It made him feel good confident, somehow that Trish assumed if he made it a matter of prayer, the right person’s name would be provided. It had happened that way already, of course, in several callings, while others he had puzzled over for some time.
“Thanks, honey. That helps,” he told her, and extracted a copy of the ward list from his desk drawer. Trish went back to her dinner preparations, and he said a quick prayer for inspiration, then examined each name with music in mind. He would try to find a director, he decided, then put out an invitation for all interested singers to join the choir. It shouldn’t be hard to get this thing going.
Half an hour later when Trish called the family for dinner, he was still contemplating names of potential directors. Practically everyone in the ward already had a calling, and it looked as if this would have to be an extra responsibility for someone. Who would be able and willing to take on something else? Or should he choose someone to be choir director, and release that person from whatever position he or she already held, and let someone else, possibly, double up? A number of folks already held more than one calling. Some had both stake and ward callings, though that was discouraged unless necessary. He went to the table in the kitchen pondering the problem.
Trish had made lasagna and salad. The children chattered about school and friends, while he was uncharacteristically preoccupied with his own thoughts.
Trish put a piece of hot garlic bread on his plate. “Who’ll be the accompanist?” she wondered aloud, and he looked up, stricken.
“I reckon I just thought Sister Tullis would,” he said slowly. “But maybe that’s too much to expect, you think?”
“I don’t know you’d have to ask her. She is getting a little older, though, and she mostly plays the organ. You might want a pianist for this.”
“For what?” asked Tiffani.
“We’re going to have a ward choir,” her mother informed her brightly. “Isn’t that fun? You and I can sing soprano, right?”
“Sure, I guess,” Tiffani said doubtfully. “So you’re looking for a pianist?”
“Well, I reckon I obviously should be,” her father said. “All this is kind of beyond my ken. I don’t know who’s good at what, musically.”
Tiffani shrugged. “What about Claire?” she asked.
“Is Claire that good?” he inquired.
“Claire’s great,” she said staunchly. “She wants to major in music, and she helps to accompany the school choir. She’d love it.”
“That’s a thought,” the bishop said. “In fact, that’s a great thought. Thanks, Tiff.” If Claire Patrenko, who currently held no position in the ward, could serve as accompanist, that would mean that Sister Tullis, or someone else, wouldn’t have to double up. “So who do you know who would make a good director for the choir?”
But that question stumped Tiffani, as well as her mother.
“Well,” the bishop said with a sigh, “I reckon I’ll have to be patient and wait to see what the Lord thinks on the subject.”
Chapter Thirteen
* * *
“touch and humble, teach and bless”
The next Thursday evening was set aside in the bishop’s pocket calendar for home teaching visits, and he accordingly presented himself at the Forelaw home, earlier this time, in hopes of meeting the children of the family. Sure enough, there they sat in a row on the sofa, all scrubbed and shiny and in their pajamas, looking at him curiously with bright, china-blue eyes. The older two, a girl and a boy, were redheads, and the younger boy was blond.
“Hey, Bishop,” Elaine greeted him. “I kept the young’uns up so you could meet ’em this time. This here’s Katie, then Carter, then Arnie.”
He shook hands with each of them, amused by their embarrassed smiles at being greeted in such a grown-up way. Little Arnie rolled over backwards on the sofa and tried to hide behind his siblings, and the bishop indulged in a moment of Peek-a-boo with him, which brought out the giggles.
“All right, now, y’all young’uns run jump in bed,” their mother instructed in a voice that brooked no nonsense.
“Tell you what,” the bishop called as they scampered away. “Next time I come, I’ll bring a story for you.”
“That’s nice of you, Bishop. It’s not necessary, though.”
“Well, I like kids,” he told her. “It’d be fun for me. I should’ve thought to bring one, tonight. So, how’re you folks doing, Sister Forelaw? And is Sergeant about?”
“I’m here,” came a deep voice from the kitchen. “Just eatin’ a late supper, if y’all will excuse me.”
“You go right ahead. So everybody’s well?”
Elaine sat on the sofa, and the bishop took a chair. “We’re all doin’ fine, thank you.”
“Wonderful. I brought you a short message this evening from the general conference that was held last month. There were lots of excellent talks, but I finally chose this one by President Boyd K. Packer, because his message struck a chord in me and was about something I hold very dear the Book of Mormon.”
Elaine nodded. He wanted to ask her if she had read the book, but hesitated to embarrass her if she had not. He decided to proceed as if she had. He spoke just loud enough that he hoped he might be heard in the kitchen, where there was an occasional clink of dishes or cutlery.
“As you know, the Book of Mormon is a second witness of the Lord Jesus Christ. It supports and sustains the Bible in its message that Jesus Christ really is the Son of God and the Savior of the world. In addition, it holds answers to so many questions people have about life after death, the Resurrection, the place of justice and mercy in obtaining forgiveness for our sins, and many, many more things. I know one of my favorite parts is in Third Nephi, where the Savior was appearing to the people on this continent after his resurrection and ministering to them and to their children. It never fails to touch my heart to read that. I always picture my own little ones among that crowd, and I can feel the great love of the Lord for all His children.
“People from all over the world bear witness to the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, and the impact it’s had on their lives. It’s now been translated into sixty-two languages, and parts of it into another thirty-seven languages, with many more translations in progress. In fact, I read recently that it’s second only to the Bible in the number of copies that have been published and distributed. In his talk, President Packer tells of his first successful attempt to read it all the way through. It was when he was on a ship, headed into war in the Pacific. He had decided that he would find out for himself if the book really was true, as he’d been told. He says he ‘read and reread the book, and . . . tested the promise that it contained. That was a life-changing event.’
“You see, Sister Forelaw, the book comes with its own way of proving its truthfulness. Pretty neat, huh? Remember what it is? It’s a promise in Moroni . . . that if we read it, and ask God sincerely in the name of Jesus Christ if it’s true, then the Holy Ghost will manifest the truthfulness of it to us. Can’t beat that, can we? That’s what President Packer did, and millions of other folks, too. I did it, myself, when I was about seventeen, and I had a wonderful warm and peaceful feeling come over me when I prayed about it. I’d never felt so loved in my life and I had good folks who loved me a lot. But this was different. This was Godly love beyond my comprehension, but it sure was real, and it included a reassurance about the reality of that book. So I’ve known, ever since then, that the book was true, and I’ve loved studying it. I love the Bible too, and the way they fit together to provide a more complete picture of things.
“One amazing thing to me about the Book of Mormon is that Joseph Smith translated it in only a very short time short enough that most folks would have a tough time reading it in the same length of time, let alone translating it from an unknown language! Joseph’s wife, Emma, said that she sometimes wrote for him as he dictated from the plates, and he would always take up exactly where he left off after a break, with no repeated words. I know he could o
nly do that through the gift and power of God, and I bear testimony that the book is a treasure and a gift, to lighten our burdens and enlighten our minds. Have you had any particular experiences with the Book of Mormon that you’d like to mention?”
Elaine Forelaw gazed at him as if bemused. “I it’s been a while since I studied it,” she confessed. “I don’t get a whole lot of time to read. But I remember I always had a good feeling when I read in it. To tell the truth, I never got all the way through it, but I know the part about Nephi and Lehi and those guys traipsing through the wilderness, being led by what’s the name of that gadget the Lord gave ’em?”
“The Liahona.”
“That’s right. See, I kept starting over, so I read that part a dozen times or more. I need to just skip over that, I reckon, and start further in and keep going.”
“Do that, why don’t you? That’d be great. And when you come to the Isaiah passages, don’t quit if you don’t understand everything. Just plow on through, and pretty soon you’ll understand it better. And I’d be glad to answer any questions you might have, or the missionaries here in town could answer them, too.”
“You know, I like to read to my kids from some little Bible story books, about like Adam and Eve, and Noah and the Ark, and Joseph and his coat, and stuff. Is there any storybook for kids about the Book of Mormon, like that?”
“There are several. I’ll search that out for you, and maybe bring one or two next time. Will that be okay?”
“Sure, that’d be fine. Well, thank you for coming. I appreciate you taking the time.”
“Oh, my pleasure. And I really do think it adds so much to our lives to read in the scriptures when we can. There’s just no better source for the truth about things. Don’t you agree, Brother Forelaw?”
There was a scraping of chair legs from the other room.
“What’s that?” he asked, poking his head around the door jamb.
“I was just saying there’s no better place to find out the truth about things than in the scriptures. Don’t you agree?”
“Reckon so. The Bible, at least. I’m not fermiliar with this other book you’re talkin’ about.”
“It’s a companion volume to the Bible about God’s dealings with his people on the American continent, instead of over in the Holy Land. Same Lord, though same gospel.”
Sarge Forelaw nodded politely. It was hard to tell what he was thinking. The bishop took his leave, rejoicing in the knowledge that Sarge had, at least, been listening from his supper table. He had given himself away by mentioning “this other book” that was being discussed.
“Thank you, Father,” the bishop prayed, as he headed for his next appointment. “Please bless Sister Elaine Forelaw to be able to teach the truth to those sweet little children and bless her husband, Sergeant, with a curious spirit, that he’ll want to look into the Book of Mormon for himself. And please bless him to keep eavesdropping!”
* * *
The evening was early enough, still, that he decided he could squeeze in a visit to Buddy Osborne. He knocked on the door of Twyla Osborne’s mobile home. It was opened by a tall, well-muscled fellow in an undershirt and denim shorts.
“Yeah?” the man asked suspiciously.
“How’re you tonight?” the bishop said pleasantly. “I’m looking for Buddy is he home?”
The man shrugged. “I dunno,” he said, with an emphasis on the “I,” as if to say, “I have no interest or responsibility for the kid.” He turned and looked over his shoulder. “Buddy here? Some guy wants him.”
“Who?” asked Twyla, coming to peer from behind her companion. “Oh, it’s you,” she said ungraciously. “Come on in, I reckon. Buddy!” she yelled down a hallway. “Buddy, the bishop’s here to see you. Get out here!”
She sat down on a sofa beside her friend, flipping her rather dried-out looking blondish hair over her shoulder. She was a slender woman, dressed in slacks and a shirt that emphasized her figure. She had Buddy’s eyes, which she focused on the television set. She turned up the volume.
“Sit down if you want,” she said.
“Don’t let me interrupt your program,” the bishop said, taking a seat near the hallway to Buddy’s room.
“We won’t,” Sister Osborne said, smiling at the man beside her. They were watching some video with a great deal of unrealistic-looking action in it. The bishop picked up a small model of a Nascar racer. The man on the couch eyed him as if he suspected him of planning to steal it.
The bishop caught his eye. “This Buddy’s?” he asked, holding up the small car.
“Buddy’s! Hell, no, the kid ain’t into Nascar. I collect ’em.”
“I remember when Dale Sr. drove the original of this one at Talladega.”
The man stared. “You into Nascar?”
“I sure am at least, I follow it when I can.”
“Yeah? Who do you like for ”
“Shh!” Buddy’s mother interrupted. “Watch the movie, hon I’m not gonna turn it back for you. This’s the good part.”
Buddy appeared, silent as a ghost, at the opening to the hallway.
“Oh hey, Bishop,” he said quietly. “Um wanta see my room?”
“You bet. Excuse me,” he said to the couple on the couch, who appeared not to have heard him, and followed Buddy into a small bedroom. It was surprisingly neat. Buddy had made shelves and cabinets for his books and belongings out of orange crates, and wherever the walls weren’t covered by these homemade shelves, they were papered with drawings and paintings. The bishop stared in amazement. He’d known the boy liked to draw, but he’d had no idea of the scope of his gift. Buddy was good. There were charcoal sketches of people and animals of all descriptions, and watercolors, mostly of plants and southwestern scenes. One oil painting, of a red rock mesa surrounded by some kind of stunted pines, featured dramatic use of shadow and contrast. One could almost smell the pines in the warm, dry air.
“Wow, my friend. I’m really impressed,” he said to the boy, who shrugged and looked downward. “You’ve been blessed with a real talent, Buddy! I mean, I figured you’d be good, but I’m overwhelmed.”
“I just like to do it, when I don’t have anything else to do. It’s no big deal.”
“I think it is. What do your art teachers say? You are taking art in school, aren’t you?”
“I took all the art classes I could fit in, already. They they liked my stuff, I reckon. I got good grades.”
“Well, I should hope so. Have you done other oils?”
Buddy shook his head. “Mama won’t let me use oil paint here. Says the paint and linseed oil stink too bad. I done that one in school, last year.”
“I see. Buddy, you should really keep on studying and painting. I’ll bet you could get a college scholarship in art.”
Buddy shrugged again. “Deddy says I don’t need college to make a livin’. He didn’t have any. And Mama I reckon she’s just waitin’ for the day I turn eighteen so’s I can get out and not bug her.”
“Oh, surely ” Surely not, the bishop had started to say, but couldn’t force the words past his lips. He was afraid they would be a lie.
“I think art will be your best ticket to a better and more fulfilling life,” he said instead. “No kidding, Buddy! This is not a gift you want to waste or throw away. I’m not a critic, but hey even I know something great when I see it.”
“Well reckon I’ll have to see. Wanta sit down? You can sit on my bed.” Buddy folded himself onto the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees. “Oh hey. Maybe you’d like to see this one.” He reached for a sketch pad and flipped it open to a charcoal sketch of a brawny young man in a football uniform, grinning from under his helmet. It was unmistakably T-Rex. The sketch was done as if from the point of view of a small child looking up at the powerful athlete.
“That’s terrific,” the bishop said, with a grin. “T-Rex would be so flattered. You oughta show it to him.”
“Oh, no,” Buddy said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t d
are. But you can have it, if you want. You know for taking me to the games with you and Jamie.”
“Really? Seriously?”
“Sure. I can do another, if I want. Go ahead, just tear it out.”
“Thank you, my friend so very much. I’ll treasure it.”
Buddy looked embarrassed, but pleased. The bishop didn’t give him a prepared message, but just talked about talents for a few minutes, and the fact that all talents were gifts, and valuable to enrich people’s lives the giver and the receiver. “See, you and T-Rex have totally different talents,” he concluded. “You might not be able to do what he does on the football field, but I’m certain he can’t come anywhere close to doing what you do with pencil and paper and paint! And frankly, I believe your gift is the greater one, because it can last your whole life long and bring joy to you and to anyone who views your work, while T-Rex, although he entertains and amazes us right now, will only be able to play for a part of his lifetime less than half of it, most likely. And then there’s me I’m still looking around to see where I misplaced whatever talent I was given, ’cause I sure don’t know what it is.”
“Reckon I do,” said Buddy shyly. “You got a talent for makin’ folks feel good, like they’re worth somethin’.”
The bishop swallowed. “Well, you know, everybody is worth something. We’re each worth a whole lot, to our Heavenly Father. He said ‘the worth of souls is great in the sight of God.’ And you can count on that to be true. Your soul, Buddy Osborne, is great in God’s sight and in mine, too. Now do we have a date for tomorrow night? Last home game?”
“Sure if you really want to go.”
“Oh, I do and even if I didn’t, Jamie’d make my life miserable if I didn’t take him. So I’ll be here about six, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Mercies and Miracles Page 15