“Friends don’t give friends bad books.” –Me, around June 2002

Susan,
I have not forgotten you. I finally caught up with your e-mail and I’m preparing a response. And of course I remember your wacky instructor. God blessed me with a fairly sound mind, and my memory seems to be especially long where rank apostates are concerned. I was proud of you for opting out of his promised unpuzzling of the mysteries, at least on Abraham facsimile day.

You want me to write a book? Is my blog not long enough? Here’s what I thought about it on July 8, 2000:

The age-old monopoly on writing was somehow broken, and we enjoy vast privileges over those of our forebears. However, it has also become more possible to write even when one really has nothing at all to say. We waste each other's time!

The oft-abused privileges of our age are cast in a somber tone by two prophets:

What could be a more profitable use of discretionary time than reading from the scriptural library, the literature that teaches us to know God and understand our relationship to him? . . .

We ought to have a Church full of women and men who know the scriptures thoroughly, who cross-reference and mark them, who develop lessons and talks from the Topical Guide, and who have mastered the maps, the Bible Dictionary, and the other helps that are contained in this wonderful set of standard works. . . .

Not in this dispensation, surely not in any dispensation, have the scriptures—the enduring, enlightening word of God—been so readily available and so helpfully structured for the use of every man, woman, and child who will search them. The written word of God is in the most readable and accessible form ever provided to lay members in the history of the world. Surely we will be held accountable if we do not read them. (The Teachings of Howard W. Hunter, 51)

The Israelites had copies of the Five Books of Moses, and they had a few other writings, but they were not distributed generally. They were in manuscript form and mostly in the hands of the priests.

The members of the Church were not fortunate enough to have copies of the scriptures in their possession. They listened to the instructions that were given to them. . . .

When I . . . think of the circumstances under which they were written, and the scarcity of copies and the need of the people at large to depend upon the teachings that came to them through their scribes and teachers, I can understand how they so frequently became careless and indifferent and forgot the commandments of the Lord. And so the Lord had to send his prophets among them every little while to stir them up to remembrance of the covenants they had made. . . .

I can see a little more occasion for their forgetting than there is for us in our day. In fact, I see no occasion for us to forget. How greatly blessed we are! . . .

I am sorrowful in my thinking because of the lack on the part of the members of this Church to search for knowledge and understanding. While all these things are before us, we can have them. (Joseph Fielding Smith, Take Heed to Yourselves!, 240-242)

Say, I see another opportunity to quote from Rudger Clawson!

If all other books in the world were destroyed in an instant and these four books still remained—the Bible, the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price—they would constitute a library of priceless value, and would form a solid basis from which and by which to regenerate the world. (CR, Apr. 1916, 44)

And another man at the mention of whose name members invariably grow more attentive:

I am familiar with the Bible, a little, and the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants and the Pearl of Great Price. I have wished, sometimes, that there would be a big fire and burn all the rest of the books so that we would read these books more. Sometimes I feel that a man ought to be imprisoned for writing any more books; because I got my experience mostly by reading the books which contain the revelations of the Lord. (J. Golden Kimball, CR, Oct. 1921, 84)

For good measure, and because I delight in doing so, I’ll contribute a third prophetic witness:

We judge the future by the past. Libraries are full of books and information on that which has happened in the history of time and that which has been discovered by man, and yet here in my hand I can hold these few books containing the scriptures, the word of God by which our Father has made it possible for us to know the many things that will provide for us an inheritance of eternal life. . . .

We may not possess a library of two or three thousand volumes, but we may possess at small cost a priceless library that has cost the best blood that has ever been in this world. . . . Do you suppose that after the Lord has done all this for us—has given to this world the choicest and sweetest of men and women, whose lives have been dedicated to the blessing of mankind, many of them sealing their testimony with their blood, has placed within our reach the excellent teachings contained in these holy records—that he will consider us appreciative if we fail to teach them in our families, and to impress them upon those with whom we come in contact? . . .

I frequently go into homes where I see all the latest magazines. I find the books that are advertised as best-sellers on the bookshelves. If you were to throw them all away and retain only these sacred scriptures, you wouldn’t lose what the Lord has caused to be written and made available for us to enjoy. . . .

What mattereth it though we understand Homer and Shakespeare and Milton, and I might enumerate all the great writers of the world; if we have failed to read the scriptures we have missed the better part of this world’s literature. . . .

It seems strange that so many of our people, with the opportunities offered, lack familiarity with the contents of these sacred records. (The Teachings of George Albert Smith, 49-53)

Speaking of the spirit of our times, Elie Wiesel captured some of its essence:

What about the books written by fools, literary technicians or fame-hungry authors who have nothing to say—and say it?

Of them, King Solomon said in his Ecclesiastes that their books will be the ultimate malediction: "Of the making of books there will be no end. . . ." Why should this be a curse? Solomon was wise—the wisest of all kings. He knew. He knew that there would be a time when more books would be published than written. (From the Kingdom of Memory: Reminiscences [New York: Summit Books, 1990], 37-38)

I expended a great deal of time and money during and after my mission building up an LDS library to enrich my life and, God willing, the lives of those to come after me. I considered this a selection of the choicest materials a mind could ever spend its time upon. In the course of this accumulation, I became at least passingly familiar with what is available.

Enter another college course that deviated extremely: Literature of the LDS People. I attempted to take it twice, with varying but still disappointing results. From the instructors’ initial reactions to me, you’d think I knew nothing about literature, LDS, or people.

The first was simply appalling. I will not even go into details, but the man managed to define the course’s subject matter as anything written by someone who was once LDS, or anything written about the LDS, including anti-Mormon material. I’m reminded of J. Gresham Machen’s battle with encroaching liberalism as the modern era burst upon us: “Formerly when men had brought to their attention perfectly plain documents like the Apostles’ Creed or the Westminster Confession or the New Testament, they either accepted them or else denied them. Now they no longer deny, but merely ‘interpret.’ Every generation, it is said, must interpret the Bible or the Creed in its own way. But I sometimes wonder just how far this business of interpretation will go. . . . To allow interpretations which reverse the meaning of a confession is exactly the same thing as to have no confession at all” (in Ned B. Stonehouse, J. Gresham Machen: A Biographical Memoir [Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Theological Seminary, 1977], 358, 367). My point exactly should be no surprise to the reader, a plea for honesty about one’s beliefs. A few relevant sentences from a paper with which I’d hoped to persuade my straying Persuasive Writing instructor:

God is not strictly objective when it comes to moral and doctrinal principles, and He expects His Saints to discern (and defend) the same truths for themselves. . . .

Elsewhere President Kimball made it clear that this applied to BYU: “We hope that you who teach in the various organizations, whether on the campuses or in our chapels, will always teach the orthodox truth.” . . .

Allow all religious schools the same privilege, be they Catholic, Baptist, and so forth—if you are not with the “party line,” don’t join the party. Would an honest Independent (failing to disclose their party) attend a Republican or Democratic convention and proceed to call every political tenet held there oppressive and narrow-minded? Disagreement of such a fundamentally contradictory character ought to be expressed from without, not from within.

At any rate, as the man poured forth a torrent of self-justifications and promises for fringy discussions, only a minority of the classroom grew perturbed. I’ve often remarked that, had I not seen a ring on her finger, I would have followed the girl out who raised open objection and left. I stuck around long enough to answer his gloating self-assuredness that it’s not our job to question the testimony of authors. I said that we may have every sympathy for someone’s personal struggles, but it’s a different matter altogether and assumes a far weightier responsibility when they solidify them into published form. The annals of heaven (so far as my memory and lips can match them, I would consider myself blessed) know I said just that, no exaggeration about it.

I was not terribly surprised to later learn that the author (Whipple) of one of the core books in his curriculum had been seen for who she really was—and what she was really doing—years earlier:

Fawn Brodie and Maurine Whipple each had a book published in 1946 that drew concern from the General Authorities, sparking considerable attention. As Elder Lee traveled with Elder Spencer W. Kimball to a stake conference in Orangeville, Utah, Elder Kimball read aloud portions of Mrs. Brodie's book; Elder Lee labeled the book “another defilement of sacred things.” Elder Lee also read the Whipple book while traveling to San Diego, California, thinking he could help others who might be concerned about its contents, and concluded that it was a “cleverly devised tool to strike at the divinity of the work of the Lord’s Church.” (L. Brent Goates, Harold B. Lee: Prophet & Seer [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1985], 197)

In actuality, I also wasn’t surprised that Satan delights in tempting agents to peddle his debased literature at the Lord’s university. Believe you me, no one in that class had the sort of noble purpose (or apparently the discernment) for reading it that President Lee did.

Naturally, I chose not to remain in that course. When I signed up once again, the new teacher was far more careful, but I still found an atmosphere that nudged the limits. Everything hinted that my library materials, far from being the “literature of the LDS people,” had missed the boat. We still had a token ex-Mormon book on the list. Nor did I expect everything we read to be doctrinal (see DBY, 256-257), but the only works chosen for the doctrinal segment of the curriculum were from the weakest and most tenuous writers, and teacher and students alike also mocked not-too-bad books that successfully bridge the gap between doctrine and fiction. They preferred intellectual stimulation along edgier lines. There were certainly blank stares when I shared (with due attribution) the very first line from one of my favorite quotes:

With the abundance of books available, it is the mark of a truly educated man to know what not to read. “Of making many books there is no end” (Ecclesiastes 12:12). . . . Do not make your mind a dumping ground for other people’s garbage. It is harder to purge the mind of rotten reading than to purge the body of rotten food, and it is more damaging to the soul. . . .

Early in life, these two quotations regarding books greatly influenced me: “Be as careful of the book you read as of the company you keep, for your habits and character will be influenced by the former as by the latter”; and “Except a living man there is nothing so wonderful as good books.” With all my heart, I urge young people to cultivate the reading habit. But in order that your reading be of maximum value choose it as carefully as you do your friends. I trust that we do so remembering that if we spend time reading a cheap book, we will be forced to pass by a choice one. (The Teachings of Ezra Taft Benson, 304-305, 321)

I’m guessing that, like a good young man, he read those in Elder Joseph W. McMurrin’s September 1909 Improvement Era article, which, along with those two quotations, has many other valuable sentiments:

An Italian proverb says, “There is no worse robber than a bad book.” We ought to be very much concerned about the class of books our boys are reading. We should be anxious to see that they are reading, and then to see that they are reading the right class of literature, for they are as liable to be corrupted by books as by companions. . . . I hope that every officer present today will feel that he is under responsibility to try and discover what the youth of the Latter-day Saints are reading, and wherever he finds they are not reading the right class of literature, that he will undertake to use his influence and labor to place in the hands of such individuals books of an elevating character. . . . I would like to say . . . that with us no reading course can ever be complete without the word of God. We should be concerned, more than any other class of people in the world, about becoming familiar with the inspired things that have come from God to man.

As for the supposed Literature of the LDS People class, that was the virtual death knell of my any longer accepting reading assignments from others. Is it any wonder that Cahill, in How the Irish Saved Civilization, can assert that Mormon theology is unsatisfying, if he encounters the sort of shallow immersion preferred by so many? By that I do not mean we ought to be plunging directly to the mysteries, either. I’ll cull three thoughts from Brigham Young, a man much exercised about education, who would have been most interested in what I witnessed in a few dark corners of the university bearing his name. (This is omitting the one that naturally springs to mind, about not even teaching multiplication tables without the Spirit of God. Sus, I’ve probably already tormented you with the account of the dean who seriously thought that since he encouraged his teachers to teach by the Spirit, that meant that they always did. President Bateman’s subsequent public remarks expressed a vastly different concern for the direction of the teachers. I could retrieve the Speeches and reprint them, but I’ll spare you...for now.)

We want every branch of science taught in this place that is taught in the world. But our favourite study is that branch which particularly belongs to the Elders of Israel—namely, theology. Every Elder should become a profound theologian—should understand this branch better than all the world. There is no Elder who has the power of God upon him but understands more of the principles of theology than all the world put together. (Brigham Young, JD, 6:317)

If I should hear a man advocate the erroneous principles he had imbibed through education, and oppose those principles, some might imagine that I was opposed to that man, when, in fact, I am only opposed to every evil and erroneous principle he advances. (DBY, 251)

Perhaps if we didn’t want so badly to be like the rest of the world, we could realize the promises made by Brother Brigham:

We can beat the world at any game.

We can beat them, because we have men here that live in the light of the Lord, that have the Holy Priesthood, and hold the keys of the kingdom of God. But you may go through all the sectarian world, and you cannot find a man capable of opening the door of the kingdom of God to admit others in. We can do that. We can pray the best, preach the best, and sing the best. We are the best looking and finest set of people on the face of the earth, and they may begin any game they please, and we are on hand, and can beat them at anything they have a mind to begin. They may make sharp their two-edged swords, and I will turn out the Elders of Israel with greased feathers, and whip them to death. We are not to be beat. We expect to be a stumbling block to the whole world, and a rock of offence to them. (JD, 4:77)

It is largely conceded that Orson Pratt whipped the chaplain to the United States Senate in debate. I wonder whether we are turning out a bold new corps of Saints prepared for such conflict—amicable or more dangerous—in the future? Are we even able to recognize when we’re already plunged into conflict? Can we overstress the deliberateness of the following passage?

But verily, verily, I say unto you, that none else shall be appointed unto this gift except it be through him; for if it be taken from him he shall not have power except to appoint another [prophet] in his stead.

And this shall be a law unto you, that ye receive not the teachings of any that shall come before you as revelations or commandments;

And this I give unto you that you may not be deceived, that you may know they are not of me. . . .

Again I say, hearken ye elders of my church, whom I have appointed: Ye are not sent forth to be taught, but to teach the children of men the things which I have put into your hands by the power of my Spirit;

And ye are to be taught from on high. Sanctify yourselves and ye shall be endowed with power, that ye may give even as I have spoken.

Hearken ye, for behold, the great day of the Lord is nigh at hand. . . .

Wherefore gird up your loins lest ye be found among the wicked.

Lift up your voices and spare not. Call upon the nations to repent, both old and young, both bond and free, saying: Prepare yourselves for the great day of the Lord;

For if I, who am a man, do lift up my voice and call upon you to repent, and ye hate me, what will ye say when the day cometh when the thunders shall utter their voices from the ends of the earth, speaking to the ears of all that live, saying—Repent, and prepare for the great day of the Lord? . . .

Wherefore, labor ye, labor ye in my vineyard for the last time—for the last time call upon the inhabitants of the earth. (D&C 43:4-6, 15-17, 19-21, 28)

I don’t argue for preparation to the extent that there’s no reliance upon the Lord, just that we ought to attempt to give the Spirit plenty to work with. Inspiration suggests activation of already present faculties, free flow of knowledge into the prepared, sanctified vessel, not mechanical animation!

During that first year, the Widtsoes learned much about missionaries and mission work. Foremost was the rapport they established and the valuable lessons they taught. [David M.] Kennedy, who would later create the agendas for general conferences, meticulously planned a time schedule: “When I presented the agenda to him [President Widtsoe], he said, ‘Well, President Kennedy, that’s a very, very good outline. You haven’t missed anything that I can see. I wonder if you allowed any time for the Lord to give us any inspiration.’ Oh, boy did he knock me, just with a little thing like that.” (Alan K. Parrish, John A. Widtsoe: A Biography [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 2003], 456)

But, anyway, to finally answer your rhetorical question: my piece with the greatest chance of future publication is presently at 59 word processor pages and 404 endnotes, and I estimate I’m about halfway through the anticipated plot line. If you’ll recall, I already wrote a book of sorts. Even I wouldn’t want it published in its current form. It could be years yet before I wrap up another manuscript, though I do find myself with more spare time than expected. Which is not to say that I’m lounging about or truly have such an option.

Sir Fahrenmeister Sir,
Is it actually rude to interrupt a static monologue? Yeah, the last entry also took an unexpected direction for me. I think my stream of consciousness “come[s] up over all his channels, and go[es] over all his banks.” It’s funny you should mention not holding up your end; just recently I almost brought up that I still needed to gain more from your experience. I can understand that you’re busy...reading everything I’m rambling about. Feel free to share in return. I’ve come to respect both you and your titular role.

I’m elated you’re related to such a good and courageous man. So is my upstairs neighbor. You guys should meet. I’m embarrassed to admit that I haven’t yet read his (that is, President Clawson’s—with reference to his Quorum status, of course) biography. If you haven’t either, then let’s have a race. But you can’t borrow my copy until I’m done with it! ;-) Then again, if I start one more book I’ll make myself sick.

That introduces this week’s intrusively pervasive theme: courage. It is a latent force in my life, one that I sorely wish I’d develop to the utmost. I hate flinching, even at Monday night’s errant volleyballs. (Has anyone else ever wondered why “knight errant” doesn’t sound more mischievous than gallant?) As for my response to women...well, they’re just one of the deeper mysteries of the kingdom, quite corroborative to the joys of the blessed, but my tongue certainly cannot tell. The closest I’ve ever come to devising a nonchalant attitude about women was either dismissive or bellicose; thankfully, I chose not to adopt those false views. (As noted previously, I also scorn the thought of pretending any sort of attitude in order to mask the actual one, therefore I still tremble before women in the abstract and quite often enough in specifics.) I can’t resolve the matter, for I pondered on August 20, 2002: “So far as women go, the reason I worry so much is that something either affects my eternal salvation or it doesn’t concern me at all.”

You’ve commented favorably upon the use of stories. I’m remembering two substantially less flattering ones that didn’t make it in mah last blah blah blahg.

That home ward crush toward which I eventually turned cross.... There was one night when I stole away from Scouts to spy into the gym, where the Young Women were conducting a talent show. I wanted to hear her play the piano. She finished her routine and strode directly toward my set of double doors. In a panic, I backed up—and she was still approaching. So I backed as far as I could, only to realize I was in that little cubby space between the water fountain and its corner. You can guess what she did. I couldn’t help but notice her pausing to stare at the top of my head.

She was hardly the first crush. In second grade it was Jennifer. We went to a reading group together. I made sure she was invited to my birthday party. As my family laughingly relates the tale, my grandfather asked me which one was Jennifer, and I told him, “the one with the soft cheeks.” I think that was only from all my close observation during reading time, when I made sure to sit by her. (Isn’t it also interesting that what’s funny from a little child would be perverted later on? Or was it perverted then?)

I may as well make my humiliation complete. In fourth grade I banged my head so hard on a desk corner that it required stitches (the wound appearing prominently in school pictures). I was kinda sorta chasing a girl named Tanya around the classroom at the time. But it was one of those situations where they stop and wait to be sure you’re still pursuing. Just like one sees in the Nicolas Cage movie Next, it seems that of all possible choices, sometimes the guy can only win the girl via the path of pain.

I’m reminded of Elder Lance B. Wickman’s notion that “grief is the natural by-product of love. One cannot selflessly love another person and not grieve at his suffering or eventual death. The only way to avoid the grief would be to not experience the love; and it is love that gives life its richness and meaning” (Ensign, Nov. 2002, 30). So on the one hand the songwriters attest that “love hurts,” and on the other hand my dad once sought in vain to warn me about a rugged path, “Kris, love shouldn’t hurt.” Which is it? (Boy, did “love” ever take its toll in that one—before exacting my pound of flesh.) I think it’s what I sought to tell that person whom I loved too much to even take care of myself, “I’ve known suffering in my life, and a lot of this is unnecessary suffering.” By the time I got away, it was like chopping through the last nerve of an arm consistently sawed at with a tiny razor. No worthy companion would ever think of or settle into patterns that cause pain and distress to the other.

Someday each of you will meet the person of your dreams. If you truly love that person you would rather cut off your right arm than hurt him or her. (Gordon B. Hinckley, From My Generation to Yours...With Love! [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1973], 19)

When two individuals are bound together, as they eventually must be if they ever stand in the presence of God, rather than to take a course to injure each other's feelings, when they are united as they should be and as they will be, they would sooner have a limb severed from their body, they would sooner suffer any thing that could be executed upon them than to disturb or hurt each other's feelings. (Lorenzo Snow, JD, 4:243)

Life is filled with enough pain. I would not, however, in light of these ideas adopt the common fallacy about bliss. Your partnership cannot free you from this world of care. A friend of mine once told me how her daughter summed it up: “Picture the worst thing that can happen to you. Who do you want beside you as you go through it?”

I often picture the contrast between two unlike women married to two very similar men, brothers of the highest character. With all due respect to Emma, I’d rather have a Mary Fielding Smith type. Her love endured in all the ways that mattered. And which was the mother of a prophet of God? So, no, I’m not looking in the traditional locales and traditional ways for companionship. I don’t expect a life of ease and worldly fun, and I certainly don’t need someone with unrealistic and inappropriate quests therefor. Perhaps my entire life experience accounts for why I didn’t even crack a smile when one ward member said surely I wanted a girl to have a bit of shallowness. No, I really don’t.

With the right shared goals ever understood, there is plenty of joy and happiness to be found; endless play bodes poorly for marriage and other real life preparation. Coarseness, frivolity, stupidity, and hypocrisy are frequently mistaken for humor, playfulness, sweetness, and spirituality. A gal doesn't have to forego all vivaciousness to succeed at avoiding shallowness.

I also refused once in the past to date a girl in the past with a very pure heart and loving demeanor, because she was actually too spacy for me. Wonderful though she was, I think I need somebody spunky about several things, ideally gentle about many others, and no-nonsense about gospel things. (I placed my head on her shoulder just to test something, and that girl happily put hers back. I don’t advise too casual use of one’s capabilities—that’s not nice. Her roommate said I’d no idea how flattered she was when I asked her out.) I’m not insane and entirely ungrounded in life’s logical pace. People would be surprised at how much I can enjoy the good things in life, but they’re often too caught up in their other assumptions to notice. I guess I could easily be misunderstood on this point, but I won’t manage to explain myself with 500 more words. So I’ll leap into a better person’s better explanation:

In my high school yearbook is a picture of a young woman. She was bright and effervescent and beautiful. She was a charmer. Life for her could be summed up in one short word—F-U-N. She dated the boys and danced away the nights, studying a little but not too much, just enough to get grades that would take her through graduation. She married a boy of her own kind. Alcohol took possession of her life. She could not leave it alone. She was a slave to it. Her body succumbed to its treacherous grip. Sadly, her life faded without achievement.

There is a picture of another girl in that yearbook. She was not particularly beautiful. But she had a wholesome look about her, a sparkle in her eyes, and a smile on her face. She was friendly to all. Everyone liked her. She knew why she was in school. She was there to learn. Yes, she knew how to have fun, but she also knew when to stop and put her mind on other things.

There was a boy in our school also. He had come from a small rural town. He had very little money. He brought lunch in a brown paper bag. He looked a little like the farm from which he had come. There was nothing especially handsome or dashing about him. He was a good student. He had set a goal for himself. It was a lofty goal, and at times appeared almost unattainable.

These two fell in love. People said, “What does he see in her?” Or, “What does she see in him?” But they each saw something wonderful in each other which no one else saw.

Upon graduating from the university, they married. They scrimped and worked. Money was hard to come by. He went on to graduate school. She continued to work for a time, and then their children came. She gave her attention to them. Somehow they survived. And over time, they flourished. . . .

I thought of those two girls. The life of one had been spelled out in a three-letter word: F-U-N. It had been lived aimlessly, without stability, without contribution to society, without ambition. It had ended in misery and pain and disappointment and early death.

The life of the other had been difficult. . . . But out of that seemingly sterile soil there had grown a plant, yes, two plants, side by side, that blossomed and bloomed in a beautiful and wonderful way. (Gordon B. Hinckley, Way To Be! [New York, New York: Simon & Schuster, 2002], 69-72)

I certainly wouldn’t entail financial hardship, so I hope the actual point was gotten across in that passage.

The funny thing is that I wound up accompanying my dad in an unusual counseling situation last night, at his urgent request. For some reason, I heard him paraphrasing me and throwing in his commentary on a subject I hadn’t thought he even took seriously. He actually told this single woman that people don’t want a Peter Priesthood (or approximation thereto?), and that they wouldn’t consider me because of something so fleeting as height. Another funny thing is that I don’t mind it all that much. A few crazy people—and some nice ones, too—have still managed to come my way, but a whole bunch of undesirables have been kept naturally at bay.

Wow. Long detour from COURAGE.... Then again, I’ll just leave it at that for the evening and save the whole courage unburdening for another day. Especially since the person I’m mentoring at work lied to me today. You all know how much I appreciate that! She didn’t like the gentle correction I offered, so she pretended a certain document differed from my suggestion. (Her voice speeds up whenever she pulls a fast one.) I was tremendously startled and said I guess I needed to learn something. I proceeded to print out the alluded-to passage, highlight what I’d just told her, and leave that with her. When I stood my ground and said we do things by the book (manual references), and it would be the established pattern until she could demonstrate otherwise, she wasted a whole lot of time searching for a contrary statement. That failing, she never did make the necessary change and bring the file back for me to sign off. I will keep a careful record that I never approved it! I’m trying to save her time and trouble in the long run, someone in St. Louis the time and trouble of filling an unnecessary request, the person after her the time and trouble of cleaning it up, and reinforce it all by having her make the change herself. And the first thing she does is resist to the point of taking it as a personal challenge to get it around me. This could be a long month or two. Ugh.

Now THIS pattern of disrespect is annoyingly old—I can recall at least three times in my life where I was put in charge of an actual stewardship and people immediately strained to go over my head. (As if that’s so hard to do.) You have to understand that in no way was I snippy. By remaining calm and nice, it apparently offered at every turn the possibility for her to walk over me again. Sometimes saying firm truths kindly still doesn't seem to convey the point. Sorry. I’ll calm down these nerves of steel and get to bed early.

I’m thinking about courage....in particular, at this moment, Hymn 243.