Spirit Pouch by Stanford Vaterlaus Read Free Book Online Page B

must hold water.  Even I can see that water represents baptism by immersion.  I take the small vial into the bathroom and fill it with water, then twist the tiny cork stopper back into place.  I dry it off and hold it upside down to test for leaks. That should hold for another hundred years, I think.
    “Jared,” Mom calls from the kitchen.  “Dinner’s ready.”
    “I slip the glass vial into my pocket and walk to the kitchen.
     
    * * *
     
    Elder Teel comes to Mutual and speaks to us about his mission to North Dakota.  He tells stories to us about the members of the church that live there.  Many have Indian ancestors or are pure Indian.  They accept the Book of Mormon easily, but struggle to obey the commandments.  We then make an Indian food, called pemmican, [12] by pounding together meat, fat, and berries.  It tastes strange, but is pretty good.
    I walk home in the dark, contemplating my own future mission.  Would my mission be to teach a strange people like the Indians of North Dakota, or to teach the gospel somewhere less threatening like Denver Colorado?  I do not know if it is proper to wish for one certain place, so I try not to.  I am certain the Lord knows where it will be best for me to serve.
    Through the kitchen window I can see Mom putting some dishes into the cupboard.  I push the door open.
    “Hi, Mom.”
    “Hi.  How was Mutual?”
    “Good, I guess.  Elder Teel talked to us about his mission to North Dakota.”
    “That must have been interesting.”
    “Yeah, but I think I like Bolivia better.”
    “Oh?”
    “At least I like the quínoa soup that Brother Matthews brought to Mutual last month better than the pemmican from North Dakota.”  I walk down the hall to my room, kicking my shoes off as I push the door open.
    “Jared, don’t forget to do these dishes.  It’s your turn, you know.  And clean up your room a bit.  It was supposed to be done yesterday.”
    I roll onto my bed, vaguely aware of the lumpy leather pouch competing for the same spot as my left hip.  Dishes, I think.  I hate dishes, especially this late at night.  If I’m going to stay up I at least ought to study geometry.  But dishes   … I wish I could go somewhere where I didn’t have a room to clean or dishes to do!
    I pull the spirit pouch out from under me and produce the vial of water from my pocket.  I drop it into the leather bag with the other items and pull the drawstrings tight.
    I’m not sure why I do not set the spirit pouch onto the dresser and go do the dishes.  I would never purposely disobey my mother.  She works hard to take care of our small family and expects my help.  So I know that I will get up and go do the dishes and straighten my room a little.  Mom knows it, too, because I hear her bedroom door close.  That is when, in my own small way I quietly rebel.  Maybe I just need a little humor, something small to laugh about as I scrub the tiny pile of dishes.  I drop my head back onto my pillow, close my eyes and, gripping the spirit pouch, I quietly whisper, “I wish I could go somewhere where I didn’t have a room to clean or dishes to do.  I wish …”  A cool breeze blows across my face and arms.  Much too cold for August in Tucson, even for nine o’clock at night.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Five
     
     
     
     
    Dogtown And The Pit
     
     
     
    Maybe the window is open, although I had not noticed it open when I came home from Mutual.  But I feel a cold breeze across my face nevertheless.  My eyes spring wide open and what I see causes my mouth to drop wide open, also.  I think I am in shock.  I do not move for what seems to me several minutes.
    Somehow there are stars above me instead of a white textured ceiling with a light.  In fact, it is dark.  I had not noticed the light going out.  My mind tries to ask, “What light?” and it tries to convince me that stars above me are normal, but I know that stars are not normal while lying on my bed in