Come Unto Christ and Be Healed

Near the end of Christ’s first ministerial tour on the Galilean area, after He had healed the madman in the synagogue and Peter’s mother-in-law of her fever, the Lord and his apostles boarded a ship and sailed from Capernaum, southeast to a place called Gennesaret or as Gaderes by Mark, in the mostly gentile region of Decapolis – meaning “The Ten Towns”. It was on this voyage that the Lord calmed the raging tempest and chastised his friends for their lack of faith. On the shores of Gennesaret, He cast the legion of devilish spirits from the madman and into the herd of swine.

After witnessing or hearing of this miracle, the pagans of the area believed Jesus to be the commander of devils and begged Him to return whence He came. As Christ headed back to the ship, the man once possessed approached and asked the Savior if he could travel with the group. The Lord, however, had another mission for this man who had been for so long tormented. He commanded that the man return to the cities and publish the truth of the miracle wrought by the Son of God. The scriptures describe the results of that mission call:

“And he departed, and began to publish in Decapolis how great things Jesus had done for him: and all [men] did marvel.” (Mark 5:20)

This story is a great example of how one person, motivated by the spirit, can do great things to build the kingdom of heaven on earth, but it is only a preface to the text that will be the foundation of this sermon.

Upon returning to Capernaum, the Lord was immediately greeted by a Pharisee known as Jairus who fell at the Savior’s feet and begged him to heal his daughter who lay, by appearances, dead.

Christ responded by immediately walking with Jairus toward his home accompanied by a large group of people who “thronged” the Lord, or surrounded him closely, as he walked. During this journey a woman who had suffered for 12 years with an issue of blood, saw an opportunity.

She had consulted physicians who gladly took everything she had for payment while doing nothing to solve her problem. Having heard of Jesus and His miracles, the woman pressed forward and fought her way through the crowd where she touched the hem of Christ’s robe because she had sensed that by doing nothing more, she would be healed. She made the contact and she was healed. She might have simply slipped back out of the group and thanked God privately for the wonderful blessing had not the Lord turned and asked “Who touched my clothes?” (Mark 5:30)

The apostles were a little perplexed by the questions. They said, in effect, “Lord, don’t you see this huge mob of people all around you? They are all touching your clothes!” The Savior then turned and looked directly at the woman. Thinking she was in trouble and afraid, she gathered the courage to come before Him, kneel before Him and confess that she was the guilty party and why she had done it.

The Lord then taught a profound lesson. He told her that is was her faith in Him that had healed her. Not His infinite power, not the priesthood. Not even the Father, but the simple faith of a troubled woman. He then told her, in Mark’s version of the incident, to go in peace and remain whole of her plague.

This incident was also noted by both Matthew and Luke, but only Mark indicates that she was both immediately relieved of the malady because of her faith and then followed that faith healing by a permanent blessing of health by His power and priesthood.

Today I want to focus less on the miracles and more something I think might be missed by some as it was by me for years. And that is the proximity of those recipients of the miracles to the Lord.

The Gerasene demoniac was healed only after he came near the Savior, Jairus fell at the Lord’s feet and the woman made her way near enough to His that she could touch His clothes.

Too often, I think, we make the mistake of believing that faith is a feeling or even an emotion when, in fact, faith in Christ is a driving force of energy designed to not only bless the faithful but also the faithless; and it is a choice...

The gentiles of Gennesaret who marveled at the story told by the man freed from the demons – a man they had known and cast out from their midst to living in the rocks near the shore of the sea – were blessed by the faith of one man who, even when overcome by legions of demons, ran to worship the Lord and then obediently did His bidding to return to his people and tell the miraculous story.

Can there be any doubt that the woman healed after touching the hem of the Lord’s garment, while reluctant to face Him, would have broadcast her miracle to all who would listen?

Immediately after the woman was healed and sent on her way, a servant of Jairus came and informed him that his daughter had died and that there was no longer any need to trouble the Master.

How often have many of us, during the dark times when we have lost hope, determine that there is no longer any need to trouble the Master because we are too far gone, too dead to the things of God? Worse yet, how many times have we made that judgment aloud or in our hearts about others who wander on crooked paths?

Jairus remained at the side of Christ to hear the comforting words “Be not afraid, only believe.” (Mark 5:36)

Our Savior and our Father are both keenly aware of our human tendency toward fear and they are just as aware of how quickly simple faith can remove the fear. It is also our proximity to the Savior that strengthens faith just as our faith weakens when we distance ourselves from Him.

To a nervous Israelite army, the Lord promised: “Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the LORD thy God, he [it is] that doth go with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.” (Deuteronomy 31:6)

It was that same people who, when they were disobedient, distanced themselves from Jehovah by that disobedience and found themselves without faith and without victory. General Achan’s army is a good example of what occurs when people distance themselves from the safe harbor of obedience and faith.

The Lord had commanded Joshua to send a force of three thousand men to take the city of Ai which, of itself, was unimportant militarily but combined with the gentile armies of Bethel, it was a serious threat to Israel.

What should have been an easy victory, however, turned into a devastating defeat of Israel and this because of the actions of one man who, seeing something he wanted, took, in a previous battle, spoils of great value but things which the Lord had forbidden the army to take.

Achan was confronted by Joshua and he was forced to confess his sin. He was punished – rather severely, I might add – and Joshua, following the direction of the Lord, headed a large force himself and took the city of Ai.

As occurred with those who had followed Achan in the first battle and were killed, we too are occasionally harmed by the actions of others, for we cannot enjoy the blessings of agency while avoiding the consequences. Even in those trying times, however, if we remain proximate with the Savior, we can find peace in faith and have no fear.

King Lamoni and his brother Anti-Nephi-Lehi and all their righteous subjects had determined they would honor a covenant they had made with God to refuse to raise their arms against their brethren and they buried their weapons deep in the earth knowing a force of non-believing Lamanites, who had been stirred up by apostate Nephites, was about to attack.

In the 24th chapter of Alma we read:

“Now when the people saw that they were coming against them they went out to meet them, and prostrated themselves before them to the earth, and began to call on the name of the Lord; and thus they were in this attitude when the Lamanites began to fall upon them, and began to slay them with the sword.

And thus without meeting any resistance, they did slay a thousand and five of them; and we know that they are blessed, for they have gone to dwell with their God.” (verses 21-22)

So, the scriptures are replete with examples of the relationship between faith and both the spiritual and physical proximity to Christ; and with rare exception, the one who makes the initial step that closes the gap between him or herself and Christ, is the seeking man, woman or child. In the 88th section of the Doctrine and Covenants, the Lord instructs:

“And again, verily I say unto you, my friends, I leave these sayings with you to ponder in your hearts, with this commandment which I give unto you, that ye shall call upon me while I am near -- Draw near unto me and I will draw near unto you; seek me diligently and ye shall find me; ask, and ye shall receive; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.” (D&C 88:62-63)

In this revelation referred to by Joseph Smith as the "Olive Leaf… plucked from the Tree of Paradise." (DHC 1:316), the Lord recognizes the fact that far too often we only call upon the Lord when we are in dire straits, distanced from Him by our own pride and human rebellions. Thus He commands us to call upon Him while He is near. He also instructs us in the process of bringing ourselves proximate with Him.

To come unto Christ and, as Moroni says, be perfected in Him, means to move in His direction, becoming more like Him, step by step. Delaying will not lessen the vast distance to be traveled. Procrastinating will not bring the emergence of new alternatives. All the anxiety and energy expended in milling about does not move us one inch forward on the path of discipleship. Unless we remove ourselves from what the prophet Joel described as the valley of decision, we cannot hope to move toward Christ and, in turn, hope for Him to move closer to us. We must choose either to resume or begin the journey and we must take the first step. I am convinced that the steps Christ takes in response, however, are not proportional to ours. I am convinced that He stands ready to run toward those who are doing no more than inching their way in His direction. He is eager to bridge the gap which, in all cases is one that can be narrowed by our faith and works but never bridged without the merciful grace of Christ through His infinite Atonement. When those Nephites who survived the devastation at the time of the crucifixion gathered themselves together and began to discuss Christ…just discuss the signs associated with His death! – Christ bridged the gap between time and space to succor them in person. I believe He can and will do the same for each of us. I know He has for me.

Recently I was watching a news program in which several of the victims of the tragedy at Virginia Tech were profiled. I was moved to tears and then I began sobbing almost uncontrollably. I felt deep sorrow for the pain suffered by both the killer and his victims and the families that survived them all. I wondered what possibly could have happened to the young man that would have filled him with such vile hatred for everyone and I had no answers; but I did find comfort in the Savior’s invitation to come unto Him and to take His yoke. I also remembered His profound counsel to a suffering Joseph:

“…if thou shouldst be cast into the pit, or into the hands of murderers, and the sentence of death passed upon thee; if thou be cast into the deep; if the billowing surge conspire against thee; if fierce winds become thine enemy; if the heavens gather blackness, and all the elements combine to hedge up the way; and above all, if the very jaws of hell shall gape open the mouth wide after thee, know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good.

The Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than he?

Therefore, hold on thy way, and the priesthood shall remain with thee; for their bounds are set, they cannot pass. Thy days are known, and thy years shall not be numbered less; therefore, fear not what man can do, for God shall be with you forever and ever.” (D&C 122:7-9 – emphasis is mine)

What a promise! What a blessing!

I pray that we may all begin to move nearer and nearer the Savior and that, as we do, we move nearer and nearer each other that together we might have God with is forever and ever.

While Shepherds Watched...

Originally written on December 27, 2005

I spent Christmas Eve with two sons, a daughter, two daughters-in-law, my wife, of course, and four grandchildren.

My day started early because I had to meet a friend to pick of the smoked brisket he had hauled from Tulsa so I could keep our Oklahoma Yuletime tradition alive in Utah. He has a condo in Park City where his first and second families gather for the holidays - Both he and his wife have been married twice and between them there are 14 children and a dozen braces of grandchildren. The oldest daughter in family #2 was arriving on an early flight from Rexburg thus we met in one of the parking lots at the airport.

It was great to see my old friend and his daughter. When I taught Course 16 in Sunday School, Chalice was one of my favorite kids. Now she is 21 and a stunning beauty... even after taking an Idaho redeye.

From there, Deb, Bubba and I decided to find someplace for breakfast and ended up at our favorite hole in the wall, the Star Cafe in Layton.

The Star is one of those diners where old men gather at large, tables and talk of things they never speak of at home, in front of the womenfolk. Partly because women often just don't get it but more often because they so get it and don't approve. It's the kind of place where round, weary waitresses with teeth colored by Lucky Strikes, can carry dozens of hot plates up both arms and four cups of steaming coffee and disperse it all without spilling a drop.

The food is good... truck stop good, but without the parking problems. It's not so tasty, though, to make it a destination were it not for the entertainment.

That morning, sitting behind us in a booth. two grizzled dads and their adult sons swapped lies about trout and mule deer and made profane bets on who was the best shot. To my left there was a large table with 10 men crammed around it. They were dressed for work; construction or a road crew perhaps and of varying ages from the seasoned foreman to the young gopher... who had, by the way, purple hair. In the hour we were there not one of them made any jokes about it from that table, although the fellows behind me made one or two.

Deb had Pigs in a Blanket and I had a hamburger steak with three eggs overeasy and hashbrowns. I tried to order the steak medium-rare but was told behind a wink and a grin, I couldn't get it that way because it was hamburger. It was delivered as ordered so if I get Mad Cow, you know who is to blame.

Full as ticks, Deb and I went home and she started baking her famous Hidden Mint and Hidden Peanut Butter cookies. I won't go into the recipe here but I will say they are effing good. Too effing good. Effing dangerously good whe you're a diabetic!

I made up three BBQ sauces to go with the brisket and we took a much needed nap.

At 4:00 PM we left Clearfield and drove to Provo to pick up Mary. BYUTV never sleeps, so we picked her up at the station and headed back home. She brought presents to pass and her laundry. At 8:00 PM we knocked on Sam's door and were greeting by sugar-controlled grandkids and our California son, Matt with his new wife Laura... as well as Kathy and Sam.

Sam sliced the ham as I did the same to the brisket while Deb, Mary and Kathy spread all the other food around the serving counter. There were pies, cakes, cookies, and candies of all varieties; there was potato salad, green bean cassarole, funeral spuds, Brussell's sprouts and baby lima beans (my favorite); there was egg nog and ginger ale; root beer and lemonade; there was German rye, Swedish pumpernickle, and Irish soda breads... There was, simply put, too much.

As has been our family tradition over the years, we then opened all the presents. Matt, who is the oldest of my children, asked where the tradition came from and I explained that it came from my inability to wait until Christmas morning coupled with my desire to sleep in but it really came out of necessity when we were a young family trying to decide when we could do our own Christmas when both sets of parents were unwilling to leave us alone on Christmas day.

When my kids were little, Deb would load them all in the car and take them to see all the lights on Christmas Eve while I stayed home and brought all the gifts out of their hiding places, assembling those which needed assembly. Then I would join them at a designated spot - Christmas Card Lane in Kalamazoo or Temple Square in Utah. Last Saturday we all just went downstairs into the family room. The exchange of gifts was delightful and long... We got back home around 1:00 AM and with early Church, there was no sleeping in.

I am the only tenor in our ward choir. Oh, there are four other men who sit in the tenor section, however three of them sing melody and the fourth, who sits directly to my right, sings something else. It's close to the tenor part, but always about a 1/4 pitch off the mark. But he sings it with gusto! fortunately the sopranos and altos are strong enough to make people forget about the pickles in the tenor section and the basses, although hesitant, can carry their parts. All in all, it was a good program performed as well as can be expected. The we took Mary back to Provo as she had to be back at work at 11:45 AM... BYUTV!

Sunday evening we returned to Sams for our traditional Italian meal. Mary was gone as were Matt and Laura, so it was quieter. The kids will still wired, of course, and Hunter had broken Spencer's toy Jeep simply because it was bigger than the RC car we had given Hunter. I suggested to Hunter that, if he wanted to break toys, that he reserve it for his own and Sam explained that Hunter had been given a cold shower for his actions and that Spencer's Jeep could be super-glued. But I knew better. Nobody ever super-glues broken toys and during the rare times they do, the kids never think of them the same. That Jeep will forever be the Jeep Hunter broke on Christmas day; exactly like my ukelele... the one I got for Christmas in 1963... broken by my two year-old sister on Christmas Day. So yesterday Deb and I found another Jeep at the store and delivered it to Spencer. Of course Hannah and Hunter pitched a small fit because they didn't get an extra present.

Aside from that little adventure yesterday, Deb and I stayed home where I slaughtered her is a game of Super Scrabble (A gift from Matt) and we watched Charlie and the Chocolate Factory followed immediately by Quigley Down Under on On-Demand. Depp was a litte freaky and I couldn't understand 80% of the lyrics, but DAMN, that little English kid is cute!

My daughter Erin sent me a bluegrass CD. I put it in the player at about 9:00 PM last night and listed to the various artists play Christmas music. The cut by Union Station was a great rendition of "While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night". I dozed off in my big, leather chair wondering if I were a watchful shepherd or one of the sheep who needed watching. I went into dreamland thinking I am both.

Regret

I suppose most thinking people have regrets. It's possible, however, that only I have regrets and offer their existence as universal in some propitious effort to mollify my personal responsibility for all the purely selfish things I have done which have scarred those I claimed to love or have loved. Yet, because I not only regret things I have done but also regret many things that have been done to me, I reiterate my suggestion that we all fall short of perfection, though some, like me, far shorter than others.

For me regrets, like sins, can be either mortal or venial. It's not as though the venial one's don't count but they are nearly impossible to distinguish when lined up beside the mortal ones. Still, in the process of purification in which humans ought to be actively engaged, as we resolve the mortal regrets and repent, the lesser ones get bigger and brighter and louder.

For the first 29 years of my life I had the notion that personal perfection was within my grasp if I could just overcome the slings and arrows of the flesh and mortality. My motivation was clearly misguided, however. The drive toward goodness was fed by my fear of punishment.

When I was a child I tried always to tell the truth, get good grades, watch all the "P's" and "Q's" and be a good boy so my mother wouldn't scream and hit me and so she wouldn't report my infractions to my father who would, without screaming, do his part to follow the lead established by Torquemada and torture the devil out of me in ingeniously insidious ways. I didn't know my mother was mentally ill then nor did I know my father was a sadist. I thought all parents were the same and, therefore, tried to be pure before all of them. I was successful with all except my own who, even when I was truly innocent, could color my innocence in purple grey until I would confess sin I had not committed.

At 15, my father stuck me for the last time although my mother remained insane for 3 more decades. At 15 I decided realized I was physically bigger and stronger than my father and, apparently, so did he. His dungeon deeds became confined to his imagination while my mother's white rages, though worse and worse, were aimed at him and my younger sisters because I had learned how to become invisible.

For the next 14 years, however, I continued trying to be perfect but still with mangled motivation. If I were the best at everything, everyone would love me... What choice would they have?

During those years I had enjoyed some sweet communion with God but that wasn't even a factor most of the time.

A short time before my 30th birthday I had an evil ephiphany. I determined that I had wasted a lot of years trying to pretend to be something I was not; something no one can be... And this was the birth of the list of my mortal regrets.

I could list them but I won't.

To those I hurt during my decade of debauchery, I offer my deepest apologies; knowing how truly inadequate the gesture is. I cannot take any of it back no matter how I wish I could. So all I can do is pray for a few pearls in the mud.

I can hope what I did the many I love toughened them without destroying them. Since I know and am in contact with most, I believe, for the most part, that that is correct. Unlike the father of the boy named Sue, however, I left you no legacy to help you along. That came from others who were there when I was not; either spiritually, physically, or both.

For the better part of the past 2 decades I have been trying daily to repent. I have felt the sweet consolation of forgiveness from those who should not have been able to forgive. I have yearned for the same from others who are distant; others who must feel abandoned. But that yearning is not a selfish one, as it once would have been, but rather borne from the knowledge that forgiving heals the offended as well as the offender.

My motivation is also better now. I have felt the arms of God around me at my lowest, weakest moment and learned that He loves me not just in spite of my sins, but even, a little, because of them. He has purchased me with His stripes with no motivation other than love for me. Now, I try to repay Him for the same reason.

I once was lost but am finding my way back; was blind, but am beginning to see.

Unlike Sinatra whose regrets are too few to mention, mine are legion... too many to mention. But my joy is growing until, I am sure, it will, one day, be complete. My hope is for those whom I have injured, that they can find a way to forgive and find that same joy.

Schnitzel with Noodles

As a second entry today, I was inspired by two daughters to list my favorite things. I will attempt to do it to the meter of the song itself...

Some of My Favorite Things (sung to the tune of Maria Von Trapp's Favorite Things)

Late nights with Debra and her gentle snoring,
Movies and sitcoms and books that ain't boring,
Carne asada with salsa that ZINGS;
These are just some of my favorite things.

Fly fishing, worm fishing, fishing in general,
Chicken from Sanders, including the gristle,
Funny, clean jokes and plucking my strings,
These are just some of my favorite things!

When my back hurts; when my head aches; when my memory sucks,
When I remember some of these things, I feel like a million bucks.

Granddaughters, grandsons, children and in-laws,
I think of them fondly forgetting they have flaws.
Orbison, Elvis whenever they sing,
These are just some of my favorite things.

When the dog craps in the front room and I step in it,
These things I remember they help me recall, it's only some tiny sh*t!!!

With that, the following is another paroday of that famous song:

A FEW OF THE TESTIMONIES
Parody of "My Favorite Things" from Rodgers and Hammerstein's The Sound of Music Lyrics by M. Spaff Sumsion

Brother Johansen says God fixed his prostate
Sister Hill wails that her son's gone apostate
Missy Brown details her trip to Belize
These are a few of the testimonies

Brother Stone calls his ex-wife to repentance
Sister Dean can't form a blubber-free sentence
Ammon Smith's grateful the Jazz beat the Kings
These are a few of the Fast Meeting things

There's unchaste movies at Wal-Mart in Layton
Hillary Clinton's a minion of Satan
God loves you just a bit less if you're gay
These are some nuggets I've picked up today

When this low-key Karaoke
Shows how odd we are
I simply remember I'm not Warren Jeffs
And then I don't feel bizarre

Madison cries that her mom flushed her turtle
Then she announces her daddy's infertile
Tyler loves Jesus and recess and peas
These are a few of the testimonies

Elder Jones gripes that less-actives frustrate 'im
Nine CTR's thank the same things verbatim
Brother McPhie knows Rush Limbaugh is true
And The Da Vinci Code may well be too

Sister Cabell says the United Nations
Must be the beast from the book Revelations
Folks squirm through dubious doctrine and then
Everyone drowsily mumbles "Amen"

When euphor-ya
Starts to bore ya
Here's the thing that's sweet:
Each talk brings us nearer Hymn 152
And then we go home to eat!

Clams, Crabs and Worries of Napalm

Near the Straits of Juan de Fuca there is a bay called Dungeness and the narrow strip of land the borders the western side of the bay leads to a wonderful place called Dungeness Spit. When I was a kid my three best friends and I would camp on the northeastern tip of the spit at least once every two months.

Near the Straits of Juan de Fuca there is a bay called Dungeness and the narrow strip of land the borders the western side of the bay leads to a wonderful place called Dungeness Spit. When I was a kid my three best friends and I would camp on the northeastern tip of the spit at least once every two months. Earl, Beezer, Lyman and I attended Shorecrest High School and we had been drawn together by both the Church (Ed "Beezer" Vail, and me), wrestling (Earl Dennis who was a childhood friend to Beezer, and me) and baseball (Lyman Momeny, Earl Dennis, and me). Of the four, I was the FNG as all the others had been born and raised in the area and all of us were a little damaged. My damage came from a mother who, a few months after moving to the neighborhood, had a severe nervous breakdown and had to be institutionalized for a time. Earl was one of two boys whose father had died young, when Earl, the oldest of the two, was about six. His mom had never remarried but had an active social life on top of a full-time job and, therefore, was never around. Beezer was the fourth oldest of 13 children born to Bonnie Vail, an extremely active member of the Church and Ed Sr., an apostate who had bankrupted three businesses by the time I met him. Lyman was the oldest of two boys being raised by an alcoholic grandmother and a mother who struggled with drug addiction. In some schools, we might have been just a few of many such stories, but not in Shorecrest. Although the term would not be coined for years, Shorecrest was Yuppieville, populated by young Boeing up and comers who made a lot of money and wanted everyone to know it. Thus is was that the four of us, because of some common interests but more from a common need to be a part of something stable, were drawn together from January of 1968 until May of 1969. We called ourselves The Black Watch.

Our first campout on the peninsula came after a whimsical decision to digs some clams and because the only ferry left that Friday afternoon was headed to Sequim. We took sleeping bags, some sandwiches, two clam spades and a bucket, some matches and our ever-present rain gear. It was my first experience at clamming but I learned quickly that those little bastards can swim through sand faster than logic dictates is possible.

The process is simple. You walk down the beach and look for a stream of water to shoot from the sand and then you dig deep and fast. When you get good at it, you will almost always capture the prize... A razor clam. On this first adventure, as the tide went out, we could see big crabs in the shallows. Not big as in Alaskan King or Snow crab but bigger than the blues one sees in the East or among the Greens and Kona crabs in Hawaii.

Someone shouted "BUGS!" and Earl ran into the water and grabbed one.

That night we divided the clams into two piles; one to boil and the other to eat on the half-shell. Earl, clearly the expert here, filled the bucket with seawater and we put in on the campfire. When the water rolled to a boil, he dumped in the clams and gently inserted the Dungeness crab. As soon as the crab submerged, he pulled the bucket from the fire, explaining that when the water was cool enough that we could get a hand in and out without causing severe damage, the clams and the crab would be ready to eat.

Today, the place we camped is part of a national wildlife refuge and the rest of the area is inhabited by the wealthy. But then, the only people who lived there were poor, day-laborers who worked when they could or rangers assigned to the Olympic National Park/Forest.

Our campfire attracted the attention of four boys; all about 10 years old and all of African American heritage. They watched me struggle with my penknife to pry open a stubborn razor and offered to shuck the raw ones for a penny each. So there we sat; around a pretty good beach fire, sucking down slick, salty clams and burning our fingers on the boiled ones, telling stories which were mostly true, jokes that were mostly blue and never once mentioning the turmoil we were all suffering so silently.

Earl carefully divided the crab in four parts... As equal as possible and we cracked the shells with our younger and stronger teeth and sucked out the most delicious meat to come from the oceans. Then we crawled into our sleeping bags and talked in low tones until we all fell asleep, probably mid-sentence. We went home the next day and vowed to do it again... Soon.

The next time we prepared better. I loaded by Rambler wagon with the family tent, a Coleman stove, some food, and all the cooking gear squirreled away in our garage. We tied all the sleeping bags to the top of the car along with some nylon, swimming pool rope and some chicken wire. Before we went to the ferry, we drove to the docks in Seattle to buy some salmon heads from the fishermen, put them in a cooler and headed north.

Once on the Spit, I put up the tent while Earl built a make-shift crab pot out of the chicken wire and Beezer and Lyman attacked the Razor clams and any of the larger and sweeter Butter clams they might stumble upon. When the pot was built and the tent up, Earl and I waded into the water, grabbing a crab or two as we went, then, at a place Earl thought would be good, he hurled the pot, which had been attached to the rope and filled with salmon heads, as far as he could into the bay. Later the same boys showed up, as they would everytime we we there, and shucked our clams for a penny and listened, or pretended to, to our tales.

In the morning, Earl waded to the place where he had staked the rope the evening before and pulled in the crab pot. In it were 4 crabs and 2 starfish. We freed the starfish and boiled the crabs. When they were done, Earl pulled the meat from the bright red bugs while I cooked a big, cast-iron skillet of scrambled eggs. He tossed the crab into the eggs and I served them up with slices of American cheese. That particular dish became known as Quantz' Crab Scramble and, although the ingredients changed from time to time (onions, celery, etc. etc.) it was basically the same breakfast we would have until we parted in the summer of 1969.

As our tradition grew, so did the depth of our conversations. Little by little our painful secrets would slip out until we all knew all there was to know about the things which may have been better to have remained unspoken. At some point during early 1969, we qualified to enter the lottery... The winners of this lottery, however, were those who came in last. It was the second annual Selective Service Lottery. My birthday was drawn as number 326 of 365 which that all the old men and girls would be drafted before they got to me. Lymans was high as well and Earls was in the 200's; but Beezer scored well at number 34.

On our last Dungeness outing, Beezer's plight made our final campout gloomier than the Pacific Northwest Sky in the winter. On top of everything else, one of our team was likely going to Vietnam. Sure, Beezer could put it off for a couple of years if he served a mission but in those days only dweebs and Utah guys served missions. Besides, Beezer didn't have a window to dispose of his urine and his folks sure couldn't afford to finance his mission.

On that beach, that night, I think I experienced my first miracle but didn't know it until the very moment I wrote this sentence. The other three of us made a commitment to Beezer. Lyman, with no religion, Earl, a pretty devout Catholic and me, the other Mormon, promised to pay for Beezer's mission if he wanted to go. Beezer, however, his nickname notwithstanding, was no dweeb.

That last night we paid the boys two dollars and stuffed ourselves with clams and boiled crab then fell asleep without the typical banter. I, at least, whispered a silent prayer with the hope it might actually go somewhere. In the morning, I made the Crab Scramble and we loaded up my wagon and headed for the ferry.

We stood together on the upper deck and watched the shoreline of our camping spot disappear. Without saying so, we all understood that this was the end of something very, very special; something that could never be duplicated but something that would always be remembered and cherished; something that would prove to have been a significant part of the foundations of our characters. All of us were defined, just a little, by our hours on the beaches of Dungeness Spit.

Two months later I was on my way to Kansas, Lyman went to work for an uncle somewhere near Moses Lake and Earl accepted a partial scholarship to a small college in Oregon. A few months after that, Boeing crashed and the Vail family - Beezer's tribe - packed up and moved to Salt Lake City where Ed enrolled at the University of Utah and started a house framing business that would earn him enough money to finance his mission (he went to Brazil the same week I went to Guatemala... we two dweebs). I forgot to mention that I baptized Lyman and he too went on a mission... to Los Angeles. Earl remained stanchly Catholic and staunchly single until he was 30 years old and had become the mobile home tsar of Seattle.

Beezer returned from his mission and joined the Marines who paid for him to finish school before active duty. He became a fighter pilot... just as his dad had been in Korea. Lyman married the daughter of a real estate mogul he had met on his mission and moved to Burbank. When I left the Church both he and Beezer stopped talking to me and Earl was so busy he didn't have time enough. I have lost track of Beezer but Lyman had an affair, got disfellowshipped, decided he wouldn't return to the Church and started talking to me again. We speak about once a year.

We are all old men now... or at least what we would have called old on that beach near Sequim, but I am convinced the flavor of clams and crab boiled in Puget Sound brine still lingers on the backs of our tongues in firmly in the warm corners of our memories.