“In Remembrance of Me”: the Sacrament of Root Beer Floats

I have a wonderful home teacher. He tries to visit every month, despite our frequent too-busyness; he remembers every child’s birthday, and mine; he shows up to baseball and basketball games and high school improv nights to cheer for my kids. Once I posted something on Facebook about how much I love lilacs, and he and his wife were at my door within the hour, arms full of gorgeous blooms–I think they must have cut down an entire lilac bush in their yard. When he asks if there is anything he can do for us, I know the question is sincere and heartfelt and would be followed by the relocation of at least a New England-sized mountain if I asked. He seems disappointed when I can’t think of anything to ask for.

Once, I had a meeting scheduled with his wife, and called to cancel because I had a cold and felt mildly crummy. He called a few minutes later. “I heard you were sick,” he said, sounding oddly elated about it. “It’s no big deal,” I told him, truthfully, “just a little cold.” “I’ll bring you guys pizza for dinner!” he said, sounding as though he absolutely could not think of anything more fun. I felt like I was doing him a favor when I said “thanks, that would be great.”

A little while later, he was on the porch with pizzas and a bag with vanilla ice cream and root beer in it. “I hope your kids like root beer floats,” he said. They do, of course, but that was not why I suddenly got all teary. It was his uncertainty that made me realize the holiness of the moment. My home teacher, despite his valiant efforts, doesn’t know my kids all that well. It’s a pretty safe bet that they like root beer and ice cream, but we haven’t spent enough time together for him to know that for sure. His kindness to us is not grounded in the usual currency of human friendships–mutual self-revelation, reciprocal gift-giving, shared experience… I think he likes us just fine, and we like him, but that is not the reason he cares for us. He tends to us not because we are interesting or amusing or admirable, not because we merit his attention, but because he loves Jesus and knows that “[Jesus] first loved us.”

It’s easy to think, in our 21st-century, post-Oprah, therapeutic culture, that such friendship is inauthentic or artificial—I have myself occasionally bemoaned the apparent falseness of friendship by administrative assignment. As my aging curmudgeon self starts to see things my younger self missed in her idealistic zeal, I’m realizing that I am not as complicated or sophisticated as I sometimes like to think. We are, in the end, creatures—creatures with simple needs, creatures of habit—easily won by regular (monthly, perhaps?) demonstrations of simple devotion.

There’s a scene in The Little Prince that describes our situation:

What does that mean–‘tame’?”

“It is an act too often neglected,” said the fox. It means to establish ties.”

“‘To establish ties’?”

“Just that,” said the fox. “To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . .”

“My life is very monotonous,” the fox said. “I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All the chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And, in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat . . .”

“What must I do, to tame you?” asked the little prince.

“You must be very patient,” replied the fox. “First you will sit down at a little distance from me–like that–in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me, every day . . .”

The next day the little prince came back.

“It would have been better to come back at the same hour,” said the fox. “If, for example, you come at four o’clock in the afternoon, then at three o’clock I shall begin to be happy. I shall feel happier and happier as the hour advances. At four o’clock, I shall already be worrying and jumping about. I shall show you how happy I am! But if you come at just any time, I shall never know at what hour my heart is to be ready to greet you . . . One must observe the proper rites . . .”

Part of our resistance to being thus tamed comes from hubris about our own feelings for those we would love–surely, surely we would not do home teaching or visiting teaching out of a mere sense of duty! We want to feel genuine affection for our charges. And yet, as much as we would like to be motivated by selfless love all the time, the fact is that most of us are subject to the laws of thermodynamics just like everything else in the universe. Left to our own devices, we will take the path of least resistance, hang out with people who don’t demand too much, let charity be overcome by the entropy of selfishness or mere laziness.

But when moments of crisis make us the ones demanding too much, requiring others to overcome inertia to help us, we may be distressed to realize that we are maybe not lovable enough to merit all the help we need, the affection we crave. (I’m speaking for myself here–I’m sure you are lovable enough for any practical purpose!) In such moments we are desperately in need of care that comes from someone who loves us not for our own sake, but for Jesus’.

We sing and talk about Jesus’ love in lofty and abstract terms—“effulgent,” “transcendent,” “sublime,” “supernal.” I suspect, though, that those words don’t tell us as much as the stories of him simply touching those who loved him, talking with them in ordinary ways, feeding them. He knew, when he sent his disciples out into the world to proclaim his love, that we humans aren’t good at communicating much about the sublime and supernal, that they would do only the ordinary miracles of talking, touching, feeding. He did not command them to be full of lofty ideals or overwhelmed by tender feelings. He used a metaphor that is striking for its lack of sentimentality: “feed my sheep.” We all need, mostly, to have the simple experience of being tamed, coming to trust in the simplest forms of help.

My home teacher knows this. He does simple, kind things because he loves Jesus. And not in spite of his dutiful goodness, but exactly because he is following a commandment, he brings root beer and ice cream that are not only sweet with human kindness, but sacramental—redolent of wine and blood and the bread of life.


  1. J. Stapley says:

    Thanks Kristine. This is a religion I believe.

  2. Wonderful!

  3. Jason K. says:

    Amen. I believe that so much of life can be sacramental in this way. Thank you!

  4. I love this, Kristine. My family has recently received a lot of help from people in our ward as my wife has suffered through a medical misfortune, and I’ve definitely been grateful to find so many people who are willing to serve us not only because we’re so loveable, but like you said, because of duty, because they’re doing what they signed up for by being in the Church with us.

  5. I think it was Elder Robbins who noted that loving someone is an act of agency. I, too, am sometimes put off with the idea of calling “friendshippers” to associate with the newly baptized and returning members. After all, why can’t those friendships and associations happen naturally? Because of agency, they don’t occur as naturally and as frequently as they should, and because the newly baptized and returning don’t have years to develop friendships within the ward. They need that friendship immediately. For some, reaching out in love and kindness is as easy as falling off a log. For the rest of us, it is something that hopefully will change from being a duty to being a delight.

  6. This meant a lot to me. Thank you.

  7. Hope Wiltfong says:

    Beautiful. Thanks for sharing.

  8. Kevin Barney says:

    Very nice.

  9. Both gorgeous and marvelous. And true. Which makes me doubt the “both,” but I’m not sure that “troth” has the meaning I’m after. So, those three.

  10. Ryan Mullen says:

    Thank you for this. As someone who struggles with hometeaching, this is more helpful to me than most (all?) priesthood lessons I’ve had on the topic.

    A minor quibble, the laws of thermodynamics only require the “path of least resistance” (more properly low energy states) on average. To me that’s important. High energy states (ummm…home teachers?) don’t defy thermodynamics; they are just an improbable but important part of the ensemble.

  11. This is so very nice and brings to my heart and mind the things I hope for, both from Zion, and from what I might be myself.

  12. It’s not often that a piece makes me really think /and/ that chokes me up. This was beautiful in every way. Thank you.

  13. True religion.

  14. Angela C says:

    Fantastic, and I love this line from Saint-Exupery: “I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings.”

  15. Kristine, you are the best.

  16. Aaron R. says:

    “I’m less sure than I used to be that the doing and the believing can be so tidily dissected”

    This has been a creeping but painful realization for me over the last few years. Thank you for articulating it so clearly here.

  17. Excellent.

  18. Carey F. says:

    I now know that man is nothing.

    Thank you for the glimpse..

  19. Steve G. says:

    This was awesome. Bookmarked for future reference.

  20. eponymous says:

    My father sent that section of Saint-Exupery when I was serving in France to help me understand the true concept of Christ-like service to others and what can happen in the process. I appreciate you adding another nuance to that Kristine. Beautifully written.

  21. BCC Foyer Class says:


  22. How? How do you do this? How do you write so beautifully (I wish I did!) and, maybe more importantly, how do you keep your love for not just the gospel, but for the CHURCH so….vibrant is the only word that comes to mind? As one who is worn down by the trying and overcome with either cynicism or apathy, I’d like to know. (Please don’t judge my sloppy sentence structure here- I write like I think). Seriously, friend, if we’re ever within a few hundred miles of each other can we just sit down and catch up on the last 30 years?

  23. Do you mind me asking: What is a home teacher? What is their purpose?

  24. Kristine says:

    Tom, every family in the Mormon church has someone assigned to visit them once a month, give a brief lesson or share a thought related to Mormonism, and make sure that the family’s needs are being met (if possible) by their church community. Sometimes (maybe a lot of the time?) it feels forced and weird, but sometimes it’s really great.

  25. Kristine says:


  26. Thank you do home teachers hv home teachers? How many families does a teacher cover?
    I really appreciate this site

  27. Kevin Barney says:

    In theory everyone in the congregation has home teachers, including home teachers. Typically a home teaching companionship will have three or four families to cover.

  28. Our home teachers are in their 70’s and 80’s. They come over in their orthopedic shoes, holding their Ensign and give us a lesson. Sometimes their slowness is unnerving, but more and more, I have learned to crave this unusual gift of stillness in our home. Our special needs daughter comfortably plants herself between them, takes one of their hands, and plays with their fingers as she likes to do. Just last month one of the teachers held up the cover of the May Ensign showing a refugee woman, and wept as he recounted his experiences as a missionary in South Africa in the 1950’s. Sometimes we think, they are so far removed from our situation, how can they possibly understand it? And yet, I think it is their distance from it that blesses me. It is the way they observe our family chaos with mild amusement. It is the way they don’t mind when my daughter rests her head on their arm. It is the box of fruit they bring when they learned that my husband lost his job. It tasted so good.

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