Pro Opere et Gloria Dei

I tried to find a verse in scripture that typified the life of my son, Benjy. There were many, but I found one that seemed to fit best. In Mosiah 2:17 we read, “I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow being, ye are only in the service of your God.” In August 1972, the Allen and Everts families visited the Lagoon amusement park here in Davis County. My parents, brothers and sister, son Jay and nephew Jeremy all enjoyed the day, despite the summer heat. That is, until about mid-afternoon when my wife, Vickie, who was expecting our second child, was exposed to an unknown allergen—an insect bite or something she ate—which set off a rapid anaphylactic reaction. She quickly went into shock, with signs indicating she was not receiving enough oxygen. It would be well over an hour before Vickie arrived at the emergency room. Rapid treatment by the medical staff quickly reversed the life-threatening

I just wanted to share my thoughts, including some of those from the memorial service: It seems like a futile endeavor, sharing thoughts that still race too quickly to capture with words. I feel more deeply with each passing day the loss of Yvonne from my life, and I've started to get very sentimental about all the odds-and-ends that still fill the room. It's apparent that not all of them can stay. The clothes she had hanging in the closet are being donated to charity, but the act of removing them is an emotional struggle. I stare at the increasingly empty space those clothes left behind, and fight back tears. None of these things mattered much when Yvonne was living, but now it's proving difficult to say good-bye. I walk through the house, being reminded of the things that I meant to get done but never quite got to. Now those little chores, which took a back seat to other, more important things, haunt me like missed opportunities, chances I had to show Yvonne I cared. I

I sat through Fast and Testimony meeting Sunday , enjoying the words of others as they expressed gratitude for the blessings of 2010. As I listened I reflected on the past year and its meaning to me personally. The automatic tendency was to dismiss the year as one of those that left me glad it was over. First, there was the trial of Benjy's life-threatening illness, followed by my dad's passing in September. It seems the brightest spot in an otherwise murky year had been Jay's 40th birthday celebration. 2010 had been weighed in the balance, and found wanting. But as I listened further, I came to feel 2010 really wasn't really so bad. Benjy survived his illness, and I was grateful. I thought of how proud I was of all my children, and I was grateful for their examples of strength, patience, and love. Even my father's death had proven to be less difficult for me than I had expected. Now, with Mindy facing another serious medical procedure, I was again thankful for the

September 26, 2010 was the day my father passed away. In the time since that event, I have been unexpectedly serene. Though I long feared facing the loss of a parent, something that is an almost universal rite of passage, the experience has proven to be a source of reassurance and comfort. My father wasn't one to show his pain, and the cancer that eventually took his life progressed undetected as he stoically endured the initial discomfort. When I learned of his terminal condition, I knew immediately that it wouldn't be long before he passed on. As it turned out, we had two months in which to say goodbye. It was a tender mercy, as it turned out, allowing me to reach a place spiritually where I could be comfortable when God actually called Dad home. During those first few days after his passing, I recalled a lifetime of memories as I composed his eulogy. The following words are from that tribute, which I gave at the funeral October 1. Ronald Allen was to those who knew him a tr

Some events force us to acknowledge where we are in life, and how we got here. In the wake of my son Benjy's life-threatening experience I have been doing just that, evaluating and re-evaluating what I’ve been doing with my time on earth. I suppose everyone feels some emptiness when they think of things not said or done, things that would have made a real difference in their lives, and those of others as well. For a parent, such lost opportunities are especially painful to contemplate. We see with time that while we may have done some things very well, there are myriads of things we wish we could revisit, applying the wisdom of experience and age. If we only had those choices to make again. In my past I have been frequently too concerned with my own welfare and the quality of my own life. I once thought I was missing some invaluable life experiences, and in many ways that was true. Poor choices have a way of propagating themselves, and each decision I made too hastily ended up limi

I'm at work. It's 5:30 a.m., not too early for me to be here, but when I have no pressing assignments, it's pretty strange to find myself sitting at a desk that's clear of work, pondering the universe. So I decided to journalize my thoughts, trite though they may be. This has been, as Spencer W. Kimball once described it, a "silent, sleepless night." I have been up since precisely 12:00 midnight, enjoying some rare mental and spiritual space, knowing somehow I would not get to sleep, but not getting upset or worried about the day ahead. I feel, in a strange way, more energized than usual. My mind feels free, confident, and relaxed. My attitude is one of illogical optimism. And I know why. I used to struggle with my sense of disempowerment, frustrated that I hadn't yet solved many of the major issues that have plagued me for what seems to be my entire life. I'm not talking about world hunger or peaceful coexistence. Scratch that - maybe I have been wor