ONE BY ONE
. . .Jesus . . . touched with his hand the disciples . . . one by one, even until he had touched them all, and spake unto them as he touched them. (3 Nephi 18:36)
Just out of high school, she came, a little late, to summer’s first Institute class.
“Mindy! Welcome. There’s a seat right there in the second row.”
She was at the chalkboard right after class.
“How did you know my name?”
“Seminary.”
That didn’t communicate, so I explained. “I visited your class a couple of times. When I’m there I scribble out a make-shift seating chart and learn everyone’s name.”
“I must’ve been asleep. I don’t remember you coming.”
“How about when I came just last month and invited all the seniors to come to summer Institute? Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“That was you?”
I had made quite an impression, I could tell. “So, what are your plans this Fall?”
“Eastern Illinois College. They were kind enough to give me a soccer scholarship.”
“Soccer player! I’ve got a couple of daughters who do that. And this summer, are you on a team?”
“AAU, 18 and under.”
“How are you doing?”
“Don’t know yet – we just started. I think we’ll be pretty good, though.”
“So what else do you do to keep out of trouble?”
She smiled. “I’m getting pretty good at not getting caught. But I do work at Karts R Us – you know – pizza, arcade, miniature golf, and go-carts?”
“The one just off the freeway at Meridian?”
“That’s the one.”
“How do you like it?”
“Oh, you know, it’s a job. We sure get some crazy customers sometimes.”
She told me about one; we chuckled. I learned that she drove a Bug. I did too – a vintage convertible (couldn’t afford a sports car, so had assuaged my mid-life crisis that way).
I tried to chat one-on-one with each of my students before or after class each week, so when it came to Mindy I asked her about the things we had in common. She would always have a weird customer to talk about, or an adventure with her Volkswagen – something interesting to relate. She in turn would ask me about my soccer-playing daughters, or what was wrong with my Bug this week.
Summer institute ended. Sure enough, she was off to college. Every time I saw her dad that fall I asked about her. One time he responded with, “Mindy thinks you walk on water, you know.”
I was of course surprised, but I recover quickly. “Well, it’s nice to learn I have somebody fooled. How did I manage to pull that off?”
“First of all, you remembered her name, and in her experience that’s rare for an adult. But you also talked to her like you cared, and for her, you’re the first adult who would remember the topic of conversation from week to week. She said it was like an ongoing conversation, only it was just once a week. I want you to know her mother and I really appreciate what you’ve done for her.”
I mumbled some sort of embarrassed something.
Later as I thought about it, I welled up with gratitude, which began leaking from my eyes.
“Lord,” I remember saying in my mind, “Is that all it takes? That’s just me – that’s what I try to do with all my students. If a simple thing like that makes a difference, I can do that for Thee.”
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Let Your Light So Shine
LET YOUR LIGHT SO SHINE
Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven. Matthew 5:16
Jeremiah was just out of high school, working in a WallyWorld warehouse, saving money for his mission. Colleen, a slightly older co-worker, approached him out of the blue one day and remarked, “Hey dude, you ever swear? I’ve never heard you swear.”
“I try not to.”
“I think that’s so cool! I swear - - - a lot, too much.”
Jeremiah had noticed, but wisely refrained from letting on.
“Could you help me quit swearing?”
That took him aback; no one other than Church members had ever before made him aware that people noticed his efforts to live the gospel. “Sure,” he answered hesitantly, “But how?”
“Just talk to me every day, ask me how I’m doing.”
“I can do that – so, how are you doing?”
“Terrible. Just *^#@ terrible. Oops.”
“Hey, I’ll catch ya tomorrow. You’ll have a better report by then, right?”
“Hope so. See ya.”
They ran into each other on break. “How ya doin’ since I saw ya last?”
“Only swore a coupla times the rest of the day at work. But last night it was another story. My sister *^# . . . made me so mad! I haven’t slipped up so far today, though. Almost did right then.”
“Think you can make it a whole day?”
“I don’t know . . . I’ll give it a shot.”
The next day Colleen found Jeremiah first thing. “Only once since I saw ya.”
“Congratulations. Make it a whole day and I’ll buy you a Snickers at break.”
“How’d you know they’re my favorite! You’re on, bro.”
And so it went. Some setbacks, but overall the intervals between relapses kept getting longer: a whole day, half a week, an entire week. Then . . .
“Jeremiah, hey Jer! Today’s the first of the month and I’m here to tell you I didn’t say one bad word all last month! I’m so @#%^* happy!”
Jeremiah wasn’t the only one who had been noticing. Norman
“You mean like a date?”
Well, I wouldn’t say that . . . but I thought maybe we could ride together . . .”
“That, buddy, is what I call a date.”
“ ‘Course if you don’t want to, I’ll see ya there . . .”
“Pick me up at 8. And don’t be late.”
(Chantilly lace and a pretty face and a ponytail hangin’ down . . .)
That went so well that he soon asked her if she’d be interested in going to church with him.
“Are you kiddin’? I thought you’d never ask! But this isn’t a date. Goin’ to church isn’t a date. You’re just givin’ me a ride to church, right?”
That went so well that, when the time was right, he asked her if she’d take the missionary discussions.
“You mean those guys with the white shirts and nametags and bicycles? Why don’t you just teach me?”
“’Cuz you’d think it was a date.”
The lessons went so well that Mary asked Norman
No wisecracks this time – he’d be honored.
And that went so well that, in due time, he asked her if she would accompany him to the temple.
“You mean like a date . . . for eternity?”
(A wiggle when ya walk and a giggle when ya talk, makes the world go round, round, round . . .)
Soon after the honeymoon Mary stood up to bear her testimony. The tears came when she began expressing her gratitude for Jeremiah.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
IF CHILDREN, THEN HEIRS
IF CHILDREN, THEN HEIRS
. . . we are the children of God:
And if children, then heirs; heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ . . .
Romans 8:16-17
Arthur was born and raised in the “Holler,” homesteaded by his great grandparents and inhabited by most of their progenitors. It had become a rural shantytown in a picturesque setting, a culture of idleness and all of its attendant evils. Arthur’s maternal grandfather, the industrious exception to the rule, had long since grown tired of being the extended family’s chief provider, and had removed himself from that role by moving into town and living with the inevitable “traitor” label bestowed upon him.
Arthur was a mild, happy, friendly, trusting child. As he began high school, his grandfather, sensing his potential, invited Arthur to live in town with him and become the family’s first high school graduate.
Arthur and Krista’s social circles overlapped. When he heard about the injustice put upon her by his up until then friend Kenny, Arthur temporarily set aside his mild temperament. “Krista is the best Christian I know. When you look up ‘Christian’ in the dictionary, all it would have to say is ‘Krista Radcliffe,’” he kept saying to anyone who would listen.
A week or so after the incident, Arthur was in the back bedroom when he heard the doorbell ring. He heard his grandpa’s chair squeak, then the familiar grunt as the old man rose and slowly shuffled to the door. A muffled conversation followed, accompanied by the sound of the door shutting.
Arthur appeared in the living room. “Who was that?”
“Religious pests. Should be a law against any of their kind disturbing people at home.”
“What did they look like?”
“Young ones. White shirts, ties, name tags.”
“I’d wanted to talk to them . . .”
“You can probably catch ‘em. But take’em into the kitchen. I’m watchin’ tv.
“Oprah? That’s for girls.”
“Better’n’ listenin’ to religious nuts.”
Arthur caught up to them and was glad to let them into the kitchen through the back door, embarrassed that his grandpa was watching a “chick” show.
His baptism was heard ‘round the high school, for better and for worse: Mormonism became the topic du jour.
A few weeks later the new convert, who had been coming to everything, quit coming. To anything. Krista’s dad was his Sunday School teacher. He asked his daughter.
“It’s those girls at work, the owner’s daughters. They’re “Born Agains,” same as Kenny, and their constant anti-Mormon rants are getting to him.”
“What can I do?”
“Talk to him?”
Brad called his Sunday School student at work. “Meet me at Village Inn at quittin’ time. Dinner’s on me.” It was an offer Arthur couldn’t refuse.
They did the small talk over pot roast. Just before the blackberry cobbler a la mode, Brad blurted out, “Time for the commercial.”
“I kinda thought so.”
“So what’s goin’ on?”
“I probably won’t be coming back. You guys are weird. You don’t believe like other Christians, and that’s one thing I am – Christian.”
“Could you give me an example?”
“This business about how you can become as God. No one else teaches that – sounds like blasphemy to them, and I’m thinkin’ they just may have a point.”
“Paul wrote about that in the book of Romans.” They read the passage together, and Brad explained, “It’s in the spirit of this scripture that we teach about becoming as God, Arthur. It doesn’t diminish God when understood in this way. It emphasizes His love for us – what parent wouldn’t want his beloved children to share in everything the parent has, and to be together forever? It doesn’t diminish God to believe that mankind’s destiny is to become heirs, as His sons and daughters, to all that our Father has. In fact, it raises the child to the level of the Parent. After all, His work and His glory, that which brings satisfaction and fulfillment to Him, is to bring to pass our immortality and eternal life – to live in His and His Only Begotten’s presence forever, and to share in all that they have. As it says, this is the greatest gift that God can give to man.”
“Wow, Bro. Radcliffe, they make it sound so weird, and you make it sound so wonderful.”
“Which explanation is accompanied by the Spirit? That’s how you can tell.”
“Would you mind stopping by work in a couple of days and explaining what you just did to Lisa and Sharla? They’re good girls, and I’m sure they’d be open to what you have to say. I’ll set it up, ok?”
. . . we are the children of God:
And if children, then heirs; heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ . . .
Romans 8:16-17
Arthur was born and raised in the “Holler,” homesteaded by his great grandparents and inhabited by most of their progenitors. It had become a rural shantytown in a picturesque setting, a culture of idleness and all of its attendant evils. Arthur’s maternal grandfather, the industrious exception to the rule, had long since grown tired of being the extended family’s chief provider, and had removed himself from that role by moving into town and living with the inevitable “traitor” label bestowed upon him.
Arthur was a mild, happy, friendly, trusting child. As he began high school, his grandfather, sensing his potential, invited Arthur to live in town with him and become the family’s first high school graduate.
Arthur and Krista’s social circles overlapped. When he heard about the injustice put upon her by his up until then friend Kenny, Arthur temporarily set aside his mild temperament. “Krista is the best Christian I know. When you look up ‘Christian’ in the dictionary, all it would have to say is ‘Krista Radcliffe,’” he kept saying to anyone who would listen.
A week or so after the incident, Arthur was in the back bedroom when he heard the doorbell ring. He heard his grandpa’s chair squeak, then the familiar grunt as the old man rose and slowly shuffled to the door. A muffled conversation followed, accompanied by the sound of the door shutting.
Arthur appeared in the living room. “Who was that?”
“Religious pests. Should be a law against any of their kind disturbing people at home.”
“What did they look like?”
“Young ones. White shirts, ties, name tags.”
“I’d wanted to talk to them . . .”
“You can probably catch ‘em. But take’em into the kitchen. I’m watchin’ tv.
“Oprah? That’s for girls.”
“Better’n’ listenin’ to religious nuts.”
Arthur caught up to them and was glad to let them into the kitchen through the back door, embarrassed that his grandpa was watching a “chick” show.
His baptism was heard ‘round the high school, for better and for worse: Mormonism became the topic du jour.
A few weeks later the new convert, who had been coming to everything, quit coming. To anything. Krista’s dad was his Sunday School teacher. He asked his daughter.
“It’s those girls at work, the owner’s daughters. They’re “Born Agains,” same as Kenny, and their constant anti-Mormon rants are getting to him.”
“What can I do?”
“Talk to him?”
Brad called his Sunday School student at work. “Meet me at Village Inn at quittin’ time. Dinner’s on me.” It was an offer Arthur couldn’t refuse.
They did the small talk over pot roast. Just before the blackberry cobbler a la mode, Brad blurted out, “Time for the commercial.”
“I kinda thought so.”
“So what’s goin’ on?”
“I probably won’t be coming back. You guys are weird. You don’t believe like other Christians, and that’s one thing I am – Christian.”
“Could you give me an example?”
“This business about how you can become as God. No one else teaches that – sounds like blasphemy to them, and I’m thinkin’ they just may have a point.”
“Paul wrote about that in the book of Romans.” They read the passage together, and Brad explained, “It’s in the spirit of this scripture that we teach about becoming as God, Arthur. It doesn’t diminish God when understood in this way. It emphasizes His love for us – what parent wouldn’t want his beloved children to share in everything the parent has, and to be together forever? It doesn’t diminish God to believe that mankind’s destiny is to become heirs, as His sons and daughters, to all that our Father has. In fact, it raises the child to the level of the Parent. After all, His work and His glory, that which brings satisfaction and fulfillment to Him, is to bring to pass our immortality and eternal life – to live in His and His Only Begotten’s presence forever, and to share in all that they have. As it says, this is the greatest gift that God can give to man.”
“Wow, Bro. Radcliffe, they make it sound so weird, and you make it sound so wonderful.”
“Which explanation is accompanied by the Spirit? That’s how you can tell.”
“Would you mind stopping by work in a couple of days and explaining what you just did to Lisa and Sharla? They’re good girls, and I’m sure they’d be open to what you have to say. I’ll set it up, ok?”
Thursday, December 9, 2010
IF ANY MAN SHALL ADD UNTO THESE THINGS
IF ANY MAN SHALL ADD UNTO THESE THINGS . . .
. . . If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book:
And if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life . . . (Rev. 22:18-19)
“Dad, I’ve liked him since 8th grade . . .”
Brad sensed that this was going to be awkward for both of them, and that his daughter had spent quite some time getting her part just right.
“Just who might this lucky guy be?”
“Jeremy. He’s been quite friendly lately. In fact, he wants me to do something with him this week-end.”
“Barbeque at his house with family and friends? Are your mom and I invited?”
“DA-AD! Hike and picnic – Cave Springs.”
“Just the two of you?”
“Jessie and Justin might go too.”
“But . . .”
“I know I’m not quite 16 yet, but I almost am. And I’m a sophomore, and Jessie’s parents say being a sophomore is close enough, so they let her. . . Please Dad, it’s not like I’m trying to date when I’m 13 or something. I’ve been waiting so long for this! And finally! – someone who I like, likes me too! Please, Dad – it would mean a lot to me . . .”
“You know what the prophet says, and it’s only five more weeks. You can wait that long. If Jeremy likes you now he’ll like you in five weeks. He’ll ask you again. No, Krista, we’re going to obey the prophet on this one, Just hold on for another short while – you’ll be glad you did.”
The stare would melt an iceberg. She stomped off, slamming SHUT the door to her room.
The time passed too quickly for Brad, not fast enough for Krista. It was Tuesday; her birthday was Thursday. She did a Kramer entrance into the family room, well into her rant: “I’ve been waiting all my life for this birthday, and now I’m almost there, and nobody’s ever going to ask me out! I’m fat, I’m ugly, I have zits, I’ve probably got spinach on my teeth! Why did I ever think boys were going to line up when I turned 16!”
“What about Jeremy?”
“He’s a jerk!”
“In less than five weeks he’s morphed from a prince to a jerk?”
“He’s hangin’ with that, that . . . MONICA! The sicko!” She stomped off, slamming SHUT the door to her room.
Brad was perplexed. “Hm-m . . . do I detect a pattern developing here?” The phone rang. The girl in the bedroom with the loose door hinges picked it up.
Moments later she re-entered the main part of the house, radiantly flitting about in her best imitation of a ballet dancer. “I’ve got a date! A date, a date, a date date date! You know Kenny, the cross-country guy? Well, a bunch of us ate lunch together at the meet a couple weeks ago, and we happened to be sitting by each other, and we started talking, and I was impressed, but I had no idea! This is so great I can’t believe it! It’s wrestling season now, and Paige and Amanda and Jessie and I are going to watch the guys wrestle, then we’re off to Tiger Lanes. I’ll be home by midnight, Dad, I promise. OH! This is so GREAT!”
“What a difference a phone call makes! Want to help me fix your door hinges sometime Saturday?”
“I know, Dad. Sorry.”
“You know, your mother and I haven’t been bowling in a long time. I’m gonna see if she wants to go. Maybe we’ll see you there.”
“DA-AD!”
“Just kidding.”
Her friend Amanda approached Kenny at lunch the very next Monday. “How’d it go with Krista last Friday?”
“I’m not gonna date her any more.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“Found out she’s Mormon.”
“So? What’s wrong with that?”
“Don’t you know? Mormons aren’t really Christian, and I don’t date non-Christians.”
Amanda of course related her conversation with Kenny to Krista, word for word, followed by a scathing verbal editorial concerning the utterly deficient level of intelligence possessed by Kenny. And, at her next opportunity, Amanda approached Krista’s dad and politely summarized her conversation with Kenny, adding that Krista might need a word of encouragement since she was understandably devastated.
Not knowing of Amanda’s conversation with her father, Krista approached him in her best faux casual manner. “Dad, why do some people think that Mormons aren’t Christian?”
Brad didn’t let on that he knew what had transpired. “Probably because of those verses in the book of Revelation.”
“Uh, which verses might those be?”
A Bible was quickly produced and the verses read.
“That’s pretty convincing, Dad. What do we say to that?”
“Well, for one thing, it says the same thing in Deuteronomy:
Ye shall not add unto the work which I command you, neither shall ye diminish ought from it . . . Deut. 4:2
“If that’s what it really meant it would discredit all the rest of the Bible past Deuteronomy.”
“Wow!”
“For another, the New Testament existed as only separate epistles and writings, each in a different location, for centuries. It was almost 300 years before someone came up with the idea to compile those writings into a single volume. So those verses can’t be referring to the New Testament per se; they can only refer to the book of Revelation itself, and we Mormons haven’t added to or taken one iota away from that particular book, have we?
“Besides, that was not even the last book written – for example, the gospel of John was written after Revelation! If those verses really referred to the New Testament as a whole, one of the four Gospels would have to be thrown out.”
There was a long pause as Krista absorbed what she was just then learning. The slow burn was becoming apparent: “OOH! That Kenny is SO in trouble!”
. . . If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book:
And if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life . . . (Rev. 22:18-19)
“Dad, I’ve liked him since 8th grade . . .”
Brad sensed that this was going to be awkward for both of them, and that his daughter had spent quite some time getting her part just right.
“Just who might this lucky guy be?”
“Jeremy. He’s been quite friendly lately. In fact, he wants me to do something with him this week-end.”
“Barbeque at his house with family and friends? Are your mom and I invited?”
“DA-AD! Hike and picnic – Cave Springs.”
“Just the two of you?”
“Jessie and Justin might go too.”
“But . . .”
“I know I’m not quite 16 yet, but I almost am. And I’m a sophomore, and Jessie’s parents say being a sophomore is close enough, so they let her. . . Please Dad, it’s not like I’m trying to date when I’m 13 or something. I’ve been waiting so long for this! And finally! – someone who I like, likes me too! Please, Dad – it would mean a lot to me . . .”
“You know what the prophet says, and it’s only five more weeks. You can wait that long. If Jeremy likes you now he’ll like you in five weeks. He’ll ask you again. No, Krista, we’re going to obey the prophet on this one, Just hold on for another short while – you’ll be glad you did.”
The stare would melt an iceberg. She stomped off, slamming SHUT the door to her room.
The time passed too quickly for Brad, not fast enough for Krista. It was Tuesday; her birthday was Thursday. She did a Kramer entrance into the family room, well into her rant: “I’ve been waiting all my life for this birthday, and now I’m almost there, and nobody’s ever going to ask me out! I’m fat, I’m ugly, I have zits, I’ve probably got spinach on my teeth! Why did I ever think boys were going to line up when I turned 16!”
“What about Jeremy?”
“He’s a jerk!”
“In less than five weeks he’s morphed from a prince to a jerk?”
“He’s hangin’ with that, that . . . MONICA! The sicko!” She stomped off, slamming SHUT the door to her room.
Brad was perplexed. “Hm-m . . . do I detect a pattern developing here?” The phone rang. The girl in the bedroom with the loose door hinges picked it up.
Moments later she re-entered the main part of the house, radiantly flitting about in her best imitation of a ballet dancer. “I’ve got a date! A date, a date, a date date date! You know Kenny, the cross-country guy? Well, a bunch of us ate lunch together at the meet a couple weeks ago, and we happened to be sitting by each other, and we started talking, and I was impressed, but I had no idea! This is so great I can’t believe it! It’s wrestling season now, and Paige and Amanda and Jessie and I are going to watch the guys wrestle, then we’re off to Tiger Lanes. I’ll be home by midnight, Dad, I promise. OH! This is so GREAT!”
“What a difference a phone call makes! Want to help me fix your door hinges sometime Saturday?”
“I know, Dad. Sorry.”
“You know, your mother and I haven’t been bowling in a long time. I’m gonna see if she wants to go. Maybe we’ll see you there.”
“DA-AD!”
“Just kidding.”
Her friend Amanda approached Kenny at lunch the very next Monday. “How’d it go with Krista last Friday?”
“I’m not gonna date her any more.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“Found out she’s Mormon.”
“So? What’s wrong with that?”
“Don’t you know? Mormons aren’t really Christian, and I don’t date non-Christians.”
Amanda of course related her conversation with Kenny to Krista, word for word, followed by a scathing verbal editorial concerning the utterly deficient level of intelligence possessed by Kenny. And, at her next opportunity, Amanda approached Krista’s dad and politely summarized her conversation with Kenny, adding that Krista might need a word of encouragement since she was understandably devastated.
Not knowing of Amanda’s conversation with her father, Krista approached him in her best faux casual manner. “Dad, why do some people think that Mormons aren’t Christian?”
Brad didn’t let on that he knew what had transpired. “Probably because of those verses in the book of Revelation.”
“Uh, which verses might those be?”
A Bible was quickly produced and the verses read.
“That’s pretty convincing, Dad. What do we say to that?”
“Well, for one thing, it says the same thing in Deuteronomy:
Ye shall not add unto the work which I command you, neither shall ye diminish ought from it . . . Deut. 4:2
“If that’s what it really meant it would discredit all the rest of the Bible past Deuteronomy.”
“Wow!”
“For another, the New Testament existed as only separate epistles and writings, each in a different location, for centuries. It was almost 300 years before someone came up with the idea to compile those writings into a single volume. So those verses can’t be referring to the New Testament per se; they can only refer to the book of Revelation itself, and we Mormons haven’t added to or taken one iota away from that particular book, have we?
“Besides, that was not even the last book written – for example, the gospel of John was written after Revelation! If those verses really referred to the New Testament as a whole, one of the four Gospels would have to be thrown out.”
There was a long pause as Krista absorbed what she was just then learning. The slow burn was becoming apparent: “OOH! That Kenny is SO in trouble!”
Thursday, December 2, 2010
UNTIL AFTER THE TRIAL OF YOUR FAITH
UNTIL AFTER THE TRIAL OF YOUR FAITH
… faith is things which are hoped for and not seen; wherefore, dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.
Ether 12:6 (emphasis added)
I was a volunteer basketball coach, and my team kept winning – everything. Local, region, state, and multi-state tournaments, teams older than us – everything. We got back from a national tournament, and the local high school coach asked how we did.
“Well, we got to play for the championship.”
“Second place?! In the nation?! With just local girls? Wow!”
I couldn’t walk into a gym anywhere in our four-county area, which I did quite frequently following my own daughters’ games, without being recognized and approached by coaches, players, and their parents, all wanting to talk. What a rush!
Coach Curtis approached me one day. “Coach, I’m stepping down. I’m moving on. I want you to apply for my position. What you’ve done with those girls is phenomenal. You could step into my shoes, and in a couple of years, with your present girls as the varsity team, you’d be playing for a state championship. Go for it. If you repeat what I’m about to say I’ll deny I ever said it, but I happen to know you’ll get my job if you apply.”
Wow! Is this what I was born to do? This was the gist of my thoughts for days, weeks even. I had installed a reworded version of the “For the Strength of Youth” pamphlet as our team’s code of conduct. Sometime during the season the moms would approach me and say, “Thanks, Coach. I’ve been trying to talk to my daughter about things like that, but she listens to you.” Dads, the few who were still part of their daughters’ lives, would say, “I like the way you coach; I’m glad my daughter’s on your team.” The players would playfully slug me on the shoulder and say, “That’s cool, Coach. Thanks.”
A good difference was being made in the players’ and their families’ lives. I was in a major mental rut at work, so launching a new career would constitute a huge burst of energy, optimism, and enthusiasm for me. Wouldn’t the greater good be served at this point by me becoming a high school girls’ basketball coach? I was, as they say, becoming a legend in my own mind.
I talked to my wife. I could sense fear entering her countenance as she began to realize this was not merely one of my myriad fleeting fantasies.
“I could retire early from CES, take the coaching/administrative job at the high school, and be experiencing a real sense of accomplishment the rest of my life, something I certainly am not getting from my present career right now!”
Try as I might, I could not seem to convince her.
I took it to the Lord. The thought came to my mind and to my heart: “What is your real motive, Bob – helping your players or basking in the honors of men?”
“The girls, of course – and their families. Young people in the Church will be taken care of, but no one’s taking care of these girls. I feel like I’m on a rescue mission.”
“So what’s your real motive – helping your players or the honors of men?”
“Didn’t I just answer that question?”
“Did you really?”
“Ok. Tell you what – I’ll give up coaching just as soon as something else enters my life that is just as fulfilling.”
“Give up coaching and something will.”
“But it needs to present itself first; then I’ll make the change.”
“You receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.”
That’s how it went. For six months. Around and around, like a media loop. At least I kept going back to the Source. To this day I stand all amazed at the patience He offered me.
Our team kept winning. Everything. But I did: after the local post-season tournament in mid-February, which we won, I turned the team over to the assistant coach.
Toward the end of the month I came home from work, having received an interesting phone call.
“Honey, how does College Station, Texas, home of the legendary Texas A&M Aggies, sound to you?”
It was the answer the Lord had been waiting to give me just as soon as I chose to muster the faith to accept His will.
… faith is things which are hoped for and not seen; wherefore, dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.
Ether 12:6 (emphasis added)
I was a volunteer basketball coach, and my team kept winning – everything. Local, region, state, and multi-state tournaments, teams older than us – everything. We got back from a national tournament, and the local high school coach asked how we did.
“Well, we got to play for the championship.”
“Second place?! In the nation?! With just local girls? Wow!”
I couldn’t walk into a gym anywhere in our four-county area, which I did quite frequently following my own daughters’ games, without being recognized and approached by coaches, players, and their parents, all wanting to talk. What a rush!
Coach Curtis approached me one day. “Coach, I’m stepping down. I’m moving on. I want you to apply for my position. What you’ve done with those girls is phenomenal. You could step into my shoes, and in a couple of years, with your present girls as the varsity team, you’d be playing for a state championship. Go for it. If you repeat what I’m about to say I’ll deny I ever said it, but I happen to know you’ll get my job if you apply.”
Wow! Is this what I was born to do? This was the gist of my thoughts for days, weeks even. I had installed a reworded version of the “For the Strength of Youth” pamphlet as our team’s code of conduct. Sometime during the season the moms would approach me and say, “Thanks, Coach. I’ve been trying to talk to my daughter about things like that, but she listens to you.” Dads, the few who were still part of their daughters’ lives, would say, “I like the way you coach; I’m glad my daughter’s on your team.” The players would playfully slug me on the shoulder and say, “That’s cool, Coach. Thanks.”
A good difference was being made in the players’ and their families’ lives. I was in a major mental rut at work, so launching a new career would constitute a huge burst of energy, optimism, and enthusiasm for me. Wouldn’t the greater good be served at this point by me becoming a high school girls’ basketball coach? I was, as they say, becoming a legend in my own mind.
I talked to my wife. I could sense fear entering her countenance as she began to realize this was not merely one of my myriad fleeting fantasies.
“I could retire early from CES, take the coaching/administrative job at the high school, and be experiencing a real sense of accomplishment the rest of my life, something I certainly am not getting from my present career right now!”
Try as I might, I could not seem to convince her.
I took it to the Lord. The thought came to my mind and to my heart: “What is your real motive, Bob – helping your players or basking in the honors of men?”
“The girls, of course – and their families. Young people in the Church will be taken care of, but no one’s taking care of these girls. I feel like I’m on a rescue mission.”
“So what’s your real motive – helping your players or the honors of men?”
“Didn’t I just answer that question?”
“Did you really?”
“Ok. Tell you what – I’ll give up coaching just as soon as something else enters my life that is just as fulfilling.”
“Give up coaching and something will.”
“But it needs to present itself first; then I’ll make the change.”
“You receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.”
That’s how it went. For six months. Around and around, like a media loop. At least I kept going back to the Source. To this day I stand all amazed at the patience He offered me.
Our team kept winning. Everything. But I did: after the local post-season tournament in mid-February, which we won, I turned the team over to the assistant coach.
Toward the end of the month I came home from work, having received an interesting phone call.
“Honey, how does College Station, Texas, home of the legendary Texas A&M Aggies, sound to you?”
It was the answer the Lord had been waiting to give me just as soon as I chose to muster the faith to accept His will.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
ESTABLISH A HOUSE
... Establish a house, even a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, a house of glory, a house of order, a house of God
D&C 88:119
On my way to work on the very first day of my new assignment as CES coordinator for Northwest Arkansas, I noticed an old house on an oversized lot not two blocks from the university. My first official act was to call the Area office.
“Richard, are you sitting down?”
“Uh-oh.Yes, why?”
“I took some back roads to work this morning.”
“Double uh-oh.”
“I noticed a “for sale” sign on a piece of property ideally located for an Institute.”
“You haven’t even held your first class yet.”
“I know, I know, but it’s going to grow, and prices are going to keep going up.”
“You’re something else! But I’m with you – go for it. And let me know what you find.”
That particular property didn’t turn out to be right. But Richard had said, “Go for it,” hadn’t he? I spent hours – days even -- driving around campus looking, thinking, talking, pondering, praying.
Year one: the nicest lady in her 90’s lived in a spacious older home on a beautiful, serene, wooded acre right next to the alumni house. Although her children thought she should, she wasn’t ready to sell. Then, a realtor friend of our realtor was retiring and was liquidating her rental property, some of which was in another good location for an Institute. But her asking price was double the market value.
Year two: our landlord had some property that would have worked, but the Church’s offer contained so many contingencies that he threw up his hands in frustration and rejected it outright. Later, our stake president suggested building an Institute wing on a meetinghouse that he was about to request; CES and Meetinghouse could work together, seeking appropriate property adjacent to the University. To Salt Lake this was a new idea at that point in time; it took forever to convince the powers that be to approve it in theory.
Year three: a picturesque 2.7 acre “urban forest” in just the right location was located that had been on the market for some time, at quite a reasonable price. The Church wanted 3.5 acres. The owner of the adjacent undeveloped property was not interested in selling. Salt Lake, to their credit, approved an exception to policy and drew up building plans for the property that was available. Those plans and accompanying statement of intended use passed the city’s zoning board and planning commission. When it got to the final approval by the city council we learned why that particular property had been on the market so long: the “tree-huggers” came out in full force. They weren’t about to allow the last stand of native growth in the city to be developed. It came down to this: the city wanted a minimum of 175 parking spaces. In order to preserve the required number of trees and build the chapel according to the standard plan plus the institute wing, the Church architects could only figure out how to put 153 parking places onto the property. The city was willing to compromise at 160. The only problem was that there was one huge, beautiful tree in the way of the additional parking spaces. Not that tree – that one could not be removed -- even though there were others on the property that could be left to meet the tree regulations. The building could not be re-positioned and still comply with set-back rules and other zoning requirements. The city suggested eliminating the chapel overflow to accommodate the tree/parking space stand-off.
“What! Now the city is telling us how to build our buildings?! That will not be tolerated.” That was the reaction and final decision of Salt Lake. The tree-huggers had once again prevailed. We ached all over, the stake president and I, for weeks.
Year four: Salt Lake moved the goalposts. What was needed now was 100 LDS college students enrolled in Institute during Fall semester. We had 44, the third year in a row that the number of enrolled students had been in the 40’s. I had recently come to realize why.
We were on Dickson St. aka Campus Debauchery St. We were located over a store, accessible by a spooky set of stairs, the destination obscured from view until arrival. During freshman orientation the previous summer a mother had brought her daughter by the Institute. Before leaving the mother pulled me aside, and pleasantly but with fervor made these observations:
“I’ve seen too many western movies, I guess.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“You know what too often happens in those movies when the characters go up to the mysterious rooms at the top of the winding staircase, right? Well, it’s all I can do to leave my firstborn in a place where the Institute looks like the second floor of a western tavern.”
I assured her that this particular second-floor destination did indeed house the Spirit. But I also realized what was happening. We had gotten all whose parents had faith enough to send their child to a university where the Institute was housed in a suspect environment. We would stay in the 40’s until the Millenium if we remained in that location.
I became persistently adamant that we needed a place of our own, so much so that the powers that be sent out a representative to talk to me personally.
Over lunch, the conversation went something like this.
“We can’t buy and remodel anything until your enrollment numbers approach 100.”
“We’re in a ‘Catch 22:’ our program won’t grow until we’re in a better location, but we can’t get a better location until our program grows.”
“In many parts of the Third World there are literally hundreds enrolled in particular programs that don’t have adequate facilities either, and we need to take care of them.”
I felt doomed, but then it came to me, (“He hasn’t said ‘no’ yet; he’s trying to without using the word. Make him say the ‘n’ word -- make him say it.”)
I was able to counter every reason offered for not granting approval. We ended on a friendly stalemate, but at least the word “no” had not entered the conversation. I reconciled myself to do the best I could in the facilities we had; I really thought I had essentially been told no.
A couple of months later that long hoped for but by now unexpected phone call came. “The Board, upon reconsidering the circumstances, has granted an exception to policy and given approval to move ahead on purchasing a new site for your Institute.”
I was delirious with joy.
Year five: our landlords told us about a rental shack on four acres tucked back off the street, too far from the university to meet policy, but on the campus bus route (buses were free for students), which made it a possibility. I checked it and informed Salt Lake, who scheduled a brother from Real Estate to come out and make a decision.
A few days later, for some reason I turned off a block sooner than usual as I approached the Institute. And there it was, a derelict home with a “for sale” sign in the yard on the street that bordered campus on the east. Perfect! Not just adequate, but Perfect!
“Hold the presses!” I practically bellowed into the phone when I contacted the Area office.
Within 48 hours Richard the Area Director was on my doorstep. “It’s perfect, Bob, just perfect. We’d have to get a structural engineer out here to make sure the building is sound; we’d need to spread out the remodeling over two fiscal budget years, but it’s been done before.”
Later in the day, his comment was, “I don’t know, Bob, that’s $57,000 more than policy allows.”
“But the location is ideal – it’s perfect! We could not possibly find a better location. Should we give it a shot anyway?”
“You’re right – it’s exactly what our students here need. Let’s go for it.”
We didn’t even take the Salt Lake real estate guy to the shack on 4 acres; instead we headed directly to the former fraternity annex, mattresses still in the attic, wet bar still partially stocked in the basement, walls painted in garish colors with a Halloween motif (that last party must have been something!), situated right on the edge of campus, a stone’s throw or two just downhill from the library. A structural engineer certified the dilapidated, century-old, three-story-plus-basement edifice as well-built and sound of foundation. An offer was made and accepted. Securing zoning and city council approval and the requisite building permits went smoothly this time. The Area project manager was contacted, who in turn accepted bids and hired a contractor.
Year six: we had a good, competent, friendly contractor, easy to work with. The same could not be said of the city or the federal government, nor the overseers in Salt Lake City.
City: the parking lot will have to be redesigned to preserve these two additional trees. Result, after more than a month of reconfiguring and seeking approval: the most mumble-jumble parking lot on the face of the earth.
Federal government: how are you going to provide handicapped access to the second floor facilities? Solution: use the ground floor lounge as an auxiliary library, complete with book shelves; make both the upstairs and ground-floor restrooms unisex. Government: the handicapped ramp is too narrow, too steep; the handicapped parking is on too steep of an angle. Solution: take out the just-constructed handicap ramp and re-do it from scratch, government concedes that the slope of the lot makes it impossible to comply with the handicap parking regulation, and grants an exception.
Salt Lake City: No, you can’t go buy your ceiling fans. They are not authorized in any of our buildings in your area of the country. In fact, the whole project is not authorized; your numbers don’t even come close to justifying it.
The project was authorized by the Committee on Expenditures on such and such a date. The site has been purchased, drawings completed and approved, building permits issued, a contactor hired, and the project more than half-way completed.
What? Impossible! You’ll need to suspend all work on the project until further notice.
Two weeks later: I don’t know how you did it with those low numbers, but the project is indeed authorized. My apologies. But you can’t have ceiling fans. No one gets them. Besides, it would cost $10,000 or more to issue a change order to reconfigure the wiring at this late date in the project.
The wiring was done with the pre-approved ceiling fans in mind. It’s all ready.
But you would need connector boxes in the middle of the ceiling.
Already in place.
What about frame reinforcement?
Done. We’re just asking for permission to buy the fans. The drop-down ceiling has been installed, and it’s time to put the fans up.
How much is that going to cost?
$400 for ten fans.
Is that all?! You can get quality fans for $40 each?!
You can in bulk, at least here.
So all you’re asking for is $400?
Not exactly – we’re merely asking for permission to spend $400 that has already been budgeted.
Well why didn’t you say so!
Similar scenario on carpet.
Same thing on phone system.
Does the right hand ever know what the left hand is doing in Salt Lake?
The now attractive, comfortable, and functional Institute of Religion, which also housed the local student branch, was dedicated in March of 1999. That fall 82 LDS college students enrolled in Institute, up from 47 the previous spring.
D&C 88:119
On my way to work on the very first day of my new assignment as CES coordinator for Northwest Arkansas, I noticed an old house on an oversized lot not two blocks from the university. My first official act was to call the Area office.
“Richard, are you sitting down?”
“Uh-oh.Yes, why?”
“I took some back roads to work this morning.”
“Double uh-oh.”
“I noticed a “for sale” sign on a piece of property ideally located for an Institute.”
“You haven’t even held your first class yet.”
“I know, I know, but it’s going to grow, and prices are going to keep going up.”
“You’re something else! But I’m with you – go for it. And let me know what you find.”
That particular property didn’t turn out to be right. But Richard had said, “Go for it,” hadn’t he? I spent hours – days even -- driving around campus looking, thinking, talking, pondering, praying.
Year one: the nicest lady in her 90’s lived in a spacious older home on a beautiful, serene, wooded acre right next to the alumni house. Although her children thought she should, she wasn’t ready to sell. Then, a realtor friend of our realtor was retiring and was liquidating her rental property, some of which was in another good location for an Institute. But her asking price was double the market value.
Year two: our landlord had some property that would have worked, but the Church’s offer contained so many contingencies that he threw up his hands in frustration and rejected it outright. Later, our stake president suggested building an Institute wing on a meetinghouse that he was about to request; CES and Meetinghouse could work together, seeking appropriate property adjacent to the University. To Salt Lake this was a new idea at that point in time; it took forever to convince the powers that be to approve it in theory.
Year three: a picturesque 2.7 acre “urban forest” in just the right location was located that had been on the market for some time, at quite a reasonable price. The Church wanted 3.5 acres. The owner of the adjacent undeveloped property was not interested in selling. Salt Lake, to their credit, approved an exception to policy and drew up building plans for the property that was available. Those plans and accompanying statement of intended use passed the city’s zoning board and planning commission. When it got to the final approval by the city council we learned why that particular property had been on the market so long: the “tree-huggers” came out in full force. They weren’t about to allow the last stand of native growth in the city to be developed. It came down to this: the city wanted a minimum of 175 parking spaces. In order to preserve the required number of trees and build the chapel according to the standard plan plus the institute wing, the Church architects could only figure out how to put 153 parking places onto the property. The city was willing to compromise at 160. The only problem was that there was one huge, beautiful tree in the way of the additional parking spaces. Not that tree – that one could not be removed -- even though there were others on the property that could be left to meet the tree regulations. The building could not be re-positioned and still comply with set-back rules and other zoning requirements. The city suggested eliminating the chapel overflow to accommodate the tree/parking space stand-off.
“What! Now the city is telling us how to build our buildings?! That will not be tolerated.” That was the reaction and final decision of Salt Lake. The tree-huggers had once again prevailed. We ached all over, the stake president and I, for weeks.
Year four: Salt Lake moved the goalposts. What was needed now was 100 LDS college students enrolled in Institute during Fall semester. We had 44, the third year in a row that the number of enrolled students had been in the 40’s. I had recently come to realize why.
We were on Dickson St. aka Campus Debauchery St. We were located over a store, accessible by a spooky set of stairs, the destination obscured from view until arrival. During freshman orientation the previous summer a mother had brought her daughter by the Institute. Before leaving the mother pulled me aside, and pleasantly but with fervor made these observations:
“I’ve seen too many western movies, I guess.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“You know what too often happens in those movies when the characters go up to the mysterious rooms at the top of the winding staircase, right? Well, it’s all I can do to leave my firstborn in a place where the Institute looks like the second floor of a western tavern.”
I assured her that this particular second-floor destination did indeed house the Spirit. But I also realized what was happening. We had gotten all whose parents had faith enough to send their child to a university where the Institute was housed in a suspect environment. We would stay in the 40’s until the Millenium if we remained in that location.
I became persistently adamant that we needed a place of our own, so much so that the powers that be sent out a representative to talk to me personally.
Over lunch, the conversation went something like this.
“We can’t buy and remodel anything until your enrollment numbers approach 100.”
“We’re in a ‘Catch 22:’ our program won’t grow until we’re in a better location, but we can’t get a better location until our program grows.”
“In many parts of the Third World there are literally hundreds enrolled in particular programs that don’t have adequate facilities either, and we need to take care of them.”
I felt doomed, but then it came to me, (“He hasn’t said ‘no’ yet; he’s trying to without using the word. Make him say the ‘n’ word -- make him say it.”)
I was able to counter every reason offered for not granting approval. We ended on a friendly stalemate, but at least the word “no” had not entered the conversation. I reconciled myself to do the best I could in the facilities we had; I really thought I had essentially been told no.
A couple of months later that long hoped for but by now unexpected phone call came. “The Board, upon reconsidering the circumstances, has granted an exception to policy and given approval to move ahead on purchasing a new site for your Institute.”
I was delirious with joy.
Year five: our landlords told us about a rental shack on four acres tucked back off the street, too far from the university to meet policy, but on the campus bus route (buses were free for students), which made it a possibility. I checked it and informed Salt Lake, who scheduled a brother from Real Estate to come out and make a decision.
A few days later, for some reason I turned off a block sooner than usual as I approached the Institute. And there it was, a derelict home with a “for sale” sign in the yard on the street that bordered campus on the east. Perfect! Not just adequate, but Perfect!
“Hold the presses!” I practically bellowed into the phone when I contacted the Area office.
Within 48 hours Richard the Area Director was on my doorstep. “It’s perfect, Bob, just perfect. We’d have to get a structural engineer out here to make sure the building is sound; we’d need to spread out the remodeling over two fiscal budget years, but it’s been done before.”
Later in the day, his comment was, “I don’t know, Bob, that’s $57,000 more than policy allows.”
“But the location is ideal – it’s perfect! We could not possibly find a better location. Should we give it a shot anyway?”
“You’re right – it’s exactly what our students here need. Let’s go for it.”
We didn’t even take the Salt Lake real estate guy to the shack on 4 acres; instead we headed directly to the former fraternity annex, mattresses still in the attic, wet bar still partially stocked in the basement, walls painted in garish colors with a Halloween motif (that last party must have been something!), situated right on the edge of campus, a stone’s throw or two just downhill from the library. A structural engineer certified the dilapidated, century-old, three-story-plus-basement edifice as well-built and sound of foundation. An offer was made and accepted. Securing zoning and city council approval and the requisite building permits went smoothly this time. The Area project manager was contacted, who in turn accepted bids and hired a contractor.
Year six: we had a good, competent, friendly contractor, easy to work with. The same could not be said of the city or the federal government, nor the overseers in Salt Lake City.
City: the parking lot will have to be redesigned to preserve these two additional trees. Result, after more than a month of reconfiguring and seeking approval: the most mumble-jumble parking lot on the face of the earth.
Federal government: how are you going to provide handicapped access to the second floor facilities? Solution: use the ground floor lounge as an auxiliary library, complete with book shelves; make both the upstairs and ground-floor restrooms unisex. Government: the handicapped ramp is too narrow, too steep; the handicapped parking is on too steep of an angle. Solution: take out the just-constructed handicap ramp and re-do it from scratch, government concedes that the slope of the lot makes it impossible to comply with the handicap parking regulation, and grants an exception.
Salt Lake City: No, you can’t go buy your ceiling fans. They are not authorized in any of our buildings in your area of the country. In fact, the whole project is not authorized; your numbers don’t even come close to justifying it.
The project was authorized by the Committee on Expenditures on such and such a date. The site has been purchased, drawings completed and approved, building permits issued, a contactor hired, and the project more than half-way completed.
What? Impossible! You’ll need to suspend all work on the project until further notice.
Two weeks later: I don’t know how you did it with those low numbers, but the project is indeed authorized. My apologies. But you can’t have ceiling fans. No one gets them. Besides, it would cost $10,000 or more to issue a change order to reconfigure the wiring at this late date in the project.
The wiring was done with the pre-approved ceiling fans in mind. It’s all ready.
But you would need connector boxes in the middle of the ceiling.
Already in place.
What about frame reinforcement?
Done. We’re just asking for permission to buy the fans. The drop-down ceiling has been installed, and it’s time to put the fans up.
How much is that going to cost?
$400 for ten fans.
Is that all?! You can get quality fans for $40 each?!
You can in bulk, at least here.
So all you’re asking for is $400?
Not exactly – we’re merely asking for permission to spend $400 that has already been budgeted.
Well why didn’t you say so!
Similar scenario on carpet.
Same thing on phone system.
Does the right hand ever know what the left hand is doing in Salt Lake?
The now attractive, comfortable, and functional Institute of Religion, which also housed the local student branch, was dedicated in March of 1999. That fall 82 LDS college students enrolled in Institute, up from 47 the previous spring.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
CHARITY COVERETH A MULTITUDE OF [TEACHING] SINS
CHARITY SHALL COVER A MULTITUDE OF [TEACHING] SINS
(1 Peter 4:8)
The baby was wailing. My wife and I were both playing possum, hoping the other would get up and take care of things.
“Honey, please?”
Four children under five, all day and much of the night – my wife had had it.
I dutifully arose, fixed a bottle, changed a diaper, fed the precious little one and rocked him back to sleep. As I was climbing back in, there arose a howl from the girls’ room. It was the three year old. The bed was wet and she was bellowing in chagrin and embarrassment. I took care of it.
And the alarm still went off at 3:30 a.m! One of the myriad duties of a Seminary and Institute coordinator is to visit the seminary classes under his watch. The one I had scheduled was 1½ hours away and began at the unearthly hour of 5:30, due to before-school marching band.
I had just the previous summer been trained on how to train the volunteer teachers. I had begun the process in our monthly in-service meetings. But this teacher – she must not have heard a thing. I had not up to that point been witness to teaching so diametrically opposed to the standard set by the Salt Lake City experts.
All I could think of during the drive home was how in the world could one help a teacher like her, thus saving her poor students from imploding due to boredom.
A few days later the phone rang. It was one of those Salt Lake City experts. “Bro. Boyce, you’ve got a teacher down there in Oklahoma City.”
She’s so bad her reputation has reached Salt Lake? I thought. “Yeah, I visited her last week. She’s somethin’ else, all right. What can I do?”
“You can go right back down and visit her again, that’s what you can do. Then let us in on her secret. Percentage-wise she’s got the highest enrollment of any early-morning seminary class in the Church, and over the last three years she has the highest completion rate.”
“What? She’s a walking cure for insomnia!”
“Were they asleep when you visited?”
“How should I know? I was out like a light five minutes into her drone! But come to think of it, no one was late, and they all seemed happy when they left.”
“She must be doing something right, because her results don’t lie – consistent excellence over years. Go find out, ok, and let us know –we need to get the word out to the rest of our teachers.”
I went back with new eyes and a prayer in my heart. I noticed that she greeted each of her students by name as they arrived, and asked about something she knew was going on in their lives. During class, as they were doing a worksheet (I believe the politically correct term is “learning aid” these days), she took the time to speak briefly to each one. As they were leaving she wished them well, one by one. I suddenly knew what to report to the experts.
(1 Peter 4:8)
The baby was wailing. My wife and I were both playing possum, hoping the other would get up and take care of things.
“Honey, please?”
Four children under five, all day and much of the night – my wife had had it.
I dutifully arose, fixed a bottle, changed a diaper, fed the precious little one and rocked him back to sleep. As I was climbing back in, there arose a howl from the girls’ room. It was the three year old. The bed was wet and she was bellowing in chagrin and embarrassment. I took care of it.
And the alarm still went off at 3:30 a.m! One of the myriad duties of a Seminary and Institute coordinator is to visit the seminary classes under his watch. The one I had scheduled was 1½ hours away and began at the unearthly hour of 5:30, due to before-school marching band.
I had just the previous summer been trained on how to train the volunteer teachers. I had begun the process in our monthly in-service meetings. But this teacher – she must not have heard a thing. I had not up to that point been witness to teaching so diametrically opposed to the standard set by the Salt Lake City experts.
All I could think of during the drive home was how in the world could one help a teacher like her, thus saving her poor students from imploding due to boredom.
A few days later the phone rang. It was one of those Salt Lake City experts. “Bro. Boyce, you’ve got a teacher down there in Oklahoma City.”
She’s so bad her reputation has reached Salt Lake? I thought. “Yeah, I visited her last week. She’s somethin’ else, all right. What can I do?”
“You can go right back down and visit her again, that’s what you can do. Then let us in on her secret. Percentage-wise she’s got the highest enrollment of any early-morning seminary class in the Church, and over the last three years she has the highest completion rate.”
“What? She’s a walking cure for insomnia!”
“Were they asleep when you visited?”
“How should I know? I was out like a light five minutes into her drone! But come to think of it, no one was late, and they all seemed happy when they left.”
“She must be doing something right, because her results don’t lie – consistent excellence over years. Go find out, ok, and let us know –we need to get the word out to the rest of our teachers.”
I went back with new eyes and a prayer in my heart. I noticed that she greeted each of her students by name as they arrived, and asked about something she knew was going on in their lives. During class, as they were doing a worksheet (I believe the politically correct term is “learning aid” these days), she took the time to speak briefly to each one. As they were leaving she wished them well, one by one. I suddenly knew what to report to the experts.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
AS I HAVE LOVED YOU
AS I HAVE LOVED YOU . . .
A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. John 13:34
Frank, a large animal veterinary professor, brought his family to church. His wife Debbie and their five children came with their husband and father, every week. They were as active as anyone, participating in everything -- Primary, Young Women, Relief Society, socials, service activities, firesides, everything but temple. But Frank was the only baptized member.
Soon after their oldest daughter Lara accepted an Ivy League college scholarship, disaster struck. The price of crude oil plummeted, which resulted in massive lay-offs. Right then, when home values were at their lowest, Frank’s teaching contract at the university was not renewed. He did find employment half-way across the country, but alas, their home was no longer worth even as much as they owed on it. The decision was made for Debbie and the children to remain behind, upgrade the home so they could sell it for what they owed, then join Frank when that was accomplished.
They had land, they had horses. They soon discovered, however, that what they didn’t have were remodeling experience or skills. With so much else to do (Debbie home-schooled the kids), from day one the upgrading of the home was a disaster in process.
This was the scenario I inherited as their new home teacher. On that very first visit and on every one thereafter I was mobbed – the children were so hungry for a father figure. I observed up close and personal the vulnerability of adolescent girls without a father in their lives. I felt the emptiness of young boys who need their father as mentor and role model. I determined to visit them every week, not just once a month. I didn’t quite make it, but I did average three visits a month. We would essentially hold a Family Home Evening when I came. I would often bring a son or daughter about the same age as one of the children, and we would visit and laugh and kid for the first few minutes. Then I would announce, “Ok, it’s lesson time. What should we sing?” A child would choose, usually a Primary song, and I would play it. They would inevitably ask for another, and another. Soon one of the girls said shyly, “Can I play one?” That’s how I learned that they were taking piano lessons.
She couldn’t quite get through it, so I said, “Can you have it ready for next time?” She did. We kept it up, assigning a specific song to one or the other of the girls to have ready for the next week. Soon they had quite a repertoire.
After the singing we would have an opening prayer, and then I would ask them about their studies, inviting them to share something they had learned in home school. Then came a lesson from the Book of Mormon. I learned to ask them to read five chapters together by the next time we met. They did so with enthusiasm.
Debbie pulled me aside one evening to thank me for my efforts. She also said that the Book of Mormon makes so much sense; she wished she could see the plates from which it is purported to have been translated, and to have the translation authenticated by scholars. I responded by indicating that my testimony had nothing to do with anything like that; my assurance of the truth of the book was based on confirmation through the Holy Ghost. She seemed impressed, and allowed her children to continue being taught in this way (she was right there with us on every lesson, and she had always read the assigned chapters).
A few months later I invited her to stop by my office. I felt impressed to share D&C 1:30 (“. . . the only true and living church on the face of the whole earth, with which I, the Lord, am well pleased . . .”), and asked her how she felt about it.
Her answer: “I was raised a Presbyterian, I consider myself a Presbyterian, and I intend to die a Presbyterian. My mother is the finest human being I have ever known, and it bothers me that you all feel that Presbyterianism isn’t good enough for her, or for me. But on the other hand, let me tell you, that trying to raise the kids by myself and upgrade the house on top of that! It has been the most difficult thing, bar none, that I have ever faced. And just when I am about to lose it, to explode! – to run away from it all, to abandon Frank and the kids, just at that very moment when all Hades is about to break loose, who shows up but your Mormon missionaries, saying, ‘It’s our P-day, and we’re looking for service, and you came to mind. What can we do to help?’ What’s more, they ‘just happen’ to know about framing, or dry-wall, or whatever we’re trying to do that we don’t know how to do and have just made a mess of. Or your Elders’ Quorum president will call and say, ‘Can a bunch of us come out this Saturday? What can we do to help?’ I tell ya, Bob, they have literally saved my sanity, and our family, and our marriage, besides the actual work they have done that I’m finding that I cannot do. Have the Presbyterians been out even once? Do they even know we’re in crisis? My best friend is Mennonite; we do everything together – home school our kids, show our horses, you name it. She knows my challenges and frustrations, and says the right things, all concerned and consoling. Her church is close-knit just like the Mormons, but have they ever showed up and offered to help? She’s talked about it, but has it ever actually happened? Not once. But you guys, you’re right there, every time. I’m beginning to think that maybe . . .” Her voice trailed off as she struggled to maintain composure, “Maybe there’s something to that scripture we just read.”
*******************************************
I had been visiting Frank’s family for over a year. About Halloween time, after the chit-chat, song, and opening prayer, Katrina, 15, spoke up. “Bro. Boyce, what does a person need to do to be baptized?”
“Katrina, are you trying to tell me something?”
“Well, my Mom said that if I promise to keep up in my studies, I could be baptized.”
I looked at Debbie. She responded, “She’s had a problem with that, but all this year she has kept up her end of the bargain. So it’s a go.”
“Katrina! Congratulations. I can’t tell you how happy I am. I’ll send the missionaries out.”
“Bro. Boyce, I have heard the discussions so many times I have them almost memorized. Every set for the past 5 years has given them to us, trying to convert my mom. Can’t I just get baptized?”
“Well, Elder Tolliver is new and needs the practice. Would you be willing to sit through them one more time for his sake?”
“I guess so.”
“Do you want your Dad to baptize you when he’s home on Christmas break?”
“I don’t want to wait that long . . . Wait a minute – I never thought of that. It’s going to take almost that long to hear the discussions, isn’t it. Yeah, that’d be cool.”
I took my daughter Bekkah, then 13, with me the week Frank got home. As we arrived, some lively music was playing on the stereo. Bekkah got caught up in the moment and grabbed Frank and began to dance with him. The rest of us followed suit. It was a spontaneous, glorious moment.
I invited Frank to lunch. “Isn’t it great that Katrina is going to be baptized?”
“I’ve been praying for this since before she was born.”
“How about Lara, home from college? Looks like she’s ready too.”
“She’s been taking Institute, all on her own. No one in the family thought to mention it to her. She’s something.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“Ask her? You know, our family has just got to get back together. Like when your daughter danced with me, I was as surprised and happy as I have ever been. Know what? I’ve never even danced once with any of my daughters. I don’t think they even think of me that way, as someone fun. They hardly know me; I hardly know them! I’m missing all that – and I’m just now beginning to realize how heartbreaking that is.”
“I can imagine. I’m telling you, Frank, Lara is ready to be baptized too. Ask her, ok? Baptizing her would be at least as good as dancing with her.”
“I’ll do that. I haven’t had a heart to heart conversation with her since . . . I don’t know if I’ve ever done that!”
“She’d love it, Frank. Go for it.”
It happened – the week between Christmas and New Year’s, for both Katrina and Lara. The baptisms were sweet. During the confirmations, the Spirit rested down upon Frank in a marvelous way: the blessings were patriarchal in both content and scope.
Afterwards in the dressing room, Frank was drained. He looked up from the bench he was sprawled on and remarked, “What they say about priesthood power is real, isn’t it.”
A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. John 13:34
Frank, a large animal veterinary professor, brought his family to church. His wife Debbie and their five children came with their husband and father, every week. They were as active as anyone, participating in everything -- Primary, Young Women, Relief Society, socials, service activities, firesides, everything but temple. But Frank was the only baptized member.
Soon after their oldest daughter Lara accepted an Ivy League college scholarship, disaster struck. The price of crude oil plummeted, which resulted in massive lay-offs. Right then, when home values were at their lowest, Frank’s teaching contract at the university was not renewed. He did find employment half-way across the country, but alas, their home was no longer worth even as much as they owed on it. The decision was made for Debbie and the children to remain behind, upgrade the home so they could sell it for what they owed, then join Frank when that was accomplished.
They had land, they had horses. They soon discovered, however, that what they didn’t have were remodeling experience or skills. With so much else to do (Debbie home-schooled the kids), from day one the upgrading of the home was a disaster in process.
This was the scenario I inherited as their new home teacher. On that very first visit and on every one thereafter I was mobbed – the children were so hungry for a father figure. I observed up close and personal the vulnerability of adolescent girls without a father in their lives. I felt the emptiness of young boys who need their father as mentor and role model. I determined to visit them every week, not just once a month. I didn’t quite make it, but I did average three visits a month. We would essentially hold a Family Home Evening when I came. I would often bring a son or daughter about the same age as one of the children, and we would visit and laugh and kid for the first few minutes. Then I would announce, “Ok, it’s lesson time. What should we sing?” A child would choose, usually a Primary song, and I would play it. They would inevitably ask for another, and another. Soon one of the girls said shyly, “Can I play one?” That’s how I learned that they were taking piano lessons.
She couldn’t quite get through it, so I said, “Can you have it ready for next time?” She did. We kept it up, assigning a specific song to one or the other of the girls to have ready for the next week. Soon they had quite a repertoire.
After the singing we would have an opening prayer, and then I would ask them about their studies, inviting them to share something they had learned in home school. Then came a lesson from the Book of Mormon. I learned to ask them to read five chapters together by the next time we met. They did so with enthusiasm.
Debbie pulled me aside one evening to thank me for my efforts. She also said that the Book of Mormon makes so much sense; she wished she could see the plates from which it is purported to have been translated, and to have the translation authenticated by scholars. I responded by indicating that my testimony had nothing to do with anything like that; my assurance of the truth of the book was based on confirmation through the Holy Ghost. She seemed impressed, and allowed her children to continue being taught in this way (she was right there with us on every lesson, and she had always read the assigned chapters).
A few months later I invited her to stop by my office. I felt impressed to share D&C 1:30 (“. . . the only true and living church on the face of the whole earth, with which I, the Lord, am well pleased . . .”), and asked her how she felt about it.
Her answer: “I was raised a Presbyterian, I consider myself a Presbyterian, and I intend to die a Presbyterian. My mother is the finest human being I have ever known, and it bothers me that you all feel that Presbyterianism isn’t good enough for her, or for me. But on the other hand, let me tell you, that trying to raise the kids by myself and upgrade the house on top of that! It has been the most difficult thing, bar none, that I have ever faced. And just when I am about to lose it, to explode! – to run away from it all, to abandon Frank and the kids, just at that very moment when all Hades is about to break loose, who shows up but your Mormon missionaries, saying, ‘It’s our P-day, and we’re looking for service, and you came to mind. What can we do to help?’ What’s more, they ‘just happen’ to know about framing, or dry-wall, or whatever we’re trying to do that we don’t know how to do and have just made a mess of. Or your Elders’ Quorum president will call and say, ‘Can a bunch of us come out this Saturday? What can we do to help?’ I tell ya, Bob, they have literally saved my sanity, and our family, and our marriage, besides the actual work they have done that I’m finding that I cannot do. Have the Presbyterians been out even once? Do they even know we’re in crisis? My best friend is Mennonite; we do everything together – home school our kids, show our horses, you name it. She knows my challenges and frustrations, and says the right things, all concerned and consoling. Her church is close-knit just like the Mormons, but have they ever showed up and offered to help? She’s talked about it, but has it ever actually happened? Not once. But you guys, you’re right there, every time. I’m beginning to think that maybe . . .” Her voice trailed off as she struggled to maintain composure, “Maybe there’s something to that scripture we just read.”
*******************************************
I had been visiting Frank’s family for over a year. About Halloween time, after the chit-chat, song, and opening prayer, Katrina, 15, spoke up. “Bro. Boyce, what does a person need to do to be baptized?”
“Katrina, are you trying to tell me something?”
“Well, my Mom said that if I promise to keep up in my studies, I could be baptized.”
I looked at Debbie. She responded, “She’s had a problem with that, but all this year she has kept up her end of the bargain. So it’s a go.”
“Katrina! Congratulations. I can’t tell you how happy I am. I’ll send the missionaries out.”
“Bro. Boyce, I have heard the discussions so many times I have them almost memorized. Every set for the past 5 years has given them to us, trying to convert my mom. Can’t I just get baptized?”
“Well, Elder Tolliver is new and needs the practice. Would you be willing to sit through them one more time for his sake?”
“I guess so.”
“Do you want your Dad to baptize you when he’s home on Christmas break?”
“I don’t want to wait that long . . . Wait a minute – I never thought of that. It’s going to take almost that long to hear the discussions, isn’t it. Yeah, that’d be cool.”
I took my daughter Bekkah, then 13, with me the week Frank got home. As we arrived, some lively music was playing on the stereo. Bekkah got caught up in the moment and grabbed Frank and began to dance with him. The rest of us followed suit. It was a spontaneous, glorious moment.
I invited Frank to lunch. “Isn’t it great that Katrina is going to be baptized?”
“I’ve been praying for this since before she was born.”
“How about Lara, home from college? Looks like she’s ready too.”
“She’s been taking Institute, all on her own. No one in the family thought to mention it to her. She’s something.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“Ask her? You know, our family has just got to get back together. Like when your daughter danced with me, I was as surprised and happy as I have ever been. Know what? I’ve never even danced once with any of my daughters. I don’t think they even think of me that way, as someone fun. They hardly know me; I hardly know them! I’m missing all that – and I’m just now beginning to realize how heartbreaking that is.”
“I can imagine. I’m telling you, Frank, Lara is ready to be baptized too. Ask her, ok? Baptizing her would be at least as good as dancing with her.”
“I’ll do that. I haven’t had a heart to heart conversation with her since . . . I don’t know if I’ve ever done that!”
“She’d love it, Frank. Go for it.”
It happened – the week between Christmas and New Year’s, for both Katrina and Lara. The baptisms were sweet. During the confirmations, the Spirit rested down upon Frank in a marvelous way: the blessings were patriarchal in both content and scope.
Afterwards in the dressing room, Frank was drained. He looked up from the bench he was sprawled on and remarked, “What they say about priesthood power is real, isn’t it.”
Saturday, November 6, 2010
CHARITY COVERETH A MULTITUDE OF [TEACHING] SINS
CHARITY SHALL COVER A MULTITUDE OF [TEACHING] SINS
(1 Peter 4:8)
The baby was wailing. My wife and I were both playing possum, hoping the other would get up and take care of things.
“Honey, please?”
Four children under five, all day and much of the night – my wife had had it.
I dutifully arose, fixed a bottle, changed a diaper, fed the precious little one and rocked him back to sleep. As I was climbing back in, there arose a howl from the girls’ room. It was the three year old. The bed was wet and she was bellowing in chagrin and embarrassment. I took care of it.
And the alarm still went off at 3:30 a.m! One of the myriad duties of a Seminary and Institute coordinator is to visit the seminary classes under his watch. The one I had scheduled was 1½ hours away and began at the unearthly hour of 5:30, due to before-school marching band.
I had just the previous summer been trained on how to train the volunteer teachers. I had begun the process in our monthly in-service meetings. But this teacher – she must not have heard a thing. I had not up to that point been witness to teaching so diametrically opposed to the standard set by the Salt Lake City experts.
All I could think of during the drive home was how in the world could one help a teacher like her, thus saving her poor students from imploding due to boredom.
A few days later the phone rang. It was one of those Salt Lake City experts. “Bro. Boyce, you’ve got a teacher down there in Oklahoma City.”
She’s so bad her reputation has reached Salt Lake? I thought. “Yeah, I visited her last week. She’s somethin’ else, all right. What can I do?”
“You can go right back down and visit her again, that’s what you can do. Then let us in on her secret. Percentage-wise she’s got the highest enrollment of any early-morning seminary class in the Church, and over the last three years she has the highest completion rate.”
“What? She’s a walking cure for insomnia!”
“Were they asleep when you visited?”
“How should I know? I was out like a light five minutes into her drone! But come to think of it, no one was late, and they all seemed happy when they left.”
“She must be doing something right, because her results don’t lie – consistent excellence over years. Go find out, ok, and let us know –we need to get the word out to the rest of our teachers.”
I went back with new eyes and a prayer in my heart. I noticed that she greeted each of her students by name as they arrived, and asked about something she knew was going on in their lives. During class, as they were doing a worksheet (I believe the politically correct term is “learning aid” these days), she took the time to speak briefly to each one. As they were leaving she wished them well, one by one. I suddenly knew what to report to the experts.
Friday, October 29, 2010
LIFT UP THY HEART AND REJOICE
Wherefore, lift up thy heart and rejoice, and cleave unto the covenants which thou hast made. D&C 25:13
It had been 5 years. Try as he might, Jeremy could not get his mother to respond to his efforts to stay in touch. He had married, graduated, begun his career, and become a father – nothing. Still, the couple reasoned, Jack’s mother deserved to meet her granddaughter, so they decided to pay her a surprise visit while on their vacation that year.
“What! No one lives here anymore!” exclaimed Jack as they pulled up to the family bar/home. He called his sister just younger than him, with whom he had managed to maintain sporadic contact.
Credit Cards, Business Credit Cards, Cash Back Credit Cards, Student Credit Card “Oh, didn’t I tell you? They’ve condemned the place for another stupid highway expansion. Mom lives over on 68th Street
“68th Street
His knock was answered by a soft, serene, gray-headed, grandmotherly lady.
“Jeremy!”
“Mother?”
“Won’t you come in?”
“Oh . . . yeah, sorry. It’s just that . . . uh, this is my wife Brenda, and your granddaughter. Her name is Karen. Karen, this is your grandma. Can you tell her how old you are?”
Beautiful little Karen shyly held up 3 stubby fingers.
There was a long pause as his mother struggled for composure. “Jeremy, do you remember that lesson on repentance the summer you were home? I was standing there listening the whole time. I felt so ashamed. But that lesson got me to my bishop, especially the “not too late” part. I didn’t answer your letters or calls because I didn’t feel worthy to be your mother. I’m so glad you’re here. Can you stay ‘til I get back? I’m meeting Sister Johnston at the bus stop on the corner, in about 3 minutes. We go to the Temple
“Oh Mama!”
Thursday, October 21, 2010
NEITHER DO I CONDEMN THEE
Why does summer have to be so LONG!
Jeremy entered the living room of his childhood – high ceiling; glaring overhead light; faded, flowered wallpaper; hardwood floors, scratched and splotched, forming a wide border around the threadbare rug. He plopped into what remained of a ‘60’s era sofa and began reviewing the Family Home Evening lesson he would be giving in a few minutes.
The roar started innocuously enough as a muffled rumble, but he knew better and braced himself. An 18-wheeler was starting down the adjacent freeway off-ramp. It was so close to the house that every time, as the noise became deafening, he imagined the truck pummeling through the upstairs bedrooms and, cartoon-like, leaving tire tracks on everything in sight, a hole in the wall forming a silhouette of the intruding Peterbilt. He stood up and shook himself to calm his jangled nerves.
Mom and my current stepdad aren’t going to show – haven’t yet. How many stepfathers had he had growing up – four, five? He recalled as a child of three or four, sitting on the bar of the Dew Drop Inn, the drinking establishment to which the house was attached. It constituted the source of the family’s meager income; his mother, he now realized, had been the main attraction. She had taught him little ditties which he had sat there and sung, oblivious to the double entendres and enjoying the raucous reaction of the customers. He shuddered at still another recollection of the oft repeated account, accompanied by hilarity, of the circumstances of his entry into the world. His mother had left home at 15, gotten pregnant, then married, and had given birth to him at the ripe old age of 16. His father, 19 at the time, rather than staying at the hospital with his bride, had gone out and gotten drunk.
“Where do you think you’re going?!”
Jack braced himself once again for the onslaught, this time from the direction of the kitchen.
“I’m leaving, Mama – I told you that. I just can’t take it around here any more! I’m moving out.”
“O no you don’t! Who do you think you are?!”
“I’m 17 – two years older than you were when you left home! I got a mind of my own. I figure I can decide what’s best for me. Outta my way!”
“I’ll do no such thing! I oughtta . . .”
“MELODY! Where’s my shavin’ cream! Why do you always let me run outta shavin’ cream! What’s a man gotta do around here to get some attention, for [bleep] sake!” The stepdad in the bathroom was oblivious to the crisis in the kitchen.
“How’m I s’posed to know when yer outta shavin’cream! When yer out you write it on the shoppin’ list!”
“I told you I was getting’ low! Why ain’t that enough?! I can’t believe you, woman! How’m I s’posed to get ready for work if I can’t even shave? If I lose my job again your [bleep] is grass, hear me?!”
“My [bleep]! You didn’t put it on the shopping list . . .”
Jeremy stood up and forced himself to remain calm, sending a silent plea heavenward for strength. How did I ever think I could put up with this for another summer? He felt his thoughts being led toward the bishop of his youth, who had found his name as a child of record on the ward membership list when Jeremy had been about 13. The bishop had sent the Scoutmaster, who had come by and invited him to Scouts and to church. That simple act of compassion and courage had made the difference, and he had become active, involved, baptized, and had served a mission when the time came. Tears of gratitude momentarily filled his eyes as he once again felt why he had come home – in response to an impression that he would be able to touch a loved one for good – a younger brother or sister, perhaps – the way he had been blessed by his Scoutmaster.
The seventeen-year-old in crisis didn’t make it, but the younger ones all came: giggle – settle down! – poke – tickle – bribe with the promise of refreshments – opening song – giggle – prayer – poke – threatening stare – feigned contrition – review last week’s lesson on faith. Repentance was tonight’s topic.
How long she had been standing there he did not know. Near the end of the lesson he sensed something and turned to meet the gaze of his mother, who was propping up the door frame. Her arms were folded across her now-ample midriff – caked-on make-up, tell- tale signs of “firm foundation” undergarments showing through her nylon dress, once bright blue, a study in how not to preserve one’s youth.
“Hah!” Her voice was loud and grating. “Well, one thing’s for sure. It’s too [bleep] late for me!”
“No, Mama.” Jeremy spoke with a long-latent tenderness that surprised him. “It’s not too late for you. Not for anybody.”
She met his gaze an instant longer, then jerked her head away, her too-blonde tresses arching fan-like behind her as she disappeared down the hall.
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