The price paid

"We should always remember the price Joseph and Hyrum Smith paid, along with so many other faithful men, women, and children, to establish the Church."

M. Russell Ballard

Heirs to comfort, blessings, peace;

members of this Church increase

in gratitude each passing day

to those who blazed a better way.

Though mountains frowned upon their schemes

and doubting men laughed at their dreams,

they persevered all God's commands

to carry out in obscure lands.

And should the day come I forget

that I owe Joseph Smith a debt,

and many others just as well,

as ingrate may my sorrows swell!

Photo Essay: Postcards to my President. Vol. 22

Hear Jesus Christ

"We are to seek, in every way we can, to hear Jesus Christ, who speaks to us through the power and ministering of the Holy Ghost."

President Russell M. Nelson

Seek by ev'ry means you may

Christ's clear voice to hear each day.

The Holy Ghost will guide your mind

all the Savior's love to find.

Still and soft, and sweet and true,

his voice will bring great peace to you --

and lead you to much better things

amidst the purl of living springs.

Flattening the Curve

A patriot was Jim Bob Jones; he never saw the flag

without a very stiff salute and loyal urge to brag.

He loved his President so much he had his name tattooed

someplace upon his body that would insult any prude.

He carried many guns with him, to church and to the store;

he thought abortions only fit for immigrant and whore.

He loved to wander this great land in his Gulfstream RV,

so when he heard of 'stay-at-home' his mood turned fiery.

He marched in demonstrations that were very cheek by jowl;

he wanted ev'ry store unclosed, and said so with a howl.

This so-called virus was a plot by liberal blackguards

to take away the Constitution's sanctified safeguards.

But then one day he caught a cold, at least that's what he said,

and soon was in the hospital -- and sadly soon was dead.

Some call him a hero and some thought he was a perv,

but either way he did his part in flattening the curve.

Photo Essay: Postcards from my Kids. Volume Three.

Several of my grandchildren were born out of wedlock. Which has always disturbed me. All of them now are legitimized by marriage, thank heavens. 
And somehow I've come to realize as the years have slipped into a blur that it's all Amy's fault. I'm making a conscious effort to reverse the Torkildson family history that blames me for all the wrongs and suffering. I'm overcompensating, sure, but there is truth in my exagerations. 
She always had, and still possesses, an animal magnetism when it comes to sexual attraction. She appears not to know how much she interests men. It's a sort of wanton innocence that I used to find appealing, but now find very troubling. When we lived in Minneapolis we both worked at Fingerhut Telemarketing. She told me one day, out of the blue, that when she went in to work she always took off her wedding band. At the time, I didn't think much about it. Why didn't I get mad at her? I should have. But at the time I was keeping so much anger and disappointment bottled up inside of me that one more insult to swallow didn't seem that big of a deal. You see, I was supposed to be a world famous comedian -- but instead I was a telemarketer. Of cheap trashy kitsch. 
I like to think that I have worked through most of my anger issues now, at the ripe old age of 66 -- but this afternoon, as I was ladling tomato sauce over angel hair pasta for the luncheon I serve people gratis here in my building during the quarantine, I spilled a bit on the floor, which I had just mopped. Instead of shrugging it off with an "Oh well," I went ballistic for twenty seconds -- dashing the wooden spoon into the sink, causing it to splinter, and swearing like a fiend while my hands literally shook with rage. What was that all about? For twenty uncontrollable seconds I was in such a homicidal rage over this trivial accident that if I could have split into two persons, I would have murdered myself. 
I don't get it. It makes me both sad and frightened. 
Despite the nice things the kids say on these postcards, I sometimes still wonder if I should have been allowed to ever become a father. 

Photo Essay: Zen Stones. Vol. 11

Write about a stone.

It won't care.

So why should you?

Stone makes bread

but bread 

does not make stone.

This stone

is another stone.

Not the one

I'm talking about.

What is

the smell of

stone?

Sing Hallelujah!

At this season of hosanna and hallelujah, sing hallelujah—for He shall reign forever and ever!
Gerrit W. Gong

Though the world may fall apart,

we will sing with all our heart

to our Lord and Savior dear --

He who conquered death and fear!

Rogues and boasters, tyrants fell,

demagogues come straight from hell;

all of them have hollow shields

when the Lord his saber wields.

Christ shall reign, as is his right;

he who brings the saving light.

Then must all hosanna shout

as the world sheds all its doubt!

Photo Essay: Postcards from my Kids. Volume Two.

My father never wrote me a letter or postcard his entire life, even though I was anxious to keep in touch with him and with my mother. He never called me on the phone, and never talked to me on the phone when I called my mother.
There was no active hate or loathing on his part, I believe. He just didn't believe in communicating with anyone who wasn't buying a beer from him at Aarone's Bar & Grill, on East Hennepin, where he worked for over forty years as a bartender. 
He rarely came home before I was in bed, and was usually gone in the morning when I woke up. He had a second job at the Minneapolis Athletic Club, as a towel dispenser.
 He constructed his own Fortress of Solitude, and lived in it for most of his life -- self sufficient and wary of all visitors.
I didn't want that to happen between me and my kids -- but it nearly did.
After Amy divorced me, I hoped to achieve something great and fantastic -- something my kids would look upon with pride and brag about to their friends. Maybe get famous as a stand up comic or write a great big fantasy novel. But nothing like that ever happened. I sank lower and lower into poverty and depression, until I had to flee the country to Thailand to avoid being arrested for back child support.
But I never stopped writing my kids letters. And I always included a self addressed stamped postcard for them to reply.
This was all nearly 30 years ago. Now I am documenting those postcards they sent to me here on my blog. Front and back. 

Is it possible that Trump will really let the USPS go belly up?

Photo Essay: Zen Stones. Vol. 10

How can a stone

be blurry?

It is the viewer

who is blurry.

What is the sound

of one stone being?

A stone

is a lie

not invented yet.

How deep

is a stone?

Deeper into our hearts

"The Lord is trying to help us—all of us—get His gospel deeper in our hearts."
Douglas D. Holmes

So the gospel's perfect plan,

deep into the heart of man,

sinks until triumphantly

it will give us sanctity.

Open, chambers of my heart,

like the Psalmist's panting hart --

thirsting ever for the stream

that will heal and then redeem.