How Be It That Ye Have Not Written This Thing?

Writing in a Personal Way about Scripture

For as much as we talk about Noah, there sure isn’t much written about him in the Bible. I’ve always found that curious. Then again, as I reflect on my life, I see the same sort of pattern. Did I write about when I graduated from high school, or my first day of college? No, don’t think so. What about the day I got my mission call? Let’s be honest-I was probably more worried about not failing my midterm econ exam than about writing in my journal. In parts of the Book of Mormon there are dozens or even hundreds of years that pass in a few pages. Other times are covered at much greater length. Perhaps that’s just human nature though. 

Maybe it shouldn’t be that way. In 3 Nephi 23, Christ asks the people “How be it that ye have not written this thing?” In a very different setting, that of public accounting, the relevant accounting oversight board* had to go out of its way to make it clear that all audit evidence had to be recorded to be relied upon. Seems simple, right? Why did they even have to write it? But then again, maybe it’s not so simple. 

Somehow I managed to keep a record of every day on my mission. I can’t say I did before. Or since. But hey, it can be done. Maybe I’ll even get around to it tonight. Of course I didn’t gather hundreds of animals into an ark, but I hope people won’t look back at me and say “gee, it’s surprising he didn’t write anything for years at a time. I wonder what happened.”

*if you’re curious, (which you aren’t…I know, it’s ok…) the regulator I’m referencing is the Public Company Accounting Oversight Board, or the PCAOB.

A Wilderness Quest

“Wait, what…? Can this be serious?” I thought to myself. Missionaries had just been reassigned the previous day, and I had only been in Mobile for a little more than a month, so it was quite a surprise to hear that in the evening I would be 350 miles away in a city I had never heard of. There had been a handful of missionaries who were delayed on their way to Brazil while they waited for their visas, and they were leaving the next day. So we headed back to the apartment and I started throwing the few belongings that constituted my entire life into two suitcases.

An hour later and I was in a 15-passenger van, unsure where I really was even going. Throughout the day more details trickled in. There was only a small congregation in the city I was going to, and in fact the ‘city’ only had 3,000 people. For reference, Madison, Fl had 4 stoplights…that honestly weren’t even necessary. Oh yeah, and there hadn’t been LDS missionaries in that city for several months. Furthermore, there hadn’t been a convert in over 2 years. And the kicker: I would be training a brand new missionary at the same time.

When we arrived at the mission president’s home at 9:30 in the evening I was curious how much farther we would have to travel that evening. So I started asking around. Turns out, no one had ever been there. Eventually, one of the assistants to the president pulled out a map and said  “It looks like you go east on I-10 for a while, and then…you turn off onto some other road. You better get going soon or you’ll be getting in pretty late though.” Come to find out, we couldn’t even move into our apartment for 3 more days.

Houses like this were common in Madison

The next morning, we started looking through records to try to get our bearings. I was lost…very lost. I looked up at Elder Woolley, the new missionary that I was supposed to help train. He looked exactly how I felt. I couldn’t help but laugh and think that this truly was the blind leading the blind. Confidently I started laying out a plan for introducing ourselves to the members and people to share the message of the gospel with. I would end up in that grand metropolis for about 6 more months, during which I knocked on every door. A few times, actually. But also, during that time of incoherence is when I found myself as a missionary.

Narrating an inner struggle

It had been a long day on the slopes, and I was tired. I could hear my cousins playing games downstairs, as I listened to my grandma’s feeble voice. Or at least I figured I should be listening, but her speech was hardly audible, and I wasn’t particularly interested today. She had been in a wheelchair for years, and she was always shaking with Parkinson’s. Her mind was still there, but it took an eternity for her to express anything because between sentences she would gently slurp ensure through a straw. The liquid was dried in beads on her cracked lips and I couldn’t keep my mind on what she muttered. So I excused myself relatively quickly, assuming she would be in better shape the next time I saw her, and I could talk to her then.

Two days later she had a stroke. At 13, I wasn’t really sure what that meant, but it sounded bad. Still though, no one I had ever known had actually died, so she would surely be fine. But as soon as my Mom answered the phone the next day and I saw the look on her face I knew something was wrong. The caller-ID said it was my grandpa calling. Once my Mom hung up the phone she turned to us and started speaking. As the words spilled from her mouth I felt empty inside. But it wasn’t until I reflected on the last time I had spent with my grandma that I was filled to the brim with regret. Could I have known? Should I have known? Either way I surely should have shared more than a few cursory seconds with my grandma just a few days previously. I struggle to push it from my mind. How thoughtless I had been.