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.