Your Jericho Road - Thomas S. Monson

Your Jericho Road - Thomas S. Monson

Each of us, in the journey through mortality, will travel his own Jericho Road. What will be your experience? What will be mine? Will I fail to notice him who has fallen among thieves and requires my help? Will you?

Will I be one who sees the injured and hears his plea, yet crosses to the other side? Will you?

Or will I be one who sees, who hears, who pauses, and who helps? Will you?

 One day while in a reflective mood, Louis Jacobsen told me of his boyhood. He was the son of a poor Danish widow. He was small in stature, not comely in appearance—easily the object of his classmates’ thoughtless jokes. In Sunday School one Sabbath morning, the children made light of his patched trousers and his worn shirt. Too proud to cry, tiny Louis fled from the chapel, stopping at last, out of breath, to sit and rest on the curb which ran along Second West in Salt Lake City. Clear water flowed along the gutter next to the curb where Louis sat. From his pocket he took a piece of paper which contained the outlined Sunday School lesson and skillfully shaped a paper boat, which he launched on the flowing water. From his hurt boyish heart came the determined words, “I’ll never go back.”

Suddenly, through his tears Louis saw reflected in the water the image of a large and well-dressed man. Louis turned his face upward and recognized George Burbidge, the Sunday School superintendent.

“May I sit down with you?” asked the kind leader.

Louis nodded affirmatively. There on the gutter’s curb sat a good Samaritan ministering to one who surely was in need. Several boats were formed and launched while the conversation continued. At last the leader stood and, with a boy’s hand tightly clutching his, they returned to Sunday School.

Later Louis himself presided over that same Sunday School. Throughout his long life of service, he never failed to acknowledge the traveler who rescued him along a Jericho Road.

When I first learned of that far-reaching experience, I reflected on the words:

He stood at the crossroads all alone,

The sunlight in his face.

He had no thought for the world unknown—

He was set for a manly race.

But the roads stretched east and the roads stretched west,

And the lad knew not which road was best.

So he chose the road that led him down,

And he lost the race and the victor’s crown.

He was caught at last in an angry snare

Because no one stood at the crossroads there

To show him the better road.

 

Another day at the self-same place

A boy with high hopes stood.

He, too, was set for a manly race;

He, too, was seeking the things that were good.

But one was there who the roads did know,

And that one showed him which way to go.

So he turned from the road that would lead him down,

And he won the race and the victor’s crown.

He walks today the highway fair

Because one stood at the crossroads there

To show him the better way.

  

The road signs of life enticingly invite every traveler: This way to fame; this way to affluence; this way to popularity; this way to luxury. Pause at the crossroads before you continue your journey. Listen for that still, small voice which ever so gently beckons, “Come, follow me. This way to Jericho.”