A Work of Ark

The Wounded Soldier

This post is dedicated to those men and women who, though declared warriors and soldiers, have the goal of returning to their wives and children safe and sound. I've had the opportunity to hear many weep for their actions and suffer unbearable pain for that which they've been sent to do. May the day come when they can share their greatness daily with their families and not be in far off lands. This poem is dedicated to them.

The world honors me as a soldier today
But that's not what I want to be
I've never wanted blood and war
I've only dreamed of peace

You call it a great sacrifice
My leaving kids and wife
But have you once considered
The agony of taking another life?

We say we're bringing freedom
To countries around the globe
But think of women and children
Who cry while bombs explode

Where is the peace for these ones?
The innocent of God's seed
What of the love that they deserve?
Must they die and bleed?

Don't honor me as a soldier
I'm not a man of war
I lay awake and weep at night
"What are we fighting for?"

We are not any safer
We are not making free
With tanks and bombs and gun and fire
Am I the only one who can see?

If you value all my efforts
If you honor my sacrifice
Don't support the reign of war
But stand up for saving life

I'm Not a "TV Dad"

I'm pulling this one out from the archives, because of multiple comments I've read lately about the state of fatherhood and how television portrays fathers. I realized it was on my other blog, and not on my Work or Ark one, so I wanted to add it here. It was originally written June 18, 2011.

I cried for thirty minutes last night. I hadn't done that, ever. The reason might seem really strange to some – my wife cut my boy's binkie. For the last few days we’ve put him to bed without the binkie, but Friday night he was really begging for it and we decided it was time for him to have the cut binkie in his hand so he could realize that those days are over.

Our daughter went through the same process. When we cut her binkie she looked at us and said “Why cut it guys?” She tried to pop it in her mouth but it wouldn’t stay, and the confused look on her face broke my heart. I knew going through the same thing with Miles would be very hard for me to do so I had Gina do it. As I heard her and the kids in the kitchen chattering about how confused Miles was, I started to cry. The cut binkie is a symbol of him moving on to a new phase, of him growing up, of me no longer rocking him to sleep as he has his binkie in his mouth.

The next night the same thoughts came flooding into my mind and I couldn’t stop crying. I tried to dry the dishes with Gina but she saw me crying. I went to my bed and just sobbed. I felt so much sadness because Miles is growing up. I also felt slightly ashamed and embarrassed that my wife was holding and comforting me because I was crying. It seemed opposite of what is should be. I felt like I wasn't being a man about it, and I thought “A dad shouldn't be doing this.” But then, the following came into my mind, “I’m not a T.V. Dad”. I include an excerpt of an article on the portrayal of fathers on television, then this is followed with a poem I wrote.

"Often, sitcom dads such as Homer Simpson and Raymond Barone are portrayed as selfish and mindless. Although we believe that they love their children, storylines often portray their offspring as intrusions to other, more important pursuits such as drinking beer, watching TV or playing golf. These dads invest considerable time in thinking up schemes to avoid their family, and they appear overwhelmingly uninterested in everyone else’s lives".

http://www.media-awareness.ca/english/resources/educational/handouts/stereotyping/tv_dads.cfm

I’m not a “TV Dad”

The message that is spoken, the one we’re all spoon-fed

Is of the clumsy fathers, disinterested, over-fed

They’ve never changed a diaper; they’ve never said a prayer

As for listening or homework, they wouldn’t even dare

It’s time someone took courage, and faced this mockery

For if there are TV fathers, one of them’s not me.

I love my wife and cherish her role, all her gifts and abilities

I like to mop and I do dishes, even fold laundry occasionally.

I try to earn a decent living, but don’t do it to “get mine”

When I come through the front door, I leave my work behind

I’ll always make some time for catch or a pretend cup of tea

There’s nothing I would rather do than be with my family

I don’t drink beer or play much golf, I’ll live if I miss the big game

The joy I feel with my kiddies around means more to me than fame

I love getting sloppy kisses and saying “I love you”

And snuggling with my little ones when the day is almost through

And I know I’m not the only one, I see many dads like me

Pushing a child on the swing or taking them for ice cream

I see other fathers fishing, their boys casting in the pond

Another father and daughter were jogging; the list could go on and on

To all the fathers around the world let’s make sure our children know

That while it may be funny, the TV dads we see

The real truth is, they’re a minority - and they’re not like you and me!

Ben Arkell – June 18 2011

Please share with everyone! If you think your dad is doing it right, share this poem with him and let him know. We never know how long our loved one's will be around. I can't share this with my dad because he is gone.

The Sting of Death

When death comes swiftly in the night

So unexpected to our sight

When young ones die before they would

Our hearts break, and well they should

The pain is deep, the sting is real

It's all-consuming, it's all I feel

I want to move on, I want to mend

But why did this life have to end?

It's one thing if they're old and gray

They've lived their lives and had their play

But when they're fresh and young and new

With so much left in life to do

It's time likes these when all I hold

Is to my faith of what's been told

Of life forever with those we've lost

God recompensing every loss

But still the aching here remains

Though lessened by eternal gains

What can I feed my struggling heart?

What words of wisdom can you impart?

I need not words but hands and hearts

A warm embrace is a good start

I want to cling to those I love

For fear they also sail above

God - comfort me this lonely night

Help me win this horrible fight

Send some loving friends my way

So I can make it one more day

And bless the memory of the lost

I'll cling to the past - at all cost

But lead me by the hand tomorrow

I do not wish to live in sorrow

(If you like, please share! Thanks)

How I See

This cruel world we live in, you need be wise
They speak of "beauty" but don't be surprised
To find it's all founded by the "father of lies"

They'll tell you that your skin is too white
So strap yourself down under some ultra violet light

Your hair is too oily, or snarly, or dry
So there's a dozen products you'll for sure have to buy

Your hips are too wide, you have "thunder thighs"
But with one small procedure it'll all be disguised

Your lips are too small and your chest is too flat
Yet Botox and implants will easily fix that

Now if you look too common and want to be "your own you"
Just add a few piercings and some gnarly tattoos

If after all these touch-ups you still look fat
Try a new diet, 90 days will solve that

NOW, PLEASE

Don't listen to this madness, disregard all the chatter
Take some time to think about what really matters

The solution to this vanity appears easy to me
Stop changing how you look, start changing how you see

Ben Arkell
June 2010

Through a Child's Eyes

I'm learning how to see again
When I look through my child's eyes

I hold my child close to me
He is mesmerized by the world around him

Each sight is a wonder, each movement full of awe
He is my lens, as I now see what I thought I saw

I'm learning how to see again
The grass is greener than it's ever been

A fluttering bird, the dripping rain
Sunlight upon me, will never be the same

For all's full of wonder
There is no commonplace
Every scene is a marvel
As I consider my child's face

I can see a new world
Once simple, now great joy
All when I look
Through the eyes of my boy

I'm learning how to see again
I'm soaking it all in
Nothing is taken for granted now
I see the world through him

Ben Arkell
May 26, 2010

Father's Day

To another I've entrusted the privilege of your care

Yet I still remain close beside, no matter when or where

To another world I've sent you as part of the gospel plan

But my work is to see you fill the measure of a man

I find it quite ironic you'd not think of me today

After all, don't we wish a "Happy Father's Day"

You mention all your daddies and buy them silly ties

But do you remember The Father, who watches from on high?

For I am your Creator, a King upon the throne

But always as your Father I wish to be known

To my precious children I make this desperate plea

Next time you think of Father's day please remember me

Receive, as if from mine own mouth

I chose for them a watchman
A seer upon the tower
Then man became infected
And pride did make him sour

I built a brilliant lighthouse
A beacon in the dark
But this has been rejected
Just as Noah and his Ark

I sent the world a Savior
My hope, My Son, The Way
But man became offended
And took his life away

I called the holy prophets
To make my will be known
And man thinks this an insult
Then casts rebellious stones

Have all been so corrupted?
Do all reject my plan?
When I offer it extended
Will any take my hand?

I will thank thee Father
For that prophet and that seer
Whose words with the angelic tone
Do make the path as clear

I will praise thy name, Oh God
And with humble heart obey
All that thy chosen vessels
To thy children do convey

Do not think it blind obedience
Do not give it ignorance’s name
For in me the fire of the covenant
Burns with unquenchable flame

I will kneel before thy altar
I will ever Thy name confess
I will drink of living waters
I will call thy servants blessed

Ben Arkell

Oct 16, 2008

Sing Along

The other day I got excited to call and talk to my Dad about the Red Sox. I then realized he wouldn’t be able to talk, even if I called--because he’s gone. He’s been gone for four years now. Every now and then I forget.

My Dad was a police officer for 32 years. His bulging forearms were the size of my thighs. His biceps were not very defined--they were just blocks of muscle. My sister and I would often try to pull him down as he would kneel on the floor but all our efforts were useless. He couldn’t be moved. He would just laugh until his face turned red. He had short, strong hands that could crack walnuts on Thanksgiving while watching football like no one else. Like most men, he didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve. I only recall seeing him cry a few times—at his mother’s funeral, at his son’s funeral, and in church on occasion when we would sing “I Need Thee Every Hour”.

I paint this picture of my dad, with only a few strokes, because I want you to understand one characteristic of my dad. He was tough--his whole life. But the last time I saw him he looked weak. Leukemia had taken over. Hands once strong were now thin and fragile. Arms once powerful now consisted of sagging skin. This once intimidating officer of the law now could barely get out of his chair.

The last image I have of my father will forever be etched in the archives of my mind. He was sitting in his nice comfortable chair—eyes closed, arms resting on the arms of the chair, head back—and he was singing as his head rocked slowly from side to side. Not only did he sing, he felt something-- understood what the music meant--perhaps for the first time. He was humming along with Erroll Gardner, his favorite Jazz pianist. As I watched my father in confused awe, I saw tears stroll down his face. I think I realized then he was coming to terms with his imminent death. He looked pathetically scared.

I had never seen my Dad listen to music. I didn’t know he had interest in music. His life didn’t allow him the luxury of listening to music. He worked so hard, he never had the chance to sing along.

When life was fading away, he wanted to experience it. When his body was succumbing to illness, he wanted to feel. When his voice was about to become silent, he wanted to sing. There was something about that moment that was so innocent, so heartfelt. Seeing your hero become weak is a very humbling thing.

While the day is here and you have your voice—listen to your song and sing along.

Tribute to a Prophet

I dedicate this poem to President Hinckley and to Gina, my inspiration, for it was through her beautiful brown eyes that the idea for this work was conceived.

The Empty Chair

My neighbors came and broke the news

Our prophet dear had died

I felt a peace and calm within

No tears flowed from my eyes

I stood in line and braved the cold

To see the prophet sleep

"Surely this was a prophet of God"

But I had no desire to weep

The tributes and the memories

The testimonies borne

Of this great prophet did not bring

A cause for me to mourn

And on the funeral morning

My sorrow with none did I share

Not until between two counselors

I saw -- that empty chair

For it was then I realized

My leader had been lost

And never would I again see

Him rise from that chair to talk

I’ll miss you President Hinckley

We’ve lost one of our own

To many saints around the world

You’re the only prophet they’ve known

But all is well, we shall go on

With your memory and a prayer

For God will give us the best He’s got

And place him in that chair

Ben Arkell
February 2008

Rejection #1

Before success, most people have many, many failures. For that reason, I was actually kind of honored to receive this email in my inbox yesterday.

Dear Author:
Thank you very much for sending us your submission. It is a pleasure to see new material. Every piece received is individually reviewed by the editorial staff.
Unfortunately, we will not be able to publish your work. Because of limited magazine space and the increasing number of such submissions as the Church grows, the Church magazines are able to publish only a very small percentage of the many good items received. We regret that the time it takes to process hundreds of incoming submissions does not allow us to make comments about each one individually.
Please accept our thanks for the time and effort put into your work. We know that submissions like yours are goodwill offerings in support of the Church. We hope the work that has gone into this one will be a benefit to you and your family.
Sincerely,
Ensign, Editorial Staff

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