Slow of Speech

More than three thousand years ago, God gave Moses an assignment.

Come now therefore, and I will send thee unto Pharaoh, that thou mayest bring forth my people the children of Israel out of Egypt.

But Moses wasn't so sure. He had some serious doubts and questions.

“Who am I, that I should go unto Pharaoh, and that I should bring forth the children of Israel out of Egypt?  . . . what shall I say unto them? . . . O my Lord, I am not eloquent, neither heretofore, nor since thou hast spoken unto thy servant: but I am slow of speech, and of a slow tongue.” 

I think I know a little of what he's feeling. I really dislike the sound of my own voice. It's a little nasally, kind of sloppy, and I have a lisp that seven years of speech therapy could not erase. Sometimes I worry that I'll use the wrong word, or pronounce a word wrong, or just say something really stupid and make a fool of myself.

               But what if that doesn't really matter?

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When Wes and I moved to Memphis in 1989, we lived in a fairly poor part of the city. Memphis was a city with a lot of social, racial, and economic inequality, and we felt the presence of that inequity more than we had expected to.

The building where our ward met was several miles away from our home, and no active church members lived near us. After we had lived there about two years, we were given an assignment – to pick up a woman who had recently joined the church, and give her a ride to the meetings every Sunday. Although she did not live very close to us, her home was on our way to the building.

I don't remember her name, so I will call her Sister Pether. She was an older woman who lived in a small apartment near the freeway exit. She was always there, dressed and ready for church, when we pulled into the parking lot. She was cheerful and talkative, and she chatted with us as we drove. But we didn't know what she was saying. Under the best of circumstances we might have been able to decipher her strong deep-southern black accent, but these were not the best of circumstances. Sister Pether was a poorly-educated woman with no teeth. We understood almost nothing she said.

We were glad to give her a ride, and she was clearly delighted by our fat, smiley baby, Sam. I silently wondered what she knew about the gospel, how she had come to join, and whether she might not be coming to church for the right reasons.

One evening the sister missionaries came to our house for dinner, and they told us something that had happened in Relief Society on a recent Sunday. The teacher had called on Sister Pether to read a scripture. (I don't know if the teacher was unaware of this woman's illiteracy and her speech impediment, or if she knew and bravely followed a spiritual prompting.) I expected that would have made for an uncomfortable moment, but that's not what happened. The woman sitting next to Sister Pether opened her scriptures to the assigned verses and quietly read the first word, which Sister Pether repeated. Word by word, they read the word of God, while every woman in the room struggled to control her tears.

I still don't know much of Sister Pether's history or her gospel knowledge. I don't know how her story ends. I don't need to. God knows her heart, and He will be her judge, and He will be her helper.

And with righteousness shall the Lord God judge the poor, and reprove with equity for the meek of the earth. (2 Nephi 30:9)

O let not the oppressed return ashamed: let the poor and needy praise thy name. (Psalms 74:21)

For he shall deliver the needy when he crieth; the poor also, and him that hath no helper. (Psalms 72:11 – 13)

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And Moses said unto the LORD, O my Lord, I am not eloquent, neither heretofore, nor since thou hast spoken unto thy servant: but I am slow of speech, and of a slow tongue.

And the LORD said unto him, Who hath made man's mouth? or who maketh the dumb, or deaf, or the seeing, or the blind? have not I the LORD? Now therefore go, and I will be with thy mouth, and teach thee what thou shalt say . . . Certainly I will be with thee.

Maybe how we speak, and how we feel about our ability to speak, is not that important. Moses and Sister Pether both did the thing God called them to do. For Moses, it was freeing the Israelites, miraculously parting the Red Sea, and giving them God's commandments. For Sister Pether, it was getting dressed and ready for church every Sunday morning and doing what she was asked to do, despite her worldly weaknesses.

I frequently come across things that seem hard to deal with and that I wish I didn’t have to do. Maybe that's true for you, as well.

I hope these stories will help us remember that when we accept an assignment from God, big or small, He will be with us. We all have something to share; something to do that no one else can do.

The counsel that Bryant S. Hinckley gave his struggling missionary son Gordon is good advice for all of us:

Forget Yourself and Go to Work!

Once Removed

Note: I wrote this several years ago. I am posting it now because May is the time we honor our female forebears, and also to celebrate my Grandma Barnes' upcoming birthday  – she will turn 90 next week.

I was eight when I found out that my parents are cousins. I was standing at my mother's feet, enjoying the natural invisibility that makes children proficient eavesdroppers, as she explained it to a friend. "We probably should never have gotten married," she said, laughing.

I found myself quite indignant. What were you thinking? I shrieked inside. You don't marry your cousin! Even I know that!

As it turned out, they aren't first cousins – nothing so Old-Testament-times as that – but my father's great-grandfather and my mother's great-great grandfather are the same man. This makes my genealogy tilt strangely, the lines pulling together in places, like a sweater with a flaw in the knitting. Second-cousins-once-removed, I learned years later, is the proper label for my parent's relationship. (This means that I'm my own second-cousin-twice-removed, a fact I find amusing if not highly singable.)

It is the “once removed” aspect of this pedigree that has been most consequential in my life, because it means that I had the experience of growing up with grandmothers who, as first cousins once removed, literally came from two different generations.

My mother's mother, Elizabeth Barnes, was thirty-nine when I was born. My paternal grandmother, Lenore Measom, was forty when she gave birth to my father. I was the first grandchild for one family, perhaps the fortieth for the other. My uncle and my grandmother were classmates in high school.

Because my two grandmothers largely followed the paths laid out for them by the times in which they lived, they led notably different lives, despite having being born and raised within a few miles of each other. Knowing them both as I did put me in the privileged position of having an insider's view of two slices of history. I am only now beginning to see how enriching this was for me.

One gave birth seven times, every time in her home. The other had her four children in a hospital. One worked at her husband's side every day on their farm, while one wore a suit to go to work in an office.

One found a soldier in World War II: she met and married my grandfather while he was stationed in Salt Lake City. The other lost a soldier – her oldest son – in that same war.

One lived in the same house from the time of her marriage until her death, while the other has moved several times, each time to a nicer home, in upwardly-mobile fashion. One was a widow as long as I knew her, while the other is still comfortably married.

My younger grandmother, Grandma Barnes, is a strong believer in fitness and does aerobics regularly. Grandma Measom would have been dumbfounded at the idea of created exercise. She labored hard all her life, and if she had any leisure time, she would not have spent it trying to get her heart rate into its target zone.

Both were thrifty, although in different ways. Grandma Barnes loves a bargain and can hear a clearance sale downtown calling to her from her kitchen.  Grandma Measom was of the “make it do or do without” school.  My father told me how she once pulled up her living room carpet, which was very worn in the middle, and cut it in half, then swapped the halves and sewed them back together with a needle and thread. I was delighted with her ingenuity and struck with a desire to do something equally resourceful.

Despite their differences, though, as a child I saw both simply as loving, attentive grandmothers, which was all that really mattered to me.

I was influenced by their expectations for me, though their hopes were somewhat different. Grandma Barnes frequently told me how smart I was; how she knew that I could be anything I wanted to be. On the other hand, Grandma Measom was often heard to say that she didn't want her children and grandchildren to be smart, or rich, or good-looking, or admired by the world, but that she only wanted them to be good people who loved their families and loved the Lord. (At her funeral, my father shared this about her, then added, “I stand before you today as a testimony that the first part of her wish, at least, came true.”)

I was impressed by their faith through difficult times. I was struck by their strong work ethic, although their work was not the same. They both loved flowers and music and good food and family, and so do I.

The time in which I was raised was different from that of either of my grandmothers, or of my mother. I have choices they didn't have, luxuries they didn't expect, pressures they didn't face. Even on days when I long for a simpler time, I am grateful to live in this season. More than that, though, I am grateful for the women whose heritage and example have equipped me to live in it well.

My Paternal Grandmother, Lenore Measom

Grandma and Grandpa Measom standing outside their home. 

My Paternal Grandparents, Lenore and Ty Measom.
(Interesting fact: My husband's great-grandfather performed their
marriage and sealing in the Salt Lake Temple in 1922.)

My grandparents with their seven children, in 1942.
 The little one is my father.

My Grandmother, Elizabeth Gull Barnes

My Grandparents, Norm and Elizabeth Barnes
(To learn more about my Grandma and Grandpa Barnes's
 courtship and life together, click here.)

My Grandparents on their wedding day

My Grandma and Grandpa Barnes with their first three children.
My mother is the redhead in the white dress. 

A more recent picture of my maternal Grandmother, Elizabeth Barnes.
Happy Birthday, Grandma!

This picture, taken at my sister Polly's wedding, is one of the few pictures
that include both my Grandma Barnes and my Grandma Measom

Little Help?

Most patients who are recovering from a hip fracture spend several weeks in a rehabilitation center after they are released from the hospital. My surgeon recommended that course for me, but I talked my way out of it. I wanted to go home, and I assured the surgeon that I would have plenty of help there. “I have four teenagers at home. They'll take good care of me.”

After a few days, I found myself getting annoyed with my children, who seemed to be living happy free while I was stuck in bed. One evening when we gathered for family prayer, I expressed my disappointment. “I don't feel like you kids are helping me much,” I said. “I thought you would do more.”

There was a brief silence, and Ben asked the sincere question: “Did you ask us to help you?”

I had no sensible answer. “Um, well, I thought about it . . . quite often, really . . .”

Uh-oh. I had fallen into the “Read My Needs” trap. (Also known as Deduce my Deprivation, Predict my Problems, Perceive my Privation, Track my Troubles, Spot my Sorrow, Grasp my Grumbles, Detect my Difficulty, Foresee my Frustration.) It is not reasonable to expect that busy teenagers can anticipate their mother's needs. The problem was not in their unwillingness to help, but in my reluctance to ask.

I don't fully understand why this happens to me, but I do know I'm not alone in my hesitation to appeal for aid. It seems to be a fairly common issue. It happens at work, at church, at school, with friends, with medical personnel, and perhaps most often, with family.

Does any of this ring a bell?

“My husband will just walk past the trash bucket. Can't he see it needs to be taken out?”

Or:

“I'm trying to make dinner with a crying baby in my arms. Someone should come and take the baby!”

Or:

“I can't believe he gave me a weight-loss cookbook for my birthday! Why won't he give me something I want?”

Or:

“Why do I always have to organize family activities? Why is it my job?”

“I shouldn't have to ask. He should see what I need, and just do it!”

Maybe he should. I'm sure some people do. But I have one one of the best, most helpful husbands out there, and he doesn't automatically see what help I need. It took me a while to learn that I had no right to be annoyed or to complain about what wasn't happening if I hadn't asked.

Of course, this is not an issue that affects only women. But based on my experience, it does seem to operate differently in men.

     “Did you get the cornmeal I wanted?”

     “No. I couldn't find it.”

     “Did you ask an employee for help?”

     “No. I looked all over the store. They didn't have any.”

   

   “Are you sure we're going the right way? This looks like a dead end road.”

   “I know how to get there. I think we need to turn left after the school . . .”

    “Do you want to stop and ask somebody for directions?”

    “No, I don't need to. I know how to get there.”

Maybe we feel that asking for help is a sign of weakness. Or maybe we are afraid our request will be rejected or ridiculed. These explanations seem reasonable at first glance, but just writing them down made me see how puny they are.

“You want me to bring you a glass of water? I don't think so! Hey, guess what? Mom wants a drink of water! I know, she's so ridiculous . . .”

“Sure, I know where Waterton Street is. But I'm not going to tell you! Bwah wah ha . . .”

“So, this guy came in – I swear, I'm not making this up – and he asked me which aisle the cornmeal was on! What a wimp!”

These are not very realistic scenarios.

So maybe there's something else keeping us back. You might ask yourself this – do you really need help? Maybe you what you need is attention. Or maybe you are resentful because you feel that you are doing more than others? Are you angry at someone or something, or yourself, and you're looking for a little fight?

 No? Okay, then. Maybe that's just me . . .

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We are made to ask for help. We are not meant to live and grow and serve alone. Refusing to ask for help when we need it is not a sign of strength – it is a symptom of pride. If you ask right, you'll almost always get a good response. And when we ask people for help, we help them, by giving them an opportunity to serve, and feel the joy of service.

We should willingly – even cheerfully – ask for help when we need it. We should also be sensitive to the needs of those who cannot or will not ask.

Our unwillingness to ask for help when it is needed can cause problems in relationships, and keep us from feeling the happiness we should have as part of our lives. But when we neglect, for whatever reason, to ask God for His help, we miss out on a tremendous source of promised blessings, and stand in serious jeopardy.

The LDS Bible Dictionary contains this illuminating definition: 

Prayer is the act by which the will of the Father and the will of the child are brought into correspondence with each other. The object of prayer is not to change the will of God but to secure for ourselves and for others blessings that God is already willing to grant but that are made conditional on our asking for them.

My son Ben, who is serving a full-time mission in Ecuador, recently shared this thought in his weekly letter home.

"That reminds me of an important spiritual truth I've learned recently: With the Lord, we will always get the answers to our questions. But if we never ask questions, how are we supposed to get answers? I learned that study is much more fruitful if you always have a question, because the Lord really loves answering questions (just check out the scriptures)."

Ben is right. The scriptures are chock-full of examples of this principle.

And I say unto you, Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened. 

                            (Luke 11:9–12)

If thou shalt ask, thou shalt receive revelation upon revelation, knowledge upon knowledge, that thou mayest know the mysteries and peaceable things—that which bringeth joy, that which bringeth life eternal. 

                              (D&C 42:61)

O Lord, thou hast given us a commandment that we must call upon thee, that from thee we may receive according to our desires. 

                       (Ether 3:2)

In the day of my trouble I will call upon thee: for thou wilt answer me.

            (Psalms 86:7)

And again Moses said: I will not cease to call upon God, I have other things to inquire of him:                         (Moses 1:18–20)

Wherefore, now after I have spoken these words, if ye cannot understand them it will be because ye ask not, neither do ye knock; wherefore, ye are not brought into the light, but must perish in the dark.

             (2 Nephi 32:4)

I intreated thy favour with my whole heart: be merciful unto me according to thy word.       (Psalms 119:58)

If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him. (James 1:5)

And it came to pass that I did go forth among the Nephites, and did repent of the oath which I had made that I would no more assist them; and they gave me command again of their armies, for they looked upon me as though I could deliver them from their afflictions. But behold, I was without hope, for I knew the judgments of the Lord which should come upon them; for they repented not of their iniquities, but did struggle for their lives without calling upon that Being who created them.                            (Mormon 5:1-2)

As for me, I will call upon God; and the LORD shall save me. Evening, and morning, and at noon, will I pray, and cry aloud: and he shall hear my voice. 

           (Psalms 55:16 – 17)

Wherefore, now after I have spoken these words, if ye cannot understand them it will be because ye ask not, neither do ye knock; wherefore, ye are not brought into the light, but must perish in the dark.

            (2 Nephi 32:4)

Christ healed those who asked for healing, taught those who asked for wisdom, and lifted those who plead for peace.

And as he entered into a certain village, there met him ten men that were lepers, which stood afar off: and they lifted up their voices, and said, Jesus, Master, have mercy on us. And when he saw them, he said unto them, Go shew yourselves unto the priests. And it came to pass, that, as they went, they were cleansed.                                 (Luke 17:12 - 14)

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Those who have the privilege of parenting know that our most fervent need for help is when we are concerned about our children. The scriptural stories where a parent seeks divine help for his child are very moving to me.

And there was a certain nobleman, whose son was sick at Capernaum. When he heard that Jesus was come out of Judæa into Galilee, he went unto him, and besought him that he would come down, and heal his son: for he was at the point of death. The nobleman saith unto him, Sir, come down ere my child die. Jesus saith unto him, Go thy way; thy son liveth. And the man believed the word that Jesus had spoken unto him, and he went his way. And as he was now going down, his servants met him, and told him, saying, Thy son liveth.

               (John 4:46-51)

And, behold, there cometh one of the rulers of the synagogue, Jairus by name; and when he saw him, he fell at his feet, and besought him greatly, saying, My little daughter lieth at the point of death: I pray thee, come and lay thy hands on her, that she may be healed; and she shall live.

             (Mark 5:22-23)

Alma the younger was divinely awakened to his rebellious ways and learned to become a faithful leader and missionary. This miracle happened because of the steadfast prayers of his father.

And now it came to pass that while he was going about to destroy the church of God, for he did go about secretly with the sons of Mosiah seeking to destroy the church, and to lead astray the people of the Lord, contrary to the commandments of God, or even the king—

And as I said unto you, as they were going about rebelling against God, behold, the angel of the Lord appeared unto them; and he descended as it were in a cloud; and he spake as it were with a voice of thunder, which caused the earth to shake upon which they stood;

And again, the angel said: Behold, the Lord hath heard the prayers of his people, and also the prayers of his servant, Alma, who is thy father; for he has prayed with much faith concerning thee that thou mightest be brought to the knowledge of the truth; therefore, for this purpose have I come to convince thee of the power and authority of God, that the prayers of his servants might be answered according to their faith.  (Mosiah 27:8-14)

The Lord loves us. He knows our strengths and our weaknesses. He knows our needs, and he is waiting to pour down blessings upon us. He will heal our damaged bodies, our broken hearts, our shattered souls.

Is it too much to ask?

I Can't Tell You Why

I saw it on a thrift-store shelf – a straight-sided glass vase with a white candle inside it. Nothing remarkable about the vase itself, really, but there was a word, in black vinyl letters, on its side. The word spoke to me. I wanted it to be part of my home; part of my life. I plopped down fifty cents for the vase and took it home.

There was one little cloud in my happy shopping sky – the previous owner of the vase had slightly misjudged the diameter of the vase compared to the candle she had tried to put in it. It was stuck halfway down. I was sure I could get it out, and maybe find another (slightly smaller) candle to replace it. After all, it wasn't the candle I was interested in, but the message on the vase. 

I began to work on the candle as soon as I got home. I tugged at the wick, firmly but carefully. The candle didn't budge. Well, I hadn't expected it to be that easy. I decided to use a little heat. Not much, because I knew that too much heat would ruin the letters on the side, and that wise word was important for me to preserve.

I brought out a blow-dryer, confident that this tool would provide the comfortable warmth that would soften the wax so that I could pull the candle out. But that didn't do it. I put the vase in the microwave, but I could see that was certain danger to the letters. I tried putting it hot water, conscientiously holding on to it so the lettered side stayed dry. Still no progress.

I turned to a slightly more violent tactic on the candle – stabbing it with a knife. (It was just a butter knife, and my 'stabbing' was more like poking.) I was very careful not to crack the glass or nick the letters on the vase.

After some time, a few small pieces of the candle broke off. Encouraged, I kept working at it, cautiously shaving little bits of wax from the candle's edges. It took some time, but at last I had whittled the candle down enough to slide it out.

I was delighted at my success. But I could see that my work was not yet done. The inside of the vase was besmirched with a thin layer of wax. I needed to get rid of that.

It wasn't easy, because my hand barely fit in the vase. but after several rounds of scraping and scrubbing, I managed to clean all the wax off. I meticulously shined the vase with glass cleaner, inside and out – except, of course, where the letters were.

It looked great. I happily put the vase on a shelf where I could see it every day and be reminded of its transformative admonition:

Simplify

Three days later, one of my children bumped the shelf at a run, and the glass vase – and its philosophic recommendation – was shattered.

I bought the vase because I hoped it would be a reminder for me about simplifying my life. And it did that – though it was not in the way I had expected. 

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There's a song – actually, mostly just a line from a song – that has been taking a frequent spin in my head lately:

We make it harder than it has to be – 

and I can't tell you why.¹            

Life is not easy – it's not meant to be. But sometimes we complicate our lives unnecessarily. And when we do, we often pay a price – sometimes higher than we would expect.

Making eye-catching visual aids or cute handouts to use in a lesson can become a crutch – and not always a reliable one. A teacher's time and energy is often better used to study the doctrine and its application. Too much time spent planning and preparing an elaborate Easter dinner might not leave room in our hearts to consider the miraculous totality of the Savior's resurrection. Extravagant Christmas decorations, long handwritten holiday letters, and the quest for the perfect gift can turn a season that should be a treasure into a burden. (And after the holiday, you have to put it all away!) Delaying a visit because you don't have a treat or a gift to take causes missed opportunities to serve and enjoy the company of our friends, neighbors and family. Incessant fretting about getting your family neatly groomed and dressed in time for church can numb your heart to the inconceivably immense act of grace that comes to us through the Sacrament.

That is no bargain – the price is far too high.

  

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Our first three children were born while we lived far from our extended family members, so we did not have visitors when they were blessed in church as babies. We just dressed them, blessed them, then took them home and redressed them.

But Ben was born two months after we moved to a new home, in an area within reasonable driving distance from our parents, grandparents, and siblings. We were happy to invite them all to come to our ward to see our baby receive a name and a blessing, and to come to our home for lunch after the meeting.

The day of Ben's blessing arrived. I got up early to make rolls and soup and then frantically clean up our small home. Wes fed and dressed the older kids, but when it was time to leave for Sacrament Meeting, I wasn't ready. I told him to go on without me and I would be right there.

After a frantic feeding and changing session for both me and the baby, (and some skillful hiding of dirty dishes) we headed off to church. We were late, but I knew there were other babies to be blessed in our ward that morning, so I hoped for the best.

I arrived at the church and was almost at the door to the chapel when the bishop announced that our Ben would be the next to be blessed. Wes saw me and met me at the door. I put our beautiful baby in his arms and he walked to the front of the chapel, where he and his father and my father and other Melchizedek priesthood holders formed a circle, their arms cradling Ben in the center. Wes began to speak, using his priesthood power to give our son, Benjamin Hyrum Spencer, a name and a blessing.

I still stood in the doorway, not wanting to disrupt the meeting. I was very glad that I had made it in time, even though it was very much at the last minute. And the food would be good, I hoped, and the house was clean. From where I stood peeking through the chapel door I could see that my parents and in-laws and some other family members were there. I was tired, but things were working out okay.

When Wes ended the blessing, I walked into the chapel and sat down with him and the rest of my family. Ben began to fuss after a few minutes, so I took him into the mothers' room to feed him. Another woman was there with her baby. We were new in the ward, so I didn't know many people, but I said hello as I sat down.

She looked at me warmly and asked, with hopeful expectation in her voice, “Is this the baby that was blessed today? Benjamin?”

I smiled and nodded at her.

“I'm so glad to meet you here. I was hoping I would get a chance to talk to you today,” she said. “I wanted to tell you that your husband gave the most beautiful blessing.”

I was stunned and ashamed. What did he say? I thought. Why wasn't I listening?

I thanked the woman for her thoughtfulness, and we talked for a few minutes more, but I could not stop thinking about what I had missed – a once-in-a-lifetime moment of grace that I had been too hurried to receive.

Family members assembled at our house after the meeting ended, and everyone was charmed by our beautiful baby.

Baby Ben with his Aunt Leslie

Baby Ben  with his father

Baby Ben with his great-grandmother, Phyllis Spencer

I suppose the house looked good, and the soup and rolls were yummy. I don't remember.

And you know, I don't think anyone else remembers, either.

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It's not always easy to recognize and remove the clutter of excess complication in our lives. And maybe the practice of simplicity seems too small a solution for what's ailing us in our in our homes, in our callings, in our relationships, in our conversation.

But I think it's worth a try.

Consider, in this context, the Savior's fervent invitation: Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light. (Matthew 11:28-30)

For me. this scripture raises a somber thought: If your burden is not light, perhaps it is not the right burden. Maybe it is an extra one you took on for yourself. Can you drop it?

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Some of life's greatest joys are not at all complicated – a beautiful sunset, a baby's toothless grin, a warm bed on a cold night, or the indescribable holiness of feeling the Spirit of God opening your heart and testifying that He is there, and that life is good.


It's all pretty simple.

¹ I Can't Tell You Why, Tmothy B. Schmit, Glenn Frey, and Don Henley, Copyright 1978

The Rights We Share

A little more than a year into our marriage, Wes and I moved halfway across the country so that he could continue his education. We were excited about this new adventure and the experiences and opportunities it would bring.

Memphis is a city with a lot of natural beauty, interesting places to visit, and very friendly people. But it is also city with some real problems. One of those is racism.

I grew up in Northern California and went to schools that had a lot of racial diversity among the students and faculty. I remember sitting in my fourth-grade classroom and learning about the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s. I was shocked that such terrible things had happened in this country – this great nation; not in ancient history, but not long ago, around the time I was born. I was glad to know that the era of hate and inequality was over, and “we the people” had left it behind.

So I was not prepared for the ignorant and ugly bigotry that we found in our new hometown. We moved into a neighborhood where we were in the racial minority. We enjoyed making new friends there, and we were determined that our children would be raised to be “color blind.”

One day I was in the kitchen while our son Sam, who was probably about four, was playing with some neighborhood friends. I heard Sam's voice say, “I'm white, and you're black, and white is better than black, so I get to go first.”

I felt like a bomb had dropped. I walked quickly toward the living room, ready to pull my child aside and talk to him about it and suggest he apologize to his friend. I got there just as Sam was saying, “After this, we'll play again, and you can be white and I'll be black.”

They were playing checkers.

With great relief, I remembered that months earlier, Sam had said, thoughtfully, “The difference between me and Randall is that his hair is dots, and my hair is lines.”

Today, we celebrate the life and legacy of Martin Luther King, Jr. He did not set out to be a hero or a menace. He didn't plan to shake the world. He just wanted to be a good man, a disciple of Christ, a servant of God. And when he was asked to help, he said he would try. His autobiography contains this revealing scene:

Almost immediately after the [bus boycott] started we had begun to receive threatening telephone calls and letters. They increased as time went on.

One night I couldn’t sleep. It seemed that all of my fears had come down on me at once. I had heard these things before, but for some reason that night it got to me. I went to the kitchen and I sat there and thought about a beautiful little daughter who had just been born. I started thinking about a dedicated and loyal wife, who was over there asleep. And she could be taken from me, or I could be taken from her. And I got to the point that I couldn’t take it any longer. With my head in my hands, I bowed over the kitchen table and prayed aloud: “Lord, I’m down here trying to do what’s right. I think I’m right. I am here taking a stand for what I believe is right. But Lord, I must confess that I’m weak now, I’m faltering. I’m losing my courage. Now, I am afraid. . . . I have nothing left. I’ve come to the point where I can’t face it alone.”

It seemed as though I could hear the quiet assurance of an inner voice saying: “Martin Luther, stand up for righteousness. Stand up for justice. Stand up for truth. And lo, I will be with you. Even until the end of the world.”

I tell you I heard the voice of Jesus saying still to fight on. He promised never to leave me alone. At that moment I experienced the presence of the Divine as I had never experienced Him before. Almost at once my fears began to go. My uncertainty disappeared. I was ready to face anything.

Martin Luther King believed in justice. He believed in solving problems with peace instead of violence. He believed that love was stronger that hate. He believed in loving and serving others. And he shared these beliefs, in word and actions, with the world.

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. The true neighbor will risk his position, his prestige, and even his life for the welfare of others. In dangerous valleys and hazardous pathways, he will lift some bruised and beaten brother to a higher and more noble life."

“Everybody can be great...because anybody can serve. You don't have to have a college degree to serve. You don't have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.” 

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.” 

“Those who are not looking for happiness are the most likely to find it, because those who are searching forget that the surest way to be happy is to seek happiness for others.” 

 “Forgiveness is not an occasional act, it is a constant attitude.” 

“Life's most persistent and urgent question is, 'What are you doing for others?”

“If I cannot do great things, I can do small things in a great way.”

“Not everybody can be famous but everybody can be great, because greatness is determined by service.”

“Like anybody, I would like to have a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will.” 

Civil rights is about more than race relations. It's about giving the same opportunities and respect to everyone, without regard for their ethnicity, gender, or religion. It's about remembering who we are – children of God – and that our neighbors who share this planet are, too.

For none of these iniquities come of the Lord; for he doeth that which is good among the children of men; and he doeth nothing save it be plain unto the children of men; and he inviteth them all to come unto him and partake of his goodness; and he denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male and female; and he remembereth the heathen; and all are alike unto God, both Jew and Gentile. (Book of Mormon | 2 Nephi 26:33)

We can't change the past, and maybe we can't change the deep-rooted prejudices that some people have carried from childhood. But can we examine our own hearts, and rework our own thinking if we find groundless bias there? Can we do our part to make sure that the next generation is free from the burden of false assumptions and judgments?

Every culture has its problems, including mine. But I dream of a world where making a decision about the character of a fellow human being based on the the color of his eyes, or his hair, or his skin seems as preposterous as judging him by the color of his t-shirt.

We started a new family tradition last year, and we continued it tonight. We are celebrating Martin Luther King Day – and our own freedoms – with a scoop of vanilla and a scoop of chocolate ice cream: a symbolic reminder that we can find goodness and happiness in desserts, and in people, of different colors. We think it's a lesson worth enjoying.