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This time of year often stirs mixed memories of all that goes with the ending of another school year. I have caught myself reflecting quite a bit this year, partly on account of the fact that it’s the 25th anniversary of the year I graduated, but more so because my oldest son is graduating from high school this spring (Yikes!)
High school graduation was proceeded by countless tests and term papers and more tests geared at determining how much of what I had been taught over the previous four years actually made a wrinkle in the gray matter between my ears. But there was one test I took my sophomore year (which I failed) that stands out from among the rest.
Like most 16-year-olds, I couldn’t wait to get my driver’s license. Having lived in Nebraska when I turned 15, I was able to take Driver’s Ed during the summer before my 9th grade year and drive on a permit until my 16th birthday. My family moved to Salt Lake City just prior to starting high school, but I already had the permit in hand and our vehicles still bore Cornhusker license plates (Go Big Red).
I did what every dutiful young man does with a learner’s permit; doughnuts in the parking lot, seeing if I could get the station wagon airborne over speed bumps, sliding across the hood like Bo Duke and climbing in through the window (the Chevy Fleetwood station wagon made a very poor imitation of the General Lee), seeing how many of my friends we could cram into the vehicle at one time (actually, I didn’t know enough kids at the time, but I imagine the number would have been around 18 or so), and so on.
When my 16th birthday rolled around I scurried off to the DMV. The written test was no problem (I crammed the night before), the driving test presented more of a challenge, mostly because the officer in the front seat next to me kept staring at me and asking if I had ever evaded the police in the school parking lot after doing doughnuts. I scraped by – barely.
The last part, which should have been the easiest, turned out to be the hardest. I stepped up to the counter and the lady on the other side (who I swear was the lunch lady from elementary school) pointed to a chart on the wall behind her and asked me to read line three. “Line three? Which one is line three?” I asked.
Margret looked at me for moment, perhaps to see if I was joking and then stated, “The one with the big number three next to it.”
I blinked, squinted, leaned as far over the counter as I could without invading Margret’s space, but I couldn’t make out the number three nor the smaller letters to the right of it.
Margret had me step over to another counter and look through a view finder and asked me to read what I could see – which was nothing because everything looked like blotchy spots of multi-colored mold.
By then Margret was thinking I must have arrived on the short bus, either that or English wasn’t my native language. She stamped my driving test with a bright red “failed.” She then instructed me to visit my eye doctor and have him sign a note indicating that I could see well enough to drive.
After a visit to the friendly neighborhood eye doctor I came to discover that I was blind as a bat (bats aren’t really blind, but you get the point). The elderly eye doctor was shocked that I hadn’t noticed that everything was out of focus. I just figured everyone saw things just as I did; that chalkboards were illegible from the back row, that faces in the hallway were blurry until they were ten feet away. He seemed to give a sigh of relief to know he didn’t live anywhere near the streets upon which I learned how to drive. He kept using the word “menace” to describe my ocular ability behind the wheel of an automobile.
Needless to say, the first time I looked up at the mountains with my new glasses and could actually see trees and leaves and rocks, I was amazed. I walked around those first few days with my mouth agape and my eyes wide with wonder at everything I had been missing (of course my glasses looked like coke bottle bottoms and I hated wearing them, which, consequentially, led to them being regularly lost and broken until I persuaded my parents I needed contacts, which only took about three months).
It took failing that eye test for me to discover what I had been missing, for a weakness to become a strength. Life is like that, too. Sometimes we stumble along blindly letting our shins and our pride pay the price for our inability to see for ourselves what other might be able to see quite clearly. The Savior lamented over the hard heartedness of the people when He said, “For this people’s heart is waxed gross, and their ears are dull of hearing, and their eyes they have closed; lest at any time they should see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and should understand with their heart, and should be converted, and I should heal them. But blessed are your eyes, for they see; and your ears, for they hear.” (Matthew 13:15)
The Power of Suggestion
Picture day in high school was about a week or two before the start of the school year. My mom would traditionally wait until after the first couple weeks of school to buy us outfits for the coming year (I used to think she wanted us to stay in tune with fashion trends...see what the other kids were wearing... I later came to find out that she was just waiting for the back-to-school sale discounts to go even lower). I showed up for picture day wearing a blue and white striped rugby shirt – very wide horizontal stripes and a stiff collar – that I had received as a birthday gift that summer. I was skinny back then (picture PeeWee Herman minus the suit), so the fat stripes and ruggish styling made me look a little more substantial (either that or I looked like I just made a break from the prison chain gang).
While waiting for my turn in front of the camera, a girl who knew me from our freshman year made a very simple and short comment as she passed by, "You look good in that shirt." I can't even remember who she was (I was then, as I am now, horrible at remembering names - probably a direct result of moving from one state to the next every three to four years). Her anonymity notwithstanding, those six words had a profound impact on my 1oth grade year.
The first impact of the compliment directly benefited the GAP clothing store where I promptly purchased one of every rugby shirt color combination they had on the shelves, including a second blue/white striped one (heaven forbid anything should happen to ruin the "original"). I had a different rugby shirt for every day of the week, and two for Sunday. All of them went quite well with the white Levis Straus jeans (yes, white - blame Miami Vice) I had also purchased from the GAP.
Needless to say, rare was the day that I was found not wearing one of those rugby shirts. I had made some very close friends in our new neighborhood and have them to thank for most of the photo-documentation of that school year. As expected, I'm wearing a striped shirt in almost every picture.
But that compliment also had a more lasting affect on my sophomore year (and probably every school year after that). Because we moved around a lot, my brother, sisters and I were always the "new kids" in town. Anyone that has moved to a new school or neighborhood knows the feeling. I grew up being rather shy, quiet, and a respecter of authority (except when there was a substitute teacher at school). Receiving that compliment that day gave me a mini-boost of confidence and a steroid shot of self esteem. That year in school was my instant favorite, mostly because of the way it started on picture day.
When I have the chance to speak to the young women in our ward, I always remind them of just how much influence for good they can have in the lives of others. They can, with their kind words and smiles, lift the shy gaze of a quiet boy from off the floor. By their standards and example they can inspire young men to see young women as divine daughters of a Heavenly Father and treat them accordingly. They can, through their service and devotion, teach the sad and the lonely about the Savior's love, by exemplifying what he taught; "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven." (Matthew 5:16)
So, to that girl on picture day and to all the stellar young women who have touched my life along the way (and you know who you are), I want to say, "Thank you for sharing the light."
Wrinkle-free Shirts
Maybe I am completely missing the product benefit of buying no-iron, wrinkle-free shirts, but isn't it reasonable to think that the reason I buy them (other than needing an endless supply of white shirts for all the church meetings I attend) is for the express purpose of NOT having to iron them? I stand by the dryer attentively waiting for the perfect moment to pull the shirts from the dryer to minimize the wrinkling, yet they come out looking like poorly-done origami.
I work in advertising, so I am no stranger to exaggerated product claims, but to put an icon of an iron with a big "X" over it on the "how-to-care-for" tag is borderline criminal. I used to think "permanent press" meant that the fabric had been pressed once and that would be the last time it ever needed to see an iron. I've now come to understand that permanent press really means, "this shirt is going to take forever to iron."
What's the point of my rant you may ask? Good question. I'll sum it up this way; Life takes work. Over the past couple of years, I've had lengthy discussions with people who have grown tired of ironing out the wrinkles in their life. Sometimes it's the daily struggle of dealing with teenage children, a family illness, a stressful job, or a marriage that is strained because of poor communication (more often than not, it's NO communication). Whatever the case, these people want a release from the work that comes with living.
As any Latter-day Saint will attest, we are the busiest bunch of bees to ever come out of a hive. We tend to define ourselves by how many meetings we attend, the length of the lessons we teach, and how many creative ways we can add vegetable shavings to Jello. Add a few weeknights and Saturdays of soccer games, dance recitals, garage sales, scrapbooking conventions, and suddenly a normally happy-go-lucky mom is on overload. The layers of activity that were meant to enrich her life become the very things she wants to escape - too many wrinkles in the no-iron shirt.
So, how does our over-worked, stressed-out mom or dad respond to the demands on their time and energy? They want to take a "break" from Church. The first time I heard that in my office, my chin left a dent in the veneer on my desk. I said something like, "Let me see if I understand you correctly. Your life is full of so much stress, contention, and anxiety that you want to withdraw from the one stable source of peace and calm available to you?" Sometimes they nod, sometimes they nod and sob, and sometimes they ask me if my chin hurts.
If serving in the Church, or simply attending Church (no matter what the religious affiliation) is suddenly on the list of things adding stress to life, Church has lost its true meaning. Whatever we do should strengthen our core beliefs, not weaken them. I've done my fair share of complaining about the "administrative" part of being a Bishop; all the meetings, figuring out the budget, managing all the callings in the ward...did I mention the budget? But I am truly uplifted from the service, no matter how trivial or small it may seem. "When ye are in the service of your fellow beings, ye are only in the service of your God" is a healthy way to look at it. If serving God is causing stress, it's not the service required, but the perspective that needs adjustment.
Sometimes it's okay to wear a wrinkled shirt, as long as we can wear it with a smile (it also helps to wear a jacket, then you only have to iron the front).
The Bishop is IN
Newly called (and mostly shocked) Bishop: I'm going to Disneyland!
Truth be told, that is exactly what I did...well, almost. Our family had planned a trip to Walleyworld long before we had any notion that the calling of Bishop was looming on the horizon. So, roughly two weeks after being called, we went to Disneyland (talk about a surreal experience. I found myself wanting to give counsel to all the needy Disney characters wandering aimlessly about. Goofy proved to be the most responsive).
That was almost two years ago. A lot has changed since then, and yet, a lot has remained the same. The purpose of this blog is not as a forum to discuss the doctrine and beliefs of the LDS church (officially the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints), although aspects of it might surface from time to time. If you're looking for that kind of information, you would be better served visiting www.lds.org, the official site of the LDS church.
This blog is really just an outlet, emotional, mental and otherwise for me. Yes, blogs are mostly selfish by nature (sorry to disappoint you). I'm sort of a writer by occupation, so putting fingertips to keypads is familiar and cathartic (okay, no more $10 words) - it makes me feel good. And if any blogger did some honest soul searching, he or she would come to the realization that second to the thrill of writing is having an audience, otherwise we'd all just be keeping journals (something LDS faithful are encourage to do, but that I struggle with. Maybe audience is number one on my list...I'll get back to you on that).
My intent is to just jot down some experiences and situations that happen in and out of the Bishop's office, sharing insight, observations, and trying to find some meaning in it all. No matter what faith we follow, we share many things in common; the same struggles, similar victories, and similar desires to be happy. Most of what I deal with as a Bishop is helping people discover the answers for themselves. Through the process, I learn more about myself and even more about God's love for his children.
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