Making my Proper Contribution

I've become a big believer in running the Church more like a volunteer organization¹. I've talked about this before². There's something to be said for trying to match people to performing responsibilities at church in which they are interested and find fulfilment.

Reality gets in the way sometimes though. For example, based on the reports I've heard from leaders of the children's organization (we call it Primary) at my congregation, it seems that there are really very few people who want to work in Primary, and hardly any more that are willing to work in Primary.  One of our friends was talking about this with Janelle one day and--apparently exasperated by the constant search for people willing to take on the enormous inconvenience--declared "If you don't want to work in Primary, stop having children."

(No really, it wasn't me who came up with that.)

Her reasoning was genius.  Children enter into Primary when they are 18 months old.  They remain in Nursery until the January 1st following their third birthday, and then they progress through different age-based classes until they turn twelve.  All told, they spend about ten and a half years in primary.  For our purposes, we're going to truncate this to ten  years of Primary time for each child.

Now let's assume that the usual class size is about five children (there is undoubtedly a wide variance here, but for most of the young ages, five children seems like a good class size for amateur teachers).  Lastly, we'll assume that we would like to have two teachers per class³.  For a class of five children to go through ten years of Primary with two teachers, you would need to staff 20 teacher-years⁴.  If we are fortunate enough that all five of those hypothetical children have two parents, then you would have a pool of ten parents to staff 20 teacher years.

Now, do the math--if the parents of the children are going to carry the load of staffing Primary (as is customary in most volunteer organizations), then for each child a parent has in Primary, the parent should expect to contribute two years of time teaching.

To put this in personal terms, I have two children.  Thus, I should expect that I will spend four years teaching in Primary, and that Janelle will also spend four years teaching in Primary.

The total time spent will vary, of course.  Perhaps your Primary only uses one teacher per class--cut the number of teacher years in half.  If the class sizes are larger, the total time per parent will decrease.  If the class sizes are smaller, the total number of time will increase.  If you have some parents who are willing, eager, and enjoy working in Primary, they can stay in Primary and other parents will carry a lighter load.

But at some point, somewhere along the way, if you have kids in Primary, you should expect to be staffing Primary for 1-2 years per child⁵.

I'm not really sure how a declaration like this would be received.  After all, the way volunteers are recruited in the Church has a bit of a mystical veil over it.  Making the claim that parents should be expected to carry the weight of the weekly church-based instruction kind of flies in the face of the "called by inspiration" model.  I imagine this has helped create the current culture of dreading and avoiding Primary callings but grudgingly accepting because turning down any responsibility in the Church is a sign of diminished faith⁶.

The reality is simple.  Children need to be taught at church, and adults will be needed to do the teaching.  If you have children, you can't fairly expect to pass off your kids to a volunteer organization each week and never contribute.  So if you have children, don't be surprised or horrified when your number comes up.  You did this to yourself⁷.

=================

Going back and making this personal now: I have two children in Primary.  And I have yet to spend a day in Primary.  You could make the case that I'm not making my proper contribution to the Church.

Perhaps that will change now that I've just been released from my responsibilities in the Sunday School.  Sure, I can think of a handful of responsibilities I'd rather take on other than teaching children.  But I look back over the responsibilities I've had in the past decade, and let's face it: I've had an incredibly good streak of really enjoyable (for me) responsibilities.  I think it's time I started to pull my own weight around here, don't you?

Oh, and if anyone in my Primary Presidency reads this, I've actually really enjoyed spending time in nursery when I've been there the past few months--especially with the youngest kids.  Just saying.

So please--PLEASE--grab me up before the bishop asks me to do something truly terrible; like working with adults.



¹ Probably because it is a volunteer organization
² See my posts about Informed Inspiration here, here, and here.
³ I suspect this is not standard operating procedure through most of the LDS Church, but it seems to make a difference on the stress level felt by the teachers. If this isn't how your congregation operates, perhaps you should consider it.
⁴ A 'teacher-year' is a unit of time that measures the amount time a teacher is on active duty. If you have two teachers in a class for exactly one year, you have staffed 2 teacher-years.
⁵ I will say, however, that the more children a parent has, the closer this number should get to 1 year. Imagine, for instance, a family with six kids. If each parent worked 12 years in Primary, they may only get about 3-4 years outside of Primary, and I don't think that's necessarily healthy for their own development. It is no doubt a complicated balance to find. Open communication with leaders about balancing the needs of the congregation with the needs of the individuals is always crucial.
⁶ Gag!
⁷ This does not, however, give ward leaders justification to guilt or manipulate people in to service. I'm grateful that the leaders in my ward are sensitive and compassionate toward the needs of individuals, and I hope leaders across the world will show that same compassion.

What Makes a Really Good Day at Church?

I had a scout campout this weekend.  We went to a scout camp nearby, shot guns, threw knives, and launched softballs out of a six-foot slingshot.  It was awesome.

I got nervous, though, because I realized I had forgotten to make arrangements for someone to teach the youth Sunday School class¹. I managed to make way to church in time to teach a lesson, but only with 10 minutes to spare.  And I was wearing the clothes I had been wearing to the campout.  In my defense, I put on my newest shirt.  It really was the best thing I had to wear.  I hadn't shaved in two days, my hair was matted and probably nasty looking.

So anyway, I walk in to the church and hang out by the classroom I'm expecting to teach in.  I see some of the students, and this is the conversation we had.

"Are you teaching us today?"

"I thought I was, but I just saw I have an e-mail from [teacher] that says she's going to be here and teaching today."

"REALLY!  Oh that's so awesome!"

They completely lost any interest in anything I might have to say.  And I was completely dead to them as soon as they saw the little newborn.  It was a good moment.

I went to Sunday School for the first time in...I can't remember the last time I went to a Sunday School class.   I didn't stay long.  I got up to check that the baby wasn't being a problem in the other class.  No problems there.  I took a moment to recommend a second teacher for that class (something I should have done weeks ago, apparently).

Next I got pulled away by a member of the bishopric.  I was informed that they had recruited a new Sunday School president, and, although I had been assisting the former president, I was not being retained in the new leadership.  I have mixed feelings about that, but there's really nothing to be done, and I don't feel like going into it right now.  What struck me as funny was the counselor who informed me and thanked me for my time then asked me, "so what other callings² do you have right now?  I'm sure you're doing three or four."

Technically, I do have one other calling, but it kind of went defunct over a year ago, so effectively, with the termination of the Sunday School service, I have no official volunteerism in the congregation.  When I said as much, the counselor stated, "That's odd.  It seems like you're always doing something, or someone is always looking for you."

Yes, I'm bragging.  Because I felt good right then.

There were two other moments that really made my day at church. First, one of the women caught me in the hall.  "You just got back from camping, didn't you?"  The tone made it clear that this was a statement, not a real question.

"Is it that obvious?" I asked.

Her eyes scanned me from head to toe, then back up again.  "Yes." she declared.  The she sniffed the air.  "But I can't smell you, so that's good."  And then she went about her business.  I was highly amused.

Lastly, when I sat down in the chapel for Sacrament meeting, I noticed the Deacon's Quorum President coming down the aisle.  It is his responsibility to recruit other priesthood holders to help distribute the sacramental bread and water to the congregation, and since he's somewhat familiar with me, it isn't uncommon for him to ask me to help.  He approached my pew.  I made eye contact, and I saw his lips start to move.  For a second, I thought, He's totally going to ask me to pass the sacrament in my gross camping clothes.  Then he thought better of it.  But the near-invitation still made me smile.

========

Next month's camping trip will probably be close enough that I'll be able to make it back in time for church.  It's a bit of a bonus for me; the choir is singing that day.  I'm wondering if I should pack something traditionally-church-appropriate or wear the usual camping clothes.  Perhaps I should buy a shirt like this one and wear that for the choir performance.  Put it to a vote?



¹ The usual teacher has been in enjoying (enduring? tolerating?) postpartum recovery and I've been coordinating/teaching her class in her absence. Ironically, after making the effort to get back in time to teach, I showed up to find her making her return appearance. It was a happy reunion for all of them.
² In LDS terminology, a calling is an invitation to volunteer in some capacity of the congregation's administrative or ministerial arm.

I'd Like Another Offspring. I Don't Want Another Child.

First of all, don't panic, Janelle.  Everything I'm about to write is something you've heard me say before.

I recently read some thoughts from an anonymous internet user contemplating whether he should have another child.  As I got to thinking about what he wrote, I decided that airing why I have chosen not to have more children might be amusing.  At least to some.  Undoubtedly, some of you will find it horrifying.

I have two of the most precious and adorable daughters you are ever going to meet.  I say that completely objectively.  Really.  Stop rolling your eyes.

My older daughter, Bug, is just over five and a half years old, and Byrd is just about to turn two.  I can honestly say that the past four years of my life have been the most fun and exciting years I have ever lived.

Are you doing the math?  I can hear some of you thinking.  "Wait a minute?  His daughter is five years old and he only counts the last four as the most exciting years of his life?"  Yeah.  News flash: the first year and a half isn't all that exciting.

So let me be perfectly candid.  Bug and Byrd are the first two children in my life that I have ever really liked.  Most other children I merely tolerate.  I just don't really care for children.  They're fun in small doses, and it's nice that they exist.  But I want them to be someone else's problem--I don't want to spend any significant amount of time with children¹.

That starts to change about the time that they turn 13.  Hopefully, none of my young scouts will read this, because I don't really even enjoy the 11 and 12 year olds.  They're still too child like.  But about the time they hit that first growth spurt, develop real physical strength, and begin to explore the world through the eyes of a budding young adult--that's exciting!  I love being around for that.

But I'm only willing to endure so much of children in order to experience their lives as teenagers and adults.  Which is a big reason I'm not having more children.  And now, for your enjoyment, a list of the four biggest reasons I have given to my wife for why I will not have any more children (don't worry, we're in agreement on this topic--unless she's changed her mind in the past couple of weeks, in which case, things will be really awkward at home tonight).

1. I refuse to deal with another newborn.  After Byrd was born, Janelle ended up taking a trip to California to visit family.  She took the then three-week-old Byrd with her and was gone for about 10 days or so.  Up to that point, I thought I was adapting to having a newborn in the house pretty well.  I had at one point thought to myself, "I must be an awesome parent.  I don't feel all that phased by this whole new-baby thing."  After they left, I felt like a completely different person.  I had energy and motivation.  I felt alive.  Then, after 10 days of solid sleep, Janelle and Byrd came home and for the next three weeks I felt like crap.  I'm not putting myself through that again.
2. I only marginally enjoy the first 18 months.  Byrd is about to turn two.  It's only been the past six months that I've had much interest in her, or even seen her as a person.  The way I feel about her now is an entirely different universe compared to how I felt about her 8 months ago.  I don't think I have the will to endure another 18 months of only obligingly caring about the food processor bundled up in the blanket.  
3. I don't want another daughter.  I repeat, I do not want another daughter.  I might be able to convince myself to overcome items 1 and 2 on this list if I could be guaranteed a boy. But I know the probability is still 0.50 and if I were to have a third daughter, it would just be a child I didn't want.  That's extremely unfair to the child².
4. I feel like I'm at the limit of what I can handle emotionally.  At least with children.  I could probably take on three teenagers without a problem.  But this childhood stuff is hard on me. I just don't enjoy it enough to do it with a third. 

There are a number of other reasons I could list, but they are far more personal than I'm willing to share.  

¹ Though I say this, the past few months, whenever I've dropped Byrd off at the nursery in church, I've stayed to help when there are more screaming children than there are adults in the room. And I rather enjoy helping calm the children and encouraging them to play instead of wailing for mom and dad. But that's probably the difference between meaningful service and living with the brat [there has been some concern raised that my casual and irreverent humor doesn't come across well in my use of the word 'brat' here.  It's nothing personal; and is meant to reflect the difference in attitudes we feel between our own children and other people's children].

² Yes, I know I'd get over that once the kid was actually born. But this isn't about what life would be like then. It's about how I feel now.

Sixty Stripling Warriors

I only expect those with a keen interest in Book of Mormon trivia would catch this reference.  More people are familiar with the Two Thousand Stripling Warriors¹. The Sixty Warriors may very well be much more interesting than the Two Thousand.  And that's saying something, because the Two Thousand are a pretty interesting case of manipulative teenage behavior gone right.

Yeah, you want me to explain that one.  Well, keep reading.

lds.org

The whole things starts with the People of Ammon (or the people ruled by King Lamoni, or the Anti-Nephi-Lehis, or the....I don't think anyone ever really decided what they should be called).  The short story is that there was a group of people who were affiliated with the antagonists in the Book of Mormon that, through a series of events, converted to Christianity.  Their fellow antagonsists didn't like this very much, so they declared war on the People of Ammon.  The People of Ammon, having discovered an unprecedented level of shame and guilt over their war campaigns against the Book of Mormon's protagonists, declared themselves pacifists.  They made a covenant never to go to war again, going so far as to bury their weapons and prostrate themselves before their attackers with hope of receiving mercy.

A grotesque slaughter ensued.  The antagonists went so far as killing 1,005 of the People of Ammon before they got bored (Alma 24: 22).  Apparently there's no sport in killing pacifists.  In fact, many of the aggressors were so overcome with guilt from the slaughter that they joined the People of Ammon and took up the vow of pacifism (Alma 24:24-25).  Soon after, the People of Ammon concluded they were not safe living near the antagonists and procured an invitation to join the protagonists.  They were accepted as refugees, given land, and offered protection (Alma 27:22-24).

If you think that sounds like a happy ending, you'd be wrong.  It would get worse for the People of Ammon.  They took up their residence, and built a happy existence for themselves for about 13 years.  About 8 years into that period, war broke out again, and the People of Ammon busied themselves in growing food and making supplies for their allies who were fighting on their behalf.  But they were good hearted people, and to hear of the massive numbers of men being killed in war--men who would not go home to their families again, and whose children would be raised fatherless--it was burdensome.  The cold irony of being someone who abhors killing others is that it is equally abhorrent to know that others are dying to protect you from doing that which you abhor. Add to that the fact that they seemed to be losing the war, and the People of Ammon were on the verge of making a choice to break their vow of pacifism.

The leader of the Christian church, Helaman, got wind of the rumors, and he rushed out to meet the People of Ammon (Alma 56:7-8). The Book of Mormon is pretty vague on the details of how this came about, but I have an idea of what took place.

While Helaman was busying himself to convince the People of Ammon not to break their oath, their sons developed a plan to save them.

"Mom, Dad, let us go to war.  We didn't make that oath.  We didn't promise God that we wouldn't fight.  Let us go fight the war, and you stay home and keep your vows."

These young men could have ranged from 13 to 28.  I would wager there were more of them close to the age of 20 than anything else.  And I doubt that their plan was well received.  "It's too dangerous.  It's too horrific."  The older generation had sworn off war because of the guilt they felt over killing other humans.  I'm sure they weren't fond of the idea of exposing their children to that same horror.  And I'm certain that they told their sons "No."

Unfortunately for them, they had raised faithful, god-fearing sons that also knew which buttons to push to convince their parents.  "It'll be okay, mom and dad.  We're going to ask Helaman to be our leader."

And their parents said, "Oh, well in that case, go ahead.  Why didn't you lead with that?"

Okay, maybe it took a little more persuading, but in the end, the sons prevailed.  They appealed to their parents' conviction that the prophets of God hadn't led them astray thus far, and so they felt they could put their faith in Helaman now.  And I doubt there was anyone else in the world to whom they would trust their children.

Together, the parents and the sons would have had to convince Helaman.  I'm sure he was terrified of leading these boys into battle.  Afterall, he had no military experience to speak of.  Taking this assignment was probably a bigger leap of faith for him than it was for the People of Ammon.  And so Helaman gathered his Two Thousand warriors, and took them off to war.

Where do the other Sixty come into this, you ask?  They came later (Alma 57:6).  Some of these would have been boys that had come of age, but I'm convinced there were some whose parents forbade them go at first.  And I don't blame them.

To put this in more modern terms, how would you respond if your kids came to you and said, "Mom, dad, I'm going to follow Thomas S. Monson into war."  I even asked my Sunday School class yesterday if they'd follow President Monson into war.  They unanimously said "no."  In the words of one young man, "I'm not going to war with him.  He's old!"  I wouldn't let my kids go either.  And Monson even has military experience.

The parents of the Sixty, for whatever reason, doubted that sending their sons to war with a prophet was going to ensure their safety.  They had to be persuaded first.  Getting the reports back from the other Two Thousand--and seeing that not one of them was killed--probably helped build the case for sending the Sixty.  With time, they developed the faith that was necessary to trust their sons to Helaman and to God.

What makes the parents of these Sixty so interesting is that they had doubts.  And they still had firm convictions.  These were parents who, although they doubted that doubling a prophet as a general would protect their sons, still chose not to break their vow of pacifism.  You can't convince me their faith in Christ was any less than was those who sent their sons the first time.  But with more evidence--and more importantly--more time for the Spirit of God to persuade them on their own terms, they did reach that point in their faith.

And their faith was rewarded.  It's not like they sent their sons late in the game, and then their sons happened to get killed as a consequence of their initial doubt.  All of their sons survived the war.

As with all things in the scriptures, they can be interpreted many ways. I imagine the more orthodox mormons would take this story and spin to to say, "See, there was no need for them to doubt.  They should have just sent their sons to begin with.  Their doubt was in vain."

But such an interpretation, I think, doesn't follow in the spirit of the scriptures.  Those Sixty young men were received with joy.  There was celebration that day.  Celebration of the faith that parents exhibited, not criticism of the faith they didn't have earlier.  Let us not forget that every parent of those initial Two Thousand had to come to terms with the possibility that their sons would not return.  It seems cruel to criticize another parent for not yet being able to live with that possibility.

The story of the Sixty struck me profoundly this time around.  I keep reading about words from General Conference.  "Doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith."  And I keep hearing them used to argue that we should put our doubts aside because they challenge our faith.  I hear this quote in that context and it infuriates me, because it completely ignores the paragraph that preceded the quote.

It’s natural to have questions—the acorn of honest inquiry has often sprouted and matured into a great oak of understanding...even in the sometimes sandy soil of doubt and uncertainty.

The parents of the Sixty cultivated their acorns into great oaks.  They did so in sandy soil.  They didn't do it alone.  They did it with the love and support of friends and neighbors.  They did it with fellow church members who gradually helped nurse that acorn by replacing the sand with rich soil.  One shovel at a time.

Instead, I feel like we tell a lot of acorns to get out of the sand.

You can't pressure an oak tree to grow.  You can't force it to grow over night.  Growth requires time, patience, and nurturing.  It requires friendship without boundaries, without judgment, and sometimes without completely understanding someone's doubts.

The parents of the Sixty live among us.  Let's grow the forest with them.

¹ When talking about the two thousand stripling warriors in Sunday school yesterday, some of the boys teased one person in the room for having once said the "two thousand stripping warriors." However, we decided that based on the picture shown, maybe his description wasn't too far off.

An Epidemic of Loneliness

The day I heard that the Church was going to broadcast the Priesthood Session of General Conference over the usual broadcast and internet channels, I made a quip on Facebook: "This will be the death of the only Elders Quorum activity in our ward that has any draw."  I say I quipped, but I was dead serious, too.

While scanning some blogs today, I came across a post by Rebecca at By Common Consent in which she laments the loss of one of her husband's¹ favorite traditions: the Priesthood Session after party.  She then puts in this nugget, which I have observed before and completely agree with.

It’s harder than you might think to coax adult Mormon men into attending a guys’ night out; many of them feel obligated to go straight home and “spend time with their families” or whatever.

This is absolutely true.  The men in the Church almost never get together.  The only successful Elders Quorum activity in my ward² is the ice cream social where you show up to the chapel and get an ice cream sandwich before the Priesthood Session that you were going to anyway.  But everyone is dressed in their Sunday dress and no one actually interacts on a level any less superficial than the way they interact at the usual Sunday meetings.

And now, this little tradition may be dead.

But why?  Why shouldn't the men continue to go to the chapel for Priesthood session?  Probably because "many of them feel obligated to go straight home and 'spend time with their families'."  Or whatever.

The fact of the matter is that we've developed some notion that any second a man takes away from home life that isn't absolutely necessary is a disservice to and neglect of his family.  I suspect that if the Elders Quorum planned a quorum activity once every 2-3 months (the usual frequency for Relief Society activities) and had a statement made over the pulpit that "Women are asked to babysit³ their children so that their husbands may attend"--well, I envision a pretty big uproar.  How dare we take the husbands and fathers away from their families so often?

I think a lot of that reaction is rooted in stereotype.  Men get to socialize and interact with people all day at work while women are stuck home with their kids.....blah blah blah⁴.  What we need to understand is that, while yes, we get to interact with other adults at work, interacting with adults at work is not equivalent to making deep, lasting bonds of friendship.

So this is where I'm going to air some dirty laundry from my ward.

A couple of months ago, we had what I thought was a very interesting lesson in Elders Quorum.  I don't remember the topic (and I'm too lazy to look it up), but the instructor was comparing the level of sociality of friendship in the Relief Society to the level of sociality and friendship in the Elders Quorum.  What caught me off guard was that he started crying when he stated that he was envious of his wife who has so much more opportunity in the Church to build deep and lasting friendships with her peers.

Such a show of emotion is rare in Elders Quorums meetings.  We're too caught up in the stoic, testosterone fueled bullsh--er, stereotypes--to allow our vulnerabilities to show (which is precisely why priesthood lessons suck a lot of the time).  But this display was telling.  I had sometimes suspected, and left this lesson convinced, that there is an epidemic of loneliness among our men.  And we're too cowardly to admit it.

My home teachers came over that afternoon (I love my home teachers by the way.  If the Elders Quorum presidency ever assigns me someone else, I may start refusing home teachers.  Joe and Brandon have been absolute lifelines of sanity for me, though I doubt they know it--I'm too cowardly to admit it).  One of them is in the Elders Quorum presidency, and I shared my thoughts with him and made a case that we need more Elders Quorum activities.  We talked about LAN parties, board game groups (Dungeons and Dragons anyone?), encouraging the book group, hiking days, to name a few.

Not much has happened yet.  I hope something does soon, though.

Perhaps I should be more proactive and just set some things up myself.  Maybe I still will.  I definitely think something needs to happen, and I'd be more comfortable just doing it if I knew I had buy-in from the Elders Quorum presidency.

But before I really start agitating for this, let me ask some questions and sincerely request some feedback.

To the men:

• What activities would you be interested in attending? 
• Would you be more interested in whole-quorum activities or localized groups?
• How comfortable would you be having an activity once every 2-3 months and being asked to attend an activity at least once a quarter?

To the women:

• Do you recognize this as a need?
• How burdensome would it be for you to help make arrangements for you men to attend?
• Do you believe that strengthening your husband's friendships outside the family would benefit the relationships within your family?

¹ Not to be confused with - one of her husbands' favorite traditions
² Thanks to the diligent efforts of one brother, there is a gathering at a restaurant before the meeting that is probably more socially productive than the ice cream, but I think it gets limited attendance.  (Full disclosure: I rarely attend this as I'm very often on a trip with the scouts.  If I'm not on a trip, I've taken to skipping based on that fact that I haven't stayed awake through a session of Conference in over 5 years, even at the meetinghouse)
³ Don't get me started on the impossibility of babysitting your own children; but for some reason we say this to our men all the time.
⁴ Please don't interpret this as dismissal of the strain and frustration stay-at-home parents experience. I just don't want to rehash all the details that are so broadly known and think that what has been said is sufficient.