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.