Hidden Wedges (I)

I just found this version while researching President Monson's use of the same story.  I like what President (then-Elder) Kimball says here.

HIDDEN WEDGES

Spencer W. Kimball
of The Council of The Twelve

Published by Deseret Book Company
Salt Lake City, Utah
1974

Last night, I lay awake some hours thinking of the problems of the day. Through my office all week had filed people—wonderful people, but folks bowed down in grief, sorrow, anguish of soul; folks learning repentance through life's penalties; people frustrated in their marital upsets; in their moral aberrations, in their financial reverses, and in their spiritual deficiencies.

I wondered why all these frustrations and sorrows in a world intended to be so desirable and happy. As I pondered, I concluded that most of these people were good people basically, but as they traveled along the highway of life, they had found difficulty in staying on the main highway and had deviated in the side roads; they had forgotten promises and covenants; they had postponed putting into effect the good resolutions which were determined by them in their sober moments. They had been selfish and they had procrastinated.

And my mind wandered back to a childhood experience which seemed to relate to these serious problems of life.

When I was a little boy in Arizona, in the red brick home with its large rooms and high ceilings, it was my chore to bring in the wood, which included chips from the woodpile and dry twigs from tree trimmings to keep the home warm, with a wood box always full. The wood range with its six holes, its hot water reservoir, its large oven and big fire box seemed to have an insatiable hunger. Its consumption of wood seemed to me unreasonable when I related to it the play-time I had to give up to supply its hungry mouth.

There was also the fireplace which would take chunks and larger-sized logs and the smaller stoves with isinglass fronts in the sitting room and the parlor which also demanded fuel. The bedrooms were never warm except by the summer heat. We just piled on blankets and quilts for comfortable sleeping.

We grew our own wood. From the orchard came the tree trimmings, and having stuck in the ground cottonwood poles, we always had big trees for larger wood. Most of the limbs we hauled in the wagon, but the larger trunks we dragged with the horses to the wood yard, and since they were too large to split with the axe, here was where I used the wedge. Often, as I split the heavy pieces of wood, I remembered the story of Abe Lincoln's youth and it comforted me—a little.

We started the iron wedge in the log by tapping lightly and then with the sledge hammer and mighty blows, drove it into the heart of the log until it split it wide open. Sometimes, there were cedars from the foothills and mesquite from the desert above the canals, and all gave way into proper-sized pieces of wood when the wedge, the sledge hammer and strong muscles cooperated.

And, as I lay sleepless this night reminiscing, there came to my mind an article from the pen of Samuel T. Whitman titled "Forgotten Wedges," which stirred me and from which I wish to quote:

The ice storm wasn't generally destructive. True, a few wires came down, and there was a sudden jump in accidents along the highway. Walking out of doors became unpleasant and difficult. It was disagreeable weather, but it was not serious. Normally, the big walnut tree could easily have borne the weight that formed on its spreading limbs. It was the iron wedge in its heart that caused the damage.

The story of the iron wedge began years ago when the white-haired farmer was a lad on his father's homestead. The sawmill had then only recently been moved from the valley, and the settlers were still finding tools and odd pieces of equipment scattered about where they had been lost or abandoned.

On this particular day, it was a faller's wedge—wide, flat, and heavy, a foot or more long, and splayed from mighty poundings. The path from the south pasture did not pass the woodshed; and, because he was already late for dinner, the lad laid the wedge, edge up, between the limbs of the young walnut tree his father had planted near the front gate. He would take the wedge to the shed right after dinner, or sometime when he was going that way.

He truly meant to, but he never did. It was there between the limbs, a little tight, when he attained his manhood. It was there, now firmly gripped, when he married and took over his father's farm. It was half grown over on the day the threshing crew ate dinner under the tree. A corner of the blade still protruded when he reorganized the yard and left the tree in an out-of-the-way corner. After that, it was forgotten, except at rare intervals. The farmer's hair turned white. Old age beckoned just around the corner. Grown in and healed over, the wedge was still in the tree the winter the ice storm came.

In the chill silence of that wintry night, with the mist like rain sifting down and freezing where it fell, one of the three major limbs split away from the trunk and crashed to the ground. This so unbalanced the remainder of the top that it, too, split apart and went down. When the storm was over, not a twig of the once-proud tree remained.

The next morning, the farmer went out to mourn his loss. "Wouldn't have had that happen for a thousand dollars," he said. "Prettiest tree in the valley, that was."

Then, his eyes caught sight of something in the splintered ruin. "The wedge," he muttered reproachfully. "The wedge I found in the south pasture." A glance told him why the tree had fallen. Growing, edge up, in the trunk, the wedge had prevented the limb fibers from knitting together as they should.

Forgotten wedges! Hidden weaknesses grown over and invisible, waiting until some winter night to work their ruin. What better symbolizes the presence and the effect of sin in our lives.

This brings to my memory some verses I heard long years ago:

Jim Died Today

Around the corner I have a friend,
In this great city which has no end;

Yet, days go by and weeks rush on
And before I know it a year has gone.

And I never see my old friend's face;
For life is a swift and terrible race.

He knows I like him just as well
As in the days when I rang his bell

And he rang mine. We were younger then
And now we are busy tired men—

Tired with playing the foolish game;
Tired with trying to make a name;

Tomorrow, I say, I will call on Jim,
Just to show I'm thinking of him.

But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes;
And the distance between us grows and grows

Around the corner! Yet miles away—
Here's a telegram, sir — "Jim died today!"

And that's what we get—and deserve in the end—
Around the corner, a vanished friend.

Then comes to me a paragraph from Phillip Brooks as he addressed his congregation:

You who are letting miserable misunderstandings run on from year to year, meaning to clear them up some day; you who are keeping wretched quarrels alive because you cannot quite make up your mind that now is the day to sacrifice your pride and kill them; you who are passing men sullenly upon the street, not speaking to them out of some silly spite, and yet knowing that it would fill you with shame and remorse if you heard that one of those men were dead tomorrow morning; you who are letting your neighbor starve, till you hear that he is dying of starvation; or letting your friend's heart ache for a word of appreciation or sympathy which you mean to give him some day; if you only could know and see and feel, all of a sudden, that `the time is short'. How it would break the spell! How you would go instantly and do the thing which you might never have another chance to do!

My thoughts picked up this friend of mine. He was well regarded in his community and honorable in his business dealings, and everyone spoke well of him. He was my trusted friend. He had one weakness. He admitted it to be a weakness. Most of the people with whom he traveled were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and did not use tobacco, but he was a chain smoker. Always a cigarette hung between his lips. It seemed to be as much a part of him as was his ear or nose or finger. Sometimes we joked about his inseparable companion. He always chuckled and said, "Everybody has to have one weakness." And then in more sober moments, he would become pensive and say, "Yes, I know it is not good but it seems to have hold of me like an octopus. Someday, I'll conquer it." Someday, he would gain command and throw it away. Yes. Someday!

But the days sped into years, his hair became thinner, his complexion more sallow, and there finally came a cough—a little hacking cough. It worried us who appreciated his good qualities, but there was little we could do. I moved to Utah and saw him no more for many years. Time put on its running shoes and years piled up, and one day I was on assignment in Phoenix when a mutual friend, knowing my affection for this man, said, "Did you know he is in the Good Samaritan Hospital in very bad shape?" Dropping everything, I rushed to the hospital but almost too late. There he lay propped up in his bed the better to breathe, for his breathing was irregular and came in painful gasps. I was so glad he recognized me but it was for but a moment; then his forced smile gave way and was gone and the light faded and went out. There would never be another cigarette. He had certainly intended to overcome the habit. Many times he had given it up but returned to serve his master.

Here he had lain, sad, alone, fearful. The surgeons had not operated. They said the cancer was too deep, too scattered, too entrenched.

And I—I saw him die. My friend of thirty years. I saw him die when he might have lived yet many years in health and happiness. And as I stood with bowed head and pained aching heart, I seemed to remember of another great tree which could not stand the storm and wedges, forgotten wedges, slow, death-dealing wedges. Tomorrow he would have thrown his cigarettes away, but now that always recreant tomorrow, that procrastinating tomorrow which never comes had in reality come. The wedges had done their work. Tomorrow was here and the cigarettes were finally gone. The wedges had seen to that. And then there came to me the words of Ralph Parlett:

Strength and struggle travel together. The supreme reward of struggle is strength. Life is a battle and the greatest joy is to overcome. The pursuit of easy things makes men weak. . . .

My thoughts shifted and settled upon a little boy in Arizona with curly hair—he sat upon my knee half a century ago. His smile was beautiful and his laugh contagious. He grew into handsome manhood, but as he went through his teens, he carelessly threw into the forks of his walnut tree a bottle which certainly he would remove some day. Yes, in his sober moments he admitted it was bad for him. Tomorrow, he would discard this little devil, his master. Tomorrow!

When he was married, the bottle wedge was still in the tree and the fibers were encasing it. With a hollow laugh, he passed it off and said he would remove it tomorrow. The cursed thing was there when the children came. How they loved this handsome dad! Yet sometimes there were strange situations they could not understand. They could hardly believe it was their daddy, so different he was at times, and the times became more and more frequent.

This bottle-wedge was still there when the children were in their teens. Even with their increasing understanding of life, they could not comprehend how their father could be Doctor Jekyll yesterday and Mr. Hyde today. He was such a wonderful father when he was sober. Procrastination again was the thief of time and the bottle-wedge became deeper and deeper in the tree. Indeed, the tree had grown over it. The point of no-return had come.

He came into my life again. I did not recognize him. His hair was gray, his body sloppy, his eyes bleary. His children were now on their own—it had been years since any of his earnings had bolstered the family budget. One son had died in a tavern, one had married and divorced three times, the other two were respectable members of society. His wife supported herself and the family and some of her hard-earned savings had found their way into that bottle-wedge, too. One day, I found him in the gutter. Self respect was gone, resistance had waned, the storm had come, the habit was too deeply entrenched. Yesterday, with self control, he could have defeated his enemy, but the yesterdays became tomorrows and tomorrow failed to come until now; his tomorrows are today. He is in a mental institution and his doctors say he will live there till he dies there. And, as I saw him fettered and enslaved, there came to my memory a paragraph from a modern writer, which I paraphrase:

History, which had yawned for thousands of years, stirred on her dust-covered couch, opened her eyes and saw one more son of God become a fettered slave. She signed, sat up, shook the dust from the pages of her voluminous book, glanced at the long list of victims, turned a fresh page, took up her pen and moistened it and wrote another name.

"It is an old tale," she said, tiredly and hopelessly as her old bones moved wearily to record again. "Millions have followed this highway through the ages of the past," she said, "depriving spouses, neglecting children, corrupting lives, destroying character." Then, she remonstrated, "Why can I never sleep? Why must I continue on recording distorted lives, corrupted civilizations—will men never learn?" (Taylor Caldwell, The Earth Is the Lord's, p. 414.)

Here were bottle wedges! The winds and whirlwind wedges! Broken trees split open, branchless tree-made skeletons. And I sorrowed and remembered wedges, hidden wedges, forgotten wedges, postponed wedges. Always tomorrow wedges!

I pondered again. There is a book. A book which gives in plainness the everlasting gospel of the Son of God. Last year, a million copies of this lifesaving book, the Book of Mormon, went into a million homes. Through the years, millions of other copies of this book have lodged in libraries. A relatively few have absorbed it. Many have pushed it into a shelf among their books and have said to themselves: Tomorrow, I will look it through. But years accumulate and books get dust covered and cobwebs get woven. If the millions of people knew what that book could do for them, they would pull it from their shelves, dust it, put it in gold covering and read it avidly for its truth. But that is tomorrow, and tomorrow comes with leaden feet. The storm of life falls and great limbs split and break away and great souls go into eternity to meet their Lord, never having yet read this powerful testimony of his life and works and saving-exalting program. And I remember the tree and the wedge and the bottle and the cigarette and know that even great trees cannot stand with hidden wedges, forgotten wedges.

Again there are true servants of God who have encircled the globe with their testimonies of the truth of the restoration of the all-encompassing gospel. Constantly, for one hundred thirty-six years, thousands of missionaries have borne testimony to millions of people, and numerous of those people in many lands have heard the testimony, have trembled as the Spirit bore witness to their spirits, and have believed in varying degrees the message but have postponed acceptance of it. Some have hesitated to disturb old family moorings; some have been unwilling to transform their lives as the gospel requires; some have been unprepared to live the rather strict requirements of the gospel; and in many cities and countries there are good people who felt the pull of the restored truths, had a conviction of its truth but who have waited till tomorrow to accept it. Many have married a member of the Church and have been close to the Church and have heard the great message many times, and yet because it was inconvenient or difficult or embarrassing, or financially or politically inexpedient, they have waited. Many good people have expressed their conversion and deep feeling for the Church and the gospel, yet have excused themselves by saying, "I think I can do more good for the Church on the outside than I could do inside." But the call of the Lord—the call of the Church—the call of the truth requires that each individual must save himself at all costs. I see these numerous people who have felt the power, who have experienced the inspiration of contacts, and yet they tarry and postpone and disregard the powerful appeal of the Lord Jesus Christ, who said, "Come unto me." Then I remember the story of the broken, destroyed walnut tree; then I remember the postponed wedges, procrastination-wedges, and I wonder how such people will square themselves with their Lord, who gave to them some assurance of the divinity of the program. Yet they wait and wait and fail to obey.

A cultured and intelligent couple in a little city of a southern land heard the message of eternal life from two young so-called "Mormon" missionaries. This man and his wife were impressed with the young ministers, and more so with the truths they had taught.

They entertained the young men in their home, fed them, attended their meetings, defended them. Mentally and heart-wise, they recognized as truth the message they brought, but because of their prominence in the community, their friends, their families, they postponed doing what their hearts told them they must do—they procrastinated the action which their Lord demanded of Nicodemus, true birth of the water and of the spirit by authorized official priesthood bearers of the Master. They were convinced of its truth. Someday, they would be baptized—someday they would follow their inner urge. But today? Not today—some later time! Because of war and reduction of missionaries, no elders returned. This man and his good wife were not located again. Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. But for them, the ravages of age came on them, and for them, tomorrow did not come. And we remembered the wedges of procrastination, the wedges of resistance to the Spirit, the wedges of delay. They had not remembered that the Lord said, "My spirit will not always strive with man," and the light which had emblazoned the truth and opened their souls to the truth had flickered and gone out. Wedges, hidden wedges, forgotten wedges. How tragic these wedges which estrange, cover up.

He was a prominent attorney. He had done some work for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He had sat in numerous meetings, heard the objectives of the Lord's true Church, had seen the leaders in action, had read much about the doctrines. There had come a warm feeling, he admitted, as he contemplated the revealed and restored truths as taught by the Church. He heard the command of his Creator: "Repent and be baptized." His heart said yes, tomorrow, soon, today, but it was not convenient just now. His wife was not ready. His law-partners would wonder; his social group would think him fanatical; his relatives would be grieved at his leaving the old established church. He was sure he must, but tomorrow, maybe, tomorrow.

He moved to the north. In the large city he might not be found but he would look up the missionaries someday. Yes, it was truth. It was the celestial way. It was God's true kingdom on the earth. Someday he would take the time and trouble. But this tree also grew over the wedge, and time passed and candles burn low and out, and warmth cools off, and "the summer is past and my soul is not saved."

To postpone vital action—to forget how easy to forget. How easy to yield to immediate pressures. Hidden wedges. Forgotten wedges, procrastinated wedges!

And then, I remembered the verse of Percy Adams Hutchison (1878- ) in his "The Swordless Christ" (Vicisti Galilee, Stanza I):

Ay, down the years, behold he rides,
The lowly Christ, upon an ass;
But conquering? Ten shall heed the call,
A thousand idly watch him pass.

Procrastination is the thief of time!

And I wondered how many tens of thousands did hear His voice, felt an inner twinge of heart, wanted to follow, felt impelled to do his will, but waited, paused, lingered, postponed, procrastinated. The deep impression faded, the memory lingered a moment and died in a world of pressings, immediate realities and demands.

How many thousands saw him pass and saw his smile and were impressed?

How many heard his sermons on the mount and were pricked in their hearts but stopped to eat food, and sleep and work and do other things, and failed to heed?

Numerous have jostled him in the narrow streets of Jerusalem, and turned around and looked the second time at him whom they had touched, but went on their way to daily tasks and missed their opportunity.

How many heard the story of his walking on the water but were too busy with their selling fish in the market or herding sheep or harvesting grain to ask the vital reasons and fathom the deep powers?

How many saw him hanging there upon the cross and saw only wood beams and nails and flesh and blood and made no effort to penetrate the purposes and the reasons—how one could choose to die such an ignominious death, how one could be so controlled in time of such excruciating pain, what was the reason behind such treatment; what were the deep purposes, what it was that could cause a person to give himself for others and make no effort to escape; who was this "author of eternal salvation unto all those that obey him." (Heb. 5:9.)

How many felt the stir which comes in human breasts when truth pressed in upon them but, pressured by minor exigencies, remain far away from his eternal destiny?

And then I think: Procrastination—thou wretched thief of time and opportunity!

When will men stand and be true to their one-time inspired yearnings? When will men cease throwing into their life trees the wedges which deprive and weaken and cause loss and power?

Let those take care who postpone the clearing of bad habits and of constructively doing what they ought. "Someday I'll join the Church," says one. "I'll cease my drinking soon," says another. "One day, I'll smoke no more," others pledge. "Someday we'll be ready for our temple sealings," promise a delayed-action husband and wife. "Someday, when they apologize, I'll forgive those who injured me," small souls say. "Someday I'll get my debts paid." "We'll get around soon to having our family prayers, and next week we'll start our home evenings." "We shall start paying tithing from our next pay check." Tomorrow—yes, tomorrow.

And then, we quote more lines from Whitman:

Pride, envy, selfishness, dishonesty, intemperance, doubt, secret passions—almost numberless in variety and degree are the wedges of sin. And alas! Almost numberless are the men and women who today are allowing sin to grow in the heart wood of their lives.

"The wedge is there. We know it is there. We put it there ourselves one day, when we were hurried and thoughtless. It shouldn't be there, of course. It is harming the tree. But we are busy so we leave it there; and in time, it grows over and we forget. The years slip swiftly by. Wintertime comes with its storms and ice. The life we prized so much goes down in the unspeakable loss of spiritual disaster. For years after the wedge had grown over, the tree flourished and gave no sign of its inner weakness. Thus it is with sin. Many a fine house on many a fine street has a wedge of sin within its elegance. And many a man who walks the streets in pride and arrogance of worldly success is an unrepentant sinner before God. Nevertheless, the wedge is there and in the end of its work is a fallen tree, split and shattered and worthless."

May the Lord bless us all that we may early recognize and remember and remove all wedges before they wreak their havoc in our lives, I pray.

In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.