My grandfather, James Wesley Kerns, lived far out on a ranch in Wyoming. In order for his children to get proper educations he moved his family to Sheridan, 60 miles away, while he stayed and worked on the ranch. When he could, he went to Sheridan to see his family. My Aunt Jo says:

"On one of these visits he saw three boys all tearing madly down the street. It was a chase. Dad's heart sank with shame because the sight caused him to remember a quaint boy custom he had hoped had become passé. The two boys in the lead raced past our house. The pursuing boy hesitated, dropped the brick he was carrying and stalked into our house. Dad was elated with pride. He would have pinned a medal for bravery on his third son if he had had one. Jack was the family runt at that time, but nobody chased him home from school. 'I was chased home from school every night' my dad confided to me.  'Town kids always ganged up on country kids when they moved to town. I was a puny kid, and I've never gotten over those daily humiliations. But my boys—they're different.'"

"Indeed they were! In Macon, Missouri, John in the fourth grade, had a fight every night as a matter of course. He loved it. Bert was big with an easy-going good humor, but a glint in his eye, so he seemed to lack the opportunity. Tom did O.K. as far as I know, and even took boxing in high school and college. He must have stood the test."

And, indeed, he did. As a student at Oregon State Agricultural College Dad had a wife and baby to support, and little money with which to do it. Corvallis had regular boxing matches which anyone could enter. Students, loggers, and all of the local strong men entered. So did Dad. Each had to pay an entry fee. The winner took the pot. The winner was the last one standing. Two men would face off. The winner of that bout had to take on the next competitor. This went on until all had lost but the last man. Dad was always that last man. This is how that poor college student earned the money to support his family. He received a medal for being the outstanding golden gloves boxer of Corvallis, Oregon.

These are the first of the "satisfaction" stories that I've thought of. The next two concern James Wesley Kerns' second great grandson, Isaiah. Isaiah and his sister, Anne, attended seminary in Baker. Another student was Hon. Hon began sending offensive notes to Anne. Isaiah told Hon, "Stop giving my sister those nasty notes, or I'm going to beat you up."

Hon was a state champion wrestler, and was not deterred by this threat. He sent Anne another note the very next day. When seminary let out everyone exited to the parking lot. Isaiah executed a wrestling throw-down move, grabbed Hon, and threw him to the ground. Hon hit his head hard. That ended the note problem. My grandfather would have been proud.

I am sure that these events were accompanied by great feelings of satisfaction.

When Isaiah was a sophomore he decided to go out for track. He wanted to do the pole vault. For some reason the lady coach wouldn't let him even try pole vaulting until the day before the first meet. Conner was a senior, overly proud of his athletic abilities, held the pole vaulting record, and planned to go to state. He was very condescending toward Isaiah, the upstart. At the track meet Conner set a new personal record. Then it was Isaiah's turn. Isaiah beat him. In subsequent vaults Isaiah ended up beating Conner's height by one full foot. Isaiah also beat him in the high jump. Conner was so incensed that he couldn't even speak to Isaiah, let alone congratulate him on his performance.

Satisfaction.

My dad was a mathematician. The results of each test were posted on the door of the professor's office. Dad's name was always at the top of the list.

Satisfaction.

Last Sunday in sacrament meeting, the sister who was speaking stated that she hated speaking in church. "I'm not like Brother Kerns who can get up here and not be bothered about getting up in front of people."

I was surprised to hear that. Why was I singled out? I didn't get feelings of satisfaction from that statement, but being recognized as one who is an effective speaker is one of the crowning achievements of my life. In high school, if I knew that I'd have to give an oral report to the class that day, I skipped school. I was so nervous in front of people that I made everyone else nervous, too. The student body president, an LDS boy, said, "When Kerns gets up to speak, I find something else to do."

I didn't blame him. My face would be beet red. My cheek trembled. I had to hold it still with my hand. I would take a deep breath and begin. My voice shook terribly. It was pure misery for everyone, particularly me. I couldn't open my mouth in front of more than two people without having this affliction overpower me.

The Church has taken that all out of me. I am grateful beyond words for that blessing. I don't think about, worry about, or stress about upcoming speaking assignments. I speak about 20 times per year. I love doing it. With the Lord's help I know I can do it. I know that with the Lord's help I have the ability to keep the audience riveted on my words. No one goes to sleep during my talks. This is the greatest feeling of satisfaction I can imagine.

I think of an event in Marjorie's life that must have been extremely satisfying. Mr. Updegraff was the typing teacher at Baker High School, and also was in charge of the school finances. He asked Marjorie to be his assistant one year. The books didn't balance. During an audit a discrepancy was found. Mr. Updegraff, the principal, and the vice principal all combed through the books looking for the problem. It couldn't be found. One day Mr. Updegraff put the books in front of Marjorie, explained the problem, and said, "See what you can do."

There was one entry that bothered Marjorie. It bothered her when it was entered, and she had asked Mr. Updegraff at the time if it was right. He had assured her that it was properly entered. Marjorie turned to that entry, and found that it was the same amount as the discrepancy that the auditors had singled out. She took her discovery to Mr. Updegraff. A few minutes later Mr. Updegraff, the principal, and the vice principal stepped into the office where Marjorie was working. They bowed to her, and were effusive in their gratitude and praise.

Satisfaction.