"When Did You First Feel Like an Adult?"

I was reminded yet again this morning how grateful I have always been for the inspiration that came for my children Rich and Shauna to provide the Story Worth subscription to me. Whenever there isn’t a question waiting for me on Monday morning from a family member (and there have now been hundreds), then I get a random pre-programmed question automatically sent from Story Worth for consideration. Today’s is one such question.

The key word in this title to me is “FEEL.” The answer to the question is perhaps of more objective value to the young adults among us, and that is the reason I will attempt an answer.

In case you haven’t noticed, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has adopted lower ages for missionary service, and the response has been overwhelming among the members who have answered the invitation with enthusiasm. That includes not only my latest grandchildren like Chloe and Aleyha, Matthew and Amelia most recently, but I would submit we will continue to see record numbers serving in the coming years.

I think that is the first inkling of a “feeling” that I was becoming an adult. I had to wait until the ripe old age of 21 before I could submit my papers to serve, and back then wards were limited to two missionaries per year because of the demand for young men to serve in the Vietnam War. When I was chosen as one of two in the Federal Heights Ward that year, I was eligible and had the distinct feeling I was embarking on new and unexplored territory in adulthood. 

In rapid succession I was interviewed by my bishop, then the stake president, my papers were submitted to Church headquarters, and I received my call signed personally (not “auto-penned”) by President David O. McKay to serve in the North British Mission. Soon thereafter I was given my patriarchal blessing and entered the Mission Home in Salt Lake City for one week prior to shipping out to England. It was “adulting” on steroids for me. I flew overnight from Salt Lake to Chicago and landed in London at sunrise after a night of no sleep, then took the connecting flight to Leeds Airport, near Harrogate’s mission headquarters at Rossett Green.

I had been assigned as the “group leader” of the nine of us that day for our flight to Harrogate and I “lost” one of the elders along the way. Fortunately, we located him sleeping in a remote chair in the terminal in Chicago before our flight took off for London. My father had accompanied us on that first leg, as my flight coincided with business meetings he had in Chicago. 

When I said my final farewell to Dad that day, I knew for sure my childhood had ended and I would be embarking into “big boy” territory. That sleepy missionary was a constant source of trouble for me, even when I was serving later as his District Leader then as an Assistant to the President. He remained “lost” spiritually his whole two years. I had to open my missionary journal to refresh my memory of that story.

Life is a cumulative journey of awakenings for each of us, and the “formula” is going to be different for each one of us. I am now at the end of my mortal path literally and figuratively. I can look back now, which is the whole purpose of this Story Worth exercise I suppose. Even this morning as I pondered this question I thought of several instances where feeling like an adult for the first time had entered my consciousness.

I was a paperboy at age eight (long before minimum age work restrictions were imposed). I delivered newspapers from a two-sided bag slung over my handlebars of my Schwinn bicycle. I learned that by folding and banding the papers with a rubber band I could throw them onto the porches from the sidewalk as I rode by. The exception was having to get off my bike for delivery inside apartment buildings. That was all before ten-speeds were introduced.

In all four seasons I pedaled around a nearby neighborhood, then I had to go out monthly and knock on doors collecting the $2/per monthly subscription charge. I still remember how empowering it was to meet my customers on their doorsteps and ask for their $2. As one might imagine, I was greeted with all kinds of people on the other side of the door, some very kind and generous (even tippers), and others as mean-spirited and dismissive as you can imagine. I learned a lot about human nature as a young man, and it prepared me unknowingly for all those doors in England I would knock on later as a missionary going door-to-door with a message of the restored gospel in this dispensation.

Other jobs ensued as a teenager. I remembered just now an encouraging note from Mom in my lunch sack when I started a job in the maintenance department at the Primary Children’s Hospital. All along the way, Mom and Dad were supportive, encouraging me to find my independence in every way I could.

All these formative experiences contributed to my feelings of growing into an adult in time. I am grateful for the freedom they extended to me to “try my wings” as an upstart teenager, even when it meant encouraging me to forsake my wayward friends in the ward who were experimenting with the forbidden substances mentioned in the "Word of Wisdom." (Doctrine and Covenants 89). It was they who first introduced me to something called “pornography” in the basement bedroom of one of them way back in the day.

That one single decision to abandon them in my formative years proved to be the greatest determinant in establishing my own discipleship as a teenager, culminating in my call to serve as president of the East High Seminary in my senior year. That assignment cultivated a lifetime association with Elder John M. Madsen of the Seventy, who had served as a young Seminary teacher and our advisor when he was at East High too. He always made me feel like his peer, and his was a life truly worthy of emulation. Good choices, my dearest family members and readers, open the way to freedom and adulting here and now, and then the prospects of eternal life that I continue to aspire to.

Mickey Mantle

We often encounter examples of childish behavior in people we would otherwise like to enshrine as our heroes. Mickey Mantle was one of those people for me. He was a certified Hall of Famer later in his entire career as the centerfielder for the New York Yankees. I even tried switch-hitting because of his example, and I learned it was harder than he made it look. His career was prematurely truncated, however, because of his alcohol abuse, a fact he tearfully admitted to long after his retirement as he was dying of liver failure. It wasn’t uncommon in the ballplayers I saw during those years. Nicotine addiction was common also. There seemed to be no concern among those about coffee and tea, all forbidden substances. Word of Wisdom experimentation was the ever-present temptation to which many of my friends succumbed, and just like my baseball heroes their lives were tragically impacted by those early deviations.

I felt as though I were making critical adult and life-sustaining choices during those teenaged years. I applaud all of my posterity, each of you one by one in particular, for making the wise choices I see in evidence in all of you. Have the courage to continue on your path of discipleship. Believe me when I assure you that someday when you are writing your memoirs like I am these days that you will be filled with gratitude and the ability to look back in peace and tranquility.

For those who may struggle internally with your secret sins even as you are trying so hard to stay on course, let me gently suggest a visit with your bishop if needed. He is God’s servant on earth for each of you, and empowered with priesthood keys to bless your lives in ways you can’t possibly imagine until you counsel with him. 

The life of King David in the Bible is the classic example of one who seemingly “had it all” - wives and concubines numbering into the hundreds, wealth untold, absolute political power and earthly possessions. And yet, he was led into adultery and eventually planning the murder of a man who was married to the object of his lust. Be aware that none of us is exempt from the temptations of the adversary and all his minions.

So when did I begin to “feel” like the adult I became, as I’ve tried to lay it out this morning? It was NOT a blinding light from heaven, like it happened for Paul the Apostle on the road to Damascus as he was persecuting the early Christians. 

For me, at least, it was not a sudden burst of revelation. Rather, it was the cumulative experiences of a lifetime, just as daughter Allie said to me on Sunday at Chloe’s missionary farewell sacrament meeting - “One day at a time.” That’s how it happens for most of us, isn’t it? Don’t be too surprised when you stumble here and there along the path. The journey of mortality was never meant to be a casual stroll in the park on a sunny day. Even today, our normally spectacular Pine Valley is filled with choking smoke from surrounding wildfires as far away as Nevada. The smoke and haze, and the bumpy road is the only way we can ever hope to claim our blessings in eternity.

I am overflowing with love and admiration for all of you this morning. And, oh by the way, I’m still trying to “feel” more like an adult (he said with a broad smile on his face). I hope I can get it all figured out with my final hurdles in mortality still looming up ahead.

Be patient with yourselves and trust in the love of me, your earthly parents, Heavenly Father and your Savior Jesus Christ. Our love for you isn’t fleeting. Rather, it is ETERNAL.

Powerful True Story from World War II

There are many people in life who struggle with their circumstances, pondering repeatedly how hard their life seems to be in so many ways. I have a good friend, Jim Ritchie, who passes along his wisdom on a regular basis. I am fortunate to be in his e-mail distribution list. Here's a recent e-mail he sent out that I felt was inspirational, especially for folks like me who make up what later became known as the "baby boom generation" who missed the events of World War II - events that would change the lives not only of my parents, but also the lives of everyone on planet Earth. We sometimes forget it was young men who fought to preserve freedom, as this story clearly depicts. May we never forget the true heroes who died and never came home. I hope you enjoy:

True story.....

Each year I am hired to go to Washington, DC, with the eighth grade class from Clinton, WI, where I grew up, to videotape their trip. I greatly enjoy visiting our nation’s capital, and each year I take some special memories back with me. This fall's trip was especially memorable.  

Iwo Jima Memorial,
Arlington Cemetery, Washington D.C.

On the last night of our trip, we stopped at the Iwo Jima memorial. This memorial is the largest bronze statue in the world and depicts one of the most famous photographs in history -- that of the six brave soldiers raising the American flag at the top of a rocky hill on the island of Iwo Jima, Japan, during WW II.  

Over one hundred students and chaperones piled off the buses and headed towards the memorial. I noticed a solitary figure at the base of the statue, and as I got closer he asked, "Where are you guys from?"

I told him we were from Wisconsin. "Hey, I'm a cheese head, too! Come gather around, cheese heads, and I will tell you a story."

It was James Bradley who just happened to be in Washington, DC, to speak at the memorial the following day. He was there that night to say goodnight to his Dad, who had passed away. He was just about to leave when he saw the buses pull up. I videotaped him as he spoke to us, and received his permission to share what he said from my videotape. It is one thing to tour the incredible monuments filled with history in Washington, DC, but it is quite another to get the kind of insight we received that night.

When all had gathered around, he reverently began to speak. Here are his words that night:

"My name is James Bradley and I'm from Antigo, Wisconsin. My Dad is on that statue, and I wrote a book called Flags of Our Fathers. It is the story of the six boys you see behind me.  

Iwo Jima Memorial

"Six boys raised the flag. The first guy putting the pole in the ground is Harlon Block. Harlon was an all-state football player. He enlisted in the Marine Corps with all the senior members of his football team. They were off to play another type of game. A game called 'War.' But it didn't turn out to be a game. Harlon, at the age of 21, died with his intestines in his hands. I don't say that to gross you out, I say that because there are people who stand in front of this statue and talk about the glory of war. You guys need to know that most of the boys in Iwo Jima were 17, 18, and 19 years old - and it was so hard that the ones who did make it home never even would talk to their families about it.

(He pointed to the statue) "You see this next guy? That's Rene Gagnon from New Hampshire. If you took Rene's helmet off at the moment this photo was taken and looked in the webbing of that helmet, you would find a photograph, a photograph of his girlfriend. Rene put that in there for protection because he was scared. He was 18 years old. It was just boys who won the battle of Iwo Jima. Boys. Not old men.  

"The next guy here, the third guy in this tableau, was Sergeant Mike Strank. Mike is my hero. He was the hero of all these guys. They called him the 'old man' because he was so old. He was already 24. When Mike would motivate his boys in training camp, he didn't say, 'Let's go kill some Japanese' or 'Let's die for our country.' He knew he was talking to little boys. Instead he would say, 'You do what I say, and I'll get you home to your mothers.'

"The last guy on this side of the statue is Ira Hayes, a Pima Indian from Arizona. Ira Hayes was one of them who lived to walk off Iwo Jima. He went into the White House with my Dad. President Truman told him, 'You're a hero.' He told reporters, 'How can I feel like a hero when 250 of my buddies hit the island with me and only 27 of us walked off alive?'

"So you take your class at school, 250 of you spending a year together having fun, doing everything together. Then all 250 of you hit the beach, but only 27 of your classmates walk off alive. That was Ira Hayes. He had images of horror in his mind. Ira Hayes carried the pain home with him and eventually died dead drunk, face down, drowned in a very shallow puddle at the age of 32 (ten years after this picture was taken).  

"The next guy, going around the statue, is Franklin Sousley from Hilltop, Kentucky, a fun-lovin' hillbilly boy. His best friend, who is now 90, told me, 'Yeah, you know, we took two cows up on the porch of the Hilltop General Store. Then we strung wire across the stairs so the cows couldn't get down. Then we fed them Epsom salts. Those cows crapped all night.' Yes, he was a fun-lovin' hillbilly boy. Franklin died on Iwo Jima at the age of 19. When the telegram came to tell his mother that he was dead, it went to the Hilltop General Store. A barefoot boy ran that telegram up to his mother's farm. The neighbors could hear her scream all night and into the morning. Those neighbors lived a quarter of a mile away.

'The next guy, as we continue to go around the statue, is my Dad, John Bradley, from Antigo, Wisconsin, where I was raised. My Dad lived until 1994, but he would never give interviews.

"When Walter Cronkite's producers or the New York Times would call, we were trained as little kids to say 'No, I'm sorry, sir, my Dad's not here. He is in Canada fishing. No, there is no phone there, sir. No, we don't know when he is coming back.' My Dad never fished or even went to Canada. Usually, he was sitting there right at the table eating his Campbell 's soup. But we had to tell the press that he was out fishing. He didn't want to talk to the press.  

"You see, like Ira Hayes, my Dad didn't see himself as a hero. Everyone thinks these guys are heroes, 'cause they are in a photo and on a monument. My Dad knew better. He was a medic. John Bradley from Wisconsin was a combat caregiver. On Iwo Jima he probably held over 200 boys as they died. And when boys died on Iwo Jima, they writhed and screamed, without any medication or help with the pain.  

"When I was a little boy, my third-grade teacher told me that my Dad was a hero. When I went home and told my Dad that, he looked at me and said, 'I want you always to remember that the heroes of Iwo Jima are the guys who did not come back. Did NOT come back.'  

"So that's the story about six nice young boys. Three died on Iwo Jima, and three came back as national heroes. Overall, 7,000 boys died on Iwo Jima in the worst battle in the history of the Marine Corps. My voice is giving out, so I will end here. Thank you for your time."

Suddenly, the monument wasn't just a big old piece of metal with a flag sticking out of the top. It came to life before our eyes with the heartfelt words of a son who did, indeed, have a father who was a hero. Maybe not a hero for the reasons most people would believe, but a hero nonetheless.  

One thing I learned while on tour with my eighth-grade students in DC that is not mentioned here is that if you look at the statue very closely and count the number of hands raising the flag, there are 13. When the man who made the statue was asked why there were 13, he simply said the 13th hand was the hand of God.