Editor's note: With the upcoming 100-year celebration of the LDS Church's seminary program, Mormon Times is sharing experiences and blessings of seminary.
A series of recent events has caused me to reflect on a couple of very important eternal principals: gratitude and love.
Recently, the new wife of a former student called to thank me for my influence on her husband during his high school years. Deeply touched, I remembered teachers in my past who were long overdue thanks. While there have been many, one man came to mind again and again — a seminary teacher.
Oddly, my contact with this man was fleeting. I did not enroll in seminary, I never sat in his class, nor did I attend a meeting with him, yet his impact on my life was profound. Odder still, not a month later, a classmate called to invite me to an open house in honor of this man’s 70th birthday.
The day arrived and as my wife and I traveled from Idaho to Utah, I wondered how many and which of my classmates would attend. After all, it had been more than 30 years and there were more than 700 students in our graduating class. As we pulled into the parking lot of the community center in Farmington, the number of cars in the lot surprised us. As we walked in the doors to a sea of semi-familiar faces and even more familiar voices, those 30 years seemed to melt away and my high school experience seemed only the day before.
My story of this man is certainly not unique and differs from those of my classmates only in the details, but I would like to share my story of this extraordinary man, this master teacher.
In the mid-1970s I was a bit of a rebel — not fully out of control, mind you; I just wouldn't have been your first choice to date your daughter. Although I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, on good days I was apathetic; on bad days, I was nearly apostate. I had been disaffected by the judgmental attitude of some of our members and, in turn, became judgmental myself.
The group I associated with —my kids would say "hung with" — were mostly self-professed questioners, which was not too unusual at that age. Many attended Mormon seminary classes, but claimed it was because their folks made them. Bit by bit, I began to hear snatches of conversation in the halls, first between the seminary council-types and then later among my own group of friends.
“Wow, Bro. ----- said..."
"Did you hear Bro. -----?"
"In Bro. -----'s class...”
About the same time, this guy himself began to show up everywhere — in the halls, at lunch, during assemblies and at games. He even showed up at one of my swim meets. Most teachers didn’t do that. This guy with the big goofy smile and booming voice stopped me at a pep assembly, called me by name, took me by the hand, slapped me on the back and loudly announced, “Great swim last week and good luck today.” I was floored.
"Who is this guy?" I asked my buddy Dean, a wrestler and, along with me, a founding member of the questioners.
With an odd light in he eyes, Dean answered, “Oh, that’s just Bro. -----.”
This amazing teacher became a fixture for our graduating class, and not for just the church members. Each student in our class was known by him and emotionally touched in some way by this man. He shared with us the triumphs and tragedies, real and perceived, of our high school experience. He grieved with us when we lost a loved member to an evil man and a horrible criminal act, and then he helped us make peace with such a senseless occurrence. He celebrated with us at our graduation. He helped us to come of age.
This humble man’s impact became the catalyst for my own introspection and realization of the God-shaped hole in my life — and my story is far from unique.
As we met in Farmington that late summer day to honor and thank our teacher, mentor and friend, this poem was written, a poor attempt to enumerate the gifts he shared and the lessons he taught.
You saw us, not as we were but as God intended us
And you told us you loved us
You knew us as a group
But you loved us as individuals
And you told us you loved us
You watched us stumble, as kids do
And reminded us God’s forgiveness is eternal
And you told us you loved us
You saw us judge ourselves and others
And showed us the worth of each
And you told us you loved us
You gave us of yourself
And we learned to give
And you told us you loved us
You touched our hearts, our lives
And we try to honor the gift you gave
As we tell them we love them
With our eternal respect, profound thanks and abiding love,
Viewmont High Class of 75
Tell them you love them. Tell them in word, in deed, in all you do. This is the gift he gave. This powerful truth was well known not only by this good brother, but by another master teacher, long ago, in Galilee. The love and concern he showed have had a cascading affect beyond any ability to calculate. Not only for my classmates and me, but for each of the classes of young people he touched in his 20 years as a teacher.
The monument we build with our lives is made not of stone, but rather is the sum total, for good or evil, of the effect we have on all the people we encounter. This is the legacy we leave. This is the shadow we each cast. Given this, wherever you are, whoever you are, you should give thanks for a master teacher. Chances are, without your knowing, your life has been touched by this humble man, this master teacher. This is his legacy. This is the shadow he cast.
I would like to note that, having written this, I shared it with this brother and it is the measure of the man that he ask his name not be used. I honor his request but want the church and the world to know that lives were changed more than 30 years ago as a humble man taught powerful truths to a group of young people. Even more importantly, he told us, in word and deed, that he loved us.
Guy Bliesner is a longtime educator, having taught and coached tennis and swimming. He is school safety and security administrator for the Bonneville School District in Idaho Falls, Idaho. Guy has been married for 26 years and has three children.