When faith falters

"Just as we should open our arms in a spirit of welcoming new converts, so too should we embrace and support those who have questions and are faltering in their faith."     M. Russell Ballard.  


Each day brings new conversion to my weary questing soul;
some days it also brings about a doubt about the whole.
My path should be much straighter, and the incline less severe;
why is it I still struggle and cannot find simple cheer?
I look beyond the mark to find my faith become a blur;
are my doubts legitimate or really just a slur?
And then I see another who is faltering up ahead,
who cannot hold together all that's in his heart and head.
I find my qualms receding as I give that guy a smile
and tell him it's tough sledding but I'll go with him a mile.
We help each other stumble on, with focus on each other,
as my diffidence disappears while helping out my brother.
Though doubts may linger on, I find no need to referee
the game as it is played by tyros just like you and me!
For Christ is at the head and in the heart of all who try
to follow his example in this world gone all awry. 

Restaurant Review: Black Sheep Cafe. Provo, Utah.

As a young clown with the circus I hoarded every penny of my meager salary, trying to put enough away so that I could travel to Mexico some day to study pantomime with Sigfrido Aguilar. I felt all the great clowns were well-versed in pantomime, and I needed that same kind of training to get anywhere as a big top zany.
One way I tried to save money was to never order a drink at a restaurant; a glass of water is all I wanted. However, I had a powerful thirst which tap water didn't really satisfy, so I often brought along a carton of chocolate milk in a brown paper bag -- I would take surreptitious swigs out of this when the waitress wasn't looking, like a wino. My pals ribbed me about it, saying they were embarrassed to be seen with such a tightwad in any decent hash house, but I refused to be put off by their specious reasoning. A dollar for a glass of milk? Getoutatown!
But one day I was brought up short at a Chinese restaurant, where the owner spotted me sipping my contraband moo juice; he rushed over and began yelling at me in an overripe James Hong accent:

"You no bling in such a thing! No outside to dlink! You go way, now now!"

That cured me of the habit. It was the last time I ever blushed in public.

Until today.

I got to the Black Sheep at 19 North University at 11:15, all hot and sweaty from the long walk and from wearing my winter jacket without checking the weather forecast -- it was a mild and sunny 60 degrees outside. The faux maitre d', name of Ben, gave a tiny cluck and said: "We can serve you in another twenty minutes" Apparently the joint didn't open until 11:30. So I went and sat down in a wooden chair that was too small for me. As I grunted to get out of it without breaking off the handles, Ben sashayed over to give me a supercilious look and ask; "Are we from out of town?"  He sounded like Arthur Treacher telling Shirley Temple to use the salad fork, NOT the pickle spear.

I blushed furiously as I finally popped out of the chair like a champagne cork, and then answered him:

"I was, uh, just passing by, and, uh, wanted to, uh, eat here, uh, y'know?"

He gave me a haughty look that plainly said I was about as welcome there as Freddy the Freeloader, and just about as well-dressed. When he finally deigned to seat me, it was under a monstrous light fixture that looked like something dredged up out of the depths of H.P. Lovecraft's imagination on a bad night:

Apparently the place is also an art gallery, with numerous paintings displayed on the walls -- none of them of much account, to my way of thinking. The main artist seemed to be one Kelly Larsen, who specialized in what the French call 'papier hygienique sur toile'. Loosely translated as 'wet toilet paper on canvas'.

I had studied this same technique early on as an art student at the University of Minnesota. When my request for a transfer to the Sorbonne was turned down later that semester I let the whole thing drop.

I started with Mexican squash cream soup. It was perfect. Not much more I can say about it -- when something is really good there's very little you should add to the description; it's like gilding the lily or adding ketchup to fried chicken.

Next I had braised beef with red chile sauce over Navajo fry bread. It, too, was immaculate.

I cleaned my plate like the veriest greenhorn in the bunkhouse, scrapping the plate with my fork to get the last little bit of fry bread and drippings. 

So I'm giving the place Four Burps, hands down -- despite that Ben guy. He I can do without. But anyplace that serves food this good can be forgiven for some well-deserved snootiness.

My soup and my beef chile on fry bread came to $25.88. And that's not including the carton of chocolate milk I snuck in under my coat . . . 

Seeking Hope in a Dispiriting 2016 Election

In any case, if the upshot of Campaign 2016 is that voters feel better because they have gotten their chance to vent at the establishment, and Washington learns to listen better to the country, it will not have been in vain. There will be cause for hope.

from the Wall Street Journal

Elections are all about trust,

and who's got the very most crust.

There's always some hope.

It's just like the Pope;

we've got to believe in stardust. 

a welcome knocking on my door

"Many who are suspicious of churches nevertheless have a love for the Savior."   Dallin H. Oaks.

The pews are hard, the floor is cold, the stain glass window dim;
is this the place where I must go to find and follow Him?
I do not know these people here, and they do not know me;
I wonder can these strangers know the Man from Galilee?

The gatekeepers accumulate, wherever I may turn,
handing out requirements His love to somehow earn.
These megachurches and storefronts; just how am I to know
which is recognized by God without a real halo? 

And then it comes to me at last; no building do I need
to worship in simplicity without a rigid creed.
I fall upon my knees at home, His guidance to implore -- 
and when I rise there comes a welcome knocking on my door . . . 

Timericks

The fight to isolate Raqqa and prepare for a coordinated assault on the Islamic State capital could take weeks or months, U.S. officials said.  WSJ

If you want a war to end fast,
don't hassle with bomb or with blast;
just make a big threat
to remove internet --
they'll give up in regiments massed. 

Strategists at Barclays PLC estimate the market will drop 11% to 13% if Mr. Trump wins and rise 2% to 3% if Mrs. Clinton wins based on how stock futures have responded to shifts in polls.  WSJ

The stock market ain't a good place

to bet on in this crazy race.

No matter who wins

it's all Mickey Finns --

investors will lose more than face! 

Throughout the tumultuous and unpredictable 2016 presidential campaign, one thing has been constant: Voters have been seething with frustration over the state of American politics.   WSJ

Voters are certainly seething;

almost as if they were teething.

Their mood is so black

that they just might attack,

their sabers and switchblades unsheathing. 

RENO, Nev.—No weapon was found after Donald Trump was rushed off a stage at a Nevada rally Saturday night, the Secret Service said.   WSJ

He shot off his mouth once again,

but all the security men

no gun play could find --

yet still they did bind

somebody for Donald's bullpen. 

“No matter who is president. No matter who controls Congress, the United States is always going to be interested and need security and stability in Europe,” Gen. Hodges said.   WSJ

That Europe is old and decayed

and ready to sink and to fade

is obvious to

the Red, White, and Blue -- 

our welcome we've sure overstayed. 

JAKARTA, Indonesia—President Joko Widodo postponed a state visit to Australia, citing unrest at home, after a massive protest called by hard-line Muslims against the capital’s Christian governor drew 200,000 demonstrators and stoked worries about deepening religious tensions in a nation long known for its moderate brand of Islam.    WSJ 

Joko Widodo postponed his long trip;

his public was restless and he'd lost his grip.

But when he stayed home and he tried to explain,

his public just looted the Christians again.

So Joko Widodo joined in with the group,

for fear that his ratings would otherwise droop.

He's no Erdogan, who can beat trouble down

and cow the fanatics with one single frown. 

Volkswagen said on Sunday that prosecutors in Braunschweig have named Hans Dieter Pötsch in their investigation. Mr. Pötsch was Volkswagen’s long-serving chief finance officer until September 2015, when he was named chairman in a management shake-up in the wake of the diesel scandal.   WSJ

There once was a fellow named Potsch

who got in a terrible botch

for which prosecutors

named him with the looters --

he won't get a gold-plated watch. 

MIAMI — Five undocumented domestic workers, all named Maria, fanned out across Little Havana delivering a desperate, last-minute plea to Hispanic voters: We can’t vote, but you can. Vote early to ensure a President Trump does not deport us.   WaPo

Hispanics are not playing Bingo

when it comes to this crazy gringo.

His triumph would mean

that robots would clean

our houses (and speak our own lingo).

The FDA is seeking public comment. You have until Jan. 3 to tell the agency whether you consider a normal serving of Nutella to be one tablespoon or two.  WaPo

I don't want your census to mar,

but I always eat half a jar.

No use in restricting;

that stuff is addicting --

that's why I look like a boxcar. 

As Danlin pursues the story behind his ex-wife’s tawdry novel, he gets caught in the confluence of American capitalism and Chinese influence. In the United States, free speech may not be limited the way it is in China, but there are limits nonetheless. “I wonder,” he muses at one point, “if I might turn out to be the only loser in this scandal. Sometimes the whistleblower blows so hard he busts his own bladder.”   WaPo 

Exposing a scandal can lead

to more trouble than a nosebleed.

It's messier, too,

cuz out of the blue

you're kicked by the media steed. 

No doubt, dozens of campaign 2016 book deals are being inked right now, with political journalists and campaign insiders promising to deliver the inside story of this extraordinary presidential race. I hope they do deliver it, and I will read as many of those books as I can stand.   WaPo 

Explaining this campaign would be

the height of surfeit and folly.

Not even Einstein

could ever refine

the sense of its hyperbole. 

Big government is the new West Coast craze

Voters up and down the West Coast are quietly poised to extend a massive economic experiment this Election Day, probing the limits of how much states can soak the big guys to help the little guys.

from the Washington Post 

The rich have it all their own way.

They never are asked much to pay.

These liberal schemes

are merely pipe dreams

that won't last a night and a day. 

A moment of prayer

"So a moment of prayer is a very, very sacred moment. He is not one to say, “No, I will not listen to you now because you only come to me when you are in trouble.” Only men do that. He is not one to say, “Oh, you cannot imagine how busy I am now.” Only men say that."   Juan A. Uceda.


When a child of mine comes calling I cannot begin to say
how very much it blesses and then fortifies my day.
It doesn't matter what they want or what their mood may be;
the fact that they have come at all is manna sweet for me.

And when they're far away and distant, never stopping by,
my old heart grows so heavy that I think that I may cry.
I yearn to hear their voices and to see their face once more;
to tell them of the blessings that will always be in store.

And so I guess our Father up above must think the same
as we struggle here below to call upon His name.
No matter how we form the words or where we choose the place,
the Father of all mercies will regard us, and embrace. 

Restaurant Review: Kneader's Bakery. Orem, Utah.

So I went over to my daughter-in-law Brenda's house in Pleasant Grove last night for pizza. She was having all the nearby kids over while husband Stephen is out east in Vermont building greenhouses. We were a cozy bunch, munching Pizza Hut pepperoni specials and drinking bottled water while the grand kids ran up stairs to fight and then come back down to tattle on each other.

I handed out quarters and sage advice, such as "You can pick your nose and you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your friend's nose." One and all thought my japes and jests so profound that they begged me to step outside so they could lock the door behind me. But I fooled 'em all -- I super-glued myself into the recliner and refused to budge.

Stephen Skyped  just as everyone was getting ready to leave. He asked me to stay overnight with Brenda because she is having some health issues and he wanted someone to be on hand in case there were any midnight emergencies. I graciously acceded to his request and spent the night on the couch in relative comfort and peace. This morning Brenda offered to take me to Kneaders for their all-you-can-eat French Toast special. Once again, I graciously acceded. I do that a lot . . .

The place was packed with mostly women revelers on a sugar and carbo binge. Their Christmas decorations are already up. An order of French Toast and a large milk cost $7.89.

They still sell bread at Kneader's, but the place is now a foodie franchise that caters to the LDS love of sweets and sentiment. Their booths are impossibly tight for a fat guy like me to sit in. That tells me their management doesn't eat there often.

The French Toast is thick and shot through with cinnamon. The syrup has an apple tang to it. This looked to be a four or five slice binge for Mrs.Torkildson's son; but I could only eat two slices before feeling as full and gassy as a blimp:

 I'm giving the place Four Burps, mostly because they deliver what they promise -- sweet carbs and starch and gluten. There was a time when I would have tore through such a place like a cyclone, leaving behind nothing but crumbs and a wisp of powdered sugar. But my inner Falstaff falters, and I yearn for nothing more toothsome than a cup of bone broth and a hard boiled egg, chased with a glass of Alka Seltzer.

I had promised my grand son Ohen that I would review the Black Sheep Cafe today -- he says it's his parents favorite place to eat in Provo. Sorry, Ohie -- but Grandpa is probably not going to be able to make it there today. One more meal eaten out today and my liver and lights will go on strike.

Restaurant Review: Tommy's Burgers. Provo, Utah

I first visited Chicago back in 1971 with Ringling Brothers Circus. The train was parked right next to the old Stock Yard pens. The lingering odors of carnage and manure were so stupendous that even the pigeons wore gas masks as they pecked away at the unspeakable detritus.

The two things I recall most vividly about Chicago are that it was where the clowns had their contracts renewed for another season -- or didn't. And eating my first full-blown, messy Chicago Dog.

There was no way of knowing if you were going to be renewed for another season on the road. No one in management ever gave any hint or clue -- mostly because they had no idea either. The contracts were handed out by old man Feld himself, and he never indicated to anyone who would stay and who would be cut loose. Some of the First of Mays swaggered around, trying to buck themselves up with their own pathetic braggadocio:

"Sure I'll get another contract! Didn't you see the way the crowd's been eating up my dishwasher routine? But I'm holdin' out for more money, and if Feld don't cough it up he can go *#@* himself!"

Dougie Ashton, an Australian clown who demanded we refer to him as a comedian and not as a clown, strutted around Clown Alley singing "Chicago, Chicago, that old contract town . . . " He was secure, because he had a five year contract with Feld. The rest of us lowly mortals only had a one year contract.

Me, I didn't much care if I was offered a contract or not. I had just fallen in love, dated, and broken up with one of the showgirls -- all in three weeks; so I didn't give a hang about my career one way or the other. If they wanted me back, fine; if they didn't, fine -- I'd go to Mexico to study pantomime.

As it turned out, I was offered a contract but turned it down anyway. Mexico sounded more interesting.

And then the Chicago Dog. These lovely creations are the only way to properly consume a hot dog. Don't try to palm off your chili dog or kraut dog on me -- nossir, give me a Chicago Dog or give me death. Or a hamburger.

And that, dear and patient reader, brings me to today's restaurant, Tommy's Burgers, at 401 West 100 North. It's a stand alone building, not much bigger than my apartment. And close to my building, too. The old osteoarthritis is acting up today, so I didn't want to have to walk very far.

There's no place to eat inside, so you have to order to go. And it has no drive in window, so you have to go inside and stand around while they fry up your order. For make no mistake, this is strictly a frying operation.

I got a Chicago Dog, an order of onion rings, and a fountain drink. The Dog was all that a Windy City Pup should be: full of spicy, sweet, and sour bric-a-brac. Overflowing with it, actually.

I took it outside to eat on one of their bright red picnic tables. The weather here in Provo continues to hold mild and sunny, and the forecast calls for this pattern to continue well into next week. Seems kinda weird; that, and the Cubs winning the World Series and maybe Trump in the White House -- it all points to some kinda X Files thing going on . . .

The onion rings were crunchy on the outside and melting on the inside. But I got absolutely no flavor from them. And then, I always have the same problem with onion rings; I bite one in half and the whole onion string comes out, falling on my chin and giving me a little burn. Does that happen to anybody else but me, or am I the only buffoon who can't eat onion rings properly?

I give the place Three Burps -- the Dog was superb but the onion rings were disappointing. For the Dog, the rings, and a fountain drink I paid $9.28. This place works as long as the weather holds out; otherwise you have to walk in to place your order and then walk out again to your car. The place was packed when I was there at 1 p.m.

The psychological trick that makes it harder to pay off your credit cards

Too many Americans, it seems, have a broken understanding of what the minimum payment on their credit card means and what purpose it serves.

from the Washington Post

A shopper from Rhode Island said:

"I can't get it through my thick head

if I can pay less

on American Express,

what is there I have to dread?"