... 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.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
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.
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