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I Could Always Come Home

I remember when I was just a little boy. I came home from school one Spring day, and as was my habit, I called my dog, Stockings and we went off to explore. Living on a ranch in a remote part of Idaho provided plenty of wilderness for that opportunity. I loved to wander through the trees, along the creeks, and across the hillsides. I loved it then and still do. The problem on this particular day was that I lost track of time. When I realized it was getting dark, I was miles from home. I knew I couldn’t make it back before it was too dark to see my way, and where I grew up, there was no such thing as street lights or signs; it was mountain country. I looked around and saw that I was closer to a neighboring ranch than my house. So I set out for their place, arriving just after dark. When I explained my situation to them and asked them to take me home, they didn’t seem all that interested. They said they would, but they moved slowly, and it got later and later, darker and darker.

I kept thinking, “I’m in trouble. My dad is going to have my hide.” Time dragged on, and my fear increased. It was dark and cold, and I was scared, nearly in a panic. Then I saw headlights coming up the rutted road. It was my dad. I was saved. But the look on his face quickly gave me to understand I had made a big mistake. He didn’t yell at me, he just pointed back down the mountain and said, “Start walking.”

I thought he must be joking. He wasn’t. Terrified, I walked a few hundred yards and sat down by the side of the road, my arms wrapped around my dog and began to cry. Dad pulled up a few minutes later and told me to get me in. I climbed into the warm pickup and he took me home. He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. I thought I knew what I had done wrong, but as it turned out, I had no idea.

We walked into the house. The lights were dim and my mother was sitting in a front room chair, crying like I had never seen her cry. When she saw me, she came out of the chair with a sob and threw her arms around me and cried with relief. She thought her little boy had fallen into the flooding creek behind the ranch and drowned. I will never forget that night and the pain and worry on my mother’s face. It hurt so much I tried never to do it again. I couldn’t bear it. My dad quietly allowed me to learn that hurting my mother was one of the worst things I could ever do. It was a lesson I never forgot.

My earliest recollections of my mother were that she was the loveliest woman alive. I thought I had the prettiest mother that any little boy could have. As I matured that opinion did not change. I used to brag that my mother was barely 5’2” and weighed 100 pounds; that she still had the figure of a cheerleader. We used to go on dates when I was in my early twenties and people would comment that she looked more like my girlfriend than my mother.

I remember, on more than one occasion, coming home from school and finding my mother exercising in the front room, and that was in the days when exercise was not a popular fad. And then there were those pleasant summer evenings when, after supper, Mother would go for a walk down through the fields on the ranch. Once in a while, I would tag along on my bicycle. She did it for the exercise. I went along because I was bored. Those moments with my mother are deeply imprinted, and to this day when I find myself out running on a little used road in the sagebrush, I remember with fondness those times with her. For most of my adult life, I have been an athlete, because of the example of my Mother.

My mother and I were friends. We still are. I could tell her anything and often still do. I never remember her once betraying my confidence. As a teenager, when I was looking for excitement, I would sneak into the kitchen and come up behind my mother who was cooking at the stove. Before she could react, I would grab her by the elbows, lift her up, and bump her head (gently of course) on the ceiling, and then drop her and run for my life. She would grab the first thing she could lay her hands on and chase me all through the house, pretending to be furious. Usually I was laughing so hard that she would catch me without a problem. She would pound on me and scold me, but we always wound up laughing. One had to be careful though in doing such things with my mother. She is a fireball. There was that day for example, when dad did something similar and she turned, swung her fist, and broke his nose. She may be small but she could keep me in line. She mastered the talent, when needful, of punching me on the point of the shoulder and paralyzing my arm. I loved my mother for those times of fun and banter but I always knew not to mess with her. She was a tough lady and could hold her own. Because of her I still love to tease and play with my own children and grandchildren.

One day, when I was just a boy, I connected that wonderful fragrance that seemed to emanate from her with a small bottle of perfume I found in her room. It was Channel #5. She laughed when I asked her if she was wearing “Channel 5.” She always smelled sweet and clean. And on that day when I graduated from High School, she took me out and bought me the very first suit I had ever owned. She then went out and got her hair done. I still look back at those pictures and think she was the most beautiful, refined and cultured woman I had ever met. I was as proud of her as she was of me. I have not a single recollection of her ever being immodest, vulgar, or profane. Far away on a ranch, in the back country of Idaho, she was a lady, refined and cultured.

I still remember those days when I would get off the school bus and walk through the front door and holler, “Mom,” and she always answered. There was only one day in seventeen years when I sounded that cry and she didn’t answer. The house felt so empty and forbidding that day without her. She was a homemaker. I don’t remember debates and conversations about her going to work. Her home was her work, and she did it well. We were her job, and she gave it more than full time. Her house was clean and tidy. You could set your clock by mealtimes. There wasn’t a huge variety of gourmet choices in the menu but what there was, was good.

She is famous for her homemade bread and pies. Some years after I was on my own, I so missed the smell and taste of her homemade bread that I determined I would make it for myself. It took years to figure it out, but now it is a tradition in our home. Still though, when Grandma comes to visit, my family wants her pies and rolls. I learned from my mother that there is something about fresh homemade bread that makes a house a home and every guest a family member.

I was in my twenties, long gone from home and working, when I was injured in an industrial accident. The ambulance came and took me to the hospital. The pain was unbearable. Upon arriving at the hospital, I was removed on a stretcher from the ambulance and my mother and dad were instantly at my side. I don’t know who told them, but they were there and they stayed there until I was stabilized. And that is how it has always been. I could always go home. I always felt welcome. I drove big trucks for many years and would wander in at all times of the day or night, and from wherever in the country I happened to be, and each time I came home, there was a unique feeling I sensed as soon as I walked in. I was home. To this day, I go to visit my parents, my mother still hugs me and wants to feed me. I cannot remember a time when she was not solicitous of my welfare. Perhaps that is why love has always meant actions more than words to me.

One autumn day I was so angry at my dad. I went home and sat at the table. When mom asked me what was the matter, I gave vent to my anger at dad, and I felt so justified, surely she would agree. To my surprise she cut me off cleanly. “Don’t talk that way about your dad!” She scolded. She said it with uncharacteristic force. I was so shocked I never did it again. It was the only time in my life I remember her shutting me down. My mother is loyal.

Some years ago, I teamed up with some wonderfully talented people to produce a stage musical entitled “Give Me Liberty.” On the night of our first performance, my parents were there sitting in the front. We came out on stage for the production finale. The music swelled, I spoke, we sang, and the show ended. I remember looking down and getting a lump in my throat as my parents were among the first to come to their feet for a prolonged standing ovation. The audience applause was gratifying, but the tears and appreciation of my parents meant everything. My mother has always been my best cheerleader. I’ve been a gospel teacher in one form or another all my adult life. Whether it was teaching in a classroom, writing newspaper columns for the religion section, sharing stories on the radio, or producing television shows, she has never failed to tell me how proud she is of me. Even when I was less than I should have been, she was proud of me and told me often. When some thought little of me and rejected me, she stood with me. Ironically, I don’t know that she understands or fully appreciates the spiritual significance of what I have given my life to, but it has not mattered. She was proud of me anyway. There are two groups of people that I cannot bare to disappoint, my family and my parents. I still want to please her and make her proud.

Many years ago, my aunt Dorothy, my mother’s oldest sister, passed away. My mother struggled terribly with the loss. Some months later, she pulled me aside and asked to talk to me. She said, “Son, when your dad and I pass away will you please be sure that our temple work is done?” When I suggested that she do it herself she said, “I can’t.” And that was all. Since that day she has reiterated that request.

My parents are not religious people. I was not raised to favor any one religion. Yet in spite of that I have sensed an undeveloped spiritual side to my mother that will one day find fruition. When I was baptized she was not at all upset at my choice as I expected her to be, but rather, was supportive of anything that would make me a better person.

I still pray that the Almighty will be merciful and kind to my parents. I have never had a father’s blessing or seen my mother in Temple whites, but I pray that I will.

My mother did not teach me to read scriptures, but she taught me to be good by being good. My mother did not teach me to pray or to have faith in the Almighty but by her example she plowed the soil of my soul so that the Spirit of the Lord could plant seeds. She taught me to be a hard-working, contributing citizen and a loving father by her example.

My mother could not have known what I would become, nor is she responsible for what I am. Those choices have been mine. However, if there is anything worthwhile about me and my service it could not have been without her and my father. It is, I believe as Elder Jeffery R. Holland has said,

“Our children take their flight into the future with our thrust and with our aim. And even as we anxiously watch that arrow in flight and know all the evils that can deflect its course after it has left our hand, nevertheless we take courage in remembering that the most important mortal factor in determining that arrow’s destination will be the stability, strength, and unwavering certainty of the holder of the bow” (Conference Report April 2003).

My mother taught me the best she knew and gave me all she had, and I will be forever grateful. No one can fault her for not teaching me what she herself did not know. She did her best and I want her in eternity. I have heard seasoned men tearfully refer to their mothers as angels. I’ve never seen an angel, but I cannot imagine they could ever love me more than she has.