A Story from the Len & Deanna Branch of the Family Tree by Brandon Mills

 

We are one week away from the February 14th story deadline.  I hope you have found time to read the various stories and have at least one of your own to share.  Thanks to those who have sent or promised to send me stories.  

Will you please reply to this and let me know if you have received the email.   You may just avoid being hounded by Sherilyn and I if you just let me know you know.

This week, I am going to share a portion of Brandon's story.  (The unabridged version will be in the book - and it took me back to visits to Kingston when I was growing up.  Hope you enjoy it as much as I did!

Valerie

"...There was one particular ride onto the Forshea mountain that stands out as solidifying my faith. That evening started out as routine as any previous mountain ride. Mom, Dad, Randel, Justin and I packed into the cab of an old gray Ford truck. Generally, our rides didn’t have a planned destination, although we had a small handful of locations that we enjoyed revisiting. As we worked our way north on the main road, Dad had some broader thoughts on his mind. Our small town, located in the valley, needed more culinary water. However, the surrounding terrain made it borderline impossible to pipe additional spring water into the existing system. But Dad believed it was worth exploring some remote springs to contemplate their viability.

As we continued our drive we decided to head to Swift Spring. The time of year was late spring. The roads were clear with a few snow drifts scattered about on north facing slopes. We turned off the main road onto a less traveled road that would lead to Swift Spring. Before long we came to a large snowdrift that covered the road. Dad stopped the truck and hopped out to analyze our odds of busting through the drift or at least skirting the drift so we could continue to the spring. I remember vividly as Dad cautiously explored a solid path. Randel and Dad began discussing whether it would be necessary to turn around and wait for a time when the road was clear. Through the course of their discussion, Randel and Dad thought they saw a way to drive the truck around the drift and keep us on our evening drive. Dad hopped into the driver’s seat and began to work his way slightly off the road and towards the downward slope of the drift. As he progressed around the snow it became apparent that he was getting into a decent amount of mud and the truck became stuck. Dad had a few choice words and expressed his frustration about the situation. Justin, Randel and Dad immediately grabbed a jack and shovel from the truck and started to dig out from the mess. There are different levels of being stuck and this was a crippling kind of stuck. They would lift the truck and push it off the jack to try and twist the truck into a more favorable position. Each time the level of being stuck progressively got worse. Tempers became more inflamed and the frustration couldn’t be suppressed. Mom, with significant wisdom, thought it would be a good time for her and me to take a walk. My recollection is that I must have been maybe 9 or 10 years old and this was one of those times where the chore of digging out fell to the older siblings. As Mom and I walked beyond the snowdrift and up the road, my mind began to race. We hadn’t talked about it as a group, but it was even apparent in my young mind that the sun was setting quickly, and we didn’t have a way out. I distinctly remember looking at my Mom with tears filling my eyes and asking if it would be possible to pray and ask Heavenly Father for help. I’m sure she could sense my concern and worry about our ability to make it home safe that night. Mom said that she had also felt the need to pray. We returned to the truck where the tensions were still high. She told them our idea of praying. As you can imagine, when you’re in the heat of the battle, prayer isn’t necessarily the first thing that crosses anyone’s mind. But through Mom’s gentle pleading our attention turned to heaven. Pausing for a moment helped gain some clarity. It was obvious that we would need more help. Someone that could use their truck to pull us out of the ever-worsening mud bog. It was now getting dark and it would take hours to have someone walk to town. After some debate, knowing that it could be days before someone would pass by our remote location, Dad asked Randel to head towards home. There were only a few people in town that would be equipped with a large enough truck to help pull us out. Dad gave Randel a few brief instructions and we literally watched him jog into the darkness. Complicating our situation was the fact that our truck was now positioned in a way that made it so the low level of gasoline was away from the fuel pump, virtually causing the truck to run out of gas despite the fact that there was enough in the tank if we were on level ground. The battery eventually became depleted from trying to restart the truck. As evening turned into night, Dad adopted a routine of digging for a while, lifting the truck with the jack, shoving the truck to reposition it so the gasoline would hopefully be able to be picked up by the fuel pump, then trying to start the truck (which by this point the battery would only provide a few brief turns of the engine before returning to a lifeless state). Meanwhile Randel was working his way off the mountain. It was a moonless night, and he was walking, jogging, sprinting towards town. Since he had no artificial light, he would have to periodically stop to allow his eyes to adjust. More than once he found himself at the edge of the road as a still small voice cautioned him to pause and reorient himself. Dad’s efforts seemed fruitless, but I will never forget his determination to keep working towards a solution. Between digging Dad would sit in the cab with us and we would all speculate on how far Randel was on his journey. Soon the time got late enough that Justin and I fell asleep. Dad’s routine continued and so we were awakened to the moving of the truck or the sound of the door opening. I do remember multiple prayers, both individually and as a family, asking that we might be able to get the truck out of the mud and head home. Somewhere close to midnight, Mom, Dad, Justin and I were awake enough to start talking again. I remember feeling a level of calm at that point. We said another prayer and then Dad said let’s try it one more time. Miraculously the engine started. Additionally, the truck was able to drive out of the mud. A very brief gathering of the shovel, jack, and gas can and we were on our way down the mountain. Each of us watched closely for Randel as we worked our way off the mountain. We wondered if he would be around the next turn. We made it all the way down to the paved road before crossing paths with Randel. He had made it home and was on his way back, along with a neighbor, to tow us out. But by the grace of God, we were already freed and almost home. Our prayers were answered that night on the mountain, and they’ve been answered through many different experiences over the years. So yes, life was simple in our small town. But through many experiences we learned that simple faith, simple prayer, simple work, and simple testimony, will always lead to miracles – which are anything but simple."