Ain't No Such Thing as a Free Lunch  

Posted by Brock Booher


“Miss Rector is an Old Maid,” wrote my sister on her homework assignment. Miss Rector was the Sixth-Grade Teacher and the Principal of the small country school we attended. She had cat-eye glasses, wore her auburn-gray hair in a 1950’s style bun hairdo, and always wore a dress with matching shoes. You could hear her heels clicking against the tile floor as she roamed the hallways looking for errant students. She lived down the road from the school with her two sisters, and just like my sister said, none of them ever married. She ruled the school with an iron fist, and always got her way, until she went toe-to-toe with my mother over school lunches.

Prospect Hill Elementary served the northern part of Simpson County and enrolled about one hundred and twenty students in six classrooms. It was a brick two-story building with a large auditorium and a cafeteria in the basement. The playground had the usual equipment of the day, but also included a softball field and a large open field with some bushes you could hide or play in. After a good rain we sometimes found arrowheads near the fence. For a country boy, it seemed like an oasis of excitement among all the farms.

Miss Rector insisted that all of her students buy lunch at the school cafeteria. To help keep the program afloat, she made sure that everyone got paperwork to enroll in the free lunch program, and looking back, I guess that most of us probably qualified. My mother took one look at the paperwork and promptly ignored it. I was the fourth one to go to school, and so, in order to save money on lunches, we started taking our lunch. That didn’t set too well with Miss Rector, and she was never timid about her position. I was in second grade when the school lunch scuttlebutt transformed from skirmish to all out war.

My mother was very creative when it came to preparing school lunches. She would bake bread in old tin cans so that the slices would be round like hamburger buns and send us with hamburgers cooked the night before. She boiled eggs from our chickens and added them to tuna for tuna-salad sandwiches. She bought pimento cheese by the bucketful. She would whip up a batch of cookies before school in the morning and stuff them into plastic sandwich bags while they were still hot. By lunchtime they had usually morphed into one gigantic cookie blob, but they were still just as tasty. We picked fresh fruit from the orchard down by Granny’s house, and eventually we bought fancy thermoses for homemade soup. I thought our lunches were great, but according to Miss Rector, they were substandard and not suitable for student consumption.

Miss Rector fired the first shot across the bow when she sent home the paperwork for free lunches again. My mother responded by sending back a note, “We can provide for our own.” Not giving up so easily, Miss Rector singled us out and badmouthed our homemade lunches in front of other students, telling everyone that they “stunk up the place.” Undeterred but busy with young kids at home, my mother kept up the attack with brown paper bags full of tuna salad sandwiches. Miss Rector began inspecting our lunches and enticing us with hot meals as we munched on cold pimento cheese. Like any good revolutionary, my mother plucked along trying to win the daily battles. Like any entrenched power, Miss Rector used her position of authority to intimidate and coerce. It was the classic struggle between an unstoppable force and an immovable object.

At last, Miss Rector made a tactical mistake. She sequestered us at a table by ourselves and wouldn’t let us eat with the other students. That converted us from pawns in the battle, to zealous missionaries of the cause. We hunkered down against the persecution, and began to tout our freedom to choose among the other students. One day, another student with a shiny new lunchbox joined us at our table. Then a few days later, another brownbag warrior joined our cause. Soon we had an entire revolutionary army of lunchtime guerrillas fighting beside us at our own special table in the basement of Prospect Hill. Like any good revolution, we won by winning the hearts and minds of the populace and wearing down the better-equipped establishment until she no longer had the stomach for the fight.

I’m sure Miss Rector meant well. She gave her heart and soul to the school, and in addition to being the Principal, she also taught sixth grade. I’m sure she struggled to keep that small country school afloat financially, and that the school lunch revenue was a crucial part of her budget. She was a no-nonsense administrator with a knack for producing good students without many resources. She made a career of making Prospect Hill a successful school. But this time, she picked the wrong fight.

Ironically, my mother’s father was a teacher and principal of a small country school as well. My mother saw firsthand all the challenges that came to someone in Miss Rector’s position. She knew of the battles fought with parents, unruly students, and governments that underfunded and overexpected. She and Miss Rector were more alike than they were different, except on one issue – My mother would have nothing to do with government handouts or free lunch paperwork.

In a letter to Miss Rector, she explained that taking free lunches would set a bad example for us children. How could we learn to be responsible for ourselves when we were accepting help we didn’t truly need? She wanted to teach us that when somebody gets something for nothing, somebody else works for free. There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.

A few years after the school lunch wars, the county consolidated things. Prospect Hill Elementary was put on the chopping block. They closed it’s doors and gave Miss Rector an early retirement. Today the building is gone along with the playground equipment and the bushes we once played in. Last time I drove by there, it was a cornfield. I wondered if that corn ended up in someone’s school lunch?

I didn't use Miss Rector's real name, but this blog is not meant to disparage her just the same. I have searched for a picture of Prospect Hill School. Anyone with a picture is welcome to post it.





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José Artigas and Me  

Posted by Brock Booher


You can’t visit a town in Uruguay without seeing a statue or bust of José Artigas, the father of the country. His vestige looks down on the Urugayos in almost every plaza or school in the country. His image is on the money. His portrait is almost ubiquitous as the mate they drink. Funny thing is, he was never even president.

In June of 1982, I made the six-hour trip to Tacuarembó, Uruguay, on the Onda (the prominent bus company of the day) sitting next to a guacho. I tried to carry on a conversation with him, but it was pointless. I began to wonder if they taught me the wrong language. Thirty years later I drove a rental car into Tacuarembó with my oldest son Rian, and my sixteen-year old, Carson. I made the trip halfway around the globe to drop Carson off to live with the Fontes family so that he could experience life outside (way outside) the United States. I was also excited to spend some time with my sons.

I had the address to the home, but it wasn’t on the map, and my phone’s GPS wasn’t any help. “Don’t worry,” I told my boys. “Everybody in town knows David Fontes.” I stopped at the gas station and asked for directions. Nobody knew the address, but when I mentioned David, they had him on the phone in less than five minutes.

Small countries have more reason to celebrate their heroes than big ones. The heroes of small countries have a bigger impact on their history and leave bigger scars on the psyche of the population. Smaller countries also have fewer heroes to choose from. Artigas was no exception. His passion for the cause of the Orientales was unparalleled. He displayed all of the stubbornness and fire of an ardent patriot and put his own life on the line over and over again for the cause of independence.

We spent the afternoon in the house of friends and got Carson settled in. That evening we went to a mixer at Alianza School, the English school administered by David. I think we intimidated his students a bit. Maybe the setting was too formal, or maybe it was my domineering nature, but the students were a bit shy that evening. Having learned other languages, I can relate to that knot in your gut that keeps your mouth from working properly when you try to speak. I think the fear springs from looking stupid or inept. It takes courage to thrust yourself into another language and another culture.
Rian straddling the border

The next day, Rian and I took a trip to the border town of Rivera. The pleasantly hilly city sits smack dab on the border between Uruguay and Brasil. We cruised around the open-air market in search of trinkets in both countries. We ate lunch in Uruguay. We went to the bathroom in Brasil. We literally crisscrossed the unseen line multiple times and discussed the possibilities of disappearing off the grid in such a town (if the occasion was ever required).

That evening we returned to the Fontes’ home and had our last dinner with Carson before leaving him to learn about life abroad on his own. When I hugged him, I wondered how the experience would change his perspective of the world and what impact it would have on him.

The Tower of Terror elevator
Since we were off the beaten path and traveling during the off season (it was the dead of winter in the Southern Hemisphere), we had some interesting hotel stays. One night we froze to death until my son figured out that the maid had left a window open behind the curtains. Another hotel was so old that the only electrical outlet was in the bathroom, and the elevator looked like it came from the Tower of Terror. We only rode it once. Water pressure was usually lacking, except for our hotel in Buenos Aires, where the shower felt like a fire hose. We chalked it all up to the adventure.

When you make a journey down memory lane be prepared for some emotional potholes. I had some wonderful reunions with friends from years past. They had flourished and found a measure of happiness and success, and our visits were warm and satisfying, but not everybody’s story has a happy ending.

Thirty years ago, I knew a successful doctor of a small town. He had a wonderful wife, two children, and lived in a big house. He had helped me deal with the stress of being a Branch President (the same as a local Pastor or Minister) at twenty-years old in a foreign country. I owed him a debt.

I searched him out and found him in a small row house on a dark street. When I knocked at the front door he said he remembered me, but I think he fibbed a bit. We sat at a small kitchen table in a bare kitchen. The night was cold, but he had no heating. Once a portly man, he was now thin, and wrapped in several layers to stay warm. His eyes vacillated between a far-off look and semi-wild excitement. He spoke of his life in platitudes with exaggerated smiles, but when I asked about his family, the truth was self-evident.

His wife had divorced him several years ago because of his drinking problem. Then she had contracted cancer and died. His son still lived with him, but from what I could gather, the son had fallen into the same addiction trap as his father. When I asked about his daughter, he laughed nervously and told me that she was very busy with her life and rarely stopped by.

Still true to the message of hope I delivered to a good doctor thirty years ago, I reminded him that the atonement of Jesus Christ could still apply in his life. I’m not sure if my words penetrated, but his face clouded over. When we embraced before I left, he pulled me so close that the stubble on his face rubbed against my cheek and he held me longer than a customary abrazo.

 The next day we put Uruguay behind us and took the ferry across the Rio de la Plata to Buenos Aires.

José Artigas had a grand vision for the region surrounding the Rio de la Plata that mirrored the structure of the United States, but as is often the case, his vision of independence was overruled by the political ambitions of others. He was outmaneuvered and sent to voluntary exile in Paraguay where he remained until his death.

We spent two days in Buenos Aires enjoying the sights of the “Paris of South America.” We spent all afternoon at the open-air market on Calle Defensa. We ate the famous Argentine beef until we were ready to moo. My son Rian found a leather jacket for a great price. We hopped a tour bus and saw the highlights of the city. We enjoyed the sights and sounds of a hustling, bustling city tucked so far away in the south that people forget that it’s there.

Our last night in Buenos Aires, I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about our trip. Although it had been interesting, and we had passed several happy moments as father and sons, and with friends, the journey had a lackluster feel to it. I had expected more. I felt like José Artigas. I had bigger plans, but due to circumstances beyond my control, I would have to accept the reality of the day, and move on.

Sometimes we make grandiose plans that never come to fruition. We feel like the things we do don’t make a difference in the world. We struggle to understand why others can’t see our vision for the future. Perhaps we too are exiled by the workings of others, or by our own decisions to move on. But life’s struggle is never wrought in a vacuum. Someday maybe, just maybe, the relationships we build, the friendships we forge, the lives we try and touch, will bear fruit, and future generations will honor us for what we attempted to accomplish.

We made our way back across the Rio de la Plata and on to Montevideo so we could catch our flight back home. Our last morning of the trip, I went for a run along the boardwalk. It was a great morning for a run. The temperature was cool, but not cold. The slight breeze was welcomed, and the sun was climbing in the sky. Traffic buzzed along the street as I took it all in. As I rounded a small point, the crowded buildings of downtown Montevideo came into view. Off in the distance in that concrete jungle was a plaza with an enormous statue of José Artigas on his horse, and below the statue lay the remains of the exiled liberator that became a national hero.





The statue of José Artigas

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Life is a Trek  

Posted by Brock Booher


If a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, how do you start a journey of the heart?

A few months ago I got an email asking me if my wife and I would like to participate in a Pioneer Trek as “Ma and Pa.” We would be given eight to ten teenagers, that we didn’t know, and hike through the mountains of Arizona for three days pulling a large handcart. We would sleep under the stars and could only bring the bare essentials. Everyone’s personal belongings would have to fit in a five gallon bucket. No air mattresses or cots. No makeup. No electronics. The irony of sending me, a commercial pilot, an email about such a journey made me chuckle.

If you don’t know the story of the Mormon pioneers, I recommend you take some time to research their saga in American history. In 1844, an angry mob murdered the prophet, and leader of the church, Joseph Smith, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy their anger and hatred. So, in February of 1846 the Mormon pioneers left their comfortable homes and farms in Nauvoo, Illinois, and began their westward trek to escape further persecution. The first group entered the Great Basin of the Salt Lake in July of 1847.

The church started a fund to assist in the migration its members, but as resources became scarce, they switched from companies of covered wagons, to handcart companies. Equipped with a small wooden handcart full of provisions, members of those companies would leave western Iowa and trek 1300 miles through modern-day Iowa, Nebraska, and Wyoming. At best the journey was arduous and exhausting. At worst it was deadly. However, until the intercontinental railroad was complete, it allowed thousands to migrate to the safety of Zion. More importantly, the difficult journey served as a crucible of faith.

Today we learn from the courage and strength of those early pioneers. We study their journals. We repeat their stories of courage and faith. We give thanks for the miracles they beheld. But we don’t stop there. We actually try and simulate the experience, with other people’s teenagers no less.

I replied to the email and volunteered us as Ma and Pa.

It was over a hundred degrees in the valley when we loaded up the busses and headed for high country. The air conditioning on the bus was struggling, and I was already wondering what I had gotten us into. We piled off the busses into the dusty meadow of the Arizona high country and divided into families. My wife and I had nine children assigned to us – four boys and five girls. We got the introductions out of the way, and started assembling our cart. It was a six by three foot wagon bed with short wooden rails, oversized metal wheels, and a metal crossbar out front for pulling. We stopped to eat a dinner of chili and cornbread and then took great care as we loaded the cart in order to balance the load. At seven o’clock in the evening we organized as companies and hit the rocky trail.

An hour later as we trudged along in the dark eating the dust of a dozen carts ahead of us, I began to wonder why we put ourselves through such things. Do we really gain anything by making ourselves suffer? In a world where technology has made my life easy, what is the purpose of discarding it all and torturing ourselves?

The learning process is different for everyone, but the more senses you involve, the more likely it is that learning will occur. Great sport figures study game films in addition to practicing. Great chess players replay games move by move to improve their performance. The military prepares for war through realistic exercises. Pilots learn through lifelike simulation. Our pioneer trek was a simulation designed to help us develop the same faith and courage of those early pioneers.

We got to camp after nine o’clock under a bright moon and picked a spot to throw out our tarps. While we ate a small snack, I gave a short devotional on faith. Nobody complained or whined about the night’s journey or about the rocky ground, and we slid into our sleeping bags to stave off the coming cold and tried to get some sleep.

If I slept longer that ten continuous minutes that night, I would be surprised. The cold air nipped at the top of my head and ears. The rocks underneath me gnawed at my spine. I worried about the next day. As the moon dipped low on the horizon, I peeked out of my warm sleeping bag and gazed at the Milky Way so bright that I felt like I could reach out and touch it. It made me feel so insignificant to see the innumerable points of light scattered across the heavens. Who was I in such an infinite space? A shooting star streaked across starry night. How ironic it is that a sky of stars can make you believe in God and question your own insignificance at the same time.

I was glad to feel the sun come up. As lay there working up my nerve to get out of my warm sleeping bag, I heard laughter from the camp next to ours and it lifted my spirits. I knew it was going to be long day, and yet the sound of laughter lightened my load. I crawled out into the cool morning and loosened my weary bones.

We loaded up; formed up; and began pulling our cart down the trail at 7:43. I was already tired and we hadn’t even started. The metal wheels of the cart sang in harmony with our metal cups hanging off the back of the cart as we bounced along the rocky ruts. We rotated often and worked together to move the load up and over several hills. We sang songs, told jokes, and played a memorization game to pass the time. Everyone was in good spirits. Then we passed a company that had stopped for mock burial and were reminded how fragile life on the trek could be.

After pulling all morning, our lunch of beef jerky, cheese, bread, and apples was delicious. My wife and I constantly hounded the kids to drink, but one of them still suffered from heat stress and dehydration and had to visit the medic. The afternoon would get very long if we didn’t stay hydrated. After lunch, we pulled for about forty five minutes and then stopped for a rest. While we rested, the scenario took an interesting twist. A rider approached dressed in a cavalry officer’s uniform and recruited all the men to fight in the Mexican-American War (a very real historic event). This meant that the women would be left to push the carts by themselves.

The boys and I hiked up the ridge and waited out of sight. We watched as the women and girls labored to get the carts up that rocky hill. Pioneer women were tough. At the Captain’s signal, we rushed down and began pushing the carts with the women. All the women said that they got teary eyed when they saw us coming out of the woods to help them. After we got to the top of the hill, we parked and had a short devotional followed by juicy watermelon.

Next, we lined up for “Rocky Ridge” and prepared for the hardest part of the day. It was a ridgeline with an incline of about 150 yards of loose rock. You could get a running start, but there was no way to keep the momentum. It would require a stop or two to make it all the way up the ridgeline. It would require the best from everyone.

We organized as companies and while we waited our turn, and cheered on other families. It had been a long day already, and I got butterflies when they motioned us forward, like we were about to go on a roller coaster. I was at the bar with one of the young men. I had the other three young men pushing the back. I had four of the girls on a rope attached to the front bar. Everyone else pushed, pulled, cheered, or chocked the wheels when we had to stop.

We had to cross a significant dip before we started up the incline. When I gave the signal, we eased the cart off of the roadway and down into the dip. At first we held back, not wanting the cart to get away from us, but as soon as I thought we could keep the speed under control, I shouted, and we cut loose. We ran to keep up with the cart for a few feet, and then we hit the rocky slope. We pulled and pushed for all we were worth and made it up and over the first small rise and around a couple of trees before we had to stop and catch our breath. The girls chocked the wheels for a minute, and we made the second big push.

We rounded the corner and could see all the way to the top. Difficult challenges become much easier when you can see the end. We stopped about fifty yards from the top and looked straight up at the challenge ahead. We caught our breath one more time. Then, with a rebel yell we made the metal wheels sing as they flew over the loose rocks. When we started to slow down, several of the company personnel lent a hand. With the top of the ridge in sight, we dug deep and kept the cart moving. The thin air of almost 8000 feet burned in our lungs. The cart slowed a bit, but we willed it forward and up the last ten yards and conquered the summit.

We stopped at the top to catch our breath and get a drink of water. The view was spectacular, and we were all proud of what we had accomplished together. We took a photo to remember the moment, drank water, and then we continued moving our handcart forward to base camp for the night.

The joy and pride of conquering “Rocky Ridge” began to wear off as we continued down the trail. We had no idea how far we had to go. We thought it was short. We thought it would be right around the corner. We were headed downhill, but the trail was rocky and rough. The fatigue of the day began to take its toll, and since I didn’t know how much further we had to go, I wondered if I could make it. We had rigged the cart for going up hill, not for coming down. We didn’t have any brakes, and right about then we needed them. We groaned and creaked along the rocky crevices for almost two more miles until the trail became an almost level and smooth truck road and we knew we were close. I turned the handcart over to our pioneer kids for the last stretch.

We came into camp tired, but happy.  We set up camp, which included a tent for changing, and began to clean up for dinner. We were covered in the fine dust that is abundant in the high country of Arizona. We didn’t have a shower, but I used a wet rag and a bar of soap to get as clean as I could. I probably had enough dirt in my nose to start a small vegetable garden.

Dinner was delicious and even though the kids had enough energy for a hoe down, I was wiped out. The ground was no softer the second night, but I slept like a baby out of pure exhaustion. I got up to go to the portpottie in the middle of the night, and the Milky Way was so bright I barely needed my flashlight. As I walked back to my warm sleeping bag, I could see that the mountain meadow was full of bodies, but nobody stirred. It was an amazing sight.

The next day we enjoyed a day of pioneer activities. We shot black powder rifles. We threw tomahawks. We milked goats. We learned to throw a lasso. We played games and had fun, but that afternoon, we had our camp Sabbath. We held a testimony meeting among the pines. We were exposed to all the elements beneath a clear blue sky and a light wind rustled through the pine needles. In a setting like that you can hear nature’s silent testimony of deity loud and clear.

We took some time for silent reflection and each of us found a spot in the forest to ponder our lives. I took the opportunity to reflect on my own heritage and the blessings passed on to me by my parents. They didn’t cross the plains in covered wagons or pull a handcart across the Rocky Mountains, but they were courageous in their conviction. They taught me to be the same.

That night we all gathered for a fireside, without the fire. We enjoyed a skit, a musical number, and wise words. At the end of the meeting, my wife and another Ma got up to lead us in a music medley made up of a male and female part. They had never practiced leading it together, but they didn’t miss a beat. The soothing female voices rang out among the pines declaring their spiritual worth. The male voices countered it with a strong husky melody declaring boldly of the courage of youth. I sang along with the young men, but was soon so touched that I couldn’t sing anymore. I had begun this exercise in hopes that I might help these young men and women in their journey of faith. Now I stood among them listening to their conviction set to music. As tears left tracks on my dirty face, my heart felt like it would burst. I realized that they had helped me along my journey of faith.

If a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, how do you begin a journey of the heart? You begin with a desire. You let your desire lead you on to the path of hope. You follow your hope until somewhere along the path of adversity and trial, it becomes faith. Then, if you continue to follow your faith, step by step, not seeing the end of the journey, you will finally come to your destination. You will stand and boldly declare that your heart has been changed. You will have a testimony of the truth etched indelibly on your soul that will outlast all the physical ailments of your journey.

They say that life is a journey, not a destination. I say that life, if lived well, is a spiritual trek.

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Dreams Take Flight  

Posted by Brock Booher

"Is it hard to be a pilot?" asks the fifth-grade boy with coke-bottle glasses.

Each year I volunteer to spend time with fifth graders as their "adopted" pilot and discuss what it's like to be a pilot, the science of flight, geography, and possible future careers. It is a labor of love, but it is definitely labor. I dress up in my uniform, with a special tie, and head to the elementary school to dazzle them with my vast knowledge of the world of aviation.

I remember when I first wanted to fly. I was in the hot summer sun hoeing weeds when a low-flying military jet came screaming by. It looked like he barely missed the trees he was so low and seemed to be outrunning the speed of sound, because I saw him before I heard the thundering roar of the engines. I leaned against my hoe with the smell of dirt lingering in my nose and watched him disappear like a shooting star. Right then I decided that flying looked easier, and more fun, than farming.

My first lesson with the fifth graders is about helping your dreams take flight. I encourage them to dream about the future; to plan for the future; to work for the future they want. I teach them them that goals not written down are just wishes, and that fate favors the prepared. I instill in them the importance of honesty, courage, and tenacity (a new word for fifth graders), and tell them they can control their destiny.

One of the smallest boys in the class said, "I want to be a football player!" Then his face fell and he looked at the floor. "My dad says there is no way I'll ever make it in the NFL." I almost cried when I heard that.

They always ask the same questions. How does a plane fly? Are you ever scared? Do pilots make lots of money? Have you ever shot down another airplane? Have you ever crashed? What's your favorite city? Were you flying on 9/11? Their inquisitive minds are eager to understand the world around them, and I do my best to give them answers that will inspire them to learn more. But I never answer their questions if they don't raise their hands.

I have my old Air Force flying helmet and a flight suit that they love to try on. The flight suit swallows them whole and the helmet flops around their small heads like a bucket. They get a kick out of my patch collection and all the charts and books that I bring to show them. It's like they can begin to see themselves growing into the capacities that the future will surely require of them. They laugh and tease each other about how loosely it all fits, but behind the laughter is excitement for becoming something they can be proud of.

They are a smart bunch and catch on to the science of flight very quickly, even though they have a hard time pronouncing "Bernoulli." I get a lot "oohs" and "aahs" when I suspend a ping pong ball in midair with a blow dryer to discuss the principles of lift, but then the mystique turns to confidence when each one of them comes up and takes a turn. Science leaps from the pages of a book when you have firsthand experience to help you understand and remember.

Much to their chagrin, I do give them homework. They have to write down some of their career goals, figure out how many miles I have flown each week, review the science of flight, and learn about a city I fly to. Each week when the teacher checks their progress, the excuses fly. My parents didn't tell me I had homework. I left my book at home. I didn't have access to a computer. I thought this was just for extra credit. Their teacher takes it all in stride, but when I reward those who were diligent in their tasks, it motivates the remainder to get the job done.

The best part about spending three days teaching fifth graders is the gratitude they display. They wave at me and call my name when they see me. They all say, "Thank You Captain Booher!" like I am the only one that believes in them. They often write me letters and color me pictures. My neighbor's chatty son points at me and says with a wink, "Great job with the lesson today."Another eager boy on the front row swoons and tells me, "You're my hero."

Is it hard to be a pilot? After four hours of standing in front of a room full of fifth graders for three weeks in a row, my voice is hoarse, my feet hurt, and my mind is mush. I feel like that tired kid on the farm all over again.

"No," I answer. "It's much harder to be a fifth-grade teacher."

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The Marvelous Mundane  

Posted by Brock Booher


Funerals are not the place to talk about doing the dishes, folding laundry, or the daily grind of a boring job. We most likely will hear of great deeds or the shining moments of the life being mourned and celebrated. Maybe we should change that. Maybe we should hear about how many times the person cooked dinner for her family, or how many days he endured at work in order to pay the bills. What if we took a moment at someone’s passing to celebrate the marvelous mundane that makes life possible?

Think about the day you had yesterday. Chances are you didn’t hit the winning home run to win the World Series. You didn’t win the big case before the Supreme Court. You didn’t solve the crime of the century. You didn’t save the world from impending destruction. Most likely you spent the day with routine things like wiping counters, sorting data on a spreadsheet, or changing light bulbs. Tomorrow will probably be the same – a day filled with menial tasks that don’t seem to make a difference.

Is that all life is – a string of almost meaningless activities placed end to end together until we die?

At the recent funerals I attended, one man’s mundane accomplishments included a thankless job that he trudged off to everyday, yet it allowed him to come home everyday and play catch with his son. His sons valued that memory more than his military service in the Korean War. One woman’s father tasked her as a young girl to learn how to bake bread, but when she passed even the local nail manicurist remembered her for all the delicious breads and cookies that she baked. A young girl spent most of her time at play, but was remembered for her warm smile on the volleyball court. None of the activities seemed heroic, yet each one was remembered more for the mundane than for the unusual, or extraordinary.

Perhaps the key to a life well lived is not avoiding or shirking the mundane, but in finding meaning in those small thankless tasks that make our lives move forward. When we die we hope that people will speak of our heroic deeds and accomplishments, but maybe heroism is found in squaring your shoulders and quietly carrying the burden of everyday life so that others will benefit.

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Click to Stop Kony  

Posted by Brock Booher


We live in a new age. In days past we knew who the outlaws were by looking at the wanted posters in the post office. A gritty lawman with a big iron on his hip would bring the villain to justice at high noon with a lightning-fast hand. Apparently today we can stop evil with the click of a mouse.

Unless you’ve been hiding under a digital rock for the past week, you know about the Kony 2012 campaign. It is a clever attempt to raise public awareness about an international war criminal through social media and bring him to justice. Judging from the number of friends who posted the video on their walls I would say that they achieved their goal of raising awareness. I am bit more skeptical of the second part of their campaign.

As best as I can tell, the campaign’s plan goes like this: Use a well crafted video and social media to spread the word about an evil warlord in Uganda that is forcing children to be soldiers. Encourage those who watch the video to spread the word and contact policy makers about stopping this evil warlord. Then policy makers will send materiel and military support to the good soldiers trying to stop the evil warlord. The good soldiers, now better supported and equipped, will bring justice down on the head of the targeted warlord. The video even shows how the dominos will fall after you click the mouse. Brilliant!

Except that awareness and action are not the same thing. Knowing does not always translate into doing.

During the first Gulf War a journalist asked an A-10 driver a probing question that went something like this, “Doesn’t it bother your conscience when you drop your bombs or fire your missiles and know that you are killing people?”

He shrugged and answered, “You don’t need a conscience, just coordinates.” (Coordinates are the numerical equivalent of a specific target's location.)

He understood that armed conflict requires a certain measure of cold, calculated application of deadly force in order to survive, and win. Dealing with an “evil warlord” requires the same measure of detached thinking. If you clicked in favor of the Kony 2012 campaign, would you also be willing to pull the trigger if you had him in your sights? Is it a cause you would be willing to risk your own life to support?

I applaud anyone that raises our awareness of injustice in the world. We tolerate way too much of it. But ultimately catching Kony (or other evil warlords) and bringing him to justice requires someone equipped and trained with deadly ordinance, the clear conscience to employ it, and coordinates.

You can’t stop an international war criminal with a click of a mouse, unless of course the computer is controlling a UAV with Hellfire missiles or GPS guided bombs. In that case clicking is much more than just liking a status.    




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The Merry-Go-Round of Insomnia  

Posted by Brock Booher

A few weeks ago, I saw the crescent moon hanging in the evening sky and worried that I wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. The waxing moon casts a sleeping spell on me and brings insomnia to my pillow. I went to bed on time, but by 3:00 the shadows from my neighbor’s overzealous security light were dancing on the ceiling overhead. Insignificant worries circled my head like some surreal merry-go-round full of pale horses of woe.

I got on the merry-go-round when I began to beat myself up over a scheduling mistake that could potentially cost me a few hundred dollars. That led to fears of not having enough money for an upcoming trip I wanted to make with my wife. Then I worried about the arrangements of said trip and its details. Those details reminded me of things I still needed to prepare for an upcoming church assignment. The preparation I needed to complete reminded me that I needed to rearrange my schedule. Rearranging my schedule made me stress about the mistake I made, and it started all over again twirling around in my head with some macabre music playing in the background.

After about thirty minutes on that fruitless merry-go-round, I decided I wanted off. I slipped out of bed, put on a robe, and went downstairs. As I quietly closed my bedroom door, I heard the icemaker dump a load of ice in the fridge downstairs. It struck me as odd that I noticed it. I padded down the stairs and stood before the fridge. The neighbor’s security light bathed the kitchen in enough light that I didn’t need to flip on the overhead light. I yanked open the door to fridge and pulled out the milk. The jug wasn’t very full so I twisted off the cap and chugged the rest of it down, hoping that it would help me sleep.

As I waited for the lactose to lull me to sleep, I decide to sort my mail. I grabbed the stack from my box and plopped down on the stairs to shuffle through the stack of insurance advertisements, credit card offers, and home mortgage refinance offers. While I sorted the mail, I heard one of the dogs scratching himself vigorously at the top of the stairs. Almost everything in the mail had something to do with money. Of course all of those advertisements about money reminded me of my expensive blunder, and the merry-go-round of inconsequential worries started up again.

By 3:30 am I had sorted all of my mail, and my dog was still scratching. I could hear the tag on his collar jingle every time his foot thumped against the floor as he tried to relieve his itch. I figured that it was his form of insomnia, but when I checked on him I saw that he had scratched himself until his fur was red with blood in several places. I petted him and tried to calm him. Some troubles are like his itch. They aren’t serious, but we can’t stop scratching them. So, we scratch away until we draw blood over nothing.

After he calmed down and stopped scratching, he took a drink and came back to sit beside me. I petted him until he fell asleep and I could put something on his paws to prevent further damage. I calculated his age. He was getting old, but then again, so was I. Here we both were wasting our night away scratching at an itch that we could never satisfy.

I slipped away from him and threw away the junk mail.  Then I went back to the fridge and found a chocolate malt protein drink hiding in the doorway. I wondered if it might help. I read the label and laughed. The words, “contains no milk” were plastered below the brand name that included the word “milk.” It was almost as ironic as me losing sleep over worrying about losing sleep. I checked the date and chugged it on down. Then I made a list of all the horses on my merry-go-round so I could deal with them in the morning and slipped around my itchy dog now fast asleep on the stairs to my comfortable bed in hopes of going back to sleep.

As I finally drifted off to sleep again, three thoughts stuck with me: Life is too short to worry about losing sleep. If the only problem you have is a money problem, you don’t have a problem. Some itches can never be scratched.

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