The Kind of Hero a Boy Needs

Boys need heroes, and I was no exception. It goes without saying that a boy's father should be at the top of the "hero list." Next in line, for me at least, were my Church advisers and instructors. Some think the most important quality in choosing a youth leader is that they should be fun to be around. However, as an adult leader I once attended a meeting where John Warnock, the Church's top Scout executive, said that the results of study conducted by the Church leaders indicated that, while they may be more fun to be around, it is not the young returned missionaries or young married men who have the greatest influence on the young men of the Church. With few exceptions, it is the mature, older men - those whose lives radiate testimony because of the wisdom they've gained from life's experiences.

Generally, those who served as my Scout leaders were younger men, most of whom meant well, but they didn’t radiate much spiritual light. Their language was sometimes rough; they often tried to be overly "macho" or be the "comedian;" and it seemed that things of a spiritual nature didn't have much of a priority in their lives.

One incident was especially disappointing. It happened on an overnight campout when I was about fourteen. We’d gone to Camp Millard, situated in a wooded area in the Portland suburb of Clackamas. The good news about going to Millard was that it had a small lodge where we could sleep indoors on bunks instead of outside in tents. We could also cook our food over an indoor fireplace of sorts.

It was a cold, winter night. For some reason our leaders decided that we'd go on a night hike through the woods, spending some time in a drafty wooden shack we stumbled upon. After gathering inside, someone lit a candle or two. While we huddled together to keep warm, the assistant scoutmaster decided to tell what turned out to be a most inappropriate joke where the punch line contained the very profane use of the Lord’s name.

This leader was a single young man in his early twenties. He'd been in the ward for several years -- even serving awhile as my father’s ward teaching companion. Until that night I’d always thought well of him. At that moment he thought he'd told a very funny joke – but no one laughed -- because the punch line came like a punch in our collective stomachs. We sat in silence, like we were in shock. As he saw our reaction he realized that in his effort to become “one of the guys” he'd lost the respect of all.

Contrast that experience with what happened one Sunday morning as I was sitting in priests quorum. The lesson was being taught by our adviser, Fred Banks. Now, Brother Banks was not a young man. In fact, he was about the same age as my father (certainly not "ancient" but old to us). He had a strong testimony, cared about us, and we knew he cared about living the principles he taught us.

That morning we sat spellbound as he told us about an incident that occurred when he was a soldier during World War II. He was part of a fighting unit on a remote Pacific island, engaged in a fierce firefight with enemy Japanese soldiers. It was a jungle setting, and he was pinned down behind a tree. To get a clear shot off at the enemy required that he lean out a few inches, quickly fire a few rounds, and then duck back behind the tree. But during one of those attempts he didn't duck back quickly enough, and an enemy shell hit him directly in the helmet, right in the middle of his forehead. Strangely, the bullet fully penetrated the helmet, but instead of going into his head it miraculously turned upward 90 degrees and came to rest against his forehead, burning a blister in the skin.

He was able to survive the firefight and safely returned to his base. Days later he received a letter from his mother. She said that she'd had an impression that he was in serious danger, so she'd knelt down and offered a special prayer for his safety. When he read the date of the letter, he realized that she was pleading with the Lord to protect her son at the very moment he was pinned down behind the tree.

The lesson that day was about the power of prayer. I assure you that nobody went home after priesthood meeting complaining that "we never get to do anything fun in priests quorum." Instead, we went home with the memory of Fred Banks's powerful testimony that a loving Heavenly Father had heard and answered the heartfelt prayer of a worried mother -- and that that same Heavenly Father would always hear and answer our prayers too.

I've always been grateful for men like Fred Banks who knew the value of teaching by the Spirit and bearing testimony. He was the kind of hero boys need.