Dana – Page 17 – Letters to Will

Dear Will:

Today I turned on the air conditioner for the first time this year. I admit that I felt a bit of trepidation as I reached for the switch, in part because a technician informed us last summer that the thing could die on us any minute, and in part because it reminded me of power shortages and rising rates. My guess is it’s going to be a long sweaty summer. So I don’t know about you, but I’m eager for the clouds to roll in and stay awhile. I know: wishful thinking.

I’ve been looking forward to writing to you so that I could share with you something that moved me profoundly. On Easter Sunday, my wife Dana had the daunting challenge of delivering the main message at our ward’s Easter service. In spite of my obvious bias, I think I can state with some objectivity that hers was a truly extraordinary discourse, delivered with great insight and spiritual force. So many people commented on it afterwards that I thought I would share some of it with you.

Here’s one short passage that is a sermon all by itself:

The day must have begun much like any other for blind Bartimaeus. He probably arrived early at the main gate of Jericho, tapping his way along the familiar turns to get to the highway before the merchants, the donkeys, camels, women carrying pitchers of water on their heads. There he would spend the day begging for bread, relying on the mercy of strangers to survive. But on that day Bartimaeus heard the hubbub of a great multitude approaching, and he heard the news being passed along—“Jesus of Nazareth is coming. The Messiah is here among us.” Bartimaeus, blind from birth, afraid of being trampled by the crowd, had only his ears and voice to find his Lord. “Jesus, thou Son of David, have mercy on me.” Repeatedly the people told him to be quiet. But he only cried louder, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.”

Bartimaeus was profoundly aware of the perpetual darkness in which he lived. Unlike many who are lost in spiritual darkness, he knew the Savior was his only hope, and so he cried out again and again, until Jesus, hearing his cry, called Bartimaeus to come to him.

In 1981, the Los Angeles Times reported on a woman named Anna Mae Pennica, 62 years old, blind from birth. A doctor from the Jules Stein Institute in Los Angeles performed surgery on Mrs. Pennica and removed the rare congenital cataracts from the lens of her left eye — and she saw for the first time ever.

The newspaper account tells us that since that day, Mrs. Pennica can hardly wait to get up every morning, put on her glasses, and enjoy the changing morning light. Think how wonderful it must have been for Anna Mae Pennica when she looked for the first time at faces she had only felt, or when she saw the colors of the Pacific sunset, or a tree waving its branches, or a bird in flight. The miracle of seeing for the first time after a lifetime of darkness can hardly be described. . . .

The first sight that Bartimaeus’s eyes fell upon was the face of Jesus—His eyes, His compassionate all-seeing eyes. Can you imagine that? What would you do for that sight? There is not one of us who does not need to cry out to the Savior, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.”

Do you sometimes find it hard to see in the dark? Do you feel the need to have your sight restored from time to time? Do you, like Bartimaeus, cry out for the Lord’s mercy? Is there a miracle of the heart for you in this story?

I hope there’s something in that simple tale for you as there was for me.

Dear Will:

It’s not every day you get a personal note from a neighbor you’ve never met—unless it’s some cheesy come-on or a request for money. I assure you that I’m not soliciting anything; this is merely an awkward attempt to introduce myself and offer my help as unobtrusively as possible.

Let’s start with the basics. My name is Peter Watkins. I live over on Avila Place, about a block or so from Linda Vista School where my daughter Bryn (she’s six) is in the first grade. My ten-year-old son, Luke, attends La Veta School as part of the GATE program, while my one-year-old, Seth, busies himself by making messes for others to clean up. My wife Dana and I have lived here since 1998.

We attend church at the Orange Second Ward over on Newport Avenue (that’s sort of where you come in). My guess is that over the years you’ve been visited sporadically by well-meaning members of that church trying to provide you some connection with the religion of your past. And I’m guessing that just about every time you’ve answered “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Fair enough. If you’re half as busy as I am, the last thing you want to do is give up a chunk of your evening to visit with some stranger. I’m sure that if I were in your position I’d feel the same way. So rather than do that to you, I’m proposing to simply drop you a friendly note from time to time, reminding you that we’re here and that we care.

At this point you’re supposed to roll your eyes and say something like, “Hey, pal, save the stamp.” Let me share a brief story to explain why, at least for now, I feel like this is 33 cents well spent:

Chuck was a guy, not too different from you, who lived just over the hill from my home. He was a nice enough fellow who nevertheless made it very clear that he wasn’t particularly interested in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints anymore, thank you very much. Then one night he went out for an evening stroll and started feeling chest pains—the kind that signal to your brain that now would maybe be a good time to call your doctor. He did and received a nifty heart bypass as a souvenir during his stay at St. Joseph.

Lying in that hospital bed got Chuck to thinking that it might be nice to receive a Priesthood blessing, the kind he remembered had provided powerful comfort during the time when he was attending church. The trouble was he didn’t know who to call.

The image of Chuck in that awkward gown, wondering where to turn, pains me to this day. I wish that he had had my number at home on the fridge or on a card in his wallet. I wish he had felt connected enough to me to call for my help. Now as it turns out, the Bishop and I eventually got word of Chuck’s ordeal (how is unimportant) and Chuck did receive a blessing. But I vowed then that no one in the Orange 2nd Ward should ever have that lonely feeling again. Chuck never did come visit our ward, but no matter. I now count him as my friend, and I know that if he needs me again, he will call. I know because he has.

Please don’t misunderstand. I share that story not to spook but to inspire: to let you know that, beginning with this letter, you will always have someone you can call. I pray to God that you never have chest pains or any other like crisis. On the other hand, should the day come that you feel like giving up a chunk of your evening to visit with some stranger, I hope you’ll call, and we’ll meet, and perhaps I won’t seem so strange. How’s that for a cheesy come-on?

Until that day, please accept my occasional notes as an act of friendship and nothing else.

Sincerely,

Letters to Will

Tag: Dana

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