It's a living.

I worked out last night that if I sleep nine hours instead of eight every night, and I live to be 75, I will have lost nearly five years of my waking life (16-hour days). Even with eight hours' sleep, I'll spend 25 years of my life totally inert. No wonder the scriptural injunction to "cease to sleep longer than is needful."

I've spent the last few weeks staring at spreadsheets all day long, repeating the same 10-second process ad nauseum. I don't know how the assembly lines of the late 19th century functioned without television. If I didn't have something to anesthetize my sense of mortality and purpose, I think this job would make me insane. But my head is swimming with mysterious disappearances and amnesia and other hackneyed daytime-TV plot devices. Who needs friends when I've got Hurley and Charlie? Who needs a girl when I've got Kate, our inexhaustible sexual-tension dynamo? And with adventurous exploits like Jack's and Locke's to spectate, why bother going outside?

I don't believe Satan invented television, or even serial television drama per se, but it is certainly a handy diversion with which to steal life away. It's the magic wand, the fluttering fingers, the incantation that momentarily draws your eyes away from your wallet. It sure doesn't feel afterward like I've spent ten hours in absolute silence, pushing buttons a monkey could push, and with as much comprehension of what I'm doing.

I've been reading C.S. Lewis again, and it's very interesting to revisit his ideas after a two-year hiatus. In his words, "Nothing makes an absent friend so present as a disagreement." He can be so perfectly right when he speaks experientially, and so totally off the mark when reciting dogma or speculating.

He loses me completely (as he must, by definition) when he starts talking about his unknown-and-unknowable, abstract, theoretical God; and yet he knows the intimate, Fatherly, "the true and living God", by his own experience. His means of reconciling the two is simultaneously so obviously contrived, and yet sincere... which is most religion, I think. Honest people trying to make sense of nonsense. I wonder how offended he would be if he knew of all the Mormons who see him as a 'noble heathen', kept from the truth only because he knew not where to find it.

--Kevin

Life is always better and duller than I make it sound.

Some things are going wrong, but a lot is going right, and everything that's going wrong is going wrong in a very predictable way. Which makes it better, just knowing that it's to be expected. I miss feeling like my life matters to someone else. I miss having something meaningful to do with myself. I know I'm supposed to be saving for college... but I haven't needed money for anything in so long that it's kind of meaningless to me. I just work because it's a respectable way to spend my time, and I won't get yelled at.

But I'm getting more creative. I finally got my temple recommend renewed today, and President Jibson had good counsel. He said, "You get home from your mission and the spiritual part of you becomes, well, just a part of you. And it feels so wrong, naturally; but eventually you have to realize that this is the way God planned it, this is how we're meant to live." It was like Eden, in retrospect... no life, no problems, nothing to worry about--but we aren't meant to stay in Eden forever. So here I am in the lone and dreary world and trying to get used to it (but not too used to it).

The main talk in church this week was on sustaining your bishop and accepting callings, which was helpful because immediately afterward, Brother Bickmore called me into the clerk's office to ask me to serve as the Blazer scoutleader. I asked him, "So... the blazers are the--"

"Eleven-year-olds, yeah."

My stomach ate my heart, but after listening to a forty minute talk on the subject, you say "yes", and enthusiastically, if you can. "Someone will be there to help me get started, right?"

"Of course!" he said, with a look that said, What kind of people do you think we are?

So I got there early tonight (hoping to draw first blood, I guess); and it wasn't all that bad. Kyle (who is very excited for the changing of the guard) was a lifesaver. The key is low expectations, I think. You spend fifteen minutes just trying to settle them down, then you give up and spend ten minutes pretending to tie knots, and another ten minutes wrapping it up. No sweat. AND I SAW A GIRL THERE! She was kind of cute, so I took Kyle aside and said, "So... this could be really dumb--how old is that Rachel girl?"

He shook his head and gave me a commiserating look. "Yeah. she's sixteen."

So here I am doing the math on my hands: '17, 18, 19, 20, 21... five years. Five is a lot of years.' That's a good three out of my range; but not out of his, apparently, because he followed up with, "But she's really mature for her age." I can't believe sixteen was five years ago. I assumed I would feel cooler by now.

I don't think I've met a single girl in the 18-to-25 demographic yet. There have been false calls... you see a girl across the chapel who looks like she might have potential, and then you walk past her in the hall and notice that she's in her early thirties and wearing a wedding ring and toting Baby Number Four on her hip. Disheartening. But it's only been a month, after all.

And I made the happy discovery that it's a lot easier to re-learn the guitar than it was to learn it. It was exhilarating to feel it all come back. The prospect of paying taxes and buying gasoline is having an impact on my political opinions. I'm going to have an adventure this week.

--Kevin

Is it good for man to be alone?

My homecoming talk was a welcome kick in the pants. I hadn't really given it any thought until the night before, assuming that I would just get up there and talk, and the Lord would provide. It wasn't until 6 pm Saturday evening that it occurred to me that my studies hadn't been all that meaningful lately, and that I hadn't taught in almost two weeks; that the Lord might expect some kind of effort if I wanted to fill 40 minutes with something coherent. So I panicked, and ripped open my scriptures and my journals, trying to remember what I'd been doing for the past two years, and I spent at least an hour just holding my pen over a blank sheet of paper, getting nothing.

I started to get nervous. Having lost the "mantle" of missionary work, maybe the Lord wasn't going to work so closely with me... maybe I was left to myself, without strength. I've heard it from so many people, how different life is after the mission, but I always chalked it up to excuses and superstition. God doesn't leave us, we leave Him. But I just spent an hour, praying and staring at a blank piece of paper, getting nothing.

Then I began to realize how distracted--how hungry for distraction, really--I had been since I'd come home; how caught up in congratulating myself and listening to everyone else congratulate me. I hadn't heard the voice of the Lord because I hadn't been listening.

As soon as I thought this, the Spirit seemed to say, "You've forgotten me; but I haven't forgotten you." And in the most gentle, fatherly way, "It won't do you any good to cram for this like you're the one giving it. Put up the books."

I knew it was the Spirit, because it confused me, and I tried to argue. I said, maybe with a little frustration, "Well, then what? Do I just forget about it, and go play video games? Read Harry Potter? What do you want me to do, if not study?"

And He said, just as gently, "Find another way to prepare. Find a way to get close to me, don't worry about the talk." Act like you really believe in the Spirit's guidance, basically. So I thought about it, and the only thing that came to mind was to clean my room. It was stupid, but I couldn't think of anything else. But as I went to hang up a shirt, all of a sudden I was flooded with scriptures. "I have engraven you on the palms of my hands"... "I will never leave you, nor forsake you." The Spirit said, "I'm not going anywhere. I will show you tomorrow that I am still your God." And right after I said my prayers that night, as I was sliding under the covers, He told me my outline. A hint.

My High Council interview was the next morning at 6:30 a.m., so I had a good three hours of down time before church. Right when I got home, I sat down and it all spilled on the paper, all the points, all the scripture references, and so abundantly that I probably spent more time cutting it down than I spent writing it. And it went beautifully. Best talk I've ever given, by far--and I don't mind saying that because I was as surprised as everyone else that it came out of me.

So I've been trying to do better, trying to pay more attention; and now, I'm not sure the Spirit isn't even stronger than it was for most of my mission. In the field, so often it was, "You know your duty, now go and do it." But here... it's great, the Lord knows I have no clue what I'm supposed to be doing, so He's been wonderfully specific. It's exhilarating to get the answers right when you ask the questions, almost before your lips can form the words.

Now I just need to ask Him how to meet a girl. The Institute class I attended yesterday... wasn't exactly what I'm looking for. But there's something to be said for going to a class (especially a religion class) for reasons other than the chicks.

In other news, I spent my very first day almost entirely by myself. All the family attention has dissipated... it was nice, but I'm glad to have some quiet time. I actually talked to myself yesterday, out loud, for the first time in at least two years. Just driving home from Institute, talking to myself. It led me to wonder (aloud): "You'd think that people who talk to themselves would have better social skills... you know, given all the practice." And I laughed at my own joke. Very loudly. It was fantastic. It's the little things you miss.

--Kevin

P.S. So I realize in retrospect that this post is mainly about how I hear voices and talk to myself. Moral: Kevin needs you to find him a date.

P.P.S And I further realize that I just referred to myself in third-person. Life is so good.

Funny Things Happen Here.

I've been filling my head with heathen music, discovering bands that are all old news to you. I'm going to wear this iPod out if I don't accidentally wash it with my khakis first.

Before leaving Salt Lake, my uncle Mark took me to do service for President Packer (Boyd K. Packer, president of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles). The creek outside his house apparently has such a strong current in the spring thaw that it was eroding the banks and carrying big rocks away; so we had to dam the creek and lay 12 tons of concrete along the creekbed. Having never seen President Packer except in a business suit on television, it was very strange to see him sitting in a golf cart wearing a windbreaker, jeans, and a trucker hat. He had kids and grandkids there helping out, everyone was so nice. And I don't know what exactly I was expecting, but I was amazed at how normal he was... just a nice, clever, wisecracking old man, it seemed.

Indian Hills is a good place. We live on the west side of the mountains, so you feel completely isolated until you come over the top of the hill and suddenly the Denver skyline is right in your face, smog inversion and all. But on our side of the mountain, it is all rich hippies (a contradiction in terms, you'd think, but not here) and androgynous "horse people". But everyone seems pretty cool. Dad says his friend Ruven is the 'de facto mayor'... if that tells you anything about how chill this town is. Who's in charge around here? He is... sort of.

Ruven is cool though. He just turned 80, and they threw a party for him at the log-cabin community center down the hill. Well, it was for him at first, but then it was for all the February birthdays in town... and then January and March too, why not? (These are cool people.) He's from Mexico, by way of Lawrence, Kansas, so it was "feliz cumpleanos" and a pinata for the kids, with "real" Mexican food (as far as I know); and then the coolest thing I've ever seen:

As the party was just starting to wind down, three violinists, two trumpeters, a little guy with a huge acoustic bass guitar, and a really big guy with a little tiny ukelele marched in single-file, in full mariachi regalia, and rocked the house for about an hour. It was pretty much standard-issue country-song lyrics, from what I could understand, but they had incredible voices and it was a surprise mariachi band. How can you top that? Ruven wept openly. I would too, if you surprised me with a mariachi band.

I wish I could say it still feels weird to be home, but it's a lot like my first week in the mission field: I've been doing this forever, and anything that happened more than two weeks ago feels like a dream. The real world is pretty much the way I left it, except somebody ripped off my CDs. But of course I see it all differently. I've been painfully let down by my old favorite bands... it's harder for me to whole-heartedly identify with bitter existentialism and euphemized lust.

But my appreciation for Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, for example, was intensified to the point of being a little silly; because I know what it's like to know something really, really important, and be believed only by people who believe everything. I know what it's like to try to help people who hate you and think you're nuts. And I know how good it feels to have a friend or two who can see what you see, to prove to yourself that you really aren't crazy. Maybe that's why we go two-by-two.

Started work yesterday, back at Milliman. In the break room, this young-ish, strange-ish blonde girl says, "Hey, are you new?"

"Yeah, sort of... I'm Kirsten's son."

"Oh... I don't know Kirsten."

"Oh." Awkward pause.

"What's your name?"

"Kevin."

"You look like a Kevin."

"Hope that's a good thing."

"Oh, it is."

"Well, good!"

And I walk out with my can of ginger ale. Innocent enough. A couple hours later, I walk by her half-cubicle on my way to the john, and she says, playfully, "I dreamed about you, Doug."

Startled, I look histrionically over both shoulders, hoping Doug is behind me. No such luck.

"Oh," she says, "I--I thought you were--um--Doug."

I couldn't think of anything to say to that, so I just cracked up and walked off. Maybe not in the nicest way. Now I feel bad. But that experience, plus the money, made it a day well spent.