Growing Up In Himni, Utah - Episode 7

The Golden Emerods

Brother Goodwin’s Seminary Class was always a delight. Released time Seminary, for Latter-day Saint kids was held across the street from the High School in the Seminary Building. One period a day we spent over there ostensibly learning about the gospel. Brother Goodwin made that pretty likely. He loved the Lord. It showed. He loved us too. That also showed. Who can forget the day he stood upon his desk and delivered the Rameumptom Prayer. Or who can forget the day the phone call came to inform him that he had become the father of two adopted twins.
At the beginning of the year Brother Goodwin informed us that we’d be studying the Old Testament. He handed out our new Bibles. Next he divided us into Scripture Chase teams. He instructed us to organize our teams and to use the Bible in selecting names for our teams.

We huddled together and started brainstorming our way through the concordance. After some giggling, negotiating and mayhem the four teams came up with their names. Many of my best buddies were in that class and two of my closest, Mitch and Lew, were on my team! We called ourselves Noah’s Ark-angels. For a short time about then I had been nicknamed Noah on account of my having become proficient at reciting Bill Cosby’s “Noah” routine which we had on a long-play album.
Another good friend, Rob Hanke, lead up a team that called themselves Solomon's Wise Guys. (I’m sorry about that and I’m sure Brother Goodwin is too.)
The other two teams came in with Daniel’s Lions and, the envy of all of us The Golden Emerods. We had no idea what an emerod was but it sounded cool to us and cool was everything. If emerods were cool, golden ones had to be fantastic. The Golden Emerods included all girls and was headed up by a prissy little chick named Marci Merrywether. They were pretty good scripture chasers too and became our main rivals throughout the year. In fact later in the year, in a charitable ploy to even the odds, Brother Goodwin cheated in their behalf and spauned the Wet Topcoat Incident, but that is another story.
So the year labored on and we found ourselves studying in the book of First Samuel, whereupon we read:
1 Sam 5:9
9 And it was [so], that, after they had carried it about, the hand of the LORD was against the city with a very great destruction: and he smote the men of the city, both small and great, and they had emerods in their secret parts.
This was the story of the Philistines stealing the Arc of the Covenant from the Israelites, which sorely displeased the Lord. Naturally, we asked Brother Goodwin, again, what an emerod might be. He said he didn’t know, but something in his eye made me think otherwise. The Bible Dictionary didn’t offer a clue. Niether did the big dictionary over at the Library. I didn’t spend a lot of time fussing over it, but there was this little nagging itch in the back of my brain that really flared up when Marci got particularly snotty.
And so it was, that I found myself at BYU for a debate tournament with a little free time to visit the Library there. On a lovely wooden stand stood the largest dictionary I’d ever seen, Funk and Wagnal’s Unabashed Dictionary of the English Language or something like that. I looked up emerods and check out what I found:
emerod
‘ophel {o’-fel}
Hebrew: noun masculine
Possible Definitions:
1) hill, mound, fort, stronghold, Ophel
2) tumor, hemorrhoid
You can imagine which definition I favored. You can imagine Brother Goodwin’s dismay at my revelation to the class. You can imagine Marci Merrywether’s reaction to belonging to a scripture chase team named the Golden Hemorrhoids. (Might as well have been Gomer's Piles.)  And, I’m sure, you can imagine my thoughts upon the occasion of my own first encounter with those unpleasant little companions.

The Road To Emmaus

A few years ago I took my Son-In-Law and Grandson to the Fathers and Sons Outing. The ground was sloped and hard and I didn't sleep very well. At about four AM, I'd had enough and crawled out of my sleeping bag. I didn't want to awaken anyone, so I decided to go for a walk. It was a lovely starlit night on the mountain so I grabbed my binoculars and walked away from camp along a lonely dirt road. Jupiter was just setting in the west and I got a marvelous view of her majesty, being able to see three of her moons as I watched.

As I walked along the road I felt the companionship of my Savior. We walked and conversed for almost three hours. I thought I was on my own road to Emmaus. My heart swelled within me as we walked in the way. I returned rejoicing at my precious moments of love and clarity as I quietly walked with God.

For Christmas that year my daughters gave me this lovely painting.



I see here, the two disciples who had met and conversed with the Risen Lord on the Road to Emmaus. Here they are hastening back to Jerusalem to tell the others what they had seen.  It seems that in despair and discouragement they'd been retreating to their old lives, not knowing what else to do in the absence of their Master. He met with them and taught them as the walked, but their "eyes were holden" and the didn't recognize him. They'd heard that he'd been resurrected, but apparently found it difficult to believe. Then as they sat with Him at supper their eyes were opened and in one precious moment realized it was true and recognized, through His teaching and by the Spirit, that scripture had been fulfilled. Thus fortified, they changed their course and headed back to Jerusalem, to the Apostles and to their duty. The painting so beautifully depicts their humble awe, and determination, and repentance and clarity of purpose.

And so it is with me. Too often I retreat from my duty for lack of faith, humility and understanding. Too often, when things don't go as I intended or thought they should, I turn in despair and discouragement and wander off on my own Road to Emmaus. Today as I listened to Conference and sat at the feet of prophets, He came again and walked with me and I, like those two disciples, felt my heart burn within me as the scriptures were opened unto me. Thankfully, though I wasn't worthy, He caught up with me on my errant road and turned me and my heart around.

Like those two, earnest faces, in the painting, I have some repenting to do. I need to return to my duty with renewed determination and humility, gently reminded of who I am and what I've been given and that, I too, must be about my Father's business.

Oh, blessed Conference, I must never miss it!

Anticipating General Conference

I've been finishing The Book of Mormon this morning. While pondering, I found myself eagerly anticipating General Conference this weekend. I don't see it the same way I used to.

I often grew so jealous watching conference that I had to go do something else. I envied the General Authorities. I wanted to sit in their counsels. I wanted to be occupied full time in the service of the Lord. It looked so appealing to me to be continually associated with only the finest, the best. To be steeped in truth and service, rubbing shoulders with only the finest of Saints seemed so appealing, such a wonderful way to spend your days.

Instead I was consigned to spend my days with foul-mouthed people who thought more of beer than bearing testimony, focused their attentions on hunting elk and fishing for trout, rather finding folks with whom to share the gospel. I had a ministry all right it was all giving and no getting. There was no one there to lift and inspire me, it seemed like all the lifting was left for me to do.

Then one day I went to the Salt Lake Airport to see Sweetie off on a business trip. I bade her good-bye as she passed through the security gates. Watching her disappear down the long concourse I noticed Elder Neal A Maxwell of the Quorum of the Twelve coming the opposite direction. I thought I might like to shake his hand. As he and his companions approached, and I could see more clearly, it was obvious that Elder Maxwell was not well. He looked so utterly exhausted. Who knows where he'd been, for how long, under what weight of responsibility. Who knows what burdensome problems he'd dealt with, what long meetings and uncomfortable beds he'd had to endure. It was near the end of his life. He was suffering from Cancer - again. Still, he carried on, doggedly determined to give the full measure of his capacity to the service to which he'd been called.

My heart broke for this sweet, wonderful servant of the Lord. Watching, my mind raced back to the last time I'd seen him in person. We were in the Vernal Temple for it's Dedication. Sweetie and I were sitting in the Bride's Room, with her mother and our 8 year old daughter, watching the proceedings on closed circuit TV. As the meeting closed we could see on the monitor that President Hinckley and Elder Maxwell were leaving the temple via the hallway along which our room was situated. We urged our daughter to go stand by the door so she could see our Prophet pass by. President Hinckley was occupied in conversation and didn't notice little Katie standing there, but Elder Maxwell did. He approached her and then got down on his knees and gave her a great big bear hug, which she enthusiastically returned. There wasn't a dry eye in the room. The precious love and kindness that was felt in that brief moment, none of us, especially Katie, have ever forgotten.

As a much more weary Elder Maxwell passed by in the airport that day, I'd have liked to have thanked him for our precious moment in the Temple. I'd like to have shaken his hand and expressed my love and gratitude for his teachings and courageous example - but I didn't. I just stepped back against the wall and standing in awe, respect, concern and dismay, watched him struggle desperately for home and hopefully, rest. They had just gone around the corner, when Elder Ben B. Banks came quickly back. He took my hand and with tears in his eyes, thanked me for letting Elder Maxwell proceed without interruption. Another sweet servant of the Lord had noticed my respectful concern and had returned to acknowledge my gift.

As I drove three hours home I spent the time imagining the realities of being away from home weekend after weekend reorganizing Stakes, speaking in conferences, meeting with government officials, suffering jet lag, eating strange meals, meeting after meeting after meeting, always expected to speak, always bearing the burden of responsibility. I thought of all the birthday parties for grand kids, the ball games and school plays they missed. I thought of Elder Packer's statement, when asked of all the places he'd visited all over the globe, where would he rather go, to which he answered, "I would go home." Suddenly, the glamor of their most wonderful calling was balanced with an understanding of its attendant sacrifice. It clearly is not all roses and while there are things I'd love to enjoy, I'm not so envious anymore of the enormously difficult lives they lead.

I just, happily, received two new Councilors to serve with me in the Branch Presidency at the Detention Center. As we gathered for our first meeting, I heard them comparing notes about this missionary who's preparing to leave and that one, who's about to come home, and another who recently reported his first baptism. I was a bit startling. After serving exclusively at the Detention Center for the past five and a half years. I don't know kids who go on missions. I know kids who go to Rehab. I don't associate with many people who have burning testimonies. I don't go to Gospel Doctrine Class or High Priest's Quorum Meetings. I don't rub shoulders much with folks who are mature in the Gospel or who even understand much about it. Additionally, I attend a few 12 Steps meetings a week and while a few bear faith filled testimonies most are struggling with depression, addiction and despair. My employment is more of the same. The living waters Jesus offered run through the desert of my life and I partake freely and I am not complaining. But I am looking forward, with profound eagerness, to the next couple of days of spiritual feasting. I am anxious to sit at the feet of these wonderful men and receive the wisdom of their experience, the inspiration of their worthiness, the strength of their devotion and the insight of their companionship. They are not stingy with those things so laboriously obtained; and I am grateful.

And - part of me wonders - do they sit in those elevated seats and look down from the podium at us and also wish - that they could teach a little Primary class of bright-eyed Sunbeams; or hoe a widow's garden; or sing in a Ward Choir; or sleep under the stars with a handful of excited Boy Scouts; or watch a granddaughter blow out six candles? Does each of them quietly wish he could sit obscurely in a quiet down-home Sacrament Meeting, next to his wife, behind his best friend and in front of the recently reactivated family he Home Teaches? Surely, they get to do some of that, but mostly, they are counting on us to do that portion of the work.

Tomorrow and Sunday, I want to soak up their words and inspiration, ponder their meaning and bask in the Spirit the Lord will send to accompany them. Then, I want to carry those words and feelings to the little pregnant girl, locked up for joy-riding; and the bitter boy, whose father abandoned him and whose step father beats him; and the bewildered kid, whose parents are both locked up for drug dealing; and all the rest of those sweet kids, who've hardly known love and joy and who will most certainly miss out on Conference.

Thank You Steve!

They say a friend is someone who knows your song and sings it for you when you've lost your way. Something like that anyway.

Yesterday, my good friend Steve was such a friend. I've been a bit discouraged about my new job. Without going into details, the past two weeks has been challenging. After one brief orientation my supervisor went on two weeks vacation. My other coworkers have been nice and helpful, but too many things were out of their control. Frustrated, I was about ready to quit.

Then Steve came along. He was at the house on another errand and offered me a ride to work. On the way, he sang me my song, so to speak. In just a few short minutes he turned me right around and reminded me of what I am about. That brief moment in time changed my whole attitude.

My new job is perfect for me in that respect. I wish it paid more, but it puts me in a position to make a difference in the lives of young people. Few things give me more fire of passion than these wonderful, vulnerable, lovable youth. I am truly blessed to be able to serve them, in any capacity, but the one I have gives me so much opportunity that its overwhelming. I'm a Deputy Probation Officer for the Juvenile Court. My assignment is to run the work crew that enables the kids to work off fines and community service hours. I have an amazing amount of latitude with regard to how to accomplish that task. I even awoke in the middle of the night imagining creative ways to help them.

I hope, somehow, I can learn their songs and spend my time singing them back to them in their troubled hours.

Thanks again, Steve.

Growing Up in Himni Utah - Episode 6

Sometimes Things Don’t Go As Planned

All my life I had watched the Deacons pass the Sacrament at church with a measure of awe. They always deported themselves with dignity and respect for what we Mormons consider a very sacred ordinance. As I approached the age of twelve, when I expected to become a Deacon and have the honor of passing the Sacrament myself, I watched the Deacons with keen interest. I wanted to learn exactly how it was done so I wouldn’t flub up and embarrass myself when I first participated.

I turned 12 just a couple of weeks after we arrived in Himni and moved into the Himni 3^rd Ward. Bishop Merrell interviewed me and found me worthy of ordination. My Dad conferred the Aaronic Priesthood upon me and ordained me to the office of a Deacon. I think he was relieved to have actually been there. Four years earlier, when I was baptized things hadn’t gone so well. On the morning of my scheduled baptism my Dad and Grandfather had gone golfing. Grandpa had a heart attack on the third hole. Of course, Dad and Mom and Grandma went right to the hospital. My baptism was scheduled for 5:00 P.M. When the folks weren’t home by three I started to get nervous. When the clock struck four I was really concerned. I got my Sunday clothes on so I’d be ready when the folks rushed in. They didn’t. I had been left in charge of the kids. Todd, my brother and the next oldest was just six and a half. He thought he was big enough to take over and the neighbors were close, so I grabbed my recommend off of Mom’s dresser, left Todd in charge and rode my bike over to the church. I presented my recommend to the Brother in charge and got myself baptized. You can imagine my parents chagrin when they discovered their little boy had been baptized and they hadn’t even been there.

I was baptized by Richard F. Waters. To this day I have no idea who he is. Dad’s name did make it on the Baptismal Certificate as the man who confirmed me. That happened at church the next day. Grandpa recovered too.

So now we come to that fateful day when sitting on the front row in Sunday School I was nervously anticipating my first attempt at passing the Sacrament. (In those days Sunday School was in the morning and Sacrament Meeting was in the evening. The Sacrament was served in both meetings.)

I was prepared. I had learned exactly where I was supposed to go and exactly what I was supposed to do. The Deacon’s Quorum President had assigned me the easiest route, right down the side pews behind where we had been sitting. Just as the Priest finished the blessing on the bread a tickle in my nose produced a sudden and unexpected sneeze. I covered my mouth with my right hand. As I removed my hand I discovered an enormous glob of mucus in the palm of my hand. It was time to stand up and take the trays from the Priests. Panic! I had no handkerchief. What do I do? What do I do?! As I went to stand up the only thing I could think to do was scrape it off on the front of the wooden pew. Thinking of the words…”he that hath clean hands and a pure heart…” I felt so guilty taking the tray into my polluted right hand. I felt as though I had lied about my worthiness. Somehow I got through the passing of the bread. We filed back to the table, two rows of us. First the guys from the other side of the chapel returned their trays. They then backed up to allow my side to approach the table. The water was blessed and we took those trays. As we were filing out to distribute the water I followed one of the boys from the group that had backed up. There oozing down the back of his pant leg was my logie. He had backed up to the bench and gathered it up for me. I nearly fainted.

God has often re-reminded me of my humanity since that day. Thankfully, I have finally learned that my flaws, weaknesses and imperfections are the very reason we have the Sacrament in the first place.