A Word from Brock

Okay, this is sort of a breach in blogging protocol, but I'm posting something that's not my own. It's a little tidbit Brock wrote today that is amazing. Inflammatory, yes. But still. I think it's something people need to hear. The title of it is . . .

"I supported Prop 8...you got a problem with that?"

I'm going to be straight-forward. My wife is very articulate. She has a way with words. I do not. I write short, simple sentences. So bear with me.

I supported Prop 8--the amendment to the California State Constitution defining marriage as between a man and a woman. Why? Because gay marriage is wrong. Simply put.

I'm not going to sit here like some of my friends and say I supported the measure because of "what it would allow them to teach our children in schools," or that "it would force churches to marry same-sex couples." And I will NOT say, "I don't mind if they get married, but I worry about this and this..." To me, that's all a smoke screen. It's relativism. And it's wrong.

Gay marriage is wrong. It's immoral. It's disgusting. It's unnatural. And it's not what God, nor our founding fathers, had in mind when they created this wonderful nation.

But there is something sinking into our generation that will be the downfall of this country I love: Relativism.

I'm sick of relativism. You know, the new philosophy of "it's okay, as long as it is right for you...it's all relative." No. There is right and there is wrong. If you don't believe that, I suggest you wake up from the rosy-colored dream-state you're in. There are two sides. And same-sex marriage is wrong. It's all about values. Do we continue to let this country sink deeper and deeper into the pit of immorality? Do we hide our beliefs and let the minority of this country step on the majority simply because we are "afraid to offend?" What is happening to us?

The greatest generation of this country is dying. One by one, they are taking their experiences with the Great Depression, WWII, the Korean Way, and Vietnam with them. My wife's grandfather was one of them. He made us all look like snobs. When his country called him to WWII, he went dutifully. And when they called him again for Korea, he was there. No questions asked. There is not an ounce of his bravery in our generation, people. We are weak, conceited, self-centered, and narcissistic. We care so much about "fulfilling our desires" and "finding ourselves" that we forget about our duty to our family, religion, and country.

Duty. This is a word that brought pride to the souls of people like Kristi's grandpa, Reese Kern. They fulfilled their mission. They finished the task. The won the battles, and they went to work.

But let's not kid ourselves. They had passions like you and me. But they were tought to suppress them, bridle them, until the right time and conditions were met. And they were happy because of it.

My generation is a free-for-all. We don't care about our neighbor. We don't care that pre-marital sex leads to broken homes, orphaned children, and misery. We don't care that marrying same-sex couples is a slap in the face to all those who fought and died before us.

What's that you say? "But, Brock, they fought and died for our right to do it! Marrying gays is honoring them!"

You're wrong.

They fought for freedom--the freedom to live in a peaceful, moral, value-based society--not the right for you to do whatever indecent, immoral, ridiculous thing you want. They didn't fight for you to waste your time away watching porn, drinking booze, and satisfying every obscene passion you have. They fought for values. Family. Religion. God. Pride.

And what have you done with those values? You have insulted them, degraded them, made them the butt of your jokes. You spit on everything that's moral. If you ask me, my generation is a disgrace. Too much "me me me." Too much facebook. Too much talking back to professors. Too much texting. Too much atheism. Too much relativism.

The time has come for those of you who feel like I do to stand up. I will not be ruled by a shrewdly vocal minority. We will unite, and together we will give the greatest generation something to be proud of.

Farewell to a Cowboy

for my mother

I’ve heard people say a few times here and there
An old adage that maybe you know—
A piece of advice for cowpokes who step up
And face enemies toe-to-toe.

“It ain’t the size of the man in the fight,
It’s the size of the fight in the man.”
But no man can knock out the mortal result
Of our Heavenly Father’s plan.

You can battle and brawl till you’re red in the face,
You can holler and scream till you’re hoarse;
It’ll all be in vain, take a breath, let it be—
Don’t swim upstream of eternity’s course.

Sure, it ain’t fair and it’s rough and it’s mean
When a loved one is taken away;
You put your head in your hands as the tears start to fall
When you realize they’ve seen their last day.

There’s no more tomorrow’s or next time’s or later’s
No more hi’s or good bye’s or I loves you’s—
No more hoping for Death to forget his appointment
With the cowboy you can’t bear to lose.

But although your heart’s breakin’ and bleedin’ and sore
There’s a fact of which you can be certain:
Life doesn’t end after one’s final bow
When they vanish behind nature’s curtain.

You can bet that old wrangler of yours is still ridin’
Through heaven’s green pastures above—
Sittin’ high on his horse, smilin’ down on the earth,
Keepin’ watch over all those he loves.

Someday you’ll join him and pull on your boots
To embark on eternity’s trail ride.
Never again will you lack for a pardner,
Nor wander alone without guide.

But until that day comes, cowboy up! He’s alright—
And with time you’ll be alright, too.
Though your heart may be heavy, don’t you dare underrate
The size of the fight in you.

Reese S. Kern

1922-2008

My First Last Words

It was unusually gusty today.

The crisp winds of autumn mutated into the biting winds of winter, ripping droves of colorful leaves from their branches. I received a phone call from my mother:


"Kristi, Grandpa is dying. He probably has two or three days left."


The first sentence is not what caught me off guard. My grandpa has been "dying" of stomach cancer for the better part of two years. It was the second sentence that jerked the breath out of my lungs and words from my mouth.


I remember being in an airport a few years back. I don't recall where I was traveling to, but as I was standing in the security line, I remember seeing a sign with twenty-five faces on it. Five across, five down. Every third face was in black-and-white. The caption read "1 out of every 3 Americans develops cancer in their lifetime." I remember thinking "Wow, that's weird. I don't know anybody who has cancer."


Time changes things.


I knew my grandpa was in bad shape. Prior to this news, the most recent verdict given to us by doctors was three-to-six months. They've been saying that for two years now. They've been saying that through chemotherapy, radiation and surgery. You become numb to it after a while--hearing the same predictions again and again after the old ones are surpassed. But now; to have it cut down so drastically without warning. To have Death looking you straight in the eyes and saying "I'm taking him now whether you like it or not." To inhale and wonder if he's doing the same.


It's not like I thought my grandpa was invincible. I knew he would pass on eventually. Maybe I'd fooled myself into thinking that that cowboy spirit of his had a little more fight in it. I don't know.


Writing about him in past tense is macabre. Which makes sense, seeing as how he IS still alive. Yet I almost can't help doing it. Each "was," "had," and "did" pricks at my heart like a tweezer.


Upon hearing the news from my mother, my mind went ajumble. Should I drop everything and drive to Colorado or stay put? I asked advice. Mom was of the opinion that since my last indelible memory of Grandpa was of him healthy and happy, I should remain and Utah and let things run their course in Colorado.

There have been times when I visited my grandpa being certain that I would never see him again, but he always seemed to have one more life left in him (we joke that he's like a cat in that regard). The last time I saw Grandpa, he looked great and was full of vigor. Our goodbye was a happy one. A hug, a kiss, an "I'll-see-you-later" and shutting of the front door. I guess it's better to see a person for the last time not knowing it will be the last time.

Regardless of all this, I now had a very difficult task ahead of me. Since I would not be near my grandpa as the curtains fell on his life, my mother suggested I write a letter to him which she would read in the hospital at his bedside.


I would have to write my first last words.


Saying your last words and writing your last words are two entirely different things. When your words are spoken, you say whatever comes to mind at the moment and hope it's meaningful. If not, you may regret it, yes, but you always have the excuse of "How can you possibly know the right things to say in an emotional instant like that?"


When writing your last words, there's no such excuse. You have hours before you to collect your thoughts, create sentences and change words. Hours to weed out the unimportant and say what you truly feel. If you have regrets with what is said, the fault is yours and yours alone.

I sat down at the computer. How to even start? "Dear Grandpa?" Too generic. "To Grandpa?" Too sterile.


"Tick, tock. Tick, tock." That was it.


My fingers fluttered across the keyboard as I spent the next four hours condensing my most cherished memories into four pages. They were the most emotional four hours I've experienced in a long time, perhaps ever. To say that I was sent on a proverbial "roller coaster of emotions" is an understatement. My soul was rent from its bodily home and thrown into a drying machine; tumbling about in the heat of anguish, its buttons clanking in protest of my grandfather's passing.


This Letter to my grandpa wasn't an "I laughed, I cried" experience. I just cried. And cried and cried and cried some more. Every now and then my lips would curve into a slight smile upon the reminiscence of a fond memory, but the better part of the Letter was written in tears.


It came time to end the Letter. How can you possibly wrap up a lifetime of memories into a few meager sentences? How do you adequately express the extent of your love with several dozen intangible characters?


You can't write a kiss. You can't write a hug. You can't write a one-last-glance-over-your-shoulder.


I tried my best, and I'm satisfied with how it turned out. But that doesn't make things easy. Nothing does. I thought the fact that my grandpa has lived a long and happy life would make this easy. It doesn't. I thought the fact that I believe in heaven would make this easy. It doesn't. I thought the fact that I believe in eternal families would make this easy. It doesn't. Do all these things bring me some degree of comfort and relief? Absolutely. But even the best anesthesia wears off.


My grandpa is going home.

In my heart of hearts, I'm ready for it. Someday we'll see each other again, someday we'll laugh again (oh, Grandpa's laugh!), someday we'll do that little thingy where we

shake hands and

squeeze real hard and

try to outlast the other person but

I always give in because

he's about to break my metacarpals with

those crazy Marine hands of his

again.

Someday we'll talk again. Of this I have no doubt.

But for now, there can be silence. I'm done with my first last words.