A Marvelous Work Post: Because of Him

Please check out my latest post on my blog "A Marvelous Work".

Because of Him: Testimonies of Christ

A Marvelous Work: A New Blog Venture

I am transitioning to using multiple blogs for my different topics and themes.  As the first step, I'd like to introduce my new blog titled:

A Marvelous Work

This will focus on gospel topics and be a bit more personal in nature.  Please feel free to follow this blog and share your thoughts in the comments.

Here is the first post for the new blog:

The Love of the Father and the Son: April Conference 2014

Talks That Inspire: General Conference--October 2006

With General Conference approaching, I though I would share some remarks from the October 2006 General Conference that touched me recently.  We are truly blessed and loved to have a Heavenly Father who blesses us with counsel that pertains to our day and to our lives.

Salt Lake Temple

Dallin H. Oaks,“He Heals the Heavy Laden”

To each of us our Savior gives this loving invitation:

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. 

“Take my yoke up one you, and learn or me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.

“For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”  (Matthew 11:28-30)

…At times we may despair that our burdens are too great.  When it seems that the tempest is raging in our lives, we may feel abandoned and cry out like the disciples in the storm, “Master, carest thou not that we perish?” (Mark 4:38).  At such times we should remember His reply: “Why are ye so fearful?  How is it that ye have no faith?” (v. 40)

The healing power of the Lord Jesus Christ—whether it removes our burdens or strengthens us to endure and live with them like the Apostle Paul—is available for every affliction in mortality.

…The Atonement also gives us the strength to endure “pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind, because our Savior also took upon Him “the pains and the sicknesses of his people” (Alma 7:11).  Brothers and sisters, if your faith and prayers and the power of the priesthood do not heal you from an affliction, the power of the Atonement will surely give you the strength to bear the burden.

Joseph B.Wirthlin, “Sunday Will Come”

In the lonely hours I have spent a great deal of time thinking about eternal things.  I have contemplated the comforting doctrines of eternal life.

Elaine S. Dalton,“Look Toward Eternity”

To become worthy, we make choices that will enable us to return to our Heavnenly Father’s presence.  We do those things which will qualify us to claim all the blessings that He has in store for us.  This is the reason we are here on earth—“to see if [we] will do all things whatsoever the Lord…shall command.”  It is through our faith in the Lord Jesus Christ that we can resist temptation.  Our faith will enable us to shun evil.  It will be repulsive to us because “light cleaveth unto light” and “virtue loveth virtue.”

To become unspotted from the world requires not only faith but repentance and obedience.  We must live the standards and do those things which will entitle us to the constant companionship and guidance of the Holy Ghost—for the Spirit cannot dwell in unholy temples.

Thirty-eight years ago my husband and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple by President Gordon B. Hinckley.  The counsel and direction he gave us that day have become a beacon for our lives…[He] counseled us to remain worthy.  He said, “Always live in such a way that when you need the Lord’s blessings, you can call upon Him and receive them because you are worthy.”  He said: “There will come times in your life when you will need immediate blessings.  You will need to live in such a way that they will be granted—not out of mercy but because you are worthy.”

D. ToddChristofferson, “Let Us Be Men”

We who hold the priesthood of God cannot afford to drift.  We have work to do.  We must arise from the dust of self-indulgence and be men!  It is a wonderful aspiration for a boy to become a man—strong and capable; someone who can build and create things, run things; someone who makes a difference in the world.  It is a wonderful aspiration for those of us who are older to make the vision of true manhood a reality in our lives and be models for those who look to us for an example.

President Gordon B. Hinckley, speaking in this meeting in April 1998, gave specific counsel for young men:

“The girl you marry will take a terrible chance on you…[You] will largely determine the remainder of her life…

“Work for an education.  Get all the training that you can.  The world will largely pay you what it thinks you are worth.  Paul did not mince words when he wrote to Timothy, ‘But if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith and is worse than an infidel’ (1 Tim. 5:8)

Good men sometimes make mistakes.  A man of integrity will honestly face and correct his mistakes, and that is an example we can respect.  Sometimes men try but fail.  Not all worthy objectives are realized despite one’s honest and best efforts.  True manhood is not always measured by the fruits of one’s labors by the labors themselves—by one’s striving.

Though he will make some sacrifices and deny himself some pleasures in the course of honoring his commitments, the true man leads a rewarding life.  He gives much, but receives more, and he lives content in the approval of his Heavenly Father.  The life of true manhood is the good life.

Gordon B.Hinckley, “We Bear Testimony to the World”

Circumstances change, but our message does not change.  We bear testimony to the world that the heavens have been opened, that God, our Eternal Father, and His Son, the risen Lord, have appeared and spoken.  We offer our solemn witness that the priesthood has been restored with the keys and authority of eternal blessings.

Living on the Edge: Tales of Danger Abroad, Part I

Plodding up the steps from Gagarin Metro Station, I tried to catch up to my companion.  It was the end of a long day of missionary work and we were just about back to our apartment.  The sun had set hours previously, one of the curses of the long Siberian winter.  Looking up through my fur shapka, I could see my companion ahead of me by a full flight of steps.  I had been in Russia for about one month.  Adjusting to the long nights, the language, the food, and walking everywhere proved to be difficult.

I couldn't find a picture of Gagarin Station.

As I began to make the extra effort to catch up, I suddenly felt a hand on my arm.  I stopped to see a lady, a pretty lady with a bit of her blonde hair sticking out of her shapka.  With darting eyes she started to speak to me rapidly in Russian.  The language was still incomprehensible. 

In my best Russian I asked, “Will you please repeat yourself?  I’m not Russian.”

Shaking her head, she muttered something else and started to walk away.  At that moment my companion made his appearance.  Looking back he had seen me struggling to converse with a possible investigator and returned to help.

He quickly picked up the conversation.  At first she shook her head as though she didn’t want to speak with us any longer.  Then she nodded and turned to walk up the stairs.  My companion followed her, turning to tell me to follow.

Unsure of what was going on, I again tried to catch up.  As I followed I saw a large man standing at the top of the stairs looking nervous.  The lady looked at him quickly and almost imperceptibly shook her head.  I don’t think my companion saw it.

We turned toward the nearest apartment building.  As we entered I realized that we were being set up for a robbery.  My companion realized it about the same time I did.  I turned toward the door ready to attack her accomplice.  The lady, suddenly seeming nervous and scared, quickly said thank you and ran up the stairs.

Looking at my companion I said, “I think we’re about to get robbed.  What did she say to you?”

“She said that she was scared of someone at the top of the stairs and asked if we could escort her to her apartment building.  But she acted very strangely, especially once I walked up.”

“We need to be careful going out that door in case someone is waiting for us.”

Carefully we made our way out the door.  Nobody was waiting for us and we made it home safely.  After discussing the situation we realized that she thought I was alone and a possible target.  Once she realized that I wasn’t a Russian and that I wasn’t alone, she no longer wanted to speak with us.  At the top of the stairs she was waving off her accomplice realizing the risk of robbing two foreigners may not be worth the gain.

It was an early lesson about being careful, especially in strange, foreign places.

Throughout my travels abroad I’ve had a number of what might be considered dangerous and frightful situations.  Here’s a quick spoiler alert: I didn’t die during any of these events, nor did I even get injured in any meaningful way.

In the hopes of providing not only some entertainment, but also some travel safety tips, I’m going to share some more of my experiences.

Russians love to celebrate the New Year.  It’s the biggest national holiday of the year.  Families and friends gather for dinner and celebrations.  The night often culminates in a walk after midnight.  My first New Year’s Eve in Russia rolled around after just two weeks in the country.  As 1994 came to a close, my companion and I wrapped up our few teaching appointments.  We rushed out to the street hoping to find a taxi to take us to a party with some members of the branch. 

Getting a taxi in Russia normally is a simple affair.  You stand next to the road and put your hand out.  Any driver of any car may decide to pull over to offer you a ride.  Sometimes they charge something and sometimes they do it just out of the goodness of their heart.  On this night, however, there were few cars on the road and the drivers who were out were rushing to their own parties.  Walking in the general direction of our party we continued to try to flag down a driver.

Just as we were about to accept the fact that we would have to walk a few miles in the cold and dark and arrive late, a Lada pulled over.  There was a driver with his friend in the front seat.  My companion quickly negotiated a fare for our destination and we climbed into the backseat.  As our driver accelerated the car on the icy road the smell of alcohol hit me.  Both our driver and his friend were quite drunk and were in a hurry to get us to our destination. 

It was my first experience riding in a car with a drunk driver.  For fifteen minutes, that felt like an hour, I was in a car with a drunk driver who was driving fast on an icy road.  As I pictured myself lying on the side of the road with my body mangled, I realized that many of the other drivers on the street likely were drunk as well.  Sitting in that car, fearing that I might end up dead or in a Russian hospital, I thought of the Lord’s promise in Doctrine & Covenants 84:88:

“And whoso receiveth you, there I will be also, for I will go before your face.  I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.”

As we slid around corners and narrowly avoided hitting other cars I knew that promise was being fulfilled at that moment.  Of course, following that experience, I always tried to check for a strong scent of any alcohol before I would climb into a vehicle.  We had a wonderful party that evening with great food.  We walked back to our apartment.

Taxis have been a source excitement and adventure for me during my time overseas (and a few times in the States as well).  A few months after surviving the drunken New Year’s Eve ride, another elder and I were flagging down a taxi to get to a baptismal interview.  We were thrilled to see a black Volga pull over to speak with us.  Volgas were larger than most other vehicles on the road at the time so it was much more enjoyable to be inside them. (Not to mention that they tended to have nice radios, affording us an opportunity to listen to some music for a few minutes.)

Russian Volga

The driver quickly agreed to take us.  I got into the front seat and we took off.  The driver kept glancing over at me.  Figuring that he was just interested to see an American, I got ready to speak with him about the church. 

Before I could open my mouth he asked, “Are you from America?”

“Yes.”

“Are you one of those Mormon missionaries?”

“Yes.  Have you heard about the Mormons?”

He reached down to the floorboard, pulled out a .45 caliber pistol, and rested it on his lap.

“Yes.  I know about the Mormons.  Our priest told us about you.  You here from America to ruin our Russian culture and Orthodox faith.”

I swallowed hard, looking from the gun to his face and back again to the gun. 

Waving the gun he said, “I ought to just shoot you now.  Why shouldn’t I just shoot you now to protect our Russian Orthodox faith?”

With that I explained what I knew about the love of Jesus Christ and his desire to help and love everyone.  I expressed my certainty that Jesus would not condone the killing of someone who simply was trying to share his message with others. 

Eventually we arrived at our destination.

“Are you going to shoot us?”

“No, I won’t shoot you today, “ he said as he tucked the gun back under the seat.

“How much do we owe you for the ride?”

“Nothing.  I enjoyed the conversation.”

After saying farewell, I and the other missionary were ecstatic to be alive still.  That, however, wasn’t the end of the story.  A week later we were in the same place trying to flag down a taxi.  The same driver pulled over. 

Looking in the window I smiled and said, “Hello.  Are you going to shoot us today?”

“No.  I won’t shoot you today.”

“Will you give a ride at no charge.”

“Yes, no charge for the ride.”

We again made it to our destination safely.  But the next time we needed a taxi, we flagged it down from a different street.  Sadly this was not my most frightening ride in a taxi.  That would come years later.

Please check out Part II of this series:
Living on the Edge: Mafia and Guns in Russia
Lost on the Bosporus and Robbed (Nearly) in Kazakhstan  
Brett, the Cultural Warrior, in China

Ragnar Etiquette: Dos, Don'ts, and Please Dont's

When my dad and I were preparing for our first marathon in the spring of 2010, I told him that we were starting an expensive habit.

"Expensive.  How is it expensive?  You buy a new pair of shoes a couple of times a year and you're good."

"The running gear isn't the most expensive part of it.  It's the registration fees and travel costs."

All of this was before either of us had run our first Ragnar.  We weren't even contemplating the following types of costs:

• Van Rental Fees
• Fuel
• Hotel rooms
• Massive amounts of snacks
• Painkillers - the legal, over-the-counter type
• Digestive aids
• Van decorations
• Running costumes - (This one's not bad for us--we just dress up like runners)

On top of these monetary costs of running a Ragnar, there are the short and long-term psychological costs of being in a van with family, friends, and strangers in extreme and smelly circumstances for hours on end with little to no sleep.  There's also a steep psychological cost of being a team captain, which I've done six times with my seventh on the way.  (It's always fun when the team members complain about a bad start time and tell you it's your fault, after they refused to register until the very last minute.)

After running five marathons, 11 Ragnar Events, 1 Red Rock Relay, and a handful of other races, I've learned to deal with the cost and find a way to cover it.  (My dad thinks I pay for it by avoiding his requests to reimburse him for the registration and other costs).

Along the way, I've developed what I call "Jarad's Ragnar Etiquette: Dos, Don'ts, and Absolutely Do Nots, or Common Sense and Courtesy."  I spent some time contemplating these in great depth during the Ragnar Del Sol 2014 while some of my teammates took all the sleep time and I navigated.  (Please excuse some of my underlying negativity as these thoughts were developed and formalized by a sleep deprived mind.)

Here a few of my rules of etiquette:

Registration and Race Prep

• If you commit to the team to run, then do everything you can to run it.  If you can't run it, it's your responsibility to help find a replacement.  
• If you pay your money for the registration and then back out within three weeks of the race, you forfeit your entrance fee.  That belongs to whatever poor, fortunate schmuck who gets pulled in at the last minute without the proper training.
• Respond in a timely manner to your team invitation.  Don't leave the team hanging for a final pace and start time because you can't open an email and log in.  If you're too busy to complete the registration, then you're too busy to run a Ragnar.
• Put an accurate pace in your profile.
• Spend some time training--at least enough that you don't get life threatening blisters on your feet after the first three mile run.
• Bring snacks and drinks to share with the other runners.

Running the Race and Riding in the Van

• Cheer your runners and other runners on as often as you can, especially those running their third leg in the middle of the heat on the second day.
• Decorate your van, at least with some drawings.
• Costumes are optional but please don't try to make other runners vomit by wearing an outfit that is inappropriate for anyplace except your bedroom or the mental hospital.
• Learn how to eat appropriately so that your not anxiously awaiting the Honeybuckets at every single exchange.  
• Be courteous to those who are experiencing digestive problems.  It's in your interest to get them to the needed facility in time--no need to make the odor problem worse!
• Take turns driving and be patient with the navigator especially from 1:00am to 6:00am.  Mistakes are natural for the sleep deprived.
• Take a water or gatorade to the exchanges for the runners coming in--even if they don't want, it's nice to know that your team is thinking of you. 
• Always feed your hungriest runner when he or she needs it--otherwise they'll complain about the need for food at 3am when nothing is open. 
• Run in together as a team at the finish line.  If you're the last runner, slow down enough to allow your sore and stiff teammates to keep up.  No need to sprint at that point. 
• Lock the door of the HoneyBucket/port-a-potty when you are inside taking care of your business.  Nobody wants to pop the door open to see you in the act, hear you scream, and see the look of terror on your face.  LOCK THE DOOR.

The Don'ts

• Don't hog all the sleep time by allowing your teammates to be responsible for getting you everywhere.  Help with navigation, cheering, and driving.  Remember, if you are sleeping the whole time while others are driving you places, they may be considering places to drop off your body in the desert.
•  Don't be grumpy the whole time.  Some grumpiness is expected and acceptable.  Remember, your teammates don't have to pick you up after your next run.
• Don't overreact to others' grumpiness.  Some reaction is fine, but keep it at a level that will keep you out of jail.
• Don't tell the overweight runner that it's easy and they should just keep running instead of walking.  Tell them they're doing great!
• Don't put your sweaty body or sweaty clothes on others' clothing or stuff.  
• Don't hog all of the phone recharging time.  The world can live without your witty posts for a few hours if your phone dies.  My witty posts, however, tend to keep people going and are necessary.   
• Don't ignore other runners when they greet you in passing.  Even a grunt in reply is better than ignoring another runner. 
• Don't accidentally navigate your van to Exchange 30 when you are supposed to be going to Exchange 24.  You will not get the sleep time you need, your driver may abandon his post, and the runners in the other van may put out a professional hit on you.
• Change into clean running clothes at least once.  (Some think you should put on clean running clothes for every run.  I think that's bad for the environment.)

The Absolutely Do Nots

• Do not consume alcohol on the course.  It's not worth getting killed or killing someone else because your in desperate need of a buzz.
• Do not honk in residential areas at night during the quiet time.  The Ragnar staff works hard with local cities and authorities to get us great routes for our runs.  Don't ruin that by being stupid and inconsiderate.
• Do not cheapen the experience by pulling your runner off of the course and driving him or her further down.  Do everything you can to complete the course.  
• DO NOT use another person's body glide.  Some things should NOT be shared.
• DO NOT run out of medals at the finish line.  Really, you didn't know that many teams were going to be running?

Please let me know if you have any rules of etiquette that you would like to add.  

And remember the most important rule: Ragnars are supposed to be fun.  HAVE FUN or GO HOME!

(Just don't go home until you finish your last leg because I don't want to have to do it for you.)

For more entertainment and enlightenment, please check out my other Ragnar Blogs:
Why I Ragnar
Confessions of Ragnarian
Profile of a Ragnarian
Ragnar Zion - To the Trails
Experimental (Trail) Running - Ragnar

Meanderings in Uzbekistan: Bombs, Bread, and a Ferris Wheel

 

Despite an explosion and the fear of being kidnapped, a trip to Uzbekistan became an adventure to remember.

 

As Spring Break 2005 quickly approached, I was working overtime to make sure that each of the twenty or so delegations of officers and cadets were ready to go out.  Every spring the Office of International Programs at the United States Air Force Academy would participate in one week exchange programs with foreign military academies.  We would send a delegation of one officer and four cadets to their academies over Spring Break and they would then send their delegations to the Academy for our International Week in April.

 

With time quickly running out to get all the documentation and logistics in order, I was happy that I wasn’t traveling this time around.  The previous year I had managed the entire program as well as lead a delegation to the Kazakh Air Force Academy in Aktobye.  By the time I left for the trip to Kazakhstan, my left eye was twitching non-stop from the unending stress.  My hope was that I could get all the delegations on the buses to the airport and relax for seven days while they were all overseas.

 

A few days before the delegations were scheduled to start departing one of the escort officers came to my office.

 

“Jarad, something came up and I won’t be able to take the cadets to Uzbekistan.”

 

“But, sir, you’re scheduled to depart in three days.  I don’t know if we can find a replacement for you in time.”

Quickly we ran through the logistics.  In order to make the trip work we had to have a military faculty member, with an official red US Passport, and preferably one who spoke Russian.  It took only a few minutes to realize I was the only one, other than my colleague who was backing out, which fit that profile on the entire faculty.  My list of things to do had suddenly become much longer with a call to my wife at the top of the list.  I swore a slight twinge was starting in my left eyelid.

 

I wasn’t opposed to going to Uzbekistan.  The country, like much of the region, intrigued me.  My issue was simply a matter of workload and responsibility. 

 

A part of me, of course, was excited for the opportunity.  Iranian nomads are the first known settlers of the region that comprises modern day Uzbekistan.  Throughout history the area has been part of various empires to include the Persian Samanid and Timurid empires.  With the development of the silk trade between China and western cultures, cities along the route became wealthy.  The Silk Road was born.  Cities with deep historical meaning grew—Bukhara, Samarqand, and Khiva. 

 

Eventually the area became a part of the Russian Empire and then the Soviet Union.  Since the collapse of Soviet Union in 1991, Uzbekistan has been an independent nation ruled by an authoritarian regime.  In 2005 Uzbekistan was an active and serious partner in the prosecution of the Global War on Terror to include operations in Afghanistan and Iraq.  Due to this relationship, we were able to travel to the country with just an official passport.  No visa was required.

 

Soon I was in contact with the cadets who would travel with me to Uzbekistan.  One of them was a cadet we sponsored.  He was LDS and had served his mission in Russia about ten years after I was there.  The other male cadet was also a returned missionary who had served in Russia.  We had two female cadets with us, both studying Russian.  One was an experienced glider pilot who loved to regale us with stories of her near calls in the air.  Our final female cadet was a young eighteen year old who was thrilled and scared to be abroad in such a strange land. 

 

Following an early morning bus ride from the Academy to the Denver International Airport, we were on our way.  During a stop at the Frankfurt Airport in Germany, one of the cadets had his camera stolen out of his backpack.  For most of my trips abroad during my time at the Academy, I used the same travel agency in Colorado Springs.  Usually they managed to work magic with flight schedules.  This time, unfortunately, our itinerary left us with an eight-hour layover in Moscow on the way in and out of Tashkent. 

 

In Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport, we had to stay in the same small area of the airport for seven hours while we waited to transfer to the other terminal for our flight to Tashkent.  After an hour we had seen everything in the stores.  Eventually we sat at a table at a café upstairs to try different dishes.  The entire time we were in the terminal the same CD was played repeatedly.  It was a male Russian singer covering American pop music in heavily accented English.  To this day I continue to hear the words, “Oops!  I did it again.”

 

The transit area to our departing terminal was only manned as scheduled flights prepared to leave.  We were terrified of missing the transit bus, so we watched the checkpoint closely.  A few times we had asked the ladies who ran the checkpoint when we should expect to leave. 

 

“When we tell you it’s time.”

 

“Will you come find us to tell us when it’s time to leave?”

 

“No, you’ll have to be ready and close by.  Now go away and don’t bother us any more.”

 

About an hour two before we scheduled to depart we watched as a female, a Russian national, walked up to ask some similar questions.  Unhappy with their answers she pressed them further, not wanting to miss her connecting flight.  The conversation deteriorated to the point of yelling and then screaming.  Finally, a large and hardened woman in uniform, obviously with some authority approached the scene of the altercation.  Hoping for some help the lady seeking information turned to the new arrival.  Instead of help she received an open-handed blow to the side of the head, dropping her to the ground.  The lady in charge told her colleagues to carry the lady to the holding room for further processing. 

 

We sat quietly and waited for them to announce our flight.

 

Our arrival into Tashkent came in the middle of the night and was uneventful.  The next day we were free to explore the capital city so the embassy hired a guide to take us around the city.  Before we left the hotel we exchanged some US Dollars for the local Uzbek Som.  I don’t remember the currency rate, but after I exchanged $100 I had to put some of the stacks of cash into my backpack in order to carry it.  The highlight of the day was a visit to the large open market in town. 

Tashkent Bazaar

In the evening one of the US Air Force officers, a major or a lieutenant colonel, took us to an amazing restaurant for dinner.  He was there to work with the Uzbek government on military flyover issues in support of operations in Afghanistan.  At dinner he told us of another Air Force officer whom some local thugs beat.  Upon learning of what had happened the landlord, who was shall we say well connected to those with some clout, arranged to have the thugs taken care of…somehow.  Our host also told us about his mission to buy a nice Persian rug for his wife.  What would have cost him a $5,000 in the US, he was able to purchase for under $1,000 in Tashkent.  He said the scary part was carrying a backpack and two handbags full of Som to pay for the rug.

_________________________

Prior to our departure from the Air Force Academy we received a threat and security briefing on what to expect and how to behave in Uzbekistan.  The Office of Special Investigation was not excited about our location.  Militant Islamic groups in the Fergana Valley combined with the authoritarian methods of the Uzbek government, had created a touchy situation.  We were told we shouldn’t go anywhere in uniform and should try to hide the fact that we were Americans.  Following the briefing I had to convince two of our cadets not to back out.  

(Two months after our trip, Uzbek police and military forces would shoot and kill over 700 people in Andijan.  This action would begin to unravel the partnership with the United States.)

 

Our second day at the hotel we were met our military escort, a young captain, from the Uzbek Air Force Academy.  As asked, we wore our service dress uniforms.  Our driver was an ethnic Russian who had married an Uzbek and remained behind after the collapse of the Soviet Union.

 

We drove south out of Tashkent toward Djizzak.  The roads were rough but we passed some beautiful farms.  Cows, goats, and horses were staked along the highway allowing them to feed on the grass.  Our conversation with our escort and driver picked up steam as we got to know one another.  We were informed that as part of our itinerary we would visit the academy in Djizzak, play a basketball game against their school team, take a cultural trip to Samarqand, and then visit a tank school and aerodrome in Chita before returning to Tashkent.  The next five days promised to be exciting.

 

First, however, we had to get past our fear of being shot, kidnapped, and/or tortured.  In Tashkent police officers lined all of the main thoroughfares, standing every 30 to 50 yards apart.  You could tell, especially in the capital, that there was significant tension and the expectation that something could happen at anytime.  With that experience and the memory of our security briefing, we were pulling into a small town wearing our uniforms.  I did my best to assuage their concerns, reminding them that our escorts would do their best to keep us out of danger.

 

Our fears spiked when we entered Djizzak.  Luck would have it that we entered on a holiday, I believe it was the anniversary of the city’s founding.  The captain and the driver suggested that we drive down to the celebration, kind of like a county fair, to walk around and see the people.  We pulled up to the edge of the celebration.  There was a roadblock to keep vehicles out of the pedestrian and vendor areas.  Our escort spoke quickly to the police at the roadblock to explain who we were and the plan to have us walk around.  They excitedly pulled the barricade to the side to let us through.  A couple of the police officers then followed us to where we parked and continued to walk around with us, our own, armed escort. 

 

At this point, the cadets were beside themselves with fear.  Here we were in what was considered a dangerous country, in a public setting, and wearing our uniforms.  Stepping out of the van we immediately had hundreds of people stop whatever they were doing to take look at us.  One of the female cadets almost climbed back into the van.  Our escorts, however, weren’t worried at all.  In fact they were excited to show us their city and have us join in the celebration.

 

Walking away from the van, the captain said, “Let’s have them ride the Ferris wheel.” 

 

So, we made our way over the back of a very long line to wait our turn.  As we stood there, wondering if we were going to survive the afternoon, the people at the back of the line turned and noticed us.  Quickly the word “American” began to trickle through the crowd until all of them, parents and children, were looking at us, murmuring excitedly to one another.  Suddenly, one of them grabbed one of the cadets by the arm and made a statement.  In abject fear I looked at my escort.  He simply smiled and nodded his head. 

 

I thought, “Here it is.  We’re about to be kidnapped and held for ransom and our government handlers are in on it.”

 

Quickly, before we could react, we were pulled forward to the front of the line and pushed into the next open car on the Ferris wheel.  The locals were so excited to have us celebrating their holiday with them that they honored us by giving up their places in line.  As we rode the Ferris wheel we all agreed that with that type of hospitality, there was a good chance we would make it home alive.

Ferris wheel in Djizzak

__________________________________________

That night, after a quick tour of the campus and a great dinner at the mess hall, our group was separated.  I was dropped off at the officers’ quarters just off of the campus.  The cadets stayed on the campus with their Uzbek counterparts. 

 

My quarters was a two-room suite with a basic living space with a sofa, chair, and desk and a bedroom.  A full-sized fridge, containing some bottled water, stood next to the bed.  Exhaustion overtook me and I went to sleep on my thin mattress.

 

From the depths of my sleep, I heard a loud boom, and explosion.  Immediately I came fully awake convinced that a bomb had just gone off outside of the barracks.  I rolled off and under the bed, hoping it would provide additional protection in the event of a second explosion.  Lying there I noticed that the explosion had thrown the fridge door open.  In terrified anticipation I wondered if there would be another explosion, whether or not I was the target of the bombing, and if terrorists were on their way up the stairs to get me.

 

Five minutes passed.  Ten minutes passed.  Fifteen minutes passed.  Nothing else was happening.  I wondered if the attack was coordinated.  How were the cadets?  Were they safe or was an attempt made on their lives as well?  Grateful that I wasn’t injured in what may have been the opening salvo, I thought of having my body sewn up in the local hospital; of a long flight home with serious injuries.  I tried not to think what it would be like as a hostage.

 

The only sound was the water dripping from the bottles in the fridge onto the floor.  I couldn’t tell how far the explosion had thrown the fridge, but I figured the blast must have been significant to break open the plastic water bottles in my fridge.  After all, I was on the second floor.

 

Finally, I poked my head out from under the bed to look around, using the faint light from the open refrigerator.  It appeared that the fridge hadn’t moved much.  The door was just hanging open with the water dripping out.  I lay there a few more minutes as it dawned on me what may have occurred.  After a few more long minutes, I pulled myself out from under the bed and crawled to the fridge, not wanting to make any type of silhouette against the window, you know, in case there was a sniper waiting for me outside.

 

Reaching the fridge door, I pushed it shut some so I could maneuver to peer inside the fridge.  There sat a two-liter plastic water bottle with a hole blown in the side.  Turning the bottle I read the label, mineral water.  There was also a bottle of regular water.  I touched it.  It was frozen.  The bottle of mineral water had exploded as the carbonated water expanded with the dropping temperature.  The bomb had exploded inside my room, inside the fridge.  My hosts had planted it there because they knew, that unlike them, Americans like their drinks cold.  To make sure the water was cold, they had turned the temperature very low on the fridge.  Because they never cooled their mineral water, they had no idea that it would freeze and explode.

 

I sat on the bed for several more minutes trying to relax.  Once my heart rate had dropped, I took a towel from the bathroom, wiped up the mess, and checked my watch.  It was around three in the morning.  At some point I did manage to fall back asleep, but it wasn’t restful.

 

The next morning the escort officer asked me if my quarters were comfortable.  I smiled and said they were wonderful.  The second night there was a fresh bottle of mineral water in the fridge.  I pulled it out and set it on the table.

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The remainder of the trip was amazing.  Our game of basketball against the school team was a little lopsided.  Out of the five of us only one had any decent skill at the game.  One of our female cadets was extremely competitive, (she wasn’t the one with skill), and managed to put a three inch scratch mark on the face of one of the opposing players. 

 

One of their officers had been a helicopter pilot during the Soviet invasion and occupation of Afghanistan.  He forgave me for the Stinger missiles that were launched at him and for those that had killed his friends. 

 

For lunch on our second day the deputy commander of their academy hosted us.  He was an ethnic Uzbek, a lieutenant colonel.  At the close of an amazing lunch, during which he boasted of the service the Uzbeks were providing to the Americans in Afghanistan, he asked us to drink a toast with him.  He was shocked to learn that three of us were Mormon and wouldn’t drink the alcohol.  Perhaps feeling guilty that he, as a Muslim, regularly drank alcohol, he pushed us hard to drink with him.  He challenged our manhood and insinuated that we were offending him.  I told him I had no intention of offending him, but that if forced to choose, I would rather offend him than my God.  In all my time in Russia and other countries, I had never been treated so rudely for not drinking alcohol. 

 

(A month later I turned the tables on him at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs.  I told him that I would be offended and that our general would be offended if he didn’t eat a ham sandwich with us at the mess hall.  He didn’t speak English so he couldn’t complain to anyone.  Of course, as a good host I had made sure they had a nice halal alternative for him.)

 

After two or three days in Djizzak, we loaded back into the van for a trip to Samarqand.  Two of the Uzbek cadets came with us.  Once in Samarqand we also picked up a female tour guide who spoke excellent English.  We visited the Holy Daniel, a site that is believed by some to hold some relics of Daniel the prophet of the Old Testament.  Supposedly it contains his arm bone and some believe that it continues to grow, hence the long sepulcher.  We also visited the mausoleum of Tamerlane and the Registan, or Public Square of the old city.  The Islamic architecture and design of these buildings is amazing.  Again we visited an open market and purchased round loaves of bread to eat while we walked around.

 

Registan (Public Square) Samarqand

From Samarqand we stopped by an active Uzbek Air Force aerodrome, or air base.  During our lunch with some of their helicopter pilots in the Officers’ Club we were invited to fly with them in their helicopters.  When we tried to decline the offer, they told us that they often fly our special forces into Afghanistan and that we shouldn’t be so scared.  Luckily a storm front moved in before they could get the helicopters, large Mi-8s, ready to fly.  We had to settle for a quick walk through of the helicopters.

Mi-8 Helicopter

Our final stop before returning to Tashkent was a tank school in Chita.  When we arrived it was obvious that they weren’t clear on when we were supposed to arrive.  Nothing was ready but they managed to feed us a late dinner and get us berthed in their barracks.  I was put in a room with a bare mattress and a scratchy wool blanket.  The next morning we played with their tank simulators and then visited their World War II museum that focused on the epic tank battles against the Wehrmacht.

 

On the way into Tashkent, our escort officer stopped to feed us one last meal at a restaurant.  All of us were tired and would have preferred to go straight to our 5-star hotel for a shower, some sleep, and then maybe some food.  As the gracious host he was thrilled to spend a little more time with us.  He used it as an opportunity to get very drunk.  Our female cadet who was only 18 years old asked if she could partake of the alcohol since she was of legal age in Uzbekistan.  Since Academy rules allowed for it and there were going to be three of us with her who weren’t drinking, I told her I had no problem with it.  She said it was her first time ever trying alcohol and I’m pretty sure she was being honest.

 

Once we finally arrived back at the hotel in Tashkent our first stop actually was the business center to send emails to family assuring them that we were alive.  I sat next to the young girl who had tried alcohol for the first time.  I watched as she typed her email:

 

“Dear mom and dad, I’m in Uzbekistan.  I think I’m drunk for the first time ever.”

 

Then she clicked send.  Immediately I jumped on her computer and sent her parents another email giving them the details and letting them know that she was safe.

 

The next day at Domodedovo airport in Moscow I sat watching snowflakes fall against the big window, and slowly drifted to sleep to the sound of a Russian man singing, “Oops! I did it again.”

Labor and Delivery: One Man's Trials and Travails

Fourteen and a half years ago I was in the hospital in Logan with my wife.  We were anxiously awaiting the arrival of our first child.  As I watched, and provided what support I could, I was amazed at the entire process and what a woman goes through to become a mother.  My appreciation for my wife and my own mother grew by leaps and bounds that day.  

A few short days later I got myself into hot water at our church meeting.  It was a fast and testimony meeting where we have the opportunity to stand and share our feelings, beliefs, and thoughts with the other members.  Having just gone through an incredibly emotional and spiritual experience, I felt compelled to share some of my feelings.  I stood at the podium and talked about my gratitude for my wife for what she had just done.  My last words were, "After seeing what she went through, I am so grateful to be a man."

It was an attempt to show my gratitude for what she had done and to highlight my own weakness in facing such a physical trial.  Unfortunately, I managed to offend a number of the sisters in the ward.  A number of them made their way to the podium, and while glaring at me, told me how wonderful it is to be a woman.  I don't think they understood what I was trying to say.

Either way, and this is meant to be humorous in my own serious way, it is important to share the trials and travails that the husbands and fathers suffer through during the labor and delivery process.  I'll try not to avoid any mention of our suffering that occurs during the pregnancy...that may be too much suffering in one post.

Mothers spend a lot of time sharing labor and delivery stories.  They relish the experience, even if it does frighten soon to be new mothers and young male bachelors.  It is my hope that my experiences will not scare any soon to be fathers.  You can be prepared and weather the storms that will come.

Please note that the couch for the spouse is to close to the bed to allow for any meaningful rest.

First Time: A Rookie's Story
The Beef & Cheddar That Wasn't, Until Later
As we entered the hospital for the birth of our first child, I was unbelievably anxious.  For weeks I had been anxious for this child to be born.  I was excited to be a father.  (And I was excited to quit my job at the cheese factory.)  At the end of her pregnancy my wife was suffering from a serious rash and a few other things.  The doctor mercifully decided to induce labor.

With all of the attention on my wife and my high level of excitement, I had forgotten to eat all day.  By five o'clock that evening I was starving, not literally, but rather strongly in a figurative way.  Luckily, my parents and sisters were at the hospital.  They ran to grab me a Beef & Cheddar from Arbie's.  They delivered it to me in the room and my wife kindly gave me permission to eat it quickly.  As I sat with the bag in my hands, the nurse came in to check on my wife's progress.  Just as I begin to unwrap the warm, delicious smelling sandwich, the nurse said loudly, "It's time.  Get the doctor in her now.  The baby is coming!"

For a split second, my excitement for the birth of our first baby and my deep physiological need for nourishment battled for my attention.  Coming to my senses, I wrapped up the sandwich and put it back into the bag.

Throughout the delivery process my wife was amazing.  We were blessed with a beautiful baby girl with a shock of dark hair on her head.  She was beautiful!  I split my time between telling my wife that she had done a great job and admiring the baby as the nurses cleaned her and checked her vitals.  At some point, the nurses took our daughter out of the room.  Thinking that most of the important work had been done, I decided to go back after my sandwich.  

I was wrong.  The process was not complete.  Picking up the bag with the sandwich, the doctor looked at me and said, "You'll want to see this."

He turned with the placenta in his hands and placed it in a large metal bowl.  My raging appetite quivered and then died.  It was another couple of hours before the hunger returned and I managed to choke down the now cold and stale sandwich.

Stay the Night With Me--Or, the Graduation I Don't Remember
Our first child was brought into the world at an exciting time in our lives.  Not only were we starting out as new parents, it was also the day before my college graduation.  Grandparents held their new granddaughter and rejoiced.  By the end of the night my tired wife fell into exhaustion.  Thinking of my graduation the next day, I begin to think of how to tell my wife good night so I could go home to get some much needed sleep.  

Before I could say anything, my wife reached up and took my hand.  Looking at me with her tired, beautiful eyes she said, "Will you stay the night here with me?"

Looking at the small, hard couch that would be my bed for the night if I stayed, I had to fight the urge to tell my wife that I would prefer to go home.  Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed.  It was a rough night.  Not only was the couch uncomfortable, but the nurses kept coming in to check on my wife and the baby.  Nobody checked on me, yet I survived the night anyway with little to no sleep.

At around six in the morning I stumbled out making my way back to my apartment so I could shower and get ready for my graduation.  After my shower, I woke my parents and sisters up so they could join me at my graduation later.  Once I was on campus I met up with my best friend.  We walked with other graduates from the College of Business to the Spectrum for ceremony.  I was feeling fine, excited for the moment, right up until I sat in my chair.  I have no idea who spoke or what they said.  One of my classmates kept elbowing me in the side each time I slumped over.  One time she leaned over to ask me, with some humor, to quit snoring.  If it hadn't been for her, I never would have known when to walk across the stage to receive my diploma.

Doctor Eye Candy
I have to tell one story about some suffering that occurred during our second pregnancy.  We were stationed at Vance AFB in Enid, Oklahoma at the time.  As my wife searched for a local doctor, one came very highly recommended.

At our first appointment it was immediately obvious why he had such a stellar reputation among the mothers.  He was pure eye candy in the likeness of a Calvin Klein model.  Now this was probably her toughest pregnancy out of all six.  She was miserable and the heat in Oklahoma made it worse.  Yet each time she had an appointment she would get excited.  While I never felt seriously threatened, I did make sure I wore my Battle Dress Uniform to each appointment with the sleeves rolled up.  (I may have even spent a little more time working on my biceps than usual.)

The Worst Night (Maybe Not Ever, But It Was Bad)
With our third pregnancy, my wife was measuring very large as we approached the last week.  Once again, for the third time, the doctor decided to induce labor.  This time her doctor, instead of being a version of McDreamy, looked to be about as old as Methusaleh.  Anyway, for some reason he asked us to come to the hospital later in the day for the induction.  

Based on previous experiences, I figured it would all be over by early to late evening.  We finished packing her bag and left for the hospital.  Since it was a warm day in June, I left the house wearing shorts and a t-shirt.  I figured that once the baby was born and my wife was somewhat recovered, I would go home to pick up my mother-in-law and two daughters to bring them back to the hospital to meet their new brother.

Things didn't go as the doctor planned.  He tried a different type of induction method that just wouldn't get things started.  Finally, late that night he decided to hold off on actively pushing labor until the morning.  Even though she wasn't in full, active labor at that time, it could go by itself at any moment.  So, once again I faced the prospects of a night in a labor and delivery room.

It was worse this time.  She was hot and so they kept the room frigid.  I was in shorts and a t-shirt remember and going home to change at that point didn't seem prudent.  As I shivered on the small, lumpy couch, the nurse brought me a thin sheet from a warming cabinet.  It was heaven, briefly.  Eventually the heat dissipated and I was left to suffer.  

A number of times I was able to relax enough, despite the cold, to begin to fall asleep.  Each time, just as I would start to slip away, the nurse would come in to check on my wife.  Now, I understood the need to check on her, but a little more consideration and quiet would have been appreciated by me.  Heck, even a little attention thrown my way would have been appreciated.  

"Would you like some hot chocolate?"

"Would you like some hot soup?"

"Would you like a real blanket?"

"Sir, are you still alive?"

Any one of those questions would have made me feel like a valued person.  All I received from the staff was silence.  Now, the few times when my wife asked me for ice chips or something else, I was happy to get up and help.  Despite my desperate and destitute situation, I was wise.  I did not speak out loud about my discomfort to anyone that night.  Well, I might have mentioned to my wife once or twice that I was a bit cold.  

While the next day was rough for me, it was undoubtedly rougher for my wife.  It was her first time making a go at it without an epidural.  (Men, this is a big conversation topic.  Make sure you know enough to nod and agree with your wife's opinion on the matter.)  
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As my wife and I experienced three more labor and deliveries, we learned to handle the pain, stress, and exhaustion.  It helped that the deliveries began to happen more quickly with each child.  For the last two she instructed doctors and nurses on what she wanted and how it was going to be.  They listened.  (On the last one I had to help the doctor get suited up because the rest of the labor and delivery team weren't there for the start of the festivities.)

Throughout my years as a husband, father, and birth coach, I understood that the needs and sufferings of the husband are often neglected.  Often, as I have come across expecting husbands, I make it a point to warn them.  I give the a quick run down of things to expect, things to take, things to do, and when to speak and when to be quiet.  In response to my warnings, many people laugh and some expecting moms and some experienced moms get a look of annoyance in their eyes.  I understand that they and the new babies are the stars of this show, but the forgotten ones have needs as well.

So, here are some of my...

Lessons Learned
What to Bring
- First, whatever your wife tells you to bring.
- Layers of clothing to include long sleeve shirt(s) and pants.  You can go to the hospital in shorts and a t-shirt, but make sure you have something else to put on.  A word of caution, you might not be given enough time or privacy to change.
- Snacks.  Bring the snacks you like but make sure they aren't the type that might annoy your very agitated wife.  She may not want you chewing on something that is crunchy or chewy.  She may not appreciate certain odors.
- Entertainment.  Tread lightly here, very lightly.  It's okay to bring a book or some type of electronic device.  Only pull them out when your wife approves their use.
- Cash.  Bring small bills and coins for quick runs to the vending machines.  If you have time to run to the cafeteria, take advantage of it but be prepared in case you can't.

How to Select a Doctor
- Let your wife select the doctor but try to steer her away from former Calvin Klein models.
- Also, try to steer her toward doctors who go to the quality hospitals.  (Definition of a quality hospital is below.)
- Always agree with your wife's opinion of the doctor (except for when she talks about how handsome he is).

How to Select a Quality Hospital
-  A quality hospital has three things: good food in the cafeteria, good food that brought to the rooms, and great amenities (snacks and drinks) that are available for both you and your wife.
- Take the tours of the labor and delivery wings of the hospital.  Ask questions about the amenities available to the husband.  Can you get drinks and snacks from the amenities room?  If the answer is no, then observe how closely it is watched.  Are meals for you, in the room, included in the service?  Who is their cable or satellite tv provider?
- Eat a meal at their cafeteria.  Some hospitals have had amazing food.  

Try to guide your wife to pick the doctor that goes to the good hospital, but realize you can only say so much.  Anything you do say should be couched in terms of how it benefits her, so look for those things so you can maintain your integrity.

Getting It Right (Mostly)
As we entered the hospital for our sixth labor and delivery, my wife was excited.  This was going to be her first time without pitocin.  I expected things to go quickly and wasn't too worried about my comfort.  Before my wife changed into her hospital garb she reached into her overstuffed bag and pulled out a surprise for me.  It was a homemade blanket that folded into a pillow.  Stuffed inside the blanket was book, some Twizzlers, some Pringles, and a few other of my favorite snacks.  My eyes, as they did when she handed me the blanket, are tearing up while I write this.  We were truly prepared.

My wife's labor progressed rapidly this time.  The doctor and I had to set the bed up and get her dressed without the assistance of the labor and delivery team.  They were still wrapping up another one in a nearby room.  A backup nurse was called in to help.  

Now, an important aside.  This last doctor was her first female OB/GYN to deliver one our babies.  She was a lot of fun to meet with throughout the pregnancy because she runs a lot of marathons and other races.  Several times she and I swapped stories about various races in our pasts and futures.  

In the delivery room, the contractions started to come on more frequently and powerfully.  I stood holding my wife's hand so she could squeeze it hard during the contractions.  Due to my wife's experience and strength, there wasn't much coaching from the doctor or the nurse.  To fill the silence the doctor started to talk about my upcoming race that was taking place the next week.  She told the nurse about it.  The nurse then proceeded to ask me questions.  I love to talk about running and races, especially to someone who really wants to know.  Under the circumstances, however, I knew I was walking on thin ice.  I tried to keep my answers informative, yet brief so that I didn't annoy my wife.  I even made a concerted effort to quit talking during the contractions.  But the nurse kept asking questions.

In the middle of one my informative, yet brief answers, my wife crushes my hand and says, "Shut up!  Just shut up about the race!"

Never forget, no matter how cool you are or your stories are, you are not the star of this particular show.