September 3, 2008
Dear Son,
Well, another uneventful week has come and gone. There was a bit of a hubbub over the weekend as Hurricane Gustav sped across the Gulf. It was aimed right at New Orleans, so the governor called out the National Guard and made evacuation mandatory about three days in advance. By the time Gustav actually came to shore, everyone was well on their way to Houston or points west.
There was also some concern that it may veer left and land at Galveston, but as the days passed, the likelihood lessened. As it turned out, it hit west of New Orleans which put them on the dirty side of the storm, but it had moved pretty fast across the Gulf so didn’t have time to work itself up. It was a Category Four when it crossed over Cuba, but was only a Cat2 when it made landfall. So, all in all, it was a lot less trouble than everyone feared. Ariane’s extended family (like her grandmother) was at some risk, but luckily Monty and Cheryl are now well-established in Richmond.
As it turned out, this was a bit of mercy for the Republican National Convention which started on Monday. Had Gustav been catastrophic and hit New Orleans dead on (or closer than it was), the election would have been over. Despite how smoothly everything went this time, the specter of Katrina would raise her ugly head and the footage of Republican incompetency would have cooked McCain’s goose. Never mind that the governor of Louisiana is now a Republican and doing an excellent job. Gustav would have decided the election.
Hurricane Hanna was hard on the heels of Gustav, only she was headed straight for Miami. Now, she’s doing loop-de-loops over Jamaica and Haiti, which is the weirdest thing I ever saw. All the hurricanes this season have been atypical. Gustav was the only one that acted as a proper hurricane should. Ike and Josephine decided they wanted to get in on the action early and are now getting worked up out in the Atlantic. Ike has scarcely left the African coast.
I told your dad that I was waiting for Hurricane Nana. He laughed and thought that was a pretty good joke, but I said, no, really, she’s right here on the list of names. With the way things are going, it looks like we’ll definitely see her before the season is over.
So much for the weather update. And now for the news. Oh, wait. There isn’t any. Alora did start preschool yesterday, and she absolutely loved it. I think that’s really wise of Ariane as it gives Alora an outlet and Ariane a break for a few hours twice a week. That child is all energy, but she always needs someone to share the excitement with. One day while Ariane was here, she and I were in the office chatting, and Alora came in and said, “I need you to entertain me.” It was really funny and Ariane decided maybe she better watch what she says to her friends because her kids are always listening. Apparently, Alora agreed entirely with Ariane’s assessment that she always needed someone to entertain her. Aaron is the polar opposite. He reminds me a lot of you. He’s perfectly happy off in a corner somewhere wrecking havoc all by himself.
Alora talks constantly about you coming home, but the best concept she can grasp is ‘next week’. We tell her, when it’s Halloween, but for a child who refers to anything in the past as ‘yesterday’, that means little to nothing.
I really need to figure out how to fix this silly webcam. I start to go through grandchild withdrawal, and there’s no way Dad will go down to Richmond every week, or even every other week. I think I’m going to talk them into Fast Sunday family dinner again. I don’t know why we left off—probably because Adam’s life got too busy and the house consumed all their attention and energy, but now it will be one of the few ways we get to see them. I think now the whole empty nest thing is starting to sink in, but, at least we worked into it gradually and it wasn’t a big jolt all at once. That’s made it a lot easier to adapt.
BYU sounds like a good plan to me. I think you’d be a lot happier in Provo than at BYU-Idaho. You and cold are pretty much strangers, and if you think Provo is cold, you’d be in for a violent shock at Rexburg. Besides which, I’m certain you’d still be drawn to Provo even from Rexburg. By far, the majority of your friends are there, and weighed on that scale, Provo rather clunks down and flips Rexburg through the air. I’m glad I didn’t have to try to talk you out of Hawaii, first, because the cost of living there is impossible, and second, BYU-Hawaii is considered the party school of the CES. If you’re going to spend a boatload of money, I’d much rather you spent it on your education rather than an extended vacation. Just keep checking with President Sanchez to make sure he’s sent in your ecclesiastical recommendation. Dallas barely made the deadline because his MP set his on the back burner.
I had an interesting experience last Wednesday that I wanted to tell you about. I went and sat with Sister Marsha Johnson’s mom, Lucille, while she went out to do RS stuff. I sat with her a couple of hours and chatted with her or listened to her stories the entire time. She told me her conversion story, which I’m certain you’ve heard, but she also told me lots of things I didn’t know.
Sister Lucille was born in Oklahoma, but when her mother died when she was nine, her father moved the family to Arkansas which was where he was from originally. Then, when her father died, her grandmother kept the boys but sent herself and her sister back to Oklahoma to live in an orphanage. When she was fifteen, she ran away to find her sister who was living independently. From there, she went to live with her uncle and worked on his farm, which she finally felt was home. She is 84 years old, so it was the height of the Great Depression when all this was going on, and she in the heart of the Dust Bowl.
As so many people did, she ended up married and in California. Her marriage didn’t last, as to use her words, ‘he was too handy with his fists’, and she refused to put up with it. As a single young mother, she got a job as a police officer and worked at La Jolla guarding submarines. Her brother had taught her to shoot when she was a child, as it was their job to go out hunting and bring home meat for the table. She told me she loved guns, (there were times she wanted to turn one on her abusive husband), and was the best sharp-shooter on the whole base, except for her instructor. She could light a match at twenty paces, which Brother Ricker refused to believe was possible until he went out to prove it to himself. She smiled when she recalled how hard they tried to do it because they were not going to allow this tiny old lady to best them. She thought that maybe, perhaps they had finally done it.
She worked at the submarine base for about five years, and then decided to go back to her family in Arkansas. She traveled all across the country by herself, with her three children in tow. Then, she met her second husband, they married and moved to Houston. I think her oldest children were pretty much grown by the time Marsha and her brother, Randy, came along. At least, Marsha very rarely mentions them, and I was really shocked to learn of Sister Lucille’s first marriage and her children.
Anyway, when Marsha was about eight, the family was living in Houma, Louisiana, where she worked as the chief bookkeeper for a chain of five grocery stores. Niggling questions about the Bible continued to vex her. When she asked her pastor questions, first he said, ‘we must have faith’, then came ‘I don’t know’, until finally he said, “You know, Mrs. Johnson, you really are becoming a problem.”
That was when she started investigating other religions, but none of the pamphlets or other information her friends had to offer gave her any satisfaction. One day, she mentioned this to one of her friends who happened to be a less active Mormon (I’m certain because of her isolation) and happened to have a Joseph Smith pamphlet in her car. Sister Lucille took it to be polite and after her friend left, went to the trash can to throw it away. That was the last thing she recalled until she found herself sitting at her kitchen table reading the pamphlet, the hair standing up on her head, it so electrified her. She knew that moment it was true and told her friend as much. She begged her for more reading material, but her friend told her, “No. You’re ready for the missionaries.”
That went as you would expect, but when it came time to the family to be baptized, they told her they must drive 35 miles to Shreveport. When they got there, they went to a specific house and into a back room which had a huge wooden box in it. It had originally been a crate in which they shipped oil field machinery, but they had painted it, I assume water-proofed it, and built ladders ‘coming and going’, as Sister Lucille put it. If they wanted a ‘real’ baptismal fount, they were told they must drive to New Orleans (on the opposite end of the state). In that crate she was baptized, as was her husband, and he baptized their daughter, Marsha. They were the first members of the Church ever in Homer, Louisiana. The rest is history, but it’s that history I want to tell you about.
As it happened, Sister Lucille was, as I said, the head bookkeeper for five supermarkets. As she required them, she would choose the sharpest and best cashiers from those stores and ask them if they wished to learn bookkeeping. Of course, they all jumped at the chance, she trained them herself, and soon Sister Lucille had a whole pool of bookkeepers working under her. One could say she was a woman of some influence.
After she joined the Church, as she put it, she ‘couldn’t keep it to myself’. She preached the Gospel to anyone who would listen, and every single one of ‘her girls’ joined the Church, as did their families. Before long, they had a branch up and running which filled her entire living room and burst out of it because neither could her friends keep the good news to themselves. As she said, she did the preaching and her husband did the baptizing.
In those days, the Church didn’t just build a chapel because it was needed. The saints had to come up with a big chunk of the money, and $1000 1960-dollars was a hefty amount. However, that is how much the Johnsons ultimately contributed to the building fund for their ward house. They quite literally built the Kingdom in Homer. They lived in there some years. It’s where she and Marsha ultimately call home. They eventually moved away to follow the work, but when they left Homer, their branch was well on its way to full ward status and the meeting house was eventually built. She told me that whenever they drive through, they have to see that chapel because they feel so much a part of it.
Needless to say, Sister Lucille takes great pleasure in relating this story and in contemplating just how many people she brought into the gospel. Of course, there is absolutely no way of telling just how far her testimony reached, for every single one of her girls remained steadfast in the Gospel and raised their families to do the same. When one considers how many missionaries must have been sent out into the world and how many children raised their own in the gospel as a result of their parents’ conversion, the influence of Sister Lucille and her husband staggers the mind.
And all this because one sister whose hardship and distance prevented her from regularly attending church meetings kept in her glove box a Joseph Smith pamphlet and was not to timid too share it. I asked Sister Lucille whatever became of her friend, if she starting coming back to church when they had established their branch, but she told me after she attended their baptism, she moved away and then died shortly thereafter. She never knew the results of her efforts.
But, how great must be her joy! When Sister Lucille finally meets her again, how they will rejoice in knowing the blessings they bestowed upon so many. Whenever I wonder if what I am doing is enough or if it is worth it, I consider that ‘less active’ sister and hope that there are more like Sister Lucille who latch onto the truth I try to communicate and cannot keep the good news to themselves. That thought makes all the effort worth it.
So, that’s my homily for today. I hope it inspires you as much as it has me. With juggernauts like Sister Lucille, the Gospel cannot help but fill the whole earth. Like that stone cut out of the mountain without hands, it is unstoppable. Remember:
Work hard. Have faith. Do good. But, most of all, rejoice!
All my love,
mom
Showing posts with label missionary work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label missionary work. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Power of Fellowship
To Elder Paul Freeman, from Gay Gerard
August 10, 2008
Dearest Elder Paul that I love,
I’ve enjoyed your letters home so much, and I’m thrilled with the things you’ve accomplished on your mission and they great personal growth you’ve shown. I haven’t been able to write as I’d have liked, I’ve had so much on my plate, but my life is settling down to a roar, and life is sweet.
We had an awesome sacrament meeting today, our new stake partiarch, Brother Neve, and his wife spoke, both lacing their talks with stories from their pasts. My husband, Bob, was reaching for a Kleenex before I was. They both spoke on how how small things can bring about great blessings, and it’s so true. The small acts of service we render to each other can have eternal consequences. One story Sister Neve told was of being impressed during one meeting to get up and go sit by a woman who was sitting alone. They exchanged a little small talk and a hug. She said that 20 years later, this same woman, by now a dear and long time friend, very active in the Church, told her that if she hadn’t come and talked to her that morning (and Sister Neve was the only one who did) she’d have never gone back to church.
It reminds me of the old adage, "They don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care."
When we were in the Santa Fe 2nd Ward in Norwalk, Les and I were "Fellowshipping Chairmen," and under Bishop Cottrell’s inspired instruction, when any member of the ward planned to bring a non-member friend to church, they’d call us, we’d call the Home Teaching leader, he’d call his home teachers, and before the next Sunday came around, everyone knew that so and so was coming, and they’d be met at the door with smiles and welcomes, not by one person, but by many, invited to dinner after the meeting, invited to a beach picnic, had offers of rides and babysitting, etc. Bishop Cottrell told us that for two years in a row, our ward was number 1, worldwide, in referral baptisms. It was really fun, with missionaries coming over all the time, eating, getting their hair cut, their shirts ironed, etc. It was a happy time. Our family was instrumental in getting 11 of our kids’ friends and three of their mothers baptized.
I’m telling you these things so if there’s a need in your area, you might suggest the ward members go all out in fellowshipping non-members, not with preaching, that’s your job, but with real, honest to goodness love and service. One friend of mine, Marian Hewey, was stricken with severe rheumatoid arthritis, had gone through four sets of missionaries with no intention of being baptized. It wasn’t until she called me one day, I went and found her alone and in terrible trouble, carried her into the shower, then took her to the hospital where she began a road to recovery. That experience softened her heart, and she and her children were baptized and she bacame a great strength in our ward. I talked with her a few years ago, she was completely bedridden, unable to even hold the phone without help, but she was providing a home for sister missionaries. She was a great lady.
I hope these last weeks of your mission will be wonderful and you’ll come home trailing glorious clouds of your missionary mantle. I love you, Grandma Gay
"Insight is the most profound level of learning." Enoch Tan
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Witness of the Holy Ghost
To Elder Paul Freeman
August 6, 2008
Dear Son,
Well, we managed to survive the weekend, which was rather a hectic one. I told you that — and — were getting married on Saturday. It was also newsletter weekend, and since Sister — didn’t take us up on our offers to help her out with the reception, I procrastinated getting the newsletter finished, which was entirely normal, of course. However, as it happened, while I was putting the newsletter together on Saturday morning, she called to get Ginger’s phone number which started me worrying. About an hour later, Ginger called me from down at the church and said, help help! So, Dad, Dani and I went down and helped out for a while. (Dani is home for the summer missing Jeffrey who is now in Madrid. She'll go back to school at the end of the month).
Once they started setting up for the wedding the night before, the — realized they needed to to cut the gym in half (of course). They had hit upon using the volleyball standards and nets and some pink cloth Ginger said she had scads of, but once she got down there it was obvious that was noy going to work. So, we put our heads together, tried a few different things, figured out what would work and what wouldn’t, called Jeanette to run and get some other stuff we needed, and then Dad and I took off, leaving Ginger alone again because Dani had taken Braelynd with her to the store or something.
So, Dad and I grabbed some lunch, then headed back home to get the newsletter done. Dad was incredibly patient with me, I must say. Friday he swore he was going to shut down the shop whether I was ready or not, but I managed to get seven pages finished, take a shower, wrap their present (We have enough paper! Hallelujah!!) and then get back down to the wedding just as — and — were getting into their car to drive away. I don’t think they even saw me, but that wasn’t important anyway. They really had quite a good turn-out and it was a nice little wedding. Best of all, Matt was standing there on the curb so I got him to lug in the stoneware we got for them. It about killed Dad getting it from Sam’s to the car to the house, and I could only get it from the living room to the back door again. Dad had to take it the rest of the way. Matt’s response was, ‘What the heck is in this thing?!’ He was rather disappointed when I told him it was just dishes.
I have no idea how they’re going to get their boodle home. They flew out to his post in South Dakota early Sunday morning. Dad was rather freaked about the whole thing, in his quietly skittish way. There was far too much deja vu at the Hafer building on Saturday afternoon. He rather got stuck in a time warp.
So, after the new Couple — drove away, I had set the copy machine going, Dad remained to the library rather than have to deal with the crowd, and I had greeted Sister — and effused over Ginger’s handiwork which really was absolutely marvelous and didn’t look a bit like the last minute slap-dash that it was, I went back to the library and set to. Fortunately, Ginger and Sister Lewis (I’m not sure if you met the newly arrived Lewises while you were here) brought back two plates of food which was very considerate and well-timed, as Dad was spiraling down into an insulin reaction. But, we got one hundred copies printed, collated and stapled, then stashed in the RS closet until the morrow, and then managed to get some shopping done after that. I think it was pushing eight o’clock by the time we got home, and I’m really, really, really glad Dad had already had his dinner and I didn’t have to fix it after the day that we had.
And, all this time a little tropical depression was brewing out in the Gulf, acting rather erratic and petulant in its youth. Sunday came and went and the tropical depression became Tropical Storm Edouard. Meh.
I think we’re probably going to be driving [a neighbor family] down to church every week for a while—at least until [their grandparents] come back down in the fall. Their car broke down over the weekend and so they had no transportation. They split their family up between us and [another family], but once I got into the car I realized there’s a middle seatbelt in the front where [the youngest] would fit quite nicely, so I can accommodate the whole crew. Their financial situation and the price of gas really can’t peacefully coexist, so car-pooling makes all the sense in the world. I don’t think it will take [the husband] much to convince [the wife] of the wisdom of it.
The Relief Society newsletter was as effective as always as a Fast Sunday reverence inducer, and we’re getting less and less particular about the gender of the recipients. I’m starting to get back into the groove after taking back the publishing duties from Sister Elsasser. The April issue was pathetic, May was a complete wash, and June and July were only two or three pages long because I tried wrangling with Word which is impossible. So, because that won’t work, I removed the program that WordPerfect couldn’t get along with and now things are working marvelously. Besides, do I really need Visual C+++ on this computer? I think not.
Monday morning came with tropical storm warnings and hurricane watches which continued all day. The silly little storm sidled up to the coast as close as it could and still maintain its form, then slowly skittered along it west by northwest for the better part of the day. Making a beeline toward Galveston. Then it stopped and parked southwest of New Orleans (I don’t think they got a drop of water out of it), and Dr. Neil began to fret. The longer it stayed out to sea, the better its chances of reconsolidating its tattered edges and then be an out-right hurricane once it landed at Galveston. They predicted landfall at 1:00 pm on Tuesday but weren’t issuing any evacuation orders or anything—not even Galveston.
We watched it all day, and after Adam had done a walk-through of the house with their own personal inspector without anyone looking over their shoulders, he sent Ariane and the kids up here. They got here about 10:30 pm and we all went straight to be—except Ariane, of course, who hasn’t had the internet for a couple of weeks, at least, and so had a lot of make-up stuff to do and she set to it.
Tuesday morning I was awakened at 6:30 am by Adam calling me to ask what they were saying on the news about Edouard. Danged if I knew. Dad turned on the beast and we cranked up the volume so Adam could hear the forecast, etc, for himself. What a change overnight! Edouard had all of the sudden sped up, sliced heavily to the right, and made actual landfall at Sabine Pass at 7:00 am, but all the forward stuff was already hitting when we turned on the news. And, it was totally weird in that the left side of the storm provided the most wind and rain, leaving the towns that had actually evacuated (Sabine Pass, Port Arthur, etc) relatively unscathed. Ironically, because it landed at Sabine rather than Galveston, instead of Stafford being square in the storm’s path, it passed north of them, putting us in the more exposed position.
It had already started raining so Dad decided to work from home and had his morning meeting over the phone. The news folks were telling everyone it was safest to stay off the roads and were showing some shots of the rain falling in buckets, only blowing sideways. We had a good steady rain all day, enough to bring the sorely neglected grass back to life, but I don’t think we heard a clap of thunder nor saw any lightning, and had a breeze, at best, not even a stiff one.
Alora and Aaron knocked about the house all day being bored to tears. The weather wasn’t severe enough to be interesting to them, but it never let up enough so that they could play outside. We all lived, though, and are very grateful. Unfortunately for the Robinsons next door, they had chosen Monday as the day to rip up their driveway and have it completely replaced. Now I don’t know when they’ll be able to replace the concrete.
Fast and Testimony meeting on Sunday was fabulous, as always. This week most everyone spoke about missionary work, especially since the Thursday before the ward had a missionary activity sponsored by the ward missionaries. Brother Sulski arranged it, so you know it had to work out well.
First, they sent around sign-up sheets for the activity (no ward activity can even be announced without sign-up sheets). Then, Thursday night, about 36 people congregated at the Sulskis’ house (even some who didn’t sign up), they broke up into the pairs to canvas the streets Brother Sulski assigned, and then they went out and tracted some subdivision, I can’t remember the name, but a small one with only 700 homes. They tracted the entire subdivision in a matter of 60-90 minutes, and came away with 15 different names/families for the missionaries to visit. How cool is that?!
In Fast and Testimony meeting, Brother Kent first got up and talked about his regret in not being able to attend. I’m sorry to say that Brother Kent is starting to show his age a bit. You can tell his pain is getting increasingly difficult to deal with, but he keeps chugging on. It may take him a bit longer to get up the aisle every month, but it’s difficult to imagine Fast Sunday without him. I know he’s pushing 80, but it’s always seemed to me like he’d go on forever.
At any rate, he bore his testimony, as usual, with an appropriate homily or remembrance, but then announced that surely Brother Sulski would get up and tell us all about the ward missionary activity. We went through several ward missionaries, including Sister Brighton and Brother Rucker, then Sister Erickson spoke about her increased appreciation for the concept of visiting teachers, and Sister Mahana who needed to bear her testimony publically to her girls before Deneka went off to BYU later this month. Sister Santana brought everyone to tears, as she usually does in speaking of her sadness that people won’t open their ears because of their pride. Sister Parker testified of miracles, prayers, and the strength of families. Gavin was in a severe boating accident requiring major surgery, but when the doctors got in there, what they had seen on x-ray was there no longer. The doctor told them it was a miracle, but they didn’t need his word for it to know it.
Finally, just as everyone was glancing at the clock to see if he had time, Brother Sulski got up and told us all about it, including the fact that once everyone had gone home, Blake tried to convince his dad to go back to a certain house they had visited and talk some sense into a guy who refused to listen to the truth. As he spoke, I looked around the room and counted how many people I know who have joined the Church as adults: the bishop, the Kellers, the Sterns, the Mixas, Sister Santana, the Kents, the Sulskis, the Johnsons—the list goes on and on, and these people are the stability and strength of our ward. How marvelous it is that some valiant and faithful young men set aside the doubts, fears, and uncertainties which are prerequisite with coming of age, and sacrificed all the common pursuits of their peers to share with those people their own testimonies of the gospel! How little a sacrifice it was for them when they were rewarded with such treasures beyond price! And, what did they sacrifice? Absolutely nothing of any lasting value but gained blessings unmeasured and some otherwise unattainable but essential to their eternal progression.
When I realized the day had come and gone (Friday or Saturday), I was feeling guilty that I missed the activity, and guilty that I felt relieved that I didn’t go because doing the same absolutely terrifies me and I know I shouldn’t be. However, the Lord told me that he was pleased with my own part and my offering was acceptable to him by a few affirmations he allowed me. The joy and gratitude I felt in gaining that knowledge is beyond description.
I keep plugging away at these silly blogs, hoping that someone gets some good out of them somewhere. I know that the urgency I have felt in starting and maintaining them is a direct answer to my prayers for missionary experiences, and so I do it. However, that little doubt always hovers about me and I cannot help wonder if I am only deceiving myself in order to excuse any more active participation in missionary work.
Then, as I went to the temple with Sister — and she told me how she couldn’t thank me enough for my example and the blogs and how they have touched her life, made her want to get closer to the Lord, and helped her see how she needs to improve in her temple attendance and her scripture reading to accomplish it, I knew that in itself was worth the effort. After all, there I was in her car going to the temple with her, and she had called me to ask if I wanted to go with her. That has never happened before.
Then, Monday morning, I was fairly dancing in the streets when my Facebook friend told me of her experience at Fast and Testimony meeting that Sunday, and how she knew beyond doubt that she was supposed to go on a mission. Son, when I first knew her, she was a brand-new convert and had made the astounding choice of ending her live-in relationship with a boyfriend who refused to marry her, so that she could be baptized into the true Church of Jesus Christ. She had helped raise his children, her own children were attached to him as well, but she made the choice and was really struggling with it, particularly since Christmas was coming on and she would be all alone. I believe I was one of the few Mormon friends she had at the time, but now she is an integral part of her ward, is strong in missionary work herself, and knows the Lord wants her to be willing to sacrifice that time to him. She isn’t certain if she will clear the physical requirements (she has some health issues), but her desire burns within her.
All that keeps running through my head is ‘how great shall be thy joy’, especially when I consider the lives she will touch and is now touching as she serves, and I know I cannot begin to fathom it. More and more I catch glimpses of why the prophets have such urgency for the work to go forward, why President Hinckley traveled so far for so long and why he scattered temples across the globe, building at an unprecedented rate. Surely his own joy was commensurate to his sadness in contemplating all our Father’s children who yet remain in darkness, all those who desire the temple blessings but cannot gain them because of geography. Surely he spent hours on his knees each day pleading with the Lord to pour out his blessings upon the people. Surely President Monson is just the same. I know that the pure love of Christ motivates them, and, like Lehi did to his own family, they beckon us all, member and non-member alike, to come and partake of the pure love of Christ and know its sweetness and glory.
In RS this week, Sister Brighton gave a lesson about relying upon the Lord and recognizing when his influence is working in your life. She quoted something from the World Leadership Meeting which was included in last month’s Ensign, which was that if you feel the influence of the Holy Ghost, the Atonement is working in your life.
That really hit me because I had just been reading in 1 Nephi 10:1 where he relates the state he was in when he received the revelation of the Tree of Life. He wanted to know for himself what his father, Lehi, had seen in the vision. First, he had desire—real and true and strong, and I have to believe of the most sincere variety and for the purest of purposes. He wasn’t just curious. I have to believe he wanted that same testimony of the gospel which he felt so strongly in his father. He wanted to know.
Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, he had faith. He believed all the things his father had told him. If he had not, the desire would have been the weakness of idle curiosity or nonexistent. But his faith not only in his father but in the Lord was strong enough to effect all that was to follow.
Third, he pondered. I’m certain he just didn’t say, ‘that’s cool. Can I see?’ I’m sure he pondered all the words his father said, all aspects of the dream, examined it from every different angle, and I’m sure hitting upon the right answers as he went, all of which became a part of the revelation process. If it were not so, he could not have answered the angel as he did when he asked him ‘do you know what this or that is.’ But, Nephi answered correctly. He knew because he had thought it out and the Spirit had born witness of its truth.
Back to the Holy Ghost again. Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of time to really study it out, but Moroni serves my purpose here when Mormon says in Moroni 8:
The remission of sins bringeth meekness and lowliness of heart by which comes the visitation of the Holy Ghost. We cannot receive the Holy Ghost unless we are worthy through the Atonement. I think too often we fail to recognize the significance of each and every moment when the Still Small Voice whispers comfort and truth to us. We look forward to ‘someday’, when we will be as near as perfect as we possibly can, that then, and only then will Christ’s Atonement take effect in our own lives. Perhaps we admire others whom we see as spiritual giants and feel assured that their souls have been washed clean with the blood of the Lamb and aspire to become like them so that we may enjoy the same grace. Perhaps in looking beyond ourselves, we fail to fully appreciate what transpires within our own souls.
I think perhaps one of life’s great struggles and one of the Adversary’s greatest tools is doubt—not doubt in Christ but in ourselves. To believe in Christ is marvelous, elevating, and beautiful, and simple to embrace, but to believe Christ when he tells us all our sins are forgiven is far more difficult because we also have to believe in ourselves. We cannot entangle ourselves in the snares of self-condemnation and self-doubt, or debates within ourselves if we have offered true repentance worthy of his forgiveness. We have to know he speaks truth when he promises us that no matter how often we slip and trip and stumble, no matter how great is our struggle to overcome our own personal weaknesses, he has forgiven us and will continue to forgive us as often as may need be as long as we are willing to accept that inestimable eternal gift.
He forgives us now, not off in someday. He knows we need that forgiveness now. We need his purifying grace that we may be meek and humble in our gratitude and in his praise, submissive as a little child in our willingness to follow his example and follow where he leads, as we know he desires nothing but to lead us back to the Father. He knows far better than we the intensity of our need for direction, prompting and guidance, and so he grants his forgiveness and cleans the vessel which he would fill to overflowing with the Holy Ghost, our Comforter.
That is an astounding concept to me, especially when I consider when I have felt the Holy Ghost so strongly it nigh well overwhelmed me. To feel that burning in my heart and the surety and peace in my head tells me not only that what I am pondering is true, but with each prompting joyfully professes that Jesus is the Christ, the Atonement is real, and my sins are forgiven me that very moment.
Once we realize this for ourselves, that fire of understanding spreads out from us to encompass all those in our sphere of influence and beyond it. In knowing our own redemption and its divine simplicity and eternal nature, without beginning and without end, we cannot damn others who have lived lives far more distanced from God than ourselves. The Lord forgives all, and we should not be waiting for others to prove themselves worthy of our love and friendship. Once we are forgiven and filled with the pure love of Christ, gentle and generous treatment of others becomes part of us. It strengthens the more we emulate Christ and deepens our understanding of our Heavenly Father and his Only Begotten Son. What a marvelous blessing that is, the Gift of the Holy Ghost testifying of the Atonement and our own redemption.
There you are. Your little blue dot has popped up saying you’re on line. I love you.
Mom
August 6, 2008
Dear Son,
Well, we managed to survive the weekend, which was rather a hectic one. I told you that — and — were getting married on Saturday. It was also newsletter weekend, and since Sister — didn’t take us up on our offers to help her out with the reception, I procrastinated getting the newsletter finished, which was entirely normal, of course. However, as it happened, while I was putting the newsletter together on Saturday morning, she called to get Ginger’s phone number which started me worrying. About an hour later, Ginger called me from down at the church and said, help help! So, Dad, Dani and I went down and helped out for a while. (Dani is home for the summer missing Jeffrey who is now in Madrid. She'll go back to school at the end of the month).
Once they started setting up for the wedding the night before, the — realized they needed to to cut the gym in half (of course). They had hit upon using the volleyball standards and nets and some pink cloth Ginger said she had scads of, but once she got down there it was obvious that was noy going to work. So, we put our heads together, tried a few different things, figured out what would work and what wouldn’t, called Jeanette to run and get some other stuff we needed, and then Dad and I took off, leaving Ginger alone again because Dani had taken Braelynd with her to the store or something.
So, Dad and I grabbed some lunch, then headed back home to get the newsletter done. Dad was incredibly patient with me, I must say. Friday he swore he was going to shut down the shop whether I was ready or not, but I managed to get seven pages finished, take a shower, wrap their present (We have enough paper! Hallelujah!!) and then get back down to the wedding just as — and — were getting into their car to drive away. I don’t think they even saw me, but that wasn’t important anyway. They really had quite a good turn-out and it was a nice little wedding. Best of all, Matt was standing there on the curb so I got him to lug in the stoneware we got for them. It about killed Dad getting it from Sam’s to the car to the house, and I could only get it from the living room to the back door again. Dad had to take it the rest of the way. Matt’s response was, ‘What the heck is in this thing?!’ He was rather disappointed when I told him it was just dishes.
I have no idea how they’re going to get their boodle home. They flew out to his post in South Dakota early Sunday morning. Dad was rather freaked about the whole thing, in his quietly skittish way. There was far too much deja vu at the Hafer building on Saturday afternoon. He rather got stuck in a time warp.
So, after the new Couple — drove away, I had set the copy machine going, Dad remained to the library rather than have to deal with the crowd, and I had greeted Sister — and effused over Ginger’s handiwork which really was absolutely marvelous and didn’t look a bit like the last minute slap-dash that it was, I went back to the library and set to. Fortunately, Ginger and Sister Lewis (I’m not sure if you met the newly arrived Lewises while you were here) brought back two plates of food which was very considerate and well-timed, as Dad was spiraling down into an insulin reaction. But, we got one hundred copies printed, collated and stapled, then stashed in the RS closet until the morrow, and then managed to get some shopping done after that. I think it was pushing eight o’clock by the time we got home, and I’m really, really, really glad Dad had already had his dinner and I didn’t have to fix it after the day that we had.
And, all this time a little tropical depression was brewing out in the Gulf, acting rather erratic and petulant in its youth. Sunday came and went and the tropical depression became Tropical Storm Edouard. Meh.
I think we’re probably going to be driving [a neighbor family] down to church every week for a while—at least until [their grandparents] come back down in the fall. Their car broke down over the weekend and so they had no transportation. They split their family up between us and [another family], but once I got into the car I realized there’s a middle seatbelt in the front where [the youngest] would fit quite nicely, so I can accommodate the whole crew. Their financial situation and the price of gas really can’t peacefully coexist, so car-pooling makes all the sense in the world. I don’t think it will take [the husband] much to convince [the wife] of the wisdom of it.
The Relief Society newsletter was as effective as always as a Fast Sunday reverence inducer, and we’re getting less and less particular about the gender of the recipients. I’m starting to get back into the groove after taking back the publishing duties from Sister Elsasser. The April issue was pathetic, May was a complete wash, and June and July were only two or three pages long because I tried wrangling with Word which is impossible. So, because that won’t work, I removed the program that WordPerfect couldn’t get along with and now things are working marvelously. Besides, do I really need Visual C+++ on this computer? I think not.
Monday morning came with tropical storm warnings and hurricane watches which continued all day. The silly little storm sidled up to the coast as close as it could and still maintain its form, then slowly skittered along it west by northwest for the better part of the day. Making a beeline toward Galveston. Then it stopped and parked southwest of New Orleans (I don’t think they got a drop of water out of it), and Dr. Neil began to fret. The longer it stayed out to sea, the better its chances of reconsolidating its tattered edges and then be an out-right hurricane once it landed at Galveston. They predicted landfall at 1:00 pm on Tuesday but weren’t issuing any evacuation orders or anything—not even Galveston.
We watched it all day, and after Adam had done a walk-through of the house with their own personal inspector without anyone looking over their shoulders, he sent Ariane and the kids up here. They got here about 10:30 pm and we all went straight to be—except Ariane, of course, who hasn’t had the internet for a couple of weeks, at least, and so had a lot of make-up stuff to do and she set to it.
Tuesday morning I was awakened at 6:30 am by Adam calling me to ask what they were saying on the news about Edouard. Danged if I knew. Dad turned on the beast and we cranked up the volume so Adam could hear the forecast, etc, for himself. What a change overnight! Edouard had all of the sudden sped up, sliced heavily to the right, and made actual landfall at Sabine Pass at 7:00 am, but all the forward stuff was already hitting when we turned on the news. And, it was totally weird in that the left side of the storm provided the most wind and rain, leaving the towns that had actually evacuated (Sabine Pass, Port Arthur, etc) relatively unscathed. Ironically, because it landed at Sabine rather than Galveston, instead of Stafford being square in the storm’s path, it passed north of them, putting us in the more exposed position.
It had already started raining so Dad decided to work from home and had his morning meeting over the phone. The news folks were telling everyone it was safest to stay off the roads and were showing some shots of the rain falling in buckets, only blowing sideways. We had a good steady rain all day, enough to bring the sorely neglected grass back to life, but I don’t think we heard a clap of thunder nor saw any lightning, and had a breeze, at best, not even a stiff one.
Alora and Aaron knocked about the house all day being bored to tears. The weather wasn’t severe enough to be interesting to them, but it never let up enough so that they could play outside. We all lived, though, and are very grateful. Unfortunately for the Robinsons next door, they had chosen Monday as the day to rip up their driveway and have it completely replaced. Now I don’t know when they’ll be able to replace the concrete.
Fast and Testimony meeting on Sunday was fabulous, as always. This week most everyone spoke about missionary work, especially since the Thursday before the ward had a missionary activity sponsored by the ward missionaries. Brother Sulski arranged it, so you know it had to work out well.
First, they sent around sign-up sheets for the activity (no ward activity can even be announced without sign-up sheets). Then, Thursday night, about 36 people congregated at the Sulskis’ house (even some who didn’t sign up), they broke up into the pairs to canvas the streets Brother Sulski assigned, and then they went out and tracted some subdivision, I can’t remember the name, but a small one with only 700 homes. They tracted the entire subdivision in a matter of 60-90 minutes, and came away with 15 different names/families for the missionaries to visit. How cool is that?!
In Fast and Testimony meeting, Brother Kent first got up and talked about his regret in not being able to attend. I’m sorry to say that Brother Kent is starting to show his age a bit. You can tell his pain is getting increasingly difficult to deal with, but he keeps chugging on. It may take him a bit longer to get up the aisle every month, but it’s difficult to imagine Fast Sunday without him. I know he’s pushing 80, but it’s always seemed to me like he’d go on forever.
At any rate, he bore his testimony, as usual, with an appropriate homily or remembrance, but then announced that surely Brother Sulski would get up and tell us all about the ward missionary activity. We went through several ward missionaries, including Sister Brighton and Brother Rucker, then Sister Erickson spoke about her increased appreciation for the concept of visiting teachers, and Sister Mahana who needed to bear her testimony publically to her girls before Deneka went off to BYU later this month. Sister Santana brought everyone to tears, as she usually does in speaking of her sadness that people won’t open their ears because of their pride. Sister Parker testified of miracles, prayers, and the strength of families. Gavin was in a severe boating accident requiring major surgery, but when the doctors got in there, what they had seen on x-ray was there no longer. The doctor told them it was a miracle, but they didn’t need his word for it to know it.
Finally, just as everyone was glancing at the clock to see if he had time, Brother Sulski got up and told us all about it, including the fact that once everyone had gone home, Blake tried to convince his dad to go back to a certain house they had visited and talk some sense into a guy who refused to listen to the truth. As he spoke, I looked around the room and counted how many people I know who have joined the Church as adults: the bishop, the Kellers, the Sterns, the Mixas, Sister Santana, the Kents, the Sulskis, the Johnsons—the list goes on and on, and these people are the stability and strength of our ward. How marvelous it is that some valiant and faithful young men set aside the doubts, fears, and uncertainties which are prerequisite with coming of age, and sacrificed all the common pursuits of their peers to share with those people their own testimonies of the gospel! How little a sacrifice it was for them when they were rewarded with such treasures beyond price! And, what did they sacrifice? Absolutely nothing of any lasting value but gained blessings unmeasured and some otherwise unattainable but essential to their eternal progression.
When I realized the day had come and gone (Friday or Saturday), I was feeling guilty that I missed the activity, and guilty that I felt relieved that I didn’t go because doing the same absolutely terrifies me and I know I shouldn’t be. However, the Lord told me that he was pleased with my own part and my offering was acceptable to him by a few affirmations he allowed me. The joy and gratitude I felt in gaining that knowledge is beyond description.
I keep plugging away at these silly blogs, hoping that someone gets some good out of them somewhere. I know that the urgency I have felt in starting and maintaining them is a direct answer to my prayers for missionary experiences, and so I do it. However, that little doubt always hovers about me and I cannot help wonder if I am only deceiving myself in order to excuse any more active participation in missionary work.
Then, as I went to the temple with Sister — and she told me how she couldn’t thank me enough for my example and the blogs and how they have touched her life, made her want to get closer to the Lord, and helped her see how she needs to improve in her temple attendance and her scripture reading to accomplish it, I knew that in itself was worth the effort. After all, there I was in her car going to the temple with her, and she had called me to ask if I wanted to go with her. That has never happened before.
Then, Monday morning, I was fairly dancing in the streets when my Facebook friend told me of her experience at Fast and Testimony meeting that Sunday, and how she knew beyond doubt that she was supposed to go on a mission. Son, when I first knew her, she was a brand-new convert and had made the astounding choice of ending her live-in relationship with a boyfriend who refused to marry her, so that she could be baptized into the true Church of Jesus Christ. She had helped raise his children, her own children were attached to him as well, but she made the choice and was really struggling with it, particularly since Christmas was coming on and she would be all alone. I believe I was one of the few Mormon friends she had at the time, but now she is an integral part of her ward, is strong in missionary work herself, and knows the Lord wants her to be willing to sacrifice that time to him. She isn’t certain if she will clear the physical requirements (she has some health issues), but her desire burns within her.
All that keeps running through my head is ‘how great shall be thy joy’, especially when I consider the lives she will touch and is now touching as she serves, and I know I cannot begin to fathom it. More and more I catch glimpses of why the prophets have such urgency for the work to go forward, why President Hinckley traveled so far for so long and why he scattered temples across the globe, building at an unprecedented rate. Surely his own joy was commensurate to his sadness in contemplating all our Father’s children who yet remain in darkness, all those who desire the temple blessings but cannot gain them because of geography. Surely he spent hours on his knees each day pleading with the Lord to pour out his blessings upon the people. Surely President Monson is just the same. I know that the pure love of Christ motivates them, and, like Lehi did to his own family, they beckon us all, member and non-member alike, to come and partake of the pure love of Christ and know its sweetness and glory.
In RS this week, Sister Brighton gave a lesson about relying upon the Lord and recognizing when his influence is working in your life. She quoted something from the World Leadership Meeting which was included in last month’s Ensign, which was that if you feel the influence of the Holy Ghost, the Atonement is working in your life.
That really hit me because I had just been reading in 1 Nephi 10:1 where he relates the state he was in when he received the revelation of the Tree of Life. He wanted to know for himself what his father, Lehi, had seen in the vision. First, he had desire—real and true and strong, and I have to believe of the most sincere variety and for the purest of purposes. He wasn’t just curious. I have to believe he wanted that same testimony of the gospel which he felt so strongly in his father. He wanted to know.
Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, he had faith. He believed all the things his father had told him. If he had not, the desire would have been the weakness of idle curiosity or nonexistent. But his faith not only in his father but in the Lord was strong enough to effect all that was to follow.
Third, he pondered. I’m certain he just didn’t say, ‘that’s cool. Can I see?’ I’m sure he pondered all the words his father said, all aspects of the dream, examined it from every different angle, and I’m sure hitting upon the right answers as he went, all of which became a part of the revelation process. If it were not so, he could not have answered the angel as he did when he asked him ‘do you know what this or that is.’ But, Nephi answered correctly. He knew because he had thought it out and the Spirit had born witness of its truth.
Back to the Holy Ghost again. Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of time to really study it out, but Moroni serves my purpose here when Mormon says in Moroni 8:
Moro. 8: 26
26 And the remission of sins bringeth meekness, and lowliness of heart; and because of meekness and lowliness of heart cometh the visitation of the Holy Ghost, which Comforter filleth with hope and perfect love, which love endureth by diligence unto prayer, until the end shall come, when all the saints shall dwell with God.
The remission of sins bringeth meekness and lowliness of heart by which comes the visitation of the Holy Ghost. We cannot receive the Holy Ghost unless we are worthy through the Atonement. I think too often we fail to recognize the significance of each and every moment when the Still Small Voice whispers comfort and truth to us. We look forward to ‘someday’, when we will be as near as perfect as we possibly can, that then, and only then will Christ’s Atonement take effect in our own lives. Perhaps we admire others whom we see as spiritual giants and feel assured that their souls have been washed clean with the blood of the Lamb and aspire to become like them so that we may enjoy the same grace. Perhaps in looking beyond ourselves, we fail to fully appreciate what transpires within our own souls.
I think perhaps one of life’s great struggles and one of the Adversary’s greatest tools is doubt—not doubt in Christ but in ourselves. To believe in Christ is marvelous, elevating, and beautiful, and simple to embrace, but to believe Christ when he tells us all our sins are forgiven is far more difficult because we also have to believe in ourselves. We cannot entangle ourselves in the snares of self-condemnation and self-doubt, or debates within ourselves if we have offered true repentance worthy of his forgiveness. We have to know he speaks truth when he promises us that no matter how often we slip and trip and stumble, no matter how great is our struggle to overcome our own personal weaknesses, he has forgiven us and will continue to forgive us as often as may need be as long as we are willing to accept that inestimable eternal gift.
He forgives us now, not off in someday. He knows we need that forgiveness now. We need his purifying grace that we may be meek and humble in our gratitude and in his praise, submissive as a little child in our willingness to follow his example and follow where he leads, as we know he desires nothing but to lead us back to the Father. He knows far better than we the intensity of our need for direction, prompting and guidance, and so he grants his forgiveness and cleans the vessel which he would fill to overflowing with the Holy Ghost, our Comforter.
That is an astounding concept to me, especially when I consider when I have felt the Holy Ghost so strongly it nigh well overwhelmed me. To feel that burning in my heart and the surety and peace in my head tells me not only that what I am pondering is true, but with each prompting joyfully professes that Jesus is the Christ, the Atonement is real, and my sins are forgiven me that very moment.
Once we realize this for ourselves, that fire of understanding spreads out from us to encompass all those in our sphere of influence and beyond it. In knowing our own redemption and its divine simplicity and eternal nature, without beginning and without end, we cannot damn others who have lived lives far more distanced from God than ourselves. The Lord forgives all, and we should not be waiting for others to prove themselves worthy of our love and friendship. Once we are forgiven and filled with the pure love of Christ, gentle and generous treatment of others becomes part of us. It strengthens the more we emulate Christ and deepens our understanding of our Heavenly Father and his Only Begotten Son. What a marvelous blessing that is, the Gift of the Holy Ghost testifying of the Atonement and our own redemption.
There you are. Your little blue dot has popped up saying you’re on line. I love you.
Mom
Sunday, June 15, 2008
An Example of Pure Charity
Editor’s note: The following is a talk given by Dan Pearce, delivered at the funeral of his sister, Carissa (above left), on April 20, 2008, who died at the age of 22 of pneumonia, a rare fungal infection of the lungs, and complications of Down’s syndrome.
Carissa – A Pure Heart
by Dan Pearce
Carissa’s shining life and example really cannot be expressed over a pulpit. It had to be felt, experienced, and witnessed, as you all know.
Carissa understood love probably more than I or most of us will ever be able. She could feel inside a person’s soul and somehow, could even feel the pains of a person’s heart. If that person’s heart was hurting more than usual, she could sense it, and she would do what she did best, which was to help start the healing. It usually started with a question of concern, then a big smile, then one of her big Carissa Bear Hugs. Then, the verbal praises would start and not let up until she sensed that your heart was at peace again, even if it took weeks or months. She would laugh, and tell you repeatedly over the course of days, “You’re my favorite.” “I love you this much.” “Hello my beautiful.” “Hello my handsome.” And other wonderful things. Then, when you would leave, she’d get out a notebook and her big bag of colorful pens, and write you a letter or two, telling you how much she loved you, how much she loved her brother Jesus Christ, how much she loved God, and how much They both loved you. You see, Carissa understood God’s love for us, and she never hesitated to share it.
Carissa loved to make people smile. In fact, she loved to make whole congregations smile. Anyone who’s ever been to any ward that Carissa was in on Fast Sunday, has heard her bear her testimony. She was always first to head to the front, and she never missed an opportunity to tell the world of her love for the Savior or the Gospel. Her testimony was simple, and was worded something like this, “I’d love to bear my testimony, I love my mommy. I love my daddy.” And then she’d start looking around, and whoever she made eye contact with, “I love my brother Danny. I love my sister Amy so much. I love Jesus Christ. And I love the scriptures. And I love Joseph Smith. And I love President S. Monson. And I love my daddy.” (Dad always seemed to be mentioned two or three times). And sometimes she’d throw out a plug for the family business or let a few of her frustrations out between those statements of love, “And I love my brother Andy on his mission. And Amy stole the fish crackers and took them to her apartment. And I love Jesus Christ, my brother. And I love Mr. Pool.” Then, after closing, and effectively bringing the spirit strongly into the meeting, she would shake hands or hug each member of the bishopric, as well as anyone else on the stand. As she made her way to her seat, she would shake hands with members of the ward all the way down, waving to people, smiling, and feeling on top of the world. There are a lot of people who are going to miss that.
Carissa was not bound by pride, ego, time, or selfishness, a few of the struggles that many of us so naturally have. She was never too busy to visit or care for the sick. She never received a church calling that she didn’t complete with 100% vigor. She never thought herself better than another human being, ever. Think about that. She never thought herself better than another human being. How many of us can say that? She never hid her talents from the world. She never withheld her praise from anyone. She never compromised her values. She never believed that there was a reason to not show her love to others, and certainly never believed there was a reason for others not to love her. The scriptures repeatedly tell us that since the fall, man by nature became carnal, sensual, and devilish. Perhaps because Satan could have no hold on Carissa’s heart, she was never any of these things, and this is the reason she has so many people who loved her as is evidenced here today.
Carissa had a pure heart, purer than any person I’ve ever met. I am brought to ponder, reminiscing on her perfect testimony and unworldly love for the Savior if Christ’s words weren’t fulfilled while she was still here on the earth, “And blessed are all the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” Whether then or now, I am confident that Carissa has seen her Maker and that He has welcomed her back with open arms.
Lastly, I want to talk about Carissa the missionary. I believe with all my heart that Carissa was put into this family, into this community, into this world, to bring souls to Christ and to lighten people’s lives. Jesus taught that the handicap are here for this very purpose. When his apostles saw a disabled man and asked the savior if that handicap was because of his sins or the sins of his parents, Jesus responded, “Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him.” Carissa was given an extra chromosome so that the works of God could be made manifest in her.
One week before Carissa died, my parents were out of town, and I was summoned to the hospital (where Carissa had just been admitted) to give her a blessing. As I laid my hands on her head, the spiritual pathways between God and man opened and I could not deny that the words coming from my mouth were not my own. It was a very interesting blessing for me. During the blessing, I saw Carissa on the edge of death, hooked to tubes and monitors, surrounded by doctors and family. At that point, none of us had any reason to believe she would ever get to this point, and as I saw this happening, the words of her blessing that came were something like this:
“Carissa, we bless you that your sickness will be a means of bringing many souls to their knees and ultimately to our savior Jesus Christ, for God’s work and glory is the immortality and eternal life of man, and sometimes He uses people like you to carry forth his purposes. Christ will carry you through the hardships you are about to face, so don’t be afraid. Only after those souls have turned to Christ, will things get better for you.”
Then, in her final hours, when her body had given up on her, and we knew that death was upon her, I stood alone in that room holding her hand and pleading with God to please make things better like he had promised in the blessing; it was time to heal her. She had reached the point of her blessing that I knew would arrive, and now it was time for God to do his part as promised. Then, while in my deepest pleadings, the spirit rushed into my soul and my eyes were opened for a few moments. I can’t describe what I saw or felt, I only can tell you that a true look at what Carissa had accomplished on this earth was shown to me, and I also knew right then that her work was done and that things would indeed get better for her, just not here. I stood in tears, stroking her face, and whispered over and over, “I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to be like you.”
I encourage all of you to spend the rest of your lives trying to be more like Carissa. Promptly forgive those who have wronged you. Sing with all of your heart, even when you can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Stop caring so much what you look like. Stop caring so much what people will think of what you say and do. Fulfill your religious duties with excitement and vigor. Love attending church. Love sharing your testimony and be one of the first ones to the front. Serve your neighbor and buoy those who are down. Stop worrying about what others will think! Worry about what God will think and act in such a way. Forget about your job for awhile. Forget about your sports games and time-wasting habits. Look around you and find someone who could use a “Carissa Bear Hug” or maybe just a warm plate of cookies. Don’t judge others. Smile and introduce yourself to strangers. Express your love for all in all times and all places. For truly, these are lessons that Carissa taught all of us.
Carissa was my hero and role model, and I have a testimony that her time here was done, and that her mission has been fulfilled. Just before her death, as Carissa was completely sedated, unable to hear or respond, I found myself alone with her once again, pleading with God for comfort as I held Carissa’s flaccid hand. Christ said, “Blessed are all they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.” I leaned over and whispered through choked back tears, “Carissa, are you okay to go? It’s okay if you need to go.” Suddenly her hand squeezed mine with the same love and strength of one of her famous Carissa Bear Hugs and a warm comfort rushed over my entire body. Even in her final moments she made sure to comfort someone else. I know that many others had similar experiences that day.
Brothers and Sisters, Carissa was okay to go. She had no regrets and no reason to fear. She left this world as perfect as when she came into it. She was okay to go.
Let’s all consider our lives and live in a way that will make it okay for us to go when the time comes. Let’s all try to be a little more like Carissa.
I say these things in Jesus name, Amen.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
A God of Miracles
To Elder Paul Freeman, from Penny Freeman, dated April 2, 2008
Dear Elder Sweetie,
. . . What you are doing in San Bernardino, the things you are accomplishing and the responsibilities you are assuming continue to astound me. I don’t fret about your safety because I know you are on the Lord’s errand, he requires your faith and love and awe-inspiring testimony to feed his sheep and to be a conduit for the Spirit, and he watches over and protects you. My son, how the Savior loves you!
There was something I came across in my reading the other day that made me think of you, especially because I asked Amy to relay to you some of her experiences in difficult situations, when she prayed for miracles and they happened. It is a touch long but every bit pertinent, Mormon 9:10-21:
I know, my son, that your most righteous desire, as selfless and charitable as it is, for the strengthening of testimonies and guiding more of His children home, can and will be granted through your faith and dedication. He loves you. You are doing His work, and he desires this as much as do you. Pray for the miracles you need to make it happen. Ask in faith, nothing wavering, and your prayers will ultimately be answered. Even in your most frustrating experiences, when it seems it will never come to pass, be certain of the Lord and His love for you. Know with every fiber of your being that our Father hears and answers your prayers.
Have faith — faith enough not only to ask but to receive — and you, as an instrument in the hands of the Lord, will accomplish marvelous things.
As always, you have all my love and prayers,
mom
Dear Elder Sweetie,
. . . What you are doing in San Bernardino, the things you are accomplishing and the responsibilities you are assuming continue to astound me. I don’t fret about your safety because I know you are on the Lord’s errand, he requires your faith and love and awe-inspiring testimony to feed his sheep and to be a conduit for the Spirit, and he watches over and protects you. My son, how the Savior loves you!
There was something I came across in my reading the other day that made me think of you, especially because I asked Amy to relay to you some of her experiences in difficult situations, when she prayed for miracles and they happened. It is a touch long but every bit pertinent, Mormon 9:10-21:
10 And now, if ye have imagined up unto yourselves a god who doth vary, and in whom there is shadow of changing, then have ye imagined up unto yourselves a god who is not a God of miracles.12 Behold, he created Adam, and by aAdam came the bfall of man. And because of the fall of man came Jesus Christ, even the Father and the Son; and because of Jesus Christ came the credemption of man.13 And because of the redemption of man, which came by Jesus Christ, they are brought back into the apresence of the Lord; yea, this is wherein all men are redeemed, because the death of Christ bringeth to pass the bresurrection, which bringeth to pass a redemption from an endless csleep, from which sleep all men shall be awakened by the power of God when the trump shall sound; and they shall come forth, both small and great, and all shall stand before his bar, being redeemed and loosed from this eternal dband of death, which death is a temporal death.15 And now, O all ye that have imagined up unto yourselves a god who can do ano miracles, I would ask of you, have all these things passed, of which I have spoken? Has the end come yet? Behold I say unto you, Nay; and God has not ceased to be a God of miracles.16 Behold, are not the things that God hath wrought marvelous in our eyes? Yea, and who can comprehend the marvelous aworks of God?21 Behold, I say unto you that whoso believeth in Christ, doubting nothing, awhatsoever he shall ask the Father in the name of Christ it shall be granted him; and this bpromise is unto all, even unto the ends of the earth.
I know, my son, that your most righteous desire, as selfless and charitable as it is, for the strengthening of testimonies and guiding more of His children home, can and will be granted through your faith and dedication. He loves you. You are doing His work, and he desires this as much as do you. Pray for the miracles you need to make it happen. Ask in faith, nothing wavering, and your prayers will ultimately be answered. Even in your most frustrating experiences, when it seems it will never come to pass, be certain of the Lord and His love for you. Know with every fiber of your being that our Father hears and answers your prayers.
Have faith — faith enough not only to ask but to receive — and you, as an instrument in the hands of the Lord, will accomplish marvelous things.
As always, you have all my love and prayers,
mom
Sunday, December 30, 2007
The Parable of the Marching Band
From Ben Bernards to Elder BJ Bernards, dated November 12, 2007
Hey BJ,
Hope you're doing well. Keep working hard, loving the people, loving your companion, and staying obedient. If you don't know what to do, get out and start talking to people Open your mouth. Make a game of it...get creative. Feel free to play people's guitars or drums -- or share it for a ward / branch / zone conference talent show.
My thoughts for today -- the Parable of the Marching Band. (Heh...you knew it had to come sooner or later, right?)
When I was in marching band, I had high aspirations to become Drum Major. I loved the importance, the power, the respect, etc. etc. I thought it was the most important role in the band...and I was mistaken. The most important role is that of Center Snare. Let me explain why.
Marching bands only work properly when everyone is marching and playing together, in time...right down to 1/128th of a beat. You can't be off by a fraction. You have to march in the right directions, stop where you're supposed to, point your bodies the right way, hold your instrument properly, play 6-10 pages of memorized music, and do so in perfect unison with several hundred other students. Some scientists have listed the number of simultaneous actions being performed during a marching band performance and determined that it cannot be done -- the human body simply cannot do all those things at the same time, let alone do them well. But countless of people, young and old, have done and continue to do so.
The drum major serves as a sort of visual metronome and conductor. They keep the beat, give signals as to how and when to play, and stand in a high, central place where everyone can see them. This does not guarantee that everyone WILL watch the drum major, and there are plenty of marchers that go the wrong way, play the wrong thing or at the wrong time, or otherwise mess up what would have been a beautiful, unified performance...all because they weren't following the drum major.
But the drum major isn't the true leader -- the Center Snare player is. You see, it is commonly observed that musicians in a group will subconsciously "follow" each other's musical cues in regards to tempo, volume, attacks and releases, and so forth. It is very easy to force the band to speed up or slow down, simply by speeding up or slowing down yourself, or to influence others to come in at the wrong time, play at the wrong volume, etc. etc., And if your instrument is easier to hear than others...such as high brass or woodwinds, or sharp percussive noises that are felt as well as heard...then others are more likely to follow your cues. Of all the instruments in the band that can throw off a group, drums are the worst -- musicians will subconsciously follow the beat that they feel / hear from drums more than any other player. In marching band, that means the Snare Line sets the tempo. And in the Snare Line, it's the Center Snare that leads all the others.
But this presents a problem. Sound waves are easily distorted. It is a simple job to follow the drum line's tempo when the marching band is in a closed room, lined up in a concert arc, and everyone can clearly hear and feel the beats. But when the band is spread out across an open air football field, and everyone is constantly moving in various directions, the sounds from the snare line are distorted and the beats are not felt / heard at the same time by everyone around the field. So if everyone tried to just march their show and play their music and only rely on the distorted audio cues, they wouldn't play in unison and the effort would fail.
That's where drum majors come in.
Now, even though they're on a podium and not moving and up higher than the other players, they still have the auditory problems that the other musicians deal with -- the drum major can't rely on the sound of the of the snare lines to set the tempo.
But they can rely on their eyes.
Light travels faster than sound. And the Center Snares feet (if he / she is worthy of her position) are constantly marking the time and moving in perfect synchronization with the tempo.
So no matter where the Snare Line moves, as long as the Drum Major watches their feet, he will be able to set the proper tempo.
And as long as the Band is watching the Drum Major and follow what they see, and not follow the other signals they're receiving all around them, they will be playing in unison. It takes great faith to follow that drum major and keep your eyes on them, but doing so is the only way to guarantee that the performance will be of championship quality.
It's especially difficult when the marchers around you take their eyes of for a split second, lose the beat, or follow a different signal that they're feeling / hearing. As marchers, you have to learn how to work together to maintain proper body spacing to create the visual shapes of the show; you align yourself based on where certain anchor and focus points are, it's the only way to make sure your lines are straight and your curves are not. But if you rely too much on the people around you, and don't follow the drum major, you and those around you will mess everything up.
This test of being able to follow the drum major is frequently pushed to the extreme in a friendly competition we called "The Drill Down". We only did it once a year. Everyone lines up in a big square grid without their instruments, and simply marches around, following verbal orders from the drum major and marching in time to the metronome beat clicked out with a pair of clavy's. It's an endurance / obedience contest to see who is the best marcher and can last the longest. If you make one tiny mistake -- you step off too soon / too late, stop too soon / late, turn the wrong direction, miss a beat, don't keep your arms up at the right angle -- you are eliminated. Those eliminated stand on the sidelines and watch as the pool of marchers gets smaller and smaller, the commands come more rapidly, the tempo increases dramatically, and the overall difficulty jumps by leaps and bounds.
Eventually only one or two people remain standing. When it's evident that they can't be eliminated via a march off, they are put to the final test, to see if they can be forced or persuaded to "break attention", i.e., to crack a smile, blink their eyes, drop their arms, or otherwise stop standing at perfect attention. Everyone that has been eliminated is given free reign to do or say anything they want to force that remaining marcher to break attention, and they will continue until he is broken or the drum major declares him the winner.
In my last drill down, I'd made it down to the final two. One of my good friends was the other marcher, and he was eliminated in a series of tricky calls and maneuvers that I'd barely performed myself. I was left standing there at attention, and the drum major yelled for everyone to "come break me." I stood there at attention as 200 kids ran full speed at me, charging like the glorious Rohirrim at the Battle of Minas Tirith, yelling and screaming and coming to stop within centimeters of my face. I was instantly engulfed in a sea of screaming, gnashing, tormenting pubescent marching band geeks that jostled and swirled and yelled and played their piccolos at high-pitched minor-second intervals (but then, I"m being redundant) -- can you imagine a more ghastly, horrifying, vortex of humanity? Me neither.
They took great pride in trying to break me, screaming in both of my ears at point blank range, trying to do anything and everything to break me. THey even started invoking names of color guard girls I was interested in and pulling at my clothes (I think someone even tried to pants me and see what I would do.)
The only thing I could do was to close down my 'external' senses and focus every bit of mental concentration I had on a single point of steely resolve, far far away in my mind. Everything rolled off me like raindrops, and I felt tossed like a ship on the ocean...but no matter how hard the waves of the marchers crashed, I would.....not....capsize. I simply wouldn't. I had made up my mind that I was going to win, and nothing would keep me from breaking.
The storm lasted forever. My arms and back were burning. My eardrums were ringing in pain from the screaming and yelling. But my mind stayed calm and quiet, and I knew that it would soon be over.
And over it was. The drum major called off the hounds, and the staff members watching quietly came over, dismissed me from attention and congratulated me. I nearly collapsed right there on the field and I'm sure the others cheered and jeered a bit. Practice went on and I didn't receive any award or recognition for it...but I knew what I had accomplished. I knew that when I'd set my mind to stay at attention, I would do it, no matter the cost, no matter the torment around me. A sweet peaceful strength made itself right at home inside me for a long time after that, as I knew what I was capable of.
So, enough of the story. I'm sure the parable is pretty clear.
Who is the Center Snare? And Who is His Drum Major? Or the Assistant Drum Majors or Section Leaders? Who do you look to? Who will you follow? Who will you keep your eyes on, even when those around you try to step off at the wrong time, who march the wrong direction, who play the wrong music? Wherein will you find your resolve when the world tries to crash upon you? When you are "called to attention", would you stand so, even if those around you break and try to get you to break as well? Would you stand alone in the face of all the other missionaries? Would you march to the beat of His drum, even if you were the only person doing so?
I know you would. In the words of Samuel D. Bernards, "You are mighty...because you kneel."
I love you bro. Work it up.
Cheers,
Ben
Hey BJ,
Hope you're doing well. Keep working hard, loving the people, loving your companion, and staying obedient. If you don't know what to do, get out and start talking to people Open your mouth. Make a game of it...get creative. Feel free to play people's guitars or drums -- or share it for a ward / branch / zone conference talent show.
My thoughts for today -- the Parable of the Marching Band. (Heh...you knew it had to come sooner or later, right?)
When I was in marching band, I had high aspirations to become Drum Major. I loved the importance, the power, the respect, etc. etc. I thought it was the most important role in the band...and I was mistaken. The most important role is that of Center Snare. Let me explain why.
Marching bands only work properly when everyone is marching and playing together, in time...right down to 1/128th of a beat. You can't be off by a fraction. You have to march in the right directions, stop where you're supposed to, point your bodies the right way, hold your instrument properly, play 6-10 pages of memorized music, and do so in perfect unison with several hundred other students. Some scientists have listed the number of simultaneous actions being performed during a marching band performance and determined that it cannot be done -- the human body simply cannot do all those things at the same time, let alone do them well. But countless of people, young and old, have done and continue to do so.
The drum major serves as a sort of visual metronome and conductor. They keep the beat, give signals as to how and when to play, and stand in a high, central place where everyone can see them. This does not guarantee that everyone WILL watch the drum major, and there are plenty of marchers that go the wrong way, play the wrong thing or at the wrong time, or otherwise mess up what would have been a beautiful, unified performance...all because they weren't following the drum major.
But the drum major isn't the true leader -- the Center Snare player is. You see, it is commonly observed that musicians in a group will subconsciously "follow" each other's musical cues in regards to tempo, volume, attacks and releases, and so forth. It is very easy to force the band to speed up or slow down, simply by speeding up or slowing down yourself, or to influence others to come in at the wrong time, play at the wrong volume, etc. etc., And if your instrument is easier to hear than others...such as high brass or woodwinds, or sharp percussive noises that are felt as well as heard...then others are more likely to follow your cues. Of all the instruments in the band that can throw off a group, drums are the worst -- musicians will subconsciously follow the beat that they feel / hear from drums more than any other player. In marching band, that means the Snare Line sets the tempo. And in the Snare Line, it's the Center Snare that leads all the others.
But this presents a problem. Sound waves are easily distorted. It is a simple job to follow the drum line's tempo when the marching band is in a closed room, lined up in a concert arc, and everyone can clearly hear and feel the beats. But when the band is spread out across an open air football field, and everyone is constantly moving in various directions, the sounds from the snare line are distorted and the beats are not felt / heard at the same time by everyone around the field. So if everyone tried to just march their show and play their music and only rely on the distorted audio cues, they wouldn't play in unison and the effort would fail.
That's where drum majors come in.
Now, even though they're on a podium and not moving and up higher than the other players, they still have the auditory problems that the other musicians deal with -- the drum major can't rely on the sound of the of the snare lines to set the tempo.
But they can rely on their eyes.
Light travels faster than sound. And the Center Snares feet (if he / she is worthy of her position) are constantly marking the time and moving in perfect synchronization with the tempo.
So no matter where the Snare Line moves, as long as the Drum Major watches their feet, he will be able to set the proper tempo.
And as long as the Band is watching the Drum Major and follow what they see, and not follow the other signals they're receiving all around them, they will be playing in unison. It takes great faith to follow that drum major and keep your eyes on them, but doing so is the only way to guarantee that the performance will be of championship quality.
It's especially difficult when the marchers around you take their eyes of for a split second, lose the beat, or follow a different signal that they're feeling / hearing. As marchers, you have to learn how to work together to maintain proper body spacing to create the visual shapes of the show; you align yourself based on where certain anchor and focus points are, it's the only way to make sure your lines are straight and your curves are not. But if you rely too much on the people around you, and don't follow the drum major, you and those around you will mess everything up.
This test of being able to follow the drum major is frequently pushed to the extreme in a friendly competition we called "The Drill Down". We only did it once a year. Everyone lines up in a big square grid without their instruments, and simply marches around, following verbal orders from the drum major and marching in time to the metronome beat clicked out with a pair of clavy's. It's an endurance / obedience contest to see who is the best marcher and can last the longest. If you make one tiny mistake -- you step off too soon / too late, stop too soon / late, turn the wrong direction, miss a beat, don't keep your arms up at the right angle -- you are eliminated. Those eliminated stand on the sidelines and watch as the pool of marchers gets smaller and smaller, the commands come more rapidly, the tempo increases dramatically, and the overall difficulty jumps by leaps and bounds.
Eventually only one or two people remain standing. When it's evident that they can't be eliminated via a march off, they are put to the final test, to see if they can be forced or persuaded to "break attention", i.e., to crack a smile, blink their eyes, drop their arms, or otherwise stop standing at perfect attention. Everyone that has been eliminated is given free reign to do or say anything they want to force that remaining marcher to break attention, and they will continue until he is broken or the drum major declares him the winner.
In my last drill down, I'd made it down to the final two. One of my good friends was the other marcher, and he was eliminated in a series of tricky calls and maneuvers that I'd barely performed myself. I was left standing there at attention, and the drum major yelled for everyone to "come break me." I stood there at attention as 200 kids ran full speed at me, charging like the glorious Rohirrim at the Battle of Minas Tirith, yelling and screaming and coming to stop within centimeters of my face. I was instantly engulfed in a sea of screaming, gnashing, tormenting pubescent marching band geeks that jostled and swirled and yelled and played their piccolos at high-pitched minor-second intervals (but then, I"m being redundant) -- can you imagine a more ghastly, horrifying, vortex of humanity? Me neither.
They took great pride in trying to break me, screaming in both of my ears at point blank range, trying to do anything and everything to break me. THey even started invoking names of color guard girls I was interested in and pulling at my clothes (I think someone even tried to pants me and see what I would do.)
The only thing I could do was to close down my 'external' senses and focus every bit of mental concentration I had on a single point of steely resolve, far far away in my mind. Everything rolled off me like raindrops, and I felt tossed like a ship on the ocean...but no matter how hard the waves of the marchers crashed, I would.....not....capsize. I simply wouldn't. I had made up my mind that I was going to win, and nothing would keep me from breaking.
The storm lasted forever. My arms and back were burning. My eardrums were ringing in pain from the screaming and yelling. But my mind stayed calm and quiet, and I knew that it would soon be over.
And over it was. The drum major called off the hounds, and the staff members watching quietly came over, dismissed me from attention and congratulated me. I nearly collapsed right there on the field and I'm sure the others cheered and jeered a bit. Practice went on and I didn't receive any award or recognition for it...but I knew what I had accomplished. I knew that when I'd set my mind to stay at attention, I would do it, no matter the cost, no matter the torment around me. A sweet peaceful strength made itself right at home inside me for a long time after that, as I knew what I was capable of.
So, enough of the story. I'm sure the parable is pretty clear.
Who is the Center Snare? And Who is His Drum Major? Or the Assistant Drum Majors or Section Leaders? Who do you look to? Who will you follow? Who will you keep your eyes on, even when those around you try to step off at the wrong time, who march the wrong direction, who play the wrong music? Wherein will you find your resolve when the world tries to crash upon you? When you are "called to attention", would you stand so, even if those around you break and try to get you to break as well? Would you stand alone in the face of all the other missionaries? Would you march to the beat of His drum, even if you were the only person doing so?
I know you would. In the words of Samuel D. Bernards, "You are mighty...because you kneel."
I love you bro. Work it up.
Cheers,
Ben
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