Glad Tidings

Copyright Darrell J. Wyatt

It never ceases to amaze me that each time I read the Book of Mormon, I can come away with a completely different thought than I did the last time.

I've mentioned before how much I love these few chapters in the Book of Mormon (Alma 36-42) because of the great example that Alma sets for me as a parent.  He talks to each of his sons in a very personalized manner - holding back neither candor nor unconditional love.  He praises Helaman and Shiblon for their straightness in following the commandments and he chastises Corianton for his rebelliousness.  He talks to them individually and pointedly, but lovingly.  Usually, this is the focus of my thoughts when I'm reading these chapters, but this time my mind took me in a different direction.

I have been, on occasion, questioned about the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon by close friends and even family members.  They quote verses from the Bible that they interpret to mean that there can be no other scripture apart from that great Book, which invalidates any Word beyond the New and Old Testaments.  I have always maintained that it is impossible that Christ would only speak to a portion of the people on the earth, that there were "other sheep" who were surely awaiting his birth and that it only makes sense that they would have kept a record of such.  Reading Alma 39:15-19 this morning reinforced this thinking.  Corianton must have been questioning the need to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ and his impending coming, thinking it to be in vain.  His wise father said:


 15 And now, my son, I would say somewhat unto you concerning the coming of Christ. Behold, I say unto you, that it is he that surely shall come to take away the sins of the world; yea, he cometh to declare glad tidings of salvation unto his people.

 16 And now, my son, this was the ministry unto which ye were called, to declare these glad tidings unto this people, to prepare their minds; or rather that salvation might come unto them, that they may prepare the minds of their children to hear the word at the time of his coming.

 17 And now I will ease your mind somewhat on this subject. Behold, you marvel why these things should be known so long beforehand. Behold, I say unto you, is not a soul at this time as precious unto God as a soul will be at the time of his coming?

 18 Is it not as necessary that the plan of redemption should be made known unto this people as well as unto their children?

 19 Is it not as easy at this time for the Lord to send his angel to declare these glad tidings unto us as unto our children, or as after the time of his coming?

All souls are precious to the Lord.  Why would He ignore an entire continent?  He would not.  He could not.    I also thought, as I was reading, that these verses really are applicable to today.  Missionary work is so important!  Heavenly Father needs all of his children to know that Christ is coming, that they may prepare for that great day.  The work is going forth as never before.  The time is near.

I love scriptures like this which seem to serve the purpose of buoying me up and building my testimony.

Time Out for Tears

Copyright Darrell J. Wyatt - All Rights Reserved

I pulled into the parking stall at the grocery store, put the car in park and leaned my head against the headrest.  Without warning, my eyes welled with tears.  The people walking from their cars to the store and from the store to their cars became a blur.  I was so tired.  I had stopped to grab a few groceries after dropping my son at football practice and my daughter at volleyball, and before running another daughter to soccer and then starting the pick-up round.  I decided to sit until I got my emotions under control, and I sent a text to my husband.  "I just need a day of nothing," I said.  "Sunday can't get here soon enough."  He replied that he was sorry and asked what was wrong.  Through tears, I typed that it was just the normal running around and that I was just probably exhausted.  I knew that I was being silly and that it was just the four hours of sleep I got the night before that was taking its toll, but I couldn't seem to stop the waterworks.

"Heavenly Father," I silently prayed, "I don't think I can do this anymore.  I'm trying so hard, but I am SO tired.  I want to keep up our morning scripture study, but I really don't know if I can."  I opened my eyes and  was almost ready to venture in to grab a few things, but I still needed a moment to compose myself.  By habit, and for the hundredth time that day, I checked my email.  Normal junk - coupons, ads, newsletters - greeted me, but there was one from an unfamiliar sender.  I opened the file and began to read, and whatever composure I had regained disappeared in an instant.  The email was in response to a contest I had entered more than a month before.  I had sent in a blog post detailing our early-morning scripture reading adventure, and I had won!  My prize was two front row seats at an upcoming inspirational women's conference and lunch with the conference presenters.  A two-day break from my hectic life to be uplifted and inspired.

I realized that, had I given up on our morning routine, I would not have this amazing opportunity.  Even more than that, though, I realized that my Heavenly Father knows ME.  He knew what I needed at that exact moment.  He heard my cry.  He knows my name.  What a profound and instant realization.  What an incredible blessing.

Of Waffles and Willpower

I am not a morning person.  I know that.  My kids know that.  My husband knows that.  My neighbors even know it.  Maybe it's not even that I'm not a morning person - it's just that I'm so much a night person.  I need some time to decompress after the day.  I love the stillness of the house after everyone has gone to bed.  It finally feels like I can turn my brain off and just....be.  Sure, I have quiet during the day while the kids are at school, but I'm supposed to be doing stuff.  Even if I'm not doing anything, I know in my mind that I should be, so I have this constant battle going on in my head.  At night, though, when all is quiet and my family has drifted off, I feel like I can allow myself a few hours of nothingness.  After all, I can't really vacuum or do dishes or get the grocery shopping done late at night.  It can all wait until tomorrow.  And so I just sit.  I might play a word game.  I might catch up on an episode or two of my favorite show.  Or, I might just sit and do nothing.  To me, those few hours of silence are magical.

This habit of mine, however, has made it nearly impossible for me to wake up at any sort of respectable hour in the mornings.  Especially during the summer, there were many times that the kids would wake up before I did.  I told myself that it was fine.  It was summer after all!  But deep down, I knew I could do better - that I could be so much more productive if I could just drag myself out of bed.  Every other week or so, I would promise my husband that I'd do better.  That I would be better.  I would tell him that I just needed his help to get me out of bed.  That he wasn't really being kind by letting me sleep (as if it were all his fault), and that he needed to wake me up as he left for work.  And so he would.  And I would grumpily beg for a few more minutes.  I had a hard night.  The kids woke up.  The wind kept me awake.  I just needed a little more sleep and then I would get up.  I promised.  Of course, those few minutes turned into an hour or more, and my husband would stop trying to "help" me out of my snuggly cocoon.

So, when I decided to sit my family down on the eve of the first day of school to make a ginormous (that means REALLY big) promise, I wasn't sure what to expect.  Would they laugh me out of the room?  Would they roll their eyes in disbelief that their sleepy mom could pull off such a feat?  I was a little anxious about the whole thing.  Turns out, my kids have more faith in me than I have faith in myself.  I told them that I had a deal to make with them.  I promised that I would make breakfast - a hot, homemade breakfast - every morning for them.  Immediately, I was greeted - not with laughter, not with eye-rolling disbelief - but with little cheers and smiles.  Mission accomplished - almost.  I hadn't yet told them what their part of the bargain would be.  "All I want in return", I said, "is for you guys to read scriptures with me before school."  I cringed.  Would the excitement from moments before fade into mumbles and grumbles and murmuring?  To my pleasant surprise, all five of the school-age kids readily agreed.  I was ecstatic!

As the kids left our little family council and scattered to finish last-minute preparations for the next day, I glanced over at my husband.  He had a look on his face that said to me, "oh honey, here we go again."  I knew what he was thinking.  It had been a few weeks since my last attempt at perfection, and I was due for a little self-improvement sprint.  I gave him a hug and thanked him for not laughing at me in front of the kids.  He hugged me back and said in his most convincing voice, "Well, it should be interesting."

And so it began.  I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m., and when it rang, I rolled out of bed...even though I had only climbed into it a few short hours before.  I heated up the waffle-maker, mixed the batter and started waking the kids.  They got up and got dressed with very little nagging (which probably had more to do with the excitement of starting a new school year than the smell of my sub-par waffles) and we were sitting together on the sofa, scriptures open, by 6:15.  We took turns reading a few verses at a time until we finished the first chapter of 1 Nephi.  We had done it!

Not a grumpy face in sight!

We have had five scripture-reading mornings since that first day, and every one has been better than the last.  The kids wake up, curious to know what I'm fixing.  We've had french toast and breakfast burritos and sausage and eggs and hashbrowns.  We've had scrambled egg sandwiches and waffles.  I find myself scouring the internet for new and fun breakfast ideas.  Not once have the kids grumbled about having to be up earlier than usual.  In fact, during our post-reading prayer, each child has thanked Heavenly Father for the opportunity to read scriptures before school.  They thank me for making them breakfast, but it is them I am grateful for.  I am thankful that I have the kind of kids who will humor the wishes of a far from perfect mom. I am grateful for God's tender mercies, for I know that it is with His help that I am able to make this change.  I don't know how long this will last.  I try not to look too far ahead, because then feelings of doubt start to creep in to my thoughts.  Consistency and perseverance are not the strongest of my qualities.  But I do know one thing.  Tomorrow's breakfast is going to be marvelous.

I Have a Wonderful Calling!

Tonight is our annual Primary Worker Appreciation Dinner, where we get to say thanks to all of our leaders for making Primary such a WONDERFUL place to be.  These are the cute favors!

Hold On, Lean, JUMP!!

There are some moments in life that one doesn't forget - moments that have a hand in shaping ideas and principles and maybe even entire lives.  I think Sacrament Meeting today might have been one of those times.

I knew it would be a great one - Elder Paul V. Johnson of the Seventy was speaking, visiting because his nephew had just returned home from his mission to Albania.  I had been looking forward to hearing him all week. It's not often that we get the blessing of hearing from a General Authority in our own church building.  Though his talk was truly inspired and amazing, it was actually a different talk that hit me the hardest. 

Brother Davis, the High Councilman assigned to our ward this month, spoke first. I hadn't ever seen Brother Davis before today. He is an older man, with a warm, grandfatherly way about him.  I liked him the instant he started to speak.  I will probably not do his talk justice and may get a few of the details wrong, but I hope to effectively convey the spirit of his message.

He spoke of a high countertop in his home.  'It is my duty as a grandfather,' he said, 'to get my grandchildren to jump from that counter into my arms.'  I knew I liked him!  I remember my own dad and grandfather doing the same thing.  'One, two, three!' And I would jump from whatever perch they had placed me on, right into their waiting arms.  Brother Davis relayed to the congregation the familiar steps that lead up to such an act of trust.  First, his grandchildren would hang onto his neck tightly, little feet firmly on the countertop, afraid that they may fall if he moved away.  After some coaxing, he would move just a step away from the countertop.  Still, the little one would not let go.  Instead, still holding on, but now leaning forward, the child would take a little jump away from the counter and onto grandpa.  With encouragement and reassurance from other family members in the room, the grandchild would let go of his grandfather, allowing him to step back out of reach and standing on his own.  'One, two, three!', everyone would yell.  Finally, in one giant leap, a bond of trust was forged.  That child just knew that grandpa would always be there to catch him.

Brother Davis compared this process to the building of our testimonies.  When we are young, we hold on to the testimonies of our parents and teachers.  We haven't yet learned and grown enough to have a testimony of our own.  As we mature in the gospel and gain life experience, we start to only lean - rather than hold on - to the testimonies around us, all the while being encouraged and reassured by those for whom a testimony has been firmly planted in their hearts.  Finally, there comes a time when we know that we can finally allow ourselves to take that giant leap of faith.  When we know that our relationship with God is strong enough.  When we can finally jump, knowing beyond any doubt that He will be there to catch us.

I found this analogy to be incredibly powerful and accurate.  Perhaps it is because of my calling as Primary President, and surely because of my calling as a mother, that I was so touched by Brother Davis' message.  I know that there are many children with whom I interact on a regular basis that are still in the 'holding on' phase of their lives, looking to me for support.  There are also many in the 'leaning' phase.  In my humble opinion, this stage is the most precarious of them all.  It is at this point that true trust is being built.  One wrong step can cause a child who is teetering on the edge of that proverbial countertop to lose their balance and, as a result, their trust. 

This thought weighs heavily on my mind.  I have been given the task of helping these little 'hangers on' and 'leaners' become jumpers.  In order to complete this important calling, I must be sure that I have built a sufficiently strong testimony.   I bear witness that I do know, with every part of my being, that He is there to catch me.  He has always been there, even when I didn't feel brave enough to jump.  He waited for me, and He will wait for you, too.

Judgment Day

Sometimes life's lessons come in very unexpected - and even unwelcome - ways. 

I am with three of the kids at an out-of-town soccer tournament for one of the girls.  As we arrived this morning, we did our usual routine of emptying the trunk and divvying up water bottles, chairs, balls and umbrella parts.  We were a little early, so we made our way to a shady spot and half-heartedly watched one of the games in progress.  It was an exciting game, but our attention was quickly drawn to one of the moms on the sideline.  I started wondering if I looked like she did when I'm cheering for my kids.  Whenever her child's team would near the goal, her arms would fly into the air and stay there until the goal was scored (or not).  She would lean back in her chair to the point of nearly falling, and let out a scream that would either express her joy at the point or her frustration at the miss.  It was obvious that she was pretty immersed in the action on the field.

Soon, my youngest discovered the snack stand, and our focus was taken from the game and the excited mom.  I had left my money in the car, so I made a deal with the two non soccer playing kids...if they would run to the car and get the cash, I would let them buy a treat.  So, off they ran, only to return a few minutes later with shock on their faces and panic in their voices.  'Mom!', my daughter exclaimed, 'some truck hit our car and there is glass everywhere and our car is crooked!'   In disbelief, I followed them back to the parking lot, where I was met with a scene that immediately brought anger into my heart.  I had parked my small car neatly in a parking stall when I arrived.  Now, in the stall where my car had been, there was a mid-sized Toyota truck.  It appeared to have backed into the stall and right into the bumper of my car, pushing the car nearly all the way out of its original stall and crookedly into the one in front.  The only part of the car that was still in the stall where it started was the rear end that was wedged underneath the bumper of the truck.The impact was such that the red plastic from the tail light had flown through the air and come to a rest at near the driver's side door.  I could not fathom that someone could go through a collision like this and then just get out of the car and go watch a soccer game like nothing happened.  Had they been drinking?  How could he or she be so irresponsible?

By this time, the rest of my daughter's team was arriving in the parking lot.  The crash became the center of activity.  Parents sent their children with the coach to begin warming up for the game, and a few moms stayed behind to lend me some moral support.  They were nearly as angry as I was at the nerve of someone causing so much damage and just walking away.  They encouraged me to call the police, which I did after having an inner dialogue that went something like this:  I hate to call the police and cause trouble for someone.  I'm sure it was just an accident.  But even if it WAS an accident, this guy had to have been off his rocker to just walk away like that.  What if he's in an altered state of mind and is a danger to society?

Minutes later the police officer on his motorcycle arrived.  I explained that my car had once been where the truck now was.  I showed him the broken plastic near the driver's side door.  I used my children as witnesses to emphasize that this was in fact where we had parked.  As we were talking, the owner of the truck and his family walked up and asked, incredulously, what had happened to their truck.  I couldn't believe the audacity that this man had to be able to pretend he didn't know what happened.  My level of disgust was rising exponentially with each word that came out of his mouth.  He said that he was positive that he had parked there, and that my silver car was nowhere around when he did.  The police officer was thoroughly confused.  In all of his years investigating accidents, he told us, this one had him stumped.  Both of our stories seemed plausible, and he could not decide who was at fault. 

It seemed that the mess would go unsolved, and that my anger would remain.  And then, walking towards us, there she was.  The mom from the sidelines at the game we had been watching earlier.  The one that we couldn't help but notice.  And also, the wife of the man whose truck was wedged onto my car.  In that instant, the realization that the accident could not be their fault flooded over me.  They could not have backed into my car because they had arrived before me.  I brought this to the attention of the investigating officer, and suddenly, the direction of the investigation changed course.  With no skid marks from my tires, it soon became apparent that my car was the one that had been in motion.  But what happened?  The officer looked over the body of my car to see if an impact from another vehicle had pushed my car into the truck.  Nothing.  The officer asked if he could look inside my car, and I obliged.  It only took seconds for this mystery to be solved.  The emergency brake was off.  The car was in neutral.  The parking stall that I was positive that I had parked in was an entire row away from where I had actually parked.  This disaster was 100% completely and utterly MY fault.

The owner of the truck graciously told me that my car didn't do any damage that wasn't already there, and that he wasn't upset at all.  He didn't feel it necessary to complete a police report, and he wished me well.  He was an incredibly nice man.  So nice, in fact, that I felt it necessary to stop him before he left the parking lot.  'I'm so SO sorry for the anger I felt towards you.'  I explained that I spent more than a few minutes actually hating him.  'No worries', he said.  'It wouldn't be the first time someone hated me.' 

Turns out, I learned more than one lesson from the debacle this morning.  First, I learned that I might need to tone down the sideline antics during my kids' sporting events, lest I should draw some unwanted attention.  Next, I learned that people are good.  What was already a mess could have turned into a disaster of Herculean proportion had the owner of the truck not been so understanding.  And the final, and most important, lesson was that I should never EVER judge without knowing all the facts.  This probably wasn't the first time that I've passed blame that belonged to me onto someone else.

Long after the tail light has been replaced and the dents repaired, I will carry the lessons of this day close to my heart.  What a blessing it turned out to be.

The Talk

My little guy, a deacon of only two weeks, gave his first Sacrament Meeting talk on Sunday.  I think I was more nervous than he was!  He barely looked up from the page as he was speaking, but he did a great job.  As we were practicing on Saturday, he stopped and said, "I think I should pause here, because people are going to laugh."  And he was right.  His comedic timing couldn't have been better.  I sure love this kid.  Anyway, I thought I'd share his talk.  Maybe somebody out there in cyber-land can benefit from it. 

Brother Wiser asked me to speak on repentance.  I’m not sure why, since the only thing I’ve ever done wrong in the last 12 years is say yes to giving this talk.  We all have to pay the consequences for our mistakes, but for this mistake, you guys will suffer much more than me!

Seriously, though, I’m glad to be able to give this talk today.  I’m going to change the subject just a tiny bit.  I wanted to talk about the Atonement, which is actually what makes repentance possible.

Yesterday, I watched a video with my family, and I thought the story would go really well with my talk.  I’m sure most of you have heard the story of Dick and Ricky Hoyt, but in case some of you haven’t, I’d like to tell it.

Ricky Hoyt was born almost fifty years ago.  The umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck, which caused some brain damage.  The doctors told his parents that they should just give him to a home for children with special needs because he would never walk or talk or do any of the things that other children would be able to do.  The Hoyts decided right away that they could never give up on their son.  They loved him and treated him as normally as possible.  His brothers would even push his wheel chair around with a hockey stick attached so that he could play street hockey with the neighborhood kids.  His mom and dad would take him swimming and to the park.  When he was about ten years old, he was given a machine as part of an experiment that would help him to talk.  He would use his head to put pressure on a metal bar to spell out the words that he wanted to say.  When he got very good at using it, he told his dad that he wanted to run in a race that his town was having to raise money for a boy who had become paralyzed.  He said that he wanted people to see that nothing could hold him back.  So, his dad pushed his old wheelchair in the race.  They came in last.  After they got home, Ricky told his dad that when he was being pushed in the race, it was the first time that he didn’t feel handicapped.  So, Ricky’s dad, Dick, decided that they would become runners.  He began training right away.  In the past thirty years, they have run over one thousand races, including 25 Boston Marathons and six Iron Man triathalons.

In the video that I watched, I saw Dick Hoyt pulling his son on a raft through the water during their last Iron Man.  For 2 and a half miles, with a rope around his waist, he swam.  Then he lifted his 44 year old son from the raft and ran to the transition area where he lifted him into the seat on the front of his specially made bicycle.  He biked for 112 miles, with Ricky on the front of the bike smiling and waving his arms.  Then, he put Ricky into the special running stroller and ran 26.2 miles.  He pushed Ricky up hills and down hills, sometimes barely able to run.  As they crossed the Iron Man finish line, both men had tears running down their faces.  (And so did my mom, by the way).  It was amazing to me to see this kind of love.  The things that Dick Hoyt put himself through for his son, Ricky.  He went through a lot of sweat and pain.  He was 66 years old when they finished this last Iron Man.

After my family watched the video, we talked about how we’re kind of the same as Ricky Hoyt.  Most of us are not handicapped like Ricky, but we all have special needs.  We all need someone to push us through our own race, to help us get to the finish line.  

That person is our Savior, Jesus Christ.  He suffered so much for us.  His pain, his agony, his sweat is what has made it possible for me to finish my own race and make it back to my Father in Heaven.  When I can’t swim, he pulls me.  When I can’t run, he pushes me. 

I know that Jesus Christ is my Savior.  I am grateful for the sacrifice that he made for me.  I am grateful for the Atonement.

In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Here's the video that we watched as a family: