When I was a young mother, my family and I lived in the mountains above the city of Bend, in Oregon. It was forested and quiet, and was a real haven for us. We hiked a lot and enjoyed the many beautiful features of the landscape. We got to town for church, groceries, and meetings with friends over a bridge. At one point, the city of Bend decided that the bridge needed major repair work. They informed us when this would begin—so I stocked up on groceries and prepared to wait it out.
During this time a Wednesday night rolled around. I was used to going to testimony meetings at our branch church, considering it not just my duty, but my fond desire. Our pickup was parked down below the bridge, and I figured if I could find a way across to the other side of the creek (as the bridge was now closed), I’d be able to go to church and maybe even pick up a few groceries I’d overlooked. It was spring, and the creek was swollen and rushing, and very cold from a great accumulation of snow melt. I told the family of my intent to go to church by crossing the log jam down below the bridge, and our two daughters, ages 13 and 11—well skilled at this sort of adventure—wanted to go with me.
The log jam was made up of an accumulation of sticks, logs, and silt that had washed downstream to run up against a long log that spanned the creek, building up a dam. When we left in daylight, there was about an inch of water rolling over the top. We crossed the log easily, went to church, and had a wonderful time. I bought a few groceries and we headed for our journey home. By this time it was dark, and we could see just the outline of trees in faint moonlight. My two daughters bounded across the logs first, so sure of themselves that they gained the other side quickly. They stood on the other side, encouraging me to come after them.
