THE PUDDLE

THE PUDDLE

By Walt Stone

November 4, 1985 (Herald Journal)

     Jonathan, my 5-year-old son, jumped on his “Big Wheels” back in the corner of the garage.  The crunch of the gravel embedded in the plastic wheels against the concrete floor sent shivers up my spine and echoed in the enclosed garage.  He sailed past me up the incline of the driveway.  I had left my glasses on the chest in the bedroom and squinted to see the outline of his golden-brown hair contrasted against the auburn leaves on the sidewalk.

     The fallen leaves had been drenched by a week of cold rains and instead of their usual crackle, they felt mushy under my feet as I hurried to catch up with the brown and black blur that was now 50 feet ahead of me.

     “Wait up” I shouted, but it was no use.  Jonathan didn’t even slow down until he reached the first intersection.

     Dark clouds mourned the passing of fall.  As I looked upward, I wondered if it would rain again. The recent rains had torn all the remaining leaves from the maple trees along our street.  The gutters were flowing with muddy water, discarded bits of litter and drowning leaves.  My spirits were as gray as the day.

     When I was in this mood nothing was worthwhile or meaningful.  Thoughts were either too dull to present any meaning or so rapid and intense, they fused into a meaningless mumbo-jumbo.

     I had decided to go with Jonathan that day because I “should,” not because I wanted to.  I hated myself for feeling that way.

     “Hurry up, Dad,” Jonathan pedaled across the road without saying anything.  I was silent too.  We crossed the first street, then turned and crossed a second.  The playground was deserted except for a solitary basketball player who was practicing his slam dunks on the 8-foot basket.

     Jonathan shot across the playground heading straight for a big puddle of water.  “Jonathan!” He stopped inches short of the water and sat quietly peering at the puddle.  I drew in a long, deep breath and blew it out.

     Slowly, I walked to the edge of the puddle.  Jonathan was still studying its contents.  It had formed in a low spot in the pavement.  The water was clear but the bottom was covered with mud, rotten leaves, paper and other debris.

     “Look, Dad,” Jonathan exclaimed, “I can see the sky!”  I moved closer. It was no different than it had been before: junk trapped in mud.  I looked back into his radiant face and knew it was me trapped in the mud.  Jonathan saw higher things.  His eyes weren’t trained to see garbage.

     “Hey, Dad, I can see me, and look, I can see you too!”  Sure enough, there in the puddle, our two faces were framed.  Overhead, the clouds were beginning to break up.  Sunlight sparkled on the edges of the puddle.

     Spontaneously, Jonathan raced through the puddle, splashing water in silver wings over my sneakers.  I didn’t need my glasses to know there was a smile on his face.  Suddenly, I felt like smiling too.

   

#1 Samuel Robert Stone

#1 Samuel Robert Stone

     It was Sunday morning and a heavy feeling like six inches of heavy, wet snow blanketed the inside of our home. Dad met me in the front room as I waded through my sorrow on the way to my parents’ bedroom where my little brother, Sammy, laid.  Mark and Larry were out doing the paper route: a four-square block delivery of about thirty-five copies of the Herald Journal: ad-filled, chubby chunks of newsprint each weighing as much as a twenty-inch rainbow trout.  Their canvas “paper” bags were stuffed completely and balanced precariously on the handle bars of their thick-tired bikes.  There would be no riding of those heavily-ladened bicycles on that May morning, only pushing and kick-standing, and walking up to each doorstep—at least until most of the papers were delivered.  It was a trail of tears.

     “Walt, come into our bedroom.  Sammy passed away during the night.  Come and see him,” Dad said.

     He was lying on his back on a small moveable bed with his head near the door and feet toward the middle of the room.  There was a white wash-cloth on his forehead. Mom was standing there.  She had been crying.

     “He doesn’t have to suffer anymore,” she said.  “He was sick for a long time and now he is in heaven.” 

     “He was having a hard time breathing last night.  We listened as he struggled with his breaths.  Then he took a deep breath.  And then he just stopped breathing.”  Dad said.  “We don’t want you to be sad,” they said together.  We stood there and looked at his pale and swollen face.  His closed, dark eyelids stood as tokens of many months of pain, needles, medications, spinal taps, and trips to the hospital, and blood transfusions, all attempting to rid his body of cancer.  Dad tenderly turned the wash cloth on Sammy’s forehead (one last time), a gesture of my mom’s and dad’s enduring love and care that had been repeated through countless days and nights.

     I dressed quickly and went out to meet Mark and Larry at the end of the paper route.  As I rode my bike down to the corner, I soon saw Mark and Larry, now riding their bikes, only a few papers remaining in their bags. They were making their last few deliveries. As they approached, I saw their tear stained faces telling me they had also visited our parents’ bedroom.  Nothing was said as we turned for home.

(Samuel Robert Stone was born March 21, 1956.  He died May 7, 1961 after battling cancer for a year.)    

Section 138

This section was given to the prophet, Joseph F. Smith, the son of Hyrum Smith.  In October 1918, he was pondering the scriptures in his room when he received a glorious vision of the Spirit World.  He saw Adam and Eve.  He saw the Bible prophets and the prophet, Joseph Smith. He saw all the righteous spirits that had lived on the earth.  These were the spirits of those who had lived from Adam and Eve up to the time of Christ’s death.

When Christ died, his body was placed in a tomb.  His spirit left the tomb and entered the Spirit World where he was greeted with great joy by these departed spirits.  He taught them his gospel including his atonement and resurrection.  Imagine their great joy as the time of their resurrection was at hand.  Jesus did not go at this time to the spirits of the wicked.  Instead, he organized this work to be done by the righteous spirits there gathered.  So, as those who have died and gone to the Spirit World accept the gospel of Christ and desire to join with him, they can have their ordinances performed in the temples by you and me.