The bishop took a deep breath. “Hey, Thomas. You’re looking a lot better than you were the other night. I’m glad to see you in such good hands, here. They’re doing a mighty fine job. All the kids in the ward are anxious for you to get better and come on home, though. Everybody’s praying that you’ll be well, soon.” He nodded toward his counselor, who leaned forward.
“Hi, Thomas. Good to see you. You just keep resting and getting stronger, all right? I need my home teaching partner back in action. The little Arnaud kids will be real disappointed to see it’s just me coming up the walk.”
“Bishop, since y’all are here—do you think—I mean, would it be all right if Thomas had another blessin’?”
“If that’s what you’d like, sure,” Bishop Shepherd said.
“Well, maybe it’s as much for me and Tom as for the boy,” she admitted. “But I’d feel better, somehow, if I could hear him bein’ blessed. I watn’t there for the first time, you know.”
“That’s right. Would Tom like to be in on this?”
“I’ll ask the nurse if it’s okay.”
The nurse agreed, and Tom was ushered into the curtained cubicle.
The bishop asked Tom to anoint, and Brother Patrenko to be voice in the blessing. Tom looked terrified for a moment, then nodded.
“Best tell me what to say, though. I fergit.”
The bishop went over the brief anointing prayer with him, and assured him he’d be standing by to coach him, if needed. Tom cleared his throat and took the small vial of oil. He carefully placed a drop on Thomas’s head and, voice quavering, made it through the anointing prayer. Then Bob Patrenko took over, and blessed Thomas, encouraging him to rest and recover and respond to treatment, and promising him that there were many important things yet for him to do in his life. He also assured him of the love and prayers of his parents and of all his friends, and included a blessing for his doctors and his parents. Then the bishop patted Thomas’s good arm, and the four of them filed out at the behest of the nurse, who moved in to check the boy’s vital signs.
“Brethern, we sure do appreciate this,” Tom said solemnly. “Now, I was just wonderin’ somethin’, during your blessin’ in there, Brother Bob—how come you can bless somebody who’s—you know—unconscious, and yet it’s like you’re talkin’ to them, rather than just prayin’ for them?”
“That’s a good question,” Bishop Shepherd agreed.
Bob Patrenko smiled. “It sure is. According to my understanding, when we give a blessing, we speak by the power of the holy priesthood, spirit to spirit. Somehow, that bypasses the need of the conscious mind being awake and aware. Our spirits never tire, you know. Never sleep, never get old, never die. So I figure Thomas’s spirit is on duty in there, even while his body and brain are resting. Now, I’m not entirely sure that’s Church doctrine—but that’s my take on it. Bishop, you know anymore about it?”
“Sounds true to me, my friend.”
Tom nodded deeply. “That’s real interesting. Makes sense, too. We thank you again, Lula and me—and our thanks to ever’body back home. Lula, honey—you want to go get changed, first? While you’re doing that, we’ll go pay on the bill, so these men can get on their way home.”
* * *
“You have any insights now that you didn’t, before, about Thomas’s condition?” the bishop queried Brother Patrenko on the drive home to Fairhaven.
“I’m just not sure. I’m real glad his dad took part in the blessing. His hands were trembling—did you notice?”
The bishop nodded. “I think that just may have been Tom’s first opportunity to take part in an administration. It’s valuable experience for him. Tom’s a good man. He’s coming right along. I hope this trouble doesn’t set him back.”
“What’s your feeling about the boy, at this point?”
“I just keep thinking it’ll be a close call—and it’ll be Thomas’s own decision, in the end, that determines which way he’ll go.”
“Mmm. You said something like that, I recall, in your blessing at the accident scene.”
“Right. The impression came to me then that it would be up to Thomas. This is confidential, of course. I haven’t even felt I should mention it to Tom and Lula, yet.”
“Sure, I understand.”
* * *
The bishop dedicated his evening to making friends with his new cell phone. He programmed it carefully, then practiced making several calls, giving select people his new number. He called those whom he considered “at risk” in his ward—the elderly, the ill, those in financial or emotional difficulty. He was gratified to learn that Sister Bainbridge’s walks had been cleared as soon as the snow stopped, that Brother and Sister Mobley’s drive had been shoveled as well, and that they were also the recipients of a pot of vegetable soup and a loaf of bread from Frankie Talbot. The Jernigans reported that they were doing as well as usual, and asked for a report on T-Rex; the Birdwhistles said that their road up in the hill country was finally usable, and Melody Padgett said that her home teachers had been Johnny-on-the-spot to clear her drive and to make sure she and Andrea had weathered the storm all right.
He breathed a sigh of relief. It was good to know that people were following through on their responsibilities. He wished Hazel Buzbee had a phone—but she did not—would not, in fact, and who knew whether she would be able to hear sufficiently to use one if she did have it. He would have to drive up soon and check on her.
* * *
Trish came to give him a sleepy hug, stifling a yawn as she did so.
“How’s it working?” she asked, indicating the new phone.
“Great. I’ve called several people, and I had Sam Wright call me back, to see if I could push the right button to answer, and I somehow managed to. The only thing that bugs me is that it’s so small—and my fingers feel like Polish sausages trying to push those little bitty buttons!”
His wife chuckled. “Part of its charm is its size,” she told him. “So you won’t feel like you have a desk phone stuffed in your pocket. Don’t worry—you’ll get the hang of it. Speaking of desks, did you see the letters that I put on yours?”
“No—thanks, babe. You heading upstairs?”
“I think so. Can’t keep my eyes open.”
“I’ll just read the mail, then I’ll come on up.”
He sat at his dining room desk and examined the three envelopes addressed to him. One was from Elder Smedley, another appeared to be a late Christmas card from Elder Rivenbark, and the third was from Elder Rivenbark’s mission president. He opened that one first.
Dear Bishop Shepherd,
Enclosed please find a copy of the letter and the doctor’s report that I have sent to Stake President James Walker. It is with great regret that we suggest that Elder Rivenbark be honorably released from his mission for medical reasons and allowed to come home. His situation is such that the rigors of proselytizing work in this area create great difficulty for him. We have had him serving in the mission home for the past two weeks, and while he could be of excellent service here, the home is a three-story building with no wheelchair access, and the stairs are just too difficult for him to negotiate. Elder Rivenbark is a fine young man and a dedicated missionary, and all feel, after much prayer and consideration, that he has fulfilled his call to the best of his ability and should receive an honorable release.
The only problem with this decision is that Elder Rivenbark objects to the release and is determined to complete his mission. We have been in touch with the Missionary Department in Salt Lake City, and they have suggested a reassignment to the Alabama Birmingham Mission, with special permission for Elder Rivenbark to live at home and participate as much as he reasonably can, and as circumstances permit, with the elders in that mission. He is reluctantly willing to consider this solution. Do you have any particular feelings on this matter that you would like to have taken into consideration before a final decision is made? In your opinion, would Elder Rivenbark be able to keep the mission rule
s and spirit while living at home, or would this place an unrealistic burden on him and his family?
Bishop Shepherd leaned back in his desk chair. Did he have feelings on the matter? Did he ever! His throat ached and unshed tears burned behind his eyelids. Not once had Elder Rivenbark complained, in any of his letters, of his pain and difficulty. He had remarked on what a help his companions had been to him and how some meetings with investigators who lived in walk-up apartments had to be held at the chapel, but never with a sense of self-pity or a desire to give up on his mission.
He opened the card from the elder in question. Elder Rivenbark had enclosed a brief note.
Dear Bishop Shepherd,
I hope you and your family and the whole ward, for that matter, have a great and spiritual Christmas season! I am helping out in the mission home for a while, and the Spirit here is really strong. The missionaries are going caroling this evening around our neighborhood and then at a hospital. We have a huge tree in the living room. No snow, of course, but other than that, it’s very Christmasy.
President Ruffin is concerned about my strength—or lack of it—but I’m doing okay. I can do this. I really enjoy missionary work. I met an orthopedic surgeon here who is a member of the Church, and he’s been really great to me and examined me to see what he thinks might be done to help my situation. He had some interesting suggestions. I’ll talk to you about them sometime when I get home. Anyhow—the Church is true! God lives, and sent his Beloved Son to die for us—and that’s all that really matters. Have a wonderful Christmas and a Happy New Year!
Sincerely,
Elder Rand Rivenbark
His bishop, having read the other letter first, read between the lines of this message and his heart ached for the dedicated young man. He opened the third letter, from another missionary from the ward, and read:
Hi, Bishop Shepherd,
I wanted to report in and to wish you a happy holiday season. It sure is different here in Brazil, where it’s warm at Christmas, but it’s also very festive, and the members are being real good to us, feeding us and making goodies for us all the time. The work is still going good. I think I wrote you about Ricardo, the guy who lives in a little shack behind the Rodriguses’ family’s house? Well, he finally decided he could live without his coffee, and guess what? He’s getting baptized on Saturday! We’re just real excited, and I’m glad I could stay in this area long enough to see that happen. You know how it goes so much of the time—missionaries work hard teaching somebody and leading them along, and then they get transferred and somebody else gets to baptize the person! But that’s okay, and I know it’s partly to keep people from getting converted to the missionary, as they say, instead of to the gospel. Well, only a couple more months for me, and I sure have mixed feelings. I love my mission, but I’m real anxious to see my fam, too. Hope everything’s okay in the ward!
Your friend, Elder Don D. Smedley
The bishop closed his eyes. It was a time of concern for the young men in his sphere of responsibility—T-Rex and his accident, Elders Smedley and Rivenbark, both dedicated servants, but with very different situations—and then there was VerDan Winslow. He was another story. The bishop slipped out of his chair and propped his elbows on it. It was time for a consultation with the One who knew them all best.
Chapter Five
* * *
“ . . . courage to accept thy will”
Brothers and sisters, the Rexford family has asked me to thank you for your concern, your prayers, your faith and help—and for the generous contributions to their son Thomas’s care. Brother Rexford specifically wanted you to know that every penny given them was paid toward the hospital bill, and he insisted that I witness that payment. The most recent update on Thomas’s condition I’ve heard was last evening, when Lula called and said that his temperature was a bit elevated, but she quoted the doctor as saying that ‘wasn’t unexpected in cases like this.’ Thomas has not yet awakened, and I know that he still needs your faith and prayers in his behalf. And please continue to remember Tom and Lula, that they’ll be given the strength and faith to see this through.
“I would also like to ask your faith and prayers in behalf of Elder Rand Rivenbark, who is experiencing some physical difficulties on his mission as a result of his disability. He’s a fine, dedicated missionary with a lot of faith and determination, and wants in the worst way to be able to complete his mission. In addition, Elder Don Smedley writes that he’s going strong in the homestretch of his mission experience, with just two months to go, and I know we’re all looking forward to hearing his report. He has served with distinction. We’re also very grateful for the full-time missionaries that serve here in our area—currently elders Tompkins and Bussero.”
Bishop Shepherd continued by reminding his congregation of tithing settlement hours, then outlining the sacrament service that was about to take place. He then sat down and watched the congregation with special interest while they sang the opening hymn. It was “Ring Out, Wild Bells,” a somewhat unfamiliar hymn that they sang only about once a year—usually on the first Sunday of the new year. He winced during the singing. The tune was hard to pick out, and the tones emanating from the group were rather puny. But he looked around and made mental note of who was at least attempting to sing. He was still searching for the components of a ward—and stake—choir. He observed again during the sacrament hymn—this one perfectly familiar to all—and added a few more names to his list. By the time the closing hymn had been sung, he had a plan.
* * *
During the second hour of the block, he supervised the setting apart of new presidencies in the Laurel and Mia Maid classes, then retired to his office for a few minutes’ contemplation about his reply to Elder Rivenbark’s mission president. He had thought long and hard, and he had conferred with the two missionaries he had mentioned in sacrament meeting—elders Tompkins and Bussero, simply asking them if they thought they could accommodate a handicapped elder and incorporate him into their work. They had looked at each other, shrugged, and said, “Sure. Why not?”
“He’s a good man,” he had assured them. “Bright and faithful and articulate. He just can’t get around very well—and apparently there are a lot of hills and stairs to challenge him in his present mission. It’s not settled, yet, but I just wanted to get your feelings about having him in this mission.”
“Well, the district leader has a car,” said Elder Tompkins, a tall, fair young man from Idaho. “So if he could pair off with him it could work out. We ride bikes, you know, here in town.”
“What if he had his own car?” asked Elder Bussero. “Or can he drive? If he does, then whoever’s working with him could ride along, or drive him.”
“He does drive,” the bishop mused. “There should be a way. Well, thank you, brethren. How’s the work going this week?”
“Good,” answered Elder Bussero, a stocky, swarthy fellow from Detroit. “I think we’ve about got Billy Newton’s folks convinced to let him be baptized. And the Miller family has promised to read the Book of Mormon and pray about it. We’ve got several discussions set up for this week, and Brother Warshaw just gave us another referral to check into. So, yeah, we’re busy!” He grinned.
“Way to go,” he encouraged them, shaking their hands. “Let me know of anything we can do to help.”
Elder Tompkins grinned, too. “Just be ready to fill the font,” he said.
“At the drop of a hat,” the bishop promised.
* * *
He had a few minutes free. He could execute his plan. He slipped into the Gospel Doctrine class and whispered in Brother Warshaw’s ear. That good man nodded, then continued with his lesson as the bishop took a seat and opened his scriptures. It was a pleasure to listen to Brother Warshaw teach—one that he rarely had the opportunity to enjoy. Brother Warshaw closed his lesson a few minutes early, announcing that after their closing prayer the bishop had an announcement.
He stood at the lectern and looked around the
faces before him, with their pleasant but curious expressions. He began to read.
“Doctrine and Covenants, section twenty-five, verse twelve: ‘For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads.’” He looked around again, meeting all the eyes he could. “Now, brothers and sisters, you’ve heard that we’ve been assigned to form a ward choir, and you saw the results in our Christmas program. Five singers—four of them my own family—and it’s obvious that the Osmonds, we’re not! President Walker has asked for at least six or seven from each ward to sing in the stake choir next month, and I’m in charge of the ushers, so I won’t be that available that morning. Therefore, I’m here to issue a call. You brothers and sisters of the Gospel Doctrine class are hereby called to comprise the Fairhaven Ward choir. Choir practice is in the chapel, and begins five minutes after the third hour ends. Our accompanists, and the only reason the Christmas program was a success musically at all, will be sisters Margaret Tullis and Claire Patrenko. Our director, who is talented and able, is Sister Linda DeNeuve.”
“But . . .” spoke several at once, accompanied by, “I can’t sing!” and “I don’t read music!” and “You wouldn’t want me abellerin’ up there!” and other related responses. The bishop smiled and held up his hands.
“I’m not calling you for your vocal abilities, although you might find that with a little training, they’re better than you thought. I’m calling you because you’re good, faithful folks who don’t like to turn the Lord down, and I believe this prompting came from Him. Now, I know there may be a few genuine exceptions, and good reasons why a few of you may not be able to participate. But we’ll expect to see as many of you as possible, right after church in the choir seats—and even more of you next week, when you’ve had a chance to make arrangements to be there. Thank you, brothers and sisters. I know you’ll come through on this challenge. The Lord bless you.”
Through Cloud and Sunshine Page 5