Reflections

I learned some of life’s greatest lessons while living in a tiny town nestled in the Cascade Mountains of Washington state.  What made my sojourn there the more poignant were the middle school and freshman year of high school I spent previously in a small town in northern Utah.  There were three classes of people in that Utah community:  those of Pioneer stock whose ancestors had settled the area; newcomers, but who were also members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints; and those who were not members.  My family fit into that middle category: members of the church, but not of local pioneer stock.  Additionally, my father worked as principal of the elementary school.  Being even handed in his treatment of all students regardless of their background, he ran afoul of a few of the longtime locals who thought it an affront that he dared discipline their children.  Unfortunately, this animosity was passed to their children and spilled over into my school, church, and community life.  I spent most of my time there avoiding the local bullies and keeping as low a profile as possible.  At school, I planned routes from classroom to classroom to avoid the hallways frequented by the longtime locals.  I remember very little of scout camps and church activities while living there other than spending most of my time steering clear of trouble.

It is not my purpose to dwell on these experiences, save one representative example.  It was a beautiful late summer day, perfect weather for just about any outdoor activity, and I was excited when the track coach assembled the all the boys of the freshman class on the track for PE.  I loved to run.  There was no need for cooperation, team interaction, and very little in terms of strategy.  On your mark, get set, go, and run my heart out.  The track coach explained that we were to run one lap around the track, as fast as we could go.  Naïve freshman that I was, I had no idea what the coach was up to, but I was definitely up for a run.  When we were done, he invited four or five of those who finished in front of the pack to join the track team.  Wow, I got it.  Even though I started out at the back of the crowd I had smoked the entire class by at least 20 yards and was surprised as he walked past me to extend these invitations to others of the class.  I stepped up to him and asked if I could join the track team as well.  His response was “over my dead body.”

My dad was a nomad.  Every few years, he would pick up the family and move us to another state, another school.  I remember storming from the house on one of the many occasions when he gathered us for a family council to inform the family of another move.  I could not understand why he called this a council.  My opinions were neither solicited, nor thought I at the time, welcome.  Making friends was hard, and when I had just started to gather a small collection of confidants, we would move.  I can empathize with those who refer to themselves as “military brats.”  Unlike previous moves, during my years in this Utah town, I prayed that my dad would decide to move again.  Hopefully, I did not confuse the Lord too much, as at previous times, I prayed that we would stay.  These were not dramatic prayers, nor did I ever voice such desires in a family prayer.  Just prayers in silence and in private that the Lord would either help me thrive in this situation, or prompt my dad to move again.  Yes, it would be another upheaval, but I had few friends in this community anyway.  I prayed that we would move someplace where we would be more accepted.  I did not know where that could be, but in my youthful mind I envisioned how beautiful it would be to live in the Pacific Northwest. 

I told no one of this desire, especially my family, but to my delight, my dad announced that we were moving to a small community in the state of Washington.  I do not remember the details, whether he called a family council or just brought it up in conversation.  I do remember my delight and the warm feeling that ensued, knowing that my Heavenly Father hears even the prayers of an inconsequential teenager.  I was all smiles at this announcement, to the bewilderment of my parents I am sure.  The move was like any other we had done.  We could not afford to hire movers and did all of the boxing and packing ourselves.  Moving every few years, we did not collect a lot of “stuff.” My mother was of the opinion that if it was not seasonal, and we had not used it in the last three months, out it went; that was better than packing it again and again to take up more space in the truck.  Moving into a new apartment just before my own marriage, everything I owned fit into the trunk of my car except for the one box I had to put on the back seat.  I still have not lost this spartan attitude towards “stuff” accumulating in the garage and house.

I spent my sophomore and junior year in high school in the tiny community of Trout Lake, WA nestled in the foothills of Mt. Adams, a volcanic cone not far from the more famous Mt. St. Helens.  The scenery in this beautiful place emanated from the brush of God Himself.  One summer a new friend and I decided to swim in a different lake every day, Sunday’s excluded, of course.  We would meet after work, consult the forest service maps, and choose a lake.  This was before GPS navigation, and we spent a lot of time backtracking on logging roads, consulting topo maps and gazing warily at the compass.  It was rare that we could not find a lake, although there were a few swims we took in the lake we found, not necessarily the one we were looking for.  At times, the chase trying to locate a lake was as much fun as the plunge itself.  We achieved our goal of a different lake every day; though for some of the higher alpine lakes, we didn’t dawdle among the chunks of ice in the water for very long.  I lost track of that friend, he graduated high school, and we moved again before we had a chance to develop a long-lasting friendship.

My first experience in Trout Lake was bucking hay for a local farmer and his son who would be in my grade at high school.  I was a tall, thin scrappy kid and soon became adept at tossing bales of hay high up on the wagon or in the barn.  More importantly, these new acquaintances were sincere in their conversation and genuinely interested in learning about this young chap from Utah.  During the school year, I worked with a local farmer on his “ranch.”  Many hundreds of chickens in a large, multistory coop.  I collected eggs every day and spent far too many hours in the spring shoveling chicken manure into a wheelbarrow and hauling it to his spreader.  He was a crotchety old fellow, but we respected each other, and I learned a lot about work ethic under his tutelage.

There were only 48 of us in the high school.  No one was cut from the athletic teams and extra-curricular activities were available to all.  We did not play football, there were not enough male students in the school to even field a team.  Up to this point in my life, I had never played basketball and, klutz that I am, found it hard to even dribble down the court.  Height was a big advantage here.  Though I was a terrible shot from outside, and it was an accomplishment when I hit the rim, I did make a lot of layups.  Most were better players than I, but we were a team, we were friends, and I had never experienced that before.  Looking back on those sports memories, I am amazed at the patience of my coach and fellow players.  I did excel at track.  I think it was all that survival speed I developed at my previous school.  I ran all of the short and middle distances, from 100 to 880 yards, as well as the long jump, high jump, and hurdles.  I was part of a team, and from a tiny high school, we were proud to compete with and excel against much larger schools.  The last spring that I was there, I was invited to compete in the state high school competitions running the 440 yd dash.  It was the first time anyone from my school had qualified for state.  I made it to the finals and placed well, beating my personal best times.  How different my relationship with this track coach as compared to my previous experience in Utah.  I learned later from the coach’s wife that he was discouraged with his coaching experience and taking me to the state competitions was a highlight of his career.  How could this possibly be? The vistas of my personal experience and perception expanded during those years.

We traveled several times a week down the mountain to church in the community of White Salmon.  We were the only members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in our town, and members of our tiny branch were drawn from all over southern and central Washington.  Travel times were close to an hour for many members to attend church, and we were not much less than that.  This was the time even before the three-hour block, and we would travel to church for priesthood meeting, the women in the family would drive down later for Sunday school, and we would all return that evening for Sacrament meeting.  The Sabbath Day was an all-day event at church.  Relief Society for the women, Primary for the children, and the youth organizations all held their meetings on week nights, so it was a rare evening that we did not have a car headed down the mountain for a church gathering.  The branch was small, with a tiny group of youth.  I was delighted at the birthday of one of the young men in our branch, for now there were two of us in my quorum or age group.  We did not do many activities, and the ones we did were simple: climbing Beacon Rock, attending regional youth dances, pot luck dinners with the most marvelous slices of wild huckleberry pie baked by the branch president’s wife.  One of my favorite activities to this day is a simple pot luck dinner.  Minimal preparation and planning, lots of time to socialize and share.  The most memorable activities for me were the youth dances held across the river and upstream to the city of The Dalles in Oregon.  There were nearly 100 youth in attendance at these dances, and I was thrilled to participate with so many fellow saints.  My love of dancing (love, not skill, remember the klutz part earlier) emanates from that experience.

The town boasted two churches, Presbyterian and Baptist.  I was worried about the backlash of being from the only “Mormon” family in the community, but I felt welcomed and accepted.  I attended these Protestant churches a time or two for their worship services.  I felt there a genuine love or our Savior and realized that as Latter-Day Saints, we do not corner the market on worship and appreciation of our Lord and Savior.  There was genuine goodness and heartfelt spirit in those worship services.  I participated in their youth meetings as well, where the spirit was not unlike our own youth activity nights.  The goal was to have some fun while inviting and feeling the spirit of our Savior.  I got to know the pastors from both churches: good Christian men who treated me with respect, regardless of any impressions or feelings they may have had towards my religion.  I do not know what the parents thought in this community, but I detected no hesitance or malice from my classmates.  Each year I was there, I attended the bachelorette service, held alternately in each house of worship.  A bachelorette service, or a bachelorette mass in the case of members of the Catholic church, is a religious service held to honor high school seniors.  I have not heard of such services lately, and I am hoping this wonderful tradition is not lost because I felt the spirit there, even as I did in my own meeting house.  In all the places I lived during my young life, there was no better place I could have envisioned to be teen.

A  great honor I experienced there was to be invited into the home of a fellow classmate.  He was a small, thin African American, although we had not even heard of that term at the time.  His home was the definition of humility.  An old, wood structure, but capable of keeping out the elements.  Both cooking and heating for the house was provided by an old wood burning stove that was currently full of used bailing twine gleaned from a local farmer.  Not the best of fuels, but it filled the house with a rustic smell.  I could tell he was apologetic and somewhat ashamed of his circumstance, but I was thrilled that he felt comfortable enough to invite me to a home that was so obviously filled with Christian spirit and devotion.  I grew to love these people.  I learned by their example that our church is not the font of all life’s lessons.  From these new friends, I learned Christian charity and forbearance.  I learned that the spirit of our Lord dwells with all those who try to serve him.  I blossomed in my own faith and understanding of God’s plan for us. 

In Trout Lake, I also learned a lesson on taking the initiative.  As I studied the life of Joseph Smith, I understood he never received a revelation unless he first asked a question.  The Lord blesses those who take the first step.  He went to the Grove to ask the Lord which church he should Join.  The answer he received shocked and changed the world.  While supplicating the Lord in repentance, and asking of his state before the Lord, he received angelic visitations and knowledge of a record he would soon be called to translate.  While translating the Book of Mormon, the questions he took to the Lord revolutionized our understanding of Baptism and resulted in the restoration of the Priesthood: God’s authority on earth after almost 2000 years.  Most sections of the Doctrine and Covenants were prefaced as an answer to a question by the prophet, or those who served beside him.  I contrasted this with my own prayers to live in the Northwest.

I decided to put this precept of asking first to the test. Living in Washington, I never had the opportunity to travel to a temple to do proxy baptisms.  At that time, the closest temples were in Canada or Utah.  I prayed for a number of weeks on what I could do to draw closer to the temple, when there was no temple close to me.  The answer came as a peaceful thought and a call to action. 

At that time, buildings were financed in large part through donations of money and labor.  Tithing money only partly financed our buildings.  I remember as a young primary lad being hoisted up to dump buckets of concrete into the holes of a cinder-block wall that would soon be the front of a new chapel, to strengthen and reinforce the structure.  I was the only one small enough on site to fit on that wall and dump the buckets.  How grateful and proud I felt to be a part of that construction project, working alongside men contributing their time and talents to building a new house of worship.  As a young lad I also helped plant an orange orchard in California that was to provide for the church welfare system.

Contemplating and praying about how to draw closer to the temple, the thought came to me to actively work toward a temple in Seattle, a temple close enough for the youth in our small branch to visit.  Temple funds for the construction of individual temples were common at the time, and I felt prompted to contribute to the Seattle Temple Fund.  That next Sunday, a member of the branch presidency stopped me to ask about a line on my donation slip.  “What is this Seattle temple fund?” he asked.  There was no such thing and he was wondering what to do with that donation item.  I informed him that if there wasn’t a Seattle temple fund before, there was one now and that I would be contributing to this fund every paycheck.  After every check from bucking hay or shoveling chicken manure, I would fill out my donation slip and add to my hand-written category of the Seattle Temple Fund.  During my mission, I even allocated some of my funds for living expenses to the Seattle Temple, mailing a check to my home ward.  Years later, just after I completed my mission, the Seattle temple was announced.  I am sure the temple would have been announced regardless of my desires and contributions, but I like to hope that the Lord at least nodded in the direction of the prayer, petition and subsequent action of that 15-year-old boy.

I reflect often on the contrasting chapters of my life in these two communities.  I learned in later years that while in Utah, the track coach and my dad did not exactly see eye to eye on issues of discipline.  Rather than confront my dad, he decided to take out his animosity on his children.  In the culture of the time, it was not appropriate to question authority, and I felt it would have been improper to tell my parents about the track experience and other run-ins with authority figures at church and school.  I know for certain that in that small LDS town, there were many people, good faithful people, who respected my family.  It takes such a small minority to drowned out the good experiences no matter where we live.  I thank the Lord for these disparate encounters.  It was life in a small Washington town that gave me perspective, taught me forgiveness and exemplified true tolerance and love.  My love of the Bible emanates from these good people.  To follow Christ, the bible was all they had.  Reading the Gospels while living there, I was overcome with a powerful witness that the men and women described truly lived alongside our Savior.  Jesus the Christ walked among them, preached His salvation and sacrificed Himself for our exaltation.  To this day, I look back on that powerful witness when doubts creep in.

I am grateful for this chaotic world, where testimony and example can shine forth from the most unlikely places.  I am endlessly indebted to a loving God who makes all effort to teach and chasten me.  No matter where my father would have moved his family, I would have experienced life changing and faith building events.  The Lord in His infinite love and wisdom can turn any place, any situation in which we find ourselves, for our good.  In my case, I am thankful for those youthful experiences in a tiny Washington town.