Not a Very Happy Birthday

A few days ago I was in Chicago's O'Hare Airport waiting for a flight back home. The weather was very cold, in the 20's. While the main roads were clear, there was snow on the ground. When I'd checked in to my hotel the night before the temperature was 13 degrees. Crews were now busy de-iceing the wings of aircraft before takeoff. I was very much looking forward to getting back to the mid-70's in Phoenix, and with three hours to kill, I settled in to read two newspapers and a book.

When I try to read in an airport my concentration is naturally interrupted by the people passing by, and during one of those moments I noticed a woman with a stroller. I later learned it was a one of those "side-by-side" strollers. Seated in it were two small children, both about a year old. There was also a little boy standing next to her. This little family was next to the counter in the gate area where my flight would be boarding. I was seated in the gate area opposite them, across the concourse. Since boarding was hours away, there were few others in their immediate area. After a little more people-watching I returned to my book.

In a few more minutes I looked up again -- just in time to see that woman fall to the ground. Her legs didn't buckle. She didn't collapse in a heap. Instead she toppled over almost like a falling tree, and I could see immediately that she was convulsing, her body shaking uncontrollably. Two female airline employees were at the counter just a few feet away, and they rushed over and knelt at the woman's head. I couldn't see what they were doing because only her legs and feet were visible to me, but one of them brushed the woman's hair out of her face, and I suspect they were cradling her head as she lay on her left side.

Just at that moment an airport official happened to be walking by -- a large man dressed in a suit and wearing a bright orange vest (security?). One of the ladies told him to call paramedics. Most passers-by were oblivious to the scene that was unfolding, but a couple of men in the concourse stopped and observed.

I was impressed by what the large man in the orange vest did after calling for the paramedics: He focused on the children. The children had their backs to their mother when she fell, and even after the two ladies went to the woman's assistance, the children seemed to be totally unaware of what was taking place. The man approached the oldest child, a boy of about five, who was standing next to the stroller, and he engaged him in conversation, asking his name, age, etc. This successfully diverted the little boy's attention so that he wouldn't panic at the scary scene of his mother there on the floor, still convulsing.

After several minutes, the woman's seizure stopped, she regained consciousness, and the two ladies helped her to her feet. Still very unsteady, she immediately walked to the stroller and crouched down, making an effort to pick up one of the two small children. One of the two men standing in the concourse observed this and called out, "Don't let her pick the child up!" -- obviously concerned that the mother's unsteadiness might cause her to fall over with the child in her arms.

I was seated too far away to hear their conversations, but it appeared that the woman was resisting any efforts to help her. With much persuasion the two ladies from the airline and the large man were finally able to convince the woman to sit down. Her facial expression was strange. She had a sort of stony look, seemingly confused by all the attention she was receiving. I noted that the large man in the orange vest hurried to a nearby kiosk and returned with a bottle of orange juice.

At this point another person appeared on the scene -- a tall man in his 30's wearing a black leather jacket. He saw the commotion surrounding the woman and her children, and he rushed to them. He was the husband. As people filled him in on what had taken place, he quickly sat next to his wife while trying to take care of the three children. Several more minutes passed before a half-dozen paramedics arrived. One carried a folded-up gurney that could also be converted into a high-back chair on wheels. The paramedics huddled around the woman for awhile, then the lone female paramedic spent some time writing up a report on her clipboard. The paramedics eventually left the scene, and the family was left sitting there alone.

I decided to take a seat closer to my gate, so I crossed the concourse and walked directly toward the family. As I approached, I made eye contact with the husband and told him that if he needed anything I'd be sitting close by. By this he knew that I knew what had happened, and he thanked me.

I was now about 10 seats away from them, and while I tried to read, I couldn't help looking up to see how they were doing. I observed the husband talking occasionally, but the woman was very quiet. He then took the kids for a brief stroll while his wife laid her head on the armrest, closing her eyes. When he and the children returned, the husband and wife exchanged a few more words. I went back to my book.

Suddenly someone approached me. It was the husband, saying, "Would you mind talking to my wife? She doesn't recall anything that just happened. Could you please tell her what you saw? By the way, my name's Mike." I agreed.

She was a soft-spoken woman in her 30's. Slim, with long black hair. Seated next to her, I quickly learned why she'd resisted the efforts of those who tried to help. With no memory of having fallen, and clearly no recollection of the ensuing seizure, she was asking herself, "Who are these people? Why do they keep asking me if I'm feeling ok? And what are all these paramedics doing here?"

As I related all that I had seen, her eyes grew wide. All she could say was, "I don't remember any of that!" I made a point of telling her what the large man in the orange vest did to draw her children's attention away during her seizure, assuring her that the children hadn't panicked and had been well taken care of. I also assured her that, during her seizure, she hadn't done anything that would have caused embarrassment. She took this all in, and then with a slight smile she said, "Today's my birthday. We're going to Phoenix."

There was something I wanted to ask but didn't. I was curious to know if she had epilepsy or was prone to this sort of thing. But I figured that was too personal a question for a stranger to be asking -- especially a non-medical stranger. Still, I was curious about it because she didn't say, "I have these seizures from time to time," or, "I forgot my medication." But nothing was said in this regard, and I just assumed she'd had similar seizures before. But that assumption soon changed.

While we talked, a man approached -- by his uniform it was clear that he was an airport or airline employee. He was holding a sheet of paper, perhaps a report with details of the incident. He asked her if the paramedics had been there already. She said they had. He asked if she still needed them, and she said, "Yes, I want a paramedic." I wondered to myself why she would want them to return. Then it hit me that she might not have had any history of previous seizures. What if this was the very first one she'd ever had? If so, the seriousness of the situation was probably beginning to sink in, and she realized she needed some medical attention to determine the cause of the seizure. 

Soon a few paramedics returned, carrying the folded-up gurney. After some conversation with her, they set up the gurney so as to make a highback wheelchair. She sat in it, and after covering her with a blanket, they strapped her in. As his wife was being wheeled away, the husband picked up all the carry-on bags, gathered the kids and stroller, and proceeded to followed the paramedics down the concourse. As he left, he turned to me and gave me a nod of thanks. I nodded in return.

I expected to see them going back toward baggage claim, but they went in the opposite direction, perhaps toward a private room. About 10 minutes later I happened to look up from my book and saw the husband and three children being driven toward the baggage claim exit on one of those motorized airport carts. On the rear of the cart were their bags, along with the folded-up stroller and the gurney. I did not see the wife. I could only assume that the paramedics were transporting her separately in an ambulance.

And I said a prayer for them.

Good Books

My older sister taught me to read when I was four, so when I got to kindergarten I was reading storybooks to the other children. Our elementary school had no library, so every week one student from each grade was permitted to ride in a schoolbus to the town library and check out books. I was the only one in my first grade class who enjoyed this weekly privilege. By the time the bus had dropped me off back at school, I'd already finished reading most of the books I'd checked out.

I continued going to local libraries wherever our family lived. When I was a teenager, I was impressed by an ad campaign in national magazines such as Time and Newsweek. The ads were sponsored by International Paper Company, and their purpose was to encourage people to read more. The leading line was  "Send me a man who reads." It became a trait I desired very much.

For years I've been a fan of many authors. I once read John Grisham's The Rainmaker from cover to cover on a flight from Orlando to Phoenix. Recently I introduced my son to the Jack Reacher novels written by Lee Child. Now he and his wife are addicted, and I find myself feeling guilty for turning them onto something that, while entertaining, really has no lasting value. I guess we all turn to escapist lore at times, but as a father I wonder if perhaps I should be doing more to encourage books that can draw us closer to a Christ-like life or at the very least, those that qualify as great literature. Instead I feel that by making some of these recent book recommendations I'm like a tour guide whose customers paid me to take them to the mountain heights but who've been talked into a video arcade instead.

John A. Widtsoe said, “It should be the pride of every man holding the priesthood to have a good personal collection of books dealing with the Church and secular subjects. An acquaintanceship with the literature of the world may be won by any person . . . the man who has learned to love good reading is never alone. His friends are the great ones of human history” (Priesthood and Church Government, p. 157).

In all the reading that they do, I hope my children will make time to develop an interest in reading books that broaden their knowledge of the gospel and help them become familiar with the lives and teachings of Church leaders. It is surprising how few members can even name the latter-day prophets let alone relate something about their lives.

I encourage the following:

- Read something from the standard works every day. Reflect on what you've read during the rest of day; think of ways to  use what you've read to develop a short talk or lesson. Here I will also mention one of my pet concerns: Too many members of the Church make statements in talks and lessons that have no doctrinal foundation.

President Harold B. Lee put it this way: "We need to teach our people to find their answers in the scriptures . . . but the unfortunate thing is that so many of us are not reading the scriptures. We do not know what is in them, and therefore we speculate about the things that we ought to have found in the scriptures themselves. I think that therein is one of our biggest dangers today" (Ensign, Dec. 1972, p. 3).

A worthy goal is to be like the Savior. Often, when asked about doctrinal matters, His response was, "It is written . . ." not, "Well, I've always done it this way." He knew where the answers were written.

- Read biographies of latter-day prophets, coming away with the ability to recount from memory something unique about each one.

- Ask yourself, "If I had six months to live, how would my reading habits and book preferences change?" Consider upgrading your choice of reading materials.

- These days when you browse the shelves in a Church bookstore it seems like everyone has written a book! How do you choose? Well, for doctrinal writings and interpretations I like to stay close to the writings of our latter-day prophets and apostles. This statement by Marion G. Romney explains why:

“When I drink from a spring I like to get the water where it comes out of the ground, not down the stream after the cattle have waded in it . . . I appreciate other people’s interpretation, but when it comes to the gospel we ought to be acquainted with what the Lord says and we ought to read it . . . Just read them and plead with the Lord to let you understand what he had in mind when he wrote them” (From an address at a coordinators’ convention, seminaries and institutes of religion, 13 Apr. 1973, p. 4.)

On the subject of Church reading materials, rest assured that there's a lot of interesting stuff out there. To prove it's not all "dry" doctrine, do some research and read about the following (I could tell you where to locate this stuff, but you need the experience!):

1. A most unusual event that Brigham Young witnessed the night Joseph Smith brought the gold plates back from Cumorah. (Note: At that time Brigham hadn't even heard of Joseph Smith.)

2. The experience Lorenzo Snow had a few weeks after being baptized that was similar to Joseph Smith's First Vision.

3. Why did the earth shake in the vicinity of the town where the Council of the Twelve was holding its first meeting after the death of Joseph Smith?

4. Lorenzo Snow's telling his grand-daughter about seeing the Savior in the Salt Lake Temple.

5. The separate and distinct dreams of the Savior experienced by Orson Whitney and Melvin J. Ballard.

6. The vision Elder David B. Haight had while unconscious following a heart attack. (He's the Apostle who called me to serve in a stake presidency.)

7. Wilford Woodruff's dream of being in a roomful of serpents -- and the aftermath that followed.

8. The incredible event that occurred when Oliver Cowdery and Joseph Smith took the plates back to Cumorah.

9. The account of three strangers who were seen fertilizing the fields of Peter Whitmer and who almost instantly disappeared once the task was completed; and the account of Peter Whitmer's wife, Mary, being shown the golden plates by an interesting visitor.

10. A dream experienced by Joseph Smith's father, nine years prior to the First Vision.

When it comes to reading gospel-centered books I borrow an idea from the teachings of Elder Bruce R. McConkie. He compared the pursuit of gospel knowledge to a bullseye. In the center are the things we absolutely must know. Next come the things we ought know. And in the outer rings are the Jack Reacher novels -- no, he didn't really put it that way; he said this is where we find the things that are simply nice to know -- the lighter stuff. These are not necessarily evil in and of themselves, but if we spend the bulk of our time focused on what's in the outer rings, we'll have short-changed ourselves, not having done all that we came here to do.

The Hat

In my last blog entry I gave examples of extremely short "stories" that were intriguing because they generate many questions and leave much to the reader's imagination.  The examples I listed were all fictional and meant to entertain.

But here's one from my childhood, and unlike those others, this one is true. It's a haunting memory that generates more questions than answers.

In the mid-1950's we lived in a new subdivision in Sacramento, California, just a few blocks from the American River. Today there are bikepaths along the river, and it's a popular recreation spot. But when I lived there it looked pretty much like this.

My friends and I used to play baseball in a field less than 50 yards from the river. And along one side of the ball field was a bridge spanning the river. I don't know if this bridge was this one, but it looks very similar.

One summer morning as we played ball, someone came running to tell us that a man had stopped his car on the bridge, then he got out and jumped -- an apparent suicide. We ran up the bank to the bridge, and, sure enough, there was a gray car sitting there. The motor had been turned off, and the driver's door was open.

We ran back down to the riverbank, and there, on the ground, directly beneath the bridge, was a spooky scene: a man's hat, sitting next to the water.

The river was calm -- no sign of anyone in the water.

Nobody ever learned the rest of the story.

Short and Sweet

These days it's not uncommon for your favorite movie DVD to contain a section called extra scenes -- stuff the director once thought necessary, but, after a closer look, chose to leave on the cutting room floor. Being a good conversationalist requires the same skill. As Marvin J. Ashton once said, "Wise is the man who says what needs to be said, but not all that could be said." (Brings to mind the old saying, "I asked him for the time, and he told me how to make a clock!" Know anyone like this?)

The same goes for being a good writer. Cultivate the ability to use just the right words and cut out the fluff. Less can definitely be more. Not so in high school, though. Our teachers told us our essays had to be a minimum of 500 words, so we obliged -- even if we could have made our point with only 300. 

It takes real effort to condense one's message and still make a powerful impact, but it's possible to do so without rambling. Author Ernest Hemingway is credited with writing this 6-word novel: "For sale: baby shoes. Never worn."

This morning on my favorite radio show, NPR's Weekend Edition, host Scott Simon was interviewing Robert Swartwood, author of the new collection, Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer. If you want to see how to tell a story in very few words, this one's for you. The great thing is how they all require an active imagination on the part of the reader.

Examples:

1) Jermaine's Postscript To His Seventh-Grade Poem Assignment, by Christoffer Molnar:

Ms. Tyler, the girl part was about Shantell. Please don't tell anyone.

2) Ransom, by Stuart Dybeck:

Broke and desperate, I kidnapped myself. Ransom notes were sent to interested parties. Later, I sent hair and fingernails, too. They insisted on an ear.

3) The Man Of Tomorrow Or Maybe You've Heard This One Before, But You've Never Heard It Like This, by Will Panzo:

Dying planet. A boy, a rocket, a last hope. Kansas cornfield crash landing. Ma finds it sleeping in the crater. Pa fetches the shotgun.

4) Through Tiny Windows, by Barry Napier:

When they opened the cadaver, they found a house. A couple argued inside. There was rhythm to their words, like the beating of a heart.

5) Knock Knock Joke From Father Washing Dishes With Shirtsleeves Rolled Up:

Father: "Knock Knock."
Child: "Who's there?"
Father: "She Loves."
Child: "She loves who?"
Father: "Exactly!"

6) Houston, We Have a Problem, by J. Matthew Zoss: 

I'm sorry, but there's not enough air in here for everyone. I'll tell them you were a hero.

And my favorite:

7) The Return, by Joe R. Lansdale: 

They buried him deep. Again.

Coincidence?

Some will say it was just a coincidence -- you know, the old thing about "being in the right place at the right time." But I doubt it.

I'm not normally in my office on Saturdays, but because the most important client meeting of the entire year was taking place in a few days, followed immediately by two days of meetings with our sales force, I had much to prepare for. So I spent a recent Saturday in the office, trying to prepare for what turned out to be a draining week of travel and meetings.

Our office is located in an industrial area, miles away from any residential neighborhoods.  Across the road from us is a "tank farm" where all the gasoline tankers go to fill up. We're also surrounded by a company that takes large ingots of aluminum and turns them into the cans used by the nation's big-name soda and beer companies. During the week this area is overrun with traffic, much of it consisting of big 18-wheelers and fuel haulers. But on weekends it's a ghost town -- hardly any traffic at all.

I worked non-stop through the morning, and a little after noon I had a strong feeling that it was time to stop for lunch. Dropping what I was doing, I walked through our reception area, heading for the front door. As I approached the glass double-doors I saw an interesting sight.

Parked outside by the entrance was an old, grey, Lincoln Continental. It was from the era when vinyl tops were all the rage, but the vinyl on this one was shredded and peeling. The hood of the car was up, and the windows were down. The condition of the seats matched the vinyl roof -- shredded.

Standing next to the car was a grey-haired black woman in a dress and high heels. Not exactly the kind of dress we see in this neighborhood. It was a hot day -- about 105 degrees. Above her head she was holding one of those fold-out Chinese fans to shield her eyes from the bright sun, and it was obvious that she was trying to figure out where to go for help in this desolate neighborhood. Her back was towards me as I stepped outside, so I called out, asking if she needed any help. She turned quickly, surprised by my voice, relieved that someone was there. She explained that she'd been on her way to church but pulled into our parking lot after hearing a noise that sounded like something under her car was dragging on the pavement.

Kneeling down, I looked under the car. There was nothing dragging, but I was alarmed to see that the entire underside of the engine was heavily coated with what appeared to be fresh oil. I told her what I'd seen and asked if she had any family in the area that she could call. She said she had no family but that there was someone she could call for assistance, so I invited her into the office and provided a phone. She called a number that she'd obviously memorized -- it turned out to be her mechanic. With a car in this condition I wasn't surprised she'd memorized the number. She had trouble hearing, so she handed me the phone and asked me to explain the situation to the mechanic. 

When I told him about the oil, he said, "Yeah, that old car leaks oil all the time." I explained that she didn't want to drive the car because it was making a strange noise, so he said he'd send a towtruck. The two of us waited in our reception area, and she gratefully accepted a cup of cold water -- a welcome refreshment after driving that old car without any air conditioning. She began telling me a little about herself: Her name was Gertrude, and she was born in Arkansas in 1920 --  90 years old! -- never married, no children, no relatives in Phoenix. Then came a stunner: She said "I have a job. I work three days a week cooking and cleaning for an elderly man." Then she added, with a smile, "He's elderly, but younger than I am!" 

The towtruck arrived as she was telling me about how, as a child in Arkansas, she loved to fish for bluegill. We went out to meet the truck, and the driver had a look on his face that told me he was very familiar with this car. He loaded the car, Gertrude stepped up into the cab, and they drove away.

The reason for relating this story is not to pat myself on the back. Anyone in my situation would have done the same thing. What I want to point out is that when people are in need of assistance, there is often a divine hand behind the scenes that helps puts these folks in contact with someone who can help.

President Spencer W. Kimball put it this way: "The Lord does notice us, and he watches over us. But it is usually through another person that he meets our needs" (“President Kimball Speaks Out on Service to Others,” New Era, Mar 1981, 47).

A memorable example of how this happens is found in the journal of Joseph Millett, an early missionary in Canada:

“One of my children came in, said that Brother Newton Hall’s folks were out of bread. Had none that day. I put … our flour in sack to send up to Brother Hall’s. Just then Brother Hall came in. Says I, ‘Brother Hall, how are you [fixed] for flour.’ [He replied]‘Brother Millett, we have none.’ ‘Well, Brother Hall, there is some in that sack. I have divided [it] and was going to send it to you. Your children told mine that you were out.’

"Brother Hall began to cry. Said he had tried others. Could not get any. Went to the cedars and prayed to the Lord and the Lord told him to go to Joseph Millett. [I said]‘Well, Brother Hall, you needn’t bring this back if the Lord sent you for it. You don’t owe me for it.’

And then Joseph Millett wrote this: "You can’t tell how good it made me feel to know that the Lord knew that there was such a person as Joseph Millett.” (Quoted by Thomas S. Monson in “Gifts,” Ensign, May 1993, 59. Journal quote is from New Era, July 1975, p. 28.)

Of all the places to pull over, why did Gertrude pull her car into our empty parking lot? Just coincidence? Or was it because the Lord knew there was someone inside who would help her? It doesn't matter that that person was me. That's just how He operates -- using us to answering the prayers of those in need.

Whose prayers might you answer today? 

      

He Will Heal Us

     
This week I was in NASCAR country -- North Carolina. Next to the hotel where we stayed is a place called Raceworld USA, the headquarters of NASCAR driver, Michael Waltrip. In this huge building, 250 employees build race cars for him and the other drivers on his racing team -- from the ground up. From an elevated walkway we were able to watch as cars were being assembled, prepped, tested, painted, fitted with decals of the various sponsors, and ultimately loaded onto huge trucks ("haulers") that would deliver them to an upcoming race. On average, eight cars go out from that facility every week.

In one of the work areas was a very unique machine, sort of like an x-ray machine. Individual pieces from the engine, transmission, or other key areas of the vehicle are placed inside, and the machine looks for flaws or cracks. Even flaws too small for the naked eye to detect glow bright green during this process, and the part can be replaced with a perfect one, thus preventing a defective component from being installed  in a car that will be going over 200 mph.

Humans have flaws. Some are obvious, while many are unseen, known only to ourselves. Without the knowledge of the gospel -- and that special component called repentance -- it would be easy to look upon all of our defects and, sooner or later, lose hope of ever reaching our celestial goal. But unlike the defective car parts that, when found, are tossed aside and replaced by perfect parts without flaws, we can be made whole -- healed through the Savior's redeeming power -- no matter how flawed we think we are. 

A perfect example of this is found in 3 Nephi 17. There we learn that the resurrected Lord allowed time for the people to gather all their lame, deaf, dumb, blind, and all those with any other afflictions. He healed them all. He didn't just put on a demonstration of His power and then say, "Wow, look at the time! I really have to be going back to the Father!" No -- he stayed as long as it was necessary -- to heal every one.

When we find ourselves dwelling on our flaws and wondering if we can ever be put right again, we must remember that the Savior is conscious of us and willing to heal us. If you have a hard time accepting this, consider the following true story, told by Elder Merrill J. Bateman at the 1998 BYU Women's Conference:

May I depart from my text and share with you my favorite story regarding the healing from within. It has to do with a beautiful young family that lives not far from here. They have six children. Three of the children have a very serious disease called glutaric acidemia. It's caused by an enzyme -- that when there is a dehydration of the body at a very young age, normally as a little baby, the enzyme is released and attacks the brain and causes paralysis.

The name of the family is Erickson. Sister Erickson and others in telling the story indicate that when the third little child, Cindy, at six months of age, over a short period of time began to lose the ability to control her muscles. They wondered what was happening and went to the doctor. The doctor didn't know. They diagnosed it two or three different ways, none of which was right.

The problem was that the enzyme triggered signals in the brain that released acid in the muscles, like you create when you run in a marathon. But the brain never sent the signal to counteract the acid and to return the muscles to normal. Consequently, the little baby constantly had acid in its muscles, causing it to distort and constrict. The mother indicates that it took seven hours to feed the baby because of the constrictions in the neck.

And the baby always cried. At night, the mother would take it to the far reaches of the house to help the other members of the family get some sleep. There she would rock the baby in a cradle while she lay on a cot. She said, "I thought every human being needed a few hours of sleep. I learned that you can get by on 45 minutes in 24 hours."

Cindy was a challenge . . . She was the third child. They then had another little girl. She was fine. Then another girl was born -- Heather. At about six or seven months of age it became apparent, as Heather's head was being pulled to the side, that she, too, had the disease.

They now had five girls. Brother Erickson wanted a son. They tried again, and little Mark was born. At six or seven months of age they put him in one of those swings that a baby jumps in in a doorway. He was jumping up and down, and then one day the mother noticed that his little head was pulling to the side, and the spring in his little legs was going.

Heather and Cindy never could walk or talk. Mark was a little better off -- he can talk haltingly -- but never could walk.When Heather was about seven or eight years of age, they had known for some time how quick and apt she was in her understanding. Although the only way she could communicate was with her eyes and with her smile, when they asked her questions she had answers (a smile meant "yes" -- blinking her eyes meant "no").

She was so apt that they put her in a school to see if there was any chance that she could learn to speak. Her school teacher was a Primary teacher on Sunday. One day Heather was wheeled into the classroom, and the teacher was singing Primary songs from the day before. Heather's little face lit up like a light. The teacher could tell that she loved the Primary song.

"Heather, do you love Primary songs?"

(Smile)

"Heather, do you have a favorite primary song?"

(Smile)

But now the teacher has a problem: What's Heather's favorite Primary song? The teacher decided she would sing the Primary songs she knew and see if she could find Heather's favorite song. For almost the rest of the time they were together, she sang, but they couldn't find her song.

At the end of the day the teacher said to Heather, "Tomorrow I will bring the Primary songbooks that I have, and we'll find your song."

Heather came the next day, expectantly, and the teacher brought the books. They started with the first one -- they went through all her books -- but they did not find the song. After every song there was a blink of the eyes, meaning "no."

The teacher didn't know what to do. She finally said to Heather, "I'll call your Mother. We'll see if she can help you find the song, and you can bring it the next time." Heather went home, but for some reason, contact was not made.

The next day when Heather was leaving for school, she didn't have her song. She was anxious. Her mother could tell she wanted something. As they were wheeling her through the front room, on the way to the little bus, Heather kept turning her head towards the bookcase.

Her mother said, "Do you want a book?" Heather smiled and looked toward the bookcase. Her mother tried to gaze where she was looking.

"Do you want the Bible?"

(Blink)

"Do you want the green hymnal?"

(Smile)

So her mother took the green hymnal, put it by Heather's side, and off to school she went. She arrived at school -- the teacher saw the book. She knew that she hadn't been able to reach the mother. She thought, "Maybe there's a marker." She pulled out the book, but there was no marker. So they started with Hymn #1.

They went through the first 100 hymns, and after every hymn the answer was "no." 200 hymns -- 200 "no's." And then they came to Hymn #227 in the green hymnal: "There Is Sunshine in My Soul Today." The teacher began singing the first stanza, and little Heather's face just lit up. After three days of searching they'd found her hymn.

The teacher sang the second stanza and the chorus, and stopped. Heather was unhappy.

"Heather, do you want me to sing another verse?"

(Smile)

Listen to the words:

"There is music in my soul today,

A carol to my King.

And Jesus, listening, can hear

The songs I cannot sing."

"Heather, do you sing songs to Jesus?"

(Smile)

"Heather, does Jesus hear you?"

(Smile)

"Heather, does Jesus tell you that He loves you?"

(Smile)

And then the teacher says that the Holy Spirit whispered to her the following question: "Heather, does Jesus tell you to be patient -- that He has great things in store for you?"

(Smile)

Heather died a year or two later. At the time of her death, her little brother, Mark, who was in the same condition, who could speak haltingly -- as they began to discuss the funeral -- suddenly blurted out, "No go Heather's funeral!" Heather was his best friend, and he didn't understand death. The parents tried to help him understand that it would be a way of showing his love for his sister. "No go Heather's funeral!" He maintained that position for the next two days.

On the day of the funeral the father went down to get Mark and get him dressed. As he entered Mark's room, there was Mark, sitting up in bed. And with a smile on his face, he said, "Dad, go Heather's funeral!"

Dad said, "Mark, you've changed your mind!"

"Dad, go Heather's funeral!"

"Mark, what happened?"

"Dad, had dream."

"What did you dream about, Mark?"

"Dad, dreamed about Heather."

"What was Heather doing, Mark?"

"Dad, Heather running and jumping and singing 'There Is Sunshine in My Soul Today.' Dad, go Heather's funeral."

I ask you, would the God of this earth -- who felt the pains and the sufferings of these two little children in the Garden and on the cross -- if the little girl who couldn't speak but wanted to sing songs to Him -- would He listen? Would He tell her He loves her? Would He tell her to be patient? And a little boy who didn't understand death -- would He give him a dream?

Jesus experienced our pains, sufferings, temptations, sins, sicknesses, and infirmities.

He knows us personally. He can heal us. 

The JK Merit Badge

How do you hold the attention of a bunch of 12-to-15-year-old boys? That's what I kept asking myself after being invited to speak at a Boy Scout Court of Honor many years ago. That age group can be a pretty tough crowd -- not that they throw things at you or slash your tires, but you really need to have something unique that grabs their attention.

That particular Court of Honor was the biggest one of the whole year, being held only a few weeks after the week-long summer camp where every boy had earned merit badges and several had qualified  for rank advancements. I was scheduled to speak immediately after all the awards had been presented.

First, I congratulated the boys for their many accomplishments. They smiled, and their parents beamed.  Then I said something they didn't understand: "I was keeping track of all the awards that were handed out, and I'm so glad that none of you earned the 'JK' merit badge." I could tell by their quizzical looks that they hadn't a clue what I was talking about.

I said, "Don't you know what the 'JK' merit badge is?" Blank stares. I said, "The 'JK' merit badge means 'Just Kidding.' Here are some ways you can earn it: 

-- While you're reciting the Scout Oath, make the commitment "to help other people at all times," but when you go home, refuse to help when your mother asks you to take out the garbage.

-- Also, when repeating the Scout Oath, promise to do your "duty to God," but never say your prayers or read the scriptures.

-- Recite the Scout Law -- you know, the one that says "a Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent." But don't keep your word. Make fun of people behind their back. Say mean things to the kids at school or church who don't have any friends. Talk back to your parents and teachers. Disobey. Swear and tell dirty stories. Goof off in church meetings.

In other words, in everything you do, make sure people understand that even though you said you live by the Scout Oath and Scout Law, you really didn't mean any of it. You were just kidding."

I don't know if my message had any lasting effect on those boys, but for Latter-day Saints I think the "JK" concept is worth thinking about. Here's an easy exercise that might help determine if you've earned the "JK" award.

At the top of a sheet of paper write these words: "I am a Latter-day Saint . . ." Below these words, divide the paper into two columns. At the top of the first column write the word "Therefore." At the top of the second column write the word "However."  

In the 1st column, complete the phrase, "I am a Latter-day Saint, therefore . . ." in as many ways as you can. This list will reveal the ways you are striving to live your life according to the Lord's standards. If you write any statements in the second column '' "I am a Latter-day Saint, however . . ." this can reveal behaviors and attitudes that may qualify you for the JK award.

Some who write statements in the "however" column may argue, "But don't I have my agency to live as I please?" Yes, but if you are a Latter-day Saint, you already used that agency to make covenants that commit you to live by Church standards. The proof of our commitment is found in what we do, not in what we say. King Benjamin gave wise counsel when he said, "If you believe all these things, see that ye do them."

Otherwise, we're just kidding.  

Reality Check

A lady where I work tells me that her grown kids like to refer to her husband as "grump-pa." I guess it's because he's not always in the best of moods. Reminds me of me lately. Perhaps it's because I've been spending a lot of time looking back at where I've been and a lot of the dumb decisions I've made. You know, if you're not careful you can spend a lot of time focusing on images in your mental  rearview mirror, focusing on all those moments when you said or did things you now regret. Easy to stay discouraged and angry at yourself that way. You can lose hope that things will ever get better. 

In the midst of this looking backward a memory crossed my mind today. I remembered a business trip I took to Guadalajara, Mexico, several years ago. I had the afternoon free -- no meetings until the following day -- so I did what I usually do in a place I've never been before: I went walking. I visited the main cathedral, walked around the central plaza, and then I found myself in a very busy marketplace surrounded by a huge crowd of people.

Suddenly I saw an object that looked very much out of place: a child's red wagon with wooden panels on all sides. Nobody was pulling it. It was just sitting there in the midst of all these people rushing around. As I got up close to it I was stunned at what I saw. Looking up at me from inside the wagon was a boy -- without arms or legs. He appeared to be in his early teens. On his chest was a portable tape player, and he was listening to music with headphones. Next to him in the wagon was a box where people could drop money. I couldn't tell if there was someone there watching out for him. There had to be, for it seemed too inhumane to simply drop someone off in that condition and then retrieve him hours later.

And as I see the image of that boy I feel a voice whispering to me: "Stop feeling sorry for yourself."

Pause A Moment ... and Listen

American Fork, Utah, is the home of the Utah State Development Center. Years ago it was known as the American Fork Training School, a place where people who are developmentally disabled can receive training in various skills, find recreational opportunities, and receive a variety of needed treatments and therapies.

While at BYU in 1984-5, one of my instructors told the following story. Some years earlier, there was in American Fork a young boy who on a certain day was helping his father with the chores on the property behind their home. There was a lot to do that day—feeding animals, general clean-up, repairing this and fixing that. But in the middle of it all there came a moment when the boy stopped whatever it was he was doing. He cocked his head the way you do when you're straining to hear something. His father kept on working. Then suddenly, without telling his father, the boy ran off through the fields, in the direction of the Training School.

Soon he found himself walking down a country road, anxiously looking for whatever it was that had gotten his attention. Then he spied him. A little boy had tried to climb through a barbed wire fence and had gotten all tangled up. The more the little guy tried to get free, the worse his situation got as the pointed barbs ripped his clothes and cut into his flesh. He was crying and scared and bleeding.

The boy who found him realized that he was helpless to free the little fellow without proper tools to cut the wire, so he took off running for home and to tell his father. The two of them soon returned, cut the little boy free and took him to a nearby hospital to have his injuries treated. While they were waiting, the medical staff determined the identity of the boy and found that he had wandered away from the Training School. A phone call was made to the school, and soon a member of the school's staff arrived.

Grateful for the intervention of the boy and his father, the staff member approached them and asked the boy, "How in the world did you find him?"

"I heard his cries for help," came the reply.

"But that's impossible," said the man. "This boy is dumb—he cannot speak."

As you reflect on this story, perhaps you'll find yourself wondering why the father didn't hear the cries for help. It wasn't because he was a bad man. I think it was probably because he was so intent on getting the chores done that his busy-ness simply got in the way of more important promptings.

Life is a lot like that, you know. We're surrounded by a lot of noise—much of it of our own choosing. Perhaps this story can serve as a reminder that there is One who is trying to communicate with us through a still, small voice—through quiet feelings—but if we're not paying attention, or, like the father in this story, if we're too busy with the "more important" things in our lives, we'll miss out on them altogether—even missing precious opportunities to rescue people from the things that have entangled them.

Unseen Protection

Have you ever had an experience that, when you look back on it, convinces you there really are unseen guardians watching over you—sometimes protecting you from the consequences of your own bad decisions? This is one of mine.

When we lived in Beavercreek in the early 1980’s, we got caught up in the “family farm” movement, attending regular seminars in Hollister, California. On one of those occasions I was driving alone to Hollister. My car was a Volkswagen diesel, and in those days, finding a gas station that sold diesel fuel wasn’t very common. I was approaching Los Banos and knew that I was very low on fuel. I took the very first exit and hoped that I could find diesel nearby.

But I didn’t even make it to the end of the off ramp. The motor died, and the car coasted to a stop. I had no choice but to get out and start walking. No sooner had I gotten out of the car than heavy rain began to come down. I was soaked in less than a minute. I was walking along the off-ramp with my coat pulled over my head, and suddenly an old pickup truck slowed down next to me. A man was driving, and his passenger, a woman, rolled her window down and offered me a ride. Grateful to get out of the rain, I got in.

The first thing I did was thank them for their assistance, and they said they were happy to help. But it wasn’t long before I realized that they had a different agenda. The first thing that seemed odd was when I offered to pay them for their trouble. They said, “How much?” I thought that was strange and said, “Five dollars.” They seemed ok with that, but instead of taking me to a gas station, they said they had to run an errand in town first. What could I say? I couldn’t very well jump out of a moving vehicle. So I stifled my impatience at having already passed a gas station or two and went along for the ride.

As we rode along we made small talk, and they seemed anxious to let me know that they were proud members of the Hell’s Angels motorcycle gang. I felt no urge to ask for autographs.

Like most of the old agricultural towns in central California, Los Banos has a small downtown area with older storefronts. We pulled up in front of an old department store, and the woman went inside. While the man and I waited in the truck, he began to talk about some strange things, including how much he loved shooting his gun. I wasn’t into guns, so I just nodded and pretended to be interested. Suddenly he turned to me and with an excited look on his face said, “Do you want to see it? I have it under the seat!” I said, “No, thanks.” Great, I thought—I’m not only riding with a Hell’s Angel, but he has a gun.

By now I was really anxious to get back to my car, but I could tell that this fellow didn’t share my concern. We must have waited 10-15 minutes before the woman finally returned. I politely told them I really needed to get back on the road, but it seemed like they weren’t even listening. They said they needed to go to a friend’s house first. And I began to get very nervous.

We drove to a small subdivision of fairly new, modest homes. The man pulled the truck into the driveway of a home whose garage door was open. There was a car already in the garage. As we pulled into the driveway I saw movement behind the curtains in one of the front windows. Someone had briefly pulled the curtains apart a few inches, and I could see two partially-hidden adult faces peeking at us.

I had to get out of the truck to let the woman out, and the three of us hurried into the garage to get out of the rain. The two of them began to walk towards the door in the garage that led into the house. They invited me to go with them, but I declined. They became more insistent, not taking “no” for an answer, and again they tried to get me to go inside. Noting that their attitude was much more serious this time—almost demanding—I had a very strong impression that I was not to go into that house, and I held my ground.

The two of them went inside, leaving me alone in the garage. But I didn’t breathe a sigh of relief—not yet anyway—for l felt certain they were going to lure or force me into the house, and then they’d rob me, or worse. I should mention that this was in the days before cell phones. It felt awfully lonely to be standing there, not knowing if or when I’d get out of this mess in one piece.

After what felt like forever, they finally came out. We got back in the truck, and they drove me to a gas station where I borrowed an empty gas can and bought some fuel for my car. When I gave them the $5 as promised, they actually seemed upset that I hadn’t given them more, and they were not in a very good mood when they dropped me off at my car.

I’ll never forget how good it felt to be “free” again—away from the growing evil I felt in the presence of those people. As I replay that incident in my mind I believe that I was so anxious to get out of the rain—and so trusting in the offer of those “good Samaritans” who just “happened” to come along at precisely the right moment—that I missed a warning signal that may have been whispered to my mind at that very moment, saying, "Getting into that truck is not a good idea." And because I didn’t hear the warning, someone mercifully stepped in and protected me from the consequences of my own unwise decision.

The Power of Parents

Nordstrom is a company with a reputation for excellence in customer service. But according to former chairman, Bruce Nordstrom, the secret is not to be found in its employee training programs or handbooks. He says, “We can hire nice people and teach them to sell, but we can’t hire salespeople and teach them to be nice.”

“Then who trains your salespeople?” someone asked.

His answer? “Their parents.” (Robert Spector and Patrick McCarthy, The Nordstrom Way, John Wiley & Sons, Hoboken, New Jersey, 2005; 91-92.)

Unfortunately that cannot be said about many young people. More often than not, the values of today’s younger generation are the product of the society in which they were raised—not the values of their parents. These findings are confirmed by the research of psychologist, Jean Twenge. In her fascinating book, “Generation Me – Why Today’s Young American’s Are More Confident, Assertive, Entitled -- and More Miserable Than Ever Before,” she states: “The society that molds you when you are young stays with you the rest of your life . . . Or, in the words of a[n] . . . Arab proverb, ‘Men resemble the times more than they resemble their fathers.’"

Thus, a behavior that was unacceptable to one generation becomes perfectly acceptable to the generation that follows. Why? Because society says it’s ok—whether we’re talking about fashion, music, sexual behavior, appropriate language, etc. And at the root of it all is the attitude that what matters most is what pleases the individual, no matter what anyone else thinks.

I cite a few examples from Twenge’s book:

 “During a recent episode of her . . . talk show, Ellen Degeneres [a person who has a surprising influence on the younger generation, even LDS women] said that the most important thing is ‘how you feel and being happy.’ But when I asked my mother (born in 1943) about this, she said, ‘In the early 1960’s, most people would have said the most important things were being honest, hardworking, industrious, loyal, and caring about others. I can’t even remember thinking about whether I was happy. That’s not to say we weren’t happy—we just didn’t focus on it.’”

 “Today’s under-35 young people . . . [have] never known a world that put duty before self . . . Jessica was born in 1985. When Jessica was a toddler, Whitney Houston’s No. 1 hit song declared that “The Greatest Love of All” was loving yourself. Jessica’s elementary school teachers believed that their most important job was helping Jessica feel good about herself. Jessica scribbled in a coloring book called "We Are All Special," got a sticker on her worksheet just for filling it out [whether the answers were correct or not], and did a sixth-grade project called “All About Me.” When she wondered how to act on her first date, her mother told her, “Just be yourself.” Eventually, Jessica got her lower lip pierced and obtained a large tattoo on her lower back because, she said, she wanted to ‘express herself.’ She dreams of being a model or a singer. She does not expect to marry until she is in her late twenties, and neither she nor her older sisters have any children yet. “You have to love yourself before you can love someone else,” she says.

 “The trend toward more informal dress has accelerated in the past ten years, with many companies opting for ‘business casual’ and others going for just plain casual. The trend reached all the way to the top in July 2005, when about half the members of the Northwestern University women’s lacrosse team wore flip-flops during their White House visit, resulting in a picture of the president of the United States standing next to several young women wearing shoes that were once reserved for walking on sand or showering in skuzzy gymnasiums.”

 “Many young people abandon organized religion because of, you guessed it, the restrictive rules it often imposes.” One young woman, raised a Catholic, said that “by adulthood [she] came to believe that humans all have natural, animalistic urges; she stopped believing [in her religion] because feeling guilty ‘made me unhappy.’” Another said, “I believe that whatever you feel, it’s personal . . . Everybody has their own idea about God and what God is . . . You have your own personal beliefs . . . what’s acceptable for you and what’s right for you personally.”

Hats off to parents who don’t sit back and let their children make up their own minds about values and standards, who teach that there is such a thing as right and wrong and that those things don’t change depending on which way the winds of society are blowing.

Don’t misunderstand me here-- I’m not advocating that parents dictate and demand compliance in these matters. I’m advocating the showing of some backbone in 3 important ways:—teaching the values, telling their children why those principles are important to them, and then living them. It takes all three.

Oh, that every child could say, like Nephi, “I was born of goodly parents, therefore I was taught.”

A Recipe For an Unhappy Marriage

1. Put tempers on medium heat.

2. Stir in a few choice words.

3. Bring to a boil.

4. Continue stirring until thick.

5. Cool off.

6. Let feelings chill for several days.

7. Serve cold. Lots of leftovers.

Lynn G. Robbins, “Agency and Anger,” Ensign, May 1998, 80

Be True

During the summer of 1986, while the rest of my family was in Phoenix, I was living in Provo, Utah, attending classes at BYU. In fact, I lived in the same dorm where I'd stayed as a freshman twenty years earlier. This was familiar territory. Many things looked exactly the same as I remembered them -- with one exception. Posted on the walls of the dorm lobbies, locker rooms and hallways were signs that hadn't been there when I was a freshman. These signs cautioned students to watch their personal belongings, stating that the most common problem on the BYU campus was theft.

The closing line on those signs was almost offensive to me. It said: "Remember -- anyone will steal if the temptation is great enough." I felt like writing at the bottom of the sign, "Anyone but me! I gave my word that I'd be honest;" or maybe writing, "Even a General Authority?" -- but I didn't.

Nevertheless, I was incredulous. Here I was at BYU, where as part of the admissions process every prospective student has to make a written commitment to abide by the university's exacting Honor Code. And yet the presence of these signs was an open admission by the school's administrators that, to many people, giving one's word on that application really didn't mean much.

And then I remembered the experience of thirteen-year-old Andrew Flosdorf.

"In 1982, on the fourth day of the National Spelling Bee, 85 of the 137 contestants were eliminated, including Andrew. The word that got him was 'echolalia.' When Andrew had spelled it, he had mistakenly substituted an 'e' for the first 'a' . . . the judges misunderstood him and thought he had spelled the word correctly. It wasn't until after the round when some of Andrew's friends asked him how to spell his word that he learned his mistake.

"He gulped back his tears and went right to the judges, who had to eliminate him. It was hard to do, but Andrew said, 'I didn't want to feel like a slime' . . . Suddenly the thirteen-year-old was besieged by reporters requesting interviews and appearances on network television. Andrew was surprised by all the attention. 'The first rule of Scouting is honesty,' he said" (Elder Robert L. Backman, "To Thine Own Self Be True," BYU devotional address, 23 Oct 1984).

That summer in the dorm, I met a young man from Venezuela who lived two doors down the hall. He came from a very wealthy family, his father having held every high political office except that of the nation's president. The young man was not LDS. He was at BYU to learn English.

One day he returned from campus in a triumphant mood. He was anxious to tell anyone who'd listen that he'd given his student ID to an American student who had agreed to go to the Testing Center and take his English final exam for him. Later that evening, by coincidence -- or perhaps not -- someone knocked on my door. It was a member of the faculty -- one of that young man's English instructors. He was asking where he might find another of his students. I was impressed to tell him what the young man had bragged to us about. The instructor thanked me and said steps would be taken to "help" the young man.

Obviously the Honor Code didn't mean anything to this fellow. Nor did it to another BYU student -- an athlete who was interviewed by the student newspaper in an article about drugs and sports. Without revealing his name, he talked openly about how he occasionally smoked and drank. And when the reporter asked him about the Honor Code he'd signed, he replied, "I'm not LDS, so I don't have to live by those standards."

I leave you to consider the message of the following story as told by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland (BYU devotional, 2 Sept 1980):

"Some time ago I was invited to speak at a youth conference, which is the kind of invitation that I have had to decline routinely for years. But something about this one kept gnawing at me, and I answered that I would come. It seemed a foolish thing to do. It meant a morning drive of about four hours into a neighboring state and then the same drive back that night. But I felt I should go, and I did. I put my wife and children in the car with sandwiches and a Scrabble board, and off we went.

"After I dropped them off at the local city park and swimming pool, I went over to the youth conference held at a local stake center. The trip was worth it all to me for one brief testimony that I heard there. At this very moment I honestly cannot tell you what I said to that group as their invited speaker. It's gone from my memory and undoubtedly gone from all of theirs. But this young convert's testimony is still with me, and I leave it with you today.

"She described her conversion to the Church and what the gospel of Jesus Christ had come to mean in her life. Her home life was something out of a horror story--broken marriage, mother living with a man not her husband, brother on drugs, sister expecting a baby. It was as bizarre as any social worker would ever need to see. But into her life had come the Church, and for this young fourteen- or fifteen-year-old girl it was everything, and she was hanging on. She described opening her school locker one day, only to have her paperback edition of the Book of Mormon fall to the floor. She used it in seminary, and to her it was a prized possession. She was still a little insecure about all of this, however, for the world around her had made her pretty insecure. And she was not yet certain what her new faith and friends held in store for her. She was happy but still tentative and very anxious to be stronger in the faith. She was embarrassed. She had not wanted anyone to see the book.

"She hastily stooped down to pick it up before someone noticed. But someone had noticed, and they were standing right next to her. Three girls looked first at the book and then at her. Her heart sank, and she clutched at the little blue paperback cover. She said nothing, and neither did they for a moment. But then one of them asked, 'Is that a church book?'

"She said 'Yes.'

"The other girl said, 'What church is it?'

"And my young friend stuttered, 'The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.'

"'Is that the Mormons?' shot back the inquirer.

"'Yes,' whispered the frightened little Latter-day Saint, 'that's the Mormons.'

"There was a long pause, and then her interrogator said, 'Are you true?'

"After a pause that was both instantaneous and eternal, my little friend said, with her head slightly more erect and her back slightly straighter and her hands trembling a little less, 'Yes, I'm true.'

"I must confess that when I first heard that young girl's testimony, I did not quite understand all that I was hearing. I've thought about it since, and obviously what the one girl, in her own way, was asking was, 'Are you active?' That's the way we would have phrased it. But what a tragic loss to so phrase it. How much more meaning there is in the straightforward inquiry, 'Are you true?'

"There was no reprisal. The heretofore undisclosed copy of the Book of Mormon in a school locker had not brought on physical torture or social ostracism. A little confidence came, and a little conviction increased. There was just one young soul saying to another, 'Are you true?' 'If you are a Latter-day Saint, are you a good one?'"

We must be. We've given our word.

Homecoming

I’ve spent more time than I want to remember in airports, going and coming, but mostly just waiting. During some of those long waits I’ve witnessed the same familiar scene repeated over and over: families and friends waiting to greet returning missionaries. While friends and siblings are excitedly holding signs and balloons, I tend to focus more on the parents, perhaps because I’ve been in that same situation on three occasions.

More often than not, the scene plays out like this: the plane lands, passengers begin to disembark, and all eyes in the waiting crowd anxiously search for that one familiar face. Once the missionary comes into view, the squeals and celebrations begin, followed by hugs and handshakes. One afternoon, in Sacramento, while this scenario played out, I overheard a female bystander say to her friend, “Did you see that woman who kissed him on the lips? That was his mother!”

One thing is pretty predictable during this drama: as the throng makes its way out, the mother almost always latches onto the missionary as if she’ll never let go—and the father brings up the rear—alone—hauling the luggage.

There was one night, however, when it didn’t play out like that. It was in December, 2008, just a day or two before Christmas. I was at the airport waiting for our daughter who was flying home from Salt Lake City for the holidays. As is often the case during those last days before Christmas, the flight was delayed. It was well after midnight, and the crowd waiting for the flight was pretty subdued.

Then I saw them—the family—the mom and dad and their three children. Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, and a younger sister. What gave them away was the large rolled-up sign the older daughter carried. I didn’t need to see what it said. I already knew. Besides, they just looked LDS, if you know what I mean.

The flight was more than an hour late, and when it arrived I stood behind the family, interested to see what was about to happen. Weary passengers began to come up the ramp. I didn’t yet see my daughter, but then I saw a young lady in a long winter coat that almost reached the ground. She had on a back-pack, and her missionary nametag was on her coat.

The smiling family held up the sign and took pictures, and when the young woman recognized them her face lit up with emotion. She walked straight into 5 pairs of open arms. And then a wonderful thing happened. Before the mother could lock arms as if never wanting to let go, the young missionary looked at her father and embraced him, resting the side of her face tightly against his shoulder. She was in no hurry to let go.

This was a moment I will never forget. You see, the look on her face was more than just a smiling, “Great to see you!” It was much deeper than that. Although her eyes were closed, her countenance said, “Dad, I served honorably and did what I was called to do. Most of the time it was really tough, but I hung in there, even though there were times when it was so hard I was tempted to give up. Thank you for your love and prayers and support. I love you so much.”

And then came this impression: This is a preview of what it will be like when I return to my Father in Heaven, if I’ve been true and faithful in this life. It will be so very natural to want to embrace Him and bury my head against His shoulder, safe in His arms once again.

And in that moment, according to President Ezra Taft Benson, I will remember again just how intensely personal my relationship with Him once was: “Nothing is going to startle us more when we pass through the veil to the other side than to realize how well we know our Father and how familiar his face is to us,” (Ezra Taft Benson, “Jesus Christ – Gifts and Expectations,” Speeches of the Year, [Provo: BYU, 1974], 313.)

So let’s do the hard things and make the right choices and be what we’ve promised to be. It will be worth it.

Despise Not One of These Little Ones

Three stories -- all true:

(1) "Attention Wal-Mart employees -- we have a Code Adam; repeat, Code Adam." [Code Adam is Wal-Mart-speak for "lost child."] All at once, shoppers and employees stopped what they were doing, listening to the details that followed. Everyone was asked to watch for a little boy who'd become separated from his mother. He was dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and a brown t-shirt -- and his name was Charlie.

I'd been working in the store that afternoon, replenishing the shelves of the hardware department with our company's merchandise. When I heard that announcement I decided to take a break and look for the little boy.

As I rounded a corner and entered the toy department, there in that long aisle of colorful toys stood a little boy in a brown t-shirt. He wasn't tearing packages open and playing with the toys. And he wasn't climbing up on the bicycles or bouncing the balls like some kids I'd seen. He was standing there silently, almost frozen in place, his wide eyes slowly taking everything in.

I casually approached him and said, "Hi, is your name Charlie?" He nodded, cautiously. I said, "I think your Mom's looking for you." And just at that moment, a woman stepped into the aisle. I could tell by the way she looked at him that it was his mother. Walking rapidly over to Charlie, she took him by the hand, gave me a nod of thanks and led him away.

They walked two aisles over and turned the corner, and as soon as they were out of sight I heard the unmistakable sound of an adult hand smacking a little boy's behind.

(2) I was out in the garden department of another store, setting up our company's display. Suddenly I heard a little boy calling to his father: "Dad! . . . Dad! . . . Dad! Look!" This boy wasn't lost. He'd obviously come upon something he thought was pretty cool, and he wanted his Dad to see it too. But the boy's father was a few aisles away, talking with a store clerk. After about the 8th "Dad!" the father shouted in a commanding voice: "GET OVER HERE! I TOLD YOU TO STAY WITH ME!"

There was silence. You know the kind -- the silence that announces when a child's feelings have just been trampled on -- by a bully.

(3) After spending the night in a Bakersfield motel, I was about to check out when outside of my window I heard a man's voice shouting loudly. I opened the curtains and looked down on the parking lot from my second-floor window. There I saw him -- a large man.  And a frail little girl. He was shouting, scolding, and swearing at her, using the most offensive profanity. She just stood there looking up at him -- not arguing, not crying, just looking at him with fear all over her little face and taking all the foul and hateful stuff he was hurling at her. And I thought of the Savior's words: "It were better for him that a millstone were hanged around his neck, and he be cast into the sea, than he should offend one of these little ones" (Luke 17:2).

What is it that causes adults to act this way? In so many cases, on a scale of 1 to 10, the child's "infraction" rates about a 1 or 2, and the adult responds as if it'd been a 10. I've done it myself at times. Not moments I'm proud of. Why not just take a deep breath, as in the case of little Charlie, give the little guy a hug and say, "I was worried about you. Let's not do that again, ok?"

I came across this little article in a very old file today. It's called "Father Forgets" by W. Livingston Larned.

"Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.

"These are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.

"At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, 'Good-bye, Daddy!' and I frowned, and said in reply, 'Hold your shoulders back!'

"Then it all began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your boy friends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive--and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father!

"Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient with the interruption, you hesitated at the door. 'What is it you want?' I snapped.

"You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.

"Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding--this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. It was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.

"And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good-night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there ashamed.

"It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: 'He is nothing but a boy--a little boy.'

"I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much."

President Gordon B. Hinckley: “Never forget that these little ones are the sons and daughters of God and that yours is a custodial relationship to them, that He was a parent before you were parents and that He has not relinquished His parental rights or interest in these little ones. Now, love them, take care of them.

"Fathers, control your tempers, now and in all the years to come. Mothers, control your voices, keep them down. Rear your children in love, in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. Take care of your little ones, welcome them into your homes and nurture and love them with all of your hearts” (Salt Lake University Third Stake conference, 3 Nov. 1996; in Church News, 1 March 1997:2).