AWFUL CHAINS
For thus [the devil] whispereth in their ears, until he grasps them with his awful chains ... 2 Nephi 28:22
LDS transplants from the Mountain West typically send their children to BYU for college. Not so native Oklahomans; their children are generally educated in-state. Carrie (not her real name) was raised by wonderful convert parents on a farm outside a small southern Oklahoma town that was big enough for a small but virtually youth-barren branch. She lived at home and attended a local junior college her first two years. Enthusiastic, optimistic, and gregarious, she was elected student body president her sophomore year.
Bishop Rick Henderson experienced a surge of enthusiasm when he learned that Carrie would be coming to the University on scholarship the next school year. Since he would be in the vicinity soon on a job-related trip, he called, introduced himself, and made arrangements to meet her at her home.
She was warm, open, and instantly comfortable to be around. She was anxious to get started on this new phase of her life, to be with an LDS peer group for the first time, and to have an LDS room-mate. The Bishop responded to the prompting to call her to be the LDS Student Association president for the upcoming school year. She graciously accepted, her eyes sparkling.
Carrie loved Institute, she loved her calling. She loved the camaraderie with other LDS students. Alas, she didn’t love her room-mate. They could pretty well avoid each other during the week but it got so bad that each would go home on alternate week-ends, so they wouldn’t have to be in each others' presence over the long week-ends.
Early Spring semester the good bishop picked up something from a passing conversation, just a little ripple, nothing even close to a wave of concern. He called her in. His slight suspicion was confirmed; she had begun to make exceptions to the For the Strength of Youth counsel concerning her circle of friends. He again responded to a prompting, this time to call her on a mission, reasoning that by so doing she would leave forever behind that tendency to not be as careful as advised with regard to choosing her friends.
There was a long pause. “Well,” she began, “If that is going to happen there is something I need to take care of. You know about my roommate’s and my challenges, don’t you?”
He did.
“Well, last fall, on one of those week-ends when I was here by myself, things got really bad, I mean REALLY bad. I was screaming in my mind, “Will somebody – anybody – PLEASE acknowledge that I’m alive!” I called a friend from my junior college days, who is up here too. He came over. We got to talking, and then to dancing. Then things got out of hand. We didn’t do “everything,” but more than we should have.”
“Carrie! I’m so sorry. You could have called your bishop, you know.”
I thought about it. But you’re so busy! I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Not that busy. Not when someone is in crisis. How about your home or visiting teachers – could you have called one of them?”
“I’m not even sure I know who they are, Bishop. No one has ever visited me since I got here.”
Carrie and the bishop visited weekly for the remainder of the semester. Tiny miracles began happening, and continued until she personally experienced the Atonement of the Savior working on her behalf.
Her mission call to Sweden came during the summer.
It was Bishop Henderson’s practice to write monthly to the missionaries serving from his ward. Carrie, like most, would respond, not every time, but regularly. Sweden was known for not being very productive, but Carrie, to the bishop’s surprise and delight, seemed to be talking regularly about people coming into the waters of baptism.
She filled an honorable mission, and came back to the University to finish her degree. Bishop Henderson had been released and was serving elsewhere. He no longer enjoyed regular, close contact with her. Oh, they greeted each other and chatted when their paths crossed, but he was no longer aware of what was going on in her daily life.
However, not long after her mission a multi-stake conference was held in the capital city, featuring Elder M. Russell Ballard, newly called to the Quorum of the Twelve at the time. The theme was missionary work. He had recently toured Europe, interviewing missionaries along the way. He was evidently impressed when he interviewed Carrie: during his address he called her up to the podium. As he introduced her he indicated that more people had responded to her invitation to come to Christ than any other missionary in all of Europe during the previous year. He asked her what the key had been. She bore a beautiful testimony, in the process indicating that the members had responded to her pleas to do their part as member missionaries. Bro. Henderson’s feelings were thus confirmed, that she had enjoyed an unusually successful mission.
And that is precisely why, when he got her wedding announcement a year or so after she had graduated and moved on, he felt profound sadness instead of elation. She was marrying a guy not of her faith – her junior college friend whom she had called that long-ago lonely night.
Last he heard, Carrie was living and working in the eastern part of the State, struggling to maintain her Church activity, but facing increasing resistance on the home front.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
THROUGH ANOTHER HUMAN BEING
THROUGH ANOTHER HUMAN BEING
The Lord most assuredly answers prayers, but it is often through another human being that He does so. – President Spencer W. Kimball
“Nicole! You’re back!”
She stood there, framed by the doorway of Bishop Henderson’s office, considerably thinner than she was when she left two years before, although she was not hefty then.
“You remember me? And my name! After so long – I’m impressed.”
“What can I say? Some people just make a lasting impression.” Nicole had joined the Church during her freshman year, largely as a result of the efforts of her older sister, a convert herself. She had not returned for her sophomore year, mainly because of finances.
“So what have you been up to since I’ve seen you last?”
“Working full-time and taking a class or two at the local community college. That’s about it.”
“I’m glad you’re back. How do things look financially for you at this point in time?”
“A lot better. I hope to find a part-time job, but it looks like I’ll be able to stay this time around. Oh, and I took a vacation to the Caribbean last fall. I couldn’t believe the bargain price, so I said why not? Spent too much on the “optional” stuff, though.”
“Don’t we all? Did you gain the requisite pound a day like most of us do when there is so much delicious food around?”
“That’s just it, Bishop. I don’t eat hardly anything. Can’t seem to get myself to. I’ve lost too much weight, but I keep stressing about how fat I am. I’m making myself sick. I can’t sleep, I feel tired all the time – I’m a wreck.”
Anorexia, thought the bishop. That explains the sunken, lifeless eyes.
“Nicole! I’m sorry! How can I help?”
“I’m doing everything I know how. I pray my knees raw pleading for the discipline – or something – to break my downward spiral. I know I haven’t been going to church as I should – maybe that’s why the Lord doesn’t hear my prayers. I guess I’m not good enough any more for Him to pay any attention. Maybe I never was.” She reached for a tissue.
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?” She looked startled.
“You’ve been praying for Divine guidance. President Kimball said something like, “We plead for answers to our prayers. The Lord does so, but it often is through another human being that those answers come. Just like you – you’re praying for help, and you find yourself sitting across the desk of one of the Lord’s authorized servants on this earth. Why else would you be here if you weren’t prompted by Heaven to come? I can’t help but feel that you having the courage to walk through that office door is the beginning of the Lord’s answer to your prayers.”
“Hm-m. I never thought of it that way.” She looked up. There was a flicker of light in her eyes.
The bishop rolled up his sleeves as he spoke. “This is the Church and Kingdom of God on the Earth today, Nicole. There are resources available to help with this and many other knee-buckling challenges that people are called upon to face. Are we ready to go to work?”
It was a COLD February day. She had long sleeves on too. She took off her coat, unbuttoned her sleeve cuffs, and mimicked the Bishop as she exclaimed, “You bet.”
The Lord most assuredly answers prayers, but it is often through another human being that He does so. – President Spencer W. Kimball
“Nicole! You’re back!”
She stood there, framed by the doorway of Bishop Henderson’s office, considerably thinner than she was when she left two years before, although she was not hefty then.
“You remember me? And my name! After so long – I’m impressed.”
“What can I say? Some people just make a lasting impression.” Nicole had joined the Church during her freshman year, largely as a result of the efforts of her older sister, a convert herself. She had not returned for her sophomore year, mainly because of finances.
“So what have you been up to since I’ve seen you last?”
“Working full-time and taking a class or two at the local community college. That’s about it.”
“I’m glad you’re back. How do things look financially for you at this point in time?”
“A lot better. I hope to find a part-time job, but it looks like I’ll be able to stay this time around. Oh, and I took a vacation to the Caribbean last fall. I couldn’t believe the bargain price, so I said why not? Spent too much on the “optional” stuff, though.”
“Don’t we all? Did you gain the requisite pound a day like most of us do when there is so much delicious food around?”
“That’s just it, Bishop. I don’t eat hardly anything. Can’t seem to get myself to. I’ve lost too much weight, but I keep stressing about how fat I am. I’m making myself sick. I can’t sleep, I feel tired all the time – I’m a wreck.”
Anorexia, thought the bishop. That explains the sunken, lifeless eyes.
“Nicole! I’m sorry! How can I help?”
“I’m doing everything I know how. I pray my knees raw pleading for the discipline – or something – to break my downward spiral. I know I haven’t been going to church as I should – maybe that’s why the Lord doesn’t hear my prayers. I guess I’m not good enough any more for Him to pay any attention. Maybe I never was.” She reached for a tissue.
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?” She looked startled.
“You’ve been praying for Divine guidance. President Kimball said something like, “We plead for answers to our prayers. The Lord does so, but it often is through another human being that those answers come. Just like you – you’re praying for help, and you find yourself sitting across the desk of one of the Lord’s authorized servants on this earth. Why else would you be here if you weren’t prompted by Heaven to come? I can’t help but feel that you having the courage to walk through that office door is the beginning of the Lord’s answer to your prayers.”
“Hm-m. I never thought of it that way.” She looked up. There was a flicker of light in her eyes.
The bishop rolled up his sleeves as he spoke. “This is the Church and Kingdom of God on the Earth today, Nicole. There are resources available to help with this and many other knee-buckling challenges that people are called upon to face. Are we ready to go to work?”
It was a COLD February day. She had long sleeves on too. She took off her coat, unbuttoned her sleeve cuffs, and mimicked the Bishop as she exclaimed, “You bet.”
Sunday, July 10, 2011
WALK WITH ME
WALK WITH ME
… My Spirit is upon you… and thou shalt abide in me,
and I in you; therefore walk with me.
Moses 6:34 (emphasis added)
“Oh, Rick, I can’t do that!” Richard Henderson had been bishop for a good 48 hours, and a main result of the first meeting with his counselors was the confirmation to call Charlotte Johansen, dentist’s wife and mother of six, including 3 teen-agers, as the Relief Society president.
She continued, “As you well know, there are sisters in our ward who I don’t seem to be able to get along with. Why, I can’t even organize a successful birthday party for my kids, let alone those extravaganzas that those sisters seem to expect. Besides, do I look like a Relief Society president? Look at me! I’m frumpy, and there’s a reason for that. Our twin teen-age sons are driving us bonkers. But they’re not half the challenge that their older sister is right now. It’s all I can do to keep things from completely collapsing around here, let alone have time for me. I’m working down at the office to help with finances, and I still have a pre-schooler! Are you serious?! There is no way – it would be a disaster.”
Her husband was glowering. His body language said it all, but he spoke anyway. “I’m in a pretty dark place these days, you might as well know. It’s even hard to get myself to church. I cannot honestly say that you could count on my support if she’s called. Sorry, but that’s the way it is, I’m afraid.”
Rick sensed that his good friend had been expecting to be called as the bishop, and when it didn’t happen he was devastated. Now embarrassment for feeling that way had set in. This was not the time to directly call it to his attention.
“Believe me, I’ve been to similar places. Pretty scary. Tell you what, let’s get together for lunch first chance we have, and we’ll talk it through.” Sister Johansen’s husband visibly softened.
“Char (calling her by the formal ‘Sister Johansen’ would not have been appropriate right then), I realize that everything you have said is absolutely true.” She looked startled – she hadn’t expected that response – but at least the bishop had her complete attention. “But that is only half the equation. You have tremendous strengths to go along with your inadequacies. As you know, many of our brothers and sisters are really struggling right now. Since the bottom fell out of the crude oil prices, we’re dealing with a wave of unemployment. Families have to move to find work, but they can’t sell their homes even for what they owe on them. You’re feeling it, too, aren’t you: people are postponing dental work, and aren’t able to pay if they have had some done. And you, Charlotte Johansen, understand as no one else the plight of our struggling sisters. You do so with such sweet compassion and concern. They need that, they respond to it, they appreciate it so much when someone understands, and cares. You can love them – you do love them – and give them hope, Char, better than anyone I know. You can call counselors who have strengths in the areas where you struggle, so that the presidency, not the individual, is the total package. Your counselors can run the program, and you can be free to play to your strengths, to love the down and out. If indeed this is the will of the Lord that you serve in this capacity, I promise that you will be blessed to see beyond the façade of the fashion police, sense their inner self-esteem struggles, their challenges to find lasting happiness, and come to love them also. You will be able to deal with your own family matters with an extra helping of charity, the pure love of Christ. That will make a welcome difference, both to you and to them. Will you and that great husband of yours take this to the Lord, and find out from Him if this is His will?”
“Well, Bishop Henderson – it’ll take awhile for me to get used to calling you that – since you put it that way, we’ll see what happens when we ask the Lord about it.”
“How about you, Gordon – will you join your wife in her efforts to find out?”
“Well, I haven’t quit praying yet. I suppose I can stick that into a prayer or two.”
*********************************************
“Have you gotten an answer yet?” It was two days later. Bishop Henderson was calling from work. The question came after the obligatory chit-chat.
“Well, I can love those sisters, if that’s what you mean. I already do. But I still can’t organize, or please the fashion police.”
“So, who’s going to help you with those things? I’ll need their names before Sunday.”
She already had them in mind.
… My Spirit is upon you… and thou shalt abide in me,
and I in you; therefore walk with me.
Moses 6:34 (emphasis added)
“Oh, Rick, I can’t do that!” Richard Henderson had been bishop for a good 48 hours, and a main result of the first meeting with his counselors was the confirmation to call Charlotte Johansen, dentist’s wife and mother of six, including 3 teen-agers, as the Relief Society president.
She continued, “As you well know, there are sisters in our ward who I don’t seem to be able to get along with. Why, I can’t even organize a successful birthday party for my kids, let alone those extravaganzas that those sisters seem to expect. Besides, do I look like a Relief Society president? Look at me! I’m frumpy, and there’s a reason for that. Our twin teen-age sons are driving us bonkers. But they’re not half the challenge that their older sister is right now. It’s all I can do to keep things from completely collapsing around here, let alone have time for me. I’m working down at the office to help with finances, and I still have a pre-schooler! Are you serious?! There is no way – it would be a disaster.”
Her husband was glowering. His body language said it all, but he spoke anyway. “I’m in a pretty dark place these days, you might as well know. It’s even hard to get myself to church. I cannot honestly say that you could count on my support if she’s called. Sorry, but that’s the way it is, I’m afraid.”
Rick sensed that his good friend had been expecting to be called as the bishop, and when it didn’t happen he was devastated. Now embarrassment for feeling that way had set in. This was not the time to directly call it to his attention.
“Believe me, I’ve been to similar places. Pretty scary. Tell you what, let’s get together for lunch first chance we have, and we’ll talk it through.” Sister Johansen’s husband visibly softened.
“Char (calling her by the formal ‘Sister Johansen’ would not have been appropriate right then), I realize that everything you have said is absolutely true.” She looked startled – she hadn’t expected that response – but at least the bishop had her complete attention. “But that is only half the equation. You have tremendous strengths to go along with your inadequacies. As you know, many of our brothers and sisters are really struggling right now. Since the bottom fell out of the crude oil prices, we’re dealing with a wave of unemployment. Families have to move to find work, but they can’t sell their homes even for what they owe on them. You’re feeling it, too, aren’t you: people are postponing dental work, and aren’t able to pay if they have had some done. And you, Charlotte Johansen, understand as no one else the plight of our struggling sisters. You do so with such sweet compassion and concern. They need that, they respond to it, they appreciate it so much when someone understands, and cares. You can love them – you do love them – and give them hope, Char, better than anyone I know. You can call counselors who have strengths in the areas where you struggle, so that the presidency, not the individual, is the total package. Your counselors can run the program, and you can be free to play to your strengths, to love the down and out. If indeed this is the will of the Lord that you serve in this capacity, I promise that you will be blessed to see beyond the façade of the fashion police, sense their inner self-esteem struggles, their challenges to find lasting happiness, and come to love them also. You will be able to deal with your own family matters with an extra helping of charity, the pure love of Christ. That will make a welcome difference, both to you and to them. Will you and that great husband of yours take this to the Lord, and find out from Him if this is His will?”
“Well, Bishop Henderson – it’ll take awhile for me to get used to calling you that – since you put it that way, we’ll see what happens when we ask the Lord about it.”
“How about you, Gordon – will you join your wife in her efforts to find out?”
“Well, I haven’t quit praying yet. I suppose I can stick that into a prayer or two.”
*********************************************
“Have you gotten an answer yet?” It was two days later. Bishop Henderson was calling from work. The question came after the obligatory chit-chat.
“Well, I can love those sisters, if that’s what you mean. I already do. But I still can’t organize, or please the fashion police.”
“So, who’s going to help you with those things? I’ll need their names before Sunday.”
She already had them in mind.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
TAKING ONE FOR THE LORD
TAKING ONE FOR THE LORD
I don’t know why I took the family station wagon that night. I usually drove the much more fuel-efficient “Perdiddle” on out-of-town trips. Maybe it was because I was tired of its “skate-board-with-a-motor” feel.
I was on a high council assignment to visit the youth program of the Kingfisher Branch, about 2 hours away. I entered town from the east, passing the city limit sign. Just beyond the first intersection I was shaken to the core by an ear-splitting THWACK! The rear-view mirror revealed that the back driver’s side window had been suddenly transformed into a wall-to-wall spider web, emanating from a surprisingly symmetrical chip almost in the middle.
I somehow made it to the rented IOOF hall where the branch met near the western city limits. The evening went well – I felt welcome and appreciated. After the meeting the branch president walked out to the car with me.
“Holy Guacamole! What happened to YOU?”
I told him.
“That’s a bullet, my friend.” He was a rancher and quite familiar with guns. I am not. The tightness in my stomach returned full force. “Holy Toledo. You need to go by the police station before you leave town. I’m serious – this is nothing to just let go. Here, I’ll draw you a map.”
The police chief himself was on duty that night. The branch president must have called, because I was met outside as I pulled up.
“Holy [bleep]!” He exclaimed when he saw the window. “Where were you exactly when that happened?”
“Just coming into town on [Highway] 33.”
“From the east or west?”
“From I-35.”
“East. What time?”
“Let’s see. Oh yes, I did glance at the clock on the dash. 6:34.”
“The 911 call came at 6:37, from a neighbor, according to the police report.”
“Police report?!”
“Come here, let me show you something.”
We walked down some outside stairs and into the basement where the jail cells were located.
“See that piece of [bleep] in the far corner over there?”
All I saw at first was a pile of dirty rags. As my eyes adjusted a human form, obviously sleeping one off, gradually emerged amongst what turned out to be torn clothing.
“This [bleep’s] wife was between him and the front window, which faced the highway. He emptied his revolver at her. She was hit four times. She’s dead. He missed twice. There are two bullet holes in the window.
The knot in my stomach tightened into nausea.
“You’re one lucky s.o.b., you know that? Half second earlier, coulda been the front window and your head. C’mon, let’s go add your story to the report.”
I didn’t have any trouble with drowsiness on the way home that night, let me tell you.
I don’t know why I took the family station wagon that night. I usually drove the much more fuel-efficient “Perdiddle” on out-of-town trips. Maybe it was because I was tired of its “skate-board-with-a-motor” feel.
I was on a high council assignment to visit the youth program of the Kingfisher Branch, about 2 hours away. I entered town from the east, passing the city limit sign. Just beyond the first intersection I was shaken to the core by an ear-splitting THWACK! The rear-view mirror revealed that the back driver’s side window had been suddenly transformed into a wall-to-wall spider web, emanating from a surprisingly symmetrical chip almost in the middle.
I somehow made it to the rented IOOF hall where the branch met near the western city limits. The evening went well – I felt welcome and appreciated. After the meeting the branch president walked out to the car with me.
“Holy Guacamole! What happened to YOU?”
I told him.
“That’s a bullet, my friend.” He was a rancher and quite familiar with guns. I am not. The tightness in my stomach returned full force. “Holy Toledo. You need to go by the police station before you leave town. I’m serious – this is nothing to just let go. Here, I’ll draw you a map.”
The police chief himself was on duty that night. The branch president must have called, because I was met outside as I pulled up.
“Holy [bleep]!” He exclaimed when he saw the window. “Where were you exactly when that happened?”
“Just coming into town on [Highway] 33.”
“From the east or west?”
“From I-35.”
“East. What time?”
“Let’s see. Oh yes, I did glance at the clock on the dash. 6:34.”
“The 911 call came at 6:37, from a neighbor, according to the police report.”
“Police report?!”
“Come here, let me show you something.”
We walked down some outside stairs and into the basement where the jail cells were located.
“See that piece of [bleep] in the far corner over there?”
All I saw at first was a pile of dirty rags. As my eyes adjusted a human form, obviously sleeping one off, gradually emerged amongst what turned out to be torn clothing.
“This [bleep’s] wife was between him and the front window, which faced the highway. He emptied his revolver at her. She was hit four times. She’s dead. He missed twice. There are two bullet holes in the window.
The knot in my stomach tightened into nausea.
“You’re one lucky s.o.b., you know that? Half second earlier, coulda been the front window and your head. C’mon, let’s go add your story to the report.”
I didn’t have any trouble with drowsiness on the way home that night, let me tell you.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
STEWARD OF GOD
STEWARD OF GOD
For a bishop must be blameless, as the steward of God . . . Titus1:7
“Brother Boyce, how are you and Chris doing?”
There I was in the stake president’s office, surrounded by his counselors.
“Uh, fine? Why? Is there something I’m not aware of?”
“No, no. We were just asking. It’s nice to know there are a few couples out there who don’t struggle.”
“We have our moments occasionally, but we make up quickly.”
“Glad to hear it. How are your finances? Are you carrying any debt?”
“Home mortgage, car payment. That’s about it.”
“Credit card?”
“$400 at the moment. But we’ll pay it off next paycheck. We pay the whole balance each month.”
“I wish more people would do that. How are things at work? Are there any challenges in that regard?”
“I’m spread pretty thin at times, but I’m learning to pace myself, to strike a balance. It seems to be working, at least most of the time.”
“We want to thank you for your service as Bishop Gray’s counselor. He’s grateful for all you do, as we all are. How is that going for you?”
“I enjoy it. It’s inspiring to see Bill rise to the occasion, truly becoming Bishop Gray, representative of the Lord.”
“Well, Bob, thank you for your time this evening. It’s good working with you.”
“Uh, that’s it?”
“Counselors, do you have anything to add? No? That’s it, then. You’re free to go.”
Chris was anxiously awaiting my arrival home. “How did it go? What happened?”
“Not a thing. They asked me about my job, our finances, our marriage, and my calling. Then they sent me on my way.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup – that was all.”
“Weird!”
“So, what’s new? Enjoying your bishopric experience?”
I was traveling on assignment with my friend and colleague, who happened to be the president of a neighboring stake.
“Good. But you know, I had the craziest interview with the stake president and both his counselors. It was about a month ago. They called me in, asked me about our marriage, my job, my finances, and my calling. That was all. We said a prayer, and they sent me home. Spooky.
“Oh, I know what was going on,” responded my colleague, mystery in his voice.
Try as I might, I could not get another word out of him. “I’ve said too much already,” was the only other thing I was able to pry from his sealed lips.
A special bishopric meeting was called as soon as I returned. The stake president met us in our clerk’s office. We had heard rumors: a clerk had received a letter from Salt Lake City that identified us as Stillwater 2nd Ward, rather than just Stillwater. That had produced a buzz.
Sure enough, a new ward had been approved. The president showed us the boundaries. Bishop Gray “just couldn’t part” with his Relief Society president; the wife of a member of the stake presidency had made a formal request to remain in the established ward. The boundaries were therefore rather ridiculously gerrymandered to leave those two families in the established ward. The president assured us that he had that prerogative.
With that taken care of I was invited to go through the chapel to the stake wing.
“Well, Bishop Boyce, I’m sure you’ve got it figured out by now, on account of that seemingly pointless interview of a few weeks ago.”
I hadn’t. Clueless I think they call it.
“You’re the new bishop of the Stillwater 2nd Ward, which will be created this Sunday. Can you have your counselor recommendations to me no later than tomorrow afternoon? Oh, that’s right. Your wife is supposed to be present for the call. Could you phone her and get her over here, and we’ll start all over again?”
I was not sure I could, I was so light-headed. I managed somehow.
“Do I have to put on a dress?” That was her initial response.
For a bishop must be blameless, as the steward of God . . . Titus1:7
“Brother Boyce, how are you and Chris doing?”
There I was in the stake president’s office, surrounded by his counselors.
“Uh, fine? Why? Is there something I’m not aware of?”
“No, no. We were just asking. It’s nice to know there are a few couples out there who don’t struggle.”
“We have our moments occasionally, but we make up quickly.”
“Glad to hear it. How are your finances? Are you carrying any debt?”
“Home mortgage, car payment. That’s about it.”
“Credit card?”
“$400 at the moment. But we’ll pay it off next paycheck. We pay the whole balance each month.”
“I wish more people would do that. How are things at work? Are there any challenges in that regard?”
“I’m spread pretty thin at times, but I’m learning to pace myself, to strike a balance. It seems to be working, at least most of the time.”
“We want to thank you for your service as Bishop Gray’s counselor. He’s grateful for all you do, as we all are. How is that going for you?”
“I enjoy it. It’s inspiring to see Bill rise to the occasion, truly becoming Bishop Gray, representative of the Lord.”
“Well, Bob, thank you for your time this evening. It’s good working with you.”
“Uh, that’s it?”
“Counselors, do you have anything to add? No? That’s it, then. You’re free to go.”
Chris was anxiously awaiting my arrival home. “How did it go? What happened?”
“Not a thing. They asked me about my job, our finances, our marriage, and my calling. Then they sent me on my way.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup – that was all.”
“Weird!”
“So, what’s new? Enjoying your bishopric experience?”
I was traveling on assignment with my friend and colleague, who happened to be the president of a neighboring stake.
“Good. But you know, I had the craziest interview with the stake president and both his counselors. It was about a month ago. They called me in, asked me about our marriage, my job, my finances, and my calling. That was all. We said a prayer, and they sent me home. Spooky.
“Oh, I know what was going on,” responded my colleague, mystery in his voice.
Try as I might, I could not get another word out of him. “I’ve said too much already,” was the only other thing I was able to pry from his sealed lips.
A special bishopric meeting was called as soon as I returned. The stake president met us in our clerk’s office. We had heard rumors: a clerk had received a letter from Salt Lake City that identified us as Stillwater 2nd Ward, rather than just Stillwater. That had produced a buzz.
Sure enough, a new ward had been approved. The president showed us the boundaries. Bishop Gray “just couldn’t part” with his Relief Society president; the wife of a member of the stake presidency had made a formal request to remain in the established ward. The boundaries were therefore rather ridiculously gerrymandered to leave those two families in the established ward. The president assured us that he had that prerogative.
With that taken care of I was invited to go through the chapel to the stake wing.
“Well, Bishop Boyce, I’m sure you’ve got it figured out by now, on account of that seemingly pointless interview of a few weeks ago.”
I hadn’t. Clueless I think they call it.
“You’re the new bishop of the Stillwater 2nd Ward, which will be created this Sunday. Can you have your counselor recommendations to me no later than tomorrow afternoon? Oh, that’s right. Your wife is supposed to be present for the call. Could you phone her and get her over here, and we’ll start all over again?”
I was not sure I could, I was so light-headed. I managed somehow.
“Do I have to put on a dress?” That was her initial response.
Monday, June 13, 2011
SOME OTHER WAY
SOME OTHER WAY
… doth he receive [confirmation]by the Spirit of truth
Or by some other way?
If it be some other way it is not of God.
Doctrine and Covenants 50:19-20
My room-mate and I were walking into the setting sun, toward the Wilkinson Center.
“A little bit warmer than northern California,” I ventured.
“A lot warmer. Hey, look at that. Our day is about to get even hotter.”
She was just a silhouette at first, surrounded by a halo of light, emerging from the depths of the sunset. As we drew closer she gradually took on an alluring human form, the fulfillment of a recently returned missionary’s dreams.
My room-mate knew her. They chatted. I fidgeted.
“Who’s your friend?” she finally asked.
“Oh, sorry – Bob, this is Janelle; Janelle, Bob.”
“Oh, sweet mystery of life at last I found you …” Thank you, Heavenly Father, I prayed silently, for allowing me to meet my future wife just now.
My room-mate had her phone number.
I wore a hole in the carpet pacing back and forth by the phone, planning exactly what to say, anticipating how she would respond, and scripting my exact replies to all the possible scenarios I could conjure up.
“Hello, Janelle? This is Bob, you know, the guy who was with Dennis the other day outside the Wilkinson Center?”
“Oh, hi. Didn’t you say you just got back from a mission? Remind me again where you served.”
“Peru.”
“That’s right. Did you know a guy named Jack Golightly down there? Went to high school with him.”
“Elder Golightly … Golightly. No, the name doesn’t ring a bell. Where did you go to high school?”
“Springville, right here in the valley, how about you?”
“California. Pacific Grove, to be exact.”
“Hm-m. I’m afraid that’s a new one on me. Is that by L.A.?”
“North coast.”
“Anywhere close to Oakland? That’s where my boyfriend’s from.”
Silence …
“Bob, you still there?”
“Uh … oh, yeah! 100 miles south.”
“I probably haven’t been there then. I’ve been to Palo Alto, though, and to Berkeley. How about you?”
“Did a Model United Nations at Berkeley, and marched with our band at a Stanford football game. Nice places.”
It went on like that for a few more minutes. I just wanted it to be over.
> < >
“Why didn’t you tell me she had a boyfriend?!” I was quite “enthusiastic” as I asked my room-mate that question.
“Oh Nathan? It’s not working out. She’s trying to find the courage to dump him. She talks to me all the time. Thought maybe you’d be the one to give her the incentive to follow through.”
“No wonder she was so nice when I called her. But why did she have to go and mention him?”
“You called her? And you didn’t ask her out?”
“She said she had a boyfriend!”
“She was just testing your resolve. Call her back.”
“Janelle? This is Bob, Dennis’ friend, again. Say, ‘Ben Hur’ is playing at the Wilkinson Center this week-end. Wanna go this Friday?”
“Oh Bob, I’d love to, but I have plans this weekend. Thanks for thinking of me, though. Call again sometime, ok?”
“She’s interested! She told me to call back!”
“Darn right she’s interested. Keep calling.”
I did. She had plans then too.
On the fourth try, she was free for a Sunday night fireside. We went, then discussed what we had learned. I was in heaven.
But she “had plans” the next week-end. And the next.
Heavenly Father, thank you for bringing Janelle into my life. It’s just the Law of Opposition at work, isn’t it, that makes it so hard. Please bless me with the fortitude to not give in to the opposition.
Christmas Break was just around the corner. Our returned missionaries’ club was having its annual Holiday festivities, dinner and formal dance. I asked Janelle, but I had a “Plan B” all worked out, just in case. To my surprise and delight, she accepted! On the last number of the evening, it was “slow dancing, swaying to the music …”
Thank you, Lord, finally!
> < >
I couldn’t wait for Christmas Break to be over. I called her as soon as I got back in town.
“Sorry, Bob, but Nathan and I are back together. It happened over the break. You’re a good friend. I’ll always remember you.”
Lord, what is going on?! It’s not going to work out long-term between Janelle and Nathan, is it. Just bless me with patience and I’ll be fine.
“You’ll never guess. You’ll like it though.” Dennis was bouncing a little, he was so excited.
“Oh, no! I’m not falling for that again. You’ve gotten me once too often. You’re gonna say something like, “I saw the first robin of Spring today,” and then you’re gonna start laughing.”
“No, no, for real this time. Nathan dropped out of school and has gone home to Oakland. It’s over between them.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What! Dennis, I swear, if you’re trying to pull one on me …”
“I’d do that about robins, but not Janelles – call her!”
I sent up a prayer of gratitude, patted myself on the back for my unusual patience and perseverance in the face of opposition, and dialed.
“Hey, Janelle, it’s been awhile …”
She met me for lunch at the Cougareat. Subdued, no trace of bubbly. We stuck to the weather, safe things like that. No “slow dancing,” but hey, that would return, right?
I didn’t dare ask her out more than once a week, at least yet. After all, she was dealing with a broken heart, right? She needed time. She always said yes when I did ask her, even though she was zombie-like at times.
And then, over ice cream after a movie, “You know, Bob, I must have dated 201 different guys by now, and broken 200 hearts. They always fall for me. And then, when I finally really fall for someone, I get my heart broken. Why does it have to be that way?!”
She’s confiding in me. She’s trusting me. She must like me – more than just as a friend. It must be time. It’s time, right? But, I’ll go to the temple just to make sure.
I didn’t have any money, but what I did have was my dad’s credit card. He’d understand this one time of exceeding my budget. I drove by myself to Manti, thinking about nothing else but eternity with a girl named not Maria, but Janelle. If the deceased was dependent on me to understand the ceremony, he was out of luck; my thoughts were anywhere but on the proceedings. In the celestial room I was sure I received confirmation.
I went to a pay phone and called her collect. Her dad answered.
“Who?”
“I’m the friend of Janelle’s with the red coupe.”
“Oh, that one. Yes, operator, I’ll accept the charges. But make it quick, young man. We’re not exactly made of money around here, you know.”
“Hey Janelle, Bob. I’m in Manti. I’ll be there between 10 and 10:30.”
“Tonight? You’re coming to my house tonight?”
“Sure am. I’ll explain when I get there. Can’t talk too long – Daddy’s orders.”
She met me at the door. Daddy was in his easy chair. He meant to stay right there until I left. I don’t remember how we convinced him to retire for the night. He did, though, with the admonition, “Make it quick, honey, it’s a long day tomorrow.” It was meant more for me than for her.
I told her of my feelings, and of my celestial room confirmation. I suggested that we seriously consider getting married. I had imagined that she would melt in my arms with love and gratitude.
“Bob, you’ve been a good friend. I’ll always be grateful for that. But I got done with finals today, and I’m leaving early tomorrow morning for Oakland. I’ll be there at least for the summer. Nathan and I are planning on doing just that – getting married. If things don’t work out, I’ll see you in the fall, but I’m afraid it would not be wise to hold your breath. I don’t know what to say about your confirmation. I just don’t feel that way right now.”
It was easy to comply with her dad’s admonition to make it quick.
… doth he receive [confirmation]by the Spirit of truth
Or by some other way?
If it be some other way it is not of God.
Doctrine and Covenants 50:19-20
My room-mate and I were walking into the setting sun, toward the Wilkinson Center.
“A little bit warmer than northern California,” I ventured.
“A lot warmer. Hey, look at that. Our day is about to get even hotter.”
She was just a silhouette at first, surrounded by a halo of light, emerging from the depths of the sunset. As we drew closer she gradually took on an alluring human form, the fulfillment of a recently returned missionary’s dreams.
My room-mate knew her. They chatted. I fidgeted.
“Who’s your friend?” she finally asked.
“Oh, sorry – Bob, this is Janelle; Janelle, Bob.”
“Oh, sweet mystery of life at last I found you …” Thank you, Heavenly Father, I prayed silently, for allowing me to meet my future wife just now.
My room-mate had her phone number.
I wore a hole in the carpet pacing back and forth by the phone, planning exactly what to say, anticipating how she would respond, and scripting my exact replies to all the possible scenarios I could conjure up.
“Hello, Janelle? This is Bob, you know, the guy who was with Dennis the other day outside the Wilkinson Center?”
“Oh, hi. Didn’t you say you just got back from a mission? Remind me again where you served.”
“Peru.”
“That’s right. Did you know a guy named Jack Golightly down there? Went to high school with him.”
“Elder Golightly … Golightly. No, the name doesn’t ring a bell. Where did you go to high school?”
“Springville, right here in the valley, how about you?”
“California. Pacific Grove, to be exact.”
“Hm-m. I’m afraid that’s a new one on me. Is that by L.A.?”
“North coast.”
“Anywhere close to Oakland? That’s where my boyfriend’s from.”
Silence …
“Bob, you still there?”
“Uh … oh, yeah! 100 miles south.”
“I probably haven’t been there then. I’ve been to Palo Alto, though, and to Berkeley. How about you?”
“Did a Model United Nations at Berkeley, and marched with our band at a Stanford football game. Nice places.”
It went on like that for a few more minutes. I just wanted it to be over.
> < >
“Why didn’t you tell me she had a boyfriend?!” I was quite “enthusiastic” as I asked my room-mate that question.
“Oh Nathan? It’s not working out. She’s trying to find the courage to dump him. She talks to me all the time. Thought maybe you’d be the one to give her the incentive to follow through.”
“No wonder she was so nice when I called her. But why did she have to go and mention him?”
“You called her? And you didn’t ask her out?”
“She said she had a boyfriend!”
“She was just testing your resolve. Call her back.”
“Janelle? This is Bob, Dennis’ friend, again. Say, ‘Ben Hur’ is playing at the Wilkinson Center this week-end. Wanna go this Friday?”
“Oh Bob, I’d love to, but I have plans this weekend. Thanks for thinking of me, though. Call again sometime, ok?”
“She’s interested! She told me to call back!”
“Darn right she’s interested. Keep calling.”
I did. She had plans then too.
On the fourth try, she was free for a Sunday night fireside. We went, then discussed what we had learned. I was in heaven.
But she “had plans” the next week-end. And the next.
Heavenly Father, thank you for bringing Janelle into my life. It’s just the Law of Opposition at work, isn’t it, that makes it so hard. Please bless me with the fortitude to not give in to the opposition.
Christmas Break was just around the corner. Our returned missionaries’ club was having its annual Holiday festivities, dinner and formal dance. I asked Janelle, but I had a “Plan B” all worked out, just in case. To my surprise and delight, she accepted! On the last number of the evening, it was “slow dancing, swaying to the music …”
Thank you, Lord, finally!
> < >
I couldn’t wait for Christmas Break to be over. I called her as soon as I got back in town.
“Sorry, Bob, but Nathan and I are back together. It happened over the break. You’re a good friend. I’ll always remember you.”
Lord, what is going on?! It’s not going to work out long-term between Janelle and Nathan, is it. Just bless me with patience and I’ll be fine.
“You’ll never guess. You’ll like it though.” Dennis was bouncing a little, he was so excited.
“Oh, no! I’m not falling for that again. You’ve gotten me once too often. You’re gonna say something like, “I saw the first robin of Spring today,” and then you’re gonna start laughing.”
“No, no, for real this time. Nathan dropped out of school and has gone home to Oakland. It’s over between them.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What! Dennis, I swear, if you’re trying to pull one on me …”
“I’d do that about robins, but not Janelles – call her!”
I sent up a prayer of gratitude, patted myself on the back for my unusual patience and perseverance in the face of opposition, and dialed.
“Hey, Janelle, it’s been awhile …”
She met me for lunch at the Cougareat. Subdued, no trace of bubbly. We stuck to the weather, safe things like that. No “slow dancing,” but hey, that would return, right?
I didn’t dare ask her out more than once a week, at least yet. After all, she was dealing with a broken heart, right? She needed time. She always said yes when I did ask her, even though she was zombie-like at times.
And then, over ice cream after a movie, “You know, Bob, I must have dated 201 different guys by now, and broken 200 hearts. They always fall for me. And then, when I finally really fall for someone, I get my heart broken. Why does it have to be that way?!”
She’s confiding in me. She’s trusting me. She must like me – more than just as a friend. It must be time. It’s time, right? But, I’ll go to the temple just to make sure.
I didn’t have any money, but what I did have was my dad’s credit card. He’d understand this one time of exceeding my budget. I drove by myself to Manti, thinking about nothing else but eternity with a girl named not Maria, but Janelle. If the deceased was dependent on me to understand the ceremony, he was out of luck; my thoughts were anywhere but on the proceedings. In the celestial room I was sure I received confirmation.
I went to a pay phone and called her collect. Her dad answered.
“Who?”
“I’m the friend of Janelle’s with the red coupe.”
“Oh, that one. Yes, operator, I’ll accept the charges. But make it quick, young man. We’re not exactly made of money around here, you know.”
“Hey Janelle, Bob. I’m in Manti. I’ll be there between 10 and 10:30.”
“Tonight? You’re coming to my house tonight?”
“Sure am. I’ll explain when I get there. Can’t talk too long – Daddy’s orders.”
She met me at the door. Daddy was in his easy chair. He meant to stay right there until I left. I don’t remember how we convinced him to retire for the night. He did, though, with the admonition, “Make it quick, honey, it’s a long day tomorrow.” It was meant more for me than for her.
I told her of my feelings, and of my celestial room confirmation. I suggested that we seriously consider getting married. I had imagined that she would melt in my arms with love and gratitude.
“Bob, you’ve been a good friend. I’ll always be grateful for that. But I got done with finals today, and I’m leaving early tomorrow morning for Oakland. I’ll be there at least for the summer. Nathan and I are planning on doing just that – getting married. If things don’t work out, I’ll see you in the fall, but I’m afraid it would not be wise to hold your breath. I don’t know what to say about your confirmation. I just don’t feel that way right now.”
It was easy to comply with her dad’s admonition to make it quick.
Monday, May 30, 2011
SHALL WE NOT GO ON IN SO GREAT A CAUSE
IN SO GREAT A CAUSE
Brethren, shall we not go on in so great a cause! …Let your hearts rejoice, and be exceeding glad … for the prisoners shall go free. Doctrine and Covenants 128:22
No! Not that! Not then!
I had “made the mistake” of showing my wife my itinerary for my week-long Utah trip. She noticed all too readily my discretionary time on Thursday afternoon. She wanted me to do some genealogy research for her. It seems that a 19th century Kansas ancestor had one more child, Sarah, mentioned in a letter somewhere but not accounted for on any official record. My wife wanted me to go to the 4th floor of the BYU library and look in the 1870 census record for Sarah Hutchinson (this was before all those things were online).
“But Ana Maria Matute will be in town.”
“Ana Maria Ma-WHO-te?”(My wife can be quite spontaneously clever at times.)
“She wrote Primeras Memorias, my favorite Spanish novel. It’s through the eyes and vocabulary of a 6 year old, but who has the wisdom of a mature, grounded adult. And the author is still alive! She’ll be lecturing at BYU that afternoon. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for an old Spanish major like me!”
“Suit yourself. You’ll just be leaving the children’s third great grandmother waiting even longer for her work to be done.”
“Sarah Hutchinson is a direct ancestor? AHhhhhh!”
. . .
Harmony on the home front eventually trumped giving Ana Maria Matute the opportunity of meeting me in person. I successfully located the 1870 census – Kansas, appropriate county. I found the correct Hutchinson family, but no Sarah. Good! Now I can go to the lecture with a clear conscience.
But wait! Look in the adjoining counties? Now why would I want to do a thing like that?! Just do it? All right, if you insist, but I’ll miss my favorite author.
There she was – an indentured servant, 15 years old, listed with a farm family in a neighboring county. Gradually the pieces of her story, one that I had heard bit by bit over the years, began to come together in my mind. Her father was a ne’er-do-well who had trouble providing for his family. When the Civil War broke out, he left to enlist, promising to send his wages home. He was never heard from again – Civil War records do not show him as an enlistee. A single mother with 5 children in the 1860’s – standing there in the aisle on the fourth floor of the Harold B. Lee library, I felt the agony of Sarah’s mother as she made the decision to send her precious child away to be a domestic, so the youngster would at least have enough to eat.
I handed the copy of the new-found documentation to my wife upon returning home. With misty eyes, I recounted the experience, concluding, “You know I would not have chosen to do this on my own. Poor Sarah, what a miserable childhood she must have had. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to do a little bit to make her eternal life more pleasant.”
. . .
Some time later, our second daughter’s husband had just been in a roll-over accident, had broken his neck, and had been rendered a quadriplegic. We were still reeling with agony, when our bishop asked us to be the presiding authorities on a youth temple trip, 6 hours away in Dallas. We DIDN’T want to do that, given our circumstances. But, trying to be true to our covenants, we girded up our loins and accepted the assignment.
Our fourth daughter Rebekah was about 14 at the time. This was her first temple baptism experience. Her mother had sent some family names with her. Rebekah let it be known that she wanted her dad to baptize her. For some reason unexplainable to me now, I had not planned to do any baptisms that day, but to do other, less strenuous priesthood tasks. We shuffled assignments, and I entered the font with my beloved daughter. Imagine my elation when I read the first name on the screen: Sarah Elizabeth Hutchinson.
. . .
Back at the Dallas temple a few years later, my wife talked me into doing sealings rather than a customary endowment. Kneeling at the altar with the love of my life, my ears perked up when I heard that she was right then acting as proxy for Sarah Elizabeth Hutchinson., and myself for Sarah’s husband.
Brethren, shall we not go on in so great a cause! …Let your hearts rejoice, and be exceeding glad … for the prisoners shall go free. Doctrine and Covenants 128:22
No! Not that! Not then!
I had “made the mistake” of showing my wife my itinerary for my week-long Utah trip. She noticed all too readily my discretionary time on Thursday afternoon. She wanted me to do some genealogy research for her. It seems that a 19th century Kansas ancestor had one more child, Sarah, mentioned in a letter somewhere but not accounted for on any official record. My wife wanted me to go to the 4th floor of the BYU library and look in the 1870 census record for Sarah Hutchinson (this was before all those things were online).
“But Ana Maria Matute will be in town.”
“Ana Maria Ma-WHO-te?”(My wife can be quite spontaneously clever at times.)
“She wrote Primeras Memorias, my favorite Spanish novel. It’s through the eyes and vocabulary of a 6 year old, but who has the wisdom of a mature, grounded adult. And the author is still alive! She’ll be lecturing at BYU that afternoon. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for an old Spanish major like me!”
“Suit yourself. You’ll just be leaving the children’s third great grandmother waiting even longer for her work to be done.”
“Sarah Hutchinson is a direct ancestor? AHhhhhh!”
. . .
Harmony on the home front eventually trumped giving Ana Maria Matute the opportunity of meeting me in person. I successfully located the 1870 census – Kansas, appropriate county. I found the correct Hutchinson family, but no Sarah. Good! Now I can go to the lecture with a clear conscience.
But wait! Look in the adjoining counties? Now why would I want to do a thing like that?! Just do it? All right, if you insist, but I’ll miss my favorite author.
There she was – an indentured servant, 15 years old, listed with a farm family in a neighboring county. Gradually the pieces of her story, one that I had heard bit by bit over the years, began to come together in my mind. Her father was a ne’er-do-well who had trouble providing for his family. When the Civil War broke out, he left to enlist, promising to send his wages home. He was never heard from again – Civil War records do not show him as an enlistee. A single mother with 5 children in the 1860’s – standing there in the aisle on the fourth floor of the Harold B. Lee library, I felt the agony of Sarah’s mother as she made the decision to send her precious child away to be a domestic, so the youngster would at least have enough to eat.
I handed the copy of the new-found documentation to my wife upon returning home. With misty eyes, I recounted the experience, concluding, “You know I would not have chosen to do this on my own. Poor Sarah, what a miserable childhood she must have had. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to do a little bit to make her eternal life more pleasant.”
. . .
Some time later, our second daughter’s husband had just been in a roll-over accident, had broken his neck, and had been rendered a quadriplegic. We were still reeling with agony, when our bishop asked us to be the presiding authorities on a youth temple trip, 6 hours away in Dallas. We DIDN’T want to do that, given our circumstances. But, trying to be true to our covenants, we girded up our loins and accepted the assignment.
Our fourth daughter Rebekah was about 14 at the time. This was her first temple baptism experience. Her mother had sent some family names with her. Rebekah let it be known that she wanted her dad to baptize her. For some reason unexplainable to me now, I had not planned to do any baptisms that day, but to do other, less strenuous priesthood tasks. We shuffled assignments, and I entered the font with my beloved daughter. Imagine my elation when I read the first name on the screen: Sarah Elizabeth Hutchinson.
. . .
Back at the Dallas temple a few years later, my wife talked me into doing sealings rather than a customary endowment. Kneeling at the altar with the love of my life, my ears perked up when I heard that she was right then acting as proxy for Sarah Elizabeth Hutchinson., and myself for Sarah’s husband.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
REST UNTO HIS SOUL
REST UNTO HIS SOUL
Come unto me … and ye shall find rest unto your souls. Matthew 11:28-29 (emphasis added)
I'm a consistent home teacher. Last minute. Ten times a year. Because no one likes me to come on Halloween or New Year's Eve.
I perused my new assignment. Dickerson (names changed) family. We visited them, my son and I.
“Welcome. I'm Matt, and this is my wife Karla.”
“And who is this? Let me guess – are you six years old?”
“She is! Tell him your name, honey.”
She peered out shyly from behind her father's leg. “Annie …”
“Hi, Annie, pleased to meet you. This is my son Davey, er, David. He's 14. He has a sister, Rebekah, who's just your age. Can you tell which one she is in this picture?” I showed her the wallet-sized family photo.
She could. “That's right! Would you like to play with her sometime?”
She would. “We'll set that up. And who is this in your mother's arms?”
“This is Jessica – Jessie, we call her. She's 14 months.”
“Hi, Jessie, what a pretty smile.”
“So, what brings you all to Oklahoma?”
“Well, I served a mission here, and taught and baptized Karla when I was assigned to her hometown, Norman. Don't worry, nothing happened while I was a missionary. I waited six months until after I was released, called her and told her I was coming through Oklahoma on vacation, and could I stop by and see her. The rest is history. We got married in the Logan temple, and I went to work in my father's welding shop up there, but she got to missing home. I found this job here at Mercury Marine, only 80 miles from her mom. So here we are.”
The consistent, last-of-the-month visits went well. Our families got together. Until …
Matt was the only one home one month.
“Oh, she and the kids are visiting Grandma.”
Matt was the only one home the next month also.
“She's still with her mother. She's not coming back. I thought by moving to Oklahoma we could save our marriage. I didn't realize it was me she couldn't stand – I thought she just missed her mother. It's over, I'm afraid.”
We kept visiting. He kept his appointments less and less often. His church attendance had diminished to never.
…............................................
We managed to catch up with him after a few months. “I went down to visit my kids. She wouldn't let me see them. On the way home I floored it – 140 miles an hour, hoping the whole time that I'd lose control, have a spectacular crash, and wind up dead. I'm serious.”
He was, I could tell. We talked through things like that. More than once. He would always thank me.
…...........................................
“I met this woman at work. She's so nice.”
“But, Matt, you're not divorced yet.”
“At least I'm not thinking suicide anymore.”
…........................................
I was ordained a high priest and was assigned a new home teaching route. Matt and I lost contact.
…..........................................
Fast forward ten years. I was the newly called bishop. A knock came on the office door.
“Matt Dickerson! You're a sight for sore eyes!”
“Can we talk?”
“You bet! Come on in. How are your girls? Let's see, how old would they be now?”
“Sixteen and twelve. They're still with their mother at their grandmother's. They are not allowed to go to church. We're divorced now, and I supposedly have visiting rights, but their mother still makes it all but impossible to see them. I'm married to Marie, the girl from work I told you about … but before we got married I got her pregnant, and she chose to have an abortion. I'm no longer a member.”
That didn't surprise me, given the sordid tale I had just heard.
“That's what I came to see you about, Bishop. Is there any way I could possibly get my membership back?”
We went to work, going through Miracle of Forgiveness chapter by chapter, week by week, leaving no stone unturned. We pulled the files, reviewed the reports, consulted with the stake president, wrote the required letters, fielded the phone calls from the powers that be, and waited, close to a year.
Finally the permission to reconvene the disciplinary council was granted. We did so. It was a beautiful, sacred experience. Matt was indeed humble and penitent, a truly changed man. The decision was rendered in his favor. The letters were written and sent, along with the record of the council's proceedings. We then waited. Close to a half-year this time.
Permission from the office of the First Presidency arrived, authorizing Paul's re-baptism. I was honored to accept Paul's invitation for me to re-baptize him. I don't know who experienced more joy that day. I know I was all but overcome.
------------------------------------------------------
We left Stillwater seventeen years ago, but have maintained some ties.
“Hey, hon, look at this. Gary and Rhonda Hartfeld have a daughter coming home from a mission, and a son leaving on one. Can you believe it! They were just toddlers when we left, and the parents still students. Anyway, they want us to come to their homecoming/farewell.”
“Let me check the calendar … Might as well – it'd be fun to see if anyone else remembers us.”
They did. We were greeted like returning family. Everyone but us looked older, though.
“Bob and Chris! What a sight for sore eyes! That was your phrase, remember? When you saw me at your office door when you were bishop?” Matt was one of the many with a warm greeting for us.
As Sacrament Meeting started I noticed that he was sitting on the stand right next to the bishop. I thought to look on the back of the program, and there it was: “First Counselor … Matt Dickerson.”
Was this Heaven? It was a glimpse, at least.
Come unto me … and ye shall find rest unto your souls. Matthew 11:28-29 (emphasis added)
I'm a consistent home teacher. Last minute. Ten times a year. Because no one likes me to come on Halloween or New Year's Eve.
I perused my new assignment. Dickerson (names changed) family. We visited them, my son and I.
“Welcome. I'm Matt, and this is my wife Karla.”
“And who is this? Let me guess – are you six years old?”
“She is! Tell him your name, honey.”
She peered out shyly from behind her father's leg. “Annie …”
“Hi, Annie, pleased to meet you. This is my son Davey, er, David. He's 14. He has a sister, Rebekah, who's just your age. Can you tell which one she is in this picture?” I showed her the wallet-sized family photo.
She could. “That's right! Would you like to play with her sometime?”
She would. “We'll set that up. And who is this in your mother's arms?”
“This is Jessica – Jessie, we call her. She's 14 months.”
“Hi, Jessie, what a pretty smile.”
“So, what brings you all to Oklahoma?”
“Well, I served a mission here, and taught and baptized Karla when I was assigned to her hometown, Norman. Don't worry, nothing happened while I was a missionary. I waited six months until after I was released, called her and told her I was coming through Oklahoma on vacation, and could I stop by and see her. The rest is history. We got married in the Logan temple, and I went to work in my father's welding shop up there, but she got to missing home. I found this job here at Mercury Marine, only 80 miles from her mom. So here we are.”
The consistent, last-of-the-month visits went well. Our families got together. Until …
Matt was the only one home one month.
“Oh, she and the kids are visiting Grandma.”
Matt was the only one home the next month also.
“She's still with her mother. She's not coming back. I thought by moving to Oklahoma we could save our marriage. I didn't realize it was me she couldn't stand – I thought she just missed her mother. It's over, I'm afraid.”
We kept visiting. He kept his appointments less and less often. His church attendance had diminished to never.
…............................................
We managed to catch up with him after a few months. “I went down to visit my kids. She wouldn't let me see them. On the way home I floored it – 140 miles an hour, hoping the whole time that I'd lose control, have a spectacular crash, and wind up dead. I'm serious.”
He was, I could tell. We talked through things like that. More than once. He would always thank me.
…...........................................
“I met this woman at work. She's so nice.”
“But, Matt, you're not divorced yet.”
“At least I'm not thinking suicide anymore.”
…........................................
I was ordained a high priest and was assigned a new home teaching route. Matt and I lost contact.
…..........................................
Fast forward ten years. I was the newly called bishop. A knock came on the office door.
“Matt Dickerson! You're a sight for sore eyes!”
“Can we talk?”
“You bet! Come on in. How are your girls? Let's see, how old would they be now?”
“Sixteen and twelve. They're still with their mother at their grandmother's. They are not allowed to go to church. We're divorced now, and I supposedly have visiting rights, but their mother still makes it all but impossible to see them. I'm married to Marie, the girl from work I told you about … but before we got married I got her pregnant, and she chose to have an abortion. I'm no longer a member.”
That didn't surprise me, given the sordid tale I had just heard.
“That's what I came to see you about, Bishop. Is there any way I could possibly get my membership back?”
We went to work, going through Miracle of Forgiveness chapter by chapter, week by week, leaving no stone unturned. We pulled the files, reviewed the reports, consulted with the stake president, wrote the required letters, fielded the phone calls from the powers that be, and waited, close to a year.
Finally the permission to reconvene the disciplinary council was granted. We did so. It was a beautiful, sacred experience. Matt was indeed humble and penitent, a truly changed man. The decision was rendered in his favor. The letters were written and sent, along with the record of the council's proceedings. We then waited. Close to a half-year this time.
Permission from the office of the First Presidency arrived, authorizing Paul's re-baptism. I was honored to accept Paul's invitation for me to re-baptize him. I don't know who experienced more joy that day. I know I was all but overcome.
------------------------------------------------------
We left Stillwater seventeen years ago, but have maintained some ties.
“Hey, hon, look at this. Gary and Rhonda Hartfeld have a daughter coming home from a mission, and a son leaving on one. Can you believe it! They were just toddlers when we left, and the parents still students. Anyway, they want us to come to their homecoming/farewell.”
“Let me check the calendar … Might as well – it'd be fun to see if anyone else remembers us.”
They did. We were greeted like returning family. Everyone but us looked older, though.
“Bob and Chris! What a sight for sore eyes! That was your phrase, remember? When you saw me at your office door when you were bishop?” Matt was one of the many with a warm greeting for us.
As Sacrament Meeting started I noticed that he was sitting on the stand right next to the bishop. I thought to look on the back of the program, and there it was: “First Counselor … Matt Dickerson.”
Was this Heaven? It was a glimpse, at least.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
REPROVING BETIMES WITH SHARPNESS
REPROVING BETIMES WITH SHARPNESS
No power or influence can or ought to be maintained by
virtue of the priesthood, only by persuasion, by long-
suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love
unfeigned …
Reproving betimes with sharpness, when
moved upon by the Holy Ghost; and then showing
forth afterwards an increase of love towards him whom
thou hast reproved …D&C 121:41, 43 (emphasis added)
“So what have you heard?” Bishop Henderson was interviewing Stephen Otutaha, ward mission leader.
“That they were asked to leave Wal-Mart because they were playing shopping cart tag in the aisles of the store.”
The bishop suppressed a chuckle. “Sounds typical of our Scouts, but missionaries? Besides, this just came to my attention. Our oh-so-dedicated missionaries took their bicycles to the motocross track outside of town during the rain storm last week. The gate was of course locked, but they somehow got themselves and their bikes through the rail fence. They were seen racing each other on the track, over and through the obstacles. They got drenched and covered with mud, then rode their bikes through a local car-wash, emerging dripping wet but mud-free, both bike and missionary. Reports have filtered down to me from several amazed on-lookers, including some dismayed members. Hope they didn’t push the wax-cycle button.”
Bro. Otutaha had another adolescent prank incident to report, Bishop Henderson still another. Pretty soon there were about ten “interesting” accounts to be dealt with.
“Any one of these taken by itself could be passed off as being an immature 19, but do we see a pattern here … where they’re doing more damage to the reputation of the Church than good?” Bishop Henderson picked up the phone and began dialing the mission president’s number.
“Hold on a minute, Bishop. Let me talk to them first. Let’s handle it in-house if we can.”
The bishop agreed.
***********************************************
“That ward mission leader of yours – he yelled at us. He called us names. He even swore at us! He needs to be released.”
It was a Saturday, right after the baptism of a child of record. Bishop Henderson had gone to his office at the meetinghouse to briefly take care of minutia in preparation for Sunday. He had just heard a knock, and was now confronting two distraught Elders, proverbial steam coming out of their ears they were so upset.
As his name indicated, Bro. Otutaha was Polynesian. He was huge. He had played football at a college in Utah, offensive lineman. It was during his college years that he had found and embraced the restored gospel. Knowing Steve’s background and relatively recent conversion, the bishop wasn’t surprised at his vocabulary choices. Once again he found himself suppressing a chuckle. As a result he felt himself relax, and was thus able to respond seriously, with quiet confidence.
“Elders, Bro. Otutaha is the best friend you’ve got.”
“Huh?”
“When I heard what you have been up to lately, I was dialing the mission president when that “evil” ward mission leader stopped me.”
For some reason they instantly favored the bishop with their complete attention.
“What do you mean?”
“Shopping cart tag at Wal-Mart? Motocross track and car-wash? Need I go on? I could, you know.”
“How do you know about those things?”
“Let’s just say that the Lord made sure that in this instance the small town grapevine worked quite well.”
“Uh-h …”
“His delivery was not up to standard. He raised his voice, he called you a name or two, he used colorful language. But the message itself? Was there anything wrong with that? You’re on the verge of throwing the baby out with the bathwater, Elders. You’re reacting to the delivery, not to the message. Even if there is some inaccuracy in the message, there is certainly an awful lot of truth in it also, isn’t there. Isn’t there? Heed it, Elders, respond to it with humility, remorse, contrition – repentance. If you don’t, it will be you who will be in deep do-do, not Bro. Otutaha. You handle the message, I’ll take care of the delivery. Deal?
“But …”
The conversation went on for awhile longer. The Spirit helped Bishop Henderson stay friendly but firm. The missionaries got up to leave. The bishop shook their hands and was prompted to add, “You know, Elders, you have a chance to become men right now, or to remain boys.”
Their response was again, “What do you mean?”
“If you’re men, you’ll take in good faith all the truth of the reaming out you’ve just been given, and you will make the changes. You’ll throw out the delivery and anything else that wasn’t true, but you will keep what’s true and act accordingly. If you only react to the delivery, you’ll remain boys. Your choice.”
The Elders, their eyes on their shoes, remained motionless, then shuffled toward the door. The bishop opened it for them. The senior companion mumbled something, not raising his head.
“Sorry, Elder, I didn’t catch that.”
He looked up and caught the Bishop Henderson’s eyes. The young man’s were misty. “I’m going to be a man, Bishop. You’ll see.”
No power or influence can or ought to be maintained by
virtue of the priesthood, only by persuasion, by long-
suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love
unfeigned …
Reproving betimes with sharpness, when
moved upon by the Holy Ghost; and then showing
forth afterwards an increase of love towards him whom
thou hast reproved …D&C 121:41, 43 (emphasis added)
“So what have you heard?” Bishop Henderson was interviewing Stephen Otutaha, ward mission leader.
“That they were asked to leave Wal-Mart because they were playing shopping cart tag in the aisles of the store.”
The bishop suppressed a chuckle. “Sounds typical of our Scouts, but missionaries? Besides, this just came to my attention. Our oh-so-dedicated missionaries took their bicycles to the motocross track outside of town during the rain storm last week. The gate was of course locked, but they somehow got themselves and their bikes through the rail fence. They were seen racing each other on the track, over and through the obstacles. They got drenched and covered with mud, then rode their bikes through a local car-wash, emerging dripping wet but mud-free, both bike and missionary. Reports have filtered down to me from several amazed on-lookers, including some dismayed members. Hope they didn’t push the wax-cycle button.”
Bro. Otutaha had another adolescent prank incident to report, Bishop Henderson still another. Pretty soon there were about ten “interesting” accounts to be dealt with.
“Any one of these taken by itself could be passed off as being an immature 19, but do we see a pattern here … where they’re doing more damage to the reputation of the Church than good?” Bishop Henderson picked up the phone and began dialing the mission president’s number.
“Hold on a minute, Bishop. Let me talk to them first. Let’s handle it in-house if we can.”
The bishop agreed.
***********************************************
“That ward mission leader of yours – he yelled at us. He called us names. He even swore at us! He needs to be released.”
It was a Saturday, right after the baptism of a child of record. Bishop Henderson had gone to his office at the meetinghouse to briefly take care of minutia in preparation for Sunday. He had just heard a knock, and was now confronting two distraught Elders, proverbial steam coming out of their ears they were so upset.
As his name indicated, Bro. Otutaha was Polynesian. He was huge. He had played football at a college in Utah, offensive lineman. It was during his college years that he had found and embraced the restored gospel. Knowing Steve’s background and relatively recent conversion, the bishop wasn’t surprised at his vocabulary choices. Once again he found himself suppressing a chuckle. As a result he felt himself relax, and was thus able to respond seriously, with quiet confidence.
“Elders, Bro. Otutaha is the best friend you’ve got.”
“Huh?”
“When I heard what you have been up to lately, I was dialing the mission president when that “evil” ward mission leader stopped me.”
For some reason they instantly favored the bishop with their complete attention.
“What do you mean?”
“Shopping cart tag at Wal-Mart? Motocross track and car-wash? Need I go on? I could, you know.”
“How do you know about those things?”
“Let’s just say that the Lord made sure that in this instance the small town grapevine worked quite well.”
“Uh-h …”
“His delivery was not up to standard. He raised his voice, he called you a name or two, he used colorful language. But the message itself? Was there anything wrong with that? You’re on the verge of throwing the baby out with the bathwater, Elders. You’re reacting to the delivery, not to the message. Even if there is some inaccuracy in the message, there is certainly an awful lot of truth in it also, isn’t there. Isn’t there? Heed it, Elders, respond to it with humility, remorse, contrition – repentance. If you don’t, it will be you who will be in deep do-do, not Bro. Otutaha. You handle the message, I’ll take care of the delivery. Deal?
“But …”
The conversation went on for awhile longer. The Spirit helped Bishop Henderson stay friendly but firm. The missionaries got up to leave. The bishop shook their hands and was prompted to add, “You know, Elders, you have a chance to become men right now, or to remain boys.”
Their response was again, “What do you mean?”
“If you’re men, you’ll take in good faith all the truth of the reaming out you’ve just been given, and you will make the changes. You’ll throw out the delivery and anything else that wasn’t true, but you will keep what’s true and act accordingly. If you only react to the delivery, you’ll remain boys. Your choice.”
The Elders, their eyes on their shoes, remained motionless, then shuffled toward the door. The bishop opened it for them. The senior companion mumbled something, not raising his head.
“Sorry, Elder, I didn’t catch that.”
He looked up and caught the Bishop Henderson’s eyes. The young man’s were misty. “I’m going to be a man, Bishop. You’ll see.”
Monday, April 18, 2011
ONE IN THINE HAND
ONE IN THINE HAND
… take thee one stick, and write upon it, For Judah…Then take another stick, and write upon it, For Joseph … And join them one to another into one stick; And they shall become one in thine hand. Ezekiel 37:16-17, emphasis added
The late Clifford Chebahtah, a full-blood Kiowa Native American, was born, raised, and in turn raised his family on land issued to his ancestors just outside Anadarko, Oklahoma. I was privileged to serve on the Oklahoma City Stake high council with him. To begin a meeting one of the brethren had just used the above-cited verses as the scripture thought.
Brother Chebahtah then asked if he might say something. His words were to this effect:
Brethren, I would like to bear witness to the truth of the scripture we were privileged to hear just now. My grandfather passed away when I was eight years old. Just before his passing, he called all of his posterity together. Among many other things, he told us that the first Christian preachers had come to town when he was a young man. But, he said, they weren’t the right ones. He then told us that he had been shown in a dream, in answer to his petitions to Heaven concerning the matter, that those particular preachers came one by one, bringing just one book. He continued by saying that in his dream he was shown that the Lord’s true messengers, the ones with the complete gospel, would come two by two, and that they would be carrying two books, not just one. My grandfather finished his words by admonishing us to wait for preachers who came two by two, carrying two books. He pleaded with us to listen to them with open hearts and minds when they arrived, which would not be during his lifetime.
The year was 1964. I was 28 years old, married and the father of two young children when the first set of missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints arrived in Anadarko. All of us recognized them as the fulfillment of grandfather’s dream. We all listened eagerly at first, but when it was evident that there would need to be major changes in the prevailing lifestyle, most did not continue to be interested. My family and I did, though, and we were the first to join the Church in Anadarko. Brethren, I want you to know how grateful I am for the scripture that Bro. Housley read to us tonight, and for the message contained in those two books – especially the clarity and the completeness of the second one, even the Book of Mormon, the one written to me and to my people. I am also grateful for my grandfather’s dream, which helped us to recognize the Lord’s true messengers when they arrived in town, coming two by two and bringing two books in their hand, not just one. For me and my family, it has made all the difference.
If there was any sand, any at all, in our foundations at the time (see Matthew 7:24-27), it was replaced by solid rock that night.
… take thee one stick, and write upon it, For Judah…Then take another stick, and write upon it, For Joseph … And join them one to another into one stick; And they shall become one in thine hand. Ezekiel 37:16-17, emphasis added
The late Clifford Chebahtah, a full-blood Kiowa Native American, was born, raised, and in turn raised his family on land issued to his ancestors just outside Anadarko, Oklahoma. I was privileged to serve on the Oklahoma City Stake high council with him. To begin a meeting one of the brethren had just used the above-cited verses as the scripture thought.
Brother Chebahtah then asked if he might say something. His words were to this effect:
Brethren, I would like to bear witness to the truth of the scripture we were privileged to hear just now. My grandfather passed away when I was eight years old. Just before his passing, he called all of his posterity together. Among many other things, he told us that the first Christian preachers had come to town when he was a young man. But, he said, they weren’t the right ones. He then told us that he had been shown in a dream, in answer to his petitions to Heaven concerning the matter, that those particular preachers came one by one, bringing just one book. He continued by saying that in his dream he was shown that the Lord’s true messengers, the ones with the complete gospel, would come two by two, and that they would be carrying two books, not just one. My grandfather finished his words by admonishing us to wait for preachers who came two by two, carrying two books. He pleaded with us to listen to them with open hearts and minds when they arrived, which would not be during his lifetime.
The year was 1964. I was 28 years old, married and the father of two young children when the first set of missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints arrived in Anadarko. All of us recognized them as the fulfillment of grandfather’s dream. We all listened eagerly at first, but when it was evident that there would need to be major changes in the prevailing lifestyle, most did not continue to be interested. My family and I did, though, and we were the first to join the Church in Anadarko. Brethren, I want you to know how grateful I am for the scripture that Bro. Housley read to us tonight, and for the message contained in those two books – especially the clarity and the completeness of the second one, even the Book of Mormon, the one written to me and to my people. I am also grateful for my grandfather’s dream, which helped us to recognize the Lord’s true messengers when they arrived in town, coming two by two and bringing two books in their hand, not just one. For me and my family, it has made all the difference.
If there was any sand, any at all, in our foundations at the time (see Matthew 7:24-27), it was replaced by solid rock that night.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
LED BY THE SPIRIT
LED BY THE SPIRIT
And I was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do.
1 Nephi 4:6 (emphasis added)
A Thursday night snow-storm had turned the Ozarks into a winter wonderland. But it also had caused school to be canceled for the next day. That in turn resulted in all Conference basketball games being postponed. The snow melted quickly, however, so all games were immediately rescheduled for Saturday.
He would have been able to go Friday, but the semi-annual stake priesthood meeting was that Saturday – it had been on the calendar for more than a year. The stake president was unusually quiet as he and his first counselor once again made the hour and a half drive to the stake center.
About half-way down the mountain the counselor broke the silence. “Is there something on your mind?”
“There is a lot of satisfaction in fulfilling our callings, but it’s certainly difficult at times. This is one of those times.”
“Stake presidents feel that way, too? That’s a relief. I thought I was being unfaithful when I felt that way.”
The president smiled. “Another example of the law of opposition at work, I guess.”
“Basketball?”
“I enjoy being a Dad too. It’s his senior year. I vowed not to miss a game this year. I tell myself that he needs me at his games, but truth be told it’s me who needs it the most.”
“Too bad we haven’t figured out how to be two places at once.”
………………………………………………………………………..
The meeting had started and was going smoothly. The first speaker was adeptly covering his assigned topic – eight minutes, no more. As he scanned the congregation, the president’s heart filled with admiration, and yes, love for the good brethren, many of whom had come in from even greater distances than he had, and at considerably more financial sacrifice, due to their meager incomes. The president’s eyes focused on Brother Jeremiah Simpson, humble, faithful, trusting, loyal, without guile. His heart went out to the itinerant carpenter with little formal education, who struggled to make a living even though his skills were extraordinary. Brother Simpson’s wife had left him years ago, taking their son with her. From interviews the president had learned that in spite of the court-mandated custody/visiting rights settlement, due to the mother’s feistiness and Bro. Simpson’s contrasting peacemaker nature, the father seldom got to spend meaningful time with his beloved son.
Wait a minute, thought the president. Where do Jeremiah’s son and his mother live? Bartonville! Who is my son’s team playing later this afternoon? Bartonville! Jeremiah’s son plays for Bartonville – my son and his son are going to be playing one another!
The president signaled the attendance taker to summon Jeremiah, who looked up from the congregation at the president, who signaled Jeremiah to meet him in the foyer.
“The meeting’s yours,” whispered the president to his counselor. “You’re the closing speaker now. You know the subject. Wing it. The Lord will be with you.”
Out in the foyer, the president put his arm around Jeremiah’s shoulders. “You and I are going to watch our sons play some basketball!”
………………………………………………………………………..
Jeremiah was a backwoodsman at heart. He lived in a cabin on some wooded acreage outside of town. He heated his abode with an ancient Franklin stove and firewood. On the first above-freezing day of early spring, just after their sons’ basketball game with the stake president, Jeremiah somehow prevailed on his ex to allow him time with his son. They were out there on Jeremiah’s property together, sawing up and splitting firewood, so it would season for the next winter. The son was driving in the splitting wedge with the back of an axe. Neither noticed that the head was gradually coming loose. During a mighty swing it flew off its handle, ricocheting off a tree and into the boy’s skull. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.
At the funeral, Jeremiah through his tears thanked the stake president over and over again for putting game over meeting. It turned out to be the last time Jeremiah would ever see his son play ball.
And I was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do.
1 Nephi 4:6 (emphasis added)
A Thursday night snow-storm had turned the Ozarks into a winter wonderland. But it also had caused school to be canceled for the next day. That in turn resulted in all Conference basketball games being postponed. The snow melted quickly, however, so all games were immediately rescheduled for Saturday.
He would have been able to go Friday, but the semi-annual stake priesthood meeting was that Saturday – it had been on the calendar for more than a year. The stake president was unusually quiet as he and his first counselor once again made the hour and a half drive to the stake center.
About half-way down the mountain the counselor broke the silence. “Is there something on your mind?”
“There is a lot of satisfaction in fulfilling our callings, but it’s certainly difficult at times. This is one of those times.”
“Stake presidents feel that way, too? That’s a relief. I thought I was being unfaithful when I felt that way.”
The president smiled. “Another example of the law of opposition at work, I guess.”
“Basketball?”
“I enjoy being a Dad too. It’s his senior year. I vowed not to miss a game this year. I tell myself that he needs me at his games, but truth be told it’s me who needs it the most.”
“Too bad we haven’t figured out how to be two places at once.”
………………………………………………………………………..
The meeting had started and was going smoothly. The first speaker was adeptly covering his assigned topic – eight minutes, no more. As he scanned the congregation, the president’s heart filled with admiration, and yes, love for the good brethren, many of whom had come in from even greater distances than he had, and at considerably more financial sacrifice, due to their meager incomes. The president’s eyes focused on Brother Jeremiah Simpson, humble, faithful, trusting, loyal, without guile. His heart went out to the itinerant carpenter with little formal education, who struggled to make a living even though his skills were extraordinary. Brother Simpson’s wife had left him years ago, taking their son with her. From interviews the president had learned that in spite of the court-mandated custody/visiting rights settlement, due to the mother’s feistiness and Bro. Simpson’s contrasting peacemaker nature, the father seldom got to spend meaningful time with his beloved son.
Wait a minute, thought the president. Where do Jeremiah’s son and his mother live? Bartonville! Who is my son’s team playing later this afternoon? Bartonville! Jeremiah’s son plays for Bartonville – my son and his son are going to be playing one another!
The president signaled the attendance taker to summon Jeremiah, who looked up from the congregation at the president, who signaled Jeremiah to meet him in the foyer.
“The meeting’s yours,” whispered the president to his counselor. “You’re the closing speaker now. You know the subject. Wing it. The Lord will be with you.”
Out in the foyer, the president put his arm around Jeremiah’s shoulders. “You and I are going to watch our sons play some basketball!”
………………………………………………………………………..
Jeremiah was a backwoodsman at heart. He lived in a cabin on some wooded acreage outside of town. He heated his abode with an ancient Franklin stove and firewood. On the first above-freezing day of early spring, just after their sons’ basketball game with the stake president, Jeremiah somehow prevailed on his ex to allow him time with his son. They were out there on Jeremiah’s property together, sawing up and splitting firewood, so it would season for the next winter. The son was driving in the splitting wedge with the back of an axe. Neither noticed that the head was gradually coming loose. During a mighty swing it flew off its handle, ricocheting off a tree and into the boy’s skull. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.
At the funeral, Jeremiah through his tears thanked the stake president over and over again for putting game over meeting. It turned out to be the last time Jeremiah would ever see his son play ball.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
IF YE ARE NOT PREPARED YE SHALL FEAR
IF YE ARE [NOT] PREPARED YE SHALL … FEAR
… if ye are prepared ye shall not fear.
D&C 38:30 (emphasis added)
The table. The table at the student union. Our table, where Chuck, Ed, Rick, and I would meet before, between, and after classes. It was not long before a girl was joining us. Chuck’s friend, Carolyn. Then her two room-mates. We dated, but not each other. Except for Chuck and Carolyn, but not for long. Rather, we told each other about our dates. We became good friends. Real good. But friends only. Our table at the union is where those friendships were formed and shared.
Carolyn was the leader. Bubbly, happy, center of every conversation Carolyn. She was also the most perceptive. It was late Spring semester; finals were just beginning to intrude upon our consciousness. All the seats around our table were full.
“Bob, we’re probably not going to see each other ever again after this semester.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I’m transferring to State. You’re not coming back either.”
She proved prophetic. None of us have ever seen each other again in person. She ended with, “Let’s do something, you and I.”
“How about all of us?”
“We can do that too …”
As with most people, I think, I had a “Secret Garden,” a retreat from the world that I imagined that only I knew about. Mine was a remote section of seashore, a stretch of beach and sand dunes, rocks, tide pools and miniature bayous, next to a riptide so powerful that swimming there was automatic suicide. Hence its isolation and primeval beauty.
I took Carolyn there. It was cold. And overcast. And windy – a coat plus sweater day. We romped along the shoreline at first, skirting the tide as it rushed ashore and retreated, hurling mounds of seaweed up onto the beach. We came at low tide – we explored tide pools teeming with life, admiring the flower-like anemone, watching one successfully lure lunch into its clutches. We soon retreated to the dunes, found some protection from the wind, and perched ourselves on a pair of low-lying rocks. The ivy was in full bloom, the wildflowers, grasses, and cat-tails at their spring-time finest. Red-winged blackbirds, hummingbirds, gulls, and cormorants were flitting and gliding everywhere. The aura of beauty and tranquility succeeded in over-riding the bone-chilling weather that day.
“Bob, you’re different. I like that difference, and I think I’ve finally figured out what makes you that way. It’s your religion, isn’t it. Tell me about your religion.”
I was not the perceptive one. I was blind-sided. “Well,” I hesitatingly began, not at all certain of what was going to come next. “Well, we believe that God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost are separate Beings, not three in one like others believe …”
“Makes sense. Tell me more.”
With all the wisdom of an 18 year old going on 13, I made a wisecrack. I don’t now remember what it was, but it broke the mood, exposing my nervousness. Carolyn, sensitive and compassionate as well, began praising the beauty of the surroundings.
It has been fifty years. Try as I might, I cannot recall her last name. Tears of remorse still form as I contemplate the experience. I pray quite often, and it is up into the hundreds of times by now, that she be given another chance.
… if ye are prepared ye shall not fear.
D&C 38:30 (emphasis added)
The table. The table at the student union. Our table, where Chuck, Ed, Rick, and I would meet before, between, and after classes. It was not long before a girl was joining us. Chuck’s friend, Carolyn. Then her two room-mates. We dated, but not each other. Except for Chuck and Carolyn, but not for long. Rather, we told each other about our dates. We became good friends. Real good. But friends only. Our table at the union is where those friendships were formed and shared.
Carolyn was the leader. Bubbly, happy, center of every conversation Carolyn. She was also the most perceptive. It was late Spring semester; finals were just beginning to intrude upon our consciousness. All the seats around our table were full.
“Bob, we’re probably not going to see each other ever again after this semester.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I’m transferring to State. You’re not coming back either.”
She proved prophetic. None of us have ever seen each other again in person. She ended with, “Let’s do something, you and I.”
“How about all of us?”
“We can do that too …”
As with most people, I think, I had a “Secret Garden,” a retreat from the world that I imagined that only I knew about. Mine was a remote section of seashore, a stretch of beach and sand dunes, rocks, tide pools and miniature bayous, next to a riptide so powerful that swimming there was automatic suicide. Hence its isolation and primeval beauty.
I took Carolyn there. It was cold. And overcast. And windy – a coat plus sweater day. We romped along the shoreline at first, skirting the tide as it rushed ashore and retreated, hurling mounds of seaweed up onto the beach. We came at low tide – we explored tide pools teeming with life, admiring the flower-like anemone, watching one successfully lure lunch into its clutches. We soon retreated to the dunes, found some protection from the wind, and perched ourselves on a pair of low-lying rocks. The ivy was in full bloom, the wildflowers, grasses, and cat-tails at their spring-time finest. Red-winged blackbirds, hummingbirds, gulls, and cormorants were flitting and gliding everywhere. The aura of beauty and tranquility succeeded in over-riding the bone-chilling weather that day.
“Bob, you’re different. I like that difference, and I think I’ve finally figured out what makes you that way. It’s your religion, isn’t it. Tell me about your religion.”
I was not the perceptive one. I was blind-sided. “Well,” I hesitatingly began, not at all certain of what was going to come next. “Well, we believe that God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost are separate Beings, not three in one like others believe …”
“Makes sense. Tell me more.”
With all the wisdom of an 18 year old going on 13, I made a wisecrack. I don’t now remember what it was, but it broke the mood, exposing my nervousness. Carolyn, sensitive and compassionate as well, began praising the beauty of the surroundings.
It has been fifty years. Try as I might, I cannot recall her last name. Tears of remorse still form as I contemplate the experience. I pray quite often, and it is up into the hundreds of times by now, that she be given another chance.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
HE DID VISIT ME, AND SOFTEN MY HEART
HE DID VISIT ME, AND DID SOFTEN MY HEART
“. . . I did cry unto the Lord; and behold he did visit me, and did soften my heart that I did believe all the words which had been spoken . . .” 1 Nephi 2:16 (emphasis added)
I was BMOC (Big Man On Campus) through junior high. My first year of high school, however, I felt like a cipher. Others – seniors – had deservedly been awarded the prestigious title by their peers. They were the star athletes, got the good parts in the plays, were the student body officers, etc. As a sophomore I had unintentionally isolated myself from the mainstream by having a steady girlfriend. By my junior year, though, I was getting my groove back. I had a car, was junior class president, made varsity basketball – I even got to play some. I was treated with respect by faculty and students alike. I particularly relished the female attention coming my way now that I was “unattached.”
I was being invited to “the” parties. I went to a couple. I learned that things happen there. I quickly came to realize I couldn’t keep going to those parties and still remain in good standing with the Lord.
As a consequence of not showing up when invited I began to sense that I was slipping back out of the mainstream. This bothered me. A lot.
It was early Spring. I was mowing the lawn, thinking deeply about another of “the” parties coming up that week-end, particularly about a certain girl whom I had been told was hoping I would be there. I’ll have to admit the hormones were raging; resentment was eating me alive.
“Why CAN’T I go to the party! Why CAN’T I do stuff like that! Those kids do and they don’t seem to be any worse off. Why not me!”
As I made the turn at the end of a row it came, a thought to my mind accompanied by a feeling in my heart, as clear and definite as if it had been spoken: “Because, Bob, you know better. You’ve been taught – they haven’t. The consequences of crossing the line would be so much worse for you than it is for them – you know better.”
Had I been praying when I so explicitly expressed my anguish? I must have been, because the answer was accompanied by permanent peace to my soul concerning the matter.
“. . . I did cry unto the Lord; and behold he did visit me, and did soften my heart that I did believe all the words which had been spoken . . .” 1 Nephi 2:16 (emphasis added)
I was BMOC (Big Man On Campus) through junior high. My first year of high school, however, I felt like a cipher. Others – seniors – had deservedly been awarded the prestigious title by their peers. They were the star athletes, got the good parts in the plays, were the student body officers, etc. As a sophomore I had unintentionally isolated myself from the mainstream by having a steady girlfriend. By my junior year, though, I was getting my groove back. I had a car, was junior class president, made varsity basketball – I even got to play some. I was treated with respect by faculty and students alike. I particularly relished the female attention coming my way now that I was “unattached.”
I was being invited to “the” parties. I went to a couple. I learned that things happen there. I quickly came to realize I couldn’t keep going to those parties and still remain in good standing with the Lord.
As a consequence of not showing up when invited I began to sense that I was slipping back out of the mainstream. This bothered me. A lot.
It was early Spring. I was mowing the lawn, thinking deeply about another of “the” parties coming up that week-end, particularly about a certain girl whom I had been told was hoping I would be there. I’ll have to admit the hormones were raging; resentment was eating me alive.
“Why CAN’T I go to the party! Why CAN’T I do stuff like that! Those kids do and they don’t seem to be any worse off. Why not me!”
As I made the turn at the end of a row it came, a thought to my mind accompanied by a feeling in my heart, as clear and definite as if it had been spoken: “Because, Bob, you know better. You’ve been taught – they haven’t. The consequences of crossing the line would be so much worse for you than it is for them – you know better.”
Had I been praying when I so explicitly expressed my anguish? I must have been, because the answer was accompanied by permanent peace to my soul concerning the matter.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
CONTENTION IS NOT OF ME
CONTENTION IS NOT OF ME
. . . contention is not of me, but is of the devil, who is the father of contention, and he stirreth up the hearts of men to contend with anger, one with another.
3 Nephi 11:29 (emphasis added)
COLD! The wind chill was below 0 degrees Fahrenheit. The sleet that morning was coming down nearly horizontally due to gale-force winds, coating everything and turning streets and sidewalks into skating rinks. But, people still expected their newspapers, on time. No bicycle on a morning like this. Underwear, flannel shirt, sweatshirt, sweater, hooded ski coat; stocking cap, coat hood tied down; jeans over sweat-pants, double socks, shoes, boots. Folded papers loaded into double-sided paper bags. 5:45 a.m. With a grunt, 11 year old Josh hoisted the bag over his head and, steeling himself for the upcoming ordeal, reluctantly opened the front door.
He was about half-way through. At the top of the hill, he surveyed what lay below. He would normally criss-cross the downhill street, delivering papers on both sides, then finish on the flat below. But every time he would attempt to cross the street he would begin to slide down ski-like. Kinda fun, but it didn’t allow for papers to be delivered. He could only break his slide by dropping to his hands and knees. That’s it! He crawled back and forth across the deserted street, successfully negotiating the slope in this manner, delivering his papers in the process.
It was just getting light. There was something besides crumpled autumn leaves protruding from the frozen muck in the gutter at the bottom of the hill. He bent down for a closer look. Money? He chipped away at it. A twenty, torn but complete! Farther down there was a piece of a ten. Then a five, and another piece of a twenty at the base of a tree. Josh finished his route with new energy and upon arriving home excitedly showed his new-found treasure to his father.
A car was in the shop. Bishop Barnes’ wife had dropped him off at work so she could do her regular soccer mom duties. In the middle of the morning the phone rang. Trouble at the Follets, a young student couple who lived just blocks from the bishop. Again. Urgent! Come right away – please.
He called his wife. She picked him up, calmed him down, let him out, and waited in the car.
“Oh, Bishop, thank you for coming.” Beverly, a large young woman, outspoken and aggressive by nature, was still in her nightgown and bathrobe.
“What seems to be the trouble? How can I help?”
“I’ll tell you what seems to be the trouble!” Cliff, dressed for the day, appeared from a back room. “SHE . . . was going to take the rent money and spend it at the mall!”
Contention Is Not of Me
“I don’t have any clothes, Bishop! And Skinflint over there won’t let me buy any. He thinks I can stay in these pajamas 24/7.”
“No clothes! What’s stuffed in that closet so tight you can’t even tell what’s in there!”
It was escalating again. The bishop intervened. “So where is the rent money now?”
David’s voice became soft and contrite. “I got so mad I ripped it from her hands, tore it up, and threw it out the front door. Haven’t been able to find it all.”
“When?”
“Couple of nights ago. I’m ashamed of myself, Bishop. I don’t know why, but things like that just seem to happen – too often – around here.”
Bishop Barnes had been looking around. There was a broken, shadeless lamp in the middle of the living room floor, a nasty lump protruding through Bev’s unkempt hair. Tell-tale scratch marks were apparent on Cliff’s face.
The three of them talked. The couple was going to be all right for the time being. The bishop now knew the source of his son’s paper route bonanza. Tears clouded his vision as he made his way out to his beloved.
. . . contention is not of me, but is of the devil, who is the father of contention, and he stirreth up the hearts of men to contend with anger, one with another.
3 Nephi 11:29 (emphasis added)
COLD! The wind chill was below 0 degrees Fahrenheit. The sleet that morning was coming down nearly horizontally due to gale-force winds, coating everything and turning streets and sidewalks into skating rinks. But, people still expected their newspapers, on time. No bicycle on a morning like this. Underwear, flannel shirt, sweatshirt, sweater, hooded ski coat; stocking cap, coat hood tied down; jeans over sweat-pants, double socks, shoes, boots. Folded papers loaded into double-sided paper bags. 5:45 a.m. With a grunt, 11 year old Josh hoisted the bag over his head and, steeling himself for the upcoming ordeal, reluctantly opened the front door.
He was about half-way through. At the top of the hill, he surveyed what lay below. He would normally criss-cross the downhill street, delivering papers on both sides, then finish on the flat below. But every time he would attempt to cross the street he would begin to slide down ski-like. Kinda fun, but it didn’t allow for papers to be delivered. He could only break his slide by dropping to his hands and knees. That’s it! He crawled back and forth across the deserted street, successfully negotiating the slope in this manner, delivering his papers in the process.
It was just getting light. There was something besides crumpled autumn leaves protruding from the frozen muck in the gutter at the bottom of the hill. He bent down for a closer look. Money? He chipped away at it. A twenty, torn but complete! Farther down there was a piece of a ten. Then a five, and another piece of a twenty at the base of a tree. Josh finished his route with new energy and upon arriving home excitedly showed his new-found treasure to his father.
A car was in the shop. Bishop Barnes’ wife had dropped him off at work so she could do her regular soccer mom duties. In the middle of the morning the phone rang. Trouble at the Follets, a young student couple who lived just blocks from the bishop. Again. Urgent! Come right away – please.
He called his wife. She picked him up, calmed him down, let him out, and waited in the car.
“Oh, Bishop, thank you for coming.” Beverly, a large young woman, outspoken and aggressive by nature, was still in her nightgown and bathrobe.
“What seems to be the trouble? How can I help?”
“I’ll tell you what seems to be the trouble!” Cliff, dressed for the day, appeared from a back room. “SHE . . . was going to take the rent money and spend it at the mall!”
Contention Is Not of Me
“I don’t have any clothes, Bishop! And Skinflint over there won’t let me buy any. He thinks I can stay in these pajamas 24/7.”
“No clothes! What’s stuffed in that closet so tight you can’t even tell what’s in there!”
It was escalating again. The bishop intervened. “So where is the rent money now?”
David’s voice became soft and contrite. “I got so mad I ripped it from her hands, tore it up, and threw it out the front door. Haven’t been able to find it all.”
“When?”
“Couple of nights ago. I’m ashamed of myself, Bishop. I don’t know why, but things like that just seem to happen – too often – around here.”
Bishop Barnes had been looking around. There was a broken, shadeless lamp in the middle of the living room floor, a nasty lump protruding through Bev’s unkempt hair. Tell-tale scratch marks were apparent on Cliff’s face.
The three of them talked. The couple was going to be all right for the time being. The bishop now knew the source of his son’s paper route bonanza. Tears clouded his vision as he made his way out to his beloved.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
CHILDREN OF THE PROPHETS
CHILDREN OF THE PROPHETS
And behold, ye are the children of the prophets; and ye are of the house of Israel; and ye are of the covenant … 3 Nephi 20:25
He was a good kid, not a whole lot of discipline. He and his girlfriend came up to school together from the outskirts of nowhere, both high-energy excited to be away from home. His uncle, a stake president, alerted us, pleading that we do what we could. We assured him we would. So *Jeremy was contacted and invited to participate. To our surprise and delight, he came in his Subaru Brat (little tiny car with an all but unusable pickup bed attached), to everything, and brought his girlfriend with him. Soon she was a member, and they were married right after their freshman year.
They struggled, but came for counseling. Then the student ward was dissolved back into the town ward, which was split, and the newlyweds were in the other ward. I lost track of them.
Much later the wards were put back together, and I was retained as bishop of the combined ward. I noticed that Jeremy and wife were still in town, now the parents of 4 children, the oldest about nine, not baptized. No one from the ward they had been in knew them. Efforts were made to help them choose to join the ranks of the active, but those efforts were not successful.
Not long after being released as bishop, I received a new home teaching route that included Jeremy and family. I found them in a trailer park, crammed into a single-wide. He received me with open arms, but had to persuade his wife to come out from the back and join us. She sat sullen and distracted, speaking in monosyllables only when spoken to. It was the same every month. Soon Jeremy was committing to bring the family to church, to having the children who were old enough baptized, and to have his oldest, now twelve, ordained a deacon and prepare for a mission. He regretted his inactivity and its effect on the family, but he was going to make up for it. His wife just sat there, glassy-eyed.
They came. He was home. His children were scared. His wife was a zombie. But they came, week after week.
One Sunday, he was there by himself. His wife and children were back near Nowhere, visiting “her mother.” I set up a home teaching visit.
Jeremy answered the door of an otherwise empty trailer. “We’re having problems. We’re separated. Just temporarily, mind you, until we can work things out. I just found out she’s been seeing someone for quite awhile now, some bucko she dated in high school before I came along. But we’ll get through this, we will. I want so bad for my kids to have what I finally know to be true, what I had right at the tip of my fingers when I was their age, but didn’t ever really grasp. I wish I had gone on a mission, and I want for my sons to have that experience that I never had. We’ve going to get this resolved – we’ve got to.”
A few months later the divorce was final. Jeremy was a broken man. But, he stayed active.
**********************
*Amelia met *Spencer, fell in love, took the missionary discussions, was baptized, and married the lout. Before you know it he quit going to church, began breaking the Word of Wisdom, started seeing other women, left Amelia and followed one of the home-wreckers to an adjoining state. Amelia healed her broken heart by exercising even more faith in her newfound religion.
We moved.
**********************
Who is that sitting next to the bishop on his left? I should know him. Let’s see, he wouldn’t have had snow white hair twenty years ago. Hm-m. NO! Jeremy? Couldn’t be. It is! That’s Jeremy!
Sitting by the *Brassfield family in Sacrament meeting on that same visit to Stillwater twenty years after we had moved, I checked the program. Sure enough: “Second Counselor . . . Jeremy Cummings.”
He must have recognized us from the stand, for as soon as the meeting was over, there he was, throwing his arms around me. “Oh, Bro. Boyce! I wouldn’t be here without you. I’m serious. Thank you from the depths of my soul. You know who I married, don’t you? We have a little girl, Amelia and I. She’s 7 now. I didn’t even know life could be this good. By the way, just in case you decide to move back, the best ward is north of Main Street.”
For the second time that day, I caught a glimpse of heaven.
And behold, ye are the children of the prophets; and ye are of the house of Israel; and ye are of the covenant … 3 Nephi 20:25
He was a good kid, not a whole lot of discipline. He and his girlfriend came up to school together from the outskirts of nowhere, both high-energy excited to be away from home. His uncle, a stake president, alerted us, pleading that we do what we could. We assured him we would. So *Jeremy was contacted and invited to participate. To our surprise and delight, he came in his Subaru Brat (little tiny car with an all but unusable pickup bed attached), to everything, and brought his girlfriend with him. Soon she was a member, and they were married right after their freshman year.
They struggled, but came for counseling. Then the student ward was dissolved back into the town ward, which was split, and the newlyweds were in the other ward. I lost track of them.
Much later the wards were put back together, and I was retained as bishop of the combined ward. I noticed that Jeremy and wife were still in town, now the parents of 4 children, the oldest about nine, not baptized. No one from the ward they had been in knew them. Efforts were made to help them choose to join the ranks of the active, but those efforts were not successful.
Not long after being released as bishop, I received a new home teaching route that included Jeremy and family. I found them in a trailer park, crammed into a single-wide. He received me with open arms, but had to persuade his wife to come out from the back and join us. She sat sullen and distracted, speaking in monosyllables only when spoken to. It was the same every month. Soon Jeremy was committing to bring the family to church, to having the children who were old enough baptized, and to have his oldest, now twelve, ordained a deacon and prepare for a mission. He regretted his inactivity and its effect on the family, but he was going to make up for it. His wife just sat there, glassy-eyed.
They came. He was home. His children were scared. His wife was a zombie. But they came, week after week.
One Sunday, he was there by himself. His wife and children were back near Nowhere, visiting “her mother.” I set up a home teaching visit.
Jeremy answered the door of an otherwise empty trailer. “We’re having problems. We’re separated. Just temporarily, mind you, until we can work things out. I just found out she’s been seeing someone for quite awhile now, some bucko she dated in high school before I came along. But we’ll get through this, we will. I want so bad for my kids to have what I finally know to be true, what I had right at the tip of my fingers when I was their age, but didn’t ever really grasp. I wish I had gone on a mission, and I want for my sons to have that experience that I never had. We’ve going to get this resolved – we’ve got to.”
A few months later the divorce was final. Jeremy was a broken man. But, he stayed active.
**********************
*Amelia met *Spencer, fell in love, took the missionary discussions, was baptized, and married the lout. Before you know it he quit going to church, began breaking the Word of Wisdom, started seeing other women, left Amelia and followed one of the home-wreckers to an adjoining state. Amelia healed her broken heart by exercising even more faith in her newfound religion.
We moved.
**********************
Who is that sitting next to the bishop on his left? I should know him. Let’s see, he wouldn’t have had snow white hair twenty years ago. Hm-m. NO! Jeremy? Couldn’t be. It is! That’s Jeremy!
Sitting by the *Brassfield family in Sacrament meeting on that same visit to Stillwater twenty years after we had moved, I checked the program. Sure enough: “Second Counselor . . . Jeremy Cummings.”
He must have recognized us from the stand, for as soon as the meeting was over, there he was, throwing his arms around me. “Oh, Bro. Boyce! I wouldn’t be here without you. I’m serious. Thank you from the depths of my soul. You know who I married, don’t you? We have a little girl, Amelia and I. She’s 7 now. I didn’t even know life could be this good. By the way, just in case you decide to move back, the best ward is north of Main Street.”
For the second time that day, I caught a glimpse of heaven.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
ASSURANCE OF THINGS HOPE FOR
ASSURANCE OF THINGS HOPED FOR
Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
Hebrews 11:1 (JST, emphasis added)
Our youngest of 8 had just completed first grade. I could go into the scary and somewhat unpleasant details, but suffice it to say there were to be no more children. My wife made an announcement, quite timidly, but an announcement just the same:
“I should probably go back to school and finish my degree.” (Some yayhoo had come along and married her in the middle of her sophomore year.)
“Sounds good,” I replied.
“But I’ve been out of school for more than 20 years! I’m afraid my brain has turned to schmushed peas, you know, like we’ve been feeding the babies . . .”
“What about Carolyn?”
“My friend Carolyn! She did it, didn’t she! If Carolyn can do it, maybe there’s hope for me.”
“You did fine before you met me.”
“You call a B minus average fine? Besides, my brain hadn’t gotten scrambled by babies yet. I think I’ll give it a shot, though. You won’t hate me if I flunk out, will you?”
She applied to the local university, was admitted, and had registered for classes.
Fortunately our college freshman daughter was still home for the summer. Her out of state school started a week after the local one. In a classic case of role reversal, daughter took a trembling mother by the hand and deposited her gently at the door of her first class, constantly reassuring her that all would be well.
*****************************************************
Three years later, all the children were present for the occasion (except for our second son, who somehow felt that completing his mission in Russia was even more important than his mother’s college graduation). Her parents came too, from California. It was an event to ever remember. She had earned straight A’s since going back.
Her “assurance of things hoped for” had truly come to pass.
Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
Hebrews 11:1 (JST, emphasis added)
Our youngest of 8 had just completed first grade. I could go into the scary and somewhat unpleasant details, but suffice it to say there were to be no more children. My wife made an announcement, quite timidly, but an announcement just the same:
“I should probably go back to school and finish my degree.” (Some yayhoo had come along and married her in the middle of her sophomore year.)
“Sounds good,” I replied.
“But I’ve been out of school for more than 20 years! I’m afraid my brain has turned to schmushed peas, you know, like we’ve been feeding the babies . . .”
“What about Carolyn?”
“My friend Carolyn! She did it, didn’t she! If Carolyn can do it, maybe there’s hope for me.”
“You did fine before you met me.”
“You call a B minus average fine? Besides, my brain hadn’t gotten scrambled by babies yet. I think I’ll give it a shot, though. You won’t hate me if I flunk out, will you?”
She applied to the local university, was admitted, and had registered for classes.
Fortunately our college freshman daughter was still home for the summer. Her out of state school started a week after the local one. In a classic case of role reversal, daughter took a trembling mother by the hand and deposited her gently at the door of her first class, constantly reassuring her that all would be well.
*****************************************************
Three years later, all the children were present for the occasion (except for our second son, who somehow felt that completing his mission in Russia was even more important than his mother’s college graduation). Her parents came too, from California. It was an event to ever remember. She had earned straight A’s since going back.
Her “assurance of things hoped for” had truly come to pass.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST
AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST
Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
Matthew 11:28
The new guy at church was, in the order I noticed, short, childlike, shy but at the same time eager. He was wearing a mint-green polyester leisure suit, once the right size, but now too small for his expanding middle. I found myself hoping that his pants button wouldn’t pop.
“Bishop, this is Charles.” Super-sized Gary Polson, super heavy-weight power lifting champion of the state of Oklahoma and ward executive secretary, introduced pint-sized Charles to me. Not Chuck, not Charlie, but Charles. He was easy to accept, and to care about; the whole ward came to feel the same way. He was soon baptized. He was readily noticeable in his leisure suit, all he ever wore on Sundays.
He had some concerns, and mustered the courage to come see me. We worked on them together. He always took every suggestion in the spirit that it was given, and without fail kept his commitments. During those interviews, his story came out, a piece at a time.
“Charles, I’ve been wondering – are you an Oklahoma native?”
“No, I was raised in wine country, Napa Valley, California. Mom and my sister still live there.”
“So what brings you here to Stillwater?”
Pause. . . “I was a hobo – did you know that, has Gary told you? – for about 10 years. Riding the rails all over the country, depending on handouts and trash bins, sleeping under overpasses, the whole bit. I drank and did drugs. I overdosed close to here – right outside of Ripley – and passed out. It happened, thank goodness, on what turned out to be the Berry [Church members] property, where the tracks run right through it. Bro. Berry found me there, rushed me to the closest ER (which was here in Stillwater), and saved my life.”
“My goodness! You obviously didn’t go back to the rails. . .”
“I can’t believe Bro. Berry! He found a pick-up camper shell that his son wasn’t using, rented a trailer park lot for it, and told me I could live there rent-free if I promised to never use drugs or alcohol again. He put me to work as custodian at the family oil field warehouse, and gave me that old bicycle out there. I’m set – for the first time in my life! – as long as I don’t mess up. And I’m for sure not going to do that again!”
“How did the Church come into your life?”
“The missionaries were knocking on doors. I was home. I can’t believe they knocked on a camper shell, but they did. I let them in. Gary started coming with them. It was a tight squeeze, especially with him, but we managed. We usually went out to the picnic table by the laundry room for the lessons. I learned there was hope after all, even for a bum like me. I feel like I’m home, finally. I’m happy, Bishop. I didn’t know the meaning of the word until now. Growing up was no picnic, let me tell you – abuse, neglect – let’s not go there. All those years on the rails, the drugs, the alcohol – all they ended up doing was make life even worse. I came to believe that happiness was nothing but a fantasy.”
Soon we felt impressed to call Charles as assistant ward clerk. He took it seriously, sitting at what was then the clerk’s desk, lime green leisure suit and all, at the front of the chapel, every Sunday without fail. He would descend into the congregation to take the attendance count right after the sacrament was passed. (If I had it to do over again, I would have bought him a regular suit myself – didn’t think of it at the time.)
Another of Charles’ duties was to compile and complete the then monthly statistical report – home and visiting teaching and attendance percentages. Auxiliary leaders perceived the report as busy-work, with little or no discernible usefulness, so were not committed to get their numbers in on time, if at all. This attitude was incomprehensible to Charles: he was so genuinely grateful for the gospel in his life, and assumed everyone felt the same. He simply figured that for every late report there was a legitimate excuse.
“I’m sorry you weren’t able to get it finished. I can wait right here ‘til you get it done.
You can’t do it right now? I’ll come by your home later and pick it up.”
And he would. He’d pedal out to their place, surprise them, and sit on their living room couches until they handed it to him. He would thank them, expressing sympathy for how busy they were and hoping their life would soon slow down.
His report was completed and delivered no later than the evening of Fast Sunday, when it was due. Every single month. The math was a little interesting here and there, but it was complete. People soon learned that lame excuses didn’t work, and they began getting their numbers to Charles at the end of the meeting block. The stake was amazed – how did we do it so consistently?
He had been in his calling for about a year when he once again came to see me.
“Bishop, I’ve decided to go to college. I’ve been thinking, and praying. I’ve made some phone calls. I’m still considered a California resident if I move back in with Mom. My home town junior college has free tuition. Can you help me with my application? Oh, and could you write me a letter of recommendation? It’s one of the admission requirements.”
He did it – Charles moved back to California and started college. He wrote every month for awhile, reporting on his progress. It wasn’t easy for him, but he was making it. Gradually the letters tapered off to never. We lost touch.
Twenty years later, he was one of the first to greet me on our visit back to Stillwater last summer. He was “home again,” where he had found the gospel. His sister was living with him; he was gainfully employed, and still blissfully happy.
Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
Matthew 11:28
The new guy at church was, in the order I noticed, short, childlike, shy but at the same time eager. He was wearing a mint-green polyester leisure suit, once the right size, but now too small for his expanding middle. I found myself hoping that his pants button wouldn’t pop.
“Bishop, this is Charles.” Super-sized Gary Polson, super heavy-weight power lifting champion of the state of Oklahoma and ward executive secretary, introduced pint-sized Charles to me. Not Chuck, not Charlie, but Charles. He was easy to accept, and to care about; the whole ward came to feel the same way. He was soon baptized. He was readily noticeable in his leisure suit, all he ever wore on Sundays.
He had some concerns, and mustered the courage to come see me. We worked on them together. He always took every suggestion in the spirit that it was given, and without fail kept his commitments. During those interviews, his story came out, a piece at a time.
“Charles, I’ve been wondering – are you an Oklahoma native?”
“No, I was raised in wine country, Napa Valley, California. Mom and my sister still live there.”
“So what brings you here to Stillwater?”
Pause. . . “I was a hobo – did you know that, has Gary told you? – for about 10 years. Riding the rails all over the country, depending on handouts and trash bins, sleeping under overpasses, the whole bit. I drank and did drugs. I overdosed close to here – right outside of Ripley – and passed out. It happened, thank goodness, on what turned out to be the Berry [Church members] property, where the tracks run right through it. Bro. Berry found me there, rushed me to the closest ER (which was here in Stillwater), and saved my life.”
“My goodness! You obviously didn’t go back to the rails. . .”
“I can’t believe Bro. Berry! He found a pick-up camper shell that his son wasn’t using, rented a trailer park lot for it, and told me I could live there rent-free if I promised to never use drugs or alcohol again. He put me to work as custodian at the family oil field warehouse, and gave me that old bicycle out there. I’m set – for the first time in my life! – as long as I don’t mess up. And I’m for sure not going to do that again!”
“How did the Church come into your life?”
“The missionaries were knocking on doors. I was home. I can’t believe they knocked on a camper shell, but they did. I let them in. Gary started coming with them. It was a tight squeeze, especially with him, but we managed. We usually went out to the picnic table by the laundry room for the lessons. I learned there was hope after all, even for a bum like me. I feel like I’m home, finally. I’m happy, Bishop. I didn’t know the meaning of the word until now. Growing up was no picnic, let me tell you – abuse, neglect – let’s not go there. All those years on the rails, the drugs, the alcohol – all they ended up doing was make life even worse. I came to believe that happiness was nothing but a fantasy.”
Soon we felt impressed to call Charles as assistant ward clerk. He took it seriously, sitting at what was then the clerk’s desk, lime green leisure suit and all, at the front of the chapel, every Sunday without fail. He would descend into the congregation to take the attendance count right after the sacrament was passed. (If I had it to do over again, I would have bought him a regular suit myself – didn’t think of it at the time.)
Another of Charles’ duties was to compile and complete the then monthly statistical report – home and visiting teaching and attendance percentages. Auxiliary leaders perceived the report as busy-work, with little or no discernible usefulness, so were not committed to get their numbers in on time, if at all. This attitude was incomprehensible to Charles: he was so genuinely grateful for the gospel in his life, and assumed everyone felt the same. He simply figured that for every late report there was a legitimate excuse.
“I’m sorry you weren’t able to get it finished. I can wait right here ‘til you get it done.
You can’t do it right now? I’ll come by your home later and pick it up.”
And he would. He’d pedal out to their place, surprise them, and sit on their living room couches until they handed it to him. He would thank them, expressing sympathy for how busy they were and hoping their life would soon slow down.
His report was completed and delivered no later than the evening of Fast Sunday, when it was due. Every single month. The math was a little interesting here and there, but it was complete. People soon learned that lame excuses didn’t work, and they began getting their numbers to Charles at the end of the meeting block. The stake was amazed – how did we do it so consistently?
He had been in his calling for about a year when he once again came to see me.
“Bishop, I’ve decided to go to college. I’ve been thinking, and praying. I’ve made some phone calls. I’m still considered a California resident if I move back in with Mom. My home town junior college has free tuition. Can you help me with my application? Oh, and could you write me a letter of recommendation? It’s one of the admission requirements.”
He did it – Charles moved back to California and started college. He wrote every month for awhile, reporting on his progress. It wasn’t easy for him, but he was making it. Gradually the letters tapered off to never. We lost touch.
Twenty years later, he was one of the first to greet me on our visit back to Stillwater last summer. He was “home again,” where he had found the gospel. His sister was living with him; he was gainfully employed, and still blissfully happy.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
THE WILL OF THE CHILD
THE WILL OF THE CHILD . . .
Prayer is the act by which the will of the Father and the will of the child are brought into correspondence with each other. (Bible Dictionary pp. 752-53)
As much as one would like to put it off, it came time to think about retirement. The Church had what looked on the surface to be quite an attractive retirement option at age 62, but doing the math over an expected lifetime, it didn’t hold up so well. Nevertheless, we felt under the gun to make the age 62 plan our choice. The vast majority of our colleagues were choosing it; our human resources person recommended it in a retirement seminar, hinting that anyone who didn’t choose it had mush for brains; it was the opinion of many that it was our unwritten duty to step away then, to make way for younger men, not past their prime like us, who could do a better job at far less cost to the Church. Chris and I made it a matter of prayer: the quiet but undeniable impression came to keep doing our homework and the answer would come.
We decided to do just that over Spring Break. Our first stop was Little Rock, Arkansas, where the Springdale High School girls’ basketball team, composed mostly of my former Swoosh players, now juniors and seniors, were in the state championship tournament. They made the Final Four. Players, their parents, and their coaches were genuinely surprised and acted thrilled to see us, flattered that they still mattered to us. Surely it was meant to be that we would live out our lives in the beautiful surroundings of the Ozarks, among those gracious people with whom we had shared so much.
We also went to stake conference in Arkansas (it happened to be that week-end), where we were welcomed by hundreds of our Church brothers and sisters with whom we had lived and served. We learned about some affordable lake-side property being developed by a Church member, seemingly a dream come true, a beautiful beyond description, serene, potential gathering place for friends and family alike. We had lunch with a group of our basketball parent friends, learning of the economic boom going on there as we spoke, a seemingly ideal place to live, invest, and watch our bottom line grow. Surely the Lord would approve if we made the decision to settle there.
But then it was on to Oklahoma, where we had spent the majority of our adult lives, where most of our children had been born and all of them raised. We stayed with dear friends and visited with many others. We were received as beloved family by friends and former students alike. We realized we knew three generations there: our peers, their parents, and their children (in Arkansas we just knew peers and some children – many of the children had left home by then, as most of ours had). I had gone, not long before our visit that week, to the Oklahoma City temple; out of about 40 in the session, I knew 15, plus most of the workers. Word got out that I was there, and the temple president himself stepped out of his office to personally greet me. We investigated real estate; we were offered by a builder friend, the former stake president under whom I had served as bishop, a lot of our choice at his cost, plus he would build a home for us and take no profit. Surely we were home, weren’t we?
Back at work after the break, I was sitting at my desk talking to the Lord in my mind:
“Lord, it’s been ten days since we’ve supposedly completed our homework, and still no answer – what’s with that?”
“Make the phone call; then you’ll know.” (I knew which one He was referring to.)
Along with that impression came a recollection. I had been on my way to the Houston temple the previous winter, deeply pondering whether to retire at 62. An assurance had come, as clearly as if it had been spoken: “Bob, I would welcome your decision to stay on the job awhile longer.”
So I made the phone call. “Kelly [my Area Director], has that position as your assistant been filled, the one we talked about last fall?”
“It hasn’t been; why do you ask?”
“Well, we’ve been thinking. We’d be willing for my name to be placed back on the list of those being considered.”
It happened so fast it made my head swim. Within minutes Salt Lake called, and before that conversation was over we were headed to the Dallas area, to serve as Kelly’s assistant for at least the next four years.
The will of the Father and that of the child were once again aligned.
Prayer is the act by which the will of the Father and the will of the child are brought into correspondence with each other. (Bible Dictionary pp. 752-53)
As much as one would like to put it off, it came time to think about retirement. The Church had what looked on the surface to be quite an attractive retirement option at age 62, but doing the math over an expected lifetime, it didn’t hold up so well. Nevertheless, we felt under the gun to make the age 62 plan our choice. The vast majority of our colleagues were choosing it; our human resources person recommended it in a retirement seminar, hinting that anyone who didn’t choose it had mush for brains; it was the opinion of many that it was our unwritten duty to step away then, to make way for younger men, not past their prime like us, who could do a better job at far less cost to the Church. Chris and I made it a matter of prayer: the quiet but undeniable impression came to keep doing our homework and the answer would come.
We decided to do just that over Spring Break. Our first stop was Little Rock, Arkansas, where the Springdale High School girls’ basketball team, composed mostly of my former Swoosh players, now juniors and seniors, were in the state championship tournament. They made the Final Four. Players, their parents, and their coaches were genuinely surprised and acted thrilled to see us, flattered that they still mattered to us. Surely it was meant to be that we would live out our lives in the beautiful surroundings of the Ozarks, among those gracious people with whom we had shared so much.
We also went to stake conference in Arkansas (it happened to be that week-end), where we were welcomed by hundreds of our Church brothers and sisters with whom we had lived and served. We learned about some affordable lake-side property being developed by a Church member, seemingly a dream come true, a beautiful beyond description, serene, potential gathering place for friends and family alike. We had lunch with a group of our basketball parent friends, learning of the economic boom going on there as we spoke, a seemingly ideal place to live, invest, and watch our bottom line grow. Surely the Lord would approve if we made the decision to settle there.
But then it was on to Oklahoma, where we had spent the majority of our adult lives, where most of our children had been born and all of them raised. We stayed with dear friends and visited with many others. We were received as beloved family by friends and former students alike. We realized we knew three generations there: our peers, their parents, and their children (in Arkansas we just knew peers and some children – many of the children had left home by then, as most of ours had). I had gone, not long before our visit that week, to the Oklahoma City temple; out of about 40 in the session, I knew 15, plus most of the workers. Word got out that I was there, and the temple president himself stepped out of his office to personally greet me. We investigated real estate; we were offered by a builder friend, the former stake president under whom I had served as bishop, a lot of our choice at his cost, plus he would build a home for us and take no profit. Surely we were home, weren’t we?
Back at work after the break, I was sitting at my desk talking to the Lord in my mind:
“Lord, it’s been ten days since we’ve supposedly completed our homework, and still no answer – what’s with that?”
“Make the phone call; then you’ll know.” (I knew which one He was referring to.)
Along with that impression came a recollection. I had been on my way to the Houston temple the previous winter, deeply pondering whether to retire at 62. An assurance had come, as clearly as if it had been spoken: “Bob, I would welcome your decision to stay on the job awhile longer.”
So I made the phone call. “Kelly [my Area Director], has that position as your assistant been filled, the one we talked about last fall?”
“It hasn’t been; why do you ask?”
“Well, we’ve been thinking. We’d be willing for my name to be placed back on the list of those being considered.”
It happened so fast it made my head swim. Within minutes Salt Lake called, and before that conversation was over we were headed to the Dallas area, to serve as Kelly’s assistant for at least the next four years.
The will of the Father and that of the child were once again aligned.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
MY DAUGHTER THE RUNNER
MY DAUGHTER THE RUNNER
I was doing about a 10 minute mile at the time, during my early-morning 5k jogs around the neighborhood lake four times a week or so. Our daughter Debbie was in 8th grade; she approached me during Christmas break.
“Dad, can I go running with you tomorrow? I’m going out for track in the Spring.”
That first morning I slowed down so she could keep up, but she petered out about half-way around.
The next day she surprisingly made it all the way at my regular pace.
The third day she was holding back to stay with me!
On the fourth morning about half-way through the run, she turned back to me over her shoulder.
“I’ll meet you at home, Dad. I’m going to go a little faster.”
To this day my jaw drops in amazement every time I think about it.
Debbie went on to become all-state in cross-country, and her distance relay team broke the state record, holding it for several years.
I’m a plodder. I consider it an honor to have briefly shared the road with a genuine runner.
I was doing about a 10 minute mile at the time, during my early-morning 5k jogs around the neighborhood lake four times a week or so. Our daughter Debbie was in 8th grade; she approached me during Christmas break.
“Dad, can I go running with you tomorrow? I’m going out for track in the Spring.”
That first morning I slowed down so she could keep up, but she petered out about half-way around.
The next day she surprisingly made it all the way at my regular pace.
The third day she was holding back to stay with me!
On the fourth morning about half-way through the run, she turned back to me over her shoulder.
“I’ll meet you at home, Dad. I’m going to go a little faster.”
To this day my jaw drops in amazement every time I think about it.
Debbie went on to become all-state in cross-country, and her distance relay team broke the state record, holding it for several years.
I’m a plodder. I consider it an honor to have briefly shared the road with a genuine runner.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
THAT WHICH IS GREAT
THAT WHICH IS GREAT
Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a
great work. And out of small things proceedeth forth that which is great.
D&C 64:33, see also Gal. 6:9
Karen, 17, and Sean, 19, were newlyweds that fall, he beginning his second year of college and she working to support him. I was assigned as their home teacher. They always acted happy to see me, and willingly sat through my chit-chat and lesson. Just as I was leaving, Karen would without fail say something like: “I can’t join Sean’s church. I was raised [insert prominent Protestant denomination], and I made a promise to my parents that if I married him, I would remain true to the church I was raised in.” (Of course Karen being baptized was in the back of my mind, but I hadn’t yet gotten to the point with them that I thought it would be appropriate to even mention.) She kept saying it, month after month, as if she didn’t remember that she had said it previously.
We left that summer to do some work on a graduate degree, and when we returned in the fall, my new home teaching assignment didn’t include Sean and Karen.
Fifteen years later I was called as bishop. Right there in the ward membership records I found a Sean and Karen Oliver. Could it be? It was. They had a 10 year old son, Erik. Sean had begun his career right there in the university town, in the manufacturing industry. He had been promoted a number of times, but not transferred. I assigned Stillwater’s best as their home teachers, and monitored their progress quite closely. I was disappointed that the best home teachers available were only seeing the Olivers every other month or so. I remember despairing momentarily: if this is all the best are going to do, what does that say about the motivation of the rest of the home teachers of this ward! Woe is me.
When I was released, I asked the high priests group leader if I might be assigned to the Olivers as their home teacher. He was happy to oblige. I called them and gave them two choices of times to visit. We settled on one of them. When I arrived they weren’t there. I tried again. They couldn’t do it on either of the nights I was free. The month was over.
I started earlier the next month. Same thing: set an appointment only to be stood up. Being a persistent rascal, I tried again. This time they were there. But that was the pattern – over two years I saw them about 10 times, even though I tried an average of three times each month to set an appointment. I gained new empathy for Stillwater’s best, realizing I had been mistaken in my assessment of their level of commitment. On our last successful visit the Olivers announced that they had accepted new employment out of state.
Well, that’s that, I thought. Gave it a good shot.
A couple of years later I returned exhausted from an all-day high council assignment. The phone rang just as I was settling in for what I thought was a well-deserved evening of relaxation. I let it ring, hoping someone else would pick it up. They didn’t.
“Bro. Boyce, this is Karen Oliver. Remember me?”
I did.
“You’re talking to the newest member of the Church, and it’s all your fault! I was baptized about half an hour ago.”
“Karen! You could knock me over with a feather! Tell me about it.”
“You know all those times when you came to visit us when we were first married? Well, I felt something special every time. I guess I knew deep down inside that what you were saying was the truth. I didn’t know what that feeling was at the time, but I knew enough that if I acted on what I was feeling, I would have to change some things about my lifestyle. And I wasn’t ready to do that then. All that nonsense about not joining Sean’s church because of a promise I made to my parents? It was just that: nonsense. I said that to throw you off, so you wouldn’t realize what I was feeling and pressure me to follow through. I appreciate that you kept coming, even though it probably didn’t seem to you like you were making any progress.
“And then, when you came back just a few years ago, same thing. I felt those exact same feelings. I believed and felt every word you said, just like before. I’m embarrassed to say it, but I had a Word of Wisdom problem at the time, and every time I thought your nose could tell, I would make sure that we weren’t home when you said you were coming. I’m sorry for being so rude, but I’m amazed and at the same time grateful that you kept trying.
“I’ve had some rather serious problems since we moved here. I don’t want to get into those details right now, other than to let you know that they led me to say to myself, ‘Girl, you need to do what you’ve known you should have done twenty years ago when Bro. Boyce was visiting you.’ So I did, I called the missionaries and told them I wanted to be taught and baptized. They say they fell right off their kitchen stools they were so surprised. As they taught us Sean’s testimony was rekindled, and he got his life back in order so he could baptize me. So that’s my story. I just wanted you to know how happy I am. Thought you might be interested.”
About a year and a half later another phone call came. “Bro. Boyce, Sean and I are going to be sealed in the Dallas temple this week-end. We’d love for you and your wife to join us.” We couldn’t – we were in the process of moving to Arkansas. We were overjoyed to be invited though, but sad we couldn’t make it.
The beat goes on: about five years after that, I was with our Arkansas high priests group as a brother was reporting on his General Conference experiences in the just-opened Conference Center. He concluded by saying, “I just happened to be sitting by this branch president from Mississippi. We got to talking, and when he found out where I was from, he asked if I happened to know a Robert Boyce, who now lives in Arkansas but who they knew in Oklahoma. So Bob, President Sean Oliver says hi.”
We had moved again. I was telling my Sean and Karen story in the Institute class I was teaching in Flower Mound, Texas, to illustrate “be not weary in well-doing.” I was using real names, because I had no idea that someone so far removed in time and distance would be known by any of my young students. Suddenly Kyle Taylor, a recently returned missionary from Vancouver and one of the students, lit up like a Christmas tree. He had just got through serving with them in the mission office and had grown to love them. They had retired and were serving a couple mission! He put me back in touch, and this is what I have learned:
In addition to serving as branch president, Sean has served as elders’ quorum president, in the Young Men, as ward clerk, ward mission leader, and counselor in a bishopric. Karen has been a counselor in a stake Young Women presidency, Primary president, Young Women president, and Relief Society president twice. Their son Erik joined the Church two years ago and is currently serving as ward mission leader. Oh the joy!
Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a
great work. And out of small things proceedeth forth that which is great.
D&C 64:33, see also Gal. 6:9
Karen, 17, and Sean, 19, were newlyweds that fall, he beginning his second year of college and she working to support him. I was assigned as their home teacher. They always acted happy to see me, and willingly sat through my chit-chat and lesson. Just as I was leaving, Karen would without fail say something like: “I can’t join Sean’s church. I was raised [insert prominent Protestant denomination], and I made a promise to my parents that if I married him, I would remain true to the church I was raised in.” (Of course Karen being baptized was in the back of my mind, but I hadn’t yet gotten to the point with them that I thought it would be appropriate to even mention.) She kept saying it, month after month, as if she didn’t remember that she had said it previously.
We left that summer to do some work on a graduate degree, and when we returned in the fall, my new home teaching assignment didn’t include Sean and Karen.
Fifteen years later I was called as bishop. Right there in the ward membership records I found a Sean and Karen Oliver. Could it be? It was. They had a 10 year old son, Erik. Sean had begun his career right there in the university town, in the manufacturing industry. He had been promoted a number of times, but not transferred. I assigned Stillwater’s best as their home teachers, and monitored their progress quite closely. I was disappointed that the best home teachers available were only seeing the Olivers every other month or so. I remember despairing momentarily: if this is all the best are going to do, what does that say about the motivation of the rest of the home teachers of this ward! Woe is me.
When I was released, I asked the high priests group leader if I might be assigned to the Olivers as their home teacher. He was happy to oblige. I called them and gave them two choices of times to visit. We settled on one of them. When I arrived they weren’t there. I tried again. They couldn’t do it on either of the nights I was free. The month was over.
I started earlier the next month. Same thing: set an appointment only to be stood up. Being a persistent rascal, I tried again. This time they were there. But that was the pattern – over two years I saw them about 10 times, even though I tried an average of three times each month to set an appointment. I gained new empathy for Stillwater’s best, realizing I had been mistaken in my assessment of their level of commitment. On our last successful visit the Olivers announced that they had accepted new employment out of state.
Well, that’s that, I thought. Gave it a good shot.
A couple of years later I returned exhausted from an all-day high council assignment. The phone rang just as I was settling in for what I thought was a well-deserved evening of relaxation. I let it ring, hoping someone else would pick it up. They didn’t.
“Bro. Boyce, this is Karen Oliver. Remember me?”
I did.
“You’re talking to the newest member of the Church, and it’s all your fault! I was baptized about half an hour ago.”
“Karen! You could knock me over with a feather! Tell me about it.”
“You know all those times when you came to visit us when we were first married? Well, I felt something special every time. I guess I knew deep down inside that what you were saying was the truth. I didn’t know what that feeling was at the time, but I knew enough that if I acted on what I was feeling, I would have to change some things about my lifestyle. And I wasn’t ready to do that then. All that nonsense about not joining Sean’s church because of a promise I made to my parents? It was just that: nonsense. I said that to throw you off, so you wouldn’t realize what I was feeling and pressure me to follow through. I appreciate that you kept coming, even though it probably didn’t seem to you like you were making any progress.
“And then, when you came back just a few years ago, same thing. I felt those exact same feelings. I believed and felt every word you said, just like before. I’m embarrassed to say it, but I had a Word of Wisdom problem at the time, and every time I thought your nose could tell, I would make sure that we weren’t home when you said you were coming. I’m sorry for being so rude, but I’m amazed and at the same time grateful that you kept trying.
“I’ve had some rather serious problems since we moved here. I don’t want to get into those details right now, other than to let you know that they led me to say to myself, ‘Girl, you need to do what you’ve known you should have done twenty years ago when Bro. Boyce was visiting you.’ So I did, I called the missionaries and told them I wanted to be taught and baptized. They say they fell right off their kitchen stools they were so surprised. As they taught us Sean’s testimony was rekindled, and he got his life back in order so he could baptize me. So that’s my story. I just wanted you to know how happy I am. Thought you might be interested.”
About a year and a half later another phone call came. “Bro. Boyce, Sean and I are going to be sealed in the Dallas temple this week-end. We’d love for you and your wife to join us.” We couldn’t – we were in the process of moving to Arkansas. We were overjoyed to be invited though, but sad we couldn’t make it.
The beat goes on: about five years after that, I was with our Arkansas high priests group as a brother was reporting on his General Conference experiences in the just-opened Conference Center. He concluded by saying, “I just happened to be sitting by this branch president from Mississippi. We got to talking, and when he found out where I was from, he asked if I happened to know a Robert Boyce, who now lives in Arkansas but who they knew in Oklahoma. So Bob, President Sean Oliver says hi.”
We had moved again. I was telling my Sean and Karen story in the Institute class I was teaching in Flower Mound, Texas, to illustrate “be not weary in well-doing.” I was using real names, because I had no idea that someone so far removed in time and distance would be known by any of my young students. Suddenly Kyle Taylor, a recently returned missionary from Vancouver and one of the students, lit up like a Christmas tree. He had just got through serving with them in the mission office and had grown to love them. They had retired and were serving a couple mission! He put me back in touch, and this is what I have learned:
In addition to serving as branch president, Sean has served as elders’ quorum president, in the Young Men, as ward clerk, ward mission leader, and counselor in a bishopric. Karen has been a counselor in a stake Young Women presidency, Primary president, Young Women president, and Relief Society president twice. Their son Erik joined the Church two years ago and is currently serving as ward mission leader. Oh the joy!
Thursday, January 6, 2011
STEPPINGSTONE TO ETERNITY
PUPPY LOVE: STEPPINGSTONE TO ETERNITY
Callie entered their lives when she was 14. It began as a huge crush on their son Josh, then 16. He enjoyed the friendship but was oblivious to the romantic overtones. She even made friends with Jen, just younger than Josh, all the better to be around him more. Josh finished high school, then was off to college, and left on his mission a year later. Callie graduated from high school that same year and accepted a college scholarship out of town. The relationship had not changed a bit – she being head over heels and hoping, he thinking they were merely good friends. She wrote; he, seeing a golden opportunity to expand the scope of his missionary efforts, wrote back, teaching and bearing witness. That fueled the flicker of her long-lingering hope. He came home; she was right there on the doorstep – still no change on either of their parts. He went back to school; she, disappointed once again, returned to her out of town studies.
Then there she was, during the middle of her junior year, framed by the entrance to Josh’s father’s office. She had transferred back home to the local university. After picking his lower jaw off the floor, they got down to business. She had gone out of state to see her real father for Christmas break. He had not responded to her knock when she arrived, so she had opened the door and found his crumpled remains at the bottom of the stairs, just inside the front door, dead from what turned out to be alcohol poisoning. She was looking for answers, and had come to see Bro. Henderson, Josh’s father, to follow up on the only sweet feelings she had experienced in a long time, those coming from Josh’s missionary letters. She asked Bro. Henderson to sit in with her as she took the missionary discussions. He soon found out one reason why: she had a Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde-type personality, was even better looking than the movie’s star, and one of the missionaries, not yet blessed with eternal perspective, came very close to hitting on her, even in Bro. Henderson’s presence. Despite the imperfections of the primary deliverer of the message, the Spirit kept touching them. As Callie’s circle of fraternity/sorority friends learned about her new interest, opposition kept raising its ugly head. She soon realized she would not be able to continue to be an integral part of her then current social circle if she continued her association with “those Mormons.” She brought the doubts planted by her alleged friends to the discussions. She would voice a concern, and someone there would be blessed with the ability, beyond his natural limits, to help her resolve her concerns; this happened time and again.
Then it happened, at the beginning of a discussion. “You’ll never believe what went on over the week-end,” she began. “We had our sorority girls from the entire state and all of our brother fraternity guys here for a free-for-all at the lake. It lasted all week-end. My roommate and I had ten out of town girls staying with us, sleeping on the floor of our apartment. I got up to go to church, and all I did was trip over these passed-out, drunken bodies as I tried to get ready. Right then it came to me, ‘I’m worried about not being accepted by people like this?! Is this what I think I would miss so much?! C’mon girl – get a grip! I’m leaving this trash dump of a life forever! No more waving in the wind: I’m going to do it [become a baptized member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints].’ This Saturday would be fine, just like you all have been trying to get me to decide to do.”
From then on she attended Institute twice a week; she attended church without fail, and Family Home Evening, and everything else. However, a couple of months later she was back in Bro. Henderson’s office, still not as happy as she had anticipated. It took her awhile, but eventually it came out that her concerns were three-fold: 1) she couldn’t keep her parents from getting a divorce those years ago; 2) she couldn’t keep her father from drinking himself to death; and 3) try as she might for 7 years now, she couldn’t get Bro. Henderson’s son to fall in love with her.
They talked about agency, that it was the operative principle in her case, that if we have done our best to deliver the message, then if the recipient chooses not to respond, we can be at peace (see Ezekiel 3:18-22). Then, concerning Josh, Bro. Henderson said, “Callie, pretty soon you’ll meet a guy, handsome and funny and righteous and worthy to take you to the temple. You’ll get to know him, and before you know it he’ll say, ‘Callie, you are the most beautiful ditz I have ever met! You are crazy! But you’re also the most fun person I have ever known, and smart, and you’re good to the bone. You have a way of making people comfortable around you, like you’re their best friend from the moment they meet you. Am I your friend too? I want to be, forever. I want my children to have you for their mother. Look at those temple spires. Will you go there with me, and become my wife and my forever best friend?”
That embarrassed her; but she liked it, and it rekindled hope in her. She was learning to stop looking back and begin facing forward. She left the minute the semester was over.
Almost to the day, a year after the “forever best friend” conversation, the phone rang in Bro. Henderson’s office around mid-day, startling him from a session of “deep pondering.”
“Bro. Henderson, is that you?”
Cobwebs. He turned his desk name plate around just to make sure. “Uh, yes, who’s this?”
“Callie! Who’d you expect, Mother Nature?”
That got him wide awake. “No, Betty Crocker! Got any coupons on your box top?”
“I have some news! I’ve met him! Oh, Bro. Henderson, I’ve met him! His name is Daren, and we met at the institute here, and he’s 6’7”, and he’s a basketball NUT! I know more about the Lakers now than I ever thought there was to know! He’s going to be a dentist, and guess WHAT! He said EXACTLY what you said he would say, not in the exact words, but the exact same ideas in the exact order! Is that a sign or what! Oh, Bro. Henderson, I’m so happy! It’ll be in the San Diego temple August 17. Those spires – they were part of the proposal just like you said they would be! Since my Dad won’t be able to make it, could you be one of the witnesses in place of my father?”
The sealing room was packed. The ceremony was beautiful. The newlyweds were mobbed, right there in the temple, as soon as it was over. Bro. Henderson sat there in the witness chair for the longest time, looking at her greeting all her well-wishers and thinking, “See, Callie, see what I’ve been trying to tell you? See what the Lord has had in store for you all the time? Do you get it now, can you feel it?” She must have sensed something of what he was feeling and trying to communicate. She looked at him over the shoulder of whoever she was hugging at the moment. Their eyes met, and she mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
Callie entered their lives when she was 14. It began as a huge crush on their son Josh, then 16. He enjoyed the friendship but was oblivious to the romantic overtones. She even made friends with Jen, just younger than Josh, all the better to be around him more. Josh finished high school, then was off to college, and left on his mission a year later. Callie graduated from high school that same year and accepted a college scholarship out of town. The relationship had not changed a bit – she being head over heels and hoping, he thinking they were merely good friends. She wrote; he, seeing a golden opportunity to expand the scope of his missionary efforts, wrote back, teaching and bearing witness. That fueled the flicker of her long-lingering hope. He came home; she was right there on the doorstep – still no change on either of their parts. He went back to school; she, disappointed once again, returned to her out of town studies.
Then there she was, during the middle of her junior year, framed by the entrance to Josh’s father’s office. She had transferred back home to the local university. After picking his lower jaw off the floor, they got down to business. She had gone out of state to see her real father for Christmas break. He had not responded to her knock when she arrived, so she had opened the door and found his crumpled remains at the bottom of the stairs, just inside the front door, dead from what turned out to be alcohol poisoning. She was looking for answers, and had come to see Bro. Henderson, Josh’s father, to follow up on the only sweet feelings she had experienced in a long time, those coming from Josh’s missionary letters. She asked Bro. Henderson to sit in with her as she took the missionary discussions. He soon found out one reason why: she had a Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde-type personality, was even better looking than the movie’s star, and one of the missionaries, not yet blessed with eternal perspective, came very close to hitting on her, even in Bro. Henderson’s presence. Despite the imperfections of the primary deliverer of the message, the Spirit kept touching them. As Callie’s circle of fraternity/sorority friends learned about her new interest, opposition kept raising its ugly head. She soon realized she would not be able to continue to be an integral part of her then current social circle if she continued her association with “those Mormons.” She brought the doubts planted by her alleged friends to the discussions. She would voice a concern, and someone there would be blessed with the ability, beyond his natural limits, to help her resolve her concerns; this happened time and again.
Then it happened, at the beginning of a discussion. “You’ll never believe what went on over the week-end,” she began. “We had our sorority girls from the entire state and all of our brother fraternity guys here for a free-for-all at the lake. It lasted all week-end. My roommate and I had ten out of town girls staying with us, sleeping on the floor of our apartment. I got up to go to church, and all I did was trip over these passed-out, drunken bodies as I tried to get ready. Right then it came to me, ‘I’m worried about not being accepted by people like this?! Is this what I think I would miss so much?! C’mon girl – get a grip! I’m leaving this trash dump of a life forever! No more waving in the wind: I’m going to do it [become a baptized member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints].’ This Saturday would be fine, just like you all have been trying to get me to decide to do.”
From then on she attended Institute twice a week; she attended church without fail, and Family Home Evening, and everything else. However, a couple of months later she was back in Bro. Henderson’s office, still not as happy as she had anticipated. It took her awhile, but eventually it came out that her concerns were three-fold: 1) she couldn’t keep her parents from getting a divorce those years ago; 2) she couldn’t keep her father from drinking himself to death; and 3) try as she might for 7 years now, she couldn’t get Bro. Henderson’s son to fall in love with her.
They talked about agency, that it was the operative principle in her case, that if we have done our best to deliver the message, then if the recipient chooses not to respond, we can be at peace (see Ezekiel 3:18-22). Then, concerning Josh, Bro. Henderson said, “Callie, pretty soon you’ll meet a guy, handsome and funny and righteous and worthy to take you to the temple. You’ll get to know him, and before you know it he’ll say, ‘Callie, you are the most beautiful ditz I have ever met! You are crazy! But you’re also the most fun person I have ever known, and smart, and you’re good to the bone. You have a way of making people comfortable around you, like you’re their best friend from the moment they meet you. Am I your friend too? I want to be, forever. I want my children to have you for their mother. Look at those temple spires. Will you go there with me, and become my wife and my forever best friend?”
That embarrassed her; but she liked it, and it rekindled hope in her. She was learning to stop looking back and begin facing forward. She left the minute the semester was over.
Almost to the day, a year after the “forever best friend” conversation, the phone rang in Bro. Henderson’s office around mid-day, startling him from a session of “deep pondering.”
“Bro. Henderson, is that you?”
Cobwebs. He turned his desk name plate around just to make sure. “Uh, yes, who’s this?”
“Callie! Who’d you expect, Mother Nature?”
That got him wide awake. “No, Betty Crocker! Got any coupons on your box top?”
“I have some news! I’ve met him! Oh, Bro. Henderson, I’ve met him! His name is Daren, and we met at the institute here, and he’s 6’7”, and he’s a basketball NUT! I know more about the Lakers now than I ever thought there was to know! He’s going to be a dentist, and guess WHAT! He said EXACTLY what you said he would say, not in the exact words, but the exact same ideas in the exact order! Is that a sign or what! Oh, Bro. Henderson, I’m so happy! It’ll be in the San Diego temple August 17. Those spires – they were part of the proposal just like you said they would be! Since my Dad won’t be able to make it, could you be one of the witnesses in place of my father?”
The sealing room was packed. The ceremony was beautiful. The newlyweds were mobbed, right there in the temple, as soon as it was over. Bro. Henderson sat there in the witness chair for the longest time, looking at her greeting all her well-wishers and thinking, “See, Callie, see what I’ve been trying to tell you? See what the Lord has had in store for you all the time? Do you get it now, can you feel it?” She must have sensed something of what he was feeling and trying to communicate. She looked at him over the shoulder of whoever she was hugging at the moment. Their eyes met, and she mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
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