About four years ago, ol’ Rulon was teaching in the High Priests Quorum of my ward in Squirrel, Idaho on the subject of getting your hide to heaven.  Somewhere along the line, the Teacher’s manual started on about Joseph Smith talking about getting your Calling and Election Made Sure.  Now, though it ain’t nothing I’m proud of, I know I’m inclined ever now and again to chaw a little tobacco, and I know most a the old boys in my Quorum well enough to know who has their own share of trials and tribulations, so I figured there ain’t a one of us could relate to ol’ Joe on this particular issue.  But just for the sake of discussion, I asked ‘em anyway how many had received their calling and election.  Four hands shot up.

Well, I’m here to tell you, that took me a bit by surprise.  One a them was my neighbor, Delmer Oelstadt just down the road a mile or two, and I could remember clear as a bell the day not too long ago when he chased a brush salesman off a his property with a 12 gauge ‘cause the poor bugger had gone and run over old Delmar’s prize rooster pulling into the drive.  Delmer and that rooster had won grand champion ribbons at two State Fairs, and that critter wasn’t good for nothing now but McNuggets.  Anyhow, recollecting that event, I pulled ol’ Delmar aside after meeting that day and asked him what’s up.

“Well,” he said, “got my Calling and Election Made sure a while back, and just so long as I didn’t pull the trigger on that fella, I was still on the short track to Celestial Glory.  Besides, I reckon I could a made a good case for sheddin’ his blood, seeing how he run over my rooster.”

That was all I needed to hear.  I made up my mind then and there to get me some a that Calling and Election Made Sure so I could quit worrying about all them vices I can’t seem to lick.  The way I seen it, I had two choices.  One, I could live the rest of my life like an exemplary kind a fella, and slowly work myself to being good enough in the sight of the Almighty, and hopefully be found worthy before I die so I could go in peace.  Or, I could really hit it hard for a short period of time, probably making my life nigh unto unbearable for a brief period, but getting the job done soon enough that I could enjoy the last few years a my life without all the pressure.  I ain’t a patient man.  I went with plan B.

For six long months, I was the most righteous son of a bitch you ever laid eyes on.  I got my home teaching done on the first of the month, read whole chapters of the scriptures every day, and spent dang near as much time on my knees in prayer as I did out keeping the sheep out of mother’s flower garden, only with a good deal less cussing.  I did everything the Bishop ever asked, volunteered for every service project and every temple assignment.  I visited the sick and the needy, and one time even clothed the poor.  For six months I hit it so hard that my wife like to thought I would be translated right then and there.  But there weren’t no appearance by the Lord telling me I was in.

That was when I fasted.  I figured forty days was good enough for Jesus, so that was my goal.  Forty days with nothing but a couple of glasses of water a day and I thought for sure Jesus would appear.  And by gum, He did.  Right about day 28, when I was in a catatonic state and my wife was threatening to screw it all up by taking me to the hospital, Jesus appeared to me like in a dream, and said, “Rulon, you’re in.  You’re a going to heaven.  Now go get yourself some feed.” 

That was four years ago, and I’m here to tell you, life ain’t ever been the same since.  Oh sure, there’s still all the usual chores, all the usual pains.  I mean, hell, just ‘cause a man’s got his Calling and Election Made Sure don’t make him all powerful enough to have the crops plant themselves, or horses shovel out their own stalls.  But the difference is now, if I whack my head on the beams in the hay loft, or smack my thumb shoeing the horses, and a colorful word or two flies out a my mouth—no harm done.  Ain’t bad enough to cancel out the blessing.  Or if I have to run the tractor into town on a Sunday to fill ‘er her up ‘cause I forgot to do it on Saturday, oh-dee-well-well.  One day I was feeling especially spry, and chased the Jehovah’s Witnesses off the Wesson place with a couple shots of my .45, but a course I wasn’t really aiming at ‘em.  And none a that matters even one twit anymore, now that I got my ticket to heaven punched by the Lord.  Oh, and I chew tobacco whenever I want now, and the Bishop, he can’t do a thing about it!  Life is good, brothers and sisters, mighty dang good.

Here’s hoping you get your ticket punched, too, and ol’ Rulon will be seeing you in the Celestial Kingdom, by and by.