Heeding the Warning Signs

On the walls of my office are some "de-motivational" posters I put up just for fun. At first glance they look like those posters that contain inspiring and motivational messages. But these are different -- they're meant to be humorous. One particular poster is titled "Mistakes." You can see it here -- it reflects how I often feel about stupid things I've done in my life. Hence the following story.

I was about seven years old and living in a quiet Sacramento neighborhood. This was the early 1950's when neighborhoods and streets were safe for kids to walk alone to the corner store. In front of the nearby Stop 'n Shop was a raised brick planter box, about two feet tall. I liked to climb on it and walk along the bricks. While walking on it one day I noticed a swarm of red ants. Confident that my new blue Keds could handle the job, I began stomping on the ants. At the same time, I saw a woman approaching, accompanied by a little boy about three or four years of age. She didn't notice that I was stomping on the ants, but her son did, and he wanted to join the fun. Thinking he was simply going to walk along the bricks, she allowed him to climb up. Then he quickly walked right into the red ants -- in his bare feet!

His screams and tears were immediate as he suffered the painful ant bites, and his mother quickly lifted him off the planter and tried to comfort him. What did I do? I guiltily walked away. Why didn't I warn him? I don't know. It wasn't that I wanted him to get hurt -- I was just too shy to say anything. I've regretted that all my life, always knowing I could have saved that boy a lot of grief if I'd only opened my mouth.

As a parent and teacher I've tried to do a better job of opening my mouth when I've seen potential dangers ahead. But parents walk a fine line. Some children are grateful for parental warnings because the parent-child relationship is built on trust, not intimidation. But others seem to be so headstrong and disobedient that, ultimately, they refuse their parents' counsel and will only learn by their own sad experience.

Two incidents come to mind when I think about the importance of trusting in the warning signs around us -- and the counsel of those who know something we don't about what lies ahead. The first is an incident that happened to a friend. He was driving along a highway on a business trip when he came to a point where the road had been barricaded. A large sign indicated that the road ahead was closed for construction, and a large detour sign was diverting the traffic down a different road. 

My friend was on a tight schedule. He knew if he took the detour he would not arrive at his destination on time. Looking ahead as far as he could, he could see no sign of construction equipment on the barricaded highway. So, instead of taking the detour, he drove around the barricades and continued along the original highway.

It was easy going for more than twenty minutes, and he knew he was getting close to his destination. He felt glad he hadn't taken the detour. But then things abruptly changed as he reached a point where the road was torn up and impassable. The highway really was under construction after all. Frustrated that he couldn't progress past this point, and knowing that his bad decision was going to make him very late for his meeting, he turned around and hurriedly drove those many miles back to where the detour began. Approaching the barricade he noticed that someone had spray painted the following message on the back of the detour sign: "Welcome back, stupid."

My friend only lost time and gas that day. Others who choose to ignore warning signs may end up losing much more -- even their lives. On January 5, 1975, the Illawarra, a huge ore-carrying ship, collided with the pylons of the Hobart Bridge in Tasmania. According to the official report, three sections of the bridge immediately collapsed and the freighter sank, killing seven crewmen. And worse, five motorists died as they sailed off the bridge and into the water.

One motorist was reportedly able to stop his car before it went over the edge. Realizing that the drivers of the cars behind him wouldn't likely see the danger before it was too late, he jumped out of his car and instructed his wife to turn the car around and flash the headlights to attract the attention of the oncoming drivers. While she did this, he ran towards those oncoming cars, frantically waving his arms in an effort to get them to stop. A few drivers, apparently saying to themselves, "I wonder what that crazy fellow was doing in the middle of the highway," drove right past him and over the edge. Others, trusting that this fellow knew something they didn't about unseen dangers ahead, were able to stop in time.  

Children: your parents have been around long enough to know that if you make certain choices you are most likely going to suffer sad and often painful consequences. They are like that man who waved his arms at the oncoming traffic. Please trust them.  

And parents, if your children do ignore the warnings and suffer the consequences of poor choices, please don't flash the "Welcome back, stupid!" sign at them. Instead of being surrounded by a  bunch of critics dishing out generous servings of  "I told you so's," what they need now are merciful, open arms welcoming them back. After all, God does.

Stones

Because of Dad's job, we moved around a lot when I was growing up -- every 2-1/2 years on average. I believe it was 1955 when we moved from Sacramento to a new subdivision in Larkspur, a sleepy little town in Marin County, a few miles north of San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge. In the years since then, Marin County has become known as home for the "rich and famous." One of its residents is filmmaker George Lucas, creator of the Star Wars films. His Skywalker Ranch occupies almost 5,000 acres. When we bought our house Dad thinks it may have cost about $15,000. A few years ago I was shocked to discover that the market value of that little 3-bedroom house was a little more than $1 million.

A few blocks away from our home was a large swampy area full of reeds and cat-tails, an offshoot of San Francisco Bay. It became a favorite after-school playground where my friends and I would catch tadpoles and stickleback fish. Behind the homes that bordered the swamp was an area containing large mounds of dirt up to five or six feet high. They'd been dumped there when the land had been cleared for the new subdivision. It was among those mounds that I learned the painful reality of that old saying about "sticks and stones."

It happened one afternoon as I was playing around those dirt mounds with George, one of my 4th-grade classmates, and a girl who lived in the neighborhood. Trouble began when George disappeared behind one of the mounds and got the not-so-bright idea of tossing rocks in the direction of the girl and me. We called out for him to stop, but the barrage continued.

The mound was so high we couldn't see him in the act of throwing -- so we had to keep a sharp eye out for rocks headed our way, ducking when they got too close. Suddenly one rock seemed to come out of nowhere -- I sensed it coming, but the girl did not. It was about 2 inches in diameter, and it hit her in the head, just behind the ear. I will never forget the sound as it hit her skull. Blood immediately poured from the wound, and she screamed in pain. The blow left her dizzy, barely able to stand up. George quickly came to see what had happened. We were afraid she was going to pass out, so with the two of us as supports on each side, we walked her back home.

Before we even reached the house, her daughter's loud weeping brought the mother running out the door. She took her daughter into her arms, and when George was identified as the one who'd caused the injury, he received a severe tongue-lashing.

I often reflect on that experience when I read in the New Testament about Stephen, a devout follower of Christ who was sentenced to death by stoning for his testifying of the Savior (see Acts 7). That day, among the dirt mounds, I had seen and heard the pain and suffering caused by just a single stone. I couldn't imagine the pain suffered by Stephen, hit by countless stones of all sizes, striking him all over his body. A horrible way for anyone to die.

And so it was that in Larkspur I learned that physical stones can inflict a lot of pain. But there was another lesson frm Larkspur. I learned that the unkind words we hurl at others can hurt just as much as real stones.

We rode a school bus to the Larkspur-Corte Madera School. As I indicated earlier, we lived in a subdivision of new homes, and practically all the kids who rode that bus were from the middle-class homes in the neighborhood. But the bus had a few remaining stops -- at some older homes where the families weren't so well off.

At one of those stops three children boarded the bus. They came from one of those poorer families. They didn't dress as nicely as the rest of us and sometimes weren't as well-groomed. I hated to see the look on their faces as they boarded the bus -- there was dread in their eyes because every day they had to face the taunts and jeers of a few mean boys who said things like, "You can't sit by me!" or "Don't touch me -- you've got cooties!" Can you imagine how those children must have felt as they waited for the bus each day, knowing the verbal torture they had to face? One of the three, a boy, was in my 4th-grade class. I cannot count the number of times I wish I'd had the courage to stand up for him.

There was another boy on that bus. He was a year or two older than I -- nice-looking and rather quiet. He, too, was a target for those mean bullies. Why? Because his ears stuck out. Every time he got on the bus he was greeted with the cruel words, "Hey Dumbo!"

On the way home from school one day I was sitting in the front seat on the right-hand side. I was within touching distance of everyone as they got off the bus. When we arrived at this boy's stop, he began going down the stairs. On impulse -- because I wanted to get a laugh from the others or be "one of the guys" -- I said to him as he went down the stairs, " G'bye Dumbo."

He didn't say a word, but I saw pain in his eyes -- they seemed to be asking, "What did I ever do to you to deserve such a cruel comment?" And I knew the answer: "Nothing -- absolutely nothing." That is one of the most painful memories of my childhood, causing many tears of regret. I pray you will not be as unwise and uncaring as I was.

Sometimes Good Intentions Aren't Enough

Some years ago, my wife and I were traveling with another couple, waiting for a flight back to Portland from San Francisco. We arrived early at the airport -- so early, in fact, that the flight before ours hadn't left yet. Near where we were sitting we noticed several people and a large number of suitcases waiting for the earlier flight. I should point out that this was long before airport security restrictions about leaving bags unattended. When it was time for them to board, they walked down the ramp and onto the plane. We thought it strange that they left all the luggage behind. The fellow with whom we were traveling quickly brought this to the attention of the gate agent, and she made sure the bags were quickly loaded onto the plane.

The plane was preparing to leave the gate when two or three couples approached the area where we were seated and began looking in every direction with worried looks on their faces. They seemed to be searching for something. One man in the group looked in our direction and asked, with no small amount of anxiety in his voice: "Did you folks see what happened to the bags that were sitting here?" Our friend said, "Yes, some folks on that flight forgot to take them onto the plane. But don't worry -- we made sure they got loaded on." "Those were OUR bags!" the man yelled.

Fortunately the gate agent was able to get the bags unloaded before the plane left the gate. Obviously our friend felt terrible. Even though he meant well, he learned that good intentions don't always guarantee good results.

There are even times when unforeseen harm comes from the actions of well-meaning people -- like the man who used to drive us to school. When I attended early-morning seminary in the early 1960's, kids in my ward didn't have their own cars. The church meetinghouse where seminary was held was at least two miles from our high school, so our parents organized car pools. But as luck would have it, I had to ride with the worst driver of them all.

He was an older man -- retired. He had no children of his own and just wanted to help out with the carpool. Every other week it was his turn to take me and four other boys to school in his old green and white Dodge. Every ride with that man was a white-knuckle, "e-ticket" experience. His eyesight wasn't so good, and his reflexes were poor. He drove too fast and was often unaware of what was going on around us. Making things even more uncomfortable was the fact that we didn't really know this man. He never spoke. Every time we rode with him we just sat there in silence, hanging onto each other and praying that this stranger would get us to school alive.

Part of the route he took to school was through residential areas. He never looked left or right when approaching unmarked intersections -- just barreled right through them. One day we were sitting at a stop sign, waiting for the oncoming traffic to clear from the left and right. There was a car approaching from the left, and we naturally expected our driver to wait until it passed -- but instead, he stomped on the gas and lunged out in front of the oncoming car. Its driver slammed on the brakes, skidding to avoid us, and our driver just sailed through the intersection as if nothing had happened.

Several blocks later we heard the repeated honking of a horn. Turning around we saw an angry driver honking and motioning for us to pull over. Our driver didn't have a clue that this was even happening, so he just kept on going. Suddenly the angry driver passed our car, cut sharply in front of us and forced our driver to stop. The angry man jumped out, ran back to our car and began to give our driver an earful about how he'd almost caused an accident by pulling out in front of that other car. To which our driver said, not surprisingly, "What other car?"

Shortly after that experience we had our final ride in the green and white Dodge. We had just left the church and were cruising along a residential street. As we approached an unmarked intersection, I saw a shiny red, two-door, 1961 Chevrolet Impala coming from the right. Behind the wheel was a girl I'd seen at school, and another girl was in the passenger seat. The Chevy had the right-of-way, but it was very obvious that our car was going to hit it unless we immediately slowed down. To his credit, our driver did hit the brakes, but not soon enough. The left front of our car hit the left rear of the Chevy -- not by much, but enough to cause the girl to over-correct. Then everything came undone. We sat there wide-eyed and speechless as the rear-end of the Chevy not only slid sideways, but it rose up in the air as if in a slow motion roll -- landing on its top.

The sound of the Chevy landing was chilling. On impact, all that could be seen through its windows was a mass of flying schoolbooks and papers. Our driver sat stone-faced as if in shock. One of the boys began to cry. Someone raced up to a house to get the occupants to phone for the police and an ambulance. A friend and I jumped out and ran to the upside-down car. Pulling open the door, with the top of the window scraping on the street, we called to the girls inside, asking if they were hurt. "I think I'm ok," said the driver, "but I don't know about my friend. She was riding in the front seat and ended up in the back." Note: This was in the days before cars had seat belts, so those girls had been tossed around like rag dolls. Miraculously, neither of them was hurt.

When our parents and church leaders learned of this accident -- and that there'd been other close calls in the green and white Dodge -- let's just say they informed our driver that his services would no longer be required. As I think about that man I remind myself that he had no evil intent. Careless, unobservant, and unskilled behind the wheel -- yes. But not evil. In fact, it could honestly be said of him that he had very good intentions. But good intentions were not good enough. If one or both of those girls had been killed in that accident it would have been very little consolation to their families to hear this man say, "But I meant well."

Sacred Sites

In 2002 my employer gave me the responsibility of creating a 40-minute video that could be used to help customers become more familiar with our products. After the filming was complete, the next step was to spend a few afternoons in the filmmaker's studio, editing scenes and providing the voice-over. During one of these sessions, I met another client who happened to be in the studio. He was from Sedona and introduced himself as a photographer, world traveler, anthropologist, and "religious pilgrim." He said he traveled the globe photographing what he called "sacred sites" -- places and monuments regarded as sacred by the local residents because of mystical origins, ancient legends, or unexplainable manifestations that had reportedly occurred there.

When he mentioned that he'd traveled extensively in South America I told him I'd spent two years in Argentina. "What were you doing there?" he asked. When I said I'd served as a missionary for my church, he reacted with a smirk, and somehow I knew that he knew which church I meant, for he'd obviously encountered LDS missionaries in his travels.

As the discussion continued I learned that he had a website devoted to the sites he'd photographed along with details about the sacred traditions and legends associated with them. He was especially excited about a proposal he'd just received to do a photo book for National Geographic. It has since been published under the title "Sacred Earth."

The following day I visited his website. There I found an impressive collection of photos from all over the world -- places he decribed as having "the power to heal the body, enlighten the mind, increase creativity, develop psychic abilities, and awaken the soul to a knowing of the true purpose of life."  Anxious to see if his website included key locations considered sacred by Latter-day Saints, I entered searchwords like "Palmyra," "Cumorah," and "sacred grove." Each time my search ended with "no results found."

I decided to send him an e-mail in which I informed him of some sites in upstate New York that are regarded as sacred by many millions of Latter-day Saints throughout the world. He replied that the only places he knew of that are sacred to Latter-day Saints were our temples, and since he wasn't a member of the Church he wasn't allowed to enter.

I explained that I had other sites in mind, the most sacred being a wooded grove in the vicinity of Palmyra, for it was there, I said, that God the Father and Jesus Christ had appeared in 1820. I went on to tell him of another sacred site -- a hill known as Cumorah -- where an ancient record was revealed and delivered by the resurrected prophet who compiled that record hundreds of years earlier.

He thanked me for this information and told me he would add these two locations to his website. That was eight years ago. He hasn't added them yet. While I cannot judge his motives, I can still see that smirk on his face. But no matter -- smirks cannot alter the facts. I know through experiences stronger than sight that the events we claim occurred in those sacred locations did occur.

The Kind of Hero a Boy Needs

Boys need heroes, and I was no exception. It goes without saying that a boy's father should be at the top of the "hero list." Next in line, for me at least, were my Church advisers and instructors. Some think the most important quality in choosing a youth leader is that they should be fun to be around. However, as an adult leader I once attended a meeting where John Warnock, the Church's top Scout executive, said that the results of study conducted by the Church leaders indicated that, while they may be more fun to be around, it is not the young returned missionaries or young married men who have the greatest influence on the young men of the Church. With few exceptions, it is the mature, older men - those whose lives radiate testimony because of the wisdom they've gained from life's experiences.

Generally, those who served as my Scout leaders were younger men, most of whom meant well, but they didn’t radiate much spiritual light. Their language was sometimes rough; they often tried to be overly "macho" or be the "comedian;" and it seemed that things of a spiritual nature didn't have much of a priority in their lives.

One incident was especially disappointing. It happened on an overnight campout when I was about fourteen. We’d gone to Camp Millard, situated in a wooded area in the Portland suburb of Clackamas. The good news about going to Millard was that it had a small lodge where we could sleep indoors on bunks instead of outside in tents. We could also cook our food over an indoor fireplace of sorts.

It was a cold, winter night. For some reason our leaders decided that we'd go on a night hike through the woods, spending some time in a drafty wooden shack we stumbled upon. After gathering inside, someone lit a candle or two. While we huddled together to keep warm, the assistant scoutmaster decided to tell what turned out to be a most inappropriate joke where the punch line contained the very profane use of the Lord’s name.

This leader was a single young man in his early twenties. He'd been in the ward for several years -- even serving awhile as my father’s ward teaching companion. Until that night I’d always thought well of him. At that moment he thought he'd told a very funny joke – but no one laughed -- because the punch line came like a punch in our collective stomachs. We sat in silence, like we were in shock. As he saw our reaction he realized that in his effort to become “one of the guys” he'd lost the respect of all.

Contrast that experience with what happened one Sunday morning as I was sitting in priests quorum. The lesson was being taught by our adviser, Fred Banks. Now, Brother Banks was not a young man. In fact, he was about the same age as my father (certainly not "ancient" but old to us). He had a strong testimony, cared about us, and we knew he cared about living the principles he taught us.

That morning we sat spellbound as he told us about an incident that occurred when he was a soldier during World War II. He was part of a fighting unit on a remote Pacific island, engaged in a fierce firefight with enemy Japanese soldiers. It was a jungle setting, and he was pinned down behind a tree. To get a clear shot off at the enemy required that he lean out a few inches, quickly fire a few rounds, and then duck back behind the tree. But during one of those attempts he didn't duck back quickly enough, and an enemy shell hit him directly in the helmet, right in the middle of his forehead. Strangely, the bullet fully penetrated the helmet, but instead of going into his head it miraculously turned upward 90 degrees and came to rest against his forehead, burning a blister in the skin.

He was able to survive the firefight and safely returned to his base. Days later he received a letter from his mother. She said that she'd had an impression that he was in serious danger, so she'd knelt down and offered a special prayer for his safety. When he read the date of the letter, he realized that she was pleading with the Lord to protect her son at the very moment he was pinned down behind the tree.

The lesson that day was about the power of prayer. I assure you that nobody went home after priesthood meeting complaining that "we never get to do anything fun in priests quorum." Instead, we went home with the memory of Fred Banks's powerful testimony that a loving Heavenly Father had heard and answered the heartfelt prayer of a worried mother -- and that that same Heavenly Father would always hear and answer our prayers too.

I've always been grateful for men like Fred Banks who knew the value of teaching by the Spirit and bearing testimony. He was the kind of hero boys need.

A Blank Obituary

Have you ever wondered what people will say about you at your funeral? For one man, the answer was, “Absolutely nothing.”

In the mid-1970's, when we lived on our farm in Joseph, Oregon, I received a phone call one Sunday evening. The caller was the funeral director in the town of Enterprise—about 15 minutes away. He said, “A member of your Church has passed away, and since you are the head of the local LDS congregation the family has asked that you conduct the funeral.” When he gave me the man's name I told him I didn't recognize it. He explained that the man resided in a town 400 miles away on the Oregon coast, but while visiting family members in our area he’d suddenly passed away. The only information the funeral director could give me was the man’s name, date and place of birth, and his current address. Then he said, “The man has a daughter in the area. I suggest you call her to get more details about his life.” When I phoned the daughter and introduced myself, I learned that no one else in the man’s family was LDS. She then confirmed what the funeral director had already told me – that the family wanted me to conduct the funeral, and I was to be the only speaker. Since I had so little information about her father I asked if she could share any memorable details from his life -- perhaps something about his accomplishments and interests. After a long pause she said, “No, I can’t think of anything.” I was stunned. Not so much by having to conduct the funeral of a total stranger, but because the man’s own daughter could think of nothing at all to say about him! The graveside service was held at mid-day on a barren hillside in the town cemetery. The weather was hot and windy. No members of the local branch were in attendance except Sister Jensen who had agreed to sing a song – unaccompanied, of course. She had a nice singing voice, but few could actually hear it because she was singing into a strong wind. About thirty people were in attendance. One was a son of the deceased--a good-looking young man in full Navy dress uniform who'd flown in from his duty station in the Mediterranean. Another was an LDS woman from the deceased's home ward, obviously a close friend. She, Sister Jensen, and I were the only ones in Sunday dress. Everyone else was in casual attire or had come directly from the fields or work. One woman still had curlers in her hair. I spoke about the Plan of Salvation, the promise of a resurrection through Christ's Atonement. Because of the wind, I had to almost shout to be heard. It wasn’t easy preaching to an audience where I didn’t know a soul. After the funeral, the man’s son thanked me very sincerely. Then the LDS lady friend introduced herself and thanked me for my remarks. And just like that, it was over. Everyone returned to their everyday activities. I went home and took off my suit, changed back into my Levi’s, t-shirt, and cowboy boots, and went back to helping my brother-in-law harvest his barley crop. But my thoughts weren’t on the barley. I was thinking about the man who’d died, feeling a deep sadness for this husband and father—a man who had, as I recall, lived about seventy years but whose own family couldn’t think of a single thing to say to honor his memory. Someone has written: “Some people come into our lives and quickly leave. Others come and stay awhile—leaving their footprints on our hearts—and we are never, ever the same again.” I hope we may leave meaningful footprints on the hearts of those with whom we associate so that no one will ever say they can’t think of anything worthy to say about us at our funeral.

Me? A Blogger?

No one is more surprised than I to see that I now have a blog. For various reasons, this is a step I vowed never to take. Obviously, something changed my mind, and someday I may share with you what it was. But this much I will tell you now: it did not require much persuasion. To those who've been blogging awhile: please go easy on me. It probably doesn't look very impressive, but it's a work in progress.

My purpose is to share some lessons that life -- and the Lord -- have taught me at various stages of my life, through spiritual impressions, pondering the scriptures, studying the teachings of the prophets, and important life experiences and observations. I've chosen to share them for the benefit of my children and grand-children, other family members, and special friends. I hope you will not judge me too harshly as you read them -- especially those who know me well -- for in the things to be shared you will see that I highly value certain character attributes and behaviors that I have yet to master myself. That does not mean they aren't true principles or attributes worth developing. My only defense is that I am still "under construction."

It is not because I have a super memory that I will be able to share these things with you. They are available now because, at some point, I recognized their value and chose to write them down. After years of accumulating notes in my ever-growing files, I came across the following statement by Elder Richard G. Scott, my former mission president and currently a member of the Quorum of the Twelve:

"Powerful spiritual direction in your life can be overcome or forced into the background unless you provide a way to retain it . . . Knowledge carefully recorded is knowledge available in time of need. Spiritually sensitive information should be kept in a sacred place that communicates to the Lord how you treasure it. This practice enhances the likelihood of your receiving further light" (Ensign, Nov. 1993, 86).

I commend to you, young and old, the habit of recording the experiences that have given and will give "powerful spiritual direction in your life." I am a witness that Elder Scott's promise is true: Once you let the Lord know that you treasure and record sacred experiences, He will give you more.