't want to learn the fine art of the game. I believe him when he says there's nothing more to your job than going in and doing it everyday. I like Cal that much more now. I wasn't disappointed with getting to know him in the book. Heroes are funny things. Good heroes are lucky things.

money money money

I got a new grant! Hooray! Evidently juniors and seniors majoring in a math/science/engineering program get extra money this year. I love free money.

I just don't feel a big post yet, so to all my faithful avid readers, I humbly and abjectly apologize.

I just kinda want school to start, just so I can have something to do other than work. We have another lidar campaign coming up in September, and so I'll have to take time off from school to go out to California and shoot our laser. This one will be a bit more glamorous. Normally my work is, in a nutshell, an analyzation of how much 'gas' is released into air by a swine farm. Yes, pig farts from a barn. Now I'll go to an almond farm and scan the pollution that comes from almond harvesting. Neat-o.

Inspiration, not explanation.

My brother had a most excellent point the other day. He, my brother-in-law and I were discussing how much we should pay attention to Church books. It is my personal feeling that I'd rather just read the Standard Works themselves, and touch lightly on the writings of modern day prophets and the like. Then here comes my brother, who says "Well, I guess it depends on whether or not the book was written for inspiration, or for explanation. Most general authorities try to inspire you, not explain every little scripture to you."

I liked that. I'd rather try to figure things out as I go along, and when I need to be reminded of why I stand up, I'll pick up a general authority book.

Back.

And while I was gone...

The apartment we were looking at was rented. (They were going to give us a free washer and dryer.)

My father-in-law backed into my car, which is now in the shop.

And I stubbed my toe.

Ensign, set course for New Mexico, warp 8.

Off to New Mexico until Wednesday. Au revoir.

Engage.

The Four S's, part trois

Sports.

I like sports. Namely, Baseball. I played soccer growing up, but my interest in that has tailed off a bit. As far as what to watch on TV, nothing, and I mean NOTHING, beats baseball in October. I don't get much done during October. I like the wild card race, the Division series, the Championship series, and then, most of all, the beloved World Series of Baseball. Although limited to America only, I think the name is grandfathered in seeing as how it's been going on for more than a hundred years. I think America was the only country at the time that played ball, so we're ok there. (I remember this guy in France who thought that since we called it the World Series, we were being unilateral. He felt this was another symbol of American selfishness. He didn't even like baseball. Go figure.)

The best baseball team (not necessarily because of winning records, or pitching, or hitting, or anything else that qualifies a team as being the best) are the Baltimore Orioles. I've never set foot on the east cost, so how, you ask, did I come to enjoy such a fine baseball team as the Birds? I'll tell you, if you'll shut up.

I moved around somewhat as a kid, but I lived for 6 years in Dallas, Texas, from ages 8 to 14. When I was about 12, my friend had his birthday party at a Texas Rangers game. This was at Ranger Stadium, well before construction of the Ball Park in Arlington. Anyway, they were hosting Cal Ripken Jr's Orioles, and I wanted to be the odd man out. All my friends were going for the Rangers, so went for the Orioles. I picked the Oriole cup to hold my ice cream, I cheered when they got a hit, and rubbed it in their faces when Baltimore took the game, 11-4. That's all it took. I began looking in the sports section of the paper every morning to see if Baltimore won, without being able to name a single player on their roster. That soon changed, and I began collecting baseball cards. I lost interest after the strike, and regrettably, didn't even watch Cal beat Gehrig's streak. Since my return from France, I've gotten right back into it and I have a nice little line of compressed hair where my Orioles hat pushes itself into my skull.

Sports rock.

P.S. When basketball season starts, I'll ramble about the Jazz, my favorite basketball team.

brimming with negativity

I have 6 Matlab scripts that I need to run this morning, so I have some time to blog about this. This is going to feel good, I feel like getting this off my chest.

There are lots of things I don't like about myself. Sometimes they come clearly into focus, oftentimes surprising me and forcing me to wonder if I haven't just ignored my own faults. While that evaluation begins, I start to feel bad for all the times I've been judgmental, especially to those who don't deserve it. This illustrates how threads and processes are spawned in my head. I start one thread and immediately delve into another, often using the previous thread as a background to it. The scheduler in my brain sometimes has a hard time keeping up with all the threads and some are naturally starved and others receive too much attention, thus skewing my perception of myself and the world around me. This is the first (but not necessarily the highest priority) thing I just don't like about myself. I'm not focused. It always is evident in my writing. I write things that don't make a lick of sense because I was thinking of what I meant but got sidetracked and didn't write it, so a lot of it comes out fragmented and difficult to understand.

I also talk way too much. Not that when Mrs. Sixline and I have conversation I feel I talk to much, but I just blab about nothing in particular. To elaborate on this would only incriminate me further. Let's just say I feel like a fool when I go on so much. Problem is, I feel like if you're not talking you're not enjoying yourself. And if you're not enjoying yourself, the reason is usually me. Lots of people have a negative exponential drop-off in being able to handle me as their stress levels go up. I suppose I'm good in small doses.

I'm too thin skinned. Really, I let other people get to me. What a ridiculous notion, handing over your attitude and cool head to someone else.

I'm too easily intimidated. We're not in highschool anymore, but I still feel like people will act like it and try to bully me around for whatever reason. It makes me go on the defensive far too often.

I'm too negative. Nyah. :P

This wasn't as liberating as I thought.

Six years...

Six years ago I was watching 'Called to Serve' in the MTC with an orange dot on my lapel.

I lost the One Ring.

Dangit, I can't find my wedding ring! I took it off the other night before I went to bed and got side tracked, making a midnight run to the grocery store to pick up some foodstuffs and other supplies. Now the hordes of gorgeous babes who're just waiting for me to show a sign of availability will... As a good friend once said to me:

Hot blondes don't come after guys like us.

He was right.

On a side note, I found no less than 2 sets of tweezers, one nail file, one set of nailclippers, and one debit card that's been MIA for at least 6 months in the couch cushions today whilst searching for said rings. (The other one I lost is my Masonic ring. Now no one will know I belong to a really cool club.)

better that a millstone were hanged around his neck

I don't really know how to cover what's going on right now. How I'm feeling right now is one of the reasons why I hesitated at first to start up a blog. I have difficulty enough being clear on paper without having numerous thoughts and feelings to stir up the mud further.

Not that it does any good, but my heart and prayers do go out to Destiny Norton's family. Allegedly she was abducted from her own backyard while cooling after a bath. Her own backyard... She was found dead, and allegedly her own neighbor took her while she was out and about in the backyard. (story)

What happens in the stage of a man's life to make him desire to siphon life and innocence from children? When does that urge develop? They say sex offenders don't get a reprieve from their temptations, and that they cannot rehabilitate. I have a hard time believing otherwise. It's also increasingly evident that more and more men are acting out on these impulses. It seems like that's all I hear on the news nowadays... Sexual predators.

When my friend's 3 year old daughter crawls in my lap with her dolls to sit and plays with them, I can't think of anything other than tender caring and love. I don't want her to feel threatened. I don't want to take anything from her. All those axioms and sayings about children's love and laughter ring true. There's just no other way to say how important and lovely an innocent child is, and there's no way someone so inarticulate and jumbled as I could ever come up with anything to match what's already been said. I can pick her up and throw her up and down in the air until she's about to puke all over me, and when I set her down, she giggles and screams in delight for me to do it again. Why would I want to ever want to bring harm into her life?

Whee!

Minor updates:

Eeyore beat me in baseball on PS2.

I had first ever Texan visitor to the blog.

My wife loves me! Awww...

Bible Bashing Chronicles

I served a two year full time mission for my Church in Switzerland and France.

One thing missionaries do quite often is knock on your door, interrupt your dinner, and tell you that you need God. I understand just how rude and ineffective this is as a method of introducing my beliefs in God, but when you believe it so strongly, you tend to hope that your intrusion will be forgiven if the person who hears the message has their heart changed, and finds God.

One night, I was knocking on doors in Cournon d'Auvergne, which is just outside of Clermont Ferrand. Anyway, my companion and I had found a small apartment building with about 12 apartments inside and begun to knock. Not long after we had prayed for the Lord's guidance we ran into a family of Jehovah's Witnesses.

Now I'll be the first to concede that my faith can look weird from the outside, so I'm not afraid to say so about others as well. I admit it's their faith, and I mean no disrespect, but what looks normal to you looks weird to me, and vice versa. Any Jehovah's Witness readers can correct me, but they believe that God's name is Jehovah. For most Christians out there, whatever their particular brand of faith may be, the Old Testament's written by prophets who spoke in the name of the LORD, which is a way of giving respect to the name of the Almighty since it's not too cool to constantly write 'Jehovah.' So in their Bible, all instances of the LORD are replaced with Jehovah. Us Mormons believe that Jesus of Nazareth is Jehovah, the God of the Old Testament, and that God (Jesus's Father) is someone else. Most Christians tend toward this, because of Zechariah 12:10, which I'll quote here from the King James Bible:

10 And I will pour upon the house of David, and upon the inhabitants of Jerusalem, the spirit of grace and of supplications: and they shall look upon me whom they have pierced, and they shall mourn for him, as one mourneth for his only son, and shall be in bitterness for him, as one that is in bitterness for his firstborn.

(Emphasis is mine.) ME, Jehovah, whom they have pierced. I believe this to be a reference to Christ's crucifixion. From this (and other reasons) I believe that Jesus is Jehovah.

From the New World Translation of the Bible from the Watchtower society (linked above):

“And I will pour out upon the house of David and upon the inhabitants of Jerusalem the spirit of favor and entreaties, and they will certainly look to the One whom they pierced through, and they will certainly wail over Him as in the wailing over an only [son]; and there will be a bitter lamentation over him as when there is bitter lamentation over the firstborn [son].

(Again, emphasis is mine.) the One whom they pierced. Starting out with I, as in Jehovah, and changing the one that was pierced from me to the One.

Now I'm no expert in Jehovah's Witness theology, nor do I wish to belittle them. They have the right to believe as they wish, as do I. I just wanted to tell the family whose house I had tracted into that I felt that they had changed the Bible. Again, that's up to them and what they want to do. But as we argued at the doorway over who Jehovah was, Jesus Christ (Us Mormons) or God, (the Jehovah's Witnesses,) I decided to Bible bash and whip out the Bible and compare the two verses. It just so happens that the same discrepancy between who was pierced exists in the Louis Segond translation of the Bible in French.

So I very arrogantly produced my Bible, the very nice lady procured hers, and I tried to take her to this very scripture. I was going to prove to her she was wrong. I think the Lord had something else in mind, most likely to teach me a lesson.

I couldn't remember the reference.

I flipped madly through the pages in Zechariah, searching everywhere. After a few awkward moments, I admitted that I couldn't remember the exact chapter and verse. All credit is due to the Jehovah's Witness lady, she didn't gloat or anything. She just smiled and said "That's ok, that sometimes happens to me too."

So I got shown up. Kudos to the Jehovah's Witnesses for that.

The best part is, when I got home that night, I looked up the verse and found it almost immediately. I was overcome with the feeling that the Lord didn't approve of my attempt to shove my beliefs on someone. I know that was the Spirit of God telling me that.

So I repented, vowed never to fight with Scripture, and I never have.

The Four S's, part deux

Seinfeld.

Oh so funny. Oh so classic. Oh so exquisite. I can watch Seinfeld all day, and I have a wife who's fed up with it who can attest to that. We were married in June (June 6th, for those who didn't read the Happy Anniversary entry) and that summer we couldn't afford TV, so the only thing we had to watch were my Seinfeld episodes. Tom (college buddy) had every single Seinfeld episode recorded to his PC and backed up on DVD. These were obviously recorded from TV, but high quality nonetheless. Our media library was dominated by Seinfeld; we had no movies to speak of either.

So that summer was spent eating otter-pops until all hours of the night (trying to keep cool, we couldn't afford AC either) while watching Seinfeld.

Classic humor. Just, just absolutely classic.

Still bothers me...

After a 6 month hiatus from LDS Dialogue and Discussion style message boards, I went back just now.

And I came back upset. I always get upset. I still haven't been able to figure out entirely why. Most of it, although difficult to articulate, can be summed up in the fact that I just don't like it when people try to point out discrepancies in the Church in an attempt to show it's gone astray. The conclusion seems to be that since a hole in the reasoning/logic exists, it cannot hold water.

But that doesn't hold water. I don't need to prove my faith to you. I don't answer to you. I don't even want to.

A previous post had me talking about I like to have things checked off, and how I like to have things approved by other people. It just goes to show how you strong I feel about my faith. Contrast that with how shaky I can be about nearly everything else.

My interest in apologetics is waning. I really don't think anyone's going to be convinced when they give me the problem and say "You solve this or I'll be forced to draw the conclusion that you're a dolt."

I'm not weak. I'm not spoon-fed. I'm not closed minded. I'm definitely not brainwashed, and I don't give a rip if you think otherwise.

The Church is true, the Book is blue.

P.S. -- If you are one of those people that tries to 'free my mind,' the common and popular tactics of forcing me to 'see through' my faith are misguided, inappropriate, and ineffective. If you really want me to leave the Church, you are doing a lousy job.