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.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
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.”
Monday, April 18, 2011
ONE IN THINE HAND
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.
… 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.
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.
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