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).

The Fabric of Our Lives

This striking tapestry is known as "The Adoration of the Magi," a representation of the visit of the wise men to the Christ-child. It is a huge wall hanging, approximately 8 feet tall and 12 feet wide and was woven with wool and silk threads. Creating such a masterpiece required meticulous attention to detail. The weavers had to strictly follow--and implicitly trust--a master pattern in order to know exactly when to use just the right colored thread. It took four men two years to weave this, and they were looking at the back-side of it the whole time.

Each of us is weaving a tapestry. It is the record of our life. The images it will eventually display will reflect the choices we've made, the things we've said and done, even our thoughts--both public and private-- including all those things we did when we thought nobody was watching. All will combine to weave a permanent record that is imprinted in our minds and recorded in heaven. 

President John Taylor referred to this when he taught: "Man sleeps for a time in the grave, and by-and-by he rises again from the dead and goes to judgment; and then the secret thoughts of all men are revealed . . . we cannot hide them; it would be vain for a man to say then, 'I did not do so-and-so;' [because] the command [from the Judge] would be, 'Unravel and read the record which he had made of himself, and let it testify.' . . . That record that is written by the man himself in the tablets of his own mind--that record that cannot lie--will in that day be unfolded before God and His angels who shall sit as judges."

And we not only choose the images that will be seen, but by our choices we select the quality of the fabric.

Surely there must have been days when the men who were weaving this magnificent tapestry were found murmuring. Maybe they were upset it was taking so long or couldn't see the big picture taking shape. To them it all may have seemed like a boring, daily treadmill, feeling like they weren't making any progress at all.  

Ever feel that way? I know I do. I guess we need to remember to pause, take a few steps back, and focus on the bigger picture. And remember this: there will be times when it may seem very tempting to stray from the pattern laid out for us by the "Master Weaver" because we think we have a "better plan," or worse, because others who have no experience in these things tell us they know a shortcut.

Hopefully sooner than later we'll all come to appreciate the value of sticking with the Master's pattern,  realizing that the greatness and quality and strength of our lives--like the magnificence of this tapestry--are all created one tiny thread at a time.  

Mourning With Those That Mourn

Julie and I became friends during our junior year of high school. Our paths would have never crossed had it not been for Senior Choir. We didn’t run with the same circle of friends. I was LDS – she was Catholic. She smoked and I did not. But through our association in the choir we had many opportunities to get to know each other better.

Julie was a good person—smart, witty, and fun to be around. During the last half of our senior year I was elected choir president. Julie was vice-president, although if an outsider had observed the way we took care of our responsibilities they would have thought the roles were reversed because she was so much more diligent than I was.

Although Julie and I were friends, we were never really close enough to talk about anything serious, so it was all the more surprising when, just days before graduation, I found out how she felt about me. It was May, 1965, and we were at a cast party after the choir's final "Spring Show." Julie and I were dancing and making small talk. Suddenly she said: "You are such a great guy. I want you to know that the only person I respect more than you is my priest."

I was speechless. Here we'd been classmates for two years, performing together, working side-by-side, but we’d never had a conversation about anything of a serious nature. To receive such a compliment from her was very humbling, and it created a bond between us, even though we were about to graduate and go our separate ways.

After graduation I was busy with my summer job and looking forward to going away to BYU in the fall. One day in mid-summer I was browsing through the newspaper, and an article caught my eye. It was about a terrible car accident in which the mother of several children had been killed—Julie's mother. I felt terrible for her loss.

I should have called Julie and told her how sorry I was, but I didn't. I should have gone to the funeral, but I didn’t. The least I could have done was to send her a sympathy card, but I didn't even do that. I did nothing -- not because I didn't care, but because I just didn't know what to say.

A few weeks before leaving for BYU, I phoned Julie. We had a friendly visit, and I asked if she'd like to go to a movie. She accepted and even offered to cook dinner for us before the show. I looked forward to seeing her again, and that evening she had a nice dinner prepared. It was during dinner that she asked the question I'd been dreading, but which I deserved to be asked: "Why didn't you call me after my mother died?" There was no angry accusation in her voice, only sadness and disappointment. I didn’t really have an excuse. My only explanation was that I had stayed away because I didn’t know what to say.

Time and experience have given me a new perspective about how to respond when someone close to you has a death in the family. I firmly believe that we worry too much about what to say in these circumstances, and even though we mean well, we usually end up uttering some dumb cliché thinking it’ll make things better. But it doesn’t.

In the Book of Mormon we are taught that one of our duties as a disciple of Christ is to “mourn with those that mourn” (Mosiah 18:9). But guess what? The word “mourn” doesn’t necessarily mean we have to say anything. What really matters is that we simply be there for them, as illustrated in this excerpt from one of my favorite books, "The Book of Jewish Values." In the chapter titled "Enter a Mourner's Home With Silence" the author, a rabbi, tells this story:

"I remember that when Rabbi Wolfe Kelman . . . lost his sister, Rabbi Heschel . . . said, 'We have to go.' We went to the airport. We flew to Boston, got into a cab and went to the house. Heschel walked in, he hugged them, he sat silently for an hour. He didn't mumble a single cliché [such as] 'How old was she?' [What difference does it make?] . . . 'Time will heal.' – [Time won't heal] . . . 'I know how you feel.' –[You don't know how I feel]. None of the clichés. He just sat there in silence for an hour. And then he got up, hugged them, and we left. I learned that you don't have to be glib. You just have to care."

A few days ago we attended the funeral of my dearest friend. His name was Richard. At the viewing, the funeral, the graveside dedication and the luncheon that followed, large numbers of friends lined up to offer their condolences to Richard’s wife and daughters. But eventually it all ended, relatives from out of town went home, and his wife returned to an empty house.

The next day, Sunday, we made the 750-mile trek back home, and within minutes of our walking into the house I received the following e-mail from Richard’s wife: “I went by the cemetery on the way home from church. I sure hope this gets easier to be without Richard.” And then it hit me: The funeral may be over but some serious mourning is only now beginning. Now is the time to show meaningful support—when she’s all alone and having to deal with a big hole in her life. Now is the time to “mourn with those that mourn." And one more thing: Now is not the time for dumb clichés.

I am resolved to stay in frequent contact with her. And when I do I won’t say things like “Time heals all wounds”—how would I know that?—or “I know how you feel”—no I don’t! I will tell her how much I’m still hurting—because I really am—and then I will listen, not preach—and we will mourn together.

What's At the Center of Your Universe?

As early as the 4th century BC, ancient Greek astronomers and other men of science—including Aristotle and Ptolemy—believed that the Earth was the center of the Universe. For them, it was the Sun and other planets that orbited around the Earth and not the other way around.

For 2,000 years this belief persisted, and by the 1500's, the Catholic Church strongly supported this position, claiming that it was based in the Holy Scriptures. After all, they reasoned, if the Son of God had descended to the Earth to become mortal, then the Earth must surely be at the center of all Creation.

But then the truth was discovered. In 1543, just before his death, the scientific investigations of Nicolaus Copernicus were published in a book containing his contention that it was actually the Sun that was at the center of the universe; the Earth orbited around it. At the very least his ideas were revolutionary, but the Church considered them heretical. Many believed he’d waited until he was on his deathbed to publish these findings because he didn’t want to bring upon himself the wrath of the Church.

In about 1610 began the famous "Galileo affair." That was when Italian astronomer, Galileo Galilei, by means of improvements he’d made to existing telescopes, began publishing hard evidence showing that Copernicus had been right: the Sun was at the center of the Universe. In response, the heavy hand of the Church came down hard.

The story of how Galileo was taken before the Inquisition and how he battled to defend his position against the pressure of clerics, priests, and popes is a fascinating drama. It demonstrates how people who are wise in their own eyes will often stand by their mistaken beliefs in spite of evidence to the contrary. The attitude of Galileo’s critics was the 17th century version of "Don't confuse us with the facts – our minds are made up."

This was made plain in a letter Galileo wrote to fellow astronomer, Johannes Kepler:

"My dear Kepler, I wish that we might laugh at the remarkable stupidity of the common herd. What do you have to say about the principal philosophers of this academy who are filled with the stubbornness of an asp and do not want to look at either the planets, the moon or the telescope, even though I have freely and deliberately offered them the opportunity a thousand times? Truly, just as the asp stops its ears, so do these philosophers shut their eyes to the light of truth."

In1633, Galileo was ordered to stand trial in Rome "for holding as true the false doctrine taught by some that the sun is the center of the world." In the end, he was found "vehemently suspect of heresy" for claiming that the Sun stands motionless and the Earth moves around it. The Inquisition ordered the following

1) That he "abjure, curse, and detest" those opinions;

2) That he be imprisoned. (Due to his age—he was 70—this was changed to house arrest);

3) That his published works on the subject be banned and that any other of his written works be forbidden, including those he might write in the future.

While continuing to do scientific research in the field of mechanics, Galileo lived out his life under house arrest, and the stigma created by his trial and conviction tainted all other scientific works he authored.

I find it incredible that it wasn't until the year 2000 (!) that Pope John Paul XVI issued a formal apology for the mistakes committed by the Church in its condemnation and trial of Galileo. And all of this began because people who were too wise in their own eyes refused to accept the truth about the sun. Remember: Theirs wasn’t an outright denial of the sun’s existence. They simply felt that its place in the whole scheme of things was not as previously believed. So they relegated the earth’s source of warmth—and light, and life itself—to a far-distant orbit. For them, the Earth was the true center of the universe.

In today’s world, many people regard another “Son”—the Son of God—in much the same way. They don’t necessarily deny His existence. It’s just that their belief system removes Him from His rightful place at the center of God’s overall plan. Just like the ancient Greeks who were “wise in their own eyes,” they’ve come up with their own version of who and what He is, placing him in a distant “orbit” that is far removed from their everyday thoughts and actions. Instead of being centered on Jesus Christ and His Atonement, their “universe” revolves around the pursuit of material things and amusements—the so-called “treasures of the earth.”

Even though the Greek astronomers got the orbits of the sun and the earth mixed up, the earth continued along its path as it always had. And the sun came up every morning and set every night. People’s mistaken notions had no effect at all on those orbits, and nobody suffered the slightest loss of light or warmth.

But when it comes to that other “Son,” things are different. Those who do not make the Son of God the center of their lives are literally deprived of spiritual light and truth. They are left to walk in spiritual darkness. Their only source of light is the often faint and feeble glow of their own wisdom, trusting it to guide them safely through life’s journey.

So why is it, we may ask, that people who live without the Son of God in their lives can seem so content, successful, and fulfilled? I can best answer this question by relating a story told by Elder Boyd K. Packer. It concerned a young woman who, many years ago, walked some distance with her younger brothers and sisters to see the Peach Days Parade in Brigham City, Utah. None of them had ever seen any kind of parade before, so you can imagine their excitement.

After the children arrived in town, and before the actual parade began, they watched in awe as a large water wagon went down the street, wetting the dirt road to keep the dust from flying during the parade. After the water wagon had passed, the children went home. They thought the parade was over. And here is the sad part: They were perfectly satisfied, until later, when they learned what they had missed.

Just like the children in that story, many of Heavenly Father’s children think they are enjoying life at its very best—but only because they don’t know what they are missing.

It is my personal experience and witness that by making the Son of God the center of our lives we have unlimited access to light, and warmth, and mercy, and guidance from above. Admittedly, my own perspective on what He offers is limited. But I believe with all my heart that "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love Him" (1 Corinthians 2:9).
What’s at the center of your universe?