Leadership in the Church

I never cease to be both pleased and amazed at the method and inspiration with which leaders in the LDS Church are selected. I was part of that process this week and feel even more grateful to know that God is at the helm.

Being a Branch President, I was invited along with other Priesthood Leaders to have an interview with the visiting Authorities from Salt Lake City. They interviewed 60 or 70 of us with the intent of finding who the Lord desires to be the two new Stake Presidents. Our lives and service were explored, but most important, we were each asked who we felt the Lord would have to lead us. The names we gave certainly had a bearing on the decision, but then these humble leaders took the matter to the Lord.

Having thus become a bit more familiar with the local leaders they had a bit more to place before the Lord as they sought His guidance. Long exposure to this method, affirms to me that we are truly led by inspiration. Never have I felt that the Stake President I then had was not the perfect person for the job. Not that any of them were or are perfect. They're not. But they were called by God to labor in his vineyard with talent and humility that made them wholly adequate to be instruments in His hands.

None of them desired the position. None campaigned or lobbied for the post. Neither were they coerced to accept such a burden of service and stewardship. All of them had burning testimonies of the truth. Each only desired to serve where the Lord needed them. None of them accepted without knowing of the sacrifice required to so serve and each of them accepted anyway.

One of the most beautiful things I've ever observed in this wonderful process was a Stake President, who upon his release from his highly visible, "important" calling of leadership, was called next to teach a class of rowdy boys in Primary. He served with just as much distinction, care and diligence in a tiny Primary class as he did leading an entire Stake of the Church. To him and the others. It never was about where you served but how. What a gift it is to be led by people such as that!

All that is required is to be willing to serve the Lord and let Him direct the affairs of the Ward or Stake. No special education, no remarkable gift for language, organization, or leadership, no amount of experience or dynamic of circumstance can substitute for the simple humility of letting God take charge of their lives and guide them in paths, He directs. Such are the men chosen today, whom I shall gladly follow.

Anybody Have a Flashlight?

I called Randy today and turned down his generous offer of a job. I'm still scratching my head about it. Randy and I've been friends since High School. We've laughed and cried together. We've served in the Kingdom together. We've hiked Grand Canyon together. We've helped each other through crises. We've celebrated one another's triumphs. We've wondered at one another's trials.

Most of those years our circles have not overlapped and we've spent months without much contact. I've long prayed that God would allow our paths to merge more. And now here is the answer to that prayer and I have to decline. I'd explain it to you if I understood it myself.

I guess if you needed a short answer I'd have to reply with, "Stupor of thought." I've lived long enough to know I should go with my feelings and working with Randy, though appealing beyond description, doesn't feel right. Apparently, Heavenly Father has something else in mind for me.

Randy asked if another of my prospects had come through. That would have been nice. No, I have applications for employment out there, but have had no response from any of them. Of course that makes my decision to decline Randy's offer seem even more irresponsible and foolish. Still, I must go with my feelings. Interestingly, Randy seemed like my decision confirmed feelings of his own. Being Pals both of us would have loved working together, yet both of us sense that God has something else in mind for each of us. There is no point speculating why or what this should be. Perhaps, the answer will one day be revealed, maybe we'll never know.

And so, for now, I sail blindly into the darkness of my future, trusting God to be at the helm. While a flashlight would be nice, if God is my Captain I need not fear. I'm certain that out there, in the darkness, God has a blessing for me. I have no inkling how that blessing will present itself. It could be buried treasure on some island of comfort. It could be smooth sailing on a bright tranquil sea. I could be a disastrous wreck on the rocks of some unfamiliar shore. And it could be a heart wrenching storm of monstrous proportions. Whatever it is, it will be life. And life is what I signed up for.

I have only one hope and that is to tarry. I want to serve. I want to reflect the light of Christ into the life of someone in the darkness of despair. I want to love. I want to pour the love of Christ into the wounds of those I meet. I want to care. I want to show to those I encounter that they matter not only to me but to God. I want to teach. I want to share what I've been given all my days. I want to live!

Wayne A. Jenkins - December 1961 to August 2009

I didn't know Wayne A. Jenkins. I knew his parents. I knew of their concern when he first got sick. I knew of the roller coaster ride of fear and elation, doubt and confidence, miracle and disappointment that thrilled and chilled their hearts for the past two years. I knew of their deep abiding faith and trust in God. It was all evident yesterday morning as I sat in their living room and grieved his passing with them.

Jim and Jackie told me of tender moments of faith and testimony during Wayne's ordeal. They told me of faithful friends, devoted siblings, earnest children, loving in-laws, a constantly devoted wife and a caring, loving and enduring, though dieing, father. They were touching stories of love, sorrow and faith. There was no panic in their voices, no anguish in their demeanor. Only, faith and love and loneliness. It will likely be a long time before they see Wayne again - long in the dog days of mortality. But in my two sweet friends glows an inner confidence that, distant or close, that day of joyful reunion will come and it will be accompanied by the majestic music of gratitude and love.

As is so often the case, I go to comfort and return comforted. What a blessing it is to know and be known by faithful, faith-filled Latter-day Saints. Like everyone else, they suffer tribulation in life. Like most they face it with resolute determination. Like some, they also face it with assurance, confidence, courage and above all perspective. What a gift it is to know and understand God's Plan of Happiness, Redemption, Salvation, The Great Plan of the Eternal God. A plan which He has revealed to us, so that we can see life in its entire beauty, majesty, and perfection. A gift we so gratefully appreciate because while embracing our sorrow, through the tears we can look over it's shoulder at the bright broad glory of eternity.

Growing Up In Himni, Utah - Episodes 1 & 2

Note: My alter-ego A. Jenkins Parker has written a series of stories about a fictitious town in Utah called Himni. I'll be making it a regular Tuesday practice of sharing some of those stories with you. Jinx as he his known to his friends, doesn't approve of this, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Enjoy!

My How The Place Has Changed, by A. Jenkins Parker

I wasn’t born in Himni. It had plenty of history, by the time I got here. I’ve learned some of the past, but mostly, I’m just going to tell you about the stuff I’ve seen in this little town since my family arrived. Even so, you ought to know a little about Himni for reference purposes.

Situated in a lonely valley in Eastern Utah, Himni has always been a bit out of the way. When Brigham Young was sending folks into the far reaches of the Intermountain West, this must have been one of the last places he thought of. Himni was hard to reach, dry and pretty much inhospitable. We’ve always wondered if the first pioneers who came here weren’t chased rather than directed to come to such a place. The old folks somehow scratched out a living, but by the looks of things when I arrived, just barely. Then the gentiles started showing up. They were chasing minerals and oil and didn’t care much for cows and sheep. They prospered and the rest of the community began looking in their direction.

There never has been much of a quarrel between the Mormons and the gentiles out here, but the mixture has been interesting to see. That’s about all you need to know.

I arrived in 1962 and entered the seventh grade at Omner Valley Jr. High. That was about the time of Himni’s transition and I thought I might like to share some of those days with you. It was a different time. One today’s youngsters may even find hard to believe. I had just turned 12 and was pretty confused about life and living. I had lived in Salt Lake and Provo during my formative years. Not exactly big cities, but really something compared to Duchesne where I’d spent the past two. Now we had uprooted once again and moved to Himni, at least four times the size of Duchesne. The streets were paved. The library didn’t have wheels. They had a swimming pool.

Once when my kids were little they wondered how come I knew so much about the 50’s when I would have been too small to remember much. It was simple. The 50’s didn’t get to Himni ’til the 60’s. In many ways, thank goodness, the 60’s never did get here. There was that couple of weeks the Hippies were passing through town…which makes a great jumping off spot for a first story.

Of Hippies, Produce and Making a Living, by A. Jenkins Parker

One summer in the mid-sixties the Hippies had a rendezvous in Boulder, Colorado. Most of them hitchhiked through Himni on their way from California. There wasn’t a male in town who had hair over his ears so to us they were quite a sight. Most folks just gawked, a few mothers kept their kids indoors, but life didn’t change all that much.

Butch Farley and his buddies rolled a few of them, or so we heard. They claimed to have even taken a load of Hippies into the back of Butch’s pickup truck ostensibly to convey them on towards Colorado. Instead they took them up on Pine Top and impolitely dropped them off in the middle of nowhere. Butch loved the reputation, but I don’t really know if he ever did half the stuff his minions bragged about. I was working at the local IGA that summer. My first town job. We had the usual crew; a few sweet old ladies in the bakery, a trio of young mothers running the check stands, a bunch of high school kids bagging groceries and stocking shelves. We had an ambitious out-of-towner for a manager who’s name was Lester Moore. A smooth ladies man in the meat department called Tuff. And we had a scrawney little manager wannabe running the produce department. His name was Mark Wilson. Mark was also from out of town.

Mark was always having problems. I think his ambition far outstripped his brains, but he was a nice kid and we all liked him. One day, for example, we called him to the front to help check groceries. He never came. We called again with the same results. When the rush was over; Les sent me over to the Pine Top Cafe’ to see if he was sitting in the coffee shop. Nope. We made a cursory search of the store with no results. We even called his house to see if he’d gone home for some reason. No luck, but his wife Leslie, hurried down to help with the search. They’d been married just a few months. Leslie was gorgeous and I had a secret crush on her.

I personally had checked the produce cooler a couple of times. The light switch was on the outside of the door. Both times the light was off. On my third trip around I looked in the cooler again, nothing. Just as the door was closing, though, I heard something and opened the door and turned on the light. A wall of lettuce boxes had collapsed and fallen on top of poor Mark. He’d been there under the pile in that cooler for over three hours. He was shivering uncontrollably and Leslie took him home for the rest of the day.

Another time we had a late night stocking project. Us kids went home at midnight and Les and Mark stayed behind. When we got to the store in the morning it was locked up. We rattled the door and Nellie from the bakery, who had been inside for hours making bread and doughnuts and stuff, let us in. It was dark up in the office so Sue Connor, the head checker made me go up with her. There we found Les and Mark passed out after polishing off a bottle of Jack Daniels. As in the rest of Utah, a bottle Jack Daniels isn’t available in a grocery store and I had never even seen one. Mark had fallen asleep with his neck propped between two coke bottles in a 24 bottle crate. We let them sleep. When they finally came down about eleven, Mark couldn’t hold his head up and he stayed that way for about a week. One Friday morning we got this huge shipment of cantaloupes. Les was livid. We’d never sell that many in a million years. Desperate to prove him wrong before the cants spoiled, Mark put on his thinking cap. Where he got his stroke of genius we’ll never know.

Rarely, had the hippies actually stopped in the store, but on this particular day they were swarming the place. Oh, they bought the usual stuff and tried to look casual but it soon became apparent that it was cantaloupes they were after. Every sale included several! By Saturday night they were almost gone! We had nearly sold the entire stock in two days!

Now, in those days the most common advertising method in the grocery business was the painted sign. Poster paint on butcher paper was the medium. These were usually stapled on a wooden “A” frame out on the sidewalk for the passing traffic to see. For a couple of days none of us employees had noticed what Mark had done. There on an ordinary “A” frame was this message. “NOTICE – IT HAS COME TO OUR ATTENTION THAT PEOPLE HAVE BEEN DRYING THE RINDS OF OUR CANTALOUPES AND SMOKING THEM – WE ABSOLUTELY REFUSE TO SELL OUR MELONS FOR ANY OTHER THAN THEIR INTENDED PURPOSE!”

Sometimes we get so desperate to find happiness, we’ll try anything.