Today, I planted the American flag in our front yard.  I explained to my little six-year old son what the colors symbolized in “old glory”.

The day, 9/11, is a big day for more reasons than one in the Mormon corridor.  First, there were flags flying in yards all over Idaho Falls.  Southeastern Idahoans are fiercely patriotic.  We love our country.  We love our men and women in the military.  And we are proud.  It is conservative America at its finest and best.

Not too many people honked in favor, today, of the lone, young man walking down the busiest street in town (17^th street) carrying a large placard broadcasting these words, “9/11 was an inside job!  See infowars.com.”

Remembering 9/11/01 motivates me to spend much time in personal prayer for the spiritual rightness of my own heart before God rather than to aggressively picket the community.

I suppose the same feelings transfer over to what I’ve studied about the Mountain Meadows Massacre in Utah that happened 150 years ago.

In early June, I visited this historic site not too far from St. George, Utah.  I climbed Dan Sill Hill.  I looked out through each of the view finders to locate “Camp site” and “Massacre site”.  I sat down on the native granite from Little Rock, Arkansas.  On the memorial wall with all the names, I noticed the two men that have my same last name:  Solomon R. Wood, 20, and William Wood, 26.  I read how a monument was dedicated on 9/11/99.  I will always remember the scene:  the rising eastern sun, the juniper trees, the sagebrush, the flies buzzing, and the birds chirping.

Walking down to the large stone memorial, I descended through a cool walkway along willows by a creek.  A little lizard stood for a fleeting moment on the bridge boardwalk.  Also, I saw a beautiful deer silhouetted on the embankment up by the parking lot.  He flicked his ears at me. 

Crickets were noisy.  A big American flag fluttered.  There wasn’t a cloud in the blue sky that morning.

Soon I came to the big pile of rocks—each of the stones a memorial to the atrocity of men’s sins.  A little bird sat on top.  Multiple bird droppings made the peak look almost snowy from a distance.  A pathetic, disgusting covering.

I stood there, thinking and praying and thanking God that the blood of Jesus Christ is completely sufficient to thoroughly cleanse me from all my personal, sinful atrocities wherein I am deeply ashamed of.  Early on in life, I desperately needed a covering for my troubled heart, guilty and condemned before God. 

Today, with arms stretched high to the Triune God of the heavens, I offer as best as I can what thanks I can muster from my finite, creaturely heart.  I had been awakened to the fact that my dependence partially on self for true salvation and reformation was foolish and getting me nowhere.

When atrocities are committed by us or against us in America, who must we turn to and return to for the amazing grace needed to engulf like a mighty tsunami our tortured hearts?

Thinking of heart issues . . .