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.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)