Seth – Page 17 – Letters to Will

Dear Will:

Today we celebrated my son Seth’s second birthday. Throwing a party for two-year-olds is a little tricky since they are as likely to become interested in their shoelaces as in the activity of the moment. Recognizing that we would not have a whole lot of attention span to work with, my wife and I designed a lot of activities that could go start-to-finish in a few minutes and which could be abandoned without consequence should our constituents wander off to play under the kitchen table. We also had the good sense to invite just one other two-year-old to the party.

Everything pretty much went as expected. I felt a bit like a sheepdog from time to time, but for the most part the kids got into it. (One piece of advice: Next time you’re entertaining two-year-olds, skip the piñata.) When it came time to open presents, you can probably guess what happened: After opening the first gift (a giant Tonka truck), Seth was pretty much done. We kept foisting other presents upon him, but we could easily have stopped after the truck and he would have been perfectly happy. There are still a half a dozen other presents remaining to be opened, but to be honest Seth really couldn’t care less.

His indifference is to be expected, I suppose, but I admit to feeling a little disappointed. We got him some really great stuff (a real Radio Flyer tricycle, for example) but he’s willing to settle for much less. Now I realize the guilty parties in this little tableau are the eager-to-spoil parents rather than the content-with-what-he-has toddler, but nevertheless it occurs to me that the whole thing is in a small way emblematic of a common, eternal phenomenon.

I’ve got a pretty good hunch that our Heavenly Father has a lot He would like to give us—in fact, we are probably incapable of conceiving the enormity of it. But His ability to give is constrained by our ability to receive. In the Book of Mormon we read:

For behold, thus saith the Lord God: I will give unto the children of men line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little; and blessed are those who hearken unto my precepts, and lend an ear unto my counsel, for they shall learn wisdom; for unto him that receiveth I will give more; and from them that shall say, We have enough, from them shall be taken away even that which they have. (2 Nephi 28:30)

I wonder how often I have prevented God from blessing me because I have not taken full advantage of that with which he has previously blessed me. I fear that my indifference has deprived me of greater blessings. And I wonder to what degree my own lack of faith in this life may prevent Him from bestowing upon me the unfathomable blessings of eternity that He has promised “those who love Him.”

I’d hate to settle for the Tonka truck when He is prepared to give me a Radio Flyer—if you know what I mean. It may be a lame analogy, but it seems relevant to me, especially as I consider how easily distracted I become in pursuit of my spiritual goals. I guess in the eternal scheme I’m the two-year-old, and I’m hoping that you’re more grown up than I. Here’s hoping, in any case, that you’re quick to acknowledge the ways in which God has blessed you, and that He may bless you much more in the months to come.

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: Seth

Settling for a Tonka Truck

First Letter