Turn it into a book?

There is a lot more to this story. I did a one pager to see if there is interest. We haven't had many posts on this site lately. What do you think?

Seventeen-year-old Kim Price lived in Duttonvile, the slum area of Idaho Falls, Idaho, when he was called to be the first assistant in the priest’s quorum in his LDS ward.
Duttonville wasn’t really a slum. How could a town like Idaho Falls have a slum? But everyone knew where Duttonville was, and what it was, even though the name had no official designation. There was no pavement, no curbs and gutters, not even any gravel—just houses and yards, a few marked by fences, with open areas of dirt surface for the streets.
Armed with a mandate from the bishop, Kim set out to insure that every priest in the ward boundary was accounted for and properly fellowshipped.
That’s when Kim met Ritmo. His real name was Richard Simpson, but somehow, through the twisted maze of Richard’s mind, his name came out of his mouth as Ritmo. In fact, all the words that Richard spoke came out twisted. When his mother had tried to enroll him in the first grade the principal had sent them both home, saying Richard was unteachable. So Richard remained at home, uneducated and for the most part unnoticed. Until Kim came along.
Kim liked Richard immediately. Ritmo had an easy smile and once Kim got used to the strange language, he began to understand it. As Kim included Ritmo in an increasing number of ward social events others learned to understand and speak the strange language too. Simpsonese, they called it. It seemed, all the kids, in a very friendly way, wanted to speak Simpsonese. Ritmo really didn’t mind. He knew they weren’t making fun of him. Speaking his language became the cool thing at High School. Ritmo never did go to High School but his language made it there.
Ritmo especially liked being taught to read by Sister Frandsen, Kim’s mom. She was a school teacher, and a good one.
After a while Ritmo decided that what he really wanted was to say the sacrament prayer like Kim and the other priests. How could he get all the tangling between his mind and tongue untangled?
The priests’ quorum spent hours helping to build the new church. One of their favorite jobs was shingling the huge roof. It took days of sweaty work in the glaring sun. Soon the boys were swinging hammers and throwing shingles in a soft rhythm. And soon Richard and Kim were repeating over and over and over the words to the sacrament prayer in the same rhythm. O God, tap-bam, O God the Eternal… tap-bam, tap-bam. O God the eternal Father. tap-bam, tap-bam, tap-bam. Hour after hour after grinding hour…. sliding shingles into place, holding them, holding nails, swinging the stubby roofing hatchets; tap-bam, tap-bam, tap-bam, tap-bam as the four nails for each shingle went into place.
More than a little apprehension filled the congregation the day Richard finally sat at the sacrament table. With superman concentration and probably the aid of unseen angels, Ritmo began carefully, “O God the Eternal Father, we ask thee….”
It’s unlikely that there has ever been a sacrament prayer in all Mormondom listened to more carefully than was that sacrament prayer that day. Each syllable had the right sound and exactly the right emphasis. Crystal clear, the words echoed into the halls of heaven, piercing every heart that heard them.
Two years later, Kim stood in front of the same congregation—his family and friends, Ritmo’s family and friends— and explained to them that he had received his mission call.
Ritmo had wanted a mission call too. After saying the sacrament prayer correctly, he wanted more than anything to go on a mission—to do everything that Kim did—to be like Kim. But untangling Richard’s mental maze enough to memorize six entire discussions seemed insurmountable to church leaders.
But Kim wasn’t standing in front of the congregation to talk about leaving on his mission to Atlanta, GA.
This was not a farewell for the newly-called missionary, but a funeral for a close friend. Shortly after Kim received his mission call, Ritmo had died in a horrific car accident. Kim explained, his words hesitating with emotion, that Ritmo had also received a mission call and both of them would be enterting the MTC on Wednesday. But on different sides of the veil.
©2009 Lyle Mortimer

He's Home

By Rebecca Talley

I’ve been somewhat absent from the blog world since I’ve been preparing for my son to return home from his mission. We’ve been cleaning and getting the boys’ room ready, which is no small feat. How two boys can be so messy is beyond me. Any why I agreed to letting them have toads, and lizards, and a turtle in their room is even more beyond me.

Wednesday we were all working hard so we could leave for the airport to pick up my son. We’d been counting `down the days (I admit, I was counting down the hours) and were all so excited for his arrival. The phone rang. We figured it was probably my son. As soon as I heard his voice, I knew something was wrong. He explained that his plane in Rome had been delayed and by the time it arrived in New York, he’d missed his connecting flight. He couldn’t make it home Wednesday night. He could make it as far as Salt Lake, but no farther. And, since it was an air traffic control problem in Rome, the airline was not obligated to get him a hotel room. Fortunately, one of his buddies is living in Provo and he agreed to go get my son and bring him back the next morning. I was thankful for, and envious of, my son’s friend, though I felt like someone had socked me in the stomach. But, I looked on the bright side and knew I’d see him the next day.

Thursday morning (yesterday) I popped out of bed to get some chores done and then we drove into town in our big, enormous 15-passenger van. We ran a few errands, all the while talking about how excited were all were. Tears sprang spontaneously from my eyes each time I thought about seeing him again after two years.

We drove over to the airport a little early and found that his plane was expected earlier than we had anticipated. I was relieved I hadn’t listened to my kids and gone to Walmart on the way to the airport. If I had missed his arrival . . . well,
I’m just glad we went straight to the airport.

I stared at the clock and we all counted down the minutes. It was like New Year’s Eve, but with a much better thing at the end of the countdown. My sister and 9 of her 10 kids came bounding through the lobby doors. They were armed with posters and balloons. My sisters-in-law, a brother-in-law, a nephew, another nephew’s wife and baby, and my mother-in-law and her husband all arrived. We were a large crown gathered in our tiny rural airport. Passersby stopped to see the posters and watch the excitement.

My heart was beating so fast and I felt like I couldn’t breathe as I waited for my son to walk through the doors. As soon as the doors opened, my heart felt like it was going to jump right out of my chest. After a few passengers, my son emerged with a smile plastered all over his face, and we all let out screams of delight. I rushed to him and threw my arms around his neck. Tears flowed freely as I pulled him close to me. It’s hard to describe the incredible joy at being reunited with him after two years. It was even better than the day he was born. He was safe, in my arms, once again, my strong, wonderful son who had just dedicated his life to serving the Lord for two years.

It was surreal as I watched him hugging other family members. I was so filled with joy at seeing him and, yet, almost couldn’t believe he was actually there. I felt like I needed to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I was filled with so much gratitude to the Lord for watching over my son and protecting him and magnifying him. I was so thankful that my son had made the choice to serve and though his mission was difficult, he never gave up. He stayed and he worked and he prayed and he grew.

It is definitely a sacrifice for a young man to serve a mission, but the blessings outweigh the sacrifice by a hundredfold.