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.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
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.
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