Tuesday, August 8, 2006 Observation:
"Now ye may suppose that this is foolishness in me; but behold I say unto you, that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass..." [Alma 37:6] [emphasis added]
One evening my life support system failed and I had a very close brush with death. At the time, believe it or not, I was very unemotional about what had happened, and just enjoyed being alive to be able to eat an ice cream sandwich with Jo Anne after the harrowing experience was finally over. The next morning however, as I was lying in bed and pondering what had happened the night before, there flashed into my mind something I had experienced just two days before I almost entered the Spirit World.
It was a simple little thing really, but as I thought of it the tears began to flow. Our grandson, Trevor, is on a summer league basketball team for 9 and 10-year-olds, coached by his dad, Rich. It was during the heat wave, and the temperature was in triple digits even in Orange County. Jo Anne and I had gone to his game the week before, but because of the triple digit heat that Saturday as well, we were forced to leave the gym just after the game began because there was no air-conditioning, and it was just stifling inside. In my condition I don't do really well in hot weather. Again this Saturday, the gym was without air-conditioning, but by sitting in the open doorway there was enough of a breeze that I was able to endure the heat. Trevor played a great game. I tell him he plays like a Steve Nash with a good haircut. For a 10-year-old he is a remarkable ball handler and passer and also plays good defense. His team won the game and it was a happy moment for him, his teammates, his family, and his grandma and grandpa. I was so happy I was able to endure the heat and see the game.
Anyway, as I was lying in bed, this was the experience that came into my mind and caused the emotional meltdown. Had we not gone to the game, and had I not been able to endure the heat, and had I indeed gone into the Spirit World the following Monday evening, that simple, sweet, little experience with Trevor and Rich would never have been a part of my mortal memory. For some reason that experience triggered many other "small and simple" memories of "small and simple things" that, when added together over a lifetime, determine who we are, as well as the relationships we have with God and with others.
The first six months of my mission to Central America I had a recurring nightmare almost every night; I would awake frightened, and in a cold sweat. The nightmare was that I had rejected the call to serve a mission issued to me by my bishop. However, the real nightmare was because I had rejected the call, I never would have known my fellow missionaries, the wonderful, humble Mayan Indians I was working with, nor my mission president and his wonderful wife. The nightmare was that I would have lived my entire life without even knowing what I had missed; there would have been no mortal memory created. Accepting a mission call may seem like a "small and simple thing", and yet for me anyway, those 2 1/2 years have influenced, more than I could ever say, the subsequent 40 plus years I have been permitted to live.
There are some things in life that we only have the opportunity of doing once, and then they are gone -- never to be repeated. Thirty-six years ago at the funeral of my dad in Ely, Nevada, I saw coming in the door of the chapel two men from my Elder's quorum. They had started driving early in the morning from Ogden, Utah to get to Ely in time for the funeral. Ely is about 300 miles from Ogden. Things were so hectic I didn't even get to talk to them because they had to leave immediately to drive the 300 miles back to Ogden, but 36 years later that memory is as vivid as though it had happened yesterday. My dad, as most people, only had one funeral, and those two guys were there. What did that communicate to me? You can only imagine.
A funeral, a sealing in the temple, and a wedding reception, for example, are once in a lifetime events. We may be tempted to not go -- to not show up -- because life is busy and hectic. However, by just being there we communicate love, caring, and a valuable relationship is strengthened. What happens if we don't go? Nothing! And if we miss too many of these special events to which we have been invited, our memories and relationships with others will also be nothing. A thank you note, an expression of appreciation, a visit to a longtime friend one has not seen for ages, an act of selfless service, attending a child's important activity, create memories, strengthen relationships, and enlarge our souls.
Last Sunday I taught in our gospel doctrine class the story of the prophet Elisha and Naaman, the captain of the Syrian armies who had leprosy. Naaman came to Elisha seeking to be healed from this dreaded disease. You know the story well, how Elisha told Naaman, through a servant, to go bathe seven times in the River Jordan and he would be healed. Naaman, was offended because the prophet asked him to do such a simple and small thing. He couldn't believe that bathing in the River Jordan would heal him of his leprosy. Surely some other great thing must be done in his behalf to overcome this disease. Finally, persuaded by his servants, he bathed in the River seven times and was totally healed from an incurable disease. I asked my class what would have happened if Naaman had not bathed in the River Jordan? Their answer was, "Nothing!" And that is absolutely the truth. By refusing to do a small and simple thing Naaman would have lived out his life in pain, sorrow, suffering, and misery, knowing nothing of Jehovah and his power. He would never have known the joy of being healed, nor would he have come to know that "Jehovah was the God". By following the simple counsel of the prophet, great blessings came to him as they do to us, as we do the "small and simple things" asked of us in our generation.
"Small and simple things", done or not done, added together, ultimately become the sum total of who we are. Having personal private prayer twice each day for example, for over 60 years will add up to spiritual power that can come to us in no other way. A dedicated and consistent reading of the scriptures each day will bring power into our lives that will enable us to deal better with life's challenges. The prophets have always asked us to do "small and simple things" which if done can "bring great things to pass".
How grateful I am for the mortal memories of "small and simple things" that have occurred in my lifetime. Even the basketball game of a 10-year-old grandson -- small and simple as it may appear -- is not to be lightly overlooked.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Tuesday, August 8, 2006
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
breathing
Tuesday, July 25, 2006 Observation:
On Monday, July 17, 2006, Jo Anne and I went out to dinner with our good friends, Dick and Lucene Fox, and Bruce and Bev Loder. We went to Don José's in Tustin where the Mexican food is usually pretty good. My taquitos this night however, were buried in some kind of red sauce which made them soggy and mushy and hard for me to get down. It turned out not to be my favorite dinner at Don José's or anywhere else as a matter of fact, but the company was enjoyable and salvaged the evening.
We got home about 8:30 p.m. and Jo Anne set me up in my bedroom to watch the Dodgers/Arizona Diamondbacks baseball game which was in about the sixth inning when we tuned it in on my TV. The score was tied at two runs each and a warm feeling began to swell within me that perhaps this evening the Dodgers would not snatch defeat from the jaws of victory as they so typically do. I had watched but a short time when the Arizona Diamondbacks began to hit everything the Dodger pitchers were "throwing up" to the plate. Before I knew it the score was five to two in favor of the Diamondbacks with two men on base. At that very moment I heard a very loud screeching noise like a high-pitched siren and my ventilator went totally dead.
Not being able to breathe is a very interesting experience. I had never before heard the noise coming from my ventilator during 17 years of use, nor had my ventilator ever just gone totally dead in a split second. I panicked when I realized I wasn't breathing, but then tried to be very positive in my mind, thinking that any second Jo Anne would rush into the room, discover the problem, and get me breathing once again. I waited for several seconds but she didn't come -- and she didn't come -- and she didn't come! I then entered into a state of resignation knowing that she was not coming, and that I would soon be entering the spirit world. The sad thing about the entire experience is that as I now began to enter the twilight zone -- half alive and half dead -- I was still watching the baseball game. Just as I slipped into unconsciousness an Arizona Diamondback hit a three-run home run over the deepest part of center field off of Joe Biemel, a journeyman left-handed relief pitcher that nobody but the Dodgers wanted. In the foggy recesses of my mind came the voice of Vince Scully saying, "And now the score is eight to two in favor of the Diamondbacks." What a way to go into the spirit world I thought; a bad Mexican dinner in my stomach, and the Dodgers being hammered by the hated Diamondbacks.
The next thing I remember, Jo Anne was standing over me weeping and wailing and trying to get me to come back. All I knew is that I needed more air and was saying as loud as I could, "Bag me! Bag me!" She was bagging me with the ambubag (a special hand air pump) with all of her heart while trying to dial 911 at the same time. The more she bagged the more the life came back to me, and she was soon able to move my wheelchair over to the bedside where she hooked me up to my backup ventilator that I use at night. How long I had been out I have no idea, but I so easily could have slipped into the spirit world, and it would not have been a painful experience except for the memory of a bad Mexican dinner and the Dodgers/Diamondbacks game.
Now, lest you think that Jo Anne is guilty of "quad abuse", what follows is her side of the story. She had left me watching the ballgame and had gone into the living room and family room area to do some things, and all of a sudden heard a horrible shrieking siren, like noise coming from, she thought, our backyard, or perhaps the neighbor's backyard. She had never heard the sound before and really didn't know what to make of it. She kept puttering around the family room, never equating the sound she was hearing with me or my ventilator. Finally the sound started to really bother her and so she started to go outside through the back door to further investigate. Passing by my bedroom she glanced in and saw me vacantly staring up at the ceiling. She thought I had passed out and our son John's words came to her that if I ever passed out she should lay my chair back to get the blood rushing into my brain once again. As she moved behind the chair to lay me back, she saw all of the red warning lights on the ventilator were flashing, and all of a sudden realized that I was not breathing and that was why I had passed out. Somehow the high-pitched siren noise had been blocked out of her mind until she realized the problem was with the ventilator. She had never been able to connect with 911 for whatever reason which was fine with me.
Later that evening, as Jo Anne was feeding me an ice cream sandwich, I thought I had never eaten anything that tasted so good. I have been living "on the edge" for 17 years now, but I think this was my closest brush with death. As things typically go in life, when our respiratory therapist brought out a new ventilator the next morning and Jo Anne described the noise and what had happened, this "expert" said, "Oh, that's the sound the ventilator makes when it is announcing an all systems failure -- the ventilator has died." Isn't it interesting that during all those 17 years, nobody ever mentioned this sound or demonstrated it for us?
In retrospect, this last brush with death was another wonderful wakeup call. I had reinforced into my mind and heart how precious a gift life is and how quickly it can be taken from us. I developed renewed motivation to live each day as though it were my last. Also, there came to me a feeling of intense gratitude that my life truly is in the hands of the Lord and that perhaps I still have a mission to perform in mortality. I also well came to understand that dying is easy -- it is the living that is hard and demanding.
I know of no more humbling thing than not being able to breathe. When you can't breathe, nothing else matters at all! How well I understand the words of King Benjamin to his people:
"I say unto you that if ye should serve him who has created you from the beginning, and is preserving you from day to day, by lending you breath, that ye may live and move and do according to your own will, and even supporting you from one moment to another—I say, if ye should serve him with all your whole souls yet ye would be unprofitable servants." [Mosiah 2:2-emphasis added]
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
On Monday, July 17, 2006, Jo Anne and I went out to dinner with our good friends, Dick and Lucene Fox, and Bruce and Bev Loder. We went to Don José's in Tustin where the Mexican food is usually pretty good. My taquitos this night however, were buried in some kind of red sauce which made them soggy and mushy and hard for me to get down. It turned out not to be my favorite dinner at Don José's or anywhere else as a matter of fact, but the company was enjoyable and salvaged the evening.
We got home about 8:30 p.m. and Jo Anne set me up in my bedroom to watch the Dodgers/Arizona Diamondbacks baseball game which was in about the sixth inning when we tuned it in on my TV. The score was tied at two runs each and a warm feeling began to swell within me that perhaps this evening the Dodgers would not snatch defeat from the jaws of victory as they so typically do. I had watched but a short time when the Arizona Diamondbacks began to hit everything the Dodger pitchers were "throwing up" to the plate. Before I knew it the score was five to two in favor of the Diamondbacks with two men on base. At that very moment I heard a very loud screeching noise like a high-pitched siren and my ventilator went totally dead.
Not being able to breathe is a very interesting experience. I had never before heard the noise coming from my ventilator during 17 years of use, nor had my ventilator ever just gone totally dead in a split second. I panicked when I realized I wasn't breathing, but then tried to be very positive in my mind, thinking that any second Jo Anne would rush into the room, discover the problem, and get me breathing once again. I waited for several seconds but she didn't come -- and she didn't come -- and she didn't come! I then entered into a state of resignation knowing that she was not coming, and that I would soon be entering the spirit world. The sad thing about the entire experience is that as I now began to enter the twilight zone -- half alive and half dead -- I was still watching the baseball game. Just as I slipped into unconsciousness an Arizona Diamondback hit a three-run home run over the deepest part of center field off of Joe Biemel, a journeyman left-handed relief pitcher that nobody but the Dodgers wanted. In the foggy recesses of my mind came the voice of Vince Scully saying, "And now the score is eight to two in favor of the Diamondbacks." What a way to go into the spirit world I thought; a bad Mexican dinner in my stomach, and the Dodgers being hammered by the hated Diamondbacks.
The next thing I remember, Jo Anne was standing over me weeping and wailing and trying to get me to come back. All I knew is that I needed more air and was saying as loud as I could, "Bag me! Bag me!" She was bagging me with the ambubag (a special hand air pump) with all of her heart while trying to dial 911 at the same time. The more she bagged the more the life came back to me, and she was soon able to move my wheelchair over to the bedside where she hooked me up to my backup ventilator that I use at night. How long I had been out I have no idea, but I so easily could have slipped into the spirit world, and it would not have been a painful experience except for the memory of a bad Mexican dinner and the Dodgers/Diamondbacks game.
Now, lest you think that Jo Anne is guilty of "quad abuse", what follows is her side of the story. She had left me watching the ballgame and had gone into the living room and family room area to do some things, and all of a sudden heard a horrible shrieking siren, like noise coming from, she thought, our backyard, or perhaps the neighbor's backyard. She had never heard the sound before and really didn't know what to make of it. She kept puttering around the family room, never equating the sound she was hearing with me or my ventilator. Finally the sound started to really bother her and so she started to go outside through the back door to further investigate. Passing by my bedroom she glanced in and saw me vacantly staring up at the ceiling. She thought I had passed out and our son John's words came to her that if I ever passed out she should lay my chair back to get the blood rushing into my brain once again. As she moved behind the chair to lay me back, she saw all of the red warning lights on the ventilator were flashing, and all of a sudden realized that I was not breathing and that was why I had passed out. Somehow the high-pitched siren noise had been blocked out of her mind until she realized the problem was with the ventilator. She had never been able to connect with 911 for whatever reason which was fine with me.
Later that evening, as Jo Anne was feeding me an ice cream sandwich, I thought I had never eaten anything that tasted so good. I have been living "on the edge" for 17 years now, but I think this was my closest brush with death. As things typically go in life, when our respiratory therapist brought out a new ventilator the next morning and Jo Anne described the noise and what had happened, this "expert" said, "Oh, that's the sound the ventilator makes when it is announcing an all systems failure -- the ventilator has died." Isn't it interesting that during all those 17 years, nobody ever mentioned this sound or demonstrated it for us?
In retrospect, this last brush with death was another wonderful wakeup call. I had reinforced into my mind and heart how precious a gift life is and how quickly it can be taken from us. I developed renewed motivation to live each day as though it were my last. Also, there came to me a feeling of intense gratitude that my life truly is in the hands of the Lord and that perhaps I still have a mission to perform in mortality. I also well came to understand that dying is easy -- it is the living that is hard and demanding.
I know of no more humbling thing than not being able to breathe. When you can't breathe, nothing else matters at all! How well I understand the words of King Benjamin to his people:
"I say unto you that if ye should serve him who has created you from the beginning, and is preserving you from day to day, by lending you breath, that ye may live and move and do according to your own will, and even supporting you from one moment to another—I say, if ye should serve him with all your whole souls yet ye would be unprofitable servants." [Mosiah 2:2-emphasis added]
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Friday, July 14, 2006
Plimsoll Mark
Friday, July 14, 2006 Observation:
Well, Major League Baseball has made it to and through the annual all-star break. Of course the American League won the all-star game as they have for the past several years. Why do I have to be cursed with being a National League fan as well as a Dodger fan? Speaking of the Dodgers they are only two games out of first place in the National League West -- will miracles never cease?
Major league baseball players play 162 games beginning in April and ending in September. Although they are a bunch of overpaid millionaires playing a "game", even they need to take a break to reenergize and refocus their efforts for the "dog days" of late summer and early fall. Too much of anything can be detrimental to our mental health and thus we need an occasional break.
A while back I was reading an article regarding the need of recharging our batteries from time to time in "The Religious Educator" periodical published at BYU. An institute director at Purdue University in Indiana by the name of C. Robert Line, the author of the article, introduced me to an interesting concept in his writing called the "Plimsoll Mark". I went to the Internet to research the "Plimsoll Mark" and discovered the following: "Samuel Plimsoll brought about one of the greatest shipping revolutions ever known by shocking the British nation into making reforms which have saved the lives of countless seamen. By the mid-1800's, the overloading of English ships had become a national problem. Plimsoll took up as a crusade the plan of James Hall to require that vessels bear a load line marking indicating when they were overloaded, hence ensuring the safety of crew and cargo. His violent speeches aroused the House of Commons; his book, Our Seamen, shocked the people at large into clamorous indignation. His book also earned him the hatred of many ship owners who set in train a series of legal battles against Plimsoll. Through this adversity and personal loss, Plimsoll clung doggedly to his facts. He fought to the point of utter exhaustion until finally, in 1876, Parliament was forced to pass the Unseaworthy Ships Bill into law, requiring that vessels bear the load line freeboard marking. It was soon known as the "Plimsoll Mark" and was eventually adopted by all maritime nations of the world." (http://www.plimsoll.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=33&Itemid=24)
The metaphor regarding the "Plimsoll Mark" is pretty obvious. Just as a ship will become unsteady and subject to disaster if overloaded, so will a human being experience the same thing. We all have a "Plimsoll Mark". It will vary from person to person, but all of us can experience overload if we exceed our own unique "Plimsoll Mark" with regard to work, tension, and stress. Just like highly overpaid millionaire baseball players we too need to take an "all-star" break from time to time.
The way we re-create ourselves when we begin to exceed our own individual "Plimsoll Mark" will vary of course from individual to individual. For my wife Jo Anne, she finds renewed energy through buying and returning items. I am a little concerned because her favorite store, Robinsons-May, is going out of business soon. Jo Anne has tried to keep it afloat by herself, but apparently, despite her best efforts, the store is going bust. I am praying that Macy's is not the store that fills the void; I'm thinking more along the lines of Kmart.
Spencer W. Kimball loved movies and found in them a way to deal with his "Plimsoll Mark". From his biography we read: " Movies provided one of his relaxations. All the winter Spencer bought a monthly family ticket for a dollar to the Thursday night movie at the Ramona Theater. The shows were mostly second rate, but a bargain. The better theater was over on Main Street. (Spencer ever after teased his son Andrew about the time a freckle-faced girl from Cactus Flat sat on his lap by mistake in the dark.) When Spencer found himself in a city waiting for a train he often went to the theater. He had gone to the silent films (and even sung at intermission) in the "Cozy Corner" in Thatcher as a youth. He and Camilla had marveled at the advent of talkies, seeing their first in Los Angeles in 1930. They loved films."
"In 1939 his diary, though incomplete, mentions thirty-eight movies. One day in 1938, while on vacation, he saw two double bills: Tom Sawyer, No Time to Marry, Tale of Two Cities, and Naughty Marietta. Particularly in the early years as an apostle, when travel by train often meant layovers, he took advantage of the chance to catch up on movies and went, occasionally even to two or three, after not having attended at all for months. In 1949 his journal notes fifteen movies, in 1950, twenty-nine. During much of this time he was on enforced vacation, recovering from his heart attack. He noted a little apologetically, "We see many shows when away like this and resting, since we see so few when at work normally." (Andrew E. Kimball, Edward L. Kimball, Spencer W. Kimball: Twelfth President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 146-147.)
Parenthetically, I might suggest that today's movies are a far cry from those that were watched and loved by President Kimball, one of the hardest working apostles the Church has ever known. And then there are those rare individuals who seem to have no need of a "Plimsoll Mark".
Apparently Elder James E. Talmage, the author of the book "Jesus the Christ" was absent a "Plimsoll Mark". Elder Talmage always worked long hours almost never taking any time off. President Heber J. Grant was very concerned about Elder Talmage's health and tried to get him to play golf, thinking it would be a good diversion and beneficial to him. President Grant was an avid golfer and knew that if he could get Elder Talmage to try the game that he would be converted to it for the rest of his life. His son, John Talmage, recorded what happened: "... Finally a compromise was reached [between President Grant and Elder Talmage], and a test agreed upon: James would give the game of golf an honest trial, and work at it until he was able to hit a drive which President Grant would rate as satisfactory, "a real golf shot." "If you hit just one really good drive, nature will do the rest," President Grant assured his pupil-to-be. "You won't be able to resist the game after that. It was agreed that James would make his own choice after he had acquired the skill to hit the specified shot... If, after giving the game a fair trial, James still felt no interest, President Grant would cease his efforts to get Dr. Talmage to play."
"On an appointed day, the two, accompanied by a number of others of the General Authorities who played golf and who had joined the friendly argument on the side of President Grant, proceeded to Nibley Park for James' first session in what was expected to be a series of lessons. James removed his coat and was shown how to grip the club and take his stance at the ball. The coordinated movements involved in making a golf stroke were carefully explained and then demonstrated by President Grant and by others. Finally it came James' turn to try it himself."
What followed astonished all those who watched, and probably James himself. Instead of missing the ball completely, or weakly pushing it a few feet along the grass, James somehow managed to strike the ball cleanly and with substantial force. It took off in a fine arc and with only a minimum amount of slice. Some who saw it described it later as "a truly magnificent drive," which was probably a considerable exaggeration. However, there was consensus that the ball went close to 200 yards and stayed in the fairway... The spectators were momentarily struck dumb, then burst into enthusiastic applause. "Congratulations," said President Grant, rushing forward, beaming, with outstretched hand. "That was a fine shot you will remember for the rest of your life." "You mean that was a fully satisfactory golf shot?" James asked, cautiously. "It certainly was!" said President Grant. "Then I have fulfilled my part of the agreement?" "You have-and don't you feel the thrill of excitement? Now you'll be playing regularly. As a matter of fact, we can go into the clubhouse now and I will help you select a set of clubs." "Thank you," said James, putting on his coat. "If I have carried out my part of the agreement, then I shall call on you to live up to yours. You promised that if I hit a satisfactory drive and did not feel the spontaneous desire to play, you would stop urging me to do so. Now I should like to get back to the office, where I have a great deal of work waiting. So far as is known, James never again struck a golf ball, or made the attempt." (John R. Talmage, Talmage Story: Life of James E. Talmage--Educator, Scientist, Apostle, 226-229.)
So what does a "mobility impaired" old guy on life support do when he hits his "Plimsoll Mark"? I am limited physically in what I can do, but after hours of working on my computer and reading I reach my "Plimsoll Mark", and thankfully I can get reenergized by watching Dodgers baseball, Lakers basketball, and BYU football. I also enjoy watching the same movies President Kimball watched so many years ago on Turner Classic Movies. I even find relief by rolling outside and looking at the flowers in our front yard. Thankfully, it doesn't take much to renew my energy and spirit which is a great gift. How about you?
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Well, Major League Baseball has made it to and through the annual all-star break. Of course the American League won the all-star game as they have for the past several years. Why do I have to be cursed with being a National League fan as well as a Dodger fan? Speaking of the Dodgers they are only two games out of first place in the National League West -- will miracles never cease?
Major league baseball players play 162 games beginning in April and ending in September. Although they are a bunch of overpaid millionaires playing a "game", even they need to take a break to reenergize and refocus their efforts for the "dog days" of late summer and early fall. Too much of anything can be detrimental to our mental health and thus we need an occasional break.
A while back I was reading an article regarding the need of recharging our batteries from time to time in "The Religious Educator" periodical published at BYU. An institute director at Purdue University in Indiana by the name of C. Robert Line, the author of the article, introduced me to an interesting concept in his writing called the "Plimsoll Mark". I went to the Internet to research the "Plimsoll Mark" and discovered the following: "Samuel Plimsoll brought about one of the greatest shipping revolutions ever known by shocking the British nation into making reforms which have saved the lives of countless seamen. By the mid-1800's, the overloading of English ships had become a national problem. Plimsoll took up as a crusade the plan of James Hall to require that vessels bear a load line marking indicating when they were overloaded, hence ensuring the safety of crew and cargo. His violent speeches aroused the House of Commons; his book, Our Seamen, shocked the people at large into clamorous indignation. His book also earned him the hatred of many ship owners who set in train a series of legal battles against Plimsoll. Through this adversity and personal loss, Plimsoll clung doggedly to his facts. He fought to the point of utter exhaustion until finally, in 1876, Parliament was forced to pass the Unseaworthy Ships Bill into law, requiring that vessels bear the load line freeboard marking. It was soon known as the "Plimsoll Mark" and was eventually adopted by all maritime nations of the world." (http://www.plimsoll.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=33&Itemid=24)
The metaphor regarding the "Plimsoll Mark" is pretty obvious. Just as a ship will become unsteady and subject to disaster if overloaded, so will a human being experience the same thing. We all have a "Plimsoll Mark". It will vary from person to person, but all of us can experience overload if we exceed our own unique "Plimsoll Mark" with regard to work, tension, and stress. Just like highly overpaid millionaire baseball players we too need to take an "all-star" break from time to time.
The way we re-create ourselves when we begin to exceed our own individual "Plimsoll Mark" will vary of course from individual to individual. For my wife Jo Anne, she finds renewed energy through buying and returning items. I am a little concerned because her favorite store, Robinsons-May, is going out of business soon. Jo Anne has tried to keep it afloat by herself, but apparently, despite her best efforts, the store is going bust. I am praying that Macy's is not the store that fills the void; I'm thinking more along the lines of Kmart.
Spencer W. Kimball loved movies and found in them a way to deal with his "Plimsoll Mark". From his biography we read: " Movies provided one of his relaxations. All the winter Spencer bought a monthly family ticket for a dollar to the Thursday night movie at the Ramona Theater. The shows were mostly second rate, but a bargain. The better theater was over on Main Street. (Spencer ever after teased his son Andrew about the time a freckle-faced girl from Cactus Flat sat on his lap by mistake in the dark.) When Spencer found himself in a city waiting for a train he often went to the theater. He had gone to the silent films (and even sung at intermission) in the "Cozy Corner" in Thatcher as a youth. He and Camilla had marveled at the advent of talkies, seeing their first in Los Angeles in 1930. They loved films."
"In 1939 his diary, though incomplete, mentions thirty-eight movies. One day in 1938, while on vacation, he saw two double bills: Tom Sawyer, No Time to Marry, Tale of Two Cities, and Naughty Marietta. Particularly in the early years as an apostle, when travel by train often meant layovers, he took advantage of the chance to catch up on movies and went, occasionally even to two or three, after not having attended at all for months. In 1949 his journal notes fifteen movies, in 1950, twenty-nine. During much of this time he was on enforced vacation, recovering from his heart attack. He noted a little apologetically, "We see many shows when away like this and resting, since we see so few when at work normally." (Andrew E. Kimball, Edward L. Kimball, Spencer W. Kimball: Twelfth President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 146-147.)
Parenthetically, I might suggest that today's movies are a far cry from those that were watched and loved by President Kimball, one of the hardest working apostles the Church has ever known. And then there are those rare individuals who seem to have no need of a "Plimsoll Mark".
Apparently Elder James E. Talmage, the author of the book "Jesus the Christ" was absent a "Plimsoll Mark". Elder Talmage always worked long hours almost never taking any time off. President Heber J. Grant was very concerned about Elder Talmage's health and tried to get him to play golf, thinking it would be a good diversion and beneficial to him. President Grant was an avid golfer and knew that if he could get Elder Talmage to try the game that he would be converted to it for the rest of his life. His son, John Talmage, recorded what happened: "... Finally a compromise was reached [between President Grant and Elder Talmage], and a test agreed upon: James would give the game of golf an honest trial, and work at it until he was able to hit a drive which President Grant would rate as satisfactory, "a real golf shot." "If you hit just one really good drive, nature will do the rest," President Grant assured his pupil-to-be. "You won't be able to resist the game after that. It was agreed that James would make his own choice after he had acquired the skill to hit the specified shot... If, after giving the game a fair trial, James still felt no interest, President Grant would cease his efforts to get Dr. Talmage to play."
"On an appointed day, the two, accompanied by a number of others of the General Authorities who played golf and who had joined the friendly argument on the side of President Grant, proceeded to Nibley Park for James' first session in what was expected to be a series of lessons. James removed his coat and was shown how to grip the club and take his stance at the ball. The coordinated movements involved in making a golf stroke were carefully explained and then demonstrated by President Grant and by others. Finally it came James' turn to try it himself."
What followed astonished all those who watched, and probably James himself. Instead of missing the ball completely, or weakly pushing it a few feet along the grass, James somehow managed to strike the ball cleanly and with substantial force. It took off in a fine arc and with only a minimum amount of slice. Some who saw it described it later as "a truly magnificent drive," which was probably a considerable exaggeration. However, there was consensus that the ball went close to 200 yards and stayed in the fairway... The spectators were momentarily struck dumb, then burst into enthusiastic applause. "Congratulations," said President Grant, rushing forward, beaming, with outstretched hand. "That was a fine shot you will remember for the rest of your life." "You mean that was a fully satisfactory golf shot?" James asked, cautiously. "It certainly was!" said President Grant. "Then I have fulfilled my part of the agreement?" "You have-and don't you feel the thrill of excitement? Now you'll be playing regularly. As a matter of fact, we can go into the clubhouse now and I will help you select a set of clubs." "Thank you," said James, putting on his coat. "If I have carried out my part of the agreement, then I shall call on you to live up to yours. You promised that if I hit a satisfactory drive and did not feel the spontaneous desire to play, you would stop urging me to do so. Now I should like to get back to the office, where I have a great deal of work waiting. So far as is known, James never again struck a golf ball, or made the attempt." (John R. Talmage, Talmage Story: Life of James E. Talmage--Educator, Scientist, Apostle, 226-229.)
So what does a "mobility impaired" old guy on life support do when he hits his "Plimsoll Mark"? I am limited physically in what I can do, but after hours of working on my computer and reading I reach my "Plimsoll Mark", and thankfully I can get reenergized by watching Dodgers baseball, Lakers basketball, and BYU football. I also enjoy watching the same movies President Kimball watched so many years ago on Turner Classic Movies. I even find relief by rolling outside and looking at the flowers in our front yard. Thankfully, it doesn't take much to renew my energy and spirit which is a great gift. How about you?
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Wednesday, July 5, 2006
Scratching
Thursday, July 5, 2006
Several weeks ago Jo Anne and I were visiting with our good friends, Miles and Barb Gardner, in Surprise, Arizona. We had gone to Arizona to see our youngest son John, receive his certificate as a specialist in ER medicine from the University of Arizona in Tucson and at long last become a full-fledged M.D. having successfully completed his residency. It has taken him four years of college, four years of medical school, and four years of an internship and residency to ultimately achieve his goal. John knows how to work! He also knows how to play, but somewhere along the line he learned how to "scratch".
Let me explain my use of the word "scratch". While staying with the Gardners in Surprise we noticed out in their yard a number of quail. The quail were in family groups and were very interesting to watch. The mom and dad quail would have their little chicks out with them in the hot sunshine scratching for food and then herding the little ones back under the shade of a bush when it got too hot. We came to understand while watching them that there was one mom and dad quail that had 21 chicks. When that family went out to scratch for food, the entire family was scratching and working hard. Mom and dad quail simply could not scratch for food for themselves and all their children, and so these little ones were scratching for themselves, and in the process learning to become independent and strong. On the other hand, one mom and dad quail only had one chick. Watching this family we noticed mom and dad scratching hard and giving food to their little baby, but that the baby chick was not scratching at all. Having all its needs met by mom and dad quail it was as though the baby chick had not learned how to scratch for food. Why did it have to scratch when mom and dad were doing all the scratching for it?
Now, my observation is not about family size, but about the necessity of each one of us learning how to "scratch". No child is done a favor by parents who do all the scratching and thus put their child or children on early retirement. If a child does not somewhere along the line learn how to "scratch" how will it ever find its way successfully through life? I suspect it is as difficult now to teach children how to "scratch" as it ever has been at any time. We are such an affluent society, and many moms and dads can do everything and provide everything for their little "chicks", but at what cost?
One of my favorite people over the years has been Spencer W. Kimball -- a man who knew how to "scratch". He graduated from high school in 1914, and his father, Andrew Kimball, also his stake president and president of the board of education, delivered an address at the graduation ceremony and announced that Spencer would not be going to college in the fall; he would be on a mission. Spencer, in his journal recorded: "Father informed me in these exercises before all the people that I was to be called on a mission. This took me by surprise for I had been planning to go to college."
"Four days after graduation he was at work in Globe, eighty miles west. His job had already been arranged. Two summers back his father, hard-pressed financially, had helped him find a job with the Anderson-Blake Dairy at $47.50 a month plus meals and a bunk. The second and third summers he earned $62.50 a month at a different Globe dairy. Except for tithing and an occasional five-cent ice cream or chocolate bar-"once in a while I would indulge myself"-Spencer had saved his whole wage to pay for books, clothes, and pocket money at Gila Academy through the winter. Now the money would go for his mission."
"Spencer described life at the dairy: "June 22. Nothing extraordinary happened. Same work each day. Arise at 8 a.m. Eat breakfast. String from 30-40 bales of hay around the mangers and remove wires therefrom. Help wash about 300 bottles. 10 a.m. help yoke up the cows. 10:30 milk till 12 pm. when I turn separator and feed calves. Clean the refuse hay out of the mangers. Dinner at 12:45. Sweep up boards in barn and clean up waste hay. Rest. 5 p.m. Help wash bottles again. Saw wood, put separator and strainers together. Milk again from 11pm.-2 a.m.
"It was tough work. The scalding water he and the other boys used to wash the milk cans made their fingers tender. As soon as he would start to milk his two dozen cows, morning or night, the pressure on his tender fingers would split the flesh. They swelled and cracked until the blood would ooze out. "I could have cried many a time," he remembered. Some of the boys' fingers got so sore their fingernails fell off and their forearms swelled. Some of the cows' udders seemed so hard, Spencer remembered, that "it was almost like getting milk out of iron bars." When he would walk into town for Sunday School with some of the other boys, their fingers would throb so badly they would hold them over their heads to help the blood drain out. "I always made the joke," said Spencer, "that we supposed people who saw us thought we were giving up, surrendering. But of course, we put our cracked and bleeding hands in our pockets if we passed anyone."
(Andrew E. Kimball, Edward L. Kimball, Spencer W. Kimball: Twelfth President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 50.)
Couldn't Andrew Kimball, a prominent man in the community, have made life a little easier for little Spencer? I suspect he could have, but chose not to. Much of the greatness of Spencer W. Kimball came from his ability to work hard day in and day out. After his years of working at the Globe Dairy I would imagine that most other jobs he ever had seemed relatively easy. His dad taught him how to "scratch" and he became strong and self-reliant in the process.
What do we do today to help our children learn to "scratch"? There aren't many Globe Dairies anymore are there? Understanding the principle of "scratching" for ourselves however, is invaluable, and then we must be creative in applying the principle in our lives and in our children's lives.
"Scratching" need not be unpleasant. I believe the chick that scratches for its own food ultimately enjoys it more than the chick that never learned how to "scratch".
"It does not seem to be true that work necessarily needs to be unpleasant. It may always have to be hard, or at least harder than doing nothing at all. But there is ample evidence that work can be enjoyable, and that indeed, it is often the most enjoyable part of life."
(Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience, 1990, Mihaly Csitkszentmihalyi)
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Several weeks ago Jo Anne and I were visiting with our good friends, Miles and Barb Gardner, in Surprise, Arizona. We had gone to Arizona to see our youngest son John, receive his certificate as a specialist in ER medicine from the University of Arizona in Tucson and at long last become a full-fledged M.D. having successfully completed his residency. It has taken him four years of college, four years of medical school, and four years of an internship and residency to ultimately achieve his goal. John knows how to work! He also knows how to play, but somewhere along the line he learned how to "scratch".
Let me explain my use of the word "scratch". While staying with the Gardners in Surprise we noticed out in their yard a number of quail. The quail were in family groups and were very interesting to watch. The mom and dad quail would have their little chicks out with them in the hot sunshine scratching for food and then herding the little ones back under the shade of a bush when it got too hot. We came to understand while watching them that there was one mom and dad quail that had 21 chicks. When that family went out to scratch for food, the entire family was scratching and working hard. Mom and dad quail simply could not scratch for food for themselves and all their children, and so these little ones were scratching for themselves, and in the process learning to become independent and strong. On the other hand, one mom and dad quail only had one chick. Watching this family we noticed mom and dad scratching hard and giving food to their little baby, but that the baby chick was not scratching at all. Having all its needs met by mom and dad quail it was as though the baby chick had not learned how to scratch for food. Why did it have to scratch when mom and dad were doing all the scratching for it?
Now, my observation is not about family size, but about the necessity of each one of us learning how to "scratch". No child is done a favor by parents who do all the scratching and thus put their child or children on early retirement. If a child does not somewhere along the line learn how to "scratch" how will it ever find its way successfully through life? I suspect it is as difficult now to teach children how to "scratch" as it ever has been at any time. We are such an affluent society, and many moms and dads can do everything and provide everything for their little "chicks", but at what cost?
One of my favorite people over the years has been Spencer W. Kimball -- a man who knew how to "scratch". He graduated from high school in 1914, and his father, Andrew Kimball, also his stake president and president of the board of education, delivered an address at the graduation ceremony and announced that Spencer would not be going to college in the fall; he would be on a mission. Spencer, in his journal recorded: "Father informed me in these exercises before all the people that I was to be called on a mission. This took me by surprise for I had been planning to go to college."
"Four days after graduation he was at work in Globe, eighty miles west. His job had already been arranged. Two summers back his father, hard-pressed financially, had helped him find a job with the Anderson-Blake Dairy at $47.50 a month plus meals and a bunk. The second and third summers he earned $62.50 a month at a different Globe dairy. Except for tithing and an occasional five-cent ice cream or chocolate bar-"once in a while I would indulge myself"-Spencer had saved his whole wage to pay for books, clothes, and pocket money at Gila Academy through the winter. Now the money would go for his mission."
"Spencer described life at the dairy: "June 22. Nothing extraordinary happened. Same work each day. Arise at 8 a.m. Eat breakfast. String from 30-40 bales of hay around the mangers and remove wires therefrom. Help wash about 300 bottles. 10 a.m. help yoke up the cows. 10:30 milk till 12 pm. when I turn separator and feed calves. Clean the refuse hay out of the mangers. Dinner at 12:45. Sweep up boards in barn and clean up waste hay. Rest. 5 p.m. Help wash bottles again. Saw wood, put separator and strainers together. Milk again from 11pm.-2 a.m.
"It was tough work. The scalding water he and the other boys used to wash the milk cans made their fingers tender. As soon as he would start to milk his two dozen cows, morning or night, the pressure on his tender fingers would split the flesh. They swelled and cracked until the blood would ooze out. "I could have cried many a time," he remembered. Some of the boys' fingers got so sore their fingernails fell off and their forearms swelled. Some of the cows' udders seemed so hard, Spencer remembered, that "it was almost like getting milk out of iron bars." When he would walk into town for Sunday School with some of the other boys, their fingers would throb so badly they would hold them over their heads to help the blood drain out. "I always made the joke," said Spencer, "that we supposed people who saw us thought we were giving up, surrendering. But of course, we put our cracked and bleeding hands in our pockets if we passed anyone."
(Andrew E. Kimball, Edward L. Kimball, Spencer W. Kimball: Twelfth President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 50.)
Couldn't Andrew Kimball, a prominent man in the community, have made life a little easier for little Spencer? I suspect he could have, but chose not to. Much of the greatness of Spencer W. Kimball came from his ability to work hard day in and day out. After his years of working at the Globe Dairy I would imagine that most other jobs he ever had seemed relatively easy. His dad taught him how to "scratch" and he became strong and self-reliant in the process.
What do we do today to help our children learn to "scratch"? There aren't many Globe Dairies anymore are there? Understanding the principle of "scratching" for ourselves however, is invaluable, and then we must be creative in applying the principle in our lives and in our children's lives.
"Scratching" need not be unpleasant. I believe the chick that scratches for its own food ultimately enjoys it more than the chick that never learned how to "scratch".
"It does not seem to be true that work necessarily needs to be unpleasant. It may always have to be hard, or at least harder than doing nothing at all. But there is ample evidence that work can be enjoyable, and that indeed, it is often the most enjoyable part of life."
(Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience, 1990, Mihaly Csitkszentmihalyi)
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Joseph William Johnson
June 27, 2006 Observation:
Joseph William Johnson
This weekend we had a very special experience. Joseph William "Billy" Johnson from Ghana, who was visiting in Tustin with his good friends, Ben and Emilia Andoh-Keson, also from Ghana, visited our home twice and also spoke at a special fireside in our chapel. Brother Johnson is a patriarch in Ghana and was instrumental in bringing the missionaries and the gospel to Africa. Let me share a few things about Brother Johnson that will help you appreciate who he is. I will be quoting from Maureen and Scot Procter who went to Ghana to interview Brother Johnson for Meridian Magazine a few years ago.
"Without priesthood power and direction, without the authorization of the Church, with no hope of receiving the priesthood himself, with no hope for temple blessings, he still felt compelled—even fired from his bone marrow-- to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ. Persecutions didn’t stop him. Disdain only sent him to his knees. The slow grinding of the years when he had ten congregations each bearing the handwritten signs “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” didn’t wear him down. Official letters from Church headquarters telling him that it wasn’t yet time to send missionaries didn’t daunt him. He knew from personal revelation that his “brothers from the West” would come for him, and though he sometimes cried and often prayed all night for courage, when they did come, he had 1,000 people who were ready for baptism..."
"In the early 60’s, the Lord’s Spirit certainly began brooding on Africa. Not only did Brother Johnson form his congregations in Ghana, but also in Nigeria unauthorized congregations of Latter-day Saints began sprouting. Here it was that somebody saw an advertisement in The Reader’s Digest, there a friend from Europe sent a tract. Somebody else received a copy of the Book of Mormon. Seemingly unrelated events were coming together to bring a groundswell of interest in what must have seemed like a distant Church. What wasn’t distant was the Spirit which moved upon many people almost simultaneously with a divine orchestration that would someday bring a temple..."
"... When we came upon Brother Johnson’s neighborhood, nothing seemed remarkable. His home was in a typical African village, but that is where “typical” ended. He was as astounding as you’d expect the founder of a movement against great odds would be, and we felt the impress of his grand spirit as we interviewed him. Had we met someone like this before—ever before? Could Parley P. Pratt been more on fire than this African patriarch who had begged for the Church? We were not surprised when we learned that some of the early missionaries called him the “St. Paul of Ghana.” "... Brother Johnson is a visionary man, a man with significant dreams. God speaks to most of us in quieter tones, yet perhaps on the frontier of the Church, Joseph Johnson needed dreams to sustain and teach him."
Space will not permit a detailed account of how Church literature, the Book of Mormon, and the other standard works came into his hands. Upon receiving them however, the following took place: "He started his studies by reading a tract on Joseph Smith and the first vision, and said he, “I was convinced. I believed. I felt the spirit when I read the story of Joseph Smith, especially how the father and the son revealed themselves to him. That moved me a great deal"... He took his studies of the Book of Mormon with equal conviction, poring over the pages. Then, he said, “One early morning of March 1964 while I was about to get up to prepare for my daily chores, the Spirit of the Lord fell upon me. I heard a voice from heaven speaking to me saying, ‘Johnson, if you will take up my word as I will command you to your people, I will bless you and bless your land.’ Trembling in fear, I replied in tears, saying ‘Lord by thy own help, I will do whatsoever thou would command me.’
"From that day on,” said Brother Johnson, “the Spirit of the Lord constrained me to propagate the restored gospel to my people. I started door to door and performed open missionary work preaching the new message we read from the Book of Mormon.”
For the next 14 years Brother Johnson preached the gospel, organized branches of the Church (unauthorized branches, though not discouraged), and president David O. McKay encouraged him to be patient and that one day missionaries would come to Ghana. He had many spiritual experiences that increased his faith and made it possible for him to go forward with the work during this difficult time. Following is one of them. "One night, before the Church had come, he had been weeping for a different reason. He was discouraged and pained, wondering, “Will our brothers from the West ever come for us?” Then in a dream his brother, who had died four years before President Johnson had found the Church came to him and said, “Do not weep. I have found your Church in this place, and I want to be baptized, but I cannot without your help.” To prove to President Johnson that he spoke the truth he sang for him “Come, Come Ye Saints.”
Well, the missionaries came, the Church was officially organized in Ghana and Nigeria, and literally thousands of wonderful Africans have become members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. "On the day of the Ghana temple dedication, Brother Johnson said, “We will always remember what the missionaries have done for us. My heart is burning with love and appreciation. When I started preaching with the Book of Mormon, everyone said, they won’t come. Leave the Church. I said, ‘I know they will come because the Lord has told me.’” "... Patriarch Johnson said, “Temple work is the sweetest part of the Church to which my heart and soul have always clung. I want to meet my mother and father in the resurrection prepared to enter the kingdom of God. “There is a chorus of God’s love inside every member of the Church today. We can’t express our gratitude for the blessings we have received.”
Last Saturday afternoon, Brother Johnson, his sister Bea, and Sister Andoh-Kesson came to our home to visit. Emilia had shown him our video, "It's Good to Be Alive", the night before, and he was anxious to meet a fellow patriarch from the United States, although a paralyzed one. He was not nearly as eager to meet me as I was him. The moment he "sprang" into our living room and ran over to me, I could feel his Spirit of love before he said a word. He couldn't hug me because of the wheelchair, but had he been able to, it would have been a powerful embrace. Jo Anne and I felt the Spirit very strongly as we visited with this incredible human being -- a blend of Paul, Wilford Woodruff, Parley P. Pratt, and Brigham Young -- rolled into one. At one point in the conversation he gave me a spontaneous little blessing. We knew we were in the presence of a man of God, and a man of incredible faith. We attended the fireside on Sunday which was wonderful, and then heard that he wanted to come by our home once again on Monday afternoon. We felt extremely grateful and humbled that he would want to do so. When he entered our home on Monday we again felt his great spirit and soon discovered that the purpose of his visit was to give me a special blessing. He anointed my head with oil, sealed it by the power of the holy Melchizedek priesthood, and gave me a powerful blessing of peace, comfort, well-being, and some things I can't mention. Tears were flowing as I felt the love of Heavenly Father communicated to me through the faith and goodness of this great man. He is a man from another continent, another race, another culture, and almost from another world it seems. A man of God!
My pitiful words cannot adequately describe my experience with patriarch Johnson. Jo Anne thankfully, shared the experience with me, and knows what I am trying to say. As Ammon said, "I cannot say the smallest part which I feel."
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Joseph William Johnson
This weekend we had a very special experience. Joseph William "Billy" Johnson from Ghana, who was visiting in Tustin with his good friends, Ben and Emilia Andoh-Keson, also from Ghana, visited our home twice and also spoke at a special fireside in our chapel. Brother Johnson is a patriarch in Ghana and was instrumental in bringing the missionaries and the gospel to Africa. Let me share a few things about Brother Johnson that will help you appreciate who he is. I will be quoting from Maureen and Scot Procter who went to Ghana to interview Brother Johnson for Meridian Magazine a few years ago.
"Without priesthood power and direction, without the authorization of the Church, with no hope of receiving the priesthood himself, with no hope for temple blessings, he still felt compelled—even fired from his bone marrow-- to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ. Persecutions didn’t stop him. Disdain only sent him to his knees. The slow grinding of the years when he had ten congregations each bearing the handwritten signs “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” didn’t wear him down. Official letters from Church headquarters telling him that it wasn’t yet time to send missionaries didn’t daunt him. He knew from personal revelation that his “brothers from the West” would come for him, and though he sometimes cried and often prayed all night for courage, when they did come, he had 1,000 people who were ready for baptism..."
"In the early 60’s, the Lord’s Spirit certainly began brooding on Africa. Not only did Brother Johnson form his congregations in Ghana, but also in Nigeria unauthorized congregations of Latter-day Saints began sprouting. Here it was that somebody saw an advertisement in The Reader’s Digest, there a friend from Europe sent a tract. Somebody else received a copy of the Book of Mormon. Seemingly unrelated events were coming together to bring a groundswell of interest in what must have seemed like a distant Church. What wasn’t distant was the Spirit which moved upon many people almost simultaneously with a divine orchestration that would someday bring a temple..."
"... When we came upon Brother Johnson’s neighborhood, nothing seemed remarkable. His home was in a typical African village, but that is where “typical” ended. He was as astounding as you’d expect the founder of a movement against great odds would be, and we felt the impress of his grand spirit as we interviewed him. Had we met someone like this before—ever before? Could Parley P. Pratt
Space will not permit a detailed account of how Church literature, the Book of Mormon, and the other standard works came into his hands. Upon receiving them however, the following took place: "He started his studies by reading a tract on Joseph Smith and the first vision, and said he, “I was convinced. I believed. I felt the spirit when I read the story of Joseph Smith, especially how the father and the son revealed themselves to him. That moved me a great deal"... He took his studies of the Book of Mormon with equal conviction, poring over the pages. Then, he said, “One early morning of March 1964 while I was about to get up to prepare for my daily chores, the Spirit of the Lord fell upon me. I heard a voice from heaven speaking to me saying, ‘Johnson, if you will take up my word as I will command you to your people, I will bless you and bless your land.’ Trembling in fear, I replied in tears, saying ‘Lord by thy own help, I will do whatsoever thou would command me.’
"From that day on,” said Brother Johnson, “the Spirit of the Lord constrained me to propagate the restored gospel to my people. I started door to door and performed open missionary work preaching the new message we read from the Book of Mormon.”
For the next 14 years Brother Johnson preached the gospel, organized branches of the Church (unauthorized branches, though not discouraged), and president David O. McKay encouraged him to be patient and that one day missionaries would come to Ghana. He had many spiritual experiences that increased his faith and made it possible for him to go forward with the work during this difficult time. Following is one of them. "One night, before the Church had come, he had been weeping for a different reason. He was discouraged and pained, wondering, “Will our brothers from the West ever come for us?” Then in a dream his brother, who had died four years before President Johnson had found the Church came to him and said, “Do not weep. I have found your Church in this place, and I want to be baptized, but I cannot without your help.” To prove to President Johnson that he spoke the truth he sang for him “Come, Come Ye Saints.”
Well, the missionaries came, the Church was officially organized in Ghana and Nigeria, and literally thousands of wonderful Africans have become members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. "On the day of the Ghana temple dedication, Brother Johnson said, “We will always remember what the missionaries have done for us. My heart is burning with love and appreciation. When I started preaching with the Book of Mormon, everyone said, they won’t come. Leave the Church. I said, ‘I know they will come because the Lord has told me.’” "... Patriarch Johnson said, “Temple work is the sweetest part of the Church to which my heart and soul have always clung. I want to meet my mother and father in the resurrection prepared to enter the kingdom of God. “There is a chorus of God’s love inside every member of the Church today. We can’t express our gratitude for the blessings we have received.”
Last Saturday afternoon, Brother Johnson, his sister Bea, and Sister Andoh-Kesson came to our home to visit. Emilia had shown him our video, "It's Good to Be Alive", the night before, and he was anxious to meet a fellow patriarch from the United States, although a paralyzed one. He was not nearly as eager to meet me as I was him. The moment he "sprang" into our living room and ran over to me, I could feel his Spirit of love before he said a word. He couldn't hug me because of the wheelchair, but had he been able to, it would have been a powerful embrace. Jo Anne and I felt the Spirit very strongly as we visited with this incredible human being -- a blend of Paul, Wilford Woodruff, Parley P. Pratt, and Brigham Young -- rolled into one. At one point in the conversation he gave me a spontaneous little blessing. We knew we were in the presence of a man of God, and a man of incredible faith. We attended the fireside on Sunday which was wonderful, and then heard that he wanted to come by our home once again on Monday afternoon. We felt extremely grateful and humbled that he would want to do so. When he entered our home on Monday we again felt his great spirit and soon discovered that the purpose of his visit was to give me a special blessing. He anointed my head with oil, sealed it by the power of the holy Melchizedek priesthood, and gave me a powerful blessing of peace, comfort, well-being, and some things I can't mention. Tears were flowing as I felt the love of Heavenly Father communicated to me through the faith and goodness of this great man. He is a man from another continent, another race, another culture, and almost from another world it seems. A man of God!
My pitiful words cannot adequately describe my experience with patriarch Johnson. Jo Anne thankfully, shared the experience with me, and knows what I am trying to say. As Ammon said, "I cannot say the smallest part which I feel."
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Being Content With The Things Which The Lord Has Alloted Unto Us
Wednesday, June 14, 2006 Observation:
"O that I were an angel, and could have the wish of mine heart, that I might go forth and speak with the trump of God, with a voice to shake the earth, and cry repentance unto every people... 3 But behold, I am a man, and do sin in my wish; for I ought to be content with the things which the Lord hath allotted unto me... 9 and this is my joy." [Alma 29: 1, 3, 9] [emphasis added]
I have thought a great deal about these words of Alma over the years. I have always believed that Alma's desire to cry repentance unto every people was a righteous desire, even though he said that he did sin in his wish. If this desire was a sin it was only because Alma had discovered the more significant truth that he should be content with the things the Lord had allotted unto him. And the thing allotted unto him was to be an instrument in the hands of the Lord, to be used as the Lord would use him, in "bringing some soul" to repentance. I think Alma learned that he couldn't do everything, or be everything, nor was he supposed to, but that he should be content with what was allotted unto him, and in being content and working hard in his allotted sphere of influence, he would ultimately experience great joy.
The lesson of being content with that which we are allotted began for me in the mission field in the little Mayan Indian village of Tecpan, Guatemala. Only six months a missionary, the mission president called me to be the senior companion and branch president in that little village. We had 13 members when I began and we had 13 members when I ended the assignment six months later. At least I didn't drive anybody away. It was the most obscure and difficult assignment in the mission field, and nothing I did could be equated with what the world would call success, but as I worked hard I experienced joy, grew spiritually, began to master the Spanish-language, and ultimately was prepared to be "allotted" a more visible and perhaps significant opportunity to serve.
Perhaps all of us at times are tempted not to be content with the things the Lord has allotted unto us, feeling underused, and wanting to be given high-profile assignments in the Church, or serve a mission in an exotic place, or as a teacher, to teach thousands of students whom we feel we can influence in a positive way. I know I have been tempted in this way many times during my lifetime. The Lord in his wisdom however, as is the case with most of us, beginning in the mission field, has orchestrated my life in such a way that I have been blessed to labor in relative obscurity most of the time.
Having a great deal of money and other worldly possessions has never been a motivating factor in my life. I think my greatest challenge, having been a teacher and priesthood leader for so many years, has been not to be guilty of the practice of priestcrafts. "He commandeth that there shall be no priestcrafts; for, behold, priestcrafts are that men preach and set themselves up for a light unto the world, that they may get gain and praise of the world; but they seek not the welfare of Zion." [2 Nephi 26: 29] [emphasis added]
As a young teacher I was at times tempted to equate my success with the number of students in my classes, which equaled a form of "praise". The Lord saw to it that this would never be a great problem for me. I started my career as a teacher for CES in the seminary at Bonneville high school in South Ogden, Utah. I had 150 sophomores in six periods my first year of teaching and was just able to stay alive and one jump ahead of my students. I wasn't philosophizing about "priestcrafts" or anything else -- just surviving. My third year at Bonneville high school I was asked to teach three morning classes at South Washington Jr. high school in a not so good part of Ogden. During the course of that year, four or five of my students ended up at the Utah State industrial school -- the reform school for the State of Utah at that time -- and because there was a teaching vacancy at the reform school seminary my leaders saw fit to send me there to join my delinquent students. I would never teach 150 students each day again for a long time.
We would never have more than 12 students in a class at the reform school because of discipline concerns. These were disturbed kids and most of our most effective work as seminary teachers was really one-on-one counseling. Most lessons that I taught would be greeted by some kid saying "Brother Rushton, are we going to have another one of your "blankety-blank" lessons today?" This helped my humility and kept me from thinking too highly of myself as a teacher. I was also able to avoid falling into the trap of practicing "priestcrafts" because "praise" from my few students was nonexistent.
After three years at the reform school I was liberated and sent to Southern California as an Institute Director/Instructor. My assignment was at the Institute of Religion at California State University at Los Angeles in East Los Angeles. The Church had built an enormous Institute building there, complete with a small basketball floor, but with no students. I would work my heart out preparing a great lesson -- so I thought -- and would walk into a classroom with 30 desks and one or two students at most. I would feel as though someone had kicked me in the stomach, and it would take all of my power to muster up enough enthusiasm to teach that student or students as they should be taught -- with all my heart and spirit. However, as time went by, I began to get the Lord's message regarding the importance of just "one" soul and again developed some attributes and character traits that would qualify me for perhaps a wider audience one day if my motive for teaching could remain pure -- "seeking the welfare of Zion".
In retrospect, perhaps the best Institute class I ever taught was for two young returned missionaries at Cerritos Institute of Religion. Because of their busy schedules they couldn't take one of our regularly scheduled classes. They promised me that if I would teach them the course, "Presidents of the Church", at 7 a.m. each Tuesday and Thursday morning they would never miss a class and would read and be prepared to discuss with me the life of each president of the Church. They were true to their word! As a result of that class we became lifelong friends and all our lives were impacted by the lives of the prophets of this dispensation. I don't think I would have had a similar impact had there been 100 students in the class. Am I wrong?
My greatest heroes are temple ordinance workers. They work in almost total obscurity. Most members of their wards and stakes don't even know what they do. One general authority labeled them as being "low-maintenance and high-yield!"
How fortunate is the man or woman who is content with that which is "allotted" unto them. If we truly seek the welfare of Zion, it matters little where we labor or how popular and well-known we may be. Becoming paralyzed and living on life support I was "allotted" a mission I never could have anticipated. Though it was a struggle initially, I eventually became content with this thing the Lord has "allotted" unto me, and it has become my joy. My greatest goal now is to constantly strive to be "low-maintenance and high-yield" and to bloom where the Lord has seen fit to plant me. I am afraid however, that Jo Anne has not bought into the "low-maintenance" thing.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
"O that I were an angel, and could have the wish of mine heart, that I might go forth and speak with the trump of God, with a voice to shake the earth, and cry repentance unto every people... 3 But behold, I am a man, and do sin in my wish; for I ought to be content with the things which the Lord hath allotted unto me... 9 and this is my joy." [Alma 29: 1, 3, 9] [emphasis added]
I have thought a great deal about these words of Alma over the years. I have always believed that Alma's desire to cry repentance unto every people was a righteous desire, even though he said that he did sin in his wish. If this desire was a sin it was only because Alma had discovered the more significant truth that he should be content with the things the Lord had allotted unto him. And the thing allotted unto him was to be an instrument in the hands of the Lord, to be used as the Lord would use him, in "bringing some soul" to repentance. I think Alma learned that he couldn't do everything, or be everything, nor was he supposed to, but that he should be content with what was allotted unto him, and in being content and working hard in his allotted sphere of influence, he would ultimately experience great joy.
The lesson of being content with that which we are allotted began for me in the mission field in the little Mayan Indian village of Tecpan, Guatemala. Only six months a missionary, the mission president called me to be the senior companion and branch president in that little village. We had 13 members when I began and we had 13 members when I ended the assignment six months later. At least I didn't drive anybody away. It was the most obscure and difficult assignment in the mission field, and nothing I did could be equated with what the world would call success, but as I worked hard I experienced joy, grew spiritually, began to master the Spanish-language, and ultimately was prepared to be "allotted" a more visible and perhaps significant opportunity to serve.
Perhaps all of us at times are tempted not to be content with the things the Lord has allotted unto us, feeling underused, and wanting to be given high-profile assignments in the Church, or serve a mission in an exotic place, or as a teacher, to teach thousands of students whom we feel we can influence in a positive way. I know I have been tempted in this way many times during my lifetime. The Lord in his wisdom however, as is the case with most of us, beginning in the mission field, has orchestrated my life in such a way that I have been blessed to labor in relative obscurity most of the time.
Having a great deal of money and other worldly possessions has never been a motivating factor in my life. I think my greatest challenge, having been a teacher and priesthood leader for so many years, has been not to be guilty of the practice of priestcrafts. "He commandeth that there shall be no priestcrafts; for, behold, priestcrafts are that men preach and set themselves up for a light unto the world, that they may get gain and praise of the world; but they seek not the welfare of Zion." [2 Nephi 26: 29] [emphasis added]
As a young teacher I was at times tempted to equate my success with the number of students in my classes, which equaled a form of "praise". The Lord saw to it that this would never be a great problem for me. I started my career as a teacher for CES in the seminary at Bonneville high school in South Ogden, Utah. I had 150 sophomores in six periods my first year of teaching and was just able to stay alive and one jump ahead of my students. I wasn't philosophizing about "priestcrafts" or anything else -- just surviving. My third year at Bonneville high school I was asked to teach three morning classes at South Washington Jr. high school in a not so good part of Ogden. During the course of that year, four or five of my students ended up at the Utah State industrial school -- the reform school for the State of Utah at that time -- and because there was a teaching vacancy at the reform school seminary my leaders saw fit to send me there to join my delinquent students. I would never teach 150 students each day again for a long time.
We would never have more than 12 students in a class at the reform school because of discipline concerns. These were disturbed kids and most of our most effective work as seminary teachers was really one-on-one counseling. Most lessons that I taught would be greeted by some kid saying "Brother Rushton, are we going to have another one of your "blankety-blank" lessons today?" This helped my humility and kept me from thinking too highly of myself as a teacher. I was also able to avoid falling into the trap of practicing "priestcrafts" because "praise" from my few students was nonexistent.
After three years at the reform school I was liberated and sent to Southern California as an Institute Director/Instructor. My assignment was at the Institute of Religion at California State University at Los Angeles in East Los Angeles. The Church had built an enormous Institute building there, complete with a small basketball floor, but with no students. I would work my heart out preparing a great lesson -- so I thought -- and would walk into a classroom with 30 desks and one or two students at most. I would feel as though someone had kicked me in the stomach, and it would take all of my power to muster up enough enthusiasm to teach that student or students as they should be taught -- with all my heart and spirit. However, as time went by, I began to get the Lord's message regarding the importance of just "one" soul and again developed some attributes and character traits that would qualify me for perhaps a wider audience one day if my motive for teaching could remain pure -- "seeking the welfare of Zion".
In retrospect, perhaps the best Institute class I ever taught was for two young returned missionaries at Cerritos Institute of Religion. Because of their busy schedules they couldn't take one of our regularly scheduled classes. They promised me that if I would teach them the course, "Presidents of the Church", at 7 a.m. each Tuesday and Thursday morning they would never miss a class and would read and be prepared to discuss with me the life of each president of the Church. They were true to their word! As a result of that class we became lifelong friends and all our lives were impacted by the lives of the prophets of this dispensation. I don't think I would have had a similar impact had there been 100 students in the class. Am I wrong?
My greatest heroes are temple ordinance workers. They work in almost total obscurity. Most members of their wards and stakes don't even know what they do. One general authority labeled them as being "low-maintenance and high-yield!"
How fortunate is the man or woman who is content with that which is "allotted" unto them. If we truly seek the welfare of Zion, it matters little where we labor or how popular and well-known we may be. Becoming paralyzed and living on life support I was "allotted" a mission I never could have anticipated. Though it was a struggle initially, I eventually became content with this thing the Lord has "allotted" unto me, and it has become my joy. My greatest goal now is to constantly strive to be "low-maintenance and high-yield" and to bloom where the Lord has seen fit to plant me. I am afraid however, that Jo Anne has not bought into the "low-maintenance" thing.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Building Self-esteem and Self-confidence in Youth
Sunday, June 11, 2006 Observation
Several weeks ago Jo Anne and I went to see our nine-year old grandson, Jake Rushton, play in a Little League baseball game. The coach of the team is his dad, Rich. The team is made up of eight and nine-year-old boys. We sat there watching Rich's team getting hammered by the opposing group of kids. Through it all Rich was very supportive of his boys and we never heard him holler or say a negative thing to his little team. Finally the last inning arrived much to the relief of all the parents and grandparents. Jake and Rich's team was the home team so they were at bat in the last half of the last inning. The score was six-zero in favor of the opposition when Rich's little boys started coming to the plate in the last inning. Miraculously, one of the kids got a hit, another walked, another got a hit; there were some more walks, and finally with two out, we all realized the score was unbelievably four to six with the bases loaded. The last boy to walk to the plate was a skinny nine-year-old named Lincoln, who had great difficulty walking and chewing gum at the same time. Our expectations of him getting a hit were exceedingly low to say the least. He feebly swung at the first pitch and didn't come close to hitting it. Rich went to home plate to encourage him and remind him of some fundamentals of hitting a baseball. The next pitch was a high fastball and Lincoln, I believe, closing his eyes, swung as hard as he could and banged the ball into deep right-center field. He ended up on third base, three runs had scored, and our team had miraculously gone from despair to joy with one swing of Lincoln's bat. It was, in baseball talk, what is called a walk off triple.
Lincoln's dad was not there to share in his son's great achievement. He is hardly around at all in fact. Lincoln's mother embraced her son and said some very kind things to Rich, who has contributed so much to Lincoln's new found self-esteem. Lincoln left the field that evening with a spring in his step and a look of joy on his face. He had learned, as had his teammates, to never give up and to just keep trying until the game is actually over. This was Little League at its best. Complete support, positive reinforcement, and the building of the self-esteem of these eight and nine-year-olds seemed to be far more important to the coaches and parents than the ultimate outcome of the game. Rich gathered his team together and was able to say one positive thing that each boy had done during the course of the game. It was a wonderful moment for the kids and their parents.
Just last week we went to see Jake and Rich's team in a playoff game. They got murdered 15 to 0. Again, we heard no negative comments from Rich or his assistant coaches, and although it was tough to end the season on that note, all the kids and parents seemed to be very happy, and I think Rich was extremely relieved to have the season come to an end regardless of the final score. The agony of defeat was swallowed up in the much-anticipated pizza and swim party that was to follow.
I have seen the ugly side of Little League during my lifetime as well. My son Mike had his arm ruined for an entire season by a "Nazi" Little League coach whose only desire was to win at all costs. I remember when Rich was a young teenager and umpiring a Little League game, when one of the managers took exception with a crucial call he made and began chasing him around the field. Rich was able to stay just one jump ahead of him as he ran for his life.
Finally the "adult" manager came to his senses and gave up the chase. How bad of an example is that?
Whether it is Little League baseball, Scouting, soccer, piano lessons, dance lessons, or just the academics of school itself, parents, teachers, and coaches can do so much to contribute to the self-esteem of young children. I doubt there are few children as they grow up who do not have some problems in this area. Men like Rich, who give so much of their time to these young children, are undoubtedly doing more good than they could ever imagine. I doubt there are very few things any of us could do that would be more important than building the self-esteem and confidence of a young child. Tragically, is there any greater sin than destroying the self-esteem and sense of worth of a child?
The Savior loved little children: "At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven? And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them, And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me. But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea." [Matthew 18: 1-6]
Those who work with little children have been given a sacred trust. Schoolteachers, in particular, have the opportunity to love, to teach, and to inspire young boys and girls and young men and young women. President David O. McKay said, “Teaching is the noblest profession in the world. Upon the proper education of youth depend the permanency and purity of home, the safety and perpetuity of the nation. The parent gives the child an opportunity to live; the teacher enables the child to live well.” (David O. McKay, Gospel Ideals, Salt Lake City: Improvement Era, 1953, p. 436)
I believe we should be doing much more than we are as a nation to encourage our best people to become teachers. When a professional baseball player is paid almost $20 million for one season, and a new teacher is barely hired for $30,000 or less a year to shape and mold young children, you might conclude that our value system as a people is just a little bit out of balance.
I have great respect and admiration for teachers who work for far less than they probably could make in another field, and also people like my son, Rich, who volunteer so much of their time to work with young children and to try to build their self-esteem and self-confidence. I'm still sorry however, Rich, that you guys got beat 15 to 0 in that playoff game.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
Several weeks ago Jo Anne and I went to see our nine-year old grandson, Jake Rushton, play in a Little League baseball game. The coach of the team is his dad, Rich. The team is made up of eight and nine-year-old boys. We sat there watching Rich's team getting hammered by the opposing group of kids. Through it all Rich was very supportive of his boys and we never heard him holler or say a negative thing to his little team. Finally the last inning arrived much to the relief of all the parents and grandparents. Jake and Rich's team was the home team so they were at bat in the last half of the last inning. The score was six-zero in favor of the opposition when Rich's little boys started coming to the plate in the last inning. Miraculously, one of the kids got a hit, another walked, another got a hit; there were some more walks, and finally with two out, we all realized the score was unbelievably four to six with the bases loaded. The last boy to walk to the plate was a skinny nine-year-old named Lincoln, who had great difficulty walking and chewing gum at the same time. Our expectations of him getting a hit were exceedingly low to say the least. He feebly swung at the first pitch and didn't come close to hitting it. Rich went to home plate to encourage him and remind him of some fundamentals of hitting a baseball. The next pitch was a high fastball and Lincoln, I believe, closing his eyes, swung as hard as he could and banged the ball into deep right-center field. He ended up on third base, three runs had scored, and our team had miraculously gone from despair to joy with one swing of Lincoln's bat. It was, in baseball talk, what is called a walk off triple.
Lincoln's dad was not there to share in his son's great achievement. He is hardly around at all in fact. Lincoln's mother embraced her son and said some very kind things to Rich, who has contributed so much to Lincoln's new found self-esteem. Lincoln left the field that evening with a spring in his step and a look of joy on his face. He had learned, as had his teammates, to never give up and to just keep trying until the game is actually over. This was Little League at its best. Complete support, positive reinforcement, and the building of the self-esteem of these eight and nine-year-olds seemed to be far more important to the coaches and parents than the ultimate outcome of the game. Rich gathered his team together and was able to say one positive thing that each boy had done during the course of the game. It was a wonderful moment for the kids and their parents.
Just last week we went to see Jake and Rich's team in a playoff game. They got murdered 15 to 0. Again, we heard no negative comments from Rich or his assistant coaches, and although it was tough to end the season on that note, all the kids and parents seemed to be very happy, and I think Rich was extremely relieved to have the season come to an end regardless of the final score. The agony of defeat was swallowed up in the much-anticipated pizza and swim party that was to follow.
I have seen the ugly side of Little League during my lifetime as well. My son Mike had his arm ruined for an entire season by a "Nazi" Little League coach whose only desire was to win at all costs. I remember when Rich was a young teenager and umpiring a Little League game, when one of the managers took exception with a crucial call he made and began chasing him around the field. Rich was able to stay just one jump ahead of him as he ran for his life.
Finally the "adult" manager came to his senses and gave up the chase. How bad of an example is that?
Whether it is Little League baseball, Scouting, soccer, piano lessons, dance lessons, or just the academics of school itself, parents, teachers, and coaches can do so much to contribute to the self-esteem of young children. I doubt there are few children as they grow up who do not have some problems in this area. Men like Rich, who give so much of their time to these young children, are undoubtedly doing more good than they could ever imagine. I doubt there are very few things any of us could do that would be more important than building the self-esteem and confidence of a young child. Tragically, is there any greater sin than destroying the self-esteem and sense of worth of a child?
The Savior loved little children: "At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven? And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them, And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me. But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea." [Matthew 18: 1-6]
Those who work with little children have been given a sacred trust. Schoolteachers, in particular, have the opportunity to love, to teach, and to inspire young boys and girls and young men and young women. President David O. McKay said, “Teaching is the noblest profession in the world. Upon the proper education of youth depend the permanency and purity of home, the safety and perpetuity of the nation. The parent gives the child an opportunity to live; the teacher enables the child to live well.” (David O. McKay, Gospel Ideals, Salt Lake City: Improvement Era, 1953, p. 436)
I believe we should be doing much more than we are as a nation to encourage our best people to become teachers. When a professional baseball player is paid almost $20 million for one season, and a new teacher is barely hired for $30,000 or less a year to shape and mold young children, you might conclude that our value system as a people is just a little bit out of balance.
I have great respect and admiration for teachers who work for far less than they probably could make in another field, and also people like my son, Rich, who volunteer so much of their time to work with young children and to try to build their self-esteem and self-confidence. I'm still sorry however, Rich, that you guys got beat 15 to 0 in that playoff game.
Dad/Grandpa/Jack
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