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.