Moses

Scott-

I met Moses, a thirteen-year-old boy. I had just parked my Toyota in the compound behind the small branch house on a Sunday morning when I heard a young voice call out, President Wyatt. I turned and saw Moses.

He ran up to me, grabbed my hand, and didn’t let go. We walked to the front and inside holding hands. I had not met him before, not that I remember anyway. But I had spoken in this branch a couple times before. I had a few minutes until the meeting started so we sat together and talked. It was hot; I told him about snow. He had no concept of it. Couldn’t sort it out in his mind. I showed him a picture on my phone of Kathy standing in our front yard surrounded by deep snow and a picture of a snow scene in the mountains I had taken a few years back. It was well beyond his ability to comprehend. At one point, he looked up at me with expectant eyes and asked if I would ordain him a teacher when he was old enough. I only know one answer to that question. Sure! I’d love it. I don’t know who his parents are, if he has a father, if they are members of the church, if he will remember he asked me to do this in January, two months from now.

Another day, I was walking to one of our missionary houses near the mission home when I noticed a mother and a very small boy on their porch, set back from the dirt road. I'm not good enough to guess ages, but he is small and young enough to have a serious waddle when he runs. I had never seen him before. As I passed their house, walking on the road, I looked over and waved, my usual greeting. The little boy ran toward me as fast as he could go, arms bouncing around and body waddling as he moved. I stopped and smiled as he approached. When he got to me he reached out his hand and touched mine, and then as quickly as he had approached turned and ran back to his mother.

I could keep going with stories like these. Every day, everywhere we go, the children brighten us. They want to touch us, hold our hands, give us high fives or fist bumps. They make an instant connection, as if the connection has always been there. Something they remember; something I don't.

In some respects, this is a very difficult place to be a child. But in other ways, it couldn’t be better. Kids are always outside. We see them up early doing chores. We see them playing and exploring in groups. No one cares if they are in the dirt, because it is mostly dirt. There are so many places to explore. Nothing has been sanitized. They are up early and undistracted by technology. Everything outside interesting to them. Every worthless item is a possible toy. They play soccer with the most unfortunate looking balls, warn and flat with fibers flying about as they roll—but completely adequate for them. If they can’t find a ball, anything will do, including a large grapefruit, which is in season. There are no “helicopter parents." Parents let their children wander and play. The American concept of “stranger-danger” doesn’t exist. Their parents encourage them to interact with us, whether they know us or not.

The children are the happiest thing about this country, impossible not to love.