My first impression of the Latter-day Saints came when I was a young college student. My study partner in psychology class was Karen Rae Dyal. Though at that time we were at San Bernardino Valley College, I had first known her as a beautiful blond sophomore, the epitome of maidenhood, in my Pacific High School geometry class–and as our homecoming queen. On one occasion, in that Valley College psychology class, Karen had rushed into the room, beside herself with anxiety over something that had just happened. She kept repeating to me, "Oh, Jim, you can't imagine what I just did!" I calmly asked her to tell me what it was she had done; and she replied that she had accidentally run a stoplight on the way to school, that she had immediately pulled off the road and had waited ten minutes for the police to come and get her; but, in the end, the police had not arrived. Yes, indeed, she was a wonderfully decent person–a Saint–and I loved to be with her; but, alas, she had many needful friends who always sought her out wherever they could find her. One time, at her home while studying together, she showed me the Book of Mormon and wanted to tell me about a boy prophet named Joseph Smith. I declined to hear about Joseph Smith, and we continued our studies. That was in 1962. I did not see Karen again until 1979, ten years before her tragic death from cancer–Mrs. Karen Rae Dyal Cory, Las Vegas, Nevada–mother of six young children (one of my seven daughters is named for Karen Rae)
I was a Marine Corps aviator during the Vietnam War. One of my military friends, Terry Howick, was an impressive young Marine pilot. He and his wife, Janice, were absolutely delightful to be with, and they reminded me of Donny and Marie Osmond–only, Terry and Janis weren’t sibling. Terry and I were in military flight training together and lived across the street from one another. Later, in the war zone in 1969, Terry and I were at Chu Lai, an airbase in the Republic of South Vietnam from which we flew combat missions in the A-4 fighter-bombers. One ghastly day, Terry crashed at Chu Lai. His jet aircraft had exploded and was rapidly burning with Terry trapped in the cockpit. It was not feasible to survive such an inferno. A short time later, we found Terry’s body near his aircraft; miraculously, though injured, he was alive. The ejection seat had not functioned and its firing mechanism, the rocket motor, had exploded from the heat, saving Terry’s life by hurling him through the canopy of his aircraft and out of the fire-ball-conflagration of detonating ammunition, bombs, rockets and fuel. Every Marine pilot there was astonished at Terry’s incredible survival. I wrote a letter home that same day, about my amazement, saying, "It pays to be a Mormon!"–Terry and Janice Howick were Latter-day Saints.
Just before I left the Marine Corps to attend medical school I flew my jet fighter down into the Grand Canyon in Arizona–it was to be my last glimpse of that marvelous National Monument. Then, while flying out of the Canyon, heading further north, I encountered a gigantic thunderstorm that engulfed my aircraft. Circling through the storm to find safety, I encountered an area of bright sunshine into which I maneuvered and stayed to escape the torment. There the sun shone straight-down upon the red- and green-splotched earth like a spotlight in the relative darkness of the storm; and, to my great surprise, in the center of the beam of light, sitting stately upon the earth, was an elegant, “ancient,” and brilliantly white church or cathedral. I had never seen a church as large, as white and as singularly beautiful as this one; and it was, seemingly, totally out of place in this part of the rugged and vacant Southwest. I was dumbfounded, and, almost immediately, began to wonder who these people were; for, though I could see no evidence of people from the altitude of my jet, I knew “they were here”–somewhere; “they had to be here” because the “cathedral” was so lovely and immaculate, seemingly untouched by the hostile elements in which I found it. I marked an "X" upon my aviation map, identifying where I thought I might be, hoping to later identify the spot and the people; for, emotionally, I thought to myself, "Who are these people that maintain this site, and when in my life will I ever be so devoted to something, as these people are devoted to this “cathedral?"
I was never able to return in my jet to rediscover this monument to faith–and the people who adored it.
Within a year after that flight I was on my way to Mexico to become a physician. I would have to learn the Spanish language and to totally devote myself to the entire enterprise. As a requirement, I had taken the medical school qualification test, the MEDCAT, before leaving the United States. This occurred at San Diego State University where I had completed my undergraduate studies before the war. Sitting beside me in the examination room was another Vietnam-war veteran, Gordon Pugmire. We introduced ourselves and talked a little between test segments–testing took many hours. Gordon was an impressive young married man–his wife was Emily–who hurtled through the test periods like a young Einstein. "So, you want to be a doctor?" I had ventured to ask. "Yes, I do and I have already been accepted to medical school," he had replied. I was very impressed but not surprised, based on the alacrity with which he had taken the test. "Well," said I, hesitatingly, “I also have been accepted." (I was not particularly proud that I had decided to leave the country, in order to obtain a rare seat in a medical school). Therefore, I continued, with some reluctance, "I am going to medical school in Guadalajara, Mexico–but it is medical school, none-the-less!" Then, to my surprise and gratification, Gordon said, “That’s where I am going!”
Indeed, Gordon Pugmire and I both proceeded to Guadalajara, Mexico and eventually obtained our medical degrees as Physicians and Surgeons. And this remarkable young man, whose ancestors hailed from Bear Lake, Utah, became one of my best friends, though, as students, we lived our academic lives mostly alone, isolated by the walls that surrounded our studies. Remarkably, however, on one dark night after several years in Mexico–I was so impressed with him and his family, his modesty, self-restraint and worthy example–I approached his home on the strangest quest of my life. I was experiencing a personal dilemma–a spiritual question regarding purpose, direction and forgiveness–and I somehow knew that Gordon Pugmire would have the answer; now, this had not been an easy thing for a rough and tumble Marine Corps veteran, like myself. But in answer to my question Gordon had sent me home with a copy of the Book of Mormon, which I humbly read in bed, night after night, until I fell asleep; feeling that the answers I sought would be found after the manner of that book.
Two years after reading the Book of Mormon, and five years after our first meeting, Gordon Pugmire baptized my wife and I in Long Beach, California. He had recently issued me a challenge–knowing I had been taught by the missionaries–saying that I would not know more of the Gospel’s truth until I made a faith-based commitment to be baptized. Almost immediately thereafter, during a few, precious, life-changing minutes alone, I saw the anguished face of the suffering Christ in my mirror–actually it was my face–and although the anguish of the face in the mirror, and in me, seemed at first to be true agony, the supernal joy that suddenly engulfed my soul was beyond any joy I had ever hoped to know or to feel. That same hour I begged a Mormon bishop, James Scott, who was known to me–my tears freely flowing, my sobbing voice–to baptize me as soon as possible. It happened the following Saturday, and Gordon Pugmire then told me that he had known, five years earlier, on the day we first met, that someday he would baptized me.
Two years after baptism my wife and children and I made the pilgrimage to the Salt Lake City Temple to be married for time and all eternity and to be sealed together as a family. We drove from Southern California, our route taking us through a place, unfamiliar to us, called Saint George, Utah…it was daylight in Saint George…the sun shining brightly…as we approached…and began to behold…the beautiful Mormon Temple in Saint George: And, oh!...there was no doubt…as I choked back the tears…IT WAS THE CATHEDRAL of the desert Southwest that had so transfixed my heart and soul–when I was a Marine Corps aviator flying northward out of the Grand Canyon, nine years before. I had found those adoring people and I WAS ONE OF THEM!
Bro. James A. Ruffer MD
12 March 2014