“Salt Lake City.”
He opened his briefcase. “I’m going to Denver on business.”
I put on my seat belt. “I’m going to be a missionary.”
“You must be a Mormon,” the man said. “My brother is a Mormon. His daughter is serving a mission. She’s in Denmark.”
“I’m going to Kennewick, Washington.”
“Beautiful country there. Well, enjoy your flight.” The man turned his attention to his papers.
My mom was still where I’d left her. She held a banner up to the window. It said, “Have Faith.”
I laughed. “That’s what the paper tube was for.”
The man beside me grunted, not understanding.
I pointed out the window.
“Is that your mom?” he asked.
I nodded, too full of emotion to speak.
The plane rolled onto the runway, and soon we were in the air. At first the ground looked like a crazy quilt, a hodgepodge of geometric shapes. Then there was nothing to see other than a thick, white blanket of clouds.
I flew from Memphis to Dallas and then got on a larger plane that took me to Salt Lake City. I arrived at the airport, found my luggage, and tried to figure out where I was supposed to go next. I decided to look for a large group of dark suits and follow them. There had to be other new missionaries besides me.
Twenty minutes later I was no closer to figuring out where I was at or where I was supposed to go. Everything and everyone looked the same. What if I missed the shuttle? I felt a pang of uncertainty. I put my bags down and searched through my pockets for my itinerary. I found a slip of paper in my coat pocket. It was from Mom.
It said, “Have Faith.”
Then I remembered what I’d put in the right pocket of my slacks. I took the fishing worm out and smiled.
“Kevin? Kevin Kirk?”
I looked out over the river of people that flowed past. I didn’t see any familiar faces.
“Kevin! Is that you? Over here!”
A guy my age in a dark suit was running toward me. He was shorter than me and had dark blonde hair. I hoped it was the shuttle driver. But as he got closer I realized there was something familiar about him.
He grabbed my shoulders, and his small, squinty eyes searched mine. “I’d know you anywhere!” His face, dotted with freckles, was brightened by his infectious grin. He ran his hand through his short, spiky hair. “I never dreamed I’d get the chance to see you again.”
“Chuck? Chuck Stiller?” My arms opened wide. “I can’t believe it’s you!”
“You didn’t forget me!” he cried as he gave me a bear hug.
“How could I forget someone who wanted to beat me up every day?”
Chuck laughed. “I sure am glad I didn’t succeed.”
“How are you? The last I heard, you went to Chicago to live with your aunt and uncle.”
“Kevin, you saved my life that day at the funeral home. I’ll be grateful to you as long as I live. And after all the mean things I did to you.” Chuck shuddered at the bad memories. “I’ve prayed many nights, hoping for your forgiveness.”
“We were kids then. Of course I forgive you. You had problems. So did I. Believe me, I’m sorry for the times I got angry with you too.”
Chuck smiled. “That’s all in the past.”
“So, are you still living in Chicago? What are you doing here in Salt Lake?”
Chuck pointed to a group of guys in dark suits. “I’m on my way to the Missionary Training Center in Provo. I’m going to be serving a two-year mission in Chile for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Then Chuck stepped back and stared at my suit. He grinned mischievously. “Why are you here, Kevin?”
“I’m looking for the shuttle that goes to the MTC.”
Chuck’s laughter made my luggage feel light as cotton. “Where are you going?”
“The Washington Kennewick Mission,” I said proudly. “How did you end up joining the Church?”
“My aunt and uncle are members.” Chuck gazed at me in amazement. “Who’d have known you and I would end up at the MTC together?”
I shrugged. “The Lord, I guess.”
“Elder Stiller,” one of the dark-suited guys called out. “The shuttle’s here.”
“C’mon, Elder Kirk.” Elder Stiller helped me with my bags. Then, side by side, we left the cares of the world behind and entered into the service of God.
Epilogue
Six Years Later
The morning sun casts a bluish haze over the volcanic cliffs of the Galapagos. I am sitting less than fifteen feet away from a Geochelone elephantopus—a giant tortoise I call Atlas because he’s carrying his shell—his whole world—on his shoulders.
Atlas’s breakfast is a smorgasbord of native greens with a bit of dirt mixed in. He chews, content with what nature has provided for him. I bite into a protein bar that tastes like sawdust. I offer some to Atlas. He’s not interested. I set my breakfast to the side and get the camera ready.
“Smile,” I say to Atlas. “This is for the cover of National Geographic.”
I snap several photos. The tortoise’s jaws never break rhythm.
“If you don’t smile, I’ll tell the editor to use the blue-footed booby’s picture instead.”
Atlas lowers his head and takes a big bite of grass. He could care less about being famous.
“You’ll be sorry.” I lower the camera. “The iguana I photographed yesterday was a real show-off.”
I lean back against a rock and look out over the horizon. The Pacific washes over the shoreline, leaving a light coating of sea foam as it pulls away. I set my camera aside, take my pen from my pocket, and open my notebook.
Dear Melonhead,
I got your letter and the photos. I can’t believe two years have passed since I last saw you! It seems like yesterday that I was in Memphis to see my best friends marry in the temple. Congratulations on the new addition! You’ll love being a father—it’s the greatest thing in the world. The baby is adorable. I think he favors Dani.
My mind drifts back to the day I stood at the edge of the Mississippi River and knew I needed to get my knees wet. When I knelt in the mud and prayed, I wanted to know if God really want me to give up thousands of dollars in scholarship money to serve a mission.
The answer was yes, He did.
My mission wasn’t easy. It was hard—sometimes discouraging—work. The cancelled appointments, the doors that closed in my face; the long days when it seemed no one was willing to listen, the longer nights when my heart ached for investigators who I knew had felt the Spirit but still refused to accept baptism. I could relate to how Paul felt when King Agrippa said to him, “Almost, thou persuadest me to be a Christian.” Those words hadn’t meant that much to me when I heard them in seminary. But during my mission, they pierced me to the core.
Atlas moves closer. There’s a clump of nice juicy grass near my feet. He takes a big bite. I grab the camera.
Click click click. I smile at Atlas. “Nice,” I say. “Now you’re cooperating.”
I put the camera down again and return to my letter.
Mom emailed and said I got a postcard from the lone person I baptized while on my mission. Her husband was an inactive member. After she got baptized he started coming to church. They are going to the temple soon. It feels good to know that I helped at least one person, that I fulfilled the purpose of my mission.
About Dad—he’s working again! Granddad and Marshall remodeled the Paramount to accommodate Dad’s mobility scooter. You should see him zoom around on that thing. Mom said he got a ticket last week—he rode his Rascal through the stoplight downtown.
Granddad finally graduated from mortuary school. His graduation speech rocked the house. He said he was thankful that he finished school before he died. He was always scared of becoming part of the lesson. Now he’s helping out at the Paramount. He loves embalming the bodies. I’m still hoping he’ll join the church someday.
After
Dani and Melonhead’s wedding, I had to go to Tasmania. My editor at National Geographic wanted me to do a feature story on funnel-web spiders. For two weeks I worked alongside a research assistant named Charlotte. The first time she caught one of the fanged spiders, my heart skipped three beats—not out of fear, but because Charlotte was so darn cute. She wore steel-toed hiking boots and an explorer’s vest. She smelled like insect repellent. I wanted to ask her out, but I didn’t want to get involved with a girl who wasn’t a member of the Church.
One day I photographed her as she milked the spider’s fangs to collect their venom. I lingered afterward to talk. She handed me a card with the Thirteen Articles of Faith on it.
“If you’d like to go to church while you’re in Tasmania,” she said, “I’d love to have you come to mine.”
Six months later, Charlotte and I married in the Melbourne Australia Temple.
Atlas is finished with his breakfast; now he’s lumbering down the hill. The sun is much higher in the sky. Heat waves rise from the rocks.
Write soon and let me know how the baby’s doing. Who knows? Maybe someday your son and my daughter will get married. We can be in-laws!
Best always,
Kevin
I hear a soft whimper. I peek inside the tent. Charlotte is sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“Kelsey finally decided to wake up, huh?” Charlotte and I had named Kelsey after my sister that died before I was born.
Charlotte grins as she adjusts Kelsey’s diaper. “She’s getting to be a late sleeper.” She finishes dressing Kelsey and hands her to me. “Her baby food’s in the crate.”
I spread a blanket on the ground and feed Kelsey her breakfast. She bites down on the spoon and giggles when I try to take it out of her mouth.
Charlotte kisses me good morning. “I’m going to get his measurements.” She gestures to Atlas. “Will you be fine with Kelsey?”
“Sure.”
Charlotte trots down the hill with her notepad and instruments. Atlas is standing on the shore. The salty Pacific laps close by. Charlotte kneels beside Atlas and examines his shell.
I give Kelsey another bite of baby food. She smiles and banana drool runs down her chin. I gaze into her eyes—eyes that are so much like Charlotte’s—and am amazed to discover that eternity is greener, deeper, and brighter than I’d ever imagined.
THE END
Acknowledgments
Thanks to editors Emily Halverson and Angela Eschler for their work on this book, and to Christian Sorensen, the editor of the first three books in this series.
And, as always, I am grateful for the love and support of my husband and my precious children.
About the Author
Patricia Wiles was born in Kentucky, still lives in Kentucky, and hopes she never has to live anywhere else. She is the assistant regional advisor for the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators’ Midsouth (Kentucky–Tennessee) Chapter. Her first two novels in the Kevin Kirk Chronicles series, My Mom’s a Mortician and Funeral Home Evenings, received awards from the Association for Mormon Letters. Patricia and her husband Tim have two daughters and a son—all of whom have left the nest. Their cat Bandit, however, is a moocher and refuses to move out and get his own place.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First Edition published 2007 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Copyright © 2007, 2013 by Patricia Wiles
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2940-7
Distributed in 2016 by Open Road Distribution
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.openroadmedia.com
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