Sunday, February 22, 2009

Speaking without words.

Jakes letter this week brought the usual newsy banter that I have come to love each Monday.  Updates on his work, his adventures, his companions, his day to day activities.  I breathe in each word like I've been holding my breath for a week.  I try to read between the lines to see if there is anything I have missed or any mishaps or sadness being hidden.  (I don't know who started the whole "let's keep moms in the dark while we're missionaries" thing, but I'd like to whack them in the head about 100 times!)  But usually my "mommy-dar" alerts me to anything amiss.  Usually.

This weeks letter brought an experience that Jake had that I have pondered all week.  I am going to post it exactly as he wrote it.  All bad grammer and misspelled words included.  I'll cut him some slack.  I'm not the best speller so he comes by it honestly and he is also thinking in one language and typing in another.

"The coolest thing happened last night though. We got done teaching this family that lives about 10 minutes outside of El Triunfo. We were waiting for the bus. When we noticed a man, walking his bike. He had a bag of rice wrapped around the handle bars, and we noticed a hole in the bag. He stopped and tried to stop the rice from falling. But he only has two hands and one hand had to stable the bike, while the other kept the rice from falling. Me and my comp go and help him, and we get close and realize this guy is not in good shape. He was bleeding from his mouth, nose and arms. It looks like he got beat up pretty bad. We tried talking to him, but he looked completely disoriented, and wouldnt respond. We tried clogging the hole in the bag, but nothing. He takes off his shirt, and we put the bag in the shirt and tie it to his bike and everything, but he still hasn't said a word. We see him start heading down the road, and he gets about 20 feet, and me and my comp think. This guy looks like he is about to fall over. We walk over to him, and try to convince him to let us buy him a bus to get home, but he refused by using hand motions. He could see we were confused by the fact he never talked, and then he pulled a bandana down from his neck, where lo and behold. A huge hole in throat. He had no voice box. We helped, and made sure he would be careful. As we left and got on our bus, the song "poor wayfaring man of grief" came to mind. Especially the 7th verse. Now, I beseech thee family. to go and read this the next time you get your hands on a hymn book!"

I am so grateful that Heavenly Father, with all his wisdom, is teaching these young men to not only learn to listen with their ears.  But to listen with their eyes, their hearts and to listen to the spirit of the holy ghost.  To not think twice before turning in their tracks to serve.  I'm grateful that Jake walked away and pondered the experience enough to compare it to a hymn (which I like to think of as a form of scripture).  Then also share and teach us here at home.

I'm just grateful.


Alec and Tiffany

I miss my Bro Bro!



You have a good boy there, Janae'.

What a great story- and it's my favorite hymn! Thank you for sharing!!

susan bunker

why does my heart melt every time i hear a missionary story? i hope santa rosa is full of elder jake runyon missionaries! thanks for sharing, it's amazing what that letter or email every week can do for a mother! Love you!

Andrew and Heidi

What a great missionary story - thanks for sharing.
And I'm loving the new blog look!!!

Kathy's Boys

I love it. (Missionary moms especially love it!) Reading their stories like this makes missing them bearable! How much time does he have left?