personal growth

By Steve Dunn Hanson

I first met Bill in 1987. He was a regional representative for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and was visiting our stake in Orange County, California where I served as a counselor in the stake presidency. To this day, I can’t tell you why there was almost instant bonding between us, as he was over 20 years my senior. Maybe it was because we both loved to write. In any case, virtually from the git-go we traded writings. Mine, fiction and self-help articles. His, memoirs and personal history. And what a history! From a boy of small stature with a horrific stuttering problem and son of a coal-dust-eating railroad engineer, to a man known throughout the world for his accomplishments and contributions.

I got the best of the bargain in our exchanges. Bill was not only the consummate “Martha” with his practicality and I’ll-figure-out-how-to-do-it genius, but he was a spiritual, poetic “Mary” as well, an extraordinary hybrid whose writing skill dwarfed my own.

An Act of Kindness

One of his stories was particularly poignant. As a boy, Bill lived in Provo, Utah, and his diminutive size and severe stuttering problem contributed to his painfully shy disposition. He was always the last one chosen for a team—if chosen at all—and was the subject of constant derision from many of his peers. He was maybe eight or nine-years-of-age when his grade school teacher gave the children an assignment to write an essay and then read the essay in front of the class.

Bill’s turn came, and he fearfully stood, knowing what would happen next. His stuttering was so overwhelming that he didn’t get more than a few words out before he stopped. Embarrassed to tears, he started to take his seat when the teacher told him to stay where he was. “You will finish, Bill,” she said. She probably meant well, thinking that forcing Bill to go through this would help him overcome his stuttering. For Bill, though, his teacher’s act bordered on cruel.

For the longest time, Bill just stood there. Then a remarkable thing happened. One of his classmates, a young girl by the name of Millie, who was sitting on the front row, reached out her hand, took his, then smiled up at him. That simple act of support calmed and strengthened him, and he finished his reading.

That simple act of support calmed and strengthened him.

Making Connections

Such were the Bill Gould stories he shared with me, and for the next few years, we kept in close touch. Bill’s wife, Erlyn, was a beautiful woman. How he idolized her and cared for her. She was a cancer victim and graciously and courageously struggled to stay afloat. She passed away in 1992, and it was as though a chunk of Bill died with her. For the next nearly two years it seemed as though Bill just disappeared, and I had little contact with him.

Then one day when my wife and I were in the Los Angeles Temple, I saw him. And he was not alone! When he saw me, his face turned total smile, and he pulled the woman he was with close to him. “Steve, do you remember one of my stories about a girl named Millie who held my hand to help me get through an agonizing ordeal when I was a boy?”

“Yes!” I answered. “Who could forget that story!”

Bill’s smile got wider. “This is Millie. Millie Gould now. We were married last week.”

My turn to smile!

Bill then talked about his funk when his wife, Erlyn, died. He was in an I’m-going-no-where morass, and he finally determined to get out of it. His plan was straight Bill Gould. He reviewed his life to determine those who had given him grace, who had made all the difference for him at critical times. Then one-by-one he sought them out to tell them thank you and to now impart his own grace to them to the extent he could.

While this was happening, Bill’s daughter, who lived in Provo, was talking to her neighbor, a widow, about her dad. She explained how difficult his life was since his wife’s death and what he was now doing. When the neighbor heard that his last name was Gould, she asked what his first name was.

“William,” Bill’s daughter replied.

“Billy Gould?” the neighbor asked surprised. “As a boy, did he go to school in Provo by any chance?”

The daughter nodded, and her neighbor, Millie, grinned. “Billy Gould and I were classmates in grade school.”

Bill’s daughter told him who her neighbor was, and Bill put her on his thank you list to contact. The rest, as they say, is history.

We Must Act for Ourselves

Sometimes, things do work out, but I think things can just about always work out, but I believe it is our choice. I don’t mean in a Pollyannish kind of way, or that the results will always be what we initially desired. Rather, we can choose how any situation or circumstance we find ourselves in will ultimately affect us. We can literally shape the results of all our experiences. I believe that’s what Lehi meant when he said, “…The Lord God gave unto man that he should act for himself. … They have become free forever, …to act for themselves and not to be acted upon” (See 2 Nephi 2:16,26 emphasis added).

Things can just about always work out, but I believe it is our choice.

For a long time, my friend Bill was in a funk because of his wife’s death. Who wouldn’t be? But he was being acted upon. He let his circumstance dictate his mood. It controlled him. He was not free. Then he chose to be grateful. Instead of looking at his wife’s death as an emotional and debilitating black hole, he made her life a symbol of his gratitude. A catalyst for him to act. And, as I said, the rest is history.

Bill’s experience and example has been an inspiration to me in my writing and in my life. While rejection, writer’s block, and a zillion other things can be gut-punches, I’m finding I can choose to turn the experience: To learn from it. To be a better writer. To be a better person. To make my experience a positive one for me. Granted, how it works out is not usually what I thought or hoped it would be. But because I choose to act, it becomes a blessing. Hopefully, it can for you too.