by Jack Weyland
The next day a small bouquet of flowers arrived, along with a note, which read, “All of us at Evening News wish you a speedy recovery.”
That was the last she ever heard from David Alexander.
* * * * *
Emily couldn’t sleep. She dreaded what was going to happen to her the next day. She knew she’d be unconscious during the surgery but, still, she feared what they were going to do to her.
She wasn’t sure of the exact procedure for deep debridement, so as she imagined it, it became more awful each time. She pictured them scrubbing her injured skin with steel wool, the way her mother scrubbed a dirty pot.
Earlier in the day she’d complained to Brooke about ruining good skin to use as donor material for a skin graft.
“It’s not going to be that bad, Emily,” Brooke had said.
“Then why don’t you let them do it to you?”
“You’re right. But look at it this way. It’s the quickest way to get healthy skin to replace the most badly burned areas of your body.”
“How do they do a skin graft?”
“They attach the harvested skin over the debrided area, and the body does the rest. Isn’t that amazing?”
“But what if it comes off?”
“They’ll have you stay in bed three or four days to limit your movement.”
Emily slept for a while but woke up again around four in the morning. She lay awake, watching as the darkness of the night slowly changed to the dull gray of the approaching day, a day of pain. This is too much. How can I get through this? Everything I took pride in about me is gone, and there’s nothing left.
She thought back to the shower she’d taken the morning of her accident, of how wonderful it had been to have the water hitting the skin on her back and neck and shoulders and arms. She replayed in her mind how happy she’d been then, so full of hope for the future, so content with who she was, and so unaware of how blessed she was. She remembered clowning around in the shower, pretending the shampoo tube was a microphone, hoping for fame and fortune in some distant future, never realizing that even to be able to take a shower was a great blessing.
She thought about how independent she had been before the accident, when she didn’t need help to wash herself or to go to the bathroom, when she didn’t have people monitoring the amount of liquid that went in and the amount that came out. Being in the burn center had turned her private acts into public ceremonies.
She’d heard stories about people who kept family members hidden in the house. That’s the way I’ll end up, shut away in a back bedroom, never going out except at night, afraid to come out for fear someone will see me. No job, no marriage, and no friends, my skin will still be raw with open wounds that will never heal, and I’ll grow old, useless and unloved.
Emily–1 is gone. Emily–2 is gone. What’s to become of me now?
I can’t get through this by myself. I need something to hold onto, something that will keep me going. I need some reason to keep living, because right now, if I had my choice, I would choose to die.
I need something to hope for. Something, anything.
She had met a girl once in high school who told her that she’d turned her life over to Jesus. The girl had made her uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because Emily didn’t want to turn her life over to anybody. She wanted to be the one in charge. Also, the girl wasn’t a member of the Church, and so, the idea seemed foreign to Emily. It didn’t seem like something Mormons did.
What was her name? It was very unusual. It was a grandma’s name, like Faye or Nadine or Mable. It wasn’t any of those but it was that kind of a name.
When she talked to me that one time, she stood too close and she spoke too enthusiastically. And she had bad breath and wore no makeup and stood so close she nearly pinned me against my locker.
She said that she’d given her life to Jesus. Well, Mormons don’t do that. Mormons work hard and do what’s needed to get the job done. That’s what Mormons do. That’s what I’ve always done.
But this is different. I can’t make it through this by myself. I’ve tried and it’s just too hard.
Every day I wonder if I’m over the worst part yet, but I never am.
All my life, when something’s gone wrong, things have always eventually gotten better. But I’m not sure that happens with this. The worst is always ahead of me.
All the things that used to work don’t work anymore.
What was that girl’s name, the one who said she’d given her life to Jesus?
She always had her shirt buttoned all the way to the top button. And her hair was always matted down. And she had bad breath . . .
She had bad breath, and she stood too close, and her clothes were drab and ordinary, and she bragged about never watching TV, and she wrote religious slogans on her notebook, and she bragged that she left religious pamphlets in the bathroom. And she stood too close and she had bad breath and she talked about giving her life to Jesus . . .
And I walked away from her. And I can’t even remember her name.
And now I am trapped with nowhere to go. And the only thing I can remember is a girl who stood too close and had bad breath and her hair was matted down and she asked me to give my life to Jesus.
What did that girl mean when she said she’d given her life to Jesus? Is that something they only do in other churches?
Give my life to Jesus? Sure, why not? He’s welcome to it. I have no use for it now. Maybe he can make something of it now, because I can’t.
I’m going to be the freak show they keep locked in her room so she won’t scare little kids. Emily–2 is gone.
What would it mean to give my life to Jesus? How would my life be different? What difference would it make?
A passage of scripture came to her mind. Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
Oh, I need that so much, she thought. I need to rest. I need someone to take my burden, and to carry it for a while, because I can’t. It’s too much for me.
When she tried to think about giving her life to Jesus, the memory of the girl from school standing too close, speaking with too much fervor, her eyes glistening with emotion, kept getting in the way.
I don’t want to be like that girl, she thought. What did she mean when she said she’d given her life to Christ?
Before my accident, how much did I think about the Savior? Oh, sure, during the sacrament, I tried to think about him. But even that was hard. There were always other thoughts coming into my mind. I think I’d try to remember that he’d suffered for my sins. But it’s hard to remember every mistake I’d made the past week, every thoughtless comment, every time I passed by someone who could have used my help.
And yet in the sacrament prayer we promise to remember the Savior. I haven’t done very well at that. Oh, I think about him, but not always. I don’t even know what that would be like. How practical is it to think about him all the time?
Why is it the only person I’ve met who thinks about him all the time isn’t a member of the Church, has bad breath, and isn’t anyone I’d ever want to spend time with?
But now I can’t do this alone.
Maybe I should try it. Maybe I should always remember him. Maybe I should keep his commandments. Then maybe I can have his Spirit to be with me.
Maybe I should do what I’ve been promising to do all this time.
What do I even know about the Savior? What is in my heart about him? I remember he cleansed ten lepers. That’s a skin disease. He just said the word, and they left and as they walked away, their skin healed up. They must have been so happy. And yet only one returned to thank him. I would have run back and fallen at his feet and thanked him over and over again.
In the Book of Mormon it says he visited people after his resurrection. After he talked to them, he asked if there were any sick among them. And they were brought to him and they were all healed.
He was supposed to leave them, but he didn’t.
He couldn’t just walk away. He had too much compassion not to help. When he looked into their eyes, they knew he loved them. He loved the sick, he loved the lame, he loved the blind, he loved the crippled.
He must love me too. He must know that I’m here. He must know that I’m thinking about him right now.
He must love me too. And if I’d been in that group of people in the New World that he visited after his resurrection, he’d have healed me, wouldn’t he? He’d have looked into my eyes, and I would have seen the love in his eyes for me, and he’d have placed his hands on my head, and said a prayer. And when he removed his hands, my skin would have been restored to the way it was before the fire.
He would have done that for me then. I know he would. But what can he do for me now? Whatever he can do for me, I want him to do it. Whatever blessing he has for me, I want to claim it.
Lying in the gray light of early morning, she remembered a verse from the song “Away in a Manger.” It had always meant a lot to her, but she usually didn’t think about it except at Christmas. She mouthed the words.
Be near me, Lord Jesus; I ask thee to stay
Close by me forever, and love me, I pray.
Bless all the dear children in thy tender care,
And fit us for heaven to live with thee there.
That’s what I want; that’s what I need! That’s what I must have if I’m going to survive this. Stay near me, Lord Jesus, I ask thee to stay close by me forever and help me, I pray.
She closed her eyes and thought a prayer. Father in Heaven, please help me. I need you to help me get through this. It’s so bad for me now.
Your son Jesus Christ came into the world to save us, and he’s done that for me. I know I’ve been forgiven for some of my sins. Mainly the ones I felt the worst about. But I need more than that now. I need him to take my pain, or at least make it so I can take it without wishing I were dead, because lately I’ve been wishing I had died in the fire. That’s how bad it is for me now. Every time they move me it hurts so much I think I can’t stand it anymore.
Father in Heaven, when the morning comes, when it hurts the worst, I will say a silent prayer. Please help me. You said you wouldn’t give us more than we can take. Well, I can’t take this, so please take some of the pain and heartache away. I will try to always remember your son, Jesus Christ, and keep his commandments.
Please, Father, help me get through this day.
She tried to come up with an image of the Savior that she could hold in her mind against the pain that was sure to come. She rejected the paintings she’d seen that showed him before a large group of people because she didn’t want to feel like she was just one in a large crowd. She wanted to feel assured that he cared about her personally. She remembered a painting of him with a little girl on his lap. That was more of what she wanted. Except she wasn’t a little girl. She would be a sophomore in college if she ever returned. And it was hard to imagine the Savior holding someone her age.
Chapter 6
She wanted an image she could call to mind when the pain was the greatest. After some effort, it came to her.
She saw it as if it were a painting. She was sitting on a chair in the middle of a room surrounded by mirrors. She was wearing a brilliant white Sunday dress, and she looked the way she had before the fire. Except her head was bald, the way it was now.
Jesus stood behind her, holding his hands just inches above her, as if he were going to place them on her head and give her a blessing. And in the mirrors, the image of the two of them was repeated many times, in an endless progression of whiteness and beauty.
She looked at the Savior’s face in the mirror. His attention was focused totally on her, and she could see in his eyes the love he had for her. She knew that he would give her a blessing every bit as wonderful as any blessing he had ever given anyone.
It was a marvelous image, and she vowed to keep it before her always.
Father in Heaven, please help me to know you love me, and that Jesus Christ loves me, and that you hear my prayers, and that some good will come from this.
Please help me get through this day, and all the days that will follow. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
* * * * *
It was seven o’clock in the morning, but Austin had already been up for an hour. He’d taken his shower, gotten dressed, and spent thirty minutes studying his scriptures. After that he’d said his prayers and then gone into the kitchen to fix breakfast for Elder Briggs. They’d found that if Elder Briggs had something to eat a few minutes before getting up, he seemed to do better.
Austin knew the other missionaries would make fun of him if they knew he was serving his companion breakfast in bed. But Austin didn’t care. The main thing was to try to keep Briggs healthy so they could get some work done.
Austin touched Elder Briggs’ shoulder. “Elder, it’s morning. I brought you something to eat,” Austin said.
Elder Briggs sat up and took the tray, and Austin went in to get some water and some pills that had been recommended by a woman who ran a health food store. Briggs had been taking them for a week, and they seemed to be helping.
On the days when Elder Briggs said he felt well enough to work, they had taken nothing for granted. Every minute was valuable because they didn’t know how long they could go before Elder Briggs would feel sick and need to return to their apartment.
Because they had no guarantees on how long their work day would be, they began to plan better, asking members for referrals instead of trying themselves to find people to teach. They also began praying that in spite of their weaknesses and limitations, the Lord would use them to bless others.
After a month of doing these things, Austin began to see his companion in a different light. By trying to imagine himself in Elder Briggs’ place, Austin had become more compassionate, more tender, and more accepting of his companion’s limitations.
They began to find some teaching opportunities.
Elder Briggs’s health also began to improve. He was now able to work nearly every day, as long as he took it easy and didn’t overdo it. By the end of the month, they were thrilled to have three people committed for baptism and two other families taking the missionary discussions.
Then one day, when they returned to their apartment for lunch, Austin found a letter telling him he was being transferred.
As he read the letter, all the feelings he’d had in the past about being a failure as a missionary, especially in comparison to his brothers, came flooding back. I’m never going to have any baptisms, he thought bitterly.
“I’ve been transferred,” he said numbly to Elder Briggs.
“No, not now! Not when we’re doing so good.”
Austin couldn’t hide his disappointment. “Can you finish up teaching the Wilcox family? And the Jones family . . .” Each name brought a new heartache that he wouldn’t be there to see them baptized. “ . . . And the Tremontons . . . and the Evanses . . . and Cory Jensen . . .”
“I’ll take good care of them. But where are you going?”
Austin hadn’t yet looked at his new assignment. He read quickly through a note President Merrill had penned, explaining the transfer. He said that one of the elders assigned to teach Vietnamese families in Chicago was going home because of a family emergency. “I’m asking you to fill in until he returns. I realize you don’t know Vietnamese, but maybe you can pick it up. But even if you can’t, Elder Billingsley needs a companion. Thank you. I appreciate the good you’ve done with Elder Briggs. Yours in Christ, President Merrill.”
* * * * *
In his new area, Austin served as the silent partner to Elder Billingsley from Tucson, Arizona, who had learned Vietnamese in the MTC. Austin tried hard, but it wasn’t an easy language to learn, and the people they taught spoke so fast it was hard to pick out any words he could understand.
When the next mission newsletter came, he learned that Elder Hastings had been called to serve as mission assistant and that Elder Briggs was to se
rve as district leader. The new medication seemed to have given Elder Briggs his health back, and Austin was happy for his former companion.
But that didn’t mean that Austin didn’t feel left out. Once again, others had been promoted ahead of him. However, he decided not to dwell on what might have been. If this is what the Savior wants me to do, then I’ll do it. It doesn’t matter where I serve.
In a letter home he told his folks about the people he’d helped prepare for baptism before his transfer. His mother wrote back: “I don’t think it’s right for you to do all the work and then for somebody else to come in and take the credit. Would you like your father to talk to your mission president to make sure it doesn’t happen again?”
Austin answered the letter the same day he received it. “Please don’t contact President Merrill. I am happy to serve wherever I’m asked.”
Austin was unknown to most of the newer missionaries. The elders in his district knew that he worked hard and studied the scriptures with great enthusiasm, and they might have noticed, but probably didn’t, that at every zone conference, he often went to the kitchen and helped out whenever he wasn’t in meetings.
Elder Hastings, now serving as mission assistant, was at the next zone conference Austin attended. Apparently Hastings didn’t realize Austin was in that zone, because when called on by President Merrill to speak, Hastings began by saying that he wanted to share an experience he had had while serving as district leader. Austin perked up.
“There was one area in my district that hadn’t had a baptism in over a year and where the set of missionaries only worked about half the time. Well, we went in there and told them the same thing I’m telling you today, about first, you plan your work and then you work your plan. I began calling around every night to find out how each companionship had done that day. In a short time, things turned around, and in that area where there hadn’t been a baptism for over a year, last month, they had four, and they are expecting more this month. Not only that, but one of the elders in that area, who hadn’t been working all that hard, is now the district leader. So it just shows what you can do if you really decide to plan your work and then work your plan.”