Follow My Tracks

Image By Phil / CC BY

Cold hands on my back jolted me awake and pulled me from whatever dreams I was having. My cozy bed quickly turned into a gladiator ring as I tried to avoid their icy sting. Throwing myself every which way, tucking and rolling. I would have rather rolled onto the floor than feel their deathly chill. Not the most pleasant thing to wake up to, I admit; but my dad’s warm laughter would soon fill the room, and the anger I felt would quickly dissipate.

It is a vivid memory from my childhood, one that I can almost still feel if I close my eyes and just wait, silently. My dad would come in from the bitter cold outside and wake me up from a sound sleep with his cold hands on my back. I don’t know if he didn’t like wearing gloves, or if he was just in too much of a hurry to put them on, but he was never too busy to come into my warm room, pull down the covers, and wake me up by sliding his icy hands onto my warm skin.

We were pretty poor during this part of my childhood. My mom was going to school full time, driving 180 miles a day to do so. My dad was farming his heart out, the long and cold Idaho winters not taking it easy on him or any other farmers in the valley. Growing crops and raising cattle in this climate isn’t for the faint of heart. And my dad has anything but a faint heart. We couldn’t afford hired help, and despite his wishes for boys to help him, he had three little girls at this time. I didn’t mind helping though.

After getting me all dressed up in the warmest winter clothes I owned, he would help me into the pick-up truck that he had so kindly gone out to start so it would be warm for us—that’s why his hands were so cold. We would make the short trip down the street, then take one left turn and bounce across the railroad tracks to his little piece of heaven. Although it would depend on the day you asked if he would call it that.

My dad was quite the vocalist in that truck. I remember him singing at the top of his lungs to any song that came on the only country radio station we picked up, but I particularly remember a lot of George Strait. He knew every word, and I’m sure he was amused as I tried my best to ramble along with him, picking up only the few lines in the chorus I knew. We would make that drive often. How often, I’m not sure. Now that I’m older I feel like it wasn’t enough, it will never be enough; but back then I don’t know how thrilled I was at the ripe age of 6 to be waking up at 5:00am to feed cows.

We would pull up to the tractor and I’d wait in the warm truck while my dad jumped out and started it up. I’d watch as the tractor groaned and puffed to life, and still while he loaded up bales of hay onto the trailer behind it so we could go out and feed. I don’t think I’ll forget the sight of him jumping down into the snow from the trailer, and brushing his hands on his coveralls as he trudged through more snow over to the truck. He’d swing the door open, stick his head in with a big smile, and say, “Ya ready, Keishy!?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone grin so big in below zero temperatures.

Then he’d put the tip of his cold nose up against my cheek, give it a little kiss, wrap his arms around me and hoist me out of the truck and into the tractor. I’d scoot back just as far as I could against the opposite window so he could plop into the seat, then he’d lift me on his lap and we were off; bouncing through fields, stopping every so often to open and close gates until we made it to where the cows were. My dad would drive in a careful circle, and then prep me for my duties.

“Alright Keisha,” he’d say. “I drove this tractor through the snow out here and made these tracks for you to follow. You just sit right here,” he’d pat the seat, “and hold this steering wheel steady. Follow my tracks carefully and we won’t have any problems, okay?”

I’d nod eagerly. In utter disbelief that he would trust me, little Keisha, to drive this big ol’ tractor through the snow! Then he would put it in gear, get us rolling at a slow and steady pace, and jump out. I’d catch him in my mirror, running alongside the trailer, then throwing himself up over the side. He’d start forking hay over the side for the cows to come and eat, meanwhile I was gripping the steering wheel like it was going to jump out of my hands and run away.

I was so careful to follow those tracks that he had made for me in the snow. I was meticulous about it, really. I would get so worried if I started veering off even by an inch or two. So worried I wasn’t living up to his expectations, so worried I would disappoint him or do something wrong. All I wanted to do was follow those tracks as perfectly as I possibly could. I just wanted to make him proud. I just wanted to help him.

Image / CC BY

I’ve thought about my mornings out on the ranch with my dad a lot as I’ve gotten older. Not just the mornings, the hot afternoons branding cows, the rainy summer nights riding horses, all of it. Those experiences shaped my character in ways I could have never imagined. This one though, has caused me to think back on my life with new eyes more than any other.

I wonder what heartache and pain I could have avoided if I would have taken the same meticulous care to follow his example of faith in my life. I was so concerned about following his tracks in the snow, worried that if I even drifted off course by an inch I would surely fail. Looking back now I know that those tracks were simply a guide for me to follow, if I veered off course just a little bit, it really wouldn’t have made any difference at all. My dad just wanted me to have a guide to follow so he could put the hay out for the cows. It didn’t really matter if that hay landed a few inches or several feet away from where he had made those tracks, the hay just needed to be out on the ground, somewhere accessible.

But what if he didn’t make that guide? How would I have known when to turn, when to stay straight, if I was on the right course, if I was succeeding and doing what he needed me to do? I wouldn’t have. And who knows what could have happened. Because of his guide, there were no problems, and I knew exactly where to go.

Life is kind of the same way, isn’t it? There are a lot people out there that just go with the flow, don’t really follow a guide, and their life isn’t a total disaster. Yet there are others who do the same and end up in a world of trouble, pain, and anguish. When you choose to follow a guide though, you are sure to stay on course. You are sure to reach your goals, and even when you feel that the guide is pointless, as you follow it, you can at least measure your success, you can see how closely you are following the tracks.

Our Savior has given us a guide by which to live our lives, and he gave me a father and a mother who have provided an excellent guide for me to follow as well. I was taught standards and principles of the gospel that I need in my life to stay on the path to happiness. And yet, I struggled. I fell far away from the tracks, from that guide.

Looking back on my life now it is easy to identify even the smallest places where I was presented a choice and I chose wrong. At the time those choices seemed insignificant. An inch, a foot, nothing that would derail my goals, nothing that would cause me to lose my way. And then somehow I woke up miles from the path that I had started down with a broken heart and a broken spirit.

I let myself fall far away from my guide. I exposed myself to confusion and pain, and regret. And it sucked. And I am so lucky. I am so lucky that I woke up. I know that it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the prayers of righteous people who plead for me to see the path, and to get back on. It was so hard though. It was heart-wrenching, grueling work. I kicked and clawed and prayed and cried my way back to the path that I knew would lead me to happiness. And all of my effort wouldn’t have even put me back there without Christ and His atonement.

He healed me in ways that I never thought possible. He literally took from my mind things that I thought I would never forget. Things I thought I would have to live with forever are in some distant universe that takes great effort to access. I am amazed at the grace and mercy Christ showed me, someone so broken and undeserving. Someone so proud.

I thought I knew better. I thought the guide was for amateurs. I thought I would be fine. How wrong I was. The guide is there for the seasoned veterans. The guide is there for the faithful. For those who know that their effort, and their knowledge will never be enough to make their lives what God can make them. How I wish that I learned this earlier. How I wish that I would have followed my dad’s example with the same spirit that I followed his tracks in the snow.

One of my favorite scriptures comes to mind. It says:

“Yea, and they did obey and observe to perform every word of command with exactness; yea, and even according to their faith it was done unto them…”
– Alma 57:21

I always start to get a little nostalgic during the winter. So many of my childhood memories happened in the snow. And no matter how far away that little girl in the tractor seems, this lesson of following a guide with exactness stays at the front of my mind. Always reminding me to hold on tight to what I have been taught. I hope that sharing it will touch someone out there. It is never too late to find your way back to the path. It is never, ever too late.

And to those of you who feel you’re on the path, I just want to ask you, how close do you feel you’re following the tracks?

I am grateful every day for my Savior. For His example, His grace, and His love. I am grateful for the power He has given me to overcome my weaknesses. I am grateful for the healing power of His atonement, and for His never ending mercy. Hold tight to these truths Sisters. Christ is a sure guide who will never lead us astray.

I leave this with you in His holy name, even Jesus Christ, amen.