I was extremely cocky as a child. Still am, I suppose. I have this belief that I can figure out any problem, that I can always find an answer. Except it is more than a belief, it is an approach, a characteristic of who I am.
Growing up, I looked on people who got lost as being possibly mentally deficient. In cities, there are always street signs. In Utah, street navigation is extremely simple with the cartesian coordinate system there. In the Mountain west, there are always mountain peaks to navigate by, whether in town or in the woods. Anyone, at least in my mind, should be able to figure out where they were. A simple problem to solve.
Then I was sent to Belgium on my LDS mission. In Belgium, the streets were laid out in antiquity, and not with an eye to make it easy to get around. Intersections were not squared, often had multiple number of streets in and out. Some streets were narrow, some broad, some one-way, others at least two. I recall an intersection where there were at least five roads and where the cars lined up six abreast to dart in the various avenues opened to them.
And it was dark and misty and rainy and dark. Being so far north, winter was graced with the sun for only a very few hours each day. Street sign were hard to see, the raods were a collage of glistening cobblestones, and the houses were a blur of dark color.
To complete the difficulty of the maze I had been introduced into, it was not flat, and not in any regular, repeatable way. Our transport was by foot and bus and metro, not self-directed by and by hops and skips and quatum leaps from place to place. Locations were identified by type of public transportation and stop.
I was lost. And since I had never before experienced this feeling, and since I had such a certainty that I could figure out any problem, I could not even acknowledge that I was lost.
My companion could, however. He tested me a couple of times, asking me if I knew where we were or what a certain building was. When we circled the Basilique a couple of times, and I asked what that church was every time we approached it from a different angle, he knew I was lost.
In the wisdom and cruelty of senior companions everywhere, he tried to train me to find my way around. One particular instance we were heading home, and he gave me the book of maps and told me to “get us there.”
I was proud when I caught that first bus correctly, then made the transfer to the second bus. We got off and may companion asked, innocently, “What bus do we take now?”
That simple question triggered a panic that I still recall. I didn’t know!! I had not clue what bust to take. In fact, I wasn’t certain, indeed to admit the truth, I had no idea where we were!
With my companion looking on, I opened up the book of maps and started trying to trace down our location. The bus lines snaked from page to page, from quadrant to quadrant, and I wasn’t able to find anything, except the number of the bust we had just gotten off.
Then another bus appeared in the distance. Was that the bus we had to take? It was late, if we missed the bus or took the wrong one, we would have difficulty getting back home, buses got more and more rare as it got later. My panic was palpable. Giving up my pride, I returned to my companion and asked, “Is that the bus we have to take?”
Without a word, my companion gave me a glance that must have been amused, though at the time I thought he was disgusted. Then he turned and started walking away. “Elder!” I yelled at his retreating back. “I don’t know where we are. Is that the bus to take to get home?” He didn’t even pause, then turned and entered a doorway. I was puzzled, why was he knowing on a door so late? Especially when we had a bus to catch?
Then realization dawned. That was our doorway! The sign above the door was for the bar that was two floors below our apartment! I was lost less than 50 yards from my apartment!
Getting lost isn’t much of a miracle. Getting found is. I had been taught, and thankfully, I learned. I remember paying much more attention to maps, trying to understand where we were to go that day, and at the end of the day, trying to understand where we had been.
I am not certain when the gift was given, but I was given a true sense of direction. I was able to find appointments, come up with shortcuts, get around towns I knew nothing about. That ability, and the care and work that goes with it, has carried on with me. When we had a chance to go to Spain, we rented a car, located hotels on the internet, and somehow, someway, found our way from town to town, within towns through cobbled streets, winding ways, up and down. And found our way to pick up our son, David Seth from the mission home. A gift – a miracle.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Pancakes Will Have to Wait
As a graduate student, I didn’t have the finances or time to go on vacations, but we did have some liberty with our daily schedule. Three early mornings a week, I would go play basketball at the local stake center in Provo. The other two were for temple attendance. Our breakfasts were a little late, but still early enough to get our oldest son, Jacob, off to kindergarten and first grade.
I enjoyed making pancakes for my family. On the morning in question, I’m not certain why the pancakes were so late, but Jacob had to leave for school before I had finished frying the batch and feeding his younger brothers.
Julie saw Jacob to the door with his backpack. Maeser Elementary School was three short Provo blocks away. Typically, crowds of children flowed from the houses of the neighborhood in the mornings making their way to the 100-year-old building. The children had already gone to school and apparently the crossing guard had completed her duties for the morning. Jacob was late for school.
I was finishing the batch. The phone rang. “Your son, Jacob, was just hit by a truck.” Julie and I decided to send me to the school to handle the situation while she would organize the rest of the children.
I arrived at the last crosswalk before the school just as the ambulance arrived, as well. I remember a crowd surrounding Jacob, and Jacob looking so small and crumpled on the ground. As is usual in such cases, they had been hesitant to move him as a precaution in the case of any neck or back injury. So he was pretty much as he landed.
As I entered the circle, the principle of the school, Mr. Kim Langton, stood up and put his arm around me, told me that he and the school janitor, Paul (we think that is his name), had given Jacob a blessing. How grateful I am for the unique situation - that we lived in a community where the school principal and the school janitor hold the Melchizedek Priesthood, are worthy to exercise it, and had the confidence that we would welcome such an intervention.
I think also of their concern. Here was one of “their” kids, their student, who was struck by a truck. I’m sure they loved the children and took their responsibilities to watch over these children seriously and wanted to do everything in their power to help a child involved in a serious accident.
The accident was serious. The driver of the small pickup had been traveling south on 4th East and turned left onto 2ned South directly into the sun. The glare of the sun made it so the driver did not see Jacob in the crosswalk or even slow down until she had hit him. The space between the truck’s headlights struck Jacob. He was carried until the truck stopped. Jacob was carried twenty or thirty feet until he landed nearly a third of the way down the block. Pieces of the truck’s grill lay scattered on the street.
I knelt beside Jacob and prayed in my heart. I remember the sense of loss and sorrow and also the feeling of acceptance of God’s will. The paramedics lifted Jacob carefully onto a small stretcher, removing his backpack. Someone volunteered to get it to our home. The paramedics invited me to ride in the ambulance with Jacob. I sent word to my wife to meet me at the hospital.
The ride to the hospital went quickly, it was about 2 miles away. The paramedics wheeled Jacob into a closed room off the ICU rather than in one of the regular screened-off alcoves. The Emergency Room attendants pulled me aside to collect needed-information , then let me go back in the room.
Julie’s sister, Karen, had been working at Maeser Elementary School when she heard that Jacob had been injured. So Karen came to the house and volunteered to watch the other children in order for Julie to come to the hospital. So Julie joined me quickly.
The nurse explained to us that there could be blood, and we may have to be escorted out, but if we could stay, indeed it would help if Jacob regained consciousness or if a decision needed to be made.
Both Julie and I were strengthened by the Spirit. We were calm and very accepting of all that was going on. Many of the nurses and doctors remarked how well we were handling it. As usual, I was curious about everything that was going on and hypothesizing why various things were taking place.
Jacob looked small on the bed. He had various abrasions. Of particular concern were the head injuries. The doctors focused on leakage from the ear, trying to determine the nature of the fluid.
Amazingly, Jacob checked out with minimal injuries…bruised, abraided, but whole. After x-rays, it was determined that Jacob might have a hairline skull fracture. For a child who just got hit by a truck, he was a miracle.
While we were in that examination room, friends and family gathered in the waiting room. Our Bishop, Doneal White, came. Our former bishop and at that time- member of the stake presidency, Stewart Hughes, had turned back from a trip to Salt Lake City to be there. Robert Timmons came. He actually got a bit light-headed while he was in the examination room. Stephen would leave the room periodically to give status and accept the loving support that these great individuals were sharing with us.
Why wasn’t Jacob injured more? When a six-year-old child is hit by a truck, it is usually not good for the child. Especially when the child is struck and carried for the distance that Jacob was. I suppose his backpack played a role. It wasn’t filled with books, but instead with a lunch…and love. It cushioned him as he was hit and as he was thrown.
More importantly, the truck that was involved in the accident had struck a deer the week before. The grillwork was still in place, but fractured and loosened. When Jacob was struck, the grill fractured and failed. Instead of bouncing off, Jacob was caught by the grill, the energy of the impact absorbed by the grill as it failed. Pieces of the grill lay scattered over the street where the truck stopped. Then as the truck slowed and stopped, he was released at a much lower velocity than if he had been struck and thrown cleanly. Thus, the impact with the roadway was minimized, as well.
I consider it a miracle. First, that it happened such a way as to minimize injuries to Jacob. Second, that two individuals, the school principal and janitor were there to give a blessing. Third, that family and friends were there, even before we called, ready to help us and let us attend to our son. Finally, that all the support and skill was there in a timely fashiion to heal and monitor him.
To complete the story, Jacob didn’t and doesn’t remember much about the accident. We have a video that Richard made while Jacob was in the hospital. In the video, Jacob is clearly out of it, still woozy, his features were swollen and round. Still bandaged, Jacob’s words were slurred, he had difficulty paying attention. His room was filled with gifts and well-wishes.
We were required tog o to court in order to close out any possible settlement. All of the hospital bills were going to be paid for, and originally I had been content just to have those expenses covered. However, when the insurance agents started contacting us and offering settlements, I realized that we needed to think of more than the moment. Finally, we agreed on an amount to cover any future concerns and that would release the insurance company from any future indemnities. This had to be reviewed by a judge to insure that we were taking the best interests of Jacob into consideration. He approved, though I felt nervous as though I hadn’t thought through it carefully enough.
The trust we set up had provided sufficient for Jacob to get through two years of BYU upon returning from his mission. Not luxurious, but adequate.
And pancakes nearly always remind me of a phone call and a miracle.
I enjoyed making pancakes for my family. On the morning in question, I’m not certain why the pancakes were so late, but Jacob had to leave for school before I had finished frying the batch and feeding his younger brothers.
Julie saw Jacob to the door with his backpack. Maeser Elementary School was three short Provo blocks away. Typically, crowds of children flowed from the houses of the neighborhood in the mornings making their way to the 100-year-old building. The children had already gone to school and apparently the crossing guard had completed her duties for the morning. Jacob was late for school.
I was finishing the batch. The phone rang. “Your son, Jacob, was just hit by a truck.” Julie and I decided to send me to the school to handle the situation while she would organize the rest of the children.
I arrived at the last crosswalk before the school just as the ambulance arrived, as well. I remember a crowd surrounding Jacob, and Jacob looking so small and crumpled on the ground. As is usual in such cases, they had been hesitant to move him as a precaution in the case of any neck or back injury. So he was pretty much as he landed.
As I entered the circle, the principle of the school, Mr. Kim Langton, stood up and put his arm around me, told me that he and the school janitor, Paul (we think that is his name), had given Jacob a blessing. How grateful I am for the unique situation - that we lived in a community where the school principal and the school janitor hold the Melchizedek Priesthood, are worthy to exercise it, and had the confidence that we would welcome such an intervention.
I think also of their concern. Here was one of “their” kids, their student, who was struck by a truck. I’m sure they loved the children and took their responsibilities to watch over these children seriously and wanted to do everything in their power to help a child involved in a serious accident.
The accident was serious. The driver of the small pickup had been traveling south on 4th East and turned left onto 2ned South directly into the sun. The glare of the sun made it so the driver did not see Jacob in the crosswalk or even slow down until she had hit him. The space between the truck’s headlights struck Jacob. He was carried until the truck stopped. Jacob was carried twenty or thirty feet until he landed nearly a third of the way down the block. Pieces of the truck’s grill lay scattered on the street.
I knelt beside Jacob and prayed in my heart. I remember the sense of loss and sorrow and also the feeling of acceptance of God’s will. The paramedics lifted Jacob carefully onto a small stretcher, removing his backpack. Someone volunteered to get it to our home. The paramedics invited me to ride in the ambulance with Jacob. I sent word to my wife to meet me at the hospital.
The ride to the hospital went quickly, it was about 2 miles away. The paramedics wheeled Jacob into a closed room off the ICU rather than in one of the regular screened-off alcoves. The Emergency Room attendants pulled me aside to collect needed-information , then let me go back in the room.
Julie’s sister, Karen, had been working at Maeser Elementary School when she heard that Jacob had been injured. So Karen came to the house and volunteered to watch the other children in order for Julie to come to the hospital. So Julie joined me quickly.
The nurse explained to us that there could be blood, and we may have to be escorted out, but if we could stay, indeed it would help if Jacob regained consciousness or if a decision needed to be made.
Both Julie and I were strengthened by the Spirit. We were calm and very accepting of all that was going on. Many of the nurses and doctors remarked how well we were handling it. As usual, I was curious about everything that was going on and hypothesizing why various things were taking place.
Jacob looked small on the bed. He had various abrasions. Of particular concern were the head injuries. The doctors focused on leakage from the ear, trying to determine the nature of the fluid.
Amazingly, Jacob checked out with minimal injuries…bruised, abraided, but whole. After x-rays, it was determined that Jacob might have a hairline skull fracture. For a child who just got hit by a truck, he was a miracle.
While we were in that examination room, friends and family gathered in the waiting room. Our Bishop, Doneal White, came. Our former bishop and at that time- member of the stake presidency, Stewart Hughes, had turned back from a trip to Salt Lake City to be there. Robert Timmons came. He actually got a bit light-headed while he was in the examination room. Stephen would leave the room periodically to give status and accept the loving support that these great individuals were sharing with us.
Why wasn’t Jacob injured more? When a six-year-old child is hit by a truck, it is usually not good for the child. Especially when the child is struck and carried for the distance that Jacob was. I suppose his backpack played a role. It wasn’t filled with books, but instead with a lunch…and love. It cushioned him as he was hit and as he was thrown.
More importantly, the truck that was involved in the accident had struck a deer the week before. The grillwork was still in place, but fractured and loosened. When Jacob was struck, the grill fractured and failed. Instead of bouncing off, Jacob was caught by the grill, the energy of the impact absorbed by the grill as it failed. Pieces of the grill lay scattered over the street where the truck stopped. Then as the truck slowed and stopped, he was released at a much lower velocity than if he had been struck and thrown cleanly. Thus, the impact with the roadway was minimized, as well.
I consider it a miracle. First, that it happened such a way as to minimize injuries to Jacob. Second, that two individuals, the school principal and janitor were there to give a blessing. Third, that family and friends were there, even before we called, ready to help us and let us attend to our son. Finally, that all the support and skill was there in a timely fashiion to heal and monitor him.
To complete the story, Jacob didn’t and doesn’t remember much about the accident. We have a video that Richard made while Jacob was in the hospital. In the video, Jacob is clearly out of it, still woozy, his features were swollen and round. Still bandaged, Jacob’s words were slurred, he had difficulty paying attention. His room was filled with gifts and well-wishes.
We were required tog o to court in order to close out any possible settlement. All of the hospital bills were going to be paid for, and originally I had been content just to have those expenses covered. However, when the insurance agents started contacting us and offering settlements, I realized that we needed to think of more than the moment. Finally, we agreed on an amount to cover any future concerns and that would release the insurance company from any future indemnities. This had to be reviewed by a judge to insure that we were taking the best interests of Jacob into consideration. He approved, though I felt nervous as though I hadn’t thought through it carefully enough.
The trust we set up had provided sufficient for Jacob to get through two years of BYU upon returning from his mission. Not luxurious, but adequate.
And pancakes nearly always remind me of a phone call and a miracle.
It is time for you to come now
After my step-father (Bruce Gilchrist) died, my mother has had more freedom to travel. She has come to Connecticut for a month or more at a time to share our children, to listen and talk with them. She also kept up her summer trips to Yellowstone to continue her community of friends in that piece of wilderness heaven.
One summer (2006), she was not feeling well as she returned from her Yellowstone trip. For many years, she has suffered from ups and downs in her health. So feeling unwell was not unusual. After suffering for a while though, she recognized something as being different with this particular bout of ill-health.
In Salt Lake, her doctor recognized it as such as well. I don’t recall if on the first visit or the second, the doctor saw the need to operate on my mother’s stomach. Portions had been removed years earlier in a futile attempt to remove ulcers before it became known that they were caused by bacteria. The doctor now worried that there was a blockage that literally my mother was starving to death. The operation was hoped to have been successful, but after a few short nights at home, with my brother and others tending for her needs, my mother was back in the hospital in danger of bleeding to death. A portion of her stomach had literally died.
Her doctor recognized the situation as being beyond his capabilities. He had my mother sent to LDS hospital and referred her to the specialist in the region.
The surgery to remove the dead portion f her stomach and repair it was successful. But mother’s recovery was slow.
I had been following those developments by calling my brother, Richard and my sister, Marsha Thomas, regularly. Also, Richard had established a web page that helped the entire family stay abreast of developments. My older brother, Mark Kramer, traveled from Albuquerque to visit her.
As I checked with Richard, I counseled to determine if I was needed or not. Richard has a disability that causes him to tire easily, yet somehow he was working as a medical systems software provider and finding time to watch over my mother and serve as the primary decision-maker for her healthcare. My sister had the power of attorney. Several times, Marsha was especially concerned fearing that Mom’s death was near. Consulting with my brother, Richard presented a reasoned and grounded view of her progress.
However, it appeared that the progress was not going forward. Mom was losing consciousness more regularly, she was not lucid when awake, and eas expressing a desire to die. “Stephen,” said Richard, “it is time to come.”
Somehow, I was able to arrange a flight home. Flights on the web were cheaper than the bereavement fares offered by the airlines.
I don’t recall the connections or who I may have sat next to. I was picked up at the airport by Marsha. We had a quick bite to eat at a Wendy’s on North Temple then we drove up to the hospital and parked in the parking structure across the street.
Mother was in a unit that was like an ICU. She was in a room by herself and had a team of nurses and attendants to watch over her, to change her fluids, to check in on a regular basis.
Mom was in terrible shape. Her face was covered with a mask, her features gaunt. She appeared to be more in a drugged stupor rather that a slumber. She stirred when Marsha bustled in and announced my arrival. Mom stirred and mumbled some words.
I talked with her, treating her as if she was fully awake and able to understand what I was saying. I told her of my flight, what was going on, how my family was. I listened to her as she talked with me, trying to understand her mumbled comments. Occasionally, she would pull at the breathing mask to get it away from her face.
When she lapsed into unconsciousness, I read a bedside journal that visitors had kept. In some entries were medically-oriented, detailing the numbers of the various monitors, Mom’s physical condition, what the nurses, doctors, or attendants had done. Other entries marked the visits of family members, her brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews, as well as, the visits of her sons and daughters.
I also talked with my brother, Richard. Apparently, that night previous to my arrival, Richard had given her a blessing telling her that she was to live and blessing her to recover.
Her recovery was startling. When I came, she was comatosed, partially aware. When I left for dinner with Marsha and Reid that evening, we had enjoyed a semi-lucid discussion and she had falling into a more real sleep. When I came back that night, catching Robert and he son at the hospital, Mom was recovering even more. The next day, Saturday, she because fully aware, fully awake, fully herself. Not physically recovered, but enough so that the doctors were greatly encourage.
The following day, Sunday, as I went to Taylorsville 14th Ward which I had grown up attending, I visited with individuals who had loomed large in my youth. I was able to share news of her progress with her friends. They had much concern and wondered what to do and wanted to share and help.
I can’t remember now when I had to leave. I do remember great visits with members of my family: Richard and Heidi Kramer, Robert and Tess Gilchrist, and Marsha and Reed Thomas. I had quick visits with my aunts, Carolyn Jones and Doris Giles, and Doris’ husband, Boyd.
And it was wonderful to see the miracle of my mother’s recovery. Here was a woman at the door of death, bleeding internally, her stomach surgically reduced to a size smaller than a tennis ball, and her lungs had filled with fluid and her internal organs under attack. Both with a Priesthood blessing, under the powerful direction of the Spirit, coupled with the love a of a family surrounding her, she recovered.
I left Utah with my Mom acting like my mom. Her face, though gaunt, was animated. Though weak, she would attempt to do for herself. She told her stories, enjoyed with her usual morbid relish, discussing her medical situation.
What a blessing to me to see this. What a wonderful miracle that happened like watching a flower unfold, each motion imperceptible, but the hourly, daily progress glorious to behold.
And maybe, my visit, as requested by a righteous brother, serving to the limit of his strength, may have helped.
One summer (2006), she was not feeling well as she returned from her Yellowstone trip. For many years, she has suffered from ups and downs in her health. So feeling unwell was not unusual. After suffering for a while though, she recognized something as being different with this particular bout of ill-health.
In Salt Lake, her doctor recognized it as such as well. I don’t recall if on the first visit or the second, the doctor saw the need to operate on my mother’s stomach. Portions had been removed years earlier in a futile attempt to remove ulcers before it became known that they were caused by bacteria. The doctor now worried that there was a blockage that literally my mother was starving to death. The operation was hoped to have been successful, but after a few short nights at home, with my brother and others tending for her needs, my mother was back in the hospital in danger of bleeding to death. A portion of her stomach had literally died.
Her doctor recognized the situation as being beyond his capabilities. He had my mother sent to LDS hospital and referred her to the specialist in the region.
The surgery to remove the dead portion f her stomach and repair it was successful. But mother’s recovery was slow.
I had been following those developments by calling my brother, Richard and my sister, Marsha Thomas, regularly. Also, Richard had established a web page that helped the entire family stay abreast of developments. My older brother, Mark Kramer, traveled from Albuquerque to visit her.
As I checked with Richard, I counseled to determine if I was needed or not. Richard has a disability that causes him to tire easily, yet somehow he was working as a medical systems software provider and finding time to watch over my mother and serve as the primary decision-maker for her healthcare. My sister had the power of attorney. Several times, Marsha was especially concerned fearing that Mom’s death was near. Consulting with my brother, Richard presented a reasoned and grounded view of her progress.
However, it appeared that the progress was not going forward. Mom was losing consciousness more regularly, she was not lucid when awake, and eas expressing a desire to die. “Stephen,” said Richard, “it is time to come.”
Somehow, I was able to arrange a flight home. Flights on the web were cheaper than the bereavement fares offered by the airlines.
I don’t recall the connections or who I may have sat next to. I was picked up at the airport by Marsha. We had a quick bite to eat at a Wendy’s on North Temple then we drove up to the hospital and parked in the parking structure across the street.
Mother was in a unit that was like an ICU. She was in a room by herself and had a team of nurses and attendants to watch over her, to change her fluids, to check in on a regular basis.
Mom was in terrible shape. Her face was covered with a mask, her features gaunt. She appeared to be more in a drugged stupor rather that a slumber. She stirred when Marsha bustled in and announced my arrival. Mom stirred and mumbled some words.
I talked with her, treating her as if she was fully awake and able to understand what I was saying. I told her of my flight, what was going on, how my family was. I listened to her as she talked with me, trying to understand her mumbled comments. Occasionally, she would pull at the breathing mask to get it away from her face.
When she lapsed into unconsciousness, I read a bedside journal that visitors had kept. In some entries were medically-oriented, detailing the numbers of the various monitors, Mom’s physical condition, what the nurses, doctors, or attendants had done. Other entries marked the visits of family members, her brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews, as well as, the visits of her sons and daughters.
I also talked with my brother, Richard. Apparently, that night previous to my arrival, Richard had given her a blessing telling her that she was to live and blessing her to recover.
Her recovery was startling. When I came, she was comatosed, partially aware. When I left for dinner with Marsha and Reid that evening, we had enjoyed a semi-lucid discussion and she had falling into a more real sleep. When I came back that night, catching Robert and he son at the hospital, Mom was recovering even more. The next day, Saturday, she because fully aware, fully awake, fully herself. Not physically recovered, but enough so that the doctors were greatly encourage.
The following day, Sunday, as I went to Taylorsville 14th Ward which I had grown up attending, I visited with individuals who had loomed large in my youth. I was able to share news of her progress with her friends. They had much concern and wondered what to do and wanted to share and help.
I can’t remember now when I had to leave. I do remember great visits with members of my family: Richard and Heidi Kramer, Robert and Tess Gilchrist, and Marsha and Reed Thomas. I had quick visits with my aunts, Carolyn Jones and Doris Giles, and Doris’ husband, Boyd.
And it was wonderful to see the miracle of my mother’s recovery. Here was a woman at the door of death, bleeding internally, her stomach surgically reduced to a size smaller than a tennis ball, and her lungs had filled with fluid and her internal organs under attack. Both with a Priesthood blessing, under the powerful direction of the Spirit, coupled with the love a of a family surrounding her, she recovered.
I left Utah with my Mom acting like my mom. Her face, though gaunt, was animated. Though weak, she would attempt to do for herself. She told her stories, enjoyed with her usual morbid relish, discussing her medical situation.
What a blessing to me to see this. What a wonderful miracle that happened like watching a flower unfold, each motion imperceptible, but the hourly, daily progress glorious to behold.
And maybe, my visit, as requested by a righteous brother, serving to the limit of his strength, may have helped.
I’ll go… where?
I had the chance to visit Florida recently. I stayed at the same hotel where Julie and I stayed while looking for a house. The hotel had not changed much. It had been redecorated and the fitness room upgraded. However, the beach was still the same, as well as the pool, the parking lot, the façade and core structure, and the valets who opened the doors to the lobby.
Inspired by President Monson’s example, I made the opportunity to visit two older sisters that I had home taught when we lived in Florida. Much there had not changed either. The outside of Sister Whittle’s house still appeared as though her husband John was still taking care of the plants and making sure that everything was neat, yet he has been gone now over six months. Sister Roger’s house had some new shutters since I had last seen it over 8 years ago, but still was hard to find in the rows of similar cement block houses in its dead end neighborhood in Port Salerno.
I thought back to when we moved in and I was assigned to home teach these two sisters.
When we moved from Utah to Florida, we felt that we were moving into the “mission field” and were excited to see what changes that would bring to our church life. Surprisingly, and also comforting, much was the same. We met as a ward in a very nice stake center with a wood basketball court where the young men, and then the older young men gathered to play on Wednesday nights. The ward was fully staffed, of moderate size, with some newly moved in families and a mix of older and younger Florida “natives”.
I was assigned to home teach a mix of families. Among those were Sister Whittle and Sister Rogers. These two sisters were the only members in part member families. At first I visited with some hope that their husbands would show some interest, but I was soon disabused of that notion. John Whittle was gruff and crusty. He tolerated his wife’s attendance; often driving her to church and waiting for her, but firmly rebuffed any teaching of the gospel. At least he sat in when I came to visit. Sister Roger’s husband did not come into the room when I visited and did not turn down the TV. He wasn’t hostile; I did visit with him a little before or after a visit, just to say hi, but he wasn’t supportive of his wife’s interest in the church. These two were not ripe fruit to be harvested.
But I went home teaching anyway, the last Sunday of the month, regularly. I would take one of my sons, we would have a message, we would visit and listen. Then we would go home, and return the following month.
Sister Whittle had trials. She had a daughter who had trouble finding her way in life. This daughter would occasionally come home to live, then go out on her own again. Various family members passed away. Sister Whittle had problems with her health. But her biggest trial was that she was going blind. She had macular degeneration and the question was not whether she would lose her eyesight, but when.
So she asked me for a blessing. She had not had a regular home teacher before, and she felt, after I had visited her a few months, that I should give her a blessing to cure her blindness. I asked for some time to prepare.
I studied macular degeneration. I learned that it was irreversible, a physical condition that impacts the blood supply to the retina. I fasted and prayed to understand how I should bless her. What was the Lord’s will? I hoped for and desired a miracle. I knew the Lord could grant one, but doubted my faith and worthiness.
I avoided giving a blessing for a while. Sister Whittle finally cornered me and demanded the blessing. So I collected a fellow Melchizedek priesthood holder and gave her the desired blessing.
Summoning all the spirit I had, I laid my hands upon her head and gave her a blessing. What came out was not so much a blessing of healing, but more a blessing of comfort. I don’t remember the words, certainly at this time. However, Sister Whittle never failed to remind me of a key phrase that was included in the blessing. A phrase that said that she would see what the Lord wanted her to see and what she needed to see.
She held on to those words. Even at this recent visit, she reminded me of them, and demonstrated how, with her John now departed, she could read her bills and write the checks with a magnifying glass.
She also reminded me of her husband joining the church and her and him being sealed in the temple. I don’t think I had much to do with him joining; I was just the home teacher when it happened. I credit his joining the church to his wonderful faithful wife and to a ward mission president who had been the stake president and knew how to challenge the dry portion of part member families to get wet. However, Sister Whittle insisted I played a role. I’m just glad that I didn’t miss too many of my end of month visits.
With Sister Rogers, the story was different but similar. She had terribly tough trials as well. Her son Pete developed adult muscular dystrophy, was divorced, and forced to come back home. He brought his two children. The small home became even smaller. Nothing was desired or required of the church. I just visited and home taught Sister Rogers. None of the others would listen. Not her husband, not her son Pete, or her very energetic grandchildren. My son and I would sit at the small kitchen table, with the television on in the converted garage on one side and the half-naked children playing in the cushions of the front room on the other side, present a lesson, and listen to Sister Rogers.
Yet somehow, her son Pete and his children joined the church. Sister Rogers insisted that if I had stayed, her husband would have joined as well. But I never taught a lesson, never challenged them to do anything, just visited and invited them to come to church. Their joining the church was all Sister Rogers. The welcome and the support of the ward helped. Now her grandson, Cody, is receiving his Eagle Scout award and is planning on his mission.
My recent visit has caused me to reflect on those two fine sisters. When I started home teaching them, I didn’t see any future for them. But the Lord did. He had a plan. He just needed me to go to their homes. Regularly.
I’m glad that I did.
Inspired by President Monson’s example, I made the opportunity to visit two older sisters that I had home taught when we lived in Florida. Much there had not changed either. The outside of Sister Whittle’s house still appeared as though her husband John was still taking care of the plants and making sure that everything was neat, yet he has been gone now over six months. Sister Roger’s house had some new shutters since I had last seen it over 8 years ago, but still was hard to find in the rows of similar cement block houses in its dead end neighborhood in Port Salerno.
I thought back to when we moved in and I was assigned to home teach these two sisters.
When we moved from Utah to Florida, we felt that we were moving into the “mission field” and were excited to see what changes that would bring to our church life. Surprisingly, and also comforting, much was the same. We met as a ward in a very nice stake center with a wood basketball court where the young men, and then the older young men gathered to play on Wednesday nights. The ward was fully staffed, of moderate size, with some newly moved in families and a mix of older and younger Florida “natives”.
I was assigned to home teach a mix of families. Among those were Sister Whittle and Sister Rogers. These two sisters were the only members in part member families. At first I visited with some hope that their husbands would show some interest, but I was soon disabused of that notion. John Whittle was gruff and crusty. He tolerated his wife’s attendance; often driving her to church and waiting for her, but firmly rebuffed any teaching of the gospel. At least he sat in when I came to visit. Sister Roger’s husband did not come into the room when I visited and did not turn down the TV. He wasn’t hostile; I did visit with him a little before or after a visit, just to say hi, but he wasn’t supportive of his wife’s interest in the church. These two were not ripe fruit to be harvested.
But I went home teaching anyway, the last Sunday of the month, regularly. I would take one of my sons, we would have a message, we would visit and listen. Then we would go home, and return the following month.
Sister Whittle had trials. She had a daughter who had trouble finding her way in life. This daughter would occasionally come home to live, then go out on her own again. Various family members passed away. Sister Whittle had problems with her health. But her biggest trial was that she was going blind. She had macular degeneration and the question was not whether she would lose her eyesight, but when.
So she asked me for a blessing. She had not had a regular home teacher before, and she felt, after I had visited her a few months, that I should give her a blessing to cure her blindness. I asked for some time to prepare.
I studied macular degeneration. I learned that it was irreversible, a physical condition that impacts the blood supply to the retina. I fasted and prayed to understand how I should bless her. What was the Lord’s will? I hoped for and desired a miracle. I knew the Lord could grant one, but doubted my faith and worthiness.
I avoided giving a blessing for a while. Sister Whittle finally cornered me and demanded the blessing. So I collected a fellow Melchizedek priesthood holder and gave her the desired blessing.
Summoning all the spirit I had, I laid my hands upon her head and gave her a blessing. What came out was not so much a blessing of healing, but more a blessing of comfort. I don’t remember the words, certainly at this time. However, Sister Whittle never failed to remind me of a key phrase that was included in the blessing. A phrase that said that she would see what the Lord wanted her to see and what she needed to see.
She held on to those words. Even at this recent visit, she reminded me of them, and demonstrated how, with her John now departed, she could read her bills and write the checks with a magnifying glass.
She also reminded me of her husband joining the church and her and him being sealed in the temple. I don’t think I had much to do with him joining; I was just the home teacher when it happened. I credit his joining the church to his wonderful faithful wife and to a ward mission president who had been the stake president and knew how to challenge the dry portion of part member families to get wet. However, Sister Whittle insisted I played a role. I’m just glad that I didn’t miss too many of my end of month visits.
With Sister Rogers, the story was different but similar. She had terribly tough trials as well. Her son Pete developed adult muscular dystrophy, was divorced, and forced to come back home. He brought his two children. The small home became even smaller. Nothing was desired or required of the church. I just visited and home taught Sister Rogers. None of the others would listen. Not her husband, not her son Pete, or her very energetic grandchildren. My son and I would sit at the small kitchen table, with the television on in the converted garage on one side and the half-naked children playing in the cushions of the front room on the other side, present a lesson, and listen to Sister Rogers.
Yet somehow, her son Pete and his children joined the church. Sister Rogers insisted that if I had stayed, her husband would have joined as well. But I never taught a lesson, never challenged them to do anything, just visited and invited them to come to church. Their joining the church was all Sister Rogers. The welcome and the support of the ward helped. Now her grandson, Cody, is receiving his Eagle Scout award and is planning on his mission.
My recent visit has caused me to reflect on those two fine sisters. When I started home teaching them, I didn’t see any future for them. But the Lord did. He had a plan. He just needed me to go to their homes. Regularly.
I’m glad that I did.
Homes are where the heart is…
Most BYU students are idealistic about marriage. They see it as a happy haven, far removed from the hazards of single life. Such minutiae as a house to live in and employment and the daily living routine are not included in the dating dreams of singles.
When Julie and I became engaged, we had no idea where we were to live. We had three months from the day we were engaged to the day of our marriage. Homes and apartments were hard to come by. BYU married student housing had a six month wait list.
My brother had married not long before. He and his wife were looking for a home. As Julie and I planned for marriage, we considered with Richard and Heidi the possibility of buying a home together.
The challenge was finding a home within the price range that we could afford, even with combined incomes, which could accommodate both families. We looked, or more correctly, Richard and Heidi looked, and we checked out some key properties with them.
We found one. It was much farther away from BYU than we anticipated. It was a split level with an unfinished basement. Full of the confidence of youth, my brother and I saw no problem being able to finish it.
First, we had to buy the house. The loan was more complex than normal. I’m not certain of the exact wording, but each of us was something like co-owners in joint, and all of our incomes contributed to our qualification for the loan. The loan company added together what we earned, the legal relationships defined, the papers signed, and we could move in. And with the timing that the Lord has applied again and again in my life, the home was available for moving in the week before we were married. Thus, the housing problem was solved. As a newlywed couple, we were enjoying the master bedroom of a home in a nice neighborhood, acquiring equity for less than we would pay in rent.
We spent our honeymoon, not in a condo or a hotel, but moving into our home with my brother and his wife.
There is a second and a third chapter to this story.
The second chapter has to do with two pregnant wives and an unfinished basement. Julie and I had lived in the master bedroom in the house at 19 E 1775 N Orem for nearly a year when we decided to start a family. Apparently, not long after, my brother and his wife decided to add to theirs – Heidi had two children from a previous marriage. The challenge was that Richard and I had not finished the basement. When the two babies would finally arrive, we would have 8 people in 3 bedrooms. Our wives clarified their expectations. They wanted the basement completed so that Julie and I could move down there.
This, as most things, was easier to determine than to do. My brother and I were both working to support our families and had only marginal amounts of time to spend. More importantly, we were somewhat unfamiliar with the exact details of the work required. Richard knew electricity, since he had specialized in that in high school, and had almost become a journeyman. I had done some piping in the labs at work, and did have a degree in Chemical Engineering. How to frame, or mount wallboard, or mud, or install plumbing and cabinetry were not total mysteries, but certainly had depths yet unknown to us.
The difficulties were increased since my brother and I had different working styles. Richard charges into a task, puts whatever needs to be put together, and then, when needed, putting it together again, or making it work somehow. On the other hand, I try to have everything figured out before starting, and delay starting, think about it some more, and perhaps secretly hope that someone else would start and finish it. Between us, progress, and brotherly relations, did not proceed smoothly.
However, babies do not wait for basements to be finished. Nine months go by and babies come. Our eldest son, Jacob, was born June 25, 1984. The basement was not finished. Nor was it finished two, three or four months later. Bit by bit, the work progressed. Richard would become fatigued with my painstaking attitude and deliberate pace. He would drop off the job, but would return, presumably encouraged by his conscience and his expectant wife. I believe we finally finished after Christmas, maybe January. But we did finish.
What a wonderful opportunity for Julie and I. Our own place, our own home, so to speak, made to our specifications. It became a haven for us and our growing family. It was truly a blessing.
Especially since school went on much longer that planned and expected. My PhD was transformed in to a MS program, the MS program completed, and a PhD undertaken again. Schooling stretched from a few short years to an endless vista. Julie and I had agreed to have her leave her teaching position and stay at home after the birth of Jacob. But my sole, small, student assistant income was barely sufficient to cover our needs.
Our home provided not only shelter, but income. As school began to stretch on, my brother and his wife wanted to explore the owning of the entire house. Heidi had graduated and obtained a job as a programmer at WordPerfect, and was earning fairly good money. With this additional income, as well as knowing of our need, they offered to buy out our portion of the home. Basically, they let us live without paying our usual half of our house payment until our equity had been purchased.
What a timely blessing. A second child had arrived and we could pay for the increased expenses. A third child was on the way. The basement home had seen the foundation of our family and sheltered us in our early growth, and granted us warmth and welcome. My wife and I made important strides as a couple and as individuals there. We had chances to serve in a smaller but vibrant ward where everyone was used and needed. These experiences, as well as the relationship we developed with Richard and Heidi, have been important to later lives.
But I still had not finished my education, and yet our equity in the home was soon to be bought out. This is where the third part of the story starts. Just as our third son was born, my wife’s grandmothers house was opened for occupancy. Julie’s “little” grandma was a wonderful women, with a cheerful heart and an instant smile. She listened intently to whatever was said, saying “Oh my!”, “You don’t say!”, and “Heavenly days” to encourage the conversation, even though mostly deaf and unable to hear most of the words that were said. Julie’s brother Alan and his wife had been taking care of little grandma and her home, but she passed away, and Alan and Rhonda left Provo to go to dental school in Omaha. Julie’s father needed someone to take care of the home. The housing market was depressed in Provo and the home was worth more to the family as a home for us, than to be sold for a pittance on the market.
So we stayed in the home for a truly nominal amount of rent. Julie’s father could have earned much more in rent from someone else. But for a mere $100 a month, later $200, we had a home for our family that continued to grow. McKenna, Adams, and N’Krysta were born there. Julie served as Primary President, I served in the Stake High Council and in the Bishopric. We stayed and grew in that gift of the home until Pratt called and our family moved away from Utah.
Homes are where the hearts are, and the Lord provides us homes as they are needed.
When Julie and I became engaged, we had no idea where we were to live. We had three months from the day we were engaged to the day of our marriage. Homes and apartments were hard to come by. BYU married student housing had a six month wait list.
My brother had married not long before. He and his wife were looking for a home. As Julie and I planned for marriage, we considered with Richard and Heidi the possibility of buying a home together.
The challenge was finding a home within the price range that we could afford, even with combined incomes, which could accommodate both families. We looked, or more correctly, Richard and Heidi looked, and we checked out some key properties with them.
We found one. It was much farther away from BYU than we anticipated. It was a split level with an unfinished basement. Full of the confidence of youth, my brother and I saw no problem being able to finish it.
First, we had to buy the house. The loan was more complex than normal. I’m not certain of the exact wording, but each of us was something like co-owners in joint, and all of our incomes contributed to our qualification for the loan. The loan company added together what we earned, the legal relationships defined, the papers signed, and we could move in. And with the timing that the Lord has applied again and again in my life, the home was available for moving in the week before we were married. Thus, the housing problem was solved. As a newlywed couple, we were enjoying the master bedroom of a home in a nice neighborhood, acquiring equity for less than we would pay in rent.
We spent our honeymoon, not in a condo or a hotel, but moving into our home with my brother and his wife.
There is a second and a third chapter to this story.
The second chapter has to do with two pregnant wives and an unfinished basement. Julie and I had lived in the master bedroom in the house at 19 E 1775 N Orem for nearly a year when we decided to start a family. Apparently, not long after, my brother and his wife decided to add to theirs – Heidi had two children from a previous marriage. The challenge was that Richard and I had not finished the basement. When the two babies would finally arrive, we would have 8 people in 3 bedrooms. Our wives clarified their expectations. They wanted the basement completed so that Julie and I could move down there.
This, as most things, was easier to determine than to do. My brother and I were both working to support our families and had only marginal amounts of time to spend. More importantly, we were somewhat unfamiliar with the exact details of the work required. Richard knew electricity, since he had specialized in that in high school, and had almost become a journeyman. I had done some piping in the labs at work, and did have a degree in Chemical Engineering. How to frame, or mount wallboard, or mud, or install plumbing and cabinetry were not total mysteries, but certainly had depths yet unknown to us.
The difficulties were increased since my brother and I had different working styles. Richard charges into a task, puts whatever needs to be put together, and then, when needed, putting it together again, or making it work somehow. On the other hand, I try to have everything figured out before starting, and delay starting, think about it some more, and perhaps secretly hope that someone else would start and finish it. Between us, progress, and brotherly relations, did not proceed smoothly.
However, babies do not wait for basements to be finished. Nine months go by and babies come. Our eldest son, Jacob, was born June 25, 1984. The basement was not finished. Nor was it finished two, three or four months later. Bit by bit, the work progressed. Richard would become fatigued with my painstaking attitude and deliberate pace. He would drop off the job, but would return, presumably encouraged by his conscience and his expectant wife. I believe we finally finished after Christmas, maybe January. But we did finish.
What a wonderful opportunity for Julie and I. Our own place, our own home, so to speak, made to our specifications. It became a haven for us and our growing family. It was truly a blessing.
Especially since school went on much longer that planned and expected. My PhD was transformed in to a MS program, the MS program completed, and a PhD undertaken again. Schooling stretched from a few short years to an endless vista. Julie and I had agreed to have her leave her teaching position and stay at home after the birth of Jacob. But my sole, small, student assistant income was barely sufficient to cover our needs.
Our home provided not only shelter, but income. As school began to stretch on, my brother and his wife wanted to explore the owning of the entire house. Heidi had graduated and obtained a job as a programmer at WordPerfect, and was earning fairly good money. With this additional income, as well as knowing of our need, they offered to buy out our portion of the home. Basically, they let us live without paying our usual half of our house payment until our equity had been purchased.
What a timely blessing. A second child had arrived and we could pay for the increased expenses. A third child was on the way. The basement home had seen the foundation of our family and sheltered us in our early growth, and granted us warmth and welcome. My wife and I made important strides as a couple and as individuals there. We had chances to serve in a smaller but vibrant ward where everyone was used and needed. These experiences, as well as the relationship we developed with Richard and Heidi, have been important to later lives.
But I still had not finished my education, and yet our equity in the home was soon to be bought out. This is where the third part of the story starts. Just as our third son was born, my wife’s grandmothers house was opened for occupancy. Julie’s “little” grandma was a wonderful women, with a cheerful heart and an instant smile. She listened intently to whatever was said, saying “Oh my!”, “You don’t say!”, and “Heavenly days” to encourage the conversation, even though mostly deaf and unable to hear most of the words that were said. Julie’s brother Alan and his wife had been taking care of little grandma and her home, but she passed away, and Alan and Rhonda left Provo to go to dental school in Omaha. Julie’s father needed someone to take care of the home. The housing market was depressed in Provo and the home was worth more to the family as a home for us, than to be sold for a pittance on the market.
So we stayed in the home for a truly nominal amount of rent. Julie’s father could have earned much more in rent from someone else. But for a mere $100 a month, later $200, we had a home for our family that continued to grow. McKenna, Adams, and N’Krysta were born there. Julie served as Primary President, I served in the Stake High Council and in the Bishopric. We stayed and grew in that gift of the home until Pratt called and our family moved away from Utah.
Homes are where the hearts are, and the Lord provides us homes as they are needed.
How Much is Needed?
Moving from the valley that had sheltered us for each of the nearly 13 years of our married life was not a small decision. We would be leaving friends, business associates, family, the state where we had grown up, and the valley where our 6 children had been born.
But it was time. I had been feeling increasingly restless. The business I had started 3 years earlier with a good friend and partner was in survival mode rather than growing. More importantly, I had the impression that we had work to do elsewhere. I discussed these feelings with my wife. I counseled with a member of the stake presidency who had previously been our bishop. I talked with my business partner. All agreed that moving out of the valley was a good thing. The member of the stake presidency shared that he felt that we should go somewhere else as well.
As often happens, just after these discussions took place, I was contacted by a good friend at Pratt&Whitney. Pratt was moving its combustion technology group from Connecticut to Florida, and many of the members of the group were choosing not to leave Connecticut. My friend, Bill Sowa, wondered if I would be interested in a position.
The initial interview trip was interesting. I had visited Florida once before and knew that it wasn’t all palm trees and sea side condos. Strip malls and crowded developments were graced by pine trees and palmettos. The Pratt&Whitney plant was in a midst of a pine swamp. For the interview trip, I stayed at a beachside resort Hotel and to get to the plant, I traveled west, and further west, until literally, the road ended at the gate to Pratt.
The engineers I interviewed with were friendly and positive. I enjoyed my interviews with them. After the interviews, I drove around to explore the area. I also drove to Florida’s west coast, the Gulf of Mexico coast, to visit my father’s brother who I had only seen twice since my father had died when I was six.
Returning to Utah, I thought and prayed, and it seemed like the right thing to do to accept the position at Pratt. I checked on a couple of other opportunities, including one in Worcester, Massachusetts. Pratt’s offer was equivalent, so when I had to make the decision, I agreed to accept the position.
The challenge then became how to find a home to shelter our family. Six children do not fit in a rental unit or in a crowded development with handkerchief yards. We had no equity in the home we were living in Utah. Pratt’s offered salary, while competitive, did not seem generous enough to afford a down payment for a home large enough for our family in Florida. Homes large enough for our family were unusual in Florida – we would need at least four bedrooms, preferably five, and three bedrooms seemed to be the standard.
Julie and I accepted the position in Florida with the faith that a way would be provided. It was. Immediately. The day that I officially committed to work for Pratt, our consulting business in Provo received an open contract that appeared to have more revenue than our company had received from any other source the previous three years. I could literally work as much as I wanted, and charge our usual rate of $50 to 75 an hour.
I worked, and we prepared to move. My wife’s father was our landlord and had permitted us to live in his mother’s house after she had died. The rent we paid was miniscule, which had permitted us to finish my schooling without debt. But rent does not equal equity. Except for the money I was earning, we had literally no assets. And in gratitude to my father-in-law for his generosity, we had to take time to prepare that little home in Provo for sale, removing wall paper and painting, ripping our old carpets, cleaning up the basement and cleaning out the yard. That time was a sacrifice, for I could have been earning money for our new home in Florida.
Precious time was also sacrificed to serve in the bishopric. The bishop had called me to the position after I had accepted the position at Pratt. He knew I was going to leave, but the Lord had asked for my service and so I gave it. The calling was wonderful and I learned much that was to help me later. Yet significant time was required to re-organize the ward each fall as new BYU students moved into our boundaries.
Time also had to be spent as a father. My boys were growing. A fathers and sons’ outing was attended. Pancake breakfasts were cooked. David broke an arm. All time that could have been used to earn for our down payment.
We didn’t know how much was needed. Or where the house would be. My wife and I were given a house hunting trip of a few days. I believe that the real estate agent that we used was suggested by Bill Sowa. I prepared for the trip by visiting the real estate web sites and looking for homes that met our criteria of size and affordability, proximity to work and in an area with well regarded schools.
Our base of operations for the house hunting trip was the same Jupiter Beach Resort Hotel that had been recommended to me when I had interviewed. It was beautiful, upscale and right on the beach. Our goal was to finish our short week there with a home identified that we could move into straight from Provo.
The real estate agent was very patient. I had a stack of homes to visit and we went from home to home on the stack. We started with homes in Jupiter Farms, looking at homes on 2 and 5 acre pine lots. Later, we expanded our search northward to Martin County. We went from home to home to home until they were a blur in our minds. The large majority were not quite suitable. Though I had only considered homes with 4 bedrooms or more, often the fourth bedroom was a study and not suited for a bedroom. Some were just too small overall. Most had swimming pools.
One home did stand out. Especially to my wife. It hadn’t been on my list, but our realtor had shown it to the Sowa’s and they had been interested and so she thought we may be interested as well. The home was not a typical Florida home: it was sided with cedar rather than stucco over cinder block. It was two stories rather than one. It was very large and had not been lived in for some time. Though it wasn’t in the areas I had identified, it had convenient access to Pratt. However, the price was well above what I thought we could afford, and we were not able to get in. We drove away.
My wife was intrigued. Our realtor arranged for us to visit the next day. The home had four large bedrooms, three on the second floor and the master suite on the main floor. It had a 30 by 30 foot divided added family room. There was a Jacuzzi, bathroom and shower in a stand alone building by the pool. It was darker than the other Florida homes we had visited, though floored with the ubiquitous tile.
Julie felt very strongly about the home. When I dismissed the home and moved on to a five bedroom home on our list, Julie despaired. She felt that the cedar-sided home was the home we were to have.
Our realtor suggested that we make an offer, even a low one. After all, the answer could be “yes”. What would be an offer we could make? The original price for the home had been $220,000. Because it had been on the market so long, the price had been reduced to $200,000. I had calculated that the maximum I could afford, both from a down payment and from what I thought we could make in monthly payments, was $170,000. Therefore, with all the negotiating simplicity of an engineer, I offered $140,000.
The owners were offended. They walked away without even bargaining. Julie was strongly discouraged. We didn’t know what to do. None of the other homes really met our budget or criteria either. The 5 bedroom home had really become a minimum standard: anything had to be better than that. I wasn’t sure why it was so bad, but for Julie, it just was. We even started looking in developments, where homes were built inside a wall, where there was only a patio instead of a yard, and the children would have to go to a development play ground to play.
A query came from the owners of the cedar-sided home. “Would we consider a higher number?” They were willing to come down to $190,000. We consulted with Barbara, our realtor, and made our final, firm offer, $170,000, all that I thought we could afford. And we were refused. It was Friday, the next day was Friday, and we were due to leave on Sunday.
I can’t remember when we received word that the owners had reconsidered and accepted our offer. I believe we received the message on the hotel phone. What a miracle! We spent the evening listening to the Priesthood Session of October General Conference in the Jupiter Ward building, grateful to be together and grateful to the Lord.
When we returned to Utah, we transferred the deposit and rushed the preparations. I was to start at Pratt on the 23rd of October, and we had only a week of paid stay in the hotel. Thankfully the home was empty and ready for us to move in. The target date was November 1st.
The home in Utah had to be sold. Cleaning and packing went on at full tilt. We made the arrangements to move our belongings. And I continued to work to earn a down payment.
I believe the house loan required a down payment of 20%, plus some additional closing costs, a total of near $34,000. I had barely earned that much in total the year before. Yet the money was flowing into our banking account through the contract that had been awarded the day I had accepted employment at Pratt.
We left our home on a Friday and walked to a hotel near our home in Provo. Our car was already in the moving van on its way to Florida. Our truck had been rushed up to a shipping service in Salt Lake.
My brother, Richard and his wife drove us to the airport Saturday morning, in two separate vehicles. Richard had been always helpful as we prepared to move. Our families had been close since we had first lived in the same home as newlyweds.
On the way to the airport, we stopped by the ATM for cash for the trip. I can’t remember what in the conversation triggered it, but Richard asked if we had enough money for the trip and the house. I admitted that it appeared that we were a bit short. Richard asked, “How much is needed?” I told him that $2000 was needed. Without any other discussion, Richard wrote a check for $2000.
We enjoyed our week in a hotel in Florida. Because of the size of the family, the company allowed us to use two rental cars. Julie and the kids explored the beach and the hotel pool. I explored work.
A final monetary challenge had to be faced. The move had been made on my credit card. The company was to reimburse me once all expenses had come in. But the move was costing me on the order of $7000 and I needed that money to close on the house. We needed an “advance” on that money. Making this more difficult was the fact that my boss was in East Hartford dealing with an emergency the first week I was at work. Somehow, with the help of our group aide, and the blessings of the Lord, I acquired the signatures of the component center director and a vice president on the advance.
When we went to arrange the loan, prior to the closing, enough money had flowed into our account so fast, including the advance and the check from my brother, that the mortgage company was required by Florida law to check to determine if it was drug money. When every dollar I had earned was counted, every dollar that had been advanced and given added, the costs of the home closing were covered, with little if any to spare. Without the gift from my brother, it would not have been enough.
We signed on Halloween evening, just as the office was closing, with all our children with us. The only candy they enjoyed was that available in the office. There was no trick or treating in the hotel, only packing and preparation for the move into our new home.
Our goods and us arrived at the cedar-sided home the next day. No storage had been required. We had received our van a day or two before in the parking lot at the hotel. But our boxes went from our home in Provo to the moving truck to our new home in Florida.
Along with our boxes came the Elders Quorum President, Willie Queen. He brought a young man, Joe Twelves, from the neighborhood to help. My wife, with his direction, went to a MacDonalds that was selling hamburgers at a ridiculous price and brought home 20. We ate, we unpacked, and we spent the first night in a messy, but an already special and loved home.
As I write down these events, I am struck again by how impossible it was. Improbable event coupled with unlikely occurrence, smoothly, just in time, and only to the amount needed. A job was offered, work was provided to pay for the home needed. A house was identified, a ridiculously low bid accepted. An advance was granted where never an advance had been granted before. My brother was inspired to offer a required gift. Preparing a home in Utah, avoiding a flood in Florida. Movers arriving just in time. Verification of accounts and signings going off without any hitches, despite the unusual circumstances. The hand of the Lord had clearly been involved. Why had the Lord participated so strongly?
I know in large part, that it is due to our faithful payment of tithing. The Lord has promised that he would provide, not in excess, but just enough. And he did.
I discovered additional reasons a few days later. The Twelves were a strong member family who lived across the street and two houses down. When Julie met Kelly Twelves, they discovered that Kelly had grown up in Tucson, like Julie had, and that Kelly had been a school mate to Julie’s younger sister Cheryl. For this first, very important move outside of Utah, the Lord had provided my wonderful, faithful, and enduring wife, Julie, and immediate and soon to be dear friend.
I realized later, much later, that we were also a blessing to the Twelves. Brother Van Twelves, though faithful in the church, suffered, and suffers still, from a debilitating illness that robs him of energy, and does not permit him to spend many hours awake outside of work. His boys needed a priesthood leader to connect with. I had the opportunity to play basketball with Joe, the oldest boy, and to work with him through the scouting program and help him earn his Eagle Scout award. He went on a mission, as has his younger brothers, and has been married in the temple.
The bishop of the ward also claimed responsibility for praying us in. They had held a special fast for additional members to come to the ward, and in that year, at least five strong families moved in, one who later became the bishop, another, the stake president.
I am certain that I have not conveyed impact of the truly miraculous aspects of this story. Julie felt great despair when the home she had been directed to wasn’t possible. Despair turned to joy and gratitude when our offer was accepted. Of the wonder, and the humility felt when the money was made available in just the right amount necessary at just the right time. How unexpected when Richard offered a gift, how beautiful! Managing to have papers work there way through layers of bureaucracy in syncopation. This was no simple miracle, but a complex, tightly interwoven, choreographed logistical achievement.
There are many more stories to tell of this move of our family. I am impressed to include two here. The first has to do with a hundred year storm that dumped over a foot of rain on the West Palm Beach and Martin County area. Homes were flooded and streets became lakes.
This happened after we had made the deposit but before we had closed on the home. We could do nothing. We called the realtor. She checked and we were reassured that the home had remained dry. We found out that it had done better than just remain dry. We learned that the previous owner had placed the septic tank at least one clay layer deeper than normal because of previous troubles with the septic. During this hundred year flood, the neighbors would come to our soon-to-be-home and use the toilets because they did not back up. Even a colony of fire ants came in and used the sill between the kitchen and the family room as a shelter from the flood. The waters came up to within 20 feet of the front door, but the home was protected.
The other story has to do with our truck, Rose. We had purchased it in Provo for not much over $1000. It was rusted and beat up. I was willing to leave it in Provo. Our moving allowance included two vehicles. I tried to persuade the relocation company that in light of the floods in Florida, the recently purchased canoe was more needed as a vehicle than a truck. They smiled, at least over the phone, but denied paying for the move of the canoe.
So, with a little bit of spite and frustration and with a smile myself over the ridiculousness of it, I drove the old, rusted, F250 up to the transport company’s lot in West Salt Lake. Transporting the truck, on some car carrier, probably carrying someone else’s Lexus, Mercedes, or even Hondas, cost the relocation company over $2000.
I must point out that the Lord and the moving company were much more intelligent than me. Since we had put all our money in the house and had none to spare, we had no money left over to buy another vehicle for quite some time. Rose, that rusted, dilapidated truck, was a much needed, and much beloved second vehicle, getting me to work, when I couldn’t carpool with Van Twelves, and getting me and the boys to church when Julie needed the minivan.
But it was time. I had been feeling increasingly restless. The business I had started 3 years earlier with a good friend and partner was in survival mode rather than growing. More importantly, I had the impression that we had work to do elsewhere. I discussed these feelings with my wife. I counseled with a member of the stake presidency who had previously been our bishop. I talked with my business partner. All agreed that moving out of the valley was a good thing. The member of the stake presidency shared that he felt that we should go somewhere else as well.
As often happens, just after these discussions took place, I was contacted by a good friend at Pratt&Whitney. Pratt was moving its combustion technology group from Connecticut to Florida, and many of the members of the group were choosing not to leave Connecticut. My friend, Bill Sowa, wondered if I would be interested in a position.
The initial interview trip was interesting. I had visited Florida once before and knew that it wasn’t all palm trees and sea side condos. Strip malls and crowded developments were graced by pine trees and palmettos. The Pratt&Whitney plant was in a midst of a pine swamp. For the interview trip, I stayed at a beachside resort Hotel and to get to the plant, I traveled west, and further west, until literally, the road ended at the gate to Pratt.
The engineers I interviewed with were friendly and positive. I enjoyed my interviews with them. After the interviews, I drove around to explore the area. I also drove to Florida’s west coast, the Gulf of Mexico coast, to visit my father’s brother who I had only seen twice since my father had died when I was six.
Returning to Utah, I thought and prayed, and it seemed like the right thing to do to accept the position at Pratt. I checked on a couple of other opportunities, including one in Worcester, Massachusetts. Pratt’s offer was equivalent, so when I had to make the decision, I agreed to accept the position.
The challenge then became how to find a home to shelter our family. Six children do not fit in a rental unit or in a crowded development with handkerchief yards. We had no equity in the home we were living in Utah. Pratt’s offered salary, while competitive, did not seem generous enough to afford a down payment for a home large enough for our family in Florida. Homes large enough for our family were unusual in Florida – we would need at least four bedrooms, preferably five, and three bedrooms seemed to be the standard.
Julie and I accepted the position in Florida with the faith that a way would be provided. It was. Immediately. The day that I officially committed to work for Pratt, our consulting business in Provo received an open contract that appeared to have more revenue than our company had received from any other source the previous three years. I could literally work as much as I wanted, and charge our usual rate of $50 to 75 an hour.
I worked, and we prepared to move. My wife’s father was our landlord and had permitted us to live in his mother’s house after she had died. The rent we paid was miniscule, which had permitted us to finish my schooling without debt. But rent does not equal equity. Except for the money I was earning, we had literally no assets. And in gratitude to my father-in-law for his generosity, we had to take time to prepare that little home in Provo for sale, removing wall paper and painting, ripping our old carpets, cleaning up the basement and cleaning out the yard. That time was a sacrifice, for I could have been earning money for our new home in Florida.
Precious time was also sacrificed to serve in the bishopric. The bishop had called me to the position after I had accepted the position at Pratt. He knew I was going to leave, but the Lord had asked for my service and so I gave it. The calling was wonderful and I learned much that was to help me later. Yet significant time was required to re-organize the ward each fall as new BYU students moved into our boundaries.
Time also had to be spent as a father. My boys were growing. A fathers and sons’ outing was attended. Pancake breakfasts were cooked. David broke an arm. All time that could have been used to earn for our down payment.
We didn’t know how much was needed. Or where the house would be. My wife and I were given a house hunting trip of a few days. I believe that the real estate agent that we used was suggested by Bill Sowa. I prepared for the trip by visiting the real estate web sites and looking for homes that met our criteria of size and affordability, proximity to work and in an area with well regarded schools.
Our base of operations for the house hunting trip was the same Jupiter Beach Resort Hotel that had been recommended to me when I had interviewed. It was beautiful, upscale and right on the beach. Our goal was to finish our short week there with a home identified that we could move into straight from Provo.
The real estate agent was very patient. I had a stack of homes to visit and we went from home to home on the stack. We started with homes in Jupiter Farms, looking at homes on 2 and 5 acre pine lots. Later, we expanded our search northward to Martin County. We went from home to home to home until they were a blur in our minds. The large majority were not quite suitable. Though I had only considered homes with 4 bedrooms or more, often the fourth bedroom was a study and not suited for a bedroom. Some were just too small overall. Most had swimming pools.
One home did stand out. Especially to my wife. It hadn’t been on my list, but our realtor had shown it to the Sowa’s and they had been interested and so she thought we may be interested as well. The home was not a typical Florida home: it was sided with cedar rather than stucco over cinder block. It was two stories rather than one. It was very large and had not been lived in for some time. Though it wasn’t in the areas I had identified, it had convenient access to Pratt. However, the price was well above what I thought we could afford, and we were not able to get in. We drove away.
My wife was intrigued. Our realtor arranged for us to visit the next day. The home had four large bedrooms, three on the second floor and the master suite on the main floor. It had a 30 by 30 foot divided added family room. There was a Jacuzzi, bathroom and shower in a stand alone building by the pool. It was darker than the other Florida homes we had visited, though floored with the ubiquitous tile.
Julie felt very strongly about the home. When I dismissed the home and moved on to a five bedroom home on our list, Julie despaired. She felt that the cedar-sided home was the home we were to have.
Our realtor suggested that we make an offer, even a low one. After all, the answer could be “yes”. What would be an offer we could make? The original price for the home had been $220,000. Because it had been on the market so long, the price had been reduced to $200,000. I had calculated that the maximum I could afford, both from a down payment and from what I thought we could make in monthly payments, was $170,000. Therefore, with all the negotiating simplicity of an engineer, I offered $140,000.
The owners were offended. They walked away without even bargaining. Julie was strongly discouraged. We didn’t know what to do. None of the other homes really met our budget or criteria either. The 5 bedroom home had really become a minimum standard: anything had to be better than that. I wasn’t sure why it was so bad, but for Julie, it just was. We even started looking in developments, where homes were built inside a wall, where there was only a patio instead of a yard, and the children would have to go to a development play ground to play.
A query came from the owners of the cedar-sided home. “Would we consider a higher number?” They were willing to come down to $190,000. We consulted with Barbara, our realtor, and made our final, firm offer, $170,000, all that I thought we could afford. And we were refused. It was Friday, the next day was Friday, and we were due to leave on Sunday.
I can’t remember when we received word that the owners had reconsidered and accepted our offer. I believe we received the message on the hotel phone. What a miracle! We spent the evening listening to the Priesthood Session of October General Conference in the Jupiter Ward building, grateful to be together and grateful to the Lord.
When we returned to Utah, we transferred the deposit and rushed the preparations. I was to start at Pratt on the 23rd of October, and we had only a week of paid stay in the hotel. Thankfully the home was empty and ready for us to move in. The target date was November 1st.
The home in Utah had to be sold. Cleaning and packing went on at full tilt. We made the arrangements to move our belongings. And I continued to work to earn a down payment.
I believe the house loan required a down payment of 20%, plus some additional closing costs, a total of near $34,000. I had barely earned that much in total the year before. Yet the money was flowing into our banking account through the contract that had been awarded the day I had accepted employment at Pratt.
We left our home on a Friday and walked to a hotel near our home in Provo. Our car was already in the moving van on its way to Florida. Our truck had been rushed up to a shipping service in Salt Lake.
My brother, Richard and his wife drove us to the airport Saturday morning, in two separate vehicles. Richard had been always helpful as we prepared to move. Our families had been close since we had first lived in the same home as newlyweds.
On the way to the airport, we stopped by the ATM for cash for the trip. I can’t remember what in the conversation triggered it, but Richard asked if we had enough money for the trip and the house. I admitted that it appeared that we were a bit short. Richard asked, “How much is needed?” I told him that $2000 was needed. Without any other discussion, Richard wrote a check for $2000.
We enjoyed our week in a hotel in Florida. Because of the size of the family, the company allowed us to use two rental cars. Julie and the kids explored the beach and the hotel pool. I explored work.
A final monetary challenge had to be faced. The move had been made on my credit card. The company was to reimburse me once all expenses had come in. But the move was costing me on the order of $7000 and I needed that money to close on the house. We needed an “advance” on that money. Making this more difficult was the fact that my boss was in East Hartford dealing with an emergency the first week I was at work. Somehow, with the help of our group aide, and the blessings of the Lord, I acquired the signatures of the component center director and a vice president on the advance.
When we went to arrange the loan, prior to the closing, enough money had flowed into our account so fast, including the advance and the check from my brother, that the mortgage company was required by Florida law to check to determine if it was drug money. When every dollar I had earned was counted, every dollar that had been advanced and given added, the costs of the home closing were covered, with little if any to spare. Without the gift from my brother, it would not have been enough.
We signed on Halloween evening, just as the office was closing, with all our children with us. The only candy they enjoyed was that available in the office. There was no trick or treating in the hotel, only packing and preparation for the move into our new home.
Our goods and us arrived at the cedar-sided home the next day. No storage had been required. We had received our van a day or two before in the parking lot at the hotel. But our boxes went from our home in Provo to the moving truck to our new home in Florida.
Along with our boxes came the Elders Quorum President, Willie Queen. He brought a young man, Joe Twelves, from the neighborhood to help. My wife, with his direction, went to a MacDonalds that was selling hamburgers at a ridiculous price and brought home 20. We ate, we unpacked, and we spent the first night in a messy, but an already special and loved home.
As I write down these events, I am struck again by how impossible it was. Improbable event coupled with unlikely occurrence, smoothly, just in time, and only to the amount needed. A job was offered, work was provided to pay for the home needed. A house was identified, a ridiculously low bid accepted. An advance was granted where never an advance had been granted before. My brother was inspired to offer a required gift. Preparing a home in Utah, avoiding a flood in Florida. Movers arriving just in time. Verification of accounts and signings going off without any hitches, despite the unusual circumstances. The hand of the Lord had clearly been involved. Why had the Lord participated so strongly?
I know in large part, that it is due to our faithful payment of tithing. The Lord has promised that he would provide, not in excess, but just enough. And he did.
I discovered additional reasons a few days later. The Twelves were a strong member family who lived across the street and two houses down. When Julie met Kelly Twelves, they discovered that Kelly had grown up in Tucson, like Julie had, and that Kelly had been a school mate to Julie’s younger sister Cheryl. For this first, very important move outside of Utah, the Lord had provided my wonderful, faithful, and enduring wife, Julie, and immediate and soon to be dear friend.
I realized later, much later, that we were also a blessing to the Twelves. Brother Van Twelves, though faithful in the church, suffered, and suffers still, from a debilitating illness that robs him of energy, and does not permit him to spend many hours awake outside of work. His boys needed a priesthood leader to connect with. I had the opportunity to play basketball with Joe, the oldest boy, and to work with him through the scouting program and help him earn his Eagle Scout award. He went on a mission, as has his younger brothers, and has been married in the temple.
The bishop of the ward also claimed responsibility for praying us in. They had held a special fast for additional members to come to the ward, and in that year, at least five strong families moved in, one who later became the bishop, another, the stake president.
I am certain that I have not conveyed impact of the truly miraculous aspects of this story. Julie felt great despair when the home she had been directed to wasn’t possible. Despair turned to joy and gratitude when our offer was accepted. Of the wonder, and the humility felt when the money was made available in just the right amount necessary at just the right time. How unexpected when Richard offered a gift, how beautiful! Managing to have papers work there way through layers of bureaucracy in syncopation. This was no simple miracle, but a complex, tightly interwoven, choreographed logistical achievement.
There are many more stories to tell of this move of our family. I am impressed to include two here. The first has to do with a hundred year storm that dumped over a foot of rain on the West Palm Beach and Martin County area. Homes were flooded and streets became lakes.
This happened after we had made the deposit but before we had closed on the home. We could do nothing. We called the realtor. She checked and we were reassured that the home had remained dry. We found out that it had done better than just remain dry. We learned that the previous owner had placed the septic tank at least one clay layer deeper than normal because of previous troubles with the septic. During this hundred year flood, the neighbors would come to our soon-to-be-home and use the toilets because they did not back up. Even a colony of fire ants came in and used the sill between the kitchen and the family room as a shelter from the flood. The waters came up to within 20 feet of the front door, but the home was protected.
The other story has to do with our truck, Rose. We had purchased it in Provo for not much over $1000. It was rusted and beat up. I was willing to leave it in Provo. Our moving allowance included two vehicles. I tried to persuade the relocation company that in light of the floods in Florida, the recently purchased canoe was more needed as a vehicle than a truck. They smiled, at least over the phone, but denied paying for the move of the canoe.
So, with a little bit of spite and frustration and with a smile myself over the ridiculousness of it, I drove the old, rusted, F250 up to the transport company’s lot in West Salt Lake. Transporting the truck, on some car carrier, probably carrying someone else’s Lexus, Mercedes, or even Hondas, cost the relocation company over $2000.
I must point out that the Lord and the moving company were much more intelligent than me. Since we had put all our money in the house and had none to spare, we had no money left over to buy another vehicle for quite some time. Rose, that rusted, dilapidated truck, was a much needed, and much beloved second vehicle, getting me to work, when I couldn’t carpool with Van Twelves, and getting me and the boys to church when Julie needed the minivan.
Moroni Shows the Way
Our eldest son’s engagement and subsequent marriage had come quickly and as a surprise. But then, as parents nearly 4000 miles away, Jacob’s life and loves were more mysterious than when he lived at home.
The family of his bride-to-be lived in North Carolina. We lived in Connecticut. As a compromise, and to connect with friends and family they had associated with before moving to North Carolina, the marriage and a reception was to be held in the Washington, DC, and Maryland area.
The wedding week was tightly scheduled. Jacob and Suzie were, and are, BYU students and wanted to squeeze the wedding and receptions into the week between the winter and the spring semester. We planned the reception in Connecticut as a pre-wedding get together with our family and friends, from which we would travel to the DC area for the temple ceremony and a reception focused on the bride’s family there.
The festivities in Connecticut went well that Tuesday night. We cleaned up and sent Jacob and Suzie with Julie and the younger girls, N’Krysta and O’Kara, the following morning in the green van. Suzie was scheduled to have her endowments in the Washington, DC, temple on Thursday, and the sealing was scheduled for noon on Friday.
To have Jefferson participate in the wedding, he needed a special pass from West Point. The pass was only good for Thursday until Sunday. Me and the older children, McKenna and Adams went to pick him up in our white Dodge Intrepid.
Things just went right on the way down to DC. We connected with Jefferson at West Point even though the cell phones failed. We sailed through the New Jersey traffic jams, and the Pennsylvania construction zones and accidents. Only one wrong turn, quickly corrected, marred the smooth flow of the trip. The most challenging part was to make it to the hotel in time for much needed relief from traveling so long without stops. We made it on the first try, with no searching. I should mention that we had been given a special Church of Jesus Christ of Lat (yes, the title ended like that) special rate that I had discovered quite by accident.
Connection after connection was made. We found N’Krysta and O’Kara who were staying with Suzie’s cousin while the endowment was taking place. We easily found the Denny’s where the post-endowment meal was going on. We found the chapel in the farmlands of Maryland where the reception was to be held and helped prepare the cultural hall. We even managed to persuade the pizza place that, yes, they could deliver to our car sitting right outside their door, even though they were closed except for deliveries.
There was such a feeling of being guided that I was at peace when we headed to the temple for the sealing the following day. The only problem was that none of us in the car and the van following behind knew how to get to the temple. Jacob and Suzie had gone with Suzie’s family earlier to give the bride time to prepare. I had done some map searching on the web, but the instructions for the final legs of the trip to the temple were unclear and confusing.
We had turned off the freeway on what I believed to be the correct exit when we received a call from Jacob. Jefferson was manning the phone. Jacob wanted to know if I would serve as his escort, which, of course, I would be honored to do. He also wanted to know where we were and when we would get to the temple. We had to confess that we were not certain of our exact location nor the exact route to the temple. Jacob, wanting to help, proceeded to give us his understanding of how to get to the temple from where he thought we were. Listening to Jefferson’s interpretations of Jacob’s directions was complete confusion. I was certain that if I tried to follow those directions I would end up somewhere but not necessarily at the temple.
However, the Lord wanted us to get to the temple on time. As we swung left onto Connecticut Avenue from the freeway off ramp, listening to the mishmash of directions from Jacob through Jefferson, and entered the traffic preparatory to a stop light, we were passed on the right by a white car driven by an older fellow. Both McKenna and I noticed the license plate at nearly the same time. It said “Moroni”. McKenna and I smiled at each other and I said to Jefferson, “Tell Jacob to hang up. We will get there. No problem.”
We followed the car with the Moroni license plate. It led us into a park, through open gates, though that park, across another avenue, through a continuation of the park, and then turned onto the street with the temple. The car led us past the entrance to the visitor’s center directly to the temple parking lot and awning where Jacob was waiting. We arrived in plenty of time.
When Jacob asked how we found our way there so readily, all we could say was, “We followed Moroni!”
It seems that all these stories have extra strands that continue beyond the dramatic climax. For this story, the uncanny blessing of being led to be in the right place at the right time continued until we returned home to Connecticut. Right after we had taken pictures on the south side of the temple, we agreed to meet with my mother, Julie’s parents, her sister Cheryl and her husband Matt, their two younger children, and my brother Robert and his wife Tess, at the Macaroni Grill somewhere in DC. Cell phones were consulted, I referred to my maps, and somehow, all three different vehicles, going three different ways, arrived at the restaurant at the same time. A wonderful, memorable meal enjoyed, somehow, all of us, in three different vehicles made it to the reception at the chapel in the farmlands in time, where Jacob and Suzie sang, Jefferson served as the DJ, and everyone had a great time.
The following morning, the wedding party broke up, but the Lord continued to guide and direct. Jacob did not have money to rent a car, so I loaned him ours. That meant that we had to fit our family, that is Julie and I and our five youngest children, along with my mother, in our 7 passenger, green Plymouth Grand Caravan with nearly 200,000 miles on it, with all our luggage. There were not enough seats and luggage space, but it all fit. I carefully drove the overloaded van to the restaurant where we shared breakfast with the Timmons and the Fowlers. Afterwards, my mother and O’Kara wanted to visit Washington before mom had to catch her plane and we traveled home.
I drove carefully around Washington, relying on knowledge gained when driving through the town for a family vacation two years previously. Mom snapped pictures of the various sites and monuments as we drove slowly by. O’Kara wanted to visit a museum and chose to visit the National Air Space Museum. Somehow, incredibly, a parking spot right across from the museum was open. We parked, climbed up the stairs and thought to call the Fowlers. We discovered that they were just a few hundred yards away coming to visit the same museum. We met with them, explored the museum, lost and found a daughter, and left to get my Mom to the Baltimore airport. We had to buy some of the to incredibly cheap t-shirts sold there. We then realized that we were running out of time. Relying on memory and a miniature map in the US book of maps, we headed out of Washington. Suspense was heightened as ran into Saturday traffic jams and clogged highways. But the Lord continued to watch us – the parkway I had chosen almost by chance was a short cut that took us straight to Baltimore International in perfect time for my mother’s flight. And somehow the van survived the overloading.
It is very comforting to be lead by the Lord, whether by direct inspiration or by someone in a car with “Moroni” license plates.
The family of his bride-to-be lived in North Carolina. We lived in Connecticut. As a compromise, and to connect with friends and family they had associated with before moving to North Carolina, the marriage and a reception was to be held in the Washington, DC, and Maryland area.
The wedding week was tightly scheduled. Jacob and Suzie were, and are, BYU students and wanted to squeeze the wedding and receptions into the week between the winter and the spring semester. We planned the reception in Connecticut as a pre-wedding get together with our family and friends, from which we would travel to the DC area for the temple ceremony and a reception focused on the bride’s family there.
The festivities in Connecticut went well that Tuesday night. We cleaned up and sent Jacob and Suzie with Julie and the younger girls, N’Krysta and O’Kara, the following morning in the green van. Suzie was scheduled to have her endowments in the Washington, DC, temple on Thursday, and the sealing was scheduled for noon on Friday.
To have Jefferson participate in the wedding, he needed a special pass from West Point. The pass was only good for Thursday until Sunday. Me and the older children, McKenna and Adams went to pick him up in our white Dodge Intrepid.
Things just went right on the way down to DC. We connected with Jefferson at West Point even though the cell phones failed. We sailed through the New Jersey traffic jams, and the Pennsylvania construction zones and accidents. Only one wrong turn, quickly corrected, marred the smooth flow of the trip. The most challenging part was to make it to the hotel in time for much needed relief from traveling so long without stops. We made it on the first try, with no searching. I should mention that we had been given a special Church of Jesus Christ of Lat (yes, the title ended like that) special rate that I had discovered quite by accident.
Connection after connection was made. We found N’Krysta and O’Kara who were staying with Suzie’s cousin while the endowment was taking place. We easily found the Denny’s where the post-endowment meal was going on. We found the chapel in the farmlands of Maryland where the reception was to be held and helped prepare the cultural hall. We even managed to persuade the pizza place that, yes, they could deliver to our car sitting right outside their door, even though they were closed except for deliveries.
There was such a feeling of being guided that I was at peace when we headed to the temple for the sealing the following day. The only problem was that none of us in the car and the van following behind knew how to get to the temple. Jacob and Suzie had gone with Suzie’s family earlier to give the bride time to prepare. I had done some map searching on the web, but the instructions for the final legs of the trip to the temple were unclear and confusing.
We had turned off the freeway on what I believed to be the correct exit when we received a call from Jacob. Jefferson was manning the phone. Jacob wanted to know if I would serve as his escort, which, of course, I would be honored to do. He also wanted to know where we were and when we would get to the temple. We had to confess that we were not certain of our exact location nor the exact route to the temple. Jacob, wanting to help, proceeded to give us his understanding of how to get to the temple from where he thought we were. Listening to Jefferson’s interpretations of Jacob’s directions was complete confusion. I was certain that if I tried to follow those directions I would end up somewhere but not necessarily at the temple.
However, the Lord wanted us to get to the temple on time. As we swung left onto Connecticut Avenue from the freeway off ramp, listening to the mishmash of directions from Jacob through Jefferson, and entered the traffic preparatory to a stop light, we were passed on the right by a white car driven by an older fellow. Both McKenna and I noticed the license plate at nearly the same time. It said “Moroni”. McKenna and I smiled at each other and I said to Jefferson, “Tell Jacob to hang up. We will get there. No problem.”
We followed the car with the Moroni license plate. It led us into a park, through open gates, though that park, across another avenue, through a continuation of the park, and then turned onto the street with the temple. The car led us past the entrance to the visitor’s center directly to the temple parking lot and awning where Jacob was waiting. We arrived in plenty of time.
When Jacob asked how we found our way there so readily, all we could say was, “We followed Moroni!”
It seems that all these stories have extra strands that continue beyond the dramatic climax. For this story, the uncanny blessing of being led to be in the right place at the right time continued until we returned home to Connecticut. Right after we had taken pictures on the south side of the temple, we agreed to meet with my mother, Julie’s parents, her sister Cheryl and her husband Matt, their two younger children, and my brother Robert and his wife Tess, at the Macaroni Grill somewhere in DC. Cell phones were consulted, I referred to my maps, and somehow, all three different vehicles, going three different ways, arrived at the restaurant at the same time. A wonderful, memorable meal enjoyed, somehow, all of us, in three different vehicles made it to the reception at the chapel in the farmlands in time, where Jacob and Suzie sang, Jefferson served as the DJ, and everyone had a great time.
The following morning, the wedding party broke up, but the Lord continued to guide and direct. Jacob did not have money to rent a car, so I loaned him ours. That meant that we had to fit our family, that is Julie and I and our five youngest children, along with my mother, in our 7 passenger, green Plymouth Grand Caravan with nearly 200,000 miles on it, with all our luggage. There were not enough seats and luggage space, but it all fit. I carefully drove the overloaded van to the restaurant where we shared breakfast with the Timmons and the Fowlers. Afterwards, my mother and O’Kara wanted to visit Washington before mom had to catch her plane and we traveled home.
I drove carefully around Washington, relying on knowledge gained when driving through the town for a family vacation two years previously. Mom snapped pictures of the various sites and monuments as we drove slowly by. O’Kara wanted to visit a museum and chose to visit the National Air Space Museum. Somehow, incredibly, a parking spot right across from the museum was open. We parked, climbed up the stairs and thought to call the Fowlers. We discovered that they were just a few hundred yards away coming to visit the same museum. We met with them, explored the museum, lost and found a daughter, and left to get my Mom to the Baltimore airport. We had to buy some of the to incredibly cheap t-shirts sold there. We then realized that we were running out of time. Relying on memory and a miniature map in the US book of maps, we headed out of Washington. Suspense was heightened as ran into Saturday traffic jams and clogged highways. But the Lord continued to watch us – the parkway I had chosen almost by chance was a short cut that took us straight to Baltimore International in perfect time for my mother’s flight. And somehow the van survived the overloading.
It is very comforting to be lead by the Lord, whether by direct inspiration or by someone in a car with “Moroni” license plates.
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