Jacob Askeland was born in a small Norwegian-American town where every street seemed to have a church at one end and a bakery at the other. His mother, a devout Lutheran, spent her Sundays in the pew and her Mondays reminding Jacob to clean his muddy shoes before coming inside. His father was more pragmatic, the sort of man who believed in God but preferred to leave Him to handle the big issues while they focused on planting turnips.
Jacob’s early years were full of the small wonders and troubles of a boy who didn’t know yet how vast the world was. He learned to climb trees, fish in icy rivers, and avoid the wrath of Mrs. Grundersen, the neighbor whose apple tree he was forever pilfering. Life, in those days, felt eternal.
But eternity has a way of feeling far away when you’re fifteen, full of rebellion, and certain that church sermons are little more than lectures disguised as hymns. Jacob had begun to pull away from faith, convinced there were more interesting things to pursue, like fishing, baseball, and the occasional ill-conceived prank.
It was Margaret who changed everything.
In his younger years, his energy was more firecracker than steady flame, and his thoughts were more about adventure than eternity. His introduction to faith came not in a flash of heavenly light but in the unrelenting persistence of a girl named Margaret, whose determination could have rivaled the tides.
“Jacob,” she had said after their first date, “you’re a good man—or at least you could be, if you stopped stumbling over yourself. Start with God, and the rest will follow.”
Jacob had been equal parts offended and intrigued. But Margaret had that kind of honesty that could peel paint off walls and, more importantly, could melt hearts. She handed him a Book of Mormon the next week, explaining that if he wanted to know what she cared about, he’d have to read it.
He read the book reluctantly at first, expecting to find it dull and sanctimonious. Instead, he found himself captivated. The stories felt familiar yet transformative, and the teachings stirred something deep within him.
By the time he’d read the Book of Mormon she gave him, sat through a dozen sacrament meetings, and prayed with a humility he didn’t know he had, he’d found something he didn’t know he needed: purpose.
He knelt by his bed, unsure of what to say but certain of the sincerity behind his whispered prayer: Lord, if You’re there, let me know.
Margaret’s influence eventually led Jacob to church, to baptism, and, finally, to a life he hadn’t expected. By eighteen, Jacob was preparing to serve a mission, though his mother fretted over the logistics (“What do you mean you have to wear a tie every day?”) and his father grumbled about who would help with the farm. But Jacob never got to serve. Just as his papers were nearly ready, the draft notice arrived.
Vietnam seemed a world apart from the quiet streets of his hometown, a place where chaos ruled and God seemed distant. Boot camp introduced him to discipline, though Jacob’s drill sergeant had a way of yelling that felt more like divine judgment. He kept praying, though, often wondering if God was testing his patience with endless miles of running and the unspeakable crime that was C-Rations.
In Vietnam, Jacob found that faith was not a luxury but a lifeline. He saw men grapple with their mortality in ways that stripped them bare. He prayed with them, shared scriptures when he could, and comforted them as best as a 19-year-old could. One night, as he crouched in a foxhole while gunfire echoed in the distance, a fellow Marine grabbed his arm.
“Do you think there’s a point to any of this?” the man whispered, his voice shaking.
Jacob thought for a moment before answering. “I don’t know the whole point. But I think God does. And if we make it out of here, I think it’s because He’s not finished with us yet.”
When Jacob returned home, he was greeted with hugs, casseroles, and an overwhelming sense that life had been waiting for him to catch up. He enrolled in college, unsure of what he wanted to do but certain he needed to move forward. It was at a church potluck that he met Ellen.
Ellen was pouring green Jell-O into small paper cups when Jacob first saw her. She laughed at something someone said, the sound bright and contagious. Jacob, emboldened by a recent pep talk from a friend, introduced himself and promptly knocked a tray of rolls onto the floor. Ellen’s laughter didn’t stop, though now it was aimed at him.
They married the next spring, beginning a life that was equal parts joy and challenge. Children didn’t come easily, a fact that weighed heavily on Ellen’s heart. Jacob prayed with her, reminding her gently, “In the Lord’s time.” After nearly five years of waiting, their first daughter, Lisa, was born. Then came Andrew, Sarah, Daniel, and Ruth, each arrival an answered prayer.
Raising five children was a whirlwind. Jacob taught them how to tie knots, fix bicycles, and pray with sincerity. Family scripture study was chaotic but consistent, often involving Ruth’s off-key singing or Daniel’s insistence on reenacting battle scenes from the Book of Mormon.
There were triumphs: Lisa’s academic success, Andrew’s Eagle Scout project, Sarah’s art exhibits. But there were also sorrows. Lisa was bullied in school, and Jacob’s temper flared in ways that earned him more than one stern talk from Ellen. Andrew rebelled as a teenager, leaving Jacob pacing the kitchen late at night, whispering prayers that felt more like arguments with God.
Through it all, Jacob clung to his faith. He learned that grace wasn’t about being perfect; it was about returning to God again and again, even after stumbling.
Now Jacob lay in his bed, his children and grandchildren gathered around him. His breath was shallow, his once-strong hands weak, but his eyes still twinkled with humor and love.
He opened his eyes slowly, squinting at the faces gathered around him. “Well,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but unmistakably amused, “I hoped heaven would come with fluffier pillows.”
Ellen laughed through her tears and squeezed his hand.
Jacob’s voice grew softer but steadier. “I need you all to know something. I’ve loved you more than anything. And I’ve seen a lot of things—some good, some bad—but nothing compares to the blessings God has given me through you.”
Tears filled the room as Jacob turned to Ellen. “Thank you for everything—for your love, your patience, your prayers. You’ve made this life beautiful.”
“And you’ve made it worth living,” Ellen whispered.
Jacob smiled faintly, his gaze moving to his children. “Remember, life isn’t about being perfect. It’s about trusting God, loving each other, and trying your best. His grace is bigger than our mistakes.”
His voice grew faint. “I’ll see you all again… in the Lord’s time.”
And as Jacob’s eyes closed, his family felt a peace that filled the room—a peace that whispered of eternal love and the promise of reunion.
Jacob awoke in a light so warm it seemed to embrace him, a light that was not just bright but filled with peace and love beyond comprehension.
As his eyes adjusted, he saw faces—those of family, friends, and loved ones—whom he had long missed, each one radiant with joy. The sound of laughter filled the air, gentle yet profound, harmonizing with music that seemed to come from the very heart of eternity.
In the midst of it all, there was a presence—a presence that was unmistakably familiar, comforting, and sacred. The Savior stood before him, His eyes filled with compassion and understanding, His arms open in welcome.
Jacob felt a peace that transcended all earthly suffering, a peace that whispered of forgiveness and redemption.
With gratitude and awe, Jacob, faithful to the end, smiled—a smile full of joy, fulfillment, and an unshakable hope—as he stepped forward, stepping into eternity, into the embrace of all that he had believed and longed for.
