When I first met MB, I knew within a few minutes that he was a soul mate. We were at a church dinner and had been assigned to help with the clean-up. While everyone else was eating and visiting, we were having way more fun working in the kitchen. You can learn more about a man’s character in the dishpan at a ward party than anywhere else in the church.
A few months later, his 11-year-old son died suddenly in his sleep from a familial seizure disorder. The seizures had become progressive, and the doctors were baffled when they could not achieve therapeutic drug levels despite increasing the dosage. After the funeral, the problem was identified when it was discovered that his son had been tossing most of his pills under the bed. I don’t recall doing anything extraordinary--just being there, taking food, and sharing the pain. I had a son and couldn’t begin to imagine what it was like.
Each spring we were assigned to head up to the Church Farm near Bone for the annual ward fencing project. Most of us didn’t know what we were doing and had no fencing skills or equipment and were more inclined to watch MB and JR get all the blessings. MB is the kind of man who knew what needed to be done and made it happen. He did this for years, often on his own accord. I have been in meetings when the local church leaders announced that it was time to start planning the annual fencing project and someone would say that MB and JR had already completed the project. MB is also the man who sent a handwritten letter to every missionary from our ward--every week for nearly 30 years. A bedroom was kept open for a neighbor boy who often felt more comfortable in MB’s home than in his own home next door. On the other hand, MB is the man who put a fridge in the Bishop’s office and filled it with cans of Pepsi so he could tolerate Bishopric meetings. This is the same man who sent half-naked hula girl postcards from Maui to our Stake President and signed my name. This probably kept me from having any major church callings for years. Despite all the nonsense, serving with MB taught me more about actually reaching people than almost anything else I have ever done. He made church stuff fun. I doubt that the young men we taught remember much about me or what I said, but they all remember MB--he taught by loving example, frequently taking his class into the church kitchen on Sunday, where they celebrated someone's birthday or just had a lesson on Root Beer and donuts. It was Camelot. The MB I know has deeply influenced generations of people who had ears to hear and have been fortunate to know him as a teacher, friend, or neighbor. His greatest lessons have been taught outside of the classroom as we watched him following the Master's path.
Thirty years ago I was teaching the 16-18-year-old young men about life's choices. At that time, I was still taking the progressive newspaper published in our conservative community. The Parade insert in the Sunday edition had an annual article on the salaries of the rich-and-famous, the once rich-and-famous, and the not-so-rich-or-famous. We used the article to launch a discussion about how personal choices, especially at their age, could make all the difference--temporally and spiritually. At the conclusion of the lesson, I asked the young men what they wanted to be when they grew up. One very astute young man, who later became an anesthesiologist, raised his hand and announced that he wanted to be like MB--everyone nodded in agreement. Emulation--there is no finer compliment. This young man’s older brother previously had been under MB’s wing for over four years before taking flight, eventually making national news when he sold his company in Utah for $2 billion. Just sayin'--he was one of those who had ears to hear. Last winter, these brothers spoke at their father's funeral. MB, who still identifies as their Home Teacher, drove hundreds of miles just to be with them and attend the funeral in Utah. For true believers, it does not end with time.
Ever vigilant,
RT
Comments