It Was the Best of Times. It Was the Worst of Times.

I discovered the writings of Charles Dickens as a young student at BYU many years ago.

I would say my two favorite books written by Dickens are "Great Expectations," and "A Tale of Two Cities." I have felt at times like many of you I am sure, that the opening lines of Dickens', "A Tale of Two Cities," are very descriptive of most of our lives. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us..."

Life is very dynamic and ever changing. It is never static, and the best of times can quickly become the worst of times, while our spring of hope can be turned into a winter of despair. Often times these seemingly polar opposites are found operating simultaneously in our lives.

I was thinking back about the six long months I spent at Rancho Los Amigos Rehabilitation Hospital immediately following my accident 19 years ago. A season of hope had been turned into a winter of despair in a split second, and I thought at the time that the best of times had all of a sudden become the worst of times. Instead of having everything ahead of me I could see nothing ahead and light had turned into blackness. However, even during that season of darkness, there were brilliant flashes of light that dispelled the gloom and hopelessness and made the worst of times the best of times, even if for just short periods of time. Let me explain.

There was an African American nurse that worked the night shift from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. about three nights each week. She radiated a spirit of love and light that penetrated my dark world every time she was with me. Every morning before she would leave to go home, knowing that with the shift change I would probably not see another nurse for at least an hour, she would get a basin full of hot water and with a washcloth she would wash and massage my face in a most loving and caring way. It was not doctor's orders and no other nurse ever thought to do it... but she did, and she did it every morning she was there. No one can know how good that felt, especially when you can't feel anything in your entire body except your face and the top of your head. But as good as it felt physically it even felt better emotionally to have someone, really a stranger, show that kind of love and concern.

Another flash of light that always brought hope and made the worst of times a good time was the care given to me by an African-American nurse's aide. He was a big man, muscular, an Afro hairdo, ear rings, various tattoos, and a loud voice. You wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley late at night. Poor Jo Anne was afraid to leave the hospital that first night that he was to be a participant in my care. How true it is that looks can be deceiving. I was never treated with such respect, kindness, and tenderness by anyone at Rancho than by him. He couldn't do enough for me. I always rejoiced when I realized he was to be my helper during a 12 hour period. It was obvious to me that what he was doing was not being done out of a sense of duty but out of love and deep concern for me and the other young men in our spinal cord injury unit. He had a great sense of humor and made me feel good in spite of myself and the trauma I was going through.

My physical therapist at Rancho was a little, barely 5 foot tall girl, with blond hair who had the heart and spirit of a tiger. She pushed me, never showed pity for me, and worked me as hard as she could each time she came into my room. She gave me exercises I was to do to strengthen my neck muscles and would accept no lame excuse for not doing them religiously. I can still hear her footsteps in my mind marching down the corridor to my room. Had she been in the Army she would have surely been a general. She was my advocate and cut through the bureaucracy and red tape of the county facility I was in, and while my roommates and others in the spinal cord injury unit were still languishing in bed, she had me up racing through the corridors of the hospital terrorizing everyone in sight in a mega, breath control power wheelchair. When I left the hospital and sadly said goodbye to my two roommates who had been at the hospital months before I got there and wouldn't leave for months after I left, it just didn't seem fair they didn't have my same physical therapist. She kindled a light inside me through her toughness and no-nonsense approach to my care, and made me believe in myself and that maybe I could have some kind of life even in my paralyzed condition if I were willing to work hard enough.

These, and many other experiences I have had throughout my lifetime, have helped me to realize that there are going to be seasons of light and dark, hope and despair, times when we feel we have everything before us and then suddenly nothing. We can't control circumstances but we do have the power to not let our individual circumstances control us.

I believe one of the important things that helps us through the hard times and keeps us from succumbing to the circumstances life brings to all of us is what I choose to call the lovingkindness manifest to us by others -- the kind of loving kindness I experienced at Rancho.

I use the word lovingkindness because I think it is more descriptive than the words charity or love, although all these words are synonyms describing the "pure love of Christ." The word lovingkindness is used numerous times throughout the Scriptures to describe God. The vast majority of the references come from the book of Psalms. For example: "Because thy lovingkindness is better than life, my lips shall praise thee." [Psalm 63:3] "How excellent is thy lovingkindness, O God! therefore the children of men put their trust under the shadow of thy wings" [Psalms 36:7]

The lovingkindness manifest to me by so many during my lifetime has always helped to make the worst of times the best of times, and magically turned seasons of darkness into seasons of light. Perhaps the greatest gift we can give one another, given the challenges and problems we all face, is simply to treat all with whom we interact, especially family members, with lovingkindness.

Dad/Grandpa/Jack

Mothers

When our daughter Rachel, was in elementary school, her mother would frequently dress her in a little pink T-shirt that had three words emblazoned on the front in a feminine script made out of some kind of girlish, silvery, glittery material. The three words were: "Girls Are Smarter!" Every time I would see that message on my little daughter I would kind of wince because I knew the truth of it. Also, had she chosen to do so, Jo Anne could have dressed Rachel in a little pink T-shirt with a different message for each day of the week like: "Girls Are Kinder," "Girls Are Sweeter," "Girls Are Special," and the list could go on and on.

I know that gender was determined in the pre-earth life when we were organized from "intelligence" by God to become either men or women. I rather suspect that he took all of the high-grade intelligence -- the most intelligent, most compassionate, and most kind, from which he created "women" to be the mothers of mankind. From what was left over he created man. By the way, this is Jack Rushton doctrine and should not be mistaken for gospel truth.

The children of good mothers are blessed throughout their lives and have their characters shaped and molded because of the qualities and character traits that are an inherent and integral part of womanhood and motherhood.

The women in my life, my great grandmothers, grandmothers, mother, and the mother of my children have all had a great impact for good upon their posterity, and upon me in particular, because of the womanly qualities and character traits with which they have all been so abundantly blessed.

Of all the multitude of virtues I could mention that these great women possessed that have blessed my life I will only mention one in this observation. It is a character trait possessed by all of these women that I have grown to treasure and value as it has impacted my life for good.

Let me introduce this quality or character trait that has impacted my life so much by sharing with you a brief experience from my mother's autobiography.

"Mother was expecting her eighth child. Papa went to the cedars to get a load of wood. It was a short while before Christmas. They were both thirty seven years old at this time. It was in 19l6. When papa came home he didn't feel at all well. He had terrific cramps and became seriously ill. I remember Mama and Louisa (her oldest sister) went to Hinckley in the buggy to get our Christmas presents and I stayed home with Papa, I had an earache. He was sitting by the stove and I sat at his feet with my head on his lap. I know how he must have felt being so ill and watching for mama to come home. He had me go out and climb up in a tree to see if I could see them coming home." (He had a ruptured appendix and with no doctor available out in the country -- they lived in the little farming community of Abraham, near Delta, Utah -- Halley, his wife and my grandmother, took him to Salt Lake City to a hospital on the train on Christmas day.) "He passed away on January 12, 1917. He was buried on January 14, 1917 at Hinckley, Millard County, Utah. It was just a month to the day before my tenth birthday. What a sad, sad family. I will never forget the funeral and my papa lying there so cold and white. All seven of us sat together in frightened solemn silence. It was our first experience with death and it seemed so final."

My grandmother was resourceful, tenacious, and hard-working and was able to keep the family together. The kids all worked hard on the farm. Halley, my grandmother, was the postmistress, a midwife, and through this job and what the farm produced, was able to sustain her large family.

My mother, as well as her seven brothers and sisters, knew how to work and work hard. This character trait was and is possessed in rich abundance by all the women in my life. You may think it a strange character trait to highlight but not really.

These women were strong, resourceful, and understood the "law of the harvest" which is we reap what we sow. They didn't moan, wallow in self-pity, give up, or ever think that the state or Church should take care of them when tragedy struck unexpectedly. They only knew one way -- work hard!

My mother tried hard to pass on to her boys this work ethnic character trait by both precept and example. I believe her efforts were successful.My brothers and I all received the same message from her: "Go to college! Don't end up working in the mines!" We somehow got the message because all four of us graduated from BYU and went on to receive graduate degrees as well. We weren't very smart but our mother taught us to work hard.

Mom taught us integrity in doing our work. When we scrubbed our linoleum floors on our hands and knees under her direction, she always made sure we got the corners. We learned how to do dishes the right way -- her way! She kept me working at the piano and taking lessons until it eventually evolved from an onerous daily task to something I truly began to love. I learned much more than just music -- I learned how to work hard and stay with something challenging until I had achieved a goal.

My mom was smart. A philosopher once said that no man can ever fully recover from the ignorance of his mother. This is a negative statement but at the same time I believe it is very true. Mom put the backbone into us as well as the work ethic. Every day as I am able to sit at my computer and work for hours on end I have to thank my mother for her example of working hard and with integrity and blessing me with her work ethic.

Jo Anne, like my mother and grandmothers, has been blessed with a great work ethic and integrity in all she does. The oldest daughter in a family of 10 children she had great responsibility placed upon her shoulders as a very young girl. A visiting young cousin who didn't know the family really well observed Jo Anne -- age 12 or 13 at the time -- working around the house, cooking, cleaning, etc., and said to her, "How much do they pay you for working here?"

Jo Anne has been an incredible example to me and to her children of living the law of the harvest and of working hard and with integrity. She has encouraged me to work hard and has never tolerated me using my physical condition as an excuse for not being productive. What a blessing! She has given me many psychological kicks in an unmentionable part of my anatomy that has made me work hard and do and achieve things I never would have attempted without her encouragement and example.

Jo Anne, like all the women in my life thankfully, can be best described by two phrases: "True Grit," and "Pure Gold."Without these smart, sensitive, kind, compassionate, and hard-working women in our lives I am afraid most of us men wouldn't amount to much. How grateful I am that God created woman, and if you read the creation account carefully it was his crowning and most significant creation. How right he was in knowing "... it is not good that man should be alone."

" And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be ^aalone; I will make him ^ban help meet for him... she shall be called ^bWoman, because she was taken out of Man...And Adam called his wife’s name Eve; because she was the ^amother of all living." [Genesis 2: 18, 22-23, 3: 20]

"I Wish it Were Yesterday"

In the spring of 1962, I was in the Army and stationed at the Presidio of San Francisco. My Saturdays were free and one beautiful spring Saturday afternoon I was walking down a busy street in San Francisco. As I passed a large movie theater I noticed on the marquee the words: "Westside Story" by Leonard Bernstein. I had no idea what it was about; I thought maybe it was a Western. I have always been a sucker for cowboys and Indians. Having nothing better to do I bought a ticket and went in. It was an unexpected and delightful experience, and "Westside Story" has been one of my favorite Broadway musicals from 1962 to the present.

In a "rumble" (gang fight) between rival gangs, the "Jets" (whites) and the "Sharks," (Puerto Ricans) the leader of the Sharks was inadvertently stabbed to death by the leader of the Jets. The police came, the gang members all scattered, and later that night two of the Jets met up with one another. They were visibly shaken by what had happened, and in the ensuing conversation one of the boys said "I wish it was yesterday!"

I have seen the movie and listened to the music more times than I would care to admit. However, it is that haunting phrase, "I wish it was yesterday," that always captures my attention.



August 1, 1989 at about 3 p.m. while body surfing at Laguna Beach, California, in one split second I was paralyzed from the neck down and would live on life support the remainder of my life, however long that would be. Around midnight the head neurosurgeon sent all of my friends
and family home so he could perform additional tests to determine the extent of my injury. I have never felt more alone than I did when my loved ones departed that night. I was strapped to a board, still in my swimming suit -- an ugly looking thing, a sick yellow color I had purchased because it was on sale -- still covered with sand, with several big hoses shoved down my mouth and throat to enable me to have the oxygen I needed to stay alive. No, the last thing I was thinking of was "West Side Story," and the phrase "I wish it was yesterday!" However, those words described my state of mind at that moment perfectly.

Yesterday had been such a beautiful day as we acted the part of tourists in Laguna Beach. Our little girls, Rachel, age nine, and Jackie, age four, were having a great time as were Jo Anne and I. life just didn't seem to be able to be any better. I was serving as stake president, loving my assignment with CES; we had just had our first two grandsons born several months before, and our second son Richard was on a mission in Columbia. There was not a cloud on the horizon of our lives, and it looked like we were going to live "happily ever after."

As I was alone in the regional Trauma center that night I absolutely could not believe what had happened to me and to my family. How would we ever come through this tragedy? How would we survive financially? How would I be able to be an effective husband and father? If I were permanently paralyzed how on earth could I ever endure living this way? Those kinds of questions continued to run through my mind at warp speed all through that tortured night. Truthfully, what was happening was that I was crying out from the depths of my soul, "I wish it was yesterday!" I am sorry to report that "I wish it was yesterday," was my cry for much longer than I ever would like to admit.

The day finally came however that I came to understand that in order to have peace and for life to be productive, meaningful, and of the highest quality possible, the phrase "I wish it was yesterday," had to be eliminated from my mind, my heart, and my vocabulary.

That kind of thinking leads our lives into a cul-de-sac or a dead end that will take us nowhere. I suppose most of us have done something we have regretted, or had something done to us, or to a beloved family member that has erupted from the depths of our souls the sentiment, if not the exact words, "I wish it was yesterday!" Oh, how we would like to go back to the "good old days" when a seemingly tragic event is perpetrated by us, or inflicted upon us by others, or by life itself. I believe it is human nature -- "the natural man" -- to have that knee-jerk reaction to the challenges life can bring our way. It has been so since the beginning of time. As Eve was giving birth to her first child I wonder if she ever had a fleeting thought, "I wish it was yesterday" back in that beautiful garden?

One of the problems Moses had leading the children of Israel out of Egypt, was to get Egypt out of them. Those folks always wanted to go back to the "good old days" which really weren't that wonderful in reality, but only in their minds now that the going was tough: [Numbers 11:5] "We remember the fish, which we did eat in Egypt freely; the cucumbers, and the melons, and the leeks, and the onions, and the garlick:"

The "I wish it was yesterday" way of thinking eventually cost them dearly as none of that older generation was permitted to enter the "Promised Land" but wandered in the wilderness 40 years until their carcasses rotted in the desert wilderness with the "Promised Land" visible on the horizon, but was unapproachable by them because of their false way of looking at life and rejecting Jehovah and his desires to bless them.

Lot's wife had a similar challenge as she looked back at "Sodom" with longing eyes and was turned into a pillar of salt -- an inanimate object that could not act, but could only be acted upon. She was unable to move forward; her progress came to an abrupt end which is the same thing that happens to all of us who live in the past and can't let go of it and move forward to the "Promised Land."

I would imagine as Joseph was sold by his brothers as a slave that as he trudged behind that camel train with a rope around his neck that he couldn't help but thinking "I wish it was yesterday!" Things were so good in Jacob's tent for him as the favored son. "How on earth could this have ever happened to me" he must have thought a few times. Thankfully, our worthy and magnificent progenitor, refusing to live in the past and finally, as a 30-year-old, having been a slave and prisoner in Egypt for almost half his life could have this written about him, "... the Lord was with him, and that which he did, the Lord made it to aprosper." [Genesis 39:23]

The same can happen to each one of us as we "... press forward with a steadfastness in Christ... and endure to the end..." [2 Nephi 31:20]. Regardless of what may happen to us we simply must press forward, never looking back, refusing to say or entertain in our hearts the thought, "I wish it was yesterday!" If we do so the Lord will be with us as he was with Joseph and cause us to "prosper."

An Ensign to the Nations

Several weeks ago I was preparing to teach the Isaiah chapters found in
the Book of Mormon to our Gospel doctrine class.  For some reason I was
riveted on the concept of the "Ensign" that would be raised up in these
last days.

Of course we know this Ensign of which Isaiah spoke is the Church of
Jesus Christ that would be restored to the earth in these latter days.
As I read 2 Nephi 21:12, "And he shall set up an ensign for the
nations, and shall assemble the outcasts of Israel, and gather
together the dispersed of Judah from the four corners of the earth."
There are 12 other references in the Scriptures regarding this "Ensign."
As I read them all, I could not help but start singing to myself one of
my favorite hymns, "High on the Mountain Top."  I began "Googling" (my
voice recognition software does not recognize it as a legitimate word
but I think it's a pretty good one) on the Internet and found a
beautiful account regarding how this hymn came into being.  I thought I
would share it with you in the hopes that it will help you to appreciate
gathering of God's children in these latter days.

The story of "High on the Mountain Top"
by Joel H Johnson
This is the story behind the writing of "HIGH ON THE MOUNTAIN TOP" by
Joel Hills Johnson as told by his wife Margaret Threlkeld Johnson to her
grandson Bernard A. Johnson.

Joel H. Johnson established a sawmill in Mill Creek Canyon soon after
arriving in the Salt Lake Valley. Sawing lumber for the "Building up of
Zion" was Joel's church calling. This meant that he spent his time
sawing prime lumber and delivering it to the tithing office. In lieu of
wages, he would go to the storehouse and get what was needed for him and
his family.

As he made his wagon trips up and down the steep canyon, he often
thought about the flag that had been planted on Ensign Peak. 

He knew he had safely made it down the mountain with his load when he turned north
and headed for the tithing office. He always breathed easier when he
could look up at that peak and see Old Glory waving.

In the early spring of 1850, Joel loaded up a load of prime lumber and
headed for the tithing office. As he headed into the lot that housed
this office, he noticed that there were several other wagon loads of
tithing offerings ahead of him. He stopped his team, unhitched the
horses and turned them into "Brother Brigham's" pasture, and sat down to
wait his turn to unload.

Being a warm spring day, Joel sought the shady side of his wagon, leaned
back against the wheel and waited. As was his habit, he pulled out a
piece of paper and prepared to write. He found himself thinking about
the breeze and how it must be making 'Old Glory' ripple. In his mind he
pictured how it must look there on the top of the peak under the clear
blue sky as it waved and fluttered in the breeze. His mind painted such
a wonderful picture.

Almost as if written by unseen hands, words began to appear on the
paper:

"High on the mountain top,  A banner is unfurled.   Ye nations now look
up;It waves to all the world." In Deseret's sweet, peaceful land-On
Zion's mount behold it stand! For God remembers still  His promise made
of old  That He on Zion's hill   Truth's standard would unfold!Her light
should there attract the gazeOf all the world in latter days. His house
shall there be reared  His glory to display  And people shall be heard
In distant lands to sayWe'll now go up and serve the Lord,Obey His
truth, and learn His word. For there we shall be taught   The law that
will go forth,  With truth and wisdom fraught  To govern all the
earth;Forever there His ways we'll treadAnd save ourselves and all our
dead. Then hail to Deseret!  A refuge for the good,  And safety for the
great,  If they but understood.That God with plagues will shake the
worldTill all its thrones shall down be hurled. In Deseret doth truth
Rear up its royal head;  Though nations may oppose,  Still wider it
shall spread;Yes, truth and justice, love and grace,In Deseret find
ample place,

He originally titled his poem "DESERET". It was later changed to HIGH ON
THE MOUNTAIN TOP.

Joel finished his poem, folded up the paper, put it in his pocket, and
went about the task of getting his lumber measured and recorded. Much
later in the day, he went home.

Sometime later he showed his poem to John Taylor, then a member of the
Quorum of the Twelve. President Taylor liked the poem so much, he asked
if he could keep it. In those days, words only were written down and
then sung to familiar folk tunes. In just a short time it became one of
the favorite songs where ever the Saints gathered

This poem was only one of hundreds that Joel H. wrote. But it became one
of his most recognized ones. His poetry centered around four themes: His
love and devotion to the gospel, his love of the Prophet Joseph Smith,
his love of his family, and his desire to enjoy life, liberty, and the
pursuit of happiness for himself and all other human beings.

Because today there is some controversy over the exact date this song
was written, this account is being written. In his journal he states
that at eighteen years of age "I commenced writing religious songs and
hymns upon various subjects, some of which may be found in Zion's
Songster, or the Songs of Joel, a work of my own, but many are lost."
Throughout his journal are many examples of his poetry. * See page 2 of
JHJ journal volume 1.

Dad/Grandpa/Jack

Powdered Milk

Several weeks ago we had a combined meeting for all the adults in the relief society room. Bishop North felt we needed some instruction regarding frugality and provident living, given the state of the economy in our nation, the price of fuel, and serious problems with the housing market and etc. As usual he was right on target with an important message for the members of our ward. He asked Russell Hunter, second counselor in the bishopric, to teach the lesson.

Russell did a great job and gave many practical suggestions as to how to be more fiscally conservative and responsible in these uncertain times. However, at one point in his lesson he made the audacious and outrageous suggestion that it might be a good idea -- and a way to save some money -- to make lunch at home and take it to work as opposed to spending money unnecessarily in buying lunch each day. From my vantage point in the relief society room I could see the startled look on many of the faces of our young couples, and even noticed some eyes glazing over with disbelief and incredulity at this novel suggestion. They obviously had not been raised during the Depression or by parents who had lived through the Depression as I had. Also, I knew they had never been married to somebody as fiscally conservative as Jo Anne.

Living in Ogden, Utah shortly after we were married, Jo Anne found a source for powdered milk at a local dairy. We would buy 50 pounds sacks of the stuff and were always so proud of ourselves (at least Jo Anne was) over how much money we were saving. I can't say I really ever became fond of powdered milk, but if it had enough ice in it and you drank it really fast it wasn't so bad.

As the children came along, after they were weaned, they were raised on powdered milk as the beverage of choice in our family. Being innocent and without any prior experience, they thought powdered milk was okay. We never showed them a picture of a cow -- we didn't want to confuse them regarding the source of milk. If they thought the true source was from a sack that was fine with us. Then they got involved in the public school system which corrupted them as they learned about cows and were even given little cartons of "true" milk to drink as a snack. This created some dissatisfaction in them because for some reason they liked this "true" milk better than the powdered stuff that had done them so much good over the years, and had saved us, as their parents, so much money. It was always a hard sell after that to keep the family content and on target with drinking powdered milk.

I always took my lunch to work in a brown paper sack. It generally consisted of a tuna fish sandwich, an apple or an orange, maybe a cookie, and always a small mason jar filled with -- you guessed it -- powdered milk. I must admit I was corrupted by the world in the later years of my work life and engaged in a number of decadent and expensive -- at least to me -- lunches.

As the kids were growing up we never ate at fast food places except on special occasions like the ushering in of a new millennium. When they were very little as we would drive by the Golden Arches of McDonald's they would ask "Daddy, what is that building?" I would tell them that it was a hospital where they fixed broken bones and people that were sick. I would ask them if they had a broken bone or were sick and when they would say no, I would reply, "Well, we wouldn't want to go in there then would we?"

Our home was decorated in early "Institute of Religion" style. Whenever one of the institutes of religion in Orange County was receiving new furniture for the student lounge we would put in a bid to get the old furniture. The furniture in our family room consisted of a large couch, and two chairs made out of a "throw up" sick looking lemon colored plastic kind of material with aluminum legs. The drapes in that room were orange; the carpet was olive-green, high shag, and was beginning to come apart at the seams. I nailed a plastic runner down the center of the staircase so that the little toddlers wouldn't get their feet tangled up in the torn carpet and fall and break something.

We also tried to save money on clothing. In retrospect, I'm afraid our young boys got the worst of this. The only pants they wore, except on Sundays, were "Tough Skins" purchased at Sears for cheap. At the time I thought they were kind of ugly but you couldn't beat the price. They came in a red brick color, an ugly green, or the more normal blue jean style. They had reinforced knees and must have been made out of some steel mesh kind of material because you simply could not wear them out. If one of the boys fell off his bike he would get skinned up on various parts of his anatomy but never where the tough skins were protecting him. If the kid ran into a car the fender or bumper on the car would possibly be damaged but never the tough skins. Again, the public school system made my boys dissatisfied, and it was a hard sell to keep them in tough skins from that time on. I don't know if they have ever totally forgiven us for having adopted this fiscally conservative policy regarding their attire as young boys.

Well, I hate to report it but as the years have gone by we have become increasingly decadent. Almost every day Jo Anne and I go out to lunch. However, don't think too badly of us, or get too alarmed Bishop, because we invariably use coupons to get a "deal." Jo Anne anxiously waits for the mailman to bring her coupons with the same anticipation that little kids look forward to Christmas and Santa Claus. She clips them out and keeps them in a large envelope in our van. If we can get two for one or a dollar off something, then that's what we eat. Do we always like what we get from the coupons? I hate to report that we don't, but just think of all the money we are saving.

The telltale sign of how far we have fallen is that we actually now buy our milk at Stater Brothers in plastic containers like most "normal" people. And though I am reluctant to admit it, it really is almost as good as "powdered milk."

You will find the doctrinal underpinnings and justification for drinking powdered milk in the following Scripture:

"Wherefore, do not spend money for that which is of no worth [Stater Brothers' milk], nor your ^alabor for that which cannot ^bsatisfy... and come unto the Holy One of Israel, and ^cfeast upon that which perisheth not [powdered milk], neither can be corrupted ["tough skins"]..." [2 Nephi 9:51]

Dad/Grandpa/Jack

The Law Of The Harvest- We Reap What We Sow (March Madness II)

We are in the midst of March Madness -- one of my favorite times of the year. BYU was eliminated in the first round again which is very comforting to me because it is a sure sign that the second coming is not near at hand. If they ever make it past the first round we should begin doing some serious preparation for the end of the world.

I am so glad that I love UCLA basketball as much as BYU basketball. I am very impressed with this year's UCLA team under the direction of their great coach, Ben Howland. Once again, this year's team is built on the principle and foundation of a solid, fundamental, in-your-face, hard-nosed, lunch bucket and hardhat, blue-collar defense that wins games when the offense falters. They have won 34 games this year and have only lost three, largely because of their disciplined approach and mastery of the fundamentals of good defense.

However, this UCLA team also has a 19-year-old center by the name of Kevin Love, whom I enjoy watching as much as any young player I have ever observed over the many years of my life. He is 6'10" tall with a burly build, but is not particularly athletic, doesn't jump really high, and isn't extremely fleet of foot. Why I like to watch him, and why he is so good as a freshman, is that he has mastered the fundamentals of basketball to such a high degree that he has turned playing center into an art form. Sportscasters and commentators rave about his hands and the ability he has to throw a laser like chest pass the length of the court right into the hands of one of his teammates for an easy layup. However, he does everything well from blocking shots, passing the ball, playing strong defense, shooting from inside and outside and simply outsmarting and outplaying bigger, faster, and more athletic big men. If UCLA does make it to the final four again this year it will be because of their understanding and implementation of the fundamentals of defense and their great young center, Kevin Love.

You know I have a frenzied mind, but as I watch this UCLA team I think of the words of Matthew Arnold, the great author and literary critic of 19th-century England. He said on one occasion, "All art earns freedom through discipline!" How true that is in the world of sports as well as in almost every other discipline or aspect of life you can think of.

I learned this lesson as a young 17-year-old freshman at BYU about a hundred years ago. I received a music scholarship from BYU on the strength of my clarinet and piano playing. I modestly admit I was the best clarinet player in White Pine County, Nevada -- much better than the other two. I tried out for the concert band at BYU and was awarded the 23rd chair in a clarinet section of 24 clarinetists. First chair was the best and 24th the worst so you can see where I fit in. I was devastated. My self-esteem was at an all-time low and after a few weeks in the 23rd position I was ready to quit the band and music. Thankfully my parents wouldn't hear of it and offered to help me pay for private lessons with Professor Ralph Laycock, the conductor of the concert band and symphony.

Ralph Laycock was the greatest musician I ever knew personally or have known throughout my lifetime. He had a doctorate in conducting from the Juilliard School of Music in New York City and was a master of all of the major wind instruments -- trumpet, French horn, oboe, flute, and especially the clarinet.

I approached him with great trepidation to see if he would agree to teach the likes of me -- I wasn't feeling particularly good about my musical abilities as you can imagine. He was an imposing figure -- 6'4" tall, a hulk of a man with bushy black hair and eyebrows, and eyes that could burn right into your soul. Much to my amazement he agreed to take me on and so one autumn afternoon I stumbled into his office for my first lesson. He had me take my clarinet out of its case and assemble it which I did with shaking hands. He then asked me to play something and as I commenced to blow a few notes he grabbed the clarinet and almost my teeth along with it, out of my mouth and hands, and staring at me said, "Jack, you don't know how to play the clarinet!" My already fragile self-esteem was totally shattered and plummeted to an all-time low. I wondered if any of Ralph Laycock's students had ever committed suicide. "But," he said, "I think you have some promise and if you will do what I tell you to do you might just learn how to play the clarinet."

Thus began an adventure in learning the fundamentals of clarinet playing from a master. He took all my music away, showed me how to correctly hold the mouthpiece in my mouth and hold the instrument properly in my hands. For the next several weeks I was to stand in front of a full-length mirror looking at my mouth and hands, making sure I was doing everything correctly, and just play whole notes, all the while trying to produce that beautiful clarinet sound I had never been able to produce up to that time in my career. As I began to achieve some success my practice time increased until I was spending eventually four to six hours a day preparing myself to meet with Professor Laycock each week. He taught me that practice doesn't make perfect, but only perfect practice makes perfect! By the end of my sophomore year, thanks to the insistence of a great teacher that I master the fundamentals of clarinet playing through discipline and hard work, I was playing second chair. I could never quite do as well as Bill Washburn who played first chair. I attributed it to the fact that he had a superior clarinet -- a Selma, which was the Rolls-Royce of clarinets, while I only had a Conn, at best a Yugo or maybe a Chevy. As I left on my mission I was able to play by memory Mozart's Concerto for Clarinet.

I love music, but as the years have passed by, the lesson I learned from Ralph Laycock regarding mastering the fundamentals and perfectly practicing them while exercising discipline and hard work, has been invaluable in every aspect of my life.

Does this principle apply, for example, to living the Gospel? I know it does! We must master the fundamentals of personal prayer, scripture study, controlling our passions and appetites, and seeking to put off the "natural man" through discipline and seeking to have charity.

It really is just another way of looking at the eternal "Law of the Harvest." Ultimately in life we reap what we sow. If we master the fundamentals of any worthy discipline, and also seek to master the basic fundamentals of life that every human being has to deal with daily -- for example, getting out of bed, working hard, being clean and organized, and trying to keep our bodies fit and healthy, life will surely become for us an "art" and we will have "earned freedom through discipline" and mastering the fundamentals.

My friend, Jim Ritchie, said it this way in quoting J. Paul Getty's formula for success: "Get up early, work hard, and discover oil!" If we do so, at least the getting up early part and the working hard part, we will discover our own kind of oil; hopefully the kind the five wise virgins had in their lamps as they anxiously awaited the opportunity to come into the presence of the "Bridegroom."

Thank you, Ben Howland and Kevin Love, for reminding me of some significant and timeless truths.

Dad/Grandpa/Jack

Sacrifice Our Sins and Our Will To Know God

March 14, 2008, Observation

A number of years ago I was talking to a young teenager and asking him what he had been reading recently. He said that most of his spare time had been spent in reading "canonized scripture." I was amazed at his answer. I can almost guarantee that if someone had asked me or someone from my generation what we were spending our time reading at that young age, our answer likely would not have been "canonized scripture."

My good friend, Bishop Brian Ritter, sent me an e-mail the other day informing me that his oldest son, Danny, had just received his mission call to the Dominican Republic. In a recent conversation he asked Danny how many times he had read the Book of Mormon. Danny replied that he had only read it five times. You would have received a far different response to the same question from me and most of my generation at that age.

I can remember my embarrassment when I went to the old Mission home in Salt Lake City for a week prior to going to Central America to serve a 2 1/2 year mission. I would try to sit in a corner so no one could see me prying the pages of my scriptures apart which were stuck together by the gold edging -- evidence that the books had never been read. It was only in my first assignment in the Mayan Indian village of Totonicapan, located in the high mountains of Guatemala, that I finally discovered the beauty and power of "canonized scripture." Totonicapan was the coldest place in the mission. I will never forget one early morning at 5 a.m. in November of 1958, dressed in pajamas, suit, sweater, overcoat, and a hat, trying to capture what heat I could from a vintage 1957 electric space heater, reading the Sermon on the Mount out of Matthew for the first time in my life. I was absolutely amazed and overwhelmed by the elegant beauty and power of what I was reading that morning. I could scarcely believe that the Scriptures contained such marvelous, understandable, and applicable teachings. That morning I fell in love with "canonized scripture" and that love affair has persisted for the last 50 years of my life.

The Scriptures are wonderful in that they never change, but we do. They are the "standard" we can use to measure all of or thoughts and actions. Because of experiences we are having in life, challenges, or specific needs we are feeling at any given time, we can read scriptures we have read for years and yet discover new truths and eternal principles we have never noticed before.

I discovered a new insight last week that is significant to me, in a chapter in the Book of Mormon I have read hundreds of times I am sure. It is an Alma chapter 22 where Aaron teaches the great king of the Lamanites, Lamoni's father, the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The great king had been prepared to be taught the Gospel because of an encounter he had with Ammon, Aaron's brother. He readily received Aaron into his presence and was eager to be taught the Gospel of Jesus Christ. After Aaron had taught him about the Atonement and the Plan of Happiness we read the following: Alma 22:15 "... the king said: ^aWhat shall I do that I may have this eternal life of which thou hast spoken? ... Behold, said he, I will give up ^dall that I possess, yea, I will forsake my kingdom, that I may receive this great joy." And then the insight came that I had never noticed before. Giving up all that he possessed and even forsaking his kingdom was not enough. That kind of sacrifice would not bring him the joy of eternal life. Aaron said to the king: "... If thou desirest this thing, if thou wilt ^abow down before God, yea, if thou wilt repent of all thy sins, and will bow down before God, and call on his name in faith, believing that ye shall receive, then shalt thou receive the ^bhope which thou desirest." [Alma 22:16] And then the great king offered, not his wealth or his kingdom, but his heart as he "... did prostrate himself upon the earth, and cried mightily saying: 18 O God, Aaron hath told me that there is a God; and if there is a God, and if thou art God, wilt thou make thyself known unto me, and I will give away all my sins to know thee, and that I may be raised from the dead, and be saved at the last day I'll...." [Alma 22:17-18]

Giving away his wealth, his kingdom, and his status in society would not win for him the gift of eternal life. It would only come to him as he was willing to give his heart and soul to God and give away all of his sins. This account reminded me of Elder Maxwell's comments regarding the only true sacrifice any of us can ever make to "come to know God."

"Our personal possessions and our material blessings are really not ours, so what we sometimes regard as a sacrifice was given to us, anyway. President Young understood this: "How long have we got to live before we find out that we have nothing to consecrate to the Lord—that all belongs to the Father in heaven; that these mountains are His; the valleys, the timber, the water, the soil; in fine, the earth and its fulness?" (Neal A. Maxwell, That Ye May Believe, 1-7)

He also beautifully reiterated this great truth when he wrote: "The submission of one's will is placing on God's altar the only uniquely personal thing one has to place there. The many other things we "give" are actually the things He has already given or loaned to us. (If Thou Endure It Well, p. 54)

I am grateful to have had this truth leap out at me from the pages of Scripture read many times, but only now registering with me. Everything we have does belong to God except our agency, and when we freely lay it on the altar by giving of our time and strict obedience to the will of the Father then this is an acceptable sacrifice.

Let's keep searching the Scriptures and in doing so we will continually discover hidden treasures of truth that will bless our lives as nothing else can.

Dad/Grandpa/Jack