"Stories on the Sabbath"

The Miracle of Service

The fields seemed alive with adventure.  We three young boys couldn't have asked for more.  Dressed in "army attire" and armed with our imaginations, we were off to do battle.  Partially opened soup cans filled with dirt made excellent grenades.  War raged throughout the fields as bombs were dropped and dust clouds billowed into the air. The unsuspecting enemy had once again been taken by surprise.
My father had served faithfully as bishop of our ward.  Shortly after his release, he was killed in a trucking accident, leaving behind a young wife and six children. My mother was 33, her oldest child 13, and the baby only eight months.  What a tragic loss!  Mother felt she needed the strength of her family, and soon we were living in Saint George, Utah, surrounded by large fields.

We found many hours of solace and enjoyment in these spacious fields.  They, too, became our playmates.  I was the youngest of the three boys and deemed a "private" in the army, so my assignment was to oversee production of the grenades.  I had become quite adept at loading the ammunition into the cans; but on one particular day, in my excitement to launch the grenades, one of the cans slipped and ripped the inside of my palm with its jagged edge. I felt an immediate rush of pain, followed by a great deal of blood.  I grabbed my hand and ran to the house. 

 After Dad died, Mother lived for her children, and she was a fine example of love and service to us all.  Having a love for her ancestors, she found time for genealogy and even served as the stake genealogical secretary.  What a sacrifice this must have been as she performed her work faithfully and still found time for all of us.  Desiring to instill in her children the importance of service and that same love she had for her ancestors, mother volunteered her three oldest boys to help with baptisms at the temple.  Our house was only a block and a half from the temple, so we were available at a moment's notice.

Blood was still dripping from my hand as I entered the kitchen.  With fear in her eyes, Mother immediately began washing the wound.  The cut was three inches in length and quite deep.  I remember begging her not to make me get stitches.  I don't know if it was because of my plea or because of finances, but I didn't have to go for stitches.  After cleaning it well and putting an ointment on it, she closed it up with three or four butterfly bandages.  She had just finished wrapping my hand when the phone rang.  It was the temple calling.

They were short-handed that day, and wondered if the Fish boys could come over and help.  Families from out of town often came to do temple work for a large number of names. If they didn't get the baptisms done that day, they often felt disappointed. I was only nine and a half, but in those days a person who had been previously baptized could perform baptisms for the dead.  On that day, my oldest brother had another commitment and wouldn't be able to help.  My brother just older than I was playing in a Little League game that night.  I had really wanted to go and watch him.  Looking at my freshly bandaged hand, Mother hesitated for a moment and then said, "Jon, when you get to the temple, tell them you are the only one who can make it today."    

Even though I wanted to attend the baseball game, I obeyed.  As I walked the short distance to the temple, I could feel the throbbing in my hand.  Brother Edwards was the one performing the baptisms that night.  I will always remember him because he was missing a few fingers on his right hand.  When he raised it to the square, I could see all of this hand.  I didn't have any idea how he had lost his fingers, but as I looked down at my bandaged hand, I somehow felt grateful for what I did have.

For several hours Brother Edwards and I performed our labor of love.  Each time we completed twenty-five baptisms and confirmations, he would stop and ask if I felt like I could continue.  I told him that I could. I really enjoyed going to the temple and being baptized. After personally being baptized for 400 people that day, I dragged myself home exhausted.

When I arrived, Mother was a little upset. I had never been at the temple that long.  She thought I would be gone for maybe an hour or two, but not all night.  I could see the worry in her face as she glanced down at my soaking wet bandages.  Quickly she gathered dry supplies to replace the wet ones.  As she unwrapped my hand, her mouth fell open in astonishment.  My hand was completely healed!  There was absolutely no sign of the trauma that had taken place earlier that morning--not even the tiniest cut or red mark!  We wept in each other's arms.

We had just witnessed a mighty miracle in our day.  Mother took the opportunity right then to teach me of the blessing I had received because of my service in the temple that day, and the experience remains very sacred to me.  Since then, I have had a special reverence for service.  I know that had it not been for my mother, I would never have given that kind of service.  Because of a gentle, persistent mother who provided her children with many opportunities to serve, the miracle of service continues in our lives today.

                         

                                                     --Jon B. Fish, now a Father of 5 and Grandfather of 5

                                                                   (By Small & Simple Things)