The Mission
Copyright 1995 Donald M. Hart
The Missionaries
had walked a long way. The old dirt road
had many ruts that had filled with muddy water
from the last three days of rain. Elder
Power, the senior of the two Elders, had tried to jump over the last of the
biggest puddles. He had been
unsuccessful. His left foot, overextended,
had caught the very trailing edge, and he had slipped backward, landing with a
big splash of red muddy, oily water.
Elder Thomas had laughed for about two minutes straight, causing his
side to ache from the effort. Not
thinking the incident very humorous,
Elder Power, admonished his companion and asked for his assistance in
withdrawing himself from the puddle.
Elder Thomas, still laughing, extended his hand and helped his companion
to his feet. Elder Power began to wipe
the grime off of his trench coat and pants legs. They were in the back woods of the upper part
of South Carolina, close to the North Carolina border, just north of a community
called Cleveland. A place with the
reputation of having people who had never given up hope that the South would
rise again.
They had
been walking for some time when Elder Thomas asked, “Are you sure this is the
right road to this man’s house?”
“Yes the
directions came directly from the Mission President. He was very precise when he gave them to me
because Mr. Bogan’s house is so far out of the way; off the beaten path.”
“Well, I
just wish we had our bikes. We’ve been
walking for the last hour, and my feet hurt.”
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“Elder Thomas, I’m sorry about the
bikes. I regret that we even stopped at
the restaurant for breakfast, but we had to eat.”
“That’s not the point. The point is the sheriff of this one horse
town didn’t even care.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I guess it
was the way he said, ‘You know boys… You
Mormon types an’ us country folk don’t cotton to each other very well. And I wouldn't be a bit surprised, no-sirree
if’in those boys what took your bikes didn’t take them up ta Myers pond and
sling em out ta the middle just ta see how
fast they’uns would sink’.”
“And I
guess the other reason I think he doesn’t care is when you asked him if the
boys would be arrested, and our bikes brought back, he said, ‘You young men mean well in ta thangs yall’re doin’. But upin these here neck of the woods, you’s just tha
outsiders and folk around these heah parts don’t like having their kin locked
up. So with something as minor as this
kids prank is, I think it be left well enough alone. My bestest advice ta youins is ta write home
ta yo mamma’s and ask them ta send you more money and buy yall new bikes’.”
Elder Power chuckled at his companions imitation
of the Sheriff.
The rutted
and over used road seemed to stretch on forever – as country roads have a
tendency to do. When they rounded the
next bend, Elder Thomas stopped and pointed.
Elder power
who had continued walking, with his head down watching where he was putting his
feet, noticed the absence of his companion.
3
Turning to
look back, asked, “what are you doing?’
All his
companion could do was point straight ahead and mouth the word, “Look.”
Elder
Power followed the outstretched hand of his companion to its end and then
continue to follow the invisible line toward the thing his companion was pointing
at.
Straight
ahead like a scene from the movie
Psycho stood a three-story clapboard house, weathered
with age, with white paint peeling from the hand-hewn siding like leaves
falling in an autumn wind.
As they
stood looking in awe and wonder at the
kind of a dilapidated house they only saw
in movies, a high-pitched cackle began
softly and slowly rolling across the wind.
The cackle
grew in intensity, like the approaching sound of a great steam locomotive. The
Elder’s skins began to crawl.
Silas Bogan
was an old man. He had lived a long life of ninety-three years. Standing over
six feet four inches tall, his frame thin and wiry, he reminded people, from a distance, of President
Lincoln.
The only
time he had gained any weight was during the occupation of France after World
War II; being a master sergeant had its perks.
Now, all his body parts showed their classic signs of
age; the sagging pocket of flesh under his chin, the loose skin where muscles
used to bulge from his forearms, and his loose drooping emaciated looking
thighs.
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Silas was bestowed
a good life. He had been fortunate enough to work a number of jobs after the war and
save his money to build the biggest and best house in town, a beautiful garden,
and a shop out back where he could start his own business.
At one time, his house and grounds were the talk
of the town. People would come from miles around
and make the muddy trek down the
quarter mile drive to the turn around just to marvel at the magnificence and
beauty of the house, and it’s surrounding gardens.
He
had spent all his army retirement and savings to build it. It had been his
pride and joy until his health had prevented him, at age
eighty-three, from doing the necessary maintenance. Now it was no longer a
beauty to behold - it was in mortal dis-repair.
Silas, at one time, was a compassionate and loving
individual. That had been before the
turbulent sixties, when the whole world (in his opinion) went crazy.
The
teenagers in the bigger cities had started disrupting the natural order of
things with sit-ins and protest over the war in Vietnam. The Democratic national convention in Chicago
had been a scene of chaos and anarchy. What had started as a peaceful protest
turned into a massive melee disrupting the convention and causing the party to
become a laughing stock in the minds of the American public.
The
situation didn’t bode well with Silas. He was a life-long Democrat. Shortly
after the fiasco at the convention, the town began to have troubles of a
similar nature. And Silas, with his big house out in the “middle of nowhere”
became a primary target for pranksters throwing rocks and vandalizing his
property.
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The
Elders, still standing and staring, didn’t notice Silas, laughing loudly,
walking out from behind the giant oak tree at the right corner of the house. He
was holding a double barrelled, over-under, rested red, 12 gauge shotgun
leveled at the two Missionaries.
“You
two boys don’t move a muscle or even breathe.”
Both
missionaries began to shake from fear.
“Ye..Ye..Yes..Si..Sir”
stuttered Elder Thomas.
“I
said, keep still and quite!”
Slowly
Silas raised the shotgun until the stock rested in the pit of his shoulder. His
head bent slightly over the barrel as he began to take aim.
“We
are going to die,” Elder Power said under his breath.
Everything
from the missionaries perspective began to move in slow motion. They could see
Silas close his left eye and sight along the barrel of the gun. Panic stricken
they saw his right index finger position itself at the angle required to fire
both chambers at once. Silas’ left arm tensed and his left hand tightened on
the grip. Slowly he pulled the shotgun tighter against his shoulder. His right
index finger began to pull back toward te stock of the gun.
Elder
Thomas had come out three weeks ago. He was a “greenie”. Life as he envisioned
it was one of semi-poverty, diligence, prayer, chastity and working
hard for the church on the behalf of the Heavenly Father. Thomas considered it
an act of providence that he was paired
with Elder Power who had been out six months. Power was an industrious and
meticulous worker.
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Thomas knew, because of his diligence, his
companion was slated as the next District leader in the lower part of the
state. As soon as Thomas finished training, he knew Power would be transferred,
and they would both get new companions. Such was the life of a 19-year-old man
on his mission.
Elder
Thomas remembered the day of his arrival distinctly. He had no time to unpack.
Elder Power had three afternoon appointments, a dinner appointment, and one
evening appointment. He was thrust into the fire from the beginning. Now he was
under fire. These thoughts shot through Thomas’mind, as well as others,
depiction home and family in the split second it took for him to watch Silas
Bogan’s finger squeezed gently back on the triggers.
A
tremendous explosion split the air.
Both
Missionaries hit the ground.
Cackling,
Silas walked past the missionaries prone bodies. Reaching down, about three feet behind the
heel of Elder Thomas, Silas picked up the body of the snake that he had just
obliterated.
Raising
his arm toward the sky he laughingly said, “Supper tonight boys. You young
fellows were real lucky that I happened around the corner when I did. That rattlesnake
was coiled to strike. We have a lot of those around here, and you need to be
careful walking in unpopulated areas.
“We
really appreciate you looking out for us,” said Elder Thomas, shaking and while
from fear, as he picked himself up from the ground. Throwing the snake carcass
into the weeds
7
along the
side of the road, Silas helped Power up, and the three of them went to the front
porch to sit down. They sat in silence on the porch for about five minutes.
Standing
up, Silas said, “Let me take this gun in the house, and I’ll get us a bite to
eat.” Returning a few minutes later with white grape juice and cherry
turnovers.
“You
fellows walk all the way out here?”
“It’s
not that far,” replied Elder Power.
“It’s
over three miles from the town to here.”
“Uh..
we actually live on the other side of town at the Terrace Apartments. Do you
know where that is?”
“I
sure do. They are right next to the shopping center- that’s a good five miles
from here. Why did you young men walk all the way out here just to give an old
dried up man a copy of the Book of Mormon? That seems like a long way
out of your way to go for someone like me?”
Elder
Thomas spoke up, “Our Mission requires us to make sacrifices in order to do the
Lord’s work.”
“I
thought that the Church would furnish you with transportation.”
“We
have to supply our own way of getting around.”
“Well…
we did have bikes until this morning.”
“What
happened this morning?”
8
“Our
bikes were stolen.”
“Stolen?
By who?”
“A
bunch of young guys in a red pick-up.”
“I
don’t know why teenagers have such a mean streak these days. I really hate you
lost your bikes. When you get ready to leave, I’ll get ‘Ol Sal’ and drive you
back to your place.”
After
a time of getting to know each other a little better and learning that Silas
had graduated from Harvard shortly after the end of World War I, the
missionaries began teaching the first discussion concerning the Plan of
Heavenly Father.
At
the conclusion of the first meeting, which included a tremendous amount of
Biblical referencing and reading, Silas asked Elder Power to say a closing
prayer. “Dear Heavenly Father, we are thankful for the opportunity to meet with
Silas today and share with thy gospel. Help as he strives to find the
truthfulness of this gospel, and the Spirit be with him and that his prayers are
answered. Please bless his household that it will be kept from dangers seen and
unseen. As we depart, we ask you to keep us safe till we gather together again.
Father we thank you for all the many blessings you have given us. We say these
things in the name of thy Son Jesus Christ, amen,” prayed Elder Thomas. The
Elders inquired if they could come back for a second lesson and Silas said yes.
While
the Elders waited on the porch, Silas disappeared around the side of the
house. After a minute or so they heard
an engine start in the distance. The
roar of the engine got closer,
9
and the Missionaries stepped down from the porch
just in time to see Silas, in a shiny solid black 1952 Chevy pick-up, come from
the back of the house. Silas pulled up next
to Elder Power.
“Climb
on in fellows. Ol Sal may not be much to look at, but she will get us there in one
piece.”
The
three of them rode the five miles back to the apartment, bumping, chugging, and
rattling all the way. When they got
back, Elder Thomas asked, “How long have you had this truck?”
Pulling
away from them, Silas leaned his head out the window and cackling loudly over
his shoulder yelled, “I bought her in ’52.”
The
Missionaries continued meeting with Silas every week for three more
lessons. Each lesson was a trial for the
Missionaries because Silas was full of questions. Most of the questions dealt with the
relevance of The Book of Mormon
to the King James Bible.
Every
time the Elders came to Silas’ house, they were greeted at the door with a tray
of tarts and three glasses of grape juice in one hand and the rag-tagged,
weathered,dog-eared,marked, and remarked eighty year old family Bible, his
mother had given him, in the other. He
would invite them in, they would talk for a few minutes, and then one of the
Elders would open the lesson with a prayer.
That was the way the ritual went each time they visited. Nothing varied. Nothing changed. Nothing,
that is until they got to the fifth lesson.
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The
Elders were walking up the now familiar rutted drive when Elder Thomas
noticed the front door closed. Turning to
his companion he asked, “Do you have the appointment book with you?”
“Yes,”
was the answer as Power pulled the folded blue planner from his shirt pocket.
“What
time is it,” Power asked?
“2:30. Isn’t that the time we’re supposed to be
here?”
“Yes
unless you wrote it down wrong.”
“No,
I’m sure I didn’t. You know how Mr.
Bogan is; he told us that if we were ever late not to bother to come because he
would send us away.”
“Yeah
– I know.”
The
two approached the house, mounted the steps and crossed the porch to the front
door. Elder Thomas pressed the
doorbell. After a few seconds with no
answer, he pressed the button again. Becoming
a bit anxious because Silas had always been waiting for them in the past Elder
Power pulled open the screen and rapped the ring against the brass lion head
door knocker. The sound of brass on
brass and a hollow thudding emanated from behind the big oak door.
Elder
Thomas began to get uneasy. He reached
for the knocker and rapped it as hard as he could. After what seemed to the Missionaries as an infinite
span of time, Elder Thomas looked to his companion and asked, “Do you think
something has happened to Mr. Bogan?”
“I
don’t know. Let’s try looking around,
maybe he’s fallen and severely hurt himself.”
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“Or
worse, he could be dead.”
“Don’t
say something like that.”
Both
Elders began walking across the porch trying to look into the windows. Doing so was almost impossible the dust and
grime from so many years of neglect prevented them from seeing anything but
hazy images: images that resemble an early spring morning in the Great Smokies
as the fog lifts and burns away from the valley.
Elder
Thomas pulled the sleeve of his shirt down over the heel of his hand and began
wiping individual panes of glass to get a better view. Seeing this, Elder Power did likewise.
After
looking in all the windows they could from the porch, each went around the
house in opposite directions doing the same all the way around.
When
they both turned the corner of the wall to the back entrance of the mud room, they
almost collided.
Power
spoke first,”Did you see anything?”
“No.”
“Neither
did I.”
“Did
you hear anything?”
“No.”
“Maybe
we should knock on the back door?”
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“Yeah,
good idea,” said Power as he immediately acted upon the suggestion by grabbing
the screen door handle.
Elder
Thomas stepped forward and with his hand balled into a fist, thumb out,
pounded, with all his strength, on the heavy door. He paused; then repeated the process twice
more.
The
house was silent. As a matter of fact at
this point in time the whole world seemed quiet – too quiet – like a tomb.
“Let’s
go to the shop and look around there,” Power said.
“No. You know Mr. Bogan told us never to go near
his shop, or he would never ask us back again.”
“I
know, but what if he needs help? I would
hate to think we were this close, and he died because we didn’t try.”
“You’re
right. Let’s go!”
With
Elder Thomas leading the way, the young men started toward the shop. The only sound anywhere came from under their
feet on the dried leaves of grass crushed beneath their weight. As they got closer to the shop, Elder Thomas
nudged his companion and pointed. On the
right side of the shop barely visible was Ol
Sal. This eased their mind a little
because if Ol Sal were here then Mr.
Bogan was here somewhere.
When
the Missionaries were within ten feet of the shop, the door flew open and
Silas, red with rage from the neck up, stepped out.
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“I
told you boys never to come out here!”
“But
we thought you might be hurt,” said Elder Thomas.
“You
boys leave my property … NOW!”
“But…,”
began Power.
Taking
a step toward the two and raising his fist in a threatening manner Silas
screamed, “I said GO!”
The
two Elders turned and with their heads down walked back around the house, up the dirt road and then back to
their apartment, sullen and not speaking.
That night they discussed the events of the day with their District
Leader and he told them not to worry, everything would be O.K.
Over
the next week, the Elders tried to call Mr. Bogan and he would either not
answer or hang up on them.
As
the days passed and the Elders continued the work of Heavenly Father, they
thought less and less about Silas Bogan.
Three weeks had passed since their last visit with Silas.
On
the first day of the fourth week, the phone rang at 7:30 a.m.
Elder
Power picked up the phone, “Hello?”
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“Yes
is this the residence of the Morman Missionaries Elders Power and Thomas?”
asked the voice on the other end.
“Yes
it is. I’m Elder Thomas, may I help you?”
“I
suppose so… I need the two of you to come to Silas Bogans’ house as soon as
possible.”
“Is
there a problem?”
“I
think could say there was a major problem.
I’m Silas’ son, and I need you to come to my father's house as soon as
you can.”
“We
can be there within the hour.”
The
Missionaries walked the familiar road to Silas’ house, hypothesizing as to the
reason for the unexpected call. As the
rounded the last curve, they saw a silver Mercedes parked in the turn-around.
The
door to the house and a white-haired man approximately fifty-five years od
stepped onto the porch. He was wearing a
three-piece suit and the trademark red Republican tie. His stature was completely opposite from that
of his father. The Missionaries walked
closer to the porch.
“I
believe that you two are the Missionaries that impressed my father?”
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Elder
Thomas answered, “Yes we are.”
“I’m
Montgomery Bogan. I have a letter from
my father for you.” Reaching into his
inside breast pocket, he withdrew a sealed white envelope. Stepping forward he handed it to Elder
Thomas.
Elder
Thomas read the front; “To the Missionaries.”
He turned it over gently in his hand and began to open it. He took out the yellow sheet of paper and
unfolded it. Written on the piece of
paper in a scrolled antiquated were these words; “My son has been instructed to
take you to my shop. Please indulge
me.” Elder Thomas folded the letter and
replaced it in the envelope and looked inquisitively at Mr. Bogan.
Without
saying a word, Mr. Bogan walked down the steps and started around the house toward
the shop. The Missionaries followed in silence.
Not
a word was spoken between the three of them as they approached the shop. The only sound was of the keys being
extracted from Mr. Bogans pocket. As
they reached the door, he extended his hand and inserted the key into the
lock. The lock clicked, and he pulled
the door open.
“My
father told me to allow you boys to go into the shop and remove what’s behind
the white sheet.”
“No,
I am not. What is behind the sheet is
yours. Just take it and leave.”
The
Elders walked up and pulled the sheet away to expose what was behind it.
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There,
with the sunshine shimmering off the meticulously painted frames, were two hand-built
bicycles. Taped to one of the handle bar
of one of the bikes was a note with these words written on it; “To my friends who taught me a lot in the
twilight of my days. Use these wisely
and only for the Lord’s work.”