I got in the truck and drove east until I could see the Mississippi. I chose the first side road that followed the river and looked like it didn’t get traveled much. From there I took the first gravel road that turned toward the river. For a short time I was surrounded by trees—the canopy was so thick that it was like driving through a cave. When I came out the other side, I was face-to-face with the mighty Mississippi.
I parked the truck next to an oak tree that must have been at least a hundred and fifty years old. The trunk was so large I couldn’t wrap my arms around it. I walked to the bank and climbed down to the shoreline. I searched for a spot that wasn’t muddy and found a driftwood log that had parked itself onto a bed of rocks. I sat on the rocks, leaned against the log, and ate my lunch.
A coal barge chugged by, and I waved at the captain—at least I figured he was the captain. He waved back and tooted the horn. The barge created waves that lapped onto the rocks close by. One wave was so forceful that when it splashed on shore, droplets of river water hit my feet and legs.
The Mississippi was calm, and the rhythm of the current made me sleepy. I leaned my head back against the log and closed my eyes. A soft breeze blew across my face, carrying with it the fragrance of mud mingled with river water. For the first time I could remember, I realized how lucky I was to live in Armadillo, Arkansas. I was close to the Mississippi—close to a river of such history and power and importance. No matter where I went in the world, the river would still be here when I got back.
I picked up my scriptures. I didn’t want to read them like I did when President Carter challenged me to read the Book of Mormon. On this day, on this riverbank, I decided I was going to read the scriptures because I wanted to know what God had to say to me.
Sister Hooper had told us in seminary that the scriptures were as much God’s word to us today as they were God’s words to the people in ancient times. I decided to start with the Doctrine and Covenants, since that’s what we’d studied this year and some of it would still be fresh in my mind. I don’t know how long I’d been reading when I got to section 19. When I got to verse 38, the words jumped off the page, and it was almost as if I could hear someone reading them aloud:
Pray always, and I will pour out my Spirit upon you, and great shall be your blessing—yea, even more than if you should obtain treasures of earth and corruptibleness to the extent thereof.
Behold, canst thou read this without rejoicing and lifting up thy heart for gladness? Or canst thou run about longer as a blind guide?
As I finished verse 40, I thought of the fish in Mom’s koi pond and how they swam, never going anywhere but around and around forever. Was I running like a blind guide, never going anywhere, never thinking about where I was headed?
Was I, like the fish, swimming in circles?
I tore a page out of my notebook and folded it into a little boat. Granddad had shown me how to make paper boats when I was a kid, and I used to float them in the bathtub. I walked to the water’s edge and released the boat. The college-ruled paper craft bobbed cheerfully in the waves. In no time it was several hundred feet downstream and only a small white blip in the water. Soon I couldn’t tell it from the ripples that broke up the river’s surface.
I sat back down and read my letter from Nelson–Barrett U. I still hadn’t contacted Dr. Wallace to let him know I was accepting the award. Why not? Was I putting it off?
I picked up my scriptures and read the last verse of section 19:
Or canst thou be humble and meek, and conduct thyself wisely before me? Yea, come unto me thy Savior.
I had never been good at being humble. That was no one’s fault but my own.
The best way to get humble is to pray, so I got on my knees. I prayed for Dani. I prayed for Auntie Belle. I prayed for Rhanda Mudd. Then I took a deep breath and prayed for Hunter Rockwell. I prayed for Marcy and Marshall. I prayed for my parents and for Granddad. I prayed for Melonhead.
I said amen and sat back down. But something wasn’t right. I’d prayed for everyone I could think of, but still, something wasn’t right.
I got on my knees again. This time, I asked God to forgive me and help me repent of my sins.
I finished the prayer, but as soon as I did, I felt guilty because I’d only asked for forgiveness in a generic way. I hadn’t asked to be forgiven for anything in particular.
I turned to Enos in the Book of Mormon and read how he’d prayed in the wilderness and God had forgiven him. But the more I tried to concentrate on Enos, the more another scripture kept interrupting my thoughts.
Canst thou run about longer as a blind guide?
I looked up at the sky. “Heavenly Father,” I said out loud. “I don’t understand.”
Frustrated, I put the scriptures down and walked back to the water. I took off my shoes and socks and stood at the edge of the river. The water was cold, and my toes sunk into the mud.
“The truth is lapping at your feet, boy,” I heard Brother Conrad say. I turned, but there was no one behind me. No one there but me and my scriptures and the Mississippi.
The truth was lapping at my feet. . .
“And you’re scared to death of getting sucked into it.” Brother Conrad’s words sunk deep. He knew the truth—the truth I didn’t want to admit. I knew the Lord wanted me to serve a mission. I knew it the day that Dr. Wallace and Cassiopeia got married. I knew it when I said good-bye to Melonhead. I knew it when I got the letter from Nelson–Barrett U. I knew it when President Carter asked me about it.
For months, I’d been doing my best to deny it, to run from it, thinking that it was just my imagination, trying to convince myself that the pains in my heart would go away.
A feeling of warmth washed over me. An incredible light flooded my mind, and for a second it was as if I was blind to the world.
At last, I understood what the Lord meant when He told Saul it was hard to kick against the pricks. When Saul understood, his heart changed. He became Paul. He became a missionary.
I knelt down. My knees were in the water, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to be a blind guide anymore. The truth had flooded into my heart, and it was time for me to build my raft and let the Lord’s current take me where I—where He—needed me to go.
Heavenly Father, if Thou wouldst have me serve a mission, give me the courage to do Thy will, and not my own.
And when I stopped kicking against the pricks, I knew. And when I knew, I cried. Not out of disappointment, but relief.
It was almost dark when I got home. Marshall was in the garage cleaning the interior of the hearse. He was in the backseat, his back side facing me. I gave him a shove, and he toppled over into the car floor.
“What the heck are you doing?” he yelled. He turned off the handheld vacuum and climbed out. He was mad and about to let me have it, then he saw my muddy clothes. “Where have you been?” Then he saw my tears. “What are you crying about? Oh no—has someone died?”
I held up my scriptures. “I’m going on a mission.”
Marshall put down the vacuum. His face brightened. “Wow.” His tone was reverent and respectful. “A mission.”
Granddad came out of the utility room carrying his circular saw. “Kevin, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve made an important decision. You want to know what it is?”
“Let me guess. You’ve joined the Army.”
I laughed. “Close. I’m going on a mission!”
Granddad’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my whole life.”
Granddad looked at me with an admiration I’d never seen in him before. “Let me know what I can do to help you. Whatever it takes.” We embraced.
“Where are Mom and Dad?”
Marshall wiped his eyes. “They’re getting ready for the Hadlock visitation.”
I checked the time. The viewing was still a couple of hours away.
I ran across the parking lot and past the koi pond. I still
felt sorry for the fish, but I knew I didn’t have to swim in circles anymore. I darted through the guest kitchen. I was hungry, but the smell of the food brought in for the Hadlock family didn’t slow me down.
“Mom? Dad?”
“In here, son,” Dad called from the chapel.
Mom was arranging flowers around the casket. Dad sat on the front pew, papers spread out in front of him.
Mom saw me first. “Kevin! Are you hurt?”
“Is there something wrong with the truck? Did you have a wreck?” Dad asked as he followed Mom to the chapel doors.
“No, Dad. The truck’s fine. And I’m not hurt.”
“Where have you been, then?” Dad eyed me curiously. “You’ve graduated from high school, but that doesn’t mean you can run off without telling us.”
“Didn’t you see my note?”
“I saw your note. But it didn’t tell us where you were. At least you were thoughtful enough to take your cell phone.”
I held on to the back of a pew to brace myself. “I have something to tell you.”
“Go ahead,” Mom said, trying not to show fear.
“I’m turning down the scholarship.”
Mom gasped. Dad’s face paled.
“I’m going to serve a mission.”
Mom covered her mouth with her hands and started sobbing.
Dad pumped his fist into the air and started leaping around the room.
I put my arm around her. “Don’t cry, Mom. This is good news.”
“I’m so relieved.” She took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose.
I put my arms around her. “I’m relieved too.”
Mom dabbed her eyes. “We’ve been praying for you. We knew you were struggling with the decision. But we knew it was a decision you had to make. We couldn’t make it for you.”
“Thank you for letting me do that,” I said. And I meant it.
“You’re going to be a wonderful missionary, Kevin.” She blew her nose again. “But I sure am going to miss you. Two years is a long time.”
Dad was still whooping, hollering, and leaping.
“It is a long time. But the Lord wants me to do this. I know that now. And He’ll help us. I know He will.”
Chapter Fifteen
While all the other eighteen-year-olds in Armadillo, Arkansas, spent their summer getting ready for college, I spent the summer getting ready for my mission. The first thing I did was write a letter to Dr. Wallace.
Dear Dr. Wallace:
I am grateful for all you have done to help me apply to Nelson–Barrett University. However, I have decided to serve a two-year mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and must respectfully decline the school’s scholarship offer.
Thank you for your help.
Sincerely,
Kevin Kirk
P.S. How’s Melonhead (I mean Walter). I haven’t heard from him since he left for the MTC.
Soon after, I received a reply:
Dear Kevin Kirk,
I am disappointed that you will not be attending Nelson–Barrett. I was anticipating your arrival. However, I respect your decision to serve a mission for your church. I am sure you will be as thorough in your church service as you are in your studies.
When your mission service is complete, contact me and if you desire I will help you apply for the scholarship again.
Best wishes,
Dr. A. L. Wallace
P.S. Walter’s letters to his mother are highly positive. He is in Athens and is quite busy with his church duties. I hope you enjoy your mission as much as Walter is enjoying his.
For my next step, I got a job at the Cow Palace. I was still helping Mom and Dad at the Paramount, but there were a lot of things I needed to buy. And I’d need to have money saved up for my return to help me get started at college.
The manager understood when I told her I couldn’t work on Sundays. I was glad. I wasn’t going to miss any more Sundays with Auntie Belle. The chair she saved for me wasn’t going to go empty again until it was time for me to go to the MTC.
When I was ready to fill out my missionary application, I had an interview with President Carter. It was the final Sunday our branch met in the old Fix-Rite Hardware store. After the interview, I asked about Dani.
“She won’t listen to me or her mother. She’s leaving for the University of Tennessee soon. Maybe when she’s at college, she’ll choose to get involved in church again.”
“I’ve been praying for her,” I said.
“I have to hope she still has a testimony, that it’s just buried right now as she tries to get her life sorted out. At least she’s not running around with Hunter anymore.”
“She’s not?”
“Hunter left town after graduation. He went to live with some relatives. He’s going to go to Southern Arkansas and play football for the Muleriders. Dani had this crazy idea of going to Southern A too, but fortunately we were able to talk her out of it. I knew the reason she wanted to go there—she wanted to follow Hunter.”
On our first Sunday in the new Armadillo, Arkansas, chapel, I missed the talking doors of the old Fix-Rite Hardware store. Dylan and Derek, Dani’s little brothers, did too. They sat on the new couch in the foyer and every time someone opened the door, they said, “Welcome to Fix-Rite.”
The entire stake presidency was there, and our regional General Authority gave the dedicatory prayer. After priesthood meeting, the Relief Society hosted a potluck lunch in our new cultural hall. Sister Imogene was commander-in-chief of the kitchen. She ruled with a dishtowel in one hand and a ladle in the other. She ordered the sisters to load me up with trays of freshly toasted brown-and-serve dinner rolls, then gave me instructions to place them on the tables.
After Brother Conrad blessed the food, I filled a plate and sat down beside the missionaries. Elders Peachey and Hall had been transferred and our new elders—Elder Tibbs and Elder Rogers—already had two baptisms scheduled.
“Looks like you guys will get to be the first to use our new font,” I said as I smeared some butter on my roll.
“The groundwork was laid by the missionaries before us,” Elder Tibbs said. He poured himself another glass of water from the pitcher on the table. “We’re teaching families that Elders Boaz and Tolino taught when they were here last year.”
Elder Rogers scooted his empty dinner plate to the center of the table and reached for his dessert plate. “Your dad gave us a referral today—Marshall and Marcy Cartwright.”
“They live across the street. They’re part of our family.”
Elder Rogers nodded. “Brother Kirk says Marshall’s been asking questions about your decision to serve a mission. Your dad thought it would be good for him to meet some real missionaries.” Then Elder Rogers took a big bite of chocolate pie.
Elder Tibbs wiped his mouth with his napkin. “We have an appointment with them Thursday night. Can you come?”
“I’m working at the Cow Palace that night.”
“If they let us come back, we’ll schedule it so you can be there,” Elder Tibbs said.
I finished off my potato salad. “You guys want me to drive to Auntie Belle’s this week?”
The elders looked at each other.
“What’s the problem?”
Elder Rogers frowned.
Elder Tibbs tossed his napkin on the table. “Rhanda called this morning. Said her aunt was sick and for us not to visit.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Don’t know,” Elder Rogers replied. “We’re going to call tomorrow and see if she’s better.”
I tried to eat the rest of my macaroni and cheese, but I couldn’t.
“I’ll see you guys later.” I gathered my paper plates. “I’m going to check on Auntie Belle.”
I made sure Mom had a ride home, then I left for Rhanda’s.
Rhanda opened the door and looked around—I assumed she was checking to make sure the missionaries weren’t there.
“How’s
Auntie Belle?”
Rhanda stepped aside and motioned me in. “She’s not doing well today. She hasn’t eaten since Monday. And she keeps talking to Thomas.”
I was so worried about Auntie Belle that it didn’t even register that Rhanda was being cordial. “Who’s Thomas?”
“My great-uncle,” Rhanda said as we walked to Auntie Belle’s room. We stood in the doorway and watched her sleep. “She keeps telling him she can’t go. She has to wait for the visitor.”
“Some people, when they’re close to dying, see the loved ones who’ve died before them.”
Rhanda looked troubled. “Maybe she’s just hallucinating.”
“I don’t think so. God loves us too much to let us die alone.”
“I don’t understand,” Rhanda said.
“There’s more to life than what we see.” That was what Brother Conrad had said to me once when I talked to him about Cletus McCulley’s death.
“My Auntie’s going to heaven,” Rhanda said firmly. “Do you believe in heaven?”
“There’s more to death than just ‘going to heaven.’ Maybe someday you’ll let me tell you about it.”
Auntie Belle gasped. “Sweetie, is that you?”
Rhanda smiled. It was the first time she’d ever smiled at me. “See what she wants.”
I took Auntie Belle’s hand in mine.
“I was hoping to introduce you,” Auntie said to the middle of the room. “This is Kevin, my visitor. He’s a good boy.”
“Hi Thomas.” I grinned and waved my other hand. “Nice to meet you.” I aimed my salutations at the three chairs against the wall—the ones that the missionaries and I occupied while we taught Auntie Belle the gospel. I hoped I was aiming in the right direction.
Auntie Belle’s hand relaxed. I let her arm rest on the bed.
The Final Farewell Page 11
