I have never wanted to be the center of attention.  Indeed, this was my greatest fear.  I didn't want people looking at me, talking about me, or laughing at me.

As a little boy I rode the bus to school.  The bus had to cross a railroad track.  In those days there were no crossing bars that would come down to stop traffic ahead of an oncoming train.  The rule was that the bus driver was to stop before crossing the tracks, and send a child running across who would look both ways for an oncoming train, and then wave to the driver to proceed.

The bus driver also kept a wooden apple box beside his seat.  This was where he required misbehaving students to sit as punishment.

One day my fear was realized.  The driver asked me to run across the tracks to check for trains.  I was petrified with fear.  Everyone would be watching me.  I don't know if I was afraid that I might stumble or look silly, but I knew that I couldn't perform that feat with dozens of people judging my performance.  I refused.

I was six years old, and very shy.  The next morning as I boarded the bus, the driver announced the punishment for my disobedience.  My seat for that five-mile bus ride to school would be the apple box beside him.

That was an extremely difficult ride.  There I was sitting where the bad boys had to sit, and every eye was upon me.  I was not a bad boy.  Hopefully the sight of that quiet, unmoving little boy staring straight ahead into the morning sun trying manfully to not cry got to him.  The thought of that little boy sitting there trying not to cry breaks my heart.  I hope it broke his.  He never again asked me to run across the tracks.

A year or two later, Arlo Horn was the afternoon bus driver.  Arlo was the school custodian.  Arlo was of a different caliber than the other bus driver, whose name and face I can't even remember.  Arlo recognized that I was a good boy, and that I never caused trouble on the bus.  At the awards assembly that was held at the end of the year he presented me with a little, green, ceramic rhinoceros for being the best bus student.  That was a first and only award, never again given.  I treasured that green rhinoceros.  I think my son, Matt, has it today, 70 years later.

My shyness and my fears of being in front of people carried over into my junior high and high school years.  If anything, they became magnified.

In the seventh grade Mr. Martin did a unit on telephone etiquette.  I only remember his name today because of the terror that his English class assignment instilled in me.  He required each student to perform a telephone conversation in front of the class.  I procrastinated my turn until the last day, pretended illness, skipped school, and successfully avoided having to do the public performance.

As I write this I wonder if Mr. Martin didn't recognize my phobia and make special allowances?  There were no repercussions or make-up work, and I still got an "A" for that quarter's class work.  I wonder if he didn't recognize a good student with a debilitating shyness, and make allowances?

My shyness carried over into high school.  Having to speak in front of the class while giving a book report was terrifying.  An LDS classmate made the comment, "When Kerns gets up to speak, I find something else to do."

I didn't blame him.  My face was beet red, my voice shook, and my cheek trembled.  It was pitiful.

Someone nominated me as a candidate to be Junior Class president.  What a terrifying thought!  In the worst way I wanted to be able to stand and say, "I decline," but was unable to open my mouth.  Five others were nominated.  With six candidates I considered myself safe.  I voted for one of the others.

I was elected, and spent one of the most miserable years of my life.  JoAnn Boyer, my favorite English teacher, was the class adviser.  She got me through the year, and declared that I was the best president she ever worked with.

I joined the Church 20 days before my 20th birthday.  As a sailor at Goodfellow Air Force base in Texas I was a member of the San Angelo Branch of the Church.  On one of the first Sundays there I was in priesthood meeting as the book we were studying was being passed from person to person for reading aloud.  I hoped that the class would end before the book got to me.  It got to me.  I started to read aloud, choked up, and handed it to the next man.  I was still not over my phobia.

But then I was asked to be the speaker at a young adult or Mutual fireside.  It was an outdoors event.  I wrote and organized and memorized scriptures.  I practiced and prayed, and then I fasted.  I was fasting as I stood in front of all those young people my own age, and began to speak.  Something happened.  The words flowed.  I was prepared, and I suddenly knew that I could do it.  At the conclusion of my talk I knew that I'd done a good job.

Shortly thereafter I had a dream.  I dreamed that I was standing in front of a congregation leading a meeting--another terrifying thought.  A few days later I received a calling to be second counselor to the Sunday School superintendent.  The very next Sunday after being sustained, I found myself standing at the pulpit conducting Sunday School.  I did it!

Then I was asked to speak in church.  I gave a talk on the Word of Wisdom.  I diligently prepared again, and was again fasting as I gave the talk.  I had a good talk prepared, and wasn't even fazed as an elderly sister in the congregation, whom I admired, shook her head negatively concerning a point that I made.  Her dissent didn't faze me because I knew I was right.

From that point on my nervousness about speaking in front of people was gone.  The Church took it all out of me.  This is the biggest miracle of all.  I hope you can get an inkling of my deep gratitude.

I still shy away from being the center of attention, but I actually relish being asked to speak in front of congregations.  I know that I have things to say that are worth hearing, and that the Lord will make me capable of saying them in an engaging manner.  I never cease being amazed.

As a bishop I performed over a dozen weddings, and spoke at many dozens of funerals.  In the stake presidency I gave two dozen talks per year for nine years.  I taught early morning seminary for seven years.  I taught institute for six.  As stake patriarch I speak in all 13 units of the stake once per year, do firesides, speak at funerals, and give patriarchal blessings.

I can do it.  It doesn't bother me a bit.  I don't worry ahead of time.

Ether 12:27 says:

"And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness.  I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them."

I testify that is so.  This is the greatest miracle of all.