ONE IN THINE HAND
… take thee one stick, and write upon it, For Judah…Then take another stick, and write upon it, For Joseph … And join them one to another into one stick; And they shall become one in thine hand. Ezekiel 37:16-17, emphasis added
The late Clifford Chebahtah, a full-blood Kiowa Native American, was born, raised, and in turn raised his family on land issued to his ancestors just outside Anadarko, Oklahoma. I was privileged to serve on the Oklahoma City Stake high council with him. To begin a meeting one of the brethren had just used the above-cited verses as the scripture thought.
Brother Chebahtah then asked if he might say something. His words were to this effect:
Brethren, I would like to bear witness to the truth of the scripture we were privileged to hear just now. My grandfather passed away when I was eight years old. Just before his passing, he called all of his posterity together. Among many other things, he told us that the first Christian preachers had come to town when he was a young man. But, he said, they weren’t the right ones. He then told us that he had been shown in a dream, in answer to his petitions to Heaven concerning the matter, that those particular preachers came one by one, bringing just one book. He continued by saying that in his dream he was shown that the Lord’s true messengers, the ones with the complete gospel, would come two by two, and that they would be carrying two books, not just one. My grandfather finished his words by admonishing us to wait for preachers who came two by two, carrying two books. He pleaded with us to listen to them with open hearts and minds when they arrived, which would not be during his lifetime.
The year was 1964. I was 28 years old, married and the father of two young children when the first set of missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints arrived in Anadarko. All of us recognized them as the fulfillment of grandfather’s dream. We all listened eagerly at first, but when it was evident that there would need to be major changes in the prevailing lifestyle, most did not continue to be interested. My family and I did, though, and we were the first to join the Church in Anadarko. Brethren, I want you to know how grateful I am for the scripture that Bro. Housley read to us tonight, and for the message contained in those two books – especially the clarity and the completeness of the second one, even the Book of Mormon, the one written to me and to my people. I am also grateful for my grandfather’s dream, which helped us to recognize the Lord’s true messengers when they arrived in town, coming two by two and bringing two books in their hand, not just one. For me and my family, it has made all the difference.
If there was any sand, any at all, in our foundations at the time (see Matthew 7:24-27), it was replaced by solid rock that night.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
LED BY THE SPIRIT
LED BY THE SPIRIT
And I was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do.
1 Nephi 4:6 (emphasis added)
A Thursday night snow-storm had turned the Ozarks into a winter wonderland. But it also had caused school to be canceled for the next day. That in turn resulted in all Conference basketball games being postponed. The snow melted quickly, however, so all games were immediately rescheduled for Saturday.
He would have been able to go Friday, but the semi-annual stake priesthood meeting was that Saturday – it had been on the calendar for more than a year. The stake president was unusually quiet as he and his first counselor once again made the hour and a half drive to the stake center.
About half-way down the mountain the counselor broke the silence. “Is there something on your mind?”
“There is a lot of satisfaction in fulfilling our callings, but it’s certainly difficult at times. This is one of those times.”
“Stake presidents feel that way, too? That’s a relief. I thought I was being unfaithful when I felt that way.”
The president smiled. “Another example of the law of opposition at work, I guess.”
“Basketball?”
“I enjoy being a Dad too. It’s his senior year. I vowed not to miss a game this year. I tell myself that he needs me at his games, but truth be told it’s me who needs it the most.”
“Too bad we haven’t figured out how to be two places at once.”
………………………………………………………………………..
The meeting had started and was going smoothly. The first speaker was adeptly covering his assigned topic – eight minutes, no more. As he scanned the congregation, the president’s heart filled with admiration, and yes, love for the good brethren, many of whom had come in from even greater distances than he had, and at considerably more financial sacrifice, due to their meager incomes. The president’s eyes focused on Brother Jeremiah Simpson, humble, faithful, trusting, loyal, without guile. His heart went out to the itinerant carpenter with little formal education, who struggled to make a living even though his skills were extraordinary. Brother Simpson’s wife had left him years ago, taking their son with her. From interviews the president had learned that in spite of the court-mandated custody/visiting rights settlement, due to the mother’s feistiness and Bro. Simpson’s contrasting peacemaker nature, the father seldom got to spend meaningful time with his beloved son.
Wait a minute, thought the president. Where do Jeremiah’s son and his mother live? Bartonville! Who is my son’s team playing later this afternoon? Bartonville! Jeremiah’s son plays for Bartonville – my son and his son are going to be playing one another!
The president signaled the attendance taker to summon Jeremiah, who looked up from the congregation at the president, who signaled Jeremiah to meet him in the foyer.
“The meeting’s yours,” whispered the president to his counselor. “You’re the closing speaker now. You know the subject. Wing it. The Lord will be with you.”
Out in the foyer, the president put his arm around Jeremiah’s shoulders. “You and I are going to watch our sons play some basketball!”
………………………………………………………………………..
Jeremiah was a backwoodsman at heart. He lived in a cabin on some wooded acreage outside of town. He heated his abode with an ancient Franklin stove and firewood. On the first above-freezing day of early spring, just after their sons’ basketball game with the stake president, Jeremiah somehow prevailed on his ex to allow him time with his son. They were out there on Jeremiah’s property together, sawing up and splitting firewood, so it would season for the next winter. The son was driving in the splitting wedge with the back of an axe. Neither noticed that the head was gradually coming loose. During a mighty swing it flew off its handle, ricocheting off a tree and into the boy’s skull. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.
At the funeral, Jeremiah through his tears thanked the stake president over and over again for putting game over meeting. It turned out to be the last time Jeremiah would ever see his son play ball.
And I was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do.
1 Nephi 4:6 (emphasis added)
A Thursday night snow-storm had turned the Ozarks into a winter wonderland. But it also had caused school to be canceled for the next day. That in turn resulted in all Conference basketball games being postponed. The snow melted quickly, however, so all games were immediately rescheduled for Saturday.
He would have been able to go Friday, but the semi-annual stake priesthood meeting was that Saturday – it had been on the calendar for more than a year. The stake president was unusually quiet as he and his first counselor once again made the hour and a half drive to the stake center.
About half-way down the mountain the counselor broke the silence. “Is there something on your mind?”
“There is a lot of satisfaction in fulfilling our callings, but it’s certainly difficult at times. This is one of those times.”
“Stake presidents feel that way, too? That’s a relief. I thought I was being unfaithful when I felt that way.”
The president smiled. “Another example of the law of opposition at work, I guess.”
“Basketball?”
“I enjoy being a Dad too. It’s his senior year. I vowed not to miss a game this year. I tell myself that he needs me at his games, but truth be told it’s me who needs it the most.”
“Too bad we haven’t figured out how to be two places at once.”
………………………………………………………………………..
The meeting had started and was going smoothly. The first speaker was adeptly covering his assigned topic – eight minutes, no more. As he scanned the congregation, the president’s heart filled with admiration, and yes, love for the good brethren, many of whom had come in from even greater distances than he had, and at considerably more financial sacrifice, due to their meager incomes. The president’s eyes focused on Brother Jeremiah Simpson, humble, faithful, trusting, loyal, without guile. His heart went out to the itinerant carpenter with little formal education, who struggled to make a living even though his skills were extraordinary. Brother Simpson’s wife had left him years ago, taking their son with her. From interviews the president had learned that in spite of the court-mandated custody/visiting rights settlement, due to the mother’s feistiness and Bro. Simpson’s contrasting peacemaker nature, the father seldom got to spend meaningful time with his beloved son.
Wait a minute, thought the president. Where do Jeremiah’s son and his mother live? Bartonville! Who is my son’s team playing later this afternoon? Bartonville! Jeremiah’s son plays for Bartonville – my son and his son are going to be playing one another!
The president signaled the attendance taker to summon Jeremiah, who looked up from the congregation at the president, who signaled Jeremiah to meet him in the foyer.
“The meeting’s yours,” whispered the president to his counselor. “You’re the closing speaker now. You know the subject. Wing it. The Lord will be with you.”
Out in the foyer, the president put his arm around Jeremiah’s shoulders. “You and I are going to watch our sons play some basketball!”
………………………………………………………………………..
Jeremiah was a backwoodsman at heart. He lived in a cabin on some wooded acreage outside of town. He heated his abode with an ancient Franklin stove and firewood. On the first above-freezing day of early spring, just after their sons’ basketball game with the stake president, Jeremiah somehow prevailed on his ex to allow him time with his son. They were out there on Jeremiah’s property together, sawing up and splitting firewood, so it would season for the next winter. The son was driving in the splitting wedge with the back of an axe. Neither noticed that the head was gradually coming loose. During a mighty swing it flew off its handle, ricocheting off a tree and into the boy’s skull. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.
At the funeral, Jeremiah through his tears thanked the stake president over and over again for putting game over meeting. It turned out to be the last time Jeremiah would ever see his son play ball.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
IF YE ARE NOT PREPARED YE SHALL FEAR
IF YE ARE [NOT] PREPARED YE SHALL … FEAR
… if ye are prepared ye shall not fear.
D&C 38:30 (emphasis added)
The table. The table at the student union. Our table, where Chuck, Ed, Rick, and I would meet before, between, and after classes. It was not long before a girl was joining us. Chuck’s friend, Carolyn. Then her two room-mates. We dated, but not each other. Except for Chuck and Carolyn, but not for long. Rather, we told each other about our dates. We became good friends. Real good. But friends only. Our table at the union is where those friendships were formed and shared.
Carolyn was the leader. Bubbly, happy, center of every conversation Carolyn. She was also the most perceptive. It was late Spring semester; finals were just beginning to intrude upon our consciousness. All the seats around our table were full.
“Bob, we’re probably not going to see each other ever again after this semester.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I’m transferring to State. You’re not coming back either.”
She proved prophetic. None of us have ever seen each other again in person. She ended with, “Let’s do something, you and I.”
“How about all of us?”
“We can do that too …”
As with most people, I think, I had a “Secret Garden,” a retreat from the world that I imagined that only I knew about. Mine was a remote section of seashore, a stretch of beach and sand dunes, rocks, tide pools and miniature bayous, next to a riptide so powerful that swimming there was automatic suicide. Hence its isolation and primeval beauty.
I took Carolyn there. It was cold. And overcast. And windy – a coat plus sweater day. We romped along the shoreline at first, skirting the tide as it rushed ashore and retreated, hurling mounds of seaweed up onto the beach. We came at low tide – we explored tide pools teeming with life, admiring the flower-like anemone, watching one successfully lure lunch into its clutches. We soon retreated to the dunes, found some protection from the wind, and perched ourselves on a pair of low-lying rocks. The ivy was in full bloom, the wildflowers, grasses, and cat-tails at their spring-time finest. Red-winged blackbirds, hummingbirds, gulls, and cormorants were flitting and gliding everywhere. The aura of beauty and tranquility succeeded in over-riding the bone-chilling weather that day.
“Bob, you’re different. I like that difference, and I think I’ve finally figured out what makes you that way. It’s your religion, isn’t it. Tell me about your religion.”
I was not the perceptive one. I was blind-sided. “Well,” I hesitatingly began, not at all certain of what was going to come next. “Well, we believe that God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost are separate Beings, not three in one like others believe …”
“Makes sense. Tell me more.”
With all the wisdom of an 18 year old going on 13, I made a wisecrack. I don’t now remember what it was, but it broke the mood, exposing my nervousness. Carolyn, sensitive and compassionate as well, began praising the beauty of the surroundings.
It has been fifty years. Try as I might, I cannot recall her last name. Tears of remorse still form as I contemplate the experience. I pray quite often, and it is up into the hundreds of times by now, that she be given another chance.
… if ye are prepared ye shall not fear.
D&C 38:30 (emphasis added)
The table. The table at the student union. Our table, where Chuck, Ed, Rick, and I would meet before, between, and after classes. It was not long before a girl was joining us. Chuck’s friend, Carolyn. Then her two room-mates. We dated, but not each other. Except for Chuck and Carolyn, but not for long. Rather, we told each other about our dates. We became good friends. Real good. But friends only. Our table at the union is where those friendships were formed and shared.
Carolyn was the leader. Bubbly, happy, center of every conversation Carolyn. She was also the most perceptive. It was late Spring semester; finals were just beginning to intrude upon our consciousness. All the seats around our table were full.
“Bob, we’re probably not going to see each other ever again after this semester.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I’m transferring to State. You’re not coming back either.”
She proved prophetic. None of us have ever seen each other again in person. She ended with, “Let’s do something, you and I.”
“How about all of us?”
“We can do that too …”
As with most people, I think, I had a “Secret Garden,” a retreat from the world that I imagined that only I knew about. Mine was a remote section of seashore, a stretch of beach and sand dunes, rocks, tide pools and miniature bayous, next to a riptide so powerful that swimming there was automatic suicide. Hence its isolation and primeval beauty.
I took Carolyn there. It was cold. And overcast. And windy – a coat plus sweater day. We romped along the shoreline at first, skirting the tide as it rushed ashore and retreated, hurling mounds of seaweed up onto the beach. We came at low tide – we explored tide pools teeming with life, admiring the flower-like anemone, watching one successfully lure lunch into its clutches. We soon retreated to the dunes, found some protection from the wind, and perched ourselves on a pair of low-lying rocks. The ivy was in full bloom, the wildflowers, grasses, and cat-tails at their spring-time finest. Red-winged blackbirds, hummingbirds, gulls, and cormorants were flitting and gliding everywhere. The aura of beauty and tranquility succeeded in over-riding the bone-chilling weather that day.
“Bob, you’re different. I like that difference, and I think I’ve finally figured out what makes you that way. It’s your religion, isn’t it. Tell me about your religion.”
I was not the perceptive one. I was blind-sided. “Well,” I hesitatingly began, not at all certain of what was going to come next. “Well, we believe that God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost are separate Beings, not three in one like others believe …”
“Makes sense. Tell me more.”
With all the wisdom of an 18 year old going on 13, I made a wisecrack. I don’t now remember what it was, but it broke the mood, exposing my nervousness. Carolyn, sensitive and compassionate as well, began praising the beauty of the surroundings.
It has been fifty years. Try as I might, I cannot recall her last name. Tears of remorse still form as I contemplate the experience. I pray quite often, and it is up into the hundreds of times by now, that she be given another chance.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
HE DID VISIT ME, AND SOFTEN MY HEART
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.
“. . . 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.
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.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
CHILDREN OF THE PROPHETS
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)