In the late 1800's a congregational minister wrote a serial story for the youth of his congregation. That story was later published as the book In His Steps. Due to some copyright mistakes the book has passed into the public domain. I was moved by the book, and decided to update it for our time and to adjust it for a Mormon audience. This is the first chapter of that attempt.
Bishop Henry Maxwell was enjoying a solitary Saturday morning. Spring in Missouri had come cold and quiet, and the Bishop took his early morning study hours to prepare his annual Easter talk, though Easter was still two Sundays away. He thought of it as part of a bishop's responsibility to speak at least once a year, and he usually chose a holiday when more people were likely to be in church. With a family of six children he often found it difficult to meditate, ponder or prepare while everyone was awake. But these early-morning hours; these were a gift to be treasured in the company of his thoughts, his journal and his scriptures.
A convert to the church, Henry had come to his love of the scriptures as an adult, having missed out on the experience of learning the stories as a child. Because of that he had thrust himself into a heavy study of the scriptures immediately prior to and following his baptism, which had become a healthy obsession as he grew older. His journal reflected countless questions and answers that had both perplexed him and comforted him through the years.
He heard the sounds of his family stirring. He could hear the footsteps of his wife, Mary, making the rounds to wake the children, though waking teenage sons on a Saturday was more than a routine task. Knowing that if anyone was awake that meant that four-year-old Eliza would be bounding down the stairs ahead of the pack at any moment, and with her any opportunity for further study would vanish.
One more moment, perhaps. “For hereunto were ye called, because Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example, that ye should follow his steps.” His Easter sermon was to be a mixture of the story of the great sacrifice of the Savior and the practical nature of the Atonement in our everyday lives. It was coming together nicely, but there was something missing, something tangible, vital to his message.
It wouldn’t come today, as Eliza, on cue, burst into the room. “G’morning Daddy!”
Saturdays were predictably busy days for the Maxwells. As with all active latter-day saints, they avoided doing the regular mundane weekend tasks on Sundays, leaving Saturdays as the “get the work done day” for all the necessary chores. This was especially true for a bishop, who would likely be busier on his day of “rest” than any other day of the week. Though the weather had not yet warmed up enough for regular gardening, there were still a number of outdoors tasks to be done, which Henry and his two teenage boys set upon with vigor.
Bishop Maxwell was working on repairing a broken fence post with 15-year-old Thomas when his wife, Mary, called from the back porch. “Henry? Could you come here?”
As Henry approached her, she continued, “There is a man at the door asking for you.”
“Who is it?”
“I’ve never met him, but I saw him walking around downtown last week. I think he’s homeless.”
“Mmmm. Awkward for a bishop,” he muttered, mostly to himself, as he went around to the front door.
A man was standing at the door, a tattered baseball-style cap in one hand with the word “Simonds Trucking” in white script across the front of it. He shuffled his feet a little bit, not impatiently but more out of nervousness. Staring at the ground, he began.
“I got your name from the phone book. You’re a priest for the local Mormons, right?”
“Bishop, actually. Yes,” Bishop Maxwell answered haltingly.
“I’m sorry to bother you at home. I went to the church first--the other day--but I didn’t find anyone there. When I went there today there were some men playing basketball. They told me to come to talk to you, and I recognized your name from the phone book,” he repeated. He shuffled his feet again, and twisted the cap in his hands.
“I need work, sir, Reverend...Father,” he stammered.
“Bishop. Are you a member of the Church”
“Bishop...” he repeated, respectfully. “No, I’m not a member. I was a truck driver for Simonds in Wichita--more than 15 years worth of driving,” he said, his voice turning slightly nostalgic. It struck Bishop Maxwell that the man was probably about his same age, though he looked much older. “Simonds was an independent firm, did driving for Walmart, Stouffers, lots of big companies. Anyways, the economy and all...Simonds lost some big contracts and lots of us got cut off.”
“I’m sorry I can’t really help. Jobs are pretty scarce right now,” said Henry, backing away slightly.
“I’m not asking for a handout, sir. I want to work--I can do more than drive, I’m willing to do anything,” he said, continuing his nervousness, but seemingly surprised at his own semi-aggressive tone. “Anything.”
“I wish I could offer you something. I work for an accounting company, and we’re going through layoffs too,” answered Henry. “I’m sorry. I hope you find something,” he added, as an afterthought.
The man nodded and turned, placing the cap on his head as he started to shuffle off. “Thanks,” he said.
Bishop Maxwell called after him, “Have you eaten? Are you hungry--we’d be happy to feed you something...”
“No, thank you,” the man said, stopping briefly. “The shelter fed me well enough this morning. Thank you though.”
Bishop Maxwell nodded as he shut the front door. As he glanced through the window he caught a glimpse of the man walking slowly down the street. He had been sincere in his desire to work, but the Bishop could not think of anything he could do to help the man. He had several out-of-work members of his ward, and he didn’t have jobs for them either. There was something in this man’s countenance--a look of resigned despair--that had a certain elegant humility to it. Henry watched him for a few moments before the man disappeared behind the trees past the neighbor’s house.
The rest of that Saturday went by with further interruption. That evening the family sat down to dinner together, as they always tried to eat a family meal to begin their monthly fast. “You going out tonight, Thomas?” asked Henry.
“Yeah, Cory and Eric are going to watch movies at Sarah’s house.” Thomas was a socially talented boy, with a large group of friends, both boys and girls.
“Home before eleven,” said Mary, “and remember that we’re fasting.”
“Yeah,” answered Thomas, in that tone of voice that teenagers use to indicate that they heard you, but didn’t really listen. Bishop Maxwell let the minor defiance pass.
“What did that guy at the door want, Dad,” asked 11-year-old Rachel. She was an alert, caring girl, with powerful mothering instincts.
“He wanted a job,” said Henry. “Worked for Simonds--same as the Phillips’ dad,” he said more to his wife than to Rachel.
“Did you give him one?” Rachel persisted.
“Well...no, I didn’t have a job I could give him. It’s hard, with so many people needing work right now.”
“Did you give him some money?” she continued.
“He could have some of my money!” shouted seven-year-old Stephen. Everyone smiled; Stephen would give away everything he had to anyone who asked.
“That would be nice of you,” said Mary. With the regular chaos of dinner, Rachel dropped her questioning.
Sunday dawned clear and cool, with bright sunshine that teased at providing more warmth than anyone actually felt. Bishop Maxwell went early to the church to handle his weekly Sunday meetings, leaving Mary to get the rest of the family ready for the block of meetings at 10 a.m. Being Fast Sunday, the bishop did not have to worry about the speakers being on time or whether or not they would provide a strong spirit this week.
The Excelsior Ward was set in a strong middle-class community just north of Kansas City, Missouri. The ward members were pleased with their proximity to church historical sights in Independence, Liberty and Far West. Partly due to these attractions, the ward was one of the strongest wards outside of Utah, and a comparatively large percentage of the local population were members of the church.
The ward boasted several former mission president and a very high percentage of full tithe payers. Included in the congregation were a number of successful families: among others there was Sam Morgan, plant superintendent at a local warehouse; Virginia Jackson, a young, wealthy woman whose family had owned the large farm that had been turned into most of the houses in town; Cameron Chase, a successful journalist and returned missionary; and Jack Wolcott, publisher of the most widely circulated regional newspaper in the midwest.
The chapel had a pipe organ, a remnant from the days of non-standard ward buildings. The ward used this organ to great effect, having an excellent ward choir and hosting regular community musical events. One ward member had a glowing musical pedigree: Rose Winslow. Rose was a beautiful young woman in the ward, recently graduated from the University of Virginia with a degree in musical performance. The ward took full advantage of her voice when she was at home, asking of her solos and lead performances in ward choir numbers.
The quiet affluence of the congregation was apparent as the members took their seats on this Fast Sunday. Bishop Maxwell enjoyed sitting on the stand early, and watching as families took their usual seats, including his own family on the second row. The meeting proceeded as usual, with announcements and hymns and the passing of the sacrament.
On this particular Sunday, Bishop Maxwell conducted and therefore began the testimony portion of the meeting with his own words. He was an excellent speaker--a true natural at combining word and feeling into memorable talks. Even his impromptu testimony felt like a sonnet, with a natural rhythm and crescendo as he shared his genuine feelings about the Savior. But the bishop was not one to let his emotions overwhelm him when he spoke. He didn’t believe that one had to shed tears to indicate his spirituality, and he rarely gave in to that common occurrence.
Several testimonies were shared followed by intermittent stretches of silence. There were the usual brief remarks from small children and a few heartfelt thoughts from adults. As the meeting continued, virtually no one noticed the man with the baseball cap in his hands slip in the side door in the gym and listen intently to the various remarks.
As the bishop was contemplating closing the meeting, satisfied that all had had the opportunity to bear their testimonies, the man with cap stood up and asked for the portable microphone from one of the deacons. It would be hard to adequately describe the surprise that rippled through congregation as the stranger began.
“Hello. Er. Good Morning,” he said, and heads began to turn to see who was the man associated with this unrecognized voice and unfamiliar syntax for a Mormon meeting.
“My name is Michael Powers. I’ve never been to a Mormon church before, but I like the idea that preaching is for anybody to get up and do.” There were a few polite chuckles around the room.
“I’m not much for religion, but I believe in being a good man. I’ve been wandering around for months now, looking for work. Folks in your town have been nice to me, but lately I’ve been wondering--what does following Jesus mean to you folks? I’m not meaning to judge, just wondering...
“When I came in today y’all were singing a beautiful song.” He opened the hymn book that was on his bench. “ ‘Come follow me the Savior said. Then let us in his footsteps tread.’ So I was wondering, what does it mean to y’all to follow in Jesus’ footsteps?
People were riveted in their seats. No one could remember this type of direct commentary during a ward testimony meeting before. His words were not offensive or bitter; just direct. Bishop Maxwell watched from the edge of his seat on the stand, looking very sad at this man’s testimony.
“As I asked different people for work around here, no one was mean to me but mostly people just ignored me. About the nicest person was your bishop who at least offered to feed me if I was hungry. As I said I’ve been looking for work for a long time. I’ve slept in the street and eaten out of garbage cans. I’ve watched men pass out from hunger and exhaustion and stress. I’ve seen some of the strongest, toughest men I know break down and cry at not being able to feed their children.
“And then I hear people like you good people, sitting in here, dressed like you are, singing about following Jesus, and I ask myself, what does following Jesus mean? I don’t mean to be a jerk or anything, but I wonder...
“What would happen if all of the people who sang songs like that one actually went out and followed Jesus? I think that Christian people own a lot of businesses in this town, but none of them wanted to even talk to me. Were they following Jesus? No...” he stopped for a moment.
“No, that was mean. I don’t mean to be mean. I’m just asking.”
He started to shuffle his feet, just as he had done on the Bishop’s doorstep the previous day. His voice was raspy and breathy, and as he proceeded, he seemed to be laboring to get the words out.
“I drive a truck--drove a truck--for a living. Does that make me less of a person than you?” He coughed a little deeper.
“I’m sorry for interrupting your meeting. Just one more thing,” he paused, as if gathering his strength. “Yesterday, I came to your church here--just like I’ve gone to other churches for months--trying to find some Christian people to help me. There were some men here playing basketball, and they told me to talk to your Bishop. When I was walking away from your bishop’s house, I saw two of those man, and I sort of followed them for a while.” Several men shifted uncomfortably in their seats. “As they crossed the street, I heard them laughing,” he gathered himself some more, “laughing about me.
“I just stopped. They were laughing at how I was dressed, and why did I think that I would find someone to help them at the church. Can you believe that? I...”
He stumbled a little, and lurched forward. Several people near him turned toward the sound, as he stood up again.
“I’m not a bad man. I’m just in trouble, and I thought, well...it IS a church...” He coughed. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be mean...”
The man tried to sit down, but seemed to miss the chair and fell to the ground, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. As he collapsed, several ward members jumped to his aid, including Dr. Martin, a prominent local physician. Bishop Maxwell stood up on the stand to get a better look, and then he quickly sprinted up the aisle to the back of the chapel where the man lay.
For a few awkward moments the congregation stood transfixed at the scene before them. Brother Harrison, one of the bishop’s counselors, said quietly into the microphone, “We’ll consider this meeting adjourned,” as he pulled out his cell phone to call for help.
***This is only Chapter One of this story; I am trying to decide whether or not to continue writing it. I would appreciate feedback--positive and negative--either in the comments or via email. Thanks.
OK yyou cant stop now. I have to know how the story ends. I know how I want it to end but is that reality or jsut another story that meakes me feel good because man is inheritantly good and will always do the right thing.
Posted by: Dave Caswell | September 03, 2010 at 01:25 PM