I'm sad. Like, heartbreakingly sad. Because, well, I’m a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and you've seen the news.

And I just wrote a big thing about dealing with and processing sadness, but it wasn't very good. And I think the reason it wasn't very good is because I don't have good answers. So, I won't be trying to solve anyone's problems today, with the exception of fulfilling this:

I have a close friend from back in the high school days, and he and I go to lunch once a month. We have a great time talking about this and that, and then, inevitably, we talk politics. He is on the opposite end of the political spectrum, and I am always perplexed: we seem to be talking in a different language, operating from a completely different set of "facts". We have a hard time finding common ground because stuff that he thinks is a given, I think is untested anecdote--and vice versa.

I've been looking into this this week, as the world seems so polarized. It has been a hell of a week…

I have written, on and off, for more than 25 years. My first book was published in 2003, making me officially: very old.

But one thing that I have told my wife on numerous occasions is that: I don't know what I used to think about before I became a writer.

Because I am always in my head figuring out plot problems and telling stories to myself. I'm always thinking about my characters and their problems, whether I'm driving or eating Cheerios or lying in bed at night…

If you read last week's post, you'll know that I went to a funeral. It was lovely and heartwarming and sad and hard. I had a wonderful time seeing so many old friends, some who I hadn't seen in three years and some who I hadn't heard from in twenty five. I feel immensely blessed to have been able to go participate and mourn with those that mourn.

The funeral, however, was 800 miles away. My wife and I knew we had to be there, priced flights, and decided to make it a road trip. And, let me tell you, it was delightful…

When I was much younger—from 1997 to 1999—I was a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was young, very young. Men typically went at 19 years old, at the time, and so did I, and I was called to serve in the Four Corners area. Now, this was before the internet existed in any meaningful way—there was certainly no Wikipedia—so I knew virtually nothing about New Mexico before I got on the plane and flew there on April 9, 1997.

One thing I knew absolutely nothing about was Native American history….