TAKING ONE FOR THE LORD
I don’t know why I took the family station wagon that night. I usually drove the much more fuel-efficient “Perdiddle” on out-of-town trips. Maybe it was because I was tired of its “skate-board-with-a-motor” feel.
I was on a high council assignment to visit the youth program of the Kingfisher Branch, about 2 hours away. I entered town from the east, passing the city limit sign. Just beyond the first intersection I was shaken to the core by an ear-splitting THWACK! The rear-view mirror revealed that the back driver’s side window had been suddenly transformed into a wall-to-wall spider web, emanating from a surprisingly symmetrical chip almost in the middle.
I somehow made it to the rented IOOF hall where the branch met near the western city limits. The evening went well – I felt welcome and appreciated. After the meeting the branch president walked out to the car with me.
“Holy Guacamole! What happened to YOU?”
I told him.
“That’s a bullet, my friend.” He was a rancher and quite familiar with guns. I am not. The tightness in my stomach returned full force. “Holy Toledo. You need to go by the police station before you leave town. I’m serious – this is nothing to just let go. Here, I’ll draw you a map.”
The police chief himself was on duty that night. The branch president must have called, because I was met outside as I pulled up.
“Holy [bleep]!” He exclaimed when he saw the window. “Where were you exactly when that happened?”
“Just coming into town on [Highway] 33.”
“From the east or west?”
“From I-35.”
“East. What time?”
“Let’s see. Oh yes, I did glance at the clock on the dash. 6:34.”
“The 911 call came at 6:37, from a neighbor, according to the police report.”
“Police report?!”
“Come here, let me show you something.”
We walked down some outside stairs and into the basement where the jail cells were located.
“See that piece of [bleep] in the far corner over there?”
All I saw at first was a pile of dirty rags. As my eyes adjusted a human form, obviously sleeping one off, gradually emerged amongst what turned out to be torn clothing.
“This [bleep’s] wife was between him and the front window, which faced the highway. He emptied his revolver at her. She was hit four times. She’s dead. He missed twice. There are two bullet holes in the window.
The knot in my stomach tightened into nausea.
“You’re one lucky s.o.b., you know that? Half second earlier, coulda been the front window and your head. C’mon, let’s go add your story to the report.”
I didn’t have any trouble with drowsiness on the way home that night, let me tell you.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
STEWARD OF GOD
STEWARD OF GOD
For a bishop must be blameless, as the steward of God . . . Titus1:7
“Brother Boyce, how are you and Chris doing?”
There I was in the stake president’s office, surrounded by his counselors.
“Uh, fine? Why? Is there something I’m not aware of?”
“No, no. We were just asking. It’s nice to know there are a few couples out there who don’t struggle.”
“We have our moments occasionally, but we make up quickly.”
“Glad to hear it. How are your finances? Are you carrying any debt?”
“Home mortgage, car payment. That’s about it.”
“Credit card?”
“$400 at the moment. But we’ll pay it off next paycheck. We pay the whole balance each month.”
“I wish more people would do that. How are things at work? Are there any challenges in that regard?”
“I’m spread pretty thin at times, but I’m learning to pace myself, to strike a balance. It seems to be working, at least most of the time.”
“We want to thank you for your service as Bishop Gray’s counselor. He’s grateful for all you do, as we all are. How is that going for you?”
“I enjoy it. It’s inspiring to see Bill rise to the occasion, truly becoming Bishop Gray, representative of the Lord.”
“Well, Bob, thank you for your time this evening. It’s good working with you.”
“Uh, that’s it?”
“Counselors, do you have anything to add? No? That’s it, then. You’re free to go.”
Chris was anxiously awaiting my arrival home. “How did it go? What happened?”
“Not a thing. They asked me about my job, our finances, our marriage, and my calling. Then they sent me on my way.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup – that was all.”
“Weird!”
“So, what’s new? Enjoying your bishopric experience?”
I was traveling on assignment with my friend and colleague, who happened to be the president of a neighboring stake.
“Good. But you know, I had the craziest interview with the stake president and both his counselors. It was about a month ago. They called me in, asked me about our marriage, my job, my finances, and my calling. That was all. We said a prayer, and they sent me home. Spooky.
“Oh, I know what was going on,” responded my colleague, mystery in his voice.
Try as I might, I could not get another word out of him. “I’ve said too much already,” was the only other thing I was able to pry from his sealed lips.
A special bishopric meeting was called as soon as I returned. The stake president met us in our clerk’s office. We had heard rumors: a clerk had received a letter from Salt Lake City that identified us as Stillwater 2nd Ward, rather than just Stillwater. That had produced a buzz.
Sure enough, a new ward had been approved. The president showed us the boundaries. Bishop Gray “just couldn’t part” with his Relief Society president; the wife of a member of the stake presidency had made a formal request to remain in the established ward. The boundaries were therefore rather ridiculously gerrymandered to leave those two families in the established ward. The president assured us that he had that prerogative.
With that taken care of I was invited to go through the chapel to the stake wing.
“Well, Bishop Boyce, I’m sure you’ve got it figured out by now, on account of that seemingly pointless interview of a few weeks ago.”
I hadn’t. Clueless I think they call it.
“You’re the new bishop of the Stillwater 2nd Ward, which will be created this Sunday. Can you have your counselor recommendations to me no later than tomorrow afternoon? Oh, that’s right. Your wife is supposed to be present for the call. Could you phone her and get her over here, and we’ll start all over again?”
I was not sure I could, I was so light-headed. I managed somehow.
“Do I have to put on a dress?” That was her initial response.
For a bishop must be blameless, as the steward of God . . . Titus1:7
“Brother Boyce, how are you and Chris doing?”
There I was in the stake president’s office, surrounded by his counselors.
“Uh, fine? Why? Is there something I’m not aware of?”
“No, no. We were just asking. It’s nice to know there are a few couples out there who don’t struggle.”
“We have our moments occasionally, but we make up quickly.”
“Glad to hear it. How are your finances? Are you carrying any debt?”
“Home mortgage, car payment. That’s about it.”
“Credit card?”
“$400 at the moment. But we’ll pay it off next paycheck. We pay the whole balance each month.”
“I wish more people would do that. How are things at work? Are there any challenges in that regard?”
“I’m spread pretty thin at times, but I’m learning to pace myself, to strike a balance. It seems to be working, at least most of the time.”
“We want to thank you for your service as Bishop Gray’s counselor. He’s grateful for all you do, as we all are. How is that going for you?”
“I enjoy it. It’s inspiring to see Bill rise to the occasion, truly becoming Bishop Gray, representative of the Lord.”
“Well, Bob, thank you for your time this evening. It’s good working with you.”
“Uh, that’s it?”
“Counselors, do you have anything to add? No? That’s it, then. You’re free to go.”
Chris was anxiously awaiting my arrival home. “How did it go? What happened?”
“Not a thing. They asked me about my job, our finances, our marriage, and my calling. Then they sent me on my way.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup – that was all.”
“Weird!”
“So, what’s new? Enjoying your bishopric experience?”
I was traveling on assignment with my friend and colleague, who happened to be the president of a neighboring stake.
“Good. But you know, I had the craziest interview with the stake president and both his counselors. It was about a month ago. They called me in, asked me about our marriage, my job, my finances, and my calling. That was all. We said a prayer, and they sent me home. Spooky.
“Oh, I know what was going on,” responded my colleague, mystery in his voice.
Try as I might, I could not get another word out of him. “I’ve said too much already,” was the only other thing I was able to pry from his sealed lips.
A special bishopric meeting was called as soon as I returned. The stake president met us in our clerk’s office. We had heard rumors: a clerk had received a letter from Salt Lake City that identified us as Stillwater 2nd Ward, rather than just Stillwater. That had produced a buzz.
Sure enough, a new ward had been approved. The president showed us the boundaries. Bishop Gray “just couldn’t part” with his Relief Society president; the wife of a member of the stake presidency had made a formal request to remain in the established ward. The boundaries were therefore rather ridiculously gerrymandered to leave those two families in the established ward. The president assured us that he had that prerogative.
With that taken care of I was invited to go through the chapel to the stake wing.
“Well, Bishop Boyce, I’m sure you’ve got it figured out by now, on account of that seemingly pointless interview of a few weeks ago.”
I hadn’t. Clueless I think they call it.
“You’re the new bishop of the Stillwater 2nd Ward, which will be created this Sunday. Can you have your counselor recommendations to me no later than tomorrow afternoon? Oh, that’s right. Your wife is supposed to be present for the call. Could you phone her and get her over here, and we’ll start all over again?”
I was not sure I could, I was so light-headed. I managed somehow.
“Do I have to put on a dress?” That was her initial response.
Monday, June 13, 2011
SOME OTHER WAY
SOME OTHER WAY
… doth he receive [confirmation]by the Spirit of truth
Or by some other way?
If it be some other way it is not of God.
Doctrine and Covenants 50:19-20
My room-mate and I were walking into the setting sun, toward the Wilkinson Center.
“A little bit warmer than northern California,” I ventured.
“A lot warmer. Hey, look at that. Our day is about to get even hotter.”
She was just a silhouette at first, surrounded by a halo of light, emerging from the depths of the sunset. As we drew closer she gradually took on an alluring human form, the fulfillment of a recently returned missionary’s dreams.
My room-mate knew her. They chatted. I fidgeted.
“Who’s your friend?” she finally asked.
“Oh, sorry – Bob, this is Janelle; Janelle, Bob.”
“Oh, sweet mystery of life at last I found you …” Thank you, Heavenly Father, I prayed silently, for allowing me to meet my future wife just now.
My room-mate had her phone number.
I wore a hole in the carpet pacing back and forth by the phone, planning exactly what to say, anticipating how she would respond, and scripting my exact replies to all the possible scenarios I could conjure up.
“Hello, Janelle? This is Bob, you know, the guy who was with Dennis the other day outside the Wilkinson Center?”
“Oh, hi. Didn’t you say you just got back from a mission? Remind me again where you served.”
“Peru.”
“That’s right. Did you know a guy named Jack Golightly down there? Went to high school with him.”
“Elder Golightly … Golightly. No, the name doesn’t ring a bell. Where did you go to high school?”
“Springville, right here in the valley, how about you?”
“California. Pacific Grove, to be exact.”
“Hm-m. I’m afraid that’s a new one on me. Is that by L.A.?”
“North coast.”
“Anywhere close to Oakland? That’s where my boyfriend’s from.”
Silence …
“Bob, you still there?”
“Uh … oh, yeah! 100 miles south.”
“I probably haven’t been there then. I’ve been to Palo Alto, though, and to Berkeley. How about you?”
“Did a Model United Nations at Berkeley, and marched with our band at a Stanford football game. Nice places.”
It went on like that for a few more minutes. I just wanted it to be over.
> < >
“Why didn’t you tell me she had a boyfriend?!” I was quite “enthusiastic” as I asked my room-mate that question.
“Oh Nathan? It’s not working out. She’s trying to find the courage to dump him. She talks to me all the time. Thought maybe you’d be the one to give her the incentive to follow through.”
“No wonder she was so nice when I called her. But why did she have to go and mention him?”
“You called her? And you didn’t ask her out?”
“She said she had a boyfriend!”
“She was just testing your resolve. Call her back.”
“Janelle? This is Bob, Dennis’ friend, again. Say, ‘Ben Hur’ is playing at the Wilkinson Center this week-end. Wanna go this Friday?”
“Oh Bob, I’d love to, but I have plans this weekend. Thanks for thinking of me, though. Call again sometime, ok?”
“She’s interested! She told me to call back!”
“Darn right she’s interested. Keep calling.”
I did. She had plans then too.
On the fourth try, she was free for a Sunday night fireside. We went, then discussed what we had learned. I was in heaven.
But she “had plans” the next week-end. And the next.
Heavenly Father, thank you for bringing Janelle into my life. It’s just the Law of Opposition at work, isn’t it, that makes it so hard. Please bless me with the fortitude to not give in to the opposition.
Christmas Break was just around the corner. Our returned missionaries’ club was having its annual Holiday festivities, dinner and formal dance. I asked Janelle, but I had a “Plan B” all worked out, just in case. To my surprise and delight, she accepted! On the last number of the evening, it was “slow dancing, swaying to the music …”
Thank you, Lord, finally!
> < >
I couldn’t wait for Christmas Break to be over. I called her as soon as I got back in town.
“Sorry, Bob, but Nathan and I are back together. It happened over the break. You’re a good friend. I’ll always remember you.”
Lord, what is going on?! It’s not going to work out long-term between Janelle and Nathan, is it. Just bless me with patience and I’ll be fine.
“You’ll never guess. You’ll like it though.” Dennis was bouncing a little, he was so excited.
“Oh, no! I’m not falling for that again. You’ve gotten me once too often. You’re gonna say something like, “I saw the first robin of Spring today,” and then you’re gonna start laughing.”
“No, no, for real this time. Nathan dropped out of school and has gone home to Oakland. It’s over between them.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What! Dennis, I swear, if you’re trying to pull one on me …”
“I’d do that about robins, but not Janelles – call her!”
I sent up a prayer of gratitude, patted myself on the back for my unusual patience and perseverance in the face of opposition, and dialed.
“Hey, Janelle, it’s been awhile …”
She met me for lunch at the Cougareat. Subdued, no trace of bubbly. We stuck to the weather, safe things like that. No “slow dancing,” but hey, that would return, right?
I didn’t dare ask her out more than once a week, at least yet. After all, she was dealing with a broken heart, right? She needed time. She always said yes when I did ask her, even though she was zombie-like at times.
And then, over ice cream after a movie, “You know, Bob, I must have dated 201 different guys by now, and broken 200 hearts. They always fall for me. And then, when I finally really fall for someone, I get my heart broken. Why does it have to be that way?!”
She’s confiding in me. She’s trusting me. She must like me – more than just as a friend. It must be time. It’s time, right? But, I’ll go to the temple just to make sure.
I didn’t have any money, but what I did have was my dad’s credit card. He’d understand this one time of exceeding my budget. I drove by myself to Manti, thinking about nothing else but eternity with a girl named not Maria, but Janelle. If the deceased was dependent on me to understand the ceremony, he was out of luck; my thoughts were anywhere but on the proceedings. In the celestial room I was sure I received confirmation.
I went to a pay phone and called her collect. Her dad answered.
“Who?”
“I’m the friend of Janelle’s with the red coupe.”
“Oh, that one. Yes, operator, I’ll accept the charges. But make it quick, young man. We’re not exactly made of money around here, you know.”
“Hey Janelle, Bob. I’m in Manti. I’ll be there between 10 and 10:30.”
“Tonight? You’re coming to my house tonight?”
“Sure am. I’ll explain when I get there. Can’t talk too long – Daddy’s orders.”
She met me at the door. Daddy was in his easy chair. He meant to stay right there until I left. I don’t remember how we convinced him to retire for the night. He did, though, with the admonition, “Make it quick, honey, it’s a long day tomorrow.” It was meant more for me than for her.
I told her of my feelings, and of my celestial room confirmation. I suggested that we seriously consider getting married. I had imagined that she would melt in my arms with love and gratitude.
“Bob, you’ve been a good friend. I’ll always be grateful for that. But I got done with finals today, and I’m leaving early tomorrow morning for Oakland. I’ll be there at least for the summer. Nathan and I are planning on doing just that – getting married. If things don’t work out, I’ll see you in the fall, but I’m afraid it would not be wise to hold your breath. I don’t know what to say about your confirmation. I just don’t feel that way right now.”
It was easy to comply with her dad’s admonition to make it quick.
… doth he receive [confirmation]by the Spirit of truth
Or by some other way?
If it be some other way it is not of God.
Doctrine and Covenants 50:19-20
My room-mate and I were walking into the setting sun, toward the Wilkinson Center.
“A little bit warmer than northern California,” I ventured.
“A lot warmer. Hey, look at that. Our day is about to get even hotter.”
She was just a silhouette at first, surrounded by a halo of light, emerging from the depths of the sunset. As we drew closer she gradually took on an alluring human form, the fulfillment of a recently returned missionary’s dreams.
My room-mate knew her. They chatted. I fidgeted.
“Who’s your friend?” she finally asked.
“Oh, sorry – Bob, this is Janelle; Janelle, Bob.”
“Oh, sweet mystery of life at last I found you …” Thank you, Heavenly Father, I prayed silently, for allowing me to meet my future wife just now.
My room-mate had her phone number.
I wore a hole in the carpet pacing back and forth by the phone, planning exactly what to say, anticipating how she would respond, and scripting my exact replies to all the possible scenarios I could conjure up.
“Hello, Janelle? This is Bob, you know, the guy who was with Dennis the other day outside the Wilkinson Center?”
“Oh, hi. Didn’t you say you just got back from a mission? Remind me again where you served.”
“Peru.”
“That’s right. Did you know a guy named Jack Golightly down there? Went to high school with him.”
“Elder Golightly … Golightly. No, the name doesn’t ring a bell. Where did you go to high school?”
“Springville, right here in the valley, how about you?”
“California. Pacific Grove, to be exact.”
“Hm-m. I’m afraid that’s a new one on me. Is that by L.A.?”
“North coast.”
“Anywhere close to Oakland? That’s where my boyfriend’s from.”
Silence …
“Bob, you still there?”
“Uh … oh, yeah! 100 miles south.”
“I probably haven’t been there then. I’ve been to Palo Alto, though, and to Berkeley. How about you?”
“Did a Model United Nations at Berkeley, and marched with our band at a Stanford football game. Nice places.”
It went on like that for a few more minutes. I just wanted it to be over.
> < >
“Why didn’t you tell me she had a boyfriend?!” I was quite “enthusiastic” as I asked my room-mate that question.
“Oh Nathan? It’s not working out. She’s trying to find the courage to dump him. She talks to me all the time. Thought maybe you’d be the one to give her the incentive to follow through.”
“No wonder she was so nice when I called her. But why did she have to go and mention him?”
“You called her? And you didn’t ask her out?”
“She said she had a boyfriend!”
“She was just testing your resolve. Call her back.”
“Janelle? This is Bob, Dennis’ friend, again. Say, ‘Ben Hur’ is playing at the Wilkinson Center this week-end. Wanna go this Friday?”
“Oh Bob, I’d love to, but I have plans this weekend. Thanks for thinking of me, though. Call again sometime, ok?”
“She’s interested! She told me to call back!”
“Darn right she’s interested. Keep calling.”
I did. She had plans then too.
On the fourth try, she was free for a Sunday night fireside. We went, then discussed what we had learned. I was in heaven.
But she “had plans” the next week-end. And the next.
Heavenly Father, thank you for bringing Janelle into my life. It’s just the Law of Opposition at work, isn’t it, that makes it so hard. Please bless me with the fortitude to not give in to the opposition.
Christmas Break was just around the corner. Our returned missionaries’ club was having its annual Holiday festivities, dinner and formal dance. I asked Janelle, but I had a “Plan B” all worked out, just in case. To my surprise and delight, she accepted! On the last number of the evening, it was “slow dancing, swaying to the music …”
Thank you, Lord, finally!
> < >
I couldn’t wait for Christmas Break to be over. I called her as soon as I got back in town.
“Sorry, Bob, but Nathan and I are back together. It happened over the break. You’re a good friend. I’ll always remember you.”
Lord, what is going on?! It’s not going to work out long-term between Janelle and Nathan, is it. Just bless me with patience and I’ll be fine.
“You’ll never guess. You’ll like it though.” Dennis was bouncing a little, he was so excited.
“Oh, no! I’m not falling for that again. You’ve gotten me once too often. You’re gonna say something like, “I saw the first robin of Spring today,” and then you’re gonna start laughing.”
“No, no, for real this time. Nathan dropped out of school and has gone home to Oakland. It’s over between them.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What! Dennis, I swear, if you’re trying to pull one on me …”
“I’d do that about robins, but not Janelles – call her!”
I sent up a prayer of gratitude, patted myself on the back for my unusual patience and perseverance in the face of opposition, and dialed.
“Hey, Janelle, it’s been awhile …”
She met me for lunch at the Cougareat. Subdued, no trace of bubbly. We stuck to the weather, safe things like that. No “slow dancing,” but hey, that would return, right?
I didn’t dare ask her out more than once a week, at least yet. After all, she was dealing with a broken heart, right? She needed time. She always said yes when I did ask her, even though she was zombie-like at times.
And then, over ice cream after a movie, “You know, Bob, I must have dated 201 different guys by now, and broken 200 hearts. They always fall for me. And then, when I finally really fall for someone, I get my heart broken. Why does it have to be that way?!”
She’s confiding in me. She’s trusting me. She must like me – more than just as a friend. It must be time. It’s time, right? But, I’ll go to the temple just to make sure.
I didn’t have any money, but what I did have was my dad’s credit card. He’d understand this one time of exceeding my budget. I drove by myself to Manti, thinking about nothing else but eternity with a girl named not Maria, but Janelle. If the deceased was dependent on me to understand the ceremony, he was out of luck; my thoughts were anywhere but on the proceedings. In the celestial room I was sure I received confirmation.
I went to a pay phone and called her collect. Her dad answered.
“Who?”
“I’m the friend of Janelle’s with the red coupe.”
“Oh, that one. Yes, operator, I’ll accept the charges. But make it quick, young man. We’re not exactly made of money around here, you know.”
“Hey Janelle, Bob. I’m in Manti. I’ll be there between 10 and 10:30.”
“Tonight? You’re coming to my house tonight?”
“Sure am. I’ll explain when I get there. Can’t talk too long – Daddy’s orders.”
She met me at the door. Daddy was in his easy chair. He meant to stay right there until I left. I don’t remember how we convinced him to retire for the night. He did, though, with the admonition, “Make it quick, honey, it’s a long day tomorrow.” It was meant more for me than for her.
I told her of my feelings, and of my celestial room confirmation. I suggested that we seriously consider getting married. I had imagined that she would melt in my arms with love and gratitude.
“Bob, you’ve been a good friend. I’ll always be grateful for that. But I got done with finals today, and I’m leaving early tomorrow morning for Oakland. I’ll be there at least for the summer. Nathan and I are planning on doing just that – getting married. If things don’t work out, I’ll see you in the fall, but I’m afraid it would not be wise to hold your breath. I don’t know what to say about your confirmation. I just don’t feel that way right now.”
It was easy to comply with her dad’s admonition to make it quick.
Monday, May 30, 2011
SHALL WE NOT GO ON IN SO GREAT A CAUSE
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.
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.
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.”
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)