This World's Good

He was just an old man, an average, ordinary man dressed modestly, even for Argentine standards. He hadn't shaved in a few days and he wore an old Fedora-style hat from the 40s that matched his old, torn overcoat. I didn't even know his name, and still don't, but he was a man who changed my life forever.

Zapala is a small, dusty town nestled comfortably at the base of the Cordillera, Argentina's portion of the Andes Mountains. Back in the early 1980s it was an even smaller town than it is today, and I loved it. There were probably no more than 10,000 people living within its confines, but they were good people, some of the best, most humble people I've ever known. And in my five months there, I think I may have met every one.

I'd been in Argentina for a little more than three months when my bus pulled into the station there. My first two months had been spent in a plains town called Carmen de Patagones at the southern end of the Buenos Aires province. After that I'd spent one very long month in Dolores with my first Argentine companion. From there it was off to Zapala for the best months of my mission.

Located at the terminus of the Bahía Blanca and Neuquén railroads, it lies no more than 50 miles from the Chilean border. Many of the residents of the town have Chilean ancestry, and you can tell from looking at them that they have Lamanite blood coursing through their veins. They didn't have very much money, but they supplemented that lack with an abundance of charity and joy.

I can't count the times I spent sitting in a house made of tin cans on an old, aluminum kitchen chair on a dirt floor with chickens running between my feet. On one such occasion, bouncing a toddler on my knee as my companion taught the discussion, I noticed my knee begin to get very warm. Needless to say, I had to change my pants when the discussion concluded.

My companion and I lived in a 60-year old, 7-room house on the corner of Martin Etcheluz and Candelaria Streets. That house also served as our chapel. An elaborate bathroom sat just off of our bedroom, complete with toilet, sink, shower and an unusual contraption I'd never seen before, called a bidet. We called it an Argentine foot bath.

The shower didn't work so we had to bathe in the outroom, a ten-foot square room attached to the back of the house, complete with shower nozzle and toilet. There was a drain in the middle of the floor and a squeegie in the corner. We had to walk outside to get to it, even in the Winter. I realize now that we had much more than most people in that town.

In the front of the house were several tall oak trees, one on each side of the yard. A narrow brick walkway stretched from the front door to the wrought iron gate that stood majestically on the corner. A stone wall, made of bowling ball-sized rocks collected from a local valley, stretched from one corner of the property to the other. Stretching the length of the wall was an iron trellis, corroded by years of Argentine weather.

My companion, Elder Soloa, was from Rosario, a large city to the north. He'd been in the mission field for about a year and a half when he first came to Zapala. I had to go to Neuquén to pick him up because his bus didn't go all the way to Zapala. On the way home he rested his head on my shoulder and fell asleep, immediately softening my heart toward him. It's not that I held anything against him initially. I'd actually just met him. But he was replacing my favorite companion.

Elder Wilson was the second in a string of four Argentina companions I'd have. He was from the capital, Buenos Aires, and exuded that big town confidence and swagger. He had a great sense of humor and seemed to love me despite my obvious flaws. He looked like an American, but he spoke absolutely no English.

We'd worked hard together, baptizing several people in the month or so before he got transferred. Without bicycles or public transportation, we'd left considerable shoe leather on the dusty streets of Zapala, but it was just the way we liked it.

In the two months I spent with Elder Soloa, we baptized more people than ever again on my mission. He was bold without being overbearing. He was good looking, so the people naturally gravitated toward him. And he was a hard worker, a trait I'd develop under his tutelage. Lamentably, I recently learned that Elder Soloa died at a relatively young age in a traffic accident in Rosario many years after we concluded our missions.

On this particular day, we were home for lunch. We'd eaten at the home of one of the members and then had come home for the siesta. In Latin American countries, the siesta is a given. Lunch is eaten, then you go to sleep for an hour or so. As missionaries it was almost counterproductive to work during that hour, since you'd have to wake people to teach them. Instead, we always went home and studied or read the scriptures. Irregularly we would also sneak in a couple minutes of sack ourselves, since after all we were still teenagers fighting the 6AM rise and shine time.

I was not very good at memorizing while on my mission. We had what were called The Rainbow Discussions, gospel lessons we were supposed to memorize word for word. I'd been wrestling with them now for five months or so and still hadn't memorized them all. The C, G and H discussions were easy. They were the Joseph Smith Story, the baptismal challenge and Keeping the Commandments of the Lord. We taught several of those every day, so with familiarity came memory. It was the rest of them that caused me trouble.

Pacing the walkway from the front door to the gate while memorizing was my siesta tradition. Every day after lunch I'd kick off my shoes and "walk the bricks." I was working on the F discussion, Truth vs Error. I'd been working on it for weeks and still felt no closer to being able to quote it word for word. I could teach it, but in my own words. Back in the late 70s, that was not the way we were supposed to do it.

I could feel the glowing warmth of the bricks beneath my feet. The beauty of the day escaped my teenage mind then, but looking back I realize how God had taken particular care in creating that day. The sun was out, an azure sky blazing behind it, and as dry a day as the Simpson Desert. It was almost perfect.

I'd been beating this path for nearly a half hour when, as I neared the gate, the old man stopped in front of me just beyond the wrought iron. His face was lined with wrinkles, like an ancient road map of the passing years. His hands were sunk deep into his overcoat pockets, a finger sticking out a hole made by years of hard work. His blue eyes were sad, telling the story of myriad years of being beaten down by poverty.

Though I'd only been in the country for 90 days or so, I'd met my share of bums. Each town seemed to have its own "town drunk", and Zapala was no different. We called him "El Lobo Ibanez", and from time to time he would come to our home asking for bread, alcohol or money. In his earlier years he'd been a rich, star soccer player on a national team. Influenced by greed and fame, his wife had left him for their attorney and he'd throw himself into a bottle of booze and had never come out. My first impression of the man who stood in front of me at this time was that he was more of the same.

"Do you have any bread?" he asked me in Spanish, his accent belying the fact that he'd lived in Zapala his whole life.

I looked him over and judged him, harshly, on the spot.

"No", I said. "But I have something much better. I have the gospel of Jesus Christ."

He looked at the ground, as if it would crumbled beneath his gaze. "I need bread for my family," he said. "I am going to pay my electric bill and I have no money to pay for bread. My children are hungry. Do you have any bread you can spare?"

Despite what they may tell you, missionaries always have food they can spare, and our situation was no different. We'd just been to the store a few days before and our larders were stuffed.

"No", I lied again. "But we would like to come to your house to teach you and your family about Jesus Christ. Would that be all right?" I felt a twinge of guilt, but I swallowed it back down, like a bad piece of blood sausage.

"No", he replied. "I just need bread. Thank you."

He turned away, his head hanging low, and walked toward the plaza at the end of the street.

I, too, turned and walked back toward the house. Almost immediately I felt the Spirit touch me. "This man needs your help", I seemed to hear it say. The same guilt returned, impacting my soul with a searing energy that wracked me with anguish.

Wheeling quickly around, I raced back to the gate. No more than five seconds had lapsed since I turned the man away, but racing through the gate I looked down the street. He was not to be seen.

I quickly turned the opposite way. He was not there.

I ran out into the middle of the intersection and quickly turned from side to side, desperately searching for him in every direction. But he wasn't there. He was gone.

Puzzled, I walked back through the gate and onto the brick walkway. It was then I heard the Spirit with my physical ears for the first time. "People don't want to hear what you have to say unless their bellies are full." It was gentle, but it felt so condemning.

I stopped, frozen in that agonizing moment for what seemed like hours. Tears welled up in my 19-year old eyes and I wept uncontrollably as I realized how selfish and judgmental I had been. I sat in a heap on the rust-colored bricks, hiding my head in my hands. Elder Soloa had to come to out of the house and help me in, not even knowing why my strength had been taken. It would be many days before I was able to even look at bread without the man's haunting face being emblazoned on my conscience.

That night, I sat in bed and read the scriptures before retiring for the evening. Most nights I would read The Book of Mormon. After all, it was that book that I was there to teach. But this night I was in the books of John the Beloved. They were short books and I figured I could read them all in one sitting. Scanning through his words, my eyes fell upon words that caused me to cry myself to sleep for the first time since my first night in country. They've been indelibly seared on my mind ever since.

"But whoso hath this world’s good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him? My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth." (1 John 3:17,18)

Maybe he was a man sent from God to test me in my ignorance. Maybe he was just an old man looking for some help. Maybe he was someone I could have gotten to know very well and learned to love like a father. I don't know, and I may never know. But one thing is sure. For someone who passed through my life so quickly, like steam from your mouth on a cold winter's day, he was there and then gone.

And he changed my life forever.

Stuck - Part III

Getting through The Birth Canal was a difficult chore, and it almost made me feel like a snake shedding its skin. Wriggling and pushing, pulling and squirming, I finally got through to the other side. Having thrown my flashlight through the hole before entering, I grabbed it and turned back, watching Larry come through the tiny hole. Though Larry was somewhat smaller than the average adult, I marveled how any-sized adult could pass through such a small opening. I picked up his flashlight and handed it to him. "Pretty tight fit," he said. "Mmm hmm," I mumbled in reply.

Toward our back and to the right there was a rather tall yet narrow passageway that again only allowed one person at a time, and that person had to shuffle sideways. It was the beginning of Ballbreaker.

I stuck my head through the opening and looked for light. Seeing a glow on the other end, I began shuffling toward it. Some of the leaders had already started climbing up the slanted rock, positioning themselves every five feet or so to help the rest of us up the incline. The rock was nearly twenty feet long and created a climb of about 40 degrees through a passageway that was no larger than a foot and a half.

"We're supposed to go through that?" I said, turning and looking at Larry. He was at least 30 pounds lighter than me and about five inches shorter.

"I don't think it will be that tough," he replied.

"Not for you," I said, snorting derisively as I turned back to watch Scott's feet disappear over the top of the rock.

"Your turn," said Larry, planting his right hand directly in the middle of my back.

Stumbling slightly, I started the ascent.

Slipping on the damp rock, I searched for hand and foot holds. They were all over, next to me, above me and sometimes underneath me. I slithered through the extremely narrow passageway, not worrying about how my clothes would look on the other side.

Starting near the end has its advantages. You can see where everyone else goes and if they succeed you go where they went. It also has its disadvantages. Sometimes the rock over which you have to climb is left muddy and wet. So was the case on this day.

Nearing the top, my helmet got stuck between the slanted floor and the roof. Adjusting my head slightly, I pulled the helmet back and looked up toward the guys who'd already made it. The passage seemed to narrow just a little ahead of me, so I adjusted my position as to be lying directly on my stomach, back scraping the limestone roof. Figuring I'd be the smallest that way, I pushed myself into the even smaller space and then felt myself move no further.

I'd been stuck like this in caves before, so I didn't panic. I tried bringing my feet around to the side, which usually helped free my torso. No luck.

Stopping to think for just a second, I then looked ahead of me, up the incline to the top. I couldn't lift my head vertically because of the cramped space, so lying on my stomach I slid it sideways so I could see the top. It was no more than 7 or 8 feet away. Blindly searching for a hand hold, I found one near my right hand. Latching onto it, I pulled. Nothing. No movement whatsoever. I was stuck.

Starting to breathe just a little bit harder, and feeling my body expand so that it filled the tiny space, I looked at Amy, who was the closest guide to me. "I think I'm stuck," I said, trying not to let me voice betray the nerves that were welling up inside me.

Being all of four feet tall and about 100 pounds, she'd already reached the top and so had to slither down my remaining few feet. She sat erect in a small hole directly next to my imprisoning space and leaned over. Her headlamp shined directly into my eyes. "Ok, just don't panic," she said calmly.

But it was too late. While she had been coming to my aid I'd tried freeing myself again a couple of times with no luck. Every push and every pull seemed to wedge me in tighter. I closed my eyes and tried to calm my breathing and heart rate, knowing that if either was elevated too much it would only serve to make my body larger and more apt to remain where it was.

"Have you tried pulling yourself to this side?" she asked.

"Yes, that's what I tried first. But I can try again," I said, as I pulled my legs up the sheer rock face toward my shoulders. My body did not move.

"No go," I said.

She put her finger on her chin. "Ok, there is a small chute here just above your head. If you can get your back into that, you'll be home free."

I pulled my helmet off so I could see what she was talking about. Just above my head was a small place where the space actually got a little bigger. Reaching up toward it I grabbed a piece of the wall and pulled. Nothing.

"Alright," she said, a small amount of nervousness in her voice. "Let me go talk to Bobby," and she shinnied up the rock face away from me.

Left in the relative darkness, I closed my eyes. Feeling an irreversible panic arise in my chest, I breathed deeply. "Calm yourself, man. Calm yourself. It's going to be ok." But I knew it wasn't true. I was going to be left there in total blackness with no hope of ever being freed. This was my ultimate prison, my purgatory for having lived such a terrible life, ironically being left in the sheer darkness because of my dark deeds.

I thought of rescue squads coming to the hillside to try and dig me out. It would take weeks to dig through that much rock. I thought of how long it would take to lose 20 pounds, enough to be able to unjam myself from the vice in which I now found myself. It had come to this. I was going to die in a cold, dark, bat-infested cave. I would try to hold on long enough to see my dear, sweet wife again, but she'd have to come down into the cave to see me herself. I'd never hold my precious children again. I was going to die right where I was.

Physically trying to restrain myself from thinking such atrocities, I opened my eyes and looked toward the light. Amy was coming back down. She tried several new approaches to getting me out, none of which worked. She tried to get me to go back down the rock. She tried to get me to roll over more on my side. She tried to help me go to the right and then to the left. None of them worked. Now breathing itself was getting more difficult.

Amy climbed back up the rock and left me in the darkness again. I closed my eyes. "Father, if you can hear me, please help me get out of this. I am stuck and there's nothing I can do to get out. I've tried everything I can think of and I do not want to spend the rest of my life stuck in here. Please, please help me get out."

No sooner had I said Amen than I felt my feet raise up off the floor of the passageway and plant themselves firmly in the roof. Pushing with all of my might I felt my chest slide across the wet stone. I pushed again and felt it slide just a little bit more. Gathering steam and hope I pushed once more, this time grabbing the closest rock I could find. I pulled myself through the small opening and up into the larger room 7 feet above. I was free!

I laid on the floor in the darkness next to Scott. Looking up where heaven would be, if not for several hundred feet of rock, I thanked my Heavenly Father profusely for helping me out. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I realized that I'd just been the recipient of one of His tender mercies.

Slithering back through The Birth Canal several minutes later, I felt reborn, a new child who'd escaped the dark confines of his terrestrial cell. Reaching the sunlight at the front of the cave, I reached for the sunlight I thought I'd never see again. The warm glow on my cheeks was like touching the face of God.

Stuck - Part II

The entrance to Horsehead Cave is no larger than a VW Beetle, excavated by the relentless dripping of water and shifting of the earth's crust. Hunkering down to get past the geologic gargoyles that guarded the front entrance, we entered one by one into the blackness. The dry coolness was the first thing that greeted us on the inside, feeling it before we even got all the way inside. It was a pleasant reprieve from the sticky conditions we'd been living with in the outside world.

Our eyes took several minutes to adjust to the inky dark, the native smell of dirt, rock, water and dust filling our nostrils. I fumbled for a short time looking for my flashlight, finally retrieving it from my backpack. Clicking the switch, I brought it to life, shining a light saber beam on the limestone walls. In their turn, each spelunker did the same until the room was nearly as light as if we were outside.

"Once we get down into the cave," said Bobby, one of our guides, "remember to keep as close to the walls as you can. There are some deep holes down here and we don't want anyone falling into one of them."

Looking over at Brother Jackson I smiled and winked. I had given such warnings myself many times, but I always enjoyed the faces of the uninitiated when such admonitions were given. A mixture of apprehension, anxiety and anticipation made for a great expression.

The deeper we climbed the more apprehensive some of them became. It was obvious to me that several of them had never stepped foot even remotely near a cave, much less inside one. A couple took off their helmets while others shined their lights in their buddy's eyes, two absolute no-no's in a dangerous cave.

"You're not going to take those helmets off once you bang your heads on the ceiling," I warned. "It only takes one time for you to learn." A couple of the boys laughed nervously. "It won't be funny once you're hurt." I sounded like an adult.

Toward the back of the cave is a passage called Fruit Loops. It's a circuitous passage that wraps around in a loop so that you come straight back to the same place you started. It requires you to crawl on all fours, wriggling your body through smaller and smaller passages all the time. You get very dirty in Fruit Loops. It was the halfway point of the expedition.

"Everyone needs to go through this tunnel," said Bobby. "Once we finish here we'll start heading back to the front of the cave, unless..." He stopped for just a second for the drama to set it. "...anyone wants to go through Ballbreaker."

Ballbreaker was a very small passage that barely allowed one person at a time to go through. Once inside that room there was a flat, nearly vertical rock that created a small upward-slanted passage that was barely a foot from the ceiling. To get through, you had to push yourself through on your stomach to the top of the 15-foot-long incline, where a somewhat larger room awaited.

Ballbreaker was preceded by another small hole in the wall called The Birth Canal, thus named because of your resemblance to a baby being born as you slithered through. Because of the size of the hole, your hands had to be kept above your head, only allowing you to push yourself through with your feet. You had to go into Ballbreaker through The Birth Canal and then you had to come back through it on your way out.

After finishing Fruit Loops, Bobby looked around and said, "So, who's in?"

"What's it like," asked one of the boys, nervously.

Melissa, another of our guides, smiled broadly. Once she explained in detail about how small The Birth Canal and Ballbreaker really were, most of the boys said no. They wanted no part of it. "We'll wait for you out here," they said.

But Larry, our fearless leader, said he was in. So did another boy or two. And then Scott Jackson, James' son, said he was in, too. Then they all looked at me.

Now, I must confess that I suffer from terrible claustrophobia. Being in the cave itself isn't bad at all, but when I have my arms confined at my sides or if I am unable to move, I start to feel it, and feel it badly. One time I'd gone caving with Reed Lambert and he'd gotten stuck in a particularly small hole, trapping me inside the room, with no way of escape. I felt it really bad that day.

This day, I was not anxious to go through The Birth Canal nor Ballbreaker, but I didn't want to let Scott down, either. He was the Senior Patrol Leader of our troop. A future Eagle Scout. One of the few boys I have ever looked up to. And so I said I was in, too. It was nearly a mistake I couldn't live with.

Coming soon - Part III - The Conclusion