The world was without any deep emotion and bland without color.  Earlier this week, Becky and I along with my sister and brother-in-law watched the movie The Giver at a local theater.   We went at Becky’s urging as she enjoyed the book of the same name by Lois Lowry.

The plot is about a community that is controlled by “the elders” who seek a utopian society by eliminating all pain and strife through making everyone live and function the same.  The movie is in black and white.  The elders select an eleven-year-old Jonas, the main character, to be the one “receiver of memory.”   His role is to receive vicariously recollections of the pre-utopian experiences as passed down from the character of “the giver.”  The elders perpetuated the role so they have the benefit of this wisdom to make their collective decisions.  When Jonas is vicariously allowed to experience true happiness and love, the movie screen explodes into color, kind of like what Dorothy’s experience in The Wizard of Oz.  Jonas then yearns that he and his family and friends escape the controlled “utopian” environment so they can experience this higher level of living—even if it means occasionally feeling pain, too.

The movie was extremely moving to me.  It portrayed something similar to my before-and-after of being treated for chronic depression, generalized anxiety, and low self-esteem.  My life before was like being on a constant treadmill—just trying to keep up with everyone’s expectations and completing all of life’s many tasks.  There was little joy in it all.  In my early years, I was taught to suppress my feelings.  This along with a series of painful experiences led me to bury deep inside most of what I felt.  It was “emotional constipation” as one of my cousins describes it.  Further, I was always trying to prove to everyone—and myself—that I was worthwhile through trying to be constantly productive.  But through psychotherapy, I learned to get in touch with myself, to feel, and to enjoy life.

In my book, Rising Above Fog, I liken this before-and-after experience to hiking up a mountain out of the fog of a winter temperature inversion in the Salt Lake Valley.   The Giver movie portrayal may be even better.

Last week I was speaking with a friend about what each of us would consider the best times of his life.  He had just taken his son to college in another state and he reminisced about how great his own college years were.  I told him that my life has become so much richer and more fulfilling since I got help that I’d probably never consider times before as highlights.

A few months ago, one of my sisters shared with me a newspaper article reporting on a speech on mental health at Brigham Young University[i].  Rebecca H. Jackson stated that those suffering from depression and other forms of mental illness often feel disconnect from God and His love.  While I’ve always had the practice of praying and have felt connected to God, I struggled to feel His love until after getting help.  Now I often “feast upon his love[ii],” as one of my favorite scriptures suggests.

This higher way of living and feeling is very delicious to me.  Having lived a large part of my life without it, I often ponder on the contrast the two.  And like Jonas, I seek to help others who are stuck in a less attractive place because of mental illness.  As I was for years, they may be unaware of their situation.  My mantra is to help others live more satisfying and fruitful lives by getting help for mental health challenges.

I join Jonas, the fictional character in the movie The Giver, in exclaiming that moving beyond a world without emotion and color is truly exhilarating!



[i] Deseret News, May 3, 2014, B1


[ii] Jacob 3:2

I was aroused by Jaxon, our four-year-old grandson, saying, “Grandpa, Cooper made a mess!”  I immediately sat straight-up from our family room sofa to see that 22 month-old Cooper had gotten into the nearby fireplace and spread ashes and charcoal onto our carpet—our brand new beige carpet laid just a month before!  The ashes covered about a three-foot-square area.

About 30 minutes before, the three of us began watching a Disney movie to help induce their afternoon naps.  I was tending them for just a few hours while our daughter—their mother—went to a lunch appointment with a friend.  Obviously, I was the only one to fall asleep.

My first instinctive reaction was to grab Cooper and somehow teach him a lesson.  But then reason took hold of me, and I began to laugh.  Cooper was too young to have any comprehension of what he had done.  He was just playing innocently.  Grandparents don’t have to punish anyway; they get to leave that to parents.  The vacuum sucked up nearly all of the black stuff leaving only a couple of small light gray marks that certainly could be easily washed up.

This incident reminding me of a newspaper article I read.  It stated that a recent survey showed that about 40 percent of depressed fathers spanked their one-year-old children compared to only about 13 percent who were not depressed.  The article went on to say that many child development experts warn that spanking children may be harmful at any age, but spanking one-year-olds is especially troubling as they are unlikely to understand the connection between their behavior and the punishment.[i]

Now some may question the motivations and validity of a study such as the one cited.  But I think it makes sense that individuals who are not feeling well—especially about themselves—tend to be less in control about how they treat others including or even especially their children.  I feel that within myself at times.  Nevertheless, it seems to me that the survey results are yet another reason why it’s important for people—and especially fathers of young children—to be aware if they experience depression, and to take steps to combat it.  Depression not only reduces the quality of life of individuals who suffer from it, but it may also impact the quality of their parenting.

Reading this newspaper article reminded me of my journey related to disciplining.  Occasionally my father spanked me, and I followed that pattern with our children.  However, about fifteen years ago I heard a speech by a respected religious leader who discouraged this practice.  I determined at that point that I would no longer discipline our children this way.  Spanking may work well for other parents and their children, but I concluded that for me and my children it wasn’t the best alternative.

The other day I was reminiscing with our youngest daughter about my change.  She said she remembers receiving her last spank from me when she was six years old.  I was amazed and taken back that she would remember!   I checked the internet for the date of the speech.  It was in October 1994, and sure enough, this daughter’s sixth birthday was about that time.

It’s also interesting that just a few years before that point in time was when I began psychotherapy.  Back then I was not aware that I suffered from episodes of depression.  That realization came a little later.  Other issues had pushed me into counseling sessions.  Nevertheless, I wonder if I had not begun those treatments, which certainly already had had a positive impact on my mental health, if the speech would have had the same impact on me.   Would I have changed my methods of disciplining our children when they were young?

While I may not be able to answer these questions, I do know that becoming aware of and being treated for depression has helped me to be a better father—and grandfather.  Just ask our children—and in a few years when he becomes more aware of things— our dear innocent grandson Cooper.



[i] “Sad dads are more likely to spank tots,” Deseret News, March 13, 2011,