Category: Uncategorized

Swimming in a straight line is easy when we’re just practicing in the pool. But when race day comes and that line is gone, we may have to stop and adjust every now and then to make sure we’re still on course.

Last week I participated in my first ever Olympic triathlon in Lake Stevens, Washington. Swimming. Biking. Running.

I’ve always enjoyed running, I had that down. And ever since I got a road bike 6 years ago I’ve loved biking, check that off as well.

As for swimming, well… I learned to swim in my youth and I’ve got the Boy Scout swimming merit badge to prove it! But by far this needed the most work. It actually seems to be the main reason people don’t do triathlons. Nearly every person I discussed my triathlon goals with gave me almost the exact same response:

“I’d love to do a triathlon someday! But I don’t feel I could do the swim portion.”

So I started swimming. I joined the local YMCA and I started going back and forth in the pool. Or at least I tried. No goggles. Normal baggy swim trunks. No idea what I was doing. But hey, “I’m young,” I thought to myself, “if these old people in the lanes all around me can go back and forth for 45 minutes without stopping to rest, I’m sure I can!”

Nope.

After 2 or 3 laps I was exhausted! I couldn’t believe it! I thought I was in shape! I ran every other day! I had just completed a Ragnar race! I rode my bike 20+ miles every weekend! How are these old people doing this?

I’ll tell you.

One: They’ve been doing it for 50 years.

Two: They have that old person super strength ignited by a life of healthy choices and enduring time spent with their great-great-grandchildren.

And three: They’ve decided that even though they’re retired and haven’t worked in 20 years, and could easily sleep in as long as they’d like and go swimming some time during the day when young fathers like myself are working, they’d rather wake up at 4am, huddle outside the front doors of the YMCA with their walker posse at 4:30am, burrow through the doors like it’s Black Friday when they open at 5am and with quantum inter-dimensional lightning speed be in the pool at 5:01am taking up all the lanes before young fathers like me, who have a job to get to by 7am, have a chance to barely emerge from the locker room, get tired of waiting for an open lane, and eventually end up just sitting in the hot tub for 20 minutes before giving up, showering, and heading to work.

…

Regardless… I decided to look up a few freestyle swimming videos. I got the proper apparel (goggles, proper swim suit, swim cap) and practiced how to breathe properly. I’m no expert, but over the course of the next few weeks, I figured out how to rotate my head left to right, breathing out while my head was under water, and breathing in quickly when I turned my head side to side every 3rd stroke.

For anyone looking for swimming tips, you’ve come to the right place 🙂

Re-learning to swim in a pool was challenging but fun! My endurance picked up and I found myself swimming for 15-30 minutes without stopping to rest. I even got to the point where I could dive down, flip around, and push myself off the wall instead of stopping every lap, touching the side, and turning around! Though I was far from it, I felt like a pro.

For anyone who has swam in an indoor public pool, you’re likely familiar with the painted line down the middle of the lanes on the bottom of the pool. When there is more than 1 swimmer in a lane, this line serves as the dividing line for the 2 or more swimmers so we don’t run into each other. However when you do manage to get a lane to yourself, the painted line is a wonderful guide for keeping you swimming in a straight line. Since your head is underwater looking down most of the swim, you just can’t go wrong. There is no veering to the left or right unnecessarily. No wasted energy. It’s all very efficient and helpful. It’s so innate that you actually don’t even think about it.

Unfortunately, they generally don’t hold triathlons in pools. Most are open water swims. At my Lake Stevens triathlon, they placed 3 large orange buoys out in the lake in the shape of a triangle, and the .93 mile swim required us to swim counterclockwise around these buoys twice. No problem. I’ve swam the distance in the pool, I can do it in a lake, right?

I’ve heard it said that a good training for a triathlon swim is to swim and have people beat you with boat paddles as you go.

Spot on.

The first few minutes are chaos. All you can think about is not kicking someone in the face or getting kicked in the face. Or the arms. Legs. Sides. This hoard of swimmers in close proximity creates a bit of a fiasco, with a lot of stops and adjustments. At least that’s how it was for me. Again, I’m no pro 🙂

Once the crowd thinned out a bit, and I could actually take a few strokes without getting kicked, I realized something very obvious that I should have thought about before.

There is no straight painted line.

Regardless, I swam confidently, assuming I was swimming straight towards the first orange buoy. But after a minute or so when I stopped to confirm where I was, I was way off course. Almost by a 90 degree angle veering away from the buoy. Wow.

Ok, adjust, and keep going. A minute later, same thing.

Every few minutes I found myself checking and adjusting. Checking and adjusting. It started to get frustrating. I was really missing that painted straight line. I hadn’t realized how sideways my swimming was without that constant guide and reminder. The buoys were large and bright orange, quite easy to see from a distance even with foggy goggles on, but when my head was down and I wasn’t looking at it, it was all too easy to get off course.

My mom taught me an old farming trick when I would mow the lawn as a teenager. She grew up on a farm, so she would know (and she’s mom, so she was always right!). She said that when farmers would plow their first row of a field, they would pick a spot straight ahead, and with eyes constantly focused on that one spot, move forward. As long as the eyes remained on that spot, the end result would be a straight line, and every row after that would follow suit. This proved to be true with mowing the lawn as well, something I’ve put into practice over the years and taught my own kids when engaging in the joys of lawn mowing.

I thought of this after I completed one triangle lap. How can I swim in a straight line without that constant guide to help me?

At this point everyone was so spread out, I almost felt like I was swimming alone. I squared my body to the next buoy and started on the 2nd lap. But with my head facing down, the lawn mower analogy doesn’t work because it’s impossible to keep my eyes focused straight ahead on the buoy when you’re swimming! Instead I just pictured it in my mind, and as I swam I lengthened my reach towards it with each stroke. I only stopped twice to make sure I was on course (I had veered slightly, but not by much) before I reached the buoy. I rounded it and continued this until the next one and the final one before I headed to the beach.

As I hopped on my bike and began the 2nd leg of the event, I thought about the swim. I checked my watched which had timed and mapped my swim. Apparently I’d swam just a little over a mile, instead of just the .93 required. Oops. And the lack of people remaining behind me was a good indication of how I faired against the other probably more experienced athletes. If only I hadn’t had to stop so much and correct my positioning, perhaps I would have finished quicker.

If only I’d had that straight painted line to follow.

Swimming in a straight line is easy when we’re just practicing in the pool. But when race day comes and that line is gone, we may have to stop and adjust every now and then to make sure we’re still on course.

How well we visualize our goal, or how far we lengthen our reach, may help for a little while. But for me, especially as a husband and a father, having to stop and re-position myself is almost a daily task. The orange buoys in my life, my wife and my children, as well as my beliefs and my values, keep me focused on my goal. Even though most days I feel like my head is face down in the waters of work, schedules, kid activities, car troubles, toilet cleaning and weed whacking, I try to take a moment, usually as I’m putting the kids to bed and say good night to them one by one, or saying my prayers, or writing, to re-calibrate myself. Re-focus my aim. Square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and dive back in.

If I’m lucky, I’ll still be working on swimming in a straight line until I’m the old person in the pool. Future young fathers beware.

Embracing softly with a squeeze, The silence of the moment speaks: “Dear child, don’t you know that I, Will never leave your gentle side?”

A fathers love is strong and firm,
The fusing bond outlasts it’s term,
There is no pain, there is no hurt,
Forgiving arms cannot assert,

Forgiveness learned from innocence,
Bestowed by young of insolence,
And in that moment sting is gone,
Like magic, disappeared, forlorn,

With quickness as a thought or breath,
There enters in a swelling depth,
It fills within the cavities,
Extends beyond extremities,

It pulses, pushing through thin air,
Magnetic forces drawing near,
Connecting to a child’s soul,
A heart that’s pure as precious gold,

Embracing softly with a squeeze,
The silence of the moment speaks:
“Dear child, don’t you know that I,
Will never leave your gentle side?

For all your needs I will provide,
I will protect, I will reside,
That if it came to you or I,
That in a heart beat I would die?

My life for you I’d freely give,
No hesitation that you live,
But live for you, now that attains,
A worthy, more important gain,

I’ll listen softly every day,
No matter what your troubles sway,
I’ll clutch the burdens that you bear,
I’ll even grasp if I’m not there,”

But live or die, the task at hand,
Of being Father rightly stands,
An honor and a blessing for,
My quiet inundated soul,

And as I kiss your head goodnight,
I leave the room, turn out the light,
I think of my Father Divine,
The One who gave to all mankind,

The God of Heaven and of Earth,
Who knew me since before my birth,
Do all these feelings I assess,
Profoundly kept within my chest,

Align with how my Father feels?
Is He attentive when I kneel?
Is He desirous, just as I,
To be enthused when at my side?

To watch with pride and joyful heart,
When I accomplish? Learn? Impart?
To mourn with me when I’m in pain,
Forgiveness bursting through His veins?

Perhaps the next time I forget,
And feel alone, filled with regret,
That there’s a Father’s love, like mine,
A love no less than His divine,

Just waiting to be thus unleashed!
It fiercely flows to never cease!
Until the next time I fall through,
Just like, indeed, my children do.

Compromising values for friendship puts you in compromising positions. Quite literally in some cases.

Have you ever been in a fight?

I have.

I was young. 12 years old. But I’ll never forget it. I had never been in a fight before and didn’t know what to do.

Now I was raised by good parents who taught me to be kind to others. I considered myself a pretty good kid. However towards my middle school years, I found myself running with a “bad crowd.” They were a group of my friends from elementary school, most of whom lived in my neighborhood and got on and off the bus with me daily. So naturally, throughout my elementary school years, we all became friends.

The gods of popularity must have deemed us worthy because as we got to 6th grade (last year of elementary school for me) at Ravenwood Elementary, we were kings. We rode in the back of the bus. We played football at recess. We started experimenting with crude jokes and inappropriate language. It felt good to be included. I liked my friends.

There were other kids in my neighborhood that also got on and off the bus, however they were not deemed worthy. They were labeled as nerds. Losers. Kids to be mocked and made fun of. I’m not even sure why or who decided this, but I do know that I carelessly laughed along as my popular friends continued to belittle them.

Once we entered 7th grade, we were no longer on top. But we were in middle school now. Lockers. Different teachers. Different environment. I still ate lunch with my popular friends. I still rode the same bus to and from school with the same people. Soon laughing, teasing, and mocking weren’t enough for the unfortunate “nerds” that rode the bus with us. I’m not sure how it started, and it seems so ridiculous when I think back on it, but for whatever reason, after we all got off the bus and it pulled away, me and my popular friends would start chasing the “nerdy” kids around the neighborhood.

There was one kid in particular, I’ll call him Ben (not his real name), that for whatever reason it became my duty to chase him. Maybe it was because he lived closer to me, I’m not quite sure how the decision was made, but I was complicit in this now daily task of chasing Ben around the neighborhood after the bus dropped us off. I never actually caught him. Eventually he would end up home, and then I would walk home, and that was that. My 12 year old brain didn’t think much of it. This went on for some time.

And then one day, as I was fulfilling my daily duty of chasing Ben around the neighborhood after the bus dropped us off, all of a sudden he stopped, turned around, and faced me. I froze, genuinely surprised to see tears in his eyes, looking at me with intense anger and hatred. No one had ever looked at me like that before. He put up his fists in front of his face and screamed at me that he was sick of this, he didn’t want to take it anymore and wanted to fight me. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. I was shocked! I had no idea he was feeling this way. I looked around to see if any of my friends were in the vicinity watching, but realized we were alone in the woods, not too far from our houses. Despite my stunned surprise, I snarked some cool remark back to him, welcoming the fight, and raised my own fists. We both threw a few lame punches, nothing connecting, nor was there any injury. Ben then took off to his home. I watched him go and didn’t pursue.

I stood there for a moment, re-capping what had just happened in my head. I was alone in the woods, nobody to chase, nobody to be cool in front of. It was just me. Guilt and shame started to sweep in. Everything I had always been taught about being kind to others began to overcome me. What had I done? Why hadn’t I realized that Ben was feeling so hurt by my actions? What could have driven me to behave in such a way towards someone else? I felt absolutely miserable. I felt the need to apologize immediately, I did not want to carry this with me. Maybe if I stopped by to say I’m sorry it would help. The truth was, I didn’t have anything against Ben. I liked him. I played with him on multiple occasions when I was younger. But because popularity was bestowed upon me and not him, the result was unnecessary violent actions that I knew I did not want to participate in.

I wish I could say that I went to Ben’s house, knocked on the door, apologized, he returned the apology and we became friends from then on.

But that’s not what happened.

I did go knock on his door. I saw his tear-filled face in the window, then he disappeared. I waited a minute or so and knocked again. Another minute passed by. Then Ben emerged from his front door…

Carrying with him an axe.

I was terrified. His face was flush with tears, his anger intensified, and he began screaming at me to get the $@%& out of there. A simple apology was not going to solve this. He wanted nothing to do with me. I had caused him so much pain that he was ready to return that pain with a weapon. I tried to yell at him to calm down and I was just coming by to say sorry, but he could have cared less. He swung the axe at my leg.

Lucky for me, the back side of the axe.

I collapsed to the ground. It hurt. Now I was the one screaming in pain and swearing profanities. He continued to scream as well, turned around, went inside, and slammed the door. I’m not sure how long I sat there on the ground clutching my left leg and sobbing, but eventually I picked myself up and limped home.

I lacked the creativity and energy to come up with a lie to my mom when I hobbled through the door, so the truth spilled out of my reluctant cries. Not long after I ended up at Ben’s house with my parents and his parents. I don’t remember much what was said, but I do remember how I felt.

I never wanted to feel this way again. I never wanted to be in this situation again. Even though Ben nearly chopped my leg off with an axe, I realized the internal emotional pain I had caused him for so long was much more than the physical pain he reciprocated to me.

And with time, I was grateful. It was a wake up call for me. 7th grade was the year I voluntarily left my popular group of friends.

The group of friends that I ended up gravitating to during middle school was my church friends. Jared. Carter. Mason. Shelby. Jessica. Karlee. These were people that until this time I had been casual friends with from church activities and such, but soon they would become my best friends (and some college roommates).

My 7th grade popular friends, realizing I’d made the grave mistake of choosing not to hang out with them anymore, quickly resorted to mocking, teasing, and making fun of me. I learned a lot about friendship when I was 12.

A few years later my family moved away, but then happened to moved back and my senior year of high school was spent among many of these childhood friends. At some point during my senior year, Ben and I were able to talk about that fight. I don’t remember exactly what we said, so many years had passed that we probably just laughed a little as we discussed the unpleasant memory. We never became good friends, we graduated, he went his way and I went mine. But with years of maturity and perspective now, I wish I would have told him thank you. He may have saved me from a path I didn’t realize I was on. If Ben hadn’t responded the way he did to my bullying, and given me the axe chop of a wake up call I needed, maybe things would have turned out differently for me. I’ll never really know.

My senior year in high school, my friend Tracy taught me that “friends are people who make it easier to live the gospel of Jesus Christ” (Robert D. Hales). I learned I didn’t have to choose between making a friend or living gospel principles. Compromising values for friendship puts you in compromising positions. Quite literally in some cases.

Since my 7th grade fight, I’ve never been in another physical fight. I feel lucky for that. Lucky to have had that experience at a young age. Lucky to have had a great group of church friends to take me in. Lucky it was the back of the axe. But most of all, lucky to have learned what friendship is and what it isn’t. I didn’t struggle much with friendship after that. Not to say I always had great friends, but that friends came and went, and as my family moved a few more times, I learned not to care too much what others thought about me. I didn’t need to do things I didn’t really want to do just to have a certain group of friends. As long as I tried to treat others with kindness and love, the right friends would be there for me, and me for them.

There is no greater blessing than family. There is no greater love than the love for children. Before Chandler was born, my wife and I did not know just how much we needed him in our family.

Last week we celebrated our son’s 7th birthday. Chandler is the youngest of our three children. His brother/best buddy/arch nemesis Jett is 8, and big sister Zoe is 10.  They are all very close in age. One of the benefits of this is that they all can play pretty well together (except for when they don’t).

One of the drawbacks is that there was a period of time when we had 3 children ages 3 and under. I don’t remember much from this period of my life…

Without getting too personal, I’ll simply say that Chandler was a surprise in our family. After Jett was born, we were quite happy and exhausted with our 2 children. We were thrilled to have one boy and one girl and chuckled at the idea of having more kids any time soon.

Since God lives outside the constraints of time, soon is a very relative term. When we found out a third child was on the way, it was quite a different reaction than the first 2 children. Yes there were tears, but not tears of happiness and joy. Tears of fear and anxiety. Feelings of unpreparedness and inadequacy. We were not ready. We were still getting used to having 2 children and trying to enjoy every precious moment with them. We wanted to be good parents to our children and had learned from our first 2 that this meant not only time and attention to them, but also time and attention on ourselves to even out the imbalance of our kid-driven lives. There were a lot of prayers drowned with worry and concern. Outnumbering ourselves with a 3:2 ratio of children to parents was not part of the plan yet.

After a few months, we had come to terms with the inevitability of the situation. This baby was coming. We were thrilled when we found out the gender, knowing (and hoping) that Jett would have a close brother and lifelong buddy. This didn’t ease a lot of the concerns we still had, especially financial concerns, but it did bring some measure of joy to the situation.

Of course when Chandler was born, both Amanda and I knew right away that it was right. This red headed, chubby cheeked, big mouthed, healthy and strong baby boy was supposed to be there. God knew he belonged in our family. And we would soon learn even better that God knew we needed him at that time in our lives.

He was such a peaceful and sweet baby. Before Chandler, we had lost some peace in our home. Chandler brought peace. And with peace, happiness and joy. It wasn’t easier by any means. 3 kids 3 and under is no joke! Constant care, naps, dirty diapers, screaming, sleepless nights, loud car rides, etc. My incredible wife who stayed home all day caring for these children took the brunt of it while I worked during the day and then did what I could to help when I came home. It was nuts. We were going out of our minds! But amongst it all, there was more peace with Chandler in the home.

I don’t know what we would have done without him. Somehow adding one more to our family made life a little sweeter. Chandler was a happy, smiley, snuggly, wonderful baby and toddler. He maintains these qualities still as one of the world’s newest 7 year olds. The pure joy he brings into our family completely outweighs the chaos.

Around this time of experiencing life with baby Chandler, we were visiting my in-law’s home at Christmas with most of my wife’s family. My in-laws have a piano in their living room and often times I sit down to play and entertain all my little nieces and nephews in the room, usually with silly songs that I sing and make up as I go. One time one of my sweet little nieces named Everly, about Chandler’s age, was sitting next to me on the piano bench, so I started making up a song with her name in it. The melody I made up stuck with me and shortly after I composed it into an actual song.

While the song is about my sweet little niece Everly, it’s also about how innocent, peaceful, and pure small children are and how often times their presence and love helps to calm the storms of adulthood and parenting. Countless times I’ve held my own children during moments of struggle unbeknownst to them, and immediately would feel overwhelming peace and calm. Not to say my problems were solved by holding my little ones, but that those moments were gentle and powerful reminders of love that helped me to keep going through whatever my struggles were. I’m continually blessed to have my own children in my life and the happiness they bring me is immeasurable. And sweet little Everly tinkering on the piano by my side became the inspiration for this song and sentiment.

These are the lyrics to the song:

“Everly I think that we can see,
The innocence of life’s full melody,
Everly,
Though a song might seem too long,
I’ll keep it brief there’s more inside than what it seems,
Everly,
The timing of your little hands that reach,
Created in a moment of our need,

When I hold you in my arms,
Your perfection calms the storm,

I believe you can achieve,
The vision of your mission,
Your deepest intuition,
Is not just so we can find some peace,
But open hearts and feelings,
Can rest and find some healing,

Everly, completely free is how we’ll be,
A feeling needed desperately,
Everly,
Though mistakes it breaks the slate,
That not too long ago could just be wiped clean,
Everly,
Your life is one of purity and peace,
Examples to us all of how to be,

When I see you on your knees,
All the fire and darkness cease,

I believe you can achieve,
The vision of your mission,
Your deepest intuition,
Is not just so we can find some peace,
But open hearts and feelings,
Can rest and find some healing,

Everly, there’s a reason we believe,
That there’s a bright eternity,
Forever-ly”

Here is a video of the song for reference:

There is no greater blessing than family. There is no greater love than the love for children. Before Chandler was born, my wife and I did not know just how much we needed him in our family.

But God knew.

The dents, the imperfections, and even the flame engulfed burnt to a crisp roasted marshmallows, still taste just as good.

Ever since I was very young, I’ve gone camping with my family. Before we owned a camper, we owned a large tent and I remember sleeping shoulder to shoulder with my siblings inside. Later on, we found creative ways to sleep ourselves in our camper. Cramming 10 of us in there was difficult and uncomfortable, but memorable. I love camping.

One of the very best camping activities, is building a fire and roasting marshmallows. When the time came, dad would have us kids scour the woods for kindling and sticks and anything that we could burn. We’d build a fire, then we would carefully select and compare who found the best marshmallow roasting stick. I even remember finding a stick one time with about 20 different branches hanging down off of it, and consequentially roasting about 20 different marshmallows at once from it. I love roasted marshmallows. Chocolate and graham crackers are great, but I’m often quite satisfied with just popping roasted marshmallows into my mouth until my insides feel sticky.

Later on when I was a teenager, our family bought a cabin in close proximity to some family friends, the Ramptons and the Herberts. We’d go down as often as we could as a family, but I especially enjoyed our camping trips with our friends. Camping with friends often meant large gatherings around a large fire and of course, and endless supply of marshmallows.

As kids tend to do, anything can be turned into a game or a competition. Armed with marshmallows and sticks, we would set out to see who could make the best roasted marshmallow. The perfect marshmallow. What is the perfect marshmallow? The concept is simple, you roast a marshmallow over the fire and get all of the sides, including the top and the bottom, evenly cooked to a smooth golden brown, with the insides perfectly gooey. No burnt spots. No wrinkles or bubbles. No dark patches. No squish marks from your fingers or dents from a log or roasting stick. As if you had a golden brown crayon and colored every surface. The process of creating this spectacle, however, is not as simple as you might think. I’ve found there are at least seven techniques or steps to consider.

First, you have to have the right roasting stick. Not too thick that you create a large hole, but not so thin that the weight of the marshmallow would bend the stick or the marshmallow itself would easily slide off. Not to short that your hand burns from the fire, and not too long that you loose control while roasting. A sturdy, straight, firm, properly girthed, medium sized marshmallow roasting stick can be harder to find than you think.

Second, consider your campfire. You need coals. Open logs with burning embers. If you start a fire and 5 minutes later you’re holding a marshmallow on a stick over open flames, you have already failed. The smoke from the flames is giving your marshmallow an unsightly and distasteful black haze, and any attempt to roast either takes too long, or ignites your marshmallow from an unexpected stray flame. A good fire takes time, burns hot but not TOO hot (more on that next).

Third, roasting angles. When the time comes, approach your fire understanding where the hot spots are and how to best reach them. If you’ve chosen an appropriate length of stick, you should be able to get fairly close for the best angles. But the fire cannot be burning too hot, otherwise you’ll never be able to get close enough to get the proper angles. Holding the stick straight out towards the fire is just going to cook the top, and barely sizzle the sides. You may need to constantly adjust the angle as you roast, keeping it at a proper distance to not burn or take too long to roast.

Fourth, always start with the top. When you insert your stick into the underside of your marshmallow, don’t insert all the way through the top. This is also a good chance to test the hotness of the fire and determine the appropriate distance for roasting. Once you’ve found it, gently hold and move forward and backward slightly until the top is evenly brown. You’ll have to do this quickly before the rest of the marshmallow softens too much so you can properly do the next step.

Fifth, flip the marshmallow to cook the bottom. This is the most challenging step. If you took too long to cook the top, your fingers will smash the sides and you’ve already ruined it. Also the top could be too hard, and inserting the roasting stick through it will ruin the look of the marshmallow. If you’ve roasted the top properly, you should be able to gently press the stick into the roasted top side, so now the bottom is on the top. Repeat the fourth step for evenly roasting the top.

Sixth, the sides. You should now have a marshmallow with an evenly roasted golden brown top and bottom. The sides should still be fairly white and firm. Now is where the angles are the most important. Find an angle to hold your roasting stick against the embers where you expose ONLY  the sides and slowly rotate. Do not expose the top to any more heat, it will bubble and burn. It should not take too long for the sides to start to turn golden brown. They will start to puff out a bit, and that means it’s getting gooey inside. Careful not to take too long to do this, or the gooey-ness starts to make your marshmallow droop, ruining the shape and causing imperfections in your evenly roasted golden brown cylinder.

Last step is removing the marshmallow ever so carefully. Gently hold your hand underneath so it doesn’t droop and allow it to cool for a moment. Removing too quickly makes dents with your fingers as it’s too soft, and therefore ruins the shape and color. If properly removed, you should be holding in your hand, the perfect marshmallow.

Believe me, this is easier said than done, if I’ve ever actually even done it. But when I was a teenager, camping with my family and friends, I was determined. On one occasion, 10+ kids sat around the fire, marshmallows on sticks, everyone fighting for the best spots. Once you thought you had a good marshmallow, you handed it to the judge, my friends dad, Jason Rampton. He would examine all sides, point out any imperfections, and of course pop the marshmallow in his mouth, to ensure proper gooey-ness and flavor. He then gave you a grade, a score between 1-10. 10 of course being a perfect marshmallow, something he claimed had never been achieved. All the more motivation for me.

He started the scoring off in the 5-6 range, some kids got bored pretty quick and left to do something else. Some kids tried roasting 2 or 3 marshmallows but after receiving less than satisfying scores, decided it wasn’t worth it, and moved on. With every marshmallow, the scores would slowly go up and up. 7.8, 8.2, 8.5, 8.8. Finally I started getting scores above 9. Nearly every kid had left at this point and it was only my friend Erin Herbert and I that remained. We stared at each other through the fire, looks of determination in our eyes, words of friendly malice to one another. It started as a game, but this was now on another level. I was going to do it. 9.5, 9.7, 9.87, 9.91, 9.995. The scores kept climbing, ever so slowly. I’m sure Jason Rampton was sick to his stomach of marshmallows by now and hoping Erin and I would just give up, accepting the fact that it was hopeless. Then, finally, I had it. I HAD it. It was dark by now (and for an Alaska summer night, that’s saying something) so visibility was more difficult, but it was FLAWLESS. I held it in my hand. Erin was returning to the fire with a defeated look and a 9.99995 score from her latest marshmallow. She saw my marshmallow, and she knew it was the one. Overcome with rage, she whacked it out of my hand and it fell to the ground. NOOOOOOO! I couldn’t believe it! My perfect marshmallow, now assuredly ruined. Jason Rampton came over, picked up the marshmallow off the ground, examined it, and determined, with a smile on his face, that I had done it. 10. A perfect score. For the first time ever, a perfect marshmallow. He popped it in his mouth, a slight look of relief on his face, turned around, and left. It was over. Erin was looking both ashamed and defeated. I felt victorious. To my knowledge, nobody ever again scored a perfect 10.

No hard feelings to my friend Erin Herbert, of course. In fact I’m glad she knocked mine to the ground. Who knows how long the game would have gone on. Now, whether the marshmallow was actually perfect, who knows. I’m sure Jason Rampton was sick to his stomach and could see that 2 competitive teenagers had taken this game way too far, and he just couldn’t eat any more marshmallows. But ever since then, every time I go camping or even just roast marshmallows with my kids in our backyard fire pit, I try to do it. I try to roast the perfect marshmallow. I’ve probably gotten close, maybe even a 9.99995. But there’s always something that goes wrong. A flaw of some kind, holding it back from achieving that perfect 10.

Total perfection is an illusion, at least in this life. There may be little things we can perfect, like a piano song, or a dance routine. But perfection, ETERNAL perfection, is not possible on our own. In scripture we are commanded to be perfect (Matthew 5:48). But there are multiple modern day prophetic talks that help clarify what this means (Elder Holland “Be Ye Therefore Perfect- Eventually“; President Nelson “Perfection Pending“) The older I get, the more I understand that I am not here on this earth to be 100% perfect. Striving to be perfect can be sad, time consuming, unsatisfying, exhausting, and often feel like an epic waste of time. Your definition of perfection is subjective and eventually unacheivable, and therefore the only person you end up competing with when it comes to perfection, is yourself. We are all on different playing fields. We are all living completely different lives. We are all different shaped marshmallows being roasted over different fires at different angles with different sticks and no matter how hard we try, we will never achieve that perfect 10 on our own. However, the dents, the imperfections, and even the flame engulfed burnt to a crisp roasted marshmallows, still taste just as good.

Just be your best you. Be kind. Love others. All this perfection stuff will be figured out in the next life. Do the best you can with your marshmallow.

I’ll bring the chocolate and graham crackers.