I grew up in a small
village in the Rocky Mountains some 165 miles north of Salt Lake City. I look
back upon those first 19 years as the formative process for a child of pioneer
stock, of a band of Mormon believers sent to our valley to found a community bonded
by faith, hard work, trust in each other and a God who spoke from Heaven to
individual souls who were anxiously engaged in the good causes of life.
I recall that by the
time of my late-teens a sense of religious duty seemed irresistible as it prompted
some sort of postponement of my growing sense of independence and what my
future might look like in terms of education and vocation.
I grew up only partially
active in the Church and that mostly for social reasons. I grew up relatively
free from parental pressure to go to church and if I attended for reasons other
than social and connected to my love life, it would have been a response to the
unrelenting and guilt-making pressure from my beloved Grandmother. Grandma Ruger was the one who taught me the religious
stuff like prayers but who could not seem to tolerate any form of
disappointment in her expectations and wishes that we be good active Mormons.
When I entered the age
of availability - 19 years - and aware of our ward's missionary-minded bishop,
Glen Yost, I tried to stay low on his radar. But my attempt to avoid the bishop
was only half-hearted in that the sense of pride in being thought of as
mission-worthy did much to challenge any critical thought on my part about
putting my life ahead of the Lord's need of me.
Bishop Yost easily
cornered me one Tuesday or Wednesday night at MIA and I knew what he wanted. I
was next in line among his harvesting of local recent high school graduates and
urging them to fulfill a mission for the Church. Even as I was gathered in and
cornered in his office I knew that I would probably agree to go.
My own assessment of how
I might be a man worthy of a mission call was somewhat tempered by an inner
awareness and admission that I was a social Mormon more than a testimony
Mormon.
No one more than I was
aware that I had not prayed according to the Moroni formula in chapter 10 of
the Book of Mormon which was a constant teaching theme in Church, MIA and
Seminary classes.
No one more than I was
aware that I had been going through the duty motions to please family and peers
more than a consequence of the inner-convicted faith of someone like Nephi in
the Book of Mormon.
The only
"spiritual" moving experiences seemed to come with my response to
Mormon music - mostly the hymns that I liked the best. I've only recently come
to realize that I have been brought "spiritually" to tears more by
music than the spoken word, more by the tune and melody of a favorite hymn than
any sermon or lesson.
That is still true
today.
Back then no one more
than I was aware that my kidding and joking and lack of seriousness that
interjected itself into almost any religious discussion with my friends was
closer to the real me than any sense of piety and future religious devotion.
But I listened to Bishop
Yost make his pitch and almost without hesitation, perhaps as a habit of going
along with whoever I wanted not to be disappointed in me, I told him I would
think about going.
Within a week, having
added a dose of serious do or don't to the issues of life, I experienced what
seems like my first religious prompting.
I was moving irrigation
pipe and thinking about whether or not I would go on a mission. At some point I
forgot about the mechanics of moving pipe and got lost in my thoughts. A few
minutes later I realized that I was pondering about what a mission would be
like for me all the while a hymn, The Spirit of God Like a Fire is Burning, was
playing over and over again in my head.
That then was the
closest I had ever come to experience and believing that the Lord was bringing
something to my personal attention ... in my memory that is the first time I
was ever prompted by God.
Contacting Bishop Yost
with the good news of my agreeing to go was the easiest next step. Of course
then he went right for the jugular in terms of preparation and repentance.
I'd have to quit my
secret smoking on the way to and from pipe moving and with my friends in the
evening. It wasn't as secret as I thought and my mother confirmed that years
later when we were joking about how I thought I was fooling people.
All this took place in
the early summer of 1965. By August and my 19th birthday I'd received my
Patriarchal Blessing and a call to the Spanish American Mission in Texas and
New Mexico. I was disappointed for a while because I had requested and had my
heart set on Peru. I guess Texas and Spanish was the best I could get.
I do not recall any
further promptings until I entered the mission home in Salt Lake and the
enormity (well to me it WAS enormous) of what I'd done and how I was locked in
to a way of life for the next 2 1/2 years hit me.
I had no sense of
"trying this one out" and having any right to change my mind and give
it up. My mother, who was not active, had flat out told me that if I went I had
to complete it and that she would not have me come home early. She was
referring to being sent home from my mission for getting in trouble or serious
sinfulness but it didn't matter. I was her oldest and if she agreed to have me
go there was no way of ever wrecking her opinion of me by trying to the right
thing and failing.
So into the mission home
I went, experiencing the most intense and powerful moment of reluctance and
change of mind I would have over the next 30 months. The mission home was full
of the kinds of guys I had come to both envy and detest because they came from
active families or because they came already testimonied-up and because they
looked and acted so damned happy to be there.
I on the other hand did
not feel that way.
Before I got out of the
car my mother had hinted that I could still change my mind … and I was tempted.
But then my grandmother was there and ready to literally bawl me out if I tried
to change my mind. Coupled with the awareness that I did not want my mother to
see me try and fail at anything, I outwardly avoided changing my mind.
I went into the mission
home feeling more than ever that I had faked my way through things once too
often.
All I had going for me
was my new suit, my new missionary Bible with its center section full of
interesting stuff and my new Book of Mormon. Both books had my name and title
embossed on the front. Elder Arthur Ruger ... at least I felt like a dignified
faker.
I was given an English
copy of the missionary Six Discussions and told to start memorizing. Later I
would be given the same thing in Spanish after I got to the Language Training
Mission at BYU in Provo. Well, it was something other than the bible and Book
of Mormon so I looked it over.
... and saw the things I
would be teaching and testifying to non-members interested in the Church. Then
I knew about the fear of exposure as a fraud and how I would seriously struggle
saying any of that "I know" and "I testify” stuff in the
discussions with strangers while maintaining a straight face.
I went after the formula
testimony as instructed. Ask God if it's true and you will feel it. I didn't
know what the hell that felt like and to my memory my bosom never even
scorched, let alone burned.
Maybe my pipe-moving
moment was my burning bosom ... but my bosom had not burned and my rubber boots
leaked as I squished my way back and forth across the field in August humming
The Spirit of God Like a Fire is Burning in my head.
I suppose I made that
pipe-moving epiphany do for my burning bosom for a long time since there was no
way I was going to back out of this predicament. But I'll tell you ... 30
months looked like an endless time frame and I felt something akin to having
entrapped myself inextricably in
quicksand where I would only be able to tread water and hopefully keep
my nose out of it.
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