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.
Monday, May 30, 2011
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.”
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